Vyyda Book 1: The Haver Problem (14 page)

I chose to believe this sunny proposition even as friends of friends were receiving migration orders.  After all, I was a doctor.  Precisely the sort of person Earth would keep.  It took me far too long to be struck with the realization that there was nothing particularly special about me in the light of what was happening.  I didn’t know any of the right people, nor did I have what passes for influence these days.

It was when I heard of a former medical school classmate who had finished higher in class rankings, had a finer flat in London than I ever could have afforded, and the most important blessing:  a wife and two young children that I began to genuinely fear for my future.  He was cited for off-Earth relocation.  I have awakened every morning since wondering if that would be the day that an official would show up at my door with a migration order.

I also find it hard to avoid the shame that comes from the memories of my father – may God rest his soul – singing the praises of forced migration: countries and cultures fundamentally unable to provide for themselves, removed from being a drain on the rest of the world population.  That rant, as I recall, took place when I was a boy of perhaps twelve.  Even during my years in medical school, as our own countrymen began to be selected for relocation, father’s view didn’t change much.  They were the dregs of British society being removed (criminals, the perpetually unemployed and uneducated – forever on the dole).  It was only when an old crony of his told of the work his son had been doing (filling mass graves with the euthanized pets of exiled men and women from the area) that my father showed any signs of seeing the reality of sins going on around him.

The decision makers on Earth now seem to believe that the original goal of reducing the world population to three billion is not enough.  They’re after a lower, yet to be publicly defined, target number.  Between the wealthy and the powerful, it’s impossible to say who could be the one to make the final decision.

1 March 2163 

One of the administrators on FTC-45, a balding mess of a man called Scowbrenn, comes to see me frequently with a stomach complaint which I can only remedy for brief periods.  He’s uninterested in long-term solutions or even finding out what the true cause of his misery might be.  He writes it off to bad food and seems content with that answer.

Scowbrenn’s latest notion about handling new arrivals at this settlement where he has been stationed for nearly a year is that “welcomers” ought to be brought in to help smooth things along.  Being unfamiliar with the concept of welcomers, Scowbrenn filled me in:  Welcomers are men, women and even children who can provide “friendship” and an easy transition for those suffering from the extreme shock at being thrust into such a completely foreign environment. 

Although they pose as fellow workers and citizens of the settlement at which they’re posted, “welcoming” is a learned profession (part actor, part psychologist).  They don’t come cheap and will only stay for a relatively brief period, working the new arrivals into a routine that helps calm them.  Scowbrenn couldn’t answer my concern that welcomers who initially presented themselves as friends would suddenly disappear one day, leaving the subjects of their assistance lost and abandoned once more.

On his most recent visit, Scowbrenn complained not only of nausea, but also joint pain.  It provided an opportunity for him to enlighten me with how he would have handled massive migration from the beginning:

“The thing to do,” he told me, “was to make it seem like it was a privilege to relocate to one of the colonies.  Just a question of using psychology.  So your average Earther of poor breeding and limited resources says to himself, ‘What an opportunity!  If only I could get in on that.’  Of course, you’d have to present colonization as being limited – only a few will qualify.  I tell you, the weak-minded would have lined up and begged for a chance.”

How difficult it was for me to keep from telling Scowbrenn that he must come from poorer stock than all those only now arriving.  He was removed from Earth before they were.  The fact that he has a position of minimal authority (doling out punishments for violations committed by lower level employees) makes him a slightly more indulged prisoner of the system which has landed us all here in oblivion.

The unfortunate reality for each of us is that we assumed we’d be safe.  Assumed until it was too late to alter our fortunes.  As I write this, there must be men and women on Earth without worry, without the vision to see the writing on the wall.

The writing on the wall.

             
Dorsey repeated the phrase aloud, trying to remember where he'd heard it before.  It only took him a moment:  an old Earth text.  Something he'd come across sorting through the data pilfered by his Dirty Water bosses from a settlement that they'd thrown over for fun and profit.  Never ones to leave any opportunity unexplored, Dorsey was tasked with sifting the information (records, accounting files and other random collections of text) acquired with the rest of the ill-gotten gains.

