“Believe in them how?”

“Do you apply them to all aspects of your life?”

“No,” Washen had to say.

“Does any human that you know … or any other organism, for that matter … do any of them believe in this infinite realm … ?”

“On occasion. Yes.”

“That’s worse than never,” was the little woman’s verdict. Then after a long, thoughtful silence, she said, “We had two suns. Close enough that they touched one another, like lovers.”

It happened on occasion. Twin stars were born close together, spinning fast around their common center of gravity.

“Our suns were too close,” she whispered.

Washen waited, saying nothing.

“I watched it,” Mere remarked. “With thousands of years to fill, I could study the suns’ intricate motions. I could measure the changes coming. There was a great drought on my world, and then after that, a long period of endless rains. The twin suns were dancing too close, their atmospheres touching, and their momentum was changing.”

“A chaotic situation,” Washen allowed. “There are harmonic circumstances, and gravity waves. Sometimes the suns can hang apart for long times, then quite suddenly, in the course of a few centuries—”

“My world was dying.”

For the first time, Washen moved liked a Tilan might. Miocene had built a small vocabulary of meaningful gestures, and now she used one of them in a bid to show understanding and compassion.

The motion pleased the strange little woman. She sighed, smiled like a Tilan, then like a human, and with a quiet little voice, she reported, “My people attempted to save themselves. There were plans to build colonies on the outer worlds, and there were larger plans to pull our world into a wider orbit. But then they heard the signals from this ship. They saw your invitations to join the voyage around the galaxy. You were already past us, but they’d found my old starship moving like a comet around our suns, and after generating a series of entirely random events—allowing the many-worlds to decide everyone’s inevitable fate—they decided to forgo all of their great projects.”

Washen watched the big sorry eyes.

“They refitted the starship. But instead of using it to help save themselves, they put me on board and pointed me toward you. Because I was the same species as you. Because they were thankful for the little help that I had given them. Because in this one thin river of an existence, they wanted me to reach my intended destination. At long last.”

“You came willingly?” Washen asked.

“No.” Mere made the confession with anger and a wrenching grief. “No, I am not that good at being Tilan. I wish I had been. But no.”

Washen nodded, and waited.

After a little while, Mere said, “I fought them. I fought as hard as I could. But they shattered both of my legs and both of my arms, and while I was helpless … while my body was healing itself, and my ship was preparing to leave … they said to me, ‘Don’t be selfish, Mere. It isn’t your right. It isn’t even possible. Even if we wish, we can’t destroy any little portion of our destiny.”

THE INTERIOR OF the cabin was a single room, comfortably snug and minimally furnished. Mere served her guest a small meal of cold fish and an unnamed tea that left both of their mouths stained a vivid sour purple. Conversation came and went. When they spoke, they usually concerned themselves with trivial matters: the weather on the delta; the whereabouts of an odd species; the burdens in being the new First Chair. And then after a longer pause, Washen looked at her hostess with a mixture of sorrow and compassion, promising her, “If you would rather, stay home. I can ask someone else to do this. If you want, recommend somebody. You know the candidates better than I do.”

Mere rose and walked over to the only window, looking out across the flat tired water. Then touching the window frame, she caused the river to vanish. Even sitting, Washen was tall enough to see another river pushing through an entirely different time, and the barest glimpse told her enough.

Tila.

Ages ago, Miocene had approached a young captain. “I want to know what you think about this strange little creature,” she had explained. “Learn whatever you can. Believe or dismiss what you want of her stories. Then come to me and give me your final report.”

“I believe her,” was Washen’s verdict.

Miocene seemed to nod agreeably. But then she asked, “What do you believe?”

“Mere is human. She was born in horrific conditions. The first few thousand years of life were intellectually and emotionally impoverished, then she suddenly found herself surrounded by aliens. Which is why she doesn’t seem entirely human. She isn’t. The Tila did their best, I suppose … but her half-starved brain didn’t finish a normal, healthy development—”

“I never bothered,” Miocene remarked. “Did you look for the Tila?”

“Of course.”

“What did you find?”

Washen hesitated for a moment. “Back along her ship’s course,” she admitted, “there is a solar system. But there is only one sun. Two smaller suns coalesced sometime in the last few decades, and what remains is very hot and blue. And what would have been the Tilan home world is now a superheated Venus-class world.”

“And did you show her this news?”

“Yes.”

Miocene squinted at a point just above Washen’s head. “What was her response?”

“Misery,” said Washen. “Despair. But also, a kind of resignation.”

“Because her homeland died in just this one little existence,” the Submaster offered. “She’s human, but she’s Tilan, too. Wouldn’t you say so?”

In the present, Washen muttered a few words under her breath.

Mere turned, and with a smile that took both of them by surprise, she asked, “What are you thinking about, madam?”

“The past,” Washen allowed. “I’m talking to a dead woman.”

Mere seemed to understand. She nodded and took one last long look at the vanished river. Then she touched the frame again, causing the window to rapidly jump from one alien world to another.

“Why wouldn’t I accept this assignment?” she inquired, her tone more amused than offended. “And how could I ask anyone else to take my place? This is my river to navigate to the best of my ability. My destiny to live through and die inside.”

Washen didn’t reply.

For a moment, she was standing with Miocene again. Again, she was explaining, “The woman is exactly who she seems to be. Human or Tila, I believe her. And she isn’t any kind of threat to the ship, either.”

Miocene had laughed with a harsh, amused tone.

“Of course she’s no threat,” the woman cackled. “We can watch her. We can let her sit in prison forever or kick her back into space. My dear. You misunderstood your assignment.”

Appalled, Washen asked, “What was my assignment?”

“To assess her abilities,” Miocene reported, subtly changing the original wording. “She isn’t human, or Tilan either. Have you noticed? Maybe it’s the starved brain, or maybe it’s her very peculiar upbringing. But she seems remarkably plastic when it comes to behaviors, and thoughts.”

Miocene had already digested Washen’s final report, or she had come to the same conclusions.

“What I want to know is this,” the original First Chair had said. “Can we find some way for that odd little creature to help our wonderful ship?”

IN THE PRESENT, Washen stood beside Mere, laying a warm hand on the bony little shoulder.

“I’ve infiltrated dozens of worlds,” the tiny creature muttered. “Have you ever been disappointed in my work?”

“Never,” Washen admitted. Then with the next breath, she mentioned, “But this isn’t a simple world, and we know almost nothing going in.”

Mere shrugged and giggled.

“Every day, we die,” she reminded Washen. Then she reached up, patting the hand that was set on her shoulder. “And every day, against incredible odds, we find a thousand ways to live.”