The Best of All Possible Worlds

by Karen Lord

  “In short, we had the technology to send a pilot back to a time before the disaster. What could be achieved there was a matter of debate. Some felt that averting the disaster would only create a parallel time line in which Sadira remained alive but we would continue in this time line, unaware and unaffected. Others were convinced that the method by which Sadira was destroyed was so advanced that it must have come from the future, thus creating a parallel time line in which we are now living. They further believed that parallel time lines are not sustainable, and if we were to stop the disaster from happening, this present existence would evaporate, leaving only the original reality where Sadira never died.

  “Then there were the pessimists, who believed that nothing could be changed. They were, however, willing to believe that the pilot could uncover evidence of how the Ainya had triggered the disaster and bring the information back to us so we could ensure that no other planet would face devastation of this magnitude.

  “Naraldi, an experienced and well-traveled pilot, was selected for the mission. I know him well. He has always been highly pragmatic in approach. Cutting short the debate, he accepted the three different mission briefs, to be acted on according to his own analysis of the situation. He then gave up his mindship to link with a specially modified vessel. Traveling far from the populated sectors of the galaxy, he set out on the new, untried course … and disappeared. And we waited.

  “Months later, the emissary returned to confirm in person the news we had already received. The mission had been a success, and yet not so, for our fate had not changed and no evidence had been discovered. We were to continue as if we had never attempted such a thing, and no further discussion would be entertained. In time, reports from the scientists analyzing the mission would be made available to higher-ranking government officials.”

  He paused, coming out of storyteller mode to meet my spellbound gaze. “You have read one of these reports, from my own handheld. Do you remember it?”

  I tried. “I think I remember the occasion, but as for the report, I mainly recall that I didn’t understand very much at all. It was highly technical.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked briefly upward in wry agreement. “The amount of complex multivariate calculus in that report was somewhat off-putting. However, the gist of it was that there are already stable parallel time lines in existence. Naraldi was not able to change our fate, because he had no way of navigating to our past. He was able to reach many other pasts of different time lines and see other presents and futures as well. But his own line he could not touch.”

  His expression became shadowed, regretful. “Now you can understand why no ceremonies were held. We were still hoping to make the nightmare simply vanish away.”

  “What happened to Naraldi?” I asked.

  He blinked away the sadness, his look growing sharp and assessing. “He returned safely after about five months. You met him. He is now the Sadiri Consul on Cygnus Beta, an honorable and restful assignment from a grateful government.”

  That aged face, those sorrowful eyes. Creeping horror stilled me as I absorbed this. “How long was he out there?”

  Dllenahkh shrugged. “No one can tell. What chronometer could have made sense of his journeys? He was seventy years old when he left, barely middle-aged by our reckoning. Now he appears to be at least fifty years older than that.”

  “Fifty years in only a few months!” I was appalled.

  Dllenahkh took pity on me. “Do not be distressed on his behalf. When I spoke to him, he told me he had had some pleasant experiences and some less so, but he had never once been bored. For a mindship pilot, that is more than enough.”

  Suddenly he leaned forward, looking sideways at me in a manner that was half secretive, half triumphant. His voice became very quiet. “There was one very interesting thing that he learned which is extremely relevant to our time line. He discovered, well before the fact, how Ain was quarantined.”

  I shifted closer to catch every word, every nuance of his tone and expression. “Go on,” I urged, both amused and excited that he had indulged in a little theatrical pause.

  “Anyone trying to enter the Ain system will simply find themselves on the opposite side, having passed only empty space between. The planet has been placed in an elegant pocket of folded space-time, a feat which is well beyond the abilities of anyone from this time—anyone that we know, that is.”

  “What happened to those off-planet Ainya who tried to return after the quarantine?” I wondered.

  Dllenahkh’s face became completely expressionless, which spoke to me of hidden anger. “No Sadiri pilot would have taken them, and as for the Zhinuvians—I think that we have seen for ourselves how they would treat a passenger who did not have the funds for a return trip.”

  I nudged his knee with the back of my hand and was rewarded when his bleak look lifted.

  He spoke lightly, changing the subject. “It may be of interest to you that in one of the time lines Naraldi visited, it was the Ntshune and not the Sadiri who became influential in galactic government.”

  I laughed out loud. “Come on!”

  He shook his head in amusement at my cynicism. “I know that at times we Sadiri give the impression that we consider our minds to be the finest in the galaxy. I assure you, I know this is not the case. A more ambitious Ntshune government could easily have surpassed us as diplomats and judges. Even the Zhinuvians, who already have the fleet to challenge us, only lack unified government to guide them into a position of power.”

  “Well, thank you for telling me that. It’ll be our little secret,” I joked. Humility was not a common Sadiri trait—but then again, Dllenahkh had always been unique.

  He smiled. “You can do something for me in turn. Tell me about the Caretakers.”

  My eyes widened. “What can I tell you? It’s not like … I mean … we don’t have reports on them; there’s no branch of study dedicated to them. It’s all folktales and oral history. Not a religion, not even a superstition, but just … there, part of our identity as Cygnians.”

