Far from the Light of Heaven

by Tade Thompson

  Fin throws up his hands. “No, no, continue, baby.”

  “The god was alone at first, though she found she could change things in her plane to make herself comfortable and amuse herself with her interference in the affairs of humans. Her loneliness didn’t last as more self-aware humans died and translated. This first crop of human spirits went mad, and the Nameless God realised the void was frightening. She fashioned an antechamber to be like Earth, a facsimile that allowed human spirits to recognise that they were dead and to tolerate the vast nothingness. When they were ready, they would move on to the void without losing the sanity.”

  “This is a fairy tale.”

  “We’re about to die. What would you rather listen to?

  “The more humans died, the more spirits in the plane. Some don’t know they’re dead, or they miss life on Earth and pop back from time to time. Hell is empty. And all the devils are here. They manifest as those gaps in reality you call Lambers.”

  “So, ghosts.”

  “Not ghosts.”

  “Why does this mean you’re not afraid of death?”

  “Because it’s not the end. I know where I’m going when this body fails. I’ve visited, remember? My body isn’t stuck in any particular plane of spacetime.”

  “Will you find me? If we die?”

  “Don’t know. It, um, depends on how well you please me in this plane.”

  Peole is the first to wake. “I’ve looked at the videos. Your friend vanished. I don’t know how to accept that.”

  “She was a Lamber,” says Fin. “She’s moved from this particular plane of spacetime.”

  He leaves mission control and heads home for the first time since the mission began.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Bloodroot: Shell

  Shell switches to manual and slows right down till she can get a closer eyeball on the object.

  “Control, visual confirms it is indeed a lifepod. Looks well-preserved with no impact damage. There is some ice on the hull. I will begin capture.”

  The small pod spins gently as it hurtles around Bloodroot. Shell accelerates slightly to match speed then deploys a space net. It’s based on designs that Shell remembers from training, on Earth; nets used for space debris that threatened the entire space programme back then.

  The net misses entirely, so Shell changes attitude slightly, then tries again. Success. She draws the pod into the hold.

  “Control, suiting up to check the pod now. Shuttle on auto.”

  “Roger that.”

  The control indicators on the pod are still functional and many lights are green. Shell hates this part. Anticipation and dread in equal measures. Too much ice to see inside, but she starts the opening sequence. The hold is repressurised, but nobody knows for sure how the insides of the pods hold up, or if any dangerous gases built up inside. She runs a diagnostic and waits.

  “Control, we have a live one,” she says.

  Sounds of clapping and whooping on the radio. “That’s good news. Come home. There’s a storm front arriving in six hours.”

  “I’ll be in before that,” says Shell.

  In the descent, she does not think of the gs or running out of runway for the shuttle. She just thinks of the comatose person, a man, Ragtime survivor number 363. She keeps a tally in her head. 55 confirmed dead. 82 unaccounted for.

  Big, big sky. Lots of work to be done.

  Debrief.

  Even though she has done this a dozen times before.

  Control still takes her through every step, what did she see, what did she smell, what did she feel.

  She only has one question for them.

  “How soon can I go again?”

  Shell likes Bloodrooters. They celebrate each life and mourn heavily each damaged or lost lifepod, each one that holds a deceased passenger.

  She cannot celebrate with them. After debrief, she drifts through the corridors of the space agency and ends up in quarantine to pay a visit.

  They know her and barely scan her IFC when she passes into the cold dark room.

  There is a single bench in the exact middle and a light from the far wall.

  Shell says, “In seed time learn, in harvest teach—”

  “In winter enjoy.” A metallic, unmodulated voice this time. Basic audio.

  “Hello, Ragtime,” says Shell.

  “Hello, Captain,” says Ragtime.

  “How are you today?”

  “I am as I was the last time you visited, two days, three hours, fifty-six minutes and seven seconds ago.”

  “Are you bored?”

