Second self, p.16
Second Self, page 16
One afternoon, taking his break, Gherrod sat on the steps outside the kitchen eating hot canka nuts, wishing he was warmer. The day was damp. The sky was wet and watery; the sun weak as a Bajoran.
“Gherrod.”
Gherrod looked up, shielding his eyes against the white light. Glinn Khenet was standing there, in uniform. Gherrod scrambled to his feet. Service grades stood up when an officer was around. Being penned for vagrancy was one thing; being flagged as potentially dissident was something else. Who wanted a visit from the Order? “Yes, sir?”
“Are you meant to be sitting outside eating canka nuts?”
“It’s my designated break, sir.”
“Oh, you get those, do you?”
“Mm. Fifteen metrics sitting out here with a bag of nuts and I’m a new man. Fired up and ready to serve.”
Khenet suppressed a laugh, just. “Oh, well, we all have our duties to perform. Our respective tasks in life.”
“And mine”—Gherrod mimed using a knife—“is chopping parlik roots for Cardassia.”
Khenet laughed properly this time. He nodded at the bag of nuts. “Don’t waste those,” he said, and Gherrod, noting and appreciating the consideration, carried on eating.
“So,” Khenet went on, watching him, “what brought you here?”
“I, er, made some bad decisions, sir.”
“What kind of bad decisions?”
Gherrod, finishing the last nut, screwed up the bag. “I didn’t do my chores.”
“Oh, I see.” Khenet, leaning his shoulder against the wall, relaxed. “Well, you seem to be making up for it.”
“I want to get home as quick as I can, sir.” He looked around. “This place is a dump.”
“Yes, it is. And where’s home?”
“Prime.”
“You’re from Prime?” said Khenet. He sounded surprised, impressed. Yes, thought Gherrod, I might be trash, but I’m not provincial trash.
“The capital. East Torr.” He always said East Torr, which he knew so well you might even think of it as home. He always seemed to drift back there, in the end. As good a place as any. “What about you, sir? If you don’t mind me asking?”
“Kelvas V.”
Provincial world. Farming, mostly. Very dull. Gherrod had passed that way, once. “That’s meant to be nice, sir.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Not nice enough to stay there though, sir?”
Khenet eyed him thoughtfully. “Tell me about the capital.”
Suddenly, the kitchen door opened, and Prill shouted out, “Gherrod, you lazy skrit! Get your arse back in here or I’ll have you mucking out the shithouse with the Bajorans!”
Gherrod mimed using the knife again. “Duty calls.”
Khenet said, “Sorry if I’ve got you in trouble—”
“Don’t worry, I’m always in trouble. Buy me a drink later, and I’ll tell you about the time I saw Eleta Preloc in Tarlak.”
After his shift, Gherrod lingered outside the mess rather than going in. Khenet, coming past with his brother officers, saw him and went over to speak to him, sending the others on ahead. “Not going in?”
“Been stuck inside all day. I’d rather get some fresh air.”
“Even when it’s this cold?” said Khenet.
“Mm.” The door to the mess swung open to the uproarious sound of drunken soldiery. A blast of sweaty air rushed out too, sweetened by crimson shadow. Gherrod sighed. “Did you want to play cards again tonight?”
“You know,” said Khenet, watching a couple of foot soldiers stagger past, “I can take it or leave it.”
“Me too.”
“Let me go and buy a bottle of kanar,” said Khenet. “That’ll keep us warm.”
Gherrod, freezing inside his too thin jacket but glad of the new boots, kicked his heels until Khenet returned with a bottle. Seeing Gherrod shivering, Khenet frowned and said, “Aren’t you cold in that?”
Gherrod shrugged. “It’s all right. Where are we off to, then?”
“Let’s go around to the back of the kitchen,” said Khenet.
“What? I’ve spent all day over there—”
“Yes, but the back wall stays warm from the cookers.”
“Oh. Good idea.”
