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  NOT FOR USE IN NAVIGATION

  THIRTEEN STORIES

  IONA DATT SHARMA

  Not For Use In Navigation © 2019 Iona Datt Sharma

  Cover art © 2019 Katherine Catchpole

  Cover design © 2019 Lodestar Author Services

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  NOT FOR USE IN NAVIGATION Light, Like A Candle Flame

  Death Comes To Elisha

  Akbar and the crows

  One-Day Listing

  Flightcraft

  Landfall (your shadow at evening, rising to meet you)

  Birbal and the sadhu

  Archana and Chandni

  Nine Thousand Hours

  Akbar's holiday

  Alnwick

  Eight Cities

  Ur

  Akbar learns to read and write

  Quarter Days

  Refugee; or, a nine-item representative inventory of a better world

  A note on Akbar and Birbal

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Introduction

  I was asked recently when I was going to start writing "real" fiction. Enough of the spaceships and wizards, Iona! You're not fourteen any more!

  There are a lot of possible answers to that. Chief of which is that our genre doesn't need to be defended from those who don't understand its vital relevance. In her speech at the 2014 National Book Awards, Ursula Le Guin put it best: writers of science fiction and fantasy have the unique responsibility to be “realists of a larger reality" – to light the way to a world yet to come.

  These stories were written over a four-year period beginning in 2014, and in echo of their times, they are stories about things in flux, points of transformation. I have often been accused of wanton melancholy, and it's true they aren't always cheerful: with extraordinary change comes grief, regret, things irrevocably lost.

  But nevertheless, I hope these stories are in Le Guin's spirit: they are about possibility, not constraint. Not for use in navigation, because the world yet to come will be better than anything I could possibly imagine. I hope you enjoy them just the same.

  Iona Datt Sharma

  March 2019

  NOT FOR USE IN NAVIGATION

  THIRTEEN STORIES

  IONA DATT SHARMA

  Light, Like A Candle Flame

  On the first day of Sara's appointment as Magistra Descendant to the Assembly of Terravine, Public Works decided they needed grassroots support for the plant.

  "I mean, I agree in principle," Sara had tried telling him, as he gestured at his hand-annotated wallcharts. "But for one thing, I'm supposed to be neutral, and for another thing, people might be eating!"

  "You see, Magistra Lobo, that's just the sort of avoidant attitude we're trying to eradicate," said Public Works. "Knocking on doors, that'll do it."

  The man did actually have a name, Sara thought, while he was talking her into it. It might be Smith or Singh or Park. Light would know.

  "It's Nguyen," Light told her.

  "I knew it." Sara knocked on the first door they came to and had a moment of dissonance: sometime in the last ten years, she'd stopped recognising everyone in the colony. "Excuse me, citizen. My name is Sara Lobo. Could I have a moment of your time?"

  The woman looked at her with narrowed eyes. "Are you here to bang on about cultural ties and the longitudinal view of history? And the importance of holding onto our shipboard and Earthbound past?"

  "No," Sara said. "That's the Magistra Ancestral. I'm here to talk about sewage."

  ___

  On day 2, Sara was confirmed in her appointment, the department made a formal proposal to the Assembly and Light fell out of a tree.

  "It's really the ideal site," Public Works was saying to the gathered members. "It's a reasonable distance from clean water sources but it also has a decent height of inflow."

  "I see," said the Archon, in tones that suggested she didn't.

  "All this time we've been getting by with bits and pieces of technology scavenged from the ship! And not even scavenged with thought, or put to use efficiently! Did we really spend generations crossing the gulfs of interstellar space just to dig ourselves giant latrines?"

  "No?" said the Magistra Ancestral, after a minute of silence suggested this had not been a rhetorical question.

  "And the worst part is this!" he said. "Thirty years ago when we surveyed the place from orbit we just didn't consider the requirements of terrestrial waste treatment."

  "I see," the Archon said, again, and Sara imagined Public Works standing there on the bridge as the ship made landfall, pointing at an annotated wallchart.

  "If you'll let me show you the plans, honoured Archon," he went on, and suddenly the air above the table contained a revolving three-dimensional blueprint. "See, here's road access. Here are the sandbanks, for the gravel we'll need. Here's the way down to the sea. And, er, this building here—Magistra Lobo, I think that's—"

  "It's my house," Sara said, and looked up: someone was trying to get her attention from the doorway. "I'm sorry, Mr Nguyen, I have to go," she said, reading the scribbled message. "My partner has had an accident."

  ___

  After three decades in part-occupation of a human body, Light had not become resigned to its frailties.

  "Let me guess," Sara said, "you went chasing after a missing cat, got five metres off the ground and then forgot you had a body. Right?"

  She closed the door and dimmed the floor illumination, so Light's head hurt a little less.

  "That is—ah." Light closed its eyes. "Perspicacious."

  "The cat's in the kitchen drinking the hypoallergenic nutritional supplement that Nanni Julia won't touch because it tastes like pants. The rest was pretty easy to figure out."

