Tear Tracks Read Online Free

cubbyhole.
    Irnv is reclining in a hammock-harness outside the cushioned wall of nests, still within the women’s area. Her face covering is loosened and hanging down below her chin, and although Flur is careful not to stare at the dark purple, circular mouth, she finds she is already acclimatized enough to be shocked. The orifice seems to be veiled on the inside by a membrane of some kind, and doesn’t fully close. Struck by the curiosity of the forbidden, Flur wishes she could see how they eat.
    â€œDo we have to get back now?” she asks, wondering too late if she should thank her host for the food she couldn’t ingest.
    â€œWe have some time still,” Irnv says. “I don’t know how you do it, but here we usually relax and socialize after eating.”
    â€œIt is … like that for us too,” Flur says, wondering if she is right about the translation for ‘socialize.’ Following Irnv’s graceful nod, she climbs into the hammock next to her and tries to put a relaxed expression on her face. Where is everyone else? They must have designated special eating rooms for the aliens and their handlers.
    â€œFlur,” Irnv says, and Flur snaps out of it. “What does your name mean?”
    Rather than try to define a general noun, Flur takes out her palm screen and presses a combination she had pre-loaded. “Like this,” she says, holding it out to Irnv as the screen runs through hyperphotos of flowers, all different kinds.
    â€œAhhh,” Irnv strokes the screen appreciatively, stopping the montage on a close-up of a wisteria cluster.
    â€œAnd you?” Flur asks, trying to keep up her end of the socializing.
    Irnv looks up, her head tilted at an angle that is so clearly questioning that Flur begins to trust her body language interpretation again. “Your name,” she says. “What does it mean?”
    â€œStar,” Irnv replies, with a curious sort of bow.
    â€œOh, I thought star was ‘trenu,’” Flur says.
    â€œYes, trenu, star. Irnv is one trenu. A certain trenu.”
    Flur finds herself tilting her head exactly the way that Irnv did a few minutes ago, and Irnv obligingly explains.
    â€œIrnv is the name of your star. Your … planet? We tried to pronounce it like you, but this is our version.”
    Terre . Earth . Irnv . But “pronounce it like you?” They have only been in contact for a few years. How old is Irnv?
    â€œAnd your family?” Irnv asks, while Flur is still turning that over. “Where are you from?”
    â€œAn island,” Flur says, one of the first words she learned in Cyclopan. She takes her palm screen back and brings up globes, maps, Ayiti. She hadn’t prepared anything about her family, though. “Many brothers and sisters,” she says. She thinks of the video that was made for the launch party, presenting a highly sanitized version of her backstory, and wonders why nobody thought to load that into her drive. Maybe it wouldn’t translate well; their research has not pinned down the alien version of the heartwarming, life-affirming family unit. “We used to raise chickens,” she says, unexpectedly, and quickly pulls up a picture of a chicken on the screen, and in her mind, the memory of chasing one with her brothers.
    Irnv blinks her single eye. “They are all well? Your brothers and sisters?”
    â€œWell?” It’s a hard concept to define. The pause feels like it’s stretching out too long. “They’re fine. We’re just fine.”
    A beat. “And how were you chosen for this?”
    â€œOh,” Flur says. These are all questions they should have prepared for. She can’t imagine, now, why they thought the conversation would be all business all the time. “Well, I went to school, and there were … competitions.” She can’t remember the word for tests. “And then more school.”
    Irnv is