They walked along side by side, not talking. Khenet was right—the wall was warm, and there were a couple of stools stacked up together. They grabbed these and sat down. Gherrod leaned against the wall and felt a little welcome warmth seep into his bones. Khenet cracked open the bottle, took a swig, then passed it to Gherrod. A hit of kanar took away more of the chill, but, still, he took out a hypospray.
“That stuff,” said Khenet, in a disapproving voice, as Gherrod pushed up his sleeve and pressed the hypo against the veins of his wrist. Just a little to take the edge off.
“What about it?”
“Not good for you. Gives you nightmares.”
“Yeah, well, keeps out the cold.” His breath curled in wisps in the air. “Shitty little planet.”
“Not so bad in spring,” said Khenet. “Even pretty, in places.” He sighed deeply. Melancholy suited his handsome face, made him look like the poet Lukhan in the portrait during his exile. Yearning for Home. Was that Khenet’s problem? Was he missing home? Was that the key to unlocking him?
“But you’d rather be somewhere else?” said Gherrod. His voice, if anyone attentive had been listening, sounded subtly different. More city heights; less Torr. More interrogative; less servile. But Khenet, although kind and well-meaning in his own way, was not really paying attention. Not to the kitchen drone.
“Well, who wants to be stuck out here?” Khenet said. “The locals are all mad. At least it’s quiet. No Resistance activity in years.”
“You were telling me about Kelvas V.”
“Farming world. Boring. That’s why I signed up. You were telling me about the capital.”
“Big. Busy. Not enough work. My fault, somehow.” Gherrod twisted the hypo around in his fingers. He’d used the last and there wouldn’t be more until tomorrow. “That’s why I’m here. Didn’t you want to hear about me seeing Preloc that time?”
“Actually, what I want to know is—when did you read Preloc?”
Gherrod stiffened. His voice came out pure Torr. “I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t mean that—”
“Do you think because I’m stuck washing dishes that I’m stupid?”
“I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean anything like that—”
“I can read, you know! I’ve had a run of bad luck, that’s all.”
“It came out wrong—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it. There’s no reason you wouldn’t have read Preloc—”
Gherrod started ticking them off angrily on his fingers. “I’ve read her enigma tales, I’ve read the pastorals, I’ve read her iterative verse and her recursive verse, and I’ve definitely read Meditations on a fucking Crimson Shadow, all right?”
“All right, I’m sorry!”
They sat side by side, both angry and embarrassed. After a moment or two, Gherrod reached out to tap Khenet gently on the arm. When Khenet was looking straight at him again, he gave a crooked smile—his absolutely winning crooked smile—and said, “I read them in the pen last year.”
They both burst out laughing. Khenet looked nicely scandalized. That was the thing about these provincial boys. It didn’t take much to shock them.
“What had you been doing?”
“Best not to dwell on such minutiae.”
“More bad decisions?”
“I make a lot of those.” Gherrod pushed over the bottle of kanar. “Friends again?”
Khenet took the bottle back and drank. “Friends.”
Gherrod rubbed his hands together; his fingers were frozen stiff. “Sorry, sir,” he said, “but I think we’ll have to walk around for a while.” Pride pushed him to say, “Can’t stand the smell of the kitchen.”
He watched Khenet take in his shivering body, his ashy face, his cold hands. Saw the young man’s compassion. Almost felt sorry for him. What good was pity, for any of them? Khenet said, “Hey, listen, I’ve got a good idea. We’ll go into the office.”
“Is that okay? Thought I wasn’t allowed?”
“I’ll say I forgot some files,” said Khenet. “Or needed you to carry my bag. We’ll think of something.”
“All right,” said Gherrod. “Beats sitting out here.” He followed Khenet around to the administrative block. “Never been in here before,” he whispered as Khenet put his palm on the entrance panel. The lights were dimmed but Khenet led the way confidently down the corridor and into his office. Gherrod took the lay of the land; mapped reality against the plans he’d studied in the files. Not a big space. Computer on the desk. A couple of chairs. There was a door in the wall that led to the adjacent room.
“That’s where the old man lives,” Khenet said.
“Yeah? What’s he like, the commander?” said Gherrod.
