Short Fiction - Sweet

3 - Beth, Effy, and Amanda

“I can taste it.” Effy muttered. Beth yawned, eyes squeezing shut. “It’s sweet. Like…cherries.”

“Bitter. Sweet.” Beth concurred quietly, glancing over to Effy. Beth heard the tremor in her own voice as she observed Effy laying on her side, fingers knitted together and pillowing beneath her head. As if in prayer. Her eyes were a little red. The flesh of her lids and under-eyes was flushed and wet with half-dried tears. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Effy sniffled quietly.

“It’s not.”

“It’s not. But it’s everyone. You got it weeks ago.”

“I know. Weeks ago; weeks to go.” Beth mused. Her heart was beating faster, now. Adrenaline, she supposed. This wasn’t unexpected, but it was still a shock. Shocking. “Still. I’m sorry you’re not special.”

“No one’s special. That’s how it was engineered, right? Fucking…assholes in a lab going above and beyond.” Beth paused, nodding slowly. Quietly - after moving her lips as if to start a couple of times:

“Did you want to…’go’ together?”

“Fuck, Beth…I just woke up with this - "

“ - No, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll give you some time to sit with it.”

“It’s fine. We knew it was coming.” Effy sighed, rolling onto her back and covering her eyes with her hands. “I’ll fill the script today so that we have the option, and we’ll have the talk.”

“Tonight?”

“I guess so. I’ll make that chicken you like so much and we’ll...go over it all.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Did you want to come with me to the chemist?”

“I have work.” Effy slowly moved her hands away from her eyes, glancing over at Beth with an eyebrow extremely raised, framing her glassy, red eyes. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s insane. I’ll take a shower and get dressed.”

“Sure. I’ll make us some coffee.”

The walk was pleasant enough. Quiet streets and spring breeze…warm but not cloyingly humid yet; fresh and crisp and carrying a hint of chill. Small gusts eddied spirals of leaves up and around and across the bitumen.

“The end of the world. It’s like a sigh, y’know? Like the world letting out a held breath.” Effy observed. She and Beth held hands as they slowly meandered up the hill.

“Not really the end, per se. Ours, sure.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do, baby. Wish I had something comforting to say, but…I don’t, really.”

“It’s fine. It was always gonna be something, right?” Effy shrugged, skipping over a crack in the pavement: “Climate change, nuclear weapons, microplastics…a big rock coming through the atmosphere. We’ve been playing Russian roulette with Great Filters for decades now.”

“It’s still hard to really get a grip on. It doesn’t feel entirely real.”

“America emptying out was pretty real.”

“Not really. It was all so…quiet. Like they just went to sleep. Like they might wake up at any point.” Somewhere down a side street a dog barked. Just a couple of sharp chords, disrupting the quiet metronome thrum of cicadas. Beth and Effy looked at one another, shrugging and continuing to walk. Effy sighed:

“They’re not waking up, baby. Nor will we.”

“I know, but…y’know what I mean, right? No fight, just…that.” Beth leaned in, bumping against Effy, their shoulders rubbing together momentarily. “I don’t even feel sick, it’s just…sweetness.”

“Do you think it’s the timeframe?”

“Maybe. Boiling frogs and all that. Too much time, not enough…just sweetness on your tongue, a long enough countdown to hope something will change; to keep you living your life, and then…”

“All over, pavlova.”

“That’s not the phrase.”

“Should be. Pavlovas collapse.”

“Sure, if you like.”

“Baby…” Effy started. Beth knew: she let go of Effy’s hand, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her in close as their steps slowed and synchronised.

“I don’t want to go, either.” They slowed and decoupled as they reached the corner of the Main Street, pausing for a moment before Beth started moving, leading the way. The chemist was only a few shops down, and as they walked in through the automatic sliding door, Beth felt Effy reaching for her hand, their pinky fingers linking tightly. They walked slowly through the silent store, shelves stocked to the brim, crowded with bottles of mouthwash; new and diverse flavours of gum and lozenges.

“Must be making a killing.” Effy muttered.

“Yeah, deals to die for.”

“Fucking gross.”

