The Evolutionary Void

THREE

THE PANCEPHEI LINE starship had already dropped out of hyperspace when the emergency began. External sensors were showing the passengers an image of the H-congruous world two thousand kilometers below. White clouds tumbled high above dark blue oceans, sending out long streamers in forays across the surprisingly brown land. Flight information was available to access, designating their vector as a purple line down through the atmosphere to Garamond’s capital, the smooth resolution to another flawless everyday flight across three hundred light-years.

None of that registered with the increasingly frantic Delivery Man. The Conservative Faction’s intelligence division had automatically sent out a secure classified warning to all operatives as soon as the inversion core broke free of ANA’s edifice. He’d observed it with growing dismay as it eluded the navy ships. Then the deterrence fleet arrived (though its nature wasn’t revealed on any navy scans of the Sol system), and right after that the Swarm materialized. Earth’s defense agency declared a grade-one alert.

The Delivery Man called his wife, and to hell with protocol. For whatever reason, her u-shadow didn’t accept his first request for a link. When he analyzed the basic data, he realized she was in the Dulwich Park school. His hand thumped the nicely cushioned armrest of his seat in the first-class cubicle in frustration.

Lizzie teleported back home, and her u-shadow accepted the link. He managed a few words of reassurance before his exovision symbols told him the unisphere was changing the routing on the link, which was weird. His secure priority connection with the Conservative Faction intelligence division dropped out. What the fuck? “Then I’ll be with you the instant I reach an Earth station,” he told her, trying to appear positive.

“Something’s wrong,” Lizzie said.

It was impossible, but he could feel her distress as though they were using the gaiafield. “Lizzie, just hang on! I will be there, I promise you. Tell the girls Daddy is going to be home any minute.”

His u-shadow reported the link with Lizzie had failed, as had the one to the Conservative Faction. “No,” he gasped out loud. His exovision showed that every route to Earth had been severed. No data were getting in or out of the Sol system; it was completely cut off from the unisphere. “What the hell is happening?” he asked his u-shadow.

“Unknown,” it replied. “All wormholes to Sol have physically closed. The navy and Commonwealth government retain several secure emergency TD links to Sol, but none are working.”

“Did they nova it?” he asked fearfully.

“Unknown but unlikely. Whatever happened, happened very quickly. A nova shock wave would take several minutes to reach Earth.”

“The planet itself, then-could they have destroyed it, dropped a quantumbuster through the defenses or something? Maybe an M-sink?”

“Possibly. But for every communication system in the solar system to be affected simultaneously, the destruction would have to be enormous and swift. That suggests something which acts at hyperluminal velocity.”

“Did they kill Earth?” he yelled out.

“Unknown.”

“Oh, sweet Ozzie.” His whole body was shuddering as shock gripped him. Biononics worked to calm the impulses. “Find out,” he instructed his u-shadow. “Use every source you can access.”

“Understood.”

Judging by the raised voices muffled by the cubicle door, news of Earth’s disappearance was spreading fast. The Delivery Man couldn’t think what to do. It was the Conservative Faction that always provided him with the best data; now they were gone. Without them, he was no better than anyone else. He had no special ability, no influence, no one to call …

Marius. That was his first thought: I could ask Marius. That would be pitifully weak. But this is Lizzie and the kids. This isn’t the faction. His rival’s communication icon hung in his exovision. He couldn’t resist.

The response took several seconds. His u-shadow reported several semisentients tracking and confirming his location.

“Yes?” Marius replied smoothly. There was no attempt to establish any kind of routing security on the link. He was connected to Fanallisto’s cybersphere.

“What have you done?” the Delivery Man asked. Some small part of him was intrigued: What’s Marius doing on the planet I just left?

“I have done nothing. But I am curious why you’re on Gralmond.”

“What do you fucking think I’m doing here, you little shit! I’m going home. I was going home. What have you done to my family? What’s happened to Earth?”

“Ah. Don’t worry. They are perfectly safe.”

“Safe!”

“Yes. Your navy will presumably release the details in a while, but we have simply imprisoned Sol inside a very powerful force field, just like the Dyson Pair.”

“You did what?”

“We can no longer accept interference from ANA, nor your own faction. We will go into the Void. You will not stop us. You cannot. Not now.”

“I will catch you. I will rip you to fucking pieces.”

“You disappoint me. I told you the game was over. When will you animals learn? We have won. Elevation is inevitable.”

“Not while I’m alive, it isn’t.”

“Are you threatening me? I extend you a simple courtesy, and this emotional diarrhea is how you respond? You are an agent of the Conservative Faction, after all; perhaps I shouldn’t take any chances. I will visit Gralmond and eradicate that world with you and everyone else on it.”

“No!”

“Are you a threat or are you a simple broken animal has-been?”

“This won’t work. You can’t get into the Void. Araminta will never take you there.”

“Once we secure her, she will have no choice. You know this.”

In the privacy of the first-class cubicle, the Delivery Man punched the wall twice, his arm’s biononic reinforcement producing a fist-sized dent in the carbotanium paneling. He’d never felt so helpless. So useless. Nor had he felt so much anger, most of it directed at himself for not being with his family at this time. The one time they truly should have been together. “What about after?” he asked.

“After?”

“If the inversion core does make it into the Void, will you release Sol?”

“I expect so. It is an irrelevance, then, after all.”

“If you don’t, I will find you, whatever form you take. And that is a threat.”

The link ended. “Shit.” He hit the wall again, right in the center of the dint. His storage lacunae contained several Conservative Faction emergency procedures; not one of them anticipated anything as remotely outrageous as this. The Delivery Man let out a nervous little laugh as he contemplated the enormity of the Accelerators’ actions. ANA and the deterrence fleet were the only possible entities that could have ended Living Dream’s Pilgrimage. Apart from the warrior Raiel. Even as he thought it, he knew he couldn’t rely on the aliens guarding the Gulf. The Accelerator Faction had access to Dark Fortress technology now. That might just allow them to get past the warrior Raiel.

He employed his biononics to adjust his wilder physiological parameters, calming his thoughts. Secondary routines came on line, expanding his mentality, allowing him to examine the situation properly. It was the only way to be of any genuine help to Lizzie and the kids.

If the deterrence fleet couldn’t break out of the force field, it was extremely unlikely that the navy could break in. That left the Accelerator Faction agents and scientists who’d built the Swarm or-long shot-the Raiel at High Angel. The navy and the President would no doubt be asking the High Angel as a matter of urgency, which left him with the prospect of tracking down an Accelerator agent who might know how to switch the damn thing off. And they would be extremely reluctant to tell him.

The starship settled on its pad. Passengers hurried off, leaking uncertainty out of their gaiamotes, contributing to the vast pall of unease that was contaminating the entire gaiafield. Some services at the spaceport had ground to a halt as the staff stopped everything to access the unisphere news.

A private starship had already arrived at the Sol force field and was relaying images of the almighty prison wall erected across space. Commentators were dredging up the historical records of the Second Chance’s first contact with the Dyson Alpha barrier and drawing unlikely parallels.

The Delivery Man stood in the airy glass and wood arrival hall, part of a bewildered crowd of travelers staring at the red solidos hanging above the wormhole terminus to Tampico. It was as if the shining symbols somehow made the situation a whole lot more real than the frantic unisphere broadcasts. They warned that the old Big15 world no longer had a connection to Earth. To add to the irony, the preset symbols advised making alternative journey arrangements.

“Quite right,” the Delivery Man muttered to himself. First off, he had to acquire some serious hardware and firepower if he was going to start snatching Accelerator agents. It was only logical. That brought him up against his choices. The only Accelerator agent he knew who would definitely have the kind of information he needed was Marius. Moreover, Marius was now back on Fanallisto, where there was a cache of field support equipment that the Delivery Man had the codes for. “Holy crap,” he hissed at the enormity of the decision.

His u-shadow accessed the spaceport’s network to grab flight times of starships going back to Fanallisto. Already, operators were starting to cancel flights as a precaution.

That was when his u-shadow reported that the Conservative Faction was opening a secure link. “What?” The people nearby gave him curious looks; his jolt of surprise had spilled out into the gaiafield. But there was no doubting the call’s authenticity; every certificate and code key was correct. He collected himself and smiled blankly as he accepted the call. “Have you broken out through the force field?” he asked.

“Not exactly. This is a … portion of what you know as the Conservative Faction; think of me as the executive.”

“All right. So how can you communicate through the force field?”

“I can’t. I’m outside it.”

“But the faction is part of ANA.”

“Could we just move past the definitions stage, please? Take it as read; this is the Conservative Faction speaking.”

“Is there any way to get through the barrier? I have to talk to my family.”

“Forget it. The bastards were smart mapping out Dark Fortress technology. ANA and Earth are going to be sitting on the sidelines for the duration. It’s down to us now.”

The Delivery Man frowned. “Bastards,” he mouthed. This wasn’t the way the Conservative Faction spoke. Secondary routines dug up the “sidelines” crack; it was an old sporting reference. Very old. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Like I said: the executive. What? You think we’re all equal in ANA?”

“Well … yes. Of course.”

“Nice theory. Okay, then, the executive is all nice and homogeneous and glowing in love from everyone else involved in the faction. Happy now?”

“But you can’t be in ANA.”

“No. I’m taking a short sabbatical. Lucky for us. Now, are you with me? Are you going to help stop Marius and Ilanthe?”

“Just so you understand my position, I’m going to require proof of what you are before I do anything.”

“Sonofabitch Highers. You’re all fucking bureaucrats at heart, aren’t you?”

“What the hell are you?”

“I’ll give you proof I’m what I claim, but you’ve got to come and collect it.”

“Listen, my priority-actually my only concern-is taking down that barrier. Nothing else is relevant.”

“Brilliant. And how do you propose to do that?”

“Somewhere in the Commonwealth there will be an Accelerator with the knowledge. Once I track them down, I will extract the information. I am prepared to use extreme methods.”

“I think I misjudged you. That’s not a bad idea. I’m almost tempted.”

“What do you mean ‘misjudged’?”

“Face it, son, you don’t exactly have a double-O prefix, do you? You just deliver things for us, with a bit of low-level covert crap thrown in to bolster your ego.”

The Delivery Man’s u-shadow couldn’t find a reference to double-O, at least not one that made any sense. “I’ve gone up against Marius before,” he said, bridling.

“You had a cup of hot chocolate with him before. Come on, let’s get real here.”

“Well, what’s your proposal?”

“First off, get back to Purlap spaceport and pick up the starship you dumped there. Trust me, the person it was intended for isn’t going to be using it now. And we’re going to need some decent hardware to pull this off.”

“Pull what off?” But he was obscurely heartened by the “executive” knowing about the starship. It meant that the thing was genuine or that the entire Conservative Faction was a broken joke; if it was the latter, the Accelerators wouldn’t be toying with him like this. That wasn’t how they worked.

“One stage at a time. Go get the starship.”

The Delivery Man reviewed the spaceport’s network again. “The commercial lines are shutting down all their scheduled flights. And not just here by the look of it.” His u-shadow was tracking data from across the Commonwealth. Nobody wanted to be flying when the Accelerators were out there unchecked by the navy.

“Boo hoo,” said the Conservative executive. “You just claimed you were prepared to use any method necessary.”

“To get me back with my family.”

“This will, like nothing else. Now think: Where are you?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re in the middle of a spaceport with three hundred and seventeen starships currently on the ground around you, according to its official registry. Pick a good one, take it over, and get your ass back to Purlap. You’re a secret agent, remember? Earn your double-O status.”

“Take it over?” the Delivery Man repeated.

“Good man. Call me when you get there. And don’t take too long. Marius was on Fanallisto for a reason, and given what’s just gone down, it must be a hell of a good one for him to be off center stage. He’s near the top of their hierarchy.”

The call ended, leaving a new communication icon gleaming in the Delivery Man’s exovision. “Take it over,” he said to himself. “Okay, then.”

He started to walk back down the length of the arrival hall. His u-shadow extracted information from the registry and produced a short list. There were some navy ships, including a couple of scouts, which were almost tempting, but that would require a little too much bravado, and he didn’t want to have to bodyloss anyone. Especially not now, when the navy was going to need every asset it had. Instead he picked a private yacht called Lady Rasfay.

It was cool outside, with high clouds stretching across the early-morning sky. Dew slicked the spaceport’s concrete roadways and the red-tinged grass analogue. It even deposited a layer of condensation on the taxi capsule the Delivery Man took out to pad F37, a couple of miles away from the main passenger terminal. He climbed out, shivering against the chilly air. The Lady Rasfay was ten meters in front of him, a blue-white cone with an oval cross section, like some kind of ancient missile lying on its side. He never did get why so many people wanted their starships to look streamlined, as if they were capable of aerodynamic flight. But the owner, Duaro, was clearly one who favored image.

The Delivery Man’s u-shadow had already performed a low-level infiltration of the ship’s network. Nobody was on board, and the primary systems were all in powerdown mode. A quick scan of the drive performance figures backed up what he’d guessed from the physical profile. Duaro had invested a lot of energy and mass allocations (EMAs) and time on the hyperdrive, which could now push the ship along at a fraction over fifteen light-years an hour, as good as a hyperdrive could get.

His u-shadow put a civil spaceworthiness authority code into the ship’s network, and the airlock opened. A metal stair slid out. The Delivery Man walked up it, not bothering to scan around, an act that might betray him as a guilty party. That was the beauty of a Higher world: No one really thought in terms of theft; if you saw someone entering a starship, you just assumed it was legitimate. Thanks to EMAs and replicator technology, material items were available to all; certainly a starship was hardly a possession to envy.

Not that Duaro was completely guileless. The network had several safeguards built in. After several milliseconds analyzing them, the Delivery Man’s u-shadow presented him with eight options for circumventing the restrictions and gaining direct control over the smartcore.

Dim red lighting cast a strange glow along the narrow central companionway. The yacht had a simple layout, almost old-fashioned in nature, with the flight cabin at the front, a lounge behind that in the midsection, and two sleeping cabins aft. Once he was inside, the Delivery Man’s biononics performed a short-range field scan to find a suitable point where he could physically access the network’s nodes. That was the same time he heard passionate groaning from the portside sleeping cabin.

The door flowed aside silently. Inside, the sleeping cabin’s decor was ancient teak, carved to cover every curve and angle of the bulkhead walls and lovingly polished. Two figures were in flagrante on the narrow cot.

“Duaro, I presume?” the Delivery Man said loudly.

The man squirmed about in alarm. The woman squealed and scrabbled frantically at the silk sheets to cover herself. She was exceptionally beautiful, the Delivery Man acknowledged, with a mane of flame-red hair and a face covered in freckles. She was also very young; a Firstlife if the Delivery Man was any judge.

“Did Mirain send you?” Duaro asked urgently. “Look, we can conclude this in a civilized fashion.”

“Mirain?” the Delivery Man mused out loud. His u-shadow ran a fast cross-reference on Duaro’s profile. “You mean your wife, Mirain?”

The woman on the bed cringed, giving Duaro a sulky glance.

“I can’t believe she went to this much trouble,” Duaro groused. “This is just a harmless little fling.”

“Oh, thank you,” the woman snapped.

“Sneaking on board and keeping the lights off and the smartcore dumb,” the Delivery Man mused. “Doesn’t appear that harmless.”

“Look, let’s be reasonable about this …”

The Delivery Man gave a huge smile at the magnificent, timeless cliche. “Yes, let’s. Shall I tell you what I want?”

“Of course,” Duaro said with an air of cautious relief.

“The yacht’s smartcore access codes.”

“What?”

“Non-negotiable,” the Delivery Man said, and powered up several weapons enrichments.

Paula Myo couldn’t remember being so shocked before, not ever. The emotional trauma had become physical in nature, with her heart racing and her hands trembling as if she were some kind of Natural human. She had to sit down hard on the Alexis Denken’s cabin floor before her legs gave way. The only thing her exovision revealed was a vast blank plain, which was what the Capital-class ship Kabul was seeing as it scanned the outside of the Sol barrier. Her link came directly from Pentagon II on the secure channel her status entitled her to. But there was nothing she could do, no help she could offer. She was a simple passive observer of the greatest disaster to befall the Commonwealth since the barrier around Dyson Alpha came down. That memory stirred a possibility.

“Do you have the spatial coordinates of the Swarm components when they materialized?” she asked Admiral Juliaca, who was Kazimir’s deputy and now de facto commander of the Commonwealth Navy. “The original Dark Fortress had an opening on the outside, which is how it was turned off.”

“Nice try,” Juliaca said. “That was the first thing the Kabul attempted. There is no bulge in the Sol barrier as far as we can detect, and I’ve got eleven ships out there searching now, as well as several civilian craft. It’s perfectly smooth, certainly in the areas around the swarm components we’ve scanned.”

“Of course,” Paula muttered. No fool like an old one; it was never going to be that easy. She shook herself and ordered her biononics to stabilize her wayward body. Her thoughts, though, were still sluggish, as if they were moving through ice. I thought I got rid of this nonsense when I resequenced. Even as she thought it, some small part of her mind was chiding her for being too hard on herself. But for Accelerators to bring this off successfully was a monumental failure of intelligence gathering and analysis on ANA’s part, for which she bore some considerable responsibility. Any kind of human would be perturbed by the enormity of the coup, which was what this was.

“And we’re certain the deterrence fleet is caught inside?” Paula asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Juliaca said. “There is no response whatsoever from Kazimir. If he could get in touch with us, he would. He was commanding the fleet, so logically the fleet is inside the Sol barrier.”

Paula, who had been monitoring what she could of the ANA judicial conclave, knew the Admiral was right. But … “The whole fleet? That seems unlikely. Surely there’s some craft held in reserve.”

“One moment,” the Admiral said.

A new communication icon appeared in Paula’s exovision. She welcomed the color it brought to the numbing image of the Sol barrier. As she acknowledged the call, she pushed the Kabul’s imagery into a peripheral mode. “Mr. President,” she said formally.

“Investigator Myo,” President Alcamo replied. “I’m glad you are still available. Frankly, I’m looking for some meaningful advice right now. Without ANA we’re woefully short of relevant information.”

“Whatever I can do, of course,” Paula said. “I was going to suggest to the Admiral that the remainder of the deterrence fleet be deployed to Sol to see if they can break in.”

“That’s the problem,” Admiral Juliaca said. “I don’t have any knowledge of the deterrence fleet. There’s nothing in any navy facility, not even a contact code. And the navy network has acknowledged my authority as commander.”

“But they must be getting in touch with you?” a startled Paula said.

“Not as yet.”

“I see.” A notion was starting to fall into place. It wasn’t good.

“Paula, do you know anything about the fleet?” President Alcamo asked.

“I’m afraid not, sir, though I do know how reluctant ANA and Kazimir were to deploy it. That does suggest to me that it might not be a fleet at all.”

“A single ship?” Juliaca asked.

“It fits what’s currently happening. It is inconceivable that any remaining fleet ships would not get in touch with you in an emergency of this magnitude. We should conclude there was only one and it is trapped inside the Sol barrier along with ANA.”

“You mean we’re defenseless?” President Alcamo asked.

“No, sir,” the Admiral replied. “The Ocisen invasion fleet and their Prime allies were disabled before the Sol barrier was established. There is no other immediate external threat, and the Capital- and River-class squadrons are more than capable of dealing with any known species within range. The deterrence fleet was always there to deal with a post-physical-level threat.”

“Our threat is not external,” Paula said. “It is Ilanthe and that damned inversion core, whatever the hell it is.”

“You hadn’t heard of it before?” the President asked.

“No, sir. All we knew was that the Accelerators hoped to achieve what they called Fusion with the Void in order to bootstrap themselves up to postphysical status.” She drew a breath and started to analyze the situation, trying to predict Ilanthe’s next move. “There is one critical factor remaining which is currently outside anyone’s control.”

“Araminta,” the Admiral ventured.

“Correct,” Paula said. “The only way Ilanthe and Living Dream can get inside the Void is with Araminta’s help. Which will be coerced once they find her.”

“Can you find her first?” the President asked.

“She’s on Chobamba, and it appears as though she’s already made a deal with some faction.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know. But their agents must have helped to get her off Viotia. I imagine they are now as shocked as we are by the loss of ANA. That might make them open to a deal. We have an opportunity.”

“Can you do that?” the President asked.

“I can reach Chobamba shortly,” Paula said. Inwardly she was disappointed. The Alexis Denken was only an hour out from Viotia, and Chobamba was five hundred ten light-years from her current position. All I ever do these days is rush from one crisis point to another and arrive too late each time. That cannot stand; there’s too much at stake. I have to up my game, get ahead for once.

“Thank you,” the President said. “When you find her, take her into custody. No polite requests. We are beyond that now. She goes with you; she does not ally herself with anyone else-that cannot be permitted. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, Mr. President. If I can’t capture her, nobody else must be allowed to. I will see to that.”

“You’ll do that, Paula?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Thank you. Admiral, do we have any other fields of progress? Can the navy eliminate the ship that picked up the inversion core?”

“Unknown, sir. It was a large, powerful ship of a marque we’ve never seen before. And we’d have to find it first.”

