The Stars Change

by Mary Anne Mohanraj

  "I'm glad Satish didn't live to see this. Rigellian flu, you know, three years ago. This is going to break her mother's heart." The captain shook his head fiercely, flecks of ash flying out of his mass of curly grey-black hair as he did. And then he turned, finally, to face Gaurav. "You have something to report?"

  Gaurav tried to hold his gaze firm, meeting the captain's intimidating stare. More than a few young cadets had fallen apart while trying to report. But he was better than that; Kris had always believed he was better than that. "Yes, captain. It started when I got a call from Chieri Rasvati. She lives in—"

  The captain cut him off. "I know who she is. Your old partner had a weakness for her. That's the sort of thing that gets a good cop in trouble."

  How dare the captain say that about Kris? Kris, who had laid down his life for the job, for the people of this city. A flare of rage raced up Gaurav's spine, and he fought the sudden urge to bite the captain's head off. Literally. It wouldn't help matters any. "Yes sir. She'd had a…" he hesitated, not sure how to put it. Client? Congregant? "…a visitor. A kid who said he'd been part of the group that set off the missile."

  Raj's gaze sharpened. "Tell me everything. Every fucking detail."

  Gaurav did his best, though memory blurred as a wave of exhaustion hit him. It had been a long day, and a long night; his body wanted to curl up in a warm spot and go to sleep. But he fought through it, giving as complete a report as he could. But to no avail.

  The captain shook his head at the end of Gaurav's story, interest visibly draining from his face. "Some drugged-out kid says he did it? You’re bringing me a report of devadasi pillow talk? There have been dozens of people claiming responsibility for the rocket, and all of them are more credible than that one. Maybe if you had the kid himself… No, I can't spend personnel on it. We're stretched too thin as it is, most of my people are half-asleep, and I can't risk calling directly for government help. Who knows what the fuck we'd get. I know some of the Parliamentarians are big Human First donors."

  "But captain—"

  Raj sighed. "I’ll send it up through official channels, okay? But the lines are jammed with reports, and I’m just a precinct captain. Unless you know someone more important, who can push it to the top of the queue, I’m betting no one’s even going to look at my report tonight. Have you seen the net? Did you know the Andressi are threatening to hurl a ship into the Venturi homeworld? No one believes they’re crazy enough to try it, or that they would get through if they did, but that’s the level of crisis we’re dealing with.”

  Gaurav was shaking with frustration. Send the report up through channels? Was that really all the police would do?

  “That's it, Gaurav. Let it go." The captain's voice, inexplicably, gentled. "Your shift was over hours ago. Go home, if your home's still standing. Get some sleep."

  "You said my name." Gaurav hadn't meant to say that out loud—he was just so startled. In the years he'd been working at the station, the captain had never called him by name. It was always Lizard-man, or Scaly, or Tailless. That one didn't even make sense—his people hadn't had tails for thousands of years. Why make a point of calling attention to it? Monkeys had had tails once too. But regardless, the captain had always addressed him with an insult, usually linked to his species. Never his actual name.

  The captain shrugged and turned away, his eyes going back to Velma. "Hell of a night, kid. When the civilians go nuts, cops have to stick together. Now go to fucking sleep. We'll need you in the morning."

  "Good night, sir." Gaurav slipped out the door, his head spinning. The world was upside-down, and he couldn't tell who the good guys and bad guys were anymore. If only he could talk to Kris, for just five minutes. That would be enough.

  Gaurav stood outside the hospital, in the midst of a crowd of angry, anxious people. Some were crying. Others were shouting, enraged, or trying to be. Trying to submerge their fear in a sea of anger. If you were loud enough, you might not feel the terror. It was cold, much too cold, but at least in the middle of the crowd the wind couldn't get to you as much.

  The others would be at Amara's parents' house by now. Gaurav had choices—he could go join them. He could try to find Kimmie. He could go home.

