ties with the Chinese anymore, and I don’t know anything about or from that alien ship. I was just living quietly, under an alias, and then they broke in to my apartment in the middle of the night and cuffed me and brought me here.”
“Why don’t you contact General Chou?” I said cruelly.
Kyra only looked at me with such despair that I despised her. She was, had always been, a sentimentalist. I remembered how she’d actually thought that military monster loved her.
“Tell me what happened since 2018,” I said, and watched her seize on this with desperate hope.
“After your news story came out and-I’m sorry, Amy, I…”
“Don’t,” I said harshly, and she knew enough to stop.
“I left Chun’fu, or rather he threw me out. It hit me hard, although I guess I was pretty much a fool not to think he’d react that way, not to anticipate-” She looked away, old pain fresh on her face. I thought that “fool” didn’t begin to cover it.
“Anyway, I had some old friends who helped me. Most people wanted nothing to do with me, but a few loyal ones got me a new identity and a job on a lobster farm on Cape Cod. You know, I liked it. I’d forgotten how good it can feel to work outdoors. It was different from my father’s dairy farm, of course, but the wind and the rain and the sea…” She trailed off, remembering things I’d never seen.
“I met a lobster farmer named Daniel and we lived together. I never told him my real name. We had a daughter, Jane…”
I thought I’d seen pain on her face before. I’d been wrong.
I said, and it came out gentle, “Where are Daniel and Jane now?”
“Dead. A bio-virus attack. I didn’t think I could go on after that, but of course I did. People do. Are you married, Amy?”
“Yes. I hate him.” I hadn’t planned on saying that. Something in her pain drew out my own. Kyra didn’t look shocked.
“Kids?”
“Three wonderful ones. Five-year-old twins and a six-month-old.”
She leaned forward, like a plant hungry for sun. “What are their names?”
“Lucy. Lem. Robin. Kyra… how do you think I can help you?”
“Write about me. You’re a journalist.”
“No, I’m not. You ended my career.” Did Kyra really not know that?
“Then call a press conference. Send data to the news outlets. Write letters to Congress. Just don’t let me rot here indefinitely because they don’t know what to do with me!”
She really had no idea how things worked. Still an innocent. I wasn’t ready yet to tell her that all her anguish was silly. Instead I said, “Did the aliens communicate with you from their ship in some way?”
“Of course not!”
“The ship left, you know.”
From her face, it was clear she didn’t know. “They left?”
“Two weeks ago. Came no closer than the moon. If we had any sort of decent space program left, if anyone did, we might have tried to contact them. But they just observed us, or whatever, from that distance, then took off again.”
“Fuck them to bloody hell! I wish we had shot them down!”
She had surprised me, with both the language-Kyra had always been a bit prissy, despite her sexual adventures-and the hatred. My surprise must have shown on my face.
“Amy,” Kyra said, “they ruined my life. Without that abduction-” the word didn’t really seem appropriate-“when I was ten, my parents would never have divorced. I wouldn’t have been an outcast in school. I never would have met Chou, or behaved like… and I certainly wouldn’t be in this fucking prison now! They came here to ruin my life and they succeeded!”
“You take no responsibility for anything,” I said evenly.
Kyra glared at me. “Don’t you dare judge me, Amy. You with your beautiful living children and your life free of any suspicion that you’re somehow deformed and dangerous because of a few childhood hours you can’t even remember-”
“ ‘Can’t remember’? What about the helmet and the flickering images and the observing aliens? Did you make those all up, Kyra?”
Enraged, she lunged forward to slap me. There was nothing there, of course. We were only virtually together. I stood to leave my half of the farce.
“Please, Amy… please! Say you’ll help me!”
“You’re a fool, Kyra. You learn nothing. Do you think the prison officials would be letting you have this ‘meeting’ with me if they were going to keep you here hidden away for good? Do you think you’d even have been permitted to send me e-mail? You’re as good as out already. And when you are, try this time to behave as if you weren’t still ten years old.”
We parted in contempt and anger. I hoped to never see or hear from her again.
The next time the aliens returned, they landed.
I was at JungleTime Playland with my granddaughter, Lehani. She loved JungleTime Playland. I was amused by it; in the long, long rebuilding after the war, V-R had finally reached the commercial level that Robin and Lucy and Lem, Lehani’s father, had also played in. Of course, government applications of V-R and holo and AI were another matter, but I had nothing to do with those. I led a very small, contented life.
“I go Yung Lan,’ ” Lehani said, looking up at me with the shining, wholehearted hope of the young on her small face. Every wish granted is paradise, every wish crushed is eternal disappointment.
“Yes, you can go into JungleLand, but we have to wait our turn, dear heart.”
So she stood in line beside me, hopping from foot to foot, holding my hand. Nobody ever told me grandmotherhood was going to be this sweet.
When we finally reached the head of the line, I registered her, put the tag on her neck that would keep me informed of her every move as well as the most minute changes in her skin conductivity. If she got scared or inattentive, I would know it. No adults are allowed in Jungle Playland; that would spoil the thrill. Lehani grinned and ran through the virtual curtain. I accepted the map tuned to her tag and sat at a table in the lobby, surrounded by lines of older children registering for the other V-R playlands.
Sipping tea, I was checking my e-mail when the big lobby screen abruptly came on.
“News! News! An alien ship has been sighted moving toward Earth. Government sources say it resembles the ship that landed in Minnesota in 2002 and traveled as far as lunar orbit in 2027 but so far no-”
People erupted all around me. Buzzing, signaling for their children, and, in the case of one stupid woman, pointless shrieking. Under cover of the noise I comlinked Central, before the site was hopelessly jammed.
“Library,” I keyed in. “Public Records, State of Maine. Data search.”
“Search ready,” the tiny screen said.
“Death certificate, first name Daniel, same date as death certificate, first name Jane, years 2020 through 2026.”
“Searching.”
Children began to pour out of the playlands, most resentful at having their V-R time interrupted. Kyra had never told me Daniel’s last name. Nor did I have any idea what name she was using now. But if she simply wanted to pass unnoticed among ordinary people, his name would do, and Kyra had always been sentimental. The government, of course, would know exactly where she was, but they would know that no matter what name she used or what paper trails she falsified. Her DNA was on record. The press, too, could track her down if they decided to take the trouble. The alien landing meant they would take the trouble.
My handheld displayed, “Daniel Ethan Parmani, died June 16, 2025, age forty-two, and Jane Julia Parmani, died June 16, 2025, age three.”
“Second search. United States. Locate Kyra Parmani, ages-” What age might Kyra think she could pass for? In prison, twenty years ago, she had looked far older than she was. “Ages fifty through seventy.”