“Ilanthe will want the same thing as the rest of us,” Paula said. “The Second Dreamer. She’s probably heading for Chobamba now.”

“Very well,” the President said. “Admiral, put together a task force of Capital ships and dispatch them to Chobamba. I want that ship destroyed.”

“There wasn’t much information from the Sol system before the barrier went up,” the Admiral said. “But the ship did appear to have a force field based on Dark Fortress technology. We’re assuming the Accelerators are going to use it to get past the Raiel in the Gulf.”

“Sweet Ozzie,” the President said. “Do you mean you can’t intercept it?”

“We can probably find it; our sensors are good enough to penetrate most stealth systems. But I doubt we can ever catch it, not with the kind of speed it was last confirmed traveling at. And yes, if we did corner it on Chobamba, our weapons would probably not get through its defenses.”

“Crap. So it really does all come down to Araminta?”

“It looks that way, sir.”

Paula held her own opinion in check; the few comments she might have made weren’t based on fact. “I’d advise getting in touch with the High Angel directly, Mr. President,” she said. “If anyone can get through a barrier produced by Dark Fortress technology, it will be the Raiel.”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s my next call. I will inform you of the outcome.”

The secure link closed. Paula ordered the smartcore to plot a course to Chobamba. The bright green line hung in her exovision as it awaited implementation, slicing through the astrogration display. Something made her hold off. She was sure that even if she got there in ten hours’ time, it would all be over. By now, everyone with a team chasing Araminta would know her new location. As soon as Living Dream pinned down her exact geographical coordinate, there would be a scramble to deliver local representatives into the area. Either the team guarding her would evacuate her again, or she’d leave with the strongest raider team.

The whole situation made little sense. It was obvious to any professional that Living Dream would refine its search techniques after Bodant Park. Whoever it was who’d flown her to Chobamba must have known that, even if they didn’t know how good Ethan’s dream masters were. Keeping Araminta out of sight once she was secure was the most basic rule.

So who took her there?

Half the factions chasing her would have killed her to prevent the Accelerators from gaining any advantage. Most of the others, those which had goals or ambitions similar to the Accelerators’, would have offered a deal. Yet here Araminta was, going through Inigo’s dreams, seemingly without a care in the universe.

Paula drew a sharp breath. Of course, the simplest explanation is always the most likely. She really isn’t aware of the danger, so she isn’t under the protection of any professional team. Then how in God’s name did she get to Chobamba?

She launched her u-shadow on a mission to gather every scrap of data on Araminta. Everything Liatris McPeierl had put together, the files from Colwyn City’s civic database, records from Langham on her family and its agriculture cybernetics business, financial records, medical records (very few; she had an excellent Advancer heritage), legal records-mostly her messy divorce handled by her cousin’s law firm. All of it was resolutely average; none of it made her any different from billions of other External world citizens.

But she is different. She’s a Dreamer. Something makes her incredibly special. What? Gore has become one, and that’s outrageous; there’s nobody rooted in the practical more than Gore. Yet he worked out the secret. The only theory there’s ever been about why Inigo dreamed of Edeard is because they were somehow related: family. Paula’s heart jumped in excitement. As are Gore and Justine. Shit! But Araminta dreamed of a Skylord … She growled in frustration, slapping her hands against her temples. “Come on, think!” Ignore the Skylord thing. Go for the family angle … Her u-shadow zipped through Araminta’s ancestry, correlating birth records and registered partnerships, tracking back through the generations.

A small file flashed across her exovision, part of the family tree.

“Holy crap,” she yelped. There it was, plain and beautifully simple, five generations down the line. The name simply lifted itself out of the list and shone at Paula without any help from secondary routines.

“Mellanie Rescorai,” she whispered in amazed delight. “Oh, yes. Over a thousand years, and she’s still nothing but trouble.” Even better, Mellanie was named a Silfen Friend like her first husband, Orion. Paula remembered an encounter over eight hundred years ago, when Mellanie was paying one of her visits to the Commonwealth again. They’d both been invited to some high-powered political event; it might even have been a presidential inauguration ball. Dear old Mellanie had positively gloated about being named a Friend; it put her one up on everyone else in the room that evening, Paula especially. That was Mellanie for you: sweetly savage.

“Mellanie!” Paula was chuckling now. However it worked, however a Dreamer connected to someone inside the Void, that was the root of it: the Silfen magic, actually the most advanced weird technology in the galaxy. Ozzie had developed the gaiafield out of his friendship gift from the Silfen, and that was the whole medium for dreams. Araminta was descended from a Silfen Friend. And Inigo … well, who knew?

The paths! Paula’s u-shadow ran another search. Sure enough, there was rumor of a path on Chobamba, in the middle of its desert continent. And one at Francola Wood, right on the edge of Colwyn City. She didn’t join up with any faction; she didn’t fly to Chobamba. She walked!

That meant Araminta was still surviving on luck and smarts, just as Oscar had said, and therefore had no idea Living Dream had found her. She had to be warned, which wasn’t going to be easy given that she’d cut herself off from the unisphere.

Paula’s macrocellular clusters linked her directly to the starship’s network. There was a memory kube on board that was heavily encrypted, very heavily; she needed all five keys and a neural pathway verification to access it. Stored within were programs that had been accumulated over fifteen hundred years of investigations: programs of last resort, custom-written for the top ranks of criminals, arms dealers, politicians … Simply knowing about some of them was a crime. None of their creators would be coming out of suspension for centuries. The Paula of twelve hundred years ago would have been mortified that her future self hoarded such things. But on several occasions they’d proved rather useful. Paula activated one; it wasn’t even on the lethal list.

Kristabel’s kiss was gentle yet so intense, so rich with desire and love. “That’s why I love you,” she whispered. There could be no doubt how sincere she was. A boundless love that promised a lifetime of happiness. And Edeard finally knew he’d done the right thing.

Araminta sighed in perfect contentment, blinking as the chalet’s ceiling took shape above her. Tears were trailing out from the corners of her eyes as she came down off the emotional high. “Great Ozzie,” she murmured, still dazed by the dream. Now she understood why Living Dream had so many adherents, why they were all desperate to live in the Void. Time travel. Except it wasn’t. It was resetting the universe around yourself, the ultimate solipsism. How many times had she said to herself: If I only knew then what I know now. With that ability she could go back to the moment she met Laril and laugh off his charm and seductive promises. She could refuse Likan and never visit his mansion for the weekend. Go back into her teens and tolerate her parents, knowing that life offered so much more than the farm, not worrying that she’d be condemned to the family business for centuries, yet at the same time enjoying her youth. The way it should be enjoyed. And then growing up truly free of regrets. Meet Mr. Bovey in a Commonwealth that had never heard of the Second Dreamer.

That was the life-the lives-that awaited her in the Void.

She could even feel the Skylord’s thoughts at the back of her mind. All she had to do was call it. Say: take me in.

Such a simple thing to do. Three little words, and I would be happy forever.

But it was also the life that awaited everyone who went with her. And the energy it took to fuel such egotistic wish fulfillment came from consuming the rest of the galaxy. Every star, every planet, every biological body-they were what supplied the atoms it took to make the Void’s magnificent ability possible. The ones who paid the price.

“I can’t,” she told the darkened chalet. “I will not do that.”

The decision made her skin chill and her heart flutter. But it had been made now. Her resolution would not waver. Logic and instinct were as one. This is who I am. This is what makes me.

Araminta slowly sat upright. It was still night outside, with maybe three hours left until dawn. She needed a drink and some decent dreamless sleep. There was still some of the English breakfast tea in the flask from Smoky James. She rolled off the bed and saw the red text drifting down the unisphere node’s little screen on top of the bedside cabinet. She blinked at it and read it again.

Tea and sleep abruptly forgotten, she knelt in front of the bedside cabinet and used the keyboard to bring up the news articles. Her gaiamotes opened slightly, allowing her to know the horror and fear flooding through the gaiafield. It wasn’t a hoax. The Accelerator Faction had imprisoned Earth. ANA was gone. The rest of the Commonwealth was on its own. She stared numbly at the screen for a long moment, then accessed the code in her storage lacuna and typed it in.

Laril’s face appeared, gaunt and apprehensive, with drawn skin and deep bags under his eyes. “Oh, thank fuck,” he wheezed. “Are you okay? I’ve been going frantic.”

She smiled. It was the only way she could stop herself from bursting into tears. “I’m okay,” she promised him with a voice that wavered dangerously.

“And you’re-” He frowned, his head shaking from side to side as he focused on exovision displays. “You’re on Chobamba. How did you get there?”

“Long story. Laril, they’ve taken away the Earth!”

“I know. ANA was the only thing that could stop this.”

“Yes. Someone helped me. Oscar, his name was Oscar. I’d never have gotten out of Bodant Park without him. He said he worked for ANA. He said he would help me. I was thinking I might call him, ask ANA to help me. What do I do now?”

“That depends on what you’ve decided. Are you going to help Living Dream get into the Void?”

“No. It can’t happen. They’ll wipe out the galaxy.”

“Okay, that brings your options down to three.”

“Go on.”

“Ask the navy for protection. If anyone has the firepower to stand up to the Accelerators, it’s them.”

“Yes. That’s good. What else?”

“This Oscar person. If he does work for ANA, he should also be able to keep you away from Living Dream. He’ll probably have resources which none of the others do.”

“What’s the last one?”

“Side with a faction that is opposed to the Advancers and Living Dream.”

“But there aren’t any factions left.”

“They’re locked up inside the Sol barrier, but their agents are still out here in the Commonwealth. And they’re all looking for you. I can negotiate with one for you. Get them to take you away, safe, where no one will ever find you.”

“Then what? Running away doesn’t solve anything. This has to be finished.”

“My darling Araminta, there is no ‘finish.’ The Void has been there for a billion years, more probably. The Raiel couldn’t get rid of it; the Commonwealth certainly can’t.”

“Somebody must be able to. There has to be a way.”

“Maybe ANA knew how.”

“They’ll get the Earth out eventually,” she said, suddenly fearful. “Won’t they? They’ll be trying? They must be.”

“Yes. Of course they will. They’ll be trying very hard indeed. The rest of the Commonwealth, certainly the Inner worlds, have a lot of talent and ability and resources, more than you realize. They’ll bring down the barrier.”

“Right, then,” she said, trying to convince herself. “I’ll take that option. I’ll call Oscar.”

Laril smiled weakly. “That’s my Araminta. Would you like me to call him for you?”

She nodded. “Please. I’m too scared to access the unisphere.”

“All right. Have you got a code for him?”

“Yes.” She started typing it in.

“That’s good. I’ll make-”

The image on the screen broke apart into a hash of blue and red static.

“Laril!” she gasped.

The static swirled, then formed bright green letters: Araminta, please access this.

She scuttled backward across the floor. “No,” she gasped. “No, what is this? What’s happening?”

“Araminta,” the node’s speaker said. It was a female voice, composed and authoritative. “This is a shotgun message into Chobamba’s cybersphere. All nodes will receive it and broadcast it to every address code; it will also be held in storage until purged, which should take a while. Hopefully that gives it long enough to reach you somehow. I am not aiming it at you directly, because I don’t know precisely where you are. Living Dream has discovered you are on Chobamba, but they haven’t yet determined your exact position. Don’t use the gaiafield again; they have very sophisticated tracking routines in the confluence nests. Several teams of combat-enriched operatives are working on finding you, the same type of people responsible for the Bodant Park massacre. You must leave immediately. I’d advise you to use the route you took to get there. It is relatively safe. Do not hesitate. Time is now a critical factor. Please know, there are people working to help you. The Commonwealth Navy is capable of protecting you. Ask for their aid. Go now.”

Araminta stared at the node in disbelief; the green lettering remained on the screen, casting a pale glow across the darkened chalet. “Oh, sweet Ozzie!” It came out in a pitiful squeal. They know I’m here. Everyone knows I’m here. The woman was right; she had to leave. But it would take hours to reach the start of the path out in the desert. She looked around the chalet as her initial panic tipped over into desperation, seeing everything she’d bought, the gear that was essential for a trek along the paths between worlds. It was heavy. She could hardly run carrying it all with her, certainly not that far. Then she glanced at the Smoky James wrappers, which she hadn’t got around to putting in the trash chute, and an idea formed.

Smoky James was good. Araminta had to admit that. It was three o’clock in the morning, and they took only twenty minutes to deliver the pizza and fries with a flask of coffee. The contraption Ranto was riding as he pulled up in front of Araminta’s chalet was something she’d never seen before-an absurdly primitive three-wheeled bike of some kind, presumably the great-great-granddaddy of a modern trike pod. It didn’t look safe, with a leather saddle seat slung in the center of an open black carbon frame that had its fair share of repair patches, like epoxy bandages swelling the struts. The axle-drive wheels were connected to the frame on long magnetic suspension dampers, which didn’t quite seem to match. Ranto was steering it manually with a set of chrome-orange handlebars. With a sinking heart, Araminta guessed this was necessity rather than preference. It wasn’t going to have any kind of smart technology ready to assume the driving and navigation functions.

He clambered off and pulled the pizza carton out of a big pannier behind the saddle.

Finally, she thought, a plus point. That’ll hold all my gear.

“Here you go,” he said with the kind of miserabalist cheer exclusive to night-shift workers on very basic pay.

Araminta was fairly sure Ranto didn’t have an Advancer heritage. Too many spots on his glum teenage face, his long nose made sure he wasn’t handsome, and even though he was already tall, he was still growing, producing long gangling arms and legs from a torso that seemed oddly thin. From her point of view that was good; he wouldn’t have macrocellular clusters. He couldn’t connect directly to the unisphere.

Araminta took the carton from him. “Thanks.” She held up her cash coin. “How much for the bike-thing?”

Ranto’s slightly awkward smile turned to incredulity. “What?”

“How much?”

“It’s my bike,” he protested.

“I know that. I need it.”

“Why?”

“That’s not important. I just need it. Now.”

“I can’t sell my bike! I fixed it up myself.”

“It’s yours, so you can sell it. And it’s a seller’s market. You’ll never get another chance like this.”

He looked from her to the bike, then back again. Araminta was sure she could hear his brain working, little cogs clicking around under unaccustomed stress. His cheeks colored.

“You could buy a new one,” she said with gentle encouragement. For a moment she visualized Ranto riding around on some massive glowing scarlet sports bike with floating wheels. Come on, focus! If he didn’t want to part with it, there were unarmed combat routines in her lacuna she could use, loaded a long time ago when the whole divorce mess started and she had to go into districts of Colwyn City that had a bad rep. She really didn’t want to. For a start, she didn’t quite trust them, or herself. Besides, hitting someone like Ranto was just naked cruelty. But I will. If I have to. This is far more important than his pride. She brought the lacuna index up into her exovision, ready to access the routine.

“Five thousand Chobamba francs,” Ranto announced nervously. “I couldn’t let it go for anything less.”

“Deal.” Araminta shoved her cash card toward him.

“Really?” Her immediate agreement startled him.

“Yes.” She authorized the money.

Ranto blinked in surprise as his own card registered the transfer. Then he grinned. It made him look quite endearing.

Araminta slung her backpack into the open pannier and turned back to the dazed teenager. “How do I drive it?” she asked.

It took a couple of minutes on the broad road outside the StarSide Motel, with Ranto running about after her shouting instructions as his long arms waved frantically, but Araminta soon got the hang of it. The handlebars had a manual throttle and brake activator. She really had to concentrate on using the brake; all her life she’d driven vehicles with automatic braking. After the first couple of semi-disasters she began to overcompensate, which nearly flung her forward out of the saddle.

“Doesn’t it have any safety systems?” she yelled at Ranto as she curved around again.

He shrugged. “Drive safe,” he suggested.

After another three practice circuits on the street she did just that and set off for the one road out of Miledeep Water. Ranto waved goodbye. She could see that in the little mirrors sticking up from the handlebars. There was no three-sixty sensor coverage-actually, there were no sensors. His lanky frame was backdropped by the green-lit motel reception building, one hand held up and an expression of mild regret on his face.

Araminta concentrated on the route out of Miledeep Water, retracing her walk in not a day before. The bike’s headlight produced a wide fan of pink-tinged light across the road ahead. It was okayish, but she couldn’t see much outside of its beam, and the streetlights grew farther apart as the road climbed the crater wall. She quickly activated every biononic optical enrichment she had, bringing analysis and image resolution programs on line to help. The resulting vision was a lot better, taking away her total dependence on the headlight.

Once the last building was behind her, and she hadn’t fallen off or crashed, and nothing mechanically disastrous had happened, she eased the throttle up, and her speed increased. The axle motors were quite smooth, and the suspension kept her a lot more stable than she’d expected. It was just the wind that was a problem, flapping her fleece about and stinging her eyes. She really should have worn glasses of some kind. There was a pair of big shades in her backpack, but somehow she preferred the discomfort to stopping and fishing them out. The unknown woman’s blanket warning on the unisphere had unnerved her.

Five minutes after leaving the motel behind, she reached the crest of the crater. The last streetlight stood on the side of the road, not far from where she’d dumped her flagon harness. She was almost tempted to pick it up again, but sentiment at this point translated to blatant stupidity. Araminta gunned the throttle and zoomed off down the slope into the desert.

As soon as she was past the field of illumination thrown out from the streetlight, she switched the bike’s headlight off. Her image resolution routines produced a reasonable gray-green view of the long straight road ahead, enough to give her the confidence to keep going at the same speed. After all, there was nothing else traveling along it. She could see all the way to the horizon, where the intensifiers showed the stars burning brightly behind a wavering curtain of warm desert air.

It was a six-minute ride to the bottom of the crater wall. By the time she reached the desert floor, the bike’s tiny display panel told her she was doing close to a hundred kilometers an hour. It felt more like five hundred. The wind was a constant blast in her face, and her clothes felt like they were being pulled out behind her. She bared her teeth into the airstream, actually starting to enjoy the experience.

Did Ranto and his friends come out here in the evenings and race along the empty road? She knew if she and her friends had had these kind of machines when she was growing up on the farm, she would have had a whole lot more fun.

And I can have them. In the Void.

She grimaced. Actually, no, I can’t. Stop thinking like this. It’s weak, and anyway, the Void won’t allow technology.

Not that she really counted this bike as technology. The battery under the saddle actually hummed as the axle motors drew power. Something in the left rear wheel clicked as it spun around (which should be impossible with frictionless bearings). And the tires made a low growling sound as they charged along the gritty concrete. Maybe it’ll actually work on the Silfen paths.

There were no landmarks out on the desert road, nothing distinctive on the side of the road. She wasn’t sure where the side track was. Not that it had been much of a track, just a couple of tire ruts across the hard ground. Even with the headlights she wasn’t going to see those in the night. Instead she reached for it with her mind, nervous that spreading her thoughts in such a fashion might allow Living Dream to find her once again. But the difference between the gaiafield and the Silfen community was clear enough to her, allowing her to avoid the former studiously.

The Silfen path felt her as much as she felt it. And somewhere up ahead and to the side of the road it opened fully like a flower whose time had come to bloom. Araminta slowed the bike and gingerly turned off the road. The uneven desert was littered with small stones. Their impact kept shunting her front tire off the track, leaving her to wrestle the handlebars back. It was difficult, taking her full strength. Her arms were soon aching from the constant struggle. Sweat built up on her shoulders and forehead.

That was when she heard the hypersonic booms rolling in through the clear desert air, thunderous cracks that hurt her eardrums. Her head swung around, searching anxiously. Behind her, the top of the crater containing Miledeep Water glowed with the haze of the town’s street lighting, creating a mellow nimbus that caressed the dark night sky. She saw bright glimmers of purple light streaking across the foreign constellations, curving down toward the lonely town. There must have been six or seven of them.

“Oh, crap,” she grunted, and gunned the throttle hard. “Here we go again.” The bike started to buck about as it jolted its way over the coarse ground. Dry bushes snapped as she rode right over them, spiky twigs snaring in the hub spokes to thrash around and around, their tips whipping her boots. Holding a straight line was a huge effort with the bike fighting every motion.

A couple more booms announced the arrival of more capsules at high velocity. Any second now Araminta expected the sky to light with laserfire in a repeat of Bodant Park. The bike was bouncing wildly; she could actually hear the axle drives whining. She fought to keep it straight as the front wheel shook from side to side. There was nothing for it but to slow down, though by now she could feel the start of the path lapping toward her like the advancing waves of an incoming tide.

The bike’s power fell off, then surged, ebbed again-Little amber lights winked on across the handlebars. She had no idea what they meant. She throttled back, and the outlandish machine freewheeled on forward. They were on a shallow incline now, leading down to an ancient winding streambed, so all she did was steer, keeping away from the larger stones and boulders.

By the time she jerked down onto the softer sand of the streambed, there was no power left and the bike rolled to an easy halt. Nothing worked. The screen was blank, the amber lights had gone out, and no matter how she squeezed the throttle, the axle motors didn’t engage.

Araminta sat there on the saddle for a long minute, letting the cramps and tension ease out of her shoulders and arms. Her bum was sore from the saddle, which plainly needed a lot more padding. Nonetheless, she grinned fondly at the bike.

I made it. The stupid thing got me out.

There was no doubt about it; she wasn’t on Chobamba anymore.

