Fat Girl in a Strange Land (22 page)

I was detained in a small cell with a narrow bed and a couple of blankets opposite the door, and a high window above. If I wanted to pee I had to ask a guard to take me to the toilet. Some of the guards were okay and seemed almost embarrassed by the fact I was being held there. Others were rough, though not violent as such, and treated me with disdain. One sniggered and said, “Wouldn’t it have been easier to stop eating?”

I’m sure some of the others thought that too — hell, I’ve thought it myself enough. They just had the grace not to say it out loud, to kick someone when they were down. I was questioned — sometimes respectfully, at others aggressively, for names of those who were engaged in the smuggling, what other plans they had — they seemed to be looking for something more serious than people smuggling, but who knows. I didn’t understand what the big deal was with it in the first place.

I was assigned a lawyer who laid bare my options. I could accept voluntary deportation. I could strike a deal in exchange for information, information I did not have, though I don’t think even she believed that. Or I could appeal. The latter would likely take a year, maybe more, but I’d be detained for that time and it would be unlikely to succeed in any case, and even if successful there was likely to be a penalty, perhaps further imprisonment, for making the journey illegally. The idea of a year in jail seemed like nothing compared to the years I’d spent trying to get here, and yet unimaginable. She said I didn’t need to decide now, I could think about it. When I got back to my cell I cried for hours.

Three days later they transferred me to another facility. I shared my new cell with two others, and there was a spare bed which I imagined would be used at some future time. Despite this it was better than the previous one, more space, some books — if not particularly good ones — on a shelf, a separate toilet, and thin mattresses on the bunk beds. I met with my lawyer again, and told her I planned to appeal — I hadn’t come all this way to give up now. She didn’t seem entirely pleased at my decision, and warned me against it, but she was there to represent me and so she sighed and set it in motion.

The woman with the bunk beneath mine was called Amelia, the other Essa. I spoke to Amelia more; Essa spent most of her time reading the damaged bible. Why we were there was a touchy subject we avoided for some time, but I guess my reasons were obvious, and eventually she explained hers. Unlike us, she had travelled legally, with her four year old daughter, under a bonded labour scheme. It was the only way for her to afford passage, like for many others, and she didn’t have a problem with it at first; it seemed just like a loan with a guaranteed job while she paid it off, and she’d taken out plenty of loans before.

She was assigned to work in land reclamation and bioengineering. It was heavy, manual work, and most of the small stipend she received went on childcare for her daughter. But she found a way to push past that, telling herself that it was only for a few years, that she had secured the future she wanted for her child, and here, under the Nova sun, was a dream. A new world in the making. She was helping to grow it, and it didn’t really matter if her participation in the manner she chose was delayed a few years.

That, at least, was what she continued to tell herself. In truth her situation had begun to take its toll, in ways other than those which she had anticipated. She had considered the possibility that she would be badly treated, that the work would turn out to be backbreaking, or worse, dangerous rather than simply hard; that her daughter would be miserable or the day care facilities would be unsuitable.

In reality, none of that was the case, at least at first. But every time she wanted to leave the area she needed to complete form after form, even though it was one of her rare days off. She cleaned out the tiny bedsit they were given, put some coloured paper on the walls, fixed the broken window frame that banged all night — and then were given two days’ notice they would be moving and she had to start from scratch all over again.

“It’s hard to explain how these things add up,” she said, but I did understand. Not to the same degree, but I understood.

She got through it by reassuring herself that her daughter was okay. Then the kid started having problems. Nothing definable at first, maybe even nothing abnormal, just a stage, but the day she woke up with nightmares and just wanted her mother to stay home, just stay with her this once, was the day Amelia snapped and tried to make a run for it.

We were often taken out to meet with our lawyers and such like, and the last time that happened to Amelia I didn’t think anything of it. She returned pale and shaky, her hands held out in front of her to grasp the bunk and sit down, as though she couldn’t see it.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

It was clear she wasn’t, but she put on what I guess she assumed was a brave face and gave a slight giggle. “My daughter’s been adopted. It’s probably for the best.”

