The intangible is the obsession of humanity.  It is ineffable, divine, otherworldly, fascinating, and infinite.  Scientists try to quantify it, which drives the progress of technology and discovery, but falls short of accuracy in many indescribable cases.  Theologians try to explain it with the unreal and supernatural, grasping at straws that become increasingly far-fetched to the point of ignominy.  In the absence of reason and understanding, they fill the void with sundry answers, none of which do the question justice.  How then, where the best, brightest, and most faithful have failed, can a fifteen-year-old child scratch the surface of the secrets of the universe and taste the omnipotence that accompanies that which is beyond human comprehension?  This is the question I frequently ask my dear friend and research subject, who is such a child, to which he replies with further vagaries and baffling questions to ponder…

 

- Kira Day

 

Ahhhhh… Near-scalding water pounds my sweaty body like a million tiny, hot fists, massaging my aching back and soothing my tense muscles.  I am forever indebted to the wonderful donor who provided the school with enough funding to purchase and install a water heater for the boys’ locker room.  The water percolates through the gritty, sweat-slicked curtain that is my hair and loosens the knots and tangles, kneading my scalp.  It runs in rivulets through the mud and grass stains on my limbs, smothers the pungency of my abundant perspiration.  I feel like I am in a sauna or a spa, nay, a curiously heated waterfall in a peaceful rainforest.  I close my eyes and breathe in the clouds of steam—mist—that surround my head.  I become thoughtful; standing there naked and serene in the locker room showers, I begin to wonder why I ever thought that football would be a worthwhile endeavor. 

I’m embarrassingly undersized; short, with thin limbs.  Despite my efforts in the team weight training course, my arms and legs are about as thin and useless for blocking and tackling as garden hoses.  The assistant coach disapproves of my long hair, constantly barking at me to get it out of my eyes, but I know that’s not the problem.  I simply can’t catch.  My speed and apparent harmlessness to our unsuspecting opponents, however, have earned me a receiving role on the field.  Unfortunately, my severe skill deficiency has made this appointment a source of general disgruntlement and acrimony between my teammates and myself.  I am put through a sick and twisted version of Hell every day at practice in the form of practical jokes, extra warm-ups and exercises, and social neglect.  I want out, but we’re preparing for our first game, the roster has been posted, and there is nothing—save a gruesome injury—that can save me.

Suddenly, the water stops coming.  I am too fatigued to open my eyes and jostle the lever, so I grope blindly around the tiled chamber for it.  My fingers meet with nothing.  Frustrated, I open my eyes and peer through my curtains of hair at the shower head.  That’s funny.  My hair is totally dry.  The dirt has all left my body, despite no scrubbing on my part, and I am dry as a bone.  Water is still rocketing from the head, but failing to impact me in the slightest.  This is altogether too much!  I reach out to pull the lever, to stop the flow of water, but my hand passes straight through the metal.  I blink a few times and try it again.  Nothing happens.  I glance down at my feet.  They have sunk into the tile.  I yelp in astonishment, but there is no pain.  I’m up to about my lower calves, but I feel nothing in that region.  I try to move, and find it very easy.  I meet no resistance whatsoever from the pipes and concrete that must be beneath the shower floor.  I poke my head out of the shower curtain—straight through the cheap, beige vinyl—and check to see if anyone else is there, but recoil as if shocked.  The whole team is gamboling around the lockers, changing clothes, stealing others’ clothes, telling crude jokes and hopping over the aluminum benches bolted to the floor.  Thankfully, none of them appear to have seen me.  Frantically, I stomp my feet, pulling them out of the tile as easily as if they were encased in air.  The water continues to pour, and I observe as the droplets pass through my body as if I wasn’t even there.  I am breathing faster now, panicking.  I screw up my eyes, where tears of exasperation and weariness are welling up—and falling without heed through my face and onto the floor—and will myself to become solid again.  I pump my feet once more and—miraculously—it is like stepping up stairs.  First my right foot contacts with solid tile and mortar, and then my left.  The water hits my skin with surprising force, and, shaking, I pull the lever to stem the flow.  Hyperventilating, I stagger out of the stall, throw on my waiting pair of boxers and my football sweat suit, and make for the door.

