A Science Fiction Short Story
Here's something for somebody to chew on. Sorry about the formatting, but enjoy.
Pegasus
I am drawn to the spot where she last saw her friend, that final ephemeral glimpse of true beauty. A picture’s worth a thousand words, and this hologram is definitely that. The cliff overlooking the chaotic sea, the waves crashing with a resounding clap of thunder against the slate grey rocks. And against this majestic backdrop, a small, slight figure garbed all in silver.
She hasn’t changed since then. I shield my eyes from the harsh afternoon sunlight as she approaches, her bright hair glinting and reflecting in the early morning. Her step is light and fleet, top of the line anti-grav boots helping her adjust quickly to Earth. Most space-farers have them, so they don’t look like total idiots trying to moon-walk in Earth grav. The standard-issue gun protrudes subtly from a hip holster - reminding us that she may be lovely, but she’s also a fighter and a very shrewd stock trader.
“Hi, Zara.” My voice emerges as a low, scratchy rumble, and I wince. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of another person in a week, I’ve been so busy with the prototype.
“’Lo. Lorn, isn’t it?” She squints up at me and I realize suddenly how she must view me, this strange young boy, tall and lanky with not a trace of Rielle’s delicate features. “Where’s Rielle? I’m here indef, I thought I’d stop by.” She shakes my hand briefly and I am instantly mesmerized, caught under her web and those translucent blue eyes under long golden eyelashes. She is everything they say she is, and more.
“She was my grandmother.” I look away and let my hand fall, resting loosely by my side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.
“Was?” she says, her blue eyes bright, uncomprehending.
I nod shortly, a feeling of steely resolve manifesting itself inside of my mind, expecting grief and tears. But none come. She shrugs nonchalantly and says, “I was prepped for this on the voyage. How long have I been gone?”
“Seventy-eight years. It’s 2158 now.” I turn around and walk back to the house, letting her choose to follow…or not. Her apparent lack of concern is disconcerting to me - the way Rielle spoke about her, you’d think they were close.
She catches up to me, matching stride for stride. “I’m biologically only three years older, then.” I marvel at the grace, confidence, and youthfulness she seems to exude. The math does itself in my head - she must only be nineteen, which makes me older than her, this strange creature from another century, another land, another culture.
“Do you mind if I crash here for a couple days?” she asks, and how can I refuse? “Hostel rates are astronomical these days.” The Fabriglas door slides open with a slight hum and we enter my pride and joy, the renovated cottage my great-grandfather built with his own hands. She turns to look at me with a cocky grin and it is then that I realize I am captivated by her, a girl I have only heard about in bedtime stories, a highly romanticized figure of the past. We are evolved humans, my mind argues. We have been taught to ignore the enjoyment of primitive items necessary for our survival. Everything comes in a pill now. We no longer require such base needs.
But we like them. Food prepared by human hands tastes better than a little meal-replacement pill. Real sleep is more relaxing than a patch to apply at midnight. And everyone is all about the test-tube baby, the artificial womb. Because this is the twenty-second century, this is the new and improved model of a human being.
“Lorn? You alright, there?” She’s peering at me curiously and I blink, a little off-balance.
Thankfully, my mouth acts a lot faster than my brain. So do my arms. Suddenly I find myself picking up her little vacuumed TravelPak and showing her the guestroom, babbling but somehow managing to sound calm and collected. Hurriedly I smooth out the coverlet and place the bags in the closet before tapping the wall and letting the keyboard slide out, watching as the entire wall becomes an electronic interface.
“This is me, isn’t it?” My heart leaps into my throat to see her staring at the hologram, rotating silently on the dresser. I forgot that it was kept in here. She runs her thumb over the engraving on the bottom that reads, “Zara, My Space Cadet.”
“Did she speak of me?” Her voice is soft as she picks up the holodisc and twirls it, watching herself spin slowly, the waves crashing continuously.
I tap the password out and say quietly, “All the time.” It is true. I grew up on stories of Zara, but I never expected to see her standing in my guestroom.
She opens the top drawer of the bureau, taking out thin plastic tablets. “My letters!” she gasps, fanning them out across the bed. “They’re all here.” I don’t ask how she knew where they were. Rielle told me that Zara had stayed in this cottage a lot. I can’t help but stare at her, still struggling with a profound sense of disbelief.
“So you’re planet-bound,” I say, after a spell of silence stretches much too thin.
Zara grimaces and stands, brushing her thick hair briskly back into a messy twist. “Something happened with my paperwork and I can’t get off-planet ‘till they fix it. Should be just a day or so. S’alright, I haven’t been on solid ground in a long time.” She glances fondly at the letters, penned and transmitted across space and time. Ah, technology.
