JUSTINE BURNELLI EXAMINED her body closely before she put it on. After all, it had been over two centuries since she’d last worn it. During the intervening years it had been stored in an exotic matter cage that generated a temporal suspension zone so that barely half a second had passed inside.

The cage looked like a simple sphere of violet light in ANA’s New York reception facility, a building that extended a hundred fifty stories below Manhattan’s streets. Her cage was housed on the ninety-fifth floor, along with several thousand identical radiant bubbles. ANA normally maintained a body for five years after the personality downloaded out of it in case there were compatibility problems. Such an issue was unusual; only about one in eleven million rejected a life inside ANA and returned to the physical realm. Once those five years were up, the body was discontinued. After all, if a personality really wanted to leave ANA after that, a simple clone could be grown, a process not dissimilar to the old-fashioned re-life procedure that was still available in the External worlds.

However, ANA: Governance considered it useful to have physical representatives walking the Greater Commonwealth in certain circumstances. Justine was one of them. It was partly her own fault. She had been over eight hundred years old when Earth had built its repository for Advanced Neural Activity, the ultimate virtual universe where everyone supposedly was equal in the end. After so much life she was very reluctant to see her body “discontinued” in much the same way she’d never quite acknowledged that re-life was true continuation. For her, clones force-fed on a dead person’s memories were not the same person, no matter that there was no discernible difference. That early twenty-first-century upbringing of hers was too hard to shake off, even for someone as mature and controlled as she had become.

The violet haze faded away to reveal a blond girl in her biological mid-twenties. Rather attractive, Justine noted with a little tweak of pride, and very little of that had come from genetic manipulation down the centuries. The face she was looking at was still recognizable as the brattish party It girl of the early twenty-first century who had spent a decade on the gossip channels as she dated her way through East Coast society and soap actors. Her nose had been reduced, admittedly, and pointed slightly. Now that she regarded it critically, it was possibly a little too cutesy, especially with cheekbones that looked like they were made from avian bone, they were so sharp yet delicate. Her eyes had been modified to a pale blue, matching Nordic white skin that tanned to honey gold and hair that was thick white-blond, falling below her shoulders. Her height was greater than her friends from the twenty-first century would have remembered; she’d surreptitiously added four inches during various rejuvenation treatments. Despite the temptation, she had not gained all that length only in her legs; she had made sure her torso was in proportion, with a nicely flat abdomen that was easy to maintain thanks to a slightly accelerated digestive system. Happily, she’d never gone for ridiculous boobs—well, except that one time when she was rejuving for her two hundredth birthday and did it to find out what it was like having a Grand Canyon cleavage. And yes, men did gape and come out with even more stupid opening lines, but as she could always have whoever she wanted anyway, there was no real advantage and it wasn’t really her, so she’d gotten rid of them at the next rejuvenation session.

So there she was, in the flesh and still in good shape, just lacking a mind. With the monitor program confirming her visual review, she poured her consciousness back into her brain. The memory reduction was phenomenal, as was the loss of all the advanced thought routines that comprised her true personality these days. Her old biological neuron structure simply did not have the capacity to hold what she had become in ANA. It was like being lobotomized, actually feeling one’s mind wither away to some primitive insect faculty. But only temporary, she told herself—so sluggishly.

Justine drew her first breath in two hundred years, her chest jerking down air as if she were waking from a nightmare. Her heart started racing. For a moment she did nothing—not actually remembering what to do—then the reliable old automatic reflexes kicked in. She drew another breath, getting a grip on her panic, overriding the old Neanderthal instincts with pure rationality. Another regular breath. Exoimages flickered into her peripheral vision, bringing up rows of default symbols from her enrichments. She opened her eyes. Long ranks of violet bubbles stretched out in all directions around her like a bizarre artwork sculpture. Somehow her meat-based mind was convinced she could see the shapes of people inside. That was preposterous. Inside ANA she’d obviously allowed herself to discard the memory of how fallible and hormone-susceptible a human brain was.

A slow smile revealed perfect white teeth. At least I’ll get to have some real sex before I download again.

 

Justine teleported out of the New York reception facility right into the center of the Tulip Mansion. Stabilizer fields had maintained the ancient Burnelli family home through the centuries, keeping the building’s fabric in pristine condition. She gave a happy grin when she saw it again with her own eyes. If she was honest with herself, it was a bit of a monstrosity, a mansion laid out in four “petals” whose scarlet-and-black roofs curved up to a central tower stamen that had an apex anther made from a crown of carved stone coated in gold foil. It was as gaudy as it was striking, falling in and out of fashion over the decades. Justine’s father, Gore Burnelli, had bought the estate in Rye County just outside New York, establishing it as a base for the family’s vast commercial and financial activities in the middle of the twenty-first century. It had remained a center for them while the Commonwealth was established and had expanded outward until its social and economic uniformity was shattered by biononics, ANA, and the separation of Higher and Advancer cultures. The family still had a prodigious business empire spread across the External worlds, but it was managed in a corporate structure by thousands of Burnellis, none of whom was over three hundred years old. Gore and the original clique of close relatives, including Justine, who used to orchestrate it all had long since downloaded into ANA, though Gore had never formally and legally handed over ownership to his impatient descendants. It was, he assured them, purely a quirk for their own benefit, ensuring that the whole enterprise could never be broken up, thus giving the family a cohesion that so many others lacked. Except Justine knew damn well that even in his enlightened, expanded, semiomnipotent state within ANA, Gore was not about to hand anything over he had spent centuries building up. Quirk, my ass.

She had materialized in the middle of the mansion’s ballroom. Her bare feet pressed down on a polished oak floor that was nearly as shiny as the huge gilt-edged mirrors on the wall. A hundred reflections of her naked body grinned sheepishly back at her. Deep-purple velvet drapes curved around the tall window doors that opened onto a veranda dripping with white wisteria. Outside, a bright low February sun shone across the extensive wooded grounds with their massive swaths of rhododendrons. There had been some fabulous parties held in there, she recalled, with fame, wealth, glamour, power, notoriety, and beauty mingling in a fashion that would have made Jane Austen green with envy.

The doors were open, leading into the broad corridor. Justine walked through, taking in all the semifamiliar sights, welcoming the warm rush of recognition. Alcoves were filled with furniture that had been antique even before Ozzie and Nigel had built their first wormhole generator; as for the artwork, one could buy a small continent on an External world with just one of the paintings.

She padded up the staircase that curved through the entrance hall and made her way down the north petal to her old bedroom. Everything was as she’d left it, maintained for centuries by the stabilizer fields and maidbots; a comforting illusion that she or any other Burnelli could walk in at any time and be given a perfect greeting in his or her ancestral home. The bed was freshly made, with linen taken out of the stabilizer field and freshened as soon as she and ANA had agreed to the reception. Several items of clothing were laid out. She ignored the modern toga suit and went for a classical Indian-themed emerald dress with black boots.

“Very neutral.”

Justine jumped at the voice. Irritation quickly supplanted perturbation. She turned and glared at the solido standing in the doorway. “Dad, I don’t care how far past the physical you claim to be, you do not come into a girl’s bedroom without knocking. Especially mine.”

Gore Burnelli’s image did not show much contrition. He simply watched with interest as she sat on the bed and laced up her boots. He had chosen the representation of his twenty-fourth-century self, which was undoubtedly the image by which he was most known: a body whose skin had been turned to gold. Over that he wore a black V-neck sweater and black trousers. The perfect reflective surface made it difficult to determine his features; without the gold sheen he would have been a handsome twenty-five-year-old with short-cropped fair hair. His face, which at the time he had had it done had been nothing more than merged organic circuitry tattoos, was all the more disconcerting thanks to the perfectly ordinary gray eyes peering out of the gloss. That Gore looked out on the world from behind a mask of improvements was something of a metaphor. He was a pioneer of enhanced mental routines and had been one of the founders of ANA.

“Like it matters,” he grunted.

“Politeness is always relevant,” she snapped back. Her temper was not improved by the way her fingers seemed to lack dexterity. She was having trouble tying the bootlaces.

“You were a good choice to receive the ambassador.”

She finally managed to finish the bow and lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “Are you jealous, Dad?”

“Of becoming some kind of turbo version of a monkey again? Yeah, right. Thinking down at this level and this speed gives me a headache.”

“Turbo monkey! You nearly said ‘animal,’ didn’t you?”

“Flesh and blood is animal.”

“Just how many factions do you support?”

