For a moment she was speechless. “Are you saying . . . Guera would banish me?”
“I’m saying you have several possible paths open to you,” he said evenly. “Some might involve leaving this planet.”
She bit her lip, determined to hide the wave of fear that had suddenly come over her. STRESS INDEX REDZONED, her wellseeker warned. ACTION? She hesitated, then visualized ADJUST and allowed it to feed a few drops of sedative into her bloodstream. Just a few. Calm flowed into her veins, muting the edge of her fear without quite banishing it. The tightness in her chest loosened just a bit. “What about the benefits of my Variation? Isn’t that what we’re taught in school, that every cognitive mode can be viewed as a gift? Sure sounds to me like mine is being rejected.”
He chuckled softly. “What kind of mindset do you think drove humans to brave the wilderness of Earth, with nothing more than primitive weapons and a prayer? Or commit themselves to storm-tossed seas with no knowledge of what lay on the other side? What makes humans want to climb a mountain so high that its peak can barely sustain life, or risk the lethal pressure of the deep sea, just to see what lives there? They had your spark. Your restlessness. The first man to set foot on Earth’s moon was driven by that same restlessness, as were the Hausman colonists, and later the first outpilots. Without that spark—that hunger—humanity could never have gained the stars.” He leaned forward intently. “None of those people could have tolerated a mundane life, Ru. Waking up every morning to a predictable routine, facing a future without novelty or risk, suffocated by the sheer triviality of their daily existence . . . they couldn’t have accepted it any more than you can.”
She got up and turned away from him, wanting a moment of relief from his piercing gaze. “There’s no unexplored wilderness anymore.” Her tone was bitter. “The colony worlds were all mapped and terraformed long ago. The outworld stations are human constructs, every nut and bolt and circuit documented.” She looked back at him. “There are no more great seas to cross in search of the unknown, Counselor. No storms to brave, not knowing what will be left when they pass.” Why do you tell me about things I can never have? The thought was an ache inside her. It only makes the situation worse.
“Ruisa.” The easy smile had faded now, replaced by a more serious expression. “If that’s the kind of life you want—embracing your hunger rather than trying to deny it—I can help you find it a proper outlet.” A pause. “It is my job, you know.”
“But not on Guera,” she muttered.
“Probably not,” he agreed.
Banishment. You could dress it up in all sorts of fancy words, but that’s what he was talking about. She didn’t fit in here, so her people wanted her to leave. Bitterness clogged her throat; she had to clear it before she could talk again. She looked back at him. “I have family here. Friends.”
“Guera’s only six months’ travel from the nearest ainniq. You can come back and visit whenever you want.”
Yeah, but as an outsider. No longer part of this world.
She walked to the window; it allowed her to hide her expression from his nantana scrutiny while she gazed out at the city. So ordered. So perfect. Had she ever fit in here? Could she ever fit in? Maybe not.But Guera was her home. Abandoning it would be like losing a piece of her soul. She rubbed her hands on her thighs to still their trembling.
You won’t have this city—or any other part of Guera—if you go on like you’ve been doing. You’ll have the inside of a cell in a cognitive readjustment center, and those look the same on every world. Either way, the freedom of Guera will be lost to you. Is it better to give that up now of your own volition, for some positive purpose, or wait until it’s forcibly taken from you?
With a sigh she lowered her head. “All right,” she muttered. She would never forgive her people for making this choice necessary. Never. “Tell me what you think my options are. I’ll at least hear you out.”
We may share the outworlds with Terrans, but the barriers that divide us will always be there. Long after they stop referring to Variants as non-humans, the visceral belief that we are exactly that will still persist, denying our common roots. It is part of their fiber, their spiritual substance. How then shall we establish trust between us?
ALYS KUMEN
Galactic Currents
HARMONY NODE
TRIDAC STATION
THERE’S NOTHING here.
Micah had studied the game code for so long that his eyes were starting to glaze over. Thus far he’d discovered two secret narrative pathways and five practical jokes that people on his team had inserted without his permission. He was annoyed, but hardly surprised. Other than the one with the naked dancing girls (or boys, depending on the sexuality of the viewer), none of them were of concern to him. Tridac’s investigators wouldn’t even give them a second glance.
There was nothing in the game code that even hinted at the story behind the attack on Harmony Station. Nothing.
Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his eyes with a weary hand. He hadn’t slept well since Ron’s visit, and was starting to pay the price. Now and then he would catch himself dozing off as a particularly tedious section of code scrolled before his eyes. How often should he review the same sections? He couldn’t stop searching, because Tridac wouldn’t stop searching. The megacorp had to find some flaw in the code that they could blame for the event on Harmony, so they could make a show of “fixing the problem.” And if they couldn’t find any code that had been tampered with, they might well manufacture some. A sacrificial lamb would have to be chosen. Someone who could be discovered, blamed, and punished, so the Ainniq Guild was satisfied the matter had been dealt with. Never mind whether that person was really guilty or not. Micah had no doubt that Tridac would frame an innocent coder if that would get them off the Guild’s shit list. Terran corporations were ruthlessly pragmatic.
They were also ruthlessly Terran.
Stretching out his arms in front of him, he gazed at the brown stripes and whorls that ran down their length, contrasting against his otherwise pale skin. Normally he kept his sleeves rolled down, hiding most of his markings from view. The ones on the sides of his face weren’t as easily hidden, but he had a collection of exotic headsets that drew attention away from them, and maybe people who were ignorant of his Variation would think the markings were nothing more than makeup. He hated having to worry about such things—indeed, he had been assured by his superiors that there was no need to worry—but so many Terrans distrusted Variants that it seemed the wisest course.
Which made him an ideal scapegoat.
Focus, Micah.
Someone was logging his power usage; he’d discovered it while changing the settings on his apartment’s climate control. He couldn’t even guess why someone would want to do that, but the timing made it suspect. He’d also discovered that his immediate superior was reviewing his work files—not exactly a crime, but not business-as-usual either. Sometimes when he left his office he had the sense that someone was watching him, though he could never catch anyone actually doing it. Was that paranoia, or something real?