The Best of All Possible Worlds (29 page)

“At least medium,” I conceded with a smile. “And I know that sounds very strange and
unscientific, so thank you. Thanks for listening to me.”

“Why wouldn’t I listen? You listened to all I had to say about parallel time lines,
and that sounded very strange, though scientific.”

“Not strange at all,” I disagreed. “The Caretakers did some fairly interesting things
when they went about collecting their endangered
humans. I understand there’s a community of Cygnians that say they’re descended from
the last survivors of a nuclear winter on Terra.”

“From a parallel time line?” Dllenahkh queried, his eyebrows rising with surprise
and interest.

“Must be, and it’s not only them. All I can say is if any Cygnian tells you they’re
a direct descendant of Will Shakespeare, don’t be too quick to call them a liar.”

I stretched out my legs, which had grown almost numb from being tucked under me while
I was absorbed in conversation. Dllenahkh also moved into a more relaxed posture,
leaning his elbows on his knees. I looked at the slight smile on his face and decided
to take advantage.

“What about you? Are there any similar, unscientific beliefs in your culture?”

He answered easily, not in the least offended. “With respect to ancestors, descendants,
and working hard, most certainly. However, there are no Caretakers in our lore. Sadira
was always where we started and where we ended, no matter how many years and light-years
lay between. In a way, the elders of the family are our Caretakers. There is an old
saying that no elder can truly die who has a hundred descendants living. Many elders
do act as if the larger the pyramid of offspring below them, the better their chances
of ascending to some afterlife. They have a hand in arranging every adoption and marriage,
divorce and shunning. Family is blood and more than blood.”

I said nothing. Female Sadiri elders had already answered the call and begun to settle
on Cygnus Beta. Some of those elders had a few descendants; most had none. It was
particularly satisfying to think of those who had never had children suddenly heading
their own clans of adoptees and foreign brides and perhaps, just
perhaps, secretly and unscientifically thinking of the ladder they were building to
a previously unattainable heaven.

“Gennea, Falve, Collan, Lauri.”

Startled, I struggled for a moment to understand the language Dllenahkh was speaking,
and then I realized they were names. I held my breath and waited.

He continued. “My older sister, my younger sister, my younger brother, and my mother.
My father, Nahkhen, died many years ago. Also two nieces, a nephew, and one brother-in-law.
Among the living, I can count a sister-in-law, now remarried, and three cousins, two
of my generation and one of my mother’s generation, all resident on New Sadira. One
second cousin of my generation is here on Cygnus Beta.” He bit his lip, looking rueful,
then confessed, “I know my kin far better now than I ever did.”

I didn’t know what to say, but I had to think of something because the silence was
making my throat close up. “There’s a small lake in the middle of the park. People
go there to light floating candles in memory of their dead. At midnight, they turn
off all the park lights so there’s nothing but stars and candlelight.”

I waited fearfully as a few more seconds ticked by, and then he said hoarsely, “I
think I would like to see that.”

The long silence that followed was more tolerable, breathable, and peaceful.

A thought struck me. “Dllenahkh, you told me
how
Ain was quarantined, but you didn’t tell me
who
did it. Does anyone know?”

He gave me a slightly surprised look. “I was under the impression that most Cygnians
give that honor to the Caretakers.”

“
You
believe it was the Caretakers too?” I asked. I was skeptical, not about the Caretakers
but that any Sadiri would seriously consider this to be a possibility.

“As a hypothesis, it has some merit. Ability to manipulate time and space, telepathic
influence strong enough to erase memory or inhibit discussion of witnessed events—we
have seen the fledgling versions of those skills both here on Cygnus Beta and among
mindship pilots of Naraldi’s caliber. Why not speculate that humans in the future
could do as much and more?”

“Has merit,” I repeated mockingly. “Just admit it—we’ve turned you into a Cygnian.”