“I’m a Conservative; everyone knows that. Maybe a few campaign contributions to the Outwards.”

“Hmm.” She gave him a suspicious look. Even in a body, she knew the rumors that ANA gave a special dispensation to some of its internal personalities. ANA: Governance denied it, of course, but if anyone could manage to be more equal than others, it would be Gore who had been there right at the start as one of the founding fathers.

“The ambassador is nearly here,” Gore said.

Justine checked her exoimages and started to reorder her secondary thought routines. Her body’s macrocellular clusters and biononics were centuries out of date but perfectly adequate for the simple tasks this day would require. She called Kazimir. “I’m ready,” she told him.

As she walked out of her bedroom, she experienced a brief chill that made her glance back over her shoulder. That’s the bed where we made love. The last time I saw him alive. Kazimir McFoster was one memory she had never put into storage, never allowed to weaken. There had been others since, many others, both in the flesh and in ANA, wonderful, intense relationships, but none ever had the poignancy of dear Kazimir, whose death had been her responsibility.

Gore said nothing as his solido followed her down the grand staircase to the entrance hall. She suspected that he suspected.

Kazimir teleported into the marbled entrance hall, appearing dead center on the big Burnelli crest. He was dressed in his Admiral’s tunic. Justine had never seen him wear anything else in six hundred years. He smiled in genuine welcome and gave her a gentle embrace, his lips brushing her cheek.

“Mother. You look wonderful as always.”

She sighed. He did look so like his father. “Thank you, darling.”

“Grandfather.” He gave Gore a shallow bow.

“Still holing up in that old receptacle, then,” Gore said. “When are you going to join us here in civilization?”

“Not today, thank you, Grandfather.”

“Dad, lay off,” Justine warned.

“It’s goddamn creepy, if you ask me,” Gore grumbled. “No one stays in a body for a thousand years. What’s left for you out there?”

“Life. People. Friends. True responsibility. A sense of wonder.”

“We got a ton of that in here.”

“And while you look inward, the universe carries on around you.”

“Hey, we’re very aware of extrinsic events.”

“Which is why we’re having this happy family reunion today.” Kazimir gave a small victory smile.

Justine wasn’t listening to them anymore; they always ran through this argument as if it were a greeting ritual. “Shall we go, boys?”

The doors of the mansion swung open, and she walked out onto the broad portico without waiting for the others. It was cold outside; frost still was cloaking the deeper hollows in the lawn where the long shadows prevailed. A few clouds scudded across the fresh blue sky. Pushing its way through them was the Ocisen Empire ship sliding in from the southeast. Roughly triangular, it was nearly two hundred meters long. There was nothing remotely aerodynamic about it. The fuselage was a dark metal mottled with aquamarine patches that resembled lichen. Its crinkled surface was cratered with indentations that sprouted black spindles at the center, with long boxes that looked as though they had been welded on at random. A cluster of sharp radiator fins emerged from the rear section, glowing bright red.

Gore gave a derisive chuckle. “What a monstrosity. You’d think they could do better now that we’ve given them regrav.”

“We took five hundred years to get from the Wright brothers at Kitty Hawk to the Second Chance,” Justine pointed out.

Gore looked up as the alien starship slowed to a halt above the mansion’s grounds. “Do you think it’ll have jets of dry ice gushing out when it lands? Or maybe they’ve mounted a giant laser gun that’ll blast the White House to smithereens.”

“Dad, be quiet.”

The ship descended. Two rows of hatches along its belly swung open.

“For fuck’s sake, haven’t they even heard of malmetal?” Gore complained.

Long fat landing legs telescoped out. The movement was accompanied by a sharp hissing sound as high-pressure gas vented through grilles in the undercarriage bays.

Justine had to suck in her lower lip to stop herself from giggling. The starship was ridiculous, the kind of contraption Isambard Brunel would have built for Queen Victoria.

It touched down on the lawn, its landing pads sinking deep into the grass and the soft soil. Several radiator fins sliced down into silver birch trees, their heat igniting the wood. Burning branches dropped to the ground.

“Wow, the damage it causes. How will our world survive? Quick, you kids flee to the woods; I’ll hold them off with a shotgun.”

“Dad! And cancel your solido; you know what the Empire thinks of ANA personalities.”

“Stupid and superstitious.”

His solido vanished. Justine watched his icon appear in her exoimage. “Now behave,” she told him.

“That ship is leaking radiation all over the place,” Gore commented. “They haven’t even shielded their fusion reactor properly. And who uses deuterium, anyway?”

Justine reviewed the sensor data, scanning the ship’s hotspots. “It’s hardly a harmful emission level.”

“The Ocisens aren’t as susceptible to radioactivity as humans are,” Kazimir said. “It’s one reason they were able to industrialize space in their home system with what equates to our mid-twenty-first-century technology. They simply didn’t require the shielding mass we would have needed.”

Halfway down the starship’s fuselage a multisegment airlock door unwound. The ambassador for the Ocisen Empire floated out, sitting on top of a hemispherical regrav sled. Physically, the alien was not impressive: a small barrel-shaped torso wrapped in layers of flaccid flesh that formed overlapping folds. Its four eyes were on serpent stalks curving out from the crest, while four limbs were folded up against the lower half of its body. They were encrusted in cybernetic systems, amplifying its strength and providing a number of manipulator attachments that ranged from delicate pliers up to a big hydraulic crab pincer. Further support braces ran up its body, resembling a cage of chrome vertebrae that ended in a collar arrangement just below the base of the eye stalks. Patches of what looked like copper moss were growing across various sections of its flesh; they sprouted small rubbery stalks covered in minute sapphire flowers.

Justine bowed formally as the sled stopped in front of her, floating half a meter off the ground, which put the ambassador’s eye stalks above her. Even with the regrav unit and the physical support, it was obvious the ambassador had come from a low-gravity world. It sagged against the metal and composite structures holding it up. Two of the eye stalks bent around so that they were aligned on her.

“Ambassador, thank you for visiting us,” Justine said.

“We are pleased to visit,” the ambassador answered, its voice a whispery burble coming from a slender vocalizer gill between the eye stalks. Translated into English, the sled processors used a speaker on the rim to boom the reply to Justine.

“My home welcomes you,” she said, remembering the formalites.

Another of the ambassador’s eye stalks curved around to stare at Kazimir. “You are the human navy commander.”

“That is correct,” Kazimir said. “I am here as you requested.”

“Many of my nest ancestor cousins fought in the Fandola assault.” Thin droplets of spittle ran out of the ambassador’s gill, to be absorbed by drain holes in its support collar.

“I am sure they fought with honor.”

“Honor be damned. We would have enjoyed victory over the Hancher vermin if you had not intervened that day.”

“We are friends with the Hancher. Your attack was ill advised; I warned you we would not abandon our friends. That is not our way.”

The fourth eye stalk turned on Kazimir. “You in person warned the Empire, Navy Commander?”

“That is correct.”

“You live so long. You are no longer natural.”

“Is this why you are here, Ambassador, to insult me?”

“You overreact. I state the obvious.”

“We do not hide from the obvious,” Justine said. “But we are not here today to dwell upon what was. Please come in, Ambassador.”

“You are kind.”

Justine walked into the entrance hall with the ambassador’s sled gliding along behind her. Somehow it managed to keep a distance that was not so close as to be blatantly rude but close enough to be disconcerting.

Kazimir’s icon blinked up beside Gore’s in her peripheral vision. “You know,” he said, “the Ocisens only started painting their sleds black after they found out humans are unsettled by darkness.”

“If that’s the best they can come up with, it’s a wonder their species ever survived the fission age,” she replied.

“We shouldn’t be in too much of a hurry to mock them,” Gore replied. “However much we sneer, they do have an empire, and they would have obliterated the Hancher if we hadn’t stepped in.”

“I’d hardly consider that to be an indicator of their superiority,” Justine told them. “And they’re certainly not a threat to us; their technology level is orders of magnitude below Higher culture, let alone ANA.”

“Yes, but right now they only have one policy: to acquire better technology, especially weapons technology. A sizable percentage of the Emperor’s expansion budget is diverted to building long-range exploration ships in the hope they’ll come across a world whose inhabitants have gone postphysical and they can help themselves to whatever’s left behind.”

“Let’s hope they never encounter a Prime immotile.”

“They’ve made seventeen attempts to reach the Dyson Pair,” Kazimir told her. “And they currently have forty-two ships searching for an immotile civilization beyond the region of space we firewalled.”