By bowing my head and shuffling along the gray, concrete wall I escape the notice—and thus the taunting—of the rest of the football team, and find my egress.  I reach for the handle, turn, and push, and suddenly I’ve fallen through the wood.  My eyes wide, I gaze around me, terrified.  I am outside, but I definitely did not open the door.  I swivel around to feel the door and make sure I’m not imagining things when it swings out with a great whoosh that would have knocked me unconscious had it actually made contact with my befuddled cranium.  A few of the larger boys exit the room and see me.  They begin to foul-mouth me, cackling like hyenas at every derogatory jest and name, but I don’t listen.  I’m still in shock that the door didn’t hit me.  It swung right through my head, I know, but I didn’t feel a thing.  My unresponsiveness angers them and they proceed with threats and question my manhood.  After a minute or two of this, I start to turn away, and the largest and brawniest foolishly attempts to clock me in the face.  His fist arcs wildly up into the air, finding no resistance as I knew it wouldn’t.  I watch their jaws drop in astonishment and disbelief and I try to act as if nothing happened.  This charade proves unsuccessful as the enormous brute proceeds to swing at every inch of me.  Still, no contact occurs.  He is as baffled as I am, but less accepting of the truth, and continues his barrage until he clumsily manages to cuff himself in the chin.  The surprise is too much for him and he faints dead onto the muddy turf.  I slowly back away as his friends bend to aid him, screaming in my general direction about the punishment that will befall me for my unintentional offense.  I am beyond bewilderment at this point, and a broad grin spreads across my face as I take in all the facts.  I am totally unscathed by the brutish linebacker’s assault.  The older, larger boys, despite their bluster, are actually scared of me and my curious anomaly.  I am intangible.

 

- Billy Sykes            

Over the next twelve hours, I am able to deduce the following about my curious, new talent: I can penetrate with total ease any substance, material, or boundary with the exception of the earth.  My body refuses to phase through solid ground unless there is a cavity immediately beneath a thin, man-made crust; for example, a concrete sidewalk above the sewers and watershed drainage systems.  (I discovered this unfortunate fact on my way home from football practice when I turned a corner and fell straight through the street into a cavernous and rank sewer tunnel.)  It also turns out that I can become “solid” at will, with a lot of concentration.  This extraordinary self-control works in reverse as well, but my body as a reflex becomes totally intangible in the event of potential danger to my person.  I managed to become stable enough to open the door of my family’s mock town house and scuttle across the parquet floors and up the stairs to my bedroom.  I did not come out for dinner.  I did not answer when my mother and father called me from downstairs to watch a movie with them.  I did not sleep for fear I would fall straight through my mattress.  Instead, I clung for dear life to the frame of my bed and the sheets, screwing up my eyes in fierce concentration, trying to keep myself from slipping away from substantial existence.  By morning, I had become soaking wet, and my muscles were tired and sore from maintaining their vice grip on the covers…

 

*

 

I cautiously slide off of my bed, careful to hold onto one of the stocky, wooden posts in case my foot sinks through and I fall two stories into the unfinished basement.  Thankfully, I experience only the reassuring texture of my bedroom floor, cool and smooth against my bare, sweaty feet.  I realize I must have been holding my breath because I release a huge sigh of relief as I let go of the blankets.  Before my body can change its mind, I undress with clumsy haste, take a quick shower, and don the first thing that reaches my hands as I’m tearing through my closet.  I all but slide down the banister trying to reach the first floor and am panting by the time I arrive in the kitchen. 

            Father, bless him, is up at six o’ clock in the morning, as usual, fixing breakfast.  Mum has already left for work.  “You’re sure in hurry, sport.  Why don’t you fix your hair while I finish up your omelet?”  I absently run a hand through my tangled hair, which falls lank and wet around my shoulders, and try to look nonchalant as I take a seat at the table.  “So,” he continues, “football practice must have been tough yesterday.  You went straight to bed when you came in last night.  How are things going with the rest of the team now that you’re into the season?”

            “Same as ever, dad.”

            “That bad, huh?  You know, there’s still time to find you a sport that won’t knock out half your teeth and fracture your spine.”

            “I appreciate your concern, dad, but we’ve been through this.  I can’t leave this close to our first game.  And besides…  I think I might have found a way around the ‘contact sport’ part.”

            “So you’re not going to be tackling and blocking, or tackled and blocked?”

            “Something like that…”  I try to keep it vague.  I don’t know how long or if I can conceal my new ability from my parents.

