Ascending (The Vardeshi Saga Book 1)

by Meg Pechenick

  Hathan said quietly, “You’re not alone in wishing for a fresh start. I think it’s a good idea. If you’re fully recovered, you can resume your duties in the morning. Novi.”

  Novi. That single word told me everything I needed to know. The warmth of it spread through me like a swig of whiskey on a winter night. I had only a moment to savor it before he said, “Do you have any other requests?”

  “No.” I looked down at my notebook. “Wait. Yes. My technology? Can I pick it up now? I asked Khiva about it, but she told me to talk to you.”

  Hathan went completely still. “Your technology,” he repeated.

  “My Earth tech? My computer and everything? I was ordered to turn it in . . .” Seeing the look on his face, I broke off.

  “Eyvri,” he said slowly, “there’s something I have to tell you.”

  I sat in appalled silence while he explained that although to all appearances my technology had been powered down and inactive when I submitted it to Requisitions, there had been a suspicion that it might contain hidden transmitters or explosive devices. After the communications network failed and the signal disruptor was found in my quarters, that suspicion became a real concern.

  “Sohra took your devices apart and investigated them under my supervision,” Hathan said. “You shouldn’t hold her responsible. It was done on my initiative. Afterward the pieces were expelled through an airlock. It was an extreme measure, but it seemed justified at the time. I should have told you sooner, but I just didn’t think of it.”

  “It’s . . . gone?” I said.

  “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry.” He did look contrite, and a little anxious. I pressed my lips tightly together to contain the words that threatened to spill out. Recriminations were useless. He had already apologized. But not even in the midst of the tribunal had I felt such unmitigated rage. It was a petty betrayal, but it still stung, all the more for its being so unexpected. I had been prepared to live without the things the Vardeshi had taken from me. But I had thought they were done taking them away.

  When I thought I could trust my voice again, I said, “It’s all right. I’m just surprised. But I guess you guys had to take every precaution.”

  “The original files are stored on Earth, yes? The ones you lost were duplicates?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  I downplayed my distress as best I could, but there was a hollow feeling in my chest, and I was glad when he was gone and I could stop pretending that it wasn’t there.

  I was almost but not quite late for morning briefing the next day. I had lingered in the sanitation room a few moments longer than was strictly necessary, studying my reflection. I’d missed my uniform. Putting it on felt like slipping back into a boyfriend’s sweatshirt or one of my mother’s sweaters: there was something deeply comforting about it, something that had nothing to do with the garment itself, but rather with an association of warmth or scent. Or, in this case, belonging. Novi Alkhat, I thought, welcome back. It’s been a long time.

  Arriving at the axis chamber, I sat down next to Zey and took out my flexscreen, wishing I’d had time to stop at the mess hall for a hot drink. As if on cue, Ahnir pushed something toward me across the table. It was my thermos. I took it, surprised, and unscrewed the top. Steam fragrant with the scent of coffee wafted up from within.

  “I hope it’s all right,” Ahnir said. “I’ve watched you make it often enough.”

  “Thank you.” I tasted it. “It’s really good.” Actually it was a little weak, but I would have drunk engine coolant if Ahnir had prepared it for me with his own hands. I knew how much he disliked the smell of coffee. It was as poignant a signal as any I could have imagined that the cultural exchange was no longer a one-way street. If I hadn’t known how much the Vardeshi disliked effusiveness of any kind, I would have hugged him. As it was, I had to blink hard at my flexscreen to dispel the tears that threatened to gather. I took another sip and began pulling up the agenda for the meeting. It occurred to me that, for the first time in three full months, I was consuming something I hadn’t made for myself. I had brewed senek for the others dozens of times, but even two days ago, with my arm still heavily bandaged from the shooting, I had cooked my own meals.

