White Flowers and Cherry Blossoms
Omar Affan has butterflies in his stomach. He's sitting at his desk, a desk he fought for and earned, at almost fifty-five years old- and somehow he's still getting butterflies in his stomach. No, scratch that: it's
Liaison Affan now, not Omar. And those aren't butterflies, they're... potential? Excitement? Hope?
Butterflies, his mind affirms.
So, Omar Affan is almost fifty-five years old, sitting at his brand-new desk, with butterflies in his stomach. He has to read over the Commonality’s message twice. And then three more times. Because what are the odds?
He has spent six solid months reorganizing the government, putting out fires and trying (desperately, hopelessly trying) to make something coherent out of the mess back home on Bezia. Trying to establish a democracy there. And as soon as it seems like they've succeeded, as soon as the first glint of sunrise starts to peak over the mountains- somebody sends them a poem.
If anyone else had been the Liaison, it wouldn't mean much. But Omar Affan is in love with poems. If he had been born in any nation other than the ECU, he likes to think a poet is what he’d be. The more coherent part of his mind knows that’s a fantasy, but the other half- the part of his mind currently conjuring butterflies- wants to believe it. So he can’t help but see it as a sign. The first day he gets back into office, officially becoming the Liaison and Chief Diplomat of the White Flower Democracy, a poem appears before him.
He prays silently:
I see Your hand, Truth.He should really respond to them- and soon, since they currently have some unholy behemoth of a “module” barrelling towards the Meeting Place. But whether it’s the poems or the prayer, something has him in one of those sentimental moods that he treasures so, so much. He ends up opening up his infopad, flipping through it to the file marked “proj” and inside it, a file marked “poem” and inside it, a file that reads:
Cold and cruel for years,
‘Til the air warms at long last:
Spring dawns on Bezia.He wrote that haiku the day Heralds died. It didn’t feel right to celebrate a man’s death, so he made it to be about a new season. He wanted to say “I’m not glad Heralds went out the way he did: but look, a new life is here!” Instead he ended up writing some pretentious nonsense about spring. But it was close enough.
Alright, Liaison, that’s enough sentiment for this morning that rational part of his mind tells him, and for once, he agrees with it. It really is time to formally answer this “Commonality of New Ishtar.”
And yet…
Oh, fine, he can’t help it. The new arrivals to the Meeting Place have this message directed to their mobile station:
New spring brings new friends,
Brought home to our Mother Earth
A message divine;
We are dispatching two shuttles. They’ll show you the safest place to connect your new module to the Meeting Place, and transmit directions to the White Flower embassy. No way to make that sound poetic. Let’s break bread together.🙠🙘 🙚🙢
Warm rays of sunshine
Cast aside the dark winter
Stars’ children rejoice
Our appearance is strange. Please, do not be frightened, for we are but daughters of Earth, long lost.Scheherazade smiled to herself as the message came through and as she sent a response. Sachiko, within the same room and connected to the same feeds, had hugged her tightly after reading it. Even had she known nothing of these White Flowers - fellow lovers of poetry were always to be celebrated.
“Sachiko, fetch me a bottle of the rum we brought for these folks. The nicest stuf- yes, I know, you don’t drink. It’s the one with the fire and roses on the front.”
She shook her head - little exasperations that might have annoyed her in the past now only filled her with greater excitement. She had been alive for well over three hundred earthen years, by her count. She remembered the early colonization of the planet. The hushed rumors. Her appointed guardian had tried to hide her from the them - but there was little to be done. She still remembered the fear that permeated everyone, even if she was not connected to the Net then. The natives of the world - she couldn’t even remember what they had been called. What they had looked like. She remembered fighting against them - that much she remembered clearly. She remembered finally setting down the title of Soldier and becoming who she was now - dreaming of great things to come. Abnormal, in her hope for the future.
And yet she could not remember ever feeling this excited - and anxious - before. Only the arrival of Zeta came close. But that was not so much excitement as… pure wonder. And joy. Ecstatic, mind numbing joy. The Commonality was not alone. By the time the feeling had passed so had any chance of this feeling of excitement. The fluttery feeling in her gut.
The arrival of Zeta was the closing of an old chapter in the Commonality’s history. The history of the Perfected of New Ishtar. A new chapter was unfurling - and it was she who would write its first words. How could one not be anxious or excited?
As the craft neared the Ishtari station module, she allowed herself to relax for the last time in what would probably be quite a while.
