by Robert Reed
The feast table was her family’s central heirloom—a massive slab of greased marble resting on two dozen stout legs. If asked, Po-lee-een would lie, claiming that the table had been in her father’s family for twenty generations. The dangerous, unmentionable truth was that her paternal grandfather had purchased it secondhand, not long after arriving on Jarrtee, and he had carefully doctored the engraved subclan emblems, making it his own.
Like the table, his family name and elaborate life story were pure fiction.
And it was the same for other grandparents, too.
Everyone at the dawn feast had been born alien, or they had descended from aliens, or they had willfully and happily married into the subterfuge. And all but the youngest children understood what the average jarrtee couldn’t have imagined: With sufficient technology, and luck, a sentient soul could cross between worlds.
The rebuilt universe made it possible, within limits.
With the proper machinery and the correct intrusion, a jarrtee soul could take a long step and find herself standing on the earth.
But she wouldn’t be jarrtee anymore. During the crossing, her hearts would coalesce into a single human heart. Her pink lung would grow and split in two. Her thick blood would become less salty and greedier with oxygen. Even her delicate genetics would be transformed, suddenly indistinguishable from an ape’s DNA. And her new apish brain would hold the instincts, appetites, reflexes, and basic language skills necessary to blend into her surroundings.
It was an enormous transformation, and it was deceptively effortless.
In reality, few jarrtees or humans could comfortably make the transformation. The average soul can endure only so much strangeness. The kind of talent sitting at the feast table was rare, written in a person’s genetics and in her upbringing, and in a thousand hidden corners of her unique soul.
Only a fraction of any species could live for long on an alien world.
And there was another enormous restriction: Only a naked soul could make the crossing.
Physical objects melted away inside the intrusion. Clothes vanished. Knives vanished. Books and steam engines and every flavor of nuclear warhead vanished, their elements incorporated into an unseen realm.
“Good fences make good neighbors,” a poet says on every world; the universe, it seemed, was filled with the best possible fences.
Countless worlds were stacked close together, but not even the most violent, rapacious species could mount an invasion. Raising an army of “talents” would be difficult. And even then, the army could attack only through the miniscule intrusion, its soldiers crossing a few at a time, without weapons, and without even the formal dignity of a uniform—naked as newborns, and almost as helpless.
Even as a young girl, Porsche understood the basic rules, just as she had a sense of her family’s grand origins.
Eons ago, on some forgotten world, talented people learned about the intrusions. They explored the neighboring worlds, and some found mates there, leaving after them children who inherited their talent and something of their wanderlust. And those children eventually explored the next worlds, and the next, helping the talent spread through the universe.
An enormous, extremely diffuse family evolved.
Scarce on almost every world, they coined an appropriate and humble name for themselves: the Few.
They lived on millions of worlds.
Billions more had been visited, once or often. In Jarrtee’s past, perhaps in the early days of the City, a stranger must have appeared. He would have looked and smelled like any local citizen—olfactory cues are important among the jarrtee—and he would have had a ready explanation for being a stranger. Undoubtedly, he would have charmed everyone, then taken a wife, making babies until the day he vanished again, leaving nothing behind but perishable memories and a resilient thread of his self.
The Few didn’t usually linger on brutal or primitive worlds.
They preferred civilizations that were comfortable and charming, particularly those advanced enough to cause their sky to Change.
Where they were scarce, they lived in secrecy.
Out of fifty billion jarrtees, there were barely ten thousand of the Few. Less than fifty of them lived in the City, more than half inside her family’s compound.
Her grandparents had immigrated to Jarrtee just before God-Stole-Our-Sky, then carefully grafted themselves into the rigid clan structure. It had been difficult, treacherous work, but once accepted, their reward was to live in a beautiful place, part of a rich and mature culture, their loyalties perfectly divided between their clan and the Few.
