Record of a Spaceborn Few

  ‘No. My understanding may be flawed, and if I assume that I already know something, you won’t know to correct my mistakes. Besides, it is such a rare opportunity to get information that is not filtered through a screen. Tell me of the ships as if I know nothing of them. Tell me as if I were a child.’

  ‘All right then.’ Isabel gathered her thoughts as the mek brewer rumbled. ‘The original architects based everything around three basic principles: longevity, stability, and well-being. They knew that for the Fleet to have any chance of survival, the ships had to be something that could withstand both distance and time, something that the spacers within could always rely on, and something that would foster both physical and mental health. Survival alone wasn’t enough. Couldn’t be enough. If there were disputes over food, resources, living space—’

  ‘That’d be the end of it.’

  ‘That’d be the end of it. These had to be places Humans would want to live in. In that long stretch between leaving Earth and GC contact, we were utterly alone. Those who lived and died during that time only knew planets from stories. This’ – she gestured at the walls – ‘was everything. It had to feel like a home, rather than a prison. Otherwise, we were doomed.’

  ‘Longevity, stability, well-being,’ Ghuh’loloan repeated, writing on her scrib in her strange boxy alphabet. ‘Please, go on.’

  Isabel put her own scrib on the table between them and launched a sketch programme. Floating pixels followed her stylus as she drew in the air. ‘Architecturally, every homesteader is the same. At the centre, you have the main cylinder, which is essentially life support storage. It houses the water tanks, the air tanks, and the batteries.’

  ‘Now, the batteries,’ Ghuh’loloan said, still taking notes. ‘Those store kinetically harvested energy, yes?’

  ‘Originally, yes, mostly. Well . . . right, let me back up. When the Exodans first left Earth, they burned chemical fuels to get going, just to tide them over until enough kinetic energy had been generated through the floors. They also had hydro-generators.’

  ‘Water-powered?’

  ‘Yes, using waste water.’ The brewer dinged, and Isabel filled two mugs. ‘As it flows back to the processing facilities, it runs through a series of generators. That system’s still in use. It’s not our primary power source, but it’s a good supplement.’ She placed the mugs between them, and considered bringing out the tin of cookies stashed away in her desk. She decided against it. Harmagians had famously finicky stomachs, and she didn’t want to hospitalise her colleague over ginger bites.

  Ghuh’loloan reached for the mug closest to her, eying the tiny wisps of steam. She gave the surface of the drink a few tentative raps with the tip of her tentacle – one, two, three. Apparently finding the temperature suitable, she wrapped a portion of her limb around the handle and brought the mug aloft. ‘See, this is why I wanted to start with the basics. How fascinating. Might we be able to visit the water generators?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Isabel said. Not a place she would’ve been excited to visit on her own, but Ghuh’loloan’s enthusiasm was catching.

  ‘Wonderful. But I’m getting you off-track. Do I correctly glean that kinetic energy is no longer your primary power source?’

  ‘That’s right. Once the GC gave us this sun, we started collecting solar power.’

  ‘Yes, I saw the satellites as I flew in. Those were provided by . . . ?’

  ‘The Aeluons.’ Isabel’s tone was matter-of-fact, but she felt a slump in pride. Her colleague had assumed correctly that the Exodans couldn’t have built such tech on their own.

  Lacking lips, Ghuh’loloan held the Human-style mug up, flattened her face back into her body so that it lay almost horizontally, and poured a little waterfall into her wide mouth. Her whole body shivered. ‘Ho! Oh ho!’

  ‘Too hot?’ Isabel asked with dread.

  ‘No— no, I’m just unaccustomed. What a feeling!’ She executed a longer pour. ‘Ho! That’s . . . stars, that’s thrilling. I may never take mek cold again.’ She shivered once more, then cradled her mug between two tentacles. ‘Oh dear, where was I?’

  ‘Satellites.’

  ‘Yes, and Aeluons. They provided you with artigrav, too, yes?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘A generous people,’ Ghuh’loloan said. ‘I wish I could say the same of mine.’ She laughed. ‘I suppose it is in your best interest that we did not win their war against us, eh?’

