FutureDyke

by Lea Daley

  Gesturing broadly, she said, “This is Jashari. The perfect metaphor for the culture. Once you accept the implications, you’ll flourish here, Leslie.”

  Just what insight was I expected to extract from this endless, arid terrain? Too proud to ask for aid, I looked around. The desert was serene, untroubled, gentler than any on Earth. No jarring elements interrupted the calm—no dust clouds roiled the air, no local version of tumbleweed careened across that rolling vista. Dune after golden dune spread into the distance, each indistinguishable from the next.

  Puzzled, I turned to the sand beneath my feet. Stirred it with my boot. Watched individual grains rise, catch the light, settle back into obscurity. Alone they were tiny, insignificant. Together they made up this awesome panorama. Fling a few off-planet and the desert would be undiminished. That, I thought, was Whitehall’s message.

  I wanted to argue. Wanted to say the desert only existed because of those minuscule crystals. Wanted to insist that each was unique, precious and irreplaceable. But this wasn’t a debate—Chastity couldn’t be converted, didn’t care how I felt. She’d brought me here to understand how another culture looked at life and she’d succeeded. I couldn’t resist provoking her though. “Hilarious, isn’t it?”

  My companion turned, her eyes bold and inquisitive. “What?”

  “That you’d be the one to teach me this.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning the obvious. You’re the most egocentric person ever, Chas—hardly one to settle for anonymity. Call me cynical, but I don’t believe you believe this bullshit.”

  “You don’t have to believe it, Leslie. You just have to use it…unless you prefer life as an untouchable.”

  There it was again, the subtle suggestion that intimacy was only a heartbeat away. But she wasn’t the only one who could play that game. Smiling through my revulsion, I pointed at the ground, where the light of late afternoon cast shadows of our bodies—lavender ghosts interlaced on the sand. As if we were lovers. Tucking Whitehall’s hand under one arm, I made sure her fingers grazed my naked breast. “We’d better head back, Chas. Young Peter will be waiting for his evening workout.”

  * * *

  On our sixth day of sightseeing, Whitehall steered me into a long, narrow building. A bright array of signs overhead claimed my attention, while conveying nothing whatsoever. Wyr’mantah, one said. Hahn’tash’i, read the next. En’tahlya. Syn’a’taro. Falon’iphi. Proper nouns, I could tell that much—names for things unknown. All around us, Jasharians were queuing in front of gleaming bronze panels, stepping through, winking out of view. Under illuminated script that said Ana’jrazi, Whitehall raised my wrist and pressed me through a whirl of spiraling atoms. Into another city. A larger one, busier. More cosmopolitan by far.

  And I damn well wouldn’t let her know she’d blown my mind. In my most blasé voice, I drawled, “How very Star Trek of you, Chas!”

  Surprisingly, she caught the reference. “An entirely different technology—nuclear pneumatics. Only used for long-distance travel. And completely off-limits for Returnees.”

  “But—”

  “As Special Advisor on Les Incurables, I have a clearance—and today you’re my honored guest.”

  Ana’jrazi felt like Manhattan-Singapore-Paris woven together, given a hundred intriguing twists, then fast forwarded into the far future. When Whitehall led me down its bustling avenues, through a dozen sun-struck plazas, I fell in love with the place. My left palm turned up every twenty seconds, a clear indication that I hungered for a camera. Why had I thought I’d exhausted all interest in travel?

  There were splendors around each corner—architecture unlike anything I’d seen here, soaring and luminous. Intoxicating scents that wafted on every breeze—citrus morphing to lilac becoming cut grass sliding into salt beach slipping toward spun sugar. Every square boasted marvelous mercury fountains—or something indistinguishable from that. Silvery streams of heavy liquid rising, reflecting, arching, falling, rippling, rising again. Enchanting, unforgettable.

  How presumptuous to have assumed I understood something of Jashari! Plainly I’d only begun to plumb its depths. I couldn’t guess how those amazing sights had come into being, had no knowledge of Jashrine commerce, industry, economics. Didn’t know where all these people were going, what occupied their waking hours. Couldn’t visualize their private lives.

