Karen Traviss - Crossing the line: a year in the land of apartheid

Constantine Colony, Bezerej,
February 2376

It was much, much worse at night.

Night cut you off from any reference, any reassurance, and nights here on Bezerej were far blacker than any Shan Frankland had seen on light-polluted Earth.

Once the lights that danced in the blackness were the product of her optic nerve playing electrical tricks. But these lights were real.

They were coming from her hands.

The display was mainly blue and violet, flashing occasionally from her fingertips. It was almost as bad as her claws. And it wasnt something any human should have had, but Shan wasnt any human, not any more.

Dont think of it as a parasite , Aras told her. Think of it as a beneficial relationship. It can be.

Aras had five hundred years to get used to carrying cnaatat , being cnaatat , living with all that cnaatat meant; and she had been infected for a matter of months. He meant well. He did it to save her life. But it was hard waking up to a new body every day.

She studied the pattern of lights again and wondered if there was language within it, as there was for the native bezeri. She also wondered if her cnaatat had done it to teach her a lesson for hubris, for her contempt for the organic illuminated computer screens grown into the hands of combat troops.

Youll never put one of those bloody things in me .

But here she was, with that and plenty more. The symbionts had almost certainly scavenged the component genes at random, unaware of her beliefs and her guilt. She was just an environment to be preserved with whatever came to hand. If they had purpose beyond that, she wasnt sure that she wanted to know about it.

Shan put her fingers to her head and felt through the hair. There wasnt the slightest trace of unevenness in the bone, no evidence that her skull had been shattered by an alien weapon. Cnaatat was efficient. It seemed to enjoy doing a tidy job.

Small wonder that some of her former crewmates from Thetis thought she was a paid mule for manufactured alien biotech. The truth was messy and unconvincing, but truth often was, and it didnt matter. The crew knew the broad detail, and so did the colonists of Constantine who gave her asylum, and it would only be a matter of time before the matriarchs of Wessej found out what Aras had done to save her.

And then all hell would break loose.

She buried her head under her blanket and tried to sleep, but the lights persisted, and she fell into dreams of drowning in a locked room that was scented like a forest.

Is it true?

Eddie Michallat concentrated on the features of the duty news editor twenty-five light-years away, courtesy of CSV Actaeon s comms center. The man was real and it was happening now, in every sense of the word.

For nearly a year he had been beyond BBChans reach on Bezerej. But the glorious isolation was over. Isenj instantaneous communications technology meant there was now no escape from the scrutiny of News Desk. In the way of journalists, they had already given it an acronym, as noun, verb and adjectiveITX.

Poodle-in-the-microwave job, Eddie said dismissively. Urban myth. People talk the most incredible crap when theyre under stress.

He waited a few seconds for the reply. The borrowed isenj communications relay was half a million miles from Earth, and that meant the last leg in the link was at light speed, the best human technology could manage. The problem with the delay was that it gave Eddie more time to stoke his irritation.

That never stopped you filing a story before.

How the hell would he know? This manthis boy , for that was all he appeared to behad probably been born fifty years after Thetis had first left Earth. Eddie enjoyed mounting the occasional high horse. He saddled up.

BBChan used to be the responsible face of netbroadcast, he said. You knowstand up a story properly before you run it? But maybe thats out of fashion these days.

One, two, three, four, five. The boy-editor persisted with the blind focus of a missile. Look, youre sitting on a completely fucking shit-hot twenty-four carat story. Biotech, lost tribes, mutiny, murder, aliens. Is there anything Ive left out?

There wasnt a mutiny and Shan Frankland didnt murder anyone. Shes just a good copper , Eddie wanted to say, but it was hardly the time. And the biotech is pure speculation. My speculation. Me and my big mouth . We dont know what it is. We dont know if it makes you invulnerable. But you got the aliens about right. Thats something.

The Thetis crew was saying that Franklands carrying this biotech and that shes pretty well invulnerable to injury and disease, and

Eddie maintained his dismissive expression with some difficulty, a child again, cowering at the sound of a grown-ups row: its all my fault . He always worried that it was. Oh God, dont give me the undead routine, will you? I dont do infotainment.

And I dont do the word no. Stand up that story.

The kid was actually trying to get tough with him. It wasnt easy having a row with someone when you had time to count to five each time. But Eddie was more afraid of the consequences of this rumor than the wrath of a stranger, even one who employed him.

Son, listen to me, he said. Youre twenty-five years away as the very, very fast crow flies, so I dont think youre in any position to tell me to do sod all . He leaned forward, arms folded on the console, and hoped the cam was picking up a shot that gave him the appearance of looming over the kid. Im the only journalist in 150 trillion miles of nothing. Anything I file is exclusive. And I decide what I file. Now run along and finish your homework.

Eddie flicked the link closed without waiting for a response and reassured himself that there really was nothing that Desk could do to him any more. He was here . Actaeon had no embeds embarked. BBChan could sack him, and every network on Earth would be offering him alternative employment. It wasnt bravado. It was career development.

Ironically, the stories he had filed months ago were still on their way home at plain old light speed: the stories he would file now, would ITX, would beat them by years. He was scooping himself and it felt wonderful. It struck him as the journalistic equivalent of masturbation.

I wish I could get away with that, said the young lieutenant on comms duty. He hovered just on the edge of Eddies field of vision. Why didnt you tell him you were on your way to see the isenj?

Because all news editors are tossers, Eddie said. He felt around in his pockets for the bee-cam and his comms kit. If you tell them what story youre chasing, they decide in their own minds how its going to turn out. Then they bollock you for not coming back with the story they imagined. So you dont tell them anything until youre ready to file. Saves a lot of grief.

Wise counsel, said the lieutenant, as if he understood.

From Actaeon s bridge, Eddie could still see the dwindling star that was EFS Thetis , heading back to Earth with the remnant of the Constantine mission, a party of isenj delegates and their ussissi interpreters. So vessels werent titled European Federal Ship these days, then. A nice bland CSV, a harmless Combined Service Vessel, purged of any reference to territory to avoid offending the recent multinational alliance between Europe and the Sinostates. He had seventy-five years left to amaze the viewing public with the latest in alien contact before the real thing showed up on their doorstep. Thetis was a much older, slower ship than the Actaeon .