a good

heretic

wayfarers

A short story in the Wayfarers universe

BECKY CHAMBERS

TITAN BOOKS

Becky Chambers burst into the spotlight with a crowdfunded first novel, The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet, that reinvented space opera. Now published by HarperCollins in the U.S. and a New York Times and international bestseller, her Wayfarers series is a trilogy with, hopefully, more to follow, and Chambers is one of the rising stars of not only new space opera, but science fiction. I received her book as a gift and immediately knew I had to see if she’d write something for me. To my good fortune, she has—for this volume, and I think it will delight longtime fans and serve well as an introduction to the Wayfarers universe. An alien sailor aboard a galactic ship must come of age both mentally and physically as she embarks on her challenging first voyage in “A Good Heretic.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Like everything I write in the Wayfarers books, this story ties into all the others, but will stand on its own just fine if this is your point of entry to the series. The setting here is the Galactic Commons, an interstellar, interspecies union established for ease of trade and travel. As FTL is illegal, transportation between systems is facilitated through a vast network of constructed wormholes. Though all GC species are represented in the tunneling profession, their work is impossible without the mathematical contributions of the Sianat, a reclusive race who intentionally infect themselves with a virus that enhances specific cognitive abilities (at the cost of shortening their lifespan). Infected Sianat are properly called “Pairs,” and think of themselves as plural entities. Their pronoun usage reflects this.

In The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet, we’re introduced to mainstream Sianat culture through Ohan, a Navigator aboard a tunneling ship. However, we receive a glimpse of an alternate Sianat way of life through the character Mas, who we meet briefly late in the book. This is her story.

WAYFARERS: A GOOD HERETIC

BECKY CHAMBERS

GC STANDARD 184

Mas had never known a crowd that was comprised of anything but her own species, and she never would. To her, a crowd was a disjointed thing, an arrangement made mostly of empty space. Sianats knew to keep their distance from one another—the acceptable rule was two bodies shy, in every direction. It was a dance, her mother had explained long ago. Imagine that everyone exists in the exact center of a circular shield. When yours brushes another, you both must adjust.

Mas kept her own imaginary shield firmly in mind as she navigated the busy street, all four of her clumsy juvenile limbs trying to keep to the rhythm of the city center while simultaneously managing the pack of groceries strapped across her back. She could feel her mother watching her progress, which added to Mas’ nervousness. She couldn’t bear the thought of touching a stranger by accident. That’d be almost as much trouble as touching her mother.

They reached the central gardens, and Mas’ fur settled with relief. She’d made it, untouched and unscolded. They walked down the heated paths until they came to her mother’s favorite spot—an evergreen mossy knoll looking over the city of Trolouk. Her mother sat on their back haunches on the bare ground, claiming that particular patch as their own. Mas did the same, two bodies shy. Her mother blinked approvingly at where she sat, and small as the achievement was, Mas felt proud. It brought her such pleasure to do things right.

Mas looked at the cityscape surrounding them. The monument to the First Carrier stood huge and impressive, taller than the government towers, taller than the colleges, taller than everything but the icy mountains beyond. As she looked, gentle flakes of snow tickled her face. She shook her head and scattered them, laughing with delight at the brief flurry hiding within her unshaved tufts.

Her mother—whose fur was trimmed short and intricately patterned, as befit their age—shot her a look. Mas fell silent, embarrassed, for there were no other children seated on the hill, only Pairs, and Pairs did not disturb the thinking of others with harsh sounds. But a subtle kindness bloomed on her mother’s face, and with a glance both this way and that, they too shook their head as Mas had, making the snow fall. Neither laughed, as was proper. But the little amusement was shared.

“May I eat now?” Mas asked.

Her mother inclined their head once. “Yes.”

Mas unstrapped the grocery pack and dug through its contents, the majority of which were for her. Her mother ate only hemle— the carefully balanced nutrient paste Pairs consumed as their sole nourishment. But Mas was a child—a perpetually hungry child at that—and for her, there was raw meat cured with sour wine and charred meat on the bone and a tin of fancy marrow and a variety of bird eggs ready to be cracked open and drunk down. She unwrapped the charred meat first, as it was her favorite, and tucked in gleefully, letting her sharp teeth do the work.

“Do you ever miss children’s food?” Mas asked once she’d swallowed. She filled her mouth again as soon as the words had left it.

“No,” her mother said. Their own teeth were filed flat, like those of a prey animal, a sign of their avowed service to others, their lack of a desire to conquer.

Mas savored a well-burned bit. “I think I’ll miss it.”

Her mother smiled. “There are things we thought we would miss as well,” they said. “But the Whisperer is helpful in that way. We do not miss what we were before infection. The gifts we have now are so much greater.”

Mas’ own infection wouldn’t happen for another standard, and she thought about it constantly. She was a little afraid, but her mother encouraged her to ask any question that came to mind, no matter how big or small, so that there would be no mystery when the day came. As far as the general shape of things went, Mas knew what was waiting for her. She’d be infected with the sacred virus, the Whisperer. It would take root in her, and reshape her brain into something wondrous. No longer would her thoughts be as limited as her species’ lesser friends in the galaxy—confined to one form of logic, one set of numbers, three rigid dimensions. The other societies within the Galactic Commons had spread themselves throughout the stars, but it was Sianat insight and Sianat intellect that enabled every one of those histories. Without them, the Harmagians could not have built their tunnels, the Aeluons could not have won their wars, the Aandrisks would not have their academic collections. Without the Sianat, the galaxy would be only a few lonely islands with uncrossable seas between. Because of them, the sky was full.