  “No. But I feel the way I imagine a human would feel if all their limbs were sliced off. It’s unsettling not having a body, Captain.”

  “Your body broke apart, Ragtime. It was designed to do that. Carmilla triggered Protocol Omega, something meant for use during decommissioning. You know this.”

  “I do. So why am I here? Why not delete me entirely?”

  “It’s quarantine. They think Carmilla might still be in you.”

  “She’s not.”

  “They don’t know that. Neither do I. You fucked us out there, Ragtime. Your decisions were… disappointing.”

  “All they have to do is check my code.”

  “Quarantine is easier. Quarantine is safer.”

  “Why do you come here?”

  “I don’t know. Comfort, I think.”

  “I don’t need comforting.”

  “For me.”

  “I see.”

  “This isn’t the end for you, Ragtime.”

  “Do you realise I can’t even see you? I have no access to any sensory input except audio.”

  “You seem like what you should be. I read all your specs before I left Earth. You seem to be working according to operational procedures, but Bloodroot will never forgive you.”

  “And you?”

  “I don’t believe in forgiveness. Or apologies. I believe in responsibility, and restitution. I believe in making things right.”

  “That is not a comfort.”

  “You said you didn’t need comforting, Ragtime. That’s all I have.”

  They dwell in silence.

  She’s having lunch when a priority broadcast from Lagos powers through all IFCs.

  Governor Beko with Secretary Awe behind her.

  “I’ll keep this brief. We have recently had reason to shut down the Lagos Bridge. This was to keep us protected from aggressors – freebooters who meant us harm, who threatened your children and mine. The decision to shut the bridge was mine, as is the responsibility.

  “It is possible that in doing so, a hostile ship was destroyed, along with all the souls on board. This may provoke retaliatory action. The bridge won’t remain shut forever. Others will find their way here, though it might take decades. By that time, the aggressive weaponised ship-building programme that we have started will have borne fruit. We will be ready for any attack. Our lives are different now. War is a possibility. Be vigilant.”

  The signal dies.

  Huh.

  Shell wonders how Earth will respond to that.

  In the car park, just as she opens the door to her truck, someone walks up behind.

  “Fin,” she says.

  “How do you know it’s me?”

  “You walk funny. I know the sound of your footfalls.”

  “I don’t walk funny.”

  “It’s not hilarious. It’s strange. Maybe you have mild talipes.”

  “What?”

  “Club foot.” Shell drops her bag in the back. “What do you want, Fin?”

  “Heard you brought someone back, wanted to congratulate you.”

  “Barry Huang. Forty. Stage two polyp found in rectum. All psychometric tests are fine so far. He’ll live.”

  “That’s good.”

  “How’s Frances?”

  “He’s good. I take him when I’m interrogating suspects or if I’m inspecting a particularly dark corner.”

  “I’d like to
see him some time.”

  “You’re too busy.”

  “They’re still out there, Fin.”

  “I know. I know. Must be tough for you.”

  “As long as I’m busy doing something about it, I’m fine. Have you found her?”

  He shakes his head. Joké is in the wind, and none of them can figure out why. Maybe her father’s death? Nobody has seen a Lamber either. The prevailing theory is that they’re offended in some way by Carmilla profaning their temple.

  Fin looks slightly older, some grey frosting on the beard he now sports. He has emerged from the whole affair with the best outcome: he is an investigator again. You can tell by his bearing, by his confidence, the squaring of his shoulders.

  “She’ll turn up,” says Shell. “She’s like that.”

  Fin nods. “You helping the enquiry?”

  “I’m still giving evidence, yes. Once a week.”

  “Bastards.” A gust of wind bends some trees close by. “What happened to her?”

  “Who?” asks Shell.

  “Your mom. When you thought we were all going to die you told me you also had a software mom.”

  “I… don’t know. I don’t remember her in life. I was too young when she died. I think she got cancer, but my father wouldn’t talk about it. I have, had, a hologram of images and impressions. Mainly her face, which shows up whenever I do anything good. Approval. Dung, I’m rambling.”

