The Vanished Birds

by Simon Jimenez

  When I said hello to him in the causeway, he stopped, & said hello back! That was a good moment—offset slightly by the moment after, when we both stood there, not speaking. Luckily for both of us, he mercy-killed the interaction with cold swiftness as he walked off without another word or gesture.

  Small progress, great goals, Sartoris.

  DAY 17

  It seems I have just received a promotion—not one of monetary value (alas), but one of trust. Near midday, the captain knocked on my hatch & requested that I continue from where the “Kind One” left off, & tutor the boy Ahro in the art of speech & writing. She acknowledged that this was outside the realm of my responsibility, & that there would be no hard feelings should I decline. I said yes immediately, not only because I was immensely flattered to have been asked at all but also recognizing the added benefit of making my way into the inner cloister of the Debby—the tight-knit trio of Captain, Merc, & Star Child. I suspect there is much to learn there. As an added benefit, with developed language skills, the boy might be able to share more of his past with greater precision, & perhaps reveal further clues to his latent ability.

  We begin the lessons in earnest tomorrow. Anxious to start, & to have something close to a routine on this ship.

  DAY 18

  Had our first lesson in the common room, with the captain joining us to observe. It was a brief introduction, didn’t want to overwhelm him. As he already understands speech rather well, & can read simple sentences, we do not have to start from the very beginning. Most of our preliminary work will be in writing, & practice in articulating syllables.

  He has a curious way of listening to instruction. Doesn’t quite meet my eyes when I speak. Thought at first that he was uninterested & that I lacked that engaging touch all successful teachers have—but it was not long till I realized that because of his history, he is still uncomfortable with meeting adults eye to eye. With his stylus he wrote the first letters of the alphabet as I clued him in on tips for where to begin the shape, & where to end. He enjoyed writing the letter Q. Made so many of them I had to interrupt his trance & insist that we move on to the next.

  DAY 20

  Routines are necessary out here.

  When she is not with the boy Ahro, the captain likes to write haikus, which I found to be surprising & rather endearing, though she refuses to share the poems with me, claiming that they are not very good. The boy Ahro has his exquisite music, which he plays according to the schedule of allotted time the captain has drafted for him. Sonja the mercenary spends much of her time exercising in the cargo bay, dismantling & polishing her vast collection of weaponry of which I hope we never see the need for, attending them with the care of a supplicant at an ancestral grave. She of course has names for all of them. Her favorite is a bell-nosed rifle she calls the Buffoon. Em has taken it upon himself to furnish & upgrade various parts of the Debby that have till now gone unattended—with Royvan’s help. Those two are thick as thieves with their many private jokes. The captain was pleased when she discovered the door to the tertiary lav was finally fixed & that one no longer needs to fasten the curtain to achieve some sense of privacy on the lid. Vaila is still distancing herself from the rest of us, our albatross in the cockpit, keeping watch on the route ahead. I hear her praying on her ladeum beads when I pass by her on the rare occasion. The prayers seem more fervent with each day.

  I’ve been making my way through the literature I purchased on Bran-Neruda. Currently absorbed in the autobiography of Luca Assaya, former corporate mapmaker of the Blessed Currents. Wonder what his routine was, during Pocket doldrums; how he passed those incredible stretches of time. At his young age, no doubt frantic masturbation.

  DAY 24

  We have moved on from the alphabet to writing & speaking simple words. He understands the difference between nouns & verbs, but is confounded by conjunctions. Has no difficulty speaking closed-vowel syllables like “rot,” but struggles with vowel teams that require subtle modulation, like “south,” or vowel teams that mesh into a single note, like “reading,” which he pronounced, strangely, as Ruh-Deen.

  DAY 27

  Made a surprising discovery today—the captain owns the complete collection of Six Kingdoms! She didn’t strike me as the type to enjoy historical romances. When I told her so she laughed, said she favored the books more for their sentimental value than for their content, as the quartet was once a favorite of her mother’s, who was an Old Earth historian. I asked her if these books were handed down to her from her mother, but she said they were not & with sudden distance in her eyes said her mother’s books were gone before she changed the subject. Detected a story there, but did not press the matter.

