From Afar - Chapter 5

From Afar V

Tag flexed his hand. It was good to get the cast off, and with Kip’s prodding he’d regained most of his original strength. His healing hand had been one of his few tactile clues of passing time; otherwise his world hovered in a seemingly infinite sameness equal to the blackness of space outside the ship’s hull. Time on long space voyages was always an elusive concept, from the simple lack of prompts for a normal diurnal rhythm, to the intricacies of acceleration and space time mathematics. 

The computer calendar stated that six weeks of shipboard time had passed. The days had followed one after another in an identical pattern. They ate breakfast. Tag was instructed in the Saptans’ native language. They ate lunch and performed a combination calisthenic and meditative routine. Tag had more language instruction, and they ate dinner. Shipboard life always had its dull moments, especially for Tag, who was a mission specialist and not directly involved in the mechanics of spaceflight. He’d actually spent most of his time studying the social interaction of humans under close confinement, since they’d never found alien civilizations. 

“Breakfast.” It was Bist with his usual blunt exchange. The man was never quite rude or at least rude by Tag’s standards, but he wasn’t exactly friendly. Unlike the other Saptans, he didn’t touch, and Tag had caught him staring several times.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Very well.” Bist turned away from Tag’s bunk.

Tag wasn’t hungry. He always lost weight on long space voyages, less this time because Rast had made it clear that not eating violated some Saptan custom on collective responsibility, and Tag feared that should he decline, the Saptan would feed him. Tag was surprised that Bist had walked away; Rast or Kip would have dragged him into the circle. They were the ones who usually came and drew him closer to the others if he was hovering alone. 

Lak’s lengthy frame came into view, She brushed the hair off her face and glanced at Tag, her expression puzzled. Tag had given up trying to assign standard Alliance pronouns to Lak, Brin, and Tisp. The Saptan language had a non gender specific singular pronoun, as Tag’s native language had for the plural. It was still no clearer to Tag if they were male, female, some indescribable combination, or a complete unfathomable other. Six weeks of study had left him as baffled as the first day. He’d written in his research notes that the Saptans were not a sexually dimorphic species, but whether that was actually true, or an incorrect assumption based on limited information, was still unclear. When asked directly, they described themselves as ki or kwi, decidedly unhelpful terms as far as Tag was concerned.

Lak bent down and touched Tag’s cheek. Tag had become accustomed to this touching and no longer flinched. For the Saptans, it was no more intimate than a handshake or a bow. “Breakfast,” she said.

“I’m not hungry,” Tag repeated.

“You are expected to join us.” Lak’s eyes tracked over to where Rast was squatting.

“Is it forbidden to skip meals?” Tag silently groaned at the formality of the question. He wanted to know if he’d bring some kind of wrath down upon himself. He’d kept his head down for the last six weeks, doing what he was told, and had avoided any further reprimands or frightening ceremonies about submitting to the collective will. He wanted to know if Rast would punish him somehow for not participating in breakfast. Tag remembered the feel of Rast’s fingers pinching his skin and the warning that they were tactile beings. They seemed to have elaborate rituals to prevent hitting or striking anyone in anger, but Tag could not rule out some form of corporal punishment. The culture was deferential and rigidly structured; certainly human history provided models where this form was supported and maintained with punishment, including primitive corporal punishments. No, Tag scolded himself, primitive was incorrect. Primitive conjured up images of morally and technically inferior beings. Tag was not going to fall into the trap of judging all other civilizations against his own moral code. 

“It disturbs the collective.”

“In other words, Rast will be displeased.”

“It is Rast’s duty to maintain harmony, and he has noticed you have not joined the circle for breakfast. Come.” Lak reached out and touched Tag’s wrist. She still didn’t pull him from the bunk.

Tag tucked his arms close and turned away. “I’m not hungry.”

Surprisingly she left. Tag had expected her to prod him over to the rest. He should feel triumphant that he’d won a small battle, but instead he felt nauseated and suddenly alone.  He could hear the soft scrape of spoons and the gentle chatter of the Saptans. He’d never heard them raise their voices. He wondered what they would be talking about now. They’d taken turns telling him about their home regions. Lak came from the coast, a beautiful region from her lyrical descriptions of crashing waves and steep cliffs.

