From Afar - Chapter 6

From Afar VI

Tag didn’t understand why it had started. It had been an ordinary day. Tag was watering the small pots that now lined one of the empty bunks. The plants weren’t big enough for any fresh food, but soon, Tag had thought, stroking the parsley leaves. Bist had come over and asked Tag if he’d finished with the list of prefixes, and instead of answering not yet, or more truthfully, that he hadn’t started, Tag had hurled the plant at Bist. In seconds they were both rolling on the floor.

Tag ran his tongue over his lip, tasting the warm, salty blood trickling from the scrape. He could feel his right eye swelling; he’d have a spectacular shiner by morning. He’d thought he gotten a few thumps in on Bist before Rast had dragged them from the floor by the scruff of their necks to the far corner of the room. Tag concentrated on staying upright. Rast was pushing them so quickly that Tag had twice nearly stumbled over his own feet.  

They reached the far wall; it wasn’t a long journey. Bist dropped to his knees, his head on the floor. 

“Do you not feel at fault?” Rast’s voice sounded strained as if he were fighting to keep it even. 

Tag struggled, wanting to look both at the Saptan’s face and at the floor in absolute shame. Of course he was at fault; he was the one who had thrown the plant.

“You have been with us almost one cycle. Have you learned nothing of our ways?” Rast dropped his hand from Tag’s neck. “Go. I was wrong.”

“No, it was my fault. I started it. I threw the wretched plant.”

“Do you accept your responsibility?”

“Yes, K’Rast.”

“The seven do not fight. It destroys the pod.” Rast pointed at the floor.

Awkwardly, Tag sank to his knees. At least from this position he didn’t have to look at the obvious fury on Rast’s face.

“K’Rast, you can’t do this. Tag doesn’t know,” Bist said.

“He is as responsible as you are. He is a member of this seven despite both your objections.”

“It’s my fault,” Tag protested, rising up on his knees. “I threw the plant. Bist didn’t do anything.”

“You are both culpable by Saptan standards,” Rast said.

“This is not his way,” Bist said. “He will not understand.”

“You should have explained. He was your responsibility. Are you in disagreement that this is deserved?”

“No, K’Rast.” Bist touched his forehead to the floor and then rose. He walked over to a storage locker and pulled out a small flat box. Deliberately he returned to Rast, each footfall a measured step, and dropped to one knee.

Rast ran his two middle fingers along the top of the box, opening a hidden lock with a click. He drew out a long leather strap. Bist set the box down and bent forward touching the strap with his forehead. Rast placed the strap back in Bist’s open hands and held his right arm forward. Silently Bist wrapped the strap around Rast’s forearm before rising and shucking his own shirt. He reached a hand over to Tag and pulled the human to his feet.

“Take your shirt off,” Bist said, the muscles rippling in his abdomen as he reached to catch the hem of Tag’s shirt. Like Rast, his abdomen was covered in dark swirls, but unlike the green and red lines on Rast, Bist had green and red along with traces of purple. Despite the thick dark hair on his head, his chest was completely smooth and hairless.

“Face the wall and lean on your hands.” Rast’s voice was flat, almost mechanical.

Tag stared at him. Rast was going to hit him. They had hinted that they were a tactile people. Tag had speculated about corporal punishment in their culture, but Tag hadn’t imagined they would actually whip him. 

“Taga, turn to the wall,” Bist said in the high singsong which Tag had learned to associate with an effort to reassure. “Rast has experience with this. He won’t hurt you anymore than he must.”

“My people haven’t used public whipping in generations,” Tag said, not able to draw his eyes from the long lash coiled in Rast’s palm.

“Your people merely kidnap their own citizens and lock them in cells to hurt themselves,”  Bist said, stroking his fingers down Tag’s back.

Tag started to protest.

“Isn’t that what they did to you?” Bist asked. “Locked you in a room with no information?”

“I volunteered,” Tag said through gritted teeth.

“You volunteered to travel with us to our world. You didn’t volunteer to be completely and abruptly isolated from your own people. You didn’t volunteer to be subjected to our laws and our customs.”

