She Walks in Shadows(75)
Kittisak stares at me, eyes blank with alarm. “This isn’t the most private spot.”
“No one else is in the hothouse, Khun Kittisak. I’m sorry if I seem brusque.” I am not sorry, but people expect a modicum of manners. “But I find it best to establish everything clearly from the outset with a prospective client. Your qualifications are fine; I believe you will ably provide for a child. The issue of your withdrawal will, however, need addressing. In this matter, indecision would be ... troublesome, yes?”
“I want to bear the child myself.”
“That’ll take surgery.” I make a note to his file, not adding aloud that it’d be difficult to convince my superiors the operation is necessary. He can’t convince even me and I’m his case worker. “You’re unpartnered.”
He nods, matter of fact. “By choice, but I couldn’t find a volunteer, either, and it’s as fair as any that I should carry the fetus.”
(Pregnancy parasitic, childbirth a nightmare of Prathayayi pouring a tide of fluids and gore through orifices. Until the entire body is one great wound, organs worn inside out.)
My face does not change. When suicidal despair and grief of rejected clients is so common, you normalize emotional extremes and learn control of your expression. React to nothing. More decorous that way. “Won’t you consider the more conventional way?”
“The more normal way, you mean.” He touches his belly, as though already, it is seeded and gravid. “I do want to do it. Gives you a special connection, they say.” A delicate cough. “It’s how I was born.”
“I sympathize.” The lie is automatic, rolling off my tongue with the easy taste of familiarity. Fish and lime. “If your request for an operation isn’t granted, would you settle for the other option?”
Kittisak’s expression flickers. He would not. “I’ll consider it. Mostly, of course, I want a child ....”
“Yes, and outside a lottery, it’ll be tricky. Still, your suitability profile is good and you have every reason to be optimistic.” I dismiss his file, vision adjusting to the greenhouse, tendrils of light residual behind my eyelids. There have been no breakthroughs in visual interfacing for years and implant components can be recycled only so many times before they degrade. Barring miracles — survey drones happening upon asteroids full of convenient metals and silicates — in three generations, our descendants will be down to interfacing with the station by console. In six, we will cut our birthrate down by a quarter to fulfill the logarithm of survival. In eight ....
Everything rots, save the corpse in the tank. Everything halts, save the tempo of her pulse.
When I see Kittisak again, it is in Prathayayi’s shadow and he has come to cancel his application.
Nowhere on the station can we escape the sight or sound of her, the smell and chill of her flesh. Among us, there isn’t a soul alive who has ever seen shore or beach, the glare of sun on wave. But we all know the sea. Not the surface of it, where water drinks light and gives back jewels, where birds are alleged to flit and flying fish dart. Instead, we know the sea from the other way around: inside its cold, colorless liver and, like deep-sea creatures, we are blind and full of teeth.
My office is directly beneath her gaze, surrounded by her the way blood is sheathed inside arterial walls. Nowhere else are we so close to her, temple to its god, offspring to progenitor. Perhaps that is why I’m less inclined than most to revere and believe: familiarity, contempt.
Inhaling the salt smell for so long, my body is of it, my brain sodium-white. It may also explain why I don’t have much empathy left, by sheer proximity absorbing the qualities of the carcass, its amphibious indifference, its distance from humanity. Black glass and old metal and her.
On a cluster of compound lens, I catch sight of Kittisak. He is furtive, looking over his shoulder and sideways. When he looks up and sees me standing between him and the exit, he essays a smile. “Doctor.”
“You appear to have withdrawn your request.” My expression is neutral, though I don’t step aside. “While that is entirely your right, I can’t help but feel my time has been wasted.”
“I am very sorry about that.” Kittisak is favoring his left side. His face, half-lit, is swollen. A tender, slightly red cheek. Drowning his sorrows? He can afford a decent alcohol allotment. “My elder sister talked me out of it. Family, you know how they are.”
“Mine doesn’t override my most important decisions.”
His smile capsizes into an aborted chuckle. “No, I don’t imagine anyone overrides you much, Doctor, in any matter. I do apologize terribly.”
I gesture at the door. “You don’t plan to apply again.”
This time, his laughter is clear and true, the brittle brightness of it seeming to scatter the shadows for a moment. They resolve, leaving us both again in neon saturation and high-contrast blots. “No, I don’t think I will. This time, I am very sure — I won’t blight your door or vision again. This has been an education.”
Educational, though I can’t imagine what lesson he’s learned other than that he is an indecisive, overgrown child. Back in my office, I peel a cigarette from its case. Fragile, half the circumference of my thumb, rolled in scrap fiberplast: my only vice, whose rarity and price alone save me from self-destruction. The stench always staggers as the fiberplast singes without combusting. The same stench in my mouth, throat, lungs. My supplier adds the occasional pinch of hallucinogen for a charge, quick-acting, one part chemical and one part interfacing with implants. The mildest: I can’t afford stronger and have no wish to become dependent, though I hear the most expensive sort can give you an extensive alternate life. When I lean back, the low ceiling warps and bucks, smoke turning to claws. The desk softens to leathery flesh, the floor to pulsating quicksand. A gravitational peace, as of sinking.