INTRODUCTION
The Slow March of Light
CYCLE 7543 (APPROX. 1220 B.C.)
Light is slow. Like an old couple walking by the shore, photons amble without a care as I lie alone in this flying coffin, unable to outpace their leisurely stroll. The darkness stays still while I inch my way to a place I may never reach. Light is cruel. There’s purpose behind its sloth, deliberateness. It wants me to suffer. I can hear it sometimes, snickering, while I beg death to come for me. I beg, and threaten, and scream, but I’m too far from anything for her to hear. I need to die. I need this to stop, but I’m not strong enough. WHY CAN’T I WILL MYSELF TO DIE? I can’t move. I can’t DO ANYTHING. This pain. Constant, relentless torment. It’s everywhere, in the air I breathe, the water I drink. I try to sleep, but it keeps me awake until I can’t tell if I am. I thank the stars when I lose consciousness, but it never lasts. I wake up to the SAME. SHEKRET. PAIN! It’s been two cycles. I can’t take another seven.
I want to die. I want it more than anything because there is nothing else. There is no mission. There’s no duty. There’s only pain. I’d kill myself without hesitation, but I can’t move my arms anymore. I can’t reach the controls and vent all the air into space. I can’t overdose on pain meds. I can’t alter course and drive myself into a star. I found thirty-seven different ways to end my life, but every single one of them is out of my reach.
“You are a hero to your people,” he said. “Remember that when you think it’s too much to bear.” I didn’t know what he meant. I imagined. Apparently, I lack a proper imagination. I smiled at him. “Thank you, sir. It’s an honor to serve.” Lies. I didn’t do this for my people. I did it for everyone who doesn’t fit the definition. We have plenty of time to find a suitable home before ours turns into a fiery hell, but it’ll take centuries to move everyone. And they won’t really move everyone, of course. They’ll start with the fertile. Then the citizens. Miners next, I guess—gotta have someone to dig—but they’ll find every excuse to leave the rest of them behind. My son’s half Xo. They’ll move cattle before they get to people like him. The sooner we find a place, the better their odds. These scout ships are all we’ve got. It’s a one-way ticket, but it’s also the best I could do for my son’s children, or their children. I volunteered. I … chose this.
Somewhere out there is a man who didn’t choose. Another ship headed to the same world. Another being suffering endlessly. He attacked a superior officer, broke his neck from what I heard. Nothing they couldn’t fix, but the boss wasn’t pleased. This was punishment. I don’t care if he slaughtered his entire unit and ate them. No one deserves this. There is no crime, no horror or savagery, that merits this. I never met the man, but I wish him dead. I wish him dead with all my heart.
I wonder if he knew, if he clenched his teeth the moment he climbed aboard his ship. He must not have. If I’d known. If I’d had even the slightest indication, I’d have grabbed my service weapon and blown my brains out on the spot while I could.
The ship’s drive was still warming up. I felt the needle plunge into my neck. I started warming up myself when the flight plan popped up on my monitor. Aneba 3. I’d never heard of it. I figured it’d be a barely habitable shithole. Toxic air, giant bugs, that sort of thing. Nope.
INHABITED. POSSIBLE CONTACT WITH HOSTILE SPECIES.
There’s no way we can ever relocate to that place if an enemy’s there. This was pointless. I’d abandoned my son for absolutely nothing. I was … upset. So much so I didn’t see the bio-warning blinking at the bottom of my screen.
SIGNIFICANT MORPHODIVERGENCE WITH NATIVE POPULATION. BIOMODIFICATION ADVISED.
Advised? The shekret needle was already in my neck. Whatever backwards oafs lived on that rock, I was going to look like one.
The virus spread like wildfire. I could feel it take over, tickling every corner of me. The little buggers are fast. They rewrote my DNA in less than a day. A letter here, a letter there, until the words weren’t the same and my body told a discordant story. I had to be retold, reborn to fit the narrative.