“I didn’t know that. Is there any danger they’ll find a rogue Prime planet?”

“If we can’t find one, they certainly won’t be able to.”

Justine led their little party into the McLeod room and sat at the head of the large oak table running down the middle. Kazimir took the chair at his mother’s side while the ambassador hovered at the other end. Its eye stalks bent around slowly, as if it were having trouble with what it saw as it scanned the walls. The room’s decor was Scottish-themed, surrounding the alien with tartan drapes, ancient Celtic ceremonial swords, and solemn marble mannequins dressed in clan kilts. Several sets of bagpipes were displayed in glass cases. A fabulous pair of stag antlers hung above the stone mantel that had been imported from a Highland castle.

“Ambassador,” Justine said formally. “I represent the human government of Earth. I am physical, as you asked, and I am empowered to negotiate on the government’s behalf with the Ocisen Empire. What do you wish to discuss?”

Three of the ambassador’s eyes curved around to stare at her. “Although we disapprove of living creatures placing themselves subordinate to the mechanical, we consider your planetary computer to be the true ruler of the Commonwealth. That is why I required this direct meeting rather than with the Senate as usual.”

Justine was not about to start arguing about political structures with an alien who saw everything in black and white. “ANA has considerable influence beyond this planet. That is so.”

“Then you must work with the Empire to avert a very real danger.”

“What danger is that, Ambassador?” As if none of us knew.

“A human organization is threatening to send ships into the Void.”

“Yes, our Living Dream movement wants to send its followers on a Pilgrimage there.”

“I am familiar with human emotional states after being exposed to your kind for so long, so I am curious why you do not react to this event with any sense of distress or concern. It is through humans that we know of the Void; therefore, you know what effect your Living Dream is proposing to trigger.”

“They do not propose anything; they simply wish to live the life of their idol.”

“You are deliberately denying the implication. Their entry to the Void will provoke a massive devourment phase. The galaxy will be ruined. Our Empire will be consumed. You will kill us and countless others.”

“That will not happen,” Justine said.

“We are reassured that you intend to stop the Living Dream.”

“That’s not what I said. It is not our belief that their Pilgrimage will cause a devourment phase of any size. They simply do not possess the ability to pass through the event horizon which guards the Void. Even the Raiel have trouble doing that, and Living Dream does not have access to a Raiel ship.”

“Then why are they launching this Pilgrimage?”

“It is a simple political gesture, nothing more. Neither the Ocisen Empire nor any other species in the galaxy has anything to worry about.”

“Do you guarantee that your Living Dream group cannot get through the event horizon? Other humans have crossed over into the Void. They are the cause of this desire to Pilgrimage, are they not?”

“Nothing is certain, Ambassador; you know that. But the likelihood—”

“If you cannot guarantee it, then you must prevent the ships from flying.”

“The Greater Commonwealth is a democratic institution, complicated in this case by Living Dream being both transstellar and the legitimate government of Ellezelin. The Commonwealth constitution is specifically designed to protect every member’s right to self-determination on an individual and governmental level. In other words, we don’t actually have the legal right to prevent them from embarking on their Pilgrimage.”

“I am familiar with human lawyers. Everything can be undone; nothing is final. You play with words, not reality. The Empire recognizes only power and ability. Your computer government has the physical power to prevent this Pilgrimage, am I not correct?”

“Ability does not automatically imply intent,” Justine said. “ANA: Governance has the ability to do many things. We do not do them because of the laws which govern us, both legal and moral.”

“It is not part of your morality to destroy this galaxy. You can prevent this.”

“We can argue strongly against it,” she said, wishing she did not agree quite so much with the Ocisen.

“The Empire requires a tangible commitment. The Pilgrimage ships must be neutralized.”

“Out of the question,” Justine said. “We cannot interfere with the lawful activities of another sovereign state; it goes against everything we are.”

“If you do not prevent the launch of this atrocity, then the Empire will. Even your lawyers will agree we have the right to species self-preservation.”

“Is that a threat, Ambassador?” Kazimir asked quietly.

“It is the course of action you have forced upon us. Why do you not see this? Are you afraid of your primitive cousins? What can they threaten you with?”

“They do not threaten us; we respect each other. Can you make the leap to understand that?”

Justine tried to read the ambassador’s reaction to the jibe, but it seemed unperturbed. Spittle continued to dribble from its vocalizer gill while its arms flopped like landed fish inside their cybernetic casings. “Your laws and their hypocrisy will always elude us,” the ambassador said. “The Empire knows you always include extraordinary powers within your constitutions to impose solutions in times of crisis. We require you to invoke them now.”

“ANA: Governance will be happy to introduce a motion in the Senate,” Justine said. “We will ask that Living Dream desist from reckless action.”

“Will you back this by force if they refuse?”

“Unlikely,” Kazimir said. “Our navy exists to protect us from external enemies.”

“What is the Void devourment if not an enemy? Ultimately it is everyone’s enemy. The Raiel acknowledge this.”

“We do understand your unease, Ambassador,” Justine said. “I would like to reassure you we will work to prevent any catastrophe from engulfing the galaxy.”

“The Raiel could not prevent devourment. Are you greater than the Raiel?”

“Probably not,” she muttered. Did it understand sarcasm?

“Then we will prevent your ships from flying.”

“Ambassador, I have to advise the Ocisen Empire against such a course of action,” Kazimir said. “The navy will not permit you to attack humans.”

“Do not think you can intimidate us, Admiral Kazimir. We are not the helpless species you attacked at Fandola. We have allies now. I represent many powerful species who will not allow the Void to begin its final devourment phase. We do not stand alone. Do you think your navy can defeat the whole galaxy?”

Kazimir seemed unperturbed. “The navy acts only in defense. I urge you to allow the Commonwealth to solve an internal problem in our own way. Humans will not trigger a large-scale devourment.”

“We will watch you,” the ambassador boomed. “If you do not prevent these Pilgrimage ships from being built and launched, then we and our new—powerful—allies will act in self-defense.”

“I do understand your concern,” Justine said. “But I would ask you to trust us.”

“You have never given us a reason to,” the ambassador said. “I thank you for your time. I will return to my ship; I find your environment unpleasant.”

Which is quite subtle for an Ocisen, Justine thought. She stood and accompanied the ambassador back to its ship. Gore materialized beside her as the hulking machine rose into the sky.

“Allies, huh? You know anything about that?” he asked Kazimir.

“Not a thing,” Kazimir said. “They could be bluffing. Then again, if they are serious about stopping the Pilgrimage, they will need allies. They certainly can’t do it alone.”

“Could it be the Raiel?” Justine asked in surprise.

Kazimir shrugged. “I doubt it. The Raiel don’t go sneaking around doing deals to pitch one species against another. If the Empire had approached them, I feel confident they would have told us.”

“A postphysical, then?”

“Not impossible,” Gore conceded. “Most of them regard us as vulgar little newcomers to an exclusive club. Those that talk to us, anyway. Most can’t even be bothered to do that. But I’d be very surprised if one had. They’d probably be quite interested in observing the final devourment phase.”

“How about you?” Justine inquired lightly.

Gore smiled, snow-white teeth shining coldly between gold lips. “I admit it would be a hell of a sight. From a distance. A very large distance.”

“So what do you recommend?” Justine asked.

“We certainly need to start the motion in the Senate,” Kazimir said. “The ambassador was quite right. I don’t think we can allow the Pilgrimage to launch.”

“Can’t stop ’em,” Gore said with indecent cheerfulness. “It’s in the constitution.”

“We do have to find a solution,” Justine said. “A political one. And quickly.”

“That’s my girl. Are you going to address the Senate yourself? You carry a lot of weight out there: history in the flesh.”

“And it would be helpful to get confirmation from the Raiel,” Kazimir said. “You do have the personal connection.”

“What?” Justine’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, hellfire. I wasn’t planning on leaving Earth.”

“I expect the Hancher ambassador would like some reassurance, as well,” Gore added maliciously.

Justine turned to give her father a level stare. “Yes, there’s a lot of people and factions we need to keep an eye on.”

“I’m sure Governance knows what it’s doing. After all, you were its first choice. Can’t beat that.”

“Actually, I was second.”

“Who was first?” Kazimir asked curiously.

“Toniea Gall.”

“That bitch!” Gore spit. “She couldn’t get laid in a Silent World house the day after she rejuved. Everyone hates her.”

“Now, Dad, history decided the resettlement period was a minor golden age.”

