Record of a Spaceborn Few (Wayfarers, #3)(7)
What do you think of, dear guest, when I mention the Exodus Fleet? You could define the term literally: the collection of ships that carried the remnants of the Human species away from their failed planet. Perhaps the Fleet sparks some deeper association in you – a symbol of desperation, a symbol of poverty, a symbol of resilience. Do you live in a community where Humans are present? Do you know individuals born within one of these aged vessels? Or are you from a more homogeneous society, and therefore surprised to learn that the Fleet is still inhabited? Perhaps the entire concept of the Fleet baffles you. Perhaps it is mysterious, or exciting. Perhaps you yourself are Human, dear guest, and think of the Fleet as home – or, conversely, a place as alien to you as to the rest of us.
Whatever your background, the Fleet is a source of curiosity for all who do not have some personal connection to it. Unless you have a close Human friend or are a long-haul merchant, it is unlikely you have travelled there. While Humans living in GC territories and planetary colonies outnumber Exodans in aggregate, the Fleet is still where you will find the largest concentration of their kind outside the Sol system. Though many Humans have never set foot in the great homestead ships, the journey of the Fleet is a history they all consciously carry. That lineage has inextricably shaped every modern Human community, regardless of foundational philosophy. In one way or another, it affects how they think of themselves, and how the rest of us see them.
So what is the Fleet today? How do these people live? How do they view the GC? Why have they continued this way of life? These are the questions I will attempt to unravel in the time ahead. I, Ghuh’loloan, will likewise be a guest. As I write this, I am on my way to the Exodus Fleet, where I will be staying for eight tendays. I will be living aboard an Exodan homestead ship, interviewing Exodan citizens, and learning Exodan ways. Much was written about the state of the Exodan Fleet following first contact and leading up to GC membership, but little mainstream record has been made of them since. The assumption, I fear, is that their presence in multispecies communities means they have integrated into our varied societies and left their old ways behind. Nothing could be further from the truth. I cross the galaxy now in search of a more honest story.
It is my hope, dear guest, that you will join me.
Tessa
Received message
Encryption: 0
Translation: 0
From: Ashby Santoso (path: 7182-312-95)
To: Tessa Santoso (path: 6222-198-00)
Hey Tess,
I don’t know if you’ve seen the feeds, but if you have, I’m okay. If you haven’t, some bad stuff went down at Hedra Ka, but again: I’m okay. The ship’s suffered a lot of damage, but we’re stable and out of immediate danger. I’ve got my hands full with repairs and my crew, so I’ll get on the sib when I can. I’ll send a note to Dad, too.
More soon, promise. Hug the kids for me.
Ashby
*
In the grand tradition of siblings everywhere, Tessa wanted to kill her brother.
Not permanently kill him. Just a casual spacing to get her point across, followed by a quick resurrection and a hot cup of tea. That, she’d say, as he sat shivering on the floor, clutching his mug like he used to when he was little. That’s what you put us through every time you go off the map. We all stop breathing until you get back.
Tessa tossed her scrib across her desk and rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. ‘Shit,’ she breathed, furious and relieved. She’d seen the feeds. Of course, they hadn’t said which civilian ship the Toremi had fired on, but Tessa had known where Ashby had been headed for the past standard, what he’d been hired to do. ‘You stupid . . .’ She exhaled, her eyes stinging. ‘He’s okay.’ She inhaled, her voice steadying. ‘He’s okay.’
She’d gone to the cargo bay immediately after the news feed had wrapped up, despite her shift not starting for another two hours, despite her father telling her to stay home until they knew whether to relax or plan a funeral. Tessa had no stomach for how Pop had decided to deal with it: holding vigil in front of the pixel projector, watching every feed over and over until something new uploaded, smoking and muttering and tossing out anxious theories. She saw no point in sitting around waiting for news, especially when you had no idea when it would arrive. She’d addressed the fist squeezing her heart in her own way. She’d dragged Aya out of bed, given Ky a cake bite to keep him from fussing at the change in schedule, given Aya a cake bite so she wouldn’t cry unfairness, and told Pop to get on the vox if anything changed.
You’d know if you stayed home, he’d grumbled, shoving fat pinches of redreed into his pipe. But she hadn’t budged, and he hadn’t pushed, for once. She’d patted his shoulder, and sent the kids across the way to the Parks’ – who, as Tessa had figured, had been asleep, but that’s what hexmates were for.
Aya had pestered her for an explanation every step toward the door. Why are we up so early? Why can’t I stay here? Do I have to go to school? Why was Grandpa mad at you? Is Dad okay?
Your dad’s fine, Tessa had said. That was the only question she’d answered directly. Every other query got a because I said so or an I’ll tell you later. There was no way to say your Uncle Ashby’s ship may have been blown up by aliens and this is my way of coping to a nine-year-old, and no way a nine-year-old would respond to that sentiment in a way that wouldn’t freak out the two-year-old as well. Let the kids have a quiet morning. The grown-ups could worry enough for everyone.