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= ORWELL IN ORBIT 2084 =

Dystopia USA

by John Argo

Page 9.

Chapter 2. Temporale Uptime—Membrane Medicine

Mack hovered in and out of a coma as the woman named Naria came and went from the small, antiseptic cell where they kept him—whoever 'they' were.

He kept dreaming of Carly and their kitchen back home. She was fixing him a tuna sandwich on toast, with the edges trimmed off. She poured them each a glass of Zinfandel and handed him his glass with a sweet smile. Her dark red lipstick opened into a smile as her eyes twinkled and her delicate shoulders shrugged coyly. He reached out for her, but the wine glass fell and shattered on the floor. Carly kept smiling and did not seem to notice. Her lips moved but he could not hear what she was saying. Shadows with knives and baseball bats moved on the wall behind her.

What’s happening to me?

My name is Naria, said a woman's assured, cool voice. I am a doctor. We have to prep you for the Temporale. It’s a law of the Time Train universe.

He heaved, curling up violently several times in rapid succession.

You will be better soon, I promise. We don't do the surgery. The Membrane, the border into the Temporale, does this. We've all been through it, Mr. Mackinson. It doesn't hurt afterwards. You'll see. Then you can travel among the worlds without worry about viruses and anomalies. The Membrane will now take over.

He thrashed about, vomiting, unable to talk. She was a white-coated, dark-haired authority, a woman, a cold nurturer, hovering by his gurney amid all the steel and glass and porcelain in this tiny cabin. If the shark-ship's eight nacelles were pounding away, somewhen out in time, somewhere amid the tumbling galaxies like water pouring from a spigot, he could not feel the faintest tremor of their powerful pulses. Oh yes, if he listened carefully, there it was:

wobb… wobb… wobb… wobb…

I am sorry for all that we have to put you through. And I am sorry about Carla.

What? What do you mean sorry about Carla?

The only good news I can offer is that you will see the City of the Universe shortly. You will never be the same again, Mr. Mackinson.

There Carly was again, in the kitchen, but this time there was no wine. There was no tuna fish salad sandwich. Her hands were folded on the counter where she stood, wearing her dark blue summer dress with the green and orange flower petals on it. Her shoulders were bare, and her straight hair dangled in a page boy. Her expression was rueful, her mouth a sad, dark-red oval, her eyes a somber blue.

No!

Mack tried to thrash as the surgical team came out of the walls, but he was pinioned and helpless. Nobody spoke now. The chief surgeon—they were all tied to the wall by threads and tubes, so they had to be androids—was a tall, thin femalish expert whose skin glistened like black and white checkered milk-glass, with gold thread dividing the tiles. Her face was lovely but frozen like alabaster. Her eyes were long and narrow and angled.

Welcome to surgery, sweetheart.

Her lips were silver, and almost smiling. She radiated a cool kindness that was mostly about helping herself get the job done by reassuring the patient. Her fine fingers were ebony, and moved with machine precision. Her assistants were ivory angels who held lancets and spritzers and trumpets and bandages while they sang in a Gregorian chorus, but no prayer known on earth. The chief surgeon did not speak, but she emoted.

We'll get you all fixed up, Mack.

He was paralyzed, but tried to squint in the twisted light that filled the room like warm honey full of busily working bees.

Carly?

He tried to reach out toward his wife in the kitchen.

Oh yes, that.

The surgeon yanked on something that came loose.

That's better.

Mack saw an empty house with no furniture, no wife—nothing but a faint sunbeam streaking in to land on the dusty wooden floor. He felt a wrenching sense of loss. He emitted a long telepathic sob that tore from him like the nerve junctures she was removing and replacing with gold alloys fine as spider weavings. The sense of loss faded as he walked from his house of memory and the door clicked gently shut behind him, forever.

The surgeon's busy black hands glittered wetly. Her fingers wriggled skillfully like spider legs in the smoky, icy blue surgical light above their heads.

He was here in the forever.

Almost done. You are becoming amortal, Mack. Without death. Your nervous system is turning to glassy fibers. Only your brain won't change. You can live almost forever, unless a truck hits you…

He saw a blurry image of a road in a lovely green field, and a big rig bearing down on him with blaring air horns.

…or you fall into a star…

He saw an image of a great ship with a thousand nacelles, smoking and on fire, its nose starting to glow, and ten thousand passengers screaming telepathically, as its glowing heat shield dipped into the melt-field of an orange star the color of liquid lava.

…or an hourglass-weaver-spider comes out of its nest and stings you with mortality if you're not careful…

He was on a glassy moon that had been blasted by meteors for eons, and a spider-like thing with an hourglass-shaped head scuttled out from under a boulder. Desperately, he clambered up a wire ladder to enter back into the derelict ship that had brought him here on a silent cruise.

Like a symphony, the surgery was coming to a climax.

Snip went thread.

Black hands glowed in a wet blur.

Clang, went scissors into a surgical tray. It was all metaphor, of course. Somehow, he knew that, even though he was whacked out on some hallucinomeds. The Membrane morphed into a surgical station and altered him so he could move through the interstices of time and space as a fish darts through water.

The angels held scalpels and offered towels and cups of anaesthetic while singing in high, chirping voices.

Their faces were feminine but indistinct, their heads like those of veiled nuns.

A thousand old men with white hair leaned over their cellos and dragged bows across strings.

In unison, they made a long golden sound that needed no pause for breath, that dragged on for hours in a perfect chord…

A man and a woman, each wearing gloves and safety glasses, led him by the elbows down a long corridor. Mack shuffled along in his refurbished body. The people guiding him wore white coats that blended with the too-bright lighting and the snowy walls. He slept for a long time and had no dreams.

A public address system crackled briefly and then a woman's sensuous, laughing voice flowed out like honey, echoing among the frigid walls:” Welcome to the Temporale. Thank you for choosing TRANSENT, the Transportation Entity of the City of the Universe. Welcome aboard, and have a pleasant trip to your connecting destination. Enjoy your journey across space and time as we make sure you arrive safely and punctually."

Mack felt enraged and grieving, without knowing why. His entire body tingled numbly with hidden pain. He wrenched himself free by turning his body left and right and flailing his heavy arms. He couldn't quite lift his arms, so he threw his weight at the man at his left elbow. The man grabbed him in a bear hug. As Mack's head rolled back over his shoulder, he saw the woman raising a hypodermic gun while her glasses glittered coldly. There was no needle as she pressed the gun to his forehead—just a puff of air smelling faintly like cloves.

He faded…