  Isabel chuckled, but took that as a sign to steer the conversation back to the topic at hand. The war invoked was very old, very ugly history. Clearly, Ghuh’loloan didn’t mind a bit of self-deprecation, but Isabel didn’t want to cross the line from cultural ribbing into insult. ‘Indeed. So, the main cylinder.’

  ‘The main cylinder.’

  ‘Unlike the habitat ring – which I’ll get to – the cylinder interior was never designed for gravity, so you won’t find artigrav nets there. Everything is arranged in a circle, around a central core.’

  Ghuh’loloan set down her cup. ‘Do you mean that when you go in there—’

  ‘We have to work in zero-g, yes.’

  ‘Incredible! I had no idea there were still species doing that. Not within the hull, at least!’

  ‘Tamsin worked there, until some years back,’ Isabel said, knowing her colleague knew her wife’s name even though they hadn’t properly met yet. ‘I’m sure she’d be happy to talk to you about it.’

  ‘Oh! Yes. Yes, that would be marvellous.’ Ghuh’loloan scribbled furiously. ‘Please, please, go on.’

  ‘At the aft end of the cylinder – as much as anything can be aft in space – we have the engines. They’re . . . they’re engines.’ She shrugged and laughed. ‘Not my area of expertise.’

  ‘And they don’t get much use anymore.’

  ‘We use them to correct orbital issues, but no, nothing like they did back in our wandering days. Now, the ring – that I can talk on for days.’ She directed the pixels into shapes she walked through every day. ‘Six hexagons, each joined to another around the main cylinder.’

  ‘And this used to spin, before artigrav.’

  ‘Right. It was a big centrifuge.’

  ‘Was that not unpleasant?’

  Isabel shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve only ever lived in artigrav. I’m sure there’s an account of how centrifugal gravity felt.’ She made a mental note to go searching for that.

  Ghuh’loloan made a note as well, on her scrib. ‘So, six hexagons comprise the ring.’

  ‘Six hexagons. And within those, you find more hexagons. Let’s start small and work our way up.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Ah, I have just the thing.’ She accessed an animated image file intended for young kids. A lone hexagon appeared. ‘Okay, so we start with a single room. A bedroom, let’s say.’ She gestured. The hexagon shrank, and was joined by six others, creating a mathematical flower. ‘Six rooms, surrounding a seventh room. This is a home.’ The geometry expanded again. ‘Now you have six homes, surrounding a common area. We call this, predictably, a hex. You’ll hear this term a lot. Somebody’s hex is their primary address.’ Another expansion. ‘Six hexes surround a hub. This forms a neighbourhood.’

  ‘And in a hub, you will find . . . ?’

  ‘Everyday services. Grocery stands, a medical clinic, tech swaps, cafes, playgrounds, that kind of thing.’ She gestured again. ‘All right, here’s where it starts to get big. Six neighbourhoods to a district. The space in the centre is the plaza. The amenities here vary from district to district, but in general, this is where you find your big stuff: schools, recycling centres, entertainment, long-term medical facilities, council offices, marketplaces, big gardens.’

  ‘We are in a plaza now, yes?’

  ‘Yes. And from there . . .’ The image blossomed into one final shape – six triangles comprised of six districts each, arranged around a final colossal hexagon. ‘So, all of this’ – she circled it with her hands – ‘is a deck.’ The middle area is the nucleus. That
’s where you get farms and manufacturing. At the centre of everything is, well, the Centre.’

  ‘Where you dispose of your dead.’

  ‘I . . .’ Isabel chose her words carefully, knowing her colleague hadn’t meant any offence. ‘I’m not sure we’d use the word “dispose”, but yes.’

  ‘And then above and below the residential deck, you have . . . ?’

  ‘Directly above, the transport deck, where you can hop from district to district in a pod. Below, waste processing. And below that, observation.’

  ‘Yes, I’m very excited to see your viewing cupolas. I don’t know of any other ship architecture quite like that. Most have windows on walls, not the floor.’

  ‘That goes right back to the need to prevent fighting over living space. If some people have rooms with a view and others don’t, you’re going to have problems. And if centrifugal gravity is pulling our feet toward the stars, then you can’t have windows on most walls. The only people who could would be the ones with homes on the edges of each deck, and that . . . well, that would invite trouble.’

