by Nōnen Títi
“You’re not a farmer,” Daili answered.
The drill wouldn’t need to go all the way down to the bedrock for Daili to get some valuable information out of it, but it went in easier than she’d expected.
“Hey, look! I don’t have to step on them anymore,” Tikot shouted after a few minutes. Around the generator, countless identical little bugs came up from the soil, only to fall down dead.
“The generator’s killing them,” Tikot concluded.
Daili switched it off. That wasn’t good. Without touching them they all had a good look. They were double circles, connected at the centre.
“It’s like a worm with a belt on,” Tikot said.
They managed to scoop some up and put them into a container for Remag to have a look at. Then they had to switch the drill on once more to withdraw the sample tube, which turned out to be futile since the metal connector between the tube and the driver had disappeared, leaving the sample embedded and unreachable.
After all her being alert during the original explorations, the presence of the sound now came as a surprise to Daili.
“I don’t think we should drill here,” Hani said.
The others agreed, so they packed up in a bit of a hurry and descended the mountainside, relieved to reach the first homes on West Street. It wasn’t like Hani to be so worried; did she also feel that the sound was a warning?
“No, that would be impossible,” Hani answered.
Branag later admitted having found dead bugs when first using the generator but lately he’d not seen any.
“That’s because they’re not there anymore. None of the homes near the workshop or the social building have them, but all others do. I asked around,” Hani said to Daili.
In the third kor, Daili took a few days off to do some reading in the library, which sat near the central kitchen. The first day she planned to go there she never reached it, as she ended up spending the whole day talking to acquaintances from SJilai she met on the street, but had not seen for a while.
“You only start understanding how short the days are when time runs out before you get anything done,” she told Tini, whose home was on the far west side of town.
Daili did get to the library the next day, but never got around to reading; she followed Laytji, who wanted to show her around, and in doing so bumped into Jema, who had taken on the job of organizing the prints, since the person who’d done so on SJilai had been on that unfortunate lander. Before Daili could start a conversation, Jema excused herself, stood up, and disappeared. Feeling shut out, Daili could no longer concentrate on her print. She talked to Kalim about it. “She blames me for not sticking up for her.”
“Don’t worry about it. She’ll come back when she needs you again.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I thought she was my friend. I don’t want to just be needed.”
Kalim answered that he’d like to be needed, needed to predict the weather, but he felt helpless. He had no idea how to interpret any of the signs of the sky, not even with the help of SJilai. “Every day the clouds pass over, I make some assumptions based on logical physical knowledge, and always find I was wrong.”
Daili had the same problem, and similar complaints came from other scientists. Nothing was easy anymore. “Maybe we’re expecting too much too quick. Maybe, for now, we should just record without trying to predict at all.” After all, not even three SJilai stations had passed since reaching orbit, and they’d spent most of that time on the kabin.
People were on edge, not only from the loss of direction, but also thanks to the moisture and incessant wind. “I wish we could find a way to make a real fire,” Hani complained.
Kalim reminded her of the heater in the social building. “A lot of people gather there at night.”
“But I don’t want to be with people.”
“It’s fun this way. It’s like the old fashioned kennin. They all sit around the fire and tell stories,” Laytji said.
“They didn’t have a mas of people sharing one lousy heater.”
Daili asked Hani what had her so irritable.
“Don’t you want to get back to some basic luxuries so we can be comfortable?” Hani asked.
“I don’t know, honey. I guess I do long for some warmth, but I’m also a little like Laytji; the comfort of DJar brought us a lot of problems over possessions and power and it ruined the planet. If that’s the choice, I opt we stay together as people.”
Not too long after that, Hani decided she no longer wanted to join Daili on her walks. “I’d like to spend some time with Branag if that’s okay with you. I can’t see the excitement in djarology, to be honest.”
Daili had seen that coming. “How about we go talk to him tomorrow?”
Branag said yes, of course, so Hani, who suffered more from the cold than the rest of them since she was so skinny, could be inside the workshop instead of out in the field.
The temperature was decreasing rapidly and the cloud deck was white, with Kun visible as a bright red spot now that Station Two was in its second moon. Many people had short spells of feeling ill. Daili herself had two days off work, and then one after the other, Sunya and Lokit, her apprentices, also stayed home. After the coughing it was headaches and stomach upsets, which were cured by rest. Irma told them not to worry. “We’re more susceptible since we’ve been in over-controlled conditions for so long.”
Kalim blamed the headaches on the increased atmospheric pressure and the coughing on the thicker air, but filtering air would not be as easy as filtering water. All in all, it didn’t help people’s confidence. Once again, the novelty was wearing off; it just wasn’t good enough to live from day to day.
For too long, the Bijari people had known what life was about; had known science to be a stable source of facts, which were measurable and predictable and could be repeated at will. They’d had the technology to make life easier and had known where to find the resources for that technology. For too long had they relied on the weather forecasts to know what to wear, on timedisks to know when to be awake, and on the news to tell them what to believe.
