The Shipmaker by Aliette de Bodard - Clarkesworld

The Shipmaker. by Aliette de Bodard. AUDIO VERSION. Ships were living, breathing beings. Dac Kien had known this, even before she'd reached the engineering ... Skiptocontent Issue124–January2017 5480words,shortstory,REPRINTTheShipmaker byAliettedeBodard AUDIOVERSION Shipswereliving,breathingbeings.DacKienhadknownthis,evenbeforeshe’dreachedtheengineeringhabitat—evenbeforeshe’dseenthegreatmassinorbitoutside,beingslowlyassembledbythebots. Herancestorshadoncecarvedjade,inthebygonedaysoftheLedynastyonOldEarth:nothackingthegreenblocksintotheshapetheywanted,butratherwhittlingdownthestoneuntilitstruenaturewasrevealed.Andaswithjade,sowithships.Thesectionsoutsidecouldn’tbeforcedtogether.Theyhadtoflowintoaseamlesswhole—tobe,intheend,inhabitedbyaMindwhowasasmuchapartoftheshipaseveryrivetandeveryseal. TheEasternersortheMexicadidn’tunderstand.Theyspokeofrecycling,ofdesignefficiency:theysawonlythepartstakenfrompreviousships,andassumeditwasdonetosavemoneyandtime.Theydidn’tunderstandwhyDacKien’sworkasGrandMasterofDesignHarmonywasthemostimportantonthehabitat:theship,oncemade,wouldbeoneentity,andnotapatchworkoftenthousandothers.ToDacKien—andtotheonewhowouldcomeafterher,theMind-bearer—fellthehonorofhelpingtheshipintobeing,oftransformingmetalandcablesandsolarcellsintoanentitythatwouldsailthevoidbetweenthestars. Thedoorslidopen.DacKienbarelylookedup.Thelighttreadofthefeettoldherthiswasoneoftheleaddesigners,eitherMiahuaorFeng.Neitherwouldhavedisturbedherwithoutcause.Withasigh,shedisconnectedfromthesystemwithaflickofherhands,andwaitedforthedesign’soverlayonhervisiontodisappear. “YourExcellency.”Miahua’svoicewasquiet:theXuyanheldherselfupright,herskinaspaleasyellowedwax.“Theshuttlehascomeback.There’ssomeoneonboardyoushouldsee.” DacKienhadexpectedmanythings:aclassmatefromtheexaminationsonacourtesyvisit;anImperialCensorfromDongjing,callinghertosomeotherposting,evenfurtherawayfromthecapital;orperhapsevensomeonefromherfamily,motherorsisteroruncle’swife,heretoremindheroftheunsuitabilityofherlifechoices. Shehadn’texpectedastranger:awomanwithbrownskin,almostdarkenoughtobeVietherself—herlipsthinandwhite,hereyesasroundasthemoon. AMexica.Aforeigner—DacKienstoppedthethoughtbeforeitcouldgofar.Forthewomanworenocotton,nofeathers,butthesilkrobesofaXuyanhousewife,andthefiveweddinggifts(allpuregold,fromnecklacetobracelets)shonelikestarsonthedarknessofherskin. DacKien’sgazetraveleddowntothecurveofthewoman’sbelly:aprotrudingbulgesovoluminousthatitthrewherwholesilhouetteoutofbalance.“Igreetyou,youngersister.IamDacKien,GrandMasterofDesignHarmonyforthishabitat.”Sheusedtheformaltone,suitableforaddressingastranger. “Eldersister.”TheMexica’seyeswerebloodshot,setdeepwithintheheavyface.“Iam—”Shegrimaced,onehandgoingtoherbellyasiftotearitout.“Zoquitl,”shewhisperedatlast,theaccentsofhervoiceslippingbacktotheharshpatternsofhernativetongue.“MynameisZoquitl.”Hereyesstartedtorollupwards;shewenton,takingonthecadencesofsomethinglearnedbyrote.“Iamthewombandtherestingplace,thequickenerandtheMind-bearer.” DacKien’sstomachroiled,asifanicyfistweresqueezingit.“You’reearly.Theship—” “Theshiphastobeready.” Theinterjectionsurprisedher.AllherattentionhadbeenfocusedontheMexica—Zoquitl—andwhathercomingheremeant.Nowsheforcedherselftolookattheotherpassengeroftheshuttle:aXuyanmaninhismid-thirties.HisaccentwasthatofAnjiuprovince,ontheFifthPlanet;hisrobes,withthepartridgebadgeandthebuttonofgold,werethoseofaminorofficialoftheseventhrank—buttheyweremarkedwiththeyin-yangsymbol,showingstarkblack-andwhiteagainstthesilk. “You’rethebirth-master,”shesaid. Hebowed.