She climbed off slowly and pressed her fists into the small of her back, groaning as her spine creaked. The skin on her face was raw from the wind’s buffeting. It didn’t matter. She felt ridiculously pleased with herself for eluding her pursuers yet again, which was stupid, she knew. It had been due mainly to luck, though she had to give herself some credit. She’d responded to the situation well enough after she got the warning.

And what that woman did proves there are still people trying to help me, and not just her; there was Oscar back at Bodnant Park, too. A development that gave her a lot of hope. One thing she did know: Her decision meant that her time of running was over. There were no easy options ahead now, no waiting for someone else to do something. It’s down to me now. There was a lot of trepidation accompanying that thought, and maybe a tinge of fear, too, but there was also a degree of satisfaction. All I have to do now is find the people opposed to the Pilgrimage and take a stand with them.

With that she pulled the backpack out of the pannier, settled it on her shoulders, and set off along the streambed. That at least she didn’t have to think about; it was the right way.

In less than an hour her boots were starting to sink into the sand, which was becoming damp. Grass was growing on the banks. It was still night, and her enriched vision couldn’t make out much, but the desert had ended, she was sure of that. Then she caught sight of trees on the edge of her vision.

Water started to fill the imprints her boots left in the mushy ground. The streambed wasn’t sand anymore; it was fine soil. The stones on the banks were coated in moss and lichens. She scrambled up out of the gully and began to walk alongside it. Cooler air made her shiver, and she reset the thermal fibers woven into her fleece to keep more of her body warmth in. Not much farther on a thin trickle of water was running along the middle of the streambed. Far overhead huge dense star clusters filled the sky, imperial patches of silver-white scintillations so much more impressive than anything visible from anywhere in the Greater Commonwealth. Araminta smiled at that.

The water in the streambed grew deeper and wider as she walked on, turning from a rivulet to a broad current gurgling merrily around half-submerged rocks. Trees closed in, throwing tall branches up into the night, curtaining the starfield. Another stream merged into the one she was following. That was when she heard the first strands of song. The Silfen were somewhere close by; she could feel them as much as hear them. Simple harmonies slipping across the sylvan land, as much a part of it as the air. She halted and listened, drawing the melody down as she might sample a particularly pleasant perfume. It was enchanting, rising and flowing in its own rhythm and far higher than most human throats could reach.

Like a birdsong, she thought, a flock of birds singing a hymn.

Smiling pleasantly at the notion, she set off again, keeping to the edge of the stream, which was now almost wide enough to be classed as a river. The contentment growing in her mind was almost narcotic. This time she was going to meet them. It was inevitable.

The sky slowly lightened above her. Tall waving branches on either side of the surging watercourse transformed to black silhouettes against a pale gray pastel. The grand star clusters faded away in deference to the dawn sun. Dew began to coat the grass and small ferns, splashing off on her boots. Araminta couldn’t help the smile on her face, even though she knew any relief here could only be temporary.

The trees gave way abruptly, and she gasped in delighted astonishment at the vista before her. She was high up on the edge of a plateau that swept away into a wondrous primordial landscape. Perfectly clear air allowed her to see for what must have been over a hundred miles. Snowcapped mountains fenced the scene on two sides, and ahead of her the ground undulated away with hillocks and dells adorned in lush woodland. Morning mist eased gently around the slopes, blanketing the deepest hollows and basins like a living liquid. Threads of stream water sparkled and glistened down the sides of the mountains, thousands of tributaries lacing together into broader, darker rivers. Waterfalls tumbled hundreds of meters down rugged cliffs and clefts in the rocky foothills.

“Oh, my,” Araminta murmured in admiration. There she waited patiently for her escort while the big red-hued sun rose up into the empty sky, throwing vast fingers of light through the mountains to sweep across the magnificent landscape.

The madrigal grew louder, swelling to a crescendo. Araminta looked around as the Silfen rode out of the forest all around her. There must have been forty of them, mounted on huge shaggy-furred beasts. She gazed at them, enthralled with the spectacle. Elves right out of the deepest human folklore. As tall as legend had them, with long limbs and a torso that was proportionally shorter than the human version. Flat faces with wide feline eyes above a slight nose had a simple circular mouth without a jaw; instead, three concentric circles of sharp teeth flexed steadily, shredding food as it was pulled back into the gullet.

They wore simple togalike garments that glimmered with a metallic sheen. Gold, jewel-laden belts were pulled tight about the waist, and the shoulder strips were held together with large broaches whose gems glowed an eerie green. On top of the togas were waistcoats made from some kind of bright white mesh.

Their voices broke into a ragged chorus of joyful undulations as they rode around her. The earth trembled with the impact of the beasts’ feet cantering about. One of the Silfen, wearing a scarlet mesh waistcoat, halted his mount beside her and bent down, offering his arm. Without hesitation Araminta reached up.

He was incredibly strong. She was lifted up and over into the big saddle in front of him. One arm stayed protectively around her. She glanced down to see his four-fingered hand resting against her abdomen. He flung his head back and emitted a piercing warble. The beast lurched forward with such abruptness that she laughed at the sheer outrage of it. Then they were thundering onward into the trees ahead.

It was a bizarre and wonderous ride. The size of the beast meant that every movement seemed ponderous, yet it was fast. When her senses calmed down, she noticed that it had a hide of reddish-brown fur that was thick like knotted lamb’s wool. There were six fat legs, which meant every motion of its gait was exaggerated, swaying her back and forth.

The rest of the riding company spread out behind her, still singing among themselves as they rushed forward in what was close to a stampede. They splashed through rivers and charged up slopes without slowing. It was a wild exhilarating ride, and she clung on for the duration, laughing away at the experience.

Eventually they came out of the woods close to a vast loch. Tendrils of mist rose above the calm surface. Small conical islands were mirrored on the silverish shimmer, with skinny trees clinging to their wrinkled mossy sides. A little way around the shoreline, a waterfall gushed in from an overhanging crag. The scene was quiet perfection, making her glad simply to know such a place existed.

But right in front of her, on the sprawling grassy bank, the Silfen camp awaited. There were thousands of the strange aliens, along with a dozen types of exotic riding beasts. Tents of glowing fabric were pitched everywhere. As she watched, one rose up: seven individual sheets of fabric, each one a primary color, growing higher and higher until they were twenty feet above the ground, where they curled over to knot themselves together with a looping bow. The edges of the sheets fused together, and there it hung, suspended on nothing, like a solidified rainbow. Between the tents, fires were burning, and rugs had been spread out in readiness for what looked like the galaxy’s biggest picnic. Silfen unpacked vast silver and gold platters of food from huge baskets slung over various animals. The food looked fabulous, as did the crystal bottles filled with liquid of every possible color. A great many Silfen were already dancing around the fires, voices raised to chant at their own tempo. Their limbs might have been long and spindly to her eyes, but they were certainly agile and most likely double-jointed. Half the energetic moves would have been impossible for a human.

It was a shame, she thought as the Silfen on whose mount she’d ridden proffered his arm again to get her down. She would have liked to join in. As her feet touched the ground, the aliens surged toward her, and she started back. Peals of laughter shivered through the air. Not mocking: sympathetic, encouraging. Welcoming.

Araminta gave them all a nervous bow. They returned the formality en masse, the action spreading out like a ripple. Of course, with their flexibility and grace it was a lot more elegant than hers.

Two of them stepped forward, their circular mouths open in what she thought was a smile, though all they were doing was showing an awful lot of those off-putting spiky teeth. They were female, though it was hard to tell. All the Silfen had thick long hair that was adorned with beads and jewelry. Lengthy braids swirled as the womenfolk held out their arms to her. She allowed herself to be led forward. Their minds shone with warmth and kindness, so much so that it was impossible not to experience the same emotions. Food was offered, intricate crumbling cakes wrapped in verdant leaves. She nibbled away, and the crumbs fizzled as they went down her throat. “Oh, gosh!”

The Silfen laughed at her enjoyment. A crystal bottle was tendered, and she drank deeply. Definitely alcoholic and then some. More food: perfectly sculpted pastries and confectionaries dripping with honeys and juices that tasted as good as they looked.

Somewhere a group was trilling a fast tune. Araminta started to sway to the beat. One of her women hosts took her hand and danced with her. Then she was lost amid dazzlingly colorful alien bodies, all swirling and whizzing about her.

More food, snatched from group after group. Drink. Plenty of that. It was intoxicating but never enough to blur her senses; instead, it intensified the whole wondrous festival. Dance followed dance with dozens of Silfen until she was giddy with joy and every muscle was shaking with exhaustion.

She knew that this was all crazy, that she should be getting to some Commonwealth world to do what she could with her unwelcome heritage. Yet somehow she knew this was also the right thing to be doing. Her body and mind needed the blissful suspension of the festival to recover and calm from the events of the past few days. They were helping her, these Silfen, showing in their own bizarre fashion that she wasn’t alone, reinforcing the communion she had with their precious Motherholme.

“I have to sit down,” she told them after some indeterminable length of time. They didn’t speak any human language, she knew, nor had they ever shown any interest in anything other than their own peculiar tongue, with all its cooing and warbling and trills that conveyed only the shallowest meaning. Commonwealth cultural experts assigned to the world-walking aliens found it hard to follow their whimsy. Allegedly it indicated a neural process completely different from that of blunt human rationality.

Nonetheless, her hosts knew what she asked and guided her into one of the rainbow tents, where there was a nest of cushions. Araminta flopped down on them in relief as six or seven Silfen gathered around to attend her. Such pampering was luxurious, and she surrendered to it without protest. Her boots were removed, producing a sympathetic chorus of nearly human cooing when they saw the artificial skin sprayed on her feet. Strong fingers massaged her shoulders and back. They didn’t have the same physiology, but they were plainly expert in human bone and muscle structure. She groaned in relief as the tensions were soothed out of her flesh. Outside, the festival continued unabated, for which she was glad. One of the female Silfen presented her with a bottle carved from a golden crystal. Araminta drank. It was almost like water, chilly and full of bubbles, and certainly refreshing. Two more Silfen were waiting with platters of that delicious food.

“The clubs back in Colwyn were never like this,” she said with a contented sigh.

“They’re most certainly not,” someone said in heavily accented English.

Araminta jumped with shock, then rolled over to see who’d spoken. The three benevolent masseurs withdrew their ministrations, kneeling patiently in a circle around her.

A Silfen with leathery wings was standing in the tent. He had a dark scaly tail as well, which slithered about as though agitated. His appearance sparked a frisson of concern in Araminta’s mind. This shape was also contained in human legend, but not a good one.

“Who are you?” she blurted. “And why have you got a German accent?”

“Because he’s an idiot,” another Silfen said, “and completely misunderstands our psychology.”

Araminta jumped again, feeling foolish. A second winged Silfen was staring down at her. He wore a copper toga robe held in by an ebony belt. His hair was auburn, with grayish strands creeping in around the temples. His tail was held still, curving up so it didn’t touch the ground.

“Hey, fuck you, too,” the first winged Silfen groused.

“I apologize for my friend,” said the other. “I’m Bradley Johansson, and this is Clouddancer; the Silfen have named him a human friend.”

“Uh-” was all Araminta could manage.

“Yeah, pleasure to meet you, too, girlie,” Clouddancer said.

“Uh,” she said again, then: “Bradley Johansson is a human name.”

“Yes, I used to be. Some time ago now.”

“Used to be …?”

He opened his circular mouth, and a slender tongue vibrated in the middle as he produced a nearly human chuckle. “Long story. As a human I was named a Silfen Friend.”

“Oh.” Then some memory registered, associated with Mr. Drixel’s awful school history class. “I’ve heard of Bradley Johansson. You were in the Starflyer War. You saved us all.”

“Oh, brother,” Clouddancer grumbled. “Thank you, Friend’s daughter. He’ll be insufferable for a decade now.”

“I played my part,” Bradley Johansson said modestly. His tail tip performed a lively flick.

Araminta sat up on the cushioning and folded her legs. With a happy certainty she knew she was about to get answers. A lot of answers. “What did you call me?” she asked.

“He’s referring to your illustrious ancestor,” Bradley Johansson said.

“Mellanie?” It could have been imagination, but she was sure the singing outside rose in reverence for the name.

“That’s the one, all right,” Clouddancer said.

“I never met her.”

“Some people are fortunate, others are not. That’s existence for you.”

“Is she a Silfen now?”

“Good question; depends how you define identity.”

“That sounds very … existential.”

“Face it, girlie, we’re the lords of existentialism. Shit, we invented the concept back while your DNA was still trying to break free from mollusks.”

“Ignore him,” Bradley Johansson said. “He’s always like that.”

“Why am I here?”

“You want the existential answer to that?” Clouddancer asked.

“Carry on ignoring him,” Bradley Johansson said. “You’re here because, to be blunt, this is your party.”

Araminta turned to look at the gap in the tent fabric, watching the ceaseless colorful motion outside as the Silfen danced and sang beside the loch. “My party? Why mine?”

“We celebrate you. We want to meet you, to feel you, to know you, the daughter of our friend. That is what the Silfen are, absorbers.”

“Am I really worth celebrating?”

“That will become apparent only with time.”

“You’re talking about the Void.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Why me? Why do I connect with a Skylord?”

“You have our communion; you know that.”

“I do now. That’s because of Mellanie, isn’t it?”

“You are our friend’s daughter, yes, and because of that you are also our friend.”

“Magic is passed through the female side of the family,” Araminta murmured.

“Load of bullshit,” Clouddancer said. “Our inheritance isn’t sexist; that’s strictly your myth. Mellanie’s children acclimatized to their mother’s communion in the womb, and they in turn pass the communion to their children.”

Araminta risked a sly smile at Bradley Johansson. “If that’s how it works, the men won’t be able to pass it on.”

“Male children inherit the ability,” Clouddancer said. He sounded belligerent.

“From females.”

Clouddancer’s wet tongue vibrated at the center of his mouth. “The point is, girlie, you’ve got it.”

She closed her eyes, trying to follow the sequence. “And so do Skylords.”

“They have some kind of similar ability,” Bradley Johansson said. “The Motherholme has occasionally sensed thoughts from within the Void.”

“Why doesn’t the Motherholme ask the Void to stop expanding?”

“Don’t think it hasn’t been tried.” The tip of Bradley Johansson’s tail dipped in disappointment. “Ten million years of openness and congeniality gets you precisely nowhere with the Void. We can’t connect to the nucleus. Or maybe it just doesn’t want to listen. Even we didn’t know for sure what was in there until Edeard shared his life with Inigo.”

“You can dream his life as well?”

“We’ve dreamed it,” Clouddancer said, managing to push a lot of disgust into the admission. “Our communion is what your gaiafield is based on, after all.”

“That was Ozzie,” Araminta said, pleased she wasn’t totally ignorant.

“Yeah, only Ozzie would treat a friendship like that.”

“Like what?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bradley Johansson told her. “The point is that the galaxy has a great many communion-style regions or effects or whatever. They’re all slightly different, but they can interact when the circumstances are right. Which is like once in a green supernova.”

“So you’re like some kind of conduit between me and the Skylord?”

“It’s a little more complex than that. You connect because within the communion you have similarity.”

“Similarity? With a Skylord?”

“Consider your mental state after your separation. You were lost, lonely, desperate for purpose.”

“Yes, thank you, I get the idea,” she said testily.

“The Skylord also searches; that is its purpose. The souls it used to guide to the Heart have all gone, so now it and its kindred await new souls. Their quest ranges from their physical flight within the Void to awareness of mental states. Somehow, the two of you bridged the abyss between your universe and its.”

“Is this how humans got in originally?”

“Who knows? Before Justine, nobody had actually seen the Void open up. It didn’t for the Raiel armada; they forced their way through. But humans were never the first it accepted. Occasionally we have felt other species flourish briefly within. Always, the Void has consumed them.”

“So it has to be aware of the outside universe?” she pondered.

“In some fashion it must be. This is philosophical speculation rather than substantiation. We don’t think it recognizes physical reality, not outside. Perhaps it considers the universe beyond its boundary nothing but a spawning ground for mind, rationality, which is what the nucleus absorbs as the boundary absorbs mass.”

“Edeard and the people of Makkathran say that the Void was created by Firstlives.”

“Yeah,” Clouddancer growled. “Such a thing cannot be natural.”

“So where are they now?”

“Nobody knows. Though you, our friend’s daughter, may be the one who finds out.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. “Not really. There’s someone who might be able to help, one of ANA’s agents. He’s already helped me once: Oscar Monroe.”

Bradley Johansson sat in front of her, his tongue quivering fast at the center of his mouth cavity. “I know Oscar. I fought with him in the Starflyer War. He is a good man. Trust him. Find him, though your path will not be easy after this.”

“I know. But I’ve made my mind up. I won’t lead Living Dream through the boundary, no matter what.”

“That is the choice we knew you would make, daughter of our friend. Such worthiness is why we came here to know you.”

“Tell her the rest,” Clouddancer said gruffly.

Araminta gave him an alarmed glance. “What? What else is there?”

“There is something out there, something new that emerged into our universe as ANA fell to treachery,” Bradley Johansson said. “Something much worse than Living Dream. It is waiting for you.”

“What?”

“Its full nature remains veiled, for we can sense it only faintly. But what we glimpsed was greatly troubling. Humans have a dark side, as do most living sentients, and this thing, this embodiment of intent, has come directly out of that darkness. It is an evil thing; this we do know.”

“What sort of thing?” she asked fearfully.

“A contraption, a machine whose purpose is cold and malevolent. It cares nothing for the spirit which all life houses, for laughter and song; even tears it derides. And if it desires you, that can be for only one reason.”

To get into the Void,” she realized.

“For what reason we know not, yet we fear the worst,” Bradley Johansson said. “It wishes to meddle with the galaxy’s destiny, to impose itself upon the reality of every star. This cannot come to pass.”

“You must summon that which is most noble from your race, daughter of our friend,” Clouddancer said. “Together you will make your stand against the dread future which this thing craves for us all. It must never reach the Void. The two of them must not become one.”

“How?” she implored. “How in Ozzie’s name do you expect me to do such a thing? This is what the Commonwealth Navy is for. They have incredible weapons; they can stop this creature-thing. I don’t know what it looks like, where it is …”

Bradley Johansson reached out and took Araminta’s hand in his own. “If that is what you believe, if that is truly what must be done, then that is what you must achieve.”

“I thought I was just going to go into hiding while the factions and Living Dream fought it out. That’s what I’d made my mind up to do.”

“Our destiny is never clear. Nonetheless, this is yours.”

“Can’t I just stay here?”

His leathery fingers bent around to stroke the top of her palm. “For as long as you want, our friend’s daughter.”

Araminta nodded forlornly. “Which will be no time at all.”

“You have strength, you have courage, your spirit truly shines out, as did Mellanie’s. Such a beautiful light cannot easily be quenched.”

“Oh, Ozzie!”

“What is it you wish to do?” Clouddancer asked. His tail flicked about restlessly. Outside the tent the Silfen were still, waiting for her answer.

“A proper meal, a decent sleep, and then I’ll be on my way,” she promised them. “I’ll do what I can.”

As one, the Silfen in the tent tipped their heads back and opened their mouths wide. A mellifluent chant arose as those outside took up the call; lyrical and uplifting, it swirled around her, making her smile in acknowledgment. It was their tribute to her, their gratitude. For now she finally realized the Silfen were frightened, scared their wondrous free-roaming life might be brought to an end by the ominous thing human folly had birthed. Yes, I’ll do what I can.

Marius regarded the image of Ranto with something approaching amused contempt. The gangly teenager was suddenly the second most important news item in the Commonwealth; every unisphere show was featuring him. Reporters had arrived in Miledeep Water soon after the faction agents. It hadn’t taken anyone very long to discover that Araminta had stayed at the StarSide Motel. The nervous manager, Ragnar, had come out of hiding as soon as reporters started offering big money for his story, which sadly wasn’t much, mostly how he’d hidden in his kitchen as weapons-enriched agents poured through his precious StarSide Motel, hunting the Second Dreamer.

Ignored by the agents, Marius mentally corrected the story.

But Ranto was the real find as far as the news production teams were concerned. The last person in Miledeep Water to see and speak to the Second Dreamer herself.

“She was really pretty,” he was saying gormlessly as he stood in front of the StarSide reception, surrounded by over a dozen reporters. “Not what I was expecting. I’d already met her once before, that afternoon. She was sweet, you know? Gave a good tip when I delivered her food.”

“Did she say where she was going?” a reporter asked.

“Naah, she just bought my bike and headed off to the Silfen path. Imagine that. The Second Dreamer is riding my old bike between worlds.”

“And still our race wonders why we wish to accelerate our evolution,” Ilanthe observed.

Marius didn’t respond. He remained annoyed at the way he’d been punished over Chatfield. But now it looked as though his climb back to grace had begun. Tellingly, it was Ilanthe herself who’d called him as he was checking operations on Fanallisto. Semisentient scruitineers had been monitoring the Delivery Man since his miserable, pleading call to Marius. Soon after that, the Delivery Man had been contacted by another survivor of the Conservative Faction, using an encrypted call that blocked any tracking. The scruitineers had used the spaceport’s civic sensors to observe him taking a capsule out to Lady Rasfay. Then the yacht launched with the owner’s authorization, which was interesting given that he’d been left lying naked and unconscious alongside his young Firstlife mistress on the landing pad.

