I said nothing; but Tobit must have seen how undelighted I was. "Cheer up!" he said, giving my arm a light slap, "you'll like my parties. I give presents to my guests, not the other way around. And I've just thought of a doozy for you."
HAPPY
We walked back to the central plaza, Oar still holding my arm to keep me between her and Tobit. Every so often she sniffed pointedly; she could smell the liquor on him. In her mind, he must be the epitome of dirty.
As we drew near the Morlocks' building, I made sure my stunner was ready for a quick draw. Tobit might claim to control his "subjects" but I had my doubts; I had my doubts about everything Tobit said. If those Skin-Faces attacked, I had to be ready to knock them out…
I stopped in the street as a thought struck me. What would sonics do to a glass person? They weren't real glass… but the shark machine rang like a chime when I shot it. I wondered if the Morlocks would resonate too. That might be a vulnerability of people who were hard instead of soft. Could sonics from a stunner seriously injure them? The blasts had damaged the machine; or maybe I had just scrambled some sonar guidance system and the real damage happened when the shark ran into that log.
Impossible to say — but I pushed the stunner back into my belt so I wouldn't be tempted to use it. For a moment, I had imagined Oar's body shattering, like a wineglass breaking under an opera singer's voice. I couldn't do that, even to a Skin-Face.
No more killing. No more killing.
Tobit led us into the building where I'd first seen him — a building smelling of booze mixed with vomit. Oar convulsed in a coughing fit as soon as the odor reached her. I held down my gorge with memories from the Academy: waking on the floor after an end-of-term bash, the arms of other Explorers draped over me, everyone's breath so flammable the air purity sensors blinked yellow. Why had we done it? Because we were young and tongue-tied; getting drunk together was the greatest intimacy we would dare attempt.
And the Morlocks? They were engineered to have the minds and openness of children; once Tobit brewed his booze, they didn't stand a chance.
I could see them now, through the glass walls ahead of us: the same quartet as before, helping themselves to a brownish concoction that must be Tobit's hootch. It ran down their throats and pooled darkly in their stomachs, sloshing slightly as they moved. Oar's grip tightened on my arm — she had seen too, and for once her face showed none of the haughty superiority she usually assumed when confronted with the unfamiliar. More than anything, she looked hurt… like a sick little girl who can't understand why pain exists.
"Right this way!" Tobit boomed, waving us into the room with the drinking Morlocks. Oar moved forward mechanically; I went with her, squeezing her arm.
Unlike most rooms I'd seen on Melaquin, this one had furniture: glass chairs, and a glass table supporting something like a cake. The cake must have come from a local food synthesizer, since it was clear and transparent; but someone had spelled the word HAPPY across the top, in scraps of grubby red plastic.
Either there hadn't been enough plastic to spell out BIRTHDAY, or nobody cared enough to bother.
The Gift
The Morlocks glared at Oar with the owlish blinks of drunks everywhere. They had not consumed much liquor yet — I could tell just looking at their stomachs — but already they showed its effects.
Tobit gestured toward the Morlocks. "These are my faithful comrades: Mary, Martha, Matthew, and Mark. Perfect names for disciples, don't you think?"
The Morlocks didn't move to acknowledge their names. They continued staring at Oar.
"My name is Festina Ramos," I said to them, "and this is Oar."
In a whisper, she said, "An oar is an implement used to propel boats."
The Morlocks remained motionless. Tobit looked from them to us, then gave an exaggerated sigh. "Am I the only one on this goddamned planet who knows how to party? Fun! Festivity! Falling down dribbling spittle! You hear me?"
Every Morlock said, "Yes, lord." They didn't mean it.
Another tense silence. Tobit groaned. "All right. I was going to leave this till later, but we have to do something to get people in the spirit. Ramos… time for your present."
"I don't need a present."
"Everyone needs presents. And I have the perfect one for you. Something you could search for from one end of the galaxy to the other, and lucky me, I have some right here. Damned good luck, considering I didn't know you were coming. If you had any sense, of courtesy you'd have called ahead—"
"Phylar…" I sighed.
