by Linda Nagata
And when that got no reply: *You need to be here.
He’d answered then, saying, *Not yet. Let people relax first. Enjoy themselves before they get angry all over again.
Maybe it was the right strategy. Urban arrived quietly at the end of the meal when the ship’s company had grown mellow on wine. By the time Riffan noticed him, he was already sitting with Clemantine. He saw her introduce Urban to those around her, including Shoran and Tarnya.
Few beyond Clemantine’s immediate circle noticed Urban was there, but Pasha saw it. She glared from several seats away, no longer listening to the conversation around her. Watching her, Riffan was struck by a fear that she would confront him and it was not a good time for that. It would spoil the evening. Let this day end in harmony.
He crossed between the tables and crouched behind her, speaking softly, “Don’t be angry,” he urged. “Circumstances constrained what he could do. Our history constrained us.”
Over her shoulder she gave him an annoyed look. “That may be true, but I wonder who’s in a position to constrain him, if it should come to that?”
His mouth fell open in shock, his worry so plain to see that she laughed at him. “Oh, Riffan. You’re too trusting.”
“But Pasha, we have to trust him.”
“Yes. I know.”
She turned back to her companions. He moved on.
She had meant nothing by it, surely.
He found Vytet, standing at the edge of the terrace. Seeking reassurance, he asked, “It’s going well, don’t you think?”
“Yes, indeed. I do. We are a frontier people. We know instinctively how to adapt to new circumstances.”
“Truth,” Riffan said, appreciating the reminder.
For centuries, their ancestors had migrated outward, each settled star system on the way acting as a selective filter, passing forward only those with a stable temperament amenable to cooperative existence. Those constraints had partly lifted during their long occupation of Deception Well, and still they retained much of the discipline and cooperation of their ancestral culture. If any among them struggled with the transition, it would not go unnoticed. They would be quietly counseled and cared for until they found a place in this new world. That was their way.
By the time the desserts were done, everyone had grown lethargic with food and drink. Ship’s day was ending and a golden evening light filtered through the branches of the lithe, graceful maple trees surrounding the dining terrace. Conversation quieted, post-adrenaline melancholy setting in.
Riffan had finally settled onto an open cushion between a new acquaintance—the sharp-eyed and self-assured historian, Alkimbra—and Naresh, a physicist with a youthful air who Riffan had known casually for many years. There he began to nod, half asleep, discovering it only when Tarnya’s fine voice rose over the assembly and startled him awake.
“I have a proposal,” she announced.
Riffan straightened on his cushion as heads turned and conversations faded. Tarnya allowed several seconds for attention to settle on her, and then she continued, “I propose that for at least three years no one should enter cold sleep. Instead, let us invest that time in developing our community, our personal bonds, and by doing so, ensure that we’ll know and trust one another so much that we’ll be able to endure the intermittent existence of the centuries to come. What say you?”
Riffan hadn’t once considered returning to cold sleep since he’d escaped it. He’d also had a lot of wine, so he was quick to call out: “I think it’s a fine idea!”
Laughter greeted his response. Alkimbra placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and, in a voice surprisingly deep for his compact frame, announced, “I agree! An excellent strategy!” Several other cheerful endorsements followed.
Then Pasha called out in her no-nonsense voice, “I think we will need to be awake more than three years to catch up on all we missed.”
“Yes, exactly,” Naresh said in a loud, clear voice, making himself heard amid other calls of support from around the terrace.
“Can we all agree, then?” Tarnya asked. “Does anyone object?”
If anyone did, they didn’t say so aloud.
Vytet stood up next, his tall slim figure aglow with a halo cast by a lantern that hung behind him. Riffan leaned forward to listen. Vytet’s gentle voice commanded a rapt attention from the ship’s company as he reminded them, “We are a frontier people. Our ancestors always looked outward in curiosity toward new suns and new worlds. But they also looked back along the star paths their ancestors had taken, and they kept records of what they saw.
“They watched known stars disappear within cordons made up of swarms of orbiting bodies of such magnitude and occurring in such numbers that all the light of the star was contained. Miraculous, it seemed. Inexplicable and overwhelming. The work of gods. The Hallowed Vasties.
“Centuries later, they watched the cordons disintegrate, and the stars reappear.
“Speculation has been rampant but no one really knows what spurred the precipitous growth of the cordons or triggered their sudden failure. We are here aboard Dragon to find out, to seek for our ancestors and to learn, both from their triumphs and their mistakes. It will be dangerous and it won’t be easy, but I think it’ll be worthwhile.”
Riffan raised his glass, calling out “Hear, hear!” with the rest of them, but as he sipped the cold wine he shivered, chilled by the thought that they might find only monsters living among the wreckage of gods.
Chapter
22
Every few minutes a new submind reached Clemantine at her post on Griffin’s high bridge, bringing her the memories of a parallel life—not just the observed experiences but also the thoughts, impressions, and emotions of her core self. The result: She lived that life, she was that woman, and also the isolated mistress of the high bridge. A dual existence. Two versions, wound around each other, witnessing progress on both fronts:
For Dragon, a thriving community, and for Griffin, a slow evolution away from hostility and malice among its philosopher cells as she reshaped their instinctive responses, making her post on the high bridge more bearable, day by day.
