Kesha had to be responsible for what had happened to Jano. She had tried to make a man be sensible, but not forcefully enough, and Jano had paid for it, as had others before the matter had been finished. In the end, Kesha’s plan had failed and if she had not done something drastic, in time more women would have been hurt. Unacceptable.
Charni clenched her fists. The only thing that had gone wrong was that she had not been fast enough. When she had reached Qjem, Latha had already told him everything, of course putting all the responsibility on Kesha.
It was more than textured that Lain would not let a bother like Chaid Khasat get away with it when she had her coronation so close at hand, so she had to let Kesha execute her plan to its end. But if in some way she could manage to break the weak link of confidence that had developed between Charni and the leader of the men in this world after the initiation ritual, all the better.
Still, what Latha’s mother did not know was the elderly man’s desire to protect Charni now that she was going to be left without a mother because of him.
And in some way, Charni was aware of it. She had perceived this particular fondness, like that of a mother, several alarms earlier when Qjem had asked her if he could touch her belly and feel the life inside it. Perhaps neither of them had maintained the same contact as they had for the ritual, but the tie between them had not weakened at all, as she well knew. Oh, yes. And she would make sure, starting that very day, that it would be made even stronger.
Charni heard a grunt. Probably Qjem had grabbed her mother by the hair to bare her throat.
“Your last words, Kesha?” the old man asked.
Her mother began to weep.
Ah … the language of tears. Every one of the women present would be applauding that final act. The high point was next.
“I’m very sorry for what I did and I hope with all my heart that no woman follows my example. Please. Please …” she sobbed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“I am too, Kesha,” Qjem whispered, although the women in the front rows heard him perfectly. Later those women would take it on themselves to tell it the others. It would be the final elegy to the courage and honor of their late queen.
A gurgling. The smell of blood. The sound of a dead weight falling to the floor. The wail of all the women present filling every corner as if with one voice. The powerful language of tears again. Any man would feel moved or at least disturbed by that sound. And Qjem would be convinced that they were broken and defeated. His pride would be calmed, the safety of all women would be reestablished, and the balance would not be affected.
The language of tears: sounds, smells, flavors, and textures that together meant more than any word, with a wider and deeper meaning. Women were using it in unison to pay their last respects at the death of such a worthy queen and to welcome the new one.
Charni wept too. She wept from pain while those around her paused in their chorus of tears to approach, embrace, caress, kiss, and write words on her skin before they left. “The best queen,” they said. “She will be remembered,” they promised. “A great Ksatrya,” they praised.
She remained motionless, lost in her pain and secret pride, while she received the texture of words from each and every woman until she was the only one left.
Alone, exhausted, unable to continue using the language of tears, lost in the most absolute silence, she swore by the existence that was developing inside her that she would not only do everything possible so that her mother’s legacy would never be forgotten, but she would make sure that those responsible would repent for having deprived Ksatrya women of their best queen.
The spilling was successful, and Charni waited patiently for the man to draw apart and sigh in satisfaction one last time. She remained still for a while and then, silently, rose from the cot and went to the chair where she had left her dress and belt. She opened the container for her blood cloth and cleaned between her legs.
She was about to dress herself to leave when the man interrupted.
“Wait. Don’t go yet. There’s still time. Come on, come here. Lie down with me a while.”
Although her turn had not quite ended, Charni would have preferred to go home. By now her daughter was home from school and although she would not be alone (without royal privileges, Charni shared a home with other women, which had its good side for raising a girl), she liked to spend as much time with her as possible.
But the man had ordered it, and she could not permit herself the luxury of hurting his pride. So, still silent, she lay down next to him again.
“Yes, that’s better,” he sighed while he embraced her from behind and coupled with her like a spoon. “Tell me, what’s your name?”
“Charni.”
“Charni … pretty name. I’m Khal, by the way.” He snorted, tired, while he finished coupling with her. “To tell the truth, I’ve had a horrible day. Do you know why?”
Charni bit her lip. She immediately remembered her mother’s words.
Was this the first time that she had been with this man? She sniffed him, making sure he did not notice. No. In fact, she was sure she had recognized him when he entered. But was this the second or third time? Had she felt pleasure in the spilling? As far as she could recall the last time, yes, although right away she had thought about her daughter and that she had only produced two men. She was now an adult, but her production was still insufficient to begin to pull strings and reach her final goal.
“No,” was all she answered. She needed to avoid saying ‘why’ by any means she could.
“No. Of course not. How would you know? Down here you live quiet, worry-free lives. Everything’s done for you, so you have all the time you need for yourselves … or whatever you do to have fun and pass the time. I can’t say I’d like a life like that, though. No, no, not at all. I’d probably want to shoot myself after two days. Although at times I wonder what life would be like from the perspective of such a simple mind as yours. And that’s what today I had …”
Why did I have to get a chatterbox for my turn? Charni thought with resignation and paid no attention at all to what the man said. She had more important things to think about. And while he droned on, she recalled her mother’s goodbye. Brief but full of feeling in every caress, every written word.