“I expected to have to obey your laws,” Tag countered.

“But our laws include corporal punishment,” Bist continued. “From your reaction, I’m sure that wasn’t expected.”

Tag shook his head. He should have seen this conclusion. It was so far from his realm of normalcy that he hadn’t allowed himself to see it as a real possibility. His hands trembled as he placed them on the wall. He felt a hand play through his hair in the mutual grooming that the Saptans engaged in.

“Rast has done this before. He’ll be kind.”

Tag didn’t have a chance to absorb that statement when he felt Rast’s slimmer hand against his shoulder. He shivered at the touch.

“Within the seven, we do not fight. It is a violation of our most ancient laws and principles. We are alone here, at great risk, and under unusual stress. No one can adversely affect group harmony. It is the harmony that will allow us to stay alive. Stay still.”

The hand left his shoulder and Tag braced for the first blow, but it didn’t come.

“K’Rast, he’s si. You cannot do this. Charter law only applies to ki and kwi.”

“Your interpretation is incorrect. It is applied to all within the community. It has always been applied to si the most harshly as they always live under its rules. However, the cycle is not complete; do you also violate the consensus?”

“I honor our laws.”

“Then we will not discuss Tag’s place within the seven. It is an accepted fact until the next consensus. K’Tag, do not look around.”

The lash skittered across Tag’s shoulders, leaving a trail of biting fire.

“K’Bist, you recognize that fighting is always a violation of our path and carries a severe penalty?”

“I do, K’Rast, and I grant you permission.”

Tag wished contradictorily that he could either see or flee to the farthest corner of the room and close his eyes and cover his ears like a small child. Rast’s footsteps were nearly silent behind him, and he could hear Bist’s quiet breathing next to him, seemingly relaxed and calm in face of promised painful punishment. The whip slashed through the air with a faint whistle and an understated crackle against Bist’s back. The slightest hiss escaped from Bist’s mouth. Tag tensed, feeling the sinews in his neck strain as the sound repeated itself--now five times. Bist grunted at the sixth stroke and yelped when Tag had counted ten.

Tag shut his eyes, willing himself to be anywhere but with his hands pressed against the bulkhead and his eyes screwed tightly shut. He’d never been struck in childhood; Pastoons were pacifists. His father would look at him with sad eyes and deliver another weary lecture, but he never struck him. 

All he could hear was Bist’s raspy breathing. He turned his head slightly, just catching Bist and Rast out of the corner of his eye. Bist stood, his forearms and head resting on his wall. Rast was close, almost touching. Tag couldn’t see Bist’s back, but he could imagine the welts and the blood.

“Take care of Tag,” Bist said, his voice hoarse.

Tag felt the hand on the back of his neck. “Don’t move.” 

The lash landed with an explosive sting, a line of thin fire from shoulder to shoulder. Tag heard a scream. It had to be him making the noise, but he didn’t remember the sound coming from his throat. His hands left the wall, powered without his brain, and he spun around.

“Hold on to my shoulders, Taga,” Bist said with a precise calm that was both deeply reassuring and unavoidably direct.

Tag rested his hands on Bist’s shoulders, clingy to the slightly sweaty skin. Bist’s arms wrapped around his hips. The whip struck his back again as soon as he was in place, a searing sizzle across his skin. Tag remembered his encounter with the ground hornets’ nest. He’d been plowing a field and suddenly blinding pain. His father had grabbed him, hoisted him over his shoulder, and run for the lake. His father had plunged into the icy waters fully dressed and dunked the both of them. Neither Bist nor Rast was saving him from the fierce sting; instead, Bist held him close, and Rast laid down the lashes. 

Tag lost count of the blows. There couldn’t have been more than six, one right after another. It lasted less than a minute, but his back felt like someone had doused it in kerosene and lit a match. Someone’s hand was in his hair; Tag didn’t know whether it was Rast’s or Bist’s. He tried to stop the tears that were flowing unbidden down his face. Bist had hardly made a sound; Tag was shaking and sobbing.

