PRAISE FOR
THE GALAXY GAME

“This novel is a satisfying exercise in being off-balance, a visceral lesson in how to fall forward and catch yourself in an amazing new place.”

—The Seattle Times

“There is a weight and grace to [Karen Lord’s] prose that put me in mind of pewter jewelry.”

—NPR

“A smart science fictional fable as inventive and involving as it is finally vital.”

—Tor.com

PRAISE FOR
THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS

“An engrossing picaresque quest, a love story, and a moving character study … [Karen] Lord is on a par with Ursula K. Le Guin.”

—The Guardian

“Reads like smooth jazz comfort food, deceptively familiar and easy going down, but subtly subversive … [puts] me in mind of Junot Díaz’s brilliant novel The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.”

—Nalo Hopkinson, Los Angeles Review of Books

“A fascinating and thoughtful science fiction novel that examines adaptation, social change, and human relationships. I’ve not read anything quite like it, which makes it that rare beast: a true original.”

—Kate Elliott, author of the Crown of Stars series and The Spiritwalker Trilogy

“If you want to see science fiction doing something new and fascinating … then you shouldn’t sleep on The Best of All Possible Worlds.”

—io9

“The Best of All Possible Worlds … poses an interesting question: What parts of you do you fight to preserve when everything you know suddenly changes?”

—Associated Press

“Rewarding science fiction for emotional grown-ups.”

—Mysterious Galaxy

“[A] marvelously formed universe.”

—The A.V. Club

“A rewarding, touching and often funny exploration of the forms and functions of human culture.”

—SFX

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

PROLOGUE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have credit—” the traveler began.

“Credit is not the issue. Do you have five Standard years?”

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

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

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

Head bowed, mind shielded but alert, the traveler quietly replied, “Yes. I was born there.”

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

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

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

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

“May your period of kin contract be long and mutually advantageous. And yet … you are full Sadiri? Born in the settlement on Cygnus Beta?”

The traveler did not reply, did not need to. The broker’s lazy mind was at last communicating at the appropriate level and his questions were rhetorical, a verbal trick for emphasis.

“But I did not think they permitted men to be born there.”

“We are not New Sadira,” the traveler reproached him. He reproached him not only for the insult to his people, but also for the broker’s vague, unvoiced support for that policy. He did not always encounter the caricature of the desperate, marriage-hungry Sadiri, nor did he embody it, but when it appeared it made him feel personally injured, as if conscious of a great fall in which he was complicit though not culpable.

The broker raised his hand, opened it in surrender, and let it fall, a gesture of apology that went beyond what was required toward one so much younger. His very pores exhaled embarrassment, regret, and resentment. The traveler felt such pity; if he had not been convinced of his own mental strength, he would have suspected the broker of influencing his emotions.

“I would be grateful if you could do whatever is possible with the vault, the filigree, and the audioplugs,” he said.

The broker’s ego steadied and grew stronger, anchored by the familiar process of business. “What formats do you wish for the final compilation?”

“Ntshune filigree compatible.”

“That can be done.” The broker held out a hand for the charms; the tiny lights on his desk blinked and beckoned, ready for transfer.

The traveler hesitated. “How long?” he asked.

“The filigree, less than a day. A week for the vault, perhaps, and I really cannot say for the audioplugs. I may have to have them sent for testing.”

“Send each one as soon as you finish extraction,” the traveler told him, extending his treasure.

A hand intervened, tweaking the bracelet of charms from the traveler’s fingers. The hand was almost prettier than the bracelet. Silvery new lines overlaid the faint, pale scars of long-removed filigree, like embroidery over damask, fingers to forearm. The traveler’s heart seized with fear and disappointment as he looked into dark, opaque eyes and an unreadable face. The databroker assessed the situation with a glance, and folded his desk and vanished before he could become either accessory or witness.

“You could have asked me, Narua.”

The words were quiet, unthreatening, and devoid of reproach, but they still stung. “I did ask, Patron.”

“Then you should have been more patient.” The Patron tucked the charms into an inner fold of his jacket. “Come with me.”

Narua followed his Patron along corridors and through private doors to a small dock. The shuttle linked to the entry port hummed quietly, its engines run-ready. Narua hesitated for a moment before boarding, but sighed and let the habit of trust take his feet obediently into the Patron’s domain. He stayed standing and kept himself from fidgeting as the Patron seated himself at the main console and spoke the commands to seal the entry and begin their departure clearance from the Terminal. When the necessaries were concluded, the Patron gestured to the chair beside him. Narua sat and tried to look away, but eventually he raised his head and endured the Patron’s steady, almost painfully caring gaze.

