Envoys - reposting
Hey all. I've found a way to use my journal again. I'm trying to keep up my fiction writing, so I'm going to try to keep to posting a new chapter here every two weeks. In the meantime, I'm going to post existing chapters, just to have everything here. Behind the cut is Chapter one.
The toughest part of packing women is the arms.
Grot wasn’t a particularly intelligent man. His great, hulking form had nearly kept him out of space travel for good, since he took up more oxygen than the average space traveler. But he’d always known that he wanted to see the stars for the rest of his life, so he made himself useful. He learned how to package women for space travel so well that there wasn’t another person they liked to take on these trips.
Lesser packers would end up scrunching the women into the press and form foam in whichever way they flopped. Even though the women were deeply asleep and felt nothing, the uncrating process often showed atrophied limbs, deep bruises and some strange phenomenon known as bedsores. All of these things could be repaired, of course, but no one waiting on the other end was ever happy about it.
Grot had the system mastered. When he was preparing to crate a load, he’d take all the cargo and lay it against the foam. Then he’d leave. Go get a coffee, take a break, have a nap, enjoy the simple pleasures of Earth - whatever.
When he came back, the women would all have changed positions. He’d discovered early on that it didn’t matter how deeply asleep they were, they’d all eventually revert to a more comfortable position. Some would be splayed out completely, taking up all of the foam space with their mass. Others would have curled up into balls. No matter what position they ended up in, he’d leave them.
Except for the arms. Those took extra work. Grot would go down the line of large foam squares, methodically pulling at the arms of each woman, testing flexibility and the position in which they naturally fell. After some deliberation, he’d arrange the arms properly, get a good, solid grip and then press the women firmly into the foam for final shipping. After that, it was a simple matter of affixing the lids.
It wasn’t a tough job, but it was one that Grot excelled at. He was chosen over and over for his ability to pack cargo with minimal fuss. He was even more popular with Acquisitions because he never fondled the goods more than was strictly necessary. While he was a graysuit and therefore obviously preferred women, he had standards.
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When she woke up, she was nestled comfortably on what felt to be her battered old memory foam mattress. Her arms were curled up across her chest, her legs were pressed up against her belly. She was entirely relaxed. That is, until she tried to stretch her legs and realized that her mattress appeared to have swallowed her. Feeling a twinge of her old claustrophobia, she pushed herself up. Or she tried. She hadn’t moved more than a few inches when her head slammed up against a roof. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that there was a clear plastic bubble over her head. Before the claustrophobia could fully rouse and start her screaming like a tornado siren across the plains, the bubble was suddenly lifted, and a waft of warm air, tinted with machine-smell, bubbled in toward her.
“Ah, good. This one’s already awake. Wrap her up and get her ready for processing, boys.” The high lispy voice had gone even higher at the end of the sentence, but before she could so much as bring her eyes to focus on the sea of lavender and grey in front of her, someone slapped a patch on her arm and the whole room started to fade away. Before her eyes completely closed on the scene, she realized that they were passing by wall after wall of the clear plastic bubbles, each different, but each bearing the unmistakable marks of having been molded to a woman’s form.
As her eyes reluctantly closed, she had time to produce one, last coherent thought.
Am I a Barbie?
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The next time she woke up, she had no comforting moment of thinking she was in her own bed. Even before she opened her eyes, she could feel the difference. She was laying on a thin mattress that reminded her of nothing so much as the napping mats from kindergarten. When she opened her eyes, the sense of dislocation was confirmed as she tried and failed to find the ceiling of the room she was in. She knew there had to be a ceiling, she just couldn't see far enough to find it. A quick glance to her left and right confirmed that there were beds on either side, also reaching out into the distance far enough that she couldn't see the last ones on either side.
A hot, tinny rush of saliva flooded her mouth as she fought against a rising sense of panic. Then she felt the hands sliding along her right leg, and all reason left her. She kicked out, making a satisfying connection between her heel and the person whose hands had been on her. Completing the kick brought her off the bed and to her feet. On the ground, looking up at her with an expression of amazement was a man wearing a light purple jumpsuit.
Before she could process her next move, and before the man in the jumpsuit could recover from the first blow, she began to remember.
. . . you will wake up disoriented and without a complete set of memories. This is normal after extended space travel, especially given the modifications we have made to your body and your mind. . .
"I did this," she whispered. In that moment, she remembered it all. She remembered being in a hospital. She remembered the three strangers who had calmly and coolly explained that they were space travellers from the central solar systems. She remembered the woman explaining that the central systems desperately needed help - and they wanted her. She remembered agreeing and then . . . what?
The man in the jumpsuit was still on the floor, hand on jaw, watching her. His body was clearly tensed, but his eyes were more watchful than wary. It was evident that at least some of her thoughts were apparent on her face. It was only after several moments of mutual staring that she recalled why he was on the ground in the first place.
"Oh! Oh God, I'm so sorry," she said, immediately moving to his side. "I didn't think . . ."
He took his hand away from his face. Blood trickled down the side of his mouth. He pursed his lips and spit into his hand. Amongst the blood there was a very large piece of tooth. He looked at it thoughtfully, his tongue swishing against his cheek.
"Oh my God," she said again. "I'm so sorry. I didn't even know I could kick that hard." It sounded lame, but she wasn't sure what else to say. Other than the blood on his chin, he was quite beautiful. Hair so blonde and shiny it begged to be touched, eyes a startling, clear grey - the whole picture was perfect. Or it had been. She wanted to apologize all over again.
Surprisingly, he smiled. She could see what remained of the molar she'd somehow managed to kick loose. Even with that, the smile was so warm and gentle that it sent shivers down her spine.
"It's okay. I deserved it. I should know better than to touch a new envoy before she's in full recall. I think I should count myself fortunate that it wasn't much worse. This is easily remedied." As he spoke, he pulled a white pencil-shaped item from somewhere inside his jumpsuit. He touched the tip of it to the bloodied tooth chunk in his hand and then again to the broken molar in his mouth. He put the tool away and tossed the tooth into his mouth. After a moment of swishing, he smiled. The tooth was back in place, as though nothing had ever happened.
Seeing her look of shock, his smile broadened. "You're not on Kansas anymore, Dodo."
“I’m - what? Did you just call me Dodo?”
An amused female voice came from behind her somewhere. “Grayson, when are you going to give up on Earth phrases? You never do get them right. He meant Toto.”
The beautiful man was beginning to flush a dull ocher red as she turned to identify the source of the voice.