“The first time is always the worst.” Bist voice had taken on that peculiar humming tone of a Saptan trying to comfort. “You did well.”

This had happened to Bist before! He had practice in this terrible ritual.

“Turn around and do what I do,” Bist said, his forehead resting briefly against Tag’s. 

Bist dropped to one knee, tugging gently to encourage Tag into the same position. Rast knelt down opposite and stroked Bist’s right cheek and then his left cheek; Bist mirrored the gesture. Rast made the same light stroke across Tag’s face. Tag struggled to resist the urge to pull back. This was the man who had hurt him.

“Touch him,” Bist said. “It marks the end of the incident.”

Tag forced his hand forward and touched Rast’s cheek. He hated this, how he had to participate in a ritual that he didn’t understand. He didn’t forgive Rast; his back stung like a thousand nettles, and he dreaded pulling his shirt back over the tender skin. He’d submit; he’d had no other choice.

“Have Kip look at your backs,” Rast said, remaining kneeling but making a motion with his hand indicating they should rise.

Bist pulled Tag to his feet, taking his shirt as well as Tag’s from the floor. The others came over, more subdued than Tag had ever seen the Saptans. The twins were usually pushing and at least to the human eye groping at each other, but they walked over shoulder to shoulder, their hands clasped behind their backs. First Brin and then Tisp touched Rast’s cheek. Rast flicked his eyes toward Tag and touched Tag’s cheek in the same manner as Brin and Tisp. That must have been a signal because each remaining Saptan ran two fingers from Tag’s cheekbone to his chin.

Tag wanted to vanish through the floor. He still had ignoble tear tracks splotching his face, and these people were offering him sympathy when all he wanted was privacy and a chance to lick his wounds. He could feel a flush rising up his cheeks, and he ducked his head, ashamed at his weakness. Bist caught both Tag’s wrists in his one large hand, halting them in the middle of the room.

“Rast has made it abundantly clear that he considers you part of the seven; accept the mark of unity.” Bist touched Tag’s face and then both shoulders in a motion reminiscent of the ancient tradition of making the sign of the cross. “I am ki. This is harder for me than for you.” Bist’s lips touched each place which he’d previously touched with his fingers.

“You northerners,” Kip said, dropping a hand on both their shoulders and herding them toward the corner she used as the infirmary. “Hop up.” She pointed Bist at the table.

This was the first time Tag had seen Bist’s back. It was covered in fine raised lines, evenly spaced from his shoulders to the top of his shorts. A trace of red droplets clung to the welts as they crossed the dark swirling pigment of Bist’s back.

“He was careful,” Kip said. Tag wasn’t sure is she was speaking to him or to Bist. “There will be no scarring.”

“He is not Taz. We may not always agree, but he is always careful.”

“Have you decided about the consensus?”

“You know you cannot ask me.”

“You are always correct.”

“I am ki, and I’m from Zastar provence. We uphold the traditions.”

Kip touched Bist’s neck and sprayed a topical anesthetic across the vivid welts. “Your traditions are painful.”

Tag saw Bist’s shoulders and spine relax as the spray took hold.

“They are all our traditions.”

“In Kastan, physical punishment has not been used within living memory.”

“We are not in Kastan. I agreed to the punishment, and it was deserved.”

“You have a history--”

Bist interrupted before Kip could continue. “My history is not relevant. K’Rast is never capricious or cruel.”

“D’Tan was your friend and ki.”

“It is no longer relevant. Take care of Tag. This was his first time.” Bist slipped from the table and pulled his shirt over his broad shoulders as if nothing had happened.

“Stubborn,” Kip said under her breath. “Let me have a look at you.” Kip coaxed Tag up onto the table. “He was careful with you; the welts are small.” Kip sprayed a cooling mist on Tag’s back. “Tag,” Kip said, her hand brushing down his shoulder, “Rast didn’t want to do this. He thought invoking Charter law would prevent it. Bist understood the ramifications.”

“I attacked him.”

“He should have prevented it. We are all responsible for maintaining the collective harmony. Now put your shirt on and finish your lessons.”