“I’m hurt. We’re practically family.”

“I know.” Narua motioned impatiently toward his still-exposed chest and the tracings there that matched those on the Patron’s arms. “A lesser branch of the Haneki dynasty, a collection of the unregistered, the foreign, and the irregular, all kin but few blood. I know what I am, what we are.”

Reproach came at last in the form of a hard stare and a rare sternness. “And the Haneki markings lend you great privilege, lesser branch or no, or you would be answering directly to Terminal Security instead of me. But”—the Patron waved a hand, dismissing the tense moment—“we were family before that. Do you honestly believe I’m keeping information from you? Or are you hoping to gain some hold over me? My past is relatively boring. No scandal and a very little crime, long since pardoned. It would be so hard to blackmail me.”

Narua smiled, unable to help himself. The Patron always had that effect on people, persuading them that he was never a threat, and somehow, in spite of all the evidence, it worked every time.

The Patron’s voice became heavy with regret. “Or do you think I don’t want you to find her?”

Narua winced but could not lie. “They say that her decision put you on a path you might not have chosen for yourself.”

A gentle frown appeared briefly on the Patron’s face, showing perplexity rather than anger. “Is that what they say?” he said drily. “In the absence of other witnesses, the missing conveniently take on our sins. Let me tell you directly—I bear her no ill will. Quite the opposite. I want her found, for my aunt’s sake as much as my own.”

“She is only one missing person among many that concern you. I understand that.”

“I am glad that you understand my responsibilities, but you still fail to comprehend my heart.”

Narua fell silent, chastised.

“Let us go. As I said, Narua, you only had to ask. I’ll unlock the charms for you and you can see what secrets are dangling on this chain.”

Because he was the Patron and thus a busy man, and also because only his time and his timing mattered, they did not, as Narua had hoped, go straight from landing at the Port of Janojya to a viewing at one of the port’s extensive conference facilities. Nor did they, on return to Janojya proper, and reentry to the Haneki domains, immediately settle down to a private meeting in the Patron’s workroom or living quarters. Narua found himself gently dismissed, left alone for days to consider and worry and finally fret, and then at last he was summoned.

The Patron sat alone at the edge of a sunken holo projector pit in the center of his workroom floor. He sat so still that Narua thought for a moment that he was meditating. Narua crossed the threshold, courteously quiet but sensibly announcing his entry with an inaudible beat of presence that could be discerned by any but the most primitive Terran. The Patron’s eyelids flickered, lowered rather than closed, and Narua saw that his focus was on something held in the upturned palm on his lap.

“Narua … or may I say Kirat?”

Narua smiled. “You may say Siha, but childhood names don’t matter anymore. Not for me.”

“Then let me start again. Narua, I wish you well in your search. This role I fill comes with many opportunities and many restrictions, and if I cannot help, I will at least not hinder. Here.”

The Patron waved him to a cushion beside him. Narua looked before he sat and picked up a single charm, shaped like a watchtower, from the dip in the soft fabric.

“A full copy of everything you tried to steal,” said the Patron, both chiding and amused. “Use it wisely and don’t embarrass me.”

Narua nodded, too pleased to speak, and quickly put it into a pocket. The Patron’s gaze returned to the object in his own hand.

“For this,” he said, holding it up to clear view, “I had to make a request, and then I had to wait.”

Narua stared. It was an old Cygnian datacharm of a design that slightly predated the one the Patron kept on the chain, and the style was familiar. He began to speak, then bit his lip.

“I think you have one like it. This belongs to my aunt. I only found out about it when it came up during our recent chat on your latest shenanigans. She said we should watch it together, before you go through all the other journals and chronicles.”

It was the moment to ask, but Narua stayed silent. He could already guess who was on it, and more questions seemed superfluous. The Patron nodded his approval and gently threw the charm into the depths of the holo interface. The first image was sudden and large, and they both jumped back reflexively at the brightness radiating from the semicircle before them. There was the face and form Narua knew so well, which belonged to a woman he had never met—his mother. She was sitting in an office. The wall behind her right shoulder had shelves of books, disks, and unfamiliar artifacts, and a tall window at her left shoulder opened out into greenery and birdsong. A breeze played intermittently at the draperies.

