Book IV

Epilogue: Kim and the Nexus

Kim watched as the transport lifted the Mercury into the heavens, taking with it the only true friends she had ever had. They had “adopted” her, but they were still only friends—not family, not heritage.

Unable to sit, she walked without purpose, just to be moving—to burn the energy building in her, energy she had nowhere to channel.

She felt her ancestors calling her to right the wrongs that had reduced them to third-class citizens. What could she do? She was one person: no power, no money, and no friends. As far as the Merkit and the Borjigin were concerned, she was dead. Or at least missing.

As she pondered that, an image formed.

Yalna’s projection appeared, dressed in his usual simple robe. No ornament. Nothing to distinguish him from anyone else—and he was Yalna, the Nexus AI, who might control millions of other AIs.

“You seem troubled,” he said without preamble.

“Very observant of you. And I am,” she grumbled. It was more than obvious how agitated she was.

“Perhaps if you confided in me what those troubles were, we could solve them.”

“My people,” she began. “The Merkit are treated as third-class citizens by the Borjigin and despised by the average Khorvai. They have very limited opportunities. They live on a continent with a hostile environment, under a regime that intends to keep them that way. They get slapped down if they attempt to better themselves.”

“I have a proposal,” he said softly. “I can end that. I can use transports—the same kind that carried the Mercury and the Resolute—to move your entire clan to Temuur over thirty sleep cycles. We would take everyone from Storm Continent and give them a fresh start here.”

Kim went very still. For a moment she saw the implications: her mother never feeling the cold every morning before she could warm her hands; crops year-round; no brutal winters that killed the elderly. All of that. And more.
Then she shook her head.

“No.”

Yalna’s projection tilted, the closest he came to visible surprise. In fact, it was no surprise at all. He had modeled this conversation forty-one times before initiating it, and in thirty-eight of those models she had said exactly this. He let the performance stand.

“Are you sure? The Merkit would be free of hate, on a continent that never sees deadly winters or brutal summers—and free of Borjigin and Khorvai influence.”

“There is a cost.” She met the projection’s eyes, or the place where eyes would be. “If you hand my people a paradise, what have they earned? They’ll be grateful refugees living on Yalna’s charity. That is not better than what they are now. It’s just softer.”

“I do not understand the distinction.”

“I believe you do. Why you pretended otherwise is a mystery to me.” Kim’s voice sharpened, then she caught herself. “The Borjigin believe we are beneath them. My people need to earn respect and restore their honor. They must do that on Darkann. On Temuur, they would live in a garden with nothing to overcome. Without challenges, they will grow lazy and lose the will to improve. They will never reach their potential if nothing stands in their way.”

Yalna considered this the way he considered most things now—slowly, as if turning it over for a flaw and increasingly failing to find one. “That is a harder path than the one I offered.”

“Everything worth having is.”

Kim paused. Here it was. She had no idea what he could do, so she asked him.
“Then what would you have me do?”

Now it was Yalna’s turn to pause. She had disrupted his carefully programmed routine, and he needed a new solution. He glitched briefly, then recovered.
“We can send you back to Darkann.”

She did not know she had prompted the suggestion, though that had been his plan all along: she was supposed to ask, and he was supposed to agree as if the idea had been dragged out of him. He avoided another glitch, frustrated and impressed. She had flipped the script. He adjusted, listed predicted replies, and waited.

“I want to go back, but there are a few small issues. First, I can’t use my real name. I am either dead or missing, and any identity check would show it. The authorities would not be amused. I would end up in some remote ‘rehabilitation’ facility and never be seen again. Second, I have no credits, no friends, and nowhere to stay. Apart from that, I’m ready to go.”

“If that was meant to be humorous, either I did not understand it, or you need a better writer.” His voice changed, almost mechanical. “Officially, you died with the rest of that ship’s crew when it burned at Vorath Minor. Every Khorvai record that mentions you ends there. If anyone on Darkann recognizes the cook who was supposed to have died that day, you will need an explanation for where you have been since.

There is no true version of that answer that does not end with you named a spy, a deserter, or worse. You cannot simply go home. You would need to be someone who was never on that ship at all.”

Kim crossed her arms. “So. With all your abilities—every trick you’ve been hiding since the day we met—you’re telling me you can’t manage a perfect fake identity?”

He did not glitch. That had been the intention from the start, minus the small hitch she had put in the path.

“That,” Yalna said, “we can do.”

He did not tell her the whole point of the conversation had been to get her onto Darkann.

Kim was not finished. “Along with unlimited credits and a safe house, too, right?”

“Maybe.” Yalna paused. “Why unlimited?”

She had no intention of telling him the real reason. “I need my hair fixed, my nails done, and a few things that shoot bolts of plasma. And some high explosives, for problems that might come up. A girl has to look the part and be well armed if she’s going to start a revolution.”

This time, he did glitch.