Contemporary Gay Romances

by Felice Picano

  She’d pre-fed the Vid-screen before arriving at his flat and it now showed moving Vids of the ceremony—sound turned down—and afterward at the celebratory feast. He could clearly see sitting next to his mother the very same young man who’d popped into his memory upon awakening, and who appeared at least as upset as she was. Then the Med Center people arrived and Blue’s inert and by then fully cocooned body was ceremonially placed in the Heal-All, people said their good-byes, and it was floated out.

  Andre already knew of Blue’s memory loss and couldn’t have been sweeter or more explanatory as he asked who each person shown was. When he reached the bereft, handsome young man with the dark curling hair, she said, “Bruno. Of course.”

  “Bruno?” He tried it out and it sounded right.

  “Bruno Thomasson, your adoring fiancé. He hasn’t found anyone else, you know, in all the months since. In fact, Blue, from what he was saying the other day when I called to tell him of you, I do believe he wants to try to see you again.”

  “Bruno?” Blue now asked, stunned. “Then I was…”

  “A woman. Yes, Blue. Didn’t anyone explain it to you at the Med Center? We seldom come back the second time as the same gender. Your aunt / uncle Clay Clarkson? the one who died in that fall, climbing the Capsilian Mountains? She once explained all the complex genetics of it to me, but you know how dense I can be about scientific matters.”

  “So that’s Bruno!” Blue now said, not Burn, of course, and looked at the Vid-screen as the compelling figure was highlighted and zoomed in on, the large dark, misty eyes, the downturned full lips and picturesquely sunken cheeks.

  “You don’t have to see him, you know, if it makes you—nervous,” Andre settled on, and changed the subject back to those in the family she would never speak to again because they simply never even acknowledged Blue’s death, never mind Andre’s grief.

  It all began to make sense now: the purses in the office and at Blue’s flat with no ID in them. The scarcity of male clothing in the closets: two suits—both new looking. Scarcely anything in the way of male accessories. Only the most basic toiletries in the bath. It also explained the rare photos: all of them of other family members, not one of them showing Blue.

  He had to ask, “Mother? What kind of woman was I?”

  Andre only wavered a second. “Frankly, Blue, you were a complete pain in the ass. You were a physically tough, emotionally cold, adventure-loving, overconfident, thoughtless, hard-living, self-absorbed egomaniac to almost everyone but Bruno. You drove me crazy as an adolescent. I needed most of the family and sometimes City Services, too, to help raise you. In truth, you were such a bitch to most of us that it was a constant wonder that someone didn’t kill you years ago.”

  As Blue absorbed that, Andre added, with a nervous little laugh, “We’re all hoping that those qualities will fit you better—now that you’re a male.”

  When Blue chuckled, Andre added, “You know, Blue, while it’s a difficult adjustment for many, some people only begin to really find themselves when they’re second-born.”

  *

  Chango Blocksson’s Vid-screen image was of an older man, but his voice was older than his appearance and Blue was forced to conclude that he’d done at least one expensive voluntarily short period in a Heal-All age-proofing himself. Blue’s mother had done two of those herself and looked almost Blue’s age.

  Two of the cases Blocksson had taken from Blue’s six had been solved. Cases closed. Two of the clients, Dusk Martila and another woman, had chosen to not to accept Blocksson’s services. And two cases remained in progress: one a long-term private investigation by two wealthy brothers of their industrialist father’s concerns: “Very straightforward and utterly paranoid,” according to Chango. “They think he’s hiding their eventual heritage.” Another, an equally long-term search for an amateur pilot, a playboy, lost over Oceania, whom his family needed declared dead—or alive, and non-compos mentis, they almost didn’t care which.

  “I don’t buy anyone involved in these two cases as even possessing a weapon, never mind using one on you,” Chango Blocksson declared. “Their motives aren’t impelling enough,” he added, even before Blue could ask his opinion. But it confirmed Blue’s own surprisingly strong investigative intuition.

