INVESTIGATOR SECOND LEVEL HALRAN stood in the vault’s open door and surveyed the chaos inside. Every surface—walls, floor, ceiling, corpses—had been covered in a thick carpet of blue-gray gossamer fiber, as if a million spiders had spent the night spinning their webs together. The slender strands were actually semiorganic filaments that had taken over three hours to neutralize the nerve toxin leaking from spent kinetic projectiles and damp down several other lethal energy surges coming from munitions left over from the firefight. Halran was mildly surprised that the St. Mary’s clinic would use nerve agents, but then, important people did like reassurance that their secure memory stores were truly secure. He had told the clinic manager that he would be inspecting their toxic armaments user certificate at noon—a time scale long enough for high-level calls to be placed and the correct licence to be procured. It was that kind of flexible interpretation of procedure that had earned Halran his last two promotions. He figured what the hell, the big boys ran the world, anyway; there was little capital to be made from annoying them. That was why the police commissioner had handed him this assignment. And as soon as he got it, the Mayor’s assistant was calling him to explain certain political considerations, foremost of which was that the complete destruction of half a million memorycells belonging to the wealthiest, most influential people in the state had not actually happened. If there was a temporary glitch in kube data retrieval due to the unfortunate accident with the clinic’s power generator, it was regrettable but not a cause for alarm or excessive media interest. Reporters could cover the damage to the forest; they were not to be permitted into the administration block and its sublevels.

Halran’s u-shadow completed its analysis of the gossamer and reported that decontamination was complete. “All right,” he told the eight-strong forensic team standing behind him in the corridor. “I want a full scene survey down to a molecular level. No budget limit; this is way way above our usual priority rating. Col, Angelo, you build the event sequence for me. Darval, see if you can get me the name of the memorycell that bastard Telfer was after.”

Darval peered over Halran’s shoulder; the emergency lighting projector that had been rigged up in the doorway was producing a silver-blue holographic glow throughout the vault, eliminating shadows. It made the gossamer shimmer softly, resembling a rippled moonlit lake as its undulations smothered the congealed splinters of half a million kubes. “How in Ozzie’s name am I going to do that, chief?”

Halran gave him an evil grin. “There should be one missing, so all you have to do is reassemble the fragments of those that are still here and tell me which one was taken.”

“Fuck me.”

“Good point. Plan B: Go through the names on the registry and assign them a probability of someone wanting to steal their memories. Start with political, criminal, and financial categories.”

Darval gave a reluctant nod.

“Force fields on at all times, please,” Halran ordered. “There were some very nasty munitions loose in here. I don’t want to take any chances.”

The forensic team moved cautiously into the vault. Examiners scurried in with them, bots like lead cockroaches scuttling along on black electromuscle legs, bristling with sensory antennae that wiggled though the gossamer to stroke the surfaces beneath. Over two thousand were released, streaming over the floor and up the walls to build a comprehensive molecular map of the vault.

Halran waited until the tiny bots had whirled around the corpse of Viertz Accu before he gave her a more detailed inspection. Her cocooned body was still in a kneeling position, spine curved forward as if she were at prayer. They had found the top of her skull upstairs while waiting for the gossamer to run its decontamination procedure. Halran knew what that implied—this was turning into a bad case from every angle.

His exovision overlaid the results of the examiners, showing him the narrow burn lines on her exposed brain. A lot of energy had been applied in a fashion he recognized. He applied a deep scan module, tracking the depth of the beam penetration. Her memorycell had been destroyed.

“I hope she backed up recently,” he muttered.

“What do you make of these, chief?” Angelo asked. He was standing in front of an exotic matter cage.

“Nice idea, I suppose. I haven’t seen one before. Telfer obviously didn’t know they were here.”

“Much good it did the clinic. Those guards didn’t exactly slow him down, did they?”

“No. His enrichments were off the scale.” Halran called up the main case file again. Telfer appeared in his exoimage, a picture taken in the main reception area showing a possible Oriental ethnicity, but with odd gray eyes. Age locked into his thirties, which was unusual, and with a dense stubble shadow. Completely unexceptional. Halran knew that was deliberate, not that visual features meant anything in this day and age; even DNA identification was inconclusive now, and they had enough of that from the blood trail back up to the roof. The picture showed him smiling as he greeted the beautiful young clinician. His accomplice, though, was a different matter. She certainly did not qualify as unexceptional; a real beauty with a freckled face and thick dark red hair. Cute nose, too, he thought admiringly. People would remember that face.

Everything about their arrival had been perfectly normal right up to the moment when the clinic security net had started glitching and Telfer had vanished from the smartcore’s passive surveillance. The raid, too, had been extremely professional apart from the exit. The woman had seemed almost surprised, as if she were improvising the whole thing. That did not make a lot of sense.

“Chief,” Darval called.

“Yep.”

“The registry was hacked.”

Halran started to walk over to where Darval was stooped over the registry pillar. Several examiners were crawling over its gossamer cloak, prodding the top with their antennae. “Has there been physical—” he began to say. The sentence was never finished. A woman walked into the vault. Halran gave her a surprised look, about to ask who the hell she was, suspecting another of the Mayor’s staffers because nobody else could get through the police cordon without his permission. Then her face registered, and Halran did not need to ask. He knew all about this living legend; everyone in law enforcement did. “Oh, sweet Ozzie,” he murmured, and an already bad case turned nightmare on him. She was shorter than most of the citizens of the contemporary Commonwealth, but the confidence she exuded was much greater than average. Harlan had encountered enough Highers in his time to recognize their slightly smug self-belief; she was on a level far above them, with a composure that rated glacial. Her face was enchanting, a combination of pre-Common-wealth Earth’s Filipino and European features framed by thick raven hair brushed straight and devoid of any modern cosmetics, a beauty he could only describe as old-fashioned. That was fair enough given the fact that she had not changed her appearance once in the last fourteen hundred years.

The whole forensic team had fallen into awed silence, staring at the woman.

Halran stepped forward, hoping he was concealing his nerves. She wore a conservative cream-colored toga suit over a figure that was as ideal as any created by St. Mary’s specialists. When he attempted to scan her using the most subtle probes his enrichments could produce, they were deflected perfectly. It was as if nothing were there; the only empirical proof he had that she existed was his own eyesight.

“Ma’am, I’m Investigator Halran, in charge of this case. I, er, that is, we are very flattered you’re here.”

“Thank you,” said Paula Myo.

“Can I ask what your interest is?”

“It’s not my interest; I am only ANA: Governance’s representative.”

“In this universe,” Darval whispered to Angelo.

Paula gave him a sweet smile. “The old jokes are always the best ones. And they don’t come much older.”

Darvel’s expression turned sickly.

“Okay,” Halran said. “So what’s ANA: Governance’s interest?”

“Mr. Telfer.”

“Is he Higher?”

“What do you think?”

“His weapons biononics are the most sophisticated we’ve ever seen on Anagaska. The vault guards were hired purely on the basis of their enrichments, and he took them both out in less than a minute. So if he’s not Higher, he has access to the best the Central worlds have to offer.”

“Very good,” Paula complimented him. “So?”

“He’s probably working for one of your factions.”

“Excellent rationale, Investigator. That’s exactly why I’m here: to see if that particular conclusion is correct. Now, I’d like first access to all your forensic results, please.”

“Er, I’ll see you get copies, of course.”

“Your planetary government has granted ANA: Governance full cooperation on this case. I’m sure you appreciate the politics involved. Please feel free to check with your Commissioner and even the city’s Mayor, but that’s not copies. I require first and unrestricted access to the raw data, thank you.”

Halran knew when he had lost a battle. “Yes, ma’am. First access. I’ll set that up right away.”

“Thank you. Now, who’s analyzing the registry?”

“That’s me,” Darval said awkwardly.

“Who do you think Telfer was after?”

Darval glanced at Halran, who gave a tiny nod. “Easy, actually. One of the secure stores belonged to Inigo.”

“Ah.” Paula smiled. She closed her eyes and drew a long breath through her nose. “When was the last update?”

“The year 3320.”

“The year he left on his Centurion Station mission,” she said. “And he didn’t return to Anagaska until 3415, correct?”

“Yes,” Halran said. “Living Dream’s central fane on Anagaska was built in Kuhmo; he was here to dedicate it.”

“Interesting,” Paula mused.

“You think someone’s going to full-clone him?”

“Why else would you steal his mind?” Paula said. “Thank you for your cooperation, Investigator. And I’d still like those results as they come in.” She turned and started to walk out of the vault.

“That’s it?” Halran asked.

Paula halted, tipping her head to fix the investigator with a level stare. “Unless you have something else to add.”

“What about Telfer?”

“Good luck hunting him down.”

“Are you going to help us?”

“I won’t put any obstacles in your way, political or otherwise.” She left the vault, leaving Halran staring at his team in confusion and indignation.

 

Paula walked out of the administration block and glanced at the forest. The air blasts had produced superficial damage. Most of the clinic’s buildings were still intact, and while the larger trees had been toppled, there were still enough younger ones to maintain the forest once the dead trunks had been cleared away. A police cordon extended for several hundred yards, with uniformed officers reinforcing the patrolbots. Members of the clinic ground staff were working with contractors and forestrybots to clear the worst of the damage. Little curls of smoke were drifting upward from the blackened ground where fires had burned for a couple of hours during the night before being extinguished.

She did not pause as her field effect scanned the area, but two of the contractor crew were red-tagged by her u-shadow. Both of them were shielded, utilizing sophisticated deflection techniques available only to high-grade biononics. Hers, of course, were even more advanced. They were keeping their distance from the cordon, but her eyes managed to zoom in and snatch a facial image. Her u-shadow produced a cross-reference for both of them in less than a second. Once upon a time, about a thousand years earlier, Paula would have confronted them there and then. These days she liked to think she had mellowed somewhat, although in truth it was more advantageous to let them think she had not spotted them.

Paula had been born on Huxley’s Haven, a unique world funded by the Human Structure Foundation, which genetically modified all citizens so that they would fit into a simple social structure framed within a low-technology civilization. To the horror and dismay of the rest of the Commonwealth, what they condemned as genetic slavery actually worked, producing a population that was mostly happy with their predetermined lot. The few malcontents were kept in order by police officers who received specific psychoneural profiling. Among other traits was a variant on obsessive-compulsive disorder to ensure that they never gave up the chase. The Foundation had created Paula to be one of them, but she had been stolen from a birthing ward by a group of Radical Liberals intent on liberating the poor slaves. She had grown up in the Commonwealth at large, first becoming an investigator in the Serious Crimes Directorate and then, for the last seven hundred years, acting as an agent for ANA: Governance.

Huxley’s Haven still existed, its society chugging quietly along on its ordained course without changing or evolving. The Greater Commonwealth had very little contact with it these days; Paula herself had not been back for over three hundred years, and that essentially had been nostalgia tourism. There was no need to keep an eye on it; ANA: Governance was very protective of non-Higher cultures. It was a policy that ironically gave Paula very little opportunity to return; her designated task of preventing the ANA factions from pursuing their illegal interference among the External Worlds kept her incredibly busy.

Her u-shadow established an ultrasecure link to Justine Burnelli. “I’m at the Anagaska clinic,” she said.

“And?”

“We were right; the raid was organized by a faction.”

“Any clues which one?”

“Well, Marius and the Delivery Man are hanging around outside, which implies they are as interested as we are.”

“Ergo, they didn’t do it.”

“Don’t be so sure. I’ve never known the Accelerators and the Conservatives to be so blatant before. More likely, one of them did it and the other is trying to expose or counter him. You know what they’re like.”

“Whose memorycell were they after?”

“Now that’s where it gets interesting: Inigo’s.”

