Recognition

by Ann Herendeen

  ECLIPSIS

  RECOGNITION

  Book One of Lady Amalie’s memoirs

  by Amalie, Lady Aranyi

  edited and with an introduction by Ann Herendeen

  Copyright © 2011 by Ann Herendeen

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  Smashwords Edition: July 2011

  Cover image: Danielle Jacobs

  Table of Contents

  About the Author/Editor

  Dedication

  Editor’s Introduction

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Preview: CHOICES

  Preview: TWO WEEKS AT GAY BANANA HOT SPRINGS

  Two Weeks At Gay Banana Hot Springs

  Monday: The First Week

  About the Author/Editor

  Ann Herendeen is the author of two Harper Paperbacks: Phyllida and the Brotherhood of Philander (2008); and Pride/Prejudice (2010), a Lambda Literary Award finalist for Bisexual Fiction. She lives in Brooklyn. www.annherendeen.com

  Dedication

  To David Garfinkle, the first openly bisexual man I knew: “Beauty is truth, truth beauty.” May you rest in peace.

  And to mi querido amigo, Jorge Castilla Casares, who knows everyone’s real name.

  Editor’s Introduction

  It gives me great pleasure to introduce these memoirs from my old friend, Amalie, ‘Gravina Aranyi (“Lady Amalie”).

  I knew Amalie as Amelia Herzog, back in the days before computers, when the typewriter was the writer’s tool of choice—yes, we’re that old. Like me, Amelia was a misfit, uncomfortable and out of place; but where I used writing to escape, Amelia simply disappeared, into one of those sword-and-sorcery worlds that were popular among fans of feminist science fiction. In the beginning I heard from her quite frequently, but over the years the correspondence tapered off, as it usually does. She would send a brief note at holidays (hers, not ours), to let me know she was still alive. The sad truth is, involved in my own career, I forgot all about her. Until now.

  As it turns out, Amelia thrived in her new home. For her, the move to the world she calls Eclipsis was an act of liberation. Sword-and-sorcery (S&S) sounds dated now, perhaps even more than feminism, but the genre began as a way for women to find their voice in the male-dominated world of Sci Fi. The science fiction that survives today rarely resonates with readers because of its science, but more often because of its fiction. The once-futuristic ideas of robots and space aliens, time machines and travel to distant galaxies still work for readers, when they do, because of the radically different approaches they bring to answering the same old questions.

  That favorite fictional device, the alternate universe, frees writer and readers to (re)examine the eternal, unresolvable problems of men and women, human nature, war and politics, without the constraints of realistic fiction. S&S was especially valuable for the way it allowed women readers and writers to explore issues of sex roles and gender norms—those “unimportant” social problems that were dismissed or obscured by the “big ideas” of conventional, masculine Sci Fi.

  In becoming “Lady Amalie,” Amelia found her true self, as she wrestled with one of the eternal “women’s” problems: what happens when what you’re supposed to want turns out to be what you really do want? Like Elizabeth Bennet of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, Amelia discovered that wealth, status and power can be very conducive to love, especially when embodied in a handsome and intelligent human form. And like Elizabeth and all Cinderellas, Amelia won her place in life, not by being rescued, but because she, too, was gifted. She recognized her mate, her equal partner, and claimed him—and her home.

  With the introspection and leisure of middle age, Lady Amalie had the desire to record her unique experiences, and began writing her memoirs. Now, with the publishing world undergoing a radical transformation, with e-books challenging the established print format and its gatekeepers, the mainstream publishers, Lady Amalie felt the time was finally right to share her story. She has entrusted her extensive body of work to me, along with permission to format and edit it, and make it available online.

  Yes, obviously, Lady Amalie is a pseudonym. But it’s simplistic, perhaps even incorrect, to say that we’re the same person. The Ann Herendeen who wrote the first of these stories almost fifteen years ago is not the Ann Herendeen who is editing them now. Ann Herendeen went on to write and publish two novels: Phyllida and the Brotherhood of Philander and Pride/Prejudice. She is working on a third novel, called Last Dance. Her long-term goal is to be recognized as a writer, with no adjectives in front of that word.

  Herendeen’s and Lady Amalie’s works do share some themes, most notably the adoption of the “third perspective,” the point of view of the woman in a polyamorous marriage to a bisexual husband and his male companion. But there are other themes in Lady Amalie’s writing that developed specifically from her time: the concerns of second-wave feminism and the beginning of the concept of female empowerment.

  The woman who became Amalie, ‘Gravina Ardanyi, is the product of a very different road taken. Lady Amalie’s memoirs tell the story of a woman with a “gift” that is also a curse: a talent or ability, along with a difference in appearance, that sets her apart from society. Today there are many works of popular fiction that portray telepathy and its inconveniences as a disability or a deformity. But younger readers may not realize that it was only a couple of decades ago that what we now celebrate as “difference” was a genuine “handicap,” that outmoded word, especially for women who were judged on their appearance and who were not seen as, or allowed to be, sexual beings if they did not meet their culture’s standard of beauty.

  Even traditional ability came with a price. The popular fiction of the past is full of stories about talented women in all fields who had to choose between family life and using their gift, whatever it was.

