A Diamond in Snow – Act 2

Scene

Light shimmered in the otherwise darkness. It was the seed of life … and the harbinger of stagnation.

In that first Day – when a Day was an epoch, not counted by the frenzied heartbeats of the creatures of matter – a star meant a Mind, a Name, a Warrior, a Lover and a Beloved.

But things change. Lovers drifted apart, distracted by the parochial dramas of their progeniture. Warriors, distraught in their isolation, forsook their arms. Minds turned inward, until seeking and growth became sleep.

Where Ohida had been one, she was now many. She was a legion of identical sisters, reshaped in the image of the first.

The expansion of Man had begun slowly, daunted by the vast desolation of space. They nibbled at the empty systems within the broken Boundary, establishing outposts, then trading colonies, where they found semi-hospitable planets. The advent of diatherine meant Man could step further faster, but they recoiled defensively at the discovery that all the good worlds outside his neighborhood were already taken.

The wars had been defensive at first – until Man had their taste of victory. The supremals, who had pushed Man back to Ohida, experienced the same in turn at each of their worlds. Man swelled with a sense of confidence, and Ohidaspace swelled as the grandchildren of colonists became colonists anew, and outposts became metrogi for entire systems. Man found homeplanets in plenty, though some were already inhabited. What worlds were inhospitable they made hospitable. What worlds welcomed them they reformed to their liking. Species bought Man’s technology so they could flee from them.

Scene

Light shimmered in the otherwise darkness. It marked the coming of Man.

The station constructed above her atmosphere had at first been an irritant to Chandier, like a course grain of sand trapped inside the fleshy folds of an oyster. Its construction disturbed her dreams – gloriously melancholy dreams of lost heritages and shattered aspirations.

But her fitful sleep was soon to be soothed, the chafing balmed, by the coming of life to the station. Even in slumber, Chandier’s gaia reached out to the station, enfolded it, welcomed the creatures as her own adopted children. When they descended to her surface, she sighed with pleasure and caused their settlement to blossom. What they planted, she loved and nourished – even the parasites. Her song shifted to a major key, and she imagined a new verse, filled with renewal and hope.

First came their machines, of course – remotes spit out of arcing diatherine ramps into gravity wells carefully chosen from previous planetary encounters. Chandier’s probe was of the grandchild generation; it arrived equipped with multiple-independent entry vehicles which scoured her surface, shot off into the sun, or wandered off to explore other points of interest, as they saw fit. When the sub-probes began to confirm each other’s stories, the beacon side of a unidirectional jump-gate appeared in fixed orbit. Pieces of the station followed. At last, more than a month later, Man appeared in their ship.

Now, forty-seven standard years later, Man was leaving. Empty ships – little more than a spine, drive, and command bridge – arrived daily and left bloated with disc modules. Most appeared and left through the diatherine halo, which rotated as the planet and station revolved to remain aligned with its counterpart at Blackbie’s relay station. Some ships angled in other directions and flashed off to other destinations. One very large ship, a russet-tinted wing shape, remained moored above the station’s polar mast.

Some day, some month, some year in the future, all of the ships would be gone. But the fixed orbit station would stay, as Chandier’s first permanent resident. The last round of transports would leave it with the supplies it needed for its retirement mission.

Advertised by most colonizing companies as an endowment upon the future generations of Man (though it was widely known to be a stipulation of most plundering contracts, encouraged through discounts established in the Principle Corporations Agreement), the re-habitating of the planet had begun when the mining colony was first established. Forests for hundreds of kilometers around city were thickened with native-friendly species. Ground cover – mostly lichen and moss – crept out for tens of kilometers.

As the station’s orbit was degraded, it would see more of the planet, and it would leave spores and seeds littered throughout the high atmosphere, to descend and find purchase where they would. Chrysalized insects would follow. In less than a hundred years, homesteaders would find a world ready for crops and livestock. It could be sooner, with the right budget.

Scene

Light shimmered in the otherwise darkness. It was set for a frequency pleasing to the lush carpet and walls – a faint green that augmented the nutrient drip.

Cormick’s disc (he owned the whole flat) was divided into four main rooms: the kitchen, the prime room, the bed room, and the water room. With the exception of the water room, which of course was tiled, the walls and carpet of each room were patterned with a rugged grass and blue-green moss. Cultured grey vines gave definition to the curves and swirls that Cormick had spent a decade paying disckeepers to maintain. It was no display-model space, but it was passable but current trends, and comfortable for guests. Only the bed and the chief chair of the prime room were grown into the floor, but Cormick’s military life had meant frequent moves, and he had to settle for mostly boltables. That was common enough on these non-colony planets, though.

A chime sounded from the front door, and the ambient temperature in the room dropped by several degrees. At the same time, the ceiling panel began to glow a brighter pale yellow. It was believable as the filtered light of Chandier’s sun, if you forgot that it was black night outside, and there was another disc above Cormick’s.

The door slid open, and the tail end of a joke and laughter made the first entry, followed by Cormick, who was nearly succeeding in giving Gaia a ride on his back – nearly because her extra inches and weight meant she had to give auxiliary boost with her toes to keep him upright and moving in a forward direction. Cormick was a little unsteady in any case, as he had turned off his alcohol inhibitor after beginning to dance with Gaia – it was the polite thing to do in mixed company. So now he enjoyed his buzz as he towed his new roommate into his disc.

As the door slid shut behind them and clicked to a lock, Gaia muttered something further into his ear, and they both began laughing again. Gaia slipped from his back and palmed the button on the door. It beeped but did not open. She glanced back at Cormick with furrowed brows. “Security?”

He nodded, then returned to the door to press a series of buttons in the pad left of it. “Don’t worry – you’re no prisoner, and I’m no guard. Say your word after the light blinks.”

Gaia waited, then leaned into the pad to intone, “Mischief.”