“Commander Nasiha,” she said, looking straight into the vid recorder with a slightly distant, almost distracted gaze. “Formerly of the Interplanetary Science Council, presently on leave from the New Sadira Science Council, cultural consultant of Sadira-on-Cygnus in Tlaxce Province on Cygnus Beta.”

A brief, staccato cough cut off the lengthy introduction, and another voice spoke softly. “This isn’t a research report, Nasiha. There’s no need for formality.”

Nasiha blinked and her eyes focused and grew warm. “I asked you to prompt me, not interrupt me,” she admonished the unseen speaker, but it was said gently enough to be teasing as well.

“I am prompting you. Try to relax. Tell it like a tale.”

Nasiha frowned. “Perhaps reports would be better. Anything can change, and what I say now will have little utility.” She moved as if to get up.

The offscreen voice sighed. “And I say again, it’s not a report.”

“Nor is it a memorial,” Nasiha replied harshly.

Sorrowful, almost hurt, the voice countered, “That’s not why I suggested this.”

The vid’s view changed in a blur, resettling at a higher point to show the whole room and the second occupant, her hand just pulling back from flinging the vid recorder to its new perch. She reclined in a chair on the other side of Nasiha’s desk, her fingers laced tightly over her belt in a way that should have been casual but instead demonstrated an inner tension held close and quiet. Grace Delarua, godmother of Narua and aunt of the Patron, had never been good at hiding her feelings. The new angle also provided some temporal context for the vid. Narua noted with fond reverence that his mother was heavily pregnant and that he had been, in fact if not in full awareness, present at the time of recording.

“It’s a memory,” Grace Delarua said, “not a memorial. It’s a way for you to talk to the family you’ll never see. Once we kept letters, journals, and flat, monochrome photographs. Now we have data keepsakes and trinkets. It’s as significant or insignificant as you want it to be. Say hi. Recite a poem or a blessing. Tell a dirty joke.”

As Grace spoke, Nasiha gradually unstiffened, slowly leaned back, and absently clasped her hands in similar fashion over her belly. She fought not to smile, but by the last sentence she smiled. Narua glanced at the Patron and noticed with not a little ruefulness that he had fallen into the same posture as the Patron—legs crossed, hands loosely held in lap, body leaning slightly forward. The Patron looked at him sideways and gave him a quick wink.

“I will have to think of one,” Nasiha said drily. “We’re not as amused by sex as Terrans and Zhinuvians.”

“Sadiri are far too grown-up for that,” Grace agreed cheerfully.

Nasiha’s face became shadowed again. “Or we find less humor in things, or the wrong kind of humor. New Sadira is a joke, but no one is laughing.”

Grace also sobered. “But how much of what we are hearing is true?”

Nasiha unclasped her hands and began to tap out a tally on her fingertips. “First, our pilot brethren. They are very loyal to all things Sadiri, but they are also expert at objective observation. I would assign their reports a high level of veracity. Second, the attention our consultancy has been getting from the Academes of Punartam, not only in increased requests for collaboration on projects concerning the Sadiri culture, but also in the number of times our papers and reports have been quoted and referenced by other academics and consultants. This goes beyond the first wave of stranded Sadiri after our biosphere disaster. They are dealing with a second wave of refugees from New Sadiri, many of them traumatized by new, unexpected crises.”

“Your Consul …” Grace began slowly, as if already doubting the words she was about to say.

“The Consul of New Sadira is in an unenviable position. Cygnus Beta is too distant from the galactic center for his office to be fully cognizant of the situation on New Sadira, and the community he is tasked to represent has become too independent to pay him much attention. It is no wonder he clings to any semblance of authority.”

“Like ordering you back to the Science Council,” Grace said.

Nasiha clasped her hands again and shook her head slightly. “Well, my leave is coming to an end. We knew this would happen— but,” she continued, her eyes narrowing with something like anger, “the galaxy was a different place then.”

“What does Tarik say?” Grace asked, still with that gentle voice.

“He is concerned. I know he does not want me to go, but he is leaving the decision to me.” Nasiha smiled suddenly. “He tries his best to assure me in every way that he will be an exceptional parent. That was never in doubt.”

They fell silent for a while; then Grace spoke. “Do you know, when we first started hearing the rumors, I was convinced it was something the Zhinuvian cartels were doing. I imagined them sweeping up every lost and undocumented Sadiri female they could find and selling them on to the highest bidders.”

