On a Red Station, Drifting

by Aliette de Bodard

  Linh said nothing. She had nothing to do with Prosper anymore, and no desire to wish them well in any way.

  She groped for another subject, and found only the trivial. “I imagine your honoured ancestor was proud of this station.”

  Lady Oanh’s face altered, imperceptibly. She hesitated, but then she nodded. “A panther dies and leaves behind its skin; a man dies and leaves behind his words and reputation. A trite but true saying. My ancestor built this station. Every single ring on it, from the centre to the boundary ones. Everything from the heartroom to the emergency ships. And I see her...everywhere.”

  Which meant she either had access to her ancestor’s poetry and writings, or that she had a mem-implant, or both. Which would hardly have been surprising given how far she’d risen in the hierarchy of the Empire. “It’s a joy to behold your ancestor’s work.”

  “Perhaps,” Lady Oanh said. “Or perhaps it’s bittersweet, because I will never know her, never ask her how she composed her space stations, never take her words and work into mine.” She made a gesture with her hand, as if opening a fan, or dismissing a troublesome underling. “You haven’t asked me about the capital, child.”

  An icy fist closed around Linh’s heart. “Should I have, grandmother?”

  “Oh, child.” Lady Oanh’s gaze focused on Linh, as if trying to extract the truth from a criminal by sheer strength of mind. She wasn’t a fool. But of course it would take more than successfully designing a few spaceships or space stations to rise to Third Rank. “Do you truly think I would come here, and not know anything about you? Your memorial has been...noted.” Her face had gone impassive again. Any clues about what she might be feeling scattered like the pages of a book with a broken spine.

  “I had to write it,” Linh said. She wasn’t sure why she was telling Lady Oanh. It was Giap who should have heard this, Giap who’d had to think of the consequences of what she’d done. But Giap was...so far away he might as well have been on another planet. Giap was blind, deaf and unable to see the danger around him. “The Great Virtue Emperor’s conduct of the war...”

  “... has been weak, and unsuited to a Son of Heaven. The unity among us should be paramount, rather than the preservation of our lands.” Lady Oanh’s face was serene. “I read the memorial.”

  Of course she would have and of course she would not commit herself. Scholars had been executed for saying the wrong thing, even at the right time. “What of the court, then?”

  “The court...is in flux,” Lady Oanh said. “The Great Virtue Emperor has been challenged by his Great Secretary and his ministers; he is urged to show the virtue necessary to uphold the Rong dynasty, to establish proper defences in the outlying planets and chastise the rebelling lords who think themselves clever enough to challenge his dominion.”

  “I see,” Linh said, slowly, though she didn’t, not yet. “And the Son of Heaven...”

  “The Great Virtue Emperor is young, and eager to prove himself.” Lady Oanh shrugged. “And he naturally thinks he shouldn’t be given orders by his advisors, as if he were still an immature child.”

  Which wasn’t good. Linh’s memorial was all but in line with the ministers and the Great Secretary, and she was nowhere as untouchable as they were. “You have read my memorial.”

  Lady Oanh’s eyes drifted away from her. “Some...sycophants campaign for your removal as magistrate, and for proper chastisement.”

  Proper. Linh narrowed her eyes. “Is the charge treason against the Dragon Throne?” she asked, praying all the while the answer would be no. One of the Ten Abominations, the one that would punish, not only the offender or his closest kin, but would extend from line of decent to line of descent, across the entirety of her lineage, sparing nothing and no one...

  “I don’t know.” Lady Oanh’s eyes transfixed her, as surely as a thrown spear. “It would be, if an edict had been signed, or even drafted.”

  “But still...” Still it was a risk, and that was the extent of Lady Oanh’s warning: that the edict would pass and when it did, every one of Linh’s cousins ran the risk of sharing her fate, if they were proved to still have ties with her. If, say, they’d welcomed her as a refugee. And it went up to the ninth generation, which might have been everyone who shared a drop of blood with her.

  And Prosper...Prosper’s founder shared an ancestor with Linh, and almost everyone here was her distant relative.

  Up to the ninth generation. The entire station, wiped from the world.

