From habit, I returned to my cabin… but as soon as I got there, I knew I couldn’t stand being cooped up in a tiny room. All my instincts said, "Go check your equipment. Make sure everything’s perfect." But Festina had barred me from doing that. I felt like a mother cut off from her children.
For something to do, I went down to the mess. It had been hours since my last meal, and I knew I should eat, even though I had no appetite. (Why wasn’t I hungry? Had the Balrog already replaced my digestive system? I imagined the moss photosynthesizing inside me, pumping unknown alien nutrients through my veins, mutating my internal organs. The idea was ridiculous — how could spores in my lungs or liver get enough light to photosynthesize? More likely, they were feeding off me. So why didn’t I feel hungry?) Nevertheless, I forced down a few mouthfuls of the vegetarian dish of the day: a casserole whose components had surrendered their individual identities and blended morosely into a homogeneous mush.
At least the mess’s dining area was empty. I’d come in after the normal supper hour… which was good because I didn’t have to put up with regular crew members asking questions about Festina. ("What’s she really like?") On the other hand, eating alone in the silent room got on my nerves. I felt an irrational urge to shout obscenities or throw my bowl of mush against the wall. If somebody caught me, so what? The Balrog infesting my flesh was worse than any punishment the navy could impose. Besides, I had a perfect defense: I could claim mental incompetence because of the spores. "They made me do it, your honor!" Like a free pass that let me flout petty regulations.
Only one thing stopped me from a heartfelt rampage. Suppose I tried to run amok, and the Balrog froze my muscles; suppose the spores didn’t let me make a fool of myself. They wouldn’t want me getting thrown in the brig — that would interfere with the Balrog’s plan. So I might find myself incapable of causing any sort of ruckus.
I didn’t want to put that to the test. I didn’t want to lose control of my body even for an instant… because that would prove I was lost. Better to retain a false hope that the Balrog couldn’t really make me dance to its tune.
Of course, if it could already plant false memories in my mind… but I still couldn’t decide whether the temple scene was fact or fiction. Pistachio’s comm officer had begun setting up a call to my mother, but it would take at least another hour before I could be put through. Don’t ask me why. Explorers weren’t taught the principles of real-time FTL communication, except that it was fiendishly complex and energy-consuming. Even with approval from the illustrious Admiral Ramos, I had to wait my turn for an opening in the schedule. After all that, I wondered if my mother would answer. She’d be home, of course — she was always home — but sometimes when calls came in she’d just sit in mouselike fear, holding her breath till the caller gave up. It’d be just my luck if the one night I really needed to talk with my mother, she’d be having one of her "spells."
With such gloomy thoughts going through my mind, I stared at the casserole mush and tried to gather strength to eat another spoonful. "Damn, Mom," said a voice, "that looks like cat puke. Can I have some?"
I looked up. Tut stood there, wearing his usual cheerful expression. (The edges of his gold eyes were permanently sculpted into a friendly crinkle. The mouth moved a bit when he talked, but the corners were perpetually turned up in an amiable smile. Tut might be crazy, but he’d had the prescience to mold his metal face into unending good cheer.) I was so glad to see him, I almost wept. "Tut!" I cried. "You’re awake!"
"Awake and feeling like I licked a dingo’s anus. Man, am I starved!" He poked a finger into my food, scooped up a wad, and popped it into his mouth. Speaking while he chewed, he said, "I notice you’ve still got your legs."
"No thanks to you. I should belt you a good one for that."
"Aww, Mom, don’t spank me. I was just trying to help." He looked down at my legs as if trying to see through my trousers and boots. "So, have you gone all red and fuzzy?"
"No." For some reason, I blushed.
"But you got moss all through you?"
"Yes."
"Checked out by the doctor?"
"Checked out by myself with a Bumbler."
His eyes narrowed beneath the gold — probably a dubious look, though it was never easy to tell with his face so hidden behind metal. Finally, he shrugged and sat down beside me. Plucking the spoon from my fingers, he started to eat my meal. "So what’s it like, Mom?" he asked between mouthfuls. "Being all alien inside."
"So far, not much different."
"Kaisho Namida got all spooky. Do you think you will too?"
"What do you mean, spooky?"
"First thing I did when I woke up, I searched navy files for Balrog info. Know what stood out? People have tried to kill Kaisho more than a dozen times. She gives some folks acute xenophobia."
It didn’t surprise me. Many humans are edgy around aliens, but a few suffer aversions so strong they lose control. One glimpse of a woman who’s half red moss, and a severe xenophobe could collapse into moaning fits. The panic might even turn violent: attacking the source of terror to make it go away. A deranged hysteric lashing out is no laughing matter… especially if the crazed person finds a weapon. "So," I said, "these xenophobes came at Kaisho, and she did something spooky?"
Tut nodded. "She just sat there… but she always saw them coming, even if they ran up from behind. And when one of the wackos tried to hit her, she grabbed their hands faster than lightning and held on so hard they couldn’t move."
"Impressive." Panicked people were noted for abnormal amounts of strength. I imagined Kaisho, sitting calmly in her wheelchair, snatching the wrists of a howling maniac and instantly clamping her attacker immobile.
"That’s not the spooky part," Tut said. "As soon as she caught hold of somebody, she’d pull ’em down so she could look in their eyes. Wouldn’t say a thing — she’d just stare. And five seconds later, they’d either faint dead away or go all calm like vanilla ice cream. They’d stay like that a few minutes, then get up and ask what all the fuss was about." He set down the spoon he’d been eating with, then turned and looked at me. "Can you do stuff like that, Mom?"
He waited… as if daring me to do something to his mind while our eyes were locked… or maybe he was hoping I’d affect him somehow. I held his stare for only a few heartbeats; then I dropped my gaze. "I can’t do spooky stuff, Tut. And if I could, I wouldn’t want to. Back in Zoonau, the Balrog gave me a vision — like it was letting me in on the way its spores perceived the world. Suddenly I had this sixth sense that could see the truth of people: their life force or karma or something. I put up with it for maybe three seconds. Then I yelled at the Balrog to take the visions away."
"Because the truth about people is scary? They’re evil and ugly or something?"
"Nobody was evil or ugly. I just didn’t want… it was like the Balrog was offering me an incredible gift, and I didn’t know what would happen if I accepted. I was afraid of what might be expected from me."
"Huh." He looked at me. "Am I sensing a sexual subtext here? Cuz I gotta tell you, Mom, you’re talking like a virgin who’s afraid she’s going to like it."
"Go to hell." I pushed him away and got out of my chair. "That’s the last time I confide in you."
"Oh, you were confiding? No wonder I didn’t recognize it. Hey, where’re you going?"