Well, my friends, this is the proverbial 'it'; the finale to the saga of "A-Dust", and thus the one where I pull out all the stops and go craziest. Frankly, I'll be surprised if you can get past this one without howling with laughter.
But then again, stranger things have happened...
This story is affectionately dedicated to the art of Jay Tee, without whom I might never have embraced my love of the fuller female form.
How Much Have You Had
There is no need to worry about mere size. We do not necessarily respect a fat man more than a thin man. Sir Isaac Newton was very much smaller than a hippopotamus, but we do not on that account value him less.
- Bertrand Russell
Phase 1 (of 5): What Spring Is Like
The Moon hangs in the sky between the Earth and what lies beyond, a fragile dance partner that grows ever-so-further away each year. Almost as if she's waiting for something, anticipating the final crescendo in the waltz that will leave both dance partners breathless and gasping.
The space station Dumont-Fitzgerald lies between the two of them, as if a curious child had tugged at their mother's dress during the waltz and demanded that they be allowed to take part.*
Picture Dumont-Fitzgerald, if you can: a miracle of engineering, the combined work of several world government resources and many more corporate interests. It resembles an immense table-lamp, round-bodied at one end and conical at another, floating idly around its parent planet in serene peace.
Close in on that round little body in the spaceship and find yourself in the cool, sterile environment of Dumont-Fitzgerald's hold. It's a white, clean place divided into four storage rooms. One for food; one for equipment, instruments, other resources; one for...well, we'll get to that later; and one for its most precious resource: people.
A long rack of 250 'sleep pods' are arranged here, each containing a single human being in stasis. There could easily be more in this hold, but for the pods themselves being rather large, each a sphere allowing five feet of extra space for its occupant in all directions, though for now that space is taken up by water as they float freely in their induced coma. The passengers are trained, athletic volunteers specially selected from the tops of 'best employee' lists amongst the controlling corporations; attached to the side of each pod is a laminated, signed consent form. Here they dream endless dreams and await a second birth, soon to become colonists of Luna, our lovely moon.*
The cargo hold is monitored and operated by Mathilde Laurier.
(Ah, Mathilde. Pale and wiry, your muscly limbs hardened by decades of vigilance and exercise, your dark hair buzzed close to your scalp, your crystal-blue eyes cutting down anyone who meets your gaze. You have nothing in your life but goals, and the fervent need to run after them. Lovers, interests, family; all have fallen in your wake as you rushed to get here. You swore you'd become a 'space scientist' at age 8, and here you are 28 years later, surveying your kingdom on a strict daily rota, ready soon to begin the experiment of a lifetime. This is what you think you need.)
Mathilde floats elegantly around the hold, noting down the ratio between free-floating subjects and those who have gone into the foetal position on her clipboard; and having satisfied herself that today is entirely incident-free, proceeds to ascertain the security of the contents of Holds 1, 2 and 3. Bon", she says crisply to herself after the inspection is complete. Food is plentiful; resources are intact; and Dumont-Fitzgerald's compliment of Compound GML remains uncompromised.
You may have heard of Compound GML. Its very popular back on Earth.
*
Cast your eyes down to Dumont-Fitzgerald's communications hub, a room adjoined to its command centre. In the centre of an Art Deco wet dream, all screens and smoothness and fuzzy chairs, Lewis Grossman is teleconferencing with his superiors on Earth. Several important corporate interests went into this mission, and Lewis is here to make sure they're still represented as it continues.
(Lewis, you little rat. No, rat is too ugly a word; you resemble more a trained puppy-dog eagerly attempting to please your master. You're all of 26, and you've built up a personality around pleasing other people, and your appearance reflects upon it. Look at you, with those Arabic-ancestry good looks, the curly hair and the trimmed goatee, the rectangular spectacles, the lean body that tells of having done the bare minimum of exercises that'll make you look good standing beside a CEO, and make him look the better for employing you. You perk up and speak with clear confidence if anyone asks your favourite pizza topping or what movie you look forward to this summer, but you'd stammer and change the subject were anyone to ask about your schoolboy crush. You find your thermodynamic space uniform too baggy and itchy; a thousand times you'd prefer an elegant suit and bow tie.)
"Ms. Laurier is doing the final check as we speak," he says into the thin microphone receiver. "We'll soon be ready to commence experimentation."
Before him, an immense projection of a gaunt and elderly face nods, satisfied. "Just remember, Grossman - that's our people amongst those sleepers, and they're good and able-bodied people too. Just make sure they're looked after."
