Amygdala

by Harper J. Cole

  The keys gleamed black and white. Delicious contrast, she mused.

  Ryan sighed. “I’ve been trying to start an argument all day. You’re not being very co-operative.”

  “Still upset you missed the cut, huh?”

  That was part of the reason, but not the whole of it. Ryan, who had always been the worrier in their partnership, didn’t much like the idea of Ferguson travelling to an uncertain welcome on the planet below. Fear was contagious – best to keep it to herself. “That’s right. I don’t see why the rest of you should be having fun on Gatari while I’m stuck up here.”

  “Sorry Hun, you’re too danged old.”

  “Wow, thanks. You can’t tell me I’m in worse shape than Gypsy or her mum.”

  Ferguson tapped absently at the keys, improvising an upbeat little melody. “I want you down there more than anyone, but the captain’s made her call. We can’t change it, but we’ve still got tonight. And the next night, after we give them Gatarans a royal ass-whooping and bring back the booty.”

  “I guess. Still unfair though.”

  Ferguson frowned. Then a sudden impulse struck her. She began to play the Butterfly Waltz.

  “Dance for me,” she commanded.

  Ryan blinked in surprise. “Now? At this time of night? That’s pretty bloody random.”

  Ferguson made no further comment. The music continued, graceful and soothing. Finally, Ryan had to laugh. “Guess I can’t say no to you.” She crossed the room to retrieve her ballet shoes, pausing only to kiss her wife lightly on the top of the head. After a brief limbering session, she was ready to begin.

  It had been several months since she’d practised her childhood passion, but the steps and movements fell quickly into place. Glissade, chassé, frappé all greeted her like old friends. Under Ferguson’s watchful eye, she soon felt confident enough to spin into a fouetté and even took a pretty decent stab at a grand jeté.

  Too danged old, indeed!

  Music and dance were as one, a shared performance to soothe anxious hearts.

  * * *

  Annabelle Grace was in bed, sitting hunched over her computer screen, watching a group of past contestants take on the Zakazashi. Eight burly Matans were engaged in an elaborate challenge involving miniature battering rams suspended from the ceiling. She didn’t understand much of what they were saying, but they evidently needed to strike the wall in front of them in a precise sequence to make it collapse.

  It looked rather fun.

  This was only a rough guide to what they could expect, of course – the television clips available to them were all quite old, and the labyrinth had apparently undergone an extensive redesign lately. Still, the mix of mental and physical challenges was right up her alley.

  Annie checked the time. Bang on midnight. Oops …

  She shut down the computer and sat listening to the slight hum in her ears as her brain adjusted itself to the sudden silence. They’d be setting off early tomorrow morning. It was time for sleep, though she didn’t expect to get much – she was too keyed up for the challenge ahead. Insomnia awaited …

  Shame there’s no-one to share the night with. Nothing like the warmth of another body to make me drowsy.

  Perhaps she should have accepted Hunter’s offer, in the lead-up to the Bona Dea’s departure, to make one of the ACMs female. Annie had always believed that robots like that were a poor substitute for the real thing, but there’d been an element of pride in her refusal as well. Surely, she’d reasoned, she could awaken sapphic curiosity in some of her hetero crewmates. And she had, during the long and often tedious years prior to the discovery of Mahi Mata. Since then, though, the well had been running dry. Only Iris visited these days.

  “I may have slightly overestimated my sex appeal,” she said, throwing a glance up in the direction of Anansi. The spider had become her unwitting sounding board these past months. “I was pretty arrogant back when we set off. Although, if the fourth ACM had been female, there’d have been no Charlie on board for Flora, no Chamonix born on Mata, and no us once the Legans had had their fun. Bless my arrogance! But I hope I’m changing, at least a little. What do you think?”

  Anansi, hanging motionless, offered no reply.

  “Well said. I hope someday I’m as cool as you, buddy. Now, let’s see about getting me off to sleep…”

  As she moved to dim the lights, the door to her quarters swished open. Iris Jones stepped inside. The young doctor, her dark hair flawlessly straight, was wearing only her spectacles and a sky-blue nightdress.

