Meteorite

By Sony Karsono

The 65-year-old man was crossing the quiet street in front of the museum. He was a businessman who looked at archeological objects as traces of his childhood.

He left the museum feeling relieved. Suddenly, a motorbike surged from the curve and rode into him at 300,000 kms/second. He fell with a thud and lay prone on the sidewalk. Ah, what terrible pain, as if 10 razor blades were peeling his skin. He heard strident cries and approaching steps. He saw a man with dark glasses smiling at him while taking out his wallet from his trouser pocket. Afterwards he saw only a black screen.

The moon was visible among the twigs of an acacia tree. Djarot, that was the man's name, awoke wrapped in his rancid shroud. Behind a dense fog, behind a heap of flowers, he only saw a tomb and an acacia tree. His feet bumped against a humid square board and Djarot knew that the mound of earth was his own grave.

"Yesterday afternoon your body was interred, old man," a voice was hissing behind his back. A young woman in a leather jacket and a pair of blue jeans was shining her flashlight onto his face. "Cosmic energy has resurrected your corpse."

"Ho, ho, ho! The medical world has discovered an anti-death remedy!" Djarot moved into a dance. "Ha, ha, ha! Who is the inventor?"

"Shut your trap, old man! Follow me! Do not act stupidly, or I will burst your head!" The woman pointed a pistol at him.

"By what right do you ..."

"Shut up! Do not talk before I give you permission."

The woman led Djarot through the underbrush and gravestones to the cemetery gate. The pistol with a silencer still pointed at his neck.

In front of the gate a black sedan was waiting. "Take the shroud off your head, old man!" the woman shouted while banging against the car door. The car rode to the city center through a network of illuminated alleys with rats prancing around. At the foot of a street lamp some mice were gnawing at a panda doll with a cone hat. The doll's had rolled into the gutter. It was smiling at Djarot. It had one ear left and resembled Bubu, a doll he got on his first birthday.

When the car was passing near a gasoline station, Djarot saw a man and a woman pushing a pram. Suddenly the baby flew into the air and landed between power cables while laughing thunderously. On the ground the man and the woman were tinkering with a remote control to direct the baby's maneuvers. Not long afterwards the small creature exploded into a giant fireball. Djarot could not determine whether the baby was real or only a small robot with a bomb inside.

"Does it remind you of something, old man?"

"Oh, no, but it gives an idea for a show at the fair."

"Yes. And how marvelous when your body is exploded that way."

Djarot remained silent and took off his shroud from around his throat.

"My apartment is on the 11th floor, old man." The woman parked her car in the back yard of a giant building. "First, you change your clothes in the toilet!" She handed Djarot a plastic bag containing a T-shirt, a pair of underpants, pajama trousers and sandals. All had malodorous smell of mildewed sweat.

Djarot felt tormented. He wanted to throw away the smelly clothes and to choke the mysterious woman. But when he heard a click from the pistol aimed at him, he hurried to the toilet. At the door he nearly stumbled as he was caught in his floating shroud. "Remember, Djarot, if you do not come out at the count of fifteen, I will spray you with bullets! One .. two .. three .."

"Sorry, old man. I have no coffee. I forgot to buy it," said the woman. She gave him a glass of rancid chocolate and a stale bun. "Accept what there is. There is no right to protest here."

Djarot was very hungry. He ate the bread to the last crumb and drank the chocolate to the last drop. Wiping his mouth with the palm of his hand Djarot looked around at the disorder in the room. Computers and monitoring screens gave the "bip-bip" sound every so many seconds. Books and coins lay scattered around on the carpet choked full of discarded chewing gum. There was a pink human embryo in an aquarium of embalming fluid in the corner. Its eyes protruded like those of albino frogs.

"Watch out! Do not touch the objects! In this room you too are only an object." The woman was busy positioning the disc of the radio telescope on the balcony of the apartment. Her body was wrapped in a tight-fitting sleeveless shirt, making a fine silhouette against the city's horizon. Djarot's blood started to surge when the woman raised her arm to stroke her long hair blowing in the wind. But his lascivious fantasy vanished when he saw the butt of the pistol she was carrying in her belt. Satisfied with the position of the telescope disc, the woman closed all doors and windows.

"Who are you, child?"

"Just call me a stargazer, old man." She lit the cigarette already planted between her lips.

"I observe the movements in the sky, reveal the history of the universe. You certainly do not know astronomy. Your reading is limited to Playboy, the telephone directory or financial reports. You are only a clot of material and energy."

"And what's your name? What's your name?"

"What for? But someone whose head will soon roll may want to know the name of his executioner. My name is Dewi."

"Dewi, just tell me why have you kidnapped, insulted and terrorized me? What have I done wrong?"

"Hey, do not take it to heart. My reasons are fully scientific. It happened like this. Last night, by nine o'clock, my telescope caught the track of a meteorite penetrating the atmosphere of the earth. It fell in your grave. When I wanted to dig it out I only found your body which had been revived by the energy of the meteorite."

"It sounds plausible. And then?"

"I now want to extract the meteorite which is now in the cavity of your stomach!" Dewi was pointing the pistol at Djarot's belly.

"For the sake of the law, I beseech you, do not kill me."

"You said for the sake of the law? The law does not protect zombies like you. Besides, I am the law here. And you are actually a criminal."

"What do you mean?"

