like? To look down on a great blue ocean planet?
It would be a thing of great beauty, Tasneem says.
And great sadness, Dr. Widla agrees.
You could see it, Tasneem says. If the space stations are still here then.
I'm sure the space stations will be here for many centuries to come. But I will not.
Tasneem is surprised. What do you mean? Surely you've had --
Soma? Dr. Widla shakes his head. No, I haven't.
But why not?
I am a lonely man, Tasneem, he says. I had a wife, once. I miss her every day. I could not bear that for centuries more. Even a decade seems unpleasant to consider.
My mother was like you, Tasneem says. It was bad enough when my father died, but she hung on. I think when we moved to Ganymede, she felt like her grasp of him had been severed. She lasted for as long as she could.
I would have liked to meet her, Dr. Widla says.
The two of them stand at the window, watching the Earth gently turn.
David whispers in her ear. I didn't ask you before, but -- would you keep me on your wrist? During?
Tasneem doesn't answer, but she doesn't have to.
Doctor Widla places his hand on Tasneem's shoulder. She looks up at his kind face.
Well, my dear, he says. Let's begin.
These two casualties bring the total number to twenty-seven.
Unbelievable, Stanley.
It certainly is, Lisa.
On that note, let's take a look at preparations for the Cosmo Bowl this Saturday...
Bullshit. It's bullshit, Tamara, and you know it's --
Blair, Jesus, yes, I know, I get it. You're not screen talent, though. It's the same old argument I have with you and every other pulse writer. I want to be on camera, let me be on camera, why didn't you let me be on camera?
Blair turns and slams his fist against the door. I'm not every other writer, Tamara, and you know it.
Tamara Antelo sighs. You're right. But you're also not screen-ready, Blair. I don't know how else to tell you.
Blair flops into the chair opposite Tamara's desk. I feel like a drama queen, he mutters.
You and every other reporter have played that same part for about a hundred and fifty years. You're no more dramatic than the rest of them.
It's just -- you know I've been chewing on this story for months now. I deserve the credit for it.
Tamara opens her arms. That's not how it works, Blair. You want credit, go independent. You want visibility, stay here. You'll get a shot, but not before you're ready.
Twenty-seven people are dead, Tamara. From a medical treatment that's, you know, supposed to make you live forever. I've done a lot of legwork on this. I've talked to a lot of people. I've seen David Dewbury's bloated corpse. The least you can do is let me talk about it on screen. Let Stanley fucking interview me -- I don't care. I don't need to be the face of the studio. But the words should come out of my mouth, one way or another.
You're stubborn, Tamara says. It's not very original, but it works. So I'll tell you this -- you get me an exclusive to go along with all of that hard work, something I can promo the shit out of, and I'll... I'll put you on screen. Stanley will ask the questions, you can be the expert. Fair enough?
Done, Blair says.
Alright. Get the hell out of my space.
He won't see you, Mr. Hudgens. Not after last time.
Come on, Blair says. Look, it's not his fault. He didn't invent the stuff, he just administers it.
Doctor Widla was shredded on screenview, Mr. Hudgens. The entire fleet saw it. He had to let the whole staff go.
Except you, I see.
Somebody's got to answer when slugs like you call. Goodbye.
Fuck, Blair says. He leans his head back against the fast-track window.
Six years following Dewbury's death from Amrita, the black-market version of Soma, the story had turned. Soma patients themselves were beginning to die -- they just toppled over on the concourse, never got out of bed, slumped over their breakfasts. Nobody was sure yet what was happening -- when they were, Blair hoped
It would be a thing of great beauty, Tasneem says.
And great sadness, Dr. Widla agrees.
You could see it, Tasneem says. If the space stations are still here then.
I'm sure the space stations will be here for many centuries to come. But I will not.
Tasneem is surprised. What do you mean? Surely you've had --
Soma? Dr. Widla shakes his head. No, I haven't.
But why not?
I am a lonely man, Tasneem, he says. I had a wife, once. I miss her every day. I could not bear that for centuries more. Even a decade seems unpleasant to consider.
My mother was like you, Tasneem says. It was bad enough when my father died, but she hung on. I think when we moved to Ganymede, she felt like her grasp of him had been severed. She lasted for as long as she could.
I would have liked to meet her, Dr. Widla says.
The two of them stand at the window, watching the Earth gently turn.
David whispers in her ear. I didn't ask you before, but -- would you keep me on your wrist? During?
Tasneem doesn't answer, but she doesn't have to.
Doctor Widla places his hand on Tasneem's shoulder. She looks up at his kind face.
Well, my dear, he says. Let's begin.
These two casualties bring the total number to twenty-seven.
Unbelievable, Stanley.
It certainly is, Lisa.
On that note, let's take a look at preparations for the Cosmo Bowl this Saturday...
Bullshit. It's bullshit, Tamara, and you know it's --
Blair, Jesus, yes, I know, I get it. You're not screen talent, though. It's the same old argument I have with you and every other pulse writer. I want to be on camera, let me be on camera, why didn't you let me be on camera?
Blair turns and slams his fist against the door. I'm not every other writer, Tamara, and you know it.
Tamara Antelo sighs. You're right. But you're also not screen-ready, Blair. I don't know how else to tell you.
Blair flops into the chair opposite Tamara's desk. I feel like a drama queen, he mutters.
You and every other reporter have played that same part for about a hundred and fifty years. You're no more dramatic than the rest of them.
It's just -- you know I've been chewing on this story for months now. I deserve the credit for it.
Tamara opens her arms. That's not how it works, Blair. You want credit, go independent. You want visibility, stay here. You'll get a shot, but not before you're ready.
Twenty-seven people are dead, Tamara. From a medical treatment that's, you know, supposed to make you live forever. I've done a lot of legwork on this. I've talked to a lot of people. I've seen David Dewbury's bloated corpse. The least you can do is let me talk about it on screen. Let Stanley fucking interview me -- I don't care. I don't need to be the face of the studio. But the words should come out of my mouth, one way or another.
You're stubborn, Tamara says. It's not very original, but it works. So I'll tell you this -- you get me an exclusive to go along with all of that hard work, something I can promo the shit out of, and I'll... I'll put you on screen. Stanley will ask the questions, you can be the expert. Fair enough?
Done, Blair says.
Alright. Get the hell out of my space.
He won't see you, Mr. Hudgens. Not after last time.
Come on, Blair says. Look, it's not his fault. He didn't invent the stuff, he just administers it.
Doctor Widla was shredded on screenview, Mr. Hudgens. The entire fleet saw it. He had to let the whole staff go.
Except you, I see.
Somebody's got to answer when slugs like you call. Goodbye.
Fuck, Blair says. He leans his head back against the fast-track window.
Six years following Dewbury's death from Amrita, the black-market version of Soma, the story had turned. Soma patients themselves were beginning to die -- they just toppled over on the concourse, never got out of bed, slumped over their breakfasts. Nobody was sure yet what was happening -- when they were, Blair hoped
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