The Galaxy Game Read Free Page A

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 off-screen 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 too 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 humour in things, or the wrong kind of humour. 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 traumatised 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 centre for his office to be fully cognisant of the situation on New Sadira, and the community he is tasked to represent has become too