“I hope you have a good production, my child,” she began. “And although I ought to tell you I hope you’re carrying a man inside you, I’d rather it’s a woman. Otherwise people would say you’re following in your mother’s footsteps and this would make Lain and Latha consider you a rival more than ever. Patience. Remember that, Charni. Don’t hurry to carry out the plan that you’re hatching in your little mind. You’re my daughter, so you can’t fool me. But please, make sure that they’ve lowered their guard before you act. I feel very calm about leaving you alone because although you’re not yet an adult, you can do anything. I know it. Oh, yes, I know it. I trust you fully, my daughter.”
Her mother’s wishes had been fulfilled. Her first production had been a girl, and although Charni had almost died during the final phase of the process, her will to live and carry out her vengeance had been so strong and so determined that even her own assistants had been surprised by her recovery.
Yes. Charni would be as patient and as cautious as she had to be, and when the right time came …
“So what do you think?”
The question, along with the fact that the man had just planted two kisses … affectionate kisses on her shoulder and neck, set off all her alarms.
The three questions. The answer to two were no. And it was better to stop things before they happened.
“I’m sorry. My turn is over,” she answered in the most neutral tone she could transmit both with sounds and with the language of her body.
She rose from the cot, went to the chair in silence and began to dress herself.
“What’s wrong? Why are you acting like that?”
Like that? How? Charni felt sure she had been as bland as possible. Sti
ll, she said nothing and began to adjust her belt and the various containers.
“Hey,” the man exclaimed as he got up from the cot. “I asked you a question, woman,” he said, grabbing her arm and pulling it hard enough to bring her face to face.
Curse it. She didn’t know how, but he was texturizing that his pride had been awoken. Her duty as a Ksatrya woman was to calm him down any way she had to, to lower her head, to show her regret, to take the blame … to do everything necessary to keep the balance. And yet …
And yet, Charni realized that she was willing to assume the consequences of wounding his pride if it meant that she could avoid another turn with him.
“My answer is that you stop crying like a girl of two cycles,” she spat out while she managed to jerk her arm from his grasp. “Your life as a man is hard? Well, get over it. You came to this world to put up with that and a lot more. You have a duty, Ksatrya. Fulfill it or shoot yourself. If you’re not man enough to do one or the other, don’t make me waste my valuable time with a weakling like you.”
He grabbed her arm again, this time with murderous rage. Charni perceived that his other hand was held in the air to hit her. Ah, the pride, the pride. But she did not move a muscle as she waited for the man to hit her and ease his pride. And yet, to her surprise, nothing happened, and the silence that followed became uncomfortable.
Slowly, very slowly, almost like a caress, he let her go.
“You’re right,” he said with an almost … cheerful sarcasm. “I won’t make you waste your time. Until we see each other again, Charni.”
“I don’t think that will be possible, Khal.” She said his name with some contempt.
Suddenly, he hugged and kissed her with fury. Charni bit his lip and pushed him as best she could to make him let go. What cursed thing was happening with that man that made him seem to want her to trample on his pride? Dangerous. Beyond all doubt, a dangerous, unbalanced man.
She left the hall in silence, both confused and angry. Men were such a bother. They only knew how to fight and spill. Spill and fight. Their brain could hold no more. They were more simple than a newborn.
She shook her head. No. She would not spend another moment thinking about it. She had to talk with Deva and ask about the state of the alliances she was arranging. She had to visit Qjem, the only man with strategic value at that moment, to begin to find out who he was thinking of as his successor.
Lain would be about to perceive how the possibilities of her daughter Latha were being reduced to zero, nothing, and with a little more time …
No distractions. No. Not one.
She could not permit any distraction. Charni was going to be queen. In memory of her mother, no one and nothing would stop her from reaching her destiny, least of all a man. Although she had denied it for so long, although she had rejected it with all her strength while she was at school, Charni was now fully convinced that she had been produced in this world to govern all the women, just as her mother had done before her.
Exactly as the late queen had planned it.
Original Title: La textura de las palabras
Translated by: Sue Burke
Lola Robles hold a degree in Spanish literature and is a writer. She has published three science fiction novels: La rosa de las nieblas [The Fog Rose], published by Kira in 1999; El informe Monteverde [The Monteverde Report] published by Equipo Sirius in 2005; and Flores de Metal [Metal Flowers], published by Equipo Sirius in 2007. She has also published the collection Stories of Amargarita Páez, along with short stories and articles. Since 2006 she has led Fantástikas, a reading and discussion workshop with a feminist, pacifist and queer perspective.
The story “Dierdre” is more than six years old. It was selected for the anthology Visiones 2006, published by the Spanish Association for Fantasy, Science Fiction and Horror, an edition coordinated by Mariano Villarreal and meant to promote new authors. In the end, however, her story could not be included.
