FSF, March-April 2010 (36 page)

"
Djádthre,
” says Vállanévra, hop-striding over to where Pink is sitting. Cos pale eyes are shining, and the discs on cos mane are chiming faintly. Co puts cos hands on her thin shoulders, and the scent of lavender grows stronger. “Citizen Sévigny is our very very special
nem
, are you not, Citizen? Great things of her we expect, I think. She will be taken on a special tour all her very own.” Pink thinks this has a slightly ominous ring to it, but nobody else seems to notice; they are all looking at her a trifle enviously, except for Mitch, who whispers loudly to the classmate seated next to him, “Special? That skinny little thing? Why, ah'v got
hemorrhoids
older than her."

The beauteous Velasquez-Villareal gives Mitch a cold stare, then looks at her partner. “We were speaking of the
bórmgwann
, I believe?” she says.

"
Djádthre, djádthre,
” agrees Vállanévra merrily, skip-hopping ‘round to take up a position behind Mitch's seat, which causes the Texan to crane his head up and around to catch a glimpse of the big creature's face. “Now among my
fü
,” proceeds the Fourther, smiling down at Mitch with cos huge moist loving eyes, “the
bórmgwann
or invitation to
fwét'het
is normally communicated via a specific cascade of
te'rúllmann
or sematophore expressions. Since your admirable species does not possess sematophores capable of directed emission—at least, not unless you have been consuming dried legumes—” [polite laughter here] “—each of you will be given, prior to your departure for Ámash/Bórmwu, six small vials or bulbils containing a chemical amalgam similar to the scents my
fü
emit for the
bórmgwann
.

"When you encounter an individual whom you wish to invite to come to Concord Station as your
fwet'héttaha
, you simply remove the bulbil from its pouch, hold the bulbil in your cupped palm for no more than three seconds to allow the warmth and scent from your hand to penetrate its membrane, then release the bulbil before your chosen candidate."

Annikki Mäkelä, a tall Finnish hydraulic engineer, raises her calloused hand. “Will we be the only ones doing the approaching, or will our hosts also be initiating the
bórmgwann
?” she asks.

"For this first visit,” replies Velasquez-Villareal, “Shiphome is permitting this class to take the initiative. If all goes well, subsequent visits may be coordinated differently."

"Why six bulbils?” asks Deng Bochao, a handsome young Chinese studying nanosuturing at the Station teaching hospital.

"Because as you know, we D'/fü do everything in sixes,” replies Vállanévra/Háttra'Unésta/fü. “And because six bulbils give one the opportunity to approach more than one potential
fwet'héttaha
. For the
bormkwúnaha
, the one approached, may reject or accept the
bórmgwann
as co wills."

Velasquez-Villareal says crisply, “The response to invitation constitutes the fourth stage of the ceremony, the
zhóllaven
or assessment of suitability, in which both the
bormkwúnu
, the approacher, and
bormkwúnaha
, the approachee, must spend a certain amount of time together, weighing carefully their mutual suitability. The time spent varies, but usually is taken up by conversation and mutual grooming, the object being to achieve
rüzhruven
and
fwónnuven
: intellectual and emotional intimacy. Thereafter comes stage five, the
háhlhlappen
or choice aye or nay; and the final stage, the
fwét'het
proper."

"Is that when we get it on?” quips Bad Boy Mitch.

"Now, now, honored wee one,” says Vállanévra, slapping the Texan's cheeks fondly. “You would not have us disclose all our mysteries, would you?” With long silver nailless fingers co tweaks Mitch's nose, then hops on. “The proceedings of the
fwét'het
vary from partnership to partnership, but one factor common to all such is paired dreaming, what my
fü
call
hwérrik/vurráhn.
I trust you have all completed your preparatory dream-practice? Yes? Ah, very good. Then you should have a very easy time of it indeed. Following the
hwérrik/vurráhn,
you will experience
flénnen
, a scent-marking by your
fwet'héttaha
, and with this the
fwét'het
ceremony will conclude."

Derek Wright, a goateed New Zealand astronomer of compact build sitting on Pink's other side, leans close to her and whispers, “What sort of dreams do you think our Texan has?” which because of his accent comes out like, “What sort of drames d'ye think our Tixan hez?"

