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The second difference I recognized was sex.
That realisation came while I was standing knee-deep in one of my favorite stretches of the ringriver. Just downstream of the canyonlands — what Mother called “antispinward”, opposite to the rotation of the ship — the river was dotted with a cluster of small islands planted with cherry trees. If you were daring enough, the island chain could be reached from the riverbank by leaping the foaming water via a series of broad flat rocks. Every 120 days the island’s trees would burst into flower, their pink-white blossoms cascading into the air with the gentlest breeze from the stern. We always tried to time our arrival to witness the quiet majesty of the trees in full blossom, dappled with clusters of white flowers like snow.
Zuri and I were standing deep enough in the water to have our calves brushed by the tiny bobbing boats of floating blossoms. The air was filled with the faintest scent of almonds.
She suddenly turned and looked at me. “Do you like touching it?”
“What?”
Her eyes moved fractionally downward. “That.”
“Oh. Of course.” It was a source of pleasure. Why wouldn’t I?
She nodded. “I like it too.”
That surprised me. I hadn’t thought of Zuri having feelings in the same way. “How often?”
She shrugged. “Two, three times a day. Whenever.” She bent at the waist, letting the blossoms drift around her fingertips.
That about lined up with my own experience. “Show me?”
She turned to me and smiled. “I’d rather have you do it.”
“Oh.” My body suddenly felt warm and tingly all over, like it was swelling from within. “Okay.” I waded a little deeper in the water to her side, the blossoms parting in my wake.
“Here.” She held my wrist, guiding my hand between her legs.
“No!” The shout was loud, a cry of panic. We turned together. Our mother was striding towards us from the beach, water splashing around her.
We were instantly frozen in fear. Mother never raised her voice, not even when we ventured too deep into the river or put something in our mouths we shouldn’t.
“No,” she repeated, softer. She took our hands in hers. “Come with me, both of you.” She tugged us back towards the riverbank.
By the time we returned to the blanket, Zuri was quivering, her eyes on the edge of tears. My stomach was tense, waves of hot tingly sensations racing through my body, the frontlines of battles between emotions I could not name.
“Here.” She guided us to sit beside her, so that we formed a stable triangle, her hands brushing our arms. “It’s alright. I’m not angry.”
“You’re not?” Our mother’s approval meant everything to us. Without her Zuri and I were rudderless, utterly lost.
“No.” Her warm hands stroked reassuringly. “It just ... happened earlier than I expected.”
“It?” Zuri’s large dark eyes were still wet. “You mean touching each other?”
“Yes.” She looked between us both. “It ... it isn’t wrong. But it can’t happen yet.”
“Yet?” I looked at Zuri again, feeling an echo of that warm swelling feeling, even as I wanted to comfort her, hold her.
“Soon. When you’re a little older. But not now.”
Soon. The feeling of pressure eased a little as my curiosity grew.
“When?” Zuri asked, surprising me.
“In a few years. When you are 14. For now ... you keep that to yourselves. You can touch at any time you want, but no touching of each other. Not in that way. Promise me.”
We both nodded.
“I know... “ She looked away for a moment. “I mean, I have some idea how strong those feelings can be. It’s okay to have them whenever you want or need to. But not with each other. Not right now.”
“Okay.” Seven years seemed like forever. And the restriction was weird and arbitrary; I felt good around Zuri, and she around me. I loved her without measure. What could possibly be wrong about making each other feel good? But we obeyed our mother.
During the first seven years of our lives, the habitat was our creche. We learned nature from the experience of being in it, science from watching the effects of the Coriolis force inside the ship. Mother added to this with lessons in philosophy, science and meditation. Simple things, like reason and logic, biology and Newtonian mechanics, were extended to argument and inquiry, and how to observe our own thoughts. But after a time, she told us that wasn’t enough.
The things we carried then were few: some flasks for water, a tarpaulin for when it rained, a wooden digging tool to bring up roots and tubers, and our tartan rug blanket, which did triple duty as a towel, sleeping surface, and shade. Almost everything else the factotums would print and recycle the same day.
At eight years old, Zuri and I were given the first exceptions: precious things we had to keep.
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