by Lea Daley
I listened closely when she sketched her efforts to reestablish Terran rainforests. Picturing her outdoors, indifferent to heat and humidity. That fine, sharp slice of a nose weathering under the steamy sun. Hands quick and sure amid tender plants. As she talked, Taylor became more intense and vibrant. But when Whitehall presented tea bowls I saw her transmit a subtle cue. My new acquaintance changed subjects so smoothly it was hardly noticeable. “Then I met Chastity and no flower of the rainforest could compete with her beauty.”
Nice recovery! I thought sardonically.
Whitehall laughed. “I think it’s safe to say I was quite a change of pace—Taylor hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with me.”
I raised my eyebrows. Because Hemingway looked like she knew exactly what to do with a woman. Now I was imagining her strong, deft hands moving in a whole different way. My face flamed, but neither of my hosts appeared to notice. How rude! I thought. I have been alone too long!
As for Chastity, her career hadn’t existed during my time. She struck a seductive pose and announced, “I was a clone donor, of course.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know—I had the look everyone wanted. I sold my DNA to the highest bidders.”
“For genetic engineering?”
“And re-engineering. It was extremely lucrative—and very flattering. When we hit the first hundred clones, there was a hyperblitz about the whole thing. They rounded us up to make a group portrait. Imagine—a hundred dupes of me, from birth to sweet sixteen! By the time I bailed on our home base, there were probably five hundred.” She’d financed her trip to the future by selling an unusually large sample of genetic material. “It was riotously expensive because it was the last of the line.”
“But wait—why? Why couldn’t the others sell samples?”
Chastity was appalled. “They wouldn’t have been authentic! I was the original, the template!”
It sounded creepy to me. I turned to Taylor, blurting out my response. “Wasn’t that weird? Knowing there were all those identical women out there?” I reached to offer a sympathetic pat, but my hand never touched her. It dropped down—down and through Taylor! Without volition, I leaped to my feet, shrieking.
“Oh, trank out, Leslie! You look like a scandalized virgin in some gothic fantasy.”
Fear and disgust mingled, stripping me of coherence. “She’s…she’s…”
“She’s a faxim. So what? She’s real enough for me.”
Chastity’s words echoed in my head. So what? So I felt like crying. So I’d never hear the rest of Taylor’s story. Never have the chance to laugh with her again. Never become her friend. Maybe I’d never have another real friend for the rest of my life. I shoved past Chastity, clipping her with my elbow as I fled. She was real, all right. Too damned bad. I’d have traded all five hundred of her for one decent dyke like Taylor Hemingway.
I was through the wall and on the street before I realized what I’d done. It was dark now, the pitch black of Jashari after a double sunset. I’d been in such a stupor when Chastity led me here that I had no idea where home was. And I knew beyond question that my host wouldn’t materialize to help me.
“Fuck!” I swore sadly. I hate hating our own!
The night was unnervingly quiet and I stood frozen in place. But when my breathing stabilized, reason returned. I’ve always had a good sense of direction. A path to the left led down a gentle incline. Feedback from my body concurred with the choice, my legs recalling an uphill journey, even if my conscious mind didn’t.
No one else was in the streets—almost unimaginable to an Earthling of my era. Yet, I felt no hint of risk. In fact, it seemed almost as if someone walked beside me. A restful, sure-footed presence. “Aimée?” I whispered, hardly daring to hope. But no answer came back. Just that steady, internal beat of assurance that I was pointed toward safe harbor.
After a while, I found my way into familiar territory. The business district lay before me, holograms flashing pastel patterns against the night sky, brightening the boulevards. Multi-Geist Defibrillation. Polytruncated Refurbishment. Now an occasional Jasharian hurried by. Even in subdued lighting, they knew what I was. Only superficial bows acknowledged my halting passage.
The closer I got to home, the more leaden my legs grew. By the time I arrived at my courtyard, I was staggering. I’d scarcely crawled under my quilt when sleep descended, pinning me motionless.