“I see,” I say, even though I don’t. I have never left my home continent, let alone planet. She has been across four galaxies, to nearly all of the Hundred Worlds controlled under the Space Trade Act of 2142. What do I have to offer to a girl who really has seen it all?
“So, when’s lunch? I’m starving!” She smiles at me and I realize that I would do just about anything to earn another one of those billion-watt grins. It’s pathetic how she can reduce me to a babbling pile of mush. Lorn Hamilton, self-made billionaire, following every beck and whim of a childhood heroine.
“Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll make you something.” I turn and walk out, trying not to stumble. In the kitchen, the counters are already working, lighting up with displays of recipes and menus. The fridge beeps at me, telling me in no uncertain terms that I am out of milk, but I can still make tuna sandwiches. Tuna sandwiches it is, then.
As I slice ‘n’ dice, my eye drifts to the two pictures on the fridge. A young picture of Rielle, shining and beautiful, and one of Michelle, a girl I once knew in college. It was Michelle who alerted me to the problem, Michelle who helped me develop the wrist consoles and make my fortune…and hers.
Rielle was my mentor, the one who raised me at her knee, feeding me stories and physics in equal doses. Mother never approved and dismissed fairy tales - she was born a scientist. But I was a perceptive child and I knew that something was wrong, because sometimes, when Rielle told me a story of Zara the Space Explorer, a lingering sadness would shadow her eyes and she’d have to stop for a brief moment. So I let her read me these stories, drawing me into a fantasy world. Those brief moments were when it would all come to an abrupt halt and we would have to start over.
I remember one day when I asked why, as innocent children are wont to do.
But she would not answer. Instead she painted Zara as this distant mythical being, this Wonder Woman in space, having adventures as an alien linguist and controlling a powerful space route on her own, this young and talented girl. “Look,” Rielle would say, as she handed me the LA Times. “Zara’s found a new species.” And I would read it quickly, listening intently as she spun new tales of her favorite hero.
I never asked again.
“Well, this is hi-tech.” I turn, my musings interrupted, only to find a vision in pink; I am lucky that the plate is already on the counter. Clothes have never been of much interest to me, but on her one cannot help but notice every detail. A dress with a flared skirt suits her, utilizing the new technology of the ‘lectric cloth to shimmer and swirl in shades of rose, captivating the eye. She caresses the island with a tapered finger and watches in surprise as it becomes a keyboard and the display materializes, hovering over the Fabriglas tile. “I have state-of-the-art equipment, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”
She takes a proffered sandwich and munches on it contentedly, staring at the display in apparent fascination. “It’s a prototype,” I say. I reach over and touch a holographic button, enjoying her impressed look and earning myself another bright smile. They’re like gold stars in elementary school, her smiles. “I’m experimenting with touch-sensory technology. It’s not perfect, but I’m hoping to get a model out on the market next year.” She nods silently and we stand there in comfortable silence, eating grilled sandwiches like this is a quotidian thing. I watch her face intently, noting the little changes in her delicate features. Her bright, uncontained happiness becomes something restricted, something pensive.
As soon as she finishes her last bite, she brusquely brushes off crumbs and says, “Now, to business, my dear.”
Ah. I knew that she wasn’t really here just to visit Rielle. “What brings you to Los Angeles, then?” Zara was always famed for having ulterior motives.
It is with a somber expression that she hands me a tablet, palming it first to confirm her identity. Tears form in my eyes of their own accord as I read my beloved grandmother’s words. How characteristic of her to be short and subtle, all at once.
Zara -
It is in moments of striking clarity that our vision is most obscured. Return, or all is lost.
“She always did like to exaggerate,” I drawl, but my heart is sinking into my chest. Rielle passed away six years ago, years before Michelle even detected the slightest hint of a problem, and that was her job! She was indeed a perceptive woman.
This young girl peered at me a moment before shoving her hand in a pocket and handing me a tissue. I waved it away, ashamed that she should see me cry. But then, we both loved Rielle in our own ways, I suppose. “There is a problem on Earth, isn’t there?” she says.
I incline my head slightly and put the tablet on the counter, where its data is automatically absorbed by the computer. “When did you get this?
“I don’t know. I was in sector 3941ZWK at the time, caught in an eddy of Time. It took me about two years to get back, even with special relativity.” She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. For the first time all day, I can actually see her as someone human. “I hate the twin paradox.”
While she speaks, I type rapidly, pulling up files that I have pushed out of my mind in an attempt to pretend that they don’t exist. But problems cannot be hidden forever. Sooner or later, they will emerge. “Do you remember the year 2064?” I ask, praying that she does. Curt nod. “It’s the same thing, really. Same problem, just no panic.”
Her eyes widen abruptly. I could drown in those eyes. “That was the year I was born. You don’t mean the ozone fix, do you?”
For an answer, I point to the scrolling fact sheets at the computer. As she reads, I explain just what exactly has been happening while she’s been away. “After the repair, Adam Ryan -“
“The old president of the GU, yeah? How is he?”