  "You—" Light propped itself on its elbows with some difficulty, "—are busy, and you must take care of Julia. . . ."

  "Shut up, Light. I've spent my entire day chasing after Nanni Julia and the Department of Public Works. I'd rather look after you. Go to sleep."

  Light did, and woke up a short time later still feeling like it, as though there were nothing between its body and the chrome and gunmetal sky. A hoarse voice was calling for something to drink. Light pulled one of Sara's cardigans around its shoulders and took some water through to Nanni Julia, but Nanni Julia threw the glass at its face and Light retreated into the open space of the house.

  Sara turned at the movement. "Did she—" She made a precise gesture.

  "Yes," Light said.

  "I'm sorry." Sara waved a hand and the schematics in front of her, reversed from Light's perspective, blinked out of the air. "Light, I don't know why they've got me looking at these things. I don't want to be Magistra Descendant! I don't want to keep a weather eye out for the colony's future.What I want is for them not to be building a sewage works outside my house. And for Nanni Julia to stop throwing things at you. Is that so terribly unreasonable?"

  "No." Light was shivering, the sea mist creeping through the gaps in the shutters. "But you could have declined the appointment."

  "Eh," Sara said, waving her hand again, "who's ever done that, in the brave new Assembly of Terravine. Come on, back to bed with you, you've had a rough day."

  Light woke up in the morning feeling more like herself. She made breakfast for Nanni Julia, who said something rude in Ko
nkani; she fed the cat and returned it to its grateful owner; and then she sat down to consider the blueprints.

  ___

  "I can assist," Light told Nguyen, on day 5. "I'm afraid I have no recent qualifications in the field. But I was intimately acquainted with the process of human waste reclamation for more than two hundred years."

  "Et tu, darling Brute," Sara said, but Public Works grinned and gave her a handful of explanatory pamphlets.

  ___

  Day 11 was week's end, and Nanni Julia was well enough to go to mass, but wouldn't sit next to Light. "It's not right," she hissed, "something like you in a place like this," —and Sara rolled her eyes, but Light didn't mind. That morning, Nanni Julia had called Sara by her mother's name, which Light had not heard spoken in decades. She got up quietly and went to sit at the back.

  After the service, which centred on themes of growth and renewal, Sara got a determined look on her face and went up to take communion. Light was distracted by a little girl catching at her sleeve.

  "Excuse me," she said, "but are you really—it? Her?"

  "Both will do," Light said.

  "But you're the ship," the little girl persisted.

  "Yes," Light said, looking up though the skylight. The ship itself—and Light had taken a long time to reach this place, where she could think in two separate parts of the ship itself and she, herself—was in geostationary orbit above Terravine. Light could feel its passage through space, its weight and tether. "I am the Earth generation ship Light, like a candle flame, last of the last."

  "Why were you called that?" the little girl asked.

  "There was a poem written about me before the journey," Light said. "Light / like a candle flame / carried out to the stars. It was thought appropriate, and it advanced no religion, no political position. Who knew what you would be, or become, after seven generations? The poet was a child from Wichita, Kansas."

  Who had not been chosen in the ship lottery, Light recalled: who had lived and died in Wichita, Kansas, her body boneless beneath the choking dust.

  "What do you do now you're a person?" the little girl asked.

  "I was always a person," Light said. But paying rent in two places these days, as Sara had once described it. A piece of a ship's consciousness in a human skin, with that great remainder still out in orbit, rocked by solar wind.

  "I mean, now you don't have to go anywhere?"

  "I find lost things," Light said. "And I build new things."

  "That sounds okay," the girl said, and Light smiled at her before turning away.

  Sara was moving across the room, her footsteps ringing on the sunlit floor. "I was right," she said. "A certain person who shall remain nameless—"

  "Nguyen. His name is Nguyen."

  "—has already delivered unto Father Ignatius his own little homily about growth, renewal and waste processing. Even if I do agree in principle—"

  "Do you agree in principle?"

  Sara groaned. "I look to Terravine's future welfare. I'm supposed to be independent of day-to-day concerns."

  Light nodded.

  "But what with you and the blueprints, and Public Works and the pamphlets, and now my priest and my grandmother telling me all about how cleanliness is next to godliness, I'm starting to wonder if the Magistra Ancestral's work follows her home. Or to church."

  "I'm sorry it's so trying," Light said, and Sara sighed and put an arm around Light's shoulders.

  "Are you all right?" she asked. "Before, with the little girl – you seemed upset."

  "I'm fine," Light said.

  ___

  Sara committed to the cause on day 19, when a citizen made the mistake of putting their hands on their hips and saying: "How much shitting can one colony of four thousand people do?"

  "Frankly, sir, I think you alone contain quite enough—"

  "Thank you for your time," Light said. "For statistical information, please don't hesitate to contact the Department of Public Works."

