Page 36

Seeker

Jen is perceptive.

When she withdraws, I suspect she’s realized that I’m ambivalent about deepening our relationship to include physical intimacy.

My people do not engage in such contact lightly or casually.

Though I told her that we do indulge in sexual contact for pleasurable reasons, I didn’t tell her that we imprint for life.

I shouldn’t make such a decision impetuously.

If I allow myself to imprint on Jen, that would entail accepting that I’ll never leave this planet—that I’ll live and die here with her.

Never see my family again. Never communicate with anyone from my former life.

That is not a choice I should make on impulse with arousal confounding my senses.

“I was wondering how you’ve gotten by,” she says. “It can’t be easy to work.”

Oh. Logistical inquiries.

These are easy queries to address. “Your databases are not difficult to infiltrate. I created an identity for myself, using my own name. Tamzir Jaarn. Then I had the system generate appropriate documents and mailed them to my location.”

“It can’t be a real picture of you.”

“No. I carry a document that says I’ve had plastic surgery in case I’m questioned. But I haven’t tested it at airports. I have only used bus stations, where they do more cursory checks.” Sometimes, they don’t even ask for ID.

“The tech doesn’t work on cameras, does it?” Jen asks.

It’s an astute assessment. “No, it causes a malfunction instead of recording my actual appearance. That’s the way I pass unnoticed.”

“Someone who tracks patterns in disruption might wonder about that,” she says.

“Are there people who study such things?” Considering the chaos on 97-B, it seems to me they should have more pressing concerns.

“I’m not sure. But there are folks who see conspiracies everywhere.” She shakes her head with a twist of her mouth that doesn’t wholly seem like a smile. “In your case, however, the reason the security cameras fail really is…‘because aliens.’”

Since I’ve been reading long, involved screeds written by such humans on the Aliens Among Us site, I comprehend the humor and let out an amused click. Now I need not stifle my customary auditory cues in the interest of concealing my strangeness.

“FoxSmolder would be exultant to hear it.” I name a conspiracy theorist on the website who makes the most illogical arguments about extraterrestrials influencing culture on 97-B throughout the ages.

The simplest rebuttal is, why would we bother? Such arguments assume that humans are, in the local vernacular, a big deal. But there can be no reasonable discourse with certain individuals.

Jen laughs. “Wouldn’t it be wild if they were here?”

“I can’t say I’m too interested in a personal encounter.”

“Me either.”

I want to be transparent with her. “Did you have other questions?”

“Mainly about your work, I guess. You told me a little before, but I’m interested in the details, if you don’t mind sharing.”

“Once I acquired appropriate documentation, I registered on a site for those proficient in digital work. I wrote a few programs and then automated programs to write more code. The processes here are extremely simple, unlike the crystalline matrices I worked with as a child.”

That was rudimentary education, and my people didn’t even focus on the sciences.

Jen would be absolutely amazed to learn that Jaz comes from the techiest civilization I know, with everything automated and constant innovation.

Ironic, when Jaz might have prospered where I was born, given her love of music.

“And then you got paid online?”

“Yes. I set up an account with a financial app that didn’t require a video check. They accepted photos of my identification documents as proof that I am a legal resident.”

“So legally speaking, Tamzir Jaarn is a U.S. citizen.”

“Unless they do a deep dive and audit the system records. Someone very skilled might detect my tampering, but if the authorities haven’t come looking for me by now, it seems that I didn’t set off any internal alarms.”

“Well played. Now you can run for president.” She blinks twice. “Wait, don’t do that. Too much scrutiny would be bad. The camera thing would become a major issue.”

Her concern that I will decide to govern this nation—or never doubting that I’m capable of accomplishing that—entertains me vastly.

Apart from Oona, the rest of my family considers me to be a sorrowful case of missed potential.

I could have done so much more with my life, had I chosen to devote myself to art instead of chasing the next stimulating experience.

In their view, I have embraced hedonism and chosen to consume rather than create.

