The Kimota Anthology (29 page)

Like a statue creaking into life, Greg forced himself forward to the back of the vehicle. Still, nothing was distinct inside it. A faint musty smell poured out, but it wasn't as foul as he'd feared. His hand was shaking as he extended it to the door. A dent was visible, and a slight red blemish where the corky had struck the metal.

Greg
assumed
it was from the corky. His fingers made contact. The old door squealed noisily as he pushed it slowly open. Dull greenish light rolled inward over a floor of corrugated metal, revealing rivets, strips of crinkled paper, an old tray... and a cricket ball, sitting at the farthest end.

And that was all.

Greg made no move to enter. He was totally perplexed. He looked around again; tried to check out the message in the faded paintwork along the vehicle's flank. What if it wasn't the same van? What if it was coincidence? What if the whole thing was just coincidence?

He scrambled quickly inside and crawled towards the ball. What if it was the same van but somebody had already been there and found Tara? He paused to consider. No. He'd have heard about it by now. He took the ball thankfully in his hand, then a truly horrible thought struck him. Suppose, just suppose, Tara had got out herself... finally released when the corky broke open the door? Greg went cold. He glanced uneasily around, looking for evidence that she'd been there. The first thing his eyes alighted on was a torn fragment of material lying in the nearest corner.

Silk?, he wondered. White silk, now ripped and filthy?

A shadow fell across him.

Greg slowly turned. A black, tattered figure was standing framed against the trees, staring silently in at him. Its head was cocked unnaturally to one side.

The boy threw himself backwards, screaming hysterically. Unable to retreat further, he slammed his hands over his face.

“For God's sake, what bloody rubbish is this!” came a hushed but outraged voice.

Stuttering, Greg peeped through his sweaty fingers. The figure outside was his father, his broad features written with disbelief. Other cricketers were emerging through the undergrowth behind him. Most were swishing through the weeds with bats and wickets.

“I... I...” Greg didn't know what to say. A tear ran down one cheek. “I... I got it,” he finally stammered, holding up the ball.

The Colonel's astonishment seemed to grow. Now there was a hint of fury, as well. “I can see I'll have to keep a tight rein on you even beyond the summer,” he hissed forcibly. “Those drugs have knocked you for six.”

Greg nodded dumbly and climbed hurriedly from the van. All of a sudden, living at home under close scrutiny seemed a far better option than returning alone to his flat in the dingy Oxford suburbs. He followed the others out of the woods without a single backwards glance, and once on the pitch, asked his father if he could change position and maybe field from the other side.

The Colonel's reaction was to start swearing, and eventually he had to be led away by Tom and Harry. “Do you have any inkling of the humiliation we're facing?” the old man shouted over his shoulder, as he was steered back towards the crease.

Greg didn't. And he didn't care, because as the rest of the team drew away, he became aware of the woods behind him, and sounds he hadn't noticed before.

There was a faint, ongoing rustle for one thing, like old skirts dragging through the undergrowth. He listened to it for minutes in a state of horrified fascination, too frightened even to glance over his shoulder. It seemed to be coming closer. Then there was something else; almost like a chuckle. Hardly discernible, but clearly a chuckle. A slight, girlish chuckle.

The game resumed but Greg scarcely noticed. He was almost paralysed with fear. “Oh Tara,” he whimpered. “Don't do this to me... please. I don't deserve this.”

“Greg,” she whispered, from somewhere very close at hand. “Greg, my love...”

His joints were like ice. He could sense the figure behind him, slightly shaded in the cover of the trees, but almost within touching distance.

“Greg... ory!” A breathless, beautiful, singsong whisper.

Slowly, despite himself, Greg twisted round to look.

And was baffled. The boughs were heavy with leaf, the spaces between them deep in shadow. But there was nobody there. Nobody at all. He scanned the tranquil groves frantically. Hardly a breeze stirred among them. The forest lay at peace. He turned slowly back to the game. A dream, then? Fevered imagination?

Then he looked up.

And saw the dull red globe hanging between the cooling towers. He gaped in horror. It was immense. It filled the sky like a scene from the Apocalypse.

It smashed into his left temple.

There was loud crack, and a searing light filled Greg's eyes. Blinded, he tottered backwards. Only when the bushes enclosed him, did the light diminish. In fact, it went out like a candle. And in the sudden darkness, he tripped. With a scream, he fell.

With a sigh, she caught him...

[Originally published in Kimota 7, Winter 1997]

TREADING THE REGOLITH

by Cate Gardner

Lunar dust blew into the tent with the strength of her frustrated kick. Sarah stood in the opening, looking out at the world they'd left behind, and gulped oxygen as if it ran short. Across the clearing, Ted sat on a bench. She wondered what occupied his mind, assuming his mind was occupied. It so often wasn't. Such thoughts would drain her sanity until she sat vacant eyed beside Ted. She almost wished for that.

