by Sarah Lahey
Putting your feet up is an afternoon task, not an all day, every day task. She needs something to do. When she tells Planck she’s bored, ze laughs and says, “‘As soon as you set foot on a yacht, you belong to some man, not to yourself, and you die of boredom.’ Coco Chanel.” As an afterthought, ze adds, “Double major, psych and fashion.” Technically, the boat is not a yacht, but Quinn thinks the rest might be true.
***
The next morning, at breakfast, Planck slides a book across the table toward Quinn—a large, heavy volume, moss colored, with an embossed drawing of a city on the cover.
Quinn picks up the book and flicks it open. The air fills with a sweet, floral scent.
Planck explains: Ze is a Magi, a Knowledge Keeper, a facilitator of cultural learning and traditions, skilled in astrology and mythology. All that, as well as psych and fashion, Quinn thinks.
Ze has fifteen bracelets, but only three are inherited; the others represent fields of knowledge and, ze keenly points out, were earned through learning. This book is a history book. It’s the story of their culture; Quinn’s child, if she has it, will be part of this culture; Quinn might like to learn something about who these people are and where they came from.
With a thumb, Quinn skims the leather-bound volume on the table in front of her—a handwritten, ancient text with a translation on the facing page.
“I’ve a question for you, since you’re Knowledge Keeper,” says Quinn. “If I were to tell you that Lise didn’t die in the catastrophe on Kerguelen—that she escaped using time travel, slipped into a worm-hole and hasn’t been seen since—what would you say?”
Planck slides a cup of tea across the table toward her. “Nonsense.”
“I knew it.”
“It’s a portal, not a wormhole. Besides, she’d need the code—an exact combination of particles and elements.”
Quinn dips the tip of her finger into her tea and draws a zigzag line on the table.
Planck dips zirs finger into Quinn’s tea and adds squiggly lines next to the zigzag, making the drawing an exact match to Tig’s tattoo. “We were hoping you might be able to work it out,” ze says.
“Me? Why me?”
“You’re your mother’s daughter. She worked it out.”
“She was very smart. I mean, she is very smart.”
“Be patient.”
Quinn tucks the volume under her arm and leaves the table.
***
Over the following days, Quinn and Mori read the book together, finding cool, quiet corners of the boat to settle in while they study the translated text. It often sends them both into sleep mode, and when she wakes she finds his dark eyes staring intently at her face.
He says he’s watching her sleep.
“Not an acceptable pastime,” she corrects. “Look at the ocean, or the sky. People don’t like AIs watching them.”
Despite the soporific effects of reading ancient history while pregnant, she gradually discovers that the people of the Maldives sprang from a remarkable civilization. They are of Indus decent, a five-thousand-year-old culture that began in Mesopotamia. And they are a truly passive and peaceful race; they eluded war for two thousand years, which is a long time not to bicker amongst yourselves or with your neighbors. She’s not aware of any other society that avoided conflict for two millennia. These people, these ancestors of Planck and Tig, and all the people of the Maldives, created a utopic community. They made it work, and they made it last. And, they didn’t exist in an isolated bubble—the largest city, Harappa, had a maritime port and traded across the Arabian Sea. They understood technology and created infrastructure and engineering projects, raising the streets to allow for annual flooding. The city was planned and orientated toward the compass points. They had sewers and tanks for water storage, but no armory and no weapons. There were no royal palaces, no grand temples, no monuments to kings or queens or gods, and no class structures. There was no distinction between the homes of the rich and the poor. Their wealth came from mining and trading metals. They understood math and physics; they knew about the stars, the seas, the planets, and the sun.
When Quinn finishes the book, she asks Planck what happened to the people of Harappa—why they migrated and left the city.
“They were invaded,” ze says with a shrug. “So they walked away and left everything they owned behind.”
