The Galaxy Game

by Karen Lord

  The Galaxy Game

  Karen Lord

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also by Karen Lord

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One: Cygnus Beta

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Two: Punartam

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part Three: Vanguard

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Quercus

  This edition first published in 2014 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  55 Baker Street

  7th Floor, South Block

  London

  W1U 8EW

  Copyright © 2014 by Karen Lord

  The moral right of Karen Lord to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 78087 691 7

  Print ISBN 978 1 78087 689 4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  You can find this and many other great books at:

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Also by Karen Lord

  Redemption in Indigo

  The Best of All Possible Worlds

  For Alicia, Fatima and Adrian, with many

  thanks for keeping me sane and happy.

  Prologue

  The only cure for a sleepless night was to lie in bed and watch the constellations projected on his ceiling. He knew them by heart, had known them since his boy-days on Cygnus Beta when he would climb the homestead water tower to stargaze (and escape his father). Then, they were a distant dream, an ancient tale that he could only trust was true. Now they were the dirt on his boots, the dust in his lungs and a constant pang of care and concern that he carried in his heart. He was homesick for everywhere, for scattered friends and family and colleagues, each with a claim on his attention.

  He whispered names in soothing ritual. The First Four, crafted worlds found already seeded with life – Ntshune, Sadira, Zhinu and Terra. Then there were the colonies, bioformed planets shaped and settled by emigrants – Punartam, Ain, Tolimán and more. The Terran system was nearest to his Cygnian heritage, but the Punartam system was closest in travel time and galactic rank. Its sole habitable planet, a first-wave colony almost as prominent as the First Four, was reputed to be the first fully bioformed world, a point still debated by the Academes. Was Cygnus Beta a crafted world that had failed and been restored by human or non-human effort, or a bioforming experiment unrecorded in human history? Punartam could prove its origins; Cygnus Beta could not. Punartam was, of course, the Cygnian name (from a Terran language, like so many other Cygnian names). In Terran stellar nomenclature it was b Geminorum, and Galactic Standard offered a collection of syllables that told the full story of the star’s location, age, luminosity and life-bearing potential. The name they used for themselves was in Simplified Ntshune and it meant the same thing as in Galactic Standard – behold! we are here, we have been here long, see how brightly we shine, we are we.

  The founders of Punartam traced their origin to the system called the Mother of humanity. Cygnian name: Ntshune (also from a Terran language). Terran name: a Piscis Austrini. True name: a delicate and yearning melodic phrase in Traditional Ntshune. But there was another claim to Eldest – Sadira. Terran name: e Eridani. Sadiri name: something unpronounceable (the Sadiri language, even in the simplified standard form, was still a challenge for him to speak). Former leader of the galaxy . . . or at least policeman and judge and occasional executioner. Not much liked though rarely hated, and now occasionally pitied. Sadira was dead, or almost dead, its biosphere locked in toxic regeneration for centuries to come. The seat of government had moved to New Sadira, formerly known to Cygnians as Tolimán. Survivors had settled throughout the colonies, mainly Punartam and Cygnus Beta, but not Ain. Certainly not Ain.

  Next in rank. Cygnian name: Zhinu. Terran name: a Lyrae. Most Zhinuvians used the Galactic Standard name, but there were variations of that. In spite of several layers of modern tech and some extreme bioforming, the origin planet of the system had begun as a crafted world. Then there was Terra, Earth. Source of most of the settlers on Cygnus Beta (Terran stellar nomenclature: the unmelodious 16 Cygni B). Youngest of the First Four and most in need of protection. Zhinu, an example of long-term, well-intentioned meddling from both Ntshune and Sadira, was now playing the role of delinquent middle child while the two elder siblings tried to shield Terra from outside influences.

  With eyes still fixed on the stars, he reached towards a bowl of datacharms on his bedside table and brushed a familiar piece with the tip of a finger. A woman’s voice filled the room and he sank back onto his pillows with a sigh of comfort.

  ‘In the beginning, God created human beings, which is to say God put the ingredients together, embedded the instructions for building on the template and put it all into four separate eggs marked “Some Assembly Required”.

  ‘One egg was thrown down to Sadira. There humanity grew to revere and develop the powers of the mind. Another egg was sent to Ntshune, and the humans who arose there became adept at dealing with matters of the heart. A third egg arrived at Zhinu, and there the focus was on the body, both natural and man-made. The last egg came to Terra, and these humans were unmatched in spirit. Strong in belief, they developed minds to speculate and debate, hearts to deplore and adore, and bodies to craft and adapt. Such were their minds, hearts and bodies that they soon began to rival their elder siblings.

  ‘When the Caretakers saw the Terrans and their many ways of being human, they were both impressed and appalled. Some declared, “See how they combine the four aspects of humanness! Through Terra, all will be transformed – Sadira, Ntshune and Zhinu – into one harmonious whole.” Others predicted, “How can any group survive such fragmentation? They will kill each other, and the rest of humanity will remain forever incomplete.”

