little.
Tasneem exhales slowly. Yes. Of course, I'm scared. With the news, I'm not sure anybody wouldn't be.
What does it feel like, knowing that death may be coming?
She closes her eyes. It feels... hollow. Inevitable.
But so far, you've been lucky, Blair says.
Very, she answers, opening her eyes.
Do you feel cheated?
Cheated?
You underwent months of psychiatric evaluation, of painful investigation of your past, for a treatment that is designed to extend your life by as long as one hundred years, Blair says. With Soma, your life expectancy of one hundred years just became two hundred. And that's just speculation, because nobody knows how effective the treatment will be at such distant points in the future. So, yes, that's my question -- do you feel cheated?
Tasneem shakes her head. I don't know. I hadn't thought about it in quite that way. I suppose it's possible, but for now, I'm alive. Ask me again when I'm dead?
Blair laughs. Well, let me ask you about that streak in your hair, then.
Oh, this, Tasneem says, fingering the white stripe in her otherwise dark hair.
So far, the patients who have died from Soma have reportedly witnessed their own hair go white before they passed away, Blair says. What does that white stripe mean to you?
Tasneem looks up at the lock of white hair that she's holding away from her face. It means, so far, that I'm a survivor.
I wonder if perhaps, to you, it symbolizes the approach of your own mortality, or would you characterize it more as the souvenir of a brush with death?
Tasneem considers this. I can't say, really. This happened about a month ago. How soon after their hair went white did the other patients die?
Most were within days, Blair says.
Perhaps I'm a lucky survivor, then, Tasneem says.
Is there anything about you that might have countered the treatment's horrible side effect? Perhaps something about your lifestyle?
I practice yoga, Tasneem says. I don't drink.
No secret weapons, then, Blair says with a smile.
I can't think of any, she answers.
Let's assume the worst, Blair says. Let's assume that you leave here today, and you were to die tonight.
That's morbid, Tasneem says.
It is. But if that were the case -- would you want to share any last words with the rest of mankind here, today?
Tasneem thinks about it. I don't think I have anything worth saying, she says. I'm not that eloquent.
Blair grins. Well, we will continue to hope for the best for you, Tasneem Kyoh. Thanks for being here today.
Afterward, Blair shakes her hand, then says, No kidding, is there something you're doing?
What do you mean? Tasneem asks.
The dead Soma patients were sheer white, he says. Hair, pure white. Yours seems to have stopped. I just can't help thinking of it as a sign that you're going to get through this. Like this stripe is your battle scar.
Maybe it is, Tasneem says.
They shake hands again, and he walks her to the lobby.
If anything happens -- anything at all, he says, will you call me?
I'll call you before I call my doctor, she says.
I don't mean to be selfish, Blair says. Really, I don't. But I think you may have just made my career tonight.
I'm glad, Blair. I hope so.
Be safe, Tasneem. Live forever.
I hope to, she says.
He watches her go, small and composed. Then he steps back into the studio, and heads for Tamara's office.
Stickers
Emil doesn't like this hospital.
There are seven on Station Aries. They wrap like a sleeve around the ring-shaped station, and rotate slowly as the days pass. Each of the patients' quarters has a beautiful view of Earth, though Earth is not so beautiful itself anymore. The patients can see the sun, and sometimes the moon, and they can watch the hurricanes that gnaw at the coastlines far below.
On a good day, they can see the lifeboats singing into the heavens like balls of light.
There are always enough beds.
But this hospital is a farce. It is the only
Tasneem exhales slowly. Yes. Of course, I'm scared. With the news, I'm not sure anybody wouldn't be.
What does it feel like, knowing that death may be coming?
She closes her eyes. It feels... hollow. Inevitable.
But so far, you've been lucky, Blair says.
Very, she answers, opening her eyes.
Do you feel cheated?
Cheated?
You underwent months of psychiatric evaluation, of painful investigation of your past, for a treatment that is designed to extend your life by as long as one hundred years, Blair says. With Soma, your life expectancy of one hundred years just became two hundred. And that's just speculation, because nobody knows how effective the treatment will be at such distant points in the future. So, yes, that's my question -- do you feel cheated?
Tasneem shakes her head. I don't know. I hadn't thought about it in quite that way. I suppose it's possible, but for now, I'm alive. Ask me again when I'm dead?
Blair laughs. Well, let me ask you about that streak in your hair, then.
Oh, this, Tasneem says, fingering the white stripe in her otherwise dark hair.
So far, the patients who have died from Soma have reportedly witnessed their own hair go white before they passed away, Blair says. What does that white stripe mean to you?
Tasneem looks up at the lock of white hair that she's holding away from her face. It means, so far, that I'm a survivor.
I wonder if perhaps, to you, it symbolizes the approach of your own mortality, or would you characterize it more as the souvenir of a brush with death?
Tasneem considers this. I can't say, really. This happened about a month ago. How soon after their hair went white did the other patients die?
Most were within days, Blair says.
Perhaps I'm a lucky survivor, then, Tasneem says.
Is there anything about you that might have countered the treatment's horrible side effect? Perhaps something about your lifestyle?
I practice yoga, Tasneem says. I don't drink.
No secret weapons, then, Blair says with a smile.
I can't think of any, she answers.
Let's assume the worst, Blair says. Let's assume that you leave here today, and you were to die tonight.
That's morbid, Tasneem says.
It is. But if that were the case -- would you want to share any last words with the rest of mankind here, today?
Tasneem thinks about it. I don't think I have anything worth saying, she says. I'm not that eloquent.
Blair grins. Well, we will continue to hope for the best for you, Tasneem Kyoh. Thanks for being here today.
Afterward, Blair shakes her hand, then says, No kidding, is there something you're doing?
What do you mean? Tasneem asks.
The dead Soma patients were sheer white, he says. Hair, pure white. Yours seems to have stopped. I just can't help thinking of it as a sign that you're going to get through this. Like this stripe is your battle scar.
Maybe it is, Tasneem says.
They shake hands again, and he walks her to the lobby.
If anything happens -- anything at all, he says, will you call me?
I'll call you before I call my doctor, she says.
I don't mean to be selfish, Blair says. Really, I don't. But I think you may have just made my career tonight.
I'm glad, Blair. I hope so.
Be safe, Tasneem. Live forever.
I hope to, she says.
He watches her go, small and composed. Then he steps back into the studio, and heads for Tamara's office.
Stickers
Emil doesn't like this hospital.
There are seven on Station Aries. They wrap like a sleeve around the ring-shaped station, and rotate slowly as the days pass. Each of the patients' quarters has a beautiful view of Earth, though Earth is not so beautiful itself anymore. The patients can see the sun, and sometimes the moon, and they can watch the hurricanes that gnaw at the coastlines far below.
On a good day, they can see the lifeboats singing into the heavens like balls of light.
There are always enough beds.
But this hospital is a farce. It is the only
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