“Ihavethathonor.”Hisfacewasharsh,allanglesandplanesonwhichthelightcaught—highlighting,hereandthere,thethinlips,thehighcheekbones.“Forgivememyabruptness,butthereisnotimetolose.” “Idon’tunderstand—”DacKienlookedagainatthewoman,whoseeyesboreaglazedlookofpain.“She’searly,”shesaid,flatly,andshewasn’tspeakingoftheirarrivaltime. Thebirth-masternodded. “Howlong?” “Aweek,atmost.”Thebirth-mastergrimaced.“Theshiphastobeready.” DacKientastedbileinhermouth.Theshipwasallbutmade—and,likeajadestatue,itwouldbrooknocorrectionsnoroversights.DacKienandherteamhaddesigneditspecificallyfortheMindwithinZoquitl’swomb:startingoutfromthespecificationstheimperialalchemistshadgiventhem,thedelicatebalanceofhumors,optics,andfleshthatmadeupthebeingZoquitlcarried.Theshipwouldanswertonothingelse:onlyZoquitl’sMindwouldbeabletoseizetheheartroom,toquickentheship,andtakeitintodeepplanes,wherefaststar-travelwaspossible. “Ican’t—”DacKienstarted,butthebirth-mastershookhishead,andshedidn’tneedtohearhisanswertoknowwhathewouldsay. Shehadto.Thishadbeenthepostingshe’darguedfor,aftershecameinsecondatthestateexaminations—this,notamagistrate’stribunalanddistrict,notahigh-placedsituationinthepalace’sadministration,nottheprestigiousCourtyardofWritingBrushes,aswouldhavebeenherright.Thiswaswhattheimperialcourtwouldjudgeheron. Shewouldn’tgetanotherchance. “Aweek.”Hanhshookherhead.“Whatdotheythinkyouare,aMexicafactoryoverseer?” “Hanh.”Ithadbeenalongday,andDacKienhadcomebacktotheirquarterslookingforcomfort.Inhindsight,sheshouldhaveknownhowHanhwouldtakethenews:herpartnerwasanartist,apoet,alwaysseekingtherightwordandtherightallusion—ideallysuitedtounderstandingthedelicacythatwentintothedesignofaship,lessthanidealtoacknowledgeanyneedforurgency. “Ihavetodothis,”DacKiensaid. Hanhgrimaced.“Becausethey’repressuringyouintoit?Youknowwhatitwilllooklike.”Shegesturedtowardsthelowmahoganytableinthecenteroftheroom.Theship’sdesignhunginsideatranslucentcube,gentlyrotating—theglimpsesofitsinteriorinterspersedwithviewsofotherships,theonesfromwhichithadtakenitsinspiration:allthegreatsfromTheRedCarptoTheGoldenMountainandTheSnow-WhiteBlossom.Theirhullsgleamedinthedarkness,slowlyandsubtlybendingoutofshapetobecomethefinalstructureoftheshiphangingoutsidethehabitat.“It’sawhole,lil’sis.Youcan’tbutcheritandhopetokeepyourreputationintact.” “Shecoulddieofit,”DacKiensaid,atlast.“Ofthebirth,anditwouldbeworseifshediditfornothing.” “Thegirl?She’sgui.Foreign.” Meaningsheshouldn’tmatter.“Sowerewe,onceuponatime.”DacKiensaid.“Youhaveshortmemories.” Hanhopenedhermouth,closedit.Shecouldhavepointedoutthattheyweren’tquiteoutsiders—thatChina,Xuya’smotherland,hadonceheldDaiVietforcenturies;butHanhwasproudofbeingViet,andcertainlynotabouttomentionsuchshamefuldetails.“It’sthegirlthat’sbotheringyou,then?” “Shedoeswhatshewants,”DacKiensaid. “Fortheprize.”Hanh’svoicewasfaintlycontemptuous.MostofthegirlswhoboreMindswereyounganddesperate,willingtofacethedangersofthepregnancyinexchangeforamarriagetoarespectedofficial.Forastatusoftheirown,afamilythatwouldwelcomethemin;andachancetobearchildrenofgoodbirth. BothHanhandDacKienhadmadetheoppositechoice,longago.Forthem,asforeveryXuyanwhoengagedinsame-genderrelationships,therewouldbenochildren:noonetolightincenseattheancestralaltars,novoicestochantandhonortheirnamesaftertheyweregone.Throughlife,theywouldbesecond-classcitizens,consistentlyfailingtoaccomplishtheirdutiestotheirancestors;indeath,theywouldbespurned,forgotten—goneasiftheyhadneverbeen. “Idon’tknow,”DacKiensaid.