            “Just don’t hurt yourself, kiddo.  There’s only one of you and billions of synthetic pig-skin footballs.  Your health and well-being aren’t worth one of those or the glory that supposedly comes with tossing them around.”

            “Dad…  It’s high school football, and I’m a freshman of substandard skill.  I’m not going out for the pros or anything serious.”

            “Just so long as you know that, honey.  Now, eat up!  You don’t want to miss your bus!”  With that, he slaps a huge ham-and-cheese omelet on my plate.  I tuck in and bolt for the door, grabbing my backpack on the way. 

            “Bye, dad!  I love you!”

            “I love you, too, kiddo.  Have a nice day.” 

            Outside, I momentarily forget my predicament and revel in the beauty of the crisp, autumn morning.  That is to say, I forget until I realize I’ve just walked through several signposts and a mailbox and that the yappy terrier in our neighbor’s yard is barking like crazy at me and straining against his tether.  This is the first time I have ever managed to “phase” with other objects.  My clothes and book bag are intact, so I slowly back away from the menacing, little canine and continue walking with renewed caution to the bus stop.  I’m the only kid at this stop, but I don’t have to stand around awkwardly in the cold for long.  A big, obnoxiously yellow school bus comes rocketing down the quiet suburban road and, with a hiss of its ancient breaks, rolls to a stop a little beyond my post.  I casually walk to meet it and mount its flaking stairs to join the silent ranks of morning zombies that are my peers.  It being ridiculous o’ clock A.M., most of the students on board are comatose and unresponsive.  The only kid who’s remotely alert is Maxie, who is too pumped full of sugar and caffeine to be coherent or worthwhile company.  I take the empty seat in front of him and slouch into a comfortable position against my knapsack. 

            “Billy buddy!  How’s it hangin’?”  Maxie’s piercingly nasal tones rake my ear drums, and I muster a weak smile and reply, “’Sup?”

            “Billy buddy, you’ve got to try something for me, kay?”

            “Hm?”

            “Mix together a few Amps with Monster and one of those little ‘clean burst’ energy treats from the drug store counter.  Shake it up and it’s like a kick in the teeth.  A sweet kick in the teeth.  Like if someone slapped you across the face with a Sour Patch Straw.  I had one this morning.  It was amazing, Billy buddy.  Amazing.”

            “Maxie, why don’t you just eat a bottle of caffeine pills?  At least then your teeth won’t rot, too.  You’re going to go into cardiac arrest one of these days.”

            “Man, you sound like my mother.  You know, she threw out all of the soda and energy drinks in the house.  Nothin’ but decaf coffee left.  I’ve gotta stop by 7-11 on my way to the bus to get my fix!”

            “You’re crazy, Maxie.”

            “True dat!”  He sits back down in his seat, grinning like a pumpkin.  After maybe five minutes or so of silence, we slow down at another stop—the last on the route before the ten-minute drive to our school.  I slump further in my chair so that my head isn’t visible above the seats in front of me.  I wish I had my hooded jacket to cover my entire head, but poor posture will have to serve for today… 

            All of this is in preparation for one passenger.  She gets on with a couple of other children at this stop.  Every day, she dresses in a wild color scheme.  She wears no makeup or unnatural hair product besides water and some kind of weird soap, always a different scent.  Her hair is even more untidy than mine, and always, always, she carries an immense load of stuff.  She has an enormous viola case, a huge backpack, and an armload of various and sundry books, papers, and assignments.  I hear she is top of her class and pretty smart, but I make it a point to avoid conversations with her, so I cannot attest to this.  She is in fifty billion clubs, most of which I have considered joining before, which is disturbing to me, and she rarely rides the bus home because she stays after school for hours.  She has a monstrous Irish wolf hound that follows her to the bus stop and patiently watches her board without once barking or whining.  She is Kira Masoud.  And she is obsessed with me.

            Alright, maybe that statement’s more than a little assuming and egotistical, but I’m sure it’s pretty close to the truth.  She always wants to talk to me, gives me presents or candy or both on every possible holiday, and constantly compliments my hair and clothing.  I don’t say more than two words to her, if that, in a day, but still she persists with painful cordiality and civility.  To be honest, she’s very nice, but to be frank, she’s incredibly irritating.  Today is no exception.  Dressed in a thin, rainbow-striped sweater over a black, collared shirt with blue jeans and cherry-red chuck tailors (black laces) and rainbow ribbons in her dark hair, she is appropriately absurd.  If one is near her, one can see that she has drawn a tiny black heart in marker on her right cheek.  As expected, she carries her cumbersome instrument, rucksack and books.  Despite my best efforts to remain hidden, she progresses at once to the back of the bus and takes the last empty seat, directly across the aisle from mine.  I stifle a groan and decide to feign sleep.

