30

FAR FROM THE TREE

THE GIRL BLED LIKE EVERYONE ELSE: red. It was a nasty gash, but Priya had seen nastier. Eliot stiffened when the curved suture needle was retrieved from its drawer, snake’s-tooth sharp. In Medic school Priya had learned that bedside manner made all the difference in situations like this. Keep the patient chatting. Talk about the weather, family members, their favorite datastream, anything to keep them from focusing on the pain at hand.

But it was all Priya could do to keep her own focus. The Ancestral Archives program glowed from the other side of the infirmary, details of its search-in-progress hidden beneath a lab coat. Does that truth even matter, now that the questions have changed? Gloves on. Heal-All spray applied. Suture thread strung. Eye on the needle. Don’t think about what you just saw. Don’t think about how Far might have reached his mother, if you’d let go. Don’t think about how close he came to being erased, too….

“You’re shaking,” Eliot said.

“Can you blame me?”

“Is there a less old-fashioned way to do this? I don’t want crooked stitches.” Eliot attempted enough of a smile to show she was trying to lighten the mood.

As if that were possible, after watching the sky disappear. Colors, light, matter all peeling back… It was the surety of an end, coming for them with the wrath of a merciless god. The sight reminded Priya of a line from the Bhagavad-Gita, oft quoted by men who knew they held desolation in their hands: I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.

Translation was a funny thing. Some scholars thought it was time, not death, that destroyed worlds. Both versions were chilling, made her ache for warmth and masala chai, still points and perfect moments.

“We don’t have skin glue on board,” Priya told the girl. “Scar will look the same no matter what.”

At this, Eliot held out her hand. The bleeding had slowed after the Heal-All, but she remained quite pale, insides a blue-veined story against her skin, pulse an ode to terror. Whatever it was they’d seen in Alexandria, it upended this girl. She’d become as much a shadow-person as the rest of them.

It only took four interrupted sutures to close the cut. Priya sliced the thread and applied the bandage as steadily as she could. “All better now,” she said, even though nothing was. “Now, go out into the common area and start talking.”

“It’s—a long story.” Eliot stood. “I’m going to need to use the washroom first.”

Because they were suspended in the Grid, Priya nodded. The Invictus was all there was out here. Eliot would be hard-pressed to find a place to run, though she certainly did her best on her way to the washroom, tripping over Saffron before she shut herself away. The red panda bristled thrice his size, his misery made well known as he yowled and leaped up to the safety of the pipes.

Priya checked on her crew. All of them were in the common area. Gram sat on the couch, cleaning off one of his Rubik’s Cubes. A steam cloud surrounded Imogen in the kitchenette, which explained both smells—karha spice and burning. Far sat with his back to the infirmary, unmoving. Priya couldn’t see his eyes, but she suspected they were glazed, reliving the same moment she was. Death or time—whatever windless force it was—bearing down, snatching Far’s mother out from under him, his toga linen feeling like a thousand threads ready to snap beneath Priya’s fingers.

She’d been right to hold on, hadn’t she?

Priya tossed the garnet gauze and the needle in the trash; her gloves followed. So much sorrow, so much fear—Eliot’s ache had spread to the entire ship. The Ancestral Archives results might be slight, but they mattered, because everything stemmed from this girl somehow, and all she’d done was lie. Nepenthe. Ha! If only…

Whatever story Eliot chose to spin next could be held to the tale her genetics told. This diagnostics machine also featured an hourglass cursor. Its eternal sands had been pouring most of the day, were still pouring when Priya lifted the lab coat. Results wouldn’t take much longer, shouldn’t for how many credits she’d dropped on processing power. Though who knew what soon meant in a timeless place…

“I think I murdered the chai.” A glum announcement on Imogen’s part. “There aren’t supposed to be floaty things in it, right?”

“I usually strain the spices out,” Priya said, and made her way toward the kitchenette. The pot in Imogen’s hands was a piece of work: too much milk, burnt at the bottom, bubbling over the sides. Not enough spice, despite the bits that flecked the top. Poor, precious karha mix. Murdered, indeed. “What is this?”

“I don’t know….” The Historian’s chin wobbled. “I’m sorry, Priya. I tried.”

They’d all tried. They were all on the edge of tears. They all felt as if maybe the nothingness actually had managed to graze them, stealing something essential. Priya looked back at the pot and decided to save what she could. Something hot in their hands would be better than emptiness.

She poured out five cups this time, substituting two bowls. One for Eliot and one for the mug that was now in pieces on the floor. The washroom door stayed closed. Priya found herself dreading its opening. She wanted answers, yes, needed them, but whatever came out to face them couldn’t be good.

The whole world was unsettled now, not just theirs.

Her eyes kept traveling the same path: washroom door, Far, hourglass. Closed, unmoving, ever-pouring. Closed, unmoving, ever-pouring. Closed, unmoving… results! The hourglass vanished with a chime, and it was everything Priya could do not to spill the rest of the pot as she set it down, rushing for the infirmary.

The screen greeted her with the program’s motto—ANCESTRAL ARCHIVES: ROOTS AT YOUR FINGERTIPS—and the picture of a tree. (Some marketing person sure fancied themselves clever.) Priya had no patience for it as she clicked to the next screen. This layout of results was easier to read than the initial DNA profile—ancestral lineage branching out from the strongest percentage, following census records and haplogroups down the generations.

No NO MATCH FOUND this time. Eliot’s closest relative shared a whopping 50 percent of her DNA, which meant she wasn’t from as distant a future as they thought. One of the girl’s parents or siblings existed in Central time, and as soon as Priya selected that profile, she’d know who it was.

Time to pull back the curtain…

A glance at Ganesh. A prayer. A click.

The profile filled the screen, picture first. Priya didn’t read the name or birth date beneath it because the face, painted in pixels before her, needed no ID. She’d seen it in person not a moment ago. The sight was more than familiar; it was hashing impossible….

It was Empra McCarthy.