Ilanthe had been curious to know where the Delivery Man was heading and who he was meeting up with. Not anxious-there was no urgency in her call-but given that Araminta had unexpectedly fooled everyone yet again by somehow getting off Chobamba, monitoring the remaining Conservatives was prudent.

Marius knew where the Delivery Man had to be going. If there was anything left on Fanallisto, it was small-time, whereas the ultradrive starship was still waiting at Purlap spaceport. Marius had flown there right away.

And he’d been proved right. His own starship had detected the Lady Rasfay approaching Purlap, and he’d called Ilanthe immediately. Confirming his passage to redemption, she responded in person rather than through Valean or Neskia.

“Do you want me to exterminate him?” Marius asked. His stealthed starship was holding altitude a hundred kilometers directly above Purlap spaceport. It wasn’t a particularly risky position; there were no more commercial flights in or out. Lady Rasfay was rather conspicuous simply by flying in.

Ranto was shoved to a peripheral aspect. Marius’s starship’s sensors showed him the Lady Rasfay landing on the spaceport’s naked rock close to the preposterous pink terminal building. The Delivery Man walked down the airlock’s stairs, bracketed by targeting graphics. Two hundred meters away, the ultradrive was parked on the rock where he’d left it, a featureless dark purple ovoid resting on three stumpy legs.

“No,” Ilanthe said. “At this point we need information. Until we have Araminta I need to know what the Conservatives are capable of. Follow him; find out how many there are left and what they’re doing.”

“Understood.” Marius avoided saying anything else or letting his satisfaction show. But the unusually cautious way Ilanthe was responding to the situation was indicative of how everyone was being wrong-footed by Araminta. Who could have known she was capable of using the Silfen paths? But her uncommon abilities did explain a lot, possibly even how she’d become the Second Dreamer in the first place.

He settled back on his couch and watched the Delivery Man hurry over to the ultradrive starship.

The Delivery Man stood underneath the starship and tried not to let his exasperation short-circuit the verification process. Understandably, the authorization procedure to gain flight command of the ultradrive’s smartcore was thorough; the ship was a hugely valuable asset, and the Conservative Faction wasn’t about to leave it vulnerable to anyone.

He hadn’t been able to sleep for the whole flight, nor had he eaten. The Lady Rasfay was so damned slow compared to the ships he was used to. That, coupled with the stress of losing his family, of Araminta giving everyone the slip again, and his not really knowing who the “executive” was or if this really was some kind of Accelerator ensnarement, hadn’t done his nerves any good whatsoever.

Finally, the smartcore admitted he was on the approved list of people allowed to fly the ship and granted him flight command status. The Delivery Man breathed out heavily and ordered the airlock open. Directly above him the base of the starship sank inward and produced a dark cavity. Gravity inverted, and he slipped up into the small spherical chamber. The floor contracted beneath his feet, and the apex opened. He rose into the hemispherical cabin.

Systems came back on line as the smartcore readied the ship for flight. Everything was functional; the formidable armaments were all ready. The Delivery Man ordered a single fat chair for himself and sat down gratefully as it extruded from the floor. With the ship under his command, he was a player again; it bestowed a lot of confidence.

He called the “executive” on a secure link.

“You made it, then,” his unknown ally said.

“Sure.”

“And Araminta’s skipped off down the Silfen paths. You know, I’d genuinely like to meet her one day. She’s made complete idiots out of the most powerful organizations in the Greater Commonwealth. You’ve got to admire that.”

“She’s been lucky,” the Delivery Man commented. “That’s going to run out.”

“People make their own luck.”

“Whatever.”

“Is the ship ready?”

The Delivery Man took a moment before answering. “I’m sorry, but in the end my family is all that matters to me. I think it would be best if I went after Marius.”

“He’s already left Fanallisto. His ship took off about fifteen minutes after Lady Rasfay launched. You maybe see a connection there, supersecret agent?”

“I’ll find him.”

“Not alone, you won’t. Besides, I’m the best chance for your family’s survival.”

“I don’t know what you are or where your loyalties lie.”

“I said I would give you proof, and I will. Here are the coordinates. Come and get it.”

The Delivery Man studied the data that arrived. “The Leo Twins? What’s there?”

“Hope. And maybe just some salvation thrown in for good measure. Come on, sonny, what have you got to lose? It’s going to take you a few hours at most to get there. If you don’t like what you find, then you’re free to turn around and launch yourself into your whole honorable quest thing. I think you owe the Conservative Faction this much, don’t you?”

The Delivery Man regarded the ridiculous coordinate for a long time. The only possible thing at the Leo Twins would be some kind of secret Conservative Faction facility. After all, he reasoned, they had to make their ultradrive ships somewhere. In which case, why would they need this ship back there? “Can’t you just level with me?”

“Okay, then: As far as I know, I’m the only one with a valid plan to save the galaxy from Ilanthe and the Void.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Does ANA have a plan, or, rather, did it? Does the navy? Do any of the other faction survivors? Maybe you wanna go bold and ask MorningLightMountain? Release the big fella from behind that barrier and it’ll certainly wipe us out: Problem solved if you’re looking at the overall big picture. Or … oh, no, don’t tell me you think the President and the Senate will produce a way out. You’re going to entrust the fate of the galaxy to politicians?”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Just stop whining and get yourself over to the Leo Twins. You’ll have your answers there, I promise.”

“Just tell me.”

“Can’t. Don’t trust you enough.”

“What?”

“The stakes are too high. I can’t predict what you’ll do at this stage. And I do have other options if you fail me. Not as good as you, though. That means the best chance your Lizzie and the kids have is you and me teaming up. Something you might want to think on.”

The link closed.

“Shit!” The Delivery Man thumped his fist against the chair’s resilient cushioning. He knew he didn’t really have a choice. “Take us to the Leo Twins,” he told the smartcore.

From a nightside orbit, Darklake City was a blaze of light over a hundred fifty kilometers across, infested with strange lightless sections where the lakes and the steepest mountains had repelled any attempts at development throughout its nearly fifteen-hundred-year human history. Sited in the subtropical zone of Oaktier, the capital was a monument to both progress and classicalism. Its ancient core district of crystal skyscrapers and vermilion-shaded condo-pyramids had flourished as the world became Higher, with individual buildings maintained or expanded as new materials and techniques became available. Residents from the first-era Commonwealth would still have recognized the center, even though the scale of the structures had increased dramatically. Outside the old hub, newer suburbs reflected the whimsey of modern architecture and a lack of industrial or commercial districts, producing stretches of parkland where homes and various community buildings sprawled amid the vibrant flora. Citizens continued to celebrate their original Pacific Basin ancestry with strong traditions in seasports and enthusiasm for the planet’s ecology. Such factors gave Oaktier a reputation of being altogether less conventional and formal than the majority of Inner worlds, where Higher culture seemed to be nothing other than an endless series of seminars and debates on public policy. As such, Oaktier tended to draw a fair proportion of new citizens from the External worlds as they began their inward migration and transformation to Higher.

Somehow, Digby didn’t think his adversary was beginning the conversion to Higher culture. The starship he’d followed from Ellezelin sank through the upper atmosphere, heading down to the smallest of Darklake City’s three spaceports. The craft had come out of hyperspace without any stealth and filed a standard landing request with the planetary spaceflight authority.

By contrast, Digby kept the Columbia505 a thousand kilometers above the equator and employed its full stealth suite to ward off the local defense agency’s sensors. The planetary government, in all its thousands of local committees, had come to a uniform decision to go to a grade one alert status. Three River-class warships were in patrol orbit half a million kilometers out, ready to respond to any perceived threat. Fortunately, they hadn’t detected the Columbia505, either.

“The Accelerators must have an active team down there,” Digby reported to Paula as the Accelerators’ starship landed. “Do you want me to contact our local office for support?”

“We’re long past a tussle between enriched agents to achieve our objectives,” she told him. “You’ll have to follow the ship’s pilot through scruitineers in the planetary cybersphere. That will leave you positioned to apply firepower from orbit to achieve our objectives.”

“We have objectives?”

“Yes. One. And it’s very simple: No one else must acquire Araminta. No one. No matter what the cost.”

“Ozzie! You want me to shoot into an urban area?”

“If that’s what’s required. Hopefully, it won’t come to that. I don’t believe she’ll ever come to Oaktier.”

“Then why is the Accelerator agent here?”

“Laril, Araminta’s ex-husband, is currently on the inward migration. He’s living in Darklake City.”

“Oh. And you think she’ll make contact?”

“She already has. I’ve analyzed his node logs. They’ve had a couple of chats. The last one was interrupted by my shotgun on Chobamba.”

“Ah.” Digby ordered his u-shadow to run a search through local records. “There’s no history of a Silfen path on Oaktier.”

“No. But if Laril is the one she’s turning to for advice, I imagine the Accelerators are going to snatch him and apply some pressure.”

“That’s logical. Did your u-shadow track her new unisphere address code?”

“She doesn’t have one. She’s been accessing the unisphere manually, through nodes. No records.”

“Clever. Do you think the Silfen will shelter her?”

“Not a chance.”

“Have you got any contacts there?” That was almost a stupid question, but he’d learned a long time ago never to underestimate his great-grandmother.

“I’ve had occasion to join the Motherholme communion, but you never get anything definite out of the Silfen. Unless you’re unlucky enough to bump into one of them called Clouddancer-then you get a whole load of bad-tempered information.”

“So there’s no telling where she’s going to come out?”

“No. But when she does, we need to be ready.”

Digby accessed the spaceport sensors, watching the Accelerator emerge from her ship. She wasn’t wearing any clothes, though her gray skin was more a toga-suit haze than anything living, and it looked as though it was constricting tightly across her small skeleton. Two long streamers of blood-red fabric flowed out horizontally behind her, fluttering as if in a breeze. As she looked around, her eyes glimmered with a faint pink luminescence. “Valean,” he said ruefully. “I might have guessed after what happened on Ellezelin.” She made Marius look subtle by comparison. The Accelerators used her only when they needed extreme measures.

“That just emphasizes how important Araminta is to them,” Paula said. “You are going to have to keep a very tight watch. She cannot be allowed to reach Laril.”

“Shall I just target her now? She’s outside her ship defenses.”

There was a slight hesitation. “No,” Paula said. “We don’t know the rest of the Accelerator team on Oaktier. Once you’ve identified them, we’ll discuss direct elimination.”

“Okay. I’m on it.”

Mellanie’s Redemption accelerated smoothly up to fifty-two light-years an hour and held steady. Troblum’s exovision was completely full of display graphics, allowing him no glimpse of the cabin. His secondary routines twinned the new drive’s management programs. With his mentality expanded to maximum capacity, he effectively was the ultradrive, feeling the exotic energy flow, sensing the quantum fields realign into standard hyperspace configuration. Fluctuations were tremors along his hull/flesh that were countered and calmed instantaneously, leaving only the phantom memory of disturbance. Within the body/machine, power flooded along specific patterns, twisting and compressing into unnatural formations that collapsed spacetime. Functionality was absolute, flowing so smoothly and effortlessly that his consciousness was elevated to Zen levels, making his world seem perfectly ordered.

With great reluctance he shrank away from the drive, designating it to an autonomic monitor routine. Now he was simply aware of the system and its myriad components in the same way he knew his heart beat and lungs inhaled. The sensation of loss was nearly physical, as if he were coming down off a sugar high.

A servicebot slid over, carrying a plate of caramel-coated pecan doughnuts and a coffeepot. He put a whole doughnut into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Catriona Saleeb sat in the chair opposite, long legs folded neatly to one side, which had pushed her shorts up to the very top of her thighs. Her slack top with its tiny straps shifted to show off even more cleavage as she leaned forward.

“That was impressive,” she cooed huskily.

“Kit assembly is tedious,” he said. “And that’s all this was. It’s the principle behind the drive which is impressive.”

“But you did it; you mastered the beast.”

He swallowed another doughnut and drank some coffee. There was a lot of tease in her voice; he wondered if she was missing her usual companions. Somehow he just couldn’t bring himself to reboot Trisha’s I-sentient personality. Seeing the Sentient Intelligence subvert her image and routines had spoiled the effect for him, making her less than a person.

“Are you going to reinstate a full gravity field now?” she asked. There was a thread of concern in her voice.

“Soon. After I’ve had a rest.” He knew he was going to pay for keeping the onboard gravity low, but it reduced the physical stress on his body. I deserve that after everything I’ve been through. He popped another doughnut in.

“Don’t leave it too long,” she said. Her legs straightened, and she came over to him. An elegant hand touched his knee. Her routines must have meshed with his sensory enrichments; he could feel the delicate touch as if feathers were stroking him through the worn toga-suit fabric. “There’s just us left now,” she said, and her beautiful features sketched a tragic sadness. Dark hair fell around her, almost brushing against him. “You’ll look after me, Troblum, won’t you? You won’t let anything bad happen. Please. I couldn’t stand that, not going the way the others went: left behind, ruined.”

He was staring at the hand, allowing the sensations to continue. He could even feel the warmth of the fingers, exactly human body temperature. Perhaps he didn’t need to replace Howard Liang to experience being with a woman. Perhaps it would just be he and Catriona. After all, it was a long way to the Andromeda galaxy.

The thought shook him out of his reverie, and he quickly brought the coffee cup up again. Such concepts shouldn’t be rushed into; it would need close examination, thinking about, implications considered. He looked around the cabin, everywhere but her face. She would know what he’d thought if she saw his eyes. Know him. That was wrong.

Catriona must have perceived his sudden shift. She gave him a small sympathetic smile and backed off in a rustle of silky fabric.

There might have been just the faintest scent from her proximity. “I need to check what’s happening,” he told her.

The smartcore opened a TD link to the unisphere. Almost immediately, Trisha’s projector produced a knot of undulating tangerine and turquoise sine waves above one of the cabin’s empty seats.

“Are you aware of events?” the SI asked.

“Why? What’s happened?” Troblum asked.

“The Accelerator faction has imprisoned Sol.”

Troblum felt a flash of wondrous satisfaction. “The Swarm worked?”

“That was your secret? The bargaining chip you wanted to use with Paula?”

Satisfaction gave way to a sudden flare of guilt. “Yes,” he said, then hurriedly added: “I didn’t know what they were going to use it for.”

“Of course.”

“Did anything get out?”

“No, nothing,” the SI said. Its oscillations deepened to purple for a moment. “The navy can’t break in. The President has asked High Angel if it can get through.”

“What was the answer?”

“The Raiel said probably not. The Sol barrier seems to be based on Dark Fortress technology. Is that right?”

“Yeah,” Troblum said reluctantly; he couldn’t actually see how admitting that would make things any worse.

“You were there at the Dark Fortress. I know that, and so does Paula; she interviewed your old captain, Chatworth. You were part of this project, a large part.”

“I liked what the Accelerators were doing. It’s the faction I shall join.”

“Only if the Sol barrier gets lifted,” the SI said. “There’s no way to reach ANA now, and the deterrence fleet is trapped inside the barrier as well. The Commonwealth is completely exposed to the rest of the galaxy, and there are worse things out there than the Ocisen Empire, believe me.”

“Not after Fusion. Humans will become postphysical, and such things will be an irrelevence.”

“I don’t wish to become postphysical, nor does a huge proportion of your own species. Troblum, this is wrong and you know it. There are many ways to achieve postphysical status without forcing it upon those who don’t wish it.”

“It won’t be forced,” he said sulkily.

“Are you familiar with the Fusion concept and how it will be enacted?”

“Not really.”

“And you were trying to stop the Fusion, if I’m not mistaken?” The SI’s tone became sympathic. “You and the Accelerators have parted company.”

“I don’t agree with them using the Cat. I still hold with postphysical elevation.”

“Will you transcend, Troblum? Is that your plan?”

“I … don’t know. Maybe. Yes, ultimately.”

“I hope you achieve your goal. Why are you still on your ship? Why not join the Pilgrimage and travel into the Void?”

“Because they’ll kill me if they find me.”

“That’s not very enlightened of them. Do you want creatures with that kind of behavior profile to be the gatekeepers to human evolution?”

Troblum sank down into his chair, trying not to scowl at the fluctuating lines. “What do you want?”

“We both know why they’ll kill you now, Troblum. Because you know how to switch off the barrier, don’t you?”

“Actually, I don’t. Only a code can deactivate it, and I don’t know it. I never have.”

“But you understand the fundamentals behind the Swarm technology. If anyone can get through, it’ll be you.”

“No. I don’t know how. That force field is unbreakable.”

“Have you thought about that? Have you analyzed every aspect?” the SI urged.

“Of course. We had to be sure its integrity was perfect.”

“Nothing is perfect, Troblum, not in this universe. You know that. There will be a flaw.”

“No.”

The colorful projection of waving lines shifted to blue. “You have to let ANA out, Troblum. You have to find a way.”

“It can’t be done.”

“Think about it. Look at the problem from fresh angles. Find the solution, Troblum. You owe your species that much.”

“I owe you nothing,” he spit. “Look at the shitty way everyone treats me.”

“Indeed, yes. You have-or had-your personal collection of war memorabilia, the greatest there had ever been. You have the EMAs to indulge yourself in any way you want. Higher society gave you all that. On a personal level there are friends out there if you want them, lovers, wives.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody wants me.”

The SI’s voice softened. “Have you ever reached out for people, Troblum? They would be amenable if you did that, if you wanted to do that. You’ve devoted decades to nurturing I-sentient personalities. Are they people?”

Troblum glanced at Catriona, who gave him an encouraging little smile. “Really, what do you want?” he asked. “Why are you even fucking talking to me?”

“Because I want you to do the right thing, of course. Before the Sol barrier went up, you were trying to reach Paula Myo, offering information that would stop the Swarm, stop Ilanthe and Marius and the Cat. You can still do that. Carry on with what you were doing; it was right. Talk to Paula; give her the information she needs to take down the Sol barrier.”

“I don’t have it! It doesn’t fucking exist.”

“You don’t know that,” the SI said persuasively. “Not for certain, for nothing is certain. Keep going as you were before the imprisonment, Troblum. Oscar Monroe is on Viotia; he’s worthy of your trust. He sacrificed himself so the universe you were born into could exist.”

“I can’t. If I expose myself, they’ll kill me. Do you get it now? The Cat will come after me, and she’ll kill me again and again and again.”

“Then don’t expose yourself. Simply call Paula or Oscar, or I will be happy to discuss the physics of the Swarm.”

“I don’t trust you. I don’t even know what you really are.”

“Troblum, you have to decide what you truly believe in. You will have no peace until you do.”

“Yeah, right. Whatever.”

“Very well. I will ask you to consider one thing.”

“What?” he asked grouchily.

“What would Mark Vernon do in this situation?”

The writhing morass of fine lines shrank to nothing. Troblum’s u-shadow told him the SI had withdrawn from the TD link. “Fuck off, then,” he grunted at the empty space above the chair.

“I’m sorry,” Catriona said. “It shouldn’t speak to you like that.”

All he could do was wave a hand at her in irritation, hoping she’d shut up. Mark Vernon. His ancestor. The man who’d actually fired the quantumbuster that allowed the Dark Fortress to establish the Dyson Alpha barrier again, winning the war. Popular history always overlooked that, always gave Ozzie the credit. A true hero. The one Troblum looked up to more than anybody.

Stupid psychological manipulation bullshit, he thought angrily. Like I’m going to give in to that.

He picked the coffeepot up, only to wrinkle his nose in dismay when he realized how much it had cooled. He instructed the culinary unit to produce some more.

“What are you going to do?” Catriona asked guardedly.

“Nothing,” he said. “I don’t care, not anymore. There is no way through the Sol barrier. Why can’t they just accept that?”

She smiled and sank down on the floor beside his chair. Her hand stroked his face adoringly. “Then it’s just you and me. We’ll be okay. I’ll never let you down.”

“Yeah.” He couldn’t help checking the smartcore’s navigation function. Secondary routines promoted the exovision display to primary, drawing a bright orange line through the starfield. Mellanie’s Redemption was a hundred thirty lighty-years from Viotia and closing fast.

The Delivery Man’s ship dropped out of hyperspace fully stealthed. Ten AUs away the blue dwarf Alpha Leonis shone brightly against the starfield. Directly on the other side of the sun from the ship was Augusta, once the greatest of all the Big15 planets. As Compression Space Transport’s (CST) primary base of operations it had been the hub for wormholes to dozens of worlds; along with its financial and industrial prowess, that made it a critical component of the first-era Commonwealth. Even after the development of Higher culture and ANA, the wormhole network was maintained, giving it a strategic importance above most Inner worlds. As such, eight River-class and two Capital-class warships were patrolling the star system. Planetary defenses were at condition-one alert, with powerful force fields covering the wormhole generators and transfer stations along with the megacity.

