“The Anteater said, ‘Of course we’re friends. Why would we not be?’ And the cunning clever boy who looked just like Bakari said, ‘Because you eat ants, and the anthill is made from them.’”
Kit eased himself onto the foot of the bed, resting his hand on her ankle. She smiled and went on.
“ ‘You are made from many things too,’ the Anteater said. ‘You are made up of skin and hair and eyes and bones and blood and wide, strong muscles. Do you hate the doctor when he takes a blood sample to keep you well? Do you hate the barber when he cuts off a bit of your hair? I love the anthill because it helps me live, and it loves me because I help keep it healthy by taking away the ants that are worn out. Just because you’re made from something, that doesn’t mean that’s all you are.’ And then the clever young boy who looked just like Bakari understood. And that’s the end of the story.”
Rohi lapsed into silence. Bakari sighed softly and nuzzled more deeply into the bed. He looked fine. He looked healthy.
“I don’t know that story,” Kit said. “Where’s it from?”
“Aesop?” Rohi said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe I made it up. I don’t know anymore.”
I think it was a philosopher, a voice in the back of Kit’s mind murmurs. I can’t remember his name. The voice isn’t Kit’s. It isn’t anyone he recognizes, but he remembers the book—orange with a complex design on the front and thin pages of high-quality paper. It isn’t a book he’s read. There was a time when these wandering memories bothered him. Now they seem almost normal. That which can’t be avoided must be embraced. Someone had said that to him. His grandmother. Kit had never met his grandmother. The room around him spun a little, but only a little.
“Can you imagine what it would be like?” Rohi asked. “It’s hard enough for us, and we already know ourselves. I’ve been me for decades. Imagine being as little as him. Still figuring out where your body ends and the world begins, and having to deal with . . . this.”
“We don’t know it’s that.”
“We can’t prove it,” Rohi said. “But I know. Don’t you?”
He curled down onto the bed, resting his head against her thigh. The medical mattress hissed and shifted, accommodating his weight. Her body was warm against his cheek. He remembered how, during the pregnancy, she’d always been warm as a furnace, even in the winter. No matter how cool they kept the bedroom, she’d kick off the sheets. He thought it had been her. He thought that had been him. But maybe it was someone else’s memory. Someone from the Preiss or one of the other ships. It was so hard to be sure.
“I was so scared when they told me they’d brought him here,” Rohi said. “I’m so scared all the time.”
“I know. I am too.”
“Do you ever want to let go? I keep thinking what it would be like to fall into being the anthill and just never be the ant again. Even if I died, I might not care. I might not notice.”
“I would.”
“Not if you were in there too.”
“I will always care about you,” Kit said. “I will always care about him. Nothing will ever change that. No matter how much this happens. It won’t erase me, and it won’t erase how much I love you.”
Rohi made a soft sound, hardly more than an exhalation with intent, and rested her fingers on Kit’s head, stroking him gently because they both knew he was lying.
Chapter Thirty-Three: Naomi
Naomi floated in her cabin, her mind dancing over the work. The underground had been difficult and unwieldy even in the days when Saba ran it, and she’d only been one of his lieutenants. Since the fall of Laconia and her own flight before the storm, it had slipped further into chaos. The secret shipyards in Larson system had gone quiet so long she assumed they’d been discovered or else suffered some catastrophic accident. Then a report appeared in her queue that began with a brief, dismissive apology and went on as though nothing odd had happened. One of the cells in Sol system had been discovered and detained, but six others began their own counter-operation without waiting for approval from the rest of the organization. In Calypso, Théo Ammundsun, formerly director of the Louvre on Earth, was going about creating an institution to catalog and gather samples of alien artifacts. He delivered only sporadic and incomplete reports. Entries like San Ysidro sample appears active—Moving to isolate filled her with more dread than information.