Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

ReMemories

Fantasy Scroll Magazine, Issue #8

The nanoprocessor points lit up, flashing blue in each corner of the wall of windows in my daughter Miell’s swanky apartment. A bigger than life vid appeared, the date showing on the lower right. I advanced it until I found the memory I wanted: Hayes’ sixth birthday.

What was I expecting?

A joyful birthday party. Messy and loud. Cake. Balloons. This glamorous skyrise full of giddy children. My grandson Hayes excited, happy, grinning from ear-to-ear.

But a very different scene played out—all from his own eyes and ears. No internal emotions recorded, of course. No smells or tastes. Nevertheless, I was in his head, experiencing the world through him.

Hayes, like many children these days, had been implanted just after birth with a ReMemory slot behind his right ear.

Just another example of technology that’s passed me by.

Years ago, I was a professional tech junkie, constantly at some kind of interface—anything other than the real life kind. Before my kids were born, I swore it off and moved to the country.

It felt weird—invasive—to be in his head.

He sat at their gleaming cocobolo dining table that held a mountain of professionally-wrapped presents. The room was quiet. Hayes looked down at the present he’d just unwrapped.

“Mom?” he said, his voice projecting. “Thank you. It’s the game I wanted.”

No reply.

He sighed and I felt my own echoing breath rise up and fall. The sensation was similar to inhabiting an avatar on an MMORPG, but more intense.

He got down and walked toward the living room.

I heard an animal sound. But there were no pets here.

“Mom?” Hayes came around the corner. My tall, lean Miell knelt on the floor, forehead to the ground, her hands in loose fists clawing at her temples. The high-pitched moans came from her.

My heart sped up.

“Hold on…Hayes,” she said, her voice muffled. “Gimme a sec.”

He just watched her. She seemed to be in pain, but he didn’t run over to help or ask her what was wrong.

As if he’s used to this kind of scene.

After a while he said, “What about v-linking the other kids in for the party? Weren’t we going to do that?”

She didn’t respond.

Hayes looked back at the presents on the table. Then he walked past them into the kitchen and opened the fridge. A cake sat on a lower shelf, beautifully decorated with IncrediBlaster—a heroic game character he loved and often pretended to be. He leaned in, scooped a finger full of icing off the back corner, and put his finger in his mouth.

Some link in my brain caused my salivary glands to respond.

Hayes returned to the dining room and opened another gift, this one a bright red and yellow IncrediBlaster costume. In the background I now heard Miell talking to someone in a desperate voice, but it was too far away to understand the words. Or maybe Hayes didn’t want to hear.

What a lousy party. What a lousy memory.

Miell and I fought when she was a teenager and young adult. She stopped routine contact, which meant that I’d seen Hayes exactly twice before this visit. When she called me three weeks ago, saying that she had to go on an extended business trip and wondered if I might like to stay with my grandson, I jumped at the chance and asked few questions.

Over the weeks though, I’d grown suspicious. Miell v-linked in everyday to check up on us, but she wouldn’t tell me where she was or when she’d be back. Plus, she looked bad. Overly thin, with deep circles under her eyes.

She was mostly full of instructions.

“Make sure he gets exercise.” This meant exercise videos—cartoon characters running him through a little cardio. If it was so important, why wasn’t he allowed to walk on the city streets with me?

“Are you putting on his finger clip every night?” The clip monitored his vital signs even though she said he had no history of illness.

Techno-chicanery promising to keep children safe from harm. As if…

Earlier today, she said, “Don’t forget to change his memory chip. It fills up every three to four weeks depending on how much he sleeps. Put the full one in sequence in the chip reader in his bedside drawer. It makes a back-up.”

This was the first time I’d heard about this.

Maybe because she didn’t expect to be gone so long?

“When are you coming back? Hayes misses you.”

“He obviously loves having you there. I saw that his reading’s improved. That’s your doing. Thanks.”

Avoidance.

“Talk to me. I don’t even know where you are. Yes, I was thrilled to be let into your lives. I would’ve done anything you asked—and I have. But…“

She glanced over her shoulder, then turned to face me again. “I’m right here. You can always get in touch. I’m working. You’ve nagged me forever to get to know Hayes. Enjoy it. Don’t forget, regular school will be out soon. The info on the summer school is on your comppad. Gotta go.”

Since Miell wouldn’t tell me anything, I decided to look at Hayes’ recorded memories. I never expected to see her writhing on the floor in agony.

I fell asleep worrying about Miell, but woke up with the idea of throwing a replacement party to make a happy memory for Hayes.

But how? I’d never been to his school, didn’t know the parents or the other kids. None had been to the apartment since I’d been here. They v-linked in for play dates.

“Want to walk with me on the way to the station this morning?” I suggested as he pulled on his sneakers. His big brown eyes stayed neutral, but I had the feeling he liked this idea. “I want to have a conversation which is hard when you’re in front of me in the wheelie. Plus, it’s more grown-up, don’t you think?”

“I’m six.”

“I know. Six-year-olds can walk, right?”

“Right.”

I’d forgotten that a crowded, noisy city street isn’t the best place for a conversation. Even walking side-by-side we had to shout. “Is your mom sick?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are there times when she can’t work? Stays in bed?”

“Oh. Yes. Well, she does work—” He looked up at me and said proudly, “in the movies! But sometimes she seems kind of, like, sick.”

“She hasn’t told you what’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. I looked down and he just shook his head.

It hit me. Hayes was so careful with words, with his reactions to things because of ReMemory. His mother could, would, see whatever he did or said. The only private thing he had were his thoughts.

We walked in silence.

When we got to the station, I strapped him in the wheelie.

“Can I walk home this afternoon?” he asked.

“You bet.”

Negotiating knots of heedless teenagers and self-absorbed business types, I wheeled him through the throng until we arrived at his private berth on the Peditrain.

I pushed him up the shallow ramp, smiling at the functionary who wore puke green and acted as if she’d never seen us before. She held the scanner in front of Hayes’ eye. It beeped cheerily, one of hundreds of others going off in the terminal. She nodded and we boarded the train.

Hefty metal hooks locked the wheelie into place. I had twenty seconds to kiss Hayes good-bye for the day before a belt with eight inches of bright blue and orange padding lowered around him and the whole wheelie. I gave him a quick hug and we touched noses. I exited and the door closed behind me. The windows were one-way. I could no longer see my boy, but I always waved at him anyway.

“I can’t stay indefinitely,” I said to Miell when she showed up on the vid later that day.

“You wanted to get to know your grandson.”

“True, but I know something’s seriously wrong. I watched Hayes’ memory of his last birthday.”

She drew back in a long slow motion that reminded me of a snake considering whether or not to strike. Her shaky hand floated up and grabbed onto the back of her skull, her fingertips digging in.

“You’re sick, or addicted, or both.”

“I’m working.”

“I’ve seen you on the floor. Moaning. What’s the drug?”

“I’ll hire a nanny so you can go home. Don’t know why I let you into my life again. Big mistake.”

“Let me help.”

Her hand now lay on the desk in a tight fist. She wore heavy make-up, but it didn’t cover up anything.

“I…I am not addicted to any drug. I just can’t come home right now. We’re…trying to cobble a complicated, time-sensitive deal on a film. Sorry this didn’t work out. I’ll find a nanny for Hayes.”

“No!”

She disconnected.

I fussed with Hayes’ bed covers as he snuggled on one side, settling in for the night. As soon as I’d tucked in his arm, it wiggled out again. He turned his head to look at me, splayed his fingers and said, “Gama, you forgot the monitor.”

I sighed. “So I did.” I fished the bright red finger clip out of a dish on his bedside table and sat down on the bed. Pinching the plastic device to open its tiny padded jaws, I slipped it over his middle finger and let go. He had reassured me that he didn’t even feel it.

“Nice that it’s red,” I said.

“Red’s my favorite color.”

“It is?” I feigned shock and surprise.

He grinned, only then remembering that he’d told me this dozens of times. “Yeah, like IncrediBlaster’s cape. Don’t forget to turn the monitor on.” He rolled over again, pulling both hands together and under his head in the classic child-sleeping pose. I tucked thick strands of light brown hair behind his ear.

“Tell me again why you need monitoring.”

“I dunno,” he said, his voice muffled. Then, remembering that it was his duty to educate his clueless grandmother, he added, “So you’ll get an alert if something happens to me in the middle of the night.”

Parroted words. What if it isn’t about Hayes, but Miell?

What if he had to wear a monitor because she was often so indisposed that she wouldn’t hear a normal kid’s cry in the night?

