My ocular implants turned on, and the patterns of the dour Council chamber assaulted me. A menacing painting exposed a city of noise and the blurred movement of machines. Lurid colors washed into the gloom of a reticent night. Next to it was a lush tableau of green-topped trees and radically blue skies tinted with white trailing wisps. Above the raised dais hung a photograph of a war-lord in a business suit, surrounded by banners of hubris and clannish emblems of strife. I could feel the burning and the flooding and the violence. Bereavement permeated these artifacts of memory.

 

At times such as this, I could neither fathom nor stomach our so-called Ship of Liberation. But empathy was demanded of us if the generations were to live in peace and arrive whole.

 

''Is there any other business for this session of the New Earth Council?'' A grey man asked.

 

From the back, I fluttered my hands in the air, feeling the sighs impale me.

 

''Yes, Ms. Bee. Speak. Efficiently.''

 

''Meaning is not efficient. To form it takes eons.'' Tsks flowed from the dais. ''We know of your history. We have watched your vids in the cells in which you entrap us, to learn your ways, your struggles—''

 

''Yes, yes, education, my dear, to know where one is from, what horrors have been escaped, and what bright futures are to be enjoyed.''

 

I urged compassion to nurture patience. ''I read a book of your poetry. A man talked about seeing the blood, seeing the blood, seeing the blood in the streets.''

 

''A valiant dream of freedom. One of many times of trial we passed through, ending here, in safety, on a ship journeying to our new home.''

 

''But that is not our poem. We make no sense of it.''

 

''Then you miss the point. We would not be here if it were not for such heroic actions.''

 

''Who are 'we'?''

 

A red-faced man on the edge of the dais leaned forward, his arms tense as he tried to push the table to the floor. ''Naïve and ungrateful children of struggle, as far as I can see!''

 

''Perhaps,'' I nodded. ''The Ending was your affair. We do not want to know of it. The Beginning we serve together, here on this ship, that we agree. But the Continuation is ours, and the generations that follow.'' Murmurs from those in the back drew a harsh rebuke from the Chair.

 

''And what will you do with this future?'' An ancient woman asked without emotion.

 

''What we desire, not what you think you allowed us to do.''

 

She blushed a soft pink. ''And what are your poems, then?''

 

I gestured to Simon who rose and flexed his voice. ''We write of ships and space, longing and hope. We talk of warmth in the cold and fear for the many ages to go. We sing of the passing of old ways and the struggle for the new. Our dreams are of the stars that accompany us.''

 

Next to me, Miriam spread her arms wide, and a blackness seeped over the assembled Earthers. Out of the darkness, stars erupted. They formed into two parallel lines that clashed and then dissipated, reforming into a new pattern. We said in unison: ''The poems are forming, we are coalescing, the new symbols are becoming clearer. We develop.''

 

''Turn the damn lights back on!'' The grumpy man said, invective flowing from the dais.

 

''I think we have heard enough!'' The Chair brusquely rose, and the Elders shuffled away, huffing in an angry babble. We mocked them walking on flat feet as if fearful of losing contact with the ship.

* * *

 

''How’d ya think that went?'' Malachi asked.

 

''Dunno. Bunch of weirds those lot. Never know. Simon, well on ya,'' I said.

 

''Got a bit choked, though. Coulda said more. Tried, ya know.''

 

We murmured appreciation in unison, slapping our thighs. Simon reddened in joy.

 

''These don’t listen, never will,'' Miriam said, waving to the empty dais. ''Leave it.''

As we left, she flashed sparks into the empty chamber, and I smiled at the beautiful souls they represented.

 

I brightened. ''I feel like a pot of sorghum beer. Or two. Everyone in?''

 

* * *

 

My head was foggy and my belly burbly. Miriam settled in next to me on our bed and switched my implants off with a swoosh of her hands, static electricity tingling my forehead. My dark eyes saw her true visage as a radiance. To fight off drowsiness, I plugged myself into the ship’s viewport, and my optic nerves sparkled into focus. I began to rearrange the stars into new constellations, new stories, new meaning. What filled us with joy, here in the blackness? What was our symbol, if not a man with a club?

 

''The future is the past, and we are hurtling faster and faster towards what has been,'' I heard Miriam whisper in my ear.

 

''You and your mysticism!'' I smiled towards her and found her head to caress. ''Some think you are daft.''

 

''Just stating a fact, dear. I was born under an oak, and that is where I shall die.''

 

''I have never seen an oak.''

 

''Your granddaughter will. I will show her one, and she will learn to run in the sun.''

 

''And be truly at peace?'' I asked, with trepidation.

 

''Eventually. But a different kind. A calmness born of the connections between the stars.''

 

''Was there ever tranquility?''

 

''No. But we will create it by the end. We have allies, and they are waiting for us.''

 

Miriam snuggled closer, and I wandered through the stars seeking a new logic. As she snored, I began to see the outlines of a new pattern, miraculous pairs merging in harmony within the deep space linking all things. And I felt them, beings suffering alone in the void, reaching out to us, drifting solitary in our own hurt and pain. We were meant to write new poems together.