Alexandra Duncan - Salvage

Her face softens. “Was he there? The one you were looking for?”

She can’t know who Luck was, but she knows the shape of things—my being here, the data pendant, and what there is in Khajjiar.

“No,” I say. “He wasn’t.”

She holds out an arm, and I let her gather me under it. Then we turn and make our way home.

“W ho can name for me two of the unintended consequences of Partition?” Our Historical-Literary Connections instructor, Mr. Pallavi, gestures to the smartscreen at the front of the classroom, where his projected drawing of a triangular blob labeled INDIA is separated from PAKISTAN by a zigzag line.

No one answers. I pretend to mark down a note on my tablet, which Soraya replaced after the Khajjiar incident. I had to agree to come to Revati every day, and then be home to Soraya’s before dark.

I’m only supposed to be able to write on the tablet’s note screen, but Miyole showed me how to trick it so I can draw, too. I’ve been thinking more and more on fixing the sloop again. It makes more sense than my lessons, so I spend my time in class sketching out schematics for rerouting the cooling conduits. I can’t make it so they won’t ever leak again, but maybe if I isolate them, a leak won’t short out the other components. . .

Mr. Pallavi sighs. “Let’s back up. Ava . . .”

I look up, heart pounding. Dr. Lata had a talk with all my teachers on not calling me out in class until my reading is better, but Mr. Pallavi sometimes forgets.

“What year did Partition take place?” he asks.

“I . . . uh . . .” I stare down into my tablet, throat tight. Miyole and I read this last night. I remember what Partition is, when India and Pakistan split off from each other, and I remember about all the bloodshed that happened before and after it, so why can’t I remember the year?

Prita jumps in. “1947.”

I knew that. Why couldn’t I get it out? I clench my teeth together.

“Good,” Mr. Pallavi says. “Chennapragada to the rescue, once again.”

The class laughs, and I sink behind my tablet. I’m not made for this place. Dr. Lata and Soraya and all of my instructors talk about sculpting my mind and cultivating me, as if I’m some piece of clay or a spot of ground ripe with seeds, when really I’m more like plastic that’s already cooled and hardened into its mold.

I put my head down and wait for geometry. Geometry is the only part of my day what doesn’t make me feel like screaming. I have it in a sunny room on the school’s top floor with Miyole and a handful of other girls midway between her and my ages. It’s figuring, but put to things that matter in the real world. Height and volume, buildings and fuel, how many meters of tubing I’ll need to thread all the way around a circular tank. Our instructor lets me and Miyole sit together and help each other with the puzzles she sets us.

But come the end of the day, Miyole stays behind for special studies with Dr. Lata and Biomimesis Club, while I’m cast out into the city alone. I’ve been past the shipyard a few times on my way home, but I haven’t seen Rushil. I haven’t gotten up the courage to go in and apologize.

That night at dinner, Soraya sets down her glass and eyes Miyole across the table. “Dr. Lata’s been telling me things about you, little one.” Her hair is down, spilling in black crescents over the shoulders of her yellow blouse.

Miyole stops midchew and stares at us with her cheeks full of potato. I duck my head to hide a smile.

“She says you placed into the accelerated program. You’ll be done with Revati and have a few college credits under your belt by the time you’re fifteen.” Soraya raises her eyebrows and points her fork at Miyole in mock seriousness. “I hope you’ve thought about what you want to do for college, young lady.”

“I have,” Miyole says.

“Oh?” Soraya sneaks a look at me, winks, and sips her tea to hide it.

“Yes,” Miyole says, all seriousness. “I want to be a Deep Sound bioengineer.”

Soraya nearly chokes on her tea. “Really?” Deep Sound is what the people at Revati call long-range voyages into the Void, like the ones my crewe made. “Oh, Miyole. Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Miyole says. “I was reading about it, and Shushri Veer said they need people like me out Deep. Did you know bees go into stasis the minute they’re out in the air on Titus? And, oh, did you know you can engineer a spider to spin self-sealing thread for Deep suits and ship hulls? We hatched a whole bunch of them in our class.”

Soraya shudders.

“Besides, the Deep’s not dangerous anymore.” Miyole looks to me. “Right, Ava?”

I pause with a glass of sugared lime juice halfway to my mouth. What do I say? The Void is dangerous. Full of solar storms and rock belts and the odd stripper ship waiting to latch on to unsuspecting traders and sell the crew and cargo piecemeal. But then again, groundways is dangerous, too. It has its storms and its wars and its droughts. Besides, if Miyole goes as some kind of engineer, they’ll most likely stick her on one of those mile-long research vessels what dwarfed our Parastrata when we passed under their shadows. She’ll have a good hull and maybe even soldiers or trained guards to keep her safe.

“Depends,” I say.

Dismay creeps into Miyole’s face.

“But it’s not too dangerous if you’re smart.” I reach out and pinch her arm playfully. “You’ve got no problem being smart, do you?”

She grins and shakes her head.

“Well, you have plenty of time to think it over, anyway.” Soraya raises her glass. “To our scholar.”

Miyole and I clink our glasses with hers.

“I wish I didn’t have class tonight.” Soraya sighs and reaches out to straighten a stray piece of hair over Miyole’s eyes, then pretends to steal her nose.

Miyole giggles and bats at her.

Suddenly, the sight of the two of them, how close they’ve come, it hits me bittersweet. How fond of Miyole Soraya is. How Miyole uncoils whenever Soraya’s near. But it’s undercut with sadness at what Miyole lost to bring her here and at the lonely stretch of years Soraya must have come through to meet us in this place. And me, what would my life have been if my own mother had lived, or if my grandfather had stayed with us? What would it have been if Luck and I hadn’t been caught? Or if Iri had gotten away with me? The pull of all that sadness is too much. It sucks me away from our happy table, into the realm of ghosts.

I push away and carry my dishes to the kitchen. Soraya follows me a few minutes later, shrugging into a jacket. “Are you okay putting her to bed?”

I nod and concentrate on carefully feeding my dishes into the cleaner.

“Ava,” Soraya says in a way that makes me look up. “Are you okay?”

I nod again. For some reason, it feels better to be alone with my ghosts, like if I told someone about them, they might vanish, and then I might forget. “I’m fine.” I slip my hand into my pocket and worry my data pendant with my thumb. “Just tired.”

Soraya gives me an awkward one-armed hug. It’s quick and hard, as if she’s afraid I might catch her on fire if she touches me too long.

“I’ll be back at ten.” She steps back and tries to smile.

“Right so.”

I put Miyole to bed and practice reading to her from my tablet. I’m getting better. I hardly ever get so stuck I have to ask her to look at a word for me anymore. After we’ve done an article about storms at an Arctic research station, I wave my hand to dim the light and switch on the air-cleaning machine Soraya brought up to scrub out the musty smell. It fills her room with a steady hum.