Halfway Human

by Carolyn Ives Gilman

  “It’s very noble of you, Max,” Val said. “But I’m no subversive. I don’t know why you’ve never noticed before.”

  “Maybe because you’ve never controlled any really valuable information up to now.”

  Val watched Tedla playing with her daughter and thought Max was right on one thing—Tedla was valuable information. Valuable enough to make its life perilous. Valuable enough that companies and whole planets were plunging into conflict over it. But the worth of any information lay in its scarcity. If nothing about Tedla were a secret, if every nook of its life were exposed on the massive scale Max was proposing, would it be safe?

  She shook her head. “There’s another reason we couldn’t do it,” she said. “Tedla’s privacy. It would never consent. It denied everything today, just to protect people who have been dead for half a century.”

  “But if the choice is between exposure and slavery...” Max fell silent, watching Tedla across the room. “Do you think we ought to do something before that girl falls in love and ruins her life?”

  “Yes,” Val said decisively. “Besides, people are beginning to leave. This is the safest time to get to our house.”

  It was a short walk, but the path between the domes was narrow and dark. As they left the laughter and light behind, Val drew close to the others. Max and Tedla were walking ahead, she and Deedee behind. Max was teasing Tedla—unwisely, Val thought—about its romantic conquest.

  “Don’t pay any attention,” she told Tedla. “He’s just jealous.”

  “There was nothing sexual going on,” Tedla said uncomfortably.

  “Want to bet?” Max said. “What did she say?”

  “She was telling me about her boyfriend.”

  “Do perfect strangers usually come up and tell you about their love lives?”

  “More often than you’d think,” Tedla said. “It used to puzzle me. Then I learned that many gendered cultures actually create an asexual class to act as confessors and counselors. It’s as if people sense I’m a noncombatant. A neutral third party.”

  “What did she give you when we came up?” Max asked.

  Embarrassed, Tedla said, “Her connection number.”

  “Aha!” Max said, as if that proved his point.

  Ahead, a shadow materialized from the shrubbery, holding an object in its hand. Instinctively, Val grabbed for Deedee with one hand, Tedla with the other. Max said aggressively, “Who’s that?”

  The figure came closer, and Val recognized the WAC man who had escorted them earlier that day. He was holding a radio. “Go in the back door, please,” he said. “Your house is secure.”

  Val gripped Deedee and Tedla harder. “Were you the ones who chased us coming here?” she demanded.

  The man shook his head. “Why do you think we wanted you to stay where we could protect you?”

  “Who were they, then?”

  “We don’t know. We didn’t catch them.”

  As they walked to the door, Val heard him reporting their location to someone over the radio.

  Val took care of putting Deedee to bed that night. As she bent over to kiss her daughter good night, Deedee said in a small voice, “Mama? Are the men going to come in here?”

  “No, chick,” Val said. “They can’t come in here. You’re perfectly safe. I’ll always keep you safe.”

  After that, Val sat on the edge of the bed and read from one of the books Deedee loved and Max loathed till sleep began to take over, then sat looking at her daughter’s face. Deedee looked so secure, so trusting, as if Val’s promise were a protective spell. In the silence, broken only by the low, barely audible voices of Max and Tedla talking in the gathering room, Val realized she didn’t have the courage to face what she had started. If it had been only herself, it might have been different. But now it was beginning to touch Deedee, and that she could not cope with. She was going to have to give in.

  She turned off the light, then went into her bedroom. Lying on her bed, she stared at the ceiling for a while, then turned on the screen and flicked through her files till she got to Alair Galele’s reports. She was beginning to feel a furtive empathy with the man. She wondered if he had had this ominous feeling of being swept forward toward an inevitable choice where no alternative was good.