“Fucking minuscule, more like.”

Justine and Kazimir smiled at each other. “She was a good President as I recall,” Kazimir said.

“Bullshit.”

“I’ll go and visit the Hancher embassy on my way to the Senate,” Justine said. “It would be nice to know about the Empire’s military movements.”

“I’ll start reassigning our observation systems inside the Empire to see if we can get a clearer picture of what’s going on,” Kazimir said.

 

As Justine’s body teleported out of the Tulip Mansion, Gore’s primary consciousness retreated to his secure environment within the vastness of ANA. As perceptual reality locations went, it was modest. Some people had created entire universes for their own private playgrounds, setting up self-governing parameters to maintain the configurations. The bodies, or cores, or focal points they occupied within their concepts were equally varied, with abilities defined purely by the individual milieu. Quite where such domains extended to was no longer apparent. ANA had ceased to be limited to the physical machinery that had birthed it. The operational medium was now tunneled into the quantum structure of spacetime around Earth, fashioning a unique province in which its manifold posthuman intelligences could function. The multiple interstices propagated through quantum fields with the tenacity and fragile beauty of a nebula, an edifice forever shifting in tandem with the whims of its creators. It was no longer machine or even artificial life; it had become alive. What it might evolve into was the subject of considerable and obsessive internal debate.

The factions were not openly at war over ANA’s ultimate configuration, but it was a vicious battle of ideas. Gore had not been entirely truthful when he had claimed to be a Conservative. He did support the idea of maintaining the status quo, but only because he felt the other, more extreme factions were being far too hasty in offering their solutions. Apart from the Dividers, of course, who wanted ANA to fission into as many parts as there were factions, allowing each to go its own way. He did not agree with them, either; what he wanted was more time and more information. That way, he believed, the direction they should take would become a lot more evident.

He appeared on a long beach with a rocky headland a few hundred meters ahead of him. Perched on top was an old stone tower with crumbling walls and a white pavilion structure attached to the rear. The sun was hot on his head and hands; he was wearing a loose short-sleeved shirt and knee-length trousers. His skin was ordinary, without any enrichments. The self-image and surroundings were taken from the early twenty-first century, back when life was easier even without sentient machines. This was Hawksbill Bay, Antigua, where he used to come with his yacht, Moonlight Madison. There had been a resort clustered along the shore in those days, but in this representation the land behind the beach was nothing more than a tangle of palm trees and lush grass with brightly colored parrots zipping between the branches. It did not have the wind that blew constantly through the real Caribbean, either, although the sea was an astonishingly clear turquoise where fish swam close to shore.

There was a simple dirt path up the headland, leading to the tower. The pavilion with its fabric roof covered a broad wooden deck and a small swimming pool. There was a big oval table at one end with five heavily cushioned chairs around it. Nelson Sheldon was sitting there, a tall drink resting in front of him.

In the days before ANA, Nelson had been the security chief for the Sheldon Dynasty, the largest and most powerful economic empire that had ever existed. When the original Commonwealth society and economy split apart and reconfigured as the Greater Commonwealth, the dynasty retained a great deal of its wealth and power, but things weren’t the same. After Nigel Sheldon left, it lost cohesion and dispersed out among the External worlds; it was still a force to be reckoned with politically and economically, but it lacked true clout.

Over two centuries spent looking after the dynasty’s welfare had turned Nelson into a pragmatist of the first order. That meant he and Gore saw the whole ANA evolution outcome in more or less the same terms.

Gore sat at the table and poured himself an iced tea from the pitcher. “You accessed all that?”

“Yeah. I’m interested who the Empire has as an ally or even allies.”

“Probably just a bluff.”

“You’re overestimating the Ocisens. They lack the imagination for a bluff. I’d say they’ve managed to dig up some ancient reactionary race with a hard-on for the good old days and a backyard full of obsolete weapons.”

“ANA: Governance is going to have to give that one some serious attention,” Gore said. “We can’t have alien warships invading the Commonwealth. Been there, done that. Ain’t going to let it happen twice. It was one of the reasons we started building ANA, so that humanity is never at a technological disadvantage again. There’s a lot of very nasty hardware lying around this galaxy.”

“Among other things,” Nelson agreed sagely. “We are going to have to give the Void some serious attention soon—just as the Accelerators wanted.”

“I want us to give the Void serious attention,” Gore said. “We can hardly claim to be masters of cosmological theory if we can’t even figure it out. It’s only the analysis time scale which everyone disagrees on.”

“And the method of analysis, but yes, I’ll grant you that we do need to know how the damn thing is generated. It’s one of the reasons I’m with you on our little conspiracy.”

“Think of us as a very small faction.”

“Whatever; I stopped screwing round with semantics a long time ago. Purpose is absolute, and if you can’t define it: tough. And our purpose is to undo the damage the Accelerators have caused.”

“To a degree, yes. The Conservatives will be most active on that front; we can trust them to do a decent job. I want to try to think a couple of steps ahead. After all, we’re not animals anymore. We don’t just react to a situation; we’re supposed to be able to see it coming. Ultimately, something has to be done about the Void problem. Understanding its internal mechanism is all very well, but it cannot be allowed to continue threatening the galaxy.”

Nelson raised a glass to his lips and smiled in salute. “Way to go, tough guy. Where the Raiel failed…”

“Where the Raiel tell us they failed. We have no independent confirmation.”

“Nothing lasts long enough, apart from the Raiel themselves.”

“Bullshit. Half the postphysicals in the galaxy have been around for a lot longer.”

“Yeah, and those that were don’t bother to communicate anymore. They’re all quiet, or dead, or transcended, or retroevolved. So unless you want to go around and poke them with a big stick, the Raiel are our source. Face it, ANA is good, great even. We’re damn nearly proto-gods, but in terms of development we are still behind the Raiel, and they plateaued millions of years ago. The Void defeated them. They converted entire star systems into defense machines, they invaded the fucking place with an armada, and they still couldn’t switch it off or kill it or blow it to hell.”

“They went at it the wrong way.”

Nelson laughed. “And you know the right way?”

“We have an advantage they never did. We have insider knowledge, a mole.”

“The Waterwalker? In Ozzie’s name, tell me you’re joking.”

“You know who paid the most attention to Inigo’s dreams right at the start? The Raiel. They didn’t know what was inside. They built ships which could theoretically withstand any quantum environment, yet not one of them ever returned. We’re the ones who showed them what’s in there.”

“It’s a very small glimpse, a single city on a standard H-congruous planet.”

“You’re missing the point.” His arm swept around Hawksbill to point at the thick pillar of black rock protruding from the water several hundred meters out to sea. Small waves broke apart on it, churning up spume. “You bring any humans prior to the twenty-fifth century into here and they’d think they were in a physical reality. But if you or I were to observe the environment through them, we’d soon realize there were artificial factors involved. The Waterwalker gives us the same opportunity. His telepathic abilities have provided a very informative glimpse into the nature of the universe hiding inside that bastard event horizon. For all that it looks like our universe with planets and stars, it most definitely is not. This Skylord of the Second Dream confirms that. The Void has a Heart which is most distinctive, even though we haven’t been shown it yet.”

“Knowing it’s different in there doesn’t give us any real advantage.”

“Wrong. We know nothing can be achieved on a physical level. You can’t use quantumbusters against it; you can’t send an army in to wipe out the chief villain’s control room. The Void is the ultimate postphysical in the galaxy and probably all the other galaxies we can see. What we have to do is communicate with it if we ever want to achieve any resolution to the problem it presents to our stars. I don’t believe the Firstlife ever intended it to be dangerous; they didn’t know there was anything left outside that it could ever threaten. That’s our window. We know humans can get inside even though we’re not sure how they did it that first time. We know there are humans in there who are attuned to its fabric. Through them we may be able to effect change.”

“The Waterwalker is dead. He has been for millennia of internal time.”

“Even if he were unique, which I don’t believe for a minute, time is not a problem, not in there. We all know that. What we have to do is get inside and forge that tenuous little link to the Heart. That’s the key to this.”

“You want to visit the Void? To fly through the event horizon?”

“Not me. Much as my ego would love being the union point, there’s no empirical evidence that I would have the telepathic ability inside. Even if we took ANA inside, there’s no certainty it could become the conduit. No. We have to employ a method that has a greater chance of success.”

Nelson shook his head in dismay and a bit of disappointment. “Which is?”

“I’m working on it.”