While Hayes was at school, I zipped through hundreds of his memories. Most of the chip held ordinary, mundane scenes.

A series of women looked after Hayes. I took Miell’s threat to replace me with a nanny even more seriously after seeing them all. But I also took heart that she had called me this time. First time in six years. There had to be a reason.

The vids showed that Hayes had friends at school. He was a bit of a hanger-on, never the center of attention, but I saw no evidence of bullying or being actively disliked.

At home, he often went into his mother’s empty room, lay on her bed and put on her head phones. Then, the vid would pause, indicating that he’d gone to sleep.

I also witnessed him and his mother together in the bed. Once they watched a funny movie while eating popcorn. I giggled out loud at a wrestling/tickle fight they had another night. It wasn’t all bad.

But for weeks at a time Hayes saw Miell only on the vid or in person briefly at night after he was asleep. His eyes would open a slit and she’d appear blurry, a wreck. And worse, there were dozens of memories Hayes had of his mother seemingly passed out, or rolling on the floor clawing at her scalp, or pleading with someone to get her a fix.

I am not addicted to any drug, she’d said, like a politician denying a specific thing truthfully while lying by omitting the larger truth. So, if not a drug…what?

I ran the vid back to one of those pleading scenes. Hayes sat on the couch playing a game. Miell told him to mute it while she argued with some man. I backed it up a little more.

Maybe I could…

I minimized the vid controls on the comppad and searched the menu for editing software. This was one of my obsessions back in the day. The one I found had way more bells and whistles on it than I ever had, but I knew enough to know what to ignore.

I soon had the scene downloaded to the pad. I copied the section I wanted to work with and brought up the snippet in the editing software. Isolating the audio, I ran it back several times.

“D…dal…Bi..l be…s[unintelligible]…You got…[unintelligible]…can’t ren…[unintelligible]…No…—ts!”

This section finished with a barrage of enraged words from Miell that were also unintelligible, but the meaning was clear.

It wasn’t much to go on.

I worked with it: dulling the ambient noise, pulling up the dominant frequency of Miell’s voice, tweaking the bass and treble so the vowels would come in more clearly, running it over and over. Sometimes the results were worse. Finally some of the words came in more clearly.

“…deal’s a deal. Bi-n[-something]-l beats. You got me hooked…[unintelligible]can’t renege. Didn’t know…[unintelligible]…No…[unintelligible]…fucking implants!” And then the cursing.

Bi-n[something]-l…beats. It tugged at my memory.

What else could she be addicted to if not a drug?

I used to be addicted to digital technology; that’s why I was so wary of it to this day.

Bin—-l beats.

Binaural beats. Of course.

Audio recordings geared specifically for human ears, the human brain. One sound thread for each ear, running into and mixing in the brain. They’d been around forever and—like snake oil—people would periodically claim that they were digital drugs, safe for relaxation, stimulation and highs. Just like pharmaceuticals without criminality or side effects. I never knew them to gain any credibility and I hadn’t heard or thought of them in years.

I did an Internet search and was, once again, blown away by what I had missed. Binaurals were big business. Huge.

I walked into Miell’s bedroom. There in the bedside table were the headphones I’d seen Hayes listening to when she wasn’t at home. They were hardwired into a dedicated audio device. Odd, I thought, I never saw her wearing them in any of Hayes’ memories. But then, I couldn’t watch every minute of his life.

I put them on and turned up the volume.

“Hayes, are you asleep?”

“No.”

“Mom told me to check your chip yesterday. I almost forgot again.”

He rolled over and looked at me sleepily.

Sure enough, it blinked red. I popped the chip out, put it on the table and turned back to him. I stroked his soft cheek, passively bemoaning the day in the future when coarse whiskers would sprout from them.

“I want you to come to my house for a visit.”

“Your house?”

“Uh-huh. We’ll wait till school’s out and go then.”

“Does Mom know?”

“Um, no. I just thought of it. Don’t mention it yet. Let me work out the details first, okay?”

“Sure. How will we get there? How far is it?”

“Let’s talk tomorrow. Another week of school?”

He nodded.

“Okay, I’ll need to tell the school camp that you won’t be there at first. Do you mind missing it?”

He shrugged and shook his head.

“We’ll have an adventure.”

He didn’t react much. This was a boy who waited to see. “You have cousins.”

“I do?”

I nodded. “Some older, some younger.”

“I’ll meet them?”

I nodded again thinking of the birthday party I was going to give him. “Remember I told you about my animals.”

“Oh yeah.” He thought for a minute. “A dog?”

“Yep. A big, old, stinky golden retriever. And cats. And ducks.”

“I can see them all?”

“Of course. Guess what my dog’s name is.”

“I don’t know.”

“Red.”

He gasped. “Red’s my fav—”

We broke into a fit of giggles. When it faded, he said, “Mom will think this is okay?”

“I’m hoping she’ll come too.”

This was obviously too far-fetched for him to believe, but he grinned when he said, “Not really.”

“Maybe not. But I’ll try to convince her.”

I patted him again and got up to leave.

“Gama, you forgot to put in the new chip.”

The next day, I set to work researching the coding behind ReMemory. Once a techie, always a techie. I went searching for forums I hadn’t been near in years. There they were with the same clunky, old-fashioned formats and an astounding number of the same names; old Internet friends who were more than happy to help me hack into the program.

I ran a bunch of old memory chips through the vid, copying and pasting clips onto the comppad, constructing the most boring, generic memories I could find from Hayes’ life until I had almost enough for a full chip. I slipped an empty chip into the vid, dated it next in sequence before the one Hayes was currently wearing and filled it with the fabricated comppad memories.

By the time his school was out for a few weeks of summer, we were packed and ready to go. Hayes had asked no more questions about how much his mother knew or whether she was coming, but I owed him the truth.

“I haven’t told your mom that we’re going, Hayes,” I said that morning.

“You said you would.”

“I know, but that could backfire.”

“What do you mean?”

“She might fly home, hire another nanny, make me leave without you and life would go on as it was before I got here. I don’t want to take that risk. I hope you don’t either.”

He sat at the kitchen bar eating his cereal. He took several more bites before answering. I sweated out the long pause. “I want to go with you. But, are you kidnapping me?”

“Good question. Kind of. I guess. But your mom cares about both of us. I believe she finally let me into your lives because she knows she needs help and didn’t know how to get it any other way. I hope she’ll join us there, but she might just come and bring you right back here. I can’t stop her if that’s what she wants.”

He nodded, still chewing. “Okay. I want her to be like she was before she got the mic-implants.”

I stopped cleaning up the counter and turned to him. “The what?”

He looked guilty.

I walked over to him, pressed on his implant and took out his memory chip, putting it down on the counter. “It’s okay. I need to know.”

“She got implants. They’re like microphones in your ears so you don’t have to wear headphones.”

I breathed. “And since she got them…?”

He shrugged. “She’s been really weird.”

It took me a while, but I finally said, “I want her to be like she used to be too, buddy. So, we have to do one more thing to make this work. We’re going to record a fake memory on one of your chips. It’s called ‘acting.'”

He grinned.

We caught a shuttle flight, a high-speed train, and were met in the nearest little town, Macklins Corner, by my son—Miell’s older brother—the one who’d been taking care of my life here. He drove us to the house. Hayes, always quiet, withdrew even more the farther we got from the city.

I kept talking to him. “We’re going to see Red soon.” “Tomorrow you’ll meet your aunt and some of your cousins.” “Are you homesick?” But it wasn’t until I said, “We aren’t really farther from your mother here than we were at home, Hayes.”

He looked at me. “Do you have a vid?”

“No. Not like yours. But we have a computer and Internet. You’ll be able to see and talk to her, she’ll just be smaller. But remember when I said we needed a little time first?”

He nodded, but he looked scared.

I patted his leg. “When Mom can’t v-link to us, she’ll be worried, but eventually, she’ll think to look at the back-up of the last chip in your series and see the scene we acted out, right?”

“Yeah. Then she’ll think that we’ve gone to the national park for a camping trip and that’s why she can’t v-link with me for a while.”

“Right. She’ll be mad, but with me, not you.”

“That’s okay.”

I smiled at him. “She’ll try to contact me here, or if not, I’ll call her. Look!” I pointed out the front window.

Down the gravel drive, Red, his wavy, amber coat looking unnaturally clean and well-groomed, came running up to meet us.

It took longer than I expected for Miell to figure out what I’d done. I made myself unavailable online most of the time, but I had my call-in software set to record missed calls. We’d been there almost two weeks before she made her first attempt.