***
A few days later, another leather-bound volume slides its way over the breakfast table towards her. This text is a poem, a very long poem, called The Epic of Gilgamesh. Quinn finds poetry mysterious and beautiful, but way beyond logic. It hurts her brain, and this epic tale is long—pages and pages of verse, twelve volumes in total. At first, Mori attempts to interpret the script for her, but it’s outside the limit of his AI perception. He takes everything literally and doesn’t understand the rhymes, the imagery, or the language. So sometimes he sits with her while she reads but he refuses to look at the pages—the text annoys him, engaging his frustration circuit. Instead, he stares out to sea or at the sky, so at least he’s not staring at her.
The poem—five thousand years old—is about a mythical hero king, called Gilgamesh, who is part human and part god, and his friend Enkidu. Together, they seek out adventures and quests, slaying monsters and cutting down trees to make giant doors that they then travel through. The king has great courage and strength but weak morals and a huge ego, and he sleeps with many women—until he meets his friend Enkidu, at which point he changes his immoral ways and becomes kind and wise. Enkidu also starts off as a wild, uncivilized man, living with animals. To tame him, Gilgamesh sends him a woman and they spend a week together. At the end of the week, he’s a reformed and refined man.
The relationship between Gilgamesh and Enkidu begins in conflict, the two heroes fighting it out until they get over themselves and eventually fall in love and become best friends. This lasts until Enkidu dies, which is very, very sad for the king. So he goes on a quest to find everlasting life. He travels through dark tunnels and over high mountain passes, across oceans and rivers, slaying beasts that get in his way. Ultimately, immortality escapes him, because he’s part human. Fighting his fate is futile—it ruins the joy of life. So, all for nothing.
Twice Quinn comes across passages that ring familiar. The first is, “Hold my hand in yours, and we will not fear what hands like ours can do.” She reads the passage two, three times. Tig said this; he said it to her when she fell from the transporter. Further on she reads, “Through loss I learned that love is wrung from our inmost heart, until only the loved one is and we are not.” Love and loss have not touched her life like this, not with this intensity, but she understands what it means. She can see how you could lose yourself. It makes sense that he’s also read this book, that he knows these words.
The epic tale immerses her in a world of fantasy and adventure. After days of mulling over the verse, her dreams fill with tales of Gilgamesh and Enkidu. Their escapades wrap her in a pictorial cape of possibilities, of exciting journeys and friendships. When she wakes, she sees a softer, gentler world.
After she finishes the poem, Planck asks, in a nonchalant manner, what she thought of it. She says the main ideas are straightforward enough; in this world there is baptism, but no afterlife. Death is inevitable. Love is transforming, to be cherished, and sex is a sacred act. In the poem, these ideas are revealed as doorways, openings into the mind, through the universe. She says it’s a moral code, a primer on what not to do.
Planck listens, nodding here and there but saying nothing, so she goes on to say that the god who gives the king the best advice is Siduri, the tavern owner or goddess of beer, and Quinn is delighted she’s female. Siduri tells Gilgamesh to enjoy the simple pleasures of life—good food, clean clothes—and to appreciate the ones he loves. The poem implies that the best things in life are sex, friendship, and beer, in that order.
The other thing that strikes her as interesting is Enkidu’s journey, from wild savage to a civilized hu
man, just from spending time with a woman. Planck says it’s the reverse of the biblical fall, but that’s the only comment ze makes. Ze doesn’t agree or disagree with her; ze just says different people find different interpretations, so it’s about perspective.
Perspective is something Quinn understands. She tells Planck about Einstein’s theory of relativity and perspective, how the laws of physics are the same for all motionless observers but the speed of light in a vacuum will be the same regardless of how fast the observers travel. It reminds her of how space and time are interwoven, united as space-time, which means the same event can occur at different times, depending on where you are. Ze says there is something brewing in the galley and promptly leaves. Quinn understands; it wasn’t as relevant as she thought.
The following morning, she finds another book on the breakfast table—something called Beowulf. She opens it and doesn’t recognize the script. It doesn’t look legible; she turns it upside down, and it doesn’t help. Planck says it’s Old English and she’ll get used to it.
