The Dreaming Stars

by Tim Pratt

  “Thank you,” Ibn said. “Stephen put us in touch with members of his blasphemous hedonistic sect in Ilus, and they’ve offered to help us sort out the logistics of travel. We’re going to meet them shortly.”

  “We’re very helpful blasphemers,” Stephen said.

  Uzoma nodded. “They have offered to help me find housing. I will pursue independent study in the Tangle while I apply to the university here. Shall tells me the Ganymede branch has the best physics and computer science departments in the Imperative University system.”

  Callie nodded. “I’ve got some strings I can pull there, and I’m going to pull the shit out of them for you.”

  The tram slowed and stopped, and the doors slid open. This station was right in the middle of the main public market beneath the central dome, and the tram filled with scents of roasting meat and wafting spices. The sound of buskers on ur-pipes played above the low background thunder of hundreds of people going about their lives.

  Callie led them into a white-and-black tiled plaza dotted with trees in planters, and smiled as the refugees from the past craned their heads back and marveled at the dome, tinted a pale blue to suggest an open Earthly sky. Immense pieces of kinetic sculpture – new since Callie’s last visit; the public art was a rotating collection – filled the space overhead with shimmering shapes of silver and gold and brass and copper. They resembled impressionistic versions of fish and rabbits and birds and serpents, all slowly twirling and rotating on invisible filaments.

  This was where their paths diverged. Callie said her farewells to Ibn and Robin and Uzoma, then stepped aside to let Elena have her more emotional goodbyes, with lots of hugging and promises to be in touch frequently. Even Uzoma opened their arms to Elena, who said “Really? It’s okay? I know you prefer your hugs metaphorical.”

  Uzoma nodded gravely. “I would like a literal one, just this once.” Callie was glad Elena and Uzoma had grown so much closer during their attempts to cure Sebastien.

  Stephen and Ibn conferred for a long moment, then embraced. Callie was glad they’d become friends too. Space was big and lonely, and Stephen had been in a bad way emotionally after losing his congregation when Meditreme Station was destroyed. He was still clearly hurting, but his relationship with Ibn had helped.

  Robin and Ibn gave their last waves, and Uzoma a businesslike nod. The three of them set off, with Shall doubtless murmuring in their earpieces to make sure they didn’t get lost on their way to meet their contacts from the church.

  Elena leaned up against Callie, wiping tears away from her cheeks. “It’s funny. I always thought of them more like co-workers than friends, you know? We trained together, and we were psychologically compatible, but we were there for the mission, not for each other. And now… there go three of my oldest friends.”

  “Three of the oldest possible friends in the whole galaxy,” Callie said. “There are only about a hundred known time refugees, and you’re among the oldest, from the first wave of goldilocks ships and the earliest cryo-sleep systems.”

  “Lucky for me you like older women,” Elena said.

  “You had this whole sleeping beauty thing going. How could I resist?”

  Stephen cleared his throat. “Not to interrupt your flirting, but shouldn’t we go to your funeral?”

  “It would be gauche to show up late,” Callie said. “Should I… I don’t know… call Michael and tell him I’m alive? Since we’re allowed to be alive again, and I can make a call without worrying that truth-tellers will blow up Ganymede if they overhear?”

  “Mmm,” Stephen said. “You could. That would be nice of you. On the other hand, didn’t he surprise you rather rudely once?”

  Callie nodded. “There’s that.”

  “What happened?” Elena said.

  “Oh, I found out Michael was cheating on me in the traditional way: I came home early to surprise him, and found him in bed with someone else instead.”

  “Ugh,” Elena said. “Popping up out of your coffin and yelling ‘boo’ seems like reasonable retribution for that.”

  “Are you going to run your errands now, Stephen?” Callie said.

  “And miss seeing your glorious resurrection? Absolutely not. My errands can wait.”

  “Resurrection Day,” Callie muttered.

