An Unkindness of Ghosts

by Rivers Solomon

  “They’re going to kill you, then me,” Aster said.

  He nodded, then wet the cloth again. “I don’t wish it, but it’s likely so.”

  “You killed Lieutenant,” she said.

  “I did.”

  “I wanted to be the one to do it. I wanted him to die by my doing.”

  “I know,” he said. “But so did I.”

  Aster stood, her back sore but not debilitatingly painful. With a great amount of effort, she took a step, and then another, forcing her body into a straight line. The urge to bend and bow threatened her posture, but her will was strong. “I am taking Giselle with me in one of the shuttles,” she said. She couldn’t leave Giselle’s body here to be broken down and repurposed, or defiled.

  “I’ll provide whatever assistance I can. We need to move.” Theo checked the time on his wristwatch, turned toward the mass of rioters growing ever closer to their sanctuary. Giselle’s body appeared protected up on the wooden stage, but it would be difficult for Aster to work her way there.

  The loudspeakers popped on at once, a burly but posh voice coming through. “Matildans . . .” the announcement began. Mabel had really done it. This was a prerecorded message impersonating a member of the Sovereignty’s Council, informing everyone to move portside so starboard would be clear for Aster to go up to the Shuttle Bay. Seamus would be there, waiting for her. “Matildans, this is Lieutenant Governor Wilkins Beauregard, Lieutenant Governor to the Sovereign and current commander of Matilda. The Guard requires the presence of all military personnel to Errol Wing immediately to handle a disturbance. Those guards not present will be sanctioned. Civilians, remain calm.”

  The announcement played in a loop. The real Wilkins Beauregard was no doubt quite bewildered and enraged to be impersonated so skillfully.

  The rebellion moved outward, into the fields, becoming more diluted. As the guards still living departed, lowdeckers laid down their arms, circling around Aster to offer aid. It was a bloody sight. Aster couldn’t imagine what it looked like in the corridors where Mabel had distributed the rifles.

  She turned toward the platform. Giselle’s body appeared oddly angelic. “I must get her.”

  “You two,” Theo said to a couple of stragglers who’d deserted the fight, “can you fashion some sort of stretcher?”

  Nodding, they toppled the main viewing tent, tearing out a large square of sturdy synthetic fabric. They tied the ends to some poles, and the whole thing took less than ten minutes. People approached, weeping and carrying on, offering Giselle kisses. They laid their jumpers and jackets on her for cover. One woman removed an ivory decorative comb from her own hair and slid it into Giselle’s.

  “You will come with me,” said Aster, “in another of the shuttles. We can figure out the fuel. I can siphon some from the one I plan to use.” She knew it didn’t make sense.

  “There are people here that need my help. You will be back. It’s no matter.”

  “What if I meet whatever fate my mother did? What if I disappear forever? What if I am wrong?”

  “Then I will come after you,” said Theo, and though his words were impossibly romantic, they heartened Aster.

  With no time for extended goodbyes, she carried the body with help from one of the men who’d built the stretcher. Her muscles strained under the weight. Skin popped and blistered on her palms. In death as in life, Giselle liked to make things difficult. Sweat-slicked fingers made it hard to keep hold of the metal rods. Aster gripped more firmly, but doing so only exacerbated the problem.

  “You good?” the man asked.

  “Aye,” said Aster.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.” She wasn’t. Her previous surge of adrenaline could only sustain her so long.

  They hobbled with the stretcher out of the field and into the corridor, a small crowd rallying behind them. Waiting at the foot of the stairs to the next deck was Melusine, standing next to a wheelchair. “Sit her here, boy,” she said to the man.

  Melusine’s declaration was a welcome relief. Aster helped him lower Giselle to the ground and began to hoist her into the chair.

  “Not her, this one,” said Melusine. She grabbed Aster’s wrist and pulled her toward the chair. “For once, do not fight me, child. Trust that I know. I have lived long and I know.”

