TEN YEARS HENCE (3)
*5*
Seven days passes
before absence becomes desertion, and then the charge has to be proven. (If I
kept my ID, for example, and proved I'd had every intention of returning
eventually, I'd be charged with ‘absence’, a far less serious offence). How
long had I been out cold, then?
Everyone in the office was looking
at me, like I was a prize exhibit. I guess it was intentional: it had the
effect of making me, an apparent malcontent, small, as the disapproving eyes of
officialdom glared.
This feeling of inferiority not
unnaturally induced me to lower my eyes to collect my faculties - providing I'd
not lost them with everything else. I reckon it must've looked like I was
repentant too: good effect, that.
A well-polished desk surface.
Thereon, my reflection. A sinking sensation in my whole being, unlike anything
I'd encountered in the hibernation pods and the space-ways. Somehow, I
controlled my hysteria and reckoned I'd better ask one more question. Upon
looking up, I had the answer.
On the far wall, beside the mirror,
hung a cheesecake calendar, stating quite categorically that I'd awoken from my
assault not only poorer in possessions but also in years.
According to the calendar I'd been
out of circulation nine years and seven months!
*6*
And calendars are
seldom that far out.
Steeling myself, knowing I'd have to
face the truth eventually, I asked to see the mirror.
I was abruptly cautioned to keep
silence while my charge was typed and the Incident Report corroborated. Now
they used the terminal; these guys could both read and write at the same time,
it seemed.
Whispering ‘Regs be damned’ I
flipped up the counter top and barged through. In front of the mirror I stared
and though my eyes registered on me, all I could think of was my aghast face.
Never had I seen such shock, revulsion, fear, utter despair, disbelief. You
name it. And horror. Absolute horror.
I felt my forehead, cheeks and nose;
throat and ears. It wouldn't rub off: I was tattooed. Good and proper. Not an
overnight job, either...
As I stared dumbfounded at the
character writing running down over my forehead and nose and cheeks, chin and
throat, no doubt all the way over my body, I wondered what the Chinese
pictographs said and, more important, meant.
*7*
A restraining pair of
powerful hands on my shoulders brought me out of my reverie. With the strength
more of a madman than naturally inherent, I shook off the Patrolman's hold, and
stormed out of the office.
Passing the Spaceport Gates was a
Malay coolie, chatting with a Venusian taxi-driver. Grabbing the coolie, I
yelled in Pidgin English, pointing at my forehead, demanding the meaning of the
words. In my frenzy and fury I ripped off my Velcro uniform-front to reveal yet
more character-writing over chest and belly and continuing towards my lower
abdomen...
The coolie jabbered incoherently.
I felt those selfsame hands
restraining me again. Game, this Reg! Spinning round, I kicked him off-balance
and my fist connected with his nose.
They had to drag me off the poor
coolie. He probably didn't read Chinese anyway.
*8*
After I'd given my
story of amnesia and of only now discovering my tattoos, the Spaceport Admiral
personally urged that I be jetted to Whitehall.
Under escort on the RAF Hotol, I had
time to reflect. After my expected sentence, any thought of marrying and
settling down was out of the question. Who'd marry a freak? The writing's not
even in English!
At thought of marrying and settling
down I remembered Patricia and her being pregnant. What of her? Nine years - boy
or girl?
Eyes now full of remorse, for things
and times that could have been. An indescribable feeling passed over me, as
though my thoughts, of marrying and settling down with Patricia had occurred
before: deja vu?
The Chinese air-hostess was very charming
- and helpful! She gave me a slip of paper with my lemon tea.
After re-entry over the Channel I
read at long last what at least some of the writing on my skin meant. But not
why:
‘The writing on your face -- freely
translated means, “When the first leaves fall, you will die to release the soul
of another to be reborn.”’
No signature; probably would've
signed in Chinese.
On my way in the Patrol wagon I
learned I was using my last day alive travelling to Whitehall...
It was spotting on to rain, too.
Bleak all round, you could say.
… to be concluded tomorrow…
Originally published in Nova SF, 1993. Copyright Nik Morton, 2014
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