FutureDyke

by Lea Daley

  What would happen if Belladonna suddenly leaped into her lap? I glanced at the VTO, imagining her surprise at being surprised. Aimée’s eyes were closed, her head tipped back, her long throat arched against the weight of that perfectly sculpted skull. Without meaning to, I asked, “Where were you?” My voice was low and husky, revealing more than I intended.

  She didn’t move, didn’t even open her eyes. “You sent me away, remember?”

  “Yeah—dumb move. But where did you go?”

  Aimée shoved herself upright and looked me in the eye. “Be careful what you wish for,” she said, invoking that ancient caution for the second time in an hour.

  “I want to know.”

  She paused, seeming to calculate the impact of her answer. “I have been helping another Returnee who is having a difficult time. He has needed my assistance.”

  He! A pang of pure jealousy shot through me. Some guy had Aimée at his disposal the whole time I’d been so lonely for her! Some guy had her companionship, her support, her insights. “What a lucky fellow! Has he made a move on you yet?” I was trying to get a rise out of her, trying to provoke a fight. Because I’m stupid, that’s why.

  But Aimée merely looked bemused. “I hardly think he would proposition an elderly man. At least not on such short acquaintance.”

  “Elderly man?”

  “He needed a sage.”

  As if I cared. As if that explained anything. I ran my hands through my hair in exasperation. “What does that have to do with you?”

  “Leslie-ahn…I told you that I am a Variable Techno-Organism. I told you I could become a woman-identified model if you preferred. You remember that.”

  Yes—but I didn’t want to. I wanted her to have a birthplace and a family and a history. I wanted her to have had a childhood, complete with scraped knees and lost baby teeth and a best friend in kindergarten. I wanted Aimée to be human. And I wanted her to be mine—mine alone. I could barely make myself ask the question, yet I had to know: “Are you telling me you’re whatever someone needs you to be, at any given moment?”

  “Of course. That is my mission.”

  I fought the urge to retch. “But that’s perverted!”

  “Do you not adjust your behavior to circumstances, Leslie-ahn? Did you not act one way with Meredith, and another with your mother? Or a client?”

  “But I was always me! I just emphasized certain characteristics, depending on the situation!”

  “Trust me. It is the same. We are simply at different points on a vaster continuum than you have conceptualized.”

  Aimée was standing in front of me now, but I was having trouble seeing her. She’d gone shimmery, almost translucent, as if I were viewing her through heat waves. Or tears. I rubbed both eyes and looked again. In her place, gaining solidity with every second, was an ancient man. Small and slender, with thinning hair and papery skin. Wise Asian eyes studied me with compassion. Then his stooped shoulders dropped into a deep bow.

  “Aimée!”

  “Yes, Leslie-ahn?” The voice was hers, only in a lower register. The man stretched to pat my shoulder, but I shrank away.

  “Come back! Please! I’m scared!”

  This time I watched the transformation in its entirety. Spellbound. Horrified. The gentle man took on that hazy quality. His posture straightened. His hair lengthened, became more lustrous. Those features softened, taking on a rosy blush. Finally, Aimée was herself again, as beautiful as ever. Aimée—who had weight and substance and strength enough to pick me up. And dimples. And all manner of dear, disconcerting habits. I hugged a pillow to me. Hard. With proper instruction, I might learn to breathe again.

  The VTO pulled me to the edge of the couch. “Leslie-ahn! Put your head between your knees!” She stroked my hair till all vital functions stabilized, but a long time passed before I sat up. I was resisting the urge to ask the inevitable question. But this was Aimée—I didn’t have to ask. She knew. “What do you think I should do, Leslie?”

  “I…I don’t know. You said this other Returnee needs you…”

  “Soon he will either recover from reentry depression, or die. You remember how that felt.”

  I did. And this man’s life might literally depend on her presence. But I needed Aimée too. Especially since Bahji had implied I was in danger. “Tell me about him.”

  “I can give you no details. But he is young and vulnerable. Much like you, he was unprepared for the drastic changes he encountered here. However I am not certain he has your vigor.”

