We Have Always Been Here

by Lena Nguyen

  Park clenched her jaw against his glare. He meant, of course, Hunter—and Natalya’s accusations against her. Did Sagara believe the surveyor, then? Did he really buy that Hunter had tampered with the ship’s controls? And was it even worth bringing up again that the androids had said that she didn’t? He’d made it clear that he didn’t value their input on things. But would Park’s failure to speak doom Hunter to the freezer—or even criminal prosecution, if Sagara went far enough?

  She thought of something suddenly. “Are you conscripted, Sagara?” It seemed obvious, given his behavior, but she was beginning to realize that nothing was quite so simple on this ship. She could trust none of her previous assumptions.

  He made the low hissing sound that she’d noticed citizens of the outer planets making to express contempt. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” It was becoming the defining thing. Was someone working for ISF because they wanted to, or because they were under the Frontier’s tyrannical thumb—immune to the usual pangs of remorse and personal loyalty, because they had loved ones being held hostage? In other words—could she trust him?

  Sagara’s answer surprised her. “If you must know,” he said waspishly, “I used to be. But I’m not anymore.”

  She gawked at him, even though he couldn’t see her. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Just because you haven’t heard it, you don’t believe it’s true?”

  “But—how?” She wanted to let go of him, force him to turn around, but the hall was still cold and oppressive; she was afraid to release him. Afraid that he might vanish like smoke. “You—worked off your debt to them? They let you go?”

  “Essentially,” Sagara answered, sounding somewhat irritated—or bored. “It was after my service in the Outer System Wars. They honored me. Gave me medals. And cleared my debts as repayment.”

  She had never, ever, ever heard of such a thing, not in all the years the ISF had been in control. But Sagara’s body language said it all: he was telling the truth. The truth as he knew it, anyway. “Then—why are you here? Why are you still working for them, if they’ve released you from service?”

  Sagara laughed, and the sound of it startled Park; her stomach leaped uncomfortably. It was the first time she’d ever heard him laugh. “What else was I going to do? Who else can you work for, if you’re not on Earth?”

  “The private sector—”

  “It’s still all controlled by ISF. Indirectly, but why bother with the middleman at all?”

  “But if your debts are cleared, do you even need to work?”

  He paused, cocking his head as if it had never occurred to him. “I am not a man suited to leisure,” he said after a moment, in concluding tones.

  They were silent for a little, shuffling along together. Finally Park said: “So you know about the Fold, then? You’ve seen it? Or—” Or have they kept it from you, too, now that they don’t have any assurance they can trust you? No insurance policy against you?

  Sagara’s reply was full of scorn. “Of course I know about the Fold.”

  “Even without being conscripted?”

  “Yes. I am the ship’s security officer. I needed to know that information to do my job. You didn’t.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  He ignored her. “ISF knows it can trust me. I served in their wars. I’m the head of security on Corvus. I’ve proven my loyalty.”

  She sensed his pride, despite the usual matter-of-factness in his tone; she felt the unnatural desire to puncture it. “So you have seen it, then. And seen the data they’re keeping down in the utility rooms?”

  Another pause. “Yes,” Sagara said finally—almost petulantly, she thought. “Not that it matters much. I don’t need to examine it closely. My role is to protect it, not understand it.”

  She nearly laughed. “And here I thought you were supposed to protect us.”

  “That, too,” he said, “so long as none of you conspire to work against me.”

  Park rolled her eyes. Back to this again. His paranoia was dogged. She said, “You’re so quick to assume the worst of everyone else. But why don’t you extend that same suspicion to the ISF itself?”

  Now he did turn his head to look at her. “Why would I?”

  “Look at how they operate,” Park said, indignant. “Secrets, half-truths, outright lies—they sent me here without telling me it was a planet with a fucking gravity well!”

  She stopped then, shocked by the heat of her own anger, her fear. Sagara didn’t say anything for a moment, and she felt as if his belt were melting out of her own grasp. Finally he said flatly: “The ISF represents order in the universe. The only order. Its way of doing things might not be perfect, but at this point in time, it’s the only thing standing between the human race and total chaos. Of course I support that—of course I trust it. I have no choice. Neither does anyone else. And of course I’ll continue to serve it, and accept the flaws such a system comes with. There is no alternative. To do anything else is to contribute to the collapse of our civilization.”

  “Sometimes collapse is necessary,” Park argued, “to incite change.”

  “By collapse you mean destruction,” Sagara fired back. “Mass death, loss. Change on that scale is always violent. Look at the Comeback. Look at the Privacy Wars.”

  “Some might say those who started the Privacy Wars were in the right. They wanted a revolution, a change in how things are done, and in a way, they got it. That’s why there are no cameras on this ship.”

  “I am not one of the ones who would say that,” Sagara answered, very cold now. “My wife was killed in the rebels’ second bombing of Halla.”

  Park felt as if he had struck her. All the wind was sucked out of her lungs; she nearly let go of his belt.

