by David Bowles
“No. You’re a honey trap. That’s why I ended … this.”
Ambar’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. “¡Por el amor de Dios, mujer! Don’t play childish games with me. We always got back together before, and I don’t see why we can’t do it now. Don’t settle for this brain-dead, aescetic existence when a life of excitement is waiting for you. What’s here for you, anyway? Whether zombies or holy monks, your people showed you long ago just how they feel about you. Give up on them. There’s no point.”
Tenshi’s fists clenched. Her heart ached with surging adrenaline. A tear trembled in her right eye and tumbled down her cheek.
“Mikis!” she called, her gaze boring into Ambar, who seemed to realize she had gone too far.
The maître d' hurried over. “Yes, Ms. Koroma.”
“Tell the the server pack my meal and have it delivered to my home. She will pay.”
The man gave a quick bow. “Of course.”
Ambar sighed dramatically, her favorite gaslighting ploy. “Tenshi, you’re getting way too upset. We’re just having a conversa—"
Slamming her fists on the table, Tenshi stood. “Listen closely, damn you. I will never leave this planet, Ambar. If I didn’t leave it for Isabella, the love of my life, I’m certainly not going to leave it for you. It’s my home. I’ll cling to it with every last ounce of my will. You’d have to kill me to take me away from here.”
Grabbing the bottle of rosé, she stormed from the restaurant and into the night.
CHAPTER 8
It took Brando about a week to get settled into his office amid intermittent meetings. His Baryogo improved as he analyzed the local dialect. The differences fascinated him, to the point that he began sketching out notes for a monograph that would explore the distinctive features and their probable origins.
Of course, the preparation of his course syllabi took precedence over that scholarship. Wanting to tailor instruction to his students’ needs, he had to consider carefully the social dynamics of Jitsu. Fortunately, the university appointed Professor Tayibo to hold an orientation talk for offworlder faculty on Brando’s fifth day.
“Each town has a teyopan,” Tayibo explained, “a chapel presided over by a giya. New members of a teyopan are unenlightened till they perform daily zazen for seven years. Since immigration to our districts is limited, that mostly means local children, who gain membership at age seven.”
Mandatory drug-enhanced meditation for kids, Brando thought. Damn. I thought my childhood was rough.
“At that point, they’re declared matakite, seers, for having reached awareness. They are made full members of the congregation, teyopanjin. Most Jitsujin remain at this level. Following Dominian precepts, they limit themselves to a non-material existence. Little contact with outsiders. But pious teyopanjin can pursue further ritual self-study and reach basic enlightenment. These satorijin are permitted to become giya and either run a teyopan or take part in local government. They can also study alongside non-believers. Most of yall’s students will be in this category, those who aren’t from Station City.”
An older professor, a woman from some island on the world of Atlantis, raised her hand. “Can you give us a feel for why most of those satorijin have decided to study at the university?”
Tayibo nodded. “Yes, excellent question. Satorijin who don’t pursue any specific calling are known as anshyano. Respected elders within their teyopan. But still others yearn for gnosis. Full self-knowledge, hard to achieve. Those who do are the arojin, the other-born. Only they can occupy the highest posts, at the prefectural and planetary level. Even the deputies in the recently instituted legislature—no matter how, uh, reformist they claim to be—are arojin, every one of them.”
The distaste on Tayibo’s face told the new faculty exactly where Tayibo’s political loyalties lay.
“But of course, with the rest of humanity crowding in around our world, arojin in our government need the best secular education possible. That is where yall’s skills come in, colleagues. Take note, however: while Jitsu guarantees freedom of religion, yall should simply teach yall’s subject matter with as little subjective commentary as possible. Stay away from discussions of the Path, except in the most general and historic of terms. A few of yall are Pathwalkers visiting from other worlds or platforms. A word of caution: discuss our beliefs in class, should you so desire, but clear your lecture with a Jitsujin arojin first.”