  The man took her other arm, guided her gently. “I got you,” he said. Aster had no choice but to sit.

  “Who’s got Giselle?”

  “Be quiet, rest, and don’t concern yourself,” said Melusine.

  Four men from the crowd lifted the wheelchair into the air, carrying it like a throne. They hoisted her up the stairs. Aster saw Melusine bend down to Giselle, but she was too weak to carry her. Instead, she snapped at another man to pick her up. He lifted her up with ease, and as they traveled up the decks, flight to flight, Aster was reminded of a funeral processional, like the one given to Sovereign Nicolaeus.

  When they came upon several guards, the processional overpowered them. Unhindered, they marched. It felt nice to rest. Aster was spent and used up but surrounded by kin. She felt moved to give a speech upon reaching the threshold of Alpha. Bodies crammed the narrow corridor and stairway. Expectant gazes beseeched her to speak.

  “My name is Aster of Quarry and this is a eulogy,” she began, then waited for everyone to hush. A eulogy was a tribute to the dead, in which the speaker spoke thoughtfully about the deceased. Aster felt prepared to do thus. “Giselle was a person with myriad psychological disturbances, the logical outcome of the trauma she suffered. I estimate she experienced ninety-one events that could be described as intense trauma, but data is scarce and inconclusive. She had a short list of likes and a very long list of dislikes. She was very difficult. She was very mean and abusive. I wish she wasn’t dead, but the amount of blood loss she sustained as a result of a knife wound to her lower abdomen made dying an inevitability. May her soul finally be at peace.” She didn’t wait for those gathered to respond, she simply gestured for the men to carry her upward.

  “May your days be unburdened, Aster,” Ainy said, the traditional farewell before a long absence.

  “And may yours,” Aster replied, the words causing a pang of longing.

  The mob burst through the wall with ease, using only the force of their own bodies.

  Aster pressed her fingers over the keys of the keypad to the Fleeting. She typed A-S-T-E-R, but nothing happened. Next, she tried L-U-N-E. “Think, think,” she said. She scanned her memory of Lune’s notebooks. She wished she could flip through them, but they were all gone now. Except—

  Aster unclipped her radiolabe and took off its backing. She removed her mother’s goodbye note.

  Aster, dear. Achingly, sorrowfully, tearfully, regretfully, angrily, I leave you. I am sorry.

  She read it over and over, trying to see it with Giselle’s eyes, which were always so good at picking out patterns that weren’t there. Aster read the words out loud, enjoying their cadence. “Aster, dear. Achingly, sorrowfully, tearfully, regretfully, angrily, I leave you.” She repeated the phrase, her tongue sliding over the consonants neatly.

  She typed once more into the keypad. A-D A-S-T-R-A. To the stars. It had been right there all along. With several clicks and a vibrant hiss, the two doors lifted open and up.

  Inside, there were bones, a human skeleton lying on its side in the backseat holding a medicine kit. Aster jolted backward. “Meema,” she said.

  Seamus gasped. Aster saw the makings of a tear in his left eye, felt her own forming. She shouldn’t be surprised Lune had been here all along. She was a mechanic, after all. She hadn’t flown off into the sky. She’d gone to make repairs.

  Lune had needed to fix the dent in Matilda’s hull to restore the eidolon pumps to full functionality to make sure the reverse around the anomaly would work. What had been noncritical damage became critical the moment Lune planned to interfere with the ship so momentously.

  Aster breathed in, attempting to steady her palsying ner
ves. Lune knew she would die making the repairs, unable to survive exposure to the compression field’s radiation outside the ship. Aster was thankful she’d had the strength to navigate back into Matilda even if she was too sick to even stumble back out of the shuttle.

  Voices from above rang out, two guards making their way down the metal stairs onto the Shuttle Bay.

  “Quick, get her in,” said Aster.

  Seamus helped Giselle into a seat, pulled the safety harness down, and buckled it between her legs. “I’ll take care of them,” he said. “You’re not going to have much time. Be ready to launch when I let open the airlock.”