  They walked for just a moment in silence. Then Park managed to say, very faintly: “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s not in my file,” Sagara said, his voice still cold—but detached, as if he were making a report on someone else. “I made sure of that.” When she said nothing, he continued: “She was a transcriber; a data collector. She and thirty-two of her colleagues were killed when the terrorists destroyed ISF’s archives. They were writers, researchers, academics. The best in the galaxy. All of that knowledge and light—snuffed out in less than a minute.” He paused for a moment, still faceless, still unreadable. It felt as if the corridor had chilled by several degrees. “ISF thinks we lost one hundred years of secret histories and future innovations in that bombing. They’re still trying to tally the amount of data that was lost. They won’t say it, but they don’t know how long it will take the tech sector to recover.” Another pause. Then: “No one recovers from something like that.”

  She wanted to say something, to proffer comfort, sympathy—a more heartfelt apology. Or commiseration; she had lost a loved one of her own. But Park found herself rendered mute by the coldness, the rawness of Sagara’s anger, so fully buried that she could only sense the edges of it. She had not known a person could feel this deeply and still speak with perfect composure. No wonder she had never been able to read him. He could have been an android—except androids never concocted stories about war. Or death, or love.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, finally, but Sagara did not seem to hear her.

  “You see then why I hunt ISF’s enemies so earnestly,” he said. His pace quickened. “Why I’m dedicated to rooting out its saboteurs, its malefactors. I’ve seen what happens when one doesn’t. It’s more than missions failing, worries over not getting paid. People die. And progress is halted—ISF being the only way progress is made in this universe.” He shook his head. “People think me obsessed, dogmatic—a loyal soldier to the end. But I have my reasons for it, just as anyone does.” At this he trailed off, his words loaded with some sort of hidden meaning.

  She di
d not know what to say in the face of his absolute certainty; his bone-deep resolve. She was not sure she had ever felt such a thing in her life. Her causes, if she had ever had any, were never that grand. She was trying to find a way to articulate this when Sagara stopped suddenly. Park, still holding onto his belt, said, “What’s wrong?”

  There was a long silence. Finally Sagara said, his voice carefully even: “I don’t recognize this place.”

  She let go of him and took a step so that she was standing with him side by side, squinting to make out what his watery light illuminated. They were in what looked like any other tunnel on the ship to her, but when Park looked at Sagara, she saw that he was glaring at the walls as if they had personally slighted him.

  “I don’t understand,” Park said.

  Sagara didn’t move from his spot. “There should be a right turn here,” he told her.

  Park shook her head. “The lights are out,” she said, stating the obvious. “Which can disorient and skew your sense of direction.”

  “Not possible,” Sagara said, his voice a hard rap. “The turn is one hundred and eighty-two yards from the pantry. I counted.”

  They stood there for a moment, each of them evaluating their surroundings—and each other. Finally Park said, uneasily, “Let’s just continue down the tunnel. I’m sure we’ll encounter the turn eventually.”

  Reluctantly, the security officer nodded and began to follow her, shining his light so that Park could see where to place her feet. The tunnel seemed to stretch endlessly, but Park told herself that it was because they were expecting the turn: their apprehension distorted their perception of things. And yet her throat felt clogged with sudden fear. Slowly, an ache started up between her shoulder blades—it was the same prickling feeling that she was being watched by someone behind them.

  Without either of them speaking, their strides lengthened. When Park dared to look at Sagara, his face was tense and troubled. She nearly asked him if he had a weapon; would have found a little comfort if he had, even if there was the possibility that he could use it on her. But she stayed silent. She had the strange notion that giving voice to her fears would allow them to manifest. If she held them within, she told herself, everything would be all right.

  The tunnel stretched and stretched. After a while Park became convinced that Sagara was right; something had gone wrong. The passageway was so straight—and she knew there was no such construction on their rabbit’s warren of a ship.

  “We’re going the wrong way,” Sagara said finally, with impatience. He seemed irritated that he didn’t understand what was going on. Being puzzled seemed to be a foreign feeling for him.

  Park kept her eyes forward, on the lit, straight path at their feet. “How are your inlays?”

  “They’ve gone dark. I can’t reach the others or access the ship’s computer.”

  That was when Park heard it. A sound like knocking, or more accurately, pounding: a set of fists thumping urgently against the walls. And voices far off, arguing. Alarmed, she looked at Sagara. But when he looked back, she saw that he simply looked displeased.

  “Did you hear that?” Park asked him.

  The security officer scowled. “Hear what?”

  Park faltered. “A—a sound like knocking. People shouting.”

  Sagara looked at her as if she had sprouted two heads.

  The knocking sound loudened. Now it sounded like more fists had joined the first pair; Park felt as if someone had gotten trapped inside the walls, and was urgently signaling for help. She had to dig her fingernails into her palm, trying to block out her feeling of disquiet. Her dread. The dark corridor suddenly felt too hot and airless. She felt as if she wanted to claw her way to the surface, gasping for air.

  “Sagara,” she said quietly, sweating. “Listen. Something like this has happened to me before—”

  He looked at her, his dark gaze intent. “What do you mean? A blackout?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. She felt the urge to grab onto him, but resisted, swaying. “Before, when I was going down to the utility rooms—” When had that been? she wondered suddenly. The day before? Or was it the day before that? When was the last time she remembered sleeping? She felt tired, feverish, swollen—as if her limbs had been deboned and filled with saltwater. “I was going down to the utility rooms,” Park repeated, struggling to follow her train of thought. “And I felt—like this. Strange. Like I didn’t know where I was.”

