Alien Tongues

by M. L. Janes

  The crowd seemed to explode. I had signaled I was a country fem at heart, and now they knew this glittering Space Girl was one of them, simply with greatness thrust upon her. It felt like a tsunami of love, and in return I felt something new also. For the first time I realized it was possible to love a crowd, like it was some kind of unified, organic creature. This must be politics, I realized. I had just snorted my first line of democracy and I wondered if I was hooked.

  Just below the podium was a box for journalists, perhaps thirty of them seated. Many more journalists thronged below at the crowd level, and I assumed those in the box were the ones Al had hand-picked to ask questions. I spotted Al among them, and he waved up at me. He gave me a signal that it was OK to start speaking at any time. I let go of Ben's hand and approached the main microphone bank. The crowd noise dropped somewhat. I held up my hands, there was a sudden cheer, then the sound dropped further. "Thank you!" I repeated twice. The first got a cheer and applause, then finally I had enough quiet to speak.

  "I cannot express," I said, "the wonderful feeling that your welcome has given me. You know, transporting raw materials around the Galaxy is so essential for all our lives, but it can be a lonely way to make a living. Sometimes when you are out there for long stretches, you wonder about your choices in life. But now I am here and feel your warmth around me, suddenly everything is worthwhile. I feel love and purpose and strength."

  I waited for the upsurge in cheering to die down. Today, creating happiness was easy. Surely that was a good thing? I continued, "Now, I'd love to tell you all about my amazing experience but, as you know, my employer – well, shall we say the company's had quite an expensive week?" Appropriate laughter. "There's going to be some meetings involving lawyers and claims adjusters and regulators and judges, and I don't want to make some off-hand remark in front of billions which is going to make their lives more complicated than they already are. So please forgive me if this press conference is a bit limited in scope. Hopefully next week I'll be able to say more to Zac Lyon."

  Screams of delight after this reference to the top chat-show host. Their darling fem pilot was going to keep herself in the spotlight and reveal more and more about her private life. I could see Al selecting the first journalist, a fem.

  "Jen Spry of the Globe," she said into her microphone. "Pilot Moon, could you describe how it feels to have a Brain Bang?"

  "You mean, so you can recognize the difference between a Bang and a nervous breakdown?" Laughter. "I'm kidding a bit, but not entirely. To be honest, I don't yet know if I had a "synaptic symphony" as someone described it on the news yesterday. That period of time you see on the video feed where Ben is pulling switches and pressing buttons? I try to recall those moments and it feels like a blur to me. I hope to be of assistance to cognitive scientists who seek to understand these mental processes." I paused. "Boring answer, huh? I wish I could say it was like the Dusters scoring a ten-pointer to take the lead in injury time."

  Mixed with the laughs was some chanting from what must have been a section of Belt migrants. "Si Long of the Orbit," said another journalist, a cros. "You mentioned Zac Lyon. Then I think you have several more guest appearances in the coming weeks. Do you think you'll ever go back to trucking?"

  I pulled a face. "Well, you know we fem truckers. We party until the money runs out, then we sign away another chunk of our lives to Outer Space. It's kind of like a tradition in this sisterhood." There was some fem whooping amid the chuckles. "Si, it all depends. I became a trucker because I thought that was the best use of my talents. Then something odd happened this week. Who knows. Maybe I can contribute something else to humanity. I'm in no rush as long as my agent doesn't screw up my book deal."

  "Pam Lay, Sentinel," said another fem journalist. "Meg, your mal is so good-looking, isn't he? As the song says, what advice do you have for the rockin' daughters of the Dust Belt? Married life or swinging single with a mal in tow?"

  Now it was getting a little spicier. A few more whoops from the crowd. There were some distant cries of 'single forever!' and 'who needs a cros?' I needed a careful path through this one. There was no point at this stage alienating anyone.

