Divergence

Armstrong was sitting at the stone-and-copper dinner table, three carbon-bladed knives resting before him. His fingernails were stained black from the soft block of carbon that he was rubbing into a fourth tiny blade, growing it into a beautiful curved panga that Edward had been regarding with a wistful expression. Sometimes Armstrong let Edward hold the knives, and Edward would swoop and swish them through the air, listening to the clean sound they made.

Edward wished that he could hold Armstrong’s knives more often. They felt good in the hand, balanced and powerful—just like Armstrong. Armstrong always waited until he had everyone’s full attention before speaking. He did so now, giving the panga a last slow wipe of the carbon block.

“I say we make contact,” he growled, pointing the embryonic knife towards the object floating in the viewing field. “Like that thing says, we’re a trading ship. If we run away from everything new, we’ll never get to trade anything.”

“Armstrong’s right,” agreed Maurice. He leaned back on his chair, his padded combat jacket open to the waist, just like Armstrong’s. “We’ve got to take a few risks.”

“Thank you for your opinion, Maurice,” said Donny sarcastically. “Michel, we’ve only been a trading ship for five weeks. Who’s to say what’s correct behavior in these circumstances?”

Donny’s two children, Jack and Emily, were playing at his feet, their presence tolerated in the room because it was the only thing that could sweeten Donny’s poisonous bitterness at his wife’s desertion. The children were sending their dolls into the kitchen area to collect last week’s grapes from a bowl set on the floor there. The dolls carried the wizened fruit back on little silver plates for a miniature tea party. Edward would have loved to join the game, but Donny had told him more than once that he was too old. Michel looked as if he was getting a headache. He had one hand to his temple, his eyes closed as he tried to make a decision.

“I know, Donny, I know. What is the correct behavior in these circumstances?”

He turned to Craig’s sister, sitting, as always, right beside him. “Saskia, what do you think?”

Edward wasn’t happy to see Saskia tilt her head again so that her straight dark hair fell around her face, hiding her eyes. Her reply came in her mildest tones, making Edward want to retreat into a dark corner and hide.

“It’s not for me to say what I think, Michel,” she murmured. “You’re the commander. This is not the place from where I would make a decision. If it had been down to me, I’d have stayed at the edge of the old Enemy Domain. I wouldn’t have taken us out of human space completely.”

“People, people, why do you keep arguing?” The grainy shape in the viewing field was moving, forming shapes at the edge of recognition. Everyone leaned closer, trying to make out what they were dealing with. For over two hours they had gazed at the Stranger, trying to guess what he was. “Listen,” he said.

“I have the capacity to trade through Kelvin’s Paradigm, the Northern Protocol, and 1.66. I don’t understand why you keep talking about risk.”

“Do you have FE software?” called out Joanne, not quite concealing the edge of impatience in her voice.

“Joanne,” said Saskia, “I thought we agreed, all communications go through Michel.”

“It’s okay,” said Michel, withering under the glares of both women. “It’s a good question. Do you have FE, Stranger?”

“FE?” said the Stranger, in some surprise. “Yes, I have Fair Exchange software, though I have not used it in some time. This explains something about your behavior: you are new to the trade game, are you not?”

“Don’t tell him anything,” hissed Armstrong.

“Why not?” asked Joanne, reasonably. “Like the Stranger said, we’re perfectly safe if we use the FE

software. We’re guaranteed a Fair Exchange. That’s what it’s for, isn’t it?”

Edward had never quite understood exactly what the FE software did. All he knew was that it was responsible for him leaving his home on Garvey’s World and flying off on this spaceship. It had meant leaving behind his sister, Caroline. He thought of her standing outside the patchwork hull of the Eva Rye, trying not to cry as she gave him a hug.

“Here you are, Edward,” she had said, handing him a plaited bracelet made of n-strings. “This is to remind you of me.” She held up her own wrist, showing an identical bracelet there. “See, I have one, too.”

“Where’s Dad?” Edward had asked, looking around the bleak greyness of the landing field.

“He’s off with Mum, working. They’ll still be out in the fields, scanning for venumb infestations.”

“Dad doesn’t want me to go.”