by David Bowles
An image of Jitsu rotated, slowly growing craterous blemishes on its sickly surface. At the bottom of the image, holographic numbers gradually flicked from 2530 to 2555, presumably the time span of the mining.
“But the environment was totally devastated, plants and animals in danger of extinction, and the thin atmosphere was getting unbreathable. The Consortium of Planets, Corporations and Colonies tried to get Soltec to repair the damage, and the company dumped that responsibility on the employees living here. Our ancestors. The solidarity required to effect such an enormous task created a sense of community in those living on Ares, and in 2585 they petitioned the CPCC for independent colony status. The Diet refused.”
Scenes of an aging Dédalo Mostrenco gesturing angrily from a dais before the legislature of human space scrolled above them. Brando grimaced inwardly. The Diet hadn’t simply refused: Soltec had forced it to. Mostrenco had considerable pull in the interstellar Diet and had not only gotten the petition refused but also Ares’ semi-autonomy cancelled. The company wanted to keep Ares as a stopover, where ships headed deeper into space, toward Mu Cassiopeiae 2 and beyond, could refuel and get repaired.
“For the next eighteen years, they called our planet the Fueling Station,” continued the speaker as the images showed ships zipping out of the roiling blue mouth of the imrizabu and into Eta Cassiopeiae 2. The hologram shifted toward the planet again, where an early version of Station City was under attack by brown-robed guerillas. “Finally, in 2603, a group of Pathwalkers called the Ami ki Jitsuno Ominira took control of Soltec’s headquarters on Ares and declared the planet an independent colony, renaming it in honor of the Holy Mother of the 3rd dispensation, Domina Ditis. Jitsu in Baryogo. The AJO was well organized and most of the population supported them, so it was relatively simple for them to come up with a comprehensive charter and government. But Soltec didn't want to let us go, and it had the Diet in its pocket. Sixteen years of war came next, which only ended because Mostrenco died in an explosive suicide that closed the Conduit forever.”
The holographic image shifted abruptly to the mouth of the imrizabu as it collapsed in a sputter of indigo. It had been a defining moment for the CPCC, history professors had assured Brando. Jitsu and the other six worlds on the far side of the Conduit—five in the Nereus system and one hugging Mu Cassiopeiae B—were physically cut off from humanity till the Lieske drive was invented almost fifty years later.
Kikwete gestured at the micstrand before him. “We could still communicate with the Consortium by tunneling, though, and in 2621, as some here today will recall, Jitsu petitioned the CPCC for independent colony status, and they recognized us. Ten years later, we had ambassadors on the other corporate worlds that were still part of the CPCC, the only part of it existing this far from Sol, and by 2638, our first university was built right outside Juresh. When the first Centauri-based AF ships defenestrated outside our system two decades later, we had already established our own way of life.
“We won our independence, and we’ll keep on rebuilding our world to show fellow humans everywhere the strength of the Path they name Neo Gnosticism and the good things it can add to our interstellar society. There’s still considerable work to do, cleaning up the southern continent and then the Salty Sea, but we’ll get it done, Pathwalker and off-worlder, side by side, united for Jitsu’s future.”
Kikwete’s closing phrase was greeted by thunderous applause, though Brando noted that some people held back, specifically non-Pathwalkers whose experience with extreme Dominians had made them wary of Jitsu's jingoistic tendencies. With a sweeping bow, the speaker introduced the man who would address the audience next.
“Please, welcome our special guest, Major Michiyu Sosa, hero and patriarch!”
The crowd surged to its feet as the ninety-six-year-old soldier stepped sprightly onto the stage and took a bow. When they'd quieted down, his raspy voice boomed out authoritatively.
“I won’t speak as long as my brother here, because like yall, I want to see the performances. Just want to remind yall, while we sit under this amazing pavilion, what we fought for. The right to follow The Path. The Ogdoad made that infidel Mostrenco kill himself in the Conduit for a reason: so that we could pursue our salvation with no interference from outsiders. As long as we don't forget that fundamental truth, the fight wasn't in vain.”
