The Galaxy Game

by Karen Lord

  Rafi took the audioplug from his ear and glared back. ‘Well, it explains your ingenious ways of torturing me. Dressing me like a fool. Dragging me around until I collapse and then letting me embarrass myself at the Academe. How much Ntshune are you, Tinman? More than most Cygnians, surely?’

  ‘I’ve dressed you like a child because that’s what you are in this place. No one told you to take off the oxygen filter and run yourself ragged. Again, no one told you to hold on to that datachip as if you had for ever to read it. Your aunt’s friend is a policeman? You should have prepared me for that, at least. Thank day and night I got us here legally.’

  ‘And you haven’t answered my question.’

  Ntenman looked embarrassed. ‘Mostly Ntshune. Three-quarters, in fact. My padr’s half-Terran.’

  ‘You sound so ashamed! Most Cygnians would be stupidly proud of that.’

  He huffed resentfully. ‘You really haven’t guessed by now? I’m . . . incapable of functioning in Ntshune society. Insufficient psi ability. Easier to be Cygnian.’ His sentences became more and more staccato as he tried and failed to speak lightly about what was clearly a source of deep, long-term hurt.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Rafi said in quiet apology.

  He went to the window and looked out to give Ntenman a bit of space. The smooth, opaque exterior of the tower was a hollow tube set like a translucent bell over a skyscraper, hiding myriad wide windows to offices, living quarters, lecture halls and rooms upon rooms. About fifty metres of broad-bladed green and purple grass covered the ground between the outer and inner walls, and the inner walls also ran verdant with hanging vegetation. Inside their room, the harsh light of the suns filtered through as cool aqua and the dry air was gentled by the moist exhalation of many plants clustered together.

  This window was on the quiet side of the tower, the side for resting, meditating and, with the window’s screening turned to full opacity, sleeping. Haviranthiya had explained that to him; the Academe dealt with the long days by making time into place. There was also a work section and a recreation section, and people moved to where they needed to be as the hours turned. The basic accommodation in the Academe was called a ‘three-roomer’, with none of the rooms adjacent. As non-academics, Rafi and Ntenman had something less than basic, two rooms only, one very private for sleep and quiet, the other more open and public for eating, entertainment and being gregarious. He had not seen that room yet, but he knew already that it would have a good view of the several game Walls poised over the inside of the tower’s outer casing. He was eager to watch a game, but Haviranthiya, anticipating the fatigue of the newly arrived, had taken them to sleeping quarters and ordered him to rest for an hour.

  When Rafi turned back, he found Ntenman was propped up on his elbows, frowning at him, diverted from his brief moment of weakness by a lingering mystery. ‘How can you not know, Moo? You can’t hide what you are. Serendipity saw it the moment she met you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rafi asked. His voice was calm, his face was calm, but his eyes were wide and hurt.

  ‘You’re like a lighthouse. Most times you’re barely noticeable, and then there’s this great sweep of . . .’ Ntenman lay back and combed his hands vigorously through the air in an attempt at description. ‘Of something,’ he said weakly. ‘Anyone can feel it. I’ve felt it.’

  Rafi blinked and turned away. ‘So I can shout. Doesn’t mean I can speak,’ he muttered.

  ‘Maybe you should have let the Lyceum help you— Wait, what am I saying? They can barely help themselves. But Moo, someone has to help you, and this may be the best place for it. What are you afraid of, exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know. I . . . I . . .’ He tried to find more words, but his throat tightened and would not release them. His aunt’s explanation, that they had mutually influenced each other into silence, was a comforting one, but there was an undertow of fear and shame that felt both foreign and familiar. He pushed his hands at the invisible barrier. ‘I don’t know!’ he cried out. ‘I don’t know what I’m afraid of. I’m just afraid.’

  ‘Don’t yell,’ Ntenman said quietly. ‘Not in this section. It’s important to be good neighbours in the Metropolis. It matters a lot.’

  Rafi murmured an apology.

  ‘As I was saying, you could get help here. Be a child, learn from scratch. The Academe is a galactic environment. It caters to Sadiri and Cygnians and Zhinuvians all the time, but there are some communities below-ground that have the full Punarthai experience. You could go there and learn what you are and what to do with it.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a child again. I am an adult.’ It was an embarrassing thing to have to say, so he said it with as much quiet dignity as he could manage.

