The Plumber was published in my high school literary magazine, Lodestar, and received the following high praise, “I normally wouldn’t read science fiction at all, but I really liked this.”
THE PLUMBER
by Ranjit Singh Mathoda
created and copyright March 13, 1991
The office is within a sky-piercing pillar of emerald hue. It is equipped with the usual tools of an affluent surgeon or plumber, although the interior gives a sense of solid comfort, not technology. The sim-wood floor, optic sculptures, carefully cultivated bonsai and the squares of raked stones convey discipline and order.
It was to this place that the old men came, unannounced, unaware of one another. Their age was apparent in their style of clothing, although their features were stamped with youth. The shorter man wore a jump suit, like a sailor on leave; the taller was swathed in confining robes. They waited in the murky gloom of the hall, until the door to the office slithered open. Each hesitated to allow the other passage.
One of them, his visage hidden in darkness, half smiled before some deeper sorrow wiped the reaction away. The other laughed in the vacant hall, then fell silent, aware of his awkwardness. In the obscuring shadows they gathered courage, deciding whether their goals might be achieved when a witness was present.
Within the residence a pleasing odor lay heavy in the air. The plumber reviewed the results of the sensor scan, then seated himself in a lotus position upon the sim-wood floor. A column of speckled light bathed him in soft glory. As an afterthought, the plumber made a small motion with his hand, causing a defensive grid of unseen energies to establish itself.
When the men entered it was the robed man who spoke first. “I am called Yasil, and have need of your services. However, being old and wearied, I desire to rest a moment and gather my thoughts. Perhaps you may hear this other client?”
The plumber nodded, so Yasil withdrew, seating himself besides one of the perfectly patterned squares of stones. The other man came forwards boldly, stepping close to the beam of illumination which cloaked the plumber.
The face that lay revealed was covered with crevices and lines of defeat. Thin lips parted below a hawkish nose and deadened eyes. He looked away for a long moment, in the direction of Yasil. Their was a bitter aspect to his voice. “Which of them has done this to me? You are Yasil, of the Ieto. Long have I been your enemy, and the enemy of your people. I know you well; I see your purpose in coming here. I am wretched and long vanquished, you can not bring me further humiliation. Drink what you will of my agony, but know that there is no flesh left on my bones.”
“Lagard, it is you,” moaned Yasil, a startling sound. “I am not … He who acted against you and yours is gone, devoured. I have nothing. No kin, no son. My conscience, my sanity, my faith, all are slain. They used my hate of you, Lagard. My sons used it to slay their brother. How is it possible? Do the gods not watch? You have caused me pain, Lagard, but the time for revenge is past. I am broken.”
“You deserve more than that,” Lagard whispered with spite in his voice. “You deserve much worse. You stole my pride, Yasil of the Ieto. You tainted my children, after I had given them their inheritance. You taught them how to whisper rich and deceitful words.
“I could not withstand them, did not desire to. I loved them blindly, Yasil, I loved them too well. You know this, you saw this and used your sight to corrupt my dreams. How could I cast them out? I could not. Instead I betrayed those who were true to me, despising them for their advice. I shattered lives and ruined souls for my daughters, because of you, Ieto. How can you claim to know My grief? You are wicked beyond respite and past repair, your desire to see what you have done brings you here now. Look at my pain if you must. I will not seek to prevent you.”
The plumber cleared his throat, somewhat frightened by the power and stature of these men. The Ieto controlled sizable governments and affected world encompassing corporations. The family Lagard controlled the Lagardian Reparations Agency, a massive intersystem law-enforcement corporation. If the plumber had been weaker willed, or more foolish, he might have sought to sell these words in the market.
“Sers, what is it that you want of me? I am a plumber, not a judge, not a counselor. Plumbing is science, good only at clearing the waste from the conduits of the human brain. I can increase cognitive capacity and recall ability. I can train an unplumbed mind to utilize more of itself. But plumbing does not provide relief from what you desire.”
“Is it true, as I have heard, that feelings originate within the unconscious?”, questioned Yasil as he carefully watched Lagard.
“Yes, of course.”, the plumber replied. A sense of security could be discovered in something so well indoctrinated.
“Will plumbing increase the affinity of the conscious and the unconscious, allowing self recognition and greater intuitive ability? Does it allow reliving the events of the past, is it permanent?” Lagard queried, in turn.
“Yes, yes. Plumbing is permanent as long as excessive quantities of particular drugs are not taken. Surely such great lords as you have had your minds plumbed.”
“Well then,” stated Lagard, “I would have you reverse the process.”
In the shocked silence Yasil stated quietly, “As would I. My son is dead.”
“But this technology is different,” stammered the plumber. “It is meant to increase intelligence and quality of life. If I were to reverse the process, the havoc unleashed upon your minds would be terrible. It would make a human into a monkey. You would lose your acuity for events, your ability to grasp ideas. No, it is further than that. You would become susceptible only to immediate moods.”
“That,” replied Lagard, his eyes staring into those of the plumber, “Is exactly what I want. Drugs are temporary, ineffective. No, I need to act with steadfast purpose, if I am to defeat that which makes me wretched. I want to forget. I want to lose the memory of the anger and resentment with which I tossed aside my faithful. You have the capability to eliminate my suffering.”
Yasil walked slowly forward to stand with Lagard. “Yes. That is what I wish for as well. My son is gone from the Ieto due to my failures. I did not heed the truth of his words. There is too much pain, too much that can not be forgiven.”
“You both are mad!”, the plumber replied frantically. “What you speak of is suicide, ser Lagard, ser Yasil, for you will kill the mind which is you. Have you learned nothing from your mistakes? Responsibility to those who loved you remains. Would they want you to die?”
“What crime would that be?” questioned Lagard. “You know nothing of our grief, nor even do they. Yes, I could seek relief. I could lose my self despair and live on, but I do not wish to belittle what has been done. I have made mistakes and desire to pay for them. Nothing you say can dull my desire. You have not lived my life, have not learned to despise your hands, skin, eyes. If it were possible I would return to ancient ages where death was the reward of failure, and its ending. This long held suffering and constant life I can not abide with.”
“I feel as you, friend Lagard, yet the plumber will not listen. He fears for his own respectability, for how can he explain such an action to those who will hound him,” Yasil said. Then he spoke clearly with a compelling voice. “What form of world is this which does not allow release to death? Am I so crude a being that I can not choose to exist or exist not? I have mastered my foes, I have dwelled on far-flung worlds, I have seen dark mysteries laid bare, yet comprehension gains me nothing. There are faults placed deep in this poor flesh which knowledge will not exorcise.”
“Did you not understand what I said?” asked the plumber as he made a slight signal with his left hand. “Your grief is in your mind. Destroying yourself is too easy an escape for great men such as you.”
