___
And it's a beautiful Landfall Night, in the end. The children make little presentations to the visitors from Terran Central, and one of them shows off a working scale model of a space elevator. The original mission crew sing their old embarkation songs. Evan nibbles on hydroponic fruit on sticks. When the evening is wearing long and the festivities are almost over, Magnus consents to being recorded for the colony recruitment message. "We can't offer you riches," she says, brusque and uncompromising as ever. "We can't offer you palatial accommodations or reliable plumbing. Only the sincerity of our need for you, and the sight of another world's sky. I promise you, it's worth the trip."
"I believe you," Evan says, into the silence that follows, and Magnus ducks her head in embarrassment. Evan smiles at her: her friend, Dr Prathiba Sengupta Magnus, who showed them fear in a handful of Martian dust, and promise, and beauty, and ambition, and will be laid to rest beneath these red-ochre sands; who has been holding a block of grilled tofu between two fingers for at least half an hour and probably ought to go to bed.
"Come on, mission commander," she says, and Magnus smiles, rolling after her. "You know, next year, it'll be a much bigger party."
"I hate everything," Magnus says, still clutching the tofu, her face alight with righteous misanthropy, and with the gleam of a thousand stars.
Birbal and the sadhu
There was a little girl in Akbar’s kingdom who had suffered greatly during the wars of conquest. Her parents had been soldiers - volunteers, for even in the darkest times Akbar rarely conscripted - and had gone from Earth to join the fleet near a star called Rā's al-Hamal. But before they reached there the ship had been overtaken by dacoits, who had been roaming between the fixed stars for unarmed craft (for the armament for the ship would have been provided by the armies’ quartermasters). The little girl’s parents were killed, and she too would have been killed had her mother not taught her the combination key for an escape pod, and how the device was to be operated, and how to be strong and go on though she was deathly afraid.
The escape pod was picked up by the outermost fringe of the fleet formation, and the little girl brought to a military medical station. Her injuries were treated and a message was sent to Earth to whatever relatives could be found. After some time the little girl’s chacha came to the medical station to take her home to Agra, and although it was a time of great sadness for the family it was also a time of gratitude. Back in the city of her people the little girl took prasad at the puja for her returning and tasted sweetness amid her grief.
But the seasons changed: the summer came, and the monsoon, and she did not speak again.
Her chacha was not lacking in means, and he loved her very much, the daughter of his oldest brother, and he took her to the finest doctors. And those doctors said, a young, healthy body takes a little time to heal, but a mind grown old before its due time will take longer. Her chacha understood that he must be patient, but he was uneasy, and wished there were something else he could do. Which was why when a sadhu came to the district, and spoke of his great power of healing the afflicted, the little girl and her chacha were among those who attended him. The sadhu called her forwards for his blessing, his hands outstretched. The little girl went to him, and for the first time in a year she spoke.
“I know you," she said. “You are the dacoit who killed my parents."
“No, bacchha, no," her chacha said, torn between his joy at her speaking and his horror at what she said.
“I am a holy man," the sadhu said. “The child is mistaken."
“No," said the little girl, in front of all those gathered there. “I am not mistaken. This man is a pirate and a badmash."
The sadhu had disciples who followed him in his journeys from town to town, and they came to the house where the little girl and her chacha lived. They told him that he must look to his niece, and see that she caused no further trouble.
Her chacha did not know what to do. But his wife, the little girl’s chachi, knew that such a thing must be settled in a higher court than gossip and rumour, and so it happened that the family came to Akbar’s durbar, to explain their quandary, and ask for counsel.
“Children lie," said Abdul, a courtier among the navaratnas, whose son had troubled him of late. “They lie often, huzoor. They speak of their fine results in their examinations, and then their teacher comes in the evening with a frown on his long face and a plan for remedial instruction."
“You are a good father, Abdul," Akbar said. “And this little child who comes to me for help has no such father, no mother, no sister. I must be all of those to her."
