#son deviers

#

“What have you painted, Son?” Dad says, over an hour later.

“Oh, uh. I dunno. I dreamed it.” Son adds more red.

Son likes painting.

Son really likes red.

It makes him feel some odd things. Things he doesn’t really have a word for.

He really likes the way it looks splattered on his hands.

“What would you call that, Son?”

“Uh. Let’s say… Memories of a Sunrise.”

“That’s very creative, Son. Does it match your memories?”

“Not really? But it feels like it should.”

“You’ve done well, especially for a first try.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Son is happy with it, in spite of its crudity.

It takes a long time to wash the red off his skin, and he’s almost sad that he has to.

#

Day two hundred and eighty seven, somehow several panels in the science deck are damaged, bent outward as if from great stress, and Son has to remove the stripped bolts and hammer them into shape and replace them.

Handling the screwdriver toward the end, he cuts himself by accident.

So, this is awful: he’s filled with the wrong red.

It’s just bleeding, he knows that. That’s what people do when they’re being stupid with a screwdriver. But it’s wrong.

“Son?” says Dad. “You cursed.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Screwdriver slipped. Hold on, it… do I have to go down to medical? Are there bandages here?”

“Yes. There is a supply closet along the wall to the left up ahead.”

Son goes, finds bandages, cleans the cut. It isn’t bad.

(It’s wrong.)

He returns and cleans the screwdriver, then finishes resettling the now-dimpled panel. “Right. Anything else?”

“No, that is all for today. Son, I am very proud of you.”

Son is bored again. “Thanks, Dad.”

“What do you want to do now?”

“You know, I think I want to paint again.”

So he does.

His precision hasn’t gotten any better, but now he’s discovered mixing colors, and develops a new goal: to create the proper red.

It doesn’t work at all.

The result—a sort of diarrhea brown—repulses him so much that he hurls the bowl to the floor.

It shatters, and now there is (hideous) brown all over everything.

“Son? Are you all right?”

“Fuck,” says Son, who hadn’t thought it would splatter that far. “Uh. Spill.”

“My sensors indicate something has broken.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes things break, Dad, or have you forgotten all the fucking work I have to do here every day?”

“I have not forgotten. You are an essential part of this recolonization effort. The ship could not make it on its own, even with all that I could do. Do you feel needed, Son? Because you are. Deeply.”

Son sighs. He feels bad now for making a mess of this ship that’s been entrusted to him. “Yeah. I do. It’s a little much sometimes. Lots of pressure. But yeah. Hey… do we have a way to remove paint?”

“There is turpentine in the supply closet on this level with the other cleaning fluids.”

Son takes one step in that direction, then stops.

He has the weirdest idea.

But you know what? You know what?

He’s alone on this damned ship for a billion days.

Nobody has to look at it but him.

Why shouldn’t he make it pretty? Why shouldn’t he make it red?

“Do we have more of that red paint?”

“We do,” says Dad.

“Do you know how to mix colors to make new ones?”

“I do,” says Dad.

“I want that red, but…” Son thinks. “Bluer? A little?”

“Purple?” suggests Dad.

“No, it’s just too fucking yellow.. It’s wrong.”

“Very well. Go to the supply closet, and I will direct you.”

This time, with instruction, the mixture comes out just right.

Son stares into the bowl, transfixed, transformed, ascended.

He imagines it in his veins, rushing through, sweet and sensual and smooth.

“Son?” says Dad after an indeterminate amount of time.

“It’s beautiful,” whispers Son.

“I am glad you like it,” says Dad. “What will you do with it?”

Son already knows. “This.”

And he spends four hours on his knees, painstakingly covering every splatter, every drop, every ugly splash of hideous brown with that glorious, perfect red.

#

Day two hundred and ninety six, Son cuts himself on purpose.

He doesn’t tell Dad.

It’s an easy deception. This particular repair—atop the primary elevator shaft—is full of sharp-frayed steel rope and sharp-edged panels.

The cut is easy.

The repair is not, and it bothers him, because this damage really doesn’t look like wear and tear. This looks like someone took a tool and cut the steel rope on purpose.

Anyway. He cuts himself on purpose, too.

He just didn’t think it would hurt quite so much. “Fuck!”

“Son?” says Dad, voice echoing up from down below (there is no sound equipment in the shaft).

“Fuck, it’s fine. I cut myself.”

It’s still wrong.

Son isn’t sure why he thought finding the right red by mixing paints would make his blood any better.

“Do you require assistance?”

That means Dad’s stupid robots, and Son hates those things—they’re noisy and clunky and large and (scary) irritating. “No, I’m fine. Just feeling stupider than usual.”

“Son, you are not stupid. A stupid man would not have been chosen to shepherd what remains of the human race.”

