A Patient Man

By theidiotmachine

There is a star, an M-type red dwarf, not far from the main shipping lane that runs up the Sagittarius Arm. It has a planet orbiting it, and on that planet, there's a monastery.

Because the planet orbits the star so closely, one face is always locked towards it, bathed in its ferocious crimson glow. The monastery is on the planet's pole, a dome encased in solar panels on the light side and bristling with heat radiators on the other. From space, it looks like a great porcupine, huddled down, staring at the sun: and, as a result, it's called Sahudi monastery.

It had taken Mir Davani four years to get here, although through time dilation and cryosleep he had experienced it as a few months. But Davani was a patient man, and he hadn't minded even that.

The tiny shuttle landed on the dark side of the planet, thick dust blasted up and then falling down hard in the vacuum, bouncing on the rocks. The landing pads were old and rarely used, but they worked well enough; and when the airlock hissed open, and the monks let him in, he smiled as they showed him to his quarters. They didn't ask questions about him. They never do.

The next morning, he was shown the huge black pipes that run water from the purifier into the hydroponic areas. They gave him a brush, and a harness, and overalls, and told him that he needed to scrub pipe thirty six. He nodded, thoughtfully.

'Do we have robots for this?', he asked.

'No,' replied the nun. 'It's good work. Hard, and worthwhile, and quiet.'

He nodded again.

'Thank you, sister. Tell me: do you believe in redemption?'

She took the question seriously.

'If we didn't, none of us would be here.'

'Thank you, sister,' said Davani, and smiled. He picked up the brush, clipped on the harness, and climbed into the mouth of the pipe.

# # #

Over the next month, he worked at many jobs like this; and when he could, he spoke to the other inhabitants of the monastery. Some had been born there; some had come there from other worlds. Some would not speak of their past, and so he could not tell. Some were full members of the religion; others were waiting their time to be accepted into the order. Others were just passing through. To all of them, he asked the same question: do you believe in redemption?

One morning he was sitting in the weaving hall, making burlap cloth to line the plant pots in the orchards. He was alone, pushing the shuttle through the loom, singing a soft song as he worked.

The abbess walked in, and picked up a chair. She took it to where Davani was sitting; and she sat with him and watched him work. He looked up at her and smiled.

'Mir Davani,' she said. 'I haven't yet had the pleasure of meeting you. I'd like to welcome you to our home.'

'Abess,' he said, not stopping his work. 'Thank you. It's a pleasure being here.'

'I hear you're settling in well,' she said. She looked at the cloth slowly spilling from the machine. 'This is good work. Most don't get this proficient for some time.'

'I'm a patient man,' he replied. 'It's the only virtue I have, but it serves me well.'

She smiled and narrowed her eyes. 'So say you. I hear one other thing about you: that you want redemption. I'm sorry to say this, but we can't redeem you, Mir. Only you can do that, in the eyes of our God. But we can support you on your way.'

He considered this, and the loom sighed as the threads danced.

'Thank you, Abess,' he said, eventually. 'I understand. Perhaps you could lead me to those, like me, most in need of help. Maybe I could learn from them.'

'This seems like a good path to me.'

'Thank you.'

'No, thank you for being open,' she said. She was about to stand, then she added one more thing. 'By the way, I like your necklace.'

It was a simple thing, a glass pendant on a plain steel thread. He stopped his work, and ran his finger over the glass.

'Thank you. It was given to me by a good friend. It reminds me of my purpose here.'

'Friendship is truly a step towards redemption, Mir. I'm glad to see you wear it. I will try and see what I can do about your request.'

'Again, thank you, Abess.'

# # #

A week later, Davani was planting seedlings with another man. They were both in nursery sixty one, and the great red sun hung low and heavy in the black sky above them. The plants were blue, designed to absorb as much of the red light as possible, and the black soil smelled sweet and rich.

The man grunted when he picked up another tray. The little finger on his left hand was missing.

'So you're the one who wants redemption,' he said.

Davani smiled. 'What's your name?,' he asked.

'Milton. I'm not sure there is such a thing as redemption, you know.'

Davani took a handful of the moist compost.

'This soil has no need to be redeemed,' he said. 'It is just what it is. But we all do, in some way or another. As people with choices, we will sometimes choose wrong. And when we have faced up to those wrong choices, and our judgement has been made, then we can be redeemed.'

Milton raised his eyes. 'You make it sound so easy.'

'It is, I think. We just need to admit what we are.'

'So why do you need to search so hard for it?'