The absence of sound reminded she was a long way from home and there was no thumbing a lift back. Within the weight of his helmet, her husband's smile beamed and his eyes bugged out. He couldn't get enough of the view.

The sight of Earth hurt Sarah's eyes. You do it for him. For the love of who he was.

A land-truck lurched across the desolate landscape. Windscreen wipers left grey arcs across the glass. The rev of its engine drowned out the silence and allowed her sanity to settle back into place.

Ted shifted position. He turned away as the truck stopped just shy of his bench. Sarah waved to the driver. Her arm felt cumbersome within the suit. The driver jumped out of his vehicle.

“Just enough room to breathe,” the driver said, his voice crackling through her helmet's speaker. “You get used to it.”

A dozen comebacks tore around her mouth. She remained silent.

The driver's steps bounced across the surface and, coupled with his inane grin, gave the impression he no longer possessed all his faculties. String spooled from his waistband and led back to the truck. Mad for sure.

He flicked his finger at the string. It pinged. “When you've sprung a little too far to the left you'll understand. I'm Dirk Dillon, your Luna Four representative.”

“Sarah and Ted Mulhern.” Her voice echoed within the helmet. It sounded as if she had a cold. “Good to meet you.”

“First off, allow me to apologise for being unable to take you with the rest of the group. The usual land truck, a thirteen-seater, broke down as we were leaving Luna Four forcing us to use the smaller non-regulation vehicle. Complimentary oxygen, Spam and other assorted tinned goods will be provided as an apology.”

The thank you caught in her throat. Breath issued as static and disturbed the dust that had collected around her helmet microphone. He nodded and grabbed her gloved hand.

Ted turned away from the Earth as if sensing an invasion. Finally, he moved.

“Ted Mulhern, Ted Mulhern,” his voice echoed. “Pleased to meet you.”

The two men shook gloves, then Dirk patted Ted's shoulder. Ted responded by patting Dirk's elbow. Sarah coughed.

“Now aren't we a happy triangle.” It hurt Sarah to smile. “I guess we should be going.”

They followed the string back to the land truck. With a final glance at the unmanned tent, Sarah climbed in.

“What's Luna Four like?” she asked.

“As they say in the brochures, it's unlike anything you've seen before.”

That helped. Her sigh crackled and disturbed the song playing on the radio. On board the wrong spaceship, David Bowie asked if there was Life on Mars.

“Not yet.” Dirk winked.

Stop the moon, I want to throw up.

Dirk's comments were not the only things making her queasy. The land truck appeared to bump over every rock on the moon. She felt like a goldfish; her head swimming about the helmet, not certain if she'd travelled this way minutes before. It all looked similar.

“How do you find your way?” she asked.

“Don't tell me, you expected to find road signs on the moon?” Dirk laughed.

“I expected roads.”

Had she? The idea sounded ridiculous now she thought about it. Who puts a motorway on the moon?

“The LE Corporation has submitted plans to the newly-appointed Lunar President. All being well we should have our first roadworks next April.”

“She's beautiful,” Ted said. “Why build roads and cities? We should camp out here.”

And suffocate… Sarah recalled sitting in the doctor's office, pulling at her collar and forgetting how to breathe. It was no better down there. Ahead of them, a glass dome broke through the darkness.

Sarah shuffled in her suit. “I expected it would be larger,” she said, meaning the dome.

“It'll grow on you,” Dirk said. “Hold onto your lunch campers, we're heading for home.”

Ted bounced in his seat. Sarah hoped the act due to a lack of gravity and not that he'd regressed forty years. Perhaps she should have read something more in-depth about the moon than Lunar Lunacy. As friends and family insisted--she'd not thought this through.

“We're farther than you think and closer than you hope,” Dirk said.

What appeared a ten-minute ride took another hour and by the time they'd reached the dome, Sarah's backside was sore and her brain numb. People, dressed in the requisite suits and helmets, congregated around the outside of the dome. They cupped their hands to the glass and peered in. Two lunar rovers drove parallel, one heading east and the other west, behind the group. They looked like sheepdogs herding the escaped population.

“They're looking at Earth,” Dirk said. “The dome is a cross between a telescope and television. You've perhaps heard of ScopeVision.”

Sarah suspected Dirk had coined the term and was hoping to make mega-dollars from its copyright. The spectators traced their hands along the dome as they shuffled to the left, to the right and stood on tiptoes.

“Why don't they look at Earth from within the dome?”

Both Ted and Dirk snorted at her question, neither answered.