“Disgusting but predictable.” Beth echoed. They reached the counter - Beth standing slightly forward, leaning into it with her elbow - and Effy cleared her throat. An exhausted-looking pharmacist made her way lazily out from the back room: dark bags under her eyes; box-dyed blond hair, dishevelled lab coat over an equally rumpled blouse and slacks.

“What?” She said abruptly. Her eye twitched.

“If looks would kill we’d be saving twenty bucks right now.” Effy muttered. Beth snorted humourlessly, maintaining eye contact either the chemist.

“Whimper pills, please?”

“They’re not called that.” The chemist deadpanned.

“You know what I’m asking for, why make it harder?”

“Two boxes of Seluna. Twenty-five forty-nine.”

“So twenty-five fifty?”

“That’s what I said.”

“What’s your problem, bitch?” The chemist just shrugged.

“The world’s ending, we’re all gonna die, my mouth tastes like fucking cotton candy all the time, my boyfriend left me cause why the fuck not, and there’s a happy couple in front of me looking to die together. And I’m at work.”

“Don’t have to be.” Beth countered.

“What else is there?” She asked. Beth and Effy glanced at each other.

“Wanna come get high with us?” Effy offered.

“Yeah, okay.” The pharmacist sighed, shrugging off her coat. “Give me a minute. I’ll grab some things.”

Beth looked down at her hands, clenched against the shitty linoleum countertop. Her index finger, whitened at the end from pressure, shakily traces the outline of an ancient stain as her eyes moved back and forth between her fingers and the slowly percolating kettle.

“So how far along are you?” She heard Effy asking the Pharmacist from the adjacent lounge room. There was a pause. Then the sound of a lighter flicking a couple of times, and of bong water frantically effervescing.

“It’s any day now.” Came the throaty reply.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Effy sighed.

“Why? You two are on the same train, just a couple of carriages behind.”

“True.” As the kettle finished its cycle with a brief, pained whistle, Beth started pouring the water out into mugs, watched as the instant coffee disintegrated into brown sludge, cup by cup. She frowned, running her tongue around the inside of her mouth; across the backs of her teeth. The sweetness occasionally felt textured…grainy, almost. Sensorily it felt like a few days without brushing your teeth. Psychologically, she couldn’t help but equate it to a…sense of coming apart. Breaking down. She shivered, dismissing it and making her way to the fridge for the milk. She could hear the lighter again; Effy taking her turn. Then a sharp, phlegmy cough, a sigh…then silence. Beth poured milk into each mug before returning it to the fridge.

“Hey, do you remember when it started?” The Pharmacist asked.

“The bombings?” Beth joined them, awkwardly two-handing the three mugs onto the coffee table,

“Yeah.”

“And then the announcement?” Effy asked.

“Yeah. They didn’t even seem…ashamed, did they? Mask off, like wiping out uncontacted tribes, isolated settlements…like it was a…fucking kindness or something.”

“Fucking Americans.”

“One last ‘fuck you’ to anyone who wasn’t them, I guess. As if it didn’t start there. As if this whole thing wasn’t their fault to begin with. Fucking dicks.” Effy held the bong out to the Pharmacist, who shook her head, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a small bottle, rattling it between two fingers and looking from Effy to Beth.

“What’s that?” Effy asked.

“Dex.” The Pharmacist offered.

“Yeah, go on then.” Beth nodded. The Pharmacist uncapped the bottle, clearing some space on the coffee table. “You want a plate or something?” The Pharmacist nodded, shaking a small handful of white pills into her hand, then picking up a mug and taking a sip of coffee with the other. Beth looked around, smirking as she grabbed for a small, square mirror with a metal frame on the counter that she sometimes used to multitask makeup and breakfast. “Here.”

“Oh. Ha. Sure.” The Pharmacist smirked, laying it down on the coffee table, pouring a few pills onto it and crunching them carefully down into powder with the butt of the cigarette lighter. Effy helpfully handed her a transport card and a five dollar note.

“Coffee tastes so fucking weird now.“ Effy grimaced over the top of her mug.

