For Dvorah, Gretchen, and Ruthy. You know why.

BEFORE

He always set aside twelve days of his annual retreat to finish reports and studies, and that left twelve more for everything else. In earlier times, he had foolishly tried retreats within comm reach of his workplace, and that was not at all helpful. There would always be some crisis, something for which his help would be required. As his salary and sense increased, he took his retreats farther and farther away, until at last he found himself going off-planet to distant temples where the rule of silence and solitude could not be broken by convenient technologies.

This season, he had chosen Gharvi, a place with small wooden buildings scattered around a huge temple of stone, all set within the rain shadow of a mountain range. An endless ocean, both vista and inspiration, ran parallel to the mountains, and a beach between the two offered long walks to nowhere on either side. A place of two deserts, some said, for sea and land were bleak together—one boundless, one narrow, and both thirsty.

There was a place at home very like it, and that had probably influenced his choice, but the sky was unique. The atmosphere was the cloudy bluish lavender of a recently bioformed planet, and the sun was scorching bright. It was so unlike the cool, strong blues and gentle sunlight of his home world that for the first few days he kept his head down and his door closed till nightfall.

On the twelfth day, he took his handheld, replete with work well completed, and put it in the box outside his hermitage door. He cooked and ate his evening lentils, slept soundly through the night, and rose to prepare his morning porridge. There was a little water left over from the day before (he was ever frugal), but to have enough for washing he had to fetch the new day’s supply from the box. The young acolytes of the temple always put sufficient water and food into each hermit’s box before dawn. It was enough to stay clean, to fill the solar pot with porridge or pottage, and to sip and slake the constant thirst that was the natural consequence of dry air and silence. The acolytes would also take away his handheld and safely transmit its contents to his workplace.

But his handheld was still there.

He paused, confused by this disconnect in the seamless order of the temple’s routine. He stared at the untouched box. He looked up and frowned in puzzlement at the squat shape of the temple, vaguely visible through a haze of heat, blown sand, and sea spray.

Then he shrugged and went on with his day, a little dustier, a little thirstier, but convinced that an explanation would eventually be made manifest.

The following morning, well before dawn, the sound of the box lid closing woke him from a sleep made restless by dreams of dryness. He waited a bit, then went to bring in the supplies and drink deeply of the water. His handheld was gone, and a double ration of food sat in its place. He did not even peer into the darkness to catch sight of the tardy acolyte. Order had been restored.

“Dllenahkh, with your level of sensitivity and strength, you must go on retreat regularly.” So he had been told long ago by the guestmaster of his monastery. “You are constantly looking to set things to rights, even within yourself. A retreat will teach you again and again that you are neither indispensable nor self-sufficient.”

Put bluntly, learn to stop meddling. Commitment is important, detachment equally so. He congratulated himself on his developing ability to keep curiosity in check and spent the next few days in undisturbed meditation and reflection.

One day, after a long morning meditation, he felt thirsty and decided to get more water from his supply box. He stepped out with his glass drinking bowl in hand and set it on the edge of the box while he tilted the half lid and reached inside. His hands were steady as he poured water smoothly from the heavy, narrow-necked jug. Moving slowly, he straightened and took a moment of blissful idleness, the jug left uncovered near his feet, to squint at the sun’s glare on the desert beach and the desert ocean and to feel the coolness of the water creeping into his palms as he held the bowl and waited to drink. It was a child’s game, to hold a bowl of water and mark the increase of thirst with masochistic pleasure, but he did it sometimes.

He brought the bowl to his mouth and had a perfect instant of pale blue ocean, bright blue glass, and clear water in his vision before he blinked, sipped, and swallowed.

Many times afterward, when he tried to recall, his mind would stop at that vivid memory—the neatly nested colors, the soothing coolness of the glass—and not wish to go any further. It was not long after that, not very long at all, that the day became horribly disordered.

A man walked out of the ocean, his head darkly bright with seawater and sunlight. He wore a pilot’s suit—iridescent, sleek, and permeable—that would dry as swiftly as bare skin in the hot breeze, but his hair he gathered up in his hands as he approached, wringing water out from the great length of it and wrapping it high on the crown of his head with a band from his wrist.

