by Jason Gurley
Above me, she says. There's a ripcord at the top of this panel. I can't reach it.
Pull it? Varien asks.
Hard as you can, she says. Hold your breath. Don't open your eyes.
Varien nods, takes two deep breaths of thinning air, and leaps to his feet. Serena watches as he vanishes into the smoke. His feet arch until he's standing on his toes.
It's short and has a handle, she calls up.
Behind her, the engine stutters, and she can hear the sound of twisting metal clanging deep inside of it.
Fast, now! she yells up at Varien.
He falls to the floor. His face is streaked with black soot.
I couldn't find it, he says, and coughs violently.
You gotta go back up, Serena says. Hear that?
The engine sounds like it's being torn apart by animals.
Varien nods.
That shit means bad things happen, she says. Really bad. We-all-die bad. Pull that goddamn cord!
Quo Vadimus
Tasneem stares at the asteroid. Far below, she can see fresh impact craters from the barrage.
Varien balls up a dirty towel and tosses it aside. He breathes like a chimney, every breath black and painful.
Oona has a solution that will help, Tasneem says.
Varien wheezes. This happens often?
Sometimes, Tasneem says. This is the worst one yet. We shouldn't have been running without radar, but there are Citadel patrols in the belt. We saw two a week ago, so we've kept signatures disabled or muted -- if we hadn't, we'd have know the burst was coming, and we could have maneuvered out of the way.
It's worse when you're tethered to an asteroid, isn't it, Varien says.
Occasionally, she says. When we're in the river, though, with the rest of the rocks, it's more constant. Here, we've got a little protection, but it's not total.
Can Ishy repair the engine?
I don't know. She's looking at it with Serena now. I'm going to assume the worst.
What's the worst? Varien asks.
The worst is, we're immobilized here. Adrift with the rock, can't go anyplace. The worst is, we're sitting ducks if the patrols pick us up.
What happens if they do?
I've been on the Citadel's list for four hundred years, Tasneem says. If they find us, they'll kill all of you, and they'll martyr me as slowly and as visibly as they can.
Varien exhales a throaty breath. Do we have weapons?
No, Tasneem says. I mean, the ship itself can be a weapon. But my war is one without deaths. So no guns, no bolts, no bombs. You can't improve the system by removing people from it. You improve the system by improving people themselves.
Varien looks worried.
It's okay to be scared, Tasneem says. You're in the mix now. This isn't Saffron.
I am scared, Varien says. I don't know what to do about it. I've never really been afraid of anything in my life.
When I lived on Earth, Tasneem says, when I was very small, I was scared of all sorts of things. Earth was pulling itself apart. Every week another storm claimed another few thousand lives. I would wake up to the sound of thunder, and it terrified me. The Earth I knew was a dying one, tortured and afraid.
Were you alone?
My mother was there, Tasneem says. She would hold me, and she would tell me stories about a new home. She made it up, all of it, but it soothed me. And then it came true, and we moved to Station Ganymede. We were safe, and she died knowing that I was safe. Her stories weren't real, but they became real.
So I should just tell myself lies? Varien asks. Just make up a fairy tale about a safe place?
Tasneem smiles. I can do you one better.
• • •
You've met almost everyone aboard the Maasi, Tasneem says.
She points at her bed, and Varien sits down.
Who else is there? Varien asks. I haven't seen anyone except for Serena, Tarae, Oona, Ishy and you.
Tasneem taps her wristband. Have you ever seen one of these?
Jewelry? Varien asks.
She removes the wristband and hands it to him.
As he cradles it, inspecting it, she says, This is a vintage personal databand. They were invented on Station Ganymede, and quickly became indispensable. They're like the backstraps you see people wearing now, except the databand was removable. You've seen a backstrap?
Yes, Varien says. I knew a man on Saffron who had one in the shape of a dragon.
So you know them, then. Good. Backstraps are elegant things -- they're indistinguishable from skin unless you want them to be visible, and they do a lot more than a databand did. These wristbands came with earpieces. They could talk to you, though rather robotically. They would direct your movements through a space, or contact people for you, but altogether they were very limited. The backstrap is more of a body augmentation. Did your friend have health issues?
He said he wore his to curb his alcoholism, Varien says.
I thought so. Backstraps actually interact with your body in ways that the databand didn't.
So why do you wear it? It's half a millennium old. Is it just to remind you of the old days?
Oh, no. I'm not sentimental at all. I wear it because -- well, it's easier to show you. Give me your wrist.
Varien leans forward and extends his arm.
Tasneem fits the databand around his wrist.
Your arm's a little bigger than mine, she says. Okay, now this.
She removes a small earpiece and hands it to him. Varien inspects it curiously, then tilts his head and fits it into his left ear.
What's this all for? Varien asks.
He'll tell you, Tasneem says. Don't be startled.
Varien opens his mouth. What do you --
Hello, Varien.
• • •
Shit, Varien says.
You only flinched a little, Tasneem says. Most people freak out.
