Sawyer realised that was what was scaring him. He was afraid of getting his hopes up, of putting too much stock into this new thing. He’d learned, in the past few tendays, that deciding ahead of time how a thing was going to go was setting yourself up for a faceplant.
So, fine, he didn’t know how it would go . . . but he knew what he wanted from them. A posse. A crew. A real crew, like he’d seen in vids and sims. People who looked after each other. People who were messy sometimes, but could pull together when stuff got tough. People who would laugh at his jokes, and give him a nickname, maybe, who would knock on his door late at night because they knew where they could go with their problems. People who always had a spot at the table for him. People to whom he mattered.
It was too big of an expectation to put on one job offer, he knew that. But he looked at himself in the mirror, and he felt some confidence creep back in. If it was a matter of either getting his hopes up or glooming himself to the edge of going home – well then, hopes up it was. He took a breath and put on his shirt. His clothes were fine. They would do. The crew of the Silver Lining would like him. He’d do a good job. He’d use the last of his creds and buy everybody a drink after. He’d be cool and funny, and they’d want him to come back again.
Sawyer stood and examined himself. Red looks good on you, he could hear Cari saying, the payday kick making her loud. You should definitely buy that.
He nodded. He smiled. He was gonna do great.
Tessa
‘Aren’t you supposed to be at work?’ Pop grumbled, slumped and spread-legged in the clinic waiting room. They were the only ones there, thank goodness. The last thing this ridiculous to-do needed was an audience.
‘Nope, I’m here,’ Tessa said, idly scrolling through a news feed on her scrib. Stars, was there ever a day when the news was good?
‘Don’t you have a shift?’
‘I swapped with Sahil for the afternoon.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Tessa saw his arms cross and mouth scowl. ‘I would’ve gone,’ Pop said.
‘You haven’t gotten a checkup in six tendays. You’re supposed to go every three.’
‘I’m fine.’
Tessa’s eyes shifted to the wall across from them. ‘Can you read that sign?’
‘What sign?’
She nodded at the assertive yellow notice on the wall, informing people about the new imubot models that had become available. ‘That sign.’
‘Oh, so you’re my doctor now?’
‘Pop.’
‘Sorry, but only a medical professional can ask me those kinds of questions.’ He looked her up and down. ‘And I don’t see your credentials.’
A twinge appeared in Tessa’s left temple. He was acting infantile, but she was also fairly certain he couldn’t read the sign, and that meant she had to stick this out.
The office door opened, thank goodness, and Dr Koraltan stood waiting with a broad smile. ‘M Santoso, at last!’ he said in a tone that suggested he knew exactly what the score was. ‘I was beginning to think you didn’t like us.’
Pop stood; Tessa did the same. ‘You’re not coming with me,’ Pop mumbled.
‘Oh, yes, I am.’ She put her scrib in its holster and gestured toward the door. ‘After you.’
Dr Koraltan’s smile grew larger. ‘Nice to see you as well, Tessa. How’s your back?’
‘Behaving,’ she said, following her defeated father onward to the examination room. ‘Amazing how not twisting my spine while lifting my toddler has helped.’
The doctor laughed as he waved the exam room door closed. ‘Up on the table, please, M. Tessa, make yourself comfortable.’ He gestured at his scrib. ‘All right, M, it looks like it’s been . . . wow, almost nine tendays since you were last here.’
Tessa’s head snapped to her father. ‘Nine, huh.’
Pop scowled at the floor. He looked for all the world like Aya when she’d gotten into something she shouldn’t. It might’ve been funny if it weren’t so damned embarrassing.
Dr Koraltan cleared his throat. ‘I really do recommend coming by every thirty days, M. I know it’s not fun, but—’
‘I’m not having another surgery,’ Pop blurted out. ‘I’m fine.’
The doctor exchanged a glance with Tessa. ‘Do you think you need one?’ he asked.
Pop was quiet a beat too long. ‘How should I know?’ he said.
The twinge in Tessa’s temple made its way to her eye socket.
