Tom asked, “So what’s with the salt and the wine?”
“Salt represents purity,” I told him. “The wine the blood of Christ.”
John said, “Shame we haven’t a few relics to hand. A bit of the True Cross. A saint’s toe-bone.” He laughed, but it was hollow, and nobody laughed with him.
“Wow,” Sonia said. I thought it was the first time she had spoken. “I haven’t felt this way since I messed with a Ouija board when I was twelve.” She sounded as if this were fun, like a haunted-house theme park ride. She held up her arm. “The hairs on my flesh are standing up. Look, Tom—”
He hushed her. But I envied her lack of imagination.
I reached into the bag again, and drew out a crucifix. It was a small silver pendant, in fact a legacy from my grandfather Poole, a Manchester Catholic, who died when I was ten. It was only the size of a quarter, with a little Christ like a toy soldier. But it was an extraordinary moment when I held up the crucifix before Morag, and I was aware of everybody staring at the little medallion, the way it caught the light.
I passed the crucifix to Morag and leaned over her. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I can’t believe I’m putting you through this.”
She took the pendant and smiled. Her face was only centimeters from mine, and I could smell the sweetness of her breath. “Everything is going to be fine. You’ll see.”
I pulled away and sat down.
Rosa turned to her book. “Let’s begin.” She began to read, rapidly, in a low voice.
John listened for a minute. “Is that Latin?”
“Prayers,” I said. “The Lord’s Prayer. The fifty-fourth Psalm. Latin is thought to be more effective.”
John threw his hands in the air. “Who am I to argue?”
We all sat in our horseshoe. Rosa’s quiet voice murmured on, the only noise in the room. Even Gea was silent. Morag just sat, her gaze downcast, her hands folded in her lap, the crucifix glinting between her fingers. She seemed calm, so still I couldn’t even see the rise and fall of her breathing. It struck me that it must have been many years since I was in an environment so empty, so denuded of electronic gadgetry, the rich and colorful texture of modern life. Here was this room with nothing but a row of chairs, a handful of people, a woman in black muttering prayers in a language none of us could understand. But it was extraordinary how the tension built.
And suddenly Rosa stood up. We all flinched.
Rosa pointed at Morag. “Who are you? Abandon your pretense. Tell me your true name. Who are you? ”
Morag gazed up at Rosa. Then she rubbed the little crucifix and smiled at me. She didn’t seem at all afraid. She mouthed, I’m sorry.
I was too shocked to react.
And then Morag began to change.
Her body seemed to shrivel inside her clothes, the skin of her face to crumple. Some kind of fur was gathering on her skin, long, pale brown hairs, not sprouting but coalescing in place over her face and arms, like a morphing VR. She continued to implode inside her clothes, so her dress was collapsing like a tent with its ropes cut. But soon her arms were protruding out of her sleeves, as if they were growing longer. With an impatient spasm she kicked off her shoes, revealing feet with long toes, as long as a child’s fingers.
All this took just seconds.
She stood up. She had become so slim that her blue dress fell away around her. Wisps of underwear, a bra and pants, still clung to her, but she pulled them away, handling them curiously. Naked, she was only about a meter and a half tall. Her body was coated with the orange-red fur. She was slim, but she had breasts with hard, prominent nipples. Her arms were long, about as long as her legs. Her all-but-human face, with a long nose and prominent chin, was coated with that soft fur. Her skull seemed small, and was covered with that smooth, shining fur. I wondered what had become of Morag’s beautiful hair.
Her eyes were human — pale gray, soft. She smiled at me, showing a row of perfectly white teeth. She held up her arm, with muscles like knotted rope beneath the fur. She was still holding the crucifix.
I risked a glance at the others. They sat in their chairs, staring. Tom was grasping Sonia’s hand so hard his knuckles were white. The Gea robot just watched, its plastic eyes bright.
Rosa was smiling.
John said, “What — the fuck — is that? Some kind of ape?”
Rosa asked again: “Who are you?”
The Morag-thing spoke, but it was a burst of that rapid-fire speech. Somehow it didn’t seem so strange coming from her mouth.
Rosa cut her off. “We can’t understand.”
The creature was still looking at me. She hesitated, then spoke more carefully. “Sorry,” she said. She pronounced every part of the word with exaggerated care: “Shh-oo-rrh-yy.”
I said, “Tell us who you are.”
“My name,” she said, “is Alia.”
Alia, the ape-thing that had been Morag, turned around slowly, those human eyes bright. She carefully put the little silver crucifix down on her seat. Then she bent down — she was very limber — and inspected the little tumbler of salt and the vial of wine beside her chair. She made no comment; maybe she thought that having salt, wine, and crucifixes around was normal for us. Then she straightened up, and studied us again.
We all just stared.
Alia stood more upright than any chimp, although her body was undeniably apelike, with a high chest, and arms as long as her legs. There was something odd about her hips, too, narrow with an odd geometry. Maybe she was like our remote ancestors, I thought, the australopithecines, the early sort not longer after they split off from the chimps.
John looked the most horrified, but then he had a lot to be horrified about. John’s world had always been a very orderly place; he’d had enough trouble getting used to the idea of ghosts and reincarnated dead wives. And now this. But even Rosa, who I had thought would never be fazed by anything, was clutching her prayer books, clearly shocked.
And Alia stared at me, as if she was as stupefied to see me in the flesh as I was her.
Suddenly Alia ran a few steps toward Sonia. We all flinched back. Tom and Sonia clutched each other.
Alia stumbled after a couple of paces and stopped. “Sorry,” she said, in that elaborate, slowed-down manner. “High gravity. Better to walk. Forgot.” She took a more cautious step, two, not very gracefully; I got the impression walking was not what she was used to.
She stood before Tom and Sonia. I was proud of them that they just stared back. She said, “Sonia Dameyer.”
Sonia was rigid.
Then she turned to Tom. “Thomas George Poole. Tom. I have seen you grow up. Variant pigmentation.” She reached out again and, to my horror, ran a fingertip down Tom’s cheek.
Tom slapped her hand away. “Back off, Planet of the Apes.”
Alia’s mouth dropped open. She looked shocked — suddenly her face looked very human, under that mask of fur. “Have I given offense?” She bowed. “I apologize. I am sure it will not be the last time I get something wrong.”
Sonia said, “What’s the problem, don’t they have white people where you come from?”
Alia thought about that. “Before the First Expansion the homogenization of culture on Earth eliminated the already minor differences between human racial groups. Skin pigment is one of the most heritable of human genetic features, and differences diluted quickly.” Her voice was getting better, I thought, her grammar a bit more precise, her tone more controlled. But this stuff about skin pigment sounded stilted, as if she was accessing some data store. She smiled brightly at Sonia, and pulled at the fur on her own face. “Some of us don’t have skin pigment at all!”
Tom asked, “What’s the ‘First Expansion’?”
“The future,” John hissed. “She’s talking about the future. I think.”
Perhaps he was right. But, I thought, if there had been a “First Expansion” there must have been a second, at least, maybe a third. In that one phrase I caught glimpses of a towering history.