Novels

Now I must tell you of the Eroseans, once a proud people, who traveled from their distant island to many a land in the great cloud-sea. They knew the art of trade and built an empire of coin to whet the lips of the most greedy of men. There are few Eroseans who can withstand the lure of money, and so across the many islands they traded food and fur, silks and perfume, jewels and steel, animals and stories of heathen nations.

But the Eroseans were no savages, and so they had learned the secrets of the Trade House.

Rukiya had not understood the Trade House, because it was a very Two-chin idea; to have an entire building devoted to offering goods and accepting bonds. For the Orenda people, it was their way to swear one’s word and the deal was done. For the Two-chins, one’s word was not enough; you also had to be in the right place.

Now you should know that Rukiya had left her village many times. There was not a span of Oleni or Orem that she had not felt under her feet. Yet today she journeyed alone, without adult or gathering of children. She had never wandered far from home before, alone.

Poor Rukiya, she had expected a sense of thrill or delight, traveling for the first time by herself. Now she was a woman, free from the firm grip of her father; but she felt no joy, no happiness.

Why not?

Who knows? Perhaps her mind was so worried about her uncertain future, she could feel no joy. Or perhaps she would not let herself rejoice while Old Wana lay sick. Or perhaps Rukiya had learned well the secrets of men, and so thought that to be brave was to walk with grim determination down the long and winding path. The day was young, and the light had only just begun to bathe the land in a misty glow. Young quayla darted out and back from the forests, plucking fallen seeds and grains once hidden by the frosts, and preparing once more to fly free in the cloud-sea, high above and below the floating islands like fish in a river.

Hearken and hear the tale of Rukiya, she of Puddle Tears, wise woman of Lergos, caller of storms, Phalamili, scourge of the empire, midwife of the Wailing Hour, Ada, shackle-breaker, she most fortunate, mother, daughter, and friend; But before she earned her many names, before the scars and wrinkles covered her skin like the bark of a tree, before legends were whispered of her among the many floating islands of the cloud-sea, her only name was Rukiya.

She only had one name? Why?

Because it was the way of the many tribes of Lergos, who called themselves the People, to give only a single name to their children. From the nomadic Onwatomi to the steadfast and bloodthirsty Biret, there was never a need for a second name; Rukiya was Rukiya, and she was of the Orenda people.

The medical station on the Croatoan was, as Victoria had said so many years ago, cramped. At its best, it meant that Victoria was always within arms reach of all her tools, and no time was ever wasted looking for a vital instrument.

Nevertheless, there was no escaping the fact that there was really only enough room for a single medical bed, and just enough room for a single person to walk around it.

Sughouri was lying on that bed now, staring at nothing at all.

They talked every day, sharing thoughts and feelings and experiences. Sometimes Victoria was excited, marveling at what it had been like. Other times she was like a cautious parent, warning Sughouri against thinking to fast, or feeling to hard on herself.

They had taken Sughouri apart, neurosis by neurosis. They talked about how hard it was to live in a military family. They talked about having friends torn away, and how no satisfactory reason was ever given, because what answer could be satisfactory? They talked about how her parents never explained their sudden absences, how their clearance didn’t extend to family members, especially children.

How long had Sughouri wandered? Years. Only seconds. Her heart ached, her limbs burned. She was dying, crushed by the intense weight of Proxima b. Her mind wasn’t working properly anymore. She was dreaming while awake, whispering to ghosts and crying out to absent friends.

She was in the mine. She knew she was. The tunnel kept going, and if she kept walking, she would soon come to the same door that connected to the refinery. She would see empty hoppers and pickaxes, and then she would be halfway there.

When she thought of it, she checked her watch.

It had been ten minutes since she fell.

“Sughouri?”

A passing fancy flit through Sughouri’s mind. She didn’t have to answer Kristiana when she called. What would that do to them, to be cut off? How would they react?

“Yes?” she answered, the moment past.

“What are you doing? You’re not supposed to be up for another two hours.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sughouri shrugged. “Things to do today, so might as well get started.”

“Such as?” Victoria now. They all suspected. They had to have suspected for days now. They were watching her vitals every second of every hour. For all her naivete about space and the sciences, Victoria wasn’t stupid about people. Besides, they could see where she was heading.

It had taken almost four days for Sughouri to finish her work. Cutting through the door was difficult enough, and took two four-hour days before she was finished. Then she fed a flexible camera through the hole, bringing along a connector cable with it. Breaking into the keypad took another day, and connecting her hacking kit into the security lock was no small feat in itself.

In the end, it took a full thirteen hours to break through the military-grade security lock on the door, and once she had finished, she had to return to the Hut and leave actually opening the lounge for the next day.

Today.

It had been a harrowing week for Victoria. Her mind filled with inescapable imaginings fueled by her past. Behind that door, there could be two hundred corpses, perfectly preserved in their final moments of death. It would be her job to discover what those final moments were.

Kristiana’s head was throbbing.

“Hamēstagān is a place referenced in the Dādestān ī Dēnīg, a ninth-century Persian religious text,” she recited. “It had been written by Zoroastrian high priest, and it’s composed entirely of ninety-two questions followed by the priest’s answers. Hamēstagān is a place where dead souls are sent to wait. It’s a neutral place for those whose good and evil deeds are in perfect balance, to wait for the day of judgment.”

“Okay, but what does it mean?” Sughouri said over the com. “‘Gone to Hamēstagān.’ Is this their way of saying they knew they were dying?”

“That’s one possibility,” Kristiana admitted. She didn’t like how excited Sughouri was getting. If she started to panic or lost control, there was nothing any of them could do. “We don’t have all the information yet, so it’s counterproductive to start guessing wildly.”

“It’s not wild,” Sughouri huffed. “It’s right there, on the wall of a flipping kitchen: Gone. To. Hamēstagān. Look, I’m all for restraint when it comes to making guesses, but it’s not like they’re speaking in code, here.”

“Section A,” Sughouri said as she dragged her LED across the sign. “This must be the place.” Sughouri glanced to make sure that Churji was still following along behind her. She was used to working in silence, hearing only the sounds of her suit, and periodic visual check-ins were vital to keep things moving smoothly. Her chest was beginning to hurt, but Victoria hadn’t said anything, so it was probably just her imagination.

“Hold up,” Zuri’s digital voice came over the comm. “Wolf just stopped. You’re close to where the drone broke down, and it doesn’t want to go further.”

Sughouri glanced back again. Churji was sitting a few paces back, camera steadily tracking her movements. She checked her suit and said; “I’m not getting any radiation, or environmental hazards from my suit. Can you tap it into my camera feed? I’ll go on ahead and it’ll see everything’s safe.”

“Is that right?” Victoria’s voice was delightfully confused. “Is Wolf that smart?”

Sighouri liked nicknames.

Normal names were universal. She was Sighouri to everyone, and always would be. But to her grandmother, she had been Noyoner moni. To her niece, she had been Sig. At the academy, she had been Bandar, thanks to her limber limbs and loud laughter. To her longest-term lovers she had been Ya amar, Jaanu, and Shona, respectively, and for two months on the ISS she had been Bullet.

The CHR-3 was Churji to her, and the Croatoan was the Śabādhāra. Everyone saw different things when they looked at the world, and to hang every viewpoint, every facet of a gem under a single name was unwise at best. Dangerous at worst.

Kristiana called them ‘colonists,’ but they could just as easily be pioneers, explorers, Noriamians, Proximans…

Sughouri was about to be an archeologist, or an SAR Engineer, or a surveyor, or a migrant, or an ex-pat.