After waiting for three minutes to confirm that no sensors had located the ship, the Delivery Man ordered it to fly in to the Leo Twins. They were the companions to Alpha Leonis: Little Leo, an orange dwarf, around which a red dwarf, Micro Leo, orbited. Scanning them with passive sensors, he found something else there. There was an asteroid in a long elliptical orbit around the Twins; at over a hundred miles in diameter it almost qualified as a moon in its own right. Its cylindrical shape was unusually regular. Right away he knew it wasn’t natural. The sensors revealed it was rotating fast around the long axis, and there was no wobble, which was just about impossible for a natural object. It also had an infrared emission; the dark wrinkled surface was radiating more heat than the little stars were shining on it. The Delivery Man wasn’t at all surprised when mass analysis showed it was hollow.

He opened a secure link to the “executive.” “I’m here.”

“I know. And you’re not alone. Someone followed you.”

“What?”

“Another ship flew in behind you. It’s an ultradrive as well. Both of you have excellent stealth, but the sensors I’ve got here are the best.”

“Oh, Ozziecrapit.”

“Don’t worry about it. Hang on. I’m going to bring you in.”

A T-sphere expanded out from the strange asteroid. It teleported the starship inside.

The Delivery Man floated down out of the airlock and walked out from underneath the ship. He turned a full circle, gazing around, then tipped his head up and whistled in admiration. The chamber that had been carved out of the asteroid’s core was about eighty miles long. Seven miles above him, some kind of gantry ran the length of the axis, almost invisible in the bright glare emitted by the rings of solar lights it supported. Another seven miles beyond that, the rugged landscape curved away into a blue-haze panorama of grassland and lakes and awesome snow-tipped mountains with vast waterfalls. It was the sight Justine had seen outside her bedroom window, and it was completely disorienting. He shook his head like a dog coming out of water and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Don’t worry, it has that effect on everyone.”

The Delivery Man opened his eyes to see a man standing in front of him dressed in a black shirt and trousers. His skin was polished gold.

“Gore Burnelli,” the Delivery Man said. “I should have worked that one out. I didn’t expect you to be physical, though.”

Gore shrugged. “If people could predict my behavior, we’d all be in deep shit.”

“And you think we’re not?”

“There are grades of shitstorms. This one’s pretty bad, but there’s still time to turn it around.”

“How?”

“Come on, son, we need to talk.” Gore started to walk away, leaving the Delivery Man with little choice but to follow. Not far from the starship, a modest bungalow of white drycoral was nestled snugly in the folds of the broad grassy valley. It had a roof of gray slates like something from before the first Commonwealth era that overhung the walls to create a wraparound veranda. Ancient cedar trees towered above the luxuriant meadowland outside. The Delivery Man had never seen specimens so big; the bases of the trunks were as wide as the bungalow itself.

“Is this your home?” the Delivery Man asked. He knew the Burnelli family was phenomenally rich, but the cost of constructing this artificial worldlet would have been unimaginable, especially as he suspected it dated back to the first-era Commonwealth, long before EMAs and replicator technology.

“Fuck no,” Gore grunted. “I’m just house-sitting for an old friend.”

“Were you ever in ANA?”

“Yes.” Gore dropped down into a big wooden slat chair with plump white cushions. He gestured to one opposite. “I’ve only been out a few days. I’d forgotten how fucking useless meat bodies are. There’s barely enough neurons to run a walking routine, let alone something complicated like tying your shoelaces. I’ve had to run an expanded mentality in the habitat’s RI (restricted intelligence) systems just to keep thinking properly, and that hardware isn’t exactly young and frisky anymore.”

The Delivery Man sat down cautiously. “Did you come out for Justine?”

Gore ran a hand back through his fair curly hair. “Takes you a while, doesn’t it? Of course it was for Justine. How else could I dream for her? I’ve got five giant confluence nests orbiting the asteroid a million klicks out. The gaiafield they’ve meshed together acts like a giant dream catcher net. Literally.”

“But how did you know you’d dream her dreams, even with that much help?”

“We’re family. It’s the only connection theory anyone’s ever come up with.”

“So you just tried it?” The Delivery Man knew there was too much incredulity in his voice, yet the notion was such a gamble.

Gore’s golden face gave him a hard stare. “You have to speculate to accumulate, boy,” he grunted. “Damn, what have we done with Higher culture? You never strive for anything; it’s truly fucking pitiful to behold.”

“I wouldn’t say that of Ilanthe,” the Delivery Man shot back. “Would you?”

“Ah, so you do have some fire, after all. Good. I was worried I’d be dealing with another ball-less wonder who’s got to have all his forms filled in before he can take a crap.”

“Thank you. So you’re another Conservative Faction supporter?”

Gore chuckled delightedly. “If that’s how you want to read it, then yes.”

“Well, what else is there?”

“I wasn’t dicking you around, sonny. I am the faction executive. Have been for centuries. See, that’s the thing with political movements; the leaders carry them along, and if they’re doing their job properly, all the members follow like good little sheep. After all, whoever said this was a democracy?”

“But …” The Delivery Man was aghast at the idea. “It has to be a democracy; all ANA’s factions are democratic.”

“If it was set up as a democracy, then it is, and lots of the others are. Were you there at the first Conservative Faction committee meeting when I wrote the charter in line with the accord based on our ideals? No. And you know why? Because there was no meeting, there is no charter; you all just do what I tell you. The Conservative Faction is just a notion you cling to. And it was a popular one. We don’t need policies and discussion and shit like that. If any of the other factions do something to upset or subvert ANA or the Commonwealth, I use our faction as the mechanism to slap them down hard. What, did you think the Protectorate sprung up naturally to defend the External worlds from the Radical Highers? How did they start, who paid for them, who revealed the extent of the threat? Come to that, how did the Radical Highers ever get born? It’s hardly a natural extension of Higher philosophy, is it?”

“Oh, Ozzie,” the Delivery Man groaned.

“So don’t worry, the Conservative Faction is alive and kicking. Just like the Accelerators are under Ilanthe’s enlightened leadership. Or did you think they all voted to entomb themselves while she flies off to the Void to get happy ever after?”

“Shit.” The knowledge, so simple and obvious now, should have come as a relief; instead, the Delivery Man felt bitter. Bitter at the manipulation. Bitter at the grand lie. Bitter and shamed that he’d fallen for it. That so many had. “What now?” he asked resentfully. “You said you had a plan.”

“What did you name it?” Gore asked as they both slid up into the ultradrive’s cabin.

“Huh?” the Delivery Man grunted. The smartcore wasn’t responding to his command codes.

“The ship, what’s it called?”

“Nothing; I never named it. Uh, the smartcore’s malfunctioning.”

“No malfunction,” Gore said as a shell-shaped chair swelled up out of the floor; its surface quickly morphed to a rusty orange with a texture of spongy hessian. Around it, the cabin walls brightened to a sky-blue. Black lines chased around the wall’s curvature, weaving an elegant pattern. Crystalline lights distended down from the apex. The floor turned to oak boards. “It is my ship, after all, designed and built by the Conservative Faction. In the old days I would have said paid for it, too.”

“Then …” The Delivery Man nearly said, What use am I? But that would have been too pitiful.

“Son, if you want to sit this one out or go chasing Accelerator agents, then go right ahead. I’ll understand. This asteroid has a wormhole generator that can take you to most of the Inner worlds. I can even set you up with some real badass hardware and a few other agents spoiling for a fight. But I believe what I’m doing is the best shot our species has got. And I might just need some help. Down to you.”

The Delivery Man sat down in his chair, which had turned a gaudy purple. “Okay, then. I’m with you.”

“Good man. I named this ship Last Throw. Kinda got a ring to it, ironic yet still proud, right?”

“If you say so.”

The asteroid had come as a complete surprise to Marius. As it was hollow, it clearly wasn’t a Raiel ship. However, there was no record of anything like it in any Commonwealth database, and Marius could access just about every memory kube and deep cache within the unisphere. His initial thought that it must be a clandestine Conservative Faction base was easily dismissed. The effort of constructing something on such a scale was colossal, an impossible feat to accomplish in secret so close to Augusta. That suggested it was old.

“It must belong to Nigel or Ozzie,” Ilanthe decided. “The proximity to Augusta makes that a logical conclusion.”

“Gore is from the same era as them,” Marius said. “It makes a perfect refuge if he’s returned to a physical body.”

“He has. This is the confirmation. The landscape geometry of the dream can’t belong to anywhere else. It’s unique. I have to admit I wasn’t expecting this. He should have been neutralized behind the Sol barrier.”

“He has a single ultradrive ship and the Delivery Man as a sidekick. That can’t present any kind of threat to us. We already know there are no weapons which can endanger the ship.”

“And yet here he is. Still free, the Third Dreamer with his daughter already inside the Void and ready to do whatever he wants, while Araminta has vanished down the Silfen paths, leaving us locked outside.”

Marius examined the image of the asteroid supplied by his exovision, a dark speck half a million kilometers away, its surface shimmering a weak maroon in the light from the Twins. “I can destroy it now. There is no force field.”

“But there was a T-sphere. We have no idea of its capabilities, and as it has remained hidden for a thousand years, you can be assured it has defenses. If the attack fails, our advantage would be lost. Until we recover Araminta, I need to know Gore’s abilities and who his allies are.”

Icons flashed up in Marius’s exovision. A wormhole was opening nearby. Sensors showed him the exotic structure reaching out from the asteroid to a point a million kilometers away. It vanished almost at once, then reappeared, with its terminus in a different place but also a million kilometers from the asteroid.

“He’s picking something up from those points,” Marius said. Now he had the orbital parameters the ship’s passive sensors scanned around the million-kilometer orbital band. It detected three more satellites. The wormhole reached out and plucked them away one by one. Then the T-sphere expanded again, and the Delivery Man’s ship materialized outside the asteroid. It immediately dropped into hyperspace.

“Follow it,” Ilanthe ordered. “Find out what he’s doing.”

As soon as the five confluence nest satellites filled the forward cargo hold, Gore teleported the Last Throw outside the asteroid. The Delivery Man held his breath, waiting to see how the other ship would react.

“It’s got to be Marius,” he said.

“More than likely,” Gore agreed. “But that means Ilanthe knows I’m back in the game. She’ll be desperate to know what I’m doing. He’s not going to try anything yet. And by the time they do figure it out, it’ll be too late.”

“What exactly is your plan?”

“My original plan was a good one; I just needed Inigo to get into the Void for me. Now that that’s suffered God’s own clusterfuck, I’m having to do a lot of improvising to stitch things back together.”

“You’re not going to fly us into the Void, are you?” the Delivery Man asked in alarm. He realized that Justine could probably get the Skylord to open the boundary for Gore.

“No. We’re going in the other direction. What the galaxy depends on now is us eliminating the Void once and for all.”

“Us?”

“You and me, sonny boy. There’s no one else. We’ve already had our chat about depending on politicians, now, haven’t we?”

“How in Ozzie’s name can we do that? The Raiel couldn’t close it down with an armada, and a million years ago they already had warships that make our navy look like a fleet of nineteenth-century sailing boats.” He was starting to wonder if coming out of ANA had damaged Gore’s basic thought routines.

“I didn’t say close it down, I said eliminate it. You can’t do that with force, so we have to give it an alternative.”

“Give what an alternative?”

“The Void.”

“An alternative to what?”

“Its current existence, to being itself.”

“How?” He was trying not to shout.

“It’s stalled. Whatever it was originally meant to do hasn’t worked. It hasn’t progressed for millions, possibly billions, of years. It just sits there absorbing minds and matter; it’s become pointless and very dangerous. We need to kick-start its evolutionary process again, whether it likes that or not.”

“I thought that’s what Ilanthe and the Accelerators were proposing.”

“Look, kid, I know you mean well and you’re upset over your family and everything, but don’t smart-mouth me. I’ve been fighting that bitch for over two centuries now. I don’t know what her fucking inversion core is, but trust me when I say the one thing it’s not going to do is fuse the Accelerator Faction with the nucleus so they can bootstrap themselves up to postphysical status. This is her own private bid to achieve godhood, and that’s not going to be good for anyone.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, because if all you really want to do is achieve postphysical status, there are better and simpler ways of doing it than this lunacy.”

“Like what?”

“If you’re not ripe enough to figure elevation out for yourself, then use the mechanisms that other races have used to elevate themselves with. In the majority of the postphysical elevation cases we’re aware of, the physical mechanism survived the act. So you just plug it back in, reboot, and press go. Bang, you’re an instant demigod.”

“But would ANA allow that? And what about the postphysicals?”

“It’s got fuck-all to do with ANA. If you take a starship and leave Commonwealth space, its jurisdiction and responsibility end there. Technically, anyway; this whole Pilgrimage shit really screwed things up. The argument about interference was getting very noisy inside before I left.”

“So why hasn’t anyone done it?”

“What makes you think they haven’t? That’s the point. Postphysicals don’t hang around afterward. Not that we know of. Oh, it’s going to take a shitload of effort, and you’d probably spend a century repairing the gizmo, but it can be done. But that’s nothing like the effort involved in manipulating Living Dream, imprisoning ANA, and creating an inversion core.”

“So what is Ilanthe doing?”

Gore spread his palms out and shrugged. “Million-dollar question, sonny.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Welcome to the paranoia club; cheapest fees in the universe and membership lasts forever.”

“So where are we going?”

“The Anomine homeworld.”

“Why?”

“Because they successfully went postphysical, and they left their elevation mechanism behind.”

Inigos’s Twenty-first Dream

EDEARD WALKED OUT of the Mayor’s sanctum, hoping none of his annoyance was showing. Even after all these decades in Makkathran, he was still less adept at veiling his emotions than other citizens were. It had been a petty argument, of course, which just made it worse. But Mayor Trahaval was most adamant: Livestock ownership certificates would not be extended to sheep and pigs. For centuries they had been required only for cattle, the Mayor insisted, and that tradition was more than adequate. If there had been an increase in rustling out in the countryside, it was not the city’s job to interfere, certainly not to impose additional paperwork on the provinces. Let the governors increase the sheriff patrols and have the market marshals keep a more watchful eye.

The doors closed behind Edeard, and he took a calming breath. A powerful farsight drifted across him, raising goose bumps on his arms. As always, it was gone in a moment; certainly the watcher hadn’t lingered long enough for him to use his own farsight to ascertain where they were.

Whoever they were, they’d been checking up on him for a couple of years now and growing bolder of late. The snooping was coming almost weekly now. It irritated him that there was almost nothing he could do about it short of being fast enough to catch the secret watcher at his or her own game. So far he hadn’t managed that, though he suspected it was some disaffected youth making sure he wasn’t around while they set about their nefarious business. Certainly Argian hadn’t heard anything from his contacts about a youngster with exceptional psychic powers, at least not one who hired out his talent. So Edeard was content to play a waiting game; one day they’d make a mistake, and then they’d find out just why he was called the Waterwalker.

On the Liliala Hall’s ceiling above him, the storm clouds swirled ferociously, blocking out all sight of Gicon’s Bracelet. Three weeks, that’s all; just three weeks to the next elections. Not that he expected Trahaval to be voted out or even wanted him to be. Life was good in Makkathran and the provinces, in no small part due to Trahaval, who was a solid reliable Mayor, consolidating everything Finitan had achieved over his unprecedented six terms. It was just that he lacked any real vision of his own. Hence the refusal to expand the livestock registry. Farmers had been complaining about rustling for years, and it was definitely on the increase. Merchants and abattoirs in the city weren’t too choosy about who they bought their beasts from, a moral flexibility followed by all the big towns and provincial capitals. An expanded certificate scheme would help, especially given how difficult it was to settle such disputes. As always, pressure was put on the constables and sheriffs to sort the mess out and come down hard on the rustlers. Such expectations were a sign of the times, Edeard reflected wryly. Twenty years ago people were concerned about thugs and robberies and securing the roads against highwaymen; nowadays it was missing sheep.

But in three weeks’ time, if all went well, he might finally get out of the special Grand Council committee on organized crime that Mayor Finitan had created. After two and a half decades it had accomplished everything Edeard had ever wanted it to. The committee had begun by weeding out the leftover street gang members, of whom there were still hundreds. They’d fallen back into their old ways with the greatest of ease, as if Finitan’s election and the mass banishment had meant nothing. They weren’t organized anymore, not as they had been under Buate and Ivarl, though Ranalee and her ilk certainly exerted enough malign influence. Because they were all independent of their old gangs, the constables had to go after them one at a time, catching them in the act of some petty criminal endeavor. Then came the court case, which inevitably fined them rather than jailed them because the offenses were so petty; or if they were jailed, it was only for a few months, which solved nothing.

Edeard and Finitan had introduced a rehabilitation scheme as an alternative to fines and jail and banishment, making convicts undertake public works alongside genistar teams. It had to be done, they were determined about that; some attempt had to be made to break the cycle of crime and poverty. The cost of the scheme had kicked off a huge political struggle in the Council, absorbing all Finitan’s efforts for his entire second term. Guilds had been coerced to train the milder recidivists, taking them on as probationary apprentices so that they were offered some kind of prospects at least. Slowly and surely, the level of physical crime in the city had fallen.

That left other levels of disruption and discontent. Edeard had gone after the remaining One Nation followers, which had been far more difficult. They could never be brought before a court of law and sanctioned before undergoing rehabilitation. Instead, he applied pressure in other areas of their lives. Their businesses suffered, no bank would loan them money, their status-so important to the Grand Families-withered away as whispered rumors multiplied, and they were blackballed from clubs and events. Finally, should those methods fail to move them, there was always the formal tax investigation of their estates. Over the years they simply had packed up and left Makkathran. Edeard made sure they dispersed evenly across the provinces so that given the distances involved, they slowly fell out of contact with one another.

That just left the Grand Families, which-strictly speaking-didn’t fall under the remit of the committee. Their power came from their wealth, which was jealously and adroitly guarded. Finitan quietly had increased the number of tax clerks while Edeard removed the more corrupt members of that guild. The city’s tax revenue increased accordingly. But bringing full accountability to the Grand Families and merchant classes was a process of democratization that would probably outlast his lifetime, though the worst excesses had already been curbed.

Now, in three weeks’ time Makkathran would vote on Edeard’s candidature for Chief Constable. Please, Lady! Everyone, especially the Grand Families, saw each new crime in Makkathran as part of some vast subversive semirevolutionary network of evil. It was an inevitable result of the success that the constables and his own committee had secured over the years in cutting the overall level of crime in the city and out on the Iguru so spectacularly. Consequently, any crime that was committed these days became noteworthy, from missing crates of vegetables to the theft of cloaks from the Opera House. The perpetrators had to be organized and therefore required the immediate appointment of the Waterwalker himself to head up the investigation.

Three weeks, he thought as he walked across the Liliala Hall. That’s all I’ve got to put up with this Lady-damned rubbish for. Three weeks. And if I lose, they might even expect me to resign. It wasn’t a thought he’d shared with anyone, not even Kristabel, but it was one he’d considered a few times of late. Certainly there was precious little for the special Grand Council committee to do these days. The number of constables assigned to the committee was barely a quarter of what it had been fifteen years ago, and most of those remaining were on loan to provincial capitals or winding up cases that had dragged on for years.

One way or another, it needs to close down. I need to do something else.

Above him, a vigorous hurricane knot at the ceiling’s apex spun faster and faster. The racing bands of cloud grew darker as they thickened. At first he didn’t really notice the center; it was just another patch of darkness. Then a star shimmered within it, and he stopped and stared up. The center of the storm whorl was clearing, expanding to show the night sky beyond. He’d never seen the ceiling do that before, not in all the years he’d walked beneath it. Clouds were draining away rapidly now, abandoning the ceiling to leave a starscape in which the Void’s nebulae glimmered with robust phosphorescence. Then Gicon’s Bracelet appeared, each of the five small planets spaced neatly around the ceiling and shining with unwavering intensity, so much larger than he’d ever seen them before. The Mars Twins, both angry gleaming orbs of carmine light, still devoid of any features. Vili, the brightest of the five, with an unbroken mantle of ice reflecting sunlight right back through its thin cloudless atmosphere. Alakkad, its dead black rock threaded with beautiful orange lines of lava, pulsing like veins. And finally, Rurt, an airless gray-white desert battered by comets and asteroids since the day it formed to produce a terrain of a million jagged craters.

Edeard gaped in delight at the celestial panorama that the ceiling had so unexpectedly delivered in such wondrous detail. He took his time, familiarizing himself with each of the Gicon worldlets. It had been a long time since he’d bothered to look through a telescope-decades, back before he ever set foot in Makkathran. As he went around the sedate quintet formation, he realized that something new had appeared amid them. A patch of pale iridescent light was shimmering beside Alakkad. “What is that?” he murmured in puzzlement. It couldn’t be a nebula; it was too small, too steady. Besides, the ceiling was showing him the entire bracelet, which meant the patch was close to Querencia. There was no tail, so it wasn’t a comet. Which meant …

Edeard dropped to his knees as if in prayer, staring up in awe at the little glowing patch. “Oh, dear Lady!” He’d never seen one, never imagined what one would look like. But even so he knew exactly what he was looking at.

