Day Four

"More than five, right?"
Swift-Runs says nothing. Heat-Traces glances at my third and final guardian, hard-edged Broad-Leaves-Twisting-Towards-the-Twilight.

"Right?" I repeat, pressing on despite a vague sense of unease coiling within my chest. Mine or theirs, it is difficult to distinguish— the early Link cannot share speech or images, but can channel emotion, and to wound another is to wound oneself. A subtle mechanism of control.

My guardians exchange words beyond my hearing; I wish sourly for the day when my siblings and I will be able to do the same.

"Stumpy," says Broad-Leaves, finally, slowing his pace to walk beside me, "I know it is difficult, but understand this: there were indeed more than five. Just as we were once legion, so were our methods of escape. I expect that our flotilla is not the only one."

"So there are more, then."

His footsteps scrape against the deck. Shh-clik. Shh-clik.

"I cannot say."

"But—"

"I ask again: understand. Others likely exist, but we have no way of knowing. Not for certain. Events... aren't as predictable as they once were." He attempts a smile, mandibles swung half-open. "It's like being young again."

The smile fools no one; that subtle sense of despair persists, as it has forever. Background static. Just like the engines, or the atmosphere processors. Another product and consequence of life.

"I thought the Array knew everything?"

"So it did. Once we arrive in the new place, it will again."

"The Third Cycle."

"Yes."

"When?”

He glances at me quizzically, and I rephrase the question using words reserved for the completion of projects. "When will the Second Cycle be finished?"

At this his arms twist into segmented knots. The feeling of emptiness intensifies to near-physical pain, and I, chastened, abandon the subject. Later I will learn that this is another mystery: no one knows when, or where, or whether we'll survive the transition at all. Later I will learn that the Second Cycle is to last over twenty years. But that is later.

Once we reach the Path of Sustenance I snatch the nearest morsel from the nearest rack and bolt it down before it can struggle.

“Stumpy,” admonishes Heat-Traces as he selects a more discriminating meal and pops off a leg, “What have we told you about savoring your food?”

My siblings, thinking themselves unobserved-- or at least under less surveillance than usual-- scoop up handfuls of candy to tuck away for later. One of the glittering tidbits tumbles to the floor, squeaking. Liberated, it scampers in first one direction, then another, then pauses, antennae aflutter. Swift-Runs steps on it before it can escape. The shell implodes with a tiny crunch; in moments the deck will recognize it as refuse and it will be gone.

They tried their best, I suppose. Heat-Traces, Swift-Runs, Broad-Leaves. Guardianship is voluntary work: if they hadn't been willing to suffer the squalling of slow-witted infants they wouldn't have presented themselves as available. The Array called, in time of crisis, and they answered-- a dedication to duty that astounds me even now. Decades of tiresome correction lay ahead and yet they did not falter, did not hesitate, did not consider the potential cost. A brief enough span, but to them it must have seemed another eternity.

Perhaps they didn't know.

Thank you, Heat-Traces. Thank you, Swift-Runs. Thank you, Broad-Leaves. You raised us as well as you knew, my guardians, as well as anyone of your generation. You were the responsible adults, strong and patient and wise, and for this I hold no grudge. Had I been constructed in Harmony times, perhaps we would have been closer. Perhaps you would have taught me better. Perhaps I would not have done what I did.

But I was a child of my generation, and you were not friends.

That privilege was reserved for my siblings.