by Amie Kaufman
The Eshvaren floats nearby, watching. It does not look at me. It does not speak to me. As ever, I feel a vague sense of…not hostility, but unwelcome, in its presence. But as I strike chords upon the siif my be’shmai made me, I see that the hues within its crystal form change with the music I play.
“May I ask you something?” I call.
It does not look at me. But I feel a fraction of its attention shift.
Ask, it replies.
“A thought has been playing on my mind since we arrived.” I strum a minor chord, watch the Eshvaren’s hue shift and dance. “Why do you look like us?”
It turns its head then. Regarding me with kaleidoscopic eyes.
I do not fear this thing. A warrior fears only to never taste victory. But I feel the power in it. My people are one of the few species in the galaxy to still hold belief in the Eshvaren. The Ancient Ones were mythical figures to me as a child. And sitting here in the presence of their collected memory, I find its gaze…unsettling.
“I mean to say, you do not look exactly like us. But you are bipedal. Humanoid. Do you appear this way to make it easier for us to look upon you?”
It is a long time before the Eshvaren replies.
We do not look like you, young one, it finally says. You look like us.
“…I still do not understand,” I reply.
Nor do you need to.
“Perhaps not. But I wish to.”
Your wishes are irrelevant, young one. You are irrelevant.
I try to ignore the sting to my pride, keep my voice cool.
“Why do we look like you?”
The Eshvaren does not reply, its glowing eye on Aurora in the rose sky above.
“The Terrans, Betraskans, Chellerians, hundreds of other races,” I press. “We all wear similar shapes. We are all bipedal. Carbon-based. Oxygen breathers. The odds of that are next to impossible. Many among the milieu take our similarities as final proof of a greater power. As undisputable evidence of a…divine will. It is the basis of their United Faith. Of the existence of a god. A Maker.”
Again, the Eshvaren says nothing. But I push on.
“Our enemy knows much more than we do. The Ra’haam was there during the last battle. We cannot meet it in ignorance. If there is some knowledge we would benefit from in the coming fight, it might be dangerous to keep it from us.”
Finally, the Eshvaren glances at me. I feel a shiver down my spine and my fingers slip on the strings, setting a rainbow loose inside its form.
You would do well not to lecture on the price of keeping secrets.
I blink. “What do you mean by that?”
We have been preparing for eons to win this war. When we first defeated the Great Enemy, through one thousand years of blood and fire, we knew what needed to be done to ensure it did not rise again. And we know now. Better than you. Do not presume to lecture us on the perils of the deceit you so obviously reek of.
It turns its burning eyes back to Aurora.
Do not dare.
The siif is heavy in my hands. The Eshvaren’s words heavy in my chest.
I place the instrument aside and sit in silence.
And I am afraid.
Aurora
Esh has brought me somewhere new today. We flew for an hour, soaring over now-familiar landmarks. The meadow, with its pink carpet of flowers. The wide river I must have sunk into hundreds of times before I managed to part it. The tangled jungle where eventually every single leaf held still at the wave of my hand.
We end up on a cliff top, looking out over the broad vista of the Echo, the crystal city on the far horizon. I never thought about this place having an edge, but behind us is a kind of mist that slowly swirls and roils.
This is the end of the world, I guess.
I sit cross-legged on the edge of the cliff, looking out over my training ground, and I wait. Floating beside me, Esh eventually speaks.
You are failing us, Aurora Jie-Lin O’Malley, it tells me.
I blink, looking up into its face and trying to hide the hurt in my own.
You have grown, it says. But not enough.
“What do you mean?” I demand. “I’m stronger than I’ve ever been. I can split rivers, shatter boulders—”
Your grip on this power must be enough to shatter not just boulders, but worlds. You know what you must do.
“I don’t—”
You do, it replies. You do know. You are still a prisoner to your old self. You are locked inside the idea of what you were. These affections, these bonds, they tug you backward, when your focus must be on what lies ahead. To truly embrace it, you must burn, Aurora Jie-Lin O’Malley. Or you must leave this place and resign yourself to all that will never be.
Even though it was months ago, I still remember my failure in the field of flowers. The image of my father. Some part of me knows that what Esh is saying is true—one word from a ghost was enough to make me lose my grip. Reduce me to tears. I can feel them even now, burning in my eyes, welling in my lashes.
“I want to,” I say.
Do you?
“Yes!” I shout. “I hate feeling this way. But…it’s hard, Esh. It’s so hard. When I left for Octavia, I was supposed to wake up a couple of weeks later and start a new life. Instead, I slept two hundred years.” I paw at my eyes, angry at the tears, at myself. “And I know there are some things that are more important than one little Earth girl crying over her life, but maybe you could ease off just a little.” I look up at those rainbow eyes, accusation in my own. “Because everything I’ve lost is because of you.”
It stands there, glittering in the light. I can feel it’s almost…angry with me.