“Oh, my. Really?” said Justine. “I’m surprised Inigo left himself open to that level of exposure.”

“To be exact, Inigo pre–Living Dream. This is an old store.”

“How does that help anyone?”

“I’m not sure. The Conservatives will benefit if he returns and stops the Cleric Conservator’s Pilgrimage project. But there’s no way of telling if he will. He might just applaud and join the Pilgrimage himself.”

“If one of the factions full-cloned him, they’d be in possession of a puppet messiah. Very useful for endorsing your own agenda.”

“Except this won’t be a full clone,” Paula said. “This is an early version.”

“I have a theory that might fit.”

“Go.”

“A full-clone early version would presumably be able to receive dreams from the Void just like the original, which would give its controllers a considerable advantage over their opposition.”

“You mean they’d be able to reach the supposed Last Dream?”

“More likely the new Skylord Dreams. Ethan still hasn’t found the Second Dreamer despite a phenomenal amount of effort. Did you know Living Dream is modifying every gaiafield confluence nest it sponsors? And that’s about eighty percent of the Greater Commonwealth. They’re getting desperate; the new dreams are increasing. They’re not just fragments anymore. Whole sequences are seeping into the gaiafield.”

“I don’t think Living Dream is behind the raid.”

“They’d benefit enormously,” Justine said.

“Yes, but my u-shadow has identified the woman assisting Mr. Telfer. It’s Living Dream’s ex-Councillor, Corrie-Lyn, now persona non grata to Living Dream and wanted for several bodyloss charges on Ellezelin. The Commonwealth warrants are quite extensive. They also list an accomplice called Aaron, who shares the facial features of Mr. Telfer.”

“Now that is interesting. Any idea about Aaron alias Mr. Telfer?”

“No. But the pair of them transferred to a starship immediately after the clinic raid. There’s only one starship unaccounted for on Anagaska right now, the Artful Dodger.”

“What’s the history?”

“Standard private yacht, registered on Sholapur.”

“Oh, now we’re getting somewhere. Sholapur. So in other words, we don’t know who it belongs to.”

“Indeed. There’s no real background available; however, the Artful Dodger was on Ellezelin until just after the ruckus at the Riasi fane.”

“Corrie-Lyn used to be Inigo’s lover. Could she be pining for him? A full clone would be one way of getting him back.”

“No. She’s a pawn. Telfer is using her to get to Inigo.”

“How does an out-of-date memorycell help them get closer to him? Enough people have tried to find him. He’s probably left the Commonwealth entirely. Either he set off to get into the Void by himself or he’s gone and joined Ozzie.”

“He hasn’t joined Ozzie. I checked that fifteen years ago.”

“I was always envious of the life you lead,” Justine said. “All that glamorous danger and travel; there’s something intoxicating about it to a sheltered little rich girl like me. How was Ozzie?”

“Like me, essentially unchanged.”

“Who do you think this Aaron character is working for?”

“As you say, there are a lot of factions and organizations that would benefit by finding Inigo. This raid simply tells us how urgent their pursuit is becoming. Nobody has been careless enough to show their hand until now.”

“So what’s your next step?”

“This raid is only one aspect of a much larger process of political events. I think it’s important to find the Second Dreamer before Living Dream does. That person will obviously play a huge part in determining the outcome of the Pilgrimage.”

“Wow. You still think big, don’t you?”

“I always believed that solving a case is a holistic process. It’s one of the few things I have remained true to in the last thousand years.”

“And what about Aaron and Corrie-Lyn?”

“That’s the aspect I’ll stay visible on. It won’t take Investigator Halran long to identify Corrie-Lyn, and things will become quite public after that. If I start inquiring after the Second Dreamer, it will create too much interest amid the factions.”

“Would you like me to start looking for the Second Dreamer?”

“No. You’re highly visible to the factions. Almost as much as myself. I think it would be best if you could keep an eye on the Delivery Man and Marius.”

“I’ll do that. Who gets to track down the Second Dreamer, then?”

Paula smiled broadly, knowing how the faction agents out in the forest would focus on that and wonder. “The last person anyone would suspect, of course.”

The condition of the utility feed pipes in the third apartment was a lot worse than Araminta had expected. She had spent three unscheduled hours that morning tracing them through the walls and floor, supervising the bots as they ripped out the corroded tubes. It all made a great deal of mess, which meant more cleanup, which meant more time not spent preparing the wall frames for the new fittings, which pushed completion back just that little bit further.

Her u-shadow told her when it was eleven o’clock; that barely gave her enough time for a spore shower in the fourth apartment, where she was living. Two of the old shower’s five nozzles were not working, and one of the remaining jets smelled funny. She just had time to apply some freshener and dress in smart trousers and jacket before the clients were due. The perfumed spray damping her skin gave her an unexpected flashback to the day she had found out that Laril had left Viotia and her liberal use of travel-clean back in those days. All of that gave her a guilty prod that she had not been back to Niks in ages.

She gritted her teeth against stupid sentiment and went into the vestibule as the elevator brought her new clients up from the lobby. Danal and Mareble were dressed strangely. She wore a long skirt of wide-weave ginger cotton topped by a suede waistcoat with brass buttons that was worn over a plain white blouse. Sturdy brown boots were just visible below her swirling hem. Her thick raven hair was brushed back, its waves bound in simple elastic cloth bands. He wore leather trousers and boots similar to hers. A yellow jacket was almost hidden beneath a brown overcoat made of an oiled fabric.

Despite their historical appearance, Araminta could not help smiling as the elevator doors opened. There was something irrepressibly enthusiastic about them: youthful grins and the eager way they glanced around, the way they held hands the whole time.

“Welcome,” she said. The golden wood door to the showcase apartment swung open.

She had dressed the apartment with a simple two-tone color scheme in each room and had kept the furniture minimalist. The floor of the open-plan living room was an expensive ebony parquet. Artfully positioned tables and the chairs and settee were all reproduction Herfal style with sharp curves and metal-moiré legs, a popular fad three centuries earlier. The balcony was open, and it was a warm clear day outside, showing the park off to great effect.

Mareble drew a breath as they walked in. “It’s fabulous,” she exclaimed. “Just what we’re looking for.”

Danal chortled. “Forgive my wife; she obviously doesn’t believe in showing our hand before negotiations.”

“I did the same thing with the original vendor,” Araminta confessed. “It’s easy to become devoted to these apartments very quickly. I’m actually thinking about keeping one for myself.”

Mareble stood in front of the balcony door. “Would the one we’re considering have the same view?”

“Apartment three is on the corner.” Araminta gestured along the balcony. “You get one aspect facing the park as well as a view westward across the city. The suspension bridge is visible that way.”

“How lovely.”

“Can we see it?” Danal asked.

“Not just yet. City health and safety codes won’t let me take people into an accredited construction site.” And it’s a complete shambles, which might put you off.

“Construction site? Are there structural problems?”

“Absolutely not. The structure is perfectly sound. An independent deep scan survey file is registered at City Hall if you’d like to verify it. I’m just refurbishing and remodeling. Unfortunately, the city chooses to class that as construction because I’m replacing the electrics and utility feeds. It’s just more filework for me, that’s all.”

Danal gave a sympathetic sigh. “That sounds just like Ellezelin. Dear Lady, the Waterwalker never had to put in requests to the Orchard Palace if he wanted to get things done. Try telling that to our government.”

“Now, darling.” Mareble squeezed his hand more tightly. “He has a thing about bureaucrats,” she explained.

“We all do,” Araminta assured them.

“Thank you,” Danal said.

“So are you moving here from Ellezelin?” Araminta asked.

“Oh, yes,” they chorused happily.

“I’m a confluence nest technician,” Danal said. “There’s a lot of work going on upgrading the whole gaiafield right now. It’s especially important on Viotia.”

“Why is that?” Araminta asked.

“The Second Dreamer is here,” Mareble said. “We’re sure of it. The last few dreams were so much more vivid than those first fragments. Don’t you think?”

“I don’t have gaiamotes,” Araminta said, keeping it light, as if it were some minor fault in an appliance she was going to get corrected, praying it would not make any difference to the deal. She needed their deposit on apartment three; they had not been as easy to sell as she had envisaged, and her suppliers were submitting payment demands.

Mareble and Danal both wore the same compassionate expression, as if they felt sorry for her, a concord that instantly reminded her of Mr. Bovey.

“The gaiafield is not something I could live without,” Mareble said quietly. “I can always sense Danal no matter where we are, even when we’re planets apart; that kind of permanent emotional connection is so satisfying and reassuring.”

“And of course we know Inigo’s Dreams. Intimately,” Danal said. He smiled with the placid bliss only the truly devout could achieve.

Araminta tried to replicate that mien of joy. “I didn’t know you could tell where a dream came from,” she said, hoping that would divert them from her tragic defect. There was nothing the devout of any sect or ideology enjoyed more than making the benefits of their belief obvious to outsiders.

“That’s the thing with the gaiafield,” Mareble explained earnestly. “It’s not all clear and precise like the unisphere. Human thoughts are not digital; they’re emotion. I had the feeling with the last few dreams of the Skylord; they were close to me. Now that the nests remember them, they’ve lost that aspect, not that they aren’t still wonderful. We’re all hoping that we’ll experience the Skylord flying to Makkathran to collect the Waterwalker’s soul. After everything he’s done for the people of Querencia—and us—he deserves to rest within Odin’s Sea.”

Something about Mareble’s evocation made Araminta pause, as if it connected with some old recollection. That was stupid. “I see,” Araminta said. Her knowledge of the whole Waterwalker epic was sketchy at best; she certainly did not know any details. “That’s why you want to live here?”

Mareble nodded eagerly. “I’m convinced the Second Dreamer is here. One day soon he’ll reveal himself, and then the Pilgrimage can begin.”

“Will you join it?”

They smiled at each other and clasped hands again. “We hope so.”

“Well, at the risk of being crass, you won’t find anywhere better to wait than here.”

“I think we can consider putting in an offer,” Danal said. “An uncomfortable number of our fellow followers are looking for property on Viotia. Living in a hotel is pleasant, but we’ll be happy to move into a real home.”

“That I can fully appreciate.”

“We’re prepared to offer you the full asking price, but we would need a guarantee that the apartment will be completed on time.”

“I can put my certificate on that file, yes.”

“And the virtual model we accessed; it was nice, but…”

“I want to make some changes,” Mareble said quickly. “The technology needs to be deemphasized, and the decor should be more naturalistic.”

“Naturalistic?”

“Less manufactured products, more wood. As it is on Querencia. We’re not against technology; we use it all the time, but it shouldn’t be featured. For instance, can you install a proper cooker in the kitchen? One with an oven and hob?”

“I’ll check city regulations and get back to you on that one.”

 

“So can you supply me with a proper cooker?” she asked Mr. Bovey that night over dinner. She was at his house, sitting at a small table on the balcony that overlooked the lawn. The river Cairns ran along the bottom edge where the mown grass gave way to shaggy reeds and a lengthy clump of coran twister trees that dangled chrome-blue fronds into the water. Bright lights in the buildings along the opposite bank glinted off the smooth black surface. It was a lovely relaxing ambience with a delicious meal several of hims had cooked and three of hims sitting with her, a pleasant end to an exasperating day.

“Actually, yes,” the handsome blond one said.

“You say that with such confidence.”

“Because I’ve already supplied three in the last ten days,” the shorter one with a dark complexion told her. “Living Dream fanatics do like their primitive comforts. They prefer water baths to spore showers, too.”

“Dear Ozzie, my cousin was right; they are taking over. I ought to raise the price on the last two apartments.”

“I don’t want to throw a damper on the evening, but I actually find that prospect quite disturbing. Mainly because it’s rapidly becoming true. There are a lot of them here now—millions.”

