Expendable - James Alan Gardner [87]
“Do you feel sad when you look at me, Oar?”
“I am not such a person as cares how others look,” she answered. “But there may be people who see you and feel like crying, because it is wrong for the only nice Explorer to look so damaged.”
Ouch.
Ouch.
“All right,” I said, holding out my hand to Tobit. “Give me the skin.”
Shading
It felt like a scrap of silk stocking—a mesh so fine and smooth, I wanted to stroke it with my fingers. The color was close to my own skin already: a shade darker, that was all. Even if it stayed the same color when I put it on, I could have a whole face; I’d just have to darken the rest of my skin with a modest amount of makeup.
That assumed the skin didn’t turn magenta to duplicate my birthmark.
“How fast does it change color?” I asked, not looking at Tobit.
“About an hour.”
“I’ll see you in an hour,” I said, and left the room.
Punch Gently
Oar trotted at my heels. I didn’t really want company, but it was safer this way—if the Morlocks turned belligerent with liquor, she’d be in trouble on her own.
Once we had left the building, I set a fast pace across the plaza toward the outskirts of the town. “Where are we going?” Oar asked.
“To find a mirror.” As if I needed one, surrounded by so much glass; if necessary, I could put on the patch using my slight reflection in Oar’s own body. But I wanted to put distance between me and Tobit, to leave his leers behind. If this worked, his smugness would be obnoxious; but if I didn’t even try, he’d be utterly unbearable.
If I didn’t even try….
Listen. My stomach had the same nervous flutters as the night I decided to lose my virginity: balancing on a razor’s edge of desire and fear. I wanted to see myself whole. I yearned for that. Yet I was afraid of being disappointed, and even worse, of being changed. My life sometimes felt like a war to hold on to what I was; to remain me. I was terrified of turning into something different—of losing my definition.
It sounds childish. It sounds glib. I only have words to describe the superficial issues. Even to myself, I can’t express the depths of my fear. Nor can I express the depths of my longing. You’d think it would be easy to explain why I wanted to cure my disfigurement; that’s obvious, yes? Obvious why I’d want to look like Prope and Harque and everyone else whose glances of fascinated revulsion had humiliated me all my life. Why should I feel ashamed of wanting to look like them?
And Jelca…pathetic to think of him at a time like this, but how would he react? Would he be delighted to find a real, unblemished woman on Melaquin? Or would he regard me the way Explorers always regarded the unflawed: as shallow and vain, pretty objects but unworthy of deep attention.
“You look sad,” Oar said. “Why are you sad, Festina?”
“Because I’m foolish,” I replied. “Very foolish. I want to be me, but I also want to be some other woman I’m afraid I won’t like.”
“That is foolish,” Oar agreed. “If you turn into an unlikable woman, I will punch you in the nose; then you will know you have to turn back into my friend.”
Laughing, I kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks. But punch gently, okay? My face has enough trouble without a broken nose.”
In Front of the Mirror
We found a blockhouse, much like the one where Jelca had made his home in Oar’s village—the same layout anyway, but without the clutter of cannibalized electronics. The bathroom had a mirror. After asking Oar to wait outside, I stared at my reflection.
Memorizing a face I’d often wanted to forget.
“This may not work,” I said.
“I can always take it off,” I said.
“This patch may be too small,” I said.
It was big enough. In fact, it needed some trimming. I used the scalpel from the medical kit, but