BACK to the Main Index
BACK to Heaven and Earth
Refrain
by Feech
Samantha never had any baby pictures. In
fact, we never kept any images of her, because any
permanent record of her existence would have
incriminated myself and Mariam.
The lack of images, records, prints, codes,
_anything_ solid about Samantha has left me, in the
end, almost as helpless as any other member of this
world when it comes to finding out the details of the
last hours she spent here.
I sigh, and lay my fingers out upon the
smooth console.
Before I go, whether of my own volition-- as
I am improvisationally planning-- or at the hands
of my own government, I will look for Samantha.
Not Samantha where she is now, for I doubt
highly that even our surveillance systems can
reach her there. I have no idea where "there"
might be. I do know that she disappeared, and
somewhere in the mass of twisting, labyrinthine
trails and balls of gathered information is a dead
end or a track that holds images of my daughter.
There is a record of her, perfectly detailed, from
the point that she left my house for an
appointment I made. I have not allowed my own
dwelling to be observed by Senate computers. I
have bypassed my own laws. When she stepped out
into the world, she became known to the constantly
watching eyes of mechanized spies.
But I could not find her. The maze is so
convoluted, the records so meaningless to the
machines themselves, that in order to even begin
to find one person or one experience, some "scent"
must be offered the computer; some item to look
for, some face. All of which I have deliberately
neglected to amass for my own daughter.
I acquired an image of David Stephenapolous.
He was the last one seen with my daughter; or, at
least, he was the last one I _intended_ her to be
seen by before the undertaking of the operation
which I hired him to accomplish. Upon his
disappearance, and Samantha's, I fed it to the
computer to have him, and perhaps my daughter,
tracked down by the cameras and the man brought to
justice... Until I realized what that would mean.
I had been through it before. There is a
price to pay for dishonesty before society, even
and perhaps especially when one is in such a
position of authority as to have set the rules of
society in the first place.
Now, I have revived this image, and the
search. Now, what I find may be useless... But
it may not. Either way, if I am caught at
tracking down a daughter who should not exist, I
will be in no more danger than I am in my present
state. If I find something I can use, I will be
using it alone. The years of paying guards,
servants, the family physician and exhorting them
to silence are done with; when next they enter
their work stations or attempt to contact me, they
will be informed of their dismissal by the active
house computer and paid benefits for their
dedicated-- or greedy-- either motivation has been
equally serviceable to me-- work.
My fingers are doing nothing but touching,
not pressing, the keys; I wait minutes upon
minutes for any sort of a lead. The Senate
watches all: public, private, itself and its
members, innately trusting no one... But the
fevered collection of so much information leaves
any one piece nigh lost in the shuffle. I am
almost certain that no one else has even seen any
of the record of Samantha's arrival in public and
her slipping from it. Without anything known to
look for, there is nothing to find. So much for
our surveillance.
Which is not to say that I could not have
been found out long ago, had I not rearranged and
confused the cameras I knew were in my house. I
kept a small staff exclusively for the process of
debugging, since periodically new and well-hidden
ones would be found. But the record stayed clean.
There was no daughter. She had died just before
birth.
The screen lights up hopefully, offering
something it thinks I might want.
I rub the right side of my face with the heel
of my hand, and tap in an affirmative command. I
would rather not speak as I watch this. Somehow,
I want to remain distanced even from the computer.
The screen spreads a white backdrop before me
and I tone it down. David appears first, and I
confirm the identity. This much I have seen, this
much I allowed to play out before I realized the
futility-- and potential danger-- of searching for
my daughter.
None of it would have happened had my own
mortality not occurred to me. I knew I would not
be around forever. Mariam is... gone. Soon, I
will be gone. If Samantha were here now, we would
both be at equal risk of discovery and punishment.
Punishment. I never thought of it that way,
as punishment for a state of being. But then,
something has happened to my frame of mind in the
past days. I have never been so physically and,
most likely, permanently alone. I have never had
to inform the other Senators that I would not...
be available. I did neglect to say: ever again.
I knew I could not provide for her forever,
and I knew that when I died there would be those
whose knowledge and greed might easily break down
the systems of payment and confidentiality. Not
to mention the media and their consistently grim
and obsessive methods. It almost all came out
when Mariam died.
It _should_ have come out, even as I fought
and tricked the reporters and acted my way through
the lines of shaking heads and businesslike,
sympathetic handshakes of the other senators. I
did not have to act to produce sorrow. I did have
to hold the rest of it in. The rage, and the
powerlessness. Suddenly, everyone I thought I
could count on was useless to me. I was tied. I
could not say a word.
And when Samantha disappeared, it was the
same thing over again. Only that time, there was
no sympathy, because as far as everyone on Luna
knew, there had been no loss. Now, the final
detachment has almost come to completion. Funny,
I thought I would be much older before anything
happened to me. The operation for Samantha was
supposed to be long-term planning in action.
Never did I suspect that such a freak thing could
happen more than once.
If I suspected such things, maybe I would not
have been where I am-- have been-- in the Lunar
government.
David Stephenapolous. I watch the scene
unfold again. I wonder what came after. I know
what came before.
I did not go in with Samantha. Any sort of
connection with her would have been political, and
perhaps literal, suicide. I made an audio-only
call to a known cybernetic expert and hacker. I
knew he would work illegally. He had gotten
himself into trouble for it before, due to the
surveillance of an extremist group that took
certain spying and law matters into its own hands.
The Senate is working on solutions to these
splinter groups; the last thing this world needs
is the anarchy of Earth.
David did not recognize my voice, but when he
expressed doubt at the offer of a good deal of
money and very few details, I introduced myself.
As soon as he realized I was speaking the truth, I
believe great fear as well as a deep fascination
came over him. He just _had_ to know why I would
come to him underground, offering ridiculous
amounts just to keep his mouth shut and wait. We
made an appointment. I did not go. That was the
last of my contact with David.
Escorted by two black-clothed men in
image-gathering dark glasses that have been
disabled in case of their being inspected at any
point before their return to my home, Samantha
minces into David's private workstation,
duplicating on my screen the appointment as she
kept it.