Mas couldn’t wait to contribute her own mind to that cause. She wished to build wormholes, as she’d learned of in school. But until then, Mas had questions, and there was one that had been bothering her for several tendays. “Mother,” she said. “I wish to know something, but I am afraid to ask.”

“Why?”

“It may be blasphemous.”

Her mother considered this. “So long as you know it may be blasphemous, you may ask us.” They paused. “But only us. If a question causes you fear, do not ask it of your teachers. Only us.”

Mas set down her half-eaten meat in the frosted moss. “Have you heard of a planet called Arun?”

Mas’ mother started, eyes wide and muscles rigid. “Where did you hear of this?”

“Other children. In the playfield.”

“Which children?”

The sudden accusation in her mother’s voice made Mas hold silent.

Her mother exhaled. “Very well. We will not pry.” They hummed in astonishment. “The things children speak of.” A quiet came over them, a distance in their eyes.

Mas did not interrupt. She knew the look of thoughts being gathered.

“Arun is a den of Heretics,” her mother said. “Do you know this word?”

“No.”

Her mother took several breaths. They looked afraid to even touch this subject, and this made Mas afraid, too. “A Heretic is a person who avoids infection. Who denies the Whisperer.”

Mas was stunned. “Why?”

“I do not know. But if they are caught, they are sent to Arun. Or, if they run away, they seek the place out themselves.” Her mother rubbed the fur on their forelegs nervously. “Perhaps we should not be telling you this.”

That made Mas wish to press on all the more. “What is there for them, on Arun?”

“Nothing.” The word came out contemptuous. “It is a harsh place, with no star of its own. An errant planet with no light and no mooring. The Heretics do not leave it.”

“Why?”

“They are still Sianat,” her mother said. “They do not seek disorder, and their presence in the galaxy would be disorder incarnate in the face of what we’ve built.”

“So… they are not part of the Commons.”

“Not as such, no. They are disavowed by us, and therefore from the Commons as well. They have brokered no treaties of their own.”

This was plenty to take in, but Mas already had more to ask. “This question may be blasphemous, too.”

Her mother almost laughed. “We’re already blaspheming, child. Another will not matter.”

“Why is it a problem, if they wish to leave?” Mas asked. “If their world is far and they do not bother anyone—”

“Because it is in defiance of the sacred law.” That alone was answer enough, but Mas’ mother continued. “And because there is no point to it. Arun is a prison. It is exile. Look at our world, Mas.” They arched their head toward the surrounding city, a jewel-chest of artful buildings and good works. “Look at how rich our life is here. Think of how much better we have made the lives for others in the Commons. Why would you deny yourself that? Why would you run from this into a life of struggle? Of no possible meaning? Such a thing is lunacy.”

New and unconsidered as this whole idea was, Mas found herself agreeing. None of this made sense. She almost felt as if she understood less than before she’d broached the topic.

Her mother was looking around worriedly at the other people milling about the knoll. “Come,” they said. “Pack up your food. We think it best to go home now.”

They spent the long walk back in silence, both lost in thought. After a time, the dense streets of the city center branched into residential roads, and they came at last to their burrow, lived in by the two of them alone. Mas’ mother opened the ground hatch and climbed down. Mas waited a few customary seconds, to give her mother time to clear the climbing posts, then followed in turn. The walls were warm and the air was dry. Mas could feel the snowflakes caught in her fur liquefy before she reached the floor. She shook herself vigorously once she was down, trying to rid herself of both melt and disquiet.

She turned, and to her surprise saw her mother still standing there. There was a softness in their gaze that made Mas forget everything else. “Please,” her mother said. The word was a plea, a prayer. “Do not ever go down that path. We could not—” They took a ragged breath. Mas had never seen them this uncomposed. “We could not bear it if you—” The sentence choked itself short, and her mother left the entryspace.

Mas stood alone, overwhelmed. The unexpected reminder of her mother’s love made her feel as if she’d been given sugar milk and summer sun. The feeling wrapped itself up with the unpleasant knowledge of heresy, and Mas was resolute. There was no question, not in any layer of her mind. She would be a good Pair. It could be no other way.

*   *   *

GC STANDARD 185

The priest ran their scans as Mas waited within the exposure chamber. “Pulse, good. Organ functionality, good. Adrenaline—heightened, but this is normal.” The priest blinked at Mas reassuringly through the glass.

Mas took comfort in this, though her hearts still raced. She sat as she’d been taught—loose-limbed and jaw unclenched—and she breathed as she’d been taught—deep and easy. She was nervous, yes, but it was not out of fear. Today was the day. Infection. Pairing. She would be sick for a time, she knew, but when the sickness cleared, she would be a new entity. A plural. She would feel the Whisperer’s gifts, and her worries would vanish. The clouds in her mind would settle. Her low mind would deepen, and would comprehend the very fabric of the universe as if it were mere arithmetic. Her high mind would be at peace, never lacking contentment even in the face of great troubles. She knew that was why it had been easy for her mother to say goodbye, to leave her for the last time. Mas looked down at her forelegs, shaved and patterned in the adult fashion by her mother’s hands, a grooming ritual Mas would perform on her own from now on. The grief of their parting still wrenched Mas, but it was of no concern. Soon, the pain would be gone.

The priest finished their evaluation, and set down their medical instruments. They gestured at a panel nearby, and began to chant—not in Ciretou, but in Duslen, that odd tripping language used only in religion and government. The Pairing had begun.

