Chapter 4 - Sun’s Corpse
Sun’s Corpse
Much to Tanisira’s disconcertment, I don’t immediately want to go back to the cabin after I climb out of the water; it’s almost like she can’t fathom why I don’t want to hurry back to my cell.
But I am taken aback when she doesn’t try to cut my time short, instead sitting beside me in the makeshift meadow and even going so far as to close her eyes.
Maybe that’s an insult to my prowess, but I refuse to dwell on it.
Given the opportunity, I pick her apart instead.
Without rigid control over her expression, there are signs that Tanisira might be around the same age as me, maybe early thirties.
She doesn’t have the laughter lines I do, the crinkle in the corner of the eyes.
Does she never laugh? Does she have reasons to laugh?
I wonder what caused the slit in her eyebrow; it’s a deep furrow, scarred like an old wound.
Her hair, which is thick and dark, is pulled back into the tightest chignon I’ve ever seen.
It’s a wonder she hasn’t scalped herself.
But there, just above her ear, is an errant curl trying to make a break for it.
It’s looser than mine and I imagine, without so much product in it, it’d probably be more of a wave than a kink.
I don’t know why that single curl steals so much of my attention.
The fingers of my uninjured hand twitch.
In this stillness, with a tilt of my head, I can finally examine the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. It stretches up to reach the middle of her forearm, portraying a scene of immense depth and length.
It looks like... a canyon of some sort. Winding, layered lines resembling sheer cliffs, jagged edges and valleys.
The design manages to fit deep grooves and contour lines in such a small surface area.
It looks almost three-dimensional. Along with artful shading, it comes across as vast and stunning.
“It’s the Great Rift,” Tanisira says, making me jump. Her tone conveys the importance of the setting.
“Those are the canyons, right?”
She nods. “The Valles Marineris canyon system. You can see why we call it the Great Rift.”
The tattoo is etched into her skin like I imagine the canyon itself was carved into Mars.
She further surprises me by extending her arm so I can see it up close.
I then notice that there’s something off about the image.
Or, not off but concealed. Small symbols, so well incorporated into the landscape that I can barely pick them out.
I’m stroking a finger over her skin before I realise I’m doing it—warm and soft and scarred.
She flinches and it makes me jump. But her arm stays rock steady, my fingertip still pressed to her pulse.
“You can see them, can’t you?”
I nod, snatching my hand back.
“Smaravethra,” she says. The word is beautiful in her mouth. I don’t even attempt to emulate her, knowing that I’ll butcher it. “It’s something like a... the rough translation would be ‘memory thread’. They’re milestones, markers, that can represent family roots, dates or places of importance.”
“They’re symbols?”
She tilts her chin slightly. If I was expecting her to expand on one of the most thoughtful concepts I’ve ever heard, I end up sorely disappointed.
She doesn’t, which is fine. Something like that would be deeply personal and not a little bit revealing.
I want to trace the tattoo again; I have a profound appreciation for the art, and I’ve never seen anything like this.
“‘The woven fabric of a person’s life journey’,” I muse, recalling something I’d read.
Blink and I’d have missed the spark in her eyes. It’s interesting that she has something so personal etched into her skin, implying sentimentality, but her cabin lacks any sign of her.
We lapse back into silence.
Telluria still suffers from the ravages of climate change and Neo-London is a hybrid of genetically engineered plant life, hydroponic gardens and dome farms. Flora isn’t easy to get access to these days and the opportunity to bask in all this beauty is too good to pass up.
I let the silence stand, not wanting to annoy Tanisira and end up back in the cabin.
“Mierda.” The captain frowns down at her slate. Shit.
Surya-Vaani is so fascinating to me because you can still see all its influences in its daily use, and I think it’s incredible. My mother’s hobby was reading, mine has always been language. Whilst I’m fluent in a few Terra-Tongues, and that helps, I’m not quite there with Surya-Vaani.
“Have I got to go back?” I ask.
When she eventually looks up, I could almost swear I glimpse guilt. But she just nods and escorts me back. This time I don’t talk, taking note of what we pass, and what we don’t. Namely: any people. The ship is big but surely we should have seen someone.
Tanisira lets me into the cabin, and I expect her to follow me in, to make sure that I’m secured away. Like luggage.
“Sorry to cut your time short.”
