Ascending (The Vardeshi Saga Book 1)

by Meg Pechenick

  I was expecting Khavi Vekesh to call the meeting to order, but to my surprise it was Hathan who spoke first. He made a few brief remarks related to navigation before calling on Rhevi Vethna to report on the engines. I lost the thread of Vethna’s speech almost instantly. My attention started to drift. I looked around the table, caught by the strangeness of the assembly. My eyes wandered from one attentive face to the next, from one sigil to another, all of them perfectly visible because the hands they decorated were perfectly still. Humans at a meeting of this type would have fidgeted, checked their messages, sipped their coffee, or taken notes. Someone would have tapped his foot; someone else would have shifted in her chair. The collective immobility of the Vardeshi was a bit unnerving. I felt even more disquieted when, halfway through the meeting, I ventured to retrieve my water bottle from my bag. Ten pairs of eyes swung around to stare at it. After drinking, I set the bottle carefully down on the floor and left it there until the meeting adjourned. It probably didn’t help that its lurid turquoise finish was the brightest thing in the room.

  One of the last items on the agenda was an update on my novi training. As the end of the meeting approached, I steeled myself to ask Hathan to speak more slowly. His questions to the other crew members had been crisp and concise, and I hadn’t been able to parse more than half of them. To my relief, however, he directed all his inquiries to Zey. I was accustomed by now to the rhythms of Zey’s speech, and I was just able to keep pace as he narrated the events of our day. Laid out so simply, our achievements sounded a little meager. Was that really all we had done—wandered around the ship, signed me up for a shower, and shifted some crates around? I repressed a sigh.

  Zey had finished talking and I’d just begun to relax when Saresh said, “Novi Alkhat, would you like to add anything?”

  “No,” I said, too quickly. He and Zey both laughed. I hurriedly corrected myself. “I mean, no, sir. Hadazi.”

  “Tell us what you think of the ship,” said Khavi Vekesh.

  He spoke lightly enough, but I knew a command when I heard it. “It’s . . . very beautiful,” I said. “And very different.” Everyone seemed to be waiting for more, so I added, “Everything is much more . . . natural?”

  “Organic,” Saresh murmured.

  “Right. More organic than on an Earth spaceship. Not that I’ve been on any of those. I like my quarters. And all the designs in the hallways.”

  “And the showers,” Zey added. Someone snickered. I was almost positive it was Vethna.

  “They’re nice,” I said defensively. “But the computer system is . . . intimidating.”

  “Well, your people are still working with electronics,” Ziral said, and several people murmured knowingly, as if that explained a great deal. I looked down at the luminous symbols on the table in front of me. Until this moment I hadn’t known they weren’t powered by electronics. What did the Vardeshi computers run on, then? To my mind the words computers and electronics were synonymous. We must seem like such troglodytes to them.

  “How was hydroponics?” Sohra asked.

  The question was innocent enough, but at the mention of hydroponics, Zey tensed slightly. In the silence that followed Sohra’s words, a number of people trained critical looks on him. The one I noticed was Hathan’s. Just as during my initial interview, it was the movement of those arrestingly light gray eyes that drew my attention. I’d had a moment to study the suvi’s features covertly earlier in the meeting, searching for a resemblance to the other two Takheris. If it was there at all, it was too subtle for me to detect. Hathan’s face was narrower, his features sharper than those of his brothers. I had also decided that the reason he’d made so little impression on me at our first encounter was that his expression disclosed nothing of his thoughts. “You took her to hydroponics?” he said quietly.

  “I asked to see it,” I said.

  Hathan glanced at me, then returned his attention to his brother. “That was an ill-considered risk.” Again the tone was mild, but the admonition was clear.

  “Did anything happen?” Daskar inquired.

  Zey hesitated, so I answered for him again. “I didn’t have any kind of allergic reaction. But we didn’t stay very long. We . . . thought better of it. I won’t go there again until we know it’s safe.”

  That answer seemed to be satisfactory, at least for the present. I hoped Zey wasn’t going to be scolded again in private. The error in judgment had been mine as much as his, and I desperately needed him on my side.