Tag shut his eyes and tried to ignore the sounds of breakfast. Was he missing the companionship? The room grew quieter as the Saptans drifted off to their tasks.

“Tag.” It was Rast’s voice, soft and musical. “Are you sick?”

“I wasn’t hungry. Is that not allowed?”

“Tag, you can answer that question. Get up. Bist will be instructing you today.”

“He doesn’t like me.”

“You are disturbing the seven.” Rast ran his hand down Tag’s neck. “Bist is correct that I’ve been giving you too much leeway. You will not miss any more meals. Get up now.”

Rast didn’t give Tag time to answer or resist. He wrapped his hand around Tag’s wrist and pulled him up. The pressure was just strong enough to be uncomfortable. Tag let himself be walked over to where Bist sat on the floor with a computer tablet. He felt disgruntled and discombobulated. He’d been focused on missing breakfast this morning, and he hadn’t combed his hair, which was hanging in his face. He would ask Kip to trim his hair. He didn’t want the shoulder length hair of the Saptans.

“Tag, your lesson is on the screen.” Bist passed the computer tablet to Tag, his eyes focused on the wall to Tag’s left.

It shouldn’t feel rude. Tag knew the Saptans didn’t make eye contact, but Tag could swear that Bist didn’t like him. He avoided Tag, and he didn’t touch. Even now, he was sitting with several centimeters between himself and Tag. For a New Terran or a Pastoon, it would be abnormally close, but for a Saptan it was like a chasm between them. When Kip or Rast taught, they draped a hand over Tag’s shoulders or on his knee. Rast was patient, too; he made up funny stories to help Tag learn the vocabulary.

Tag filled in the blanks on the computer--something to do with verb tenses. The computer blipped at him. He still had the wrong answers. Tag stared at the screen. He should ask Bist, but the man seemed lost in meditation. Kip was doing something with a computer; she’d been trying to reprogram the computer diagnostician to diagnose Saptans as well as humans. Tag had helped, not that he knew anything about medicine, but he had worked with Alliance computers. The work was interesting and didn’t have the feel of Rast trying to keep him busy. Saptan physiology was surprisingly similar to human.

“Kip,” Tag said, touching her lightly with his hand, as he’d found was the polite way to interrupt, “can you explain this?”

Kip looked over Tag’s shoulder, her fingers absently stroking his arm. “Bist can explain this.”

Tag looked over at Bist. He was sitting, unmoving, his hands wrapped around his ankles. Tag could figure it out alone. He was pretty sure where his error was. He turned to head back toward the silent Saptan.

“Taga, he’s been assigned to be your tutor. He’s well versed in our customs and our language. He’s from the north like Rast.”

Tag wasn’t sure what Kip meant. Bist didn’t act anything like Rast. Tag liked Rast. Surprised, he realized that he thought of Rast and Kip as friends. Bist he hardly knew. Quietly Tag returned to Bist’s side, squatted down, and cleared his throat softly.

“What do you need?” Bist’s eyes were focused on the far wall.

“I don’t understand this.”

“The program has a tutorial. Review it.”

Tag stared at the screen; angry and disjointed thoughts coursing through his brain. Things that he would never have said in the past now seemed to come tumbling out of his brain. “Why do you hate me? Kip and Rast always help. I hate it here.”

“You are a spoiled child. Rast favors you. You soothe his conscience. I don’t have time for his mind games.”

Bist’s cold words cut through Tag, and he turned his head to hide the tears that were inexplicably starting to fill his eyes. He clutched the tablet to his chest and stood up.

“We’re not done.”

“I’m done.” Tag managed to snarl the words, and he hoped he sounded tough instead of near tears.

“Sit down.” Bist grabbed Tag’s wrist.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Hasn’t Rast convinced you we touch?” Bist said.

“You never touch me.”

“You don’t reciprocate. You are not one of us.”

“I hardly know you. How can I be one of you? I’m not Saptan,” Tag said hotly.

“You don’t try?”

Tag bit back the swear words he wanted to shout at Bist. They were childish, a blind response to anger. Instead in a tight voice he answered, “You have hardly been welcoming.”

“I have not challenged your presence. Now sit down.” Bist put both his hands on Tag’s shoulder and gave a hard push.