Looking down at their crouched forms was a woman out of some kind of silky seventies film. A scarlet headscarf was wrapped around the entirety of her hair, creating the overall effect of a rajah’s headdress. Her eyes were an entirely unnatural shade of green - the kind of green usually only seen on spring leaves. It was hard to tell anything about the rest of her, swathed as she was in layers of bright cloth. The overall effect was of vibrancy and movement, but also of mystery. She could’ve been hiding a small European football team under it all.
The woman continued to look down her nose at them as though this was the most natural pose available to her. They might have remained at impasse forever if the fellow in lavender hadn’t tugged her upward by her elbow.
Abruptly, she’d had enough of this. “Who are you?” she demanded of the woman. Then, with a lurch “Who the hell am I?”. The oh-so helpful voice in her brain pan decided to pitch in again:
You have chosen Option B - renaming at arrival. As mentioned, the risks associated with this are increased disorientation and potential for triggering additional amnesiac episodes. The primary advantage to renaming upon arrival is that you will have adapted to most of the mental and physical changes and therefore, should not encounter any difficulty with the renaming process.”
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He watched her processing everything that was pouring back into her mind, still playing with the tooth that had just now been broken and repaired. He silently cursed himself again, wondering what had possessed him to meddle with a new envoy. Usually he paid them very little attention, but when she had given orders that the envoy be watched, he'd watched. And in the short time of presiding over her sleep, he'd become hypnotized.
It wasn't her beauty - in his life, he'd been fortunate enough to see the female of the species in all it's glory - the round places, the gentle protrusion of bone against china skin, the clear eyes and the brilliant smiles. He thought himself immune to their charms. But with this one, her long, black hair drifting across her high cheekbone, the firmly muscled calves and the softly rounded belly . . . she'd drawn him in.
Despite himself, he kept wondering. What would she look like when she smiled? When she cried? When she was in the throes of passion?
Before he could even consider his actions, he'd been running his hand along her her golden-skinned calf, never taking his eyes off her face. He'd been awarded with a brief, sleepy smile before she roused enough to kick him in the face.
In his haste to show her that she'd done no lasting harm, he rather thought he might have put his tooth back in sideways.
The silence had stretched on for an inordinate amount of time, with each woman taking the measure of the other. He made a show of standing and straightening his jumpsuit, ensuring with a quick sweeping assessment that none of the lavendar showed traces of his blood. Satisfied, he looked up and feigned surprise that both women had been watching him instead of each other.
With a smile betraying enough warmth that she raised her eyebrow, he leaned in toward the new envoy and said, "Have you chosen a name yet?"
After several moments in which her thoughts must have been whirring, she gave him a grateful smile and said,
"Right. My name. I was meant to pick one when I got here, wasn't I?" Her voice was surprisingly deep and, now that she was no longer shouting alarm or apologizing, nearly as hypnotic as her figure. She spoke with an authority that he suspected was unassumed, as though it wasn't as much her audience she was certain of as her own feelings.
His suspicion was confirmed when she cast a quick, searching glance up at him. He obliged her by nodding. "Yes, it's been found that envoys are generally more comfortable if they choose names when they arrive. Most will," he started, then glancing guiltily at her, amended, "I've heard that most tend to choose a name from home. Quite often the first thing they think of from home."
At this moment, she couldn’t drum up any clear concept of home, where she’d lived or what might seem familiar. Home might as well not exist. All she knew was that her insides threatened to turn to water and she desperately wanted a hole to crawl into, just until everything made sense again. But she couldn’t think of anything that burrowed in a hole in fear that she’d want to call herself. Maybe if she had a name that made her feel tougher. Less rabbit and more fight. The polite and waiting silence felt excruciating. A name. A fighting name.
In a flash, it came to her. Float like a butterfly . . . "Cass. Call me Cass."
Then she stepped in. "Cass, how lovely. I am Seul."
The newly-minted Cass squinted, creating a furrow in her brow that he immediately wanted to soothe. "Seul, that's . . . fr-French, isn't it?" The furrow eased back and she smiled, as though she'd discovered buried treasure. "For -"
Seul extended her long, well-tended arm across the expanse, capturing Cass's chin in her grip , forestalling whatever she had been about to say. Grayson watched the new envoy's expression closely. Happily, whatever else "Cass" might turn out to be, she was smart enough to recognize a political situation, and merely allowed Seul to assess her. He made a mental note to visit the Earthsource Centre and learn a little something about French.
Seul let out a small hmm noise. Knowing her as well as he did, he could read volumes in that one sound. She was satisfied that the new envoy met the expectations. On the other hand, she was miffed that she could find no readily evident flaw. She was irked, and Grayson knew she was at her worst when irked.
Still, she released Cass's chin after a few more seconds inspection. Cass rubbed her cheek absently, no doubt feeling the indentations he could clearly see, left by Seul's long nails.
His estimation of the new envoy went up further when, rather than acknowledging Seul's high-handed behaviour, she merely lowered her hand to her side. Scanning around quickly, her eyes skittering uneasily around him, she turned back to Seul. "I was told to expect others. I don't see . . . " she let the sentence trail off, a well-played invitation for one of the others to speak. Grayson again bridged the gap.
"No, you wouldn't see the others. They've all been woken and briefed. You're the last one." Feeling Seul's gaze turn to pinpoint heat, he kicked himself again. Just what was it with this woman that he felt compelled to help her? Was it simply the error of touching her when she wasn't prepared, or was there something else? Either way, he'd drawn too much attention to himself, and he vowed to say nothing more.
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"Let me tell you about you. You were born a curious girl, a smart girl and at an early age, a very sensual child. You lived through your senses always. But you also possess the curse of intelligence. Always did. It made you different from everyone else. In fact, it mostly harmed you. People reacted to you as a threat, so you forever spent your days in battle."
Cass didn't react at first. She couldn't, until the set of memories cascaded forth in answer to her internal question - is this true?
To her surprise, she found it was. Seul read the look on her face in one swift glance. "Don't think I'm unfamiliar with the tale. It's one of the reasons you were offered this opportunity. The other is sex."
"I - what?" Cass found herself giving Seul a careful second look. She hadn't seemed particularly predatory, or even all that interested in her, though she'd awoked wearing little more than two dental bibs clipped together. "Sex? Did you say sex?"
"Yes, sex. "
"With who?" The moment before the question left her mouth, she was sure it had been important. The moment after, not so much.
"Oh," said Seul, leaning backward in her oddly mundane black, leathery office chair. "With any number of people, I should think."
"Why?" To her satisfaction, Cass felt this question remained pertinent upon being said.
Seul leaned forward, "I'm afraid that's one of the pieces of information the agents on Earth neglected to mention to you. The nature of the duty you've signed on for."