  The meeting adjourned, and Zey explained that there was an hour of recreation time allotted to all crew members before dinner. “I’m going to go work out,” he said. “Will you be all right on your own?”

  “Oh, yeah. Fine.” I waved a hand airily. “Have a good workout. I’ll see you later.”

  I watched him walk away. It was all I could do not to run after him. Where was I supposed to go? Not back to my quarters. I knew that if I went there, I wouldn’t emerge again until tomorrow morning. I wandered around a little and eventually found my way to the lounge, a dark, intimate space that reminded me of Dr. Okoye’s office. Its most striking feature was an enormous viewport running the entire length of one wall. A standing bar invited people to take in the view over their refreshment of choice. The opposite wall housed several little raised platforms screened by filmy hangings and scattered with colorful cushions and rugs. I settled myself down in one of them and attempted to read through my notes from the day. Concentration was elusive. My memory kept flinging random images from the preceding hours into the foreground of my mind. I abruptly gave up, tossed the notebook down, and went over to stand in front of the viewport, leaning my elbows on the bar. I had followed enough of Hathan’s navigation report to know that we had already left Earth inconceivably far behind. All at once I felt utterly lost. There was nothing beyond the transparent barrier but featureless black and a distant impersonal glitter of stars. My world, my home, was gone as if it had never existed.

  I took a deep breath. Then I went back to the platform where I’d left my things, retrieved my notebook and pencil, and carried them over to the viewport. I opened the notebook to a fresh page and wrote in Vardeshi, slowly and carefully, A story has a thousand beginnings, but only one ending. It was the opening line of Divided by Stars, my favorite late-90’s Vardrama, the one I had quoted on Dr. Sawyer’s patio. The expression had fascinated me in childhood because it was one of the only things we knew for sure that the Vardeshi actually said. I could vividly recall the triumph I had felt upon realizing, several months ago now, that I could translate it into the original without having to think about it. I wasn’t sure why it had come to me now, but the words were comfortingly familiar.

  From behind me came the metallic hiss of the door opening and closing, followed by the sound of footsteps. Expecting Zey, I turned around and was startled to see Hathan approaching instead. “Suvi,” I said, and saluted. He did the same. We stood at an awkward impasse until it dawned on me that he was waiting for me to lower my hand. I dropped it hastily. “God. Sorry. I’m new to this.”

  “It’s all right.” He came over to stand beside me. “What do you think of the view?”

  “It’s, uh . . .” I tried and failed to find a tactful substitute for what I was actually thinking. “Empty.”

  “Yes.” Hathan looked down at my notebook page. “There’s a saying about that, actually, if you’re starting a collection.”

  “Really? Do you mind?” I offered him my pencil.

  He took it—in his left hand, I noticed—and wrote another sentence beneath mine. I filled in the English where I could, then handed the pencil back for him to complete the translation. His English handwriting, I saw with admiration but no surprise, was as neat and compact as his Vardeshi.

  “‘To the wanderer,’” I read aloud, “‘one step into the desert is the same as a hundred; the sailor, an hour out of port, beholds a trackless ocean.’ That’s perfect. That’s just how I feel.”

  The suvi corr
ected two of my tones. Then he said, “It isn’t just you. And it isn’t just the first time. Going into the dark always feels like losing something.”

  “Well, it’s good to know it’s not just me.” I hesitated for a long time over my next words. Then, feeling that I owed it to Zey, I forced them out. “I really did ask to see hydroponics. That wasn’t Zey’s fault. I hope he isn’t in trouble because of me.”

  “If you’re asking whether he’ll be disciplined, the answer is no. But it was a mistake. Yours as much as his.”

  The reprimand was gently delivered, but shame flooded through me all the same. “I know,” I said. Then, remembering that one stolen breath of perfumed air, I smiled in spite of myself. “It was a wonderful mistake.”