            “Good morning, Billy.”  She smiles brightly and waves at me once she has arranged her luggage beside her, close to the window.  “Feeling okay?”  It’s no use pretending.  I raise a hand lamely in greeting and, defeated, sit up in my chair.  “I caught you guys at football practice the other day.  Marching band had a dinner break that day, so I spent it in the stands.  You’re wide receiver, yes?”

            “Yeah.”

            “You’re very fast.  I’m quite impressed.  I do wish they had a rugby team; you would do brilliantly on it.”

            “Rugby doesn’t use pads, though.”

            “Nevertheless!”  She smiles again and then rummages in her books for the remainder of the ride, less talkative than usual.  I don’t complain, but find myself strangely disappointed in this lack of conversation and interaction. 

 

*

 

The morning passes more or less uneventfully.  My academic classes are dull and P.E. is mentally and physically distressing.  But I have spoken too soon.  My lunch period occurs at the perfect apex of the day.  I’m stopping at my locker to switch out my textbooks and renew my supply of mechanical pencils and fresh batteries for my graphing calculator when I catch sight of the troll-like linebacker who attempted to accost me after practice yesterday.  He is with his friends, and they are emitting bursts of harsh, derisive laughter and punching lockers and concrete walls in their mirth with unnecessary aggression.  I have no doubt that they are still not fond of me and I have no desire to deal with them in this deserted hallway where no teachers seem to be around to act as witnesses.  I close my locker and, without really thinking about it, become instantly intangible.  I step into the door of my locker and turn around.  I can see only the dark, chipped metal on the interior.  My books and jacket are piled up where my legs should be.  My clothes, thankfully, remain on my body, as they had this morning on the walk to the bus.  Curious that dirt and water on my person does not react in the same way.  I consider briefly this fact, and wonder if my intangibility can be transferred to things besides those articles of clothing immediately in contact with me and decide that it is probably another example of the subconscious willpower upon which my extra-normal “power” seems to operate.  These musings are cut short as the approaching goons come hither. 

            “Dude, I thought you said you saw that stupid freshman at his locker.”

            “He was, man.”

            “Ask that chick over there.”

            “Hey, you!”

            “Oh, hello!  Can I help you?”  Oh, God.  Kira Masoud’s clear, cheerful voice answers those of the husky footballers.

            “You seen this short kid with girl hair in this hallway?  Kinda stupid-looking, ya know?”

            “That’s not exactly helpful as far as descriptions go, Marcus.  Could you tell me his name?”

            “I dunno, some short, stupid-looking freshman kid.”

            “Well, Marcus, ‘stupid-looking’ is a matter of opinion.  And most freshmen are ‘short’ compared to you.  If that’s all you can give me, I’m afraid I can’t be of much assistance.”

            “Aw, screw it.  You dunno.”  The boys seem to leave the hallway.  Their mockeries of Kira’s sincere answers fade until all I can hear is my own raspy breathing.  Then, someone knocks twice on my locker door.  I hold my breath now and pretend not to exist. 

            “Billy, it’s okay.  You can come out now.”  Aargh!  Kira is still there.  I can’t come out without passing directly through the door.  “Billy, if you don’t want to come out the way you got in, you can tell me your combination, but honestly, it’s not going to change my mind.”  I sigh and swallow my apprehension and dread and step out of my locker.  It’s a good thing we’re on the first floor.  I have sunk knee-deep into the linoleum flooring.  There is only rock beneath my feet.  Kira does not appear to be at all frightened when I look at her face.  Her eyes are wide with enthusiastic fascination and she slowly sets her books and viola down on the floor to confront me.  “Incredible,” she breathes.  I step out of the floor the way I did in the shower in the boys’ locker room and put my hands up, figuratively, in defeat. 

            “Hey, Kira.  Thanks for not telling them about… where I was.” 

            “Billy…”

            “Yeah?”

            “Billy, this is utterly awe-inspiring.”