"I can assure you, Sir, that they'll be kept healthy and awaken happy," Lewis tells the gaunt and elderly face, "And you'll see the evidence of that in my weekly report."
"I'd better. The board are still pretty darned jumpy about this whole operation, and it's only me keeping them interested enough not to pull out. I'm putting a trust in you, son. Don't betray that trust."
"You can count on me, Sir," Lewis replies, and waits for the other person to terminate the call.
*
Descend from Communications and Control to the lounge of this commercial ship, a 'relaxation area' designed for a crew of 15-20 people. Connected to it is a gym hall with different equipment set up on every surface. Here, there's a pleasant-sized big-screen TV, a well-stocked library, a full bar and safety kitchen and as many sofas and beanbags as can be functionally used without gravity.
Lounging on one of these with her nose buried deep in The Complete Works of H.P. Lovecraft, is Gloria "Ginger" Silverman. It is her job to pilot this gigantic machine.
(You'll always be beautiful, Ginger. You have it written in the centre of ever freckle of your rosy skin, smoothed into your wide hips and tangled around every strand of your ridiculous orange hair. When someone tells you a joke, you laugh like you're being tickled, but when you're at the helm your hazelnut eyes smoulder with seriousness and professional ability. You've never gone a Friday night without a drink since your were 17. You're always trying to make something happen. You went into space because you were bored.)
Lewis glides in as she flips over onto her front, exposing her wide, toned bottom and letting her waist-length ponytail flutter in the antigrav like a flag. He coughs and tugs at his collar, but he didn't get to where he did today by sexually harassing female employees and so he is soon able to focus on other things.
Preparing himself a small green tea in a vacuum-sealed cup, he casually states over his shoulder, "We're about to start the procedures. When Mathilde is ready, that is."
Ginger shrugs. Whatever you say. She turns a page ever-so-slowly, yawning a little as she does so. Im just lounging here until we get to moving this heap a junk.
Lewis doesnt like to hear the ship being called that, but he doesnt rise to it. There are very few things Lewis really likes to argue about; he never sees it as worth the effort. Besides, he likes Ginger, as abrasive as she can be. And as uncaring about her appearance; she really ought not to have her hair so long. Its not just being careful in space (after all, didnt his employers get the very best engineering and design that money can buy to make this the safest weightless environment possible). It just looks so untidy. Absolutely without the least bit of fashion sense.
As you like, he says quietly. I certainly think itll be an interesting enough spectacle, noticing how our passengers react to their treatment. In fact, they could -
The buzz of a new intercom message breaks out across the Dumont-Fitzgeralds speaker system.
Speak of the devil, Ginger says, sitting up, as Mathildes crisp French voice begins to make her announcements.*
Hello, crew, come in crew. Are you there? Attendez.
Were in the hold together, Ginger shouts. Whats the haps?
An audible pause, the length of one of Mathildes frustrated sighs. I would wish you could spend a little less time being a fool, Captain. We have a situation here of the gravest importance. Someone she sighs again, and so seriously that the other two are at last forced to sit up and take notice.
Someone has tampered with the cargo.
What the hell do you mean someones tampered with the cargo? asks Lewis incredulously. "Thats impossible! It was inspected multiple times before takeoff, and security cameras never detected any intruders -
Calm it, honey, interrupts Ginger. Whats the problem? Do I need to turn this thing around so we can go back for more food?
Non. I have not inspected the food yet, but rest assured we have enough to last the three of us for many years of travel, if that were required. It is the compliment of the compound.*
Mathilde is examining the contents of the hold as she says this, carefully selecting bricks of Compound GML out of the larger crates in which theyre contained, unwrapping their paper covers to inspect the colouring.
The compound? What about it? Lewis interjects as Mathilde nods, satisfied by the results of her quick assessment.*
You have the results of the pre-flight inspections, my friend, she replies crisply. Tell me how much of each variety we were meant to have.
Of course. Lewis voice is suddenly devoid of all its previous hysteria as he handles data, facts and figures, the stuff which is truly his element. Hes glad of the distraction, knowing that stressful conditions sometimes manifest physically in his skin pores, giving him unpleasant zits. He doesnt want his fellow crew members to see his zits. Its not dignified.
In order to facilitate the study of Compound GML, aka Alice Dust, in weightless and sterile conditions, on a number of willing volunteers. As opposed to the street method of grinding it to a powder and mixing it in foodstuffs, the method here used is to reduce weighted quantities to a liquid state and -
I know, interrupts Mathilde, what the method is. I devised it. Just tell me how much we are meant to have.