By that time, Hayes had met all of his extended family, knew how to take care of the chickens and ducks, had recovered from his first ever case of poison ivy and was beginning to tan.

I was ready. I set my status to “available” one morning and waited for the alert. When it came, Hayes was out swimming with his cousins.

“Mother.”

“Hi, Miell. As you see, I took matters into my own hands. I think that’s what you wanted…even if you’ll deny it.”

“You are at home? He’s with you?”

“Yes. He’s well.”

“Mother…Jesus, you faked the memory chip! Why? Why’d you go to so…to such lengths?”

Today she wasn’t wearing any make-up. I could more easily see the girl I raised even through her dulled eyes. My heart went out to her.

“His life was lousy.”

She winced.

“He’s in need of…many things. But, we can agree that the most important thing he needs is his mother.”

She looked over her shoulder. “You don’t understand.”

“I do. I know about the binaural beats and the implants.”

She teared up. “You don’t know that I’m…trapped. I’m literally trapped.”

“By?”

“My brain.” She spat the words in a harsh whisper.

“Tell me.”

“I got the implants removed. That’s why I went away. My plan was to get them removed, come home, thank you, and have my life back. You wouldn’t have to be confronted with what a fuck-up I am.”

“So you got hooked on this stuff before the implants?”

“Oh god, yeah. For years. It changes your brain. I couldn’t sleep without The Beats. Then I couldn’t wake up without it. And the company knows exactly what they’re doing! They know. They hook you till you need more and then sell and insert the implants and, under the influence of it all, it seems like a good thing. You program it to put you to sleep or give you a high or stimulate you and no one’s the wiser because it doesn’t show. It’s piped into your brain 24/7!”

“Jesus, Miell.”

“I knew right away the implants were a mistake. I wanted the company to take them out, but they had me where they wanted me. They refused to download The Beats when I said I wanted the implants removed.”

“So how’d you…What did you do?”

“I had to go to a private doctor. They’re out now. But my brain is ruined.”

“No, no baby. It’ll get better.”

“I’m glad you took Hayes.”

I gulped hard. “Come here.”

She shook her head.

“You are one of the strongest people I have ever known. We’ll help you.”

“But…I’m no good to him. Kinda, you know, crazy right now.” She paused for a long time and then jumped at some noise. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll be in touch.”

Strains of an off-key “Happy Birthday” had just finished. Hayes, standing by the dining room table surrounded by seven cousins, two new friends, and even more adults, was about to blow out his candles.

Twisted crêpe paper in multiple colors hung crisscrossed over the ceiling and windows. Paper streamers curled from the light fixture along with dozens of balloons. A piñata awaited us outside on the maple tree. Everyone had gone all out to throw this sweet, sad boy, the best party ever.

I made the cake, so it was a tottering affair, but Hayes’ artistic cousin saved the day by drawing a fine facsimile of IncrediBlaster’s upper body with red cape streaming over its lumpy surface.

Just before he blew out the candles, my calico cat jumped on the table and stuck a paw right into IncrediBlaster’s nose. Everyone reacted: screaming, yelling, waving, shooing, shouting, laughing, and then someone noticed the cat’s tail was on fire.

The flames were quickly extinguished, the cat was unharmed, and the chocolate cake was delicious.

Loud. Messy. Colorful. Giddy. Playful. Boisterous. Joyful. Unforgettable. A real birthday party.

Everyone moved outside and the kids were well into their mission to destroy the piñata when my attention was drawn by Red barking and running to the front of the house. I followed him.

A taxi sat in the drive. The back door opened and Miell stepped out into the bright sunshine. She held onto the open car door as if she might crawl back in and take off again.

“Mom,” she croaked.

I rushed over, found her wallet, paid the driver, put my arm around her waist and said, “I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life.” She crept along like a woman much older than me but she managed to squeeze my shoulder with her shaking hand.

“I’m taking you upstairs. We’re having a party for Hayes and there are too many people here for you to face right now.”

“A party? For Hayes?”

“I’ll explain later. What do we have to do to help get your brain healthy again?”

“Oh god, Mom, if I knew that, I’d…” We were half-way up the stairs. She turned and looked at me, the pain in her eyes palpable. “I need to be reminded of why…“

“Why you’re putting yourself through this?”

“Yeah. Like a hundred times a day. I’ll forget.”

I tucked both kids into bed that night.

Miell first. My son gave her a mild sedative from his medicine cabinet. She looked calm for now, lying in her old bed. “I’ve always been trouble.”

“You’re worth it.”

“One doctor suggested electroshock.”

“No. They still do that?”

Her shoulders rose and fell against the pillow. “Guess so. I decided coming here to the boonies might be a little more pleasant than that alternative. And being this far out in the country might serve as enough of a shock to my brain. It’s worth a shot.”

I smiled at her. She was broken, but not destroyed. “That part of you that’s ‘trouble?’ It’s your best part as well as your worst. Put that fierceness to work for you.”

“Easy, right?” she said, gripping the bed sheets. I stroked her hands and she relaxed them, closing her eyes.

I stayed with her until she drifted off.

Do I have the energy for this? The stamina, the reserves to deal with a six-year-old and an addicted daughter who’s always been trouble? I didn’t know. The only thing I was sure of is that this was going in the right direction.

I watched her sleep for a few minutes and then went to Hayes. He was in bed wearing his IncrediBlaster costume.

“You going to sleep in that?”

He nodded, dark eyes defying me to tell him ‘no.’ I sat on the bed. “What’d you think of your party?”

Our boy of few words struggled to find the right ones. Finally he said, “The best.” He squeezed me around the middle. “Ever.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Putting him to bed reminded me of our time in the city. “I guess I should check to see if your chip’s full.” I sighed. As I reached behind his ear, he pulled away. “What’s wrong?” I pressed on his implant, but didn’t feel the pop of the chip sliding out. “Turn around.”

He did.

The implant was empty.

I was confused. I left the chip out? No. The day we left the city, I put the real one back in after we recorded the camping scene on the phony chip.

“I took it out.”

“Hayes. When? Before your party?”

He nodded.

“But…I wanted to make you a happy memory and now…Why did you do that?”

He stuck his jaw out. “I knew it was going to be special. So, I wanted to keep it…private. Just for me. Is that okay?”

My breath caught in my throat. All I could do was nod.

“Don’t worry, Gama, I won’t ever forget it.”

He lay back, snuggling under the quilt.

My body plopped down on the bed. I reached out over him, feeling soft patchwork and his warm body, my mind holding on hard to this moment.

And Always, Murder

AE: The Canadian Science Fiction Review

My caretakers in The Freevolution Habitat played Clue at night. I—Umberto, born an ordinary donkey—recovered from my surgeries and grew to self-awareness hearing the antics of Miss Scarlett and Professor Plum, ropes and conservatories, secret passageways and always, murder.

Sarelle—uplifted, sublime, blood bay horse and ex-love-of-my-life—came into my bar during the last set of the night. I lost all air. My mouth went dry, the reed stuck to my lip and Betsy, my clarinet, burbled inharmoniously for a moment or two.

I hadn’t seen her for more than a decade. After she left me, I moved here to Tijuana and bought the bar. At least I had music, and, whether metaphor or cliché, border towns the world over are havens for our kind.

She sat at a front center table while I recovered and launched into Sidney Bechet’s blissful Blue Horizon. Her infinite eyes gleamed as she listened.

"I want babies," Sarelle had told me during the messy break-up, noting some factoid she’d just learned about horses and donkeys being unable to breed. That, of course, was a manshit excuse because uplifted animals are usually sterile.

And then, she went with Horace, an up-donk like me.

The three of us had come up together at the Hab and were friends in San Francisco when newly aware, when I—thrilled beyond all reason with the delicately capable fingers attached to new hands at the end of new arms—had learned to play.

I finished the set, but my pride wouldn’t let me go to her. I sat down at the end of the bar near Al: bartender, buddy, barrister, biggest fan. I downed three shots in short order.

"Ease up," he said.

"I didn’t ask to be uplifted."

His arm halted in mid-air. His scotch swayed on the rocks.

"No-one asks to be born, you ass."

Al is human. And a lawyer. I liked him anyway.

The only come-back I could think of was, "You didn’t have to be born twice, so shut the hell up."

"When have I ever shut up? So that’s Sarelle?" He regarded her with undisguised appreciation.

"She’s a horse, Al."

"Was. Was a horse. They did a nice job on her."

"You make her sound like a damned refurbished car."

"Umberto?"

Her voice entered my body, not through my ears, but my sternum. It swirled around my heart for a few seconds and then squeezed.

I stood and turned, feeling the tequila, swaying like Al’s scotch.

