Not for Use in Navigation

by Iona Datt Sharma

  "Yes," Meg said, discomfited, "but I'd forgotten" – and cut herself off by yawning hugely. She meant to keep her eye on the bright star all the long drive down to the town, and would have done, if she hadn't fallen asleep embarrassingly against the window, her lips leaving condensation kisses on the glass.

  ___

  "Excuse me, may I come in?"

  The figure in the bed turned over, and Meg had his file to hand, knew every biographical detail about him including his date of birth, but was still surprised at the degree of youth in his face. "Oh, hello," he said, with mild surprise. "Who are you?"

  "I've come from London," Meg said, suddenly awkward, "from Whitehall, you know" – and in lieu of any better way to express it, touched the Halley crystal at her collarbones.

  "Oh," he said, “I’d hoped to meet my first representative of the department while wearing trousers" – and Meg laughed, grateful for the release in tension, and sat down in the chair next to the bed.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr Ansari-Campbell," she said, reaching out a hand and then thinking better of it. There was a drip running into his arm and a suggestion that his skin was not usually so washed out and distant from brown, but nothing glazed about his expression.

  “Firstly," he said, “I don’t actually have my doctorate yet. Secondly" – this with a weary resignation – “call me Leonard, I meant it about the trousers."

  “Meghna Tripathi," she said. “I’m one of the civil servants from Interstellar Exploration. How are you, Leonard?"

  "I've been better." He rolled over again, and then something seemed to occur to him; Meg watched the look of dread appear from nowhere on his face. "You're not here to tell me I'm being replaced?"

  Meg shifted in the chair. "I'd rather not have to do that." She hesitated, then asked, "Can you tell me how you are? I mean, really."

  "Apparently," Leonard said, "I was in that train carriage for eight hours before they got me out of there. I don't remember it. They tell me I hit my head and had a seizure of some sort."

  "Oh, my goodness." Meg leaned back in her chair, and wondered if he had been the passenger she had seen rescued from the last carriage. "I'm so sorry."

  He looked at her levelly. "Well?"

  Meg let out a breath. "We don't want to replace you," she said. "It will be easier to delay the launch than replace you."

  "You'd do that for me?" He looked hopeful, Meg realised suddenly; he tried to sit up for a minute, then thought better of it. "I mean – I'm not dead. I can be treated. I can get over this. I will get over this. Can I still…"

  He trailed off, and Meg pushed away the urge to reach out and take his hand again, this time out of compassion rather than formality.

  "Perhaps," she said. "I don't want to say for certain that you will go to the ball, you understand? But I've had a note from my team in London, and they say it will take so long to train another light-field engineer, and the circuitry in the ship is designed with your particular neurology in mind, and – well." She paused. "I don't pretend to understand the technical detail. But yes. It might be easier to delay."

  "Thank you," he said, fervent and with eyes shining, "thank you, Ms Tripathi, you won't regret this."

  She shook her head, not knowing how to respond. "Is there anything else you need?" she asked after a moment, awkward. "Anything I can do for you?"

  “Actually, there is." He looked up at her, frowning. “My parents are my next of kin – they're coming down soon. But there’s a couple of people – I don’t want them to hear from the news outlets, they’ll think the worst, you know?" He made a confused gesture. “You know what I mean."

  “Of course," Meg said. “Let me have their names, my department will take care of it."

  “Thanks," he said, scribbling on the tablet she offered from her bag. “There’s Pen – she’s my roommate, she’d worry. And my, er, partner up in Leith."

  “Your, er, partner?" Meg said, with a slightly unprofessional flash of humour.

  “Three weeks of furlough." Leonard gestured. “But after that he and I have – a termination agreement. Faster-than-light communication not being, ah, at its technological zenith." He grinned. “I’m allowed to say that, I’m gonna be the one actually pushing the boat. Ah, inshallah."

  Meg smiled back. “I’ll make sure he’s informed as soon as possible. And" – she hesitated, then went on – “I’m sorry. I suppose we all must make personal sacrifices, for the mission, but I… I didn’t think."

