The Galaxy Game by Karen Lord

light before they too were swallowed up in the descending oblivion.
    He was never able to remember the exact moment when he lost consciousness, which was not particularly unusual. He had been knocked out before during the old homestead days, falling out of a tree when he was barely ten, and he knew that a little amnesia was common. What was unusual was that he could not remember when he regained consciousness. He first became aware that someone was speaking, he heard another voice answering and gradually acknowledged it was his own, and then realised he was staring a collection of shapes, colours and textures that coalesced in a moment of slow recognition under the identity ‘Naraldi’. Someone had put a blanket around his shoulders and he was clutching the edges with cold fingers. His face felt tense; he put up a hand to touch his forehead and discovered he was frowning.
    ‘. . . will take some time before we have enough data to reach useful conclusions. Of course we knew from the start that you probably wouldn’t be successful, but given your other talents, we were curious to see what would happen when Savvi got a taste of you.’
    ‘Savvi . . .?’ Rafi said. He looked around, collecting himself. They were indoors, sitting at a table. Beside him was a window that looked towards a dark, motionless rise. That was land. And that was a bowl in front of him, steaming and smelling of good broth. There was Commander Nasiha, unexpectedly damp and frowning to herself over another steaming bowl, and beyond her the few occupants of the commissary showed politely curious faces as they glanced over, perhaps to assess his rate of recovery. Naraldi . . . he was fully dressed again and his wet hair was tied up in spiky disarray. Rafi glanced under his blanket to check his own status. Not dressed. But – he wiggled his toes – yes, there were shoes on his feet. He reached out a hand for the bowl and gratefully tipped the warming liquid down his gullet.
    Naraldi cleared his throat in a manner that hinted at embarrassment. ‘Yes, Savvi. Not the usual mode of naming, I know, but it’s barely a year old and the taSadiri who were playing with it became rather attached . . . and so, a name.’
    ‘Are there any taSadiri pilots?’ Rafi heard himself ask. It was strange. Part of his brain had been sufficiently awake to begin this conversation, and it appeared as if the rest of him was now alert enough to join in.
    Naraldi laughed at the naïveté of the question. ‘No, no, these things take time! Generations in some cases. But to be an active passenger, a conscious traveller, with no need for the artificial coma and stasis chamber . . . even that is something.’
    ‘But I’m not Sadiri, not even taSadiri,’ Rafi said.
    ‘Yes,’ Naraldi agreed, serious again. ‘There is some genetic element that we have not yet identified. I am sorry.’
    ‘Why should you be sorry?’ Rafi asked. ‘I’m sure you have lots of taSadiri volunteers.’
    Naraldi bent his head and was silent for so long that Rafi thought he had decided to ignore the question, but then he looked up, shared a swift glance with the Commander and met Rafi’s eyes once more. ‘It would have been advantageous for you to find a way to leave Cygnus Beta without the knowledge of Central Government, and for that we are sorry.’
    In spite of the blanket and the broth, Rafi began to feel cold again.
    Commander Nasiha, never one for many words, began to speak. He remembered her demeanour and tone from previous visits to the homestead; she had an abrupt, sometimes harsh manner that could be taken for arrogance and rudeness, but he had gleaned from his aunt’s comments that she was a direct thinker, economical with words and very decisive when ready to take action. Now her voice sounded slow, heavy and resentful. ‘We attempted to extend the studies on new forms of psi ability that we began with your aunt about two years ago. Normally the research networks are very forthcoming