Noumenon

by Marina J. Lostetter

  She twisted herself toward Dr. Ka’uhane, her entire body wrenching with the violence of the movement. “There wasn’t any evidence because he never touched her—not without her consent. My father was a good, gentle man. A gentleman. Better than half those bastards out there. He loved my mother, and she loved him—and that was what the crew couldn’t stand. It was easier for them to accept that my mother suffered some sort of abused woman’s Stockholm syndrome than it was for them to accept that she genuinely loved him. And now those same, filth-spewing degenerates want me to stand up for them? Why should I give a shit about their happiness? Why shouldn’t I—”

  “Sabotage the talks?” the doctor said flatly. “Meet delegates while drunk? Make the crew pay for their slander via your incompetence?”

  Esper held her head high. Her breaths came in heavy puffs, and she consciously tried to slow them. The skin of her face was hot and pulled tight, and she had to force her jaw to unclench. So Dr. Ka’uhane had figured out Esper abused drink to abuse the convoy, so what? What was she going to do about it? How could she cure Esper of her malice when Esper consciously maintained it?

  To let the anger and blame go meant betraying an innocent man. The wrong done to Reginald Straifer had to be remembered.

  She couldn’t lay garlands on his grave. This was how she paid tribute to his memory.

  “Yes,” she growled. “What right do they have to demand anything of me?”

  “And, Toya? She supports your vendetta?”

  “She doesn’t know I don’t drink alone.”

  “What about your sister, Caznal?”

  “She’s not my sister,” she said, the “screw her” evident in Esper’s tone.

  Dr. Ka’uhane nodded, but didn’t look as contrite as Esper wanted. After a surface-smile, she said softly, “In your job, you are working for everyone. Sure, for the people who said terrible things about your family, but also for your friends and loved ones. Isn’t helping them more important than hurting everyone else?”

  Esper sat back down on the fainting couch. “Does it matter? In another few weeks, it may not be in my hands anymore.”

  “What will you do if you’re not ambassador?”

  She started to shrug, but was interrupted by a sly thought. “Maybe I’ll be a janitor.”

  Esper wasn’t especially upset that Ka’uhane had figured her out so quickly. What did it matter? It wasn’t as though by giving voice to her destructive habits she was going to stop them.

  She was on her way to a mental meeting right now. The Earth delegation wanted to know if her health was poor, or if some other extenuating circumstances required her replacement. As if they couldn’t guess that her public displays of drunkenness had become too much for the convoy’s board to bear.

  Communicating via the wave-enhancing implants was an unusual, almost out-of-body experience. She could simply access the speech centers, akin to hearing voices in your head—strange, quick voices that used half words and eclectic versions of grammar—or tap into someone’s ocular processes and see through their eyes. When attending a meeting of this sort it was considered good manners to sit in front of a mirror.

  When she chose to show up snockered, a mirror always played into her sabotage (though she’d never used the word, nor considered it such until her session with Dr. K). She made for a laughable reflection—open jumpsuit, stained undershirt, short hair sticking up like she’d put her finger in a light socket. Other times she’d attend in the dark with her eyes closed, just listening to the cryptic patterns that were Modern English.

  All of the other physical senses were also available for tapping, but were rarely accessed during formal meetings. Beyond that, there was one other set of patterns that could be shared. If she was feeling brave, and the others feeling generous, she could access the thought centers—the waves that indicated unfinalized ideas and incomplete data.

  As she’d had it explained to her, speech was a kind of final product. It was the sum of insubstantial ideas packaged for consumption by another human being. Reading thoughts was more like looking at the incoherent sketches for a city plan, or thumbing through a novel outline fraught with inconsistencies where the characters’ names, motivations, and passions were different from line to line. Accessing thoughts was a surreal experience. It swept you off your feet and transported you into a cloud of raw, conflicting data.