            “I’m sorry?”

            “This is amazing and wonderful and-and-and revolutionary!”  Her eyes are welling up with tears of excitement.

            “Let’s not go crazy, now.  What’s so wonderful about being—about being like me?”

            “Billy, you have transcended the established laws of physics and all things assumed true about humanity.  I never…”

            “Never what?”  I am more than a little bemused by her reaction.

            “I never dreamed such a thing could happen in my lifetime.”

            “So…  Are you going to tell people?  Dissect me for study?  Turn me in?”

            “And lose a close friend and possibly the most intriguing natural development in the history of the scientific world?  Not likely.” 

            “Wait a second…  Close friend?” I inquire.  She blushes, but presses on. 

            “Billy, this—you—are possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”  I am taken aback. 

            “Really?”

            “Billy, your abilities are nothing to be ashamed of, and I sorely regret that you must hide them from the world for your own safety. Try to see yourself from my perspective.  I’d do anything to experience something as stunning and exquisite as what you’re going through.  I spend all of my time finding every day things to do extraordinary things with, but you…  You are more than I could ever imagine.”

            “Whoa.  Well…  Thank you, I guess.  What else can I say?  That’s a better reaction than I could have hoped for.  Now what, though?  I mean, you obviously have a better grasp of what this all means than I do.  What should I, you know, do with it?”

            “My dear boy, what do you want to do with it?  You are practically a super hero.  Think of the things you could accomplish if you could make yourself untouchable, invincible.”  I draw a blank.  Super hero, huh?  The untouchable, intangible, invincible Billy Sykes!  It’s an interesting concept, but dare I be so bold as to enter the realm of the unfeasible, the improbable?   I remain silent, lost in thought.  “Before the bell rings, Billy…  Would you do me an immense favor?”

            “Huh?  Oh, sure.  What?”

            “Would you let me touch your hand?”  It is an odd question, but I know what she means.  I will myself to pass through all things, and extend my hand to her.  Kira smiles as if she has been given the best present in the world and reaches out to me slowly.  Her fingers slide through mine with a faint tingling sensation as if they aren’t even there.  She is touching the untouchable.          

   

Copyright 2009 C.B. Sanders

There has never been so high a concentration of exceptionally successful and at the same time hopelessly unfulfilled people as there is in the business district of Grand Marque.  I am walking to my scheduled job interview through this overwhelmingly depressing block of buildings and emotionally suppressed biomass when I come to this sad, but true conclusion.  It is like wading through a lifeless cornfield after a hand-harvest.  The fat golden ears of vivacity and enthusiasm are gone from the gray, swaying stalks that slouch by me on every side in pumps and loafers and shoulder-padded business attire, murmuring huskily into tiny mouthpieces that hum inaudibly with the pulses of radio waves and satellite signals, like tiny aphids and weevils nestled comfortably between the shriveled leaves.  My destination is a streamlined, darkened-glass building with a tapered form suggestive of the ability to blast off into the hazy skies above.  With a deep breath to calm my gradually escalating nerves, I enter a gleaming, thoroughly Windex-ed door and begin my confusing trek through the labyrinth of offices and department directories that conceal my final stop. 

This turns out to be located on the fourteenth floor of the building inside a glass box, identified by a helpful customer service automaton as the manager’s main office.  The door is ajar, and, as the sole occupant of the glass anteroom and its single, clear plastic chair just beyond, I can hear and see all that is occurring within…

“Let’s be honest, Olli.  You’re just not what the company needs right now.  You don’t fit the profile we’re looking for.”  Angie Lewis, public relations specialist and the company’s pretty representative face, whom I have before met to arrange today’s meeting, bites her richly glossed bottom lip apologetically and slides a portfolio across the hardwood surface of her desk into the quivering fingers of a young man who has yet to become acquainted with the concept of a haircut in the short space of his adult life.  His red tongue darts reflexively over his dry, cracked mouth, and his eyes appear sunken in twin pits of black-blue—possibly the result of sleep deprivation or even violence.  He gives her a jerky nod, blinks quickly a few times, and then takes his portfolio and leaves the room.

