Free Nebula Awards Showcase 2013 by Catherine Asaro Page A

voice was low and even when he said, “Yes.”
    â€œIt was looted,” Thorn said. “Everyone thought it was lost.”
    â€œYes, I know,” he said.
    Accusatory thoughts were bombarding her. He must have seen them, for he said calmly, “I collect art from the Holocide.”
    â€œThat’s macabre,” she said.
    â€œA great deal of significant art was looted in the Holocide. In the years after, it was scattered, and entered the black markets of a dozen planets. Much of it was lost. I am reassembling a small portion of it, whatever I can rescue. It is very slow work.”
    This explanation altered the picture Thorn had been creating in her head. Before, she had seen him as a scavenger feeding on the remains of a tragedy. Now he seemed more like a memorialist acting in tribute to the dead. Regretting what she had been thinking, she said, “Where do you find it?”
    â€œIn curio shops, import stores, estate sales. Most people don’t recognize it. There are dealers who specialize in it, but I don’t talk to them.”
    â€œDon’t you think it should go back to the families that owned it?”
    He hesitated a fraction of a second, then said, “Yes, I do.” He glanced over his shoulder at Jemma’s portrait. “If one of them existed, I would give it back.”
    â€œYou mean they’re all dead? Every one of them?”
    â€œSo far as I can find out.”
    That gave the artwork a new quality. To its delicacy, its frozen-flower beauty, was added an iron frame of absolute mortality. An entire family, vanished. Thorn got up to go look at it, unable to stay away.
    â€œThe butterflies are all gone, too,” she said.
    Magister Pregaldin came up behind her, looking at the painting as well. “Yes,” he said. “The butterflies, the girl, the family, the world, all gone. It can never be replicated.”
    There was something exquisitely poignant about the painting now. The only surviving thing to prove that they had all existed. She looked up at Magister Pregaldin. “Were you there?”
    He shook his head slowly. “No. It was before my time. I have always been interested in it, that’s all.”
    â€œHer name was Jemma,” Thorn said. “Jemma Diwali.”
    â€œHow did you find that out?” he asked.
    â€œIt was in a book. A stupid book. It was all about abstractionist counter-layers and things. Nothing that really explained the painting.”
    â€œI’ll show you what it was talking about,” the magister said. “Stand right there.” He positioned her about four feet from the painting, then took the lamp and moved it to one side. As the light moved, the image of Jemma Diwali disappeared, and in its place was an abstract design of interlocking spirals, spinning pinwheels of purple and blue.
    Thorn gave an exclamation of astonishment. “How did that happen?”
    â€œIt is in the microscopic structure of the butterfly wings,” Magister Pregaldin explained. “Later, I will show you one under magnification. From most angles they reflect certain wavelengths of light, but from this one, they reflect another. The skill in the painting was assembling them so they would show both images. Most people think it was just a feat of technical virtuosity, without any meaning.”
    She looked at him. “But that’s not what you think.”
    â€œNo,” he said. “You have to understand, Vind art is all about hidden messages, layers of meaning, riddles to be solved. Since I have had the painting here, I have been studying it, and I have identified this pattern. It was not chosen randomly.” He went to his terminal and called up a file. A simple algebraic equation flashed onto the screen. “You solve this equation using any random number for X, then take the solution and use it as X to solve the equation again, then take that number and use it to solve the equation again,