Davani smiled. 'What do you think?'

'I think redemption is a choice for the weak,' said Milton. 'And I think that this soil doesn't need to be redeemed because it can hold its secrets.'

'Perhaps,' said Davani. He put the handful of soil in the next pot.

They worked together a number of times after that. Something about Davani's quiet way, how he listened without comment, smiled at everything, made Milton speak more to him.

Eventually, one afternoon, they were picking up eggs from coop twelve. The chickens scratched around their feet, pecking at grains in the dirt. Around them, the air circulation system quietly whirred.

'You want to be with me, because you think I'm like you,' said Milton.

Davani smiled. 'Why do you think that?', he asked.

'Because you see something in me. I don't know what. Something that you've done. But I'm not like you. You're weaker than me.'

Davani brought his hand to his pendant. It sparkled under the fake sky. Outside, the real sun was huge and red and static; but here mild yellow light filtered through leaves.

'I'm weaker than you, how?'

'Because you want to be forgiven. You need the universe to accept you. I don't.'

'What do you need, then?'

Milton glanced up to see who else was there; but the only other things listening were the chickens.

'I just need to stay low for a while. And then I'm out of here.'

'Where will you go?'

Milton shrugged, and got back to putting eggs into a wicker basket.

# # #

Eventually, two months after Davani had arrived, Milton finally properly spoke to him.

They had just left morning prayers. Both had been silent while the monks and nuns spoke to their god, in the high-ceilinged church at the very top of the dome, the red sun blazing through the stained glass. They had an hour of work before breakfast, and they were scheduled in the laundry, to wash bed linen.

They both picked up a basket, and took them to the great machines, simple analogue devices with no minds. There they sorted the laundy into types; sheets here, pillowcases here, blankets here.

'I understand you, now, Davani,' said Milton.

'How so?'

'You don't say anything. You just ask questions. You're a follower. You can't be someone who leads, so you find your leader. You're like a jackal that follows a tiger, waiting for leftovers.'

Davani smiled.

'And what are you? A tiger?'

Milton shrugged. 'Perhaps.'

Davani stopped, and stretched, and ran his finger over his pendant.

'Why do you say that?', he asked.

'You have no idea, do you?,' replied Milton. 'No idea at all.'

'Maybe not. Why don't you explain?'

'There with the questions again.' Milton pulled out a robe that someone had bundled into the bed linen by accident, and put it on its own pile. 'I'm here because I have to be, not because I want to be,' he continued. 'In about six months, I'm leaving on the next shuttle. There's a merchant ship I'll meet. And then I'm going to be rich.'

'A lot of people want to be rich. You think you'll be any different?', asked Davani.

'No, I don't want to be rich. I am rich. I just need to get at the money.'

'Isn't that what all not-rich people say?'

Milton was silent for a moment.

'You see, I know I can trust you, Davani: because you're weak. So I'll tell you. My name's not Milton. I'm hiding here because I pulled off the biggest robbery in this sector. I need to keep my head down while the heat fades. Eventually the insurance will write it off, and the Feds will give up, and I'll walk free.'

'How can I believe that?'

Milton held up his hand, showed his missing finger.

'This finger is held in cryo, on a farming world. It has a chip in it. That contains the account details where I funnelled the money. Local law says it can only be given to me or my nominated successor, because it's a part of me. I just need to get my finger back.'

'Or you lost it in an accident.'

'I lost it when I killed the pilot of the ship I stole.'

Davani nodded thoughtfully.

'I think I've heard of you. Your name's not Milton, is it?'

'You know it's not. I said so.'

'Eric. Eric Busch?'

Milton, or Busch, stopped what he was doing.

'What? How do you know that?'

Davani smiled. He took off his necklace, and the pendant suddenly started flashing, a pale while light deep inside it. He unthreaded the steel thread.

'I have a present for you, Milton. Give me both your hands.'

The man was unsure, but offered his hands out palm up, expecting the pendant. But instead, Davani released the metal thread, and it suddenly lept up, and snapped around Milton's wrists, binding them tightly. The surprise sent him crashing down onto the floor, surrounded by the monastery's laundry. Davani stepped forwards, and put his boot on the other man's chest.

He lifted the pendant.

'Recording ends,' he said, and ran his finger over it. The light went out. 'You're under arrest, Eric Busch.'

'What?', blinked Busch, speechless. 'How...?'

Davani smiled. 'What can I say? I'm a patient man. Now, you have the right to remain silent...'