Professor Velasquez-Villareal clears her lovely throat. “One more important matter remains to be discussed,” she says, “and that is the matter of your safety whilst you are in Shiphome. The class will be accompanied to Shiphome by your chaperones, Chief Linguists Nandi Ziomek and Bormwéthu/Havévno'Unésta/fü, and by a Security team made up of Officers Alexella Sanhueza and Chiriósso/Vevbróta'Dyéñe/fü. But as there are twenty-four of you and only four chaperones, their presence will not be sufficient to ensure your safety unless you keep the following points firmly in mind.” She stares at Mitch as she says this.

"Firstly,” she goes on, “
do not wander off by yourself.
Stay with the group until it is time for your Shiphome guide to lead you to meet your D'/fü work-peers. Thereafter, stay with your guide, who will accompany you as you navigate the pre-
fwét'het
procedures. When you settle upon a
fwet'héttaha
who accepts your
bórmgwann
, stay with co through
fwét'het
until
flénnen
, when co marks you with cos scent; then let your new partner lead you back to the disembarkation bay. The reason for these precautions is that like all lifeforms, Shiphome possesses internal defense mechanisms that guard against infection and predation by foreign organisms. Until your
fwet'héttaha
marks you with cos scent, you run the risk of being mistaken for an invader by Shiphome's immune system. And I assure you that cos immune system is
extremely
efficient in disposing of invaders.

"Remember, class: whatever you do, whatever befalls you on Shiphome,
do not wander off
."

They wander and wander and wander and wander and wander and wander and wander, Slídhadhrup taking very small steps so that Pink can keep up with co, until Pink can walk no more. Then Slídhadhrup picks her up and puts her upon cos wide hairy silver maneless back, and trots and trots and trots and trots and trots and trots and trots. Occasionally weird things divebomb them from the trees? giant pseudocorals? techno-organic art installation projects? towering overhead, forcing Slídhadhrup to stop, put Pink down, and fend the weird things off. It gets so cold they can see their breath in the air; then it grows so warm Pink nearly faints with the heat, though the
lílyo
appears unaffected. Gravity fluctuates, too, making footing and pacing dangerous. “Are you sure we're going in the right direction?” yells Pink to Slídhadhrup. (A nearby bush is screeching like a Mumbai cobra-rock band, making it difficult for her to hear herself speak.) “
Saklósso brísh-brish
,” is the Firster's roared reply ("The road is the road").
In other words,
thinks Pink,
who the hell knows
?

Along the way Slídhadhrup unhappily sniffs and samples all manner of potential edibles
(bdéd'zhuzhahá'te):
leaves (or what look like leaves), bark (or what looks like bark), blossoms (or what look like blossoms), insectoids. Pink, figuring she might as well die full as die hungry, samples them, too, and though none of them kill her and a few taste vaguely pleasant they all go right through her and she ends up with hours of smelly diarrhea which leaves her weak and severely dehydrated. Slídhadhrup roars so many apologies over this that she ends up yelling back, “
Samálla!
[STOP!]
Samálla
, for Buddha's sake!” with such rudeness that the Firster flushes greenish-lilac with shame and sulks for what Pink's watch calls several hours. [The correct polite form ought to have been
Yemállfye,
“May we both stop, person-of-equal-rank."]

Sulking, Slídhadhrup leaves her under an apparently innocuous, purplish-blue, magenta-tasseled bushlike object and goes off to find them both some water. Pink falls asleep under the bush-analogue and dreams she is back on Concord Station, describing to her Orientation Class her experiences in the Tangles. She is just coming to the part where she encounters the Vigilant Bird when a U.F.O. descends into the middle of the room and a queer six-headed creature sticks its head(s) out and says, in perfect French, “
Non, non, mademoiselle, au jaune! au jaune!
” [No, no, Miss; to the yellow! To the yellow!]; whereupon she wakes up to find the ceiling or sky or firmament far, far above lit up green in one direction and gold in another, and the “bush” licking her legs in a leisurely manner with its “tassels."

Weeping with fear and self-disgust (she smells like a sewer), she struggles away from the pseudobush's mild attentions and trips over Slídhadhrup's tail. “Thou wakest, honorable wee insulter!” roars the Firster, not apparently unhappy to see her. “
Vrórrimwa!
” (Drink!) Co hands her a shining transparent globule textured like plastic, flanged by vestigial winglike bits, and possessing a sphincterlike pucker at one end. It is a smaller twin to the huge one in the Firster's other hand. “Suck at the anus, ah! Thou seest?” co instructs, demonstrating, and Pink is so thirsty she does so. Liquid trickles into her mouth, skin-temperature and very slightly salty. At first she gags, thinking of urine and menses and snot and seminal fluid and other examples of mammaliana. Then she remembers she is the daughter of an exozoologist, and sucks away womanfully. It starts to taste wonderful, and she has to force herself to drink it slowly.