  Hathan walked me to the mess hall, which I appreciated, because I wasn’t sure I would have found it on my own. I ate dinner with Zey and Sohra at the same table where we’d sat before. The mess tables, Zey told me, were segregated by rank; as a novi, I would be eating all of my meals at this one. Max had packed me a salad and a cup of instant soup. I ate the salad first. I knew it was a luxury; I had only a few days’ worth of fresh produce in my stores. I hardly tasted it. Fatigue had set in all at once. It felt like someone had crept up from behind and draped me in a weighted blanket. Zey and Sohra were deep in conversation on the other side of the table, but the words slid over and past me, a current of sound with no meaning attached. I ducked my head and ate. When I had finished the salad, I took my soup cup into the galley, where Ahnir, the ship’s cook, was busily stacking dishes and wiping down surfaces. I asked him diffidently if there was any hot water available, as I hadn’t yet had a chance to set up my own equipment. He produced a carafe of steaming water and stood watching impassively while I filled my cardboard cup to the level marked on the side. I thanked him, returned to my table, and sat cradling the soup in my hands. Warmth equaled comfort, and since I couldn't shower until tomorrow night, and couldn’t curl up under my blankets until after I’d cleaned up my dinner things, the meager heat of a cup of instant miso would have to suffice.

  I didn’t look up when someone slipped into the empty seat beside me, but I recognized the hadazi by a glint of platinum hair even before he said, “How are you doing, Avery?” He spoke in English, which was a small kindness, but desperately needed.

  “I’m done,” I said.

  Saresh nodded. “Do you want to go home?” The words were level, uninflected, and I had the sense that he would accept any answer with equanimity.

  Even through my exhaustion, I had to laugh a little. “I’m not quitting. I just need a good night’s sleep.”

  “You’ve earned it,” he said. “You did well today. The crew are impressed.”

  “With me?”

  “Is that surprising?” He sounded amused.

  “Well . . . kind of.”

  “Why?”

  Now I did look at him. “Because I can’t do anything. I can’t do the stuff you guys can do.”

  “No one expects you to. You’re not here to calibrate the engines or read a star chart.”

  “Okay, but how about a clock? Or an email? I’m talking about the easy stuff. The basics.”

  “You’re learning them.”

  “Not as fast as I should. We didn’t get through half of our assigned tasks for today. And every problem I solve creates three new ones.” I sighed. “Not very impressive, if you ask me.”

  Saresh nodded. “Keep in mind that most of us had never even seen a human in the flesh before this morning, let alone spoken to one. The others had no idea what to expect—and we’ve all heard some terrible stories. Some of the crew thought you were going to be essentially a sort of . . . overgrown pet.”

  “A nivakh,” I muttered.

  “Yes.”

  “They thought that even after I was promoted to novi?”

  “Some people assumed that Khavi Vekesh was being wildly optimistic—or looking for an easy in with the pro-alliance factions. I think it’s now clear to everyone that whatever his reasons, his instincts were sound. You’ve only been here a day, but you can already find your way around the ship. You can ask questions and follow instructions. You’ve shown yourself to be inquisitive, courteous, adaptable. That may not seem like much to you, but it’s well beyond what most of us expected.”

  “Ah,” I said. “So what you’re saying is that you set the bar really, really low.”

  “You could say that.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, it will be higher tomorrow. We’re quick learners.”

  I started to say something like “I believe it,” but it turned into a yawn.

  I found my way back to my quarters with only one wrong turn. As the door hissed shut behind me, I heaved a sigh of relief. The first day was over. I changed into my pajamas, washed up in my tiny bathroom, and settled down on my little bed, which appeared to slope slightly downward from the outer edge to the inner one. I’d been planning to unwind with a little music, but as it happened, I didn’t need it. With my shoulder pressed against the wall, I could faintly feel a deep pulsating hum that I imagined to be emanating from the ship’s engines. I had no idea how Vardeshi propulsion actually worked. It didn’t matter; whatever its source, the vibration had a tranquilizing effect. I pulled a fleece blanket over myself and fell asleep more or less instantaneously.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When I awakened ten hours later to the clanging of my phone alarm, it was with a raging thirst and a nearly complete sense of disorientation. I fumbled for my water bottle, which I found on the floor next to the bed. For a couple of minutes I just sat there in the dark. More than anything I wanted to pull the blankets over myself again and go back to sleep. Some of yesterday’s naïve excitement had dissipated, and in its place came apprehension. I now knew that even the simplest task—in this case, checking the time on my bedside display—would be dauntingly hard. Break it down into steps, I told myself. Turn on your phone light. Find your notebook. Find the page with the clock words. Turn on the panel. Figure out what time it is.