Collective harmony. It was all back to normal as if nothing had happened. Rast had hit him. Tag balled his hands into fists, trying to hide his emotions. He could pretend cool and collected as well as anyone. 

Tag jumped from the table when he felt Kip’s hand on his wrist; her grip was easily as firm as Rast’s.

“It’s over now. You have to find the peace within yourself. No one thinks any less of you because it happened.”

Tag forced himself to nod. He’d been beaten, and they were all OK with it. It wasn’t OK. It was wrong. He couldn’t maintain his objectivity. Anthropologists should not judge other cultures by their own standards, but it was wrong to hit: barbaric and cruel. What else did the Saptans do? Engage in blood sports, push their elderly off cliffs, drown innocent kittens, cut off prisoners’ hands and gouge their eyes out?

“Tag, what are you thinking?” Kip stroked his cheek. “You don’t understand?”

Tag knew it was a question. He understood. Don’t make trouble. He was good at that, being nearly invisible in a crowd. “I started a fight. It is most inadvisable behavior in close confinement. I understand that.”

“Corporal punishment is taboo in your culture?”

“Pastoons are pacifists.”

“You were rolling around on the floor trying to punch Bist. I thought pacifists refrained from force in all situations. You were a member of the Alliance space services. They are a paramilitary organization. I have watched your Orosians; they are not pacifists.”

“I left Pastoon. I officially gave up my designation as a pacifist.”

“You are no longer an avowed pacifist; therefore, it is not fundamentally wrong for Rast to use corporal punishment on you.”

“No... I don’t know.” Tag rubbed his face. Kip was usually easy to talk with, but this conversation was confusing.

“You intentionally broke your hand. Physical pain clearly has an effect on you. Your neurotransmitters are similar to ours. Your back should hurt far less than your own self-inflicted wound.”

Tag wanted to walk away. He didn’t want to have this discussion, but Kip had a firm grip around his wrist. 

“Did Rast hurt you?”

“It hurt,” Tag said defensively, staring at the carpet. He hadn’t really studied it before. It was some odd shade of lavender. Tag wondered if the Saptans had chosen the color or if it were some special or overstock. Half off. Get your lavender carpet now.

“You broke your own hand; Rast stung you a few times with the end of the lash. By tomorrow, you will not even have any marks.”

“He hit Bist harder.”

“Bist understands and accepts. Rast rescued Bist.”

“They hate each other.”

“No, they are both stubborn, and both Rast and I are kwi. D’Tan was ki.”

“Does that matter?” Tag asked in confusion. He knew there were two neuter sexes, but he didn’t understand the difference. At best guess, he thought it was age. The only problem with that theory was he guessed Bist was at least Rast’s age.

“It is a difficult and inglorious reminder of our past,” Kip said, her head cocked off to one side. “Come sit with me.” She pulled Tag down next to her and ran her hand through his hair. “Rast or Bist are the historians in this group; they could explain it better.”

“Rast won’t talk to me anymore,” Tag burst out in frustrations, “and Bist has never talked to me.”

“You sided with Bist at the last consensus and rejected Rast’s position. He was trying to protect you, and I believe metaphorically in your own colloquialisms, you spat in his face.”

Tag stared at Kip, forgetting momentarily that Saptans avoided direct eye contact. “I didn’t want Bist forced to concede.”

“We are not understanding each other.” To Tag’s surprise, Kip touched his forehead and his right in left shoulder in the same ritual pattern Bist had used earlier with Rast, and then she kissed his forehead. “We all thought you had rejected your role in the seven. We need you as much as you need us. You will not survive out here alone, and Rast will not let you fail.”

“I don’t understand.” Tag wanted nothing more than to hide his face against her chest in some primitive, comfort seeking gesture not yet extinguished by years of restrained, civilized behavior.

“Taga.” Kip’s hand stroked his hair. “Rast saw your standing with Bist as rejection and repudiation of him.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I can see that now. You were afraid that Rast might force Bist to yield and accept something he didn’t believe?”

“Yes.”

“Bist would have yielded, not because he’s afraid of Rast, he isn’t, but because it is our custom. We believe in consensus and unanimity.”