Tag stumbled backward and tried to duck out from under the pressure. He crashed to the floor. He expected Bist to land on top of him, but there was nothing. He glanced up. Two sets of smooth legs were above him.

“Taga, are you hurt?”

“No, I just stumbled.” Rast’s hazel eyes looked down on Tag before looking away with aggravating Saptan politeness..

“You were fighting. Go see Kip and make sure you’re not hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“Go, Tagat.” Rast reached down and pulled Tag to his feet. Rast’s fingers traced down Tag’s cheekbones before he released Tag. “Go. Do not disobey.”

Tag went unhappily, but he went. Rast never raised his voice, but that tone chilled Tag. It carried an expectation that Tag didn’t fully understand of absolute obedience. They talked about a collective, but Rast wielded authority far beyond any human captain.

“Taga.” Kip draped her arm over his shoulder and stroked his neck gently with her other hand. “You do find trouble.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

Kip made some sound in her throat, maybe the equivalent of the human snort. “Taga, Bist is ki; it’s harder for him.”

“He doesn’t like me.”

“Give him time.”

“He’s friendly with Brin and Tisp.”

“They’re ki. He’s not friendly with Rast or with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’re kwi.”

“What does that matter?”

“It shouldn’t.” Kip ran her fingers throughTag’s hair. “Are you going to cut your hair or let it grow? I can cut it for you.”

Tag wanted to study Kip’s face, to try to find a reason for her sudden change of subject. Rast interrupted his thoughts with a sharp clap and a command to form a group. Bist stood next to Rast, his eyes cast down and to the side and his hands clasped in front of him palms up. Despite the posture of acceptance, his expression was brittle.

“Tag, do you have a complaint against Bist?”

“No.” Tag shook his head.

“He pushed you,” Rast said in that soft fierce way of his. “Uncontrolled violence is unacceptable among our people.”

“I tripped.”

“Lying is equally unacceptable. Do you dispute my knowledge of the the facts, Tag San K’Rast?”

Tag recognized the sudden switch to his formal name meant he had overstepped his bounds. “No, but it wasn’t serious.”

“Tag, disputes among the seven are not permitted.”

“He is not of the seven,” Bist said. “I challenge your right to make him one of our seven. He is si.”

A buzz circled the Saptans. Tag thought it might play the same role as a hiss in human society. From his study of the Saptan language, he recognized si as both the name and the pronoun for a fertile male. Tag didn’t understand the rules or customs, but he did recognize that there were no fertile females or males within the group.

Rast was pulling his shirt over his head. What were they doing? Were they going to fight? Tag looked at the swirling dark lines across the abdomen. Rast shucked his shorts down. Tag stared at the floor; no one else seemed surprised or offended.

“I am kwi as you all can see. As a kwi, I am uniquely qualified to select other kwi, ki, si, and ti. Tag San K’Rast is not si. He is unable to mate with a Saptan; the chromosomal numbers are not compatible. He is as incapable of fathering children as I am.”

“A si could not breed with a human,” Bist countered. “It does not make the si kwi or ki. Tag is reproductively capable, and more importantly he has a normal sexual drive. He is incapable of fully performing his assigned tasks.”

Tag stared at Bist, forgetting Saptan customs and politeness. He’d always been less sexually forward than his colleagues. Pastoons had arranged marriages; and he’d never developed a knack for New Terran courting rituals. He wasn’t sure if he’d never been interested or if he’d never been able to overcome his innate shyness, and now he was being accused of being a slave to his hormones.

“I selected Tag because of his lack of interest in sexual matters,” Rast said. “Tag is still a virgin. He is not si.”

Tag could feel a flush rise up his face. Rast was accurate. Tag was a virgin, but he didn’t discuss his sexuality in polite company. 

“Kip, are his testosterone levels normal for an adult male of the human species?” Bist asked.

“I have never tested other humans, but according to the references he is within normal range.”

“A si who grew up on New Terra would still be a si,” Bist said. “Tag is si and is therefore ineligible to be in our seven.”

“He is our seventh. Do you yield, K’Bist?”

“I do not.”

“Is this a challenge to your pod leader?” Rast asked, his eyes cast away from Bist.”

