FutureDyke

by Lea Daley

  Aimée supplied bigger batches of plaster then and I worked on a larger scale. Frescoing the inside of my studio little by little. I learned to think in giornata—a day’s work—the segment I could complete before the plaster set. When “the golden hour” arrived, I knew my time was almost up. But that was also the period I loved best, when the surface was most receptive to rich color and daring contrast. Every time I entered my studio, those preliminary paintings startled me. They were poetic, allegorical, stylized—influenced, perhaps, by Serenghi’s haunting illustrations. So different from my usual style, so well-suited to my subject matter.

  At last I began to work outside, transferring the design to the long sweep of my courtyard wall. Wholly engrossed, I was aware of nothing but what the task required. Was fresh plaster at the ready? Were the right pigments prepared? Were my brushes within reach? Bahji’s memorial seemed to create itself, telling my hand what came next. When to hold back. When to take risks.

  Observers soon appeared. Pausing on the path outside my courtyard. At first just four or five Jasharians. Silent, attentive, mystified by this laborious, hands-on project. Which surely could have been accomplished—instantaneously, no doubt—by some magical modern method. I didn’t know I had witnesses till I rose to stretch sore muscles. Masking surprise with a bow, I returned to my work and quickly forgot them.

  Each morning the audience grew larger, yet never became intrusive. For weeks the natives crowded the dunes, watching my progress, studying the patchwork process. Trowel on a thin layer of plaster. Transfer the sketch for that day’s section. Dab on color, which deepened with repeated application. Save my best moves for the golden hour and work like fury in that brief interlude. Though Bahji was central to the design, I painted the background first. A tropical garden inspired by Taylor’s rainforest. So lush with fruit and flowers it was almost beyond conception on our orbiting desert.

  One day, despite my dread, despite every form of procrastination I could devise, the time came to paint Bahji’s portrait. She’d be composed mostly of light and air—blank spaces on pale plaster. I dared not linger over her image, for fear I’d ruin it. She lay on a lawn, at peace in death, her dark hair wreathed with flowers. Wearing that bridal-white gown, cradling a blood-red pomegranate in each palm. Doing her face was the hardest, of course. I could draw it in my sleep, but my eyes kept clouding over. Bahji was all energy and exuberance—how had she come to be so still?

  Then I resurrected Belladonna. Blacker than black, larger than life. The cat watched over her fallen mistress with eyes golden as Jashari’s evening suns. Already I’d dotted the grass with mice and filled the trees with birds for her to dream of. Next I painted a fallen angel, head buried in her hands, mourning Bahji’s passing. That nimbus of fiery hair my ironic commentary on pride and presumption. And finally I added a serpent, slithering suggestively down a cacao tree. Her dangerous beauty drew the eye and her tongue was a filigree blade. Because Bahji’s resting place wasn’t a paradise. And I was the product of a planet which had proved perfection impossible.

  When only a narrow strip on the broad expanse of wall remained blank—when every other centimeter was filled with tribute to my absent friend—I began my last giornata. On a scrolling sky-blue ribbon, in Jashrine, in English, I titled my work: The Death of the Virgin.

  Without a backward glance, I gathered materials. Carried them inside. Returned for more. The crowd had moved closer, encroaching on the wall, examining my memorial. A low thrum of conversation washed over me, but left no trace. Dropping my tools on the worktable, I abandoned the studio and fell into bed.

  * * *

  Py’tahn was climbing the sky before I made it to my courtyard the next morning, stiff in body and rootless in soul. Predictable enough after the completion of such a demanding project. A soft murmur of voices drew me through the gates, onto the path. Where a young Jashari couple seemed absorbed by my mural. The man traced the contours of Belladonna’s back with one curious finger, but his partner was focused on Bahji’s portrait. When she smoothed an imaginary gown over her abdomen, I realized she was pregnant. Then they noticed me and bowed. Deeply. “Mi’lana va’tir,” I replied, bowing back. As I returned to the courtyard, I wondered what meaning a people with no graphic tradition would make of my painting.

