The Galaxy Game

The Galaxy Game

Karen Lord

1. Cover Page
   
2. Title Page
   
3. Copyright Page
   
4. Also by Karen Lord
   
5. Dedication
   
6. Prologue
   
7. Part One: Cygnus Beta
   
8. Chapter One
   
9. Chapter Two
   
10. Chapter Three
    
11. Chapter Four
    
12. Chapter Five
    
13. Chapter Six
    
14. Part Two: Punartam
    
15. Chapter Seven
    
16. Chapter Eight
    
17. Chapter Nine
    
18. Chapter Ten
    
19. Chapter Eleven
    
20. Chapter Twelve
    
21. Part Three: Vanguard
    
22. Chapter Thirteen
    
23. Chapter Fourteen
    
24. Chapter Fifteen
    
25. Chapter Sixteen
    
26. Epilogue
    
27. Acknowledgements
    

First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Quercus

This edition first published in 2014 by
Quercus Editions Ltd
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW

Copyright © 2014 by Karen Lord

The moral right of Karen Lord to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Ebook ISBN 978 1 78087 691 7
Print ISBN 978 1 78087 689 4

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk

Also by Karen Lord

Redemption in Indigo

The Best of All Possible Worlds

For Alicia, Fatima and Adrian, with many
thanks for keeping me sane and happy.

Prologue

The only cure for a sleepless night was to lie in bed and watch the constellations projected on his ceiling. He knew them by heart, had known them since his boy-days on Cygnus Beta when he would climb the homestead water tower to stargaze (and escape his father). Then, they were a distant dream, an ancient tale that he could only trust was true. Now they were the dirt on his boots, the dust in his lungs and a constant pang of care and concern that he carried in his heart. He was homesick for everywhere, for scattered friends and family and colleagues, each with a claim on his attention.

He whispered names in soothing ritual. The First Four, crafted worlds found already seeded with life – Ntshune, Sadira, Zhinu and Terra. Then there were the colonies, bioformed planets shaped and settled by emigrants – Punartam, Ain, Tolimán and more. The Terran system was nearest to his Cygnian heritage, but the Punartam system was closest in travel time and galactic rank. Its sole habitable planet, a first-wave colony almost as prominent as the First Four, was reputed to be the first fully bioformed world, a point still debated by the Academes. Was Cygnus Beta a crafted world that had failed and been restored by human or non-human effort, or a bioforming experiment unrecorded in human history? Punartam could prove its origins; Cygnus Beta could not. Punartam was, of course, the Cygnian name (from a Terran language, like so many other Cygnian names). In Terran stellar nomenclature it was b
Geminorum
, and Galactic Standard offered a collection of syllables that told the full story of the star’s location, age, luminosity and life-bearing potential. The name they used for themselves was in Simplified Ntshune and it meant the same thing as in Galactic Standard – behold! we are here, we have been here long, see how brightly we shine, we are
we
.

The founders of Punartam traced their origin to the system called the Mother of humanity. Cygnian name: Ntshune (also from a Terran language). Terran name: a
Piscis Austrini
. True name: a delicate and yearning melodic phrase in Traditional Ntshune. But there was another claim to Eldest – Sadira. Terran name: e
Eridani
. Sadiri name: something unpronounceable (the Sadiri language, even in the simplified standard form, was still a challenge for him to speak). Former leader of the galaxy . . . or at least policeman and judge and occasional executioner. Not much liked though rarely hated, and now occasionally pitied. Sadira was dead, or almost dead, its biosphere locked in toxic regeneration for centuries to come. The seat of government had moved to New Sadira, formerly known to Cygnians as Tolimán. Survivors had settled throughout the colonies, mainly Punartam and Cygnus Beta, but not Ain. Certainly not Ain.

Next in rank. Cygnian name: Zhinu. Terran name: a
Lyrae
. Most Zhinuvians used the Galactic Standard name, but there were variations of that. In spite of several layers of modern tech and some extreme bioforming, the origin planet of the system had begun as a crafted world. Then there was Terra, Earth. Source of most of the settlers on Cygnus Beta (Terran stellar nomenclature: the unmelodious
16 Cygni B
). Youngest of the First Four and most in need of protection. Zhinu, an example of long-term, well-intentioned meddling from both Ntshune and Sadira, was now playing the role of delinquent middle child while the two elder siblings tried to shield Terra from outside influences.

With eyes still fixed on the stars, he reached towards a bowl of datacharms on his bedside table and brushed a familiar piece with the tip of a finger. A woman’s voice filled the room and he sank back onto his pillows with a sigh of comfort.

‘In the beginning, God created human beings, which is to say God put the ingredients together, embedded the instructions for building on the template and put it all into four separate eggs marked “Some Assembly Required”.

‘One egg was thrown down to Sadira. There humanity grew to revere and develop the powers of the mind. Another egg was sent to Ntshune, and the humans who arose there became adept at dealing with matters of the heart. A third egg arrived at Zhinu, and there the focus was on the body, both natural and man-made. The last egg came to Terra, and these humans were unmatched in spirit. Strong in belief, they developed minds to speculate and debate, hearts to deplore and adore, and bodies to craft and adapt. Such were their minds, hearts and bodies that they soon began to rival their elder siblings.

‘When the Caretakers saw the Terrans and their many ways of being human, they were both impressed and appalled. Some declared, “See how they combine the four aspects of humanness! Through Terra, all will be transformed – Sadira, Ntshune and Zhinu – into one harmonious whole.” Others predicted, “How can any group survive such fragmentation? They will kill each other, and the rest of humanity will remain forever incomplete.”