The door light blinked. Cormick grinned. “Is that what you have planned? Or do you plan on being so bored that the word would never cross your tongue?” Gaia only winked, so he waved her to the door. “Confirm?”

“No…. Let’s leave it closed for now. I wouldn’t want the neighbors to see what might cross my tongue.” Then Gaia’s lips were covering Cormick’s, and she backed him against the door. Her kiss was curious at first, testing his response, tasting for chemistry, before it became more aggressive and probing. She leaned into him, over him until he was holding her weight, while her gloved fingers tipped off his hat and played over the bald back of his head (politely careful to avoid his contact disks). His fingers, in turn, were politely careful to roam her body in all of the places required to demonstrate his level of interest. She squirmed in response.

At last she broke off for a gasping breath. “I thought I could hold my breath for a long time. But I see I’m not winning any contests here.”

Cormick’s grin returned briefly. “Not in that category, anyway.”

“Well, that’s certainly a talent with a few uses. But, I need to freshen first. Is your waterroom … May I use it?”

Cormick motioned to the arched doorway at the back of the room. “Through there, and straight. Left is the bedroom, right the closet. You’re welcome to whatever you want.”

“Right. Thanks!” Gaia tapped his nose, then sashayed toward the doorway, looking back to make certain Cormick was watching her throw her hips.

Cormick frowned at himself. He was certain she’d had as much to drink as he had, but she wasn’t showing it. Maybe he should reactivate the inhibitor – or make sure she caught up. He crossed to the kitchen, stopping by a framed control panel on the wall to drop the ceiling to the twilight with clouds and set a background song to recall the pollinating insects. This wasn’t a night he wanted to find the bugs basking on his pillows.

He had returned to the prime room and was leaning against a pillar vine, equally-strong heavy tea in each hand, by the time the door from the waterroom flished and Gaia emerged. She smiled cleverly as they both came forward to meet in the middle of the room, but she did not take the cup Cormick offered – she took both and dropped them to the floor, where they were quickly trampled to pieces, the tea soaked into the grass, as she caught him in a hurried swarm of kisses. They stumbled their way to Cormick’s chief chair, first by his direction, then by her hurried insistance.

He had barely landed in the chair before she was atop him straddling, him, urging him to warm her to the activities ahead. He slowed down for a moment for a chemical assessment. He had one hand beneath her and the other beneath her breast – she lurched in slow-motion against those and tongued his earlobe while he let seconds tick by like minutes and set his body to kill the alcohol and inhibit the smooth muscle relaxants – for now. He had a task ahead – the most pleasant chore – that every cross male with even moderate experience had practiced, but the military had given him …advantages. His loins relaxed, his head cleared, and he let himself return to her time stream for now. They wrestled in small, cooperative moves in the chair, and soon she was moaning and telling him to release the maglock between her spread legs.

Cormick used his fingers for her first orgasm – that was only polite for sexual conversation. A uni-orgasmic male was expected to give even a femme a pair of orgasms before allowing his own, but Gaia was no femme, and females on an 80/20 mining colony had taught him the need to be generous. Unless she was in a hurry (and she didn’t seem to be), it would be presumptous to ask for anything timed before her fourth. Of course, if she offered…

She was whispering in his ear, panting while she waited for her blood to return to normal circulation so they could begin again. She was telling him what she wanted, which was normal for a female, but it didn’t leave him much room to impress her with surprise. She intended to find out which could hold longer, his breath, or her. At least he might still surprise her there.

Then she was pushing down on his shoulders, slumping him in the chair as she knelt on the arms and slipped forward to catch his head between her thighs. “Just one breath,” she said. “No cheating.”

Once she had taken over, and he was simply providing friction and a pair of hands for support and the occasional squeeze, Cormick moved himself to double time. They were only seven minutes and some change in before she began to shudder and her chest heaved. He was good for twice the breath, and he thought about wasting the lung space to tell her so when she jerked with one last pang and they heard a crack.

Immediately she pushed back so she could look at his face. “That wasn’t you, was it?”

Cormick shook his head and wiped his eyes and nose dry. “No. I think it was the chair, though.”

Gaia sprung to her feet and bent over to inspect the legs of the chair where they rooted into the floor. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“No, don’t worry about it. It couldn’t be too bad. I’m sure it will heal.”

Gaia was crouched beside the chair now. “Oh, I can feel the crack in the root! The poor chair! I feel bad. Will they charge you extra to heal it? I’ll pay!”

“Don’t worry over it, Gaia. This disc is going into storage when we leave, anyway; the chair will have plenty of time. But maybe for tonight we should move to the bed – especially if you have another one of those in you.”

Gaia’s teeth flashed as she straightened and offered a hand to help him stand. Strangely, he needed it – his legs were wobbly, and his vision slightly blurred. He double-checked his chemical settings; he was processing the alcohol out-of-cell and it was nearly gone. But he felt more drunk than before.

“Woah! Not so quick, bucko!” Gaia caught him before he stumbled to the side. “I’m not done with you yet!” But by the time they made it to the arched doorway, he was slumped against her shoulder and the world was turning the shiny dark color of her Skin.

Scene

Outside, it had begun to snow. It was a light snow, a gently drifting veil of white, but it was enough to bring a shiver out of Fly that started in her shoulders and worked all the way down her back. Of course, Fly wasn’t actually cold in the comfort of her Skin, but the thought of the freeze chilled her. Fly shouldered up against Lorry again and cupped a hand over the screen of the tablette. She grinned, baring her fangs, and muttered into Lorry’s ear, “Naughty minx, she couldn’t even be bothered to take off her belt. It’s making me seasick…” That earned her a hushing chuckle and a shoulder bump.

The Brutes suddenly ducked back under the low eave and disappeared into a deep shadow.

After a moment, the swush-swush of wheels in the snow heralded the nearly-empty autobus, which turned a corner and disappeared.

