I guess I wasn’t all that smart. But hormones will do that to you.
There wasn’t anywhere inside the crowded camp where Maija and I could be alone – I mean, really alone. And though she tried to act tough, she was pretty sensitive to the stares we’d get, so as there was nowhere inside, we found our own way to avoid them.
Outside . . .
It wasn’t all that hard. The security around the camp – especially on the western side – was no better than it had been back in the storage yards of Puerto Limon.
And to be alone with Maija, I’d have risked a lot worse.
We’d met Maija during our period as one of the crew- families on the Pandora, and we’d grown up together for eight years, as the only kids of our age awake on the ship. She was a couple of months older that Élita, and we hit it off from the first day. To Élita, she was like a sister, but to me . . .
Well, I already had a sister. It wasn’t another sister that I was looking for. And Maija certainly didn’t act like a sister. At least, not when we were alone.
Of course, we never said anything to Élita. About, you know, not coming outside with us. Even if I’d had a mind to, which I didn’t, Maija would never have allowed it, but it didn’t come to that.
It seemed like she decided to give us some space, anyway. I guess she figured it was crowded enough in the camp without your little sister cramping your style.
So Élita spent her time helping Mrs Gough with the twins. Stephen and Simone were seven, and they were a handful. They were about the age we’d been when our parents died and we’d gone to live with our aunt, so I suppose she felt a kind of link with them.
And Mrs Gough was special. The Goughs had almost nothing. Everything they’d saved had gone to pay for the passage. But she was the most cheerful person I ever knew.
‘We’re on a new world,’ she told me once. ‘New rules apply.’
I remember her reaction when we gave her the bags of clothes we’d brought with us. We’d never opened them from the moment we’d left Earth, and they were useless to us by that stage. It was one thing my aunt hadn’t thought of when she’d packed everything in such a hurry, the night before we left forever.
My last memory of my Aunt Juanita is watching her pack the clothes.
She was folding Élita’s favourite red coat, ready to lay it on the top of the pile. I’d ridden back to the storage yards on my bike to get it, as I’d promised, and found it neatly folded, lying just outside the fence. Looking around to see if it was some kind of trap, I stuffed it into a plastic bag and slung it over the handlebars.
Anyway, Aunt Juanita was standing there smoothing the satin collar with the palm of her hand, when she told me she loved us both, and that she’d promised her sister, our mother, that she’d do the best for us, which was the only reason she was letting us go.
But we’d never needed the clothes. For forty years of the trip we were in stasis, and during the other eight we were crew, and all crew-clothing was recyclable – for obvious reasons. And now, at eighteen, I’d outgrown them. And so had Élita.
When Mrs Gough opened the bag, the first thing she picked up was the coat.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, rubbing the smooth collar against her cheek. ‘But it’ll have to get a whole lot colder around here before Simone can wear it.’
I had to agree, as it was around 45 degrees that afternoon.
That was the last time I saw her. It was only a couple of days before things changed forever, and we lost track of most of the people we knew – even the ones who survived.
I guess the worst part of the camp – in the early stages, at least – was the knowledge that we were so close to everything the dream had promised. So close and yet it was still out of our reach. For everyone on the Pandora Deucalion was the Promised Land, offering a future undreamed of on Earth.
Every morning, before the heat of the day, I stood and stared up at the blue sky. Most of the time it was cloudless. Totally. Blue and endless.
I don’t remember skies ever being clear like that over Puerto Limon. There were always clouds, grey and low-hanging, and tinged yellow by the smog from the reprocessing plant.
Most nights in the camp I stood out in the same spot, watching the moons hanging there in the sky. For me, they more than anything else were the symbol of Deucalion. Two moons. Sometimes quite small, sometimes huge in the sky. So big that you could easily make out the craters. Especially on Pyrrha, the closest of the two.
Two moons. The rest of the time you could pretend you were still on Earth, but standing there staring up at them, you had to face facts. Your old life was a billion, billion kilometres away, and here was all there was. All there would ever be.
It was exciting to think about what lay ahead, and that made the boredom of the camp even more frustrating – and our trips into the foothills outside the camp’s western fence-line, even more special. For one thing, they showed us that there was more to ‘here’ than what we’d seen so far.
But still, in those early days you prayed that you could trust them to let you out, when they said they were going to.
Later, you just prayed you could find a way to stay alive.
7
Kaz
Carmody Island
Inland Sea (Eastern Region)
6/1/203 Standard
LOEF
she smiles/sheet too hot push it away kick it off/the tip of her tongue wets her lips she stands in front of him the light shining on her dark hair/cool air a breeze from the window moving across the skin of your chest tickling cooling/jules she whispers and smiles again stepping forward look at her she wants you go on tell her something anything/shower starts other side of the wall light shining in through gaps in the blinds should have closed them properly/she begins to unfasten the first button of her blouse then the second the top begins to fall open he watches her breathing up and down and . . . the third button she leans towards/alarm-chime cuts the silence shut it out just a few moments longer shit not now/she leans forward she leans forward and . . . she leans/chime increases in volume shower runs behind the wall bright light from the window/she leans forward . . . /come on just a minute just a few more . . . come on shit shit oh shit . . .