  Just then, high overhead, I noticed something I could only label “sky painting”—breathtaking, translucent, ever-changing color. Similar to the aurora borealis on Earth, but more intricate, more controlled, even lovelier. I stopped abruptly, turning in a circle to track the full effect.

  “Don’t gape, Leslie! It’s unbecoming!”

  “But you brought me here for that exact purpose, dear friend!”

  Every street in Ana’jrazi teemed with beautiful women—of which I’m a connoisseur. But even there, nothing was more exotic, more eye-catching, than a natural blond arm in arm with an authentic redhead. Deep bows and sideways glances suggested that Whitehall and I had attained a sort of celebrity. And she was intoxicated by the attention, all lit up with devilish excitement, flirting outrageously.

  “Stop, Chas! This can only lead to trouble!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I play this game superbly and the rules are different here. You’re used to Li’LuzAhn, the stuffy old capitol city from which all virtue emanates. But now we’re on holiday in a sophisticated metropolis. You could kiss me forever in the midst of this crowd and the Council would never know.” She lifted that glowing face, trying to tempt me.

  “I told you once—I won’t poach on Peter’s property.”

  Whitehall pouted. “I don’t belong to Peter. He belongs to me.”

  “Whatever,” I said. Because as much as I longed to feel something—anything—I was still immune to her wiles. And how that infuriated her! She’d just have to crank up the heat and try again. Sure enough, a new idea was brightening those big brown eyes. As Whitehall began to hustle me through the throng, I asked, “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise. Come along quietly.”

  She halted outside a building that stretched to infinity. Apparently formed of a single glass block, milky green and glimmering. The usual sign offered the predictably obscure description of services available within: Aqueous Transfiguration.

  The main attraction was some kind of public bath, so immense it seemed boundless, awash with subdued and mellow light. Warm water flowed ankle high, then dipped shallow or deep to form soaking pools. Not surprisingly there were fountains here too, but these were delicate constructions that filled the air with a tingling mist. Across the way, a frolic of foam broke the calm—Jashari Jacuzzi, perhaps. Yet how quiet this place was! How different from pleasure spots on Earth! Not a single garish water slide or gaggle of shrieking children.

  When unclad natives strolled past us—so smoothly the surface barely wavered—I finally understood why we were there. This was Chastity’s excuse to strip down for my edification. Also her chance to check me out. If nothing else, I’d give her points for perseverance.

  Without consulting me, she chose a secluded spot, stepped into the depths and knotted that honey-colored hair atop her head. Then she dropped lower till her chin touched water. When she rose again, her shoulders were bare and inviting. So, no doubt, was everything else.

  I sat in shallows nearby, drawing my knees to my chest. Shedding my clothes without comment. Displaying nothing but an expanse of shin, circled by my arms. With perverse pleasure I saw I’d excited Whitehall. She postured and posed, doing her best to break through. But I yawned, then rested one cheek on my knees. “Nice place! I could sleep here.”

  When I opened my eyes a few moments later, she’d emerged from the pool to stretch out alongside me. That alluring mass of hair was loose now, drifting on miniature waves, which lapped against skin so flawless I knew it was the product of Jashrine magic. Since she wanted me to look, I did. As reported, she was beyond beautiful,
with the perfectly toned muscles of a swimmer. I could quibble over details, but why bother? Small wonder she’d made untold billions pant with desire.

  “Impressive,” I acknowledged, yearning for Aimée—so small and trim and wholesome. Then, “I’m a little chilly, Chas. Are you ready to leave?”

  Annoyed, defeated, she stood. Some wicked impulse claimed me and I decided to show her what she was missing. Extending a hand, I let her lever me up. Her gaze lingered on my breasts, dropped to my waist, then settled on the dense coppery tangle at the juncture of my thighs.

  “Satisfied, Ms. Whitehall?”

  “Hardly!”