  ‘After some discussion, the Caretakers decided to seal off Terra from the rest of the galaxy until Terran civilisation reached full maturity. They also decided to periodically save them from themselves by placing endangered Terrans on Cygnus Beta, where they could flourish and begin to mix with other humans.’

  The voice chuckled and concluded, ‘And that, my dear, is five creation myths for the price of one.’

  He smiled. ‘Love you,’ he murmured to the recording. He would see the owner of the voice soon enough. Reaching out once more, he stirred inside the bowl with a finger . . . and frowned. The weight, the chime and the texture of the contents – something was off. He immediately sat up and turned on the lights. Grabbing the bowl, he sifted through the charms with one hand and glared at every trinket and token that rose to the surface. Finally, he turned the bowl upside down, dumpi
ng everything into his lap. He scanned the spread of charms on the bed-sheets, counting and cataloguing, although he already knew what was missing.

  He looked up, furious. There was only one person who could have taken them, and only one place they could be.

  *

  Terminal 5 was a suborbital city strung between the icy surface of Ntshune and the icy, pitted armour of a single arc of the geosynchronous station. The core of the Terminal was old, a nostalgic remnant of another era of expansion, but the station was entirely new and under constant construction, forming a fragmented ring of bends and bows that girdled ancient Ntshune with a scanty, homely touch of modernity. It represented a humble proclamation of galactic ambition and a dogged focus on one thing – control of the main hub of galactic communications and transportation.

  More lived and moved in the space station and its terminals than on the surface of Ntshune, but it was a population in constant flow to and from transports and through transits. The only residents who could claim any permanence beyond the staff were the databrokers, credit wranglers and small-goods sellers. They came from all over the galaxy – entrepreneurial, nomadic and at once heroic and pathetic. A glance would not distinguish between the adventurer and the refugee; both exuded the adrenalin of chasing and being chased by fate, and translated that urgency into a directness bordering on discourtesy. The market sector of Terminal 5 buzzed with loud voices and high emotions. Only the unprepared and the unlucky came to do business, and they learned quickly not to expect gentle handling.

  ‘No. Not that, not here.’ The broker’s palm slapped his desk in emphatic negation. ‘Waste of time.’

  The young traveller froze with one hand suspended in the air, dangling the delicate bracelet with its many charms. ‘But you know what it is?’

  ‘Too well,’ the broker replied. ‘Datachip, Cygnian; datacharm, ditto. Assorted Punarthai audioplugs, one Sadiri vault and one Sadiri card, Ntshune—’ He stopped himself with a gape, leaned forward and gave the charm a few seconds of close attention. ‘Ntshune filigree,’ he admitted with nod of grudging appreciation. ‘Beautifully made. A timeless piece.’ He leaned back. ‘I can work with that or the Sadiri vault. No guarantees with the audioplugs. Some of the channels are no longer on-air and plugs won’t play without their channel linkup. The card is another antique, likely biolocked. The Cygnian matter – trash. Too much trouble.’

  ‘I have credit—’ the traveller began.

  ‘Credit is not the issue. Do you have five Standard years?’

  The face stayed neutral but the hand drooped, and there was something regretful in the curl of the fingers as they slowly gathered up the loop of motley charms. The broker briefly yielded to the suggestion of softening, like a shy tug at his heart, but he soon braced himself sternly against it.

  ‘Stop that,’ he cautioned. ‘We are Sadiri still; we don’t have to stoop to Zhinuvian tricks. If you do not have five years, then go to Cygnus Beta, Tlaxce Province, the library city of Timbuktu-kvar. They specialise in data extraction from the most ridiculous and obsolete tech.’

  The young face tried to continue its neutrality, but to another Sadiri every microexpression was a shout. The broker blinked and guessed. ‘You are a Cygnian Sadiri?’

  Head bowed, mind shielded but alert, the traveller quietly replied, ‘Yes. I was born there.’

  The broker was not perfect. He saw and sensed the obvious, and misread. ‘There is no need to be ashamed. Whether you are taSadiri or half-Sadiri, we all share the same ancestors, mourn the blackened skies of Old Sadira and curse the Ainya for their failed attempt at genocide.’

  He stopped, gave the traveller a swift but thorough glance that assessed and appreciated from head to toe, misread further and decided to be vulnerable.

  ‘I thought I was fortunate. So many women died, we Sadiri men became so many wifeless husbands and motherless sons. But I had a wife still living. New Sadira took her from me not too long after. We were assured it would be temporary, so at first I was patient. I should have gone to Cygnus Beta with the rest of the young rejects, but I assumed I had status and protection – a place in the new world order. Now I am a lonely and ageing databroker working in the corners of space stations and transit terminals. Sometimes I hope that my wife found happiness, but from the tales I have heard and the emptiness in my heart . . . I know she is dead. It has been many years since then . . .’