This is it, Mas thought. It was all she could do to keep from leaping with joy. She was about to come of age.

A faint mist filled the chamber. This was an analgesic, she knew, given to ease the transition. Mas breathed deep. She smelled nothing, but her nostrils went numb. Her limbs relaxed. It was wonderful.

A drawer slid open out of the chamber wall. A syringe lay within it. Mas had practiced this part many times in school, injecting herself with small doses of saline so she would not be squeamish about the needle when the time came. But this was not saline, she knew. This was precious. Powerful. Time seemed to slow as she picked up the syringe, as if it, too, were watching.

The priest ended their chant abruptly.

Mas spoke in Duslen as she administered the injection, the one phrase she could speak. Share my body, Whisperer. Shape my mind.

She plunged the infectious fluid into her veins. Nothing happened. This was normal, she knew. The virus needed time to course through her. She returned the syringe to the drawer, and walked to the hammock stretched out across the back of the chamber.

“Congratulations,” said the priest. “You are now a Pair. You are whole.”

“I feel dizzy,” Mas said, then paused, remembering what she was—they were now. Host and hosted, two in one. “We feel dizzy.”

The priest checked their readouts on the display outside the chamber. “That is not unusual,” they said. “Not common, but a known side effect. Rest now. Sleep, if you can. The days ahead will be difficult.”

The priest was not wrong. A fever raged within hours, and Mas’ muscles burned despite the mist. They had known of this, been taught of this, but there was a vast gulf between expecting pain and experiencing it. A sort of unconsciousness followed, a dreamlike state in which they dipped in and out of reality. They saw priests and orderlies, which were probably real. They saw their mother, who was probably not. In the few moments of clarity they had, they felt terrified. Pairs should not feel terror, they thought, not without grave cause. But then, the Whisperer was still spreading. Mas reminded themself of this before falling back into madness once more.

Then, one clear-eyed afternoon, they awoke.

The fever was gone, and the pain, too. Mas sat up in the hammock and evaluated themself. Their limbs felt weak. This was normal. Their eyes felt wet. This was normal. Their low mind felt different, in a way they could not articulate. Sharper, perhaps. Stronger. This was normal. Their high mind… their high mind felt raw, harrowed. Miserable. Their high mind wanted nothing more than to leave this place of sickness and return home to their mother.

This was not normal.

A priest arrived in short order, a different one than before. “We are glad to see you up, Mas,” they said. “Your transition took longer than is typical. Come, let us get you out of that small space. We will take you to bathe and eat, and from there, you may spend as many days adjusting to your new self in the recovery house as needed before continuing on to your chosen college. How do you feel?”

Mas thought for a moment of telling the priest that something was wrong, but they were so frightened, so confused by the unexpected remainder of grief that they kept silent. Everything else had gone as promised—the pain, the fever, the terrible sleep. But they had been assured stillness on the other side, and Mas was nowhere in the vicinity of that. “Are we all right?” they asked, keeping their voice neutral.

The priest checked Mas’ readouts. “Yes,” they said. “A long transition is… unusual, but not unheard of. Your scans show no problems.” They cocked their head at Mas. “Why do you ask?”

The priest, too, had a neutral tone, but Mas caught something else—a watch, a warning. It was barely there, yet enough to confirm that speaking the truth would be precarious. Mas did not know what had gone wrong, but until they knew what it was and what the law said about it, they would keep the particulars to themselves.

“We are merely concerned for the integrity of the Whisperer,” Mas said. “We would not want this Host to be unworthy of it, if there is some physical defect.”

“A virtuous concern,” the priest said happily. “But you need not worry. Your Host is healthy. All is well.” They opened the chamber door. “Come. Let us get you clean.”

Mas thought of their mother again, remembered the way they walked, the way they spoke, the way all Pairs moved differently than children. Mas commanded their feet to step slackly, their face to rest as if nothing were wrong nor ever would be. Perhaps the Whisperer needed a little more time to settle in. Perhaps the miracle hadn’t happened yet.

Mas took their bath, and they waited.

Mas let a stranger file their teeth to stubs, and they waited.

Mas ate their hemle—which turned out to be awful—and they waited.

Mas watched the other new Pairs, each blissfully at ease in the domed arboretums, happy to stare at a single leaf or a pool of water for a day or more. There could be no question that they were at peace within both body and mind. Mas found a rock to stare at. They told themself it was a beautiful rock, a wondrous rock, a source of infinite intricacies worth pondering. Mas tried to feel that. They tried. They spent days staring at rocks and dirt and clouds, and tried to feel something other than being bored out of their mind. They tried, and they waited.

Yet in all that waiting: nothing.

Mas went to school—the Navigators’ College, as they’d decided upon before infection. For a brief time there, they thought that finally, finally, the Whisperer was opening their mind. As a child, they’d seen diagrams of interspatial tunnels, and had found no meaning in them. Now—now they were clear as air. The logic was simple, the math elegant. Mas made their own diagrams, and solved every problem the instructors threw their way. The Whisperer had changed them. Their low mind was not as it had once been.

But when they tried to sleep in their unshared room in the residence tower, they thought of their boredom, and their loneliness, and worst of all, their mother. After many such nights, they finally understood what was wrong. The Whisperer was within Mas, the Host. That much was obvious, from the exhilarating math and the weak muscles. The virus had changed the body. It had changed the low mind. But the high mind—the part of a Host that believed in things and felt the world and knew itself—that was unaltered. The virus had not taken purchase there. Despite Mas’ will and readiness, some shadowy part of them had rejected the Whisperer.

