Are we the last living souls?

This scene is dedicated to my spoiled goya pictured below. Goya, a kind of bitter cucumber popular in Okinawa should never be any color other than Robin Hood green. You are gone (and your insides looked like blood red kidney beans when I threw you in the trash) but not forgotten.

The last goya was irradiated. This was the end he realized. For two years he'd put all his efforts into the gardens, having promised Jessica they'd never go back. In this post-world wasteland going back meant being predator or prey, but not human. Not as it used to be understood. Billy, as he'd been known before the collapse, and as he'd been known to Jessica, the woman who'd given him back his humanity, realized that the gardens would never bear fruit again. Of course, there had always been that risk. The reason, it seemed, that the gardens were a safe haven from raiders and reavers in the first place was because of the radiation. You didn't need a geiger counter to feel that something was wrong here, you could see it in the melted buildings, the tortured undergrowth. Hell, you could feel it in your scrotum. He and Jessica had arrived following a stream, they'd only been traveling together for ten days, but that was all it took for him to want to be human again, to want to be himself, Billy again.

No one in the post-world could blame him for adapting as he had, everyone that was still alive after the collapse had adapted. That is to say, had done horrible things to their fellow man to survive. Humans had been talking survival of the fittest for almost 200 years, but for the past twelve they meant it, and there was no legislation to slow it down because there weren't legislators, just predators and prey. Just wasteland. Billy, the likable accountant and avid outdoorsman was uniquely suited to survival. Survival had been his hobby before the collapse, in those days it was simply man versus nature. But when the rules changed, when it was kill or be killed, Billy had become Sick Bill, ranger turned reaver turned gang boss, turned mass-murderer, turned reaver again. In the wastelands maintaining your humanity simply meant letting other people kill you. Carrion-eater or carrion, there wasn't neutral. Neutral was simply tomorrow's carrion. 

But then there was Jessica. What kind of woman traveled alone? Carrion to Sick Bill, who'd sized her up like he'd sized up so many others, like a shark sizing up a baby harp seal. But she'd only smiled, and asked his name. No fear in those green eyes of hers, no hate. No defiance. So he'd given her his name, Billy Crawford, CPA. Then she asked him if he'd go with her. Ten days later they arrived at the plant, and Billy understood. This place would kill you within ten years, but no one could expect to live half that long in the wastelands. There was always a bigger fish. And when you died here, you died disease ravaged, but humans could die like that. No one wanted to die gutted for their shoes or some moldy potatoes. Or for fun. If you wanted to survive in the wasteland it meant sacrificing your humanity, evolving as it were. Here at the plant you could be whatever you wanted for as long as your body could stand the radiation. Jessica believed the price was right, and being with Jessica made him believe it was too. In a fit of conscience Billy had tried to tell Jessica that he didn't deserve this peaceful life, the things that he'd, that Sick Bill had done, but she'd covered his mouth with her hand. 

 "I know what it's like out there, and that's no excuse for the things that are done in the darkness. Here it's different. Here we offer our lives to keep our souls, out there it's the opposite. You've chosen who you are Billy, and I love you for it." And that was all that was said. 

So they'd planted a garden. Life at the plant had given them all kinds of symptoms, migraines, nose and ear bleeds, vertigo, but they accepted all knowing that they weren't in danger of contact with other people. With wasteland people. Eight months later the child was born. Small and sick, her mother being nurtured on irradiated vegetables, but not deathly sick. When the child was born Billy began having second thoughts about staying at the plant. He and Jessica argued over it almost daily, Jessica firmly believing the child was better off dying than being taken to the wasteland. Billy believed so to, he knew what the wastelands were. But he couldn't stand the thought of the child dying of radiation sickness. Every nosebleed, every lost fingernail, every high fever, and Billy began to think about nearby water sources, natural caves he'd, no, Sick Bill had used in the past. 

And then Jessica died. She must have known it was coming. Billy had thought her increased downtime was due to exhaustion after childbirth, and then, as the months went by, due to her weakened state. Then he found the tumor. A baseball sized protruberance near her navel, discolored, and spreading it's tentacles in all directions. To her ribs. Her hips. Her knees.

 Her heart.

Panic spread in Billy as he realized the truth. But Jessica only smiled again. 

"This is the price Billy, and I'll pay it knowing what we are. There may not be anymore out there like us." The child was crying. Billy looked up.

"It's okay, Billy. It breaks my heart seeing her like that too. But she this is her world, her eden. The outside is just an early ticket to Hell." Tears ran down Billy's cheeks, but his jaw set. Jessica saw it.

"Don't do it Billy, you belong here with us, not out there killing and stealing. You and I, and the child, we belong here." She'd said, coughing up blood. "Sure it's a little rough on the body, but it's chicken soup for the soul." 

"Jess, I love you. I need you to love me, and I need you to understand." He said choking back tears. "I can't let this happen to our child..." 

Jessica grabbed his face roughly, nails digging into his cheek and ears. She was shaking. "It's not our child, Billy. It's my child! All this time, you really thought you were the father?! Don't take her out there Bill!" Jessica's eyes were beginning to lose focus as she began to rave. "Promise me you won't take her away from here! You have no right, no claim! She's mine! She won't turn into an animal or be killed like one! Promise me!!" 

