The day the migrant ship *Winter Tree* berthed at the relay station, a tremor ran through the whole structure. The sound of the docking clamps seizing the hull, the low-frequency shock of metal meeting metal. From the window of the verification room, Seoyun looked at the ship's flank. Four years of voyage had left it mottled with the marks of countless micro-collisions across the hull's surface. Inside were 320 people. People bound for the Barnard's Star system. Seoyun's job was to verify their trust bonds.
Trust bonds. The bundle of promises people set down before crossing distances measured in light-years. A spouse's vow to wait, an employer's contract guaranteeing a job, a settlement's confirmation that housing would be provided. Every promise had been sealed at the moment of departure, together with a biometric signature. Whether these promises still held at the destination was something the relay station's verifier confirmed. The trouble was that there was no way to know the present state of the person who had made the promise. From Earth to the station: 5.9 light-years. The information arriving now was 5.9 years old.
Before opening the trust-bond files for all 320 people, Seoyun checked the inbox first. The regular update from Earth had arrived the night before. Death notices, finalized divorces, corporate bankruptcies, terminated contracts. A list of things that had happened on Earth 5.9 years ago. Seoyun had to cross-check this list against the trust bonds of the migrant ship's passengers. If the person who had made a promise was already dead, or had withdrawn the promise, or had lost the ability to fulfill it, the bond became void.
Scrolling down the list, Seoyun's eyes caught on a single line. Death notice. Name: Choi Dohyeon. Time of death: 7.1 years ago. Notice dispatched: 5.9 years ago. Seoyun searched for this name in the *Winter Tree*'s passenger manifest. No match. But in the list of trust-bond issuers, there was one. Choi Dohyeon was the person who had recorded a spousal vow for one of the passengers. Passenger number 187. Bond contents: to join them after arrival in the Barnard's Star system, a joint guarantee of housing, a pledge to share settlement costs. Choi Dohyeon had recorded this bond 8 years ago. And had died 7.1 years ago.
When passenger 187 stepped off the *Winter Tree* and into the station's waiting area, Seoyun watched him on the verification-room monitor. He was dragging a large bag, with a child beside him. A child of five or six. The monitor caught them settling onto a bench in the waiting area, the man still holding the child's hand. He said something to the child, and the child laughed. Seoyun switched off the monitor.
Seoyun walked the narrow corridor behind the verification room. The station *Kite* was a cylindrical structure adrift at the 5.9-light-year midpoint between the Solar System and the Barnard's Star system. 200 meters in diameter, 800 meters long. To generate artificial gravity inside, it rotated twice a minute. The corridor floor curved ever so slightly, and if you walked far enough, the feet of the person ahead seemed to rise toward the ceiling. Seoyun had lived 6 years in this curved world. Because of the centrifugal force the station's rotation produced, pour a cup of coffee and its surface tilted faintly. At first it made her dizzy; in the second year she went numb to it; from the third year on, this became normal. Tilted coffee, normal. News arriving 5.9 years late, normal.
In the lounge at the end of the corridor sat the station's medical officer. He was reviewing the *Winter Tree* passengers' health data, glancing back and forth between two monitors. Seoyun sat down beside him.
"A death notice came in for passenger 187's spouse."
Without lifting his eyes from the monitor, the medical officer asked,
"When did they die?"
Seoyun answered.
"7.1 years ago. The notice left Earth 5.9 years ago, and it got here yesterday."
Only then did the medical officer turn his head.
"So he doesn't know. The ship left 4 years ago, which means at departure the spouse had already been dead 3 years — the death notice just hasn't caught up with the ship yet."
Seoyun nodded.
"The passenger believes the spouse is alive. Has for 4 years now."
The medical officer tilted his chair back.
"You have to tell him."
Seoyun looked at him.
"If I tell him, the trust bond goes void. The spousal vow is the core of the bond. Housing guarantee, settlement costs, the plan to join him — all void."
The medical officer looked at her.
"And?"
Seoyun said.
"If he moves into the Barnard settlement without a trust bond, he gets pushed to the back of the waiting list. Having a child bumps his priority up, but it's at least 14 months to a housing assignment. And those 14 months would have to be spent waiting on the station."
The medical officer's expression changed.
"But the station has no long-term-stay facilities."
Seoyun nodded. The *Kite* station was a relay facility, not a residence. When a migrant ship docked, it was a place to verify the passengers' documents, complete resupply, and send them on to Barnard. The stay limit was 30 days. A passenger whose bond had gone void lost his eligibility to move into the Barnard settlement, couldn't remain on the station either, and to return to Earth would have to wait for the next homebound ship. The homebound ship came once every 2 years.