  ‘By homestead standards, Moo!’ Ntenman made his tone just as quiet and twice as intense. ‘If you want to be an adult here you have to prove you can do more than herd goats, chop wood and breed.’

  ‘If I want to be here at all, I can’t give Lian any legal excuse to ship me back,’ Rafi explained.

  Ntenman began to speak, then paused, pondering. ‘Oh,’ was all he said. ‘But—’ He paused again. ‘But there are other ways, if you’re willing to try them.’

  Rafi gave him a look of tired suspicion.

  ‘But perhaps you should first hear what Lian has to tell you when you go and eat,’ Ntenman continued. The sentence ended in a yawn which he tried to smother with both hands.

  Rafi felt worried again. ‘I should look at that datachip.’ He winced, expecting a few sarcastic words from Ntenman along the lines of, ‘I told you so,’ but surprisingly, there was silence and then, less surprisingly, a series of soft, almost musical snores.

  Rafi could not sleep. First he went to the dressing area of their quarters. There he had a quiet chat with the garment fabricator, dumped the post-quarantine outfit into its recycler and received a standard galactic suit in return. Moving slowly so as not to get dizzy, he tested the facilities. The shower-like cubicle extruded nozzles which puffed hot, abrasive air at him, covered him in a sticky glitter which quickly dissolved, then surrounded him with cool mist. He thought he was finished but the door refused to open, gently advising him to use the special chamois provided to tend to his crevices. Tentatively, he did so and disposed of it in the designated niche. As he exited, the door rewarded him with a frighteningly brisk gust that took the last of the mist droplets from his hair.

  By the time he was fully dressed and watching himself turn as a mirrored holo, he felt ridiculously proud of what he had managed. He saw before him a sober figure, perhaps too slender still for a grown man but too tall for a child. Lian might yet take him seriously – which brought him to his second task.

  He set the datachip next to the sensor in the dressing room. His slowly spinning holo vanished and several lines of font spilled down the wall. He scanned, searched and sorted. His aunt had given him introductory guides to Punartam, specialised tours and maps of the Metropolis above- and below-ground. Some of them looked similar to what he had received in quarantine, but they were likely outdated editions. Others were completely new to him, and those he carefully put aside to be examined later. Then there were names and titles and locations of colleagues and friends, people she knew from her research. She had flagged certain names for specific help such as obtaining introductions and credit, and others to contact in case of dire emergency.

  Haviranthiya’s name did not appear, which was no surprise as most of the names were attached to Academe Bhumniastraya and a few to Academe Maenevastraya. Dr Qeturah Daniyel’s name appeared unflagged.

  Lian’s name did not appear at all.

  *

  Later, Rafi left the living quarters (and Ntenman, who was still sleeping) to follow the directions Lian had sent to his audioplug channel. He carried Commander Nasiha’s comm with him but it had no value beyond the nostalgic in the Metropolis. People on Punartam did not have comms per se; they had channels. They did not call. They joined ongoing public discussions, reserved
bands for private topics, sent messages, maps and other information about how to access the next gathering of voices or persons. Everything important was oral and aural. He was amazed at their ability to pay attention to two and three conversations at once without faltering. They could have an Academe lecture whispering in their ear while they passionately debated the merits of a new player on their favourite Wallrunning team and never miss a detail of either topic.

  Rafi knew all of that, and still the level of chatter in the dining hall was a shock to his ears and confusion to his brain. He lost track of what the directions were saying and hovered, lost for a moment, but then he saw Lian waving to him from a table near the centre of the room. He quickly went over and they spent the first few minutes in casual talk as they selected dishes from a mini-carousel in the middle of the table. By the time Rafi took the first mouthful, he was feeling sufficiently relaxed to mention, not without reproach, the absence of Lian’s name on Delarua’s list of contacts.

  Lian merely smiled. ‘Your aunt is a good secret-keeper. She has a way of telling you everything except for what might get you into trouble. She didn’t want to put me in an awkward position, so I was left off the list.’

