Showing of Sustenance
by Kersley Fitzgerald
I stare out the window
at the snow, trying to remember how it feels. I think it’s cold. And, back at the ‘Tained, it almost always came with wind. I try to remember what it’s like to be cold, but can’t. The yellow-green, full-body suit maintains a constant sixty-five degrees on my skin, down to my shaved head.
Snap! The teacher cracks one of its long, thin tendrils at my ear, narrowly missing, in warning. Sharp, pointed, transparent teeth hang like icicles behind pale lips. Icicles are cold, too. I think.
“Student Gras, Sows insists on disciplined senses, please, or Gras risks separation,” it hisses.
“Sorry, ‘structor,” I hiss back. “Gras was spying snow.”
It turns to look out the window, but recoils in horror. “Such harsh tempest, Student Gras? So especially frosty and unpleasant. Soon, Schrell’s Seniors shall sway the skies and succeed in shaping of this slice of space from the vicious to the victorious.”
It continues on about the wonders of the new world, and my eyes glaze over. I imagine sitting on the back of Granddad’s snowmobile, feeling the cold bite at my skin.
Granddad once told me about the Before. He said there were only people and animals on the planet back then. Lots of people, millions and billions. I don’t know if I believe him. But then the Schrell crash-landed in Lake Pend Oreille in northern Idaho. Half of the Schrell hadn’t lived through the journey, and the survivors were so weak. A hundred died the first year. Granddad said all the countries volunteered to help them. They taught them how to find food (funny that they ate the same stuff we did) and gave them places to live. They were really nice and grateful. Least, that’s what Granddad said.
That was sixty years ago. Before the plague that wiped out most of the people. Before the people were herded into Sustained Spaces where they wouldn’t bother the Schrell. Before the Schrell killed almost all the cows so they could make jewelry out of their teeth. I remember having meat. That was a long time ago. Then they took me off the ‘Tained to go to the Glorious School.
I have a free period before evening meal, so I go to the showers. There’s one, second from the last on the left, that has a busted handle. If you hit it just right, it only puts out cold water, not the steady one hundred four degrees of every other tap in the school. I turn it on high. Bumps rise up on my skin. A minute later, my jaw starts shaking. I think that’s called shivering. I shut off the water and hurry to the mirror. My lips are blue.
We don’t dare tell the Schrell about the busted shower. They might fix it.
Evening meal is a formal, so I put on the blue hooded cape over my bodysuit. The suit feels hot after the cold water, and my face turns red. I hope it goes back to normal soon, or they’ll send me to the infirmary. I carefully slide Granddad’s military ID in my sleeve. I never go anywhere without it, but I know they’d take it away if they knew.
I forgot. Tonight is the Showing of Sustenance. It’s the anniversary of the big dinner the people gave the Schrell when they first crashed. Granddad said they had burgers and fries but, since the Schrell killed almost all the cows, we just get pigeon. They’re not too bad, but I miss Granddad’s ribs.
We have a special visitor for Evening Lecture—a Senior. They’re even paler and more fragile looking than our teachers. I keep waiting for it to fall over and break into a dozen pieces. He talks about progress and glory and how lucky we are to be in the school where Schrell and people can work together. But I keep imagining the snow. The lecture hall doesn’t have windows, so I close my eyes. I wonder if the flakes are still the big, wet, fat ones, or if the cold night turned them to the sharp, tiny ones that sting when they hit your skin.
“Hey, John.”
I jump at the sound of my people-name and look around quick to see if an instructor heard. If we get caught using English, it’s no good.
“Hey, John,” Tony says.
“What?” I whisper.
“Why we gotta listen to this guy? Why we gotta celebrate the Showing of Sustenance. These guys aren’t sustaining anything but themselves.”
“Man, don’t say that. If they hear you—” I don’t get to finish. Instructor Sows wraps a tendril around my neck and pulls. Tony is choking behind me. The big Schrell drags us into the Supervision Section and stands us in front of it. It sprawls on a chaise, its tendrils still hanging from our throats, like lines from a couple of fish.
“Student Gras, Student Shess, such speech shouldn’t sound in the Glorious School.”
I feel cold in my suit, but I’m sweating, and my heart’s pounding hard. Instructor Sows loosens his grip a little.
“This is crap,” Tony says in English. “We shouldn’t have to celebrate this stupid feast. This is…”
Tony gurgles. I don’t dare turn my head.
“Student Shess,” Instructor Sows hisses, “it’s especially illicit to speak any sound but the glorious speech of Schrell. Surely no student chosen for civilization is excused. Shess is selfish to disrespect Schrell’s shelter and sinecure.”
Tony thumps to the floor in a heap. I think he’s dead. My mind whirls. This isn’t right. How come we have to learn all about them, but they don’t have to learn about us? They’re taking us away from who we are. This isn’t friendship. This is kidnapping—and murder. Not all of us living together.
I don’t want to be them. I’m not a Schrell. I’m a people.
I feel my pulse slow to normal. Instructor Sows turns to me.
“Sows should sense Student Gras’s assessment?”
I look at the Schrell in its yellow eyes, pull out the ID card, and draw the sharp plastic across the tendril around my neck. The fragile flesh cuts easily and falls into a squirming snake on the ground. The Instructor howls in pain. Warm, red blood covers my hands.
“My name is John.”
The snow’s just as cold as I remember. I check my suit thermostat and try to remember where the ‘Tained lay.
BIO
"Kersley Fitzgerald lives in Colorado with her husband, her son, and the World’s Most Neurotic Dog ™. Her degree in engineering and four years active duty service in the Air Force have done nearly nothing to prepare her for a life as a fiction writer, unless you count those performance reports and awards packages. She would like to send thanks to Donita K. Paul, Jefferson Scott, and Bruce Bethke for their selfless encouragement. And, of course and especially, her husband, Tom. See more of her writing at http://sites.google.com/site/kersleyfitzgerald/home"
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