The Settlers (2 page)

Name?
 

Tasneem.

Last name?
 

Kyoh.
 

The nurse looks up at Tasneem, then back down at her documents.
Birthplace?

Seattle, Washington.
 

Age?
 

Thirty-three.

Birthdate?
 

June 11, 2075.

The nurse records this, then asks, Do you currently take any medications, or have any conditions that are under treatment?
 

No, ma'am.

History of cancer in your immediate family?
 

Tasneem nods.
My father.
Lung cancer.

What year?
 

I'm sorry?
 

What year did your father pass?
 

Oh.
Right.
2068.
 

The nurse nods.
The cloudburst, yes?

Yes.
Did you lose anyone?
 

Eleven in my family, the nurse says.
She shakes her head.
Can you believe that?
Just like that.
 

I remember.
 

The nurse clucks her tongue.
It was a dark time.
How about heart disease?

Tasneem struggles to keep up with the nurse's change of topic.
No.
Not that I know of.
 

Okay.
Heart disease, no.
Sexual activity?
 

Tasneem shakes her head.
I -- I haven't.
 

The nurse glances up again, squints at Tasneem.
Do you mean ever, or recently?
 

I haven't, Tasneem repeats.
Ever.

No sexual activity, the nurse says to herself, making a note on Tasneem's file.
 

Thirty-three years old, and still she is embarrassed to admit such a thing.
As though there is not more to life than a woman's virginity and its destruction, she often thinks to herself.
She only allows herself to contemplate her lack of experience for a moment, however, lest it bring her down.
 

Any strong drink or recreational drug use?
 

No, Tasneem says.
Pure as the driven snow.

The nurse ignores this comment.
Your father, he was...

Tasneem waits for the nurse to finish, but the question just dangles there, incomplete, so she attempts to fill it in.
A consult to the embassy, she offers.

The nurse looks perplexed.
I'm sorry.
I meant, your father's ethnicity was...
what?

Oh, Tasneem says.
Of course.
My father was Asian.
 

His birthplace?
 

Seoul.

What year?
 

2009.

Before the detonation, then, the nurse says.

Tasneem is dumbfounded.
The detonation was in 2042, she says.
My father was not twenty-six when he died.
 

Right, of course, the nurse says.
Although, I am -- sorry, I am perplexed about one thing.
 

Tasneem waits.

You said your father died in -- the nurse looks down at her documents -- 2068.
 

That's correct.
Tasneem has an idea of where the nurse is going with this, but she remains quiet.
 

And you were born in -- the nurse consults the papers again -- 2075.
 

Yes, Tasneem says.

The nurse looks up.
She doesn't say anything, just stares quizzically at Tasneem.

Tasneem waits.
 

Finally, the nurse says, I -- how -- I'm just confused.

My father preserved the necessary ingredients for life, Tasneem says.
So that my mother could have a child, even if he was not present.
 

Ah, okay, the nurse says.
You're an only child?

The first few tries didn't take, Tasneem says.
I was conceived from the last batch.
So yes, I'm an only child.
My mother is fiercely loyal, and did not remarry.

The nurse smiles uncomfortably.
Let's talk about your mother, then.
What year was she born?
 

2017, in Mumbai.
 

She was Indian, then?
 

Very much so.
 

Is she still alive?
 

No, ma'am.
My mother died in 2087.

You were --
 

Twelve.

That's terrible, the nurse says.
 

Yes, ma'am.
 

Your mother was part of the first wave.

We both were, yes.

So she died on Ganymede, the nurse concludes.
Not here on Aries.

Yes.
Aries wasn't around until last year.
 

Right, the nurse says.
I'm sorry.
That's ridiculous of me.

It's okay, Tasneem says.

The nurse taps her pen on the paperwork.
May I ask what from?
 

What from?

What did your mother die of?
I'm sorry to be indelicate.

Tasneem says, My mother died because she was a creature of the Earth, and my father was buried there.

The nurse blinks.
I -- I understand.
It's just -- I need a cause of death for the, um, papers.

She died of respiratory failure, Tasneem answers.

The nurse notes this on the papers, then stands up.
Tasneem stands as well, but the nurse says, No, please, sit.
It may be a few minutes, but the doctor will want to interview you himself.

Is that standard?
Tasneem asks.

You didn't think that the treatment was a simple pill you could take, did you?
The nurse gathers the paperwork.
No, every treatment requires a thorough investigation of your medical, emotional and psychological history, Ms.
Kyoh.
There's a bit more remaining, I'm afraid.

Tasneem sits down again.
I wasn't told much, she says.

Generally it's a seven-week process, and then we administer the treatment or deny treatment permanently, the nurse says.
You're at day one.
I hope you're a patient woman.

Deny?
Tasneem asks.
Permanently?

The nurse nods.
The doctor will tell you more.
Can I bring you anything?
Water?

No, thank you, Tasneem says.

Very well, the nurse says.
Hold tight.
He'll be here shortly.
 

Seven weeks?
Ridiculous.

Tasneem stirs honey into her tea.
I suppose it makes sense.

Sense how?
Audra asks.
I say if you're healthy and wealthy, you should get the treatment that same day.
They're providing a service.
You're the customer.

The customer hasn't always been right in fifty years, Tasneem says with a smile.
Besides, I really do get it.
Would you want to be responsible for making someone immortal who should not be?
 

Audra frowns.
Like David?
Because I'll tell you, that man has no business making it to the end of the week, much less the end of the millennium.
 

No, not like David, Tasneem says.
What if you were the doctor who immortalized a pathological killer, for example?
What if Jack the Ripper ripped his way through six centuries of hapless young women because you didn't do your homework?

You know, it's really hard to win an argument when you make so much sense, Audra complains.

Tasneem walks to the kitchen and picks through her produce basket until she finds a grapefruit.
She slices it in half, then holds one half up inquisitively.

Sure, Audra says.
 

Tasneem plucks two grapefruit spoons from the rack and returns to the table.
How are you and David this week?
 

Audra chuckles bitterly.
Do you think most people have to be asked that?
How are you
this week
.
Do you think most people get along for longer periods of time?

Maybe, Tasneem says.
I think of you and David as a special case, though.

Special!
Audra says.
Why, because David's high-functioning, and I'm just this shrill, incompetent thing who happens to share his bed?
 

Because you're both lovely people, and you've fashioned a partnership that's lasted about a hundred years despite some pretty fundamental differences, Tasneem says.
 

Well, this week, David's a complete jerk, Audra says.
And stop being so nice about him.
You're supporting me right now.
 

Tasneem pokes her grapefruit.
That's pretty disingenuous, Audra.
 

Oh, whatever, Audra says.
Look, everybody wants to wallow and be selfish sometimes.
 

And this is your time?

This is my time, Audra agrees.
If you don't want to support me unequivocally, that's fine.
Your prerogative.
You're smarter than me, after all.
I'm sure you see right through this bullshit.

I am smarter than you, Tasneem allows with a smile.

Oh, it's like that, now, Audra says.
 

Not really.
 

Okay.
Good.

It's all going to be fine, you know.

Audra sighs.
I know.
But it's nice to pretend sometimes that it isn't.
It makes these mood swings feel a bit more logical.
 

Twenty-two weeks pregnant deserves a bit of a break in the logic department, I'd say.
 

Thanks, Neem.
Audra sighs.
You know, David's talking about taking the treatment, too.
 

David would make a great immortal, Tasneem says.
 

We're disagreed about it, though.
Immortality is a little scary to me.
Audra sips her tea.
I mean, in a boring way.
I don't know if I could find enough to keep me busy and happy for a few thousand years.