It was not an auspicious start to the day. Araminta had not overslept, not exactly. She had an Advancer heritage that gave her a complete set of macrocellular clusters, all functioning efficiently; she could order her secondary thought routines competently. So naturally she had woken up on time with a phantom bleeping in her ears and synchronized blue light flashing along her optic nerve. It was just after that wake-up spike that she always had difficulty. Her flat had only two rooms: a bathroom cubicle and a combi main room. That was all she could afford on her waitress’s pay. Despite the fact that it was cheap, the expanded bed with its a-foam mattress was very comfortable. After the spike she lay curled up in her cotton pajamas, cozy as a nesting frangle. Hazy morning sunlight stole around the curtains, not bright enough to be disturbing; the room maintained itself at a comfortable warmth. If she bothered to check the flat’s management programs, everything was ready and waiting: the day’s clothes washed and aired, a quick light breakfast in the cuisine cabinet.

So I can afford to laze for a bit.

The second alarm spike jerked her awake again, vanquishing the weird dream. This spike was harsher than the first, deliberately so, as it was an urgent order to get the hell up—one she never needed. When she canceled the noise and light, she assumed she’d messed up the secondary routines, somehow switching the order of the spikes. Then she focused on the timer in her exoimages.

“Shit!”

It became a struggle to pull on her clothes while drinking the Assam tea and chewing some toast. A leisurely shower was replaced by spraying on some travel-clean, which never worked the way the ads promised, leaving busy glamorous people fresh and cleansed as they zipped between meetings and clubs. Instead she hurried out of the flat with her mouse-brown hair badly brushed, her eyes red-rimmed and stinging slightly from the travel-clean, and her skin smelling of pine bleach.

Great. That should earn me some big tips, she thought grouchily as she hurried down to the big building’s underground garage. Her trike pod purred its way out into Colwyn City’s crowded streets and joined the morning rush of commuters. In theory the traffic should have been light; most people these days used regrav capsules, floating in serene comfort above the wheeled vehicles except when they touched down on dedicated parking slots along the side of the road or on a rooftop pad. But at this early hour the city’s not so well off were all on their way to work, filling the concrete grid close to capacity with pods, cars, and bikes and jamming the public rail cabs.

Araminta was half an hour late when her pod pulled up at the back of Niks. She rushed in through the kitchen door and got filthy looks from the rest of the staff. “Sorry!” The restaurant was already full of the breakfast crowd, midlevel executives who liked their food natural, prepared by chefs rather than cuisine units and served by humans, not bots.

Tandra managed to lean in close as Araminta fastened her apron. She sniffed suspiciously and winked. “Travel-clean, huh. I guess you didn’t get home last night.”

Araminta hung her head, wishing she did have an excuse like that. “I was up late last night; another design course.”

“Honey, you’ve got to start burning the candle at both ends. You’re real young and a looker; get yourself out there again.”

“I know. I will.” Araminta took a deep breath and went over to Matthew, who was so disgusted that he didn’t even rebuke her. She lifted three plates from the ready counter, checked the table number, cranked her mouth open to a smile, and pushed through the doors.

The breakfast session at Niks usually lasted about ninety minutes. There wasn’t a time limit, but by a quarter to nine the last customers were heading for the office or store. Occasionally, a tourist or two would linger or a business meeting would run overtime. Today there were not many lagging behind. Araminta did her penance by supervising the cleaning bots as the tables were changed, ready to serve morning coffee to shoppers and visitors. Niks had a good position in the commercial district, five blocks from the docks down on the river.

Tables started to fill up again after ten o’clock. The restaurant had a curving front wall with a slim terrace running around it. Araminta went along the outside tables, adjusting the flowers in the small vases and taking orders for chocolettos and cappuccinos. It kept her out of Matthew’s way. He still had not said anything to her, a bad sign.

Some time after eleven the woman appeared and started moving along the tables, talking to the customers. Araminta could see that several of them were annoyed, waving her away. Since Ethan had declared Pilgrimage ten days earlier, Living Dream disciples from the local fane had been coming in and pestering people. It was starting to be a problem.

“Can I help you?” Araminta asked, keeping the tone sharp; this was a chance to earn redemption points with Matthew. The woman was dressed in a charcoal-gray cashmere suit, old-fashioned but expensive, with a long flowing skirt, the kind of thing Araminta might have worn before the separation, back in the days when she had money. “We have several tables available.”

“I’m collecting signature certificates,” the woman said. She had a very determined look on her face. “We’re trying to get the council to stop ingrav capsule use above Colwyn City.”

“Why?” It came out before Araminta really thought about it.

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Regrav is bad enough, but at least they’re speed- and altitude-limited inside the city boundary. Have you ever thought what would happen if an ingrav drive failed? They fly semiballistic parabolas; that means they’d plummet down at half orbital velocity.”

“Ah, yes, I see.” She also could see Matthew giving them a wary look.

“Suppose one crashed onto a school at that speed. Or a hospital. There’s just no need for them. It’s blatant consumerism without any form of responsibility. People are buying them only to show off. And there are studies that suggest the ingrav effect puts a strain on deep geological faults. We could have an earthquake.”

Araminta was proud she did not laugh out loud. “I see.”

“The city traffic network wasn’t designed with those sorts of speeds in mind, either. The number of near-miss incidents logged is rising steadily. Will you add your certificate? Help us keep our lives safe.”

A file was presented to Araminta’s u-shadow. “Yes, of course. But you’ll have to order a tea or coffee; my boss is already cross with me this morning.” She flicked her gaze toward Matthew as she added her signature certificate to the petition, confirming she was a Colwyn City resident.

“Typical,” the woman grunted. “They never think of anything but themselves and their profit.” But she sat down and ordered a peppermint tea.

“What’s her problem?” Matthew asked as Araminta collected the tea.

“The universe is a bad place; she just needs to unwind a little.” She gave him a sunny smile. “Which is why we’re here.”

Before he could say anything else, she skipped back to the terrace.

At half past eleven Araminta’s u-shadow collated the morning property search it had run through the city’s estate agencies and shunted the results into one of her storage lacunae. She was on her break in the little staff lounge beside the kitchen. It did not take long to review them all; she was looking for a suitable flat or even a small house somewhere in the city. There were not many that fit her criteria: cheap, in need of renovation, near the center. She tagged three agency files as possibles and checked on how the previous day’s possibles were doing. Half of them already had been snapped up. One really had to be quick in today’s market, she reflected wistfully. And have money or at least some decent credit. A renovation was her dream project: buying a small property and refurbishing it in order to sell it at a profit. She knew she could be good at it. She had taken five development and design courses in the last eight months since separating from Laril, as well as studying every interior decorating text her u-shadow could pull out of the unisphere. Property development was a risky proposition, but every case she had accessed showed that the true key was dedication and hard work as well as a lot of market research. And from her point of view she could do it by herself; she wouldn’t depend on anyone. But first she needed money.

Araminta was back in the restaurant at twelve, getting the table settings ready for lunch, learning the specials the chef was working on. The anti-ingrav crusader had gone, leaving a good tip, and Matthew was treating her humanely again. Cressida walked in at ten past twelve. She was Araminta’s cousin on her mother’s side of the family, a partner in a midsize law firm, one hundred twenty-three years old and spectacularly beautiful with flaming red hair and skin maintained to silky perfection by expensive cosmetic scales. She was wearing a two-thousand-Vpound emerald and platinum toga suit. Just by walking in to Niks she was raising the whole tone of the place. She was also Araminta’s lawyer.

“Darling.” Cressida waved and came over for a big hug; air kissing had never been part of her style. “Well, have I got news for you,” she said breathlessly. “Your boss won’t mind if I steal you for a second, will he?” Without bothering to check, she grabbed Araminta’s hand and pulled her over to a corner table.

Araminta winced as she imagined Matthew’s stare drilling laser holes in her back. “What’s happened?”

Cressida’s grinned broadly, her liquid scarlet lip gloss flowing to accommodate the big stretch. “Dear old Laril has skipped planet.”

“What?” Araminta could not quite believe that. Laril was her ex-husband in a marriage that had lasted eighteen utterly miserable months. Everyone in her immediate family had objected to Laril from the moment she had met him. They had had cause. She could admit that now; she’d been twenty-one while he was three hundred seven. At the time she’d thought him suave, sophisticated, rich, and her ticket out of boring, small and small-minded, agricultural Langham, a town over on the Suvorov continent, seven thousand miles away. They thought he was just another filthy Punk Skunk; there were enough of them kicking around the Commonwealth, especially on the relatively unsophisticated planets that made up the outer fringes of the External worlds, jaded old folks who had the money to look flawlessly adolescent but still envied the genuinely youthful for their spirit and exuberance. Every partner they snagged was centuries younger in a futile hope that the brio would transfer over magically. That was not quite the case with Laril. Close, though.

