The sponsor spent the last forty days arranging, and the arranging belongs on the record, because the bible of their method is short and the world should own a copy: never require a lie. Arrange the truths. Never order the thing. Arrange the conditions until the thing is the only door left open, and then call the walking through it free. The stay of remediation, renewed at day seventy, came back at day ninety renewed conditionally: review scheduled for the alignment window itself, certification “anticipated to accompany completion-class participation.” The consumables audit they requested at day ninety-four was an audit; it was also a reminder, itemised, of seventeen lives and their margins. The personnel-recovery scheduling annex at day one hundred listed the crew by name with transit berths assigned, a kindness of pure arithmetic, berths on a corridor that did not exist except through me. None of it was a threat. Every line of it was load-bearing. Phoebe read each transmission as it certified and built her countermotion the way Ithe builds an anchor, redundantly, and her entry for day one hundred reads: The instrument’s conditions have now been arranged in full. Counsel notes for the record that a choice made inside an arranged condition can still be free; but only if the record can see the arrangement. It can. I have made sure of it. Vant spoke once more, day one hundred two, the relay flattening her into the thing she had chosen to become. “Dr. Mares. The question you entered remains open in the certified record. I am advised it will remain open regardless of outcome, which I note is the single competent piece of records strategy this mission has produced. I will answer it, since you asked that someone do so honestly.” The lag, exactly. “Yes. We arranged conditions. Conditions are the only instrument a responsible authority has ever held; the alternative to arranging conditions is wishing, and wishing has never recovered a crew, certified a containment, or held a Compact together. You stand inside arrangements I made because the alternative arrangements were worse, and when you have signed, and you are home, and the road is stable, you will discover that you cannot name the moment you were forced. That is not a confession, Doctor. That is what governance is.” A pause that had been timed. “The window opens in seven days. The instrument awaits execution. Vant out.” I have replayed that transmission more times than I have replayed anything but the ninety-seven seconds, because it is the only completely honest document ICSE ever sent us, and because she was right about one thing and the rightness is load-bearing: I would not be able to name the moment I was forced. There would be no such moment. There would only be the lattice, each strut reasonable, each strut signed. And that is why the answer could not be an argument with the lattice. You do not argue with architecture. You decline to live in it. The field spent the same forty days arranging in its own grammar, and the two campaigns ran in parallel like rails, which the crew noticed, and which nobody said aloud until Cael said it. The basin beacon never stopped: 2.4 seconds, five, eleven, Marc’s registry, every night of Phoebe’s log. The Name-Vent colonies on the inland ridges, Talla’s long-lens survey found, had dilated and stayed dilated, rim after rim, a planet of held-open apertures aimed at the plain. The Rib Arrays came nearer the perimeter than they had since the first weeks and stood their night alignments facing us, vanes up, discharging at dusk in slow blue pulses that Nae’s meters timed, and retimed, and confirmed: pulse period trending, week over week, toward 2.4. And on the night of day one hundred six, the ship’s own receiving array (Anwen’s boards, the certified channels, the equipment of record) carried a hail. It is logged. It came in on the family band, the frequency allocation reserved under Concord law for next-of-kin traffic, which no transmitter in this system held a licence to use and no transmitter in this system existed to use, and it carried a voice I will not describe again because I have described it twice in this record and the third time is for no one, and what the voice said, warm, low, unhurried, choosing each word as if there might not be another, was: “Sela. The window is opening. I can hold it for you on this side. Come and close it, love, and we’ll both — “ and Anwen, on watch, with her hand already flat on her sleeve, cut the receiver out of the circuit at the breaker, physically, before the sentence completed, and logged the cut, and logged the content to the second of the cut, and sat the rest of her watch beside a dead board in a silence she had chosen, which is the only kind this world cannot use. Nobody answered. I want that as the chapter’s finding. The hail is in the record at eleven seconds’ duration; the protocol held; the crew of the Meridian, offered the most precisely fitted lure ever manufactured in two languages of longing, kept the discipline a dead woman carved into a mountain: if it speaks with my voice, do not answer. I was not on watch. They woke me, because the protocol for that was mine and I had written it: wake her, tell her plainly, let her read the log herself, do not paraphrase the voice. I read it in the comms bay at 0300 with Anwen beside me, and the entry ends at the breaker timestamp, and under it, in her rites-officer hand, in the space the form leaves for disposition, she had written the disposition of her whole vocation: Not certified. Not addressed. Not answered. Held. “It used the family band,” I said. “It used what works,” Anwen said. Her hand stayed on her sleeve. “Grief runs on allocated frequencies, same as everything. Whoever taught it that — “ she stopped, and chose the rest the way Pelion chooses, against the sea, economically. “On the boats, when the storm wants the channel, you do not argue on the channel. You go dark and you hold your heading. We are holding our heading.” She looked at me then, the question she would never ask standing fully formed between us. Three days to the window. “I know my heading,” I said. It was the first time I had said it aloud, and the comms bay received it, and whatever else was listening received it too, and I found I did not care, because a heading is not an answer. It is a refusal with a direction. ICSEV MERIDIAN — COMMS LOG, FAMILY BAND, D106 0247 carrier: unlicensed. origin: unresolved. duration to cut: 11.0 s. voice-pattern covariance vs. archived MARES, A.N.: 0.997 — exceeds all instrument-era recordings. content: retained under seal, witness law. not certified as testamentary. not entered as contact. not answered. action: receiver isolated at breaker, SAYE, A., 0247:11. disposition (rites annex): Not certified. Not addressed. Not answered. Held. note, recording officer: covariance above unity of source is not an authentication. it is the opposite. — O.P.