Approximately three crates, each containing a metric ton of one variety - Flex the kind that stretches, Midge, the kind that shrinks and Bloom, the kind that, um, expands. Lewis is not looking in the direction of Gingers generous hips as he makes that remark. Hes being very obvious about it, too.
I can see where this is going, says Ginger. How much do we have?*
Three crates, replies Mathilde. One of them contains three equal measures of each kind. The other two are all Bloom.*
There is a pause, on Mathildes end, which lasts for two minutes and ends with a couple of voices perplexedly asking: What?
*
Barely a quarter of an hour later, the three are hovering in Mathildes lab, having donned their highly sterile lab-suits and helmets as an experiment takes place.*
The contents of the first two crates have turned to Bloom. This is undeniable; the bricks are of the far blacker hue that is typical in Bloom than in the other two varieties, Flex being golden and Midge a tea-brown.*
Still, Mathilde is testing the Bloom. She has cut a small slice of it (its consistency is not unlike jelly, though thicker), and with care she eases it onto a wad of blotting paper treated with a chemical which reacts to it, soaking it up on exposition. (In some circles, they use a skin cream laced with the chemical to localise the effects of A-Dust in certain bodily areas.)
The result is as she suspected; the Bloom is absorbed wholly into the paper, which becomes spongy and slightly wet before she deposits it in waste disposal with her tweezers.
As I thought, rather than just changing colour, the quantities of Midge and Flex in those two crates have changed property. Whatever they were, they are now entirely Bloom.
I have to talk to control, Lewis blurts, but Ginger has him already by his collar.
*
Not so fast, weasel, she says. We have to discuss this as a crew. Mathilde, is there any reason to abort the mission?
Mais non. We were sent here to study the effects of Alice Dust, in its pure form, in sterile condition, and to land on the moon at the close of the experiment. If you can do your job, I can do mine.
They begin to float out of the sterile lab environment, Ginger still holding onto Lewis stick-like form as she swims her way up through the hatch. You dont think the experiment is compromised, then?
Not at all. I still have enough of each variety to test on a third of our volunteers; I can keep another third as the control group as originally planned, and the last third will be tested on only with Bloom.
Ginger considers this as they pull up next to the ships lockers. The ship is designed to cope with greater increases in mass, given the nature of Mathildes experiments, and the spheres holding their volunteers are sturdy enough to keep a small elephant from breaking them. It might take some difficulty landing, but she likes a challenge. A thought occurs.
So youre just going to give them a diet of unfiltered Bloom every day, for weeks on end? Dont repeat users just blow up until they cant move?
As they strip of their science-suits, back down to their regular uniforms, Mathilde does something she never expected: she grins. A little mischievously.
Oui, she replies. But we do not know what happens next, now do we?
Closing her locker, she makes her way to the ships observation deck, leaving the other two with puzzled looks printed on their faces. Ginger settles her hand on Lewis shoulder.*
Alright, weasel. Will that be good enough for your big bad bosses? No need for me to change trajectory at any time?
Ill discuss it he replies, attempting to be cool in his caution. But I dont think theyll have any objections. Just as long as their name is still on the side of the ship.
Ginger smiles, now. Good. Now if youll excuse me, Im going to be in the canteen.
*
Shes still there about half an hour later, as Mathilde arrives back from her tests. Shes stirring a warm chicken pot pie and mashed potato concoction that she put together in the microwave, and musing to herself, dreamily. Probably thinking of relaxing with a movie if nothing else presents itself; or just gazing out at the emptiness through the observation deck. Space has an infinite possibility for entertainment, if you look.
You think it was sabotage? she asks, absent-mindedly.*
Mathilde straightens up, and as she turns Ginger giggles inside, musing how chicken-like this woman is in her mannerisms, her physicality, her stern expression; or perhaps she only thinks this because shes eating chicken now. She swallows another spoonful as Mathilde shakes her head briskly.
I...do not think so, Mathilde says, almost as if trying to convince herself. No - the evidence clearly shows that whatever the compound is, it has a life cycle. It would be interesting to test the effects of a compound half-way through the transition; would it cause someone to grow bigger, but stretchier? Able to pull themselves into a thinner shape?
That doesnt sound too bad, actually, Ginger muses. You could be apple-shaped one day and pear the next without crash-dieting.
All conjecture, alas, the scientist shrugs, helping herself to a compressed apricot smoothie from the canteen. We are only able to test with the materials we have, and they are too precious to waste.
