The Kimota Anthology Part 27

That helped. Her sigh crackled and disturbed the song playing on the radio. On board the wrong s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p, David Bowie asked if there was Life on Mars.

"Not yet." Dirk winked.

Stop the moon, I want to throw up.

Dirk's comments were not the only things making her queasy. The land truck appeared to b.u.mp over every rock on the moon. She felt like a goldfish; her head swimming about the helmet, not certain if she'd travelled this way minutes before. It all looked similar.

"How do you find your way?" she asked.

"Don't tell me, you expected to find road signs on the moon?" Dirk laughed.

"I expected roads."

Had she? The idea sounded ridiculous now she thought about it. Who puts a motorway on the moon?

"The LE Corporation has submitted plans to the newly-appointed Lunar President. All being well we should have our first roadworks next April."

"She's beautiful," Ted said. "Why build roads and cities? We should camp out here."

And suffocate... Sarah recalled sitting in the doctor's office, pulling at her collar and forgetting how to breathe. It was no better down there. Ahead of them, a gla.s.s dome broke through the darkness.

Sarah shuffled in her suit. "I expected it would be larger," she said, meaning the dome.

"It'll grow on you," Dirk said. "Hold onto your lunch campers, we're heading for home."

Ted bounced in his seat. Sarah hoped the act due to a lack of gravity and not that he'd regressed forty years. Perhaps she should have read something more in-depth about the moon than Lunar Lunacy. As friends and family insisted--she'd not thought this through.

"We're farther than you think and closer than you hope," Dirk said.

What appeared a ten-minute ride took another hour and by the time they'd reached the dome, Sarah's backside was sore and her brain numb. People, dressed in the requisite suits and helmets, congregated around the outside of the dome. They cupped their hands to the gla.s.s and peered in. Two lunar rovers drove parallel, one heading east and the other west, behind the group. They looked like sheepdogs herding the escaped population.

"They're looking at Earth," Dirk said. "The dome is a cross between a telescope and television. You've perhaps heard of ScopeVision."

Sarah suspected Dirk had coined the term and was hoping to make mega-dollars from its copyright. The spectators traced their hands along the dome as they shuffled to the left, to the right and stood on tiptoes.

"Why don't they look at Earth from within the dome?"

Both Ted and Dirk snorted at her question, neither answered.

Gla.s.s doors swished open, cutting into the dome. Dirk drove through, leaving them all in limbo between the two layers of the dome as the air acclimatised-something to do with decompression. The science left her brain as muddled as Ted's. A rainbow of colours swirled in contrast to the grey of their journey. Weight settled around her middle. Looking out the rear window, she saw half a dozen helmets pressed against the gla.s.s.

"They can't see us," Dirk said.

"All they see is the Earth," Sarah said.

Ahead of them, a second set of doors opened and the colours faded to grey.

"Welcome to Luna Four, the perfect place to lose your mind."

Ted's circuits began to unscramble circa 2064. At least, that was how he put it. As if, he considered himself akin to broken machinery. The only cure--relocation to the moon (his words, not hers). Well they were here and he didn't look any less unscrambled. Impatience irked.

The living quarters were s.p.a.ced about eight feet apart. Rocket s.h.i.+ps tented to the earth by poles with net curtains covering the windows.

"Ingenious." Dirk removed his helmet and winked. "Inspired."

The removing of her helmet m.u.f.fled Sarah's answer. Ted kept his in situ. Sarah's hair fell lank and sweat pasted her fringe to her forehead. She looked up at the dome, at what she had thought an anomaly brought on by 'caught-in-a-helmet' effect. She blinked. The anomaly remained.

"Why is the dome painted with yellow clouds?" she asked.

"Someone has read their brochure."

"You got me, and?"

"Consider them our 'eye in the sky'. It's a million times better than the white coats back home, less clinical."

Sarah nodded. "So which is our rocket s.h.i.+p?"

Dirk led the way.

Ted raised his hands to the sky and stared at the gaps between clouds. He muttered, "Beautiful."

Sarah took in a deep breath and unzipped her suit. She felt almost normal. Sarah left Ted staring at the sky and followed Dirk to a rocket s.h.i.+p with the number 17 painted on its side. A refurbished ex-rocket is never something that can look like home. Metal clanged beneath her boots as she climbed the ladder.

"I'll leave you to get acquainted. If you require any a.s.sistance there are red b.u.t.tons placed in all rooms." Dirk saluted.

The roar of the land truck broke Ted's stupor. Sarah sat on the fifth rung of the ladder and peered up at the dome. She pulled stuck her tongue out at the sky and waited for a cloud to zoom in. Give her five or six weeks of rocket life and she'd be as away with the little green men as her husband.

"Ted, you want spam or corned beef for supper? Or maybe we could eat out. Do they have an all-night diner on the moon?"

She knew they had a recreation pod or something and a food rocket that touched down every fortnight, so why not a diner?

"Barbecues are encouraged within the dome." A man popped his head out of the doorway of rocket 18. "However, no food fights. Your husband reminds me of my wife." When Sarah didn't answer, he added, "She's locked in the facility. They found her running between the dual layers looking for a door back to Earth."

"I thought the point was to not lock people away?" Ted, my husband, was fading in the Home and wandering when at home. Now he has all this s.p.a.ce.

She climbed down the ladder and stood on the moon. She discerned no movement in the yellow clouds.

"If someone gave you a key out of the dome I'd like to make a copy. Last time I checked the brochure it was supervised visits only."

"Not for us. That is, I mean you and me, non-patients."

"Look, the truth is, if you go out there all the time to look down at the Earth well that can make you kind of nuts. And if you ever want to get off this heap of rock, nuts is not a good place to visit."

She laughed. "No one press ganged us onto a rocket s.h.i.+p. We signed up."