Another submind brought her a new segment of memories. Pasha Andern sat across from her, steaming cups of tea on the low table between them. Pasha asked, “Do you remember, centuries back, when Riffan and I first asked to go on this expedition . . . we talked about the authority of a ship’s captain?”
Clemantine nodded. She did remember. “You agreed the captain was the final authority.”
“I would have agreed to almost anything,” Pasha admitted with a laugh. “But you—you had doubts. You said ‘we’ll find a way to make it work.’”
“You’re angry over the centuries in archive,” Clemantine guessed.
“Let’s say I’m concerned.”
“That’s over. The ship’s company will have a voice going forward.”
A dismissive shrug, because having a voice was not the same as having a veto. Pasha asked, “Was it hard to learn to master the philosopher cells?”
“Yes,” Clemantine said without hesitation.
“Was it worth it?” Pasha pressed.
Clemantine sipped her tea, recognizing this as an oblique question, a substitute for a question that could not be asked directly—
Should Urban ever again exceed his moral authority, could you take over?
“Yes,” she said, more thoughtfully this time. She set the hot cup down. “To be more than just a passenger aboard Dragon, to learn to impress my will on the ship’s Chenzeme mind, it was worth it.”
Pasha nodded, seeming satisfied. “I’m glad there’s someone else who knows—and I’m glad it’s you who’s in command of Griffin.”
Clemantine looked askance. She did not command Griffin, she had no experience of it—not this version of her—and more and more, she wanted the experience. She’d told no one of the separation between her selves. She’d come to regret it, ashamed to be credited for a role she had not tru
ly undertaken.
A voice, speaking from out of this parallel memory: It’s not too late for us to synchronize timelines. I don’t need to be protected.
On Griffin she pondered this, and after a time she messaged her other self, *I’m the one who needs you to be protected. I need your experience of human community unadulterated by the atavism of this Chenzeme mind.
An answer arrived, replete with frustration: *It can’t be that different from Dragon’s high bridge.
*It is, and I don’t like what I’ve had to become.
She had told no one of the separation, but her Apparatchiks knew. The Engineer, monitoring data traffic between the two ships, had noticed the one-way flow of subminds: “You’ve created a version of yourself specialized for command,” he concluded.
“You would see it that way, having a personal understanding of specialization.”
She sensed Urban knew as well. When he spoke to this version of her, atrium to atrium, his tone was formal, distant. So different from when he spoke to her other self. Had he worked it out on his own? Or had the Engineer informed him? This last question led directly to another: Just how closely does he monitor me?
Suspicion blossomed, but suspicion was toxic, so she resolved to clear the air. She messaged him, *Do my Apparatchiks report to you?
He did not answer right away. Seconds passed. She imagined him considering all that this inquiry might imply. Finally, he asked her, *Should they?
A fair question. She held immense power, yet lived a separate existence. It would be dangerous to allow her to become a stranger. She would not allow that for herself.
*If my Apparatchiks have concerns, I hope they share them with me and with you.
*Okay, but . . . you are all right over there?
*Yes. I’ve adapted. I live her life and mine. And I want you to know that nothing means more to me than you and her and Dragon’s evolving community—and I’ll do whatever’s necessary to protect all of you.
<><><>
Late afternoon:
Urban was alone, gathering memories from his subminds as he lay with eyes closed on a blanket spread out in a shady garden corner, a few steps from the sliding backdoor of the cottage he shared with Clemantine. One after another, the partial copies of his persona dropped into his atrium, joining their memories to his so that he was acquainted with the current status of the ship, of the outriders, and of Clemantine in her separate command.
Urban had created the Sentinel to help him cope with the demands of commanding Dragon’s high bridge. Clemantine had taken a different path in her command of Griffin. Instead of a partial persona that could be swapped in at need, she’d created a permanent alternate-self. She remained herself, but colder, more emotionally remote, as if she had taken on something of the implacable, ruthless nature of the philosopher cells. Did she realize it?
She must. Why else refuse to synchronize? Still, it left him questioning how well he knew her and what her boundaries might be.
But there was no calling it back.
Another submind, bringing the memory of the ongoing survey of the Near Vicinity. No anomalies of a stature to warrant concern had been found over the past twenty-four hours.
And another, bringing confirmation of the continued silence from the site of the beacon.
The beacon had fallen silent precisely at the time Elepaio was due to make its close pass. Urban longed to collect the memories of the ghost ensconced aboard that outrider. What did I find out there? Did I make contact with someone? Some thing? He wished again he’d been the version to go.
A sudden sharp electric hum, a minor note, seized his attention. His eyes opened to a dazzling spangle of daylight piercing past the bright-green leaves and feathery pink blossoms of a carefully shaped rain tree.
He sat up, looked around, as the hum dopplered away. A laugh from the direction of the path. A shout—Shoran’s voice—“Get it! Go, go, go!”
He jumped to his feet—not out of alarm, but out of curiosity. This sounded like a game.
<><><>
Riffan saw Pasha ahead of him on the path that wound around the circumference of the gee deck, linking all the cottages to the pavilion and the dining terrace.