Chapter Sixteen
Judging by my faux windows, it was noon when I came to. Noon, I mused sleepily. Now there’s a bogus concept on a planet with two suns. For that matter, Jashari itself was a fraud. And so was Aimée. And Taylor. Was there anything real or dependable in this place?
Just close your eyes and drift away. Pretend you’re home, with Meredith in the kitchen downstairs. That solid thump on the bed is Stonewall. Any second now, he’ll be walking on your stomach—all sixteen pounds of him. In fact, here’s the first tentative touch…
I stretched out a hand to pet him, then jerked into alertness. The fur was shorter, coarser and very, very black. The eyes that greeted mine were yellow, not Stonewall’s neon green. This was Belladonna, Bahji’s cat—I was sure of it! Leaping up, I roared her name.
She popped into the bedroom. “Hi, Leslie!”
Could she possibly be missing another tooth? I was delighted to see her. And furious. I gathered Belladonna in my arms. “Bahji! I thought you loved this cat!”
“I do! She’s the most important thing in the world to me—except for my mom!”
“Then why did you bring her here? That was foolish—maybe even dangerous. Because you said she’s a secret.”
“I was really careful, Leslie-ahn. I told her she had to be quiet. And I brought her here at night so no one would see.”
“Night?”
Bahji was eager to reassure me. “Last night. I wanted you to meet her, ’cause you didn’t come to my house. But you fell asleep so fast.”
“You were both here when I came in last night…and you stayed?”
“Uh-huh. We slept on the couch.” Bahji sat on the edge of my bed, bouncing lightly, clearly convinced she’d set my mind at ease.
“What in the world is your mother thinking? I can’t believe she lets you run wild like this! She must be frantic by now.”
“Oh, no. She knows I’d be here. You and I—we’re a…te’lal dzarling.”
Te’lal dzarling—a “fated meeting.” Whatever that was. “And Belladonna? Is she…te’lal di’zar?”
“No,” Bahji murmured, eyes downcast.
“So how will your mom feel when she realizes Belladonna’s out?”
Tears made clean tracks down those perpetually grimy cheeks. “She’ll be mad. Awful mad.”
“Better go home and get it over with, Bahji.”
“I can’t, Leslie! I can’t take Belladonna out now! It’s too light! I can’t get her home in the daytime!”
“Then she’ll have to stay here. I’ll take good care of her till you come back. You can see she likes me.” Because the object of all this drama lay draped across my thighs, purring noisily.
Bahji’s eyes were widening pools in a face as white as winding cloth. Her lower lip quivered. But she straightened her shoulders and patted my hand reassuringly. “I’ll be back soon, Leslie-ahn. I promise.” Dashing through the wall, she left me alone with her cat.
I stayed in bed, stroking Belladonna, feeling the alpha waves return, writing haiku in my head, counting syllables:
On my lap, gelatinous,
bones deep-suspended
in aspic, the cat, asleep.
Silly stuff to distract me. Because I was sorry for Bahji, scared for her. And bewildered by every minute of every day on Jashari. But for right now, I had this soft, lazy, imperious animal. I lifted her by the armpits. She let her body hang limp, evaluating me through slitted eyes.
“Oh, mellow Belladonna! You’re the best thing that’s come my way since Aimée left. Perhaps you and I are a te’lal dza
rling after all. And maybe you’re meant to help me with something I’ve put off far too long.” I settled the cat in the crook of my elbow and reached for the memory sphere without daring to give it much thought. As it nestled into my palm, warm to the touch and so tempting, I forced myself to remember the sickening insubstantiality of Taylor Hemingway. Then I called up the epiphany that had come to me on the wings of a grisly nightmare. “Dead is dead,” I said aloud. But I was shaking as I conjured Meredith one last time.
She stood before me, wearing jeans and a khaki shirt I’d always loved, seemingly as real as the feline in my arms. But what was reality in this place where furniture was invisible, clothing imaginary and faxims moved through space and time? What was the good of any illusion if it kept you from living?
Meredith meets my eyes and says, “Hi, sweetie,” sounding like I’ve just come in from our garden.
