The Stars Change

by Mary Anne Mohanraj

  There were several packs of Rymisians living in the Warren, clustered in a few large apartment buildings; one of their buildings might easily have been hit. If a patient of hers had died tonight, Narita didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to watch their suffering on a screen. The people of the Warren had lost so much, at least she could offer them a little privacy. Futile, but what else could she do? Except, of course, what she was doing—coming together with these people to try to prevent another, perhaps worse, tragedy from happening.

  She knew, if needed, Amara would call on her for funds. Looking around, it was clear that no one here had the resources she had—you could see it in their dress, their speech, their skin. But it didn’t seem like throwing credits at the problem would solve much tonight. Narita felt oddly helpless. Left to herself, she might have gone back to bed, pulled the covers over her head, and waited for morning. Instead she was being towed along in Amara’s wake.

  Narita escaped to the garden, allowing the press of bodies to carry her outside. It was still loud out here, voices raised in argument, but not as overhwelmingly so as indoors. As the weather worsened, most people were trying to crowd back inside. The rain had turned to hard little ice pellets—hail, she thought it was called, though she had never seen or felt it before. It was freezing, and Narita shivered, staring up at the stars. What was happening up there? Were there starships exchanging torpedoes even now? She checked the net—nothing out in space, not yet. The news commentators were still talking about the buildings that had collapsed—they were up to seven dead now, from a single rocket. Bad, but it could be so much worse.

  This plan of Amara’s—it could kill them all. But if she died tonight, at least Narita would die standing on a planet’s surface, would fall to the ground. It would be better, she thought, than dying in the cold emptiness of space. Narita actually had no idea what weapons starships carried, or how a space battle might be carried out. There were plenty of versions in books and holos, complete with impossible sound effects and beautiful explosions. But in all her life, she'd never heard of an actual space battle. Kriti’s planetary defense systems had never been used, in the hundreds of years since colonization. The skies were usually so peaceful. How had they come to this?

  "You look cold, dear." An old man draped a shawl around her shoulders as she looked down, startled. He'd actually had to stand on a nearby garden chair in order to reach, but he seemed quite steady there, his chappals abandoned on the ground, and his toes curled around the wrought iron seat.

  "Thank you—but you must be freezing." Narita gestured to his bare shoulders and feet; he was dressed only in a thin batik sarong. He must have given her the shawl off his own back. She started to remove it, but he waved her away.

  "Oh, I only wear that to please my wife. I don't feel the cold anymore. There's not much left of me now—not enough to shiver." He smiled, and indeed, he seemed barely there, flesh and bone and a scrap of fabric.

  She hesitated, hands twisted in the warm wool fabric. "Still, I should give this back to you before I go."

  "Are you going somewhere, dear?"

  "Yes. No. I'm not sure what I'm doing here," Narita softly confessed. At Chieri's house, Amara had taken charge, had formulated a vision, a plan, and dragged them all along. Even now, Chieri was rounding up her devadasi friends, preparing a second attack option, while Gaurav searched for his computer expert. And what could Narita offer? Nothing, unless people got hurt.

  And yes, that was her job, to heal, and she should go with them. People were bound to get hurt in this mad endeavour. But there were hurt people at the hospital too—she could go there now and help. If she went to the hospital, Narita would be ready when these people failed, when the missiles went off, when the Warren was obliterated. Ready to help those who survived the blast. Narita would be safe at the hospital, and might even be of more use. At the hospital, she wouldn’t have to endure Uma’s glares, or the continuous stares and muttered comments from Amara’s relatives and community. There were a hundred reasons why she should go, but none of them seemed enough.

  He looked down at her, and raised an eyebrow. "You're here because you love her."

  "What?" Narita said, startled.

  "It's in your eyes. I, Karthik, say so, and I see better than most!" He grinned. "Though the truth is, anyone can see it, child; you're practically shouting your love to the skies every time you look at her."