Ginger shrugs. Its only important to her as a spectacle, and she has no real interest in the greater implications. Plus, her fellow crew-members way of speaking puts her off; all that flowery language and refusal to use contractions. If she relaxed a little let her hair grow a bit shed be quite cute, actually
The pilot shakes her head nonchalantly and attempts to think of star-charts in order to ward off blushing, but luck is on her side, for at that moment a startled, effeminate scream echoes through the corridors of Dumont-Fitzgerald. That old adage about space is, sadly, inaccurate when youre in a ship.
Neither of the two women go to an intercom system, for they can hear frantic panting and the thud of elbows, knees, heels and toes against metal panelling as the third crew-member makes his way towards them from his own quarters. Bursting into the canteen, Lewis stares wild-eyed at the two of them, his usually neatly-combed hair slightly out of place, and cries: Which one of you two idiots did it?!
The others stare at him in faint surprise, less due to what he has said and more to the fact that he said it; and already he is turning red and murmuring apologies under his heaving breath. There is something else Ginger notices different about him, something she cant quite put her finger on
Mathilde, however, with her analytical eye and her ease at noticing changes, spots it right away. Lewis. Give me your wrist.*
Her business-like tone has him obediently thrusting his arm forward towards her, and she prods it with her well-manicured fingers, pinching and squeezing here and there. Then she pronounces it, at the split second Ginger works it out: Lewis, you are fatter.
He is, as well. That formerly Hiddleston-esque body, with its wiry musculature and carven abdominal muscles, is now infused with only the teeniest layer of softness; but what a noticeable difference, in a man who has foregone crisps, chips, anything deep-fried and all forms of chocolate save a slice of cake at christmas for twenty-two years!
What a difference in his reaction, too: the man is seemingly racked with outrage, and more than a little fear, and mortification, and needless shame.
This cannot be happening - not so fast - and Im still so young - and I did everything I had to - and its not fair, not at all - and - and - Ginger quickly floats around to pat him comfortingly on the back.
Evidently this is not due to some caloric miscalculation. You have not tried experimenting with the Bloom? We will not judge you, Mathilde says, in her usual crisp scientific tone but as hushed as she can manage, to appear gentle.
He shakes his head, violently. Never touch the stuff. Why would I? Im not some body-fetish freak. Ginger rubs his shoulder, awkwardly, as he buries his face in his hands, suppressing a mortified sob. She has never met a man this concerned with his appearance, and doesnt know whether to hug him or tell him to suck it up.
Then it appears some measure of Compound GML has made it into our food, perhaps in a dryer and dustier form. We might even be inhaling minute, ineffectual traces as I speak. Mathilde consults a small tablet, making notes and juxtaposing them against facts and figures. I suppose you weighed yourself?
Yes, he sniffs. Im 9.8 and - I was 9.8 stone, he corrects himself bitterly. And now Im 10.01. Just like that. He snaps his fingers. What the hell kind of executive would want to be seen with me now? Im ruined, ruined "
Ginger is looking at him as he says this, assessing how his prominent jawbone is now a little swaddled, his waist pooching out a bit, his wrist bones less pronounced and the cuffs of his spacesuit riding up a bit on his barely chubbier arms. Even his cheeks are a bit warmer, a sight not unwelcome on his olive-coloured face. Yet hes still so smooth she can bet there wouldnt be stretch-marks, if she inspected.
Mathilde taps her stylus onto her tablet and collates her data. Hm. I still have no reason to suspect sabotage; but the greater extent of the problem remains to be seen. That is to say she eyes Gingers wide hips. Ginger? Take another bite of your chicken pot pie, and lets all be absolutely quiet. Lewis, dry your eyes and stop being une infante.
As the once-beanpole-ish assistant dries his eyes and sniffs, Ginger - playing along, having caught her colleagues train of thought - dips her fingers into the little metal tray of food and chews on a lump of re-heated chicken, slowly and carefully.*
The three of them listen. Then so softly they almost miss it
*floomp*
Gingers hips get a little wider. So does her smile. She prods her tummy a little, feeling a new give to it, and touches her cheek. Golly, is all she can say.
As I suspected. What is your mass, Captain Silverman?
How much do I weigh, you mean? 148 pounds, last I looked.
You had better look again. And you will have to do so again, and again and again, unless you want to live on smoothies, milkshakes and soup. We all will. No, my friends it appears this is the situation. Everything to eat on this ship, that is not a vacuum-packed liquid, has been contaminated. It will be safe to assume there are traces of the compound in all of it. At this point, our choice is clear.
Lewis and Ginger look up at the tall, chicken-like woman as she emotionlessly pronounces the new state of affairs. Either we grow enormously fat, simply by eating or starve to death.