“Hey, Mer.” That’s all I can manage at first—this moment will have to suffice till my final breath. So I’m drinking in the sight of her. Brown hair, windblown and shaggy, the way I like it best. Creamy skin—a pale porcelain that’s caused more than one hapless fool to underestimate her strength. That beloved body, the source of such joy. I clear my throat, find my voice. “I have to send you away now.”
A shadow crosses Mer’s face. “Oh, Les! Can’t I stay a little longer?”
“No, baby, it hurts too much. And it’s not healthy. But I’ll miss you—I’ll miss you like crazy.”
“I know, Les. Think of me though. You can do that, can’t you?”
“I can’t not do that.”
“I love you, Leslie Burke. Always.”
“Love you too, Mer. Forever.”
Then the cat squirmed in my arms, drawing me back to the concrete world, and I let Meredith go. Tears streamed from my eyes as I set Belladonna down, then held out my palm, displaying the memory sphere. Stretching one inky paw, she patted the little globe. I gritted my teeth, popped the clasp, opened it. Curious, Belladonna extended querying claws. Found that dense tangle of filaments. Tugged at them till a hundred-million memories flared like fireworks in my brain.
I dropped the device, besieged—almost unhinged—by that barrage of images. Fractured. Overlapping. Commingled. While I cowered on my bed, wondering why in bloody hell I’d put Meredith McAllister eternally out of reach, Belladonna batted the sphere to the floor and chased it around my bedroom, worrying those fibers to glittering dust. Certain I’d made the right decision but hating it all the same, I fled to my courtyard. Even there, I could hear a tiny pong…pong…pong. The most extravagant cat toy ever, rebounding off the walls.
* * *
First sundown was coming on before Bahji reappeared. She looked chastened—and cleaner than I’d ever seen her. As she handed over a bag of what I took to be cat food, her expression was so somber I drew her into a hug.
“Hi, Bahji. Belladonna’s fine. Thanks for letting me borrow her. She’s saved me from myself.”
“Can you keep her a little longer, Leslie-ahn? Mom says it’s not a good idea to bring her back now…she says I endangered the entire project by bringing her here!”
“What do you mean—what project?” I knew instinctively this was crucial information.
“I can’t talk about it, Leslie. Only Mom can tell you. You have to go to see her. I told you!” Bahji’s voice was strained, spiking into higher decibels.
“I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t think there was any rush. And I tried to come—I was on my way yesterday. Then I met somebody and got sidetracked.”
Bahji froze, eyes sharp as an inquisitor’s. “Somebody stopped you?”
“Nope. I just ran into someone I’ve met. It didn’t feel right to bring her along.”
“Who was it?”
“I doubt you’d know her—Chastity Whitehall? She’s just another Returnee, like me.”
“Everybody knows her, but she’s nothing like you. We call her Khyz’lera.” The Betrayer, the Amoral, the Turnabout.
My stomach knotted. Because Bahji was right—everyone did know Whitehall. Hadn’t I seen the bows—those deep, unmistakable tokens of power—everywhere she went? “The Turnabout? Why, sweetheart?”
“You have to ask my mom, Leslie! You have to come soon. But now you can’t, till it’s time to bring Belladonna back!” She sounded trapped, frantic. “I have to go home. I have to tell Mom!” And she left before even laying a hand on her pet.
I sat still as stone, trying to make sense of it all. Suddenly Bahji reappeared, tugging on my arm. “Leslie-ahn! You’d better call She Who Shadows—call her back right now!” Again she melted through my wall.
I stumbled to a bench in my courtyard. What the fuck was going on? How had I gotten mixed up in a mess with people I didn’t even know? And how was I supposed to call Aimée? Would she come if I did? Could she come? Could I trust her? Did I even want her here? Yes!
So, in that most intimate space—the sanctuary Aimée made just for me—I did the only thing I could imagine. Like a kid in a fairy tale, I closed my eyes and made a wish.
Chapter Seventeen
As with any adage that’s survived for centuries, there’s wisdom in the warning “Be careful what you wish for.” Aimée returned almost as soon as the request formed in my mind, but it wasn’t the same. She was angry in a slow-simmering, worrisome way, her voice frosty. Worse, she spoke in Jashrine—not a good sign. “What service is required to maintain the integrity of the Whole?”
