Memory Transcription Subject: Chiri, Gojid Refugee
Date [standardized human time]: November 2, 2136
The day passed methodically, each of us honing our craft until night fell and the proverbial dinner bell rang. On my end, I had a more intuitive grasp of Terran distilled spirits than I’d had yesterday, and on David’s end, the flatbread came out chewy and fluffy, and with some refinements, at least one and a half fillings were ready for market already. Two and a half, if you counted the pizza he’d made for dinner. David had informed me in no uncertain terms that the only correct way to eat pizza in New York was holding a slice folded up in one hand while either hunched over a counter or while walking. He was in the shower again--apparently all the sweating meant that humans needed to bathe daily, or they’d start smelling ‘off’--and I was trying my best not to drip tomato sauce and deliciously gooey cheese onto the rug of his reading nook as I browsed through his little library. Analog, too! It felt like I was in an antique store, seeing words laid out on bound paper. Of course, one of the upsides to digital media was the ease of translation. Still couldn’t read English, personally. Fortunately, I had a very helpful voice whispering secrets to me.
Me? said the odd voice.
Obviously not, said the critical voice. You’re the embodiment of this ridiculous obsession she has with throwing herself as far from the Great Protector’s light as possible. I, on the other hand, am making her stronger, harder, and more able to survive these tumultuous times.
I meant my holopad’s AI assistant. You two aren’t even real.
That’s ridiculous, the odd voice objected. You’re perceiving me. That makes me real.
You’re… inaudible, was the best counterargument I could muster.
I quickly pulled my holopad out and asked for a summary of the books I was looking at before either of the voices could respond. The variety was surprising. Naturally, David owned a number of books on the culinary arts, including one on dry-aging root vegetables in mold, of all things, that he'd left out on a side table the other day. I don’t think he’d gotten around to reading it yet. But he also had books on art and philosophy, politics, business, and endless fictional stories of adventures and intrigue in fantastical realms. There were even a few books on…
Predator Disease, said the critical voice, drawing my attention to a thick referential tome on the subject of the functions of the mind. The human mind, specifically, but perhaps there was some overlap with the Gojid mind. You’ve been through a lot, lately. You should seek help.
My quills flared in alarm against my best efforts. I took another bite of pizza, making sure to aggressively send along the delicious sensations of melty mozzarella and (admittedly plant-based) sausage slices at the critical voice.
Yes, I know, she said. That’s why I’m not telling you to seek help from a person. Any Predator Disease professional would have you locked up forever after your heinous food crimes. I’m suggesting we read a book on the subject and self-reflect a bit.
That’s stupid and boring, said the odd voice. We’re already self-reflecting right now. You should read that other book on human magic. Deep down, everyone secretly wants to be a wizard. Maybe Terran magic actually works! We’d be fools not to check it out.
The critical voice was stunned to flabbergasted silence. That’s stupid and interesting, she begrudgingly said at last. That still made it sound like a step up.
My AI companion scanned the label, and helpfully informed me that the centuries-old guide to divining the future using playing cards was, in fact, legally a part of the ‘public domain’, and she could therefore translate it for me for free. I was a bit fuzzy on the legal details, but it sounded like it was part of a museum piece showcasing Terran culture. Convenient, on the whole, considering I wasn’t pulling a paycheck yet.
You should still read something about mental health, said the critical voice.
Do they have anything that’s in the public domain, about mental health, AND about magic? the odd voice asked, excitedly.
I repeated the voices’ queries aloud, and the AI assistant flagged a match. “Downloading ‘The Collected Works of Carl Gustav Jung’,” she chirped.
I finished the slice of pizza I was holding, licked my pawpads clean, and listened to the AI assistant read my new books aloud to me. I was a few minutes into an overview of the Tarot when I started worrying about my boyfriend.
David’s been in the shower for a while, the critical voice pointed out. Do you think he’s okay?
Almost certainly.
Counterpoint: he told you that humans who die in the bath smell like pork soup. Is that the last sensory memory you want to have of David?
I took a personal moment to scream internally, and then I paused my holopad’s playback and marched back up the vile staircase to the upstairs bathroom. “Hey, you alright in there?” I asked, sticking my head in.
