"Of course," he continued, "the glass kids were next to undamageable, so the skin wasn't used once the first generation died; but a few hundred years ago, some wise man from this town—"
"The Prophet!" one of the Morlocks shouted. For a moment I thought she sounded angry, but then she raised her drink and chugged it in a toast.
"Yes, the Prophet," Tobit agreed, then turned my way, rolled his eyes, and mouthed the word whacko. "The Prophet," he said, "received a revelation that the Morlocks should return to the ways of their ancestors: hunting animals and living off the land." He lowered his voice. "Once every few years anyway — most of the time they just sponge off the food dispensers like everyone else."
Raising his voice, Tobit went on, "The Prophet also had an insight about the ideal state of the human body: covered with skin like the first generation. Skin good, glass sinful. You see, Ramos, being invulnerable and immune to disease is ignoble. Far better to suffer and bleed and get bitten by insects…"
I tried to silence him with a sharp look. The Morlocks were drunk, but they still might recognize sarcasm… and I could guess their reaction if someone mocked their prophet.
"Sure, okay," Tobit said grudgingly. "The point is, the Prophet found the synthesizer that could make artificial skin; and he devised a scheme for bestowing skin on Morlocks who deserved it. Like merit badges. You get skin for your face at birth — that's a freebie — then on your crotch when you pass puberty rituals, on your chest for killing a buffalo, on your hands if you kill a mountain lion… that sort of thing. And if you are worthy and brave, eventually you get to look like…" Tobit did a mock curtsy. "Me. Skin from head to toe. I'm their fucking ideal."
"They are fools," Oar said.
A male Morlock tried to struggle to his feet, but Tobit waved him down. "Stay! Sit!" The Morlock slumped again. "You see what having skin means?" Tobit smirked at me. "I have clout. I'm fucking elevated. And that means I can bestow certain honors on my friends."
He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a hand-sized scrap of brown tissue: thin and limp, like a cloth bandage.
"Skin, Ramos," he said. "Do you think this chunk is big enough to cover that splotch on your face?"
Part XIV
TRANSITION
Camouflage
For a moment, my mind went blank. I wish I could say I wanted to hit him, kick that stupid grin off his face; but I was too stunned even for anger. The limp flap of skin lay in his dirty glove like a rag of brown linen… and he thought I should put that on my face?
"I can see you're pleased," he said. "And I promise, it's everything you hope for. Self-adhesive… porous to let sweat out and air in… even designed to adapt to your skin color like a chameleon."
"My…" I swallowed hard. "Yes, Phylar, that's just what I want. A scrap of synthetic I can put on my cheek and watch turn purple. The height of entertainment."
"Ramos, the League designed this stuff to hide crap like that shit on your face. Hiding is what Melaquin's all about. Let me tell you, I had one fuck of a lousy scar as a memento from an old exploration mission. Now it looks as smooth as a baby's bottom." His voice was loud with booze, and he must have realized it. In a softer voice he said, "Listen, Festina — maybe it'll work, maybe it won't. Who knows how the skin will respond to your… condition. But when I use it to cover a bruise, it doesn't turn the color of the bruise. And I'll tell you a secret: I put some of this fake skin on my nose. It hides the…"
He waved his hands vaguely — too squeamish, I suppose, to say that his nose had once been the ravaged red of a drunkard, florid with prominent blood vessels. Now that I looked, Tobit's nose was a healthier color than at the Academy: smooth, not pitted or flushed. It was still unnaturally bulbous, but the skin itself looked… good.
"See?" he said, proudly turning his head to show off his physiognomy. "Maybe the skin can help you too."
He pushed the pathetic brown tissue toward me. I didn't take it.
"What's wrong?" he demanded. "You aren't the sort of woman who uses her face as an excuse, are you? The kind who blames every little problem on an accident of birth, and won't try to fix things for fear it might work. You can't be worried that without the birthmark, you won't have reason to bitch and moan—"
"One more word," I told him, "and the skin I take off you won't be that piece in your hand."
The Morlocks roused themselves stewishly and made a show of brandishing their spears. Their attempt to look threatening was pathetic. I felt like showing what a tiger-claw strike could do to someone's face, fake skin or no. But Oar put her hand lightly on my arm, and said, "Do not be foolish, Festina. This man says you can be less ugly. It would be better if you were less ugly. People would not feel so sad when they look at you."
"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?