  They took an auto-cab two domes over to the residential district where Michael lived, and it dropped them off out front. Elena whistled, gazing around appreciatively. Callie tried to see it through her eyes: the dome above in swirling orange and yellow sunset colors, the house a deliberately retro design of metal curves and glass panels. Callie thought the structure looked like the skull of a giant Art Deco robot monster, but in a good way. The house was on its own large plot, with steps leading up from the street, and the neighboring houses were hidden behind artful combinations of fencing, ornamental hedges, and other landscaping details to make the place seem even more private. Life-extension technology being what it was, Michael was still a relatively junior member of his family’s corporation, and the house was more “comfortable executive” than “rapacious oligarch.” Michael got a lot of bonuses working in the financial services division, though, so the interior was always cutting-edge. Callie came home from more than one trip to find the inside utterly transformed, except for their bedroom, which he never changed without consulting her. Though that probably wasn’t the case any more.

  The windows were partially tinted, but Callie could see figures moving around inside, holding glasses and chatting. The grieving masses. “Enter, three wraiths,” Callie said, and pulled her hood up over her head.

  Chapter 8

  Callie was afraid the house would greet her by name, spoiling the effect of her entrance, but apparently Michael had changed the settings in the expert system. No one took much notice of her, or the similarly hooded Stephen, and she spotted a few other people in matching garb – stupid cloaks were apparently in fashion again, and they looked close enough to the norm that no one looked twice.

  Michael had changed the layout, replacing all the furniture and artwork from the day she’d moved out. Had he changed it just because the whim struck him, or because looking at the furnishings reminded him too much of her, and caused him pain? Why did she wonder about that? Ugh. Feelings were horrible things.

  Callie moved quietly among the crowd, not catching anyone’s eye, but looking around for familiar faces. Most of the people she recognized were Michael’s relatives and friends, which made sense. She’d never made a lot of close connections on Ilus, and those she did have were more itinerant, like her, venturing out and treating Ganymede as a home base. She’d always had more in common with people who plied the spaceways and traversed the bridges than with those content to stay in a gravity well, even one as mild as Ganymede’s.

  The overall mood was somber enough, but there wasn’t much in the way of open sobbing or rending of garments, which peeved her, but only mildly. They all thought she’d been dead for months, after all, killed when Meditreme Station exploded. The memorial had only taken this long because Michael had held out hope she’d turn up miraculously alive, probably. The windows and wall screens were cycling through photos and short video clips of her, taken from happier times: their wedding in the floating gardens, Michael in beautiful formal robes, Callie in a bespoke suit made by his family tailors, both with starlight charms in their hair. Their honeymoon in the polar resorts of the Silla system, hurling snowballs at each other on the slopes. Callie laughing at a dinner party. Callie smashing a bottle of real Earth champagne against the nose of the White Raven on its naming day. Michael and Callie on their first anniversary, and then a run of photos showing every anniversary after, in a succession of fine restaurants, on up to the eighth; that was as far as they got, at least in terms of celebrating. Their final wedding anniversary before the divorce had passed unremarked by either of them, though not unnoticed – at least by Callie. The photos were hardly her life story, of course. There were no pictures from any of her many trips th
rough the bridges (she’d been to every system at least once, except, of course, the Vanir system); no videos of her piloting the Raven in pursuit of assorted fugitives; no photos of her clowning around with Ashok after a successful salvage; no footage of her playing Go with Stephen, or climbing around on the hull with Shall’s repair drones, or getting drunk with her late friend Hermione at the Spinward Lounge or some other bar on Meditreme. It was a celebration of her life, yes, but only the parts of her life that had intersected with Michael’s.

  But even that much sent a poisonous wave of nostalgia through her. Callie’s eyes stung, and she gritted her teeth. Elena put a hand on her arm, and Callie looked down at her, trying to smile. “I’m OK,” she murmured, and returned to scanning the room. Where was Michael, anyway? What kind of host didn’t come to greet–

  Ah, there he was, with his mother and father and a representative sample of aunts and uncles, all seated in a cluster around the freestanding fireplace in the center of the living room. Callie started toward him, then hesitated when Michael patted his mother’s hand and stood up. He looked tired, and regret stabbed at Callie for not letting him know she was alive as soon as she could have. Just because he’d been a trifling asshole didn’t mean she had to be petty as well, but it was too late now.

