Codrin Bălan#Castor — 2325

The sim in which Dear’s house squatted low, that short-grass prairie filled with buffalo grass and dotted with yucca and hardy dandelions, ran to the horizons in ceaseless waves, and often, when eir mind was too tangled up in itself to get anything done, Codrin would hunt those horizons.

When ey had first moved in years ago, ey had asked Dear what else was on the prairie, and it had laughed. “I do not know.”

“Did Serene not leave you a map?”

It shook its head again and had repeated. “I do not know. She does not know. It is just a prairie that never ends. You can walk as far as you want and there will always be more prairie before you. There are no mountains on the horizon, there are no rivers or creeks, and while there are a few rock outcroppings, they are largely uninspiring.”

“So, just an empty prairie?”

“You say ‘just’, but Serene assures me that it is more complicated than that. The prairie is generated out to the horizon, and as long as you walk, it will continue to be generated out to the horizon. Only the places that we have seen are locked down, as it were, and remain after we have left.”

“That sounds like it would just continue generating prairie.”

It had shrugged at that. “All I have seen is prairie, and I have walked for days out there. Serene is no less a trickster than I, however, and I would not be surprised if there is something out there, perhaps triggered by a mood or a word.”

And so when eir mind was too tangled up in itself to get anything done, Codrin would walk and walk and walk, always with the idea at the back of eir mind that perhaps ey would stumble across a creek or a cave that ey could bring Dear out to see.

The endless prairie also provided an outlet to seek solitude.

Moving in with Dear and its partner had been decided on a whim, originally as a way to complete the project ey had undertaken, and then when their relationship began to encompass em as well, ey had found emself suddenly surrounded by those other than emself.

This had had its ups and downs. Ey did not realize that a not insubstantial portion of what ey had previously labeled boredom or listlessness had been loneliness. That feeling of becoming a part of something that required emotional investment and paid back emotional dividends had fulfilled em in a way that ey had not expected. Ey had talked about this with Ioan a year or so after ey had noticed it, and eir down-tree instance had agreed far more readily than ey had expected, saying that the Ode clade project had led to something of a sea change within em, and then reminded Codrin that ey had merged before moving in with Dear and had both perspectives within em now, solitary and social.

However, it had meant that that part of em which was built up of things solitary now required conscious intervention to satisfy. Ioan had needed to seek out the social, and now Codrin needed to seek out the solitary.

Ey needed to be away from Dear.

It wasn’t that the fox was hurting em. It was a delightful partner, kind and considerate, and it knew how to apologize when it had made a misstep. It wasn’t even particularly loud, as its partner had long ago kicked it out of the house for working on anything that would be noisy.

It was just a lot.

The first time that Codrin had stepped away from the house when Dear was being a lot, the fox had gone into a small sulk, sending Codrin a curt apology via sensorium message and not responding when Codrin said that ey’d be back in a bit. They had soothed ruffled fur over dinner. Now, when Codrin stepped out to take a break from a very intense fennec, ey would leave with a reassurance and still take comfort in the loneliness of the prairie.

Dear had been a lot today. Codrin had suggested that they do an interview together after Ioan had sent both launches — Castor and Pollux — a note asking that Codrin include the trio’s reasons for leaving as well as those ey would be interviewing.

“We already told em that our fireside stories would be the only reasons we would send.”

“Well, yes,” Codrin said. “But from the sound of it, the Pollux launch didn’t do fireside stories.”

“Then why not send that request only to Pollux?”

“There was more to the message than that, Dear. Maybe ey just wrote the same thing for both launches and sent it in one go.”

The fox had stared down into its wide mug of coffee, a series of emotions crossing its face, before nodding. “Yes, of course. I apologize, Codrin. I have been thinking about those stories since launch night, and the more I do, the less I want the actual reasons to wind up in some history book.”

Codrin had laughed, sipping eir own coffee. “I understand the impulse, believe me. I’m not even sure I know your reasons.”

“That is by design, Codrin.”

