The Galaxy Game (36 page)

‘Learned, or rediscovered. I cannot be sure of it, but I know she did not dare tell me all that she knew.’

Delarua gave a soft, cynical laugh. ‘Remember when I convinced you that it was the Caretakers? Now there is nothing I have seen in this galaxy that cannot match what we once thought only the Caretakers could do.’

‘And yet,’ Dllenahkh said soothingly, ‘we have met a Caretaker, or something like them. A failure of attribution does not always mean a failure of existence.’

‘I wish we were less powerful and more wise,’ Delarua said sorrowfully. ‘That is the real reason for the Caretaker myth, isn’t it? Hoping someone will step in and stop us when we get out of hand.’

Dllenahkh thought of the wastelands of Sadira. ‘I understand that hope.’

*

There were now three ways to get to Cygnus Beta. The usual way was by mindship or Zhinuvian transport to the orbital station, then shuttle to the surface. For Sadira-on-Cygnus, it was more common to use the port at Grand Bay, but the passenger modules and mindships were smaller and the numbers permitted to travel this route were few. Finally, there was the transit located on the fringes of Tlaxce Province near the boundary of the Fa-Ne Provinces. It was still experimental but certified as stable. A few courageous people spent the extra credits to travel more quickly for urgent business, but otherwise it was mainly used by seasoned couriers carrying communications and other forms of microcargo.

As much as he liked his job, Rafi thought of the transit as too much like work, and Grand Bay was closest to his second home, so he took the extra time and a long sleep to travel via mindship.

After the usual family visits at the Dllenahkh homestead, Tlaxce City and Tlaxce Lake, he went to visit Ntenman at his father’s estate. Ntenman was out again, but Syanrimwenil was there and happy to see him. At first Rafi was worried that she had not fully recovered from that rushed transit escaping Punartam, but she assured him that was not the case.

‘I am enjoying full retirement, Rafi,’ she declared.

Rafi looked at her, looked around and could not disagree. They were sitting on the patio of her cottage at the corner of the estate, surrounded by well-kept gardens and blessed with a beautiful view beyond. Ntenman’s father had made sure of her comforts. Rafi asked her if she missed Punartam at all and she gave him a vigorous negative.

‘Cygnus Beta is a fascinating world. So much to see! Everyone and everything from all over the galaxy is here! Besides, you Cygnians have surprised us. Cygnus Beta may have been primarily a refuge for Terrans, but for the rest of us it was . . . what is that expression . . . “in the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king”? Many one-eyed Ntshune came to Cygnus Beta because it was better than staying home to be pitied or overlooked. And now their descendants come to us to show us a new way of seeing. It is very fitting.’

‘What do you mean? Being a nexus isn’t new. I’ve been trained by people who are much better at it than I am.’

‘Oh, Rafihaneki, I was not referring to you!’ Syanri said, smiling broadly at his coyly casual compliment. ‘Have you not heard of the marvellous things happening in Oleha Province? You should know – your friend Serendipity hails from there. There is a team, a sister and brother, who have discovered how to transit from one place to another on the same planet. That has never been done, not even in the era before the Galactic War. They are the offspring of a Sadiri pilot and a Cygnian teacher. They appeared one day out of thin air, floating on the pool at the Tirtha monastery. It is difficult to startle the monks, but they managed it!’

‘Floating?’ asked Rafi, trying to picture it.

‘Their ship is a wooden floor. They say the woman never leaves it, but her brother is devoted to her and makes sure she has everything she needs. She is the brains of the team, by all accounts. It will take years of research to understand how she is able to pilot transitless with only two simple human minds in tandem.’

Rafi frowned, trying to unearth a memory.

‘Perhaps you know them. The brother’s name is Silvan? Silyan? Oh, ignore me. Here I am, acting as if you should know everyone on Cygnus Beta.’

‘Actually,’ Rafi said, his voice a little strained, ‘I do know him. And so do you. I told you about him, how I . . . influenced him once.’

Syanri became very serious. ‘Rafi, you must meet with him and apologise. Let him know you have had better guidance since then.’

‘Perhaps I will,’ Rafi replied neutrally, thinking of the cap and the nightmares and the strictures of the Lyceum.

‘Now – tell me more about Terra.’

