FutureDyke

by Lea Daley

  “She is rather unstable.”

  I winced. “Do you have your crystal ball handy?”

  “Crystal ball?”

  “Sorry—a stupid figure of speech. I mean, do you know how this will end?”

  “Oh. No, Leslie-ahn. No one can. That is what makes it so disturbing. The algorithms merely suggest probabilities of greater and lesser significance. Chastity is betting that she can contain you, in case—all protestations to the contrary—you really are Li’shayla Mar-Né. Kidnapping Bahji was what you call risky business, not a move the Council would make independently. But Whitehall is also an Incurable, a ‘wild card.’ She thinks she can outwit the oracle.”

  “Which is pretty ballsy.”

  “Or desperate.”

  “How so?”

  “Chastity has a vested interest in blocking you, Leslie-ahn. Her elevated position is at risk. Though not even the Elders know exactly what would result from fulfillment of the prophecy, profound change is predestined. And all of Jashrine culture is based on the belief that change is inherently undesirable. Understandable on such a delicately balanced planet.”

  “Aimée, I know this is no time for debate, but change is inevitable—sometimes it’s even wonderful. And humans are geniuses at adapting to new circumstances.” I sighed heavily. “I can’t tell you how stifling I find this society!”

  “Yet it works.”

  “Does it, Aimée? I wonder how well? I might not understand everything about the experience I had in that colosseum—‘theater of the mind,’ Whitehall called it. But clearly Jasharians use that as a substitute for authentic sensation. And I may not fully comprehend the purpose of Aural Alignment or Renticular Synthesis or Subliminal Massage, but I know they’re psychological services for the less than totally fulfilled Jasharian. All this conformity certainly takes a toll on the faithful!”

  “These are the shortcomings of the biological mind, Leslie-ahn. But the Harmony of the Whole supersedes any psychological inadequacies.”

  “So everybody’s served up equal portions of boredom and brainwashing? No one ever gets to hit a high note?”

  “Perhaps that seems unappealing to you. Yet this system has endured for thousands of years.”

  “Well it’s crashing now! Exactly as your famous mathematician predicted! Stand back, babe—look out for falling dogma!” In the midst of sniping at Aimée, a thought unfurled like a banner in my brain: The transformation has begun!

  She read me, of course, and drew back to a respectful distance. Suddenly I was embarrassed by my vehemence. Who was on my side, if not the VTO? “I’m sorry, my friend. Maybe we should drop this discussion. I need time to process what you’ve told me. Why not eat lunch, then enjoy the beach for a while?”

  “A day by the water would benefit you.”

  “Amen.” I sifted sand mindlessly as I watched the lapping surf. “Aimée? When we go home, will you need to travel as Meredith?”

  “Not if we stay until sundown.”

  “Done deal. I couldn’t bear saying farewell again.”

  Just outside the courtyard that evening, Aimée bowed farewell and left me to sort through my options in solitude. A process I’d begin by consulting Serenghi. My hands were trembling as I searched for her essay about transformation.

  On Becoming Myself

  I was raised in a small village. My parents, decent and caring people, prepared me for a small life. At twenty, I was a small and ignorant person who knew only one thing beyond the ways of my people: I knew those ways were too small to contain my spirit. As I spun wool and baked ceremonial sweets and watched my comrades bear child after child, I knew this life was not enough for any of my girlhood friends.

  I was fitted for nothing else and frightened of change. But to escape those constraints I would need to reinvent myself. I did not know how to begin. I did not know where to begin. But I trusted myself to recognize the right branch on the unfolding path.

  My transformation began with a single word, with “Yes!” For positive change never proceeds from negative action. I recall the moment exactly, because nothing was the same after I spoke. That affirmation led me into a new world, a perilous world, a world complex enough to test my potential.

  On that fateful day, I stood on the outskirts of an audience, the only woman, listening to a passionate political organizer. The outsider called for opposition to the World Unification Movement, seeking support from the stolid men of my village. The crowd was silent. “Is there no one here who will join this cause? No one who will enlist new members? No one who will resist in the name of liberty?”

