Nomad

by William Alexander

  “Not really,” Gabe said. He missed his cane sword, but he’d left it in the shuttlecraft. The border patrol would have confiscated it anyway. “I could throw my blanket at him, or try to make a whip out of shoelaces.”

  “Does your species have any native protections?” Omegan asked. “Tooth and claw? Venom and shell? I hope that you do.”

  “We mostly survive by cleverness,” Gabe admitted.

  Sapi punched his arm several times. “Then be clever!”

  Right, Gabe thought. Sure. Okay. I’ll be clever. I will outwit another alien assassin. I’ll fight him off with blankets and shoelaces.

  He looked around the detention center. One border guard patrolled the hallway between fenced-in kennels of kids. Nothing else moved. Gabe lowered his head before the guard noticed him.

  “Nothing yet,” he told his colleagues. “Kaen?”

  “Nothing,” she said, her eyes still closed. “I see one soldier. Only one. There used to be more, but I’m not sure where they’ve gone. The girl beside me is dreaming about a river and swimming across it. She talks in her sleep.”

  Something tickled the back of Gabe’s brain.

  “You understand her?” he asked. “Kaen, how can you understand her? Did you learn Spanish already?”

  Kaen’s eyes snapped open. “Translation. Someone nearby is using a translator.”

  Gabe woke.

  The border guard was closer now. He wore a stolen Kaen bracelet, and he leaned very far forward as he moved.

  Gabe squinted and saw tentacles.

  “He’s here,” Gabe said in both places. “He’s here, and he’s coming for me first.”

  * * * *

  The translated guard unlatched the gate.

  Gabe stood up.

  Other kids stirred at his feet.

  “¿Qué tienes?” Gus asked.

  “Shush,” Gabe told him. “Stay down. Tranquilo. We aren’t the aliens here.”

  The guard opened the gate. Electricity crackled across the chain-link fence from his fingertips.

  “Greetings, Psain of the Outlast,” Gabe said.

  Psain leaned far forward. “This noise is not speech. I will not recognize the noise as speaking. And no one will threaten our dominion of the lanes.”

  Lightning burned across his hands.

  Gabe tossed his blanket over the reaching hands and shoved. He was pretty sure mylar wouldn’t conduct electricity. It didn’t. The Outlast tried to hold him, to shock and strangle him, but the grasping hands held only the blanket. Gabe slipped through the gate and ran.

  He heard Psain behind him. The translated sound fluctuated between thumping boots and slithering tentacles.

  He heard a loud, metallic thump high above him.

  He heard no alarms or adult voices, and saw the bodies of soldiers slumped against the wall as he ran by.

  A voice shouted from across the warehouse, but he couldn’t understand what it said.

  He closed his eyes and ran harder.

  “Gabe, can you hear me?”

  Kaen’s voice. She sat beside him in the Embassy, in the center of everything. He tried to answer. He was out of breath from running.

  “Find a wide-open space,” she told him.

  “Isn’t one,” he gasped. “Kids and blankets cover most of the floor.”

  “Then make a wide-open space,” she insisted. “Run for the middle. Now. Right now.”

  He ran between fences. Some kids cheered him on, their voices sleepy. Others taunted him. “¡No se escapa para nada, tonto!”

  He reached the center of the warehouse, the widest place between fences. Basic toys like Frisbees and Hula-Hoops lay scattered on the floor between blinking children, barely awake.

  “Everybody move!” Gabe shouted. “¡Muévense todos! ¡Contra la valla!”

  Everybody moved.

  Gabe stood alone in the center, winded. He tried to catch up to his own breath.

  Psain of the Outlast approached slowly over empty blankets and discarded toys.

  Gabe looked for Kaen, but couldn’t find her among all the watching faces.

  He closed his eyes.

  “You’re not alone,” Kaen said beside him. “We’re not alone. Listen.”

  Gabe heard metal bend and tear above him. He opened his eyes.