             
"Lighting?  Was it that lighting thing?" Dorsey asked himself, trying to remember details of the hours he spent trying to chase down any assets that may have been hidden in the jumble of words and numbers. He seemed to recall that the victim of the Dirty Water operation in question was a settlement devoted to crafting lighting.  The sort that bathed Sykes' promenade in EarthLight.

             
Among the material to sift through was a piece of fiction from Earth.  Such fugitive bits of home planet culture were uncommon (although not as rare as plant or animal life that people continued to attempt smuggling into U-Space).  Dorsey had read several (one called
Oliver Twist
and another something to do with an artist as a young man – both very confusing). 

             
The one that came back to him from the 'writing on the wall' phrase told the story of a mid-20th century American man, primed to commit suicide in the face of a meaningless existence.  One portion of the story in particular featured the man sitting in an open wilderness area referred to as a park.  It bothered Dorsey immensely.  There in the fresh air and sunlight, amid trees and other vegetation, this troubled character watched children play, resolved that life was pointless and began to mentally assemble a suicide "note" (whatever the hell that was).

             
Dorsey shook his head.  What Earther in the natural light of the sun had the right to contemplate taking his own life?

             
There had been a reference to writing on the wall as the man neared complete desperation.  Dorsey struggled with the phrase.  Did it refer to a comms method?  The journal helped to clarify it only somewhat more.

             
The telltale buzz of someone accessing the door of Dorsey’s rooms took him by surprise.  He disengaged the ether screen just in time for its dissolution to be seen by Dominic Spackle entering the quarters.

             
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Dorsey demanded.

             
“I’m here with Director Sklar,” Spackle announced.

             
“What?” Dorsey was about to speak again as Pietro Sklar appeared at his door, peering inside before joining Spackle.

             
“Dole Vardon isn’t where he ought to be,” Spackle said.

             
“Vardon?”

             
“That’s right.  You were the last one in the room with him.”

             
Dorsey looked to Sklar, who actually seemed mildly embarrassed.

             
“Dominic told me that you’re overdrawn at Flood’s.  Dominic told me you might be…susceptible to…”

             
“To what?” Dorsey asked, his voice continuing to rise.

             
“Bribery,” Spackle said.

             
“Wait a minute -- ”

             
“Professor Jefferson, I need to make sure that all possibilities are…” Sklar cleared his throat.  “We need to find Vardon.”

             
“He’s not here.  And, since no one bothered to check timelines:  I was done seeing Vardon and out of his room before Spackle told me I was overdrawn at Flood’s!”

             
“But you must have known that -- ”

             
“Dominic,” Sklar cut his adjutant off, mid-sentence.  A slight jerk of the head and Spackle withdrew. Dorsey couldn’t help but wonder if Pietro Sklar might actually be a little frightened of his right hand man.  He may have called off the intrusion into Dorsey’s quarters, but he did it cautiously, as if he knew that the day could come when Dominic Spackle would have him under his thumb.

             
“We’ll find him during the sweep,” Sklar said to Dorsey on his way out.  “Six hours.”

V              V              V              V

11 March 2163

One would think that a hospital of some kind would be a priority on a new world in distant space.  Sadly, that's not the case here.  What passes for a hospital ward on FTC-45 leaves me almost helpless to attend to those in need.  Several patients occupy this hastily carved out annex – Administrator Scowbrenn, of whom I wrote earlier, is one of them.  He is seriously ill.

The nausea and joint pain which ailed him before has progressed into something far more worrying.  Partial blindness has followed the initial symptoms and none of the pain relief methods I use on him provide much help.

The only thing that seems to make a difference for Scowbrenn is when I sit beside his bed and listen to him expound at length on humanity and its transition into life in space.  I think he genuinely enjoys playing the role of lecturer on this, his favourite topic.

Yesterday he filled me in on a new trend in transitioning human beings away from Earth (one he applauds for its ingenuity).  Evidently, several of the more mercenary companies with long-term plans are separating children from their parents shortly after birth and transferring them to distant enclaves on the same planet.  These children are raised to become labourers who do not pine for Earth, as they are taught that Earth was destroyed years earlier and that
they
are the fortunate ones for being among the small percentage of humans who managed to escape and make a new life in space. 

Scowbrenn smiled as he related this to me.  He admires the sort of mind that could concoct such a scheme.

