Линда Нагата - Edges

A voice, speaking from out of this parallel memory: It’s not too late for us to synchronize timelines. I don’t need to be protected .

On Griffin she pondered this, and after a time she messaged her other self, *I’m the one who needs you to be protected. I need your experience of human community unadulterated by the atavism of this Chenzeme mind.

An answer arrived, replete with frustration: *It can’t be that different from Dragon ’s high bridge.

*It is, and I don’t like what I’ve had to become.

She had told no one of the separation, but her Apparatchiks knew. The Engineer, monitoring data traffic between the two ships, had noticed the one-way flow of subminds: “You’ve created a version of yourself specialized for command,” he concluded.

“You would see it that way, having a personal understanding of specialization.”

She sensed Urban knew as well. When he spoke to this version of her, atrium to atrium, his tone was formal, distant. So different from when he spoke to her other self. Had he worked it out on his own? Or had the Engineer informed him? This last question led directly to another: Just how closely does he monitor me?

Suspicion blossomed, but suspicion was toxic, so she resolved to clear the air. She messaged him, *Do my Apparatchiks report to you?

He did not answer right away. Seconds passed. She imagined him considering all that this inquiry might imply. Finally, he asked her, *Should they?

A fair question. She held immense power, yet lived a separate existence. It would be dangerous to allow her to become a stranger. She would not allow that for herself.

*If my Apparatchiks have concerns, I hope they share them with me and with you.

*Okay, but… you are all right over there?

*Yes. I’ve adapted. I live her life and mine. And I want you to know that nothing means more to me than you and her and Dragon ’s evolving community—and I’ll do whatever’s necessary to protect all of you.

Late afternoon:

Urban was alone, gathering memories from his subminds as he lay with eyes closed on a blanket spread out in a shady garden corner, a few steps from the sliding backdoor of the cottage he shared with Clemantine. One after another, the partial copies of his persona dropped into his atrium, joining their memories to his so that he was acquainted with the current status of the ship, of the outriders, and of Clemantine in her separate command.

Urban had created the Sentinel to help him cope with the demands of commanding Dragon ’s high bridge. Clemantine had taken a different path in her command of Griffin . Instead of a partial persona that could be swapped in at need, she’d created a permanent alternate-self. She remained herself, but colder, more emotionally remote, as if she had taken on something of the implacable, ruthless nature of the philosopher cells. Did she realize it?

She must. Why else refuse to synchronize? Still, it left him questioning how well he knew her and what her boundaries might be.

But there was no calling it back.

Another submind, bringing the memory of the ongoing survey of the Near Vicinity. No anomalies of a stature to warrant concern had been found over the past twenty-four hours.

And another, bringing confirmation of the continued silence from the site of the beacon.

The beacon had fallen silent precisely at the time Elepaio was due to make its close pass. Urban longed to collect the memories of the ghost ensconced aboard that outrider. What did I find out there? Did I make contact with someone? Some thing? He wished again he’d been the version to go.

A sudden sharp electric hum, a minor note, seized his attention. His eyes opened to a dazzling spangle of daylight piercing past the bright-green leaves and feathery pink blossoms of a carefully shaped rain tree.

He sat up, looked around, as the hum dopplered away. A laugh from the direction of the path. A shout—Shoran’s voice—“Get it! Go, go, go! ”

He jumped to his feet—not out of alarm, but out of curiosity. This sounded like a game.

Riffan saw Pasha ahead of him on the path that wound around the circumference of the gee deck, linking all the cottages to the pavilion and the dining terrace.

He called out to her. “Oh, hey, Pasha!” And with a couple of easy bounds in the low gee, he caught up with her.

She turned to meet him, her delicate face framed in short blond hair that gleamed in the morning light, thin brows arched over skeptical green eyes. “Hey, Riffan.” Her tone neutral as always.

“You’re attending today’s lecture, aren’t you? May I walk with you?”

She snorted and continued toward the amphitheater. “Why are you always so formal?”

“Am I?” he asked with a frown, matching the slow-motion pace that most of the ship’s company had adopted to prevent inadvertently launching themselves into the shrubbery.

“Yes, you are,” she informed him.

“Well, perhaps you’re right.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Okay, you are right.”

The corner of her mouth quirked up.

“Are we friends, Pasha?” he blurted, stopping on the path, even taking a step back. She stepped back too, her pale cheeks warming with a flush, her green eyes wide. “I admire you so,” he said quickly, getting it all out while he could, “but I think… maybe I’ve offended you?”

“Why do you think that?” she said in an undertone, as if concerned someone might overhear. She stepped off the path and onto a small lawn, glancing over her shoulder at a cottage behind her.

“We used to be friendly, together on Long Watch . We often talked, discussed our studies. Now I hardly see you.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I see you every day at the lectures. Isn’t that where we’re going now?”

Riffan sighed, recognizing the brushoff.

With Vytet, he’d organized daily lectures and discussions on academic topics related to the expedition, ranging from astronomy to biology to history. The sessions were well attended, which meant Pasha was a face in the crowd while Riffan stood by the dais, moderating discussion—and afterward she would melt away, or be off to dinner with her friends, or disappear for hours behind her closed cottage door, doubtless pursuing research in the library.

“All right,” he said, glancing around as Alkimbra and Naresh approached along the path. He nodded to them, then blushed a bit as Alkimbra’s eyes narrowed, his keen gaze clearly perceiving Riffan’s awkward situation. He pursed his lips, raised his heavy eyebrows in a sympathetic expression, but to Riffan’s relief he said nothing, walking on with the oblivious Naresh.

Riffan turned back to Pasha. He desperately wanted her to explain what had changed—but what a ridiculous demand that would be! Everything about their lives had changed. And she didn’t owe him an explanation.

“I’ll see you at the lecture, then,” he said quietly.

She put out her hand before he’d quite gathered himself to leave. “It’s not you,” she assured him.

He waited, hoping for more, but Clemantine and Tarnya were coming next along the winding path, with several others not far behind.

Tarnya, looking ahead, saw them and called out, “Hi Pasha! Hi Riffan! You know there’s going to be a concert tonight, right?”

“Right, I’m planning to be there,” Pasha said, stepping away from Riffan, and then she was walking with them, leaving him trailing behind.