He: Valans Clonas Rengabe.
A list of places he’d been, people he’d seen, mistakes he’d made.
He was third-generation Management, as nearly all Managers were, but had lost considerable Shine through the actions of his irresponsible younger brother. Gambling, cheating – and worst of all, getting caught. Valans Clonas Rengabe should have just cutloose – the Shiniest move would have been to buy up his brother’s debt at the lowest possible price, and then sell it on to another Venture. His sibling could have been in a debtor’s collar working down some sun-forsaken mine on another planet, forgotten and unregarded, and Valans could have carried on in peace.
Instead, in a very un-Shiny move, Valans had tried to support his brother, leveraging contacts and making introductions for him. This had backfired spectacularly when his brother merely continued in his ways, costing Valans extraordinary Shine and nearly crippling his career in the process. Valans had been saved by one thing, and one thing alone: he was the designer, implementer and occasionally, controversially, test subject for the Shine’s blackship arccomms.
He is the creator of the Tryphon.
Right here, in this place, at this time.
Here he is.
Rituals of coming-of-age, notable and obscure:
Windriding, most famously practised by the people of the mountainous areas of Astervailis. At its simplest level, the youngling grabs the trailing tendrils of a floating scyllapod and drifts over a ceremonial fence. At a more convoluted level – one that is legislated against for health-and-safety reasons but still practised in more remote communities – the youngling rides the scyllapod over the edge of the mountain, their weight eventually dragging it down into the valleys below in an act of sky-diving that is as recklessly dangerous as it is exhilarating for the now-adult when they reach their waiting family below.
The long walk. Variations of this are found in cultures too numerous to name and include anything from a year of planetary travel funded by governmental grant, solo crossings of desert or arctic plains, up to the inaugural spacewalk of a number of orbital habitats, where the youngling is for the very first time fitted with their own suit and sent to traverse the length of their home withnothing more than a tether, a few lils of oxygen and a diligently trained mental map.
The ritual bath; the first tattoo; the first scar; the saying of prayers; the singing of songs. There are variations of all of the above that can be found in nearly all cultures in all places, including among the aka-aka, who determine coming-of-age as the first time the sexual organs of their offspring switch, and who perform a suspiration chorus to greet the youngling’s arrival into adulthood.
The passing-through of the gate, and choosing of the name. Traditionally, each Adjumiri who entered adulthood was expected to go to the song spire with family and friends, to sing the songs and dress themselves in their adult robes. These days, there are only a few song spires standing among the scattered peoples of Adjumir, so instead the younglings mumble the songs awkwardly in their kitchens, while their anxious kindlers look on.
Of course, in many societies these things are not as formalised, and the youngling celebrates by the traditional mode of simply having an enormous, frequently alcoholic, all-out birthday bash.
Marching, striding, chin forward, fists clenched. The shadows are solid around me, the walls are bright and painted in sweeps of orange, swirls of red. I have no interest in them; curiosity does not bend the dark, fascination does not flicker the light. I have questions – so many, many questions – but what I mostly have is anger. Jaw-clenching, gut-churning, back-bending fury.
The feeling I have been used.
The feeling I have been lied to.
The feeling that everything, all of it – Cuxil, Hulder, Ulannad, Valans – is part of some great big joke that everyone else knows and no one is telling me and I have had this feeling my whole life, my whole existence has been one of knowing that everyone else seems to know something I do not and I cannot stand it any more, I cannot stand it, it is killing me and so to the prayer room I go, looking for answers.
Tryphon. Blackships and Tryphon and is this what Gebre died for
(it is not)
is this why when I close my eyes all I hear is the storm
(it is not. Te died for so much more, and would have died anyway)
What is the point of any of it?
Always moving. That is the Adjumiri way.
I could smell the incense of the prayer room as I approached, and it was sickly, floral, threaded with wax. The door stood open, the lights dimmed, candles burning on the altar, real candles, wax and smoke – outrageously dangerous, somehow permitted. Ulannad stood before the little line of dancing flames, and in his hand he held the white box that contained the interface
the thing Gebre had died/not died/lived/not lived for
And next to him was Valans Clonas Rengabe.
Valans did not recognise me as I entered, started with surprise, glanced towards the altar as if wondering whether it was too late to feign a little divinity, mouth working as he tried to find some excuse for his presence, so far from the rest of the Shine delegates. I wondered how he had managed to shake off his security, his debtors – maybe he wasn’t considered important enough to pay attention to.
“What is this?” I blurted. “Ulannad – what is this?”
“Mawukana,” breathed the Lordat. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I marched down the central aisle, empty chairs and soft candlelight, until I stood a single step from him. “What is this?” I hissed. “What are you doing?”