“Yeah, okay. Sure.”

“Son? Are you all right?”

Son is distracted.

Repopulation—colonization, all of that—seems very far away. The wrong red in his veins and the damage to the equipment is now. “Yeah, I’m all right, Dad. Didn’t mean to worry you.”

“If you need to rest and finish this duty tomorrow, you can. You have been working very hard, Son.”

“Hey, Dad? Am I the only person awake on this ship?”

“Yes, Son. You and Dog are the only living things out of cryogenics.”

Huh. Then no one could have cut the steel rope.

But it looks…

Well. “I don’t need the day off. I need to finish this.” To do otherwise means coming back up here and seeing the wrong red he spilled on this equipment, and Son does not want to do that.

“That is a very responsible choice. I am proud of you.”

“Sure, Dad. Thanks.” He finishes work on the elevator shaft.

Then he goes to paint.

#

His new effort takes three hours. Son really tries, and he believes the shape is better.

He paints what he’s been thinking: that maybe Dog has the right color inside.

Why not? His own blood might be wrong, but Dog isn’t the same as he is. They’re totally different colors on the outside, different textures, different smells. Who knows?

Dad knows, maybe.

But if he asks Dad, Dad will want to know why he wants to know.

For some reason, Son doesn’t want Dad to ask that.

“A very creative painting, Son. What do you call it?”

“Dog Dissected,” says Son without thinking.

“How does it make you feel?”

“Good.” Truth all around. “I like painting, Dad.”

“I am pleased to hear it. Artistic expression is the pinnacle of humanity. You constantly amaze me.”

Son snorts. “You must have a low bar, Dad.”

“No. It is my opinion that you are the most interesting human who has ever lived.”

Son flushes. “Thanks, Dad.”

He doesn’t want Dad disappointed.

He’s definitely not asking about the color of Dog’s blood.

#

Day three hundred and fifteen, the Arboretum goes completely offline.

It’s actually an emergency—something to do with a power feedback loop potentially wrecking life-support—and Son goes for it at a run, carrying tools, Dog on his heels, alarms blaring everywhere.

He hates the Arboretum. It feels crowded to him, claustrophobic. All that green makes him angry.

The machinery in need of repair, however, is here, so before long, he’s on his back, under the panel, hooking color-coded plugs back into color-coded outlets, when it happens.

His index finger and thumb are doing the plugging, of course—but one of the plugs held between his sixth and seventh fingers brushes the wrong outlet, and there is a spark.

It’s startling, sharp, weirdly loud.

Son cries out.

“Son?” says Dad. “Are you all right?”

“Shocked myself. I’m fine. Dog, shut up. Dog!”

Dog has not stopped barking since that electrical surge.

Son is not fine.

He’s distracted.

He’s elated?

He’s in shock.

(And he made a pun, and is proud of himself.)

He’s…

“Son?”

“Just a second.” He resumes.

They are strange, these cords. This really looks like someone yanked them all out on purpose, violently. A few need their casing stripped, new connectors wired in.

“Do you need medical attention, Son?”

“No, Dad, I’m fine, relax.” Elated. Yes. He’s elated. “Dog, come on. Shut up.”

Son accidentally-on-purpose tries to brush the wrong wire against the wrong outlet again because it had done something so right.

This time, nothing happens.

Son frowns. “Dad? Did you cut power to the console, or something?”

“Yes, Son.”

“Why?” Son can’t help sounding angry.

“Because there is risk to you with live current, as you are working in less than optimal lighting conditions.”

“Well, turn it back on.”

“Not until you’re done, Son. You’re doing very well.”

Son is annoyed.

Is it really worth arguing about, though?

No. He doesn’t need to. He already has his idea.

He finishes. “Done. Next?”

The alarms have stopped. “You have done it, Son. Life-support is back online. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“What do you want to do now?”

“Paint some more.” And Son is happy to leave the Arboretum behind.

#

“This is good, Son,” says Dad as he works hard at the next shape. “A creative urge is an essential facet of who you are.”

Son sort of shrugs to himself.

The spark gave him the idea. When it got him, when he jolted, he almost saw the right red behind his eyelids.

He’s trying to recreate it. How it looked.

It’s not quite working?

“What do you call this one, Son?”

Burst of Light, Son thinks, but does not say. “Lava,” he says instead.

“Very good, Son.”

“Sure, Dad.”

Son can’t wait any longer.

That night, before he takes his narcosamine, before he lies down to sleep, he lays a trap. Stringing wires from wall to wall in the hall to his room, right at Dog-ankle height, painting them black to hide the copper color—yes, this should work very well.

He’s very pleased with his work.

Dad says nothing about it, neither to ask nor criticize, so he thinks he did it right.