Akbar dismissed the navaratnas and the attendants, and took the little girl into the gardens where the sun was too bright for secrets. “Child," Akbar said. “It is said that you have told your chacha that this holy man is not holy, but killed your mother and father, and took their ship, and left you drifting. Is that so?"
The little girl said, “Yes, that is so."
Akbar was satisfied, and returned to the durbar.
But matters could not rest there, for the sadhu had also come to Fatehpur Sikri to complain that his name was being slandered, and to demand hearing and remedy, as was his right. So Akbar came to Birbal and said, “Birbal, a little girl does not come to her emperor in deception, and a holy man should be honest in all things. But they cannot both be speaking the truth. What shall I do?"
And Birbal said, “Leave it with me, huzoor."
Now in these times of peace the vast phalanxes of Akbar’s armies had been disbanded, and the attention of the empire brought to agriculture and art. But women and men with lifetimes of service do not come down to earth so easily. Old soldiers, who had come to Fatehpur Sikri in honourable retirement, nevertheless rose before the sun in the winter and took their exercise on the training grounds. Without constant exercise and drill, their muscles and bones would have atrophied in space. Here on the ground they had not cast off that habit. When Rani Birbal came to them and spoke of a little girl whose parents might have been their brother and sister in arms, they were pleased to assist.
On the fifth day after the arrival of the sadhu at Fatehpur Sikri, he came to request audience with Akbar, to once again plead that he was but a holy man who had spent all his days on the soil of his native land. In the durbar the morning’s dispatches were being read and the clerks from the imperial treasury were delivering their accounting. Akbar’s attention would be occupied for some time.
When the sadhu turned away, to reprise his request for audience at a later hour, an alarm was heard throughout the durbar. It was a piercing alarm with a sharpness of rise and fall, distinctive so that it could not be mistaken for anything but what it was.
Akbar, who had spent her life in space, put a hand to her left shoulder. The navaratna Abdul, who had been on the flagship as a young man, put his hand to his. The little girl put her hand to her left shoulder and her chacha put his to his. In the exercise yard the old soldiers made the same gesture together as one. They were each reaching for an emergency air supply, although none had it to reach for. If you have been in space, you have heard the sound of a depressurisation alarm. Though it may be the dust of Agra beneath your feet and this world’s sky above your head, your body remembers what it must do.
Rani Birbal, who had never been to space, did not make this gesture. Neither did the remaining navaratnas. And neither did the little girl’s chachi, nor the dispatch riders from the south, nor the accountants from the treasury.
But the sadhu did. And although he tried to remove his hand from the position which had betrayed him, it was too late.
“I see you have left the soil of your native land," Akbar said, after the sound of the alarm died away. “And I see that you have lied about more than this. Thank you, Birbal."
The sadhu, who was not a sadhu, was taken away from the court. Once he had been revealed in this way his disciples ceased to follow him, and people came from the villages around the city to report that the
y had been swindled by him rather than healed. The little girl returned home with her chacha and chachi. Although she was never as bright and happy as a child as she had been before her parents went into space, she was grateful ever after to Akbar, who had been mother and sister to her when she had neither of her own. And for some time afterwards Rani Birbal was obliged to take her exercise in the yard with the old soldiers, who thought she must learn discipline as well as wit.
Archana and Chandni
“Your sister is such a sweetie-pie girl," Manju Auntie was saying, sticking a pin in Archana’s middle and then hissing between her teeth. “Oof, beta, hilo mat, this all is coming down." She undraped the sari entirely and Archana resigned herself to standing in petticoat and blouse in the middle of a public bathroom. “She will be getting married next, hai na?"
“Not for a long time," Archana said. “Owww, Auntie, the pin—don’t, not there—ow. Okay. She’s out on deep-space exploration. But she always says. . . ." She trailed off before she could finish the sentence about Tara-didi’s breathless missives all about Sasha this and Sasha that. Sasha was from Russia and had beautiful cheekbones and was also Tara’s ship’s chief engineer, not that that fact had come up all that often in Tara’s letters. “Right now it’s just me."