Grayson shifted somewhere just behind her and to her left, and she felt herself restrain a flinch. She'd forgotten he was there. He continued his motion, ending with his body oddly stretched so that his pleasant expression took up her view. "We of the central systems have a problem, and one that has proved fantastically difficult to solve. We boast many great things, things that places like Earth can't even fathom the existence of. We have many habitable planets and asteriods, allowing for our population to expand indefinitely. Space travel around the systems is safe and inexpensive. Medicine here is merely abstract thought on your home planet. Food, education and leisure are all part of a citizen's daily life, no matter where he or she may reside."
His perfectly sculpted features rearranged again, to form an expression that conveyed confusion and sorrow. As interested as she was in his arrival at his point, she couldn't help the artistry with which he moved. Every gesture was one perfected. "But none of that has been able to change our problem. You see, for some unknown reason, we don't reproduce as well as we should. While there are a great many healthy and successful births each second of the clock, regrettably there is a . . . consistent trend."
When his attentive audience merely continued to watch him attentively, he opened his mouth once again. It was nearly pleasant to see his face paused in an unarranged expression as Seul cut him off.
"What the oh so delicate Grayson is trying to say is that there aren't enough women."
When Cass failed to respond to that, Seul pressed further, a gleam appearing in her eyes. "Last check made it at about thirteen men to every one woman. Before the introduction of envoys, that ratio was more like twenty-five to one."
"But that's -" She tried the math and failed. And tried and failed again. And then she thought of the one woman in a crowd of twenty-five men, and her stomach clenched. "But that's not possible."
Grayson smiled, a smile with which he conveyed infinite sadness and the kind of knowing wisdom that could've been offensive, but somehow wasn't. "That's what they thought, too. It wasn't possible to have such a gender imbalance occur. People were healthy, robust and fertile. And it was true - children were being born, just not girl babies. There are simply fewer born. There are entire planets full of scientists who do nothing but study this phenomenon, and attempt to find a cure or an answer. But thus far, nothing has been found."
Even Seul remained silent for a stretch of time as each contemplated the circumstances. At length, Cass shifted. "Okay, so it's possible. But if my ever-more magically returning memories serve me, the procedure that cured my cancer also made me barren. Isn't that correct?"
Grayson nodded helpfully. Seul made a tching noise and Grayson abruptly leaned back into his chair. Seul now had an unimpeded view of Cass. "Yes my dear. Please understand that if you had been brought here for reproduction, I would've said it was for reproduction. You are here to provide a different but no less valuable service. You are here for sex."
This time, there was no hesitation. "Are you out of your ever-loving mind? I may still be a little addled from all that sleep and reprogramming bullshit, but I think I would've remembered if I'd opted into the I Fuck Anybody club. Forget it, I'm not interested."
"Ah Grayson - how quickly they forget their agreements. Surely her wake program will tell her the reality of what she faces." Seul may have said his name, but her eyes never left Cass.
As if on cue, there went the voice. "For the costs associated with your cure and your transport, as well as the expenses of supporting you through your cultural adaptation period, you agreed to a binding contract lasting no less than twenty Earth-standard years. In order to secure these proceeds, and to ensure that you are appropriately mentored by a central citizen throughout this process, your binding contract was made by proxy to a contractor for the sum of seven thousand credits."
It took Cass no more than a second to piece this information together with what she already knew. "You," she said, dully. "You have my contract."
Seul smiled, her acquisitive expression showing through clearly. "And a pretty penny it cost me. "
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Cass couldn't really recall much of the rest of the interview. She knew that someone official looking had come in and read the terms of the contract out loud. Then she'd been ushered out by Grayson, who'd deposited her in a small chamber and left her to rest.
Alone, she replayed the words the official had spoken. It hadn't really been necessary. After a short time, she remembered the contract. She remembered signing it, though not what her signature looked like. She remembered agreeing to the terms, though she spared a rather savage thought for the smooth talking woman who'd explained it all to her at the hospital. While she'd meticulously referred to it as a contract, she'd glossed over some of the more salient details around it's duration and the nature of the work she'd be expected to do.
But Cass knew she'd signed it. She also knew why she'd signed it. But that in no way changed the fact that she couldn't imagine herself agreeing to it all if she'd known her dubious options on the other side.
"Well they can forget it." She'd been thinking so hard she was surprised by the sound of her own voice. "There is no way I'm going to just land, shrug and spread for the next available guy. "
Hearing the determination in her own voice gave her a surge of courage, enough to launch her off the middling comfortable shelf of a bed toward the door. There, to the left of the opening was a small and shiny square of what looked like plastic or glass. She reached over to push at it. While it didn't depress, the door slid open at her touch.
It was by sparing the square pad a last glance that she walked blindly at Grayson, who was burdened by what appeared to be a banquet on a tray. She pulled up short, perfectly positioned to cause a minor catastrophe with the tray. Grayson performed an acrobatic gesture around her that ended in him steadying her in one hand, while his other held the enormous feast above his head.
Despite all of this, his expression was one of sincere concern, all of it directed towards her. "Are you alright?" He scanned down her body, which had been swathed in a thoughtfully provided fluffy white robe of unknown fabric. Satisfied that she'd come to no bodily harm, his gaze returned to her face.
"Me? What about -?" She pointed upward at the fully loaded tray.
"About? Oh," he grinned sheepishly, startling her with his candidness, and put his arm down. The tray remained where it was, just a few feet from the ceiling.
"Oh, come on!" Her hands went up to cradle her forehead in a gesture that immediately felt as familiar as breathing.
"Alright. Are you coming in?" She didn't bother waiting for him to answer, merely pulling the surprisingly pliable robe closer to her neck before hitching the bottom up and walking back to her room.
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Grayson watched Cass shuffle forward, hauling the extra length of robe beside her like a child with a blanket. He kicked himself, once again, for neglecting the salient details of envoys - this one in particular being that Earth people were a good deal shorter than the central citizenry. Their comparative daintiness was one of the things that made Earth envoys so appealing to many. One of the things.
Still, he should have remembered to trim it down. Making a note to fix it later, he schooled his features once again and tapped the tray down and in front of himself before following her in.
When he arrived she was perched somewhat primly on the side of the bed, cross-legged but every part covered by the robe. He parked the tray in front of her and fixed it in place with a light tap. Then he took the only available seat left in the room and watched for her reaction.
For her part, she was suitably transfixed by the contents of the tray. In one corner, piled high into a pyramid was an array of what appeared to be doughnuts. Some were sprinkled, others could only have been chocolate with chocolate glaze. Still others bore a coating of something that strongly resembled coconut. Immediately beside the feat of batter architecture was an intricately stacked pile of dark, reddish strips. SHe leaned in and detected the smoky applewood scent of what she would swear was bacon. A flagon of some steaming beverage and a cup were next to the mystery meat. Below this row of food was another. On it were a variety of things that she couldn't readily identify, but all of which smelled wonderful.