  His boss had sent him home, and home was tempting. It was just another shitty apartment, but the curving grey walls would be comforting. It would be warm; Gaurav paid extra to keep the heat turned up. And Kris was there—his ashes, at least. Kris had no immediate relatives, and his more distant ones hadn't laid claim. And so they'd come to his partner to deal with. Most cops would have scattered them in the ocean, or the jungle, or one of the city gardens marked for such things. Maybe Gaurav would do that too, someday, but right now he liked having Kris close enough to talk to at night.

  He could go there right now, talk it all over with him—but home was ten minutes away. Ten minutes might be critical tonight. Gaurav checked his net connection—1:45. Still hours left, but with no idea what to do, or how much time it might take.

  Home, Amara's house, Kimmie. There was another choice. He could leave. Go to the spaceport, hire a ship. The ships were all grounded, but he was sure some were leaving nonetheless. He couldn't afford passage, but he was a cop. He could access the banks and take out as much money as he needed. If Gaurav showed up at the port with his pockets stuffed with hard credits, someone would take him on board. He'd be a criminal then, and they'd come after him. But there was a war on. People got lost in a war, and how much manpower could they spare to chase down a thief when mass murder threatened? And once he was out there, in the stars, maybe he could do some good. There would be people on his home planet who would be scared, might even be under threat. He hadn't seen his parent-clutch in so long.

  It was a pleasant fantasy, and on another night, Gaurav might have lingered with it. But tonight, there was no time—the plan was born, considered, and died within moments. There was no time for fantasy tonight. Just facts—there was a threat to the peace, official channels had failed, and Gaurav couldn't run away. Wouldn't. If you take an action, you must also accept the consequences of that action; that was another of Kris's sayings. Gaurav couldn't live with the consequences of running away from the people he'd sworn to protect.

  There was only one choice, really. Amara might or might not be successful in enlisting her mother's help. Regardless, they'd need Kimmie, or someone like her. The thunder was closer now, and the rain pelted him with icy needles. Wind whipped through the street, fierce enough now to quiet the frenzied crowd, sending them huddling against the walls of the building, pressing in, as best they could, through the hospital doors. He wasn't sure the flyer could take this weather, but right now, it didn't have to. 1:52. Kimmie lived just a few blocks away; he didn't know if she could help, or would. He barely knew the girl; he didn't even know if he would have thought of her, if he hadn't seen her earlier that night. But he had to try.

  Letting out a heartfelt groan, Gaurav tensed his muscles, and headed out in a stumbling run.

  Dayan out there, in the stars, and she here, stuck in this bed. Cold enough tonight that Uma has pulled the covers up over her body, dressed in its sleep sari. He is flying and she is burrowed deep, a swathe of white linen around her, like a shroud. White for widows, and she isn't a widow, technically, is defiant enough that she wears colors loudly, proudly, during the day. But at night she can't keep it up. At night she surrenders to widow's white and the cold comfort it offers. That he is gone, and there is no need to pretend otherwise, no use in it. He is gone, her husband, her god, her life. Never again to circle the sacred fire with her, wrists bound together by silk, pledging a renewal of love and marriage. Never again to gently criticize her cooking, flirt with her friends, fall asleep on the sofa with chores left undone, and she should be grateful for that, but no. She just wants her husband back, flaws and all. Years now and still she is unreconciled. Her sisters tell her she has too stubborn a heart. Yes. Fine. But how cold must a heart be, that it could abandon all hope of love's ret
urn? Of lips bending to touch lips, of hands unwrapping her sari, releasing her from its confines. Here, in bed under the sheets, it is too difficult to unwind, but at least she can pull the fabric up, baring her bent legs, slide it up, up to her thighs, her hips. Delicate linen sliding over aging skin. Even if their gods had allowed it, she couldn't afford the genetic treatments to keep that skin young for a few decades longer. Not that it would be true life extension—no one had managed much of that. But the appearance of youth could be maintained. If Uma had the money, despite her beliefs, the anti-aging therapies would be hard to resist; she is vain enough to dye her hair, after all. At sixty-three, it still falls in a tangled black cloud to her waist, black as a starless night. In the morning, she will brush and braid it; again, that pride. That no one can see the holes in her heart. That pride will destroy her in the end. Because when grief rises up in a sucking midnight tide, a wave that crashes over her and drags her under, she does not call for help. Not her sisters, not her daughters, not the temple congregants. She does not call her few remaining friends, the ones who ignore how sharp her tongue has become since Dayan flew up and away. Uma battles it out alone in the night, her thighs wet and open, one hand buried between them and the other balled up against her mouth. Holding back the sounds, the cries of pleasure mixed with bitter pain. Every night she dies for lack of him, her husband, her god. Lost to the empty sky and lost to her. While she lies bound tight as an antique mummy in their desolate marriage bed.