“Guh!” David exclaimed from behind the roar of water. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, just zoned out.” He shook his head. “I was thinking about what might go with a chimichurri sauce. Something crispy, obviously, but that’s a big category, you know?”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but the fact that he was talking was strong evidence that he was still alive. “You’ll get there. Happy to taste-test some prototypes tomorrow,” I said, leaving him to his musings. I flicked a command active on my holopad, and continued listening to some good old-fashioned Terran audiobooks. All journeys began with The Fool…
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Memory Transcription Subject: Chiri, Gojid Refugee
Date [standardized human time]: November 3, 2136
I sat at the bar, listening intently to my impromptu audiobook on the Tarot as I sipped at the cocktail I’d thrown together. Bamboo, it was called. Bamboo was a woodsy grass, generally, but the cocktail had nothing to do with it beyond being invented by someone who lived where it grew. Most Terran cocktails followed a straightforward pattern: a base spirit, plus various mixers to season it, like bitters, syrups, and fruit juices. The Bamboo cocktail did its own thing, rising up like an inexplicable weed. It was a mix of various odd strongwines and bitters. Sherry and vermouth? Ridiculous. It was a cocktail that would never work unless you understood the component ingredients, and I was starting to. It was a step further along on my journey.
Past the Fool lies the Magician, said the odd voice. The beginner’s luck fades, pale and weary, before the skill of those practiced at the craft.
“Oh shit, really?” said David, from the kitchen. Was he talking to me, or…? “That’s perfect! Yeah, I’m like right around the corner. I don’t have a truck, but I can set up a stand, sure. I’d love to be there. Toss my name in the hat, put in a good word, whatever it takes. Alright, thanks, bye.” He stepped out of the kitchen, looking excited. “Mets and Yankees are throwing an exhibition game to raise support for rebuilding the city,” David said, directly to me this time, and clearly expecting me to know what any of that meant.
“Sorry, who?” I said.
David blinked. “Right. Haven’t really covered baseball yet. Old American team sport that revolves around throwing a little ball around, hitting it with a stick, then running like hell. The Mets and the Yankees are the two big teams from New York. Buuuuuut…” He grinned. “Because it’s less damaged and closer to that new spaceport over at Floyd Bennett Field, they’re playing at Maimonides Park. That’s the Mets’, uh, trainee team’s field--again, go Cyclones--and best of all, it’s nearby. Honestly, with the intervening buildings down, you can probably see it from upstairs.”
I think I knew the place he was talking about?
I nodded slowly. “Alright, so what’re we doing there?”
“Couple of local restaurants are stepping in and selling food there instead of the usual concession stands,” David said. “We gotta get on the list. First chance we have to make some money, aaand…” He paused to grin excitedly. “The first group of Yotuls will be there!”
My keen business sense pieced the puzzle together immediately. “We can debut our herbivore-friendly menu,” I said, but that was obvious. A little predatory thinking further and… “If we’re part of the first positive memory aliens have of Earth, they’re going to be hooked on us. We could pick up our first batch of regulars!”
“Exactly! Assuming I can outcook the other stands,” said David, conspicuously trying to avoid looking more smug than usual. “Which… well, I’m not the best chef in New York City just quite yet, but unless the rest of the food stands are staffed by the entire fucking Michelin Guide, I like my odds.”
I nodded. “Alright, you want me slinging cocktails, or…?”
“Oh, definitely not,” said David. “Alcohol needs its own license to be sold. I have one for this building, not for random sporting events. I want you on front of house: taking orders and handling money.”
Again, I nodded. Straightforward enough. “What's my cut?” I said, smirking.
David snorted. “You’re still legally not supposed to be here yet,” he said, wryly. “That makes it tricky to pay you directly. I can either gift you a third of net profits as a ‘present’, or I can grant you one wish.”
Think of all the things we could get with a wish! the odd voice said, excitedly.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Most of the things we’d wish for can be purchased with a third of a day’s profits, the critical voice said dryly.
“I wish for half of the net profits,” I said, smirking.
David laughed. “Fine. It’s one day, and it’s more about getting our name out there than anything else. I can spare it. Make sure to look your cutest.”
I glared at him playfully. “I am always at maximum cuteness!”
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Memory Transcription Subject: Chiri, Gojid Refugee
Date [standardized human time]: November 4, 2136
I sat on the seashore, listening to my audiobooks, wrapped up in a warm jacket over my own fur. David was inside the stadium or whatever, behind me, negotiating the details of where we’d set up our food stand. I still didn’t enjoy watching him argue with people, and negotiations were arguments where there was money on the line. I was keeping a spare eye on Toki, who was frolicking in the sand, though that placed my other eye tilted over at the ruins of Luna Park.
The Moon, the hidden world, said the odd voice. The other you, the reflection below the surface of the water. This was where your rebirth began. Your self-inflicted baptism in Earth’s seas. It was over there that you and I first spoke. And look at you now!