Suddenly realizing how famished she was, she reached immediately for a doughnut. When her lips and teeth parted the first incredibly soft pastry bite, her eyes widened in delight. Without pausing to speak, she took another, larger bite, her other hand reaching for a piece of the meat.
Once she'd swallowed the pastry, she took a small nibble from the corner of the strip. He was once again treated to a show of her delight as she tasted what she'd hoped for, and proceeded to eat the rest of the bacon slice in neat, quick bites. While she chewed, her eyes wandered back and forth amongst the dishes closest to her, clearly trying to attach a known foodstuff with what was in front of her.
Grayson, now satisfied by her reaction to his attempts at Earth food, took pity on her confusion and moved to sit beside her on the bed. She tensed when he first sat, but didn't shy away as he studiously kept his gaze on the tray in front of them.
"This," he said, lifting up a bowl containing a white substance that was speckled with deeper shades toward a cream colour, "is Pash. It's a very common fruit that is soft and shiny when ripe. It's often left just slightly mashed. Here," he said, reaching for a utensil that looked like nothing so much as a miniature spatula with an elongated neck. Holding it the way she'd hold a fork, he slid it into the white substance and lifted a small amount out of the bowl on the flat end of the tool. He leaned toward her, his brow furrowed slightly. Clearly he meant to feed her.
Feeling foolish, but happy with the foods so far, she opened her mouth. He placed the spatula upside down against her tongue, leaving the white substance behind. She froze, feeling the cold clamminess of the pash. But as she began to roll it around on her tongue, her eyes closed in appreciation as the slightly sweet taste and creamy custard texture won her over. When he reached for the next bowl, her eyes were more interested and less wary, and her body was unselfconciously leaning against his.
She tried the local salted fish, which she didn't seem to enjoy, some spiced flatbreads that left Grayson gasping for air but which she seemed to relish. There was a selection of cheeses, something she seemed obscurely grateful about, and a pot of hot, spiced choffee, a popular beverage that had originally been the botched result of a manufacturer trying to replicate coffee.
Grayson watched her sample the foods with wide-eyed delight. Her expression and relaxed posture told him what he needed to know. She would be alright. Anyone who could still enjoy the simple pleasure of food after the day she had was a survivor. And a survivor could be counted on to make it as an envoy.
He smiled and leaned back a bit further, allowing her full access to the tray.
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While there were many odd looking dishes, filled with food in hues that she felt couldn't be real, the true surprise was the flavours. There was the gelatinous white slab served with a bright blue sauce that tasted like nothing so much as fettucine alfredo, and a fish that tasted like oversalted smoked salmon. In fact, most of the dishes seemed to have a correlation to flavours she remembered from home.
The moment she put the mini-spatula down, she remembered where she was. And who she was with.
"Can I go home?" She wanted to sound calm and reasonable, but was terribly afraid the question came out weak and plaintive.
Grayson again gifted her with an unguarded expression. Even if he hadn't spoken, she'd have known the
answer. "I'm afraid not, Cass. For a number of reasons, including," he cast a sidelong glance at her "your health."
"But there has to be a way! Obviously you travel back and forth - can't someone just take me back?"
He surprised her by cupping her face in his hands, capturing her gaze with his own. "You have remembered, or will remember very shortly, that the contract was quite specific - there are no return trips. No envoy has ever returned to her planet of origin." She opened her mouth to say more, but he forstalled her with one conveniently placed thumb. "Even if there were some way to get back there, the returning envoys would have nothing to go back to." He released her and slid off the bed with surprising grace and speed.
"Look here," he said, tapping the centre of a flat black screen she hadn't really paid attention to. His fingers skittered across it for a moment, and produced a screen with four rotating balls. For all that each one was colourful and worth looking at, she felt a sharp thrill at recognizing the fourth ball as Earth.
"This is Earth, and these two," he pointed at two planets that were strikingly similar in appearance - primarily green and white, "are Atlantis and Anasazi. They, like your Earth, are out in the far reaches of what you call the Milky Way. They are also unaffected by the trouble, and so produce a large number of healthy women. As a result, we also recruit envoys from those planets. And yes - before you ask, it is that Atlantis and that Anasazi group. They were relocated through interventions we understand no better than you. Regardless, your three planets are here," he said, pointing to what she could readily identifiy as the outer arm.
"We," he said, pointing to the last planet - a large blue orb, "are here on Dau, which is the capital planet of this system." He tapped the screen again and Earth and the other two planets became smaller and smaller as the distance between them and Dau was illustrated.
"As you can see, Dau is much closer to the centre of the galaxy. Time moves differently between there and here. What has only been a matter of days for you here is a matter of years on Earth. In fact, the three years you spent in stasis on the ship just getting here would have made for enough of a time lapse that anyone you knew on Earth would be long gone."
She tried to feel something. She tried to muster up the images of people she'd cared about, but she couldn't. Not a hint, not a whisper of cologne or perfume - nothing.
"That too," he said, reading her face. "The reset they do on new envoys is not reversible, and even if it were, you'd be trading your memory of those people for a disease that was already killing you. Not much of an exchange. Seul may be harsh, but she's quite right. For better or worse, your life is here now."
His placid acceptance of her fate and quick dismissal of her (admittedly farfetched) hope of return to Earth were too much.
"Oh, so that's it, is it? Get over the idea of home and embrace your new role as sex slave to deprived perverts? I can't believe I'm the only one who ever said no to this - there has to be a way. And you," she said, "who the hell are you, anyway? Everywhere I turn, there you are, supplying a running commentary of oh-so helpful hints. Are you supposed to be my zookeeper? Keep anyone from feeding the animal? Make sure no one touches the goods? Oh god." Her shoulders drooped as she went back to the bed, robe trailing behind her. "I can't even think anymore. Just go away. Please."
The silence stretched out between them. She laid down on the bed, curling the robe ends up under her feet. She could still see him out of the corner of her eye, standing beside the screen, unmoving. She turned her back to him. After another long pause, where she considered whether or not he'd been given orders to actually stay in the room with her, he sighed.
"Envoy. Cass. You ask me who I am, and I can tell you this much. I am someone who would like to be your friend. I hope to show you that in time. Meanwhile, please rest as long as you need. I'll be back when you awake."
She heard him cross the soft carpeting and tap the panel. A soft swishing told her when he'd left. She rolled on her back, not really seeing the plain white ceiling above her. She couldn't even begin to decide whether or not to believe him, or to believe anything she'd heard. It was all too much and no matter how long they said she'd been asleep, she was more than ready to forget about all of this for now.