“Why am I reading this?”
“This one will make you strong and fearless. Gilgamesh, that was for knowledge.”
She notes that all the books were written by “Anon”; she figures that’s a woman.
“Tell me something: you have fifteen bracelets, but Tig must have over a hundred. Why so many?”
“Because he’s royalty. He’s a member of the royal family.” Planck says this almost as if ze thought Quinn knew already.
“Royalty!” Quinn gawks. “What does that mean?”
“Technically, he’s a king,” Planck clarifies. “But it’s an ancient title, inherited through lineage. The meaning is symbolic.”
Quinn’s not sure what a symbolic title actually entails, but she’s over the surprises. He could have easily woven that into their conversation before he got himself a beloved.
Planck says she shouldn’t worry too much about traditional gender stereotypes or anything like that, because their culture is really very open-minded. It might be old and, ze concedes, possessed of some outdated customs, but men and women are completely equal; there’s no disparity.
Quinn disagrees; as far as she’s concerned, she’s never met less open-minded people in her life.
Planck says the main reason Tig has so many bangles is because his family is gone, so he has inherited them from his father, mother, aunts, and uncles. His family has a long lineage, and Tig is the last of them. It’s time for him to begin to shed the bangles and pass them to his offspring; now, he’ll have someone to give them to.
Planck tells her the red is the “chosen one” bracelet; the other bracelet, the green one, is a separate gift. It has cultural significance. But it’s for Tig to tell her what it means.
Quinn can’t wait to see how that turns out.
Thirty-Seven
Sex makes people crazy; it makes then, do stupid, irrational things.
MEDITATING AND PRACTICING INTEROCEPTION, centering the mind and connecting the conscious to the body, take up many hours of Quinn’s time on board the boat. On a good day, she can detect her heartbeat in her toes and fingertips. Today, she intends to test her skills, see how good she is at controlling her arm by using instinct and the power of suggestion. She’ll need a volunteer, and there is only one contender—so, Mori it is.
They meet on the deck. She suggests that he run around the boat while she hits him with a laser, obviously set to a gentle stun. He’ll be a moving target; it’ll be fun. Mori is not sure about the plan; he gnashes teeth, shakes his head. He doesn’t want to be a moving target, and he doesn’t think it will be fun. He says she’ll hit him with the first shot and the game will be over.
He has a point.
Okay, Plan B. She tells him to lean against the mast, and she’ll throw blades at him. It’ll be fun, like an old-fashioned circus act. He’s more open to this idea and stands rigid against the mast, eyes tightly closed. She doesn’t hesitate; she clears her head, flicks her wrist, and tosses the first knife, hard and fast, straight at him. It lands a centimeter above his head.
Next, she closes her eyes, takes a long, slow breath, and then tosses the knife. A perfect pitch; it hits the mast above Mori’s left shoulder. She has one blade left. Turning her back to him, she spins and flicks the knife, but as she releases it, out the corner of her eye, she catches sight of Tig, totally naked above the waist.
Mori shrieks.
He’s pinned to the post—the knife clipped the fur on his neck. Frantically, he tries to free himself.
Quinn bounds over and retrieves the knife. “Just a fur wound,” she says, and massages the graze. Meanwhile, Tig fumbles with the makeshift invisibility device, shirtless, and Quinn’s very confused—what’s the point of having arms and shoulder and a neck? That’s what shirts are for. Humans should wear shirts.
***
The following morning, she rises early and finds Planck already on deck. She’s wearing her new clothes. Ze says she looks good, they really suit her, and then points to the sky.
There’s a bird above them, gliding on the slipstream, with its head down, focused on something in the water. It has the most exquisite orange-colored neck and breast. Quinn jumps up. She knows this bird. This is her bird, her bird from Kerguelen—it’s followed her here. They are connected. She has a special bond with birds, and she’s definitely not going to eat this one.
