WHEN I WAKE late the next morning, my stream is full of comments and excitement about the seed ceremony and one notification from my CrawlerCam. It’s the only one I’m interested in.
It’s been swept into that room and has already been recording for two hours, having been programmed to begin as soon as it was moved from the place I left it last night. I resist the desire to open the file and begin analysis, knowing that if I do so I’ll miss the ceremony. It will take me longer than usual to get ready. I can’t resist setting up a connection between the data from the recording and my visengineering software though, meaning that the next time I review the results, it will have already pulled out things that can be defined as distinct objects and wire-framed them at least.
I have to be disciplined and turn my attention to what everyone else here feels is the focus of today. I can only imagine that Mack is out of his mind with stress and decide not to bother him. No doubt he’s been spending hours setting up all the subtle visual cues in the environment and getting the subliminal messages set up for Marco’s chip. He’ll have already set up the private connection to Marco’s lens, the illegal (as if that’s relevant now) hack into his comms software, and it will all be ready to go once he’s breathed in the pheromones from the plant.
Like every year for over two decades, I’ll stand there and pretend to be awed. I’ll remain hushed at the right point. I’ll maintain a respectful silence as he opens the door to God’s city and enters a space considered holy. I’m not sure I see it that way anymore. It’s just an entrance, like a porchway into a church rather than the inner sanctum. I know that is a holy place.
But unlike everyone else, Mack and I won’t be uplifted. In fact, the party after the seed ceremony is the lowest point of the year for me and the hardest to get through. The people who know me more than most—Kay, Pasha, Neela—they all think it’s because it reminds me of Suh and how much I miss her. Mack handles the fakery so much better than I. He’s a showman and so used to tricking people into thinking they want things that it’s not a big deal to him anymore. But I’ve seen how stressed he’s been since Sung-Soo arrived. I send him a quick note checking in and, unexpectedly, get an immediate request for voice chat. I accept.
“Just wondered how you are,” he says. He sounds cheerful. Relaxed even.
“Not looking forward to it,” I reply.
“Everything’s done now. Try to focus on the positives. Everyone will feel better.”
He and I are so different. I can’t see past the lie.
“And in a few days,” he continues, “we can talk about how to handle this in the longer term. I don’t want to go through this again.”
“Neither do I. And they’ll all want it to be Sung-Soo next year.”
“I know. I’ll have profiled him by then; it won’t be such a big deal. Especially if I can persuade him to get chipped.”
Not for the first time, I wonder if he’s ever used his techniques on me. “If we were on Earth, you’d be locked up.”
“Only if I worked for anyone but the gov-corps.”
He laughs, but I don’t. We left some terrible things behind. I don’t want anything like them to take root here. “I’ll see you later,” I say, wanting to have as much time truly alone as I can before the madness starts.
Eventually I’m in a newly printed outfit, smart enough to show I’ve made an effort, as is expected. I’m sure half the reason this has caught on over the years is the excuse to dress up and have a party.
People still celebrate Eid and Christmas and Thanksgiving and the like in small groups on days calculated to be as close to the appropriate one in the new calendar, but this day has become a universal celebration. It doesn’t make sense to me—why celebrate the fact that Suh still isn’t back? But they see it differently, celebrating it as a moment of connection with her.
When I leave the house, I have a momentary anxiety spike. It’s the first time I’ve been outside since leaving Sung-Soo’s place. He’ll be there today. We didn’t part on the best terms and I’m certain he’s pissed off with me. I need to avoid him. I don’t want anyone else to pick up on there being something wrong between us.
His house seems empty as I pass it and I can see most people are already much farther along the path than I am. The gentle bubbling noise of the crowd gathering within the courtyard of God’s city grows louder and I shove my free hand in my pocket to clench my fist.
Kay is waiting next to the eastern gate and waves when she sees me. She’s wearing a bright red aso-oke wrapped around her head in luxurious folds and then fanning out high and wide like a crown. It matches the wrapper set she’s wearing; both were her grandmother’s and one of the most precious things she brought with her from Earth. It makes her look bigger, taller, and lends a proud tilt to her chin. I want to pull her away from the crowd gathering close by and unwrap her in private, lay her down among the folds of rich satin and kiss her everywhere. But I just wave back and feel underdressed as she comes to meet me, the glorious red drowning out my pale blue trousers and long-sleeved top.
