Free Teranesia by Greg Egan Page B

target to aim
     for, steering was proving to be harder than he’d realised. The boat was headed too far to the left; he struggled to picture
     their motion from above, and the turning arc that would neatly convert their present course into the one they needed.
    He glanced down at his notepad on the floor of the boat. He hadn’t thought he’d have any use for it until they hit the open
     sea; the software knew nothing of the reef, and at the present magnification the record of their entire journey so far was
     just a speck.
But it was the map that was crude, not the navigation system
. The commercial GPS that had superseded the US military version gave unencrypted signals that resolved the receiver’s position
     to the nearest centimetre.
    Prabir shouted, ‘Notepad: zoom in. More …
more
… stop!’ The speck became a crooked line against a blank background; all landmarks had vanished from the screen, but the
     magnified trail of the boat itself gave him his bearings. He glanced back towards the beach, then compared how far they’d
     come with the distance remaining to the reef. The image at his feet made perfect sense now; he could place the channel on
     it in his mind’s eye.
    He leant gently on the tiller, and observed the effect: in reality, and on the map. The curve was still too shallow; he nudged
     the tiller, watching the growing arc and visualising its extension.
    The boat shot through the reef without a bump, without a scratch. Prabir was overcome with pride and happiness. Hecould do this, it wasn’t beyond him. He’d be reunited with his parents soon – and whether it was midnight or dawn when he
     finally tracked them down, it would be long before they’d expected him. They’d teasingly beg his forgiveness for ever doubting
     him, then they’d take him in their arms and spin him around, lifting him up towards the sky.
    His elation lasted until sunset.
    By daylight, everything worked as planned. The sea felt far rougher than it did from the ferry – and in bad weather it might
     have been suicidal to attempt the crossing in such a small vessel – but it was still
musim teduh
, the calm season, and for all its relentless lurching the boat didn’t take much water. Setting the right course was a matter
     of trial and error – quite apart from the current, the waves themselves seemed to deflect the boat as it cut across them –
     but by the time Teranesia’s volcanic peak had shrunk to insignificance the GPS software showed that they were making steady
     progress south-south-east, at about ten kilometres an hour.
    Once she’d recovered from the shock of finding herself at sea – with no Ma, no Baba, no ferry full of strangers, and no real
     conception of where they were headed – Madhusree grew positively entranced by the experience. The expression of delight on
     her face reminded Prabir of the way he felt in the middle of a wonderfully surreal dream. He was nauseous himself, but her
     fearlessness shamed him into stoicism. Madhusree sucked her bottles of fruit juice, ate a whole packet of biscuits, and used
     her potty without complaint. Prabir had no appetite, but he drank plenty of water, and urinated overboard to Madhusree’s scandalised
     laughter.
    As darkness fell, the wind rose and the waves grew higher. Madhusree vomited as Prabir was dressing her against the chill,
     and from that moment her mood worsened steadily. His shallow wounds were aching and itching; he wanted the metal out, whether
     it was harming him or not.
    When Madhusree fell fitfully asleep, Prabir felt a strong urge to hold her. He picked her up and wrapped her in a blanket,
     but there seemed to be no way to keep his hand on the tiller that wouldn’t make them both uncomfortable, so he laid her down
     again gently. He watched her for a while, half wishing she’d wake and keep him company. But she needed to sleep – and a few
     hours alone was a small price to pay to save himself from years of exile.
    The blackness