“She’sMexica.Theyseethingsdifferently,whereshecomesfrom.” “Fromwhatyou’retellingme,she’sdoingthisforXuyanreasons.” Forfame,andforchildren;allthatHanhdespised—whatshecalledtheirshackles,theiroverwhelmingneedtoproducechildren,generationaftergeneration. DacKienbitherlip,wishingshecouldhaveHanh’sunwaveringcertainties.“It’snotasifIhavemuchchoiceinthematter.” Hanhwassilentforawhile.Atlength,shemoved,cametorestbehindDacKien,herhairfallingdownoverDacKien’sshoulders,herhandstrailingatDacKien’snape.“You’retheonewhokeepstellingmewealwayshaveachoice,lil’sis.” DacKienshookherhead.Shesaidthat—whenwearyofherfamily’srepeatedremindersthatsheshouldmarryandhavechildren;whentheylayinthedarknesssidebysideaftermakingloveandshesawthefuturestretchinginfrontofher,childlessandringedbyoldprejudices. Hanh,muchasshetried,didn’tunderstand.She’dalwayswantedtobeascholar,hadalwaysknownthatshe’dgrowuptoloveanotherwoman.She’dalwaysgotwhatshewanted—andshewasconvincedsheonlyhadtowishforsomethinghardenoughforittohappen. AndHanhhadneverwished,andwouldneverwishforchildren. “It’snotthesame,”DacKiensaidatlast,cautiouslysubmittingtoHanh’scaresses.Itwassomethingelseentirely;andevenHanhhadtoseethat.“Ichosetocomehere.Ichosetomakemynamethatway.Andwealwayshavetoseeourchoicesthrough.” Hanh’shandsonhershoulderstightened.“You’reonetotalk.Icanseeyouwastingyourselfinregrets,wonderingifthere’sstilltimetoturnbacktorespectability.Butyouchoseme.Thislife,theseconsequences.Webothchose.” “Hanh—”It’snotthat,DacKienwantedtosay.ShelovedHanh,shetrulydid;but . . .Shewasastonethrowninthedarkness;ashipadriftwithoutnav—lost,withoutfamilyorhusbandtoapproveofheractions,andwithoutthecomfortofachilddestinedtosurviveher. “Growup,lil’sis.”Hanh’svoicewasharsh;herfaceturnedaway,towardsthepaintingsoflandscapesonthewall.“You’renoone’stoyorslave—andespeciallynotyourfamily’s.” Becausetheyhadallbutdisownedher.Butwords,asusual,failedDacKien;andtheywenttobedwiththeshadowoftheoldargumentstillbetweenthem,likethebladeofasword. Thenextday,DacKienporedoverthedesignoftheshipwithFengandMiahua,wonderinghowshecouldmodifyit.Thepartswerecomplete,andassemblingthemwouldtakeafewdaysatmost;buttheresultingstructurewouldneverbeaship.Thatmuchwascleartoallofthem.Evenexceptingthetests,therewasatleastamonth’sworkaheadofthem—slowandsubtletoucheslaidbythebotsovertheoverallsystemtoalignitwithitsdestinedMind. DacKienhadtakenthecubefromherquarters,andbroughtitintoherofficeunderHanh’sgloweringgaze.Now,theyallcrowdedarounditvoicingideas,thecupsofteaforgottenintheintensityofthemoment. Feng’swrinkledfacewascreasedinthoughtashetappedonesideofthecube.“Wecouldmodifytheshapeofthiscorridor,here.Woodwouldrunthroughthewholeship,and—” Miahuashookherhead.ShewastheirMasterofWindandWater,theonewhocouldbestreadthelinesofinfluence,theoneDacKienturnedtowhensheherselfhadadoubtoverthelayout.FengwasCommissionerofSupplies,managingthesystemsandsafety—inmanywaysMiahua’sopposite,giventosmalladjustmentsratherthanlargeones,pragmaticwhereshevergedonthemystical. “Thehumorsofwaterandwoodwouldstagnatehere,inthecontrolroom.”Miahuapursedherlips,pointedtotheslenderaftoftheship.“Theshapeofthissectionshouldbemodified.” Fengsuckedinabreath.