Recognition came to Dllenahkh gradually. At first, when the figure appeared, it was a pilot; then, as it began to walk, it was a familiar pilot; and finally, with that added movement of hands in hair, it was Naraldi, a man well known to him but not so well known as to excuse the early breaking of a retreat. He opened his mouth to chide him. Six more days, Naraldi! Could anything be so important that you could not wait six more days? That was what he intended to say, but another thought came to him. Even for a small planet with no docking station in orbit, it was highly uncommon for a mindship to splash down so close to land that a pilot could swim to shore. Although he knew Naraldi, they were not so close as to warrant a visit at this time and in this place.

The pilot slowed his step and looked uncertainly at him with eyes that streamed from the irritation of salt water.

“Something terrible has happened,” Dllenahkh said simply. Naraldi wiped at his wet face and gave no reply.

“My mother?” Dllenahkh prompted to break the silence, dread growing cold and heavy in his stomach.

“Yes, your mother,” Naraldi confirmed abruptly. “Your mother, and my mother, and … everyone. Our home is no more. Our world is—”

“No.” Dllenahkh shook his head, incredulous rather than upset at the bitterness and haste of Naraldi’s words. “What are you saying?”

He remembered that he was still thirsty and tried to raise the bowl again, but in the meantime his hands had gone chilled and numb. The bowl slipped. He snatched at it but only deflected it so that it struck hard on the side of the water jug and broke just in time to entangle his chasing fingers.

“Oh,” was all he said. The cut was so clean, he felt nothing. “I’m sorry. Let me …” He crouched and tried to collect the larger fragments but found himself toppling sideways to rest on one knee.

Naraldi rushed forward. He grasped Dllenahkh’s bleeding right hand, yanked the band from his hair, and folded Dllenahkh’s fist around the wad of fabric. “Hold tight,” he ordered, guiding Dllenahkh’s left hand to clamp onto his wrist. “Don’t let go. I’ll get help.”

He ran off down the beach toward the temple. Dllenahkh sat down carefully, away from the broken bits of glass, and obediently held tight. His head was spinning, but there was one small consolation. For at least the length of time it took Naraldi to return, he would remember the words of the guestmaster: he would not be curious, he would not seek to know, and he would not worry about how to right the tumbled world.

THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS

I remember when the Sadiri came. We gathered at the port to cheer their arrival and, frankly, to gawk a bit. The Sadiri consider themselves to be the pinnacle of human civilization. Imagine them settling on Cygnus Beta, a galactic hinterland for pioneers and refugees! Well, these ones apparently were willing to break the mold—but then again, a lot of things had been broken past repair, and sometimes it makes more sense to create something new.

They looked almost Cygnian—eyes, hair, and skin all somewhere on the spectrum of brown—except for the bright iridescence of the hair and a subtler sheen to the skin that was only noticeable in full sunlight. As it was the dry season, there was plenty of that. They looked up into the sun and appeared relieved at the heat. Don’t tell me they weren’t; that “impassive Sadiri” stereotype is a load of crap. They have body language. They have expressions. Just because it’s not their way to yell their emotions out like most people doesn’t mean they don’t have them.

Parliamentary representatives welcomed them formally but briefly, and they were taken to their homesteadings in fine diplomatic style. Everyone felt sorry for the Sadiri in those early days, and maybe we were all a little bit overproud of ourselves for hosting them. Cygnus Beta isn’t a rich colony by any means, but we understand fleeing disaster and war and disease and struggling to find a place where you’re wanted. A lot of people act like misfortune is contagious. They don’t want to be exposed to it for too long. They’ll take you in and make all the right gestures and noises, but when the months wear on and you’re still in their house or their town or their world, the welcome starts to wear a bit thin.

So we understood, and maybe we were making a point, too. There isn’t a group on Cygnus Beta who can’t trace their family back to some world-shattering event. Landless, kinless, unwanted— theoretically, the Sadiri would fit right in.

Those were the thoughts that were foremost in my mind the day the Sadiri came. I barely even noticed when my friend Gilda said to me, “But where are the women?”

I should have paid attention.