An army of volunteer workers aboard the craft set to work with spare materials, beginning the construction of a properly secured connected to the main station. The massive, hulking, Ishtari addition clung to the structure at odds with the comparatively small additions made by other nations and other peoples over time. Scheherazade boarded a small shuttle flanked by a small detachment of guards. An sword from her collection hung at her hip, inward-curving blade held safely in a carved wooden sheath. An
ornate dress, halfway between a military uniform and a normal dress, trailed on the floor behind her. She made no move to conceal
her face - though the soldiers marching in formation beside her wore helmets that concealed theirs. It would be best to be open and honest - and so, Sachiko, walking beside her in an ornate kimono, mouth slightly agape as she took in the sights around her - had been instructed to do the same.
Despite the ethereal air she put on as she stepped into the foreign space station, she silently prayed that this would not end poorly.
Her prayer was answered, or perhaps interrupted, by a loud voice declaring: "My new friends, welcome!"
Omar's arms stretched out widely, fatherly, like he was about to go in for a hug. His hands reached to either side of the steel corridor they stood in- as the Ishtari would notice, he was fat and broadly built. (But his smile was just as broad.) He wore a long brown shirt that cut off at the knees, skewed slightly at an angle, and his oily hair fell in rings around his head. He wore glasses.
Somewhere behind him, a woman was just barely visible. Her glasses matched his.
"Allow me and my friend Melissa to lead you to our embassy. We have a space set aside just for such meetings." That space was, naturally, the holo-suite: currently programmed into the shape of a spacious 19th century study, complete with shelves of books and antique wooden furniture. (In his thoughts, Omar wanted to see if they could tell the room was artificial.) Gaslight lit the whole space, cozy and old-fashioned. A mahogany table in the middle has just the right number of seats for all of them.
Scheherazade smiled to him - and to Melissa, silently grateful that thus far nothing had been said of their appearances. The room looked… peculiar, though she could not place her finger on what exactly. She looked around the space, taking in the sights - and, were Omar a native of New Ishtar, would have been seen to make their equivalent of a raised eyebrow. “Gas lighting aboard a space station?” She mused, smiling to herself. “Either you White Flowers have nostalgia something fierce for the nineteenth century of Earth - to a potentially dange`rous extent - or this is simulated?” She looked it over, hidden eyes roaming over each inch of the room. “If so, it is remarkably realistic.”
She seated herself across from him, gesturing for Sachiko to do the same.
“Forgive me,” she said, after a moment, “I do not believe I got your name?”
“I’m Omar,” said Omar. “And yes, the room is a simulation. I’m impressed you spotted it! My friend here is-”
“-Melissa.” The woman cut him off. "Who loves Omar like an uncle, but wishes he would let her talk sometimes. And, technically, he's Liaison Affan, but he thinks being informal is charming. I don’t." She smiled, her way of saying that this was all light-hearted. Omar looked at her with eyes that said 'Ouch,' but the smile remained on his face, too.
"Forgive the banter," he told the Ishtari. "Me and Melissa have known each other for a long time. We were both here back when this was the ECU embassy, actually, as the little people. And speaking of: we should address the elephant in the room." Here he took a deep breath, gripping his fingers to the table as Melissa knew he did when he was about to ask something unpleasant.
Scheherazade restrained the urge to wince in preparation for what she knew must be coming. Sachiko was less successful, her head drooping downwards as she averted her attention to
anything else. The Zetans had held their curiosity well - especially with no prior warning. But for unmodified humans like these it must b-
"How did you know about the White Flowers before coming to the system? I loved your haiku, personally. I was the one who composed the poem sent back. But- it shows that you already knew we were rebels against an old regime. You said you had a bad Gateway. So did we all, right? How could you have known about what was happening on the other end?"
For a moment, Scheherazade found herself reaching for a pre-prepared response to the man, a carefully formulated recollection of the events that lead to the Ishtari becoming what they now were. It was not until she was opening her mouth to speak that she realized the man across had an altogether different question.
“The Zetans.” She said, smoothly switching tracks. “Our gate in fact opened approximately… six months ago, using earth-time as a metric? However - it was…
unstable and closed shortly after. During the brief period it was active however - a small Zetan craft became stranded in our system and made contact. They told us much, and kept us up to speed on goings on out here.” She smiled, “With their aid, when the gate fluctuated open again, we were able to stabilize it and cross. We’d spent the intervening six months building the large module we’re adding to this ‘Meeting Place’ now.”
Sachiko spoke up. “W-when you say bad gateway - they were all bad, yes. But ours was… damaged. It was damaged, or something, nobody knows! But from what we know it was a far less stable Gate than the others until we fixed it!”