“Like cherry liqueur without the buzz.” Beth agreed, smiling tenderly over into those pink, bloodshot eyes.

“Food is worse.” The pharmacist commented. “I remember the day it started, my boyfriend took me out. To a steakhouse. I almost threw up.” She sighed, cutting the powder into fat little lines before leaning down and dragging one up into her right nostril through the rolled note. “Guh…” she gagged slightly.

“You good?” Beth raised an eyebrow.

“It’s been a minute…” The pharmacist sniffled defensively.

“Move over.” Beth slumped beside her on the couch, nudging her over. The Pharmacist handed her the rolled up note and Beth leaned down, dragging up another line.

“Ow!” She squeaked.

“Pussy.” The Pharmacist smirked.

“Fuck off. That was the chunkiest line I’ve ever snorted. Where’d you learn to cut pills, anyway?”

“Uni. Guess I was putting less focus into cutting the perfect line and more into being fucking rad.”

“I managed to work out how to properly crunch a pill while navigating a whole-ass gender crisis. It’s called ‘multitasking’.” Beth leaned back, stretching and yawning: “So…get good, basically.”

“My turn.” Effy sidled up to the far side of the coffee table, holding out her hand expectantly.

“Have at it.” Beth coughed, handing over the five dollar note. Effy bent daintily at the waist, holding her long, dark hair back with one hand as she sniffed up a third line with the note held in the other. humming quietly, she reached down to drag a finger through some remnant dust, raising her finger to her mouth and rubbing it against her gums.

“It’s not coke you little gremlin.” The Pharmacist deadpanned.

“Pills are ninety percent filler. Chalky. Blunts the sweetness.”

“Oh.” The Pharmacist considered, before reaching down and gathering some dust, rubbing it into her gums. “Well whaddya know?”

“So what happens?” Effy asked.

“Have you not seen it yet?”

“Before-and-afters…” Effy shrugged. She walked around the coffee table and sat down on the couch on the other side of the Pharmacist, she and Beth flanking her. For a minute the three of them just sat, sipping coffee. A little stoned; a little buzzed.

“Do you know what a Tonic-Clonic seizure is?” The Pharmacist asked quietly. No response: “They used to call them ‘Grand mal’ seizures?”

“Sounds familiar.” Beth shrugged.

“The Tonic phase is your muscles getting really stiff and rigid. You freeze up, basically. Clonic is the uh…the jerking around, spasming bit.” She sighed. “It’s that, but…quiet. Slow and quiet. First you get tired, like all you can think about is lying down and taking a nap. And then you go stiff. And then you start shaking. Not violently, more like a shiver. And then…you stop.”

“And that’s…it?” Effy murmured.

“Yeah. That’s it. You just stop. Forever.”

“Fuck.” Beth breathed. She reached out towards the mirror, running a finger through some dex-dust. They all watched as her hand tremored.

“I…” The Pharmacist started. Her head drooped, her eyes down on her lap. “I’m not ready for…this. Y’know? I don’t want it to end like this. I had plans. I didn’t ask for anything special, just to…live, right? I just…want to stay.” Beth reached over, taking her hand. Effy reached up, pulling her sideways, cradling her head into the nape of her neck. Together, they held her.

2 - Trent and Simone

Trent looked down, then around. Clear, open sky; nothing but. Up above the clouds, he was soaring like a bird. He could almost feel the wind rushing past him…gale force, buffeting against his wings and hull. With a practiced twist, he spun downward with uncanny grace, slamming into then through a bank of clouds like a bullet cutting through a haze of smoke, leaving a vortex of clear sky swirling in his wake. Punching through the other side and into the overcast, slightly rainy afternoon, he could see the target below. A village. Undefended; easy pickings. He moved into a holding pattern, beginning to circle, waiting for the kill order. No words: they didn’t do those much anymore…not unless something was going seriously wrong. And it wasn’t that kind of day. This was deeply unserious business.