  The day stretched ahead, blank and purposeless again. How strange to have idle hands! No plaster to trowel! No sketches to transfer! No paint to apply! Just a whole lot of nothing to do. Before my mind got the message, my feet were dashing through the gates. I flung a destination into the ether, telling Aimée where I could be found. It was time to see Taylor. Time to tell her about the mural. Time to see whether we could rekindle our friendship.

  I’d hardly made any distance when Aimée appeared. “Would you like company, Leslie-ahn?”

  I looked at her sharply. “Will I need company?”

  “Taylor is greatly changed. I would like to join you.”

  I nodded and we set off. The distance between Hemingway’s home and mine had never seemed so great. Yet when we stood just outside, I was afraid to enter.

  It will not be easy, Leslie-ahn. But Taylor needs you.

  If nothing else, Whitehall had taught me the etiquette of a culture without doors, intercoms or solar phones. Information Aimée would surely have provided months earlier—if only she’d known I had someplace to go! Now I located the discrete indicator above the designated entry point and we stepped into Taylor’s foyer. When a melodious chime announced our arrival, I winced, remembering the times I’d burst unceremoniously into the living quarters of this house. Remembering how tolerant everyone had been about my gauche behavior.

  It was Shiante who greeted us, not Taylor. Her dashiki was brilliant, her braids a triumph of complexity. But grief had carved new lines on her forehead and her eyes were troubled. She embraced us both. “Thanks for coming. You’ll do Taylor a world of good.”

  “Do you think she’ll talk with me now? I know she blames me for Bahji’s death…and with good reason.”

  “She hasn’t forgiven herself, Leslie—for not preparing you better, not telling you more. Because she knew the risks. It’s definitely time for Taylor to see you, but she…she’s…”

  I pressed Shiante’s hand. “I know—she’s changed. So have you. So have I.”

  “Too true. She’s probably in Bahji’s room.”

  Hemingway was sitting on the tree stump there, her back to us. Even so, I could tell she was gravely altered. Her head drooped and her shoulders hunched forward, as if she were collapsing in upon herself. At Shiante’s touch, Taylor started, turning slowly toward us. Twisting a little palm frond between thumb and finger. Back and forth, back and forth.

  Her eyes were flat and unfocused, that scar the only color in her face. She tried to smile but seemed to have lost the knack. I hugged her as if she might shatter. “It’s been too long, Taylor.”

  “Like yesterday,” she murmured.

  “Shall we go?”

  “Until I’m better…”

  “There’s something I want to show you, Taylor—a painting I made for Bahji. Will you come see it one day?”

  She nodded mechanically before plunging again into the bottomless void of her grief.

  When Aimée and I stopped by the Hemingway house later that week, nothing had changed. After a few disjointed moments with Taylor, Shiante showed us into the living room. Where any moment, Bahji was supposed to bound into view, charging the atmosphere with energy. My eyes swept over that familiar space. The comfortable furniture. The forsaken clutter of everyday life. Including the little book I’d made for Bahji—the fairy tale that convinced her she was invulnerable. Seeing it hit me like a blow. Before the first tear appeared, Aimée wrapped her arms around me.

  “I’m okay,” I sniffled. “Or, anyway, I’ll be okay. But what are we going to do about Taylor?”

  “Love her,” Shiante said. “Care for her till she’s herself again.”

  “Not gonna happen—Taylor will
never be herself again. And she’ll need support to work through this. What’s being done for her?”

  “Almost nothing. Grief isn’t a research priority on Jashari—you’re not supposed to care this deeply about a single member of the Whole. Someone’s always here, of course, usually me. We encourage Taylor to eat. Help with personal hygiene. Talk about Bahji. Someday, Leslie, she will return to normal and notice that the suns still shine.”

  I shook my head. Vehemently. “‘Normal’ died with Bahji. Nothing will ever erase the horror of her death, Shiante—not time, not force of will, not the love of good friends. The pain’s permanent, life-altering. We can’t even pretend to help until we understand this: for the rest of Taylor’s life, she’ll struggle to catch a glimpse of sunlight.”

