Solomon’s Choice – a novel

Excerpt from Chapter One

Cancer.

Some books I’ve read (by firelight, in underground bunkers, of course) indicate this particular problem ceased to plague us sometime in the… how did they count it? Twenty-second century.

I said plague. Ha! I have made a joke.

Unfortunately, how they eschewed that awful mutation has been lost, though perhaps that is just as well. I’ve hardly the means they did, and will need to cobble.

Here in the Fey distribution center, our rescuers stay on their side, and we stay on ours. Surrounded by smooth black stone, we deal with detoxification, research, and handouts, and the Fey do whatever occupies their time—walking back and forth in perfect grace, beautiful and remarkable and utterly alien. How much of their perfect appearance is magic versus some strange physicality, I cannot say. It’s not as though I’ll ever have leave to study them.

Though, judging by my studies of expression and communication (and assuming Fey body language is equivalent to ours), none of them ever seem happy to be here.

That is fair, I think. No one is particularly happy in this situation.

I am maundering, and I don’t have time for that. I store my PPE, ignoring my coworkers and happily being ignored, and think.

Cancer. A challenge too great for us, here and now; a challenge that eats away at our dying species, limiting our lifespans even more than they already are. I have been tasked to cure it, and I have no idea where to start.

This falls outside the usual assignments. I don’t know why the Council gave it to me.

No, that is an untruth. I know precisely why they did, and it is because they wish me to fail.

#

PPE stored, dressed in the soft, greige trousers and tops the Fey deign to provide, I follow the black hall deeper underground to where I work. Daniels is coming up as I go down, and I step to the side, out of his way.

He takes three steps out of his way and shoulder-checks me, regardless.

“Watch it,” he snaps as I hit the wall.

“My apologies,” I say to our soft, greige slippers, and risk a glance at his face.

There is an endless stream of nonverbal communication in posture and expression and vocal tone, and in spite of my autodidactic efforts, much still goes over my head. Fortunately, Daniels is easy to read. He smiles tightly, face raised so he can peer at me down his nose (slightly wrinkled), the corners of his mouth turned down; I think this is disgust and superiority. Consistent, if humiliating.

He must have something to do, though, because instead of engaging further, he continues on his way.

Good. I do not have time to be bullied today any more than I have time to maunder. Not with this on my plate.

The lab is huge, an enormous space ventilated to keep us alive as we try to experiment. There are numerous tables and workstations, and the number of my coworkers varies between six and ten. It’s approximately five times the square footage of my own small domicile, not counting floor-to-ceiling.

I love it dearly. It feels more home to me than anywhere else. Especially this corner here where the few devices I’ve scavenged sit, purring softly, running on eternal Fey power. They are not many, and they are not yet truly useful; my coworkers discarded them because they largely are not configurable.

We cannot use magic. We cannot access it or control it, and so the settings of these devices are stuck wherever they were.

I don’t care. They’re tools. And we have so few.

“Iskinder,” says Epperly, giving me a nod of… acknowledgment, if not welcome. No smile, no lingering eye-contact.

I nod back, doing my best to imitate their motion.

It seems I succeeded. They turn back to their Petri dishes and magnification stone. Point to me!

Idiot me. I also have no time for self-congratulation.

Cancer. The concept is so simple and yet so horrifying: a change to our DNA results in uncontrolled cellular mitosis, which then metastasize vital organs, stealing more than their share of metabolic nutrients, and eventually leading to organ failure and host death. The challenge is three-fold: how to make them stop reproducing; how to remove the excess cells without killing the host; and how to repair the DNA so it does not do this again.

All of this is beyond us, and yet, I have been assigned. Why?

I mean… I know why. We have limited tech, all of it Fey-provided, discarded on their end as ancient and dull. We have limited population, consisting of survivors’ descendants, dwelling in Fey housing. The soil is still too irradiated outside our domes to grow anything, and within them, the lack of healthy bacteria similarly prevents agriculture. The finite supply of Fey food and water creates a hard limit: we simply cannot afford unnecessary people.

I straddle that line.

I am broken; something is very wrong with me, leading to hyperfocus, leading to inability to read my fellow humans well, leading to my overall and unending strangeness… but I am also very intelligent, and driven, and one of four geneticists currently living.

This has happened before, though never quite so intensely. Tom said they’d do something like this soon; he gave me the warning that, yet again, I would have to prove myself. As usual, he was right.

There has to be a way. There has to be something. I take out my notebook (provided, naturally, by the Fey), and begin to write my thoughts.

#

Hours pass. I know this because the shift changes, and my compatriots all leave. Alone, I struggle.

It’s a quiet, empty place with them gone. I find myself grateful for the silence because I can vent my frustration: I’ve made no progress. I’ve dug up every old resource we had access to. I’ve re-read my old textbooks in case I missed some detail. I’ve studied every single sample I have, which, to be fair, do not number many; I cannot see a way to do this with the tools at my disposal.