"All right, leave it be. No sense pissing you off when I can win your everlasting gratitude… not to mention showing how smart I am to think of this on the spur of the moment." He drew himself up with counterfeit dignity. "Explorer Ramos, have you noticed my disciples' bodily adornment?"
"The skin?"
"Yes, the skin. Have you wondered where they got it?"
"I'm hoping from animals."
"Wrong!" Tobit grinned in triumph. "It's artificial: comes straight out of a synthesizer down the block."
"Obviously not a food synthesizer."
"No," Tobit agreed. "This town has lots of different synthesizers, programmed with manifest goodies from the League of Peoples. You guessed that, right, Ramos? You guessed that the League relocated these folks to Melaquin from Earth?"
I nodded. "The League must have made the same offer they made us four hundred years ago — renounce violence and get a new planet."
"Right," Tobit replied. "I get the feeling they only made the offer to selected tribes… maybe those who were already peaceful enough to convince the League they were sentient. Anyway, your ancestors and mine stayed back on Earth while the chosen few got a free ticket to Melaquin. The League built these towns, the synthesizers, the communications systems… and they also arranged that all future generations would be strong and healthy." Tobit pointed at Oar. "God knows why the League decided to make them of glass, but I suppose people got used to it. This all happened about four thousand years ago; folks from those days must have been so glad their kids didn't die in infancy, they didn't care what the babies looked like."
"My mother was proud of how I look," Oar said defensively. "I happen to be extremely beautiful."
"Yeah, you're one in a million," Tobit sniggered. "Anyway," he turned back to me, "I was talking about my Morlocks' skin. The League whipped it up for the first generation to come here — the non-glass humans. It's a bandage material: covers cuts, bruises, pockmarks… those people must have been a sorry-looking bunch when they came here, what with disease, malnutrition, and all the other crap of 2000 B.C. Artificial skin must have been damned popular with them.
"Of course," he continued, "the glass kids were next to undamageable, so the skin wasn't used once the first generation died; but a few hundred years ago, some wise man from this town—"
"The Prophet!" one of the Morlocks shouted. For a moment I thought she sounded angry, but then she raised her drink and chugged it in a toast.
"Yes, the Prophet," Tobit agreed, then turned my way, rolled his eyes, and mouthed the word whacko. "The Prophet," he said, "received a revelation that the Morlocks should return to the ways of their ancestors: hunting animals and living off the land." He lowered his voice. "Once every few years anyway — most of the time they just sponge off the food dispensers like everyone else."
Raising his voice, Tobit went on, "The Prophet also had an insight about the ideal state of the human body: covered with skin like the first generation. Skin good, glass sinful. You see, Ramos, being invulnerable and immune to disease is ignoble. Far better to suffer and bleed and get bitten by insects…"
I tried to silence him with a sharp look. The Morlocks were drunk, but they still might recognize sarcasm… and I could guess their reaction if someone mocked their prophet.
"Sure, okay," Tobit said grudgingly. "The point is, the Prophet found the synthesizer that could make artificial skin; and he devised a scheme for bestowing skin on Morlocks who dese
rved it. Like merit badges. You get skin for your face at birth — that's a freebie — then on your crotch when you pass puberty rituals, on your chest for killing a buffalo, on your hands if you kill a mountain lion… that sort of thing. And if you are worthy and brave, eventually you get to look like…" Tobit did a mock curtsy. "Me. Skin from head to toe. I'm their fucking ideal."
"They are fools," Oar said.
A male Morlock tried to struggle to his feet, but Tobit waved him down. "Stay! Sit!" The Morlock slumped again. "You see what having skin means?" Tobit smirked at me. "I have clout. I'm fucking elevated. And that means I can bestow certain honors on my friends."
He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a hand-sized scrap of brown tissue: thin and limp, like a cloth bandage.
"Skin, Ramos," he said. "Do you think this chunk is big enough to cover that splotch on your face?"