The other two share expressions of horror and curiosity. As Lewis begins sobbing anew, Ginger shrugs. So same deal as always, then?"
End of Phase 1
But then again, stranger things have happened...
This story is affectionately dedicated to the art of Jay Tee, without whom I might never have embraced my love of the fuller female form.
How Much Have You Had
There is no need to worry about mere size. We do not necessarily respect a fat man more than a thin man. Sir Isaac Newton was very much smaller than a hippopotamus, but we do not on that account value him less.
- Bertrand Russell
Phase 1 (of 5): What Spring Is Like
The Moon hangs in the sky between the Earth and what lies beyond, a fragile dance partner that grows ever-so-further away each year. Almost as if she's waiting for something, anticipating the final crescendo in the waltz that will leave both dance partners breathless and gasping.
The space station Dumont-Fitzgerald lies between the two of them, as if a curious child had tugged at their mother's dress during the waltz and demanded that they be allowed to take part.*
Picture Dumont-Fitzgerald, if you can: a miracle of engineering, the combined work of several world government resources and many more corporate interests. It resembles an immense table-lamp, round-bodied at one end and conical at another, floating idly around its parent planet in serene peace.
Close in on that round little body in the spaceship and find yourself in the cool, sterile environment of Dumont-Fitzgerald's hold. It's a white, clean place divided into four storage rooms. One for food; one for equipment, instruments, other resources; one for...well, we'll get to that later; and one for its most precious resource: people.
A long rack of 250 'sleep pods' are arranged here, each containing a single human being in stasis. There could easily be more in this hold, but for the pods themselves being rather large, each a sphere allowing five feet of extra space for its occupant in all directions, though for now that space is taken up by water as they float freely in their induced coma. The passengers are trained, athletic volunteers specially selected from the tops of 'best employee' lists amongst the controlling corporations; attached to the side of each pod is a laminated, signed consent form. Here they dream endless dreams and await a second birth, soon to become colonists of Luna, our lovely moon.*
The cargo hold is monitored and operated by Mathilde Laurier.
(Ah, Mathilde. Pale and wiry, your muscly limbs hardened by decades of vigilance and exercise, your dark hair buzzed close to your scalp, your crystal-blue eyes cutting down anyone who meets your gaze. You have nothing in your life but goals, and the fervent need to run after them. Lovers, interests, family; all have fallen in your wake as you rushed to get here. You swore you'd become a 'space scientist' at age 8, and here you are 28 years later, surveying your kingdom on a strict daily rota, ready soon to begin the experiment of a lifetime. This is what you think you need.)
Mathilde floats elegantly around the hold, noting down the ratio between free-floating subjects and those who have gone into the foetal position on her clipboard; and having satisfied herself that today is entirely incident-free, proceeds to ascertain the security of the contents of Holds 1, 2 and 3. Bon", she says crisply to herself after the inspection is complete. Food is plentiful; resources are intact; and Dumont-Fitzgerald's compliment of Compound GML remains uncompromised.
You may have heard of Compound GML. Its very popular back on Earth.
*
Cast your eyes down to Dumont-Fitzgerald's communications hub, a room adjoined to its command centre. In the centre of an Art Deco wet dream, all screens and smoothness and fuzzy chairs, Lewis Grossman is teleconferencing with his superiors on Earth. Several important corporate interests went into this mission, and Lewis is here to make sure they're still represented as it continues.
(Lewis, you little rat. No, rat is too ugly a word; you resemble more a trained puppy-dog eagerly attempting to please your master. You're all of 26, and you've built up a personality around pleasing other people, and your appearance reflects upon it. Look at you, with those Arabic-ancestry good looks, the curly hair and the trimmed goatee, the rectangular spectacles, the lean body that tells of having done the bare minimum of exercises that'll make you look good standing beside a CEO, and make him look the better for employing you. You perk up and speak with clear confidence if anyone asks your favourite pizza topping or what movie you look forward to this summer, but you'd stammer and change the subject were anyone to ask about your schoolboy crush. You find your thermodynamic space uniform too baggy and itchy; a thousand times you'd prefer an elegant suit and bow tie.)
"Ms. Laurier is doing the final check as we speak," he says into the thin microphone receiver. "We'll soon be ready to commence experimentation."
Before him, an immense projection of a gaunt and elderly face nods, satisfied. "Just remember, Grossman - that's our people amongst those sleepers, and they're good and able-bodied people too. Just make sure they're looked after."
"I can assure you, Sir, that they'll be kept healthy and awaken happy," Lewis tells the gaunt and elderly face, "And you'll see the evidence of that in my weekly report."