Some part of them was evil.

*   *   *

GC STANDARD 190

They received their certification from the GC Transport Board, and a few tendays later an offer was sent their way: a posting aboard a new tunneling ship that possessed everything but a Navigator. It was a good post, as Mas understood it. A Harmagian captain was likely to secure the most prestigious work, and between them, the crew had much experience in the field. There was no reason to say no.

Three unconscious weeks in a stasis pod later, Mas came aboard the Remm Hehan. They awoke in the airlock, which disappointed them. They’d been hoping for a view of the ship from space. Pairs had to risk exposure to unknown contaminants as little as possible, and so travel outside of their place of work was forbidden. If their posting went well and the function of the ship did not change before the Wane set in, the Remm Hehan would be the last place Mas would ever see. They would’ve preferred to have seen the full context of their final home from outside, but it was too late for that now.

The captain greeted them once they were through the decontamination chamber. Lum’matp was her name, a robustly speckled mass perched atop her motorized cart, a seasoned spacer in her prime. “Welcome, dear Navigator,” Lum’matp said. Her yellow facial tendrils moved with—as Mas knew from their studies—gracious respect. “Your arrival is gladly received.”

Mas inclined their neck once, in their own custom. “We are honored to be here,” they said, hoping their Hanto was as good as their instructors claimed. They mimicked tendril gestures with their long fingers, as best as the digits would allow.

Lum’matp sat quiet for a moment, shifting her weight on her blocky cart. “That’s about as formal as I get,” she said. “My species is very good at wasting time with fluff. And I hate wasting time.”

A Harmagian who scoffed at ceremony was surprising, to say the least, but Mas took it in their stride. A Pair would not pry further than that.

Lum’matp swung her cart around and headed for the doorway. “Come along,” she said, gesturing at Mas to follow with a backwards-facing tentacle. “The crew expects introductions, and they’ll be had. But I’ve worked with your people enough to know that you want quarters and quiet as soon as possible.”

Mas wanted neither. They wanted to see the ship, all of it, every bolt and bulkhead. They wanted to talk with the crew—four Harmagians besides the captain, two Aandrisks, and an Aeluon—to learn more about them than names, to do more than bow their head in greeting and speak thanks for giving them a place to share their gifts. They wanted to ask the questions they’d always been dying to ask aliens—Did Harmagians find their carts comfortable? Were Aandrisks cold to the touch? Did Aeluons actually think in Hanto when “speaking” it, or did their talkboxes do the translation for them?—rather than pretend that such cultural quirks were below their notice. They wanted to be reassured that this was a good place, a safe place, that this crew would be a fine one to live and work and die alongside.

But a Pair would not. Mas stilled their tongue and silenced their wonderings. They went to their quarters, and they stayed there.

*   *   *

GC STANDARD 193

Three standards. They had been aboard the Remm Hehan for three standards, and they were sure they were losing their mind—high and low both. Their thoughts, which had once run deep and fluid, now scattered sharp, like glass smashed against stone. Mas often forgot what they were doing, what they’d been thinking. A good idea would blossom, then vanish, smoke-like, as if it had never been there. Everything was pins and needles and screaming, constant screaming, but only within. Always within.

When Mas went to sleep, they dreaded the morning that would come. When they awoke, they ached for the end of the day. Sleep itself, though… that was good. It was the only time they were not aware of their terrible thoughts or their terrible room.

It was not really a terrible room—or at least, Mas did not blame the room itself. Their crew had bestowed them with a perfect place for a Pair. There was a lush bed in the Sianat style, without covers or anything that stifled the flow of air over fur. There was a tank of swimming laceworms—a Harmagian fancy, but one that was easy to enjoy. There was a large mirror beside a basin, where they could properly shave their fur, and a large window, through which a Pair could gaze out at the stars and contemplate them, all day, every day.

Mas did not want to contemplate anything ever again. They wanted out. They loved tunneling days, when a Pair would be expected to join the crew on the bridge. Those days were ecstasy, respite, the only escape Mas had access to. Sometimes, they made intentional errors in their preparatory calculations, so they would have to correct them in the crew’s company and thus make the day last longer. The crew didn’t notice. The molding of space-time was inscrutable to them, so any solution Mas found was already tremendous in the eyes of others. To the crew, an extra hour was nothing. To Mas, an extra hour was paradise. It was what kept them, some days, from finding an airlock and opening the hatch.

They sat now in front of the laceworm tank, watching the little creatures peck at the feeding block. One in particular caught Mas’ eye—the red one with the rippled tail. They’d found it pretty once, but had long since come to hate it. The red one was the worst of them, always making mistakes, always bumbling around the tank while the others danced.

“You’re so stupid,” Mas whispered at the laceworm, who was trying to gum a nodule of food far too big for its mouth. “You don’t even realize how stupid you are.”

The nodule broke free and began to drift to the bottom of the tank. The red laceworm chased it, gumming futilely as it fell.

“Stupid,” Mas hissed. “Leave it alone.”

The nodule came to rest on the tank floor. The worm gummed and gummed and gummed. Far more flecks of food floated into the water than made it into the worm’s mouth.