David Stephenapolous stands, brow furrowed,
original left arm held at an uncomfortable and
anxious angle as though his far more relaxed,
cybernetic right arm prosthesis is more natural to
him. Samantha, his charge until completion of her
change, which no hospital on Luna can legally
engage in, is covered in a cloak which reaches
over her face, arms, back, protrusions on the
back, all the way down to her tiny feet, which are
laboriously carrying her in an upright position
with a hop, another hop, then a few mincing steps
and another hop to make up for overcorrecting
forward.
David has been given his orders in person, by
one of my daughter's escorts. He gulps, glancing
at the impossibility below the edge of cloak: two
tawny, finely furred paws as one would find on a
Greyhound at the track in Galileo City. He is
just beginning to believe that this may be as
dangerous as he thought it could be, and as true
as I said it was. I want a new body for my
daughter. She cannot be regenerated from the
acceptable parts, for her genetic structure will
always rebuild the deformity.
Only Samantha's deformity cannot be handled
by any reputable hospital, and David
Stephenapolous is the only disreputable
cyberneticist who also does legal, and excellent,
work. Thank Heaven for rebels.
Then again, rebels do not always do what is
expected of them. And where money may motivate
nearly anyone, I may have gravely misjudged Mr.
Stephenapolous.
He may not have a girl's best societal
interests in mind. He may, in fact, _be_ a rebel
because there are things more important to him
than society, and law, and what they mean to
others.
I was not so foolish as to think that my
money and words alone would convince David. But I
did not expect what Samantha said to him.
So Samantha minces in, and shakes a little in
her stance because it is so hard on her to walk
that way. The door hisses shut behind her, and
hearing the men who have been guiding her stop,
she waits only a moment more before finally
dropping down on all fours and flinging off the
cloak with a strong flap of an appendage and a
turn of her head.
"Good _Heavens_," she gasps, almost with a
chuckle of nervousness and relief. "That's much
better."
David's mouth falls open.
The vast majority of the Lunar population has
never laid eyes on a mutant. It is standard
government policy to deny their existence. If
anyone _has_ experienced a mutation in the family,
or seen one elsewhere, it is made to clear to them
the possible ramifications of widespread panic and
misinformation such as has regrettably occurred on
Earth. There are government centers for the care
and societal invisibility of mutants. There are
few who originate here on Luna, and any travel of
a mutant from Earth to Luna is forbidden. Some
who have tried have had to be permanently
silenced. In my daughter's case, the immediate
and only answer on the part of the Senate or any
approved doctor would have been euthanasia.
Samantha is too spectacular, too psychologically
dangerous to the public mindset.
Besides, there are only so many places
available in the Lunar institutions. When they're
full, and another mutant appears, someone has to
step aside. In some cases, an ill mutant may be
euthanized in order to make room for the new one.
In other cases, money has something to do with the
choice.
In Samantha's case, money and some
well-placed lies had everything to do with her
life.
David, on my screen, with the surveillance
cameras that were so well-placed that he had not
found them-- although he detected some that were
not well cloaked electronically and expertly
removed them-- realizes that his mouth is hanging
open, and claps his original hand over it. With
his metal hand, he almost moves as if to reach for
my daughter. His feet seem glued in place.
We kept Samantha because Mariam wanted to. I
have had on my payroll for nearly thirty years now
the nurses and physicians involved in the prenatal
scans that proved her condition, the guards to
keep an eye on media, the guards to keep an eye on
the other guards, the guards to keep an eye on
precocious and eager Samantha, and a staff to keep
Samantha happy without social interaction aside
from my wife and myself.
I tried to tell Mariam how it would be, but
there was no going back once she was pregnant. It
didn't matter that the baby was only human down to
the shoulders. She had decided, and I could not
look her in the face and tell her I was having the
child destroyed.
So we kept her.
She stares appealingly up at David
Stephenapolous. Take away the rest of the body,
and there are few indeed who could ever dislike
Samantha's face. It seems, however, in this
recording, that it is not the face alone that
appeals to the shocked David. His startled gaze
travels from tail to small set of horns nearly
hidden in the thick, curly black hair on her
smooth-skinned head, and he locks eyes with her
and his chin quivers in a strange, unemotional
response to some extreme revelation. He _likes_
what he sees. No, more, he is _astounded_, so
deeply pleased it has gone past anything he can
articulate.
David still cannot speak. Samantha helpfully
extends a broad front paw, tawny like the rear
feet but more thickly furred and heavier; that of
an African lioness. "Hi," she says.
David's expression shudders on the edge of
utter noncomprehension for several more moments.
Then he tells the escorts: "Leave us, please.
Tell Mr. Fuller that I will need two days for
assessment, after which I can begin construction."
The guards, having been ordered by myself to
do whatever the cyberneticist told them, leave.
David loses himself in the improbability of
what he is seeing, again.
"Mr. Stephenapolous?"
"... David. Please. David."
"David, then." Samantha drops her paw, which
has not yet been taken, and steps cautiously in an
exploratory semi-circle about the cluttered, yet
immaculate lab, a desk, some gleaming materials.
"David?"
David wrestles himself back into some mode of
professionalism. "Yes. You know what your...
Father wants to have done."
I can hear the regret in his voice as I watch
them from beyond the actual occurrence, and I
wonder what I would have done if I had been there.
Stopped him? Realized his bias and removed
Samantha, perhaps taking a chance instead on the
loyalty of my staff? Maybe having her euthanized
by one faithful servant should I expire before
preparations were secure?
Samantha drops down to all fours after a
quick inspection of a desk with her lioness
forepaws balancing her on its lip. Waving her
Greyhound tail slightly, she steps trustingly up
to a man she has never met, and speaks in tones so
low that I have to turn up the volume on my
monitor.
"David."
Shivering at the closeness of this
apparition, David leans almost to the level of her
face. "Yes."
"Please don't. Please." My daughter's face
crumples.
I think I know what is good for people, but
how hard is it to truly fathom the amount of
mental and emotional damage done by being a mutant
such as Samantha? Is it possible she _could_ not
handle the change? Perhaps death would have been
the kindest thing. But she was all I had after
Mariam... So much of Samantha was radically
changed from human to... Whatever. I should have
seen what I saw from the first: that her mind had
been deeply affected, too. But I thought that at
least one of them, David or Samantha, would have
seen the right choice to make for my daughter's
future. Yet, as she speaks those words, a glimmer
of something like hope lights David's deep-set and
fiercely intelligent eyes.