We understand what we ask you to give up. But the galaxy is at stake.
“I know that!”
Thousands of inhabited worlds. Billions upon billions of souls. All of it shall be consumed if the Ra’haam is allowed to bloom.
“I know that too!” I cry, climbing to my feet. “I’m not an idiot, Esh. I know!”
And yet you refuse. To let go. To burn. You are the Trigger, Aurora Jie-Lin O’Malley. You are the power of the Eshvaren made manifest. And if you do not let go of the obstacles that hold you back, then you will fail.
“But how?” I ask.
Do you wish it? Esh asks.
I look up at the rose-colored sky above my head. The billion suns waiting beyond. I think about everything that hangs in the balance. The lives of all those strangers, the lives of all my friends. All that will be lost if I stumble here.
All my life, I wanted to be an explorer. To see and do things most people only dreamed of. To take myself to the very edge. That’s why I trained in cartography, why I sacrificed so much to get onto the Octavia mission in the first place, that mission that somehow, two centuries later, has led me right here.
To this edge.
“Yes,” I hear myself say.
Truly?
“Yes!”
Then close your eyes.
And so I do.
I find myself in a white room, afternoon sun shining through broad glass windows. I realize I’m standing in one of the dozen kitchens my family had as we bounced around the world in preparation for the Octavia mission. And then I feel a flood of sudden pressure in my chest, a rush of joy and heartache and love as I see her, right there, close enough for me to reach out and touch.
“Mom…,” I whisper.
She looks up and gives me one of her smiles—the ones that made me feel like everything was all right in the world. And looking around the room, letting the scene soak into me, I realize that I’ve been here before. That this isn’t just a place from my memories—this is a particular night I already lived.
It was my father’s birthday. Mom was chopping vegetables for his favorite dish from her side of the famil
y: a thick brown stew full of carrots and potatoes, lamb and barley. I was measuring out tapioca starch for his favorite fresh rice noodles.
I was about thirteen, and she and I didn’t always get along by then. I’d already decided I wanted to try out for Octavia. My mom said it was too soon to be making life decisions like that. And I ache at the memory of the fights we had about it, the time we wasted on struggling over something so small.
Now I watch her quick, capable hands as she works, her familiar wedding ring. When this night really happened, all those centuries ago, we just sang and cooked and talked about one of my homework assignments until the others got home. But now, I know, I can divert the vision if I want to, as long as I don’t push it too far.
And I do want to. Badly.
So I tell the home system to turn down the music, and I lean into Mom’s side, rest my head against her shoulder. She wraps an arm around me and gives me a squeeze. It’s so familiar, the softness of her so perfect, that I feel tears in my eyes.
“What is it, Auri J?” she asks, pressing a kiss to my hair.
I’m quiet as I consider what it is I want to say to her. I know I can’t tell her what’s happened—it will break the illusion, the shape of what this place is. But I know I can come close.
“I guess I’m just thinking about some of my friends at my old schools,” I say.
“Oh?”
I suck on my lower lip. “I mean, I know we always move, but some of them…I think they were planning on having me around a lot longer, you know? I think they felt like they could count on me for things, and now I’m not there anymore.”
“Oh, my Aurora.” She turns to me, tucks me under her chin. Soon I’ll be too tall for that. “You’ve always taken your responsibilities so seriously. I respect that about you very much. And I know it’s hard to move on. But we can’t hold ourselves in place forever, darling, not for anyone. Life is for living. The ones you left behind will be all right, I promise. The ones you leave behind in the future will be all right too, even if you make it all the way to another planet.”
“But some people depend on us,” I say.
“Well, it’s true that they do,” she says. “But you’ll have lots of adventures in the future, and goodbyes will come with lots of them. The ones who love you will take pride in sending you on those adventures, I promise.”
I ease back enough to look up at her, my eyes aching.
“I love you, Mom,” I say, and she looks down at me with all the love in the world written on her face, in the tender curve of her mouth.
“I love you too, my darling,” she says quietly. “And if one day you do set off on all those adventures you imagine for yourself, I’ll be proud to have raised a daughter who’s brave enough to have followed her dreams. I promise.”
“Even if I’m leaving you behind?”
“You’ll never do that, baby,” she says again. “I’ll always be with you.”
* * *
• • • • •
That night, I cry in Kal’s arms.
“I did leave her,” I say into his chest, so snotty and muffled that I have no idea if he can understand me. “I left her for an adventure, but for all she knew, I died.”
He presses a soft kiss to my hair. “To her, you died pursuing your dream. You were living your life just as she told you to. A life well lived, of any length, is as much as any of us can hope for, be’shmai.”
Later, I make us potatoes and carrots and lamb and barley and gravy, and I show Kal how to cook the stew, and my mom’s Irish brown bread. And we sit side by side, shoulders pressed together, and I tell him stories about growing up on Earth.
