Recognition (3 page)

As my inner eyelids slowly retracted, there
was a silent interplay of worried glances and indecision among the
Terrans. I stared back, daring them to challenge me. Nobody else
said a word, other than a falsely affable greeting. My triumph was
short-lived. Their thoughts showed they needed a recording of the
meeting. Top executives, they saw the duty as beneath them. A
newcomer, an information worker, I was the logical choice to
perform this menial task.

We sat in uneasy silence. I checked the
messages on my cube, hoping to find a minor request that I could
turn into an emergency, an excuse to skip the meeting. Nothing.

Eventually we heard a group of people
approaching, and a uniformed guard leapt through the open door,
unsheathed sword held vertical in front of him. He explained to us
in careful Terran that he was “securing the room,” then announced
each individual as he or she entered.

The head of the Eclipsian group was the
Viceroy, Lord Zichmni. That was impressive. There had been
Roys—kings—not so long ago. Nowadays Viceroy was the highest
office, although it was still called Viceroy, in the way of social
revolutions that want to cover their rear, just in case.

There was only one woman, ‘Gravina Ndoko, and
she wore a short burqa that covered her entire head and face.
During the introductions, I felt all the Eclipsian minds, hers
included, focusing on mine in a tentative exploration, but as soon
as I became aware of it they stopped. It was if they could corral
their mental activity within a narrow circumference when courtesy
required, like looking away when the other person catches you
staring.

The Viceroy, ancient but vigorous, wasted
little time in getting things started, saying that violations of
Eclipsis’ protected status had been brought to his attention. They
were serious enough to warrant this meeting. In other words, he
added, apologizing for the dreary subject, the topic was trade. My
sympathy duly aroused, I determined to at least pretend
interest.

Lord Zichmni motioned to one of the
Eclipsians, an unusually tall, thin man who had caught my attention
from the beginning. He was ‘Graven, a lord with a title, but he
looked nothing like the others. Where they tended to be plump and
doughy, with pink skin and fine, fair hair, his hair was thick and
dark, making his skin appear dead white by contrast. He had the
face of a hawk, dominated by a prominent narrow nose like a beak
and with eyes that were truly unnerving—pale gray, almost
colorless, round and unblinking.

Something about him seemed familiar. He had
studied me just a little longer than good manners permit when the
introductions had been made, and I had been startled by the effect
of his gaze. It was as if, like an X-ray that illuminates the
consciousness instead of the bones, he was seeing through my flesh,
into my thoughts and memories—my very being. I had not dared look
directly at him since. Perhaps when he spoke, I thought, I could
determine what it was about him that I recognized. But of course I
would have remembered if I had seen him before.

Now he came forward at the Viceroy’s request,
carrying a large sack, which he emptied onto the meeting table. A
variety of typical Terran trade goods bounced out: pirated music
and game holograms, the kind that don’t require a machine to play
them on; plastic shoes; disposable paper underwear; T-shirts
printed with idiotic slogans in garbled Terran. Some of the smaller
items fell on the floor and we leaned over to pick them up while
the man began speaking.

“These things are being sold openly in the
Exchange,” he said, referring to the marketplace set up by the
Terrans in their sector, ostensibly to provide a showcase for
Eclipsian goods. “I don’t understand how you can justify bringing
such stuff to a Protected World, unless it’s all being smuggled in.
Either way, we want it out.”

The man’s voice was as extraordinary as his
appearance—a deep, resonant baritone, unexpected in one so slim,
and with a musical quality I found mesmerizing. Like the Viceroy,
he spoke Terran effortlessly, with only a slight accent, and with
none of the expected pauses while searching for the appropriate
word. Even his substitute of the word “stuff” for the coarser term
I read in his thoughts had occurred so smoothly it had not
disrupted the flow of his presentation.

We looked stupidly at the pile of junk until
one of the Terran officials cleared his throat and said, “What
exactly is your objection, Margrave Aranyi?” At least he got the
man’s title and name right.