  "But in the meantime," Sara said, "if you want your community's water supply contaminated with disease just because you can't get your head out of your—"

  "Sara."

  "—long enough to see that a little construction work and a spoilt view are a small price to pay for—"

  The door slammed.

  "Sewage disposal is necessary for a long-term sustainable future," Sara said, her hands on her hips. "Do either of you have anything you wish to say?"

  Light shook her head, and Public Works just looked delighted. "You read the pamphlets!" he said, and they marched on.

  ___

  "Light," Sara said, late that night, after Nanni Julia had gone to bed and she and Light were sitting on the curve of the dunes, the tide creeping purplish and bioluminescent below. "Did you have to deal with things like this, before? When you were—what you used to be."

  "What I am." Light held a hand up to the sky, occluding the fine dusting of stars. The last observers had been able to see that from Earth, Sara remembered: the same spiral arm, the same galactic neighbourhood.

  "No," Light said. "There were no meetings, no petitions. Only survival."

  As Sara watched, a bright pinprick described a curve across the darkness, and seemed to pause and revolve against the familiar backdrop. "What's that?"

  "That is a salvage detail," Light murmured. "They are searching for aluminium and titanium. To take such things from beneath the ground would take great heat and pressure, and they can be reclaimed from my hull."

  Sara shuddered. "I hope they really need them. I hope they're not making toe rings or saucepans out of them."

  She meant it as a joke, but Light's eyes were steady on her, blank as smooth metal.

  "Do you presume to speak to me, Magistra Lobo, of what is necessary? Of what must be kept, or left behind?"

  She was shaking with anger, and then it seemed to drain from her, leaving her still and quiet. Sara waited another moment and then gathered Light in her arms, muttering into her hair, you're here, you're all right, as though it might assist, or mean anything.

  ___

  "How can you be on his side?" another citizen yelled on day 27, having come to the door brandishing a petition of his own. Light had been complaining of a headache, which worried Sara after the tree incident, but she'd come along anyway.

  "Mr Nguyen is an excellent engineer," Sara said primly. "And if you'd care to listen just for a moment to what he has to say—"

  "I've heard the speech," the man said. "All about the need to prepare the colony for growth and expansion! Infrastructure and the bright new future! We came here to get away from that! We came here to live in harmony with the world around us!"

  "That's true," Sara said, hesitantly. "But it's also true that we've been taking an amateurish approach to waste processing."

  "You're the Magistra Descendant!" the man snapped. "Doesn't that mean you have to look after our descendants? You're supposed to stop us repeating all the old mistakes!"

  "It's just a sewage works," Sara said, still hesitant. "And we need it. We're outgrowing the initial plumbing arrangements, which were only meant to be temporary in any case—"

  "And what will we need next?" the man demanded. "And what will we need to mine, or strip, or destroy, to build it?"

  "That's not how it works!" Sara said, falling wholly off-script. "One little sewage works isn't going to lead to—you know, to that! To anthropogenic climate change!"

  "And who's going to stop it?" the man snapped. "You?"

  He was staring past Sara and Nguyen at Light, who was inspecting her bitten fingernails.

  "No," she said. She sounded exhausted and in pain. "Not me."

  ___

  On day 35, the pro-sewage-plant faction had three hundred and sixty-two signatures, to the anti-sewage-plant faction's three hundred and fifty-four.

  "Too close," Sara told Nguyen. "It'll come to a vote in the Assembly. Cheer up, man! Pamphlets for everyone!"

  He gave her a gloomy look before go
ing up to the public gallery, and Sara took her seat at the table opposite the Magistra Ancestral. She was a quiet woman with a topknot of white hair. Far more befitting the post, Sara thought, appointment by random ballot notwithstanding.

  "A full agenda for today," the Archon said. "The first order of business is a submission from the most recent ship detail. Dr. Desai, if you could, please."

  She gestured at one of the other Assembly members, who stood up. "It's complicated," she said, sounding nervous, "and there will be a full report to the Assembly in due course, but in brief: this collection detail will be the last."

  "Why is that?" asked the Archon.

  "The ship is going dark," Dr. Desai said. "Most of the useful constitutive materials have been salvaged by this point, and it's been running with minimal energy consumption for ten years at least. It's a planned obsolescence," she added, hastily. "No one is saying that it hasn't been properly maintained or anything like that. But soon it won't be safe for our people to walk around there any longer. The computer core is intact but it no longer has complete connectivity to the outer shell."

  "I see," the Archon said. "We'll await the full report. Thank you very much.

  "Now, following a proposal in opposition and a counter-proposal from the Department of Public Works, the Magistra Descendant wishes to make the case for a sewage plant in Terravine, on the western shore."

  Sara stood up, glanced above at Nguyen and at the notes in her hand, and then looked straight at the Archon. "One day I'll be superfluous to requirements," she said. "Seven generations from now we won't need a Magistra Descendant or Magistra Ancestral. We won't need reminding to look to our future or preserve our past. It'll be part of who we are.