  “This Martila woman, however…well, her I just don’t know. They’re off-worlders, you know: Albergrivians, and whatever those people do is weird and mixed up with that cockamamie religion they’ve got.”

  “The sixth case?” Blue asked. “Did you look at that long enough to see if it was more than a simple potential female infidelity?”

  “It looked like a simple female love triangle. By the way, you look terrific,” Chango added. “And I’ve got to thank you. I met my fourth wife at your funeral. A second or third cousin of yours who came along with others. We’re married five months: So we’re now distantly related. She says you should come to dinner. Bring that guy Bruno, too, if you’re still seeing him?”

  “Should I be?” Blue asked.

  “Everyone at the funeral seemed to think so. He was all busted up. But of course things may be a little iffy between the two of you.”

  After Chango signed off, Blue made a Vid-call to Bruno. Luckily, he wasn’t in and asked for a message to be left. This close up, Bruno’s photo made a very strong impression. Shaken, Blue left no message at all, even though he knew the Vid would take a trace of his call.

  All the rest of the day, Blue threw himself into the Martila case. Leads had developed in the year since he was gone, and suddenly they began edging out into possibilities.

  One lead directly shot into a Albergrivian Benefit Society, and its president, a publicity-shy character named Aptel Movasa who had moved the organization out of downtown to a local Civic Center hub, only a few streets from Blue’s office. Perhaps a drop-in visit was in order?

  Blue had used the transportation hub stations there but he didn’t recall ever going beyond the little concentration of public buildings another two streets over to the commercial area, which, now as he walked that way, was clearly evident by the increased pedestrian traffic.

  The familiar, male-female, two-headed bust stood at one end of a pedestrian-only street, and it was also marked that it tolerated none but ultra-light, public, surface vehicles. The second thing Blue noticed were several storefronts given to inter-world transport, inter-world freight, and inter-world currency conversion. In each window, the strangely square script of the reformed Albergrivian alphabet translated simple phrases.

  The north side of the street, for most of the block, was given over to what seemed a modern enough looking hotel named Rha Cantrobergle and described as an “Alberge for Off-Planet Travelers.” Sure enough, across the street, the next half dozen shop fronts on the southern side were given over to Albergrivian ethnic food specialties, what appeared to be native clothing and other dry goods, and what might be a combination tea room and Skimko parlor.

  His phone-pad went off and he read the tea room’s address as the same as last given for Aptel Movassa.

  He knew he would look out of place the second he stepped in the door, so he didn’t attempt to be anyone but himself.

  Through the haze of Spital-Leaf smoke, only one person of the dozen or so elderly Albergrivian gentlemen seated around floor-mounted smokers looked up from the games at their complex Skimko boards.

  “Zha Andresson,” Blue introduced himself to a clerk. “Seeking Zha-Kas Movasa.” The ethnic honorific got a few more heads turned his way.

  “Does Zha-Kas know the Zha?” the tea-counter clerk asked. He was young, thin, typically unattractive, and given his awful complexion, unquestionably addicted to carbonated drinks.

  “Unfortunately, this Zha has not had the pleasure,” Blue said. He knew he was being scanned from another office or at least being checked out by some minion just making a Skimko move at a table nearby.

  The clerk caught a nearly invisible signal and brought one refill to a pair of ancient players
, and a barrage of Albergrivian chatter ensued. The clerk bowed away, taking the used cartridge with him.

  “Zha-Kas Pirto remarked how more lovely than an Albergrivian woman are the young men of this world,” the clerk tittered.

  Blue turned and bowed to the flatterer, who curlicued an age-spotted hand in response, without looking up from his complex, three-level game.

  Behind his counter again, the clerk apparently read off a message, because he said, “Will the Zha follow, please.”

  Behind the back wall curtain of red-reed, a small elevator slid open and Blue stepped in.

  Just as the doors closed on him, Blue heard a baritone shout he was certain was directed at himself; too late for him to worry how hostile it might be.

