Download the Book - Islam and Science Fiction

SQUAT
SQUAT
Donna McMahon
Donna McMahon is a Canadian writer of SF. She is a member of
SFWA and SF Canada. “Squat” is reprinted here from the Spring
2000 issue of the Canadian SF magazine, On Spec.
Usually I'm proud of my job and I don't let any crap worry me.
When I served with the Peacekeepers in Peru and Estonia I saw a lot
worse. But Friday morning as I watched the Special Duty guy,
Kahlifa, set the magnetic brakes on the gurney and check the
prisoner's restraints, I felt something inside me snap. I shoved my
clammy hands roughly into my pockets and swallowed hard, telling
myself it was just after-effects of all the meds during quarantine
before I shipped up to orbit.
Kahlifa's gloved fingers searched the prisoner's thin brown wrist,
looking for a good vein for the IV needle. Behind him a sweaty saline
bag hung from the IV tree, transparent tubing snaking down from it.
In a couple of minutes Kahlifa would take hold of that tube and inject
it with sodium pentathol, then with the lethal stuff.
I didn't want to watch until I had to, so I stared at the name tag of
the prisoner's coveralls ("Pajit") but my gaze strayed to his face. His
eyes were open, giant drug-glazed pupils staring up. He looked about
fourteen, I realized with sick shock. He blinked, and for a second I
was back in the Bloor Street copshop watching Jimmy emerge shamefaced
from the holding area into the brightly lit waiting room,
blinking, trying to hold himself tall, too scared and ashamed to meet
his father's eyes. My stomach churned.
"No!" I said suddenly.
Kahlifa turned to look at me and for a second I thought his
impenetrable Arab face might be showing surprise behind the surgical
mask. That's another dicking regulation, by the way. There's nothing
medical about executions--I figure the masks are for us to hide
behind. Like a death squad.
Kahlifa glanced at the prisoner, then nodded towards the door but
I didn't want a conference. I pulled off my mask and hurled it.
"I'm not witnessing this," I said through a tight throat. "Find
somebody else."
I wanted to slam my way out, but the big air-seal doors on space
stations don't slam. I punched the release lever and hauled at the door
too hard, losing my balance and tripping over the sill. I'd only been
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