Record of a Spaceborn Few

Feed source: Reskit Institute of Interstellar Migration (Public News Feed)

Item name: The Modern Exodus – Entry #18

Author: Ghuh’loloan Mok Chutp

Encryption: 0

Translation path: [Hanto:Kliptorigan]

Transcription: 0

Node identifier: 2310-483-38, Isabel Itoh

[System message: The feed you have selected has been translated from written Hanto. As you may be aware, written Hanto includes gestural notations that do not have analogous symbols in any other GC language. Therefore, your scrib’s on-board translation software has not translated the following material directly. The content here is a modified translation, intended to be accessible to the average Kliptorigan reader.]

Imagine, for a moment, a Harmagian shoreline village of old. It is a busy place, but a simple one. The people there do little more than gather – river mud for building, ocean sand for resting, smaller creatures for eating. There is a world outside this tiny territory, but the villagers know next to nothing of it. There is no need for them to think beyond home and dinner.

Well past the beach, there is a wooded marsh, and in the marsh lives an animal. The villagers have never seen it, but they have heard its call – a strange hooting that pierces the dawning hours. There are many stories about the sound. Some say it is a monster that will prey on any children foolish enough to leave the safety of the village. Some say it is a being made of dead Harmagians, the amalgamation of each body left to disappear under the heat of the sun. But there are some who doubt these stories. How, they wonder, can you speak of what a thing is if you have never seen it with your own eyes?

One day, quite by accident, the question of the animal is answered. Its corpse washes downstream, and comes to rest in the very spot where the villagers gather mud. No one has seen anything like it before. This is a creature adapted not to water, but to trees. It is covered in hair – a feature no Harmagian has seen before. Much debate takes place over what to do with it, and, perhaps inevitably, one question dominates all others: Can we eat it?

When the beast is cut apart, a discovery is made. The poor thing’s stomach is full of metal slag, which the villagers routinely dispose of in an out-of-sight heap on the edges of the beach. Undoubtedly, this was the cause of death. Why was the animal eating this? the villagers wonder. Why did it continue to eat this?

Why?

And so, they make the leap from people of superstition to people of science. A group of the village’s bravest set out for the marsh, in search of the animal’s kin. They discover much more than that, of course, and a frenzy takes hold of the explorers, a mad passion for wanting to unlock every secret the marsh holds. More expeditions are launched. Base camps are built, so they may journey farther and farther still. Trading posts are built near rivers, so as to not waste any time in back-tracking to replenish supplies. Their intentions are born of the purest curiosity, a trait no one can fault them for. But their quest for knowledge has an unfortunate side effect. The animal they were seeking – bal’urut, they have named it – is comprised of a devastating combination of traits. It is skittish to the extreme, instinctively afraid of anything travelling in a pack (thanks to the prowling kressrols, a predatory species our villagers will encounter in due time). If the bal’urut becomes scared enough, its drive for survival will cause it to flee the area – with or without the lengthily gestated young it has been caring for in its den.

The bal’urut is also a specialist. It eats only a specific type of insect that nests in a specific type of tree in this specific corner of the world. Migration to more tranquil territory is not an option, not in the time it would take their guts to evolve for more varied fare.

By the time the explorers realise their presence is what is driving the very creature they wish to understand to abandon its offspring, it is too late. Infant mortality has skyrocketed to the point that the species can no longer sustain itself. Within a Harmagian lifetime, the bal’urut is no more. Other species fall in its wake. Our plucky explorers have the dubious distinction of making the first Harmagian record of a trophic cascade.

If you have studied any scientific discipline through Harmagian instruction, dear guest, you already know the story of the bal’urut. It is one of our most enduring cautionary tales. Many a professor has relished frustrating students with the ethical quandary at its core. If the villagers had not ventured into the marsh to better understand the bal’urut, then its breeding behaviour would not have been disrupted. But had the villagers stuck to their beach and their narrow view, they would’ve continued to pile slag at the marsh’s edge, and the bal’urut would’ve kept dying from eating it (archaeological studies suggest that bal’uruts found the salt deposits left behind in the metalworking process irresistible). My own research methodology professor phrased this concept succinctly: learn nothing of your subjects, and you will disrupt them. Learn something of your subjects, and you will disrupt them.

The bal’urut has been on my mind as of late. As an ethnographer, my role is to be a neutral observer. I cannot judge, I cannot suppose, I cannot fill in blanks with my own biases (as much as this is possible). And yet, my presence here has prompted change. I have not done anything harmful, to my knowledge. All I have done is talk. I ask questions, I give answers, I make connections. This is not much, and yet, I of all people should know that this can be everything.

I am being vague, dear guest, and for that, I apologise. I have set events in motion that will bring new technologies into the Fleet – namely, improved medical equipment, and sentient AI installations to facilitate resource management. I believe – or I sincerely hope, at least – these will be of great benefit to my hosts here. Given the letters I have received from many of you, I feel confident in assuming that you would agree. Indeed, I am humbled by the generosity that has made these donations possible. Truly, the name of our Galactic Commons was chosen well.

Still, I cannot ignore the fact that I came here to document the Exodan way of life, and as I near the end of my visit, that way of life is changing. This should not surprise me. I have ventured into the marshlands. I know this story well.

Received message

Encryption: 0

Translation: 0

From: Tessa Santoso (path: 6222-198-00)

To: George Santoso (path: 6159-546-46)

Well, they actually did it. Cargo bay jobs are going away. Not today. Not for a while. But they’re going to install sentient AIs here on the Asteria as a pilot programme, and, if it goes well, kit out the rest of the Fleet as well. I would’ve told you differently a couple tendays ago, but today, my gut says that pilot programme is going to catch on quick. People love these things. My brother just had to get a replacement for his old one, and he’s being very weird about it. It’s like he lost a pet or something. I don’t get it, but I’ve never worked with one, so who knows. Easier to deal with something that’s always cheerful and there to help than with us slow, cranky people, I suppose.

Me and a few others have been asked to work with the incoming comp techs to figure things out or set things up or however it works. Teach the machines what we’re doing so they can do it better. I’ve also been advised to start talking to the job office now, so I can figure out where I might want to go. Y’know, make time for classes. Make time to apprentice. Stars, George. I’ve been running job trials all standard, and now I’m the one who needs one.

I’m mad about it, and I know it’s stupid. It’s not like managing cargo is the most exciting job there is. But it was my job, and all I can think about are the projects I’m not going to finish and the systems I worked out and felt proud of that don’t matter anymore. I don’t know if this will make sense, but I keep wondering where we’re going to draw the line. Nobody’s talking about replacing pilots or bug farmers or teachers, even though AIs could do all of those, because those are fun jobs. Jobs that mean something, right? But I liked my job. There were things in it that I found fun. I thought what I did was meaningful. I thought I was doing something good. Who decides that? What if we decide that flying shuttles and raising red coasters aren’t actually all that fun, and we get rid of those jobs, too? What do people do, then? I went for a drink with Sahil after we got the news, and I asked him that question. He thought it’d be great. He said he’d go be a permastudent at some university and learn all he could. But why? Why learn anything if you’re not going to do something with it? Why learn anything if everything worth knowing is in the Linkings anyway, and you can ask your pet AI?

Sorry, I know I’m rambling. I just don’t know where I want to go from here. Right now, I’m not sure I want to be here at all.

Eyas

Eyas fidgeted in the corridor outside the unfamiliar hex. What if this was a bad idea? What if this screwed things up? She’d entertained both those possibilities, and was entertaining them still, but this was the only course of action that didn’t leave her feeling restless. This was the only thing, right then, that made sense.

She walked forward into the common area. Eyas had thought, on her way here, that she’d have to approach a stranger, introduce herself, bring a third party into this exchange. But her timing was perfect. Sunny was kneeling right there in a planter square, a gardening apron tied around his neck and waist, a palette of leafy starters abandoned by his knees, a young boy clinging to his back and wrestling him from behind. Sunny could’ve easily thrown the kid off, but he swayed and moaned in mock defeat.

