The Galaxy Game

by Karen Lord

  ‘I am glad that you understand my responsibilities, but you still fail to comprehend my heart.’

  Narua fell silent, chastised.

  ‘Let us go. As I said, Narua, you only had to ask. I’ll unlock the charms for you and you can see what secrets are dangling on this chain.’

  *

  Because he was the Patron and thus a busy man, and also because only his time and his timing mattered, they did not, as Narua had hoped, go straight from landing at Port of Janojya to a viewing at one of the port’s extensive conference facilities. Nor did they, on return to Janojya proper and re-entry to the Haneki domains, immediately settle down to a private meeting in the Patron’s workroom or living quarters. Narua found himself gently dismissed, left alone for days to consider and worry and finally fret, and then at last he was summoned.

  The Patron sat alone at the edge of a sunken holo projector pit in the centre of his workroom floor. He sat so still that Narua thought for a moment that he was meditating. Narua crossed the threshold, courteously quiet but sensibly announcing his entry with an inaudible beat of presence that could be discerned by any but the most primitive Terran. The Patron’s eyelids flickered, lowered rather than closed, and Narua saw that his focus was on something held in the upturned palm on his lap.

  ‘Narua . . . or may I say Kirat?’

  Narua smiled. ‘You may say Siha, but childhood names don’t matter any more. Not for me.’

  ‘Then let me start again. Narua, I wish you well in your search. This role I fill comes with many opportunities and many restrictions, and if I cannot help, I will at least not hinder. Here.’

  The Patron waved him to a cushion beside him. Narua looked before he sat and picked up a single charm, shaped like a watchtower, from the dip in the soft fabric.

  ‘A full copy of everything you tried to steal,’ said the Patron, both chiding and amused. ‘Use it wisely and don’t embarrass me.’

  Narua nodded, too pleased to speak, and quickly put it into a pocket. The Patron’s gaze returned to the object in his own hand.

  ‘For this,’ he said, holding it up to clear view, ‘I had to make a request, and then I had to wait.’

  Narua stared. It was an old Cygnian datacharm of a design that slightly pre-dated the one the Patron kept on the chain, and the style was familiar. He began to speak, then bit his lip.

  ‘I think you have one like it,’ the Patron said. ‘This belongs to my aunt. I only found out about it when it came up during our recent chat on your latest shenanigans. She said we should watch it together, before you go through all the other journals and chronicles.’

  It was the moment to ask, but Narua stayed silent. He could already guess who was on it and more questions seemed superfluous. The Patron nodded his approval and gently threw the charm into the depths of the holo interface. The first image was sudden and large, and they both jumped back reflexively at the brightness radiating from the semicircle before them. There was the face and form Narua knew so well, which belonged to a woman he had never met – his mother. She was sitting in an office. The wall behind her right shoulder had shelves of books, discs and unfamiliar artefacts, and a tall window at her left shoulder opened out into greenery and birdsong. A breeze played intermittently at the draperies.

  ‘Commander Nasiha,’ she said, looking straight into the vid recorder with a slightly distant, almost distracted gaze. ‘Formerly of the Interplanetary Science Council, presently on leave from the New Sadira Science Council, cultural consultant of Sadira-on-Cygnus in Tlaxce Province on Cygnus Beta—’

  A brief, staccato cough cut off the lengthy introduction and another voice spoke softly. ‘This isn’t a research report, Nasiha. There’s no need for formality.’

  Nasiha blinked and her eyes focused and grew warm. ‘I asked you to prompt me, not interrupt me,’ she admonished the unseen speaker, but it was said gently enough to be teasing as well.

  ‘I am prompting you. Try to relax. Tell it like a tale.’

  Nasiha frowned. ‘Perhaps reports would be better. Anything can change, and what I say now will have little utility.’ She moved as if to get up.

  The off-screen voice sighed. ‘And I say again, it’s not a report.’

  ‘Nor is it a memorial,’ Nasiha replied harshly.

  Sorrowful, almost hurt, the voice countered, ‘That’s not why I suggested this.’