“I’d have thought the rush for housing will benefit you as much as me, probably more so.”

“Financially, yes,” the blonde said, holding up a kebab of spiced torkal and pork marinated in red honey. “But multiples don’t fit into the Living Dream ethos.” He bit into the meat and started chewing.

“We didn’t exist in Makkathran,” the Oriental one explained.

“Surely they’re not against your lifestyle, are they?” She had an unpleasant thought of how devoted Mareble and Danal were to their ideology, to the complete exclusion of just about everything else. That did not make them hostile, just unaccepting.

“Oh, never actively, no. Perish the thought. Their precious Waterwalker wanted everyone to live together and get along without conflict. But tell me this: How did your buyers react when they found out you weren’t sharing the glory that exists only within the gaiafield?”

“Surprised,” she admitted. “Then I think they wanted to convert me.”

“I bet they did.”

“It won’t last long,” she assured him. “As soon as the Pilgrimage starts, they’ll all flock away to join it. My couple told me that. They’re only here because they think this is where the Second Dreamer is hiding.”

“Which is equally disturbing.”

“Why?” she asked as she poured herself some more of the excellent rosé wine.

“If you’re the next chosen one, why hide? And more than that, why keep releasing the dreams that let everyone know you exist and are in hiding?”

“I don’t understand anything about Living Dream. The whole thing seems stupid to me.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘dangerous,’” the short one said. “Too many impossible promises, too many people believing. Bad combination.”

“You’re an old cynic.”

All three of hims at the table lifted their wineglasses. “Guilty and proud of it.”

“You have gaiamotes. Are these second dreams real?”

“Is a dream real?” Three mouths grinned in unison. “The dreams exist. Everything else is down to personal perspective. If you want to believe in them, then the Second Dreamer is somewhere out there receiving dreams from a Skylord somewhere inside the Void. If not…”

“I don’t know what to believe. I’m almost tempted to get gaiamotes just to find out.”

“Take it from me,” said the blonde, “it’s not worth it. The gaiafield is just another fad that got hijacked by a bunch of fanatics.”

“Why did Ozzie invent it?”

“He said so that people could understand each other better. If we had more empathy, we would be more peaceful. Nice theory. Haven’t seen it having much effect on human nature recently.”

“Yet you wouldn’t exist without it. And you think you’re the future.”

The Oriental Mr. Bovey produced a modest smile. “True. And I doubt Ozzie envisaged us, either.”

She held her wineglass close to her face and dropped her gaze demurely. “I never envisaged you.”

“There’s a lot of things we don’t know about until we encounter them.” The Oriental Mr. Bovey pressed up against her and plucked the glass from her hands. She liked the warmth of him against her. On her other side, the blond one stroked her cheek and turned her unresisting head for a kiss.

She closed her eyes. Hands stroked her spine. Hands stroked her legs. The kiss went on and on.

“Come with me,” one of hims instructed.

The kiss ended, and she saw all three of him smiling in that way, gentle and knowing, not bothering to conceal his anticipation.

The three hims escorted her to a warm second-floor bedroom where the lighting was a cozy candle-flame orange. She stood at the end of the bed while they stripped in front of her, just the way she liked, making her the center of attention, the center of desire. Then it was her turn, removing her clothes slowly, showing herself off, drinking in the admiration from hims, exultant with approval. When she was naked, hes began to explore her flesh with formidable intimacy. “Yes,” she finally shuddered in delight, and they lifted her onto the bed.

 

Rushing headlong through space, the creature could feel stray molecules kiss its broad vacuum wings as it stretched them wide. Scintillations from the tenuous impact dripped from its trailing edge, leaving a weak contrail of fluorescence through the empty gulf. Ahead, a star gleamed bright against the glorious background of an undulating turquoise nebula, creating a warm pressure of photons that so very slowly supplied its physical nourishment. The creature spun leisurely in the rich torrent of light as it listened to the thoughts grow stronger on the solid planet that was still light-years away.

One thought was exceptionally clear. “You see, you have to rest now; if you were multiple, another body could simply carry on. The ecstasy would continue for hours. More bodies could perform at the same time; imagine that pleasure you’ve just experienced doubled, quadrupled, increased tenfold. Wouldn’t you like that? Wouldn’t your life be so much better, so much greater…” The thought dwindled away into the vastness as the solar wind cooled and dimmed.

There were only two of hims asleep on the bed when Araminta woke. She checked the time in her exovision and groaned in dismay. Five past seven already. There was so much to do in the third apartment today. The bots should have spent the night stripping the old tiles in the fifth apartment, but her u-shadow revealed that they had stopped work at three in the morning when they had encountered a problem their semisentient software could not cope with. She had two prospective buyers for apartment four arriving before noon.

“Great Ozzie,” she complained as she heaved herself out of bed. No time for a shower. She grabbed the clothes she had worn the previous night, which really were not everyday garments. Must bring a bag with some decent clothes for morning. Would he object to that?

She escaped the bedroom without waking the Mr. Boveys and scuttled down the stairs, raking fingers through awful strings of tangled hair. The smell of coffee and toast was permeating out of the big kitchen; it was sorely tempting given her body’s chill. I must ease off those booster aerosols. Surely a single minute spent with one cup of tea wouldn’t jeopardize the whole day.

She put her head around the archway to smile into the long open-plan kitchen diner. Five of hims were sitting at the breakfast bar, with another three lounging in the big old settee. “Hi—” The smile faded from her face. A woman was perched on the sixth stool at the breakfast bar, wearing a big fluffy toweling robe. One of hims had his arm around her, his hand lovingly massaging the base of her neck.

The woman glanced up from a big mug of steaming coffee and pulled a delinquent face. “Oh, hi there. I’m Josill. I guess I was being worn out by the half of hims you weren’t with last night. He’s good sex, huh? I managed four.” She grinned proudly at her entourage of Mr. Boveys.

Araminta managed to freeze her expression before she did anything petty like glare or pout or start shouting about what a useless pile of shit he was. “Right,” she said in a croak. “Got to go. People I’m honest with are coming to see me.” She headed for the front door as fast as she could without actually running, even managed to get outside. Her old carry capsule was resting on the gravel pad fifteen meters away.

“Just hold on.”

She turned. It was the body she had had that first dinner date with. He always used that one to talk to her when it was something serious, obviously working the whole age equals wisdom angle with maybe a little trust mixed in. “Drop dead,” she snapped. “All of you.”

“You knew I would date other women.”

“I—” She sputtered with indignation. “No! Actually, no, I didn’t! I thought we—” Some stubborn little part of her was trying desperately not to cry in front of him. What the point was with someone who knew her so completely eluded her. Still, she was not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much she cared.

“Listen to me.” He stood in front of her, taking a moment to compose himself. “You are a lovely, fantastic person. I haven’t met someone I was this attracted to in years. And I think you know that.”

“Well this is a—”

“Funny way of showing it? No. No. That’s a single person’s line, not mine.”

“How ridiculous,” she shouted.

“Maybe you’ve been trying to hide from this; I don’t know. Adjusting to multiple life does take time. It isn’t easy, and you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” she announced haughtily.

“I have a great time with you every time no matter where we go and what we do, and that’s the problem. Think on this. You are a wonderful healthy, strapping girl with a huge sexual appetite. Every man’s dream. And I’m always amazed and excited by how many of mes you take on when we go to bed. But not even you can physically satisfy thirty-eight male bodies every night. We’ve been going out all this time, and there are still some mes you haven’t met, let alone had sex with, yet. You get me all hot and randy, and every time you do that, the majority of mes are left frustrated.”

“I…Oh. Really?” It was kind of obvious when he explained it like that. But he was right; it really was not something she wanted to think through.

“I can only take so much. Josill and the others help release the pressure you create.”

Others. Again, something she did not want to consider. This whole multiple thing was turning out to be a giant complication. She took a breath and stared at the gravel around her feet. “I’m sorry. You’re right; I didn’t consider that part of it. It’s been so good for me, I just assumed it was the same for you. Singles thinking, huh?”

“Yes.” He put a hand on her shoulder. It comforted her, that whole wise and sympathetic thing. “But I’m hoping, really hoping, we can work through this.”

She gave the door a guilty glance. “I’m not sure I can get around the idea of you having sex with her as well. Were you…no. I don’t want to know.”

He raised an eyebrow and waited patiently.

Araminta sighed. “Last night, were you having sex with both of us at the same time?”

“Yes.”

A particularly malicious thought crept out of her mind. “And she could only cope with four?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Poor girl.” Her little spike of humor withered away. “I don’t know about this. I’m not sure I can cope. There would need to be so many women. That’s not part of a long-term relationship.”

“Listen, I said you were special right at the start, and the more I get to know you, the more I know that I don’t want to lose you.”

“So what do you do? Get half of you neutered? I really can’t…not thirty-eight.”

He grinned. “That’s my Araminta, considering it even now. But there’s another option, isn’t there?”

“What?”

He did not answer right away. Instead his hand touched her chin, tipping her head back until she couldn’t avoid staring into his eyes. Eventually she gave a defeated little nod. “I get myself some extra bodies,” she said in a quiet voice.

“I’m not going to browbeat. I couldn’t do that to you; it would be wrong. The decision has to be yours alone. I just want you to think about it. You’ve seen all the practical benefits firsthand, and I reminded you about the sexual advantages again last night.”

She fixed him with a firm stare. “Tell me: If I do this, would you stop dating the other women? Would it be just you and me?”

“Yes, emphatically, just you. Yous in my life, yous in my bed. Cross my hearts. I want this, Araminta; I want this so much. I wish you had gaiamotes so I could show you just how serious I am. We’ll just have to settle for registering it at City Hall instead.”

“Ozzie! A marriage proposal and a lifestyle change in one. And it’s not even half past seven yet.”

“Sorry you had to run into it like this.”

“Not your fault. You’re right; I should have thought about this. So I’ll be a big girl and think about it properly now. Don’t expect an answer right away. This is a hell of a lot more than I’m used to dealing with in a day.”

His arms went around her, hugging tight as if he were the one seeking reassurance. “It’s momentous. I remember. So take all the time you need.”

He rode the gigantic horse for hour after hour, his young legs barely stretching over the saddle. In the distance were real mountains, their snowcapped peaks stabbing high into the glorious sapphire sky. He was leaving them behind, riding away from the forests that covered the foothills. It was wild veldt beneath the hooves now, lush tropical vegetation split by streams and small rivers. Trees from a dozen planets grew across the low slopes, their contrasting evolutions providing a marvelous clash of color and shape. Hot air gusted against him, heavy with alien pollen.

His friends rode beside him, the six of them shouting encouragement to one another as they wove around the knolls and ridges. None of them were yet adult, but they were finally old enough to be trusted out on their own. It was days like this, full of freedom and joy, that made sense of his life.

Then the cry went up. “The king eagles; the king eagles are here.”

He scoured the brilliant sky, seeing the black dots above the rumpled horizon. Then he, too, was yelling in welcome, his heart pounding with excitement. The horse ran faster as the noble lords of this world’s sky grew larger and larger.

Red lights flashed across the heavens. The king eagles elongated, black lines curving and twisting to form a gray rectangular shape. His horse had vanished, leaving him lying flat on his back. The red lights turned violet-blue and began to retreat as the top of the medical chamber opened. A face slid into view, peering down. He blinked it into focus. It was very pretty and heavily freckled, with a mass of dark red hair tied back.

“You okay?” Corrie-Lyn asked.

“Urrgh,” Aaron told her.

“Here, drink this.” A plastic straw was eased into his mouth. He sucked some welcoming cool liquid down his sore throat.

“What?” he mumbled.

“What?”

“What happened?”