  "I can't love her," Narita protested. She wouldn't love Amara, wouldn't allow it. She had spent a decade erecting walls to protect her heart from Amara, from love itself—that was what Chieri always claimed. Chieri didn't approve; she said such rejection of love was a denial of the gods, was sacrilege. But Chieri wasn't here. What was Narita doing, talking of love to this stranger, in the midst of a storm of frozen hail? And yet, what else should she be doing, right now? The world turned upside down.

  "Ah, you mean it's not safe to love her." He offered a twisted smile. "If there's one lesson of this night, dearest, it's that nothing is safe."

  Narita asked, “Aren’t you scared?” The words just tumbled out, and she immediately felt bad for asking. But Karthik was so calm and cheerful, a tiny gnarled gnome of a man. He didn’t seem real.

  He shrugged. “To tell the truth, I’m terrified. You would think someone as old as I would be reconciled to death, would be ready for it. But, child, the closer death comes, the more I love life. I want to grab every moment I can; I want each one to last a lifetime.” Karthik frowned, and continued, “But it must be right sort of life, no? We must choose the path of dharma, of virtue and righteousness. That is what our pandit taught us, before he left us. That is what Uma teaches us still, for all the bitter edge to her now.”

  “But what if you don’t know what the virtuous path is?”

  He smiled. “Well, that’s what I was saying before. Follow your heart, follow your love. Seventy years married, and that’s one lesson I’m sure of. If you are true to the one you love, if you strive to be the person they deserve—then you will find the right path. It might not be an easy path, but it will be the right one.” Karthik grinned then. “That’s not exactly what the pandit preached, or his wife. But it works for me.”

  Narita bit her lip, considering. But before she could speak, a raised male voice echoed from inside. "Why should we help them? They're all just as bad, the humods with their noses up in the air, the aliens who look at us like we're insects. Insects they'd like to eat." The voice was rising, almost into a shriek. "Maybe we'd be better off, if they were blasted off the face of the planet."

  Narita felt her skin grow even colder, despite the shelter of the shawl. Should she say something? Whomever was speaking, he must have seen her standing here. She towered over them all, like a giant. Like a target. But before she could say anything, even if she'd had the nerve, a sharp voice responded loudly, "Suthil, you're a fool. You've always been a fool, and age hasn't brought you any wisdom. Go home, man. Go home!" And the murmurs of the crowd seemed to support that command. Narita took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax.

  The old man shook his head, and then hopped down from the chair. "Child, you mustn't worry about the maunderings of fools like Suthil. In times like these, there will always be those who let fear rule them. But you're among family here; no one will harm you." He patted her on the arm, gently. "Now we must go back inside; we don't want to miss the decision. They’ve been arguing long enough; you can hear it if you listen. They’re coming to a decision. I think I know which way Uma and the rest will jump, but you never know—they might surprise me still. Regardless, though—my wife and I are with you, child."

  Before Narita could protest, or give back his shawl, Karthik was gone, disappearing into the crowd. Leaving her trembling again, though this time, not from the cold.

  "Vani Aunty, please!" In the kitchen, Amara was fighting a losing battle with the loudest of her great-aunts, a scrawny old woman hefting another enormous platter of samosas to the table. It looked like it weighed more t
han she did. "We don't have time!"

  Vani frowned. "Kunju, you've woken us up in the middle of the night. No one can think if they're hungry. Even soldiers have the sense to eat before they go into battle. Have some chai, have a samosa. You'll feel better."

  Narita had to silently agree, her mouth full of samosa. Apparently, Uma kept a freezer stocked with samosas for the reception after the temple services—a quick fry and they were ready to go. Gods, she'd forgotten what good cooks Amara's family were, even though they were completely vegan. When you could cook like this, you didn’t miss milk and cheese. The green chili chutney was searingly hot, the tamarind chutney was dark and sweet, and mixed together and poured over a spicy samosa, they were heaven on earth.