It’s not that all-male homesteader groups don’t come to Cygnus Beta. Many times people send the strongest and most intrepid to establish a level of comfort on the homesteads before sending for the rest of the family, and for some cultures that translates as men only. The reality of Cygnian society is that those men often end up settling down with someone who’s already here, because, let me tell you, there’s no long-distance relationship like an interstellar one, especially when you’re all but marooned on a rock where communication with the rest of the galaxy means week-delayed real-space transmissions from the nearest long-range sat. But … Sadiri men? The epitome of morality and tradition, savants too absorbed in their mental exercises to succumb to base urges? It was hard to imagine them going native like most frontier boys.

Fortunately for my curiosity, I was in a position to find out about them. I’m second assistant to the Chief Biotechnician of Tlaxce Province, which means that I get to travel a lot because it’s the biggest province, and it’s also the province with the largest number of new homesteads. Sadiri homesteads galore, in other words. Plus, and keep this one quiet, please, I’m kind of a language nut. Old languages, new languages, made-up languages— whatever, that’s my hobby. I already had a smattering of Sadiri, so it was inevitable that I would get stuck with the duty of liaison for the public health and agriculture departments.

My opposite number was a joy to work with. No chitchat, no wasted time. I’d turn up at his office, he’d go over the schedule briefly with me, and off we’d go in a groundcar to do our inspections. His Standard was better than my Sadiri, needless to say, so many times I just did a lot of listening while he talked with the homesteaders, and then afterward he’d summarize for me so I wouldn’t miss anything. I didn’t expect them to speak Standard to me. When you’ve been almost exterminated, language is the first thing you cling to, one of the main roots of identity.

One day, while we were driving back to his office, a very interesting conversation took place. “Dllenahkh,” I said to him (learning to pronounce his name had been a fine challenge, but once I substituted a Zulu “dl” and a Scots “ch,” I got it), “tell me how we can help you in the long term. What kind of settlement do you plan to establish? We understand if your aim is to keep as much of Sadira alive as possible. Do you require Sadiri plants? Hardy variants crossed with the indigenous flora or hothouse specials in biodomes? We can requisition anything we like from the galactic seed bank or even check with New Sadira to see what strains they’re developing.”

“Thank you, Second Assistant Delarua, but at present it is enough for us to adjust to the environment and achieve basic self-sufficiency with what is readily available. Closer consideration of our long-term goals will follow after the completion of the initial phase.”

I must confess, I liked listening to Dllenahkh. He had a very soothing voice—deep, somewhat slow, and very precise. It was a voice that matched his thoroughness and professionalism. I wish I had a voice that matched what I do. I’ve been told I sound like an overexcited rooster when I start rambling about my work.

“There is one matter in which you can assist us, however,” Dllenahkh continued. “Our community is relatively isolated, and it has been suggested that it would be appropriate for us to take the opportunity to experience other cultures on Cygnus Beta. To participate. To … mingle.” He used Standard for that last, there being no precise equivalent in Sadiri that could convey the frivolous intent behind such a word.

“Mingle?” I repeated incredulously.

“Yes. Mingle. While much remains to be done, we are beginning to suffer from a lack of mental stimulus. Cygnus Beta is reputed to have some of the most complex and vibrant cultures in the galaxy. It would be appropriate to study them.”

I gave him a slanted look. I’d been around the Sadiri long enough to learn that whenever they start claiming something is appropriate, there’s something they’re not telling you or something they’re not admitting to themselves. Dllenahkh had said “appropriate” twice now.

He mirrored my look, which I’d learned was his style of humor. “So. Do you have any recommendations?”

“Do I have any recommendations for a Sadiri boys’ night out?” I shrugged, smiled, and allowed myself a laugh. “I can come up with something.”

I did, too. The Ministry of Culture has all kinds of programs, and I got someone to put together a package that even the Sadiri might enjoy. But people, this is Cygnus Beta. Yes, we have a few large cities and several towns—we’re not all country bumpkins, vagabonds, and adventurers—but there are few professional artists and actors, few galactic-standard museums and theaters. We simply can’t afford them. It’s true that most of the action happens in the urban belt, but often bands of entertainers travel around and test their luck—some venues they might get paid in credits; other places it’ll be in kind. I did speak to one performer who waxed poetic about the joys of the road and how he’d made a map with locations marked for the excellence of their particular product: the best wines and spirits, of course; the best baked goods; the best cured meat and smoked fish; the most fragrant smoking herbs for incense or pipe—you name it, he could tell you where to get it.

