Future Lovecraft by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Anthony Boulanger, Paula R. Stiles Page A

by one, from their plastic bag, examined them critically for a few minutes, then turned to me with her dark eyes wide, like she thought I’d be angry. “I can’t do anything, Moremi. I’m sorry. This thing’s wrecked.”
    I must have looked disappointed, because she jumped back like I’d startled her. Suardana was like a nervous little bird from day one. I’ve been told she passed her psych eval narrowly, but out here, she keeps getting worse.
    “It’s okay,” she said, holding out her hands. “It’s okay. We’ll get you a spare.”
    I leaned against the wall and tried to look real casual. If I don’t act casual around Suardana, she just gets worse. “I’m not too worried. Is it easy to get a spare?”
    Suardana nodded like she was placating a gunman. “Yes, it’s very easy. Very, very easy. You backed up your files, right?”
    “’Course.”
    “Just bring that to me tomorrow, and I’ll get one out of storage and put them on. Really, it’s easy. It’s fine.”
    I wasn’t lying to placate her. I really thought I had a backup. I remember saying goodbye to my family, hugging my sister like a vise and holding my mother more gently, afraid of hurting her. Trying to memorise the smell of the earth, even though it was just asphalt and fuel out there on the launch pad. Walking stiffly onto the ship, praying the photos and letters and music I’d packed onto the thumbtop would be enough. I’m sure I was smart enough to make a backup.
    But I’ve trashed my room. Every space-saving drawer. Every pocket. If we were allowed to keep personal files on the ship’s mainframe, I’d have trashed that, too. There was no backup. Finally, I gave up and took out this paper.
    I keep glancing out my little window, daring myself to look at the stars. I’ve only realised just now how much I’ve kept on my thumbtop and not in my head. I had a diary from Earth, but I can’t remember any of what I wrote. I had letters from all my friends, all my extended family, even a few ex-lovers. I can remember a few of their faces but only one name. I didn’t know it was possible to lose so much.
    I wonder if I’ll remember the percussive beat of a kwaito song, nine years from now. I wonder if I’ll remember Johannesburg. Or the moles on my sister’s face.
    Harmony I: Day 628
    I slept with Henri last night to block out the stars’ whispers. To think about something else besides cleaning, blood, and loss. It wasn’t our first time.
    I like Henri and I don’t like him. He has nice hands and nice legs. His hair is going prematurely grey. He’s nice to me, in a smarmy sort of way. He’s better than being alone.
    I don’t like trying to cuddle on his little cot. We can do it if we try, but once the endorphins wear off, it feels sweaty and squished. So, when we were done, I sat on the floor, wrapped myself in a blanket, stared into space. He ran his fingers through my hair.
    “You can take the spare Suardana offered,” he said, when he’d run out of sweet nothings. “You can borrow my music. Borrow everyone’s. Better than doing your oh-so-menial job in silence.”
    Henri gets to tease me about that. He’s an organic chemist, so he has one of the only jobs lower on the totem pole than mine: He repairs the composting toilets.
    “It’s not the silence. You know what it is.”
    “ Oui. And the lost files, of course.”
    “It’s the sounds.”
    I glanced at the window. I’d been hearing it more and more since my thumbtop broke. We were here when you were prokaryotes, said the stars. We will be here when you are dust.
    There was a nervous smile in Henri’s voice. “ Oui, Moremi, but don’t say it out loud. Ssh.”
    I closed my eyes and focused on his fingers in my hair. Normally, I don’t like closing my eyes with Henri. Not in the afterglow, when it’s only his fingers. I always end up realising, with a start, that the hand I’m imagining in my hair is Captain Hao’s.
    Harmony I: Day 643
    Henri’s music doesn’t