“He’s dead, Zara.” I’m struggling to be patient with her. They say that when you go off-planet, you begin to live day-to-day, hour-by-hour. All memory fades away, except for the important people you once knew. It’s something to do with the radiation, but no one’s ever been able to figure out what.
“Oh. Right. Who’s in charge now?” She doesn’t even sound remotely interested, which worries me more than I let on. When I got the vidcall, a sudden burst of hope flared in me, but if she does not care about our situation…
“Samuel the II, Adam’s grandnephew. That’s not important. Thing is, there was such a public scare over the hole and the radiation and cancer, the Ryans hushed it up. They eradicated it from all the books and it was like it never happened. Even if you go on the Net, you’ll find absolutely nothing.”
“But we learned it in the school systems.” She’s puzzling over the problem, but I can see that at least she’s very quick to grasp what I’m trying to tell her.
“They wiped it in 2100. It was like a fresh start, Sammy boy’s first act as leader.” I insert an infocube into the ComDesk and we watch as the e-text version of the history book pops up. “You’ll find nothing there.”
“And it’s happening again? Why can’t they fix it using the same meth - oh. I see. Rielle must have thought I would remember.” The statement has the ring of finality and truth
I remind her gently, “You’re the only one from that century who’s still alive and young enough to know. They say you have a perfect memory.”
“Mhmm. The media says a lot of things about me. You shouldn’t believe everything you see.” Her eyes stray towards the picture on the fridge and she falls silent.
It’s all I can do not to ask the burning question, hovering tantalizingly in the air between us. But I go ahead and ask, because I definitely don’t have any willpower. “How did you know Rielle if you left so early from Earth?”
Her eyes mist over and I let her slide backwards into the past, a past she seems to remember with remarkable focus. “She was my best friend - we were born three days apart. When we were twelve, the space-age boom hit and started to expand, until they started colonizing other planets, and sending people out, but nobody really wanted to go. The age of consent was sixteen, and Rielle and I swore we would leave together.” She pauses, and it stretches infinitely until I prompt her and she continues. “Sixteen rolled around and Rielle decided she wanted to go to college and study physics. Plus” - she smiles bitterly - “she met a boy. Your grandfather, I suppose. Anyway, we had a bit of a spat and I ran off recklessly, getting on board before I realized that I signed on for five years. And that, as they say, was history.”
“Wow.” It’s all I can say. It’s such a simple story, a simple new age fairy tale that many people would love as a bedtime story. But Rielle never told me this plain little ditty. I wonder why.
She turns and whispers through her tears so that I must lean closer to hear, “I never said goodbye to her.” The light of recognition has dawned upon her now. They say that being planet-bound can help bring back memories - the radiation from the ozone leak repair is probably the reason. But scientists always blame the inexplicable on the damned radiation now.
“You wrote, though. I am sure she knew how you felt.” I pat her on the back awkwardly, noting from a distance that my hand is going through the holographic interface and messing with the sensors - I’m going to have to fix that. “She adored you.”
“I just don’t know.” Now it is her turn to swipe at tears angrily and pretend that they do not exist. I would lend her a tissue, but she already has one of fine Martian linen.
“Are you kidding?” I laugh a little, trying to break up the tension. “She saved all of your letters. I grew up on bedtime stories about you. You were her hero.” I hesitate, then impulsively plow on. “Mine as well.” Yes, it’s as awkward as it sounded in my head.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m sure.” She shrugs my reassurances and me off like water rolling blithely away from a slick glass mountain. I don’t even think she heard me.
“D-do you want to focus on the problem at hand?” Damn the stammer that only appears in times of great nervousness. In an effort to busy my trembling hands, I pour myself a glass of water and one for her as well, hardly trusting myself not to shake and accidentally shatter precious china. “The Global Union’s trying to keep it all hush-hush, but they’re running out of time. You’re probably the only person who can save us.” I grimace then, only just realizing how dramatic I accidentally sound. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pressure you or anything.” The fridge beeps again, saying quietly that there is alcohol available. She looks at me with a questioning brow and I shrug. Hell, I need it, if only so that I might understand what is going on through the tinted lenses of inebriety. I say, “What would you prefer?”
She rubs at her eyes - I think the jet lag is getting to her. “A Karran. Do you have any? I know they’re hard to find.”
“I think so.” We have a lot in common. I hand her one and pop one open for myself, before rummaging around a shelf in order to find my small stack of sleep patches. She refuses them, mumbling something about old-fashioned values. The patches go into the trash as I practically inhale the viscous brown liquid, enjoying the taste and the light-headed feeling I get from it. When you’re rich, you can afford the ancient values of fresh food and art and other assorted needs of the cave men. The poor must content themselves with pills, but CEOs are above that.
