Piers Anthony: Chaining the Lady

“Why that’s a Tarot poem,” Melody said. “The title means ‘truce’ in the archaic framework of that day. Key Six means ‘The Lovers.’ And the four qualities in the second stanza are like the four archaic suits. Bright as a disk or coin—”

“As a penny,” Yael supplied. “We still use metal money in the vine forest; it keeps better.”

“Yes,” Melody agreed, delving for more interpretations. “Sensitive as a wand—the wand of a magician or musical conductor, and of course the second Tarot suit. Emotion refers to the Suit of Cups, the flow of water, of tears. And unstability—that’s Swords, of course, that balance on the knife’s edge, or the sword hanging by a thread. That refers back to the title, too, integrating the whole.”

“I never realized all that!” Yael exclaimed.

“Well, perhaps I exaggerate. It is too easy to interpret in terms of the familiar, and I see Tarot everywhere I go. Notice how the four triplets deal respectively with frustration, love, ruin, and conclusion—like the suits of Wands, Cups, Swords, and Disks. And the poem stops just short of the thirteenth line. The thirteenth Key of the Tarot was traditionally nameless, or Death, which—but there I go again!”

“No, it’s interesting. Do you know what the minionette is?”

“That would be a small, delicate, dainty woman, the diminutive of minion, which itself has special connotations of illicit charm.”

“I wonder who it was who made it for her?”

“I could analyze it more thoroughly, if you really—”

“No! I’d rather have the mystery. Then I can still dream that maybe it was meant for me, even though it was on another world over a thousand years ago. Is that crazy?”

“Poems are meant for the ages,” Melody assured her. “And often they are not intended to be completely understood.”

And so the girl had sought the realm of interstellar adventure. But she had no personal brilliance or education, and her Kirlian aura was barely normal. Her soul would never range across the galaxy in transfer. Her dreams of being a great lady of space, visiting far planets, dazzling strange powerful men, and interacting with alien creatures were vain. Sheer foolishness, this wish to be rich and intelligent and cultured and bold and fascinating. (Melody matched those concepts with suits as she listened: rich as in Coins, bold as in Swords—she had to stop doing that!) But what a dream, to be a truly free woman!

“A dream we all share,” Melody murmured to herself. “But so many of us are chained…”

So Yael had been realistic. There was only one way she could be a Lady of Space, and she took it. She had run away from home and made application to the Society of Hosts.

“The Society of Hosts,” Melody murmured. “Whose symbol is the Temperance card of the Tarot, keyed into the Suit of Aura. Now the appearance of that card falls into place.”

“I don’t know about that,” Yael replied uncertainly. “But they do have a picture of a lady pouring two cups of water into each other—why, there it is!”

There it was, of course: the second card Melody had drawn from the deck and laid on the table. Yael did not recognize the significance, being unfamiliar with the Tarot deck and its related concepts. But Melody saw it: a soul being poured from one physical container into another. The starry background suggested galactic implications, as indeed there were. Transfer was the very essence of galactic civilization; without it modern society would collapse.

“Get on with your story,” Melody said.

“The Society accepted me,” Yael said. “Just like that. I could hardly believe it. But now I understand. I don’t have much of an aura or much of a mind, but my body is good, and that’s what they need. Transferees don’t care about the host-mind, and they can’t use a high host-aura at all, but they like the best bodies. So I’m the perfect host! After twenty years of host service, I can retire with a good pension, if I want to. Meanwhile, I get adventure. But I’m only supposed to watch, not bother you.”

“There may not be much adventure,” Melody said. “I’m of Mintaka, the Music Sphere, and I’m going home again first opportunity. I do not crave intrigue or excitement.”

“Oh,” Yael said, disappointed. “You’re such a nice entity even if you are an alien, and you have such a fine mind, even I can feel it. You’re everything I wanted to be. I wish you’d stay.”

Melody found herself feeling flattered. “You actually want to have your body controlled by an alien intellect?”

“It is the only way I can be what I can never be,” Yael said simply.

“But suppose a transferee abused your body? Damaged it?”

“The God of Hosts protects me.”

“The God of Hosts?” Melody inquired, amazed. “You believe in that?”

“Of course. ‘Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet—lest we forget, lest we forget.’ That’s the Society prayer. All hosts have to memorize it.”

Melody pondered. If a host forgot it would mean the loss of identity. It was the same for a transferee. Memory was all that distinguished one personality from another, when aura faded in an alien body.

Melody returned to the cards. “The Star—that’s your hope for glamour and adventure. To obtain it, you must suffer loss, the loss of your body. For twenty years. When you get it back, your prime will be gone. That’s a terrible price.”

“It’s no worse than what I would have had at home,” Yael pointed out.

Melody could not refute that “Well, I’ll stay for a while,” she decided. “I don’t have much choice in the matter myself. But don’t go away; I want you handy, just in case.

“I can’t go away,” Yael said.

“You know what I mean. Don’t play dumb. Don’t hide in the woodwork. I don’t like preempting your body, but I stop the music at preempting your mind .”

“You mean I can join in your adventure? Not just watch?” The girlish personality seemed incredulous.

“It’s your adventure too,” Melody said. “Now let’s brace the Imperium.” She put away the cards, stood up, walked to the computer terminal, and pushed the contact button, her motions now sure and smooth. This wasn’t a bad body at all, once she got acclimatized to it.

“I’m ready to deal with the authorities,” Melody announced out loud.

“Select clothing,” the computer voice said.

Melody played a sour note that came out as an unfeminine snort. “ You dress us,” she said to Yael.

“In what style?”

“Any style you want. It’s your body, and a good one.” Then she reconsidered, remembering the potential of the female body among Solarians. “But cover the mammaries; I don’t want to get impregnated right away.”

“The breasts are always covered. Why should there be any—any—?”

“You mean it doesn’t happen automatically?”

“Only when a girl agrees, usually. There are laws—”

“Very well. Dress it up pretty.”

Yael was glad to oblige. Melody relaxed and let the girl use her own notions, ordering flimsy underclothing followed by more substantial overclothing. There was a two thousand Solarian year spread in human clothing fashions, and any dress within that range was currently acceptable. So Yael chose apparel approximating the style of her namesake, who had resided in pre-Spherical times on Planet Earth. She wore a white blouse with images of flowers printed on it, and a short black skirt that showed the lower half of her legs. Light slippers covered her feet. Her hair flowed free, behind and to the sides.

Melody really didn’t understand the nuances of Solarian dress; Mintakans and most other sapients did not use clothing. But she was satisfied that this sufficed. As she kept reminding herself, it would not be for long.