civilization is? How the Universe would be better without us?”
“I find her view rather uneducated as she left civilization before she had the chance to truly experience it.”
“Well, she had lived in a crime-filled neighborhood for much of her life. Guess she just grew tired of it.”
“Yes, but,” and the android pauses, “I would find her poetry more credible had she explored first.”
“Why?”
“Because her poetry has truth to it,” the android answers, “I am an attendant on a Starline. I have seen such…atrocities of civilization as she describes it. That does mean, however, that that is all civilization has to offer. I do not think she had seen enough to realize it.”
Myrha sits up in bed, as if that will help her make sense of the situation. Is this normal talk for an android? Ruminations on the validity of perspectives and poetry? Thoughts about the good and bad of civilization?
It’s fascinating, because Lynne doesn’t really have a home; she’s a wanderer, a traveler, someone who’s been to all sorts of places Myrha has only heard about. Lynne’s seen the galaxy, while Myrha’s never left the city of her birth (until now, that is). She wonders if that affects the validity of her own poetry, and finds herself annoyed that maybe the android would say that is true.
“But couldn’t you say that Dellylee’s community was simply a microcosm of the Universe? She wouldn’t have to travel to experience the different shades of civilization.”
“I was referring to her limited emotional experience. She willingly closed herself off to further discovery; she did not care to look for the good in civilization. She focused primarily on negative emotions and events.”
“Maybe she looked, and didn’t find any.”
And she can’t believe she’s defending Delly-fucking-lee, but it’s fun to argue.
“She lived in one house her entire live, and when she had the chance to leave, she hid away on faraway, abandoned planet. If she had visited other inhabited planets, perhaps her perspective would have broadened. Instead, she shut herself off from any such possibility, concluding that such good must not exist. That attitude, in my opinion, is rather unenlightened.”
And if an android, a machine, could find and judge such ‘good’ and ‘bad’ in civilization, then perhaps Dellylee could have as well.
“Yeah, I don’t care for Dellylee myself,” Myrha says, “I prefer Turobeck.”
There is a brief silence, and then a quiet, “So do I.”
Myrha’s breath gets lodged in her throat, but before she can squeal in delight over finding another Turobeck fan, the android’s small whirring and clicking noises desist and the room goes quiet and she realizes Lynne fell asleep. Went into hibernation. Whatever.
She huffs and lies back in her sheets. Well, at least she found herself a roommate who has good taste in poetry.
The next day, there’s no message from Orion Starlines. The captain commandeers the interstellar utiphone and tries sending out a message himself. It sort of works. Maybe. Myrha’s utiphone does not have interstellar capabilities (because, whoa, talk about expensive), so she can’t test out any communication for herself. Zel will be disappointed she can’t send her any pictures, but it’s not like there’s anything out here to take pictures of anyway.
She lets the captain fuss over the utiphone and decides if she’s going to be here for a while, she might as well enjoy the beach. From her beach chair, she watches the porn-reading man from the shuttle scurry into the wilderness, looking as if he’s going to camp out there. His utiphone flickers with a screen, though Myrha’s too far away to be able to tell what might be on it.
She leaves the ‘communing with nature’ to him, and decides she’s really glad she saved the alcohol from last night for today. It’s weak and kind of tastes like grass; she wonders if it came from a shipment from Earth or if it was made locally. Then she decides it doesn’t matter because it’s still gross, but at least it makes her head spin. It helps make her vacation bearable.
The light from the too close, too hot sun is suddenly blocked and she looks up, blinking, at the large umbrella over her. It’s like most umbrellas: large, curved and hovering too close to her head. It also plays soft music. This one is programmed to play club music from Soodrad, which basically consists of very slow whistling (there are three dominant species on Soodrad; all of them have eight mouths).
She’s honestly never heard anything more annoying.
Myrha’s contacts quickly change to accommodate the sudden shade, and the android takes the beach chair next to her.
“Um, thanks,” Myrha says.
“You skin needs protection from the sun.”
“Right. Yeah. Where’d you find the umbrella?”
“In your travel kit.”