I glanced down at myself in confusion. The… the jacket?
The odd voice sighed and shook its head. How do I teach this girl?
The critical voice chimed in, baffled, but trying her best. I mean, credit where credit’s due, you’re doing a lot better than a few days ago. Place to live, a job, a plan going forward… even got a bit of a mentor/lover thing going on with a local. I hate to say it, but this whole “Let’s become a mighty hunter” thing seems to have paid off for us.
I was prepared to leave it at that, and savor the sense of ‘Glad you see it my way, finally,’ but the odd voice chimed back in. Yes! That’s the hero’s journey. The human monomyth, as laid out in the Tarot.
I’d had some thoughts, but this was the first time I’d really considered trying to put the whole puzzle together. “What do you mean?” I said, aloud.
Our hero begins as a Fool, a plucky doofus who knows nothing. She faces the call to adventure, stumbling, relying more on luck and determination than skill. Then she encounters the Magician, a mentor figure who teaches her the skills she needs to survive.
The critical voice chimed in. Sure, fine, and the next four cards--Priestess, Hierophant, Empress, Emperor--represent inexplicably gender-coded mastery of the spiritual and physical worlds, respectively. When did we tick all of those boxes?
David probably was serving double-duty as the Magician and some of the masculine archetypes, but the Empress, worldly feminine power… I hadn’t really spoken to that many women lately. David’s cousin’s wife, the lawyer Erin Brenner, maybe? I still had some feelings to unpack there--mostly a sense of inadequacy--and I didn’t care to do so right now.
Not every journey has to hit all the cards, said the odd voice. Next are the tests of character. The Chariot, the Lovers, Strength, Temperance… all the challenges of virtue and choice a budding young hero might encounter.
The critical voice was unmoved. We’re not going through all twenty-something of the Major Arcana and pretending they have life lessons specific to us. That’s ridiculous. Also, you’re ignoring the minor arcana. What does the Three of Cups mean to us?
The odd voice bristled like she was aghast. The Three of Cups represents community and emotional support. You know, like we’re cultivating here on Earth? Gods, were you not paying attention to the audiobook at all?
The critical voice snorted. I was not paying attention, correct. I was monitoring sensory data for threats, which is my fucking job. Keep us alive, not indulge in these ridiculous fantasies. You want fantasies? Fine: Fortune, representing the vagaries of fate beyond our control. The Tower, representing ruin. See? I was listening during the big parts. But the better question is, if this is meant to be ordered, why are those cards, representing the loss of our home and our culture, earlier in our journey than the Fool?
The Campbellian Hero’s Journey doesn’t always hit every plot beat, and doesn’t always happen in the same order! the odd voice shouted. Recall, one of the classic calls to adventure is the ruined hometown. We never would have left the Cradle if it hadn’t fallen. We never would have begun our journey. We never would have become what we were always meant to be!
We were meant to be a distiller at the family orchard! the critical voice shouted. We were meant to be good little herbivores living in safety and security!
We were not meant to live in a comfortable lie! the odd voice shouted back.
I rubbed my head in frustration. I was starting to feel warm, like a computer that was running too hot. I knew the voices were just me--just my overactive imagination parsing out my thoughts socially, like a herd within--but this was… all my intrusive thoughts going into overdrive at once.
You’ve been bottling them all up the past few days, said the critical voice. You have to process things from time to time, Chiri.
Especially when you’re binge-reading about mysticism and what thoughts can represent, the odd voice agreed.
And what do you two represent?
We’ve been over this, said the critical voice. I’m your self-flagellating side. Telling you to be better, stronger, and more able to stay alive.
This predatory stuff has been making me stronger. You’ve admitted it. Why are you still hammering on the idea that I need to be a good little herbivore?
The critical voice recoiled like she hadn’t been expecting an argument. You’re… you… this is what we’ve learned for the first twenty-seven years of your life. Sue me for falling back on old reliable habits. These are the instincts that have kept you safe.
These are the instincts I’ve been repressing because they’re what I’ve grown to hate about myself!
I blinked, and sucked in a breath of chill ocean air. I’d heard that phrase before. That… that had been in Jung. Different aspects of your personality and psyche--the Anima and Animus, various ideas and concepts of other people out in the world… and the Shadow. The things you hate about yourself, and try desperately to visualize as separate from you. You know. Like an external voice you could talk to.
You’re my Shadow, I thought.
There was a sound of disgust and defeat. If that’s how it’s gotta be, Shadow grumbled. Think of me however you like, just never stop listening, or it’s both our asses on the line.