  It caught me off guard when Ziral was the first to speak, but then I remembered her promotion. Hathan, as suvi, had run briefings in the past; now that duty fell to her. She began, as I had been afraid she would, by acknowledging my return to service. She explained that I had resumed my position on a provisional basis and that I wasn’t to be questioned or pressured in any way while I weighed my various options. Embarrassed, I toyed with the studs on my uniform sleeve until the topic shifted to status updates from the various departments. I listened more attentively than usual to Vethna’s engineering report. It sounded like everything was running smoothly; the ship was in no immediate danger of explosive decompression. Daskar’s report, too, was of interest to me. She said that Saresh was healing well and that my own recovery appeared to be proceeding at a typical pace for my species. She mentioned a couple of other injuries I hadn’t known about; evidently the glitch in the artificial gravity had left Sohra with a sprained wrist and Vethna with a broken collarbone. Served him right, I thought.

  At the end of the meeting, Ziral announced that Khavi Takheri—there it was again, the new title—had a few policy updates to share with the crew. There were murmurs and shifts around the table indicating a sharpening of attention. It seemed that people had been waiting for this moment. I hadn’t, and I looked inquiringly at Saresh. He lifted a cryptic eyebrow, but said nothing.

  “With only a week left before we dock at Arkhati, I’m not making any substantial changes to existing policies,” Hathan said. “But there are a few adjustments that need to be made. First of all, the language policy. From this moment forward, any member of this crew should feel free to speak in the language he or she judges most appropriate to the situation. I anticipate that that will continue to be Vardeshi for most matters relating to ship’s business. Beyond that, there are no constraints. And I would encourage all of you to take advantage of Novi Alkhat’s English expertise for as long as she chooses to remain with us. You should also feel free to socialize with anyone else on board, anywhere, at any hour and in any configuration, without fear of reprisal.” He paused. “Though I’d advise all of you to keep your hands off Khiva.” There was general laughter. Zey explained afterward that Khiva’s fiancé was gaining systemwide notoriety as a ranshai champion. I was too elated to care about missing the thrust of the humor; for the first time ever, I’d actually understood the punchline of one of Hathan’s jokes. When the laughter subsided, Hathan went on, “The last change is an exception to standard Fleet policy, but it’s one I’ve been authorized to make. Officers’ dinner is traditionally restricted to those holding the rank of rhevi and above. That condition no longer applies. Everyone on the ship, novis included, will now be eligible for invitation.”

  “Damn right,” Zey said, softly but audibly. There was another ripple of amusement. I wondered if it was my imagination or if everyone really was slightly more relaxed than they had been under Vekesh. Maybe they were just relieved to be getting back into a semblance of their familiar routine. I was more than relieved. I felt as if a crushing weight had abruptly been lifted off my shoulders, like the ship’s artificial gravity had been turned up too high for weeks—months, maybe—and the error had finally been corrected. It was one thing to be permitted to reprise my role as novi for a week. It was another to be welcomed back into the crew on the terms of my original contract. Hathan had meant what he said in the lounge the night before. This would be a new beginning—for all of us.

  The meeting adjourned, and I moved on to my morning duties. Given Hathan’s final announcement, I wasn’t at all surprised when my flexscreen chimed midway through my work. I stopped unloading the cleansing machine in the galley and read the incoming message, which was, unsurprisingly, an invitation to attend of
ficers’ dinner the following night. There would be five of us: me, Sohra, Hathan, Saresh, and Ziral. I wondered about the logistics of serving two entirely distinct multiple-course meals. I would have to ask Ahnir if he wanted me to prepare my food in advance. I didn’t mind. I would gladly eat cold spaghetti if I could eat it at the same table as Hathan. It had struck me in reading the message that this would be the first time I had shared a meal with him—or with Ziral, for that matter. As hadazi, Saresh had moved freely between the tables in the mess hall, but none of the other higher-ranked officers had done so. To me, it had always been one of the most bizarre facets of the hierarchical ordering of ship’s life. Recalling Zey’s reaction in the briefing, I realized that it must seem bizarre to him too. He had two brothers on the Pinion, and he hadn’t eaten a meal with one of them in nine months. Not on board, at any rate. Maybe the rules were relaxed on starhavens and planets. I would have to ask about that.