“Do you hear him, friend Lagard? He seeks to praise and belittle us in the same stretch of words. We shall not fall in the same trap twice. This man would deny us our escape. To seek death, he claims, is evil. To me it is the brightest good. If I do not suffer, then I have escaped my pain. If I am consigned to agony then I will pay for what I have done.”
“You are right,” stated Lagard to his newly discovered friend. “I had not seen the beauty of death, perhaps because I feared it. Let us leave this world of mistakes behind.”
Yasil scrutinized the room as if it was a cage, decisiveness making his aged features young. “Lagard,” he stated calmly, “Around this plumber there must be a security system. He would not risk our presence otherwise. If we approach him and strangle his life from his corpse either he will die, or we will.”
The two men approached the frightened plumber, paused as they struck the defense grid, and suddenly were bathed in their own blood. They fell, like empty vases, to the paneled floor. The plumber sobbed as the authorities arrived moments later.
It should be noted that the two bodies were rushed to the Certes Reclamation Clinic, where the patients were successfully revived.
~ The End ~
The inspiration for this story came from William Shakespeare’s play King Lear and Akira Kurosawa’s film Ran. I originally had the idea of applying the concept of The Plumber to a romance where the main characters have wiped their minds of each other. But before I wrote that story, Charlie Kaufman, Pierre Bismuth and Michel Gondry used a similar idea in writing the screenplay for the 2004 movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. They won an Oscar for that screenplay and it’s one of my favorite movies.
~
As a teenager I was of course a staunch advocate for the importance of personal freedom. As a prolific devourer of science fiction, I love thinking about the potential changes that science and technology will bring. However, back in 1991, when I was in high school, it occurred to me that freedom and technology may be incompatible. To help me think through these troublesome ideas, I wrote the The Historian’s Address. It was difficult writing from so alien a perspective, and the result still leaves me troubled.
THE HISTORIAN’S ADDRESS
by Ranjit Singh Mathoda
created and copyright February 6, 1991
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
- T.S. Eliot
Oppression and manipulation are the tools of life. Manipulation is nothing other than one thing affecting another. Oppression is merely badly conducted manipulation.
- Historian’s Address 2154.17C
Sleep assailed the child, but he fought against it, eyes shut yet aware of a glaring light. Time flowed like thick molasses, straining to show sign of its passage. Melancholy music stained the room; stale air carried the seemingly irremovable stench of exercise and exhaustion. Drowsy sensations penetrated the mind to fight strange battles with concentrated thought: there was no desire or struggle, only a sense of conflict. The boy’s mouth was dry, his skin leathery, and his body aching. The child felt impotent, lying upon a bed in a town on a world revolving about a star within a galaxy plummeting deep inside the universe.
An image formed within his mind, a maelstrom of activity, with horrific speed. The youth constructed an empire, a series of nations, worlds barrenly hostile, sandy plains of sanguine hue, pale white moons, the remains of asteroids pierced with ant-like diligence by efficiently designed machines, and countless other wonders. Technological advances were considered (and discarded if unwieldy), until humanity lay encompassed by progress. Fear of death, the rank odor generated from evolution’s favored children, penetrated the future. Immortality and other advances both great and sinister were cast into motion upon the fictional universe. He recognized the newly formed universe as his own propelled through time.
The child’s attitude rapidly became serious and calm, as he pulled and tested the fabric of societies, acquiring a momentum of consequence that would leave his worlds shaken without sign of the slightest trembling. In the dark firmament, between dying suns, space conquering humanity established itself. Amidst the wretched, powerful masses a character was created in a manner designed to elicit interest. Facial characteristics shaped themselves, clothing attained structure, social position was asserted, and a history congealed from the grave enthusiasm of the child. He let it all ring with authenticity …
~
Upon a planet whose strange syllables formed the word Caeroon, a historian resided, moulding the appearance of her features slightly with facial accents, leaving an impression of ruggedly elegant beauty. With care she lifted a device curved sensuously to complement her hand. A figure, dark and brooding, appeared. It spoke with a levity that contradicted the grim countenance and the archaic seriousness of its garb. “Are you coming? The Address begins soon.”
She signalled affirmation to her colleague, adjusted the device, and viewed herself. Satisfied with superficial appearance, she fingered controls for mood regulators. Legal, within limits. Technology not boasted of on democratic planets, she thought haughtily. The historian placed graceful fingers upon the surface of a wall, examining the texture of the pale blue material. Imbedded in the structure lay multitudes of miniscule scanners, probes, and detectors. She smiled at those who watched, pleased at their presence. With care the historian entered a medical booth for final preparation.
Body intensive scans probed with a hushed murmuring, signalling a prognosis when they had finished. Supple and slippery, a hose shaped synthetic serpent entered her mouth, dispensing a wash of fluid once it had penetrated a sufficient depth. The object slithered out of the orifice and the historian breathed slowly as she scanned the diagnosis. Apparently a colony of potentially harmful nanodroids had become lodged in the stomach; specifically constructed mechanisms terminated the invaders and then decomposed themselves. The problem had been solved efficiently.
The lady finished last adjustments to her appearance, moving out of her chambers and into a hallway of tepid air. Artistically sculpted walls that seemed to move with a fluid grace were vigorously repaired, cleaned, and examined by near-infinitesimal machines. She noted a recently crafted aviary with approval. Birds of paradise cawed their enigmatic songs, spreading white frocked wings wide within transparent nets. The historian absently recorded and compared the species and genus of each as she walked towards the lecture chamber.
A man met her at the entrance, fulfilling formal greetings peculiar to the planetary culture. The servant had a soft, pampered face, accentuated by vibrant robes. The historian acknowledged his presence coldly. Swiftly the man spoke, humility evident. “Regulators are in place, illumination is as you requested, citizen.”
The lady passed into the chamber beyond the servant, without replying, and was watched by most of civilization. With careful attention she stood in the center of the chamber, wondering if she really was being scanned by thousands of sensors. Seemingly without notes or material, the historian began to speak in a soft, careful voice.
“Citizens, I thank you for your audience. We stand the product of a decision made by our ancestors, wisely I believe. It is in relation to that which I will talk today. Citizens, here is your Historian’s Address.”
She moved slightly, nervous despite her cool demeanor.
“Of late a great variety of discussion has probed the question of what is sentient. It has given question to the possibility of self awareness, probed the essence of the survival impulse, and even given credence to the concept of irrational thought as the basis of the mind. Topics thought to be closed and finished have been opened anew, largely due to questioning of our legal system. What species are society limited to? Is it within the ‘rights’ of society to seek revenge? How then, can it not be an individual’s ‘right’? Five conflicts within the past cycle have addressed these questions.”
