CHAPTER 9 #2
Zarek’s filing system is about as organized as Jo’s closet.
At first it seemed like information was sorted by era, then sub-species, then topic.
But within those nested topics—organized not by folders, but by strings of information I have no hope of untangling, despite Zarek’s patient explanations—we found quite the mess.
Notes in incorrect places. Entire volumes of data on weasels translated into English, which Zarek said he did not remember downloading.
Thousands of hand-written notes in Terilian that Zarek has to read for a few minutes before letting me know they do not apply to our query.
My eyes are growing heavy. It was hard to stay awake as the sun faded over the horizon. But now, the morning is dawning weakly outside our window, and I’m barely conscious.
Zarek seems to be fading quickly too, his chin dropped into his hand as he blinks slowly at the screen before turning it back toward me.
“Here,” he grumbles, yawning widely. “English.”
My vision blurs as I try to form the words into letters in front of me, but it’s no use. I rub the heels of my palms into my eyes, bright stars exploding in the darkness.
“Why are you looking for this, anyway?”
Zarek’s voice is still sleepy, but genuinely curious. When I blink open my eyes, he’s looking at me with a sort of familiarity, like he recognizes the need for knowledge, but wants to hear my why all the same.
“What do you mean? It’s just…I don’t know. It’s like your flower. It’s just something I want to know.”
That doesn’t feel sufficient, but my brain is working too slowly to come up with a better explanation. But Zarek is shaking his head, his chin still planted in his palm, elbow on the table.
“There’s a practical reason I need the edelweiss,” he argues, and I don’t have time to ask more about that before he’s continuing.
“But you can’t publish this knowledge. Can’t use it in your own research, can’t even share it with your colleagues.
Why is the formation of human language so important to you? ”
The question settles in my chest uncomfortably, and I shift under Zarek’s genuine but insistent gaze. And maybe it’s because of how absolutely exhausted I am, or maybe this alien blue light is bad for my brain, but the words spill out on their own accord.
“I don’t know, I guess it feels so intrinsically human.
No matter where or when you’re born, as long as you have community, you have language.
And it took a confluence of a million little evolutionary drivers to get us to this point, where all humans develop some kind of language to communicate. It’s unifying.”
I let my eyes close for a moment, feeling the sensation of Zarek’s eyes on my face acutely. But it doesn’t feel invasive. In fact, being observed has never felt so freeing.
“So even when I feel like I’m nothing like my colleagues, or when I have a hard time making friends, or when every date I go on ends up a disaster, I know that I share something with all humans. Even though sometimes I feel so different from everyone around me, I wonder if I’m human at all.”
I don’t even remember laying my head down on my arms, crossed on the table. But I think, as I drift off to sleep, I hear Zarek say something about humanity.
I wake up to an extraordinary crick in my neck, the glare of an overhead light I didn’t even know existed in our cabin, and a very insistent knock on our cabin door.
“Monsieur et Madame Benshoof, you must please evacuate the train, it is an emergency,” the voice on the other side of the door calls out rather frantically.
My brain finally catches up to my surroundings, and I jump out of my chair, pushing my hair out of my eyes.
“S’il vous pla?t, I do not want to have to enter your cabin. ”
“No, sorry, please don’t come in,” I reply, smacking Zarek on the shoulder multiple times. He’s leaning back in his chair, his mouth barely cracked open in sleep. I shove him hard, and he nearly falls to the floor before startling awake.
As I shove my clothes and toiletries into my bag, a smooth recording plays over the announcement system, first in French and then in English.
We are experiencing mechanical difficulties that require everyone to depart the train for emergency repairs.
Vouchers for hotels and dining will be provided as you disembark.
We apologize for any inconvenience and hope you enjoy your impromptu adventure in Limoges.
“What is happening?” Zarek groans, dragging his hands down his face. His blue hands down his blue fucking face.
“Get your disguise back on, Derek,” I say under my breath, scrambling to repack my items. “Contacts. Computer away. We have to leave the train.”
“What?” he asks again, and all my friendly feelings from yesterday have been wiped away by my frustration at him just sitting there.
“Emergency. Go. Now.” My tone brokers no argument, and finally Zarek seems to get the hint.
Still too slowly for my liking, he gathers the clothing we bought in Paris into the paper bag, which I’m now glad we kept.
He shuts down his device and hands it over to me, and I slip it into my satchel as I lean over to grab my phone and charger from near the bed.
“No time for the contacts,” I say, handing my sunglasses back to him as the rest of his disguise filters into place. He looks almost relieved, and I’m grateful for the bright sun filtering through the drapes to make the fashion choice reasonable. “You can put them in later.”
“How long are we going to be delayed?” he asks, following me as I slide our compartment door open and join the sea of bodies flowing into the hallways.
“Do I look like a fucking train mechanic? We’ll get more information from the staff once we get out of here,” I huff.
And for some reason, the idea of extending our trip doesn’t sound so terrible.
Until…
“Two days?” I repeat the train attendant, my jaw dramatically dropped. A few of the other passengers turn our way, probably rolling their eyes at my accent, but I can’t help it.
“We understand it is…inconvenience,” the attendant explains, quite a bit more nicely than I deserve. “But we will be providing vouchers for a hotel, and there are plenty of opportunities for aventures!”
Alright, the enthusiasm is a little much.
“What can we do to help?” Zarek murmurs as we walk away from the crowd around the attendant, voucher clutched in my hand.
“We can’t help with anything,” I huff, more annoyed at the situation—and worried about when I’m going to get a text from my research team that I need to be back—than anything else.
Zarek’s enthusiasm, surprisingly, is far less grating than the train attendant’s.
“I’m an archaeologist, and you’re an archivist with a passion for fucking botany.
So unless you’re about to tell me you have specialized training in mechanical engineering, we’re going to find something to do before we can check into the hotel. ”
“At least we broke down close to a station?” Zarek offers, the optimism sounding forced as we walk the few blocks toward the building.
I crane my neck up to stare at the Limoges train station, a castle-like structure with large windows and a tall clock tower displaying the time—ten thirty-eight a.m. Fellow train patrons walk closely behind us, occasionally stopping to hail taxis or hop on buses.
I turn my head over my shoulder to glare at Zarek, but his expression is so earnest, I can’t really be mad for long. Usually I hate overly-sincere people, but Zarek doesn’t have the knowledge on human social interactions to be doing it out of anything but true hopefulness.
I shoulder through the door of the station and track the signs around us, now mostly in French with sparse English, until I see Hommes in bright white paint over a doorway.
“Bathroom is over there, go put your contacts in,” I direct, rustling through my bag to find a pair.
“On it,” he replies, raising his hand to his forehead in a salute.
“How did…” I stutter, refusing to drop the contacts into his other outstretched hand. “You were doing a different hand symbol before. When did you learn a salute?”
Zarek plucks the plastic casing from my hand.
“I sleep less than you, and I have been studying up on American behavior,” he says, his lips twitching with amusement. “I am Derek Benshoof, the American. Where can we find an iced coffee? I miss air conditioning.”
“Shut up, E.T.,” I groan, fighting my own laughter at his little act. “Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face and go put in your eyeball death traps.”
“E.T.?” he asks, his grin faltering, which is almost as endearing as the whole American schtick.
“The movie? Extraterrestrial?” I say, getting nothing but a blank stare from Zarek. “Forget it. Go fix your eyes now, please,” I whisper-shout, shoving him in the direction of the bathroom.