Something about that man seems slow, dark,
detached. Somehow, that same attribute, whatever
it is, lends him a mysterious and powerful air. I
know he has abilities with cybernetics that few
others can touch. I did not know this stemmed
from his own very un-Lunar fantasy and darkness.
"Samantha," he speaks in a deep, somewhat
raspy voice. "I want you to know what this would
mean for you. Surely your-- the Senator, your
father, surely he--"
He doesn't want to say it, that I know best.
He wants Samantha to interrupt him, and she does.
"He told me. Please, David, I don't know how
to walk that way. I don't want to be that way.
My mom always told me I was beautiful. Don't you
think I'm beautiful?"
Samantha is nearly crying. She needs to get
it all out now, before someone comes, or David
decides to go for it and get the money. She is...
afraid.
"Oh-- God, yes."
Samantha smiles under her tear-glistening
green eyes. "Thank you, for thinking I'm
beautiful. They say on the viewer that I don't
exist. Dad wants me to be a girl as in that
diagram, and I can't do it. Please. Don't cut me
off and make me an android. I can't do it."
"Samantha. No one would know. You could
walk around, and be touched, and no one would know
it wasn't your own human body. We would... take
off the horns and..."
David's throat tightens as he speaks. It
sickens him to even suggest the dismantling of
this young woman's mutant parts.
"Please, _please_. I tried talking to my
father. He won't listen. Won't you tell him you
won't do it?"
Combined fear and determination. "If he
wouldn't listen to you, he won't listen to me. I
am afraid he will take you to someone else who
_will_ do it."
"David-- David--" Samantha lays a paw, claws
barely unsheathed, on the man's knee. "I don't
want to get you in trouble. But I can't have my
body amputated."
"God _Damn_ you're right." David clenches his
fists and stands, leaving his trousers with tiny
unraveled spots where Samantha's claws took a
moment to unhook. "I work on the injured. You're
not injured. You're fucking beautiful. I've
never seen anything like you. And... I know the
Lunar policy. What your father is doing is
illegal." He knows that well enough. "He is
asking me to do something illegal, and by God I'm
going to. We're getting you out of here."
Samantha spontaneously wraps her front paws
around the knees of this man and hugs him with all
her considerable strength.
This is as far as I have seen. Now, I shall
endeavor to find out what happened. Because it
doesn't matter now that no one will help me.
Samantha had the sort of effect on David that
I almost expected, yet turned around from a
reaction to a monstrosity to an amazement at some
incredible beauty I had never realized. Within
the space of a few moments, David Stephenapolous
had found, claimed, and devoted himself to one
creature that somehow, for him, defined what his
heart's rebelliousness was _for_, and I let her go
right to him.
Not that I had much choice.
I wonder if I could have ordered her killed
upon my death. I wonder if I could have done it.
Samantha used to knead her mother's chest
with those paws, kicking lightly with her thin
Greyhound legs and murmuring to herself. Where
a... normal baby would have bent one little
finger up over the nose, one the cheek, one the
chin, self-comforting, Samantha would lay a whole
paw over her face, or press her tiny dewclaw into
the curve of her button nose and sigh contentedly
to herself, and sometimes I would draw her paw
gently away so the only things visible above the
blanket were a human face, delicate neck and
shoulders.
It was rarely an effective illusion. Small
bumps under the covering indicated her downy
wing-nubs, and a sandy-furred toe or thin tailtip
would invariably appear from this angle or that as
she slept under her mobile, bought, along with all
her other toys and necessaries, in secret.
Mariam loved to hold her and let her knead
her breasts, until she got too vigorous with those
miniscule claws, when her mother would simply
laugh and unhook her and put her to bed.
Sometimes, watching, I felt sick.
And sometimes I held her myself.
The illusion never worked then, of course.
The proportions were all wrong, and any way I
tried to balance her those wings and that tail
were so much a part of her that they could not be
ignored.
Samantha always had an appealing face. When
the horns came in, under her black baby-fuzz on
her head, I feared I would never be able to
pretend her "normalcy" to myself again, but soon
she had a luxurious mane of curly black hair,
accentuated by classily arched black brows and
those eyes that went from baby-blue to her adult
emerald green, and the tightly curved, short horns
often disappeared in the waves of hair.
The monitor offers another scene.
Whatever means David took to bring Samantha
to this place, it had been overlooked in the camera
placement (not likely) or he found the vid-capture
equipment and disabled it. The transition is sudden,
therefore, from the cyberneticist's grey, metal and
shadowless lab to this private residence outside Luna City.
David's visage is affirmed, and the address of the place
comes up on my screen.
Carol Serschel? He did Carol Serschel?
Damn, of course I should have known. And I should
have seen what this could mean. But it's too late
for that now.
Samantha, again covered in a cloak, and David
Stephenapolous stand anxiously in the doorway. A
man, blond and shorter than David, pale where
David is olive-dark and clean-shaven where David
has perpetual black stubble, glances over his
shoulder as he lets them in.
"Let me talk to her," he tells David. "Come
in, you two, get out of sight."
Samantha walks in and David removes the cloak
for her. She smiles immediately, admiring this
simple apartment and its rich carpeting, the
kitchen and the viewer. She has never seen a
dwelling aside from mine, and even though this
cannot match it, it is pleasant and _different_.
I tried to give her a lot of variety, during her
growing up. But she always watched a lot of
popular shows. She talked frequently about
people, how they lived, how they felt, the kinds
of things she might do if she could take her body
out among them and see their houses or help care
for children.
I see that she wanted to do this with the
body she was used to intact, but I knew the only
way she could do it would be to change.
It _never_ occurred to me to send her to--
but then, to me it looked like a cruelty, the very
thought of it. No one wants to live on Earth. No
one _should_ want to live on Earth. Knowing this,
the Senate and I, Senator F. Matthew Fuller, have
created strict travel regulations. Well, it is
perhaps too strong to say that we _created_ them,
but we did considerably enhance those that had
been in effect since the overwhelming implications
of the Fissure on Earth became known. We have
upheld the rules of a government that kept Luna
organized and sane against all odds.
