Children of the Divide

by Patrick S. Tomlinson

  Benexx didn’t mind. In a few weeks, it would be Sakiko’s turn to travel to Shambhala and stay with zer family, where she would be just as awkward and out-of-place as Benexx felt in G’tel. It was why they’d become such fast friends years ago, each foreigners to their own people, each helping the other fill in the cultural blanks.

  It was a uniquely codependent relationship.

  Ze leaned back in zer chair and settled in for the long flight home. Longer now than it had been the first few summers ze’d spent abroad. In the early days, shuttles were still being used for the transoceanic voyage. But their enormously thirsty hypersonic engines, and the increasingly demanding schedule doing the work of building the space-based infrastructure the development plan demanded, meant they were pulled from airliner service as soon as alternatives became available.

  The airplane Benexx sat in now was one of six that had been manufactured in the Ark’s factories, then shipped piece by piece down the beanstalk for final assembly on the surface. It was a high, swept-wing design with high-bypass turbofan engines mounted on top of the wings. It sat just over a hundred people, making it much smaller than the shuttles it replaced, but also drastically more fuel efficient.

  But it was also subsonic, which meant a trip that used to take three hours now took closer to nine. Benexx shut off the artificial window display and its endless blue ocean. Ze reached into zer bag to retrieve zer specially grown headset, scrolled through zer music files, selected a soothing synth-jazz playlist from the turn of twenty-second century old Earth, and let the kilometers slip by at almost eight hundred an hour.

  Ze loved flying. The acceleration at takeoff, the fleeting sensations of weightlessness. It reminded Benexx of swimming, only so much faster. Ze envied Jian Feng, floating thousands of kilometers above the planet in zero gee. Commanding his own shuttle with its immense power. Ze’d skipped a summer in G’tel two years ago and spent the time aboard the Ark with both Jian and Sakiko. It was part of their “enrichment,” and everyone’s parents had insisted on it.

  Sakiko had been miserable in null gee, utterly useless. She flapped around like a wounded bird until she gave up and spent the rest of the trip either clinging to handrails or hiding in the centripetal gravity at the bottom of the habitats. Benexx, by contrast, was a natural. Ze’d picked up on how to fly through null gee like a fish took to a pond, which considering ze race’s relatively recent aquatic lineage, was probably as accurate a metaphor as any.

  The Ark’s longtime captain, Chao Feng, even remarked that Benexx, “Must have gotten zer flying genes from zer father.” Which kind of ignored the fact ze was not only adopted, not only a separate species, but indeed traced zer origins to an entirely separate genesis of life from Bryan. Still, considering his hallowed career as a Zero player, it was a flattering thing to say.

  For a moment, Benexx felt a pang of guilt over defacing zer father’s image, but the feeling quickly passed. They’d been increasingly butting heads lately, and even if they hadn’t been, Benexx knew he hated the “Bronze monstrosity” that had been erected in Mahama Park not three years before. For a former sports star, zer father was strangely averse to hero worship, or at least of being the target of it.

  The airliner’s descent announcement interrupted zer music, letting the passengers know they’d be landing in a half hour. Benexx shifted uncomfortably in zer chair. The designers had gone to great lengths to make them ergonomically compatible with either human or Atlantian physiques, but instead simply ensured they were equally inappropriate for both.

  The seat wasn’t zer only source of discomfort, however. The fifteenth anniversary of the Trident approached in only two days. There would be a parade. Zer parents expected zer to participate, solidly against zer expressed wishes. Benexx hated zer role as icon, and with zer critical fifteenth birthday fast approaching, ze felt like it was time ze should be able to make these sorts of calls for zerself.

  Ze was leaving vacation and flying straight into a confrontation ze didn’t want to have but wasn’t willing to back down from just for the sake of expediency. Benexx put away zer headset, buckled zer lap belt, and steeled zerself for a fight ze knew ze was probably going to lose.