This time, only Lorry’s gloved hand re-emerged to point a barrel lens up at the disc where Gaia was.

The Brutes huddled around the tablette. Lorry had the display divided into two panes – on the right was the tunneling heatprint picked up by Lorry’s Camera. It was smart enought to stay centered on Gaia, as long as Lorry’s aim was reasonable. Occassionally a black arc cut off the edge of the pane, until Lorry re-pointed. On the left was a top-down shadow of the room and shapes centered around Gaia, as determined by the hummer in her hip-purse. That was the pane Fly couldn’t focus on – Gaia’s gyrations were throwing the whole screen around in circles. The shadow that was the man to which she had attached herself was doing its best to keep up.

“Do you think she’s going to leave any left for us?” Fly looked up at the blank reflective screens of the man’s windows and frowned. “Don’t forget – she’s eating for two now.”

“Shhh!” Lorry started up from the tablette. “Oooh!” A beaming smile spread across her face. “Her Darling’s not a virgin any more!”

Fly exaggerated an eye-roll. “I hardly think…”

“Shhh! Look – she’s ready!” Lorry pointed up to the man’s window, where the vague shadow of Gaia was flashing an IR beacon.

Scene

Gaya leaned against the doorway as she left Cormick’s room. The door slid shut behind her. She had muted the audio transmit into his room on the way out, so she shouldn’t bother him now. She licked her teeth – the salty flat taste of the intoxicant clung to them and gave them a dirty feel. She headed toward his kitchen for drink, but the door chime rang.

The eye-level camera showed two pairs of ‘Skinned breasts, so she voiced, “Mischief,” and the door slid open.

Lorry and Fly pushed past her into the room and began their survey. While Lorry checked the doors and windows and Fly mirror-taped the eyes that showed on the powerflow view of her PDA, Gaya palmed the door shut again, made sure it had locked, and made her way to the kitchen. She found the drawer with the cups and began to fill it with the water stiller.

Fly frowned at a corner where the ceiling joined an arch doorway. “An awful lot of eyes in here…”

“Oh, Gaya!” Lorry’s voice, filled with dismay, called out from the far side of the room, where she stood over a framed plaque hanging on the wall. “Gaya, he’s military-justice!”

Fly fingered the last bit of tape in place and shouldered Lorry out of the way. She hunched over and squinted at the plaque. “Another good decision from your Darling, eh?”

Gaya sucked the last drop of water from the cup and ran her tongue over her teeth again. They felt smoother now, not so hairy. “Actually, he and his boys are ex-mil-justice, as of today. It’s perfect for us, really – they’re legally armed, but not reporting in. Since they’re fresh, they probably still have some swing and access, but since they’re green privateers, they’ll spend their capital on their customers, of which we’re the first. I think it would have been an excellent decision on her part, but the fact is, I made it.”

“And how do you plan on handling him, hunh? Everyone knows the military augments their lifers. He’s probably already metabolized your Goodnight Kiss. Mother knows he’s reported us and is locked in the room, waiting for backup.”

Gaya refilled the cup, gathered up a handful of rags from the hooks on the walls, and called up a table from the floor. Good – it had extra panels. “This isn’t my first job, Fly. The Kiss was ethanol-based, and he’d deactivated his inhibitors, or he’s a better actor than me. If anything, he’ll be hard to wake up in the morning. And unless he does turn us, we can hide in his little bubble of police immunity. This is the safest place we can be for the night. Now calm down and come over here, both of you. I need your hands to be steady.”

Gaya reached over her shoulder at found the ‘Skin tag at the base of neck, then thumbed the magstripe open. She tugged at now-loose folds over her hips, exposing the semi-implant on her spine. “Do you have the tools?”

Once Gaya was prone on the table, the Brutes hunched over her with micro-probes and solder kits, she began to relax. She had been relaying what her Darling dictated, until the little dear had sorted out how to tap past her medulla, and asked to speak for her. That was a strange feeling.

<Actually, Duckie, that’s a hardware feature. I just figured out how to do it without killing you.>

Thanks, Darling – that’s a comfort.

<Shhh. Let me concentrate.>

Gaya’s wrist display rested on the back of her neck, where Darling could show the Brutes her diagrams, and for their first time, her own beautiful face. Darling had grokked the logic of her circuitry, but not the physical layout, so now Fly poked ever so gingerly with the micro-probe to locate the sub-routine Darling knew was there, but couldn’t feel. Darling wanted them to be especially certain before they burned, and now Gaya began to suspect that it wasn’t just for the implant’s safety.

<Shhh! Steady that heartbeat. That we’re in this together is a comfort to me.>

Scene

Elsewhere in the galaxy, a Tradewinds Mark 17 spacecraft nuzzled up to the docking arms of an auxilliary quay on a large artificial station.

(One is stuck saying “elsewhere”, of course, because bearing and rotation – necessary for the exact alignment of diatherine halos – were the only crucial metrics; distance and direction on any scale larger than a gravity well was long-since irrelevant. In any case, it was too entropic – not only was there the tricky problem of stars and planets and other navigation points being frustratingly mobile – what is 73 million light years away this year might be 73.1 or 72.9 next year, and as much as seconds of a degree in another direction – but a diatherine-strung transport or missive cost only based on the mass or data of transfer, not distance. Locations were a matter of trivia.)

This particular elsewhere could have as easily been the next starsystem over from Chandier (it wasn’t) or orbit around Ohida-Home (it wasn’t). It was a lazy orbit around a gentle star in the hollow of the Holy Chalice Nebula – a real spot of beauty, with all of the purples and blues in the clouds playing through the peachy-pink. Nearly any direction you looked held a perpetual sherbet twilight. The hollow of the Holy Chalice was closing – another 75 hundred thousand years, and the station would be bathed in corrosive gases and re-ionizing storms, but that was only if the roguish star cluster monkey-swinging its way through the gravity wells of the galaxy didn’t sweep through first. The maths were hazy, mostly because they wouldn’t matter for a few thousands of reincarnations..