As Professor Tayibo explained that process, Brando surreptiously used his data pad to learn more about the arojin. A voice narrated softly into his earbud that out of the ranks of Jitsu’s arojin, the Oracle herself chose the ratowanin or archon, the religious and political leader of the entire planet.
“The archon,” the narrator continued, “is said to have reached quantum enlightenment while alive, their nascent soul in constant communion with the Ogdoad, though not with the individual souls rejoined to the Eight. That is a privilege reserved only for the Oracle.”
Brando sighed. Such a labyrinthine and feudal society made him more anxious about having moved to this planet. His haste to put light years between him and his family had kept him from fully researching the religious aspects of Jitsuan life.
Oh, well. Thank mothergod for Station City. I could also start looking up these rebellious reformer types. Especially Tenshi.
Afterward, back in his office, Brando couldn’t help laughing at the irony.
Bloke like me, mistreated and disgusted by organized religion, ends up teaching at an institution that limits the freedom of its professors so they comply with the strictures of a religion. Mamma got one thing right: I am more like my pappà.
“What kind of man leaves his wife and teenage sons to go colonize some newfound world?” she had once demanded. “A man of nothing more than human pursuits, blind to the divine needs of the spirit made flesh. And you’re following in his footsteps.”
Despite the hurt that had settled in Brando’s chest since the day of his father’s departure, it was impossible for him to hate the man. Giacobbe D'Angelo was a musician, a wonderful singer of opera and folk music, and he had brightened Brando's childhood with stories and songs that eclipsed the gobbledygook of his mother's Wiccan Catholic creed.
That faith had grown in strength when Marie-Thérèse found herself abandoned. She had joined the seminary, and by the time Brando entered the Università degli Studi di Milano, she had already been ordained. Her fervor, insight and popularity were such that she was soon performing the 4:30 pm Friday mass at the Chiesa del Santissimo Redentore, spreading the message of the Black Madonna of Loreto.
And Brando’s life had become a prison.
Inspired by the memory of his father's music and the soothing feeling of gut strings on the cherry wood neck, Brando contacted the director of the fair's entertainment component, and after a pleasant five-minute chat, he'd been squeezed in for a song or two between acts. Not performed since the espresso bar on campus. Always won on karaoke night. Constant butterflies fluttering in my gut, though. Imagine now, a thousand faces looking up at me. Will I freeze?
Brando took a public transport down to the fair grounds to get an idea of its scope, though he also hoped to catch a glimpse of the infamous architect. He found a section that was still under construction and picked her out right away. She wore denim pants and a sleeveless linen blouse that glowed white against her burnished onyx skin; her gloved hands rested on a chrome and leather tool belt slung loosely across her narrow hips. She reached up and adjusted the clip on her locs, mahogany shot through with gold, as the operator of a finicky constructor bot shook his head and gestured at the stalled machine.
As Brando approached, he began to make out her voice: husky and firm, yet distinctly feminine.
”I’ve told you before,” she explained in Baryogo, “that there's no reason to use a robot to drive a nail. Use your own body: feel the adrenaline. What are you afraid of, hitting your finger? I thought reality was no big concern of yours, Hari Kan.”
&
nbsp; She handed the Neog teen, for Brando realized as he got closer that Hari was an adolescent, what appeared to be a hammer from her tool belt. Not a nail driver, not a bonder, but a real, old-fashioned hammer.
Now I know this planet is backward.
However, once Hari had bashed his hand and bent the fastener a couple of times, Brando realized Tenshi was the odd one.
“Let me see that,” she said, with only the barest hint of exasperation. “The problem is in the way you're holding it. Also, you don't have to throw your entire body behind each blow: let the mass of the hammer do its work.”
Holding the fastener with her right hand, she tapped it firm in the doorframe they were trying to set, and with three fluid blows she sent it home. Brando couldn't tear his eyes away from her arms, muscles taunt cords beneath the skin, prominent without being ostentatious, not an ounce of fat as far as he could tell from seven meters away.
“Do you see? Now, try fastening the rest of the jamb yourself.”
