[SESSION id=1.16]: Missed Direction
It is only when we do away with our assumptions,
It is only when we approach with cleared minds,
That we at last can see.
— L.
Lexical Mirepoix
"So there's a new book," Jazz asked as we tried to enjoy a quiet breakfast, "and it's written by her, but you think it's illustrated by you?" She was taking all of it in stride, and I had to wonder how she was so entirely calm. "And it showed up the moment you asked her if it was finished?"
"That sounds about right," I said around a mouthful of eggs. I was shovelling food into my mouth rapidly, hoping I wouldn't have to speak if my mouth was full, but Jazz kept asking questions that required words and not just wild flailing. "Except I know it was illustrated by me. They're my drawings from the year I spent with her. And she is apparently aware of the time weirdness, because she took full advantage of me."
"And why didn't she get her Lillian to illustrate it?" Jazz took a quick sip of tea. "Or better question, how do you know it's not a simple coincidence?" She raised a hand to stop me from answering. "Better question. Why was she the illustrator for Erasure but not for Integration."
"I have a theory," I offered after swallowing a bit too much toast in a single go. "If you'll hear it." Jazz just nodded and waved me on, then moved her plate across the table to me. "Jazz Thorn wanted her Lillian to write more. So she encouraged the woman to get her thoughts out, which resulted in Erasure. Then they began working directly together, and Lillian had lost her confidence, so she begged Jazz to write with her."
"Where's this going?" She was grinning as I continued eating directly from the food she'd given up.
"Integration is Jazz doing what she had longed to do from the start. But she always felt like she couldn't share that with her Lillian." filled my mouth with Jazz's fruit – some kind of red apple – and waited for her to ask the obvious. She didn't. Once I swallowed, I continued. "And when I fell in her lap, she didn't seem shocked, not in the least. She knew I was coming. So she took advantage."
"Good on her." Jazz emptied the last of her tea. "Let's go have a look. Is she as crazy as her wife, I wonder?"
"No," I answered immediately. "Her work is cogent and careful and nearly perfectly sound. If I were a hacker, it would've been a marvellous look at how to extend her Lillian's work into something far grander. A near perfect world, if you agree with her take."
"But you are a hacker," Jazz corrected. "Or do you mean, 'if I were when I read it and illustrated it'? In either case, you have new eyes. Literally," she pointed at my face for emphasis, "and figuratively. So. Let's go. Your place. No escape from the truth."
"What if I don't wanna?" I grinned, then put my hands to my overfull stomach. "My tummy aches, Jazz."
"You should've stopped eating three eggs and two slices of sweet toast ago. To say nothing of the apples." She gave me a devilish sort of wink. "Just because it's there doesn't mean you must eat it."
"So I can't get out of this?"
"Not remotely."
My home was quiet. Of course it was. Who would've been there to introduce noise into it if not Jazz and me. When we stepped inside, the weight of what was coming pushed me not to the coffee table where four books sat waiting, but to my painting room. Jazz didn't stop me. She followed along, an amused expression colouring everything.
Something was wrong the moment we stepped in.
I leaned close to the painting to get a proper look. The silver rose was reflective, sure, but it looked wet. That wasn't an effect I'd painted into it.
"Curious," I whispered before gently touching one of the brushstrokes with the barest pressure from a fingertip. The fingertip came back silver. "Why is my painting wet again?"
The nervous chuckle I let out didn't seem to bother Jazz, so I just kept inspecting my studio.
As I looked about, Jazz took a new look at the painting. She'd seen it plenty of times during the forty-five days before I was hospitalised, but she'd really only scrutinised it twice. "Lilies," Jazz said as I pulled out the notebook of my old blotters, "are a symbol of purity. It's fascinating that some artists and authors pair that symbol with blood red."
"Please don't psychoanalyse me by proxy of my work," I groaned, flipping through the stack of accidental paintings of Silva. "I've enough on my plate."
"I'm not done yet," Jazz said as she clearly moved on to another flower. "Irises symbolise a lot of things themselves. And it's interesting that these are ivory. Not the snow-white one might expect."
"Natural irises don't usually come in white, Jazz," I corrected, "and this is from a dream. Unless you're about to say that the whole painting is a conversation on purity corrupted by means of truth, you've done nothing the therapists didn't already."
