Orbits

Halle & the Dream, featuring a Story

"I'm joking, of course. Just go to sleep, please."

"I can't," Halle replied. She knew that if she closed her eyelids, all she would see was men and women in Metal Suits, with strange unblemished skin, and hands that weren't the colour of gas.

The bed seemed to guess at her thought, and sighed with a strong fluttering of blankets.

"You can watch the hologram for an hour," it said. "Then you go to sleep. Promise you'll go to sleep after an hour?"

Halle smiled. "I promise."

"Very well."

The bed sent a thought to the door and the door swung all the way open; the walls also thinned, so that the hologram's audio rang out loud and clear.

"Thank you."

The bed tilted with a nod.

#

Within a few minutes, Halle had entered the realm of half-awakeness. She wasn't lying on the bed but floating an inch above it, with her hair wet from the cloud that was her pillow.

The Metal Men appeared to be in some similar realm. Their movements were slow, sucked of energy by something, and their mouths would open and speak gibberish the translator felt no need to translate.

They might be sick. It could be, perhaps, that they were simply more resistant to the planet's toxicity because of some strange mechanism, and now that mechanism was failing. That was what the announcer said, in a voice that made no secret of its loathing.

(It's an aggravating thing for your home to kick you out before inviting a stranger in.)

One man appeared unaffected. He ripped off his metal suit with ease (he was the last with it on), bent his knees, and stood up before the melting half-circle.

Even in her state, Halle identified this man as the "teller of stories." He didn't look old, but something in his eyes was.

"I'm going to talk about old Earth," he said.

No one was listening. Those who could hold liquids down, drank some more; those with green faces vomited behind newly-sprung bushes; those who heard, chose to ignore; most of the Xian had given in to sleep, and would only wake up in a thousand years (or when they reached their new home, whichever came first). The announcer had ceased commenting, most likely asleep himself.

No one was listening. Except Halle. Halle was listening.

What was "old Earth"? What was this old man? What was the liquid, and did it taste good? Questions, questions.

"She was green and beautiful once—vibrant colours, like something freshly painted and set to dry. But we put her in an oven. And while we argued about who should stand up and cross the room to lower the heat, she burned. It was a quiet fire. The worst kind. Everything of beauty died. Oceans turned toxic, species vanished, because we felt the need to consume everything in our path. Now Earth is grey, the air is non-breathable, the oceans are black. The sky looks like the ground, and the ground is dead."

Here the man paused and looked around, as it to gauge the unresponsive audience. He didn't seem disappointed to find them doing other things. The old thing in his eyes shifted with his pupils.