‘Oh, no!’ Sunny yelled. ‘Oh, no, you’ve got me! Help, someone help, there’s a monster, a horrible monster’s got me—’

The kid giggled. ‘I’m not a monster,’ the boy said. ‘I’m a lion. I’m from Earth!’ He made a . . . well, he made a sound. Whether it was actually lion-like was anyone’s guess.

‘I’m very sorry, I should have realised,’ Sunny said. ‘Please, M Lion, don’t eat me.’

‘I am gonna eat you!’ the kid said, noisily play-biting Sunny’s shoulder.

Sunny gave a wicked grin. ‘Or maybe . . . I’m gonna eat you!’ In one fluid sequence, he grabbed the kid, hauled him around to his front, pinned him down, and made chomping sounds as he mercilessly tickled the now-shrieking boy’s tummy. ‘Oh, no, a dramatic reversal! Nom nom nom nom nom—’ His eyes flicked up and saw Eyas for the first time.

Eyas had her knuckle against her mouth, a smile spreading behind it. She gave a little wave.

Sunny was surprised, no question, but took it in stride. The ticklefest ended abruptly. ‘We gotta take a break, buddy. We’ve got company.’ The kid looked over as Sunny stood up. ‘This is my friend Eyas,’ Sunny said, cocking his head. ‘Hi.’ It was a question.

‘Hi,’ Eyas said. She smiled at the boy. ‘What’s your name?’

The kid scrutinised her. ‘Kirby.’

‘My nephew,’ Sunny said, pushing his own hair back into place, brushing his hands on his apron. Was he self-conscious? Did he mind her seeing him like this – unshowered, dirty palms, ratty work clothes? Had she crossed a line? Having sex was one thing; entering someone’s home was another. Maybe this was an intimacy she shouldn’t have assumed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Eyas said, ‘I hope I’m not—’

‘No.’ He meant it. ‘No, not at all. Please.’ He gestured to one of the dinner tables. She followed.

‘Hi there!’ someone called. Eyas turned. An elderly woman had stuck her head out the front door of her home, no doubt curious about the newcomer. She waved as if they were fast friends.

‘Hello,’ Eyas called back.

‘Friend of mine,’ Sunny said. ‘From the Asteria.’

‘Oh, welcome!’ the old woman said. She nodded with approval – approval of what, Eyas could only guess at – then went back into her space.

‘That’s M Tsai,’ Sunny said, sitting at the table. ‘She’s very sweet, and very nosy.’

Eyas laughed as she sat opposite him. ‘I gathered.’ She looked around the hex. Kirby had abandoned lioning and was now digging haphazardly through Sunny’s neat planter rows. If Sunny noticed, he didn’t seem to mind.

‘So.’ Sunny looked at her, the question unanswered.

‘Right,’ she said. She’d had the entire ferry ride to think about this, but now she didn’t know where to start. ‘I was hoping I could – that is, if you have the time to talk—’

‘Yeah, I’m not— hey, Kirby, you can play in the dirt all you want, but leave the shears alone, yeah? – sorry.’

‘Don’t be. Kids are kids.’

‘I’m not busy, is what I was saying.’

‘Cool. Okay, well . . . I’ve been stuck on this idea, and I thought—’

Her attempt was derailed by M Tsai, who had reappeared with offerings in hand. ‘I thought you two might like some iced tea,’ M Tsai said, setting down a full pitcher and a pair of glasses. ‘My own special recipe. I always keep some around in case guests show up.’ She filled Eyas’ glass. ‘Are you one of his clients?’

‘M, you know you can’t ask that,’ Sunny said. ‘That’s confidential.’

‘It’s okay,’ Eyas said. She smiled at M Tsai. ‘I am.’

‘But she’s my friend, too,’ Sunny said. He locked eyes with Eyas. Something passed between them. He’d seen her every which way, and yet, somehow, this – a shared pitcher of tea, a confirmation of friendship, a secret smile – this was the most vulnerable she’d ever felt around him.

‘How nice,’ M Tsai said. ‘And what’s your profession?’

Sunny transmitted an apology through his eyes.

‘I’m a caretaker,’ Eyas said.

‘Oh! Oh, my goodness. Well.’ She looked at the now-filled glasses, trying to find an excuse to stay now that her previous one had ended. ‘You know . . . biscuits. I got a packet of quick dough as trade a few days ago, and a bunch of herbs in my home that aren’t going to last much longer. I think this kind of company deserves a proper snack, don’t you?’

‘M,’ Sunny said, ‘that’s really—’

‘It’s no trouble!’ M Tsai said, already on her way. ‘It won’t take long!’

Sunny gave an apologetic sigh as soon as M Tsai’s door shut. ‘I’m sure this isn’t why you came by.’

‘Not quite,’ Eyas said.

He folded his arms on the table. ‘Start at the beginning.’

‘I’m still thinking about Sawyer.’ She’d reserved a whole night with Sunny after the funeral, instead of the usual half. Neither of them had commented on it, or needed to. She’d taken care of someone else. He’d done the same for her.

Sunny folded his mouth sympathetically. ‘That had to be pretty . . . I dunno. Traumatic.’

‘Not his body. It was . . . unpleasant, yes. But I don’t mean that. I mean Sawyer. I mean the man I spoke with for five minutes.’ She frowned. ‘I wasn’t very patient, and I wasn’t very kind. But he was so grateful for what flimsy advice I gave him. He looked so happy. He wrote me a letter. I think I may have been more patient and kind to him than most, and that’s . . . that’s why he’s dead. He got taken advantage of. He didn’t know how things worked. But he wanted to. I know I only had that one short conversation, but . . . I think his heart was in the right place.’ Eyas sipped her iced tea and paused. ‘This is delicious.’

Sunny nodded. ‘M Tsai is a legend in the kitchen. Used to work in imports, so she’s got all kinds of spices and stuff. I’m honestly stoked she’s making biscuits.’ He sipped his own drink. ‘But again, not why you’re here.’ He looked at her with kind eyes. ‘It makes sense that you’re still upset about it.’

Eyas shook her head. He was getting the wrong idea. ‘I’m not here because I’m upset. If I needed a counsellor, I’d go see a counsellor.’

‘Talking to friends is okay, too, y’know.’

‘I didn’t mean – I know. And I appreciate it. But I don’t want to sit around and be sad. I want to do something about it.’

‘Okay.’ He leaned back thoughtfully. ‘What’d you have in mind?’

‘You know the emigrant resource centres, right? With their workshops and such. How to speak proper Klip, how to live alongside aliens. Everything you need to know before you move planetside. That’s what our ancestors were trying to prepare us for, right? That’s why the Fleet exists. Except that’s not the point of the Fleet anymore, not entirely. I’m not here to shepherd people along to new planets. I care for the ones who made their lives here. And you – you’re the same, only in present tense. We both want to make life good for the people who choose to stay. So . . . why don’t we have the opposite?’

‘The opposite of what?’

‘Classes. Workshops. Resources for grounders who want to live in the Fleet. We have nothing for them right now. We have homes standing empty, and jobs unfilled, and we’re . . . what? Hoping that the next generation will want to stick around more than the last? Look, if it was a matter of everybody wanting to leave here, fine. But that’s not the case. People aren’t just staying in the Fleet. They’re coming back. We have such disdain for outsiders who come and act like this is a museum, but what about the Sawyers? What about the people who don’t have a place out there, who think that our way of life has some appeal? We look at them and we say, oh, stupid city kids, stupid Martians, they don’t know how things are. They don’t understand how life works out here. So, let’s teach them. Let’s teach them, instead of brushing them off and laughing behind their backs. Let’s bring them in.’

Sunny took that in. ‘Huh,’ he said. He took a long sip of his tea, looked over his shoulder to verify that his nephew had indeed left the shears alone, then set his drink back down. ‘Huh. That is . . . not a terrible idea.’ He paused. ‘That’s a great idea, actually.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You could totally get council support for it, too. They’d be all over it, especially given your . . .’ He gestured. ‘What you do.’

‘My thinking exactly.’ Some of the Exodan resources for Exodan problems types might be harder to sway, but – come on. Who could argue with a caretaker who wanted some resource allotments in the name of preserving tradition?

He nodded. ‘And you want to teach?’