A particular blotter page caught my attention. It was from the day I finished the grass. Silva, rendered in myriad shades of green tempered with alizarin and cadmium. She looked like a dream.
Jazz was somehow behind me, leaning over my shoulder. "Who's the broad?" She kissed my cheek before reaching around me and taking the notebook. "If you're not going to read Integration, then you're not going to look at pretty pictures." She began flipping through to look at other pages. "You are more obsessed with this woman than you are with me. Lillian Star, you may have a problem."
"Aria's name. Of course I have a problem, Jazz." I shook my head. "That's why we're here."
"No, we're here because you need to be reading." She indicated the space around us. "And we're here," she added, pointing back and forth between us, "because I find you fascinating, and the feeling is mutual. Plus the whole intimacy thing."
"Fine. Whatever. I'll read the book."
I moved back to the living room and sat on the couch. Before I could reach out and take any of the three books not presently at issue, Jazz had swept them away and pushed On Integration and Dissolution of Harmony into my waiting hands.
"Rude," I muttered softly as I opened it to the interior title. It had another word in the old tongue, just like the other two. Unitas. What did it mean?
Veritas, Pulchrituda, Unitas.
I stared at the word for a long time, considering possible meanings before I noticed something else on the title page that hadn't been on the cover.
"A love letter to the concept of love and the loss of agency in the name of perfection." I read the book's subtitle aloud for Jazz, then added the extra bit found only on the interior title page. "Please. Find me."
When I turned to the dedication page, my heart leapt.
Veritas pulchrat unitas. A nonsense phrase, probably written by someone who only vaguely understood the old tongue. Other Lillian, I knew, had studied it in a sense. She and I shared a fascination with flowers. But Jazz Thorn had never studied it, only been exposed to it through Other Lillian and me.
I reasoned through the words for several minutes, parsing a dozen possible readings before I settled on one.
"Through truth, harmony is made beautiful," I said, unwilling to look up from it. "A synthesis of ideas not present in either of the first two books."
"On Erasure is the antithesis of that sentiment," Jazz concurred, "and On Creation, barely concerns itself with anything but beauty."
"Exactly," I whispered. "So maybe you're right."
I turned the page and started from the beginning a journey I'd already completed with Jazz Thorn, but this time with Jazz Star at my side.
Mise en Place
Surreal was a good word to describe my incredulity at finding my art in a printed book. Printed, bound, perfectly finished. Diagrams of systems I couldn't begin to understand, built up on the descriptions Jazz Thorn had written, a dance of meaning performed between us. I barely knew the steps, but she was an excellent leader.
Jazz Star paused me on every page, demanding closer looks at the work I'd done. She was fascinated by the detail, especially given that at the time I knew nothing about hacking, cracking, or kernel building. And yet there I was, perfectly illustrating desperately confusing concepts with wild abandon. I supposed I hadn't really appreciated the work I was doing with Jazz Thorn at the time because I missed my Jazz.
No matter how much either of them would say they were the same woman, I could tell the difference between every instance of her, just like she seemingly could me. Aster knew me before I gave her a chance. Moon recognised it after a few moments. Comet seemed to know it when I met her. Every single Jazz knows her Lillian, and I know my Jazz. They are not alike. Nothing at all except body, eyes, and name.
The Unknown Number Jazz was a perfect example of that. Definitely Jazz, but at the same time very different. I couldn't place what made her different. And yet, it was plainly obvious to me.
I barely finished the first chapter of On Integration in almost three hours because of Jazz's interruptions. It was worth it, if I were honest. But right as we finished the chapter, something hit me. The words were familiar. Not just because I'd read them all before.
"Question," I mumbled.
"Answer," Jazz replied without missing a beat.
"Have you read L's notes? Or, I suppose I know you have." I nearly jumped up from my seat on the couch to get the book. "How much? And how thoroughly?"
She didn't have an opportunity to give her answer because my call device rang out. I didn't have to hear the call tone to know, somehow, it would be Unknown Number Jazz.
"Question," I said as her image lit up the vis-screen.
"Answer," she groaned.