Nasiha laughed bitterly. “The cartels have too many other opportunities now that galactic security is so lax, but I am sure there are some enterprising small groups and individuals who are filling the void. Sadiri women are now the galaxy’s rarest and most valuable commodity. Ironically, this fact has put severe limitations on their safety and security.”

Grace sighed. “I almost wish that Ain wasn’t cut off from the rest of the galaxy. If the government of New Sadira had more genetic options, they might not be so desperate.”

“Taking Ainya genetic material as reparations for attempted genocide? Would that mean taking Ainya women as wives, or breeding stock? Unimaginable. Perhaps Ain is better off in isolation. It removes the temptation to other atrocities.”

“Go to the Academes,” Grace pleaded. “If they’ve taken over the Interplanetary Science Council, why should you go to New Sadira? It’s too far. We’ll never see you again.”

“A seven-year posting is not forever, Grace,” Nasiha chided absently.

“They will make it forever. You know that,” Grace muttered. “And you … you’re keeping secrets from me.”

Unexpectedly, Nasiha laughed. There was so much fondness and joy in her laughter that Grace responded with a huge grin, immediately disarmed. “Of course I am keeping secrets from you,” she said, “but I thought you knew why.”

Grace shrugged. “I know you love me, but I also know you don’t take me seriously where some matters are concerned.”

Nasiha dipped her head and gave Grace a stern and censuring look from under frowning brows. “Nonsense. I am doing you a favor. I do not think that you would not keep my secrets, but it may be that you could not. And I do not wish to put your husband in an awkward position. He must maintain a good relationship with New Sadira in general and the Consul in particular. If I must plot disobedience, I will not involve you two.”

“You should give us the choice,” Grace grumbled.

“We are all of us caught between duty and choice. They tell me that my children are the future of my people and I have a duty. But how can I ransom the freedoms of the unborn to an unknowable future?”

“You say that now because of Cygnian influence. When you first arrived, all of you, your sole duty was to the survival of Sadira. Now you allow Terran and Ntshune riffraff like me into your community and you don’t even flinch at the prospect of a diluted bloodline. That’s quite a change.”

“New Sadira has changed too, but in the opposite direction. There lies my dilemma.”

“I wish you would let us do more.”

“I do want you to do more. Would you save only me when so many others are in danger? Do your research, collaborate with the Academes, and as for your husband …” Nasiha looked down, drew a breath, and exhaled. “I know that Dllenahkh will strive to keep the name of Sadira from dishonor. I believe that he has some challenges ahead of him. You must keep him stable and save him from despair.”

“These sound like good-byes,” Grace said, her voice wavering.

Nasiha nodded. “One way or another, I will be leaving Cygnus Beta, and I believe it will be soon. I hope it will be in a way that I choose.”

She looked pensively at the window view as Grace quickly wiped her eyes and cleared her throat.

“I’ve got some reports to finish. Call me if you need anything, and … finish recording that message, okay?”

Nasiha nodded as Grace stretched up to the recorder on the shelf, her hand filling the view as she reached toward it … then darkness and silence indicated that the glimpse into the past was at an end.

The Patron cleared his throat in a little staccato rhythm that made him sound far too much like his aunt. “That’s it. I take it you have the datacharm Commander Nasiha recorded for you?”

“Yes,” Narua said, or tried to say, but his voice was below a whisper, dry and tearless. He tried again with more force and spit. “Yes.”

“What did she put on it?”

“An old Sadiri lullaby. The melody is very pretty, but the lyrics are a bit grim. Something about how getting married and having a hundred descendants is preferable to dying alone and forgotten and useless.”

“Ah. I suppose things haven’t really changed that much in the Sadiri mind-set.”

“But she said … she said family can be a matter of choice, not birth.”

“That’s a very Ntshune sentiment.” The Patron sounded pleased.

“And if your family is as large as a dynasty, your priorities change,” Narua acknowledged.

The Patron shook his head and stared earnestly at the young Sadiri. “They don’t change, Narua. They deepen, they expand, but they don’t change as much as you think.”

He stood up briskly, then bent and picked the charm out of the holopit. “Keep looking for her. I will give you what help I can when I can. I only ask that you answer my call if I need you. Now, if you will, I have appointments elsewhere. Feel free to use my workroom and quarters as you go through the rest of the charms. All the tech is secure and surveillance-free.”

“Thank you, Patron,” Narua said, his voice almost breaking with surprise and emotion at the unexpected generosity.

He waited for the Patron to exit before tossing the bracelet of charms into the pit before him. Then he stretched out on the cushions and began to listen and watch.