He got to his feet and extended a hand to help me up from the bench. I accepted the
hand, careful to touch only the fingertips and only for a second. He surprised me
by taking my other hand and drawing it under his arm to rest near the crook of his
elbow so that we looked very much like the other promenading couples.

“And would that be such a terrible thing to admit?” he said in a tone of cheerful
surrender. “This is my universe, my time, my world. There is no going back to what
was. There is only the future.”

We had more than two hours till midnight, plenty of time to walk the length and breadth
of the park before a pause to visit the lake’s small boardwalk and crouch there to
light several candles. Dllenahkh looked at them as they floated away to twinkle amid
a growing constellation of tiny lights in the lake’s center, then gazed up at the
stars. I thought I knew what he was seeking. The newer arrivals always did it—looked
for the light, actual or imagined, of their home star.

“I wonder how long it will be before starlight shines on Sadira once more,” he said
quietly.

I stopped breathing for a moment, a surge of pity seizing my heart. On Cygnus Beta,
mentioning a recent disaster in detail is taboo. It is referred to obliquely, delicately,
in general terms like “the great war” or “the big wave.” The Sadiri had fallen into
that habit with swift gratitude, and not once had I heard them specify
how Sadira had been laid waste. Not until that moment, when Dllenahkh looked to the
sky and acknowledged the world-girdling poisonous cloud that covered Sadira in perpetual
night.

We walked, rested, and walked again, but just before midnight we came back to the
lake and waited for the lights-off. When it came, it was as remarkable as the holos
I’d seen and more. The moonless night pressed on the eyes like thick, heavy felt,
making the small flames sear the vision as they danced on the dark water. The stars
added their cold fire overhead, and yet the night remained dim enough to hide my attempts
to dash away tears. Of course I spoiled it by blowing my nose, but there were other
sighs and rustles and coping noises in the respectful but imperfect silence, so I
did not feel completely alone. Dllenahkh was perfectly silent and absolutely still,
though he did clear his throat at one point.

When the lights came back on, we left the park and found transportation to the hotel.
He bade me good night at my door, and with neither prior thought nor self-consciousness,
I stretched up to kiss his cheek quickly. He gave me a searching look, then gently
brushed his forefinger along my cheekbones to the corner of each eye, wiping away
the slight moisture my furtive swipes had missed earlier. The tender gesture almost
made me tear up again.

“Sleep well, Grace,” he said in farewell before he turned away to his own door.

I went into my room feeling a bit dreamy. It lasted all of three minutes, up until
the moment the bathroom door opened to reveal Lian, yawning and dressed for bed.

“It’s all yours,” Lian started to say, then got a good look at me. “Hmm.”

“What?”

Lian shrugged. “I’m a fan of the kohl myself, but I forgot to warn you—don’t wear
it on Remembrance Day or at any event where you might be crying. You’re a bit … smudged.
Good night.”

Zero hour plus one year ten months six days

Dllenahkh walked the short distance to his own room. He felt at peace, at peace with
his sorrow and fear and loneliness, and it was such a new sensation that he held it
carefully, observing it curiously, wondering how long it would last and whether he
could call it back the next time he had to face the things he did not wish to remember.

The moment of introspection was too brief. He found his door ajar and the light on.
He entered his room with caution to see Joral, worried, and Sergeant Fergus, drunk.
Resigned, he braced himself for unpleasantness.

“Sergeant Fergus insisted on waiting to speak to you,” Joral said nervously.

“It won’t take long, sir,” Fergus said, his speech still clear but with an edge of
belligerence that warned Dllenahkh to be careful.

“Very well, Sergeant. I am listening.” Dllenahkh did not close the door. Fergus looked
at it and hesitated, but Dllenahkh merely walked farther in, removed his jacket, and
tossed it onto the room’s only chair. He then sat on the bed and began to take off
his boots.

The sergeant took the hint and began to talk quickly. “It’s about Kir’tahsg. I’ve
been following the case, and it’s not going well.”

