Shalia's Diary (7 page)

“And after the five years?”  I was impressed that the Earther empress had that much clout on Nayun’s world.  I’d thought Jessica McInness had no function but to give birth to the heir to Kalquor’s throne.

“Then they’ll revisit the question.  What happens then will be determined by how well our respective populations are doing.”  He chuckled.  “I wouldn’t worry too much about it, little one.  Empress Jessica is most adamant that Earth women not be forced to join clans, and it is only the bravest of council members who dare to naysay her.”

I felt bad that I’d produced a film on the treachery of Jessica McInness and how her joining the Imperial Clan had endangered Earth, sending us to war with Kalquor.  A lot of what I’d put onto vid had been pure fabrication, designed to make her seem the worst sort of person who’d ever drawn breath.  Now that I knew she’d gone to bat to protect the rest of us, it made me feel very small.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve ever done the universe any good at all with my presence.

“If I go to Kalquor, I’ll be expected to join a clan, won’t I?” I pressed.

Dr. Nayun nodded after a moment’s hesitation.  “You will be part of our new lottery system.  Prospective clans who find your profile agreeable will meet with you in hopes of attracting you to join them as their Matara.  There are many clans and few Earther women going to Kalquor, so you would be inundated with offers.”

“And if I don’t like any of them?”

“If you have not selected a clan within two years, you will be asked to leave our planet.”

I was pretty done in after fifteen minutes on my feet, and Dr. Nayun sent me back to bed.  I had a nap, then dinner.  Now Mom is in here with me, getting ready to get some sleep while I struggle with what to do with our futures.

Option A:  Go to a colony.  Be among my own kind again.  And what would I find there?  More of the Church’s adherents, still holding to the ways that destroyed Earth?  A lawless, survival-of-the-fittest society in the wake of Earth’s destruction?  One thing I knew wouldn’t be available on an Earther colony would be adequate care for Mom.  There would be no cure.  She’d descend ever deeper into dementia, absolutely dependent on me for everything.

Option B:  Go to Kalquor.  Fix Mom’s bipolar disorder and potentially, her dementia.  But that means fielding offers from clans for two years.  No way would I want to be the sex partner to three horny men.  I didn’t like it when I had to screw the one.  That made me feel dirty enough.  If I never have sex ever again, it will be too soon.  So I’d be exiled and forced to go to a colony in the end.  How would I be received by my fellow refugees after living with the enemy for two years?  Not very well, I’m sure.  I keep thinking of those two women hanging from the tree with the word ‘Whore’ nailed into their chests.

Option C:  Go somewhere else.  Yeah right.  A Dantovonian brothel?  I think we’ve covered how I feel about intimate relations.  Bi’is?  Sure, they are always happy to have servants come to their space.  However, they have a habit of killing those who don’t do every single thing according to strict ritual.  I know me.  I’ll fuck up sooner or later, and no more Shalia.  Joshada?  Sorry, but I’m not living like an ancient pioneer with manual hand tools and no technology.  Out of all the civilized planets of the Galactic Council, I can’t think of a single place out there that will suit me and Mom.

Damn it.  What am I going to do?

September 8

Still no more visits from Dramok Dusa.  I guess he wasn’t interested in seeing me again after all.  Too bad; I have a brush and some makeup now. 

Now here is one of the funny things about Kalquorians.  I’ve heard more than one say how they don’t understand why we Earther women would cover our natural beauty with cosmetics (insert eyeroll here), yet they keep a supply for those of us who want it.  It’s been deemed a necessity for our emotional well-being.  I’ve talked to the specialist in charge of Mom, ANOTHER nice Kalquorian named Ginna.  Seriously, where are the asshole Kalquorians?  Either there are none or these guys are phenomenal actors.  Anyway, Ginna says they’ve found a direct correlation between us ladies who like to wear makeup being able to do so and our outlook on the world and how we see ourselves.  If it lifts our moods, the aliens aren’t going to argue with us even though they don’t get it.

Anyway, Ginna is the psychiatrist who looked over Mom and formally diagnosed the chemical imbalance and slight brain abnormalities as bipolar disorder (which are currently masked by her dementia).  He’s pretty certain both conditions can be corrected on Kalquor.  My dilemma grows.  How can I not take Mom there just because I’m afraid of being courted by clans and the fallout when I end up on an Earther colony?  Is it selfish to be afraid of the certainty that I’ll be ostracized by my own people ... or worse?

As crazy as it sounds, it was almost easier to be in hiding and wondering where our next meal was coming from.  When you have only one option in life, it makes things pretty damned simple.

I got out and about again today.  Nayun brought in a hover chair this morning and showed me how it works.  I’m to exercise a little more each day and get my strength back, but when I’m not on my feet I can scoot around in my chair.  It is so nice to not be stuck in bed for a change.

My big excursion was going to the dining hall for lunch with Mom.  The Kalquorians have figured out how to feed us with efficiency.  There are a couple of computers at each table showing meal selections.  You can see what other diners who have eaten before you are recommending.  Based on that, I knew to stay away from bywes and eat the baked chicken instead.  All the Kalquorian food was rated low.  I guess their tastes aren’t in tune with ours, another strike against going to their planet.

The dining hall was pretty full when we got there.  Imdiko Weln, in charge of Mom until she went to her round in the rec room, steered us towards a table with three other women about my age.  He shifted some seats to make room for my hover chair and stepped back a discreet distance to let us eat with our own kind.

I didn’t miss how our tablemates glared at him.  I didn’t really understand it.  Weln is as friendly-looking a guy as you could hope for, and he treats Mom like she’s his own parent.  In fact, I’m ashamed to admit that he treats her better than I do.  The man has the patience of a saint.