“Place a male member of Homo sapiens, c. 2000 A.D., within a sealed room. Wake him. Then plunge a pendulum of sharp, dense material, very slowly and deliberately, through the center of the room towards his body. I promise he will be frightened, and try to move, in most circumstances. The impulse to move in a ‘healthy’ person is direct and there, whether it is contradicted or not by ‘rational’ thought. The impulse for revenge follows.”
“Often we use these terms, ‘rational’ and ‘healthy’ I mean, in a loose manner. Someone is behaving rationally if they are acting in an intelligent way, just as someone is healthy if they are physically and mentally fit. What about a martyr? Are they acting in a rational or healthy manner? It becomes a matter of comparison. If a person places thereself in a position of relative weakness for the benefit of others are they still being rational or just brave? Maybe they are acting without concern for self interest. We might imply self interest even if it weren’t there. The feeling of being altruistic, or good, can conceivably be coveted and wished for. Is it still altruism, if the feeling is being sought actively by the individual to the point of risking self for a sense of gratification? The definition is not establishing what something ‘is’, it is more a comparison.”
“Our society tends to frown on such altruism, with ‘good’ reason. But why is it ‘good’ reason, and not ‘bad’ or ‘evil’? Why should we not welcome martyrs to the cause? Perhaps because we can not distinguish between martyr and hypocrite. Comparisons are made both irrationally and rationally, emphasizing the possibility of the mind being relatively unstructured. We must recognize this before analyzing our own system of government and attempting to decide whether it seeks, or has sought, vengeance. Fellow citizens, the idea of ‘representative democracy’ as ‘good’, and ‘oppressive oligarchy’ as ‘bad’, is one that plagued our ancestors for a great length of time. In our nation we assume that ‘oppression’ is equatable with the word ‘limitation’, and generally recognize its worth along with its weakness. This was not always the case.”
“As a historian I refer to broad, generally recognized trends in society. Because they are broad, or recognized, does not mean they are correct and present. These are things I leave to the individual to decide. In making that supposition, that you can partially decide on the presence of these trends by yourself, I have placed emphasis upon the major factor that unites both representative democracies and our nation’s oppressive oligarchy. The knowledge possessed by the individual is central to the society. They both expect things of the people; our system of oligarchy is merely more honest. Despite this we seem less benign. How can such an illusion be crafted?”
“The word ‘benign’ has often been applied to a government that works in the interests of the people. It was believed for a lengthy period of time that representative democracies result in a greater number of benign reigns, and in more peaceful transfer of authority, than oppressive oligarchies. To understand why this might be so, let us probe the first true representative democracy, the United States of America, as it was for some time.”
“A small nation, although relatively powerful and wealthy, the United States existed as a result of a revolution and overthrow by a disgruntled minority of a colonial population. This minority constructed a framework for their society based upon their beliefs, which would then change during a period of rapid expansion in which the nation conducted whatever actions it felt necessary. When the nation ‘outgrew’ its past ‘crimes’, the expansion ceased as rapidly as it had begun, replaced by economic and then technological expansion. The needs of colonization and settlement, however, had already placed an indelible mark on the framework of the relatively young and influential nation. Technological progress became proliferous due to an inwardly competitive economy, relatively vast funding of educational institutions, and a limitation-sparse environment for communication. Exploration of new sciences became of great ‘national’ interest, clearly showing that the young nation violated its own principles in favor of continued survival.”
“Those principles, established at its inception, implied individual freedom without constraint insofar as no other individual was harmed or limited. Mentally, citizens suffered stress from one another, an obvious harm that was not prevented. Nor could the term ‘individual’, at that time loosely observed as members of Homo sapiens, be specifically defined. Mass numbers of less complex and more specialized life forms were exterminated with some regret; little real outcry was targeted against the society itself. However, as exploration progressed in a technological sense, these flaws became readily apparent. Thankfully, the nation was beginning to cope with rapid social change as a result of technology, and became prepared for the vast schism which would divide its members later.”
The historian paused, grasping for words.
“Representative democracy had been the most dangerous of political systems in its implications. In no other system of governance was the truth more perverted by social impulse. Individual wishes for freedom allowed for rapid growth and progress. However, they resulted in mass destruction as well. Corporations began to manipulate one another in a complex manner, and the representative government was soon incapable of coping. Vast quantities of information became a burden to those who limited their ‘rights’ to search, and a boon to those who placed no self impositions. If a society is a conglomeration of its members, then representative democracy leads to direct collapse in any technologically advanced society. The ‘unalienable rights’ as they were called, are a myth. A myth with serious, and often beneficial, repercussion, but a myth regardless.”
“Individuals are flexible, but they are also readily manipulatable through scientific means. Mental probes opened an entirely new arena for humanity. It became possible for benign oligarchy to survive with individual support, through therapy. Oppression of the mind, five men from the past caught in a faceless room might cry forth in their anger and fear. Yet place them in contact and competition, giving each the capability of destroying the rest. Deterrence, the fear of equal reprisal, might prevent destruction. Increase their number to fifty billion seething people, each with individual cares and desires, some seeing that there is no design or direction to life and unwilling to create one, each capable of destroying the rest with their knowledge of technology, and the need for therapy becomes evident. The American societal impulse, and the ‘morality’ it professed, was based upon a desire for vengeance equal to crime and not direct cognitive or emotional understanding of survival.”
“When individual passions can vary, and technology makes it possible to destroy all other individuals, constraints must be placed in society. The folly of many nations was to accept this need too late; it is historical record that some of the slowest were plunged into infernos, whether biological, chemical, mechanical, anarchical, nuclear or a combination of these, resultant of their own false needs. Their ‘inalienable’ rights, the struggle for dignity, and implications of the underlying connection of all humanity failed miserably because a single individual could be stubborn.”
“We live in a society that stands at opposition to such failure. Each of our citizens is more productive, genetically hardier, and spiritually more sure. Our government realizes the limitations it must impress on itself, for its members are veterans of therapy as well. It is incapable of oppression, where such alludes to unequal manipulation of people. If we are watched continuously, lose all privacy, ‘deprived’ of the ‘right’ to speak without limitation, and face other ‘barbarities’ then these are things that apply to our rulers as well. Perhaps these limitations are unjust. Regardless, they are necessary.”
“Back then, to the question of social vengeance. Whether the so-termed Massacres were ‘evil’, ‘bad’, or ‘vengeful’, is a faulty attempt at definition. They can be interpreted as such, for comparatively the motives of our government may have been ‘evil’, ‘bad’, or ‘vengeful’. They might not have been; the actions must stand free and clear of an attempt to link purpose, for the purpose is not known. Regardless, the actions of this nation were necessary to the continuation of stability. What we do, we do not lightly. What we are, we must be to continue to exist. The limitations of our society are sorely felt. They must be strenuously followed.”