  The lift flew up twenty-five floors and flashed open onto what seemed to be a rooftop garden with a central fountain. Beneath an awning, a standard desk much altered by colorful ethnic throws and runners, and behind it was an elderly Albergrivian, almost hidden within a throne-like chair constructed of the same red-reed, this time twisted into arabesques.

  Blue bowed slightly three times approaching and used the correct honorific and Movasa waved him to a seat. A slender youth almost identical to the clerk downstairs immediately brought them wide-mouthed mugs of a fragrant purple-tinged tea, and vanished. Movasa quickly sipped his, to show it was harmless and tasty.

  Blue followed and presented his credentials.

  “A simple case of a vanished businessman,” Blue explained. “It eluded my predecessor. She apparently was unaware of the wide-ranging knowledge of the Zha-Kas.”

  “To the contrary,” the soft-voiced, unattractive old Albergrivian said. “She sat where Zha Andresson now sits, and she lacked all the social graces. How could a person speak to her?”

  “How indeed! Apologies.”

  “She might have been a sibling to yourself, Zha.”

  “We never met,” Blue truthfully said, couching it so that if lie detection were built into the table or chair he would not be suspect.

  “She was lovely, like the women of this world. But she could not equal yourself, Zha. Already in the tea parlor below they are replaying the Vid taken during your brief visit and perhaps saying and doing unclean things…in your honor, Zha.”

  Blue had done enough homework on Albergrive society to believe this might be taken either as a provocation or as a compliment: he decided to take it as a compliment. He smiled.

  “Worse than her attitude, Zha,” Movasa went on, “Was her ignorance of proper manners.”

  “The Zha who wishes to”—Blue purposely used an Albergrivian word that could either mean “crucial conversation” or “sexual intercourse,” depending solely upon its tonal inflection—“with a Zha-Kas must acquaint himself with proper manners.”

  Movasa laughed at the double-edged witticism.

  “Tell, me Zha Andresson, how may this old Zha-Kas be of help?” Movasa asked.

  “An attractive woman client”—and here Blue used the Albergrivian term he’d especially learned to describe one who was both widowed and yet not—“seeks her husband long missing.” He produced his phone-pad and flashed the most flattering videos of her he could locate. “This Zha naturally believes the Zha-Kas would be able to assist. Her name is Zhana Martila. She wishes to now be Zhannia Martila,” making it clear that she wanted to be single again.

  “To remarry a Zha of this world?”

  “Indeed not. To marry an Albergrivian. But,” Blue quickly added, “I believe one who is mainstreamed into this world’s society and work.”

  “A lad ignorant of the ways of his people,” Movasa said.

  “Or one who is knowledgeable and…uninterested.”

  “More and more such Zhaos exist,” Movasa sighed, using a term unfamiliar to Blue. “Perhaps seduced by love. And Zhana Martila? What does Zha Andresson think of her?”

  “We have only met once, briefly. But she is honest, and she seems without external motive. Three years her husband is gone. The Zhana seems to be beyond anger, reproof, or even revenge.”

  “On our world, one favor gives birth to another,” Movasa said.

  “This Zha will of course be in your debt in the future,” Blue admitted. He suspected this was how the old power-broker worked anyway.

  “This Zha will put out a”—here Movasa used a word meant to signify query but also demand—“for this missing Zha Martila. You will hear from me in three double sunsets.”

  “Whatever future, non-illegal, request you make of this Zha will be yours,” Blue assured him.

  They sipped their tea and watched the blue sun prepare to drop below the horizon. The sky flashed green several times, then settled into dull orange.

  Movasa was called indoors, and Blue stood up and began bowing to leave, but the old man pulled him over and gave him a kiss on his cheek. “So lovely, these males!”

  As Blue stepped into the elevator, Movasa looked out of his office and said, “This will take you directly to the street. That way you may avoid disrespectful words.”

  “You mean like those words I heard as I stepped in before?”

  “Those words were not so much disrespectful as they were descriptive—if crude.” Movassa smiled.

  *

  Bruno Thomasson looked far better in a video than he did even in still photos. Blue found himself reminded of what the Albergrivians had said several times about the “lovely males” of this world. No wonder women like his mother worked so hard to keep up.