We stand there in dusky twilight silence, drinking and thinking and looking anywhere but at one another. It is many minutes before I say quietly, “You okay?”
“S’alright,” she slurs, absent-mindedly gazing at Rielle’s picture, beer bottle still in hand. A haunting darkness passes over her face, dimming those bright eyes, but it vanishes just as quickly as it appears. I know what it’s from, I know her like the back of my hand: the Mars Incident. Water droplets continue to fall, rolling slowly down high cheekbones and blurring the sharp lines of cosmetic paint. Her dangerous looking tattoo spins rapidly in the shadows of her right cheek, the spidery black lines reflecting stock market changes in an abstract interpretation that they say she understands perfectly. It is the one thing that detracts from her flawless, innocent beauty, giving her a dark edge. She is the quintessential mystery, if only because they say many different things about her. How many are true?
“I can’t do it.” Her voice emerges as a croak. “Everyone thinks I can do it all, but I’m just a pretty face. They’re all wrong.”
“What?” My mind is dulled by the strong alcohol and it takes me a moment to form a thought about what she’s saying.
“I just can’t.” She sighs. “That’s how I’ve always gotten by.”
I whisper something incoherent, but I don’t think she hears me. And then I notice acutely that we’re standing far too close together and I can see right into her soul. And she’s breathing hard and fast and I can see every individual tear droplet rolling slowly down her face…and then that’s it. My vague fantasy realizes itself, even as I question her motives. Why you? My mind says angrily. But she’s never answered to those. Her eyes are serious and bright and I barely register what she’s trying to do. My mind goes blank as she leans her face forward and her lips touch gently to mine, and I’m drowning, trying to fight against the current.
But it’s too strong.
Mere moments later, she’s gone, leaving me holding onto the countertop straining to breathe. But I’m not thinking about the kiss, which was weird in and out of itself. In that final moment, she shut down, her face blank, her eyes cold and helpless. Perhaps she realized that she had made a terrible error in judgment, that it was just the beer talking.
But I cannot go to her, because to go to her would be far more camaraderie than can be achieved in mere hours. So I stand there, poised at the brink of action but unable to move. It is an uncomfortable feeling to grip Fabriglas for hours on end, the cold material digging into your flesh, your eyes staring vacantly at scrolling data reports of impending doom. Being drunk doesn’t dull the edge, because I know deep down that our planet is moribund and I feel entirely too anaphylactic.
It is not until I am certain that she is asleep that I make any slight motion to retreat to my own bedroom and huddle in an expansive bed, feeling memory foam whirr under me as it adjusts itself exactly to my shape. There can be no comfort offered from these gimmicks of my own design. I cannot sleep, thinking only about her and everything she represents. I remember stories of young, quick, lovers, men who appeared and vanished just as quickly.
And it is with a chilling certainty that I can discern what is to come. Rielle’s voice echoes in my head, whispering tales of failure and success and always, always, a slight sprite darting in and out of history, never remaining in the same place for very long. A twisted smile, a faint glance, and she has diverted the stream of Time once more, only to vanish and appear decades later. I know that she will do this, because she always has. Old habits die hard. Now all I can do is wait, eyes open in the cloud of darkness.
My wrist console vibrates quietly and I know that it is 3 AM. One hour for every year. I roll out of bed and make my way to the entryway, thumbing the door so that it slides open. The doorbell buzzes at the same time and for a moment, I wonder if I can see it happen. But then I step out onto the porch, breathing the fresh salt air and realizing that I am alone, with a box that I knew would be there. She always leaves a box. Rielle received friendship flowers, but that was all. Everyone runs, but few do it in as much style as she, and certainly never going off-world to achieve their goals.
I peer inside with a faint twinge of sadness and nostalgia on my face. The silent language of flowers has always been her favorite. My grasping hand delves into the cardboard carton and encounters a thin wafer of actual paper, surprisingly enough. I haven’t seen such a relic in a decade, but then again, she is the embodiment of history.
Her words are as simple as Rielle’s. Perhaps that was why they got along so well - they both delighted in being woefully cryptic.
Motivation is a fire from within. If someone else tries to light that fire under you, chances are it will burn very briefly. - Steven Covey
Sorry--
Z.
I turn my face to the sea and breathe in the salty air, feeling memories and the occasional whispered word flood my mind. For a brief moment in time, I crossed paths with a legend.
Withered white rose petals swirl in the wind and spin away, floating beyond the cliff and over it, to rest in the depths of the waves she once stared at as a child, three-quarters of a century ago. She ran from her problems then - she will run now. But this time, she will not only abandon a beloved friend, she will lose her entire home world.
Intelligence will endure throughout time, stretching across the invisible boundaries of space. It will last a lifetime if taken care of and nurtured. Willpower is the same - it cannot be taught. Yes-
Beauty is truly fleeting.