  Aster nodded, focused on the dashboard of the shuttle, forcing herself to remember every detail of her mother’s meticulous diagrams, disguised in her lab notes as charts, stoichiometric equations.

  Aster checked the air supply, logged in the number of passengers, clicked the view-screen dial two spaces to the left so the digitized version displayed an electronic representation of what lay beyond the window. Suddenly, temperature, humidity, and other atmospheric readings appeared on the glass, accompanied by a star map showing Aster where she was in space.

  Guards banged on the glass, which meant Seamus had effectively sealed them off on the other side. Soon he would open the airlock, and Aster would need to be ready.

  She turned the dial to log the flight plan, and a gray screen appeared.

  Enter Passcode.

  Aster pressed in AD ASTRA.

  The screen refreshed to reveal the same text: Enter Passcode.

  Aster tried the same letters, alternating between capital and lowercase, skipping the space and then keeping the space.

  You have reached your maximum number of attempts.

  The monitor turned to black. Aster jammed her fingers into the keys, turned the dial again and again, but the screen remained blank. “Fuck, fuck,” she mumbled, and mashed the fleshy part of her fist into the display. Outside, an alarm sounded, the sixty-second warning for the airlock. She had to navigate to the tracks of the launching pad. The high-pitched ring of it hurt Aster’s ears. She could override the shutdown if she reset the system. She pulled the power lever into neutral, knowing if she turned it all the way off, it would take too long to boot the ship’s life-support systems back up in time for the release of the airlock. After ten seconds, she pushed it back on to full energy. When she prepared to log the flight plan, the original message appeared: Enter Passcode.

  “Think like a ghost,” she said aloud.

  Seconds to spare, she hoped her instinct was right. A-D T-E-R-R-A-M, Aster typed.

  Flight plan loaded, read the display. Press right foot pedal to engage directive.

  Unprepared for the whoosh of oxygen rushing into space, carrying the Fleeting along with it, Aster’s head slammed backward. Yet she managed to press the pedal before succumbing to unconsciousness. “Ad terram,” she said. “To Earth.”

  xxviii

  Aster squinted to observe her surroundings, but sediment coated the shuttle’s windows. Through the dirty glass, she could make out only smears of blue. She used her hands to check herself for injuries. The safety straps cut into her shoulders, collarbone, chest, and ribs, and she pressed the red button to release them. They sprung back into the seat, leaving bruises in their stead beneath her clothes.

  From the corner of her eye, Aster noticed movement, and she turned to see Giselle’s head lolling downward, chin bopping her chest. For the briefest of moments, Aster believed, fanatically believed, that Giselle had nodded off to sleep.

  “Wake up,” she said, immediately realizing her mistake.

  The screen displayed numbers she didn’t understand, but that didn’t matter. Her mother’s journals supplied what information she needed, and Aster did not hesitate to click the hatch of the shuttle open. When she inhaled, sweetly scented air, so cold, brushed her face and lips, drying the sweat on her forehead and neck.

  Certainly, these lands before her were what the Sovereignty referred to as the Heavens, a perfect tangled mess of plant life so large, so big, so colossal, it equaled one hundred Matildas. She stepped out into the tall grasses, tawny shoots reaching up to her shoulders like stalks of amaranth. She grabbed one and sniffed, then sneezed.

  “It seems I have died along with you, Giselle, and we’ve been spirited away to the Heavenly Lands,” she said, and her voice must’ve startled creatures in the surroundings. She heard a flurry of wispy sounds and turned to see the largest trees she’d ever encountered, a whole bundle of them, stretching left and right as far as she could see, a most intense shade of green.

  The blue was, it turned out, space, the cosmos from which she’d come. And there, in the distance, was its star, a hot pink circle. It put poor Baby to shame.

  Aster didn’t know what tragedy had befallen this place, but time seemed to have erased it. Though 325 years had passed on Matilda, a thousand had passed here.

