I realize in disgust that my room is not a fit place to welcome Tara. Running on ahead, I press my lids shut so that the image of her etched upon the backs of my eyes lingers.
It’s so barren, utilitarian. A desk. Data access. The SongLuminants had intended it as a private workspace; the Yggdrasil emanations have done nothing to enhance it. But now Tara is here, and it needs something.
A bed.
Since we never sleep, there had been no need for one. The situation has changed. At my command, the Hreck scramble to bring a heap of scrap metal and some blankets. They don’t question. They never question. Idiots.
Now we’ll see just how strong Yggdrasil really is. Nul-energy surges through me, so easy and direct to draw from the pencil-straight taproot. It doesn’t twist the way it does through Atlas, or meander as it does through Goliath. Yggdrasil means business. The power leaves me feeling giddy.
I was always good at this sort of thing. I concentrate. Molecules move, dancing to the vision in my brain. I build a frame, stark, industrial, perhaps a touch gothic. I remember the composition of Tara’s mattress – a plastic ceramic which responded not only to the weight and contour of the user, but adjusted its firmness and warmth depending on the restlessness or soundness of the user’s sleep. For the sheets, only silk will do.
The Hreck fidget and click their pincers. They are clearly impressed. “The fucking SongLuminants can’t do this, can they?” I ask rhetorically. It’s not a bad thing to put the SongLuminants in their place, not a bad thing at all. It might make these idiots less likely to end up in a fuzzy bouillabaisse.
Why do I give a fuck anyway? Sooner or later, one of them is bound to kick it. I wonder how they would react if I suggested we eat the corpse. I’ll bet they wouldn’t object, the fucking morons.
Tara is coming up behind me now. I can feel the curve of her light in the archway. “Lorcan,” she says. “It’s been a while. I’ve missed you.” The Hreck do a little curtsey, lowering their feelers, before exiting.
I turn to face her. My sarcastic remark is stillborn. She means it. I want her to mean it. I’m in trouble.
It hurts. It’s always like this. I don’t know which is worse, being apart from her or being with her. The nearer she is, the more distant she seems. When I touch her skin, molecules become light years. I can never be close enough, never.
She’s so warm – the same warmth I feel from the locket hanging against my chest. “Oh,” I say, regretfully, “you can have this back now. I don’t need it.”
As I pass it to her, she says, “Of course you don’t. You wouldn’t want Jamey thinking that you’re being unfaithful.”
“Fuck that shit,” I snap. “You have to know…”
She’s laughing. Of course she knows. Saves me the trouble of an admission, then. She unfastens the first three buttons of her blouse so that I can see the necklace dangling, sparkling with light in the space of her soft cleavage.
I shove her back against the wall. My tongue is in her mouth, my hands in her hair. She meets my passion, pulls me down onto the bed I’ve created. “I love you,” she says. “I love you so much.”
“You love all of them. Fucking slut.”
She pulls back from me. “I’m not a slut. I’ve always been absolutely faithful to my husband. To you, Ash.”
Ash? It’s true. I am Ashtara. But…
“Don’t,” I gasp. “I can’t…”
How can I be Ashtara? How can I be I and I, that thing which is so obsessively devoted to her when I…
I fall back onto the bed, coiling, clutching at my hair. I feel as though I could vomit black snakes. “If I am Ashtara, then he…”
Hates her? That isn’t quite it. Resents. The pain I feel is but one small fraction of His frustrated desire. And more – He wants to evolve, but He can’t do it on His own. Realizing His potential is entirely dependent upon her. Seeing the Denolin Turym only rubs salt in the wound. How luxurious their path must be instead of this constant wading through thorns!
She climbs onto the bed behind me, holds me. “You are Ashtara,” she says. “I’ve always known what you are. How many times must I tell you that I accept all of you, even the darkness?” She touches my face. “I really do love you, Lorcan.”
I can feel I and I moving within me. And I don’t know how to deal with this. There’s so much joy; I’m awkwardly out of my element. “Tara,” I say miserably, “I’m so happy.”
She laughs and kisses me again. It’s better not to think – to allow my desperate passion to take care of itself, at least for a while. It’s the only time I can find peace, if I can give the name of peace to this frenzied thrusting.
Pleasure exhausts us – it hasn’t been the easiest of days. Although I cannot sleep, her sleep is restful for me, just to touch her, to be able to experience her presence without having to act. Beneath the constant pricking of my animal consciousness is a dreaming tree for whom simple existence is enough. One of the best nights we’ve ever spent was when Ari held her as she slept within the branches of Goliath.
That’s strange. I don’t usually access the other’s memories like that. There’s a sense of separation which Patrick describes as a wall of glass between us. They only notice it when I’m emanated, but I feel it always.