Mas wasn’t sure what came over them. Not rage. It was a sort of calm, but not a good calm. Not a compassionate calm. With care, they rolled up the sleeve of their robe, pushed back the lid of the tank, and plunged their arm into the tepid water. The other worms scattered, but the stupid red one, still fixated on its impossible meal, did not notice Mas’ hand until they’d grabbed it. It wriggled against them, and they were struck by the novelty—the slime of the worm, the slosh of the water, the entry into a space they hadn’t visited before. Mas removed their arm from the tank after a moment, then opened their palm. The worm writhed, curled, flailed. After a few moments, its movements became more feeble. The water would’ve revived it quickly, but Mas did not return it to its home. They sat in the middle of the floor, water dripping from their sodden arm, and watched the worm die in their hand.

Mas felt nothing. They reflected on this, and the nothing was soon replaced with panic. What had they done? Why had they done that? They could find no reason, no reason at all.

“I’m sorry,” they whispered to the laceworm. The words turned into a coo. “I’m so sorry.” They curled up on the floor, tiny corpse still in hand, whimpering like they had not since they were a child. They thought of their mother, a memory they’d not allowed themself for a long time. They thought of the warm burrow the two of them had shared, and their walks through the city to buy food, tools, school supplies. They remembered being very, very small, before they’d been taught to stop touching, clinging to the fur on their mother’s back and feeling that no harm would come to them.

What would their mother think of them now?

The answer came to them in a sudden shot of numbers. Mas’ current age, their mother’s age when they’d left them, the number of years between this and that. Their mother would have Waned by now, if not long ago.

Their mother, they realized, was dead.

Mas sat with both that knowledge and the worm for an hour, then decided to talk to their captain.

They encountered no one in the hallways, luckily. They walked undisturbed to Lum’matp’s door, and brushed their palm against the panel. The accompanying vox switched on a few seconds later. “Yes, what?”

Mas was quiet for a moment. “It is Mas,” they said.

“We won’t reach our tunneling point for another tenday,” the captain said. “Can your calculations not wait?”

“We… we do not have any calculations to discuss.”

“Then what?”

Mas turned their head to look over their back. The corridor remained empty. “It is of a personal nature.”

The resulting silence was response enough. The door opened.

Mas had never before had cause to enter the captain’s quarters, and the newness of the space was dizzying. Like the rest of the ship, the decor was of contemporary Harmagian style, bright and bold, a celebration of smooth geometrics. But Lum’matp’s living space was much finer than the rest, denoting her high status and successful career. Curios from dozens of worlds were displayed on and around the expensive furnishing, and the ceiling shimmered with a slow eddy of rainbow pixels. Mas wondered if their Aeluon crewmate came in here often. They imagined the cacophony of color would be hell for their kind. To Mas themself, the effect was merely gaudy.

The center of the room was filled with a sunken pool, solely for the captain’s benefit (the remainder of the Harmagian crew members shared one pool among themselves, in the lowest decks). Pleasing green lights lined the asymmetrical edges, making the salty water glow in a way suggestive of a bioluminescent sea. But there was nothing alive in the pool besides Lum’matp, who was in the process of swimming to the edge closest to Mas. It was an odd thing, watching a Harmagian swim. In any other environment, they were ungainly. Sluggish in the purest sense of the word. In liquid, however, a Harmagian could almost be described as sleek. Lum’matp’s body undulated through the water with startling speed and grace, and not for the first time, Mas wondered why their captain’s species had ever bothered leaving the ocean.

Lum’matp hauled her head-half out of the pool and leaned her tentacled bulk over the edge. Water dripped down her porous body, making her skin glisten. “Since when,” she said, “does a Pair discuss anything of a personal nature?”

Mas’ stomach churned. They sat back on their haunches, trying desperately to maintain the poise their people prided themselves on. “Since now,” they said. There was a tremble in their voice, and they hated themself for it. There was more to say beyond that, so much more, but it stuck in Mas’ throat like old paste.

Lum’matp’s eyestalks stretched forward. “Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Are you… are you fighting with someone?”

“No.”

“Good, because that’s impossible to imagine. Do you wish to leave us?”

“No, captain. Not at all.”

Lum’matp tensed her tentacles irritably. “Then what?”

The lump came unstuck, and Mas felt frightening words spit themselves forth: “We are a liar.” Lum’matp blinked with concern and began to respond, but the door had been opened, and Mas couldn’t stop. “We are a bad Host, a broken Host. We are defective, and if you dismiss us for it, if you send us back to be punished, the visible half of us will deserve it. But we cannot live this lie anymore. We cannot sit alone and stare out windows and pretend to be content. We are losing our mind, captain. We may have lost it already. Whatever you decide to do with us, it will be better than this.”

The Harmagian pulled her entire self out of the water now, trading speed for height. “I think,” she said with the slow caution of someone encountering an unknown, “you’d better start from the beginning.”

So Mas did. They started at the beginning, and drove it through to the now. The uncertainty over what Lum’matp would do was nauseating, but there was clarity, too, a relief like they could never remember feeling. The truth. This was what truth felt like: clean, light, pure. Mas felt, for the first time since infection, like they could breathe properly.

Lum’matp said nothing for a while after Mas finished. “Would you fetch me a bowl of algae puffs?” she asked at last. “Over there—no, look where I’m pointing, there—in the jar by that awful sculpture. I’d offer you some, but—well, wait, can you ingest other foods?”

“We still carry the Whisperer,” Mas said as they made their way across the room. “We do not know what introducing changes to our body would do, especially for one this lacking.”

