by Thomas Zman
The door swooshed open and Nayrb walked in: “Greetings,” he telepathically conveyed, raising his palms. The Phoebian affably introduced everyone: The married couple was the Fabians; April’s last name was Camille, while her friend’s was Vanguard. “Welcome to all.” He cast a benevolent glance around the room.
“I believe this is your fourth session, Mr. and Mrs. Fabian?” Nayrb began. “I would greatly appreciate it if either of you would be kind enough to begin for us, since you are both rather accustomed with how our discussions work.”
“Well,” the husband began slowly, his voice trembling, “I think talking about our families we left behind on the surface is most important. No one can get that off his or her mind, no matter what we do. It is all very troublesome. I keep thinking about my parents, about Mary’s parents, and her brothers. Even though we’ve been gone for a while now it seems fresh in our minds, all the time. I mean a couple abducted from their home in the middle of the night – everyone must be thinking ‘kid napping’.”
“Was something like that ever a concern of yours?” Nayrb encouraged.
“Well,” Mary answered for her husband. “Anyone who ever listened to the news on the surface has surely heard of such things.” Her voice had a sweet, southern accent to it. “When I was a little girl I dreamed of raising a family. But when I grew up I learned how difficult and dangerous that would be in modern society.”
“Meaning just what?”
“Child molesters, gangs, murder, terrorism. Need I say more?” Mary reached for her husband’s hand.
“Has anyone to add to the Fabians’ concerns?”
“I can relate to that,” I said. “I have two children of my own. But I must say I never let any of those concerns change my mind on matters. In fact, my twins were an early surprise for Jean and me. Jean is my wife -- though we were never legally married. We referred to each other as husband and wife to simplify things.” I couldn’t believe I was telling everyone this. “I guess you could say that we’ve been living a lie, but we always thought that ‘husband and wife’ sounded better than ‘life partner’. “ I felt my face redden.
“But you have to think about the pleasures you both have forfeited by not having a family.” I returned the conversation back to the Fabians. “The feeling of knowing that you and someone you love created life. The caring for a baby that is totally dependent on you. Watching your children grow, and growing with them. Teaching them, laughing with them, crying for them. All the experiences.” I started to get uncomfortable.
“We know,” Fabian answered. “We’ve thought all about it and decided society is in no condition for our children to live,” his tone changed. “Besides, we haven’t got to worry about that anymore.” He smiled at his wife. “Mary and I have no doubts about ourselves being good parents. Its society we feared. All we need is each other. And we have that.”
I could feel the emotions surfacing. The sickening thoughts of never seeing my children again; my eyes began to tear. I was alone.
“I think the Fabians are right,” Constance began stiltedly. “I’m not saying a couple shouldn’t have children, but that society, in general, is ethically deplorable. Admittedly, I have led a sheltered life. My parents were both physicians. Me, an only child. I had a nanny growing up. Private school. Yada, yada. I had my friends hand picked for me. It wasn’t until I went away to college that I started to get a feel for real people. A lot of diversity on campus. I made friends with people that, in my childhood, my parents went out of their way to keep me from. I even began to see that it was the rich and highly educated that manipulated the morals of society, even driving others to do things that were horribly evil.”
“I remember my college days,” Fabian added. “They were fun times over all. But it did bother me to see some fellow classmen ‘buy’ their way though school while the majority of us struggled. They learned nothing, except how to ‘party’. Their families paid for their grades, and they graduated with honors.”
“That would have been me,” Constance admitted. “But I left college before graduating.”
“At one time I was going to go to college,” we heard from Frank. “I had just finished high school and my dad promised me an education.” Frank’s voice changed. He became emotional. “One day I woke up and heard my mother crying on the phone. My dad left us. Just left us.” He paused, collecting himself. “I never knew the reason. Mom wouldn’t talk about it. It was then I decided I had to support my mother and sister. I joined the Air Force.”