  Mind no longer closed, the young Sadiri tried to cringe away in polite but clear retreat, but the broker had gathered steam and courage and was no longer looking for the usual mental cues and courtesies. It was time for a coarser message. He tugged desperately at the neck of his plain black jacket, letting the hidden fastenings fall open to reveal a bare, smooth chest etched with silver tracings of the best Ntshune make. The broker stuttered to a stop, trying to navigate through several layers of faux pas to formulate some kind of coherent verbal or mental response to the traveller’s demonstrated unavailability for short-term flirtation or long-term engagement.

  ‘May your period of kin contract be long and mutually advantageous. And yet . . . you are full Sadiri? Born in the settlement on Cygnus Beta?’

  The traveller did not reply, did not need to. The broker’s lazy mind was at last communicating at the appropriate level and his questions were rhetorical, a verbal trick for emphasis.

  ‘But I did not think they permitted men to be born there.’

  ‘We are not New Sadira,’ the traveller reproached him. He reproached him not only for the insult to his people, but also for the broker’s vague, unvoiced support for that policy. He did not always encounter the caricature of the desperate, marriage-hungry Sadiri, nor did he embody it, but when it appeared it made him feel personally injured, as if conscious of a great fall in which he was complicit though not culpable.

  The broker raised his hand, opened it in surrender and let it fall, a gesture of apology that went beyond what was required towards one so much younger. His very pores exhaled embarrassment, regret and resentment. The traveller felt such pity; if he had not been convinced of his own mental strength, he would have suspected the broker of influencing his emotions.

  ‘I would be grateful if you could do whatever is possible with the vault, the filigree and the audioplugs,’ he said.

  The broker’s ego steadied and grew stronger, anchored by the familiar process of business. ‘What formats do you wish for the final compilation?’

  ‘Ntshune-filigree compatible.’

  ‘That can be done.’ The broker held out a hand for the charms; the tiny lights on his desk blinked and beckoned, ready for transfer.

  The traveller hesitated. ‘How long?’ he asked.

  ‘The filigree, less than a day. A week for the vault, perhaps, and I really cannot say for the audioplugs. I may have to have them sent for testing.’

  ‘Send each one as soon as you finish extraction,’ the traveller told him, extending his treasure.

  A hand intervened, tweaking the bracelet of charms from the traveller’s fingers. The hand was almost prettier than the bracelet. Silvery new lines overlaid the faint, pale scars of long-removed filigree, like embroidery over damask, fingers to forearm. The traveller’s heart seized with fear and disappointment as he looked into dark, opaque eyes and an unreadable face. The databroker assessed the situation with a glance, and folded his desk and vanished before he could become either accessory or witness.

  ‘You could have asked me, Narua.’

  The words were quiet, unthreatening and devoid of reproach, but they still stung. ‘I did ask, Patron.’

  ‘Then you should have been more patient.’ The Patron tucked the charms into an inner fold of his jacket. ‘Come with me.’

  Narua followed his Patron along corridors and through private doors to a small dock. The shuttle linked to the entry port hummed quietly, its engines run-ready. Narua hesitated for a moment before boarding, but sighed and let the habit of trust take his feet obediently into the Patron’s domain. He stayed st
anding and kept himself from fidgeting while the Patron seated himself at the main console and spoke the commands to seal the entry and begin their departure clearance from the Terminal. When the necessaries were concluded, the Patron gestured to the chair beside him. Narua sat and tried to look away, but eventually he raised his head and endured the Patron’s steady, and almost painfully caring gaze.

  ‘I’m hurt. We’re practically family.’

  ‘I know.’ Narua motioned impatiently towards his still-exposed chest and the tracings there that matched those on the Patron’s arms. ‘A lesser branch of the Haneki dynasty, a collection of the unregistered, the foreign and the irregular, all kin but few blood. I know what I am, what we are.’

  Reproach came at last in the form of a hard stare and a rare sternness. ‘And the Haneki markings lend you great privilege, lesser branch or no, or you would be answering directly to Terminal Security instead of me. But’ – the Patron waved a hand, dismissing the tense moment – ‘we were family before that. Do you honestly believe I’m keeping information from you? Or are you hoping to gain some hold over me? My past is relatively boring. No scandal and a very little crime, long since pardoned. It would be so hard to blackmail me.’

  Narua smiled, unable to help himself. The Patron always had that effect on people, persuading them that he was never a threat, and somehow, in spite of all the evidence, it worked every time.

  The Patron’s voice became heavy with regret. ‘Or do you think I don’t want you to find her?’

  Narua winced but could not lie. ‘They say that her decision put you on a path you might not have chosen for yourself.’

  A gentle frown appeared briefly on the Patron’s face, showing perplexity rather than anger. ‘Is that what they say?’ he said drily. ‘In the absence of other witnesses, the missing conveniently take on our sins. Let me tell you directly – I bear her no ill will, quite the opposite. I want her found, for my aunt’s sake as much as my own.’

  ‘She is only one missing person among many who concern you. I understand that.’