Dllenahkh straightened up and paid attention. To his chagrin, he had not given any
recent thought to the Kir’tahsg situation.

Fergus continued. “The government’s been dealing with the
children, but they haven’t gone after the cartels. They say that’s a galactic matter.”

He paused uncertainly. “They’ve filed a complaint with the Galactic Judiciary, but …”

Dllenahkh felt unexpectedly embarrassed. “These things take time, Sergeant, even more
now than previously.”

“I thought … if you knew someone …” Fergus muttered.

“I have sent my own report to the Galactic Judiciary via our Council,” Dllenahkh said
quietly. “I am afraid I have no further influence at that level.”

The explosion was anticipated, but it still made both Sadiri jump when Fergus began
to shout. “You set yourselves up as the incorruptible guardians of the galaxy. You
created a system where everyone had to go to you. Now you’re holding on to that power
with a—a hollow government and a skeleton fleet. It isn’t right! Someone has to stop
pretending!”

Instinctively, Dllenahkh mentally reached out to brace Joral, an unnecessary act given
the sergeant’s low psi levels and Joral’s improved steadiness. He bent his mind to
Fergus instead.

“Sergeant, it is late,” he suggested. “We must not disturb the other guests. We must
not disturb the Commissioner.”

Fergus looked around in sudden fear as if expecting to see Dr. Daniyel standing in
the doorway, but he immediately caught himself and turned back. “You’re influencing
me,” he accused.

“Hardly,” said Dllenahkh with complete honesty. “I am only appealing to your common
sense. You know we can discuss this in the morning.”

Still suspicious, Fergus glanced at the open door again. “Another time, then,” he
said unwillingly.

When he left, a few tense, silent seconds passed, and Joral let go a held breath.
“Nicely done, Councillor,” he said with admiration. “A light and skillful touch.”

“Close the door as you go, Joral,” Dllenahkh replied, too ashamed to accept the compliment.

Joral bid him a subdued good night and went to his own room. Dllenahkh prepared for
bed, his movements automatic. They had been given so much sympathy for so long that
the sergeant’s rage was disorienting. Were there others who had stopped feeling sorry
for the stricken Sadiri and were instead beginning to question their place and purpose?
What did Fergus expect him to do for Kir’tahsg when it took all his efforts to keep
the young men of his own settlement from despair and self-destruction? And yet … who
could help Kir’tahsg now if the Sadiri were too busy surviving to arbitrate the lives
of others?

He lay in darkness for several minutes, asking himself unanswerable questions. He
knew only one thing: his brief equilibrium was a ruin, and his dreams would only mirror
that brokenness.

Soon he was once more outside Delarua’s room, this time leaning tiredly against the
door frame as he knocked. She came to the door, looking rumpled and sleepy, and he
quickly straightened, unsure what to say but relieved that she was there. It charmed
him to see that they were dressed similarly for bed, in trousers and tunic. He wondered
what she would say if she could read his mind. Would it amuse or vex her to learn
that although he thought she had looked very pretty all dressed up for the concert,
he preferred her like this, in her usual unstudied simplicity of body and mind?

She took him in with one glance. “Oh. Bad night?”

“It could be,” he confessed.

She stepped back. “Come in.”

THE LAST ASSIGNMENT

I
t should be
obvious by now that I’m not good at dealing with change. I’d settled into my new
role on the mission team. I probably knew more about the Sadiri both on- and off-planet
than any other Cygnian. My friendship with Dllenahkh was as strong, comfortable, and
close as it was kiss-free (which is to say completely, but like I said, kissing isn’t
everything
). I’d finally restored a level of routine to my life, and I simply could not bend
my mind to consider that the mission would be over in a couple of weeks. Everyone
else had a job and a life to return to. I should have been making plans for my future.
I wasn’t. I was hiding from uncertainty by immersing myself in the excitement of our
final visit.