Record of a Spaceborn Few

by Becky Chambers

  ‘But you’re . . . you’re . . .’ Sawyer tried to work some moisture back into his mouth. ‘You’re stealing.’

  Oates laughed. ‘You’ve filled half this cart yourself, kid.’

  Sawyer’s head swam. He pulled his fingers into his gloved palms. ‘I – if I’d known—’

  Oates’ expression grew serious. ‘You heard the boss. If you’re not happy, you walk away after this. After this. We are your ride home. We put food in your mouth and air in your lungs.’ He took a step forward, knife still in hand. ‘Right now, you owe us.’ He smiled as if nothing were wrong. ‘Now, we’ve eaten up a good chunk of time with this. To make up for it, I want you to take the other cart and check out the other homes while I finish up here.’ He clapped Sawyer’s shoulder. ‘Are we good?’

  Sawyer would’ve given anything in that moment to be a stronger person. A smarter person. He wanted to tell Oates to fuck off, he wanted to run out of the room, he wanted to get back to the ship and into an escape pod and beat them back to the Fleet, where he could tell patrol what had happened, and they’d understand, they’d know he hadn’t known, they’d be reasonable and fair and . . . and . . . would they? Or would they scoff at him for being stupid? Would they lock him up? Would they kick him out?

  The moral high ground didn’t look any safer. What would happen if Sawyer simply did nothing, if he refused to help any further with this? Would they leave him? Would they . . . He looked at Oates’ knife. Stars, they wouldn’t, would they?

  Would they?

  Sawyer couldn’t see any path of refusal that ended well. He didn’t have any clue what he’d do when they got back to the Fleet, but Oates was right. They were his ride home. He had four more days with these people. There wasn’t much else he could do.

  He looked at the floor, and nodded.

  ‘Good,’ Oates said. He handed Sawyer his satchel of tools. ‘Go quick, and holler if you need a hand.’

  Sawyer gestured for the cart to follow. He left the home. He walked to the next home over. There was nothing else he could do. Nowhere else he could go.

  The front door was firmly sealed, and as unresponsive as the first had been. There was no big hole made by Aeluon bots. No one had opened this place up since the accident.

  Sawyer stood motionless for a moment. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to be there. Sanitation, he thought. That’s where he should be. Maybe he’d tell that to patrol when he got back. Maybe if he mentioned that he was in the sanitation lottery, they’d go easy on him, they’d see that he was serious about being there, that he hadn’t come all this way to cause trouble. Or would he go to patrol? Maybe it was better to do like Muriel had said – shake hands, walk away, no problem, never speak of it again.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. He leaned his forehead against the inside of his helmet and shut his eyes. He had to do this. He had to get back home. Back to the Fleet, anyway. He wasn’t sure he had a home. At the moment, he wasn’t sure he deserved one.

  Sawyer reached into Oates’ satchel and found another power pack. He gestured. Nothing happened. He connected his scrib, like he had before. He went through the code, like he had before. This one was the same as the other had been, and he blazed through it in a blink. It was keyed differently, that was all. Keyed for someone else. Another family. Another wall full of hands.

  Focus, he thought. C’mon, don’t fuck this up even more.

  He punched in the last command.

  Sawyer would never be sure of what came next. The sealed door slid open, and with it came force, and fear, and pressure, and Sawyer was in the air – no, that wasn’t right, there wasn’t air in space, there was – there was air, all the air that had been behind the door, and it was carrying him, and the contents of the home, all the things Oates wanted, all the things that family had needed, rushing, rushing, flying, thudding, falling. Then there was a bulkhead, and a split second of pain, pain everywhere, an inescapable shatter. But that was all. He didn’t have time to process what dying felt like.

  Part 4

  But for All Our Travels

  Feed source: Reskit Institute of Interstellar Migration (Public News Feed)

  Item name: The Modern Exodus – Entry #11

  Author: Ghuh’loloan Mok Chutp

  Encryption: 0

  Translation path: [Hanto:Kliptorigan]

  Transcription: 0

  Node identifier: 2310-483-38, Isabel Itoh

  [System message: The feed you have selected has been translated from written Hanto. As you may be aware, written Hanto includes gestural notations that do not have analogous symbols in any other GC language. Therefore, your scrib’s on-board translation software has not translated the following material directly. The content here is a modified translation, intended to be accessible to the average Kliptorigan reader.]