Varien looks confused. I don't know --
Who to look at? Tasneem smiles. Just ignore me. Talk to him.
Who is he? How is this --
Ask him, Tasneem suggests.
Who are you? Varien says.
Tasneem reaches out and touches Varien's hands. Don't speak out loud, she says. Think.
Varien's brow knots, and Tasneem watches a flicker of wonder cross his face, and then he relaxes.
Good, she says.
• • •
I am no longer human, David says. You are, but you are not the same human as Tasneem. She's born of Earth. It's heady stuff, when you think about it. Tasneem is the last survivor of the planet Earth. You, my friend, are a new human. You are born of the stars, far from the origin of your species. You, Varien, are a post-Earth man.
What does that mean? Varien thinks.
Right now it probably doesn't mean very much, David says. Not to you. But to me, it means a great deal. You are not the last version of human, Varien. In the great age of the universe, mankind is still but a tiny, tiny speck. What feels like ages to us is a millisecond to the universe. We are fragmenting, though. You may not have noticed, but I have. Tasneem has, to a degree. The unity we forged as babies in space has fled from us. Now we are as contrary as we once were on Earth. We war among ourselves. We want different things. Our languages are forking.
We even look different. When we left the Earth, we wore the faces of our people. In space, we forged a new face. The Scots and the Africans married, and gave their children names from both lands. The Chinese and the Dutch fell together, and their names blended. Aboard the space stations, we melted together.
But now we have hardened, and we are coming apart. Do you understand?
Sort of, Varien thinks. I've never thought about these things.
You will come to understand them as you write for Tasneem, David says. And when I can, I will help you.
Thanks, Varien thinks.
Back to what I was saying, now. We are tearing ourselves apart. The Machine Rebellion was the beginning. The System War was
a new chapter, one quickly written and thrown away. Tasneem was not always a peaceful warrior, you know. In the System War, she was only a warrior. I have been with her for most of her life, Varien, and in the war, I saw in her an anger I have never seen.
What changed?
Too many things to talk about now, David says. Maybe another time. We're at war now, you know. It's a quiet war, waged by men who slip up behind other men and saw open their throats. It happens in the black, far from the Citadel, far from the Council. Like a honeybee hive, the Citadel's agents swarm through the dark and sting the rebellion, frightening it into silence, turning it to stone. The rebels who fought in the first war are old now, afraid of what it means to rise up. They're afraid for their families. The rebels have grown tame.
Which is why Tasneem broadcasts her messages, Varien thinks. To wake them up.
That's right, David says.
They're after her, too, Varien thinks. That's what she tells me.
They've been after Tasneem since she punched a hole in the Citadel. Even when the rebellion is silent, Tasneem is its face. She belongs to the people, but the people have forgotten her. Few hear her. If the Citadel found her now, the rebellion would sink into the darkness without protest. It would be forgotten, too. You understand her importance? Every word you write for her will be the most important words you ever write.
I'm not sure I can do it, Varien thinks. What if it isn't good enough?
There's more at stake than you know, Varien, David says. Do you ever think about the future? About where humanity goes from here? We can't live in the black forever. We cannot serve the Citadel forever. They're just the latest in a very, very long line of rulers who have stifled the voice of the people. So take the long view. Where do we go from here?
Varien shakes his head. I don't know.
Now you know why I'm here, David says.
You know the answer?
I know exactly where we're going.
Where? Varien asks.
Not yet, David says. When you're ready. When I trust you.
But --
Not yet, David repeats. It's been very fine to talk to you, Varien. Return me to Tasneem now, please.
• • •
Tasneem takes the databand from Varien.
Well? she asks.
Varien says, When is the next broadcast?
Tomorrow, Tasneem says.
The boy stands up. Can I write it now?
Do you know what to say?
Varien pulls the heavy door open, and looks back at Tasneem.
I think I know exactly what to say, he says.
Show me.
The boy nods grimly, and closes the door.
Tasneem replaces the earpiece.
Alright, she thinks. What did you say to him?
I just gave him some context.
Does he know yet?
About Asiel?
You've named it, Tasneem thinks.
Yes.
It's delicate. I like it. What does it mean?
It's an Earth word. It means refuge, or asylum.
Tasneem considers it. It's right, she thinks. It's the right name.
Thank you.
I would like to name an island for my mother, she thinks.
An atoll named Heidi might be nice, too. An ocean named Audra.
Tears fill Tasneem's eyes.
We've lost so many, David.
We've lost them all.
What will it be like?
It will be like the first days in space, David says. When we came together, and we were one.
Those were peaceful days.
They won't last, though.
They never do.
Some will rise up. Some will cower.
Some will push back.
Some will always push back.
Varien doesn't know?
Not yet. Just you, and me.
Asiel, Tasneem thinks.
Asiel. Home.