Daili didn’t hear about Jari’s accident from any news report, not even through gossip; she only heard when Tini came to see her two days after. “She was holding this cable to hoist up a windmill and it snapped just like it was made of string.”
The cable had hit Jari in the face and left a big gash. The woman in front of Daili, telling her this, was two-thirds to Life and showing all the signs. Tini had lost her youthful, serene looks; she had spent the two days in the infirmary and couldn’t stop crying. “Irma says it will never go away again. She’ll have a scar for the rest of her life. Oh Daili, I wish I’d never let her come here.”
In the infirmary, Jari was sitting up with a bandage over the left side of her face and eye. “I haven’t seen many mirrors on Kun DJar,” she joked, but the intonation was bitter and the atmosphere oppressive. Tini talked about everything except the accident, sounding forcibly cheerful. Daili couldn’t blame Branag and Kunag for not wanting to visit, because they didn’t know what to say.
After that, Daili became more aware of how people looked. All the people she’d known on DJar and SJilai were less groomed, less careful with their appearance. The first priority was the weather; due to the mud it was better to wear something sturdy. Clothes were a problem to wash and fix, as much a problem as washing their bodies was. The river was still out of bounds, the sea too far and too cold. A tub filled from the central kitchen did okay for a quick face wash, but even that caused problems: Hani accused Tikot of not giving her any privacy, Laytji moaned at Hani for using too much water, and Tikot didn’t want to wash at all unless the water was warm. There were indeed few mirrors on Kun DJar, or maybe they were just hidden. People saw in others what they didn’t want to see in themselves. Kalim’s beard looked like one of those tumbling strings that blew around in the wind.
“We’re looking like a tribe of cave people. We’ll have to help each other cut
and wash our hair,” Daili told her family at yet another meal of cold pouch food.
“Now do you see the need for some basic comfort?” Hani scorned.
Daili couldn’t blame her, really.
“I think it’s great. We live like one of those old stories. It’s like we’re acting it out, but it’s real,” Laytji answered.
“You can stay in fantasy land, but some people are actually working to make things better,” Hani told her.
“Are you saying that I don’t do anything?”
Soon the accusations were going back and forth. Daili feared being accused of taking sides again if she tried to mediate, but Kalim had other ideas. “Sit down and be quiet!”
He emphasized his words by slamming his fist onto the table. Surprised by his outburst, they both sat.
“No way am I going to allow this. You both wanted to come here. You’re both old enough to understand that life won’t be easy. Nobody needs to start fighting when things are getting a little difficult and nobody will do that in this home as long as I’m around. Is that clear?”
When neither of them volunteered an answer, he insisted each separately acknowledge his words. After that it was quiet. The argument was over and the meal finished in peace.
“You know, maybe you could have a go at Kalgar and Frantag like that,” Daili said as she blew out the lamp to join Kalim on their mat that night.
“Believe me, I’d like to. They, more than anybody, should realize the need for working together.”
“I admit that I sometimes doubt our sanity in coming here,” Daili said, cuddling up to him.
“Had you stayed on DJar, you would have missed out on meeting me.” He didn’t give her the chance to respond, but swung his leg over to sit on top of her. He carried the mat covers along as he did so.
Daili shivered with the cold as well as the anticipation. “The kids will hear us,” she whispered; the wall that separated the bedrooms was thin.
“How long did you expect to wait? Until they’ve grown up and left?” he asked.
“No, of course not.”
But the thought had her nervous and she pushed against his chest when he tried to come forward. Kalim wasn’t easily rejected. He took her hands and put them above her head on the mat. His beard tickled her neck. When he sat up his silhouette filled the frame of the moonlit window.
“You do look like a caveman,” she told him, trying to control the reaction this image caused in her belly.
He growled in an attempt to emphasize that idea. With one move of his hand he pulled open her nightdress, top to bottom. The scattering buttons hit the floor with little plops. “I’ll do the fixing,” he promised, whispering in her ear.
She left her hands where he’d put them when he undid his own clothing, not wanting to give up on the moment. “Cavemen don’t sew, I think.”
He growled again; it made her warm. When he moved down and parted her legs the caveman was gone. Gentle, as she knew him, he entered. She welcomed him with a moan. Once settled he moved like an airfloat, starting slow, then faster and smoother, until the motion became a continuous roll, so fast Daili couldn’t help giving over to the moment and her own voice announced he’d reached the depot. In the silence that followed, she heard giggling from next door. “They heard us!”
“They heard you, you mean. Good sound.”
“Shh; we’re too old for secrecy.”
“Look, if they already know, don’t worry about it. Seems they have the sense to stay in their own room.”
She let him cover her up and stroked his beard.
The kids didn’t show any signs of knowing in the morning; they left as normal. That evening, Laytji announced that the first news bulletin was posted inside the social building next to the calendar. “So did you know you’re only one and a half kor young, Mom?”
“What do you mean?”
“Easy; Jema told me. If we’d been born on Kun DJar, we would only be one quarter of the years we are now, since a Kun DJar year is four times as long.”
“How can she be younger than you?” Tikot asked.