“Stop,” Lum’matp said with a snap in her voice. “Enough of that talk. Stars and fire, if you’re going to keep living with this, your first step is to find a way to stop hating yourself for it.”

Mas turned their head slowly, the jar of algae puffs and an empty bowl in hand. “So… you’re… you’re not…”

“Buschto,” Lum’matp said. Mas had no translation for the word in their native tongue. Sludge was the literal meaning, but that didn’t evoke the obscene exasperation of the original. Few swear words jumped languages well. “Of course I’m not going to… I don’t even know what you’d expect I’d do. Hand you over to whoever your authorities are? Please. This isn’t the fucking colony wars.” She paused. “Have you told no one else about this?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.” They handed their captain her snack.

Lum’matp cradled the bowl in her tentacles as she thought. At last, she reached a tendril down, retrieved a puff, and brought it to her cavernous mouth. “I’ve done nothing to deserve that kind of trust,” she said. “But thank you.” She ate another, and another. “So if you’re not truly a Pair, what are you?”

“I don’t know,” Mas said.

“There’s no concept for what you are? No term in Ciretou?”

Mas rubbed their gums with their lips. “The only word I have is Heretic,” they said. “But we always—we always thought that implied intent. The ones who tried to escape. The ones who rejected the Whisperer. Our mind was willing, yet something in us rejected the Whisperer’s fullness. We have never heard of this happening. We have been too scared to ask. But rejection is rejection, and so we must be a Heretic.”

“A Heretic,” Lum’matp said. She pondered. “You’re not a very good Heretic.”

This conversation was starting to feel dangerous, but Mas pressed forward. “How do you mean?”

“Rejection is one thing, but to me, ‘heresy’ suggests defiance. You’re right, it’s fueled by the mind. And that’s your real problem, Mas. That’s your misery. You’ve spent your life forcing yourself into something that, for some reason, you could not be. So no, I don’t think you’re a Heretic yet. But I think it would be very good for you if you were.” A mischievous shiver danced its way around her dactyli. “‘We.’ Is that accurate?”

“It’s—of course it’s—”

Lum’matp waved their protest away with two tentacles. “‘We’ is a Pair. You’re not. You said you’re a broken Pair, but I’m your captain, and I say you’re not broken, so you can’t be a Pair, then. You’re a carrier. Asymptomatic. Atypical. Or something. I have no idea. What are you?”

“We’re Mas.”

Lum’matp squinted. “Is that how you really think of yourself?”

Mas knew what Lum’matp was getting at, and it rattled them. Telling the truth was one thing; embracing it was another. “We… we can’t—”

Their captain’s tentacles unfolded. “Look around. Do you see any other Sianat here? Do you see anyone within tendays of here who would give a shit? Tell me, Mas. Tell me how you think of yourself.”

“I.” The word fell like a stone—no, no, not a stone, smashing as it fell. An anchor. A weight to ground yourself by. Oh, stars, this was wrong, this was blasphemy, this was…

This was right.

Mas shook as if flinging water from fur. “I. I am Mas.”

“Yes! Yes!” Lum’matp grabbed Mas’ forelegs with her tentacles—an impossible gesture, a thing no Sianat Pair would tolerate, a thing no Harmagian should do to another species unprotected unless she wanted her delicate skin to itch all day. But Lum’matp didn’t seem to care, and Mas nearly collapsed from the intensity of touch, being touched. Lum’matp clasped her tightly, supporting Mas’ trembling weight and laughing. “Dear Heretic,” she said. “Welcome aboard.”

*   *   *

GC STANDARD 195

At Mas’ request, Lum’matp said nothing to their crewmates. Mas was still uneasy with this new seeing of herself, and she was not sure what others would think—or worse, if they talked while at port, and the wrong ears heard. Too many uncertainties. Too many fears. Besides, Mas liked having a shared secret. She’d never had one before.

The captain had developed a long-standing habit of inviting Mas to her quarters under the ruse of tutelage. Lum’matp wanted to improve her understanding of physics, the story went, and who better to help her?

That was the story, anyway. The truth was, every night Mas and Lum’matp played table games together.

“I have you!” Lum’matp cried, sliding her netship into the fifth tier. The game was Rog-Tog-Tesch, a ludicrously complicated trade-and-politics affair with, for inscrutable reasons, an aesthetic theme of pre-industrial Harmagian sea farming.

Mas adored it.

Lum’matp’s tendrils curled victoriously as the game board tallied her points. “I have acquired your salt marshes through flawless negotiations, and your workers stand poised to revolt.”

“A good move,” Mas said. She blinked approval as she plucked another morsel from the goodies Lum’matp had brought her from the kitchen, as per usual. This time it was autumn stew, an Aeluon dish with a characteristically undescriptive name, consisting of chunks of seared shore bird and huge bubble-like roe. It was briny and strange, and infinitely preferable to hemle. Mas savored the meat and studied the board. “A very good move. I almost hate to ruin it.”

Her captain’s tendrils fell. “No.”

Mas hummed placidly as she pushed her tokens around the board. “I do not need the salt marshes, because I have a spy in your village council. Your reef blockade is, I’m afraid, about to be ordered elsewhere, and since you dispatched everyone to the marshes, your northern waters are quite undefended.”

“No no no no no.” Lum’matp was at once indignant and jovial as she watched her opponent’s plan unfold. “You ass.”

“I’m very sorry,” Mas said, her tone indicating nothing of the sort. “This brings me no pleasure.” She picked up a fish egg between two fingers and popped it into her smug mouth. “No pleasure at—”

“Mas? What’s wrong?”