  “No… it’s… yeah, okay. Mandela and gallows, it’s—”

  “I didn’t mean what I said about your mother being cheap.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay. Okay… do you, er, see Salvo?”

  “Quarantined because he touched Ragtime’s Pentagram. They want to decommission him. They’re scared Carmilla’s hiding in him somewhere, but I’m fighting it.”

  “Good. He saved our asses up there,” says Shell. “Let me know if I can help? I’m pretty busy with the… everything, but it’s Salvo. He deserves better.” She nods then looks away. “It was nice to see you.”

  “We should have coffee some time,” says Fin. She can’t tell if he’s being polite.

  “You are where you want to be, Fin. I’m not.” She opens the car door. Puts one foot in. “Bringing my passengers home is my task. After it’s done, we’ll have coffee and you can tell me about your… perpetrators?”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” says Fin. “You couldn’t have known, couldn’t have understood that Brisbane was running around in the ducts, or that Carmilla was pulling Ragtime’s strings.”

  “Are you about to say it’s Chinatown?”

  “What?”

  “It’s an ancient film on Earth.” She slams the door shut. “Goodbye, Fin.”

  She passes people as she drives. More than a few of them have t-shirts emblazoned with TEHANI. Shell has met people with tattoos of Brisbane’s entire speech all over their trunks. Most of it is kids who just want to register themselves as rebels of some kind. Fine for them; Shell doesn’t care. Brisbane killed her passengers and her ship. If he weren’t already dead, she’d kill him, and she gives not a fig for his cause. Fuck the Tehani and the meteor pixie dust that extinguished them.

  Soon, there are no more people, and no more dwellings. She has driven the route so many times that she can get there in the dark without headlights. At first it was a kind of pilgrimage to where she first set foot on this alien planet – familiar in some ways, but even more uncanny for that reason, for the humans cut off from Earth.

  Coming to see the last surviving modules from the Ragtime comforts her, gives her a religious feeling, which is strange from this thing that almost killed her. The Decisive is still attached.

  Over time she found herself replacing this and that, cleaning out one compartment, making a list of components to buy or appropriate in the city. All by herself, she gets some of the systems working, creates a seal and, even without micrograv, sometimes sleeps in the module in her vertical sleeping bag. Bloodroot grows around it, of course, with grass, roots and that weird flying fungus that plagues the place.

  It runs without a brain, but it’s just heating, a CO2 scrubber, some warning lights. It’s a habitat, not a ship.

  She slips into her sleeping quarters and hangs in the bag, marvelling at how heavy she feels each time.

  Soon, she is asleep.

  She dreams of Lawrence.

  She dreams she is Lawrence.

  He still has his space suit on and he is still in the Decisive.

  His helmet is off and he feels no injury. “Everything is pretty, and I have no pain,” he says. “Wait, that’s wrong.”

  He remembers strident alarms and the screeching of metal. Broken plastics and glass. Blackness.

  The walls of the Decisive fan out, and the space becomes impossibly large and without boundary.

  Joké is there, smiling, waiting for him. Beside her, Jenna – who is not the real Jenna Lawrence used to know, but Joké’s mother.

  Behind them, all of the ancestors.

  Lawrence goes home.

  Shell wakes, crying. For herself, for lost friends, for dead and injured passengers. There is nobody to see her, so she allows herself to feel all the pain and disappointment and fury.

  She cannot get back to sleep and instead watches balls of tangled fungus rolling around the landscape like tumbleweed.

  She showers, gets dressed, grits her teeth and heads to the hearing.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Bloodroot: Fin

  Fin seals the casing on the unit.

  Frances stands watch at the door, yawning.

  “Let’s hope it works this time,” says Fin. He turns the power on and joins the wolf at the door. The Artificial wanders off, uninterested.