He laughed and told her what he could. Several Cygnians specialising in biotech, including Dr Freyda Mar, had swelled the ranks of Dr Daniyel’s small team, taking up residence with Zhinuvians, Sadiri pilots and Ntshune in the dome below the ice of Antarctica.

As he spoke, he remembered how philosophical Lanuri had been about Freyda’s absence. ‘She has the spirit of a pilot,’ he said. ‘I must let her go for a while.’ At first he thought it was meant poetically, but then his aunt explained that genetic research had in fact traced Freyda’s taSadiri roots to a pilot lineage. He was not sure how seriously he was meant to take that.

‘Whatever happened to the Interplanetary Science Council?’ Syanri enquired.

‘Fragmented,’ Rafi replied, a diplomatic term for so many of the defections from New Sadira. ‘Most of it is on New Sadira, but those who were at the Academes are now on Ntshune, focusing their attention on the restoration of Sadira.’

‘Ah, how sad, and yet how fitting. Did you not have a friend who—?’

Rafi cut her off, the pain of Nasiha’s memory still poignant. ‘Yes, Tarik. He has relocated to Masuf Lagoon, as far away from the New Sadira Consulate as possible.’ Rafi did not mention his suspicion that Tarik asked each pilot who passed through the lagoon about his wife’s whereabouts. He hoped Tarik would hear something about her, someday.

Epilogue

‘Did he?’ Rafi asked softly.

The traveller known as Narua stirred from his contemplative daze as the workroom lights gradually brightened. He nodded slowly. ‘What little we know of her, we know because of him.’

‘I have not seen Tarik in years,’ Rafi said regretfully. ‘There is always something happening, and being able to travel freely doesn’t always mean having time or justification to do so.’

‘I know,’ Narua said, accepting the small apology. He unfastened his bracelet and began to slowly finger his way along the charms, pressing each one gently as if in ritual. ‘No one blames you, Patron. Let me show you something.’

Rafi smiled and leaned forward in curiosity when Narua lingered over a particular charm and then, at last, unhooked it from the rest. ‘I wondered about that one. It’s Lyceum make. Master Silyan’s work?’

Narua confirmed it with a brief nod. ‘Made for me when I was still called Kiratsiha, but there’s nothing here I would keep from you. Look at the last entry. I think he would want you to see it.’

*

What does it feel like?

Falling or flying, it was all the same. The only change was the tilt of the Wall, and the Wall was nothing but a frame for the human mind to hold the universe. Master Silyan was a practical man who believed no more in destiny and determinism than in Caretakers and Lady Luck, but he acknowledged the jubilant song in his spirit, his heart and his blood, and counted it proof that his pilot genes were happy to be flitting through space and time. And Galia, his anchor as always, said nothing, but her mind was a hum of satisfaction, her feet stood firm and steady on the floor she had crafted, and where her body would rarely twitch a finger, her expanded self devised greater and more complicated falls and flights, skimming and skipping the surface of their world like a flat stone tossed with playful skill. Her favourite stops were Masuf Lagoon and Tirtha, where she was revered by pilots and monastics and given quiet but ungrudging admiration by Sadiri elders, many themselves former monastics and almost-pilots.

The freedom of their new life was so intoxicating that it was weeks before Silyan thought to contact the Lyceum and tender his resignation. He was shocked to discover that Galia was continuing to record classes and assess students, but after brief reflection he realised that she had never interacted with students in person and so nothing had changed.

He was also surprised and worried that there was no reaction to their disappearance, but Zhera, chief among the Sadiri elders at Tirtha, scoffed at his concern. ‘Why should the Cygnian government involve itself in affairs it cannot understand, far less control? Tirtha and Sadira-on-Cygnus have their own laws and social order. They know that we neither produce nor accept psi-renegades here and they do not challenge us.’

Silyan imagined a future where the Lyceum and its dubious approach could become obsolete, swept under the rug of history as the aberration of a primitive culture unable to comprehend and nurture the abilities of truly civilised humans. The thought was bitter-sweet, especially when he considered Rafi and others who had not been helped by the Lyceum’s crude methods and his own participation in that process. He told no one, but his work was driven by a deep-seated desire for atonement.