Pegasus
I am drawn to the spot where she last saw her friend, that final ephemeral glimpse of true beauty. A picture’s worth a thousand words, and this hologram is definitely that. The cliff overlooking the chaotic sea, the waves crashing with a resounding clap of thunder against the slate grey rocks. And against this majestic backdrop, a small, slight figure garbed all in silver.
She hasn’t changed since then. I shield my eyes from the harsh afternoon sunlight as she approaches, her bright hair glinting and reflecting in the early morning. Her step is light and fleet, top of the line anti-grav boots helping her adjust quickly to Earth. Most space-farers have them, so they don’t look like total idiots trying to moon-walk in Earth grav. The standard-issue gun protrudes subtly from a hip holster - reminding us that she may be lovely, but she’s also a fighter and a very shrewd stock trader.
“Hi, Zara.” My voice emerges as a low, scratchy rumble, and I wince. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of another person in a week, I’ve been so busy with the prototype.
“’Lo. Lorn, isn’t it?” She squints up at me and I realize suddenly how she must view me, this strange young boy, tall and lanky with not a trace of Rielle’s delicate features. “Where’s Rielle? I’m here indef, I thought I’d stop by.” She shakes my hand briefly and I am instantly mesmerized, caught under her web and those translucent blue eyes under long golden eyelashes. She is everything they say she is, and more.
“She was my grandmother.” I look away and let my hand fall, resting loosely by my side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.
“Was?” she says, her blue eyes bright, uncomprehending.
I nod shortly, a feeling of steely resolve manifesting itself inside of my mind, expecting grief and tears. But none come. She shrugs nonchalantly and says, “I was prepped for this on the voyage. How long have I been gone?”
“Seventy-eight years. It’s 2158 now.” I turn around and walk back to the house, letting her choose to follow…or not. Her apparent lack of concern is disconcerting to me - the way Rielle spoke about her, you’d think they were close.
She catches up to me, matching stride for stride. “I’m biologically only three years older, then.” I marvel at the grace, confidence, and youthfulness she seems to exude. The math does itself in my head - she must only be nineteen, which makes me older than her, this strange creature from another century, another land, another culture.
“Do you mind if I crash here for a couple days?” she asks, and how can I refuse? “Hostel rates are astronomical these days.” The Fabriglas door slides open with a slight hum and we enter my pride and joy, the renovated cottage my great-grandfather built with his own hands. She turns to look at me with a cocky grin and it is then that I realize I am captivated by her, a girl I have only heard about in bedtime stories, a highly romanticized figure of the past. We are evolved humans, my mind argues. We have been taught to ignore the enjoyment of primitive items necessary for our survival. Everything comes in a pill now. We no longer require such base needs.
But we like them. Food prepared by human hands tastes better than a little meal-replacement pill. Real sleep is more relaxing than a patch to apply at midnight. And everyone is all about the test-tube baby, the artificial womb. Because this is the twenty-second century, this is the new and improved model of a human being.
“Lorn? You alright, there?” She’s peering at me curiously and I blink, a little off-balance.
Thankfully, my mouth acts a lot faster than my brain. So do my arms. Suddenly I find myself picking up her little vacuumed TravelPak and showing her the guestroom, babbling but somehow managing to sound calm and collected. Hurriedly I smooth out the coverlet and place the bags in the closet before tapping the wall and letting the keyboard slide out, watching as the entire wall becomes an electronic interface.
“This is me, isn’t it?” My heart leaps into my throat to see her staring at the hologram, rotating silently on the dresser. I forgot that it was kept in here. She runs her thumb over the engraving on the bottom that reads, “Zara, My Space Cadet.”
“Did she speak of me?” Her voice is soft as she picks up the holodisc and twirls it, watching herself spin slowly, the waves crashing continuously.
I tap the password out and say quietly, “All the time.” It is true. I grew up on stories of Zara, but I never expected to see her standing in my guestroom.
She opens the top drawer of the bureau, taking out thin plastic tablets. “My letters!” she gasps, fanning them out across the bed. “They’re all here.” I don’t ask how she knew where they were. Rielle told me that Zara had stayed in this cottage a lot. I can’t help but stare at her, still struggling with a profound sense of disbelief.
“So you’re planet-bound,” I say, after a spell of silence stretches much too thin.
Zara grimaces and stands, brushing her thick hair briskly back into a messy twist. “Something happened with my paperwork and I can’t get off-planet ‘till they fix it. Should be just a day or so. S’alright, I haven’t been on solid ground in a long time.” She glances fondly at the letters, penned and transmitted across space and time. Ah, technology.
“I see,” I say, even though I don’t. I have never left my home continent, let alone planet. She has been across four galaxies, to nearly all of the Hundred Worlds controlled under the Space Trade Act of 2142. What do I have to offer to a girl who really has seen it all?
