“It is.”
“It is, if you’re thinking like a good person. Trouble is, when you tell people the system is good because it’s different than people, some people hear:The system is more important than people.And then they act accordingly. And someone who doesn’t deserve it gets hurt.”
“You’re not wrong,” I sighed, thinking of Leloup. “Here’s the main thrust: I am trying to find a paperwork way to say that this baby deserves to be classified as a passenger, no different than the rest of us.”
Violet nodded. “And the bulk of the law is standing in your way?”
“Not the bulk,” I protested, then slumped a little. “About a half-bulk,” I admitted. “Maybe two-thirds.” I explained the bind I was in, where there was no current process for designating someone as a passenger. Using planetary lawwould almost certainly get Peregrine an official identity, and swiftly, but he’d only have the one lifetime available to him and would never actually see the planet whose laws governed his existence. “So either he belongs to the planet he never sets foot on, or he’s designated an automaton or a pet or a—a piece of luggage,” I finished. “And either way, he won’t be granted a memory-book. It feels like sentencing him to death. I cannot permit that to happen, but I can’t see how to prevent it.”
Violet was silent a long while, long fingers tapping on the side of her highball glass. “I think you might be too focused on the process,” she said at last.
“What do you mean?”
She smiled. “How much of that baby blanket do you have done?”
I brought over my knitting and showed her my few scant rows. Barely more than a border, at this point, and only a hint of the gradient I was building.
Violet took the baby blanket carefully, slipped the needle out of the loops, and gave the working yarn a confident pull. An entire row unraveled beneath my horrified eyes. “Steady on!” I said.
“Oh, as if you’ve never frogged a project before,” she said. “Now look.” She held up the unraveled working yarn, which was not smooth and silky like the rest of the skein. No, it zigged and zagged back and forth from where I’d knittedwith it. “The yarn carries the memory of how it was handled,” Violet said. “You can pull out all the stitches, but you can’t erase the experience. It’s a part of the material now. Just like the baby is a part of theFairweather’s society, no matter what the paperwork says about it.”
I was still staring at that kinky bit of wool. “You’re saying the yarn remembers.”
“I’m saying Peregrineisa passenger. He’s on this ship, the same as the rest of us. That is a plain fact. So instead of trying to unlock the law with cleverness as if it were a puzzle box, or a riddle set by a wizard in a fairy tale, go right to the heart of the question and ask yourself: What does any passengerdeserve?”
“The yarn remembers,” I repeated, and began to laugh.
Violet peered at me, her bright eyes puzzled. “Just how strong was that drink?” she murmured.
“Just strong enough,” I replied—and impulsively grabbed her hand, raising it to my lips. “Thank you,” I said. “You’ve given me a wonderful idea about how to turn the law against itself.”
“Well, it’s not crime,” Violet replied, blushing, “but I suppose if it’s the best you can do.”
MY STOMACH WASfluttering, my hands were clammy, and I was in my sharpest-tailored suit. Sweat had already begun to gather at the small of my back, and I would have to be careful not to lock my knees lest I pass out in front of the Board and all my witnesses.
There were five minutes to go until the hearing started, and I was still waiting on my most important piece of evidence. Baxenden had promised to bring it as promptly as he could, but until then I could only pace beside my podium and fret.
Calling this room the Star Chamber had been someone’s idea of wit. There was a dais at one round end, on which the Board took seats behind a long length of scarred and polished wood. Not retromatted, I recalled—they’d installed this before leaving Earth. Something about remembering our roots, branching out onto other worlds, the usual kind of overwrought symbolism that public institutions were so fond of.
They called this room the Star Chamber because it was open to the stars.
Or looked it, anyway: The round walls were carved out with arches of diamond-glass that peered out onto the sparkles and streaks of space. Grand windows curved into a dome above as well, with delicate tracery like the stone of an ancient cathedral. It was meant to remind us to be humble, I suppose, but it only really left me feeling cold and exposed beneath all that space.
Or maybe that was the way the Board was radiating pedantic bureaucratic displeasure. As though I’d arranged for an entire baby to be created in secret just to ruin their Thursday afternoon.
Behind me were the bench seats where witnesses waited to give testimony. Flora and Anne were clutching each other’s hands, Norris was sitting beside his mother looking cool but tense, Hugh Renois was a little bit apart with a dark suit and a vest that was nearly blinding in its plaid intensity. Ruthie and John had Peregrine in his basket between them; my nephew caught me watching and gave a jaunty little wave.
At last—at long last!—with only a minute to spare, Baxenden slipped in with a carrying case in his hand, and sent me a thumbs-up indicating success.
I gave myself sixty seconds to simply focus on breathing in and out, hoping it would calm my galloping heart.
All too quickly, the current Chair of the Board gaveled the meeting to order and gestured at me to begin.
A hearing was a little bit like a stage play, or perhaps a magic trick, and as I wiped the clamminess from my palms and walked to the podium facing the Board, I had a moment to wish for some of Anne Godfrey’s ability to set the scene and color it persuasively.
But I was only a detective, not an artist. I’d have to hope the truth didn’t need too much dressing up.
“Members of the Board,” I began, “thank you for coming. This is my full report on the passenger currently known as Peregrine, who was born five months ago but who only came to my attention this week. The baby was created in the traditional manner…”