“Ah, you," Auntie said. “No, no, beta, it is Chandni I am meaning. She is a sweet girl. Not at all modern! She will drape your sari at her marriage even, ha."
“Chandni?" Archana said, confused, and then the floor lurched under her feet, so Auntie squeaked and Archana hung on to the faucets for dear life; when the world righted again she pulled off the petticoat and blouse with no further ceremony and fished a shift dress out of her bag. “Come on, Auntie," she said, “they all saw me in my finery, now all they care about is the food"—and then ran for it before there could be any argument.
Out in the space of the corridor it was quiet, except for the soft echoes of the welcome-to-the-wedding party drifting along the ventilation shafts. Definitely the sound of a lot of munching going on. “You," Archana said, “are such a cow."
“Aww, didi!" Chandni appeared at her left shoulder, as she always did. “You’re so mean."
“And tipping Manju Auntie into the urinal wasn’t mean?"
“There wasn’t a urinal," Chandni said, sulkily. “I had them all ripped out, they make me smell. And I wouldn’t have let you fall."
“Huh," Archana said, not quite convinced. “And why’d you do it, anyway? Can you even get married? Like"—she warmed to the topic—“with a giant baraat and everything?"
“It’d have to be light-years across." Chandni frowned and bounced her hair over her shoulders. Such beautiful hair, Archana thought. Chandni looked young for her age and always would. “It’s not the same for us. Though I’m sure I’d look nice in red."
“You mean, you"—Archana pointed to Chandni’s pretty pink anarkali and the roses in her hair—“or you?"
That time she pointed to the wall, to indicate the exploratory mining vessel Chandragrahan. Both Archana’s baby sister, though. She suspected Auntie had just forgotten.
“Both, I think," Chandni said thoughtfully. “Later on can I try on your lehenga? The one for the reception day?"
“Do you really want to do that?" Archana asked, surprised. “I thought you were—you know. You’re a ship, kiddo."
Chandni glared at her. On her baby face, it looked more adorable than anything. “Yes," she muttered, “but I’m not at all modern."
“Well, then, of course you can," Archana said, amused, and they went back down to the party.
___
Lupita was not on board. First, it was Archana’s father who had been doubtful—“Beta, it does not seem right"—and then Supriya Auntie had made noises like chee, chee, and after that Chandni had refused to open the docking bay doors.
“Not till afterwards," she’d said when Archana complained, and later, in the privacy of the room they were sharing for the wedding festivities, she added: “Dad doesn’t like it! And I can’t. You know."
Archana took a deep breath. “Chandni, we’ve been living together three years."
“I know," Chandni said, conciliatory, but the docking bay doors stayed firmly shut and Archana gave in.
“Just a week," she said brightly to the screen, “and it’s been two days already, it’ll be fine! Christ, you look so hot and I miss you so much, let’s run away to Oort Station and elope."
Lupita twirled in her dress for Archana’s benefit. “That bad, huh?" she asked, laughing. Her voice was crystal-clear, as though she were right there in the room, or as though someone somewhere were paying special attention to the quality of the connection. “And tomorrow’s the blessing ceremony, right? We’ll see each other then."
“For, like, five minutes," Archana said, “and there’ll be some guy chanting Sanskrit at us."
“If that’s what’s on offer I’ll take it," Lupita said. “Hey, is that your room? What’s with the" —she squinted and came closer so for a second the screen was entirely her nose—“florals?"
Archana looked at the pastel extravaganza walls with a sigh. “Chandni," she said. “Every room I’ve ever shared with her has ended up looking like this after a while. Before you ask"—she held up a hand—“yes, it’s a ship, yes, there’s a tonne of space for all of us. But Mum thought it was important we shared a room growing up, for socialisation."
“Chandni’s or yours?" Lupita stepped back. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. How are you holding up?"