Po-lee-een fully expected to grow up and grow old on Jarrtee. She would leave occasionally, exploring famous worlds and embracing their famous species. And she was too curious and courageous not to wander, mapping new worlds if she was lucky enough. But on that particular morning, in the midst of the feast, she was pure jarrtee; and like any jarrtee, she saw the future as a tower set on the far horizon, built from basalt and the toughest mortar, built entirely for her, entirely finished and waiting patiently for her.
Forever, the tower would wait. If necessary.
In the Few, important questions weren’t asked haphazardly, and every answer was dressed in camouflage.
Keeping secrets was an ancient habit.
Po-lee-een always sat beside Trinidad’s mother. Early in the festivities, she turned to her aunt, wondering aloud, “How did Uncle Ka-ceen know you would make a good wife?”
Her aunt was a gorgeous woman who inked her flesh with wondrously intricate patterns, accenting her elegant long face and a body that by jarrtee standards was a little too narrow. Almost delicate, in fact. Aunt Me-meel hadn’t been born into the Few; the girl was really asking, “How could my uncle know that he could trust you?” But if her aunt was offended, she didn’t show it, smiling peacefully and taking a last long bite of cold fat, then setting down her knives while saying with pride: “Dear, he simply knew that I would be.”
“But how could he know?”
Me-meel hesitated, then leaned close, her mouth kissing Po-lee-een’s tiny ear hole. “It is a skill,” she whispered confidently. If someone were eavesdropping—a near-impossibility—he would assume that she meant it was any man’s skill.
“Little one,” she purred, “your Uncle Ka-ceen simply recognized himself in me.”
Po-lee-een had already outgrown her aunt; “little one” was an old joke wrapped in the usual condescending tone. Not born into the Few, Me-meel had always acted a little defensive, even insecure. Which was only reasonable for a non-Few, Po-lee-een would tell herself, unaware that in her own way, she was being just as condescending.
A second wave of silvery young boys emerged from the kitchen, carrying every imaginable meat. Po-lee-een’s little brother struggled beneath an enormous deep-sea fish, the fish’s wide mouth filled with seaweed and shellfish left tender by hours of baking. And on his heels was her favorite cousin, a bowl of gravy set on top of his silver helmet, tilting one way, then the other, as his arms stretched out like wings.
Trinidad was the family clown, always.
Everyone laughed, except for Po-lee-een and her confidante.
Quietly, with careful delight, Me-meel asked, “Why the questions, little one? Have you met the boy who’s right?”
The girl didn’t speak, but her eyes answered for her.
“Good for you,” Me-meel chirped.
Then her brother stumbled, and Trinidad tripped over a careless foot. Suddenly the bowl was airborne. People cried out and jumped to their feet. Except for Po-lee-een, that is. With the bowl flying at her, she remained seated, secretly making one enormous decision while reaching with both hands, catching the bowl and slowing its descent until it and its scalding cargo were resting on the glistening tabletop, barely two drops spilled and the room bursting into laughter and a foot-drumming applause.
As the eastern sky turned to fire, Po-lee-een tried to call her lover. The house AI answered, telling her tha
t no, Jey-im was quite unavailable, but would she like to leave a message for him to find when he woke?
Too many possibilities came to mind; she settled on saying, “Tell him that his research partner called, and I hope he had good dreams.”
“He will,” the AI assured, severing the connection.
Bloated relatives were migrating into the deepest subbasement. The family compound had been secured for the day. Close-fitted ceramic blinds covered every window, triple doors were locked from within, and security robots patrolled the hallways and unlit rooms. Fierce winds were coming, and torrential rains, but worse than any natural force were the twisted, embittered people from the most different subclans who bumped themselves up with biorhythmic drugs, remaining awake in the daylight in order to pray on the estivators, destroying what they couldn’t steal, and in the horrible cases, kidnapping entire families, then holding them for ransom, or for pleasure.