  My neighbors—simple farmers and craftsmen—muttered and looked at their feet. Why would they not? The cause was dangerous, his appeal an invitation to almost certain disaster. These men had wives and children. Their dreams of freedom were hostage to the safety of their families.

  But I had no dependents and was already considered odd. The speaker asked again, “Please, won’t someone represent your village? Won’t someone carry this flame?”

  I stepped boldly into the circle “Yes,” I answered. “This is the work I am seeking. This is a risk worth taking.” And so it began—the long years of travel, of organizing, of danger.

  Once again, I live my life in a small, confining place. My cell at Rhiaminang Prison is ten paces long and six paces wide. And once again, small tasks occupy my days. For shifts of twelve hours each, I chop vegetables, clean cooking pots, scour floors. I am expected to die here.

  But not one of my childhood friends would recognize me. Not one of those villagers would guess this unapologetic radical once broke bread with them. For I am no longer a small person. And my mind is not constricted. Even in this tightest of spaces, my spirit flies free.

  I must have read those words a half-dozen times, seeking courage and connection. But I lacked all desire to serve a grand cause. Closing Serenghi’s book, I wished I’d awakened in a world where nothing but artistry was asked of me.

  Chapter Thirty

  There was no roadmap for my strange journey, no script for the charade, no plan that might not backfire. Only one truth I could rely on: the confirmation that flooded me when I’d heard the prophecy. I was—or would be—Li’shayla Mar-Né. But this morning I had to shutter my mind against the howling litany that always accompanied the alien title. Too much. Too soon.

  I’d trek into town, stop by Whitehall’s place, see what developed. She held all the cards, but I hoped to force her hand. Somehow, some way. Like most artists, I was comfortable with ambiguity—improvisation was old, familiar territory, my standard operating procedure. But if things went wrong, Aimée would have my back. If possible.

  Remembering Shiante’s lesson, I dressed carefully. Something about the rakish fashion of that latter era suited me, stiffened my spine. I smiled in the mirror as I made final adjustments to my costume, enjoying the contrast—a spill of flaming, feminine hair against the olive-gray edginess of high-butch couture.

  Despite the uncertainty, despite the long odds, I found myself whistling as I walked toward Chastity’s house. But on arrival, I froze in the avenue, all too conscious of suspicious glances from passing natives, blocked again by the most basic question: how to enter? Playing the fool once more. I kicked myself for not resolving this quandary before setting out. Just the sight of that impermeable wall made my arm throb.

  At length, I tuned in to a murmur of voices emanating from the rear of the building. I headed that direction. Rounded a corner. Found myself confronting graceful gates that opened into a walled garden. The setting was beautiful, the people more so. Whitehall and Johansonn—as fair and well matched as alabaster bookends—breakfasting amid sunlit flowers. When heavy wrought iron swung inward at the touch of my hand, I approached the couple with false audacity. Chastity looked up, caught sight of me and waved. “Mi’lana va’tir, Leslie-ahn! Come in!”

  I took a seat as she filled a tea bowl with delicately scented liquid. Turning to Johansonn, I offered my hand. “Leslie Bur
ke. We haven’t been officially introduced.”

  The man rose, intentionally towering above me, bowing minimally. “Peter Johansonn. So nice that you could join us.”

  Us. No attempt to represent this as a business meeting or casual brunch. The dude was definitely marking his territory. Did he know that Whitehall’s romantic history included few, if any, men? I gave Johansonn a dismissive once-over, then smiled across the table at my host, attempting to weave a mood of flirtatious complicity. “I’m hoping you have time to continue our conversation, Chas! I can’t sleep for thinking about everything you told me!”

  She shared the barest of winks. “Peter was just leaving.”

  His jaw clenched, but he didn’t protest—couldn’t. Draining his bowl, he set it down carefully and dropped a kiss on Chastity’s golden head. I felt resentment radiating off him, but Johansonn left without a backward glance, pretending his sudden departure was intentional.

  Suddenly I was alone with my fated enemy—and absent a blueprint. Maybe the brash approach was still my best shot. “What’s with the hunk of testosterone? Quite a change from your usual program, no?”