“Here we go…” he muttered to himself as the little light in the top right of his vision went from red to green: “Yippee kay yay motherfucker…” he finished, triggering the payload. In t-minus 4…3…2…1, a flash, like a ball of lightning, lit up the landscape below. Even at that distance, the force of it was enough to push him back up a ways towards the clouds. He watched as the shockwave rippled out, the explosion mushroomed. The ground shook and shattered in places. He continued to circle, swooping and arcing; looking for the strays he already knew there weren’t.

“Alright killer, pack it up.” He heard from beyond the headset. Trent rolled his eyes.

“Fine, fine.” With a cursory double blink, the screen went black and he pulled the VR rig up and off of his head. “God, that thing’s getting so real, y’know? Feels great up there. I could run these sims forever.”

“I know you could, you fucking dork.” Simone smiled, ruffling his hair. “Today’s the last of it, though, from the original timeline. Cure should be shipping anytime now, and then we can get back to topside. It’s patronising, truly. I think they’re trying to keep our minds busy, like we’d crack up if they didn’t sit us in front of a screen nearly every waking moment.”

“Hey - I’m not complaining. Mouth tastes like a Georgia peach, hands ten-and-two, video games twenty-four-seven? I’m five-by-five.” Trent looked up at Simone, arms folded in front of her tan tank top, hip cocked, hair buzzed short, oversized camo-pants belted around her waist. She looked every bit the grunt he didn’t.

“Let’s get to the Mess. They’ve got an announcement. Probably about the cure.”

“Yeah, yeah. Not gonna lie, I’ll miss it.”

“You’ll miss it? It’s a fucking disease, Trent.”

“Whatever.” Trent groaned as he got to his feet, shadowing Simone as she led the way. “Your ass looks phenomenal today, by the way.” He commented.

“I know.” She acknowledged.

“Unrelatedly…Curt traded me for some booze, did you wanna come around and…” he trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.

“Maybe. If you’re lucky.”

“If I’m lucky?” He chuckled.

“Remember who salutes who, here, Junior Airman.”

“Yes Sergeant.” Trent smiled as Simone looked back at him, throwing out a small informal salute; tapping two fingers off his forehead.

“How’d you ever get through basic?” She chuckled.

“Officer, I’m a god-damned delight.” Trent insisted. “And you know I can turn on the ‘by-the-book’ when I want to.”

“So why don’t you?”

“With you? Cause I know what you like.”

“Is that right?”

“Tell me I’m wrong.” Trent shrugged, pulling even with her as they reached the doors to the mess.

“Straighten up for me, soldier.” She teased. Trent snapped to attention, saluting formally. “That’s a good boy. I’ll see you after.”

“For a drink?”

“Like I said, if you’re lucky.”

“I’m feeling pretty lucky, Sarge.”

“We’ll see.” She stated, reaching for the door and ushering them into the room. The rest of the drone operators were there already, along with the handful of drafted in low level NCOs - mostly from the Marines - brought to the bunker to keep the gaggle of tech-oriented airmen in check. It was noisy and a little too warm, and the scent of chemicalised sweetness from the cacophony of deodorants was thick in the air. The walls were spartan and bare; the ceiling was high: it looked like what it was; a repurposed underground hangar with a retractable roof, now serving alternatingly as mess and briefing room.

“‘Ten-SHUN!” Came the familiar shout from the front of the room as Colonel Thrice made his way to the front of the assembly. “Just kidding - you know I don’t run this place like a standard base. But shut the fuck up, will y’all? Got some news to share.” The room quietened down. “Okay, so we’ve got an endpoint. Couple of weeks and we’ll be back topside.” A cheer went up:

“Thank fuck!” Trent heard one hoarse voice shout.

“Yeah, yeah,” Thrice motioned for quiet. “I know it’s gotten a bit claustrophobic in here. But y’all have been doing great work. Some particular standouts on the Sims - and we all know who they are - “ The airman next to Trent, whose name Trent couldn’t recall for the life of him, slapped Trent warmly on the back: “ - and I just…I couldn’t have asked for a better cohort to be stuck in quarantine with. However. On that note. I know we’re all getting sick of that fucking taste…even if it is harmless…and the medication is officially on the way. Bit of a delay, but it should be here within the fortnight, just in time for the end of quarantine.” He paused. There was a hint of a tremor in his voice, but Trent dismissed it. The old man did get emotional from time to time, after all: “I know it’s not the news you wanted to hear. In the interim, to make it up to you, I had Command send out some of those new flavours of long-last gums and lozenges. Specially formulated to get your mouth tasting like something other than fuck-damn fruit-flavoured caster sugar. We happy with that?!” Another cheer went up.