  Part III: The City Divided

  Omnis Civitas Contra Se Divisa:

  All the city divided against itself will not remain.

  Slowly We Gather

  "But why did you think I could help you?" Uma frowned at them, and Narita tried to stifle her flinch. After Amara had left her so abruptly, Narita had blamed everyone, but especially Uma.

  She'd known that Amara's mother disliked her, or at least disapproved of her. How could she not know that? The woman, scrupulously polite, offered samosas and sambar but never a smile. Uma hadn't known that Narita and Amara were dating—or at least, Narita had thought she hadn't known. Now, she wasn't so sure. She remembered Uma as a colorful, energetic figure. But Narita didn't know this woman standing in front of her, in white sari, tired brown skin, mad tangles of black hair. Her cheekbones jagged, cheeks sunken. Limbs long and thin and sharp; an artist's chiaroscuro representation of war and grief.

  Amara said, "Amma, please. You know everyone; you organize every temple event. I think I’ve figured out some of what we need, but we need people to implement it. Both people with skills and without. If Gaurav's friend can get the gate open, then we can get to the main corridor leading to the computer lab. I'm not sure what will work best, but we thought it would be better to avoid a full-on assault. Chieri suggested sleeping gas, pumped in through the vents. But we'd need sleeping gas, or the components for it, and something to block up the vents, and ideally some gas masks." Amara's voice getting faster, higher-pitched; she was starting to panic. Narita stifled a pang of sympathy. "It's all very complicated, and we only have five hours left. If that. We can't be sure they'll really wait until dawn. They could set off the missiles any minute, so we have to act fast. We may just have to storm in there, without weapons even, and hope that a huge crowd of bodies will be enough to stop them."

  Uma said, her voice trembling, "But why do you want me to do it? Why ask me, ask our friends to risk their lives? Who are these people you're spending time with, kunju? I don't like it. Devadesis and policemen. And this one." That was directed to Narita, although Uma still wouldn't look her in the eye. "These are not our sort of people. You know mixing only leads to trouble. Look at your uncle, married a white girl, and see what it's gotten him?"

  "Amma!" Amara was blushing, Narita knew, was hideously embarrassed, but there was nothing Narita could do to make this easier for her. She wasn't sure she wanted to anyway. If Amara had been braver, a decade ago, Narita's relationship with Uma might be very different now.

  Uma said, tiredly, "Go home to your husband, kunju. He must be so worried about you, out on terrible night like this. You have a husband, you should be grateful."

  Amara hesitated a moment, and then said, her voice drained of expression, "He cheated on me."

  Narita hadn't known that, had avoided asking Amara anything personal since she'd arrived on her doorstep. But she wasn't surprised. When she'd heard that Amara had married, Narita had followed—no, stalked—Amara's husband, Rajiv. For months, actually, trying to figure out what he had that she hadn't; Narita had followed him from class to class, and all she'd discovered was that he was popular with his students, male and female, human and alien. Rajiv was a charismatic, entertaining lecturer, and he gave easy A's. That was apparently enough to justify a certain amount of rather obvious lechery—none of the students seemed to mind his off-color jokes and lewd Shakespearean references. Apparently it had gone further.

  Uma shrugged. "So?"

  Amara's eyes sparked then, and her voice sharpened. "So I left him."

  "Foolish girl." Uma's own voice empty, dispassionate. Like it was echoing from the depths of a very black hole.

  Amara stepped forward, took her mother’s limp hand in both of her own hands. "Amma, please."

  Uma sighed. "You will give me no peace, I can see that. Perhaps we will all die tomorrow. I will send your message out."

