by Ann Christy
For some reason, that makes me feel better. Maybe because I’m not alone in this feeling. Maybe it’s because Jack seems fine now and that means I might be fine someday too. The fact that he’s here instead of with his people—assuming his people were transfers too—isn’t lost on me, but I’d rather not think about that right now. That’s a step too far.
I’ve been avoiding thinking about my mom and what she must be going through. If I bring up his situation, then I’ll have to think about mine. I can’t do that yet or I’ll fall apart. And I can’t fall apart, because if I do, then I’ll never figure out how to get home again.
After a moment of silence, I grip his forearm and say, “Thank you for helping me. I’m just going to eat and try not to think for a while. Alone. Is that okay?”
He shifts so that he can squeeze my arm in return and we stand there, with our arms locked together like ancient warriors before handshakes were invented. “Perfectly okay. I’m not sure I can handle being around food right now anyway. I might be too tempted to eat something crazy and I’m still not over that experience.”
His ability to poke a little fun at himself is endearing and if anything, makes him even more gorgeous. But he’s not human…or rather, he wasn’t. While I’m sorry about calling him a squid person, he could be anything. I’ve got a lifetime of human-centric bias to get over before I can really think of him as anything other than something wearing a human disguise.
I mean, he’s wearing a gorgeous costume, but it’s still a costume.
Letting go of his arm leaves me feeling less anchored, but also free to wallow in my thoughts without having to put up a brave front. That’s weird, I know, but such are the ways of the Earth’s true trash pandas. Contradictory and nonsensical.
“Tomorrow?” I ask, already turning toward the door.
“I’ll be here,” he says, and I know he means more than an answer to my question.
As I open my door, I say, “Thank you.” I don’t look back again. Instead, I shut the door behind me and lean against it while I cry.
*****
“So, I’m not crazy, Rosa?” I ask the ceiling some time later, after my dinner has arrived and I’ve got nothing except my gloomy thoughts to distract me.
“No, Lysa. Not even a little bit crazy.”
Her voice is kind and just as grandma-like as before. It’s just what I needed. I poke at my dinner—tonight I chose true comfort food, macaroni and cheese, with extra cheese. After a few pokes, I ask, “How is your work going?”
Her sigh is long, and I can almost see her shaking her head like she did when I popped through. “Much the same, but that’s not for you to worry over. You’re overwhelmed right now and that’s to be expected. Every planet is different. Every sentient species has its own way of processing things. Every individual will feel new experiences differently. There’s nothing crazy about that. It’s just the way life is.”
While it’s possible that Rosa is simply feeding me lines that will make me feel better, it doesn’t register that way. Instead, it has the ring of truth…of a simple truth that she knows, and I’m only just learning. She’s very good at her job, even when it’s not technically a part of her job.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re very welcome, Lysa. Will you be alright?”
I think about my answer before I rattle off in the affirmative like I would at home. Will I?
“I think so,” I say, then add, “I hope so.”
After we end our call—or whatever it is when I contact someone—I wander around my room. I still haven’t unpacked everything. There are boxes and wrappings all over the place. My room looks crowded with all that disorder. Why did I order so much stuff?
Because I’m a trash panda.
The thought comes unbidden and it hurts, mostly because it’s sort of true. What is it with us? Why do we have to grab everything and anything, no matter our need? Why did I order five pairs of jeans, four pairs of shorts, exercise clothes, and three dresses? I mean, if I’m only going to be here a short while, why exactly do I need all this stuff? It’s not like they don’t do laundry here. They do, and they do it fast.
“I’m a trash panda,” I whisper, looking at the pile of wrappings on my table.
Hub told me that our orientation sessions would be available for review, so I look at the monitor and start working my way through our session earlier in the day. The visual is of the screen as I viewed it, but I can adjust it to look at anything in the room from any angle. I wonder how they do that.