Brando looked around for Tenshi as the applause rippled throughout the throng. He wanted to gauge her reaction. But if she was nearby, it was somewhere she couldn't be easily noticed.
Probably meant to calm the Dominians. Don't want a big scene, I bet. All this construction has them bent out of shape, no doubt. Then Kikwete, a major reformer, makes the dedication speech. Let them save a little face, this way. Smart.
As the major left, a gnarled man with silver locs took his place on the stage. In his corded hands was an unfamiliar instrument—an almost spherical body, long neck, with two wood handles on either side.
A hushed awe settled over the crowd. Brando quietly queried for information. His lenses displayed information in the air above the elder.
Though the language was dense and full of unfamiliar allusions, Brando managed to follow that deep and creaky voice. As his fingers plucked at his instrument, Soriba Kamara sang a fragment of his massive ballad, describing the second Oracle’s selection of Ajabu Rangachira as Jitsu’s first archon after he had demonstrated his connection to the Ogdoad.
Once the strings of the kora fell silent, it was time for the other performers. There were dancers, singers, magicians, programmers, comedians, and more. A bit of everything, from Mars, the Jovian platforms, the extra-solar Consortium settlements, the half-dozen older corporate worlds, and nearly every other niche humanity had managed to insinuate itself into.
All except Earth, and Brando would be representing it, so to speak, after this next act, a Pathwalker dance that most people seemed familiar with because as it was announced the applause was deafening.
While he was debating once again just which of the songs to sing—or which to sing first, in the event that he was well received—the dance began. There was no music, just a slow, complex rhythm clapped out by the dancers as they slowly shuffled their feet, shifting their bodies in a series of syncopated shudders. There was a gradual build-up, both in speed and complexity, over the course of two minutes or so, till the dancers broke out into a sweeping display of leaps and spins, their white linen suits whistling and full of wind, their feet constantly stomping the stage except when pushing their bodies into the air. The dancers' hands became a blur as they twisted and twirled and exploded in a thousand complex movements of hair, clothes, limbs.
Soon their eyes closed, and their hands began to sustain a peculiar, almost eerie beat that the audience, at least the Neogs, began to pick up and echo in their clapping and stomping.
“Mothergod,” Brando muttered.
“Amazing, no?”
Brando was startled out of his near trance. It was Tenshi, hair down, a sleeveless white linen dress cinched loosely about her waist with a multi-colored scarf that accentuated her hips.
“What is it? Why are their eyes closed? What’s all this weird clapping?”
“The wende.”
“The windy what?”
“No. Wende. An Oturituno—that is, Pathwalker—word. A state. When someone’s self reaches out, tries to become a soul. The dancers are attempting to touch the Eight, you see. You get a feeling, Brando. Like zazen, but stronger. The world fades away. Just you and the Eight, stretching out, wanting contact. We call it the Blue in Standard.”
“Wait. You call it the Blue?”
“Yes. Awomi. Sacred color of Sopiya. You seem startled. Everything okay?”
Brando felt the oddest twist in his gut. Coincidences always had that effect on him. He understood their statist
ical likelihood, but he couldn't help the shivers that spread throughout his body.
“I know what song I’ve got to sing.”
“Inspired?”
“Kind of.”
Tenshi suddenly tilted her head and stared off into space, as if listening to the Ogdoad herself. A moment of cognitive dissonance made Brando imagine she was the Oracle, snuck out of her hideaway and brought to regale all humanity with the wende. But of course, it was just a comring she wore in her ear; her sub vocalic response was not a schizoid break. He could have slapped himself for such idiotic and indulgent fantasies.
“Excuse me. Talk to you after?”
“Yeah, course. Wish me luck.”
“Don't believe in it. Do your very best, though. Show them what you’ve got.”
Somehow that was much better than “good luck” could ever be.