  Three

  Third down and long. Down by two. Fourth quarter with no timeouts and under three minutes to play. Standing on the sidelines, Benson read blitz. Two of the Flying Injri’s linebackers shifted forward subtly. It was a small movement, but enough to tip Coach Makhlouf’s hand on the play.

  Benson said into the open plant link he shared with the rest of the Mustangs. Benson paused long enough for the Atlantian to make eye contact. Ze didn’t have a plant. Great strides were being made mapping the Atlantian brain, but not enough was known as yet to make the technology compatible for their new allies. So Benson’s voice was being routed into a small com inside zer helmet. Benson couldn’t afford to be misunderstood on the play.

 

  the Atlantian receiver said. Which was less reassuring than it would have been if “OK coach” didn’t comprise ninety percent of Cha’ku’s conversations with Benson.

  The offensive line shifted left. Under center, Boswell called for the snap before the defense could make any adjustments. The millisecond the ball left the center’s hand, the blitz of defensive linemen came. Bodies far, far bigger than anything that had been allowed to exist in two hundred years onboard the Ark slammed into each other. Irresistible forces meet immovable objects with a thunderclap. Hillman, intentionally left uncovered to Boswell’s right where the Mustang’s star quarterback would have a clear line of sight on the charging linebacker, came streaking through the gap like a charging Dux’ah and leveled a shoulder in an all-out effort to sack the QB, kill the drive, and force a punt to essentially end the game.

  Just as Benson had hoped.

  Miraculously, Cha’ku had actually understood Benson’s instructions and ran to the patch of turf Hillman’s charge had left undefended. Ze didn’t manage to shake zer man-on-man coverage, but with the Atlantian’s two-and-a-half-meter tall frame, it hardly mattered. Boswell zeroed in on his open receiver and let loose a rifle shot of a pass well over the head of the human Flying Injri player struggling desperately to match up with Cha’ku.

  The oblong football streaked through the air in a tight spiral. Cha’ku reached up with a single hand and stretched as far as ze could. With a slap, the synthetic pigskin smacked into zer palm as the Atlantian’s four tentacle-like fingers curled around it and hauled it in for a seven meter reception. Ze was hit immediately from two sides by zer own man coverage and a free safety, but the nice thing about having receivers with thousands of tiny suction cups on their fingers was no matter how hard defenders hit them, they never coughed up fumbles.

  They also never got much in the way of meters after the catch. As hard as they could be to tackle because of the extreme flexibility their omni-directional joints offered them, Atlantians were absolute shit in straight line running. With two defenders wrapping zer up like a Christmas present, Cha’ku toppled over like a felled tree. With one last desperate grab for centimeters, Cha’ku threw out zer arm and stretched the ball as far as ze could before zer knee touched turf and the play was whistled dead.

  Benson didn’t have a great angle on the far side of the field and couldn’t tell where exactly Cha’ku had been brought down in relation to the first down marker. The ref made her way over to the pile of tangled limbs, recovered the ball, and placed it on the far side of the marker.

  “Yeah!” Benson’s arms rose into the air along with the hoots and hollers of some three thousand Mustang fans, drowning out the boos of the Flying Injri fans that also filled the stands. Football had come a long way in the fifteen years since Benson had pioneered his little rec league, hoping to fill the hole left in his heart from the death of Zero. />
  Since those early days, their borrowed field had grown into a proper stadium, with seating for eight thousand people, nearly as large as the old Zero Stadium back on the Ark. The original four teams had swelled to a proper semi-pro league of six, one for each of Shambhala’s five boroughs, plus one representing the outlying settlements. Atlantian immigrants had started playing almost as soon as they’d touched down, bringing their unique blend of skills and physical characteristics to a game that was already evolving at breakneck speeds.

  But some things never changed. A sudden pall settled over the crowd, squelching their celebration. Benson sensed the trouble and looked back to the field to see what the crowd had spotted. Lying there, not ten meters behind him, was a yellow penalty flag, burning in his vision as if it were the sun itself. It had been thrown far behind the line of scrimmage, close to where Boswell lay sprawled out on the turf underneath Hillman’s impressive frame.