  He shrugged. “It’s a sacrifice, sure. But I get to go into space. I get to push a ship through space faster than light with my head." He laughed a little, as though at his own foolishness. “I’m a light-field engineer. It’s what I’m here to do."

  “Yes," Meg said, softly. “Thank you, Leonard. I’ll leave my card on the table. We'll be in touch."

  She let herself out, very quietly, and when she looked back he was still staring after her, his eyes bright.

  ___

  "And so," Meg said, in conclusion, "that's my formal recommendation. Delay the launch by – say, a fortnight if we can. Adrienne has put together some second-best scenarios if Campbell isn't fit to fly by then, but we'll hope that he is. In either case, we're working out how to deal with the press. Thankfully, there were no other serious injuries."

  The minister nodded, and yawned. "Apologies, Ms Tripathi," he said, and Meg couldn't blame him; it was evening now, the city lights bright around them, and neither of them had slept since the first call had come about the accident. Meg looked across the Holyrood grounds and spotted the small shuttle waiting for them both, and up above her head at the bright lights of geostationary spacedock. "What about the supply pod?" the minister asked. "I ask this out of pure academic interest and not in the slightest bit because we're about to trust our lives to one of the damn things."

  "It's a different model of pod," Meg said, amused, "and this one has a crew. Adrienne will let us have the report when it's done."

  "Good," the minister said, and said nothing while they were guided on board the small craft, the flight crew disappearing into the cockpit and the straps descending from the ceiling. Meg secured herself in her seat, next to the window, and wondered not for the first time why the minister had called her up to Edinburgh to begin with. She'd been investigating train times southbound when she received the message, and had come up with all due alacrity and increasing mystification.

  "Now, Meghna," the minister said, finally, twisting round to speak to her from his seat in front. "That was your formal recommendation. What is your informal one?"

  Meg hesitated, and in that moment of silence, the shuttle left the ground, moving straight up as though hung from a cable, rapidly enough to make her ears pop. The city receded beneath then, becoming a jewellery box of shining lights. "I don't like to say, Minister," she said, at last, and to her surprise, he smiled as though he'd been expecting her response.

  "I won't push," he said. "Oh, one more bit of shop-talk: I suppose it's all lost beyond recovery, but what was the cargo in the pod?"

  "Tins, sir."

  "Tins?"

  "Tins." Meg spread her hands. "There's going to be hydroponics and food reclamation on board, but it's a long way to Barnard's Star. It was thought the crew might like – well. Tinned pineapple. Cream of tomato soup."

  "Tinned pineapple," the minister said, faintly.

  "But it's all right," Meg added. "Heinz and the other suppliers have offered to replace everything free of cost. I pushed them into it because they need it for their advertising, you know – enjoyed all the way out to the stars! and all that nonsense."

  "Meg," the minister said, chuckling, "you are a marvel. How's your young lady?"

  "She's well," Meg said, amused at the phrasing. "Thank you for asking."

  He caught something of her amusement, and shrugged apology. "Forgive me. When I was your age they used to ask, how's your friend. Sometimes, special friend. Wink wink, nudge, nudge. It grew tiresome. Though, of course"
– he smiled, wistfully – "friends do grow special, over the years. Meg, it's time we come clean."

  "About what?"

  "About the sinecures list."

  "Alnwick," Meg said, automatically, and then: "We'll need to take legal advice. And, sir – politically speaking…"

  "Not your bailiwick, Meg," he said, a little stern. "It's time. Thirty years ago this was the only way we could do this. Halley is… well, it's remarkable what's been done. Crown prerogatives will do that."

  "If the prerogative money is withdrawn," Meg said, "we become a government department like any other. We'll need to be funded by way of legislation. We'll have to go before Parliament."

  "And so we should, and so we will." The minister glanced at her. "Meg – thirty years ago, I'm sure the people in your position thought the Alnwick loophole was a gift from heaven. So inimitably British, of course. Some unknown prerogative post with unlimited executive funding! Our own Civil List! And all we have to do is make sure no one ever finds out that we're funding a faster-than-light interstellar space programme through a twelfth-century Northumberland sinecure, administered through the coroner's office."

