by Gavin Chait
Nizena takes Joshua’s arm and walks slowly out of the water and up the beach. ‘Your struggle, our struggle, there is no difference. Each of us is on a ship travelling through space. Each of us trying to work out the best way that all of us can find joy.’
The light is changing, shifting through orange.
They sit on the beach watching the embers of the day and the ocean ebbing and flowing.
45
‘My love.’ Shakiso is there as he opens his eyes.
‘My darling,’ and Samara clutches at her hands, her face, tears of joy, relief and unutterable sadness.
She touches his face, a finger tracing a tear, understanding. ‘You survived,’ she says. ‘You have behaved with honour. You have nothing to regret.’
He reaches up, caressing her cheek. ‘Thank you,’ letting even that sadness fade away.
He is lying on the bed they share, the room open out on to the deck alongside the waterfall. Mist drifts across, and the roar of the falling water fills their home.
She falls to him, and they lie, tangled, for hours. Exploring again familiar shapes, not making love – that will come later – remembering, rediscovering.
‘I am grateful,’ she says.
There is a space in his head, but Symon has his own apologies to make. He will return in his own time.
‘I owe a great debt,’ he says.
‘Joshua has been waiting. He is down at the lake,’ Shakiso says, cradling his face in her hands, searching deep in his eyes. ‘You have come back, but—’
‘I want you to know, I will never take anything for granted ever again. You are more precious to me than anything.’
He kisses her fingers, and her eyes are serene waters dappled with sunshine.
46
Joshua is seated on a boulder against the waters of the lake. He can smell the forest and hear the sounds of the birds. He knows he must return home and realizes that the decision was always clear for him.
He hears a discreet cough and turns. A young man is standing there. He looks oddly out of place until Joshua notices the iridescent shimmer he has associated with symbionts. He stands, walks towards him.
‘Symon?’
‘Joshua. I am so sorry. I—’
And without thinking whether it is even possible, Joshua runs and embraces him. ‘You are alive!’
Symon, uncertain, hugs back. ‘I was dreading this moment. I thought, perhaps, you would—’
Joshua shakes his head. ‘I was so worried I had killed you and Samara. You are back.’ His relief is so profound that he realizes how far he is from coming to terms with Achenian technology.
Symon smiles shyly. ‘Samara will join us, but I asked for time with you. To apologize. To thank you for bringing us home.’
They walk along the shore together.
‘What you were saying. Before you –’ Symon hesitates. ‘I am sorry. Without Samara, it is easy to simplify, to believe that the killing of one bad person will end all evil.’
‘Please,’ says Joshua. ‘I understand, understood even then.’
They walk on in silence. Symon relieved that he has asked for, and received, forgiveness.
‘Did you know?’ asks Joshua.
‘About Ewuru and Nizena? I might have,’ says Symon.
Symon walks, accidentally stepping out and on to the water, leaving little depressions there. ‘In order for someone to know where they’re going, first they must know where they’re from.’
‘Did you direct the craft? Did you choose us?’ Joshua persists.
‘When we neared the coast, I identified a range of places to land. I was uncertain where to take us and even if any of the villages still existed. So much of that land is abandoned, dead. There was a memory, a trace. Someone had loved Ewuru. I was alone. Outside the connect. I made a decision. I am sorry.’
‘Please,’ says Joshua. ‘I am grateful. I would not have had you choose anywhere else.’
Symon, his face so young, looks relieved.
A rustle in the trees and Samara emerges. He smiles. He and Joshua embrace, each with relief and gratitude.
‘It is over now?’ asks Joshua.
Samara shakes his head. ‘No, another debt still to repay. And you must return to your people. To Esther and Isaiah.’
Samara crouches and runs his fingers in the water, recalling a time when they shared conversation along the Akwayafe.
‘My grandfather has given you the tour?’
‘Yes. This is a beautiful world,’ says Joshua.
Samara nods. ‘Ewuru will always have a special place in my heart.’
He reaches into a pocket. ‘Here, I wanted to share this with you. It is the last story my father ever wrote.’
Joshua takes the folded page. Opens it.
Etai’s tale
The Tail of One
47
Joshua turns the page over. Holds it up to the light. Apart from the neatly handprinted title, the sheet is blank.
‘I do not understand?’
‘My father chose his date of going. He wanted to leave on his hundredth birthday. On his deathbed, he gave that to me.
‘He said, one day you will find the peace you seek. Your questions will be answered. You will have focused your passion. When that day comes, you will write your first story. We will start work on this one together and – one day – you will complete it.’
Samara takes the paper, holds it as if feeling skin, gently caressing it.
‘He told me the bones of a story. About a dimensional bomb that disrupts higher orders of mathematics and time, drawing power from them.
‘One is a being. After such a dimensional explosion, he is separated from his lover, Story, who is drawn up into higher dimensions. In his dimension he is only of two axes, height and width.
‘He runs in search of Story, his love, but she is out of his reach, twisting through other dimensions. He meets a couple. In this dimension they are bats. They know who set off the bomb but not how. Criminals using terror to influence and control their world.
