Record of a Spaceborn Few (Wayfarers, #3)(6)

He headed out into Mushtullo’s second morning, weaving his way through the neighbourhood. The narrow paved streets were as packed as the tall buildings that lined them, and the general flow of foot traffic was headed for the tram stations, like always. He saw a few other better-dressed-than-usual people in the crowd, and he quickened his step. Had to get to the square before the good stuff got snapped up.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something out of the ordinary: a small crowd – old people, mostly – gathered by that little weather-worn statue of an Exodan homesteader over by the grocery. They were decorating the statue, laying wreaths of flowers and ribbons over it, lighting candles around its base, scrubbing creep mould off of it. Sawyer dimly remembered talk at work a few days before, something about a homesteader exploding, or decompressing, or something. Some horrible shit. He figured that was the reason for the crowd, and would’ve kept going on his way were it not for one face he recognised: Shani Brenner, one of the supervisors from the factory. She wasn’t headed for the trams, she was helping some old – no, ancient – lady light a candle. Did she not know about the layoffs? Had she not checked her scrib?

Sawyer hesitated. He didn’t want to waste time, but Shani was all right. She’d shared her lunch with Sawyer once, when he’d been short on creds. This day hadn’t had a lot going for it yet. Maybe, Sawyer thought, helping somebody out would get the universe back on his side.

He changed course and hurried toward the statue. ‘Hey, Shani!’ he called with a wave.

Shani looked up, first with confusion, then with recognition. She patted the old woman (who was sitting on the ground, now), then met Sawyer halfway. ‘Shitty morning, huh?’ she said, rubbing the back of her neck.

‘You heard,’ Sawyer said.

‘Yeah. Got a letter, same as I bet you did. No idea it was coming. Stingy bastards. I gave Tolged a thanks-for-being-my-boss gift three days ago and everything.’

Sawyer jerked a thumb toward the street. ‘Aren’t you going to the square?’

Shani shook her head. ‘Not today.’ She nodded to the statue. ‘That’s my grandma over there. You hear about the Oxomoco?’

‘That homesteader that . . . ?’

‘Yeah. She was born there. Came here when she was seven, but still. Roots, y’know?’ Shani eyed Sawyer. ‘You Exodan?’

‘I mean . . .’ Wasn’t everybody, at one point or another? ‘Like way, way back. I— I don’t know what ship, or anything. I’ve never been.’

Shani shrugged. ‘Still counts. Wanna come sit with us?’

Sawyer blinked. ‘Thanks, but I—’

‘There’ll be jobs tomorrow,’ Shani said. ‘I’m not worrying about it, and neither should you. We’ll both land on our feet, yeah? Things work out.’

Over Shani’s shoulder, Sawyer could see other people joining Grandma Brenner on the ground. Some were weeping. Some held hands, or passed a flask around. Some were speaking in unison, almost like a chant, but he could only catch a few words. His Ensk was scattershot at best.

Shani smiled at Sawyer. ‘Up to you,’ she said as she walked away. She, too, sat on the ground, and held her grandmother close.

Sawyer did not join them, but neither did he turn back. There was no reason for him to stay, and yet . . . and yet. He imagined the jam-packed frenzy that awaited him at the commerce square, the lines of eager people desperate to impress. It was the antithesis of the scene in front of him, this quiet mourning, this shared respect. The idea of joining them felt awkward. He didn’t want to intrude. He wasn’t one of them, didn’t belong there. But as he watched them share tears and songs and company, he wished that he did. He didn’t have anything he was a part of like that. Even in grief, it looked like a nice thing to have. Maybe especially in grief.

He thought, as he rode the tram to the square, of the recited words he’d managed to make out. They circled his mind, over and over as he watched crowded neighbourhoods blur through mouldy windows.

From the ground.





Part 1

From the Beginning





Feed source: Reskit Institute of Interstellar Migration (Public News Feed) Item name: The Modern Exodus – Entry #1

Author: Ghuh’loloan Mok Chutp Encryption: 0

Translation path: [Hanto:Kliptorigan]

Transcription: 0

Node identifier: 2310-483-38, Isabel Itoh

[System message: The feed you have selected has been translated from written Hanto. As you may be aware, written Hanto includes gestural notations that do not have analogous symbols in any other GC language. Therefore, your scrib’s on-board translation software has not translated the following material directly. The content here is a modified translation, intended to be accessible to the average Kliptorigan reader.]

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Greetings, dear guest, and welcome! I am Ghuh’loloan Mok Chutp, and these words are mine. I hope my communicative efforts will be sufficient to make any time you spend on this feed here worthwhile. I shall exercise my skills to the best of my ability, with the aim of educating and entertaining you. If I fail in these endeavours, please accept my sincere apologies and know that such failings are mine alone and are not reflective of my place of employment, my schooling, or my lineage.

If you are unfamiliar with my work, allow me to provide a brief introduction. I am an ethnographic researcher based at the Reskit Institute of Interstellar Migration. I have worked in this field for twenty-two standards, and my focus is on transitory and orbital communities in the modern era. I am proud of my work thus far, with a few exceptions. I am confident that I am qualified for the task I will describe momentarily. I hope you will agree.