“You’ve lost someone,” she said.
The words stayed with Fumiko, as she waited for the consort to return to the apartment with news of the Debby’s successful departure. She was seated at the marble counter, stroking her bottom lip, wondering what it was on her face that had made the captain think such a thing, when the consort knocked on the door, and confirmed that the boy was now far from the station. She pushed aside her wonderings and set to work, notifying the private vessel that waited for her in the Pelican’s reserved dock to be ready to set off within the hour. In her bedroom she packed the clothes she would need for the trip—the simple blouses, the quartet of suits she fancied and which people often commented were wonderfully archaic in their cut but were to her only normal work clothes. As she packed, the consort waited by the door, her hands folded behind her back, patient and quiet. Fumiko snapped the bag shut and, on her way out, stopped before the blond woman. “Thank you for the company,” she said, and kissed her fully on the lips. The consort let out a small moan, but Fumiko felt only an ember; somewhere in the ruin of her memory was the name of the woman she had once loved, but that name had been sanded away by the years spent in cold sleep. Even she did not know why, when she visited Pelican Station, she hired a consort for the duration of her stay—why she demanded they dye their eyes purple and color their hair blond, and cut it short, lightly mussed, or why, when they smiled, it must be as if in benediction. All she had was a distinct sense of relief when she was around these imperfect facsimiles, as if finally, after a long day at work, she had come home.
You’ve lost someone.
“It was a pleasure to serve, M. Nakajima,” the consort said.
Fumiko transferred the payment for services to her account, which inspired a thankful smile, but when the woman leaned in for one more kiss, Fumiko moved past her and out of the apartment. She rested against the railing as the elevator pod dropped down the Pelican’s neck. She thought about the drunk man who had once disappeared before her eyes. The unexpectedness of his act. The beauty of this unseemly man suddenly revealing to her the impossible. A gimp pelican, drying its wings in the light. She sighed through her nose as she gazed through the curved elevator window at the passing sight of the Gracilius and Schreiberi wings, and the Avenue Strip, which ran down her bird’s back like a river between rhomboid mountains; down, at the small abstractions of people partying in the night.
There it was, her pelican.
There it went.
Her jaw tensed as the elevator descended.
None of this was real.
The pilot and crew welcomed her aboard the schooner. A man took her suitcase, a woman her coat. Fumiko thanked each of them for their hard work, and the work yet to come, and they with stars in their eyes told her they would not let her down, to which she nodded and asked them to prepare her stasis chamber.
It was as the winged doors of the chamber folded over her and encompassed her body that she thought of edamame—a bowl of them, dusted with sea salt, on a marble counter.
She grimaced. These images haunted her in the strangest moments; images with no time or context, slipping through the cracks of cold sleep to taunt her of a past she could not remember. Ribbons of curry and a boat in a canal. A thousand winking eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed these images away, threw the bowl into the dark and tossed the curry into the water and stilled the winks until the crowd was eyeless and silent. The temperature dipped, and the static electricity dribbled across her skin. She readied herself for the long sleep. Believed she had found peace. But before she froze, she was visited by one more image—was confused by how moved she was by it, the tear on her cheek flashing to crystal as she gazed at the silhouette of a woman sitting on a bench by some distant shore, waiting for her.
II
5
The Pinch Point
The Pocket was charged with purpose. Down the Languid Current the Debby went, its radiation sails open, and borne on the slow drift of the tide’s namesake. It was the first true day of the trip. The crew at work, accommodating to this new space, their new circumstance, busying themselves with this difficult adjustment; none more so than the middle-aged man locked away in his quarters, who with brow caked in sweat wrote in an old journal, one he packed away in haste, along with his other most treasured effects in his apartment, once M. Nakajima had given him his new assignment.
His new, very long assignment.
THE LANGUID CURRENT
DAY 1
The journey has begun, this grand adventure, & I lay in bed, dying.
I have been sprawled for most of the day recovering from the fold into the Pocket. The good doctor Royvan has informed me that those of a certain age are more susceptible to the symptoms—queasiness, headaches, pinched nerves, cold sweats, etc.
On the silver side, I have now had the chance to become well acquainted with my quarters. It is a bit small, not much larger than a cheap booking at a substrata hostel. There is enough room to pace in a small circle between the hatch, desk with lamp, & firm cot. The alloyed wall by the bed has a worrying amount of give when the ship hits current turbulence, rattling against the forces of the Pocket, threatening to sandwich me in my sleep. The room is colder than I would like, but alas, the Debby’s temperature regulation is centralized. No adjusting the climate for private comforts.
I am honored to have been chosen for this mission, but I am already homesick for my old apartment on Gracilius Wing. Good memories, sharing a drink with good friends on the balcony, looking down on what you created. I will hold these memories close, as I crawl back in bed, & hope for a healthier tomorrow.
DAY 2
I felt marginally better this morning, though the numbness in my right foot persisted. Breakfast was a sparse affair. Protein noodles, with my choice of brown or yellow dipping sauce. Since I woke a bit later than the others, I ate alone, with only the sound of the running dishwasher for company.