  The vid’s view changed in a blur, resettling at a higher point to show the whole room and the second occupant, her hand just pulling back from flinging the vid recorder to its new perch. She reclined in a chair on the other side of Nasiha’s desk, her fingers laced tightly over her belt in a way that should have been casual but instead demonstrated an inner tension held close and quiet. Grace Delarua, godmother of Narua and aunt of the Patron, had never been good at hiding her feelings. The new angle also provided some temporal context for the vid. Narua noted with fond reverence that his mother was heavily pregnant and that he had been, in fact if not in full awareness, present at the time of recording.

  ‘It’s a memory,’ Grace Delarua said, ‘not a memorial. It’s a way for you to talk to the family you’ll never see. Once we kept letters, journals and flat, monochrome photographs. Now we have data keepsakes and trinkets. It’s as significant or insignificant as you want it to be. Say hi. Recite a poem or a blessing. Tell a dirty joke.’

  As Grace spoke, Nasiha gradually unstiffened, slowly leaned back and absently clasped her hands in similar fashion over her belly. She fought not to smile, but by the last sentence, she smiled. Narua glanced at the Patron and noticed with not a little ruefulness that he too had fallen into the same posture as the Patron – legs crossed, hands loosely held in lap, body leaning slightly forward. The Patron looked at him sideways and gave him a quick wink.

  ‘I will have to think of one,’ Nasiha said drily. ‘We’re not as amused by sex as Terrans and Zhinuvians.’

  ‘Sadiri are far too grown up for that,’ Grace agreed cheerfully.

  Nasiha’s face became shadowed again. ‘Or we find less humour in things, or the wrong kind of humour. New Sadira is a joke, but no one is laughing.’

  Grace also sobered. ‘But how much of what we are hearing is true?’

  Nasiha unclasped her hands and began to tap out a tally on her fingertips. ‘First, our pilot brethren. They are very loyal to all things Sadiri, but they are also expert at objective observation. I would assign their reports a high level of veracity. Second, the attention our consultancy has been getting from the Academes of Punartam, not only in increased requests for collaboration on projects concerning the Sadiri culture, but also in the number of times our papers and reports have been quoted and referenced by other academics and consultants. This goes beyond the first wave of stranded Sadiri after our biosphere disaster. They are dealing with a second wave of refugees from New Sadiri, many of them traumatised by new, unexpected crises.’

  ‘Your Consul . . .’ Grace began slowly, as if already doubting the words she was about to say.

  ‘The Consul of New Sadira is in an unenviable position. Cygnus Beta is too distant from the galactic centre for his office to be fully cognisant of the situation on New Sadira, and the community he is tasked to represent has become too independent to pay him much attention. It is no wonder he clings to any semblance of authority.’

  ‘Like ordering you back to the Science Council,’ Grace said.

  Nasiha clasped her hands again and shook her head slightly. ‘Well, my leave is coming to an end. We knew this would happen – but,’ she continued, her eyes narrowing with something like anger, ‘the galaxy was a different place then.’

  ‘What does Tarik say?’ Grace asked, still with that gentle voice.

  ‘He is concerned. I know he does not want me to go, but he is leaving the decision to me.’ Nasiha smiled suddenly. ‘He tries his best to assure me in every way that he will be an exceptional parent. That was never in doubt.’

  They fell silent for a while, then Grace spoke. ‘Do you kno
w, when we first started hearing the rumours, I was convinced it was something the Zhinuvian cartels were doing. I imagined them sweeping up every lost and undocumented Sadiri female they could find and selling them on to the highest bidders.’

  Nasiha laughed bitterly. ‘The cartels have too many other opportunities now that galactic security is so lax, but I am sure there are some enterprising small groups and individuals who are filling the void. Sadiri women are now the galaxy’s rarest and most valuable commodity. Ironically, this fact has put severe limitations on their safety and security.’

  Grace sighed. ‘I almost wish that Ain wasn’t cut off from the rest of the galaxy. If the government of New Sadira had more genetic options, they might not be so desperate.’

  ‘Taking Ainya genetic material as reparations for attempted genocide? Would that mean taking Ainya women as wives, or breeding stock? Unimaginable. Perhaps Ain is better off in isolation. It removes the temptation to other atrocities.’

