Obligations

by Cheryce Clayton

  “I don’t understand why you made the colors so bright.” Sam pointed with a smile, and Morgan glanced down at her newly developed breasts before again readjusting the way the banners covered herself. No mirrors, she thought with a new start. Glass and metal surfaces everywhere but no deliberate mirrors.

  The hormone therapy that Isaac synthesized before leaving the House Sheresuan was effective in starting the maturation of Morgan’s body. It had not helped her adjust to this new body she could not visualize.

  “The House Gashere already wears red, white, and blue. Theirs are paler colors though, and in a different order.” Morgan looked back out the window. They were finally leaving the spaceport tarmac and moving much faster as they headed for the city whose light could be seen against the sky ahead.

  “I thought you’re just being patriotic?” Isaac tried once more to distract Morgan from her nervousness.

  “I guess. I’m not an American, you know. I just wanted to name my House so that other humans would know they could approach it.” Morgan met Isaac’s eyes, and he was the one that looked away first.

  Sam leaned over Tansea to place his hand on Morgan’s bare shoulder. “They’ll know, believe me, they’ll know.” Sam let go of Morgan’s shoulder and turned his gaze out the window as she adjusted the banner, again.

  They rode in silence for several minutes as their car, and the other cars with them, moved in between the first buildings of the city. Posters and billboards were a riot of color, and humans could be seen on the streets and in doorways. A few other species were also represented, but Morgan was astounded by the sheer number of humans. They came in all shapes and sizes, all colors and costumes, and she had difficulty distinguishing people from print as the vehicle moved deeper into the city.

  “How many are there?” Morgan asked.

  “Don’t know. Doubt if anyone does. The slavers work out of the port, people just seem to come back here, if they can.” Sam hadn’t turned from the window.

  “Wergol is the planet for pirates bringing in humans, that’s certain. I hear there’s a planet in the Mydex system for Greos.” Isaac gave Tansea’s sleeping form a tender look.

  “Slavers. They’re called slavers. Pirates is too romantic.” Sam sat forward, and his eyes widened as his look challenged Isaac to deny his comment.

  Morgan noticed that Isaac never realized the danger as he turned his gaze outside the car.

  “Slavers, pirates, I don’t see much of a difference. They pull people off backwards, destructive planets and give them a chance to experience the entirety of the universe. Surely you don’t begrudge a few years of indentured service as compensation for the ride?” Isaac turned back to the car’s interior just as Morgan shifted her weight and intercepted the awkward blow Sam aimed at the other man’s head.

  “Hey! What was that for?” Isaac asked, and Morgan was annoyed to hear his indignation.

  “A few years of indentured service? You toad.” Sam spit out. “The average contract for a mercenary is seven years. The average life span is three! Don’t talk to me about the wonders of the universe and all that crap, I’ve seen too many kids die out here.” Sam threw himself back into his seat and clenched and unclenched his hands.

  “But surely… I mean, the benefits, to be… Most people benefit from… The pirates help… I mean…” Isaac stared at Sam and then Morgan as his voice sputtered out under their harsh frowns.

  “They’re called Slavers,” Tansea said as she sat forward, and placed her hand upon the now silent Isaac’s.

  They remained tense and quiet until they entered a rundown neighborhood and Sam sat forward to stare out the window instead of at the glass.

  “How much further?” Morgan asked into the silence.

  “The address your most loved family member supplied us with is just around this corner.”

  When Banessa answered, Morgan realized she spoke in Sansheren.

  Turning back to the window, Morgan’s gaze fell on a human man walking in the opposite direction. He was tall and black, with short cropped hair and a proud walk that was enhanced by a slight limp. Morgan turned her head to watch and, just as the car passed him, he paused at the door of a tavern. Standing for a moment, he cast a quick glance at the ground car, and Morgan knew she recognized him.

  “Stop!” she gasped, and flung the door open as the car slowed to a stop. She ran toward the building Greg had just entered.

