The Smell of Antiseptic

Writers are often instructed to write what you know. And in Pulp Literature Issue 25, Winter 2020, Frances Rowat takes that advice to horrifying new heights. ‘The Smell of Antiseptic’ was written while her job involved reviewing summaries of experiments that determined the toxicity of various substances.

The Smell of Antiseptic

Jerem Brand had fled the name Makul and the riches and connections that it might have brought her more than a decade ago, and had settled into the duty schedule of the pioneer physician on Schmid. It was a lonely backwater planet, five years away from any Hub to speak of, and her two rotations there had been mundanely unpleasant.

Schmid seethed with wriggling native life, boasted thirty-hour days, and supported a sneeze of settlers who had dug in to the most temperate of the continents. Brand had heard the last physician had applied for a transfer three times and been rejected twice. The colony was starting to thrive, but there were still accidents, injuries, and individuals poorly adapted to the long and damp days. And every spring, the lindworms came out again.

That morning, the clouds were low and beige, and the spring wind was a chill one. Mackie knocked at the perpetually mildewed doorway of Brand’s office. The colony administrator was a slight dark figure carrying a folder. Schmid had computers, but Mackie persisted in handling most of the daily administration on synthetic paper. True modelling computers grew rarer, and time on them more viciously expensive, the further you were from a Hub.

Brand had grown up on an older colony near another Hub, but even there computer models had been rare and precious things. Most of her research studies had, by necessity, involved hands-on experimentation.

“Rieltown needs you out early,” Mackie said. Rieltown was perhaps six hours west on the shuttle, and Brand was scheduled to visit there in three days. “Lindworm in a kid.”

Every year. Brand laced her hands together, rubbing the numb spot at the base of her left thumb.

“How early can I head out?”

“I already had the clinic start triage. See to whoever can’t wait, and with luck you can leave by noon.” Mackie stepped into the office. “Is there anything you need put on the shuttle?”

Brand shook her head, picked up her computer, and made her way past Mackie into

the narrow hall. She took two steps and stopped.

There were rats on Schmid.

To find out what happens next, pick up your copy of Issue 25, Winter 2020 here!

Frances Rowat lives in Ontario with her husband, their dog, and a not-quite-startling number of cats. She is most often found behind a keyboard and frequently gets lost in details. Her work has appeared in such venues as Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Liminal Stories, and PerVisions.  She may be found online at aphotic-ink.com or @aphotic_ink on Twitter.