by Viola Grace
Gilland frowned. “Ah, I think I understand. The roses in the garden have a pleasing smell.”
“Food also, and you can sense it with your mouth when you eat. That is taste.”
He stabbed the food on his plate with a silver fork. “It has no smell, no taste. How can I give it these sensations?”
How indeed, Suleah wondered. “Maybe growing spices might help.”
“Spices?”
“Plants grown for their smell and taste. You can eat rose petals.”
That astonished Gilland, by the sudden rainbow flare in his eyes. She was learning to read his emotions that way. “Not only beautiful to look at, but... culinary?”
Suleah nodded. “If you know how to present them, yes.”
“And can you present them so?”
She shook her head. Those special meals had been constructed by Gil’s human chef.
“Gil kept a human chef because he refused to let a machine cook for him. He was probably right in that if your dispenser is anything to go by.” But maybe she could experiment? Nothing could taste as bad as the food he offered, the look of it was enough to turn her stomach. “What is this stuff?” She waved her hand at the plates of food.
“Organic compounds, transmuted. It contains all the necessary nutritional requirements.”
“Maybe, but it tastes awful.”
“Then perhaps you can re-program the main computers to include taste. The food you take in your room has taste?”
She nodded and stood up. “Wait here.” Suleah went to the main console and activated the computer. The first dish to arrive from the dispenser shelf was disgusting. Gilland laughed at the face she made when she tested it. The last experiment, number eight, was successful. She placed it before him.
“Now try this.”
“What am I eating?”
“Poison,” she said. “It’ll turn your blood to water.”
He looked at her in alarm. Alien-Gilland was childishly gullible. So, he still wasn’t reading her mind. He’d kept another promise to her.
“It’s lasagne, a simple dish. When I get that computer sorted out, I can program more...” That implied her acceptance of her captivity, a role reversal—the kept feeding the keeper. She was a long way from accepting anything.
She watched him raise the fork to his mouth. He tasted the pasta tentatively. His face brightened.
“It’s very good.”
“It’s passable.”
Gilland ate the meal, quickly, neatly.
She studied him as he ate. “Have you always been a poet? I could call you Gilland, but that isn’t your name, is it?”
He lifted his gaze to her. “My name is felt in your mind, rather than heard. One day I could show you my name. But I am Gilland, Suleah. I am he, as much as I can be. Does it concern you that I am Gilland, in form but not in reality?”
She shrugged.
“Then call me what you wish, if using Gilland displeases you. And I have always been a poet. It is a revered profession among my people, as is music. I did not know you were a musician.”
“I’m not. I’m a planetologist.”
“But music is your passion.”
“A hobby.”
“No, your love runs too deeply for a mere pastime. Why did you not choose it as your career?”
“Why, indeed.” She heard the bitterness in her words. She explained to him about her father. About a lot of things, before she realized she had told him more of her life story than any man alive, the real Gilland included. Perhaps it was easier to tell an alien her deepest secrets because an alien didn’t count for much... She winced at her own brutality.
Suleah ran a hand through her hair, conscious that his gaze followed her every move. She set her hands in her lap. “Tell me about your poetry. What did you write on the page?”
He glanced down at the paper beside him. “It is not completed. It is not as I wish. I tried to convey my feelings in your language and in mine. What I am feeling... in my former language, there are no corresponding words, and I am still not comfortable with this new identity.” He smiled quickly. “Will you sing for me? One of the songs you wrote?”
“If you’ll read me one of your poems.”
“If you wish.” He turned to the servitor. “Bring the dulcimer. Please. I should say please, should I not? It is polite to do so?”
“Good manners never hurt anyone or anything,” she said, trying not to laugh.
The machine streaked from the room. Minutes later, it delivered the instrument to Suleah.
“Thank you,” she said accepting the instrument from the servitor’s claw. She was suddenly nervous, a little flustered. “I’ve never sung to anyone before.”
“I am an alien, and of no account.”
She felt the flush extend to her toes. “You heard that, Gil... I didn’t mean it, how it sounded.”
“So sometimes what a human says or thinks, is not what they truly intend?” He frowned. “A paradox, your species.”
“Humans have been called a lot of things, but paradoxical...” She laughed.
“Then, will you sing for me, or play the music?”
She strummed the dulcimer, the notes of her latest composition echoing in the silence of the dome. When she had finished, she glanced at him, intercepting his gaze, the intense shifting of colours across his eyes. Strange how that rainbow had once frightened her, but now she found it... What did she see in the depths of his eyes? Understanding? Love?
You fool, Suleah! This sweet seduction was his game. To win her over, to make her... accept the unthinkable. She came to her feet, startling him.
“You are leaving me?” he asked, bewilderment creasing his brow.
“Did you think I would stay, that I was charmed by the talk of music and poetry? That’s what you thought, wasn’t it?”
“No, Suleah.”
“I think, yes. Good night.”
She stalked from the room.
“You do not wish to hear my poetry?” he called after her.
She pretended not to hear.