“Bist shouldn’t have to sacrifice his own beliefs.”

“I don’t think he’d agree, and you shouldn’t make that decision for him.”

“You stood with me about D’John. I don’t understand the difference.”

“You are new to our ways. I had hoped by the next cycle you would understand Rast’s reasoning. Bist’s disagreement with Rast was far more serious. Rast was very tolerant with him; most pod leaders would not have let it go to consensus. Bist is ki. They would have forced Bist to yield. He advocated for your rejection from the seven.”

“I am not Saptan. I don’t understand your ways. My choices are always wrong.”

“I can see that, and you are angry, scared, frustrated--a dangerous combination. Even Bist is worried now.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I had to practically pry his hand off you to examine him and watch him now.”

Bist was standing close to Rast, as close as Tag had ever seen the two of them stand, their heads almost touching, Rast’s fingers intwined with Bist’s. 

“They don’t touch,” Tag said surprised.

“They will today. Rast has to reassure himself that Bist is all right. Everyone will touch more today; the collective has been disturbed for several weeks.”

“That was my fault,” Tag said softly.

“I have read your ancient myths and religious beliefs. Guilt is a powerful motivator for your people. Your presence has made life within the pod temporarily more difficult, but it has also provided riches that cannot be expressed with mere words. You will see. Accept that you are an integral part of the seven. I think your culture’s word for it would be that you are loved. Even Bist has acquiesced to your presence.

“How do you know?”

“Watch him.”

Rast and Bist were sitting on the floor, a tablet balanced on their knees, but they spent little time looking at it. Rast’s lips were moving; he had to be talking to Bist. Bist was watching the twins sprawled casually on the floor with the tokens to a game that they played for innumerable hours. Frequently either Rast or Bist’s eyes would gaze in their direction before looking away.

“They’re watching us,” Tag said.

“Bist more than Rast. Bist is making it very clear to me that he considers you in his protection. He’s trying to determine if I’m taking proper care of you.”

“I don’t need taking care of. I’m an adult,” Tag said with sudden defensiveness.

“We all need taking care of; we are a collective. You must learn that, or you will feel Rast’s whip again.”

Tag involuntarily shuddered. His back felt pain free now, the local anesthetic had done its work. Still he remembered standing with his hands pressed against the wall, the blinding sting of the whip, the interminable wait for the next strike, both the wishing for it to be quicker and for it to not fall at all.

Kip ran her hand across Tag’s neck, humming softly. “It won’t happen soon; Bist won’t let it. You should return to him; he’s anxious.

“No.” Bist had seen his cowardly whimpering against the wall, had been forced to hold him so he could endure the lash. He wasn’t ready to face him. “Tell me about the differences between ki and kwi. Why is their animosity between them?”

“I cannot speak of the si. You understand that?”

“It cannot be spoken of until the next cycle,” Tag said by rote. If only he knew when the next cycle was.

“Rast and I are kwi. The rest of the pod members are ki, except for you of course.”

“What am I?”

“I am not sure, but I believe you might be a form of ki. Different from Saptan ki but still ki.”

“Bist said I was si.”

“I cannot speak of that,” Kip warned. “A ki is born without a specific sex, incapable of reproduction. I have heard you struggle to find the correct pronoun in your language, and you are correct that no form is correct. They are not a castrated animal like your beasts of burden or your pets; they are truly gender neutral. I think perhaps you are gender neutral, even though unlike our ki, you were born with a complete complement of sexual hormones, chromosomes, and reproductive organs.”

Tag blinked, stunned by her words. “I’m a male. I just haven’t chosen to develop a close relationship with a woman.”

“You haven’t chosen, or you cannot imagine or even fathom it with either a man or a woman? I do understand that a percentage of your population has an attraction to the same sex despite its guarantee of reproductive failure.”

“A relationship doesn’t have to be driven by reproduction.”

“I believe the emphasis on reproduction is your people’s, not mine. ‘The need to reproduce is the primary driver for all species.’ I have found that in almost all your biology texts.”

