understood that there was no hope of going back, what would you do? Would you surrender to the tugging tendrils of insanity? Try to find a way to end your reshaped life? Or would you take the spherical ship up into orbit and become the guardian of this planet you no longer belonged to, waiting for the next wave of invaders to come, intercepting them and making them understand pain?
If you knew all this, would you answer the call?
I wouldn’t have.
Notes on “The Call”
I can’t really remember what inspired me to write this, other than a desire to try something stylistically different. And now that I’ve written my second person, all-question story, I never have to do either of those tricks again.
Captive Girl
IN THE CHOREOGRAPHED CHAOS OF space, she searches for patterns that do not fit. She listens to the hiss and murmur of the interstellar winds; she peers into the visible spectrum and beyond. Whistling particles stream by, and her mind sizes them up, then discards them as harmless background radiation. Just flotsam on the solar winds. Wait, that light— No, it’s just a weather satellite catching a glint of sun. Too close, anyway. She does not let anything approach the planet without scrutiny.
Motion.
She zooms in, listening hard.
“A-s-t-e-r-o-i-d,” she types out. “Possible collision course.”
There is a scroll across the very bottom of her vast vision. “We see it. Calculating now.”
She looks away. The team is on it. This asteroid could simply be a distraction, and she does not want to be caught unawares. There will be no repeat of last time. Not on her watch.
“It’s a miss,” the scroll says. “Shift’s over. Come on back.”
And her mind contracts, sinking down, down, plummeting back to the surface of the planet, past the colony domes, into the bunkers, deep underground.
Alice gasps through her chest tube as she crashes back into her body.
Mittened hands grope at the metal mask welded to her face, and she’s shocked to realize that they’re hers. She sags forward onto her walker, resting the mask on the padded bar that rings her. She is too tired to call up any video, any audio, and surrenders her overextended senses to nothingness. She struggles to walk forward a few steps, but the seat/body interface chafes, and she works her mouth in a silent gasp behind the metal.
Soft hands are on her back, and she trembles.
With a faint volley of static, her earpieces switch over to internal audio. “It’s all right. Just relax. You’re with us again.”
With her tongue controls, she types out, “Marika.”
And the hands move to the back of her bare scalp, running along the edges of the mask, along super-sensitized skin. “I’m here.”
Alice grips the walker tight in her mittened hands, every part of her body warm and shivery. She clenches around the seat/body interface and lets a hard breath out through her chest tube.
She feels a light kiss on her scalp, and Marika whispers, “They’re watching.”
“I know,” Alice types back. “I don’t care.”
Marika pulls off Alice’s mittens, takes her nail-less hands in hers, and says, “My beautiful captive girl.”
Behind her mask, Alice swoons.
She hears the rude buzz of the intercom, and over it, Dr. Qureshi says, “That was a good shift, Alice.”
“Thank you,” she types.
“Dr. DeVeaux, I’d like to have a word with you.”
“I’m busy with Alice,” Marika replies, and gently kneads Alice’s shoulders through her thin cotton gown. Alice’s head swims, and she rocks the mask back and forth across the bar. Why won’t they just leave the two of them alone?
“We need to discuss Selene’s readings,” Dr. Qureshi says.
“I want Marika to stay.”
“I really do need her help.”
Marika leans in and whispers, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She gives Alice’s shoulders a squeeze, and when she lets them go, the shock of absence makes Alice draw in a pained gasp through her chest
If you knew all this, would you answer the call?
I wouldn’t have.
Notes on “The Call”
I can’t really remember what inspired me to write this, other than a desire to try something stylistically different. And now that I’ve written my second person, all-question story, I never have to do either of those tricks again.
Captive Girl
IN THE CHOREOGRAPHED CHAOS OF space, she searches for patterns that do not fit. She listens to the hiss and murmur of the interstellar winds; she peers into the visible spectrum and beyond. Whistling particles stream by, and her mind sizes them up, then discards them as harmless background radiation. Just flotsam on the solar winds. Wait, that light— No, it’s just a weather satellite catching a glint of sun. Too close, anyway. She does not let anything approach the planet without scrutiny.
Motion.
She zooms in, listening hard.
“A-s-t-e-r-o-i-d,” she types out. “Possible collision course.”
There is a scroll across the very bottom of her vast vision. “We see it. Calculating now.”
She looks away. The team is on it. This asteroid could simply be a distraction, and she does not want to be caught unawares. There will be no repeat of last time. Not on her watch.
“It’s a miss,” the scroll says. “Shift’s over. Come on back.”
And her mind contracts, sinking down, down, plummeting back to the surface of the planet, past the colony domes, into the bunkers, deep underground.
Alice gasps through her chest tube as she crashes back into her body.
Mittened hands grope at the metal mask welded to her face, and she’s shocked to realize that they’re hers. She sags forward onto her walker, resting the mask on the padded bar that rings her. She is too tired to call up any video, any audio, and surrenders her overextended senses to nothingness. She struggles to walk forward a few steps, but the seat/body interface chafes, and she works her mouth in a silent gasp behind the metal.
Soft hands are on her back, and she trembles.
With a faint volley of static, her earpieces switch over to internal audio. “It’s all right. Just relax. You’re with us again.”
With her tongue controls, she types out, “Marika.”
And the hands move to the back of her bare scalp, running along the edges of the mask, along super-sensitized skin. “I’m here.”
Alice grips the walker tight in her mittened hands, every part of her body warm and shivery. She clenches around the seat/body interface and lets a hard breath out through her chest tube.
She feels a light kiss on her scalp, and Marika whispers, “They’re watching.”
“I know,” Alice types back. “I don’t care.”
Marika pulls off Alice’s mittens, takes her nail-less hands in hers, and says, “My beautiful captive girl.”
Behind her mask, Alice swoons.
She hears the rude buzz of the intercom, and over it, Dr. Qureshi says, “That was a good shift, Alice.”
“Thank you,” she types.
“Dr. DeVeaux, I’d like to have a word with you.”
“I’m busy with Alice,” Marika replies, and gently kneads Alice’s shoulders through her thin cotton gown. Alice’s head swims, and she rocks the mask back and forth across the bar. Why won’t they just leave the two of them alone?
“We need to discuss Selene’s readings,” Dr. Qureshi says.
“I want Marika to stay.”
“I really do need her help.”
Marika leans in and whispers, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She gives Alice’s shoulders a squeeze, and when she lets them go, the shock of absence makes Alice draw in a pained gasp through her chest
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