Juuls has been dreaming again.
As usual, Loef wonders at the jumbled images of offworlder dreaming. But jumbled or not, in sleep, at the moment of waking is the time when human thoughts come closest to the feelings of the Thoughtsongs. There is a truth in their dreamings that they shut away from their everyday awareness – a feeling beneath the conscious that surfaces in the disjointed fragments, and reveals them in a way that all their speechwords could never do, even though the sequence of the images themselves borders on the meaningless at times.
He has tried to explain it to Juuls, but human speechwords are so imprecise, and in spite of being one of the ‘special’ humans, Juuls’s grasp of the Elokoi thought-tones is so limited that the explanation founders.
The girl in the dream is Kaz. She lives on the island with them, and Juuls looks at her often – when he thinks she does not notice. But she notices. They talk to each other sometimes, but not as often as Juuls would like, and not as often as Kaz would like either. Humans – even the special ones – have strange, irrational fears. On the island almost everyone can speak the mind-speech and Share emotions in a limited way, but even so, they cling to the old habits, hiding behind their fears and guessing at each other’s feelings, instead of opening themselves as the Elokoi have always done.
– Juuls . . . You are awake?
– Yes, Loef, I’m awake.
A trace of annoyance. Disappointment. Strange. The dream was not a Truedream. It held no certain promise of the future, only a desire, so there was no loss in the losing of it. And he will dream it again. He has dreamed it before.
– You are going to breakfast?
– Soon, I just
have to take a shower and get dressed. I’ll meet you there. Twenty minutes?
– Twenty minutes. Will I ask Kaz to wait? She has already almost finished eating.
– Okay, buddy, you do that. Tell her I’ll be there in . . . make it five minutes.
– Five minutes?
– Yes, five . . . And get that smile off your face.
– Elokoi do not smile, Juuls. You know that.
– I don’t know squat, my little furry friend. You’ve learned a lot of other things since you’ve been here. It isn’t all that hard to learn to smile.
– It is if you do not have a flat face, my tall friend with naked skin. Shall I tell her about your dream, or do you wish to share that with her yourself?
– You wouldn’t dare! Loef, that’s blackmail. I think we’ve corrupted you.
– It was your idea that I learn the ways of humans, my friend.
– Guilty . . . You know, I think you’re actually developing a sense of humour.
– Did you think I was joking? Elokoi do not make jokes, Juuls. You know that.
– Five minutes. And don’t say anything to Kaz – unless it’s something about how good-looking and charming your friend Juuls happens to be.
– Elokoi do not tell lies, either. Five minutes . . .
JULES’S STORY
It was part of the deal. If Loef was ever going to understand what goes on inside the skull of a human being, he had to have access to one. Or more than one. And not just a selective access. It had to be total. Waking or sleeping, day or night, no matter what, he could dive in and experience what was going on. In the last two hundred years I don’t think it had ever happened before – not even on Carmody Island. But then, like I said, Loef was special.
I mean, we’re different, Elokoi and Human. Different origins, different evolutions. How could we be anything but a mystery to each other?
I remember when I first arrived on the island they were teaching us about the Elokoi Thoughtsongs – the Histories they pass down from generation to generation through the Tellers. I asked my tutor how much was true, how much would have changed over the centuries with the constant retelling.
She just looked at me for a moment, then she went across to the table and picked up an orange. She cut it in half and took a bite of the pulp. Then she looked at me directly in the eyes and suddenly I could taste it – sweet and sour at the same time.
‘OK,’ she said, ‘now tell me what it tastes like.’ And I couldn’t find the words.
‘The Elokoi have little need for words,’ she went on. ‘When they Share, it’s complete. And true. We’re lucky, you and I, Jules. All of us on the island, all the children of Icarus, were given the opportunity to experience just a little of what it means to be as they are. We can Share thoughts, feelings even. But we aren’t Elokoi. We may have borrowed a few of their genes, but we’re still human. Maybe in a few centuries we’ll understand each other the way they do. Maybe by then we’ll have learned to come out from behind whatever it is that stops us from opening ourselves to each other. We’ve come so far in the last century that it makes me hopeful, but . . .’
She trailed off. I finished the thought for her.
‘But the words still get in the way,’ I said, and she smiled.
‘Ask Cael,’ she replied. ‘Ask any of the Tellers who’ve tried to teach on the island. Sure, we can pick up the basic tones of a Thoughtsong – which is more than other humans can hope to do. And they can pick up some of our thoughts and feelings. We can learn from each other, and that’s good. But it’s not Sharing. Not the way the Elokoi understand it. We’re still alien races, skirting the edges of true understanding. Maybe one day . . .’
I thought about the Tellers who had chosen to go out among the human population of Deucalion, sharing the Thoughtsongs with a race who had no chance of ever truly Sharing. Trying to recreate the complexities of Elokoi culture with the limited wordspeech of an alien race.
And yet, what other choice was there?
Isolation? Separate worlds?
