Symbiosis

by Nicky Drayden

  He had, for sure. Multiple somethings . . . my heart being one of them. I would have followed after him, had my ama’s hand not been locked upon my knee like a talon.

  In the end, after lengthy debates (and significant bribes, most likely) Kallum had retained his matriline. It was enough to legitimize our eventual marriage, though even that was fraught with dissent among those looking to unseat me, and even some of the general population. Two head-husbands in the same family unit? It was preposterous. There were already so few men among so many women.

  You are being greedy, they told us. Reckless. Disregarding tradition.

  Yes, we’d said, but the laws around marriage only mention Lines, so Kallum and I laughed all the way from the marriage altar to our bed linens—two greedy, reckless men.

  But the loopholes weren’t big enough—nor were the bribes tempting enough—to get Kallum into the Senate. They made up flimsy excuses for why a man would be unfit to serve, even one with sturdy enough of a Line behind him. Won’t he be too sensitive? Tire too easily? Get too overwhelmed? Their feigned concern cut at Kallum’s capabilities, and in turn cut at my own yet again. Were their memories that shallow? Everything they said about him they’d once said about me, and slowly I’d turned the minds of those who doubted me with my policies and leadership.

  Eventually our persistence wore at their nerves, and the Senate threw a prestigious delegation job at Kallum as a distraction. Head of the ERI recognizance team, traveling between Zenzee worlds and building a set of best practices for us to share. We’d decided as a family that it would be a good tactical move. No man had ever been given that much responsibility, aside from myself. Kallum took the job at our insistence, but now I wonder if we shouldn’t have pushed harder for a Senate seat. Especially when my support hinges on so few votes, thanks to those keen on undermining me, like this woman standing here with a saccharine smile smeared across her face.

  “Well, it’s good to see that you’ve made it to the proceedings on time,” Tesaryn Wen says to me. “We can’t wait to see what sort of insight you’ll have on this very delicate situation.”

  I bite back my aggravation and return her fake smile. “I would have liked to have more time to prepare, but I’m sure I’ll have something useful to add to the conversation.” I glance at Baradonna, now standing behind Tesaryn Wen, dressed in her finest silks and leathers, hand on the hilt of her knife.

  “True. You’re always so articulate. Nothing at all like the men I’m used to dealing with.” Tesaryn Wen lets out a flighty laugh, hand pressed to her chest, so amused with herself.

  “Can I cut her now?” Baradonna mouths at me. She’s kidding. I think. Baradonna looks like the old carvings of Desmona the Great when she’s in her formal attire, and we all remember what happened when that legend had gotten fed up with political corruptness and unleashed her blade in a Senate meeting 260 years ago. The last major structural change to the Senate chambers had been adding four sets of emergency exit doors. Apparently, no one had considered how inconvenient it would be for 118 Senators to cram through a single set of doors while a knife-wielding mad-woman slashed at them.

  I swallow the lump in my throat, subtly shake my head at Baradonna’s question, then look back into Tesaryn Wen’s calculating eyes. “Anyway, it’s so good to see you again. And I really appreciate the three dozen gall steaks you sent to my office during the End of Exodus holiday. I’m sure they would have been delicious if they hadn’t spent three days rotting while we were all off celebrating.”

  Tesaryn Wen tsks. “Oh, I’m sorry they didn’t make it there in time for you to enjoy them! I trust the smell wasn’t too horrid when you returned?” She somehow manages to say this with a straight face, though a smirk keeps threatening to curl her lip.

  “On the contrary. It was beyond pungent, but it reminded me of a certain smell from my childhood. What was it again? Ah yes—when you hosted the ancestral gala at your home many years ago, and my mothers made me kiss you on the cheek. Scent memories, am I right?” I step closer, waft the air around her my way. “Yep, you’ve still got it. Spoiled meat and spicy licorice with undertones of bog melon rind.”