Leave the sensitive stuff to me, please. Scheherazade messaged her, silently.
You are young yet. We would be best to be careful, even with potential allies.Sachiko agreed, looking up at the two with a shy smile. “I- I’m glad you enjoyed the haiku. She wrote the others, but I wrote that on- oh!” She slapped a palm to her forehead, “We forgot our own introductions. I am Sister-Sage 43 Sachiko Treasures The Beauty In The Universe!” She gestured to the woman beside her, nearly identical in every way save for their disposition, the visible tattoos, and manner of dress. “This is Sister-Sage 192 Scheherazade Dreams Of Many Great Things.” A slight nod and easy smile from Scheherazade confirmed her words.
Omar nodded, his face bouncing a little as he did. "The Zetans. Alright. And a broken Gateway?" But his eyes lit up at the names- something in them sounded like the haikus they received. “So poetic!” he commented. “Your names, I mean, I’m sorry. ‘Dreams of Many Great Things.’ That’s… beautiful.”
He wondered what his name would be, in that society. ‘Writes Poems Nobody Will Read,’ maybe. Or ‘Eats Far Too Much Pork.’ What a unique way to express a person.
But his wondering was interrupted. In front of his eyes, on the interior of his glasses and visible only to him, a sea of words decided to float by. Some of the words were surprised, some were excited, and some were just misspelled and incoherent: because they were randomly-selected comments from different Flower citizens, who were currently reacting to all this news with him. As per the new rules of this direct democracy, citizens were allowed a say in all manners government. Including diplomacy. Every few moments, he received input from the people of Bezia.
Oh, yes, Omar realizes. He was supposed to inform the Ishtari about this.
"Forgive me, my friends," Omar says, "but I realize I've forgotten to inform you about an important regulation of ours. You see, these glasses me and Melissa both wear are, well-" he scratched the back of his neck- "cameras. Right now, as we speak, a live feed of everything we see is being sent back home to Bezia. Approximately fifty million Flower citizens are watching these proceedings. After this meeting, they themselves will vote on our future relations with your people. I have no special sway over this process." He lifted his chin. This was a feature he was quite proud of. "You see, it is our goal as a society to allow
every person a say in every action taken by the government, and that requires full transparency. Please pardon my not mentioning it earlier."
Melissa smiled awkwardly. "You can pardon him for the idea, too. He's the man who thought of using cameras and votes for diplomacy. I fully blame him.”
Scheherazade grinned widely, as did Sachiko beside her. For a moment, they paused - as the Commonality again declared its approval to them, urging them to share in kind.
“Well,” she said, relaxing slightly. “First of all, my greetings to the people of the White Flower Democracy - and…” pausing for effect, she added, “Greetings from the 4.6 billion people of the Commonality of New Ishtar. Just as you see through those cameras, they’re seeing everything as well.” She nodded to Omar. “This is splendid news. Truly.” She said, smiling. “I am glad that our first contacts with the other children of humanity have been with likeminded people such as you and Zeta.”
Omar chuckled, pleased- even while some people at home still bristled about being compared to the Zetans.
Sachiko spoke up, grinning even more widely than her compatriot as she eagerly leaned in, fully engaged with the conversation now. “And thank you for the compliments. We know our names are unusual - well, we know
now - but we agree! Think of them as an indicator of where you are in your life now. The things you’ve seen and witnessed. The values you hold. What defines you? They’re… they’re like a prophecy and a reflection of the past rolled into one.” She explained, positively beaming. Omar listened along, obviously interested. She opened her mouth to speak again, but was cut off by a gentle upraised finger from a smiling Scheherazade.
“To clarify - the Commonality of New Ishtar likewise shares this belief. We are all equal. We are all connected to each other. Everyone must have her voice heard.”
“Or their. Or his.” Sachiko amended, to which Scheherazade chuckled and nodded her head.
“That too, yes, forgive me.”
Melissa spoke up now: “Yes, while we’re talking, I wanted to ask about that. In your earlier message to us, the second, uh… haiku?” Omar nodded. “Yes, after the second ‘haiku’ you describe yourself as ‘daughters of Earth.’ I wondered, from that, and from both of you here being women, if your society might be-” she hesitated, still new to this position, so the other Flower ambassador finished for her: “Matriarchal.”
Scheherazade shook her head softly. “No, no, not in the slightest.” She laughed, “I’m afraid the answer’s nowhere near that simple. We are…” She frowned. There was no easy out from this situation she’d roped herself into. Honesty had proven the best policy thus far - and so honesty it would remain.