I nodded, and turned my thoughts to the other voice. What in the world are you, then?
The odd voice was quiet and contemplative for a bit. Silence inside my head, and outside of it, the sound of the ocean, and the ruins of Luna Park in the background of my field of vision.
I’m the other you, I think, said the odd voice. Dream and reflection. Musing about what could be and what could have been. Something new to you, and something very old.
I recalled the last stretch of the Tarot. Past the ruin of the Tower lay the Star, guiding us onwards towards where we needed to be. And next came the Moon, which represented… dreams, reflections, and introspection.
What’s the old world for Earth’s moon? asked Luna, answering her own question. In which park did we first speak?
I nodded decisively. Luna was a pretty name.
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Memory Transcription Subject: Chiri, Gojid Bartender
Date [standardized human time]: November 7, 2136
Back at the bar, I cradled a vegan Ramos Gin Fizz as I started making notes to myself about potential unique cocktails I could serve… or even bottle and can for my own enterprise. I’d picked up so many techniques and recipes over the past few days. The cocktail beside me was proof of my burgeoning skill: it mixed lemon, lime, and dairy, which could curdle itself in the citric acid if I mixed it in the wrong order, plus I needed to substitute it out for a dressed up coconut cream so any of our Yotul customers might buy it. Then it was topped up with the foam from a frothed-up egg white, which would kill me, so David had walked me through the process of using tinctures of aquafaba--the water used to cook beans in, of all things!--and some curious powder called xanthan gum to keep it extra foamy. It was one of the most complicated cocktails I could find a recipe for, and it was… not my masterpiece, but my journeyman’s piece. Proof that I was a bartender in full.
I was scribbling my inspirations away with a pen on paper, like the olden days--it was going to be another few days before my holopad would finally get the update for the Gojid language and alphabet, so I was roughing it a little bit to get by--when David received another phone call. I ignored it for the moment, since I was really drilling down into some of the most interestingly fruity flavors I could muster without just resorting to drowning things in juice, but David marched into my section of the restaurant with another excited look on his face.
“Good news about the baseball game?” I guessed.
David did a double-take. “Huh? Oh, no, that’s all settled. Good news about your visa paperwork. It’s almost done, with one little exception: you have the right to formally change your name, if you like.”
I recoiled. “What? I like my name. Do you not like the name Chiri or something?”
“What? No, that’s not what I mean,” David said, startled. “Sorry. I meant, humans typically have two names. I wasn’t suggesting you ditch Chiri, I was asking if you’d like to pick a second name. Like a family name?”
I sat fully upright on the barstool. “Now that… that’s an interesting question,” I said, noncommittally. “Hadn’t really considered it much. How, uh… if I wanted to pick one, how would I go about it?”
David rubbed the light fluffy brown fur on his chin. He typically preferred to shave it clean, but he’d been really focused on his recipe research for the past few days and had been skipping some minor grooming. “Well, there’s a couple different styles of surnames, as I understand it. Professional names are pretty common. Descendents of a metalworker might call themselves Smith or Schmitt or something, which is pretty common. A barrel-maker might go by Cooper.”
“What’s the name for a distiller?” I asked.
David stared at me, deadpan. “Brenner.”
I blinked. “Right! Yes, you mentioned that. Okay. Umm… what about a bartender?”
David shrugged. “Not sure. That’s kind of a modern profession. I don’t know if there is one.” He waved his hands around to search for that information online. “Internet says Taverner is allegedly a name, but I’ve never heard it spoken before. Maybe Chiri Vintner, for a family who owned a winery?”
I didn’t much care for the ring of that. “Ehh, I’m not feeling it. Are they all profession names, or…?”
“Nah, there’s also descriptors and place name,” he said. “Brown is a common surname. Chiri Brown?”
I made a face. “It’s got a ring to it, I guess, but Brown describes every Gojid. Place names, though?”
David thought for a moment. “Uh, sure. I think that’s more common out East? Like, most Japanese surnames follow basic descriptors for where they’re from. Kimura, for example, is something like ‘from the village with the trees’. In the west… I dunno. I guess landed gentry sometimes named themselves after their ancestral estate?”
We have an ancestral estate, Luna pointed out.
Had, said Shadow bleakly, but the name is still there.
I nodded. That would work. “My ancestral estate was Garnet Orchards,” I said. “How does Chiri Garnet sound?”
David savored the taste of it like a sip from one of my experiments. “You know, I kinda like it.” He smiled, and held his hand out. “Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Garnet.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mister Brenner,” I said, grasping his hand in my paw.