“Old Entrek? He’s all right. He’s fine, actually. Fair.” Khenet shrugged. “I’ve served under worse. Let me turn the heating up.”
“Huh.” Gherrod perched on the desk and, while Khenet was busy fiddling with the heater, placed a couple of surveillance devices (their ranges significantly boosted) under his desk. “So,” he said. “Preloc. I was working as a gardener in one of the big state parks in Tarlak—”
“A gardener, Mas?”
“Those stone gardens don’t weed themselves. Anyway, one day this woman walks past carrying a big display of perek. I thought it was going to be for one of the legates, but no—she went to one of the little slabs and laid it there. I read the name on the slab—Tret Preloc. A son, I think. Then I recognized her from her state lecture.”
“I love her books,” said Khenet quietly. “She’s incredible. What was she like?”
“Don’t hate me, but she was dowdy. No sense of style.” Gherrod sniffed. “Then I thought—imagine having a mind so rich—so self-reliant—that you don’t worry about how you look. How you present yourself to the world. Because everything you need”—he tapped his temple—“is up here.”
Khenet was smiling at him, his head tilted, his eyes warm. “Gardening, cooking, literature, aesthetics. Is there anything you don’t know about?”
“The military,” said Gherrod. “Problems with authority. That’s official, by the way. My last state-appointed conservator had it entered specially on my record.”
Outside, they heard voices. People leaving the mess for the night.
“I’d better start heading back,” said Gherrod. “Curfew, yes? For our own safety, of course.”
“Yes, of course,” said Khenet politely, a little distantly. They went back out into the cold night and meandered around the compound, finishing up the kanar, and walked toward the civilian accommodation block. Gherrod saw the place through Khenet’s eyes. You might think twice about putting Bajorans here. You’d still do it, though.
“This is my stop,” said Gherrod. “I’d invite you in for gelat, but there isn’t any.”
Khenet eyed the building as if he’d never been this way before. “Mas,” he said, “you need to get yourself a coat before winter really sets in.”
“I know.”
“Do you need, well, money?”
“It’ll be all right.”
“Because I can help—”
“I’ll work something out.”
“All right. Well, goodnight then, Mas.”
“ ’Night, sir.”
He didn’t tell Khenet what he was doing for money, which was a little sideline selling hypospray refills to his fellow drones in the dormitory. Cheap stuff, nasty, but the days were getting cold. Khenet would have had to report him if he knew, with a this is for your own good or this hurts me more than it hurts you expression. Worse, he might try to talk him out of it. Try to save him from himself.
After that night, they met two or three times a week, in Khenet’s office, if they could, which was useful, but it hadn’t yet offered the opportunity to get inside Entrek’s office. Frustrating. Khenet always brought a bottle, and Gherrod usually filched something from the kitchen. He brought crimson shadow too, despite the disapproval. Khenet talked about his home (which he obviously missed), his job with Entrek (more routine than he would like), and his ambitions (to get out after twenty years and travel). Gherrod filed that one away: desire to travel was a common early warning sign of dissident tendencies. In turn, Gherrod told tall tales about his past that stayed just the right side of shocking and made Khenet gasp and laugh. They never talked directly about books, but they did bat quotations at each other. Some nights they couldn’t go to the office and had to walk around outside. One night, after the weather took a definite shift for the worst, there was snow on the ground. As they walked around, Khenet said, “Mas, have you still not got a coat?”
“They’re not cheap, you know—”
“Is that all that’s stopping you?”
“Sir,” said Gherrod, teeth chattering, “it’s a pretty big barrier to entry.”
“What are they paying you?”
Gherrod gave a hollow laugh. “Let’s say I’m glad I’m working with food.”
Khenet gave Gherrod the bottle and sent him off to bed. The next time they met, Khenet was carrying a large parcel. “Don’t ask,” he said, shoving it into Gherrod’s hands. “Just put it on.”
Gherrod untied the parcel and took out a greatcoat. Third-, maybe fourth-hand, rubbed thin around the elbows and not quite black any longer in places, but thick, heavy. Warm. Gherrod put it on. It was slightly too large. “I must look appalling,” he complained. “Like a vagrant.”
