a little more juju

This is just the first draft, but I’m so proud of this part of Paradiso. It really sets the stage for everything that’s coming next, and I made a few breakthroughs while I wrote it that truly changed the whole novel.

I hope you enjoy!

Brick LaMasse’s night began exactly as it had for the last two weeks since the newlywed couple had moved in just above his employer-subsidized apartment: with the sounds of enthusiastically boisterous lovemaking coming through his ceiling. It had been jarring at first, naturally; he had once toyed with the idea of complaining to the super, but he had come to appreciate their polite consistency. It had become an alarm of sorts that he did not have to set. 

Smiling at the muffled moaning above him, Brick grabbed his headphones from the small table behind the head of the bed and gently placed them over his ears before smoothly rising from his bunk. He wasn’t sure if this was out of respect for the couple or prudishness, but it was part of his routine nonetheless. As he stood, he lightly touched the button hidden under his bed, which slid into the wall to become a functional, if not boring, brown settee next to his stationary side table. He did a few standing stretches before heading over to his kitchenette to make some coffee from his nearly unrivaled collection of varieties from Earth. 

“Gloria, please turn on the television to channel two.”

“Of course!” The AI had been an excellent subscription choice when he had first arrived on Paradiso … what was it, two years prior? He had even paid a little extra to customize her voice to that of his mother’s by using audio recordings and video clips from when she was alive, resulting in a slight southern twang that his mother had tried to mask for years. He hoped that, if she was looking down at him, she was pleased with the gesture. 

The small flatscreen on the opposite wall flickered on, and the sweeping opening music of the nightly news overpowered the slight residual noise from his neighbors’. 

Once he had arrived on the space station, his boss had highly encouraged him to set a schedule for himself to help adapt to the time difference from Earth — just a little more than 30 hours as opposed to 24 — and one of the little rituals he had adopted was to watch the evening news. He had come to view the anchors almost as friends, his connection to the world of the day folk, and had not missed a single broadcast. 

“Good evening, Paradiso! I’m Cleo Marks, and welcome to New Two at Eighteen.” 

Brick glanced at the screen and saw Cleo was wearing the green dress that brought out her eyes so beautifully. The crew’s stylists had truly been knocking it out of the park lately; all of the anchors’ wardrobes were nothing short of perfection, and he made a mental note to send them a message saying so. While Cleo began reciting the various news stories of the day, Brick fiddled around his kitchenette, popping bread into his toaster and heating water for his French press.

“In lighter news, Paradiso’s Cultural Council has approved funding for three new public art installations slated to debut later this year, just before the holiday season. Organizers say the projects are meant to ‘foster shared identity and communal pride’ across the station’s diverse wards.” 

Chomping on his dry toast, he scooped out his favorite treat coffee — Jamaican Blue Mountain — from its tightly sealed container and relished the nutty yet floral aroma as he dropped clumps into the bottom of the French press. The fragrance only expanded as he poured the piping hot water from his electric kettle, and he had to pull himself away to set a timer to prevent him from steeping it for too long. 

He was a man of simple pleasures.

That was actually the tagline at the top of his dating profile, right under a picture of him lovingly holding his favorite novelty mug to his face. Although Brick wouldn’t necessarily consider himself successful on the romance front, he did have a second date with Gwen, a woman who shared his love of coffee and midnight walks. He had thought to invite her on tonight’s excursion, but he was truly feeling like being alone. Who wouldn’t, after two weeks straight of work? 

“Officials have confirmed today that Paradiso will be the location for the Martian Independence Symposium, an initiative designed to provide space for open conversation around autonomy, representation, and Mars’ long-term future. The symposium, led by Martian diplomat Catherine Nzingha, has been described as an opportunity to ensure that all voices are heard on such an important galactic decision.”

Once the coffee was steeped to perfection, he poured it into an old travel mug, donned his decades-old barn coat, and headed out the door. Leaving the television on to allow his “friends” to finish their broadcast was just another part of his nightly rituals; it felt rude to stop them. He pulled out the tablet in his coat pocket, thankfully halfway charged, and paired the device with his headphones. 