‘He travels through dimensions of wonder, of art, of science, always seeking Story.’
Samara folds the paper and returns it to his pocket.
‘I don’t know how to make a samara from these elements. I don’t know what they mean. I am a simple man. But, I know now I will learn. I have time.’
They walk along the shore, holding hands, sharing the comfortable closeness of old friends.
‘I was there through his passing. My mother, my grandfather, my grandmother. Shakiso and I had been seeing each other only a short while. My father loved her, and I wished so much that they had more time to know each other. It was not to be.’
He stands straight, tall. Symon by his side. Together Joshua can see the resemblance. What Samara would look like without the garb of the Nine: the heavy matt-titanium density that gives him such an alien physical presence.
‘His going went so quickly. He took to his bed. Said farewell to his symbiont, drained him from his body. A small glass of silver fluid that slowly cleared. We gathered, told his favourite samaras, listened to music, relived our lives together, laughed, rejoiced, cherishing our remaining time.’
Samara’s voice trembles. ‘I held his hand, could feel his heat going. He couldn’t move any more. He became like a child. I dressed him, washed him, fed him. He drank almost nothing, ate so little.
‘At first he joined in our conversation. Every word seemed to cost him so much energy. A sentence, and then he would sleep. Gradually, he withdrew. Only listened. I sat with him for hours.’
Samara is weeping, tears dropping on to his tunic, forming liquid beads that fall to the lake shore. The sea inside joining the sea without.
‘I had no words. Didn’t know what to say. Shakiso, she kissed him, held his hands, told him she loved him. He smiled. I wept.
‘On the morning of the last day, he fell silent. His mouth was open, and his breath came in short gasps. I could feel the absence. H
is skin was so thin, so fine. White, cold. Late in the evening, he closed his mouth. Would not eat. A few hours later, he breathed one last breath, and was gone.’
Samara wipes his face, his hand wet.
‘I miss him every day. My mother – they were married seventy-five years. I try to imagine the emptiness. How it feels to have been so close to someone, to share so much laughter and love. And then nothing. She never says.’
Joshua knows how this feels. He has buried both his parents.
‘My father said I would, one day, understand what he was doing. I’m not sure I will ever accept his choice completely, but when I saw your children playing – reliving his stories – I realized. He has his immortality.’
Joshua squeezes his hand. ‘You have my word on that.’ He laughs, ‘As long as those tales are told, no wooden spoon will go sheathed.’
Samara wipes his tears, laughs as well.
‘I’m going to hold you to that,’ he says. ‘I will return in one thousand years, and our first stop will be Ewuru.’
Joshua smiles sadly. ‘I will not be there to meet you, my friend, but I am sure that my descendants will be. I am sorry we will not grow old together. I am grateful for our time.’
He stares out at the lake and the city rising beyond. ‘As your grandfather says: coffee or tea.’
Samara follows his gaze, smiles, nods. ‘Come,’ he says, ‘if you are ready, everything is waiting.’
‘Yes,’ says Joshua. ‘It is time to go home.’
48
‘This is unprecedented,’ says Hollis.
‘There has been injustice. I am as much entitled as any citizen to bring that to the attention of the Five,’ says Samara.
The justices confer, establishing consensus.
‘Very well,’ says Hollis.
Samara will be heard.
The Five are meeting in person. They are keenly aware that Samara’s plans have the potential to tie Achenia in knots. Thousands have gathered in the great hall. Many more are listening via the connect.
Samara stands alone in the middle of the justices’ circular courtyard, before their seats, raised on a dais.
There are no outer walls into the court. Justice must be seen and be accessible to any. Cloud obscures the sun, and the light is muted under the stained-glass chhatri, suffusing those in attendance in a kaleidoscope of colours.
Samara speaks.
‘These are conditions which are akin to murder. There is no hope of rehabilitation, of redemption. Only insanity for some, and a lonely, futile existence for others. In the case of a few, it is a situation of premeditated murder.’
‘No one is debating these points. The Americans have promised to look into your allegations. And we have negotiated the release of your three companions there, but Tartarus is the property of a sovereign state. We have won our independence. We no longer have a say as to how the Americans dispense justice,’ Hollis assures him.
Samara stands tall and still. The Five are not an enemy. They do not look to catch him out. They are there to ensure that the law is internally consistent and that it applies to all.
‘We cannot flee. We have always said that we do not go to space to shrug off our responsibilities or to pretend that suffering does not exist.’
Samara’s voice is clear, carrying a timbre that was not there only months before.
‘You have suffered, Samara.’ Hollis looks compassionate.
‘This is not about me,’ says Samara. ‘I was able to escape. Even if I had not, you would have discovered me.’
‘You are asking us to intervene in the choices of a sovereign state,’ says Hollis.
‘I am asking you to return one hundred and fifty thousand men and women to lives of hope.’
Hollis looks infinitely sad, ‘Samara. Even if that were possible, we calculate that almost a hundred thousand of them are now insane. We cannot restore their original minds to them. They are not Achenians and we cannot remake them either. They will require a lifetime of institutional care.