"I need your help," she said.

"Hmm. Should’ve stopped that sentence before the er help."

"Be serious. I’m in danger."

"And I’m drunk. You should have shown up earlier. Ten years ago would have been good." I saw white in her eyes as her head reared back. "Who’s gonna hurt you?" I asked, melting at the sight of her distress.

"He’s hurt me for years. I’m trying to get away."

That sobered me up. Putting my hand around her withers, I guided her to my office, and poured her a brandy. We sat on the couch.

"Horace?" I asked.

She knocked back half her drink and nodded, eyes down.

Horace. Already, this didn’t add up. I’d run into him a month or so ago.

Sitting in shade of a cottonwood in the square, I heard my name, but couldn’t see who was yelling it. My natural donkey eyes being none too keen, I’d gotten vision enhancements years ago. I adjusted the eyedial to zoom, resolved the blurriness, and saw Horace loping across the green—mostly avoiding the intervening toddlers and locked-in-place lovers.

A bay dun with a light cream pangare on his chest, I had to admit he was elegant for a donk—especially compared to my blotchy hide.

"What brings you here?" I asked.

"The scene."

He couldn’t stand still, like he was on something. "What scene?"

"The Scene is what we’re calling it. Surprised you didn’t have the idea first."

I flicked lint off my pin-striped trousers. "Haven’t had an idea in twelve years. Tell me." I retrieved Betsy’s case from the bench at the last second before he could sit on her.

"It’ll be like an old-time vaudeville show with all uplift acts."

My belly roiled.

He continued. "I’ve done pretty well financially, so I’m just trying to give back. To our community, you know."

"To make spectacles of your fellow beings?"

"Nah, that’s not the spin. Not a freak show. A Variety Revue. We show what we can do."

"Knock yourself out."

"You have to be part of this. You’re famous here."

I can’t deny it; that self-serving bit of flattery spread through me like warm syrup. But like anything sweet, it didn’t last.

I got up. "Break a leg."

Horace put a hand on my arm.

"No, seriously," I said, extracting it from him, "break a leg."

Now Sarelle sat on my worn, green velvet couch, tilting toward me a bit, but only because of the sprung coils under the cushion. Her long silken legs—red-brown with delicate black fetlock wreaths and still so shapely they took my breath away—stretched out in my direction.

"Horace has always been abusive," she said. "I’m never good enough. He’s ruined my self-confidence. He controls my every move. Though…" she paused and downed the dregs of her brandy, "he only hits me when he’s…under the influence."

"Sarelle, donks—We aren’t violent. Sure, stubborn and crabby. Depressive, maybe. We lose our temper and lash out, but to be intentionally and repeatedly cruel? It’s not our way."

"No one believes me. It’s why I never came to you before." She closed her eyes and pressed on them.

"It’s a shock. And, so needless. You could have stayed with me, but instead, you went with someone who’s hurt you? I don’t know why you’ve come to me now or what I’m supposed to do."

She looked straight at me, her black eyes lifeless, dull. "I can’t…say it."

I regarded her for a long moment. My heart had finally stopped pattering. "How long have you been here?" I asked.

"Months."

I stood up and took her glass. "I can’t help you. At least Horace had the courtesy to seek me out. You…you come asking for something you can’t even verbalize and expect me to jump when you say so?"

"I want you to kill him."

"What?"

"I won’t say it again."

"You shouldn’t have said it once. Murder?" I whispered the word. "That’s crazy human stuff. It’s not us. It’s not in us."

"But, before…when we were simple animals, we didn’t take drugs or drink alcohol, did we? They changed us. And now we’re just…monsters."

"Jesus. No." I sat down. "We’re no more monsters than a…a human woman with breast implants or an android with skin. We still have our own natures. We’re still vegetarians. We didn’t become human when we were uplifted. We aren’t capable of murder."

"I’m sorry I came." She stood up and brushed down the front of her deep blue dress, smoothing the lightweight fabric.

"You still look amazing. Leave him."

"It’s okay, Umber. I know what I have to do."

I watched her go from the back of the bar.

She stopped and spoke to Al for a few minutes. He must have told her what I would have, that she didn’t owe us anything, because she left with no money changing hands. His eyes followed her out.

She left me with nothing, once again.

After a few sleepless nights, I went to The Scene.

Horace shook my hand energetically. "I’m afraid to hope that you’ve come to join us."

"Don’t be afraid."

I signed a contract for a short run.

My motives weren’t complicated. I still cared about Sarelle and needed to find out what was going on.

But I never saw them together. Sarelle wasn’t around. And Horace, was…well, Horace. More full of himself than he had been when I first knew him. Controlling, sure. But this was his show; he needed to boss everyone around.

Opening night, I sought him out. A massive gauze bandage shrouded his forearm.

"What the hell happened?"

"Accident. It’s fine." But he looked miserable for a guy who was about to have a sold-out opening.

"Is Sarelle going to be here?

"She left."

Left him? Left Tijuana?

"Where to?"

He shrugged. "Don’t know. She does what she wants."

"That’s not what she told me."

"When did you see her?"

"She came to my place a few weeks ago. Jealous?" I wanted to rile him, to see how quickly his temper flared.

But instead, he said, "She’s always done what she wanted. No-one controls Sarelle. There’s not much left between us."

This sounded like a hard-won truth, but I tried again. "Were you trying to off-load her onto me? Is that why you came to my town?"

His bottom jaw gaped, capped teeth looking unnaturally small. "Where do you get off? I came here to do exactly what I’m doing."

"And it just happens to be the place I put down roots."

"Yep. You—" he pointed at my chest and enunciated every word, "—and a lot of other uplifts. Get over yourself." He walked off in a huff.

I had riled him, but not about Sarelle.

I took the stage feeling pretty good in spite of all this. I love performing. Hell, I bought my own bar so I could play any time I wanted. That night, having a large, new and appreciative audience was a treat.

And yet, my performance was off. My fingers worked fine; I didn’t screw anything up, but something didn’t feel right.

They loved me anyway. I played three encores.

Before the first one, Horace was there in the wings, excited, pleased—despite our earlier spat—urging me to go back on. I played two more tunes and left the stage. Horace wasn’t there. The audience clapped and stamped so long that I went back for one more.

Then at some point, while I watched the final act from stage-left and, afterward, when we all took our bows and curtain calls, Horace was discovered lying in a pool of blood behind the theater.

In the alley, with a blunt instrument…

They took me into custody before the last customers had left the theater. But being falsely arrested for a friend’s death hardly touched me in comparison with the crystal-clear clarity with which I finally saw Sarelle’s vicious, self-serving and murderous nature.

Al came immediately.

"You don’t seem that upset," he said. "Are you in shock?"

"I know I didn’t kill Horace and so does Sarelle. This—" I shrugged looking at the cage I was in, "—I can leave when it’s all sorted out. In the meantime, my self-inflicted prison bars have vanished. I feel freer than I have for years. Hey, ask them if I can have Betsy in here, will ya?"

"What?"

"My clarinet."

"Umber, your clarinet is being held as the murder weapon."

In the alley, with a clarinet…

So neatly framed was I that I should have been hanging over the mantel. According to the police, the clarinet they’d taken from my hands had Horace’s dried blood on the rim of the bell.

My conviction seemed almost certain to everyone but me. Al was taking no bets. While I knew where I’d been at the time Horace had been bashed, no one else seemed to have noticed me backstage. I could have, they said, left after my last number, killed Horace and been back in time for my curtain calls.

But I knew how to beat this. Maybe it wouldn’t have had to come to trial at all, but I wanted it to. And there you have it: I’m a performer at my core. I wanted to face Sarelle this one last time.

"He could never get used to the idea that I wanted someone other than him," she testified, in a whispery voice.

My passion for her had turned into a cold hate.

"You were legally married to Horace, the deceased?" Al asked on cross-examination.

"Yes."

"You stand to gain a significance inheritance and proceeds from an insurance policy?"

She glared, her nostrils flaring.

"Please answer the question, Ms. Sarelle," said the judge.

"Correct."

Al established that she and I were once in a close relationship and then asked, "Are you familiar with the instrument Mr. Umberto plays?"

"Of course. A clarinet."

"How does Umberto feel about his instrument?"

She glanced at the jury. "It’s his prized possession."

"Does he have a name for it?"

She shifted and reared her head so that her hair bounced fetchingly. She looked at the prosecutor and said, "Betsy."

"Is there any significance to the name?"

I couldn’t have enjoyed the show more.

"I, uh…I—"

"Isn’t it a fact that Betsy was your name prior to your uplift? And that Mr. Umberto is one of the few who knows this fact?"

