by Lea Daley
But mastering it wouldn’t be easy. I’d heard enough dialects in enough countries to know I had nothing to build on. This language was unlike anything I’d encountered on Earth, its source unknown. Through eavesdropping, I’d identified a few characteristics. A marked dependence on intonation. Vocal acrobatics my tongue couldn’t manage. Blends elusive as dreams. No question that the project would be time intensive—and it would certainly require Aimée’s assistance.
Setting my tea aside, I made mental adjustments to my costume until I achieved a sort of French-schoolgirl-goes-to-Mars look. Then, posing primly on the edge of a bench, I called for the VTO.
She must have gotten the joke—she actually grinned before bowing. “Your wish is my command.”
I was suddenly pierced through with longing. “Would that it were so!”
“Ah, well, Leslie-ahn…within reason.”
“Fair enough. I want a teacher, Aimée. A good one. I need to learn…whatever you call Jashari’s language.”
“I can teach you Jashrine, Leslie. Perhaps better than anyone, since I know you so well. Although direct instruction is not the optimum technique, it is undoubtedly the best choice in your case.”
I shot a suspicious look at her. “What do you mean?”
“We could simply activate an adaptation module. But I know how you would feel about that.”
I raised one palm. “Whoa! Back up! What’s an adaptation module?”
“Adaptation modules expand your innate capacities. They are how you regulate your temperature outside, how you manipulate the ‘visibility cloak’ to control the appearance of your clothing—”
“You mean how I appear to be clothed at all!”
“Yes. You have known this for some time.”
Of course I’d known it—or at least suspected it. Rebelled at it. Recoiled from it. Would I embrace it now? Just to save time and effort? Unbidden, an image rose up—a scene from my youth, vivid as anything the memory sphere had revealed. An Edison Enclave. Housing those backward folk who made a virtue of refusing cheap, clean, inexhaustible fission power. The Supreme Court had upheld their right to generate energy from fossil fuels, but regular people looked down on the Edisonites. And we steered clear of their compounds, where mandatory warnings were posted every fifty feet: Danger: High-Voltage Risks! Air Pollution!
Now I had a choice. I could act like an Edisonite, could insist on learning Jashrine the hard way—and badly. Or I could become a true citizen of this small planet. I made my decision on the spot. But: “Will it be painful?”
Aimée’s eyes crinkled. “Not at all. And it only takes seconds.”
“Do you have to…remove anything? To make room for the adaptation module?”
“No, Leslie-ahn! Some redundant brain cells were reassigned during what you would think of as ‘surgery’ for your tumor. We can activate relevant language areas immediately. You will speak Jashrine as if you were born to it. Other than that, nothing will be different.”
* * *
But Aimée was wrong.
Everything was different afterward. It wasn’t only my squeamish acquiescence to a wholly foreign technology. It wasn’t merely the odd sensation of my tongue rising in unaccustomed rhythms, my vocal cords constricting in new ways. I was startled—repelled—by the intrinsic structure of Jashrine. Because every language is a microcosm of culture, conveying what’s known and valued. Implying what can and can’t be discussed. Defining the desirable and the forbidden. I learned more than a new dialect the day I learned Jashrine.
The ubiquitous honorific, “ahn,” for example—that wasn’t an empty courtesy, as I’d supposed. It was an entire phrase, an ideal, compressed into a single syllable. Roughly translated, it meant We two are as one, or We are united in our sameness. Not an expression of democracy, but rather a repudiation of individuality. Once I understood its full import, the word was bitter in my mouth. Yet it was impossible to speak Jashrine without constantly asserting that denial of self.
Naturally, there was no word for “I” or any of its variants. Impetuous youth might express an idea or emotion as belonging to “this member of the group,” but to do so was vulgar and presumptuous. All such declarations were extinguished by maturity.
Likewise, there was no way to discuss creativity. There were words related to comfort, to grace, to an absence of discord. But nothing that captured the essence or purpose of expressive art. The nearest equivalent of “beauty” meant something like “harmonious to the Whole.” And when I tried to access a word for “ugly,” I uncovered a convulsive absence, as if the very idea had etched a void in the vocabulary.