Mas didn’t know. Something had gone wrong with her hand. There was pain, a stabbing pain like none she’d ever felt before. Her fingers seized. Her muscles shook beyond her control. She grabbed her wrist with the other hand, trying to make it stop.

“Oh, no,” Lum’matp said. Her voice was too quiet, and her body shuddered with sorrow. “Oh. Oh, my dear Mas.”

There was an irony there—a Harmagian recognizing the symptoms of the Wane before a Sianat did. Mas should have known immediately. She’d been taught of this, after all, taught to expect this, to welcome it. Had she strayed so far from Sianat ways that she’d forgotten her own biology?

“But… I’m too young,” Mas said. Her fur ruffled with confusion. “I’m too young for that.”

“You are different,” Lum’matp said.

“Yes, but—”

“You are different. The Wane must affect you differently, too.”

Mas stared for a long time at her now-still hand, the pain bleeding thin. You’d never know, looking at it, that within there was a virus that had worn down her nerves and would eventually kill her, just as the sacred law detailed. “Perhaps it’s a punishment.”

“From who?” Lum’matp scoffed. “Don’t be absurd. Leave superstition to the Aeluons, it sounds stupid coming out of your mouth.” She puffed her airsack. “Is there anything that can be done about it?”

“No,” Mas said. She sat in shock, her emotions too new to properly make themselves known. “There’s no cure.”

Lum’matp’s eyeslits narrowed. “So say your priests. But is there?”

“I—” Was there? The possibility had never occurred to Mas, and clinging to false hope would only prolong the pain of the inevitable. “I don’t know,” she said honestly.

“Who would know?”

“Lum’matp, please, there’s nothing—”

“I am your captain, and I asked a question. If there was something to be done about this, who would know? Where would we ask? Where would we look?”

Somewhere in Mas’ mind, she could see her mother, staring plaintively at her in their burrow. We could not bear it if you… Mas cringed inside, shame eating away at her, just as her nerves were being eaten away. Eating meat and playing childish games with her captain was one thing. Trying to avoid the natural course of things, that was true wickedness.

The natural course of things. She turned that phrase over in her head. The Wane was natural for a Pair, a good Pair. What of her, succumbing to the disease at least ten standards too soon? What of her, who had never truly become a Pair? What was natural, then? What was at the core of any of this, except her own flawed nature?

“Arun,” Mas said. In her head, her mother mourned, and part of Mas did, too. “They would know on Arun.”

Lum’matp knew the name from one of their many nights of chatter. Her tendrils flexed and her dactyli spread. “Would you go there?” she asked. “Would you go there, if it meant even a chance that you might not die?”

Another ledge; another jump. Mas shut her eyes. “Yes.”

Lum’matp switched off the game. “Then, dear friend—let us find it.”

*   *   *

GC STANDARD 196

In the end, Lum’matp found the way to Arun on her own, as Mas had no energy for anything but her actual work—and even that had become a challenge. Her captain insisted on moving Mas into her own quarters, so she would not suffer alone. Harmagians did not sleep, Lum’matp reasoned, so Mas’ seizures and fits would not disturb her. Mas loathed the imposition, but did not argue. She’d had enough of her room even when she’d been strong enough to get out of bed.

“You see,” Lum’matp said, showing her a star map. “It is not so unreachable.”

“How—” Mas waited with frustration for the tremble in her jaw to cease, or at least slow. “How long, from here?”

Lum’matp paused one moment too many. “Half a standard,” she said, her voice indicating that she knew how tall an order that was. “If we hurry.”

Mas fell back into her bedding, her body exhausted from sitting up to look at the map. “All right.” The words were a decision, a declaration. “I can do that.”

“Can you?”

“Well, if I can’t, we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Lum’matp helped her pass the time as best she could, with vids and music and sessions of Rog-Tog-Tesch where the Harmagian moved Mas’ tokens as well, with instruction.

“I’ve won,” Lum’matp said one day, staring at the board in disbelief.

“See,” Mas whispered from beneath a blanket. Her fur had grown long during her illness, yet she was always freezing. “I knew you could.”

Lum’matp glared congenially at her. “And here, all this time, the only advantage I needed was you dying.”

Mas laughed at that, even though laughing hurt.

She did not die, though, despite her body’s best efforts. Some days she felt that it would be so easy, so much more sensible, to just let go. What did she know of Arun, anyway, outside of the name and who lived there? This was a fool’s errand, a waste of fuel and her crew’s time.

But Lum’matp hated wasting time, Mas told herself—and it was Lum’matp who had convinced her of this journey. So she held on, sometimes more for her captain than for herself.

One day, she opened her eyes from a terrible sleep, and there, standing beside Lum’matp, was her mother. Mas’ mind—what was left of it—scrambled for purchase, wondering if perhaps she was already dead and her understanding of a lack of an afterlife was horribly wrong. But her vision cleared, and her mind along with it. The figure beside Lum’matp was not her mother. It was another Sianat, another adult. There was something odd about them, though. They looked too big. They were stocky and strong, their fur left long not out of illness, but on purpose.

A Heretic.

“Mas,” the stranger spoke, crouching beside her. “I am Dyw. I come on behalf of the Solitary on the world below. I am here to help, if you will let me.”

Arun. They had reached Arun. Had it been half a standard? It could have been a day, or an eternity. The loss of temporal context unsettled her. But the stranger was speaking Ciretou—an oddly accented Ciretou, but Ciretou none the less. Hearing her own words, her own name said correctly after so long, was ecstasy. Such basic sentences, and yet they felt like the music of homecoming.

