Ascending (The Vardeshi Saga Book One)

Chapter One

Phoebe Oliver said, "Divided by Stars. God, I used to love that show. What was the opening line again? 'The Vardeshi have a saying ...'"

I said, "'A story has a thousand beginnings, but only one ending.'"

Phoebe slapped the glass patio table. "That's it. I knew it had something to do with beginnings."

"What was his name-the blond one?" Aria Lewiston asked. "Sirrus? So hot."

"Sirran," Phoebe corrected her.

Reflexively I glanced at Tenley Fuller, who could be counted upon to skewer any hint of fangirl ardor with withering contempt. She didn't seem to be listening. She was looking at her phone. Her drink, I saw, was virtually untouched.

"They probably don't even say that," Aria said.

Surprised, I said, "No, they do."

Dr. Sawyer paused in the act of topping off my drink to fix me with an intent look. Suddenly self-conscious, I went on, "I thought everyone knew that. It's in the first contact footage."

Phoebe shook her head. "I haven't watched those videos in years. I always liked the fake stuff better anyway."

It was one in a seemingly endless string of perfect afternoons, clear and cool, steeped in the late-autumn sunshine of northern California. I was a year into graduate school and discovering too late that it wasn't what I'd expected: less cerebral, more about gossiping and currying favor with professors. Particularly those with good publication records. Such as Dr. Sawyer, the English expatriate and celebrated linguist on whose patio I was currently sitting, drinking margaritas and talking second language acquisition theory with a handful of favored classmates. Or at least we had been talking theory, right up until a few minutes ago, when the first drink took hold and the conversation drifted sideways on an eddy of nostalgia.

Dr. Sawyer tilted the dregs of the pitcher into his own glass and rose. "Back in a moment."

When he was gone, Tenley angled her phone toward Aria. "Look at this."

"Is that-"

"Sitting at the bar at the Dirty Dog. He literally just bought her a drink."

I looked too. I recognized the woman in the photo at once. It was Mackenzie Fay, one of our classmates, draping herself triumphantly over a blond man who looked vaguely familiar. It took me a moment to place him as an aging B-list actor, safely mainstream. I'd never really understood his appeal, but from the gasps around the table, it was clear that the others did.

Tenley said, "It's only a twenty-minute drive. He might still be there." She stood up and reached for her keys. The others followed, as they tended to do. And just like that, in the impersonal West Coast way which never failed to catch me off guard, they went off in pursuit of something better. Tenley paused on her way down the patio steps. "You coming?" she asked me indifferently.

Annoyed, maybe, at being so clearly relegated to an afterthought, I shook my head. "I'll stay."

Dr. Sawyer, returning a little later with a full pitcher of margaritas, looked only briefly surprised to find me sitting alone at his table. He set the pitcher down and seated himself again. For a few minutes we shared a companionable silence. He traced an idle pattern in the condensation on his glass. He offered me an espresso; I declined. I wondered if he was about to ask me to leave. Through the screen door I could faintly hear his wife, Seline, clinking glassware in the kitchen.

"Avery," he said at last. "Since you're still here. I've got something that might be of interest to you. Wait here while I find it."

I pushed my drink aside and waited. At length he returned with his computer, an older model. He clicked around for a few moments, looking for a file. I surreptitiously checked my phone. No new messages. It was too soon, in any case; Tenley and the others hadn't even arrived at the bar yet.