“So, when’s lunch? I’m starving!” She smiles at me and I realize that I would do just about anything to earn another one of those billion-watt grins. It’s pathetic how she can reduce me to a babbling pile of mush. Lorn Hamilton, self-made billionaire, following every beck and whim of a childhood heroine.
“Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll make you something.” I turn and walk out, trying not to stumble. In the kitchen, the counters are already working, lighting up with displays of recipes and menus. The fridge beeps at me, telling me in no uncertain terms that I am out of milk, but I can still make tuna sandwiches. Tuna sandwiches it is, then.
As I slice ‘n’ dice, my eye drifts to the two pictures on the fridge. A young picture of Rielle, shining and beautiful, and one of Michelle, a girl I once knew in college. It was Michelle who alerted me to the problem, Michelle who helped me develop the wrist consoles and make my fortune…and hers.
Rielle was my mentor, the one who raised me at her knee, feeding me stories and physics in equal doses. Mother never approved and dismissed fairy tales - she was born a scientist. But I was a perceptive child and I knew that something was wrong, because sometimes, when Rielle told me a story of Zara the Space Explorer, a lingering sadness would shadow her eyes and she’d have to stop for a brief moment. So I let her read me these stories, drawing me into a fantasy world. Those brief moments were when it would all come to an abrupt halt and we would have to start over.
I remember one day when I asked why, as innocent children are wont to do.
But she would not answer. Instead she painted Zara as this distant mythical being, this Wonder Woman in space, having adventures as an alien linguist and controlling a powerful space route on her own, this young and talented girl. “Look,” Rielle would say, as she handed me the LA Times. “Zara’s found a new species.” And I would read it quickly, listening intently as she spun new tales of her favorite hero.
I never asked again.
“Well, this is hi-tech.” I turn, my musings interrupted, only to find a vision in pink; I am lucky that the plate is already on the counter. Clothes have never been of much interest to me, but on her one cannot help but notice every detail. A dress with a flared skirt suits her, utilizing the new technology of the ‘lectric cloth to shimmer and swirl in shades of rose, captivating the eye. She caresses the island with a tapered finger and watches in surprise as it becomes a keyboard and the display materializes, hovering over the Fabriglas tile. “I have state-of-the-art equipment, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”
She takes a proffered sandwich and munches on it contentedly, staring at the display in apparent fascination. “It’s a prototype,” I say. I reach over and touch a holographic button, enjoying her impressed look and earning myself another bright smile. They’re like gold stars in elementary school, her smiles. “I’m experimenting with touch-sensory technology. It’s not perfect, but I’m hoping to get a model out on the market next year.” She nods silently and we stand there in comfortable silence, eating grilled sandwiches like this is a quotidian thing. I watch her face intently, noting the little changes in her delicate features. Her bright, uncontained happiness becomes something restricted, something pensive.
As soon as she finishes her last bite, she brusquely brushes off crumbs and says, “Now, to business, my dear.”
Ah. I knew that she wasn’t really here just to visit Rielle. “What brings you to Los Angeles, then?” Zara was always famed for having ulterior motives.
It is with a somber expression that she hands me a tablet, palming it first to confirm her identity. Tears form in my eyes of their own accord as I read my beloved grandmother’s words. How characteristic of her to be short and subtle, all at once.
Zara -
It is in moments of striking clarity that our vision is most obscured. Return, or all is lost.
“She always did like to exaggerate,” I drawl, but my heart is sinking into my chest. Rielle passed away six years ago, years before Michelle even detected the slightest hint of a problem, and that was her job! She was indeed a perceptive woman.
This young girl peered at me a moment before shoving her hand in a pocket and handing me a tissue. I waved it away, ashamed that she should see me cry. But then, we both loved Rielle in our own ways, I suppose. “There is a problem on Earth, isn’t there?” she says.
I incline my head slightly and put the tablet on the counter, where its data is automatically absorbed by the computer. “When did you get this?
“I don’t know. I was in sector 3941ZWK at the time, caught in an eddy of Time. It took me about two years to get back, even with special relativity.” She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. For the first time all day, I can actually see her as someone human. “I hate the twin paradox.”
While she speaks, I type rapidly, pulling up files that I have pushed out of my mind in an attempt to pretend that they don’t exist. But problems cannot be hidden forever. Sooner or later, they will emerge. “Do you remember the year 2064?” I ask, praying that she does. Curt nod. “It’s the same thing, really. Same problem, just no panic.”
Her eyes widen abruptly. I could drown in those eyes. “That was the year I was born. You don’t mean the ozone fix, do you?”
For an answer, I point to the scrolling fact sheets at the computer. As she reads, I explain just what exactly has been happening while she’s been away. “After the repair, Adam Ryan -“
“The old president of the GU, yeah? How is he?”