‘Not full-time, and not alone. Think about the resource centres. Most of those people put in an hour here, a day there. All sorts of different professions helping out. It has to be that way, if the centres want to give people a proper toolkit. So, we’d need to do the same. Get people with jobs you don’t find elsewhere in the galaxy to explain what it is we do and why.’

‘“We”.’

‘Yes. I want you to do it with me, if you’re interested.’

‘Wow, okay. Um . . . hmm. I’m not sure I’d be much of a teacher.’

‘Why not?’

‘I was an awful student. I’ve told you. The laziest.’

‘Academic prowess and base intelligence are two separate things.’

‘See? I could never make a sentence like that on the fly.’

‘So? That’s ideal, actually. That was a boring sentence, and the last thing we want to be is boring. You’re charismatic. You know how to talk to people. You’d be great at this.’

‘You’re serious.’

‘Completely.’

‘Okay.’ He crossed an arm over his stomach and scratched his chin with the other. ‘Well . . . can I think about it a bit?’

‘Of course. Take some time, see how it sits.’

‘In the meantime, can I give you something to think about?’

‘Always.’

Sunny stared up at the ceiling for a moment, as if the words he was looking for were up there. ‘Obviously, I don’t have plans on going anywhere soon, and I know we live on different ships, but whenever my time comes – how would you feel about . . . y’know. Taking care of me.’

Eyas set down her glass. ‘Yes, absolutely. You can put in a request for a specific caretaker at your deck’s Centre. We’re all part of the same guild, so they’d contact me.’

He laughed. ‘So you don’t need to think about that one.’

She paused. ‘Sorry, I treated that like a practical question, didn’t I?’

‘Yep.’

She laughed as well. ‘Sorry.’ Stars, here he’d asked her something profound and she’d responded like a formwork header.

He folded his hands on the table. ‘Treat it like an emotional question.’

She looked down at her drink. ‘I’d be honoured,’ she said. ‘That means a lot to me, that you want that.’

Sunny smiled. ‘And it would mean a lot to me to know that the person who will take care of me is a whole person. Not just a symbol.’ He stopped, and his smile grew. ‘You’ll be happy to know we can stop being corny now, because I have some great news.’

‘What’s that?’

He gave a dramatic sniff and pointed at the air. ‘Biscuits.’

Isabel

Of all the places Isabel might’ve guessed Ghuh’loloan would want to make a repeat visit to, her hex was at the bottom of the list. The First Generation murals, perhaps, or a musical performance, or the plaza oxygen garden. But no, this distinguished academic from an equally distinguished species wanted to spend one of her final days in the Fleet in hex 224-613’s common area. She was in their far more humble garden now, surrounded by shrieking kids. Shrieking, laughing, soaking-wet kids.

‘Again! Do it again!’ one of the relatively older kids cried in Klip. The others echoed him in tiny accents: ‘Again! Again!’

‘Again?’ Ghuh’loloan said, her tentacles dancing with amusement. ‘Are you quite sure?’

‘Yes!’

‘As you wish.’ She gestured to her cart, and the kids flailed with knowing anticipation as a panel opened. Out flew Ghuh’loloan’s mistbot, a floating globe filled with cool water, designed to refresh Harmagian skin whenever the need arose. Nothing about Ghuh’loloan’s face approximated Human expression, but nonetheless, Isabel could discern the unbridled glee her colleague felt as she directed the bot to deploy itself, for the fifth time now, over the kids’ heads. They screamed and giggled, running aimlessly in the steady drizzle.

‘Again! Again!’

‘I’m afraid that will have to do, dear children,’ Ghuh’loloan said, ‘or I will have none left.’

Isabel stepped in, venturing into the splash zone. ‘That’s enough now,’ she said in Ensk. ‘Let’s give Ghuh’loloan a break, hmm?’

There was some mild protesting, but the kids were too wound up now to hang around doing nothing. They dispersed in bits and pieces, running off to play with toys or raid the kitchen or shake their soggy hair at their parents.

‘It is a truly singular experience,’ Ghuh’loloan said, ‘living alongside your offspring and your offspring’s offspring.’

Isabel took a seat on a nearby bench. ‘An experience you wish you’d had?’ she asked.

The Harmagian let out a rolling laugh. ‘Oh, stars, no. This is madness. Wonderful, too, dear host, but I enjoy it for the novelty. I could not do this every day. I admire your species for its stamina in this regard. And your patience.’

‘Oh, we run out of patience plenty,’ Isabel said. She glanced aside. Tamsin was seated nearby, out of earshot, but within plain sight. Isabel had thought she’d been watching the mistbot shenanigans, but though they had ended, she remained, her hands busy with a broken vox, her eyes on the alien. Isabel caught her wife’s gaze, waved her over, and continued speaking to Ghuh’loloan. ‘You don’t miss them? Your children, I mean. When they’re growing up.’

‘It is not the same for us,’ Ghuh’loloan said. She bowed her eyestalks in acknowledgement as Tamsin joined Isabel on the bench. ‘It is not an experience we have, so there is nothing to miss. Children are kept in nursery pools, tutelage villages, and universities. I was never in the homes of either of my parents until I was an adult, and I never lived there. It would not have occurred to me to want that.’ She looked around the hex. ‘You would think a communal home would not feel so strange to me, as I live in an Aandrisk city. But their homes are not like yours. You are different, dear hosts. You are unique.’

Tamsin leaned forward. ‘But are we worth it?’ She spoke the words without hesitation, as if they’d been sitting on her tongue for tendays.

Isabel knew they had been, and she couldn’t believe they’d been let out. ‘Tamsin.’

Her wife was as unconcerned as could be. ‘It’s just a question.’

Ghuh’loloan looked puzzled. ‘Forgive me, but I do not understand.’

‘Do you think we’re worthy of the rest of the galaxy’s time?’ Tamsin said. ‘GC membership, donated tech, this star you gave us. Do you think we’re worth it?’

Isabel looked away in embarrassment. She wasn’t going to fight in front of a guest, but oh, it was happening later.

The Harmagian fanned her dactyli in thought. ‘I am here, am I not? But that is not what you are asking. You are not asking if the Reskit Institute finds you worthy of study. You are asking what I, Ghuh’loloan, think of you.’

‘Yes,’ Tamsin said.

‘That is a risky thing to ask, dear host, but I would not insult you with a dishonest answer.’ Ghuh’loloan’s eyes blinked and widened. ‘Very well. You are a species of slim means. You produce nothing beyond extra bodies to perform labour, and you have contributed nothing to the technological progress of the GC at large. You value being self-reliant, and you were, once, but now you eat our food and harvest our suns. If we kicked you out now, it would be difficult for you to sustain yourselves as you did before. And even with our help, the age of these vessels means you are constantly, irresponsibly courting a disaster like the one you’ve already weathered. These are the facts. Now, let us discuss the facts of my own species. We are the wealthiest species alive today. We want for nothing. Without us, there would be no tunnels, no ambi, no galactic map. But we achieved these things through subjugation. Violence. We destroyed entire worlds – entire species. It took a galactic war to stop us. We learned. We apologised. We changed. But we can’t give back the things we took. We’re still benefiting from them, and others are still suffering from actions centuries old. So, are we worthy? We, who give so much only because we took so much? Are you worthy, you who take without giving but have done no harm to your neighbours? Are the Aeluons worthy? Are the Quelin? Show me the species that has never wronged another. Show me who has always been perfect and fair.’ She flexed her body, her alien limbs curling strong. ‘Either we are all worthy of the Commons, dear Tamsin, or none of us are.’

Tamsin said nothing for a moment. ‘The first Harmagian I ever saw was on a news feed, talking about how Humans didn’t belong.’

‘The membership hearing.’

‘Yeah.’

Ghuh’loloan stretched the dactyli around her mouth. ‘The first Human I ever saw was at a spaceport, in the process of being arrested for selling unlicensed scrub fuel.’

Tamsin gave a short chuckle. ‘Great first impressions, huh?’

‘Indeed.’

Isabel looked between the two, still thrown by the turn the conversation had taken. Would Ghuh’loloan ever have said anything like this to her on one of their carefully chosen field trips, in one of their polite academic chats? Would her dear guest have been this candid if, for a moment, Isabel had stopped worrying about being a good host?

