Her possessions are protected, it’s written into the negotiations, Christoph,” said Captain Havern, pacing his ready room. The second lieutenant stood near the door, listening with growing unease. “But that spur—sharp enough to cause serious injury—I’m not happy about it. Having those ministers aboard, though she has confirmed she is not against it, raises the tensions between our passengers. The only thing keeping the Theta Martians from outright violence has been several thousand star leagues of empty void between them. A wyrm and the colonists together, here? With the spies they’ve already managed to embed in the crew—yes, I’ve got the Bosun on that track already—I’m worried, Christoph. I’m quite concerned.”

  “Who for, Captain?”

  “My crew mostly,” he said, sighing and wiping a hand over his beard. “My ship. This is no stage for a civil war to start on. I’m assigning you to be a bit of an escort. While the emissaries are at large on the ship, I’d like you to watch out for them. Notify me if anything strange happens. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good man, Christoph. Those colonists are starting to put a spook in me, what with all their nonsense about visions and blood,” said the Captain. He did not appear to notice the second lieutenant’s uncomfortable swallow.

  “Is it possible sir, that something supernatural happened on Theta Mars?”

  “No, Grenlivt, I’m sure if it was anything, it simply lacks explanation at this time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The emissary sat cross legged on the floor of the garden, under the spreading branches of an old orange tree. She was singing.

  The words of her song—if it had any—were neither trade pidgin nor wyrm speak. Her voice soared through a lilting melody, quite slow, almost a chant, minor and melancholic to the ears of the second lieutenant, who had ambled into the garden in feigned surprise to find her there. He had taken an unobtrusive seat and leaned back on a bench, hands clasped behind his head and face tipped back to catch the sunlights on his closed eyelids.

  He had not told the Captain about the experience on the observation deck. He was not sure why, only that it had felt private, intimate almost. In reality it was dangerous, insubordinate of him to avoid reporting the incident. He had not even gone to medical. Once he slept off the dreams, it was as if nothing had happened. The burns on his tongue healed, all that remained were the dancing stars. That, and the flying.

  Her voice dimmed, stilled to silence, the garden seemed to strain to hold its echoes, but they faded to nothing all the same.

  “You are following us,” said the emissary. Her voice seemed very near, he had not heard her move.

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  He opened his eyes, she had perched beside him on the bench, bare feet on the seat, her arms around her knees.

  “The Captain wanted me to watch you, in case the ministers or their people cause you disturbance.”

  “Oft it is the disturber who is watched, your Captain believes we will do something.”

  “Will you?”

  “What he worries for is violence, yes? That we will not do.”

  The second lieutenant nodded, swallowed, “have you ever… been violent?”

  “We kill and eat the deir and fysh. We chase our siblings and play games of claws and teeth. We burn, on occasion, set fyres and dance within them. These things, are they violence?”

  “I… don’t know.”

  “You are asking without asking. Have we killed mankind? Do we know the weight of murder?”

  “No, I—”

  “We know it.”

  “You do?” he asked, a look of shock frozen to his face.

  “We know it as our mother and teachers know it. As it was done to the lost clutch, to the murdered youth, to the colonists who were not safeguarded by their betters. Who were left behind to die, the many for the few. We know the killing of the mad golden father, and the justice meted out to the Capstone. We know it for we are Seekers. We know it that through forgetfulness it cannot happen again.”

  “Oh,” said the second lieutenant in her silence. “I… I am sorry. My captain, he is concerned only. This is our way of avoiding violence. I meant you no disrespect.”

  “We know,” said the emissary, looking out at the hydroponics as she sat in her crouch beside him. Under the orange tree, the wyrm appeared to sleep.

  “Does the song you sing have any name? Or is it like your dance?” he asked in the quiet that had fallen.

  “It is lament.”

  “Lament? For what?”

  “Our mother’s murdered children.”

  Silence stretched again.

  “Will you show me what happened?” asked the second lieutenant.

  “No, Christoph,” she replied. “That grief is too heavy to give to one who does not need to bear it.”

  “I understand.”

  She smiled, “you do not.”

  He could not help but to return one of his own.

  “We like this garden,” she said. “Though it is very still, without wind.”

  “That is true,” he replied, “I do not much care for wind. It seems unpredictable.”

  “To the starborn, we do not doubt it is.”

  “But?”

  “But wind, like all things, can be known,” she said. The wyrm had risen from beneath the tree and slinked towards them.

  “On Theta Mars, is it rude to ask to know?” questioned the second lieutenant. “I do not wish to offend you.”

  “To seek is our pursuit,” she said, standing. “To ask is admirable, Christoph.”

  The wyrm drew close, “we have a garden on Theta Mars,” said the emissary, passing the bench. “In a red forest, where the wind sings.”

  He stood, took a step to follow her. “Would you show me your garden? I would seek your knowledge of the wind.”

  She turned, the gleaming bone in her hand. He was sinking to his knees before she spoke. “We will teach you.”