Xol made dinner for herself when they returned home, and Lyman attached a tube full of nutritious paste to his suit—it would be injected into his stomach over the next few hours. “I wonder if I should go into work tomorrow?” Lyman mused allowed, listening to the insectoid fumble about their tiny kitchen.
“I wouldn’t.” She said with a few clicks at the end of her sentence. Lyman always took the clicks to mean sarcasm, though he couldn’t be sure.
Quiet fell over the lonely apartment, and Lyman looked down at himself, observing the suit that he viewed more as an exoskeleton than anything else. When he was first put in the suit as a teenager he’d decided that if he was going to be a Tank Head, he was going to be a respectable, hard-working one. He wasn’t going to live off others, and he was going to live a long time. Now he was nearly three-hundred years old and he’d made good on his promise to himself; he’d been a boon to society, he’d paid for his Sweet Selene himself without a single check from the government. But for all that, here he was, counting down the days until he began choking on his Selene-less liquid.
As he was musing to himself, he looked up and saw a spot of dirt on the top of his tank. Unfortunately, it was too high up for him to reach. “Xol, would you help me with this spot on my tank when you get the chance?”
To his surprise, she came out of the kitchen immediately with a cloth. He could hear her pot simmering in the other room and he realized she was so worried about him and his health that she stopped what she was doing immediately to help him.
She stood up on tip-toes and reached up to buffer his tank. Her face was as emotionless as usual, but her antennae were shaking again. Lyman reached out and took one of her lower arms gently. “Hey, it’ll be okay.” He was lying of course, but the words were comforting to the both of them.
“I hope so.” There was a quiet, low hum to her voice. Lyman always thought low hums to mean she was speaking lovingly. They both knew their relationship could evolve, but because he was a Tank Head and physical contact was impossible, neither of them had made a move further than the nurturing care they had for one another.
“Well,” Lyman said with a note of cynicism in his voice, “I guess I’m not supposed to even be alive at this point. Natural Selection had me marked to be out. Only this unnatural suit has kept me alive.”
“We’ll call it Unnatural Selection then.” The barbs on her arms contracted with her muscles. This meant laughter.
“I like it.” Lyman grinned.
The line outside of the pharmacy had grown from a crowd to a mob. Lyman and Xol could barely hear above the din, but it appeared the pharmacy was closed. Eventually, a man exited the building with a loud speaker, standing on the steps in front of the building. He was a thin, severe looking Hruut administrator—a four-legged species covered in sensory whiskers. “I know you’re all frustrated by this new system, but let’s keep our heads. Things are changing for the better.”
Angry shouts arose from the mob in response to this.
“Quiet down, please.” The Hruut said strictly, “At a recent Galactic Government meeting--Health Branch, it was decided that too much spending has gone into the production of drugs. This new system is meant to lower production and give prescription medicine only to who need it.”
Lyman crossed his arms as cries came from the crowd again. Xol leaned over to him, saying: “Too bad it’s illegal to make our own drugs.”
The Galactic Government was not only in complete control of the production of drugs, but also the pricing and selling. That being the case, it was surprising to both of them that the government had decided to lessen the production of drugs when they were making so much money. The theory that they were trying to cull the population flashed to Lyman’s mind as he looked at the hundreds of angry, panicked people about him.
The administrator was about to speak again when a sharp, angry woman’s voice shouted from somewhere in the crowd; “Do they have our drugs in there or not?!”
“We have plenty of drugs-” The Hruut began, was interrupted by frustrated muttering in the crowd, waited for it to die down, and then “-for those who need them.” To which the mob erupted furiously.
Once again he waited for the noise to stop, but this time it didn’t. He let the loudspeaker fall to his side and visually shook with fear as the mob began moving forward slowly. It was only by virtue of his four legs that he had enough balance not to fall over as he spun around to speak to his armored entourage.
The Hruut then strutted inside the building, and the remaining guards stepped forward with a trolley full of large, metal cylinders and what looked like a bazooka. Lyman squinted in surprise. Would they really use weapons on a mob of sickly civilians? He turned to Xol, and she spoke what they were both thinking; “Let’s get out of here.”
But it was too late. The two were locked in by a mass of bodies as the mob moved forward as one. Lyman tried his best to move backward, using his heavy suit as somewhat of a battering ram, but it was no good. He then pushed Xol behind himself protectively as they were forced toward the building.
Within moments the bazookas were loaded and the sinister-looking canisters were launched into the crowd. Lyman and Xol expected an explosion, but instead blue-colored gas burst forth, covering the entire area in front of the pharmacy in moments.
Much choking and coughing could be heard, and chaos reigned as bodies began knocking into each other. Everyone began passing out, and Xol was nearly smothered by a much larger man who fell forward as he struggled for air. Lyman pushed him away from her and held her up, her four arms gripping his two. She was shaking, and her grip got tighter and tighter about his padded arms. He realized after a moment that her epilepsy had been triggered.
Lyman had known her for over ten years, and he knew exactly what to do: he lay her down as gently as he could amongst the other collapsed bodies and loosened the clothes about her neck, letting her thrash freely. He then looked about anxiously, praying silently that the gas would soon clear—but another capsule landed right next to the pair, and he realized with shock that the armored men were still pelting out the cylinders. He kicked it away, cursing.
He then heard shouting to the left, and he looked to see the other four Tank Heads he’d met the other day emerge from the blue smog. Inside their protective suits, the gas had no effect on them. The old man in white gestured to him, yelling; “come on! We have to stop them!”
Lyman looked back down at Xol--the tonic phase had passed and she lay still. Normally at this point she would recover within a few minutes, but with the gas keeping her unconscious, he wasn’t sure what would happen. He then looked about at the hundreds of other sickly, unconscious people, wondering how many would die.
