Free Moonstar by David Gerrold Page A

doll. Hojanna said she was the first of my dolls that I had named myself. Once a year, shortly before my birthday, Gahoostawik would always disappear for a few days, returning only just in time for the inevitable party—but always dressed up with a new coat of paint and new hair; if she needed it, and always a new set of clothes to match the new ones I received. I guess I always regarded her as a special kind of sibling, closer than a twin. Gahoostawik grew up with me, part of me, but separate, like a little alter ego, as if I could sometimes view myself from a slightly removed perspective. All of us had our own special dolls that we kept protected from the others. Some dolls were not for sharing—as if even the touch of another child would contaminate them with an alien identity.
    â€œLater on, there were other dolls—Wallan, Bargle, Arlie and T’stanawan—but Gahoostawik remained the one at the center of the circle. I guess I was the spoiled brat of the family; every time we had a holiday, a festive or just a visit from a distant relative, I received another doll. Part of it, I guess, was that they had to give me something to play with so I wouldn’t bother the adults while they talked—but part of it, I think, was the game we always played while we tried to make a name for the new doll.
    â€œEvery doll had to have a name that fit her personality—and sometimes the search would go on for several triads with a variety of names being tried on for size until we found one that seemed to fit. It confused my family no end to hear me call a doll by one name on one day and then by another on the next. You could almost hear Grandpere Suko cringe every time I got a new doll—‘Oh, no; here we go again.’ And then, you could always hear her long sigh of relief when the name was finally settled. ‘Well, thank Reethe for that.’
    â€œBecause I was small for my age, I spent a lot of time running with the younger siblings; most of my friends were at least a year younger than I—it made me feel like a leader. I suppose I felt a little out of place with them because of the perceived age difference—even six months can be a lot to a child—but not as out of place as I felt with those who were supposed to be my peers. Many of the latter seemed to be too much in a hurry to grow up, they used to talk of Choice long before they were even near the age of blush. They would wonder aloud whether it was best to have a penis or vagina and they would relate all the information and misinformation they had heard about the various advantages and disadvantages of each. ‘You have to squat to pee if you choose Reethe—’ ‘But you can’t have babies if you go for Dakka—’ ‘Reethe will make you top-heavy—’ ‘And Dakka makes you swell and dangle—’
    â€œThose who had reached blush were like explorers going on ahead, but something about the territory changed them. Even as they sparkled with their newfound knowledge, even as they glowed, they grew separated from their childish pasts. And they became reluctant to send back any but the tersest and most obscure of messages about what lay ahead for the rest of us—even though they claimed they were being quite coherent; it was just the lack of common experience that made it hard to understand what they were speaking of—they used words we’d never heard before. ‘When you get there, you’ll know,’ was the easiest answer for them to give, and consequently the thought of blush became as terrifying as it was intriguing.
    â€œWe used to imitate them a lot, not really knowing if it was in homage or hostility. We mocked them, yet we envied them, exaggerated all the things they did that seemed extreme or false. We used to paint ourselves with adult faces or try on adult clothes—we giggled with pretended blush. We posed and postured and tried to see ourselves as