She stared at him, fuming, humiliated, as I knew she would be, to have her former life as an ordinary horse with a common name referenced in a publicized trial.

"You are under oath, Ms. Sarelle."

"Fuck you."

I laughed out loud. Jury members gasped, giggled, and looked at the witness suspiciously for the first time. The prosecutor objected, though to what, I don’t know. The judge almost broke his gavel. All this, while Al leaned back against the defendant’s table, his arms folded across his chest.

The judge told Sarelle to answer the question. She flat out refused, was held in contempt, and taken away by the bailiff.

The prosecution rested on this highly rocky point and, in due time, Al called me to the stand.

"Mr. Umberto, is there any circumstance in which you would use Betsy as a weapon?"

"None. Even in self-defense, my reaction would be to set her down carefully and use my fists. Hit something with her? Impossible. I would protect her with my life."

"But the prosecutor would have the jury believe that the instrument you played that night, the instrument that was on your person when you were arrested, the instrument otherwise known as Exhibit A, the supposed murder weapon, is Betsy."

"It isn’t. I don’t know what happened to Betsy. I don’t have her anymore."

"No?"

"Unbeknownst to me at the time, I wasn’t playing Betsy the night Horace was murdered."

"Why were you playing an instrument other than your own?"

"As I said, I was unaware. Someone switched her for a reasonably fine instrument that had been previously tainted with poor old Horace’s blood. Sarelle, I’d say."

The prosecutor popped up. "Move to strike! Opinion."

"Sustained. Jury will disregard. Tread carefully, Defense."

"Your honor," said Al, "I would like to admit into evidence a receipt."

The judge allowed the document.

"What is this for, Mr. Umberto?" Al asked.

"An engraving job I had done a few years ago. It reads, Engrave word—Betsy—on inside of clarinet bell."

The judge requested to see Exhibit A.

"Let the record show," the judge said, "that this clarinet has no such engraving."

"Where is Betsy, Mr. Umberto?"

"I have no idea. Ask Sarelle."

Al should have bet on himself after all.

Even though the bogus clarinet I played that night had Horace’s blood on it, the coroner’s testimony about a recent deep knife wound on Horace’s forearm introduced enough doubt in the jury’s minds about where that blood might have come from, that I was acquitted.

Sarelle was never prosecuted. She had a convenient alibi locating her in San Diego that night.

The trial gained Al some notoriety though and he set up a full-time practice on the US side of the border.

I missed him at first. I thought about him a lot. Eventually, I went to see him.

"Fancy office," I said. "Business must be good."

"I have you to thank for that."

"Really?"

"Sure."

"You’re welcome. But we both know it wasn’t my doing. I’ve come here today to make an accusation and here it is: Horace was killed in the alley, with who knows what, by Attorney Al."

He regarded me for a long time, dark eyes steady. Then he said, "Don’t do this, bud. It’s not a game."

"Was she worth it?"

Al lifted his hands palms up, indicated his wood paneled office and said, "My—uh—interactions with her were extremely beneficial, yes. More to me, than her. I’d think you’d be happy to find out that Sarelle doesn’t win every game she plays."

"I thought you said this wasn’t a game."

I wonder about the caretakers in the habitat. Why’d they play that particular game? Maybe they were just simple men wiling away the hours, but I’m suspicious of humans and their motives. Maybe they really were trying to make us like them—in every way.

From that respect, it’s good to know that Sarelle wasn’t capable of the physical act of murder—that she had to get a human to do her dirty work.

But, it’s not exactly something to be proud of, is it?

This ended up like one of those busted games of Clue where someone makes so many wrong guesses that it becomes obvious who did it, and since there’s no point in making the correct accusation, you just put away the weapons, fold up the board and call it a night.

I never got Betsy back. Either one of them.

Sound of Chartreuse

Perihelion Science Fiction Magazine

My spring green great-granddaughter has come home from her Earthstudies for a visit.

"We learned about Great Aunt Sonjec’s Birth of CaROUSal in History of Music, Grandma Carinth. They call the frequelet the most important innovation in music since the gramophone."

"Bah," I say. "History’s all guesses and lies."

Her hair ripples in the light as she shakes her head. "Don’t be a poor sport just because your sister is famous and—"

"Think I care about that? I don’t. But I lived that history. 2215, right here on planet Pas. The Birth of CaROUSal

…oh yes. But what historians don’t know is that I served as its mid-wife. If I hadn’t been there, CaROUSal would have been stillborn."

I sat, watching from the shadows at the back of the open-air bar. My synesthetic response was deepred-shimmery: detached anticipation, as Sonjec, 19 in earthyears—two younger than me—climbed onto the platform that served as stage. On the wall behind her a banner read: CaROUSal.

Her thick straight hair lay like a thatched roof over her forehead, short and shaggy around her ears. She wore a bright blue shirt and tight grey-green pants shoved into heavy boots. Two other people were on stage: a keyboardist, whose name I never got, and the percussionist, Ruk.

Ruk is P’twua, one of the three humanoid races on Pas.

The first, and—at that point—only, frequlet hung from a plaited strap over Sonjec’s left shoulder. The scrolled brass and copper box with curved sides and a dozen or so touch-interfaces lay flat against her diaphragm.

As she adjusted the instrument’s settings, I noticed my dry mouth and sweaty palms. The red shimmer had transformed into vibrating mud-green: low-grade anxiety. Why? I had nothing riding on this performance. I didn’t care whether Sonjec did well or not.

I’d felt only irritation when she recently showed up. Sonjec had always stayed on Earth with her father, while I accompanied our mother on her diplomatic posts. New languages, people, cultures fit not only my interests, but also my sensitivities.

Ruk moved to the front of the stage and spoke in his language, Dwa*p’ti. P’twuas made up most of the crowd.

I picked up the gist. He explained that unlike most music where you stay quiet and listen, CaROUSal’s music was made on the spot from the input of sound and Sonjec’s talent. He instructed them to make as much or any type of noise they wished.

"The frequencies will flow from all of you into Sonjec’s instrument and back out—transformed. You will be an integral part of the music and it will be unique to this night."

Sonjec’s music changed passive listeners into active participants.

Her implanted binaural conductors meant she and her multi-layered contraption were one highly-integrated circuit. That night, the input from the Dwa*p’ti language—which includes a variety of pops and ticks of the tongue on the cheeks, lips, teeth and from the throat—made music unlike anything I’d ever heard.

But even while appreciating the raucous, rhythmic melodies with surprising tangents and harmonizing vocals, I felt my anxiety grow to high alert.

Chartreuse: edgy, risky, headed toward danger.

Then, the complexions of the P’twuas, normally a pale green-ivory, went coral.

Disoriented, I jerked my head around the room, trying to figure out what was happening. I don’t see imaginary colors; I mentally associate colors with emotional content. But, coral, like all colors, had meaning to me.

Coral-pale: teasing.

Coral-sharp: mocking, taunting, ridicule.

Ruk, looking distraught and stunned, no longer played, but Sonjec, eyes closed, didn’t notice.

I stood, overturning my bar stool, every muscle tense as the playful boisterousness in the room disappeared. I didn’t know what it meant for P’twuas to suddenly go coral, but I knew the vibes had changed from fun to furious.

She has to stop the music.

I strode toward her, jostling through the small tables and standing, shouting, fist-waving P’twuas. Inside me, hot pink-bright: outrage, streamed alongside spinning, intense, viridian green: violence.

Someone tugged at my shoulder and spun me around. I was in the middle of a tight circle of very angry people.

"Ass-hole Earthens! Go home," a tall—to my collarbone—P’twuan shouted in excellent English. He reared his fist back and flashed it forward, hitting me in the jaw. Pain sliced through my skull and I staggered. A follow-up punch to the chest thrust me backward onto the reed-covered floor. Three sharp kicks landed against my rib cage as well as grinding pressure on my right knee, as if someone were standing on it.

Flashes of yellowwhite-hot alternated with red-streaked black.

"Ffffuck!" I shouted, once I’d caught my breath. I bucked and flailed. I was bigger than these people and, more importantly, I hadn’t done anything wrong. "Back off!"

There was no more music, just crazed commotion.

An open hand reached down. I grabbed it and was pulled up, only then seeing that it was Ruk. He spoke in a firm voice to the people around me, but my brain was in no shape to interpret a language I’d only begun to learn.

A bubbling froth of grey-dirty: disordered, disgruntled confusion had replaced the fuchsia and sickening green.

