THE ANIMUR: SLOAN 1

Every Friday night, hopeful, in a dark corner of her room, Ilda leaned forward and watched, transfixed by her host for the evening, a 700-year old librarian broadcasting from somewhere deep underground. The imagined past, as we all remember it, as it never existed, is where Ilda sat, hopeful, in a dark corner, watching.

Tonight’s program:

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THE ANIMUR
s02e07

In orbit, floating above an alternate version of our own world, the famous, period-themed space station-resort, home to the loneliest souls in the galaxy: The Animur Hotel & Casino.

Tonight’s guest sits in a booth, tucked away in a dark corner of the Twiggy Lounge, looking hundreds of miles below at the badlands, gray, blue, spinning—SLOAN UNDSET, human, so far as he could tell.

The artificial smoke—a nice touch, he’d not seen much better in his travels—traced the outlines of the music…

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…an alien melody lamented in a familiar tongue, annotated, 3/4 time, a waltz? in three-dimensional space, light cobalt, that apocalyptic shade of violet, like plucked crocus. Her favorite.

What the hell’s in this thing? Already refilled, and I’d hardly noticed it was empty. They refill from the inside. I’ve never figured out how, but I’ve never had a reason to learn, and I’ve been far too busy to be curious.

I can see the exact spot, all the way down there, where it happened. It’s like nothing because, really, that’s what it is. Like a rough patch on the skin. But I can still see it. Refilled again, from the inside. It’s one too many.

Later, gathering my thoughts in the Kissinger Suite, on the king-sized bed that’s mine for the night. I don’t even have a view. I keep the light at a low ambience, enough to get around. Tinted, cobalt. Saffron.

The Ophyte wants to meet in an hour, but I’m still thinking about the smear, that scar, down on the gray land. I knew it was the last time I’d ever see her. We had no choice but to fight, after they returned—the ones who fled, when it all turned to shit, after they learned the hard way. Things happen when you get too far from the home planet. They figured they’d come back to nothing, so sure we’d tear each other apart. We could barely walk. But we worked together.

All their failure, their misery, their death—they brought it all back home, so sure they’d find a wasteland. Instead, they found us. And we weren’t going to let things go back to the way they used to be. To hell with it all, they said. Wiped off the earth. Smeared. Everything, so far as the eye could see, engulfed in the cobalt light of the blooming crocus. Some of us survived.

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They met in a Parisian cafe, circa 1890. La Remise, down in the Early Modern section, faux-Colonial Era architecture and a view of Earth, through space-proof glass, tens of thousands of feet in the distance.

The Ophyte spoke: “The transfer has been made to your account. Maybe you know this, maybe not, but the information you’ve provided will be extremely helpful.”

Sloan picked up his glass, an imitation of a Bordeaux, newly refilled. “I have enough to retire now.” He stressed his brow, feigning confusion, but Sloan knew the path that lay ahead.

“If that’s what you wish.”

Nearby, a crowd of guests emptied out of an arcade, a covered walkway dripping with flows of simulated rain. Sloan finished his drink, then watched, with the Ophyte, as the glass began to fill again.

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