Even if it felt strange to say it out loud.
“We’re clones.” She said, bluntly. “Approximately ninety five percent of the population - around 4.4 billion - of us are clones of the same woman from our ship. She is- was, known as Tiamat. We have no record of her real name. The remainder of our population is composed of individuals cloned from a few other Primary Strains - but Tiamat’s DNA was uniquely adaptable and tolerant of the process. It is an… unfortunate state of affairs but one we have made do with - Sachiko’s tattoos, for instance, are one way we use to distinguish ourselves.”
The two Flower diplomats both fell silent. Their glasses chose the perfect time to display another round of citizen comments, and before them were words of raw reaction:
"Like the One?"
"Oh, fuck, of course there would be something weird"
"Freaks. Let's call them what they are. Get out of there."
"This is why we're the only colony still really human."
"Y'all, it's not their fault."
"at least their still alive right"
"Always some shit. They even human anymore? Look at their faces."
They both knew these were only the poorly thought-out words of a handful of citizens. The formal votes would not come until later, after everyone had time to process this information, after the news channels had talked it to death, and after everyone had well and truly decided which camp they fell into. But still- this was the flavor of Bezia's initial reaction. Omar's heart sank.
He shifted in his chair. The atmosphere of the room had changed. When, at last, he spoke, his smile was gone: "I see. Thank you for sharing that with us." The fake gaslights kept burning.
Scheherazade nodded. “I can see from your reaction this hasn’t gone over well.” She sighed, “We will leave if you wish it - but…” she drew breath, pondering for a moment how to phrase the words properly. “Zeta has told us of another colony - The One.” She looked to him - and to the cameras rolling on them. “We are nothing like them. We are individuals.”
Sachiko nodded. “Every one of us is a different person. We’re… we look the same. But we’re all different people.” She tried to force a smile, “W-we have another, Istir, she didn’t want to come with us but she’s a soldier through and through! We h-have poets. Artists. Writers. Sculptors. Chefs who’ve made the most amazing dishes. We’ve cr-created a world where everyone can do what they truly love. Just… give us a chance?”
Scheherazade, for once, could not bring herself to interject, merely nodding, her mouth dry.
"It's not their fault," Omar mumbled. His voice was under his breath. But he said nothing else, so his co-worker filled in for him:
"I see," she said. "Yes, that is very interesting. I'm sure our people will take that into account during the upcoming voting session. In fact, we are allies with the One-"
Omar grumbled something inaudible. His hands were gripping the table again.
"-who helped us defeat the Oligarchical regime during the White Flower Revolution. So I think it is a shame that you say you are nothing like them. But me and my 'uncle' Omar here do not have a say in this, anyway. It will be to the people." She paused, waiting for her friend to say something. When he didn't, she spoke again: "I will tell you, based on the reactions me and Omar are seeing, they feel a little uneasy. But I'm sure you're both very busy. We will inform you as to the results of the vote. Thank you for your ti-"
"No," said Omar, quietly. His voice had lost its usual boisterous joy: it was something like a low growl. "No, no. It's
not their fault." He stood up. He said things clearly now: "It's not their fault they think like this. Our people are- brainwashed. There, I said it." Melissa's mouth dropped open. Is he really going to do this now? Omar looked over to the foreigners. "I'm sorry, I do try to control my feelings normally. But right now, Bezia is watching. And they need to hear this.
"Listen to me, countrymen" he spoke, turning to look into Melissa’s glasses, letting the cameras zoom into his face, "I can see your reactions, your comments- but this isn't us. We are not the people who judge another based on how they look, or where they come from, or, Truth forbid it, what they went through to survive. All that is the Oligarchs. That's their thinking, and that's their hatred. We are the people of Bezia; we're better than they are. I know, I know, you've heard their poison your whole lives, from every screen and every speaker: but it isn't you. We fought a revolution to rid ourselves of those tyrants. Are we going to be their mouthpieces now?" He shook his great head firmly. "I won't be."
He looked back to the Ishtari now. "Forgive us. The ECU was... backwards. They tried to push that on to us. But I believe my people are prepared to be better than they were."
Let's just hope they don't make me a liar, he thought silently. "You are welcome to stay and speak with us."
Sachiko seemed on the verge of tears as she shook in her seat. Scheherazade’s hair stood on end, adrenaline pumping through her system now as she had prepared for the Ishtari delegation to be ejected. She had been unprepared for the reactions of the two before her, and uncertainly looked between them, genuinely at a loss for what to say in response for far longer a time than she would have liked.