“Gloria, play Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie No. 1,” he said quietly, hopefully not disturbing his neighbors. 

“Gladly!” 

The gentle piano brought another smile to his face. Even though he had always been annoyed at his mother for playing this song on repeat when he was growing up, Brick had grown to love it, as well. He listened to it at least once or twice a night. 

“Hi, Brick!” 

Callie’s voice startled him; he’d forgotten to turn on noise cancellation. When he spun around, she smirked sheepishly as she shoved her keys into her leather jacket’s front pocket. He lifted one of the headphones off his ear. 

“Sorry to scare you,” she said, tightening the strap on her leather messenger bag and cradling her motorcycle helmet under her arm. “Hot date?”

She was a nurse at the same hospital he worked as an engineer, and they had taken the bus together plenty of times on the nights she left her motorcycle parked in the garage below their apartment building. He would not say they were friends, but he would watch her overly social cat on the rare occasion she took vacation, and she had often taken his trash out for him. She had also left a bag of specialty coffee at his door for his birthday three months ago. Perhaps they were friends. 

“Oh, no, it’s a solo night for me,” he replied as they turned the corner to the elevator bay. “Just going out to enjoy the night air, if you will.” 

“Maybe the boning will be done by the time you get back,” she joked, patting him on the shoulder. “I swear, their stamina is enviable.” 

Callie waved before pushing the stairwell door open and disappearing. They were on the fifteenth floor, so her descent would be a long one. Her own stamina was impressive enough. He’d lost count of how many times he’d seen her come off a fourteen-hour shift, change into sweats, and run five to ten kilometers. Brick couldn’t imagine running even a hundred meters. 

The outside air was refreshing, despite its artificiality. Paradiso didn’t have seasons, but it could get rather chilly at night, nearly 10 degrees Celsius. He stopped at the corner of the sidewalk to stare into the endless expanse of space, a pleasant reminder of his insignificance. Something about knowing he was not a main character in the universe meant he could go about his day with little concern for bigger things, his place in history. He grinned as he pinpointed the tiny dot that was Earth and then stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, continuing on his way toward Silva Ward. 

Brick couldn’t remember exactly when he’d decided this particular neighborhood was his favorite on Paradiso, but he certainly knew why: in the park just across the street from an Albertus office building, a single elder magnolia tree spread its branches across a gently sloped knoll, occasionally dropping a leaf or giant cream-colored petal to the ground. He caught sight of the tree and its scarcely-serviced swinging bench beneath it and, with barely noticeable glee, quickened his pace. 

Boom!

Instinctively, Brick threw up his arms as the fourth floor of the office building erupted, the blast blooming orange against the comparatively dim streetlights of Silva Ward. But his attention was not on the blast. It was as if time slowed when he saw her, plummeting toward one of the cars parked in front of the dark, all-glass building. Her body crashed into the roof of the car, collapsing its roof and sending shards of glass in every direction. 

Time caught up. 

He stayed completely still, in shock, barely aware of the blaring alarms and sterile metallic smell of ozone. Ash and shredded paper, some still smoldering, began their slow descent to the ground, but Brick paid it no mind. He took a step toward the wreckage, unsure if he would be able to handle what he might see. 

But suddenly, the woman slowly pushed herself up with one arm, and he could see the other was bent backward. Struggling to stand, she looked back up from where she fell and then popped her arm back into the correct position, with little to no response to pain. 

“Are-are you alright?” was all Brick could think to say. 

Of course she wasn’t. 

The woman’s attention snapped to him. Her head cocked eerily to one side as she narrowed her eyes, a little too blue, and a shiver shot through him. As he looked longer, nothing made sense. Her clothes were ripped and burned, her hair disheveled, but he couldn’t spot a single injury on her. He couldn’t have told anyone if she was old or young, if her skin was dark or pale. 

But those eyes. “Unnatural” kept repeating in his mind. 

For the briefest and longest of moments, the two of them stood, staring at each other, equally stupefied. But then, with a speed he had never witnessed, the woman bolted into the darkness.  

He pulled his tablet back out and started to dial the emergency number but froze,  confused as to what he might say. Absolutely no one was going to believe him. 

In fact, he barely believed it himself.