  * * *

  Where would you begin, dear guest, if you wanted to venture out into the galaxy? Would you talk to a friend? A trusted person who had made the journey before? Would you reach for a Linking book, or test the waters with a travel sim? Would you study language and culture? Update your bots? Purchase new gear? Find a ship to carry you?

  Every one of these options are on offer at the emigrant resource centre, a relatively new fixture you can find in most homesteader districts. Some are set up at existing schools, others fill unused merchant space. All serve the same purpose: to prepare GC-bound Exodans for life beyond the Fleet.

  Scroll through a workshop listing for any centre, and you will find an exhaustive array of topics. Here is a sampling of the current menu at the resource centre my dear host Isabel took me to visit yesterday:

  Conversational Klip: What You Didn’t Learn In School

  Interspecies Sensitivity Training 101

  Weather, Oceans, and Natural Gravity: Overcoming Common Fears

  A Guide to Human-Friendly Communities

  Trade Licence Advice Forum (ask us anything!)

  The Legal Do’s and Dont’s of Engine Upgrades

  How to Choose the Right Exosuit

  Introduction to the Independent Colonies

  Those Aren’t Apples: Common Alien Foods You Need To Avoid

  Imubot and Vaccination Clinic (check calendar for your desired region)

  Ensk Six Ways: Making Sense of Humans from Elsewhere

  Ground Environment Acclimation Training (sim-based)

  Ground Environment Acclimation Training (non-virtual discussion)

  Tunnel Hopping for Beginners

  The list goes on.

  I sat in on ‘A Guide to Human-Friendly Communities.’ Neutral market worlds were prominently mentioned, as were Sohep Frie and, I was pleased to note, my own adopted home of Hashkath. Harmagian territories, depressingly but unsurprisingly, were presented as hit-ormiss. Quelin space was vehemently discouraged, to no one’s surprise.

  ‘People’s biggest fear is getting kicked to the margins,’ said Nuru, the course instructor, who graciously took time to speak with me afterward. ‘Everybody’s got a great-aunt or uncle sitting around the hex, grumbling about how their parents were sidelined when they made market hops in the pre-membership days. Everybody hears horror stories about Human slums or whatever, and they come in here with exciting ambitions but a huge fear of ending up homeless or mistreated. Life outside the Fleet isn’t like that anymore, not if you’re smart about it. Times have changed. There are rough places in the galaxy, yeah, but that’s what my class is for. That’s what this whole centre is for. We want to give people the best start we possibly can.’

  I asked Nuru why he spends his days training people for life elsewhere when he himself lives in the Fleet. ‘I lived on Fasho Mal for ten years,’ he said. ‘I loved it, every second. I loved the sky, the open space, the dirt, all of it. But I came home when my mom got sick last standard. Our hex was taking good care of her, but . . . how could I not? So, now I help people get ready for their lives on Fasho Mal, or wherever it is they’re headed. It’s the next best thing to being there myself. At least
someone gets to go, right?’

  Not everyone agrees with that sentiment. The majority of my time spent in the Fleet has been a delight, but I have, on rare occasion, encountered individuals less approving of my presence. I crossed paths with one of these on my way to the resource centre – not an elderly person, as you might have expected, but a man somewhere in his middle years.

  ‘We don’t need you,’ he shouted at me as Isabel and I approached the centre. It was clear from the way my skin puckered as he came close that he was intoxicated.

  At first, I was not sure if he was addressing me. In hindsight, Isabel knew, as she began to walk more quickly, but in my ignorance, I stopped my cart to make sense of the situation. ‘Are you speaking to me?’ I asked.

  The man did not answer my question, but continued on as if that point were obvious. ‘We’re Exodans. We belong here. You get that? You’re not like us. You don’t understand what we need.’

  Isabel tried to get me to move away, but I assured her I was fine. ‘I want to hear what he has to say,’ I said. I gestured my willingness to listen to the man, even though he would not understand, even though I believe it only agitated him more. ‘I do not understand why you are angry at me.’

