Angry Young Spaceman (20 page)

“Stupid songs,” I said into the mike.

“Shall we go?” asked Mr. Zik.

I nodded.

I walked Mr. Zik to the bus station. He stepped into a phone booth and spoke to a blurry image I assumed was his wife. He always called his wife. I wondered what their courting had been like. Had he sung to her?

We went to the same bench I had met Jinya at. I sat in the exact same place. “I met a girl here,” I said, immediately a little embarrassed at my outburst.

Mr. Zik nodded politely, but made no inquiries. A comment like that made on Earth would obviously mean
I met an attractive female on whom I’ve placed unreasonable hopes. Will you ask me about her so I can revel in delusional fantasies?
But Mr. Zik was completely unaware of that, for Earth can sell her music and language and entertainment, but some of the neurotic nuances were lost amongst the stars.

I thought about that, a grin pasted on my face, and leaned back on the bench. Mr. Zik took out a chew of tobacco and looked towards the road.

***

Mrs. Pling and I walked up the ramp to the second floor. It was a test day.

She had to wait for me at the top. “You tired?” she asked.

I nodded. I started to tell her why in Octavian, but noticed the half-dozen curious students listening in on their way by, so I tried in English. “Mr. Zik and I went drinking.”

She looked blankly at me.

I mimed it.

“Ah, drinky,” she said, and laughed. “Ujos?”

“No. Much beer,” I said, rubbing my head.

“When too much drinky, we say,” she switched to Octavian, “
The movie is stopped.
”

I thought I misunderstood, but then I realized she was describing passing out. “In English, we say a blackout.”

“My husband, blackout, all the time,” she said with an unconcerned laugh.

“Oh,” I said, as we walked into the classroom.
In English, we say alcoholic.

The class met my unexpected appearance with the usual stunned mayhem. I smiled and stood there, watching them settle down, which they did with unusual speed.

Two kids were still standing and Mrs. Pling wrapped a tentacle around each of their necks and tightened. One she actually picked up and slammed into her seat. The other one she dragged to the front and released a torrent of abuse on. Then he was sent back to his seat with a stinging slap to the head.

The rows were silent and attentive, and Mrs. Pling surveyed them sourly for a moment. She called out for the leader of the class, and a tall boy sprang up. “
Why do you shame me in front of a junior teacher?
” she yelled in Octavian. His head drooped “
You are a bad leader,
” she said.

“
I am very sorry,
” he said, genuine misery on his face.

I stood there feeling slightly ill. How much of this was my fault, caused by my presence? How did she change so quickly, from giggling at me for showing up to work hungover, to this?

Mrs. Pling punched a few buttons and the test started. I strolled around, watching them choose answers to multiple choice biology questions. One girl looked back anxiously at me as I peered at the diagram of an Octavian. Ah, so the sex organs
were
located where the tentacles met! I started thinking about Jinya, and our date tonight, when Mrs. Pling pulled my sleeve.

I tensed up, worried that I was going to get a smack, but she was all smiles. “Go to black,” she said, pointing to the back of the classroom.

I nodded, pleased for any direction.

“Junior teacher go there,” she added, by way of explanation.

I failed to keep the scowl from my lips. I got to the back, swivelled, and looked anywhere but towards Mrs. Pling. I didn’t believe she did it on purpose, out of spite. It was this goddamned Octavian hierarchy that seemed to be soaked into everything, slapping everything into order.

It wasn’t that I minded being told what to do, it was more the feeling that I was expected, as an inferior, to do it unquestioningly.

I looked at Mrs. Pling now, moving proudly down the rows, a handsome woman despite her age, and tried to imagine what she’d be like confronted with an abusive, irrational drunk husband who dragged her out of bed after midnight demanding food to be made for him. Would she submit grimly? Would she be jokey and good humoured? I couldn’t guess.

The girl beside me sighed and put her test down. I recognized her from one of my English classes — her misshapen boulder of a head and her profoundly stupid gaze made her quite memorable. I had yet to get her to say anything in English, but I still liked her.

