Devotion

by | Dec 4, 2005 | Story | 0 comments

The cloister, in the grand tradition of all ancient edifices like it, is cold. It is by necessity metallic, unlike its predecessors, but as if to make up for this failing, its cold is that of the utter desolation of space. To walk inside, I must wear a full survival suit, though gravity is maintained for the sake of the visitors. It does not impact the nuns in the least.

The cloister is composed of only three rooms. The foyer contains the airlocks, used by visitors and maintenance workers alike, as well as official dignitaries from the church. It is also the house of the cloister’s huge crucifix, depicting Our Savior in his moment of sacrifice. To the left is the control room, accessible only to those who come to maintain the station’s mechanical systems. Directly below the crucifix is the door that leads to the chamber of the nuns.

They hang on the walls suspended, preserved, each encapsulated in the soft blue glow of her life support pod. They are frozen in time, heartbeats only once a year, in perfect homage to He who drew them here. There are no novices in the cloister. The cold, silent hall is the pinnacle of a nun’s creed: from the moment she arrives with her vocation, she is inducted into perpetual solitude, perpetual suffering. Only His true brides, those who intend to spend eternity as His handmaids by eschewing all worldly ties, wish to enter here.

I stare at the faces of the nuns, high above, each illuminated by the humble glow of their chambers. Their faces are similar but unique, each contorted in a different stage of silent ecstasy. Some are worn and caved in. The tissue-rotting microbes have done their slow work over decades or in some cases centuries, blessing the nuns with the sweet scourge of His sacrifice, extended over millennia. These are the faces, drooping and unrecognizable as they might be, that hold the most joy.

They are strong. They are meek. They are beautiful. They are modest. They are filled with conviction. They are eternal.

They are Woman. I am mere flesh.

Static And Silence

by | Dec 3, 2005 | Story | 0 comments

Subject 643-M, age eight, sits cross-legged on the floor. Before him, a wide array of screens flicker rapidly, some with pictures, some words, some numbers. Thick tubes connect from the ceiling to a horizontal row of ports on his back.

He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t have to. Time is meaningless to a Scryer.

The boy’s fingers hover over a small black control box. He touches it sometimes, and images flicker more rapidly, or pause, or rewind. He rarely rewinds. The boy never misses anything.

When he sleeps, he sleeps in front of the screens. He likes the patterns, and he needs the ports. Sleep is a symptom of increased elusidol tolerance, so his dosage is increased to match.

Soon, the boy will be disconnected. The man worries about this. There are 12 others, but this one is the most talented. The man is concerned, but he knows he can get a few more years. He hopes the war is over by then.

The boy speeds through another segment, selecting words and pictures. No numbers this time. It’s not the boy’s responsibility to break the code, merely to locate it. The man hits record, and the pattern vanishes from the screens.

The boy doesn’t remember it. The next feed begins, and he touches the controller, upping the pace. The man closes the door behind him when he goes to check on the other children.

The Lovers

by | Dec 2, 2005 | Story

I’m sore and smiling from last nights’ athletics. My lover is still sleeping, his blue-green head resting on my pale pink chest. There are tiny raised welts on my hip and thigh where he bit me, and light red scratch lines on my back when, just a few hours ago, he was urgently pulling me closer, merging sex and devotion, hungry and hard.

My undergarments shimmer across the room, artfully hung on the lacquered box of drugs he smuggled from his homeworld. I run my fingers along a tentacle that slopes from his head to curl around my breast. He sighes and squeezes my ribs.

Sex isn’t just about what parts can go into what hole, or physical pleasure or reproduction. Sex is about forgiveness, sex is about communication, and mostly, sex is about chemistry, the ph balance of mind and body. We could be acid to one another, but I can protect him, and we can lay here, sentient to sentient. He loves me as I will never understand.

I turn towards him and kiss his smooth, dry lips, inhaling the scent of sand and cinnamon. My lover opens his crimson eyes and trails amber nails softly against my cheek.

Word Made Flesh

by | Dec 1, 2005 | Story

The first day we met, I described myself as a reader, but she never called herself a writer. Instead, she would always say she “had written” and would pull down her collar or roll up her sleeves and show people. They would catch a paragraph or two as it ticked across her chest or revolved around her forearm. Her hands and face remained un-marked; every other body part was fair game, parchment awaiting ink. The scrolling tattoo was connected to an implant in her skull, allowing her to add and edit as she saw fit. Her novel was about a girl with a scrolling tattoo of a novel about herself, her life and loves; it wasn’t the deepest subject matter, but she had a brilliant turn of phrase.

I flatter myself that I read more of it than anyone. This probably has less to do with her willingness to be gazed upon while naked, than it has to do with my being a compulsive reader. I was very easily distracted when we had sex, for example. But having a girl who not only had written, but also was a book (a book!) was too good to pass up.

That was, until, he showed up. She called him the “The Reader,” and he was an obnoxious new character in the world that was scrawled around her body. The Reader arrived innocuously enough. We were watching TV—or rather, she was watching TV. I was reading the words that poked out of her exposed middriff. And there he was, circling lasciviously around her belly button. A man, close to my description, introduced himself to the main character of her novel as “a reader.”

“Is this supposed to be me?”

“Who?” she said, straightening up and pulling her shirt down. “Is who supposed to be you?”

