By the time classes resumed in September, I had it.
I would never sound like a native speaker, but I had never had any illusions about that. The grammatical structures were quickly becoming instinctive. The tones, second nature. There were levels of complexity that I hadn’t yet achieved—I couldn’t say, “If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind terribly doing me the honor of passing the bagels?” But I could say, “Honored sir, please pass me the bagels.” It didn’t matter that our lexicon was only partial and that we had no word for bagel. Dr. Sawyer and I were equally confident that slotting in the missing nouns would be child’s play compared to what we had already done.
I could see him beginning almost imperceptibly to relax. Over the past year, I had done the real work, but the anxiety had fallen to him, the more so because there was so little that he could actually do; his was the role of the mentor, the observer. He had so much more invested in this than I did. For me, this was at best a career-making gambit, at worst an unsightly dent in an otherwise pristine academic record. If it turned out to be a complete waste of time, I could retake a few classes and move on with only a few months and some pride lost. It was different for Dr. Sawyer. He couldn’t unpick his life’s work and start over. He had said it himself: he was old. If he failed with me, it meant TrueFluent Vardeshi was worthless. It would be the collapse of twenty-five years of hard, solitary, unrequited effort. He had been unfailingly patient with me, with my mistakes and frustrations and failures, but there had never been any question, really, of how much was at stake for him.
A day came in early October when there were no more new vocabulary decks in the TrueFluent program. I had learned all the words in all the levels. I went back and reviewed a couple of old lists. I recalled every word perfectly. Feeling a little lost, I played through the entire catalog of voice recordings. I understood nearly everything that was being said; the only words I couldn’t interpret were the ones Dr. Sawyer hadn’t been able to translate, those lacking adequate context. I skimmed over the written texts of a couple of recordings. Dr. Sawyer had had me transcribe them in Vardeshi script, then translate them into English, then back into Vardeshi, in order to compare the original and my translation. Everything was familiar, everything was known. There was no more work left to do.
I sat on the patio, staring out into the garden, and a gray emptiness crept over me like fog rolling in from the ocean. What was I going to do now? The drive to learn Vardeshi, to possess it, had carried me forward from the first moment, from hearing that first phrase more than a year ago now. It had been a consuming fire. I had scarcely thought about anything else—I hadn’t had time. While I was immersed in it, it had seemed likely, inevitable even, that the Vardeshi themselves would reappear at any moment. I had been racing against their return, certain that they were poised on the threshold of our awareness, just outside satellite range, a long-fingered hand raised to knock again. Now that I had finished the TrueFluent program and they hadn’t come, it suddenly seemed wildly improbable that they would. What if I had learned it all for nothing? I didn’t care about the lost time. It hadn’t been wasted, even if they never came back. Their language was maddening and lyrical and unpredictable, and I loved it. But I needed—I craved—more of it, real words from the strangers who thought and talked and wrote in it all the time. And there might not be any more words. Ever.
I heard the patio door open. A moment later Dr. Sawyer set down two glasses and a bottle of whiskey on the glass tabletop. He pulled out a chair and joined me. At first I couldn’t look at him. When I did, I saw that I didn’t need to say anything. He already knew the dark path down which my thoughts had turned.
“How?” I said. “How do you live with this?”
“I’ve had hope.” He poured the whiskey and pushed a glass toward me. “For twenty-five years. And then I had you. Seeing it again through your eyes has been . . . exhilarating. And now I have you to speak with, and I never had that before.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what to do now.”
“Now you wait,” he said simply. “And in twenty-five years, if they still haven’t come, you find a student and you teach him. Or her.”
“It could be a century,” I said. “It could be a thousand years.”
“It could.”
We drank our whiskey in silence after that.
It could have been a thousand years. But it happened that my intuition that they were already there, ships hovering silently just outside the range of our vision, was correct. And within three weeks the whole world knew it.
CHAPTER TWO
I was sitting in the student center on a Thursday afternoon with my computer and books fanned out in front of me and the trifecta of student nutrition at my elbow: energy bar, latte, bottle of water. Outside the windows a chilly coastal rain was sheeting down. I was working in earnest, this time, trying to salvage a failing grade in a course I should have found riveting. I had attended all the lectures—for the last three weeks, anyway—and asked perfunctory questions and taken perfunctory notes. It all felt dull and empty after Vardeshi. Why had I thought I could make a career out of linguistics? It had no hold on me anymore. It had been a pathway to something better. Now it felt like a dead end.
But I needed to graduate, I reminded myself. What choice did I have? What else was I going to do with my life?
The hum of conversation seemed to be growing louder. It was crowded in the student center. Nearly all the tables were full. People came inside to study when it rained. I took a sip of my now-cold latte and tried to recenter my attention on the journal article in front of me. I picked up my highlighter. There was sense to be made here, somewhere, even if just now it felt more cryptic than . . . well, it felt cryptic.
I wasn’t imagining it. The noise was getting louder. I sighed, looked up. Everyone seemed to be clustered around the oversized televisions that hung at opposite ends of the room. I wondered if I should take my work elsewhere. It was hard enough to focus without—
My phone buzzed. I picked it up. It was a message from Dr. Sawyer. My office, it read. Nothing more.