His name was announced, and he ascended the steps, unconsciously wiping the sweat from his palms. A stool was brought out, as was his guitar, and he sat before the crowd, quickly adjusting the strings' tuning. He lifted his face, the first of Jitsu's suns dipping below the horizon behind him.
“When I was a child,” he told the audience,” my father sang me this song. It always meant a lot to me, and I think you'll find something in for you if you listen closely. It's pretty short, so if you indulge me, I’ll sing it three times: in Italian, one of my native languages, in Standard, and in Baryogo. The last two are my own translations: if there's any mistakes in them, they're mine, not my pappà's. He only made one mistake in all his life, as far as I know.”
What the hell am I saying?
He began strumming softly, and sang:
“Penso che un sogno cosi non ritorni mai piu: Mi dipingevo le mani e la faccia di blu.”
Polite. Attentive. They like the music though. Would pappà approve?
“Volare, cantare nel blu dipinto di blu, felice de stare lassu.”
Into the bridge now; pappà always did that syncopated strumming here. Try it, then slow to picking. The music. The Blue.
“Una musica dolce suonava sol tanto per me.”
And the music began to resonate just for him. The people faded away. Tenshi’s buildings flowed around him, thrumming in harmony, the deepening azure of the sky trembling above.
Brando switched to Baryogo, and line niboraru, nikantaru en paransek awomi rai pin fit seamlessly with the dance he’d just seen. Something was speaking to him, something just beyond the edges of perception. The song was drawing him closer, and his heart beat madly in his chest, yearning for an unfathomable union.
His voice rough with emotion, he repeated the song final time, in Standard, drawing out the bars, slowing the tempo until the song became a hymn:
Impossible that such a dream could ever come true:
I am smearing my hands and face with luxurious blue,
When of a sudden the wind gusts like some divine sigh
And lifts me gradually into the infinite sky.
Then, ripping through his soul, came the refrain.
“I'm dying,” the lake, cold and dead, “I'm flying,” the sky, mockingly clear, “into the blue-spangled blue, happy to be born anew.”
As tears began running down his cheeks, he clutched his guitar and quickly left the stage as the crowd clapped and whistled with gusto.
That’s not how I first translated that line, he thought, shuddering, overcome. “Happy to be there with you.” If I were only able to, Pappà. If you had only given me the chance.
He remembered standing at the lake’s southernmost edge, water warmed to just above freezing by huge geothermal heat conductors beneath the surface. Still, blue tinged white, an expansive mirror in which he had seen himself framed by the sky.
Jump. Jump. Your own father despises you so much that he left without a word.
No. He spoke.
Oh, yes. That’s right. Came into your room, didn’t he? What for? He wanted that belt, the one he’d lent you. You stirred, opened your eyes, and he said…
Go to sleep, son.
His last words to you. And what sleep do we know so tritely lasts forever?
Death.
That’s right, Brando. Now jump.
He’d shaken off the voice for a second and tilted his head as far back as possible, peering at the sky. His father was out there, now, a clichéd god-figure in the sky. But what a breath-taking sky, so deeply blue it seemed layered, swaths of azure one atop another.
What do you think you are? It had seemed to jeer at him. Insignificant. Do you really think your death means anything? The world will continue spinning beneath me long after you’ve gone, long after every living thing on this planet has been consumed by time, long after I deepen to black. Kill yourself, if that’s what you wish. Just don’t pretend anyone will care. The only one who could possibly care is you, and if you don’t, the universe can’t be bothered to, either.
“Brando?”
He finished sealing his guitar into its case with a quick slide of his finger and stood to face Tenshi, who looked at his drying tears with a puzzled expression.
“Kanshon mishgutachu ka?” The switch to Baryogo was deliberate: he wanted her to speak her mind at ease, in her native language. He desperately needed to hear her say certain things and hoped this change would make her more comfortable, make her open up to him like he desperately wanted. Needed.
“Yes, I did. Incredible job. Excellent singing for a professor, though the song probably appealed more to the Dominians than the reformers. It was neutral enough, though, and very—pretty.”