“Thanks dad!” Trent heard one Airman shout out.

“You’re welcome, you insubordinate little shits!” The crowd laughed again. “Okay, get back to your quarters. No more Sims for today. Get some rest and we’ll get back to it tomorrow: Oh-six-hundred sharp. Got it?”

“Sir yes sir!” The collective shout went up. Trent took a moment to take it all in as the rest of the Airmen and NCOs filtered out. There was a quiet that was almost eerie, like they’d dropped into a kind of mechanical autopilot. He could hear the hum of ventilation and air cyclers; the whirring gyros of the generators nested in the walls. As the space started to empty out, he could feel just how big the hanger truly was. He wondered about its hey-day; how many drones would’ve sat there, primed and ready for departure. He wondered how many facilities there were, full of Airmen just like him; running the same sims, listening to the same tired, stir-crazy speeches. More than a couple, was his guess.

Trent strolled quietly back to his quarters. The base was overbuilt for purpose: it was the first posting he’d had where he hadn’t been sharing space. Sitting on the edge of his rickety cot, he leaned over to the tattered rucksack he kept his things in, fishing around for the label-less bottle of vodka Curt had managed to source, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig. He savoured the burn; the mouthfeel; the way, mixing with his saliva, it went down a little like Schnapps.

Simone didn’t knock, she just opened the door. As always.

“I should probably be impounding that shit.” She muttered, closing the door behind her and making her way to Trent’s cot, slumping down beside him, grabbing for the vodka and taking a long drag. She coughed a little.

“How does it taste?” He asked. She side-eyed him. He knew she knew what he was asking.

“I’ve been lying to you.” She shrugged.

“‘S okay.” He shrugged. “NCOs lie. Part of the job, really.”

“No. I mean…yeah, Trent. I can taste it. It’s…sweet.”

“How long?”

“As long as you. Couple of weeks.”

“Oh, so lying lying.”

“Yeah.” She nodded.

“But why?”

“Cause you think it’s a game. A joke. Harmless. Like I keep saying, Trent, it’s a disease. They don’t come in ‘harmless’. We don’t quarantine over ‘harmless’. We don’t bomb civilians over ‘harmless’.”

“I know the Sims are a bit gratuitous, but - “

“ - They’re not Sims.” She murmured, eyes on the floor, head shaking slowly from side to side. “You’re tech, Trent. You really thought that was VR?”

“Probably more like AR, was my guess, but…” Trent trailed off, feeling a lump forming in his throat as she looked up at him, elbows on knees, shaking her head. “Why’re you telling me this and what are you actually trying to tell me, Simmy?”

“It’s nothing I know. It’s just…for some people pattern recognition is a skill. For me it’s been a survival strategy. Knowing which way the wind is blowing keeps you alive. It’s kept me alive. And I can’t shake it, Trent. Something’s wrong with this equation. I can feel it.”

“I trust your gut. I’ve got your back.”

“I know you do. But what if I’m wrong, and I pull you in and end up fucking us both?”

“I’m a big boy, Simmy.”

“Yeah, okay.” She acknowledged, taking a deep breath. “I don’t think this shit is harmless. I think we might be sick, Trent. The kind of sick that you don’t come back from. I’m not sure there’s a cure coming. There’s no upshot to delaying like they are. I don’t like that they have us air-gapped from intel: it doesn’t feel like quarantine, it feels like compartmentalisation. I don’t like the ‘Sims’; all the NCOs know they’re real but none of us know what they’re for and that sets off like…a dozen alarm bells in my brain.” Simone and Trent sat silently for a few moments. Simone shifted awkwardly, grating her short fingernails down into the palm of the opposite hand…digging into herself, before absently starting to trace the outline of where darker and light shades of skin met. Trent slowly reached out, taking her hand and knotting their fingers together.