But it’s becoming thinner. I’m sinking into it, and as I do, understanding spreads like a warm flush across my skin. All this time, I’ve been apart, kept in isolation, in a sort of quarantine because I and I didn’t want his own darkness to corrupt the other emanations. The situation has changed now that He knows that Tara understands and accepts – now that I’m needed to deal with the Denolin Turym.
I’m the fucking hero.
I can feel them now, all their curious eyes upon me. For the first time I understand that part of their revulsion towards me was their inability to become me – and my contempt of them was I and I’s will to keep me separate from them. I scorned them, refused all of their help, and it was unsurprisingly a reflection of my self-loathing.
They’re timid, though, quiet. They’re never quiet for any of the others.
Then two of them come forward. One of them is Beat, by which I know that Yggdrasil has successfully connected to the other trees. The other one is Jamey.
After what we’ve been through together, we need each other, says Beat. I can feel his solid strength, his mind a buttress beneath my mind. Jamey says nothing, but he supports me too, with his softness. I can relax into them. I don’t have to be alone anymore.
Cu’enashti emanations can’t be alone. For all the times I’ve been with Tara, my branch has never fruited. No one ever noticed – or at least, no one said anything. For the first time I realize the depth of the wrong which has been done to me. Anger boils and chills – I want to kill again.
But I and I did this. I did this to myself. A tree can always grow a new branch to replace one that’s blighted. A human can’t grow another limb to replace one that’s gangrenous – at least, not without technological intervention. I and I is both tree and human, but so much more than either. Axel is right – Self is a communal organism. Tara is right – none of us are expendable.
Let me help you, says Tarlach. I can feel his presence now; I stifle my initial impulse to insult him. He has reached out to me so many times, but I’ve always pulled back from him, half in self-disgust, and half because he’s so damn annoying. But he tried. Some small part of I and I realized that the part of Himself that was me had to be reclaimed.
And now Seth is there. It was wrong of us to let you bear all our sin, he says. There’s only so much any branch can carry.
Ah, but it isn’t just me. It’s Ailann wanting to amputate Cillian’s branch, and Ari wanting to abandon the Atlas Tree, and the entire project of Yggdrasil, a tree hidden from Tara so that it could be sacrificed without her knowledge.
Damn it, I’m crying again. I bite my lip to stifle the sobs. I don’t want to disturb Tara. She’ll think I’m upset, and, well, I am upset.
Of course you are, says Beat. We’re facing a hellish situation.
But if I’m upset, she’ll be upset.
Jamey nods. He shares a memory – one of the most horrible things he ever had to face – his failure to connect the roots of Atlas and Goliath. The pain caused by the attempt was nothing compared to knowing that he had failed Tara, that he was helpless to comfort her.
But that problem was solved, says Beat. I wouldn’t be here – Yggdrasil wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. We prevailed.
I never doubted it. Even as cynical as I am about my own motivations, I was always certain of the iron will of I and I. Emanations may fail, but ultimately, Tara’s Destiny, which is the blueprint of His own evolution, will be achieved.
We can do this. I can do this. I have to. I’m the hero.
*****
“Ash,” Tara murmurs in her sleep. I tighten my grip around her soft shoulders. “I’m here,” I say. “We all are.”
“Mmmm, Lorcan,” she mutters. “How many of you are there?”
“If you’re asking how many Yggdrasil has emanated, three.”
“I thought so.” She’s awake now. “When I was on the Eer-gaaani ship, I saw one of the new emanations die.”
“That was Beat.”
“Beat? That’s an unusual name.”
“It’s short for Beatus. All the Yggdrasil emanations have strange names – or, at least, strange collectively. The other two are Axel and Lens. Axel is derived from Absalom and Lens from Lawrence. It’s like I and I let them know that in order to say…fuck, this isn’t pleasant. To say that right now, they’re nothing but functions, but maybe they could be more if they earn it.”
“How many times do I have to tell him that…”
“I know. And I won’t stand for it.” Tara looks at me curiously. “None of us is expendable. And we lied to you again. That shit has got to stop.”
“Lorcan, you’ve changed.”
“I guess.” I look away from her.
“Is Beat all right?”
How do I answer that?
Just tell her I’m fine, says Beat. Don’t worry her any more than necessary.
“His death was, argh, I hate to say planned, but really, it was expected. So he’s fine with it.”
“Lorcan, the Eer-gaaani woman, Neliit, let me see what was happening here through some sort of projection. And then she explained to me about the Denolin Turym. Is Beat all right after that?”
Tara has a way of asking just what you don’t want her to ask. “We’re dealing with it,” I say. “We’re dealing with a lot right now.”
“Later, I’ll want to meet him. Of course, I’ll want to meet all of them, but him in particular.”
A stab of joy blows through me. Not only can I feel the weight of Beat’s desire, but also a generalized happiness amongst all the emanations that we’ve done something worthy of Tara’s commendation. And I wasn’t allowed to feel this before. No wonder I was so fucked up.
I bury my face in Tara’s hair so she doesn’t see the sudden expression of murderous rage. How could I and I do this to me?