“You’ve been in the ship’s medical chamber for a couple of days.”

He winced as he tried to move his arms. His whole left side was stiff, as if the skin had shrunk. “A moment,” he told her. His u-shadow flipped medical records into his exovision. He skipped the details, concentrating on the major repairs. The damage had been more extensive that he had expected. The projectile entry wounds combined with firewire mutilation and toxin contamination meant the medical chamber had had to cut and extract a lot of ruined tissue and bone from his chest. Foreign meat had been inserted, neutral-function cells that could have their preactive DNA switched to mold them into whatever organ, bone, or muscle function they were replacing. He spotted a supplementary file and opened it. The foreign meat stored in the chamber actually was not so foreign. The DNA was his; it also had full-complement biononic organelles.

The repairs had been woven into his body by the chamber and his existing biononics. They were still integrating, and that was why he felt so awful. Estimated time for the biononics to complete the binding and the cells to acclimatize to their new function was a further seventy-two hours.

“Could have been better, could have been worse,” he decided.

“I was worried,” she said. “Your wound was huge. The blood…” Her face paled; even the freckles faded.

Aaron slowly shifted his arms back along the chamber padding, propping himself up, at which point he realized he did not have any clothes on. “Thank you.”

She gave him a blank look.

“I should be thanking you, shouldn’t I? What happened? The last thing I remember was you hitting Ruth Stol.”

“That little princess bitch.”

“So? What came next?” Aaron swung his feet over the lip of the capsule; his inner ears seemed to take a lot longer than usual to register the movement. Bulkheads spun around him, then twisted back. The starship’s cabin was in its lounge mode, with long couches extending out from the bulkhead walls. He hobbled over to the closest one as the medical chamber withdrew into the floor. Sitting down, he tentatively poked his chest with a forefinger. Half of his torso was a nasty salmon pink, covered with a glistening protective membrane.

“I did what you suggested,” Corrie-Lyn said. “The capsule smashed its way into the reception hall. I just got inside when there was this almighty explosion over the forest. It knocked the capsule around quite a bit, but I was caught by the internal safety field. We zipped over to the administration block. You were…a mess, but I managed to pull you inside. Then we rendezvoused with the Artful Dodger outside the clinic, the way you set it up. The starship put its force field around the capsule while we transferred in. Good job. The police were going apeshit with me. They were shooting every weapon they had at us; there were craters all over the place when we took off. I told the smartcore to get us out of the system, but it followed your preloaded flight plan. We’re just sitting in some kind of hyperspace hole a light-year out from Anagaska. I can’t make a unisphere connection. The smartcore won’t obey me.”

“I loaded a few options in,” he said. His u-shadow gave the smartcore an instruction, and a storage locker opened. “Do you think you could get me that robe, please?”

She frowned disapprovingly but pulled the robe out. “I was really worried. I thought I was going to be stuck here forever if you died. It was horrible. The medical chamber would rejuvenate me every fifty years, and I’d just sit in the lounge plugged into the sensory drama library, being drip fed by the culinary unit. That’s not how I want to spend eternity, thank you.”

He grinned at her drama queen outrage as he slipped on the robe. “If the chamber could rejuvenate you, it could certainly re-life me.”

“Oh.”

“In any case, if I die, the smartcore allows you full control.”

“Right.”

“But!” He caught hold of her hand. She jerked around, suddenly apprehensive. “None of this would have happened if you’d been ready to pick me up when I told you.”

“I haven’t seen any decent clothes in weeks,” she protested. “I just lost track of time, that’s all. I didn’t mean to be late. Besides, I thought you got wounded before the scheduled rendezvous.”

He closed his eyes in despair. “Corrie-Lyn, if you’re on a combat mission, you don’t call a fucking time-out to go shopping. Understand?”

“You never said combat. A quick raid sneaking into their vault, you said.”

“For future reference, a covert mission in which all sides are armed is a combat situation.”

She pulled a face. “‘Nothing they have will be a match for my biononics.’”

“I never said that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I…” He let out a breath and made an effort to stay calm. Yoga. She always made us do yoga. It was fucking stupid.

Corrie-Lyn was frowning at him. “You okay? You need to get back in the chamber?”

“I’m fine. Look, thank you for picking me up. I know this kind of thing is not what your life is about.”

“You’re welcome,” she said gruffly.

“Please tell me we still have the memorycell.”

Corrie-Lyn produced a minx smile and held up the little plastic kube. “We still have the memorycell.”

“Thank Ozzie for that.” His u-shadow told the smartcore to show him the ship’s log; he wanted to check how much effort had been made to try to track them. Since they had left Anagaska in a hurry, several starships had run sophisticated hysradar scans out to several light-years, but nobody could spot an ultradrive ship in transdimensional suspension. The log also recorded that Corrie-Lyn had managed to circumvent the lockout he had placed on the culinary unit to prevent it from making alcoholic drinks. This really wasn’t the time to make an issue of it.

“Okay,” he told her. “I don’t think anyone’s spotted us, though there were some mighty interesting comings and goings just after our raid. Several ships with unusual quantum signatures popped out of hyperspace above Anagaska; the smartcore thinks they might be ultradrives in disguise.”

“Who would they be?”

“Don’t know and don’t intend to hang around to ask. Let’s get going.”

“Finally.”

He held his hand out, carefully maintaining a neutral expression.

Corrie-Lyn gave the kube a sentimental look and took awhile to drop it into his palm. “I’m not sure I like the idea of you reading Inigo’s mind.”

“I’m not going to. Memory assimilation isn’t like accessing a sensory drama off the unisphere or accepting experiences through the gaiafield. A genuine memory takes a long time to absorb; you can compress it down from real time, but still this kube contains nearly forty years of his life. That would take months to shunt into a human brain; it’s one of the governing factors in creating re-life clones. If we’re going to find him before the Pilgrimage, we don’t have that much time to spare.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Take it to someone who can absorb it a lot quicker than I can and ask nicely.”

“You just said human brains can’t absorb stored memories that quickly.”

“So I did, which is why we’re setting course for the High Angel.”

Corrie-Lyn looked shocked. “The Raiel starship?”

“Yes.”

“Why would the Raiel help you?”

He smiled at the kube. “Let’s just say that we now have an excellent bargaining chip.”

 

Corrie-Lyn did not have the kind of patience for extensive research. Aaron had to fill in the decades and centuries she skipped through when she started to access the files her u-shadow trawled up on the Raiel. Humans had discovered the High Angel back in 2163, he explained, when a wormhole was opened in its star system to search for any H-congruous planets. CST’s exploratory division quickly confirmed that there was no world that humans could live on, but the astronomers did notice a microwave signal coming from the orbit of the gas giant Icalanise.

“What’s that got to do with angels?” she asked. “Were they all religious?”

“Not astronomers, no.”

When they focused their sensors on the microwave source, they saw a moonlet sixty-three kilometers long with what looked like wings of hazy pearl light: the wings of an angel.

“Sounds like they were religious to me if that’s the first thing they think of.”

Aaron groaned. With more sensors urgently brought online, the true nature of the artifact was revealed: a core of rock sprouting twelve stems that supported vast domes, five of which had transparent cupolas. Cities and parkland were visible inside.

It was a starship, a living creature or a machine that had evolved into sentience. Origin unknown, and it wasn’t telling. Several species lived in the domes. Only the Raiel consented to talk to humanity, and they did not say very much.

Several of the biggest astroengineering companies negotiated a lease on three of the domes, and the High Angel became a dormitory town for an archipelago of microgravity factory stations producing some of the Commonwealth’s most advanced and profitable technology. The workforce and their families soon grew large enough to declare autonomy (with High Angel’s approval) and qualify for a seat in the Senate.

With the outbreak of the Starflyer War, High Angel became the Commonwealth’s premier navy base while the astroengineering companies turned their industrial stations over to warship production. More domes were grown, or extruded, or magically manifested into existence to accommodate the navy personnel. Even today nobody understood the High Angel’s technology.

“Do we know more about it now?” she asked.

“Not really. ANA might; the Central worlds can duplicate some functions with biononics, but the External worlds haven’t managed to produce anything like it.”

Humans, he told her, had to wait for two hundred years after the war before the massive alien starship’s history became a little clearer. Wilson Kime’s epic voyage in the Endeavor to circumnavigate the galaxy revealed the existence of the Void to the Commonwealth, complete with Centurion Station and Raiel defense systems maintaining the Wall stars. Other navy exploration ships discovered more High Angel–class ships; the one species common to all of them was the Raiel.

Confronted with that evidence, the Raiel finally explained that they had created the High Angel class of ships over a million years earlier while their species had been at its apex. It was a golden age during which the Raiel civilization spread across thousands of planets; they mixed with hundreds of other sentients, guided and observed as dozens of species transcended to a postphysical state. They even knew the Silfen before their Motherholme dreamed its paths into existence.

Then the Void underwent one of its periodic expansion phases. Nothing the Raiel could do stopped the barrier from engulfing entire star clusters. Gravity shifted around the galactic core as stars were torn down into the event horizon. The effect on civilizations just outside the Wall stars was catastrophic. Stars shifted position as the core gravity field fluctuated; their planets changed orbits. Thousands of unique biospheres were lost before evolution had any chance to flourish. Whole societies had to be evacuated before storm fronts of ultra-hard radiation that measured thousands of light-years across came streaming out into the base of the galaxy’s spiral arms.

After it was over, after rescue and salvage operations that went on for millennia, the Raiel declared that the Void no longer could be tolerated. The Firstlifes who had created it while the galaxy was still in its infancy clearly had not recognized the horrendous consequences it would have on those who lived after their era. The Raiel created an armada of ships that could function in any quantum state that theoretically might exist within the Void, and they invaded. A hundred thousand ships surrounded the terrible barrier and flew inside, ready for anything.

None returned.

The Void remained unbroken.

What was left of the once-colossal Raiel civilization launched a rearguard action. A defense system to reinforce the Wall stars was built in the small hope that it might contain the next macroexpansion. More ships were created to act as arks for emergent species, carrying them away from the doomed galaxy across the greater gulf outside, where they could reestablish themselves on new worlds in peaceful star clusters. It was the last act of beneficence from a race that had failed its ultimate challenge; if they could not save the galaxy, the Raiel swore they would endure to the bitter end, shepherding entities less capable than themselves to safety.

“That’s not a version of history I can believe in,” Corrie-Lyn said softly as the file images shrank to the center of the cabin and vanished. “It’s very hard for me to accept the Void as something hostile when I know the beauty which lies within.” She took a sip of her hot chocolate and brandy, curling up tighter on the couch.

“That version?” Aaron queried from the other side of the cabin.

“Well, it’s not as if we can ever verify it, is it?”

“Unless I’ve got a false memory, you’ve got nearly six hundred years of human observations from Centurion Station to confirm the very unnatural way in which the barrier consumes star systems. And who was it, now, that took some of them? Oh, yes, that’s right: Inigo himself.”

“Yes, but this whole crusading armada claim? Come on. A hundred thousand ships with weapons that can crunch entire stars. Where are they? None of Inigo’s dreams showed the smallest relic.”

“Dead. Vaporized into component atoms and consumed like every other particle of matter that passes through the barrier.” He paused, slightly troubled. “Except for the human ship which got through and landed on Querencia.”

“Pretty crappy tactics for a species of self-proclaimed masterminds. Didn’t they think of sending a scout or two in first?”

“Maybe they did. You can ask when we get to the High Angel.”

She gave him a pitying look. “If they even let us dock.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

 

The Artful Dodger fell back into spacetime ten thousand kilometers from the High Angel. Icalanise was waxing behind the alien starship, a horned crescent of warring topaz and platinum storm bands. Four small black circles were strung out along the equator: the tip of the umbra cones projected by a conjunction cluster of its thirty-eight moons.

