The Galaxy, and the Ground Within

by Becky Chambers

  It was odd to be enjoying such things while the sky was on fire.

  Pei was not a stranger to an atmosphere aflame, as underlined by her initial reflex to run, move, shoot, react, protect. But Gora was not a war zone. Her guns were in a locker and her real ship was elsewhere, and the Rosk border appeared in the Goran sky as nothing more than one star among millions. The current problem at hand – the sky on fire problem – was taking place in low orbit, and there was nothing a person down here could do to help the people dealing with the mess up there. Nothing but sit in your shuttle and wait, as instructed.

  Waiting was another activity Pei was accustomed to, but it almost always went hand-in-hand with preparing. The list of things she had to keep in mind when waiting for something was endless and forever increasing. She had to consider ambushes, crossfire, thievery, arguments, equipment inspections, entry trajectories, exit plans, fuel levels, bulkhead integrity, proper formwork, customs inspectors with no sense of humour, middlemen with no ethical framework, translations and digital stamps and whether or not the shields would hold this time. She had crew she could delegate to handle such things – and a damn good crew, too – but as captain, the buck stopped with her, and there was no issue that didn’t require her input, be it your pilot lost an eye or we’re out of mek, again.

  So in the approximate hour since the emergency message had come through and everyone had retreated to their respective shuttles like good little creche-kids, the primary thing Pei felt about a situation in which there was nothing for her to do but follow someone else’s instructions and wait for them to do their job was … relief.

  She felt guilty about that. This whole to-do was an ordeal for the people responsible, no question, and the ripple effects were no doubt fucking over the schedules of an entire planet full of people with places to be. She was losing a day of shore leave because of this, and that definitely soured her mood, but she was sure things were far worse for others with strict schedules and urgent business. No one had died, as far as she knew. No one in her immediate locale was hurt. Still, though, harm was harm, and she found herself wrestling between two truths until she realised neither was a zero-sum:

  This wasn’t the worst that could happen.

  It was a bad thing all the same.

  But all of this consideration was a moot point. She had no control, and no responsibility to do anything but sit and wait. That sort of permission was something she was almost never granted.

  Right or not, relief conquered guilt.

  She let her shoulders go and her head dip. From where she sat, the idea of anything being wrong seemed preposterous. It was quiet. She was safe. The garden she’d been walking in earlier was visible through her window, and the angle of the hills beyond the dome was such that she couldn’t see the sky at all. She drew her eye back to the garden, which really was lovely, in a humble way. It reminded Pei in spirit of the garden at the creche where she’d grown up, the one her father Le had tended every day. She fondly remembered the triangular beds planted specially with things for kids to poke and nibble at. Nothing bad could ever happen in that place, and she’d felt the same, for a moment, in Ouloo’s garden. She knew such sentiments weren’t true, that bad things could and did happen anywhere, but it was a nice illusion to buy into, temporarily. She allowed herself to continue indulging in that fantasy, even though she knew the view above told a different story.

  As her mind quieted, thoughts began to drift freely, and Pei began to idly pick at their threads, feeling her cheeks shift colour this way and that as she did so. It was important for her, in her line of work, to scrutinise the things going on within herself, and she did this sort of maintenance in any spare moment she had. The immediate state of affairs was one she’d unravelled easily, and had no need to examine further. But there was a bigger snarl beyond, one she’d been wrestling with for tendays. She’d made small progress with it, and the more she picked, the more she found its messy components trying to entwine with one another, like roots planted too close together. She wished she had Le’s garden shears, that she might chop it apart and be done with it.

  She exhaled, running a palm over the crown of her head. She was so tired of the tangles, so tired of immediately running into them anytime her mind wandered as it liked. This was not the time for it, she told herself. There truly was a problem outside, disconnected from it though she was. She’d been told to take shelter and stay calm. The former was easy; the latter was a treat. She saw no need to muddy the time she’d been given with things that would not leave her be.