  She spoke dispassionately, making no effort to persuade me. Still, I could visualize her new charge—his pain and disorientation. I had to release the VTO. Which meant being uber-watchful in her absence. “Will you ever come back to me?”

  Aimée’s smile melted my resentment. “Of course, Leslie-ahn. You have priority claim on my services. When the crisis passes, I will request reassignment.” Bowing, she stepped through the wall, into an existence I couldn’t fathom.

  Not for the first time on Jashari, I longed for a stiff drink. Failing that, I wanted to escape into sleep. I called for Belladonna. But since cats must assert their independence, hours seemed to pass before she slinked out from under my bed. I hauled her up and collapsed on the quilt, where she lay on my chest. Purring. Enigmatic. Giving the impression that even she knew more than I.

  “Just tell me one thing, cat: why didn’t Aimée know you were here?” But Belladonna stared back impassively, denying me access to privileged information. No doubt I lacked the proper security clearance.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bahji reappeared while I was drinking my morning tea. All her liveliness had drained away. “Hi, Leslie.”

  “Hi, sweetie. Have you eaten?”

  Bahji brushed aside the question. “Not hungry.” She sat in the shadows, spoke quietly, as if someone might be straining to hear her words. “I have a message from Mom. She says you can bring Belladonna home tomorrow night. About an hour after Py’tahn goes down.”

  “What’s so special about tomorrow night?”

  Bahji brightened. “It’s the festival—ViLalah Jihar.”

  The Festival of Oneness. I could translate the phrase, without understanding anything about the event.

  “Everyone will be there—everyone but us. I’m not supposed to want to go, but I do. Just once, I wish I could taste m’lor jahn.”

  M’lor jahn. Some kind of cake—an exceptional one. I could tell that much from the part of my brain that knew Jashrine. Probing further would only get me another, “You’ll have to talk to my mom.”

  I promised nothing would deter me the next evening, and asked how to safely transport Belladonna. But when I said I still had Bahji’s map, she insisted on sketching a new, more circuitous route to her house. I should avoid some kind of procession, but apparently this festival was so all-consuming I could carry a cat through darkened streets without attracting attention.

  “Hold her real tight when you walk through our wall though. She doesn’t have a bracelet ’cause she’s not supposed to be out.”

  “I’ll bring her back safe and sound, Bahji.”

  “I know. Mom says everything will be okay. Can I see Belladonna now?”

  “Of course! I’m an idiot for not inviting you inside!” No sooner had the child breached the wall than Belladonna was flying into her arms. Bahji sat on the floor cuddling the cat, whispering in Jashrine that the two were one.

  Before long, my visitor was herself again, rambunctious and destined for mischief. I handed her my rain stick. Which she played with for a long time, while the cat looked on. “Bamboo!” I heard her whisper. “It’s bamboo!” though how she’d know that, I couldn’t imagine.

  When the attraction waned, I poked through my desk seeking something else to distract her. Bahji peered at the odds and ends of my past—all ancient artifacts from her perspective—fingers twitching with desire. When I nodded consent, she extracted one object after another, swift as the Artful Dodger.

&
nbsp; “What’s this?”

  “A paperclip—look.” I fastened a few sheets of stationery together.

  “What’s that?”

  “A staple remover.” I rummaged at the back of the drawer till I found a tiny stapler. I demonstrated how it worked, then helped Bahji pry the fastener free. Her eyes were bright with amazement. Stupidly, tears stung my own. Stapling! Such a simple, lost art! Next Bahji unearthed a weighty silver letter opener with an elegant filigree handle, a dead ringer for one my great-grandmother owned. In the sheen of that slender blade, the child’s reflection was eerie, elongated, skeletal. She studied it intently before asking, “What’s this?”

  I couldn’t explain the function of a letter opener without describing the entire concept of snail mail. And since writing was a dying art when Nana wielded that sharp stiletto, I was a little rusty myself. By the time I was Bahji’s age, hand-delivered mail had assumed a ceremonial place in society. The Cloud spewed endless reams of spam from every possible purveyor. But the rare arrival of a paper envelope—painstakingly addressed, with ornate, oversized stamps—was an occasion of true magnitude. The eager recipient reveled in the sheer materiality of the object. Might hesitate to open it, prolonging the moment of anticipation. Might even gather a few family members before slitting the envelope to remove the prize within. Awash in nostalgia, I scribbled a note to Bahji, sealed it inside an envelope, sketched a stamp on the outer corner, then let her rip the thing open. Several times.

