Unable to guess what data the Camara sifted from whatever random nonsense Bekele might have spewed in the moment, he now wondered if he gave a good or deep enough answer to them. And he wondered what answers he would give now.

—He was Bekele Chikeke, for now, since his Naming Ceremony would be upon him before too long, unless his sickness took him.

—If he could be any animal, he would be a bowhead whale. They were one of the largest animals on O.E., but also one of the longest-lived. Some were over two hundred years old. And they rarely got sick.

—Despite Maya’s compartmentalization of him, he was gifted at AI programming and nanobots. His friends called him the wizard of funkentelechy. He could get nanobots into configurations and arrays with such detail and precision some people referred to his fashioning as art. That was what he would be working on at his duty station if he wasn’t so sick that he had stayed home. Again.

—He was passionate about exploring. He wanted to delve deep into the universe to see as much of it as he could … before the sickness claimed him.

—If today were a color, it would be red fading into black. The color of sunset leading into a long, dark night.

—Nothing drove him out of bed this morning. Not even his love of music. Except to eavesdrop on mourning conversations.

He just wanted it all to end.

When times became too difficult to deal with, Bekele turned to his music. He ran his fingers along the clavioline. The instrument had fallen out of favor among much of Muungano, but was still popular on Titan, due to the stories and adventures of the ship that called it home known as the Arkestra. Bekele still worked to master the basics of play before he could fully learn to improvise. Which didn’t stop him from attempting to riff anyway.

“Let’s try it again from the top,” Bekele said.

All captains were trained in improvisation. Bekele wanted to one day lead a command performance. To play alongside his mom and dad, creating a layered harmony, his melodies dancing between and interweaving with theirs. However, at the moment, his chords produced only a jumbled melody, a sequential noise that could only be called cosmic slop rather than anything resembling intuitive improvisation.

<Perhaps you’d have more success playing alongside others.>

Even Maya pushed the idea of him working more with the people in his world, but he couldn’t take anyone’s pitying glances. They’d make allowances for his illness. He wouldn’t be seen or treated as whole. Whether they intended or not, they’d remind him only of how broken he was.

“I’m working with you. You’re a member of this community, too. Let’s go again.”