  It took a few minutes, but eventually I established that my hasty mental calculations of the night before had been more or less correct; my phone alarm had woken me about an hour before the morning briefing was due to start. Today I would have to learn how Vardeshi alarm clocks worked, assuming they existed. It would be more efficient to set a recurring alarm tied to shipboard time than to continue relying on guesswork, with its inherent risk of error. I washed up, dressed in the same uniform as yesterday—another item on today’s list was procuring more uniforms—and went to the mess hall in search of a hot drink. There was no one in the galley, but a little judicious poking around revealed the same carafe Ahnir had shown me the day before, half full of recently heated water. I mixed up an instant cappucino and headed for the axis chamber. I’d decided that I didn’t care whether the Vardeshi gave me odd looks. On Earth we drank coffee at morning meetings, and as Dr. Sawyer had reminded me, the cultural exchange went both ways.

  As soon as I entered the axis chamber, I saw that it wouldn’t be a problem. At each seat around the table—except for mine—was a small rectangular tray carved from a dark stone that looked like slate. On the tray was a tiny cup and plate and a delicate silver spoon. The cup and plate looked as fragile as eggshells, and their iridescent surfaces caught the light and refracted it in tiny rainbows. I leaned closer for a better look. They appeared to be made of blown glass. I saw that each plate held a few round pastel-colored pellets. Candy? I wondered. Or medicine? I heard the door hiss and looked up to see Zey enter the room carrying an elaborate silver vessel that reminded me of a Russian samovar. “Wow,” I said. “What’s all this stuff?”

  He placed the silver vessel carefully on the table beside the seat that belonged to Khavi Vekesh. “The morning senek ritual.”

  “Senek?” I’d heard the word on Dr. Sawyer’s recordings. We knew it was something edible, but not much more than that.

  “It’s a drink. Like coffee.” He nodded to my thermos.
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  “It wakes you up,” I said.

  “The opposite, actually. It calms us down.”

  “Why?”

  “Our ancestors were predators. Their most active times were dawn and dusk. Twice a day our brains still release a hormone that makes us restless and hyperalert. Good for hunting, not so good for sitting in a meeting. There’s a chemical in senek that counterbalances that hormone. It helps us relax.”

  “What about those?” I pointed to the tiny pastel balls.

  “Those are just sugar. The different colors are for different flavorings.”

  I scanned the table and saw that no two assortments of sugar pastilles were alike in number or color. “You know everyone’s preferences by heart?”

  “Of course. The senek ritual is novi work. I do it every morning. Tomorrow I’ll show you how to do it, and then we can take turns.” Now that I was listening for it, I could hear that there was something odd about the cadence of Zey’s words. They sounded clipped, hurried, as if he were feeling anxious—or as if he’d had one too many cups of coffee.

  “Aren’t you going to have some senek?” I nodded to the silver container.

  “No!” He sounded shocked. “It goes in order of rank. The khavi is first. I’m last.”

  Once again most of the meeting’s discussion was lost on me, and I passed the time by drinking my cappuccino and watching my crewmates serve themselves senek. The liquid that issued from the silver spout was pale green, the color of absinthe, and accompanied by plumes of steam, but I was too wary of an allergic reaction to breathe deeply when Zey served himself on my right. When I got around to sending a message home, I would have to urge our doctors to put senek at the top of the list of Vardeshi foods to be tested for safety. The ritual was clearly a significant one. And since preparing it was apparently one of my novi duties, I needed to know whether contact with the substance posed any risks. For the time being, I’d have to wear gloves.