  We spoke for quite a while about the books. The collection itself was written by a long-deceased author by the name of Samuel Palen, who was known in his time for his dense & indulgent epics. The story of Six Kingdoms takes place in a parallel Old Earth, & centers on a young peasant woman’s rise to power, becoming the first queen to rule over the southern principality of the fictional continent Shumar. A large pleasure in reading the series is watching this woman grapple with the terrible position of political power, its slow corrupting influence on her. Though I know you hate it when I compare you to great figures both historical & fictional, I cannot help but see a little bit of you in her, or her in you. The captain & I sat on the common room sofa as we discussed the plot, the difficult choices Faydra Faneuil had to make between her greater responsibilities & the men & women she loved. The captain said she liked the author’s portrayal of Faydra’s love life: the freewheeling, polyamorous nature of it. I agreed, though had to admit that when I read the quartet as a young boy, I did not take much interest in the many love scenes—of all that has changed about my countenance, my disinterest in the physical side of romance remains intact—but relished the devious machinations of the warring civilizations. My father & I are very different people—he of the school of thought that life’s successes are measurable quantities—but we both have a weak spot for the histories of grand strategy.

  The conversation with the captain was stimulating & absorbing. Hope she feels the same way. Before I left, she lent me the first book in the collection, & added that she was happy with how my lessons with the boy Ahro were coming. Feeling very good about our prospects.

  Behold the work of my eager pupil, who has skipped ably from letters to words to full sentences.

  Worksheet—Sentence Practice

  My name is Ahro. I am thirteen years old. My friends are Nia and Sartoris and Sonja and Vaila and Royvan and Em. Nia is my best friend. She is strong and pretty. Sartoris is my friend too. He is old and he has no hair.

  Our next lesson: the value of tact.

  DAY 33

  Drannon nears. I dread the moment we unfold. Already I have been hounded relentlessly by those who will not be named—Em, it is always Em—for my weakened states.

  A few days ago the captain, recognizing my worries—& perhaps tired of hearing me expel my insides into the shared lav—gently suggested that the mercenary Sonja lead me through yogic poses to prepare my lungs & muscles for the reality shift. I accepted, naively assuming the workout would be adjusted for my body type & age (how wrong was I). I also made sure to invite Vaila to attend, but, as expected, she declined, continuing her impressive solitude in the cockpit.

  The workout is two hours every afternoon, until we arrive. Two hours of Sonja folding me like laundry, twisting my body in such grotesque contortions it is as though she expects me to breathe out of my anus. Some of the crew have joined us, whether in solidarity or to curtail their own nausea, I do not know. I continue to struggle through most of Sonja’s exercises, my hands nowhere close to touching my toes, or my knees, for which Em takes great delight in needling me. This is to say nothing of our diet, one that is almost purely liquid. Water, water, more water than I have ever imbibed. It is almost enough to curb my excite
ment for arrival completely.

  Almost. Apart from the captain, none of us have ever traveled outside Allied Space. This is our first opportunity to see how the fringe-dwellers lived with visions unclouded by company bias. During the boy’s lessons, I told him what I knew of Drannon, & what I imagined it might be like—cultural nexus enlivened by its position so near the Allied border, a waypoint through which travelers pass, multiple histories accumulating on a single world, a single city, building on one another to create forms both new & beautiful; a human coral reef. Was happy to see that the boy took so well to my vision & that, like me, he was compelled by mystery, the anticipation of discovery. Wouldn’t be surprised in the least if he has as much difficulty sleeping tonight as I no doubt will!

  * * *

  —

  Ahro was awake most nights.

  Because of the bad dreams.

  Because of many things.

  He walked barefoot, without sandals, in fear that the slaps would wake the others, the metal grating and paneled flooring cold against his soles, inspiring bodily chills, but this was okay; he even took pleasure in the vibrant sensation, reminders they were that he was awake, and in this place he loved very much. He walked with an outstretched arm, his finger grazing the walls as he went. Walked with fingers running over the rivets as he passed the entryway to the kitchen and common room, the hatches to the private quarters, Nia’s quarters—he paused here before continuing on—up the corridor that connected the body of the ship to the cockpit, where he always found himself on such nights, and where his walk always ended.

  He sat in the copilot’s chair and placed the large headset over his ears. He listened to the Pocket as its strange materials rushed past the hull sensors of the Debby. The spackle-frack. The white noise filling his mind like water, drowning out the worries and the bad dreams, until he was heavy against the chair, and lulled back to sleep. To a place where there was no symphony and no broken bones, only soft whispers and finger snaps. The rich void over which he was suspended. And there he stayed, until the fingers slowed their snapping, and the lips shut mid-whisper, and it was quiet again as the ship emerged from the Pocket, dripping from the fold.

  When he woke, his mouth was dry, his tongue as coarse as old fabric. He licked his lips, gathered himself.

  Vaila was beside him in the pilot’s chair with her hands enmeshed in the cat’s cradle, and beside her, Nia, who leaned against the console with a mug of something hot in her hands. They did not speak to each other. He watched them for a time with eyes half-lidded, the odd quality of their silence, until Nia noticed that he was awake.

  She nodded at the viewport.

  “We’re here,” she said with a gentle smile.

  FRINGE PORT DRANNON

  DAY 34

  The ship has only just switched to lights-on, & already I have been awake for two hours, in anticipation of our arrival. Heart now arrhythmic as I hear the captain call us to the cockpit. Here it comes, my first fringe world. I feel as Assaya must have felt, arriving at the end of the Blessed Currents after so long a journey—eyes open & eager to drink in the new quantities before him.

  * * *

  —

  We are circling the skies above the city, about to land. Cannot see much through the raised viewport—only wraithlike clouds, gray & foreboding. Rain. Fingers of water streaking upward against the glass. Em is the only one not in the cockpit with us. He is in the engine room, tightening a loose panel that popped out when we broke atmosphere. The boy is strapped into the copilot’s chair, with the captain standing beside him, as Vaila articulates the cat’s cradle & brings us down.

  * * *

  —

  Am sitting on a chair in the Port Authority lobby hall, beside three unsupervised children who are slapping one another’s hands rather violently. I hope it is a game. Across the way, the rest of the crew meanders about. Sonja keeps an unwavering eye on the boy as we wait for the captain to return. Can see her now, speaking in confidence to one of the attendant guards at the dock entrance gate. Suspect this will take some time. Will describe what occurred when we landed half an hour ago, & the loading ramp dropped open.

  We smelled it first, on the bitterly cold gust that rushed through the Debby’s cataract—the smell of the dead. An odor so powerful it was electric. Vaila buried her face into the front of her coat. Even Sonja, so often boastful of the grotesque circumstances she’d lived through during her military days, turned her head away from the wind, teeth gritted into a furious smile. With tears in his eyes the boy asked the captain in his deliberate manner what the smell was. She winced a smile & told him that it seemed like someone had gone fishing. This confusing statement was understood by none of us, not until we exited the ship & saw the carcass. It was at the end of the docks, past the dozens of other landed ships—a massive sea beast, at least half the size of the Debby, strung up by the tail via a large metal hook. The gelatinous belly sacs punctured by workers’ lances while their fellows caught the viscous liquid in upheld buckets. Observing them, I was struck by images of Old Earth whalers. Quite the way to start our stay here on Drannon.

  Port Authority is crowded. Many grumpy people—young girl selling some fried unknown at the end of a stick, man pacing in circles shouting at digital projection of what one assumes was an old lover. The three children beside me continue to bray. Looking around, I see no one who could be their guardian.

  * * *

  —

  Finally, a chance to sit after hours of marching. We are inside the city’s travelers’ bureau. Odd place. Neat little microcosm of this city. The bureau is a wide, vaulted space; dark, with many shadows, lit only by the domed ceiling strung with dull glimmerbulbs, & the circular skylight, which casts an eerie haze on the arena we now sit along the circumference of.

  This, the captain has told me, is the pit. Where travelers looking for temp work meet those who are hiring. Negotiations—a kind word for it—are carried out in red-throated screams in the pit. Elbows shoved firmly into neighboring stomachs as the prospectives shout to be heard. The captain is now shouldering men & women out of the way, shouting the qualifications of her & her crew, her ship make & model, her years of experience, pausing in between shouts to listen for the response to her volatile queries. Surprisingly analog way of handling things. The air is congested with various smokes & body odors. A noxious heat opens the pores, lets loose my essence in vital globs of sweat that wet the vellum I now write on. The boy does not mind the heat or the smell. He is enraptured, leaning far over the balcony as he watches the captain work the crowd of the pit. Even when she is below us, there is still the sense that the boy is looking up at her.

  The others fare better than I, though only marginally so. Royvan, Em, & Vaila are deep in a card bout, while Sonja remains upright as a statue, Buffoon at the ready, as she creates a bubble around the boy through which no one dares trespass.

  For years I dreamed of what life was like beyond the controlling grasp of the Allied Standards. & here it is, all that I had ever wanted: a grab bag of architectural design, no uniformity among the buildings, harsh juxtapositions without purpose; twirling helix spire standing tall beside a low, one-story, flat-roofed hovel. Homes on top of homes, & some built at a slant, leaning on their neighbors like tired lovers against all reasonable code of safe construction. Makeshift bridges of corrugated metals & scrap wood connecting the tiers of the city, blotting natural light. No consideration spared for line-of-sight vistas, pleasing symmetries, or purposeful reveals when turning a corner. Everything a City Planet is not, almost purposefully so, as though the grand designer made a deliberate choice to invert every sense of Allied aesthetics. A perversion. But I know this is not the case. It would take a genius of the highest order to create such a place of chaos.

  The captain returns. She says she has a job.

  She is looking at Sonja & her gun.

&nbs
p; DAY 35

  The merc left today with the caravan she is meant to guard, on the way up the mountain pass with a cargo of musky spices. She is expected to return tomorrow, which left us a full day to explore the city at our leisure.

  Joy, thought I.

  The group of us went for a walk through the city. By the captain’s command we were to stay together, which provoked a slight eye roll from Em, who must be used to such difficult places, & disliked the coddling, but gladdened me, as I was still nervous of returning to those wild streets. I hoped that yesterday was but a fluke; that it was too quick of a submersion into the new, much like an inarticulate gasp one lets out when jumping into a pool of freezing water. Perhaps today would be easier.

  It helped to see the place through Ahro’s widened eyes. With nothing to compare his experience to but the bloodied hallways of the Quiet Ship, every person & every object was a frightening delight to him. For the better part of an hour he stood outside a cracked shop window & pointed at objects & listened as the captain explained what each one of them was.

  & I was charmed, when I noticed the way he glanced at her as we walked, & how he slowly began to mimic her confident stride.

  But I am sorry to say that the city itself has rebuffed me yet again. To wit, I have seen no pedestrian walkways or quickways or verti-tubes or dumbbots to clean the refuse on the streets, no helpful screens with which to draw open a map & reorient oneself in the miasma of…streets, illogical streets that end without notice, streets with sharp inclines that can be traversed only with aid of the railings, streets that have no unified naming convention, some numbered but in no discernable pattern & some with words long & confusing in multitudinous languages I could not read, for I was without the aid of a neural. Occurred to me during our long walk through this Styx that, in all my life in the Allied territories, I have never been lost before—that I was a stranger to that dread sensation of not knowing where the next street will lead. Desperately miss my neural mini-map. Have no sense of orientation here. In hindsight, I am embarrassed by my behavior—how closely I huddled to our little group, afraid of losing them in the noise. They must have thought me quite the coward, if Em’s withering stares were any evidence. He commented offhandedly that I must be having great difficulty, being so far from the temperature-controlled paradiso that is the Pelican Aerie, to which I made no retort. What more is there to say in the face of truth than silence?