‘You can’t shake hands, right?’ Tamsin gestured vaguely. ‘I can’t touch your tentacle with my hand, right?’

Ghuh’loloan reached for one of the storage compartments on her cart. ‘If you give me a moment, I believe I have some sheaths with me . . .’

‘Some what?’

‘It’s like a glove,’ Isabel said.

‘Oh, no, don’t go to that trouble,’ Tamsin said. ‘How would . . . do you know what shaking hands means?’

‘Yes,’ Ghuh’loloan said. ‘In essence.’

‘Do you . . . have an equivalent of that? How would you communicate something like that to me?’

‘It would help if I knew the specifics of what you wish to communicate.’

Tamsin looked at Ghuh’loloan seriously. ‘Respect.’

The Harmagian rose up on her cart, holding her body like a wave frozen in time. Her tentacles shuddered, curling and unfolding in strange symmetry. ‘Respect,’ she said.

Tamsin took in the display, and gave a satisfied nod. ‘Right back at you.’

Tessa

Received message

Encryption: 0

Translation: 0

From: George Santoso (path: 6159-546-46)

To: Tessa Santoso (path: 6222-198-00)

Tess,

I know you’re running around like a headless hopper these days, but I’ve got a surprise for you. Go to our bench after dinner, or whenever you can manage. Leave the kids with the hex. It might take a while. And no, I won’t tell you what it is. I think you’ll like it, though.

George

Tessa would never disparage her husband for being cute, but stars, she didn’t have time for this today. Aya needed help with her schoolwork – she was struggling with reading, just like her father had – Ky needed a bath, Pop needed . . . stars, what didn’t he need. A swift kick in the butt was what he needed. Besides which, the laundry needed doing, the herb garden was wilting, and the cleanerbot had glitched out again. Whatever George was up to was probably very sweet, but did it have to be today?

She stepped off the transport pod and headed for the big plaza oxygen garden, not needing to follow the signs. She took a breath and tried to shift her mood. She was being ungrateful. Since that cargo guild meeting a tenday ago, she’d written George a half-dozen or so letters that amounted to nothing more than emotional ejection. He hadn’t had the time to respond to any of them, which she’d expected. He was busy, and had never been one for writing. She hadn’t really wanted a back-and-forth, to be perfectly honest. She’d wanted a recycling bin, a compost box, somewhere she could throw the junk cluttering her brain. But now he’d gone and arranged something to make her feel better – what, she had no idea. She considered the possibilities as she entered the garden and wound her way along the lush, familiar paths. A present dropped off by a friend, maybe. She hoped it was nothing performative. That wasn’t his style, but then, he wasn’t in the habit of sending her cryptic messages and making her trek through the district on a school night, either. She was being a jerk about the whole thing, she knew, but she hoped whatever it was was worth the bother. She hoped—

Tessa froze, mid-stride. There, on a bench, with his back toward her, was George. George. Her husband, George.

His head turned slightly at the sound of her, just a touch, no eye contact needed. ‘There’s room for two,’ he said.

She walked up and faced him. ‘What—’ Her mouth could form no other words, and her brain was stuck on one thought and one thought alone. George. George was here. ‘What—’

George looked around. ‘Well, this is a canteen,’ he said, lifting the container resting beside him. He patted the space to his left. ‘And this is a bench.’

Tessa rolled her eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’ He wasn’t supposed to be back for another three tendays, at least.

George took the lid off the canteen. A ribbon of steam unfolded as if it were alive. He filled the lid with tea and gestured for Tessa to sit. ‘I got your letters.’

Tessa sighed and sat. ‘Stars, George. I’m fine.’

‘You didn’t sound fine.’

‘All right, fine, I’m not fine, but I’ve been not fine before without you – you running back home. You could’ve got on the sib.’

He handed her the cup. ‘This seemed like it should be a faceto-face conversation.’ He reached into his pocket, produced a flat packet of throw-cloth, and unwrapped two big spice cookies.

Tessa accepted both cookie and tea, but consumed nothing yet. She leaned back against the bench, a hand’s-width apart from George, not ready to be closer until she’d processed the full scope of things here. He smelled great, though. He always smelled great. ‘I don’t know if I meant any of it,’ she said. ‘I was just . . . y’know. Mad. I don’t know why you took it so seriously.’

‘The way I read it, Tessa Santoso is considering the mere possibility of leaving the Fleet. That seems pretty damn serious to me.’

Thick steam drifted from the cup, but she braved a sip anyway. ‘Is this your dad’s blend? He added something.’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘What is that? Cinnamon?’

‘Don’t—’ He frowned and took the cup, taking a timid sip of his own. ‘Huh. Yeah, I think that is cinnamon. Where’d he get cinnamon?’

‘See,’ she said. ‘That’s why I don’t mean what I said.’

‘I’m not following.’

‘Why I don’t mean what I said about leaving.’ Tessa looked at the tea and shook her head. ‘Your dad, your mom, my dad. Your brother—’

‘You’ve got a brother, too. He left, and it was fine.’

‘Yeah, and that’s why I can’t. One of us needs to be here.’

‘Why?’

She looked him in the eye, disbelieving. ‘Are you seriously saying I should?’

‘No,’ he said, taking a large bite of his cookie. ‘I’m just asking questions.’ He swallowed, sipped the tea, and handed the cup back. ‘I don’t believe for a minute that the sole reason you’re here is because Ashby left and you feel obligated. That’s never been the case.’

‘I’m not saying it is. I’m just . . . I’m just saying. With the exception of Ashby, our family is here. Aya and Ky’s family is here.’

‘So then explain the letters you wrote me. Explain why you’re entertaining this.’

‘I already told you.’

He waved his hand. ‘Tell me again. Tell me so I can hear how you sound when you say it. Come on, I’m missing out on cleaning drill bits for this.’

She snorted. ‘You’re having tea and cookies.’

‘I’ve got both tea and cookies back on my ship. And honestly, scrubbing off ore bits is easier than getting anything out of you sometimes.’

Tessa ignored the comment and drank the tea. The added cinnamon was growing on her. She sat, thinking. She wasn’t sure what to say.

A moment passed. George leaned forward and folded his hands together. Tessa knew that pose, the George Is Being Serious pose. ‘How much of this is about the job?’ he asked.

She relented. ‘I was thinking about it – about leaving – before that. The job was just . . . I don’t know, the last fucking straw, I guess.’

‘So, this isn’t solely because you don’t want to learn a new job.’

‘No. Well—’ She sighed impatiently. ‘There’s a part of me that’s scared about learning something new. Not because I don’t think I can do it, but because this has been my job for twenty years. I hadn’t ever pictured doing anything else. Not because it’s my favourite thing in the world, but because I’m good at it, and because it’s got things that are weirdly satisfying, and because I know – I knew what every day was going to look like. At least, as far as work went.’

‘You liked the stability.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And now you’re staring down a whole mess of instability and you’re like, eh, fuck it, let’s see how much of that I’m comfortable with.’

Tessa laughed. ‘I guess.’ Her face fell. ‘It’s the kids, mostly. I . . . I don’t know. This doesn’t feel like the same Fleet you and I grew up in.’

‘That’s been true with every generation.’

‘I know, but . . . this is different. In my gut, this is different. We’ve had six break-ins in my bay in the past standard. Six. And that’s just my bay. Then that whole business with that grounder – stars, nothing like that ever happened when we were kids.’

George flexed his eyebrows in acknowledgement. ‘Break-ins, sure—’

‘Not this many.’

‘True.’

‘And nobody died.’

‘Also true. But bad shit happens everywhere.’

‘That’s what I told Aya, and she turned it around on me.’ A weight pressed against Tessa’s chest. ‘She’s not doing any better. She’s getting worse, if anything. Those little bastards at school—’

‘Have they kept at it?’

‘No, but she’s playing by herself.’

George frowned. ‘That’s not like her.’

‘She’s scared of them, George. She’s scared of them, and she’s scared of our home. And I don’t know how to help her. I know we thought she’d grow out of it, and she’s had counselling, but . . .’ Tessa felt her eyes well up, and given the company, she didn’t feel the need to hide it. ‘She doesn’t feel safe here. Do you know how awful that must be, to be a kid and not feel safe at home?’