I was, of course, horrified. “There’s got to be something you can do. We need to fight this. I’ll help you, I swear.” But she just shook her head and repeated the same words.
It’s probably for the best.

I woke up with a jolt and the feeling of the bunk moving. Essa was already out of bed and screaming by the time I focused, and I leapt to where Amelia had torn a pair of jeans, tied them round her neck, and suspended herself from the rail of the bunk.

Essa held her up while I tore with my fingers at the ripped pair of jeans around her neck, my face flushed and thumping, both of us shrieking all the while for help. We got her down as guards rushed in, asked us to step back as they resuscitated her. I was reluctant to do so, I didn’t trust them, but Essa pulled me away. There was nothing more I could do.

They took her away to the hospital, I guess. She was breathing when she left, but I don’t know any more than that. Essa and I sat on Amelia’s bunk and sobbed, holding each other for a while. When Essa went to bed I carried on, silent tears so as not to disturb her.

At last I stopped crying. I hammered on the door. The guard came and flipped open the hatch.

“I’m accepting voluntary deportation,” I said.

“Wait there,” was his only reply.

So now I’m going back to Earth. Back to the dying planet I risked everything to leave behind. And I’m doing it with a lot of fear, but a lot more confidence than I ever had, that Earth, not here, is where I belong.

I do worry a little, though. I know I can cope with Earth, soul destroying though it may be at times. I am — though I’m only just beginning to believe this — healthy. I know from experience that I can survive a lot. But I worry about some of the others, those that may need medical attention which will soon no longer be available on Earth; and whether by giving up on Terra Nova I’m not only giving up my own dreams, but also my principles and responsibilities.

But then I think about those I left behind, and realise that they’re my future now.

25th December

I’ve written a load of entries: self serving, navel gazing, angsty crap. I’ve deleted them all. But hey, it’s Christmas, I should have some record of what happened to me in the Christmas of my thirty fifth year. The answer: on a government ship being deported to Earth. Nothing happens. I’m technically a prisoner until I land back on Earth, but as long as we don’t try anything they’re pretty relaxed. There are five of us on this ship. The irony that we’re being put on a trip that is supposedly dangerous for us because we took such a trip is not lost on us. One of my fellow deportees actually made a legal challenge on that basis, which makes me feel a bit better about not staying and fighting, knowing I’d almost certainly have been doomed to failure anyway.

I think, often, about Amelia; what happened to her, did she get to stay, was she on the next ship, or..?

I pass the time by playing puzzle games, my pad networked with those of the other deportees, watching the same films over and over, and thinking about what to do when I return to Earth. Having decided there’s no future for me on Terra Nova is not entirely the same thing as having convinced myself there is one on Earth.

8 January

Today I buy — or more likely steal, if it is theft when the owners are no longer on this planet — a car, and start the drive back to the campus.

I contacted Lucia ahead. She’s still a little pissed with me, I reckon, and I don’t blame her; the workload was bad enough with four of us, and more than that, I was (am?) her friend, I should have told her. But she’s told me to come back, and I reckon we will work things out.

Terra Nova, my whole experience, feels like a fuzzy dream, and I guess in many ways it was. Here, now, the taste of rust in the air and the sand that blows into the towns in the wind, the cracked tarmac and the taste of the curry I bought from a street vendor, this may be hard, but it’s what’s real. I’m going to tell myself this, at least.

16 January

Woke up with my head thumping and the glare of the sun shooting right through the window. I felt as I have had most of these past few weeks, an abject failure, but that changed by lunchtime — or at least the success of the others far eclipsed my failure. Today, my third officially back, I learned a few things. Sami and Cherry are dating. They also found an old book on woodworking, and acquired some tools — I’m not going to ask where from; I assume someone abandoned them in their shed. Turns out they got pissed off by the chairs being so small and uncomfortable for them, so they’re going to make their own.