I may find it rather difficult to overcome
the regulations I have been so obviously in favor
of, but I've been doing it for years. It has
become almost a habit, with me, to do one thing
and say another. I know that now.
But justification is easy. Simply, for
yourself, make an exception. For your family, do
what you know in that one case is right. The laws
were not written to bend for distraught mothers.
I did not rewrite the laws, and I did not bend
them. I broke them. I understand how important
they have been to me, and to Luna as a whole. So
in voice, I upheld them.
Samantha finds a window that captures a view
of Earth. My daughter has never seen Earth,
except once or twice in her life on the viewer.
In fact, she has never seen a window. We had to
confine her utterly.
David watches her watching Earth. He toys
with his prosthesis, absentmindedly, a flush
rising to his cheeks at the rustle of a wing or
bending of a hip. He is still attempting to grasp
the truth.
It occurs to me that the blond man caught a
glimpse of Samantha as she was revealed from
beneath her cloak, and while he smiled and seemed
charmed, there was no startled reaction. It seems
hardly likely that David would have been foolish
enough to radio him with details. Certainly he
has never seen my daughter before. I wonder about
that for an instant, when the man returns with
Carol Serschel.
Carol has the appearance of a steel horse
from the waist down and back. This fanciful
appearance is acceptable for such a serious,
professionally-minded doctor and good Lunar
citizen. Due to her own medical condition, she
was left little choice. I lean forward, hands on
either side of the console, and watch.
Dr. Serschel is duly shocked.
"David! No. No. Absolutely not."
"Carol, listen to me. We have to. Please,
you're the only one I know who can keep her. Just
until I know what to do. He'll be looking at my
place."
David seems unaware of the fact that the
Senate has bugged as many private dwellings as
possible. He speaks freely. In most cases, he
would never have been heard by outside ears.
Little does it matter to him, now, that I am
listening. I wonder what he would have done if I
had caught him, and asked him to give his reasons.
I wonder if he would have backed down.
"Hi," Samantha says to the spluttering
doctor. She holds out a paw. "I'm Samantha
Fuller. Pleased to meet you."
Two things flicker across Carol's eyes. One
is almost gone before I can even consider its
ramifications, and then I just barely capture it.
Charm. Samantha is a beautiful, and charming,
young woman.
Carol takes the paw as if mesmerized, and
begins to smile, truly _begins to smile_, before
the second reaction takes over. "Fuller? Oh no.
Not that Fuller. You can't mean..."
David rubs at the back of his neck, glancing
sideways.
"No!" Carol backs off as if Samantha has
bitten her. "David, that's even worse. No, I
cannot and will not be party to this."
"Carol." It's the blond man.
She stiffens. She has given her answer.
"Let her stay, for maybe a day or two. Let
me make a call. I could get her a place to go."
"Damien, we can't--"
The man, Damien, holds his gaze steady and
says nothing.
"No. Absolutely not. This is illegal, this
is dangerous, this is a _mutant_. No way."
Carol crosses her arms. Damien stares at
her. David frowns, and rubs at the side of his
face. A new emotion has been added to the layers
upon him, but I cannot place it. I look at the
image of my daughter. She sits on her haunches,
lit by the outdoors and the Earth in the window
which everyone has forgotten to darken in their
indecision. It is a remote place, but had someone
glanced into that window that night, I can imagine
how the news would have read the next day.
I know, and it tightens something in my chest
to realize it, that had anyone violent come for
her Samantha never would have given my name nor
incriminated me in any way.
I also realize that, in the moments recorded
and played here for me, as Samantha sits and looks
over her shoulder at David with an almost eerie
resemblance to a lady in a strapless dress at a
masquerade, her mental family has changed.
She _could_ not incriminate me. She just
would not do it. David had incriminated himself,
and would have died for the choice if he had to.
I can see in her replayed expression that she
knows it. She would never again call for help
from F. Matthew Fuller, her own father. She will
call for David.
Goodness, how old is she now? A good
twenty... no, twenty-- three? five? I don't
even know. I _can't remember_. And, officially,
she never existed.
"Just where do you propose to put her,
Damien?" Carol asks, frowning. "I don't believe
you're thinking this through."
"Carol," Damien replies in such a relaxed and
smiling manner that I really begin to wonder at
his power, or his sanity, or both, "let me call
Oskar. Please. I think Samantha could be of
great help."
"Help?" Carol spits. "To whom?"
David looks puzzled.
Damien heads for the videophone, grinning.
"I have an idea. Keep her for just a bit, Carol.
That's all we have to do."
"No."
"Listen," says David, noticing the growing
concern in Samantha's eyes, "if you really do have
something, Damien, I don't need to keep her here.
Samantha, you and I could spend our time
elsewhere, as long as it's _temporary_." He
glances hopefully at Damien.
"I hope it will be very temporary," Damien
nods quickly. "We'll get her off Luna as soon as
possible, which should be as soon as I've made
just about two calls."
"Who are you calling? That sounds pretty
unlikely." David is uncertain, and Carol nods and
taps one metal hoof.
"Oskar Clavius. His wife lives on Luna. He
wants her back. Maybe we'll kill two favors with
one shuttle, or some other horrid cliche like
that."
"What?" David begins to appear distrustful,
and Samantha moves a little closer to him.
"Look, just take Samantha and find someplace
safe to wait until tomorrow. I promise you, I
know what I'm doing. Christina wouldn't let
Samantha be hurt, not knowing what she knows about
her own son. It might be the only push she needs
to take a private flight off Luna, and Samantha
could be on it. The D'Yangelos aren't likely to
be questioned too deeply about Christina taking a
trip. She'll just--" he shrugs-- "never return.
And even if I _am_ wrong, and she _doesn't_ stay
with Oskar, Samantha could stay."
"Who will stay with me?" Samantha has spent
nearly her whole life alone, but never outside of
a house full of guards.
"I will." David attempts to put a solid hand
on my daughter's shoulder. He brushes the
feathers of her wing backwards as he does so, and
takes in a sharp breath, at the impossible feel of
this person. Carol is aghast.
"David! You can't. You..."
"He can."
"Damien. You are not helping. Think about
it. David is Lunar, this is his _life_ here, you
can't possibly expect--"
Damien stands by his statement. David bends
down and his fingers crease the lion-fur of
Samantha's back. She bows her head in a more
worried posture than I have ever seen her hold...