  “Hey,” said Annie. “Some folks consider it kinda rude to burst in without ringing the bell, y’know.”

  “Really?” Smiling faintly, Iris touched the door closed. She slipped out of her garment and into Annie’s bed without further preamble.

  “My, you’re getting mighty presumptu-licious. What if I’m not in the mood?”

  “I’m afraid I must insist. All serious sportswomen should engage in intercourse the night before a big event. It releases pain-blocking endorphins and improves muscular tension in the legs.”

  “Funny, I had the idea that was an urban myth.”

  “Trust your doctor.”

  Annie sighed inwardly as Iris’ hands began their explorations. Her visitor was attractive by most standards, but not quite her type, the slender limbs a trifle too flawless, giving her an almost doll-like appearance. They didn’t have much chemistry between them either; that ineffable spark which could transform sex from a mere physical workout into a spiritual act was missing. Still, she couldn’t fault the doctor’s passion. She’d been showing as much of that as Annie could handle recently.

  Beggars can’t be choosers, she decided. And at least I won’t be sleeping alone.

  * * *

  After spending the day practising her Matan Maths skills – they used base 8 instead of base 10 – Gypsy Cumberland followed her usual night-time procedure. She changed into her pale nightgown, took her pills, stroked her bear seven times on the head and got into bed beside him, used her quantum goggles to enjoy the play of the ephemeral particles around her. However, after she had set the goggles on the table beside her, she found the wheels of her brain still whirring merrily along.

  The nature of her thoughts embarrassed her. They were the most juvenile of heroic fantasies; she pictured herself saving the day down on the planet in increasingly implausible ways, her crewmates applauding as she solved puzzle after puzzle, Annie’s face aglow with admiration …

  Most people grow out of fantasising and learn to live in the real world. Not me. I can leave this room from time to time, but never escape the prison in my head. Reaching my arms through the bars and feeling the light and warmth normal people radiate is the best I can hope for.

  And one day, the prison will collapse, with me still in it.

  “Stop that,” she muttered. Her own negativity sickened her. Tomorrow she’d be spending a day with Annie. The only thing she should be feeling was excitement. “I’ll cherish every second.” Every word …

  Dimming her bedside light, Gypsy curled up into a ball and pressed her fingers to her temples. The overuse of her imagination had strained her neural network and given her a headache. The pressure gave her some relief, but now the background thrumming of the ship seemed loud and intrusive, a repetitive rhythm that became a worm in her ears, crawling around and around and around …

  After twisting and turning beneath the sheets for many long minutes, Gypsy struggled up into a sitting position with a groan of frustration. Sleep! It was never there when she really wanted it.

  On an impulse, Gypsy reached down and fumbled under the bed for her headphones. Retrieving them, she cranked their noise-cancelling function up to full capacity and slipped them on. The intrusive thrumming was stilled; peace reigned.

  Where others listened to music on their headphones, Gypsy listened to silence.

  Something wonderful happened then, something Gypsy had experienced before, but never when she expected it.
The mathematical equations she had studied that day took on a life of their own, represented in vivid colours and complex shapes that danced before her eyes and brought her little room to life. Fractal equations swirled by her computer screen, chaos theory caressed her curtains. The Matan version of pi flowed placidly across the ceiling: three point one one zero three seven five five two four two one zero two six four three zero two one five ...

  Perhaps she was hearing music, but it flowed from the inside out.

  Smiling contentedly, Gypsy lay down and slipped easily into the dream world.

  * * *

  The first ringing of her alarm clock woke Gypsy – a rare event indeed. She managed to get up and begin her dressing ritual without any of the usual prompting from her mother.