  She read:

  ***

  At last—at long last—I feel I may have found a genuinely useful native informant. How astonished they would all be. They would assure me I was wrong, that I needed someone educated and aware, someone with an analytical intelligence. But Tedla is useful to me precisely because of its naiveté, its lack of education (i.e. indoctrination), its complete unawareness of the “right” answer. It has no agenda in speaking to me, other than to please me. I also flatter myself that, unique among Gammadians, it has begun to trust me.

  We had some rocky patches at first. Of course, I was perfectly delighted from the outset, and thanked Tellegen profusely. On the ride home I kept checking the back seat like Orpheus, to make sure Tedla really was there, and I hadn’t imagined it all. Tedla was considerably less thrilled than I. For the first week it wandered about with a stunned, disconsolate expression, as if marooned on a planet it had never seen. I had to restrain myself from calling Tellegen every ten minutes to ask for instructions and advice. I broke down often enough that he got a little testy with me, and told me I was being obsessive. He kept urging me not to interfere, just to let Tedla settle in and find its own way of relating to me. At the time the advice was hard to follow, since I was impatient to strike up a friendship; but now I realize how good the advice was. Tedla is not at all like the humans here, outwardly warm and inwardly cold and secretive. With Tedla the cold (or is it fear? formality?) is all on the outside. Once past that barrier, you’re in a hurricane world of passionate loyalty, touching warmth, and blackest self-blame. A breathtaking trip, if you have the stomach for it. And they told me neuters were dull, phlegmatic creatures. But I’m off the subject.

  I am uncertain yet of Tedla’s abilities, though that was my first question. It claims not to be able to do a great many things. I am uncertain whether to chalk this up to cultural indoctrination, low self-confidence, or mere proletarian work avoidance. Nevertheless, I believe my questioning is beginning to waken its interest in the world. It is naturally observant, and is now learning (with my subversive encouragement) to put its observations into words. It has even begun to volunteer information. This has opened a whole new world to my study—a world I can never enter, but merely record secondhand. Grayspace, as Tedla calls it, is a thriving alternate culture not even native Gammadians are fully aware of.

  ***

  As she paged forward, Val saw that Galele’s reports became more copious, and were increasingly filled with Tedla’s name. Skimming, she wondered at its repetition: Tedla, Tedla, Tedla. Had no one noticed or cared how much time the man was spending studying his informant? Her eye lit on isolated passages:

  ***

  I am quite unable to characterize Tedla’s thought processes. Abstract language produces no reaction, but if I can explain in concrete, narrative form it grasps a concept readily. At one moment it will be quite lucid and logical (though never theoretical), and the next it will retreat behind hidebound precepts, refusing to consider an idea because “That’s not what the docents said.” One moment it is a thorough martinet, the next a bundle of vulnerability. It is very aware of its own physical attractiveness—in fact, quite vain—but dashes any compliment as soon as it’s uttered. I am quite perplexed how to please it—I’m constantly being made aware that my foot is in my mouth. Who would have thought I would have to learn to live with a teenager?

  ***

  Gave Tedla a standardized intelligence test. My informant resisted and complained, telling me that such things were only for children, and it had lost the ability to perform them. I insisted, and was disappointed at the lower-than-average results. I will readminister it in several months, and in the meantime work on Tedla’s self-fulfilling prophecies.


  ***

  I am a little troubled by one aspect of Tedla’s behavior. On occasion it acts almost seductive toward me. It has no sense of privacy, and would walk in on me in every conceivable state of undress, if I didn’t speak sharply to prevent it (there are no locks on our doors). Yesterday it came into my bedroom looking quite melancholy. When I asked the reason, it complained bitterly about having to sleep alone. As it told me this, it sat on the edge of my bed, fingering the covers, and glancing at me in the most fetching way. The implication seemed to be that I was supposed to invite it to sleep with me. Needless to say, I did not. I cannot decide whether this behavior is even conscious on Tedla’s part. Is the youngster so profoundly innocent it does not understand the nuances of its actions? Or is it in fact trying to provoke me, or inflame me, perhaps to buy more security for itself, and a tighter bond to its protector? Or is it all in my mind?

