Healthy Eating

A vignette, by M. Alice Chown

I can tell by the gilt lettering on the glossy cover, which reads, “Healthy Eating”, that the book is seditious.  I know I should insert it directly into the little disintegrator bot’s slot.   But I choose not to.  My hands begin to shake.  I tug at the cuffs of my sani-gloves to remind myself that I am a trained professional.   

I open the book to the first page.

I see colours!  Rounded objects in garish hues slick with moisture are heaped in a shallow, open vessel.    The words beneath the picture say, “Very Berry Citrus Salad”.  

People used to put such substances into their mouths... masticate...  and swallow.  My nostrils flare, my salivary glands tingle and I feel an excitation in the pit of my stomach.  The white ante-chamber, instead of seeming size-less, closes in around the small plastanium table, the bot, the book and me.  I shut my eyes and breathe freshly-filtered air in through the nasal tube and release it slowly through my lips to calm my mind.  I recall that the observer is always running, its lens noting the artefact under examination and any physiological changes I experience.  Being among those sent to prepare this planet for re-habitation is a great honour, I tell myself.  I must maintain self-control.  

I  know I should put the book in the awaiting slot, but my fingers find its centre and spread its pages wide.   A thrill runs through me at the sight of the picture on the left – “grilled salmon with dill and roasted bell peppers”.  A pale pink slab with a glistening, silver crust is surrounded by a riot of red, orange, yellow and green strips.  On the opposite page, the text of the “recipe” is superimposed on an image of a group of humanoids seated around a table, baring their teeth in grins, raising liquid-filled containers and lifting food-laden utensils.   A drop of spittle dribbles down my chin and pools at the seal of my helmet.  Hunger rises in my throat and yet my next nutri-jection is over two hours away.  

Suddenly dizzy, I clutch the table for support.  

An urgent voice speaks in my ear, “Epsilon-alpha Tau, are you ill?”

It’s the team leader, who must have noticed my unusual bio-readings via the observer.  

I manage to respond, “N-n-negative.”

“Epsilon-alpha Tau, disintegrate the artefact immediately.”  I’m shivering and unable to answer or move.  “Our directive is to sanitize.”

Without thinking I tear off my helmet, rip out the grilled salmon page, push it between my gums and chew.  Sweet, sour, salt and bitter tastes burst over my tongue.    

From what seems far away, the voice says, “Repeat your directive!”  

I scan the flimsy walls.  The ones straight ahead and on either side connect via tunnels to archeological digs... and the team leader.   I reach out and grasp the disintegrator bot by its earflaps and use it to batter the back wall until it falls outward.  

I walk into the blowing golden dust toward a sun setting over a strip of azure... and green.  

And I run.

End