Most important of all, I finally decoded the label that defined my status on Jashari: Laysancurob. Once I heard it in context, I wondered how I’d been so oblivious. It was bastardized French, astoundingly well preserved though greatly modified in meaning: Les Incurables…the Incurables.
Connotations of the outcast, the unrepentant, the damned reverberated through that ironic slur. For even after Jashari’s most advanced medical treatments, we Returnees were viewed as pathological cases. Beyond definition or control, terrible and isolated in our willful egotism. Yet there was an aura of power associated with us, as well. We were feared and respected, as islanders both fear and respect the implacable ocean. At last I understood why Aimée—an incorruptible machine—had been assigned to me.
My psyche ached from that instantaneous infusion of alien culture. Suddenly I longed for the sound of my fountain, the feel of night breezes against bare skin. Darkness seemed alluring, anonymous, compelling. I wanted to slip into its secret spaces, wrap myself in its silence, calm my racing brain. But I’d never been outside after sundown on Jashari—strictly speaking, I didn’t know if that was “permitted.” And then I didn’t care.
Na’Rahna, had set, but a faint glow lingered from Py’tahn. There was no moon. With a start, I realized I didn’t know whether Jashari had a moon. But I had a way of finding out! I eased cautiously into the daunting territory of Jashrine. Within that language, simultaneously exotic yet totally accessible, I found my answer. The concept of planetary satellites existed, but the nearest object in orbit was something called the Medical Reception Station. Where, I gathered, I must have been warehoused for several thousand years.
Then I remembered: a moon would be an unnecessary embellishment. For the first time I glimpsed the monumental complexity of assembling a solid, functioning world in the vacuum of space. The project dwarfed anything my era had imagined by more orders of magnitude than a simple holographer could calculate.
And who were the Jashrine people? How—why—had they come to this strange place? Which gave rise to a question I’d dodged since waking: what had happened to my own struggling planet? And why was I here, instead of there? Maybe I’d work that out as I delved further into my second language, but enough was enough. I needed to erect a temporary shield between the old me and the new.
My courtyard was almost featureless now. Only a few ghostly grays hinted at the contours of fountain and arch. Sinking onto a bench, I willed myself to stillness. Felt my body relaxing, letting down. I’d just closed my eyes when something—someone!—brushed my elbow. I reacted instinctively. Shrieking. Lashing out. Snaring a warm, firm, fragile appendage…a child’s wrist! Musical syllables erupted…and I could understand them!
“Leslie-ahn, greetings! It is unbecoming for a dreaded Incurable to be undone by a mere fledgling.”
It was that young girl! The one who’d visited me before! My heart still pounded, my breath came in gasps and my response was purest English. “Son of a bitch!”
“Translate please?”
I tried, but it was impossible to curse in Jashrine. “This language is exceedingly constrictive.”
I spoke—and was answered—in my acquired tongue.
“As was planned, Leslie-ahn.”
“What does that mean?”
“What cannot be spoken cannot be shared.”
Even I, the perpetual
novice, recognized that as a ritualized aphorism. “Will this small member of the Whole say by what name she is distinguished?” I winced as that indirect drivel rolled off my tongue.
“Bahran’aji is the formal version.”
Which roughly meant “Behold! Love transforms!” A bit awkward for everyday use. “And in less proper company?”
“‘Bahji’ is the informal variant.”
An endearment, I understood, like ‘Sweetheart’ or ‘Love.’ “And how shall the dreaded class of Incurables call this fledgling?”
Even in the dark, I caught a flash of a smile. “Bahji, please.”
I wanted to ask this child a million questions. They crowded my English-speaking brain, competing for priority. But no words came when I shifted into Jashrine. Truly, what cannot be spoken is difficult to share. After several false starts, I growled, “This is impossible!”
“Not really.”
“You speak English?”
“From three of the six modern epochs. And some latter-era Spanish.” I was sure from her proud tone that she’d unleashed a killer grin. “I can read English too.”
“Yet I’m still confused.”
“Because there is much left unexpressed, oh fearsome Returnee.”