  ‘Ahhhhh. Yes, I see. I see.’ Ghuh’loloan’s eyestalks traced over her notes. ‘Six homes to a hex, six hexes to a neighbourhood, six neighbourhoods to a district, thirty-six districts to a deck, four decks to a . . . ?

  ‘Segment.’

  ‘A segment. And six segments to a homesteader.’

  ‘You’ve got it.’

  The Harmagian studied the children’s images again. ‘It’s rather beautiful, in a way. Nothing wasted, nothing frivolous. Simple exponents.’

  Isabel smiled. ‘It’s like a . . . oh dear, I only know the word in Ensk.’ She shifted linguistic gears. ‘Honeycomb.’

  Ghuh’loloan flicked her mouth tendrils. ‘I don’t know that word. My Ensk is poor enough that I’d call it non-existent.’

  Isabel gestured at her scrib and accessed another image file. ‘Honeycomb. It’s a structure made of interlocking hexagons. Incredibly strong and space-efficient.’

  ‘Ahhhh. I’ve seen configurations like this, but I don’t know that there is an easy word for them in Klip. Or Hanto, for that matter. Honeycomb.’ She stretched her face forward toward the image. ‘Wait, is this . . . organic? What is this?’

  ‘A relic from Earth. A communal insect species built nests with walls of this shape out of . . . spit, I think. I don’t know off-hand.’

  ‘How strange. Well, I am looking forward to seeing your own honeycomb nest.’ Her tendrils changed, taking on a slight slackness. ‘Will my presence be intrusive for the families there? I am not overly familiar with Human social custom when it comes to the home.’

  ‘They know you’re coming, so it won’t be any trouble. In fact, I was hoping you’d join me for a meal at my home tonight. I had originally thought of taking you to a restaurant, but—’

  ‘Bah, restaurants! At some point, yes, I would enjoy that, but on my first day here, I would much rather be your guest than someone else’s.’

  Isabel took serious note of that term – guest. She’d done research on that front before Ghuh’loloan’s arrival, spurred by a slight shift in her colleague’s letters. Once arrangements for the visit to the Fleet had been made, Isabel found herself no longer being addressed as dear associate but dear host, and Ghuh’loloan’s phrasing had become deferential. This was an important thing, Isabel had learned, as was the entire concept of hosts and guests in Harmagian culture. By anybody’s definition, hosts were expected to be accommodating and guests to be gracious, but Harmagians put considerable stock into everyone performing those roles well. A bad host would be shunned – or, as the rules extended to merchants as well, bankrupt – and a bad guest was on par with a petty thief (which made an odd sense, Isabel decided: guests did eat your food and take your time). There were entire books written on host/guest etiquette, the most seminal of which – Rules for Guests of Good Lineage – had been the go-to for over a hundred standards. Isabel had skimmed a few opening paragraphs and left the rest of the tedious tome unread. Using her own alienness as a social buffer, she figured her Good Host status was assured by providing a non-poisonous meal on clean plates in friendly company.

  She hoped so, anyway.

  Tessa

  Tessa approached the playground, a box of piping hot cricket crunch in hand. ‘Aya!’ she called. No heads turned on the swings, nobody paused on the obstacle course. She looked over to the scrap heap, where a pack of youngsters were hauling otherwise-unusable sheets of fatigued metal – edges sanded smooth, of course – in an attempt to assemble . . . something. A shelter, maybe? In any case, her daughter wasn’t there, either. ‘Hey, Rafee,’ she said to a kid running toward the construction project with a bucket of pixel paint.

  The boy stopped. ‘Hey, M Santoso,’ he said, glancing at his comrades. This crew was on a tight schedule.

  ‘You seen Aya around?’

  He turned and pointed. ‘I saw her in the tank,’ he said before running off, hauling his cargo two-handed in front of his chest.

  Tessa made her way to the small plex dome. Inside, about a dozen or so kids of varying ages enjoyed the freedom of disabled artigrav nets. The tank was, in concept, intended as a place where kids could learn how to do tasks in zero-g. There was a panel on the wall covered with buttons, knobs, and blocks that needed to be placed in similarly shaped holes. A tiny girl was attentively working on the block problem. A slightly older boy was running at break-neck speed over the tank’s inner walls with a pair of cling boots, looping upside down and sideways and backwards, over and over and over. The rest of the kids were engaged in a classic – the only thing you really used the tank for – seeing who could kick off the wall and do the most flips in a row. Tessa’s personal best had been four.