  “Then tell me what you can,” he insisted, facing me fully and pointedly giving me his complete attention.

  I paused. I’d never discussed anything remotely metaphysical with the Sadiri. It made me realize that for all I pretended otherwise, I did care what they thought about me. It did matter to me that even if they saw me as talkative, emotional, and half out of control most of the time, at least they could not fault my scientific mind. My tongue felt strangely heavy as I tried to talk of things I had secretly forbidden myself to discuss.

  “To Cygnians, the Caretakers are the guardians of humanity. They’re supposed to save the best of us from the worst of us, even if it’s only a remnant. We’re not perfect here on Cygnus Beta, but at least for those who claim to have been brought by the Caretakers, there’s an additional claim that they were saved for a reason, chosen for a purpose. Not because they’re better than any other group but because there’s something unique they possess, some characteristic that contributes to the fullness of humanity. It’s a responsibility, not a point of pride. It’s something to live up to, and it helps keep us going.”

  “Admirable,” said Dllenahkh, and his tone was neither cautiously neutral nor subtly judging, as I had feared it might be. It was mildly but distinctly approving. I felt encouraged enough to continue.

  “If all the tales are true, no one’s seen the Caretakers face to face. No flaming chariots, no wheels within wheels, no wings. It’s a very boring legend when you think about it—just some people following the music of an invisible Pied Piper, disappearing into one cave near Hamelin, Terra, and emerging from another cave near Hamelin, Cygnus Beta.”

  “Do Cygnians have any theories about what exactly the Caretakers are?” Dllenahkh inquired, apparently rapt by the little I was telling him.

  I shrugged. “No one thinks they are gods. That’s religion, and we’ve got plenty of that already. Some say they are humans from the past and pour out a lib
ation for them. Others say they are people from the future and light fragrant incense to them. Another group says they are souls tasked after death to do all the work that wasn’t done in life. They don’t venerate the Caretakers in any way. They just work very hard to be sure they won’t have to make up for lost time after they’re dead.”

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Perhaps a little of all three,” I said. “Remember your ancestors, dream of your descendants, and work hard while you’re living. It’s … nice to think the universe has a purpose—well, more than one, probably, but at least one of them is about helping humans fulfill their potential as a species.”

  “Strong anthropic principle?” Dllenahkh murmured.

  “At least medium,” I conceded with a smile. “And I know that sounds very strange and unscientific, so thank you. Thanks for listening to me.”

  “Why wouldn’t I listen? You listened to all I had to say about parallel time lines, and that sounded very strange, though scientific.”

  “Not strange at all,” I disagreed. “The Caretakers did some fairly interesting things when they went about collecting their endangered humans. I understand there’s a community of Cygnians that say they’re descended from the last survivors of a nuclear winter on Terra.”

  “From a parallel time line?” Dllenahkh queried, his eyebrows rising with surprise and interest.

  “Must be, and it’s not only them. All I can say is if any Cygnian tells you they’re a direct descendant of Will Shakespeare, don’t be too quick to call them a liar.”

  I stretched out my legs, which had grown almost numb from being tucked under me while I was absorbed in conversation. Dllenahkh also moved into a more relaxed posture, leaning his elbows on his knees. I looked at the slight smile on his face and decided to take advantage.

  “What about you? Are there any similar, unscientific beliefs in your culture?”

  He answered easily, not in the least offended. “With respect to ancestors, descendants, and working hard, most certainly. However, there are no Caretakers in our lore. Sadira was always where we started and where we ended, no matter how many years and light-years lay between. In a way, the elders of the family are our Caretakers. There is an old saying that no elder can truly die who has a hundred descendants living. Many elders do act as if the larger the pyramid of offspring below them, the better their chances of ascending to some afterlife. They have a hand in arranging every adoption and marriage, divorce and shunning. Family is blood and more than blood.”

  I said nothing. Female Sadiri elders had already answered the call and begun to settle on Cygnus Beta. Some of those elders had a few descendants; most had none. It was particularly satisfying to think of those who had never had children suddenly heading their own clans of adoptees and foreign brides and perhaps, just perhaps, secretly and unscientifically thinking of the ladder they were building to a previously unattainable heaven.

  “Gennea, Falve, Collan, Lauri.”

  Startled, I struggled for a moment to understand the language Dllenahkh was speaking, and then I realized they were names. I held my breath and waited.

  He continued. “My older sister, my younger sister, my younger brother, and my mother. My father, Nahkhen, died many years ago. Also two nieces, a nephew, and one brother-in-law. Among the living, I can count a sister-in-law, now remarried, and three cousins, two of my generation and one of my mother’s generation, all resident on New Sadira. One second cousin of my generation is here on Cygnus Beta.” He bit his lip, looking rueful, then confessed, “I know my kin far better now than I ever did.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but I had to think of something because the silence was making my throat close up. “There’s a small lake in the middle of the park. People go there to light floating candles in memory of their dead. At midnight, they turn off all the park lights so there’s nothing but stars and candlelight.”

  I waited fearfully as a few more seconds ticked by, and then he said hoarsely, “I think I would like to see that.”

  The long silence that followed was more tolerable, breathable, and peaceful.

  A thought struck me. “Dllenahkh, you told me how Ain was quarantined, but you didn’t tell me who did it. Does anyone know?”

  He gave me a slightly surprised look. “I was under the impression that most Cygnians give that honor to the Caretakers.”

  “You believe it was the Caretakers too?” I asked. I was skeptical, not about the Caretakers but that any Sadiri would seriously consider this to be a possibility.

  “As a hypothesis, it has some merit. Ability to manipulate time and space, telepathic influence strong enough to erase memory or inhibit discussion of witnessed events—we have seen the fledgling versions of those skills both here on Cygnus Beta and among mindship pilots of Naraldi’s caliber. Why not speculate that humans in the future could do as much and more?”

  “Has merit,” I repeated mockingly. “Just admit it—we’ve turned you into a Cygnian.”

  He got to his feet and extended a hand to help me up from the bench. I accepted the hand, careful to touch only the fingertips and only for a second. He surprised me by taking my other hand and drawing it under his arm to rest near the crook of his elbow so that we looked very much like the other promenading couples.

  “And would that be such a terrible thing to admit?” he said in a tone of cheerful surrender. “This is my universe, my time, my world. There is no going back to what was. There is only the future.”

  We had more than two hours till midnight, plenty of time to walk the length and breadth of the park before a pause to visit the lake’s small boardwalk and crouch there to light several candles. Dllenahkh looked at them as they floated away to twinkle amid a growing constellation of tiny lights in the lake’s center, then gazed up at the stars. I thought I knew what he was seeking. The newer arrivals always did it—looked for the light, actual or imagined, of their home star.

  “I wonder how long it will be before starlight shines on Sadira once more,” he said quietly.

  I stopped breathing for a moment, a surge of pity seizing my heart. On Cygnus Beta, mentioning a recent disaster in detail is taboo. It is referred to obliquely, delicately, in general terms like “the great war” or “the big wave.” The Sadiri had fallen into that habit with swift gratitude, and not once had I heard them specify how Sadira had been laid waste. Not until that moment, when Dllenahkh looked to the sky and acknowledged the world-girdling poisonous cloud that covered Sadira in perpetual night.

  We walked, rested, and walked again, but just before midnight we came back to the lake and waited for the lights-off. When it came, it was as remarkable as the holos I’d seen and more. The moonless night pressed on the eyes like thick, heavy felt, making the small flames sear the vision as they danced on the dark water. The stars added their cold fire overhead, and yet the night remained dim enough to hide my attempts to dash away tears. Of course I spoiled it by blowing my nose, but there were other sighs and rustles and coping noises in the respectful but imperfect silence, so I did not feel completely alone. Dllenahkh was perfectly silent and absolutely still, though he did clear his throat at one point.

  When the lights came back on, we left the park and found transportation to the hotel. He bade me good night at my door, and with neither prior thought nor self-consciousness, I stretched up to kiss his cheek quickly. He gave me a searching look, then gently brushed his forefinger along my cheekbones to the corner of each eye, wiping away the slight moisture my furtive swipes had missed earlier. The tender gesture almost made me tear up again.

  “Sleep well, Grace,” he said in farewell before he turned away to his own door.

  I went into my room feeling a bit dreamy. It lasted all of three minutes, up until the moment the bathroom door opened to reveal Lian, yawning and dressed for bed.

  “It’s all yours,” Lian started to say, then got a good look at me. “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  Lian shrugged. “I’m
a fan of the kohl myself, but I forgot to warn you—don’t wear it on Remembrance Day or at any event where you might be crying. You’re a bit … smudged. Good night.”

  Zero hour plus one year ten months six days

  Dllenahkh walked the short distance to his own room. He felt at peace, at peace with his sorrow and fear and loneliness, and it was such a new sensation that he held it carefully, observing it curiously, wondering how long it would last and whether he could call it back the next time he had to face the things he did not wish to remember.

  The moment of introspection was too brief. He found his door ajar and the light on. He entered his room with caution to see Joral, worried, and Sergeant Fergus, drunk. Resigned, he braced himself for unpleasantness.

  “Sergeant Fergus insisted on waiting to speak to you,” Joral said nervously.

  “It won’t take long, sir,” Fergus said, his speech still clear but with an edge of belligerence that warned Dllenahkh to be careful.

  “Very well, Sergeant. I am listening.” Dllenahkh did not close the door. Fergus looked at it and hesitated, but Dllenahkh merely walked farther in, removed his jacket, and tossed it onto the room’s only chair. He then sat on the bed and began to take off his boots.

  The sergeant took the hint and began to talk quickly. “It’s about Kir’tahsg. I’ve been following the case, and it’s not going well.”

  Dllenahkh straightened up and paid attention. To his chagrin, he had not given any recent thought to the Kir’tahsg situation.

  Fergus continued. “The government’s been dealing with the children, but they haven’t gone after the cartels. They say that’s a galactic matter.”

  He paused uncertainly. “They’ve filed a complaint with the Galactic Judiciary, but …”