The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2020

by John Joseph Adams

  “He should never have acted so rashly without consulting the full council. Not with so many lives at stake.”

  “That is not how he sees it, I’m afraid. And he sees things more clearly than most. You need only look into his eyes.”

  “His eyes?”

  “Both eyes are augmented. It’s subtle, but I’ve heard he uses heat and pheromonal data when addressing the council. He’s not merely speaking, he’s watching for reactions, very closely.”

  Mafokeng considered this. That would explain why almost all of Hutchins’s motions on the floor tended to pass the council. If he could read his audience to the very level of their pheromones, he could swiftly change tack in the middle of an argument.

  “It is worth my asking,” Kusago went on, “if you don’t mind, why you persist in this cause, if the pulse to retire the Lion’s Mane has already been transmitted?”

  “Integrity, Steward Kusago. And I would very much like to know where that pulse was generated.”

  “It’s closely guarded information, of course. Don’t want sabotage.” He balled up his fist and relaxed, rotating his hand around. “Logic would tell you that it must be sent from a stable source of energy, unfettered by atmospheric pollution, which would be . . .”

  “The Moon.”

  “That would be my first guess, although again, I couldn’t confirm it.”

  “Thank you, Steward Kusago.”

  “I hope you can prove us wrong about the Lion’s Mane, Steward Mafokeng. Godspeed.”

  “Only if the gods can travel faster than that pulse.”

  He took one last gulp of his tincture and drifted off into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  After I escape from my finder’s embrace, I distract her with various trails which lead to nowhere. I trick her into entering the cargo bay, with its dozens of hatches and storage units, and even into the septic tank, where the stench alone delays her for hours, until I gain enough time to lower myself into the fish tanks in an EVA suit. I hook myself onto a section of the tank which bends around a corner, thickened like an aorta to protect against the heavy surge of current from the nearby oxygenation pumps, where no one can see me. The rainbow trout first swarm around expecting a meal but soon ignore me. I reduce my breath to the bare minimum and meditate to pass the time.

  During the initiation we learned how the plants filtered the water, which sustained the trout, and the importance of the Renewal Vats, completing the virtuous cycle. I knew exactly how much protein and potassium each fish produced (30 grams and 800 mg per kilogram, respectively) and the exact wavelengths of light required for the various herbs and greens that fed us.

  The captain and her most trusted gen-gineers were the only people who knew the formula for the Renewal Vats. I had always assumed, naively, I would learn the formula one day as captain. It was the most coveted mystery on the ship. The mystery that is never taught yet always known.

  But I had learned enough secrets of my own to help me survive the Finding. Several cycles ago, I had discovered an old access hatch to the tanks that was partially covered over but still possible to open. Within minutes of being selected for the Finding I dropped extra air canisters inside.

  I was so well hidden in the pipes that my finder would never have been able to find me. Except on the second day I realized I had packed one canister too little. I had not anticipated how much effort it would take to keep myself from being wedged into the tunnel with the strength of the current, even with the carabiner keeping me attached to the side.

  Soon I’m struggling to breathe. Each flush of water loosens my grip against the side of the tank and the current tugs at my consciousness. The trout cluster now by my faceplate, somehow aware that I will soon be theirs, even in a different form. Before long, I give in and I’m swept away.

  It takes several elders to extract me from the tanks, coughing and sputtering. In my finder’s eyes I can tell she is disappointed.

  “You would have evaded me,” she confesses. “I was searching in the septic tank, and I would have continued looking for you there. The next place I was going to look was the entertainment hall. You shouldn’t have to fight me on the Pond. It would be dishonorable.”

  I think of what the chief gen-gineer told me, recalling how the crew might have allowed me to refuse to participate in the Finding. But to do so would mean the death of everyone aboard. Of that I am certain.

  “Didn’t you find me?” I ask.

  “Only because you ran out of strength.”

  “Isn’t that what makes for a successful finder? The ability to outlast your quarry?”

  “It does,” she nods warily. I can see she remains unconvinced.

  “The watered death is my right. Don’t deny it to me.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you want?” she asks. She touches me lightly on the cheek as she says this, seeking a tenderness that has long since left my body with the psychotropics. Sober now, the only love that I feel is for the mysteries of my initiation.

  “It’s my right.”

  * * *

  On approach to the council lunar base, Mafokeng could make out the solar collectors branching like golden sea fans into the darkness. The square habitation units wafered across the regolith, punctuated here and there by jutting observation towers. She felt the gentle tug of the Moon’s gravity upon landing and could spot the coal-black entrance to a Helium-3 mine on the horizon; even after forming the Exploratory Stewardship Council, industry remained a core part of everyday life.

  The flags of the council ships lining the arrivals hall had once thrilled Mafokeng, but she now saw how many of the flags had shifted to the opposite wall—another fifteen or so flags hung above the viewing window onto the Sea of Tranquility. These ships had lost their crews but were still operational as exploratory vehicles. And soon the Lion’s Mane would join them.

  There was no time to dwell on such matters; she had lost a full twenty-four hours traveling to the base. In two weeks, the high-energy pulse transmitted from the lunar base would clear the Kuiper Belt, and then there would be nothing capable of stopping the rest of the three-month journey to the Lion’s Mane. The crew would be dead.