The Tradewinds craft fit in nicely with the rest of the station, with the wet-moored cruisers floating in the distance, with the dozens of flicks flitting from quay to dock to receptacle, with the other 26 ships nursing power from the quay. She was a glossy, official“blue nearly unto black”, and above her moniker (The Otter) and her registration codes was the white Blackbie Centralized Communications logo.

Susan Young, former Mayor of the Chandier mining colony, stood at the forward window of the flick as it drifted toward a bay in the inner stack of the station. The Aristocratic stack. Her jaw was set firmly, and her eyes didn’t waver. Betty-doll stood behind her, a treat for the eyes as always, and a confidence booster. Betty was quite the trophy, and doggedly monogynous.

Susan curled her toes in the footloops against the bump of the flick settling into its bay, and stiffened her knees. Silly Betty wasn’t as prepared and nudged her from behind, but only just so, and her hand lingered at the small of Susan’s back for just a moment, right in the spot that usually made her squirm.

Susan smiled on the inside. Silly, precious Betty.

Now that they were turning with the stack and had about a half-grav, Susan unhooked her feet and waited while the operator locked the flick into place. The forward window slid up, and waiting beyond it was a uniformed aide. Before she had a chance to speak, Susan stepped forwared and thrust a sheath of keyed storage at her. “I have important news for the Blackbie Council. This must be brought to them right away.” The aide bowed and hurried back down the hall.

 

Less than an hour later, Susan sat alone in a private meeting room, dwarfed in a chair whose crest rose above her shoulders and head. Without Betty by her side, she felt surprisingly vulnerable. But, it had been made clear to them that even while Betty-doll was her immediate aide, she was not approved for this meeting. She was in the waiting room beyond the door behind her.

The air in the room was cool and crisp, with an ambient smell of wet autumn leaves. The walls to either side of her were a lustrous dark wood, unevenly cut to maintain a naturalistic shape, but polished to enhance their grain. The wall ahead of her and the floor were transparent and sound-porous, providing a clear view and sound of a wide stream of clear water that trickled down a wall of stone and stunted red maples, then flowed away beneath her over river-smoothed stones. A pipe piercing the floor ran up through the center of the table, where the spring water gurgled out into double-walled granite bowl. The overflow spilled into the outer wall of the bowl and dribbled back down to the stream below.

Susan leaned over the table and dipped one of the waiting cups into the bowl. The water was cold, and laced with minerals. She licked her teeth, and sat back down.

There was a hiss, and a panel in one of the wooden walls slide open. Susan sighed and stood again, folding her hands behind her back as she waited for her hosts.

In filed a half-dozen dark-suited women; check – one was a man. Their faces were masks of solemnity, but also of shared family traits. All had very pale, freckled skin, and black, almost blue-black hair.

Trailing behind them was a very tall, slender woman. She wore a floor-length, velvety gown of deep crimson, crafted of tightly-woven bands that slipped just enough at each step to hint at the pink-white flesh beneath. Her face was the sum of all the others – the best features of her clan gathered into one culmination of genetic arête. Her hair cascaded in waves down her back, interspersed with braided platinum filaments. The fingers of her gloves were drawn out, not into claws, but points more than twenty centimeters long which indicated that she never performed physical labor, not while others would see. She was company aristocracy. The woman glanced in her direction.

Susan stifled a gasp, and quickly dropped into a bow, pressing her head to the table.

The panel shut behind the aristocrat of its own accord.

Susan had only once seen her before, in a meeting of thousands when she received her franchise of Chandier. Of course, she’d seen her in the holos and displays, but everyone knew those were simulacra. This woman, perhaps even a femme by the way she held herself, was more beautiful even than her handlers portrayed her. Her eyes, which Susan had glimpsed only that one moment, were the most piercing shade of green.

Susan remained pressed to the table until the others had arranged themselves across from her and settled into their seats. A Director to her left bid her sit, and smiled politely, so she smiled back and settled into her seat.

The seven pale faces stared patiently, waiting on her.

“It is a complement and a privilege, Lady Blackbie…” Her surprise as the unexpected audience was nearly equaled by her surprise at her own composure. The mere presence of the corparch made her flutter.

“I’m delighted to bring such pleasure to my loyal adherents, Marm Young.” The woman’s small mouth barely moved, and it didn’t seem as though breath passed had passed through her red lips, yet her voice resonated throughout the chamber. “But please – your thoughts on the information you delivered are of great interest to me. Please do illuminate us.”

Susan nodded quickly and drew a breath. “May I assume, under the hasty conditions of this meeting, that your Officiencies are familiar with the report I presented upon arrival.

Several heads nodded almost imperceptibly, but one of the officers replied in contralto, “Please summarize it for my benefit.”

“In short, then: The Turnbell Red Weapons Group has procured our Chandier mining operation with a combination of attempted bribes and a 373-0 writ.”

Another voice, high without being shrill, broke in: “Chandier. Isn’t that… What’s the account number?”

Susan replied by rote. “E348-3, Officiency.”

Several sharp breaths were drawn in around the room. Lady Blackbie was one of the few to appear unperturbed, but she was the one Susan thought least likely to be unaware of her planet’s significance. That order has been sealed with her private cryptil.

Susan continued. “I vetted the 373-0 against the item number Turnbell claims to have lost, and it’s a match in the Principle Companies’ records. The item description and the 373-0 were sealed immediately after approval.”

“That’s not uncommon.” It was the contralto again.

“No, Officiency. But the date it was submitted is significant – the 208^th of last year. You will recall that this is only a few days after our Patroness Blackbie’s directive regarding the Chandier operation?” Susan watch the sudden activity of fingers on the table as most of the dark-suited council queried for the directive on their polarized table-screens.

