FutureDyke

by Lea Daley

  I forced myself underwater, doing my best to blank my mind. Bobbing up, I clawed pitiably at the sky, then willed myself down again. It really was a dirty trick. Aimée had no choice but to flip into lifesaving mode.

  She raced through the water, lifted me and began wading to the shore. I lay as limp as possible while her heart—or something like it—pounded steadily against my ear. And then I arched my back. Lunged. Broke her grip.

  Thrown off-balance, the VTO went under. Came up again, sputtering. Rocked in the waves with a look of wonder in her eyes. Water streamed off her dark hair, and my tired old T-shirt clung to curves I couldn’t afford to notice. Suddenly she released as primitive a laugh as I ever heard and splashed me full in the face. In that instant, I allowed myself to forget Aimée was nothing but an incredibly sophisticated machine. Just then, she was a breathtakingly beautiful woman—and I was an expert on the subject. So I did what came naturally: I splashed her back!

  When we lay on the beach recovering, I reached for the VTO’s hand. “I want to show you something in my mind.” She tilted her head, rested it against mine. With great care, I conjured a seascape on Planet Earth—a composite, I admit, because I wanted to share everything.

  The pastel architecture of beach houses rises beyond the dunes, each craning for an ocean view. In the distance, a dozen dolphins arc through waves with careless ease. The light is dimmer, the air less pure. The surf higher, noisier, cluttered with seaweed. A fragile sand dollar flickers in the tide, and seashells are embedded like treasure in the sand. Herons strut, ghost crabs perform their comical sideways dance and gulls wheel over blobby women in bikinis. A sand castle crumbles under the relentless onslaught of water, while a butterfly floats past, its wings hardly more substantial than the shadows they cast. Sandpipers skitter like clever mechanical toys, outracing exuberant children. And high overhead, a bright kite soars, straining, dipping, swooping. Yet somehow a sense of peace prevails.

  I released Aimée’s hand, let go of the fantasy. “I miss it!” I whispered, meaning more than the ocean, more than the beach. “It was dirty and messy and contentious and unpredictable, but I miss it all so much!”

  “I know, Leslie…”

  And what else could she say? We subsided into silence, then dozed for a while. When I woke, when I pulled Aimée upright, her clothes were soggy and drooping. I laughed. “It’s past time for you to retire those sorry duds.”

  The VTO hoisted the painters pants, rolled the waistband, dusted damp sand from her seat. “Perhaps you are correct. Shall I return your clothing in its original condition?”

  “As is, please. I like the new layer of history you’ve added.”

  We walked home, fingers linked, swinging our arms like schoolgirls. I felt just what I always felt after a day at the beach—tired, relaxed, a little dreamy. Only missing my usual sunburn and new crop of freckles. Reluctant to break our easy mood, I decided against peppering Aimée with my latest questions. Py’tahn was still visible when we entered my courtyard, but I bowed goodnight and went inside.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the first light of morning, I feared our lovely, languid interlude was a fantasy. Then I realized there was grit in my bed, sand between my toes. Something that just didn’t happen after treading Jashari’s faultless paths. While shaking out the sheets, I found myself pondering a new enigma. Back home, sand was a mountain’s last gasp. But what was it on Jashari? Had the founders shipped it in by the megaton, just to produce the endless undulating dunes, that exquisite beach? Or had several million square miles of the stuff been manufactured through some process of crystal replication? How the hell would you create a planet from scratch?

  But I pushed those questions into deep background. Because there were other things I wanted to know more—needed to know. All at once, I was impatient with my own passivity. Why had I been too intimidated to insist on answers? Better yet, why hadn’t I done the field research myself?

  Filled with resolve, I grabbed a notepad and pen from my desk and carried them outside. Sipping tea, I scribbled rambling lists…what I knew, what I didn’t. I knew my location—sort of. I knew the year—assuming I’d been told the truth. Knew that everything from my former life had vanished. Knew Jashrine science exceeded my wildest imaginings. I knew the indigenous language. I’d deduced—from all those bows, if nothing else—that this was far from a classless society, despite all those professions of unity. And I knew I was an outcast within the Jashrine system—yet possessed some ill-defined power. I knew I was constantly monitored and transparent as glass. Knew there were others like me. And I knew there was an element of menace here—if young Bahji could be believed.

