Matriarch’s Journal: 2nd Landsday of the Month of Restoration, 3617
As I was saying, I was hustled off to Thomas’ place. Despite the fact that Thomas is supposedly an exact replication of Tommy’s branch, in a lot of ways they are completely opposite. For example, Tommy is a stylish dresser while at his club, understated on his down-time. Thomas, on the other hand, looks like he’s been chosen to star in Grease CXII: Thermal Paste City.
He kicks off his blue suede shoes and puts them under the coffee table in his perfectly tasteful apartment. The floors are tiled and strewn with hand-woven Tasean rugs; the furniture is stylishly matte-buff synth with Dolparessan upholstery. The bloobird scale stuffing crackles a little in the pillow as I sit.
He looks like he’s not sure what to do with himself. Can I get you a drink? he asks.
Well, I guess it is awkward. We’ve been married for nine years, and have yet to consummate our wedding. Sometimes I don’t have a clue what you could possibly be thinking, Ash. Of course, given your perception of time, I don’t know at all what nine years means to you.
Let’s make this easier. Vodka and redberri, I request. He goes into the kitchen. When he returns, I’m naked on the couch.
He nearly drops the drinks.
It’s strange for me, too. Tommy is my closest friend. Thomas is so much like him. And yet – I don’t really know Thomas at all. The feeling of familiarity is almost disconcerting.
Tara, you don’t have to…his voice trails off. I mean, this feels a little forced.
Do you want to?
Well, yeah!
Remember what happened the first time I propositioned you?
He nods. He turned me down for the sake of not exacerbating the difficult situation between Ailann and Ari.
It’s time to stop thinking about me and think of yourself.
He stares at me, blinking. I realize that to him, my statement is the semantic equivalent of saying, “It’s time to explain the principles of matrix algebra using Ancient Hebrew.” On second thought, it isn’t. After careful study, both matrix algebra and Ancient Hebrew are things he could potentially understand.
Let me rephrase that in a fashion less oblique to you, I continue. Strip.
Naked, there are only two differences between him and Tommy – his hairstyle and the lack of a tattoo. His body is so pale and white, his skin soft as a newborn’s. He’s been outside so little in his existence. It’s curious – Ash’s emanations don’t age, and their bodies don’t bear the scars of injury. Yet it’s clear that Thomas is innocent, unused.
Yet there’s a hesitation I’d never see in Tommy. Or maybe that’s not true. Long, long ago, when I worked for Tommy at Tom O’Bedlam’s, he never made a move for me. After the Great Reveal, I was the one who reached out to him. After that, sex with Tommy was perfectly comfortable – warm, playfully kinky, full of laughter. Of course it would be, since Ash created Tommy to be my friend. We’d never had any of the passionate conflicts I experienced with Ailann or Ari.
At least, that’s how I perceived it at the time. Then I read the things Tommy has written. There’s a side to him that he doesn’t show, a side that’s melancholy and lonely. It’s hidden in Tommy, but in Thomas, it’s on the surface. His eyes are always a little wistful, a little sad.
I’m overcome by the sadness of those kind eyes sometimes, in Thomas, in Malachi, in Lens. It’s your sadness, Ash. I wish I could bring you all the joy in the universe, but how can I, when I’m not even sure what you are? And that, of course, is the reason for your sadness.
I take a sip of my drink, set it on the table, pull him to me.
When I close my eyes, it’s the same as Tommy. Whirljack and Blackjack are twins, but when I close my eyes, I can tell immediately which is which. But Thomas moves just like Tommy.
I could have them both now, as long as we’re in the pleroma. I’m not sure I want to. Whirljack and Blackjack are different. Whirljack’s indignation at our threesomes is more-or-less for show. Tommy and Thomas would never complain, but it might be awkward for them. Maybe they’re too much alike.
The kiss, the ensuing embraces, don’t quite seem real. We have bodies, but they aren’t bodies. There’s no urgency to this, no tension, no release. Just waves of pleasure. It’s like sex in a dream.
Thomas replies to my unspoken question. There’s no pollination, he says. I have to be emanated to produce flowers and fruit.
Is it wrong to do this?
He’s puzzled. Why would it be wrong? he asks. It pleases you.
It does. I look into his eyes, and there’s no iris, no pupil. They’re just portals which look straight back into you, Ash.
I wish it could be like this forever, I sigh.
It can, he says, but not yet.
I feel a little shove from somewhere behind my brain. Suddenly, I’m sitting on my bed, next to Till.
“We know what’s going on,” he says. “We’ll be better off going back to the Domha’vei as soon as possible.”
“It’s morning already?” I stand, looking for a chronometer. It is – almost eight hours have passed.
“Shit,” I say. “I promised…”
“Don’t worry about it. There’s always next time. No one has any complaints.”
“Someday, I’m going to give up this business of running the Domha’vei and join a tantric monastery.”
“The fact that we aren’t taking you up on that offer immediately is probably evidence that the Cantor is right – Self has gone completely insane.” He hands me a small box. “Suibhne asked me to give you these. They’re trading cards – he made them from Mickey’s spreadsheet.”
They’re simulacra of an ancient style, printed on actual card-stock. Each one depicts an emanation on the front – one of Driscoll’s artworks – and on the back has a listing of some startling statistics. “These had better not get out to the general public,” I murmur.
Trading cards are usually made of thin pieces of display-plex. They have a tiny chip embedded in the solid rim which updates after every game. “What happens when the statistics change?” I ask.
“We’ll use alchemy to alter the printing.”
I flip over Thomas’ card. Among the facts listed: “Average duration of play: 7 hours, forty-six minutes.”
“What’s interesting about that,” says Till, “is Tommy’s average duration of play is seven minutes and forty-six seconds. Tommy hits a lot of pop flies; Thomas socks it out of the park.”
“Everything is relative. Clive lasted about five minutes, Johannon less. I thought Daniel was a freak of nature until I slept with Whirljack. Then I really thought Clive and Johannon were losers. As it turns out, Clive is pretty average. Daniel and Whirljack aren’t freaks of nature – they just aren’t human.”
“Human males are vastly inferior,” says Till. “I feel sorry for Cu’enashti females. Although I wonder if they’re able to alchemically improve their mates’ staying power? It isn’t something Tarlach ever looked into.”
“Let’s go home,” I say, taking his hand. And then I realize that for him, this is home.
He smiles and shakes his head. “Home is where you are,” he says.