I should point out that amateur or semiprofessional doesn’t mean low quality. It means variable quality. You get serious thespians next to dilettante wannabes because theater companies have to take people as and when they become available. Your best King Lear might be the security guard at a small branch of a city bank. He’s only going to get two or three weeks off for performances, then you’re back to the understudy, the very earnest but not really that good retired schoolmate of the director.

I offered two options: either a series of overnight trips to the urban belt or visits to the Sadiri homesteads by some of the touring companies.

“Both,” said Dllenahkh.

“Both?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow, my tone more flat than querying.

He raised an eyebrow back.

Both it was.

I’ve mentioned my friend Gilda before. I love her dearly, but I swear she’s a bad influence on just about everyone. I suspect that three out of her six children aren’t her husband’s and that he knows it but doesn’t care. He’s so under her thumb, she must have had more than one Zhinuvian ancestor. She has three main groups she hangs out with, and she tries to annoy each one. She bores her housewives group with her science research, she makes her drinking buddies miserable with her tales of domesticity, and she scandalizes her coworkers (that’s me) with her lurid sexcapades.

So Gilda was happy to hear that the Sadiri were venturing out, because she too wanted “the opportunity to experience other cultures,” if you know what I mean. She insisted on being the coordinator and guide. At first I was glad when she took it out of my hands so that I could go back to ordinary stuff, but this was Gilda, and something told me to inquire more deeply.

“So,” I asked her at the office when she set up the first theater visits, “what’s the playbill for this trip?”

“Grease: The Space Musical, Titus Andronicus, and that new monologue by Li Chen where he first spends ten minutes criss-crossing the stage in silence, then sits in a Bagua-inspired design in the center and periodically plays the Uilleann pipes.”

“Aie-yi-yi,” I yodeled mournfully. “Do you want them to judge us?”

“They’ll judge us anyway. They’re Sadiri, and we’re Terran— well, mostly Terran. Judging other humans and finding them wanting is what the Sadiri do.” She was quite unperturbed about it.

At first I said nothing. Strictly speaking, it was true. The Sadiri and their fleet of mindships had been the backbone of galactic law, diplomacy, and scientific discovery for centuries. Even though other humans slightly resented them, I knew I wasn’t the only one who quietly hoped that the pared-down version of their government would be just as effective at running the fleet. On a personal level, I hadn’t noticed a judging attitude from Dllenahkh, but when one considered that their home planet was poisoned by their own close cousins, the Ainya, well, they didn’t have that much high ground to stand on to look down at others anymore, did they? Before I could voice that thought, there was a polite cough at my door.

“Dalenak!” Gilda said in cheery greeting. How did Dllenahkh manage not to wince at the woman’s atrocious pronunciation? “Are you here for the inaugural trip?”

Dllenahkh thanked her courteously and said no, he had but come to consult me regarding the matter of the hydroponics on the homesteads of the southwestern quarter, which had been experiencing some difficulty. She took the hint and her leave so that I could close the door and speak to Dllenahkh in privacy.

“I thought lying wasn’t a Sadiri thing,” I began. Then I looked at him more closely. “Dllenahkh? Who hit you?”

“It is an internal matter, already resolved,” he said.

I frowned, but there was nothing I could say to that. “You seem”—depressed—“distracted. What’s brought you to town if it’s not Gilda’s entertainment tour?”

“There is a visiting emissary from the Government of New Sadira. We have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow.”

That still didn’t explain why Dllenahkh was in my office. “Would you like to come with me to the Museum of History?” I said.

“Yes,” he acquiesced somewhat absently. “That would be quite interesting.”

We walked there. I kept silent, waiting for Dllenahkh to talk to me.

He waited until we had passed the geological displays and entered the Hall of Names before breaking into speech. “Do you know why we came to Cygnus Beta?” he asked.

