Shalia's Diary

by Tracy St. John

  Dusa took my hand gently, as if afraid he might break me. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Shalia. Call me Dusa, if you like.”

  I shook his hand. “Don’t let me make you late, Dusa. Come back as soon as you are able to.”

  “I will.”

  And off he went to rescue more reluctant Earther gals. It’s late in the day now, and he hasn’t been back yet. So either he lied about wanting to see me again or they’re working that poor boy to death still. Hopefully he’ll come back and I’ll have a brush by then.

  September 7

  Woohoo, I was finally allowed out of bed for a bit. Nayun took me for a little walk this afternoon. About fifty new Kalquorians showed up here at the Academy last night, and they started working today. Nayun and others are finally able to work sane hours, and he had a little time to spend as I took my first post-sickness jaunt.

  Dusa still hasn’t been back to see me. Maybe now that they have more help around here, he’ll visit soon. Maybe not. Fifty more men isn’t really that many for all the work the Kalquorians are trying to do in this area, but this isn’t one of the more heavily populated places. Nayun says the biggest concentration of resources is going to the cities that were not blown up, places like Miami, Belfast, and Tokyo.

  I got to see the recreation room where people like my mom are kept for most of the day. This ‘recreation room’ is actually a small banquet room off the Academy’s dining hall. This is where the high muckety-mucks who ran the Academy would host government and Church officials who occasionally came to look over the operation.

  The Kalquorians have stocked it with readers, puzzles, games, and other things to keep everyone entertained. They let invalids come in here in shifts; Nayun told me there are over 250 Earthers needing such supervised care right now. That’s too many to put in the room at once, so people rotate spending time in this common room, outdoors, therapy (individual and group), and in their own quarters. The people who make up this group; the elderly, moderately traumatized, and special needs folks; are being well tended by orderlies and psychiatric specialists.

  When I peeked in, Mom was sitting on a couch, happily knitting a scarf and chattering to herself. I noted that the supervising Kalquorians brought around water and juice and snacks to everyone, as well as generally keeping an eye on their wards’ well-being. I’ll be damned if I didn’t see one big, hulking alien braiding an elderly woman’s hair as she sat playing a card game with other patients. This guy looked like he should be knocking down mountains with his bare fists, yet there he was, plaiting white strands in the loveliest French braid you ever saw. He finished it off with a blue bow, and the woman smiled up at him like he was her very best friend. He patted her shoulder as gentle as you please and moved on to help a young man with Down’s Syndrome who was having trouble with his handheld.

  Nayun pursed his lips as he looked at my mother. “Have you thought about where you’ll go from here?”

  I nibbled my lip as I looked at Mom too. I would have to make the decision for both her and myself, seeing as how she was so dependent. “You said the dementia might be able to be cured on your planet?”

  “Along with her bipolar disorder.”

  “Really?” Now there was a thought. “You mean really cured? For good? Or maintained with medication, because she would never go for that. She refuses to believe anything is wrong with her.”

  “There is an implant that can regulate the chemicals in her brain so that she would not suffer those extreme shifts in mood. It would go a long way towards giving her some peace. She wouldn’t have to deal with so much anger or sadness.”

  Until the dementia took such great hold, I’d never known my mother except angry or depressed. Even pictures I’d seen of her as a toddler showed an enraged being, screaming her absolute fury at the world. Why my grandparents hadn’t gotten her help back then is beyond me. Sure, medical care was expensive, but didn’t being a parent mean doing everything to take the best possible care of your kids? No matter Mom’s other shortcomings, she’d barely let me suffer a sniffle without trucking me straight to the doctor. When we got too far behind in what was owed for medical care for the doctor to see me anymore, she’d find another. She was a lioness protecting her cub when it came to my physical well-being. I give her all the credit in the world for that.

  I couldn’t imagine the woman she might have been without the mental illness. If she’d cared for herself half as well as she did me, our relationship wouldn’t have been so tumultuous. Dad wouldn’t have walked out on us and tried to drink himself to death before his heart gave out. Maybe. Who knew?

  “She can’t get that kind of treatment on one of the colonies,” I acknowledged. “Our medicine isn’t that good.”

  “It’s another consideration to help you make your decision.”

  I took a deep breath. Now that I had the opportunity to ask one of my most pressing questions, I was actually afraid to. I wasn’t sure I’d like the answer.

  “Doctor, if I decide I prefer to go to one of the colonies, would I really be allowed to? I am of childbearing age, and it was my understanding your people would want to breed with women like me.”

  Nayun looked down at me, his face infinitely patient as if he had grown used to hearing the same question over and over. “Yes, Shalia, you can go wherever you please. The Imperial Clan, led by Empress Jessica, has guaranteed that Earther women will be given that choice for at least the next five years. There was a huge battle with the Royal Council over that very issue.”

  “And after the five years?” I was impressed that the Earther empress had that much clout on Nayun’s world. I’d thought Jessica McInness had no function but to give birth to the heir to Kalquor’s throne.