“No silly, I would be only three years old, because it goes for everybody equal.”
“And me?”
“You’d be two and a bit.”
“If you want to be fair, you have to count away the hour differences between Kun DJar and DJar days, so Daili would be three kor,” Hani interrupted.
“Not true! A year only goes on the revolution; nothing to do with the length of the day!”
“Then you should call them seasons, not years!”
“It makes no difference what you call them; it’s still four times as long.”
“No, it isn’t. Your body doesn’t suddenly start aging faster, just because you count differently–”
“Excuse me!” Kalim demanded. It was all he needed to say to get the girls to calm down.
“It’s too confusing for me,” Daili said, grateful for his intervention. “How about we just forget about ages? Let’s face it; we don’t have to count if there is no Life waiting for you at the end.”
Kalim agreed with her, but the children did not. “Don’t you want to know how old you are?”
“No; that would be the best thing to forget.”
A Really Crazy Question
Leni had warned her that she wouldn’t like it, but Jema decided to go anyway. She’d go because Emi had asked, because she didn’t want to turn Leni down, and maybe also because she was curious. But most of all, she would go to prove to Tiya that saying yes to the invitation did not mean she’d be preaching about the Divine Star next.
Jema had not seen much of Leni and Kisya since moving down from SJilai. People were too busy with their assigned tasks and the short days were over before anyone could make plans. The Society members all lived together at the very end of South-West Street, and the new children’s home stood equally far away at the end of Fifth Street, one of the short streets in the south-east corner. It wasn’t a home like on SJilai, just three prefabs stuck together. The remaining twelve children lived with Tiya and Jema, since Kiren had left to share a home with two of the children and a new comate. All the younger children, like Kisya, now lived with their new families. Nine of those had never made it to the surface, something Jema tried not to think about too much. The older ones had opted to stay together. Hardly children anymore, they more or less took care of themselves.
Leni had dropped in unexpectedly. Life might be different on Kun DJar, but that was no reason to give up their ceremonies. Here, more than ever, it gave people something to hold on to. Emi was now two kor and in the Society that meant official maturation. Emi was allowed to invite guests and she’d mentioned Jema, so Leni had come over to invite and to warn her. The ceremony was at Kundown on the second day of the second kor, in the second moon of Station Two.
Jema arrived when Kun was still looking over the western hills. What greeted her had nothing to do with the ceremony but everything with two twelve year olds being unable to control their tempers. Frimon’s natural command over an audience didn’t seem to work with the children, and whatever the initial argument, his efforts to solve it resulted in a new shouting match with Rorag crying and Kisya cursing. With some satisfaction, Jema concluded that not only had they handed over the children with the adoptions, but also those scenes.
Leni came out of her home, slapped both kids and ordered them, without even raising her voice, to sit on the ground opposite each other. She neither asked for explanations or tried to mediate. “This is Emi’s day and I will not tolerate this. You have four minutes to talk it out,” she said.
Frimon glanced at Jema before turning to go back into his home, evidently satisfied that Leni would deal with it. Now given the chance to speak, neither of the kids did. Rorag still whimpered and Kisya held her hand to her ear for dramatic effect. Leni repeated that they could talk or they could each go to their mat and not come to the ceremony at all. That changed things. They apologized and that was it.
Inside her home Emi was wearing a long dress made of red lace, a symbol of maturity. No longer a girl, she radiated happiness, visible more than anything in her almond-shaped brown eyes. She spun around to show Jema. “It used to be Mom’s.”
The pleasure Emi got out of showing off like this, something she didn’t naturally do, was enough to justify Jema attending. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”
Half an hour later, she witnessed another totally alien ritual which involved the same kind of personal humiliation she’d seen at Frimon’s penance, only this time she was prepared. Leni had told her this was seen as an honour to the young people and she was trying to accept it as such.
Just before this ‘honour’, Leni had exchanged vows with Frimon in which she more or less officially gave Emi away as if it was a commitment, only Emi wasn’t going to be Frimon’s comate. She was going to be his pupil and he would be her guide; a guide in teaching her how to be a woman in every meaning of the word.
“Isn’t it dangerous to let a man do that?” Jema asked before thinking that could be offensive, but the question amused Leni.
“No, it isn’t dangerous. That’s why we do the teaching; so they are prepared and no accidents happen.”
It was part of the process of growing up. Emi wouldn’t lose Leni’s teaching, but she gained Frimon’s. In a similar manner, Leni would become Rorag’s guide when he reached maturity. “On DJar we had to do all this in secret. That’s why we decided to make today a big celebration,” Leni said.
Frimon held a long speech and read from the large print he was carrying: the Sjusa. Jema watched the faces of the children involved and their new guides. Pride was the only way to describe it; an official step into being accepted by the community. Okay, she could see that was important. Too many people on DJar were left in a state of limbo at this age, ready to be adults but still treated as children. Without any accepted announcement of their growing up, they protested the belittling and turned away from their parents. These young people would have no reason to kick against the system; every adult present here today would treat them as equals from now on.