“You were a vagrant,” said Khenet. “And you’re welcome.”
It made all the difference. Between the coat and the bottles of kanar (and the shadow), they were pretty cheerful. They began to meet more nights than not. One morning their days off coincided, and Gherrod hung around the door to the mess, wondering if Khenet would come past. He did, midmorning, and, seeing Gherrod, barked at him, “You! I want a word with you.”
Had he found the surveillance devices? That could cause problems. Gherrod slouched after him, surly but obedient, and found to his surprise that Khenet was leading him off the base. “He’s with me,” Khenet said to the foot soldiers on guard, and they went out of the compound. They walked along the road awhile, and then turned down a lane leading to the river. Khenet relaxed and became himself again.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “It’s just…”
“Yeah?” said Gherrod.
Khenet was looking shifty. “It’s all right us going about after dark. In private. But…”
But Khenet, an officer, shouldn’t be seen hanging around with a service grade. Might affect his promotion opportunities. This was a new low. Being patronized by a provincial boy who quoted Preloc in a Kelvasian accent. He didn’t even alter his voice to get the rhymes right in “Concentric Circles.” Three hundred lines, half of them mispronounced.
“It’s not personal, Mas—”
“It’s okay,” he said with a shrug. “Just how it is, isn’t it?”
“Do you want to see the town?”
“The what?”
“The town. The Bajoran town.”
Not really, thought Gherrod, with some irritation, since it was not anywhere near Entrek’s office, and he was getting anxious about how long it was taking to get inside. “All right,” he said. He reached into the deep pocket of his big coat and pulled out his hypo.
“Do you have to?” said Khenet.
“I don’t have to,” said Gherrod. “But I want to.”
Khenet sighed but didn’t say anything more. Gherrod soon felt warmer, relaxed, and while he longed to be back on Prime, back in Torr, sitting in the market sipping gelat, trekking through the mud didn’t feel so bad. Miserable country, though. The trees were bare, black lines, and the ground mulched with dead leaves. At last, they drew closer to the town, passing by a number of run-down wooden barns.
“What’s in those?” he said.
Khenet shrugged. “Don’t know. Never looked. Empty, I think.”
Gherrod sniffed the air: musty, damp, and, underneath, something metallic and burning. Was anyone still farming around here, or had they all drifted over to the mining operation back near Merna? Did he even care? He trudged on beside Khenet. Soon they reached the old Bajoran town of Akantha.
The place was pitiful, dying a slow death. Some of the buildings were already ruined; the rest were falling down. People sat in doorways, watching listlessly as they picked their way along the wet and filthy main street. Those locals who were moving around scurried past them eyes averted and heads down. At last, they came to the river, brown and slow moving. A few boats were moored there, but they too were abandoned and decaying. Everything was rotten.
“Hey,” said Gherrod. “Thanks for bringing me here. It’s great.”
Khenet laughed. “Yes, on reflection, perhaps we should have waited for the spring.”
“At least I’ve got some exercise.”
“Do you want to see the temple?”
Why would he want to see some ramshackle site dedicated to the ludicrous gods of a superstitious people? “Okay.”
Khenet pointed to a path that led along the river. They walked beside the river for a little while, until they reached a building bigger than the rest, built from the same crumbling yellow stone, with a big pink dome. The building had a red door, the paint peeling to show the grain of wood beneath. On either side of the door were two small trees, evergreens, an unexpected and surprisingly pleasant flash of color.
“The temple of Akantha,” said Khenet. He sounded pretty pleased with it—or with himself. “What do you think?”
Gherrod considered this. “I think it’s falling down.”
“Yes, a shame they don’t take care of their heritage,” said Khenet.
“Better for them if it’s gone,” said Gherrod.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s not doing them any good, is it? All this stuff about Prophets. Who runs Bajor now? Best thing we ever did, getting rid of religion.” Gherrod reached down to pick up a stone. He was aiming it at one of the evergreens, but Khenet stopped his hand.