  ‘And yet, as far as awkward positions go, here you are,’ Rafi noted cautiously.

  Lian sipped at a cup of some lightly fizzing beverage, inhaled at the wrong moment and was momentarily caught up in an attempt not to sneeze. ‘Yes, here I am. Nothing stays secret in the Metropolis. Ntenman told Haviranthiya he was on his way. Haviranthiya spoke to some of his circle in Academe Maenevastraya, who in turn brought the news to Academe Bhumniastraya. Doctor Daniyel isn’t contactable at the moment, so they spoke to me instead. Of course, by then I already knew. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if those at Academe Maenevastraya knew before me and Haviranthiya.’ Lian paused to fix him with a meaningful look. ‘Academe Maenevastraya specialises in Interstellar Communications and Transport. Drink your drink. It’s good for the digestion.’

  Rafi tried the pale, warm, bubbling liquid. It tasted of chlorophyll and sting, flavours that rather suited the atmosphere of the dining hall. The windows were large and open and carried partial shutters that appeared to temper the wind’s gusts but otherwise let in most of the air and a lot of light. The light was needed; the vertical verdure outside had been encouraged to push past the edges of the windows and spread over the room’s walls. Rafi recognised a recurring theme. The dry, over-bright Metropolis had oases tucked into every nook and niche. He did wonder, though, where they had got the wood for the tables and stools, or if indeed the wood was from actual trees and not some fabricated facsimile, or a complete fake with knots and grain painted on.

  Unlike the living quarters, there appeared to be no noise restriction whatsoever in this dining hall. People moved from table to table, talking and laughing loudly, sometimes stopping long enough that it became necessary to bring over another stool, or put two tables together. Rafi began to understand why the plates and bowls were so easily carried and the utensils few and simple in design. People set bowls down to eat and converse with one group, then were waved over by another group to hear some news or piece of wit. They would return eventually to the first table, but overall it was a pool of Brownian motion, with laughter and information bouncing like a benign contagion from table to table.

  He drank again and coughed. ‘Does everything here run on gossip?’

  ‘Gossip, information, intelligence. Whatever it is, it’s the fuel and the glue and the lifeblood of anything touched by the Ntshune.’

  ‘So, if you didn’t hear about me from Academe Maenevastraya, who told you?’ asked Rafi. He had been paying attention and thinking carefully.

  With another smile and a shake of the head, Lian backed away from the question. ‘Like your aunt, I prefer not to tell people things that might get them in trouble. You really should drink more of that. Your stomach will thank you.’

  ‘Why, what are we eating?’ Rafi asked, frowning at the selection of bowls and platters. Most of the contents looked familiar. He had eaten in enough restaurants in Tlaxce to recognise authentic Punartam fare.

  ‘Oh, protein, carbohydrates, the usual. We’re all human, after all. But our interior ecosystems are a little different, and this drink helps the Terran digestion. Lots of enzymes and . . . er . . . other stuff.’ The final words were muffled as Lian bit into a bread-like ball.

  ‘Drink it or a fungus will grow out of your throat so fast you’ll think the follicles of your beard have reversed. Hello, Lian.’

  Rafi jumped. The new voice belonged to a middle-aged, cheerful face and a large, heavy hand that smacked him on the shoulder in a friendly fashion. The smack came with a similarly heavy surge of complex sensory impressions. Rafi was shocked. Was it mere introduction or gross liberty? Had he seen the galactic garb and assumed Rafi would feel nothing, or had he already picked up something from Rafi and offered a standard greeting?

  The newcomer pulled up a stool and joined them, oblivious to Rafi’s turmoil. ‘So this is the nephew?’

  ‘Yes, Tshalo, this is my friend’s nephew. Rafiabowen— But no, you made some changes when you became an adult, didn’t you? Rafidelarua, Hanekitshalo.’

  ‘Ah, Terran, of course.’

  ‘Cygnian,’ Rafi answered, but a dismissive hand was already being waved before he completed the final syllable.

  ‘It is all the same,’ said Tshalo. ‘And yet— No, don’t offer me anything. I have eaten.’ He gently pushed away the platter Lian had shoved under his nose.

  Lian eyed him blandly and kept chewing. ‘So you are here because . . .?’