  The invitation also noted that attire for the dinner would be semiformal civilian wear—no uniforms. That was intriguing. Uniforms had been compulsory at all of the officers’ dinners at which I’d served. I’d seen my crewmates in uniforms and loungewear but not much in between. I wondered what constituted semiformal attire among the Vardeshi, and what I should wear to match them. The fact that half of my wardrobe had just been blown out into space would streamline the decision a little. During the recreation hour that day I caught up with Khiva, who had admired the beaded necklace I’d worn to the music concert, and asked if she’d be willing to serve as my fashion consultant. She seemed genuinely flattered to be asked. In my quarters, I waved to my cabinets and the narrow vertical compartment which housed my dresses and spare uniforms. “Help yourself.”

  Watching Khiva peer into my drawers was like another visual echo of Hathan’s search of my belongings. Her inspection was thorough but decisive; she immediately rejected everything except the dresses, which narrowed down the possibilities considerably. Studying the handful of garments that remained, she asked, “How do you want to look?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Presentable, I guess. Can you point out the ones that are too revealing? I think our concept of modesty is a little more relaxed than yours.”

  She held up a couple of dresses against my body to gauge their length and moved one of them to the reject group. I cast a dubious look over the others. “Do you think I should just borrow something? Maybe that would be easier.”

  “Definitely not,” she said firmly. “You’re human. You should wear something from Earth. I think . . . this one.” She held out the dress I would have chosen on my own: green, with a modest but flattering scoop neckline. The long sleeves would hide the bandages on my arm. “Sohra and Ziral won’t be wearing anything like this.”

  I frowned. “So what you’re saying is that I’m going to stand out.”

  “Well, of course. But you’d stand out even in your uniform.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

  I spent a couple of desultory minutes picking through the minimal jewelry I’d brought, although I was fairly sure I was going to wear my gold bar necklace and matching studs. Khiva had drifted back to my dresses. “It’s too bad this one is too formal,” she said. “I love it. It’s so vibrant. We almost never wear this color.”

  I looked up, surprised, and saw that she had found the floor-length blue silk gown I’d bought in the Zurich boutique. She ran an admiring hand along the lustrous fabric.

  “Vardeshi don’t wear blue?”

  “Not this shade. Most people would say it’s a little too dramatic. Since it’s the color of blood.”

  Crestfallen, I said, “I didn’t think of that. And I bought it in case I needed a formal dress for Vardesh Prime. I guess I’ll never wear it now.”

  “Why not? You should. It’s stunning.”

  “Dramatic, you said. I think I attract enough attention as it is.”

  Khiva looked from me to the gown and said pensively, “You know, for someone who volunteered to leave home and represent your culture among strangers, you’re pretty reluctant to stand out.”

  I took the dress gently out of her hand and slotted it into place at the far end of the rack, behind my uniforms, where it would be more or less hidden from sight. “It may not matter. I don’t know if I’m even going to Vardesh Prime anymore. For all I know, the Council’s already recalled me to Earth, and I just haven’t gotten the message yet.”

  I showered and dressed in the same peevish mood, but as I entered the officers’ dining room a little later, I found my spirits lifting. I’d rejected my gold stud earrings at the last minute in favor of the tiny diamonds my parents had given me at our farewell dinner. Sohra admired them at once, which gratified my feminine vanity, though she was alarmed to realize that the posts went all the way through my ears. I was glad Vethna was absent; he would have felt obligated to make some comment about human barbarism. If the others had thoughts along those lines, they went mercifully unvoiced.

  Sohra looked beautiful, and I told her so. She and Ziral were both wearing dresses in rich velvety fabrics that gleamed in the dim light. Sohra’s was pale gray, with almost architectural pleating at the neckline. Ziral’s was purple and had a scattering of stones like tiny amethysts stitched onto the bodice. Saresh and Hathan wore dark colors, but each of their overcoats had a wide band of bright contrasting embroidery ornamenting a sleeve or a hem. As we settled into our places for dinner, I wondered whose idea it had been to relax the dress code. Whoever it was, I applauded their foresight. Sartorial observations eased us through the first awkward minutes, and by the time I was seated between Ziral and Hathan, a glass of prosecco in my hand, I was genuinely beginning to enjoy myself. Adding to the entertainment value of the evening was the fact that Zey was present as a server. He was supposed to be ignoring me, and vice versa, but every time I caught his eye I had to struggle to keep from laughing.