  A minute ago, suffocating in the crowd, deafened by the noise of people arguing, shouting, Narita had been fighting the urge to burst into tears. It was bad enough that she'd lost control at Chieri's house—it wouldn't be the first time the devadasi had seen her cry. But she couldn't do it here, not in front of Amara's mother. It would be too humiliating. Thank the gods the samosas and tea had come to her rescue. Strong and sweet; after tea, Narita felt as if she could face anything. Even a mob of madmen with missiles. And now they had their own mob.

  Amara obstinately refused the offered plate; she stood there, arms crossed and determined. How often had Narita seen her like this, back when they were together? It had been irritating then, but endearing too. The intensity of her, the stubborn passion. Against her will, Narita could feel the walls around her heart starting to crumble. Amara was barely a foot away, across the table. She'd pulled her hair back, into a messy bun, when they'd set out from Chieri's house; it was starting to unravel now, in the hot, humid press of the kitchen crowd. Narita fought the urge to reach out, brush an errant curl away from that tired face. She shouldn't. She'd been down this road before.

  Vani clapped her hands, and the crowd in the kitchen fell silent, though the murmur from the further rooms and garden continued unabated. Uma had faded to the background; she leaned against a wall, clearly exhausted. Apparently she'd played her part in bringing them all here; Vani appeared to be in charge now. "We have a plan, dearest," Vani explained. "It's almost 2:30 now, yes?"

  "Yes!" Amara's assent was firm, impatient.

  "We think Raju Uncle can get sleeping gas from the factory. He looked up the recipe online; it's not so hard. In fact, it’s a little disturbing, how easy it is to make—but we can worry about that later."

  Amara's face brightened. "That's great, Aunty!"

  Vani lifted a hand in caution. "It will take him some time, though. That's all right, though—we'll need that time to get the pump."

  "Where are you going to get the pump from?"

  Vani bit her lip. "I am afraid you will have to steal it."

  "What?" Amara said, her eyes widening.

  "Your friend has access to the hospital, yes?"

  Narita swallowed, as all eyes turned to her. "I—I have limited access to some restricted areas. They let the students observe…"

  Vani nodded firmly. "That will help. There is machinery there that we can use. Karthik thinks he can adapt it to our needs. The four of us will go, together—too many, and we'll be noticed."

  Amara protested, "But we still haven't figured out how to get the gate open."

  Vani said calmly, "Yes, that is a problem. The rest of the group will stay here and work on it; with this many people thinking hard, they may come up with a solution. Or perhaps your policeman friend will find help. A path will be opened for us, I am sure."

  "Aunty, you can't be sure. Not really." Amara's truculence had fallen away, leaving a strange vulnerability behind. Had Narita ever seen her like this? Frightened and lost, seeking comfort? Oh, yes. The walls crumbled further. Earlier this evening, when Amara had knocked on her door—when Narita had opened it, Amara had looked exactly like this. Narita just couldn't see it then.

  Uma stepped forward then, away from the wall. The crowd parted for her, like water around a stone. "Kunju, quiet yourself. You are doubting yourself, and I know I was harsh with you when you came. But I have been listening to our people for the past half hour, listening and thinking and I tell you, you were right. Right to come here, right to have me wake all of these people, right to ask us to fight with you.”

  “This isn’t your problem,” Amara said softly. “You don’t like aliens. You think genetic modification is against the will of the gods.”

  Uma frowned. “Aliens are so different, that it is easy for us to misstep with them, or they with us. It is safer to keep to our own kind. And I find genemod…troubling. We have been given these bodies for a purpose, and to blithely reshape them, often for no reason beyond vanity—that seems the height of arrogance.”

  Narita winced, and wished she could make herself smaller. Not that she had chosen her mods, but still…

  Uma went on, her gaze focused on her daughter. “But that doesn’t mean I think the humods are evil, child. They are just people. I may not think genetic modification is right for me—but it is not my place to decide that for anyone else. In the end, each of us must find our own path to the gods, no matter what others think. Your father was clear on that, at least.” Her voice shook for a moment, and then steadied. “And searching for the right path does not absolve us from our duty to each other. Those aliens who live in the Warren—they may not be human. But if the gods want anything from us, they want us to take care of each other, no matter how strange we may seem to one another.”