  Linh swallowed, thinking of the garrotte passed around her neck, as surely as that of the executioner. “I could retract, but it would be too late, wouldn’t it?”

  “Would you truly retract?” Lady Oanh’s eyes were emotionless.

  Linh felt something cold and hard within her stomach, like an ice-covered stone. “No. I meant every word, and I’ll not take them back. We should be strong, rather than fighting among ourselves.”

  “Of course. Your behaviour does you credit, even if it augurs little for your life expectancy. Your fate, I fear, rests in the hands of the court.”

  “I see,” she said. “Thank you for your wisdom, Lady Oanh.”

  Lady Oanh recalled her escort with a snap of her fingers, and headed towards the exit to the courtyard, bathed in Prosper’s sickly light. She was halfway there when she turned, as if struck by a wayward thought, although Linh was starting to suspect Lady Oanh never did anything wayward. “Remember the tales about running from death, child?”

  The old ones, the ones that said lives ruled by fear were worse than useless, that one should embrace one’s duty, one’s family...

  “Yes,” Linh said. Her throat was dry.

  “Those who fear death find it on their path,” Lady Oanh said. “Your memorial was sensible. Indeed, some would say it pointed to the only way forward the Empire can take. You are not without allies, even in the court itself. Remember this.”

  Allies. Would it be enough to save her? To save Prosper? Linh tore herself from visions of the Embroidered Guard at her door to bow to Lady Oanh. The official, after all, had all but declared herself on her side.

  “I see. Thank you, Honoured Oanh.” No matter how grateful Linh tried to sound, the words tasted like dust on her tongue.

  ***

  Quyen found Xuan Rua in the kitchens amidst an army of attendants carrying everything from live fowls to husked rice. Her niece looked overwhelmed by the sheer mass of people, her face pale in the heat of the cooking units.

  Next to her was Hanh, the overseer of the fish sauce vats: a plump, middle-aged woman who always wore a brocade ao dai tunic, no matter the circumstances, as if every event in life required pomp and respect. She bowed to Quyen. “Cousin.” The connection was tenuous, third generation, but even without the help of the trance Quyen could place her easily enough.

  “Let me guess,” Quyen said, after the usual exchange of courtesies. “You’re providing your best, but that’s all we have.”

  Xuan Rua grimaced, but did not contradict Quyen, either overtly or subtly. “Prosper Station will live up to its name at least.”

  Fish sauce was the heart’s blood of food, the ingredient that lifted even simple rice to the level of Heavenly meals. Prosper’s fish sauce, fermented in huge vats under the light of Red Turtle Star, was legendary, its aroma subtle and understated, revealing the richness of its successive pressings, with the pungent hint of flavour. No other station had a production to rival it. But fish sauce alone did not make a banquet.

  “Show me the courses,” Quyen said.

  Xuan Rua grimaced. “We can make six appetisers, but only a little of each. Silky pork, fried rolls, rolled cakes...” She bit her lip. The rolled cakes were rice flour and hardly suitable for a banquet, and six dishes was pitifully few to entertain an official. Lady Oanh probably was used to ten or twelve courses to open a banquet.

  Overseer Hanh barked a short, unamused laugh. “We have enough rice, too, if nothing else.”

  “At least that’s something.” Quyen s
ighed, massaging her forehead, wishing for simpler answers, for a time where her only worry had been the symbolism of the various dishes and whether they would inadvertently offend the guest of honour, rather than whatever they could scrounge from their diminished supplies.

  Xuan Rua was moving to the stir-fries, mostly the fish raised in Hanh’s spare vats; and pork, the beasts having shown a supernatural ability to breed in space. Then to the soup, a concoction of bitter melon wishing unhappiness away (how Quyen wished it were true); and then pork braised in the milk of coconut from their dwindling orchards, and dish upon dish, each more diminished than the rest, before the final serving of fruit that would conclude the meat—pitayas and lychees and pineapples from the station’s orchards.

  Quyen sighed. It was all...less than it should have been, small and shrunken, but she couldn’t blame Xuan Rua or Overseer Hanh for any of it.

  “And the main dish?” Quyen asked.

  “Pineapple duck,” Xuan Rua said. “It looks dignified even though it’s hardly a festival dish, and...”