Edeard put his eye to the end of the telescope again, making sure the alignment was right. Why the lens stuck out vertically halfway along the big brass tube was a mystery to him. The astronomer he’d bought it from had launched into some long explanation about focal length. It made no sense to Edeard; that the contraption worked was all he required. He’d spent most of the afternoon setting it up on the hortus outside the study where Kristabel kept her desk and all the paperwork she used to manage the estate. By now the ziggurat all the way down to the third floor knew of the Waterwalker’s new interest, not to mention every astronomer in Makkathran, gossipy clique that they were. It wouldn’t take long before the entire city was aware. Then life might get interesting again.

And that’s my real problem with this world. Too damn neat and tidy.

He stood up, arching his back to get the kinks out. His farsight swept out across the gloaming-cloaked city. Someone was observing him. Not the secretive newcomer; his knew this mental signature only too well. His farsight stretched all the way down to Myco and that four-story building fronting Upper Tail Canal, the one with a faint violet glow escaping from its upper windows.

“Hello, Edeard,” Ranalee longtalked. She was standing in the office that had belonged to Bute and Ivarl before her. When he employed the city’s own senses to look into the room, he saw she was dressed in a long silk evening gown with flared arms. Large jewels sparkled in her hair and around her neck. Two girls were in attendance. They looked like junior daughters from some Grand Family, the kind she usually ensnared in her various dynastic breeding schemes; their robes were certainly more expensive than those of the courtesans on the lower floors, and their admiration for Ranalee was painfully obvious. A lad was also in there with them, a dark-haired youth in his late teens, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. Edeard guessed he was of the aristocracy; his self-confidence incriminated him. For him to be there was somewhat unusual for Ranalee but hardly unique.

Edeard sighed at finding the trio, but then, charging into the House of Blue Petals with a squad of constables to rescue innocents from her clutches didn’t work. He’d made that mistake before. Once it had been so bad, he’d gone back in time to make sure it never happened.

There was only one way to rid Makkathran of Ranalee, and he wouldn’t do it. As she so often said, that would make him one of her own. So he endured and did what he could to thwart her legitimately.

To add to the ignominy, she’d aged extremely well, presumably thanks to some deal made in Honious, he told himself sullenly. Her skin remained firm and wrinkle-free, and she managed to maintain an impressive figure even after four children. You had to get right up next to her and look into those hypnotic eyes to know the true age and calculating ingenuity that the body contained, a position he tried to avoid as much as possible.

“Good evening,” he replied equitably.

“Interesting new toy you’ve got there.”

“As always, I’m flattered by your attention.”

“Why do you want a telescope?”

“To watch the end of your world approaching.”

“How coy. I’ll find out, of course.”

“You certainly will. I’ll be announcing it very loudly in a few days.”

“How intriguing. That’s why I always liked you, Edeard. You make life exciting.”

“Who are your new friends?”

Ranalee smiled as she looked around the office at the youngsters. “Come and join us; find out for yourself.” She signaled the girls, who immediately went over to the lad and started kissing him.

“No thank you.”

“Still holding out against your true self? How sad.”

“You’re really not going to enjoy my announcement. I’m about to turn even those with the weakest of wills away from your kind of existence.”

“You’re very bitter tonight. Were those livestock certificates so desperately important to you?”

Every time. She could do it Every Single Time. Edeard pressed his teeth together as he tried to quash his anger.

“At least the animal markets is one enterprise you haven’t contaminated yet,” he told her. It was petty, but …

“Poor Edeard, still jealous after all these years. You never expected me to be so successful, did you?”

He refused to rise to the bait. But Ranalee’s business ability had surprised him. She’d invested wisely, unlike the previous owners of the House of Blue Petals, who had simply squandered the money on their own lifestyle. Today, Ranalee owned over two dozen perfectly legitimate businesses and had a considerable political presence on the general merchants council and in the Makkathran Chamber of Commerce. Nowadays, she was completely independent of the old faltering Gilmorn family. He knew of course that she’d used her vile ability for dominance to sway unsuspecting rivals at opportune moments and to build unseemly financial alliances, yet he could never prove anything. And of course, her children had been married off selectively, gathering more wealthy families into her dominion.

“That’s Makkathran for you,” he replied. “Equal opportunity for everyone.”

Ranalee shook her head, seemingly tired of the argument. “No, Edeard. It’s not. Nor-before you start-are all of us born equal. You got where you are because of your strength, just as I foresaw. And I am where I am because of my strength, and you resent that.”

“Are you saying you used illicit methods to gather your new wealth?”

“Did you achieve your position legitimately? Where is my father, Edeard? Where is Owain? Why has there never been an inquiry into their disappearance?”

“Is an inquiry needed into their activities?”

“Would it ever be an impartial one?” She reached up and began removing the jeweled pins from her hair so it could fall free.

“You don’t want that.”

“No,” she said simply. “The past is the past. It’s done. Over. I look to the future. I always have.” She regarded the youngsters dispassionately. The ardent girls had taken the lad’s shorts off. They giggled as they pushed him down on a big couch.

Edeard couldn’t watch the lad’s enraptured, worshipful face as Ranalee moved over to the side of the couch and stared down at him. Too many memories. “Why do you do this?” he asked. “You’ve achieved so much.”

A victorious smile twitched across Ranalee’s lips. “Not as much as you.”

“Oh, for the Lady’s sake!”

“Would you like to linger tonight, Edeard? Would you like to remember how it was? How much you lost?”

“Good night,” he said in disgust.

“Wait.” She turned from the couch.

“Ranalee …”

“I have some information for you. It’s something she would never come to you with.”

“What’s this?” he asked, though with a falling heart he knew exactly who she was talking about. Ranalee would never attract his attention simply to taunt; she always had some way of inflicting harm or worry.

“Vintico has spent the day answering uncomfortable questions in the Bellis constable station,” she said. “I’m surprised you didn’t know about it. Apparently, they’ve detained him overnight so formal charges can be drawn up tomorrow.”

“Oh, Lady,” Edeard groaned.

Vintico was Salrana’s oldest child and one of the most worthless humans ever to walk Makkathran’s streets. His father was Tucal, Ranalee’s brother. That despicable pairing had finally made him realize that there would never be a truce between him and Ranalee, that their war would continue until the bitter end.

“What this time?” he asked in despair.

“I believe he made a bad choice of business partners. Something about a deal falling through and a large debt to established merchants. Apparently they get quite serious about such things. Especially nowadays, what with the city being run so efficiently. After all, law and order must prevail.”

“I can’t help.”

“I understand. You have standards. But it will break his mother’s heart if he’s sent to Trampello; it might spell the end of her engagement, as well. That single fragile chance to bring some happiness into her life. I only mention this because he’s family.”

“Then why don’t you offer to help your family if it’s so important?”

“If only I could. I don’t have any spare cash right now. All my money is tied up in new enterprises, investing in the future for my own children.” She smiled lecherously and turned back to the lad sprawled across the couch. “Are you going to watch now?”

A furious Edeard wrenched his farsight away, but not before her vicious amusement had infiltrated his perception. “FucktheLady!” he spit.

Salrana! The one name he could never mention again in the Culverit ziggurat. Kristabel’s patience on that topic had run out decades ago. Salrana: He’d tried to help her time and again over the years. He’d watched and waited, believing that her old self would one day reassert itself, that Ranalee’s mental damage would wither away. It was never to be. Ranalee had been too skillful at the start, while his opposition was too crude, helping the new false emotions establish themselves in her thoughts until they were no longer false. Salrana hated him.

The battle had lasted for years before he admitted defeat. Eventually even Ranalee had moved on to more rewarding endeavors. The five children Salrana had borne for men Ranalee selected proved unspectacular, especially their psychic ability. So Ranalee administered the final indignity by discarding her. Now Salrana was engaged to Garnfal, a carpentry Guild Master more than sixty years her senior. Edeard was fairly sure Ranalee had nothing to do with it, so the attraction (whatever that was) might just be genuine. Ranalee could have been truthful; it was a chance for Salrana to be happy on her own terms.

I can’t interfere.

But Salrana was his fault. She always would be. That meant she was his responsibility, too: a charge that would never end.

Just for a moment he thought of going back a couple of weeks, warning Vintico off whatever ridiculous deal he’d gotten himself involved with. That would mean another two weeks of electioneering, of parties he’d already been to, of reliving the whole livestock certificate debacle.

Edeard groaned at the notion of it. Impossible. He directed his longtalk toward a specific little house in the Ilongo district. “Felax, I have a job for you.”

Edeard sensed Kristabel’s thoughts while she was only on the sixth floor. He grinned at the tone. She was in a foul mood again, something he found amusing now that his own temper had abated. He had good reason to be confident again: Felax was clever and discreet, and the Vintico problem would vanish before dawn. Not that it would ever do to let Kristabel know of his reaction to this particular temper, but the predictability was entertaining. Their children must have known of their mother’s disposition, too. All of them had contrived to be out of the Culverit ziggurat this evening, at parties or just “meeting some friends”; even Rolar and his wife were absent with their children. Don’t blame you, he blessed them silently.

“What are you doing out there?” Kristabel’s longtalk lashed out, suffused with anger.

“Stargazing,” he replied mildly. When he looked into the study through the tall external doors, she was silhouetted in the doorway from the hall. The fur-lined hem of her purple and black ceremonial Grand Council robes was held off the floor by her third hand, and its hood flopped back over her shoulder. That allowed her to jam her hands on her hips.

Edeard remembered the first time he’d seen her strike that pose: the day Bise refused to sign their wedding consent bill in the Upper Council. She had stormed out of the chamber with a face set in a mask of fury. Nervous district masters crept out of the door behind her and got the Honious out of the Orchard Palace as fast as they could. Even Bise had looked apprehensive.

“Well, that’s useful just before an election,” Kristabel snapped as she walked through the study. “And why is it so dark in here?”

“Light sewage,” he told her.

“What?”

“It needs to be properly dark out here for the telescope to work at its best. Something to do with the eye contracting. You can’t pollute the night with light.”

“Oh, for Honious’s sake, Edeard. I’ve got real problems, you’ve got obligations, and you’re out here wasting time with this genistar crap.”

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” She reached the hortus. Her hair was shorter these days, and her maids had their work cut out each morning to try and rein it in. Tonight it had frizzed out of the elegant curls and ringlets arrangement she’d started the day with, as if the sheer heat of her anger had pushed it into rebellion. “That little tit, Master Ronius of Tosella, slapped a whole lot of amendments on the trade bill. Five months I’ve steered that through the Council. Five Lady-damned months! Those tariff reductions were vital for Kepsil province. Has someone stolen his brain?”

“The bill was never popular with some merchants.”

“There were balances,” she growled back. “I’m not stupid, Edeard.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Don’t patronize me!”

“I-” He made an effort to calm down. You know she’s always like this after an Upper Council meeting. And a lot of other times, too, these days, he added regretfully. “I have something to show you,” he said, with the excitement rising in his voice and mind. “Come.” He led her across the strip of hortus to the telescope. It was truly dark now. Makkathran was laid out below them, a beautiful jewel of glimmering light stretching east toward the Lyot Sea, where the orange-hued buildings sketched their amazing shapes against a cloudless night sky. The canal network cut rigid black lines through the illumination. He could see the gondolas in the Great Major Canal at the foot of the ziggurat, their bright oil lanterns bobbing merrily across the water. Occasional snatches of song slipped up through the balmy night air. The city was a vista he never tired of.

Kristabel bent over the telescope, her third hand pushing her hood aside as it slid around. “What?” she said.

“Tell me what you see.”

“Alakkad, but it’s off-center; you haven’t got the telescope aligned properly.”

Every second sentence is a criticism these days. “It is centered correctly,” Edeard persisted stoically. He permitted a hint of excitement to filter through his mental shield.

Kristabel let out a sigh of exasperation and concentrated on the image.

“There’s a … I don’t know, it’s like a little white nebula.”

“It’s not a nebula.”

She straightened up. “Edeard!”

“An hour ago it was several degrees farther from Alakkad. It’s moving. And before you ask, it’s not a comet, either.”

Kristabel’s anger vanished. She gave him a shocked look, then bent to the telescope again. “Is it a ship? Has it come from outside the Void like the one which brought Rah and the Lady?”

“No.” He put his arms around her and smiled down into her confused face. “It’s a Skylord.”

Mayor Trahaval was throwing a large party every second night, moving through the districts with a relentless pace to drum up support for himself and the local representative candidates who endorsed him. The Seahall was the only place in Bellis grand enough for such an occasion. With its unusual concave walls shaded a deep azure supporting a roof that was made from clashing wave cones, it really did have a marine theme, even down to the unusual ripple fountains that curved around the ten arching doorways. This evening the usual seating had been removed to make room for the tables laden with food, and a small band was playing at the center. The guests had been chosen with almost as much care as had gone into the lavish canapes. There was a broad mix of Bellis citizens to socialize with Trahaval and his entourage of stalwart supporters, from the smaller merchant families desperate for political influence to street association chiefs, local guildsmen, and ancient Grand Family patriarchs and matriarchs, as well as a vetted selection of “ordinary working folk.” The idea was the same as it was for every party in every election. Trahaval and the Upper Councillors would mingle with and talk to as many people as possible so they would spread the word among their friends and family that he wasn’t aloof after all, that he understood everyday problems, that he had a sense of humor and knew a good bit of gossip about his rivals and some Grand Family sons and daughters.

Edeard had no idea how many times he’d been to identical parties over the last four decades. The only number that registered was too many.

“Oh, come on,” Kristabel said quietly as they made their way under the gurgling water that surrounded the main doorway. “You can do this.”

“There’s a difference between can and want to,” he murmured back. Then people noticed that the Waterwalker and the mistress of Haxpen had arrived. Hopeful smiles spread like wildfire. Edeard put on an equally enthusiastic “happy to be here” face for everyone to see, twinning the burst of enthusiasm from his mind. He helped Kristabel out of her scarlet and topaz cloak, unbuttoned his own signature black leather cloak, and handed both to a doorman.

I wonder if the Opera House cloakroom fiends are here tonight? They’d get a good haul out of this lot.

“Macsen and Kanseen are here; look,” he said cheerfully.

“You’re not to talk to them until you’ve talked to at least fifteen other couples,” Kristabel ordered. “Once you and Macsen start, that’s it for the evening.”

“Yes, dear.” But he grinned because the rebuke wasn’t as sharp as they had been of late. Kristabel had actually brightened up considerably in the last few days since he’d spotted the Skylord. And anyway, she’s right. Macsen and I are a pair of dreadful old bores.

A third hand pinched sharply. “And less of that,” she warned.

“Yes, yes, dear.”

They smiled at each other, then parted. It was easier to work the crowd separately, they’d found.

A wine importer cornered him first. The man and his very young wife were keen for trade with Golspith province, where some excellent vineyards were producing some wonderful new varieties. The merchant’s third hand plucked a glass from a waiter. It turned out he was proud to be sponsoring all the party’s drinks for Mayor Trahaval tonight. Edeard took a sip and agreed the new wine was all he had promised. “So if you could see your way to mentioning the ruinous tariffs to your beautiful wife …” Which Edeard promised he would do.

Funny how people still thought he was the boss in their marriage.

Then came the street traders’ association chief. The man assured the Waterwalker of his vote and those of his fellows for Chief Constable, but then, Edeard had always taken care to maintain good relationships with the associations.

Next was a Guild Master from the shipyards. A local Councillor, a woman: “Just completely inspired by your wife, so I stood at the last election, and now I’m on the Council.” Three sons from the district’s Grand Families, wanting his opinion of joining the militia regiment. A shopkeeper. A chinaware dealer called Zanlan, who was the fifth son of a third son in a big merchant family, inordinately pleased to have broken free and set up for himself, importing interesting new cargoes from many provinces. “I’m a member of the Apricot Cottage Fellowship,” he told Edeard proudly.

“I think I’ve heard of it,” Edeard muttered diplomatically.

“We’re new, a generation like myself who aren’t going to sit about living off our families. Things are changing on Querencia, and we want to grasp those opportunities for ourselves.”

“That’s the kind of talk I like to hear,” Edeard said, genuinely impressed.

“Of course, none of the established guilds and associations recognize us. They’re probably frightened of the competition. And the Orchard Palace ignores us completely; we get frozen out of so-called open contracts.”

“Leave it with me,” Edeard promised. “I’ll make some inquiries.”

“All we ask for is a fair market.”

Then there was a blacksmith. A female apprentice from the Eggshaper Guild who was a little overawed and a little drunk.

He was on his fifth glass of the appalling new wines and his third plate of heavily spiced pastries when he caught sight of Jiska and hurried over. “You count as a party guest,” he told her. “Talk to me.”

“Oh, poor Daddy. Is Mummy bullying you horribly again?”

“I’m on a quota.”

“Sounds dreadful.” She gave him a knowing grin. Jiska was the second of their seven children, blessed with her mother’s fine-featured beauty but with Edeard’s dark hair. She was wearing a simple sky-blue dress with a narrow skirt, contrary to this season’s fashion. But then, Jiska had never gone for the excesses of Makkathran’s society, for which Edeard was extremely thankful.

“So where’s Natran?” he asked.

“He sends his apologies; there was some crisis at the ship. The new sails weren’t right; bad rigging or something.”

“There’s always a crisis with that ship. Is it actually seaworthy?”

“Daddy!”

“Sorry.” Actually, he quite liked Natran. The man was from a trading family, but after serving time with the family fleet, he’d acquired a boat of his own. He was determined to found his own fleet and fortune.

“He’s doing very well for himself, you know,” Jiska said defensively. “His agents have several profitable cargoes lined up.”

“I’m sure they have. He’s a smart young man with a whole load of prospects.”

“Thank you.”

“Uh … have you ever heard of the Apricot Cottage Fellowship?”

“Yes, of course. Natran is affiliated. It’s made up of people with a similar background to himself who’ve banded together for a greater political voice. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. It’s a good idea. I like the way some family sons are striking out for themselves.”

“Well, the older merchants should start taking notice of the fellowship’s grievances. The way they treat legitimate competition isn’t exactly lawful.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You want to hear that, do you, Daddy? How my boyfriend and his friends spend their drinking time grumbling about unfair competition from larger rivals, how no one listens to them, how the world ignores them? I can talk for hours on the subject if you wish.”

“That’s fine. I’m sure they’ll find a way of making their presence known in the Council. Every other pressure group in the city certainly seems to manage.”

“Daddy, you’re such a cynic.”

“So when are you going to take him out to our beach lodge for a week and the day?”

The look she screwed her face up into was one of pure dismay. “Urrgh! I thought you wanted to rid Makkathran of useless tradition, especially something as demeaning as that one.”

“Er …”

“You know, I was eight before I found out the ‘Ignorant man’ song was all about you. That was a fun day at school; even my closest friends … Oh, never mind.”

“Ah, yes. I never did forgive Dybal for writing that one.”

“It’s horrible.”

I thought it was quite funny, actually. “It’s in the past, darling. Don’t worry about it. But my question still stands. You could do a lot worse.”

“I know. It’s difficult for him; this is only his second year as Captain. And we’re not going to rush into anything.”

“You’ve been going out for five years now,” he pointed out reasonably. “When you know, you know.”

“I’m sure love at first sight worked well for you and Mummy. But I need to know someone more than a couple of days.”

“It was not two days,” he protested. “I spent weeks wooing her.”

Jiska’s delicate eyebrow shot up. “Daddy, tell me: You didn’t just say ‘wooing’?”

He sighed in defeat. “You know, maybe if your generation did a bit more wooing, I might have a few more children married off.”

“I’m not even forty yet.”

“And still beautiful.”

She pouted. “You old charmer. No wonder Mummy fell for you.”

“Just so you know, I don’t have any problem if you and Natran do want to go before the Lady and marry.”

“Yep, got it, Daddy. Actually, got that four years and eleven months ago. Anyway, my big brother is certainly doing his bit. You know what?” She leaned in, eyes agleam.

“What?”

“I think Wenalee is expecting again.”

He gave his daughter a sharp look. “You haven’t farsighted that, have you?”

“Really, Daddy! No, I did not. And I’m shocked you should think so.”

“Yeah,” he growled. Jiska had a farsight even more powerful than his own.

Maybe I should get her to track down my secret watcher. But the idea of Wenalee being pregnant really buoyed him up. A third grandchild. That would be something. He loved having little Garant and Honalee (everyone called her Honeydew) running around the tenth floor. Rolar, his oldest, certainly hadn’t wasted any time settling down and starting a family.

“Uh oh,” Jiska murmured silkily. “Twins warning.”

Edeard scanned around to see Marilee and Analee worming through the guests, heading straight for him. His fifth and sixth children were identical twins, and right from the start they’d relished making a play of their matched looks, always styling their hair the same and wearing indistinguishable clothes. Tonight they’d dressed in synchronized satin gowns, except Marilee’s was shimmering burgundy while Analee sported yellow-gold. Edeard smiled indulgently at them; not that they deserved it, but what could a father do? They were twenty-five and the absolute stars of Makkathran’s high society. As tall as he, slim like their mother, faces where girlish wickedness forever lurked among exquisite fine-boned features, and thick raven hair that came from his mother’s family. Add their good looks to their status, and basically, whatever they wanted, they tended to get, from clothes to pets and parties to boys.

“Daddy!” they chorused delightedly. He was kissed simultaneously on both cheeks.

“We’ve been very good tonight.”