  Because I knew. I’d touched Bahji’s mother and every part of her was open to me. Her grief was a thing with weight and substance—I’d seen it, perched on her shoulder like some dark, funereal bird, whispering ceaselessly. The last remnants of the old Taylor were sheltered inside a black and brittle chrysalis, component parts melting down, reassembling themselves. And what emerged wouldn’t be a butterfly—but I couldn’t explain that to Shiante.

  Who was looking at me skeptically. “Permanent, unremitting pain? That’s a pretty pessimistic outlook, Leslie.”

  The last thing I wanted was an argument. “Trust me—I’m right about this.”

  “Your theory doesn’t hold water—we all suffered horrendous losses when we signed on for Jashari. Sooner or later, the despair abates.”

  “We chose to leave our world behind, Shiante. We woke up without our families and that’s tough. But at least we can fantasize that they led rich, full lives. Taylor’s in a different category—she didn’t choose to lose Bahji. For god’s sake! Her only child was slaughtered right before her eyes!”

  Aimée set a restraining hand on my arm. “Leslie has a point, Shiante-ahn, even if she is clumsy communicating it. All parents know their sons and daughters will die. But no mother is meant to witness that. A child’s death—most especially a violent one—creates a particular kind of hell for the parent.” She met Shiante’s withering expression head-on. “Leslie wants to rescue Taylor as much as you do. But she knows this will require a different kind of support.”

  Shiante smoothed her dashiki, biting back an angry rebuttal. “Okay, Leslie, suppose you’re right. Then what?”

  “We have to help Taylor carry on despite the agony.”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “She needs something to do—something with personal meaning, something she can channel her grief into, think of as a memorial activity. Bahji once mentioned a project Taylor was working on. You know what she meant, don’t you?”

  Shiante nodded.

  “Okay. Maybe we can engage Taylor in some part of that—whatever it is.”

  “Damn it, Leslie! You have to know that much! The project is Bahji’s bedroom!”

  “Her bedroom?”

  Shiante looked as aggravated as she sounded. “Taylor’s an auxobiologist, right? She’s been recreating—and modifying—life-forms Jashari could sustain. Plants that will replace the desert someday. What did you think the rainforest was for? Why else would we excavate all those acres underground, out of sight?”

  Jesus! I hadn’t once thought about objectives, had never considered the enormous expenditures of energy involved. I’d just responded from my gut, like a typical airhead artist. Drinking in the beauty, enjoying the whimsy. Now I said stupidly, “So Taylor was planning to establish a rainforest outside?”

  “Eventually. She wanted Bahji to live on a richer world, to develop respect for other species.”

  A reply burst out of me, unfiltered. “But that’s crazy! Even if Bahji had lived…even if she’d survived for a century…the project would still be in its infancy!”

  Shiante gave me what Nana called the stink eye. “I know you’re not second-guessing Taylor Hemingway! Who’s successfully brought back hundreds of extinct plants and animals! And developed techniques that radically accelerate maturation! Besides, as you must know, all the medical research on Jashari has had quite an impact on longevity—life expectancy’s radically different now. Or is that another gap in your knowledge?”

  Aimée, who’d felt me bristle, was signaling urgently. Later, Leslie! Also, be patient. Shiante-ahn is suffering greatly. At the same time I nodded an acknowledgment, I was remembering Whitehall’s claim that N’yal Di’loth had governed Jashari for five hundred years—and wondering how old he’d been when his tenure began. So I took a deep breath. “Are you telling me Taylor had sufficient time to see this through?”

  “To put it mildly. She hoped she’d ultimately receive permission to introduce the new species into the environment.”

  “And if she didn’t?”

  Shiante’s voice hardened. “It was going to happen anyway. Taylor had begun trials on the most viable strains. She was training teams to operate down south where the work might go undetected.”

  “Until it was too late?”

  “Yeah. Until the species were so well established that eradication would be difficult. The vast majority of the planet’s undeveloped, you know—all the cities were built along a single latitude. No one travels the uninhabited areas, no one oversees them.”

  “My god! Guerilla gardeners! Only on Jashari!”

  Aimée broke in. “This is a very serious matter, Leslie-ahn! Rainforest species would consume water at untenable rates. Any such alterations could provoke an environmental catastrophe.”