Apparently I missed a great deal during my convalescence yesterday. For a belated orientation, the captain had private, one-on-one meetings with each of her new crew, & a shared meal at the end of the day, cooked with fresh ingredients culled from stasis. My mouth was watering as the good doctor Royvan described the steamed trout to me after my breakfast of tasteless noodles.
I spent the day becoming acquainted with the ship at large, while also observing how the old members & the new were getting along. Interactions are polite, professional, & stiff. This is as predicted. Many of us are strangers to one another, with only you to bind us in common history. That said, it is heartening that Vaila is with us. It was good to see her again during debrief on Pelican. It had been too many years since we’d last worked together. The feeling was mutual, though she was—& still is—understandably morose about this whole enterprise. She’s eager to be back by your side, I think.
The only outlier in crew politics is the boy. True to what I’ve been told about him, he is a strange creature. Small, quiet, & with a singular way of navigating the space, as if he has rehearsed his movements before entering the door, his path one of maximal efficiency. Most of the time he is with the captain, their attention solely on each other, or the mercenary Sonja in the cargo bay. The new crew avoids eye contact with him. They behave strangely when they are in the same room, acknowledging him with a glance, but conversing with one another as if he is not there. It is only the second day, so there is little reason to be concerned, but crew integration is something to keep an eye on. I am eager to see how the captain plans to smoothen the transition of us scabs into the ship’s daily routine.
DAY 3
I crossed paths with the boy in the causeway. He was alone, with neither the captain nor Sonja looming over his shoulder. An opportunity to strike, & make friends. I stopped walking & smiled with cheeks & said good morning. I think I frightened the poor boy. He seemed uncertain how to respond, & bowed slightly before he sped off t
o the captain’s hatch. Nothing makes you feel quite so monstrous as when a child runs from you.
He is not the only one avoiding me. The other crew members, both old & new, evacuate the rooms I enter—kindly, with a thousand excuses, but obviously, & clumsily. This is not so surprising. Expected even. I am, after all, your eyes & ears. It is only natural they fear incriminating themselves in my presence, however incidentally, via unguarded complaints, or statements that could be construed—by one much less understanding than I—as treason.
It is lonely here.
Dinner tonight was heated gruel with savory chunks. I dashed it with some spice to make it marginally tempting. Still rueful that I missed that trout & a bit peeved that no one thought to save some for me. I tried to strike up conversation with Engineer Em, who was already at the table when I arrived, but I received only monosyllables in reply before he had had enough of me, & left the room with his bowl.
Add him to the tally.
DAY 4
Not much for this one to do aboard a commercial transport vessel other than to wander, & there is only so much wandering to be done on a vessel this size. It takes about four minutes for me to walk the ship from end to end at a normal clip. I believe I have walked the main causeway’s length about fifty times since departure, each walk progressively less interesting than the last, the only new details that I notice are ones that inspire some amount of fear, as I realize slowly just how old this ship is.
It is curious that you did not start us off on a newer model of ship, though I understand the reasoning, letting the captain keep her comforts.
That said, there is no getting around the fact that the Debby is a messy assemblage of outdated parts. The kitchen still relies on an old form of cold stasis, so produce will keep for a measly few months before the rot. Laundry vac gives clothing a metallic odor. Hatches groan in pain when opened. The temperature of the lav showers vacillates between hot & cold at random. Many times there is no hot water. Something is always rattling within the walls—a loose bolt about to fall off its thread, perhaps, & let this unstable house of cards collapse on itself. & then there is the engine. I am still feeling the remnant queasiness from our first fold into the Pocket—right foot is still tingly! According to Vaila, newer engine models have corrected for fold-nausea. Of all the parts that need replacing, surely this would be a priority for the captain! But no. When I asked her why she hasn’t upgraded, the captain’s eyebrow rose. She was quiet for a beat, & then shot me a curt reply about expenses & time before returning to her inventory list. It seems she has little tolerance for critiques of its handling, however well-intentioned those critiques may be. Will be more tactful in the future regarding this topic. If I remember from her file, the ship was named after her sister. Must choose words with care when speaking of the dead.
DAY 5
Today I chatted with the only person willing to speak to me at length. Vaila is different than when we last worked together. I have never known her moods to be so dark. Her thoughts so scattered. She talks about the job as though we will be turning back any day now, convinced that the fifteen-year contract must be a test of loyalty for us, on your part—that you will call us back before we enter the fringe. I did not encourage or dissuade her conviction. From past experience, I’ve learned it is best to let realizations come on one’s own terms. Instead I played the part of sincere listener, & observed her manual rotation of the radiation sails to catch an oncoming swell. Let her believe what she must, if it helps her do her job.