“That’snottrivial.Formyteamtorewritetheelectronics—” DacKienlistenedtothemarguing,distantly—interveningwithaquestionfromtimetotime,tokeeptheconversationfromdyingdown.Inhermind,sheheldtheshapeoftheship,feltitbreathethroughtheglassofthecube,throughthelayersoffibersandmetalthatseparatedherfromthestructureoutside.SheheldtheshapeoftheMind—theessencesandemotionsthatmadeit,thelayoutofitssocketsandcables,ofitsmusclesandflesh—andslidthemtogethergently,softlyuntiltheyseemedmadeforoneanother. Shelookedup.BothFengandMiahuahadfallensilent,waitingforhertospeak. “Thisway,”shesaid.“Removethissectionaltogether,andshifttherestofthelayout.”Asshespoke,shereachedintotheglassmatrix,andcarefullyexcisedtheoffendingsection—reroutingcorridorsandlengthsofcables,burningnewdecorativecalligraphyontothecurvedwalls. “Idon’tthink—”Fengsaid;andstopped.“Miahua?” Miahuawaswatchingthenewdesign,carefully.“Ineedtothinkaboutit,YourExcellency.Letmediscussitwithmysubordinates.” DacKienmadeagestureofapproval.“Rememberthatwedon’thavemuchtime.” Theybothtookacopyofthedesignwiththem,snugintheirlongsleeves.Leftalone,DacKienstaredattheshipagain.Itwassquat,itsproportionsoutofkilter—notevenclosetowhatshehadimagined,noteventruetothespiritofherwork:amockeryoftheoriginaldesign,likeaflowerwithoutpetals,orapoemthatdidn’tquitegel,hoveringontheedgeofpoignantallusionsbutneverexpressingthemproperly. “Wedon’talwayshaveachoice,”shewhispered.She’dhaveprayedtoherancestors,hadshethoughttheywerestilllistening.Perhapstheywere.Perhapstheshameofhavingadaughterwhowouldhavenodescendantswaserasedbytheexaltedheightsofherposition.Orperhapsnot.Hermotherandgrandmotherwereunforgiving;whatmadeherthinkthatthosemoreremovedancestorswouldunderstandherdecision? “Eldersister?” Zoquitlstoodatthedoor,hoveringuncertainly.DacKien’sfacemusthaverevealedmorethanshethought.Sheforcedherselftobreathe,relaxingallhermusclesuntilitwasoncemoretheblankmaskrequiredbyprotocol.“Youngersister,”shesaid.“Youhonormebyyourpresence.” Zoquitlshookherhead.Sheslidcarefullyintotheroom—onefootaftertheother,carefulnevertoloseherbalance.“Iwantedtoseetheship.” Thebirth-masterwasnowheretobeseen.DacKienhopedthathehadbeenrightaboutthebirth—thatitwasn’tabouttohappennow,inheroffice,withnodestinationandnoassistance.“It’shere.”Sheshiftedpositionsonherchair,invitedZoquitltosit. Zoquitlwedgedherselfinoneoftheseats,hermovementsfragile,measured—asifanywronggesturewouldshatterher.BehindherloomedoneofDacKien’sfavoritepaintings,animagefromtheThirdPlanet:adelicate,peacefullandscapeofwaterfallsandochrecliffs,withthedistantlightofstarsreflectedinthewater. Zoquitldidn’tmoveasDacKienshowedherthedesign;hereyesweretheonlythingwhichseemedaliveinthewholeofherface. WhenDacKienwasfinished,theburninggazewastransferredtoher—lookingstraightintohereyes,aclearbreachofprotocol.“You’rejustliketheothers.Youdon’tapprove,”Zoquitlsaid. IttookDacKienamomenttoprocessthewords,buttheystillmeantnothingtoher.“Idon’tunderstand.” Zoquitl’slipspursed.“WhereIcomefrom,it’sanhonortobearMindsforthegloryoftheMexicaDominion.” “Butyou’rehere,”DacKiensaid.InXuya,amongXuyans,tobearMindswasasacrifice—necessaryandpaidfor,butill-considered.Forwhowouldwanttoendureapregnancy,yetproducenohumanchild?Onlythedesperateorthegreedy. “You’rehereaswell.”Zoquitl’svoicewasalmostanaccusation. Foranendless,agonizingmoment,DacKienthoughtZoquitlwasreferringtoherlifechoices—howdidsheknowaboutHanh,aboutherfamily’sstance?ThensheunderstoodthatZoquitlhadbeentalkingaboutherplaceonboardthehabitat.