by N Lee Wood
“Dry. Very, very dry.”
“Were there many plants there?”
“No.”
“Then how did you know you wanted to study them?”
“I met someone.” Fat Ivan. “He was a terraform technician.”
“Is that like a botanist?”
“A bit.”
Silence.
“Did he train you to be a botanist?”
“No.”
“Then where did you learn so much about plants?”
“I went to university.”
“Did that take a long time?”
“Raemik...”
“Sorry.”
Nathan grimaced as yet another frail quasi-proembrionic meristem snapped in two, the microscopic seedling destroyed. “Damn,” he muttered. He sighed and sat back, his eyes aching, and rubbed his stiff neck. Once he’d had to struggle to get two coherent sentences out of the boy. Now he couldn’t get him to shut up.
“It took me seven years to earn my degree, in answer to your question. Why, do you want to be a botanist?”
“I don’t know, maybe.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I cannot go to university.”
“That’s not true. There are Vanar universities even for men, very good ones. If you can pass the entrance exams, there’s no reason you can’t go.”
“I could pass the exams, Nathan,” Raemik said quietly.
“Then figure out something you want to do with your life and go.” “They will never let me go to university.”
Although they were in the library, where Raemik felt safe to speak his mind, the habitual shutters had closed over his face.
“The Nga’esha?” He took Raemik’s silence as an affirmation. “Why not?”
“They are already angry enough with me as it is. Making Pratima wait another year.”
“And fifteen for you. You’ll be a fully adult man when she comes back. You have plenty of time to go to university and study while you wait. Then, when Pratima comes”—he cleared his throat, finding the words difficult—“once you’ve fulfilled your obligations, I’m sure Pratha Yronae will permit you to do whatever it is you decide you would like to do.”
“No,” Raemik insisted grimly. “She won’t.”
The boy’s pessimism irritated him. “Pratha Yronae is strict, but she isn’t unjust. If you presented your request in a respectful way, I’m sure she would listen to you.” The boy remained stubbornly silent. He frowned. “If you prefer, I’ll make the request for you.”
“No. It won’t do any good and will just get you into trouble.” “I’ve been in trouble before,” Nathan said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “I’m probably due about now anyway. If I don’t get into trouble regularly, they think something is wrong with me.”
His joke did nothing to appease the boy. Raemik blinked, his pale face as rigid as stone, and to Nathan’s concern, a tear slid down his cheek. Nathan came around the table and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Raemik, what is it?”
For a long moment, he didn’t think the boy would answer. “I hate them,” he finally said so quietly Nathan almost couldn’t hear him.
“Who? The Nga’esha?”
Raemik swallowed, his throat flexing as another tear spilled down his cheek. “All of them. All the women. I hate them.”
“Raemik...”
The boy looked at him, his face distorted in a snarl of repressed fury, teeth clenched with the effort to speak. “You don’t know. You don’t know anything, Nathan Nga’esha. Women are evil, they don’t care about anyone but themselves.”
“Not all of them. Pratima isn’t like that—”
“I hate her most of all.” Raemik shook off his hand, pulling away from him. “She claims to be my sister, my friend, but she doesn’t care what happens to me. She doesn’t care at all.” He ran the back of his arm across his eyes angrily to wipe away the tears. Fresh ones poured down his face.
“You feel sorry for her because she’s a Pilot, don’t you? She’s just Nga’esha property, poor Pratima. But do you know what I am, Nathan? I’m just seed, like those things.” His hand gestured fiercely at the pale red svapnah seedlings. “Pratima goes anywhere she wants on Vanar, and I’m not even allowed to set foot off the Nga’esha Estate. When Pratima comes back, they won’t allow me to refuse her another year. I’ll be too old by then. They’ll take what they want from me, and my purpose is over. I won’t even be Nga’esha anymore. Do you know what happens to Pilot males? We get castrated and sent away to serve in the temple, forever and ever. So no university for me. No being a botanist or anything else for me. And why? So Nga’esha women can get rich from the Worm.”