Some of the others are talking about designing new clothes, clothes that they like, and making them rather than just endlessly repairing the old ones, or accepting donations from the health camp when their kids are too small for them — I doubt anyone could dream up anything more damaging to our kids’ self-esteem, really.

Alyssa can now speak to Niamh and to Deepa when they’re alone. They’ve found the name for her silence — selective mutism — and got an app on her (salvaged, repaired) pad that helps synthesise a voice for her. We reckon she will be able to talk to everyone without it eventually, but this is a good step in the meantime. Anyway, she found the programmed voices too old and too American, so she hacked it to record her own voice saying the various words. Turns out she’s got quite a talent with computers. So she’s going to help me set up an e-learning network with the other schools; if we take shifts with other teachers elsewhere, we can focus on education, not just supervision. When I was at school e-learning used to be quite normal, but so many of the structures were left to disintegrate. There’s work to do.

It’s not just about lessons, though.

We won’t change the world, even this half abandoned shell of a world, with a few chairs and ramps. But they’re blueprints. Once we get together, who knows what we can create. For us.

Anna Caro
lives and writes in Wellington, New Zealand. Her short fiction has been published in
M-Brane SF
,
Dark Valentine
,
Antipodean SF
, and
Khimairal Ink
, and she is the co-editor of two anthologies,
A Foreign Country: New Zealand Speculative Fiction
and
Tales for Canterbury
. Her blog is at
http://blog.annacaro.org
.

Lift

by Pete "Patch" Alberti

“Too much weight,” Ricky said. “You have to get out.”

Suzy giggled.

Mary Beth rolled her eyes. “This is a Mark III Mercury Nullifier you’ve got installed, right?” she said. “Too much weight my ass.”

“Yeah, it’s your ass that’s the problem.” Ricky said. “We can’t get off the ground. You have to get out!”

Mary Beth was going to cry, and she didn’t want to let either of them see her cry. So she opened the hatch and got out.

“Sorry,” Suzy said loudly, and in a tone that suggested the opposite.

“Yeah,” Ricky said, “Sorry.”

Suzy reached up and closed the hatch. Mary Beth stepped back as the little spaceship’s anti-grav kicked in and the field effect made her hair stand on end. The
Ricky’s Rebellion
drifted slowly up until it was floating a few feet from the ground. Then, engines humming more determinedly, it rose further and further upward, making for a washed out moon, hanging in the blue summer sky.

Mary Beth trudged home. Her parents were still at work. There was week-old ice cream in the fridge; a little freezer burned, but it would do. She plopped on the couch. Petted the cat. Hated herself.

Later, she got to researching.

They were at Ricky’s house. Suzy had come back with two scoopfuls of moon dust. Ricky had a black, glossy moon rock. Relics of ancient impacts.

“Hey,” said Mary Beth. “I’ve got an idea about your engine.” She held out the sheaf of printouts she had brought. “See,” she said, “you’ve got it adjusted all wrong.”

Ricky grabbed the printouts. They were a little bit crinkled, and some were stained with ice cream. He wrinkled his nose. “You aren’t touching my spaceship!” he said.

“Let’s play a video game,” Suzy said, “You got Slaughterkitten II, right?”

“Yeah,” Ricky said. “It’s pretty cool.” He tossed the printouts aside. They played Slaughterkitten II for a while. And that was that.

Next weekend, Suzy and Ricky went to see the annual comet impact (deliberate — they were terraforming) on Mars. They came back with rock samples and gas samples and Spacer hats.

“And we went into a really high orbit, and watched the ice tail sparkle, and he wanted me to touch his penis!” Suzy giggled.

“I’m sure that was special for you,” Mary Beth said diplomatically.

Mary Beth tried a few more times to get Ricky to let her make some tweaks to his ship. Not because she had any particular interest in bits of his anatomy, but because she thought that the issues his ship had accommodating crew were mainly due to Ricky’s somewhat slapdash understanding of differential calculus, rather than limitations inherent in a Mark III Mercury Nullifier. Ricky would have none of it.