Several sensor sweeps flashed across the starship. High Angel still hosted a large Commonwealth Navy presence. The base admiral took security seriously. A fresh identity complete with official certification was already loaded into the smartcore for examination. Aaron’s u-shadow requested docking permission with the New Glasgow dome for the Alini. They received almost immediate approach authority.

The archipelago of industrial stations glided lazily along a thousand-kilometer orbit, forming a dense loop of silver specks around the High Angel. Service shuttles zipped between them and the human-inhabited domes, collecting advanced technology and materials for forward shipment to the External worlds, where such systems still were prized.

“How about that,” Aaron muttered appreciatively as he accessed the ship’s sensor imagery. “An angel with a halo.”

“You can take religious analogies too far,” Corrie-Lyn chided.

There were seventeen domes rising out of the core’s rocky surface now. The six occupied by humans all had crystal cupolas, allowing them to see the cities and parkland inside. Four of the remainder were also transparent to a degree; the spectra of alien suns shone out of them, following their own diurnal cycles. Strange city silhouettes could be seen parked on the landscapes within. At night they would shine with enticing colorful light points. One of them belonged to the Raiel. The remaining domes were closed to external observation, and neither High Angel nor the Raiel would discuss their residents.

Following Aaron’s instruction, the starship’s smartcore aimed a communication maser at the Raiel dome. “I would like permission to dock at the Raiel dome, please,” Aaron said. “There is a resident I wish to speak to.”

“That is an unusual request for a private individual,” the High Angel replied with the voice of a human male. “I can speak on behalf of the Raiel.”

“Not good enough. You’re aware of the nature of this ship?”

“I do recognize it. Very few of ANA’s ultradrive vessels have ever come into my proximity; the technology is extremely sophisticated. You must be one of its representatives.”

“Something like that, and I need to speak with a specific Raiel.”

“Very well. I am sending you a new flight path; please follow it.”

“Thank you. The Raiel I’d like to meet is Qatux.”

“Of course.”

The Artful Dodger changed course slightly, curving around the massive dark rock of the High Angel’s core toward the stem of the Raiel dome. Large dark ovals were positioned at the base, just before the point where the pewter-colored shaft fused with the rock crust. One of the ovals dematerialized, revealing a featureless white chamber beyond. The Artful Dodger nosed inside, and the outer wall rematerialized behind it.

“Please stand by for teleport,” the High Angel said.

Corrie-Lyn looked startled.

“Once again,” Aaron said, “and yet still without any hope of you paying the slightest attention, let me do the talking.”

Her mouth opened to answer.

The cabin vanished, immediately replaced by a broad circular space with a floor that glowed a pale emerald. If there was a ceiling, it was invisible somewhere in the gloom far above. An adult Raiel was standing right in front of them. Corrie-Lyn gasped and almost stumbled. Aaron hurriedly reached out and caught her arm. He did not have any memory of being on Earth and using the planetary T-sphere, but the abrupt translation was about what he had expected.

“Dear Ozzie,” Corrie-Lyn grunted.

“I hope you are not too shocked,” the Raiel said in its mellow whisper.

Aaron bowed formally. The Raiel was as big as all the adults of its species, larger than a terrestrial elephant, with gray-brown skin that bristled with thick hairs. Aaron was no expert, but this one looked like an exceptionally healthy specimen. From the front its bulbous head was surrounded by a collar of tentacle limbs, with a thick pair at the bottom, four meters long and tipped with segmented paddles that were intended for heavy work. The remaining limbs were progressively smaller up to a clump of slender manipulators resembling particularly sinuous serpents. Each side of its head had a cluster of five small hemispherical eyes that swiveled in unison. Below them on the underside of the head, the skin creased into a number of loose folds to form the mouth zone. When it spoke, Aaron could just glimpse deep wet crevices and a row of sharp brown fangs.

“No, that’s fine,” Corrie-Lyn stammered. She remembered her manners and dipped her head awkwardly.

“I have not met humans in the flesh for some time,” Qatux said in its sad-sounding whisper. “I was curious. I didn’t realize my name was still known to you.”

“I’m afraid I only know your name, nothing more,” Aaron said. “But I thank you for agreeing to see us.”

“My part in your history was brief. I took part in a human expedition during the Starflyer War. I had friends, human friends, which is unusual for a Raiel, then as now. Tell me, do you know of Paula Myo?”

Aaron was surprised when his heart did a little jump at the name. Must be the medical treatment. “I’ve heard of her.”

“I liked Paula Myo,” Qatux said.

“She is an ANA: Governance representative these days.”

“And you are not?”

“Not at her level.” Aaron prayed Corrie-Lyn would not start mouthing off.

“Why are you here?” Qatux asked.

“I have a request.” He held up the kube. “This is the memorycell of a human. I would like you to receive the memories. There are questions about his personality I need answered.”

Qatux did not respond. Its eyes swiveled from Aaron to Corrie-Lyn, then back again.

“Can you do that?” Aaron asked. He was aware that something was wrong but did not know what. His mind kept telling him that Qatux was the Raiel who was most likely to help in this fashion. So far on this mission all the intuitive knowledge loaded into his subconscious had been correct.

“I used to do that,” Qatux whispered. “At one time I was captivated by human emotional states. I married a human.”

“Married?” Corrie-Lyn blurted.

“A most nice lady by the name of Tiger Pansy. I had never known someone so emotionally reactive. We spent many happy years together on the planet you named Far Away. I shared her every thought, every feeling.”

“What happened?” Aaron asked, knowing it was not going to be good.

“She died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She died most horribly. A woman called the Cat prolonged her death for many days. Deliberately. I shared that time with my wife. I experienced human death.”

“Shit,” Aaron mumbled.

“I have not known human thought or emotion since. At the end, my wife cured me of this strange weakness. It was her last gift, however unwillingly given. I am Raiel again. I now hold high rank among my own kind.”

“We shouldn’t have asked you to do this,” Corrie-Lyn said humbly. “We didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

Aaron wanted to use a stunshot on her. “It’s Inigo,” he said, holding the kube up again. “The human who dreams the lives of humans inside the Void.”

Once again Qatux was perfectly still. This time its eyes remained focused on Aaron alone.

“Aaron!” Corrie-Lyn hissed through clenched teeth.

He could feel the anger powering out of her through the gaiafield and completely ignored it. “I’m looking for him,” he told the huge silent alien, staring straight into its multiple eyes. “He needs to be found before his Living Dream believers spark another devourment phase with their Pilgrimage. Will you help?”

“Inigo?” Qatux asked. The whisper had softened to near inaudibility.

“Yes. The kube holds his personality right up until he left for his Centurion Station mission. His formative years. Everyone knows his life since he founded Living Dream, even the Raiel. Or perhaps especially the Raiel. If you combined that knowledge with his formative years, I thought that you might be able to understand his motivations, that you could work out where he has gone for me.”

“The Raiel have wanted to know the inside of the Void for so long. It is all we exist for now; we are its nemesis as much as it is ours. For over a million years we were content with the role fate had given us. And then a human comes along and simply dreams what is in there. None of us is capable of that. The strongest of our race fell into that evil place, and no trace remains. Nothing.”

“It’s not evil,” Corrie-Lyn said sullenly.

“I would like to believe that. I cannot. We have known the Void from a time before your species achieved sentience. It is the destroyer of life, of hope. Nothing escapes it.”

“Millions of humans live inside the Void. They live lives full of hope and love and laughter; they live lives better than any of us out here.”

“To do so, to achieve their greater life you envy so much, they are killing you. They are killing this galaxy. And now you wish to join them, to increase the damage to a level you cannot imagine.”

“Will you stop the Pilgrimage?” Aaron asked.

“Not I. Not this arkship. That is not the purpose of this Raiel; we are custodians alone. However, there are other Raiel who serve a different purpose. They are the defenders of this galaxy. I do not know what they will do to your Pilgrimage.”

Aaron glanced at Corrie-Lyn. Her mouth was set in a purposeful line.

“Can you help us with Inigo’s memories? If I can find him, talk to him, there may be a chance he’ll stop the Pilgrimage.”

Qatux moved toward him, eight stumpy legs on either side of its underbelly tilting forward to move it in a smooth undulation. Aaron held his ground, though he was aware of Corrie-Lyn taking a small shuffle backward; her emotions seeping into the gaiafield were turning from pride to concern.

“I will do what I can,” Qatux said. It extended a medium-size tentacle.

Aaron exhaled in relief and handed over the memorycell. The tentacle tip coiled around it and withdrew, curling backward. Just behind the collar of tentacles, hanging off the equivalent of a Raiel neck, innumerable small protuberances of flesh dangled, each one crowned by a small heavy bulb that was technological in origin. The kube sank through the dark surface of a bulb like a pebble falling into water.

A long shudder ran along Qatux’s bulk, and the giant alien let out a sigh that seemed close to pain. “I will tell you when I have finished,” Qatux said.

Aaron and Corrie-Lyn were unceremoniously teleported back into the Artful Dodger.

The Mars Twins were an unusual turgid red as their upper-atmosphere hurricanes swirled and battled along thousand-kilometer fronts, obliterating the dark shadows that occasionally hinted at surface features. Their dour ambiance matched Cleric Conservator Ethan’s mood as he strode through the Liliala Hall. Above him the storms rampaging across the visionary ceiling flashed purple lightning and pummeled away at each other like waves assaulting a beach. They swirled together, veiling the two small planets. The silent vivid battle made for an impressive entrance as he swept through the arching door into the Mayor’s suite.

Rincenso and Falven, two of his staunchest supporters on the Council, were waiting for him in the first anteroom, their cautious expressions made more sinister by the amber lighting. All they allowed of themselves into the gaiafield was a polite radiance of expectation. Not even Ethan’s easily sensed mood could make them waver.

He beckoned them to follow as he pushed through into the oval sanctum. Strong sunlight shone in through the high Rayonnant-style windows, illuminating the grand wooden desk identical to the one the Waterwalker had sat behind when he had been Mayor of Makkathran. Five simple chairs were arranged before it. Councillor Phelim stood at the side of one, waiting for Ethan to sit behind his desk. He wore the simple everyday blue and green robe of a Councillor. It was meant to testify to an open and approachable person who would take time to solve someone’s problem. On Phelim it was off-putting, emphasizing his height and severe facial features.

“So the Skylord would seem to be on its way to Querencia,” Ethan said as he sat down.

Falven cleared his throat. “It is heading for some kind of planet. We have to assume it is Querencia. The prospect of another planet housing humans in the Void would open many complications for us.”

“Not so,” Rincenso said. “I don’t care how many other H-congruous planets there are or who lives on them. We are concerned only with Querencia and the Waterwalker. It is his example we wish to follow.”

“Too many unknowns to pronounce on,” Falven said.

“Not that many, surely,” Ethan said. “We cannot doubt the Second Dreamer is dreaming a Skylord. This creature is aware of the souls and minds of living sentient entities. It and its flock are flying toward a solid planet to collect those souls and carry them to Odin’s Sea. This flight fulfills every teaching of the Lady.”

“I wonder what life in Makkathran is like now,” Rincenso mused. “So much time has passed.”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Ethan said. “The hulls of our Pilgrimage ships are being fabricated. We will be ready to launch soon. Phelim?”

“We should have the hulls and internal systems finished by September,” Phelim said. “The cost is colossal, but the Free Market Zone has a considerable manufacturing capacity. Component construction is heavily cybernated; production is a simple process once the templates are loaded in. And of course, no matter how much criticism we face, External world companies are always eager for our money.”

“September,” Rincenso said. “Dear Ozzie, so close.”