Their family compound made an inviting target. The occasional thief had slipped past the patrolling robots, escaping with money and antiques. And once, when Po-lee-een was a very young girl, a determined squad of kidnappers managed to circumvent every security device, making it to the subbasement before their leader hesitated, muttered something senseless under his breath, then died in an instant, a fat and healthy artery in his brain detonating like a bomb.
The Few had their own potent security systems, invisible and tamper-proof.
Property could be sacrificed, but if someone raised a blade against the estivators, a nearly magical fate would strike him down.
Po-lee-een felt perfectly safe in the subbasement, lying on a nest of freshly cut felt grass and night flowers. The ceiling was adorned with ancient deities, the paints luminescing in the infrared, warm faces helping to watch over her. And like good jarrtees everywhere, the family offered the appropriate prayers, then together, as one, closed their enormous eyes.
It wasn’t sleep in a human sense, but there were dreams.
The gorged bodies cooled gradually. Metabolisms plunged. Happy early dreams decayed into a maelstrom of stark images, random sensations, and finally, the image of Death Herself.
Then, nothing.
Without any sense of time, weeks passed.
The grass dried and the flowers grew dark, the nest shattering gently into a fragrant golden-brown dust. And the bodies narrowed gradually, their platinum skin wrinkling lengthwise, a strange desiccated beauty growing within each of them.
Eventually, the dreams returned.
Death showed Herself again, retreating from the dreamers, her brilliance dissolving into the nourishing darkness of Life.
Waking, Po-lee-een’s first duty was to her body. Shivering and sore, she gorged on sweet foods, drinking mug after mug of salted water, retrieving a portion of her old strength. Later, she learned that it had been a stormy, dangerous day. Heavy rains had left the streets waist-deep in runoff. The government admitted that hundreds had died, crushed when a tired hillside collapsed. Who knew how many thousands had really perished; the City’s leaders liked to ration the horror. By the time Po-lee-een finally left for school, only a light drizzle was falling, and the streets were mostly dry. What if Jey-im had died? The question struck her suddenly, without warning. It was possible, surely. And it was logical: Why else hadn’t he attempted to contact her when he woke? For a wicked moment or two, the girl actually hoped that Jey-im had drowned, giving him an excuse. Then her stomach began to twist in revulsion, and she decided that without question, she had to be the most horrible person in the world…
The school’s bright steel gate was raised high. Po-lee-een raced inside, ignoring her teachers’ greetings. Then she was outside again, in the rain-drenched courtyard, the felt grass standing tall and rank, and the red tree in bloom again, her lover kneeling nearby, calmly examining the terrors’ newest nest.
If Po-lee-een had followed her instincts, there wouldn’t be any story.
She wanted to knock Jey-im on his famished ass and scream at him, demanding an explanation for why he never tried to reach her.
Yet she would never be this young again, or as foolish. And the boy, bless him, seemed genuinely happy to see her.
They made love, gracelessly and swiftly, then lay on their backs, holding hands and watching as the strong sea winds blew away the last storm clouds. Through the haze, they looked west at the sun-drenched face of Jarrtee, like a great bowl tilted on end, filled with a thousand raging storms that meant absolutely nothing to them.
Jey-im made his usual noise about their world’s beauty and their blessings. But Po-lee-een remained silent, which must have surprised him. He turned his head, and for the first time, he looked at her instead of the world.
“I had good dreams,” he reported. “About you, some were.”
Everyone else was in class, students and teachers trying to remaster their routines. The courtyard was for the lovers.
Quietly, quietly, the girl asked, “Can I trust you?”
Eyes flickered, growing larger. Then with an even quieter voice, he replied, “I trust you.”
“You cannot tell.”
“Tell what?”
“Promise me,” she whispered. “Never, ever tell.”
With both hands, Jey-im gave a solemn pledge, pressing them against both of their chests, feeling the rhythmic beating of every heart.
“You can trust me,” he said. Twice.
Summoning every bit of courage, Po-lee-een told the truth.