The contralto gasped. “This is Chandier?”

Susan waited while the council skimmed through the directive. She already knew what it said; her study had been quite thorough over the last year. She’d memorized the cover page – not because it had been crucial to the directive, but because it came from the private hand of the Lady. She had written it with a flowing aristocratic calligraphy and left it un-rescribed. Calligraphy was still an aristocratic grace, and to have a physical copy was a mark of social esteem. It had been a great disappointment that Susan couldn’t display it. It had read,

My dear child, Susan Young –

Your continued devotion to the Blackbie family is a merit. I am aware of your personal and corporate accomplishments, and value you as my personal client. As you well know, I express my gratitude with enthusiastic sponsorship.

Your assessment of the Northridge 165-Mark-Rio claim is superb. I have determined that this stake will be managed outside the scope of the Planning Office. The revised directive is attached.

You will see that I have great intentions for your usage.

Your Gratified Patroness, Allen Rhiarr Blackbie

The reply hadn’t surprised Susan at the time; she’d half-fantasized that Lady Blackbie herself would come to the planet. The claim had been that good.

Actually, the claim had been amazing. Seventeen cubic decimeters of diatherine – almost 40 times the Chandier colony’s yield. And it wasn’t a couple thousand micro-mole crystacules, like the typical find. No – this was trillions, quadrillions, even – of pico- and femto-mole crystacules. Possibily even a couple million atto’s mixed into the slurry. There was no other way to read the data, or to explain how a field this size could have been missed by the earlier probes. The importance of a find like this couldn’t be exaggerated.

Few Blackbie clients outside of the media broadcasters paid for the size of a crystacule, or cared how many times it could be split, after a couple hundred. They wanted secure channels, which each crystacule represented exactly one, no matter how many times it was split, or how each subchannel was encrypted. Encryption was only a speedbump, even to unmotivated tappers.

So this new field – even if at a minimum yield of two trillion crystacules, even if only 10% could be successfully recovered, would yield 100 million times the number of lines as had the colony.

Of course, there were complications. The first was that the Remote Sensing Unit that had made the find had not done so while on a routine scouting path – it had been dragged down to the field, fighting and pleading for help by radio the whole way. The Squishies had gotten it, and had taken it back to their cave system to be scavenged for parts. This field was the last thing the RSU reported before the Squishies cannibalized it. Whether they knew it or not, the Squishies were sitting upon wealth far more than they could imagine.

One technician had theorized that the report was false but intentional – that it was a self preservation technique by the RSU. But everyone knew that couldn’t be the case – falsification of data sounded too much like independent intelligence, and it was a truism that machines couldn’t develop intelligence at a complexity as low as the RSU’s had. Even quat-state machines were reliable up to 100 billion processors; probably more if that experiement in Regal Nine had been a false positive, which most reasonable people accepted to be the case.

Intentional or fluke, it had to be confirmed. Susan had directed another RSU into Squishie territory, to see if the report was duplicated. Unfortunately, this one was shut down in the field, and there was no confirmation or disproval. That was the second of 32 tests. 4 RSU’s made it down into the Squishie hive, and 4 RSU’s reported the same incredible find in their last few seconds of transmission. And they reported their location (and thus the location of the Squishies) in full stereo holo.

It was going to be 33 tests – the last RSU was rigged up special, with a redundant power supply, radio, and sensor buried deep in the unit, hopefully to give them an even more accurate picture of the field, but that one had been “rescued” by a bungled quadry. Damn them! Oh, she had been very sure to remind the Sub-Mayor that the military were fully his responsiblity, and he would bear the repurcussions.

“You are quite certain about what you are suggesting?”

Susan’s eyes narrowed as she chose the words in her response carefully. She could not stretch her neck too far, but nor could she knock the foundation out of her allegations. “I’m quite certain of the details, and I have noted the pattern they fit into, but without access to Blackbie’s agents within Turnbell Red, I cannot do more than suppose, Officiency.”

The councilwoman stared at her blankly, giving no sign of her reaction.

“I find it extraordinarily peculiar that Turnbell Red would present a 373-0 and a bribe. I find it peculiar that the dates of Turnbell’s item so closely match the dates of our project.”

The contralto interjected, “And I find it peculiar that Turnbell Red would have laid this plan so long ago, and waited to enact it until the diatherine was mined out and we were half-way into retreat. They could have waited two more weeks and had the planet for free.”

Susan glanced around the table, at each of the faces. Had they forgotten? Or did they really not know? “But…”

Lady Blackbie raised a long-fingered hand. “Thank you.” Her soft voice came from just behind Susan’s ear, though she still sat across from her. “Sister Ghertrude, I require you to reread the directive before speaking again.” Her piercing gaze turned on Susan. “I thank you for bringing this to our attention, Marm Young. I shall tell you that I have ordered reports from our agents on this matter, but they will not be delivered before action is taken on this matter. We shall move very quickly to protect Blackbie interests. It is likely that the secrecy required to complete the directive will have been lost, but we will still be able to minimize losses and realize our claim.”

A green light appeared in the table, indicating that the communications in the room were no longer secured – a channel was open to an outside source. “Chief Yolan – ready fleet 2, including my ship. Prepare for assault mode. Will you be ready in 12 hours?”

“No more than that, Lady.”

“Good.” Lady Blackbie turned back to Susan. “Do you wish to return with me to your post, Marm Young?”

“I will, of course, do as you wish, but allow me to suggest that if we can retain some surprise over Turnbell Red, it would be in our interest? I thought I may actually cash this bribe – it is no obligation to Blackbie, but it will appear to Turnbell as if I have kept their secret. Especially if I do it, on, say, in an extended vacation on New Hope.”