But the idea of a friend was a nice one.
The toughest part of packing women is the arms.
Grot wasn’t a particularly intelligent man. His great, hulking form had nearly kept him out of space travel for good, since he took up more oxygen than the average space traveler. But he’d always known that he wanted to see the stars for the rest of his life, so he made himself useful. He learned how to package women for space travel so well that there wasn’t another person they liked to take on these trips.
Lesser packers would end up scrunching the women into the press and form foam in whichever way they flopped. Even though the women were deeply asleep and felt nothing, the uncrating process often showed atrophied limbs, deep bruises and some strange phenomenon known as bedsores. All of these things could be repaired, of course, but no one waiting on the other end was ever happy about it.
Grot had the system mastered. When he was preparing to crate a load, he’d take all the cargo and lay it against the foam. Then he’d leave. Go get a coffee, take a break, have a nap, enjoy the simple pleasures of Earth - whatever.
When he came back, the women would all have changed positions. He’d discovered early on that it didn’t matter how deeply asleep they were, they’d all eventually revert to a more comfortable position. Some would be splayed out completely, taking up all of the foam space with their mass. Others would have curled up into balls. No matter what position they ended up in, he’d leave them.
Except for the arms. Those took extra work. Grot would go down the line of large foam squares, methodically pulling at the arms of each woman, testing flexibility and the position in which they naturally fell. After some deliberation, he’d arrange the arms properly, get a good, solid grip and then press the women firmly into the foam for final shipping. After that, it was a simple matter of affixing the lids.
It wasn’t a tough job, but it was one that Grot excelled at. He was chosen over and over for his ability to pack cargo with minimal fuss. He was even more popular with Acquisitions because he never fondled the goods more than was strictly necessary. While he was a graysuit and therefore obviously preferred women, he had standards.
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When she woke up, she was nestled comfortably on what felt to be her battered old memory foam mattress. Her arms were curled up across her chest, her legs were pressed up against her belly. She was entirely relaxed. That is, until she tried to stretch her legs and realized that her mattress appeared to have swallowed her. Feeling a twinge of her old claustrophobia, she pushed herself up. Or she tried. She hadn’t moved more than a few inches when her head slammed up against a roof. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that there was a clear plastic bubble over her head. Before the claustrophobia could fully rouse and start her screaming like a tornado siren across the plains, the bubble was suddenly lifted, and a waft of warm air, tinted with machine-smell, bubbled in toward her.
“Ah, good. This one’s already awake. Wrap her up and get her ready for processing, boys.” The high lispy voice had gone even higher at the end of the sentence, but before she could so much as bring her eyes to focus on the sea of lavender and grey in front of her, someone slapped a patch on her arm and the whole room started to fade away. Before her eyes completely closed on the scene, she realized that they were passing by wall after wall of the clear plastic bubbles, each different, but each bearing the unmistakable marks of having been molded to a woman’s form.
As her eyes reluctantly closed, she had time to produce one, last coherent thought.
Am I a Barbie?
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The next time she woke up, she had no comforting moment of thinking she was in her own bed. Even before she opened her eyes, she could feel the difference. She was laying on a thin mattress that reminded her of nothing so much as the napping mats from kindergarten. When she opened her eyes, the sense of dislocation was confirmed as she tried and failed to find the ceiling of the room she was in. She knew there had to be a ceiling, she just couldn't see far enough to find it. A quick glance to her left and right confirmed that there were beds on either side, also reaching out into the distance far enough that she couldn't see the last ones on either side.
A hot, tinny rush of saliva flooded her mouth as she fought against a rising sense of panic. Then she felt the hands sliding along her right leg, and all reason left her. She kicked out, making a satisfying connection between her heel and the person whose hands had been on her. Completing the kick brought her off the bed and to her feet. On the ground, looking up at her with an expression of amazement was a man wearing a light purple jumpsuit.
Before she could process her next move, and before the man in the jumpsuit could recover from the first blow, she began to remember.
. . . you will wake up disoriented and without a complete set of memories. This is normal after extended space travel, especially given the modifications we have made to your body and your mind. . .
"I did this," she whispered. In that moment, she remembered it all. She remembered being in a hospital. She remembered the three strangers who had calmly and coolly explained that they were space travellers from the central solar systems. She remembered the woman explaining that the central systems desperately needed help - and they wanted her. She remembered agreeing and then . . . what?
The man in the jumpsuit was still on the floor, hand on jaw, watching her. His body was clearly tensed, but his eyes were more watchful than wary. It was evident that at least some of her thoughts were apparent on her face. It was only after several moments of mutual staring that she recalled why he was on the ground in the first place.
"Oh! Oh God, I'm so sorry," she said, immediately moving to his side. "I didn't think . . ."
He took his hand away from his face. Blood trickled down the side of his mouth. He pursed his lips and spit into his hand. Amongst the blood there was a very large piece of tooth. He looked at it thoughtfully, his tongue swishing against his cheek.
"Oh my God," she said again. "I'm so sorry. I didn't even know I could kick that hard." It sounded lame, but she wasn't sure what else to say. Other than the blood on his chin, he was quite beautiful. Hair so blonde and shiny it begged to be touched, eyes a startling, clear grey - the whole picture was perfect. Or it had been. She wanted to apologize all over again.
Surprisingly, he smiled. She could see what remained of the molar she'd somehow managed to kick loose. Even with that, the smile was so warm and gentle that it sent shivers down her spine.
"It's okay. I deserved it. I should know better than to touch a new envoy before she's in full recall. I think I should count myself fortunate that it wasn't much worse. This is easily remedied." As he spoke, he pulled a white pencil-shaped item from somewhere inside his jumpsuit. He touched the tip of it to the bloodied tooth chunk in his hand and then again to the broken molar in his mouth. He put the tool away and tossed the tooth into his mouth. After a moment of swishing, he smiled. The tooth was back in place, as though nothing had ever happened.
Seeing her look of shock, his smile broadened. "You're not on Kansas anymore, Dodo."
“I’m - what? Did you just call me Dodo?”
An amused female voice came from behind her somewhere. “Grayson, when are you going to give up on Earth phrases? You never do get them right. He meant Toto.”
The beautiful man was beginning to flush a dull ocher red as she turned to identify the source of the voice.
Looking down at their crouched forms was a woman out of some kind of silky seventies film. A scarlet headscarf was wrapped around the entirety of her hair, creating the overall effect of a rajah’s headdress. Her eyes were an entirely unnatural shade of green - the kind of green usually only seen on spring leaves. It was hard to tell anything about the rest of her, swathed as she was in layers of bright cloth. The overall effect was of vibrancy and movement, but also of mystery. She could’ve been hiding a small European football team under it all.