DAY 7
Right foot was still somewhat numb this morning, so I decided to go visit the medica & ask the good doctor’s advice. We had a pleasant chat commiserating about the boredoms of long flights, but what was most interesting was what he told me before he left: that on the second night of our journey, while I was ill at sleep, Royvan had gone for a midnight water, on his way to the kitchen, passing by the captain’s quarters, when he heard the muffle of voices behind her hatch. One voice he recognized as hers, but the other—he had not heard the other voice before. Or since. Many of the details of the voice were lost in transit through the metal walls, but he was sure of one thing: that it was the voice of a child.
DAY 9
If it were not for Royvan, I do not think I would have noticed this certain curious thing these past few days: that, for one hour, shortly after their dinner, the captain & the boy sojourn to her quarters & shut the door. They do this regularly, as if keeping to an appointment. & for the duration of this hour, the merc walks up & down the main causeway, her movements casual & her eyes alert; a walk that I originally thought was nothing but her evening constitutional, but now, through the suspicious narrowing of my eyes, seems more like a patrol.
I made a mistake in confiding my observations with Vaila this morning. The pilot was already discontented with this assignment & I’m afraid that my suggestion that something was amiss only made things worse, swiftly igniting her dry & oiled sticks of conspiracy. She has now talked herself into the captain’s villainy; that somehow this woman has hoodwinked you, & this is all part of some grand scheme of hers, either as an informer for Allied Security, or as a casual trickster hungry for a windfall. In a matter of minutes she both spun out this improvised narrative & bought into it wholesale. She gathered up both Royvan & Engineer Em, & the four of us convened in her quarters & shared all that we had seen on the ship thus far. This was an ill-advised move—I knew it then, & I am only more certain of it now. Having all of us suddenly disappear for twenty minutes while we spoke among ourselves in Vaila’s room was sure to catch the attention of either the captain, the merc, or the boy. But the others were set on meeting in private, I could not dissuade them, & I felt that I must join them, to both temper their wild theories & suspicions, &, if I am to be candid, to quietly indulge in my own.
Has the child had the ability to speak all this time? Why did the captain hide this from us? Why is the merc stationed outside her quarters for an hour after dinner each day? & why, if Engineer Em is to be believed, does the boy walk the ship alone at night? Where is he going & for what reason? Can he already Jaunt?
DAY 10
Portentous quiet. The causeways are as silent as the moment before the sermon. Everyone keeps to their own company. Muscles tense, & eyes watchful & wary. I am in my room, where I have been for most of the day, attempting to cheer my mind with old entertainments that I have stored on a Data-D. It did not work. My attention was snapped away from it regularly by a sound in the vents above me. I hear it now, even. Like a pebble in a can. My finger twitches, itching to rip out the grating & shine a light on my irritation.
An hour ago there was a tense exchange between Vaila & the captain regarding our future travel plans. It seemed almost performative, on both their parts. As you are aware, the original plan, the route Vaila herself had drafted before we departed from Pelican, would have taken us directly from Bran-Neruda to the hub world of Fujimoto-Set—which I hear is the most Allied-like fringe world there is, due to its close proximity to the border. It also falls within the Sullivan Trade Route, which means it would have the necessary supplies should we require intensive ship repair or medical treatment. But this also means that it has close ties to many Allied companies, including Umbai. There were rumors on the Feed that it would be the next fringe world to be subsumed by Corporate & transformed into a City Planet.
The captain has decided this route would not do. After Bran-Neruda, we are to instead circumvent Fujimoto-Set, & ride the Austere Current to the world of Black Rock Drannon. Farther out, where it dwells alongside a lesser trade route. I’ve heard little of the place myself, but the captain claims she has been there before; trusts that we can keep a low profile under the shadow of its hard edge. Vaila retorted that we must keep to the plan that you approved. Silenced, as the captain reminded her with a firm, unyielding tone, that under the contract the only approval she required was her own.
&nbs
p; Our pilot smiled with no small amount of condescension, & said that she would carry out her captain’s wishes, despite her many reservations. Later went & found Vaila in the cockpit. Told her that I understood her concerns, but that it was in everyone’s best interests she not test our leader’s patience.
“Our leader is not on this ship,” she said, & turned her chair away from me. Took my cue, & left her to her silence. Bran-Neruda Station approaches in four days. The end of this weary prologue approaches, as does the start of the first chapter of our long journey. Skeptical that we will even make it that far.
Breakfast was a boiled tuber of some sort.
DAY 13
The door to the captain’s hatch was ajar tonight—not wide enough to see through, only hear. Her voice was dialed low. She was speaking to the boy about what sounded like something urgent. I paused briefly to listen. It was too quiet to hear most of what she said. I caught only this:
“…needs to happen soon…”
& then Sonja walked out of the lav. I jumped into the common room, breathing hard. Waited until I was clear to amble casually back to my room, where I now write, & debate with myself whether or not to tell the others what I heard. There is not enough context to make an accurate guess as to what “needs to happen soon” could mean. Telling the others could add fuel to an already growing fire. But it could also be the bucket of water that stops the house from burning down.
The Vanished Birds Page 16