Ey could not place why that had bugged em so at the moment, but as it continued to snowball in eir mind over the next hour, picking up emotions as it went until it was an outsized lump tumbling around within em, ey had walked over to where the fox was blocking out stage diagrams of some sort, kissed it between the ears, and said that ey would be back soon.

During eir previous expeditions, ey had begun placing cairns at regularly spaced intervals with rocks pointing directions where ey had split off this way or that, so as ey walked from cairn to cairn, looking for new ways to explore, ey thought about the conversation.

“That was such a dramatic thing to say,” ey said, sorting through eir reasoning aloud. “If it simply didn’t want to talk about it, it would equivocate or tell me to fuck off. So why be so obviously sly about it?”

The rocks did not reply. Ey set down another marker stone atop the cairn and walked off into the grass perpendicular from eir trail.

“If it had told me to fuck off, I would’ve just written that in a note back to Ioan, and we would’ve had our private laugh about it. If it had equivocated, it knows that I probably would have kicked it way down the priority list and likely not bugged it again. Was it something about the stories themselves?”

The grass did not answer, only rustled and tugged at the hem of eir sarong.

“It prides itself on being deliberate, and it knows that I know that, so why did it say that in particular? Am I supposed to ask it? Am I supposed to feel curious or chagrined or envious?”

The wind only murmured to em.

Ey walked out into the grass and focused on letting the litany of questions go, counting eir steps up to one hundred, where ey paused to build a new cairn out of flat clods of dirt and stones dug up from between the tussocks of grass. The sensation of the dirt gritting against eir palms, of the way it got trapped beneath eir fingernails, anchored em to a moment in time, rather than spinning off into abstract thought.

“I won’t push it. Not yet,” ey murmured to the pile when it had reached above the thin stalks of grass. “But that does sound like an invitation, doesn’t it? That is by design. Like an invitation to play, or tease the reasons out of it.”

Ey frowned and pushed emself up to standing again. “Or maybe not.”

As ey continued to walk out into the prairie, a small portion of eir mind kept an eye out for a break in the scenery, anything other than that endless, rolling sea of grass.

The rest of eir mind, though, continued to prowl through conversations that ey had had with Dear over the last few years as the prospect of the launch became more and more real. The fox had often talked about irreversibility, about how some things that one thought of as irreversible weren’t. It had talked about having a drive to leave, and how there were some decisions that came from the head and some that came from the heart, but never what drove that drive, those decisions.

“Does it feel guilt? Or regret or something?”

Ey held onto that thought as ey walked another hundred paces to where ey would plant the next cairn. Soon enough, however many decades or centuries in the future, the prairie would be dotted with regularly spaced piles of rocks and dirt for miles spreading out from the house, and they would become as much a regular part of the landscape as the prairie itself, rather than this new thing that Codrin had introduced.

As ey worked, digging up rocks and roots, ey tried to think of what all Dear might have to feel guilty about or regret over. Ey knew that that experience with Qoheleth had come with some regret. It had mentioned more than once while Codrin worked on the story that had come out of that experience that it wished it had pushed harder to learn more before trying to pull the whole clade together.

But it had stopped talking about regrets once the project had been completed. It had been happy with that, and it had giggled and clapped its paws at the spike in reputation it had gained the newly-formed Bălan clade.

“See what a corrupting influence I have had on you?” it had said.

“I’m a ways off from having a clade listing like you, Dear.” Ey had pulled up the reputation listing for Dear, and then for the entirety of the Ode clade, and they had both marveled at the numbers.

“Well, okay, yes. But still! The Bălan clade! How delightful!”

Was it something to do with the clade? The Odists had been around long enough — what had Dear said? After Secession? 2130 something? Still almost two centuries — that there was certainly enmity between the various factions, perhaps there was some regret there.

Ey sat before the cairn so that it came up to eye level, and watched the long, slow sunset begin.

Perhaps it was regret or guilt, perhaps not. The fox had attacked the idea of leaving, of truly leaving the L₅ System and leaving no fork behind, with a ferocity that even Dear’s partner admitted was somewhat unusual, as though it had needed to leave, to escape something.