  Banessa’s loud curse followed her into the bar, and she stepped to the side of the doorway as her eyes tried to adjust to the darkened room.

  It was Greg, she was sure. She stood and watched him sit down at the counter. A short, large, pale skinned human woman walked up to Greg, and Morgan saw how familiar they were with each other. She had long, brown hair and Morgan did not recognize her until she laughed. It was a high pitched, forced laugh that reminded her of the Earth. Denise. Her face bore wrinkles that Morgan did not think came from laughter, and after she finished laughing she looked sadder than before.

  Banessa opened the door and walked in. Looking the room over for possible threats, Morgan thought to herself with a smile. Morgan looked around herself and noted that the room was large and split into two sections by a half wall; there was a group of Sansheren casting stones in the far corner. The dim light prevented her from seeing either their House or order, but most of the other assorted patrons of the establishment wore the uniforms of spacers, and she dismissed their group from her mind. Serving the room were females of several different species, although she did not see any patrons of similar species. Morgan watched as one Dreco server led a laughing human toward a flight of stairs. There were no fewer than thirty people in the bar.

  Tansea opened the door next, and then stood holding it as Isaac maneuvered Sam’s chair over the threshold. Denise again glanced up, to see who was coming in. It was an almost robotic upward nod of her head, and she was already looking at Greg again when Morgan saw recognition flood her face.

  “Sam! Sam, damn you!” Denise said, slamming her hand down on the bar, and Sam grinned as she ran to him and stooped to throw her arms around his neck.

  Banessa moved to stand between Morgan and the room, almost blocking her view.

  “Move,” Morgan hissed, and her bodyguard shifted, if slightly.

  “Tim, old boy. Have I got a surprise for you.” Greg was standing behind the bar grinning into a communication camera. “No. Just come. Yes, now.” Greg disconnected the line even though sound could still be heard from the wall unit. He moved out from behind the counter and walked to Sam.

  Morgan saw the smile on Greg’s face slacken when he saw the amputations Sam had suffered. Then, without losing his stride, he bent forward and began to cry into Sam’s shoulder.

  Sam looked over Greg’s shoulder and made eye contact with Morgan. Denise followed his gaze and gasped as she realized who stood before her. Morgan shook her head at Sam and then gave a shy smile to Denise.

  The door was thrown open again by an impatient and unwashed looking Tim. His greasy, black hair was pulled tight at his neck and allowed to hang down his back. His brown skin was pale and Morgan stared at his gaunt cheekbones, so prominent in his chiseled face.

  “This had better… Be… Good…” Tim didn’t move as he stared at Sam.

  Greg wiped his eyes and stood up. “Hey man, I always deliver,” Greg said in a forced exaggeration of masculine bravado.

  “You said you were dying,” Tim said as he moved out of the doorway and pulled a chair over to sit beside Sam. He sat with his back to Morgan, who saw Denise smile as the old friends became reacquainted.

  “Man, I never should’ve left you behind. How could you let me leave you, man?” Tim’s pain was visible to anyone watching.

  “It’s okay. Hey, it all worked out fine.” Sam was trying to laugh and joke, but he, too, felt Tim’s pain and Morgan knew that the only way to abort the pain would be to step forward.

  “Okay? Those fucking Sansheren whores blew your legs off, man! H
ow could that be okay? I never should’ve backed down from that bastard Tadesde. That illegitimate spawn of a dead animal needs to be taught a lesson.”

  When Banessa laughed, Morgan realized with a start that Tim used a single Sansheren word, most politely defined as retrogressive or unevolved, for his insult.

  The Sansheren in the far corner, upon hearing Tadesde’s name and the insult from the same direction, stood, and Morgan could see that they wore Tadesde’s purple House banner.

  “Hey, it’s OK. Believe me. It was worth it, you got everyone out, besides I found someone.” Sam waved his hand to Morgan just as one of Tadesde’s people drew a gun. A very small, very shiny, very lethal gun.