  “He amuses me.”

  “A waste of your talents, I’m sure.”

  Whitehall laughed throatily and slid her chair closer. Much closer. Flattery would get me anywhere. “Peter has something I want,” she cooed, “and he needs a patron.”

  “A patron?”

  “Someone to introduce him into Jashrine society. It seems he’s attracted to my lifestyle.”

  That was certainly direct. I’d better make sure Taylor knew how deeply involved the two were. At the moment, though, I’d been offered an opening I couldn’t pass up. “How about doubling your pleasure, Chas? Maybe you could arrange a joint debut. A simultaneous introduction for Peter and me?”

  She seized my hands in girlish rapture. “Leslie! Are you serious?”

  “Deadly serious. But my curiosity’s killing me. How’d you get so cozy with a simple-minded sperm factory?”

  “Sperm’s precisely the point. Peter and I are going to have a baby. We’re actually working quite hard at it.”

  She leaned in, scrutinizing me, assessing the size of the shock wave. I hated to gratify her, but couldn’t conceal my astonishment. “A baby? You want a baby?”

  “Why not? Children seem to be all the rage—and you must admit we’ll produce fabulous offspring.”

  True enough, if looks were all that mattered. “Jesus, Chastity! Why not try the test tube thing?”

  Her face darkened. “Peter would only agree to…participate…if we did this the traditional way.”

  So poor Peter thought he’d attained a measure of control. Hadn’t he heard about all those female insects that devour their partners after consummation? But the man’s welfare was way down my list of concerns right then. Because I was floundering, completely unable to decode Whitehall’s motives. At last I said, “But children take so much effort, demand so much time…Look at Taylor…”

  “Yes! Look at Taylor, suddenly the center of everyone’s attention! All because she produced that nasty little rug rat.”

  So this whole plot was about trumping Taylor? Maintaining supremacy? Maybe I could shake Chastity up. “Careful, friend…babies tend to eclipse everything around them. Are you sure you want that?”

  “Don’t be naïve, Leslie. The child and I will dominate Jashrine society. Trust me—I have an instinct for these matters.”

  Now I grasped the big picture. A baby—a beautiful baby—would be her latest accessory, a new prop to pose with, a way to reclaim the spotlight. And if Whitehall had to single-handedly re-create the profession of nanny, she’d do that. Because she certainly wouldn’t be spooning rice cereal and changing diapers—or whatever the Jashrine equivalents were.

  I rolled my eyes. “Better you than me, Chas. Kids just aren’t my thing. Hey! How do the honchos feel about this?”

  “Leslie! If I’m going to present you to polite society, you’ll have to express more respect for authority! The Elders have consented and are eager to demonstrate that certain Returnees can be completely assimilated.”

  “You needed permission? To have a baby?”

  “Naturally. Otherwise the plan would be inconceivable.”

  “Lousy pun.”

  Chastity laughed as if she’d intended the joke, then flicked hair off her shoulders. It shimmered in the light, just as she planned.

  “Doesn’t your boyfriend get pissed when you flirt with dykes?”

  “That would be ill-advised. Peter has no future, except through my influence. He’ll do whatever I say, bow to any demand, overlook any slight.”

  “Lucky fellow.”

  Stretching both arms above her head, Chastity arched her back. Which thrust her famous breasts upward and outward. “He hasn’t complained so far.”

  And probably wouldn’t—she was very, very lovely. Besides Peter might never have seen her venomous side. Not that most men would pass up a shot at Whitehall, no matter how deadly. “Anyway,” she purred, “who said I was flirting?”

  Taking the offensive had worked every time. Leaning forward, I cupped the back of that tawny head in my hand, drew it near, pressed my lips against hers. None too gently. Her skin was perfumed and perfect, her lips moist and pliant, her breath warm as the sunshine that fell around us. I could feel everything except arousal. Still, I knew all the right moves—knew just how to part her full lips with my tongue. Knew just when to nibble or suck. Just when to rake my nails down her spine. Those rosebud nipples were hard against my palm now. And that reaction can’t be faked…somehow she’d reclaimed her sexuality. I didn’t let go till Whitehall was breathless and weak in the knees.