“I’m sure you would have done better than I had in college.” Constance heartened. “I told my parents ‘higher education was not for me’, so they decided to send me on retreat to clear my thinking. The great wilderness of Montana. It was from there that I came here.”
“Do you miss the surface?” Nayrb questioned.
“Only my family. I didn’t have any real friends. I guess I’m lucky to have made such good ones here.” She smiled at April. “It’s a whole new world here. I didn’t get to learn much about the old one. I hope I didn’t give the impression I hated it.”
“You did just fine,” Nayrb consoled.
“I miss my family too – “ Frank agreed, pulling a gold chain from around his neck. “I especially miss Paige. Just getting really comfortable with her.” A smile came to him. “I miss the smell of turpentine and oil paints in our room – “confusion crossed our faces; save for the alien, who remained tacit. “She was an artist,” Frank quickly clarified. “She lived to create, to paint. Too many people in this world have gifts, talents, but not enough time to pursue them. I saw Paige’s devotion and said to myself, ‘why should she have to work doing something she doesn’t really enjoy when she could do an artist’s work and love it?’”
Smiles crossed our faces; a chuckle of joy nearly escaped me.
“That’s beautiful,” April, cooed.
“Any other experiences someone would like to share?” conveyed Nayrb.
“I – I’d like to say that living in Neuphobes has been paradise to me,” April responded sweetly.
“And how would that be?”
“I lived in the mountains all my life,” her voice wavering. “I was never more than fifty miles from my home. We had a big family, me being the oldest. Always work to be done, my daddy would say.” She relaxed. “But in the evening I’d spend time with my beau, Paul, who lived down the road. He worked for my family, in the orchards. Apple trees as far as the eye could see. We’d sit on the hillside looking out across the valley all-sparkling with lights and dream of places far away -- big cities. Places we’d seen only on television or the movies. We’d tell each other stories of living in New York. A fancy apartment, Broadway shows, dining in expensive restaurants, and people – lots and lots of people . . . “
* * * * *
“That’s certainly a pretty gown,” Frank complimented Constance as he escorted her into the Gregarious Galleon, one of the city’s many socializing establishments.
“Why thank you.” She twirled herself around, showing off the swank attire. It’s just amazing what a splash of dye and some quick alterations can do.” She eyed Frank and myself. “The Phoebians give us as many uniforms as we need and what we do with them after that is totally up to our imagination. There are countless boutiques that offer their services. In fact, Mary Fabian did this for me. She works over at . . . “
I walked modestly with the two, my mind anticipating the goings on inside –
“Steve, where’s April?” asked Frank.
“She’ll be meeting us a little later, inside,” Constance clarified. “She asked me to apologize. She wasn’t quite done at the salon when I had left her, and then she has to stop over at the Gardens.”
We had entered through revolving doors into a spacious lobby where we stood for a moment allowing our eyes adjustment to the dim lighting.
Slowly it became apparent, that before us, we were overlooked by an old sailing ship’s quarterdeck, trimmed in white railing and plan
k stairways on each side. Constance aptly led us across the well-weathered, creaky floor and into the lantern lounge where pin railing, ratlines, anchor ropes, blocks and tackle added abundance of old sea faringness to the place.
“Now I know what they did with the older ships they abducted,” I said.
“There’s a table inside that lifeboat,” Constance spotted, taking hold of Frank’s hand and leading the way.
We were seated in what had been a real lifeboat; cut neatly in half and fitted with velvet-tufted barrel chairs before a thick mahogany hatch-cover table. After having taken our seats I looked around, noticing a fair number of women dressed similar to Constance; Frank, myself, and the other men about the place still sporting the standard-issue civvies. The air was cool and relaxing, wisps of a salt-breeze redolent as if we were out on the open waters. From the center of our table materialized a holograph of four miniature musicians, playing a song from long ago; the soothing melody just a touch higher than the background chatter of partying patrons.
“Vanguard,” Frank stirred conversation. “Is that Scandinavian?”