  What I didn’t know made an equally intimidating list. I had no idea why Jasharians trafficked in Returnees, given their evident discomfort with us. Didn’t know who Bahji and her people were, what they did or whether to seek them out. I didn’t know what my personal status was, what rights I had. Didn’t know whether I could explore Jashari unchaperoned, had no clue what dangers hounded me. Didn’t know why only one Returnee had crossed my path, or how to contact the others. I didn’t understand why I longed to trust Aimée, who was clearly a servant of the Jashrine establishment—whatever that was. I couldn’t tell whether I’d find a way to work here, to truly have a life on my new world. Couldn’t guess what had wiped out every sexual impulse and capacity. Didn’t know why I’d been revived when I’d been revived.

  I’d sorted through these issues over and over, discarding, seeking, discarding again. But I lacked the resources to satisfy my curiosity, at least under the present circumstances. And insanity truly is doing the same thing—or nothing!—yet expecting different results. I sighed and closed my notebook just as a small group of Jasharians passed the courtyard gates. Before conscious mind understood bodily intent, I was in motion, determined to follow the natives. I’d keep my distance, hope no one challenged me. But the instant I stepped onto the path, Aimée appeared, calling my name from behind. I turned reluctantly.

  “Shall I accompany you, Leslie-ahn?”

  This was a test. “No, thanks,” I called back with fake nonchalance. “There’s no need.” So the VTO watched me leave, one hand raised in mournful farewell. And now I knew something else: I could roam alone!

  Excitement painted a foolhardy grin across my face, quickened my footsteps. But I hadn’t traveled far when I realized my tour guides were troubled. Tension had crept into their postures and conversation had evaporated. Did they fear for their safety because a dreaded Incurable walked twenty paces behind? Or did they fear to lead me where I didn’t belong? I shrugged and trudged on. If the Jasharians had the courage to confront me, they’d have done it by now. Whatever happened, I was tired of acting so helpless.

  The packed sand path changed, gave way to a broader avenue of some solid, textured material. I looked around with heightened interest. Greenery here was lusher and more varied, though still reminiscent of desert vegetation back home. I felt as if I’d stepped into Serenghi’s mythical garden.

  Clusters of buildings broke the horizon, looking much like luxury villas in any resort on Earth—minus doors and windows. The architecture might have more curves than I was accustomed to, might boast surprising choices of surface or hue. But nothing about it was as outlandish as I’d imagined. Maybe there were only so many graceful ways to shelter the human body? Maybe acclimation to Jashrine culture would be easier than expected? Soon I was in a bustling neighborhood. And what was radically different from urban settings I’d known was the total absence of litter, dirt or decay. Every boulevard I trod was pristine, every structure immaculate, every vista breathtaking.

  There were so many natives on the streets by then I had trouble keeping track of my group. Without exception the locals had Asian features and warm complexions. I stood out like the foreigner I was. Taller. Fair-skinned. My bright ginger hair no doubt aflame under twin suns. Most pedestrians cast sidelong glances at me while pretending I didn’t exist. And many pu
lled their children closer as I passed. Because these youngsters were vulnerable. Docile. Poles apart from the roving Nukeheads of my day.

  Then I saw Bahji! Just ahead, turning a corner! I ran, caught her by the elbow, spun her around. She stood still under my hand—unnaturally still—regarding me with anxious eyes. Eerily like Bahji, but a little older, slightly larger and perfectly groomed. Chagrined, I dropped the girl’s arm. Bowed, long and deeply, desperately hoping not to be accused, reprimanded, arrested. When I straightened, the child had disappeared and I’d lost sight of the little party I was following. After one disorienting second, I felt freer, more adventurous. Now the route would be of my own choosing.