Everything I see and hear is both perfectly clear and completely overwhelming at the same time. Every answer leads to more questions. Every layer of understanding leads to more layers of unknown depth. There were too many questions to ask or work through, but they all return now. Knowing I’ll lose them just as I did before, I dig out a notebook from a sealed box and start writing my questions down.
By the time I finish, there are a lot of pages. A lot of pages filled with words ending in question marks.
While I still haven’t been told exactly where everything taken from my planet is going, I know enough to guess that the new planet is a place comfortable for us. A place where we can simply carry on. A place to carry on being trash pandas. Somehow, that last part is one I have a hard time believing we’ll be permitted to do.
Eighteen
The next morning, I can barely pull myself out of bed to pee. Coffee I can manage, but food is a mountain too far. I feel like someone pulled a thick blanket over my head, one that’s too heavy for me to lift off. I can see nothing except the darkness.
I’m pretty sure this means all the novelty that was keeping me energized has been overtaken by reality. My mother, the corpse starfished on our living room floor, being here, the fact that I’m genetically flawed, the whole trash panda situation, and everything else that goes with my leap through the portal. This is too much for my brain.
Mostly, I think it’s my mom. The fact that the last time she saw me, I leapt through a portal without looking back weighs heavily on my mind right now.
When Jack shows up, I don’t open the door. Instead, I ask him to leave me alone. He’s silent for so long that I begin to doubt he’s still there. At last, he asks, “Will you be alright if I go?”
“I won’t be alright if you stay. Not today. Tomorrow maybe.”
There’s the faintest noise from the other side, a soft sound. It’s him, his hand brushing the door maybe. “I’ll be here if you need me. Just call.”
“I will,” I say quietly. There’s no further sound from his side of the door, but I wait with my forehead pressed against the metal. After a while, I go back to bed and pull the covers over my head to let this crushing darkness take me away for a while.
“Lysa.”
I wake up wondering if I actually heard my name. Did I? Was I dreaming?
“Lysa,” Hub says again.
“I’m awake.”
Hub doesn’t say anything for a moment and I’m not sure why. It called and woke me, so what does it want? Rubbing my eyes, which ache from all the crying, I sit up in bed and glance at the screen. The time is surprising. I’ve slept all day and well into the night, rising only to visit the bathroom or drink water.
“Did you want something, Hub? If not, I’m going back to bed.”
“Lysa, I’d like to show you something.”
Well, if that’s not enigmatic, I don’t know what is. Hub is being mysterious again. How is a machine doing that?
“I’m not in the mood for a tour, Hub. Maybe tomorrow.”
“We don’t have to go anywhere. I can do it right here. All you need to do is sit where you are.”
I figure Hub is going to show me another movie, but the viewscreen displays only the time when I look at it. I’m not in the mood, but I also know that Hub wouldn’t have woken me up in the middle of the night simply because it wanted to.
With a sigh, I say, “Okay.”
> The room darkens immediately, even the little glow of the viewscreen clock disappearing. The darkness is so complete that I feel untethered. It’s frightening, but before I can do more than open my mouth to ask—or shout—for light, the darkness is broken.
At first, there’s only the barest hint of color at the edges of my room, nothing substantial. Then the density increases and the viewpoint shifts. Turning on my bed to look at the center of the room where the light grows brighter, a ball of light coalesces.
“What are you doing, Hub?” I ask, but I can see for myself before I finish the question. It’s a planet. Not Earth. That much is obvious at a glance. The landmasses are all wrong.
“I’m showing you an answer. One I think you need to see right now.”
Getting out of bed, I walk toward the planet in the middle of my room, but my steps are tentative. I don’t want to intrude, which is silly perhaps, but it feels wrong to put my foot into their ocean. Clouds cover parts of the surface in a thin flat layer. When I reach out to brush them away, my fingers disappear inside the illusion.
As soon as I pull my hand away, the view changes and I’m suddenly zooming in for the surface. The illusion is so perfect that I fall against my easy chair, then hang on for dear life. The projection—or whatever it is—fills the room until I can’t even see the chair, only the effect of my grip in the form of my white knuckles. The planet’s surface is flying toward me. Even my feet have nothing beneath them.
