The Oneite Generation
Her eyes gleamed with his reflection.
The doll, gangly yet soft, sat stuffed behind an array of discounted one-dolls (now half-one-dolls or even quarter-one-dolls), head lolled at an impossible angle. On her left hand sat four instead of five fingers.
Just like Hia.
Her outfit was a poor knockoff of something a modern little girl would wear, just the suggestion of bright colors and sashes. But her face bore the same wide, brown eyes and flustered red in her cheeks, and the same stretched, sparse physique. Coupled with the same disability, John could almost hold the sleeping form of his beloved Hia. Dreaming. Resting. Safe.
He gently picked up the doll and strolled to the counter, dumping his candies and lighter before the salesperson (a rather hefty Fifty-Twoite - John couldn’t stand them. They smelled like buttered popcorn and tomatoes and looked like a ginger root. Translators: Swissy, at best). The Fifty-Twoite rolled its right shoulder back, a sign of amusement and also aggression in its culture. There was a subtle extra roll or two in there that signaled which emotion the roll was meant to say. John didn’t care to know the difference.
“Cute fairy,” the Fifty-Twoite/translator spat out. Two rolls of the shoulder. Funny guy, right?
“Almost as cute as you.”
Three rolls of the shoulder. The Fifty-Twoite shoved his money back into his palm. Fine by John.
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Once returned to his ship, John plopped Elias’ candy into his lap and opened a nearby compartment that looked like it might fit the doll comfortably.
“Cute doll,” Elias remarked, accompanied by the crinkle of the bag.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Elias snorted and ripped open the quarter-cakes. “Anyway...we have 15 minutes before we can leave. The police are arresting someone on the Horizon Line. Probably smuggling again.”
John nodded and repositioned the doll. Now she lay peacefully on her side. He laid his portion of the quarter-cakes beside her. She always loved the ones with blueberries. They long ago discontinued that line, effectively ending John’s weekly graveside service where he left a basket of her favorite treats. After he didn’t attend for over a year, they replaced her grave with that of A.C. Miles, a young woman John didn’t recognize.
“There’s not many other options around here.” John sat down and slumped.
“Oh, here we go again.”
John offered a dry, mocking laugh as Elias prepared the ship for launch. “It’s true though. In another year or two that’ll be the only work left. Where are all these people going to go?”
“Ideally, back to their homes. I heard the rebuilding effort is going great.”
John rolled his eyes. “Realistically, to another refugee camp.”
“I guess it’s good that rebuilding cities takes engineers, huh?”
Another mocking laugh escaped John’s lips. “Yes, that’s great for us. After this they’ll go to the cities for construction work. But that will dry up in a matter of years. People will be left starving because -”
“You act like cities are built within two years. Besides, who cares? We can’t afford to be charitable.” Elias pulled up the command screen. Wait. Wait. Wait. Elias became impatient when it came to smugglers and refugees. There was no relief from them. Anywhere.
“I think we can afford sympathy.” John stretched and joined Elias in preparing the ship. “But let’s just concentrate on getting home.” The clock flashed from 7 minutes to 0 minutes, prompting Elias and John to expedite the ship’s leaving. “Must not be much else happening if they took care of that so fast.” The doll seemed to nod in agreement as the rising of the ship lulled her back and forth.
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John and Elias resided in Cross-Direct 2 on the Thirty-Second planet. It was a spanning province that consisted of a swelling metropolis and flagged by several colonies, all cloaked in the choking sun.
John laid the doll in her new spot, right in front of a picture of him and the real Hia. They stood on a boat, him kneeling and holding up a fish they both caught, her grinning and her chin held high. When John gazed at the picture he almost missed the sight of water as much as Hia.
Home. A tiny apartment in Cross-Direct 2, just outside the refugee closets.
He laid down on the bed and covered his eyes. He missed her. He missed her grave. It was his fault though. Everyone knew there wasn’t enough space. Any land, whether it belonged to a corpse or not, was a luxury.
He hated the Oneites. They ate up everything. A.C. Miles’ spot would be recycled some day too, just because of the Oneites.
He uncovered his eyes. Hia’s faces smiled. Eternally.
He wondered if A. C. Miles deserved Hia’s spot.
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Elias kicked the feeding pipe.
“They’re probably dead already. I don’t why we’re rushing when the best thing we’re going to get out of this is half-retarded kids,” Elias’ voice deepened, “Not that they’d be alive much longer.”
“Be quiet. Oneites are capable of complex thought at this stage.”
Elias laughed and jumped over the feeding pipe. He tapped on the black glass of one of the artificial wombs. The shadow within did not stir. “Yeah? I’m pretty sure they’re dead.” He grinned and tapped on the two beside it. Again, no response. “Dead, dead, dead.”
John shook his head. “We are supposed to treat them as if they’re still viable until we’re told otherwise.”
“Fuck that. I’m going to lunch. This pipe is at least a three hour fix, they’d be dead even if we did work straight through.”
“Elias!”
“Elias, clearly they’re just sleeping!” Elias let out a peal of laughter and latched onto the ladder. “If you want to stay, go ahead. But I’m starving. Goodbye.” Elias shot up the ladder and disappeared, leaving John to fix the pipe.
John sighed and began to toss his tools into the bag. Elias left a collection of screws beneath one of the artificial wombs. As John collected them he was struck by the small size of the Oneites - likely experimental fetuses. They did not kick or turn. They simply floated. Their transmitters spoke nothing. Dead. Elias was right; protocol or not, fixing the pipe would not save them.
He ran a finger over the black. His reflection stared back. Once again he was faced with a weathered old man, nothing but sketchy lines and deepset sadness. The Oneites were parasites. The Thirty-Second Planet did nothing but accommodate its own demise. And yet they weren’t allowed to do anything with the corpses - they would just be cremated by sundown.
John began to unscrew the latch to the womb.
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Anyone could sell anything in the refugee closets.
John rolled the last of the barrels into a fenced in yard. His payment was substantial - perfectly intact Oneites went for the most. Though their hairless, insect-like figures left a bad impression on the tongue, Oneites were still meat. Oneites could still be used for fuel. Oneites still became drugs.
He pocketed the one-voucher and his gaze lingered on the girl before him. She brokered the deal, though she barely looked more than 15. They grew up much faster in the closets.
She also looked just like A.C. Miles.
She noticed. “You aren’t happy with the payment?”
John wiped the sweat from his brow and gestured to his ship. “Actually, I have something else for you. Follow me.”
The girl hesitated, but fell no more than a couple steps behind John. Once they entered the ship she stood by the door, alert and crossing her arms. “I can only offer so much today.”
“No - no more Oneites. Something personal.” John plucked the doll up. He squeezed the four-fingered hand and glanced at A.C. Miles’ doppleganger. “This,” he started, turning to place the doll in her hands, “is Hia. She was my daughter. She lost this finger when the Oneites first arrived - one bit her. Eventually she died tending to the colonies. She was ten.”
The girl bit her lip. She took the doll. “Okay.”
“Your mother has her grave now. Bury this with your mother.”
The girl froze.
She squeezed the doll tightly and composed herself - barely missing a beat. “Only if you bring more in a few days. This is a weird request from a stranger...a regular client, maybe not.”
John cracked a smile. “Anything. Anything at all. That doll is everything to me. And please visit the grave often enough to keep it active.”
The girl tucked the doll into her bag. “My mother died at twenty-five. Your daughter died at ten. I wouldn’t count on it being active much longer.” The tiniest hint of a smile appeared. Then she was gone.
John sat alone and wondered how he was going to explain the smell of dead Oneites to Elias.