I try to look very interested in the smooth, black floor beneath my feet as he exits into the waiting chamber.  He seems not to notice my presence, however, and instead looks left and right and then slumps against the see-through wall, dropping his head into his hands.  His folder falls to the carpeted floor and erupts like a fountain of paper.  It appears to contain not a résumé, but instead a wealth of beautifully detailed and lifelike illustrations, demonstrative of some prodigious artistic skill.  Though encircled by dark rings, his eyes are totally dry when he lifts his head, which he rests against the cool glass wall behind him.  He takes his right hand and places it firmly on one of his pictures, a meticulous sketch of a songbird of unidentified species, and tenses every muscle from his elbow down to his fingertips.  When he lifts his trembling fingers from the page, the image is gone.  He has burned a hand-shaped hole straight through the thin paper and onto the dark floor.  Oliver sighs, and then gathers up the remaining pictures, stuffing them into the folder as if he has done nothing extraordinary at all…

            Finally he realizes my presence and looks somewhat embarrassed for his display.  “This is my seventeenth job interview,” he explains with a face as inscrutable as a blank slate.  “My seventeenth, failed job interview.  I don’t know what I’m going to do…”  His voice, too, is devoid of all expression.  Hopelessness, anger, dejection…  All are carefully hidden and totally undetectable in his composed, low monotone. 

            At a loss for words, I reply, “May I see your drawings?”  A shadow of a feeling brushes his brow and the corners of his mouth like an artist’s misplaced stroke for but a fleeting moment, and then he hands me his work.  Our fingers meet briefly as the folder changes hands, and I am surprised to feel no unusual warmth in the pale, graceful fingers that so incinerated the beauty of his illustration.  “These are beautiful.  These are breathtaking,” I inform him as I thumb slowly through the delicate pictures.  “It’s hard to accept that they’re not real, that they’re rendered in ink and charcoal and-and-and graphite…”  I come to the sheet with the hand-shaped hole, where once a bird sang from the dry, scorched page, and pause.  Oliver says nothing, gives nothing away with his face, and I lay my hand in the empty, burned space.  In another instant, the bird sings once more.  I remove my slightly sweaty palm and return the portfolio, fully restored, to the boy.  For the first time, his face changes, his eyes growing wide with discovery and a glimmer of understanding lighting them from behind.  “I won’t be long,” I promise, and stand to enter the office where Angie has looked up from her paperwork in an expectant manner.  Olli remains seated on the floor and nods quietly, waiting.

 

 

 Copyright 2009 C.B. Sanders

I know what it's like to feel trapped, believe me.  I live indefinitely in a run-down submersible with no hope of returning to the surface.  I've never seen the sun, breathed anything but stale, recycled air, drunk anything that hasn't been run through a purifying plant a hundred odd times.  I've been drafted into the senior engineer position on a ship whose curved sides create walls and passages as constricting as the ant tunnels in the laboratories of the research vessel Selene.  I wear a stifling, one-piece, faded blue jump-suit at all times in the hottest, most crowded rooms on board.  I see the same people, run the same routine every day.  It is therefore not a particularly unnerving experience, however rare, for me to also be trapped in the poorly kept crew infirmary on the lower decks of the Io, under strict instructions to remain motionless and cooperative.  I sigh, not out of exasperation but exhaustion, and smile reassuringly against the effects of my painkillers' expiration time in the direction of my dear friend and partner Lyle.

Lyle is, reliably, by my side.  I have faith that he's cleared things up in the engine room during my incarceration in the sickroom.  Though disciplined and efficient, we're not military, so the chain of command gets blurry right around us two.  We take each other's advice and orders and rely on each other's skills and knowledge as much as we rely on our own.  We are a machine, born and raised by the ones we work on together.  I'm glad he's here with me. 

"Feeling okay?"  He reaches out a hand to touch my forehead.  "You're sweaty again."

"That's probably nothing to fret about.  Just the meds.  Maybe a slight reaction to an overdose or a mild infection of the wound.  Nothing a few shots won't fix."

"An overdose or an infection can be serious business...  Maybe we should call a doctor."

"Nonsense.  They're busy enough over on the Selene.  We can make do with the drafted health staff.  Let them deal with keeping the important biotic creatures alive and well."

"And I suppose we'll deal with the machines and robots?"