“Come with me.” She looked up at him, brow furrowing; nose upturning slightly in that way he liked. “It’s okay, just come.”

“Last time you said that - "

“ - No, don’t. You don’t need to make this less serious. I’ve got you, like I said.” Trent assured her softly, getting to his feet and pulling her up with him.

They were silent as they made their way through the night-lit corridors. Trent was careful on his feet, padding covertly. It felt…correct. He led her deeper into the bunker and away from the quarters, into the Sim rooms. The condoles were neatly arranged in banks of four throughout each room; cables leashed together, forming thick ropes of cords, pulled up and into the ceiling…zip-tied and bound. In the darkness, the standby screens and red LEDs glowed ambivalently, waiting. Watching. Trent stopped, considering, before pointing to a lone console in the corner of a room, making his way over. He glanced at Simone with a tight smile, getting in behind the keyboard. The screen lit up, illuminating his face.

“I’ve never seen you look this serious.”

“Well I’d never seen you scared.”

“Seeing me scared gets you serious?” Simone smirked, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Sergeant, since what I’m about to do could absolutely get my ass thrown in a black site or worse?” Trent paused his typing, glancing up: “I’m in love with you. Just do we’re clear.”

“What the fuck are you about to do, Trent?”

“Oh, you know…” he muttered, focussed on the screen as he typed: “Treason.”

“Wha - "

“ - And we’re in.”

“In where?”

“Comms. There’s a backdoor. We found it in the first week; military infosec is dogshit from the inside. But this is the only path in or out. If there’s evidence…it’s here.”

“How long’ve we got?”

“This isn’t a movie. Just don’t copy or delete anything and we’ll be fine. Find what you need; touch nothing but the lamp.” Simone moved around the console, grabbing for the collar of Trent’s shirt. She pulled him in, kissing him aggressively, smiling into the kiss as she felt him melt into her with a limp groan.

“I love you, too.” She said as she pulled away, meeting his eyes.

“I know.” He smirked. “I mean…you’re only human.”

“Move over.” She rolled her eyes, getting behind the screen with him as he sat back down. Together, they began to sift through the base’s comms. Trent quickly clocked Simone’s frustration as they waded through scheduling, manifests, and requisition order, raising a hand to pointedly clear his throat. “What?”

“Well I didn’t want to be ‘that guy’ about it but there are easier ways to - "

“ - So show me.” Trent tapped a few keys, bringing up a terminal window.

“The OS is super-stripped down GUI on the front end; just a collection of nested folders, basically. But you can do a lot more from command-line. The file system is like a landscape and this bullshit OS is like a lens, it’s a deliberate way of - "

“ - Trent.”

“Yep?”

“Just show me how to key-word search.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Simone started running through words. She started with the obvious: ‘sweet’. Then ‘symptom’, ‘treatment’, ‘cure’, ‘medicine’…

“There, open that one.” Trent pointed to the screen.

“Seluna. Sounds like a sleeping pill.”

“Might be the cure? See: global rollout has begun; civilian population will have access from the first of June…the delays we’re having are probably supply line issues.”

“Could be. I’ll look it up: ‘Se-lu-na’.” Simone hit ‘enter’. “Okay, hear it…” she trailed off as the document opened up in full. They were both silent. “What the fuck?”

“Would that - "

“ - Yes. That’s a suicide pill.” Simone confirmed quietly.

“‘Global rollout’.” Trent echoed. Simone went back to the terminal window, looking for ‘lethality’. There were several hits. “Okay, that one’s related to this ‘Seluna’ stuff.” Trent pointed.

“Not what I’m looking for.”

“What’re you looking for?” Simone didn’t reply, she just double clicked on a file.

“Exceptional lethality…life expectancy of approximately four weeks following onset of symptoms…dysgeusia.” Simone sat back in her chair, staring blankly ahead.

“What the fuck is ‘dysgeusia’?” Trent muttered.

“Look in the parentheses.” Simone whispered.

“…sweet…” Trent almost sounded out the word. It felt wrong in his mouth, as if it was shaped differently; inflected oddly…of a language other than his own. The two of them sat there, silent for a few moments.

