Part one of Solomon’s Choice, an upcoming novel from Ruthanne Reid. // "You want me to cure cancer?" The Council stares down at me, all three of them utterly unreadable. I have spent my life attempting to understand the facial expressions and body language of my fellow humans, yet when they are lit from below and glaring down from fifteen feet in the air, I am at a loss. Alas that they do not respond with clarification. "Yes," says Yi. "This is your task." My mouth works. Nothing comes out. "Are you waiting for a golden invitation?" snaps Masterton. "Go!" Amadi sighs. "Doctor. We're done." They're done. My night has just begun. The soldiers ignore me as I exit the Council's windowless, dark court. Into the dark hall, up the slope. My footsteps echo in spite of the soft greige slippers I wear. Perhaps that is why they choose to meet in this joyless cavern; they certainly cannot be snuck up upon.
Part two of Solomon’s Choice, an upcoming novel from Ruthanne Reid. // Tom waits at the entrance, as I knew he would: arms crossed, leaning against our lockers, determinedly ignoring the Fey who do... whatever it is they do across the half-wall, speaking their language and walking quickly in beauty and inhuman grace. I ignore them, too. It is a comfortable state of existence to pretend we do not see one another. "Thank you for waiting." He gives me a look which I would, in any other circumstance, interpret as disgust. "Well?" "Cancer." My hands shake as I reach for my locker. He just stares at me. "You have cancer?" "No. I am expected to cure it." My PPE waits for me in its perfect order: gloves on top, to ensure no cross-contamination as I don the rest; hood with face shield; body suit; boots. This way, my exit can be as efficient as possible, with no fumbling or shifting of garments.
Part three of Solomon’s Choice, an upcoming novel from Ruthanne Reid. // "Cure... cancer," says Tom, pulling on his own PPE on while scowling at me. "I think they mean me to fail." I would not say this to anyone but him. Tom is my only friend; he, at least, can be trusted not to share the content of my thoughts where they ought not go. "You're not a disease expert," says Tom. "Cancer is not technically a disease," I tell him, securing my wrists, ankles, throat. It is a relief, truly, to be sealed and safe against the eyes of others; now, it no longer matters if my face doesn't do what they expect it to do. "My studies involve genetics, which mean that this particular issue -that of a cell going rogue, its mitosis out of control and self-destructive— falls more closely under my purview than perhaps other ailments involving the auto-immune-" "You're doing it again." That flat tone, its edges sharp. I pause.
Part four of Solomon’s Choice, an upcoming novel from Ruthanne Reid. // do... ramble, sometimes, become fixated on one topic or another until I cannot rightfully think of another, and it, ah. It drives my one friend quite over the line. Focus, Sol. "Sorry. I'm saying... trying to say... that I could do this. Possibly. If I had resources." He laughs sharply. I laugh, too, though I don't particularly think our ascetic existence a topic for humor. If others laugh and you do not, you immediately set yourself to be different, somehow awkward, and the result— "Who the fuck has them?" he says, shaking his head. "Just ask for the moon on a plate. Go ahead. Ask." "I don't need the moon." My tone is clipped. "I need the resources our own people once had." This is an old discussion, and Tom sighs. "Well, we don't." No. We don't.
The opening to my WIP, Solomon’s Choice. I adore this book.
Neurospicy scientist? Polyamory and parallel worlds? DRAMA? This book has it all.
Hold on to your butts. #amwriting #solomonschoice