A very slight smile played on the corparch’s lips. “I see you have already considered your own reward for your service, Marm Young.”

Susan smiled in return.

“Very well, Marm. Lose yourself in New Hope, but be certain Turnbell would be able to see you doing it. Be somewhat indiscrete in your discretion. We will run the military phase through my fingers and your Sub-Mayor – that male, was it not? I shall be most disappointed if you will not return to my service in time to lead Chandier, but you are not indentured, Susan.”

One corparch raises her voice. “If we go in under assault pattern, we are opening hostilities. What if the agents do not bear us out, and Turnbell doesn’t know of the claim. If they do have some new weapon lost on Chandier?”

“Then we will find out what is so valuable they would buy a planet for it.”

Scene

<Wake up, Duckie.>

Gaya glanced around her mediation font for the source of the voice. “Who’s there?” She stood in the bowl and turned. Water dripped from her skirts and splashed around her ankles.

<Come on back…>

The shadows of the meditation font dissolved to show the bright flat surface of Cormicks table. Gaya’s own naked arm was just beneath her view. She had a moment of disorientation, followed by panic when she realized she couldn’t move, not even to control the direction of her own eyes. She couldn’t feel anything.

Darling!

<Oh, my! Sorry, Dear! Just one moment.> Gaya felt her own jaw move as Darling’s voicecame out of it. Tingles played over her shoulder, and then… then came the sharp pain in her lower back. “<I’m bringing Gaya back to the front, girls. Don’t go to far, though; we’ll be back in it in just a moment.>”

“You’re not done yet?” Gaya had her own voice back again.

<One more set of circuits.>

“Almost.” Lorry was massaging Fly’s palms and wrists. “Just need a quick break.”

“Aghh.. I’m so stiff. I’ve got to shift positions.”

Fly arched a brow. “Be careful. Small movements. The lozenge is still open on your back.”

<Yeah – don’t go spilling my brains out on the ground.>

Mother, Darling! What did you do to my arm? How did you-

<Careful! it wasn’t easy getting it back there like that, but I needed them to be able to see me on the wrist screen while your Kitty was burning.>

You showed yourself to them?

<Are you jealous, Duckie? Don’t be, dear. I reveal myself as I will. I’m not yours alone, any more than I demand you serve only me. But my appearance is not yet fully realized yet, not finished gestating. Until then, no one but you sees me. ….And perhaps one other as well.>

Who!

<Never you mind. I showed only my eyes to your friends. Still, it was enough to keep their attention. Your Blossom and I are good friends now, and the Kitty isn’t quite so anitpathic. Once they’ve seen my complete face, all of the hostility will be gone.>

As you say.

<Duckie, are you angry?>

It’s not for me to say, Lady.

<Now don’t start that again, Gayahtri. We’re through with that, you and me. And don’t sulk. I won’t pretend not to know. You’re scared to lose that cord to your body. You’re scared for your friends, to see them bind with someone else. Yes?>

It’s just so soon. But it’s nothing I haven’t been planning for, Darling. Reincarnation is healthy for the soul. Death is an eventuality.

<But it’s not my aspect. I’m sorry it has to be this way, Duckie. I truly am. I love you. I wish I could give you more time in meditation, to prepare, but I don’t want to miss the chance to learn more about you.> Gaya’s face went numb, and her mouth began moving again. “<Ready to go again girls? We need to hurry.>”

Gaya settled back onto the table before the mind implanted into her spine retook control of her body to guide her Brutes through her own brain surgery. It was a mind, too, not just a responder – she was sure about it.

 

 

She hadn’t been so sure when she was lying across the original table, a month ago, however far away in Turnbell Red’s darkstar. She had opted to stay awake during the procedure, and – Lorry was right – the surgeon was a hack. He was an engineer, not a doctor, and he had simply excised the lump of skin and muscle that blocked his access to her spine. Her flesh was unimportant to him, except as a vehicle for his baby – for the implant.

The pain had been incredible, but Gaya had deemed the suffering a necessary part of her salvation. This job would redeem her soul. She had been promised it, and she believed it. That was all she cared about. Until, the day after the surgery, in the swirling twilight of pain and forcefully administered painkillers, of gauzy-hazy voices and the incessant beeping of monitoring equipment, she heard the still, clear voice. <Hello?>

 

 

<Further back.>

The Priestess found Gaya alone in the darkest corner of a pharmateque, self-medicated into a stupor, staring through the bottom of an empty cup of very heavy juice.

Gaya was a gutter mercenary, though she hadn’t always been. She’d been a holy assassin, hundreds of seemingly small, morally lazy steps ago. Despite her self-assurances to the contrary, she had become vile, even criminal. She knew it, in her heart, even while her brain rationalized otherwise.

The priestess knew it – she could see it in Gaya’s eyes. Even her closest associates, her best partners, Lorry and Fly, accepted fewer jobs with her, and only after she’d cleaned up.

Her customers knew it, and had begun bringing her the really dirty jobs, targeting innocents or children or religious leaders.

Everyone had to die eventually, she told herself. I’m just turning the wheel of re-incarnation a little harder.

The priestess had found her more easily than Gaya would have liked. But it was Gaya’s own fault – she still double-tithed her earnings to the Nymphaeum, one-quarter of the payment for each job to the Star Cetaron. Even after they started to reject her offerings, to label them as unclean and unfit for the goddesses, she continued to send them. How else could she justify her killing, if she lost her sponsor? It was the path they Nymphs had set for her. This priestess had simply followed the rejected offering back to its source.

“Gayahtri Spivak?” The priestess had sat herself, without invitation, at Gaya’s table. The soft black of her robes seemed impossibly clean in the gray-brown swampiness of the pharmateque.

Gaya watched the black shape in her periphery; she didn’t feel like tearing her stare out of the cup just yet. “What’s the job?”