  Benson’s attention had been so focused on the pass that he hadn’t been watching the backfield. He hadn’t even seen the flag come out, but based on which ref had thrown it, the odds were good it was a holding call against someone on his offensive line. Ten-meter penalty, repeat third down, and give Coach Makhlouf another chance to put the game away for good.

  Boswell was slow to get up. He stumbled over to the sidelines holding a limp left arm. “I think it’s dislocated, coach,” the QB said apologetically.

  “That’s OK.” Benson nodded towards the trio of officials conferring about the penalty in the middle of the field. “Looks like we’re just about done anyway.”

  Boswell saw the flag and was crestfallen. “It was a pretty good throw though, right?”

  “Brilliant throw, Mohammed. Right in the suckers where nobody else could touch it.”

  The lead ref broke away from their huddle and faced the crowd. “Personal foul. Defense. Number forty-three. Roughing the passer.”

  “What?” Hillman threw his arms out in disbelief and started walking towards the lead ref, but the other two moved to block his way.

  “Fifteen-meter penalty. Automatic first down.”

  The Mustang fans in the stands went wild as the chains moved up. Boswell was out, but with the penalty they were at the outer edge of their kicker’s field goal range. A quick QB substitution, three run plays to pick up a few extra meters, a tense moment as the ball sailed through the air before hooking right and splitting the uprights, then his invigorated defense forced a three-and-out. A failed onside kick attempt later and the Mustangs had the ball back, up by one, and with enough time taken off the clock that all the offense needed to do was go into victory formation, take a knee, and let the clock run out to win the game.

  Benson ran out into center field to shake Coach Makhlouf’s hand as tradition demanded. He leaned in and slapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Good game.”

  “Lucky call,” Makhlouf said. “Holcomb was holding, I know you saw it.”

  “You wouldn’t have complained if it went the other way.”

  “Nope, not one bit.”

  “Didn’t think so. See you in three weeks. Hope you’re ready.”

  “Count on it.”

  They parted ways and Benson returned to the Mustang’s locker room among a sea of attaboys and ass slaps. He took the opportunity to congratulate all of his players on a hard-fought victory and praise their grit, then critiqued their individual performances. The game ball went to Cha’ku for zer spectacular crunch-time catch. Ze was absolutely thrilled by the honor and cradled the ball like a newborn.

  As the players changed out of their sweaty uniforms and stripped off their pads, Benson noticed his wife standing in the doorway, taking in the sights. Benson quickly shuffled her out of view. “Honey, you can’t just come in the locker room.”

  “Why not?”

  “It makes people uncomfortable.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable,” she grinned devilishly.

  “They’re kids, dear.”

  “Awful big for kids,” Theresa said. “But speaking of kids, we have to pick ours up from the airfield, remember?”

  “Right!” Benson said.

  “You forgot?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Theresa sighed. “Honestly, Bryan, what’s the point of even setting a plant alert for you?”

  “It must have glitched again.”

  “Your head must have glitched again.” Theresa started moving towards the door. “C’mon, the pod’s waiting for us.”

  Benson said a quick goodbye to his team, then followed Theresa to the light rail station in the lobby. A small, four-seat electric transport pod waited for them with its scissor doors open high. Benson settled into the opposing bench seats as Theresa selected the airstrip from the small control terminal. There were no seatbelts. There was no need for them. The doors slid shut and the pod silently rolled down the thin electrified tracks.

  The silence extended to the cab as Benson looked out the window, avoiding his wife’s gaze. The stadium was on the far northern side of Shambhala, opposite the airstrip. The city’s neighborhoods whizzed past as the pod picked up speed. First the Museum district with its exclusive townhouses, cafes, pubs, boulevard of shops, and naturally the Museum itself. In what was considered a minor miracle by most outside observers, Devorah Feynman had, after fifty years and change, let her job as curator pass to her assistant. At eighty-five years old, Devorah was now content to keep herself busy as a tour guide. A slow, methodical, tortuously thorough guide who more than one visitor had faked a medical emergency in order to escape before the tour had reached its conclusion.