  She watched as a familiar head of choppy black hair launched forward, curled inward, and flipped, flipped, flipped. Tessa counted. One. Two. Three. Four. She grinned. Five.

  That’s my kid.

  Tessa stepped forward and knocked on the plex. Aya displayed the surprise all kids did when they saw an adult outside their expected context. Teachers lived in schools, doctors lived in clinics, parents could be found at work or home. Why are you here? Aya’s expression said. It wasn’t an accusation, just genuine enquiry.

  Tessa held up the box of cricket crunch and gave it a tempting shake. She couldn’t hear the kids behind the plex, but Aya’s mouth formed the words: ‘What? Yes!’

  With a quickness Tessa could barely remember having, Aya made her way to the tank exit, grabbing soft support poles to pull herself along. She worked her way down to the floor, then stepped out the airlock, tripping over herself as gravity took hold again. Tessa had never gotten the hang of that, either.

  Aya fetched her shoes from a nearby cubby, slipped her socked feet inside, and began to tie them with dogged concentration. As she did, Tessa watched unsurprised as the cling boot kid paused in his circuit and casually threw up. The other kids’ faces contorted in laughter, disgust, and unheard shouts. A cleanerbot undocked itself from an upper corner, its gentle boosters propelling it through the air toward the floating mess. Tessa rapped on the plex again. ‘You okay?’ she called to the kid, mouthing the words as clearly as possible.

  The kid gave a weak nod, holding the sides of his head.

  Tessa flashed him a thumbs-up. They’d all been there.

  Aya ran over as soon as the shoe-tying was complete. She put out both hands with a broad smile, her twin rows of teeth checkered with empty spaces. ‘Yes, please.’

  Tessa gave her the box. ‘Careful, it’s hot.’

  Aya tucked into the sugar-fried bugs without hesitation. Tessa caught a wince as her daughter burned her tongue. Neither commented on it.

  ‘Come on, it’s our family’s night to cook,’ Tessa said. They began to walk together.

  ‘I know,’ Aya said. She frowned. ‘I’m not late, right?’

  ‘No, you’re not late.’

  ‘Then how come you came to get me?’ She looked at the snack box
in her hands, the realisation dawning that she’d been given a sweet treat before dinner. ‘How come I get cricket crunch?’

  ‘Just ’cause,’ Tessa said. ‘I guess I’m feeling sentimental.’

  Aya tucked a mouthful into her cheek. ‘What’s sentimental?’

  ‘It’s . . . caught up in your feelings. The way you feel when you’re thinking a lot about the people or things you care about.’

  Tessa had stopped looking at her daughter, but she could feel her staring back. ‘You’ve been weird today,’ Aya said.

  Tessa didn’t want to have the conversation, and she knew there were parts she’d have to tread extra carefully around for Aya’s sake. But Pop would bring it up the second they were home, so: ‘You’re right, I have been. I’m sorry. Something happened you should know about. Everything’s okay. That’s the first thing you should know.’

  Aya listened intently, still chewing.

  ‘You know how Uncle Ashby went to build a new tunnel?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, there were some sapients there who weren’t very nice’ – she wasn’t sure Aya was ready for Ashby was on the business end of the first shot in what looks like a territory war – ‘and they damaged his ship.’

  Aya’s face went rigid. ‘Are the bulkheads okay?’

  Tessa put her hand on Aya’s shoulder. She knew why the question was being asked. Despite counselling, despite patience, despite everybody’s best efforts and five more years of growing up, Aya still crumbled at the idea of any breach between in here and out there. She remained uncomfortable around airlocks, she avoided cupolas as if they were on fire, and bulkheads were a matter she fixated on to a concerning degree. ‘His ship’s stable,’ Tessa said. ‘He wrote to me this morning, and he’s okay. There are a lot of repairs to do, but everyone is safe.’

  Aya processed that. ‘Is he coming here?’

  ‘Why would he come here?’

  ‘For repairs.’

  ‘There are plenty of spaceports he can do that in. But you should know, before we get home, your grandpa’s pretty shook up.’