Bist crossed his wrist in front of him, opening his palms to the ceiling. “I follow the way of peace, but I cannot yield.”

“Very well.” Rast looked around at the group. 

The Saptans begin to walk within the circle. Tag watched the group, his own feet frozen in place. Kip moved immediately to Rast’s side. The twins looked first at Bist then at Rast before walking a complete circle around Rast and Bist and stopping to stand with Rast. Lak shifted from foot to foot, fine brown hair cascading over her face. Slowly she shifted toward Rast. Kip reached out and stroked her cheek. The Saptans turned their back on Bist.

“Aren’t you going to join them?” Bist asked.

“What happens to you?” Tag asked. 

Bist stood calmly, his head down, his wrists still crossed. “It will be up to Rast. It is not customary to speak to the opposing parties during the choice.”

“I am not customary.” Tag bit back a further sharp retort. He didn’t understand this ritual which somehow he’d found himself in the middle of again. “If I join them, you have to yield?”

“Yes.”

“Will you?” Tag asked, searching Bist’s face.

“I am Saptan; I do not violate the laws of my ancestors.”

“A human wouldn’t.” Tag walked toward Bist and turned his back on Rast. “I stand with K’Bist,” Tag said, his voice shaky.

“Why?”

Tag didn’t know. It hadn’t felt right, but that wasn’t a reason. Rast stepped forward. He ran his fingers through Bist’s hair. Bist appeared to hesitate before reciprocating.

“Until the next cycle,” Bist said.

“Until the next cycle,” Rast repeated and reached for Tag, pulling the human against him. He wrapped his hand around Tag’s neck. “I do not understand.”

Tag shrugged. 

“We will talk later.” Somehow that sounded ominous. Rast hadn’t changed his tone, but he was staring at Tag. “Bist, I am invoking Charter law.”

Tag thought he saw Bist stiffen, but when he spoke his voice was the usual clear singsong of a Saptan. “It is within your authority K’Rast.”

“I have made the declaration. Bist, you are in charge of Tag until further notice.”

“I oppose Tag’s inclusion in the seven.”

“You have made your point clear. Your position has no bearing on my choice. Must I remind you of the results of the consensus and that we are between cycles?”

“No, K’Rast.”

Tag wanted to blurt out that he didn’t want to study with Bist. That he should have a right to choose his tutor.

“There are consequences to your actions,” Rast said, looking directly at Tag. “You have made your choice.”

Rast was angry. It didn’t matter that his voice was gentle and that he twined his fingers in Tag’s hair. He was angry; his eyes had been frightening. He was punishing Tag.

“What is Charter law?” Tag asked.

“Disperse,” Rast demanded, ruffling his fingers through Tag’s hair a final time before walking away.

Tag stood, unsure where to go. Bist reached over and grabbed his wrist.

“Come.”

Tag wrenched his arm away. “You don’t like me.”

“I neither like nor dislike you. I cannot speak further of it. I have vowed to obey K’Rast until the next cycle, and he has ordered me to tutor you, which I will do.”

Bist did as he’d been instructed. He tutored Tag in the Saptan language, taking extra care that Tag understood each lesson, but he was not friendly. He spoke only of the lessons and answered Tag’s questions on grammar or syntax but avoided all other topics. Tag wondered about the length of a cycle. Kip had stood with him that first day, and they had yet to return to the topic. He hoped a cycle wasn’t the length of a year. From his studies, he’d learned that Saptan had no moon, so it was unlikely to be an equivalent of a month. In all the cultures Tag had studied, the calendar was based on celestial changes. Without a moon, a month would have no meaning.

Shipboard, without the moon and the seasons, the days passed with growing monotony. At least at even his most tedious desk job, Tag could watch the grasses outside his window, the lush spring shoots turning from emerald green to the light green and tight seed heads of harvest to the final dusty tan and brittle stalks of winter. Tag tried to focus on studying the Saptans and had copious notes which were incomprehensible when he reviewed them. Their culture was complex and baffling. Without a basic family unit to work from, Tag had little basis for comparing or understanding Saptan interpersonal relationships. Tags models were based on human cultural norms. 