The woman continued to look down her nose at them as though this was the most natural pose available to her. They might have remained at impasse forever if the fellow in lavender hadn’t tugged her upward by her elbow.
Abruptly, she’d had enough of this. “Who are you?” she demanded of the woman. Then, with a lurch “Who the hell am I?”. The oh-so helpful voice in her brain pan decided to pitch in again:
You have chosen Option B - renaming at arrival. As mentioned, the risks associated with this are increased disorientation and potential for triggering additional amnesiac episodes. The primary advantage to renaming upon arrival is that you will have adapted to most of the mental and physical changes and therefore, should not encounter any difficulty with the renaming process.”
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He watched her processing everything that was pouring back into her mind, still playing with the tooth that had just now been broken and repaired. He silently cursed himself again, wondering what had possessed him to meddle with a new envoy. Usually he paid them very little attention, but when she had given orders that the envoy be watched, he'd watched. And in the short time of presiding over her sleep, he'd become hypnotized.
It wasn't her beauty - in his life, he'd been fortunate enough to see the female of the species in all it's glory - the round places, the gentle protrusion of bone against china skin, the clear eyes and the brilliant smiles. He thought himself immune to their charms. But with this one, her long, black hair drifting across her high cheekbone, the firmly muscled calves and the softly rounded belly . . . she'd drawn him in.
Despite himself, he kept wondering. What would she look like when she smiled? When she cried? When she was in the throes of passion?
Before he could even consider his actions, he'd been running his hand along her her golden-skinned calf, never taking his eyes off her face. He'd been awarded with a brief, sleepy smile before she roused enough to kick him in the face.
In his haste to show her that she'd done no lasting harm, he rather thought he might have put his tooth back in sideways.
The silence had stretched on for an inordinate amount of time, with each woman taking the measure of the other. He made a show of standing and straightening his jumpsuit, ensuring with a quick sweeping assessment that none of the lavendar showed traces of his blood. Satisfied, he looked up and feigned surprise that both women had been watching him instead of each other.
With a smile betraying enough warmth that she raised her eyebrow, he leaned in toward the new envoy and said, "Have you chosen a name yet?"
After several moments in which her thoughts must have been whirring, she gave him a grateful smile and said,
"Right. My name. I was meant to pick one when I got here, wasn't I?" Her voice was surprisingly deep and, now that she was no longer shouting alarm or apologizing, nearly as hypnotic as her figure. She spoke with an authority that he suspected was unassumed, as though it wasn't as much her audience she was certain of as her own feelings.
His suspicion was confirmed when she cast a quick, searching glance up at him. He obliged her by nodding. "Yes, it's been found that envoys are generally more comfortable if they choose names when they arrive. Most will," he started, then glancing guiltily at her, amended, "I've heard that most tend to choose a name from home. Quite often the first thing they think of from home."
At this moment, she couldn’t drum up any clear concept of home, where she’d lived or what might seem familiar. Home might as well not exist. All she knew was that her insides threatened to turn to water and she desperately wanted a hole to crawl into, just until everything made sense again. But she couldn’t think of anything that burrowed in a hole in fear that she’d want to call herself. Maybe if she had a name that made her feel tougher. Less rabbit and more fight. The polite and waiting silence felt excruciating. A name. A fighting name.
In a flash, it came to her. Float like a butterfly . . . "Cass. Call me Cass."
Then she stepped in. "Cass, how lovely. I am Seul."
The newly-minted Cass squinted, creating a furrow in her brow that he immediately wanted to soothe. "Seul, that's . . . fr-French, isn't it?" The furrow eased back and she smiled, as though she'd discovered buried treasure. "For -"
Seul extended her long, well-tended arm across the expanse, capturing Cass's chin in her grip , forestalling whatever she had been about to say. Grayson watched the new envoy's expression closely. Happily, whatever else "Cass" might turn out to be, she was smart enough to recognize a political situation, and merely allowed Seul to assess her. He made a mental note to visit the Earthsource Centre and learn a little something about French.
Seul let out a small hmm noise. Knowing her as well as he did, he could read volumes in that one sound. She was satisfied that the new envoy met the expectations. On the other hand, she was miffed that she could find no readily evident flaw. She was irked, and Grayson knew she was at her worst when irked.
Still, she released Cass's chin after a few more seconds inspection. Cass rubbed her cheek absently, no doubt feeling the indentations he could clearly see, left by Seul's long nails.
His estimation of the new envoy went up further when, rather than acknowledging Seul's high-handed behaviour, she merely lowered her hand to her side. Scanning around quickly, her eyes skittering uneasily around him, she turned back to Seul. "I was told to expect others. I don't see . . . " she let the sentence trail off, a well-played invitation for one of the others to speak. Grayson again bridged the gap.
"No, you wouldn't see the others. They've all been woken and briefed. You're the last one." Feeling Seul's gaze turn to pinpoint heat, he kicked himself again. Just what was it with this woman that he felt compelled to help her? Was it simply the error of touching her when she wasn't prepared, or was there something else? Either way, he'd drawn too much attention to himself, and he vowed to say nothing more.
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"Let me tell you about you. You were born a curious girl, a smart girl and at an early age, a very sensual child. You lived through your senses always. But you also possess the curse of intelligence. Always did. It made you different from everyone else. In fact, it mostly harmed you. People reacted to you as a threat, so you forever spent your days in battle."
Cass didn't react at first. She couldn't, until the set of memories cascaded forth in answer to her internal question - is this true?
To her surprise, she found it was. Seul read the look on her face in one swift glance. "Don't think I'm unfamiliar with the tale. It's one of the reasons you were offered this opportunity. The other is sex."
"I - what?" Cass found herself giving Seul a careful second look. She hadn't seemed particularly predatory, or even all that interested in her, though she'd awoked wearing little more than two dental bibs clipped together. "Sex? Did you say sex?"
"Yes, sex. "
"With who?" The moment before the question left her mouth, she was sure it had been important. The moment after, not so much.
"Oh," said Seul, leaning backward in her oddly mundane black, leathery office chair. "With any number of people, I should think."
"Why?" To her satisfaction, Cass felt this question remained pertinent upon being said.
Seul leaned forward, "I'm afraid that's one of the pieces of information the agents on Earth neglected to mention to you. The nature of the duty you've signed on for."
