that. It especially troubled her to punish couplings between postulants and brothers. But postulants were in training. Their minds needed discipline, the rigors of the order. Flesh could come later, when it was less distracting. And brothers, of course—well, their minds were not an issue.
Afterward, he lingered in the darkened doorway, wanting to say something. But she discouraged talk. She didn’t want him to lie to her, about affection, about what it meant. In the world of the body,
meaning
wasn’t necessary.
He left, closing the door.
As her mind gradually came back to claim its property, she bathed and dressed. Once in her black robes, she was in thinking mode again.
The crew member, Zoya Kundara, had reached the preserve. Sister Patricia Margaret, forewarned by Solange over their se-cure radio channel, had met the woman. She could be trouble, sister reported. Her moral guidance system would not mix well with the Sisters of Clarity in the matter of the snow witches, and perhaps much else. It was so like sister to take the woman’s measure quickly. It came of long practice, recruiting novices.
Sooner or later, Solange would meet Zoya for herself. Meanwhile it was best to cultivate backups. Zoya Kundara might be brought around, but if she was hostile, one must find more receptive individuals. In an institution—and of course the ship was an institution as well as a vessel—there were always factions. She would delay meeting Zoya until she knew better the lay of that land.
There must always be backups. If Swan proved false in his promises, then perhaps the ship had superior technology for interface. So the ship was both a threat and a potential resource. That was often the case in the world, in its disturbing ambiguity
Swan’s vision of a military raid by the brothers was artless and dangerous. Force could only produce a temporary victory No, she would take the ship as she had taken her position as Mother Superior, by persuasion. Always a consummate persuader, she felt newly inspired by the Ice change that might— oh,
might
—now be within reach.
Before leaving her suite, Solange paused before the door, smoothing her hair. She was firmly back in the province of the mind.
It did have its allures.
—2—
Dog-tired, muscles curdled, Zoya gave up trying to sleep. Her thoughts were of long ago; 250 years by one reckoning, 10,000 by another. No good to ask about real time. Time wasn’tabsolute, as physicists knew, but it was especially relative where Zoya was concerned. She turned on the lightbulb over her cot and sat up.
Middle of the night. Made it to the preserve. Graciously given a meal. Now she was wide-awake in her quarters, a square, stark room with a bare lightbulb—so like a military barracks. Overhead, the thud of someone moving on an upper level set the light swinging in a short arc. Back, forth, back.
So like a barracks.
The preserve, in its ugly functionality, kicked up an old memory. She couldn’t blame the preserve; hadn’t she kept the memory alive on purpose? Didn’t she call forth the story, over and over for
Star Road, why they had left? We had to leave. But why, Ship Mother?
Then came the stories. Among them, the story of the barracks.
It was a plain wooden frame building with a long hall down the middle, and doors to rooms on either side. When the camp was freed, she had been there, had walked down the long corridor, looking in the rooms to left and right, through the little windows with their little bars. No faces peered through those windows, no skinny hands gripped the bars. The occupants were too small, being children.
In midnight sleeplessness it was a frequent walk. Even in the sustained dreams of stasis. They said you didn’t dream in stasis. That was a lie.
Tears clogged her throat. Some of those young ones couldn’t be saved. Some of them refused to be saved. That was the hardest thing to bear. When the prison doors were opened, some refused to leave. That was Zoya’s
Afterward, he lingered in the darkened doorway, wanting to say something. But she discouraged talk. She didn’t want him to lie to her, about affection, about what it meant. In the world of the body,
meaning
wasn’t necessary.
He left, closing the door.
As her mind gradually came back to claim its property, she bathed and dressed. Once in her black robes, she was in thinking mode again.
The crew member, Zoya Kundara, had reached the preserve. Sister Patricia Margaret, forewarned by Solange over their se-cure radio channel, had met the woman. She could be trouble, sister reported. Her moral guidance system would not mix well with the Sisters of Clarity in the matter of the snow witches, and perhaps much else. It was so like sister to take the woman’s measure quickly. It came of long practice, recruiting novices.
Sooner or later, Solange would meet Zoya for herself. Meanwhile it was best to cultivate backups. Zoya Kundara might be brought around, but if she was hostile, one must find more receptive individuals. In an institution—and of course the ship was an institution as well as a vessel—there were always factions. She would delay meeting Zoya until she knew better the lay of that land.
There must always be backups. If Swan proved false in his promises, then perhaps the ship had superior technology for interface. So the ship was both a threat and a potential resource. That was often the case in the world, in its disturbing ambiguity
Swan’s vision of a military raid by the brothers was artless and dangerous. Force could only produce a temporary victory No, she would take the ship as she had taken her position as Mother Superior, by persuasion. Always a consummate persuader, she felt newly inspired by the Ice change that might— oh,
might
—now be within reach.
Before leaving her suite, Solange paused before the door, smoothing her hair. She was firmly back in the province of the mind.
It did have its allures.
—2—
Dog-tired, muscles curdled, Zoya gave up trying to sleep. Her thoughts were of long ago; 250 years by one reckoning, 10,000 by another. No good to ask about real time. Time wasn’tabsolute, as physicists knew, but it was especially relative where Zoya was concerned. She turned on the lightbulb over her cot and sat up.
Middle of the night. Made it to the preserve. Graciously given a meal. Now she was wide-awake in her quarters, a square, stark room with a bare lightbulb—so like a military barracks. Overhead, the thud of someone moving on an upper level set the light swinging in a short arc. Back, forth, back.
So like a barracks.
The preserve, in its ugly functionality, kicked up an old memory. She couldn’t blame the preserve; hadn’t she kept the memory alive on purpose? Didn’t she call forth the story, over and over for
Star Road, why they had left? We had to leave. But why, Ship Mother?
Then came the stories. Among them, the story of the barracks.
It was a plain wooden frame building with a long hall down the middle, and doors to rooms on either side. When the camp was freed, she had been there, had walked down the long corridor, looking in the rooms to left and right, through the little windows with their little bars. No faces peered through those windows, no skinny hands gripped the bars. The occupants were too small, being children.
In midnight sleeplessness it was a frequent walk. Even in the sustained dreams of stasis. They said you didn’t dream in stasis. That was a lie.
Tears clogged her throat. Some of those young ones couldn’t be saved. Some of them refused to be saved. That was the hardest thing to bear. When the prison doors were opened, some refused to leave. That was Zoya’s
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