Once, out on a walk through Plangyo, I had passed her and two older black-eyed folks I took to be her parents, resting from cucumber picking. Despite my smile, they had stared and said nothing, three silent lumps. I had been feeling particularly lonely that day, and this almost pushed me to flat-out misery.

Then the little girl remarked in Octavian:
He is my English teacher. He is a very nice man. He doesn’t let the boys hit me.

I didn’t look back, because I wasn’t supposed to understand. I couldn’t help grinning, though. The stupid girl, so stupid she didn’t know to smile when someone she liked walked by, justified all my hours of studies. More than anything else that happened, this was my real reward.

So obviously I didn’t want her to quit a test ten minutes in. I tapped her pad questioningly. She glanced up slowly, with a goofy smile, then quickly back down. I didn’t know how to say
pick answers at random
in Octavian.

I walked away, guessing it wasn’t the first or last time she’d flunk a test. By this time another boy actually finished his test. I knew him, too, from my classes — he was one of the best students. His English handwriting was better than mine. He looked at me and winked. There was something annoying about that, but I winked back. He called up a comic book on his recorder-pad and started reading.

He was destined for university, maybe even in Artemia. She would be a cucumber farmer, if she didn’t kill herself in the machinery. I wondered how they felt about each other, or if they thought about each other at all.

“English comic blook,” Smarty-Pants said, showing me soldiers with projectile weapons and shields. “war comics.”

“Good,” I said, glancing at Mrs. Pling to make sure that speaking wasn’t inappropriate junior teacher behaviour. She smiled back.

Judging by the amount of brow-crunching and frowning, it was a fairly hard test — time was going quickly for them. For me, though, time had stopped. All I had to do was walk around and look official. I wasn’t concerned with catching people cheating, which may have been a welcome distraction.

I was at a bad angle, so I couldn’t see what the stupid girl was doing at first. I knew something was going on because I could see her boulder-head moving from side to side. I strolled to a better vantage point and saw that she had two painted rocks curled in her small tentacles. She was moving them up and down, closer and further away. What the hell was she doing?

I tried not to move or draw attention to myself since I was sure she would stop what she was doing as soon as she saw I was watching. I looked at her face, and saw her lips moving occasionally, moving the rocks at the—

Oh, I see. She’s playing. The stones are little wallens or whatever.

I felt really dumb.

I looked up and realized Mrs. Pling saw her too. But instead of throttling her, she just looked away. Mrs. Pling was sad, I realized, and I wanted to tell her that it was OK, not everyone has to ace the test, not everyone has to succeed. But I suspected she would look at me as if I was speaking a foreign language.

***

Hey Lisa,

Sorry it’s been so long since the last letter. I’ve been trying
not
to write, actually, since I thought it might force me to live in the
now.
But earlier today we had a “special lunch,” and I don’t
want
to be a part of the now, or on Octavia at all...

We had flesh for lunch. There’s a small creature that lives on Octavia who, due to some old war grudge, is beaten to death (because the terror makes it more delicious, I am told) and cooked and eaten on certain holidays. And because I am a special guest they tried to give me an extra large serving. When I refused, I couldn’t keep the revulsion off of my face, and I felt like I was criticising the entire culture. Mr. Zik, my co-teacher and guardian angel, looked miserable.

Mulla mulla mulla.

So I’m glad to hear that you’ve decided to oppose the renovation of Minnora. At least one of us can do something — I feel completely powerless here, that anything I say or do is completely negated by my being an ignorant offworlder. “Renovating a planet” is just powerbroker-speak for making it economically compatible with Earth — it doesn’t seem nearly as ruthless when it’s done by remote control. I’ve seen my Mom bring down native governments during breakfast, and then express concern that I’m not eating well enough.

Unfortunately, I don’t have any contacts you can use. Maybe someday I’ll be able to stomach it for the length of time it would take to insinuate myself deep enough to do some damage, but don’t hold your breath.

Your second question: I would stay the hell away from Skaggs, and you know why.