Grayson shifted somewhere just behind her and to her left, and she felt herself restrain a flinch. She'd forgotten he was there. He continued his motion, ending with his body oddly stretched so that his pleasant expression took up her view. "We of the central systems have a problem, and one that has proved fantastically difficult to solve. We boast many great things, things that places like Earth can't even fathom the existence of. We have many habitable planets and asteriods, allowing for our population to expand indefinitely. Space travel around the systems is safe and inexpensive. Medicine here is merely abstract thought on your home planet. Food, education and leisure are all part of a citizen's daily life, no matter where he or she may reside."
His perfectly sculpted features rearranged again, to form an expression that conveyed confusion and sorrow. As interested as she was in his arrival at his point, she couldn't help the artistry with which he moved. Every gesture was one perfected. "But none of that has been able to change our problem. You see, for some unknown reason, we don't reproduce as well as we should. While there are a great many healthy and successful births each second of the clock, regrettably there is a . . . consistent trend."
When his attentive audience merely continued to watch him attentively, he opened his mouth once again. It was nearly pleasant to see his face paused in an unarranged expression as Seul cut him off.
"What the oh so delicate Grayson is trying to say is that there aren't enough women."
When Cass failed to respond to that, Seul pressed further, a gleam appearing in her eyes. "Last check made it at about thirteen men to every one woman. Before the introduction of envoys, that ratio was more like twenty-five to one."
"But that's -" She tried the math and failed. And tried and failed again. And then she thought of the one woman in a crowd of twenty-five men, and her stomach clenched. "But that's not possible."
Grayson smiled, a smile with which he conveyed infinite sadness and the kind of knowing wisdom that could've been offensive, but somehow wasn't. "That's what they thought, too. It wasn't possible to have such a gender imbalance occur. People were healthy, robust and fertile. And it was true - children were being born, just not girl babies. There are simply fewer born. There are entire planets full of scientists who do nothing but study this phenomenon, and attempt to find a cure or an answer. But thus far, nothing has been found."
Even Seul remained silent for a stretch of time as each contemplated the circumstances. At length, Cass shifted. "Okay, so it's possible. But if my ever-more magically returning memories serve me, the procedure that cured my cancer also made me barren. Isn't that correct?"
Grayson nodded helpfully. Seul made a tching noise and Grayson abruptly leaned back into his chair. Seul now had an unimpeded view of Cass. "Yes my dear. Please understand that if you had been brought here for reproduction, I would've said it was for reproduction. You are here to provide a different but no less valuable service. You are here for sex."
This time, there was no hesitation. "Are you out of your ever-loving mind? I may still be a little addled from all that sleep and reprogramming bullshit, but I think I would've remembered if I'd opted into the I Fuck Anybody club. Forget it, I'm not interested."
"Ah Grayson - how quickly they forget their agreements. Surely her wake program will tell her the reality of what she faces." Seul may have said his name, but her eyes never left Cass.
As if on cue, there went the voice. "For the costs associated with your cure and your transport, as well as the expenses of supporting you through your cultural adaptation period, you agreed to a binding contract lasting no less than twenty Earth-standard years. In order to secure these proceeds, and to ensure that you are appropriately mentored by a central citizen throughout this process, your binding contract was made by proxy to a contractor for the sum of seven thousand credits."
It took Cass no more than a second to piece this information together with what she already knew. "You," she said, dully. "You have my contract."
Seul smiled, her acquisitive expression showing through clearly. "And a pretty penny it cost me. "
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Cass couldn't really recall much of the rest of the interview. She knew that someone official looking had come in and read the terms of the contract out loud. Then she'd been ushered out by Grayson, who'd deposited her in a small chamber and left her to rest.
Alone, she replayed the words the official had spoken. It hadn't really been necessary. After a short time, she remembered the contract. She remembered signing it, though not what her signature looked like. She remembered agreeing to the terms, though she spared a rather savage thought for the smooth talking woman who'd explained it all to her at the hospital. While she'd meticulously referred to it as a contract, she'd glossed over some of the more salient details around it's duration and the nature of the work she'd be expected to do.
But Cass knew she'd signed it. She also knew why she'd signed it. But that in no way changed the fact that she couldn't imagine herself agreeing to it all if she'd known her dubious options on the other side.
"Well they can forget it." She'd been thinking so hard she was surprised by the sound of her own voice. "There is no way I'm going to just land, shrug and spread for the next available guy. "
Hearing the determination in her own voice gave her a surge of courage, enough to launch her off the middling comfortable shelf of a bed toward the door. There, to the left of the opening was a small and shiny square of what looked like plastic or glass. She reached over to push at it. While it didn't depress, the door slid open at her touch.
It was by sparing the square pad a last glance that she walked blindly at Grayson, who was burdened by what appeared to be a banquet on a tray. She pulled up short, perfectly positioned to cause a minor catastrophe with the tray. Grayson performed an acrobatic gesture around her that ended in him steadying her in one hand, while his other held the enormous feast above his head.
Despite all of this, his expression was one of sincere concern, all of it directed towards her. "Are you alright?" He scanned down her body, which had been swathed in a thoughtfully provided fluffy white robe of unknown fabric. Satisfied that she'd come to no bodily harm, his gaze returned to her face.
"Me? What about -?" She pointed upward at the fully loaded tray.
"About? Oh," he grinned sheepishly, startling her with his candidness, and put his arm down. The tray remained where it was, just a few feet from the ceiling.
"Oh, come on!" Her hands went up to cradle her forehead in a gesture that immediately felt as familiar as breathing.
"Alright. Are you coming in?" She didn't bother waiting for him to answer, merely pulling the surprisingly pliable robe closer to her neck before hitching the bottom up and walking back to her room.
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Grayson watched Cass shuffle forward, hauling the extra length of robe beside her like a child with a blanket. He kicked himself, once again, for neglecting the salient details of envoys - this one in particular being that Earth people were a good deal shorter than the central citizenry. Their comparative daintiness was one of the things that made Earth envoys so appealing to many. One of the things.
Still, he should have remembered to trim it down. Making a note to fix it later, he schooled his features once again and tapped the tray down and in front of himself before following her in.
When he arrived she was perched somewhat primly on the side of the bed, cross-legged but every part covered by the robe. He parked the tray in front of her and fixed it in place with a light tap. Then he took the only available seat left in the room and watched for her reaction.
For her part, she was suitably transfixed by the contents of the tray. In one corner, piled high into a pyramid was an array of what appeared to be doughnuts. Some were sprinkled, others could only have been chocolate with chocolate glaze. Still others bore a coating of something that strongly resembled coconut. Immediately beside the feat of batter architecture was an intricately stacked pile of dark, reddish strips. SHe leaned in and detected the smoky applewood scent of what she would swear was bacon. A flagon of some steaming beverage and a cup were next to the mystery meat. Below this row of food was another. On it were a variety of things that she couldn't readily identify, but all of which smelled wonderful.