When she spoke again, her voice was shaky, and she stuttered much like Sachiko for a second, before breathing deeply, calming herself down. “We were… we were told about the ECU by the Zetans, yes.” She said, weighing her words carefully. “We know they will have given us their account of things, but we know that your people were once ruled by their Oligarchs. That you fought a bloody revolution to liberate yourselves from their grasp. We… we were eager to know there was another direct democracy out there. We sent you our missive in hopes we could help your people build your own stronger. To build a better society.”
Sachiko looked up, “W- we would have helped you, if w-we’d been here. We would have sent… guns. Tanks. Soldiers.” Her voice was shaky, inconsistent, it quavered with every word she spoke. “We- the One- I…” she trailed off, taking a shaky, heavy breath, glancing towards Scheherazade, before speaking more. “What we know of them is scary. To us. W-we were nearly destroyed by something similar. Twice. A hive mind. Many bodies, no individuality. Murderous. Cannibalistic. Formed from humans, and they…” she struggled to continue, finally losing her control.
“We don’t
want to be like this!” She shouted, with more force than she had anticipated. “We don’t
want to all have the same face! What, do you think we’ve not tried to change it? We can’t! Not without fundamentally changing who we are! Whatever the fuck happened with us, we’re stuck with it! Who are you,” she half-shouted, half cried, to the cameras that rolled on them, “to judge us?! We went through hell! Our people went thr-”
She was cut off, finally, by Scheherazade who at last raised a hand, placing it on her shoulder and pulling her towards her into a hug, throwing a glance towards the other two as if daring them to say anything. Wordlessly, the Ishtari soldiery who had accompanied them filed out of the room- though a keen observer would notice the tension in their body languages as they did so.
“You are wise, Omar.” She said, forcing a hint of a smile. “You were wondering about our names earlier. Were you one of ours I might suggest ‘Stands Firm In Defense Of His Truths’.” She smiled, more genuinely, “Just as your whole nation exists, because you and your people stood firm for what was right. Ultimately, the choice is your people’s - and we would not have it any other way.”
Omar breathed deeply. That made them look good for the cameras, at least.
She paused, watching them for a second. “That said… would you two follow me for a moment, if you would?” She suggested, raising a hand pre-emptively in case of objections. “To our section of the station. They’ve completed the connection already. Let me show you - and your people - what we Ishtari are like. Not with words. You know full well how they can be twisted.” She stood, reaching out a hand. “Bring guards, if you’d like - bring as many as you want. Let them see too. We were planning on perhaps a bit more… fanfare, but I think it fitting.”
The Flowers, in the end, brought only one guard: a visibly thin, young man. This was another signal from Omar, to his countrymen, saying 'I trust these people not to hurt us.' It's debatable whether that message went through. For the people of Bezia, sights are worth more than signs; the cameras eagerly ate up what they saw.
Scheherazade guided them through the module with an unexpectedly practiced ease. At times they would pass an Ishtari guard, who acknowledged the group with a terse nod before continuing their patrol. The module was almost empty, running on a near skeleton crew. The Ishtari would not risk a full delegation’s complement on a gate they did not have faith in - or on foreign nations they did not know.
The hallways were richly decorated. Elaborate paintings of scenery from the world of New Ishtar, or of more abstract concepts dotted the walls. Elegant engravings in the metal helped one scene to flow to the next. Every inch of the station seemed equal part work of art and meticulously engineered construction. However, only a fraction of the station was seen - Scheherazade lead them to the main hall of the station where, dead ahead, lay the garden.
Wordlessly, she brought them into its airlock, a small smile on her lips before she opened the doors to the garden, sweeping an arm out as the cameras adjusted to the change in lighting.
The garden stretched out before them for, seemingly, an infinite space. As they stepped through the door fully, it sealed behind them leaving a near three-dimensional imitation of the intended surrounding scenery. Scheherazade grinned, and beside her, Sachiko nervously smiled. Omar’s lips formed an open-mouthed “wow” expression.
The garden was immaculate. Carefully grown or transplanted over the period of six months, twenty hectares of land stretched out before them brimming over with the light pink cherry blossoms, a gently flowing stream emerged from a cluster of stones beside them, flowing under a small bridge that lead to one of the numerous ornate structures in the garden. Occasionally, an Ishtari gardener could be seen meandering through the garden in something resembling traditional clothing, tending to the plants within or simply enjoying the fruits of their labor.
“Take a look around.” Scheherazade said, gesturing to the garden. “Once we’ve settled in it will be open to any on board the station. From what we knew it seemed… somewhat dreary on board, and thus our gardeners took it upon themselves to begin this project. It was not easy, but most of us agree it was worth it. Consider it a gift to the station here. And then, I implore you, consider what else we can offer your people.”