  ‘Whatever you’re here to teach, take it home,’ he said. ‘Take it home. We don’t need you.’

  ‘I’m not here to teach,’ I said. ‘I’m here to learn.’

  The clarification confused the man, and I admit that I cannot relay what his reply was, for the remainder of it did not make much sense. The underlying intent was anger, though. That much I can say for certain.

  ‘You’re embarrassing yourself,’ Isabel said curtly. ‘Go sober up.’ My host is gracious and kind, dear guest, but even to my alien ears, she can be quite assertive when the situation calls for it. I thought it best to follow her into the resource centre at that point, as it was clear nothing else of value would be gained from the exchange. Isabel apologised for the encounter (which was hardly her fault or that of her people, but I understood her embarrassment all the same). I told her it was nothing. I have weathered far worse in academic review. But the exchange did colour my time at the resource centre, and I was thinking of it still as I spoke with Nuru later on. I asked him if this was a sentiment he encountered often.

  He replied, with weariness, that it was. ‘I get told that I don’t deserve the food in my mouth and the walls around me,’ he said, ‘because I’m taking away instead of giving back. I’m taking away the people who grow the food and maintain the walls, is how they see it. Look – there’s no denying that more Exodans are leaving than coming back, but we’re hardly in danger of dying out. Farms are still working. Water’s still flowing. The Fleet is fine. The people I teach, they’d leave whether or not classes were available to them. But if they left without taking a class or two, they won’t know what’s what out there. That way lies trouble. All we’re doing is giving them the tools they need to stay safe. Exodans helping Exodans. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be about?’

  I asked Isabel her opinion of the centre once we had left – as an elder, as someone who had watched friends leave and trends unfold across decades. My host was noncommittal.

  ‘Knowledge should always be free,’ she said. ‘What people do with it is up to them.’

  * * *

  Kip

  Everything was tingly. Kip had thoughts beyond that one, amazing thoughts that people probably needed to hear. Toes were weird – like really weird, if you thought about it. Thinking was weird, too. He could think about what he was thinking about. Did that mean that there was a separate part of him? A thinking part and a . . . thinking thinking part? That was a super good idea, but first: cake. Man, he loved cake. He wished he had a cake. He imagined a cake so big he could put his face down into it and the frosting would rise up and up around him, like the waves of seafoam in the theatre vids, only thick, dense, enveloping him, taking the place of air, sliding in closer and closer and – and no, no, that was scary. He didn’t like cake. Cake needed to stay small and manageable and away from his nostrils.

  Kip had those thoughts, and more besides, but as soon as they’d bubble up, they were drowned out, washed away by the thought – The Thought – that dominated all others.

  Everything was really, really tingly.

  ‘Do you ever wonder,’ Ras said. He was tapping the tip of his nose with the tip of his finger, drumming, pulsing. Kip watched him do so for a short eternity. Tap. Tap. Tap. ‘Do you ever wonder about, like – okay, you’re sitting here.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And I’m sitting here.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We’re sharing this . . . this moment.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But are we really?’ Ras looked deeply concerned. ‘Because think about it. I’m seeing this, right?’ He gestured at the oxygen garden, tracing angled lines outward from his eyes. ‘But you – you’re seeing this.’ He touched the sides of Kip’s face and drew a different set of lines.

  ‘Whoa,’ Kip giggled. ‘Your hands are so weird.’

  ‘Dude, listen, this is – this is important. What you see is different from what I see. And nobody’s ever seen this before. Nobody’s ever seen the oxygen garden exactly like I’m seeing it, but it’s – it’s not like you’re seeing it. Kip, we’re – we’re not sharing anything. Nobody has ever shared anything.’

  Kip looked at Ras for a long time – or maybe a short time? A time. He looked at him for a time. He blinked. He laughed, but quietly, because he remembered they were supposed to be quiet, and that part was very important. ‘I have no idea what you just said.’

  Ras stared at Kip, and he started laughing, too. ‘You’re such an idiot.’