  When she tired of that game, I gestured at my writing materials. “Why don’t you make a picture for your mom?” So Bahji spent the morning at the desk, gradually gaining control of my pens. “Drawing,” I told her, “is more about seeing than anything else.” But I quickly realized she wasn’t ready for instruction. Instead she was recapitulating a universal sequence of drawing encoded in the human brain, working through the entire progression I’d studied in art school. Scribbles, circles, mandalas, suns, people. For the first time, she seemed younger than her years.

  When she finished, she had a fat stack of sketches to show her mother. “Time to go home, kid. Can you remember some messages?”

  “Sure, Leslie-ahn.”

  “Tell your mom I’ll bring Belladonna around the time she said. If I’m later, don’t worry. I might be a little lost, but I’ll find my way. Also, please tell her Aimée came back, but couldn’t stay. She’ll return soon.”

  There was no mistaking it—Bahji’s eyes were instantly huge with alarm. She gave Belladonna a quick hug, then darted through the wall. Her “See you tomorrow!” seemed to hang in the air.

  Too much tension—and nowhere near enough information. I needed a change of pace! After grabbing a spare sheet and tucking Serenghi’s book into a bag, I headed toward the ocean. Time alone with wind and surf would mellow me out. I walked faster, eager for the first indication that I was close to water. The path was longer than I remembered, but at last it petered out. Then the breeze picked up and I could feel moisture in the air. Just as before, I found myself dashing toward the solace of the sea.

  At first, I just sat on a sand dune, letting the ocean draw stress from me. Watching the endless ebb and flow of the waves. Becoming one with them. Later I swam till my legs were like jelly. Then I staggered to the shore, spread my sheet and collapsed facedown to doze.

  When I woke, I felt calm and rested. I dug Serenghi’s book from my bag and began to read.

  On Celebration

  Even in the darkest moments, you are obliged to observe and celebrate the small delights of existence. Celebrate because you are alive, because you are human, because you are unique in the universe.

  Celebrate although you are at risk, because you are beleaguered, despite your deepest terrors. Give yourself over to celebration, to banishing all pain, all separation, all sorrow. Celebrate the rising sun, the falling dew, the greening of spring, the birth of each new life. Celebrate the similarity of all beings and the sameness of none. Celebrate to drive away horror, ignite imagination and incite new visions.

  Celebrate, each of you, because without ritual, people have no past. Without laughter in the face of fear, humans have no honor. Without joy, life has no substance.

  Celebrate.

  I closed the book, abashed. If a vilified woman in a moldering prison could write those words, I was an ungrateful wretch. Squared! How had I forgotten to appreciate my good fortune? My perfect health? My second life? I had plenty to celebrate! Which made me remember ViLalah Jihar—and Bahji’s disappointment about missing that special event. What could possibly justify keeping her home while all her friends partied? Maybe I’d find out tomorrow when I met the girl’s mother.

  My expectations of that encounter were surely inflated. I’d been promised so many answers. The next twenty-four hours would stretch my patience to capacity. To survive the wait, I’d need some sort of diversion… Maybe I should plan a gala of my own…? The idea took root and grew. Since I knew almost no one, since I was somehow at risk, it could only be a very private celebration. And anything I concocted would need to be based on materials at hand.

  Impulsively, I heaped a sizeable mound of sugary sand in the center of my sheet, then knotted the fabric. Brain buzzing with anticipation, I headed homeward, that bundle thudding against my bare back. Damp. Heavy. Slowing my progress. And why? My home was surrounded by golden dunes, for god’s sake! I could spill out the white stuff and content myself with that.

  But I’d long since learned to trust my instincts—in life and art alike. My subconscious must have a use for this lighter variety, even if the purpose had yet to be revealed. Trudging onward, I shifted that sheet from shoulder to shoulder.