  ‘Go to the Academes,’ Grace pleaded. ‘If they’ve taken over the Interplanetary Science Council, why should you go to New Sadira? It’s too far. We’ll never see you again.’

  ‘A seven-year posting is not for ever, Grace,’ Nasiha chided absently.

  ‘They will make it for ever. You know that,’ Grace muttered. ‘And you . . . you’re keeping secrets from me.’

  Unexpectedly, Nasiha laughed. There was so much fondness and joy in her laughter that Grace responded with a huge grin, immediately disarmed. ‘Of course I am keeping secrets from you,’ she said, ‘but I thought you knew why.’

  Grace shrugged. ‘I know you love me, but I also know you don’t take me seriously where some matters are concerned.’

  Nasiha dipped her head and gave Grace a stern and censuring look from under frowning brows. ‘Nonsense. I am doing you a favour. I do not think that you would not keep my secrets, but it may be that you could not. And I do not wish to put your husband in an awkward position. He must maintain a good relationship with New Sadira in general and the Consul in particular. If I must plot disobedience, I will not involve you two.’

  ‘You should give us the choice,’ Grace grumbled.

  ‘We are all of us caught between duty and choice. They tell me that my children are the future of my people and I have a duty. But how can I ransom the freedoms of the unborn to an unknowable future?’

  ‘You say that now because of Cygnian influence. When you first arrived, all of you, your sole duty was to the survival of Sadira. Now you allow Terran and Ntshune riff-raff like me into your community and you don’t even flinch at the prospect of a diluted bloodline. That’s quite a change.’

  ‘New Sadira has changed, too, but in the opposite direction. There lies my dilemma.’

  ‘I wish you would let us do more.’

  ‘I do want you to do more. Would you save only me when so many others are in danger? Do your research, collaborate with the Academes, and as for your husband . . .’ Nasiha looked down, drew a breath and exhaled. ‘I know that Dllenahkh will strive to keep the name of Sadira from dishonour. I believe he has some challenges ahead of him. You must keep him stable and save him from despair.’

  ‘These sound like goodbyes,’ Grace said, her voice wavering.

  Nasiha nodded. ‘One way or another, I will be leaving Cygnus Beta, and I believe it will be soon. I hope it will be in a way that I choose.’

  She looked pensively at the window view as Grace quickly wiped her eyes and cleared her throat.

  ‘I’ve got some reports to finish. Call me if you need anything, and . . . finish recording that message, okay?’

  Nasiha nodded as Grace stretched up to the recorder on the shelf, her hand filling the view as she reached towards it . . . then darkness and silence indicated that the glimpse into the past was at an end.

  The Patron cleared his throat in a little staccato rhythm that made him sound far too much like his aunt. ‘That’s it. I take it you have the datacharm Commander Nasiha recorded for you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Narua said, or tried to say, but his voice was below a whisper, dry and tearless. He tried again with more force and spit. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did she put on it?’

  ‘An old Sadiri lullaby. The melody is very pretty but the lyrics are a bit grim. Something about how getting married and having a hundred descendants is preferable to dying alone and forgotten and useless.’

  ‘Ah. I suppose things haven’t really changed that much in the Sadiri mindset.’

  ‘But she said . . . she said family can be a matter of choice, not birth.’

  ‘That’s a very Ntshune sentiment.’ The Patron sounded pleased.

  ‘And if your family is as large as a dynasty, your priorities change,’ Narua acknowledged.

  The Patron shook his head and stared earnestly at the young Sadiri. ‘They don’t change, Narua. They deepen, they expand, but they don’t change as much as you think.’

  He stood up briskly, bent and picked the charm out of the holo pit. ‘Keep looking for her. I will give you what help I can when I can. I only ask that you answer my call if I need you. Now, if you will, I have appointments elsewhere. Feel free to use my workroom and quarters while you go through the rest of the charms. All the tech is secure and surveillance-free.’

  ‘Thank you, Patron,’ Narua said, his voice almost breaking with surprise and emotion at the unexpected generosity.

