Майкл Бламлейн - Longer

“Self-healing?” he wondered aloud. An attribute basic to all life. He glanced at Dash, who shook his head.

“Too fast.”

“To us,” said Cav.

“I’ve never seen it so rapidly.”

“No. Yes. That’s what makes it exciting.”

“Maybe it’s thicker-shelled than we thought.”

“It doesn’t have a shell,” said Gunjita.

“Or it wasn’t bothered. The amount you shaved off didn’t matter. It was like paring a fingernail.”

“I could make a bigger cut.”

“No, no. This is enough. More than enough.” He cradled the slender, crescent-shaped specimen in his palm, feeling like a guardian of the universe. It was weighty but weightless.

Carefully, he returned it to Dash, who sealed it in a bottle in preparation for microtomal slicing, fixation, and staining. Each a separate procedure, none of which, given Dash’s experience, or rather lack thereof, was guaranteed to succeed.

“Wish me luck,” he said.

“How about a helping hand?” Gunjita offered.

“Yes. Please. By all means.”

Cav felt a stab of jealousy. A stab of sadness. A stab of relief.

“Coming?” she asked.

“No. You go. I’ll stay for a while. I’m good.”

Once in the lab, Gunjita took charge. She knew where everything was, and Dash tried to stay out of her way. It brought back memories.

“Feels like old times,” he said.

She wasn’t interested in reminiscing. “So what do you think?”

“About Cav?”

“First the Ooi. Truthfully.”

“Truthfully? It looks like puke.”

“Is it alive? Could it have ever been?”

“Ever?”

“Forget ever. Living or not?”

“Cav thinks so.”

“Forget Cav.”

“I can’t. You shouldn’t, either.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s the reason I’m here. I couldn’t not come. He wants to die. The Ooi is keeping him alive.”

“You underestimate him, Dash. He’s keeping himself alive until he makes up his mind. So far he hasn’t decided. Our Ooi is a pretext. A placeholder. A sham.”

“Convenient that it arrived when it did.”

“Purely coincidence. If it hadn’t been this, it would have been something else.”

“He wants to live.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants.”

Uncharted territory for Dash. He felt as if he were being forced to watch something he shouldn’t have to. He felt paralyzed, hamstrung.

“I don’t understand. What’s so wrong about living? What’s so difficult? Is he sick? Is he hiding something?”

“He feels guilty.”

“Cav?” He swallowed a laugh.

“No joke. He’s been privileged all his life. That includes the privilege of being open-minded. The privilege of believing in fairness, and justice for all. Now it’s caught up with him. He sees the hypocrisy. If everyone can’t juve—and everyone can’t—then no one should.”

“Never going to happen.”

“Of course not. But he’s doing his part. Making his point. Staking the high ground.”

“Martyring himself,” said Dash.

“It eases his conscience.”

She was angry. And hurt. It helped to talk.

“I sound harsh.”

Dash was sympathetic. “He’s a handful.”

“A handful and a half. I love him very much. I’m proud that he has principles. I’m proud that he doesn’t settle for the easy way out, that he stands up for what he believes is right. In a way I’m proud of what he’s doing. Or what he’s thinking about doing. He makes it hard not to be.”

She pulled out jars, canisters, various tools, and instruments, slamming them down on the bench, then compulsively arranging them. Making things neat and tidy was a tic that came out when she was stressed. Work was her love and joy, but also how she dealt with strong emotions. Dash remembered this about her. Like after their crash and burn. How businesslike she became. How completely she shut him out.

He wanted to say something to her now. Do something. Put the past to bed. Be a friend. Comfort her.

He had a strong urge to take her in his arms, give her a warm and reassuring hug, but fortunately the urge was short-circuited by the voice of reason, which stayed his hand. He went with words instead, sidestepping almost certain disaster.

“You have every right to be proud. He’s a great man. One of a kind. He sets the bar high, though. Tough living up to his standards.”

“He puts himself on a pedestal.”

“Interesting,” said Dash. “I thought that was me, putting him there. I know I do. Warts and all. He deserves to be there.”

“I wish he’d come down.” She felt tied in knots. “Now I sound like a hypocrite.”

“You don’t.”

“It’s his specialty. Making us doubt and second-guess ourselves.”

“It’s his gift. We don’t have to accept it. I haven’t, not this time. There’s no doubt in my mind what he should do.”

“He does have a point.”

“About what? Unfairness? Inequality? There’s less and less every day.”

“Less is still too much.”

“Any is too much,” said Dash. “But the tables are turning. The scales are evening out. It won’t be this way forever.”

“Won’t that be nice? But what about now? What about the world we’re building now? People living longer and longer. Overpopulation. Overcrowding. Resources stretched to the limit. Mental and physical stress. There’re so many of us. Privilege or no privilege, it’s not healthy. Not for us, and not for Momma.”

“Cav says this?”

“ I say this. But yes. Of course. Not only him. It’s there for anyone to see.”

“We’ll find a way,” said Dash. “Always have.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

“You’re optimistic.”

“I am. Science and technology are powerful tools. I have faith.”

She was feeling wicked. “Here’s an idea. How about another invasion? A real one this time. Followed by mass extermination. Lightening the load on … well, everything.”

“Hopefully, we’ll find a better solution than that.”

“Maybe our Ooi is an advance scout.”

He gave her a look. This wasn’t the Gunjita he remembered. That Gunjita didn’t have a cynical bone in her body. That Gunjita was earnest and sincere. She wouldn’t have known sarcasm if it bit her in the face.

This one had an edge.

“You’re not serious,” he said.

“He has a point is all I’m saying. He could stick around and try to sell it. Work to solve the problem. Instead he comes here and contemplates suicide.” She felt at the end of her rope. “I wish our Ooi were alive. Cav might juve if it were. No guarantee, but the hook would be that much harder to get out.”

“It could be.”

“Alive? I don’t believe it.”

“I felt something.”

“I’m sure you did, but what?”

“Movement.”

“That no one else can feel.”

“I wish you could,” he said.

“Your own pulse maybe.”

“Possibly.”

“The point being—”

He cut her off. “I know the point. It’s no proof. Let’s do an experiment.”

“What kind of experiment?”

“I’ll feel your pulse.”

“I can do that myself.”

“Not just your heartbeat. All your pulses.”

She eyed him. “Meaning what?”

“Your ebb and flow. Your waves and vibrations. Your internal flux.”

“My flux? No, thanks.”

“I’ll interpret them,” he said, gaining momentum. “You tell me what you’ve been thinking and feeling, and I’ll tell you what I found. We’ll see how closely the two match.”

“You’ll confirm my thoughts and feelings?”

“Scientifically. Not only the ones you’re aware of.”