Ethan did not look at Phelim. No one else had been told of the ultradrive engines Marius had promised to deliver. “The physical aspect goes well,” he said. “That just leaves us with our enigmatic Second Dreamer to deal with. We still don’t know why he hasn’t revealed himself, but it is significant that his dreams have become so much more substantial as the ships are built.”

“Why does he not come forward?” Falven said. The gaiafield revealed the flash of anger in his mind. “Curse him; are we never to find him?”

“He is on Viotia,” Phelim said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. The gaiafield confluence nests on Viotia were the first to receive his last dream. They disseminated it across the Greater Commonwealth gaiafield.”

“Do you know where on Viotia he is?”

“Not yet. But now that we have confirmed the planet, our efforts will be concentrated on determining the exact geographical location. Of course, people move about. And if he is actively seeking anonymity, he will simply relocate after every dream.”

“Which must be prevented,” Ethan said simply.

“How?” Rincenso asked.

“This is why I have asked you two here today, my dearest friends and allies on the Council. The Second Dreamer is crucial to Pilgrimage. He is the one who must ask the Skylords for guidance through the barrier and onward to Querencia. In the absence of Inigo, he is the one who will light our way.”

“So what do you want us to do?” Falven asked.

“There are several routes available to us,” Ethan said quietly. “I believe the one we will end up traveling along is to bring Viotia into the Free Market Zone.”

The two Councillors gave each other a puzzled look.

“It is part of our Free Market Zone,” Falven said.

“By treaty, yes,” Ethan said. “It is not one of our core planets—yet. We must be prepared to complete the admission process, culminating with Ellezelin opening a wormhole between our two worlds. Following that, Viotia’s government should adopt a more favorable stance toward Living Dream. Ultimately I would like to welcome them into our hagiocracy.”

Falven sat back, looking startled.

Rincenso merely smiled in appreciation. “There are a great many of our followers there already. Enough to tilt the demographic?”

“Possibly,” Phelim said.

“In which case I would be happy to raise the proposal in the Council.”

“I, too,” Falven said slowly.

“There is a degree of hostility and resentment currently being shown to our followers on Viotia,” Ethan said. “If a wormhole were to be opened, binding their economy to ours, that resentment will manifest itself in street violence. We would need to guarantee the security of all Living Dream adherents.”

“Do we have that ability?” Falven asked cautiously.

“There are enough national security forces spread across the core planets of the Free Market Zone to enforce the rule of law on Viotia,” Phelim said. “We have been recruiting additional personnel since Ethan’s ascension to Conservator.”

“Enough for this?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I regret any inconvenience this may cause to Viotia’s citizens,” Ethan said. “But we cannot afford to lose the Second Dreamer.”

“If we just knew why he’s refusing to reveal himself,” Rincenso said acrimoniously.

“Because he doesn’t yet know,” Ethan said with a weary sadness.

“How can he not know?”

“It took several weeks for Inigo to realize what was happening. At first he believed his dreams to be some kind of overspill from a full-sense drama that was leaking into the Centurion Station gaiafield. I believe that confusion is repeating again. To begin with, all we had were small fragments, glimpses of the Skylord which we edited together. Now that contact has been established, the length and strength of the dreams are increasing. As they did with Inigo. Soon they will reach a crescendo, and the Second Dreamer will realize what he has been chosen to do.”

Falven gave the others in the oval sanctum an uncomfortable look. “Then why do we need to incorporate Viotia?”

“What if the Second Dreamer isn’t an adherent of Living Dream?” Ethan asked mildly.

“But—”

“There’s a much worse scenario than that,” Phelim said. “If one of our opponents were to reach him first and use him to sabotage the Pilgrimage.”

“They’ll be looking,” Rincenso said.

“Of course they’ll be looking,” Ethan said. “But we have a huge advantage with our command of the gaiafield. Not even ANA’s despicable factions can intrude upon that. We must reach him first.”

“And if he refuses to help?” Falven inquired.

“Change his mind,” Phelim told them. “In a very literal sense.”

“I suppose that’s necessary,” Rincenso said uneasily.

“I would hope not,” Ethan said. “But we must be prepared for all eventualities.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“What I would like to do first is make a simple appeal to both the Second Dreamer and the Skylord,” Ethan said.

Falven’s thoughts rippled with surprise, which he made no effort to hide. “A unisphere declaration?”

“No. A direct intervention into the next dream.”

“How?”

“The Second Dreamer is issuing his dream into the confluence nests in real time,” Phelim said. “Right at the end of the last dream, as it fades away, there is an anomaly, a tiny one. It is extremely hard to spot; we believe it has escaped attention among the majority of our followers. But our dream masters have been reviewing those last moments. There is a human emotion intruding into the Skylord’s stream of consciousness: a weak sense of pleasure but one with considerable sexual connotations. In all probability we are witnessing postcoital satisfaction.”

“The Second Dreamer receives the Skylord’s dream when he’s having sex?” Rincenso asked incredulously.

“The human brain is most receptive when relaxed,” Ethan said. “The period immediately after sex certainly generates that state.”

“Did this happen to Inigo?” Falven was almost indignant.

Ethan’s lips twitched in amusement. “Not that I’m aware of. Inigo never issued his dreams in real time, so I don’t suppose we’ll ever know. But this anomaly is the strongest indicator we have that this is real-time dreaming, in which case we should be able to intervene, to converse with both the Second Dreamer and the Skylord. If we can successfully perform the latter intervention, we may be able to establish a direct connection without the Second Dreamer, in which case our problems will be solved. Viotia becomes an irrelevance, as does our elusive Second Dreamer. And we will be one step closer to the Void.”

“That would be…wonderful,” Falven said.

“Our dream masters are now monitoring Viotia’s confluence nests for the time the Second Dreamer starts to dream. When it happens, we will make the attempt.”

“And if that fails?”

“Then you will bring your proposal to the Council.”

Fourteen hundred years was a long time alive by anyone’s standards. However, there were Commonwealth citizens who had remained in their bodies for longer; Paula had even met a few of them. She did not enjoy their company. Mostly they were dynasty members who could not let go of the old times when their family empires used to run the Commonwealth. After biononics and ANA and Higher culture had changed the Central worlds forever, they had grabbed what they could of their ancient wealth and reestablished themselves on External worlds, where they had set about re-creating their personal golden age.

They had the money and influence to be bold and build new experimental societies: something different, something exciting. But for all their extraordinarily long life, they’d never experienced another way to live. And the longer they managed to maintain their own little empires around them, the more resistant to change they became. Nothing new was attempted; instead, they mined history for stability. On one planet in particular their social engineering had reached its nadir. A ruling Halgarth collective on Iaioud had founded and maintained a society that was even less susceptible to change than Huxley’s Haven by the simple expedient of prohibiting conception. At the end of a fifty-year life, all the citizens were rejuvenated and their memories wiped, except that the state knew who they were and what job they did best. On emerging fresh from their clinic treatment, they would be appointed to the same profession again and spend the next fifty years working as they had for the last fifty, hundred, three hundred years. It was the ultimate feudalism.

Three hundred years before, Paula had led an undercover team of agents there, infiltrating the clinics that performed the rejuvenation treatment and slowly corrupting them. Over the next few years memory wipes became incomplete, allowing people to remember what had gone before. Thousands of women discovered that their revitalized bodies had a functional uterus again. Underground networks were established, first to help the criminal outcasts who had given birth to children and then assuming a greater role in offering political resistance to the Halgarth regime.

Forty years after Paula and her team had finished their mission to sow dissent on Iaioud, a revolution overturned the Halgarth collective, using minimal force. It took a further hundred fifty years for the twisted world to regain its equilibrium and claw its way back up the socioeconomic index to something approaching the average for an External world.

At the time, Paula had worried that she still was not ready for that kind of mission. Change was a long time coming within herself. It was one thing to realize intellectually that she had to adapt mentally to keep up with the ever-shifting cultures of the Greater Commonwealth. But unlike everyone else, she had to make a conscious decision to alter herself physically in order for that evolution to manifest itself. Her carefully designed DNA hardwired her neurons into specific personality traits. In order to survive any kind of phrenic progression, she first had to destroy what existed, an action that came perilously close to individuality suicide. And in her, as in every human, vanity was not something bound to DNA; she considered her existing personality to be more than adequate—in short, she liked being herself.

But in slow increments, every time she needed to undergo rejuvenation, she modified a little more of her psychoneural profiling. At the end of the three-century process, she was still obsessive about a great many things, but now it was through choice rather than a physically ordained compulsion. One time long before, when she had tried to overcome mentally her need to apprehend a criminal in order to achieve a greater goal, the effort had put her body into a severe type of shock. By removing the Foundation’s physiological constraints, her mind now could flourish in ways her long-departed designers never had envisaged. She had been born with the intention of tracking down individual criminals, the kind who might plague the society of Huxley’s Haven, but now she had the freedom to take an overview. Yet none of the liberations she selected for herself ever touched the core of her identity; she always retained her intuitive understanding of right and wrong. Her soul was untainted.

Iaioud tested her new versatile self to the extreme. She accepted that the way in which the Halgarth collective had set up the constitution was intrinsically wrong, oppressing an entire population. In fact, she probably would have acknowledged that before. But the whole nature of Iaioud’s rigid society was uncomfortably close to that of Huxley’s Haven. After a while she decided that the difference was simple enough. On Iaioud people were being kept in line by a brutally authoritarian regime misuing Commonwealth medical technology. On Huxley’s Haven strictures and conformity came from within. Possibly there had been a crime back at the founding, when the Human Structure Foundation had started birthing an entire population with DNA modified for its grand scheme. The old liberal groups might have been right, a thought that would have finally pleased the radicals who had stolen her as a baby. But however great the sin committed at its genesis, the constraints placed on the population of Huxley’s Haven were internal. Its people now could not be changed without destroying what they were—by far the bigger crime.

So she convinced herself, anyway. These days she wrote it off as an argument between philosophies, interesting and completely disconnected from real life. The Commonwealth had enough real problems to keep her fully occupied, though even she had to admit that the whole Pilgrimage issue was creating some unique complications.

For once she couldn’t decide. Did Living Dream have the right to set off on Pilgrimage and possible consequences be damned? Her dilemma arose from the total lack of empirical evidence that the Void would consume the rest of the galaxy. She had to admit that a lot of pro-Pilgrimage factions and commentators were right to be skeptical. The assumption that Living Dream was courting annihilation was based entirely on information that came from the Raiel. The immense time scale since the last catastrophic macroexpansion phase would distort any information no matter how well stored; throw in aliens with their own agenda and she simply could not accept the claim at face value.

ANA: Governance was keen to acquire more information on the situation; that gave Paula a useful outlet for her energies and, thankfully, little time to brood over the politics involved. Her assignment, as always, was to stop the factions from engineering the physical citizens of the Commonwealth into actions they otherwise would not have performed.

She’d left the St. Mary’s clinic and returned to her ship, the Alexis Denken, a sleek ultradrive vessel that ANA: Governance had supplied and armed to a degree that would have alarmed any navy captain. She left the planet and then hung in transdimensional suspension twenty AU out from the star. It was a position that allowed her to monitor the FTL traffic within the Anagaska system with astonishing accuracy. Unfortunately, the one thing her ship’s sensors could not do was locate a cold trail. There was no trace of Aaron’s ship. Given the time between the raid on the clinic and her arrival, she suspected that he had an ultradrive ship. Marius certainly had one. Her u-shadow monitored him arriving back at the city starport and getting into a private yacht. Alexis Denken’s sensors tracked it slipping into hyperspace. For those in the know, the signature was indicative of an ultradrive.

