It was hard to frame the question. I sat there a long time, twining my legs under the chair. At last I said, “Proctor, is it wrong to love a neuter?”
He thought about it a long time before answering. “No,” he said. “We all get fond of them from time to time. It’s only natural. It can even be good, as long as we don’t get too attached or possessive. After all, they don’t belong to us.”
His answer made me feel liberated from a huge weight of shame that had been building up ever since that first taunt of “neuter-lover.” I could admit now that I loved Joby, and didn’t need to deny it to myself.
After that, thinking became much easier. I realized that I had hated Joby that day on the cliff, because love for it had been such an important part of me as a child—a part I had grown to see as shameful. I wasn’t able to simply detach myself and feel nothing toward Joby, as I should have; the feelings were too strong. Joby was my childhood, all I had valued and cherished. Now I had to leave all that behind, and didn’t want to. I had been throwing those mudballs at myself, at my past.
“I got mixed up,” I told Proctor Givern. “I thought I was mad at Joby, but it was really me I was mad at, because I was so scared.”
Proctor Givern gave me another big hug. “You’re a good kid, Tedla,” he said. It made me feel so warm I never wanted to leave his arms.
***
Val said, “Why do you think your punishment was different from Zelly’s?”
“Proctor Givern knew us,” Tedla said. “He knew what would be effective for each of us. He made me think about myself, because he knew I would.”
“We have an old-fashioned word for that,” Val said, smiling. “It’s called a conscience.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s right. He wanted me to have a conscience. It’s one of many things that made me think—still does make me think—that they expected me to be human. A conscience is a useless commodity for a bland. Their behavior is too tightly controlled; they don’t have to control themselves.”
“‘They’?” Val said curiously.
“We.”
The word seemed to come hard.
***
Shortly after, there was an event—two events, really—that affected all of us at the creche, but me in particular.
It was justification time, the yearly period when the adults have to review their lives and search their hearts to see if they have made a contribution to nature, culture, or humanity in that year. The air was full of tension and seriousness. The adults were all preoccupied and short with us.
I was struggling with an inner dilemma myself—whether to say anything to Joby. Proctor Givern had given me no advice about it, and I had been afraid to ask. Acknowledging my own emotions in the past had been one thing; acting on them in the present was another.
I kept a watch out for Joby, but though I glimpsed it a few times, there was never any opportunity to talk. Then, mysteriously, Joby seemed to disappear altogether. After five days, I finally asked one of the other blands about it. “Joby’s sick,” was the answer.
After three days of fretting, I finally went back to Proctor Givern. He was a little more relaxed than the other adults, and wasn’t impatient to see me.
“Is Joby sick because of us?” I asked. “Did we really hurt it?”
“No, Tedla.” Proctor Givern seemed to debate what to tell me. At last he said, “Joby’s been sick a long time. That’s why we’ve been cutting down its duties.”
“What’s wrong?” I said, trying not to show my alarm.
“It’s got cancer. It’s probably going to die soon.”
He sounded quite matter-of-fact, but to me the news was shattering. I had never known anyone to die before. “Can’t you do something?” I said. “Can’t you take it to the curatory?”
Proctor Givern put a hand on my shoulder. “That wouldn’t be kind, Tedla. We would only prolong its suffering if we tried to cure it. Here, we can keep Joby comfortable in its own familiar surroundings.”
“But it wasn’t even sick the other day!” I protested.
“Yes, it was. You just couldn’t tell.”
He saw how troubled I was, and said, “We have to make this kind of decision all the time, Tedla. Blands can’t decide when it’s right to end their lives, like humans can. We have to decide for them. We’d like to keep Joby around, just like you would. But it wouldn’t have a good life, only a sick and feeble one. This way is better.”
I had to accept that. But the weight of guilt was crushing. I couldn’t bear to think what Joby’s last sight of me had been, or that it never would know how sorry I was. I couldn’t think of anything else for the rest of the day. In the evening, I crept down to the clinic where we protos went if we were sick, thinking Joby might be there. I tried to peek around, not wanting anyone to know what I was looking for. But Joby wasn’t there.
That night in the roundroom I pulled Zelly aside and whispered, “Did you know that Joby’s dying?”
A look of shock and fear passed across Zelly’s face. “Are they going to blame us?” it whispered.
“No. Joby’s got cancer. It’s been sick a long time.”
Instead of remorse, I saw relief on Zelly’s face. “Oh, that’s okay then.”
Angrily, I said, “Don’t you care?”
“Why?” Zelly said defensively. “I didn’t do it. What are you blaming me for?”
Disgusted, I turned away. But I knew Zelly’s reaction was the safer, righter one. I couldn’t let on that I cared. Whatever Proctor Givern might say, the other protos would have made my life a misery of teasing.
I slept apart from the others in the roundroom that night, feeling alienated and unable to face them. The thought of Joby made my throat ache with all the regret I had to swallow. I thought of it till I fell asleep.
The next morning the postulants who oversaw us seemed grim and upset. When we came into refectory and saw all the younger protos assembled and waiting, we knew something was wrong.