Suddenly realizing how famished she was, she reached immediately for a doughnut. When her lips and teeth parted the first incredibly soft pastry bite, her eyes widened in delight. Without pausing to speak, she took another, larger bite, her other hand reaching for a piece of the meat.
Once she'd swallowed the pastry, she took a small nibble from the corner of the strip. He was once again treated to a show of her delight as she tasted what she'd hoped for, and proceeded to eat the rest of the bacon slice in neat, quick bites. While she chewed, her eyes wandered back and forth amongst the dishes closest to her, clearly trying to attach a known foodstuff with what was in front of her.
Grayson, now satisfied by her reaction to his attempts at Earth food, took pity on her confusion and moved to sit beside her on the bed. She tensed when he first sat, but didn't shy away as he studiously kept his gaze on the tray in front of them.
"This," he said, lifting up a bowl containing a white substance that was speckled with deeper shades toward a cream colour, "is Pash. It's a very common fruit that is soft and shiny when ripe. It's often left just slightly mashed. Here," he said, reaching for a utensil that looked like nothing so much as a miniature spatula with an elongated neck. Holding it the way she'd hold a fork, he slid it into the white substance and lifted a small amount out of the bowl on the flat end of the tool. He leaned toward her, his brow furrowed slightly. Clearly he meant to feed her.
Feeling foolish, but happy with the foods so far, she opened her mouth. He placed the spatula upside down against her tongue, leaving the white substance behind. She froze, feeling the cold clamminess of the pash. But as she began to roll it around on her tongue, her eyes closed in appreciation as the slightly sweet taste and creamy custard texture won her over. When he reached for the next bowl, her eyes were more interested and less wary, and her body was unselfconciously leaning against his.
She tried the local salted fish, which she didn't seem to enjoy, some spiced flatbreads that left Grayson gasping for air but which she seemed to relish. There was a selection of cheeses, something she seemed obscurely grateful about, and a pot of hot, spiced choffee, a popular beverage that had originally been the botched result of a manufacturer trying to replicate coffee.
Grayson watched her sample the foods with wide-eyed delight. Her expression and relaxed posture told him what he needed to know. She would be alright. Anyone who could still enjoy the simple pleasure of food after the day she had was a survivor. And a survivor could be counted on to make it as an envoy.
He smiled and leaned back a bit further, allowing her full access to the tray.
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While there were many odd looking dishes, filled with food in hues that she felt couldn't be real, the true surprise was the flavours. There was the gelatinous white slab served with a bright blue sauce that tasted like nothing so much as fettucine alfredo, and a fish that tasted like oversalted smoked salmon. In fact, most of the dishes seemed to have a correlation to flavours she remembered from home.
The moment she put the mini-spatula down, she remembered where she was. And who she was with.
"Can I go home?" She wanted to sound calm and reasonable, but was terribly afraid the question came out weak and plaintive.
Grayson again gifted her with an unguarded expression. Even if he hadn't spoken, she'd have known the
answer. "I'm afraid not, Cass. For a number of reasons, including," he cast a sidelong glance at her "your health."
"But there has to be a way! Obviously you travel back and forth - can't someone just take me back?"
He surprised her by cupping her face in his hands, capturing her gaze with his own. "You have remembered, or will remember very shortly, that the contract was quite specific - there are no return trips. No envoy has ever returned to her planet of origin." She opened her mouth to say more, but he forstalled her with one conveniently placed thumb. "Even if there were some way to get back there, the returning envoys would have nothing to go back to." He released her and slid off the bed with surprising grace and speed.
"Look here," he said, tapping the centre of a flat black screen she hadn't really paid attention to. His fingers skittered across it for a moment, and produced a screen with four rotating balls. For all that each one was colourful and worth looking at, she felt a sharp thrill at recognizing the fourth ball as Earth.
"This is Earth, and these two," he pointed at two planets that were strikingly similar in appearance - primarily green and white, "are Atlantis and Anasazi. They, like your Earth, are out in the far reaches of what you call the Milky Way. They are also unaffected by the trouble, and so produce a large number of healthy women. As a result, we also recruit envoys from those planets. And yes - before you ask, it is that Atlantis and that Anasazi group. They were relocated through interventions we understand no better than you. Regardless, your three planets are here," he said, pointing to what she could readily identifiy as the outer arm.
"We," he said, pointing to the last planet - a large blue orb, "are here on Dau, which is the capital planet of this system." He tapped the screen again and Earth and the other two planets became smaller and smaller as the distance between them and Dau was illustrated.
"As you can see, Dau is much closer to the centre of the galaxy. Time moves differently between there and here. What has only been a matter of days for you here is a matter of years on Earth. In fact, the three years you spent in stasis on the ship just getting here would have made for enough of a time lapse that anyone you knew on Earth would be long gone."
She tried to feel something. She tried to muster up the images of people she'd cared about, but she couldn't. Not a hint, not a whisper of cologne or perfume - nothing.
"That too," he said, reading her face. "The reset they do on new envoys is not reversible, and even if it were, you'd be trading your memory of those people for a disease that was already killing you. Not much of an exchange. Seul may be harsh, but she's quite right. For better or worse, your life is here now."
His placid acceptance of her fate and quick dismissal of her (admittedly farfetched) hope of return to Earth were too much.
"Oh, so that's it, is it? Get over the idea of home and embrace your new role as sex slave to deprived perverts? I can't believe I'm the only one who ever said no to this - there has to be a way. And you," she said, "who the hell are you, anyway? Everywhere I turn, there you are, supplying a running commentary of oh-so helpful hints. Are you supposed to be my zookeeper? Keep anyone from feeding the animal? Make sure no one touches the goods? Oh god." Her shoulders drooped as she went back to the bed, robe trailing behind her. "I can't even think anymore. Just go away. Please."
The silence stretched out between them. She laid down on the bed, curling the robe ends up under her feet. She could still see him out of the corner of her eye, standing beside the screen, unmoving. She turned her back to him. After another long pause, where she considered whether or not he'd been given orders to actually stay in the room with her, he sighed.
"Envoy. Cass. You ask me who I am, and I can tell you this much. I am someone who would like to be your friend. I hope to show you that in time. Meanwhile, please rest as long as you need. I'll be back when you awake."
She heard him cross the soft carpeting and tap the panel. A soft swishing told her when he'd left. She rolled on her back, not really seeing the plain white ceiling above her. She couldn't even begin to decide whether or not to believe him, or to believe anything she'd heard. It was all too much and no matter how long they said she'd been asleep, she was more than ready to forget about all of this for now.
But the idea of a friend was a nice one.