Although Scowbrenn was the first to be admitted to our “hospital” with this condition, there are now four, and I find myself witness to something which I fear may be a product of our environment.  No diagnostician by specialty, I was relieved yesterday when told that another physician will be arriving within the week to help shoulder the load.  I hope that this second medical mind and I will be able to solve the puzzle.

23 March, 2163

Scowbrenn died early this morning.  The final hours were painful and it was impossible for him to communicate.  I decided at one point to sedate him, as all other attempts at alleviating his discomfort failed.  Within an hour he was gone.

The other patients in the ward suffering from similar symptoms seem headed for an identical fate.  Although it took me a bit of time to track down the information on them, it seems that each of the men in question have been on FTC-45 in the neighborhood of a year – just as Scowbrenn had.

Having been sworn to silence by two of the senior administrators, I have a particular need to describe what’s happening here if for no other reason than to make a record of these awful events.

30 March 2164

More patients in the ward.  Six in all.  I wouldn’t have space for them if it weren’t for the three that passed away in recent days.  Others outside the confines of my excuse for a hospital are reportedly suffering from nausea and joint pain – sitting out work shifts (which is generally frowned upon).  One young man with a kind way about him has been reassigned to help me with the sick.  He’s been here several months (which was the first thing I asked to anticipate if he might make a quick transition from helper to patient). 

The young man assigned is, apparently, consolation for the fact that the doctor who had been contracted to come to FTC-45 won’t be arriving after all.  I wasn’t given a reason.  It seems as if everything is grinding to a halt here.  With death in the air, adding resources would make no sense, would it?

10 April, 2163

The end of things is weeks away at most.  Production was permanently stopped when the number of total deaths exceeded twenty.  The settlement has been sealed off, giving none of those still alive a chance to leave and no opportunity for outside help to reach us.  The sealing did not occur until the half dozen or so owners of the factory made their departure in search of treatment elsewhere.  While those of us who remain and are not yet affected by the disease could have months ahead of us (perhaps a year), we'll never get that far.  Food rations are slated to run out in just over ten days.

We are an aborted attempt at commerce on a distant planet.  One or two other cases like this have occurred, according to Vorley, one of the remaining administrators who has only recently started showing signs of the sickness.  He's been around a bit.  Born into a mining settlement, the man has never laid foot on Earth.  His father was among a group from South Africa to be collected, transported, deposited and forgotten.

"They don't test new excavations as well as they should," he said to me, choosing to remain in his quarters where I visit him twice daily to administer the best I can to his condition.

I'm fairly confident at this stage that the disease in question is not communicable.  My extended exposure to patients suffering from it and the somewhat precise incubation period suggests as much.

Sealed as we are, I have little reason to believe that anyone will crack this nut open again to look inside.  Vorley told me that FTC-45 will be marked on all navigation files as being a "poison planet".  While people can grow desperate out here, Vorley says, none are so far gone that they'll walk into suicide.

However, on the off chance that any humans do make their way past the sealed opening to the landing bay and peek inside, I have decided to devote the remainder of my writing to listing every individual remaining on this planet, their
true
names and points of origin (whether on Earth or in space).

I'll begin with Johannes Vorley, thirty-seven years old, born on CorQot, mining concern.  Father, Peter Vorley, born Johannesburg, South Africa, died of unknown causes at age sixty-two.

              The listing went on and on.  The journal separated entries by dates, initially averaging fifteen to twenty per day.  Once it was noted that they seemed to be running out of time, the doctor entered sixty or more brief personal histories at a stretch.

Donald Rieper, thirty-two, from Eugene, Oregon, United States.  A former chemistry teacher.

              Sara Goppinger, twenty-nine of Adelaide, SA, Australia.  A former actress.  Zemp.  Switzerland.  Pilot.  Roché. France.  Botanist.

             
Dorsey skimmed through the names until he reached the final entry:

             
Samuel Milner, thirty-six, from Islington, Greater London, England.  Physician.

9.

Enough to Earn this Act of Rebellion

Dorsey lost himself for a few hours, searching U-Space histories in pursuit of a malady that resembled the one which brought an end to FTC-45.  He didn't come across anything remotely similar.