Raemik suddenly whirled and snatched the gel tray of seedlings from the table, hurling it away toward the shelves. It hit the floor and splattered, Nathan’s entire reserve of seedlings in ruins. It didn’t matter anyway, he was distantly aware, as the boy turned back to him seething with rage and despair.
“I hate all women. I wish they would all die!” he sobbed, his voice no more than a strangled whisper, and fled the library.
Nathan didn’t stop him, his own breath difficult in his chest. He thought of the bhaqdah temple disciple—a man with green eyes and red hair, like that of Bralin Ushahayam—who had mistaken him for another. He thought of Rulayi, the once robust man turned to a lifeless automaton, locked into a permanent stupor by the lajjae imprisoning his mind. He thought of the young Pakaran twins, compelled into a trade they had no say in. He thought of the long rows of white-wombs with the opaque shadows of inmates moving lethargically inside. Men without futures, boys without hope.
“This is wrong,” he said finally. “This is so wrong.”
He left the gel tray where it had been thrown, abandoning his work and the library. Walking through the men’s garden, he surveyed the men relaxing in the sun, small groups chatting idly, Qim bent over his lute picking out a new melody. Under a tree, Baelam stroked a slender cat, the animal’s natural instinct to hunt bred out of it to leave nothing more than a docile, pretty plaything. Aware Nathan was staring, Baelam looked up, puzzled. “Are you feeling well, shaelah?”
“No.”
He couldn’t stand to be in the Nga’esha House a minute longer. He pulled the end of his sati over his head as he left by the men’s gate to take the first train he could into the city. He walked along the wide boulevards and down narrow streets, as if he’d never seen them before.
Cafe tables littered the sidewalks, filled with confident, lively people. Customers came and went from teeming shops, laden with shopping. A pair of sahakharae stepped off the men’s section of a transit bus, cheerfully gossiping as they passed a group of women, keeping their eyes respectfully averted with habitual decorum, bobbing a quick bow that wasn’t even acknowledged. An elderly Middle Family kharvah carefully scrutinized vegetables on offer at the men’s end of the market, testing the ripeness of melons with discerning fingers while the merchant waited patiently for him to make his selection, her arms crossed over her formidable bosom. A thin woman endeavored to keep a small horde of spirited little girls in grass-stained kirtiya from straying outside their play area in the city park. A young man from a Common Family squatted next to a small boy howling for sympathy and gravely studied the scuffed elbow held up for his inspection before dispensing medicinal kisses and hugs. Clean, safe, bustling, the perfect picture of an ideal society.
Can’t you see that these are things worth protecting? Yaenida had asked him. He shook his head to clear the memory of her voice from his mind.
“From what, Yaenida?” he murmured. “Where is the danger here?” A woman walking past him glanced at him curiously. Without thinking, he nodded his head deferentially, then paused, troubled. She had gone, unaware of his uneasiness. Just how Vanar had he become? Enough that he had not only given up his dreams of escape long ago, but had become so hardened to the system he no longer questioned it?
Wandering into the city center, he stopped outside
the huge Assembly building, its towering white walls gleaming in the sunlight. Outside their family Houses, there were more men to be found on the steps of the Assembly than anywhere else on Vanar, Nathan noted. All of them petitioners, most of the women seated along the steps in order of their station acting as counselors and mediators.
He spent the rest of the day inside, sitting in one men’s public balcony after another to study what had once been as impenetrable a mystery to him as the language. Now he watched and listened as harried vaktay scuttled up and down stairs, held impromptu consultations in the halls, badgered abritators for decisions and hearing dates on civil petitions, divorce decrees, business torts, public service contracts, criminal prosecutions from petty theft to serious assault. He had been paying attention to an appeal from representatives of a small prefecture halfway around the planet—provincial farmers trying hard not to look intimidated by the imposing architecture or the arrogance of the court officials as they lobbied for an increase in budget for a new high-speed train—when a woman spoke, standing next to him.