For a hundred years after the Revolution and the Second Great Trek, Human and Elokoi had lived together in peace. Together, but separate. Divided by a desert of missed understanding as wide as the one of rock and sand that appeared on the maps. Sharing a planet, but not a society. Trade, but not communion.
Without understanding, Deucalion would forever be a world divided, and all we could learn from them – all we might be able to teach them – would never make it across that great wasteland.
I guess that’s why Loef was so important to me. It was his talent that drew me to him. His gift of understanding. From the moment we met I’d felt it. With him, I could get closer to the heart of a thought than with any other Elokoi I’d had contact with – even Cael, who was rumoured to be the greatest Teller since Saebi herself.
Loef wasn’t a Teller. He had no particular talent with the Thoughtsongs or the Stories. But when we sat and talked – in speechwords or mind to mind – I could sense it. The depths behind the communicating mind. That total understanding that drifted tantalisingly out of reach. And instinctively I knew that if he could learn to get inside, he could learn to understand us as no other Elokoi ever had. And if he could understand us, then maybe we could . . .
Like I said, it wasn’t something I’d worked out fully. It was just a feeling. But so was DiBortelli’s theory of sub-dimensional physics. Once.
So the grand experiment began. And suddenly there was no such thing as privacy in my life.
I have to admit, it took a bit of getting used to. I mean, there’s things you think about – or dream about – that you wouldn’t say to a soul – things that pass through your mind every waking moment, almost against your will. Fantasies and fears that are definitely not for public consumption.
And to have Loef begin talking to you inside your head all-of-a-sudden and matter-of-factly about your mental – and physical – responses to a lingerie catalogue or to seeing Kaz Chandros, or to suddenly have to explain why you say nothing and look away when Terry Kurtz says something personal about you in front of the whole dining room, and what you really want to do is punch him in the mouth . . . Trying to help Loef understand those sorts of things when you don’t really understand them yourself – because they’re not things you really think about in the first place – is a major challenge.
It’s a strange thing, giving up your privacy. We’re trained from day one to hide our true feelings, to say the right thing – the polite thing, the politically correct thing. To reveal as little as possible of ourselves. And now I’d given my Elokoi friend permission to sit there sifting through the most private pieces of me and making comments – some of which were a little bit close to the bone.
It wasn’t comfortable, but it was an experience.
So was kissing Kaz Chandros.
Karen Eloise Celine Chandros. Kaz to her friends. Which meant that everyone who knew her called her Kaz. Of course.
You could call her beautiful, but it would be an understatement. Maybe even an insult. Dark hair, huge eyes and a body to . . .
Anyway, it happened suddenly.
I walked into the dining hall that morning and caught sight of the two of them at a table near the window. Kaz had her back to me, talking to Loef, who was sitting on the table with his back to the window.
Her hair was loose and it hung down her back almost to the seat. Fashions were always a little freer on the island than they were on the mainland. Less pressure to conform, I guess.
So Kaz liked to wear her hair long, and she was forever pushing it away from her face as she talked. But she wasn’t this time. She was facing Loef, like I said, and for once she wasn’t moving at all. Then I realised. It was because she wasn’t actually talking. They were mind-speaking.
I paused at the doorway and watched them.
That was when it happ
ened.
If we’re being brutally honest, I suppose I’d have to admit that I didn’t actually kiss her. It was the other way round.
But it was just as sensational. Maybe more so.
Because if you’re wasting all your emotional energy just raising the nerve to try – you know, making the small talk, going for the hand, trying to read her face for some kind of encouragement or the warning-sign that it’s just not on – it sort of gets in the way of the moment.
But if this angel just walks up to you, looks you in the eyes, and leans towards you without any warning – and if she finds your lips first time and kisses you hard the way you’ve imagined it a thousand times – now that’s sensational.
I stood there doing goldfish imitations as she stepped back. She was smiling.
Then she turned to Loef, who was still sitting at the table.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘How was that?’
Loef must have replied in mind-speech, because she nodded and smiled again. Then she looked straight into my eyes.
‘Call me,’ she said, brushing her hair away from her face and wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. Then she walked towards the door.
Suddenly I realised what had happened. I tore my gaze away from her back and turned towards the table by the window.
‘Loef . . .’ I began, but his mind-tone cut me off.
– She asked me, Juuls. What was I supposed to say? Elokoi do not tell lies.
Maybe not, but I don’t care what they say, Elokoi can most definitely smile.
8
A Really Bad Feeling
(Extracts from the works of Natassia Eiken transcribed to Archive Disk with the author’s permission, 12/14/212 Standard. Used with the author’s consent.)
From: Standing on Ararat – The Crystal Death, Ten Years On (Chapter Four)
A major international conglomerate – like D/A/F (Danzig/Ahmet/Fusima), which owned the Deucalion Mining Corporation before the Revolution, or M/T/H (MacMillan/Tseng/Hartog), which controlled most major mineral exploitation within the solar system itself, through companies like JMMC (Jupiter Moons Mining Corporation) and ABME (Asteroid Belt Mineral Explorations) – was virtually a nation in its own right, with more people subject to the decisions of its Board of Directors than were directly influenced by most elected governments.
View from Ararat Page 7
