The Vela: The Complete Season 1. Yoon Ha Lee
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a clap of his hands. Yet he’d spent his entire afternoon mollifying and playing nice, all with a woman who barely acknowledged the concept of human rights.
He turned back to face his visitor. “It’s to our great shame that these attacks happened here on Khayyami soil. I hope, General, that you can accept our gravest apologies, and our assurances that we will do everything in our power to find and apprehend whoever was behind them.”
“I look forward to your updates,” answered Cynwrig.
Ekrem wondered if she practiced that thoroughly perfect balance of threat and bland interest. “Beyond knowing this was not a plot architected by anyone out of Khwarizmi, we can’t yet speculate at a motive, but—”
“No need to play coy. I know what I am most loathed for.”
He tried for a light laugh. “I doubt Hypatian refugees were in much of a position to pull this off, General.”
“They have their own radicalized factions aligned with them. But no doubt you will run down all those lines of inquiry.”
“No doubt,” echoed Ekrem.
“Speaking of the Hypatian criminal element, I’m told Khayyami authorities took custody of the ones found on board my ship.”
Ekrem kept his tone casual. “Would you rather take them back with you instead? We can work out the jurisdiction . . .”
General Cynwrig hesitated. Ekrem let the silence hang. The general would know Khayyam would not abide the sort of punishment she would mete out, not within the borders of its space. She’d have to take the refugees back with her, as prisoners . . .
She flicked a finger. “You can deal with the inconvenience. May I ask what you intend to do with them?”
“I’d thought to give them amnesty,” he answered, still nonchalant. “At the request of the agent who so nobly saved your life—I thought it the least I could do to reward her.”
“Ah,” Cynwrig said. “Yes. Her. I trust this amnesty will only be granted after you detain and question them about the incidents I suffered here on your planet.”
Those poor people are only looking for basic human living conditions; they weren’t the ones plotting ways to kill you. Ekrem didn’t say it out loud. Asala had said nothing to him about the refugees beyond her original message reporting them—as far as he knew, she was still recovering from putting on a fine show of saving his guest’s life. But if Asala hadn’t provided a convenient excuse, he would have found another way. Politics may have hampered him in doing more for Hypatia, but he could save a handful of refugees when they were dropped on his doorstep.
No one would have to know.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a bad thing for the system if we’d let whoever was coming after General Cynwrig succeed . . .
The thought gave him a jolt of guilt. No. Heads of state had to have a basic respect for each other, no matter how much they disagreed. Without that, civilization would already be lost.
He finished out the meeting mostly on automatic, his mouth making all the final arrangements of their summit on its own—my-people-will-be-speaking-to-your-people, we’ll hash out the rest of the details, thank you for such cordial discussions. Then, finally, he bowed General Cynwrig out of his office. Her human security still flanked her, but she looked . . . different without her AIs. Not smaller or less dangerous, no—almost more so.
As soon as she was gone, Ekrem let himself slump into a chair. Just for a moment, he let himself be tired.
His main console beeped with a priority communication. Asala. Mustering some energy, he reached over and flicked the message open.
It was short and to the point: I will find the Vela for you.
The president of Khayyam sat up straighter. As evidenced over the past two days, Asala was the most effective person he’d ever met. She would find that ship. He would have the Vela.
As long as she didn’t ask too many questions. And if she did . . .
If Asala began to look too deeply, or if homeworld loyalties turned her head, well, that was why Niko was going. Not the brightest of Ekrem’s children, Niko . . . but to watch and report, that they could handle. That, Ekrem could trust.
After all, family was family.
Episode 2
The Third Passenger Becky Chambers
Hello. I am Uzochi Ryouta. You probably know my name in other contexts, but for the time being, think of me in my current state: an Eratosi refugee aboard the Vela. We are en route to Khayyam, which has opened their door to us when others would not. In my time here, I have seen many faces, and heard many stories. Depending on where you are in our solar system, you may not have crossed paths with a refugee from the outer worlds. We are abstracts, statistics. In these videos, I hope to give us a face. Our troubles may seem distant to you, but we felt the same on Eratos—until our home could no longer keep us alive. The demise of our sun is inevitable. We will all be refugees soon. It is my hope that by sharing our lives with you, we—as a cooperative system—can prevent these stories from becoming yours, too.
• • •
Owning a ship was a luxury Asala could not afford—but renting a nice one? Yes. In a lot of ways, it was the most logical choice. Given the sensitive nature of her work, booking passage aboard a crowded cruiser was asking for trouble. A high-end small craft charter, on the other hand, would guarantee her privacy, and its staff wouldn’t ask questions about the contents of her luggage. A dock attendant flipping open a case of live ammo in a public boarding line wasn’t ideal.
That was the practical justification. The other side of the coin was that Asala simply liked to travel in comfort. She liked having a ship to herself. She liked being able to send in a rider of what she wanted to have aboard. She liked the automated nav systems that didn’t require her to so much as glance at the pilot’s chair. She could kick up her heels, sit back, and let technology do the work. Being in transit was about as close to a vacation as she ever got.
There had been a time in her life when she’d traveled the way most people did—stiff-legged and miserable, shoved into cramped shared quarters on a one-way journey that took months to complete. Fuel was expensive and physics was free, so the most economical way to get a lot of people from here to there was to depend heavily on gravity assists, which meant waiting years for the planets to align themselves in a way that facilitated a slingshot. Missed your flight? No problem, there’d be another in eight years. Sure, it was possible for high-end craft to zip around in a fraction of the time, choosing whatever launch date they pleased, but who had access to that kind of extravagance?
Asala did. Or, more accurately: her employers did.
Kestrel Interplanetary was her charter of choice, and its proprietor met her at the spaceport. “Kima Asala, always such a pleasure,” he said with a little bow. His mustache was expertly coiffed, as usual.
“Nice to see you, Tibor,” she said. “Thank you for taking care of this on such short notice.”
“For you? Of course.”
“I hope the security squad didn’t give you too much trouble.” There was an aspect to this trip Asala hated already, and it had required a full fine-toothed comb-through of the vessel before she’d been allowed to board, plus a few technical alterations. Overkill, but then, this was a government job, and government people never felt useful unless they invented ways to make everything twice as much bother.
“No trouble,” Tibor said. “A bit on the humorless side, but—well, that’s military for you. No offense, of course.”
“None taken.” She nodded at the coppery quick-shot craft waiting in dock before them. “Is this me?”
“This is you.”