It is a deeply humane and moving story about a young woman who finds it nearly impossible to relate to others affectionately. A story that weaves love, pain, loneliness, passion and redemption in a future where robotics have advanced far enough to offer made-to-order lovers. A journey that recalls a tragic heroine of Irish mythology also named Deirdre.
I decided she would be called Deirdre. It was a name I had read in an old science fiction story.
“And finally, you need to choose a name for her,” I had been told by Myriam, the very sweet, and efficient employee of the Kapek Corporation, Inc., who dealt with me throughout the entire process. Myriam was very pretty, with long, curly, nearly-black hair, and she was so pleasant when she asked me what I wanted it for (the thing I later decided to call Deirdre) that I was about to answer “for her to be just like you.” But I didn’t, out of shame, my usual shyness, and because I thought that to speak that way would affect her professional relationship with me (I was aware from the beginning that any other sort of relationship would only be imaginary, because she alluded, as soon as we met, to her heterosexuality). And I had come there, to the Kapek Corporation, precisely because I was fed up with imaginary love.
It was the final choice, her name, Deirdre, but not the most difficult one: the very first was harder, the decision to go there. The Kapek Corporation was located in an office on the seventeenth floor of a glass tower (with windows like eyes) in the center of the city, and it billed itself a “company of domestic robots,” a neutral expression so that clients could be unnoticed, just as if they truly came there to acquire a robot for household chores or a robo-chaufeur. In fact, the company only advertised through the internet, not on television or in the media, and through the word of mouth of satisfied clients, and that’s how I had come to them, through a friend. Once you got in touch, they gave you an appointment in the skyscraper where a secretary handed you a pamphlet with detailed information about the company and what it could offer you. If you were then convinced to proceed, the next meeting took place in a more discreet location, a little chalet in the outskirts of the city labeled with a simple sign bearing just the initials KCDR (Kapek Corporation Domestic Robotica), and the employee who opened the door for you and led you to an individual waiting room assured you that you wouldn’t meet any other clients, just the receptionist and the person in charge of your account, who awaited you to conduct your first interview.
There was Myriam: radiant, charming, made-up but not excessively, so beautiful, pleasant, and genteel.
“Please be seated,” she told me, immediately suggesting using first names, and I accepted. “Before we begin, I’d like to talk briefly about our company,” she continued. “As you know, Emma, our company is a multinational with offices in practically all the most important cities of the world. Our basic principles are honesty and discretion. We’re honest because we guarantee that we don’t manufacture robots or androids for either war or prostitution. In fact we’ve signed the Reykjavik Protocol on this. Yes we build robots for space navigation and manual workers (but only for very onerous jobs, for our company doesn’t want to contribute to the loss of positions for human workers), and androids for domestic service and companionship. We are the best in our specialty, don’t doubt it. Our androids are perfect, that’s why they’re also the most expensive. But that question shouldn’t concern you. We’ll take care of it on credit in the event that you have any problem. And discretion: first, because given the top quality of your servant or your companion android, it would be indistinguishable from a true human; and second, because the privacy of your data and the secrecy of your case are completely guaranteed.”
Myriam spoke slowly, although with energy and enthusiasm; her speech, it was obvious, was made up of a series of sentences learned by rote, but she tried to transmit her own trust in them and she didn’t limit herself to speaking like... a robot. I thought that I could fall in love with her, so warm and affectionate with me even if that was a requirement of her job. I am very easily infatuated, able to be passionate w
ith someone whether for a few brief minutes or for months or even entire years.
I recall having let myself be seduced by a lovely older woman who, by chance, shared a hotel room with me on an adventurous trip to the island of Madeira. Her name was Beatriz and she was as polite and discrete as she was exquisite in her grooming: she brushed her hair every night before bed, and to go down to dinner she wore these long, diaphanous dresses that our entire group, rather less formal in their attire, admired. I remember being captivated by the Icelandic guide who for a month and a half showed us her native country on a tour of unforgettable landscapes; a female Viking, towering one meter eighty-five in height, a blonde mane of curly hair, stunningly beautiful, wild, who I wasn’t able to even speak to for a few days, such was the turmoil I felt merely by looking at her. I remember Tane, a Danish woman who was tall and thin, but graceful as a gazelle in her movements, for whom I felt a sweet carnal desire and an extraordinary tenderness during the weekend we shared a course to free ourselves from work addiction. I remember... in short, there were more cases of momentary fascinations, of sudden infatuations that used to ambush me rather frequently... and with few practical results, except a few brief flings. It was this tendency to fleeting loves, especially platonic ones, that had led me to be seated in front of Myriam.
“The main goal of our services,” she continued, “is the domestic or emotional wellbeing of our clients; that they are happier, we would dare to say. So don’t have any doubts, Emma, about how right your decision to come here was. Now I am going to create a personal file for you, and we need a few bits of data about yourself and about the characteristics you desire in your android companion.”
Terra Nova: An Anthology of Contemporary Spanish Science Fiction Page 7