  Pei pushed with steady firmness back against the eelim, prompting it to recline all the way down. She eased into the supportive nest, folding her hands across her chest, allowing herself the comfort of being cradled. Through the skylight overhead, the remains of a weather tracker tumbled into distant view, flaming like tinder as they hit the thin air. She shut her eyes before the pieces ceased burning. Within minutes, she was asleep.

  Received message

  Encryption: 0

  From: GC Transit Authority – Gora System (path: 487-45411-479-4)

  To: Ooli Oht Ouloo (path: 5787-598-66)

  Subject: URGENT UPDATE

  This is an urgent message from the Emergency Response Team aboard the GC Transit Authority Regional Management Orbiter (Gora System). As both standard ansible and Linking channels are currently unavailable, we will be communicating via the emergency beacon network for the time being. We ask that you leave your scribs locked to this channel until proper communications are restored.

  This is not a full all-clear. Individuals on the planet’s surface may now move freely within habitat domes, but surface travel between domes is not recommended. All spaceworthy vessels are required to stay grounded until further notice. No launches or landings are permitted at this time.

  We are continuing to work with the Goran Satellite Cooperative to fully assess the situation. What we know as of now is as follows:

  Earlier today, a hardware failure disrupted a routine satellite course adjustment procedure. This created a cascade collision, which at this time has damaged or otherwise negatively affected an estimated seventy-eight percent of the Goran satellite fleet. This percentage is expected to grow over time, as there is still damaged hardware in descent. As you have likely already noticed, this has disrupted communications channels planetwide.

  The circumstances surrounding this hardware failure have yet to be thoroughly investigated, but initial data suggests this incident was both accidental and mechanical in nature. We are aware of rumours regarding an untracked asteroid or orbital weapons fire. These rumours are completely false.

  As always, your safety is our top priority, both on- and off-world. It remains our goal to have launch and landing capabilities restored within approximately one GC standard day, and are working to find solutions as quickly as possible.

  Thank you for your patience. We are all in this together.

  ROVEG

  All-clear or no, Roveg was in no hurry to leave his shuttle, not when things could drop out of the sky at any moment. He’d brewed more mek and put on some music, and was quite comfortable among his own walls and decor. The urge he’d had upon landing to get out and see something new had faded. Comfortable and familiar were what his nerves needed now, and though he trusted that everything was indeed under control, he saw no need to rush back outside.

  The wall vox switched on. ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Friend said. ‘There is a visitor at the hatch who wishes to speak with you.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Roveg asked. He assumed it was Ouloo, checking in.

  Friend paused as it asked a question at the other end of the ship. ‘Her name is Speaker,’ the AI said.

  Roveg lowered his cup of mek. He hadn’t spoken to the Akarak, but he had overheard Ouloo using her name. Curious. He thought for a moment. ‘Allow her to come aboard,’ he said. He’d never talked to an Akarak before, and felt it was best to experience such moments face to face. He drained his cup, got to
his feet, and headed for the airlock.

  The noise of the Akarak’s mech suit walking through the hatch was louder than the machinations of the hatch itself. Stars, but the suit was unwieldy – and ugly, too. He wondered, as he looked at her, how she moved when she wasn’t inside of the thing. In truth, he had difficulty picturing an Akarak without a suit, for he’d never seen one that way. The whole business was disconcerting, what with not being able to smell her. Roveg took in more of the world through smell than through sight, and the Akarak being tucked away behind metal and plex made her feel ghostly, artificial, more like a bot than a person.

  The Akarak, however, quickly made him rewrite that impression. Within her cockpit, she bowed her torso forward. Her body could not have been more different than his, but the gesture was understood all the same. Roveg bowed as well, as was his custom. It was a pleasant surprise, to be doing this with someone like her.

  ‘Thank you for inviting me in,’ Speaker said. ‘I hope I’m not intruding. I would’ve been happy to talk outside.’