Suleah glanced at the roses on the shelf. They had been there for weeks, remaining as fresh as the first day they had been plucked and dispensed to her through the chute. Now, they were wilting, the crystal shattering. All life came to an end, she realized, even alien roses had to die sometime.
Her life had ended the day the rover had crashed. She paused in her pacing. No, that was unfair. She had been rescued from certain death by an alien who had wanted her for his... its own, and to that end had transformed itself into the semblance of the man she had loved. For her. For her happiness. She could only begin to imagine what he had sacrificed to become Gilland.
She hadn’t seen alien-Gilland again. They kept to their separate garden visitations. In her cache of gifts, she found the book of poetry—his poetry—and re-read the verses. Lyrical. Sad. Evocative. The complexities of the syntax, equalling the complexity of the man.
No! Not man. Alien. Gilland was an alien, a rainbow with a façade of skin. Nothing more than a parasite who had stolen her memories to transform itself into the semblance of her real-life lover. She had to remember what he was. What he had done. But when faced with the beauty of his poetry... how could she maintain her hatred? A creature who could write such was not to be despised or feared. But loved? That was too big a step for her.
Suleah glanced at herself in the mirror. The grey work overalls fitted perfectly, but the dispenser had a mind of its own, and where she specified simplicity, the machine produced overalls that were embroidered at hem and sleeve with seed pearls and silver thread. Her work boots were also silver, but mercifully unadorned. She’d have to speak to Gilland about the dispenser, or maybe it was his sense of humour to add ornamentation to her clothing? Did the alien have a sense of humour?
She picked up the steel trowel with the carved gilt handle embedded with diamonds—for the star’s sake—and her gloves and strode across the room, through silent corridors to outside.
The garden was a mix of alien and human plants. Gilland, she knew, tended to each one with the aid of servitors. New crystalline plants grew under the shelter of green ferns and purple-leaved trees. The air was heavy with exotic scents and in the distance, she heard water trickling and was that a bird singing in a nearby tree? Gilland’s attention to detail was remarkable. Transmuting reality from random matter was nothing short of magic.
A tray of crystal-stemmed seedlings, with orange and black leaves, rested on the ornate metal table. Next to the tray was a simple metal trowel—Gilland’s she presumed.
A section of soil had been prepared, ready for the seedlings. She carried the tray to the garden bed and kneeling down, carefully extracted one seedling. She used her diamond-studded trowel to dig a hole, smiling at the incongruity of gardening with such an implement. After she had planted the first seedling, she removed her gloves. She always preferred to work without gloves; it had been Gilland who insisted on her wearing gloves. She smiled at the memory, then frowned as she remembered their argument over such a simple thing as wearing gloves—or not. How telling that she had instinctively ordered gloves. She threw them down on the soil, disgusted by herself, her acceptance of another’s will, even after four years.
She sensed the alien nearby and turned to see him standing in the shadows. How long had he been watching? He walked towards her, his gait so unlike Gilland’s confident panther-like stride—there were some things a replicated alien could not imitate.
“You enjoy gardening?” he asked.
She sat back on her heels. “You didn’t see that when you were crawling around in my mind?”
He knelt opposite her and pressed a seedling into the ground. “I wanted to discover you for myself. Does that offend you?”
“No.”
She planted the last seedling while he removed a dead fern leaf. For once the silence between them was less charged, more relaxed.
She wiped her hands on her overalls and smiled. “The dispenser will have a fit when it sees how dirty its creation is. You know that machine insists on making even a simple pair of overalls ornate.”
He glanced at her. “You prefer simple to ornate?”
“For some things, yes.”
“Then you must explain your preferences to your machines.”
“I think the dispenser has a mind of its own. I did explain. I even drew diagrams.”
Gilland laughed. It almost sounded human. “My dispenser, too, can be contrary. It insists it knows best. I have learned this is a human trait. I must have transferred it to my machine.”
“Maybe we should threaten to pull their plugs?”
He looked at her horrified. “I could not do that, to kill a machine, it... has feelings.”
She stared at him. “It does?”
“Yes.” He paused. “It is attuned to our needs. Living in close proximity to life, it replicates itself...”
“As you did?”
He nodded.
Suleah ran her hand over the soil, smoothing it. “Gil always made me wear gloves. To protect my delicate skin.” The dirt under her manicured nails, the tiny scratches—he would have had a fit to see them. “Gil disapproved of my gardening. He insisted the servitors maintain the grounds and the computer ran Xanadu smoothly. We argued once, because I worked in the garden with the servitors, pruning the roses. I cut my fingers on some thorns.”
“He did not want to see you hurt.”
She snorted. “No, we were going out that night to a ball...” Gilland had been furious that her hands were marred by unsightly scratches. She’d worn the long gossamer gloves he’d given her. “He refused to allow me access to the garden thereafter unless I was chaperoned. The servitor was his creature and was programmed to alert Gil if I tried to work in the garden.” She paused. “He was used to having his own way...” They had argued, but eventually, she acquiesced. It just didn’t seem to matter then, but now... she remembered the incident with rancour.