Bist approached Tag in a manner that Tag could only describe as coldly polite. He made no more mention of Tag’s inadequacy as a member of the seven, but his manner never approached friendliness. Tag tried to get Kip to explain Saptan sexuality; she was a doctor after all, but she seemed more tongue tied than Tag’s parents over the mysterious appearance of babies. Tag wondered if Saptans had equally ridiculous myths about babies and the great wading birds. Somehow it seemed highly unlikely with their easy acceptance of nudity. Maybe he was incorrect over this assumption; it was only Rast that stripped off at the slightest whim.

Tag replayed that scene in his mind: Rast’s torso covered in those dark lines. He’d studied the pattern when Rast and Bist were having their showdown. Most of the deep browns had looked natural, but there had been fine swirls of green and red. These didn’t look like natural pigments. Birds had bright plumage that was often sexually dimorphic. Maybe the colors indicated that Rast was kwi?

Tag ran his fingers through his hair. This was pointless; he couldn’t speculate without more facts. If no one would answer his questions, he’d have to find out himself. He had access to their database, and the computer must have some form of translation. He spoke a smidgen of the Saptan language, but not enough for active research. Tag slid his fingers across his screen, entering the commands. The screen changed from the Alliance background to a pattern of geometric shapes and an unfamiliar interface with indecipherable icons. Tag clicked one randomly, and the screen filled with illegible Saptan script. He stared at the screen, unable to find even a means to return to his earlier screen.

Tag wasn’t sure how long he sat looking at an indecipherable screen before Bist came over.

“Can you read that?” 

The words were mild, deceptively mild for all Tag knew. He still had trouble reading the Saptans’ emotions. “No.”

Bist flicked his fingers diagonally across the screen and the Saptan icons reappeared. He made the same motion again, and it returned to the original screen. “You have been staring at an incomprehensible screen. That is a waste. What were you looking for?”

“What is si?”

“I cannot speak of it. We are between cycles.”

“How am I supposed to fit in, or do whatever it is that is expected of me when I understand nothing? I’m treated like an idiot schoolboy!” Tag didn’t care that his voice was rising. He wanted answers. He couldn’t get them on the computer.

“Tag, stop now.” Bist grabbed Tag’s shoulders, his long fingers splaying down Tag’s back. “Until the next cycle, Rast is the only one who can answer your questions. We are under Charter law. Return to your language study.”

Tag bit down on his lip. He wasn’t going to create an incident or give Bist any more reasons to look down at him. “Thank you. I will return to my studies,” Tag said as coldly as he could muster and shrugged out from under Bist’s hands.

Tag studied; it was his only outlet. The Saptan language had a rigid structure and grammar. Learning a language without even a single cognate was an exercise in raw memorization. Tag envied the ease with which the Saptans handled his language. He tried several times to read the Saptan computer screens, but each time it was an exercise in deciphering one or two words per screen. At least he now knew how to return to his earlier screen.

The days continued to pass in almost indescribable boredom. Tag studied. He ate his meals with the group. He engaged in an exercise program. Rast was distant; he still kept Tag next to him at meals, but Tag felt it was more to make sure he ate than to be friendly or sociable. The food had changed entirely to preserved rations. Before during long spaceflights, Tag had always grown herbs in his cabin under the artificial light. He’d tried to get some seed from the Orosian guard who checked on them every day. The Orosians spoke to Rast, Kip, and Bist, but they ignored Tag. Even the captain, who had the most knowledge of Tag’s predicament, turned away if he attempted a conversation.

Tag turned toward the group scattered on the floor. It was beef and potato day. He could smell the rations as he sat next to Rast. Saptans didn’t divide their meals into breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or at least they didn’t have different menus. On beef and potato day, they served beef and potatoes at all three meals.

“Here, Tag,” Rast pointed to the spot next to him. Tag sat and opened his meal: gray sludge. They could fly across the universe and couldn’t made appetizing portable rations. Tag ate, remembering the embarrassment of Rast feeding him, but now he wasn’t sure Rast would bother. Rast was detached, his touch perfunctory. And somehow--Tag really didn’t understand it--Rast was frightening. Bist kept his head cocked away from Rast when he spoke to him, and his voice rose to a high melodic pitch. Kip, who Tag had decided was Rast’s closest colleague, even seemed more restrained with him. She still touched Rast; she’d run her fingers through Rast’s wavy hair before sitting down to a meal, but Tag had seen her back off from arguments, turning deferentially away.