  "When you put it like that," Meg said, with regret for her brusqueness with Deepika, "it sounds ridiculous."

  The minister nodded, and Meg suddenly realised she'd been too distracted by his conversation to notice the rapid fall of the earth. Beyond the window glass she could make out the Firth of Forth laid out in the patterns of its own cartography, dusted with wisps of cloud. When Meg turned back from the view the minister gave her a small, secretive smile. "Tell me," he said, "was that going to be your informal recommendation?"

  Meg thought for a minute. "You know," she said at last, "I met a man in Morpeth who thought my job was exciting. That it was wonderful, to do what I do, in my office in London. Leonard Ansari-Campbell was trapped for hours in the freezing cold and dark three weeks before he goes out into space, into the freezing cold and the dark, and his greatest fear is that I'll take that away from him."

  "If we delay the launch," the minister said, low and careful, "perhaps you will not have to do that."

  "And, well." Meg paused, and brought a hand to her throat. "I thought we wore these little Halley ID crystals as a publicity stunt. I mean, we could use tablets like everyone else, you know? We're not crew. We're only logistics."

  The minister nodded. "I won't say it wasn't thought of in those terms, at least to begin with."

  "But, maybe," Meg said, hesitated again, and then said it. "Maybe something of us goes out there with them."

  The minister smiled at her. "Maybe it does." He motioned beneath him at Scotland, now bright in its entirety; then at the lights gleaming out on the North Sea, and in the far distance, the terminator creeping over the earth's surface. "Now hold onto that thought and step back. Think about the greater picture. Ask yourself why we're not at the heart of government. Why we, of all people, and of all things, should not be funded. Ask yourself why three pence in the pound cannot go to carrying citizens into the great unknown."

  "Minister," Meg said gently, "there's no need for a speech. I'm not your public."

  He glanced at her sidelong. "Did you vote for this government?"

  Meg grinned. "Yes, Minister."

  "Then call it your three pence in the pound." He shrugged again, and overturned his hands. "Are you ready for this?"

  "It's what I'm here for," Meg said, and watched Halley curve into view above, like a paper aeroplane made glorious and enormous, sharp and silver. Beyond it, there was nothing but the inky blackness of space. "Except," she added, "I don't know why I'm here. Why did you ask me to come up?"

  At the sound of the docking clamps, and the pressure beginning to equalise, the minister looked at her as though it were obvious. "This is the ship we built, Meg. Let's take a look."

  ___

  Back in London, on a Sunday morning hushed with snow, Meg curled up under a blanket on the sofa and let Deepika bring her tea. "Masala chai, just how you like it," she said, and Meg smiled up at her, breathing it in.

  "You know," she said, idly worrying a loose thread on the blanket, "I don’t like your friends. Especially Pink Hair. She’s a twit."

  Deepika blinked. “She has a name, Meg."

  “So do I," Meg said. “It’s Meg. Meghna. Clouds, you know? That’s what it means. Like, up in the sky, though I suppose the Magellanic Clouds would also count."

  "Meg, is there a point to this?"

  "I'm getting to it," Meg said. "I didn't like what's-her-name, Annelise, either. I'm sorry I ran out on your party but I'm not sorry I was rude to them."

  "You were rather rude," Deepika agreed. "Maybe I should trade you in for a better model."

  "Maybe you should make new friends."

  "Maybe I should," Deepika said, easily, and Meg was comforted by it. "Maybe I'd do worse things than that for you, you grumpy hidebound Luddite. Is your engineer okay? Did you let his family know?"

  "I spoke to them myself," Meg said, "and I think he's doing all right. I mean" – she smiled at the thought – "I think he'll get to go where he needs to go. Deepika, don't make new friends."

  "Oh, really?" Deepika said, fetching her own tea and taking a sip. “Have you come round to queerness as political, then?"

  "I'm just a civil servant," Meg said. "No, that's not it."