“Urgh," Archana said, morose. “All the aunties spent hours draping me. And undraping me. And pretending not to understand me when I spoke English. And complaining about my complexion."
“You have a lovely complexion."
“Shut up, what the hell even is a complexion."
“I don’t know, but I’m sure you have a lovely one." Lupita grinned at her. “See you tomorrow, honey."
“Yeah," Archana said, and the screen went black. After a minute Chandni sidled in, still immaculate in the same pink anarkali.
“I’d have given you longer," she said, “but Naya is a bugger, na." Naya was the orbital station where Lupita was staying. “Don’t you know there’s important traffic on the channel, blah blah. This was important."
Chandni really did believe that these goodnight chats with Lupita were important, Archana thought, trying to take comfort in it, but that night the bed seemed empty and cold. Chandni was curled up at the bottom of it and taking up three extra pillows, and that was nice enough, but she gave off no heat.
___
There was a package from Tara-didi in the morning, delivered via orbital station pickup with a note stuck to the outside. Should be opaque to little sister’s sensors, she’d written. Us bad girls need to stick together. Archana only had time for a quick peek at something pointy-pink with four speed settings before Dabbu Auntie barged in to call her to the beautician. “She has come from Naya Bharat!" Dabbu Auntie announced. “To thread your eyebrows! You want to get married with those so-shaggy caterpillars? Come!"
“Auntie," Archana said, “Lupita already knows what my eyebrows look like. And Chandni can probably do them better, and less painfully, with a narrow-beam laser"—but Dabbu Auntie clapped her hands and strode forth, and once in the beautician’s chair Archana was poked and prodded and seared (with portable, not ship-mounted, lasers) while her mother wrung her hands and tried to be diplomatic and encouraging.
“Archana always had such different interests, na?" she said to Dabbu Auntie, who only sniffed, and the beautician made a noise like aaaaaie! at Archana’s bitten-down fingernails.
“That means butch," Archana said helpfully, but no one was listening to her, and later, she kept her voice soft when she asked: “Mum, would you have liked it better if I’d been into this"—a gesture at the rows of nail polishes on offer, prismatic, sugar shimmer, and classic red—“stuff? When I was growing up, I mean."
“Married woman now! Should take more care," Dabbu Auntie said, and M
um just looked apologetic, so that seemed to be that.
___
Chandni had gone all out for the mehndi party, decorating her observation deck with streamers that trailed sparkles and changed colour with reference to the elliptic plane. The girls from grad school had brought bottles of bubbly and put on music, and no one had told any of them that they wouldn’t be able to touch anything while they waited for their mehndi to dry, but the girls who were still waiting held glasses to the lips of the ones who’d had it done, and Archana had to admit it was pretty fun.
“Thanks for inviting us all," said Lily excitedly; she’d been in Archana’s first-year class on Structural Engineering for Interstellar Mining Operations, and they’d made friends originally because she reminded Archana of Chandni. “I mean, this is just super, isn’t it? And I’ve read up loads on Indian weddings, I don’t want to put my foot in it by mistake. Is it true that the night before the wedding the bride’s girlfriends steal the groom’s shoes? I guess"—she grinned—“the other bride’s shoes."
Before Archana could reply, an arm was put around her shoulders. “Arré, bacchha," said Supriya Auntie, “time for talk-shalk later! Mehndi time. You want to look beautiful for your wedding, no?"
Where Mum had got the mehndi-walla and his three minions out here beyond Ceres, Archana had no idea, but she went along with it quietly enough as she was put in a chair and told to extend all extremities. The mehndi-minions chattered in Hindi while they produced cones of the stuff, doing beautiful intricate patterns across her fingertips, her palms, her ankles and wrists. It was customary to hide the beloved one’s name somewhere in the design: Archana wondered if they’d left enough room for ‘Lupita.’
“Mum," she said in English, “I don’t think they know I understand them. They keep talking about how giant my feet are. Also I have to pee."
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