He called out to her. “Oh, hey, Pasha!” And with a couple of easy bounds in the low gee, he caught up with her.
She turned to meet him, her delicate face framed in short blond hair that gleamed in the morning light, thin brows arched over skeptical green eyes. “Hey, Riffan.” Her tone neutral as always.
“You’re attending today’s lecture, aren’t you? May I walk with you?”
She snorted and continued toward the amphitheater. “Why are you always so formal?”
“Am I?” he asked with a frown, matching the slow-motion pace that most of the ship’s company had adopted to prevent inadvertently launching themselves into the shrubbery.
“Yes, you are,” she informed him.
“Well, perhaps you’re right.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Okay, you are right.”
The corner of her mouth quirked up.
“Are we friends, Pasha?” he blurted, stopping on the path, even taking a step back. She stepped back too, her pale cheeks warming with a flush, her green eyes wide. “I admire you so,” he said quickly, getting it all out while he could, “but I think . . . maybe I’ve offended you?”
“Why do you think that?” she said in an undertone, as if concerned someone might overhear. She stepped off the path and onto a small lawn, glancing over her shoulder at a cottage behind her.
“We used to be friendly, together on Long Watch. We often talked, discussed our studies. Now I hardly see you.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I see you every day at the lectures. Isn’t that where we’re going now?”
Riffan sighed, recognizing the brushoff.
With Vytet, he’d organized daily lectures and discussions on academic topics related to the expedition, ranging from astronomy to biology to history. The sessions were well attended, which meant Pasha was a face in the crowd while Riffan stood by the dais, moderating discussion—and afterward she would melt away, or be off to dinner with her friends, or disappear for hours behind her closed cottage door, doubtless pursuing research in the library.
“All right,” he said, glancing around as Alkimbra and Naresh approached along the path. He nodded to them, then blushed a bit as Alkimbra’s eyes narrowed, his keen gaze clearly perceiving Riffan’s awkward situation. He pursed his lips, raised his heavy eyebrows in a sympathetic expression, but to Riffan’s relief he said nothing, walking on with the oblivious Naresh.
Riffan turned back to Pasha. He desperately wanted her to explain what had changed—but what a ridiculous demand that would be! Everything about their lives had changed. And she didn’t owe him an explanation.
“I’ll see you at the lecture, then,” he said quietly.
She put out her hand before he’d quite gathered himself to leave. “It’s not you,” she assured him.
He waited, hoping for more, but Clemantine and Tarnya were coming next along the winding path, with several others not far behind.
Tarnya, looking ahead, saw them and called out, “Hi Pasha! Hi Riffan! You know there’s going to be a concert tonight, right?”
“Right, I’m planning to be there,” Pasha said, stepping away from Riffan, and then she was walking with them, leaving him trailing behind.
“It shouldn’t be too many more days before Elepaio gets back,” he said idly.
Only Clemantine looked back at him. She slowed her stride to let him catch up. “Are you worried?” she asked.
“No. Well, yes. Maybe. It’s just . . . I don’t know how to think about it. Whatever happened out there, whatever we discovered, I’ve already done it, been through it—but through what? Maybe nothing at all. Maybe three years of boredom. Or something wonderful . . .”
“Or terrible,” she said, guessing his thoughts.
“It’s nerve-
wracking, not knowing.”
They reached the edge of the pavilion. Pasha paused to look back at him with a cool gaze. “I would have been happy to go in your place,” she said.
“I know. I wish I’d suggested it.”
A faint smile. “You’re a good person, Riffan. Better than me.”
She went ahead, striding across the pavilion, leaving Tarnya looking puzzled and Clemantine regarding him with questioning eyes. He cleared his throat, put on a smile, and said, “I’d better hurry if I’m going to be any help to Vytet.”
<><><>
“Come out and play,” Shoran called as Urban rounded the cottage. She stood on the path beside her son Mikael, her smile bright, her skin glistening with sweat.
“Play what?” he asked.
Shoran stood tall, and she was well-muscled, resembling Clemantine in physique. She wore tight shorts and a sleeveless top, her silver hair bound up in a coiled braid, her breast rising and falling with exertion.
Urban liked her—her bold manner, her optimism, her inventiveness. The first time he’d met her, she declared, “I didn’t come on this expedition to look through telescopes. I’m here to explore the ruins or the recovery of life—whichever it turns out to be—for myself, as myself.” She’d made a name for herself at Deception Well as one of the earliest scouts to truly explore the planetary surface.
She said, “Mikael has remembered a game we used to play in Silk. I think you’ll like it. It’s called flying fox.”
She showed him a device in her palm.
“A camera bee?” Urban guessed. If so, it was modified. Larger than he remembered and bright red in color.
“This is the fox we’ll try to catch. One person alone will never succeed at it. We have to work together.”
She turned to Mikael, a man of athletic build with a smile more reserved than his mother’s. Age was not revealed by physical features, but it could be sensed in the way people handled themselves—and Mikael’s shy manner gave away his youth. He was the youngest of the ship’s company, only twenty-five when he made the jump to Dragon.