An hour later the Delivery Man took off in his own ship, which had an equally suspicious drive signature. He flew away in almost exactly the opposite direction of Marius. Ten minutes later another starship dropped out of transdimensional suspension, where it had been waiting in the system’s cometary halo, and began to fly along the same course as the Delivery Man.

“Good luck,” Paula sent to Justine.

“Thanks.”

Paula opened an ultrasecure link to ANA: Governance. “It appears your ultradrive technology is completely compromised,” she reported.

“To be expected,” ANA: Governance replied. “It does not require my full capacity to derive the theory behind it. Most factions would have the intellectual resources. Once the equations are available, any Higher replicator above level five could produce the appropriate hardware.”

“I still think you should exert a little more authority. After all, the factions are all part of you.”

“Factions are how I remain integral. I am plural.”

“The way you say it makes it sound like you have the electronic version of bipolar disorder.”

“More like multi-billion-polar. But that is what I am. All individuals who join me do so by imprinting their personality routines upon me. I am the collective consciousness of all ANA inhabitants; that is the very basis of my authority. Once that essence is bequeathed, they are free to become what they want. I do not take their memories, too; that would be an annexation of individuality.”

“You have to pass through the eye of the needle to live in the playground of the gods.”

“One of Inigo’s better quotes,” ANA: Governance said with a cadence of amusement. “Shame about the rest of that sermon.”

“You don’t help make my job any easier.”

“Any and all of my resources are available to you.”

“But there’s only one of me, and I feel like I’m battling the Hydra out here.”

“This lack of self-confidence is unlike you. What is the matter?”

“The Pilgrimage, of course. Should it be allowed?”

“The humans of Living Dream believe it to be both their right and their destiny. They are billions in number. How can that much belief be wrong?”

“Because they might be endangering trillions.”

“True. This is not a question which has an answer. Not in the absolute terms you are demanding.”

“What if they do trigger the Void’s final devourment phase or at least a bad one?”

“Ah, now, that is the real question. It’s also one which I doubt we can have prior knowledge of. Neither I nor any of the postphysicals I have interacted with are aware of what happens inside the Void.”

“Inigo showed you.”

“Inigo showed us the fate of humans in the Void. Which incidentally isn’t too dissimilar to downloading yourself into me, though the Void has the advantage of quasi-mystical overtones to win over the technophobes among humanity. And you get to remain physical. What he did not show us is the nature of the Void itself.”

“So you’re prepared to take the risk?”

“At this moment I am prepared to let the players strut the stage.”

“Yes. That’s about as undefinitive as it gets.”

“If I were to forbid the Pilgrimage and enforce that decision, it would trigger a split within myself. Pro-Pilgrimage factions such as the Advancers would likely attempt to create their own version of myself. And kindly remember I am not a virtual environment. I am fully established within the quantum field intersections around Earth.”

“You’re scared of a rival?”

“The human race has never been so unified as it is today. It has taken our entire history to reach this congruity. People, all people, lead a good life filled with as much diversity as they wish to undergo. They migrate inward until they download into me. Within me they are free to transcend in any way imagination and ability can combine. One day, as a whole, I will become postphysical. Humans who do not wish to travel along that path will begin afresh. That is the vision of evolution which awaits us. A ‘rival’ focal point would distort that, possibly even damage or dilute the moment of singularity.”

“There can only be one god, huh?”

“There can be many. I simply wish to avoid engendering hostile ones. No one wants to see a war in heaven. Trust me, it would make a Void devourment seem trivial.”

“I thought diversity was our virtue.”

“It is one of them and, as such, flourishes within me.”

“But…“

“It is also a danger that can lead to our destruction. Opposing forces have to be balanced. That is my function.”

“And this is one instance where you’re going to fail if you’re not careful.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“So we have to find other options.”

“As people have sought since civilization began on Earth. That, I think, is a greater virtue.”

“Okay, then.” Paula took a moment to marshal her thoughts. “I’m uncertain who is behind the raid on the clinic. It is puzzling why the Advancers and Conservatives should both have their representatives there after the fact. Do you think a third faction is involved?”

“Very likely. I do not know which one. Many alliances are being formed and broken. However, you may soon be able to establish the identity. Admiral Kazimir is currently receiving a report from the base admiral at the High Angel. He will probably ask you to tackle it.”

“Ah.”

“If you need anything.”

“I’ll let you know.”

The link ended. Paula sat back on the deep curving chair the starship’s cabin had molded for her. Given her own uncertainty about the mission, she was feeling vaguely troubled by the lack of reassurance ANA: Governance could offer. She supposed she should be grateful it had been so honest with her.

Kazimir called less than a minute later. “How did the Anagaska inquiry go?” he asked.

“Positive result. It was definitely someone with advanced biononics and possibly an ultradrive ship. The target was Inigo’s old memorycell.”

“Interesting. And I’ve just had a report that the Alini, a private starship, docked at High Angel.”

“How is that relevant?”

“It docked at the Raiel dome. The navy sensors detected a drive signature, which could indicate an ultradrive.”

Paula was suddenly very interested. “Did it, now? There are very few humans the Raiel will allow into their dome. Who does the Alini belong to?”

“Unknown. It’s registered to a company on Sholapur.”

“I’m on my way.”

The Delivery Man landed at Daroca’s main starport, parking his ultradrive ship, the Jomo, on a pad connected to the third terminal building, which dealt with private yachts. Then he started walking across the field to the nearby hangar zone. Even knowing all about the diversion bug infiltrated into the ground navigation section of the starport’s smartcore did not help him. All the hangars were identical, the rows regimented. It was mildly confusing. Not that he would lose his way, not with all his enrichments and an instinctive sense of direction. But just to be on the safe side, his u-shadow snatched real-time images from a sensor satellite and guided him directly.

Eventually he was standing at the base of a glossy black wall where the small side door was protected by an excellent security shield. Not even his full field function scan could determine what lay inside. He smiled. This was more like it.

His biononics began to modify their field function, pushing a variety of energy patterns against the security shield, introducing small instabilities that quickly began to amplify. His u-shadow reached through the fluctuating gaps and launched a flurry of smart trojans into the hangar net.

The door irised open.

Ninety-seven seconds. Not bad.

Inside, his field function scanned, looking for possible guard armaments, while his u-shadow rifled through the hangar’s electronic systems. Troblum had set up a fairly standard defense network with concentric shielding around the main section of the hangar. The physicist was clearly more interested in maintaining privacy than in providing physical protection.

His scan did not reveal any human presence in the hangar. The first office was clearly just a reception area, cover for anyone who did make it past the diversion system. Beyond that was a second office with one of the biggest smartcores the Delivery Man had ever seen. It was not connected to the hangar network or the unisphere. His u-shadow established a link to its peripheral systems and began to probe the available files.

The Delivery Man went into the main hangar. He whistled softly at the vast array of Neumann cybernetic modules occupying half the space inside. The machine was powered down, but he was familiar enough with the technology to guess that its sophistication probably put it beyond a level-six replicator. That was not something an individual Higher citizen normally possessed. No wonder Troblum needed such a large smartcore; nothing else could operate such a rig.

“Can you access the main memory?” he asked his u-shadow.

“Not possible for me. I will need high-order assistance.”

The Delivery Man cursed and opened an ultrasecure link to the Conservative Faction. There was a small risk it could be intercepted by another faction or, more likely, ANA: Governance itself, but in light of what he had stumbled across, he considered it necessary. “I need help to gain access to Troblum’s smartcore. It should tell us what he’s been building with this machine.”

“Very well,” the Conservative Faction replied. With his u-shadow providing a link, the Delivery Man could almost feel the faction’s presence shift into the hangar. It began to infiltrate the smartcore. While it was doing that, he began to look through the mundane files in the hangar’s net to try to find delivery schedules. The individual components of the machine had to have come from somewhere, and the EMAs to obtain them went far beyond an individual’s resources. There was no court the Conservatives could use to confront the Accelerators with even if he established a data trail back to their representatives, but if he could find the proxy supplying Troblum with additional EMAs, there was a chance he could find other illicit EMA transfers from the same source. A whole level of Accelerator operations would be uncovered.

“There is only one design stored in the smartcore,” the Conservative Faction announced. “It would appear to be an FTL engine capable of transporting a planet.”

The Delivery Man swung around to stare at the dark machine looming above him, his gaze drawn to the circular extrusion mechanism in the center. “A whole planet?”

“Yes.”

“Would it work?”

“The design is an ingenious reworking of exotic matter theory. It could work if applied correctly.”

“And this built it?” he said, still staring at the machine.

“There have been two attempts at producing the engine. The first was aborted. The second appears to have been successful.”

“Why do they want to fly a planet at FTL speeds? And which planet?”

“We don’t know. Please destroy the machine and the smartcore.”

The Delivery Man put his hands on his hips to give the machine an appalled look. “What technology level can I go up to here?”

“Unlimited. Nobody must know it ever existed, least of all Highers.”

“Okay. Your call.”

The Conservative Faction ended the link, leaving the Delivery Man feeling unusually alone. Now that he knew the purpose of the machine, the silent hangar had the feel of some ancient murder scene. It was not a pleasant place to be, putting him on edge.

He called the Jomo’s smartcore and told it to fly over. The hangar’s main doors were open when it arrived, and it nosed through the security screen to settle on the cradles inside. Its nose almost touched the wall of Neumann cybernetics.

The Delivery Man made sure the hangar security screen was at its highest rating before he stood underneath the Jomo’s open airlock to be drawn up by an inverted gravity effect. Once inside, he used a tricertificate authorization to activate the Hawking m-sink stored in one of the forward holds. The little device was contained inside a high-powered regrav sled, which slipped out to hover in front of the Neumann cybernetics. With that in place, the Delivery Man aimed a narrow disrupter effect at the machine, just above the Hawking m-sink. A half-meter section of equipment vaporized, producing a horizontal fountain of hot ionized gas. It bent slightly in midair to pour into the Hawking m-sink, which absorbed every molecule. The Delivery Man tracked the disrupter effect along the front of the machine, with the Hawking m-sink following.

It took forty minutes to vaporize the entire machine. When it was over, the quantum black hole at the center of the Hawking m-sink had absorbed three hundred twenty-seven tons of matter, putting the regrav sled close to its weight lift limit as it edged back into the starship’s hold. The Delivery Man requested flight clearance from the starport, and the Jomo lifted into Arevalo’s warm summer skies.

Justine watched it go from the safety of her own ship, which was parked on a pad eight hangars down the row.

Twilight was bathing Hawksbill Bay with a rich gold hue that was so mild that strange constellations could twinkle merrily across the cloudless sky. The only sound around the pavilion’s swimming pool came from the waves breaking around the rocks of the headland below.

“An FTL engine that shifts planets,” Nelson said. “Got to admire them. They don’t think small.”

“They don’t think, period,” Gore grunted. “ANA is embedded in the local quantum fields. You can’t just rip it out and fling it across the galaxy on a blind date with the Void.”

“They obviously believe it. Troblum’s EMA came through one of their front committees. He built the engine for the Accelerators.”

“Don’t believe it,” Gore said, shaking his head. “He even made a presentation to the navy about the Anomine using something like this to haul the Dyson barrier generators into place. Asked Kazimir to fund a fucking search for them, for Christ’s sake. Why would Ilanthe allow him to go public with the idea? They’d atomize him before he even put in a call for a meeting with the navy. No, we haven’t got enough information yet.”

“Makes sense if it’s a diversion,” Nelson said reluctantly. “They wouldn’t build anything so critical to their plans on a Higher world. We don’t.”

“And he’s taken years to get it built on a fairly pitiful budget. Wrong priority level. We need to find Troblum and ask nicely what he’s really been doing for the Accelerators.”

“He left Arevalo a while back. Filed a flight plan to Lutain. Never showed up there or any other Commonwealth world, Central or External.”