She didn’t give the whole truth, but in those moments, she showed the boy a bright narrow sliver of what was real. She gave him enough to make his eyes grow even larger, his breath held for a long moment, and finally, with a soft trembling voice, he repeated what he had just heard, as if he were sitting in class, committing an ordinary lesson to memory.
He was already aware that the universe had been rebuilt.
But the girl claimed that the worlds were tied together, and an alien from one world could step to another, his soul cloaked in the appropriate species.
Jey-im made doubting sounds.
His lover smiled with her eyes and the tilt of her bald white head.
“How do you know this, Po-lee-een?”
Silence.
“You read it somewhere,” he declared hopefully. “Or it’s something you dreamt, I think.”
With a calm, sturdy voice, she said, “Guess again.”
Jey-im was like any bright but otherwise ordinary adolescent. With his imagination outstripped, he was left with a reflexive skepticism. “That’s not possible. Changing worlds, and species…that’s silly.”
The girl whistled softly, showing her disappointment.
Wounded but undaunted, Jey-im asked, “How can you know all of this?”
She smiled slyly, then replied with a question.
“How would I know?”
The answer struck him suddenly, by surprise.
His eyes filled his face, gazing at Po-lee-een as if no one else existed in all of Creation.
And that was perhaps what the young girl truly wanted: To win from another soul that look of awe and helpless, utter devotion.
4
Between sessions at school, Jey-im would slip away from his mother’s gaze, then he and his exotic companion would roam the City, visiting its most famous places while trying by any means to make passersby jealous.
They wandered the length of the Five Avenues and rode to the top of the Hero’s Spire—the tallest building on Jarrtee, to their knowledge—then visited the docks where fishing farmers unloaded their slippery crops and mining trawlers dropped ore sucked off the bottom of the sea. They once happened to see a warship return from a skirmish with a neighboring city-state, its armored hull pitted by explosive bullets and laser blasts, but riding on its bow, in plain view, dangled the silk banner taken from the enemy’s ship—a symbol of that clan, and as such, worth an eventual ransom for its safe return.
The City’s spaceport lay to the west. When a launch was scheduled, they
would ride out on the monoline, then claim two seats in the public galley, watching a new shuttle rise skyward on a column of plasma and blistering light.
Once, they rode past the spaceport, reaching a fortified suburb high in the coastal mountains. The City’s boundaries lay much farther west, beyond several more mountain ranges, but for Jey-im they might as well have come to the end of the world. He couldn’t imagine stepping outside the walls of modern ceramics and diamond slashwire. But to Po-lee-een, it was the perfect place to ask the most unimaginable questions.
What if the the assorted clans began trading with one another? she inquired. What if a citizen could move freely between city-states? And most important, what if the world’s great scientists and engineers—the revered Masters—could pool their resources?
Jey-im couldn’t think in such terms. He offered a weak, baffled moan, then the simple declaration:
“The outsiders are too different from us!”
She was ready for that attitude. “After God-Stole-Our-Sky,” she reminded him, “there was cooperation, and huge advances were made in a very few years.”
He couldn’t deny the logic, so he attacked the logic’s source. “Is this the way aliens think, Po-lee-een?”
“It’s the way I think,” she said diplomatically. Then she quoted a Few saying, telling him, “Fluid thoughts make a flexible soul.”
Jey-im was slow to appreciate novel philosophies. What he wanted instead were simple descriptions of other worlds and their bizarre people. Since she’d never left Jarrtee, Po-lee-een borrowed heavily from her family’s exotic tales and tidbits. Humanoids were abundant in the universe, she promised his timid hearts. But in the next breath, she swore that intelligence could dress itself in every kind of physiology, every possible body. She described worlds cloaked in water, in liquid ammonia, in frigid oceans of liquid hydrocarbons, then with words painted the finned and tentacled inhabitants. There were desert worlds and nearly airless worlds, places where life existed only in the tiniest oases. There were gas giants where twenty sentient species shared the same endless skies. And there were even sunless planets where cold blind geniuses lived huddling next to the core’s feeble heat.