The Settlers (13 page)

And nobody told me until now?
Emil says.
Why not?
 

I -- we didn't know, the nurse says.
 

Well, we must have her, Emil says.
Go!
Find her.
Bring Tasneem here as fast as you can.
 

I don't know --

You don't know, you don't know, Emil says.
No excuses!
She may be our answer.
Find her as quickly -- and as quietly!
-- as you can.
 

The nurse nods.
Yes, Doctor.
 

Oh, Emil says.
 

Nurse Lynne stops in her tracks.
Yes?
 

Tell Mr.
Fitz that another patient has died.
That will ease his bitching.
 

Doctor, the nurse says.
That's awful.
I won't lie to him.
 

Oh, you're not lying, Emil says.
Another has.
 

I didn't hear about anyone, the nurse says.
Who was it?
 

Mrs.
Ross, Emil says.
I'm sorry I forgot to mention it.
 

Poor Mrs.
Ross, Nurse Lynne says.
Alright.
I'll tell him.

If he complains again, put him out an airlock, Emil says.
 

The nurse clucks and trots away.
 

Emil hesitates outside the first door.
 

He doesn't want to open it.
 

Nurse Lynne, he says, but she has already disappeared around the corner.
 

Nurse Lynne, he says again.

When there is no response, he sighs and continues walking.
The corridor connects to a shorter one, which leads to another one, which leads to the nurses' office.
It's difficult to stage anything resembling a central brain in this hospital -- another reason he despises the place.
Nurses and doctors should operate from the center, and radiate outward to reach all of their patients quickly and efficiently, he thinks.
 

Here, though, doctors must run and slide around corners and crash into walls and run again and get lost in the haze of beige, beige, beige everywhere.
 

He passes six patient rooms.
Each door is closed, except for the last.
 

Room 17 stands open.
 

Emil pauses at the door and peeks inside.
 

Miss Gretchen, he says.
 

The room is empty.
 

Like each of the patient rooms, it is sparsely furnished.
The bed has a hood that can be lowered to isolate the patient.
There is a simple table beside the bed.
A screenview rests on the table.
There's a stool for visitors.
Not a chair -- a stool.
The room is beige, just like the rest of the hospital, but absent any windows.
 

The room feels like a sac puffed full of stale air.
 

Miss Gretchen, he says again.

He leaves and walks to the nurses' office.
The office is surprisingly quiet.
Nurse Lynne is there, speaking into her screenview.
He doesn't recognize the face speaking back to her.
 

Nurse Allen is there, too.
 

Nurse, he says.
Where is Miss Gretchen?
 

Nurse Allen glances up.
Miss Gretchen, she says.
Miss Gretchen.
 

In Room 17, he says.

Right, okay.
Room 17.
I -- she shouldn't be anywhere.
I don't know what -- is she not in her room?

She's not in her room, he says.
Go find her.
 

Emil steps aside and the nurse hurries by.
 

He enters the office and takes a seat behind Nurse Lynne.
A crude chart is spread out on the table before him, mapping the forty occupied rooms.
Each room has small, colored sticker on it.
 

Emil picks up the chart and studies it.
 

Room 1, black sticker.
 

Room 2, red sticker.
 

Rooms 3 through 6, black stickers.

He scans ahead.

Room 17.
 

White sticker.

Black stickers mean
present
.
You're a Soma patient.
You're probably going to die.
You're here.
 

Red stickers mean
dead
.
There have been three of these already.

White stickers.
 

White stickers mean
any moment now.
 

White stickers mean your hair has gone white.

White stickers mean you're on watch.
 

White stickers don't stay white for very long.
 

He looks over the rest of the chart.
 

Every red sticker is applied on top of a white one.

White stickers mean you're about to get a red sticker.

Emil sighs and drops the chart.
He leans back in the chair and runs his hands through his thinning hair.

Nurse Lynne is still talking to a stranger.

Emil wishes he had never heard of Soma.

She refuses to meet with him in her room.

Emil meets her in the physician's lounge.
She's there when he arrives.
 

Before he enters, he turns to Nurse Lynne.
No one comes in, he says.
 

Nurse Lynne nods, then pushes the door open for him.
 

Miss Gretchen is sitting at one of the tables.
She looks up when he enters.
Her hair is brilliant white.
Her eyes appear even darker in contrast.
She smiles at him, and he feels his heart sink.
 

It's always hardest when they smile.
 

Miss Gretchen, he says.
 

She stands up, and he takes her hands.
 

She smiles.

I'm sorry that this is the only room we have, he says.

Gretchen shakes her head.
It's okay, she says.
I won't --
 

I know, he says.
I understand.

I won't die in that room, she says.
I just won't.

I want to tell you that I'm sorry, he says.
 

Oh, Emil, she says.
It isn't your fault.
Don't burden yourself with that.
How many is it now?
A hundred?
Two?
That's too much burden for any man to carry.
One is too much.

You're the first patient who ever called me Emil, he says.

They sit down together at the table.
 

I don't want to be a patient anymore, she says.
So I'll be Gretchen, and you can be Emil.
And none of this Miss bullshit anymore, either.
Now that I have this hair, I certainly don't want to be made to feel older than I am.
 

Fair enough, says Emil.

So, she says.
First things first.
Will it hurt?
 

He presses his lips together, then chews one absently.

That's a nervous-making kind of non-answer, Gretchen says.
 

Emil smiles sadly.
I'm sorry.
Nervous habit, maybe.
I can't really answer your question.
 

Gretchen nods.
I know.
Nobody sticks around long enough to talk to.
I've read as much as I could.