  The first time she’d tried it she’d gotten physically ill. Her mind rejected the chaos of another’s pure thought—it could not handle the contradictions. One plus one is not two in the land of thought. One plus one equals twenty-seven, blue, and banana—until the next second, when it equals a D minor cord.

  Once she got used to having another’s thoughts butt up against her own, she could start to pick out the useful snippets—the parts of thought that directly preceded words and pictures, where someone was waffling between a decision or a turn of phrase. In that fraction of an instant before someone spoke to her mind’s ear, she could pick out that they’d thought about using an emotionally weighted word and quickly switched to a neutral one, or that the topic could have turned to land value, but instead settled on procedure.

  It was a useful tool, and the expectation was that if someone opened their thoughts to you, you would open your thoughts to them, should you desire access. It was an extra olive branch, but could also be used as a weapon should someone’s mind slip.

  Esper kept her thoughts closely guarded today, and had stayed away from the bottle to facilitate clear thinking and control.

  Only once had she let her drinking get really out of hand. She’d become so intoxicated she’d let down the mental wall that everyone kept around their raw emotionality. It was uncouth to reveal your emotions directly to anyone unless you knew them intimately. She’d flashed her emotions in a diplomatic setting, and that was about as indecent as broadcasting a naked picture of herself.

  That had nearly caused an international incident. Luckily Ephenza hadn’t retired yet, and he’d been able to get the action pardoned. He’d blamed her instability on the untimely death of her father.

  She’d been grateful for his support, and had loved him and his daughter, Caznal, like family—until Ephenza married her widowed mother. That was the ultimate betrayal. Then she saw the old Earth diplomat for the snake he was. All the time he’d been behind Esper, he’d secretly been hoping for a shot at her mother.

  [U sm OK. Y stp tlks?] asked Alt. Norkal as soon as Esper tapped in.

  Esperanza replied that her condition was chronic, that she may appear well, but the board had decided she was not well enough to perform her duties.

  A representative from Europe made a side comment, one he let her receive, though it wasn’t meant for her. [S sms btu]—She seems better than usual.

  Esper didn’t let it rattle her. After all, she’d been pitching incompetence their way for years now.

  If there was one thing she was good at, though, it was Remote Digital Communication Language (or RDCL, which was its proper moniker)—and keeping her head while others were inside it. She was the only convoy member known to have successfully integrated into the system.

  Those who had left Ship City for their genetic homelands (mostly white-suits seeking a better life, where their intelligence and capabilities would be recognized and properly utilized), had attempted to incorporate themselves into Earth society, opting for the implants with poor-to-devastating results. Some complained of chronic headaches or constant insomnia, others couldn’t figure out how to put up their walls properly and went around emotionally naked, still others had the opposite problem: they couldn’t stop hearing what they didn’t want to hear.

  The worst cases, though, were of insanity. The extra wave patterns crashing through their minds had driven them mad. Many ended up institutionalized, and a few had committed suicide.

  A handful of people reconverted, abandoning the unfamiliar feeling of outcast for the well-worn one. Their return to Ship City had not been happy. It’s no fun di
scovering you don’t belong anywhere.

  Which was much how Esper had always felt, being a daughter of two social circles.

  And it was how the convoy crew felt, she reluctantly acknowledged, knowing they were children of the stars that had been forced planet-side.

  All they wanted was to belong somewhere—to a greater purpose.

  [WT nature o/ur ick?]

  Esper had to suppress a laugh—laughing out loud was as recognizable as a mentally projected word. The formality of Modern English put the casualness of Old English to shame. She explained that the nature of her ick was private, and that she considered that line of questioning sensitive. [M Dr. thnks I’ll recover,] she assured them.

  [Hp so.] The insincerity was resounding.

  [GtWlSn.] The others gave similar well-wishes.

  [Thnx,] she sent, then closed her mind to incoming data.

  “They’ve picked Ceren Kaya,” Rodriguez told her.