  Sagara was staring at her with his brows furrowed. But he stayed silent.

  Park put a hand to her temple and said, “And I saw a stranger. Earlier. A man, watching the fight in the mess hall. I think he has something to do with this—”

  “Hey,” Sagara said sharply, when Park half-sagged into him.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. Her eyes were fluttering; suddenly the darkness felt too oppressive, as if she couldn’t look at it any longer. “I’m sorry . . .”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m just tired,” Park said, fighting back a yawn. “I just need to sleep.”

  He was lowering her to the ground. “Something’s wrong. I’m taking you to Chanur.”

  “No,” she said. “Not Chanur. We just need to get out of here. And sleep.”

  Her grasp on full consciousness was weakening rapidly—and Sagara was warm and solid. She nearly said to him, “Carry me,” the way she’d made Glenn carry her when she was too tired as a girl, but then her knees were buckling and he was saying in her ear, “Park. Stay awake. Park!”

  “The man,” she said groggily. She had to struggle to say it without slurring. “He was tall, blond. A stranger. He had a flight suit on . . .”

  All at once Sagara’s hands were seizing her, lifting her up. “What did you just say?” he asked harshly. “Park, what did you say?”

  There were voices at the end of the hall. “What’s going on?” someone was saying. Sagara didn’t answer. In the wavering utility light Park could see a shadowy figure approaching them. She couldn’t recognize it—her mind was receding—and there was a weird disconnected pain in her palm, where she’d dug her nails in, a throbbing that radioed feverish waves of hurt throughout her body and sent the signal to some conscience far away.

  “What’s going on?” someone asked again.

  You tell me, Park thought. I’m tired of always trying to find out. Then her head touched the floor, and she was gone.

  16.

  Park’s uncle returned to New Diego a month before Park was scheduled to leave for university. She came home from school one day to find him sitting in the kitchen, drinking the last of her synthetic coffee. Glenn, walking in front of her, paused in the doorway at the sight of him, as if to block Park from view.

  Park’s uncle hardly looked at him—instead focused his regard on what little he could see of Park’s face, flatly staring at him from over Glenn’s shoulder.

  “Grace,” he said. “Welcome home.”

  That’s my line, Park thought—though she felt neither welcoming nor like it was his home. It had been two years since she’d seen him last, though he had called diligently on birthdays and holidays. She put her hand on Glenn’s arm to move him aside, but suddenly he was like a granite statue: he wouldn’t budge.

  “Glenn, let my niece into the apartment,” Park’s uncle said, sharply, as if addressing a misbehaving dog. Park expected Glenn to bristle, but he merely said coolly, “Of course,” and moved aside. But he still lingered by Park’s side.

  She wondered, briefly, what he was so afraid of. Glenn always seemed different around her uncle: stiff, unnatural, diffident. There wasn’t that spark of Glenness when her uncle was home—as if Glenn had retreated into the shell of himself, leaving behind only a basic template to interface with. He acted as if, at any moment, her uncle might take too much notice of him. Might decide to shut him down. Self-preservation
protocols, Park decided. The hare lies still when the wolfox is around. Even robots knew that.

  “You didn’t give notice that you’d be home,” she said, still by the door.

  Her uncle barked out a short laugh. “Gave notice,” he echoed. “Are you the landlord here? Or my boss?”

  She said nothing. Glenn said, his voice just above a murmur: “You are not well.”

  They both looked at him; for a moment Park thought he was talking to her. Then she looked more closely at her uncle. Did he look a little sick? Was his skin looser, did he always have those dark smudges under his eyes? Or were those simply signs of advancing age? Guilt couldn’t stop a little chill from crawling up her back. Was it contagious?

  “Health and biometric analysis should be confidential,” Park’s uncle told Glenn reproachfully. “You should know that.”

  Glenn inclined his head. “Of course,” he said. “My apologies.” Then, after a moment: “Since you are blood relatives and she is an emergency contact, I thought—”

  “I’m not interested in how your logic algorithms parsed it out,” Park’s uncle said. “You should know that, too.” He scratched his nose. “Anyway, you’re right. I am sick.” Then he looked wryly at Park. “It’s not contagious.”

  Years in the field had finally caught up to him, he explained: the ultra-rich oxygen traps formed by the Comeback had slowly bubbled into his blood. He was constantly disoriented now, the same way deep-sea divers were after surfacing too quickly; the buildup of oxygen in his tissue was toxic. He had pains in his chest, he was more short-sighted than he had been before. The optic nerves in his eyes had swelled. When he finished telling them that he was home for good, Park said, coldly, “Why didn’t you return sooner, when you realized your condition was deteriorating?”

  “I had to see my work through,” Park’s uncle said. “It was—is—important.”

  Important, Park thought, not without a little scorn. As if there weren’t enough researchers in the world studying the plants and wildlife of the Comeback. As if there was anything new to be learned from that field.