  Benson was convinced she’d outlive them all.

  Next came the Glades, which they called home. Five years after Landing, they’d learned the hard way that this area was prone to semi-annual flooding. A hastily-prepped series of earthen levies had seen to that little hiccup, but for a few months that summer they’d enjoyed the quaint entertainments of living in a wetland. Theresa had wanted a new couch anyway.

  Beyond the Glades and across the river was the Native Quarter, but that was just the polite title everyone used to avoid calling it the ghetto. It was a labyrinth for humans to navigate, the Atlantians who built it eschewing the grid of streets in the rest of Shambhala for their more familiar village layout of concentric rings connected by spokes. From the air, the two halves of the city stood in stark geometric contrast. The Native Quarter grew into the unused land between the spaceport and the rest of Shambhala, where the humans hadn’t wanted to build due to the noise pollution and potential for crashing shuttles.

  Of the fifty thousand plus residents that called Shambhala home, just over thirty thousand of them were humans. The balance were Atlantians who had emigrated from the villages of the road network and Dweller caves in the fifteen years since First Contact and the forging of the Trident.

  At least their parents had. The thing about Atlantians was, once you had three of them in one place, it wasn’t long before you had thirty more of them. This wasn’t a problem before the Ark turned up. Life on Gaia had been harsh, forcing harsh choices. Choices Benson had been horrified by when he first saw them in action. Now, he knew enough to understand them in context.

  It all started with a bearer with no name. Malnourished and heavily pregnant with a brood, ze’d wandered down the road network in Atlantis until ze found G’tel and the Shambhala Embassy. The bearer wove a tale of abuse at the hands of zer village elders, who demanded that ze adhere to tradition and zer judgment over which among zer brood lived or died. But ze’d heard fantastic rumors about G’tel, where beings from the sky had taught the village to grow two fullhand times as many crops on the same amount of land. Where there was more food than could be eaten, and broods weren’t culled anymore.

  So ze escaped, and found zer way to this mystical place.

  Tuko, still Chief at the time, wished to return the bearer to zer village, as was proper under their traditions. But Ambassador Mei was adamant, which was her tradition. M
ei taught the bearer a brand new word. A human word that, until then, had never existed on Gaia, not even as a concept.

  Asylum.

  The political and diplomatic shitstorm that followed took months to settle back down again, but in the end, ze was granted asylum and safe passage to Shambhala, where ze gave birth to zer brood, all thirty-four of them. Ze was not the last. Within a year, over five hundred bearers, most of them pregnant, had requested asylum and moved to Shambhala. Nor were they alone. Many of the parents of the bearer’s broods also made the move, just as concerned about the fate of their children as the bearers were.

  In short order, Shambhala was dealing with a massive refugee housing crisis. The urban planning council had to throw everything out the window, lift zoning restrictions, loosen building codes, and turn a blind eye to a lot of graft just to attempt to keep up with the unexpected population explosion.

  Then, to make matters worse, the bearer with no name disappeared, leaving a hole in the expat community and a leadership fight that had yet to fully resolve itself. That had been ten years ago.

  “Your secondary still needs work on their one-on-ones,” Theresa said, suddenly breaking the silence and causing Benson’s train of thought to derail in a spectacular fashion.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Your secondary. They’re missing a step on their match-ups. They should be in position to disrupt more passes, even get a few interceptions, but they’re too slow out of the gate. Maybe a few more shuttle runs and interval drills.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Benson said. “Wait a minute. You said you weren’t watching the games anymore. You said they were, what was the word, ‘Barbaric’?”

  “They are,” Theresa confirmed. “Totally savage. But you’re only one game out of first place, and well, you know how I am about men in tights.”

  “They’re not tights,” Benson objected. “They’re pads.”