Sonjec stood at the back corner behind the stage holding her instrument against her chest. She motioned for me to come. I touched Ruk. He glanced up for the briefest of moments and nodded. I left his calming presence and ran out with my sister.

"I didn’t even know you had come," Sonjec said, mashing a cold pack on my swollen knee.

We’d escaped to Mother’s swanky apartment deep in the diplomatic section of downtown O*p’toc where she served as Earth Colonies Ambassador.

"It’s been a while since I’ve heard you play."

"It went well," she said, reclining on the plush couch perpendicular to the one I was on.

I barked a harsh laugh, but she didn’t join in. I looked at her. "You were kidding, right?"

"The music, I mean. The music was going great. I loved what their language was adding. I’ll have to work on the recording tomorrow." She reached over to the table, picked up her bottle of brew and took a long drag.

"Shit." I shook my head, feeling pain in my ribs, knee, chest. Once again, Sonjec gets off free and clear. "You’re missing the tiny little fact that you caused a riot."

She choked, sat up and coughed. When she recovered, she shot me a withering look. "Right, Carinth. I caused that mess."

"Are you completely unaware? Something in that room changed when you started playing. Well…not at first. It built…It—"

"It had nothing to do with the music. They were drinking. It was a bar fight. Like that never happens."

She was definitely the most clueless person in the world.

"Ask Ruk," I said.

"Yeah. Ruk."

"Where’d you pick him up?"

She shrugged. "He’s the reason I came."

"Huh. I thought you came because your family’s here."

Sitting forward on the couch her elbows resting on splayed knees, hands holding the ale, she looked at me for a long moment. "Yeah, well, things come together that way, don’t they? He wrote me. Fan mail. Asked me to come. Talked the place up. Lots of water, beaches, beautiful scenery, and he said they were a peaceful race who love music. Hah!"

"They are peaceful. They keep to their own, but I’ve experienced no hostility. Not till tonight."

"Humanoids will be humanoids."

"This is serious. It could cause trouble for Mom."

"Isn’t that my role in the family? Some things never change. Need something for the pain?"

Sonjec disappeared.

I didn’t know until the next evening. I slept off the drugs she gave me, felt lousy and stayed in bed.

Mother came in around supper time.

It was hard to believe that Sonjec and I were her offspring. She exuded professionalism, elegance, competence, intelligence and attractiveness—all composed into a complete package that most people found reassuring. The contrast between all that and my gawky, scattered, unfocused self was simply undermining. I had nothing of her in me.

"What do you know about last night?" she asked.

I sat up, alert for the first time all day. "I was there."

She arched a perfectly defined eyebrow from her perfectly matched set. "That was nice of you to support your sister. Tell me what happened."

I did. Honestly. I left out my sensory data, knowing it wouldn’t help, but conveyed my opinion that Sonjec’s music had somehow, for some reason, riled up the locals.

"You’re injured?"

"Sore. Nothing’s broken."

"Unfortunatley, this incident—bar fight or whatever it was—hasn’t gone away. I may have a crisis on my hands. Where’s Sonjec?"

"Haven’t seen or heard from her since last night."

Mother sighed. "She isn’t here. I’ve messaged her multiple times with no answer."

"She’ll show up. Why would she hide if she didn’t think the uproar at the bar had anything to do with her?"

But I was wrong. Another day passed with no word.

The brawl boiled over, giving rise to protests in the courtyard by Embassy Row. On the feeds there were calls for Mother’s expulsion and a growing ugliness toward off-worlders. So far, because of the respect with which she was held, her diplomatic counterparts were being patient and calling for calm.

"What are they saying Sonjec did?"

Mother shook her head. "It’s something she communicated through the frequlet, but I don’t understand the nuances. She deeply offended the P’twuas by breaking some subtle cultural taboo. That it was inadvertent hardly matters at the moment."

Mother feared she’d been kidnapped.

Later that day, I sat in the apartment in front of the VID and watched my mother the Ambassador, in formal ceremonial uniform, as she held a press conference and apologized as thoroughly as any person could.

Afterward, I went to find Ruk.

Mother had instructed me to stay in the apartment, but I wasn’t too worried about my safety. I didn’t really believe Sonjec had been kidnapped.

Still, when I walked into the empty bar—the scene of the crime—I felt grateful for the first time in my life that I looked nothing like my mother or my half-sister. It was unlikely that anyone would associate me with them.

I spoke to the tender. He knew Ruk and messaged him for me. I waited out back on the lanai. The bar was on the outskirts of the city proper, near a broad ocean inlet. The stiff breeze off the briney, lavender and white water had something in it that made my skin tingle.

Why do I think I can trust Ruk? I thought, rubbing my cheeks to get rid of the itch. Maybe he lured Sonjec to Pas for political reasons. Maybe I’m walking into a trap.

I thought back to that moment when his hand reached down and pulled me off the floor. My overwhelming perception, even in the midst of that melee, had been one of bluesoft-transparent: trustworthy calm.

Bluepale is stand-offish or shy, common among P’twuas.

Bluebright involves intensity of spirit. And genius.

Ruk came around the corner. As I watched his fluid, supple stride, I re-measured this view against my first impression. No alarms sounded.

He sat down and said, "I am responsible."

"How? On purpose?"

"No. But I asked Sonjec to come. I did that because I’m convinced she will revolutionize music, but nevertheless, I brought her here."

"What happened?"

"It will be difficult for me to communicate."

"Try."

"My people—We, eh, exchange meaning on more than one level."

This was news to me. "Other than spoken language?"

He nodded. "This is a difference between earthhumans and us. Correct?"

"We understand the concept of non-verbal communication. Like…body language."

"I didn’t know."

I shook my head while running thumb and middle finger down my glass, rubbing condensation off. "Not well-developed. It tends be just outside our awareness and is usually disregarded, at least consciously. There are pheromones—smells—as well, but we’re hopeless in understanding those."

"I see. It is helpful that you understand there can be…levels. Ours is highly developed. In some ways more so than the words we use."

"Telepathy?"

"No. It’s a common understanding of sensory perceptions." He sat back in his chair and looked away over the water, as if trying to decide how to explain.

I had been hunched forward, elbows on the small table, tense. I sat back too, and breathed in the tangy smell. His words moved me; scrambled pieces of myself shuffled into a more orderly arrangement.

A language of perception. Of course. I had known that could be possible even though those words had never formed a sentence in my head. A shiver went down my spine. I leaned forward again.

"You perceive something…a sound, a sight, a smell, the combination of several of these and it means the same thing to you as it does to the tender in there or any other P’twua?"

His head turned slowly back to me. He put his graceful, long-fingered hands on the table, faced me directly and took his time responding. "How is it that you get this so quickly? I have attempted to communicate it to Earthens and they do not understand."

"I have some…ways of perceiving that most of my people either do not have or ignore. It’s called synesthesia and has never been of much use because earthhumans who have this trait don’t necessarily agree on the words they use to talk about it. In me, it is an intersection of emotions and color."

He didn’t have eyebrows, but his forehead wrinkled as his yellow-brown eyes widened. "I’m completely stunned. I had no idea."

"But it’s not a form of communication between us. It’s…internal. Private."

Now his forehead wrinkled downward in a serious expression. "Yes. Ours too, but I think in a different way. We have much to learn about each other. And we have not even been introduced properly. I am Ruk Tur*ki’tua."

I extended my hand across the table. "Carinth Kellen."

He smiled. "Sonjec is your sister?"

"Half-sister. The illustrious Ambassador is our mother, but we have different fathers. Do you know where Sonjec is?"

"No. Don’t you?"

I explained the situation.

He took out his communic and began to make calls.

I waited, thinking, not about my missing sister or the looming inter-planetary diplomatic incident, but the concept of a common awareness of sensory perception.

"She was seen at my home earlier. We should go there."

"Mother thinks she was kidnapped."

"Why?"

"You tell me. What pissed everyone off?"

"I never anticipated what happened. The vocals and sounds that her instrument remixed and produced were deeply insulting."

"How?"

He struggled, and then said, "Translating is proving impossible. If there are English words, I don’t know them."

"Let me tell you how I was feeling."

He nodded.

"Do you know the word chartreuse?"

He shook his head.

I took out my communic and pulled up a color chart I often referred to. I pointed to the sharp yellow-green.

"What is the word?" he said, nodding vigorously. "I must remember. This chart is excellent."

"I’ll send it to you. That night, I felt nervous and that built to a high-tuned uneasiness on the edge of danger: chartreuse."

He looked at me wide-eyed. "Are you part P’twuan?"

I smiled and shook my head. I didn’t know much about my father, but I knew he was an earthhuman.