  Mafokeng took a shuttle directly to the lunar archives and spent the time waiting for the council to reconvene sifting through its voluminous records. Hutchins may have been angered by her obstinance, as Kusago had called it, but he could never revoke her access to the archives. That was a coveted privilege held by all stewards—the ability to look at the archives of every ship without explanation. The council believed that transparency would help ensure the longevity of all the missions.

  Hutchins hid his surprise when she arrived at the delegates hall, pretending as if he had expected her on the Moon all along.

  “I heard about the attack, Steward Mafokeng,” he said as she made her way to an empty chair. “It must have been quite traumatic. We would have been happy to grant you more time to recover. You could have cast your shard from Earth. Now that you are here, of course, you’re most welcome.”

  “Thank you, Steward,” Mafokeng replied curtly. Nothing in his smile suggested he meant it. She paid closer attention to his eyes now, trying to determine if Kusago had been right, and that Hutchins was using enhancements to monitor her. But she could see nothing unusual other than his customary aloofness.

  Hutchins immediately called for a vote after confirming a quorum of delegates was present. “Thank you for joining us at this emergency session. There are seventy-five ships with living crews that deserve the time and attention of this body. Accordingly, I move to confirm the retirement of the Lion’s Mane. Let’s end this aberration. There can be no equivocation over this decision, and the public deserves to know we’re acting in their best interest. This is a stain on humanity, one that should be quickly effaced.”

  Mafokeng rose from her seat to stride into the center of the delegates hall. “I couldn’t agree more, Steward Hutchins,” she said. “It’s a stain on humanity that we did not
even give the passengers on that ship the benefit of the doubt. It’s a stain on humanity that this council sent a pulse to kill them all. They cannot speak for themselves and they have traveled for over a century to find us a new home. Giving a few moments to prolong their lives seems like a worthwhile use of our time. I humbly ask you to delay their final death sentence for another Earth hour.”

  “This is pointless,” a steward shouted. “The pulse has already been sent. Nothing we do here will change that.”

  “The point is integrity,” Mafokeng corrected. “The point is justice. And I believe there is time to stop the pulse before it is too late. I ask that you allow me to speak.”

  “Seconded,” Steward Kusago said from her villa on Earth, catching a nasty look from Hutchins. This was all Mafokeng could get Kusago to promise her. He had not said he would change his vote.

  “To understand what I am about to propose,” Mafokeng began. “I ask you to imagine yourselves aboard the Lion’s Mane.”

  “We are Stewards,” a steward observed. “That is the very essence of our duties. To protect and to serve our vessels.”

  “But not this vessel. The Lion’s Mane is different. The passengers have traveled farther than any ship in our council. Much farther. They receive almost no news from Earth, the Moon, or Mars, or any other ships, to our knowledge. We have always known this could happen, which is why we encouraged all ships to be able to make their own decisions that would prolong the health of their crew and raise their chances of reaching their destinations. We are stewards. We are charged with the safe and prosperous journey of our ship. We do not send instructions; we send support. Aid. Encouragement. Meanwhile, they act alone. When they deviate from their assigned trajectory, we interpret that as a healthy act. It tells us they’re still alive. These ships must be able to act without our interference, and to adjust to the conditions before them. Steward Hutchins, you explained that the Lion’s Mane deviated slightly from its path several times, likely to take on water. Is that right?”

  “It’s in the dossier I provided to the council.”

  “What you did not include in the dossier was how much water the Lion’s Mane needed to survive. By the telemetry we have available, the vessel took on water at least four times more than similar vessels before it moved beyond Neptune.”

  “There could have been any number of reasons,” Hutchins said. “It was not my place to question their judgment.”

  “No, their water intake confirms what you failed to disclose, Steward Hutchins—that the ship used water for radiation shielding. And beyond that, the ship utilized aquaponics to feed its crew.”

  There were murmurs among the delegates as they took in this information. This meant, to Mafokeng, that they were at least paying attention. She glanced at her time counter. She had less than four Earth days before the pulse traveled beyond the Kuiper Belt.

  “You make it sound,” Hutchins protested, looking offended, “as if I deliberately omitted this information. It was not material to our decision. The ship relied on traditional lead-polymer radiation shielding, with the aquaponics system as an experimental backup. The aquaponics system failed, just as predicted.”

  “It did not fail, Steward Hutchins. Much to the contrary: it thrived.”

  “What evidence do you have?”

  “The ship manifest details the aquaponics system. And I ask you all to look at the third image from your dossier. You will clearly see a fish. Specifically the dorsal fin of a brook trout.”

  “Even if it’s a fish. It doesn’t mean anything, Steward Mafokeng,” a steward said. “It could be a pet.”

  “Possibly, but then look at the captain’s insignia. In the dossier, Steward Hutchins told us that the insignia meant she was the captain, and she was the one supervising the eating of the finger in the image. Here, I have had the computer enlarge it for everyone to see.”

  The insignia appeared over their modules. The circular blue patch appeared to depict two fish, each eating its own tail.