‘After some discussion, the Caretakers decided to seal off Terra from the rest of the galaxy until Terran civilisation reached full maturity. They also decided to periodically save them from themselves by placing endangered Terrans on Cygnus Beta, where they could flourish and begin to mix with other humans.’

The voice chuckled and concluded, ‘And that, my dear, is five creation myths for the price of one.’

He smiled. ‘Love you,’ he murmured to the recording. He would see the owner of the voice soon enough. Reaching out once more, he stirred inside the bowl with a finger . . . and frowned. The weight, the chime and the texture of the contents – something was off. He immediately sat up and turned on the lights. Grabbing the bowl, he sifted through the charms with one hand and glared at every trinket and token that rose to the surface. Finally, he turned the bowl upside down, dumping everything into his lap. He scanned the spread of charms on the bed-sheets, counting and cataloguing, although he already knew what was missing.

He looked up, furious. There was only one person who could have taken them, and only one place they could be.

*

Terminal 5 was a suborbital city strung between the icy surface of Ntshune and the icy, pitted armour of a single arc of the geosynchronous station. The core of the Terminal was old, a nostalgic remnant of another era of expansion, but the station was entirely new and under constant construction, forming a fragmented ring of bends and bows that girdled ancient Ntshune with a scanty, homely touch of modernity. It represented a humble proclamation of galactic ambition and a dogged focus on one thing – control of the main hub of galactic communications and transportation.

More lived and moved in the space station and its terminals than on the surface of Ntshune, but it was a population in constant flow to and from transports and through transits. The only residents who could claim any permanence beyond the staff were the databrokers, credit wranglers and small-goods sellers. They came from all over the galaxy – entrepreneurial, nomadic and at once heroic and pathetic. A glance would not distinguish between the adventurer and the refugee; both exuded the adrenalin of chasing and being chased by fate, and translated that urgency into a directness bordering on discourtesy. The market sector of Terminal 5 buzzed with loud voices and high emotions. Only the unprepared and the unlucky came to do business, and they learned quickly not to expect gentle handling.

‘No. Not that, not here.’ The broker’s palm slapped his desk in emphatic negation. ‘Waste of time.’

The young traveller froze with one hand suspended in the air, dangling the delicate bracelet with its many charms. ‘But you know what it is?’

‘Too well,’ the broker replied. ‘Datachip, Cygnian; datacharm, ditto. Assorted Punarthai audioplugs, one Sadiri vault and one Sadiri card, Ntshune—’ He stopped himself with a gape, leaned forward and gave the charm a few seconds of close attention. ‘Ntshune filigree,’ he admitted with nod of grudging appreciation. ‘Beautifully made. A timeless piece.’ He leaned back. ‘I can work with that or the Sadiri vault. No guarantees with the audioplugs. Some of the channels are no longer on-air and plugs won’t play without their channel linkup. The card is another antique, likely biolocked. The Cygnian matter – trash. Too much trouble.’

‘I have credit—’ the traveller began.

‘Credit is not the issue. Do you have five Standard years?’

The face stayed neutral but the hand drooped, and there was something regretful in the curl of the fingers as they slowly gathered up the loop of motley charms. The broker briefly yielded to the suggestion of softening, like a shy tug at his heart, but he soon braced himself sternly against it.

‘Stop that,’ he cautioned. ‘We are Sadiri still; we don’t have to stoop to Zhinuvian tricks. If you do not have five years, then go to Cygnus Beta, Tlaxce Province, the library city of Timbuktu-kvar. They specialise in data extraction from the most ridiculous and obsolete tech.’

The young face tried to continue its neutrality, but to another Sadiri every microexpression was a shout. The broker blinked and guessed. ‘You are a Cygnian Sadiri?’

Head bowed, mind shielded but alert, the traveller quietly replied, ‘Yes. I was born there.’

The broker was not perfect. He saw and sensed the obvious, and misread. ‘There is no need to be ashamed. Whether you are taSadiri or half-Sadiri, we all share the same ancestors, mourn the blackened skies of Old Sadira and curse the Ainya for their failed attempt at genocide.’

He stopped, gave the traveller a swift but thorough glance that assessed and appreciated from head to toe, misread further and decided to be vulnerable.

‘I thought I was fortunate. So many women died, we Sadiri men became so many wifeless husbands and motherless sons. But I had a wife still living. New Sadira took her from me not too long after. We were assured it would be temporary, so at first I was patient. I should have gone to Cygnus Beta with the rest of the young rejects, but I assumed I had status and protection – a place in the new world order. Now I am a lonely and ageing databroker working in the corners of space stations and transit terminals. Sometimes I hope that my wife found happiness, but from the tales I have heard and the emptiness in my heart . . . I know she is dead. It has been many years since then . . .’

Mind no longer closed, the young Sadiri tried to cringe away in polite but clear retreat, but the broker had gathered steam and courage and was no longer looking for the usual mental cues and courtesies. It was time for a coarser message. He tugged desperately at the neck of his plain black jacket, letting the hidden fastenings fall open to reveal a bare, smooth chest etched with silver tracings of the best Ntshune make. The broker stuttered to a stop, trying to navigate through several layers of faux pas to formulate some kind of coherent verbal or mental response to the traveller’s demonstrated unavailability for short-term flirtation or long-term engagement.