  Amara hugged her then, quick and hard. "Priority, Amma. Wake them up, please."

  The small woman shrugged again. "Why not? What does it matter if any of them talk to me ever again?"

  Narita looked around the room, bewildered. Was this was what Amara had had in mind? Uma must have a tremendous amount of clout, because when she'd sent a priority message at 1:30 in the morning to over a hundred people, they'd all shown up on her doorstep within half an hour. Okay, not quite all—a few had put pillows over their echoing heads, determinedly ignoring the ringing emergency alert. A handful had ignored the call, but the rest were here, crowded into the small house, spilling out, despite the increasingly bad weather, into the tiny sunken garden. Young and old—squalling babies on the arm of tired parents, grandfathers and great-grandfathers leaning on canes, a cross-section of unmodified humanity, brown-skinned, colorfully dressed, and loud.

  Narita didn't think there were more than half-a-dozen people who had ever given her priority override access to their net connections; it was an in-case-of-emergencies, like your emergency contact at the doctor, and she'd never known anyone to actually use the option. But this woman—she had priority access to her whole temple congregation. Maybe it wasn't so surprising after all, that Uma's huband had taken himself off to the sky to commune with their gods; clearly, in her own very different way, Uma was equally committed to their religion, or at least to its community.

  Everyone was so warm to Amara, and by extension, to Narita. Call me aunty, call me uncle, was the refrain of the hour. They kept touching Narita—pats on the shoulder, two-handed handshakes, kisses on both cheeks, and more than a few hard embraces. She could remember the last time she had been touched by so many people in such a short space of time. They treated her like family—and as Amara had explained in a hasty whisper, they actually were her family. The community intermarried often, and as a result, almost everyone here was related to Amara by blood or marriage.

  In Narita's own family, that would have meant they all looked alike; humods tended to choose to emphasize family resemblances in their children. Similar hair color, eye color, face and body shapes. All the women in her own family were tall and slender, small-breasted and small-hipped. Amara used to tease her, that Narita didn't have enough curves to wear a sari properly—you need breasts and bottom to look good in a sari! She'd been teasing, but it had still stung a bit, and maybe she had meant it to, since Amara spent a lot of time fretting about her own shape. Narita hadn't chosen to look the way she did, but now, looking around this sea of misshapen bodies, every man and woman shorter than she was, Narita couldn't help but be grateful
for her parents' choices.

  In her medical training, even though she was specializing in aliens, Narita had seen plenty of unmodified humans. But it was different, being crowded in with them, with the flesh and blood and stink of them. God, they stank; it was hard to breathe, even with the filters going full blast. At least the stench of unmodified human flesh was being covered up, somewhat, by the rising scents of onion, ginger, and garlic, mustard and cumin seed, all tempered in rich ghee.

  Amazingly, in the midst of this crisis, they were cooking.

  Despite the cacophony of voices and the crowding, it was oddly peaceful in Uma’s house. Perhaps it was the lack of screens. At her parents’ penthouse, the west screen wall would be on right now, full display showing a dozen different news channels, playing the video of the missile atack over and over. Her mother would be awake, even at this hour, online with her friends, voyeuristically rehashing the details. Not frightened, of course—they would all be sure nothing like this could ever happen to them. More excited; it was all so thrilling, wasn’t it?

  Narita could find a screen somewhere in here, watch the video herself, but it felt wrong. She’d called into the university hospital earlier, not long after Jequith arrived at her apartment, just to see if they could use her. But they had plenty of fully-trained doctors working on the non-human patients that had come in; they quote “didn’t want a trainee cluttering the place up” unquote. It must be chaos there. Narita had spent time in the Warren, training at the smaller clinic there. An invaluable opportunity to get some field experience treating non-humans, and in her months there, she had assisted in treating all sorts. Her favorites might be the Rymisians, who never seemed to travel in packs smaller than thirty or so, which would have been overwhelming, if they weren’t the size of human three-year-olds. Actually, they were still overwhelming, but they were also so damn cute, it didn’t matter. She supposed it was a survival mechanism—their soft fur, chirping voices, big eyes. Not a survival mechanism that would have helped them against a rocket attack.