“I can’t believe I was right.” Simone hissed. Trent didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the screen. Gently, he reached out to take over the mouse from Simone. He could feel his hand shaking slightly as he double clicked the file. The file name was a generic path - Trent had surmised that the docs with what looked like auto-generated, iterated file names were how the search grabbed processed emails, pulling them up as text files - but he could make out, previewed in the screencap, the title: ‘Legacy Doctrine’. There was some text about the work so far, faint praise and friendly comments. Then:

We’ve got the list of targets from Washington, now, so we’ll be delegating a tranche of them to each drone command. Given we’ve only got a couple of weeks left, please action as a matter of urgency. Lethality is key. Collateral is acceptable if unavoidable. Washington’s position is that no unsuitable succession is to be tolerated, so let’s do this thing right and go out with a bang, not a whimper, gentlemen.

Trent tried to re-read the document to make sure he hadn’t misinterpreted. He tried again, and again, but his eyes were stuck on that one word. It was like everything else on the screen was fogged; staticky…slightly out of focus. But dragging his eyes back, in perfect focus, again and again, was that one word:

Unsuitable

“Did you…did you ever wonder just how much they hated people like me?” Simone whispered.

“What?”

“Brown people. Women. Anyone…other than them? You’re a good man, Trent. More than that, you’re a good person. We’ve talked about the shape of the world. I know you know it. I know you see it: who they are. How they see things. But did you ever wonder if that moral sinkhole bottomed out somewhere, for men like that?”

“But this?” He hissed.

“Yeah. This is how much.”

“It’s all right here. In black and white.” He shook his head, hunching over the keyboard. “They’d rather no one survive this than…”

“‘Unsuitables’.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

“So what do you want to do?”

1 - Ai and Bree

“Someone should really do something.” Bree commented. She sat on the couch, knees clenched together and feet angle awkwardly inwards on the floor. She had a plate balanced in her lap, loaded with pizza and garlic bread, and was slowly feeding a slice into her mouth, eyes glued to the TV screen.

“Huh?” Ai asked, moving into the room and slumping down beside Bree on the couch, holding a tumbler of gin and tonic. She took a tentative sip, smiling to herself.

“Just…everything. Climate bullshit, microplastics, cynically motivated moral panics, grocery prices skyrocketing…it’s all so fucking bleak.”

“Yeah.” Ai nodded, considering. “But what can you do? Bad outcomes don’t require bad people. Amoral systems just…tend towards immoral outcomes. People try to fight the outcomes, but the systems are the problem.”

“Sure. So break the systems.”

“I’ll get right on it, comrade.” Ai deadpanned with a lazy faux-salute.

“I’m just saying…”

“I know. I agree with you. But systemic change requires systemic response. We’re just a couple of girls - "

“ - Women.”

“Oh fuck off: I can choose my own words for my own gender, thank you very much, Ms. Second Wave Proscriptivist.”

“Just drink your gin.”

“You just eat your pizza.”

“I will.”

“Good, me too.”

“Good.”

“Are we actually fighting?”

“No, of course not. I’m just frustrated.”

“About…?” Ai gestured in a wide arc, drink in hand.

“No. I mean…yes, but no. The dumpster fire we live in is…ambient.”

“Frogs boiling in a pot and all that.”

“Yeah, exactly. Which…did you know that was bullshit?”

“Mmhmm.” Ai confirmed. “I feel like the metaphor holds on because while it’s not true of frogs in a pot, it’s very true of humans in long-term crises.” She paused, sipping her drink. “So what’s the pitch, then?”

“You remember grad school? The post-doc gene therapy project we worked on with…” Bree paused, twirling one hand around in a circle in the air as if trying to manually wind back her memory. She grabbed for some garlic bread with the other hand, taking a bite and chewing slowly.

“Doctor Granger.” Ai helped.

“Yeah, the old pervert.” Bree nodded, finishing her mouthful and swallowing. “It’s come back.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. And it was a cool project. Retroviral delivery systems, looking at the viability of manipulating gestational timeframes, infectivity…”

“I mostly remember the casual racism if I’m honest.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Granger used to do that thing where he’d forget my name and click his fingers and then just say ‘the Oriental one’.”

