Day caught Oriyest looking at her as though she were stupid. “If a herder thought that through some madness I spoke an untruth,” she said, slowly, distinctly, “a journeywoman would be summoned. She would speak the right of it.”
“But how would she know?”
Jink gestured impatiently. “How does anyone know anything? We remember.”
“But what if a journeywoman forgot?”
“Journeywomen do not forget.” Her voice was suddenly flat, cold. She leaned towards the Mirror and Day found herself afraid of the alien presence before her.
“There is a life between us, Mirror Day. I ask you once again: will you aid us?”
Day was afraid. She was made more afraid by the fact that she did not understand what she was afraid of. She licked her lips. “If a journeywoman will speak for you . . .” She hesitated but neither Jink nor Oriyest stirred. “If that’s your law then I’ll see what I can do.” Day wished she had another drink. “Look, I can’t do much. I’m only a Mirror. But I’ll find out who can help you. I can’t guarantee anything. You understand?”
“We understand.” Oriyest nodded once. “I will bring the journeywoman.” She slid from her stool and was gone.
“Will she be long?”
“Not very long.”
“Long enough for a drink,” Day muttered to herself. She raised a finger to the bartender, who poured her another beer. She stared into her glass, refusing to look at Jink. The minutes passed. Now and then she raised her head to glance at her helmet on the bar. The doorway was reflected in its mirror visor. Men and women came and went, mostly Mirrors snatching an hour’s relaxation between shifts.
Maybe she should just cut and run. She couldn’t afford to get mixed up in a natives’ rights campaign. Her promotion to sergeant was due in about eight months. Maybe even a transfer. But if Company got wind of all this . . . Then she remembered the look in Jink’s eyes, the way she had said: There is a life between us. Day shuddered, thinking of her own reply: I’ll see what I can do. In some way she did not fully understand, she realized that she was committed. But to what? She sipped her beer and brooded.
When Oriyest entered with the cloaked journeywoman, Day deliberately took her time to swing her stool round to face the natives.
The woman standing next to Oriyest seemed unremarkable. Day had expected someone more imposing. She did not even have the kind of solemn dignity which Day, over the years and on various tours of duty, had come to associate with those of local importance.
The journeywoman slipped her hood from her head, smiled and held out her hand earth-style. “I am named T’orre Na, a viajera, or journeywoman.”
Automatically, Day drew herself upright.
“Officer Day, ma’am.” She had to stop herself from saluting. She broke into a sweat. She would never have been able to live that down. Saluting a native . . .
T’orre Na gestured slightly at their surroundings. “Can you speak freely here?”
“Yes.” Day glanced at the time display on her wristcom. Most of the Mirrors would be back on shift in a few minutes and the main damage, being seen with the natives in the first place, was already done. They sat in a corner booth. Day wanted another beer but wondered if alcohol would offend the journey-woman. To hell with it. “I’m having another beer. Anything I can get any of you?”
T‘orre Na nodded. “A beer for myself, Officer Day.” T‘orre Na turned to Jink and Oriyest. “Have you sampled Terrene beer? No? It’s good.” She laughed. “Not as strong as feast macha but pleasant all the same.”
The beer came. All four drank; T‘orre Na licked the foam from her lips with evident enjoyment.
Day spoke first. “As I’ve already said, to Jink and Oriyest, I can’t do much to help.”
“Officer Day, I believe that you can. Tell me, what is the normal complaints procedure?”
“There isn’t one. Not for n— the indigenous population.”
“What procedure, then, would you yourself use if you had cause for complaint?”
“Officially, all complaints from lower grades get passed to their immediate superiors, but,” Day leaned back in her chair and shrugged, “usually the complaints are about senior officers. Company doesn’t have much time for complaints.”
T’orre Na pushed her glass of beer around thoughtfully. “Not all Outlandar are Company,” she said.
Day frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The Settlement and Education Councils’ representative.”
“Courtivron, the SEC rep? You’re mad,” Day said. “Look, you just don’t know how things work around here.”
“Explain it to us then, Mirror,” said Oriyest.
“It’s too complicated.”
Oriyest’s voice remained even. “You insult us, Mirror.”
That brought Day up short. Insult them?
T’orre Na leaned forward. “Officer Day,” she said softly, “you are not the first Outlandar with whom I have had speech. Nor will you be the last. We are aware that we need more knowledge, that is why we ask for your help. Do not assume that ignorance is stupidity. And do not assume that my ignorance is total. I understand your . . . hierarchies. You have merely confirmed my guesses so far.”
Day did not know what to think.
“The information we need is simple. Jink met a lieutenant she thinks would help us. We need to find her.”
“What’s her name?”
“We don’t know. We have her description.” T’orre Na nodded at Jink.