“Without reproductive success, a species cannot exist. There is no evolutionary advantage to having a large portion of your population sterile.”

“It has worked well for us.”

“I am not Saptan.”

“No, but our species might share more common heritage than you wish to believe. It is why we were met with fear and trepidation by your own people.”

“I’ve seen Rast without his clothes; he is not human.” Tag thought of the strange orbs that must be testicles.

“No, he is not; he is Saptan and kwi as am I. However, the differences may be as much cultural as chromosomal. We come from planets that are many light years apart, but we share many similar characteristics.”

The anthropomorphic principle, Tag thought. All worlds suitable for life would develop life similar to ancient Earth.

“Kwi is a choice he made,” Kip continued. “He was born si, and I was born ti.”

The four sexes. That explained it. Kwi was some kind of artificial creation--a neutered sentient being, Tag thought with a shiver. “Why would you make such a choice?”

“You chose to leave your own world, I expect, for many of the same reasons. I wasn’t attracted to home, hearth, and family, and Rast dreamed of the stars.”

“Si or ti don’t leave the home world?”

“No, of course not. We wouldn’t put them at risk.”

“A si cannot be a member of a seven?”

“They have their own way,” Kip replied.

“They cannot leave the home world? They do not control their own destiny?”

“Their primary duty is reproduction. The ki and kwi provide for them. They have no desire to leave the home planet.”

Kip had just dismissed an entire portion of the Saptan population as nothing but reproductive units. “Can I go talk to Rast?”

“Have I said something to upset you?”

Tag shook his head. He couldn’t let his own prejudice interfere with the mission.

Kip glanced over at Rast and Bist. “Go ahead. They will want to make sure you are well.”

Tag approached hesitantly. He couldn’t continue to speak civilly to someone who casually consigned a portion of her own population to reproductive servitude. Bist had condemned Tag to that same class, and Tag ignorantly had agreed with him; no wonder Rast had been angry.

Tag touched Rast’s shoulder in the standard Saptan greeting. He untangled himself from Bist and like Kip touched Tag’s forehead and both shoulders before kissing his forehead. Tag started to draw back; Rast had never kissed him.

“No.” Rast grasped Tag’s wrists. “You have come to me; you don’t get to pull away.”

“Bist, do you think my only value is to father children?” Tag accused the burly Saptan.

“I do not understand,” Bist reached forward to stroke Tag’s cheek, but Tag jerked back.

“I am not a mindless animal. Your culture is repulsive.” The hell with abstract scientific study. He was stuck in a world with people--no aliens--that beat you for minor infractions and enslaved a portion of their population. A researcher dropped onto ancient Earth would not be expected to have a neutral moral outlook on slavery. It was beyond contemplation.

“Taga, I do not want to punish you again,” Rast said.

“Bist says I am si, and Kip just told me si are prohibited from going off world in order to protect their reproductive potential. Disgusting!”

“Tag, we are between cycles. We cannot discuss this. It is in violation of Charter law.”

“Fine. Beat me again.”

“You will force my hand. I am bound by the law.”

“I withdraw my objection to Tag’s inclusion in our seven. His rightful place is as a full member,” Bist said, dropping to both knees and opening his arms. “Make the declaration.”

“Bist San K’Rast, are you sure? You may not make the protest again. It is not the end of the cycle. You can only yield to the consensus at this time and offer no arguments.” Rast said in a voice that Tag recognize as his official pod leader tone.

“I understand, and I yield.”

“It is done.” Rast clapped his hands twice.

The Saptans circled around with their usually easy swirling. They were more like watching a school of fish than a group of people.

“K’Bist,” Rast invited.

“I have yielded. Tag San K’Rast is a valued member of our seven.” Bist stood and to Tag’s horror knelt in front of him and dropped his forehead to the floor. 

“Tag,” Rast said, taking Tag’s hand and putting it on Bist’s head. Tag ran his fingers through the coarse, dark hair. This must be what Rast wanted. He’d seen Rast do it several times. It meant forgiveness or that he accepted the new position. Tag didn’t know if he accepted it. He wasn’t even sure he knew what the mysterious “it” was. He’d thought he’d had some understanding of Kip, perhaps an idealized version of the sympathetic doctor, and now he saw her for the bigot she was. Bist and Rast he couldn’t read at all. He’d thought Bist had hated him, but he’d been kind during the punishment. Tag couldn’t make himself say, or even think, the whipping. 