I could feel Lord Aranyi’s immense anger, and
that of the other ‘Graven. His phrasing had been concise and to the
point, leaving little room for argument. He turned his colorless
eyes on the questioner, rotating his head like an owl sighting a
mouse, although he answered courteously. “Eclipsis’ economy is
based on barter. Many of us rarely use coin.” He smiled
disingenuously and spread his hands. “And credits are a Terran
concept most of us do not understand.” He looked down his long nose
at his seated opponent, making it clear his ignorance was by
choice.

“Now you arrive, you hire our people for work
you’re not willing to do yourselves,” Lord Aranyi continued his
explanation, “and you pay in credits. Since their wages are
invisible and weigh nothing, our people naturally throw them away
on things like this useless garment—” He held up a synthetic
“cotton” T-shirt with “Baby Face” and arrows pointing down and up
printed on it, tossed it aside, and picked up one of the little
game cubes. “—and ‘Immortal…’ ” His frustration as he strained at
the next word churned my stomach with sympathy. I realized that
reading commercial Terran was difficult for him; trademarks, with
their idiosyncratic spelling and fonts, impossible. “
‘—Starfighters,’ ” he spat out the word as I supplied it to him
telepathically, then spun around, glaring in my direction as if
he’d been smacked in the head.

There was no real answer to his complaint. “I
assure you,” the Consul said, addressing Lord Zichmni, “we are
making every effort to keep
unwanted
trade good off
Eclipsis.” His intonation was ironic, implying that the goods were
unwanted only by the elite few, like Lord Aranyi.

The woman interrupted him. “But Lord Aranyi
has just shown that you are not succeeding,” she said in a low,
sweet voice. “We would like to know what you can do beyond whatever
it is you are doing now.” The combination of her modest demeanor,
her face invisible behind her burqa, and soft way of speaking made
her sarcasm all the sharper, nor could it be answered in kind.

The Terran officials conferred. I read some
of their thoughts, but learned only that they were considering what
lie would go over best. They didn’t want to stop this trade, the
sort of thing that went on without protest on every other Terran
outpost. They had no mechanism to prevent it, never having needed
one.

While the rest of the room waited for a
reply, I entertained myself by listening in on the ‘Graven, who
were no longer shutting in their thoughts but were sharing them
silently, as the Terrans had just done in whispers. My cube was
making a holographic recording of the meeting, and I decided to key
in some commentary. Entering each mind in turn, I described the
various personalities, paraphrasing their views, and, engrossed in
the work, was oblivious to any reciprocal interest.

Suddenly a hand closed over mine as I pressed
the buttons of my cube, and that same deep voice I had admired
announced, “Yes, she’s the one.” Lord Aranyi had seized me, but he
let go again at once with a yelp. “That doesn’t work with me,” he
snarled.

“But it just did,” I said. I had felt the
same thing he had, a kind of buzz, like a jolt of electricity only
milder—enjoyable if one is prepared for it. Despite the shock of
events, I was smiling.

We looked at each other,
into
each
other.

“
You!
” he said, so softly I didn’t
know if he spoke or thought.

We had joined in
communion
, a
merging of consciousness, thoughts and feelings exchanged in an
intimate occupation of the other’s being. It had happened so easily
that, with no experience of communion, I knew only that here was my
“lover,” the man I’d been conversing with mentally since my
arrival. I couldn’t connect it at first, the sense of love and
comfort I had received from that formless presence and this tall
Eclipsian nobleman with a cold, proud face and an ingrained
distrust of Terrans that was almost tangible.

And the Evil Eye. Even in the dim light, his
eyes were now covered with a third lid of silver—as were mine. I
could see my face reflected in the mirrors of his eyes.

He was as disoriented as I was, and we spent
a few moments adjusting to the unusual perspective, seeing
ourselves through the other’s mind and vision. He took in with
something like amusement my alarm at his formidable appearance. But
his reaction to my physical being flowed through me, reviving my
demoralized spirit like a healing massage on overworked muscles.
When he looked at me he saw, not the genetic aberration I am on
Terra, but a woman who, in his society, was an aristocrat by birth.
My inner eyelids, descended and turned opaque silver, as happens
only in sunlight—or with strong emotion—marked me as noble, and
beautiful, desirable. I had gone, in what I would always remember
as the Twinkling of an Eye, from Damnation to Resurrection.