"I'd better. The board are still pretty darned jumpy about this whole operation, and it's only me keeping them interested enough not to pull out. I'm putting a trust in you, son. Don't betray that trust."
"You can count on me, Sir," Lewis replies, and waits for the other person to terminate the call.
*
Descend from Communications and Control to the lounge of this commercial ship, a 'relaxation area' designed for a crew of 15-20 people. Connected to it is a gym hall with different equipment set up on every surface. Here, there's a pleasant-sized big-screen TV, a well-stocked library, a full bar and safety kitchen and as many sofas and beanbags as can be functionally used without gravity.
Lounging on one of these with her nose buried deep in The Complete Works of H.P. Lovecraft, is Gloria "Ginger" Silverman. It is her job to pilot this gigantic machine.
(You'll always be beautiful, Ginger. You have it written in the centre of ever freckle of your rosy skin, smoothed into your wide hips and tangled around every strand of your ridiculous orange hair. When someone tells you a joke, you laugh like you're being tickled, but when you're at the helm your hazelnut eyes smoulder with seriousness and professional ability. You've never gone a Friday night without a drink since your were 17. You're always trying to make something happen. You went into space because you were bored.)
Lewis glides in as she flips over onto her front, exposing her wide, toned bottom and letting her waist-length ponytail flutter in the antigrav like a flag. He coughs and tugs at his collar, but he didn't get to where he did today by sexually harassing female employees and so he is soon able to focus on other things.
Preparing himself a small green tea in a vacuum-sealed cup, he casually states over his shoulder, "We're about to start the procedures. When Mathilde is ready, that is."
Ginger shrugs. Whatever you say. She turns a page ever-so-slowly, yawning a little as she does so. Im just lounging here until we get to moving this heap a junk.
Lewis doesnt like to hear the ship being called that, but he doesnt rise to it. There are very few things Lewis really likes to argue about; he never sees it as worth the effort. Besides, he likes Ginger, as abrasive as she can be. And as uncaring about her appearance; she really ought not to have her hair so long. Its not just being careful in space (after all, didnt his employers get the very best engineering and design that money can buy to make this the safest weightless environment possible). It just looks so untidy. Absolutely without the least bit of fashion sense.
As you like, he says quietly. I certainly think itll be an interesting enough spectacle, noticing how our passengers react to their treatment. In fact, they could -
The buzz of a new intercom message breaks out across the Dumont-Fitzgeralds speaker system.
Speak of the devil, Ginger says, sitting up, as Mathildes crisp French voice begins to make her announcements.*
Hello, crew, come in crew. Are you there? Attendez.
Were in the hold together, Ginger shouts. Whats the haps?
An audible pause, the length of one of Mathildes frustrated sighs. I would wish you could spend a little less time being a fool, Captain. We have a situation here of the gravest importance. Someone she sighs again, and so seriously that the other two are at last forced to sit up and take notice.
Someone has tampered with the cargo.
What the hell do you mean someones tampered with the cargo? asks Lewis incredulously. "Thats impossible! It was inspected multiple times before takeoff, and security cameras never detected any intruders -
Calm it, honey, interrupts Ginger. Whats the problem? Do I need to turn this thing around so we can go back for more food?
Non. I have not inspected the food yet, but rest assured we have enough to last the three of us for many years of travel, if that were required. It is the compliment of the compound.*
Mathilde is examining the contents of the hold as she says this, carefully selecting bricks of Compound GML out of the larger crates in which theyre contained, unwrapping their paper covers to inspect the colouring.
The compound? What about it? Lewis interjects as Mathilde nods, satisfied by the results of her quick assessment.*
You have the results of the pre-flight inspections, my friend, she replies crisply. Tell me how much of each variety we were meant to have.
Of course. Lewis voice is suddenly devoid of all its previous hysteria as he handles data, facts and figures, the stuff which is truly his element. Hes glad of the distraction, knowing that stressful conditions sometimes manifest physically in his skin pores, giving him unpleasant zits. He doesnt want his fellow crew members to see his zits. Its not dignified.
In order to facilitate the study of Compound GML, aka Alice Dust, in weightless and sterile conditions, on a number of willing volunteers. As opposed to the street method of grinding it to a powder and mixing it in foodstuffs, the method here used is to reduce weighted quantities to a liquid state and -
I know, interrupts Mathilde, what the method is. I devised it. Just tell me how much we are meant to have.
Approximately three crates, each containing a metric ton of one variety - Flex the kind that stretches, Midge, the kind that shrinks and Bloom, the kind that, um, expands. Lewis is not looking in the direction of Gingers generous hips as he makes that remark. Hes being very obvious about it, too.