  ‘Mistrustful child! If you wished to speak privately, you would not be in the public rooms, correct? But I am not here for information. I came for an introduction, and I have accomplished that.’

  Lian stopped eating and sat back. ‘You unregistered, unclaimed superfluous spawn of a renegade mother. You’re taking advantage of my Terran courtesy to play Academe politics. Rafi, don’t say another word. This specimen is from Academe Maenevastraya and he’s trying to cut in front of Haviranthiya. Rude and unnecessary.’

  ‘Such words, Lian! Please have some patience. We are not so terrible as that.’

  ‘We? Who is “we”, now?’

  ‘We who would be on very good terms with Cygnus Beta, and with Sadira-on-Cygnus,’ Tshalo replied, all hint of teasing gone. ‘And there are a lot of us. Are you understanding me yet?’

  Lian glared at him for a moment, then relaxed enough to pick up a large slice of vegetable, bite it in half and resume chewing. ‘I am beginning to, for all that I am a slow, untalented Terran-type.’

  ‘Terran-types are very much in fashion during these times of great uncertainty and change,’ Tshalo said cryptically. ‘Remember me, Rafidelarua. I am sure we will meet again soon.’

  He stood, snagged a leaf from the platter under Lian’s right hand, rolled it and scooped it full of mashed tuber. Saluting them with a slight upward raise of the treat, he walked off, munching.

  Lian sat momentarily paralysed at the audacity, then began to speak slowly. ‘I’ll try to tell you what just happened, but don’t feel bad if you make no more sense of it than I can.’

  ‘Is he someone important at his Academe?’

  ‘His mother is. Very, very important. Whether or not he is actually speaking for the Haneki family is debatable. He is as I called him – unregistered and unclaimed. But he has the gene tags to prove his origins and he uses them for leverage whenever he can.’

  ‘What leverage could I give him?’ Rafi wondered.

  Lian gave him a quizzical look. ‘Don’t you follow the news?’

  Rafi thought for a brief, painful moment of the datacharm brimming with information from the Sadira-on-Cygnus network, the datachip from his aunt, the audioplug and other information from the transit and quarantine staff, and the latest manuals on Academe living kindly provided by Haviranthiya. ‘No,’ he said in a small voice.

  ‘Your uncle is now
Governor of Sadira-on-Cygnus. They say it’s likely he’ll be made Guardian next. New Sadira is not taking it well. Ntshune and Punartam have made no formal comment, but there have been some private congratulations.’

  Rafi remembered something distracting. ‘You said my aunt was worried about me. How do you know that?’

  Lian looked down briefly, as if struggling with an impulse to lie. ‘The same way I knew your arrival date. Let’s leave it at that. Now, tell me, what are you doing here? No, stop it, I don’t mean here at this table, or here in this Academe. I mean why Punartam?’

  Rafi quickly erased the daft and confused expression that had so irritated Lian and tried to look resolute. ‘I’m here to get help for my condition.’

  Raised eyebrows, blank eyes, sarcastic flutter of the eyelashes – Lian was still not impressed. ‘Your condition? You have a condition?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rafi continued boldly. ‘One that the Lyceum failed to diagnose and treat. I learned that the best research on psionic behaviours is happening here on Punartam.’

  Cynicism and suspicion gave way to grudging interest and respect. ‘This sounds almost believable. Keep going.’

  ‘And since I knew a friend who had been to Punartam,’ he said, the words coming with ease and eloquence, ‘I seized the opportunity and—’

  ‘Bravo!’ Lian clapped softly. ‘You’re very good at that – reinventing the past. A little mental push with that and you’d be set. Don’t do it. Don’t try that with me, and don’t try it with anyone else. If you do, I will have you restrained and shipped back to Cygnus Beta before you can blink.’

  Rafi gaped. The menace of the words and the cheerfulness of Lian’s voice clashed with a kind of surreal horror that rivalled any ordinary threat. ‘I won’t,’ he said indignantly.

  ‘Good. I can file a nice, straightforward report at my next waketime.’

  An awkward silence grew, only mildly alleviated by the ongoing background gaiety, the clash of busy forks and dedicated mastication.