It was my Terran clothes, my cropped hair,
shorter than his or the other ‘Graven’s, and, most of all, my
Terran memories and thought patterns, that confused him, just as
his outward fierceness contradicted my emotional response to
him.

Already I hated to think I made him
uncomfortable.
Not uncomfortable
, cherie, he thought to
me.
Just—different
. That word didn’t sound so bad when he
said it. And he had called me
cherie
, a term of endearment
a man uses with his lover.

What do I call you?
I asked.

Dominic
, he told me his given name.
Dominic-Leandro
. I sighed with pleasure at the rightness
of it, the elegance.

Amelia
, I answered his unspoken
request in turn.
Amelia Katherine Herzog
, I added, in case
he hadn’t registered the Terran surname during the
introductions.

Amalie
, he repeated, finding the
Eclipsian equivalent.
Amalie-Katrin
. The ordinary names
sounded glamorous and exotic, transformed by the language and his
voice.

What’s Aranyi up to now? The Terrans must
be crazy to try that.
Our communion ended abruptly as the rest
of the ‘Graven forced their way in, interposing their thoughts
between me and my lover, pushing us apart, until I was back, alone
in my own consciousness, the ‘Graven glaring at me, the Terrans
unsure what had happened.

In the commotion someone had turned the
lights up. All the ‘Graven showed the third eyelid, sliding across
from the inner corners like the last phase of twin eclipses. I had
never seen it from the outside before; the effect was strangely
erotic.

I sat dazed, my mind awhirl with the
impressions I had picked up during the multiple telepathic
exposure, while shouted words were hurled around and over me.
All of these people were telepaths!
What I could do, so
could they, only with greater control. They were not merely
sufferers with a peculiar condition, as I was; to them the ability
was normal, and useful. And they all had the Evil Eye—I made the
association at last—including the woman, ‘Gravina Ndoko, who raised
her burqa to examine my mind with what I now guessed was telepathic
vision. Like Margrave Aranyi.
My Dominic-Leandro
, I
thought happily in the midst of the accusations.

Viceroy Zichmni had taken my telepathic
activity for a deliberate attempt at subversion. He stood up,
obliging everyone else in the room to stand up also. Facing the
Consul he said, “This is a serious violation of diplomatic
protocol. How you thought you’d get away with it, I can’t imagine.”
His expression was sad, his voice steady, with none of the quaver
of old age. “For now, I demand that this woman be placed under
arrest. Until she has been interrogated, there can be no more
discussions between us. This meeting is over.”

The Consul, Dominic, and Lady Ndoko all began
speaking at once. The woman prevailed; despite her unassuming
manner she possessed an indefinable authority. “My Lord,” she
informed the Viceroy, out loud, so that the Terrans would hear, “it
wasn’t deliberate.” People quieted down and waited for the Terrans
to catch up.

Lady Ndoko spoke directly to my mind during
the pause.
I know you didn’t mean to spy
. For some reason
she was sympathetic, assuring me that at least one of the ‘Graven
was on my side.

The Terrans decided the problem was related
to my cube and the recording. “I assure you, Lord Zichmni,” one of
them said, “it’s simply an electronic device, the same thing we all
have, what we call cubes, or smart phones. You must have noticed
them before, at other meetings.”

The Viceroy’s voice rose sharply with
irritation. “What do you mean, ‘it’? We are taking about your agent
here.” He jerked his head in my direction.

The woman continued her silent conversation
with me.
Have you been tested for
crypta? she asked.

Surely, ‘Gravina Ndoko, that’s not
necessary
, Dominic broke in.
She obviously has
crypta. There was a beseeching quality to his request that didn’t
suit his imperious personality. He wanted to prevent whatever was
coming next, was unused to asking favors.

That’s why she should be tested,
Margrave,
Lady Ndoko answered Dominic in that same tone she
had used with the Terrans, the civil manner masking the prickly
intelligence.
Because she has gifts—and potential
talents
.