Galia, of course, knew his thoughts but she did not share his sensitive conscience. As always, her sole motivation was the beauty and mystery of the mathematics that made and moved the universe. Silyan came to realise that she saw
him
as the anchor, the one who was connected to quotidian life while she stayed immersed, wholly or in part, in the invisible existence that held more of truth and reality than the illusions of the senses. Ironically, that was precisely his reason for thinking of her as anchor. He had lost trust in the importance of the everyday long ago.

How do you do it?

And there was another common question. What was that ‘it’? The rare transit from place to place on a single planet? The unique bond between brother and sister that gave them the critical mass of consciousness the universe required for access to its back roads and secret ways? Perhaps they were the same thing, but he was at a loss to explain either.

One day he met a man who asked that old question in a way that demanded an answer – if not immediately, then at least as soon as he was capable. He was a Sadiri, but not a pilot, and a semi-recluse whose origins were carefully protected by the pilots at the Masuf Hostel. Silyan found himself as intrigued by Tarik as Tarik was by him and Galia. Brief exchanges over food in the dining hall became longer discussions during walks, and then one day some threshold of trust or risk was reached and Tarik invited Silyan to see where he lived. Galia, as usual, remained with her familiar floor and did not come with them.

Tarik lived in an old stone watchtower, an offshoot of Piedra sited partway between that ancient city and the Masuf Lagoon. His small hovercar made quick work of the varieties of ground along the way, from soft sand to hard gravel, and also provided the final step of elevating them to the second-storey entrance of the tower. Silyan immediately felt that he was entering a stronghold for some great treasure, and when two young monastics of Tirtha welcomed them in, like acolytes to a temple, the impression was only strengthened.

‘I always ask for two,’ Tarik said as they went inside. ‘Girls or boys, it doesn’t matter, but there must be two, and they must be able to speak to the mind as easily as to the ear.’ He paused and looked momentarily anguished, then said by way of explanation and apology, ‘It is a necessary experiment.’

Silyan followed him into the main living room, let himself be seated comfortably amid rugs and cushions and given refreshments, and prepared himself for the revelation. When it came, it was in the form of two toddlers each holding tight to the hand of their carer. At first glance he knew them to be Tarik’s children. A second glance convinced him they were identical twins, but a longer look made him less sure. They were quietly shy and he smiled at them reassuringly.

‘What is your name, little one?’ he asked, holding out a hand to one of the children.

Tarik answered. ‘The name registered with the authorities is Kiratsiha. This one, my daughter, is sometimes called Siha and this one, my son, is sometimes called Kirat.’

Siha lowered her head and drew away from Silyan’s now-frozen hand. Kirat, though farther away, mimicked her motion precisely. Silyan let his hand fall, silenced by a terrible thought that he did not wish to believe.

Tarik began to speak more swiftly and volubly than Silyan had ever heard him do in all their days of acquaintance. ‘As I said before . . . a necessary experiment. New Sadira does not want our sons, and we do not wish to give them our daughters. Sadira-on-Cygnus is a far better place to be than New Sadira, and still – do you know there were young men approaching us before Siha was even born? Some wanted to be her husbands, and some wanted her to bear their children or raise them, according whatever terms were agreeable to us. A pureblooded Sadiri female is a precious thing in our society, and they were bidding for whatever genetic and psionic influence she could bring to their line. Nasiha, my wife, demanded that we find a way to protect them from being used, whether for good or ill.’

‘How is it that they look so alike?’ Silyan wondered.

‘There are medical treatments that encourage the blending of phenotype. We began such treatments in utero and they will continue for the rest of their lives, or until Siha and Kirat no longer need them or want them.’

Silyan met the eyes of the carers. ‘And Tirtha is encouraging the development of their telepathy from a very early stage.’

‘It strengthens communication between them,’ Tarik said. ‘The isolation is also an important part of the process.’

‘Each will be able to impersonate the other,’ Silyan noted.

Tarik nodded. ‘New Sadira’s influence is fading, but if required, Siha can present herself as my son.’

‘And Kirat as your daughter?’ Silyan guessed.

‘Yes.’ Tarik smiled, immersed in memory. ‘My wife insisted. She wanted them to be able to go anywhere in the galaxy on their own terms. She appreciated Punarthai culture but she did not want them to trade one set of restrictions for another.’