“Oh, fuck. I didn’t even clock that.”

“Well, when you’ve got no yellow skin in the game…”

“Fuck,” Bree wheezed.

“Not a criticism, just an observation. Lived experience is literally that. You have your own subcutaneous bruises; we all do. Anyway, what about the project?”

“So…” Bree paused, sitting back into the couch. She took the plate out of her lap, setting it beside herself before crossing one leg over the other. “This afternoon, Sadie comes into the lab, right? And she’s looking all flustered - but good flustered - like she has news. And the news is this: that paper you and I worked on, the ‘proof of concept’ work on retroviral instrumentality, some kids at some University in Canada started expanding on that research. Which is cool. I mean, I thought it was cool, until I took a look at it.” Bree paused, sighing. Ai silently handed her the gin and tonic. Bree nodded a silent ‘thank you’, taking a long sip before handing it back and continuing: “There’s no easy way to say it, Ai.”

“They did the thing?”

“Yeah. Nothing on delivery systems; a whole big heap on lethality and symptom suppression.”

“How close have they gotten?” Ai asked, her voice almost too quiet to hear above the background drone of the TV. Bree just glanced over at her, meeting her eyes, and shook her head. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So…what? What do they want from you?”

“They want neutralisation. Basically, they’ve got the pathogen, they were able to replicate our steps and modify the parameters, but they reached out to collaborate because they need help with working out how to make it…stop.”

“What made them think you’d want to be involved in that?”

“You know what kids are like. You know what we were like. You want to see if you can do the thing. You work the problem, not the context.”

“So they want to build a bomb.” It wasn’t a question.

“They want to build a nuke.”

“To see if they can.”

“Because someone working the context told them to.”

“Right.” Ai nodded slowly. “So what’re you gonna do?”

“What do you think I should do? It’s our work.”

“Incidentally. If it wasn’t us, it would’ve been someone else. Like the Canadian kids; if it hadn’t been them, it would’ve been someone else.”

“Yeah, semantically, but incidental or not…I have to make some sort of a choice here.”

“You’re not going to do it, are you?”

“Obviously not. I mean a choice between…nothing, and trying to do something.”

“Well…” Ai considered: “You can’t do nothing, because doing nothing isn’t inaction, it’s just a different action. And it’s a shitty one. But what actual options are there?” Ai asked, slowly sipping her gin and tonic. Bree met her eyes, her brow curving down around her eyes a little…her mouth rearranging itself into a thin-lipped, grim smile.

“Did you want to do a Chelsea Manning?”

“What, cuck a billionaire?” Ai smirked. Bree didn’t. “Oh, you’re serious.”

“The thing they’re building - with our fucking work - has only one possible application, Ai.”

“It’s not that part that’s giving me pause, Bree. We’re not in uni anymore. We have lives. More than that, things to live for. And the public don’t get science. Are they even gonna know why it’s so bad? If they don’t get why one-point-five degrees is catastrophic, how’re you going to explain that a stoppable virus is nightmare-fuel?”

“Then pitch me, Ai.”

“Let’s go to the lab.”

“What? Why?”

“They left you files, right? Hard-copy only, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah. Like I couldn’t just scan then.”

“Exactly. So let’s just scan them. We’ll go over it, work out if it’s really that bad. Maybe they’ve missed something that makes it untenable. Maybe it wouldn’t even survive outside of a lab setting. Maybe…maybe there’s something that downgrades this from whichever DEFCON is the worst one.”

“And if not?”

“If not…” Ai paused. “Then I guess we’ll have to find a way to make people listen. To make them care.” Ai got to her feet, swallowing down the remainder of her gin and tonic, almost as a kind of punctuation. “Ugh…” she frowned, looking at the glass in her hand suspiciously.

“What?”

“I don’t know, just tasted weirdly sweet for a second…and now it’s like the taste’s stuck in my mouth.” Ai shrugged. “Never mind, just let me get my keys and we’ll head out.”