"You know the spiel."  Anyone with a student's biomedical background often gets drafted into the first-aid staff on the industrial ships.  Seasoned doctors and scientists and those interns too rich and well-protected to be affected by the draft tend to end up on Selene researching disease control and sources of plant and animal matter that the remaining population can consume and/or use to cultivate crops and livestock aboard the submarines.  Engineers, architects, mathematicians, technicians--people like Lyle and me--end up on those dilapidated fuel and manufacturing ships that support the rest of fleets by synthesizing hardware and energy to help them run smoothly.  On the side, we work with robotics and more refined, advanced electronic inventions to make life easier down here...  "So when do I get out?  They don't tell me much..."

"Well, your arm's in sorry shape.  They'll have to fill in robotics and nervous aides temporarily to restore movement and muscle control, and it will be months before you can go natural again."

"Not a problem...  Heck, we designed a lot of those parts.  I'm pretty confident they're not so outdated... Yet."

"Well, you'll be fine. They're letting you out almost immediately after the surgery, which should be tomorrow morning."  Lyle smiles reassuringly and pushes his unkempt hair, slightly greasy with sweat and engine oil, behind his ears. 

"Glad to hear it.  Say, haven't you got work to do?" I'm suddenly serious, worrying again about how smoothly things are running below.  Without Lyle and me, can the backup team run things on their own?

"Nope!  I'm here all night...  Stop worrying!"  He grips either side of my cot with his hands and leans down so that his nose is almost touching mine and his his hair falls around his grinning face again.  I giggle.  We are the only people in the infirmary, and I let my guard down, reaching up with my good arm to push the stray fringe out of his eyes and touch his face.  Outside of our private moments, our relationship is strictly professional and comradely, but our compatibility and easy cooperation on the job are closely linked to our symbiotic personal life.  He leans down further to kiss me and I smile to meet him halfway. 

"All night sounds good..." I murmur, my lips brushing his...

"Ahem..."  From across the room, someone politely coughs, interrupting our conversation, and Lyle and I jerk to attention.  With a jolt of sharp pain through the left side of my body, I sit up sharply on the cot, and Lyle blushes and stands awkwardly to my side.  The "cougher" is a young girl in the white uniform of a medical aide.  She is obviously older than us, possibly in her twenties, but her demeanor is that of an embarrassed child, not a disapproving elder, so we relax a little.  "Erm, sorry to interrupt, but, um... The patient sort of needs her painkillers.  I'm sure she agrees."  She looks from me to Lyle apologetically, and I smile amicably. 

"Yeah, of course.  I'm actually in some pretty excruciating agony right now.  It did help to be... distracted."  My eyes shift playfully to Lyle and he answers with a wicked grin.  The poor girl tries not to get between our flirting as she busies herself preparing the injection.  "So...  You a draftee?"

"Yeah, I was a premed student on one of the other vessels and my biomedical engineering degree qualified me for a draft position on board the Io.  It's okay, I guess, but I miss, well..."

"Go on," I prompt.  So sue me, I'm interested...

"Well, I miss all the sappy stuff, my friends and family, but also the laboratories and resources we had back at school.  I mean, call me a nerd or a romantic or whatever, but I miss having an organized medical facility with professionals and teachers on hand to help me improve.  I was going to go to med school and become a surgeon, but now I'm stuck here and I wasn't even allowed to finish senior year..."

"Well, you're among friends and empathizers.  We were drafted as engineers, technicians, and designers.  We work down in the engine room."

"Would you believe this one here designed the system in the engine rooms?" Lyle pipes up, gesturing proudly to me.

"Mostly, I suppose," I concede modestly.  "I was enrolled in a scholarship program for math and science before they brought me here.  Lyle lost his educational opportunities, too, and his hopes of being a sub captain.  Though, I have to say...  Where would this ship be without him right where he is?"  I reach out my right hand and Lyle takes it.  We're still smiling like idiots at each other.

"How old are you two, anyway?" asks the ex-premed student, swabbing my left arm with a sterilized wipe.

"Fifteen and sixteen," answers Lyle.

"Whoa.  They just keep drafting younger, don't they?"  The needle is in and out before I really notice it, and I feel a wave of numbness spread through my system as fast as my heart can pump the meds through my blood stream.  "Even so, I think we'll get along fine.  They've assigned me to take care of your surgery tomorrow, you know."

"Really?"

"Yep.  It's my first surgery, but don't worry.  It's only a minor embed project.  In and out what with all of the wonderful technologies of the day, yes?"

"I feel safer already, ..?"

"Lydia.  Call me Lydia."

To be continued...

Copyright 2008 C.B. Sanders