“Always the sea. Always the openness,” Bac’cul had commented when he had first been shown the site.
“Always whenever possible,” Ruslan had told him. “At least when it’s water and not liquid methane or something equally exotic. Besides, the homes were designed as vacation retreats and were in an unusually good state of preservation. There’ll be one for each of us and they’re close to one another. I can keep an eye on the youngsters while each of them adapts individually to their new habitat.”
Indeed, both Cherpa and Pahksen took to their new residences with a zest that only served to confirm the Sectionary’s foresight in instigating the move from Myssar. As time passed, everyone settled in. Even the resident Myssari, comprised of rotating teams from Myssar, took the time to customize the buildings that had been adapted by them for their research facilities. They had the benefit of assistance from fellow scientists who had been researching Serabothian civilization for decades.
Having come to know their initial specimen intimately over the years, the Myssari understood that Ruslan enjoyed having time to himself. Since there were no Myssari scheduled to visit him for study that morning and as none had contacted him to do so, he was startled to feel a hand on his shoulder. The swift spinning of his seat, suspended as it was an appropriate distance off the unforgiving ground, forced the individual who had accosted him to retreat a couple of steps. A surprised Ruslan found himself staring up at Pahksen.
In the two years since migrating from Myssar, the young man had stopped growing upward, but not outward. Recalling the lithe and hungry young Pahksen of Daribb, it was difficult for Ruslan to look at him now and realize he was seeing the same person. No longer needing to fight to survive and with everything he might desire provided by the helpful Myssari, the whiplike survivor had ballooned into a large and lazy young man. As evidenced by his occasional irritated outbursts, the old mental roughness was still there, but the body was on the cusp of surrendering to sloth.
This was, Ruslan mused as he waited to see what his visitor wanted, in sharp contrast to Cherpa, who seemingly by simply wishing it to be so had matured into a spectacular, healthy young woman. One who nonetheless rarely went anywhere without a certain repeatedly rejuvenated old toy in tow. Ruslan had to smile to himself every time he thought of the doll Oola. It might not qualify as a human survivor, but it certainly made the grade as a survivor of human culture.
It was a truly beautiful morning, he thought, and now Pahksen was showing him an expression designed to spoil it. He sighed inwardly.
“What is it this time? Another breakdown in communications? Cor’rin told you that the station techs are working on it.”
“You’re half right, I think.” The much younger man unslung a pack from his back and set it on the hard ground. As he did so a cluster of purple and yellow thushpins hurriedly uprooted themselves and scampered away in all directions, seeking safety from the crushing weight of the descending pack. Ruslan regarded the minor floral genocide with displeasure. Pahksen was careless about such things. This was not Daribb. He no longer had to worry about defending himself from the local flora and fauna. Seraboth was and always had been a benign world. Old habits die slowly, Ruslan told himself, manufacturing an excuse for the youth’s indifference.
Positioning the cushioned floating disc by subtly shifting his body mass, he spun his chair so that he was looking straight at his visitor. “Then I must also be half wrong.”
“You’re right about the communications but wrong about the source.” Pahksen indicated a second nearby, empty chair. “May I sit down?”
Odd, Ruslan thought. There were and never had been any formalities between them. But he welcomed the unusual degree of civility. “You don’t need my permission for that. You don’t need my permission for anything, Pahksen. You know that.”
“I always felt that I did. Part of it’s the age difference, I suppose.” He was looking down at his pack, toying with the shoulder straps. “I know that the Myssari want Cherpa and me to make a baby. Or babies, I guess I should say. They want to restart the species.”
This was nothing new, Ruslan thought. So eager were the Myssari, they could not have hid their intentions had they tried. Which, being inhumanly straightforward, they did not.
“Doesn’t sound like there’s a communications problem there.” He leaned forward, the disc tilting him toward the youth. “What’s wrong?”
Pahksen raised his gaze. “I’m willing. More than willing. But when I put the matter to Cherpa, she always has an excuse. She’s too young, she’s too uncertain, she’s too this, too that.”
“She is still a bit young,” a patient Ruslan pointed out.
“Not biologically. And with the best Myssari specialists in human physiology overseeing everything from conception to birth, it’s highly unlikely there would be any dangerous complications. You know what I think the real problem is?”
Ruslan had played the elder advisor for years now. “Tell me.”
“I don’t think Cherpa likes me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Pahksen. You’re the only other surviving human. How could she not like you?”
The younger man’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. “You don’t like me.”
Ruslan was genuinely startled. “That’s absurd! Of course I like you. I’d like any fellow survivor, automatically. How could I not? It’s wonderful to have your company, to just sit like this and talk with another human being. You’re developing into a fine individual. Everyone has growing pains, and yes, you’re no different. If I criticize you occasionally, it’s only because I want to do everything possible to assist in your maturation.”
“You don’t criticize Cherpa.” Pahksen’s tone was accusatory.
“Of course I do. Anyway, how would you know the details of how much I do or not? There are plenty of times she and I are together and you’re not around, just like right now it’s only you and me. How do you know what I say to her when you’re not present?”
A peculiar undertone crept into the younger man’s voice. “What do you say to her when I’m not around?”
It took a long moment for Ruslan to comprehend the full import of Pahksen’s query. When he finally did so, it took him a longer moment to overcome his shock and gather his thoughts enough to compose an appropriate response. It was hard to accept, but the youngster’s own words were the proof of it: his youthful, raging paranoia still retained its grasp.
“You’re not…” He hesitated and started over again. “You’re not implying, in any way, shape, or form, Pahksen, that you think there’s anything physical between Cherpa and me?”
The younger man shrugged with mock indifference. “How would I know, with all the times you two are together and I’m ‘not around’?”
A stunned Ruslan leaned back in his seat, which rocked slightly at the sudden weight shift. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You could start by denying it.” Fingers continued to play with the backpack’s straps.
“Fine, no problem. I deny it. Utterly and completely.”
“I’ve seen the way you look at her sometimes.”
“Pahksen, I’m older than both of you put together.”
“No. You’re just old.” Satisfaction and frustration competed for dominance in the youth’s rejoinder.
“Okay, sure: I’m old. Doesn’t that satisfy you, then?”
“No, it doesn’t. Because while you’re old, you’re not too old. I know—I checked the records. So I know you’re not too old to have sex, or even to reproduce. You’re healthy enough. I’ve wondered for years now why Cherpa won’t have anything to do with me, why she doesn’t like me. It’s so obvious I feel like a complete idiot for not seeing it before. She won’t have anything to do with me because she’s waiting for an invitation from you.” His tone hardened. “If it hasn’t been accepted already.”