Except for when I told her about the operation.
"Carol. I want to go. I'm not staying here
now that I've taken her away. She can't go back.
I'm all she has."
"It was a damn foolish thing to do."
Samantha's face angles up towards Carol, and
though the camera doesn't capture her expression,
I can well see the doctor's reaction. I recall
some of the sweet faces my little girl could pull
when she wanted something, and I smile slightly at
the frequent repercussions around our house of her
charm, and her determination. With her charisma,
she could have been as important in government as
I have been, if she had been born a normal child.
Carol, still spluttering from the impact of
her first sight of a mutated human, is
nevertheless even further impacted by that face,
and simply clamps her mouth shut in a moment's
defeat. Damien takes that moment to begin his
call.
"I'll get Oskar to work on Christina," he
says over his shoulder. "He can handle her."
Dr. Serschel snorts, and, flicking her
ash-blonde hair back over one ear, stalks off to
the bedroom. "Get her out of here for now, David.
And whatever Damien says, goes. I'll let you two
nuts handle it from here."
"Nice to meet you, Doctor," Samantha pipes
up.
Carol swishes her steel tail and disappears.
David seems to want to grin and weep at the same
time.
Samantha sighs.
"Anything I can get you?" Damien, holding a
conversation, interrupts it to offer hospitality.
"No, we'd better go hide out and try to
communicate again later," David replies. "As long
as it's only for the night, I know a place where
we can go."
"Come back as soon as you have to. If this
doesn't work, we'll think of _something_."
David nods, and motions Samantha back under
her cloak and towards the door. "When she's
speaking to you again, thank her for me?"
Damien grins. "Of course."
"Does she hate me?" Samantha, pulling the
cloak into better position with her foreclaws,
sounds not so much worried as curious.
David shakes his head. "No. Carol doesn't
hate you. She's just upset with me."
"But I could get her in danger. It's true."
"It's not that. It's that you're real at
all. It bothers her."
Samantha mulls that one over on the way to
the door. "Is she jealous? I don't want to be
any trouble."
"You're not trouble!" Damien calls boldly,
cameras and all, right on Luna, "It's the Lunar
government that's trouble. No personal offense to
your father, of course."
How was I to know that some Earth native had
moved to Luna, gained a place, _stayed_ here and
yet never intended it as a disproving of his home
planet? Why would he do it? Not that it matters
now... I have hope that Samantha did safely reach
Earth, and although Heaven only knows what has
happened to her there, she had a fairly capable
companion... I am not sure entirely what to make
of David Stephenapolous. He strikes me as being
somewhat obsessive, and dangerously uncautious.
Of course, I remind myself wryly, there were
times I had been so identified, and I always
discounted them...
I wonder where they went for the intervening
hours, before the shuttle escape was planned and
one of the most well-known high-society women on
Luna left her home with my daughter in attendance.
The computer, seeking out further images of David
in chronological order, eventually untangles a
portion of its web and serves up more
information.
Samantha's wings are framing the first image
of David in this new set, as he makes some detail
checks of a lock that he is, I presume, about to
undo. He would have already disabled the
building's regular security cameras, but one of
the Senate pieces escaped his detection. I think
I recognize the place, and am certain there are
several government cameras inside, too. Perhaps,
if he were more aware of our policies, he would be
more nervous. Then again, Mr. Stephenapolous
seems pleasantly distracted by the amazing company
he is keeping.
Samantha's wing colors came in
extraordinarily bright. I have never seen a bird
with such color combinations in all the exotics
collections on Luna, and I admit a grudging, yet
faintly admiring participation in the sessions
Mariam had with Samantha where they giggled over
the new feathers as they emerged from their
casings on our toddler's strange appendages.
Samantha could fly. She used to leap from
the couch and glide into other rooms, from the
time she was about five, I believe, until the time
she was about... ten or twelve, I don't recall.
And then she got too big. She fretted, she wanted
to get out, she wanted to go someplace, anyplace,
Daddy, where she would have room to use her wings.
I wouldn't speak to her about it too much;
somehow she could never absorb the fact that her
wings were a part of her deformity, and that not
flying was in fact an improvement rather than a
loss.
Samantha rarely cried, and I do not think she
cried about the loss of flight. She wept long
hours after her mother's death, but again I could
not speak too much with her about it.
I remember Mariam playing quiet games with
Samantha such as finding flowers or ornaments or
other colorful items in the room or on the viewer,
and seeing if the same hues might be someplace
amongst Samantha's feathers. They always were.
Samantha watches David's concentration and
efforts, and stays perfectly still. Then, as the
man shifts to release some of the tension in his
shoulder, she whispers, "Can we talk here?"
David glances at the night-lit hallway.
"Sure. No one should be around. I'll have us in
in a jiff. I've done this before."
"Where are we going?"
"Recreation center."
"Really?"
David nods.
"How did you... Lose your arm?"
"Oh. Er, I hacked into a certain, um,
extremist group's files. I thought I'd covered my
tracks."
"Hadn't you?"
"Not well enough."
"They-- cut off your arm?"
"Yah."
Samantha shudders. "Did you make the new one
yourself?"
"Yep."
"Do you like it?"
"It's useful. I rigged it with all sorts of
nifty stuff. Helps me detect alarms and that sort
of thing, which makes for ease of slightly illegal
pastimes such as this one."
"David?"
"Yah."
"Thank you."
David looks up from his task, grey eyes
almost wounded in his confusion. "I have done
nothing for you Samantha, nothing. If anything
I've--"
"No, you have. Thank you."
"Samantha, I--"
"Do I hurt you?"
"No! Good God no."
"David, you look hurt."
"I-- if I am, I am, but not by you. I just.
Samantha, you're just--"
"I know. I'm not supposed to be."
"But you _are_." David has to prove this
again by laying a hand upon her.
"I know." Samantha smiles impishly.
"God."
"Can you get us into this place?"
"Oh definitely. Hold on just a sec."
With a series of docile clicks, the lock
comes undone under David's quick maneuvering, and
the door slides open. "Here we are. Baseball
diamond. There are other places, too. With the
alarm system diverted, we could go just about
anywhere here until the employees show up. But I
sure hope Damien is ready for us by then, because
we need to disappear fast."