Seoyun traced the death notice's dispatch route. Generated by the resident registration system in Busan, Earth, then broadcast wide through the Republic of Korea's Space Communications Bureau. At the moment of dispatch, Choi Dohyeon's death was already 1.2 years old. It had taken 1.2 years after the death for the notice to even go up onto the interstellar communications network. Even on Earth, the procedure was slow. And then it had flown another 5.9 years to reach here. A total delay of 7.1 years.
Back in the verification room, Seoyun replayed the trust bond recording Choi Dohyeon had made. It was a video from 8 years ago. On the screen a man was looking into the camera. "Go on ahead. I'll follow in 2 years. I'll have a home ready for us. Take good care of Yunseo on the way." It was a short recording. 29 seconds. This 29-second promise was the pillar holding up the whole of passenger 187's emigration. And the man who made the promise had died 11 months after filming it.
Seoyun closed the video, leaned back in the chair, and looked up at the ceiling. The ceiling of the cylindrical station was the floor of the far side. Up there, too, someone was walking. The silhouette of a person, looking as though hung upside down, showed against the fluorescent light. 29 seconds recorded 8 years ago, a heart that had stopped 7.1 years ago, an emigration ship that had departed 4 years ago, a notice that had arrived yesterday. The reality passenger 187 believed in was the oldest layer of all.
Seoyun had handled a similar case before. 3 years ago, it had come out belatedly that the company which issued the employment guarantee for one of the passengers aboard the emigration ship First Snow had gone bankrupt. That time it had been simple. Even with the employment guarantee voided, it could be replaced by an offer from another company. But a spousal vow could not be replaced. No one could stand in for a dead person's promise.
At lunchtime Seoyun crossed the waiting area. Passenger 187 was walking toward the cafeteria with the child, carrying the child on his shoulders. The child pointed at the ceiling lights and asked something, and the father answered, smiling. Seoyun did not stop walking. To stop would mean meeting his eyes. Past the cafeteria, Seoyun turned into an empty passage in the cargo section. A narrow space between metal walls. Air from the ventilation unit brushed the back of the neck. Seoyun leaned back against the wall and steadied the breath — a short inhale, a long exhale. When a palm pressed the wall, the cold of the metal came through, and the faint vibration of the rotating station could be felt at the fingertips. In that vibration Seoyun felt the breathing come back to normal. The wall's cold rose all the way to the forehead. Eyes closed, then opened. The white fluorescent light reflected off the metal walls, lighting the whole passage with a cold glare. Under that light Seoyun felt, for the first time, the outline of the decision that had to be made.
In the afternoon Seoyun went to see the station's operations manager. A small office on the upper level of the docking bay. Someone who had come to Kite later than Seoyun but had ended up in this seat on the strength of a longer administrative career. When Seoyun laid out the situation, the manager pushed the chair back and asked. "If you void the bond, that means waiting for return to Earth, right?" Seoyun nodded. "You said there's a child. The return ship is 18 months out. 18 months on the station with a child. That's not realistic." Seoyun looked at the manager. "That's why I'm looking for another way."
The manager took out the rulebook. Trust Bond Act of the Light-Year-Delayed Society, Article 14: where the death of a bond's issuer is confirmed, the bond is voided retroactively as of the moment of the issuer's death. Provided, however, Article 14-2: where the bond holder is fulfilling its terms without knowledge of the death, the verification officer must allow a grace period of 48 hours before notifying the holder of the fact. Seoyun had 48 hours. Article 14-3: the verification officer may, where special circumstances exist, extend the grace period up to a maximum of 60 days. Provided, however, that responsibility for not notifying the bond holder of the fact during the extension period falls to the verification officer personally.
Seoyun sent an urgent inquiry to the Barnard settlement. Was there any exception under which someone could move in without a spousal bond? Barnard was about 0.1 light-years away. In 40 days an answer would come. But within 48 hours it was impossible. Extending the grace period to 60 days would make it possible to receive Barnard's reply. Seoyun decided. In the reason-for-extension field Seoyun wrote: need to confirm an alternative move-in route for the bond holder; round-trip inquiry to the Barnard settlement takes approximately 40 days. Seoyun entered the signature. The fingers caught, a single beat, over the keyboard. For 60 days Seoyun would pass passenger 187 in the corridors. Would watch him smile with the child on his shoulders. Knowing the thing he did not know.