  Kip shut his eyes and nodded, still laughing. He fell back into the grassy bed. He could feel every blade of grass, bending to hold him like a million caring hands. They were in the centre of the garden, the best place in the garden, the quietest, tallest, most hidden place, the place where you could actually lie down surrounded by bushes and little trees and leaves leaves leaves. Plants were good. Plants were so good. He loved plants, and he loved smash, and he loved Ras, and he loved life. He loved himself. Wow. He loved himself. Everything was . . . was so . . . tingly.

  Ras grabbed Kip’s shirt. The move was intense and hurried, out of place among the grassy hands and quiet laughter. Kip didn’t like it. ‘Someone’s coming,’ Ras whispered.

  Kip sat up, abandoning the grass. ‘Are you sure?’

  They froze. Everything froze. Everything except the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Movement. Invasion.

  ‘Fuck,’ Ras whispered. ‘I think it’s patrol.’ He scrambled. ‘C’mon!’

  They scurried behind a large bush, and everything was bad now, loud heartbeat and metal muscles and screaming edges. The footsteps got closer. With every step, Kip willed himself to be more still, more invisible. He would turn into stone, and they’d never find him. They couldn’t find him. Shit, they couldn’t find him. They couldn’t.

  He wished the tingles would go away for a minute.

  He could feel Ras beside him. They weren’t actually touching, but he could feel him, buzzing like a living thing. Ras was wrong. They were sharing this. It wasn’t a good thing to share, but it was better than being alone.

  Someone was in the grass now, the sounds told him. Someone was standing in the grass, turning in a careful circle, looking around. Someone was sitting down, coughing, opening a bottle, drinking. Staying put. Kip was sure the someone would know he and Ras were there, that xe’d hear their breath, their blood. But the someone surprised him. The someone didn’t notice. The someone waited.

  Then, all at once, there were two someones. The new one spoke. ‘Looks like you’ve been hitting that hard,’ she said.

  ‘I’m surprised you haven’t,’ the first someone said – a male someone.

  The woman sat. ‘I know this shit’s been rough—’

  ‘Rough? Rough? Rough is when you haven’t be
en laid in a while, or when your engine breaks, or . . . I fucking killed that kid, Muriel.’

  Kip and Ras looked at each other. The ground fell away. Everything was wrong.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ the woman said calmly.

  ‘There’s nobody here.’

  ‘Still,’ she said. ‘Keep it down.’ She sighed. ‘How could you have guessed he’d do something that stupid? Stars, my niece knows not to open a sealed door in a vacuum, and she’s six.’

  ‘I should’ve said something, I was distracted, I—’

  ‘You should’ve, yes. But it was an accident. Accidents happen.’

  ‘Somebody ever accidentally die on you?’ There was a long pause. ‘Yeah. I thought not.’

  ‘Oates. It happened. It’s done. All we can do is clean up and move forward.’

  Kip felt like the giant cake was back, only now it was the air itself, pressing in and smothering. ‘Is this real?’ he mouthed to Ras.

  Ras said nothing, which said everything.

  Beyond the bush, the bottle glugged. ‘You got everything ready?’

  ‘Yes,’ the woman said. ‘Food, fuel, every favour I had. We can be out of here this time tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank fuck. Every time I see a patrol, I nearly shit myself.’

  ‘Just keep your head down and your mouth shut, and it’ll be fine.’

  The bottle glugged again. ‘Where’d Dory put him?’

  ‘Do you care?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The woman was silent a little too long. ‘We didn’t have great options.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Cloth processing. Bottom of the pile.’

  ‘Cloth processing? Are you fucking high? They’ll find him in a—’

  ‘—in several days, which is all we need to get gone. Look, where could we have put him where they wouldn’t find him? We couldn’t space him or leave him there without those fuckers on the Neptune finding him – and you know they wouldn’t hesitate to use that against us one way or another. We couldn’t risk a second punch, especially a blind one. We couldn’t keep him on the ship, because there’s no chance import inspection would overlook a body, no matter how many creds we sent their way. The gardens aren’t deep enough, he’s too big for a hot box chute without us getting disgusting about it, the foundry’s always got people there, cargo bay’s too closely patrolled these days – and where do you get off, anyway? We clean up, and you complain about the details?’