“Qanistha bhraetae.”
He looked up at the Dhikar, the hem of her white kirtiya rimmed with burgundy. “Jah’nari Dhikar,” he responded respectfully, but his momentary rush of alarm was replaced with cold anger. He had to repress the impulse to look around for Vasant Subah.
“What are you doing here?” the Dhikar asked. Her tone was polite, not a hint of menace in her voice. But the Dhikar didn’t need to resort to bullying to be feared.
“Watching.”
“Do you have some involvement in this case?”
“No.”
The Dhikar glanced at the meeting, then back at him. It was not one of the more contentious issues of the day, and the public gallery was nearly empty of spectators.
“I see. You find this interesting?”
“Fascinating.” At the moment, the provincial vaktay was listing the price of various components for train engines, not even her junior associates able to stifle their yawning. The Dhikar smiled faintly, then nodded in the slightest of bows, and left.
He had been right; it was long overdue since he’d been in trouble. Outside, he sat on the steps, wondering how to approach a vaktay, when he recognized one of the women of a trio near the foot of a column on the bottom step. She had recognized him as well, trying hard and failing to appear haughty as he walked toward her. He bowed deferentially to all three, and straightened with his fingertips pressed loosely together.
“Good health, Nathan Crewe Nga’esha,” she said.
“Good health, Namasi dva Ushahayam ek Sahmudrah.”
She raised an eyebrow, the adolescent girl who’d befriended the desperate, hungry naekulam so many years ago having matured into a poised young woman.
“I’m pleased you still remember me,” she said.
“How could I forget your generosity to me when so few were willing to aid a bungling naeqili te rhowghá?” She smiled prettily, and he couldn’t help adding, “And for so little return, jah’nari l’amae.” He dropped his gaze modestly but not so far he didn’t catch her heated blush. She glanced at her companions, who seemed too fascinated with him to notice her reaction.
“I see your Vanar has improved greatly since then as well as your fortunes. Are you here on Family business?”
“No, not exactly. I’m looking for advice.” He stopped, smiling complaisantly.
She had not only grown up to be a poised young woman, but a perceptive one as well. Murmuring apologies to her friends, she took his elbow and steered him to a private area inside the colonnaded halls. “What sort of advice, qanistha bhraetae?”
“I am still quite ignorant in many Vanar ways, l’amae. How does one such as myself go about finding an advocate to represent him in the Assembly?”
“It must be our fate to meet again after all these years. I am a fully licensed vaktay, authorized as an advocate to speak for a client on any legal issue.”
“You may not want to speak for me at all, once you’ve heard what is on my mind.”
Namasi Sahmudrah raised her chin proudly, doing her best to appear authoritative. “It is your right to speak, even if it’s only to me. I may not be able to help you, but it’s my sworn duty to listen objectively and, if I see an injury has been done, do my best to find a way within the law to correct it.”
“Also you need the work,” he guessed.
Her professional manner wavered, but she kept her head high. “And representing a prominent member of the Nga’esha wouldn’t be such a bad boost to your career, either.”
Her self-assurance crumbled, again just another aspiring counselor, and he regretted teasing her. “It is true I’ve only recently graduated from university,” she admitted, “and haven’t had much practice yet at speaking for many clients. Naturally, a prominent member of the Nga’esha would wish to engage someone with more experience. I’m sure I can direct you to someone more qualified, qanistha bhraetae.” She wasn’t able to mask her disappointment.
“You were kind to me, Namasi Sahmudrah. And I never had the chance to thank you.”
She faltered, unused to such frankness. “It was nothing. . . .”
“An unmarried woman of a High Family, unchaperoned, consorting openly with a dangerous, uncivilized yepoqioh? You showed compassion and pity for a naeqili te rhowghá beyond just the desire to indulge your teenaged curiosity.” She had the grace to look chagrined. “You took a risk many others would not have dared, l’amae.”
