For twenty years after the plague, then, Demoth sorted itself out… Ooloms settling down in their posh isolated villages, while Homo saps found their own places on islands and coastal plains — anywhere close to sea level, where the air was thick enough for human lungs to bite into.
And for twenty years after the plague, I sorted myself out too… until finally, at the age of thirty-five, I walked into Bonaventure’s office of the College Vigilant to ask how I could join.
I’d had jobs before. "Warm-body" jobs like keeping an eye on nanotech-performance monitors, or hauling drums of proto-nute to houses whose food synthesizers weren’t hooked up to the mains. I’d also had "Faye" jobs like prancing the puss in stripperamas, or nude modeling for local artists. (A lot of sculptors loved the button scars on my arms, where I used to have freckles.)
But mostly I bared the butt for Ooloms. Oolom men found human women outrageously, capaciously sexy because we were so big. Torso big, I mean — they couldn’t care less about cleavage or crotch, but they turned goggle-eyed at the expanse of a human back. Their own Oolom females were so much thinner… and some quirk of the Oolom male psyche had a gut reaction, thickness = arousal. "You’re so wide!" one admirer crooned to me.
Gives a whole new meaning to calling women "broads."
Some of the other strippers, the ones who flicked tricks on the side, told me their customers often took a woman’s shoulder measurements so they could brag to the boys back home. Considering my own mesomorph build, I could have been the choice rumpus room of the back streets… but I never sank quite that far. I’d take off my clothes for money — where was the crime in treating myself like meat? — but selling my swish was just too disloyal to my spouses.
They were my family. I could devalue myself, but not them.
Which meant that as years went on, as Darlene and Angie and Lynn all had children, I gradually spent more time home helping with the kids than playing Miss Udder around town. The children called me "Mom-Faye"… not the same tug on the heart as plain old "Mom," but I was too much the coward to have babies of my own: afraid it would change me, afraid that it wouldn’t.
Even just being Mom-Faye changed me in time. You know how it goes: after a full day of feeding/bathing/diapering, you’re too tired to spark out for a night strutting bare-ass, and doing squats with a barbell, naked. You say, "I’ll cheapen myself tomorrow"… and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace till you wake one day, look in the mirror, and don’t straight off feel disgust. Such a shock. That your soul may not be an irredeemable cesspool.
Then quick, while you’re still brave, ask yourself what you’d want to do with your mortal existence if the universe weren’t a total dog’s vomit.
What do you want? To live in the real. To name the lies. Wa supesh i rabi ganosh. An aspiration you haven’t let yourself think about for twenty years… but when you ask, it’s right on top of your mind, like the perfume of roses coming from a locked cupboard.
"This is the only thing in my head that approaches an honest dream. So why in the name of Mary and all her saints don’t I get off my cowardly butt and make this happen?"
The Vigil accepted my application on the spot. They accepted everyone’s application on the spot. If you weren’t proctor material, they had seven years of brutal training to weed you out.
A student of the College Vigilant. Just like that.
My family treated it as a lark. "I always like when you get an enthusiasm," Lynn told me. "You’re such less trouble for a while… till someone pisses you off, and you chuck everything with loose ends dangling." She said the same when I took up piano, and when I bought all those awful chairs to learn reupholstering. The younger kids giggled about Mom-Faye getting into politics, the older kids did impersonations of me losing my temper at a bureaucrat ("Oh you think you’re a clever little man, do you?"), and all four of my husbands asked, "How much will this cost?"
The unsupportive sods.
I studied. Classes, sims, direct info braingrabs. Most of the work I did over the world-net; but when I needed face-to-face, I turned to the proctors in town, the ones who scrutinized Bonaventure City Council — a dozen sharp-witted people, generously serving as teachers and mentors during my seven years as student. Three were human; the rest were Oolom, living among Homo saps for the good of the Vigil.
The Ooloms treated me with sunbeam kindness… even as they perched on my shoulders to add more weight when I did push-ups. They knew the Vigil had to build back its numbers, and that meant encouraging anyone who could grit through the training. Even with two decades to recover from the epidemic, the Vigil was running strapped, barely enough proctors to scrutinize the governments of our world.
I grew stronger, more disciplined. That was the easy part. The hard part was yanking myself out of a pit of cynicism twenty years deep, up to a place where maybe I could believe in an ideal or two. When I talked to fellow students, lots of them felt the same way. They’d gloated when signing up for the Vigiclass="underline" keen for the chance to rip into politicians, to show up important people as fools and to tell the world, "There, you blind buggers, that’s the brainless corrupt government you elected."
But.
The Vigil wasn’t about humiliating bad guys. It wasn’t about punishing bureaucrats if they disregarded the side effects of some proposed bill. There were no scorecards, no banners, no late-night celebrations where senior proctors offered you champagne toasts for making heads roll.
When you succeeded, government worked better. Passed good laws. Met the public need. That was your sole reward — real people became better off. Safer, or more prosperous, or more blessed by intangibles. (Art. Freedom. Clean air.)
It takes time to shift your outlook: you start by thinking all politics is rat puke, all politicos are hypocrites, and oh, it’ll be rare delicious to kneecap the bastards; but you end simply looking at laws, not lawmakers, and believing there is such a thing as attainable good.
Idealism. I, Faye Smallwood, was capable of idealism.
It surprised the bejeezus out of me.
I graduated from the College Vigilant in the twenty-seventh year after the plague. Standard Earth Technocracy years, not local ones: a.d. 2454. I had just turned forty-two.
My family threw me a surprise party the night before mushor. my rite of passage into the Vigil itself. Of course I knew the party was coming — our whole blessed household tittered with whispers, conversations stopping or lurching to silliness when I walked into the room — and I grumbled to myself about the obligation to act surprised when the moment came. Didn’t I have other things to do? Weren’t there a million last-minute details before heading for the Vigil Proving Center?
But I should have known better than to get the growls. My family made me happy… not through festive inventiveness, but just companionship and gold-hearted loyalty. When the lager’n’biscuits ran out, the other women shooed the men away, declared it "Sleepover Night for the Fortyish Fraus," then took me jointly to bed.
And here I thought I’d have to act surprised.
Twenty-four hours later, my skull top was missing, and I had far too clear a view of my own pink brain. In a mirror. While surgeons planted a link-seed in my corpus callosum.
Mushor. My second birth.
This brain surgery, mushor, was the secret hinge of separation between the Vigil and others on Demoth. All those earlier years of training were skim-milk rehearsal for the real transition: Homo sapiens to Homo vigilans.