“Ilikebeinginspace,”DacKiensaid,atlast,anditwasn’talie.“Beingherealmostalone,awayfromeveryoneelse.” Andthiswasn’tpaperwork,ortheslowdrainofcatchingandprosecutinglaw-breakers,ofkeepingHeaven’sorderonsomeremoteplanet.This—thiswaseverythingscholarshipwasmeanttobe:takingallthatthepasthadgiventhem,andreshapingitintogreatness—everypartthrowingitsneighborsintosharperrelief,aneternalreminderofhowhistoryhadbroughtthemhereandhowitwouldcarrythemforward,againandagain. Atlast,Zoquitlsaid,notlookingattheshipanymore,“Xuyaisaharshplace,forforeigners.Thelanguageisn’tsobad,butwhenyouhavenomoney,andnosponsor . . . ”Shebreathedin,quickandsharp.“Idowhatneedsdoing.”Herhandwent,unconsciously,tothemoundofherbelly,andstrokedit.“AndIgivehimlife.Howcanyounotvaluethis?” Sheusedtheanimatepronoun,withoutasecondthought. DacKienshivered.“He’s—”shepaused,gropingforwords.“Hehasnofather.Amother,perhaps,butthereisn’tmuchofyouinsidehim.Hewon’tbecountedamongyourdescendants.Hewon’tburnincenseonyouraltar,orchantyournameamongthestars.” “Buthewon’tdie.”Zoquitl’svoicewassoft,andcutting.“Notforcenturies.” TheshipsmadebytheMexicaDominionlivedlong,buttheirMindsslowlywentinsanefromrepeatedjourneysintodeepplanes.ThisMind,withaproperanchor,aproperlyalignedship—Zoquitlwasright:hewouldremainashewas,longaftersheandZoquitlwerebothdead.He—no,it—itwasamachine—asophisticatedintelligence,anassemblyoffleshandmetalandHeavenknewwhatelse.Bornelikeachild,butstill . . . “IthinkI’mtheonewhodoesn’tunderstand.”Zoquitlpulledherselftoherfeet,slowly.DacKiencouldhearherlaboredbreath,couldsmellthesour,sharpsweatrollingoffher.“Thankyou,eldersister.” Andthenshewasgone;butherwordsremained. DacKienthrewherselfintoherwork—asshehaddonebefore,whenpreparingforthestateexaminations.Hahnpointedlyignoredherwhenshecamehome,makingonlythebarestattemptsatcourtesy.Shewasworkingagainonhercalligraphy,minglingXuyancharacterswiththelettersoftheVietalphabettocreateaworkthatspokebothasapoemandasapainting.Itwasn’tunusual:DacKienhadcometobeacceptedforhertalent,butherpartnerwasanothermatter.Hanhwasn’twelcomeinthebanquetroom,wherethefamiliesoftheotherengineerswouldcongregateintheevenings—shepreferredtoremainaloneintheirquarters,ratherthanendurethebarelyconcealedsnubsorthepityinglooksoftheothers. Whatgavetheairitsleadenweight,though,washersilence.DacKientriedatfirst—keepingupachatter,asifnothingwerewrong.Hanhraisedblearyeyesfromhermanuscript,andsaid,simply,“Youknowwhatyou’redoing,lil’sis.Livewithit,foronce.” Soitwassilence,intheend.Itsuitedherbetterthanshe’dthoughtitwould.Itwasherandthedesign,withnoonetoblameorinterfere. Miahua’steamandFeng’steamwererewiringthestructureandre-arrangingtheparts.Outsidethewindow,themassofthehullshiftedandtwisted,toalignitselfwiththecubeonhertable—bi-hourafterbi-hour,asthebotsgentlyslidsectionsintoplaceandsealedthem. ThelastsectionwasbeingputintoplacewhenMiahuaandthebirth-mastercametoseeher,bothlookingequallypre-occupied. Herheartsank.“Don’ttellme,”DacKiensaid.“She’sduenow.” “She’slostthewaters,”thebirth-mastersaid,withoutpreamble.Hespatonthefloortowardoffevilspirits,whoalwayscrowdedaroundthemotherinthehourofabirth.“Youhaveafewbi-hours,atmost.” “Miahua?”DacKienwasn’tlookingateitherofthem,butratherattheshipoutside,thehugebulkthatdwarfedthemallinitsshadow. HerMasterofWindandWaterwassilentforawhile—usuallyasignthatshewasarrangingproblemsinthemostsuitableorder.Notgood.