A Closed and Common Orbit (Wayfarers #2)(40)

‘I’ve downloaded a lot of things.’

‘I know. Pick a favourite.’

‘I . . . don’t know if I have one.’

‘Something you find really interesting, then. Just something at random.’

Sidra worked her way down the length of her memory banks, not sure where to start. ‘Well . . . there’s this. “The Never-Born Queen and Those Who Followed”.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A Quelin folktale. More like an epic, I suppose. It’s a bit dark in places, but there’s a wonderful poetry to it, too.’ The kit fidgeted as she remembered Pepper’s words that morning: you’re filing away half the f*cking Reskit library. ‘I have the three most popular translations on hand.’

Blue leaned back, never taking his eyes off the canvas. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard any Quelin stories. Feel like sharing?’

The kit blinked. ‘Yes, but it’s quite long.’

‘How long is it?’

She selected one of the three files – the Tosh’bom translation – and ran a quick analysis. ‘It’d take me approximately two hours to recite it aloud.’

Blue shrugged and smiled. ‘Sounds like a great thing to do while painting.’

Sidra adjusted her processes, and began to convert text to speech. ‘Call out, brave warriors, and remember our song. Remember the heroes lost and the heroes born. Remember the shells shattered among sea and rock and cave . . .’

She was aware, as the saga of war and homeland poured forth from the kit’s mouth, that Blue was distracting her. She’d seen him do the same sort of thing to Pepper in the moments they thought Sidra didn’t notice, when Pepper became quietly, whisperingly afraid of nothing. In those moments, Blue would ask Pepper about her day. He’d ask her about what she was working on. He’d ask her about the latest sim she’d been playing. In a small way, Sidra felt a bit manipulated, like he was purposefully driving away the bad mood she’d felt justified in nursing – but having something else to focus on was better, and being painted was a surprisingly good feeling, too. It was nice to be watched, to have somebody pouring all his attention into her. Was that selfish? And if so, was that a bad thing?

Blue hardly spoke at all as she told the story, other than a short laugh or ‘mmm’ here and there. His eyes were intensely focused on his work, and by extension, on her. It was a look she’d never seen in him. At home, he was so mellow, so gentle. Here, there was a spark, a curious sort of strength. He reminded her a bit of Pepper, when she fell into a groove with a project. Sidra hadn’t felt that way about anything before. She was focused now, yes, but she knew that was different. Was she capable of that kind of flow? If she could disable her ability to track time, could she lose herself the way they did?

She continued to recite, and after one hour and fifty-six minutes, the tale of the Never-Born Queen reached its final lines: ‘. . . to sleep, to sleep, that our heroes may wake once more.’

Blue nodded thoughtfully. ‘That,’ he said, ‘was fascinating. Kinda grim, but I w – I wouldn’t expect much, um, much less from the Quelin.’

‘They have some sweet children’s stories, too,’ Sidra said. ‘Well . . . rather speciest. But sweet, in the right cultural context.’

Blue laughed. ‘Again, as expected.’ He put down his brush with conviction. ‘It’s been a long time since I did, uh, since I did a portrait, and this is just a quick one. But . . . well, tell me what you think.’

He turned the canvas toward her. The paint still glistened. A Human woman stared back, serious and quiet, with a face that would easily disappear in an Exodan crowd. Sidra studied the details. Copper skin that didn’t see much sun. Slender cheeks fed on bugs and stasie food. Eyes so brown the irises were nearly lost in them. A cap of black curls, cut short and hugging tight. She’d looked at that face many times in the mirror in her room, but this was something different. This was the kit as Blue saw it.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, and meant it.

‘The painting, or the face?’

‘The painting. You’re very skilled.’

Blue gave a happy nod. ‘What about the face? What do you see in it?’

She searched for an answer, but found nothing. ‘I don’t know.’ She paused for two seconds. ‘Do you know who decided what the kit would look like?’ she asked at last. ‘Did it come this way, or did Jenks choose it, or . . .?’

‘Lovey chose it,’ Blue said. ‘This was all her, or so P-Pepper said.’

Sidra looked at the portrait, at the face someone else had chosen for her. Why? Why had her former installation wanted this face? Why this hair, those colours, those eyes? What about this form had made Lovey think yes, this is me?

‘Hey,’ Blue said, taking the kit’s hand. ‘What’s up?’

Sidra couldn’t look at him. ‘I’m a mistake,’ she whispered.

‘Whoa, hang on—’

‘I am,’ she insisted. ‘This’ – she gestured between the kit and the portrait – ‘is hers. It’s all hers. I would’ve been her if I hadn’t scrubbed those memory files when I woke up.’ The kit closed its eyes tight. ‘Stars. I’m what killed her.’