  A murder of crows, more than fifty, swooped downward toward a point in the distance. Never having seen so many birds before, Aster stalked toward them, leaving Giselle behind.

  More than half the crows cawed and flew away, but those who remained stared at her curiously, their bulbous eyes fixed to her, unafraid.

  Aster returned to the shuttle, climbing into the back with Lune’s skeleton. The urge to pull away from the grotesque sight nagged at her, but the desire to touch was stronger. She drew a finger along the chin, the broken teeth, up to the cheekbone, stopping before she reached the eye sockets.

  Lune’s clothes were intact, a dark-green jacket, very soft, and leggings made of hide. Aster removed the jacket, her movements gentle so as not to break the skeleton apart. She smelled the fabric of the coat, expecting the odor to be foul, but time had washed the stink away and it smelled only of wool. No hint of her mother, or her mother’s scent, remained.

  Beside the skeleton sat a basket, a knitted ivory blanket inside. Aster roved her fingers over the soft stitches, then pressed it to her cheek. As an infant, she’d lain in here, probably only for minutes before being forced from her swaddling.

  Aster carried her mother’s bones in the basket outside and set them on the ground. She got on her hands and knees and dug. The ground was soft and damp, the dirt pliable, the grasses with shallow enough roots to upend with ease. She moved maniacally, scooping earth into her hands and throwing it to her sides, her breath fast and her chest burning. Arms numb, fingers numb, she could not bring herself to stop, not until she’d dug a hole one meter deep.

  She placed her mother inside first, covered her with the blanket. It was harder, much harder, to lay Giselle to join her, and though Aster’s muscles hurt, she held her in her arms for many minutes, kissing her cheek and nuzzling her face into Giselle’s hair, and whispering “Sorry” into her ear, and that it was she, not Aster, who was the reason they’d found this place.

  Aster lay down in the black dirt, the granules cooler than the coolest sheets on Matilda. Sadness twisted up inside her, like a rope or maybe like a snake or maybe like a rosary. Whatever it was, this gangly sorrow, it had tied itself around Aster’s vertebrae and would remain quite a long while.

  She felt sentimental. She felt superstitious. She felt like she could cry and catch her tears in a magic vial, pour the tears over Giselle’s face, and resurrect her. But Aster was too dehydrated to weep, and even if she weren’t, the water would do nothing but wet Giselle’s dead, indifferent face, then evaporate. Repositioning Giselle’s fingers so they were interlaced with her own, Aster rested beside her. Water was not good for such times as this, insubstantial as it was. But dirt, dirt would do. They were sheathed in it.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost on any thank you list is my family, who’ve always supported, nurtured, and encouraged my strangeness, which is part and parcel with my creativity. I am especially grateful to my grandmother, Elizabeth Humble, whose love of cryptograms and crosswords helped cultivate my love of language. Thank you to my Aint Goldy, my Aint P
auline, my Aint Florence, my Madear, my Aunt Lisa, my Aunt Cathy, my Aunt Karlene, and to my most enthusiastic and dedicated supporter, my mother. Thank you to my father, who has embarrassed me too many times with his endless belief in my greatness, and thank you to my partner, for whom there will never be adequate words.

  I could have never written this book without the help of my various writing teachers, especially Adam Johnson, Elizabeth McCracken, and Jim Crace. All of my gratitude to the Michener Center for Writers, where An Unkindness of Ghosts was born.

  Lastly, thank you to Laura Zats, who believed in me and believed in my book, who is endlessly patient with me, and who made all of this possible.

  Rivers Solomon graduated from Stanford University with a degree in comparative studies in race and ethnicity and holds an MFA in fiction writing from the Michener Center for Writers. Though originally from the United States, they currently live in Cambridge, England, with their family. An Unkindness of Ghosts is their debut novel.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher.

  Published by Akashic Books

  ©2017 by Rivers Solomon

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-61775-588-0

  eISBN-13: 978-1-61775-599-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017936119

  First printing

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