  "Pam, I've had a good life so far, no doubt about it. Yeah, Ben's the cutest mal I've had aboard my trucks. The loneliness out there can eat you up sometimes, and Ben has been a wonderful companion. But life on the planets is different, and sometimes we need a partner to help us think life through. If it turns out I'm not going back out there, maybe I got some genes worth passing on."

  Now it was the turn of the traditional fems to shout their approval – a prodigal daughter was thinking about reforming. Yet I had not abandoned the Sisterhood. Splendid isolation with their dream mal remained an option for all of them, as the demand for lonely truckers always outstripped supply. And no one was ever going to hear me say there was anything immoral about it.

  I could hear a chant from the distance growing louder. It was an expression you read often in the news, "Fem Choice!" Basically, it was the slogan of women who objected to the social stigma often associated with mal cohabitation, but it was nowadays being used in the context of choosing children. The counter-slogan was "Fam Values!" which stood for family values or the traditional family structure. Sure enough, elsewhere in the crowd this second chant became audible as a reaction to the first. The unity of the masses' joy in welcoming home their heroine trucker was starting to show cracks. Were there deliberate agitators starting this? Perhaps Al should have tried to prevent such media questions.

  I could see concern on Al's face as he stared out into the crowd. There was some confusion in the journalists' box as to who should be now taking the microphone. It was grabbed by a young, thin fem with close-cropped black hair. She stared up at me with an excited expression.

  "Pia Key, Action Now," she announced. "Pilot Moon, were you aware that Professor Bo Lan of Red Band University has done an extensive analysis of the audio on the digital feed and also your lip movements. He states that you used a wide range of abusive words to your mal while he was in the act of saving your life. Can you comment on this?"

  The chanting stopped. There were a few moments' silence, then some jeering and booing. Some objects were thrown at the press box. But still a million eyes remained fixed on me. And this, despite all the blame I could heap on Al for allowing it to happen, was what I deserved. I had seized an opportunity for which I felt not the slightest credit in my heart. I could now choose between three possible answers to her question. To save the press conference I could flat-out deny the allegation, but then only to be contradicted by the evidence later. I could say I couldn't be sure what I said, which was a safe response but one that would deflate the mood horribly and probably be tomorrow's headlines ("Moon doesn't deny abusing her mal during quick-matter panic"). Or I could admit the truth, that I recalled using just such words. My agenda had been to help mals in order to help Ben, and I was to be famous for mal-abuse within minutes of landing.

  I stared at my accuser, wondering who was this young fem, both able and motivated to bring me down in front of millions? Then I noticed her gaze had shifted to one side of me, and in fact everyone's gaze has done so. I turned in the same direction to see Ben pulling a sketch-pad from his satchel. He tore sheet after sheet from the pad and laid the down in a pattern on a table beside him. An overhead camera zoomed across and the sketches appeared in gallery fashion on the big screens. One was the picture I had seen that night while he slept. The rest were a sequence of related moments during Ben's time at the console. In each one, my face was a picture of calm but determined composure, my hands delivering detailed instructions, while Ben stared in my direction with his hands on the controls. Each was beautifully and dramatically drawn, and you could hear sighs from the crowd. Suddenly, the band struck up my anthem. Everyone started clapping off-beat to the music. It was a joyful and emotional sound. Some groups of young fems started dancing. The band played through again to Daughters and the vast sea of people started to
sing the chorus. Ben and I led them in a line dance which stretched as far as the eye could see.

  What had happened? Ben had laid out proof to dispel any question of my abusing him. This beautiful young man had shown not just loyalty but initiative that most people never imagined a mal to possess. And he had brilliantly depicted me as a thinking and resourceful leader. Some unprincipled tabloid had tried to spear me at my maiden press conference and had instead got speared itself. The vast majority of these people wanted me as their role model and saw Ben's sketches as their own victory over poisonous attacks. I was the beneficiary of extraordinary luck, and my luck was called Ben.

