As I moved up in education, I found the pressure increased, as did social complexities. I began to feel lost in the crowd. Shuffled around. My first run-ins with authority were appeals to those in charge for help and protection, appeals which went awry. I placed trust where I was told it should be placed, where it ought to be, and then got turned away by assholes disinterested in human suffering. It’s the first set of many such occasions. Later on, newer neural networks let me see how my younger appraisals were overblown. But that’s how I saw it back then, on the Gold.
The third world is the Jungle Planet, full of savagery and green. It’s there that I made my proper life, and where we lay our scene. It was there, at an age too young, I found my way into wide open danger. I found my pen and my brush, my pistol and blade. Found the deep forest songs and the faintest rhythms of hidden cities. I ran my original nervous system into the ground—along with most of my original teeth—and ruined my natural endocrine system. I experienced synaptic shutdown, and what I’ve called the Blast. Everyone I knew reached out to me that night, the night of the Blast, even folks on other worlds from other times that could not have known by sensible means. There was no beam or Bubble that could have alerted them. But, somehow, they’d known. They had known and reached for me. And I pushed them all away. Me, or whoever I was, before the Blast.
On the third world, the Jungle, that is where I met Horace and Danielle. It’s the world of Mickie and Wendy. It’s the world of my reconstruction, recapitulation, where I’m trying to get it all right. Trying to fix the mistakes I made. Redress my failure.
So, those are the worlds which I’ve called home. That’s the where. Then when is the dawn of the 32nd Century, the 32C. The beginning of the end.
Oh, wait. The fourth one. The fourth world was the Desert Planet. My time there was with Terry. The first Terry. It was short, barely a few weeks, but it shaped much of what would come, so it’s worth mentioning.
3 | Liberation
I haven’t always been a good person. There are periods of my life of which I am not proud. One of my masters once told me that the universe has to allow for some error, some experimentation. It’s a nice sentiment, but I live gripped by fear that this is not so, that there is action and response, however delayed diminished by distance. If we’re lucky.
The car. It’s whirring faster than my eyes could handle.
“I think I might yak.” That’s me.
“Don’t you fucking dare.” That’s Wendy.
I nodded and took some breaths. “Yeah. Okay. I think I’m all right.”
Mickie craned her head around. “You want me to come back there?”
I smiled. I did. “No, that’s okay. I’m fine now.”
Wendy looked at Mickie, then at me. “Why don’t you go back there, Mickie?”
“They’re fine.”
“Yeah, still. I want you to go back there.”
They looked at each other. Something’s going on between them, I could tell that, but I was distracted by my guts, trying to take deep breaths and not throw up. I was way overchemicalized and trying to find a feeling in my body that would help me. Wasn’t working.
I blurted out, “Hey, where are we goin’ anyway?”
My question broke whatever was happening, and both smiled.
“Show ‘em, Mick.”
Mickie showed me her teeth, smiling and eager in the eyes. Jeez, those beautiful eyes. She touched a dot on her cheek and a mask contorted her features.
I blinked to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. Cos, you know, I could have been. “Is that … is that a mask?”
“Fuck yeah,” she said.
I didn’t get it. “I don’t get it,” I said.
“We’re goin’ to get Roxy, sweetie,” Wendy said.
But Roxy’s locked up, I thought. “Wait, isn’t Roxy locked up?”
Wendy looked at Mickie and smiled. I couldn’t see Mickie’s face anymore—not her real face anyway. But I could sense she’s smiling too, underneath.
My guts turned again, and I put my arms out for balance. “I think I’m sick again.”
Wendy rolled her eyes. “Mickie get fucking back there.”
Mickie climbed from the front to the back, long arms pushing and reaching.
I could smell her close to me. Her scent spanned time and space, and I knew I could recall it forever.
“Hey. Let me help.”
I didn’t want it to go like this. “I’m okay.”
The mask cocked a little. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
“Okay. ‘Cause you seem a little queasy.”
I nodded.
“Okay,” Mickie said. “But I’m here if you need me.”
“Thanks.” I felt a bit pathetic but also relieved she was close.
The car stopped, landed in a semi-circular motion, wrenching my stomach.
“We’re here, bitches,” Wendy said. She switched a mask on. “It’s go time.”
We got out, all dressed for school. I had packed a pistol, then thought better of it. Last time I’d brought heat I’d nearly shot someone in the face. So I passed on the gun. I passed on the hissing blade, too. Not sure why. I always wore it. Just didn’t feel right that day.
The place had a palatial look to it—more estate than holding facility. The Ministry had lost its taste for institution green and cinder blocks long ago, acquiescing to the larger culture’s demand for aesthetic beauty and natural-ish scenery. A lot of it was holographic, augmented reality stuff, but no one gave a shit. It looked better, so people felt better.
Atop wide steps drenched in ivy lay simulacrums of lazy-eyed lions attending. I saw the sign for the place written like it’s naturally occurring stone, almost carved in the air: “Grant Psychometabolic Reconstruction Center.” The Grapes, folks called it.
“We’re at the Grapes, y’all. This place is a hospital, not a jail.”
“What’s the diff?” Wendy asked. “They’ve got Rocks, and she doesn’t wanna be here. They’re holding her against her will.”
“Yeah,” Mickie said. “It’s tomatoes.”
Wendy stopped, looked at her. “Tomatoes?”
“Yeah. You know,” Mickie said. “Tomatoes. It means people say different things that mean the same thing.”
“You