“Oh,” Omar said, “it sure has been ‘somewhat dreary’ aboard. I catch myself going to a holo-suite for a ‘breath of fresh air.’” He chuckled at himself. “And speaking of!”
He cheerly bent over, smelled a flower- a white-ish one, at that- plucked its petal off, and stuck it in his mouth. (Melissa had to fight the urge to let her jaw drop again.) He chewed it over a bit, stuck his tongue out, plucked the flower right back off, and declared, “It’s not a hologram! Oh, praise the Truth, I thought I wouldn’t see a real flower for as long as I was at the Meeting Place.”
“
Liaison Affan,” Melissa hissed.
“Yes? Oh! Yes.” Omar straightened out. “Thank you, people of the Commonality of Ishtar, for letting us see this room. It seems it is not only your names and your poetry that has a capacity for such great beauty.” He looked outwards, staring at the indoor horizon. “It’s ironic. You told me my name might have been ‘Stands Firm In Defense Of His Truths.’ Did you know that Truth is the name of my God? It’s what we call It; they say Its true name is hidden. Not all Flowers worship, but a few of us do.” He was at ease in the garden. “The Zetans probably couldn’t have told you that. We have yet to heal all our old wounds with them. But the people of my world are not the two-dimensional invaders they saw us as. That was the Oligarchs. Free of them, we have much beauty in our society, like you have here. I hope one day we will be able to show it to them. But baby steps.” He reached over and ran his fingers along the flower he had plucked, gently. “You are a unique people. I hope our two cultures will know each other.”
Scheherazade grinned. “How fortuitous! They did not tell us, no. But I am glad it fits so well.” She began walking, beckoning the two to follow her. “Come, there are quiet places to meditate. But I think one of the small huts here will make for better conversation.”
She lead the small group through, gesturing them inside before taking a seated position on the floor, still grinning. “Like I said - this place will be open to all at a later date, once we are firmly established. But let us talk here for now. If you would like I can have food or drink brought here.”
Sachiko took a position beside her, “S-so what we know of your society- your old society, I mean. Um - you were all about preserving the culture of old earth right?”
"Many of us still are," Melissa says.
Sachiko smiled. “We weren’t quite as uh… dedicated. But the crew of the
Ishtar primarily came from certain regions of old earth. The…” she paused for a moment, mentally pulling together the words in English before she spoke. “Philippines, Japan, and Iran.” She pointed to the outfit she wore, and to the sword on Scheherazade’s hip, then gestured to the building and gardens that surrounded them. “It’s all around us. We’ve changed, physically - it’s true yes. But we’re… we’re still like you! We still remember some of old earth.” She smiled, shyly - though the concealment of her eyes impaired it somewhat.
But Omar understood what she was trying to do, and made himself smile back. He never cared for culture the way others of his world did; he loved the strange and the beautiful, like the Ishtari had been today. His friend Melissa, on the other hand-
“I greatly value those cultures,” he heard her say. “I was close friends with a man whose ancestors came from Old Japan. But… I do think his CCE was American Western, rather than Japanese.”
“Mhmm,” said Omar. He explained to the Ishtari: “In our society, CCE means 'Chosen Cultural Expression.' It represents..." how to explain it to a complete stranger? "It represents not just the culture your ancestor comes from, like our friend's family coming from Old Japan, but also... how you present yourself. What you associate with. It's part of who you are. It's sometimes the first question one Hollywoodite- or, uh, Flower, I mean- will ask about someone they've met. So it is good news to us that you still remember the cultures of Earth's great past." He tapped his chest. "We keep them close. Mine is Arabic- Saudi Arabian, to be real specific. Melissa likes to say she’s American. Very boring."
The two Ishtari nodded, looking between each other with an indecipherable expression.
Scheherazade spoke. “Well, as mentioned, most of us are based on the template of a single woman. We don’t have much information on her - though we know she was born in the Philippines on old earth and was a well known war hero and geneticist. Cloning had already been mandated after we suffered catastrophic population losses due to… numerous calamitous events. We didn’t keep the cultures of old earth separate, as a result - but tried to preserve whatever we could. Our language for instance - we had nearly forgotten English before contact with Zeta. Our language is based on a fusion of old earth Filipino, Assyrian, Persian, Japanese, and Esperanto. Over time, certain trends became more dominant than others, or fused with some to create hybrids - such as the martial arts we practice.”