“What’s happening? Hub!”
“The disorientation will pass. Hold on.”
Green and brown and blue in disordered masses zooms closer beneath my feet. A mountain range topped with white becomes momentarily visible in the distance, before disappearing as I drop further. Putting my hands out to prevent impact with the ground, I lose the chair. I think I even shout, but I can’t be sure. Squeezing my eyes shut, I drop to one knee. I can feel the floor beneath me and I spread my hands out against it. If I open my eyes, I’ll lose it, but if I just keep my hands on it, I’ll be fine. I hope.
My breathing was loud before, but suddenly that small noise is drowned out by a cacophony of other noises. Squeals, buzzes, squeaks…it’s like a zoo. Then something that sounds like a trumpet blown by a drunk zebra inside a barrel of soap suds blasts out right next to my ear. My eyes pop open as I fall backward onto my butt. What I see is unbelievable.
I’m on the ground, or more specifically, a flattened bit of rough dirt in a clearing. Around me are strange trees of all types, tall or short, lush or needled or bare. Huge ferns crowd the edges of the clearing, their long, curling fronds dipping in a breeze I can’t feel.
The noise I heard is coming from a creature way bigger than me and it’s about to step on my head. With a squeal, I half-crawl, half-toss myself out of the way, expecting the ground to shake when that big foot falls, but it doesn’t. I hear it, but there’s nothing to go with it. No vibration, no pounding, nothing. As the back foot rises, I see hints of solid chair through the gray-green skin.
“Is this a video?” I ask Hub, reaching out to try and touch the giant toenail next to me. My hand passes right through it.
“This is a projection, but the images are live. This is what’s happening right now. Your perspective is from a very small drone.”
Under my breath, I say, “That would explain me almost getting squished by nothing.”
“I didn’t plan that,” Hub answers.
I keep forgetting that Hub hears everything. Noted. Eventually, I’ll stop noting that fact and actually act on it. The big beast takes another couple of steps and I watch as its rump comes into view. It looks a bit like an elephant from the back, with wrinkly skin and big, round feet. The animal is about the size of an elephant, or maybe a little bigger. From behind it has that same cute butt too.
I will not be judged for thinking that. Lots of people think elephants have cute butts.
The resemblance to an elephant ends there. Another of its kind lumbers my way and its face is familiar in a strange way. Familiar, but changed. Short, nubby horns form a crown on its head, starting near the cheeks and getting a little fatter near the top. Its eyes are small compared to its head, but the iris color as it passes me is a startling green-gold. Beautiful. The nose is a hard, curved shell, a bit like a beak, but also not, since the hard part doesn’t reach the lips, which are curiously shaped so that the animal looks like it’s smiling.
“That’s a dinosaur,” I say in wonder, watching the second cute rump pass me.
“It is,” Hub says, being so non-helpful that I make a face. I guess it saw me, because it says, “Did you want more information now? I thought you might enjoy observing first.”
I open my mouth, then close it again when I realize Hub is right. This is magic right here. As soon as we start talking about it, the magic will be gone. I don’t know how this is happening, but it is. I feel awake and eager. That feels good after wallowing in depression all day.
Standing, I step forward and the whole scene shifts so quickly that I feel my stomach lurch into my throat. I didn’t move, but I feel it all the same. Plus, the clearing is now about a hundred feet behind me and I’m standing halfway behind a tree trunk.
The Hub anticipates my next question and says, “To navigate, lean the way you want to go. The amount of your lean will determine your speed. To rotate, simply turn your head or body in that direction. To rise, move your arms outward. To lower altitude bring them back in.”
Now that’s exciting.
To test it, I lift my arms a little and sure enough, I rise like I’ve got boosters on my feet. It’s amazing to look down, but I think I’m high enough, so I lower them. That wasn’t quite right, because I drop like a stone, screeching the whole way.