  Tesaryn Wen’s naxshi goes a pale violet. I’ve never seen naxshi turn that color before. Her fists ball up, posture goes rigid.

  I know I’ve crossed a boundary, stoking the hate already in her heart, but I can only turn my cheek to her insults so many times. Thankfully, Baradonna slams her hand down on Tesaryn Wen’s shoulder, then gives it a playful jostle.

  “We’d best get you seated and comfortable, Senator Wen.” And with that, Baradonna is pushing my most hated rival away from me. I let loose a heavy sigh but keep my posture erect. I can’t let my guard down here, especially when Baradonna isn’t right by my side.

  The other Senate officers are already seated. Of the eight of them, three are partial to me, three are vehemently opposed, and the other two are swing votes. Despite their feelings toward me, I offer each a deep bow of respect and flourishes bordering on ridiculous. All eyes are on me, and appearances are everything.

  “Calling together all Senators for an emergency meeting,” Tesaryn Wen says, reading drolly from the arbiter records, the task of the Senate officer with the lowest standing. If she’d put as much effort into improving her personality as she does plotting against me, then perhaps she would have risen in rank by now. Or maybe she’s so self-absorbed that she likes hearing herself talk. “We are here to explore solutions for the Klang ship. Our resource team has confirmed that their host is no longer habitable, and the Klang leadership intends to break our treaty and secure a new one.”

  “Zenzee,” I say loudly and out of turn.

  Tesaryn Wen stares coldly at me. Wordlessly.

  “We deny a part of their personhood if we continue to call the Zenzee our hosts,” I explain. “We have disrespected them long enough, and the least we can do is call them by their name.”

  A series of claps comes from the audience—my head-mother and some of her close colleagues. I take comfort knowing that I have their support no matter what.

  Tesaryn Wen’s naxshi turns that pale violet color again, even if the rest of her face betrays nothing. She clears her throat and continues. “Our resource team has confirmed that their Zenzee is no longer habitable, and the Klang leadership intends to break our treaty to secure a new one. The other ships in the vicinity have been put on high alert to uphold the treaty at all costs.”

  A pit settles in my stomach. It sounds as though Tesaryn Wen is proposing that we go to battle to prevent the Klang ship from breaking the treaty. But I don’t dare speak out of turn again.

  The Senate tolerates my antics, but I know not to push them too far beyond their comfort zone. It is a delicate balance, and often a painful one. Marrying Kallum had nearly pushed them past their tipping point, so Seske suggested we needed to counter that reckless choice with one that was equally thoughtful and strategic. She’d chosen Charrelle to be my head-wife, daughter of two Senators as well as the Comptroller of the Accountancy Guard. We’d paid a considerable dowry for this privilege, nearly emptying the coffers of both Seske’s born family and mine, but it was the only way to bring some civility and respect to our thoroughly non-traditionally structured Line. As soon as our child is born, there will be an heiress, and even my harshest opponents would think twice about crossing the Comptroller’s direct lineage. Desmona the Great’s wrath was nothing compared to the Comptroller’s.

  But until then, I remain vulnerable.

  We sit beneath a bone-carved relief entitled The Weight of Our Sins. It depicts each of the Zenzee our people had killed or left for dead, displayed in excruciating detail. You can see the desperation in their eyes, so fearful as they reach their tentacles out for one another across the harshness of space, seeking a moment of comfort . . . and yet, that comfort never comes.

  My opponents called it obscene at its unveiling. I agreed with them. It was obscene that we’d doomed eighty-seven Zenzee to the worst humani
ty had to offer. We should be bound by duty to remember their faces.

  “The treaty must be upheld,” says Farah Mosely, our lead tactician. Her expert testimony is valuable in times like these, and she knows it. She holds her head high as she addresses the Senate, eyes drilling into every single officer sitting before her. “If we let one clan break it, then the trust we’ve worked so hard to build between us will be ruined. We just celebrated End of Exodus day, so it should be fresh in everyone’s hearts. All the Earth clans have agreed to halt further culling of the Zenzee. We have worked together, through our differences, sharing information and strategies and resources to make sure another Zenzee life is never taken. We have sacrificed much to uphold our end of the treaty—including our Lines still in stasis. The Klang have not and must live with the consequences of their actions.”