He will be, Mr. Stephenapolous. And you
shall disappear like one dark and one colorful
cloud of vapor off this moon. Heavens, it's
strange watching it like this...
Samantha follows David into the domed
stadium. Thousands of Lunar children grow up
visiting such places regularly. Samantha has
never seen one. She may have caught a game on the
viewer, in passing, but she rarely watched them
even there. Now, as the computer system helpfully
switches to another vid-capture set to keep
David's face in sight, Samantha raises her head
and gazes in awe at the sheer height of the dome.
"There's so much... _Room_..."
"Want to do something? Find some equipment?
Break into the concessions?"
"I'll be hungry later." Samantha waves a
paw.
"How do you-- um, I mean, I--"
"You can ask, go ahead."
"How do you-- use your hands?"
"I don't understand."
"I mean your paws, your hands, you don't have
any... thumbs, or fingers."
"Oh," Samantha smiles brightly. "I slide the
handles of cups or spoons or brushes up alongside
the paw until it's held by my dewclaw here, see?"
"You're kidding. I mean--"
"Oh no, it's easy."
"That's amazing."
Samantha grins, and lopes off a few steps
towards the middle of the diamond.
David trails after her, gazing at the sky
himself through the dome but always with one
half-protective and worried, half-admiring and
pleased, eye on Samantha.
"I want to try to fly."
Can she? My fingers shake on the console,
and I steady them. Surely not, surely not. Not
since her childhood. But God, what if she can?
What difference does it make? Why does it
frighten me?
"Can you-- do that?" David goes nearly pale.
"Can you really _fly_?"
"Oh sure, I used to as a kid all the time.
But then after awhile I got too big and I had to
stop. Watch, I'll do it for you."
"I can't believe this."
"I hope I'm still able."
David stands where Samantha places him, aways
out in the field near one of the walls. Samantha
trots out to the stands, and disappears behind the
wall somewhere in the seats. After a moment, she
reappears, climbing the steps to a spot higher up
in the seating area. She turns, eyeing the
distance to the wall and to the man nearby, and
hitches her hind legs up onto a seat. Her front
paws she curves over the back of the seat in front
of her.
"I flapped my wings a lot in my room to keep
in practice, just in case," she calls out. "I
just hope I can still control my direction."
David's jaw is slack with dumbfoundment,
again. The camera has a good angle on him.
Samantha takes off. The sound of her wings
working the air reaches my ears through the
monitor and it seems impossible that this is in
the past. She smiles as if it is no effort at
all, spreading the air beneath her once she has
control, carrying herself over the wall and down
some yards in front of David. She seems to have
wanted to make it a longer flight, but she beams
and gives her head a shake to shift a lock of hair
that has passed over her eyes.
David stares. While he still fights to
regain his voice, Samantha announces, "I'm going
to try it again. Watch me, David."
Watch me, Dad! Watch! I can make it into my
room from the couch in the living room. Want to
see? Dad!!
Flying practice goes on until Samantha
decides that she is hungry, and shyly reminds
David that he had mentioned concessions.
"That was," David chokes out, "wonderful.
That was just wonderful."
"Thank you!" Samantha has always been
graceful about accepting compliments.
Mariam used to be the one to give them out.
I didn't want to confuse the child with mixed
messages about her condition.
David and Samantha eat ballpark junk food.
Samantha is giggling. David has a goofy,
admiration-struck expression on his shadowed face
and I don't know whether to chuckle or be
disgusted at the image.
Mariam. God _damn_ it Mariam. They could
have gotten to me, but they didn't want the money
or the prestige. If they had, they would have
sold their information, whatever it was and
wherever they got it. No, they were anti-mutant,
and they somehow got wind of our living with one.
They couldn't get to _her_. The house was
too well-guarded, for obvious reasons. They could
have taken me, but they must have placed the blame
on me and decided to teach me a lesson.
They smeared her all over the cab rails on
one of her shopping trips. It looked like an
accident. Horribly bad luck that not enough brain
tissue was found for regeneration.
No, I know damn fucking well that-- _damn_
them, they have me coming and going. I shouldn't
have let her keep the child in the first place. I
shouldn't have kept Samantha. If I requested a
murder investigation, there would have to be a
motive. And there was only one.
I hired a detective, but he, too, was killed.
I do not know whether it was related to my case or
not. It was all too close to the surface by then
for any more action to be taken; I had to behave
as though I was letting it go.
I don't know whether Samantha suspected the
truth. I never gave a whole lot of thought to her
intelligence. It just didn't matter. Mariam was
gone and _yes_, it was very odd that a good
portion of her body was never found, but perhaps
the cleaning mechanisms on the cab had managed to
eradicate the evidence, and of course it was a
robotic driver with a slight malfunction so no
investigation was ever held into an actual person.
They destroyed the cab's systems. That's all.
For the death of my wife.
Samantha and David enter a blue-tiled room
with potted palms and a slight condensation over
the lenses of the Senate-placed cameras. I can
see the pool, and Samantha wiping her face
delicately with one paw, and David peering around
warily as though he knows there must be more
cameras but can't figure out why his detections
would have failed.
In the foggy vision I have through my
monitor's best efforts, Samantha's wings seem more
brilliant and large than ever, her fur more
golden, her hair a manufactured black.
David finds her stunning, and by now finds
voice enough to unabashedly tell her so. She
blushes, but smiles in complete confidence in the
sole company of this stranger, this scientist,
this _man_ who has taken her... Well, taken her
precisely where she wants to go...
"Teach me how to swim," she commands
pleasantly.
"Well..."
"You don't want to swim?"
"Ah... Sure." David rubs his jaw. He buys
time with, "We'd better rest awhile before we go
in."
"Sure, okay."
They find chairs to lounge in, and I sit back
in my own chair and try to make the surreal events
before my eyes fit all that has crossed my mind
since my daughter went missing. If I had been
able to call upon my colleagues' aid for the sake
of finding, and punishing, David Stephenapolous
for the kidnapping of my daughter, I would have
had to admit the existence of a daughter and
then... I find myself vastly relieved that the
lies have not killed Samantha. Mariam is gone,
and in light of recent events I know that I must
either make an escape I never in my life pondered
making or leave myself open to legal treatment
that I myself have always advocated.