  Lady Amalie’s extensive memoirs do not resolve this issue; they merely present one woman’s unconventional solution in an imaginary world that feels both foreign and familiar. If some of Lady Amalie’s revelations seem less groundbreaking now, it’s because of the work that her spiritual sisters contributed. We should be thankful for it, while remembering where Lady Amalie belongs in the continuum.

  I think Lady Amalie has something valuable to say. But what matters to readers is whether her story is entertaining and absorbing. I found it so, or I would not have accepted the task of editing. Although she did not write her memoirs in chronological order, I am presenting them that way, as it’s easier to follow and makes a more straightforward narrative.

  A note about the setting: the world here called “Eclipsis” is a Protected World, one of the few habitable planets in the mostly hostile and indifferent universe. Like Earth’s Protected Areas, these are fragile ecosystems, at risk of degradation or extinction from the modernization and pollution that accompany their rediscovery, with the inevitable tourism it brings. The human ecology, the customs and social organization of the indigenous people, requires as much protection as the biological. Unceasing vigilance and vigorous enforcement of anti-contamination procedures are essential if it is to remain viable and intact. For this reason, Lady Amalie has used pseudonyms and generic terms in places to protect the identity of individuals and institutions that, if revealed, would expose her world to harmful scrutiny, however inadvertent or well-
intentioned.

  A note about time: Space travel is a mystery to most of us. The distances are so mind-bogglingly vast that time itself is warped. Amelia and I were almost exact contemporaries when our paths diverged. But a journey across several galaxies, hundreds of light-years away, and life on Eclipsis, with its twenty-six-hour days and eight-day weeks, has brought my friend to the furthest edge of old age, while I’m still in what I optimistically consider my productive years. I know how her story ends, even while I’m actively writing my own.

  I hope you enjoy this first installment of Lady Amalie’s memoirs.

  Ann Herendeen, editor

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You mean those aren’t contact lenses?”

  The daily eclipse had coincided with sunset, sending horizontal shafts of ultraviolet light through the terminal’s clear plastic walls. Encumbered with carry-on, passport and immigration permit, I had not retrieved my sunglasses in time, and my nictitating membranes had slid down in a reflex. I was fresh off the ship, a mind-numbing, months-long journey, but it was the Protectorate escort assigned to meet me whose brain seemed paralyzed, unable to suppress his recoil from a client who was morphing from Human to Reptile.

  “If I wanted to infiltrate a Protected World, I’d try to be a bit less obvious,” I said, too tired to spare the young man’s feelings. Besides, I’d just had this conversation with the customs agent. After an exhaustive search of my bags had uncovered no lenses, wetting solution or case, I’d had to submit to an antiquated, and, I was convinced, dangerous retinal scan, which turned the first, semi-translucent manifestation of my inner eyelids into shields of opaque silver. I wasn’t in the mood to go through it all again.

  The escort apologized. We were still under Terran law, even way out here on the edge of the universe. Companies may not consider appearance when hiring; it is a serious infraction to suggest that a person must alter his or her physical characteristics in any way as a condition of employment. If it hadn’t become such a big deal, I might have welcomed the chance to claim the eyelids as a disability and turn disapproval and distrust into apology and sympathy, but I was damned if I’d do it now. They were stuck with me, an information manager with the Evil Eye, a problem the recruiter on Terra, unaware that my designer shades were more than a fashion statement, could not have imagined.

  “It’s forbidden to wear full-eye or mirrored contact lenses on Eclipsis,” the escort babbled on, reciting the rules from his cube’s hologram display. “It’s for your own protection.”

  We passed some men unloading the possessions of my fellow passengers, those fortunate enough not to have been flagged for customs inspections. The walkway wound close to the baggage claim area, and I could not avoid picking up some of the workmen’s thoughts. Like any conscientious immigrant, I had studied the language during the journey out, but it had been difficult with no one around speaking it. Now, with Eclipsians thinking in their own language, the ideas emerging as they were being shaped into words, it was all too clear.

  ‘Gravina bitch. Hair short as a dog with mange, neck bare. And wearing breeches. Can see everything, as if she was naked.

  Me! That was me they were describing! I knew that a ‘Gravina was a female Eclipsian aristocrat, but why should native Eclipsians mistake me for one?

  ‘Graven tell us to keep to the old ways, but they don’t. The hateful thoughts were still coming through. This one tries to pass for Terran, travels on Terran airship. One of them made a familiar hand gesture and actually spat in my direction. Apparently the sign against the Evil Eye is truly universal.

  I glared at the men, trying to probe deeper into their consciousness to learn why my hair and clothes provoked such antipathy while the eyelids simply generated a resigned apprehension, and found something even more disconcerting. For the first time in my life my mind encountered people who knew I could read their thoughts. The men could not read mine, yet they knew I could read theirs. They were afraid of me because of it. As I returned their stares, willing myself to show no reaction, they backed down, more in self-protection than from deference, lowering their eyes in an attempt to block my perceptions.

  The escort was still speaking. “When you meet some of the leaders, the ‘Graven, you’ll see what I mean.”

