Michael Siemsen - Exigency

Foolish indeed, Minnie thought, what with the ridiculous nature of her new plan. She brought the skimmers around to face south, tightened her grip on the controls, and—

But what does it mean?

Her own voice in her head, but unlike an ordinary thought. She’d literally heard her voice, but a bit deeper, a little older, perhaps, wiser, like an insightful future self, sent back in time to advise at a critical moment.

Minnie replied in her head: What do you mean, ‘what does it mean?’ I’m supposed to interpret the brutal acts of a primitive, violence-based race? Who cares what it ‘ means ’ to them?

The voice was more than a voice. Minnie perceived a disappointed sigh, the reproachful no-nod of a virtual head.

Minnie persisted, Well what then? Do you know?

Wise Minnie put a hand on Minnie’s shoulder. Your cosms got all silo’d, babe. Macro, micro… you’ve completely lost the big picture .

It was true. She’d been wrapped up in linear tasks. Hadn’t taken a moment to step back and change scale. But what did Ish have to do with it all? Was she some huge keystone to the bigger picture?

Wise Minnie answered without being directly asked. The complexity of this thing goes so far beyond Ish. Yes, she’s a keystone—one of many—but to say “bigger picture,” as if there was but a single image to grasp, it screams naiveté.

“Screw you!” Minnie yelled aloud. “ You said big picture first!… Oh sakes, I’m yelling at myself. What the hell is going—”

And then she caught it. The final dregs of meds had left her body. Or John had been right. The cave worm emissions obviously had psychotropic effects, but could they have been managing all the key systems to keep her HSPD fully in line? The notion wasn’t entirely implausible. If her regular meds were given to some Sane Janes, they’d be climbing the walls and scratching the skin from their faces. If John was correct, the worms that had ravaged his body might just save her life.

Minnie said aloud, “So, you’re one of them , eh?”

Everyone has a conscience, babe.

Peering at the nav panel, Minnie watched as the digits in the proximity box decreased with smooth, writhing transitions— 8uncurling and morphing into 7. The orange digits looked like snakes, or impossibly nimble belly dancers. Yeah, belly dancers. The readout complied and five rexic orange women bent and twisted into ever-shifting, often applause-worthy, numeric poses. Minnie was mesmerized.

How could you ever wish to suppress this? You are superhuman.

The dancers sang out in hypnotic harmony, “Oooooooooo…”

An alert. A prox alert!

“Shut the hell up, you!” Minnie shouted to both Wise Minnie and the console.

She shook out her head as the sights and sounds of the world recommenced. Her skimmer pair had drifted dangerously close to the nearby mountain. She reversed and peered back, spotting a reinvigorated (if they were ever de-invigorated) legion of Hynka tearing up the hillside. If she hadn’t snapped out of it, they’d have been on her in under a minute.

“Wow, you almost got me killed,” Minnie said as she banked the skimmers right and zipped south.

Smooth and sultry, Wise Minnie vamped, Can’t blame me. I’m the one trying to pull the blinders off your face. You’re busy studying blue flowers.

“Don’t try to use my own metaphors against—” Minnie closed her mouth, pressing her lips tightly shut.

Minnie slowed and reduced altitude, giving the Hynka time to catch up. She suddenly realized she was smiling. A wide, toothy, uncontainable grin. How narcissistic was it to find such enjoyment in hearing her own voice talking in her head? In sparring with herself? Too fun! And the air… it smelled so good, felt amazing in her lungs, as if there existed breathing—regular old “Hey, look at me, I’m alive.” type breathing—and then there was this . Dessert breath. Yes! Inhaling a delicacy.

A foggy euphoria crept up the sides of her neck and lit up her brain. Her chest tightened, like she couldn’t get enough of the delicious air. But it still felt good—really, really good… however …

She knew what this meant. Despite the ages passed since the last episode, she knew this sensation all too well. She understood the physiological mechanisms behind it. She knew all of the little intricacies of her “unique” central nervous system, pituitary gland, spinal cord, adrenal glands, blood, and neurons when an episode was building, peaking, and falling, and remembered well the aftereffects. At present, her pulse was rising as beta-endorphins flooded into her spinal cord and brain capillaries, so now was the time that her astrocytes would mosey out for their coffee break, eliminating the crucial blood-brain barrier, and waving a green flag to the revving meltdown engines at the starting line. The adrenergic storm would soon follow, throwing fuel on the fire, and crossing the point of no return. It was like opposite day in there, where all the checks and balances evolution had put in place and refined over millennia, rebelled with a haughty “Nay.”

When caught early enough, she’d successfully talked herself down from episodes, but it had been so long since she’d felt this . It was the same old ploy, she knew, baiting her with soothing, reassuring whispers: You’ve let it go longer than this before and still pulled out. You deserve this one little dalliance after a decade of self-denial. You’re safe right now. It won’t be like it was before. You’re stronger now… smarter…

Her eyes had closed at some point. A distant, hollow biostat alert in her fone and ear module tried to catch her attention, but its feeble buzzing hadn’t presented her a compelling case. Biostats, I’d like you to meet Disabled.

She slid down from the console and settled in against the warm panel door, like some cozy, enveloping pillow. A bent knee pressed in at her chest while the other leg lay flat, stretched out to the center of the pad. Fingers wrapped around her neck, seductively caressing, while the other hand pressed in between her legs.

Enjoy. There’s not another human in the world who gets to feel this.

Nothing new from Minerva since their DC broke. She’d managed to take care of both of them all this time with no help whatsoever from him, but John still worried, still felt that simmering dread in his gut. He had zero control over her fate. He was effectively useless. And when she’d last asked him to rate his pain, he’d replied with the trusty old five. It’d been more like a strong seven at the time, and now ranked a steady, searing eight.

Curled in his sleeping bag, heavy head pressed into the packed bag Minerva had thoughtfully slid beneath him before leaving, he rolled a capsule between thumb and forefinger. It was one of twenty-eight remaining diclomorph pills from their combined reserve. They’d already squandered twenty-two on him. Half of the medipads gone. Stem cream, antibiotics, gauze, tape, etset—all intended for a lifetime of rationing. Even if he had a chance at long-term survival, it’d be as a convalescent, a mouth to feed, an anchor, a risk . If they were somehow able to escape this lions’ den, Minerva would be forced to live out her days as a caretaker, and he as a burden.

John elbowed away the top of the survival bag and slowly raised his head. His ruined neck protested and punished. It hurt less to turn it the other way, but he could only lie on his back or left side.

His eyes adjusted to the glare from the cave opening and Ish’s EV sharpened into focus. Was Minerva deliberately keeping the medkits away from him? Wise, if so, but what if she didn’t return, or came back much later than anticipated? She’d only left him two pills. The first he’d taken shortly after she left; the second lay in the bowl of his upturned palm, nagging him for a trip down the hatch. How many more would it take to slam the door on existence, once and for all? Four? Five to be certain? Five more pills spent from Minerva’s lifetime supply. Or a single multiround from his MW. Another irreplaceable asset; however, not so scarce as meds. Though in two to three more days, those five pills would be used on him anyway.