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