“Passenger Pigeon,” says Planck. “Sequenced from the very last of her species, a bird called Martha. This one is Martha2. She follows Tig. Gift from a satisfied customer.”
She’s not my bird, she’s Tig’s bird. The pigeon coos a long musical note and lands at the far end of the deck. Then Tig appears at the railing; Martha2 was watching him swim.
He swings himself over and lands in a puddle next to the bird, completely naked. He shakes off the excess water and wipes his face with his shirt. Quinn averts her eyes. She’s seen him naked before, of course, so she knows he looks good, brown and firm, wearing only his bracelets. He says something to the bird; it clucks back at him, and Tig chuckles.
After collecting his clothes, Tig ambles toward them. His mood is languid, his gaze caught by the early morning sun on the ocean.
Planck jumps up, pulls Quinn’s shirt to one side, off her shoulder, and scoots inside. Quinn freezes; she stands and considers following Planck inside, but it’s too late. Tig is upon her, so she sits back down. Best for her stay put, stare out to sea at the horizontal line, and pretend he’s not here. No big deal, he’ll walk straight past. No one will say anything.
Tig walks past her. No one says anything. Then he stops, turns. “Put something on; it’s 40 degrees.”
What? Really? A climate suit? He thinks I should wear my climate suit. Does he get the irony?
“I don’t feel the heat,” she mumbles through gritted teeth to the man wearing no clothes. “It’s okay for you to be in the water? You won’t rust, or short circuit?” Can’t believe I just said that.
He crosses his arms, so she crosses hers.
“Did it occur to you to ask me if I wanted to be your beloved?”
“I . . .”
“Did you think about us getting pregnant? Because there was no contraception in sight.”
“Conscientious . . .” he mumbles. “Never mind. I didn’t think we’d get pregnant. I’m sorry. But now that we know, I was thinking . . . you might be happy. A baby, it’s . . .” He stares at her. “I mean, in the future . . . maybe you’ll change your mind about not having children.”
She holds his gaze. “In the future?”
He nods.
“I’m sure it is, or it was, going to be just fine and fabulous without a baby. People without children are happier. That’s a fact.”
***
A few hours later, she leaves her cabin and finds Tig in the hallway, right outside her door, like he was either waiting for her to come out or steeling himself to go in. He’s bare-chested again, wearing only his cargo pants. She doesn’t kn
ow why he’s not wearing a shirt, but he should be. People can’t just walk around without shirts. She’s wearing her new white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and three buttons undone. She thought four was too many.
“Enough,” he says, pushing her back into the cabin and closing the door. “Struggling with . . . Can’t quite . . . Let me show you.” He pulls her close and kisses her. She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him back. His hands go straight to the tiny white buttons on her shirt but he can’t undo them—they’re small and fiddly. He fumbles, frustrated. He gives up and pulls her shirt out and runs his hands underneath, over her bare skin, across her stomach, cupping and holding her breasts. She’s overcome. She can’t breathe. His lips trail down her neck and her body says yes, yes, this is good, keep going, I never want you to stop. Then her brain tells her to wait. It says, get a grip, what the fuck do you think you’re doing, stop this right now, the kiss was bad enough.
“Not sure this is a good idea,” she says, pulling away, panting. “Do you, do you think we should be doing this?” Of course, he does; he wouldn’t be doing it if he didn’t. “We’re not really communicating. Do you think this is the answer?” Of course, he does. Get a grip. “Maybe we should talk.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really—babies, life, the future, you and me, stuff like that, yes?”
He nods, he understands. Hands on hips, he paces across the three-meter-wide cabin, taking two steps before turning and heading back the other way. He does this many times while she waits and watches. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Finally, he composes himself. “Sex.” He stares at the floor. “All I think about, driving me crazy, night and day, is fucking you.” He looks at her. “Hard. Really hard. You on top, me on top, from behind, sitting, standing, kneeling . . .”
“Okay. I . . . I get it.”
He grabs the door handle and leaves.