Bist cocked his head up at Tag and gave him the slightest smile before looking away.

Rast bent down and touched the back of Bist’s neck, a silent signal for the Saptan to rise. His hand stroked the wiry hair off the creased forehead. “Keep Tag with you. He has many questions and many misunderstandings. I do not wish to correct him again.”

“I will do my best K’Rast.”

“I expect no less.” Rast stroked through Bist’s hair and crossed his arms in front of him palms up.

“Come,” Bist said, grabbing Tag’s wrist and pulling him across the room. “What was the shouting about earlier?” he said with shocking bluntness. Bist had never asked Tag personal questions; he’d never asked Tag anything not related to his studies. 

“You think I’m--inferior,” Tag spat. “A sperm bank.”

“Taga, whatever gave you that idea?”

“Don’t try to be nice now. The damage is done. Reproductively capable people are kept on breeding farms.”

“Taga, I’m not understanding.”

Why couldn’t Bist get angry? It was easy to fight with an angry opponent. Bist had been angry with Tag before, but now he was being nothing but annoyingly calm and patient. Any moment he was going to start that dreadful humming.

“Kip said the si and ti were not allowed to join the space services.”

“They are not, and I’m not allowed to return to my home village because I am ki. It is a tradeoff made for generations to preserve the harmony. Si and ti can become kwi. I cannot change my status. It does not make me inferior; it makes me ki.” Bist paused and ran his hand down Tag’s cheeks. “It is miraculous that humans do not fly apart from the emotional stress.”

“Are you making a joke?”

“Yes. Saptans make less use of language to relieve stress than you humans, but I do understand the concept. We prefer physical contact.” Bist rubbed his palm firmly against Tag’s neck as if to prove his point.

Tag leaned into the contact. He couldn’t stop himself; he’d never felt so in need of another’s presence.

“You like that, Taga.” Bist other hand played in Tag’s now disheveled hair. “Why didn’t you tell me you liked that?”

“I didn’t know,” Tag said, realizing it himself for the first time.

“You know nothing of yourself. We will teach you, Taga.”

“We are not the same species. We are not even of the same world.”

“And you are kwi in a world that sees only ti and si.”

“Kip says I’m ki.”

“She is unusually perceptive. She may be right. Did you make a choice?”

“What choice?” Tag asked not following the question.

“The choice to not join a family unit and rear the next generation.”

“It just happened.” Tag could feel his face coloring. This was too close to things he didn’t  talk about. 

“You may be ki. We can debate that question later.”

“Why do you not think I’m si?

“Do you want to be?”

“How can you want to be a gender? You just are.”

Bist turned away, but his hand continued to rub Tag’s neck. “Rast sees you at a member of the seven. He is not a revolutionary. You are not si. I was wrong. Tisp, might we join you?”  

Bist knelt, pulling Tag down with him. Tag had seen the twins lying on the carpet moving pieces across a brightly colored game board, looking more like adolescents than space explorers, but he’d never studied the game closely. He hadn’t played games since he was a small child with his grandmother. She’d kept a collection of cards and clacking dominos that came out at every opportunity--old-fashioned games, not the modern slash and destroy played in a studio full of wires and shadows. This looked like an old-fashioned game with smooth wood pieces and a playing mat of rolled cloth. 

Brin looked up, strands of his or her blond hair cascading onto his forehead and partially covering the easy friendliness that lay in her green eyes. She silently communicated with Bist, a nod and a subtle shift of her thin shoulders. “I will teach you to play.” Brin reached out and stroked Tag’s hair in a gentle motion that Tag might use with a pet cat.

