Shelby Vick - Tolerance Station.pdf - Shelby Vick - widez2

TOLERANCE STATION

TRUE CONFESSIONS FROM SPACE

by Shelby Vick

“Farms around Tolerance Station are extremely fertile and produce unparalleled crops. Unfortunately, the

same cannot be said for the farmers.”

-- Oglethorpe’s Universal Encyclopedia, Volume Eight

I just wanted to be loved.

As I lay on my hospital bed, sometimes darkly unconscious, sometimes jolted awake by a new wave

of pain, sometimes hovering between the numb relief brought on by pain medication and the fearful

relief of blackness, I remembered.

. . . The spacer I fell in love with when I was sixteen. He was blondly handsome, and I saw an aura

of mystery about him because he went into the depths of space.

“Wonder and death around me all the time,” he told me. His name was Lew Krant, and he was an

Associate Astrogator. We were sitting on a bench in the park where we had met. There was one real

tree, several plants in pots, and a glassed-in square protected a plot of real grass. The spring air was

almost clean. “Things few men have ever seen,” the spacer went on, “and things no man should ever

see.” He held me tight while he said that, and I was sure I felt love pouring from him. His eyes looked at

the skies, but I knew he was totally aware of me.

“What’s your name, pretty thing?” he asked.

Why did he have to ask that?

“. . . Jefferson Rook,” I answered, nearly whispering.

“Jeff -- “ he started. “But. . . . But you’re a girl!”

“Yes.” There was bitterness in my voice. “But my father wanted a boy. He wouldn’t change it.”

“. . .Oh. Well, it doesn’t matter. You are who you are, whatever label you carry. You’re beautiful,

Jefferson Rook.”

It felt good. So good that, when he asked me to go away into space with him, I agreed in a

heartbeat. “Wait here,” I told him. “I want to get a few things from home.”

“Very few things,” he said. “Not much room in my cabin.”

“‘Very few things’ is all that I have,” I said, a touch of bitterness in my voice. Then, remembering we

were going off together, my spirits lightened. “I’ll be right back,” I said. He kissed me, and I turned to

go home. The kiss was still tingling on my lips; I would definitely be right back.

When I walked in the door, two of my sisters were there. “Well, I see little miss innocent big brain

decided to honor us with her presence!”

I blushed, then got mad because I had blushed. It bothered them that I was at the top of my class.

“That’s intolerance,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

“What are you talking about?” my older sister said, shock and puzzlement in her defiant voice. In

the twentieth century, ‘dis-crimination’ had been the buzzword; anyone guilty of it was considered to be

a social outcast. As discrimination was gotten under control, ‘intolerance’ took its place. No one wanted

to be guilty of that -- not even my sisters.

“Intolerance is not accepting a person or idea or anything else just because of some difference,” I

explained. “You’re being intolerant of my achievements. You can’t deny it!”

“But it’s always someone else who is intolerant!” my oldest sister objected. “It’s always someone

else!”

“Not this time,” I said. “Just think about it.” That backed them off. I went to my bed, picked up the

few things I wanted, and left without any explanation. We were a poor family; they would be better off

without me.

Lew smuggled me aboard the freighter that had brought him, keeping me out of sight until the space

drive went on. “After that,” he explained, “it will make no difference. Costs too much to go back.” So I

kept quiet during and after takeoff, staying in his quarters, both of us strapped in, until he said, “Did

you feel that tingle just then?”

I nodded. I had felt it, and felt just a little sick.

“That’s it,” he said. unstrapping. He smiled when he saw the expression on my face. “Feel like

puking?” he asked. I nodded again, afraid to talk. He pulled a small box out from under his bunk, took

out a syringe, and pressed it against my arm. Whatever he aired into me worked faster than it takes to

tell it. My stomach calmed, and I felt fine. Without prompting, I followed his lead and unstrapped, stood

up. Impulsively, I hugged and kissed him.

“You’re a marvel,” I breathed.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he said, still holding me. He kissed me again, and his warm hands

caressed me. Love washed over me as we returned to bed.

Even when he slapped me, I knew he loved me. The first time was when I met one of his crewmates.

We talked a while, and then he said we had to go back to his quarters. When he closed the door, he

slapped me.

“Don’t ever do that again!” he snapped.

“Wh-what?” I asked, puzzled and hurt. My heart hurt worse than my stinging face.

“You were flirting with him!” he hissed. “Don’t ever forget -- you’re mine!”

He was jealous! I felt better, realizing that. He loved me, or he wouldn’t be jealous. “I didn’t mean it,”

I said, softly. “I thought he was your friend, and I was just trying to be nice.” Then I added, “I’m sorry.”

Slowly, the anger faded from his face. “All right,” he said. “Just don’t let it happen again. None of

these bums are friends of mine; I just work with them, that’s all.”

I kissed him. “I’ll remember,” I promised.

The next time . . . the next time he slapped me. . . . But before I could remember, the medicine

swallowed me into blackness again.

The pain that brought my hospital bed back into my consciousness also reminded me of the pain of

that other slap. He had asked for sex, and I said it was the wrong time of the month.

“That’s your problem!” he said, and slapped me. “I want you now, and that’s that!”

He needed me! How could I have been so selfish? He loved me, and needed me.

I submitted.

But the last time he slapped me was different. “You’re what?” he asked, total disbelief in his voice.

“I’m pregnant,” I said, this time some defiance in my voice. “We’re going to have a baby.”