The postulants instructed us to sit down at the tables without any food. All of the gestagogues were there, waiting. It seemed unnaturally quiet. At last the Matron came in.
“I have some important news to tell you,” she said. “As you may know, this is the time of justification for all the adults here. Last night, Docent Horst decided to justify himself by making space in the world for another.”
The room was perfectly silent. We all knew what she meant. He had ended his own life.
The Matron went on, “Docent Horst’s conscience called upon him to take this step, and though we will miss him, we all admire his self-knowledge and support his courageous decision.”
It was possibly the nicest thing we had ever heard anyone say about Docent Horst. He had been a heavyset, white-haired man who sweated profusely and often smelled of alcohol. The other docents had treated him with open disrespect. I had only had one class from him, and hadn’t learned much.
“Sooner or later, all of us will face the decision Docent Horst faced last night,” the Matron said. “I hope that when the time comes, each of us will have the determination he did. This afternoon, we will have an assembly to celebrate his life. The docents and proctors will gather this evening. That is all.”
She left, and the blands behind the counter began serving up our breakfasts. There was no weeping or grief; that was inappropriate, since Docent Horst had died the right kind of death, and thus justified any mistakes in his life. To weep would have implied disrespect for his decision. All the same, we were shaken and a little grave, especially those of us on the verge of adulthood. Very soon, the burden of justification would be ours. Every year we would have to decide whether we deserved to continue living.
That afternoon, the blands served up a big butterberry cake in Docent Horst’s honor, and we all ate some. There were games for the little ones, and the chorus sang songs.
I watched the blands serving the refreshments and cleaning up. They seemed completely unaffected by Docent Horst’s demise, as indi
fferent to the death of a human as we were to the death of a bland.
No one ever told us when Joby died. Joby simply disappeared, as if it had never existed. I suppose no one thought we would care.
***
I went through a very emotional time after that. I’m not sure anyone realized I was grieving; I’m not sure I realized it myself. It wasn’t just Joby’s death. I was grieving for the death of my childhood. I was saying good-bye to the creche and all the places I loved. I was saying good-bye to the person I had been.
I spent a great deal of time outdoors, walking the trails to the river or climbing the bluff. Often I brought along a book to read—mostly sad tales, which suited my mood. I became very interested in religion. The truth was, I desperately needed something to take me out of myself. I was maddeningly aware of my treacherous body and my undeveloped personality. I needed something to give me a nobler persona, whose eyes I could look through—so I could face the world thinking, it’s not just me inside here; it’s someone else, more worthwhile than me. Otherwise I might have perished of self-awareness.
Now I know, as I didn’t then, that emotion is itself a kind of talent not everyone has. A form of intelligence, perhaps—though not much valued by any culture I know of. The intensity of my feelings that fall was a gift—a treacherous gift.
On Gammadis, our religion teaches that all life is suffused with spirit, but that humans, unique among life forms, are able to become aware of it. Each person, they say, has a god inside—an individual emanation of the life force. To search for one’s god—to become aware of the aspect of one’s self that approaches divinity—is the purpose of worship among us. People approach it in different ways—through dance, song, meditation, even drugs—though the latter, we had been warned, might confuse us with unrealities, not help us touch what is truly real.
That fall, I became absorbed with the idea of searching for my god. The docents would have warned me not to. I was too young, my mind too unformed. But amid the roil of emotions in me I felt one constant: kinship with the landscape I had grown up in. I became convinced that this was the way I had to search: by blending my consciousness with the living things around me.
I spent hours walking down forest paths, my mind excruciatingly attuned to the trees, trying to feel their consciousness around me. I rubbed my cheek against their bark, and listened to the whispering of the leaves. I lay in the grass on top of the bluff, feeling the wind stroking my back.
One day I was coming down a forest path at a time of day when the setting sun reflected off the leaves, giving them a coppery sheen. I discovered that if I unfocused my eyes, the plants all around me seemed to be glowing. My mind filled with exaltation. I was actually seeing it—seeing the spirit that suffused the world, manifested around me. I felt the glow in myself, as well, coursing through my limbs. The entire world was incandescent with visible spirit. I felt uplifted, as if I had seen a vision.
I thought I had touched my god. After that, I had no doubt—not a shadow, not a qualm—about my humanity.
I still don’t know what it was I experienced. Sometimes I think I was right—that there was a spark of divinity in me, struggling to manifest itself. If so—if that was what I felt—I know I have Joby to thank for it. Without the shock of Joby’s death, I might never even have gone searching. If I almost became human in that moment, it was Joby who made me so.
Chapter Three
It was drawing on toward evening, and the clinic hallways were coming alive as the staff geared up for another night’s work. Val wandered down the corridor, looking for someone she knew. At last she found Joan talking intently to a woman with heavy eyebrows, heavy shoes, and a Social Services scarf. When Val waved at her, Joan broke off the conversation and came into the hall.
“You’re not turning Tedla over to her, are you?” Val asked, a little alarmed.
“No, this is other business,” Joan said. Val was surprised at the relief she felt.
“Where is Deedee?” she asked.