  Many heads nodded in agreement.

  “But what of compassion?” says Bella Roshaad, one of the few heart-wife Senators. She projects a calm aura very atypical for someone of her political status. One of the first in a growing movement to voluntarily rescind her Line, her hair stands in a spectacular white poof that claims no ancestral ties. Bella Roshaad is of the age that you’d expect her voice to shake and tremble, but it is strong and forceful. “If our sistren and brethren are in crisis, we must offer them respite from their suffering. We cannot sit perched mightily in our own arrogance, when we are but one emergency from being in their same situation. And what solutions will we advocate for then? If the Earth clans are so independent now, why do we continue to follow with the Zenzee herd instead of venturing off on our own?”

  A stunned silence whips through the assembly. No one moves, and yet I feel the tension mounting. There have been talks about leaving the herd before, but the intentions had always been dependent upon finding a habitable planet to settle upon. And now Bella Roshaad is suggesting that we drift aimlessly off in space, with only the resources we currently have available. I know we are aiming for self-sufficiency, but this—

  “We cannot abandon the herd!” shouts Senator Bragall, breaking the quiet unrest. “What if—” She stops herself as she stumbles into Bella Roshaad’s point. Our independence from the Zenzee herd is an illusion at best. We are all just as vulnerable as the Klang.

  Bella Rashaad looks expectantly at Senator Bragall, waiting for her to finish her thought. When it doesn’t come, she continues. “We must show the compassion we would expect in the same situation. There is room for the Klang here, on our Zenzee. Instead of pouring our precious resources into patching their leaks and fertilizing their dying land, we should welcome them into our homes.”

  If I thought the Senate hated me, it’s nothing compared to how much they hate this idea. The whole chamber is in an uproar, people speaking out of turn, mostly in indignation, complaining that they still have loved ones in stasis and that we don’t even have resources to completely support our own people, much less a bunch of strangers. How could such a highly respected Senator suggest such a thing?

  It is my instinct to disagree with Bella Roshaad as well, and when the same idea had come from Baradonna’s mouth, I had. But now I am the slightest bit intrigued by this display of selflessness.

  Baradonna stares at me, her quiet glare urging me to speak out in support of Bella Roshaad. Without an assenting vote, the idea will die where it stands. However, the reports from the Klang ship worry me. How would an entire culture fare if dropped into another? What compromises would we have to make? I fear the amount of work it would take for us to get through it is more than I can ask of our people.

  “Thank you, Senator Roshaad,” I say. “I agree that we should focus on extending compassion, and not go around itching to destroy another clan. We have learned the value of the lives of the Zenzee, but we still often overlook the value of humanity. We must save lives, however we can.”

  My response is middling, I know, and the grumblings are coming from all directions now, even from my supporters. I suddenly feel like backpedaling, but I haven’t really said anything to pedal back from. Maybe that’s the problem. We need a new plan, yes, but an innovative one that somehow doesn’t involve completely upturning our lives. What Bella Roshaad suggests is too radical, and what the tactician and Wen propose is too harsh.

  I see my chance to unite the two sides, and when I look up at the relief of the Zenzee, tentacles outstretched, something clicks for me. Seske had told me about her dream with Wheytt. Maybe dream wasn’t the best word, but it was easier for me to accept. Regardless of what it was called, she and he had forged a bond while connected to our Zenzee in the salivatory chambers—a room full of puckered orifices lined with tonguelike appendages. It was hard to fathom how deeply they’d gotten to know each other. Apparently, he’d read poetry to her spleen. She’d told fairy tales to his bile ducts. The inside of his navel was a vast desert ready for her to explore. He lounged upon the cushion of her lips as she dove into the pool of tears caught in the corner of his eye. It was dizzying to hear her describe it, and at the time, I was racked with jealousy—I’m still a little jealous thinking of it now—but it gives me an idea about how we can save the Klang’s ship.

  If the Zenzee communicate in a similar manner, using their tentacles to bring about absolute knowledge of one another, like a direct connection into another’s brain, couldn’t we use that as a tool to pinpoint what was wrong with the Klang’s Zenzee and maybe shed light on a solution?

  “However,” I say, cutting through the noise, “offering sanctuary should be a last resort.” The grumbling quiets some—now it’s mostly from Roshaad’s supporters—but I have everyone’s full attention. “It is too soon to give up on their Zenzee. We have one last diagnostic tool that we have not yet tried . . .”

  I explain my plan to link our Zenzee so we can better address the Klang’s issues, and the Senators balk at it more violently than they had Bella Roshaad’s idea. All semblance of decorum vanishes. Women leave their seats, pacing up and down the aisles, hands clenching at their braids, like they’re so frustrated and unnerved, they want to tear them out.

  “You would risk our entire world for the Klang!” someone shouts. I can’t see where it’s coming from in the ruckus, but I recognize my own mother’s voice easily. My heart bucks. I thought that I could at least count on her.

  “I cannot say what the risks will be for sure,” I say, my voice wavering. “I am not a tactician—”

  “No, you are not,” Farah says, cutting me off, ready to hold her expert knowledge over me if I dare to speak again. My plan has backfired, and suddenly I am defenseless, stuck in a room full of people who hate me.

  “We can run the numbers at least,” says Tesaryn Wen, coming to my rescue. The cadence of her voice cuts through the commotion. Things quiet down enough for her to be heard. “If the risk is too great, we should reconsider, but Doka has put forth the first legitimate option we’ve heard today. Even one more Zenzee lost would be too much to bear.” That Tesaryn Wen agrees with me, and is sticking her neck out for me, makes me question the validity of this option altogether.

  “Thank you, Senator Wen,” I say, grateful, yet still untrusting.

  “The Klang’s Zenzee seems to be affected by a physical breakdown and not an infectious one,” says Farah, the venom in her voice now replaced with that of contemplation. The reversal is unsettling. Perhaps Tesaryn Wen wields more power than I give her credit for. “If we do decide to orchestrate a ventral pairing, proper use of prophylactics on the tentacle tips should reduce the risks of cross-contamination for all parties.”

  “Will that dull the Zenzee’s senses?” I ask, worried that a barrier would inhibit the deepness of the joining.

  “A minimal loss of sensation may occur, but the connection should be strong enough for us to diagnose the problem, if there is one to find.” The tactician wrings her hands. “At the least, the touch should bring the Klang’s Zenzee some comfort.” In her dying days are the words that remain unspoken.

  I nod, finding some co
mfort of my own as I settle back into my seat. I know better than to relax in front of Tesaryn Wen, but it is so nice not to be at each other’s throats for a change.

  “Excellent,” says Tesaryn Wen. “Time is of the essence. Every second that passes is another second the Klang’s Zenzee suffers. First, we will need our pilots to perform a Rorschach maneuver, so the Zenzee’s undersides are facing. Gravity suspension warnings will need to go out immediately. Then all we need is a volunteer to interface with our Zenzee so we can perform the diagnostics.”

  “Nandi Pharrell,” Farah offers. “She’s spent the past three years studying how the Serrata connect with their Zenzee via the salivatory chambers and has run hundreds of simulations involving our own Zenzee. She knows the process better than anyone else in our clan.”

  Tesaryn Wen smiles. “Simulations are fine, but direct practice is better, don’t you think?” Then she leans over the table so that her eyes lock with mine. “And there is one person who knows our Zenzee better than Nandi Pharrell.”