“Shaking violently on the floor. I called paramedics while you were transmitting to the chancellor. Webb will be delivered to the hospital soon.”
“Did he touch you?” Tiberius asked.
“We shook hands.”
“He’s the one.” He shook his head and mumbled. “But it doesn’t make sense; Webb called me. He set up the whole scheme for your creation.”
Tiberius didn’t know that Webb had been her host’s lover. Esther imagined Webb, sitting at his lover’s deathbed. He held her host’s hand as she withered, but just on the other side of the hospital wall, Esther grew healthy in her host’s old bedroom. Drank her tea. Slept in her bed.
Finish what you start.
That’s what Esther had said to Webb. No wonder he looked so determined when he shook her hand. He probably didn’t even consider it murder. After all, is a clone really a person?
“It’s one thing to plan something, Doctor,” Esther said. “It’s quite another to live with the consequences.” To the computer: “Unlock Fletcher’s door.”
“Yes, Admiral. Anything else?”
“Tell Fletcher to meet me at the air lock. It’s time to sign a treaty.”
Esther signed the treaty, and Fletcher served as witness. The deed was done.
Fletcher and Esther stood side by side on his ship, Olive Branch. The air lock behind them released its seal as it separated from Taara Makaan spaceport. Paramedics took the vial of antivirus to the hospital for study and multiplication.
“You did good back there,” Fletcher said.
“Thank you,” Esther said, and stepped forward.
“Wait.”
Esther pivoted and faced Fletcher.
“You’ve changed,” he said.
“Have I?”
She looked sidelong at him. Fletcher stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.
“Hmm.” The sound echoed down his deep chest. “The chancellor accepted the treaty?”
“She has.”
“We have the antivirus?”
“We do.”
“And no more of my family will die?”
“Not from the virus.”
“Good day, Admiral.”
Fletcher stepped lightly down the hallway, a heavy load lifted from his shoulders.
“Admiral . . .” the computer said from the ceiling.
“Yes?”
“Lieutenant Commander Brandon Webb has passed away. His body is in the hospital.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Tiberius and Esther put her host’s body and Webb’s in the same space coffin. They had been together in life. They belonged together in death.
Normally bodies were deposited in the recycling system on a spaceship. Nothing wasted. But no one complained when Esther requested a ceremonial burial for Webb. The crew had kept her host’s affair quiet, but many had suspected.
A funeral procession led the coffin to the air lock and launched it out. The ship fired on the coffin. The contents exploded in a bright burst and extinguished. Only dust remained. All evidence of Esther’s host was destroyed.
She was finally free.
“He was so close to being saved,” Naomi said. “I’ve heard of the virus killing quickly but never knew anyone that happened to. The victims normally suffer so long.”
“At least no one else need die.”
Esther wanted to clasp Naomi’s hand and give it a motherly squeeze. She couldn’t explain her sudden attachment, but then, could any mother?
But she wouldn’t be that forward. Not yet.
“Go to the hospital, get the antivirus.”
“I can’t cut in line because I’m the admiral’s daughter.”
“Children, elderly, and . . . pregnant women—”
Naomi blushed.
“Are given top priority. Now go.”
Naomi nodded and walked to the lift. Her gait already had a slight waddle.
Esther’s feet marched to her quarters. What would her grandchild call her? Grandmother? Too stiff. Gammie? No, that wasn’t right. And would it be a grandson or granddaughter? Who was the lucky young man? Esther had her guess.
She entered her quarters. Tiberius sat in the cushioned chair instead of behind the desk. Blues played lightly in the background, and he swirled iced tea in his glass.
“You really should have something stronger on hand.”
Esther poured herself some tea. She sweetened it with only a drop of honey instead of a tablespoon.
“I thought I’d perfected the memory transfer,” he said and sighed.
Esther sat at her chair and took a sip. Not too sweet.
“We’ll dock in three hours at the Aurora spaceport. You’ll slip out using my private air lock just as when you came on board.”
“Of course. And any research I publish won’t mention your specific name. Case study only.”
He raised his glass in celebration—not of the antivirus or salvation of his planet—but in toast of Esther, his finest creation yet.
“And we cannot see each other again,” Esther said.
“Pity. I’d grown rather fond of you.”
“I’m flattered.”
Even though sarcasm laced her voice, Esther was pleased. Their relationship was twisted, but she’d grown fond of him too. She sipped her tea.
“Oh, and I’ve been meaning to tell you.” She held her tea in her lap. Her hands didn’t shake. “Smells are missing from my memories.”
“Smells?” Tiberius sat up, his eyes sparkling.
“Thought you’d want to know.”
He began mumbling to himself about the olfactory parts of the brain, and Esther allowed herself the luxury of a smile. Her life may have been unorthodox from the very beginning, but she’d made the most of it. And had a grandchild to look forward to.
Esther took another sip of her tea. Perfect.
Marjorie King
Marjorie King is an engineer turned mom turned author. She loves space, tech, and strategy, and has written a space heist adventure, Maverick Gambit, available online. On her website, www.EngineerStoryteller.com, she reviews her favorite SciFi/Fantasy books and posts pics of them on #bookstagram. Occasionally she posts recipes on her blog too. Why not? She can sometimes be spotted in the wild... literally, since she loves hiking in National Parks in the US.
Website: www.EngineerStoryteller.com
Facebook: MarjorieKingAuthor
Instagram: marjoriekingwrites
Emaiclass="underline" marjorie@engineerstoryteller.com
FORGET-ME-NOTS FOR THE POTTER’S FIELD
By Wendy Nikel
4,600 Words
IT’S NOT ONLY the living who shiver when someone treads on their grave.
It happens often enough, throughout the years, no matter how quiet and secluded the place one is buried in. The whiskered old groundskeeper who used to tread so lightly, careful to give a wide berth to each headstone, has long since claimed his own place beneath the turf. In his place, younger men have forged their own paths, ones that crisscross and weave in and out among the stones, heedless of those beneath.
In my day, this place was far from town, surrounded for miles by nothing but the wandering feet of cattle. In my day, only outcasts and traitors were buried here.
Now, the newest groundskeeper lumbers through this tucked-away block, his wheelbarrow bouncing along the uneven ground and rattling his ancient shears and rakes and a bright orange Weedwacker—a brutal machine whose name I somehow, through his memories, know.