  When it came time to choose the colour of her outfit for the day, she was disappointed to find her hands reaching for the yellow set of garments. It was no surprise, though. She felt an uncomfortable churning in her stomach, a crushing pressure on her lungs. Nothing unusual there – this was how nerves and anxiety always manifested themselves for her, and today’s excursion had always been likely to spark them off. The heroic acts she’d imagined herself performing last night seemed even more ridiculous now. Gypsy’s fragile confidence had vanished with the dawn, making way for the usual worries.

  Yes, the yellow clothes were quite appropriate.

  Yellow was the colour of fear.

  IV

  … Our team, together with the captain, went down to the planet this morning. They boarded the station and were transported to the surface by a Gataran ship. I’m disappointed not to be going with them, of course, but hardly surprised. I’m far from the fittest – or the slimmest – woman available, and none of the challenges they’ll face are likely to involve a good knowledge of journalism!

  As a slight consolation, I’ve been allowed limited access to Toro station. It’s every bit as spectacular as Captain Hunter described it; with anti-gravity technology such as the Matans possess, imagination is the only limit, architecturally speaking.

  Unfortunately, I’ve run into limits of a different sort. I’ve been flatly refused permission to use my 3D imager to capture the inside of the station. They did give me some lovely pictures of their own, but they’re all two-dimensional images, and of a much lower resolution than the 3DI is capable of. The folks back home won’t get the full effect, which is a shame. My camera and voice recorder are also not allowed off the Bona Dea – I’ve had to come back aboard to make this journal entry and record my further impressions, based on my handwritten notes.

  I had Prado with me throughout my excursion. She’s my ‘minder’, for want of a better word … a thoroughly pleasant young woman on the surface, but I can feel her watching me all the while. After the journalistic freedom I enjoyed on Ramira, this feels more like being back home. Technological secrets fiercely guarded, the faintest touch of paranoia underlying everything.

  I hope my friends are careful down there …

  – Daniella Winters, Journal Entry #538

  It was noisy in the studio. At least, that was how it seemed to Gypsy.

  She hadn’t been allowed to bring her noise-cancelling headphones with her, as no technology was permitted during the Zakazashi – even their hitherto ubiquitous wristbands had been disallowed. Without the headphones, Gypsy’s sensitive ears were naked and unprotected, leaving her vulnerable to the high-pitched noises which had always been a source of special distress for her.

  Unfortunately, the voices of several of her crewmates were on the high end of the spectrum. Their occasional bursts of laughter particularly set her on edge, in part because she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she was the one being laughed at.

  Perhaps that belief wasn’t entirely irrational. Gypsy was pretty sure she’d noticed one or two eye rolls from the rest of the team when they’d seen her outfit. Sandra Rivers had politely asked whether a skirt and slippers were appropriate attire for this adventure. When the mathematician had said, truthfully, that it was the only type of outfit she had, Rivers had frowned but made no further comment. Still, the clothes stood out sharply against the sensible attire of her companions. Other than the medallion her mother had on a chain about her neck, and a crucifix that Kiaya Ferguson wore the same way, it was all sweaters and trousers, hair tied back where it might be long enough to cause a distraction. She felt like a cartoon character who’d wandered into the real world.

  Why won’t they just let us get going, Gypsy thought impatiently. They’d been in the deserted studio for half an hour at least, Nomi and the captain having left them shortly after their arrival to meet a couple of senior Gataran ministers. The room was large and ovoid, with grand and elaborate double doors at one end – doubtless the entrance to the labyrinth – and rows of empty seats at the other. Painted portraits of past champions hung from the walls.

  The seats would remain empty. Usually an audience would be here to see off each new team, but Nomi had explained that there’d be doing without spectators due to a scheduling clash. They’d still have plenty of eyes on them, however; pictures would be going out live to the whole planet.

  Ambient music drifted through the studio; from the sound, Gypsy guessed that it was made by an instrument somewhat akin to a violin. Between that and the excited talk of the other women, she was nearing sensory overload. She carried a backpack, as did her teammates; these were for food and water, provided by their hosts. The straps chafed at her neck, compounding her misery, and it wasn’t even the right colour. She was wearing a green backpack on a yellow day.

