Kati has decided to try baking Itaki fish-and-nut bread using a recipe shared by one of ler friends on the boards. The Itaki use fresh fish instead of dried in the pastry. Le has decided to blast modern music very loudly, the kind that makes me long for traditional ksibja* and tonal percussion. If I ever have a musically-inclined child, le will play the ksibja.
Kati successfully auditioned for the Kekas Ensemble, which will sponsor lim during the remainder of ler music education at the local conservatory. The entire family will celebrate at breakfast tomorrow, and Kati won’t stop singing along with this music! Le has just filed to receive quota-free music streaming with the flip in ler professional status.
The ensemble meets in Aravakha, about an hour’s commute via pod-on-demand. Le will have enough time to work on other musical projects, and the conservatory means having dedicated practice space within the soundproof rooms there.
Liga and Suka sent me Narahji-language magazines and candied leaves. I tried to call them, but neither picked up. I still need to talk to Liga about the nuamė that le knows so I can find something satisfying to say to Kati — also so that I can allay my own fears.*
I don’t want to write my concerns here because I know that you are reading them, and while I hardly know you and have wondered if this is a bit too personal, why should I try to have private thoughts? Suka told me that journaling would not lead to dangerous things, and I have already cut myself off.
Every word I say is now stored on a hard drive. The unit in my hair broadcasts the files when less than 5% of the floating space remains. Liga will speech-to-text and data mine everything.
You know, Liga, what I said last night at dinner. You know what I will say later tonight when Kati’s bread comes out of the oven. You know the indignation I expressed at the crowd of twelve-year-old boys playing in the middle of the street when I needed to be at the Skyrail entrance.
The recorder knows what I said to Aneti on the video phone 20 minutes ago. However, it does not see me remove the gyena when I speak to Aneti when we are on vid. It does not see the charming hand motions that Suka makes when something excites lim and le stutters. It doesn’t know that Aneti loves the outer shell of the recording cuff because it is indigo and sky-opaque, ler favorite color juxtaposed against something fake and unreal that the Atarahi think is a color. Aneti has loved the idea of sky- and sea-opaque since acting in The Sea-Moon Rises during school.
Aneti says so much when I see lim. It sounds so normal. Le is making me fall in love with lim with this illicit disclosure.
I would toss lim into the Canyon dark if I could. If only I could stop thinking about lim and wanting to trust lim.
Le will stumble, hopefully soon, and I will be free.
Later. Thank you for calling me, Liga. I had been wondering why you were so silent about the technology problem I mentioned. As I said in the call, maybe you should have told me that you were investigating it? It’s good to know that it was someone who wasn’t you. I don’t know what you meant by, “I can’t talk about that.” You have put up a wall between us. I don’t like it. Could you tell me what you meant, Liga? Our conversation was five minutes, or to be overly exact, five minutes and twenty-six seconds.
I understand if you are busy, but this is an assassination. Do you know about those politicians who were murdered? What do you know about them?
It makes me anxious to have this wall screen here now, in full view of me as I sleep. What if Aneti and I had sex in here? Would someone be watching? Would you be watching? Maybe it isn’t actually malicious hacking. Not politically malicious. It could just be any young person who just learned how to program and who has nothing better to do with ler life than spy on young professionals.
You will need to talk about that eventually, Liga, if we continue working together.
* You are writing in Tveshi. Their word for ksibja is kasipta.↩
** I can’t address this now. Wait for me to call you within the next week.↩