I glanced at him. His eyes were staring straight ahead at the writing etched on the granite walls.

“We came to find the taSadiri.” He turned his head very slightly and looked at me. “Do you know of whom I speak?”

“Sadiri who do not practice the mental disciplines,” I replied immediately. “They left Sadira and founded Ain, and a few settled elsewhere in the galaxy. But they did not found Cygnus Beta. It was already here.”

“I have heard of the beings you call the Caretakers.” He said it neutrally, and I was glad for the small courtesy. Some people think the idea of the Caretakers is just another one of those savior-guardian myths that primitive societies dream up to deal with the uncertainty of the universe.

“Yes,” I said firmly, “they are the true founders of Cygnus Beta, but we acknowledge other early settlers—mostly Terrans, it’s true, but also Ntshune, Zhinuvians, and taSadiri.”

“There are strong psionic and proto-psionic strains in your ancestry,” he noted. “That was another one of the reasons we chose to come here.”

I wondered where this was going. “So what’s wrong, Dllenahkh?”

He struggled. Clearly these were very private matters. “There is a lack of consensus concerning our path. Securing the future of our people is, of course, the primary concern, but the way this can best be achieved is in dispute. Some feel that preserving genetic and cultural integrity would be the most effective course of action. With so few of us surviving, every person would be needed for this endeavor to succeed. Others believe that negotiation with the Ainya with a view to eventual integration of our tribes is the best option.”

“But perhaps that was their reason for … doing what they did,” I said awkwardly. “They’ve never had your level of galactic influence. Wouldn’t integration be kind of like giving them what they want?”

He paused. “Yes,” he said at last. “Many of us hold the same view. However, from the Ainya perspective, we drove out their forefathers and denied them their birthright; hence their pride in claiming responsibility for our downfall. Perhaps they wish to see us not merely humiliated but destroyed completely.”

He sighed and continued. “A third way has been proposed: colonies of hybrids selected for Sadiri physical traits and mental abilities and raised according to Sadiri values and traditions.”

A wry smile twitched my lips. Terrans: the chicken stock of every human genetic soup in the galaxy. Terra was the newest of the crafted worlds and Terrans the youngest breed of humans in the galaxy, but what they lacked in technology and mental development, they made up for in sheer evolutionary potential. Other humans patronized them and overlooked them, but just mention hybrid vigor and suddenly Terrans became very popular. Of course, since Terra itself was still under embargo, that meant Cygnus Beta got all the attention.

“So,” I asked him, “which Sadiri are you? The second way or the third way?”

His face went still in that manner I had come to interpret as profound uncertainty. “No decision has as yet been made. We are a reserve.”

I tilted my head and frowned at him, confused.

His eyes glanced briefly at mine, and then he blinked and looked aside again as if acutely embarrassed. “As many of our off-planet occupations are filled by men, more Sadiri males survived the disaster than females. This has created some … disruption to our usual bonding customs. For this reason, the excess of males was sent to this colony. The Science Council of New Sadira will as a priority select for a greater number of females to be born as soon as possible. Given our life span, it is possible that they may be our future wives.”

I pondered this, realizing the truth of what he said. Most of the Sadiri on Cygnus Beta were, by their standards, very young. But how distressing and strange to spend decades on some kind of genetic backroom shelf waiting one’s turn to clinically contribute to the expansion of the species!

I said something of the sort to Dllenahkh. He let me know my views were inappropriate. I shut up.

The Hall of Names is a very complicated place. The obvious part of it is the walls with the names of the thousand dying nations who came here or were brought here, but there is also a low susurration of a thousand extinct languages; the occasional whiff of smoke, incense, or perfume from various half-forgotten rituals; the distant moan and skirl of ancient instruments that no one knows how to make anymore. It’s a very apt place to ponder the future of an entire world, but it’s a little depressing as well.

“What do you think the emissary is going to say?” I asked.

Dllenahkh said nothing. Perhaps he did not know. Perhaps he knew but would never tell me.

“Let’s go have lunch,” I said.