  At the next junction, I turned left and found myself in what could only be a business district. Signs advertised services available within. Singularly beautiful signs, each visible only briefly as I moved into a specific range. I snapped to attention—that technology was some permutation of holography, my own profession. The next ad flickered into sight, translucent and immaterial on the summery air. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

  This was my first exposure to Jashrine in written form. A simple, elegant script conveying much information in a few strokes. Not surprising when I compared it to the compressed structure of the spoken language. Yet every sign left me more muddled than the one before. Because I clearly wasn’t up to speed on the zeitgeist. What in the world was Transdeltal Rejuvenation? And what did one do at a Monosilicate Retreat? An Elizabethan wouldn’t be more confused by promos for a MoVaDod than I was right then.

  I made a reckless decision: the next enterprise I encountered would have my business. And there it was, another sign shimmering into view—Aural Alignment. I searched for an entrance, but found none. Then I remembered the first lesson learned on Jashari: doors allow unacceptable energy loss. I raised my braceleted arm, took a deep breath and charged through the wall.

  The interior was dazzling. Rainbows darted across brushed metallic walls, the patterns shifting as if alive. The air vibrated with musical tones, barely audible, perceived as much in my bones as my ears. A luminous stream flowed down one slanted, silvery corner, its lulling splash and fall almost hypnotic. Half-a-dozen Jasharians lay suspended in midair, motionless, ecstatic.

  My pulse slowed. All traces of adrenaline seeped away. I felt myself slipping into a trancelike state, in synchrony with the rhythms of that seductive environment. When my knees buckled, someone leaped forward, caught me, shook me into alertness.

  A young Jashari woman, eyes wide with distaste. She spoke in the sweet, lilting speech of the planet, but her words were not pleasing to my ear. “Les Incurables do not find the services of this establishment congenial.”

  I was mesmerized by that serenity, longing only to stay. When I searched for a phrase to contradict her, I was thwarted by prohibitions in the language. I had to settle for an innocuous rejoinder. “This is a place of delicious placidity that even Les Incurables may find harmonious.”

  She couldn’t evict me—I read that clearly in her sour expression. Bowing to the inevitable, she asked coolly, “What account may be accessed for this service?”

  Ah! Money! In all my months on Jashari, no one had suggested that I pay for anything. No one had ever discussed options, comparative costs or methods of billing. I had money, I remembered. Some unimaginable number of Standard Units, whatever they might be. But how to use them? I had no idea. Nor did I know whether they represented a fabulous fortune or a currency so inflated that a single aural alignment might bankrupt me. I knew how to find out though—and I damned well intended to get answers for a change!

  The depth of the young woman’s bow couldn’t disguise her relief at my sudden departure. I was livid as I retraced my steps through those foreign streets—a skill I’d honed long ago on assignment in lands nearly as strange as this one. I was back in my room, breathless, in half the time I spent traveling to town.

  Before I called out, the VTO appeared. Without saying a word, she handed me a slim golden rectangle. Electric blue numbers flashed across it with dizzying speed.

  “This is what I think it is…yes?”

  Aimée inclined her head minimally. Had she been human, I’d have sworn she was sulking.

  “What’s the display mean?”

  “It shows your current balances, of course.”

  “Why do they change so fast?”

  “Interest accumulates hourly, Leslie-ahn, and you have numerous accounts. The card provides a comprehensive review of your income at any given moment.”

  I perched on the edge of my bed. So much hinged on her next response. “Do I have a lot of money, Aimée?”

  “Compared to what?”

  “Don’t be coy. Do I have a lot of money?”

  The VTO sighed. “Yes, Leslie-ahn, you have very significant resources. Surely you know that.”

  Months of frustration spilled over. “How could I? You tell me only what you want me to know, when you want me to know it!”

  “But I did tell you! I told you the very first time we talked!” Something akin to tears glittered in Aimée’s eyes.

  “You told me a number—but not what it meant! I still don’t know what it means! I have no idea what I can do with money here, how long it might last. I don’t know whether I control it. I don’t even know what I’ve been charged so far for services rendered—what it costs to have you at my beck and call around the clock, for instance!”