  The room was silent now, all the murmurs fallen away, as if the pandit’s wife were offering a temple lesson. Narita supposed she was. Uma reached out now and ran a gentle hand through Amara’s unkempt hair, soothing it down. Narita could almost see Amara calming at her mother’s touch. Uma smiled—a bleak smile, true, but it was still a smile, and in that moment, beautiful. “We’ve always taken care of each other in this community, haven’t we? Haven’t I always taught you that?”

  “Yes, amma,” her daughter said, looking chastened.

  “I do not know if we will have the strength to stop these evil men. But that does not absolve us from the responsibility to try. And now, we must pray."

  Amara protested, "Now, amma?"

  Uma took her daughter's hand in hers. "Especially now. We needed food, to make our bodies strong for the fight ahead. And we need prayer, to make our hearts strong. It will not take long. Come, kneel with me." They knelt together on the slatted wood floor, the rest of the crowd following to their knees in a swift rustling.

  Narita sat at the table, awkwardly, until Uma reached out to her with her other hand. "You too, child. You are one of us now, are you not?"

  A great yearning opened up in her heart, and without warning, the walls came crashing down. Oh yes, yes.

  Narita was so tired, so scared. And it was too hard to keep her defenses up now—not when all her energy was needed for this new fight. What Amara had done, all those years ago, didn't matter. Not now, in this moment. And it didn't matter how flawed these people were, how smelly and ugly and imperfect. They were still beautiful.

  This was a terrible night, the beginning, perhaps, of many terrible nights. Narita slid to her knees beside Uma, taking her hand. She didn't know much right now—she certainly didn't know if she and Amara could be together again—but she knew one thing at least.

  She didn't want to fight this battle alone. If these people, this family, wanted her, she was theirs.

  Sparks Fly

  Kimsriyalani slipped down through the layers of code. She didn't usually go deep—it wasn't her way. She preferred the bright, flashing surface, laying intricate patterns that coruscated in the light, like sunlight on the waves. Oh, she knew, of course, that darker patterns lurked below—that was part of the fun of it, dancing on the surface of the water, knowing that a single misstep would send you crashing down to the depths.

  She never crashed, of course. Not her, and not her programs, not since she was a youngling learning to
navigate the code-net. They'd started her simply, with manual inputs, but when those grew too slow, her school had sponsored the cost of an implant. Implants were rare on Varisia—most of her people preferred the life of the body strongly enough that they eschewed even the simple net connections that were standard here on Pyroxina for all but the very poorest.

  Kimsriyalani loved the pulsebeat of life as much as any of her people, the rush of blood under the skin, the pounding of feet and heart in chase through the hanging vines and quicksand pits of the Jungle. But her heart was divided; with the implant she’d found a new love in the net. The net-world might be thin, attenuated, compared to meat-space. But here, finally, connections sprang into being as fast as she could imagine them; her code spiraled up in delicate minarets and cascading towers. Sometimes she would fall into coding so hard and fast that only the fierce rumble of her stomach could drag her out again, hours later.

  She'd been eating when the campus guard arrived, shoveling vat-steak into her mouth with fierce concentration. Kimsriyalani had come from her midnight park encounter cleansed and invigorated. She had showered, and then fallen into coding. With the scent of the human still lingering despite her best efforts—not that he had smelled unpleasant, but she preferred to be clean—she had fallen back into her dissertation. Kimsriyalani was close to finishing—had been close for months, it seemed. But she'd gotten stuck on one particularly tricky patch of code that refused to behave. Stuck until tonight, because now, she could see a way through. It would be convoluted, complex, but she could see it clear. Maybe the human's cock had cleared the way—the thought amused her. If this actually worked, she would hunt him down. Learn his name, maybe even dedicate her dissertation to him.