George slid closer to her and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Almost as awful as being the parent who can’t make that kid feel safe, huh?’

‘Stars,’ Tessa said, taking a shaky breath. ‘I’m such a shit mom.’

‘Oh, come on. You are not.’

‘My mom – she always knew what to do. Whenever I got scared, all she had to do was be there and I knew I’d be okay.’

‘Your mom didn’t have to walk you through seeing a homesteader blown to shit.’ He sighed. ‘And you also had a dad who was around all the time.’

They both fell quiet.

George spoke, slow and kind. ‘Let’s say you did leave. Where would you go? Central space? Sol?’

Tessa gave him a sharp look. ‘George Santoso, if you seriously think I’d raise our children on Mars, we are getting a divorce.’

Her husband guffawed. ‘Well, hey, I didn’t want to presume.’

‘Sol,’ Tessa snorted. ‘I’m not freaking out that much.’ She took another sip of tea. ‘Honestly, I – and this is hypothetical—’

‘Sure.’

‘For the sake of argument.’

‘One hundred percent.’

Tessa chewed the inside of her lip. ‘The independent colonies. We know people who’ve gone there. I keep thinking about Seed.’

George made a thoughtful sound. ‘Where Ammar went.’

‘Yeah.’ Ammar and his husband Nick had lived one hex over until three standards prior, when they’d packed up and headed for ground. Tessa had been friends with him through school, and though they weren’t close, he was the type of person she imagined would be happy to hear about her moving nearby.

Hypothetically.

‘They could definitely put someone with bot-wrangling experience to work in a place like that,’ he said.

‘That they could,’ Tessa said noncommittally. ‘If not cargo, then map drones, or . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I have to learn a new job either way, right?’

‘True,’ George said. ‘I hear it’s kinda rough out there, though. Terraforming’s a long-game deal.’

‘Yeah,’ Tessa said, with a nod. ‘But . . . is it so different from here? It’s not as clean, sure. It’s not as established. They’re still figuring it out. But they have to ration their water and mind their food stores, and . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I think I’d fit much better in a place like that than a city, or . . . a market stop, or something.’

‘Stars, no, I couldn’t see you in a market stop.’

She looked askance at him. ‘But you could see me on Mars?’

‘I didn’t say – you’re not going to let this go, are you?’

‘Never.’ She leaned into him, releasing some of her weight, taking on some of his warmth. ‘But I love it here. I do. I love how we do things, and why we do them. I love Remembrance Day. I love the Bug Fry Festival. I love the gardens. So many people who left, they wanted more. I don’t want more. I’m good with what I have. I don’t need land or . . . or open sky, or whatever. So many people have left for the wrong reasons.’

George pulled in his lips, folding mustache into beard as he thought. ‘Maybe that’s why you should go. Go for the right reasons. Go for the reason the first of us left Earth – to find a better place for your family. Honestly, Tess, you’re the best kind of person to join a colony, because you’d bring all those right reasons with you. You believe in our way of life here? Cool. Implement those ways planetside. Make sure people don’t forget. Make sure people remember that a closed system is a closed system even when you can’t see the edges.’

Tessa said nothing for a while. ‘I don’t want to leave you, either. Or take the kids away.’

‘What makes you think you would?’

She shut her eyes. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t – that is too much to ask.’

‘So . . . what, I’m not allowed to want to do this with you if I think it’s an okay idea?’

Tessa pulled back. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’

George scoffed. ‘I go where my family goes. End of discussion.’

‘You have a job here. You have a life—’

‘I have a skillset I can apply anywhere, and my life is ongoing until the universe says otherwise. I go where you and our kids go. And if you think you can give them a better life on the ground than you can here, then I believe you. You’re with them every day. You spend more time with them than I do. There’s no question in my mind that you know what’s best for them.’ He stroked his beard. ‘And maybe . . . maybe it would be a good thing for me that way, too. Maybe if we found somewhere I could work planetside instead of hopping rocks all the time, maybe I could be a better dad. A better husband, too.’

‘You’re good at both of those.’

‘If you say so. But I’m not an always around kind of guy, am I? I don’t have any regrets about how we’ve been doing things, but it would be nice to . . . I don’t know, not be surprised when Aya’s grown a hand-length since I saw her last.’

‘That’ll surprise you even if you see her every day.’

‘You know what I mean. I’m not saying this is what I want, definitively. I’m saying that if this is what you want . . . I might not be opposed, either.’

‘You can’t put this all on me.’

‘I’m not. I’m asking you if you really – I mean, really, really, really – want to do this. And if you do, then we need to sit down and talk about it.’

Tessa took inventory of their situation. ‘We’re already sitting down and talking.’

George gave her a knowing glance.

Tessa thought about the letters she’d sent, full of cagey phrasing and danced-around ideas. She thought about the nights she’d lain awake, the long hours spent looking down at the stars. She thought about the whisper she’d been trying to ignore, the one that got a little louder every time she read the news, every time she patched up her home, every time she watched her kids. And here was George, calling the whisper out in plain speech, telling her what she already knew.

‘Shit,’ she said. She put her face in her palms. ‘Oh, stars.’

Kip

System log: device unlocked

Node identifier established: 8846-567-11, Kristofer Madaki

Ras (18:62): tek tem dude

Ras (18:62): I know you’re not talking to me or whatever, but I wanted you to know exam scores are out

Feed source: The Human Diaspora Centre for Higher Education Student Portal

Encryption: 0

Translation: 0

Transcription: 0

Password: accepted

Thank you for using the Human Diaspora Centre for Higher Education student portal!

Your most recent exam was: HDCHE entrance qualification exam

Your score was: 803 (out of possible 1000)

Congratulations! You have qualified for admission into any Tier 2 member institution of the HDCHE.

Your options are as follows:

Red Rock University (Spirit’s Rest, Mars)

College of the Rings (Silver Sea City, Titan)

The Jovian School for Future Technicians (Jupiter Station, Jupiter)

The following schools require at least an 875 to attend. Should you wish to attend one of these schools, you will need to retake the entrance qualification exam.

Alexandria University (Florence, Mars)

The Solan Institute of Reconstructive Biology (Hamilton Junction, Luna)

If you accept admission to any of the schools listed here, you will still need to complete placement tests for any given academic track. Some academic degree programmes require an additional qualification test.

If you are interested in attending a school outside of Human territory, there are many GC educational institutions with reciprocal admission agreements with the HDCHE. Admission conditions vary greatly, so please contact an HDCHE adviser for information specific to your desired school.

Based on your listed location, your nearest source for HDCHE informational meetings is:

Asteria Emigrant Resource Centre, Deck 2, Plaza 16

We highly encourage you to attend an informational meeting. All questions are welcome.

Happy studies!

Ras (18:80): how’d you do?

Ras (18:81): I got a 908

Ras (18:81): going to mars, baby

Ras (18:81): big cred time

Ras (18:94): dude will you please talk to me

Ras (19:03): whatever

Ras (19:12): I don’t get why you’re being such an asshole

Node identifier disconnected

System log: device deactivated

Isabel

Isabel rarely went to the theatre in the dark hours, so she couldn’t say what the usual crowd was during that time. There were a few people in the audience who were easy to predict. Old folks like her, scattered around the mostly empty hall. A young father, dozed off on the floor, his tiny child asleep on his chest, the exhausted conclusion to what had likely been a long night of walking the mostly vacant public corridors with a crying infant. But there was one member of the audience she did not expect. She sat down next to him, as she would with an old friend.

‘Hello, Kip,’ she whispered. ‘Mind if I join you?’

Kip was taken aback. Wherever he’d been, he hadn’t expected her to rouse him. ‘Uh . . . yeah, sure, M.’

Isabel folded her arms across her lap and took in the view. The projected environment was a rich tapestry of thick reeds, waving sheets of grass, protective trees, scummy water, and the calls of chittering birds with pointed opinions. ‘Wetlands,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been to a wetlands recording in a while. I tend to favour deserts. This is a nice change.’

Kip was quiet – not a contemplative quiet, but the unsure kind of quiet that kids his age sometimes fell into when addressed by an adult. Maybe he was just shy. Maybe he wanted to be left alone.