“Asleep in one of the detox rooms. We’ll have to wake her up soon; we’re going to need the bed.”
“I guess the picnic’s shot,” Val said, glancing ruefully at a clock.
“Never mind that,” Joan said. “Did you find out anything useful?”
“For me, yes. Very useful. But nothing like a next of kin’s address.”
“I guess that means we have to find a curatory,” Joan said without relish.
“I’ve got another idea,” Val said. She hadn’t really thought it out; it just sprang impulsively into her mouth. “I want to take Tedla home with me.”
“Oh, no. You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t have any legal relation to this patient, Val. What if something happens? You could be liable.”
“Nothing is going to happen overnight.”
“How do you know? Tedla needs professional attention.”
“I’ll take it to a mentationist tomorrow, Joan. This is just temporary. You don’t want Tedla to have to spend the night in an institution, do you? I really think a family setting would be better.”
“But—”
“Tell you what. Why don’t we let Tedla decide?”
When she entered the room again, Tedla was staring pensively at the place where a window would be, if there were one. Its expression was resigned and fatalistic. Val said briskly, “Tedla, we’ve got a problem about what to do with you. Now, what we ought to do is transfer you to a curatory where you can get the care of some trained mentationists.”
“Whatever you think is best,” Tedla said faintly.
“Well, there’s another possibility,” Val plunged on. “You could come home with me, and be my guest till you can decide about going to the curatory.”
Tedla looked at her as if searching for hidden meanings in her offer. She went on quickly, “The copartment isn’t very big, and we’d have to put you on the fold-out in the studium, so you’d have your own room, sort of, but other than that I’m afraid it’s not very private. But Max and I would love to have you, and it would be wonderfully educational for Dierdre. If you can put up with us, it would be a real treat.” She realized she was babbling and made herself stop.
Slowly, Tedla said, “Do you think you owe me this?”
“No,” Val said. “I want to do it.”
In the silence that followed, she felt a tug of caution. “There is one thing you would have to promise me,” she said. “You must not try to hurt yourself again.”
Tedla’s eyes fell in shame.
“Do you promise?” Val said.
Tedla nodded, still not looking at her. “I promise.”
“You’re sure? I can’t risk it if you’re not.”
“Yes. It was stupid and arrogant of me, anyway. I should have known I couldn’t succeed. Please let me come with you.”
Val smiled and put a hand on the neuter’s arm, felt it stiffen at the touch, and pulled back. “Good,” she said.
She left the clinic with Deedee on one side and Tedla on the other. The alien wore a fresh bandage and some ill-fitting clothes left by other patients. It walked with eyes cast down. Some of the stimulation shops had begun to open. Val was acutely aware of the curious stares they attracted. She fingered the scarf that indicated her observer status.
“Do you know anyone here, Tedla?” she asked in an undertone.
“No,” Tedla said. “But they may know me. I’ve been around for a couple of months.”
“Doing what?”
A pause. “Nothing.”
Val glanced over. Tedla wouldn’t look at her.
A Skor was watching them strangely from a doorway. His head was completely crusted with cerebs, the bioengineered mollusks that fed on brain tissue. His yellowed eyes followed them eagerly, gleaming with the euphoria of heightened sensory perception the parasites gave.
When they got back to the copartment, Deedee went racing into the dinery shouting, “Papa! Guess what?”
; Max came to the bedroom door, a packing box in his arms. He began to say something, but saw Tedla and stopped.
“Max, this is Tedla Galele,” Val said. “My husband, Max. I’ve asked Tedla over for a few nights, till we decide what to do.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Tedla said nervously.
“Uh...hi.” Max tried to hold out a hand, but the box in his arms slipped and nearly dropped; he swore. “Sorry,” he said. “We’re in the middle of unpacking. Let me go put this down. Val?” He disappeared into the bedroom.
“Make yourself at home,” Val said to Tedla, and left it standing in the gathering room.
Max closed the bedroom door behind them. “Val, what the hell...?”
“Joan had to get Tedla out of the clinic, and there was no place for it to go,” Val said quickly. “We couldn’t put it out on the streets.”
“So this is the suicidal alien?” Max said. “You’ve brought home a lunatic?”
“Who told you?”
“Joan called E.G. while we were waiting for you to show up. We were going to have a picnic, remember?”
“I’m sorry, Max. I needed to interview Tedla. Don’t worry, it’s not dangerous.”
“How do you know?”
“Give the poor soul a chance. I’m sorry I didn’t check with you first. I swear it’s only for a night or two.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Max said.
When she entered the gathering room again, Tedla was sitting on the couch listening seriously as Deedee explained one of her toys. Seeing Val, the alien rose nervously. “Should I leave?” it whispered.
“No, of course not,” Val said. “I just shouldn’t have surprised him this way. I should have called first. Come on, I’ll show you your room.”
Deedee followed them into the studium. “Do you want to play Scratcher?” she said to Tedla.
“Stop being a pest, Dee,” Val said as she rummaged in a packing box for some sheets and towels.
Tedla turned to her. “No, really, I’d like to, if you don’t mind.”
Halfway Human Page 7