  I didn't get the chance for a post mortem with Al or Jo until that evening, following a cocktail reception for local celebrities in the city where I had landed. Ki Land, a famous comedian, did a routine to entertain us during the buffet dinner. Impersonating a well-known newscaster, he announced, "Today at her news conference, Meg Moon, the famous pilot who was kind enough to test cold propulsion for humanity while passing through a death-spiral on her way to delivering iron ore, was accused of mal-abuse. Apparently, after he had accidently overcooked the dinner, she forced her pet mal Ben to watch reruns of the Fifi Shanks Amateur Talent Show."

  "I think Mr Land neatly summed up the legacy of Action Now's little plot today," Jo remarked as he sat with Al and me in lounge chairs on an upper balcony, sipping coffee as a young cros singer crooned on stage below us and a couple of hundred people shuffled around the dance floor. Both my suitors were charmingly dressed in black tuxedos, while I had upgraded to one of my braided, shiny buttoned uniforms. "Anyone seriously questioning the accepted narrative is going to appear both mean and paranoid."

  "While fully agreeing with you, I will continue to beat myself up about how this happened," Al commented. "Meg, if you can ever find it in your heart to forgive me, I can at least offer some more explanation as to how this bizarre event ever occurred in the first place. That fem – Pia Key she called herself but for sure that's not her real name – stole the press pass off the journalist from the Herald after possibly drugging her over breakfast in their hotel. Why on earth would anyone go to such lengths?"

  Both he and I looked at Jo, the most likely source of ideas on that front. "Well, here's my guess," Jo replied. "In the last few days I've been uncovering quite a lot of organizations dedicated to improving the lives of mals. Some are quite radical, and Action Now is among them. Now it's committed a crime, it will disappear and emerge under another name."

  "But why attack me?" I asked.

  Jo shrugged. "Ironically, they don't know that your agenda is to help mals. They saw the video of Ben pressing the levers that delivered the miracle, and were incensed that he received no credit at all. Unlike everyone else, they were looking for anything you did wrong and so were far more likely to find something."

  "And Professor Bo Lan of Red Band University?" I asked.

  "He did post that analysis, but he denies any knowledge of Action Now," Al said. "By the way, the analysis is not conclusive, and others have called it speculative. It will die for lack of any interest from other academics."

  "Is he part of the pro-mal movement?"

  "Generally," Jo said, "But he gets stuck on petty things like this so he's not one of the important players. If you're looking for allies and friends, I wouldn't bother with him. I have a much better list."

  "We'll save that for now," I told him. I wondered if I would have anything in common with political activists. This was such a new world to me.

  Al leaned forwards as if to share a confidence. "I think it's wise not to be seen to be taking anyone side, at least at this early stage. That would start to limit your options before you've decided where to focus your efforts. But if you are still prepared to take my advice after the fiasco today, I think you should use an opportunity tonight to get some exposure to the politics around mal welfare. To our little soiree I invited two local senators who happen to be well-known for their opinions on the topic. One of them is a liberal and the other a conservative, so you can enjoy a little fencing between the two camps."

  I looked at Jo. "I agree," he told me. "Think of it as a necessary baptism. I'm sure you'll want to remain as apolitical as possible, but you need to know all the traps and minefields around you."

  I acquiesced. Al looked pleased. "They're going to start some form-dancing in a minute, he said, "and I've paired you with the two gents. I trust all your time in space hasn't left your triorille too rusty?"

  A triorille is a slightly flirtatious dance between two men and woman, or two women and a man. It is also slow with simple steps, allowing conversation among the "trio." It is ideal for some playful banter while having a little exercise, and a clever way to break the ice between strangers and get to some interesting dialogue quickly. I let Al lead me down to the dance floor where he found two older but reasonable-looking croses, immaculate in black-tie. They greeted me with deep, sonorous voices, the type that are a clear advantage to elected officials. After some introductory remarks they led me out onto the floor. The other dancers stopped out of respect for the star of the evening and applause rippled through the crowd.

  "Meg Moon, the pilot who put the "ace" in Space," commented Senator Brandt with a grin as he took my hand. He was tall for a cros and, in his platform shoes, not too far off my height. "How is Ben after the press conference? He must now be the most famous mal on the planet."