He slapped me. “You were supposed to take precautions!” he said.

I drew back, putting a hand to my face. “I did!” I protested. “I took the Pill, and I used a diaphragm.

But I’m pregnant, anyway. That means God wants us to have a child.”

“The hell it does!” he exclaimed. “It means you’re trying to trap me, that’s what it means! I’ll have the

doc suck that thing out of you in a heartbeat.”

“You will not!” I insisted. “No one is killing our baby!”

The baby was the only thing of his I was going to have. He put me off at the next spaceport. We got

off the ship, “To see the place,” he said.

“It doesn’t look like much of a place,” I said, looking around.

“It’s a farming community,” the spacer told me, “with the space-port serving as its capitol. A few

thousand people live here, scattered over hundreds of miles. Best produce in the galaxy,” he went on,

trying to sound enthusiastic. “Each farm has at least several hundred acres, each run by one family.”

Like spokes from a hub, roads led away to the farms. Automated trucks brought produce to the

spaceport where it was stored for shipment.

“The spaceport itself is really modern,” he continued, “with schools, restaurants, a major hospital,

bars and theaters as well as administrative buildings and -- mostly -- huge warehouses that surround

the landing pads.”

A warehouse was the last thing we looked at together. “Know what your trouble is?” he asked me.

We were walking down a hall with high walls, stacks of storage compartments and a few closets.

“What?” I asked, a little concerned. After the argument about the baby, I hadn’t been sure how to

take anything he said.

“Moradys,” he said, then was smugly quiet -- and expectant.

“Moradys?”I asked, not knowing what he wanted. “What’s that?”

He shook his head. “Smart a girl as you are, you don’t know?” he asked. “Guess that ain’t in

schoolbooks yet.” He chuckled, a self-satisfied look on his face.

“What is it?” I repeated.

“It’s you,” he said. “Sweet. Innocent. Great in bed.” The takeoff horn blasted. “But not that great!” he

snapped, grabbing me and shoving me into a closet before I could do anything, and propped a chair

against the knob. I screamed and pounded on the door, but it did no good.

I never saw him again.

Eventually I remembered a glimpse of something I had seen when he pushed me into the closet.

There had been a long strip of metal lying on a shelf at the rear, a strip that reminded me of a metal

ruler. I fumbled around and cut my finger on something sharp; the edge of the ruler. Sucking my cut

finger, I carefully picked up the metal strip. Yes, it was thin, but thick enough for my purposes.

I had learned a trick back home. When the government van left food for us, my sisters would

sometimes push me in the bathroom and put a chair under the knob. They did that so they could have

more food. One time a ruler had been left in the bathroom, and it finally occurred to me how to use it to

get out. I repeated the trick now, getting down on my hands and knees (it was harder to do in the

cramped closet, but I managed) and sliding the ruler under the door until it pushed against a chair leg.

After minutes of maneuvering, I managed to slide the chair back, and it fell. I was free.

But free for what? While I was working at the chair, I had felt the telltale vibration signaling the

departure of the ship. I was stranded.

Str-a-n-d-e-d. . . .

“Hello, honey.”

Who -- Who said that? Groggily, I opened my eyes. Through a slowly-clearing haze, I saw a

blurred hospital room around me. I moved my head and looked about. There was no one there. Who

had . . . ? Then I remembered. It was another time I had awakened, back to my memories of the

warehouse. I had cried myself to sleep on the warehouse floor, in utter exhaustion, out of it until a hand

touched my shoulder and someone said:

“Hello, honey.”

I looked up, and a man’s face slowly came into focus; an old man’s face; he must have been over

forty. There were furrows on his brow, smile lines had left their impression around his eyes and mouth.

There was a hump to his nose. It was a craggy face, but friendly. He looked a bit rumpled, and

unshaven. He must have just gotten off work.

“Hi,” I said, squeakily, sitting up. I cleared my throat. “Hello,” I said, this time with no sleep in my

voice. “Am I in trouble?”

He smiled and sat beside me. “Why should you be in trouble?”

“I. . .I don’t belong here,” I said, nervously.

“You don’t even belong on this planet, honey,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “But that doesn’t

break any laws.”

“Oh . . . that’s good,” I said. Then I looked him in the eyes. “How do you know I don’t belong on this

planet?” I asked.

“Don’t take no great smarts to figure that out,” he said. “Just two eyes is all I need.” He said ‘Don’t’

without the ‘t’, and ‘Jes’ instead of ‘Just’. All his ending ‘t’s were soft or dropped. It sounded strange,

but comfortable. Something was reassuring about it. . . .My grandfather! I hadn’t seen him since I was

six, but I remembered he talked that way. I was reassured.

“You don’t dress like anybody around here,” he went on. “No farmer’s daughter would be wearing

clothes like that.” I was wearing metallic jeans that fit tightly, and a sleeveless yellow top that

emphasized my breasts. He had liked it. ”And,” the man continued, “you ain’t old enough to be working

in the port. Besides,” he added, smiling, “while I can’t say I know everybody here, I sure would have

noticed a pretty young thing like you.” I smiled, but then he spoiled it. “My name’s Jim,” he said.

“What’s yours?”

I looked away, biting my lip. Why did I have to carry such a name?

“It can’t be that bad,” he said gently. “I won’t tell anyone else.”

The secret wasn’t really a secret, anyway. “Jefferson Rook,” I said, defiantly.

Shelby Vick - Tolerance Station.pdf

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