  “I can’t believe Taylor’s gotten away with this!”

  “Our security was very tight. The Elders knew nothing until—”

  “Until Bahji brought Belladonna to their attention.”

  “Yes. Belladonna. A vertebrate. I told you once before—the Council knew if Taylor could create a cat she could do anything.”

  “How will they respond?”

  Shiante shrugged, Who knows?

  But Aimée said, “They will wait and watch. Taylor is demoralized. She lost her primary motivation when Bahji died. The project may—how would you say this?—fizzle out? And Jasharians always prefer indirectness. Unless they note new signs of activity, until they conclude that Taylor is capable of overseeing the project once more, they will do nothing.”

  “Hmmm,” I said, hoping that sound suggested I’d fallen into deep reflection. In fact, I was communing with Aimée.

  You know all I’ve been thinking?

  Naturally, Leslie-ahn.

  Is it feasible?

  Do you want the calculations?

  Just a general idea.

  It may work. I will attempt it, if you desire.

  It’s the best idea I have—Taylor’s dangerously depressed.

  I will do whatever you ask.

  I love you with all my heart, Aimée.

  And I love you with all my pseudo-organic circuitry.

  I touched Shiante’s shoulder. “I have an idea, but I want to think it through. May we return tomorrow?”

  “You’re always welcome. And I guess anything would be better than what we’ve tried so far.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Bahji’s death had stripped me of arrogance. I no longer believed I could act without forethought, no longer expected destiny to order events for my benefit. So I mulled overthe smallest detail of my latest concept.

  Aimée lay beside me, calculating probabilities. I listened humbly to the refinements she suggested. Because much would depend on her encounter with Taylor the following day.

  Have I overlooked anything, Aimée?

  You have been most thorough.

  Any advice, O Sage?

  Turn your thoughts elsewhere, my love. Nothing more can be done until morning.

  I pulled her close. Perhaps you might distract me?

  She smiled and lifted her face for a kiss. “The probability is ninety-nine percent with a plus/minus error rate of point zero five.”

 
* * *

  Shiante was waiting in the foyer when Aimée and I arrived. Propriety required her to offer tea, but we waved it away and followed that flowing dashiki to the living room. Where Taylor sat lifeless. She didn’t appear to notice our arrival.

  “Leslie and Aimée are here.”

  “I thought you left.”

  “That was yesterday.”

  “Oh,” she said and the single word hung in the air.

  The waiting game hadn’t worked. Time for something different. I pulled a chair closer, tried to make eye contact. Nobody home. “Taylor. Do you remember Aimée?”

  “I remember—she was there.”

  There. When Bahji was murdered. Only that moment existed for Hemingway.

  “Yes. Do you remember who she is?”

  “Your…friend?”

  “And do you remember what she is?”

  Her brow crumpled. “I’m…tired…”

  “Taylor! Do you know what Aimée is?”

  Shiante stood. “Back off, Leslie! She’s exhausted!”

  But Aimée silenced her with a glance. Shiante sat, then took one of Taylor’s boneless hands in her own. Maybe that was a good thing, maybe she needed a lifeline.

  “Taylor—what is Aimée?”

  “She’s a…She’s a…very…”

  “Say it.”

  “She’s a Variable…Techno…Techno…”

  “Organism. Aimée is a Variable Techno-Organism. Do you remember that she can become anyone?”

  “Chastity! She was Chastity!” Taylor buried her face, rocking with grief.

  “Leslie! This isn’t helpful!”

  The VTO was still in my camp, so I persisted. “Aimée can become someone else. And I’ve asked her to…to become Bahji for a while.”

  No reply. Only Taylor’s hand wavering upward, tracing her serpentine scar. Aimée motioned me aside, then knelt. “Look at me, Taylor-ahn.”

  I saw the exact instant their eyes met—Aimée was speaking mind to mind.

  Suddenly, Taylor cried, “Bahji! I could see Bahji!” Not the illusory insubstantiality of a faxim, but the real thing. Aimée would be Bahji—if only briefly. I knew how that felt—to have a last moment with someone who’s lost to you.