The three women Mom and I sat with dropped their scowls when they turned to me and Mom.  They oozed niceness.

“Hello Eve.  You’re looking good today,” the honey blonde sitting next to me said.  She looked like a soccer mom.  Her hair was curled just so, and I’d swear she was wearing fake eyelashes.  I mean, no one has that many lashes, do they?  I didn’t feel quite so high maintenance with my dash of mascara and lipstick.

“Thank you,” my mother said.  “My daughter Shalia is taking me out for my birthday.”

I smiled, a little embarrassed.  It’s not Mom’s birthday.  Where she got that idea, I couldn’t tell.

The blonde winked at me.  “Well, that’s so sweet of her!”  She leaned over to whisper in my ear.  “She tells us it’s her birthday every day.”  Then she sat up straight.  “I’m glad to meet you, Shalia.  My name is Fran.”

I shook her hand.  “So you’ve gotten know my mom pretty well, I take it.”

Another woman sitting across from me smiled.  She was brunette, with her shining dark hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.  Lip gloss seemed to be her only vice.  With her features, she didn’t need any more help than that.  “Eve sits with us for lunch every day.  My name is Patty.”

“And I’m Deirdra,” the third, a chestnut brunette volunteered.  She sat next to Patty.  She had that perfect, polished look that said she was wearing a lot of makeup, but so expertly applied you couldn’t tell.

Okay, I admit I felt very much the ugly duckling in the midst of swans.  I’d made good money in my job, enough to afford things many couldn’t.  But these women were the country club set.  Their clothes looked designer, and they wore them like people who were used to that kind of thing ... not like they’d looted the outfits after Armageddon.  They’d probably never worked a day in their pampered lives.  Eek.  Let the self-esteem plummet.

Mom punched her lunch choices into the computer, and Patty waved her hands.  “Oh no, we were so busy talking we didn’t keep an eye on her!  What did you pick out to eat, Eve?”

“Ronka and pilchok and mashed potatoes with gravy,” Mom said with glee.  “It’s my birthday.”  She clapped her hands in delight.

Fran blew out a breath.  “Turn your back on her for an instant and she orders that Kalquorian poison.”  She glanced at Weln, and a snarl marred that oh-so civilized face.  In a whisper she added, “Those animals.  It’s bad enough they want to rape us all to give them monster babies.  Why do they have to tempt the defenseless who can’t serve their sinful lusts as well?”

I was a little shaken.  She might have been quoting from one of my films.  It actually raised the hair on my arms to see such continued blind devotion to the now-erased government/Church mantra.

“Order the baked chicken, Shalia,” Deirdra said.  It sounded like an command.  “It’s much better than that alien slop.”

I could feel the antipathy boiling off my companions.  I wasn’t too crazy about being told what to eat, not by this pageant bunch anyway.  But I hadn’t had Kalquorian food.  Nayun had kept me on a diet of soft foods I was used to as I recuperated.  I didn’t know if I’d care for alien cuisine.

Another consideration was this:  was what I ate for lunch worth fighting about?  In all the realm of moral issues, I thought diet ranked pretty low on the list.

So I ordered the stupid chicken.  While the women around me chattered about the merits of the various colonies and the men they might find there to take care of them (I kid you not), I choked down the overcooked meat, rendered palatable by the admittedly delicious gravy that came with my mashed potatoes.

Meanwhile, Mom’s food smelled delicious, and she looked happy as a clam chowing on it.  Fran, Patty, and Deirdra pointedly kept their eyes averted as she devoured her alien meal.  I wondered if they’d ever bothered to try it themselves.

I couldn’t take it.  Finally I said, “I’d really like to know what it is she’s putting in her stomach.”  I pretended to scowl with concern.  “Mom, may I try a bite of your food?”

Next to me, Fran shuddered.  “Now that’s love.  Putting yourself on the line for your poor mom.”

Thankfully oblivious to the disgust her food choices engendered, Mom pushed her plate towards me.  “Sure!  The ronka first, Shalia.  Pilchok is more like a dessert, though they say it’s meat.”

The ronka was in bite-sized chunks, a deep brown with bluish veins – or something that looked like veins – running through it.  It smelled amazing, but I eyed it with some distaste.  Some things you don’t want to eat just because they don’t look right.  Ronka had that look.

Smell won out.  I speared a piece with my fork.  Before I could think much more about it, I shoved it into my mouth and started chewing.  My face was all scrunched up as I waited to taste something along the lines of sewage.

Good heavens.  Kalquorians may not be able to cook chicken, but they can cook the hell out of ronka, whatever it is. 

Imagine the most perfectly seasoned, perfectly cooked filet mignon you’ve ever eaten.  Now imagine meat even richer tasting and practically melting in your mouth.  Ronka is twice as good as that.  Seriously. 

The Pageant Trio watched me breathlessly, as if expecting me to burst into flames at any moment.  They were on the edges of their seats, waiting for my face to rot before their eyes as the ronka spread its evil pestilence through my body.

Stupid cows.

I still wasn’t willing to get into it with anyone over food, however.  For all I knew, I’d end up on a colony with them as my next door neighbors.  Heaven help me.  So I swallowed my delicious bit of paradise and said, “I think it’s okay.  At least they didn’t cook it into sawdust.”

Tanned shoulders slumped, and I was given looks of supreme motherly disappointment, like I’d shown them a report card that wasn’t all A’s.  Screw them.  I was really looking forward to the pilchok now. 

The chunk I took from Mom’s plate certainly looked like meat, kind of like pork dipped in gold.  But it’s texture was more dessert-like.  It flaked, like pastry.  And it was sweet.  Dip it in chocolate sauce, and I would eat it until I blew up.