Grace period, day 3. Seoyun came face to face with passenger 187 for the first time, in the waiting area. The meeting had been arranged under the pretext that the verification documents needed supplementing. He came into the verification room with the child. The child's eyes went wide at the lights of the console. Seoyun said. "One of your technical-qualification certificates is missing. You'll need to stay on the station while it's supplemented." He nodded and answered. "How long will it take?" Seoyun looked at him. "Between 40 and 60 days." He smiled. "That's fine by me. We'll rest here a while, while Dohyeon gets the house ready at Barnard." Seoyun's gaze wavered. A dead man's name had come out of a living man's mouth. Seoyun lowered the gaze to the console.
The child pointed at the verification room's window and asked. "Is that star Barnard?" Seoyun answered. "No, that's a different star. Barnard is over there." Seoyun pointed at the window on the opposite side. A faint point with a reddish cast could be seen. Barnard's Star. The red dwarf's light came through the window and settled on the child's cheek. The child's eyes fixed on that point. The child's father said. "Yunseo, when we get there, there's a house your dad built." Seoyun rose from the seat. "I'll be in touch once the documents are ready." Seoyun stepped out into the corridor. Only after the door had closed did the breath come out.
On the 12th day of the grace period, Seoyun ran into passenger 187 in the station corridor. The child saw Seoyun and waved. Seoyun smiled and waved back. The father said to Seoyun,
"Any idea when the documents will be ready?"
Seoyun answered,
"A little longer. We need confirmation from the Barnard's Star system end."
He nodded and smiled.
"Take your time. It's not bad here, either. Yunseo says watching the station spin around is fun."
Seoyun smiled. Smiling was hard.
Over the grace period Seoyun also had to verify the trust bonds of the other 319 people. 127 spousal vows, 280 employment contracts, 195 housing guarantees. She cross-checked each one, confirmed the signatures, held them against the updates that had come from Earth. It was mechanical work. But every time she passed 187's file, her hand stopped. The grace status, flagged in red, blinked on the screen. One red among the other 319 greens.
The medical officer asked Seoyun over dinner.
"You still haven't told him?"
Seoyun shook her head.
"I have to wait until the answer comes back from Barnard."
The medical officer set down the fork.
"Can you keep it up, looking at his face every day?"
Seoyun paused a moment.
"I'll have to."
The medical officer looked at Seoyun.
"You're trapped in the past too. A past you know and can't say."
Seoyun didn't answer. The medical officer was right. Seoyun was trapped in the past too. Only, her past was one she'd chosen for herself.
That night Seoyun couldn't coax herself to sleep in her quarters. A narrow bunk, a small screen on the wall, a fold-out desk. Seoyun opened her own personal trust-bond folder. There was a video her mother had recorded two weeks before departure. Eight years ago, the day before Seoyun left for Kite station. Her mother's face came up on the screen.
"Stay healthy. Eat properly every day."
Ordinary words. Seoyun had watched this video every week for the first 2 years, and after that the gaps had widened. Whether her mother was alive now, Seoyun could only guess from a wellness signal 5.9 years old.
Day 37 of the grace period. The answer came back from Barnard. Confirmation that temporary residency was possible on the employment contract alone. Even without a spousal bond, skilled personnel were assigned housing on their employer's guarantee. Seoyun stared at the monitor for a long while after this answer arrived. A path had opened. Even if the bond was voided, 187 could still enter the Barnard's Star system. Together with the child. All that was left now was the notification.
The night before the notification, Seoyun opened her mother's video folder again. She was about to close it, and stopped. There was one more file. A file Seoyun had never opened. Filename: To_Seoyun_for_later. Its creation time was 36 hours after her mother's video. The day before she left, Seoyun had checked only her mother's video and left the rest unwatched. For 8 years this file had been sitting here. Seoyun opened it. It wasn't her mother's voice. It was her father's voice. Lower, and slower, than Seoyun remembered.
"Seoyun. Your mother told me to record one, so I'm recording. You know I'm no good at this sort of thing."
A cough.
"Once you're out there we can't reach you. For years at a stretch. So let me just say one thing. Whatever you decide, we'll worry over you here, but we won't regret it. All right?"
The video ended. 18 seconds.