Targeted apoptosis. Every cell in my second heart committed suicide in a matter of weeks. My entire secondary cardiovascular system dissolved itself. It was scary to watch on the monitor, but that part was painless. So painless I didn’t notice when my one good heart stopped beating. I bit part of my tongue off when the ship zapped me with a thousand volts to restart it. That was the easy part. The real carnage was about to begin. Hundreds of genetic switches turned on to make me something else, like a yershak digesting itself inside its cocoon. My body merged white blood cells to make osteoclasts, legions of them, to eat at my bones. Like a growth spurt in reverse. Only worse, and endless, and everywhere. I live in agony while my body dissolves and rebuilds every bone, every joint. It will go on and on for nine cycles until my entire skeleton is replaced and I’m as tall as a SHEKRET CHILD!
My muscles atrophied all on their own. Lying immobile in a flying coffin will do that pretty quick. I’ll lose a third of my body mass before this is over. A third of me will kill itself. Trillions of cells. That’s a lot of corpses to deal with. My marrow’s working overtime making white blood cells to mop up the dead. Unfortunately, it’s not making any red ones while it’s doing that. Every organ I have left is oxygen deprived. Kidney failure. Severe anemia. I watch the yellow liquid that was once my blood circulating in tubes above my head and I know the ship is the only thing keeping me alive. I despise it for it.
Even with dialysis and a machine oxygenating my blood, I might not make it. It’s my bones. Too much calcium running through my veins. The medicine helps, but I pass kidney stones almost every day. I’m sure it hurts like hell, but I don’t know which pain is which anymore.
The only bright spot is that these aliens have big heads. Can’t shrink brain cells, so I would have had to lose some. I get to keep this part of who I am. Some of it, at least. My entire DNA thinks I’m something different. I know my brain is adjusting as well. New connections are made; old ones are erased. I don’t know if I’m really me anymore, or how much will be left when this is over. I can’t know. This is how I think. There’s no way to tell if this is how I thought. When I’m not finding new ways to kill myself, I try to remember things. My son’s face, childhood memories, the good and the bad. That trip we took to see the last ocean creatures. The day my mother dropped me at the academy. “I’m doing this for you, Sereh.” I think that’s what she said. I remember clear as day, but maybe that’s not how it happened at all. I can’t know what I forgot if I already forgot. I can’t know what’s real. Maybe I don’t have a son and that face I see never even existed.
I don’t know what I am now, what I’m turning into. Something else. Something small, and weak. Had I been born like it, my parents would have killed me. I’ll know, eventually. I get to watch all of it. I can’t go into stasis until the carnage is over. Seven more cycles of this. Just pain, and silence because I’m too weak to scream. I get to sleep for the back half of the trip, but I’ll go mad long before. I’m already broken. Whoever lands on that rock, I know it won’t be me.
1Just a Girl
DECEMBER 17, 1999
Gawd, I’m starving. I been watching feet go by under the tablecloth for over an hour. Scuffed loafers with tassels. I seen his shoes before. Whoever he is, he better not eat all the chocolate mousse. Oh no! He dropped a shrimp on the floor. He’s gonna step on it!
Oh, so close! He missed it by a frog’s hair. All right, I need new feet if I’m gonna get dessert. I need tipsy feet. Folks don’t eat much when they’re drunk. What’s that? Wobbly high heels. Two pairs of them! Jackpot. Time to stick my head out.
—AH! You startled me, Aster. Why are you hiding under the table?
—Oh, hi, Mrs. Sparks. Just playing. The floor over there’s all sticky.
—There’s not much to do here for a twelve-year-old, is there?
—It’s okay. I brought my Game Boy.
Mrs. Sparks is nice, but she smells like an ashtray. Everyone here smells like booze and cigarettes. Even Pa. I seen him smoke on the gallery not five minutes ago.
—Can I get you something, Aster? There’s four kinds of Coke.
—No, thank you. But …
—But what? Don’t be shy!
Copyright © 2023 by Sylvain Neuvel