I wasn’t sure whether her primness was a carryover from Jashrine convention, or a clever parody. “Can you tell me what I need to know?” Jesus! How had I been reduced to probing a six-year-old for information?
“I am not authorized to, but I know those who can.”
The shadows were suddenly unendurable—I wanted to see this tiny, teasing gypsy. “Come inside, Bahji. We can talk there.”
“That is not permitted just yet. But I am to say that you have friends here, if you have the courage to seek them.”
“And just how would I go about that?”
“Carefully. Very, very carefully.”
I reached for her. “Bahji, who are you?” But my hand closed on emptiness. She was gone. “Goddamn it!” I howled. “I can’t bear this!”
Almost immediately Aimée was at my side, but she-who-knew-all seemed unaware of Bahji’s visit. For a second time, I realized.
“Are you all right, Leslie-ahn?”
I turned bewildered eyes toward her. “I’m tired, Aimée. And so fucking lonely!” Before I finished saying, “Will you hold me for a while?” she was.
Chapter Twelve
I dreamed that Meredith and I were raising a small girl with scabby knees, wiggly teeth and an affinity for cats. When I woke, I stretched out one hand, found my memory sphere. Soon I was skimming through the past—“channel surfing,” Nana would have called it. I paused here and there, smiling at some events, flinching at others. Still groggy, I almost skipped past a favorite memory. Screeching to a halt, I mentally punched rewind. That was a moment worth reliving.
I’m indoors, sorting through silver-based negatives, because it’s summertime in hot, sticky St. Louis. The video screen beeps and I look up just as Meredith’s image swims into view.
“Hi. Got any beer?” Her smile’s absolutely heartstopping.
“Sure,” I lie. Because beer’s a luxury I can do without. Film isn’t. “Come up.”
In a heartbeat, Mer’s at my door, heat radiating off her. She’s been playing softball in a park nearby, that ancient dykely obsession for which I have no talent. A bandana binds her forehead and curls shimmy all around it. I can smell dust and leather and a faint hint of sweat.
“Where’s the beer?”
“Wouldn’t you rather have some nice, refreshing lemonade?”
“Mother of god! Lemonade? What have I gotten myself into?”
“I confess—I’m pure of body and mind.”
“Not pure of mind—you just tricked me!”
“Pure of body, then.”
Meredith laughs, closing the gap between us. “Oh, I hope not! Because that would be a tragic waste.”
I couldn’t have helped myself—I open my arms and she nestles against me. Her hair’s soft and damp against my cheek. I kiss the back of her hand. Then her palm. Then the lavender telltale on her wrist certifying she’s been vaccinated against AIDS. I trail my tongue along the inside of her forearm until she moans. She tastes of salt and sun and desire. Her eyes are dazed, dreamy, unfocused. I know just how she feels.
“Come on, jock. It’s time to hit the showers.”
We undress with hands made clumsy by haste and hunger. I’d guessed she was lovely, but I’d suffered from a failure of imagination. Under steaming water, we make certain that every smallest bit of anatomy is squeaky clean.
We can scarcely walk by the time we head for my bed. I fling back the comforter and we tumble onto fresh sheets, wet in more ways than one. Meredith holds me hard, whispering sweet promises. And there are fireworks. And if the earth shakes, it’s because we’re rocking it with our unquenchable enthusiasm. I wake beside her at midnight and thank whatever gods might be that Meredith McAllister has crossed my wandering path…
I set the memory sphere gently on my bedside table. Then I threw off the covers, my thighs opening in anticipation. At first I touched myself lightly, then with greater urgency. But there was no melting response. Mystified, I persevered—I’d been doing this since I was ten and didn’t intend to quit now. I readjusted my pillows. Inhaled the scent on my fingers. Licked, stroked and thought salacious thoughts. Still nothing. Frustrated, frightened, I continued until I was thoroughly discouraged and more than a little sore.
Then I gave up and got up. “Well,” I said aloud, “you wanted a reaction, you got a reaction. Be careful what you wish for!”