Emil places his hands flat on the table.
I wish that wasn't the case.
 

I don't know how I'm feeling right now, she says.
I guess everyone probably thought they were going to be the exception.
That they'd be the one person who didn't succumb to -- to whatever it is.
I know I did.

It's human nature, he says.
 

I saw the interview, Gretchen says.
The one with the woman you treated.
 

Emil sighs and closes his eyes.
I wish you hadn't.
 

One of your nurses, she says.
She thought it might give me hope.

Oh, it probably does, he says.
And that's why I wish you hadn't seen it.
Which nurse?

Oh, I won't tell.
You leave her -- him?
-- alone.
Gretchen smiles.
I'm glad to have seen it.
It means that maybe we can get around whatever this is.
 

You'd want that?
Emil asks.

What do you mean?
 

I'd have thought this experience might have soured you on the idea of life extension treatment, he says.
Some Soma patients became protesters when they learned what was happening.
One tried to introduce legislation to ban it.
He died before it was successful, but the cause carried on without him.
 

Oh, I don't want it banned, she says.
I wish it wasn't.
We have to learn from this, Emil.
We have to solve it.
Our lives are too fragile.
If we're ever going to restore ourselves, we'll need more tenacity than we've got right now.

Tenacity, he says.
That's a good word.
We are kind of lacking in it, aren't we.

Gretchen looks around the room.
As evidenced by our surroundings, she says.
Is that fluorescent lighting?
 

God, Emil says.
I'm glad someone else noticed.
 

The humming is going to kill me, Gretchen says.
I've a good mind to die right now.

Please don't, Emil says.
This is the most refreshing conversation I've had all day.

Well, that's tragic.
 

This place doesn't exactly inspire, does it, he says.
 

No, it does not, Gretchen says.

Emil puts his hands on the table.
Gretchen, do you have anything better to do right now?
 

I have absolutely nothing planned, she says.

Would you like to take a walk with me?
he asks.

I'd like nothing better, Emil.

Nurse Lynne knows a guy who knows a guy.
A few hallways, sharp turns and unlocked doors later, Gretchen turns to Emil and says, breathlessly, This is not a bad place to go, you know what I mean?
 

Emil is deeply surprised to find that he agrees with her.

Galileo, for all of its drab interiors -- even its exterior feels like an interior -- has startled them both.
Like a glass-bottomed boat, the space station has a viewport that rivals all of Aries.
 

Why is this closed?
Gretchen asks.
 

But Emil can only shrug.
 

Nurse Lynne's friend's friend gives Emil a tiny salute, and pulls the access door closed behind him.
 

They are alone.

And yet.
 

The viewing deck is a long, wide room with a glass floor.
Mounted to the walls are harnesses.
 

Emil wanders over to one and runs his fingers along the contraption.

No, Gretchen says.
You think?

They aren't difficult to figure out, and Emil carefully straps Gretchen in.
The shoulder harness clasps across her chest.
Her feet buckle flat against the wall, her knees bent.
 

When she is secure, he says, Are you ready?
 

Go slowly, she says.

She grips his hand.

He releases the tether line, letting it out a few inches at a time, until Gretchen says, Stop.

Emil locks the tether in place.
 

Gretchen is suspended a couple of feet above the floor, facing the glass.
 

Well, he says.
Is it worth it?
 

You should join me and see, she says.
But yes.
Yes, it's very much worth it.
 

I'm not sure I can buckle myself in without help, he says.
That tether required all of my strength.

Gee, thanks, Gretchen says, laughing.
 

Emil sits cross-legged on the floor beside her.
It's a beautiful view, isn't it.
 

I certainly didn't expect it, Gretchen says.
This station is like living inside of a cheese grater.
Except there are fewer windows.

Emil chuckles.
 

Thank you, Gretchen says.
 

Are you scared?
 

I'm -- I'm not sure, she answers.
Maybe?
Maybe a little bit.
 

I don't know if it's painless, he says.
But I've seen a few of these now, and they're fast.
 

Oh, don't tell me, please, she says.
 

Okay, Emil says.
 

They fall silent, taken in by the view.
The sun is behind the Earth somewhere, and the planet seems to pulse with light.
In the dark they can see the faintest glow of cities.
There are fewer lights every day.
 

Do you remember Earth?
she asks.

Emil nods.
I'm a great deal older than you.
Most of my life was lived down there.

Gretchen says, Do you ever miss it?
 

Perhaps.
I miss what it was, maybe, he says.
It's not the same place now.
 

He looks up at her.
And you?
Do you miss it?
 

Her eyes seem very far away.
 

I miss her, she says.

As the Earth slides beneath them, Gretchen tells Emil a story.

Her name was Molly, she says.
We found each other in high school, just a few years before I moved to Cassiopeia with my sister and mother.
That we found each other seems the best way to put it, though I don't think either of us knew we were searching for each other.
I still remember the day that she saw me for the first time.
That's how it happened.
She saw me.
I didn't see her.
 

Emil just listens.
 

I'd had a terrible fight with my mother that morning, Gretchen continues.
I don't remember what it was about.
That's how it always works, you know.
You remember the fight, but you forget the reason for it.
I had called my mother a horrible, terrible name.
I'd been doing that a lot lately.
I guess that day, Mother had had enough, and she told me that I was a bitch.
She didn't mean it.
We both knew that she didn't.
After she said it, she got this horrified look on her face, and she started to cry.
She came to me, trying to apologize, but I knew how much it would hurt her if I just ran, so that's what I did.
I didn't give her the chance to make it right, even though I knew it wasn't really her fault.