“Didn’t you meet any Humans while you were a Navigator?” Kizzy asked.
“You were still wandering when I was with Harmagians,” Mas said. “No Human worlds beyond your Fleet. I became Solitary before you became GC.”
Ashby did some quick math. If Mas was Navigating before Humans had joined the GC, then…
Kizzy beat him to it. “How old are you?”
Mas thought. “One hundred and thirty three standards,” she said. “Sorry, had to think. Our time measures are different.”
Kizzy’s nose was nearly pressing against her faceplate, she was so intent. “I had no idea you could live that long.”
Mas laughed again. “Not just this long,” she said. “Even longer!” She began to walk down the hall. They followed.
“What can you tell us about this place?” Ashby said.
“This is Arun,” Mas said. “Your Pair has not said of it, hmm?”
“No.”
“No, no. Pairs do not say this place. It is for heretics.” There was a smirk in her voice, almost mocking. “But all Sianat know it. If we escape before infection, or if we want to break, we try to find it. Not all do. Some get lost. Some are Waning and cannot fly the long way. But we take all who come. None are turned away.”
“I see,” Ashby said. They came into a huge open area, filled with curved benches and hydroponic planters holding strange, curling trees and puffy flowers (Ashby could only imagine how excited Dr. Chef would have been). A warm yellow sky was projected above. Compared to the frozen wastes outside, it was a paradise. There were Sianats everywhere, of all ages and sizes, walking, thinking, speaking to one another. Touching. “Sorry,” he said, dragging his eyes away from the plaza and back to Mas. “What did you mean by ‘break’? You come here if you want to break?”
“Break the pair,” Mas said. “Destroy the virus.”
Ashby and Kizzy looked at each other. “There’s a cure?” Ashby asked.
“Of course,” Mas said. “All diseases have cures. You just have to find it.”
“But,” Kizzy said, her brow furrowed. “Sorry, I don’t really get how this whole thing works, but if… if you’re a Pair, would you even think about being cured? Doesn’t the Whisperer make you want to stay together?”
“You ask good questions. Like a good heretic.” Mas gestured towards a bench. They sat beside her as best they could. “The Whisperer makes the host resist breaking. But some Sianat can resist the Whisperer. Like me.”
“You’re… immune?” Ashby said.
“No, no,” Mas said. “I had the disease. Had to, to Navigate. But I resist. The Whisperer had my low mind, not my high mind.” Her face folded in thought. “Do you know low mind?”
Ashby thought he had heard Ohan use the term once or twice, but as with most things, Ohan had not explained further. “No.”
“Low mind is easy things. Animal things. Things like walking, counting, not putting your hand on hot things. High mind is things like who my friends are. What I believe. Who I am.” Mas tapped her head for emphasis.
“I think I understand,” Ashby said. “So, the virus… the virus affected the way you understand space and numbers, but it didn’t affect the way you think about yourself?”
“I resist,” Mas said again. She paused. “Resistant?”
“You are resistant,” Ashby said. “Yes.”
“Yes, yes. Very dangerous to be resistant. I learned to pretend. To mimic the words of the Pairs. To stare out windows.” She made a gruff sound. “So boring.”
Kizzy laughed. “I’ve always thought it looks boring,” she said.
“It is! But if you are resistant, you must stare. You must not let others know that you pretend. The ones who rule know,” she said, leaning close. “They know resistant Hosts exist. But it would ruin everything for many to know. Sianat believe that the Whisperer chose us. Makes us special. Makes us better than you.” She poked Ashby’s chest. “But if we are resistant, one of two things is true. Either Sianats are not special, only diseased, and can evolve to resist. Or, second thing, stupid thing, but easier conclusion for many—resistants are unholy. We reject the sacred. Heretics. You understand?”
“Yes,” Ashby said. He knew now why Ohan had always balked at the mere mention of the Solitary. This was the sort of thing that could bring a whole culture down.
“I always wanted to break,” Mas said. “The Whisperer made me see the in-between, but it was killing my body. My high mind, it wanted to live. My captain, she was good. Good friend. I trusted her, told her that I am resistant. As I Waned, she found a map.”
“To here?” Kizzy said.
“Yes, yes. Nearly dead when I arrived.” She lifted her front hands and made her muscles twitch. Ashby’s stomach sank. It was a perfect imitation of the tremors Ohan had developed. “I lay in hospital for”—she counted to herself—“two tendays after the cure. Painful, painful.” She smiled and showed off her forelegs. “But I got strong.”
“So, after the virus is cured, the Wane goes away?” Kizzy asked. Ashby shot her a quick glance. No, Kizzy.
“Yes. But the changes to the low mind do not. The… words, words… the… the folds in the brain remain. I could still Navigate if I wanted. But I am Solitary. I must stay here.”
“Why?” Ashby asked.
The Sianat cocked her head. “I am Solitary,” she said. “We are heretics, not revolutionaries. This is our way.”
“Wait,” Kizzy said. “You can still Navigate? Curing the virus doesn’t take that away?”
“Correct.”
“The ambi,” she said. “That’s how you figured out how to harvest ambi from the nebula, and build a pintsize space elevator. Because you’ve still got your super brains.”
Mas laughed. “Pairs are not inventors. They are too unfocused, too short-lived. Good for Navigating and discussing theories, but bad at building. Building takes many, many mistakes. Pairs do not like mistakes. They like staring out windows. But Solitary like mistakes. Mistakes mean progress. We make good things. Great things.”
“Wow,” Kizzy said. Her eyes went far away, the way they did when she was thinking about a broken circuit or the inside of the engine. “So, this cure. Is it, like, dangerous?”
“Kizzy,” Ashby warned. They were not going down this path. No matter how much he wanted to, they were not.
“But Ashby, Ohan could—”
“No. We’re not—”
Mas made a sound deep in her chest. “Ohan is your Pair.”
“Yes,” Ashby sighed.
“Poet-like name,” Mas said. “Poetic.” She studied them both. “I am resistant. I do not know how the disease feels to a mind that does not resist. But I have friends, broken Pairs, who were not resistant. Sometimes even good Pairs fear death enough to come to Arun.” She leaned in close, too close. “Broken Pairs are different, after. They are not the child they were before infection. They are not the Pair, either. They are new.” She looked hard at Ashby with her large eyes. “They are free. Believe me, it is better.”
“No,” Ohan said. There was no anger in their voice, but they had recoiled, pulling as far away from the table as the chair would allow. They sat stiffly, fighting hard to hide their twitching legs. Ashby and Dr. Chef sat on the other side of the lab table. A small, sealed box lay between them. An object was visible through the transparent lid—a syringe, filled with green fluid. The grip was designed for a Sianat hand.