  He waited for the Patron to exit before tossing the bracelet of charms into the pit before him. Then he stretched out on the cushions and began to listen and watch.

  Part One

  Cygnus Beta

  Chapter One

  It was that hour of the game when sweat and blood began to rub together, skin sliding on skin, smudging the marks of allegiance and territory and leaving only the grav-band colours to identify the two teams. The audience was global and the cacophony shocking. Every drop and pull and sink was cursed and celebrated. A mosaic composed of myriad images of frenzied supporters enveloped the Wall in a hemisphere of seething colour. Players would occasionally look outwards into that mad, tilted sky and add their voices in shouts of triumph or fury, but for the most part they saved their breath for speed.

  Adrenalin spiked high in players and spectators alike, pushed by the high risk and higher stakes. This was the best part. It was ruined by unfriendly white light flooding the room and washing out the rich, broad holo projection of seventeen carefully coordinated school slates. Cries of dismay rose up and as quickly died down again at the sight of the schoolmaster standing in the doorway with a tired expression on his face.

  ‘Boys, you are loud. Go to sleep. You will find out the score in the morning. Caps on, Riley, Kim and Dee. Caps straight, Pareti and Sajanettan. Put away those slates. Let all be in proper order before I leave this place. You – Abowen, Abyowan, however your name’s pronounced – aren’t you the new Saturday boy?’

  The master’s voice was a marvel. It started at a resentful mutter, swelled to stern command and concluded with a sharp, querying snarl directed a student who was standing casually at the edge of the room. The boy looked as if he had been hoping – no – expecting to be overlooked. The sudden question startled him badly.

  ‘Yes, but . . . it’s Friday.’ Now he looked bewildered.

  ‘Not any more – it’s midnight. You know who I am, don’t you? My sister teaches you Telecoms and Transfers.’

  ‘Of course I know,’ the boy replied, oddly offended. ‘I’m not that new.’

  The master’s expression turned suspiciously mild. ‘Barely a year, big school, high staff turnover with some teachers you know of but never see face to face – it wouldn’t be surprising if you didn’t know the connection. My office, east wing, nine tomorrow morning.’

  The room had settled down. Leaving the Saturday boy to worry whether the appointment was for work or punishment, the master scanned the dormitory and, finding it relatively neat and its denizens subdued, gave a brief, approving nod.

  ‘Lights out,�
�� he said, closed the door and set off without a backward look. The slow fade would give them all plenty of time to get into bed.

  He jogged down the corridor with as much haste and dignity as could be managed on too many sedentary years and a creaky ankle. ‘Loud,’ he grumbled to himself. ‘Pestilential interference is the problem. A seventeen-slate array! Selfish, unthinking poppets!’

  The lift tower at the corner of east and south was illuminated solely by the starlight from its long, narrow windows, but he stepped onto the lift pad with the sixth sense of familiarity and gave it a solid stamp. It carried him up to the second level as he muttered, this time with a touch of admiration, ‘Enterprising little moujins. Galia will be proud.’

  Their lodgings were at the opposite end of the wing from his office. He had insisted. Life was too complicated without maintaining a few artificial boundaries. Galia did not have an office; she did not need one. She stayed in their small set of rooms, keeping mainly to the large study. He called it a study. Most visitors simply called it . . . strange. The walls were full of fixed shelves, the upper air dangled leashes from a couple of floating shelves, and nothing touched the wooden floor but Galia’s own feet and her old-fashioned walking stick. She stood leaning on it, considering a slate propped on a shelf opposite her. It was silently broadcasting a small flat-view of that same match he had shut down in the north wing first-level-boys’ dormitory.

  ‘In, Silyan,’ she told him as he hesitated in the doorway. The brief exchange said everything about which sibling was elder and dominant.

  The floor of the study had a pleasing give, a slight bounce. He enjoyed it. It was how his feet knew he was home. Galia turned away from the slate and the movement of her considerable mass sent a familiar pulse through the floor: the sharp vibration of walking stick and the low-amplitude surge of the shifting from left foot to right.

  ‘Image improved. Well done. How many?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  She acknowledged the feat with a nod and a minor show of her dimples. ‘Sometimes they pay attention.’