Twenty Three, 31 March
Shangdu
Dronikus, a novel set on a burning planet called Earth.
Enrike and Meriti
For days Zola lay, heavily sedated, on his back, under a duvet in a large comfortable bed. He hardly moved; his breathing was shallow. Soft light emanating from the wall lit the spacious and expensively furnished room. A rator, wearing the green uniform of the companion rators, stood by in a corner.
Regularly the main door would click open and a nurse would enter. She was a strongly built, middle-aged woman with a hard face, her hair tied in a bun behind her head. She would do the basic checks on Zola and verify that the cannula in his arm was still flowing and leave.
At one point she was accompanied by two men, Enrike and Meriti. They stood by Zola’s bed for a while. They looked down at him, saying nothing. Meriti prodded the Lumpyface, feeling it as it responded to the pressure of his fingers. After a few minutes they left, Meriti acknowledging the nurse with a nod.
One day, as she came to do her checks, the nurse noticed that Zola was partially awake, struggling against the sedation. She took a glass of water and put it to his mouth. He sipped.
‘How are you feeling, my dear?’ she asked. Zola didn’t respond. ‘Do you need anything? Food? Drink?’ Zola blinked and faintly nodded his head, before closing his eyes. ‘If you need anything, call on Arno,’ she said, pointing to the rator standing in the corner.
After a few more days, the nurse removed the cannula. ‘They think that you don’t need this anymore.’ She encouraged him to eat and offered him a slice of apple. He looked at her hand and the apple in her fingers and opened his mouth a little. As she put it between his teeth he took a nibble and chewed on it.
‘Thanks,’ he uttered.
‘Nice to hear your voice. My name is Patricia. Hello.’
‘Zola.’ His voice barely rose above a whisper.
‘Hello Zola.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what, Zola?’
Zola indicated the cannula and stand that stood next to the bed.
‘You were suffering the effects of trauma when you arrived.’
‘Huh?’
‘Trauma. It was manifesting in aggression and violence. So the doctors…’
‘How long?’ It was an effort for him to talk.
‘Nine days,’ she said.
He closed his eyes. His mind still dazed by the sedative, it took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, they connected randomised images and experiences of the AutoTrain, producing flashes of panic in the swirling fog of his mind. He made an effort to sit up, looking about him, bewildered.
‘Where...? Where…? I mean…? Hey!… Hey!… I mean…’ Waves of dread washed over him.
Patricia held him by the shoulder, ‘it’s okay, Zola, it’s okay.’
‘But she… I mean… but… but…’ was all he managed before falling back into the pillows.
In the night Zola lay sweating in bed. He tossed about in his sleep, racked as if he had a fever, breathing irregularly. He woke, trembling, panic at his core, fed by a profound sense of loss and mounting fear.
He forced himself to sit up and turn on a light. He looked about the room, staring at his hands, rubbing his face, trying to calm himself in the normality of the surroundings, repeating over and over, ‘it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.’ Gradually, calm did return and he lay back. He could feel sleep coming and he embraced it; it was stronger for the moment than the panic.
The respite was momentary, however. The unbidden, unwelcome landscape of his mind – agitated, whirling, and threatening – overwhelmed him again and wave after wave of anxiety had him thrashing about on the bed once more. He felt himself lurch towards an abyss, a cavernous black hole which he felt as a wash of terror, enveloping him, pulling him. His fractured and delirious mind fought, resisting the pull to oblivion. But the harder he struggled, the stronger the pull, the more potent the torment, the more acute the dread.
Chesa. He opened his mouth to call her. Her name was on his lips but he could not say it, he could not find it in the jumble of his brain; it was there, she was there, but he could not reach her. He began to cry out.
The rator, Arno, had come across and stood near the bed. ‘Can I get you something, sir?’
Zola’s cries turned to screams.
Patricia came rushing to the bedside. She put her hands on his shoulders and chest, soothing him. In mumbled terror he grabbed her and pulled her down to him, sobbing and drawing deep breaths, holding her tight, shaking and moaning in agony.
She lay consoling him; he, holding her, coming back to reality, keeping the terror at bay. Over time he calmed down enough to release her. She sat up but stayed close to him.
‘Sorry, but I… I… sorry… sorry…’ he repeated over and over.
‘Shhhh…’ said Patricia. She reached over and took the glass with water and held it for him to drink. He pressed his head back into the pillows.
She got up and went out, returning soon and bearing pills that she gave to Zola.
‘The doctor recommends that we back up a bit on the sedation and reinsert the cannula. Maybe we went a bit too fast,’ said Patricia. ‘You looked like you were doing so well.’ She took his arm and reinserted the sedative line.
‘Was I… violent…?’ he spoke haltingly.