  By the time I stepped through my courtyard gates, I should have been exhausted from the day’s activities. Instead, I was restless, energized. After a quick meal, I prowled my apartment, awaiting inspiration. The knotted sheet—on my desk chair, right where I’d dropped it—seemed to call me. Clearing my little dinner table, I set it in the center. Untied it. Watched the fabric fall open like Nana’s finest damask. The cone of white sand sparkled like snow—and suddenly I knew why I needed it.

  I scrabbled in a cabinet, seeking a smallish package I’d stuffed in the rear. I had to summon fortitude before peeling away layer after layer of padding. At last I was holding a miniature Christmas tree. Marveling that it survived the long journey to Jashari. My eyes clouded over, obscuring the details. But I knew just how it looked. Its tiny branches curved upward with sweet fidelity and dozens of minuscule decorations twinkled amid them. Each had been hung by a friend during the last party Meredith and I hosted. Some were buttons or fragments of jewelry. Some were handmade by artists. All unbearably dear. I turned the lovely little thing in my hands, touching each ornament, calling up the face of a long-gone compatriot.

  At last, I pressed the tree into the middle of the sand, patting crystals around its base, then smoothing them till they merged with the pale sheet. Finally, filtering a fistful of granules through my fingers, I dusted the branches lightly with “snow.”

  I wasn’t a Christian—wasn’t even vaguely spiritual. Christmas was only a cherished collection of home-grown rituals. An annual invitation to indulgence. Each year, Mer and I set strict limits on the amount for one another’s gifts. And every year we admitted we’d broken our own rule. No season had ever seemed as precious.

  Suddenly I heard Nana’s quavery voice singing an old, old song. The mournful melody—a promise to return home at Christmastime—shivered through me. But Jashari was my home now, and it was time to claim it. I even had a few friends here. For what else were Aimée and Bahji, if not friends, however unconventional?

  When I left for my visit the next evening, I’d be carrying gifts—no easy task, considering I’d also be transporting a twelve-pound cat! I inventoried the tools and materials at my disposal, then plunged into activity. For Aimée, a whimsical portrait of herself as Kali, the Hindu goddess of change and empowerment. Multiarmed, multifaceted, all-powerful. Before
and beyond time. The ultimate reality. I meant it as a sort of apology for my appallingly crass reaction when the VTO revealed her full capabilities.

  By dawn, I’d also completed presents for Bahji and her mother. I felt exhilarated, as exuberant as if I’d pulled an all-nighter in my studio back on Earth. The last thing I saw before stumbling toward bed was my little tree. Resplendent on the tabletop, winking in the first rays of simulated sunshine.

  I slept the day away, then came awake all at once, remembering everything. The festival. My gifts. My mission to return Belladonna. The imminent meeting with Bahji’s mother. I leaped up, excitement quickening my pulse. It was time to prepare for the journey. Since it was a night for stealth, I imagined myself completely in black—midnight garments from neck to ankle. For fun—or perhaps in defiance of the alien celebration unfolding outside—I wove a holly wreath in my hair. Dark, glossy leaves, punctuated by blood-red berries.

  Before I had time to reconsider, I filled a bag with presents, including a last-minute addition for Belladonna. Scooping up the cat, I hastened through the wall.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The sound of the fountain was almost obscured by an endless rustling. I stood just inside my gates, the cat at one shoulder. Listening. Watching. Throngs of people—more than I ever conceived of on Jashari—were passing close by. Heading, I was sure, for the ocean. Eager as I was to meet Bahji’s mother, I yearned to join that procession. Because whatever was about to transpire would reveal much about my strange new world.

  The natives moved along the path in discrete bands of fifteen or twenty, with a light-bearer in the lead. Though the night was deepening, that glow illuminated the spectacle. Small details began to form patterns. Every cohort carried a banner extolling the Harmonious Whole. All celebrants were dressed in rippling white. Minor distinctions in costume from group to group seemed to indicate particular memberships or allegiances. To what, I couldn’t guess. Each adult supported a shining, opalescent globe on one outstretched palm. Every child sheltered a small container in reverent hands.