  They were alone in the situation room, the board having just met. She’d been summoned, but not to the meeting. No, they’d made her wait outside for an hour. Only after everyone had gone was she invited in to speak with Rodriguez one-on-one.

  “What? But she’s a white-suit.” Esper couldn’t keep her mouth from hanging open like a cartoon flytrap.

  “That’s awfully stationist of you.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Why her? I know you old-liners wouldn’t put a white-suit in my position if you had a choice. What’s the deal?”

  “She’s had the implants before.”

  “But she doesn’t have them anymore. She couldn’t handle them—the implants or the earthlings.”

  “She did better than most.”

  “She came back. You want to throw her in the ring with those people? She couldn’t take them face-to-face, how’s she gonna handle them brain-to-brain?”

  “According to a majority vote: better than you.” He walked over to where she sat and put a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t shrug him away. “What does it matter to you? You’ve spent years doing a bang-up job bunging up your job. Why worry about the state of the office now? Or is it that you think she won’t mess up the talks properly?”

  His last line was a joke, but hit too close to reality.

  Sure, I mess shit up, Esper thought. But I don’t let them walk all over me, either. I know when it’s not okay to give them what they want. If Ceren replaces me, they’re throwing a babe to the wolves. “Don’t put her in this position.”

  “We wouldn’t have to if you’d taken your position seriously. Party girls make for poor diplomats unless you’re in negotiations with adolescent boys.”

  “I kept the status quo. We’re no worse off than we were when we had to lease the land in the first place. I haven’t hurt anything.”

  “You haven’t helped either. At every opportunity, something went wrong with you, personally.”

  “She is not going to get you what you want. Or, if she does, the price will be too high. Why didn’t you pick a historian or a teacher? I may not fill my mother’s shoes, but I have no doubt she would tell you this is a big mistake. You can’t expect a mathematician to look at much beyond the numbers. She has no training, no experience. She’s a bean counter—”

  “Enough.” His comforting hand clamped down firmly. “The decision has been made. The time for you to prove you’re the best person for the job has long passed. The board will decide your new position at the next meeting. You can petition for whatever station you’d like. Or . . .” A long pause preceded the whispered suggestion: “you can choose to leave.”

  “Leave? Ship City? The convoy? You want me to try and scratch out a living on Earth?”

  “You speak the language just fine. I have no doubt you could find yourself a place in North America or Africa or Asia. You could go to Mongolia, perhaps? Pursue your mother’s ancestry.”

  “Is that your opinion, or the official line? Is that what the board wants me to do?”

  His fingers trailed away from her shoulder. She looked up at him for the first time since he’d come near, but his gaze lay in the opposite direction.

  “You want me to leave before you do,” she accused. “You expect Ceren to get permission to lift off and you’d rather I wasn’t on board.” The irritated tension went out of her body, and she slumped in her seat. “Wow. I knew our relationship was tenuous, but . . . Guess there’s no better screw you than having an entire city relocate light years away just to be rid of you.”

  “Don’t be dramatic.”

  “Did I misunderstand you, or didn’t you just say ‘We’re leaving, so get the hell out’?”

  “It’s an option. That’s all I’m saying. If you don’t enjoy living here, why should you stay? When we’re back in space there won’t be anywhere to go—no underground sanctuaries to escape to. It’s you wanting to get away from us that we’re concerned with.” He pivoted to face her. “Why have you made life so hard for yourself? If there was anyone who could have risen above an unfavorable entrance into this world, it was you.”

  Her sharpened gaze could have nicked glass. She shook her head in cynical disbelief. “And you wonder why I don’t care to roll over for you people.” Pushing back her chair, she was on her feet in an instant. “If you think being nature-born into a loving family is an ‘unfavorable start,’ then you deserve whatever crap-deal Ceren comes back with.”

  A halfhearted lift of his arm was the only attempt he made to keep her in the room. Her expression was meant to shrivel testicles, and he clearly understood.

  After leaving Rodriguez, she stomped over to her office in a huff, the iciness outside reflecting her iciness inside.