Part XIV
TRANSITION
Camouflage
For a moment, my mind went blank. I wish I could say I wanted to hit him, kick that stupid grin off his face; but I was too stunned even for anger. The limp flap of skin lay in his dirty glove like a rag of brown linen… and he thought I should put that on my face?
"I can see you're pleased," he said. "And I promise, it's everything you hope for. Self-adhesive… porous to let sweat out and air in… even designed to adapt to your skin color like a chameleon."
"My…" I swallowed hard. "Yes, Phylar, that's just what I want. A scrap of synthetic I can put on my cheek and watch turn purple. The height of entertainment."
"Ramos, the League designed this stuff to hide crap like that shit on your face. Hiding is what Melaquin's all about. Let me tell you, I had one fuck of a lousy scar as a memento from an old exploration mission. Now it looks as smooth as a baby's bottom." His voice was loud with booze, and he must have realized it. In a softer voice he said, "Listen, Festina — maybe it'll work, maybe it won't. Who knows how the skin will respond to your… condition. But when I use it to cover a bruise, it doesn't turn the color of the bruise. And I'll tell you a secret: I put some of this fake skin on my nose. It hides the…"
He waved his hands vaguely — too squeamish, I suppose, to say that his nose had once been the ravaged red of a drunkard, florid with prominent blood vessels. Now that I looked, Tobit's nose was a healthier color than at the Academy: smooth, not pitted or flushed. It was still unnaturally bulbous, but the skin itself looked… good.
"See?" he said, proudly turning his head to show off his physiognomy. "Maybe the skin can help you too."
He pushed the pathetic brown tissue toward me. I didn't take it.
"What's wrong?" he demanded. "You aren't the sort of woman who uses her face as an excuse, are you? The kind who blames every little problem on an accident of birth, and won't try to fix things for fear it might work. You can't be worried that without the birthmark, you won't have reason to bitch and moan—"
"One more word," I told him, "and the skin I take off you won't be that piece in your hand."
The Morlocks roused themselves stewishly and made a show of brandishing their spears. Their attempt to look threatening was pathetic. I felt like showing what a tiger-claw strike could do to someone's face, fake skin or no. But Oar put her hand lightly on my arm, and said, "Do not be foolish, Festina. This man says you can be less ugly. It would be better if you were less ugly. People would not feel so sad when they look at you."
"Do you feel sad when you look at me, Oar?"
"I am not such a person as cares how others look," she answered. "But there may be people who see you and feel like crying, because it is wrong for the only nice Explorer to look so damaged."
Ouch.
Ouch.
"All right," I said, holding out my hand to Tobit. "Give me the skin."
Shading
It felt like a scrap of silk stocking — a mesh so fine and smooth, I wanted to stroke it with my fingers. The color was close to my own skin already: a shade darker, that was all. Even if it stayed the same color when I put it on, I could have a whole face; I'd just have to darken the rest of my skin with a modest amount of makeup.
That assumed the skin didn't turn magenta to duplicate my birthmark.
"How fast does it change color?" I asked, not looking at Tobit.
"About an hour."
"I'll see you in an hour," I said, and left the room.
Punch Gently
Oar trotted at my heels. I didn't really want company, but it was safer this way — if the Morlocks turned belligerent with liquor, she'd be in trouble on her own.
Once we had left the building, I set a fast pace across the plaza toward the outskirts of the town. "Where are we going?" Oar asked.
"To find a mirror." As if I needed one, surrounded by so much glass; if necessary, I could put on the patch using my slight reflection in Oar's own body. But I wanted to put distance between me and Tobit, to leave his leers behind. If this worked, his smugness would be obnoxious; but if I didn't even try, he'd be utterly unbearable.
If I didn't even try…
Listen. My stomach had the same nervous flutters as the night I decided to lose my virginity: balancing on a razor's edge of desire and fear. I wanted to see myself whole. I yearned for that. Yet I was afraid of being disappointed, and even worse, of being changed. My life sometimes felt like a war to hold on to what I was; to remain me. I was terrified of turning into something different — of losing my definition.
