“Billions of stories, billions of loves, so many people love so potently, our song sung in the stars long after we are gone, and just because you cannot feel it does not make it any less true. If you love me, you will love me for what I lived for, for what I lived for, you will love me for who I am and you will—”
“BRING IT BACK OR I’LL—”
The line went dead.
I didn’t know why.
Later, I realised it was Rencki.
Without the benefit of an interface, qe had to remotely block the signal, and that took time. Time enough to hear ter voice. I hated qim when I understood what qe had done, then I didn’t, when I thought about it a little more. Realised there was a kind of mercy in it.
In the moment, of course, I thought of everything else.
I thought of guns being fired, of death, of hope, of every imaginable possibility. Perhaps Gebre had grabbed a weapon, perhaps Nineteen was still alive, or Ngurta, perhaps rescue, perhaps death. Perhaps the storm had severed comms, perhaps the Institute had come crashing down, perhaps the end of the world was here a few days early, the stars had died and the skies had fallen and the Slow had got qis timings wrong. Perhaps even now I would turn my face upwards and see the clouds burning away, and just the Lovers shining one last time, before their light went out for ever.
Thinking so many thoughts, I couldn’t really think of anything at all, and slammed my fist into the console and screamed,Gebre, Gebre, Gebre!
“We have to go,” Rencki said.
“No!”
“Mawukana na-Vdnaze! We have to go.”
Silence on the comms; the end of the world outside. I could feel Rencki at my back, tails twitching, feel my thumb hovering over the ignition, ready to turn around, my heart racing and breath dancing in and out through cracked lips.
In the stories of the Shine, at this point I would turn. The Shine has a lot of stories about heroes going back for their loved ones, to save a single soul who mattered more than the many. Anyone who did not clearly did not love appropriately. It is unforgivable to choose anything but love.
In the tales of the Xi, things would be a little more nuanced. Perhaps I turn around, but then I would die in the attempt, falling tragically into the arms of my beloved to the rattle of funeral clackers. The Xi have a long tradition of puppet shows with a sentimental bent and strict narrative forms, and at my death I would drone-sing my final words in sixteen-syllable verse, and maybe some onlookers would cry.
On Adjumir, there is only one ending. With the storm at your back and the stars in front of you, you keep going.
You keep going.
For those who lived; for those who died. For those who fled; for those who stayed behind. For those who sacrificed everything so others might live; for those who are waiting for you and the songs you carry, far out into the dark.
You always keep on going.
May your song be sung in the great forest, the numberless would sing.May we meet again in starlight.
I am a monster, made from darkness.
I am the ghost of Hasha-to.
I thumbed the engine back on, and I drove away.
Chapter 31
Astorm hides you from sensors, grounds ships, keeps pursuers off your tail.
By the time we reached the lake, the thunder was clearing, but the rain still fell.
Rencki called out to theEmni, and theEmnianswered, powering up in a slow hiss as he rose from the waters.
His internal gravity had been set to Adjumiri-norm for our descent to the planet’s surface. As we began our ascent, he eased back to Xihana weight, slowly adjusting the atmospheric composition to something a little easier for my lungs. Rencki sat on qis haunches and said: “You should rest.”
I sat in the Pilot’s chair, and did not reply, and just this once, qe left me there.
From above, Adjumir was thunder and light. Where black clouds pierced with electricity did not smother its surface, the aurora danced, magnetosphere burning beneath Lhonoja’s blaze. The sky was full of ships – hundreds, thousands of them, from great lumbering transports to tiny evacuation barges in final flight from the surface. Dead satellites drifted, their systems burned out by the soft bath of radiation; the remaining comms crackled witha thousand demands – vectors in, vectors out, requests to land, declarations of departure.