Raking a brush through my hair, I analyzed this newfound disability. Leslie Burke without a sex drive was a creature unknown. I’d always cherished my ability to give and receive physical pleasure. I pondered the unthinkable. Maybe cryosleep had destroyed my erotic capacity. Maybe I had a disease. Maybe this was temporary—please god, let it be temporary! And why couldn’t I get hot and bothered in the present, when past memories of arousal were so intense? Because, I concluded, I was turned on back then. In a way that seemed totally beyond me now.
Goddamn! Goddamn! Who could I consult about this? Certainly not young Bahji. And Aimée—who must know everything—would tell me nothing. I decided to take a walk, a long one. Destination TBD and I’d bloody well figure out how to cope with whatever happened along the way. I flung myself through the wall…and found the VTO waiting on a bench in my courtyard.
“May I join you, Leslie-ahn?”
“Only if you stop using that repulsive honorific!”
“As you wish.”
Aimée steered me onto a path that wound through endless desert. I channeled my aggravation into forward motion. It felt terrific to walk so hard and fast. I hadn’t used my body nearly enough since waking. Stepping up the pace, I aimed for the crest of a steep dune, farther than I’d ever ventured on Jashari. I beat the VTO there by a heartbeat, then gaped at what lay beyond.
A limitless lake—possibly even an ocean—sparkling in the distance. Great, dark rocks thrusting through turquoise water. White sand gradually leveling to become a beach. I’d never seen a more enchanting sight. The surf was gentle, which made sense since Jashari lacked a moon. But I was no scientist…maybe that was part of the master plan.
I turned imploring eyes on Aimée. “That’s not a mirage, right?”
“And if it is?”
“I may kill myself. I need this to be real.”
“In that case, it is real.”
I raced toward the water, my gait awkward in deep, dry sand on the downhill slope. The jaunt was longer than expected, deceptively so, a product of the clear desert air, perhaps. But at last the breeze hit me. Moist, salt, stronger than any I’d known here. Barely conscious of my actions, I transformed my clothing. By then, the sand was packed and cool under my feet. The shifting waterline met me and I flung myself into the waves, swimming with energy too long suppressed.
When I was exhausted, I let the pu
lsing sea carry me toward Aimée. Who was sitting on a dune, patient as always. I collapsed beside her “Oh, god! This is marvelous!” Sinking my hands into sand, I sifted crystals slowly through my fingers, breathing in and out with the surf. Oceans have always calmed me. I don’t know why.
But I soon began to feel uneasy. The surf was too gentle. I missed the insistent roar of a rougher sea. And this ocean was empty—disturbingly empty. At home, all creatures great and small began in salt waters. Even in my profligate age, the seas teemed with life. Here, no pelicans plummeted headlong at schools of fish, no slightest crustacean frolicked across the dunes. And on this most beautiful of beaches, no other human lolled or cavorted.
I flipped into Jashrine—and got a nasty shock. This ocean was many things. A cog in the planetary ecology. A reflective surface integral to several scientific disciplines. An object of grace. But it was most emphatically not a plaything. By local standards, my joyous response to sand and sea was savage, animalistic, abhorrent. Aimée’s face was a mask of studied neutrality. The VTO was profoundly embarrassed for me.
“Oh, fuck it all! What do you people do for fun?” Aimée hadn’t answered before I said, “I know! I know! Play is an outmoded and shockingly bizarre expression of primordial egocentrism.”
“It is as you say.”
I shot upright. Pushed Aimée onto the sand. Straddled her. Tickled unmercifully. She laughed—she actually laughed—a delightful sound I’d never heard. And a powerful reinforcer. I continued my attack.
Aimée flailed and squirmed beneath me for another moment. Then she recovered. Without warning, she jackknifed, dumping me unceremoniously on my rear. Her eyes were sparkling, her color high. She looked for all the world like she was plotting revenge.
“Careful, Aimée-ahn! I’ve had a lot of practice with this fun stuff!”
“Yes, but you cannot read my mind.”
She scooped me up as if I were weightless and tossed me into the welcoming water. I was gasping for more than air when I came up. I’d never suspected the strength concealed within that small frame. But I was notoriously stubborn—not to mention treacherous.