  When he’d returned to his office after the meeting with Movasa, Blue had immediately taken a “crash-course” in that paired planet’s people’s interpersonal relations, with an especial look into their sexuality, a topic he’d ignored totally before going to meet Movasa, if not exactly to his peril, at least to his slight discomfiture.

  He was surprised to see that same-sexuality was a fairly recent development among those off-worlders, and one that had only taken fire when the two planets had once made contact. Even now, it was not much practiced on their home world, and it seemed to be chiefly a cross-cultural phenomenon, actually more spoken of than acted upon, even here in the City, among those who visited or had immigrated. Among Albergrivian women it was all but unknown at home, and it was rare here; however, it seemed widespread among Albergrivian men who had relocated. But even among those newcomers, the author of the short documentary Blue watched believed, it was more spoken of and written about than actually practiced. Acceptable mostly because of some ancient Albergrivian texts and poems that everyone learned at school in their early years, detailing the legendary loves of great warriors and their teen male lovers.

  Blue’s world’s athletes and male celebrities were the main fantasy choices of both younger and older Albegrivian men, who filled out their fan clubs and paid astronomical sums for porn-Vids of their idols (a few of whom seemingly and quite callously produced them specifically to cash in, ruthlessly locating and exploiting the very few existing Albergrivian beauties for their videos).

  Blue wondered if he might bring this topic up later on at dinner, because at long last Bruno Thomasson had called back and left a message asking if they might meet for dinner.

  Blue would have to see. He tried to recall what his mother had said about Bruno, besides the fact that he’d been smitten with Blue as a woman enough to propose marriage. Given the vast Thomas family holdings, its long and colorful history, and its political and financial status in the City, Bruno must have been crazy about such an unlikely mate for him as a tough woman investigator. So Blue was gracious as he could be on the Vid-screen responding and said he was “looking forward” to “seeing Bruno again”…

  The restaurant Bruno chose was an expensive one, so he wasn’t hiding this meeting from his clan. In honor of such a classy date, Blue dressed as well as possible.

  All the more of a surprise then when the maitre d’ showed him to a private table set apart from the rest of the diners by floor-high mirrors and metal panels.

  However
, at it sat not Bruno Thomasson but two strangers. They introduced themselves to Blue as Thomas family attorneys, and immediately asked if Blue would sign a quitclaim on the family.

  “That’s not legally needed,” he said, only half surprised by this tactic. “As a Bi-Vivid I have no claim whatsoever upon Bruno Thomasson no matter what prearrangements were made.”

  “Agreed. This quitclaim, however, provides you with the following sum”—the female of the two pointed to the line and the large amount—“but only if Bruno Thomasson also signs it.”

  Meaning that if Bruno wanted out after this date, buying Blue off would be more or less legal.

  “I’ll sign. But I may not ever claim the money. Wealth is so…boring! Don’t you think?” Blue asked, sipping his cocktail. He scrawled a signature almost as an afterthought.

  Evidently they didn’t agree it was boring, because they got up and left without another word.

  “That’s not something the old Blue would have done,” Bruno said. He’d been behind a panel or mirror observing and stepped forward now. His voice was velvety and higher than Blue would have expected. He was taller, too. Beautifully dressed, of course. “Or something she would have said,” Bruno added.

  Blue smiled politely and held out a hand, saying “Blue Andresson. The Second.” He offered the cocktail already delivered to the table.

  Bruno gestured, and Blue invited him to sit.

  “Also, Blue the First would have phoned me immediately upon awakening from the Heal-All,” Bruno said.

  “A year in a Heal-All does not, despite the popular myths, provide full memory retention,” Blue said. “And then there is the natural awkwardness of the situation.”

  “You mean with the attorneys. Not my idea at all. I assure you, Blue.”

  “I believe you, Bruno. But no, the awkwardness I meant was that both of us now use the same restroom facilities. My predecessor’s very flimsy personal file on Bruno Thomasson did not include or highlight…personal flexibility,” he ended up saying.