Her message queue was like a fire hose. Contacts from the underground, reporters from a hundred different outlets, politicians and Transport Union officials and the local traffic control authorities. Everyone wanted to talk to her, and however they phrased it, they all wanted the same questions answered. What does this mean? What happens now?
She didn’t answer any of them.
The crew of the ship came and went. Some were injured, like her. Some were injured less visibly. She recognized some. It was almost the whole shift before Amos came in. His wide, rolling gait as familiar as her own voice. She wanted to believe it was really him, that her old friend had actually survived Laconia and not just become the raw material of an alien machine. She smiled and raised her bulb.
“Hey, Boss,” Amos said. “How’re you holding together?”
“A little weird,” she said. “How’s Teresa?”
Amos went to the dispenser, frowning at the unfamiliar control menu as he spoke. “She’s seen better days. Whatever happened on that station, it fucked her up pretty good. I think she was really hoping she’d get her dad back.” He found the menu he wanted and grunted with satisfaction. “Seems like her and Sparkles are hitting it off, though. I think Little Man’s kind of jealous. I think he wants to be Tiny’s bestie. There’s some brother-sister dynamics. It’ll work out.”
The galley chimed and put out a little silver tube. Amos cracked the top, rolled over, and sat across from her. His gentle smile could have meant anything. He looked at Naomi’s hand terminal. The tumbling ring.
“Fayez says it’s going to fall into the sun,” Amos said. “Says even all the way out here, it hasn’t got enough sideways to it for an orbit. Just boom, right into the fireball.”
“You think that’s true?”
Amos shrugged. “I think a bunch of independent contractors are gonna strip-mine that shit before it gets to the Belt. They’ll be lucky if there’s a handful of dust left to hit the corona.”
To her surprise, Naomi laughed. Amos’ smile got maybe a degree more genuine.
“I think you’re right,” she said. “And if not, someone’ll hire a tug to give it a little lateral impulse. Nothing humans can touch goes unmodified.”
“A-fucking-men. What about you, Boss? What do you think about all this shit?”
He meant, Are you all right? You’ve lost Jim. You’ve lost Alex. You’ve lost your ship. Are you able to live with that? And the answer was that she could. But she wasn’t ready to say it out loud, so she answered the other question instead.
“I think we got lucky. I think we were one little system in a vast, unreachable universe that was always on the edge of destroying itself, and now we have thirteen hundred chances to figure out how to live with each other. How to be gentle with each other. How to get it right. It’s better odds than we had.”
“Even if someone does, though. We’ll never know. The alien roads are gone. Now it’s just us.”
The ring tumbled on her screen, and she looked past it to the stars. The billions upon billions upon billions of stars, and the tiny fraction that had other people looking back toward her.
“The stars are still there,” she said. “We’ll find our own way back to them.”
Epilogue: The Linguist
Marrel expected reintegration to hurt, but it didn’t. It didn’t feel like anything. He didn’t even have the grogginess of waking from sleep, which—thinking on it—shouldn’t have been surprising, as he hadn’t fallen asleep. Somehow, he was surprised all the same.
He had climbed into his transit pod on the crew deck of the Musafir along with everyone else, watched the countdown timer on the reinforced crystal wall in front of him go to zero, and then change to 31:11:43:27 as if that was the number that naturally followed zero.
Thirty-one days, eleven hours, forty-three minutes, and twenty-seven seconds had elapsed for his homeworld while Marrel and the twenty-nine other souls on board the Musafir existed only as energy and intention sliding along the membrane between universes. Thirty-one days as they vanished and reappeared at their destination, nearly 3,800 light-years from home. A long-held breath as they swam through the cosmic foam and re-emerged at a different place in the ocean.
“Yinvisa Merrel isme dorasil. Yi ie dovra?” the pod asked him in its carefully neutral voice.
“Caan Ingliz,” Marrel said. “Ta-Connia atze a en-callase, per.” Common English. Post-Laconian expansion, pre-collapse, please.
“Are you well?” the pod repeated.
“I am well.”
“The transit from Dobridomov was successful,” the pod informed him. “Welcome to Sol. The Musafir is currently twenty-four days from our destination at best speed.”
“If the transit was unsuccessful,” Marrel said, “would we exist?”
“It is theoretically possible for reintegration to occur at an unexpected destination, though it is statistically unlikely.”
“May I see the contact report, please?”
The Musafir set down on a small hill some distance from an ancient city. The emptiness of the space around Earth was eerie. Like walking into a tomb. This was the ancestral home of all the Thirty Worlds, and yet it had fewer structures around its system than any contact before. Not that there were none. The emplacements of weapons were disguised, but not so well that the Musafir hadn’t seen them. The hidden ships they had identified were almost certainly not the only ships that there were. Everywhere, there was a sense of threat.
The diplomatic team remained on the ship, but watched and listened as Marrel walked down the ramp to the grassy field that stretched off in every direction and took a deep breath of the air humanity had been born in. The ship had issued him prophylactics to ensure that the local pollen would not trigger an allergic reaction. If nothing else, Marrel could tell his future grandchildren this. He had stood on the grass of Earth. He had breathed its air.
The group that had come for him stood some distance off. Many of them carried obvious weapons. Marrel wasn’t sure if they were an honor guard waiting for him to approach, or a strike team waiting to charge him and try to take the ship. He fumbled with the target pointer in his hand. If need be, the ship could turn the field in front of him into a molten lake. He prayed that wouldn’t be the case.
A single figure detached from the knot and began walking in his direction with long, loping strides. It was tall, but Marrel had expected this. Dobridomov was of slightly heavier gravity than Earth, and the average height was a bit less. The figure was also broad, and thick limbed, with ebony skin and a wide, hairless head. As it approached, the color of its skin began to look less like a natural color and more like an artificial pigment. Marrel wondered if full-body tattooing or cosmetics were popular here. It might be some kind of caste mark.
The figure stopped a few meters away and waited. Up close, it appeared to be male.
“My name is Marrel Imvic, of the Dobridomov system,” he said in ancient Chinese. He was prepared to repeat the message in a dozen different old languages until one was recognized. “I am a linguist, here to establish communication protocols so that our diplomatic group can begin a dialog.”
“You got any English?” the man said with perfect pre-collapse intonation.
“Yes,” Marrel said, stunned. “Yes, I do.”
“Good, because my Chinese is pretty iffy. I’m okay in Belter, but I bet you guys forgot that one.”