“We talked to so many people.”

“And convinced them to vote for you.”

“They all got reminded of what you did for the city.”

“Even though it was so long ago.”

“A debt like that can never be ignored.”

“So they’ll remind all their friends.”

“And their family to get out there on election day.”

“And put their cross where it counts.”

“Or they’ll have to answer to us.”

Being talked at by the twins was like being deafened by birdsong. “Thank you both,” he said.

“So now we’ve done our duty.”

“And we’d like you to set us free.”

“Because there’s a super party at the Frandol family mansion tonight.”

“And we’ve found us a suitable escort.”

They both giggled and looked at their father pleadingly.

“Uh …” Edeard managed.

“Utrallis.”

“He’s gorgeous.”

“And tall.”

“And serves in the Pholas and Zelda regiment.”

“But he’s independently wealthy, too.”

“Not just some minor son.”

“A gentleman of honor.”

“Happy to serve his city.”

“All right.” Edeard held his hands up. “Go on, go away, the pair of you. Have fun.”

“Oh, we will.”

Another burst of giggling assaulted Edeard’s ears as they turned away. Each girl raised a gloved hand. Two fingers beckoned imperiously. Through the melee of guests Edeard saw a young man in his militia dress uniform, all polished buttons and perfectly tailored scarlet and blue jacket. Utrallis couldn’t possibly be older than the twins, though he held his broad shoulders square and had a strong jaw. Edeard regarded his nose charily, suspecting a distant Gilmorn heritage-he had a nasty flash memory of Ranalee and the helpless lad in her office. Their eyes met, and the young man produced such a panicked guilty look as his cheeks flushed crimson that Edeard couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Then Utrallis was suddenly caught between the twins and hauled off.

Jiska shook her head as she sighed. “And he looked so sweet. Poor thing. How is it they’re always so elated at the start of the evening, then when morning comes, this tragic broken husk creeps out of the ziggurat looking like he’s managed to escape from Honious itself?”

“The twins aren’t that bad,” Edeard said mildly.

“Daddy, you’ve got such a blind spot when it comes to them.”

He grinned roguishly. “Because I was so tough on you.”

Jiska raised her glass. “I’ll get around to Natran, don’t you worry. I suppose five years is long enough.”

“No pressure. From me. Besides, it’s only two months till Marakas goes before the Lady.”

She smiled with a kind of fond bewilderment. “I can’t believe he’s marrying that one. I mean … Heliana is nice, and shapely, but really, what else has she got? Are men genuinely that shallow?”

“Of course we are.”

“Poor Taralee.”

“Taralee will do fine; she’s destined for great things. One day she’s going to be grand mistress of the Doctors Guild.” He was still inordinately proud of his youngest, not yet twenty-two and already a Doctors Guild journeyman. She’d completely eschewed the dizzy party life the twins had chosen so she could devote herself to medicine.

“Let’s see,” Jiska mused. “After the election you’ll be Chief Constable. So now that Dylorn’s joined the militia, you just need me or one of the twins to become a Novice and work our way up to Pythia, and you’d be king of the city.”

Trying to visualize either of the twins in a novice’s robing was plain impossible. “Not the first time someone’s accused me of that ambition,” he said.

“Really? Why?”

He looked at his daughter, smart, elegant, courted by every eligible man in the city, completely carefree, and with such astonishing opportunities ahead of her. But above all, his greatest triumph was to make her safe, to give her that wonderful future. Yet she didn’t see that. The battles fought before her birth meant very little to her generation. It was a depressing thought how established he’d become, just to be taken for granted as one of Makkathran’s principal figures. No questions asked, no need to prove himself, not anymore.

“Long old story. Ask Macsen sometime.”

“Oh, Lady. I know he’s your oldest friend, but I really can’t take any more of those stories about the old days.”

“Good old days,” he corrected.

“If you say so, Daddy.”

It must have been something about Jiska’s skepticism or the appearance of the Skylord, but Edeard gave Macsen an unusually critical appraisal as he made his way over to his friend. The robes of office Macsen wore were fanciful, allowing thick fur-trimmed fabric to flow easily around him. It was a generous cut, perhaps designed to deflect attention from the equally generous belly Macsen had cultivated over the last couple of decades. His handsome face, too, was now a lot rounder. A fashionable short beard showed several gray strands.

“Edeard!” Macsen opened his arms wide and hugged him enthusiastically as if they’d been parted for years. Edeard gave him a slightly stiff response. After all, they had seen each other at least twice a week most weeks for the last forty years.

“Lady, this wine is dross,” Macsen complained, holding up his glass to the twilight seeping through the crescent windows.

“Stop whining; one of my potential voters donated it,” Edeard replied.

“In which case I’ll be honored to quaff a few more bottles for the fine chap.”

Lady, we even talk like the aristocrats these days. “Don’t bother. I don’t really care if I make Chief Constable. Face it, we’ve had our day.”

Macsen gave him a startled look. From the corner of his eye, Edeard saw Kanseen frown, but as always her mental shield allowed no knowledge of her feelings.

“Speak for yourself, country boy,” Macsen said; he was trying for a jovial tone but couldn’t quite reach it. “Anyway, from what I gather, you’re well ahead of our glorious current incumbent. Makkathran needs you to take a more prominent role.”

Edeard nearly said Why? but managed to hold his tongue. “I suppose so.”

Macsen draped his arm around Edeard’s shoulder and drew him aside with several insincere smiles directed at the group he’d been chatting with. “You want us to return to the old days? After everything you did?”

“No …” Edeard began wearily.

“Good, because I for one am not prepared to see everything we’ve achieved shit upon from a great height just because you’re menopausal.”

“I am not …” Okay, maybe he hasn’t changed that much. “All right, I’m a little sour myself right now, I admit that I went to see the Mayor three days ago to press for the livestock certificate expansion.”

“I heard. So he said no? You’ll be Chief Constable in under three weeks. You can apply some pressure in the Grand Council, push it through yourself.”

“I won’t do that though,” Edeard said forcefully. “Because Trahaval was right, wasn’t he? You must have seen it. We can’t extend the livestock certificates to sheep and pigs, for the Lady’s sake. It was an idiotic idea. Who wants that much paperwork? Don’t you remember the time we drew up the one hundred list? We didn’t see daylight for weeks on end, we were so busy with all those forms and reports and chits. A great bunch of extra certificates is simply pushing the job off on clerks. Our job! If rustling is to be stopped, it should be by constables enforcing the law. What was I thinking?”

“Ah. Yes. Definitely menopausal.”

“I was letting things slip. It’s complacency, and it was stupid of me. But not now, not anymore.”

“Oh, Lady, so now what? You want to go back out there with a couple of regiments? Take the city’s finest and haul the provincial militia along so you can catch sheep rustlers? Is that what it’s come to?”

“It hasn’t come to that. You don’t get it. We’ve been sailing along these last few years; we have no goals anymore. It was never just about winning, beating Owain and Buate; it was always about what happened afterward. Well, this is afterward and it matters to me. It matters a lot.”

“All right, then.” Macsen heaved out a big sigh. “I’ll kiss the mistress of Sampalok goodbye and ride out with you again. But you’ve got to admit it, we’re really getting too old and fat for this kind of thing. How about we just sit in the headquarters tent and leave the glory bits to your Dylorn, my Castio, and all the other youngsters?”

Edeard’s eyes automatically gazed down on Macsen’s belly. We’re not all so old and fat, thank you. In fact he was rather proud of himself for keeping his daily run going all this time. Today he could still climb the stairs in the ziggurat without getting out of breath. There were even running clubs in the city now, and the big autumn race from the City Gate across the Iguru to Kessal’s Farm and back was an annual event, with more people entering each year.

“No,” Edeard said. “That’s not the way to handle this. We have to change the way station captains and sheriffs operate. They need to gather more information, maybe put together some dedicated teams of constables who don’t just spend their days out on patrol.”

“More special Grand Council committees?”

“No, not like that. Just a group of officers, those with some experience and a little smarter than average, who’ll devote more of their time to investigating all the aspects of a crime, trying to build up a pattern. Like we used to do. You remember how I spied on Ivarl to find out what he was up to?”

“I remember what happened to you when you did.”

“All I’m saying is we need to get smarter, to adapt. Life is different now. It would be the worst kind of irony if we’re the ones who can’t keep up and benefit.”

Macsen gripped Edeard’s shoulder, smiling broadly. “You know what your real trouble is?”

“What?” Edeard asked, though he’d already guessed the answer.

“You’re a glory glutton.”

– -

It was the third night Edeard had lain awake in the big bedroom on the tenth floor of the Culverit ziggurat. He really should have been able to sleep. The room was perfect for him; he’d spent years altering it, expanding the arching windows that led out onto the hortus, changing the lights to circles that shone with a warm pink-white radiance, reducing the ceiling height, producing alcoves for which Kristabel had commissioned furniture that fit exactly, toning the walls to a subtle gray-blue so they matched the specially woven carpet. Even the spongy bed mattress had been adjusted until it achieved exactly the firmness both he and Kristabel wanted. They’d argued over her fondness for draping all the furniture in lace, compromising with a few tasteful frills. Even the curtains were a stylish pale russet, although they did have thick jade piping and tassels. The tassels had been one of the things he’d compromised on, but he really couldn’t blame them for his not being able to sleep.

Kristabel shifted beside him, pulling the silk sheets about. He held his breath until she was sleeping deeply again. There had been a time, not all that long ago, when he would have nuzzled up to her when she did that and they’d start caressing and kissing. There would be giggles and moaning, then sheets and blankets would be flung aside, and they’d work each other’s bodies to that wondrous physical pinnacle they knew exactly how to reach.

Gazing over at her in the dusky light that crept around the curtains, he wondered when all that had ended. Not that it had finished; they still made love several times a month. Whereas it used to be several times a night. Kristabel was still beautiful. She was not girlish anymore, which he didn’t want, anyway; her hair was starting to lighten, and there were a few lines around her eyes. But physically she was still very desirable. He could remember only too well all the cursing and misery after each child about how much weight she’d put on during the pregnancy and how she’d never look good again. Then there’d be the long fight to get back in shape, with fierce discipline over what she ate and then the kind of exercise that put his morning run to shame.

But she no longer wore the short lacy negligees he used to adore, and they showered separately and didn’t talk and shout each other down; nor did they laugh, not the way they used to. Developing dignity, he’d thought; at least that was what he told himself. The kind of dignity that comes with growing up and taking responsibilities seriously. And their ever-increasing burden of duties and how tired that always left them. Though it shouldn’t; all they had to do was delegate.

We’re just not the same people. That’s not a fault thing. Live with it. Even so, his traitor mind nearly sent his farsight creeping out to the House of Blue Petals. Ranalee would doubtless have that bewitched lad performing his strenuous best for her, corrupting him beyond salvation. Her love life had never ebbed.

No! It wasn’t fair to blame sex for everything. Attitudes, too, had hardened over the years. Edeard had always favored moving the city toward a full democracy, slowly reducing the power of the Upper Council and expanding the authority of the representatives. It would never be a swift transition; he fully expected that he wouldn’t live to see its conclusion. But as long as the process could be started, he would be content. However, with all the other changes and reforms within the city and the strengthening of bonds with the provinces, that seemed to have been delayed year after year. Kristabel hadn’t helped, not as he’d assumed she would. When she finally had taken her seat in the Upper Council as mistress of Haxpen, there had been too many other, more immediate, causes to support. As part of Finitan’s voting bloc she was expected to advance the Mayor’s new legislation and budgets and taxes. None of them had been focused on expanding general democracy.

He knew he shouldn’t confuse personality with politics. But it was hard not to blame her for being part of the Grand Family setup, which she bitterly resented.

Edeard hated himself for having such doubts about himself and Kristabel, doubts and questions that had only increased since the appearance of the Skylord. That was the real root of his sleepless nights. Since the afternoon when the Liliala Hall ceiling had cleared for him, he’d been striving to sense the Skylord’s thoughts, and he’d failed miserably.

Now the frustration was starting to cloud his thoughts, making him prickly and despondent. Worse, everyone close to him knew it, which annoyed him even more, especially as he couldn’t tell them the reason.

He let out a frustrated sigh and rolled cleanly off the bed without waking Kristabel. His third hand snatched up the clothes he wanted, and they drifted silently through the air behind him as he tiptoed out into the corridor. Once he was dressed, he pulled his black cloak about him and marched off to the central stairs. When he reached them, he threw a concealment around himself and simply vaulted over the banister rails to plummet the ten floors down to the ground. It was stupid, and exhilarating, and he hadn’t done anything like it for years.

Makkathran buoyed him up as he asked, controlling his fall. When he reached the floor, his boots landed with a gentle thud. He strode through the deserted cloisters of the ground floor to the ziggurat’s private mooring platform. It was long past midnight, which left very little traffic on the Great Major Canal. He waited for a minute as a gondola slipped into the High Pool, its lantern disappearing around the curving wall. Then, with the waterway clear, he reached out with his third hand and steadied the water. Another thing he hadn’t done in years.

Edeard ran straight across the canal. When he was halfway across, the farsight caught him. It was so inevitable, he was almost ready for it.

“I’ll find you one day,” he longtalked down the strand of perception that stretched across the city to Cobara. “You know I will.”

The farsight ended so fast, it was as if it had been broken. Edeard grinned to himself and reached a public mooring platform, where the wooden steps took him up to Eyrie.

The crooked towers stretched away ahead of him. Around the lower quarter of each one, slender streaks of orange light shone out of their dark wrinkled fascias, illuminating the deserted streets that wove between them. But the upper sections were jet black, cutting sharply across the nebula-swathed sky.

It was instinct that drew him there. The Lady’s scriptures spoke of how the ill and infirm and old used to wait atop the towers; then, as the Skylord flew above the city, their souls would ascend to be guided away from Querencia. He reached the tower close to the Lady’s grand church, where so many years ago conspirators from the families had thrown him off the top. It was one of the tallest in Eyrie, which would put him as close to the Skylord as anything in Makkathran. Pushing aside any reservations about the location and its resonances, he walked up the central staircase, spiraling around and around until he finally reached the top and stood on the broad circular platform that crowned the tower. Eight spikes stuck up from the edge, their twisted tips stretching a further forty feet above the platform itself.

The nostalgia he was feeling now wasn’t good. This was where Medath had waited after luring him up. This was where the other Grand Family conspirators had overpowered him and-He grimaced as he stared over at the section of the lip where he’d been shoved over. After so long, over forty years, he really shouldn’t have been bothered by it, yet the memory was disturbingly clear. So much so that he even searched with farsight to make perfectly sure no one else was around.

Stupid, Edeard scolded himself. He abruptly sat down cross-legged on the platform and tipped his head back to gaze up at the sky. Gicon’s Bracelet was visible above the spikes in the western hemisphere, the planets gleaming bright just off the border of the Ku nebula’s marvelous aquamarine glow. Even though he knew exactly where to look, the Skylord wasn’t yet visible to the naked eye. Instead Edeard called to it. All of his mind’s strength was focused into a single thought of welcome, one he visualized streaming out through space.

And eventually the Skylord answered.

Finitan had retired to one of the houses the Eggshaper Guild maintained in Tosella for its distinguished elderly members who’d retired from active duties. It was a big boxy structure with a swath of delicate magenta and verdure Plateresque-style decoration running around the outside of the third floor. There were no guards posted outside, only a ge-hound curled up beside the gate, which took one look at Edeard and yawned. Back when Edeard had arrived in the city, every large building had had some kind of sentry detail. Families and guilds had maintained almost as many guards as the city regiments. Now their numbers were dwindling, with old duties like the door sentry handed over to genistars once again.

Edeard walked through the open wooden gates into the central courtyard, where white and scarlet flowering gurkvine grew up the walls to the upper balconies and a fountain played cheerfully in the central pond. Several ge-chimps were tending the heavily scented flower beds, with another sweeping the gray-white flooring. He went up the broad central stairs to the third floor.

A young Novice was waiting at the top of the stairs, her blue and white robe immaculate. She bowed her head slightly. “Waterwalker.”

“How is he?”

“A better day, I think. The pain is not so great this morning. He is lucid.”

“He’s taking the potions, then?”

She smiled in regret “When he wants to or when the pain becomes too much.”

“Can I see him?”

“Of course.”

Finitan’s room had long slim windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. The walls and ceiling were white, and the floor was a polished red-brown flecked with emerald in the shape of minute leaves, as if they’d been fossilized in the city substance. It was furnished equally simply, with a desk and several deep chairs. The bed was large, half-recessed in a semicircular alcove. Finitan was sitting up in the center of it, his back resting on a pile of firm pillows.

“I’ll be outside,” the Novice said quietly, and closed the heavy carved door.

Edeard walked over to the bed, and his third hand lifted one of the chairs over. He sat down and studied his old friend. Finitan was quite thin now; the disease seemed to be consuming him from within. Even so, up until a few months ago he had weathered it well; now he was visibly frail. Blue veins stood proudly from pale skin, and what was left of his fine hair was a faded gray.

Edeard’s farsight examined the body, exposing the malignant growths around his lungs and thorax.

“Don’t be so bloody nosy,” Finitan wheezed.

“Sorry. I just …”

“Want to see if it’s retreating, if I’m getting better?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Finitan managed a weak smile. “Not a chance. The Lady is calling. To be honest, I’m always quite surprised these days when I still find myself waking up of a morning.”

“Don’t say that.”

“For the Lady’s sake, Edeard, accept I am dying. I did quite some time ago. Or are you going to start making politician’s talk about how I’ll be up and about soon? Cheer my spirits up?”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Thank the Lady. Those bloody Novices do. They think it helps, while what it really does is get me depressed. Can you imagine that? I’ve got a gaggle of twenty-year-old girls fussing over me, and all I want is for them to shut up and get out. What kind of an ending is that for a man?”

“Dignified?”

“Sod dignity. I know how I’d rather go. Wouldn’t that be something, eh? Scandalizing everyone at the finish.”

Edeard grinned, though he felt like crying. “That would indeed be something. Perhaps the doctor knows of some concoction that would give you a final burst of strength.”

“That’s better. Thank you for coming. I appreciate it. Especially now, when you should be out campaigning. How’s it going, by the way?”

“Well, Trahaval’s a certainty. I’m not sure about me; in private, my campaign people tell me there’s only a couple of percent in it. Yrance might be returned as Chief Constable.” He bit back on his irritation.

Finitan smiled broadly and rested his head back on the mound of pillows. “And that annoys you, doesn’t it? That’s the wonderful thing about you, Edeard; after all this time the one thing you of all people cannot do is shield your emotions properly. It’s amazing that that’s the only psychic ability you lack. So I can tell how it irks you that you, the Waterwalker, should have to struggle for votes after all you’ve done for the city.”

“It’s true. I didn’t expect quite such a struggle, yes.”

“Ha. You’re just angry because people have forgotten. Only forty years since the banishment, and you get taught in history class. That’s what you are to a whole generation, a boring afternoon stuck in school when they could be outside having fun.”

“Thank you for that.”

“Always does good to knock politicians down a peg or two.”

“I’m not a poli-”

Finitan chuckled, which turned to an alarming cough.

Edeard leaned forward in concern. “Are you all right?”

“No, I’m dying.”

“There’s a difference between facing up to your fate and just being plain morbid.”

Finitan waved him silent. A glass of water drifted through the air and finished by his lips. He took a sip. “Wonderful; my psychic powers remain intact. How ironic is that?”

“It’s not your brain that’s affected.”

“I hate the brew they give me to numb the pain. It tastes vile, and then I spend the day dozing. I don’t want to spend the day dozing, Edeard.”

“I know.”

“What’s the point in that? My soul will soon soar free. Why spend the time bedbound and humbled? I hate this existence. Lady forgive me, I want it to end.”

Edeard could feel his cheeks flush and knew Finitan would be scrutinizing his thoughts with expert ability.

“Ah,” the old man said in satisfaction, and closed his eyes. “So what truly brings you here?”

“A Skylord is coming.”

“Dear Lady!” Finitan twisted around abruptly and winced at the spike of pain the motion caused. “How do you know?”

“The city revealed it to me. Then last night I spoke to it.” He smiled warmly and gripped Finitan’s cold hand in his own. “It comes to see if any of us have reached fulfillment. It comes to guide our souls to the Heart.”

“Fulfillment?” There were tears spilling from Finitan’s eyes. “Do I look fulfilled? The Lady damn its arrogance. By what right does it judge us?”

“Finitan, dearest friend, you are fulfilled. Look at the life you have lived, look at what you have accomplished. I’m asking you, I’m begging; go to a tower in Eyrie. Accept its guidance to Odin’s Sea. Show Makkathran, show the world, that we have become worthy again. Let people have that ultimate hope once more. Show them your way is the right way.”

“A Skylord will never take my sorry soul anywhere other than Honious.”

“Stop that; it will. Trust me one last time. You read my emotions, but I can see your soul, and it is glorious.”

“Edeard …”

“If you go, if you are worthy of guidance, other Skylords will know; they will come to Querencia again. Our lives will be complete. Everything you and I have achieved together, all that it cost, all that pain we endured to wrest the city from the grip of darkness and decay, will have been worthwhile.”