  Better clean out my shit so Ceren can have a cozy place to call her own. I can’t—I can’t believe this.

  But that was pure denial talking. Of course she could believe it. She’d spent the better part of her career orchestrating it.

  She liked Ceren, though everything she’d said to Rodriguez still held true. Esper knew she would try for the convoy—really try—but all the best intentions in the world couldn’t guarantee success or prevent harm. The road to Hell and all that proverbial jazz.

  But what do you care? she asked herself.

  Upon entering her office—still hugging herself to fend off the cold—she took a moment to stare at it in a way she never had before. Having always begrudged the space, she’d never bothered to make it her own. Beautification equaled complacency in her mind: if I put a bobblehead there, or a sticker here, or a wad of old chewing gum under there, I’ve become irredeemably comfortable.

  Which meant there wasn’t a lot of packing to be done.

  Still, she wrestled with a drawer on her desk, jiggling it out of its slides before slamming it onto the desk top. It was empty. As were most of its siblings. But she was going to fill it with something. Something she could carry through the halls as a symbol, if nothing else.

  She grabbed a stack of blank ‘flex-sheets and her stylus, shoving them inside before realizing that was pretty much the extent of the loose items. So much of her work was done either through brainwave interface or I.C.C. interface that there was very little physical evidence of her job.

  Her ergonomic chair was too bulky to carry with any dignity. And she couldn’t peel the screens off the walls.

  Yanking open all of the other drawers, she carefully unscrewed each knob and deposited them in her loot box.

  After that she climbed onto the desk, shaky as it was, and stretched to poke at the ceiling panels. Maybe she could procure a light bulb or two for good measure . . .

  “Ms. Straifer?” I.C.C. asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know this looks crazy—” She braced for a barrage of statistics related to office deaths. You could fall and break your neck. You should make sure the electricity is off before removing any means of illumination . . .

  The AI could be such a mom sometimes.

  But it did not comment on her antics.

  “Caznal is asking to see
you—”

  Son of a . . . Could this day get any worse? “Tell her I don’t want—”

  I.C.C. barreled on with its message. “And she insists the matter is urgent.”

  Her first terrible thought was that Ephenza had passed away. The selfish glee that bubbled through her was immediately soured by a vacuum of regret—one with enough sucking power to make a black hole jealous.

  “What happened?” she asked after a time, ceasing her probe of the panels. What if it was nothing? What if Caznal was just trying to manipulate her into showing her face?

  “That is the summons in total. But I believe her urgency sincere and her motives benevolent.”

  Leave it to the computer that had figured out she wasn’t an alcoholic to also realize she always assumed the worst of everyone.

  “Where is she? At work on Holwarda? At home in The UG?”

  “Outside your door.”

  Oh.

  “Oh,” she said lamely.

  “Would you like me to let her in?”

  A string of expletives unleashed itself across the back of Esper’s tongue, but she kept herself in check. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

  The door opened and there Caznal was, wringing her hands, eyes downcast. Like a little girl who’d broken something and knew she was in trouble.

  She looked so much like her father. Esper knew she looked most like her mother—the lighter brown of her hair was the only outward assertion of her Straifer genes.

  “Why didn’t you use the buzzer?” she demanded in lieu of “come in.”

  Caznal glanced up, her brow creasing. She raised a finger like she was about to ask Esper what in Ship City she was doing up there, but dropped it just as quickly. “Because I know I am not welcome here,” she said in her heavy-tongued accent. “I did not want you to open your door and be surprised.”

  “I’m surprised anyway.” Esper sat down heavily before scooting off the desk. “Is everything okay with Ephenza?”

  “Dad is fine. Good, for his age.”

  When Esper didn’t say anything—no affirmations on Ephenza’s health, nor invitations inside—Caznal apparently decided in was better than out. She stepped through and I.C.C. closed the door behind her. “I am here because of your job.”