“Tall, a handwidth taller than yourself, Mirror Day. Eyes light brown with darker circles round the rim of the iris. Thin face. Pale skin with too many lines for her seasons.” Jink looked at Day. “I judge her to be younger than yourself. Square chin, medium lips with a tilt in the left corner. Her hair is this colour,” she pointed to the wood-effect table top, “and is not straight. It’s longer than yours. She has no holes in her ears for jewellery. You know such a one?”
Day nodded. Lieutenant Danner. The one on accelerated promotion. By the time Day made staff sergeant, or the heady heights of lieutenant, Danner would be a commander. At least.
T’orre Na was watching her. “Will this lieutenant listen?”
“Yes. Lieutenant Danner will listen to anyone.”
“You do not approve.”
“No. She’s too young, too unprofessional.”
“Too willing to listen.”
Day opened her mouth then shut it again. The journeywoman’s tone had said: what is wrong with listening? Just as Jink had said earlier. Day felt her world tilting. These crazy natives were confusing her, never reacting the way they should. The sooner she got rid of them the better.
“I’ll find the lieutenant.”
~ * ~
They were all crowded into Lieutenant Danner’s living mod. Jink shifted uncomfortably. The space was too small for two, let alone five. T’orre Na and the lieutenant sat cross-legged on the bed, Oriyest sat on the floor, and Day stood at parade rest by the doorport. Jink herself perched on the sink in the bathroom niche, the only place left. She felt like a spare limb. Day had made the introductions but it was mainly the journeywoman and the lieutenant who spoke.
“What point, then, shall I put forward to the SEC rep, T’orre Na? The necessity for concrete reparation, or the implementation of an education programme regarding burnstone?”
Oriyest answered. “Both,” she said.
Annoyingly, the lieutenant looked to T’orre Na for confirmation. T’orre Na did not oblige. The lieutenant was forced to respond to Oriyest.
“I’m not really sure that both matters should be raised at the same time.”
“Why?”
“Because of the way bureaucracy works.”
“Is your bureaucracy so stupid it can only think upon one thing at a time?”
Jink watched Day carefully school her expression to hide her amusement. The lieutenant grimaced.
“Not precisely. If, only if, the SEC rep decides to pass on your
complaint, things will be made difficult if the complaint encompasses more than one area. That will mean the involvement of more than one sub-committee, which will lead to delays.”
“The difficulty, then, is one of time?” Oriyest asked.
“Yes, exactly.”
Oriyest smiled. “Well then. There is no rush. Speak of both.”
“I don’t believe you understand the kind of timescales involved here.” She turned to face T’orre Na. “Even supposing I went out that door now, this minute, and that Courtivron decided without pause for thought to continue with this action, and even supposing his superiors on Earth agreed to back us, which is by no means certain, that would just be the beginning. Evidence would have to be assembled, shipped out—it might even mean going off-planet for these two,” she nodded at Oriyest and Jink. “After that there’ll be delays for feasibility reports and if, at long last, it’s all agreed, then there are advisory bodies to be formed, supervisory employees to be selected ... And during all this, Company will be blocking and fighting everything. They have planetsful of lawyers.”
Neither T’orre Na nor Oriyest seemed perturbed. Jink was barely listening; the small space felt as though it was crowding in on her. Day’s expression was politely attentive but Jink had a feeling that the Mirror’s thoughts were elsewhere.
“At the minimum,” the lieutenant was saying, “we are talking of three or four years. At the maximum. . . who knows. Ten years? Twelve?”
When T’orre Na merely nodded, the lieutenant looked exasperated.
“Do you know how long a year is?”
“We are familiar with your reckoning. Are you familiar with ours? No,” she waved a hand to dismiss the lieutenant’s nod, “I don’t speak of how many of our seasons there are in one of your years. I speak of deeper things. You think of us as passive creatures. We are not. We have been learning, watching. I know your customs, your attitudes, your food. Your beer.” She grinned at Day, who seemed startled but grinned back. “How much do you know of us?”
“Much.” The lieutenant’s cheeks were flushed. “I know you all came originally from Earth, a long time ago. I’ve read articles on your culture, your art, the structure of your society—”
“And dismissed it. Look at me, Hannah. How do you see me? As a child? A primitive you wish to study for your amusement? Look at my hand.” T‘orre Na held out her hand and Hannah did as she was ordered. “This hand can birth children, this hand can weave, sow crops and harvest them. This hand can make music, build a dwelling. This hand could kill you.” T‘orre Na spoke quietly. “Look well at this hand, Outlandar. Do you truly believe that the owner of this hand would allow herself to be treated as nothing?”
The journeywoman’s eyes were deep and black.
~ * ~
Day stared at T’orre Na, realizing she had never seen so much strength in a person before. Her breath whistled fast and rhythmic as in combat alert; the lieutenant might take exception to what could be a threat. Once, on Earth, she had seen a spire of red rock towering up over a desert. From a distance, it had seemed fragile but up close its massiveness, the strength of its stone roots had been awe-inspiring.