It wasn't that he doubted the journal was genuine any longer.  (In fact, if he was completely honest with himself, Dorsey would have to admit that he'd never
really
suspected it was a forgery.)  But the frustration of being drawn into Tomas Witt's cause gnawed at him.

Nothing could be done about the atrocities committed by Earth against its "lesser" citizens of the past.  The people of U
-Space were impossibly far away and absurdly ill-equipped to even the score.  Yet with names and particulars in his consciousness, Dorsey would struggle to completely ignore the issue.

It was nearly time for t
he sweep and there were still things Dorsey needed to do.  The most pressing:  make use of a standing arrangement he had with Flood's.  The low-end provisions distributed around Sykes during Rollo lockdowns were barely edible.  They had caused Dorsey to privately approach Mal Flood, chef and proprietor, more than a year ago to see if a deal could be struck.  Such a thing, as far as Dorsey knew, wasn't strictly out-of-bounds, but if anyone were to find out, it certainly wouldn't look good.  The Sykes community was supposed to be in it together.

Self-indulgent?  Sure.  But Dorsey paid for the privilege and reasoned that it was harmless in
the grand scheme of things – no one else at Sykes would starve as a result.  Dorsey had grown accustomed to treating the Rollo layovers as mini-sabbaticals.  Nothing much got done, the majority of time was spent in one's quarters and, with finer foods available to him, Dorsey could enjoy the respite from routine.

Mal Floo
d, an inventive soul, always had the food sealed in aroma-tight containers and packed in a garment carrier, making the bundle appear to be laundry and not grossly unfair provisions.  What's more, Flood would surely let Dorsey pay later (despite being overdrawn at the restaurant).  Flood liked him.  Besides that, the exchange was pure profit for Flood; a side deal with no official revenue that had to be split with Sykes.

He was in such a hurry to get to Flood's and back before Pietro Sklar called for the sweep to begin that Dorsey completely forgot to don his faculty vestments.  Red molka warmer out for all to see, he covered the ba
ck way to the promenade quickly. He arrived at Flood’s, within sight of the lines of students forming at the mess. Although locked up tight, it would open soon to begin distribution of the packages filled with dehydrated sleaker sticks and freeze-dried, barely flavored, protein pies for the lockdown period.

A rush of guilt hit Dorsey, but he was determined to push through it, choosing instead to won
der what Chef Flood might have waiting for him.  A generous block of fresh syntho-cheese was almost always included.  Topnotch breadstuffs, certainly.  Felshin noodles or spess-dumpling casserole would be nice, too.

Dorsey spotted
Flood through one of the open doorways of the restaurant.  A look over his shoulder, back at the growing lines of students at the mess (many of whom seemed to be watching him) made him pause.  He didn’t realize that the attention he was getting was for the red molka warmer that made him far more conspicuous than faculty vestments would have, if he’d remembered to put them on.

Chef Mal jerked his head toward the back of his place where a narrow passage led from the kitchen to a storage nook, accessible from the corner of the promenade into which Flood’s was squeezed.  It was there that they usually made the transaction.

Whether it was the eyes of students on him and the chance that they could be suspicious of any move Dorsey made for Flood’s, or feelings of guilt for taking an end run around the standard provisions that everyone was supposed to use, Dorsey hesitated and thrust hands into his pockets.  Looking at his feet, he noticed the absence of his vestments and the red molka warmer that made him appear, in his own estimation, like some cargo jok-vagabond, wandering about in a place he didn’t belong.

“Shit,” he muttered softly, head bowed.

“Are you talking to me?”

The voice belonged to a solitary figured sitting up against the portion of the promenade wall that separated Flood’s and the mess.  Dorsey hadn’t noticed him, but knew who he was immediately upon hearing the young man speak: 
McCauley Melsh, one of the more unusual people he’d met at Sykes.  Melsh had been a student in one of Dorsey's classes the previous term, and at the moment, he was quite obviously troubled.

             
"Mr. Melsh, you don't look well," Dorsey said.  He wasn’t much in the mood to interact with a student at the moment – particularly one like Melsh – but to ignore the pathetic figure sitting with knees tucked up to his chest, anxiety playing across his features, would have beyond cold.

             
Melsh looked at Dorsey, his eyes in a confused sort of panic.  "Professor, I have been hearing things of the Rollos that are not good.  I am told they are savages in extreme measure.  This concerns me no small amount.  I have no experience with such individuals."