Isabel kept talking anyway. ‘Why aren’t you asleep, Kip?’

Kip shifted. ‘Why aren’t you?’

She chuckled. ‘Fair. My wife has a bad pair of legs. They wake her up a lot, and that woke me up enough times tonight that there wasn’t any going back from it.’

‘That sucks,’ Kip said.

‘That it does.’

He was quiet, again. The recorded trees rustled. The water lapped. ‘I haven’t slept great since . . . y’know,’ Kip said.

‘Understandable. Have you talked to someone about it?’

Another long pause. ‘My parents won’t stop talking to me about it. And I get they’re just trying to help, but like . . . sometimes I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Yes,’ Isabel said, with a nod. ‘I get that.’

Kip shuffled, as restless as the reeds. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, no, I asked. I appreciate you being honest.’ She watched as a great grey and white bird – some kind of predator – glided past on motionless wings. ‘So why here? Why not the sim hub, or the Linkings, or . . . ?’

‘I dunno. It’s . . . it’s quiet. I like that.’ He shifted again. ‘I like pretending I’m somewhere else.’ Isabel would’ve changed the subject at that, had he not continued: ‘That’s what the theatre’s for, right?’

Isabel turned her head toward Kip, his face silhouetted against the bright muddy green. ‘Is it?’ she asked.

‘Well, and so we know what it’s like to live on planets. So the ancestors wouldn’t freak out if they made it to the ground. They’d know what the sky looked like and . . . and yeah.’

Isabel looked back to the blue sky – that edgeless blue, streaked with clouds and birds whose names few knew off-hand. ‘Do you have somewhere to be anytime soon?’

‘Uh . . . no?’

‘Come on,’ she said, giving his arm a definitive pat. ‘I want to show you something.’ She stood. He hesitated. ‘There’s a bean cake in it for you.’

Kip got up.

The Archives were on the same side of the plaza as the theatre, so getting there took little time. Isabel swiped her patch over the locked entrance. Doors opened and lights bloomed awake. She looked around. None of her colleagues were there. Good. They would’ve gotten a scolding about still being up if they had been. No Ghuh’loloan, either, who was likely packing her things and preparing her goodbyes. Isabel and the boy were alone.

‘You spend much time in the Archives?’ Isabel asked as they took the lift down to the lowest level of her place of work.

Kip shrugged. ‘Namings and stuff. Sometimes for school.’

‘But never just to look, hmm?’

‘Uh, not really. When I was little, I guess.’

That wasn’t a surprise to Isabel. Why paw through boring old memories when you could go out and make your own?

The lift came to a halt, and Isabel led the way into the centre of the data room. Seemingly endless towers of globular nodes spiralled out around them, each pulsing with the soft blue light that meant all was well. Isabel smiled proudly. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

Judging by Kip’s expression, he was making a valiant effort to be polite – or maybe he just really wanted that bean cake. ‘It’s cool, yeah.’

Isabel folded her hands in front of herself and continued to admire their surroundings.

Kip waited. He shuffled. He stopped waiting. ‘I’ve been down here before, M.’

‘I’m sure you have. School visit?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Mmm. I’m sure you got a very technical explanation of how it all works, like I’m sure you did with water reclamation and engine tech and solar harvesters.’ She sighed. ‘Kip, what’s the most important cargo the Fleet carries?’

‘Um . . . food?’

‘Wrong.’

He frowned. ‘Water. Air.’

‘Both wrong.’ She pointed to the racks. ‘This.’

Kip was unconvinced. ‘We’d die without air, M.’

‘We die one way or another. That’s a given. What’s not is being remembered after the fact. To ensure that, you have to put in some effort.’ She reached out and touched one of the racks, feeling the warring balance of cold metal and warm energy. ‘Without this, we’re merely surviving. And that’s not enough, is it?’ Isabel looked at the boy, who was still confused. She patted the rack and began to walk. ‘Our species doesn’t operate by reality. It operates by stories. Cities are a story. Money is a story. Space was a story, once. A king tells us a story about who we are and why we’re great, and that story is enough to make us go kill people who tell a different story. Or maybe the people kill the king because they don’t like his story and have begun to tell themselves a different one. When our planet started dying, our species was so caught up in stories. We had thousands of stories about ourselves – that’s still true, don’t forget that for a minute – but not enough of us were looking at the reality of things. Once reality caught up with us and we started changing our stories to acknowledge it, it was too late.’ She looked around at all the lights, all the memories. ‘It is easy to remember that story here, in the Fleet. Every time you touch a bulkhead, every time you tend a garden, every time you watch the water in your hex’s cistern dip a little lower, you remember. You know what the story is here. But outside of here, there’s a different story. There’s sky. There’s ground. There are cities and money and water you can take for granted. Are you following?’

‘Uh . . . I think so.’

Isabel nodded and went on. ‘Comforts are not bad things, not by base. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to make life easier. The Gaiists on Earth would have you think otherwise, but they’re also dying of diseases that can be easily cured and leaving imperfect infants out to freeze, so no, I don’t think technology is the greater evil here. The comforts we’ve invented – or that our neighbours have invented – can become bad if you don’t always, always ask what the potential consequences could be. Many of our people skip that step. Many – not all, but many – leave here and are too eager to change their story. There’s not just one planet with organic resources anymore. There are thousands. Hundreds of thousands. And if that’s true, you don’t need to worry so much, right? You don’t need to be so careful. Use one up and move on to the next. The Harmagians were like that, once, until the rest of the galaxy got tired of their story. They changed. They learned. And that’s why their society, and the Aandrisks, and the Aeluons, and everybody else – that’s why they look so appealing to us. We’re coming in at their happy ending and not stopping to think about how they got there. We want to take on their story. And we can, if we want to. But I worry about those who think adopting someone else’s story means abandoning their own.’ She turned to face the boy. ‘That’s why the theatres are here, Kip. That’s why we keep Archives, why we paint our hands on the wall. It’s so we don’t forget. We’re our own warning. That’s why the Fleet needs to remain. Why it has to remain. Without us out here, the grounders will forget within a few generations. We’ll become just another story, and not one that seems relevant. Sure, we broke Earth, but we won’t break this planet. We won’t poison this water. We won’t let this invention go wrong.’ She shook her head. ‘We are a longstanding species with a very short memory. If we don’t keep record, we’ll make the same mistakes over and over. I think it is a good thing that the Fleet is changing, that our people are spreading out. That’s what we were meant to do. That’s what our species has always, always done. But we must remember.’ She contemplated Kip, as if he were a file that needed categorising. ‘What are your plans for the future? Have you chosen a profession yet?’

Kip shifted his weight. ‘I’m gonna leave the Fleet.’

Isabel waited for some specificity. None came. ‘And do what?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘I . . . I’m not sure.’

‘Are you going to university? Are you looking for work?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know yet.’

‘Then why,’ Isabel asked without judgment, ‘do you want to go?’

Kip shrugged with agitation. ‘I just . . . I need to get out of here.’

‘Why?’

She’d hit the crack in the boy’s patience. ‘Because there’s no point to any of this!’ Kip blurted out, finally speaking with something other than a guarded drone. ‘Seriously, what is the point to orbiting here forever? So we remember stuff? Why? For what? What are we for?’

‘A fair question. You think you’ll find the answer to that planetside?’

‘It’s . . . that’s where we’re supposed to be.’

Isabel laughed. ‘That’s a slippery slope you’ll never see the end of. Head down the path of “how we’re supposed to be”, what we evolved to be, and you’ll end up at “hunting and gathering in grassy plains”. Maybe the Gaiists are right, and that is how we’re supposed to be. I don’t know. But if everything has to have a point: what’s the point of hunting and gathering? How is that more meaningful than any of this?’

‘I’m not talking about hunting and gathering, M.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘Because . . .’ He struggled. ‘That can’t be all there is, either.’