Sachiko nodded, adding on. “It was partly done to… give us something to hold on to, so to speak? Even through war and cataclysm we could take comfort in holding on to stuff from earth, even as we had to adapt to survive.”
“Even so, we created much in the way of new culture, often built off the old.” Scheherazade said, stroking her chin as she spoke. “The idea of preserving culture in such a manner as your own people is certainly unique. I’m not sure if it would have been right for us - but maintaining some memory of old earth is of course to be respected.” She went silent for a while, trying to think of some response.
Sachiko looked thoughtful. “So was there pressure to maintain the same culture you were born into, was it a lifelong commitment? What did you do to keep them from intermixing?” She leaned forward, focused on the camera. “Did you develop the hologram stuff to help with that? To help depict a home or something else from a certain culture or era more easily?”
Omar grimaced beneath his grin, but Melissa spared him by answering: “There is some expectation on us to remain in our family’s CCE, but it is not all-encompassing. We can choose and change our own as adults.” She didn’t mention that changing it too often is a social stumble- people start to criticize. “Especially because we so often have culturally mixed families. We don’t stop the intermixing, so long as everyone maintains their own identity, if that makes sense? My father represents Ethiopian culture, and my mother is French. She stayed French, he’s still Ethiopian. But me… when I was a kid, I saw this holo-film about America. I can’t remember it very well. But it made that world look so nice, so free and pretty, I… I knew that was where I belonged.”
“And there you have the answer to your holo-suite question,” Omar said. “They help us depict the things we haven’t been able to recreate on Bezia. A window into the past, you might say.”
“Plus all the best culture parties are there,” Melissa smirked.
Sachiko nodded, digesting the information as she sat. “Wait - culture party?” She cast a sideways glance at Scheherazade before continuing. “Like… a party to celebrate a specific culture or a way for people from different cultures to experience others? Or were they restricted to people practicing those cultures? Was it a way for people in the same cultural groups to get to know each other better?”
She raised a hand to her mouth, giving a polite cough. “Er, sorry for so many questions. Your people are interesting! And unique! I- you probably want to know more about us I’m sorry but I mean you know ho-”
Scheherazade smiled, raising a hand. “Easy there, maybe let them respond first.” She shook her head, feigning exasperation. She turned to Omar and Melissa, “Sachiko here would be considered an expert on old earth culture among our own. Finding your people has gotten her rather excited.”
“Her first guess was right,” Melissa laughed. “I dragged Omar to one about America the other week. I think all he enjoyed was the hotdogs.” But then she cleared her throat, going back to the formal persona she was trying to keep on. “I’m sure the people of the WFD appreciate the interest. Cultural experts are deeply regarded. If your Sachiko were one of us, she might be leading the delegation.”
Sachiko beamed in response, her expression brightening instantly at his words. “Thank you!” She exclaimed, “I’ve always found that sort of thing interesting.”
A beat passes.
“Well, now that we’ve been getting to know each other a little better,” Melissa went on, “I hope you won’t mind my asking, but… where did the, um,” she motioned her hands over her eyes, and braced herself emotionally while she did, “what purpose do the- the bone growths serve?”
Immediately, the two visibly tensed. The temperature of the room seemed to cool noticeably by several degrees as the cheerful expression dropped from Sachiko’s face, and Scheherazade’s became an impassive, stony wall.
“We don’t know. We didn’t make them.”
Sachiko bit her lip, visibly wanting to speak up - but backing down after a second.
Scheherazade continued. “They are mutations. Beyond our control. Beyond, seemingly, mere genetic code. We have tried, many, many times to purge ourselves of them. But, among other things you have doubtless noticed - we have been unsuccessful.”
She looked to the two of them - and to the cameras scrolling her face to millions of people. Even though her eyes were obscured, the intensity of the expression she fixed them with could not be underestimated. “I am over three hundred years old, using earth as a measuring stick. You may wonder if this means I remember Old Earth. It has been three hundred years, or so, since humanity fled it after all.” She paused, “We thought all of you dead. Starved. Gone. Humanity reduced to nothing but ash and cinder, and us. You see - when our vessel traveled through the Gate it was… trapped? When the Gateways collapsed, our vessel was transported to… the best way to describe it would be a pocket outside of reality as we know it. Our people saw…
horrible things,
terrifying things whilst trapped there. And as best we can reckon - unless we are missing part of our own history, which is sadly very possible, we were trapped in that nightmare for approximately five hundred and seventy years.”