“He’s dead, Zara.” I’m struggling to be patient with her. They say that when you go off-planet, you begin to live day-to-day, hour-by-hour. All memory fades away, except for the important people you once knew. It’s something to do with the radiation, but no one’s ever been able to figure out what.
“Oh. Right. Who’s in charge now?” She doesn’t even sound remotely interested, which worries me more than I let on. When I got the vidcall, a sudden burst of hope flared in me, but if she does not care about our situation…
“Samuel the II, Adam’s grandnephew. That’s not important. Thing is, there was such a public scare over the hole and the radiation and cancer, the Ryans hushed it up. They eradicated it from all the books and it was like it never happened. Even if you go on the Net, you’ll find absolutely nothing.”
“But we learned it in the school systems.” She’s puzzling over the problem, but I can see that at least she’s very quick to grasp what I’m trying to tell her.
“They wiped it in 2100. It was like a fresh start, Sammy boy’s first act as leader.” I insert an infocube into the ComDesk and we watch as the e-text version of the history book pops up. “You’ll find nothing there.”
“And it’s happening again? Why can’t they fix it using the same meth - oh. I see. Rielle must have thought I would remember.” The statement has the ring of finality and truth
I remind her gently, “You’re the only one from that century who’s still alive and young enough to know. They say you have a perfect memory.”
“Mhmm. The media says a lot of things about me. You shouldn’t believe everything you see.” Her eyes stray towards the picture on the fridge and she falls silent.
It’s all I can do not to ask the burning question, hovering tantalizingly in the air between us. But I go ahead and ask, because I definitely don’t have any willpower. “How did you know Rielle if you left so early from Earth?”
Her eyes mist over and I let her slide backwards into the past, a past she seems to remember with remarkable focus. “She was my best friend - we were born three days apart. When we were twelve, the space-age boom hit and started to expand, until they started colonizing other planets, and sending people out, but nobody really wanted to go. The age of consent was sixteen, and Rielle and I swore we would leave together.” She pauses, and it stretches infinitely until I prompt her and she continues. “Sixteen rolled around and Rielle decided she wanted to go to college and study physics. Plus” - she smiles bitterly - “she met a boy. Your grandfather, I suppose. Anyway, we had a bit of a spat and I ran off recklessly, getting on board before I realized that I signed on for five years. And that, as they say, was history.”
“Wow.” It’s all I can say. It’s such a simple story, a simple new age fairy tale that many people would love as a bedtime story. But Rielle never told me this plain little ditty. I wonder why.
She turns and whispers through her tears so that I must lean closer to hear, “I never said goodbye to her.” The light of recognition has dawned upon her now. They say that being planet-bound can help bring back memories - the radiation from the ozone leak repair is probably the reason. But scientists always blame the inexplicable on the damned radiation now.
“You wrote, though. I am sure she knew how you felt.” I pat her on the back awkwardly, noting from a distance that my hand is going through the holographic interface and messing with the sensors - I’m going to have to fix that. “She adored you.”
“I just don’t know.” Now it is her turn to swipe at tears angrily and pretend that they do not exist. I would lend her a tissue, but she already has one of fine Martian linen.
“Are you kidding?” I laugh a little, trying to break up the tension. “She saved all of your letters. I grew up on bedtime stories about you. You were her hero.” I hesitate, then impulsively plow on. “Mine as well.” Yes, it’s as awkward as it sounded in my head.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m sure.” She shrugs my reassurances and me off like water rolling blithely away from a slick glass mountain. I don’t even think she heard me.
“D-do you want to focus on the problem at hand?” Damn the stammer that only appears in times of great nervousness. In an effort to busy my trembling hands, I pour myself a glass of water and one for her as well, hardly trusting myself not to shake and accidentally shatter precious china. “The Global Union’s trying to keep it all hush-hush, but they’re running out of time. You’re probably the only person who can save us.” I grimace then, only just realizing how dramatic I accidentally sound. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pressure you or anything.” The fridge beeps again, saying quietly that there is alcohol available. She looks at me with a questioning brow and I shrug. Hell, I need it, if only so that I might understand what is going on through the tinted lenses of inebriety. I say, “What would you prefer?”
She rubs at her eyes - I think the jet lag is getting to her. “A Karran. Do you have any? I know they’re hard to find.”
“I think so.” We have a lot in common. I hand her one and pop one open for myself, before rummaging around a shelf in order to find my small stack of sleep patches. She refuses them, mumbling something about old-fashioned values. The patches go into the trash as I practically inhale the viscous brown liquid, enjoying the taste and the light-headed feeling I get from it. When you’re rich, you can afford the ancient values of fresh food and art and other assorted needs of the cave men. The poor must content themselves with pills, but CEOs are above that.