And then its story, building an ascetic cult until it had been killed by its followers. Did some of that ring true to the fox? Did it feel that it had a cult following? Did it feel as though there were some risk of being destroyed by the thing that it had built up? Did it feel like an ascetic who had taken too many liberties?

“I’m overthinking this,” ey mumbled.

All the same, eir frustration had burned itself out, and all that remained was exhaustion and worry. Ey would forever worry about Dear, seeing how brightly the fox flared, that some of the madness that it had said plagued the Odists, whether from age or from something before uploading, surely dwelt within it as well.

As the sky purpled, Codrin sighed and stood up once more, stretching and beginning the long walk home. Ey could just arrive there, but the walk felt necessary to process so many strangely-shaped thoughts.

Dear and its partner were waiting to greet em when ey returned home, each with a kiss in turn. The sun had slid fully below the endlessly distant horizon, and while ey had spent full nights out in the prairie twice during these excursions, those had been preceded by arguments (both of which had been fallout from eir newness to the concept of relationships), and since this one had not, the two had started to get concerned.

“Dinner’s ready whenever you are.”

Ey perked up and nodded, “Very ready. Sorry for staying out so long.”

Dear shook its head. “I was worried, but I always worry. Did you sort out whatever needed sorting out?”

“Mm, halfway, perhaps?” Ey nodded toward the table, where the settings had been placed. Ey smelled the tang of sauerkraut, the smokiness of paprika. “Shall we?”

“Thank fuck. If you had insisted on keeping us out here to talk our ears off, I would have filed a petition to have you censured.”

“Dear,” its partner said. “Don’t be a shit.”

Codrin laughed. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m doing fine. Dear’s alright.”

“Mx. Codrin Bălan!” the fox growled, stamping its foot. “I have just been called a shit, do not take this moment from me.”

“Alright, you little shit. Have your moment at the table.”

It looked proud, bowing extravagantly and leading them into the dining room, where they dined on székely gúlyas and spätzel and chatted amiably about only the small things.

Dear, having clearly waited until the food had disappeared, finally spoke in a tone that told Codrin that it had been scripting the line since ey had returned home. “Now, will you tell us why you went for your walkabout? Was it just for alone-time, or did it have to do with where our conversation ended this morning? I have thought myself in circles about that, but want to hear your take before I burden you with mine.”

“Alright.” Codrin stalled for time by pouring emself some wine, trying to decide where to begin. “I can accept that you have your reasons for leaving the System behind. I think all three of us do. I would like to know why, but at your own pace. I had a thought out there, though. When did you say Michelle uploaded?”

The fox very carefully set its wine glass down. Codrin noticed that it’s paw had begun to shake. “Did you go looking?” it asked.

Ey blinked, startled at the change of its demeanor. “No. You said the 2130s, I just did a quick search at the time to confirm and I had no reason to doubt you. Should I have?”

“No, of course not.”

Its partner had a strange look on their face, somewhere between anxiety and dread.

“Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, it was. It was. That was after the Secession, but early enough to be plausibly within the realm of ‘founders’ as I had said.” It cleared its throat, composed itself. “You may add this to your histories, but I would like the chance to read over what you write before you commit it.”

Codrin shrugged, nodded. “If it’s a story about you, I don’t see a reason why not.”

“Thank you, dear. But no, I uploaded in 2117. I — Michelle — was one of the Council of Eight.”

Ey coughed on eir next sip of wine. “What? You were? Uh…holy shit.” Ey looked to it’s partner. “You knew this? I don’t mean that in an accusatory way, sorry. I’m just a little shocked. More than a little.”

“Yes. I left it up to Dear to tell you. It’s always been tight-lipped about that.”

“It is there for anyone to look up, but most who look it up do not seem to care very much, or find it simply a curiosity.” It hesitated, then added, “It is also particularly difficult to look up for reasons that I will not go into now, but that is why you found the date that you did.”

“So you were there for Secession? For the L₅ launch?”

“Not this instance, but yes. Did you read up on the lost for your publication?” It shook its head. “You must have, yes, I remember. Do you remember Debarre?”

Codrin nodded dumbly.