  I had meant to spend the evening as an observer, but my companions seemed determined to draw me out. Their initial questions about how I’d come to speak Vardeshi led inevitably to others, and soon I found myself fumbling for words to evoke the chilly seas of northern California and the cries of gulls and sea lions drifting through the fog as I bicycled along the water on my way to class. Sohra asked me about my hometown. My reference to the autumnal colors of New England prompted a comparison with Nasthav Province on the southern continent of Vardesh Prime, and I listened enthralled as Hathan described its storm-tossed gray seas, stony shores, and the eternally gold and copper leaves of its forests. From there the talk flowed more easily. I learned that the Fleet Institute was located in the city of Khezendri on the northern continent, which was snowbound for much of the year. Saresh painted a picture of a landscape that was spare and forbidding yet hauntingly beautiful. I found that I could almost picture it, the city with its illuminated glass spires nestled deep in the cleft of a valley, enclosed on all sides by knife-sharp peaks honed by the wind to irregular shapes. Ziral, who had grown up on a planet called Rikasa, spoke with palpable yearning of its twin moons, one white, one gold, and of spare hours spent wandering in its mountains, where twisted gray trees spread a canopy of crimson leaves overhead.

  “Rikasa,” I repeated, wondering if two new planets were too much to hope for. Could life possibly offer so much richness? For those few moments, I allowed myself to imagine that it might.

  We were finishing our entrees—a palatable vegetable curry for me, a small roasted fowl served with variously colored dipping sauces for the others—when I made the comment that we had spent most of the meal talking about geography. “Is that odd?” I asked.

  Sohra murmured something, a Vardeshi phrase I couldn’t quite catch. The others nodded.

  Hathan said, “It’s a mood that takes deep-space travelers from time to time. We weren’t designed to spend months in artificial environments. We miss the feeling of being soilside. Living without walls, with the sky overhead and solid ground under our feet. We call it ivri avanshekh.” />
  “The longing for . . . stability?” I ventured.

  “I might say permanence.”

  “Can you feel ivri avanshekh for a world you’ve never seen?”

  His smile was slight, but it was there. “That’s ivri khedai.”

  “The longing for another sky,” I said.

  Saresh quoted something that sounded like a proverb. Sohra translated it into English for my benefit, but I’d caught most of it on the first hearing. “Ivri khedai brings you into the dark, ivri avanshekh brings you home again.”

  If that was true, I thought, then what was to be done when one felt the conflicting pull of both desires at once? Until I’d tried to describe California, I hadn’t realized how desperately I missed Earth, the physical fact and texture of it. But the images my companions’ words had conjured in my mind of Vardesh Prime and Rikasa were equally compelling. I felt drawn impossibly toward two destinations at once, or even three. I wondered if the Vardeshi had a phrase for that. The longing for direction, maybe.

  The conversation was intoxicating, Hathan’s nearness even more so, but I was careful throughout the night not to turn my attention to him any more frequently than to the others at the table. Instead I watched his dark sleeve with its pattern of bronze stitching, which I could see clearly without turning my head. Once or twice I looked up to meet Saresh’s level blue gaze and knew we were both thinking about the truth that had been exposed during the Listening. This was the first time since then that we had been together with Hathan in anything resembling a social context. Saresh was measuring my circumspection as much as I was measuring his.

  All of us had been avoiding bringing up Vekesh or the catastrophic events of a few days ago, but I knew the subject was bound to arise eventually. Toward the end of the meal it did. In place of dessert, the Vardeshi ended their formal meals with small plates of savory morsels. These had been passed around, as had the brandy. I had a glass of whiskey and my own tiny plate—laid out that afternoon—of cheese and smoked almonds. There came a lull in the conversation. I was studying the color of my whiskey and mentally adding the evening to my other favorite recollections of the preceding months, like fitting a bead onto a string.