‘Well, let’s see if I can settle the matter,’ the doctor said. He wheeled over a bot scanner; Pop placed his wrist in habitually. For all his protesting, he was entirely compliant as the doctor performed the exam. Tessa had seen this play out many times, but there was always something disquieting, something sad about watching Pop submit to the pokes and prods. In childhood, he’d been awesome, invincible, the guy who could pick you up and spin you around and make your fears melt away. Superhuman, him and Mom both. It had been an eternity or two since Tessa had thought of Pop like that, but he was, after all, still her dad. And while her mother’s too-soon death had been a brutal confirmation of mortality, it had also been fairly quick. Watching someone succumb to an unexpected disease over the course of a few tendays wasn’t the same as standing witness to decades of decline. Pop wasn’t ill or anything. He’d be a pain in everyone’s ass for a good while yet. But she looked at him now, wrinkles and spots and hunched shoulders, here because of problems that kept coming around. She thought of her back, which was better, but still woke her up in the night sometimes. There were lines in her face that weren’t getting shallower. Grey highlights were taking over her black curls. She looked at Pop, entropy incarnate, and wondered if his present would be her future. She wondered which of her kids would sit in the extra chair in the exam room and lament the days when she’d been awesome.
Dr Koraltan studied the live feed from the imubots reporting within Pop’s eye, and he sat back with a neutral look. Tessa held her breath. Their doctor was an affable sort, and the only time he didn’t show his cards was when the news was going to suck. ‘I’m sorry to say it, M,’ he said. ‘But the growth around your cornea’s come back.’
Pop didn’t look overly surprised, but his mouth twisted. He said nothing.
‘This is the trouble with Kopko’s syndrome,’ the doctor said. ‘We can remove the errant tissue, we can have your bots clean out the remnants, but this is about your genes. You didn’t get the prenatals that your kids did, and performing gene therapy on someone your age is often too much of a system shock. It’s not worth the risk.’
‘We got new lights at home,’ Pop said. ‘The good ones.’
The doctor looked sympathetic. ‘Modern globulbs do decrease the risk of Kopko’s coming back. But it’s a decrease, not a guarantee. You – and I see this in so many patients your age – you spent decades rolling the dice with the old sun lamps down at the farms. Once that switch gets flicked, it’s so hard to turn off. We can try, but . . .’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry, M. Kopko’s is a bastard.’
‘So, he needs another surgery,’ Tessa said.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Dr Koraltan said. ‘And I’m sure you’re happy to hear that, M, but . . .’ He pressed his lips together.
Uh oh, Tessa thought. This really wasn’t good.
‘Every time we go in there to clean things out, we do damage. Tissue scars. Things wear out. Can’t be helped. We’ve gotten to the point where your eye can’t take much more.’
Tessa frowned. ‘What are our options, then?’
The doctor made an empty-handed gesture. ‘We either do nothing, and he loses sight in that eye, or we do another surgery, and there’s a good chance that he loses sight in that eye. Honestly, I don’t think the modest chance of benefit is worth the trouble of surgery.’ He nodded at Pop. ‘But that’s up to you.’
‘What about an optical implant?’ Tessa said.
The doctor looked at her with interest. ‘Is that on the table?’
Pop stared. ‘We can’t afford that.’
Tessa braced herself, knowing what she was about to say wouldn’t go over well. ‘Ashby sent me some creds, specifically so we could order you an implant.’
Pop glared as he realised he’d been ganged up on. ‘If he’s sent you creds, you should spend them on the kids.’
‘The kids aren’t our only family, Pop.’
‘M Santoso,’ Dr Koraltan said seriously. ‘I understand that this isn’t what you want to hear. I also can’t force you to receive treatment. But replacing your eye with an optical implant would solve the problem. No more surgeries after installation. If repairs need doing, we can undock the main attachment without any pain. I know the implants back in your day were unreliable, but modern biotech is incredibly comfortable and easy to maintain. Your vision would be good as ever. Better than ever.’
‘And I’d look like one of those modder freaks,’ Pop said. ‘No thanks.’
The doctor was careful with his words. ‘Getting used to the look of a new implant can take some adjustment, yes,’ he said. ‘Especially if it’s on your face. But you would adjust.’
Pop looked at the floor. He was quiet for a moment. ‘I don’t want to lose my eye.’
A sliver of sympathy pushed past Tessa’s frustration – not enough to erase it entirely, but she did care. She wouldn’t want to lose an eye, either.