The historian paused, bowing her head, mouth slightly dry. “I thank you.”
She exited the room, avoiding those who sought further statements, pleased with her analysis. The historian stopped suddenly, muttering an ancient passage to herself. A sensor technician half a planet away relayed and strengthened the signal, until the statement could be given to the records department, disseminated to the nets, for comment and discussion. He smiled as he did so, impressed by the speech; the woman, he thought, was a genius. He turned his attention to the voice pattern which he had just strengthened. It was a poem, he noted. “Shine, perishing republic …”, it began.
~
… The child stopped his living dream, lying silently upon the bed for a few moments. It all faded from his mind, giving way to the glaring light which penetrated closed lids. He opened his eyes, blinking as he watched the door to his room decay and crumble, victim to forces that were already present. He blinked again, and it stood straight and white, as it had always been. Air smelt of burnt death, deteriorating in its paralysis. He disregarded the false sensations, and smiled. The music had ceased to emanate from his crude alarm clock, the bright green facing showing the time in ugly numerals. He rose slightly in his bed, reached for the light switch, and then the room lay cloaked in blackness pierced only by ghastly green. The child reclined, bed creaking, and slept.
~ The End ~
Forts & Guns is a short story about a certain kind of faith. It is both autobiographical (the activities and some thoughts are based on my childhood) and not autobiographical (the parents certainly aren’t modeled on my parents). Enjoy …
FORTS & GUNS
by Ranjit Singh Mathoda
created and copyright January 2, 1994
He was a kid’s worst fear: whipcord lean, hawk eyed, with a prominent nose and broad flat hands stained slightly with chalk. His clothes were rumpled, as if he slept in them, but he did not. His desk was always kept clean, except for the stack of quizzes and the apple.
Mother had told me, “Brian, give this to Father, you’re his favorite student,” offering the bright fruit. As she spoke her face grew long and withered; her hair grayed, her breasts sagged, and her bright smile glittered. “No.” I said and then fled. Leaving would get me in trouble but maybe someone would believe I hadn’t given it to him. What a horrible idea that would have been.
Mark Kimble, who everyone likes, thought it was me anyway. He got punished half way through the year for passing notes in class and hadn’t liked me since.
My Father never punished with his hands or a paddle; he was a linguist. He preferred to cut slowly with language, in shallow strokes, until the flesh was all but stripped away. Every time a note had been passed it was dropped in the locked drawer, forgotten by all. When enough had been collected, father fashioned them into examples. Each day, point out the noun, the verb.
Quiet Mark. Don’t snivel. Stay a moment after the bell. Let the class leave. “Son, wait for me outside, I have to talk to Mark.” Voices are raised. No, that sentence was not about you, it’s just an example. Hush, boy, it’s all right. Yes, yes, I forgive you.
When someone noticed a dark splotch on the apple’s taut red skin, where a worm had worked its way into the sweet white interior, we laughed nervously, and liked Mark more.
Father didn’t look sad at all. Just ignored the smiles and spoke about the fifty states or twelve colonies or something. He had a habit of gripping the chalk tightly and when he taught there was an edge of fury in his voice. Like a preacher, although he is an atheist, a good old God-hating atheist.
At lunch the apple was gone (someone said he ate it, and we thought that was clever and disgusting and somewhat grand). There was a twinge of guilt, sure, but I squashed it. You have to, in those situations.
~
“Guns tomorrow?” asked Charles McGuire, legs dangling out from the window as he fidgeted. He had a habit of shifting his weight forward as if he were just about ready to jump; it drove his mother mad. I could see the soles of Charlie’s shoes and his head between them. He seemed a mile up from the ground, even when I stood some distance from the side of his house. It was stupid to hang out like that, I thought, but brave too.
“Yeah, if you brin-”
“Don’t invite your brother,” he commanded. I frowned in annoyance, because he had interrupted me, and nodded. “Anything else?” He said it as if I had not begun to say something.
“Bring one for me,” I answered, forgiving him. He was my friend. Maybe he had not heard me, from up there, but I bet he had.
“Okay,” he said, and retracted his legs, going back into the room. Somehow I could smell his parents cooking. Charles’ parents thought cooking was something to be done together.
“Charlie!” I yelled, running up to the wall. He must have looked outside, then heard me push against the siding, in a vain effort to scale it. Sometimes I think I can. His head poked out over the window sill and I felt like I was gliding along the surface of the blue painted wall, with its boards laid against each other in a rippled pattern. Like climbing but better.
“Yeah?” His mouth moved nearly two seconds before the sound came. I laughed. It was clever.
“Can I come to dinner?”
He nodded, motioned for me to go to the front door, and disappeared. I ran and jumped to a stop on the concrete outside their front door. My heart pounded in its cage.
~
“We don’t see much of you, son,” Father said. His voice was tight and had a thin line of menace underneath it. Mother did not notice. She never does. I wondered what he wanted, not that I cared to find out.
“I was at Charles’ place.”
“That’s wonderful, but you should have called,” Mother interjected. She was like a well oiled clock. I could count on her to say the right things. I don’t know what would happen if I didn’t use Mother’s predictability. Probably all the wrong things would be said, and done.
“Did you say a prayer before eating?” Father said.
“Yes, Father,” I said with false exasperation. “I was only being polite.” My eyes flicked to my brother, who was being very silent. He knew Father wanted something. He was almost never silent. I asked Father, “Is there something you want to know?”
His eyes found my mother’s, perhaps wondering if she told, then bore down on me. If she shrugged I didn’t see it. My gaze lay on him. I was infinitely aware of where his hands were, of the small things.
He did not congratulate me on my detective work, just waited. My brother and mom made no motion to file out so he indicated I should sit. “Someone put a worm in that apple.”
My brother started laughing. It was very funny. I gave up, grinning as my mind, drunk on glee, started to race. Mom giggled, hiding her mouth with a demure hand. Father sported a sickly smile.
“I think it was Mark.” I said. I knew in the end, he’d want the answer. My mind was sober now, my smile devoured. I was being cowardly. I did not care all that much. My brother turned his laugh into a snicker, but he could afford to.
Father nodded, wisely, and then the thoughts began to gnaw at my composure.
“You’re not going to punish him for it, are you Dad? Not in front of the class?” He gave me a reproachful look. My monkey’s brain, screeched in endless fear.
“I don’t punish, I teach,” he said. I nodded, noncommittal. It was time to lick wounds.