So he'd promised her. 

And now, looking at the neon orange goya, he realized he would break his promise. For two years he'd kept the child, Eve, alive. He'd kept his promise to the only person whom he hadn't betrayed since the Collapse. The only person who saw him as he wanted to be seen. Eve's nosebleeds were getting worse, but they'd been able to manage. But the gardens were changing, and the last fruit had turned into a quivering mass of corruption. It took three weeks to starve to death, but the wastelands could kill you much quicker, or make you wish they had. 

Billy knew that sooner or later he'd regret leaving. That dying with Eve in the same place Jessica had died would be better than whatever death would take them, or whatever life would force on them outside. But looking down at the sickly child, Billy couldn't make the decision to kill her. So he made the decision to kill his humanity to try to save her. shouldering the few things he could use in a pack, and carrying the sleeping Eve in the other, Bill headed upstream, away from the plant.   

  

Space

The transport Ji-Hyun hired was a real junker. Barely large enough to move the driver, Ji-Hyun, and myself, I wasn't sure how we'd manage to transport the household items from one rathole apartment to another. Ji-Hyun said something cheerfully that I think translated to 'She can't stay anymore, can't pay the bills'. I nodded from the cargo hold. The driver had a map out and spoke to Ji-Hyun, who waved his finger vigorously, seeming to affirm something. We were both learning the Kusari language, but apparently the driver wasn't, and having been from the same part of the solar system as Ji-Hyun they had no trouble talking to each other. It sounded like the conversation was going badly but it ended with Ji-Hyun lighting a smoke for the driver and turning back to give me a thumbs up. I nodded again.

 I'd never been through that ward before, Ji-Hyun informed that it was full of Han immigrants, though there were pockets of Hanguk, a people to which he and our driver belonged, and one of those pockets was our destination. Looking out the small rear window the neighborhood did look foreign. Clothing styles were daringly casual, unlike the anonymous suits worn by the salarymen and office ladies of New Edo. The streets were older as well. Not old enough to be problematic, but a contrast to the bright lights and glamorous facades the city was known for. The transport swerved throwing me and other loose articles against the side of the transport, I didn't feel anything give way, but I still wasn't convinced we'd make it to Ji-Hyun's friend's place in one piece. The transport shook like an epileptic every time the driver shifted gears, which was often. The driver said something that made Ji-Hyun laugh, and he replied amiably. He translated half-heartedly, something about him being not being a 'shark', but wishing he was, for the money. The term was used for junk collectors who bought things from failed immigrants returning to their home colonies then flipping them to fresh immigrants, for twice the  retail value. Ji-Hyun was in fact just getting some things for himself, having outlasted his friend. We'd both seen our fair share of foreigners like us come and go, though we hadn't been in atmosphere for long, two years for me, and less for Ji-Hyun. Still, with many of the Lunar economies hurt by the orbital debris storms crippling commerce for older transports, our home currencies weren't buying as many Koban as they used to, and there was nothing left but to pack up and go home. Dreams ruined by handfuls of interstellar garbage hurtling through space. The transport stopped abruptly pulling me out of my musings.
  I hopped out of the cargo hold and found myself in a narrow alley. We left the driver smoking and humming to himself. I didn't know that was possible to do simultaneously. It took a few turns in the winding corridor before we found the front door of an apartment. Ji-Hyun let himself in yelling something cheerfully in Hanguk, there was a soft, one syllable reply from the living room. I hesitated, then followed. The interior was much nicer, though most of the furnishings were gone, the place would be empty by the end of the week, and a crew would have the place ready to turn over to the next immigrant by Monday morning. Still, the apartment was much more comfortable than jostling through the busy streets in the cargo hold of a rented cart.
  "Binz. Wait. One more come then take, ok?" Ji-Hyun flahsed me his teeth and offered me a seat on the floor. I nodded, and sat. Then I saw her. It was unmistakably her, whom I'd met only once, and hadn't thought of much since, but I was struck by the contrast. Eighteen months earlier we'd met, just ol' Johnny, or Binz to Ji-Hyun, and a bunch of Hanguk kids, eating bibimbap with metal sticks and drinking thin beer. The party had been bubbling with pride and anticipation, everyone giddy to see the onset of their dreams. But there was none of that now. I wouldn't have recognized her at all if it weren't for her hair. I'd thought it a little out of place the first time we'd met, her bangs and neck length hair framing her face with tight curls. The style was out, but she didn't care. She had an air of certainty that mixed well with her friendliness. She couldn't have been more than twenty earth years, but carried herself like a mother among children. I'd suggested a Hanguk friend of mine should date her, which he laughed off. There was none of that confidence in her now, just the curly black arch framing her head. Ji-Hyun opened her fridge, soon to be his fridge, and offered me a beer. I thanked him, then thought better of it and thanked the girl, she nodded, looked at me without really looking at me. They continued to make small talk in Hanguk, Ji-Hyun amiably ignoring the girl's sadness, the girl glumly accepting the mercy. Me drinking her last beer. She'd be going back to her colony, her best chance at a better life gone. Against the dreams of a Hanguk girl without an edge, like a Kusari business certificate, cold hard life won in a boat race. I knew this, Ji-Hyun knew this, and the girl knew it. The next fifteen minutes were spent like a corpse viewing. She wasn't the first better student to go home ahead of me. Economies and blind orbital space junk didn't care which students passed their kanji tests. Some were sent home toasting their friends, ignoring the fact that they were leaving their dreams like ghosts on this heartless moon.
 This girl wasn't doing that.
 They say it's space that gets you. Cold, empty, space, billions of astronomical units from home, but that's a mother's fantasy. It's space that gets you. Not the space between stars and planets and moons, but the space in your apartment, where furniture, and food and laughter used to be. The coldness of the stars isn't the orphaner of dreams, but the coldness of an empty refrigerator, a vacant bed, a yearned for conversation. 
  I never saw that girl again. I haven't seen Ji-Hyun for quite some time either, heard he had some ghost problems of his own. Most of my old friends, who came to this pulsating neon rock with nothing but their black-rimmed spectacles and dreams, aren't here anymore either. Too much space.