  Michael glanced around, then stepped up onto the stone hearth, which suited him like a pedestal for the statue of a philosopher king. Why did he still have to look so good? He’d grown more attractive to her when she fell in love with him, so why hadn’t he become ugly in her eyes when he broke her heart? He wore an immaculate dark suit woven with glittering threads, his dark hair was swept back (with a little picturesque gray at the temples), and his eyes were bright and blue. The bags under those eyes were darker than she’d ever seen before, even during the divorce. He cleared his throat, and the house’s expert system cut off the background music. The room rustled as everyone turned to face him.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Michael said. “We’ve gathered here today to celebrate the life of Kalea Maria Machedo – Callie, to her friends. All of you knew her, and many of you loved her. She was courageous, brilliant, ambitious, stubborn, difficult, but always completely her own person. For a decade I was lucky enough to call her the love of my life, and even when we separated, my admiration for her never faded. Most of us have lost people out there, in the cold and the dark. The galaxy is a dangerous place, out beyond the safety of our domes, and I often wished she would stay here, with me, where it was safe. But staying locked away under glass was never Callie’s way. She lived for the opportunity to stand beneath new skies, in the light of new stars. Those stars all shine a little dimmer, for me, in her absence.”

  Pretty good speech, Callie thought.

  Michael looked around. “Would anyone like to say a few words?”

  Callie had always possessed a good sense of the dramatic. She threw back her hood and stepped on top of a low coffee table made of pale green stone. “I guess I should probably say something.”

  There was a beat as everyone turned and looked at her, and then Michael’s Aunt Simone fainted, or pretended to, and there was a lot of gasping and shouting and milling around. Michael just stared at her, mouth agape – at a loss for words, for once.

  Callie cleared her throat. “Hi, everyone. Reports of my demise were greatly… you know how the saying goes.” No one laughed. Fair enough. “I’m so sorry you all thought the worst. I wasn’t on Meditreme Station when it exploded. I was on my ship, out in the depths, chasing bad guys, and didn’t even know about the disaster until it was old news.” That wasn’t even remotely true, but it was the most plausible story she’d been able to come up with on the ride over. “I only recently returned, and found out about this memorial service, and… here I am.” She stopped talking. Everyone seemed to expect more. She scratched her chin. “Feel free to keep saying nice things about me, though? Michael throws a good party, and now you can dance and laugh without feeling like insensitive jerks.”

  Michael started toward her. The crowd parted. She stepped down off the table before he reached her, because she didn’t want to be looking down at him when they reunited. She was already a little taller than he was. They stood, looking at one another, and she wondered if he was going to yell at her, or hug her, or both. Instead he said, “It’s so nice of you to come. You could have RSVP’d, though.”

  “It was kind of a last minute thing.” She gestured. “I brought a couple of people – you remember Stephen?”

  Her XO was standing by the buffet with Elena, sucking a shrimp off a toothpick. He swallowed. “Hello, Michael. Always a pleasure.”

  “Stephen. Welcome.” Michael inclined his head.

  “And that’s Elena, my, ah…”

  Elena beamed. “Yes? Your what?”

  “My, ah… the person I’m with.”

  “Elegant,” Elena said. “Succinct. Hello, Michael. You have a lovely home, and I’m sorry about all this. Maybe we should have called ahead, but you have to admit, Callie does have a flair for the dramatic.”

  He nodded gravely. “I have often observed that quality in her. It’s very nice to meet you, Elena.” He turned away and raised his voice. “Everyone! This is no longer a memorial, but since we’re here, please enjoy yourselves. I’m just going to have a… private word with my… with Callie. We’ll return soon.”

  “We’re having a private word?” Callie half-whispered.

  “I think that would be preferable to a public word, given the circumstances, don’t you?”

