She sighed. “I’ve heard on Elder they paint patterns on their skin, to hide the change. Ntaka called them ‘youth-fixing,’ didn’t he?” Anger faded, her eyes grew cool like the sea, gray-green. “Yes, I think about it… especially when we’re laughing at the lubbers, and their narrow lives. And all the poor panting awestruck Tails, sometimes they think they’re using us, but we’re always using them… Sometimes I think we’re very cruel.”
“Very like a god—Silver Lady of the Moon.”
“You haven’t called me that since—that night… all night.” Her hand tightened painfully; he said nothing. “I guess they envy a cyborg for the same things…”
“At least it’s easier to rationalize—and harder to imitate.” He shrugged. “We leave each other alone, for the most part.”
“And so we must wait for each other, we immortals. It’s still a beautiful town; I don’t care what they think.”
He sat, fingers catching in the twisted metal of his thick bracelet, listening to her voice weave patterns through the hiss of running water. Washing away the dirty looks… Absently he reread the third paragraph on the page for the eighth time; and the singing stopped.
“Maris, do you have any—”
He looked up at her thin, shining body, naked in the doorway. “Brandy, goddamm it! You’re not between planets— you want to show it all to the whole damn street?”
“But I always—” Made awkward by sudden awareness, she fled.
He sat and stared at the sun-hazed windows, entirely aware that there was no one to see in. Slowly the fire died, his breathing eased.
She returned shyly, closing herself into quilted blue-silver, and sank onto the edge of a chair. “I just never think about it.” Her voice was very small.
“It’s all right.” Ashamed, he looked past her. “Sorry I yelled at you… What did you want to ask me?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She pulled violently at her snarled hair. “Ow! Dammit!” Feeling him look at her, she forced a smile. “Uh, you know, I’m glad we picked up Mima on Treone; I’m not the little sister anymore. I was really getting pretty tired of being the greenie for so long. She’s—”
“Brandy—”
“Hm?”
“Why don’t they allow cyborgs on crews?”
Surprise caught her. “It’s a regulation.”
He shook his head. “Don’t tell me ‘It’s a regulation,’ tell me why.”
“Well…” She smoothed wet hair-strands with her fingers. “They tried it, and it didn’t work out. Like with men— they couldn’t endure space, they broke down, their hormonal balance was wrong. With cyborgs, stresses between the real and the artificial in the body were too severe, they broke down too… At the beginning they tried cyborganics, as a way to let men keep space, like they tried altering the hormone balance. Neither worked. Physically or psychologically, there was too much strain. So finally they just made it a regulation, no men on space crews.”
“But that was over a thousand years ago—cyborganics has improved. I’m healthier and live longer than any normal person. And stronger.” He leaned forward, tight with agitation.
“And slower. We don’t need strength, we have artificial means. And anyway, a man would still have to face more stress, it would be dangerous.”
“Are there any female cyborgs on crews?”
“No.”
“Have they ever even tried it again?”
“No—”
“You see? The League has a lock on space, they keep it with archaic laws. They don’t want anyone else out there!” Sudden resentment shook his voice.
“Maybe… we don’t.” Her fingers closed, opened, closed over the soft heavy arms of the chair; her eyes were the color of twisting smoke. “Do you really blame us? Spacing is our life, it’s our strength. We have to close the others out, everything changes and changes around us, there’s no continuity—we only have each other. That’s why we have our regulations, that’s why we dress alike, look alike, act alike; there’s nothing else we can do, and stay sane. We have to live apart, always.” She pulled her hair forward, tying nervous knots. “And—that’s why we never take the same lover twice, too. We have needs we have to satisfy; but we can’t afford to… form relationships, get involved, tied. It’s a danger, it’s an instability… You do understand that, don’t you, Maris; that it’s why I don’t—” She broke off, eyes burning him with sorrow and, below it, fear.
He managed a smile. “Have you heard me complain?”
“Weren’t you just… ?” She lifted her head.
Slowly he nodded, felt pain start. “I suppose I was.” But I don’t change. He shut his eyes suddenly, before she read them. But that’s not the point, is it?
“Maris, do you want me to stop staying here?”
“No— No… I understand, it’s all right. I like the company.” He stretched, shook his head. “Only, wear a towel, all right? I’m only human.”
“I promise… that I will keep my eyes open, in the future.”
He considered the future that would begin with dawn when her ship went up, and said nothing.
He stumbled cursing from the bedroom to the door, to find her waiting there, radiant and wholly unexpected. “Surprise!” She laughed and hugged him, dislodging his half-tied robe.
“My God—hey!” He dragged her inside and slammed the door. “You want to get me arrested for indecent exposure?” He turned his back, making adjustments, while she stood and giggled behind him.
He faced her again, fogged with sleep, struggling to believe. “You’re early—almost two weeks?”
“I know. I couldn’t wait till tonight to surprise you. And I did, didn’t I?” She rolled her eyes. “I heard you coming to the door!”
She sat curled on his aging striped couch, squinting out the window as he fastened his sandals. “You used to have so much room. Houses haven’t filled up your canyon, have they?” Her voice grew wistful.
“Not yet. If they ever do, I won’t stay to see it… How was your trip this time?”
“Beautiful, again… I can’t imagine it ever being anything else. You could see it all a hundred times over, and never see it all—
Oh, guess what! My poems—I finished the cycle during the voyage… and it’s going to be published, on Treone. They said very nice things about it.“
He nodded smugly. “They have good taste. They must have changed, too.”
“‘A renaissance in progress’—meaning they’ve put on some ver-ry artsy airs, last decade; their Tails are really something else…” Remembering, she shook her head. “It was one of them that told me about the publisher.”
“You showed him your poems?” Trying not to—
“Good grief, no; he was telling me about his. So I thought, What have I got to lose?”
“When do I get a copy?”
“I don’t know.” Disappointment pulled at her mouth. “Maybe I’ll never even get one; after twenty-five years they’ll be out of print. ‘Art is long, and Time is fleeting’… Longfellow had it backward. But I made you some copies of the poems. And brought you some more books, too. There’s one you should read; it replaced Ntaka years ago on the Inside. I thought it was inferior, but who are we… What are you laughing about?”
“What happened to that freckle-faced kid in pigtails?”
“What?” Her nose wrinkled.