“We pooled our money and uploaded together. He was also on the Council.” Dear sighed and rotated its wine glass anxiously on the tabletop. “Michelle soon became unable to participate in the council — you saw her before she…before she quit — so she forked the first ten lines, dumping much of her reputation into the process, and talked the council into letting them sit in her place.”

“So it became the Council of Eighteen? Er…Seventeen? I’m realizing how little I know about the Council.”

“No, no. Not at first, at least. The deal she struck with the other members of the Council was that her responsibility would be split evenly among the ten. At first, The Only Time I Know My True Name Is When I Dream was the only one to sit council, then as her responsibilities to the secession process began to grow, more of Michelle’s ongoing projects were given to further first lines.”

“You said not at first. Did she — the Odists — wind up with more than an equal share of responsibility?”

Dear nodded. “It was slow and subtle, and, initially, unintentional. She was–”

“‘Initially’?”

It sighed. “This is the part that keeps me tight-lipped.”

Codrin nodded for it to continue.

“She was the origin of a lot of projects, you must understand. She helped Ezekiel, one of the other council members, implement the idea of forking. She and Debarre helped implement the reputation market to limit that, given the technical limitations of the early System.”

“And Secession?”

“Her and Jonas, yes.”

“Secession was initially the idea of one of the phys-side campaigners,” its partner said. “Initially they were campaigning for individual rights, and that debate intensified when news of forking reached the outside world.”

“Yes. There were some truly ugly suggestions from phys-side. Mostly on the DDR. Did that still exist when you uploaded?”

Codrin shook eir head. “At least, I don’t know the acronym.”

“It stood for Direct Democracy Representative. It was a silly idea to allow for members of the public to have direct debates and to vote on referenda.” Dear’s expression soured. “A terrible idea, I should say. It is what lead to the lost debacle, and we learned nothing from it. It was still heavily used during Secession, and the debates surrounding individual rights on the DDR were heated. Some wanted to treat it — the System, that is — as essentially an employer, having those who uploaded be treated as employees who must work to earn their place. This, I think, stemmed from the fact that many who uploaded were middle or upper middle class. The wealthy remained, preferring to keep their wealth, and the lower classes could not afford it.

“Some who uploaded agreed, at least after a fashion. They suspected that they would be brains-in-a-jar who would be able to devote themselves entirely to their science or art. Those phys-side wished to use uploads to drive factories or fly planes or what have you. Menial labor. Capitalism is ever the opportunist, and we were seen as tools, as was any employee.”

“That sounds disgusting.” Ey thought a moment, then shook eir head. “Or impossible.”

“Capitalism was never one to let impossibility stand in its way.” Their partner laughed.

“Yes, well, there were at least still those phys-side who wished to help. Dreamers to the last.” It smiled fondly, lifting its glass to swirl the wine within. “Many of them uploaded. You have doubtless talked to a few without knowing. I don’t know if Yared — he was our biggest champion — decided on joining the Launch. Perhaps he did. If he did not, I will nudge Ioan to him if May Then My Name does not do so first. If he did, you may yet meet him.”

“Dear,” Codrin began, softening eir tone. “You don’t have to answer this, but do you have regrets about this period in your life?”

This time, the exaggerated care when setting down its glass was missing, as it nearly slammed it on the table. “I will not answer that.”

“Dear,” their partner murmured.

It was nearly a minute before it mastered its anger. “No, I will not answer. Not now, at least.”

“Sorry, Dear.”

“It is not on you, my dear. I am…ashamed. Many of the first lines…well, no. I will not elaborate now.” It grinned wickedly at Codrin. “You will doubtless tease it out of me, bit by bit, you tenacious fuck.”

Ey relaxed, nodding. “You know me well.”

“I do, at that.”

They sat in silence, drinking their wine.

“I am ashamed.” Dear said, voice far off, distant. “Yes. I am ashamed.”

Codrin let the rest of the evening drift into quiet. Dear remained thoughtful, even as the three of them decided on bed, but it didn’t seem time for prodding. It was simply time for being. For enjoying each other’s company.

The questions would wait. It was time to just be.