  Aimée’s face went white as the night we met. Amber eyes blazed against that shocking pallor. At the sound of her voice—devoid of warmth or intimacy—a chill rolled through me. “You are wealthier than you can possibly imagine, Leslie. It is unlikely you will ever lack for anything you desire, no matter how extravagantly you live. You have total control of your income. That card is self-explanatory, as a close examination will reveal. I am quite certain you can figure it out all by yourself.”

  Aimée squared her shoulders. “As for my services, they have been free of charge to you. However, I am requesting a new assignment, effective immediately.” The VTO executed an ironic bow then exited, leaving only thunderous silence in her wake.

  I stared at the wall in disbelief. Then I fell to my knees, gripping that illuminated card. Rocking, rocking. Rich as Croesus, and reeling with regret.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Someone moving in the dark. Sorting through things on my dresser—none too quietly. A soft tinkle as Stonewall’s toy struck the floor, followed by a muffled thud. This could only be Bahji—or so I hoped!

  I sat up, brushing hair from my eyes. “Bahran’aji-ahn!” The rustling stopped. I palmed the wall till low light filled the room. It was Bahji, all right, down on all fours, searching for the cat toy. Disheveled as always, and twice as adorable.

  “What are you doing here?”

  My gruffness didn’t fool her. She smiled, revealing another missing tooth. “She Who Shadows has departed.”

  Aimée. Gone. Truly gone. But what did that have to do with Bahji? “English, please—Jashrine gives me a headache. I thought you weren’t allowed to come into my apartment.”

  Bahji tossed the cheap toy in the air, then caught it. “I have a cat.”

  I wouldn’t have been more astonished if she claimed to own a unicorn. I could only echo her. “You have a cat?”

  “A black one.”

  Which certainly suited her aura, the charmingly fey impression she gave off. “I thought there weren’t any animals on Jashari—I had it on good authority.”

  “Belladonna’s the only one…she’s a secret. I got her for my birthday last year. But she has to stay inside every single minute. Sometimes at night, I want to let her out so bad. She cries for it.”

  “I suppose she would. But she’d find it awfully boring, don’t you think? No moonlight to dance in, no dogs to tease, no mice to chase.”

  Bahji looked surprised. “That’s just what Mom says!”

  “Speaking of your mom, won’t she be worried about you?”

&n
bsp; “Nope. She trusts you.”

  I pondered this. How could a complete stranger trust me? How did she even know about me? Well, from Bahji, of course. But how much information did she actually have? Wait—hadn’t this child been sent to me in the first place? Who was her mother? And did she realize Bahji was here now? In the middle of the night? With an Incurable? “I mean, does your mom know where you are?”

  “Sure. She told me to come.”

  Startled I asked, “What for?”

  “She wants me to tell you something.”

  “Shoot.”

  Bahji stared back blankly.

  “New word for your vocabulary, kid. I mean give me the message.”

  “Oh. She wants to meet you. Soon.”

  “Why didn’t she come along and introduce herself?”

  “You know—” Bahji said, with perfect conviction that adults are in on all of life’s mysteries. “She doesn’t look right.”

  I started to speak, then thought better of it. Bahji and I weren’t going to sort this out to my satisfaction. I’d have to meet her mother. If only because I couldn’t stand the suspense. “How am I supposed to find her?”

  “Now that you know the way to town, I’ll tell you where we live.” Her dark eyes lit with excitement. “You can meet Belladonna too!”

  And how did Bahji know I’d been to town? Another question to set aside for the moment. “So I’m going to your house?”

  “Uh-huh. Mom says you better.”

  “Then you’ll have to draw a map.” I crawled out of bed and beckoned her to my desk. Flipped through a notebook till I found a blank page, then handed it over.

  Bahji fingered the writing materials, plainly puzzled. “Can’t I just tell you?”

  “Not a good idea—I’m real visual. Pictures are better.”

  “This is paper, right?”