I dropped the highlighter and ran.
“It’s on every news channel.” Dr. Sawyer looked remarkably calm, but the light in his eyes was nearly incandescent. “They’ve returned. And they’ve reconsidered.” He had the video queued up on his computer. I leaned in behind him as the message began.
“People of Earth,” said a serene young woman with dark eyes and close-cropped white hair. “The Vardeshi people send their greetings to you across the long night between our worlds. Twenty-five years ago we made the decision to turn away from you. It was not an easy choice, and there were many among us who questioned its wisdom. In the years that have passed since then, the questioning voices have come to outnumber the confident ones. We have tried and failed to reach a resolution regarding further contact with your world. Earth, or the potential of Earth, divides us as nothing ever has before.
“We come to you therefore with a proposition. We know too little of your people to rush forward into a binding alliance; on that, at least, our factions agree. What we suggest instead is a cultural exchange. Send one hundred of your people to live among us for one Earth year. Let us come to know you, not through the bright shards of yourselves that you send out into the void—your music, your television, your video calls—but through the true sharing that comes of companionship, of living and working and speaking together. Send us the best of yourselves. We, in turn, will send you the best of us: one hundred Vardeshi to be placed as you see fit in cities across your world. At the end of one year we will gather our delegates together and weigh what we have learned. Please consider our proposal and respond with your decision within one Earth month.”
She paused. “I will conclude with a request. For all that our races are strange to each other, there are likenesses between us. We feel, as deeply as you do, the fear of sending our loved ones to dwell among strangers. If you consent to send your citizens to us
, we promise to shelter and protect them as if they were our own. We ask that you make the same promise. Some of us doubt that you can be trusted so far, but all of us hope that you will prove the doubters wrong. Refuse our offer if you must; but if you accept it, honor your promise. We will honor ours.” The recording ended there.
I looked at Dr. Sawyer. His eyes were already on me, expectant. “One hundred of our people,” I repeated. “A hundred. Out of billions.”
“Assuming the Unified Earth Council accepts the proposal,” he reminded me.
“They have to. Don’t they?”
“I believe so,” he conceded. “Out of simple pragmatism, if nothing else. The Vardeshi have far too much to offer us. We would be mad to reject this overture.”
“I have to be on that list,” I said. “Somehow.”
He nodded. “I think the time has come to inform our government that TrueFluent Vardeshi is complete and that it has already produced two proficient speakers. I suspect that once they know that, the rest will be quite straightforward.”
I took a deep, steadying breath. “I hope you’re right.”
“Listen to me.” There was a quiet certainty in his tone that commanded attention. “Your name will be on the list. I know it will. If they had asked for only one representative, your name would be on that list too. I am not a spiritual man, but I have faith in the work we have done together. No one else on Earth is as apt a choice for this role as you. The Vardeshi have returned, and you will have the life you imagined.”
There was a sadness underlying his words, one I thought I understood. Twenty-five years ago, it would have been his name on the list. Now he would almost certainly be needed here on Earth, to train new speakers of Vardeshi, and to serve as a resource for the hundred representatives they sent to us. To be an advisor. Not an explorer. It was honorable work, and crucially important. It was not the life he had imagined.
“Dr. Sawyer,” I said hesitantly.
“Alistair.” He smiled, with an effort. “Please.”
“The Vardeshi have returned. We have no idea what comes next. We have no idea how quickly things will happen. It’s still possible . . . ” I was crossing into uncharted territory, a matter of the heart, and we had never spoken of such things together. I chose my words carefully. “It’s still possible that you could see their world. Or one of their ships, at least. I know your name won’t be on the list. But this is only the first list.”
“It is a kind thought,” he said, ever courteous.
I hoped I had instilled a spark of hope in him. For myself, I had more than hope. I had, since his reassurance, a blazing conviction that I would be on that list. Because anything else was simply impossible. I had worked too hard for this. I was too ready. It just had to be me.
Two hours later my phone rang.
I snatched it off the table. I was sitting in my kitchen, temporarily alone. Erica was showering after a workout. Sophie was at a coffee shop on campus. I’d met her there after leaving Dr. Sawyer’s office, and we’d watched the newsfeeds together. When the clamor of gossip and supposition around us became so deafening that I started to worry that I wouldn’t hear my phone ring, I went home. Now I was glad I had. I glanced at the number: unlisted, of course. I answered it.
“Avery Alcott?” said a voice I didn’t recognize. Male, lightly accented—European, I thought.
“Yes?”
“Please hold for Hans Seidel.”
I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, biting my lip, and clenched the fist that wasn’t holding the phone until my fingernails dug into my palm. Hans Seidel was a member of the Council. This was it. This was the call.
“Avery?” said another male voice.
“This is Avery speaking.” I pressed the phone harder against my ear.
“My name is Hans Seidel,” he said. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I have been reliably informed that you speak fluent Vardeshi. That, in fact, you are one of only two people on Earth who do.”