“Thestructurewillbefinishedbeforethisbi-hourisover.” “But?”DacKiensaid. “Butit’samess.Thelinesofwoodcrossthoseofmetal,andtherearehumorsminglingwitheachotherandstagnatingeverywhere.Theqiwon’tflow.” Theqi,thebreathoftheuniverse—ofthedragonthatlayattheheartofeveryplanet,ofeverystar.AsMasterofWindandWater,itwasMiahua’sroletotellDacKienwhathadgonewrong,butasGrandMasterofDesignHarmony,itfelltoDacKientocorrectthis.Miahuacouldonlypointouttheresultsshesaw:onlyDacKiencouldsendthebotsintomakethenecessaryadjustmentstothestructure.“Isee,”DacKiensaid.“Prepareashuttleforher.Haveitwaitoutside,closetotheship’sdockingbay.” “YourExcellency—”thebirth-masterstarted,butDacKiencuthimoff. “Ihavetoldyoubefore.Theshipwillbeready.” Miahua’sstanceassheleftwastense,allpent-upfears.DacKienthoughtofHanh—aloneintheirroom,stubbornlybentoverherpoem,herfaceasharshasthatofthebirth-master,itscustomaryroundnesssharpenedbyangerandresentment.She’dsay,again,thatyoucouldn’thurrythings,thattherewerealwayspossibilities.She’dsaythat—butshe’dneverunderstoodtherewasalwaysaprice;andthat,ifyoudidn’tpayit,othersdid. Theshipwouldbeready;andDacKienwouldpayitspriceinfull. Aloneagain,DacKienconnectedtothesystem,lettingthefamiliaroverlayofthedesigntakeoverhersurroundings.Sheadjustedthecontrastuntilthedesignwasallshecouldsee;andthenshesettowork. Miahuawasright:theshipwasamess.Theyhadenvisionedhavingafewdaystotidythingsup,tosoftentheanglesofthecorridors,tospreadthewall-lanternssotherewerenodarkcornersorspotsshiningwithblindinglight.Theheartroomalone—thepentacle-shapedcenteroftheship,wheretheMindwouldsettle—hadstrandsoffourhumorscomingtoanabrupt,painfulstopwithin,andasharplinejustoutsideitsentrance,markingthebots’hastysealing. Thekillingbreath,itwascalled;anditwaseverywhere. Ancestors,watchoverme. Aliving,breathingthing—jade,whittleddowntoitsessence.DacKienslidintothetrance,herconsciousnessexpandingtoencompassthebotsaroundthestructure—sendingthem,onebyone,insidethemetalhull,scuttlingdownthecurvedcorridorsandpassageways—gentlymergingwiththewalls,startingtheslowandpainfulworkofcoaxingthemetalintoitspropershape—goingupintotheknotofcables,straighteningthemout,regulatingthecurrentinthelargerones.Inhermind’sview,theshipseemedtoflickerandfoldbackuponitself;shehungsuspendedoutside,watchingthebotscrawloveritlikeants,injectingcommandsintothedifferentsections,inordertomodifytheirbalanceofhumorsandinnerstructure. Shecuttotheshuttle,whereZoquitllayonherback,herfacedistortedintoagrimace.Thebirth-master’sfacewasgrim,turnedupwardsasifhecouldguessatDacKien’spresence. Hurry.Youdon’thavetimeleft.Hurry. Andstillsheworked—wallsturnedintomirrors,flowerswerecarvedintothepassageways,softeningthosehardanglesandlinesshecouldn’tdisguise.Sheopenedupafountain—alllightprojections,ofcourse,therecouldbenorealwateraboard—lettherecreatedsoundofastreamfillthestructure.Insidetheheartroom,thefourtangledhumorsbecamethree,thenone;thenshebroughtinotherlinesuntilthetangletwistedbackuponitself,formingacomplicatedknotpatternthatallowedstrandsofallfivehumorstoflowaroundtheroom.Water,wood,fire,earth,metal,allcirclingtheship’score,astabilizinginfluencefortheMind,whenitcametoanchoritselfthere. Sheflickedbackthedisplaytotheshuttle,sawZoquitl’sface,andtheunbearablelinesoftensionintheother’sface. Hurry. Itwasnotready.Butlifedidn’twaituntilyouwereready.DacKienturnedoffthedisplay—butnottheconnectiontothebots,leavingthemtimetofinishtheirlasttasks. “Now,”shewhispered,intothecomsystem