As she approaches I notice something hanging at her throat from a leather thong. It’s a new pendant, one shaped like a hand cupping a face, carved from the same chunk of that strange deposit as mine. It makes me stop and so she closes the distance between us, kissing my cheek when she reaches me.
“Sung-Soo gave you that?” It’s half question, half statement.
She nods and smiles, brushing it with her fingertips. “Isn’t it beautiful? He carved it himself. I was wearing the ruby necklace you like, but he gave this to me while I was waiting for you and it’s just too nice to stay in my pocket. Do you like it?”
I nod, unimpressed with the animal response that flared up inside as she spoke about it. As if I would be the only person he would give such a gift. I don’t deserve to be singled out for his affection anyway.
“You shouldn’t have waited for me,” I say to her, pointing at the entrance to the city’s courtyard. “You’ll be at the back now.”
She shrugs. “I don’t mind. I wanted to see if you’re all right.”
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t think you’d last at Sung-Soo’s.”
“Why?”
“You like your own space too much.”
“I’d like to . . . Can we . . . I’ve been missing you.” I finally get the words past my lips.
“Come to my place after the party,” she says before kissing me with her hand cupped around my cheek, like the one on her pendant.
Even as I nod I worry that I’ve made the wrong decision. Am I just seeking solace in the easiest place I can find it? Why can’t I just be in the moment like she can? I bet she isn’t worrying about what she said as she takes my hand and leads me through the gate.
We squeeze in at the back and there are hundreds of people between me and the entrance. Everyone looks their best, from children who have been coaxed into tidiness and ribboned hair to people I never see in anything but coveralls now wearing suits and dresses.
Some are chattering with one another; some are looking around and up at the city with the telltale slow movements of LensCam recording. When they look up at its heights, do they really think Suh is up there? Really? Or is this event now relegated to the status of “tradition” so established that people don’t really think about it at all?
If Mack and I don’t put an end to this, will it endure? Would the children here be content with a fantasy of the undying Pathfinder, waiting for the right time to return, kept alive by strange and unnatural means in that alien place? Four generations from now will there be twee stories of Suh and the colony founders? In eight generations will they be regarded as allegory and nothing more?
They all seem so happy. I search the faces I can see from the back for any signs of doubt or cynicism, and there’s none. They’ve all been sucked into the glorious sideshow and if they have any disbelief, they’ve willingly suspended it to make room for a good old-fashioned get-together.
Mack understands these people far too well. They may be scientists and experts and handpicked from thousands of hopefuls vying for every single place on Atlas, but they’re just people. Just frightened, insecure little things millions of miles from home.
This is home now.
I look down at my feet. What would Suh make of this? Would she be appalled? Flattered? I think she would be bemused.
“Sung-Soo looks a bit freaked-out.” Kay is pointing toward the entrance.
I follow her finger until I spot him next to Carmen, who is holding his arm and gushing animatedly at him. He’s looking back over the crowd.
I don’t think he looks freaked-out at all. I think he looks cynical. He looks like a man waiting for a magic show when he knows how the tricks are done.
“Shit, he looks like Suh,” Kay says.
He’s wearing his hair loose and it’s shining like patent leather in the sunlight. Carmen just won’t shut up, even though he’s not replying or speaking at all. He’s scanning the crowd, taking in the faces. Is he looking for me? For Mack?
He doesn’t find whatever he’s looking for and turns back to face the entrance.
“Marco’s coming!”
The hushed whisper flies from the child by the gate, one who’s been staring out the whole time, hoping to be the first one to see him. It’s quickly propagated through the crowd, leaving silence in its wake as everyone turns around and looks toward the entrance expectantly.
Marco arrives soon after, dressed in black linen trousers and top, looking significantly leaner than the last time I saw him. He pauses at the sight of everyone, then fixes his eyes on the entrance to the tunnel at the top of the slope and strides on. The crowd parts ahead of him, pushing Kay and me farther to the side as it does so.
This is something he has worked so hard for. He’s meditated, avoided all stimulants and any drugs, lived apart for months, all to be the star of Mack’s show.