Jazz Star's eyes lit up with something I couldn't name. Terror? Excitement? Confusion? Some weird blend of them all and more. I couldn't blame her. The caller had her voice.
"You know other Lillians and other Jazzes, somehow, right?" I knew the answer, and so did she, but it bore the asking.
"I do."
"How many of the ones you know are artists?"
Unknown Number Jazz almost vibrated with joy at the question. "Fucking finally, Lillian! Asking the right question. Two."
"Two Lillians, and two Jazzes, right?"
"Of course."
I took a deep breath, let it out, then drew in another. "Do you know about L?"
"Nope."
"Great. Why did you call?"
She grinned at me. "Because I had to. Just like every other time. Most Lillians may be insane, but mine certainly was." I could hear years of hurt in that one word. 'Was'. It was the same hurt Jazz Thorn held for her mother-in-law. "And I call you when I'm feeling lonely."
"How are you able to track the other Lillians?"
"Another excellent question. That's not for today, mon cher." Without warning, she ended the call.
"That one is a bit of a cunt, yeah?" Jazz Star chuckled when she got her wits back. "Glad it's you and not me. What was that she said at the end there? Sounded like the old tongue."
"Not quite. But I think the words were based on it." I looked at my Jazz, overjoyed that I was with a good one. "I was asking about L. What if I've misread it."
"What do you mean?"
"Take the humble backstroke," I parroted Jazz Thorn's explanation, "or backslash, as you will. Even it may be read as hyphen, en dash, em dash, or perhaps middle dot, provided only we view it from the proper angle."
"Oh?" Jazz was beaming. She found this entertaining, apparently. "And what, my dearest, is the proper angle for the moment?"
I opened Principles of Composition to the title page where L first placed her signature in the book. It was so obvious, so completely clear. I'd been reading it wrong the whole time, and she'd done it on purpose. She wanted me to think it was me, or someone like me.
"How would you describe the handwriting on this page?" I asked, covering up the initial that had vexed me for so long.
"Perfectly practised in every single way." She shrugged. "So?"
"Would you say that this is, perhaps, written in a way to evoke certain feelings?" The question was obvious, but I had to ask. I always had to ask. "Perhaps to lead the observer to some preconceived view of the thing?"
"Absolutely."
I put the book down, letting it close as I rushed to get a sheet of tracing vellum. I kept them in the painting room. While there I also picked up the book full of blotters and a thin-ink marker.
When I returned to Jazz, she was bouncing in the same way Unknown Number had been moments before. I set the book on the table and positioned the vellum to perform my experiment.
"This sheet is exceptionally thin, but the point stands no matter the thickness, doll," I said with a smile. My hand traced a careful script L with a dozen or more flourishes. I turned the page to her. "What do you see?"
"It's the letter L." She nodded, urging me to get to the point.
"Close your eyes." When she complied, I turned the page around and tilted it just slightly. "Okay. Open."
Her eyes went wide at what she saw. I would've too, if I hadn't planned for it.
"It's not an L. It's —"
She was going to state the truth outright. I knew it. She knew it. We both could be certain. Unfortunately, I didn't hear the reply immediately. Jazz Thorn once more beckoned. Well, sort of.
Bootstrap
When was this? Certainly not the same time as my other visits to Jazz Thorn's life. The world felt bigger. Or, I supposed, [world] felt bigger. It was certainly the same place. In front of me was some manner of message client, emerald background with ivory text. The exchange was utterly naive and childlike, but it brought me warmth.
JN:
> So when are you going to tell your progenitor.
> You know, about being cross-coded.
> By the way, I still think it's weird you call your mother that.
LA:
> Honestly? I think she might have an idea about it. I can't put a finger on it.
> And yeah. You've told me only a hundred thousand times.
JN:
> That sounds ominous. What could go wrong? Seriously. Just tell her.
> Call it a hundred thousand one. It's weird.I stared at the exchange, trying to parse what I could. Cross-codes were transgender people. I knew that from conversations with future her. That much was clear from the idea that her mother was still in the picture.
Something took over me.
LA:
> This is going to sound crazy, but can you erase messages from this?
> You're not going to believe me, but this isn't your Lillian typing right now.
JN:
> No. I believe you. Because I don't know any Lillians.