  My policy is to meet its flirtations, if that is what they are, with indifference. If the behavior is conscious, it will soon stop. Tedla is very perceptive, and extremely attuned to my moods. To pursue any other course would be sure disaster.

  ***

  Interesting responses from my friends: On hearing that I had acquired a bland, my friendly coffee-house owner sat me down and gave me a long lecture on how to protect myself from being taken advantage of. “Don’t trust it out of your sight,” she said. “If you’re not looking, it will be thieving, or lazing, or playing you tricks, imposing on your good nature.” She appeared to think I was a mark ripe for predation. The thought of my needing protection from Tedla was so ludicrous I had to laugh. “My bland’s only about sixteen,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter. They learn their tricks young. They’re nasty, dirty brutes.”

  Since my bland is a good sight cleaner and more circumspect than I am, I found this hard to take seriously.

  Gambion’s reaction was totally different. I had invited him and Auri over for drinks—my quarters now being so presentable I have no qualms letting others see them. Tedla has a perfect mastery of all the niceties of proper entertainment, and served us with great style and relish. I saw my two guests exchanging looks, and after the canapes Gambion drew me aside and warned me quite seriously about the dangers of “exploiting” my bland. I assured him it was the farthest thing from my mind, but he persisted, and it gradually dawned on me that he was talking about physical intimacy (though he never said the words). In a whisper he assured me that such practices will debase a human, reduce intellectual capacity, sap physical strength, and lead to disease.

  I was quite alarmed by his gravity. “Will people assume there is something going on...?” I said.

  “No, no, of course not,” he said immediately. “I just don’t know the mores of your world, and wanted to warn you of ours.”

  “On our world it would be unthinkable,” I lied, but convincingly.

  “I am glad to hear it,” he said.

  It was quite a revelation to me that they had any mores at all on the subject, since nothing is forbidden unless it happens. The apparent strength of the taboo points to something deep in the Gammadian psyche.

  Made some discreet inquiries to confirm Gambion’s information. If anything, he gave me the soft version. Sexual relations with a neuter are viewed as something lower than bestiality. An exposed “dirt digger” (their euphemism, not mine) can be sure of never finding another sexual partner, and might even be expelled from the order. I must be terribly circumspect. I cannot afford even the whiff of such a scandal to touch me. Thank goodness for the treatments.

  ***

  Blands clearly have a class culture, in the sense of expressive practices. But do they have a class consciousness? Obviously, they recognize themselves as a group, and some even recognize their treatment as oppression. But does this create solidarity? Would it ever result in collective action?

  Tedla thinks not. “We’re too dumb,” it says. But when I argued, Tedla came up with another explanation: that the blands are actually getting something out of the arrangement. “We never have to worry where our next meal is going to come from, or make plans,” it says. In other words, they are living the lives of domestic pets. I pressed Tedla on the concepts of freedom and self-determination, but they seemed quite foreign to it. Or they have been discarded as a fair tradeoff for security.

  As the situation becomes increasingly clear to me, it is harder to conceal from Tedla my contempt for the exploitative system this planet hides under a veil of self-deceiving hypocrisy. Tedla has been thoroughly drilled in the psychology of dependence. WAC’s profit forbids me from denouncing this system for what it is. But at times I think that if I could just start a tiny question, even in one young person’s mind, it would be worth the hundred years I’ve given up to come here.

  ***

  It may be my imagination, but Tedla appears to be getting quite attached to me. I find it touching, but also a little worrisome. I don’t want it to get expectations I cannot fulfill. I have seen how deep its emotional attachments can become, and I am loathe to think of our inevitable separation. If this is merely adolescent infatuation with an older mentor, or even conditioned loyalty to a master, it still gives me a certain responsibility. I have such complete power over its life.

  ***

  Got a message from the First Contact group, warning me to stop making myself so conspicuous, being such a character. We must strive to bore our hosts. In banality is strength. I will attempt to comply.

