What does it mean to be beautiful?
Up Revisited
The lark gurgled forward. "Lights off," I said — partly so I could see outside, partly to hide my reflection. Prope and Harque might gaze dotingly on their faces; but I wouldn't.
I refused to think about it. I refused to acknowledge it. I refused to be changed by it.
The glow at the base of the cockpit faded, leaving a dim aftershine still rimmed across my vision. There was nothing outside but blackness — a blackness that bubbled as our jets churned the water. At some point we must have passed out of the airlock into open lake, but I couldn't sense the transition: just a steady motion forward that gradually assumed an upward arc.
Rising out of the waters… born again with a new face.
I dug my fingernails into my bare arm as punishment for such thoughts. How banal can you get? I chided myself.
When the light finally came, it arrived quickly: from a glimmer far over our heads to a diffuse glow, then rapidly looming down on us until we broke through into late afternoon sunshine. Like a jumping trout, the plane shot out of the water then slapped down hard on its belly, not flying fast enough yet to stay airborne.
The impact jarred my teeth together, and Oar gave a yelp; then both of us gasped in unison as our swivel chairs locked into forward-facing positions and the engines kicked in with full jet power. A hammer of acceleration slammed me back with at least five Gs, pressing on me with such ferocity it emptied my brain of all but one thought: This better not rip off the skin.
Water tore away beneath us as the lark skimmed the water surface; then we were climbing at a sharp angle, still accelerating, still crushed back by the force. The pain was worst in my knees — they were propped over the edge of the chair as both my thighs and feet pressed backward, making a straining, two-way stretch. It was only a matter of time before soft tissue tore under the stress… but before that happened, the engines eased and the wrenching ache subsided.
Lightly, I touched my cheek. The skin still seemed in place.
I let myself breathe.
Altitude
Below I could see a modest lake a few kilometers across — not much more than a widening in the long fat river that lazed its way from one horizon to the other. I tried to memorize the look of the area in case I had to come back: in case Tobit made such a nuisance that I had to talk some sense into him. With luck, he would simply retreat into wounded inebriation. He would poison the Morlocks with his rotgut and it would never matter to the world that somewhere under the lake was a dome housing sullen drunkards.
"Festina!" Oar said excitedly. "We are flying!"
"Yes we are."
"Like birds!"
"Yes."
"We are high above the ground!"
"Yes." In fact, we weren't far up at alclass="underline" enough to clear any slight hill in the prairie, but at a much lower altitude than I was used to flying. For anyone below, the noise of our engines would punish the eardrums; however, there was no one down there but rabbits and gophers. From this vantage point, Melaquin looked pristine — an unspoiled natural world, devoid of messy civilization.
"Turn south," I told the lark. "Set whatever airspeed gives the most distance for the fuel we have. And let's gain some altitude, shall we? There's no point in scaring the animals."
Cruising
The plains rolled away beneath us. Oar had loosened her safety straps for more freedom to delight in the view — to squeal happily as we passed over a stampeding herd of bison or to ask why no river ever ran in a straight line. I responded as politely as I could, but my mind was elsewhere.
What would I say when I met Jelca? What would he say to me?
We had gone on a total of two dates, one real, one virtual. I paid for both.
The real date was the usual thing — four hours of volunteer patrol for the Civilian Protection Office. As Explorers, we were qualified for assignment in a tough neighborhood: tough enough that we got into two separate fights with the same Purpose gang. Like most gangs, they fought fists only; they dreamt of leaving New Earth one day, and were smart enough to know armed violence would ruin their chances. On the other hand, they couldn't ignore Jelca and me on their turf. They mistook my face and his scalp condition as evidence of "alien miscegenation"… genetically impossible, but then, the Purpose didn't ask for a C-level in biology as an entrance requirement.
I considered my evening with Jelca a bonding experience. How can you help but feel closer when you've protected each other's backs in a brawl? And we fought well. Like all civilian volunteers, we had a cloud of sentinel nanites watching that we didn't get in over our heads; but we never needed their help. Jelca had brought an Explorer stun-pistol with some customized enhancements he'd made for the occasion. With that and my kung fu, we held our own. We didn't break heads indiscriminately — at the end of the night, we received a commendation for staying completely within policy — but Jelca and I worked well together. We had a good time. We did something useful and demanding, after which we could smile at each other.
When the action was over, we did not leap into bed. That may be the usual pattern — get blazed on your own adrenaline, then burn off the aftershock of tension and triumph in the age-old way. But Jelca and I were Explorers. Partnering another person through danger touched deep feelings; it seemed cheap to exploit it as a mere stimulant for heavy breathing. Therefore we parted, feeling warm and close, but in control… despite (on my part at least) a ferocious urge to fuck and fuck and fuck until I passed out.
Two weeks passed after that first date. Jelca and I talked often, but made no plans. I wanted to; but I had to wait for him to make the next move. My home planet had an inviolable rule of etiquette: never force yourself on someone twice in a row. If Jelca didn't offer his own invitation, I should quietly accept he had no interest in further developments. Of course, different cultures have different customs; and I agonized whether he might be waiting for me just as I was waiting for him. Perhaps where he came from, women instigated every date… or perhaps whoever started the "courtship" was expected to initiate everything from then on. There's no database summarizing such customs — they're too vague to quantify. So, after many earnest conversations with myself, I (the freshman) timidly asked out Jelca (the senior) a second time.
He said yes.
This time we chose a fantasy walk through a haunted VR forest — a temperate forest, because Jelca said he liked those best. I would have preferred a rainforest like those back home, so I could show off my jungle-girl competence; but since Jelca was a city boy I thought I could still hold my own with him, even if I couldn't tell a sugar maple from a Lanark.
As always with fantasy walks, I had a panicked urge to rip off the interface helm as soon as it began extracting my archetype. Intellectually, I knew the scan only skimmed the surface of my subconscious; it avoided exposing too much of my psyche. Still, I shuddered at the thought of stripping myself spiritually naked in front of Jelca… of my subconscious vomiting up some loathsome dung-smeared monster to be my VR alterego.
Of course, that didn't happen. Fantasy walks are wish fulfillments: daydreams, not nightmares. I materialized in the virtual forest as a ghostly feline… my paws pale and terrible as I held them in front of my eyes, their milky ectoplasm translucent as smoke. My body faded in and out of existence, sometimes invisible, sometimes lethally solid. Strong and elusive, impossible to pin down — the archetype truly was an intimate personal fantasy, a reflection of deep desires. I felt a sexy kind of vulnerability to show myself this way. Not disguised, but revealed.