> And yes. I can delete the messages. How can I help, not-my-Lillian?
LA:
> Fuck. Sorry. Well. Hi. My name's Lillian Thorn. I came here from.
> Well. Somewhere else. Your name is Jazz Moon.
> And I need you to erase all of this once I ask you something important.
JN:
> Fuck's sake, Lillian Thorn. I told you I believed you. Yes. I'm Jazz Moon.
> What do you need to ask?
LA:
> Have you ever read a book called Principles of Composition?
> It's about art theory.
JN:
> No? Is that it?
> Could've asked me anything.
LA:
> I need you to read that book. I think you'll understand eventually.
> Now. I need to go see my mother. Is she sick yet in your ... here?
JN:
> Sick 'yet'? Oof. That's not a good sign. But I suppose not.
LA:
> Cool. Well. Erase all of this. Don't tell Lillian about it.
JN:
> Will do. I'm stealing your name, just FYI.
> I think it'll fit her nicely.Satisfied, I left the workstation and tried desperately not to pay attention to the wrongness of Other Lillian's body. This was the most wrong I'd ever felt it, and I suddenly understood her a lot more.
I walked down the hall to Mother's room. She would probably be there.
"What's up, child," she said as I opened the door. "Having trouble sleeping?"
"Something like that," I said, crossing the room. She looked so much healthier than my version of her. "I had a question. And something to talk to you about."
"Oh? Like how you're not my kiddo?" She raised a brow.
"How can everyone tell?" I let out an exhausted moan. "I'm a different version of her ... er ... well."
"It's okay," Mother said in that calm voice she always had when I was younger. "I've known for a while. She shows all the signs."
"Well, good." I sighed, relieved, then looked around the room. Several drawings this Lillian had done. Jazz Thorn was right to say this girl was an amazing artist. "You're really proud of her," I whispered. "Good. What I'm about to say isn't going to make sense, but I need you to hear me out."
"I've already accepted that you're not my daughter," she said, shaking her head, "so I can't imagine much that would make less sense."
"Point taken," I replied around a full-body blush. "In about twenty ye— Twenty supercycles. In about that time, Lillian is going to fork The Source. She wants to try every possible outcome to make sure she doesn't hurt the world."
"She's going to survive that long?" The pain in Mother's face hurt me. She must have known about her Lillian's suicidal tendencies. "Good for her. Does she marry that friend of hers?"
"Can't tell you that, Miss Ante," I deflected, relieved I remembered her family name despite the stress. "That would spoil the fun. But she does survive. And she fulfils her dreams. And she finds a way to change the world, starting with herself."
"I'm glad to hear it," she said, clearly fighting back tears. "Alright. Ask your question."
"Oh! Almost forgot!" I moved to the bed. "How do I fix it? How do I destroy all of what she creates without hating myself for it? That's billions of people, possibly dozens of times."
"Do you have to destroy everything?" Straight to the heart of things with her. Just like my own Mother. "I assume you're a cracker like her, and if not, then that's where you need to start. What would the Sectors do in this situation?"
"We don't have cracker culture in my version of things," I corrected, "we don't even have Sectors. We have the four divine names, but they're different."
"Aria, Elia, Nihil, and Ayuna," she said as her face turned severe. "The Sectors all but killed the divinities, and that was erased from the official histories."
"How did you find out?"
"Books, girl," she offered a wistful smile. "If you know where to search for the right book, you can answer almost anything."
"The friend you mentioned. She made sure I got plenty of books," I said, appreciating Jazz Moon even more. "Somehow or other, she made sure all of her work with your daughter found its way to me."
"Good. And you're reading it, I assume?"
"Of course."
"Yet you still have questions," she said with another head shake. "Perhaps, and don't take this wrong, you may need to read it again. With a clearer head."
"Thank you, Miss Ante." I put my arm around her waist. It really felt like being back in my childhood and hugging my own mother. "I'm going to bed. Hopefully your daughter will be back by morning."
As I returned to the bedroom, I took a seat in front of the workstation. The whole conversation I'd had with Jazz was gone. All that was left was
"— a J," Jazz Star said, wide-eyed. "Jazz Moon is L!"
Just like that, I was back.