  “Then they’ll revisit the question. What happens then will be determined by how well our respective populations are doing.” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it, little one. Empress Jessica is most adamant that Earth women not be forced to join clans, and it is only the bravest of council members who dare to naysay her.”

  I felt bad that I’d produced a film on the treachery of Jessica McInness and how her joining the Imperial Clan had endangered Earth, sending us to war with Kalquor. A lot of what I’d put onto vid had been pure fabrication, designed to make her seem the worst sort of person who’d ever drawn breath. Now that I knew she’d gone to bat to protect the rest of us, it made me feel very small.

  Sometimes I wonder if I’ve ever done the universe any good at all with my presence.

  “If I go to Kalquor, I’ll be expected to join a clan, won’t I?” I pressed.

  Dr. Nayun nodded after a moment’s hesitation. “You will be part of our new lottery system. Prospective clans who find your profile agreeable will meet with you in hopes of attracting you to join them as their Matara. There are many clans and few Earther women going to Kalquor, so you would be inundated with offers.”

  “And if I don’t like any of them?”

  “If you have not selected a clan within two years, you will be asked to leave our planet.”

  I was pretty done in after fifteen minutes on my feet, and Dr. Nayun sent me back to bed. I had a nap, then dinner. Now Mom is in here with me, getting ready to get some sleep while I struggle with what to do with our futures.

  Option A: Go to a colony. Be among my own kind again. And what would I find there? More of the Church’s adherents, still holding to the ways that destroyed Earth? A lawless, survival-of-the-fittest society in the wake of Earth’s destruction? One thing I knew wouldn’t be available on an Earther colony would be adequate care for Mom. There would be no cure. She’d descend ever deeper into dementia, absolutely dependent on me for everything.

  Option B: Go to Kalquor. Fix Mom’s bipolar disorder and potentially, her dementia. But that means fielding offers from clans for two years. No way would I want to be the sex partner to three horny men. I didn’t like it when I had to screw the one. That made me feel dirty enough. If I never have sex ever again, it will be too
soon. So I’d be exiled and forced to go to a colony in the end. How would I be received by my fellow refugees after living with the enemy for two years? Not very well, I’m sure. I keep thinking of those two women hanging from the tree with the word ‘Whore’ nailed into their chests.

  Option C: Go somewhere else. Yeah right. A Dantovonian brothel? I think we’ve covered how I feel about intimate relations. Bi’is? Sure, they are always happy to have servants come to their space. However, they have a habit of killing those who don’t do every single thing according to strict ritual. I know me. I’ll fuck up sooner or later, and no more Shalia. Joshada? Sorry, but I’m not living like an ancient pioneer with manual hand tools and no technology. Out of all the civilized planets of the Galactic Council, I can’t think of a single place out there that will suit me and Mom.

  Damn it. What am I going to do?

  September 8

  Still no more visits from Dramok Dusa. I guess he wasn’t interested in seeing me again after all. Too bad; I have a brush and some makeup now.

  Now here is one of the funny things about Kalquorians. I’ve heard more than one say how they don’t understand why we Earther women would cover our natural beauty with cosmetics (insert eyeroll here), yet they keep a supply for those of us who want it. It’s been deemed a necessity for our emotional well-being. I’ve talked to the specialist in charge of Mom, ANOTHER nice Kalquorian named Ginna. Seriously, where are the asshole Kalquorians? Either there are none or these guys are phenomenal actors. Anyway, Ginna says they’ve found a direct correlation between us ladies who like to wear makeup being able to do so and our outlook on the world and how we see ourselves. If it lifts our moods, the aliens aren’t going to argue with us even though they don’t get it.

  Anyway, Ginna is the psychiatrist who looked over Mom and formally diagnosed the chemical imbalance and slight brain abnormalities as bipolar disorder (which are currently masked by her dementia). He’s pretty certain both conditions can be corrected on Kalquor. My dilemma grows. How can I not take Mom there just because I’m afraid of being courted by clans and the fallout when I end up on an Earther colony? Is it selfish to be afraid of the certainty that I’ll be ostracized by my own people ... or worse?

  As crazy as it sounds, it was almost easier to be in hiding and wondering where our next meal was coming from. When you have only one option in life, it makes things pretty damned simple.

  I got out and about again today. Nayun brought in a hover chair this morning and showed me how it works. I’m to exercise a little more each day and get my strength back, but when I’m not on my feet I can scoot around in my chair. It is so nice to not be stuck in bed for a change.

  My big excursion was going to the dining hall for lunch with Mom. The Kalquorians have figured out how to feed us with efficiency. There are a couple of computers at each table showing meal selections. You can see what other diners who have eaten before you are recommending. Based on that, I knew to stay away from bywes and eat the baked chicken instead. All the Kalquorian food was rated low. I guess their tastes aren’t in tune with ours, another strike against going to their planet.

  The dining hall was pretty full when we got there. Imdiko Weln, in charge of Mom until she went to her round in the rec room, steered us towards a table with three other women about my age. He shifted some seats to make room for my hover chair and stepped back a discreet distance to let us eat with our own kind.