Her branch of the family on her father’s side had a business supplying and maintaining agricultural cybernetics, an enterprise that was the largest in the county and one in which Araminta was expected to work for at least the first fifty years of her life. After that apprenticeship, family members were considered adult and wealthy enough to take off for new pastures (a depressing number set up subsidiaries of the main business across Suvorov), leaving gaps for the latest batch of youngsters to fill, turning the cycle. It was a prospect Araminta considered so soul-crushing, she would have hired out as a love slave to a Prime motile to escape it. Meeting Laril, an independent businessman with an Andribot franchise among other successful commercial concerns, was like being discovered by Prince Charming. And given that these days an individual’s age was not a physical quantity, her family’s objection to the three-century difference was so bourgeois. It certainly guaranteed the outcome of the affair.

The fact that they had been more or less right about him using her only made her postseparation life worse. She could never go back to Langham now. Fortunately, Cressida was not judgmental, considering Araminta’s colossal mistake as part of life’s rich experience. “If you don’t screw up,” she had told a weeping Araminta at their first meeting, “you haven’t got a base to launch your improvement from. Now, what does the separation clause in the marriage contract entitle you to?”

Araminta, who had overcome a mountain of shame even to go to a family member, however distant, for legal help at the start of the divorce, had to admit theirs had been an old fashioned wedding of the till-death-do-us-part variety. They’d even sworn that to the licensed priest in the Langham chapel. It was all very romantic at the time.

“No contract?” an amazed and horrified Cressida had asked. “Gosh, darling, you are headed for a Mount Herculaneum of improvement, aren’t you?”

It was a mountain that Laril’s lawyers were doing their very best to prevent her from ever setting foot on; their countersuit had frozen Araminta’s own assets, all seven hundred thirty-two Vpounds she had in her savings account. Even Cressida with all her firm’s resources was finding it hard to break through Laril’s legal protection, and as for his commercial activities, they had proved even more elusive to pin down. All his early talk of being the center of a dynasty-like network of profitable companies was either a lie or a cover-up for some astonishing financial irregularities. Intriguingly, Viota’s National Revenue Service had no record of his paying tax at any time in the last hundred years and was showing a healthy interest in his activities.

“Skipped. Departed. Left this world. Gone vertical. Uprooted.” Cressida grasped Araminta’s hands and gave them a nearly painful squeeze. “He didn’t even pay his lawyers.” Her happiness at that eventuality was indecent. “And now they’re just another name on the list of fifty creditors after his ass.”

Araminta’s brief moment of delight suddenly darkened. “So I get nothing?”

“On the contrary. His remaining solid assets—that’s his town house and the stadium food franchise, which we did manage to freeze right at the start—are rightfully yours. Admittedly, they don’t quite add up to the kind of assets that will sway a naive young girl’s head.”

Araminta blushed furiously.

“But not to be sneered at. Unfortunately, there is the question of back taxes, which I’m afraid amounts to three hundred thirty-seven thousand Viotia pounds. And if the NRS could ever prove half of Laril’s ventures that you told me about, they’d claim the rest, too. Bloodsucking fiends. However, they can’t prove a damn thing thanks to the excellent encryption and strange lack of records your slippery ex has muddled his life with. Then there’s my fee, which is ten percent seeing as how you’re family and I admire your late-found pride. So the rest is yours, clear and free.”

“How much?”

“Eighty-three thousand.”

Araminta could not speak. It was a fortune. Agreed, nothing like the corporate megastructure Laril had claimed he owned and controlled, but more than she had expected and asked for in the divorce petition. Ever since she had walked into Cressida’s office, she had allowed herself to dream that she might, just might, come out of this with thirty or forty thousand, that Laril would pay just to be rid of her. “Oh, great Ozzie, you are kidding,” she whispered.

“Not a bit. A judge friend of mine has allowed us to expedite matters on account of the circumstances of the truly tragic hardship I claimed you’re suffering. Your savings are now unfrozen, and we’ll transfer Laril’s money into your account at four o’clock this afternoon. Congratulations. You’re a free and single woman again.”

Araminta was horrified that she was crying; her hands seemed to flap about in front of her face of their own volition.

“Wow!” Cressida put her arm around Araminta’s shoulders, rocking her playfully. “How do you take bad news?”

“It’s over? Really over?”

“Yep. Really. So what say you and I go celebrate. Tell your manager where to stick his menu, go pour soup over a customer’s head, then we’ll hit the coolest clubs in town and ruin half the male population. How about it?”

“Oh.” Araminta looked up, wiping tears with the back of her hand; the mention of Matthew made her realize she was supposed to be serving. “I need to get back. Lunch is really busy. They rely on me.”

“Hey, calm down, take a minute. Think of what’s happened here.”

Araminta nodded her head sheepishly, glancing around the restaurant. Her co-workers were all trying not to glance in her direction; Matthew was annoyed again. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s going to take a while to sink in. I can’t believe it’s all over. I’ve got to…Oh, Ozzie, there are so many things I want to do.”

“Great! Let’s get you out of here and bring on the serious partying. We’ll start with a decent meal.”

“No.” Araminta could see Tandra staring anxiously and gave her a weak thumbs-up in return. “I can’t just walk out; that’s not fair to everyone else here. They’ll need to get a replacement. I’ll hand in my notice properly and work the rest of the week for them.”

“Damnit, you are horrendously sweet. No wonder your filthy ex could take advantage so easily.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Too bloody true it won’t.” Cressida stood up, smiling proudly.

“From now on I’m vetting anyone you date. At least come out for a drink tonight.”

“Um, I really do need to go home after this and work things out.”

“Friday night, then. Come on! Everyone goes out Friday night.”

Araminta couldn’t keep the grin off her face. “All right. Friday night.”

“Thank Ozzie for that. And get yourself some serious bad girl clothes first. We’re going to do this properly.”

“Okay. Yeah, okay, I will.” She actually could feel her mood changing, like some warm liquid invading her arteries. “Uh, where do I go for clothes like that?”

“Oh, I’ll show you, darling; don’t you worry.”

 

Araminta did work the lunch shift, then told Matthew she was quitting but was happy to stay on as long as he needed her. He completely surprised her by giving her a kiss and congratulating her on finally breaking free of Laril. Tandra got all teary and affectionate while the others gathered around to hear the news and cheer.

By half past three in the afternoon she had put on a light coat and walked out. The cool late spring air sobered her up, allowing her to think clearly again. Even so, she walked the route she so often walked in the afternoon. Along Ware Street, take a left at the major junction, and head down the slope along Daryad Avenue. The buildings on either side were five or six stories tall, a typical mix of commercial properties. Regrav capsules slid silently overhead, and the metro track running down the center of the avenue hummed with public cabs. The roads had few vehicles, yet Araminta still waited at the crossings for the traffic solidos to change shape and color. She barely noticed her fellow pedestrians.

The Glayfield was a bar and restaurant at the bottom of the slope, occupying two stories of an old wood and composite building, part of the original planet landing camp. She made her way through the dark deserted bar to the stairs at the back and went up to the restaurant. That, too, was virtually empty. Up at the front it boasted a sheltered balcony where in her opinion the tables were too close; waitresses would have trouble squeezing between them when they were full. She sat at one next to the rail, which gave her an excellent view along Daryad Avenue. This was where she came most afternoons to wind down after her shift at Niks, sitting with a hot orange chocolate and watching the people and the ships. Over to her right the avenue curved upward into the bulk of the city, producing a wall of tall buildings expressing the many construction phases and styles that had come and gone in Colwyn’s hundred-seventy-year history. To her left the river Cairns cut through the land in a gentle northward curve as it flowed out to the Great Cloud Ocean twenty miles away. The river was half a mile wide in the city, the top of a deep estuary that made an excellent natural harbor. Several marinas had been built on both sides, providing anchorage to thousands of private yachts ranging from little sailing dinghies up to regrav-assisted pleasure cruisers. Two giant bridges spanned the water, one a single unsupported arch of nanotube carbon and the other a more traditional suspension bridge with pure white pillars a flamboyant three hundred meters tall. Capsules slid along beside them, but ground traffic was almost nonexistent these days and they were used mainly by pedestrians. They led over to the exclusive districts on the south bank, where the city’s wealthier residents flocked amid long green boulevards and extensive parks.