I have the strong urge to reply that it’s fine, and I have to stop myself because this is not fine. I was raised entirely too English.
I sigh and toe off the boots. I hadn’t bothered to lace them back up; they were dangerous on me either way, so what was the point? “May I please have something to eat?” And just like my parents, I get more polite the more I want to tell someone to fuck off.
As the words leave my mouth, she opens the door and a cart rolls in. I raise an eyebrow.
“I ordered it on the walk back.”
There are freshly baked pastries, mini boxes of dry cereals, a jug of milk and a bowl of what might be porridge.
Then there are three—three!— mugs of steaming drinks.
I recognise the smell of coffee, but I don’t know for sure what the other two are.
All the combined aromas battle for attention.
My other eyebrow joins the first as my stomach rumbles.
And I swear to all that is cosmic, the captain flushes a little.
She isn’t making eye contact with me, but she pulls at her rolled-up sleeves until they cover her wrists completely—and I know a nervous tic when I see one.
She clears her throat. “I didn’t know if you’d want to try some more Suryavan cuisine. You seemed to enjoy the aakas maki.”
I’m floored. “That’s...very kind. Shukran.” Thank you.
By now, she’s gathered herself with the kind of iron control that I can only dream of achieving.
I’ve been accused of many things, but nonchalance is not one of them.
It’s disappointing now that I’ve seen her look almost sheepish, maybe even shy.
Weird to say considering she’s something like 5’11” and has a quiet kind of strength that doesn’t fool me at all. Silence can be menacing.
Her response is automatic, sweet and quiet. “Swagat akana.” You’re welcome.
A moment passes where we just look at each other.
I tilt my head towards the cart, smile softly as I touch a fingertip to the bowl.
It contains a thick, pinkish liquid sprinkled with dried mango.
But there’s also something pale, almost translucent, scattered on the top beneath what might be a drizzle of honey.
All in all, it looks fascinating, and I have no idea what it is.
“Eya ta var?” What is this?
At first, I thought I had imagined it, but now I’m certain that every time I speak her language, something like pleasure blooms in the captain’s face, if only for a second. She won’t let it take root, but she can’t quite keep it away. I wonder if she’s homesick.
“Sorry,” she says, startling me out of my thoughts.
“I didn’t want to assume. After all, you recognised the maki aakas.
That is labouyl ua, made using Suryavan grains—hence the slightly pink colour even post-processing.
It’s not very sweet, so the fruit and the honey should balance it out.
I know the Tellurians seem to have some kind of complex about that. The flowers—”
“Hold on.” I hold up a hand, unable to help myself. “A complex about that?”
“Yes, a complex. You put sugar in everything. Everything must be artificially sweetened. It’s no wonder sukra malady is so rife.” Diabetes.
She looks so miffed by this, and I can’t help but burst into laughter.
Of all the things that could disrupt her careful facade.
I end up laughing so hard that I cry, the combination of her creased forehead and disapproving frown sending me right off the edge.
And eventually—it takes me ages to compose myself—Tanisira can’t hide the tiny smile on her lips.
Her arms are folded, but there’s a glint in her eye that wasn’t there before.
If I hadn’t been studying her so intently all morning, I’d have missed it.
I don’t think she even knows she’s doing it.
“Suryavans don’t have such a sweet tooth,” she grumbles.
Wiping away the tears, I nod serenely. “You must save a fortune in dentist bills.”
That doesn’t amuse her. Is it because it’s true or because she just didn’t think it was funny? To be fair, Vee always groans at my jokes, but I think I’m hilarious.
I swipe a finger through the labouyl and pop it into my mouth.
It’s not like anything I’ve ever tasted before.
Unlike the porridge I’ve had back home, it’s almost gritty, and it has a sort of tart aftertaste.
It’s nice, though probably an acquired taste, and definitely in need of sweetening.
Tanisira watches me, expression unreadable again.
“And the flowers?” I prompt.
“Lunar lotus. Genetically engineered, not technically Suryavan, but we use them in a lot of ways.”
I pick one up by the petal and pop it in my mouth. My eyes widen as it melts on my tongue like a wafer. Now that is sweet. “Hmm.” I point at my mouth, nodding my approval. “Ladha.” Delicious.
Her mouth parts on a word, but she doesn’t say anything. She tries again, this time saying, “Who taught you Suryā-Vānī?”