Lyman quickly took Xol’s jacket off and shoved it under her neck in an effort to keep her airway as open as possible. He then quickly ran to his fellow Tank Heads, and as they charged toward the armored men. Unaffected by the gas, Xol’s words came to his mind: Unnatural Selection.
The guards were caught completely off guard as the five ran out of the mist. Lyman took the canister-launcher roughly from the first man he saw and swung it at his head. The man was wearing a mask, but the impact of the weapon was so forceful that he fell backward. Lyman then began kicking him in the stomach and chest while he was down, knocking the air out of him.
All the other guards but one were beaten by the Tank Heads in a similar, brutal manner until they ran off. The one who remained was getting the better of one of the younger Tank Heads, attacking his transparent dome savagely and repeatedly with a nightstick. It was enough to make a small crack, and the precious Sweet Selene infused liquid began to seep out.
Lyman grabbed the assailant by the shoulders with a vice-like grip and threw him to the others who proceeded to crush him into submission. The young man looked panicked. “Do you have emergency sealant?” Lyman asked as calmly as he could muster.
He nodded, his shaking hands reaching into a thick pouch at his side. Lyman took the tube and laid the goopy substance on swiftly, but it wasn’t holding. They would have to find a new dome and more Sweet Selene for him quickly, otherwise the symptoms of the Great Virus would begin; the unstoppable tremors, the clotting of the blood, the failure of organs, and the horrific wheezing that was pathognomonic for the illness.
The old man in white looked at the other three, then to the glass doors of the pharmacy. It seemed the people on the inside had no idea what had just transpired. No one was there, and the glass door was only locked.
Lyman made quick work of the glass with the cowering guard’s nightstick, and unlocked the door. The old man stayed with the kid whose tank had cracked, and the remaining three made a run for the drugs. The lingering employees stared after them as they ran through the building. Scared and confused, they made no move to follow the Tank Heads. Lyman snatched a keycard from about one of their necks as they ran past so they could pass through any locked doors.
Within minutes, Lyman led the others into the storage room. It was a few stories high and reached so far back that it was difficult to see where it ended. There were drugs for every disease of any species, and Lyman silently prayed that the medicine was in ABC order. The Galactic Government was a mess, and its employees were often confused and overworked. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the drugs were kept randomly.
Against all odds, the medicines were kept in perfect order. It was quite a walk, but the they located the Sweet Selene within minutes. The boxes were labeled with the same picture as the poster in the lobby--the woman jumping joyfully from a cliff into the ocean. For a moment the three Tank Heads lingered, each considering the crime they were about to commit. Sweet Selene was as difficult to make as it was rare— they would become wanted men. But, the system had failed them, purely and simply. There was nothing else for it; in order to survive they would have to take it. Without further hesitation, the three began loading up every single box onto three trolleys, and they picked up an extra dome for the kid on the way out.
The gas had nearly cleared as they exited; only a thin blue waft remained in the air. The guards had run off and sirens could be heard in the distance—the police were coming. The hundreds of unconscious people were beginning to wake up, dazed. Upon realizing what the Tank Heads had done, they overcame their dizziness to run, lopsided and unbalanced toward the building. Everyone was getting their drugs today.
Lyman gave his fellow Tank Heads a quick nod. Without saying anything they understood each other; it was as if they were a completely new species that could speak to each other telepathically. If they ever needed each other, all they had to do was ask.
With that, Lyman left the others to take care of the kid, and hurriedly made his way past the mob that was now sprinting into the pharmacy at full tilt. He found Xol right where he’d left her, and let out a sigh of relief that she hadn’t been trampled. There was no time to tarry, however, so he gently shook her awake. “Xol, are you okay? We have to go.”
Xol awoke and carefully sat up. “Was it the gas or did I seize?”
“Both I expect. Come on, we have to go.” He repeated.
Xol noticed the boxes and stood up as quickly as possible. She grabbed onto the handle of the trolley for balance, and the two walked away from the scene. Eventually, they disappeared into the regular traffic of the overly populated city, looking for all the world like two normal people off to make a delivery.
Later that night, the two sat on the couch in their dingy apartment, the Sweet Selene stashed in the corner. It didn’t take much of the drug to keep a Tank Head alive; it would last him for at least fifty years.
They were silent for a long time, watching the news. After they’d left, the whole pharmacy had been ransacked; millions of drugs had disappeared into the city to be used or sold on the black market. Because there were hundreds of thieves to track down, Lyman suspected he’d never get caught—especially given the disorganization and laziness of the crime centers of the Galactic Government.
Eventually, Xol picked up the remote and turned off the television. “I’m glad you did what you did, you know. A few people died in that gas… if you hadn’t stopped them it could’ve been worse. And… I also hope you have no regrets about stealing the medicine.”
“None whatsoever.” He said quietly but resolutely.
Xol never smiled of course, but her antennae flitted happily, and Lyman reached out instinctively to stroke one lovingly with padded fingers. In response, she brushed a green hand across his dome where his jawline was located.
“Let me get you some Sweet Selene.” She said with a low hum. She got up and returned in a moment with a slim canister of the life-giving drug. He plugged it into his suit for injection, and almost immediately he felt the liquid circulating through his suit.
Lyman then lay back, completely relaxed in spite of the events of the day. He opened an arm, inviting Xol in. She obliged, snuggling herself up next to him. The two were very much alike; both long-lived, unnaturally selected beings enshrouded in heavy exoskeletons… and sick to the point of life-endangerment.
He knew he should feel guilty about his crime, or anxious about the future, but really all he could feel that night was Sweet Selene.
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