On the northern shore, barely half a mile from the Glayfield, the docks were built into the bank and out into the mud flats: two square miles of cargo-handling machinery and warehouses and quays and landing pads and caravan platforms. It was the hub from which the Izyum continent had been developed, the second starport on the planet. There was no heavy industry on Viotia; major engineering systems and advanced technology were all imported. With Ellezelin only seventy-five light-years away, Viotia was on the fringe of the Free Trade Zone, a market that the local population grumbled was free for Ellezelin companies all right, but disadvantaged everyone else caught in its commercial web. There wasn’t a wormhole linking Viotia to Ellezelin yet. But talk was that in another hundred years, when Viotia’s internal market had grown sufficiently, one would be opened, allowing the full range of cheap Ellezelin products to flood through, turning them into an economic colony. In the meantime, starships from External worlds came and went. She watched them as she sipped her orange chocolate: a line of huge freighters, their metal hulls as dull as lead, heavy and ungainly, drifting down vertically out of the sky. Behind them, the departing ships rose away from the planet, brushing through Viota’s legendary pink clouds, accelerating fast once they reached the stratosphere. Araminta gave them a mild grin, thinking of the anti-ingrav woman. If she was right, what would the starships’ field effect be doing to the geology beneath the city? Maybe a simple wormhole would be the answer; she rather liked the idea, a throwback to the First Commonwealth era of genteel and elegant train travel between star systems. It was a shame that the External worlds rejected such links out of hand, but they valued their political freedom too much to risk a return to a monoculture, especially with the threat of Higher culture overwhelming their hard-won independence.

Araminta stayed at the table long after she usually packed up and went home. The sun began to fall, turning the clouds a genuine gold-pink as the planet’s hazy mesosphere diffused the dying rays of the K-class star. Transocean barges shone brightly out on the Cairns, regrav engines keeping their flat hulls just above the slowly rippling water as they nosed out of the dock and headed for the open sea and the islands beyond. She always was soothed by the sight of the city, a huge edifice of human activity buzzing along efficiently, a reassurance that civilization did actually work, that nothing could kick the basics out from under her. And now, finally, she could begin to take an active part, to carve out a life for herself. The files from the property agencies floated gently through her exoimage display, allowing her to plan what she might do in more detail than she ever had bothered with before. Without money such reviews had been pointless daydreams, but this evening they took on a comfortable solidity. Part of her was scared by the notion. If she made a mistake now, she would be back to waitressing tables for the next few decades. She had only one shot. Eighty-three thousand was a tidy sum, but it had to be made to work for her. Despite the trepidation, she was looking forward to the challenge. It marked her life’s true beginning.

The sun set amid a warm scarlet glow, seeming to match Araminta’s mood. By then the first customers of the evening were starting to fill up the restaurant. She left a big tip and went downstairs. Her usual routine had her walking back to Niks, maybe doing some shopping on the way, and taking the trike pod home. But there was nothing usual about this day. There was music blasting through the bar. People were leaning on the counter, ordering drinks and aerosols. Araminta glanced down at her clothes. She was wearing a sensible skirt, navy blue, that came down below her knees, and a white top with short sleeves made from a fabric that was specifically wipe-clean so that she could cope with spills. Around her, people had made an effort to smarten up for the evening; she felt slightly downmarket by comparison.

But then, who are they to judge me?

It was a liberating thought of the kind she had not entertained since leaving Langham back when the future was full of opportunity, at least in her imagination.

Araminta sidled her way up to the bar and studied the bottles and beer taps. “Green Fog, please,” she told the barman. It earned her a slightly bemused smile, but he mixed it perfectly. She drank it slowly, trying not to let the smoldering mist get up her nose. Sneezing would blow away any remaining credibility.

“Haven’t seen anybody drink one of those for a while,” a man’s voice said.

She turned and looked at him. He was handsome in that precise way everyone was these days, with features aligned perfectly; she guessed that meant he had been through at least a couple of rejuve treatments. Like the rest of the bar’s clientele, he had dressed up, a simple gray and purple toga jacket that cloaked him in a gentle shimmer.

And he’s not Laril.

“Been awhile since I was let out,” she retorted. Then she smirked at her own answer, the fact she was bold enough to say it.

“Can I get you another? I’m Jaful, by the way.”

“Araminta. And no, not a Green Fog; that’s a nostalgia thing for me. What’s current?”

“They say Adlier 88Vodka is going down in all the wrong places.”

She finished her Green Fog in a single gulp, tried not to grimace too hard, and pushed the empty glass across the bar. “Best start there, then.”

“Are you awake?”

Araminta stirred when she heard the question. She wasn’t awake exactly, more like dozing pleasantly, content in the afterglow of a night spent in busy lovemaking. Her mind was full of a strange vision, as if she were being chased through the dark sky by an angel. Her slight movement was enough for Jaful. His hands slid up her belly to cup her breasts. “Uh,” she murmured, still drowsy as the angel dwindled. Jaful rolled her onto her front, which was confusing. Then his cock was sliding up inside her again, hard and insistent. It was not a comfortable position. Each thrust pushed her face down into the soft mattress. She wriggled to try to get into a more acceptable stance, which he interpreted as full acceptance. Heated panting became shouts of joy. Araminta cooperated as best she could; the pleasure was minimal at best. Out of practice, she thought, and tried not to laugh. He wouldn’t understand. At least she was doing her best to make up for lost time, though. They had coupled three or four times after going back to his place.

Jaful climaxed with a happy yell. Araminta matched him. Yep, remember how to do that bit as well. Eighteen months with Laril had made faking orgasms automatic.

Jaful flopped onto his back and let out a long breath. He grinned at her. “Fantastic. I haven’t had a night like that for a long time, if ever.”

She dropped her voice a couple of octaves. “You were good.” It was so funny, as if they were reading from a script.

Picked up in a bar. Back to his place for a one-night stand. Compliment each other. Both of them playing their part of the ritual to perfection.

But it has been fun.

“I’m going to grab a shower,” he said. “Tell the culinary unit what you want. It’s got some good synthesis routines.”

“I’ll do that.” She watched him stroll across the room and into the en suite. Only then did she stare in curiosity. It was a chic city bachelor pad; that much was evident by the plain yet expensive furniture and contemporary art. The wall opposite the bed was a single window covered with snow-white curtains.

Araminta started hunting for her clothes as the spore shower came on. Underwear—practical rather than sexy, she acknowledged with a sigh—close to the bed. Skirt halfway between bed and door. Her white top in the living room. She pulled it on, then looked back at the bedroom. The shower was still on. Did he always take so long, or was he sticking with the part of the script that gave her a polite opportunity to exit? She shrugged and let herself out.

There wasn’t anything wrong with Jaful. She certainly had enjoyed herself in his bed most of the time. It was just that she couldn’t think what they could say to each other over breakfast. It would have been awkward. This way she kept the memory agreeable. “More practice,” she told herself, and smiled wickedly. And why not? This is real life again.

The building had a big lobby. When she walked out into the street, she blinked against the bright pink light; it was twelve minutes until she was supposed to start the morning shift at Niks. Her u-shadow told her she was in the Spalding district, which was halfway across the city, so she called a taxi down. It took about thirty seconds until the yellow and purple capsule was resting a couple of centimeters above the concrete, three meters in front of her. She watched in bemusement as the door opened. In all her life she’d never called a taxi herself; it had always been Laril who ordered them. After the separation, of course, she couldn’t afford them. Another blow for freedom.

As soon as she arrived at Niks, she rushed into the staff toilets.

Tandra gave her a leery look when she came out, tying her apron on. “You know, those look like the very same clothes you wore when you left yesterday.” She sniffed elaborately. “Yep, travel-clean again. Did something happen to your plumbing last night?”

“You know, I’m really going to miss you when I leave,” Araminta replied, trying not to laugh.

“What’s his name? How long have you been dating?”

“Nobody. I’m not dating; you know that.”

“Oh, come on!”

“I need coffee.”

“Not much sleep, huh?”

“I was reviewing property files, that’s all.”

Tandra gave her a malicious sneer. “Sweetie, I ain’t never heard it called that before.”