‘So what you’re saying is Humans aren’t really supposed to do anything in particular, and we get to choose the kind of lives we have. But that doesn’t mean any of it has a point, son. You think people born planetside don’t wonder what the point of it all is? You don’t think they know that their cities will fall and their houses will rot, and that somewhere down the line, their planet will get swallowed up by its sun? Spacers and grounders, we’re riding the same ship. We both depend on fragile systems with a million interconnected parts that can easily be damaged and will eventually fail. Yes, we built the Fleet. The Fleet didn’t just happen the way a planet does. But why does that matter? The only difference between our respective ecosystems is scale and origin. Otherwise, it’s the same principle.’ She studied him. ‘Have you ever gone through any of the Archives from the first days of Human spaceflight?’

‘No.’

‘I’d be surprised if you had. It’s archaic stuff, and the Ensk translations aren’t the best.’ Yet another project, she thought, to keep some future archivist happy. ‘Do you know why people – why Humans started heading out into the open? Oh, there was lots of military posturing involved, no mistake, but the true believers, the ones who couldn’t bear the thought of not going out there – that’s where they thought they’d find answers. They said, hey, we haven’t got the context right. We need a sample size bigger than one lonely planet if we’re ever going to understand any of this. And in many ways, they were right. We found other people out here, so that question got answered. We found out that life isn’t rare. We’ve learned exponentially more about how planets work and how physics works, and the technology we have today would’ve blown their minds. We understand the galaxy in a way we never could have if we hadn’t left. But the big question – the end-all, be-all question – well, that’s still up for discussion. Why? What’s the point? Kip, there isn’t a sapient species living or dead that hasn’t grappled hard with that. It scares us. It makes us panic, just like you’re panicking now. So if the lack of a point is what’s bothering you, if it’s making you want to kick the walls and tear your hair out, well, welcome to the party.’

‘But—’

Isabel put up her palm. ‘Your ancestors thought they would answer the big question in space. Now here you are, out where they longed to go, looking back at the planets, trying to answer the same damn thing. You won’t. You need to reframe this frustration you’re feeling. If what you’re saying is that you don’t see a life for yourself here, that the kind of work you want to do or the experiences you want to have aren’t available in the Fleet, then by all means, go. But if the only reason you want to do it is because you’re looking for a point, you’re going to end up miserable. You’ll float around forever trying to make peace with that.’

Kip looked lost, but an entirely different kind of lost than he had moments before. ‘I have no idea what kind of life I want,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t know what I want to do.’ He fell quiet, the blue glow of the data nodes highlighting his face.

Stars, he was young. He had so far to go.

‘What do you like to do?’ Isabel asked. ‘What interests you?’

Kip gave a brittle laugh. ‘Nothing.’

‘There must be something. What do you do with your day?’

‘Nothing important. Sims, vids, school.’

Isabel let the implication that school wasn’t important slide. ‘Job trials?’

The heaviest sigh in the world escaped the boy’s lips. ‘Yeah.’

‘And nothing’s stuck?’

‘Nothing’s stuck.’

‘And you think something will out there?’

He looked at her as if that were obvious. ‘Why else would so many people leave and not come back?’

‘Again, that’s fair. You’re waiting for something to grab you, then. Something that feels like it’s got a point.’

‘Yeah.’ Kip looked at her. ‘What do you think I should do?’

‘Oh, I can’t tell you that,’ Isabel said. ‘I can only tell you what I want you to do, and that’s based on my shallow impression of who you are and how I’d like your story to go. You can’t operate by that. You’re the only one who can think about what you should do.’

‘Okay,’ Kip said. ‘Then what do you want me to do?’

Isabel paused. ‘I’ll only tell you if you understand that when a person tells you what they want of you, they’re not deciding for you. It’s their opinion, not your truth. Got it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘All right.’ Isabel didn’t need to think about what she was going to say next. She’d wanted to say it since the moment they’d started digging a burial trench together. With a sure step, she began to walk back out of the data chamber the way they’d come. ‘I want you to apprentice with me.’

She could practically hear the kid blink. ‘What?’ he said.

‘Not a job trial. A proper apprenticeship. Stripes and all.’

‘Um.’ Kip hurried after and fell alongside. ‘Why?’

‘Because of what you did for Sawyer.’

‘What does—’

‘—that have to do with anything? You tell me. Why wasn’t it enough for you to simply report what you heard to patrol and have them deal with it?’

‘I – I don’t—’

‘Yes, you do,’ Isabel said firmly. ‘Why?’

‘It just . . . it bothered me.’

‘Him being alone.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Him being thrown out. Him not getting a real funeral.’

‘Yeah.’

‘But you didn’t just pay your respects. You weren’t a passive mourner. You carried his body. You read the Litany for the Dead. You care about our ways, Kip, even if you think you don’t. The idea of them not being performed shook you so hard, you had to do them yourself. And that – that’s the kind of love the Archives needs. We won’t survive without that.’ She sorted her thoughts. ‘I know that in this moment, you hate it here. I’m not belittling that. That’s why I don’t want you to apprentice for me right now.’

Kip was the picture of confusion. ‘M, I’m sorry, but I . . . I really don’t get it.’

Isabel smiled. ‘I want you to leave the Fleet, Kip. For a little while. If you decide to stay wherever you land forever, so be it. But you can’t apprentice with me until you see what’s out there.’

‘I don’t—’ Kip gave his head a short shake. ‘You don’t know me, M. You don’t know me at all. I’d suck working here. I’m not smart.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I’m . . . I’m not. I suck at school, and—’

‘What’d you get on your entrance exams?’

‘803.’

Not amazing, true, but hardly a suggestion of not smart. ‘That’s an entirely decent score, Kip. That’ll get you into everything but the top-tiers.’

‘I barely made it, though. I busted my ass, and I got entirely decent. I’m not like . . .’ He frowned. ‘Like people who ace all their tests.’

Isabel gave a single nod. ‘Good! Stars, the last thing I want is some cocky gifted kid who’s never had to break a sweat. Give me someone who wants it and had to work for it any day.’

‘But I don’t know if I want to work here, M. I— I dunno, I’ve never thought about it.’

‘You don’t have anywhere you want to work, so having at least one option on the table can’t hurt, hmm?’

‘Wait, so . . . why would I have to leave first?’

‘It’s simple. If you never leave, you’ll always wonder. You’ll wonder what your life could’ve been, if you did the right thing. Well . . . scratch that. You’ll always wonder if you did the right thing, no matter what the decision is, big or small. There’s always another path you’ll wonder about. But that wondering is less maddening if you know what the other path looks like, at least. So. You should go. Go to Hashkath. Go to Coriol. Go to Earth, even. Go wherever calls to you. And maybe you’ll find out that life out there is good, that it suits you. Maybe you’ll find that thing you’re missing. Maybe not. What you will find, no question, is perspective. What that perspective is, I have no idea. But you’ll find one. Otherwise, you’ll only ever think about other people in the abstract. That’s a poisonous thing, thinking your way is all there is. The only way to really appreciate your way is to compare it to somebody else’s way. Figure out what you love, specifically. In detail. Figure out what you want to keep. Figure out what you want to change. Otherwise, it’s not love. It’s clinging to the familiar – to the comfortable – and that’s a dangerous thing for us short-term thinkers to do. If you stay, stay because you want to, because you’ve found something here worth embodying, because you believe in it. Otherwise . . . well, there’s no point in being here at all, is there? Better for everybody to leave, in that case.’ She pushed the button to call the lift. ‘Go out there and see what it’s like to be the alien. Eat something weird. Sleep somewhere uncomfortable. Then, if you come back, and if you want to apprentice here, I want you to look me in the eye and tell me exactly why.’

Kip frowned. ‘I don’t know, M. This is kind of a lot.’

‘Of course it is!’ The lift arrived, and she stepped in. ‘I wouldn’t want anything to do with you if it felt otherwise.’

Tessa

The scene at home was the last thing she expected to find. Instead of discarded clothes and messy toys, there was only Pop, sitting on the couch in a tidied-up living room, a bottle of kick and two empty glasses on the table. He had been waiting, elbows on his thighs, hands folded between his knees. He smiled when she entered the front door.