“I do speak Vardeshi, sir. I don’t know how many others do. I know of one.”
“Alistair Sawyer.”
“Yes. He didn’t know if there were others.”
A pause. Then Seidel said, “There are not.”
I took a deep breath. “Wow.”
“Indeed. This makes you a rather precious commodity to the Council. We would like to bring you into custody for safekeeping while we evaluate next steps.”
He passed me back to his secretary, who introduced himself now as Stefan. He instructed me to pack my bags for a month’s stay in Switzerland. I would need casual, formal, and athletic attire. An official car would be coming for me in two hours. He gave me the plate number and the driver’s name and identification code. The car would take me to a private airfield, where I would be flown via charter jet to a conference center outside of Zurich.
“Why Zurich?” I said.
“The Council has voted to accept the Vardeshi proposal. The decision will be made public tomorrow. We’ll be refitting the conference center as a training complex for the hundred human representatives. You’re the first one on the List.” He paused. “Truthfully, as of right now, you are the List.”
“What about Dr. Sawyer?”
“He’ll be serving in an advisory capacity, training our representatives on TrueFluent Vardeshi. He’s already on his way.” Stefan continued briskly, “Don’t make or accept any phone calls in the next two hours. Is there anyone in the apartment with you?”
“One of my roommates is in the shower.”
“Don’t tell her where you’re going. If she asks, say you’re taking an unplanned vacation. Only if she asks. Don’t send any texts or emails. Don’t worry about paying your utilities, cleaning out your room, or finding a subletter. Just pack and wait. Bring all your identification with you and all your technology. Do you have any questions?”
“One,” I said. “Can I look up the weather in Switzerland?”
“I think that should be fine.” He sounded amused. “Safe travels, Miss Alcott. I’ll see you in Zurich.”
Erica was just stepping out of the bathroom in a billow of fragrant steam as I dragged my rolling bag up the last stairs from the basement. She gave me an odd look, and another when I hurried down the stairs again with a load of laundry, but she didn’t say anything. I started packing with my door closed and a favorite album blasting. When I came out again to switch the laundry over, she was gone.
I finished packing in under half an hour, excepting that last load of laundry, and spent the remaining time pacing impatiently around the tiny kitchen, pausing on every circuit to peer out through the blinds of the window that overlooked the street. Precisely two hours after the councillor’s call, a sleek black sedan drew up to the curb outside my front door. After matching the plate number with my notation, I wrestled my luggage downstairs and out to the curb. The driver, a heavyset man with dark hair and a vaguely irritated look, helped me load it into the trunk. I verified his name and ID number, climbed into the passenger seat, and fastened my seatbelt. All of this was peculiar, but none of it was outside the realm of the familiar save for the fact that, before he turned the key in the ignition, the driver confiscated my cell phone.
Less than an hour later, I found myself in another world entirely: the lone passenger on a silent and beautifully appointed transatlantic jet, accepting a glass of champagne from a flight attendant whose sole objective was to ensure my comfort. Mine was a squarely middle-class family. We flew coach. Sitting alone in the softly lit cabin as the plane accelerated down the runway, I had the odd illusion that I was stationary, motionless, a fixed point in the universe, with everything rotating smoothly around me: California dropping away beneath my feet, the Earth wheeling below me, and then Zurich rocketing upward, slowing at the last possible instant to press gently against the wheels of the airplane. Only when I unfastened my restraints and stood up was the reverie broken. I stepped down onto the asphalt of another
private airfield in the cool air of a pristinely clear Swiss morning and knew that I had been wrong. I wasn’t fixed in place. I was moving, gaining speed and altitude, hurtling onward into the life I had imagined.
Excitement had hummed in my veins throughout the long flight, keeping me from sleep, but as I climbed into yet another elegant black sedan, I had to acknowledge that I had now been awake for more than twenty-four hours and was beginning to feel tired. I fought to stay alert as the car wound through the hilly streets of Zurich and out into the countryside beyond. I’d never traveled in Europe, and I knew I ought to be paying attention to the scenery, but it was too much for my tired mind to take in. Isolated glimpses of color impressed themselves on my memory: leafy vines twining over an archway of honey-colored stone, wooden shutters painted deep red against the brilliant blue façade of an apartment building, a jewel-green sweater on a woman whose cropped fair hair reminded me of my own. I rested my head on the cushioned headrest and let it all wash over me in an impressionistic blur.
I wasn’t precisely asleep when the car stopped, but I came back to full wakefulness with a jolt. For some time we had been following a busy thoroughfare that ran through a patchwork of farmland and forest, but now we had turned off onto a narrow side lane. The driver was leaning out of his window, talking to a uniformed guard in a little gatehouse. Evidently the driver’s credentials (or mine) passed inspection, because we were allowed to proceed down the lane, which wound among vineyards and carefully curated woods before approaching a palatial white building. Here the driver parked, got out, and opened my door. He explained that I was to go in and register my arrival with the staff. My luggage would be taken to my dormitory.
Ascending (The Vardeshi Saga Book 1) Page 3