We fell back into our usual routine after that, which is to say we were all business. I knew that the Sadiri homesteaders continued their cultural outreach, visiting the towns and other provinces and permitting visiting groups in return. They did indeed seem to be taking note of how various cultures had adapted to social conditions on Cygnus Beta, so even what appeared to be recreational also had some element of anthropological study to it. I did not delve deeper, and although the Sadiri emissary returned for another visit some months later, I did not quiz Dllenahkh about it.

Gilda, on the other hand, was a font of information. She called me at my desk one day, too excited and impatient to walk the few meters to my office. “Have you heard the news? Ain has been quarantined. Nothing goes in, nothing comes out.”

That got my attention. I dropped everything and drew close to my monitor. “What? Has the tribunal given the verdict already?”

Gilda looked very sober, which was extremely unusual for her. “The trial isn’t over, but Ain is incommunicado.”

“That’s impossible,” I stated. “The Terran embargo works because we can see everything they do and show them what we want them to see. Ain’s technology is too advanced. Maybe they did it to themselves. Maybe they’re hiding.”

She scoffed. “They’re not that advanced. People are saying it was the Caretakers. Personally, I’m glad. Sadira’s going to be nothing but sterile rock for a very long time.”

My eyes widened, and I felt a little thrill. The Caretakers! It was as if angels had descended to avenge the Sadiri. “I guess they don’t like people undoing their work. How are the off-planet Ainya handling it?”

Gilda gave a wry smile. “Here’s the irony. You know only two fleets have ships that can travel as far as Ain.”

I laughed without humor. She meant the Zhinuvians, who’d charge an arm and a leg for passage, and the Sadiri who … well … I wasn’t sure what they’d do, but any Ainya would have to have a lot of gall to approach a Sadiri pilot now.

The sequestering of Ain was a big change in more ways than one. Even though there’s bad blood between Ain and Sadira— seriously bad blood—I’d had a vague hope that they might come together after a generation or two out of necessity if nothing else. It looked as if the options had been whittled down from three to two, and where that left the Sadiri I had no idea. New Sadira was a small planet, a former science outpost that had gained an unexpected promotion. It would serve for a drastically diminished population, but as it had neither the resources nor the size to replace Sadira properly, the Sadiri would be forced to make a decision about their future sooner rather than later.

It was difficult to tell what they were planning to do. Some of the Sadiri were definitely mingling—in fact, given their youth, one might even say experimenting. I detected from the sternness of Dllenahkh’s expression when some of the more amusing tales were related in his vicinity that the elder Sadiri of the group were barely tolerant of this behavior, but what could they do? Kick the youngsters out? Every Sadiri capable of procreation was precious, and any of them could be brought back into the fold later no matter how they might now be choosing to deal with their shared tragedy.

That said, about a couple of months shy of a year after their arrival I found myself in the unenviable position of being mandated by my boss to “find out what’s going on with those Sadiri.” I chose a long road trip to broach the topic with Dllenahkh, reasoning that if we were driving through the middle of nowhere, he wouldn’t have any place to escape to. To give myself a level of protection, I turned off the autopilot and nav and drove the groundcar myself.

“I understand there’s been a bit of a Sadiri baby boom,” I said delicately, keeping my eyes on the road as I maneuvered through freshly gouged potholes, the result of a strong start to the rainy season.

Dllenahkh’s teeth clicked as we bounced through a bad patch. “It does appear that way,” he said eventually with clenched jaws.

“Is this an indication—?” I started, and then said, “Does this mean a way has been chosen?”

The silence continued for long enough that I regretfully concluded that I’d pushed my luck too far. Then Dllenahkh spoke, sounding slightly injured. “Little choice has been offered where these births are concerned. Three of the fathers have been unable to obtain anything more than visiting rights, while a fourth has been charged with sole custody. Two are in a particularly difficult situation—their children have been acknowledged by other men and are being raised with no recognition of their heritage. In only one case has there been the formation of something resembling a bond, and that man has requested to move to the homestead of his child’s mother, there to live, no doubt, according to the culture of her people.”

I whistled. Added to the other stories I’d heard, those were more births and far fewer marriages than I had expected.

“So, you’re telling me you’re being fetishized, used, and dumped. Good enough to sleep with but not good enough to marry. Fresh blood. The new kink in town. The—”

“Your observations,” said Dllenahkh quietly but quellingly, “are not particularly welcome at this moment.”