"This is right," Ruk said. Chartreuse—our word is n*dua’k'ti—was present for me as well. It is a complex feeling for us. Risk, yes. Unease, yes. But also a—" He raised his hand and ran his thumb over his fingers repeatedly. "—a feel."

"Slimy?"

"Yes!"

"Oh gods. This is crazy. I understand you. So…but just that wouldn’t cause a riot."

"No. I have thought of nothing else since it happened. When Sonjec took our vocalizations—what is our public communication—that went well. But her frequlet also picked up our sub-communication, this emotional-sensory layer the meaning of which is in our voices, but with no words. And she collected it and suddenly, there it was, this non-public thing, being transmitted, broadcast for all to hear."

"Communicating what?"

He shook that question off. "What’s important is that we didn’t like even that much. Perceptual communication is wordless, therefore private. Something we all understand but rarely talk about because…what would be the point? We felt exposed by her music and then when everyone began to express that vulnerability and displeasure, she picked that up and put it in the mix. By the time the riot broke out, the room was full of what I will call, because my English is not perfect, orange-pointy."

I stared at him with my mouth open. "Ruk, everyone’s skin color changed."

He looked down and I knew I’d inadvertently evoked a strong emotion in him.

Yellowpale-muddy: shame.

"We do," he said, softly, "upon occasion, have tinges of color change in our normal complexions. It showed?"

"To me. But why is this shameful?"

"You are so direct, Carinth. It’s a bit hard to handle."

"My apologies. I don’t want to offend. Teach me."

"No, I like it. It’s just different…and amazing. You pick up so much."

I couldn’t respond. His words filled me up as nothing ever had.

His eyes narrowed. "I’m getting a perception that I would not mention if you were P’twuan. We would both simply know."

"Tell me."

"Let me look at your chart."

After a moment he said, "Orchid."

I smiled and then laughed. "Brilliant. Purple-orchid: gratitude, joy, fulfillment."

"A pure, uncommon emotion."

"We understand one another."

"So back to our evening of music…"

"Oh, god. Yes," I said, "orange-pointy is what I would call

coral-sharp.

He took in an audible short, crisp breath. "Exactly. I would explain this as ridicule, which mixed with our shame at having our private thoughts broadcast. Our reaction was re-mixed and blasted out of the frequlet in a complex perception that I will attempt to communicate as…passionate contempt."

"Wow."

"Yes. What color is that?"

"I don’t know."

He sat back, nodding. "It is complicated."

Neither of us needed to say another word.

We took the chairway to Ruk’s neighborhood.

I messaged Mother. She responded that she hadn’t heard from Sonjec and asked if I’d seen the local news. Ruk and I put on a feed to find out that the protests in front of the Earth Colonies Embassy had grown.

"This is getting out of hand. Mother seemed rattled and that never happens."

"I’m communicating with everyone I know," Ruk said, "but my friends are not influential. I can’t believe this all started from those music-heads at the bar. They’re not political."

"Don’t have to be. They only had to tell their story. It would be picked up and used as a weapon by those who do have an agenda."

"How do you know so much about politics?"

"I don’t. You just absorb stuff when you’re the daughter of a diplomat."

After he unlocked the sliding door to his one-room apartment, he stood back and motioned for me to enter. "As you see, she is not here."

I turned to him. "I didn’t think you had her."

He shrugged. "You don’t know me."

Oh, but I do.

A young P’twuan woman came to the door. "Ruk?"

He introduced us. She looked at me suspiciously and asked Ruk to come out in the hall.

He came back with a paper in his hand. "It’s a note from Sonjec. I’m having trouble reading the handwriting." He gave it to me.

I read: Ruk, Sorry about the mess at the bar. It’s not your fault. I probably won’t be playing the frequlet in public ever again, so I appreciate you asking me to come. Again, sorry for the trouble. Don’t know what happened. Thanks for being such a nice fan. Sonjec/CaROUSal

"She’s bright blue, isn’t she?" Ruk asked.

"I don’t like to admit it, but yeah. Bluebright-deep: the extreme intensity of creative genius." Those were certainly words I’d never said out loud before.

"She will be depressed if she really thinks she can’t play her music anymore," he said.

"Very. She’s also, um…redcherry-choppy: impulsive."

"My neighbor told me that she followed Sonjec outside and joined a group your sister was talking to. There was a…I don’t know…a heated discussion."

"About what?"

"That night. Sonjec seemed sorry, but clueless. They were, you know, kind of in awe of her, but also trying to figure out if she was a jerk or not. It wasn’t a fight, just talking. A small crowd gathered. People my friend knows. Most hadn’t even been at the bar. And then four others came up. They were P’twuan, but not from the area."

"Troublemakers?"

"No. Friendly. They told her there was a great bar where she could play music near Ku’wuat*u Beach."

"She went with them?"

"I’m guessing."

"She wasn’t forced?"

"Doesn’t sound like it."

"How like Sonjec to have us all worrying about her well-being while she’s out partying at the beach." I sighed. "Then again, what better to lure her with than the opportunity to play music? I’m still worried. Do you know this bar?"

"No. That’s the problem. It’s all small rooming houses along there. A place for families. I don’t remember any bar scene."

We went on Ruk’s scooter.

I tried repeatedly to reach Sonjec.

It was night by the time we arrived. Two of the moons of Pas were shining over a vast expanse of deep-purple water. The sand shone pearlescent in the light. The crescent beach was bordered at both ends by maroon rock outcroppings whose edges curved downward, echoing the shape of waves about to break.

"It’s breathtaking," I said over the low hum of the

scooter.

"Let’s ask about her at the rentals."

We moved through the little tourist settlement rapidly. None of the room-keepers had seen an Earthen woman. They told us the closest bar was another hour down the road.

I felt panic creeping in.

Ruk found a handlight and we walked the length of the beach, finding no one. After searching the rocks at one end, Ruk said, "Should we try to find the bar?"

My heart sped up with each passing moment. Every instinct screamed, "This is where she is!" But I couldn’t find her. "I don’t know. I don’t—Let me calm down…because—"

"What? You think she’s here?"

Then I remembered. "Oh gods, I can simply tell you." I almost hugged him, hesitated, and then did it anyway. "I’m getting greenblack…um, greenblack-…hollow? What would that mean to you?"

"Not good. That’s for sure. I don’t know the word. Darkness. Depth, but not good depth."

"Depression," I said. "No cherry red. No bright blue."

Sonjec didn’t want to be abandoned, alone. I knew that for certain. She wanted me to come for her. Frustrated tears filled my eyes. She might have already walked into the waves. Sonjec could do that. That it would ruin Mother and me might not ever occur to her.

Ruk put an arm around my shoulders. "Let’s go to the other end. We didn’t search the rocks as carefully down there."

As we walked, I screamed her name and kept my eyes on the water, but saw only shimmering light on choppy waves. The dark green feeling wasn’t out there. That’s what was confusing me. Where was she?

Ruk tugged on my sleeve and said, "Look!" He pointed up and out toward the cliff that reached out over the sea.

I couldn’t see anything but purple sky and dark rocks. I shook my head, tears spilling out of my eyes. "What?"

"On the end of that sharp jut. She’s there." He brought me over in front of him, one hand on my shoulder, the other pointing.

"You’re sure? You see her?" I brushed tears away.

"Yes. It has to be her. What do you want to do?"

"I want to kill her. SONJEC!" I screamed so hard it made me cough.

We reached the rocks and he shone the light as we searched for footholds. As we came onto a small plateau, the wind blew toward us.

I gasped and we turned to face each other. "Music!"

He took my hand. "This way."

We took mincing steps on a less steep route toward the water, but then had to climb again and could hear nothing but the waves. The rocks were wet and it took all my concentration not to slip.

"Do you swim?" I asked him after we both had negotiated a steep crack between boulders and were sitting atop them, resting. We could hear the music once again, which let me know that Sonjec was alive. I was able to catch my breath.

"A little".

"What if you slipped?"

"What if you slipped?"

"I’m a good swimmer!"

He looked down. "We’d hit rock here anyway. Let’s just not fall."

"Deal." I stood and screamed, "Sonjec!"

"Why can’t she hear us?"

I stopped yelling then, realizing why. She was playing the frequlet. Her implants activated, she wouldn’t hear anything outside her music.

But the instrument had heard us.

As we topped the highest ledge, my voice arose within the composition—changed, re-patterned—but undeniably my harsh voice, screaming her name.

She, sitting near the edge, heard it too.

Sonjec stood, turned toward us and then rocked backward on one foot as if she wanted me to witness her fall.