~
Beating through the underbrush at break-neck speed is dangerous. It attracts attention. Frightens the birds. I crept across the forest ground, watching the clearing ahead through leaves turned crimson and gold by the naked sun. When I was no longer hidden by overlapping trunks I lay on the ground and inhaled the forest floor.
That’s what it felt like; I did my best to stifle a gasp. The air was rich with scents: moss and humus, mushrooms growing in dark loam near the roots of trees, patches of grass choked with dust … all that nature stuff was there with a vengeance. My eyes were watering so I crunched them shut and waited four heartbeats. Nearly two seconds. Leaves crackled as someone walked upon them.
“Shut up, Charles,” I whispered urgently. Then I realized it might be the Enemy, and twisted from being on my gut to resting on my back. The gun’s firm plastic seemed light in my hand, a chunk of wood was digging into my side. “Charlie?”
He slid from a tree twenty feet away, walking over a layer of leaves. I winced. Why hadn’t he gone around?
At least he slid to the ground and slithered up, snake like. “I haven’t heard them,” he told me, sliding past to look for the enemy. I moved closer to him and we waited. As soldiers we were masters of patience.
It was stifling hot but my mind was utterly cool. I gripped a grenade in one hand, feeling the texture of its surface, kneading it. We waited, so long that I was counting out of order. Something scuttled across my hand but when I looked it was gone. A shadow passed by, a bird circling. Once long ago I had envied its flight but now I thought of it with contempt. It had such a small brain. Ants had a hive intelligence; they could wage war, but birds were dumb.
I fired an imaginary shot at where it had been, then turned my attention back in time to see Kevin Daniels working his way across the clearing. It was hard not to laugh, watching someone try to hide as they moved over open ground.
We waited until he was nearly done, then threw the grenades. One of them, mine, landed at his feet, and didn’t burst. His eyes widened slightly, large and blue in a face that looked childish and naive. He was larger than us, rugged in his way, with sandy brown hair. All of us liked him because he was fearless. I liked him because he was predictable, utterly cool and respected me.
He started to pick up the balloon when the second hit to his side, and exploded. It caught him in a backlash of water colored blue and red. That is all there should be in life. Action and consequence.
He yelled, a fierce warrior cry, staggered in salute to the thrower, and then charged. Across the field five other cries came and then Daniels’ Entourage was upon us. Devoted followers, all about eight years old. Too young to trouble the veterans.
Charles and I were already moving. As they entered the safety of our side of the forest, seeking the cover of trees, we crossed the clearing, trying to get to where they had come from. Kevin followed; he was faster than his mob.
Swifter than Charlie too, so we lobbed two more precious grenades and opened fire, the color staining the air. Rivers of red and ochre and violet leapt magically from our guns. A finger caught on the trigger, and I let go in pain, then pressed again as the handle grew slick with leaking water. I held it carefully. I didn’t want any on me. I felt like the Wicked Witch of the East.
“You’re DEAD!” Cried Charles, but he said it in a wimp voice and Kevin Daniels ignored him, attacking with his black Uzi in hand and a wild look on his face. Daniels brushed a sleeve against his forehead as he came, and it was suddenly smudged with blue ink.
Charles and I split, and Daniels followed me, because I hadn’t said anything stupid and I challenged him with a grin. I dropped my gun and ran. I was a deer … no, a cheetah, devouring ground with long strides. Now was the time for reckless speed, for the blurred pace which I knew none could follow. My mind studied the slopes of ground, flickers of visual sensations, and placed feet upon semi-stable rocks and the roots of trees.
I heard Kevin pick up my gun, or rather Charles’ gun, for which I was thankful. It slowed Kevin down and the gun would have been hard to find, later.
“I’m the quickest,” he yelled, in challenge and then I heard him barging through the forest behind. He was! My shocked mind realized it despite my senses trying to make it not so. There was a strength in him that was not in me. He grunted and cursed at the exertion, but mostly he just closed the distance.
I turned in an arc, though that was dangerous. Spider and the fly, but which am I?
The trees were closer here, thorns and brush filled the space in between. I reached out to grab at the scab faced trunks, changing direction sharply as I threaded a path. Daniels didn’t use his hands; it did not work if you had not practiced it. After a while he tired of following my path and just ran straight at me. The first patch he ignored, and the second but the third snagged his clothing. I looked at him struggling, my sides shaking as my lungs fluttered inside.
“That was good,” he said suddenly still, and as he smiled I knew he meant it. He tossed the guns aside and slowly started to figure his way out of the vegetation’s embrace. I ran up beside him and picked up the plastic weapons. He looked me over, and shrugged. There were still piercers in his clothing, like thick black hairs. He scratched the back of his hand and for a moment I felt his pain. Then he was bending and I saw the balloon he had left, and it was too late to run. I started shooting, but he shrugged it off and tossed in one generous gesture.
He groaned as it bounced off me. “Over?” I asked. He nodded. “Next time we get some weaker balloons.”
I picked up the unbroken grenade then pointed a gun at him.
“I had to try,” he said by way of explanation, and we walked back, full of mutual respect.
~
There were times when Father was not dangerous. They came when he was doing something he liked. When he was reading literature. When he was baking bread. He liked freshly made Italian bread served with a strip of butter melting on it. He was making bread now.
“I won,” I said. He had been in the army, he knew how it felt to win. I showed him the swirls the colored water had left on my hand. My only wounds, self inflicted. Even those were not necessary if I could get my own water gun. I opened my mouth to speak.
He spoke first. “You could have gotten your shirt stained. How many times do have I to tell you to change into your old clothes first?” I looked at him in shock. He was supposed to be happy, baking bread.
Tension lay in the furrows of his brow, in the stretch of skin between my shoulder blades. I nodded as he talked, as if sad at myself, as if I saw the need to change with startling clarity. I never cried, it did not seem worth it. I thought he might want me to, but he would not respect me afterwards. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to get hit by the water.”
I realized how stupid those words were. His lips pressed together into a thin line and his broad hands were coated with flour.
“Where did you get the food coloring?” He asked. His voice was very calm.
~
They started the fortress without me. “Is Kevin home, Mrs. Daniels?” I could feel something was up.
“No,” she drawled, putting a hand over her brow. It was a bright Saturday morning and I could see time was passing slowly for her. “I think he’s over at Charles home.” Each word was separated by an eternity.
“Okay, Thanks,” I said swiftly, and then took off. They weren’t there, I had already checked.
When I found my friends they were behind the Wild’s place, or rather the fort was in the field behind Brad’s yard and they were rummaging through a construction site nearby. The “keep” was fashioned from scraps of ply board and beams of wood.
I greeted my friends, prepared to act angry that no one had called. Charles and Kevin never gave me the chance, competing with each other as they tried to show their rooms inside the fort. “Got space for a flashlight on these nails,” Kevin was saying after I had finished going over Charlie’s section.