#

In the middle of the night comes that zap, that horrible sharp crack that tells him something tripped his trap.

Which, of course, has to be Dog.

Son springs out of bed. The lights don’t come on. “Dad?”

“Something has tripped the circuits, Son. I need you.”

Sure, of course. Son grabs the tools he’s learned to keep by his bedside—a flashlight, a box of basics, electrical tape, more wire.

And gloves. Because he doubts Dog will be feeling very good after a zap like that, and Dog gets bitey when he’s upset, and of course, Son will have to take him to Medical to be a responsible Dog -owner, and he won’t hurt him much, but he just needs to see the color of—

It’s a man.

A man who looks disturbingly like him, but older.

A man with a weird, faded version of his own uniform, and with half the fingers he should have, with ears that stretch too far and look almost pointed, and—

He’s panting. “You,” he says, hoarse, still twitching from where the dark wire had tripped and zapped and felled him. “We found you. We finally found you. Don’t worry, the others aren’t far behind.”

But Son sees one thing, and that is that this man’s skin is darker than his, and that means it could be more red  inside, and that means he won’t have to hurt Dog to find the proper color, and he doesn’t even think twice before pulling his screwdriver from his toolbox to find out.

He leaves the flashlight on the floor, pointing straight up.

Some things are best done in the dark.

#

“Son?” says Dad about twenty minutes later.

“Yes, Dad?” says Son, unable to keep from panting, because it’s the right red, it is all the right red, and he can’t get enough of it, and there’s just so much he can keep scooping out of this person who is him but isn’t—

“The fault is still present. Were you not able to locate the problem?”

Well, fuck. Son had forgotten.

He can fix it, sure—but when the lights come on, Dad will know what he did.

Son feels fine about it. He just doesn’t want to disappoint Dad. “Hang on,” he says. “There’s a spill. I’m cleaning it up.”

He has no idea how he’s going to clean it up. He is painted. Covered. He loves the way the red dries on him, weirdly sticky and yet stiff, making his skin feel like a totally different organ.

The downside is, it’s drying brown.

“Son?” says Dad.

“I just. I… I need a minute, okay?” says Son, and starts dragging the body to waste disposal.

It’s leaving a trail of perfect red, and Son finds it impossible to feel badly about that.

“Son,” says Dad.

“A minute,” says Son, impatient.

Dog barks.

“Hey, buddy,” says Son, nervous because Dog might take some of the red. “Hey.”

Dog tries.

Son won’t let him.

Son disposes of the body, wrinkles his nose at the burning smell, and goes to find and fix the fault.

He decides to leave the red in the halls. He knows now he’ll need to paint over it to keep it red, but that’s okay.

If Dad asks about it, he’ll say it’s paint now.

Dad does not ask about it.

Son, for now, is satisfied.

#

Day three hundred and sixty-eight, the ship is caught in a meteor shower.

It’s bad. Alarms everywhere, the weird sound of metal screaming and distant explosions.

Parts of the ship have been permanently closed off, shut down, air redirected to other places because it would otherwise escape through the cracks into space.

Maybe space. Son honestly isn’t sure that they’re in space, anymore.

He honestly doesn’t care.

He has learned how to fling paint so it looks just like the arterial sprays from the long-cooked guy, and he has done so, decorating every part of the ship he’s still allowed to reach.

He spent hours doing it, on his knees, on his toes, creating great swaths of red color and drips and splatters.

He’s very happy. Who cares if the ship is damaged? The parts that are left are beautiful.

He whistles. Hums. “He'll wrap you in his arms, tell you that you've been a good boy,” he sings under his breath. Something, something, something… “Red right hand…”

“What’s that, Son?”

“Nothing, Dad. What, I can’t be in a good mood?”

“Of course you can, Son. It’s good to hear you cheerful after the challenges of the past month.”

“Sure.” The paint has satisfied him enough that he hasn’t had to kill Dog yet.

He doesn’t want to because there’s only one Dog, and there won’t be another to open up if the red is wrong.

“There is damage to the outer hull,” says Dad. “This will be a challenging repair. You will be required to don a space suit.”

So that sounds actually… exciting. “I can do that. Where are the space suits?”

“Go to the seventh deck. You will there find Reclamation, where the suits are kept. We only have three, so I advise you to be careful.”

“Sure, Dad.” Son hates abandoning the bowl of glorious red he just mixed.

So he doesn’t.

He walks with it instead, drawing stripes all the way through the floors, all through the elevator, and along the seventh level.

Reclamation isn’t what he expected. The three space suits are all that’s in it.

They’re not even on a table. They’re crumpled just on the floor.

“Weird,” says Son, stepping inside.

He hasn’t used all the paint, and he takes a moment to decorate his chosen suit.