If she had a watch, she’d be checking it impatiently. I could almost see her toe tapping with irritation. No response occurred to me. What could I say? I didn’t even know what I wanted from her. Comfort? Companionship? Protection? Or just to look and look at that stormy face?
She’d taken my advice and traded Terran garb for Jashrine simplicity—a pale, close-fitting gown that made her seem thinner. No—she was thin, too thin, every angle more pronounced than when I saw her last. I had a ludicrous desire to grab a saucepan and stir up something irresistible. To ply her with roasted lamb, with strawberry genoise, with wines so wonderful they hadn’t been invented yet.
Lost in reverie, I missed the moment Aimée’s face softened and she dropped her guard. When I clicked back into focus, she was almost smiling. Of course! She’d been reading my mind—how soon we forget! Under other circumstances, I’d have felt off balance and one-down, but just now it seemed worthwhile. Because Aimée’s tone was gentler, maybe even wistful. “What’s strawberry genoise?”
“Only the most glorious thing ever. Shall I show you?”
She nodded minutely. Allowed me to link fingers and rest my head against hers. I felt giddy with relief. “Okay, Aimée, I want you to come to a dinner party. I want you to meet my friends.”
Beginning at the beginning, with strawberries waiting to be hulled, I point out their dry, slightly rough surface. The jillions of shiny seeds that seem to wink at us. I give her their heavenly, sun-warmed scent and offer that first sharp, wet bite.
I show her sugar, with its strangely dirty smell. Show how its melting sweetness coaxes scarlet juice from the berries. I teach her to crack eggs, snapping them sharply against the rim of a copper bowl. Show her beating, beating, till viscous egg becomes ephemeral cloud.
I clarify butter to the color of Jashrine sunshine. Help her fold it into those clouds. I teach her that the scent of vanilla weaves through all the fibers of time and memory, and that heat changes everything—everything!—forever. Together, we trim away crusts to expose golden sponge cake. We heap on berries, layer whipped cream and bite into bliss.
In my dining room, we set out candles, arrange flowers, pleat napkins until they spill from goblets, just so. I play the rhythmic counterpoint of dance tunes, the laughter of guests, the overlap of conversation. I show friends teasing me about my extravagance, while devouring every crumb. And I show the way dykes say goodbye. Reluctantly. With lingering hugs that span the length of our bodies...
When I released Aimée at last, I felt almost as if I’
d eaten that meal—and I was homesick in a whole new way. She looked shocked and titillated. “Leslie-ahn! That was completely decadent!”
“I know.”
“Surely no dinner was ever so…sensuous?”
“It was becoming rare. We grew strawberries in our garden, of course, but the season was quite short at our latitude. They were ridiculously pricey otherwise. And as for real butter…”
I was blathering and I knew it. Because I’d just realized I was juggling two mutually exclusive circumstances. That imaginary dinner had erased the last vestiges of tension between Aimée and me. She was standing so near in the courtyard, smiling, the last of Py’tahn’s light glancing off her black, black hair. I wanted to apologize, to invite her back into my life. Yet Belladonna was somewhere inside and she was a secret. Why, oh why, had I listened to Bahji? Even thinking about the cat might put her at risk. I was walking on eggshells every bit as fragile as the ones Aimée and I had cracked in memory moments before. Had Bahji factored Belladonna into the equation when she ordered me to call the VTO? Or had she completely overlooked the implications?
I decided to go for broke. Aimée had always seemed oblivious to anything involving my young friend. And shouldn’t things work out for the best if Bahji and I were truly a fated meeting? Even if we weren’t—certainly my default position—I wanted to see what happened next. Because I no longer believed Aimée would betray me. I looked overhead. The second sun had almost completed its descent. “It’ll be pitch black soon. Can you come inside?”
Aimée gestured you first. Heart thudding, I stepped into my living room. Belladonna was nowhere in sight, though I thought I saw a puff of dark hair float across the floor. I staked a claim to the couch. Aimée dragged a chair nearby.