  Quyen raised a hand to stop her. “Duck won’t do.” Oanh’s name meant “nightingale” and it would hardly do to serve up a bird as the main dish. “Can you do something with fish?”

  Xuan Rua hesitated. Quyen suddenly remembered how young she was, not of age to pass the examinations or marry, and even less suitable for being in charge of something this large. Quyen felt it was her fault. She shouldn’t have pushed her niece this hard, even if she was swamped by other matters. “Fish in caramel sauce,” she said. “Served whole. It should be suitable.”

  Overseer Hanh grimaced. “It’s not much.”

  Quyen knew that it wasn’t, knew all too well that this was like a dying man’s last struggle...But no, Prosper wasn’t dying, merely going through an illness. When the war was over, it would be different, when her husband Anh was there once more, lending his reassuring solidity to Prosper.

  She had to believe that or she might as well ask the Honoured Ancestress to open a hatch for her into deep space, to step through it and be torn apart in an environment never meant for man.

  She groped for the trance, found it there, but quiescent, as if the Honoured Ancestress’ attention were elsewhere. She could catch a hint of anger, of confusion, like a distant storm. She was still with them, and Lady Oanh would know what to do to help, would make everything right again.

  Quyen stared again at the courses in her mind. Everything they could provide, from the lemongrass beef with rice noodles to the salad rolls with pork skin; and knew for a cold, hard fact that Overseer Hanh was right. It wouldn’t be enough. Oh, to be sure, it would satisfy Lady Oanh, but not impress her so much that she would accede to unexpected favours. They needed more, and they didn’t have it.

  Her gaze roamed over the chaos of the kitchen. The head cook Nhu was mixing dipping sauce, the aroma of fish sauce and lime thick around her. Her assistants, Hoang Be and Thanh Hoa, were cutting pork in thin slices. The smells that rose reminded her of other banquets, in the distant past: Bao smiling at one of her husband’s jests; Huu Hieu declaiming a drunken poem to his wife; all of them together as a flesh-and-blood family, not as a collection of absences and holograms on the ancestral altars. She’d have wept if she was a weaker woman, but weeping had never brought anything or anyone back.

  They could not provide more food. Overseer Hanh had made it abundantly clear, and Quyen wouldn’t offend her by accessing the trance to check the state of their storehouses. They could not create more elaborate dishes without food, but a banquet wasn’t only about food. There had been other attractions in past times: watercolours done before the guest of honour, calligraphy painted on the spot and hung in the hall, poetry composed for the occasion...

  Quyen felt the realisation settle in her stomach, a cold, heavy stone over a grave.

  For all of this—for any of this—they were going to need Cousin Linh’s help.

  ***

  Quyen took Xuan Rua with her. Not because she thought she would be needed, but because she wanted someone else when she faced Linh. When she abased herself.

  She had no shame about what she’d told Linh earlier. Even magistrates shouldn’t be entitled to such arrogance, and it was Linh’s own fault if she could not take what was offered gracefully. Given the circumstances, and the angry way in which the request—no, the demand—had been made, Quyen had been fully within her rights to refuse her.

  But if it took an abject apology to help the Honoured Ancestress, then Quyen would make it. Anything, as long as it helped keep Prosper safe. As long as it kept the Honoured Ancestress with them.

  They found Linh in the courtyard, her eyes closed. She was within the trance, mouthing incomprehensible words. Though the trance would have informed her of their presence, she remained oblivious to them for several moments. By then, Xuan Rua was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  Quyen kept herself calm by reviewing everything that needed her attention. She was to see the teacher of the Abode of Brush Saplings, the one who might well have the missing mem-implants, early on the following morning, before the banquet, which would mean more delegation of tasks to Xuan Rua and Overseer Hanh. It left her nervous. Neither of the two women were well suited for managing the myriad emergencies that were bound to appear in the last moments before the banquet: missing ingredients, equipment that wasn’t functioning, all the many things that required a firm hand and a quick mind. Overseer Hanh didn’t have the imagination, and Xuan Rua didn’t have the confidence.