‘No, no, not now. Before, when they brought you in here you were screaming, lashing out. You punched anybody and anything that got in your way. Look at the bruises on your hands and arms. You put on quite a show. But not now. Are you feeling any better?’
‘I feel like I’m going mad.’
‘Not surprising with all that tranquilliser in you.’
Zola, the cannula in his arm, his eyes closed, slumped forward in the wheelchair. Arno held it firmly and Patricia stood next to him on one side holding the drip stand.
‘Welcome, my brother,’ said Enrike. He sat in a comfortable, wide leather easy chair on a low raised dais. Meriti sat next to him on a couch. Behind them stood their rators and to one side was a bald tough-looking man: Petros Jordaan, Pandoke head of security.
They were in Enrike’s chambers, a large room of leather settees, fine rugs, antique furnishing, and fine art, its walls lined with shelves of books. The room had been Colinson’s, and still remained the centre of the Pandoke empire. It was the place from where Zola was sent to exile so many years before.
Enrike had hard grey eyes and a way of looking – his head tilted downwards and his eyes looking up – that gave the impression that he was suspicious, interrogating all that he saw, both people and things, creating a distance, a cold, calculating interaction with the world. He was known as an obsessive loner with a powerful intellect, not someone for whom the softer, more gentle qualities of the species counted too much.
As he eyed his brother before him in the wheelchair, he made an effort at warmth and good cheer. ‘Welcome, my dear brother.’ Zola did not respond; his head had fallen forward on his chest. Enrike signalled to Patricia; she and Arno withdrew.
‘It is truly wonderful to see you again,’ he continued. ‘It has been a long time, for you and for us, too. And you should know we had already decided to bring you back from your exile in the next short while. But you,’ his lips parted a little, perhaps indicating a smile, ‘you took the long route back and, well, here you are. So all’s well that ends well, huh?’
Zola sat unmoving in the wheelchair. Enrike sat forward, looking down at Zola. He held his hands out before him. He spoke, calmly, reasonably, ‘Zola, what happened, happened. An unfortunate combination of factors to do with personalities, history, and circumstances gave rise to events and incidents that were toxic, volatile, and unseemly. A lot of pain was inflicted and experienced within our family, more than any family should have to endure. We acknowledge that we were not blameless in all this, just as it must be said that no one involved was blameless. But as I say: what happened, happened. We have to put that behind us and find a way to forgive and go forward together.’
Zola breathed heavily but offered no response; his eyes were still closed, his head still on his chest.
Meriti now stood and took a few paces towards Zola. ‘My brother, I too welcome you back. With all my heart.’ Meriti was, as always, turned out in a finely cut suit and stylish shoes. He was a man with perfect teeth that he flashed often, charming and flattering the local and international executives and politicians, the consummate, charismatic marketing man. His success in this was matched only, it was said, by his womanising.
‘We’ve missed you, Zola. We’ve missed your energy and your fine intelligence, your intuition, your astuteness.’
Zola’s breathing was interrupted by a short bout of shallow coughing.
‘Knowing that you were in that place, suffering, so far away, sat with us, in our minds and in our hearts, every day. Much has changed in these years: there have been many brilliant achievements by this company and, dare I say, by this country, and even the world community.’
The coughing worsened, becoming more frequent and louder.
‘Pandoke is part of changes that are revolutionising the world. We are playing an important role in changing the very nature of what it means to be human…’
Zola coughed and heaved. He lurched out of the wheelchair. Meriti sprang forward and caught him just as a stream of greenish-yellow bile sprayed from Zola’s mouth and onto Meriti’s suit and shoes. Enrike spoke into his Eyeto. Patricia and Arno rushed in, settled Zola in the wheelchair and took him back to his room.
Dronikus is a novel published in 2023, now being serialised here on Substack. You can read a chapter every week for free.
Liking what you’re reading? Don’t want to wait to see what happens next? You can read the full book now by purchasing a digital or print copy of Dronikus from:
AndAlso Books (print edition)
Amazon (epub), Smashwords (epub), Apple Books (epub), Barnes&Noble (epub)
Note from Marko Newman: Hi Dronikus readers. I hope that you are liking what you are reading. There is still a fair way to go in the story with many twists and turns to come.
For those who are joining the story I highly recommend you take the time to peruse earlier chapters to give you a bit of a lead-in to the story.
I suggest:
Chapters 1 to 3, 7, 9 and 12:
I have a favour to ask all readers: please forward the story (any episode) to anyone who you think may like this short weekly hit of fiction reading. Suggest that if they like it they could subscribe to the weekly post. Emphasise that it is free and that one can unsubscribe with one click.
Also, I’m keen to hear any comments or questions or thoughts you may have. My email is: markonewman@icloud.com
Cheers, Marko