Dr Koraltan’s voice was gentle, but direct. ‘M Santoso, if something doesn’t change, you’re going to lose your eye one way or the other. It’ll still be in your head, but it won’t work. I’m sorry. We did everything we could do with what we have here.’ He gestured at his scrib. Pop’s scrib dinged in response. ‘I’ve sent you some reference docs on implants. They’re good, M. If you have the means, I really do recommend it.’ He stood and gestured toward the door. ‘Go home, take some time to think about it. Let me know what you decide.’
Pop exited the room without a word.
Tessa sighed, and stood. Stars and fire, he was such a child. ‘Thank you,’ she said on her way through the door. He gave her an understanding nod.
Her father was old, but he was still fast, and already out into the courtyard by the time she got out of the clinic. ‘Hey,’ she called. She quickened her pace until she fell into step beside him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m goin’ to Jojo’s,’ he said. His face was grim, but he strode forward purposefully. ‘It’s second day, and that means fish rolls. If I get there before eleventh, they’ll still be warm.’
‘Pop.’
‘Plus, Micah owes me trade. We bet lunch over flash last tenday, and he hasn’t made good yet.’
‘Pop.’ She took his arm.
Pop shrugged her off and kept walking. ‘You’ve got two kids at home,’ he said. ‘I’m not one of ’em.’
Tessa stopped, a swell of anger ballooning in her chest. She’d switched her shift for this. She’d upended her whole day for this, and . . . and . . . what a stupid, stubborn jackass. Fine. Fine, he could go to Jojo’s, and play his stupid games, and let his eye kill itself. It was his fucking life. She was only the one who had to live with him.
She turned away and stormed off toward the transport deck, where she could catch a pod to Bay Eight. Someone had to be an adult that day.
Isabel
‘So it’s true, then,’ Ghuh’loloan said with delighted disgust. ‘You expel organs during live birth.’
Isabel laughed as they made their way down the ramp to the viewing area. ‘We expel one organ, yes. But it’s a disposable one. We don’t have it the rest of the time, and we only need it during pregnancy.’
The Harmagian’s tentacles rippled. ‘You’ll forgive me, dear host, but to me, the idea is . . .’
‘Horrifying?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not alone in that. Explaining the business to kids always results in a raised eyebrow or two.’
‘A raised . . . ah, yes, yes. Is it not painful?’
‘. . . giving birth, not raising eyebrows, correct?’
Ghuh’loloan laughed. ‘Correct.’
‘It is. But not the . . . the discarding of an organ. That part’s not so bad, or so I hear. Everything else is, though.’ She spread her arms as they came to the end of the ramp. ‘Here we are,’ she said. They’d come to a broad platform, fitted with benches and picnic tables, guarded with a waist-high railing around the edge. Below the platform lay a fibre farm, overflowing with thickets of bamboo standing in orderly rows under a ceiling painted with blue sky. The tall plants had plenty of room to stretch up and up and up until finally bowing under their own leafy weight. Farmers made themselves busy in the walkways between, some harvesting, some testing the soil, some planting new seedlings. A caretaker was at work as well, pulling her heavy wagon behind her.
Isabel kept waiting for something that did not elate her colleague, but that moment had yet to arrive. ‘Oh, marvellous!’ Ghuh’loloan cried. ‘Stars, look at them! What curious trees!’
‘Grass, in fact,’ Isabel said.
‘No!’
‘Yes. That’s what makes it a much better crop for us. It reaches full height quickly.’
Ghuh’loloan’s dactyli undulated in a gesture Isabel had come to learn meant appreciation. ‘A grass forest,’ she said. ‘Ahh, I can smell the new oxygen. Wonderful.’
Isabel sat on a nearby bench and considered the Harmagian’s phrasing. ‘Does your species have a sense of smell?’ She could’ve sworn she’d heard they didn’t.
Ghuh’loloan parked alongside her, so they were both facing the farm. ‘Well caught, dear host,’ she said. ‘We do not, not in the same manner as you. You know that we do not breathe, yes?’
Isabel turned that statement over. She’d never thought about it before, but . . . but yes, other than their mouths, Harmagians didn’t have visible breathing holes. ‘Then . . . how . . .’ She searched for the right words. ‘You’re speaking.’