  She could feel the trance, fluttering in her grasp, and only yesterday the Honoured Ancestress had spoken to her, asking Quyen if she’d felt that anything was wrong on board the station. Quyen had lied. She had said everything was fine, that the banquet would be unforgettable, as it had been designed to be.

  “You are kind, child,” the Honoured Ancestress had said. “But...I feel it. I know that...” She’d paused then, and the silence had seemed too stretch on forever, pregnant with a thousand cancerous growths. “I’ve had absences. I’ve felt myself go. You can’t pretend everything is as it should be.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Quyen had shaken her head. “We’ll have you well. I promise.” As she’d promised to recover Du Khach’s implant—a task at which she’d failed so far.

  “Make me well?” The Honoured Ancestress had asked. “I hold the lives of everyone aboard Prosper. I can’t afford to be less than fully efficient.”

  “I promise,” Quyen had said again.

  The Honoured Ancestress had not answered, but Quyen had known She wasn’t convinced. That She was afraid, not even for herself, but for Her children, and all the people aboard Prosper. And Quyen felt her heart break all over again. She’d find a way to make everything right. She had to.

  “Cousin. Niece. Be welcome to my humble abode.” Linh had turned towards them, though she did not bow, or made any pretence of more than mere civility. “Can I offer you anything to drink or eat?”

  Quyen rose, taking a deep breath to steady herself. Linh’s scorn was almost palpable, like a blistering wind in the deep spaces. “I have come to apologise for my earlier outburst. It was uncalled for.”

  “Indeed.” Linh did not look surprised. Quyen fully knew that she’d ask what favour Quyen wanted within a few heartbeats. To forestall this, she said, “We have an urgent family affair to take care of. Missing mem-implants.”

  “I see.” Linh’s expression did not move. She looked like any magistrate on her dais, her gaze utterly neutral, face revealing nothing of what she felt.

  “They are our own ancestors,” Quyen said. “Dear to the Honoured Ancestress and to us.”

  “A rather distressing setback.” Linh’s face was still expressionless, but she appeared marginally less cold. “I can well understand how you feel. To have strangers in possession of your family’s treasures...”

  “Yes, exactly. You can see how preoccupying the situation is.”

  “And this is what you want my help for?” Linh so
unded wary, but excited. Always so ready to meddle into the station’s affairs, even as she refused to take part in its daily life.

  “No,” Quyen snapped, and then corrected herself. “Not yet.” She shouldn’t discard possibilities so easily, no matter how much she might loathe Linh. “But I do need your help.”

  “How surprising.” Linh didn’t move, or turn away.

  Quyen went on, “Prosper is putting on a feast for Lady Oanh, and we want her to remember it as the highlight of her travels.” She did not say why. Enough sharing of secrets with an outsider. “For that, we need something memorable. Poetry, perhaps, or calligraphy. You would know better than I.”

  “Yes.” Linh looked at the shadows spreading over the courtyard, extinguishing the light and making it into a mass of rivets and metal, instead of the carefully crafted garden the Honoured Ancestress’ systems usually displayed. “Is this payment for sheltering me?”

  “No,” Quyen said, though she dearly would have loved to nod. “A favour, from a cousin to a cousin.” She swallowed, feeling the acrid taste on her tongue. They had no greater spouses left anywhere on Prosper. The only one who vaguely qualified was Huu Hieu, who fancied himself a poet and a scholar in spite of his dismal lack of talents in so many areas of his life. But demons drag her into the Courts of Hell before she bent her back to Huu Hieu.

  “I know your poetry would be great,” Quyen said, “that it would charm Lady Oanh. This is what your talent is for.” And where Quyen’s talent would never be: nothing she would ever be honoured for, or remembered for as the ages passed and the memory of her faded from the world, unrecorded in any mem-implants.

  “Please, Master Linh,” Xuan Rua said. Quyen jerked in surprise. Xuan Rua hadn’t said a word for the entire interview. “It would mean much to us.” Xuan Rua got up, and knelt on the stones of the courtyard, her head touching the floor, as if Linh were a much-higher ranked official than a mere provincial magistrate.

  Linh’s gaze did not move, but Quyen thought she looked embarrassed. “Get up, child. I’ll think on it, but I’ll promise nothing.”