I look away again, fearful that if I watch too much more, the urge to break the social spell will be too great to resist. Instead, I reach for Kay’s hand and focus on its softness and the way she squeezes mine back.
If I start something between us again, the same thing will come between us. Is it time to open up to her? I try to imagine telling her about the house, even showing her, but the thought rapidly dissolves into anxious slurry. She’d never want to be with me if she knew about that.
I glance at her and she’s watching Marco’s progress through the crowd just like everyone else. I want to talk to her, but it would be selfish to do so now.
She notices my attention and leans across to whisper “What?” in my ear.
I press my cheek against hers and whisper back: “I had a little girl. The father and I agreed we’d be better apart. She had a genetic disorder. She died when she was three.”
She pulls back, still holding my hand tight, to look at me properly. At the edge of my vision I can see Marco walking up the slope to the entrance. She looks shocked, then full of pity, I think. Her eyes shine and she embraces me, taking care to avoid my hurt shoulder.
“You were right before,” I whisper. “I didn’t share much with you at all. I’m sorry.”
“Why now?” she whispers back.
“Because I suck at timing,” I reply and she stifles a laugh. “Because I was scared.”
“We’ll talk more later,” she says and kisses me again, this time with the intimacy and tenderness of a lover.
We both focus on Marco as he reaches the door. I feel horribly separated from the crowd, united in their anticipation, but no longer totally alone. Kay is with them and holding her breath too, but there is a connection between us now. I feel like I’ve started to rebuild a bridge between us and even though it’s a flimsy, rickety thing, it exists and that’s enough for now.
Marco presses his hand against the join of the door and the valve opens, just like the ones inside the tunnels that I’m used to. He leans back slightly, nervous—as everyone is—of the air inside. We tested it in the first year in full environmental protective gear and it’s nothing like the atmosphere farther inside. But still, he’s understandably cautious.
He takes a moment to prepare himself and then enters the tunnel. Those closer and at a different angle will see him take a few steps inside, pluck the seed from the plant and eat it. They won’t see the puff of pheromones in the dingy interior, nor will they see any sign that he’s been affected when he emerges.
Like the others before him, he comes out to face the crowd with a huge smile. He begins to speak the same old stuff as the others before about how much we’ve achieved, how much there is still to do. I tune out when he starts to talk about impressions of connecting with Suh, uninterested in the drama thanks to my knowledge of the special effects Mack has used.
My attention drifts to Sung-Soo. I can see his face in profile, mere meters from Marco, and I’m disturbed by the frown on his face. Perhaps he’s just concentrating, but I expected to see him . . . I don’t know . . . enthralled like everyone else around him.
The frown leaves his face and he glances at the people around him, surreptitiously, like someone trying to find something interesting to look at during a sermon the rest of the congregation is attending to with diligence. It’s as if he’s checking their reactions. To compare them with his own perhaps?
I start to record, but it takes longer than I’d like, having to activate with eye movements rather than hand or speech interface. I don’t trust my ability to read people. I’ve never been very good at it. I want to show Mack.
I’m left with a gnawing nervousness in the pit of my stomach and I want to leave. It rapidly escalates into a need to get away from here—away from all of it—as quickly as possible.
“I don’t feel too well,” I whisper to Kay. “I need to go and rest.”
She gives a concerned glance. “Ping me if you need me,” she whispers back, not tearing her attention away from Marco fully. She knows my chip will automatically inform her if there’s something seriously wrong.
I push my way past the people between me and the gates, grateful that I’m so close to the back. No one cares about what I’m doing; they’re all fixated on Marco and the drug-induced crap he’s spouting like a transcendental experience.
My heart is pounding like there are dogs hunting me and by the time I’m through the gates and around the edge of the city I feel like I’m about to have a full-blown panic attack. I haven’t had one for years.
Initially I head toward the colony, falling back on old techniques my father taught me when I suffered from them as a teenager. I focus on my breath and stop trying to work out why I feel so panicky. All that matters is getting a steady inward-and-outward rhythm.
Soon they’ll all come out and go to the Dome. There will be food and drink and laughter and all the things I can’t face right now. I change direction and head for the southern gate. Maybe I’ll find some peace between the grass and the sky.