THE BLACK
The years unfolded slowly, and the Citadel's reach only grew. In the four years since Catrine Newsome's departure from the Maasi, eleven minor revolutions had been violently put down on various outposts and moons. The bloodiest was on Miranda, Uranus's little moon. There, an entire Machine outpost had been murdered by six Citadel operatives as punishment for a weak attempt to steal supplies from an Onyx ship. Forty-three Machiners exposed to the bitter cold and inhospitable atmosphere of the moon, including thirteen children and a newborn.
Tasneem heard about them all, and wept privately for every death.
Her little broadcasts were picked up by a few local ships and stations, and her messages were carried as far into the black as they would go, but few heard them.
Hope was in short supply, and the darkness was only growing deeper.
AMATERASU
The tiny screenview illuminates the cavern beneath her blankets, casting a pale golden glow on her face. She adjusts the volume, dialing it down until she almost strains to understand the words being spoken, and only then does she relax. The gentle female voice soothes and excites her at once.
Amaterasu delights at the words, which are grand and thrilling, and conjure images of swelling throngs of people, arms upraised, pushing over great statues, their voices thunderous across the horizons of planets and moons, echoing in the corridors of sleek sailing ships.
One species. One species. One species. Must we remind ourselves?
Amaterasu's fingers caress the screenview. She knows, somehow, that the words are dangerous. That if she were to repeat them in class tomorrow, Miss Hamus would warn her, then probably call her grandparents. She doesn't want this. Amaterasu's grandparents would send her to bed without a meal, and threaten to take her out of school altogether.
They are scared old people, she knows.
If only they would hear the broadcasts. If only they would listen.
Anger is not the solution. Violence is not our recourse. We scrape along in the dark, chewing on our pain until it courses through our veins like a deadly poison. We must let it go.
Instead of seeking revenge, we must seek our lost pride.
We are one people.
We have only forgotten.
Amaterasu listens until the broadcast falls silent. It will repeat again in an hour, she knows, but it is enough to have heard this small piece. She turns the screenview off and emerges from beneath the blankets, then stretches out and falls asleep.
Her grandfather listens at the door and sighs to himself. He pads quietly across the hall to the room he shares with Amaterasu's grandmother.
She is still listening? Grandmother asks.
Grandfather nods.
Talk to her tomorrow, Grandmother says. It is not fit for a girl. It is not fit for a Machiner.
She only dreams of something better, Grandfather says.
Grandmother clucks at him. And you know better, old man. Our parents discouraged us, and for good reason. Things do not change anymore. Dreams only make the living of a life that much harder.
Grandfather sighs again and sits down on the edge of the bed.
You'll talk to her tomorrow, Grandmother says.
He hangs his head. Yes. I'll talk to her tomorrow.
• • •
But Grandfather breaks his word, and he walks her to school, her little hand tightly held in his tired old one.
Grandfather, Amaterasu says as they walk.
Yes, Ammie, he answers.
I listened again last night.
I know, Ammie.
They walk through the glass corridor, just two among a steady stream of Machiners on their way to work and school and home. The night workers are tired, their uniforms wrinkled, their backs hunched, their lunch containers empty. The day workers are tired, their eyes unfocused, their steps reluctant.
Do you ever listen, Grandfather?
No, Ammie.
Why not? Amaterasu asks.
Your grandmother wouldn't like it, he says.
W
e are all one people, Amaterasu quotes proudly.
Grandfather stops and guides Amaterasu to the side of the corridor. He drops to a knee and says, Ammie, you know that the broadcasts are forbidden, yes?
Amaterasu nods.
Do you know why? Do you understand?
Because we are Machine, she says. Because we are beholden to the Onyx.
Grandfather nods. And do you know what that means?
It means that we are in a dark period, she says, quoting again. It means that once again, man believes he can impose his will upon other men. But, Grandfather, nobody can own me.
In theory, he says. But, Ammie, you are Machine. I am Machine. We do not have the luxury of -- of dreams.
What do you mean? I dream every night.
Grandfather hangs his head. I promised your parents that I would care for you, he says. And part of caring for you is making sure that you understand your place in this world, Ammie. It's not a kind world. It isn't a fair world. You and me and Grandmother and even your parents, we don't have choices.
I make choices every day, Amaterasu says.
Those aren't the sort of choices I mean, Ammie.
What choices do you mean?
You learn the same history that I did when I was a child, Ammie. When does history begin?
History begins on Citadel Meili, with the Grand Council, Amaterasu says.
That's the same history, alright, Grandfather says. But do you know what happened before that?
How can something happen before history? Amaterasu asks. If it did, wouldn't it also be history?
Grandfather wants to cry.
Instead, he says, Do you know of Earth, Ammie?
Earth is one of the system planets, Amaterasu says.
That's true, Grandfather says.
It's the third planet.
Yes. Did you know that we come from Earth?
Nothing comes from Earth, Amaterasu says. It's like all the other planets. No planets can support life.
Grandfather does cry, then.
Grandfather? Amaterasu asks. Why are you crying?
He lifts her in his arms. How do you feel like playing hooky today?
What's hooky?