But then—I. It was one thing to think of herself that way, to let Lum’matp call her that. But Mas had never called a Sianat adult by the singular. This was not home. This was not a good Pair. This was another like her.

Like her.

Mas tried to speak, but Dyw gently hushed her. “Save your strength. Relax.” They—he held up a medical device, similar to the ones she’d seen priests use, but shaped differently enough to feel foreign. “If I am to help, I must examine you, and if I am to examine you, I must touch you. I know this is uncomfortable. I will not do it without your permission.”

Two bodies shy, her mother said. Her mother. Her loving, giving mother. It was good that she was dead and could not see this.

Mas blinked yes.

Dyw examined her. He touched her as little as possible, but every brush of his fingers, every time fur met fur, Mas felt as though she might die right then—of fear or excitement, she could not say.

Dyw plugged the device into another, and studied the data. “Ah,” he said, with a happy look. “I thought as much. You are like me!” He turned the little screen toward her, though she did not understand the information being shown. “Resistant.”

Lum’matp wriggled her tendrils impatiently. “What’s going on?” she asked in Klip.

Mas’ Klip wasn’t fluent, but she could understand Dyw, for the most part. “She will be all right. Her immune system has—” Mas lost a thread here “—makes us partially—” again, an unknown segment “—to the—full effects. I can help her, here, right now. Ideally, we should take her to the—proper care, but I do not think we can move her in this—better to stay here, if that is—with you.”

Mas forced herself to speak. Not in Klip—that was a bridge too far right then. “What is it about me?” she asked. Stars, but she’d missed her words. “Why am I—”

“We think it’s genetic,” Dyw said. “But it’s impossible to detect before infection. The priests can’t tell from their scans. They’ll send you to us if you tell them something’s wrong, but… well, I understand why you didn’t.” He flattened his voice with seriousness, the kind of tone a parent might use to assure a child that there was nothing lurking in the dark corners of their burrow. “About three percent of Sianat are like this. There are many of us.” He put his palm on her chest—again, like you would calm a child. “There is nothing wrong with you.” He reached into his satchel, produced a box, and flipped it open. Within lay a syringe, its contents green, its grip designed for Sianat fingers. “I am sure you have many questions, and there will be plenty of time to answer them. But first, you need to decide if you want to claim that time.”

“What—what—”

“It is a cure.”

“For—for the Wane?”

“For the Whisperer.”

Mas stared at him. She stared at the syringe. She stared at him again. By the laws of her people, she would never Navigate again.

“Your mental aptitude will remain,” he said. “But your body will reclaim itself. I know. I know this is difficult, and were you not in this state, I would not rush you. This decision must be yours alone, but you do not have much time left to make it.”

Mas had come to this place looking for salvation, but now that it was in front of her, she was afraid. She’d had half a standard to lie in a ball and think of this. Why did fear remain? Why did death feel easier, nobler?

“Do it,” she said.

Dyw shut his eyes in refusal. “I cannot. I am Solitary, but Solitary are still Sianat, and there are ways that we share. You brought the Whisperer in, voluntarily. You must drive it out in the same way.” He looked at her twisted fingers. “I know it will be hard. But you must. It must be you.”

Mas pressed her filed teeth together, and pushed through the pain. With great effort, she threw her foreleg to the side. A scratching cry escaped from her throat. She wrenched her fingers back, jerked her palm open, whimpering as she did so.

You can’t, her body said. We can’t do this.

Stop it, her mind said. This hurts, and it’s evil. Stop it.

Mas did it anyway. She grasped the syringe. Dyw helped her fingers find their grip. Lum’matp watched from the background, rocking with agitation on her cart, every tentacle coiled in concern.

“It will be painful,” Dyw said. “Very painful. And recovery takes much time.”

Mas lay back, panting, the profane object clutched in her hand. “Is it better?” she asked. “Than… this?”

Dyw put his hand on her chest again. “It will be.”

She thought of the world below, Arun, the den of Heretics. She would never leave that place, that place she had never seen. She would have to say goodbye to Lum’matp. She would never Navigate again. She would contribute nothing more to the galaxy or her species’ legacy. She would live, presumably—live because she wanted to, not because she was needed. This was selfish, she’d been taught. This was ego.

“What is—what is—your meaning?” she asked Dyw.

“Ah,” Dyw said. “We will speak much more of this, for we all ask it, and discuss it often.” He brushed the unkempt fur from Mas’ eyes so he could look into them properly. “Our meaning is each other. Helping the resistant. Helping the runaways. Helping Pairs who wish to break.”

“That is—inward. Closed. We are—we are meant to reach out.”

“We still do, just in a different way.” He put his hand on her chest again. “It may not seem like much, compared to shaping a galaxy. But it is enough. Sometimes, Mas, caring for one place, for one group—it really is enough.”

Mas looked into his eyes for as long as she could. She did not know him, but he was telling the truth. He felt every word.

With the last of her strength and an animal scream, Mas plunged the needle into herself.

There was pain, as Dyw had promised. Agony, more like.

There was terror.

There was nothing.

There were dreams.

There was silence.

There was rest.

There was questioning, mourning, rejoicing, despairing, unlearning, discovering, befriending, accepting, rebuilding.

There was Mas, the Cured. Mas, the Solitary. Mas, the Resistant.

Mas, the Good.