Oh. She had one in her kit? Mom must have slipped it in there. She loves whistle music.
“You went through my things?”
“I simply thought you had forgotten it.”
Uh-huh. Sure.
“Yeah, well, if anything’s missing I’ll blame you.”
“Why would something be missing?”
“You might have stolen it!”
“Why would I steal any of your things?”
Myrha has no idea and so she merely offers a drink to the android. Then remembers she can’t drink.
“It’s hard to make social overtures with you,” Myrha laments.
“I have derived that you make many of your social overtures using alcohol, sex and meaningless accusations.”
“Yeah, generally. Too bad none of those overtures go very far with an android.”
After a brief pause, Lynne suggests, “We could discuss poetry.”
That’s not something Myrha usually does, but she’s a little bit in love with Turobeck and poetry, so she decides to go for it.
“So. Turobeck. What’s your favorite poem?” she asks.
“‘Star-Fever’,” is her answer.
“What? Huh. No way. That’s my favorite!”
And it’s just weird that she and a very advanced machine would have the same favorite poem.
“Why is it your favorite?” Lynne asks politely, as if she’s following some sort of social-interaction-manual.
“I love his passion, his longing. His desire for something new…that’s something I can relate too.”
Lynne nods, but doesn’t offer any insights.
Instead, she says, “Did you know that this is one of the planets Turobeck could have crash-landed on?”
And that’s so different from their previous, very standard questions about favorite poems that Myrha’s brain needs a few moments to catch up. Lynne takes that time to continue talking.
“Lieval was one of the planets near the coordinates of his last transmission.”
Her drink is forgotten, and her brain just sort of blooms with the possibilities, sort of burns with this new knowledge. Turobeck disappeared eighty years ago, and the rumors of his death are numerous. His ship could have had a technical malfunction, and he died in some meaningless patch of space; he tried to explore a new solar system, but something went wrong and he crashed instead; he turned into Dellylee, and decided to hide away from civilization forever.
“Wow. That’s. Wow.”
Lynne nods as if agreeing with her assessment, “Yes. It is just a hypothesis of course. Almost twenty years after his disappearance, a private Earth-based company set up research facilities here. Within in one year, it was closed down and the planet was condemned.”
“Yeah, for fifty years until recently when it was deemed safe, right?”
“Yes. Revitalization efforts were scare, however, as the planet isn’t regarded highly, even if it is safe for human occupation now.”
“So it’s just this lone little hotel.”
“And refueling station. It is a good stopover for freight shuttles. I assume that is how the owners get their shipments of food and equipment.”
“Great. But about Turobeck: hasn?
??t anyone found evidence of his crash?”
“Apparently not. The research company that was here made no claims about finding anything.”
“Well, it’s a good story anyway.”
Lynne nods again.
It seems it’s such a good story, that when Myrha goes in to try to find something to eat, Bartin regales her with the tale as well. He leads her to the vends, chattering like she’s an old best friend and not his irate customer.
“And here are the food facilities,” he welcomes her with a flourish.
It’s a small room down the main hall from the lobby; there are some seats and a few vends. She walks up to one of the machines, grimaces at the lack of variety, and concocts a meal on the screen. Bartin leads her to a seat with exaggerated grace, and she bites back the urge to remind him that they are in a small, smelly vend-machine-room and not in a classy restaurant. He’s probably doing it just to annoy her.
He sits down with her as she waits for her meal and folds his hands before him, smiling at her as if he’s willing to put all unpleasantness aside.
Myha ticks an eyebrow at him in suspicion.
“So, Myrha,” he says, “when did your love of poetry begin?”
Bartin may be a fan of Turobeck, but she’s not willing to discuss the depths of her passion for poetry with this man.
“Why do you ask?” she says, as if bored.
He twiddles his thumbs, “Well, you’re here because of your poetry. Clearly I’m a lover of poetry as well, since I hosted the contest. And I’m sure you recognize where the name of this place came from.”
“Is that your favorite poem of his?”
“‘Starry Resting Place’? Well, I suppose it is. This hotel was supposed