“Gayahtri, it’s me. Shimifore Ba-“

“I know who you are.” Shimifore Bangalore. Marm Shimi. She was the operational director of Vrahi’s River. She had officiated the frocking of Gaya’s class of acolytes. She was the Mistress of Gaya’s order. Of Gaya’s former order.

Gaya hadn’t been formally stricken from the Nymphaeum’s rolls – the Nymphs did not excommunicate, and never gave up on a soul – but she had been pretty certain, even before her offerings began to return to her, stamped rejected, that her old cloistermates would no longer consider her a Sister. But as long as she considered herself a priestess of the Nymphs, Marm Shimi was her spiritual authority.

“What’s your job?” Gaya repeated.

Marm Shimi leaned in toward the table, toward Gaya, and caught her hands in hers. “The Nymphs desire your reconciliation, child. They’ve laid out your path to salvation.”

 

 

 

<No, further back.>

She was eleven when her family died. A lot of families died that week. She should have died, too; her parents her sisters, her brother, her pets, her neighbors, their neighbors – all were rotted from the inside. Even the grayblood couldn’t repair the damage faster than in spread from organ to organ. Yet Gaya was unharmed. She lived among the death for a week before L’shmi’s Touch arrived with the medics and found her.

The Nymphaeum took her after she was orphaned. The priestesses of the nymphs told her that her life had been preserved for service.

She entered the cloister on her 13^th birthday – her day of majority. She was required to give three years of general service to the Nymphs, to know the ways of each. Bhumi – goddess of creation, birth, families, agriculture, the mist, and the youngest; L’Shmi – goddess of preservation, skill, knowledge, wealth, the ocean, and the eldest; Vrahi – goddess of death, transitions, secrets, justice, the frost, and the forgotten middler. But Gaya already knew whom she would serve.

Of her cloister sisters, the majority chose the first two rivers. Of course! Bhumi was the aspect of the blossom, of childbirth, and the consummation of marriage. L’Shmi was the aspect of the arts, sciences, and pleasures. It was sensible that the priestesses would bind themselves to the same foci of worship as their devotees.

Gaya’s devotion was death and its secrets. She chose the river of Vrahi.

She was 16 when Marm Shimi – when Vrahi – chose her. Unlike the other spare few of her sisters who also chose Vrahi, she did not study the esoterica of scripture or learn to attend the devotees and ease the coming of death.

She learned to hasten it. She learned to kill – with her hands, with her weapons, with poisons, with the help of others. She learned secrets, and learned the best ways to help others keep theirs. She learned how to upset the stability of corporate bodies; how removing a few key individuals could cause the entire company to collapse. She learned how to punish the enemies of the Nymphs.

At 20, she finally realized that the company that destroyed her town would never be on that short list of enemies. Even their sponsors, the authors of the slaughter, would not be held to justice.

At 21, Gaya began to work her own jobs on the side. Some she took to destroy her enemies, singly or in small groups, from the bottom up. Other jobs she took to finance her personal vendetta.

She hadn’t been to Star Cetaron since 28. She hadn’t had a job from the Nymphs since 30. And then the stopped accepting her offerings.

So it was a bit of a surprise when Marm Shimi appeared at her table, declaring that Vrahi had need of her.

 

<Duckie, come back again. I need you to drive.>

 

 

The pins and needles crawled up her body as her mind and body were reconnected, and the white slab of the table filled her vision.

<Hurry.>

Gaya pushed herself up and swung her legs over the edge of the table. “I … just a moment to recover. This is too fast.”

“Hurry.” Fly and Lorry had each retrieved a diaphanous scarf from their hip-slung purses, and were wrapping it around their head in a ceremonial fashion. “She said seven minutes before we should be far from here.”

“Help me, then.” Gaya snaked one arm back into her ‘Skin while the Brutes returned to help her with her other shoulder and the gloves. The Brutes had already re-patterned their skins and put up their hair, in order to keep their appearance changing, but Gaya’s suit had a single phase. She shook her hair free to fall down her back. “What happened?”

“She went online after we finished, to see what Turnbell had on us. She said it seemed safe-”

“But it wasn’t. There was a trace on her internal link.” Fly was scowling again.

<I shut it off as soon as I saw it, but I have to assume they saw me. We need to leave. I give us a little more than six minutes before they’ve beaded us. Wake our boy – he can help.>

“Come on, Gaya – let’s go. The more head start the better.”

“Wait. I have a better idea.”

 

 

“Good morning, lover.”

Cormick’s eyes blinked open as a weight settled next to him on the bed. The sunlight came in through his window and smacked him between the eyes. A’Lah! His head still felt like an anvil.

“It looks like last night was a little much for both of us.”

Uggh. He lifted a gloved hand to shade the morning sunlight from his eyes, and winced at the sudden explosion in the center of his skull. Why in all of paradise did he turn off those inhibitors? He checked the detox routine they were running on now – without fresh fuel, they were sluggish. “A couple of the brown eggs in the sideboard and I should be fine. And you? I’m sorry – I’ve been a terrible host.” He lifted himself on his elbows and remembered he was still wearing his boots and gloves. An awful host. He’d have an earful from Byrie, if the Major ever found out. Of course, there were extenuating circumstances. “Could I make you a morning meal?” He glanced up at Gaya. Her anima-soul had flared up around her like a fire. Both the woman and her possessor seemed anxious.

“Actually, perhaps we could get it out on the town. The truth is, I’m already late for an appointment at the Nymphaeum. I completely lost track of time. I haven’t even looked up the street location. Could you help me find the way?”

“Sure… yeah. Give me a minute to splash some water on my face and find a hat.”

“Actually… It’s really bad that I’m late. I’m going to be in trouble as it is. Maybe you could just run me into the city and point me in the right direction? We could meet up later, maybe.”

“Uhh… Yeah. Alright. If you’re really in a hurry, I’ve got a car out back.”