We stand there in dusky twilight silence, drinking and thinking and looking anywhere but at one another. It is many minutes before I say quietly, “You okay?”
“S’alright,” she slurs, absent-mindedly gazing at Rielle’s picture, beer bottle still in hand. A haunting darkness passes over her face, dimming those bright eyes, but it vanishes just as quickly as it appears. I know what it’s from, I know her like the back of my hand: the Mars Incident. Water droplets continue to fall, rolling slowly down high cheekbones and blurring the sharp lines of cosmetic paint. Her dangerous looking tattoo spins rapidly in the shadows of her right cheek, the spidery black lines reflecting stock market changes in an abstract interpretation that they say she understands perfectly. It is the one thing that detracts from her flawless, innocent beauty, giving her a dark edge. She is the quintessential mystery, if only because they say many different things about her. How many are true?
“I can’t do it.” Her voice emerges as a croak. “Everyone thinks I can do it all, but I’m just a pretty face. They’re all wrong.”
“What?” My mind is dulled by the strong alcohol and it takes me a moment to form a thought about what she’s saying.
“I just can’t.” She sighs. “That’s how I’ve always gotten by.”
I whisper something incoherent, but I don’t think she hears me. And then I notice acutely that we’re standing far too close together and I can see right into her soul. And she’s breathing hard and fast and I can see every individual tear droplet rolling slowly down her face…and then that’s it. My vague fantasy realizes itself, even as I question her motives. Why you? My mind says angrily. But she’s never answered to those. Her eyes are serious and bright and I barely register what she’s trying to do. My mind goes blank as she leans her face forward and her lips touch gently to mine, and I’m drowning, trying to fight against the current.
But it’s too strong.
Mere moments later, she’s gone, leaving me holding onto the countertop straining to breathe. But I’m not thinking about the kiss, which was weird in and out of itself. In that final moment, she shut down, her face blank, her eyes cold and helpless. Perhaps she realized that she had made a terrible error in judgment, that it was just the beer talking.
But I cannot go to her, because to go to her would be far more camaraderie than can be achieved in mere hours. So I stand there, poised at the brink of action but unable to move. It is an uncomfortable feeling to grip Fabriglas for hours on end, the cold material digging into your flesh, your eyes staring vacantly at scrolling data reports of impending doom. Being drunk doesn’t dull the edge, because I know deep down that our planet is moribund and I feel entirely too anaphylactic.
It is not until I am certain that she is asleep that I make any slight motion to retreat to my own bedroom and huddle in an expansive bed, feeling memory foam whirr under me as it adjusts itself exactly to my shape. There can be no comfort offered from these gimmicks of my own design. I cannot sleep, thinking only about her and everything she represents. I remember stories of young, quick, lovers, men who appeared and vanished just as quickly.
And it is with a chilling certainty that I can discern what is to come. Rielle’s voice echoes in my head, whispering tales of failure and success and always, always, a slight sprite darting in and out of history, never remaining in the same place for very long. A twisted smile, a faint glance, and she has diverted the stream of Time once more, only to vanish and appear decades later. I know that she will do this, because she always has. Old habits die hard. Now all I can do is wait, eyes open in the cloud of darkness.
My wrist console vibrates quietly and I know that it is 3 AM. One hour for every year. I roll out of bed and make my way to the entryway, thumbing the door so that it slides open. The doorbell buzzes at the same time and for a moment, I wonder if I can see it happen. But then I step out onto the porch, breathing the fresh salt air and realizing that I am alone, with a box that I knew would be there. She always leaves a box. Rielle received friendship flowers, but that was all. Everyone runs, but few do it in as much style as she, and certainly never going off-world to achieve their goals.
I peer inside with a faint twinge of sadness and nostalgia on my face. The silent language of flowers has always been her favorite. My grasping hand delves into the cardboard carton and encounters a thin wafer of actual paper, surprisingly enough. I haven’t seen such a relic in a decade, but then again, she is the embodiment of history.
Her words are as simple as Rielle’s. Perhaps that was why they got along so well - they both delighted in being woefully cryptic.
Motivation is a fire from within. If someone else tries to light that fire under you, chances are it will burn very briefly. - Steven Covey
Sorry--
Z.
I turn my face to the sea and breathe in the salty air, feeling memories and the occasional whispered word flood my mind. For a brief moment in time, I crossed paths with a legend.
Withered white rose petals swirl in the wind and spin away, floating beyond the cliff and over it, to rest in the depths of the waves she once stared at as a child, three-quarters of a century ago. She ran from her problems then - she will run now. But this time, she will not only abandon a beloved friend, she will lose her entire home world.
Intelligence will endure throughout time, stretching across the invisible boundaries of space. It will last a lifetime if taken care of and nurtured. Willpower is the same - it cannot be taught. Yes-
Beauty is truly fleeting.