Far up the entry slope, musical, perfect laughter echoes toward me like crystalline light, dancing invisibly along the path.

It suddenly occurs to me that I am not, in fact, alone here. The Fey always indwell this place, as only makes sense, given that it’s their center. I know I am not in trouble; there is literally no reason to feel uncomfortable, though I know it is likely late, dark out, and I have broken no laws.

Indeed, the Fey don’t really have laws for us. Technically, they’re not in charge of anything; the Association is our government, our system of legal enforcement and organization. Still, I cannot help my knee-jerk response of guilt, or fear of guilt, burgeoning from years of discovering myself in the wrong place, or saying the wrong thing, without ever knowing ahead of time that I was about to err.

There are a lot more Fey in the halls than usual, this late. I suppose that makes sense; according to the textbooks, they are primarily nocturnal creatures (indeed, a majority of the Mythos are), and naturally, they’d be far more comfortable when we are less present.

I usually am not out this late. Sleep is important; I can be tetchy or too distractable if I don’t get enough. It’s time to quit for the evening. I’m not likely to conceive anything new at this point, anyway.

I am as small and unobtrusive as I can be as I exit my research dungeon (as Tom fondly calls it), head down, hands at my sides, taking up as little space as possible. It is… strange, though; unlike my own species, the Fey barely seem to notice me.

Gods, they are everywhere, calling to one another in their strange and musical language, laughing, casually tossing magic back and forth to accomplish, for all I know, pretty sparkles and demonstrations of power. I am utterly ignored.

I am utterly thrilled to be, as well. If this is life among the Fey, I much prefer—

No, Sol. No. Don’t be an idiot. You belong to your people, and they need you. That is, after all, the entire reason you put up with all of this pressure.

It’s not their fault you’re a freak, Tom pointed out to me reasonably when we were twelve, and I’d wept for I had no other friends. Neither, I eventually realized, could they be blamed for their innate disgust, their subconscious compulsion to avoid me, as one who presents a genetic weakness. I am well aware of all of that. It’s just… nice… to be ignored, for once, instead of watched like some bomb which might go off and ruin the autozygome of anyone in range.

“Goodness, I’ve grown cynical today,” I murmur to myself (a regrettable habit developed during a lonely childhood), and remove my PPE from my locker. “Almost as if a looming death sentence and impossible task are enough to tip me into bitterness.”

Wry. My humor is wry. Almost no one understands it. That’s all right, too. At least I amuse myself.

It is strangely satisfying to lift each item to don in order, though this requires an extra moment of organization upon disrobing. First, and on top, are the boots—

A cry startles me, sharp and angry and sudden, and I freeze.

It is followed by argument—this, fierce and quiet and heated, though in that Fey language I cannot understand.

What… is happening? I’ve never heard them argue before. I hear three distinct voices, and the emotion therein is fascinating. How could such beautiful, perfect, magical people express secret frustrations like this?

It’s strangely human, and my curiosity drowns my good sense. Quietly, I replace my PPE. Quietly, I creep toward them, though I know my attempts at stealth would normally be insufficient. They seem distracted enough that I think I could—

Two perfect naked people come bolting out of a room, skin glistening with sweat and magic. their ears are long and graceful like old videos of silk, and their faces are flushed and happy. Things jiggle most appealingly as they run past, laughing.

Surely, turning to stare would be… not right?

I stand stock still, face ahead, as they trip off to wherever perfect naked Fey go when they’re… actually, I have no idea what they’re doing. I suspect I know what they were doing.

A third Fey steps from the door, grim, frowning, wearing the remarkable bodysuit of their soldier class. Oh, what I would do to get my hands on that armor! It seems alive, somehow, aware, instantly shifting to protect any part under attack. Designed entirely of small black scales, it fits them like paint, and tiny blue arcs of electricity or something dance from scale to scale, reminding me of nothing more than the long-ago recordings of fish splashing the surface of the water.

He seems to be having a rough day, too, and stops when he sees me, frown deepening. “Aren’t all your kind home by now?” he says.

Effortless, accentless. Such facility, these people have. “I’m on my way, sir.”

He sighs through his nose. “Do whatever you want, for fuck’s sake,” he says, and marches after the two jaybirds. “You two better be—” and he slips back into their own tongue, which, though musical, now I suspect carries invective.

Well. Is that what they get up to when we leave?

Logically, no, or those two would not have gotten into trouble, however minor. At least now I know what they were—

I freeze. Fey don’t get cancer. Really, they don’t; something about their bodies resists the same flawed telomeres we produce. And… there is a possibility someone left DNA in that room.

More laughter echoes toward me from some other room, along what, judging by tone, good-hearted protests and upbraiding. They’re busy. I don’t think anyone will know if I… if I…

Am I really going to do this?

Yes. I am. For science.

Coming Soon