She hovered near him without being obvious, finding other work to inspect while keeping an eye on his efforts. A couple of tries more, and Hari got the idea. After he'd nailed the jamb in place, she ambled over and nodded.
“Good job,” she observed in Standard. “About time for lunch, no?”
Hari Kan nodded and headed for the food tent, a pleased expression on his face. Brando was also inspired by Tenshi's managerial tactics. He watched her interact with other workers for a while, noting her attentive gaze and their ready allegiance to her, apparent in their movements and tone of voice.
After ten minutes or so, he realized she was moving with gradual and deliberate movements in his direction. Soon she walked right up to the shade-covered bench where he'd plunked himself down.
Brando almost gasped when he saw her eyes. They were deep blue with marbled green, surrounded by orange haloes. Against the glossy darkness of her skin, they might have been twin supernovas.
Something tugged, deep within him, as if the thread of his fate had suddenly tangled itself with hers. He had to bite his lip against inexplicable tears.
“Why are you watching me?” she demanded, and though her voice was quiet and her tone neutral, her gaze bored into him with a force that knocked a quick answer from his lips.
“I'm a participant in the fair,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant despite the thudding of his pulse. “I decided to come down take a look around. Great job you're doing. Impressive.”
“Weren't expecting anything like this on Jitsu, true?” Observation, accusation or confrontation?
“No. Your world has this reputation, an architectural one, I mean, and this fair, along with the other buildings of yours I've seen...”
“You always talk like this?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah. Turning the issue round and round without ever getting to your point.”
Brando sighed. “Sorry. I'm a professor.”
She nodded as if that explained everything.
“Your work truly moves me,” he continued. “Not just compared with the other buildings I see all over this planet, but in general. I'm from Milan, you see, and...”
Her face brightened, and words spilled from her lips. “Milan? With the Pirelli spire and La Scala? Domina, what envy! I used to date a woman from Italy, Isabella Spinelli. A biologist. Lives on Oceania now. She turned me on to yall’s architecture. What do you like more, old quarter or new?”
“Walking through the arcade is an incredible experience even on the thousandth trip. But the new quarter, especially Oscar Cosigga's design for the Diet chamber—well, it takes your breath away. Still, it's purely visual, while your work is visceral, alive.”
“Well, Kyosu,” Professor. Hrm, a little formal, “glad you like it. Of course, you're not as biased against it as my fellow Jitsujin, being an infidel and all.” She smiled broadly. “Come, let's eat lunch. My treat.”
Am I lucky or what? Didn't even need to embarrass myself with a stupid pick-up line. Sort of. At least it was the truth.
As Brando stood, he noted that she was short for a native of Jitsu, only a couple of centimeters taller than he was. The perfect height.
“By the way, what's your name?” Tenshi glanced at him quickly before continuing to sweep the fairgrounds with her eyes.
“Brando D'Angelo.”
“Brando.” Her heavy Baryogo accent made his simple name an incantation.
“Well, Brando—shiperaro wa.” She motioned him to a stop as she walked up to some workers who were apparently putting a facade on one of the fair buildings. The mold for one column, or so Brando imagined given its shape and size, was already in place. The workers, however, were struggling with a large machine, shaped rather like a weapon, with a telescoping base. The device wasn't moving upward. Tenshi examined the base, shrugged, and hefted the machine to her shoulder. She aimed with care and began keying a sensor on the barrel. Five short pieces of rebar shot out one after another and embedded themselves into the concrete in a nearly perfectly straight line as Tenshi inclined the barrel upward. The last piece was heavily slanted, and Tenshi shook her head as though irritated. Reaching out with her left hand, she grabbed hold of the scaffolding and pulled herself up with one wiry arm till she was level with the top portion of what would be the column. She carefully shot in the last three rebars and eased herself to the ground.
“Shite,” Brando muttered.