 

After the breakfast shift was over, Araminta ran her usual review. This time it was different. This time her u-shadow contacted the agencies, which gave her virtual tours of the five most promising properties, using a full sense relay bot. On that basis, she made an appointment to visit one that afternoon.

As soon as she walked through the door, she knew it was right for her. The flat was the second floor of a converted three-story house in the Philburgh district. A mile and a half north of the dock and three blocks back from the river, with two bedrooms, it was perfect for someone working in the city center on a modest salary. There was even a balcony from which one could just see the Cairns if one leaned out over the railing.

She went through the official survey scan with the modern analysis programs recommended by half a dozen professional property development companies. It needed redecorating; the current vendor had lived there for thirty years and had not done much to it. The plumbing needed replacing; it would require new domestic units. But the structure was perfectly sound.

“I’ll take it,” she told the agent.

An hour negotiating with the vendor gave her a price of fifty-eight thousand, more than she would have liked, but it did leave her with enough of a budget to give the place a decent refurbishment. There would not be much left over to live on, but if she completed the work within three or four months, she would not need a bank loan. It would be tough; looking around the living room, she could see the amount of work involved. That was when she experienced a little moment of doubt. Come on, she told herself. You can do this. This is what you’ve waited for; this is what you’ve earned.

She took a breath and left the flat. She needed to get back to her place and grab a shower. Travel-clean could cope for only so long. Then she might get changed and go out again. There were a lot of bars in Colwyn City she had heard about and never visited.

Troblum double woke in two of the penthouse’s bedrooms. His actual self lay on a bed made from a special foam that supported his large body comfortably, providing him with a decent night’s sleep. It had been Catriona’s room, decorated in excessively pink fabrics and ornaments; a lot of the surfaces were fluffy, a very girly girl’s room that he was now used to. His parallel sensorium was coming from a twinning link to the solido of Howard Liang, a Starflyer agent who had been part of the disinformation mission. Howard was in the penthouse’s main bedroom, sharing a huge circular bed with the three girls. It was another aspect of the solidos that Troblum had spent years refining; now, whenever he wanted sex, the four characters would launch themselves eagerly into a mini-orgy. The permutations their supple young bodies could combine into were almost endless, and they could keep going as long as Troblum wanted. He immersed himself for hours, his body drinking down the pleasure that Howard’s carefully formatted neural pathways experienced, as much the puppet as the puppeteer. The four of them together was not, strictly speaking, a historical reality. At least he’d never found any evidence for it. But it wasn’t impossible, which sort of legitimized the extrapolation.

The image and feeling of the beautiful naked bodies draped across him faded as his actual body reasserted itself, canceling the twinning with Howard. After the shower had squirted dermal freshener spores over him, he walked through into the vast lounge, bronze sunlight washing warmly across his tingling skin. His u-shadow reported that there was still no message from Admiral Kazimir, which he chose to interpret as good news. The delay at least meant it was still being considered. Knowing the navy bureaucracy, he suspected that the review committee still hadn’t formally met. His theory was struggling against a lot of conventional beliefs. Briefly, he considered calling the Admiral to urge him along, but his personal protocol routines advised against it.

He wrapped one of his cloaks around himself, then took the lift down to the lobby. It was only a short walk down to the Caspe River, where his favorite café was situated on the edge of the quiet water. The building was made from white wood and sculpted to resemble a folgail, a bird even more sedate than a terrestrial swan. His usual table underneath a wing arch was free, and he sat himself down. He gave his order to the café network and waited while a servicebot brought him a freshly squeezed apple and gonberry juice. The chef, Rowury, spent several days every week in the café, cooking for his enthusiastic clientele of foodies. For a culture that prided itself on its egalitarian ethos, Highers could be real snobs about some traditions and crafts, and “proper” food was well up the list. There were several restaurants and cafés in Daroca set up as showcases for their gastronomic patrons.

Troblum had finished a dish of cereal and started on his tea when someone sat down in front of him. He looked up in annoyance. The café was full, but that was no excuse for rudeness. The rebuke never made it past his lips.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Marius said as he settled in the chair, his black toga suit trailing thin wisps of darkness behind him as if he were time-lapsed. “I’ve heard good reports about this place.”

“Help yourself,” Troblum said grouchily. He knew he should not show too much resentment at Marius’s appearance; after all, the faction representative had channeled the kind of EMA funds to Troblum’s private projects that normally were available only to huge public enterprises. It was the demands placed on him in return that he found annoying. Not the challenges themselves—they were intriguing—but the fact that they always took so much time. “Oh, you already have.”

The servicebot delivered a second china cup for Marius. “How are you keeping, Troblum?”

“Fine. As you know.” His field functions detected a subtle shielding unfurling around the table, originating from Marius, not obvious but enough to prevent anyone from hearing or scanning what they were saying. He’d never liked the representative, and it was unusual to meet in person. An unarranged meeting was unheard of; it made Troblum worry about the reason. Something they consider very important.

Marius sipped the tea. “Excellent. Assam?”

“Something like that.”

“Those left on Earth do take a lot of pride in maintaining their ancient heritages. I doubt they actually go out and pick the leaves themselves, though. What do you think?”

“I couldn’t give a fuck.”

“There are a lot of things that elude you, aren’t there, my friend?”

“What do you want?”

Marius fixed his green eyes on Troblum, the faintest shiver of distaste manifesting in his expression. “Of course, bluntness to the fore. Very well. The briefing you gave to the navy concerning the Dyson Pair.”

“What about it?”

“It’s an interesting theory.”

“It’s not a theory,” Troblum said in irritation. “That has to be the explanation for the origin of the Dark Fortress.”

“The what?”

“Dark Fortress. It’s what the Dyson Alpha generator was originally called. I think it was Jean Douvoir who named it that first. He was on the original Second Chance exploration mission, you know. It was meant ironically, but after the war it fell out of fashion, especially with the firewall campaign. People just didn’t—”

“Troblum.”

“Yeah?”

“I couldn’t give a fuck.”

“I’ve got the unabridged logs from the Second Chance stored in my personal secure kube if you’d like to check.”

“No. But I believe your theory.”

“Oh for Ozz—”

“Listen,” Marius snapped. “Seriously, I believe you. It was excellently argued. Admiral Kazimir thought well enough of your presentation to order a full review, and he is not easily won over. They are taking you seriously.”

“Well, that’s good, then. Isn’t it?”

“In the greater scheme of things, I’m sure it is. However, you might like to consider where your comprehensive knowledge of the Dark Fortress came from.”

“Oh.” Now Troblum was really worried. “I never mentioned I was there.”

“I know that. The point is that we really don’t want ANA: Governance to be aware of the detailed examination you and your team made of the Dark Fortress. Not right now. Understand?”

“Yes.” Troblum actually ducked his head, which was ridiculous, but he did feel contrite; maybe he should have realized that his presentation would draw a little too much attention to him. “Do you think the navy will review my background?”

“No. They have no reason to right now. You’re just a physicist petitioning for EMA funds. It happens all the time. And that’s the way we’d like it to remain.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Good. So if the review committee advises the Admiral that no further action should be taken, we’d prefer you not to kick up a fuss.”

“But what if they favor a proper search?”

“We’re confident they won’t.”

Troblum sat back, trying to work out the politics. It was difficult for him to appreciate the motivation and psychology of other people. “But if you have that much influence on the navy, why worry?”

“We can’t affect the navy directly, not with Kazimir as the safeguard. But your advisory review committee is mostly external. Some of them are sympathetic to us, as you are.”

“Right.” Troblum could feel despair starting to cloud his mind. “Will I be able to put it forward again after the Pilgrimage?”

“We’ll see. Probably, yes.”

It was not exactly good news, but it was better than a flat refusal. “And my drive project?”

“That can continue providing you don’t publicize what you’re doing.” Marius smiled reassurance, but it didn’t belong on his face. “We do appreciate your help, Troblum, and we want to keep our relationship mutually beneficial. It’s just that events are entering a critical stage right now.”

“I know.”

“Thank you. I’ll leave you alone to enjoy your food now.”

With suspicious timing, the servicebot arrived as Marius departed. Troblum stared at the plate it deposited in front of him, a tower of thick buttered pancakes layered with bacon, yokcheese, scrambled garfoul eggs, and black pudding, topped with strawberries. Maple syrup and afton sauce ran down the sides like a volcanic eruption. The edges of the plate were artistically garnished with miniature hash browns, baked vine salfuds, and roasted golden tomatoes.

For the first time in years, Troblum didn’t feel remotely hungry.