  “It’s your house, so we can do it your way.”

  They threaded their way through the crowd, with people Callie barely remembered murmuring their congratulations at her ongoing survival, and proceeded down a hallway she remembered well, though the walls were a different color. She was afraid they were going to their old master bedroom, which would have stirred up all sorts of memories (some good ones, sure, but mostly overshadowed by the one where she found him in bed with a financial analyst named Gerald). Fortunately, they went into Michael’s study instead. That had always been his private domain, but given the circumstances, Callie was willing to cede him the home field advantage.

  His study was a high-ceilinged, airy space lit with full-spectrum light globes, decorated with shelves and tables of faux blond wood. The room was dominated by an exquisitely ergonomic desk that appeared made of silver latticework, and on either side of the desk stood self-configuring chairs that paid attention to how you shifted around in them and algorithmically altered themselves to fit your body perfectly. Callie sat down on the visitor side, and her chair wriggled around her subtly, lending her support where she needed it – physically, at least. Michael took a seat on the other side of the desk. Callie felt like she was at a job interview, and dealt with her nervousness by affecting nonchalance and taking in the décor.

  In contrast to the rest of the house, the study hadn’t changed much, though there was the odd bit of new art on the wall, mostly Jovian spacescapes executed with more enthusiasm than skill. Callie figured Michael was probably fucking the artist – his taste was too good for any other explanation – but decided not to speculate on that aloud.

  Michael stared at her, his face perfectly blank. She stared back until she got bored, then gestured vaguely behind her. “The house looks nice. I like the new dining room table. Is it real wood?”

  “Yes, please, let’s discuss my decorating. I can think of no more pressing matter.”

  Callie sighed. “All right. I’m here. Get it out of your system.”

  He took a deep breath. “First, of course, I am so happy that you’re alive. Relief, and even joy, are my foremost emotions.”

  “I can tell, from the relieved and joyful look on your face.”

  He didn’t even crack a smile. “My neutral expression is the result of joy and relief conflicting with a certain amount of horror and outrage, because I thought you were dead, and you didn’t tell me otherwise. I realize we’re divorced, and that you d
on’t owe me anything, but–”

  “No, you’re right.”

  He blinked. “I think that’s the… third time you’ve ever said that to me?”

  “Is it?” She considered. “There was the thing with the lobster, but what… Oh, right, the karaoke bar in the Irani system. Add this to those cherished moments. Yes. I should have let you know I was still alive. I’m sorry.”

  “Were you really so far out in the depths that you didn’t know about Meditreme Station until, what, today?”

  Callie couldn’t tell him the truth, but it was hard to keep lies straight, so she decided to split the difference. “No. That was just the simplest way to explain things to a crowd. I was pretty far out for a while, it’s true, but then I was dealing with a lot of chaos, and after that… I was investigating.”

  “Investigating? Ah. You mean, trying to find out who destroyed Meditreme Station? It wasn’t an accident, like the official reports say?”

  “It wasn’t an accident. It was a deliberate attack.” True, but there was no need to tell him it had been an attack aimed at her, and her ship, and the alien tech they had on board.

  “Pirates?” he said. “Was it Glauketas? I heard that theory, but it didn’t make sense to me. Why would the pirates want to destroy the station, when they preyed on traffic to it?”

  Huh. Well, why not? “The TNA was getting tired of the pirates. They’d been nibbling at the edges of our trade routes for a while, and we’d tolerated that, but they got bolder, and started seriously impacting operations – kidnapping and killing people instead of just looting, taking down bigger vessels, hitting us more often. Warwick, the security chief on Meditreme, commissioned me to destroy the pirate base, and loaded up the Raven with cutting-edge armaments to make it easier. It was all-out war between us.”

  Michael winced. His work never involved anything more violent than fighting over who would pay the check at a business lunch. “So the pirates decided Meditreme Station was an existential threat and destroyed it. How horrible. And… you couldn’t reveal that you’d survived, because then the pirates would know you were hunting them?”