Gradually, her breathing slowed and relaxed: there would be no violence. A child kicking a mountain was not violence, merely futility.
~ * ~
The lieutenant was pale but kept her voice steady. “What are you going to do?”
T’orre Na smiled slightly. “What we are doing now. Seek ways to educate you. Will you help us?”
“Yes.”
Jink stood up. “I have to leave,” she said. “It’s too small in here. I can’t breathe.”
“We can speak somewhere bigger if you prefer.”
“No, Oriyest. You know what I know. Speak for us both.”
Danner cleared her throat. “Officer Day.”
Day straightened to attention. “Ma’am?”
“Escort Jink wherever she wishes to go. Be back here within two hours. You will be needed to escort the journeywoman and her companions to the perimeter of the camp.”
“Understood, ma’am.”
She palmed the door plate and they stepped over the raised sill. “I need no escort,” Jink said as soon as the door hissed closed behind them.
“I know. Neither of us has any choice.” She hesitated. “If you want, I’ll leave you, meet you here again in a couple of hours.” She waited while Jink considered it. “But I’d rather show you something of Port. I...” She hesitated again. “I still haven’t thanked you for . . . coming back. When the burnstone went.”
Jink waited.
“Thank you,” Day said. “You saved my life.”
Jink just smiled and touched her on the arm. They walked in silence past the canteens and kitchen.
“What would you like to see first?”
“The place where you heal the sick. If you have one.”
Day raised her eyebrows. “The hospital?” She had expected Jink to ask to see the space shuttles.
“Have I said something wrong?”
“No. You just surprised me. Again.” Jink nodded. “You’re so . . . different.”
“But of course. Come. Show me the hospital.”
~ * ~
Clan snorted and butted Jink as she pulled the flatbread from the cooking stone. She tossed him a piece. He huffed in disgust; it was too hot to eat. Oriyest and T‘orre Na were already spooning beans into their bread.
“When will you move?” the journeywoman asked.
“When the younglings are sturdy enough to keep up with the rest of the flock,” Jink said over her shoulder. “Ten days, maybe less.”
“We’ll journey to Jink’s clan land,” Oriyest said, “they have spare grazing. After the hot season we’ll hear of other land we can use?”
“Yes.” T’orre Na nodded. “We will be swift.”
They were silent a while, eating.
“The burn could have been worse,” Oriyest said at last. “We went to see it, yesterday. Three seasons, no more, and we can return.”
“So. Good news.”
“Yes.” Jink stretched, watching her long evening shadow. “We took Day to see.” She looked sideways at T’orre Na. “She is learning to think of larger things, that Mirror.”
The journeywoman nodded approvingly. “Learn from each other. It will be needed.”
Oriyest put down her bread, plucked idly at the grass. “She would like to help us move the flock. When the time comes. We told her yes.”
T‘orre Na looked thoughtfully at Jink, smiled as she saw the flush creeping up the herder’s cheeks.
“Ah, so that’s how it is.” She laughed, touched Jink’s hair. “Such friendships are good, but stay mindful of your differences. Both of you.”
They nodded. T’orre Na yawned. “Now, I must sleep.”
“A song before dreaming?” Jink held her pipe out to the journeywoman. T’orre Na gestured for her to keep it.
“Play something soft. I will sing.”
So Jink played, a low quiet melody, and T’orre Na sang of hills, of air, of patience. Oriyest, banking the fire before they slept, joined in to harmonize.
~ * ~
Nicola Griffith
N
icola Griffith is a writer. She is also—in the most laudatory sense possible—a complete badass. Before immigrating to the United States from her native Yorkshire, England, she earned money arm-wrestling in bars, teaching self-defense classes, and fronting a decidedly aggressive band called Janes Planes. When she did decide to immigrate— and was subsequently denied—the resulting legal battle was so intense as to result in a new law, with the U.S. State Department declaring it was “in the National Interest” for her to live in the States. The case even appeared on the front page of the Wall Street Journal, where Nicola’s victory was used as an example of the United States’ declining moral standards.
Not surprisingly, Nicola’s writing is equally revolutionary. Through such formative novels as Ammonite and Slow River,
as well as her co-edited Bending the Landscape anthology series, Nicola has become one of the foremost voices for societal Others in genre fiction, winning the James Tiptree, Jr. Award, the World Fantasy Award, the Nebula Award, and a total of six Lambda Literary Awards for work exploring LGBT themes—a tendency evident even in her very first story.
Looking back, what do you think still works well in this story? Why?
I like the varied pacing. I like the juxtaposition of raw new settlement and age-old landscape. I like the characters—a mix of old and young, wise and foolish, innovative and patient. I love Jink’s stubbornness and idealism, Day’s final willingness to accept another worldview, Danner’s determination to be a good officer. Also, I’m irrationally fond of the herdbird.
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