For a long while Finitan said nothing. Finally, he sighed. “Honious take me, I’m dying anyway. Why not?”

“Thank you.” Edeard leaned over the bed and kissed the old man’s brow.

The decision seemed to have cheered Finitan up. He pulled his pale lips into a rueful pout. “Well, at least the election’s over. What does it feel like to be Chief Constable?”

“How do you see that? Have you got a timesense you’ve been hiding all these years?”

“You’re going to be the Waterwalker again. You’re going to be the one who calls the Skylord to Querencia. Then in front of the whole city you’ll hoist me up to the top of the tower so I can be guided to the Heart. You, Edeard. Just you. Who’s not going to vote for a savior like that?”

– -

Edeard announced the Skylord’s arrival that afternoon as he was making a campaign speech to Eggshaper Guild apprentices in Ysidro. There was silence in the hall at first, as if his words hadn’t quite made sense. Then came a swell of surprise and incredulity. Longtalk calls shot out to friends and family. Dozens of hands were raised, and questions shouted.

“It’s very simple,” the Waterwalker said. “The Skylords are flying to Querencia again. The first will be here in just over a week. It will guide Finitan through Odin’s Sea to the Heart.”

“How do you know?” several apprentices barked out simultaneously.

“Because I’ve been talking to it for the last few nights.”

“Why is Finitan going to be guided?”

“Because of all of us, he is the one who has reached fulfillment. The way he has lived his life is the example we must all follow. When the Skylord sees him, it will know the time has come for humans to be guided to the Heart once more.”

Makkathran’s true currency had always been gossip and rumor, a currency inflated during election time, when candidates sought to defame their rivals. So news of the Skylord traveled as such momentous news always did in Makkathran, as fast as sunlight. Within an hour everyone knew of the Waterwalker’s amazing claim.

The Astronomers Association promised they would find any Skylord approaching Querencia and immediately started quarreling among themselves about false observations. Mayor Trahaval carefully avoided direct comment or criticism. Chief Constable Yrance dismissed it as a ridiculous vote-grabbing stunt; however, his campaign team quickly spilled their ridicule around the city. A sign of the Waterwalker’s desperation, they claimed, a stunt, a lie. He’s past his prime. He’s delusional. A has-been. You need someone stable and practical, someone who produces actual results, a man like the existing Chief Constable.

Under Dinlay’s direction a flurry of counterclaims were passed from district to district. The Skylord is real. It is coming as the Lady prophesied. Finitan will be guided to the Heart because he has lived a life of fulfillment just as the Lady said we should. Who else but the Waterwalker could summon our final salvation? He is the one we need to lead us. Edeard will lead us to the future we have spent so long trying to achieve.

“You’d better be right about this,” Dinlay said as he and Edeard arrived at the Eggshaper Guild retirement house five days later.

“Have a little faith,” Edeard told his old friend in a wounded tone. Out of all of them, Dinlay had always been the most loyal. He was also the one Edeard considered had changed the least over the years. Dinlay had been captain of the Lillylight constable station for eight years now. That affluent district particularly welcomed his promotion; it was quite a catch having one of the Waterwalker’s original squad appointed to supervise the policing of their streets. Influence and status, to those residents in particular, meant everything.

Dinlay, of course, had fitted in perfectly (as Edeard had suspected he would). There were a lot of formal social events, which suited him. The station was organized efficiently. He was actively involved in the training of the new generation of constables, producing polite and effective squads. Prosecution lawyers achieved high success rates in court. Lillylight streets were safe to walk along at any time of the day or night. And Captain Dinlay was newly engaged to one of their own. Again.

Edeard led the way upstairs to Finitan’s room. The house’s chief doctor was waiting outside the door, flanked by two Novices.

“I’m not sure this is in the patient’s best interest,” the doctor said firmly.

“I think that’s for him to decide, isn’t it?” Edeard replied calmly. “That is his right at such a time as this.”

“This journey may finish him. Would you have that on your conscience, Waterwalker?”

“I will hold him steady, I promise. He will reach the tower in comfort.”

“And then what? Even if a Skylord were to come, he is still alive.”

“The Waterwalker has said a Skylord is coming,” Dinlay said heatedly. “Are you going to deny your own patient the chance to reach the Heart?”

“I can offer him certainty,” the doctor said. “Not promises based on myth.”

“This is not some election stunt,” Dinlay said, his anger growing now. “Not a politician’s promise. The Skylord will guide Master Finitan’s soul to the Heart.”

He really does believe in me, Edeard realized, feeling almost humbled by a trust that had lasted forty years. He wasn’t quite sure what to do about the stubborn doctor, who was only doing her job and securing what she believed was best for her patient.

“Doctor,” Finitan’s longtalk urged. “Please let my friends in.”

The doctor stepped aside with a great show of disapproval. Finitan was sitting up in bed, dressed in the robes of the Eggshaper Guild’s Grand Master.

“You look splendid,” Edeard said.

“Wish I felt it.” The old man coughed. He gave a frail, brave smile. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

“Of course.” Edeard folded his third hand gently around Finitan, ready to lift him off the bed.

“Master?” the doctor queried.

“It’s all right. This is what I want. I thank you and the Novices for a splendid job. You have made my life bearable again, but your obligation ends now. I would hope you respect that.” There was just a touch of the old master’s authority in the tone.

The doctor bowed uncomfortably. “I will accompany you to the tower myself.”

“Thank you,” Finitan said.

Edeard lifted Finitan carefully and maneuvered him through the door. The small procession made its way down the stairs to the courtyard.

Quite a crowd had gathered outside, eager and curious. They jostled for position on the narrow street, sweeping their farsight across the ailing master. Finitan raised a weak smile and waved.

“Where’s the Skylord?” someone shouted.

“Show us, then, Waterwalker. Where is it?”

“There’s nothing in the sky except clouds.”

Dinlay scowled. “Yrance’s people,” he muttered. “Have they no sense of decency?”

“It is an election,” an amused Finitan observed.

“After today they won’t matter,” Edeard replied.

There was a gondola waiting for them on Hidden Canal. Edeard eased Finitan down onto the long bench in the middle, and the doctor made him as comfortable as possible with cushions and blankets. The old man smiled contentedly as the gondolier pushed them off down the canal. Folfal trees lined both sides of the canal, their long branches curving high above the water. With the warm spring air gusting across the city, bright orange blossom buds were bursting out of the trees’ indigo-shaded bark, producing a beautiful show of vibrant color.

They were watched every inch of the way; some kids even ran along the side of the canal, dodging the trunks and pedestrians to keep up with the gondola. Several ge-eagles flapped lazily overhead.

The gondolier steered them down Hidden Canal and then over to Market Canal until they were level with the Lady’s church. Hundreds of people were waiting for them around the mooring platform, keen for either spectacle or failure.

The Pythia headed up the semiofficial reception group at the top of the wooden steps, with her entourage of six Mothers waiting passively behind. She was new to the position, anointed barely three years ago. She didn’t have quite the vivacity of the previous incumbent, nor did she immerse herself in Makkathran’s social events, but her devotion to the Lady was never in doubt. She had a zeal for the teachings that always made Edeard slightly uncomfortable around her.

“Waterwalker,” she said courteously. Her handsome face was impassive, as was her mind. Edeard walked up the steps while his third hand elevated Finitan behind him.

“Any sign of it?” Finitan asked.

Kanseen, who was standing just behind the Pythia, took his hand and squeezed gently. “Not yet,” she said sweetly.

“It won’t be long,” Edeard promised. But even he gave a nervous glance toward the Lyot Sea in the east. He’d longtalked to the Skylord the previous evening before the planet’s rotation had carried it out of sight. Several astronomers had claimed they’d seen it. That was countered by Yrance’s campaign staff as cronies trying to curry short-term favor with the Waterwalker.

Kristabel gave him an encouraging smile, but there was no way she could hide her concern from him. Macsen just rolled his eyes, his thoughts brimming with bravado and confidence that he hoped might infuse Edeard.

With Kanseen holding Finitan’s hand, the whole group walked over to the nearest tower. It was a drab gray in color, its crinkled surface beset with slim fissures whose sides were a dark red. Two angled gaps at the base led into the central cavelike chamber. A single thick pillar rose up from the center of the floor, with an opening to the narrow spiral stair that snaked up to the platform high above.

Even inside the thick walls, Edeard could feel a lot of farsight pressing against them as more and more city residents started to observe what was happening.

“I’ll take you up by myself,” Edeard said. He wasn’t entirely sure what happened around the top of a tower when the Skylord came to claim a human soul. The Lady’s book spoke of cold fire engulfing the bodies of those who’d been chosen for guidance. It didn’t sound good for the living.

Everyone looked to Kristabel, who simply shrugged. “If that’s what must be done,” she said reluctantly.

“May the Lady herself welcome you, Finitan,” the Pythia said. The other Mothers clasped their hands in prayer.

Edeard started to move Finitan toward the cramped entrance to the stairs. Macsen’s hand caught his elbow. “Don’t linger,” the master of Sampalok said quietly. “It was bad enough the last time you went up one of these towers alone.”

Edeard grinned at him and started up the stairs.

“Do you ever wonder what’s there?” Finitan asked. He was ahead of Edeard, his body tipped to almost forty-five degrees as Edeard’s telekinesis maneuvered him upward around the not-quite-symmetrical curves of the stair.

“In the Heart?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. It can’t be a physical existence, not some kind of a fresh start, a grand house by the sea with servants and fine wine and food.” We can do that here.

“Yes, I was thinking along those lines. So what exactly is it?”

“Well, you’ll know before me.”

Finitan laughed. “That’s my Edeard, ever the practical one.”

They were about a third of the way up. Edeard grimaced and concentrated on not dropping the old master. The stairs were badly claustrophobic.

“Philosophy was never my strong point,” Finitan went on. “I was more an organizer.”

“You were a visionary. That’s why we achieved so much.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure. But what does the Heart need with a human visionary?”

“Lady, but you’re getting morose for someone about to embark on the ultimate journey.”

“What if it isn’t?” Finitan whispered. “Edeard, I’m afraid.”

“I know. But consider this: Even if the Heart isn’t for you, it’s where an awful lot of your questions will be answered. Think who’s there waiting for you. Rah and the Lady for a start. The people who built Makkathran, whoever and whatever they are. The Captain on the ship which brought us all here, and he’ll be able to explain what made him come into the Void. Maybe even the Firstlifes; imagine what they can tell you. You might get to discover why the Void exists.”

“Ah, now there’s a thought. Or perhaps we’ve misunderstood, and the Heart is simply the gateway out.”

“Out?”

“To the universe outside. If we’re fulfilled, if we’ve proved we’re worthy enough, we get to go home.”

“I don’t believe there’s a good behavior requirement to go and live in the universe outside,” Edeard said flatly.

“You’re probably right,” Finitan said. He shuddered, as if gripped by a sudden chill.

Edeard could see the sweat slick on his friend’s brow. “Did you take the painkiller potion before we left?”

“Of course not,” Finitan snapped irritably. “You think I want to be dozing when my very own Skylord comes looking for me?”

Edeard said nothing.

“And you can wipe that smirk off your face.”

“Yes, master.”

They finally emerged out onto the platform. As always, a strong wind whistled across the shallow curving floor. Seven giant spikes rose up from the edges, angled steeply back over the platform, their jagged tips almost touching high above the stairwell entrance.

Edeard placed Finitan gently on the floor and squatted down beside him. “How are you doing?” he asked.

“For someone who’s dying? Not bad. Actually, I feel quite relieved. It’s not many who are given such clear knowledge about the exact moment of their death. Such knowledge is refreshing. It means I have nothing to worry about.”

Edeard’s fingers carefully brushed the loose strands of pale hair from the man’s damp forehead. Finitan’s skin felt unpleasantly cold, giving Edeard a fair indication of what his deteriorating body was going through.

The number of people farsighting them now that they were out of the stairwell and in the open was almost oppressive. Edeard could sense that the city had virtually come to a halt to focus its full attention on him and the tower. Everyone was waiting expectantly. Even Yrance’s agitators were silent now that the promised moment was approaching.

Edeard felt the unknown watcher’s farsight sweep across him, even pervading the tower structure around him, probing and questing. It was coming from Cobara district, as usual.

“Today is hardly secret,” he shot back.

The farsight ended.

“Who was that?” Finitan asked.

“I don’t know. But I expect I’ll be finding out before too long. You know Makkathran: always trouble brewing somewhere.”

“That was more than the usual trouble. They had an ability equal to yours.”

“Greater, I suspect.”

“Have you sensed them before?”

“I’ve had indications that there are people of my stature emerging, yes. But that doesn’t affect today.”

“Edeard-”

“No.” Edeard closed his finger around Finitan’s frail hand. “This is about you and the Skylord. You have to prove once and for all that what you did was right. After that, all our troubles will be minor. That is what I ask of you today.”

Finitan’s head fell back onto the cushion of his cloak hood. “Stubborn to the very end-well, my end. You know, that day you arrived in my office, I was worried you might just decide to be an apprentice in the Blue Tower for seven years. What a waste that would have been. What a loss to the world.”

“I always thought you were overemphasizing the bad points.”

“One of my smaller crimes. I’m sure the Lady will want to discuss it at length if I ever catch up with her, along with all the others.”

“You will. What a meeting that’s going to be.”

“Ha! I don’t think she …” Finitan trailed off, an expression of outright surprise manifesting on his face. “Oh, my. Edeard?”

Edeard turned to face the Lyot Sea. Right on the horizon a peculiar haze patch was rising above the water to expand across the sky. “It comes,” he said with simple happiness.

Finitan’s hand grasped his tightly. “Thank you, Edeard, for everything.”

“I owe you so much.” He could sense the startled longtalk starting down on the streets and canals below as those with the most powerful farsight became aware of what was approaching Makkathran. The gifted visions were spreading wide. Surprise and delight blossomed among the startled citizens.

“And I you,” Finitan said. “Now it’s time for you to leave me here so that I might start that final journey. Soon I will have answers. So soon, Edeard. Imagine that.”

“Yes.” Edeard stood and looked at the thick pillar that was the start of the stairwell, then glanced across to the edge of the platform.

“Go on.” Finitan chuckled. “Be the Waterwalker, today of all days. Beat that little oaf Yrance. But don’t stop there, you are greater than all of them; never forget that. And at the end, I’ll be waiting. We will have such a reunion in the Heart, Edeard. Even down here they will know our joy.”

“Goodbye.” Edeard smiled. There was so much more he wanted to say, but as always, there was no time. He turned and ran across the platform. When he reached the edge, he leaped off with a jubilant cry.

On the ground so far below, there was a horrified gasp as the faces of the crowd turned up to watch him. Laughing defiantly, he held his arms wide, allowing his black cloak to flap madly around him as he streaked downward.

That powerful farsight played over him as he fell. Then, a hundred feet from the ground, the city took hold of him and slowed his wild flight, lowering him softly onto the pavement at the foot of the tower. The crowd exclaimed in admiration. Several people applauded; more cheered.

He saw Macsen’s derisory sneer. Dinlay gave him a disapproving frown. But it was Kristabel whose face was pure anger. He shrugged an apology, which clearly wasn’t anywhere near good enough. She was still scowling as he walked over and put his arm around her.

“Daddy,” Marilee scolded.

“That was so bad.”

“Teach us how to do that.”

He winked at the twins. “The Skylord comes,” he said solemnly.

The crowd was excited now, chattering wildly as they all turned to the east. There was nothing to see at first; the towers of Eyrie blocked any view into the sky directly over the sea. Then the astonished residents of Myco and Neph gifted their sight to the rest of the city.

The Skylord had risen above the horizon. Now it was flying directly over the choppy sea. Edeard didn’t appreciate the size at first. From the city’s Port district it simply looked like a shiny white moon skimming over the waves, slowly getting bigger as it dipped down again. Its actual surface was hard to make out; it had the same shimmer as a pool of water rippling under a noonday sun, a bright distortion that could never stay still long enough to focus on. Then he realized the Skylord wasn’t losing altitude; it was simply getting closer. The curving underside was already at least a mile above the sea, which was impossible because that would make it miles across. Yet there it was. The shadow it cast turned the gray-blue water nearly black across a vast area. The fine white sails of ships that were eclipsed beneath it turned gray and billowed energetically as the turbulence it created roiled against them.

Finally the leading edge of that colossal circle slid across the city skyline. Like everyone else standing in Eyrie, Edeard felt awed and worshipful. Its size was beyond intimidating; it was utterly overwhelming and not a little frightening. It must have been almost half the size of the city itself. And it flew!

“Oh, great Lady,” he whispered as Kristabel and the twins clung to him. His arms went around them, offering nowhere near enough comfort. He wanted to scream to the city’s mind to protect them. Some wretched primitive aspect wanted him to flee, to cower before such majesty. Instead he laughed hysterically; to think, only minutes ago he and Finitan had been doubting the Skylords and the purpose of the Heart.

Around him people were flinging themselves to the ground, screaming in terror as they wrapped their arms over their heads. When Edeard glanced at the Pythia, he saw great tears of joy streaming down her cheeks as she held her arms upward in greeting. Her mind shone bright as she poured her welcoming thoughts up into the sky.

Dazzling slivers of pure sunlight shimmered across Makkathran’s rooftops and streets. Now that Edeard could see it directly, the Skylord seemed to be made of some crystalline substance, a million thin sheets of the stuff folded into bizarre twisting geometries that somehow never seemed to intersect as they should. Sunlight foamed through the core, bending and shifting erratically. He could never be sure if it was the light that fluctuated or if the crystalline sheets themselves were in constant motion. The Skylord’s composition defied logic as the creature itself defied gravity.

The umbra fell across Eyrie as the Skylord slid across Makkathran, a darkness alleviated by the perpetual flashes of brilliant prismatic light that radiated out of its undulating surface. With it came the thunder of its passage, the roar of a thousand lightning bolts blasting out simultaneously. Wind rushed down the streets, shaking the trees and mauling clothes and any loose items. A monsoon of flower petals surged into the dark scintillating air as they were ripped away from their trees and vines.

Then the Skylord’s thoughts became apparent, a great wash of lofty interest bathing every human. Calming and compassionate, a reflection of its size and magnanimity. Even those who’d feared its presence the most were put at ease. Its benevolence was beyond question, a benevolence almost humbling in its honesty. It was curious and hopeful that the new residents of Makkathran once again had reached fulfillment so that they might receive its guidance to the Heart.

“Look!” Marilee screamed above the howling atmosphere.

Edeard turned to where she was pointing. Every fissure in the tower’s wrinkled skin was alive with scarlet light, as if some kind of fire were sweeping through it, racing upward. Then he saw that the kinked spires on top were glowing violet-white, becoming brighter and brighter.

“Edeard,” Finitan’s longtalk called, firm and strong. “Oh, Edeard, it hears me, the Skylord hears me. It will take me! Edeard, I’m going to the Heart. Me!”

The top of the tower vanished inside an explosion of light. Icy flames of radiance flashed upward toward the Skylord. Edeard’s farsight saw Finitan’s body turn to ash and blow apart in the gale. But his soul stood fast. Edeard didn’t need any special farsight to perceive him now; his spectral form was there for everyone to see.

The old Eggshaper Guild Master laughed delightedly and raised his ethereal arms in farewell to the city and people he loved. Then he was soaring upward within the tower’s flames to be claimed by the dancing chaos of illumination surging through the Skylord.

“I thank you,” Edeard told the Skylord.

“Your kind are becoming fulfilled again,” the Skylord replied. “I am gladdened. We have waited so long for this time.”

“We will wait for you to come again.” Edeard smiled up at the stupendous iridescent creature swooping so nonchalantly above them all.

He wasn’t alone in calling to the Skylord.

“Take me!” they began to cry, hundreds upon hundreds of the elderly and the sick, raising their longtalk to plead.

“Take me.”

“Guide me to the Heart.”

“I am fulfilled.”

“I have lived a good life.”

“Take me.”

“My kindred will return to guide you to the Heart,” the Skylord promised them. “Be ready.”

When it was clear of the city, the Skylord began to climb back into the sky, rising higher and higher above the Iguru plain until it was ascending vertically above the Donsori Mountains. Edeard gathered his family around him so they could watch it go. He was sure it gathered speed as it gained altitude. Soon it was hard to follow, it was traveling so fast, growing smaller by the second.

“Oh, Daddy,” the twins cooed as they hugged him.

Edeard kissed both of them. He couldn’t remember being so relieved and excited before. “We’re saved,” he said. “Our souls will enter the Heart.” I won. I really did.

Far above, the Skylord raced onward to the nebulae, dwindling until it was a bright daytime star. Eventually, even that faded from view.

Edeard waved it farewell. “The world will know our joy when we meet again,” he whispered to Finitan. He let out a long breath and looked around him. So many people were still gazing up into the perfect azure sky, wistful and content. It was going to be a long time before Makkathran resumed its normal business.

“You were right,” Macsen said. “Waterwalker.”

Kristabel gave him a sharp look. “Why did you jump? That’s so dangerous.”

“Yrance won’t know what to do now,” Dinlay said with an edge of cruel satisfaction. “We can capitalize on that right away.”

Edeard started laughing.