  Doing my best to mimic her excitement, I hoped she’d wonder why I was capable of erotic response. Still I’d have to be exquisitely careful. Because a woman might fool a man about sex, but it’s the rare lesbian who can deceive another. And Chastity would have finely tuned instincts in that area.

  She sat back, smoothed her hair and fluttered long lashes. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Leslie Burke!”

  “Hold that thought. If you don’t stop coming on to me while you’re screwing your brains out with Johansonn, things are going to get very complicated.”

  “At least that would break the monotony.” Leaning toward me, inviting another kiss.

  Rising abruptly, I forced Chastity to convert forward movement into an awkward reach for her empty tea bowl. “Monotony? I thought you liked it here.”

  “My boredom threshold is very low,” she said—maybe the only honest thing she’d ever tell me. “I need fairly constant stimulation.”

  “Well, you won’t get it from me while Johansonn’s in the picture. I don’t play that game.”

  “Too bad. We could have had such fun at his expense.”

  What kind of sicko warms to a line like that? How low could her opinion of me be? I glanced at the gates to signal my departure. “As it stands, Chas, you’ll have to content yourself with preparing me for high society. I’m sure you’ll enjoy playing Higgins to my Doolittle.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The following week, I became the Special Advisor’s constant companion, her willing pupil. Because anything—everything—I experienced might help secure Bahji’s freedom. Although it was agonizing to be separated from Aimée day after day, I was learning a lot. Seeing a different side of Jashrine society. Making connections and comparisons that could only have been sparked by dialogue with another Earthling.

  And it was odd, but in Whitehall’s company, the town seemed warmer, more welcoming, almost as if I owned it. Suddenly I remembered that I was rich—maybe the wealthiest person on Jashari. Which made me walk with new energy, greater confidence. My tour guide felt the change and it heightened her interest. Now she not only wanted to show her world to me—she wanted to show me off to her world. She made the most of every promenade, slipping a proprietary arm through mine, keeping me uncomfortably close. />
  Chastity had a photographer’s instinct for the arresting vignette. She unfailingly positioned us so my height and angularity emphasized her own sensuousness. That fair head was often so close to my auburn mane that strands of our hair entwined. And each gesture implied that I was her latest, most cherished conquest.

  Now that we were “allies,” she put on her best front. Even when I found myself laughing at her jokes, though, even when I was struck by some perceptive remark, I didn’t forget Whitehall couldn’t be trusted. Didn’t forget the danger she represented for my friends and me. Didn’t fall for any of her devious strategies. And almost immediately I developed a mechanism for managing her: Advance, then retreat. Tease, then withdraw. Keep her hungry, on edge.

  But the hours we spent together were filled with more than flirtation and frivolity. Whitehall steadily pursued her mission to mold me into a member of the Jashrine elite. She schooled me in etiquette, honed my fashion sense till I fit in with her associates and answered each question with apparent sincerity. Even when I subtly challenged her allegiance to this foreign philosophy.

  One day, weary of that parry and thrust, she warned me to prepare for the deep desert on our next jaunt. There, she promised, she’d provide a graphic illustration of the Jashrine perspective. If nothing else, she’d piqued my curiosity. Debriefing with Aimée that night, I said, “What do you think she has in mind for our little excursion?”

  “I do not know, Leslie-ahn. But it will certainly be more advantageous to her than to you. Be on your guard every moment. And I will monitor you for any signs of distress.”

  * * *

  Despite her cultivated façade of femininity, Whitehall could set a mean pace when she chose. Once we left civilization behind, she dropped the characteristic Jashrine gait, a slow and stately glide. In the desert, she walked like a dyke, without pretense or fatigue. Finally the last path dwindled, then disappeared altogether, leaving us side by side in undifferentiated wilderness. This was the farthest I’d ventured from human habitation since revival—and that was surprisingly unnerving. If she ditched me, I’d have to call for Aimée. Because I’d never find my way home independently. I stuck like glue to Chastity, but right then she seemed totally focused on her educational goals.