I felt genuinely ashamed. “Sorry. I got a bit carried away. The thing is, we’ve always been a matriarchal society. Cygnian fathers have little say in decisions about child rearing. I thought you realized that.”

We continued in silence while I focused on a nasty bit of road slippage. At one stage, Dllenahkh had to get out and push the car through a slurry of fine limestone before it could find purchase once more on firm ground. He got back in, placing his caked work boots on the center of the mat with fastidious precision. It had been a trivial but welcome diversion, easing some of the tension from the atmosphere.

My thoughts wandered as I tried to think of what to say, and then, of course, my subconscious took over. “Dark they were, and golden-eyed,” I quoted dreamily.

“The reference escapes me.”

“It’s a classic work of fiction about Terrans who go to colonize Mars. Except Mars colonizes them. It turns them into dark, golden-eyed Martians who exactly resemble the extinct indigenous people. I’m telling you, if you think you can colonize Cygnus Beta and turn it into Sadira, centuries later all you’ll have is a slight tendency to shiny hair and pedantic speech in the common Cygnian stock. Oh, Dllenahkh, I am so sorry. I tried to warn you.”

“I do not recall—”

This was too serious for multitasking. I pulled aside, turned off the groundcar, and faced him fully. “I asked you what you wanted in the long term. Do you want to be all-Sadiri or Sadiri-Cygnian? Because if the former’s your aim, you’re going about it the wrong way.”

His head dropped wearily, which is as close as a Sadiri can get to a wail of anguish. “I do not know what we want. We wish only to survive, and we are trying all possible means to do so.”

I closed my eyes, struck by a pang of loneliness. If I can tease Gilda about having a dominant Zhinuvian gene in her makeup, then I must also admit that there might be a little too much Ntshune in my own background, an occasional echo of emotions not my own. And Dllenahkh was lonely, no mistake. It poured off him like mist and settled into my bones with a pain as insistent as the ache of an old injury. It was most upsetting.

“All right. You need to coordinate with the Ministry of Family Planning and Maintenance. But Dllenahkh, you have to come clean; none of this juvenile—sorry, culturally conditioned— embarrassment over the details of Sadiri marriage and bonding customs and no underhanded plots to seduce and indoctrinate women into the Sadiri way of life. Be up-front. I mean, you have chosen the right place. We’ve already got a mail-order-bride mentality, and we’ve been selecting for fecundity for centuries. How many other places could produce so many births in such a short space of time?”

“This is true,” said Dllenahkh with what sounded like a glimmer of hope.

“Plus, you could have it both ways: take a short-lived Cygnian wife for the first part of that long life of yours, then go home to your girl-brides and start a fresh full-blooded family. Just be … respectful. Honest. And stop thinking you’re the superior ones! You’re just another drop in our gene pool! We’re all descended from peoples who thought they were kings and gods and who found themselves to be almost nothing at all in the end. Don’t let that be you.”

He sat in chastened silence for a while, then said humbly, “There is merit in what you say. I will discuss the possibilities with our local council and approach the ministry as you have suggested.”

I exhaled in relief. If only they knew how close they had come to wearing out our patience. If there is one thing a Cygnian cannot bear, it’s the stench of superiority. Too often it had been a precursor to atrocity and a rationale for oppression. The Sadiri wouldn’t change overnight, but at least it was a start.

“Dark you are, and golden-eyed,” Dllenahkh said quietly.

“My eyes are brown,” I replied, puzzled to hear a Sadiri say something so nonsensical.

“I understand that on Terra gold is considered a rare and precious metal. To be golden is to be special, cherished.” He looked at me. “To me, your eyes are golden, because they have perceived who we truly are.”

I said nothing. I opened my mouth, failed to breathe, and lowered my eyes from that intense gaze. It hurt too much, like bright sun on tender skin, bright and searing with the beauty of both what had been lost and what remained. For a moment, the blood of my ancestors called out in empathy, and I almost embarrassed myself by crying in front of a Sadiri.

I bit my lip, took hold of myself, and the moment passed. Then I started the car, and we traveled on to the next distant homestead.