  That could only bring bad luck.

  It would be nice to get out of this room and perform a de-stressing ritual or two, but she was afraid to wander off. She took a step closer to her mother and plugged both her ears with her fingers.

  “Ahoy there, Gypsy Moth! Are you revved up and raring for a risky ramble?”

  Gypsy extracted her fingers as surreptitiously as she could, trying her best to make it look as though she had just been smoothing her hair back.

  “H-Hi, Annie. I’m fine I think, yes…”

  “Awesome! I feel great too. Hey, I had this really killer dream last night: the ship was filling up with water, and we all got out the airlock but we’d forgotten our space suits, but somehow we could breathe in space and actually fly, so we set off for Earth but there were these kinda half-spaceship half-walrus things coming after me, so I was flying in and out of the rings of Saturn trying to lose them” - here she illustrated events by swooping her hands back and forth - “but they shot me, so I veered off-course and flew my ship smack bang into the middle of one of the moons, so I woke up. Mimas, I think it was. It’s a good omen, wouldn’t ya say? It means we’re gonna make it home.”

  “Erm,” said Gypsy. Annie seemed suddenly rather hyper, even by her standards. Either she was very excited about doing the Zakazashi, or she’d seen Gypsy looking distressed and was trying to cheer her up. It was hard for the Englishwoman to guess which, especially as her mind was currently occupied with trying to understand how Annie could fly her ship into Mimas when she’d just establish that she’d been travelling through space without one.

  “Good omen, maybe, yes,” she said after a ten second delay.

  “That’s the spirit! Did you dream last night?”

  “I’m … not sure.”

  In fact, Gypsy remembered her dream quite well. She’d needed the bathroom and had wandered into a multi-storey complex absolutely jam-packed with toilets. Cubicles had lined every wall, in every corridor, room or courtyard. They must have numbered in the tens of thousands, but there was something wrong with each and every one of them, whether it was that the door wouldn’t close properly, or that the walls were only knee-high. To make matters worse, a group of people would wander by every time she thought she’d found a cubicle in a nice secluded corner.

  Gypsy grimaced in distress. She wasn’t about to share that dream with Annie.

  The technician now turned
her attention to Hisano.

  “Ikeuchi-san! Are your karate skills honed, is your samurai sword polished and ready for slicing and dicing?”

  Hisano, whose indifference to the traditional culture of her nation was well known, pursed her lips in mild annoyance. “Do you remember the Japanese blessing I taught you, Annie?” she asked.

  “Course I do! Ah…” Annie dredged through her memory for a moment, then brought up the words. “Atashi wa atama ga warui hito desu.”

  Hisano laughed softly, covering her mouth with a slender hand. “Perfect.”

  Annie turned back to Gypsy and winked.

  What happened there? Gypsy wondered. Hisano was laughing, so that bit of Japanese can’t mean what Annie thinks it does. But Annie winked at me, so … maybe she does know, but she wants Hisano to think she doesn’t. Why would that be? Doesn’t she mind being laughed at?

  People are confusing.

  At that point Nomi and Hunter returned, accompanied by an elderly male Gataran. Nomi proceeded to speak to them in Matan; Gypsy could read the language fairly well but hardly follow the spoken word at all. She noticed her teammates moving toward the doors, however, and guessed that it was time to start.

  “Good luck everyone,” said Hunter in English. “You don’t need me to tell you what’s at stake, but don’t ask the impossible of yourselves. Stay loose, try your best, and don’t forget to have fun in there. What happens, happens.”

  The team gave their captain a mixture of waves and thumbs-up, then she and Nomi retreated to the back of the studio, leaving the elderly male, resplendent in white robes, alone in the centre of the room. A shiny metal robot stepped forward carrying a television camera, not noticeably different from those common on Earth, and the male began speaking into it in a rich, clear voice. He was evidently the presenter. The shot had been framed with him in the foreground and the humans in the background, but the rows of empty seats were carefully excluded from the picture.