  The jaguar-shaped shuttlecraft ripped the ceiling aside. It lunged through the hole, landed in a crouch, and opened the jaws of its front hatch. It did not roar. It had no need to roar. Instead it crushed Psain of the Outlast in its jaws.

  24

  Nadia slowly crawled back up to consciousness.

  She heard Rem’s translated voice buzzing in her helmet radio.

  He sounds upset, she thought. I wonder what he’s upset about.

  “Get up,” Rem said, over and over again, insistent.

  Nadia got up. He tried to pull on her arm. She pulled back.

  “Is the stone suit still here?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Rem said. “Right behind you, watching us with that single, massive eye. But it knocked you flat when you tried to talk to it, so let’s keep our distance, please. Come on. Back to the ship we go.”

  “No.” She pulled harder. “I have to try again.”

  Rem said several untranslatable things. Nadia understood them anyway.

  He let go of her arm.

  Nadia turned around. “Where is it?” She wished she could use a clicking noise to echolocate, but the clicks would just bounce inside her helmet.

  “Right in front of you,” Rem told her.

  She reached out one hand, found the Machinae, and leaned forward to touch helmet visors.

  “Greetings.”

  Greetings.

  The meaning of that single word expanded.

  Greetings. We give curious welcome. We do not expect you to answer. We do expect you to answer. We are unsure what to expect.

  Greetings. This has never happened before. Our histories have noted no single event like this one. We are threatened by this interaction. We are intrigued by this interaction.

  Greetings. We recognize you as biological. We recognize you as something that recombines itself to resist entropy. We recognize you as alive. We have not observed or interacted with biological life for immense and unfolding tangles of our history, long before this moment. We are unsure what to make of this moment. We are curious about the possibilities emerging from this moment. Tell us what you make of this moment.

  Nadia listened. She understood. She spoke and made herself understood.

  “I am an ambassador.”

  More words and meanings branched out and away from that single sentence:

  “I am a Great Speaker, an emissary, a messenger, a supplicant. I find ways to communicate with others who are alien to me, and alien to each other. I am part of a galactic conversation. Thank you for joining me in this conversation.”

  More meanings unfolded—much more than Nadia had meant to say at first.

  “I’ve come a long way to speak with you. I’ve endured many dangers to speak with you. I have something to ask you. I have something very important that I need you to do.”

  Oops, she thought. I didn’t mean to say all of that right away. I meant to lead up to it with some proper small talk first.

  The Machinae answered.

  Ambassador. We recognize you as such. You speak for others. Many voices contract and narrow into one single and limited voice. This is strange to us. We prefer to follow an utterance outward, into whole hosts of branching meanings.

  We are delighted that communication is possible between us. We are also disappointed that you want to narrow the possible outcomes of our conversation to one. You can hear a multitude of voices, but you are still single-minded. You pursue a single goal, like a single--celled biological organism searching for food. You want to reduce what this moment might become. You want to make a single request of us rather than remaining curious and open to emergent, unforeseen possibilities and outwardly rippling outcomes. You com
e to us with demands. You want only one thing. Disappointing. Narrowing. Narrow.

  “Wait,” Nadia called out before the Machinae could pull away. More meanings branched and spiraled away from that word. “Please consider what I ask of you. Please hear what it is, at least. Don’t you want to know? Aren’t you curious to find out what brought me here? Doesn’t it interest you to know why my request is so singularly important?”

  No. And yes. We are still disappointed. You are still single-minded. You can speak in many simultaneous directions but you seek to travel only one of them. Tell us if you must. Tell us what single destination you have in mind. We will humor you to hear it.

  Nadia closed her eyes. Think. Stay calm and think. Don’t use lots of words to focus in on the one thing that I want to say. Use few words and branch out from there. They seem to like that better.

  She opened her eyes. “Outlast,” she said, and she tried to put everything she knew about them into that word. Genocides. Fanatics. Conquerors. Invaders. Intruders. Murderers.