“He stopped you from doing something you enjoyed?”
“It’s complicated. Was...” She spread her hands. “Relationships are complex. To work, they require a lot of give and take.”
“I have read this. One gives, the other takes.”
“Not always.” She shrugged, sighing. “Well, yes, I guess that can be so.”
The alien’s eyes burned with rainbows as he studied her.
“Will you garden here tomorrow?”
“I’d like to. I might even prune the roses.”
“Without gloves.”
Was that a statement or a question? Had the alien understood her resentment? Funny how that resentment burned now, years after the incident.
She pushed herself to her feet and wiped dirt from her overalls.
“Suleah, shall I see you tomorrow in the garden?”
“I thought you’d rather have the garden to yourself.”
“No. Yes, if you don’t mind sharing it with me.”
“I don’t mind.”
She stalked away. Once inside her own apartment, she stripped off her clothes and headed for the shower. The lavender-scented water sluiced over her.
After Gil had died, she had returned to her studies, finishing her terraforming-horticultural PhD in record time. Had it been a protest against Gil’s control to do so? He would never have approved that she had become a gardener... Such menial tasks were for servitors, not his life-partner. Even though gardens were her passion.
She sighed. Realisation was bitter. She had allowed Gil to win too many times. When—why—had she become so complacent, to happily live in his shadow?
To be loved by a man who gave her everything, not the luxury or the wealth, her own family had been old rich. Gil had been exciting, taking risks, defying convention. Oh God, was she just another way to thumb his nose at his family? No, Gil loved her. He gave her everything she needed... except the freedom to garden, to get her hands dirty.
I am so angry with you Gil. I’m angry with myself.
The anger bubbled through the layers of control she had built around herself. Not just the garden, but Gil insisting on flying that last mission. They’d known the truce was hours away. Every pilot was finding mechanical faults with their ships; every soldier dodging calls out. Every star captain ensured the men and women under his command were out of harms’ way... Any death at such a time was futile. Gil had volunteered to fly reconnaissance.
No one knew what happened, but his ship disintegrated. Beeped on screen, then gone the next. Had he jettisoned? His family spent years and enormous sums of money to pay for the searches. Even the Emperor had added his call for an answer. It came—Missing in action.
Missing in action...
Missing implied a possibility to be found. A lie.
She slammed her fist against the wall. So many lies. His, hers. To herself. To stop the pain. To live in a shadow of life... The past years—what a waste.
And now she was trapped in the Retreat with an alien and no chance of ever living a normal life...
She slammed her fist against the wall again and again, until her knuckles bled, and the water ran red with blood.
The servitor beeped in alarm when she emerged from the bathroom. It flitted around her, trilling, like a demented wasp. A thin wire extruded from underneath its saucer, and after a few more beeps, it fell silent.
Her torn skin warmed, then burned as the servitor circled her, and to her amazement, the abrasions on her knuckles healed before her eyes.
The doorbell chimed, and the servitor flew to answer it before she could stop it. The door slid open. Gilland stood there, indecisive.
“It said you were injured.”
“The servitor is your spy?” That was the bloody last straw.
“No, it is your creature. It informed my servitor you are unw
ell. I was concerned. I do not mean to intrude.”
“But you bloody well are. All this...” She flung her arms wide. “All this is an intrusion on my life and liberty.”
Gilland stepped forward, hand outstretched to her.
“I didn’t say you could enter.”
Immediately, her servitor blocked his path, amid much trilling, and the lights at its saucer base flashed an ominous red. So, the servitor truly was loyal to her, turning on Gilland. How far would it go to protect her?
“It could inflict upon me a great deal of pain before my own servitor rendered it inoperative,” he said.
“So much for our equality, you admit you are dominant here. I’m just your pet.”
“I have explained our relationship.” He sighed. “You are being unreasonable.”
She laughed. Unreasonable? “Is it any wonder?”
“Today, in the garden... you were different. What has occurred to make you angry?”
“I woke up. I realise how much of a fool I had been. Now I’m here, and it’s all too late.” She turned away, then confronted him again. He was still standing there, his eyes swirling rainbows, confused. Not understanding—never would he, because she hardly understood herself. “Do whatever you do in this prison of yours but leave me alone. Do not intrude, do not spy. And do not send me gifts via the dispenser.” Gil used to send her gifts, expensive, carefully chosen to placate her. The bottle of Moet had been one such—sent to her that last day...
“I do not understand,” Gilland said.
“It’s simple, really. I hate it here. I’m a prisoner. The cage might be gilded—”
“But you have everything you need.”
“Except freedom.”
“You can come and go as you please. Do what you wish, whenever you wish. How is this a prison?”
“Your kind created it, to save yourselves. You retreat from the world, humans confront it, full on, face first. We might blunder about and cause problems, but at least we are living a life, not existing within an illusion.”
“The fabric of Xanadu is changing. It is becoming real.” He spread his hands. “In time you can leave this Retreat, meet the others.”