  I didn’t miss how our tablemates glared at him. I didn’t really understand it. Weln is as friendly-looking a guy as you could hope for, and he treats Mom like she’s his own parent. In fact, I’m ashamed to admit that he treats her better than I do. The man has the patience of a saint.

  The three women Mom and I sat with dropped their scowls when they turned to me and Mom. They oozed niceness.

  “Hello Eve. You’re looking good today,” the honey blonde sitting next to me said. She looked like a soccer mom. Her hair was curled just so, and I’d swear she was wearing fake eyelashes. I mean, no one has that many lashes, do they? I didn’t feel quite so high maintenance with my dash of mascara and lipstick.

  “Thank you,” my mother said. “My daughter Shalia is taking me out for my birthday.”

  I smiled, a little embarrassed. It’s not Mom’s birthday. Where she got that idea, I couldn’t tell.

  The blonde winked at me. “Well, that’s so sweet of her!” She leaned over to whisper in my ear. “She tells us it’s her birthday every day.” Then she sat up straight. “I’m glad to meet you, Shalia. My name is Fran.”

  I shook her hand. “So you’ve gotten know my mom pretty well, I take it.”

  Another woman sitting across from me smiled. She was brunette, with her shining dark hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Lip gloss seemed to be her only vice. With her features, she didn’t need any more help than that. “Eve sits with us for lunch every day. My name is Patty.”

  “And I’m Deirdra,” the third, a chestnut brunette volunteered. She sat next to Patty. She had that perfect, polished look that said she was wearing a lot of makeup, but so expertly applied you couldn’t tell.

  Okay, I admit I felt very much the ugly duckling in the midst of swans. I’d made good money in my job, enough to afford things many couldn’t. But these women were the country club set. Their clothes looked designer, and they wore them like people who were used to that kind of thing ... not like they’d looted the outfits after Armageddon. They’d probably never worked a day in their pampered lives. Eek. Let the self-esteem plummet.

  Mom punched her lunch choices into the computer, and Patty waved her hands. “Oh no, we were so busy talking we didn’t keep an eye on her! What did you pick out to eat, Eve?”

  “Ronka and pilchok and mashed potatoes with gravy,” Mom said with glee. “It’s my birthday.” She clapped her hands in delight.

  Fran blew out a breath. “Turn your back on her for an instant and she orders that Kalquorian poison.” She glanced at Weln, and a snarl marred that oh-so civilized face. In a whisper she added, “Those animals. It’s bad enough they want to rape us all to give them monster babies. Why do they have to tempt the defenseless who can’t serve their sinful lusts as well?”

  I was a little shaken. She might have been quoting from one of my films. It actually raised the hair on my arms to see such continued blind devotion to the now-erased government/Church mantra.

  “Order the baked chicken, Shalia,” Deirdra said. It sounded like an command. “It’s much better than that alien slop.”

  I could feel the antipathy boiling off my companions. I wasn’t too crazy about being told what to eat, not by this pageant bunch anyway. But I hadn’t had Kalquorian food. Nayun had kept me on a diet of soft foods I was used to as I recuperated. I didn’t know if I’d care for alien cuisine.

  Another consideration was this: was what I ate for lunch worth fighting about? In all the realm of moral issues, I thought diet ranked pretty low on the list.

  So I ordered the stupid chicken. While the women around me chattered about the merits of the various colonies and the men they might find there to take care of them (I kid you not), I choked down the overcooked meat, rendered palatable by the admittedly delicious gravy that came with my mashed potatoes.

  Meanwhile, Mom’s food smelled delicious, and she looked happy as a clam chowing on it. Fran, Patty, and Deirdra pointedly kept their eyes averted as she devoured her alien meal. I wondered if they’d ever bothered to try it themselves.

  I couldn’t take it. Finally I said, “I’d really like to know what it is she’s putting in her stomach.” I pretended to scowl with concern. “Mom, may I try a bite of your food?”

  Next to me, Fran shuddered. “Now that’s love. Putting yourself on the line for your poor mom.”

  Thankfully oblivious to the disgust her food choices engendered, Mom pushed her plate towards me. “Sure! The ronka first, Shalia. Pilchok is more like a dessert, though they say it’s meat.”

  The ronka was in bite-sized chunks, a
deep brown with bluish veins – or something that looked like veins – running through it. It smelled amazing, but I eyed it with some distaste. Some things you don’t want to eat just because they don’t look right. Ronka had that look.

  Smell won out. I speared a piece with my fork. Before I could think much more about it, I shoved it into my mouth and started chewing. My face was all scrunched up as I waited to taste something along the lines of sewage.

  Good heavens. Kalquorians may not be able to cook chicken, but they can cook the hell out of ronka, whatever it is.

  Imagine the most perfectly seasoned, perfectly cooked filet mignon you’ve ever eaten. Now imagine meat even richer tasting and practically melting in your mouth. Ronka is twice as good as that. Seriously.

  The Pageant Trio watched me breathlessly, as if expecting me to burst into flames at any moment. They were on the edges of their seats, waiting for my face to rot before their eyes as the ronka spread its evil pestilence through my body.