I can see where this is going, says Ginger. How much do we have?*
Three crates, replies Mathilde. One of them contains three equal measures of each kind. The other two are all Bloom.*
There is a pause, on Mathildes end, which lasts for two minutes and ends with a couple of voices perplexedly asking: What?
*
Barely a quarter of an hour later, the three are hovering in Mathildes lab, having donned their highly sterile lab-suits and helmets as an experiment takes place.*
The contents of the first two crates have turned to Bloom. This is undeniable; the bricks are of the far blacker hue that is typical in Bloom than in the other two varieties, Flex being golden and Midge a tea-brown.*
Still, Mathilde is testing the Bloom. She has cut a small slice of it (its consistency is not unlike jelly, though thicker), and with care she eases it onto a wad of blotting paper treated with a chemical which reacts to it, soaking it up on exposition. (In some circles, they use a skin cream laced with the chemical to localise the effects of A-Dust in certain bodily areas.)
The result is as she suspected; the Bloom is absorbed wholly into the paper, which becomes spongy and slightly wet before she deposits it in waste disposal with her tweezers.
As I thought, rather than just changing colour, the quantities of Midge and Flex in those two crates have changed property. Whatever they were, they are now entirely Bloom.
I have to talk to control, Lewis blurts, but Ginger has him already by his collar.
*
Not so fast, weasel, she says. We have to discuss this as a crew. Mathilde, is there any reason to abort the mission?
Mais non. We were sent here to study the effects of Alice Dust, in its pure form, in sterile condition, and to land on the moon at the close of the experiment. If you can do your job, I can do mine.
They begin to float out of the sterile lab environment, Ginger still holding onto Lewis stick-like form as she swims her way up through the hatch. You dont think the experiment is compromised, then?
Not at all. I still have enough of each variety to test on a third of our volunteers; I can keep another third as the control group as originally planned, and the last third will be tested on only with Bloom.
Ginger considers this as they pull up next to the ships lockers. The ship is designed to cope with greater increases in mass, given the nature of Mathildes experiments, and the spheres holding their volunteers are sturdy enough to keep a small elephant from breaking them. It might take some difficulty landing, but she likes a challenge. A thought occurs.
So youre just going to give them a diet of unfiltered Bloom every day, for weeks on end? Dont repeat users just blow up until they cant move?
As they strip of their science-suits, back down to their regular uniforms, Mathilde does something she never expected: she grins. A little mischievously.
Oui, she replies. But we do not know what happens next, now do we?
Closing her locker, she makes her way to the ships observation deck, leaving the other two with puzzled looks printed on their faces. Ginger settles her hand on Lewis shoulder.*
Alright, weasel. Will that be good enough for your big bad bosses? No need for me to change trajectory at any time?
Ill discuss it he replies, attempting to be cool in his caution. But I dont think theyll have any objections. Just as long as their name is still on the side of the ship.
Ginger smiles, now. Good. Now if youll excuse me, Im going to be in the canteen.
*
Shes still there about half an hour later, as Mathilde arrives back from her tests. Shes stirring a warm chicken pot pie and mashed potato concoction that she put together in the microwave, and musing to herself, dreamily. Probably thinking of relaxing with a movie if nothing else presents itself; or just gazing out at the emptiness through the observation deck. Space has an infinite possibility for entertainment, if you look.
You think it was sabotage? she asks, absent-mindedly.*
Mathilde straightens up, and as she turns Ginger giggles inside, musing how chicken-like this woman is in her mannerisms, her physicality, her stern expression; or perhaps she only thinks this because shes eating chicken now. She swallows another spoonful as Mathilde shakes her head briskly.
I...do not think so, Mathilde says, almost as if trying to convince herself. No - the evidence clearly shows that whatever the compound is, it has a life cycle. It would be interesting to test the effects of a compound half-way through the transition; would it cause someone to grow bigger, but stretchier? Able to pull themselves into a thinner shape?
That doesnt sound too bad, actually, Ginger muses. You could be apple-shaped one day and pear the next without crash-dieting.
All conjecture, alas, the scientist shrugs, helping herself to a compressed apricot smoothie from the canteen. We are only able to test with the materials we have, and they are too precious to waste.
Ginger shrugs. Its only important to her as a spectacle, and she has no real interest in the greater implications. Plus, her fellow crew-members way of speaking puts her off; all that flowery language and refusal to use contractions. If she relaxed a little let her hair grow a bit shed be quite cute, actually
The pilot shakes her head nonchalantly and attempts to think of star-charts in order to ward off blushing, but luck is on her side, for at that moment a startled, effeminate scream echoes through the corridors of Dumont-Fitzgerald. That old adage about space is, sadly, inaccurate when youre in a ship.