  Morgan watched in silence as Tim stood and placed his hand on top of his own side-holstered weapon.

  “You will deny this insult to our most lovely and intelligent Lady,” the armed Sansheren said in her own language.

  Morgan was still and watched as first Tim drew his own pistol and Banessa moved to stand beside Sam.

  “I don’t know what you said, but those pretty banners give me a good idea,” Tim spoke, in English, before he spat on the floor between himself and the five armed Sansheren.

  “You are insulting my family,” Morgan said in Sansheren. She made eye contact with each of Tadesde’s retainers with a deliberate teeth-barring grin for the entire room to see. “You childishly allow yourself to be insulted by someone who has just discovered her lover to be crippled. Do you deny that you would also curse, were it your favorite wife?”

  Tim did not turn his head to see who was speaking.

  Greg, stared open-mouthed at Morgan from within Tim’s line of sight, his own hand under the bar countertop.

  “I am most embarrassed at my behavior. Of course, you are correct. The human is insane with grief, and we will forgive the insult.” The first Sansheren to draw a weapon was also the first to holster and Morgan relaxed her grin as she watched the first three frightened Sansheren move to the door. The remaining two Sansheren bowed to Morgan before nodding their heads to Sam and Tim as they left.

  “What the hell did you say to them?” Tim asked with a feral grin as he turned to Morgan.

  She watched him freeze as he assimilated her appearance. And for the first time she wondered what she looked like to other humans. Orange make-up, no shirt, silk pants, sandals, and Sansheren banners crossing her chest.

  “Morgan!” it was Greg who first made the leap. He moved to her and engulfed her in a giant hug the likes of which she was certain she had not experienced since Earth.

  Denise moved forward and was included in Greg’s overflowing joy.

  Morgan tried to center herself on the room and made eye contact with Tim.

  His expression was unreadable. “Well kid, it looks like you landed on your feet,” and he turned and walked away.

  Morgan watched him move to the bar as no one said a thing.

  “I told them Sam was your family, and you had reason to be bitter toward Tadesde.” Morgan walked to the bar and watched Tim in the mirror that faced them both. She tried to stare at Tim as her reflection watched her.

  “What do they care what you say? You go native or something?” Tim met her eyes in the mirror. He made a point of staring at first her banners and then her makeup.

  Morgan had worn a pale orange blush the entire time she lived with Neadesto; she had almost forgotten this was not her normal skin color.

  “I apprenticed in the House of Neadesto. She saved my life.” Morgan refused to look away from Tim’s hard gaze.

  “You went native.” Tim dropped his eyes and reached for a bottle that sat on the counter a few feet to his left, away from Morgan, and poured himself a drink.

  “Chill, man. Morgan saved my life, and freed Bystocc,” Sam said as Denise wheeled his chair to the counter.

  Tim looked up from his drink and turned to make eye contact with Morgan. “Glad to hear it,” he said as he reached out and took her hand. “Let’s do lunch,” he said with a brief handshake.

  The room was silent as Tim stood and walked from the bar to the stairway. He paused long enough to nod his head to one of the alien servers before starting up the stairs. His steps were heavy, and the silence lingered until both he and the alien were out of sight.

  Morgan felt numb as she picked up Tim’s drink and downed it in one gulp before walking over to a table with the bottle. Sam and Greg moved to join her, but nothing was said between them as they each got drunk for different reasons.

  Chapter Sixteen - Earth: Taiwan - 1995

  Lui Moih-Gan sat on her mother’s knee, and felt her unborn brother kick her from behind. She could hear her grandmother in the kitchen cooking, and her grandfather humming on the balcony as he painted. She watched her father come in the room from the kitchen, a steamed dumpling in his hand. He handed her half of it as he sat on the chair opposite of her and her mother. She knew something was going to happen, she felt it during breakfast, and again throughout the day as her normally happy grandmother cried. Even her grandfather called her out to his balcony: to show her how to paint, he said. But Lui Moih-Gan felt the tension in his hands as he showed her how to hold the brush.