. Theshuttlelauncheditselftowardsthedockingbay.DacKiendimmedtheoverlay,lettingthefamiliarsightoftheroomre-assertitself—withthecube,andthedesignthatshouldhavebeen,theperfectone,theonethatcalledtomindTheRedCarpandTheTurtleOvertheWavesandTheDragon’sTwinDreams,allthedaysofXuyafromtheExodustothePearlWars,andthefalloftheShanDynasty;andolderthings,too,LeLoi’sswordthathadestablishedaVietdynasty;thedragonwithspreadwingsflyingoverHanoi,theOldEarthcapital;thefaceofHuyenTran,theVietprincesstradedtoforeignersinreturnfortwoprovinces. Thebotswereturningthemselvesoff,onebyone,andafaintbreezeranthroughtheship,carryingthesmellofsea-ladenwaterandofincense. Itcouldhavebeen,thatship,thatmasterpiece.Ifshe’dhadtime.Hanhwasright,shecouldhavemadeitwork:itwouldhavebeenhers,perfect,praised—rememberedinthecenturiestocome,usedasinspirationbyhundredsofotherGrandMasters. If— Shedidn’tknowhowlongshestayedthere,staringatthedesign—butanagonizedcrytoreherfromherthoughts.Startled,sheturneduptheship’sfeedagain,andselectedaviewintothebirthingroom. Thelightshadbeendimmed,leavingshadowseverywhere,likeapreludetomourning.DacKiencouldseethebowlofteagivenatthebeginningoflabor—ithadrolledintoacorneroftheroom,afewdropsscatteringacrossthefloor. Zoquitlcrouchedagainstahigh-backedchair,framedbyholosoftwogoddesseswhowatchedoverchildbirth:thePrincessoftheBlueandPurpleClouds,andtheBodhisattvaofMercy.Intheshadows,herfaceseemedtobethatofademon,thealiennessofherfeaturesdistortedbypain. “Push,”thebirth-masterwassaying,hishandsonthequiveringmoundofherbelly. Push. BloodrandownZoquitl’sthighs,stainingthemetalsurfacesuntiltheyreflectedeverythinginshadesofred.Buthereyeswereproud—thoseofanoldwarriorrace,who’dneverbentorbowedtoanybodyelse.Herchildofflesh,whenitcame,wouldbedeliveredthesameway. DacKienthoughtofHanh,andofsleeplessnights,oftheshadowstretchedovertheirlives,distortingeverything. “Push,”thebirth-mastersaidagain,andmorebloodranout.Pushpushpush—andZoquitl’seyeswereopen,lookingstraightather,andDacKienknew—sheknewthattherhythmthatrackedZoquitl,thepainthatcameinwaves,itwasallpartofthesameimmutablelaw,thesamethreadthatboundthemmoresurelythantheredonebetweenlovers—whatlayinthewomb,undertheskin,intheirheartsandintheirminds;akinshipofgenderthatwouldn’teverbealteredorextinguished.Herhandslidtoherownflat,emptybelly,pressedhard.Sheknewwhatthatpainwas,shecouldholdeverylayerofitinhermindasshe’dheldtheship’sdesign—andsheknewthatZoquitl,likeher,hadbeenmadetobearit. Push. Withafinalheart-wrenchingscream,ZoquitlexpelledthelastoftheMindfromherwomb.Itslidtothefloor,ared,glisteningmassoffleshandelectronics:musclesandmetalimplants,veinsandpinsandcables. Itlaythere,stillandspent—andseveralheartbeatspassedbeforeDacKienrealizeditwouldn’tevermove. DacKienputoffvisitingZoquitlfordays,stillreelingfromtheshockofthebirth.Everytimesheclosedhereyes,shesawblood:thegreatmassslidingoutofthewomb,floppingonthefloorlikeadeadfish,thelightsofthebirthingroomglintingonmetalwafersandgraymatter,andeverythingdead,goneasifithadneverbeen. Ithadnoname,ofcourse—neitheritnortheship,bothgonetoosoontobegracedwithone. Push.Push,andeverythingwillbefine.Push. Hanhtriedherbest:showingherpoemswithexquisitecalligraphy;speakingofthefutureandofhernextposting;fiercelymakinglovetoherasifnothinghadeverhappened,asifDacKiencouldjustforgettheenormityoftheloss.Butitwasn’tenough. Justastheshiphadn’tbeenenough. Intheend,remorsedroveDacKien,assurelyasabarbedwhip;andsheboardedtheshuttletocomeovertotheship. Zoquitlwasinthebirthingroom,sittingwedgedagainstthewall,withabowlofpungentteainherveinedhands.Thetwoholosframedher,theirwhite-paintedfacesstarkinthedimlight,unforgiving.Thebirth-masterhoverednearby,butwaspersuadedtoleavethembothalone—thoughhemadeitclearDacKienwasresponsibleforanythingthathappenedtoZoquitl. “Eldersister.”Zoquitlsmiled,alittlebitterly.