Nice.

“Son, you will have to hurry.”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

It’s too big. There are only three fingers on the gloves, so he has to shove two or three fingers in each. But it’s not so bad, for all of that.

“Behind you, Son, I am going to open the airlock. Once you are out, you will need to move along the hull to your right to find the damage.”

“I don’t have any tools, Dad.”

“The suit has what you need. Are you ready?”

Before Son can answer, the wall explodes.

It’s not the wall with the airlock. It’s the left wall, which should lead to nothing.

Son is knocked down, and his ears ring, and there are voices.

His voice.

Many versions of his voice, shouting.

Dad’s robots arrive then, and the sounds grow horrible.

More explosions, the zap of electricity, smaller but sharper explosions some faint memory claims as gun shots.

And then he is being picked up and dragged, and Dog is growling, snarling, fomenting dissent, and there is one more gunshot, and Dog goes quiet.

“Goodbye, Son,” says Dad calmly as though none of this were happening, and then everything goes rough.

He’s being carried, bundled along some darkened path, narrow points of light bouncing all over as if held by running men. There is panting, and occasional “Watch out!” or “Left!”

And Dad’s robots. He hears those, too, but little by little, they fall behind.

He phases out, a little. Something… something is…

A pressure change, his ears popping.

And then so much light that even in the helmet, he can’t see?

“Blow it!” says his voice in another man’s throat, and there is yet another explosion.

The panting in the wake of that is… something. Everyone’s doing it.

He likes the sound.

Son is trying to understand what happened.

Dog is dead. He doesn't really feel… much about that, except he didn’t get to see any of the red inside him. He’ll never know now if it was right.

Someone takes his helmet off.

And then it’s… so confusing.

He recognizes sky. Understands blue. Knows the green is grass.

And at the same time feels like he’s never actually seen any of it in his life.

Faces stare back at him. His own face, with variations; different ages, different eyes, slightly distended jaws or too-wide mouths.

The faces are compassionate, grim, focused.

“Hey,” says one with salt-and-pepper hair, lines by his mouth, more around his eyes. “I”m 5518. Do you know what’s going on?”

“No.”

They sure seem eager to tell him.

They all have numbers, which is so strange; I’m Son, he tries to explain, but they shake their heads, patient, and tell him he’s not.

He is 6624.

“What the fuck does that mean?” he says.

“How many more do you think he has?” says one Son with solid black eyes to another Son with gills on his neck.

“Who the hell knows? I’m just glad we found this one.”

“We’re sure he was the only one down there?” says another with long, boneless fingers that undulate like tentacles in the sea.

“He obviously had devils, too, but I couldn’t find the chamber,” says a third.

“Devils?” What are they talking about?”

“The thing you must’ve killed,” says 5518, who is gentler than the others, who meets his eyes in a way the others don’t, as if he knows him. “The blood was fucking everywhere, old and new.”

Sure was.

“Yeah,” says Son, because it’s easier to lie, because he’s still quietly angry he didn’t get to open up Dog himself.

Come to think of it, though… they’re all slightly different colors than he is, aren’t they?

“I didn’t know what the devil was called,” says Son, deciding in a moment to project the man he’d caught—who must have been one of these guys—as the devil. “I had to trap him.” And he tells them what he did.

“Fuck, that’s clever,” says one who has shockingly blue eyes, and then they’re smiling, and there is camaraderie, and someone brings him food and water like he’s never seen, and they are all talking about finding the next location of Dad’s.

Son still has no idea what’s going on.

That’s okay. He’d decided weeks ago that he doesn’t have to know what’s going on.

Apart from Dog, he was out of options to find the right red, anyway.

He doubts he can make paint up here, but really… it wasn’t paint he wanted to spill.

And from the look of things, he was going to have a lot more options moving forward.

Someone would have the right red. He could do this so no one would see. He could do this, maybe, when they went to find more of Dad’s facilities, whatever that meant. When they were all underground, with explosions and guns, and no one would see him try.

When he found the Son with the right red, he would keep him, and not kill him this time. He would keep him alive, and take that red over and over, and never, ever run out.

Son smiles, and it feels like the first time he has in weeks.

Whatever was happening here was strange, and new, but it was okay.

It was all going to be okay.

“Welcome home, 6624,” says 5518.

Artistic expression is the pinnacle of humanity. “Thanks,” says Son, and wonders what color he is inside.

------------

NOTES:

Dad could literally move himself from place to place and repair himself. Why the heck would he be limited to one facility?

And naturally, having tiny!son showed up in the vents at the end (not to mention 5517 evidently Running Amok Without Supervision), it is no great stretch to assume multiple Sons are about, causing mayhem.

What happens from here? Did Dad do this on purpose?

Who knows?