Pop picked up the bottle. ‘Don’t worry about waking the kids. They’re spending the night next door. Been a while since this home had only grown-ups in it, huh? Not since Aya was born.’ He examined the label. He squinted, holding it at length, then up close, then farther out, trying to find the spot that fit his eyes best. ‘You know, they don’t make this stuff anymore.’ He rotated the bottle for her to see: a bluefish, leaping its way into the stars. ‘Farmer’s Friend,’ he said. ‘They used to make it out of the fruit that wasn’t good enough for the stores. Stopped making it after M Nazari died – must’ve been . . . well, let’s see now . . . I guess forty-some years ago. She was the one who made the stuff. Sweet old lady, always nice to me and my brother. Whenever we’d go down to trade with her, she’d always hand us a bunch of fruit or something after the barter was done. And we’d always say, aw, c’mon, M, we didn’t give you enough for that, here, take a couple extra chips. But she’d always say, no, no, and tell us we were her favourite customers. I think she said that to everybody, but she made you feel like it was true. After she went, though – well, none of her kids were much into brewing, so, the kick went, too.’

Tessa sat down, the back of her neck tingling, her stomach uneasy. She’d been holding the conversation with George in her stomach the whole way home, and the added uncertainty of wherever this conversation was going made her . . . not scared, exactly. But time had slowed, and she felt awake. Present. There was gravity centred around the table. Real gravity, not the conjured stuff in the floor. ‘I remember the label,’ she said. An old memory came back to life. ‘You kept a few bottles on the shelf, over there.’ She pointed. There weren’t bottles there now, but tins of seeds and tech bits.

Pop nodded. ‘For fun and company,’ he said, pouring two generous fingers into the glasses. ‘That’s how your mother always put it. And you two weren’t supposed to touch that shelf. You did once, though.’

‘Oh, stars.’ Tessa laughed. ‘Oh, no. I forgot about that.’

‘When your mother and I were going on a market trip—’

‘The shuttle broke down half a day out, and you had to come home early.’

‘Yeah, we came home to you two dipshits, puking your guts into a blanket.’

‘Hey, that was Ashby, not me. I found a sink.’

Her father gave her a look that told her how little that distinction mattered. ‘Couple of dumb teenagers who couldn’t handle themselves.’

‘I maintain that playing charthump all the next day was an asshole move.’ Full volume drums, for hours and hours. She felt an echo of nausea from memory alone.

Pop laughed heartily. ‘That was your mother’s doing, and you deserved every second of it. Here.’ He handed her a glass. ‘For grown-ups.’

They clinked glasses and sipped. The kick was rough, but once she got past the edges, it warmed her all the way through. She didn’t remember the taste – she didn’t remember much of that adolescent night, honestly – and yet, somehow, it made her feel at home.

‘Ahhhhh,’ Pop said. ‘Stars, that’s fun.’ He took another sip. ‘Do you like it?’

‘I do,’ Tessa said honestly. She eyed the bottle. ‘It’s half empty,’ she said.

‘That it is.’

‘I’ve never seen you drink this.’

‘I’ve been saving it. Wasn’t sure if I’d ever get to have any again.’

Tessa waited patiently. Pop didn’t always make sense on the first go.

‘I first opened this bottle,’ he said, ‘when your brother told me there was something he needed to talk about.’ He briefly met her eyes over the rim of his glass. ‘Would’ve been a good number of years ago now.’

Nobody said anything for a moment. ‘You kept the other half for me,’ Tessa said quietly.

‘Yep,’ Pop said. He drained his glass and exhaled appreciatively. ‘Just in case. I didn’t think I’d bring it out again, but – well, kids have a way of surprising you.’

Tessa stared into her glass, held with both hands low in her lap. She watched sediment drift and swirl in the decades-old kick. She raised the glass and tossed it back in one smooth swallow. ‘We haven’t made a decision yet.’

He refilled both their glasses. ‘Uh huh,’ he said. He left the bottle uncorked. ‘Is George with his folks right now?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘So, you’ve decided between yourselves, then.’

Tessa shook her head. She couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. She couldn’t believe anything about this at all. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know . . . what? Where you two left things?’

‘No, I – I don’t know. I don’t know how to have this conversation.’

Pop sipped and exhaled, same as he had every sip before. ‘One word in front of the other is how I do it.’

‘Me and him and the kids . . . that’s not our only family.’

‘Obviously.’

‘And we can’t do this without talking to everyone else.’

‘Define “this”. Tessa, if you can’t say it, you’ve got no business doing it.’

She shoved the words out. ‘We’re thinking about going planetside.’ There. They were out now, out in the open, somewhere between treachery and relief.

Pop did nothing but nod. ‘Colonies?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Good. It’s hard work out there, and hard work keeps you honest. Keeps your head on straight.’

She waited for him to say more than that. She waited for him to get mad, to scoff, to tell her every reason why this was stupid, to be the outward confirmation of all the guilt and fear she felt within.

He did not.

‘Is that all you have to say?’ Tessa said incredulously.

‘What do you want me to say? That I don’t care? Of course I care. I’ll miss you and the kids like hell. Or do you want me to get pissed and tell you no way, no how are you leaving home? That kind of thing didn’t work when you were a teenager, and it sure as shit won’t fly now.’ He laughed. ‘You’re an adult. You know what you’re about. Whatever you decide, I’m not gonna tell you otherwise. I’m too old for making big decisions. Had my fill of those.’

‘But—’ She scrambled, trying to find the trigger for the reaction she’d expected. ‘But what about—’

‘You know I’m not going, girl. I’ll visit. But I’m not going anywhere.’ He reached across the table and patted her hand. ‘You don’t have to worry about me. I got a good hex and the best friends a person could ask for.’ His face scrunched into a worryingly pleased grin. ‘Y’know Lupe from neighbourhood four?’

An image appeared in Tessa’s mind: a tiny, white-haired old woman, arguing with her son behind the seed shop counter. One of Pop’s lunchtime cronies. ‘Yeah.’

Pop replied with a waggle of his eyebrows.

The other shoe dropped, and Tessa recoiled. ‘Ugh, Pop, I don’t need to know.’

‘It’s nothing serious,’ he said, relishing her discomfort. ‘Just some casual fun—’

‘Pop. I don’t. Need. To know.’

Her father laughed and poured them both another drink. ‘Here, I have something else to show you.’ He unholstered his scrib, gestured at the screen, and slid it across the table.

M Santoso,

This is a confirmation for your ocular implant installation this upcoming second day.

Please arrive at the clinic at 10:00.

On a personal note, I’m very happy you’ve made this decision. I think you’re going to be pleased with the results.

Dr Koraltan

‘See,’ Pop said, bringing his glass to his mouth. ‘You don’t need to worry about me.’ He sipped and exhaled loudly. ‘Though you are gonna have to send me those creds.’

Tessa truly, genuinely didn’t know what to say.

Pop’s gaze lingered on the wall of painted hands, reaching from floor to ceiling. ‘Y’know, my great-granddad – we called him Great-pa, he thought that was funny – I didn’t know him long, but I knew him.’

Tessa knew this much already, but she didn’t interrupt.

‘He remembered contact,’ Pop said. ‘He told me so often about that day when the Aeluons arrived. He was always pushing me to go. “Get out there, boy,” he’d say. “That’s what we’re meant to do.” I wondered, when I got older, why he didn’t go, if he felt that way. I thought maybe he’d been scared, or set in his ways. But now I think it’s because he knew that wasn’t for him. Some of us have to go, yes. But some of us have to stay and kick the others out. Otherwise . . .’ He scratched his chin. ‘Otherwise all we know is the same place. My great-pa, he was right. We’re meant to go. And we’re meant to stay. Stay and go, each as much as the other. It’s not all or nothing anymore. We’re all over the place. That’s better, I think. That’s smarter.’ He nodded. ‘That’s how we’ll survive, even if not all of us do.’ He looked up. ‘You’re gonna do great out there. I know you will.’

Tessa’s first instinct was to protest. They hadn’t made a decision yet, and here he was, talking like it was a done deal. But she looked again at the bottle, kept half full for her sake, an offering for a future her father had prepared himself for decades before she’d considered said same. She closed her eyes for a moment. She got up from her chair, sat down on the floor, and rested her head against her father’s leg like she used to when she was small, like she used to when he was huge and handsome and knew everything there was to know. He pressed his palm into her curls, and she closed her eyes. ‘I love you, Pop.’

‘I love you, too, Tess.’