Ectopia (26 page)

- You're people, I say.

- And what are you?

I am blank.

- You've not changed, Malik says – Whatever they've done to you, you're still you. I see you. You're Bender

I laugh. The laugh comes out higher than I mean it to. It bounces off the ceiling then it's gone. I hold my hands high in the air, like my body is something to show off. Karen looks at me and Malik looks at me and their eyes are shiny but not bright. They're shiny with tears.

The big room has a door to outside. I open it but no air comes in. The air's heavy. It's not moving. I take one step, then another. It's not running, but it's a start. The air begins to stir against my face.

 

- Bender calling Cromozone. I'm out and running, Cromozone. This is my final transmission. Sixty-one seconds from now I'll be running at your wall. Not fast, not slow, just steady as I am now. You hear I'm not breathless. I'm in good voice control. I'm steady. Steady enough to run right at your wall.

- Can you see? Can you really see through my eyes? Is that true? Then you see this earth coming to life. You see the dust speed toward my feet. Hold yourselves in check. If I get through this wall you'll see things you never wanted to see. Stay watching and you'll see me die but before you do you'll see me live. I'll live and fight and fuck and sleep and rise just where the running takes me. You can track me, you can see through my eyes, but you'll never stop me till you see me dead.

- I'm turning. Running myself into a straight approach.

- Note the pennants. See em coming nearer.

- The earth's alive. I'm running it alive. See how it's rushing toward me.

- Five seconds.

- Three.

- I'm at the pennants. I'm past the pennants.

- I'm running. I'm running.

 

Thought so.

Soft doesn't work. It never has, it never will. What doesn't kill me makes me strong.

Here's what I reckon. Karen can abort this thing. It's not so hard. Not so much harder than birthing it. But she needs more practice. The longer I stay alive, the more practice she gets, and the more chance I have of surviving the operation.

So if this thing in me gets to live, it's a by-product. OK? It's like a gallstone. I want it out. That's all. I want it out.

I'm going back now. Don't pen me in again, OK? No more of that electric fence stuff. I'm a runner.

I'll get this out and you won't see me for dust.

According to Karen

‘He's a good kid,' Malik says. His eyes go damp which means they're burning. He turns from me back to the vidscreen. Steven's in the chair and Malik's stood behind him, reaching his arms around, tapping at the controls. I watch Mal with Steven and I think some day I can love him. Love him enough.

Steven smiles his dim smile. He watches the figures on screen. One's him, the other's Mal. They run side by side, sometimes on a road, sometimes through a forest, sometimes across meadows, and they even run through cloud and over mountains when Mal gets bored. Steven doesn't get bored. He doesn't get anything.

Mal and me run for real, but not together. One of us sits with Steven, the other does laps of the fencing. The fence buzzes. I've seen two bodies the other side of it, but no-one living. The forcefield is too strong. I run a few laps then come home again.

I think Steven's free. The last time he spoke we got his words on record. His body was wrecked but he thought he was fit, he thought he was leaving. He ran through the fence and away.

We change his clothes. We bathe him. We feed him. He lies down, sits up, and can walk some steps when we guide him. I thought he'd get better. Doctor Drake said he'd get better. He went on overload, he said. Empaths do that sometimes. They see the future, and when it happens and it's too sick to bear it's like they change channel. They don't live in the world any more but they're still living. Life's still real for them. I like to think Steven's still running. I blow soft air onto his forehead and cheeks sometimes, like it's the wind of running against his face.

His body's shrinking. We dampen soft cloths and run them round his neck and over his ribs. His stomach swells but not so much and his cheeks suck in against his teeth. We wonder sometimes if his smiles are real or if it's just the way his skin is stretched.

They've left me morphine. I'm glad of that. He likes running. Maybe with the morphine he can run until he flies.

 

Malik strokes my breasts. I'm glad of it and sometimes let him suck. I don't like the breast pump. I want the natural way. I'm using fenugreek. We have a bush outside the cabin and I chew it and swallow three times a day. I think it makes me sweat but then we're all sweating all the time. The breast's a modified sweat gland. More sweat, more milk, such is the thought. It seems to be working. That and Malik's mouth. And of course the intramuscular injection of depot medroxyprogesterone acetate. Nature needs a little help now and again.

It's working. My milk's running. It's time.

 

We didn't need to use the straps. Malik held Steven down. His legs kicked but he smiled so I think he was running. It was hard at first with his muscles tensing. I didn't expect spasm. Then he was still. I had some morphine left and gave Mal a shot. He's lying down and smiling. Maybe he's running. Maybe they're both running.

I'm not professional. I threw up. My eyes were blind with tears. It didn't matter. It didn't fucking matter. I put on the visor and the gloves worked themselves.

She's beautiful. Cutting her out of the gore like that, lifting her out, it's like a miracle pulled out of hell.

I call her Wanda. I think her skin is dark, but maybe that's the blood. She's feeding at my right breast.

I won't say she's worth it, Steven. I'll never say she's worth it. But you're my twin. I know you. I know that you would love her.

Off you go now Steven wherever you are. I'll clean all this mess up later. You run and play.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This book was seeded as an idea by Trevor O'Neill. Many have touched it in different drafts and incarnations since then. The PhD process at the University of Lancaster, supervised by Graham Mort and Lee Horsley, helped me break through the final bounds and bring the book close to its final shape. Sara Maitland gave it a reading at that point. James Thornton was there in full support through its final years. Now it's yours. Thanks for reading.

 

Author website: MartinGoodman.com