  Again, Roveg experienced a note of surprise. He’d heard that Akaraks were maddeningly difficult to converse with. You could count on a language barrier the size of a small moon, he’d been told. But Speaker’s Klip was flawless, delivered with the affable, neutral vowels you’d hear humming around the respectable cities of Central space. She sounded like someone from a diplomat’s office, or a recording studio. The thing that marked her as someone who didn’t use Klip as her primary language wasn’t a particular accent, but rather the absence of any sort of accent whatsoever.

  Roveg was intrigued.

  ‘It’s no intrusion at all,’ he said. ‘You’re Speaker, yes?’

  ‘Yes. And you’re—’

  ‘Roveg,’ he said with another little bow. A thought occurred to him, and he straightened up quickly. ‘Are you all right? That thing that came down didn’t hit your ship, did it?’ He hadn’t planned on having a shuttle guest, and he didn’t particularly want one, but if need be, he had the space.

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ Speaker said. ‘You?’

  ‘No, not a scratch. Safe and snug, I’m happy to say. So what is it that I might do for you?’

  Within her cockpit, Speaker picked up a device – an Akarak-sized scrib, Roveg belatedly realised. He’d never seen one so small, but then, the device didn’t look mass-manufactured. This was a hand-hacked object, as evidenced by the thick glue around the edges, the mismatched screws at the seams. Speaker gestured at the screen, and as she did so, Roveg experienced a peculiar dissonance. He knew that the individual within the cockpit and the mech suit itself were not one entity, but it was strange all the same to see an Aandrisk-sized bipedal figure – a body type he was well accustomed to encountering – standing lifeless, hands at its sides, while the tiny person within its metal head busied herself with other things.

  ‘Well, that’s actually what I came to find out,’ Speaker said. She looked up, but on her way to meet his gaze, her eye was caught by the projection mat covering the ceiling above. The active rendering displayed the sort of sky you’d see on a typical spring day in the equatorial regions of Sohep Frie – seafoam green with lazy wisps of cloud. Speaker pulled a lever, tilting the suit’s torso back so she could view it from a better angle. ‘That’s … beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Roveg said. He glanced up with her, admiring the everyday sight with pride. ‘I’m rather pleased with it.’ She cocked her head at him, and he explained: ‘I’m a sim designer. I made this.’

  ‘Oh, nice,’ she said, still looking at the ceiling. ‘Do all Quelin ships have projections like these? I’ve never been in one of your vessels before.’

  ‘No, no. This is just one of my own fancies. What’s the fun in only making things for other people to enjoy?’

  The Akarak watched the digital clouds drift and sway. ‘Must eat up a lot of power,’ she said.

  ‘It does,’ Roveg said. ‘But it’s entirely worth it if you’re going to be off-world for a while. Helps keep my head clear. I can only do spacer life in small doses.’

  ‘I see,’ Speaker said, still watching the clouds. Her tone was hiding something, but Roveg couldn’t determine what.

  ‘Sorry,’ Roveg said, ‘but you … I didn’t quite understand what you were getting at before my clouds interrupted us. You said you were wondering … what I can do?’

  ‘Yes,’ Speaker said. She righted the mech suit and held her scrib at the ready. Roveg tried not to stare at her hands. Hands were an odd-enough alien feature to begin with, but he was accustomed to slender Aeluon digits and bold Aandrisk claws, not the backward hooks that sprouted from each of her wrists like gnarled thorns. Something about them made Roveg’s antennae bristle nervously, but he shoved the errant feeling aside. Speaker looked at him, her wet vertebrate eyes sharp and focused. ‘I’m making the rounds and finding out what skills everybody here at the Five-Hop has.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked. He didn’t understand the point of this endeavour.

  The feeling was clearly mutual, because Speaker looked back at him with a gaze that seemed to say why wouldn’t you? ‘It’s an emergency. We need to know who can contribute what.’

  Roveg looked out the window in the bulkhead beside him. Everything outside appeared exactly as it had hours before. ‘Has something more happened?’ he asked with a stab of concern. Had he missed something important while sitting on his belly and drinking mek?

  Speaker stared at him. ‘Something more than the planet’s satellite network falling apart?’