By the time I’m done explaining field hockey to him—he’s baffled by the fact that it’s against the rules to use the sticks to hit your opponents—I’m all cried out, and all laughed out.
I’m lighter, and I’m easier, because the truth is, just being around Kal calms me. His touch, his gaze, the small smiles I draw from him—those especially are something I never could have imagined back when we met. But all of it grounds me, when the pressure of this place might otherwise break me into pieces. Being in the Echo has allowed us months together, to learn each other in the way you only can with time, and I’m so grateful for this gift I don’t even know how to tell him.
One thing I’ve learned about him is that when his gaze slides to my mouth the way it does now, he’s thinking about kissing me. And I don’t want to wait for him to get around to it, not tonight.
And so I reach across to take hold of the front of his shirt, and he allows me to pull him effortlessly toward me as I lift my chin, a tingle of anticipation starting between my shoulder blades, zipping down to the small of my back as our lips meet.
We’re sitting side by side, and as he shifts his weight to lean over me, I curl one hand up around his neck. His hand slides around to support me, and he lowers me down so I can lie back against the soft grass, pulling him with me. His shape blocks out some of the stars, and the soft sound I drag from him when I deepen the kiss makes me forget where we are.
There’s an excitement and a familiarity to him that make these moments perfect, and even as I arch my back to press up into him, I’m smiling against his lips all over again.
This is what I needed. Between the lesson from Esh today and now Kal’s quiet, solid—and hey, incredibly sexy—comfort, I feel like there’s some…weight that’s been lifted off my shoulders. Some shadow inside me that’s been washed away.
I think I’m finally understanding what it is I need to do here. I can feel all of it—the guilt at leaving my family behind, the anger that they were taken from me, the sorrow that I never got to be part of the lives they made when I was gone. But at the same time, I hold on to the knowledge and the realization that they did make lives.
Because everyone does.
Here in the present moment I have Kal. He’s everything I could ever have wanted, and I don’t have to feel the Pull to know that I love him—not suddenly, in a rush, but piece by piece, moment by moment, each new lesson I learn adding another layer to the way I feel about him.
And curling up in Kal’s arms later that night, my cheek pressed to his bare chest, I know what I need to do with all this weight that’s been dragging me down.
Holding me back.
I need to let go of my past, and focus on my present.
I need to abandon who I was, and embrace who I am.
I just need to burn it all away.
* * *
• • • • •
The next morning, Esh and I return to the cliff top. I feel light as air as we soar over the Echo, all its beauty laid out beneath us. I sit on the edge of the drop, staring out over the edge of the world. And this time, it’s my father I see when I close my eyes.
I’m six or seven years old, and he’s come in to read me a bedtime story. We have a big book of fairy tales and folktales from around the world. He sits on the bed beside me, and we leaf through the pages together, him reading and me tracing one small finger over the illustrations.
He wraps an arm around me, and in a well-practiced move, I prop my knees next to his so he can shift the book over and I can turn the pages for him.
I let him read for a long while. I breathe in the smell of him, feel the warmth of his skin, remembering the time when his arms felt like the safest place in all the world. But eventually he looks down at me, brow creased in that way I always loved.
“Is there something on your mind, Jie-Lin?” he asks quietly.
He’s so tuned in to me, so carefully attentive. All I can think about is our last conversation—or at least, the last conversation we ever had when he was actually himself, instead of part of the Ra’haam.
I shouted at him and Patrice and hung up before he got a chance to reply.
“I’m thinking about someone I left
behind,” I tell him.
“…At your last school?”
I nod. “I said something mean. And I didn’t get a chance to say I was sorry before we left.”
“Ah.” He carefully closes the book, sets it on the floor beside the bed. “Well, that’s difficult. If you can, it’s always good to go back and apologize. But when that’s not possible, I think it’s very important to remember that no relationship, or friendship, is defined by one moment. It’s an accumulation of all the moments we spend together. All the little ways in which we say I love you or I respect you or You are important to me add up. And that cannot be erased with a few careless words.”
“How do you know?” I whisper.
“When your grandmother died, I regretted very much that I hadn’t called her that week. I had meant to, but I was busy. Over time, though, I realized that one missed call didn’t define our relationship. That tens of thousands of I love yous did that instead. She knew exactly how I cared for her, and how I respected her. And that was what was important.” He gives me a squeeze. “Does that help, Jie-Lin?”
“You’re sure last words don’t matter?” I close my eyes tightly, soaking up the warmth of his arms. “You’re sure she’d forgive you?”
“In an instant. Those who truly know us see the whole, never just a part.”
I settle in against his side. Close my eyes and whisper.
“I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you too, Jie-Lin.”
He kisses the top of my head, and my lips curl in a smile.
“Always.”
* * *
• • • • •
That evening, Kal and I walk to the meadow and lie back together in the field of pink flowers, their petals all closed against the night. We stare up at the stars that once carpeted the sky above the home planet of the Eshvaren, adrift in each other’s arms.