  “From afar, it looked like a lion’s head, so it’s an easy mistake, given the swoosh of the fish tails, but those are clearly fish.”

  “Get to the point,” a steward huffed.

  “My point, my fellow stewards, is that the aquaponics system was not just an experimental resource on the ship. I would argue that it was the most important resource on the ship—so important, in fact, that the very culture of the ship evolved to incorporate fish into its way of life. This is why the ship stopped much more often than other ships to take on water. It needed the water for the fish to survive. The fish provided protein to the passengers, and their droppings nurtured the plants, allowing for a rich vegetarian diet. This virtuous cycle fed the crew for decades. Indeed, I believe it is still feeding the crew today.”

  “Aquaponics have never been proven to be sustainable,” a steward interjected.

  “And you would be right to observe that, Steward. On Earth, the nitrates in the fish droppings overwhelm the roots of the plants, causing them to die. That’s why we switched to cell-based meats. Isn’t that right, Steward Kusago?”

  “Steward Mafokeng is correct,” Kusago acknowledged.

  “The crew of the Lion’s Mane would have known that there was natural entropy from the aquaponics system, requiring a source of renewal. Something to lower the nitrate levels, or convert them to nitrite. Our experiments in cultivating bacteria to convert the nitrate failed on Earth. But every ship had basic gene-sequencing technology aboard. So it’s possible the fish were genetically modified, with the crew selecting out fish that excreted less nitrate. Or they selected plants that had a higher ability to absorb nitrate. Would you agree that’s accurate, Steward Kusago?”

  “You have described the nature of the problem. All are possible, although not yet documented by science.”

  “I do not know how, and I do not know why, but I suspect the rituals of the crew had something to do with it. I believe that the fish are thriving, and they are central to the culture.”

  “None of this explains the cannibalism in the images,” Hutchins declared.

  “I have been thinking about that quite a bit, Steward Hutchins. I believe we are not using the proper term. I would call the eating of that finger anthropophagy, not cannibalism.”

  “A semantic difference.”

  “Not semantic at all. I agree with the Covenant that cannibalism as practiced by an individual, for the purpose of inflicting terror or self-titillation, or even avoiding starvation, is aberrant and should never be preserved. Anthropophagy is a symbolic consumption of human flesh. It is not intended to provide real sustenance, but to signify the contribution of the flesh to society. Throughout human history, cultures have practiced human sacrifice, from the ancient Egyptians to the Druids of Stonehenge, the Hitobashira rituals of Japan, the Carthaginians, the Israelites, or the Igbo of Nigeria. It was a way to bring the spirit world in balance with the terrestrial world, often by culling the aberrant from society—when there was disease, overpopulation, or genetic mutations.

  “But those that practiced anthropophagy went a step further and consumed the flesh itself. It was the opposite of the Christian Eucharist, in which bread and wine are taken to symbolically represent the body and blood of Christ. With anthropophagy, the devouring of the flesh reflects the culture. The Aztecs dismembered and devoured the body like the chinampa crops they depended upon. In the case of the Lion’s Mane, I believe it was the dependence and cultivation of fish and their aquaponic ecosystem. What you saw before you, my fellow stewards, was a ritual sacrifice, not cannibalism. It was affirmation, not barbarism.”

  “There is nothing in the images that speaks to anything you just described,” Hutchins objected. “This is all conjecture, completely unsupported by facts.”

  “I beg to differ, Steward Hutchins. I believe that the images sent back from the Lion’s Mane were a signal from the ship revealing how the crew survived. We do not know how the fish lived—and yet they do. We do not know how the s
ociety is organized, yet the people survived. I believe there is a connection between the two. There was one aspect to your dossier that bothered me, Steward Hutchins—the lack of mundanity. As a steward of the Medallion, I looked at thousands and sometimes even hundreds of thousands of images of routine tasks on the ship, from the crews cleaning the hatches to images of them sleeping in their berths. Images of anything other than the ordinary were extremely rare. These were all automated images, transmitted from multiple cameras hidden about the ship without control or interference from the crew. Your dossier contained only five images.”

  “I already reported that the ship’s antenna had been damaged in a radiation storm. It takes our most advanced processors years to reassemble the data. We receive very few images from the Lion’s Mane.”

  “And the logs? Why don’t we have captain’s logs, or logs from the crew?”

  “There was nothing of consequence.”

  “That may be so, if we take you at your word. I hope you don’t mind that I decided to search the archives of the Lion’s Mane myself. If the images were as rare as you suggested, then I wanted to view them in their totality, as is my right as a steward. You were right—there were comparatively few. And I didn’t find any text logs. But I did find a clip which confirms my theories. The sound, unfortunately, has been lost. But we can still learn a lot by watching it.”

  “You have no right—” Hutchins began, but it was too late. The clip was already displaying before them. In their modules, the delegates could see an enormous corridor crisscrossed with large pipes. Two adults were addressing the captain in a strange, exaggerated manner above what looked like a small pond. Their hips swayed from side to side, and they stomped their feet. At which point the captain received something from them and dropped it into the fish tanks.

  “This clip was sent deliberately by the crew,” Mafokeng explained. “It was not an automated image taken by the ship.”