“French. However, my mother was Norwegian . . . as in the song.” She replied quizzically, gesturing to the performers center on our table. Constance signaled a passing waiter, who presented us with four goblets. “I got an extra for April. We’ll wait until she comes before we start.”
Frank picked up on the ‘Norwegian’ comment, then countered, “Harrison’s sitar added such a mystical sound to their music.” He smiled.
“It’s fun to come here and play ‘mind games’,” she continued, her eyes widening.
“God rest Lennon’s soul.”
Feeling somewhat out of place I decided to have myself a look around.
“Where are you going?” Frank stopped me.
“For a walk. It’s the first time I’ve been on a ship like this. Though a ‘Yellow Submarine’ it’s not.”
“No,” Constance objected; a tone of concern noted in her voice. “I really think you should wait for April. She’ll be here any time now and she is expecting to meet you.”
“I’ll be back. Just going to check out the action.” I smiled.
As I made my way from them, through a partition of ropes and hanging tackle, my thoughts were attuned to our table. I heard Constance:
“He shouldn’t be wandering around here without someone who knows the place. It gets weird around here; people get high off their minds. Endorphins . . . “
I let slip my thoughts of the two as I mixed nonchalantly with the crowd, picking up on new bits of conversation, only to have them ebb away, fade into others. Navigation of the lounge was a challenge: I had to cautiously plot my course so as to avoid collision with low-strung ropes, hip-clipping pin rails, cross rails, or especially the eyebolts and cleats that stuck up from the edges of the floor in a toe-stubbing tenor.
After meandering some distance I passed through a bulkhead and into a small cabin where I found myself in the midst of a chess game. The quarters itself was barren of detail except for the two seated figures and their game board set atop a wooden barrel. The stuffy room seemingly echoed of mental tactics deliberated upon in the minds of the opponents; strategies far too complex for my comprehension. I passed through quietly, not so much as attracting an inquisitive glance from either.
I exited onto the spar deck and into a nighttime setting where I leaned against a galley funnel to rest a moment, enjoying the stars and the fresh sea air. A scattering of lanterns provided a dim light, though I chose to gaze beyond the ship’s railing into the darkness. I envisioned the bounding main—though none could really be seen -- and for just a brief moment an eerie aberration consumed me. Others like myself walked the deck, walking an aimless plight, not a word spoken by any. I beheld an old man at the helm who occasionally cast a glance at a binnacled compass for confirmation of bearing; I surmised his actions to be an imaginative quest for true course . . . a good helmsman always has the heavens on a clear night. For a moment I felt lost in the swarthiness, the sounds of the sea making themselves present. At the far end of the deck I noticed a light from a stairwell that led down into the ship. Something beckoned me from within.
I descended the stairs and into a socially conservative setting. When I reached the bottom, a deep voice beckoned my attention: “Steve Colman!” Jhal welcomed me. He was seated in a booth next to the stairway.
“Glad to see you could make it.” Jhal stood and extended his large hand, introducing his lady friends. “Where’s Frank?”
“He and Constance are upstairs, waiting for a friend.”
“I see. Come join us. Please, have a seat.”
“Constance Vanguard. Connie,” said the first of the finely shaped women, recognizing the name. “She and I worked together over at the spa for a time. She’s a trip.”
“So Steve, have you eaten yet?’ Jhal asked.
“No. I -- I thought we had no need for food here now that – “
“Jhal boomed with laughter. “You have much to learn, my friend. We don’t actually eat the food, but rather savor its every nuance. Here, I’ll lower the bubble for you.”
Above the table, as above all the others in the room, was a large, semi-spherical transparent dome. Jhal passed his hand over a large crystal embedded in the center of the table and the dome lowered until it rested just above our heads.
“I don’t know exactly how this works, but it’s got everything to do with the olfactory epitheliums in your nasal cavities and the corresponding taste buds on your tongue. Even the texture of the food and the palatable sensations are recreated in your mouth. It’s good stuff!”
Jhal’s anatomic explanation reverberated dully around the dome.