Glass doors swished open, cutting into the dome. Dirk drove through, leaving them all in limbo between the two layers of the dome as the air acclimatised—something to do with decompression. The science left her brain as muddled as Ted's. A rainbow of colours swirled in contrast to the grey of their journey. Weight settled around her middle. Looking out the rear window, she saw half a dozen helmets pressed against the glass.

“They can't see us,” Dirk said.

“All they see is the Earth,” Sarah said.

Ahead of them, a second set of doors opened and the colours faded to grey.

“Welcome to Luna Four, the perfect place to lose your mind.”

#

Ted's circuits began to unscramble circa 2064. At least, that was how he put it. As if, he considered himself akin to broken machinery. The only cure--relocation to the moon (his words, not hers). Well they were here and he didn't look any less unscrambled. Impatience irked.

The living quarters were spaced about eight feet apart. Rocket ships tented to the earth by poles with net curtains covering the windows.

“Ingenious.” Dirk removed his helmet and winked. “Inspired.”

The removing of her helmet muffled Sarah's answer. Ted kept his in situ. Sarah's hair fell lank and sweat pasted her fringe to her forehead. She looked up at the dome, at what she had thought an anomaly brought on by 'caught-in-a-helmet' effect. She blinked. The anomaly remained.

“Why is the dome painted with yellow clouds?” she asked.

“Someone has read their brochure.”

“You got me, and?”

“Consider them our 'eye in the sky'. It's a million times better than the white coats back home, less clinical.”

Sarah nodded. “So which is our rocket ship?”

Dirk led the way.

Ted raised his hands to the sky and stared at the gaps between clouds. He muttered, “Beautiful.”

Sarah took in a deep breath and unzipped her suit. She felt almost normal. Sarah left Ted staring at the sky and followed Dirk to a rocket ship with the number 17 painted on its side. A refurbished ex-rocket is never something that can look like home. Metal clanged beneath her boots as she climbed the ladder.

“I'll leave you to get acquainted. If you require any assistance there are red buttons placed in all rooms.” Dirk saluted.

The roar of the land truck broke Ted's stupor. Sarah sat on the fifth rung of the ladder and peered up at the dome. She pulled stuck her tongue out at the sky and waited for a cloud to zoom in. Give her five or six weeks of rocket life and she'd be as away with the little green men as her husband.

“Ted, you want spam or corned beef for supper? Or maybe we could eat out. Do they have an all-night diner on the moon?”

She knew they had a recreation pod or something and a food rocket that touched down every fortnight, so why not a diner?

“Barbecues are encouraged within the dome.” A man popped his head out of the doorway of rocket 18. “However, no food fights. Your husband reminds me of my wife.” When Sarah didn't answer, he added, “She's locked in the facility. They found her running between the dual layers looking for a door back to Earth.”

“I thought the point was to not lock people away?” Ted, my husband, was fading in the Home and wandering when at home. Now he has all this space.

She climbed down the ladder and stood on the moon. She discerned no movement in the yellow clouds.

“If someone gave you a key out of the dome I'd like to make a copy. Last time I checked the brochure it was supervised visits only.”

“Not for us. That is, I mean you and me, non-patients.”

“Look, the truth is, if you go out there all the time to look down at the Earth well that can make you kind of nuts. And if you ever want to get off this heap of rock, nuts is not a good place to visit.”

She laughed. “No one press ganged us onto a rocket ship. We signed up.”

“No one had a talk with you? No kind hand pressed a brochure into your tired fingers when he went missing for the sixth, seventh, twentieth time? No real estate agent promised to take care of your finances?”

Before she could answer, Ted interrupted by tugging at her sleeve.

“Corned beef and mashed potatoes,” he said.

Moon dust covered Ted's hands and knees. Sarah tried to brush it off, but it caught and snagged her skin. She sneezed, brushed a trail of dirt across her cheek and sneezed again. Joy! It seemed hay fever on Earth had morphed into a lunar allergy.

“You look like a chimney sweep,” Ted said.

“Gee thanks honey, would you like bacon with that comment?” She unfastened his helmet and pulled it off his head.

“We're here,” Ted said.

“We're here.”

“I'm going inside.”

“I'm going to stay outside a while longer. Acclimatise. Take in the view.”

She looked towards the edges of the dome and at the trail of people waiting in the space between. She recalled the saying 'God's waiting room' and thought whoever had coined the term had imagined this place.

“Barbecue's at nine Earth time, hope your watch is set,” her neighbour called after Sarah as she left footprints in the regolith. “We'll throw some of your complimentary Spam on the fire.”

“Nine it is,” she said.

As she headed towards the dome and trained her attention on a section of unspoiled sky, her boots left trails in the regolith. She wondered how far she could walk before someone kicked up dust and chased her. She figured forever.

[Originally published in M-Brane SF 2010, contributed by the auther in place of her many Kimota stories which could not be used for copyright reasons]