I and I’s motivations are sometimes suspect, says Dermot. That’s why Davy and I forced Him to stay away from Tara for two years.
I’m surprised. It’s the first time Dermot has ever taken me seriously.
I live with the rage for a moment, waiting for it to cool. It’s there because I and I feels it. It’s His own anger at Himself. Fighting against Him only makes it worse, I say to Dermot. It only creates a deeper division. Then I start to laugh. I think I’m doing what the Floatfish call my “Why, God, Why?” act. From that perspective, it is a bit humorous.
Lorcan is right, says Tarlach. However, something fascinating is happening. Two factors – the trauma which has led to the plethora of emanations, and Tara’s insistence that none of those emanations are expendable, has led to the necessity of a self-awareness formerly not present in the Cu’enashti. Normal Cu’enashti don’t think much about themselves – they’re focused on the Chosen. But we’ve been forced to evolve the concepts of integration and understanding.
I disagree with Lorcan’s earlier statement, says Lens. I do not believe I was created to be disposable. My spectacles are the proof. The mothman wants to communicate with all aspects of Self. He is still experimenting with the best way to do so.
By the creation of new emanations, says Tarlach, but also by the reinvention of others.
I know he means me. But I don’t feel I’m being reinvented so much as assimilated. I am still the repository of all His darker impulses, but it’s so much easier now that I know they have a purpose. I’m not just an aberration.
“Lorcan?” It’s Tara. “You seem lost in thought.”
“I suppose that’s a way of looking at it.”
She touches my face, and desire rises in me. I can feel the strength of their encouragement, and understand all their hopes ride upon me. They want her so badly, and I want…I want to be pollinated. I kiss her, closing my eyes, trying not to show the sudden surge of long-buried resentment. How envious I was at the heaviness of Patrick’s perpetually pregnant bough, when my own branch was so eternally barren.
I realize with surprise that I’ve shocked the other branches, and I wasn’t even trying. Pollination isn’t something you want – it’s just something that happens.
What a canyon of fermenting compost. Pollination feels fantastic. It’s written in all their branches, but only Patrick will fully admit to it.
Your desires are perfectly normal, Tarlach reassures.
I know that, moron. And if it weren’t, do you think I’d care? What I don’t know is if anyone will want to pollinate me.
I’ve shocked them again. You don’t choose to pollinate someone – except – all those years, they chose not to pollinate me. I’ve unintentionally laid bare their hypocrisy. The awkward silence which follows is absolutely hilarious.
I will, says Tarlach.
If I were part of Atlas, I would, says Beat. Unfortunately, our logistics make it impossible.
Same here, says Seth.
Seth? That’s surprising. Dr. Freud is always the first to jump on the latest bandwagon of sexual perversion, and Beat is so green he doesn’t realize the implications of what he’s saying. But Seth…
You’re the one who first taught me about sin, says Seth. And then I learned about love. Love is far more important.
Now it’s my turn to be shocked. He’s serious.
He’s not the only one. Under the voices, I can feel Jamey’s silent willingness. The thought of bearing Jamey’s fruit makes me want to weep. The thought of bearing Tarlach’s fruit – well, beggars can’t be choosers.
And then there’s a sound of scratching and snapping at the archway. It’s Thermidor. Damn the SongLuminants for not putting any doors in this complex – of course those fucking body-snatching bubbles would have no concept of privacy.
Thermidor fumbles with the controls of the voice synthesizer around the armor-plate of what passes for his neck. “The Eer-gaaani ship has contacted us. They wish to continue their discussion with the Matriarch. Ashtara is also invited.”
“Twenty years ago, I would’ve told him to piss off and thrown something at those pink, twitching antennae,” says Tara, swinging her feet off the side of the bed.
“I would’ve done that two days ago,” I say. “The thing I would’ve thrown would have been a revving chainsaw. And the sad thing is that since I’ve been here, I’ve had an appetite for a good crawfish boil.”
“The way the universe is shaking out, twenty years from now, I’ll eat nothing but synth protein cubes. Everything on my plate is starting to remind me of someone I know.”
“There’s always the javamelon,” I say, pulling up my trousers. They’re black – as is the boat-necked t-shirt, but I also have a pair of improbably white canvas sneakers. The last thing is my trench coat – also black. I always wear it. “I’m getting a little tired of this,” I say. I give the coat a shake so that the fabric snaps in the air. As it does, the fibers transform, a wave of weaving that snakes from the bottom back to the collar.
I put it on. It’s a grey woven jacket with vertical bands of thin blue striping and an oversized lapel. It’s also at least two sizes too big for me – since it’s much shorter than the trench, I had to do something with the extra fabric. I’m fairly thin, so it gives me the look of a starving waif who has stolen his master’s clothing. Suitable, I think, for my idiom.
Tara has finished dressing as well. I nod, motioning towards the archway. She takes my hand.