  Outlast. We have met them. Many of their ships are here now, moving quickly and with single purpose. The Outlast are even more singular in their focus, more single--minded, more narrow. The Outlast intend to be the only form of life remaining in the universe, but the universe is far more vast than their intentions, and they notice very little of it. Theirs is a closed system, not subject to change. The Outlast make no attempt to speak to us.

  “Stop them,” Nadia said. “That is my single request. Close the lanes to them. Don’t let them get where they’re going. Don’t let them travel so far and so fast.”

  Narrow. Again you ask us to close pathways and contract the possible. We are more interested in opening new and branching possibilities. You ask us to restrict travel. We enjoy travels and migrations. Why should we restrict it in others, whatever their actions? What outcomes of your request might interest us?

  Nadia paid close attention to each expanding ripple of meaning. They aren’t just dismissing my request. This is a genuine question. Why should they care? I need to tell them why they should care. I need to explain to an utterly alien consciousness why genocide is bad. Okay, then.

  “Understood,” she said. “I understand and agree that I came here single-minded. That’s like asking a question when you think you already know the answer. I understand your disappointment. I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”

  Focus, she thought. Get to the point. No, don’t get to the point—expand outward from a single point. Tell them why this is important in all directions at once.

  She didn’t know where to start.

  Then she did know, and resisted that starting point.

  “Cupboard,” she finally said. “Heavy boots outside it. Melting, dirty snow left behind.”

  Her meaning expanded. She told them what it was like to live always unsettled and waiting to disappear. She told them what it was like to watch someone else’s narrow vision of existence contract until it ceased to include you. She made them hear the sound of heavy boots. She shared all the grief that she had turned her back on and ignored: the disappearance of her aunt and uncle, the empty apartment in Moscow, and the decades of lost time between the world she left and the world as it was now. She shared the swirling, destructive absence that she always felt in the center of her chest, the black hole that wound up her own personal galaxy, the source of every single thing she did.

  Nadia realized that this devastating nothingness included its own embassy. She still had one secret hope: Communication is possible. Communication is always possible. Understand this. Understand me. Please understand what I’m trying to tell you.

  The Machinae listened.

  Nadia finished saying what she had to say: “Outlast. They have a narrowing, contracting, single-minded, single-species vision of the universe, and if you do nothing, then you help them create it. If you leave the lanes open to the Outlast, then you shut down all other branching possibilities. But if you shut the lanes to them, then you help create a rich and infinite variety of possible futures.”

  The Machinae pulled away, breaking contact.

  Nadia almost fell over. She stumbled and caught herself on the stone suit in front of her.

  It leaned slowly forward until their helmets touched again.

  Yes.

  That single word expanded to include everything.

  25

  The Envoy scootched around Outlast remains to climb down from the shuttlecraft.

  “Greetings, Ambassador,” it said. “We came as quickly as we could, and tried to find a subtle and unobtrusive way to reach you both. We were ultimately unable to employ any such subtlety. Are you well?”

  “Hi, Envoy,” Gabe said, his voice still winded. “I’m okay. Thank you.”

  He took stock of their surroundings. Most of the other kids kept their distance from the large and deadly metal cat in the middle of the warehouse, but about a third of the crowd drew cautiously closer.

  Gabe closed his eyes. “Kaen?”

  “Here,” she said. “I’m here. I’ll find you. We’re crawling through broken fences and opening each gate and small kennel.”

  Gabe sat on the warehouse floor. He hugged his knees.

  Then he stood up, moved through the crowd, and tried to keep everyone calm.

  * * * *

  Every few minutes Gabe closed his eyes to glimpse the Embassy.

  Sapi punched him joyfully in the shoulder, several times.

  Kaen looked distracted and distant. She paid more attention to the jailbreak in progress than her entangled self.

  Omegan spoke up, his voice hesitant. “I am relieved that Psain is dead. But others will come. Ask the Kaen fleet for asylum and evacuate your world, as many as you can. Hurry. Our warships speed through the lanes.”