“Should I change the control configuration for you?” Hub asks, using absolutely no judgy tones, which merely serves to make them feel even more judgy.
There’s this one thing in every episode of my favorite superhero show, and it flashes into my mind. Before I can realize how embarrassing this would be if anyone found out about it, I ask, “Can you just make it so that if I raise my arms I go up and lower them to go down? That way I can keep them in the middle and stay put.”
I know how fast Hub works, so I hold my arms at ninety degrees and lace my fingers in front of my body.
“Changes made, Lysa.”
Blowing out a long breath, I rise above the forest and take my first real look at this amazing world. Turning my head to do a full circle, I see open land interspersed with dense forests, a large lake or other body of water sparkling under the sun in the distance.
And dinosaurs. Yes, there are dinosaurs.
A group of the nubby horned ones are mingling in the open areas where I first landed, if I can use that term. While I watch, a smaller one nudges a slightly larger animal in the rear end. The larger one’s tail twitches, but it keeps facing the ferns. The small one nudges the bigger one several times, but as soon as the one being poked turns around to look, the one doing the poking looks around like it doesn’t know what’s up. It’s completely faking it.
This interplay is so much like human kids that I laugh, then lower myself a little to see the action. When the one in front turns back toward the tree line—I think they’re eating the ferns—the smaller one tilts its head and peers around slyly, then pokes the bigger one in the butt again and steps back super quick.
Not quick enough apparently. The bigger one is clearly well and truly sick of the goofing off. It gives chase to the smaller one. More of those bizarre trumpet-in-a-bubble noises come from them and they dart around with far more agility than I would have thought possible. I lower myself a little more to get a better look. Are they going to fight? I hope not.
Suddenly, the little one stops and does something that anyone who has ever seen a dog at play would recognize; it play bows.
The bigger one stops and huffs, front legs dancing back and forth for a moment, all the while eye-ballin
g the littler one. Then it steps up and bonks noses with it. The smaller one’s nostrils flare beside that bony plate on its snout and it slides its cheek along the cheek of the bigger one. My mouth drops open when they end this little play of theirs. Each rests their snout on the other’s shoulder, the little nubs of horns along their crests resting at the unprotected neck of the other.
This is a show of affection. A show of trust.
In awe, I rise and look at the forests and open spaces, realizing now what Hub told me. This is live. This is happening now.
“Hub, how is this possible? Where are we? What is this place?”
“This is the possible made certain. Life without interruption. This is what we do.”
Nineteen
Aside from all of Hub’s fancy talk, I know what it’s saying. I do. And I know why it showed me this unbelievable world. I turn my body to spin in the air so fast that I feel I might fly apart, my arms outstretched to take in the whole of this amazing and impossible planet.
The playing dinosaurs below me have gone back to their day. In the distance, large birds of some sort are wheeling in the sky over an impossibly wide lake bordered by mountains. I lean their way and almost feel the wind in my hair, even though my brain knows the wind is imaginary. My heart doesn’t know it though, and goosebumps tickle across my skin. Going faster, the ground and trees blur beneath me and I almost over-shoot my mark. I stop abruptly right in the middle of their wheeling circle.
The magic of this moment is not lost of me. I shout before I can stop myself, because if I don’t, my chest will explode. The water a hundred feet below sparkles in the sun, and around me magnificent creatures fly in a giant circle.
They are not birds.
“Holy poopsicles!” I whisper, as one of the creatures glides past me too closely for comfort.
I’d be willing to bet that my eyeballs are as big as basketballs as I follow its motion. The bird-like creature is big, but not as big as I thought flying dinosaurs were. Bigger than any bird I know, but not big enough for me to use it as a flying horse or anything. And the colors! It has feathers as well as dark, bat-like skin, and in every shade you can imagine. It’s like a giant parrot with an incredibly ugly face and very sharp teeth inside a pointy beak.