  She twisted her body around to see her mother, only to have her mother turn her to face her father. Lui Moih-Gan watched her father’s solemn face as she picked at the sweetmeats within her half of the dumpling.

  “My son lives in America. Your teachers tell me you have learned English well, my daughter. It is time for you to join my son.” Her father took a bite of his dumpling.

  “I am happy we’re going,” Lui Moih-Gan said with a smile.

  “There will be a new baby soon; it is time for you to grow up, dear. We’re not going. You leave tomorrow. The schools in America are easier and you can go to college there,” her mother said gently into her ear, and Lui Moih-Gan was puzzled at the tears she could hear.

  “But I’m not ready for college yet. My tenth birthday is months away, and grandfather promised to teach me how to paint. Must I go now?”

  Her father set his unfinished dumpling on the table in front of them and frowned at her.

  She was afraid; she had never questioned him before.

  “You leave tomorrow. It is best for your future to go to school in America.” Her father stood and left the room and then the apartment.

  Lui Moih-Gan did not move from her mother’s lap, and her mother continued crying long into the night.

  #

  “Isn’t she just a little doll baby?” the old woman asked in English in a loud whisper and Lui Moih-Gan refuse to look at her.

  “She’s much too young to be traveling by herself. What kind of mother would leave her child alone on an international flight? Why, what if there were hijackers?” the old woman continued to whisper in a loud hiss as she stared around the first class cabin trying to decide who to suspect.

  “You don’t have to whisper, Ethel. These people can’t speak English.” The husband of the woman was large enough that they had been forced to purchase first class tickets.

  They were the only Americans on the Taiwan to Tokyo leg of the Asiana Airways flight to Los Angeles, and Lui Moih-Gan watched them curiously in the embarking lounge before boarding. Their appeal to her had worn off quickly, and Lui Moih-Gan remembered her fear and unease.

  “I’ll bet she’s one of them parachute kids, you know, like the ones we saw in that special report last year.” The woman was still leaning forward in her seat so she could watch Lui Moih-Gan.

  “The special about Asian street kids. I don’t see as she can afford a first class ticket, then. The damn things cost a fortune. Just another way to soak a hard-working man, I say.” The husband glanced at Lui Moih-Gan one time before returning his to attention to his in-flight magazine.

  “No, of course not. The one about Taiwanese children being sent to live in America alone. You remember. They said that because the schools in Taiwan are so hard, less than half of the students finish high school and only five
percent go on to college. We watched it last February, remember? It had all the kids with blacked out faces.” The wife turned her attention from Lui Moih-Gan to glare at her husband.

  He didn’t notice.

  “The only thing I remember from February were the college playoffs. Who would have thought the Cats could drop it after being ahead by three. I had fifty bucks riding on them. I tell you, it’s just another way to soak the hard-working man.” He never looked up from his magazine.

  “It was Monday night, before Rush, you remember.” The wife was insistent.

  “Now Rush, he understands the hard-working man. No twinkies or slants for him, just a hard-working American man.” The page of the magazine turned slowly.

  “They spent the entire half hour on it. They send the kids here to America to live, alone. It’s a shame. There should be a law against doing that to such a pretty little girl.” The old woman threw herself back in her seat as the seat belt sign winked out and the captain started speaking.

  “Well, at least they have a real American flying this death trap,” the husband said as the pilot worked through the flight explanation in both Chinese and then English with a drawling West Virginia accent.

  Three hours later, Lui Moih-Gan listened as the pilot announced their landing at Narida International in Tokyo. When the other passengers stood and moved around, she sat still in her seat, long after landing.

  Her bladder was full, but her father’s harsh admonition not to bother the attendants kept coming into her mind. She resisted the urge to squirm around for a more comfortable position. The layover was over two hours long with the disembarkation of most of the Asian passengers and the boarding of the mostly white, American tourists and business travelers.