Seoyun looked at the screen a long time. Her father had recorded this video 8 years ago. Where her father was now, what condition he was in, Seoyun could only guess from a wellness record 5.9 years old. 5.9 years ago he'd been alive. Now, she didn't know. Whether the voice in this video belonged to someone who still existed, or to someone already stopped, like passenger 187's spouse. Seoyun played the video once more.
"Whatever you decide, we'll worry over you here, but we won't regret it."
Her father's cough spread through the quarters from the small speaker. A cough from 8 years ago. Hearing that cough, Seoyun closed her eyes. Tomorrow morning, she had to tell passenger 187 the truth. That the promise inside a 29-second video had been voided. Seoyun lay down on the bunk with her father's 18-second video held against her chest. The difference between the two videos was a single thing. The one who made the 29-second promise was dead; the one who made the 18-second promise might still be alive. Still — a word that, in interstellar space, was always conditional.
The next morning. Seoyun called passenger 187 to the verification room. Without the child. He came in and sat down. Seoyun said,
"There's something I have to tell you."
He read Seoyun's expression and the smile drained from his face.
"A death notification for your spouse has arrived. The time of death was 7.1 years ago."
Silence filled the verification room. Only the sound of the console's cooling fan, the faint tremor of the station's rotation, remained. He opened his mouth. His voice had changed. Low, broken.
"7 years ago?"
Seoyun nodded.
"The notification left Earth 5.9 years ago, and the migration ship departed 4 years ago, so…"
He carried the thread on.
"So by the time I left, she'd already been dead 3 years."
Seoyun couldn't answer. He buried his face in both hands.
After a long silence, Seoyun spoke.
"Word came back from the Barnard settlement — residency is possible on the strength of an employment contract alone. Housing will be assigned. You can go together with Yunseo."
He asked, his face still buried in his hands.
"Dohyeon won't be in that house."
Seoyun didn't answer. He lowered his hands and looked out the window. The red dot of Barnard's Star was visible. He said,
"I'll be the one to tell Yunseo."
Seoyun nodded. He stood and went toward the door. At the door he stopped and said,
"Is the recording still there? The one Dohyeon took."
Seoyun answered.
"It's preserved in the bond file."
He gave a small nod and left.
The day after the notification, Passenger 187 came back to the verification room. His eyes were swollen. There were documents to sign. A spousal trust bond annulment confirmation, an employment-contract residency application, a sole-guardian confirmation. Seoyun explained each one in turn. Every time he signed, the sound of pen against paper rang through the verification room. After signing the last, he asked.
"When do these documents reach Barnard?"
Seoyun answered.
"The migration ship carries them itself. 40 days and they're there."
He nodded and said,
"So there are documents that arrive faster than light."
Seoyun couldn't smile. The migration ship wasn't faster than light. The distance was simply short. But Seoyun knew what lay inside that joke.
The day before departure, Passenger 187 came to see Seoyun. He hadn't brought the child. He said to Seoyun,
"I told Yunseo. That Daddy is watching us from the sky."
Seoyun looked at him.
"Did he take it well?"
He smiled. Shadows still lingered at the corners of his eyes, but it was a smile.
"I don't know. There's no way to explain to a six-year-old what it means that someone died 7.1 years ago."
Seoyun paused a moment.
"It isn't easy even for a grown-up."
He nodded.
"Could I get a copy of the bond recording? I'd like to show it to Yunseo when he's older."
Seoyun answered.
"I'll hand it over before departure tomorrow."
He bowed his head and left. After the door closed, Seoyun made a copy file of Choi Dohyeon's 29-second recording. A dead man's promise had become void as a bond, but as memory it was still valid.
Winter Tree left for Barnard on the 58th day of the deferral. Passenger 187 and the child boarded the migration ship once more. The docking clamps released, and the vibration of the hull tearing away from the station rose up through the floor. Seoyun watched through the verification room window as Winter Tree drew away. The hull's reflected light caught Barnard's red glow, shone for an instant, then vanished into the dark. Seoyun returned to the console and opened the next inbox. A new bundle of signals that had left Earth 5.9 years ago had come in. 7 death notifications, 3 finalized divorces, 2 corporate bankruptcies. Seoyun opened the first death notification. 8 months remained until the next migration ship. For those 8 months Seoyun would hold these notifications and wait. The past sends a letter, the present opens it and passes it on to the future. Seoyun opened the file and began to read the names. The names the past had sent, Seoyun was carrying one by one into the present. The name of the next migration ship he did not yet know. But that ship, too, would arrive carrying someone's 29 seconds, someone's 18 seconds.