  ***

  There was a soft knock on the bedroom door. Val blanked the screen, then called out, “Come in.”

  It was Tedla. Val sat up cross-legged on the bed and said, “What’s on your mind, Tedla?”

  The neuter sat down on the bed, looking pensive. It said hesitantly, “I’ve been thinking maybe I ought to go stay at WAC, as Magister Gossup suggested.”

  Val was silent. It was what she had been thinking herself an hour ago. But despite her resolve, now that Tedla was sitting in front of her she found it hard to say. Instead, she said, “You realize that WAC is on the delegates’ side?”

  “I know that,” Tedla said. It looked down at the coverlet, tracing the quilting with one finger. “But you’ve risked a lot for me. I can never repay all you’ve done, and if any harm comes to your family...”

  Val pictured herself saying, “You’re right, as long as I thought I could get something out of you I was willing to take the risk, but now the odds have turned against you.” Would it be the truth? Instead, she said, “What does Max say?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”

  “Did he tell you his brilliant idea?”

  “No.”

  “What were you talking about all this time, then?”

  Tedla glanced at her, embarrassed. “Um...you.”

  “Me?” Val said, astonished.

  Tedla nodded, but said nothing more. Val said, “You can’t leave it there. What were you saying?”

  Choosing its words very carefully, Tedla said, “He’s very worried about you. Did you know that?”

  “No,” Val said. “Why?”

  Hesitantly, Tedla said, “It’s the pressure of getting your career going. He’s watched you constructing a professional persona to market—the bright, ambitious career woman. It’s not your real character, he says. It’s a marketable identity you’ve manufactured, a performance. But now he’s worried that you’re beginning to buy it yourself. He doesn’t want you to turn into your own persona.”

  Val could tell that Tedla was reporting accurately; it all had the ring of Max’s thinking. She could even imagine how she would have bristled hearing it in Max’s voice, how angry she would have gotten. But somehow, the translation into Tedla’s soft tones made it different. The information came to her straight, removed from the context of old arguments and annoyances.

  “It must be hard to be a Capellan,” Tedla went on. “You’re all brought up to deceive one another, because openness might damage your saleability. How do you ever
know if you’re falling in love with a real person, and not a product?”

  “I guess we don’t,” Val said.

  Tedla glanced up at her. “Max does love you, you know. This wouldn’t drive him crazy if he didn’t.”

  It had been a long time since she had asked herself about that. She leaned forward and put her hand over Tedla’s where it rested on the coverlet. “Thank you, Tedla,” she said.

  There was a thunderous noise from the gathering room. “Oh damn, what now?” Val said tensely. She scrambled off the bed. As she reached the gathering room, Max was emerging from the dinery. The noise was someone knocking on their door.

  “Let me handle this,” Max said.

  Val heard a shriek of fear from Deedee’s room. When she turned on the light, Deedee was cowering in her bed. Val took the child in her arms. “Don’t worry, Deedee,” she said, “no one’s going to hurt you.”

  Out in the gathering room, Max was talking to the frontdoor viewer. They had never used it before. When Val emerged from the bedroom, carrying Deedee, she saw on the screen that the intruder was a stocky woman in a peace officer uniform. “Process server,” said the speaker.

  “At this hour?” Val said.

  “Hold your credentials up to the viewer,” Max ordered.

  The woman complied. Warily, Max opened the door.

  “Tedla Galele?” the woman said.

  “What’s your business?” Max demanded.

  “I’ve got a summons. Are you Tedla Galele?”

  Val felt Tedla behind her, its light touch on her shoulder. “I’m Tedla Galele,” it said.

  The woman held out a slate. “I need your thumbprint and signature.”

  Tedla came forward, signed, and received a sealed envelope. The woman turned to go.

  Max and Val both looked on as Tedla opened the envelope and read the document inside. When it looked up, its expression had a touch of irony. “The delegates have filed an extradition request before the Court of a Thousand Peoples.”