“Unfortunately for me or my Family, I was not as discerning as Kallah Changriti in recognizing your potential. The Changriti tactics worked very well with the Nga’esha.”
“If you believe the official propaganda.” Her eyebrows rose, intrigued. “In any case, the dalhitri Kallah dva Ushahayam Changriti has never had to worry about her career prospects, unlike, say, a struggling young advocate fresh out of university.”
She smiled, looking even younger than he knew she was. “One who may not have the skills or experience you might need, which, knowing what I do of you, is likely to be more than a simple contract dispute or domestic mediation.”
“I’m not sure yet exactly what it is I want to do, or even what I can do. I will need your guidance and knowledge in Vanar law and custom. But you were brash and fearless, and caring when you didn’t have to be, and these are qualities I value far more in an advocate than experience. I would be honored if you would consent to speak for me.”
Nonplused, she stared at him. “Thank you,” she finally stammered. “I think speaking for you will prove an extraordinary experience, Nathan Nga’esha.”
He nodded. “Then we should discuss your fee.”
She laughed. “You are still ignorant in Vanar customs. We Vanar may be a business people, but a main principle to good business practice is fairness and availability to everyone. No one pays for legal counsel. Advocates are compensated by the state, so that all have equal access to the law. How would anyone expect justice if it were something that could be sold to the highest bidder?”
“An enlightened attitude.”
“We are an enlightened people.”
“I hope so, jah’nari l’amae” he said earnestly. “I really do hope so.”
XXXV
NAMASI SAHMUDRAH, NOT UNEXPECTEDLY, WASN’T OPTIMISTIC ABOUT his chances, and warned him that the Assembly was even less likely to be sympathetic.
“You already enjoy more freedom to pursue your research than any other man on Vanar,” she pointed out.
“It’s not enough. How can I gain access to valuable research facilities if I can’t approach a woman, or so much as initiate even a simple conversation?”
“We might be able to find a way around it, that is more a question of custom than law. But as for owning property...” She shook her head, doubtfully.
“If I can buy jewelry or flowers or music cubes, why not land? Especially worthless land? Is there any law preventing that?”
She sat in his library, in Yaenida’s old
place, while he once again occupied the narrow chair, his posture correct if informal. “In a manner of speaking, there is. You are the legal property of either your wife or your Family, and by extension anything you buy is, again, property of your wife and your Family. You still need permission, implied or otherwise—whether it’s hair flowers for your práhsaedam or a house or land makes no difference.”
“But I do have the right to—”
“No,” Namasi said sharply. “No, you do not have the right, Nathan! I keep trying to explain this to you, but you don’t listen. You don’t have rights. Your Family has rights. If you are injured or wronged, it is a crime against your Family, not against you as an individual.”
“But even naekulam—”
She leaned onto the table, her forehead in her hands in frustration. “That is different. Naekulam are without family, but they are not maenavah qili, nonpersons. They are protected by the state, and a crime committed against naekulam is a crime against the state, not the person. This entire concept you have of individual civil rights is likely to be regarded as nothing more than your usual yepoqioh eccentricity, which has not endeared you to too many people as it is.”
She sat back, tapping fingernails against her reader. “And you and I both know this isn’t about you buying land or gaining access to university libraries, nor will the Assembly be fooled by it, either. I sympathize with you, I do. But we are not a people who accept reform easily, Nathan Nga’esha. Worse, you could not only fail, and probably will, but challenging the validity of unwritten Vanar customs that are more flexible than law by forcing a legal definition may end up taking away what few privileges you and many other men already enjoy. And that certainly won’t do much to increase your popularity.”
Nathan frowned. “I’m used to being unpopular. Will you still speak for me?” he insisted quietly.
After a long pause, she sighed. “If this is what you want, then yes. I’m a professional; this is my job. But I want you to understand it won’t be easy. Are you certain you want to stir up this sort of trouble for yourself?”