  "You're not just anything, Meg," Deepika said. "Well?"

  Meg leaned back into the sofa, resisting the urge to fall asleep. One day, and then it would begin: one day before the legislative reveal; one day before the department went before Parliament and all around them a change in the weather. "Turns out she was right. I just saw some queers at the vanguard of transformation."

  "Idiot," Deepika said, fondly, and went to fetch a plate of biscuits.

  Eight Cities

  They've done some rough arithmetic, some ABCs and ka-kha-ga. Then Kim's Game – given a tray of objects and one minute to look, how many could they write down and remember – and now the children are dropping things over the edge of the boat.

  “Which falls faster?" Nagin asks, her bare feet stirring the water. "The big stone, or the small one?"

  "The big one," says the nearest child, puffed up with its own cleverness. Nagin never learns their names, but they love hers, calling, Nagin, Nagin, when they see a snake slide through the murk.

  “No," Nagin says, gentle. “Look. Look."

  The two pebbles leave her cupped hands and hit the water at exactly the same time. The impacts shatter her reflection, each scattered droplet carrying its own load of sunlight. Nagin is breathless, broadsided by the beauty of it, her ears ringing, the hair on the back of her neck prickling despite the noonday sun. The child mutters to a friend; the friend mutters knowingly back.

  Nagin waits for it to pass and says, "You see. You don't need to guess, or believe. You only have to look."

  They all look at her, caught between understanding and doubt. One of them picks two more pebbles out of the bucket provided and drops them in the water. Nagin smiles.

  And then another child – who might have been there before and might not; to Nagin the children are indistinguishable, but inevitable as the weather – is bouncing along from boat to boat, making them all rock gently in their ropes, the floating lanterns slipping in and out of line. "Naginji! Raonaid-auntie is here!"

  It's delighted to be the bearer of good news. Nagin turns, ready to tell the child that it must be mistaken, that Raonaid left two months ago and can't be back so soon, and then remembers her own advice and looks up.

  “They told me you’ve run mad," Raonaid says, disapproving. Rather than wade, she has come out to the raat-bazaar in a small courier boat, the pole creeping silently through the water.

  “I have not run mad," Nagin says. “And that’s not what they told you."

  “She keeps crying all the time," pipes up the herald-child. Nagin sighs and throws another pebble into the water, listening for the splash.

  "Is tha
t so," Raonaid murmurs. She still sounds disapproving, the light washing her skin through to harsh bones. Nagin wonders what is going undelivered because of Raonaid’s precipitate return; how many people are watching the horizon, waiting for news. Raonaid was once a diplomatic messenger, carrying the great messages of state. These days she carries the state itself.

  “What did they tell you really?" Nagin asks, wishing for a moment that she had never spoken of it to anyone, and then she's just happy, again, joy like pain cracking open her bones.

  “That you’ve found God," Raonaid says, worry and disbelief in her voice, and Nagin doesn’t doubt that she heard and dropped everything, because she thought Nagin needed her.

  ___

  Dilli-raat-bazaar-ki, Delhi of the night markets. They climb out of the courier boat as the water becomes too shallow for it, and Nagin considers if she and this city she was born in are undergoing transformation together. When she was born, it was the most populous metropolitan conurbation in the world, frenetic, smoky, desert-dry. As Raonaid leads the way through quiet streets, cheery with sun-faded paint, Nagin feels the great stillness of a place she never knew in youth.

  "Well?" Raonaid says, at last. "Have you really… found religion, Nagin?"

  Nagin hesitates over her answer, her attention caught elsewhere. A boy is taking his bath by the pump, a striped plastic mug in hand. He ought to move swiftly in the crisp, luminous chill, but he reaches into a gulmohar tree for the pleasure of touching its leaves. The branch springs away from his grip and he lets the water splash on his head, gleaming on polished skin. Nagin's father taught her of Brahman, the unknowable creator, of atman, the imperishable within all life, and after all these years she is stilled by it, the tenable divine.

  "Yes," she says, her voice cracking. Raonaid gives her an exasperated look. "I'm fine."