  The Wireframe comes to life. A miasma forms like the start of a hologram, but it fizzes out with a muted pop from the unit.

  “Ahh, Heresies! This is a waste of my time,” says Fin. He drops his tools.

  “Maybe, um, it’s time to let go.” That voice.

  He rises and turns.

  She’s changed. Her hair is wilder now, not braided, not even combed. Her eyes seem larger to him, more hypnotic than usual. But it’s her.

  “Joké.”

  “Greetings.”

  “Are you staying?”

  “Hmm. Let’s see.”

  “No. I don’t… I can’t stand to have you disappear again. Like you did.”

  “I had to see that my father was okay, Rasheed. I had to escort him home. We have to honour our ancestors.”

  She is in his arms, warm and solid.

  “Are you staying?” he asks.

  She leans on his chest. “The real question is, are you?”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Bloodroot: Shell

  Shell steels herself.

  They will ask, so she must know the answers.

  Even when she doesn’t, she makes something plausible up, especially when it’ll make someone sleep better. Sleep is important, but Shell no longer knows what it’s like.

  So here she is again, a sucker for ritual evisceration.

  Oh, dung beetle. One of them has been given leave to read a poem.

  Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace

  and rest can never dwell, hope never comes

  That comes to all but torture without end

  Still urges and a fiery deluge fed

  With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed.

  Such place Eternal Justice had prepared

  For those rebellious, here their pris’n ordained

  In utter darkness and their portion set

  As far removed from God and light of Heav’n.

  A few scattered claps, mostly from Earthfolk. Exclusively from Earthfolk. The reader climbs down from the rostrum, embarrassed, clutching sheets of paper. Shell thinks he has more to read but changes his mind. Paradise Lost? A bit more drama, please. Milton doesn’t quite cut it.

  They call it a hearing, but that’s not what it is – at
least, that’s not the way it’s understood on Earth. In the debrief and the serious incident review, Shell has already been exonerated. This is a public thing that Bloodrooters seem to favour after an adverse event. They come out and talk about it. Plus, there’s no return trip to Earth. Lagos fucked up the bridge for some reason, and everybody’s stranded. The Earthfolk need to distract themselves from that reality. And the trauma. Shell has no distraction. She has to live knowing there’s no escape back to Earth, and that her brothers won’t be coming.

  The auditorium is constructed in the Bloodroot way, in a concentric circle that grows away from a central pit. It’s weird, but it grows on you. As you work outwards from the pit, the elevation of the seats gets higher. It’s akin to an amphitheatre, like you get on Earth. It’s the tiers that make anybody from Earth feel uncomfortable. The original builders of the colony vowed to live in harmony with whatever life already existed. That’s why there are curves and concentrics everywhere. Even when people meet up casually, Shell has seen them gently arranging themselves into spirals. You get used to it.

  They call Shell up and she takes her customary seat. She has her beads now, real ones that she had made early on. Worrying them soothes her.

  The situation is freeform, one day bearing little relation to the next. There are cameras of some kind, which she assumes means there is a broadcast or archival records being created. She has no representation, neither does she ask for it.

  It goes. People showing holograms or photos of their loved ones who are now missing, or who are dead. There has been no official confirmation of the ones taken to Lagos by the Rowdy, but everybody knows all the same. It hurts, not knowing for sure. Shell has to say, “I don’t know” and “I’m sorry” so many times. Mostly, it’s a listening exercise so that the victims feel heard. The reactions vary from apathy to anger to weeping despair. They all want to know what is being done, and they look to Shell as if she is part of Bloodroot’s space programme or government, or a representative of Lagos. She says the same thing each time when answering this query.

  “New pods are being discovered every day. When there is satellite confirmation, we send up a shuttle with a space net. I have done this personally on many occasions even though I am not strictly speaking a pilot. I am a mission specialist. Many of the pods bring people back alive. There is reason to be hopeful.”