Sachiko took a nervous breath. “I-it was during that time that we slowly began to notice the mutations. But there was nothing we could do. So many people died then. We nearly died out several times over. War. Famine. Disease. Madness. Cloning was the only way to survive. By the time our ancestors realized mutation like this had taken hold, it was too late to do anything.”
Scheherazade nodded, her attention never turning away from the representatives across from her, as if daring them or their people to suggest there had been any other way, any other alternative. That it might be their fault.
Omar was wordless- a rare thing. He stared inwards at them for a long, long time, looking into where their eyes should be. He'd never heard a story like that; and he was a man who read many stories and many epic poems.
He said at last, "I see. I'm no scientist, so I won't pretend I could ever understand what happened to you. But I can see for myself how it has affected your people... I'm sorry."
Melissa asked, "But could the growths be removed physically? That is, surgically?" She thinks, if she had been born with such a horrible looking growth, she'd claw it out with her hands if she had to.
("Shush, Melissa," Omar tries to say softly, but the words are already out.)
Scherazade frowned. “Oh, certainly.” She said, her voice even and betraying no hint of emotion. “Surgically? Of course we can do it. But it’s an invasive and extremely painful procedure requiring extensive skin grafting, lifelong use of pain medications afterward, and numerous surgeries afterwards to prevent their regrowth. It requires subsequent neurosurgeries and intensive monitoring to disentangle the nerve endings that extend into them, and not even touching on the long term optic damage. But, certainly, it is doable! Theoretically it is doable via more refined flesh sculpting techniques as well, but resulting in many of the same drawbacks including the continuous growth of the tissue.”
She looked to Melissa, steepling her fingers as she leaned in, focusing intently on the woman. “But let me ask you a question in turn, if I may. Ultimately - this is who we are. It’s a mark of the things we have survived and triumphed over. I can hear the unspoken words in your voice. I can imagine what your people have been saying. Would you have us - four and a half billion of us - change ourselves so drastically in order to look how you think we ought to look? Would you have us change ourselves, regardless of the difficulties I have described, to make you comfortable? To fit the mold you have in mind for humanity? Is our appearance so unusual? Reflect for a moment, I ask you, and then ask yourself something, Melissa. Would you really want us to be something different, to change who we are, because you don’t like how we look?"
Scheherazade drew back, watching her coolly. “The realization of the extent of the mutation caused many on board the generation ship to attempt to kill my own ancestors. They believed us a ‘contagion’. They unleashed horrific biological weapons. Gunned them down in cold blood. All because of these mutations. I ask you to consider the impact your words might have on a people who have been through so much. They want nothing more than peace with your people, to offer our aid to your people in rebuilding - but they are wary. I do not think you speak from a place of malice, but… consider.” After a moment, she added, “All of you.”
Melissa held silent for a second. Then, all at once, she blurted: "I'm sorry. I mean... I apologize."
Scheherazade nodded. “You are better than those who came before you.” She said both to Melissa and to the cameras after a moment had passed. “Even if you do not decide you wish to work with us, I thank you for hearing us out. The garden will remain open to your people either way.”
It had been difficult for Melissa to say that, more than the Ishtari could possibly realize. Omar and her both knew the history their society had with modified humans- the war on Zeta, the years of propaganda. They were both on the Meeting Place when it happened, as smaller, sub-Oligarch staff. And the people remembered it too. Another round of reactions displays itself for the two delegates, much the same as the last. Almost identical. But this time, just maybe, a few more people have sympathy.
Somewhere far beneath the surface, change is happening. One person at a time.
~~~~~~~~~~
Some time later
The Ishtari, for better or for worse, caught the attention of the media machine. Their strange appearance, the long discourse, the spectacle of a space-station garden- it all combined to make for the perfect news bait. Clips and pictures of them circled back and forth on Bezia, bouncing from infopad to screen back to infopad, from one person to another, again and again. Scheherazade's speech gained special attention. So did the knowledge of a fellow direct democracy, outside Zeta.
Arguments were had. Opinions were aired. The whole subject was talked
ad nauseam. Then the vote came round.
Omar breathed a deep, shuddering breath when he opened his infopad to check the results, early one morning. He wanted to look at it before he even stood out of bed.
On the matter of pursuing positive relations with the Commonality of New Ishtar...
Votes In favor: 64%
Votes Opposed: 36%
The Proposal passes. The White Flower Democracy will open its borders to Ishtari, begin sharing information with their Commonality, and dispatch an official representative to serve at an embassy in their segment of the Meeting Place. They will take opportunities to grow a working relationship. Omar hummed happily to himself, and decided he can afford another hour's sleep.