  She brushed past me, offering one glimpse of a high, round, wholly delicious rear before she composed a new outfit. Every stride toward the exit expressed her exasperation in the most provocative way possible. I trailed after her, strolling through a swirl of balmy air that instantly siphoned away all moisture, then covered my own nakedness. And as I stepped into the street I was grinning like a fool—I did feel transfigured by the experience.

  * * *

  Shortly thereafter, Chastity invited Johansonn to join our excursions—a transparent effort to inflame me. But she was doomed to disappointment. I wasn’t jealous, didn’t care how much she batted her eyelashes at the man. He was enthralled though, and I was half sorry for him. It seemed he actually loved her.

  “Where shall we go, darling?” Whitehall trilled the first day. “What do you think Leslie should see?”

  “The inside of a black hole,” he must have wanted to say. But propriety forbade the direct approach. Instead he suggested we observe Sis’lah N’Tre’jahr. Which was some kind of afternoon offertory, a male ritual—or so I gathered. Chastity readily agreed, with an accommodating smile I was sure Peter misconstrued.

  He took the lead, guiding us toward the heart of Li’LuzAhn. Before long, we entered a broad colonnade, then walked single file through a curving corridor formed of echoing stone walls. At last the serpentine path emptied into a large clearing circled by ranks of polished benches. Which were designated for females only. Because here women were witnesses, nothing more. Surveying the arena, I saw Chastity and I could have our choice of seating—the audience was sparse that day. Surprising her with my air of authority, I selected a bench midway up the stands.

  Hundreds of men had begun to assemble by the time we settled in place. Clothed in white loincloths, they were small and slim, with light brown skin—like all Jasharians. Clearly, Peter had chosen this venue to showcase his powerful physique. Because in that crowd, the man was singular, sculpted, shining—Michelangelo’s David. But he’d miscalculated…and badly. Chastity and I were dykes, after all. Completely unmoved by his iconic masculinity.

  Suddenly the ceremony was underway. There were drums—out of Africa, I thought—but muted, less passionate. And there was movement, a mesmerizing, unbroken flow reminiscent of tai chi. The observance was intense, mysterious, very like a religious rite.

  Leaning forward, seemingly engrossed in the dance, Chastity pressed her thigh against mine. Though she appeared to be wearing an intricately pleated gown inspired by ancient Greece, her nude flesh warmed my own. And before I could protest, she wound that leg around my calf, pinning me in place, laughter rich in her throat.

  Far below us, the men were oblivious. Moving in unison, chanting formalized litanies. But they weren’t addressing some unfamiliar deity. They were vowing an end to rivalry. Renewing their commitment to harmony. Pledging unity of spirit, heart and mind to one another. Meanwhile, Whitehall teased my ankle with perfectly manicured toes. I shot a peripheral glance at her. “Isn’t it blasphemous to be screwing around here?”

  She turned, sweeping one firm breast along my arm, heating my ear with a breathy reply. “Nonsense, Leslie. This isn’t about divinity—it’s about hormones. They’re reminding themselves to tone down the testosterone, to repudiate their animal origins, to forswear the killing instinct. Yet Peter’s turned the service into a competition. Stupid, sweaty beast!”

  “Interesting take on the father of your child.”

  “All I need are good genes. You must admit he has those.”

  “Your criteria are a bit different from mine.”

  She should have been offended. Instead she leaned closer, smiling. “You and I have plenty in common…where it counts.”

  The ritual had ended. Each man now knelt on packed sand. I caught a movement to my left, then saw small boys offering participants sips of something from communal goblets. “Fah’rana che’lar,” Chastity informed me. The drink of unity and fellowship. I wondered if it was laced with drugs.

  Peter drank deeply. Patted his mouth with a sacramental cloth. Rose to his feet. Just before he spotted us, Whitehall pressed my hand to her lips. Shifting into a neutral pose, she whispered, “Why are you fighting so hard, Leslie? Sooner or later, I’ll win. And I promise you won’t regret it.”

  I raised my eyebrows skeptically. “Don’t count on that, Chas.”

  Then Peter arrived to take possession of her.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A few nights later, at Whitehall’s insistence, the three of us shared an awkward dinner. Acting the gracious host, she choreographed every second, first turning the conversation to Johansonn, then to me. Clearly trying to incite at least one of us to say something rash. Courtesy required that we respond to her every gambit, of course—and forced us to interact with one another. Which united us in resentment, if nothing else. I was counting the minutes till I could make my excuses and leave. Only for Bahji would I put myself through this sham.

  We’d just finished the final course when Chastity announced she had an engagement elsewhere. Before either Peter or I could regroup, she was gone. No doubt she’d left us alone to see what would happen. And her instincts were unparalleled—I gave her far more than she could ever imagine.

  But it wasn’t for lack of trying to evade her ruse. Because the instant she vanished, I stood and bowed farewell to Johansonn. I was poised to escape when he called me back. “Stay awhile. Let’s take advantage of this opportunity—it’s impossible to talk when Chastity’s around.”

  I turned, reluctantly. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Sit down. It’s past time to get straight about everything.”

  The hint of command in his voice raised my hackles. “You’re the only straight one in our happy little trio. I certainly don’t intend to join you.”

  “Chas is straight!”

  “How long have you lived in this fantasy world?”

  “You condescending little shit! I know she’s been with women! She told me everything. But that’s all in the past. We’re in love! She even wants to have my baby—remember?”

  “So all she needed was one good lay?”

  “Considerably more than one!”

  “Don’t be so smug, Pete! You might be fucking like rabbits at night, but she spends every day trying to get into my pants! She’s using you for her own selfish purposes. The minute she’s pregnant, you’re toast!”

  A powerful arm shot back, cocked and ready. If that blow landed, something important would break. “You dare not strike Li’shayla Mar-Né!” I hissed.

  When that enormous fist fell to Johansonn’s side, fingers uncurling by increments, I could breathe again. But something was wrong—drastically wrong. Because the man wouldn’t be more jubilant if he’d just won World-Wide Lotto. Spinning on his heel, he bolted into the night. Leaving me to wonder what damage I’d done with that cheap save. Damn my redheaded temper! Why hadn’t I just ducked?

  Miserable and confused, I slunk home. If this was how divinity felt, they could have my halo and owed me money besides. Aimée was waiting in my apartment. I greeted her hopefully, longing for absolution. But one look at her grave expression told me I was in big trouble.

  * * *

  The next morning I returned to Whitehall’s as if nothing had happened. The thought of another day in her company sickened me, yet I had to test the waters. She
was in her garden, just finishing breakfast. Slipping into my butch persona, I sat beside her without welcome or invitation.

  “Peter’s gone,” she announced with a sly smile. But there was a lunatic edginess deep in her eyes that belied her calm exterior. Something was up—I just didn’t know what.

  “Gone?”

  “I’ve sent him away.”

  “Gonna put quite a kink in the baby-making project.”

  From the way her nostrils flared, I knew I’d hit the mark. And sooner or later I’d pay for derailing her pretty political scheme. But just now, Chastity was planning a more immediate amusement. “You were right, Leslie. This is probably for the best…” She struck a kittenish pose, toyed with a tendril of her hair—studied mannerisms that left me cold. Funny, because Mer could stop my heart while slicing an apple with unselfconscious grace, and Aimée could jumpstart it with one elegant bow. But Whitehall was speaking again and I had to focus. “It’s true I’m not exactly the maternal type…”

  “Agreed, but you have so many other talents, Chas! Still, I regret everything I said to Johansonn—he’s too immature to take it in stride. I crossed way over the line and shook him up pretty badly.”

  “An understatement.” Adopting a sincere tone, Whitehall said, “I want you to know I was scrupulously honest with Peter. I never claimed to love him. I told him about the women in my life…”

  And let him believe he eclipsed them. Just like she hoped I’d chase after all the tasty nuggets she cast my way. “So what happened last night?”

  “Such drama! He burst in after I returned. Shouting, cursing. Accusing me of using him. So tiresome.”

  She’d loved the scene. Her eyes sparkled with the memory. “He repeated your assessment of my motives, of course, then begged me to say you were wrong.”