             
Dorsey always cringed when he heard Melsh talk.  The young man had been raised to converse in ProperSpeak.  Used in settlements focused on production with large and diverse labor forces, ProperSpeak attempted to neutralize speech patterns, rendering them generic and, as the theory suggested, keeping populations fairly sedate.  Forcing a settlement's population into a rigid, formal manner of communication (with a dash of understated deference) from a very early age was believed to keep them responsive to structure, authority and conformity.  Sadly, in Dorsey's experiences, it usually worked too well, also robbing its speakers of the potential for true individuality.

Melsh was one of the rare
individuals able to leave such work colonies (in his case, Perpetia-7J, a settlement devoted to manufacturing artificial plants).  He was accustomed to the insular environment of that world, unprepared for the sometimes challenging relationships at an institute of higher learning.  He certainly wasn’t prepared for Rollos.

"They
are
savage, Melsh, but that need not be of critical concern to you," Dorsey replied, mirroring the ProperSpeak to help comfort the young man.  "You will be quarantined to your room, for no short period of time.  In addition, the Rollos can be found housed in their own section of the school once the transfer process has reached its conclusion.  It is quite routine.  Use the time to enjoy yourself in leisure."

Dorsey used the last word intentionally.  He discovered upon meeting Melsh that the word leisure had never been
introduced to his vocabulary – another control mechanism of ProperSpeak.  In fact, if Perpetia-7J hadn't closed unexpectedly and Melsh and his parents hadn't been fortunate enough to land in the sort of place which allowed for his matriculation at Sykes, he very likely he never would have learned this relatively commonplace word in the English language.

Learning the word was one thing.  Applying its meaning?  Something else entirely.

"I could cover all the material I have now been taught in my current term."  Melsh proposed.  Ever conscientious and very bright (an unusual intellect that had not been ruined by the suffocating experience of life on Perpetia-7J), he would doubtlessly review every bit of it in six or eight hours, Dorsey thought.

"That is an option you could choose," Dorsey said, offering approval as Melsh knew it.

Melsh smiled, nodded and rose to leave, giving a slight bow (which Dorsey wished Melsh wouldn’t do every time the young man left his presence).

"Mr. Melsh?"

The young man did not merely glance back at Dorsey.  He reversed direction and assumed the exact position he'd held during their conversation, facing his superior and looking him squarely in the eye.  A requisite demonstration of respect, as Melsh had been taught.

"You knew your parents...is that right?"

"Of course yes."

"Did you ever meet your grandparents?"

"What?"

"Your grandparents.  Did you know them at all?"

Melsh looked confused.  "I don't understand.  Grandparents?"

"The parents of
your
parents."

A revolutionary notion for Melsh.

"No.  Why would I?"

"Never mind."  Dorsey realized the futility of the conversation.  “You should get in line for provisions…don’t you think?”

Melsh surveyed the crowd of students that was growing by the minute and turned back to Dorsey, nodding.  “Yes.  Of course yes.”

Melsh found his way to the back of the line as Dorsey stro
de away from Flood’s.  The way he’d come up to the promenade was now filled with hordes of personnel trying to find a spot in front of the mess.  Wearing the unbecoming red molka warmer, Dorsey had to take the long way back to his quarters to avoid the human traffic.

“Sh…” the word never escaped his lips.  What was the point?  If there was a higher power, examining events unfolding among all humans, everywhere, that being had to have a sense of humor – and a cruel one at that.  Bring him within sniffing distance of his favorite part of the Rollo lockdown, only to hit Dorsey with a sliver of conscience, th
e scrutiny earned by an unbecoming garment and the anxiety of a misfit student.  He didn’t even have the patience to stand in line for the horrible provisions that were his only other option for meals during the Rollo layover.

             
He was also thinking of the journal.  He quite abruptly began wondering what his father would say about the contents of Samuel Milner’s record of events on FTC-45.  (Most likely a moment of chest-thumping exuberance at having been at least partially vindicated in his boasting.)  He would, Dorsey assumed, also claimed that there must have been a Jefferson there on FTC-45 as well.

Halfway up the long route through the promenade, Dorsey spotted Tomas Witt approaching.