Tag discovered the game was called Califf, and the goal was to move your pieces into the opposite corner or safe zone. The intricacies of the actual rules eluded Tag, but the other players didn’t seem to mind. Tisp laughed when Tag turned his zebra striped piece around and moved it entirely in the wrong direction, his hand around Tag’s far longer than a human’s would be to move a playing token to the correct square. Tag’s pieces were hopelessly behind, but he couldn’t force himself to be concerned as they bogged down in a section of the board requiring a special skill token that he couldn’t even identify. Lying on his stomach with Bist’s hand firmly resting on the back of his neck, it somehow didn’t matter.

Rast crouched down with finger light touch on Tag’s back. His other hand rolled the die and moved Tag’s piece with the golden starburst pattern. “The rules are complicated. You needed assistance,” Rast said and stood up.

“He’s a member of our seven. He will get assistance.”

Tag wanted to raise his head, to look at Bist, but Tag’s body felt heavy and unable to shift Bist’s firm hand, which still rested on his neck. The Saptan’s touch was reassuring, not confining. Tag sank back against the floor, his body limp. He could hear Bist and Rast talking over him, but it didn’t seem to matter or to be of importance. The words shifted and blurred above him. He could rest here.

“Taga.” Fingers brushed along his shoulder, and he flinched. Tag blinked in the harsh artificial light and struggled to sit up, his muscles aching in the process. What had happened to him? He cracked his shoulders and winced, remembering the thin lash that had struck him hours earlier. Tag shook his head to clear the fog of sleep. He hated these few disorienting moments just as he woke.

“Does it hurt again?” Kip asked

“Yes.” Tag could feel the color rising in his face. He’d been horrible to Kip the last time they spoke.

Kip’s hand touched his cheek. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. We have withheld significant information from you with the belief that assimilation would be easier if you were not overwhelmed. I think perhaps we made the wrong choice. Humans are more dependent on the written and spoken language for communication than we are.”

“I was rude,” Tag said, ducking his head to his chest.

She made a noncommittal buzz in her throat. “Take your shirt off so I can treat you again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Taga, I’ve told you it’s all right. I sympathize with your position more than you think,” Kip said almost under her breath. “Shirt off.” The slight wistfulness was gone from her voice. “These are doing well. Bist is sore, but he’s not about to admit it. Try to be civil with him.”

“He took it for me.” Tag chewed on his lower lip.

“For the seven.” 

Tag flinched as the cool spray hit his back. “You said Rast rescued him.”

“Bist and D’Tan were in a different pod. There was an accident; we lost two of our seven, and the other seven was wiped out except Bist and D’Tan. Rast took them without question.”

“Bist has scars on his back. Was that from the accident?”

“The scars are not from Rast if that’s what you wanted to ask. A pod leader has a great deal of authority, and Bist does not hesitate to make his opinions known. Not all pod leaders are as tolerant as Rast.”

Tag nodded. This society was authoritarian. It made sense with the absolute inflexibility of assigned gender roles. Kip’s fingers traced over his back.

“Rast won’t hurt you, and Bist has taken you under his protection. You are good for us. You are the bridge between them.” Kip laughed, a high tinkling sound. Tag had never heard her laugh. It reminded him of his sister. He remembered her always being happy, flour on her hands as she made pies with their mother. “Come help us prepare dinner,” Kip said. “I’ve confused you enough.”

Tag let himself be encouraged to his feet. He tried to sort through the day in his mind as he trailed behind Kip. He still didn’t have enough information. Rast had rescued Bist, but yet they still jostled for control. Rast called this a collective, but he wielded enough power that he could force its members to comply. Theirs was a world dominated by gender differences that Tag didn’t understand.

“Any of your plants ready?”

“No,” Tag said, surprised. “I didn’t think you cared.”

“None of us find the food appetizing. How much longer?”

“At least another week.”

“You will be a hero.” Kip paused as if contemplating whether she should continue. “It’s your government that has forbidden the Orosians to speak to you, not Rast. He opposed the isolation.”

Tag looked up, startled. Rast was sitting on the floor, his long legs crossed at the ankles, a tablet in his hand that Bist was reading over his shoulder. 

“We are on your side,” Kip said and pulled Tag close. “You are Tag San K’Rast.”