Life's not fair

A man walks into a mom and pop restaurant. the place, Jen's Diner, has been around since he was a kid. The guy running the place, Aidan, looks to be ten years his junior, but still shows gray streaking through his hair and a lumbar support belt cinching up his gut. Nobody names their kids Aidan anymore, the man, John, thought. That craze was over almost before it started and now schools were filled with Johns, Jims and Toms again. John sits at the bar and begins toying with a pen. He rolls it through his fingers, checks this side and that. The pen is gold colored, and says 'for 41 years of service, thanks.' On the other side is the name of a courier service company. Not a gold watch. A gold colored pen. 41 years. They couldn't even splurge to spell '41', as if the extra seven embossed characters would have made the gift too classy. 41 years, and a retirement package that will supplement John's annual social security payment enough to pay the rent for his mobile home space in the old part of town. Take it or leave it, was the implication, but they'd already rigged the whole fleet of trucks to drive themselves. Making a smarter planet. The man sighs and signals for a beer. Jen's is quiet. A few kids at a corner booth, Dave, Dan and Mary, John surmises. Some stragglers, older, probably truck drivers or some other dying breed. Connors and Parkers no doubt. John sits alone at the bar, until another man walks in. This man looks to be about the same age as John. He could be an Aidan to whom time wasn't kind, there were plenty of those, but he had the walk of an older man than that. His walk said 'I'll get there when I get there', and the Aidans didn't have that.
  "Howdy." Barkeep/waiter Aidan says, just like his mom used to when she ran the place.
  The newcomer smiles. "Howdy pardner." He sat at the bar next to John.
  "What can I get for ya?" Aidan asked.
  "You don't have a Bass pale do you? I used to get those in London, long before the revolution. Fun place back in those days." The man says.
  "Bass pale? lemme check..." Aidan starts winking his right eye furiously, "that's a beer right?" His left eye stares while his mouth hangs slightly open. Was there anything fundamentally wrong with tablets or smartphones for taking orders? Even notepads got the job done. These Eye-pads might have looked cool from the inside but from the outside they made you look like an idiot.
  "It's okay. I'll just have what this guy's having." The man gestures to John.
  "Sierra Nevada. Not Bass. Maybe the bass of America." John shrugs.
The man laughs, "I know what Sierra Nevada is." Aidan brought the the cold beer bottle and a receipt. The man is dressed casually, but well. His clothes fit him nicely and have a workman's look to them. Not a real workman's look, but at least he tries. Nobody tries anymore.
  "I don't have a pen." The man replies.
This time John laughs. "Here, This has to be good for something." John pulls out his gold colored pen and hands it to the man, who thanks him and looks at the pen. His lower lip furrows and he nods.
  "Forty-one years is a long time. Congratulations." The man says.
  "Yes it is." John replies, "but it beats unemployment. Barely." John takes a sip of his beer.
  "This pen doesn't work." The man replies, which causes John to snort a laugh and nearly spray beer all over the counter.
  "Oh. uh, under a hundred bucks, no signature required." Aidan says, and grabs the reciept. "Sorry."
  The man waves Aidan off, and raises his glass to John.
  "Cheers."
They drink together.
  "Forty-one years, eh?" The man says.
  "Forty-one years." John agrees. "But that's all behind me now."
  "Newly retired?" The man asks. John nods.
  "Good thing too. They taught the trucks to drive themselves. How about you?" John asks.
  The man takes a sip of the American pale ale before responding, "I suppose I've been retired for some time now."
  "What did you do?" John asks.
  "This and that." The man responds. John frowns. The man sees John's reaction and elaborates, "Nothing terribly interesting or important, I suppose I haven't worked in about thirty years." John looks at him uncomprehending.
The man takes a longer sip of his beer and smiles, "Years ago, me and my friends had a band, one night I walked in on a jam session with some words I wrote on a napkin." The man softly sings the last part.
  "So if by the time the bar closes, and you feel like falling down, I'll carry you home, Tonight."
  John scowls at him. "You're buying the next round."