Harvest
The admission report showed that Roewan Crais' ailing wife brought him to the facility seven cycles earlier. Since her death a cycle later there was no record of any inquiries or visitors. Patient data stores indicated he had no other living relatives.
"Mostly he just sits and stares," Jahdo, the Luxan attendant said as they advanced through a labyrinth of corridors. Every third stride a small window allowed a glimpse inside another of the square cubicles the staff referred to as resident quarters, soundproofed to hide the screams, ventilated to eliminate the smell.
"What was his diagnosis?" Bialar Crais asked.
"Stementia. It bears some similarity to the Living Death, but it's not temperature induced. The symptoms come on slowly and take cycles to develop. Probably initiated by a trauma when he was younger. By the time he got here he was pretty much a veg..."
Something dark splattered across the window alongside them. Inside the cubicle, fists pounded at the glass, smearing what Crais guessed was fecal matter across it. The attendant swore under his breath as he slapped his comm badge. "We need a hose down in 407." He hurried Crais along as heavy footsteps closed quickly behind them. "That one's always causing trouble."
Jahdo stopped and swiped his ident card through a scan lock. "Here he is. He does talk on occasion, but doesn't make any sense. You want me to wait here while you visit your...what did you say he was to you?"
"An acquaintance of my father. Thank you, but I'll be fine alone."
"Activate your badge when you're ready."
The moment the door clicked shut the walls closed in as though to suffocate him. His *quarters* consisted of a narrow ledge the length of one wall on which to sleep and a chair bolted to the floor with a dropdown tray for meals. In the opposite corner a shower nozzle protruded from above the commode. It came on for exactly fifty microts every day, no more, no less. A single recessed coil in the middle of the ceiling provided the only light, twelve arns on, twelve arns off. The floor slanted inward to a circular drain in the center of the room.
The old man remained seated, his face toward the wall. Crais approached and rested a hesitant hand on his shoulder.
"Father?"
He sat down on the ledge and gazed mutely at the twisted face in front of him, barely discernable through unkempt white hair and a full beard.
"Father, I wanted you to know that..."
The old man's head snapped around, eyes bulging. "You're too late," he shouted.
"But I only just found-"
"They already took everything I ever had. You'll just have to kill me this time, 'cause I got nothing left for you vultures to steal."
"Father, it's Bialar...your son."
"You stole my life from me. What more do you want?"
He gripped the old man by the shoulders and forced him to face him. "I am *not* a Peacekeeper. I am your son. Father, please...I am your son, Bialar."
"Bialar?"
"Yes, yes...that's right. Bialar."
"We've got to get them off the vine today, son. One day too late and we lose maybe twenty, thirty percent at market."
"I remember," Crais said.
"No...no, don't wake your brother. He's too young. Come along, son." The old man looked straight at him. "It's going to be a long day, boy. I'm counting on you."
He looked into his father's vacant eyes and nodded. "Yes, Father. You can count on me."
Gently, he cupped the sunken, sallow face in his hands and whispered to him, "We never forgot. We were always your sons. They could not take that from us." His own hands trembling, he gathered the old man's curled, skeletal fingers and gave them a light squeeze, without response.
After an arn, or maybe two, he activated the comm.
The admission report showed that Roewan Crais' ailing wife brought him to the facility seven cycles earlier. Since her death a cycle later there was no record of any inquiries or visitors. Patient data stores indicated he had no other living relatives.
"Mostly he just sits and stares," Jahdo, the Luxan attendant said as they advanced through a labyrinth of corridors. Every third stride a small window allowed a glimpse inside another of the square cubicles the staff referred to as resident quarters, soundproofed to hide the screams, ventilated to eliminate the smell.
"What was his diagnosis?" Bialar Crais asked.
"Stementia. It bears some similarity to the Living Death, but it's not temperature induced. The symptoms come on slowly and take cycles to develop. Probably initiated by a trauma when he was younger. By the time he got here he was pretty much a veg..."
Something dark splattered across the window alongside them. Inside the cubicle, fists pounded at the glass, smearing what Crais guessed was fecal matter across it. The attendant swore under his breath as he slapped his comm badge. "We need a hose down in 407." He hurried Crais along as heavy footsteps closed quickly behind them. "That one's always causing trouble."
Jahdo stopped and swiped his ident card through a scan lock. "Here he is. He does talk on occasion, but doesn't make any sense. You want me to wait here while you visit your...what did you say he was to you?"
"An acquaintance of my father. Thank you, but I'll be fine alone."
"Activate your badge when you're ready."
The moment the door clicked shut the walls closed in as though to suffocate him. His *quarters* consisted of a narrow ledge the length of one wall on which to sleep and a chair bolted to the floor with a dropdown tray for meals. In the opposite corner a shower nozzle protruded from above the commode. It came on for exactly fifty microts every day, no more, no less. A single recessed coil in the middle of the ceiling provided the only light, twelve arns on, twelve arns off. The floor slanted inward to a circular drain in the center of the room.
The old man remained seated, his face toward the wall. Crais approached and rested a hesitant hand on his shoulder.
"Father?"
He sat down on the ledge and gazed mutely at the twisted face in front of him, barely discernable through unkempt white hair and a full beard.
"Father, I wanted you to know that..."
The old man's head snapped around, eyes bulging. "You're too late," he shouted.
"But I only just found-"
"They already took everything I ever had. You'll just have to kill me this time, 'cause I got nothing left for you vultures to steal."
"Father, it's Bialar...your son."
"You stole my life from me. What more do you want?"
He gripped the old man by the shoulders and forced him to face him. "I am *not* a Peacekeeper. I am your son. Father, please...I am your son, Bialar."
"Bialar?"
"Yes, yes...that's right. Bialar."
"We've got to get them off the vine today, son. One day too late and we lose maybe twenty, thirty percent at market."
"I remember," Crais said.
"No...no, don't wake your brother. He's too young. Come along, son." The old man looked straight at him. "It's going to be a long day, boy. I'm counting on you."
He looked into his father's vacant eyes and nodded. "Yes, Father. You can count on me."
Gently, he cupped the sunken, sallow face in his hands and whispered to him, "We never forgot. We were always your sons. They could not take that from us." His own hands trembling, he gathered the old man's curled, skeletal fingers and gave them a light squeeze, without response.
After an arn, or maybe two, he activated the comm.