I suppose there is some irony, maybe some
humor, to the fact that those who most vehemently
protest reality may be faced with its most vicious
and improbable twists. On the other hand, I am
only seeing it from one side. Most of the Lunar
Senate has never been touched by these events. Or
have they? How many of us are deceiving the
others?
Samantha lounges as she used to on the couch,
Greyhound and lioness limbs spread luxuriously as
though defining beauty. It used to remind me, and
still does, of ancient prints and works portraying
Egyptian queens. I tried to focus on her face,
but when I could not, the whole of her became
someone else, an illustration, an historical
oddity, not my daughter. And when she was not my
daughter, and I dared to look at her entire being,
there was almost a voice in my mind that said
"beautiful." But I would quash it, and return to
the truth; this child had my cheekbones, and her
mother's very light tan-olive complexion, and was
nobody's relative from the shoulders on down. I
never realized that she would then have to define
herself as her _own_ person, in her own mind,
apart from the family, apart even from the Lunar
assertion that she did not exist. It just didn't
follow. I didn't know she _thought_ about it.
Eventually, of course, my daughter coaxes
David into teaching her how to swim. This leaves
the man somewhat reluctant and embarrassed, and he
tries to explain that he does not want _her_ to be
insulted by seeing a man whom she just met
essentially stripped, wet, and with his hands on
her, but he has not yet absorbed the fact that
Samantha not only has no shame, but trusts him
utterly.
David, simultaneously pale with nervousness
and blushing profusely in the hollows of his
cheeks, gets into the water as quickly as
possible. "Okay, um, Samantha, come on in."
"Is it deep?"
"Hop in and-- put your paws on my shoulders.
You'll be fine like that."
Samantha lands somewhat off-center, and gets
pool water in her mouth, but David swiftly grabs
her by the front leg pits and hoists her paws to
his shoulders. "Okay? You all right, there?"
"Oh yes." Samantha nods and sniffs a few
drops of water from her nose. "What now?"
David looks her over. Her wingtips are
already growing sodden and dark, which will
certainly affect her balance, but he makes up his
mind and tells her to let her back limbs float
upwards while he pulls gently from the front,
encouraging her to kick while he supports her
front paws at full length. She eagerly does so,
and is soon amazed at the feel of the water and
her power to move in it.
"I want to try it myself!"
"Well, okay." David backs off and stands,
self-conscious, as near as he needs to in order to
save Samantha should she get in trouble.
Experimentally, she paddles, and falls forward.
David rescues her. She laughs at herself, and
tries again, this time correcting for
top-heavyness.
Samantha tries using her wings for extra
power in the water, but finds them a hindrance
there, and instead settles for a conventional
paddling back and forth across the shallow end as
David offers compliments and shy tips. He
hesitates every time he lays hands on her, but
Samantha shows not the slightest distaste nor
embarrassment. Of course, she has gone her whole
life without clothes. It is David who is in a new
world, not Samantha. The few individuals who have
experienced her presence on Luna have revolved
around her for the time spent near her.
I expect myself to begin feeling possessive,
distrustful, yet even as I attempt to dig into my
wearied brain for any such feelings I know they
aren't coming. There are twinges, but not of
protectiveness for the daughter David has taken
without my permission. I wonder...
Samantha begins panting from the new and
difficult exercise, and puts her back feet down on
the tiled bottom of the pool. One paw she reaches
out to David, expecting support, but he suddenly
grins and sweeps his metal arm sideways, half into
the crystalline surface, drenching Samantha's hair
and horns and laughing.
"You!" She shrieks, but loses her balance and
has to paddle to come upright; David does not
expect what I, knowing Samantha, know will happen,
and indeed she jumps far enough out of the water
to balance and sweep a wall of water at him with
her own broad paw. Then, laughing with more
energy than I have seen her use at home in years,
she hops on her small feet over to David and leans
a paw on him, using the other to repeatedly splash
his face.
At first, David laughs, and shields himself.
Then, he falls silent. He submits, just staring
at her. When she stops, worried that she has done
something wrong, he speaks. "I... I guess maybe
I'll get out of the water."
"Oh, okay... If you want to."
David nods, and puts her paw down gently from
his shoulder, and makes his way to the edge where
he grabs a white recreation-center towel and wraps
himself before he thinks she might be looking.
Samantha practices swimming by herself for a
bit, thoughtful in part because of the action and
in part, I think, because of David's apparent
confusion.
Good Heavens, I think. I stare at the image
of my daughter, swimming, and I realize something.
It should scare me, but it does not. She's
confused at his confusion which means... she has
none. She knows... precisely what it is she
feels about him. Just like that.
My God, she is a woman. He would be feeling
the same, if she appeared so. But he... He can't
believe that anyone who... Who matched his own...
Desires would be so easy to see, to touch, to...
Good God, she's his ideal. And I thought I was a
good judge of expression, of character.
No more, Senator. No more. Politics are
done with for you and no Lunar citizen with any
respect for his or her government would come
within fifty feet of you without a permit to take
you to the euthanasia specialists... Or to the
care center.
I would rather die. But they won't do it, I
realize. They won't kill me. I should be seeing
these things sooner, but I'm not. I'm too caught
up in wishing... No, they won't kill me. It's
make good my escape or... imprisonment. For me,
a Senator. Killing me would be very bad political
form, depending on how many people know about my
capture.
I shudder at the thought of a white room and
nurses and all manner of mutated people, and no
legal recourse. I won't go there.
Samantha seems chilled herself, in this
impossible recording, which seems so much like it
should be going on right now. She ceases her
practice and hauls herself out of the water,
shaking vigorously as she always did after showers
and laughing as David dramatically wipes away
rivulets from his creased face.
"David, I think I'm done swimming now."
"You did an excellent job."
"Really? Thank you!" My daughter beams, and
steps close to the man. "David?"
"Yah." David is nervous again. She's too
close, too perfect. That's my daughter, I want to
say. You can't do better anywhere on Luna, Mr.
Stephenapolous.
Samantha sits down very near David's toweled
hip, oblivious of his fear. "We are going to
Earth."
David nods.
"I don't know anything about it."
"Damien... told me some."
"Is he from there?"
Again a nod. "Sometimes he's said... I
might belong there."