My romantic prospects are, on the other hand, much better. Remember your prediction that I’d come back with an Octavian wife? It may yet come true. I’ve got a date tonight with a lovely, lovely silver-eyed young lady with the finest set of tentacles in the sector. So here’s the story:

I met her in the local bus station. We talked a little — her English was really good. I never expected her to call, but she did. She actually tracked me down. The first time I wasn’t in and she left a cryptic message saying that she “had so much to talk to me about.” The second time, I was just doing some studying — I think I may be up to the proficiency of a five year old! — and I answered, assuming it’d be a wrong number. (I get them often enough to know the Octavian for “You’ve made a vidphone mistake.”)

When her face coalesced before me, I swear, there was a joy shock-bomb in my chest. Her face went from unsure to a smile in nervous gradients. And she did, in fact, have a lot to talk to me about. The conversation was easier, in that sense, than it would have been with a reluctant Earthling.

Most of the questions were about Earth. The best thing was when she asked how many kids, on average, Earthling families have. “One-and-a-half,” I answered. Then, on a whim, I added, “One has no legs.” There was a second, and then she laughed! She
laughed
, Lisa! It was a pretty lame joke, I know, but nothing beyond slapstick had worked until then. The humour barrier has been broken! I repeat, ladies and gentlemen, the humour barrier has been broken!

So I have hope for this. And my hope, as well as being a bright and shining thing, has also a sticky and glistening side. In other words, I am also harbouring evil lusty thoughts. At one point, we discussed the biological complexity of a liaison between human and Octavian, as to whether or not the rumours were true or just another archaic half-truth perpetrated by exotic erotica. I recall, as I am sure you do, my blowing it off at the time — it was hard to imagine being intimate with someone who I couldn’t banter with.

But now, things have changed. I have found myself peering fruitlessly at the diagrams on my student’s biology tests. I could, of course, do a search myself, but I’m worried about being monitored.

Since you’re interested in all things pervy anyway, I figured I’d ask you to confirm or deny. Can a human and Octavian go at it?

My future is in your hands,

Sam.

***

An Octavian female stood before us, a small planet emerging from beneath her tentacles.

“She is making birth,” said Jinya.

“It looks very painful,” I said.

She laughed and hit me. “No! Is not real. She... is mother to Octavia... all Octavia.”

I nodded and we wandered on to the next sculpture. It was a wallen playing with a dolphin.

“Enemy,” she said, poking a tentacle at it.

I looked at the dolphin at different angles, trying to divine an element of evil to it. Nothing, not even big teeth, just that half-grin that humans once found so appealing.

“Many young people come here with their sweethearts,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Oh,” I said, unable to tell if that was a hint. She had suggested we come to the sculpture garden near her university dorm, and I had agreed to it — I would have agreed to anything. This was admittedly better than just anything, a public park with pretty cool sculptures: my first exposure to Octavian art.

The garden was an obviously good choice for a date. There were lots of opportunities for side glances, and the sea vegetal brush provided enough concealment for a brief touch or even a quick kiss.

She was wearing an Earth-style frock that I found really sexy — maybe because I was used to seeing people wear pants with it. It had a pocket in the front between small breasts that I just wanted to rub and push and rub.

We stopped in front of a blob with a square cut into it, me behind her. I glanced at the sculpture for a second and then looked at the back of her head, neck, shoulders. I was fascinated most by the wave of her crest flowing down the back of her head, how much the delicate ridges looked like hair. I imagined tracing a wide ridge with the pad of my smallest finger — would she shrink from my suctionless caress?

“Stupid,” she said, whipping around and catching me not looking at the sculpture. She smiled a small smile with downcast eyes, and her tentacles rose to cover her neck. “I don’t like that sculpture.”

“Me too,” I said.

Her tentacles slipped down eventually, as did my embarrassment. As they slipped past her pocket, she stopped suddenly.

“
My wallet is gone
,” she said in Octavian.

I made concerned noises and expressions. We went over to a bench and sat down.

“Yes,” she said, with calm resignation. “I think it is stole.”

Octavian pickpockets were notoriously good, for obvious reasons.