Dewi started to explain. When she was tracing the meteorite's position, the detector continuously received electromagnetic signals from the celestial stone and channeled them to the computer data bank for physical and chemical analysis. But what was tapped was the memory in Djarot's brains transformed into a radiowave emission. Dewi converted the waves into hundreds of kilobytes in the archives of documents. Dewi invited Djarot to read the archives in the computer.

Djarot was startled. The data revealed the mystery of the death of Soemirah 10 years ago. She was an employee in Djarot's factory. She was a militant in her efforts to incite strikes. But her campaigns never met with success.

The employees continued working with dedication and efficiency like robots without ever being tired. But they were not robots. They screamed with pain when Soemirah pinched their cheeks one by one. Strangely, every month half a dozen workers collapsed and died.

Forensic experts did not find any suspicious symptoms in their bodies, not even signs of fatigue or malnutrition. The employees still alive gave uniform replies when questioned by labor protection officials. "We love our boss Djarot. We enjoy welfare here." Production was running well. The dead employees were quickly replaced by new workers who were no less diligent, dedicated and efficient, just like robots.

Soemirah did not give up. One night she sneaked into the secret underground laboratory. She paralyzed a dozen guards by spraying her home-made sleeping gas. She came across some psychoactive substance which was apparently put into the workers' meals. That was why they could work like horses but died mysteriously. Soemirah escaped the influence of the drug because she practiced yoga and fasted every day. She pocketed the substance and photographed several confidential documents with a mini camera.

Soemirah ran out of luck. She was caught red-handed by Djarot and the factory's security squad and locked up in another building: a laboratory for product design, a camouflage for Djarot's illegal chemical industry. A plastic bomb was fastened to Soemirah's chest. The next day the newspapers in Kota Lama reported that a female employee died foolishly by her own bomb when she was attempting to sabotage the research laboratory at Djarot Chemical Inc. It was suspected that Soemirah was an industrial spy working for a rival company. Some people surmised she was a member of a hard-line environmental group.

"What are you going to do, child?" Djarot asked after reading his criminal file. "Report me to the police?"

"No. What you did to Soemirah is not my business. I only want to take the meteorite from your bowels. Because the poison in the chocolate you drank could not kill you, allow me now to shoot you in the forehead."

"Wait! You are a scientist; I am a businessman. We can work together. Forget the meteorite. Forget me. I will give you funds for your studies abroad. Be rational!"

Dewi did not respond. Bullets whizzed past Djarot's ears. He was desperate and crashed a chair into the glass wall separating the room from the balcony. He did not care about the bullets singeing his neck, his back and his legs. He ran and dived from the 11th floor of the apartment building. He did not feel anything, only a strong wind rustling against his body. The terracotta tiled floor below changed gradually into white squares smelling of disinfectant. Faces started to emerge.

"Welcome, Pak Djarot. Glad to see you recover consciousness."

"Dr. Paragon! I am not dead yet, doctor?"

"Certainly not! You only suffered a concussion and were unconscious for one month after the accident. Luckily you did not break any bones. You will soon be well again."

Djarot heard a lot of noise from a corner of the hospital ward. Television reported a strike at Djarot Chemical Inc. Apparently the distribution of the psychoactive substance in the employees' meals was stopped due to the prolonged absence of the company's boss. Djarot only smiled and mumbled, "They will soon be quiet again."

The door flew open. A good-looking man and a long-haired cameraman approached Djarot.

"Good evening, Pak Djarot! I am Toni Korax of Curio-TV. Your employees have been on strike for two days now. They have voiced a number of demands. They will become even more violent if they know that you have poisoned them all this time. I recorded your ravings during your coma. It was evident that you killed Soemirah 10 years ago. You had misled the press and the police. But you cannot deceive Toni Korax."

Toni Korax was facing the camera holding a microphone in his hand and addressing TV viewers. "We are going to have a discussion with Pak Djarot, the boss of Djarot Chemical Inc.. Toni Korax reporting for Criminal Mysteries. I'll be back after the break."

"Toni," Djarot said calmly, "you are not as smart as you think. You must know that Curio-TV is also mine. I had felt in the beginning that some day you would cause me trouble. Therefore, for safety's sake, I had planted a small bomb in your skull and that of your cameraman. Similar bombs have been put in the bodies of all Curio-TV employees, and also their wives, husbands and children.

If you meddle in my affairs, this very second Dr. Paragon will push the detonator button and the contents of the heads of all of them will be scattered."

Toni Korax and the cameraman remained silent.

"Dr. Paragon!"

"Yes, Pak Djarot?"

"Dispose of these two cockroaches!"

Dr. Paragon escorted the two men to the door.

"Toni!"

"Yes, Pak Djarot."

"Take good care of yourself."

Translated by SH

Sony Karsono was born in Prigen, East Java, in 1971 and raised until adolescence in Jakarta. He studied at the School of Psychology of Airlangga University in Surabaya, East Java, where he wrote Meteorit (Meteorite) two years ago. He started writing articles on socio-cultural subjects in 1994 and many of these were printed in local publications. His first short story Seikat Kembang Egois (A Bunch of Flowers of Egoism) was published by Mode teenage magazine in February 1995. Meteorit appeared in Kompas seven months later and was included in Pistol Perdamaian: Cerpen Pilihan Kompas 1996 (Pistol of Peace: An Anthology of Kompas Short Stories 1996). It is printed here by courtesy of Kompas.