Had she not been in alien company for several tendays, what happened next might’ve sent Isabel running – and even so, she had to steel herself through it. To say that Ghuh’loloan opened her mouth wide was an understatement. There was no word Isabel knew that could properly describe what she saw. Not a gape, not a yawn, but an unfolding, an expanding, a hideous extension of empty space. Ghuh’loloan pointed one of her tentacles toward her gullet, and with a smothered shiver, Isabel understood. Ghuh’loloan wanted her to look inside her throat. And so Isabel did, with all the grace she could muster, leaning forward – not into her mouth, of course, there were limits – and spotting an unfamiliar structure at the back. A large, fleshy sack, unconnected to what was presumably Ghuh’loloan’s oesophagus (or equivalent thereof), every bit as yellow as her exterior.
Thankfully, Ghuh’loloan closed her mouth, and Isabel leaned back. ‘Now watch carefully,’ Ghuh’loloan said, pointing at her mouth again. She formed each word that came next with exaggerated precision, as a teacher might speak to a child. ‘Watch – what – is – happening – in – my – throat.’
Isabel could see it, though she wasn’t sure that she wanted to. The oesophagus did not move, but the sack did, expanding to give the words life, contracting to push them out. ‘So you don’t . . . you don’t use that to breathe.’
‘No,’ Ghuh’loloan said, speaking normally now. ‘It is my kurrakibat, a wholly self-contained organ. An airbag, in essence. It pulls in air and it makes sounds. That is all.’
Isabel tried to imagine how she was going to relay this part of her day to Tamsin when she got home, and came up empty. ‘Then how do you breathe?’
‘Through my skin. All over, front to back. And in the same manner, I can detect chemicals in the air around me, and this produces . . . it is difficult to explain. In Hanto, the word is kur’hon.’ She considered. ‘“Air-touch” is a rudimentary translation, but it does not envelop the full meaning.’
‘I understand.’
Ghuh’loloan curled her front tentacles. ‘It is a full-body sensation, and much like smell – or, that is, w
hat I understand of smell – it can be pleasurable or distasteful. It is easier, then, for us to use words like smell or scent in Klip, as the end effect is the same.’
‘I see.’ A question arose in Isabel’s mind, a childish thing she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to. ‘I have . . . I have heard that other species often . . .’ She sucked air through her teeth with an embarrassed smile. ‘I have heard that other species sometimes find the way Humans smell to be . . . unpleasant.’
Ghuh’loloan’s entire body gave way to a mighty laugh. ‘Oh, dear host, do not ask me this!’
Isabel laughed as well. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Do not be,’ Ghuh’loloan said, her skin rippling with mirth. ‘And please do not take offence.’
‘I won’t.’
‘If it is any consolation, I stopped noticing it within a few hours of arriving.’
Isabel groaned. Poor Ghuh’loloan. ‘You got used to us, eh?’
‘Well . . .’ Ghuh’loloan gave a quieter laugh. ‘Stars, this is a horrible thing for a guest to say. But in the interest of cultural exchange: the Human kur’hon in these ships is so overpowering that not only have I become numb to it, but I cannot “smell” much of anything else.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Isabel put her palm to her cheek. ‘On behalf of my species, I apologise.’ She paused. ‘But you could smell – you could—’ She wrapped her lips around the unfamiliar word. ‘Ker-hone.’
‘You are very close. Kur. Our word for both air and vapour. Kurrrrr’hon.’ The Harmagian gave the R a mighty, over-exaggerated trill.
Isabel couldn’t duplicate the sound, but she gave it a valiant attempt. ‘Ker’hon.’ That would have to do. ‘You could . . . you detected the oxygen here.’
‘Yes, it is very strong here, and it’s wonderful. I could stay here all day.’
Isabel had no argument there. The fibre farms were peaceful, and sitting on a bench and discussing differences of biology sounded like a marvellous way to spend an afternoon – provided Ghuh’loloan did not invite her to inspect her innards again. Isabel’s disquiet from the experience was still ebbing away, and she found herself with an impish desire to return the favour. ‘So you were asking about Human birth.’
Record of a Spaceborn Few Page 17