‘If the Americans accept, you will have to buy the prison. Our laws can only apply to the justly acquired property owned by our citizens. And we cannot take them at their word. We would need to finance the care of each prisoner. Re-investigate each case. Move those that are genuine criminals to regular prisons, restore others to their families and find institutions capable of looking after the rest.
‘This is no straightforward task, Samara.’
This is the heart of Achenian justice. If Samara owns the prison, then he has the authority to expect the law of his Achenian polity to apply there. As a member of the Nine, he is allowed no polity and is answerable directly to the Five. Achenia, though, is no longer part of American jurisprudence. Samara requires the Five to recognize his authority and intercede on his behalf with the Americans.
‘I have spoken with The Three. She will work through the cases. She believes she will conclude them within three or four days. We will trace families, alternative prisons and institutions.’
The Three is in attendance; a puff of colour as she indicates she wishes to speak.
‘I am volunteering my time for this. It appears to me that this is a noble calling.’
The Five lean forward to recognize The Three, and sit back in their chairs as Samara continues.
‘I have spoken with the orbital cities of Dunblane and Equatorial 1. Polities there have agreed to take responsibility for monitoring those in institutions in the US for their lifetimes.’
Hollis acknowledges; she is running out of arguments. She lays her last. ‘And who will pay for all of this?’
‘I will pay,’ says Samara, without hesitation.
‘You cannot afford this, Samara. You have all but spent the last of your money on Ewuru and the villages along the river.’
Samara stands silent. He has no more to offer.
A murmur in the crowd and on the connect.
‘I will pay,’ says Nizena, his voice bursting with pride.
‘I will pay,’ say the remaining Nine, as one.
‘I will pay,’ says Shakiso.
‘I will pay,’ Kosai and Airmid.
‘I will pay,’ Joshua, listening over the connect on Ewuru’s new sphere.
‘I will pay,’ new voices, rising in the audience at the court.
‘I will pay,’ The Three.
‘I will pay,’ all across the connect, tens of thousands of voices. Including two of the Five.
Hollis raises her eyes to the sky, nods, smiles.
‘Very well then, it is carried.’ She bows her head to Samara.
49
‘–he’s been astonishingly lucky,’ says Celia Gutierrez, her dark eyes mocking.
‘What?’ asks Robert Alvarez. The Chief of Staff looks startled. His futile hand-waving has failed to attract the coffee drone hovering at the far end of the room. He is pondering whether he should simply get up and walk over to it.
Gutierrez grins at him and pushes a stray frond of greying hair back behind her ear. ‘I was saying that he’s been astonishingly lucky.’
They are leaning back in their comfortable leather chairs in the gloomy Situation Room beneath the White House.
Alvarez dabs at the console around his wrist and brings up a display of the current opinion tracker in the air between them. He scowls at the colourful chart and shrugs. ‘Yes, we’ve skirted some difficulties.’
‘A few weeks ago we were almost at war, and now they’re paying us to shut down that travesty? Ortega even gets to look like a great reformer? That’s more than “skirting”.’
Alvarez is still not giving her much attention. She sighs, stands and joins another group.
President Ortega is speaking with General Graham. Both are standing so as to mask themselves from the others. Alvarez can see the tension between them, and Ortega’s neck is flushed red. He seems to be holding himself still with great effort.
The meeting to discuss the Achenian proposal for Tartarus is in the middle of a ro
wdy break. Groups of people have clotted around the room, and their mumbling, rumbling conversation obscures Alvarez’s ability to listen in.
He catches a few fragments.
‘– never aware of this –’ Ortega’s voice rising in furious interrogation.
‘– meant to be used –’ and ‘– you have to understand –’ from Graham, her epaulettes shaking on her shoulders.
‘– we cannot sell it –’ from the General.
Ortega’s shirt is sticking to his back. Others in the room have noticed his intensity, and conversation is coming to a restless halt.
‘– your immediate resignation.’ Ortega glares at her. She cannot meet his eyes.
People are hesitantly taking their seats at the conference table. The coffee drone is finally hovering silently at Alvarez’s side, but he ignores it.
General Graham looks as if she will leave the room.
‘No,’ says Ortega. ‘You don’t get to escape this. You’re here till this is over.’
She sits quietly, not looking at anyone.
Ortega glares down the centre of the table, his teeth clenched.
‘The Achenians are expecting an answer from us in an hour, and now my ex-Secretary of State Security tells me we cannot go ahead.’ His skin is clammy, and his shirt is stained dark under his armpits and across his belly. ‘I am also told that I may not tell you why unless during the course of events it becomes absolutely necessary.
‘As of this moment our alert level is raised to two. You are all confined to the White House until this is over. You will not be permitted to communicate with anyone outside of this room.’
There is a collective thunk of bodies slumping back into chairs. Graham merely looks morose.
‘We cannot alert the Achenians that anything has gone wrong. They must still be permitted to remove the—’ says Graham.