  ‘Well, I – I mean, of course, that’s serious, and an emergency for those who have to sort it out, but all’s well for us on the ground, isn’t it? Barring more sudden landings?’

  ‘For now,’ Speaker said. ‘But we have no idea how long this is going to drag on, and comms are severely limited. If something happens, it’d be wise for us to know how we might handle it.’

  This seemed unnecessarily cautious to Roveg, and a tad silly to boot. ‘The Transit Authority said it’d be a day,’ he said.

  Speaker looked at him, saying nothing, tangibly unconvinced.

  ‘Well,’ Roveg said. He felt as though he’d lost an argument, but hadn’t the faintest notion of what the argument was. ‘I’m good with tech.’

  Speaker made an entry on her scrib. ‘Mech tech or comp tech?’

  ‘Both,’ he said, ‘but in rather superficial ways. I can patch a fuel line or fix a buggy input panel, but I can’t, say, build an engine or recode an AI.’

  ‘That’s not superficial, that’s great,’ Speaker said, gesturing her input with efficient speed. ‘You’re saying you can fix everyday stuff, but nothing too specialised.’

  ‘Exactly. Or, well … it depends on what sort of item we’re discussing.’

  ‘Got it. What else? Don’t just think of things related to your profession. Think of every practical thing you know how to do, even if it seems trivial.’

  Roveg was unprepared to deliver such a résumé on the fly, and had never really taken inventory of himself in this way before. ‘I can … hmm. I can pilot a ship. I know how your average life support system works. I can write well.’

  ‘In what languages?’

  ‘Klip and Tellerain, same as I speak. I understand a bit of Hanto and Reskitkish, slowly, but I don’t speak either.’ He gave a short, good-natured laugh. ‘Trust me, you don’t want me to try.’

  ‘Can you read Aeluon colours?’

  ‘About as well as anybody who hasn’t studied. I can gauge a general sense of what they’re feeling, not what they’re saying.’

  Speaker logged every word. ‘What about first aid?’

  Roveg did not foresee a scenario in which this would be necessary, but he played along. ‘For my own species, yes, in a very, very basic sense. I could bandage someone’s shell for long enough to get xyr to a doctor. For any other sapient, no.’

  ‘What about your needs? What should the rest of us know about?’

  ‘In regards to �
��?’

  ‘Allergies, health issues, that kind of thing.’

  Roveg felt nervous at the question, just as he had with the query about first aid. What did the Akarak think was going to happen here? They were stuck in a hab dome filled with cakes and blooming hedges, not crash-landed on an asteroid or venting oxygen into space. But Speaker was making her enquiries with earnest, and he did not want to insult her, no matter how alarmist he found this line of questioning. ‘No allergies. Well … that is, none beyond the norm for my species. I wouldn’t react favourably to physical contact with a Harmagian or to a meal made with suddet root, but I don’t see any danger of either of those situations taking place, given our present company. And I’m in perfect health, or so my bots tell me. No underlying issues, mental or physical.’

  ‘Good,’ Speaker said. ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Oh, and I can read annotated galaxy charts,’ he said. ‘That’s not a health matter, but it is a thing I can do.’

  Speaker added a note about that. ‘You and Captain Tem both, in that regard.’

  ‘That’s the Aeluon?’

  ‘Yes. I already spoke to her, and with both of our hosts.’

  ‘Saved the best interview for last, eh?’ he said congenially.

  Speaker paused, and did not mirror his light banter. ‘To be honest, I … wasn’t sure if you’d speak to me at all.’ She paused again, as though she were still processing. ‘I definitely didn’t think you’d invite me in.’

  ‘Ah,’ Roveg said. He needed no explanation as to why she thought this. ‘Rest assured, while I may share my species’ aversion to suddet root, I do not recoil from socialising with other sapients. On the contrary, I highly value any opportunity to do so.’ He lowered his torso with gracious slowness. ‘In fact, I’d be very glad to chat more with you, Speaker, on subjects less dire. It seems we have the time!’