She smiled self-consciously as she walked back to him, and they made their way to the food tent. He let her choose their food, and she selected two huge squares of fried pork skin lathered with tofu and topped with grated squash, cabbage and local herbs. It was delicious.
“So, Tenshi, you don't mind getting your hands dirty, eh?”
“That's our real problem, you know. First the corporations. They provided everything. All we had to do was operate the machines, make sure it was all running smoothly. Now, the government gets royalties from CPCC-licensed mining of our Oort cloud plus the planets that orbit Kobito, and they use those funds to support all Jitsujin. The fusion plants provide energy for nearly every need, which isn't a lot. But it’s enough for many. They only expect the minimum, convinced they shouldn’t yearn for anything more. Extremist leaders take that away from folks early on, take away our ambition and our thirst to know. Few Jitsujin care how devastated this planet is, how much needs to be done to fix it. We end up recruiting outsiders to help us when we should be doing the work ourselves.”
“You’ve got a lot more freedom than we do on Earth; they teach us to say, 'Your planet, your people, and then you.' Here at least the individual is the most important, no?”
“Problem is, extremists define individual in a way that limits us to basically nothing. Self to most Dominian Pathfinders is something you create, but not with physical tools. When they make you to give everything up except what's inside your head, and then they don't allow you to put anything inside except what they say: would you call that freedom?”
She seemed to be struggling internally, perhaps trying to convince herself of something that Brando couldn’t grasp. He decided to probe a little more.
“No, guess not. Don’t parents ever try to teach their kids stuff beyond what the church allows?”
Tenshi sighed. “It’s tricky. There are reformist neighborhoods and communities, of course. But most parents don't teach their kids: the teyopan takes children starting at age four. And even if families did keep them, most wouldn't know what to do. They were raised the same way. It's a great system, oh, yes. The arojin have all the power and few dare contradict them. In extremist communities, kids who don't agree, who want to find their souls in more than just drugs and zombiehood, get shipped to the clean-up crews till they see how much better it is to be like the rest, let the teyopan give you everything and just vegetate. It's sad. Instead of letting you build a soul, they end up crushing you.”
Tenshi's jaw tightened as if she were fighting back tears or a scream. Glancing at the workers while h
er knuckles whitened on the edges of the table, Tenshi shook her head. “Listen to me. I don’t even know you, and I’m spilling my guts to you. Trust me, I’m not usually like this. The massacre, the pressure of the fair, a slight hangover, then someone who’s willing to listen comes along. Ugh. Sorry.” Her eyes met his again, and she smiled with childlike shyness, as if she felt truly foolish.
“Hell, Tenshi, it’s okay. I’m feeling a bit weird myself.” Brando had no idea why, but he felt the need to open up to her. He’d been alone for so long, longing for a little warmth. And she was right: there was something compelling about being around a person who would simply listen to you. Bewildered at the unthawing of his heart, Brando began to talk, turning his UV shades over and over in his hands.
“You know, letting your parents raise you isn't always that great, either. I doubt many people know how to do it. My mother always regarded my accomplishments with disdain, and my dad left when I needed him most. I was the best linguistics student at the university in the last fifty years, my dissertation disseminated throughout the Consortium, but never once did Mamma or Zia or my brother say, 'Hey, good job, Brando. Congratulations.' It was like, 'Oh, big deal. Doesn't have a thing to do with us or the Holy Church, so we aren’t interested.' You know what it's like to achieve something and for the people that mean the most to you to ignore it?”
An odd expression crossed Tenshi’s face. “Yes. It's what they do, those who see physical reality as unimportant. Ironically, such people embrace those beliefs because they're afraid of this world. Deep down they know that they can’t face it. So they find a bunch of other cowards, and together, rather than helping one another grapple with reality, they convince themselves they’re somehow special. Always be suspicious of groups in which everybody thinks the same, Professor. Most dangerous thing that exists.”
Stop, a cowardly, defeatist voice within him warned. Don’t reveal anything else. This is a test. Expose yourself, and she’ll lose respect. No one likes a weak man. You know this to be true.