"Do _you_ think you belong there?"
David grins crookedly. "I guess we'll find
out, huh?"
Samantha chuckles, then sobers. "David.
What if you don't?"
"You'll be there."
"But what about you? Won't you be homesick?"
"Will you?"
My daughter shakes her head. "No."
David sighs. "Then I won't, either."
"Why did Damien move here?"
"He was sick. Carol cured him."
"And why doesn't he go back? Bad memories of
Earth?"
"No." David shakes his head, and almost
reflexively lifts a wet strand of hair away from
my daughter's eyebrow. "As long as Carol's here,
he's staying, too."
"Oh, how lovely," she breathes. "That's
wonderful."
"I guess," David seems at a loss. I watch
with a growing sense of detachment. Now, yes, now
this is in the past. Samantha has departed.
"What's wrong, David?"
"Nothing! Nothing, I just..."
He just wants to touch you again, Samantha,
and the idiot won't do it. But I know he has.
See, here he will and--
No, I did not expect her to lean into him
first, but I guess it really doesn't make any
difference. By the time his arm is around her and
her paws over his chest, it doesn't matter which
of the two began it. They sit like that for a
long time, very still, wholly silent. David
closes his eyes.
I never did that, I think. Never closed my
eyes and sat with Samantha.
I turn away from the monitor. Anyone could
find these pictures, if they wanted to. That is,
if they knew to use David as a start and let the
computer find my nonexistent daughter. For a
moment, I am tempted to leave it running, let the
next one into my study find the evidence, for
David and Samantha are already gone.
Then I remember Damien, and Carol, and the
woman who returned to Earth, and I know I can't
allow anyone else to be blamed for this. Beings
like Samantha can't be allowed to throw a gear in
the Lunar works, either. I have enough loyalty to
my colleagues and the good of the people not to
let _that_ happen. And, I think, I might just
have enough loyalty to my daughter not to
implicate her friends in this, either. She didn't
ask to be born that way.
If she had... What if she had? Asked to be
born that way. I wanted to build her a new body,
for her own sake as a member of this society. Yet
she never was its member, and never would be
without the body she had come to know. Now, Luna
has lost her for good. I wonder what she is doing
on Earth.
I never realized how much attention she paid
to that body of hers. I spent a good deal of my
time ignoring it.
I turn on a light over the decorative mirror
and steel myself for the still-unfamiliar visage
that inevitably greets me, since that one
mind-numbing day over a week ago.
One side of my face remains the same as
always, I would like to think, although I know my
expression will never be the same again even in
the eye I knew. On the other half, my skin is
twisted and crevassed and whitish-blue with
shadows in the crags, and my black hair is pushed
up on that side with ridges of bone and skin. A
horn, curled and quite solid, juts up and forward
from the deformed side.
I didn't just wake up like this, but the
whole thing felt like a dream. I was awake in my
bed, but the dizzying effects of the shift and the
wrenching and the impossibility of it made it seem
like I could not be awake and experiencing.
I almost called for help. Then, something
made me look in the mirror first.
I felt the protrusions. They are real.
I audio-only called my secretary, not unusual
for me, and made known that I will not be
available.
Now, I will reorganize and empower the
cameras in my dwelling. No more falsified
records. Hopefully, by the time they are here to
take action against the mutated Senator, I shall
be gone.
Samantha went to Earth. If they have records
there, I can find David. She will be living under
his name, I am quite certain.
They will know me by the original half of my
face. The other half... May accord me some time
on their part so they will listen to me; I only
want to see my daughter again.
I do not yet know whether I will be...
apologizing. I am not certain whether there is
anything to apologize for.
If anything other than the Fissure could be
blamed for my disfigurement, and for Samantha's
body, even for the situation of governments here
and on Earth, would I do it? Would I seek someone
to blame?
We on Luna have upheld the reactions of our
original government to the opening of the Fissure.
I have upheld them for the sake of society, and
found them to be key to the workings of this moon,
even seen the folly of going against them.
There are those on this very world who would
disagree with me, who have done so in sight of our
cameras and continue to do so.
There are those who have gone.
Wherever David is, I cannot help feeling that
he did indeed gain the most beautiful woman on
Luna, and I let her go without so much as a "yes,
you may."
I turn out the light, obscuring myself once
more.
Strange that with Samantha's lead I have some
idea as to who on this world might be willing to
help me get to Earth. The underground comes
closer to the surface than we often think.
Time has passed in the recording, but in the
condensation-dimmed vision of the pool camera
little has changed. Except for a shift of a leg
or a wing at intervals, the pair on the deck do
not move. I recall Mariam, laughing as Samantha
shook shower-water all over her and defied blow
dryer or towel, running with gasping excitement to
the bedroom and hiding amongst her toys, Mariam
following in equal enthusiasm, digging our
daughter out of the pile of soft animals and
mock-scolding her and embracing her at the same
time.
I recall Samantha drying off slowly in her
mother's arms, and how she twitched gently in her
sleep when I stole a touch on the side of her
face. Is she really that small?
I lean in close to the screen and brush
Samantha's face with my finger. The slight fog of
the picture does not clear as my finger passes,
for of course my monitor is far removed from the
camera lens. Yet it feels, achingly so, as though
I should be able to change something about the
image on the screen.
I can turn it off, I realize. I will do so
soon, and in all likelihood it will never be
viewed again.
Samantha is no child, cannot be when leaning
so on David with their arms in matched curves
around each other. Congratulations, Mr.
Stephenapolous. You are the first person to hug
my daughter since Mariam was killed.
Something about it is taunting, like the
tightness in my throat and the pressure on my face,
both sides of my face, not merely the mutated one.
The dark in the room presses on me. My house is
silent; no one will be arriving until the officials
try to come for me. I sent everyone away.
As I watch, somehow uncertain, standing near
my desk and trying to make real my decision to
leave, a clear bead of water condenses out of the
myriad over the lens. Heavy, it falls, cutting a
clean strip on the glass behind it. It is then
that I can watch no longer. With a click and a
soft buzz, the computer monitor submits to
darkness, but even as swiftly as I move I cannot
avoid a peripheral glimpse of David and Samantha
in clear outline, holding each other perfectly
still.
I cover my eyes, turn my back and walk out
of the room.