Page 7 - Tales Apocalyptic and Dystopian

The Stars Impel
(Fantastic Transactions 1, 1990)

“Disgusting slum,” said Minu Savelo, stepping out of the Agency
gyro.
“Worse may be found downwind,” replied Yarsis Onfar, and set
full security shields around the vehicle. Toximutant urchins lurched
and stumbled against the satin steel surface of the gyro, only to be
thrown back by repellor rays. Older inhabitants of the former
shopping mall eyed the intruders from doorless portals and blasted
window frames, fearing the power of unspeakable weaponry.
The pair strode down a ruined arcade and leapt nimbly up the
frozen rusted steps of a long-immobile escalator. Onfar and Savelo
were young, healthy, confident women, moving like goddesses
among their forgotten, failed and fallen creatures. The Agency
maintained a half-dozen outposts on this, the mother planet, Earth.
Technicians chosen by lot spent their tour of duty performing studies
in teratology and the chemistry of irreversible processes. On occasion
the Agency had to deal with certain terrestrial survivors directly, and
special teams were sent out into the field—again, chosen by lot:
precautions against infection and physical assault were considerable
but finite.
“The co-ordinates point to this location,” said Onfar, indicating
the shambles of a once-glittering synthetic sherbet bar. A small
number of tattered barstools remained, chained to the wall. A small
neatly-lettered placard rested on the counter, reading ‘Jay Trovu,
Astrologer. No appointment necessary’. At the rear of the stall, a
wizened man sat at a ramshackle desk facing the concourse. His face
was a mask of hardship and disease; his hands shook slightly as they
moved nervously among a stack of dog-eared books and yellowed
papers.
“Yes, ladies?” he croaked. “Would you like a reading today?”
His voice and features did not betray any extraordinary emotion
stimulated by suddenly confronting two Agency technicians.
“You are James Trovinek, age fifty-three?” said Yarsis, crisply.

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