Vonda McIntyre - The Exile Waiting

Even her home began to close in, as though the stone were folding. Her dreams of leaving earth were crumbling around her. She pulled them back, clutching at them, but they were mist and dust in her grief and anger. Chris was trapped by his dreamless sleep and Mischa was trapped by her link to Gemmi. Perhaps there really was no way out.

Needing space around herself, Mischa slipped through the narrow fissure that led to the deserted radius outside. Walking down the passage, she passed concentric circumference tunnels until she reached the alpha-helix that spiraled, parallel to beta, up the wall of Center. She sat on the ramp, looking out over the cave. Beyond the Family domes that guarded and controlled essential services, the gate to the outside stood tall and solid, closed for the winter while the black sandstorms raged beyond. Mischa missed the neon-orange sun and the iridescent black sand, the stubby cactus-trees and the changing expanse of rolling empty dunes, the carefree manner of the caravannaires and the occasional sight of a ship landing on the field, and even the gray-brown clouds that seldom let the stars shine through.

"Hi, Misch."

She glanced up. "Oh. You. Hello." Kevin was her age, had bright black hair, eyes the same, and a round, pleasant face. He had caught up to and passed her in height during the last year. A fair thief, he would be better when he finally learned that his impulses were not trustworthy. Even getting caught had not taught him that but he did run with a gang most of the time. He was almost ready to admit to himself that he was a follower.

"How's it going?" He kept his voice deferential, almost unctuous.

Mischa did not want to talk to him or listen to him; he made her think of Dav. "What did Dav tell you to say to me?"

"Misch—" Speaking in two tones slid together, his voice oozed unjust hurt.

"I'm really tired of you trying to get me in again."

"The mess was just bad luck. You only ran with us once."

She did not give him her opinion of bad luck. "That's right. I only ran with you once."

"You could get a lot more with us."

"I could get ruined, too."

"Dav said to tell you you can do whatever you want. Everybody would do just what you told them."

"That's what he said last time. And everybody else said they would too. But they didn't. And I'm the one that got hurt."

"He got you out, didn't he?"

"Uh-huh. Where were the rest of you while he was doing it?"

Kevin shrugged and looked away.

"I work better alone," Mischa said. "Let's leave it at that."

"Okay." But he sounded unwilling, as though he had instructions he was reluctant to disobey.

"Hey," Mischa said.

"What?"

She pointed. At Stone Palace one of the doors swung slowly closed behind a child in a gilded kilt and collar. It minced along in the sand, in unconscious parody of adulthood despite baby fat and long beribboned curls.

"Come on," Mischa said.

Kevin followed her down the helix. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," she said, as though she had definite and malevolent plans.

"You're crazy," Kevin said, making the assumptions Mischa had expected.

"Find other company, then."

He followed her, and they followed the slave child as it followed its memorized route. Mischa was cautious by habit, though the child walked eyes front, incurious, disdainful. It seemed to look down its nose even at things twice its size. It shied away from dirt and disorder, when it should have been making mudpies. It seemed proud of itself, proud of its duties, proud of the collar around its neck.

The slave child walked down the middle of the path, toward the Family domes. Kevin grew increasingly nervous. He and Mischa both were out of place in this part of the city. "But what are you going to do?"

"I told you I don't know yet."

"Why waste time on it?"

"That's just why I won't come back."

Not understanding, Kevin said, "Dav—"

"Dav chews his toenails," Mischa snapped.

Hurt by the insult, Kevin grew silent. He followed her for a few more minutes, then spoke again, hesitantly. "Whatever you're going to do, I don't think it'll work."

"I'll see you around, then."

Having expected her to stop chasing the useless slave, Kevin halted, surprised at the cutoff. Mischa kept going, half-smiling with relief that vanished when he called to her.

"Mischa—"

"What?"

"Dav wanted me to tell you one thing."

"What?"

"He says he misses you."

The tightness in her throat was less, this time, than her anger. "That's too bad," she said. Dav had been a good friend, a pleasurable companion, but he had drawn on their friendship more than once too often. Mischa did not want to see him again. Too many people were trying to control her life. She had missed Dav for a long time, in the day, in the night, but she did not miss him anymore. She walked away from Kevin and did not look back.

The slave child's presence in Center, unguarded, was a taunt that would never be answered. Its authority emanated from Stone Palace, where Blaisse, its lord, held half the power in Center. Blaisse did not exert his will as much as Mischa had heard his father used to, but the potential existed. Blaisse controlled any ship that landed at Center from the Sphere, and he was said to possess great weapons. At least the Families believed he did, for they never tried to alter the uneasy balance of power. The Families themselves were unquestionably powerful, for they controlled the law, the food and water, access to the outside, raw materials, even the air. And, of course, electricity: the light.

When the slave child reached the Family domes, it was allowed to enter, a courtesy accorded few others. When it had finished giving the bulk orders, it went to franchises to buy prepared goods: cloth or caked and flavored algae or meat made of pressed sheets of cultured cells. Last it visited the little luxury shops for outside imports that could not be made or grown in Center: fruit, animal meat, fur, sun-drugs. The prices had already risen considerably; they would be much higher by spring. The child pilfered choice tidbits with impunity, ignoring guardbirds that would have been loosed to take out anyone else's eyes.

Unmolested and avoided, the child made its loop of Center and returned to Stone Palace, to give up its responsibility and again be a plaything competing with other playthings for the attention of some noble. Mischa let it go. She looked up at the clean gray stone where units had been stripped away and crumbled into rubble to give the Palace and its lord the privacy they required. Mischa felt no animosity toward Blaisse for the destruction; it had been done long before either he or Mischa was born.

Mischa smiled a wry private smile and turned back the way she had come.

Jan Hikaru's Journal:

My friend the blinded navigator tells stories of greater or lesser credibility, and her words flow like poetry. The blind poet: a character so ancient it has become an archetype: Homer, Miriamne ... and my friend. I listen to her and talk with her for hours every day.

People come to her: children, young navigators, even captains, to tell her of ships about to depart for places I have heard of but never seen. She questions each with equal courtesy, thanks them, and stays. She is waiting for something. Of late she has become restless. I have a feeling that soon she will make her way down to the field, find a ship of whatever destination, and leave.

I'm discovering that I have never been frightened before. I am frightened now, of losing her, of loneliness.

Kirillin was a tall, ugly young woman with knife scars down her cheek and a purple birthmark like a mask across her eyes. She always wore opaque black. She was older than Chris by a few years, and ten years removed from being a sneakthief, but she was a good friend. For many things she had been Mischa's teacher, from tricks of the trade of thievery to biocontrol of fertility. Mischa went to her shop and leaned against the doorframe.