Paul Hardy - The Last Man on Earth Club

“Of course.”

“You say the Antecessors left your planet to go to the stars?”

“That’s right.”

“Most species that leave their worlds do so because of some kind of cataclysm. Do you think that happened to them?”

“We never found out for sure. Something happened. They left. That’s all we know.”

“But why not go to another universe? It’s much easier than going to the stars, and lots of people do it. Why go to all the trouble of star travel?”

“Other universes are dangerous.”

“Most of them are empty.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“We explore dozens every year.”

“They might start off empty. But if you can get there, so can someone else.”

“Did anyone else ever come to your universe?”

He stopped there.

“Iokan? Is that a difficult question?”

“It’s a dangerous question.”

“Why is it dangerous?”

“I’ve said enough for now.”

“If you’re worried about something, I’d like to help.”

“No. You can’t help. Leave it alone.”

“Is it anything to do with the Antecessors?”

“No.”

“Is there anything you can tell me?”

“Nothing.”

There was something else, all right, but we’d hit a dead end. He was determined to protect us with his silence, and would say no more on the subject.

Bell still hadn’t replied to my last message, and it was nearly a day later. I sent another one and fretted over the wording for half an hour, second-guessing it, trying not to seem desperate but keeping an edge of annoyance to let him know I wasn’t happy. You’ve been gone for ages — just let me know what you’re up to , was the best I could manage as I realised the chimes had rung for the beginning of the next therapy session twenty minutes before, and Pew still hadn’t turned up.

I went to find him. He was in the garden, weeding away while Olivia was off in the toilets.

“I don’t want to talk,” he said, bent over and yanking up stems.

“If there’s something you don’t want to talk about, we don’t have to talk about it.”

“I’m not talking about Ley’ang.”

“Then I won’t ask. Do you want some water or anything?”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you want me to get you a chair?”

“I don’t want a chair.” He yanked up a handful of stems.

“They’ll only grow back, you know. You have to dig the roots out if you’re really going to—”

“I don’t want to talk.” He grabbed more leafy stems and ripped them out.

“Pew, has something happened?”

“No.” Rip, rip.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Rip, rip, RIP. “Yes I’m fucking sure.”

“Can we schedule another time?”

“No!” RIP, RIP, RIP. He gasped in pain.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Leave me alone.”

He held one hand closed against his chest and covered it with the other. “Pew, are you hurt?”

“No. I’ll be fine.” He stood up, still clutching his hand.

“Pew—” I said, but Olivia chose that moment to stalk back from the main building, walking fast as she saw I seemed to be pestering Pew.

“What’s all this?” she demanded of me.

“We’re talking, Olivia,” I said. “Is that a problem?”

But she spotted Pew’s hands and switched her annoyance to him. “Hey, where are your gloves? I told you, you’re supposed to use gloves!”

She pulled open his hand and found a fresh line of blood and sliced skin running across his palm.

“Oh, you stupid little… I told you, sandweed’s sharp, you have to use gloves!” Pew blushed at being found out. Sandweed keeps stores of silicates on the edge of its leaves, making them sharp and providing a very effective defence against insect pests and human gardeners. Olivia used rough gardening gloves to deal with it. But Pew had been weeding with his left hand — and he wasn’t left handed.

“Pew,” I said, “Show me your other hand.”

“No,” he said, holding his right hand tightly shut.

“Please, Pew,” I asked. Olivia caught my look of concern.

“Well, come on, then, let’s see it!” Pew’s look of embarrassment turned to pain, mouth trembling as he revealed his right hand: not cut once, but dozens of times, cuts running across cuts, some already on their way to healing and opened again.

“Oh, you fool, you fool!” said Olivia. I called for medical assistance. “I told you! What do you want to go and do this for?”

“I— I—” Pew couldn’t answer; he was deep in shame and couldn’t look Olivia in the eye.

“I don’t understand it, I just don’t understand!” she wasn’t angry at him; she was truly, actually hurt.

“Okay, Olivia, I’ve got a nurse on the way, we’re going to see to him.” Olivia folded her arms and turned her back. “We’ll sort your hands out Pew, don’t worry, you don’t have to talk to me, let’s just deal with the cuts, okay?” A nurse came up with a medkit. “Do you want me to come inside with you?” I asked. He shook his head. The nurse sprayed anaesthetic on the cuts, and took Pew inside.

“This is your fault,” muttered Olivia, watching him go.

“And how do you make that out, Olivia?”

“He doesn’t want to talk to you. You shouldn’t keep making him.”

“He won’t get any better if he doesn’t talk.”

“Rubbish. He’s fine the way he is.”

“No, he’s not, Olivia. I’d have thought you of all people would know that.”

“Oh, and what’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s like you, Olivia. Are you okay?”

“I would be if you lot didn’t stop interfering.”

“If we stopped interfering you’d be dead.”

“Bloody good thing, too.”

“Is that what you want to happen to him?”

She was brought up short. “Now you’re twisting my words,” she muttered.

“Is that what you want to happen?”

“No I don’t!”

“Then are you going to help me?”

“Huh. Help you. That’s a good joke.”

“But you can help me, Olivia.”

“Why would I want to?”

“Because it’ll help him . I’m trying to find out the root cause of his trauma, but the closer I get, the more he backs away. If you know something, that might be useful.”

She muttered something I didn’t catch.

“I’m sorry?” I asked.

She sighed. “All right, all right, what do you want?”

“Let’s sit down for a moment.” We pulled up garden chairs and sat down amid the weeds and shoots. “Did you ever talk to him about his past?”

“A bit.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Oh, gods, lots of things. Why do you need to ask, anyway? You’ve got the whole place wired for sound, haven’t you?”

“I don’t have time to go through every conversation…”

“Huh. Could have fooled me. Number of times someone’s come running out to stop us doing something or other…”

“We keep an eye on you, but we’re not always watching.”

“Just whenever you feel like, then.”

“You were going to tell me something about Pew?”

“Yeh. Well. He asks about revenants a lot.”

“What kind of things does he ask?”

“What was it like to kill them. How many did I get. Things like that. Same questions everyone asks.”

“So he’s mostly interested in how you fought them?”

“Yeh. Suppose so.”

“Anything else?”

“I told him he shouldn’t be so uptight about that last girl of his.”

“Is that a girlfriend he had at university…?”

“No, you idiot, the Pew girl. On his world. What’s-her-name.”