I nodded, fidgeting with some dirt. Some stolen plastic wrapping snapped about loudly as the wind tugged at it. Kevin’s room was cramped. I looked at him.
“Want to help me start another one?”
“Brad will get mad,” Kevin replied. Charles popped his head through a hole cut in the board. His grin showed he was willing.
I looked at Kevin. “Well I have to add my section. We could just make that real strong and sort of shift over the center of the fort. But we’re gonna need real tools.”
They both grinned.
~
“Your dad wants you.”
I shook off my sense of drowsiness and pushed myself up, feeling Kevin’s words replay through my mind, a hard litany. I opened the trap door.
“Hi Father!” I said, very cheerful. He looked at me, hands on his hips. Behind him I could see Brad approaching. The Wild’s were very strong Christians. They had taught their son that everything action had a consequence and a reason, and he believed it. Sometimes I sat through his Sunday classes. It felt strange, believing.
“Hello Mr. Harkin,” said Charles. He was resting on the third crossbeam. At least I called it that.
Father nodded curtly and passed around the place. It was much improved over the original design, although he had not seen it before. The roof was made of the thick tar paper that the construction people use underneath shingles. We had nailed it into the boards and cut it in places, making trap doors. The backbone of the skeleton was three large beams which lay within a maze of boards. And the rooms were individualized. Mine had a shelf for binoculars, a slab of wood resting on two nails. Kevin’s had a picture of a girl.
“My mom says the construction people are going to take this apart,” Brad said. “They don’t like us taking their scrap. And she’s worried, along with all of your parents, that it’ll all collapse.”
Charles bent down, disappearing for a moment, then stood back up. “They can’t do that. Can they, Mr. Harkin?”
“When will you be coming home?” My Father said. I just looked at him. He took a step back so he could see it all comfortably. “Your parents feel it’s dangerous to leave standing, boys.”
I ducked inside, feeling the bright burning of the sun replaced by heat smothered shade. I hit my escape hatch, a board nailed on lightly, and then stood outside. “It won’t collapse. I made it.”
He followed me around as I explained how the place had been made. The way the center beams distributed the pressure. The reason for a crossbeam here and there. “If you remove these two and take out this board, all of which you can do from outside, you can collapse the place. If you don’t it just won’t go down.”
Charles and Brad were surprised at that.
“Is it dangerous, son?”
“Not really,” I said. This was my place, I felt its design whenever I stared at it too long. Sure I had to change things when the material did not fit, but I had adapted, using everything worth putting into the mix. I showed him how the self-destruct would require shoving a certain beam first at one angle, hopping it out of a notch, and then pushing it even harder.
There was the hallway too, connecting all the rooms but distinct. It could be reached through one side of the fort. A front entrance of sorts, but one that could always be closed off in emergencies.
“They’ll still want to tear it down,” Father said. His hand pressed down on one of my shoulders. I trembled. My skin was flushed, my mind burned with anger at the thought of the fortress being taken away. My dad’s touch felt cold as an ice cube slipped into a shirt. “Not for any reason, not because they mean to hurt you, not because they’re truly right. They’ve just come to believe it’s dangerous, and once someone’s got a belief facts don’t matter much. It’s the problem with religious people. Now you understand.”
I saw Brad looking unhappy at those words. He ran back to his house. His mother was sitting there drinking lemonade. I waved to Mrs. Wild, then turned to Charles. “Get everybody’s stuff out,” I told him.
A bird was on one part of the fortress, walking across the tar paper roof. The tar paper was studded with steel tacks: even rows of metallic squares too bright to look at on the matte background.
“Okay,” I answered my Father as Charlie got out. I removed a board and dropped both supports. Then I pushed the self-destruct one way then the other. It caught, somewhere inside. I jerked and the structure suddenly needed the best of surgeons. It sagged, bones removed. Charles kicked one wall and that did the rest. It creaked and then made a satisfying crash. The bird had fluttered away to find other places to walk upon, other shiny things to study.
“Let’s go,” I said. Father looked pleased. His hand was on my shoulder again and I suppose he was proud. Yes, that would be it. Intuition etched at my senses. My eyes had begun to water from thinking about what I had just done so I closed my eyes and let his hand guide me back home.
All the way back my mind mulled over his words. “They’ll have to tear it down. Not for any reason, not because they mean to hurt you, not because they’re truly right. They’ve just come to believe it’s dangerous, and once someone’s got a belief facts don’t matter much. It’s the problem with religious people. Now you understand.”
As we passed out of the heat I expected something to be revealed. It wasn’t, not until we were in the kitchen.
I turned to face him, and then opened my eyes. He was studying me, his legacy to the world, his hope.
Do you think I’m like you, I wanted to ask. Do you think I’m going to be like you? But I stayed silent.
In his hard features I saw a blind adoring faith. A faith far older than any other.
~ The End ~
A Long Way Down is a story of falling out of a relationship and that feeling of peril that sometimes comes. Enjoy…
A LONG WAY DOWN
by Ranjit Singh Mathoda
created and copyright November 30, 2000
When Jonathan Kapcane Swift jumped out of the old space station Alpha and started falling towards the Earth, he was quite bored. Earth, a glorious orb of color set against the bright, liquid stars, a vision that had transformed astronauts into amateur poets, did not draw his attention.
Johnny had been ignoring his surroundings for some time. The tremors of the shuttle ride up to the space station, the video of the friendly jump instructor, the safety features of the re-entry space suits, had all failed to register. Sure, he noticed when the bullet shuttle was being positioned for firing into space by the equatorial rail gun. He was quite annoyed to find his satellite communication messages cut off by the self-testing magnetic fields.
Deprived of satellite communications, he looked to Katrina for entertainment, but her radiant beauty was marred by a slack gaze. He questioned his software, to discover what was distracting her.
He half suspected Ivan Niroyavich, the bastard who kept sending her poetry readings, who had talked to her late into the night on two occasions during the last month, whom she said was “just a good friend”—not “fakey, fakey” like all her other friends. Katrina claimed she didn’t have many guy friends, that Ivan was important but no replacement for Johnny. She had used all kinds of words to tell Johnny that he was irreplaceable. He felt unfaithful for not trusting her and potentially foolish for trusting her, so he tried not to think about Ivan at all, avoiding the anger that bubbled through his blood. If he let her know how angry he’d become she’d just ignore him, and he couldn’t stand being ignored. Katrina was different, she couldn’t stand confrontations.
Oh, damn, his software reported her retina projector was patched into their bullet shuttle’s cameras. She was just concentrating on what would soon be a rapidly receding launch platform. Johnny hated feeling guilty. A shade stupid, also, since the rail gun’s magnetic bottle would interfere with any signals sent to her, even if that asshole Ivan was boosting his love rhetoric with a hacked UN Shiva satellite.