“You first, my friend,” said Jhal. “Think of any food you desire. Start simple, though. If you think too much the flavors get all jumbled up.”
After a long consideration and a rush of possibilities constituting the entire spectrum of foods, I decided: “I like cantaloupe,” I said, and concentrated on the juicy tropical delight. My mouth began to salivate a sweetness that gradually filled my senses with savories and the palpable sensation of the fruit. It had been so long since I delighted in such. Oh the pleasures!
“Tasty,” commented both women as I watched the sensation make its way around the table.
“My turn,” said the second woman, she too of fettle form. She stared a moment at the crystal then closed her eyes. Slowly all our mouths were moving, chewing, feeling and tasting the warm sensation of a fine French Onion Soup. Everyone oohmmed and ahhhed, allowing the sensation to linger, satisfy, and repeat for what must have been several minutes. We even drank from goblets an imaginary wine that further enhanced our pseudo-dining experience.
“You think that is good, my friend, there is the whole next room down there flowing with a synergism that stimulates everyone’s mind, making the whole place a psychological bacchanalia.” A wide grin crossed his face.
The ‘bubble banquet’ continued several more courses, each person in turn suggesting a food of their fancy. Between tastings there was exciting conversation, the exchange of experiences we all had had here and back home in our other lives. After several delectable dishes I was surprisingly ‘stuffed’ (how that sensation came to be was beyond me) and politely excused myself from the table to set off and find out just what Jhal had tantalized me with earlier. I proceeded towards a ratline partition wherefrom flowed an enticing musical charisma. I ventured to just the other side and beheld a large room illuminated to a crimson haze where the floor, blanketed in fog, was crowded with socializers who mingled and danced frivolously as if attending a most bizarre, yet informal celebration. Coming and going, people sauntered passed, many with distant looks in their eyes, a few even talking aloud or giggling to themselves. In time with the contemporary composition that emanated from hidden whereabouts, a crystalline spheroid orbited along the ceiling, showering those beneath it with silver shimmerings. Small tables set off to the side were shaded bene
ath nettings of dimness; havens for the few fraternizers who chose to imbibe in quiet conversation. I felt slightly altered, nervous perhaps from the convivial atmosphere, and so stood near the entrance where I leaned against a sea-maiden bowhead for composure. And as I glanced around the room, occasionally catching the attention of a young woman, I needed to avert my eyes to quell the creeping qualms of consciousness.
“Ahoy there!” a barbarous man approached, his hand raised in a mately salute.
I returned the gesture, reflexively.
“See you’re military,” observed the disheveled man; the mate in need of a haircut and shave.
“Air Force.” I extended my hand. “Steve Coleman.” We shook. “I must confess to never being on a ship quite like this before.”
“Great ‘ne she is.” He offered not his name, but smiled reflectively; a tooth missing. “Reminds me of the ones I used to work. Sailin’ tourists out of Barbados.”
“It’s interesting how this old ship has been converted into different entertainment rooms.”
“Aye,” he said, moseying closer; leering at me with one eye wide, jaw agape. “This’n here‘s the best of the whole lot of ‘m. Why it’s like shore leave without never touchn’ the grog!” he explained in a craggy tone.
“Well that’s certainly different.”
“Aye!” He smiled secretly. “But ya be careful now and don’tcha be overdoin’. Don’t be letn’ yer mind get the best of ya. This ‘re place is one of temptation – as they say. “ He snickered. “If ‘n it takes ya, you’ll be roam’n the decks like the others . . . “ He looked off into the crowd. “Gid!” he bellowed above the din. “Ther’s someone you’v gotta meet!”
I turned to look in the direction of his outburst. It was aimed at an individual with long coppery hair and beard to match, who promptly excused himself from his mingling’s with others.
“This’n fella’s unique,” the mate commented. “Hardly nev’r leaves this place. Don’t know how he does it.” A physically withered, deplorable man hobbled towards us. I wondered what Frank would think of these guys?