Майкл Бламлейн: Longer

She had no particular premonition that he was going to keel over suddenly and drop dead. His health was slowly declining, sure. She knew how this felt from firsthand experience. But it wasn’t as if he was on his last legs. Eighty-four wasn’t a hundred and four. Then again, it wasn’t twenty-four, or even sixty. Anything could happen at any time, until he juved.

And if something did? She’d lived a whole life without him, so knew that she could. She’d also lived a whole life with, and wasn’t finished. Being with him the last two days reminded her of him as a young man, what a mind he had, how far he was willing to go, what a bulldog he could be, delighted with the world, obsessed, provocative, impossible to be with at times, impossible not to be with. She felt that way about him now.

How would she get him to take her lifesaving alarm, if it did exist? She’d offer it, and he’d refuse. In his sleep then? Without his permission? She might as well strap him down and force him to be young.

She’d never do that. She didn’t believe in that kind of coercion. Though the idea of straps and physical restraint—of a physical solution to the problem—got her thinking.

She heard a series of beeps. Moments later, Laura Gleem was on-screen, the CGI version of her, which hadn’t changed in years.

“Dr. Gharia.”

“Director.”

Laura’s face went through a series of transformations, commentaries and inside jokes on the power of money, imagination, and plasticity, in the process authenticating her identity.

“I received your report.”

“That was fast.”

“Your work is important, Doctor. Correct me if I’m wrong, but things don’t look good.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“No? Our drug is unstable. It’s coming apart at the seams. Can’t make up its mind what to do.”

“It’s reacting to something. Gravity, most likely.”

“And the cells? How are they doing?”

“They’re alive.”

“How alive?”

“They’re not dead.”

“Not dead is good.”

“I’ve made some adjustments. We’ll know more in a few days.”

“Our fate is in your hands. H82W8 is useless to me as it is.”

Be patient, Gunjita wanted to say. She knew not to.

Laura Gleem smiled, as though reading her mind. “On another note, what do you think of pink?”

“Pink?”

“For the treatment center. And the personnel. The nurses and technicians.”

She’d forgotten about this other plan for the station.

“The doctors, too,” said Laura. “Pink with purple piping.”

Gunjita was not a big fan of the color. “Sounds like a boutique.”

“That’s exactly what it is. A medical boutique in outer space. Shuttle up, take the cure, shuttle home. If not this cure, then another. We’ll find something.”

“A little holiday.”

“Exactly.”

“Expensive.”

“More expensive not to, if your health’s at stake. Future job for you, Doctor. Get this drug to work, okay?”

Not a job that particularly appealed to her, coddling and cosseting anyone, well-to-do or otherwise. As for her current job, less appealing with Laura Gleem breathing down her neck.

“I have a question for you,” she said.

“Fire away.”

“Pink.”

“What about it?”

“Do you wear pink?”

“Do I?”

“I saw you once in person years ago. Now I just see you on-screen. I just see this … what everyone sees. Why’s that?”

Laura stared at her. The corners of her mouth edged up. No warmth in the look, but plenty of chill.

“This object. On the asteroid. What is it?”

“I was just wondering. Maybe there’s something we can do to help.”

“You can help by doing your job. Now: this object.”

“We’re studying it.”

“I’ve been advised to send someone. A team.”

She knew what Cav would say to that. Kept her mouth shut.

“It looks like vomit,” said Laura.

“I’ve pointed that out.”

“And Dr. Cavanaugh? What does he say?”

“He has his own opinion.” Let her read between the lines. Gunjita had no doubt she could.

“Of course. I look forward to hearing it.”

“You will,” she replied brusquely.

Laura was silent for a moment. Gunjita feared she had gone too far. Then Laura said, “It’s yours for now. Keep it to yourself. No reason to alarm anybody needlessly. Understood?”

“Yes. Absolutely. I’m in full agreement.”

“And don’t get too distracted by it. H82W8 comes first. Prioritize, Doctor. Stay in touch.”

She ended the transmission, leaving Gunjita feeling tense and manipulated. She had the urge to retaliate, which surprised her. She tried deep breathing. Then padmasana, the lotus pose, the only one she knew. Old age had made it nearly impossible, but now it was easy. Levitation, too, which up to then had eluded her.

But the knotted-up feeling persisted. Neck, shoulders, legs. Like coils of rope wound too tight, like springs about to snap. She wanted to throw something, do something. Run, punch, kick. Something physical … if she didn’t, she was going to explode.

She and Cav used to wrestle, back in the day. A way to blow off steam after an argument, sometimes a prelude to sex. He pinned her nearly every time, his sheer size an insurmountable advantage. Now a mere shadow of himself, she could beat him easily. Turn the tables. Sit on his face.

She was tempted.

In the end she decided to take out her frustration in the Onizuka mod, which had a treadmill, bike, resistance trainer, and a VR setup that synched with each. She chose a FPS that put her in a ring, initially against a lead-footed ogre who could take a punch, working her upper body first. After that, heart, legs, and lungs, building up a sweat to the sound of her Velcro soles ripping off the belt, along with the cheers and heckles of the ringside mob. Felt better afterward, wiped herself down, PO’d a liter and a half, then returned to the observation mod. Cav hadn’t budged.

“I talked to Laura Gleem.”

“It moved,” he said.

Stunned, she pressed her face to the glass. The Ooi looked exactly the same as before, in exactly the same position. She took a photo, compared it to an earlier one. Couldn’t find a shadow of a difference.

Cav had to agree. “Interesting.”

“In what way?”

“It moved, then returned to its exact original shape and position. Like a spring. As though engineered. Or preordained.”

“Or imagined.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Let’s do some tests.”

“Not yet.”

“When?”

“It could be dormant. Or partially dormant. If it moved once, it’ll move again. We need to give it time. Maybe it needs to feel more comfortable. More secure.”

The Ooi was plastered to its rock, cozy as a button. Cav was plastered to his chair.

“Take a break,” she said. “Get some rest. I’ll watch. Promise. I won’t miss a thing.”

The next day Cav agreed to spectroscopy. Light spectroscopy first, the least destructive. According to most people, not destructive at all.

The asteroid was high in carbon, no surprise. It had carbon’s distinctive black color. It also contained trace amounts of oxygen, hydrogen, phosphorus, and nitrogen, some in molecular form. They found carbon chains and rings, amino acids, hydroxyl and methyl groups, phosphates, and amines. The asteroid was a chemical smorgasbord. They learned a lot.

They learned less about the Ooi. Or rather, they learned something, possibly a great deal, but didn’t know what it meant. The Ooi had similar chemical composition to the asteroid, as far as its elements were concerned. LIF showed that. But its Raman spectra, which detected atomic bonding, were difficult to interpret. They varied from scan to scan. No two readings were identical. The first showed one molecular signature, the second a slightly different one, the third slightly different yet again. Could have been due to absorption of radiation used by the tests themselves. Or to something else entirely.