To lessen his guilt at being angry Johnny slipped rage-blockers into his blood, making sure he wouldn’t get angry for awhile. Distracted by the pleasant buzz of the chemicals, he hardly noticed the shuttle’s launch, transit or docking.
His inattention was detected by the day trip tour-company at seven minutes to planet fall. After watching an interminably long three-minute warning video Johnny had tried accepting responsibility for “any death, dismemberment, distress or discomfort” he might suffer. The verification program glanced at his iris and then snooped into his medical status, setting off an alarm. Johnny hastily agreed to a skin patch of anti-rage-blockers, to help him regain legal competency. Then he agreed never to sue or encourage or condone suit of the day trip company, its investors or assigns.
Johnny wasn’t quite free of the rage-blockers, otherwise he might have gotten a bit angry when Katrina didn’t kiss him, just pressed the helmet down over her head. She avoided looking in his eyes before stepping into the airlock, and as she kept ignoring him natural anger and rage-blockers and anti-rage-blockers fought a pitched battle in his bloodstream. The world turned progressively more gray and cold and boring as his confused nerves reacted by shutting down.
The airlock took forever to cycle her, then another tedious eternity cycling him through. Johnny left the first and last International Space Station with a light hop. He yawned while trying to spot Katrina’s starkly painted space suit against the garish brightness of the Earth. The station began moving away rapidly, and a small shower of dust pinged against the ablative shielding that covered his body. He dimly recollected something about the importance of the shielding.
Johnny spotted Katrina’s suit. Funny, how she looked so small already.
He morbidly dwelt on the distance between them. They had been inseparable, once. She seemed to be getting a lot of advice on their relationship from a few mysterious sources. They had shared a night at Niagara, mostly for the rustic nostalgia sense of it, and had ended up gifting each other with their passwords. It had been a wonderful night. But a month ago she got some messages that the password she had given him would not access. She had laughed off his questions, saying a girl had to maintain her mystery. But she had also teased him, saying that friends were advising her to reconsider him. Johnny wasn’t sure she was kidding. Which friends, dammit? What were their motives? It was no use asking her, she wouldn’t say, and as punishment he’d be ignored for a week.
Johnny stifled another yawn. Even remembering being angry was making him tired. His eyes glazed blankly at the scenery.
The jump from Alpha to Earth was something he had done before. He had fallen into a sales job after school, and temporarily ended up with bungee cord loving, sky diving, space station jumping friends. Johnny distrusted Ivan because he was that type of sales person, the type who was only interested in conquest, in the next big experience. Katrina, who had just entered her graduation year, probably found the novelty of the jump very exciting, Ivan’s attention flattering.
Johnny felt the beginnings of a headache, a throbbing which probably would become a pounding if he didn’t calm down some. He breathed heavily in his helmet. As if it were a symptom of his mental state, Katrina’s small figure suddenly started slowing down. He upped his magnification, catching the flare of heated air around her, but then it was hard to hold her image in the lens, she was being flicked about by the upper atmosphere.
Johnny triggered his suit’s communications laser. He sighted it near Katrina and waited for it to find her.
Johnny frowned, tried again.
Katrina’s suit jets were correcting her alignment, he could see them flaring on and off like swiftly hit piano keys. She passed beneath and to one side of him, over Indonesia. No, his angle of view wasn’t right, maybe she was over the subcontinent.
“Come on,” Johnny muttered as he crept towards the atmosphere. He questioned his suit software, running a diagnostic.
Johnny felt a tug on his leg, then on his other leg and arm, even as his suit began to scream warnings. He started tumbling in the upper atmosphere. It was as if a giant was pressing hard on ever changing sides of his body, always slinging him in some new direction. The attitude correction jets on his suit were firing, and the surface of his suit flared out, but the ride was harsher than he remembered. He toggled through the warnings, realizing belatedly that it wasn’t for the upper atmosphere, it was for a failure in the gyroscope assembly.
The warning bleat went silent, replaced by a soft, calm female voice whispering into his ear. “This is your suit. Our attitude correction jets may be mistiming their firing due to a malfunction. This suit is contacting its manufacturer, maintenance provider and UN Space Response personnel, upon a general broadcast frequency.”
His throat clenched. His limbs moved involuntarily as the suit pushed him into an emergency descent position. The Earth and space spun crazily, trading places like wicked twins at a wedding.
Sweat began to ooze from his pores.
“This is your suit,” the beautiful, lilting voice repeated. “We have been unable to contact UN Space Response, but will keep trying. We are tracking our journey and anticipate we will land safely, although we will experience some turbulence.”
Johnny suspected the suit was lying. Would it really tell him if he was going to slam into Upper Mongolia? Were there houses in China being evacuated right now? The suit’s tendency to refer to Johnny and itself in the plural was irritating his deadened nerves.
Johnny’s teeth bit into his mouth-guard and due to the force of the winds buffeting him he felt as if his jaw were being repetitively punched. The suit would not allow him to change position, holding him in an odd pose. He clenched every muscle in his body anyway.
“This is your suit,” the woman whispered in his ear. “We are now in secure and confidential contact with UN Space Response via general emergency frequencies, although transmissions are limited to text and low bandwidth data. Please review your visor display.” Words were scrawling across Johnny’s field of vision, in a solid black box, in front of the rapidly turning view of earth and space. His eyes fastened hungrily on them. UN Space Response, reassuring him he would be okay, that they were working on a software fix for the suit, and that all craft were being routed away from his carefully observed trajectory.
Not that they could do anything about the damned news pods, watching his humiliation and relaying it to the whole solar system. He was a human highlight film in the making. Johnny didn’t give a damn about the money or fame, well not too much of a damn. He shut his eyes, a tear almost forming. Accidents like this were so rare these days. He opened his eyes. UN Space Response was assuring him that both he and his companion would be recovered in short order, from splashdown in the glorious, peaceful waters of the Pacific.
Katrina, Katrina, Johnny thought, as he tumbled, trying futilely to catch a glimpse of her. The world flashed about him, his every limb and sinew taut with fear and the desire for solidity. He had laughed once, at an old movie in which an actor had kissed solid ground. He would kiss the ground before even kissing his girl, he thought, and then a horrid idea occurred to Johnny, and he hated himself for thinking it. It raised bile to his throat, and he swallowed hastily, clenching his teeth, lest he vomit in his suit. He typed his thanks, for transmission back to UN Space Rescue, then asked them to discover who was involved in the sale of his suit.
Johnny felt paranoia and nausea compete with panic. His throat burned from the bile and his jaw ached. “Message sent,” his suit informed him softly, her voice showing no strain. It could at least sound worried. “Would you like to play some music?”
