“It serves them—” begins Quinn, then realizes what he’s saying. They are all getting heated; they are on the verge of panic.
“We have two thousand, three hundred and thirty-two seconds to decide,” says Selena.
Quinn says, “Well, Pele, it seems that you’re in charge, and that you’re on their side. Instead of the punishment they deserve for jeopardizing the one thing that’s unified our planet, and into which we have poured immense treasure, they’ll just leave and die, and so will we, as their prisoners. Moku is still here because it is, truly, perpetually unfinished. Technology is always changing. But the chief reason is that the voyage is impossible to survive in any meaningful way.”
Ala Moana, press-worthy hullaballoo, picnicking families, hula dancers, the mayor of Honolulu, slack-key guitar, the smell of roasting pig. All are gathered for the ceremonial setting forth of Moe’uhane, a fifty-foot traditionally built double-hulled canoe, to Tahiti. Tall, triangular sails, filled with wind that keeps the anchor line taut, blaze red in the noonday sun.
It is called Wayfaring, the Polynesian way of sailing over vast distances, targeting an island of a few square miles using complex techniques that draw on memory, wave patterns, star navigation. As birds cross the sea in their thousand-mile journeys, so do they sail.
Walter is a friend of Bob, who will guide Moe’uhane on its long trip using only traditional star navigation. The Hsu tribe is right up front on bamboo mats when Bob begins his star chant. His deep voice rises.
“Hoku lei’i …”
Pele, a brown, skinny five-year-old in a faded red bathing suit, one long black braid undone, steps forward into his circle, opens her mouth and joins the chant, in Hawaiian, completely unselfconscious. Her singing voice, unlike her harsh, flat speaking voice, is sweet and high.
She knows this ancient chant—the directions for finding not just one island, but many, thousands of miles across the trackless sea.
Walter and Sunny share a look. This comes from a different part of the brain than speech. Laid in early, during the mystery years.
Another way in. Another way out.
When twelve, Pele crews on a star-navigation trip to Samoa on the Moe’uhane with her father, other scientists and adventurers, and Bob.
Waves rush beneath them with a show, rhythmic whoosh. The canoe rises and falls, its lashed joints creaking, its tall sails filled with salt wind. Pele, drenched with spray, stands braced on the forward platform, holding tight to the kaula ihu, the forestay line, with one hand. Thus immersed in immense, intensely black night, Pele answers with her voice. Pulsing stars move chant from deepest memories to her chest. She is a living tone, vibrating with ancient mindmap, with voyage; mission: huaka’i; a parade through time and space, which she now leads as pathfinder. She is a still point in deep infinity whose slow, reeling movement finds voice in song, lapped, increasingly for Pele, by mathematics.
As she chants, Bob gently shapes and teaches. But he has also learned from her. Whoever taught her, and then abandoned her, for whatever reason, was a master navigator.
“Look—there,” he says, when they pause. “Iwakeli’i. Cassiopeia.”
Walter points. “Tau Ceti. Might have livable planets.”
Pele stretches on tiptoe, links one arm around the ihu, opens her hands wide, pulls stars to her chest, looks at Walter and asks, “How?”
There are fourteen emergency protocols regarding kidnapping, hostages— their situation—that they can put into play via a private sign language they all know.
But someone has to make the call. Everyone looks at Pele.
The wordless place of pictures that Pele has concealed so well through all the tests, all her life, once she knew it might come back to bite her, rears up like a tidal wave that’s touched bottom in its travel over fathoms of water.
There is holding.
There is letting go.
She does both.
“All of you are leaving. I will stay, with them. Au i ke kai me he manu ala!” With that, holding them with the energy born of their own surprise, like the throw of a jujitsu master, she steps back, closes the portal, and launches them.
To cross the sea like a bird.
Like released seed pods, the modules, expelled, move rapidly from the Moku, their manual control overridden by programming the children created. The slice of Mars grows. Pele releases her held breath when her information panel notes ignition of their maneuvering rockets, which will increase their speed.
“Hsu!” Zi’s contorted face is on her monitor. “There will be repercussions.” The sound of wild screaming floods into the comm channel, drowning out Zi’s voice. He switches to another channel. She can still hear dull thuds.
Quinn, in their breakaway, appears. “Pele!”
She says, “Is everyone safe?”
Selena’s voice breaks in. “I would not have predicted this success.”
Quinn’s black eyes hold more than rage. Terror, or just the rapid analytics required to deal with the unfolding situation? He barks, “Success? Broken bones. Abrasions. One death thus far. Sure to be more.” Pele hears a great commotion on the other screen; recognizes Ann and other parents as they crowd round the fish-eye lens. “Come back,” shouts Ann. “Return Kevin right now!”
Jane, the lawyer, yells, “You have committed piracy. Kidnapping. Treason. Child abuse. Manslaughter.”
Pele orders, “All craft move away with maximum speed. I have no control. The nukes, activated by the GCC, will detonate in seconds. They are contained, but—”
A tall, young boy is next to her. He touches her elbow. “Dr. Hsu. I am Eliott. Chimerist.” The wailing, frantic parents arrayed before him quiet. To them, Eliott says, “We apologize for injuries. We did our best to create a plan that would minimize them. We are all well. We have not been kidnapped. The reverse, perhaps. We have sent you our story. Listen to it. Do not blame our colleagues on Earth. You cannot blame us, of course. We are children. Communications are now blocked until we choose to re-open them.”
To Pele, he says “Hurry.”
In Nucleus, the op center of Moku, Pele sees thirty-seven children—short, tall, round, thin,