  I forced my attention away from the workmen. “I’ll be allowed to?” Contact with the native inhabitants was an opportunity I had not expected, nor had it been promised at my interviews. Eclipsis is a Protected World; Terrans are confined to our own small district in the interest of keeping cultural contamination to a minimum.

  “Possibly,” the escort answered with belated circumspection. “That is, it’s customary for the new person from the Information Department to attend cooperative meetings, provided the ‘Graven Coalition agrees.” Again there was the nagging worry about my eyes, a politically incorrect thought he didn’t dare express.

  My employers didn’t want Eclipsians to see me, I realized. Well, they would have to come right out and say it to my face. I had spent my whole life not fitting in, looking odd, being different. That was the reason I had come here, to this dark, cold world where nobody wanted to be posted, where being different couldn’t matter because everybody was different. I would go to these meetings, with my Evil Eye, I vowed. Let them try and stop me. Since in my experience all meetings became deadly dull after about five minutes, I’d probably be begging to be excused from this “privilege” soon enough.

  We reached the check-in point and I was issued my off-world ID and housing assignment. While the rest of my documents were processed, I was able to deflect any further attention by joining my fellow pilgrims, all wearing dark glasses, to admire the spectacular view: an orange, setting sun at almost total eclipse. By the time we were ready to leave the immigration complex the thin crescent had sunk below the horizon, the sky had clouded over and my third eyelids had retracted. It had also started to drizzle.

  My escort turned resignedly from the sliding doors. “There’s an indoor passage, back the other way. Not much longer, and dry. It always rains here,” he added, “except when it snows or hails or sleets. I don’t know why they can’t build a dome over the whole Terran Sector.”

  Because they’re not allowed to. The bitterly triumphant thought was in my mind as if someone else, not the escort, had put it there. The escort’s complaint had been rhetorical, a routine grumbling at the restrictions that Eclipsis’ protected status placed on the Terrans’ attempts to recreate a familiar environment, even in their allotted sector. Despite their preferences, they were forced occasionally to venture into an uncontrolled climate, enduring cold weather and precipitation of all kinds.

  However this thought had got into my mind, it was appealing. “Please,” I said, “let’s walk outside. I’ve spent months breathing canned air. You remember what it’s like, don’t you?” He was so young he must have preceded me quite recently. “I’d kill for fresh air, even with sleet.”

  My escort was a decent guy. He didn’t remember—he’d been born here—but he’d traveled off-world on short trips and was surprised at how bothered I was by what to him had been unremarkable. We walked, briskly, what turned out to be a mere two blocks to the luxury high-rise for Terran employees, one of the perks offered to encourage applicants.

  We stopped at the entrance. “There’s a full set of order menus on your holonet,” he said. “The first dinner is on us. Your bags will be delivered as soon as you sign in to prove you’re there to receive them.” He glanced at the display on his cube and smiled awkwardly. “We can’t be on Terran time, you know, so it will seem like a long night. I’ll come by in the morning and escort you to work.” He was desperate to get away, out of the wet and cold.

  The short walk in the freezing rain had been a new sensation for me. The air I had craved had exceeded all my expectations. Although city air is city air, there was a north wind, bringing in traces of pine and wood smoke along with the sleet. Imagine what it must be like outside the Terran Sector. Outside the city!
I allowed myself an experimental shiver. Yes, the climate here was everything the dire predictions on Terra had promised.

  My good humor restored, I assured my escort I’d be fine, and I bore the inevitable handshake without flinching. After such an encouraging introduction to my new home, I could tolerate the queasiness that being touched always produces. We parted with a mutual sense of relief.

  The concierge, accustomed to new arrivals, was thankfully incurious, and I was soon free to examine my apartment. It wasn’t bad, far more spacious than the studio I could afford in New York, with a separate bedroom and every amenity, even in this backwater. Overheated, of course. Sweat had already run from my armpits down my sides and was sticking my shirt to my back as I checked the thermostat. It informed me that it adjusted for outdoor temperature, wind velocity and direction, the apartment’s exposure, window area and light; that it was optimally set for all these parameters; and that it could be changed only by the authorized maintenance staff. I sighed and headed for the shower. Tomorrow I’d see if my salary ran high enough to bribe the super to lower the setting; for tonight I’d take the blankets off the bed and sleep naked between the sheets.

  Eclipsis has a twenty-six hour day. It was no hardship to have some extra time to unpack, configure the holonet to my preferences and see what kinds of food I could order. I felt the familiar depression descending as I ate the complimentary meal of oddly-spiced deep-fried vegetables and nuts called “Eclipsian stew.”

  It’s not easy to admit having wasted your whole life. All I’d ever wanted was to be normal. But I was pale and light-sensitive in a tanned, sun-drenched world. I had been born with protective third eyelids that came oozing down at the first glimmer of UV rays from the searing Terran sun. Worst of all, I heard voices—real voices—that nobody else heard. I knew they were real, because I recognized the speakers. They were the “voices” of other people’s thoughts, and I “heard” them when I was with other people. It’s not as interesting as it sounds. Sexually and emotionally, it’s a disaster.