I can’t say that I disagree with them entirely, but no art form ever spoke to me sufficiently.

In my bleak moments, I have wondered whether I was born without the “creation” gene.

I’ve found myself at my happiest while studying something and recording observations, but my family never urged me to pursue such interests.

Is it possible that one could spend their entire life searching for where they belong?

It seems that I’ve done that anyway.

Her jaw opens, her mouth stretching wide. Per my studies, it’s a yawn, which seems to perplex local scientists. I’ve perused a number of theories regarding why humans perform this behavior, but general consensus agrees that weariness can cause it.

“Should we get some rest?” I ask.

“Are you okay sharing the bed?”

“I don’t sleep in the same way humans do. You may find my repose disturbing. But I won’t move, and I shouldn’t trouble you.”

“I can be a restless sleeper. Maybe I should ask if I’ll bother you .”

The polite response would be to say that she won’t disturb me. But I can’t know that for certain. I offer the next best assurance. “We can see how it goes. This is new territory for both of us,” I say.

Jen rises from the bed and turns back the covers.

I find the human obsession with covering their bodies very strange.

If it’s not street clothing, it’s bed clothing.

And then there are special fabrics to adorn their sleeping surfaces.

Not to mention jewels that are physically inserted in their bodies and inks that permanently mark their skin.

But perhaps if I didn’t have my own colors and patterns already, I would design them.

She goes into the bathroom for a while, readying herself for sleep. I hear more water sounds. After switching off the lights, Jen finally gets into bed, settling in with a contented exhalation. Human rituals fascinate me. They use water for so many things.

“Something else occurred to me,” she says.

“What?”

“You don’t absorb sunlight like a plant, do you? Because otherwise, what the heck are you eating?”

“I consume protein powder derived from soy. And water. Many ingredients are toxic to me, and your cuisine tends to be quite complex.”

“Hmm. Maybe I can figure out a way to cook for you. If you decide to go with me. There are recipes focused on people with allergies who can only have very limited ingredients.”

Warmth blossoms within me. “You would do that? For me?”

“Of course! It wouldn’t even be that difficult. I’ll start the research tomorrow.”

“Speaking of tomorrow, do you have a plan for our activities?” She’s been looking forward to this event for months.

And I’ll accompany her wherever she wishes.

“I was hoping people will want to pause on con stuff and go to the UFO Museum. It’s a must-see when you’re in Rellows. It has all the town history, newspaper articles, alleged artifacts. They even built a life-size reproduction of the alleged crashed ship.”

“That sounds most enjoyable.”

“Awesome. I knew you’d be interested. You can confirm if they got any details right.”

Based on what I’ve seen so far, that’s highly implausible.

Humans are wildly inventive and often chaotic, but their predictions about the larger galaxy generally don’t match my lived experience.

I settle on top of the covers as Jen nestles in.

As long as the room is warm enough to sustain my body temperature, I do not require concealment or nesting materials for comfort.

I shift my nictitating membrane so I can savor her colors in this spectrum. She is radiant, shimmering orange and gold with hits of red. Just when I think Jen cannot become more beautiful, I see her anew, a luster known only to me. Her breathing steadies, becoming lighter.

I think she’s drifting off when I hear her voice in the dark. “Seeker?”

“Yes?”

“Do you dream?”

“Not as humans understand it.” I could tell her about memory walking. I will, but it’s a long and detailed explanation. Not to be discussed now, when she needs to rest.

“Huh.” It’s like she’s sleepily, randomly asking questions, whatever floats into her tired mind. “Why didn’t you rent something more permanent? You had the legal means.”

Each month, I chose a new locale near the mountain rendezvous point, hoping my comm device would light with news from the agency. They will return soon. That’s what I told myself each time I sought new shelter. And every time, I was wrong.

“Because I didn’t intend to stay this long,” I whisper.

“And now?”

“I’m not sure I have any choice in the matter.”