“We need to find him,” Gore repeated firmly.

“That’s not going to happen. Either the Accelerators have him or he’s hiding, or more likely he’s plain and simple dead.”

“Then we find out which one it is.”

Justine stood in the middle of the weirdly empty hangar and called Paula.

“There’s something seriously wrong here.”

“In what way?” Paula asked.

“I think the Delivery Man just cleared the whole place out.” Justine slowly looked around the big empty space, opening her optical vision to Paula. “See that? There was something in here. My field scan shows those power cables were cut by a disruption effect; same goes for the support girders. Whatever it was, it was sizable and used up a great deal of power. But the Jomo is no bigger than my ship. Which only leaves one option for how he did it.”

“I thought the Hawking m-sink was even more secure than ultradrive technology. It would seem I’m wrong, which is disturbing.”

“Kazimir will have to be told,” Justine said. “If there are starships flying around the Commonwealth equipped with that kind of weapon, the navy should know about it. The factions don’t use the most principled people as their representatives.”

“I’ll leave that to you.”

“Great. Thank you. He’s still human enough to blame the messenger.”

“He’s a professional. You’ll be all right. Do you know where the Delivery Man is heading?”

“His direction indicated Earth when he left my sensor range. I imagine he’ll want to dump the mass stored in the Hawking m-sink first, and he’ll do that deep in interstellar space. Expelling it will produce a colossal gamma burst.”

“Leave him alone for now. The focus is shifting back to Living Dream.”

“Why?”

“Our sources in the movement are reporting an alarming development,” Paula said. “Living Dream is readying all the civil security forces on all the core worlds of the Free Market Zone. Leave has been canceled, and they’re undergoing martial law enforcement training.”

“Martial law? Where is that applied in the Free Market Zone?”

“It isn’t—yet. But if they were to annex Viotia, they would probably need that many police troopers to keep the populace under control.”

“Jesus! Are they planning that?”

“Ethan is becoming desperate to gain control over the Second Dreamer. Whoever that is, he’s the one person who could still stop this whole Pilgrimage in its tracks.”

“And everyone believes he’s on Viotia,” Justine said, appalled. “Dear heavens, an interstellar invasion. In this day and age it’s unthinkable. It’s left over from the Starflyer War.”

“Start thinking it. I made a mistake not giving this a higher priority. We really need to offer ANA: Governance’s protection to the Second Dreamer. That way no one will be able to pressure him into either helping or hindering the Pilgrimage.”

“But first we have to find him. How long before you can get your agent working on this?”

“Very soon now. I’m on my way to see him with one slight detour.”

Justine eyed the hangar’s inner office suspiciously. There was an empty space that three communications conduits led into, their ends cut off clean. “Whatever they were building here was clearly important, and the Delivery Man took quite a risk covering it up. I don’t think we have a lot of time left.”

“The Pilgrimage ships won’t be ready to fly until September.”

“And the Ocisen Empire fleet will be here in late August, which is less than three months away. I’d like to suggest a lead no one else seems to be following.”

“What’s that?”

“Inigo started to dream when he was at Centurion Station. Did anyone else?”

“If they did, we’d know about it.”

“That’s the point: Would we? Suppose the contact was a weak one that was never fully established. Or the recipient didn’t want any part of Inigo’s religion. A reluctant person just like the Second Dreamer has turned out to be.”

“I think I see where you’re going with this or, rather, intend to go.”

“I want to check out the confluence nest on Centurion Station, see if it has any memory of Void dreams or fragments of them. Maybe the Second Dreamer started his connection with the Skylord when he was there, just like Inigo.”

“You’re right. No one else has covered that angle.”

“If I leave now, my ship can get me there in five hundred hours.”

“You’re going to fly there? Why not use the navy’s relay link?”

“Too much chance of it being intercepted.”

“If you do find anything, it’ll take you another five hundred hours to get back. It’ll probably all be over by then.”

“If I find anything important, I’ll use the relay link to send you the name in the heaviest encryption we have.”

“Okay. Good luck.”

Troblum woke up slumped in the chair he had sat in reviewing various schematics all day. His exovision displays had paused at the point where he had fallen asleep. Colorful profiles of exotic mass density modulators floated like mechanical ghosts around him, each one beleaguered by shoals of blue and green analytical displays. Supposedly, those components would perform their designated function without any trouble; the designers simply had scaled up from existing ultradrives. Except nobody had ever built them that size before, which left Troblum with a mountain of problems when it came to the kind of precise power control they needed. And they hadn’t even gotten to the fabrication stage yet.

He stretched as best his thick limbs would allow and tried to get out of the chair. After two attempts that made him look like an overturned glagwi struggling to right itself, his u-shadow ordered the station to reduce the local gravity field. Now, when he pushed with his legs and back, he gave his body an impetus that propelled him right out of the clingy cushions. Gravity returned slowly, giving him time to straighten his legs before his feet touched the decking. He let out a wet belch as the falling sensation ended. His stomach still was churning, and his legs felt weak and stiff. He had a headache, too. The medical display in his exovision showed him that his sugar levels were all over the place. There was a load of crap about toxins and blood oxygen levels, too, which he canceled just as the nutrition and exercise recommendations came up. Stupid anachronism in the age of biononics.

He set off to the saloon that the ultradrive team used as its social and business center. It had the best culinary units on the station. When he arrived, several of the tables along the curving wall were occupied by groups of people discussing various aspects of the project. He saw Neskia with a couple of technicians he recognized from the team handling the drive’s hyperspace fluidity systems. They all stared at him as he sat down in the spare seat, wincing as his knees creaked. Both technicians registered mild disapproval. Neskia’s long metallized neck curved sinuously so that her flat face was aligned perfectly on him. “Thank you,” she said to the technicians. “We’ll go with that.”

They nodded thanks and left.

“Was there something you wanted?” she asked Troblum in a level voice.

“I need to change the design for the mass density modulator,” he said. A maidbot slid over with a tray of food his u-shadow had ordered from the culinary units. He started unloading the plates.

Neskia’s face tipped down; her large circular eyes regarded the food without any trace of emotion. “I see. Do you have the proposed new design?”

“No,” he mumbled around a mouthful of spaghetti. “I want you to okay the change before I waste a week on it.”

“What’s wrong with the existing modulator?”

“It’s a pile of crap. Doesn’t work. Your idiots didn’t take the power control requirements into account.”

“Do you have an analysis of the problem?”

Troblum could only nod as he chewed his hot floratts bread with mozzarella and herbs. His u-shadow sent the file over.

“Thank you. The review team will examine this. You will have a reply in an hour. That is the procedure.”

“Sure. Good.” He sighed. It was great that the tech problem had been sorted out, but the spaghetti with its balls of jolmeat and attrato sauce could have done with more black pepper. He reached for his tankard, only to find Neskia’s hand on top of his, preventing him from lifting the beer. Her skin shimmered between white and silver. He could not sense any temperature from her fingers, hot or cold. “What?”

Her eyes blinked slowly, turning the irises from black to deep indigo. “In future. In public. While you are here in my station. Please ensure that your social interaction program is running and that you follow its advice.”

“Oh. Okay.” He dipped his head toward the tankard.

“Thank you, Troblum.” She lifted her hand. “Was there anything else? The project seems to be absorbing most of your time.”

“Yeah, it’s interesting. I might get some crossover into one of my own projects. Ultradrive is a fascinating reworking of quantum dimensional theory. Who came up with it?”

“I believe it was ANA: Governance. Is it important?”

“No.” He pushed the spaghetti plate aside and started on the rack of lamb.

Neskia had not stopped looking at him. She was about to speak again when two people came over to stand beside their table. Troblum finished chewing before he glanced up; he knew that was the kind of thing the social program counseled. Marius was looking down at him with his usual rarefied contempt, but it was his companion who turned Troblum immobile. His limbs would not move. Thankfully, neither did his mouth, which stopped him from opening his jaw and grunting in shock. He could not breathe, either, as something like frost ripped down through his lungs.

“I’d introduce you,” Marius said coldly. “But of all the people on this station, Troblum, you are the one who doesn’t need it, now, do you?”

“Really,” the Cat said, and grinned. “Why’s that?”

Troblum’s very dark fascination kept his muscles locked tight. She was not easy to recognize; she did not have that trademark spiked hair out of all her history files. It was still short and dark, but today she wore it in a smooth swept-back style with a pair of slim copper shades perched above her forehead. She was dressed in a chic modern suit rather than the leather trousers and tight vest she used to favor. But that darkish complexion and wide amused grin veering on the crazy…There was no mistake. She was so much smaller than he imagined, it was confusing; she barely came up to his shoulders, yet he’d always visualized her as an Amazon.

“Troblum has a penchant for history,” Marius said. “He knows all sorts of odd facts.”

“What’s my favorite food?” the Cat asked.

“Lemon risotto with asparagus,” Troblum stammered. “It was the specialty dish at the restaurant you waitressed in when you were fifteen.”

The Cat’s grin sharpened. “What the fuck is he?” She turned to Marius for an explanation.

“An idiot savant with a fetish about the Starflyer War. He’s useful to us.”

“Whatever turns you on.”

“You’re in suspension,” Troblum said flatly; he couldn’t help the words coming out even though he was afraid of her. “It was a five-thousand-year sentence.”

“Aww. He’s quite sweet, actually,” the Cat told Marius. She gave Troblum a lewd wink. “I’ll finish it one day. Promise.”

“If you have a moment, please,” Marius said to Neskia. “We need to sort a proper ship out for our guest.”

“Of course.” She stood up.

“Oh yes,” Marius added, as though it were of no consequence. “Is Troblum behaving himself?”

Neskia looked from Marius to Troblum. “So far, so good. He’s been quite helpful.”

“Keep it up,” Marius said. He was not smiling.

Troblum bowed his head, unable to look at any of them. Too many people. Too close. Too intrusive. And one of them is the Cat! He wasn’t prepared for that kind of encounter today—or any day. But she was out of suspension somehow, walking around. She’s in this station!

His medical display flashed blue symbols down the side of his exovision, telling him his biononics were engaging, reanimating his chest muscles, calming them into a steady rhythm. It hadn’t registered with him the way he had started to suck his breath down as if his throat were constricted. A small cocktail of drugs was flushed out of macrocellular glands, bringing down his heart rate.

Troblum risked a glance up, his face pulled into a horrendously guilty expression. The three of them were gone, out of sight, out of the saloon. He was gathering an excessive number of curious looks from his colleagues who were still seated. He wanted to tell them, to shout: It’s not me you should be staring at.

Instead he felt the trembling start deep in his torso. He stood up fast, which made his head spin. Biononics reinforced his leg muscles, allowing him to hurry out of the saloon. In the corridor, his u-shadow diverted a trolleybot for him to sit on. It carried him all the way back to his quarters, where he flopped onto the bed. He loaded a nine-level certificate into the lock even though he knew how useless that was.

The Cat!

He lay on the bed with the cabin heating up, feeling the shock slowly ebbing. Release from the physical symptoms did nothing to alleviate the dread. Of all the megalomaniacs and psychopaths in history, the Accelerators had chosen to bring her back. Troblum lay in the warm darkness for hours, wondering what they were facing that was so terrible that they had no choice but to use her. He’d always been behind the whole Accelerator movement because it was such a logical one. They were nurturing an evolutionary lineage that had started with single-cell amoebas and would end with elevation to postphysical status—a necessity that could not be disputed. The other factions were wrong; it was that obvious—to him. Accelerator philosophy appealed to his physicist nature. That hurtful vicious bastard Marius was right: There was very little else in the way of personality.

Forget that. It’s not relevant.

Because anything that has to use the Cat to make it work can’t be right. It just can’t.