“Thanks. I changed some things around, last minute. It’s really supposed to be a love song, not a reflection on enlightenment. But, hey, interpretation is a tricky thing.”
“That’s why I was never big on literature. I prefer things that are simply what they appear to be.”
“Describes me perfectly. I’m an Italian professor of linguistics with an adequate singing voice. Nothing lurks beneath the surface.”
“I’d like to believe that, Brando, though something tells me you’re more complicated than you’ll admit.”
He shrugged in reply. She motioned him toward the back exit behind the stage.
“Arojin Meji Pishan has arranged for several like minds to meet at the Majority Leader’s flat in Juresh. We’re going discuss the massacre and what the reformer reaction should be, especially in light of the Dominians’ immediate attempts to spin the incident and incite anti-outsider sentiment. I realize you’re probably not completely up to snuff on our political situation, but it’d be good to have someone from the University there.”
“Sure. Count me in.”
Who cares about the politics? I just need to spend time closer to her. It was irrational. They only just met, but he felt an emotional hunger gnawing at him, and either it would be satiated now, or he would begin to despair.
Nodding his thanks to the other participants who congratulated him, Brando hurried out the exit behind Tenshi. She led him through the maze of stalls and galleries on the north side of the pavilion to the administrative landing pad. Her transport, a sleek black machine that reflected the setting sun’s reddish light in a dull maroon haze, opened its access port at the touch of her hand, and they both clambered inside and sat at the interface. She instructed it to fly to the Speaker’s residence, and they settled in for the ten-minute flight.
“Who’s going to be at this little get-together?” Brando asked.
“Obviously the Speaker and Meji Pishan, who’ll probably be named Kinguyama’s new giya...”
“Don’t prefects select giya? Hard to believe your uncle would put a reformer in charge of the teyopan he once controlled.”
“No, of course not. But there’s a strong reformer faction in the town, and they intend on petitioning the Archon himself to choose Pishan. Most of the teyopanjin support them, despite any political differences. They’ve built up a great reputation, having been a stable part of the town’s Council of Anshyano for more than a deca
de. I can’t imagine the Archon not saying yes if 80% of the teyopanjin want them as giya.”
“The Archon’s been leaning toward reforms anyway, hasn’t he?”
“Yes. He’s the one who established the Chamber of Deputies eight years ago and guaranteed last year’s clean elections, which made us reformers the legislative majority. You’ll also get to meet Jitsu’s Minister of Immigration, Omero Mori; the mayor of Station City, Seni Chunhawan; and the prefect of the nearly completely reformer Arusha district, Yuki Umkapa.”
“Mothergod. I’m going be so out of place.”
“Not true, you’ll hold your own with them, believe me. They’ve got fancy titles. Otherwise, they’re quite accessible. Promise.”
“Fine. Just don’t expect me to do much talking; I don’t understand the situation well enough to have formed an expressible opinion.”
“I’m sure they’ll do more than enough talking for all of us. That’s what they’re good at.”
A silence settled over both of them, but it was a comfortable quiet, not the uneasy lack of anything to say that mars so many forced conversations. They regarded each other quietly, both marveling at how nice it felt to sit across from someone without feeling the need to yap away about absolutely nothing.
After a minute or two of this, a soft blip from the terminal announced their proximity to Speaker Kikwete’s flat in downtown Juresh. The transport autoed down onto the tarmac, where the Speaker’s wife Sachiko waited to escort them inside. The number of transports on the pad seemed to indicate that the majority of the invited parties had already arrived; once inside, Brando could see this was true.
Kikwete greeted them as they walked in, his long sideburns pointing to his lips as if to signal his office; Umkapa stood from the cushion she’d been sitting on to incline her shaved head in their direction; Pishan and Mori raised their drinks in welcome, the former’s lighter honey-toned skin contrasting with the ebony depth of the latter’s; and the heavily tattooed mayor of Station City welcomed them in halting Baryogo: