Fumiko picked up the body, and she descended the steps of the base that was not a base. Walked through the park strewn with cherry blossoms, and the long tunnel that spanned the risen ocean, past the blown-out buildings. Made the long journey to the subbasement, where the other bodies were, and where she would lay the last body to rest, the path tracked by the blood that dripped from blond hair. Fumiko entered the subbasement and felt the heat of the California sun, which broke through the glass enclosure of the bird preserve. She squinted against the light and gazed out into the false river, the gully, and the trees; the land strewn with the corpses of her birds. It was by the river where she placed her.
The Pelican slipped from her hands, onto the ground.
Its wings limp.
At the door, she offered the preserve one last bow, and made her way back to the schooner, picking up the bag of YonSefs on the way.
They were all there, waiting for her on the dock of the canal. Aki and Hart and M. Toho, Vaila, and the other thousands she had known. None of them spoke to her, or smiled. They only observed her in silence as she stepped down the dock and boarded the boat with her bag of vengeance. She sat beside Dana, took her hand, and told the ferryman their destination. With his wooden oar he pushed the boat out, and as it rocked down the flooded canal, Fumiko spared one last glance at those she was leaving behind, and held up her hand before the boat rounded the corner between buildings, out of sight. And so it was that, for a second time, Fumiko Nakajima disappeared; gone in the Pocket for a trade of years, while Umbai finished its development of the Fast Travel Chip.
14
One Thousand Fires
A man from City Planet Buestana was chosen to lead the people into tomorrow—a poor child from the substrata streets who signed up for battle and made good in a resource war in an asteroid belt few people knew the name of. The man was at once notable and un-noteworthy. And though he was honored when Umbai chose him to pilot the prototype viper, he was afraid. Afraid that they had chosen him because of his anonymity; that if something went wrong in this first flight, and he dematerialized into ash, there would be little uproar; that he was a safe risk, and that this flight would be his last. And so, the night before the Fast Travel test, outside a neighborhood bar beyond the walls of the military base, he spent that fear in drunken joy-shouts while his friends held him above their heads like a sacrifice to the sky, and chanted his name, the chosen one. He carried that exalted moment with him to the cockpit of the viper, and held his friends’ voices close to his heart as he flipped up the comms, and told the judiciary that the ship was ready to jump.
Many were in attendance the day the man from Buestana warped from Barbet Station to Thrasher in the span of one-quarter of a second. The onlookers at the Canopy Deck windows gasped when the viper dematerialized in the view of their spyglasses. It was difficult for them to fathom what they saw, even after they replayed the proof from their recording neurals; how once a ship was there, and then it was not, in one-quarter of a second. The news spread like wildfire over the Station Feed, and the Feed of Allied Proper; an electric current that skipped from neural to neural, and opened the eyes of the people who then realized life had irrevocably changed. The news arced to the Obsolescence Fleets, the ships of the Kerrigan, where it became excited chatter in the Joplin’s mess hall, and over their mash the metalworkers muttered to one another what this news might mean, some of them wary of the coming change, but most unable to deny that in the long run, this was a good thing. The doors of the frontier would soon burst open.
Only one of their rank remained silent. The former captain of a commercial transport vessel who sat alone at the end of the far table, not touching the food on her tray as she listened to the mess-hall chatter, annoyed by their jovial obliviousness. To her, they didn’t have a clue what the price was for tomorrow. As she thought of the boy she had lost, her hand curled around her fork as if to bend it. Few of the workers noticed when she abruptly stood up and took her leave. The ones who did spared her only a glance, surprised that not even the biggest news of Allied Space could inspire a smile or even eye-widening curiosity on that broken woman’s face, before they returned to their burning conversation.
Nia strode down the light-blasted causeway, her step wavering as she went. She had to lean against the wall to stop from falling. She ignored the young woman who asked if she needed help, her focus entirely on the feel of the cold metal on her shoulder, and the rage that coursed through her veins.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she whispered that night in the medica.
Sartoris shifted his head toward her. His body was still pinned to the bed by protective casts, his movement restricted to tight head turns. He had woken up only a week ago, the flesh of him still withered from the long sleep, his once precise attention now dulled and prone to drifting when they spoke; his words slurred, as he said, “You look very familiar.”
She said nothing to this. With a defeated sigh, she leaned back in her chair and gazed up at the ceiling while she listened to the plaintive beep of his heart machine and his incoherent murmurs. She stayed with him until he fell back to sleep and then returned to her quarters, where she lay in bed, awake, waiting for the next day of work. The hours in the dismantler with her heat blade, rendering metals into shippable quantities with the arm that was never quite the same since the attack on the Debby, the shoulder joint flaring up when she lifted a heavy container, the throb not leaving until the post-work group showers, when she would sigh under the spouts of cold water while always in some far corner a couple made themselves at home in each other, their moans inspiring nothing but frustrated glances from Nia as she tried to disappear within herself. She took her meals alone. Moved the mash around with her fork as she asked herself, over and over, why she had not just escaped with Ahro when she had the chance, why she had even bothered returning to Fumiko when all she wanted was already with her, aboard her ship, until the mash was a soupy swirl and the dining hall was empty.
All she had now was the metalwork, and Sartoris. Her visits to the medica were at the end of the day, when only a sole technician was stationed in the front of the room, his face lit by a silent entertainment on a scroll-screen. Nights when she and Sartoris sat in silence, her heart breaking when he smiled at her with polite confusion, wondering why this stranger kept returning to his bedside, but not minding either way. Her attention remained on the flute in her hands. Her thumb on the name engraved at its base as she thought of his song and was haunted by the worst of her imaginings. Of what pain he’d been subjected to, what surrender, with him alone in some dark corridor, reaching for her. And how soon it would be till she joined him there.
“I know you,” Sartoris whispered, with a smile. “You are a captain.”
She breathed out.
“I was,” she said.
* * *
—
Of all the losses she had endured in the past year, the loss of her former title stung Nia the least. There was comfort in no longer being in charge. To coast on a river of someone else’s orders, the items of the day, accountable only for the tool in her hand and the disassembly of metal. She lost herself in the rhythm of the work, the tactile pleasure of the blade parting sheets of hull like a finger through wet mud, safe in the knowledge that there was a ceiling to the consequences should she mess up; a slip of the heat blade, maybe, but even that was a comparatively small cost in the grand scheme of things. Now, after all she had been through, she could survive the loss of a finger, or a hand, as long as it was hers, and no one else’s.
She was the first to arrive in the workbay, and the last to leave. She was silent, entertained no side conversations, and was reliable with her quotas. With each week and month that passed, she became more of a ghost. Willed herself into a state of transience. Even those who worked alongside her were unsure what her voice sounded like, or what her name was, referring to her in asides as “the former capta
in,” or simply “the woman.” But despite her effort to remain unnoticed, the floor manager quickly keyed in on the quality and consistency of her metalwork. Favored her with breaks she did not take. And on the anniversary of her tenure, when her temporary contract was almost up, offered her a more permanent position on the Joplin. “Best Kerrigan ship to work on, in my very biased opinion. Five-year contract with upward mobility, which wouldn’t take long for you,” he said, “considering your skill. Includes room and board for you and yours.” He was referring to Sartoris.
“How long do I have to decide?” she asked, with her hands in the pockets of her jumpsuit, staring out at the flying sparks of the bay.
The manager shrugged. “Say, three months. Around about when the payment your benefactor gave Fleet Command runs out.” He picked up his board, nodded at her. “Take your time. Think about it, Imani. But say yes.”
He left her standing there, by the burnt-out shell of a cockpit. She gripped the handle of her heat blade and walked back to her station, wondering if she could do it; if she could forget, and start again.
We know where this path leads, her sister’s voice said.
Nia flicked on the blade and shouted that she was ready for the next load. The scrap metal rolled down the conveyor. And like yesterday, and the day before, she set to work.
It is a circle.
* * *
—
First it was given to the military crafts and noble schooners, then the company transport ships and large commercial passenger fleets. With time, the FT Chip made it all the way down to the ramshackle bussers.
Demand was high. A line of hopeful pilots kilometers long spilled out the doors of City Planet Ustinov’s Port Authority, curling down the ramp outdoors, the streets, all the way to the elevators that led to the district tiers. Busser pilots, waiting for the chip’s distribution, many of them having waited in suspense for weeks on end. At the head of the line was a woman who had camped outside the requisitions office for a month, sustained on the food and drink and colostomics her daughter brought her each morning, waiting for her share of the future. And then the office opened, and she was gestured to the desk. It was the second proudest day of her life when she was handed the chip; her sig-card registered, the crowd outside applauding her as she held the box above her head, and her daughter—her first proudest day—running to meet her. Together they returned to their busser to install the new technology. The installation took the better part of three days, for most of the woman’s savings had gone into the purchase of the chip itself, and there was little money left to hire someone to do the work for them. Carefully following the vid-instructions, they reconfigured their busser’s engine, stripping out the fold-core, replacing it with the black box that held the chip beneath its smooth, impenetrable exterior.
Neither the woman nor her daughter opened the FT black box. Their curiosity was not strong enough to risk voiding the warranty. Others did, retrofitters and pirates and simple hobbyists, who shared their findings on the Lower Feed: how within the FT circuitry was nestled a small glass ball, and inside that ball, a red prick of blood, fine enough to stand on needle-point. There were questions about this blood, but Umbai was silent on the matter, protected by the intellectual property code. There were some protests, people who worried about the source of potentially unethical tech, but Umbai’s stock was unharmed by these meager outcries, which rarely made a dent in the public consciousness. Like most people those days, the woman from Ustinov did not understand these protesters. To her, one prick of blood was a small price to pay for the future, though she did have her moments of wondering, such as when, one drunken night, a fellow busser played devil’s advocate and asked her what if it were her own daughter’s blood that fed the chip. She fell silent before stating, resolutely: “I would never let that happen.” She knew this was a nonanswer, but still, it satisfied.
Hers was one of the first quick-service public bussers on Ustinov. It was a good life at the start. While her daughter collected fare from the passengers and served them drinks in suc-pacs, the woman hailed the judiciary from her cockpit, and requested authorization for the jump.
She lived for the moment authorization was cleared. When she could hear the hushed anticipation in the cabin, and the shouts and cries when in one-quarter of a second they arrived at their new destination. That new City Planet sky. In those days, most people had never traveled offworld, the price—both financial and temporal—too high a price to pay. But now, families that had not met in generations were reconnected, as well as old friends and older lovers. Money flowed into her open hands. In a twelve-hour period she finished thirty routes, the demand for travel so high she and her daughter got little sleep, exhausted by day’s end, kept awake only by the adrenaline tablets and the pleasure they got from the stunned rapture of their passengers, who upon landing would fall to their knees in wonder at how far they had come while thanking the woman, her daughter, trembling as they shook the hands of these generous queens, along with all the other pilots who were in those days treated as gods.
The woman from Ustinov and 322 of her colleagues, proven loyalists to the company cause, were chosen to be the chip’s ambassadors to the neutral fleets that had yet to sign loyalty contracts with Umbai. She was notified of this mandatory civil service by a young Pelican representative, who presented her with the parchment declaration signed by the hand of the head consul, a declaration that she had framed and nailed to the front of the cabin beside the beaming portraits of her parents and blessed aunts.
Their charge was the Kerrigan Salvage Fleet. They departed a week later, the woman humming as she hailed the neutral fleet and entered the dock of the Joplin along with the twelve other assigned bussers. She told her daughter to ready the refreshments.
If all had gone well, it would’ve been the third proudest day of her life.
* * *
—
The corridors were empty. The heat blades left to cool on the tables. The loaders in the abandoned grind halls unmanned. Every worker congregated in the vaulted docking bay, cheering the arrival of the Allied bussers. Jumpsuited men and women on the catwalks and the staircases and shoulder to shoulder in the entryways, elbowing one another to get a better view of the approach of the FT-capable ships.
Nia stood on one of the back benches to see over the sea of heads, while beside her Sartoris sat with his hands propped on his cane, looking about the crowd with a placid, bemused expression, as if not sure what the commotion was for but charmed by it all the same. Waves of cheers rippled throughout the hangar when Fleet Command and their coterie cut their way through the crowd and greeted the pilots of the bussers. After a brief introductory speech, which Nia could not hear from her distance, Command and their coterie boarded the ships, which then eased out of the dock, the applause slowly quieting as the last ship left. For thirty minutes the entirety of the dock was in a hush. Murmured wonderings of how long it would take. If they should not be back by now. Someone asked Nia if she could see anything. And then, an explosion of cheers when, one by one, the bussers returned, and Fleet Command stepped out and gave their salute of approval, the roar so fierce Nia was nearly swept up in it before her jaw tightened and she reminded herself how all of this was possible.
In rounds the workers were allowed to board the bussers and experience the jump for themselves. They pushed forward, eager for their turn, until Command blew their horn and the crowd immediately organized themselves into single-file lines. Nia did not join the lines. She sat on the bench, believing that to ride one of those bussers would be a betrayal to Ahro’s memory, her participation a tacit acknowledgment of the company’s feats, and of the few things she had left in this life, it was his memory that she held most dear.
And yet, when she looked at those bussers, the celebration of them, there was something beneath her righteousness and her boiling anger as she observed how every worker who returned from t
he bussers did so in reverent silence, offering only dazed shrugs to those still in line who asked them what Fast Travel was like. Nia was infected by the curiosity of the impossible. The dark wondering of why-not.
When the last round was called three hours later, she stood up.
“Do you want to come?” she asked Sartoris, and after he nodded like an eager child, she helped him to his feet.
They were shown to the last busser in the line. With his arm entwined with hers, she brought him to the empty row in the back and held his cane while he eased himself down into the window seat. Buckled him in as a young woman walked the lone aisle of the busser pushing a cart of company-sponsored drinks, handing the two of them suc-pacs of Umbai Ale. While Sartoris gingerly sipped his ale, Nia strapped herself in. She winced at the tug of the strap around her waist, the feel of something sharp poking her hip. She drew the flute from her pocket. Laughed. She had gotten so used to the feel of the thing in her pocket she’d forgotten it was there.
The intercom flicked on and the cabin went quiet.
“Welcome aboard O’Daja Departures Busser. I hope you are enjoying your refreshments, compliments of Umbai-Allied Associates. As I am sure you are all aware, today’s flight will be a preview of the proprietary Fast Travel Chip. Once we are cleared we will be jumping to three different systems: Averyn, Palau, and San Osha, in that order. We won’t be pausing for long at any of our destinations, so please keep your eyes toward the windows if you wish to see the effects of the passage. We should be back home in thirty minutes. Please enjoy the flight.”
Everyone looked out their portholes at the sweep of ships that composed the Kerrigan Fleet, the dozens of ships that dotted the Red Nebula like black pepper on a splotch of blood. In all her yearlong stay here, Nia had never left the Joplin; never seen what the fleet looked like from afar. This was not her home, but still her skin goose-pimpled as the pilot counted down from five, her hand gripping the flute, as she mouthed, to no one, I’m sorry.
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