“Eat, Taga,” Kip said, her fingers playing down Tag’s arm.

Tag made a face. “It’s tasteless.”

“Are these not the same rations that were always available during space assignments?” Rast asked.

“I always dressed them up with something fresh that I grew in my cabin. The Orosians won’t talk to me.” Tag could hear the belligerence in his voice. “I’m sure they have seeds. No one goes on a long space voyage without making provisions for fresh food. Several Orosians on my last assignment maintained a colony of fluffy rodents for fresh meat. Did you tell them not to talk to me?”

Rast ignored the the final question. “Do you wish to engage in small scale farming? We have little space here.”

“I don’t want to eat gray food for a year.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange,” Rast said in a tone that Tag interpreted as professional disinterest. 

Tag stirred his food. They could all eat this stuff; he could too.

“Tag, with me,” Bist ordered as the lunch circle broke up.

“Why?”

“You are assigned to learn our language. We hope to create a dictionary before our arrival back in our home world.”

“It’s a make work project.”

“This forced inactivity is difficult for us all. For you it has been only a short time. We were confined on New Terra for over a year.”

Tag dragged himself up. He’d forgotten that the Saptans had been confined and were now just as limited and imprisoned as he was. “Sorry,” Tag muttered.

“Expressing your restlessness is not disallowed.”

“I don’t understand what is allowed and what isn’t,” Tag said, hitting his thigh with his fist in frustration.

“You’re si; you cannot understand the group dynamic.”

“I’m some kind of perverted sex fiend, so I cannot participate,” Tag hissed

“That is not what I said. You are intentionally misunderstanding me.”

“You don’t have to say it. You hate me,” Tag shouted, anger overtaking him. “You all hate me. Rast won’t even look at me.”

“You rejected Rast,” Bist said, closing his hand around Tag’s wrist and squeezing. “Be quiet. Rast has invoked Charter law.”

“Leave me alone.”

“No, I am responsible for you.”

“I’m a useless si.” Tag wanted to pull away, but Bist’s big hand engulfed his wrist.

“We are under Charter law. Do not create a scene.” Bist’s other arm was around Tag’s waist.”

“What is Charter law? I’m an anthropologist. How can I study your culture when no one answers my questions?”

“Sit with me, Taga.”

Tag would have struggled, but the use of the diminutive startled him into complying. Bist had always been formal, cold, almost rude with him, but the hand around his waist was warm, the contact gentle, and he was gently humming. A noise that Tag knew was meant to settle. Tag dropped on the floor, staring off to the cargo bay door where outside he knew the Orosians were busy flying this vessel. He brought up a hazy memory of the flight plan. He couldn’t remember the exact locations for the dimensional shits, but they’d had three so far. How much time had passed on New Terra and Pastoral? Had the government changed hands? Was this still an important project?

“Tag, are you with me?”

Tag felt a sharp prod between his shoulder blades.

“You humans don’t concentrate, or is this your particular fault?”

Was Bist trying to be funny, or was he being insulting? He couldn’t tell. Weeks with the Saptans, and he couldn’t read their most basic emotions. Bist was talking again. Tag needed to pay attention.

“Rast has declared Charter law. It is an ancient and rarely used tradition. With Charter law, Rast can avoid the consensus if he feels the integrity of the pod is at risk.”

Tag looked over at Bist. The Saptan looked serious; it didn’t look like he was talking gibberish, but that was how it had sounded. “The integrity of the pod.” These were the words of a politician, mindless phrases without meaning.

“This is a difficult time for all of us. Try to not create a disturbance.”

Tag shrugged. He didn’t know if Bist understood the human gesture, but he didn’t care. Bist acted as if the stress was Tag’s fault. Tag hadn’t asked to be made part of the seven and then have it declared that it was impossible because of some intrinsic fault. He hadn’t asked to be enclosed in a tiny prison with the Saptans and their incomprehensible culture. They needed to make allowances for the stranger. He was the alien, Tag realized with a shudder. This was an Alliance vessel, but he was the alien--condemned to be a stranger, a foreigner, an exotic experiment for all eternity.