I held my breath for a heartbeat and then rushed toward the cliff to get my ass-blast sister out of harm’s way.

She was all cut up.

I wanted to get a room, but she refused to move from the beach. Ruk begged a couple of blankets from a roomkeeper. We wrapped her in them and Ruk built a fire. It wasn’t that cold, but she was wet and her arms and legs were covered in wounds. Some were scrapes from climbing the rocks. Others were precise, self-inflicted cuts.

"How’d you get here?" I asked.

"Rowdies," she said. "Four boys who thought they’d picked up some fun."

"Did they hurt you?"

"No! I don’t know what they expected, but I pulled out my knife and told them to fuck off."

"So you weren’t a political hostage?" Ruk asked.

"Hardly. That would have at least been interesting. This was the same old tiresome shit that we women put up with almost any place in the universe."

"They didn’t hurt you, so you hurt yourself?" I said, nodding at her arms and legs. There was a long silence. Finally, I spoke again. "Do you know what’s happening in the capital?"

She nodded, looking into the fire. "I’ve been following the news feeds. But, Car, I don’t understand what I did."

"Ruk?"

He gently explained why the P’twuans had gotten so riled up. Sonjec asked lots of questions, getting less depressive and more energized the more she found out.

"It’s fascinating. I mean, it backfired this time, but the idea that I can communicate on another level using my music is pretty awe-inspiring. I had no idea that was possible."

"Nor did we," Ruk said.

"But, I’ve fucked up everything for Mother."

"If you fucked up everything for Mother, then you have to fix everything for her."

She snorted and kicked sand into the fire causing a small shower of pearly sparks.

"I’ve been thinking about how you can do that," I said."Thinking always was your thing."

I bashed her on the shoulder, knocking her backwards.

This startled Ruk, but Sonjec picked herself up and said, "It’s okay. It’s the way we’ve always related."

"Do not put me down for trying to repair the damage."

"I’m all ears," she said, in a softer tone.

"You have to face the music…so to speak. You’re going into the city and you’re going to change the message. I’m going to help, and even though he doesn’t know it yet, so is Ruk."

For some reason, I was certain we could pull this off. That is, right up until the moment—three days later—when we walked toward the large oval plaza where the protests continued.

Sonjec was somewhere between panicked and turned-on. Consummate performer that she was, the thought of playing her instrument to such a large assemblage excited her, even as she knew there were attendees who hated her.

I looked over at Ruk.

He was already watching me. He reached out and took my hand in his large, flattened, soft fingers. He exuded yellowpinkpale-smooth: serenity. I took a breath, remembering that I would be a conduit for emotions and had to stay calm. His touch helped settle me as we waded into the milling crowd. Someone was making a speech at the other side of the plaza, but the words didn’t reach this far.

Our plan was to start on the fringe where people were more likely to be only curious—not involved. If this worked, we’d move closer to the core group as we won them over.

But the activists would do whatever they could to turn this to their advantage. Angry, rude noises would come from that crowd and, somehow, Ruk, Sonjec and I had to turn those sounds into a message that would send most of these people back to their homes with forgiveness in their hearts.

Sonjec was wired for this. She hopped up on a decorative railing that bordered a small splashing pool and smiled at those nearest her.

A man jeered, "Hey, it’s the foreign devil who started this!"

I climbed up next to her and placed my hand on the small of her back. Ruk was at my other side.

She began, as we’d discussed, with the amazing composition she’d recorded on the beach. Sounds of waves crashing on the rocks woven with the calls of sea birds and the susurration of water being pulled back out to sea over tiny pearlescent sea animals and stones.

She sang with the music and her voice rang with confidence.

"Go home, bitch!" the same man yelled.

Several people glared or shushed him. Either they didn’t know Sonjec or they didn’t care. Two other P’twuas came up and talked to the man who’d shouted.

I held my breath as Sonjec set the frequlet to input and allowed the crowd to become a part of her music. So far, about ninety percent of the people were rapt, but the others were either not paying attention, or in case of the group of three, actively trying to drown out the music by yelling.

"Go home, go home, go home!"

Sonjec’s concentration faltered. I put pressure on her back and said out loud so that the frequlet would pick it up, "Peace. Calm. Peace."

Ruk and I had used the last three days to work out our part of this. Now he, with an intensity that I can feel to this day, began to pour out the color-attribute combinations that would communicate what we wanted the crowd to pick up and understand. As he communicated to his people, I said it out loud and placed my intention on it as hard as I was able. I did this with a newfound belief in the ability to communicate my perceptions.

To go with the water-laced composition, we used a lilac-fading: tidal calm frequency. Then boldly, Ruk broadcast magenta-deep: sincere sorry. He dropped in green-muddy: stupid error, followed shortly by yellow-pale: open, easy.

Ruk got immediate feedback. When it was good, he told me, I told Sonjec and the message became a feedback loop of the kind of perceptions we needed to communicate. As we collaborated, Sonjec caught the spirit, even while not knowing the meaning of the colors or attributes. Her frequlet recorded the frequencies of this unspoken language in musical form for the first time.

Well, for the first time intentionally.

Ivorypink: sincerity; Magenta-smooth: sorry; Green-spikey: unintentional mistakes; Bluesoft-transparent: trustworthy calm; Magenta, Magenta, Magenta-waves: unrestrained sorry; Ivorypink, Yellow-pale, Greenmedium-even: equality.

As the music reached those around us, we stepped down and walked deeper into the crowd, across the plaza. Brownlight/ grayblue-vertical stripes: respect, respect, respect, respect, respect, respect. Browngreen-red-yellow-ivory-round: non-judgement, understanding.

They listened.

It was all we could ask.

Burnishedbrass-deep: forgiveness. Pinkorchid-light: friendship.

Over and over the message wove into Sonjec’s amazing improvisation. I felt the crowd becoming attuned to our simple message, "Please forgive this mistake. Let us be friends once more."

We went up on stage. There, the audio devices picked up the frequlet onto the feed and broadcast it all over Pas. We made music every P’twua in Pas could understand. Every P’twua, and me.

The song came to be known as "Understanding Worlds" and became a classic.

That evening, at Mom’s apartment, Sonjec came to me emitting yellowbeige-pale: humble thanks. She didn’t know that was what she projected, but I had a new respect for my own perceptions.

We stood in the kitchen pulling this and that out of the cooler, making tea, stuffing our faces.

"I have always looked up to you," she said.

"You have a strange way of showing that."

"I know. That’s my pride. Seems to be built into us."

Pride. Straight-up blue.

"What have we got to be proud of?" I said. "Oh well—silly me—you have your invention. But let’s face it, if your dad hadn’t encouraged you and helped you so much, you wouldn’t have refined the frequlet."

"Your dad was never there for you in the same way."

"My dad was never there for me at all." It didn’t hurt because I missed having a dad. It hurt because she got one and I didn’t.

"Carinth, Mom chose our fathers."

"Well, of course."

"I don’t mean that she chose to have sex with them. She

picked them for the traits she wanted in her children. Not that reliable maybe, but she told me that, as far as she’s concerned, it worked perfectly."

"She told you that because you got something good. I got

nothing."

"You can say that? Today of all days?"

"I’m pretty good at languages, I guess."

Mother walked in. "You’re a synesthete, like your father."

I stared.

She walked over and put her hands on my upper arms.

"Carinth, you’re everything and more than I imagined you might be. Both of you got your confidence from me. Oh, I know, you girls aren’t fully mature yet, but it shows up sure and strong like today in the plaza. You knew. And you knew to bully the rest of us into listening to you. You got that from me and, I like to think, your openness to other peoples and cultures. But your gift? That’s from your father."

"I never even thought you understood my synesthesia, much less would want it—choose it—for me."

"I had a feeling it was a trait that would be significant somewhere, sometime. As usual, I was right." She grinned widely and then enveloped me in a hug.

Periwinkle-striped with white: pride in one’s children.

"Probably that same Kellen pride made me want you to know the story," I say to my rapt great-granddaughter.

"I can’t wait to tell my professor."

"Don’t be surprised if it’s not well-received. Who wants truth? So what if Sonjec never mentioned me? I’m just her older half-sister who stayed on Pas."

"You and Grandp’twua accomplished a lot, including making our big family."

"Yes, doll, we made our own kind of music. Grandp’twua Ruk tells me I’m laverty much of the time now. Unfortunately, all Sonjec’s achievements couldn’t give her that."

From the "Common Lexicon of Perceptual Communication"

by Ruk Tur*ki’tua and Carinth Kellen

Laverty—lavendersilver-velvety: satisfied old-age.

END