It sounds childish. It sounds glib. I only have words to describe the superficial issues. Even to myself, I can't express the depths of my fear. Nor can I express the depths of my longing. You'd think it would be easy to explain why I wanted to cure my disfigurement; that's obvious, yes? Obvious why I'd want to look like Prope and Harque and everyone else whose glances of fascinated revulsion had humiliated me all my life. Why should I feel ashamed of wanting to look like them?
And Jelca… pathetic to think of him at a time like this, but how would he react? Would he be delighted to find a real, unblemished woman on Melaquin? Or would he regard me the way Explorers always regarded the unflawed: as shallow and vain, pretty objects but unworthy of deep attention.
"You look sad," Oar said. "Why are you sad, Festina?"
"Because I'm foolish," I replied. "Very foolish. I want to be me, but I also want to be some other woman I'm afraid I won't like."
"That is foolish," Oar agreed. "If you turn into an un-likable woman, I will punch you in the nose; then you will know you have to turn back into my friend."
Laughing, I kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks. But punch gently, okay? My face has enough trouble without a broken nose."
In Front of the Mirror
We found a blockhouse, much like the one where Jelca had made his home in Oar's village — the same layout anyway, but without the clutter of cannibalized electronics. The bathroom had a mirror. After asking Oar to wait outside, I stared at my reflection.
Memorizing a face I'd often wanted to forget.
"This may not work," I said.
"I can always take it off," I said.
"This patch may be too small," I said.
It was big enough. In fact, it needed some trimming. I used the scalpel from the medical kit, but I spent a long time washing the blade first.
My Appearance Revisited
The skin eased down onto my cheek. I patted it into place. For a moment I could feel its light touch, but the sensation slowly vanished — like the residue of water after washing your face, disappearing as it dries into thin air.
When I first laid out the patch, its edges were visible. I spent a minute trying to smooth them down; but as I watched, I could see the outer fringe knit itself into my own skin, bonding, becoming part of me. I brushed the intersection with my finger: it was barely discernible. It was still possible to see where the patch ended and my own cheek began — the patch was darker — but within minutes all trace of a join was gone. Like a parasite affixing itself to a newfound host. Yet I did not feel an
y revulsion. My cheek had the texture of smooth, perfect skin. When I looked closely, I could see fine hairs peeking out of it. Were they my own hairs, protruding through the mesh? Or did the material have hairs of its own, mimicking real tissue?
I didn't know. I couldn't remember if hairs had grown up through my birthmark. After only three minutes, I was forgetting what my birthmark looked like. I shivered.
With sudden energy, I snapped myself away from the mirror and strode into the next room. "Let's go for a walk," I told Oar.
"May I touch it?" she asked.
"No. Walk."
Hard
We began to stroll the circumference of the habitat dome — keeping to the edge of town let me avoid being surrounded by glass buildings. In an hour, I would look at my face; before then, I didn't want to catch any chance reflection. Therefore, my gaze was turned toward the black dome wall as we walked. There was nothing to see, and that was good.
From time to time, I could feel Oar glancing at me. I was deliberately walking on her right, so she could only see my good cheek; her furtive peeks were attempts to watch the new skin change. Or perhaps she was only trying to gauge my mood. After minutes of tentative silence, she finally asked, "How are you feeling, Festina?"
"I'm fine." The words came out automatically. "I'm always fine," I said.
"You are not fine, you are troubled. Must I punch you in the nose so soon?"
I gave her a rueful grin. "No." It was tempting to face her, but I didn't. I could feel nothing special in my cheek, yet it seemed to be the center of all my consciousness. "This is just hard," I said.
"Why is it hard? Either you will stay the same, or you will look less ugly. You cannot lose."
"I might have an allergic reaction."
"What is an allergic reaction?"
"It's…" I shook my head. "Never mind, I was just being difficult." I turned my gaze to the crisp white cement beneath our feet. "This is hard," I said again.
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