Neither of the two women go to an intercom system, for they can hear frantic panting and the thud of elbows, knees, heels and toes against metal panelling as the third crew-member makes his way towards them from his own quarters. Bursting into the canteen, Lewis stares wild-eyed at the two of them, his usually neatly-combed hair slightly out of place, and cries: Which one of you two idiots did it?!
The others stare at him in faint surprise, less due to what he has said and more to the fact that he said it; and already he is turning red and murmuring apologies under his heaving breath. There is something else Ginger notices different about him, something she cant quite put her finger on
Mathilde, however, with her analytical eye and her ease at noticing changes, spots it right away. Lewis. Give me your wrist.*
Her business-like tone has him obediently thrusting his arm forward towards her, and she prods it with her well-manicured fingers, pinching and squeezing here and there. Then she pronounces it, at the split second Ginger works it out: Lewis, you are fatter.
He is, as well. That formerly Hiddleston-esque body, with its wiry musculature and carven abdominal muscles, is now infused with only the teeniest layer of softness; but what a noticeable difference, in a man who has foregone crisps, chips, anything deep-fried and all forms of chocolate save a slice of cake at christmas for twenty-two years!
What a difference in his reaction, too: the man is seemingly racked with outrage, and more than a little fear, and mortification, and needless shame.
This cannot be happening - not so fast - and Im still so young - and I did everything I had to - and its not fair, not at all - and - and - Ginger quickly floats around to pat him comfortingly on the back.
Evidently this is not due to some caloric miscalculation. You have not tried experimenting with the Bloom? We will not judge you, Mathilde says, in her usual crisp scientific tone but as hushed as she can manage, to appear gentle.
He shakes his head, violently. Never touch the stuff. Why would I? Im not some body-fetish freak. Ginger rubs his shoulder, awkwardly, as he buries his face in his hands, suppressing a mortified sob. She has never met a man this concerned with his appearance, and doesnt know whether to hug him or tell him to suck it up.
Then it appears some measure of Compound GML has made it into our food, perhaps in a dryer and dustier form. We might even be inhaling minute, ineffectual traces as I speak. Mathilde consults a small tablet, making notes and juxtaposing them against facts and figures. I suppose you weighed yourself?
Yes, he sniffs. Im 9.8 and - I was 9.8 stone, he corrects himself bitterly. And now Im 10.01. Just like that. He snaps his fingers. What the hell kind of executive would want to be seen with me now? Im ruined, ruined "
Ginger is looking at him as he says this, assessing how his prominent jawbone is now a little swaddled, his waist pooching out a bit, his wrist bones less pronounced and the cuffs of his spacesuit riding up a bit on his barely chubbier arms. Even his cheeks are a bit warmer, a sight not unwelcome on his olive-coloured face. Yet hes still so smooth she can bet there wouldnt be stretch-marks, if she inspected.
Mathilde taps her stylus onto her tablet and collates her data. Hm. I still have no reason to suspect sabotage; but the greater extent of the problem remains to be seen. That is to say she eyes Gingers wide hips. Ginger? Take another bite of your chicken pot pie, and lets all be absolutely quiet. Lewis, dry your eyes and stop being une infante.
As the once-beanpole-ish assistant dries his eyes and sniffs, Ginger - playing along, having caught her colleagues train of thought - dips her fingers into the little metal tray of food and chews on a lump of re-heated chicken, slowly and carefully.*
The three of them listen. Then so softly they almost miss it
*floomp*
Gingers hips get a little wider. So does her smile. She prods her tummy a little, feeling a new give to it, and touches her cheek. Golly, is all she can say.
As I suspected. What is your mass, Captain Silverman?
How much do I weigh, you mean? 148 pounds, last I looked.
You had better look again. And you will have to do so again, and again and again, unless you want to live on smoothies, milkshakes and soup. We all will. No, my friends it appears this is the situation. Everything to eat on this ship, that is not a vacuum-packed liquid, has been contaminated. It will be safe to assume there are traces of the compound in all of it. At this point, our choice is clear.
Lewis and Ginger look up at the tall, chicken-like woman as she emotionlessly pronounces the new state of affairs. Either we grow enormously fat, simply by eating or starve to death.
The other two share expressions of horror and curiosity. As Lewis begins sobbing anew, Ginger shrugs. So same deal as always, then?"
End of Phase 1