Johnny hardly heard the question, lost as he was in his thoughts. It was a strange thing to think of, whether his suit had been sabotaged, but Johnny Swift didn’t want to die unsure of what had happened. At least he’d done what he could.
Johnny’s eyes refocused on the world outside, and he realized he wasn’t spinning. The stars lurched and shook, but did not swirl around him. Flames flickered around his peripheral vision, and the Earth was no longer visible. The suit had placed his back towards planet fall.
Except for the constant buffeting, and the growing unease of falling towards something he couldn’t see, it almost felt peaceful. He questioned the suit why he was falling backwards.
“This is your suit,” the lady replied soothingly. Johnny was starting to love her voice. “The broadest and least segmented expanse of heat shielding is now facing towards the Earth. Your current orientation is standard procedure for this type of landing.”
Johnny struggled through confusion and the ache in his head. What did it mean by this type of landing? An emergency landing, a crash landing?
Also, the entire suit was rated for reentry, so was his suit’s diagnostic programs detecting another malfunction? Would it tell him even if it were? He knew they programmed the damn things to keep their occupants calm in a crisis. The drugs in his system were already keeping him insanely calm, it could be honest with him.
“This is your suit. General communications have been reestablished.”
Johnny felt suddenly comforted. It was strange, how just reconnecting with the Net made him feel secure, as if everything would turn out okay as a result. At least all his suit’s systems weren’t screwed up. He felt a wave of gratitude to UN Space Response, they had probably fixed something already.
Johnny felt his headache ease, felt lightheaded almost, as he checked for new messages. No reporters had caught onto his identity yet, otherwise they would have requested an interview. UN Space Response must be doing their best to keep his name silent, but the media would figure it out eventually. No response to his inquiry from the UN guys, either, but investigations took time, they couldn’t be resolved in the space it took a man to smash into the Earth.
Johnny toyed with writing a message to his mother, but no reason to freak her out. He’d be fine. Better to let her know after the fact. He wrote a brief note on time delay that she’d find in a few days.
Johnny was about to call Katrina, see if she was worried, when he saw a message from her in his inbox. It was old, from the shuttle ride up, even.
“This is your suit.” The lady’s voice interjected. “You have reached terminal velocity and have entered the lower atmosphere. Standard reorientation of your body will now occur, to prepare for splashdown. Please do not be alarmed, this is a regular procedure.”
Johnny felt his arms move, as the world swiveled and his legs crouched. Something whined before clicking to a stop. After spinning around him twice, the Earth settled into position between his feet, clouds stretched in long dirty wisps, the sun gleaming off of the waters to his left. He was creeping towards them, it seemed. He opened the mail from Katrina.
Johnny—
I know this must come as something of a surprise, but I think we aren’t really in the same place of late. I don’t want to worry you, but I can’t hide how I feel from you.
—Katrina
ps. These feelings have nothing to do with anyone else, there is nobody else, I just have been thinking through where we are at, and what is best for me.
He stared blankly at dirty gray clouds, then read the message again. He then tried to spot Katrina, but his suit wouldn’t allow his neck to move, and his eyes couldn’t find her.
The first layer of clouds didn’t seem nearly as substantial up close, flittering away like shadows, leaving a smear of vapor on his suit for a moment. A darker mass of clouds lay in wait below, like a gaggle of vultures.
“This is UN Space Response, an automated message. Please prepare for splashdown. You will be recovered within minutes of landing, as we have personnel on the scene.”
Johnny wasn’t sure what Katrina meant. Were they broken up for sure? Was there room to talk? He read her words again. He stopped halfway, and triggered his communications software, trying to reach her, but he realized even before error messages sprang up that she must be splashing down. It would be some time before communications between them were live again.
He already missed her. How could she not miss him? How could she say this through a stupid text message? How could she tell him this at all? Had his suit just said something?
Johnny fell through a dark mist and then a pure white glare and then into much deeper darkness. Lightning flashed, revealing rain drops rising swiftly about him. He stared at them in puzzlement, and then the waters of the Pacific struck the soles of his feet like a concrete hammer, and, as numbness spread up his legs, threatening to seize his heart, he plunged into the deep.
Jonathan Kapcane Swift wondered if he was going to be smothered by the weight of the ocean, whether he would sink to the bottom and be mired in the muck. Katrina must have thought he received the message before the airlock. She had been avoiding him, even before then, maybe.
Ivan, you bastard, you asshole, you can have her, you deserve each other. Or maybe there is no one else, like she said. Johnny glimpsed an ugly thought, tried to stay away from it, and then reluctantly gave it form. Maybe she’ll be happier with Ivan, and don’t I really want her to be happy? He hated himself for thinking about this, but felt the pride of his own humility. He felt a sense of loss that was unfamiliar and harrowing.
There were waves breaking over him. From below, the waves were a wondrous sight, a curved surface of air, spoiled by water droplets, swept by wind, and cloaked in light and shadow by the storm. It was a shocking vision, such a contrast to how he felt. Tears formed in his eyes and ran down his cheeks as he looked up at the falling rain through the thin barrier of the waves.
“Mr. Swift, can you hear me?” his suit asked. No, wait, this voice was clear and warm, but it was not the same as his suit. Johnny had heard this voice before, in entertainment news videos, in interviews of celebrities and ordinary citizens. He tried to put a name and a face to the voice, but he was too exhausted. “Mr. Swift, if you can hear me, do you have anything to say about your amazing uncontrolled fall to Earth? About the arrest of Ivan Niroyavich?”
Johnny’s mouth opened in surprise. He started to speak and then stopped, uncertain. What had Ivan done? Had Katrina known what Ivan had done? What were they to each other?
Johnny didn’t know how to describe what he was feeling. It wasn’t rage or satisfaction. It was something strange and melancholy and complex and confused.
With a great weariness Johnny closed his lips, tasting the salty remnants of his tears, and then his eyes, flushing the visible signs of his grief away. He shut down the channel to the reporter, shut off the channels to the outside world. He stifled the questions that lay like mines in his head.
Then, feeling very hollow, he let the storm tossed waves of the Pacific soothe him to forgetfulness and sleep, as he came to the slow realization that he would survive.
~ The End ~
Update September 10, 2009
When I wrote this story on November 30, 2000, the events described seemed a far way off. Now it doesn’t seem quite so far in the future. In a TED talk, skydiver Steve Truglia (wikipedia) explains that he intends to jump to the Earth from the edge of space (an elevation of 120,000 feet or 36.5 kilometers). That’s not as far away as a space station, but it’s a super impressive ambition nonetheless.
Here’s the speech by Mr. Truglia: