by Neil Clarke
When I felt along it, his brown-speckled eyes became wide, his pupils dilated as if beseeching.
I recognized the pattern from my research. It was one used in condolences, a freeing of the soul and a wishing of eternal comfort. I gave him a pat on the back and cried.
He looked nervous and uncomfortable, watching a grown woman cry. He passed along a local organic glue, said some perfunctory words, and made an exit, rushing along in such agility, it was as if he had never even gotten hurt.
Later, with careful fingers, I affixed the thread to the crack, covering the hairline fissure. It was beautiful, reminding me of kintsugi, the time mom taught me how to splice back broken mortar and pestles and ceramic cream jars with melted gold. This golden thread now contained a message, however, a reminder of our journey together—me and this vessel and my mom’s remains—through villages and people who knew me as a researcher and cared.
As I was pressing down the thread onto the fissure, the seal made a strange gurgling noise, and it triggered the holo. I watched as the holo lit up in a color so bright, it bounced in a sheen off the front of my nose.
It was the same rocking chair, but even more resplendent. Was it me, or was Teresa Teng’s ballad sung in an even clearer voice, one that sounded strangely like my mom’s? And was it me, or did I see the faintest silhouette of two figures sitting on the chair, one mama-shaped and one child-shaped on her lap? I shook my head. I must be imagining it.
I rubbed my temples. Maybe it’s the roots for the headache they gave me.
But, I stared harder until it fizzled away. I tried touching the holo. Nothing but a slight tingle.
I pressed the enamel trigger again. And again. Yes, they were there. Faint mama silhouette and child. I put my finger again to it, feeling the tickle again. That’s her. That’s me.
They were there.
At first, I thought if I collected a bunch of these threads and glued them on, maybe it would work. All these holograms would pop to life with more vividness, more life.
I did bartering, trading my expertise in linguistic and cultural translation at Lancon for supplies. I spent time there fulfilling these trades, scrawling down texts and handwriting scrolls and posters. I helped administer deals and correct misunderstandings. I arbitrated negotiations. I usually avoid all this kind of interaction, anything more than collecting data and minor participation in rituals—it felt too much like meddling.
It was something my mom was good at, ingratiating herself with others to get her product sold. She said that customers were just enigmas to crack. Once you figure them out, you know what they want. And she would say, I always have a solution for them—in the form of cosmetics.
I managed to collect in the form of payment, a few of these cherished gold threads, doled out infrequently, only one at a time and in exceptional times like births, unions, and deaths. It was lucky I even got three of them.
I used the same glue and tried a few ways of manipulating the thread. I tied one in the same way as the boy, incorporating the condolence message. It didn’t work. My hands weren’t as nimble as his, but I checked a few times and the knots were in the right place, looped in the same ways. I tried undoing them, having to procure some removal paste, which also cost a lot in interaction and trade.
After finagling with it for some time, I gave up. No other holo became more brilliant or had features I didn’t see before. Even when I added another layer of the gold strand, the rocking chair one stayed exactly the same, with only a mere suggestion of silhouetted figures.
I left Lancon in worse spirits than coming in. Sure, I gained a clue, but I was far from figuring anything out. It was a tease, tantalizing me, but I wasted so much effort here. I kept the three strands, ubertaped them to the pack holding my mom’s remains.
There was more to figure out.
I traveled in a local skyglider to the burial site, in Conme. Sixty-nine days had passed and tomorrow would be the last of the funerary period. My deadline for cracking this puzzle fast approached.
Usually, I avoided the skygliders, going for the more official routes, but the parties I helped at the village were so happy with my time doing translation and negotiation work, they banded together to get me a flight out. I packed my things and said my goodbyes.
The twelve year old handed me a bag of dried flowers for an infusion. They were macolan, desiccated but still flashy, and reminded me of the bright yellow flame tree flowers.
I thanked him. I shook the flowers and took a whiff. A floral potpourri scent that reminded me of jasmine filled my nostrils.
I touched elbows with him and bid him goodbye.
It felt lonely without the villagers.
With my fieldwork done, I was able to make this side trip to Thres in Conme, outside my funding parameters. I wondered why my mom had chosen this as a burial site. She said it had to do with feng shui and some rather complicated calculation involving angles and starlight to Earth, conveyance, and as the natural burial site of our ancestors after leaving Earth. I didn’t understand the feng shui talk no matter how much she propounded it. She said it was about angles, movement, and vibrancy, like the shape of your face and appearance of the buoyancy of your cheeks relative to your eyes.
I didn’t know what she was talking about then. But there was one thing I knew now. I felt dejected. I’d end up burying her and the urn because I reached the deadline, never cracking the case. Never fulfilling her wishes.
Dr. Lee-way was right. I had played with the urn until my hands felt sore, my knuckles aching from poking and prodding. I saw the holos over and over, I’m sure I could have drawn them out with my zex-quill one by one in succession with my eyes closed. I could sing in detail the music that flowed along with them. But, only the faintest outline of what might be, the latency of what laid within, had appeared, and I stared at the mysterious silhouettes until I could bore holes through the holo itself.
As the skyglider approached Thres, the pilot must’ve felt my anxiety and stayed quiet the whole time. But, at one point, he started coughing. It was this uncontrollable cough that whipped through the air. I knew the ship was safe since even the skygliders were equipped with autopilots, but I started to worry about his health.
I gave him a desiccated macolan. He saw the flower and smiled.
I poured a hot liquid from a decanter, careful not to upset the sediment. Then I took the macolan flower from him and dropped it in the liquid, watching it bloom in slow motion, brilliant tendrils reaching out into the amber liquid.
The pilot, who had stopped coughing, introduced himself and began to talk.
His name was Kaspa. He said he heard I lost my mom. I just nodded, not feeling like chatting, even if I did miss the company of the villagers. He said he lost his wife a few years back. He talked about her with such open affection: the way she used to dance the lamdaca, her incredible skills in material science, her way with certain chemicals. He showed me a handful of golden strands. “She made these.”
That made me open up.
“She made the funerary strands?” I asked, completely awed. He had a clump of them—maybe twenty. It was so haphazardly in his palm, like the clumped filling of hug-all’s. I’ve seen slips and cloths made of this fabric, but I’ve never seen so many gossamer strands at once. The fibers were so delicate that I was told many snap before reaching that thinness.
It was a small fortune in his hands.
He tucked them into a pocket and laughed. “Yeah, my wife was a genius, amazing.” His eyes looked wet, and he stared at me for a moment.
I looked away.
“I got one recently. From a twelve-year-old boy.”
“A twelve-year-old boy. It couldn’t be Rondi, could it?”
I thought for a moment. “Yeah. Rondi. I think. Yeah.”
“Tall boy, yeh high?”
“Yes, tall and lanky. Disheveled hair. He brought it to me and it was so expertly knotted.”
“That’s my little boy!” cried the pilot.
> My heart did a flip. I cocked my head and looked at the pilot. I didn’t see the resemblance. Had he mistaken?
“No, Rondi’s dad is Kayel. Kayel came with us to the doctor’s when he hurt himself.”
“He hurt himself?” Kaspa looked seriously upset.
“He’s fine. Just got a bit rattled up. He’s fine. He got startled from firecrackers and passed out. We got him to the medic. I saw him myself running about after, completely carefree.”
Kaspa gave a sigh of relief. Tension in his shoulders released.
“No, Kayel is not his dad. I am. Kayel is Rondi’s godfather and current caretaker.”
“You’re his dad?”
“Yes, I’m his dad. Rondi’s my son. I took care of him until Lakla, my wife, died two years ago. I started driving these ships and had little time. It was hard, but I handed him to his godfather for care. I visit him from time to time, but I know it’s not often enough.”
His eyes darted down and he stared at his drink for about a minute.
I looked through my notes. I had a few kinship charts, but I didn’t focus on Rondi’s family, but on other villagers. “So, Kaspa, you’re really Rondi’s dad?
I just couldn’t believe it. They seemed so different and I was convinced Kayel was his father. They even had the same expressions, this worried crease between the eyes. I felt sorry for Rondi, his dad always on the move, in the air, far away.
“I hate to admit it. But, when Lakla died, I lost it. She was everything to me. I would’ve done anything for her. And the one thing she would’ve wanted me to do, I couldn’t. I couldn’t take care of him alone. He looks just like her. Just like her. A spitting image. Just looking at him, it opened up an ache so wide and engulfing, I would’ve fallen in and never climbed out. I couldn’t see him and see my dead wife. I couldn’t.”
Now, the decoction in his hand was shaking. I could see through the transparent mug, the macolan dancing in there like a strange organism, its petal tendrils gliding in the water and trembling.
“Rondi gave me that,” I said, pointing at the flower.
His eyes flashed and crinkled. He took a sip, sighed, and put down the mug. “I know. He loves those flowers. So did Lakla. They used to pick and dry them together. She’s a material scientist. Did I mention that?”
“Yes, you did.” I tried to cover my grin about how proud he was about this fact.
“There’s some compound in those flowers ingrained in the threads. I don’t know it all exactly. Only a few know and I’m not even sure if they know it all. Lakla was a genius, like I said.”
I pulled out a couple of mine. “I have some, too. From your son.”
He picked one up, felt it and stared at it with a faraway look, as if staring through it. “Ah, these, these aren’t the same.”
I gasped, almost letting one slip through my fingers. “They’re frauds?” I picked it up from the skyglider floor, watching it noodle into a ball in my palm.
“No, no, they’re not fraudulent. There are different versions. This is version two. It doesn’t have all the new compounds. My wife was working on these new strands, version three, before she passed. She said she didn’t perfect it, but the version three ones were cutting edge. They even use them now in manufacturing some appliances and other top-of-the-line goods. She was always tinkering, never satisfied.”
I thought for a moment, weighing what I would do next. It could imperil my trip there. Maybe he would turn around right there and then.
I did it anyway. I took out my mom’s urn. Pulled it gently out of its case.
“Is that what I think it is?” His voice was small.
“It’s an urn.”
I showed it to him. The buttons. I watched the holos, crying.
He watched me cry, his eyes traveling to the holos and then to me.
“If you have an urn, then you must have the remains.”
I sniffed, dabbing my eyes with my knuckles. Should I lie?
I thought about his wife, Rondi, and his sincerity about leaving his son. I couldn’t. Not after this.
“Yes,” I said.
“You know I’m not supposed to have this kind of stuff on my ship.”
“I know.”
“They’re remains.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
He breathed a large sigh.
We were silent for a while.
“I’m not going to turn around. But, you’ll . . . you’ll make it up to me. You have to come by more. Come visit my son. He likes you. He gave you a few of these strands and flowers. He doesn’t do that for everyone. He was very close to his mom. They were things of his mom and he doesn’t just give them away.”
I nodded.
He focused out into the skies, the brilliance of stars twinkling in his pupils. “Tell me about your mom,” he said. He gestured at the urn.
I told him. I told him not only the good, but the vanity. Her drive, her ambition. Her cosmetics line with her as the icon. Yongli, even her name, forever beautiful. I wrote it for him: 永麗. Her love for puzzles. This absolute drive to create the best puzzle so I can never unlock it.
“Sounds like my wife. She wanted to pass on her knowledge of material sciences to my son. He liked the flowers and the strands, but he was more of an artist. He’s good with languages and crafts. He’s invented a few of his own languages. He likes creating in his own way.”
He looked wistful. “She was a bit too driven.”
“How did she pass away?” I asked. I went and made myself a concoction as well, tipping the hot water into my own mug and dropping in a macolan flower.
“Stress and lack of sleep. She was overworking herself. I told her to stop, that she didn’t need to, that I could help her with payments. Back then, I was running a small business, but it wasn’t working out. It wasn’t about money, though. She just was too involved. She started missing out on life, on Rondi himself. Didn’t see him for who he was. The irony is that I did, at least I think I did, but I left him.” He clamped up and starting playing with his hands. He looked down, pulled out a sensifabric cloth from the drawer below his seat, and wiped down the viewing window, the glow reflecting off the viewing cauldglass. He checked his readings and continued wiping. “How about your mom? Did she see you?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer him. I started to say something, then switched. I rattled on about her attributes. Her foibles. Her love for puzzles.
He listened.
“Do you like languages?” he asked, suddenly, swirling the now-soaked macolan with his fingers.
“I love languages,” I said. “I think what your son does is amazing. I’m really fond of all things related to communication and expression. Actually, I’m primarily a linguistic anthropologist. But, I also do other cultural work.” I trailed off.
I thought of something, something was piecing together.
The urn. Did she know me? The question stung like a bee. Did she know me?
“Do you have a sharp knife?” I gestured, poking my finger against the urn.
“One that sharp? Hm. Hold on tight.” He pushed a few triggers on his window in front of him and then stepped away. He came back with a laser.
“This is something my wife codesigned to conduct research on her material work. It’s a prototype but works well. It’s a knife that senses organics and will not cut through life but only through materials that you designate.” He showed me. He turned it on and passed the scarlet ray through his finger. I winced. It didn’t cut. He adjusted the tip, directed the light at the mug.
“She used to get a lot of cuts on her fingers. Not deep, but enough to annoy her and slow down her work. She was always striving to achieve efficiency.” He slid his finger down a wheel on the side of the laser knife. “You can set the depth, too. You can also adjust the set depth by manipulation of the knife in your hands. Just push down on it like you would any other knife.”
He demonstrated. The laser created a small fissure.
“It’s great for repair
s on the ship,” he said, shrugging. “Like, I said. My wife. A genius.”
I thanked him and wielded it. It was light and the surface made warm through Kaspa’s grasp.
I was going to do this. I was going to mar the urn. I tried a few swipes on the mug, marking it with etches, and felt the ease of this tool. I was ready.
I felt something possess me that wasn’t my own. No, it must’ve been me, many iterations of me, cultivated through years by my mom. Her asking me to talk to customers, making me interact with people in other languages I couldn’t understand. Introducing me to new cultures, telling me that to penetrate new markets, I had to understand cultural specificity. She made me study people’s faces, the lines next to their mouths, asked me what they ate and drank. She gave me brochures to read, competitors of different product lines, from different colonies, with strange drawings and symbols I had spent time sitting and figuring out. They were puzzles, all of them, and she knew I loved them.
I etched words I remembered from these brochures. Ones that would match her—and match me. Who we were. I set the laser on just barely touching the surface, creating the shallowest of scratches at the edges of the cloisonné enamel designs, aligned with the holographic trigger points. I wrote in different languages. I was not a master of one specifically, but was versed in enough to be understandable, conversational, and analytical. I thought of those words now:
“Ageless skin that will guide you into the future” in the rough consonants of Kzaskz.
“Look visibly younger and healthier” in the loops of Checchneaneaot.
“Creamy astral vibes for a new tomorrow” in the pictographic Letsnvam.
“Erase the puffiness in your eyes” in the hypnotic swirls of Vloovloo.
“Bring in shine and tone . . . and develop elasticity” in the gentle wavy tails of Nyeann . . .
I wrote so many of these commercial platitudes on the urn with the laser that I lost track of time, space, everything. I forgot where I was, who I was, delving into these pockets of memory, conjuring them up as if they existed right there on my fingertips the whole time.
Did she see me? Did she see me? The refrain swung and circulated in my head like the pendulating back and forth of a rocking chair.