  I took the senator's hand and glided into the dance, a bit conscious of my footwork after years of avoiding such formal occasions. "You know mals, Senator. The whole thing was irrelevant to him, until he heard someone accuse me of abuse. So he responded with the evidence in his hands. After that I'm sure he didn't give it a moment's thought. Right now I believe he's on the roof terrace, sketching the city skyline."

  "Yet that's now twice in a few days he's shown himself the key to saving the moment," Brandt observed. "I wish I had more staff who showed that unusual combination of carefully following instructions and also taking the initiative, exactly when appropriate." He looked at the smaller cros who had taken my other hand. "What do you think, Folio?"

  Senator Folio looked old, perhaps already four times older than me, but his eyes and expression were sharp. He was moving on his feet at least as nimbly as I was. "Is this the start of another 'jobs for mals' speech, Brandt?" the cros asked dryly.

  Brandt raised his brow. "Hadn't thought that way, but you think the point is persuasive enough to be the start of such a speech?" He winked at me. "What's your view, Meg? Could Ben actually earn his own keep?"

  "I hadn't thought of it," I told him truthfully. "He'd have to have a longer life expectancy for it to be a relevant question."

  "Excellent point," Folio remarked, rotating me gently – and expertly – with his arms. "I sometimes wonder if Brandt here would like to see all children toiling at a job. I mean, I admire his work ethic, but there are humane limits…"

  Brandt reached for me, placing his hands delicately upon my hips as we swayed to a new rhythm. Despite myself, I had to admit the touch felt good. The only touch I had received in a long time that I hadn't specifically ordered. "Just listen to that sly cros," he said to me in a stage whisper. "He's pretending he hasn't heard of the progress in extending mal longevity."

  I felt my face flushing. Despite being a news addict myself, I had never heard of such a thing myself. There were people trying to make mals live longer, and it was common knowledge among senators? Was it legal? Could Ben's life be extended? Why did the idea of it have such an emotional impact upon me? I was careful to control my voice, hoping they would assume the redness of my cheeks was from the sudden activity of twirling to the music.

  "To be honest, Senator, I also somehow missed that in the news, but then I think that's excusable in Deep Space."

  Folio frowned. "I fear Brandt is trying to recruit you to his cause by feeding you some highly speculative and also classified information. It hasn't been on the news because it's pro
bably bogus, and the main media have responsibly agreed not to alarm people unduly. Unless you go trawling some of those radical-liberal, propaganda machines, you won't yet have been misled."

  I eagerly awaited Brandt's riposte, but he just grinned at Folio's annoyance as he hooked arms with me and began a turn. Two political croses, engaged in a routine intellectual dual. I decided to risk pushing the conversation along.

  "Speculative or not," I said casually, "Why this interest in extended mals' lives?"

  Brandt arched an eyebrow at me. "How about human equality? Suppose all croses had a degenerative disease that killed us all off in early adulthood. Wouldn't we try and cure it?"

  Folio laughed and shook his head. "Listen to Senator Equal there! I will politely ignore his confusion between disease and natural lifespan. But here we are, eating the finest food while billions of fems and croses scratch a living on and beyond the Dust Belt. How about the Gray Ring, where croses are still obliged to chew the bark off trees? The money being dumped into mal research could provide irrigation for whole planets. We all want a perfect world, Dear Gentle Cros, but let us get our priorities straight!"

  I was standing face-to-face with Folio now or, more accurately, staring down at his bald head. As we clasped hands I said, "But Senator, longer life – isn't that what we all wish for? I mean, even for fems like me from the Dust?"

  Folio sighed, then executed a quite brilliant double-twirl, passing me round his back while he rotated on one foot. I could feel every eye turn in our direction. I felt obliged to add my own panache so I grabbed Brandt's hand at the same time and had them both rotate around me. There was spontaneous applause. Folio ended up under my chin. His tone was philosophical as he looked at me.