Каарон Уоррен - The Lowest Heaven

As she sealed the escape pod and began drowning in life-sustaining fluid, she realized it was not meant for her escape. Enyo-Enyo had placed it there for another purpose.

The satellite took a snapshot.

And there, on the other side of the fluid-filled pod, she saw her own face.

The squalling children were imperfect, like Enyo. She had already sold Reeb to some infertile young diplomatic aid’s broker in the flesh pits for a paltry sum. It was not enough to get her off the shit asteroid at the ass end of the Mushta Mura arm. She would die out here of some green plague, some white dust contagion. The death dealers would string her up and sell her parts. She’d be nothing. All this pain and anguish, for nothing.

Later, she could not recall how she found the place. Whispered rumors. A mangled transmission. She found herself walking into a chemically scrubbed medical office, like some place you’d go to have an industrial part grafted on for growing. The logo on the spiral of the door, and the coats of the staff, was a double circle shot through with a blue dart.

“I heard you’re not looking for eggs or embryos,” she said, and set Dysmonia’s swaddled little body on the counter.

The receptionist smiled. White, white teeth. He blinked, and a woman came up from the back. She was a tall brown-skinned woman with large hands and a grim face.

“I’m Arso Tohl,” the woman said. “Let’s have a look.”

They paid Enyo enough to leave not just the asteroid, but the Mushta Mura arm entirely. She fled with a hot bundle of currency instead of a squalling, temperamental child. When she entered the armed forces outside the Sol system, she did so because it was the furthest arm of the galaxy from her own. When a neighboring system paid her to start a war, she did so gladly.

She did not expect to see or hear from the butchers again.

Not until she saw the logo on the satellite recruiter’s uniform.

Enyo ate her fill of the jellified colonists and slogged back to the satellite to feed it, to feed Enyo-Enyo. Reeb’s annoying voice had grown silent. He always stopped protesting after the first dozen.

She found him sitting in the internode with the prisoner, his hands pressed against the base of the pod. His head was lowered.

“It was enough to make the next turn,” Enyo said.

“It always is,” he said.

“There will be other crews,” she said.

“I know.”

“Then why are you melancholy?” If she could see his face, it would be winter.

He raised his head. Stared at the semblance of a body floating in the viscous fluid. “I’m not really here, am I?”

“This turn? I don’t know. Sometimes you are. Sometimes you aren’t. It depends on how many snapshots Enyo-Enyo has taken this turn. And how she wants it all to turn out this time.”

“When did you put yourself in here?” He patted the prisoner’s pod.

“When things got too complicated to bear,” she said. “When I realized who Enyo-Enyo was.” She went to the slick feeding console. She vomited the condensed protein stew of the colonists into the receptacle. When it was over, she fell back, exhausted.

“Let’s play screes,” she said. “Before the next snapshot. We might be different people, then.”

“We can only hope,” Reeb said, and pulled his hands away from the prisoner.

No one had heard of our dumb ass town before the comet came. Afterwards, the whole world knew the name Meridian. Those of us who called it home would come to wish they hadn’t, and no one more than me.

They say Meridian is the sixth biggest city in Mississippi, but before you go getting all impressed, take a look at the competition. Exactly. If you ask me, calling Meridian a city is giving it airs and graces it has no business putting on. Main Street may boast a dozen stores, but the smaller streets that run parallel to it and the railway track have never filled all their plots. There’s a movie theater, a library and a lot of bars, none that a woman with half her senses would venture in alone. There’s the stone Municipal Building that must’ve been built in a grander age. Opposite that is a prefab office where Meridian’s six Democrats eat pizza and talk about how they’re gonna bring Reagan down.

But for a couple of weeks, during an otherwise uneventful spring in ‘86, Meridian was packed with reporters and cameramen, and you couldn’t get a room at the motel or even rent a spare bedroom, not for love nor money. And everyone was talking about the comet and the thirty-six people that lost their lives on account of it. One of the dead was Jordan Danes. I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone as much as I loved him.

He was seventeen when he died, two years older than me. He’d been held back twice, so we could’ve shared some classes but we didn’t. He’d been in so much trouble that half the teachers wouldn’t have him in their class. As far as I could make out, he did double Shop and not a lot else◦– not that I had memorized his whole schedule or nothing.

Jordan would disappear from school for weeks, there were always talk as to why◦– mostly people decided that he was in juvenile detention or had overdosed. People were always talking about Jordan Danes. I’d never spoken a single word to him, although I’d imagined whole conversations, so you can guess how relieved I was when he’d show up, I guess just to prove to the world that he wasn’t dead or in jail.

He’d done another of his disappearing acts that winter. I hadn’t seen him for a couple of months until I spied him on Main Street with the flying saucer people, looking a little sheepish and holding a placard that said “THE ASCENSION IS NEAR”.

Just seeing him made my stomach drop like a bowling ball. You’re wondering if I’m a fag, right? I’m gay. There. I said it. I don’t go around telling folk, obviously. Meridian isn’t New York City. There was a guy working at the movie theatre. He let slip to his boss that he was moving in with his boyfriend and got fired on the spot. Two days later someone painted “AIDS SCUM” on his door. Last I heard he was making a living as a female impersonator down in New Orleans.

So, no, I don’t go around telling folk.

Jordan saw me coming and surprised me by calling out my name. I had no idea he knew who I was, or that I’d made the tiniest impression on his life. I acted all nonchalant, told him I hadn’t seen him in school, but all the while I was sneaking looks at him, just soaking him up.

“They made it clear that I wasn’t welcome,” he said. “Some shit went missing from the A/V closet,” he shrugged, and looked away with what might have been regret.

Jordan was mixed-race◦– black, white and maybe something else, something exotic like South American or Egyptian. Tall and lean, but shy of lanky. His skin was the color of caramel and flawless, his hair was black and curly, but loose, like it didn’t have the will to wind itself up into an Afro, and so it hung down to his shoulders in corkscrew curls. He was beautiful alright, big brown doe eyes and sculpted lips, the lower one a pale rose pink. Beautiful and troubled boys◦– I still got no defense against them.

“You gonna come or what?” he asked.

I blushed, thinking he had caught me looking at him, before I realized he was holding out a leaflet.

“Huh?” It was cheaply printed, black ink on blue paper. There was a photograph of a flying saucer. Not a real one obviously. I’m not a total dick. It was from one of those 1950s films, that always look like the color’s been turned up too high, and where the sexy space aliens look like those women from the B-52s.

The leaflet read “PREPARE TO ASCEND”. It told me that there was a meeting tonight for anyone who was ready for “the trip of lifetime”.