Slowly her mind, fuzzed with dehydration, returns to a measure of alertness. The bag deflates until it is nothing but a limp rag in her hand. Following the Firster's example again, she sets it on the “ground” and, employing its winglike bits, it burrows swiftly out of sight.
What in hell
was
that thing
? she thinks, then decides that she does not right this moment wish to know. She touches the Firster on cos thigh. “
Urrióñene, hwehbállu,
” she manages [I thank thee, buddy-my-equal]. “Sorry I was rude earlier."

"
K'háss'hul,
” replies the Firster [Nothing, nada, forget it, no worries], with an offhand wave of cos tail. Then, on mountainous impulse, co sweeps her up in cos furry silver arms and licks her all over her face and neck with cos ridiculously phallic blue tongue. When co lets her, gasping, go, she is startled to see tears welling from the sides of its enormous golden eyes.

"Aw, don't cry,” says Pink. She lifts her hand and wipes away the tears. “Everything will be all right, I promise."

"Slídhadhrup feared thou wert dying,” blubbers the mountain. “Slídhadhrup knows not what to do for to rescue a dying one."

"I'm not dying, Slídhadhrup,” says Pink firmly, hoping it is true. “I'm just a little weak, that's all. But the water you brought me really, really helped, and I had a dream just now. I think it was an
ürye
. It came to me and told me to go toward the yellow.” She points toward the gilded area of the Tangles’ horizon. “I think that's where we'll find
Úüv'élleblét/immo.
Or it, us."

Pink is sitting in the big media room on Ring Five with the rest of the Orientation Class, plus Andréa Sévigny, who is having a mother's second thoughts about permitting her daughter to go on the class trip without her. It is the final class meeting before the big embarkation to Shiphome, and Shipnet drones are floating around recording everything for historic and P.R. purposes. Present are the two Ambassadors from Station to the Concordat Security Council, the Honorable Dvorah Franzheim and her Sixther partner,
Awéwet
[Honored] Píttu/Háttra'Tümüta/fü; linguists Borm and cos partner Nandi Ziomek, the class's official chaperones; Gerda Rappesdottir, the scary Concord Station P.R. Chief, with her Fourther partner, sweet lilac-eyed Fást/Hahánno'Unésta/fü; and the two Station Security reps who will be accompanying the class, Alexella Sanhueza and her Seconder partner, huge Chiriósso/Vevbróta'Dyéñe/fü.

Gerda the P.R. lady has taken center stage and is saying, “If any of you people screw this up I will kill you with my bare hands.” Somebody waves. “
What
?"

It is Mitch. “Can we take vids?” he drawls. “WorldNet's already beatin’ down mah door and I need to know what to tell mah agent."

"Recording equipment of
any
kind is forbidden on Shiphome,” says Gerda, “as
well
you know, and the transportation and discovery of same will result in your
immediate
dismissal from this community and deportation back to Earth.” Mitch smirks but subsides.
Americans,
she thinks. “Other questions?"

Sven stands up, the better to show off his two and a fifth meters of height. Sven is a platinum blond, ruggedly handsome, with ice-blue eyes, and he is dressed in worn navy blue jeans and a stained embroidered artist's smock, from which his sculptor's powerful arms and hands protrude veinily. He says, “Will we be permitted to tour the Archaics while we are visiting Shiphome? Will we be permitted to experience the Tangles?” He has a very deep voice.

"No,” says Gerda.

A brief toilet break is called. Pink finds it difficult to stand, and is glad when her mother appears at her side. Doctor Sévigny says, “Are you all right,
ma chérie
?” Pink replies, “
Bien sûr, maman
,” [of course, Mom], and tries not to fall over. Pink is wearing a smart emerald silk suit, a necklace of black cultured pearls, and high heels dyed to match the necklace. Her orange dreadlocks have been pulled back from her face a trifle, and she has a lot of fluorescent makeup on, the effect of which is slightly spoiled by the enormous peacock feather hat she is wearing. “Don't worry about me,
maman
,” adds Pink into her mother's shoulder (they are nearly of a height). “What could happen with Borm as chaperone?” And they both laugh in not-entirely-mock consternation.