“You know who I’m talking about,” I said. “The Reader.” She feigned innocence and crossed her legs in such a way that her right leg stuck out from below her skirt. Marching along her calf was a part I hadn’t read yet. I let the matter drop.

But The Reader showed up again. And again. It started to get unsettling. It wasn’t so much what he did, it was that he didn’t do anything. All he did was read the novel on the main character’s body, a passive presence in her life. It was disturbing.

“Is this how you see me?” I asked, several times. There may have been a few times when I said this that were perhaps louder than necessary.

“You’re reading too much into it,” was always her answer.

When The Reader accused the main character of writing about him, I about near lost it. I held up her own arm as proof as it circled by, but she merely shrugged it off. When The Reader started yelling at the main character, and forcing her behind closed doors, crying tears he would never see, I knew our relationship was over. The Reader had ruined it.

I let her keep the television.

I saw her again, a few weeks later. She smiled at me, and we acted as old friends. But then The Reader showed up again, as brief description of what had happened to him since slowly crawled across her cleavage. Apparently, he had contracted prostate cancer, Asian bird flu and some sort of flesh-eating virus, as well as now taking it Thai Lady-Boy style from an ex-con named “Bubba.”

We don’t talk much anymore.

Everything

by | Nov 30, 2005 | Story

“I’m sorry, but the answer is no,” Captain Diana Cai watched Ambassador Karr on her viewscreen as his face darkened. The Ambassador bit his tongue inside his mouth until he tasted blood. Captain Cai allowed him his moment. It was harsh news she had to deliver. “Our team has found traces of the Contagion in your soil.”

Ambassador Karr regarded the Captains teardrop stomach, covered only by a sheer cloth that allowed him to see the erotic and powerful exposure of her fertility. “Captain Cai, our cleaning efforts have been intense. Our scientists have found no active traces of the Contagion, and those minor elements still left are broken down. We are assured that, with proper precautions, the children would have a very low risk of infection.”

Captain Cai put her hand on her pregnant stomach, indicating she wished him to be silent. The Ambassador held his breath.

“Ambassador, our highest priority is the welfare of the children. We cannot deliver life to a world where there is any possibility of contamination. I have no doubt that your people deserve the children. I was guided on a virtual tour of the school that you built for the twelve we hoped to give you and I was very impressed by the design, all that light. . .”

Captain Cai looked around her command center, where sixteen women were operating the ship at various stations, all of them at different stages of their pregnancy. Seven years ago, the Bar’ak had spread the Contagion to every human world, rendering nearly everyone sterile. The only fertile humans were those members of the Fleet on space missions. After the infection the Fleet was split, the men sent to retaliate against the Bar’ak aggression, and the women charged with the task of repopulation. The situation was worse than the government let on. “Our children can only be released to colonies with enough security to keep them safe. Contamination levels are part of that security.”

The Ambassador ran a hand through his silver hair. “Captain, my people will double their efforts to clean our soil. We will have the remnants of the contagion removed in a matter of months.”

“Ambassador, I regret to inform you that we will not be returning for thirty seven years.”

“Thirty seven years?” The Ambassadors calm face had broken, and angry wrinkles, like a thousand scars, descended on his face. “Captain, that is outrageous, most of us are already aged past our prime. A delay of that long could kill our colony!”

The Captain put a hand on her stomach and the Ambassador gulped.

“Ambassador, I remind you that it is treason to raise your voice to a woman with child.”

The Ambassador knelt, the screen following him as he crossed his hands over his chest and closed his eyes. “Captain, Mother, forgive me, Life Giver, I pray to you. Please, spare us, give us one child, just one, to teach and love and hold. Please mother, mercy on us. The child you give us will be our most beloved creature, its feet will never touch soil. Please mother, I beg you.”

“I’ll do it.” Said a young Ensign, newly pregnant with her third child. “I’ll go.”

Captain Cai switched off the screen. “Adia, you are out of line.” The Ensign put a hand on her stomach.

“It is treason to raise your voice to a woman with child.”

Captain Cai put her forehead in her hands. “You read the reports, the soil is dangerous.”

“Yes. I read that in some parts of the planet, the soil has minor contamination. Captain, you saw the Ambassador. We cannot leave this colony to die.”

“Are you ready to be a symbol for the rest of your life? An object?”

“No, I’m not.” Adia walked out from behind her console. “Mother, I can’t do this any longer. I cannot continue to give birth and give my children away. I’ll go mad. I have the right to leave the program.”

“Actually, Ensign, you do not have that right. Humanity is in a dire situation right now. There are planets of worlds that cannot reproduce on their own. Even if you, and your children manage to avoid infection, even if you do that, the Bar’ak may find out you are there and return to this moon and spread the contagion again. Then we will have lost yet another fertile woman.”

“If you don’t leave me there, you may lose an entire colony! Mother, please. I want to go. Please, give me to them. Give them hope.”

“I can’t. I cannot let you go for anything less than an act of treason.”

“Then let me be a traitor.” Adia, cradled her mothers face in her hands. “I love you mother.” She lightly slapped the Captains cheek.

Captain Cai swallowed. “To strike a fertile woman is an act of treason, the punishment for which is death. Ensign Cai, because you are fertile, you will be spared capital punishment and will serve your lifelong sentence in the care of this colony planet.” Captain Cai nodded to two female guards. “Take her to transport.”

“Captain, mother, I promise you, I will give them hope.”

“No Adia, you will give them everything.”