“Itwasagoodfight.” “Yes.”OneZoquitlcouldhavewon,ifshehadbeengivenbetterweapons. “Don’tlooksosad,”Zoquitlsaid. “Ifailed,”DacKiensaid,simply.SheknewZoquitl’sfuturewasstillassured;thatshe’dmakehergoodmarriage,andbearchildren,andbeworshippedinherturn.Butshealsoknew,now,thatitwasn’ttheonlyreasonZoquitlhadbornetheMind. Zoquitl’slipstwisted,intowhatmighthavebeenasmile.“Helpme.” “What?”DacKienlookedather,butZoquitlwasalreadypushingherselfup,shaking,shivering,ascarefullyasshehaddonewhenpregnant.“Thebirth-master—” “He’sfussinglikeanoldwoman,”Zoquitlsaid;andforamoment,hervoicewasassharpandascuttingasablade.“Come.Let’swalk.” ShewassmallerthanDacKienhadthought:hershouldersbarelycameuptoherown.Shewedgedherselfawkwardly,leaningonDacKienforsupport—aweightthatgrewincreasinglyhardtobearastheywalkedthroughtheship. Therewaslight,andthesoundofwater,andthefamiliarfeelofqiflowingthroughthecorridorsinlazycircles,breathinglifeintoeverything.Therewereshadowsbarelyseeninmirrors,andtheglintofotherships,too:thesoft,curvingpatternsofTheGoldenMountain;thecarvedcalligraphyincisedinthedoorsthathadbeenthehallmarkofTheTigerWhoLeaptOvertheStream;theslowlycurvingsuccessionofever-growingdoorsofBaoyu’sRedFan—bitsandpiecessalvagedfromherdesignandputtogetherinto—intothis,whichunfoldeditsmarvelsallaroundher,fromlayouttoelectronicstodecoration,untilherheadspunandhereyesblurred,takingitallin. Intheheartroom,DacKienstoodunmoving,whilethefivehumorswashedoverthem,anendlesscycleofdestructionandrenewal.Thecenterwaspristine,untouched,withapeculiarsadnesshangingaroundit,likeanemptycrib.Andyet . . . “It’sbeautiful,”Zoquitlsaid,hervoicecatchingandquiveringinherthroat. Beautifulasapoemdeclaimedindrunkengames,asaflowerbudringedbyfrost—beautifulandfragileasanewbornchildstrugglingtobreathe. And,standingthereatthecenterofthings,withZoquitl’sfrailbodyleaningagainsther,shethoughtofHanhagain;ofshadowsanddarkness,andoflifechoices. It’sbeautiful. Itwouldbegoneinafewdays.Destroyed,recycled;forgottenanduncommemorated.Butsomehow,DacKiencouldn’tbringherselftovoicethethought. Insteadshesaid,softly,intothesilence—knowingittobetrueofmorethantheship—“Itwasworthit.” Allofit—nowandintheyearstocome,andshewouldn’tlookback,orregret.   OriginallypublishedinInterzone,Issue231,September2010. Authorprofile AliettedeBodard Website AliettedeBodardlivesandworksinParis.ShehaswonthreeNebulaAwards,aLocusAwardandfourBritishScienceFictionAssociationAwards,andisadoubleHugofinalistfor2019(BestSeriesandBestNovella).MostrecentlyshepublishedIntheVanishers'Palace,adarkretellingofBeautyandtheBeastwheretheyarebothwomenandwheretheBeastisaVietnamesedragon(2018LammyAwardfinalistforLGBTQSF/F/Horror).RecentworksincludetheDominionoftheFallenseries,setinaturn-of-the-centuryParisdevastatedbyamagicalwar,whichcomprisesTheHouseofShatteredWings,TheHouseofBindingThorns,andforthcomingTheHouseofSunderingFlames(July2019,Gollancz).HershortstorycollectionOfWars,andMemories,andStarlightisforthcomingfromSubterraneanPress(Sept2019). 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