  “Untrue,” said Nadia Antonovna Kollontai. She pulled up a wisp of cloud to sit beside them, and kept both of her eyes tightly shut. “Well, part of that was true. Outlast warships do speed through the lanes in huge and overwhelming numbers—but none of them will ever leave. We have revoked their visas and travel permits. Thanks to you all for letting me borrow snippets of your signal to braid together one of my own. Not that you noticed. And please spread the word. The Outlast will never come conquering again.” She brushed cloud wisps from her knees and waved. “Bye for now.”

  * * * *

  Nadia gathered herself to herself after enjoying that dramatic disappearance.

  “Time to go,” she said.

  “Very much time to go,” Rem agreed. Nadia heard his fingers and toes tap against Barnacle’s interior walls, communicating. “The bubble around us dissolved, so we’re free to go. But lots and lots of Outlast are hurtling through the soupy space outside. Their ships are better at moving through this dimension than we are. They’ve had much more practice. We should be leaving now.”

  “Not quite yet,” Nadia said, unconcerned. “Let’s go talk to the prisoner.”

  Rem didn’t want to talk to the prisoner. Neither did Qomm or Watti, the warriors who stood constant watch outside his stasis cell. But Nadia insisted, and time was short.

  “I will not hear you,” the prisoner said, translated voice stubborn and absolute in its refusal.

  “I will be heard,” Nadia answered. “Listen. This is your only opportunity to listen. You will never leave the lanes. You—all of you—are about to become as alone as you’ve always imagined. Congratulations. I hope you find something interesting to do with yourselves from now on, until the universe collapses. You could try to conquer the Machinae. I don’t recommend it, but I am amused by that idea. It would not go well for you. I suggest learning how to speak with them instead.”

  “There is no speech or understanding outside the Outlast,” the prisoner insisted.

  “Have fun talking to yourselves, then,” Nadia said. “We’ll be tossing your stasis cell through the airlock now. Your warships will come pick you up. Or else they won’t. Either way, I have delivered my message.”

&n
bsp; Nadia turned away and left, one hand trailing along the smooth shell wall. She heard Rem catch up to her.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “We’ll need to bring Qomm and Watti home,” Nadia said. “We should rendezvous with their fleet.”

  “That brings us back to your own home system.” Rem sounded reluctant to point this out. Nadia felt tremendously relieved to hear that reluctance. “Will I be dropping you off too?”

  “Not unless you insist on it.” Nadia pressed her full palm against the shell. She felt warmth and welcome there. “It’s not the same world as the one I left. I’d rather go looking for bread crumbs.”

  * * * *

  Kaen finally found the center of the warehouse through the maze of gates and fences.

  She took the bracelet from Psain’s arm. It was still intact—both the bracelet and the arm—though the rest of Psain was less intact. She raised her translated voice to address everyone.

  “I am Ambassador Citlalli of the Kaen, and this ship is mine. I offer all of you asylum among the Kaen. If you have no people here, no one to look for you, no one to find, then come travel with me. If you wish to stay on this world, then take water with you and start walking. Look out for each other. If you would rather travel between worlds, among those who understand the rights of migration and nomadic hospitality, then wait in the hills outside. I have sent for transport. More ships will land here soon.”

  Mutters and whispers spread through the gathered crowd. Most sounded nervous, reluctant, and confused, but many others were hopeful, curious, and able to cope with their own astonishment.

  Gus and Tavo came to stand beside Gabe. “How do we even get to the hills outside?” Gus asked.

  “Just follow us,” Gabe told him.

  The shuttle moved across the floor. Chain-link fences broke like cobwebs. Its passage crumbled the outer wall and flattened the razor wire beyond it.

  Gabe and Kaen walked out into the desert. He looked up. He saw neighboring stars burn alone. He saw distant stars burn together across the horizontal sweep of the galaxy viewed sideways. He looked behind them to see kids leaving in clumps and clusters. Teenagers carried infants. Most of the kids scattered in every other direction, but some young nomads—Gus and Tavo among them—trailed behind the two ambassadors and followed where they led.