"No one had a talk with you? No kind hand pressed a brochure into your tired fingers when he went missing for the sixth, seventh, twentieth time? No real estate agent promised to take care of your finances?"

Before she could answer, Ted interrupted by tugging at her sleeve.

"Corned beef and mashed potatoes," he said.

Moon dust covered Ted's hands and knees. Sarah tried to brush it off, but it caught and snagged her skin. She sneezed, brushed a trail of dirt across her cheek and sneezed again. Joy! It seemed hay fever on Earth had morphed into a lunar allergy.

"You look like a chimney sweep," Ted said.

"Gee thanks honey, would you like bacon with that comment?" She unfastened his helmet and pulled it off his head.

"We're here," Ted said.

"We're here."

"I'm going inside."

"I'm going to stay outside a while longer. Acclimatise. Take in the view."

She looked towards the edges of the dome and at the trail of people waiting in the s.p.a.ce between. She recalled the saying 'G.o.d's waiting room' and thought whoever had coined the term had imagined this place.

"Barbecue's at nine Earth time, hope your watch is set," her neighbour called after Sarah as she left footprints in the regolith. "We'll throw some of your complimentary Spam on the fire."

"Nine it is," she said.

As she headed towards the dome and trained her attention on a section of unspoiled sky, her boots left trails in the regolith. She wondered how far she could walk before someone kicked up dust and chased her. She figured forever.

[Originally published in M-Brane SF 2010, contributed by the auther in place of her many Kimota stories which could not be used for copyright reasons].

SIRA.

by Derek M. Fox.

To Forster the jade statuette was exquisite: a centuries old nude carved by a craftsman. And he had to have it.

Career down the tubes, funds depleted, he thought briefly of Margaret, his fat b.i.t.c.h of a wife. Probably shoving more food into her oversized mouth, while she pets that hairbrush on legs. d.a.m.n dog p.i.s.sing all over the place...

"What's with you?" he spat at the woman eyeballing him. She hurried on, as Forster grimaced at his sallow complexion in the grimy Georgian panes of the shop. A sad sign read ANTIQUES & CURIOS, nothing more.

He slicked back greying hair and straightened his tie, his shadow overlapping the jade. "I want you, little lady."

Closer to the window now, he detected a dim light burning and grinned. "A quick barter and I'm away."

Age, the dull cracked bell, his sneeze at the disturbed dust were all partners of hope. The light issued from a shadeless pendant dangling from a cracked ceiling.

"h.e.l.lo." A mountain of house clearance stuff wearing yellowed price tags, absorbed it. A counter of sorts, hemmed in by dusty Georgian tables was stacked with more clutter. A few pieces caught his attention, but Forster had set his heart on one thing.

About as big as the Oscar, she was indescribable. Long suppressed sensations bubbled, as he caressed her form.

He pulled back quickly. Surely the head hadn't turned. "Trick of the light." He felt uneasy, her blank eyes full upon him. "Ridiculous."

Vehicle lights lent an impression of wanton writhing. He wet his lips, daring himself to caress again that, which in reality, was memory. Here was nubile flesh and longing, a strange, discordant melody rippling the edge of silence.

Needing real company, Forster squinted into acc.u.mulated shadows. "Anyone back there?"

A car horn was reality, it underscored frustration. But the jade was....Escape? The thought hung. "I need her."

No cost could be too excessive. Margaret, her expensive tastes, her wine, and whining could go AWOL along with her expansive stomach. "And f.u.c.k the dog! Let's think about me for a change."

"Her name is Sira." Cracked tones drew him towards the counter, a ta.s.sel shaded lamp almost toppling as he knocked against it. He managed a tired smile. "Sorry, I didn't realise anyone was... You, er, made me jump."

His skin p.r.i.c.kled under her slitted, ancient gaze from eyes buried within the wrinkles of a grey, nodding head.

"I see you like my little figure." It was a dismissive statement. "I was closing, pa.s.sing trade is close to nonexistent these days."

Not surprised, he thought, aware of the stale, old smell she exuded. "The jade-" he said pointing. "-I a.s.sume it is for sale?"

Her holed slippers slithered like dead fish on the floorboards. "Sira is ancient, sir. And priceless-"

Forster did not want to hear that.

"-beyond any man's dreams."

Her tone sounded like nails dragged down slate. Forster backed off. He was near the door, and closer to Sira. And, crazy thing, her blank stare followed him.

Shadows dried on the shop's walls; traffic noise crescendoed and faded; a solitary street lamp lit the statuette, and Forster swore one eye winked.

He cleared his throat and said, "What are you asking?" in a tone he always used when business had been good. Now most of the money, courtesy of Margaret, had either been supped, eaten or invested in senseless bric a brac, his own arguments and life thrust into virtual oblivion. Where Margaret belongs. Hold the thought.

He'd hoped for a quick haggle, a swift settlement, his nest egg spent how he wanted. He could live with the rows. Then again-?

"Sira is from the time of Homer," the woman said. "Her name derives from the Sirens, she sings a sweet song-"

The tune. Yes. Hardly sweet, but it replayed in his head.

"-It's in her lines, her beauty. Sira is unique, sir. None other in the whole world. Her song lures."

"I'm not one for legends, madam." Forster had trouble quelling his impatience, and told himself he shouldn't have come. Exactly what had brought him? A whim? A song? He shrugged. "As you say, very old. So, how much?"

Blast you, make your fragile mind up.

Her eyes bared his soul. He sought solace in the statuette.

Her dry, rasping laugh made his heart race. "I see you want her." His skin crawled. "I am too old," she added, "my life measured in heartbeats, yet- ," She jabbed the air with a bony finger as an ancient clock ticked the seconds, tocked her pulse.