Stories: All-New Tales

“Brennan threatens me with death. Surely you can see that I wanted to return to Beta Andromedae so that I could die there. I’ll suit up and go out again. You need only let me do it. Put a K beside my name in the log, and note that I was a suicide. It will be true, and if either of you is accused of my murder a veriscope reading will prove your innocence.”

Ena smiled. “Brennan?”

“I’m willing if you are.”

“I’m not. Not as it stands. You’ll have to do us a service first, Leif. Go through the ship and collect the birds. All of them. Get them back inside you. They went in once, and I think they’ll go in again if you approach them right. Do it, and we’ll go back as you ask and put you out.”

HE HAD SPREAD HIMSELF like a starfish, and the birds had flown. All of them—or nearly all. Now he blew like a dry leaf in the solar wind, revolving like a cartwheel.

His air was running out. His body would die; and that which would not die would be free at last, free to rove the universe and beyond.

Death waited beside him, warm and dark and friendly, and Leif could hardly wait.

IN HER CABIN, ENA smiled to herself as she shook the small brown bottle. She had caught the faint fragrance of Brennan’s aftershave when he relieved her on the bridge. He could not possibly have brought enough to last for half the voyage; thus he had hoarded some and was using it now.

The odor haunted her, delightful and unidentifiable. What aftershave had Walt used, what cologne? She had known those things once, but they were gone and only the memory of Brennan’s faint fragrance remained. Russian leather? Spice? Neither seemed correct.

Turning the bottle over in her hand, she reread the label she had read so often since finding the bottle in a food locker: ¬ËÊ£ÌÌË ¤ÎŸ¢ËØŸ.

She would smell like a cookie.

Opening the bottle, she applied the thin brown liquid it contained to five strategic spots.

Brennan would welcome her return. They would kiss, and she would unbutton his shirt. And then—

She interrupted the daydream to listen. A bird sang in her right wrist.

UNWELL

Carolyn Parkhurst

I WAS FEELING A BIT UNWELL, so I called Yvonne to come and sit with me. I believe that sisters have a responsibility to look out for one another, even though that doesn’t seem to be a popular view with everybody these days. I think that if more people would take their family responsibilities more seriously, then the world wouldn’t be in the kind of trouble…But the phone was ringing.

“Hello,” said Yvonne.

“Yvonne, I need you to come over this afternoon. I’m not well.”

I heard her sigh on the other end; I don’t believe she even tried to mask it. “Is it really important, Arlette? I’ve got a million wedding things to do.”

“Oh, the wedding. Is that coming up soon?”

“It’s Saturday, Arlette, and you know it.”

“Well, I hope I’ll be able to make it. I’ve been feeling weak all day, and I’m not at all sure I’ll be myself by Saturday.”

“Arlette, please don’t start…”

“Well, it’s hardly my fault if I’m ill. But perhaps if I had a little help…”

There was a long silence. I could just see her on the other end, wearing that outlandish engagement ring on her finger. A woman her age. “All right,” she said. “I’ll get Arthur to do some of my errands for me. I’ll be over in half an hour.”

We hung up, and I leaned back against my bed pillows, well pleased.

THE FACT IS, THIS should by all rights be my wedding. Yvonne and I met Arthur at the same time, and it was clear from the beginning that I was the one he was interested in. It used to be, in biblical times, and I believe some other notable points in history, that if there were two unmarried sisters, the younger one wasn’t allowed to be married before the elder. It was illegal. If the younger sister tried to break the rules and run off and get married anyway, they’d put her to death. I should tell that to Yvonne. They’d cut her head right off. It was just the way it was.