The heartbeat, Iris wanted to say,the heartbeat of some monstrous thing.What words were there at his disposal to describe the nameless fear that had overtaken him? If he were to speak now, he would be reduced to a rambling mess or, worse, frighten Ishtan for no good reason. He shook his head instead.
They passed the stairwell and ventured down the corridor in the opposite direction. This part of the deck lay in massive disrepair. Wires hung from overhead where the vines had punctured the ceiling panels. Water dripped down bare walls, leaving green mold growing in its wake. There was no pulse here, no rhythm that Iris could feel even as he pressed his palm flat against the wall. Here was reprieve—at last.
From the silent dark, like a ship materialising from gate space, the first mural emerged before them. Even in the twilight of the corridor, Iris was struck by the vibrancy of its colours, the way they had persisted through centuries to deliver their message. Broad, unpolished strokes ran the length of the wall, depicting scenes from everyday life on the ship. Some figures picked fruit, others played strange games. But there was a deliberate division, an artistic distinction between the two groups that had inhabited the ship. On a superficial level, they differed in clothes, in both hue and make. Most striking was the passengers depicted in almost uniform like outfits, identical in cut and their dark fabric. Taking a closer look, Iris noticed these figures were often armed with both primitive weapons and firearms.
He thought back to the lone passenger, reclined, dead on the couch, pistol in hand. Perhaps Iris had misinterpreted the scene. Maybe the stranger hadn’t been looking for a way out at all.
“What do you make of this, Ishtan?” he asked, carefully studying the archaeologist’s upturned, awestruck face.
“I think things got complicated aboard the ship as time passed,” Ishtan said. “They often did, you know. No matter how big you build them, the crews almost always develop some form of cabin fever. Something about not being under open skies. It’s a miserable existence.”
Iris followed the mural down the corridor, the painting changing tone the farther he ventured. There was violence in the art now. Depictions of death and executions. Reds and blacks dominated the wall, and amid the carnage, a spherical red eye watched it all, impartial, disinterested. It presided over the death, a vengeful god in whose name the slaughter was enacted.
Violence, both as mutiny and desperation, was not uncommon on generation ships, of this Ishtan was correct. Almost every ship Iris had read about as a child provided records of such events. Trailing his eyes along the mural and upwards, Iris noticed that the cameras, placed along the edge where the wall met the ceiling, had all been shattered. A few broken cameras here and there were expected, butallthe cameras? Iris made a mental note to see if the cameras on any of the other decks were in similar shape.
Then, before he could fully recover, the pulsing rhythm returned, but this time it attacked Iris in sequences, forcing his heart to skip beats. With every remaining ounce of self-control, Iris resisted the urge to reach inside the sleeve of his robe for protection.
Breathe.VIFAI’s quiet voice came through the surge of primal fearFocus on your breathing, Iris.
That little slip was enough to power the panic into an allencompassing state. VIFAI had only used his name once before. There was never a need. But now it gave itself away in that one word—it was scared as well. Iris wrapped his arms around himself and trembled from both fear and his irregular heartbeat. He looked up at the mural, and the eye—the red, ever-watching eye—looked right back.
5
I am hungry again.
I am hungry for a food that I can never prepare. I am craving a drink I have yet to taste. If you fill me with such longing, O, Infinite Light, show me a path through it. Should I cast away this want as I have cast away every other superficial desire, or shall I surrender to it instead? How will I go on pretending it doesn’t gnaw at my stomach?
From the unabridged diaries of Vessel Iris, Volume Six
Riyu’s eyes flicked upwards from her tea. “Vessel, you look ill.”
Having returned from his tour of the murals a little worse for wear, Iris fought to keep the minimal contents of his stomach to himself. He gave Riyu a stiff smile and his best reassuring nod, and prayed she wouldn’t pry. Beside him, the veil of distant focus finally lifted from Ishtan, and he gasped loudly, only now noticing Iris’s demeanour. “You do look ill, Iris. What has come over you?”
He can’t be serious.
Academics,Iris muttered back.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ishtan insisted, his hands coming dangerously close to Iris’s shoulders. Sympathetic academics had the worst habit of forgetting that he was not to be touched, more so for their good than for his.
Iris gracefully ducked out from beneath the impending grasp and spun around to face Riyu. “I assure you both, I am all right,” he said and genuinely meant it. Now that the ship’s heartbeat had receded, he could breathe again. “I appreciate your concern, I truly do.”
Too little, too late,VIFAI said. Iris told it to hush with the smallest internal smile. Today, their quarrels lay forgotten, and they had returned to some semblance of normal. He twirled past Riyu and towards the teapot. Iris was about to pour himself a cup but remembered his manners.
“Please, help yourself,” Riyu said, remembering her own. “Why did Yan say you’re not allowed to ask for food?”
Thatwasa good question. Sometimes, people did ask good questions even if they did arise from theidiocy of others. Relationships with food had always been tenuous within the Starlit. Food and taste brought on cravings, and craving was problematic in itself as it propelled the mind to some imaginable future when such cravings could be fulfilled. Cravings brought on suffering and dissatisfaction. Iris knew many cravings quite intimately. Try as he did, his mind always ran a few steps ahead of the present moment, eager to meet the elusive future.
“By never asking for food, we are able to attain two things,” Iris explained between slow sips of the tea. Riyu had brought honey, and he snuck in a teaspoon of it when Ishtan and her were distracted. He would steal the whole jar when the academics departed back to the station for the night. “First, we welcome everyone to extend a small bit of kindness and compassion through the offerings of food. When someone offers a Vessel or any other Starlit Order monk even the smallest bit of food, they are, in their own way, supporting the flow of life the way the Light does. By facilitating this exchange, everyonecan become aware of the flow of life around them.” Iris paused to eye the small glass jar of honey. Both Riyu and Ishtan were watching him silently.
“And the second?” Ishtan prodded.
“And the second,” Iris laughed, “is that by relying on the kindness of others for sustenance, the Starlit ensures the monks never fall out of shape. Make food readily available at all times, and I assure you, I would eat until my robes no longer fit. Restraint has never been a strength of mine.”
It was a far more complicated balance, between hunger and satiation, between desire and fulfillment. Iris had yet to strike it. Many times, he had snuck extra rice patties from the kitchen only to eat them after nightfall. Most recently, he found himself craving things far more abstract than lab-grown meat and honey. No matter how many hours he mediated, no matter how many rice patties he hid away, the new cravings never passed, and kept him tossing and turning through the nights, and stalking him through his days.
“That just sounds silly,” Riyu said. “No offense, but what if people just stopped offering you food?”
Iris shrugged delicately. “I suppose that would be the will of the Light.”