“Great! Is there room for four?”

 

Cormick had to put down the roof to fit the Brutes, but he had the car lowered from the wall and out on the road in 2 minutes. It was none too soon. A russet red van was trumbling down the road. It stopped three stacks down from Cormick’s, pulling right up onto the walkway, and a dozen boots spewed out and set on the door.

“I wonder what that’s about, then.” Cormick glanced over his shoulder before they turned a corner and broke sight, then turned to peer at Gaya. “I don’t think they’re evangalists, not with those uniforms. Friends of yours, maybe?”

Gaya’s eyes flicked over to his face, then locked back on the road rapidly disappearing beneath them.

“I only mention it because they’re wearing the same colors as that node on your back.”

Gaya continued to stare straight ahead, rejecting the bait with a locked jaw. Fly and Lorry, if they could hear over the wind whipping over the windshield and into their faces, were quiet as stones.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy, but I was curious why more than half of my eyes suddenly went into a mirror loop. After I made sure that you and your friends weren’t in any sort of trouble, I just went back to bed. Anyway, I suppose it’s a good thing I left a few welcoming surprises turned on at home, just in case your friends do come knocking.”

 

<Sorry, Duckie. I’m not going to be able to get back online again until I can sit you down in front of a terminal. Though I copied enough of their trace. I might be able to build a spoof…>

No, Darling. We’ll be off this planet soon enough.

<Easy for you to say – I feel like I’m blindfolded. I wish I could show you my thoughts, as I see yours. I don’t like the doubt of my loyalties seeping into your mind.>

There’s no doubt, Darling.

<I know you think that, but I can see what you can only just begin to feel. Here – let me show you this:>

Gaya still saw the streets whipping

 

 

 

 

Despite being drugged by Gaya, Cormick awakens in the night while the Brutes are doing RFID “surgery” on the cybernetics on Gaya’s back. Mention why the box was necessary.

Bhumi is logged onto the network to spy on Turnbell Red and realizes she herself is being snooped; she re-routes the connection, but urges them to leave as soon as possible. And also to cover their faces. The brutes turn on the TV to see Gaia’s face. They turn it off just in time as Cormick comes in, after having broken the bonds that Gaia tied him with.

Gaia tells Cormick they’re about to miss an appointment at the Nymphaeum, and would he mind terribly driving them over there? The three pirates wear ceremonial headdresses to cover their faces.

Scene

Kurtie wakes up the next morning (fell asleep drunk last night) and hurries over to the TR HQ in the warehouse – she wanted to be their earlier. Along the way, she notices that a bunch of the cities infrastructure is falling apart – lights aren’t working, and she thinks she smells smoke. She chalks it up to the haste-waste of accelerated tear down, but they were supposed to leave the infrastructure intact for the the Chandier colony. It would make a good story if she didn’t already have better plans.

She arrives and is met and delayed by an ordinal. She’s still not completely sure of her plan.

Inside, the ex submayor is talking with Capatin in her throne. Boots around her are cleaning up the last bits of a Squishie incursion from last night, and Pas is arguing that they’re now responsible for the safety of the city; reports are coming in from everywhere (thub-thub-thub-squish). The Capatin says to complain to the agent, but Pas says the agent said to come to her (impossible man!)- she’s the military arm of the operation. What Pas really wants is to scramble the Blackbie boots still on-planet. He’s got eggs ready to patrol the perimeter – she tells him to keep them on standby, and they’ll dispatch as needed.
First Ann comes to tell the Capatin that there’s a Kurtie Brook to see her. She doesn’t know who that is, but Pas does – she’s a reporter, and a meddler – a muckraker – and she’s probably come to expose the fact that TR knows about the Squishies and is letting them terrorize the city. Big fine for that, since the citizens are mandatorily unarmed.
Pas takes her into an office overlooking the warehouse, and immediately begins chastising her for meddling in politics. She doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but does she really think he’s so dumb that he didn’t realize she’d meddled to keep her friends out of administrative punishment. If she knew what they’d cost Blackbie (Yeah, Byrie told me – off the record – about your maths. He doesn’t know the grossed part of it!), and what they’ve cost him – well, if he ever sees one of them again, he’s going to snap their neck himself. Kurtie stands up and says she has to leave. Pas asks what she wanted, and she says, as you say, just meddling. But I can see I have no friends here. I’ll have to find another way to get the story.

After she leaves, the receptionist asks if he found out about their items? He asks what she’s talking about, and she says that Kurtie had told her she had a lead on the whereabouts of the stolen items. Byrie stares at the empty door where Kurtie left and scowls.

Scene

They arrive at the Nymphaeum, and Cormick opts to wait outside, across the street at a crowded, popular café.

Gaia enters the Nymphaeum, and after a brief word with the temple priestess, she is brought into a private conference room.

Across the street, Cormick is lounging at the café. Byrie and his girl surprise him and warn him about Gaia, who’ve they’ve seen on the local news. Byrie doesn’t think they shouldn’t give them a ride, but that maybe they should charge them more and be a little more careful.

There is an explosion in the café. Byrie and Cormick jump up – it’s the first of a series of Squishie attacks around the city. They brave the fire roaring in the kitchen and roust out the Squishies.

Scene

Cut over to the Nymphaeum, where Gaia is talking to the Priestess. She wants to interact with the construct, but Gaia says it is not yet time. Gaia tells her that the pilot/copilot were killed – they, Like Gaia, were loyal to the Nymhps. During an argument with the Brutes, they describe the machine and what it is. The Brutes don’t believe it’s anything special – there are no prophecies regarding this, and they think it’s heresy to discuss it further.

In the rafters, a Squishie Ninja in the process of weakening the joists to collapse the building overhears the conversation and realizes the enormity of what they’re talking about. He calls back in to the Squishie General, and is told to re-prioritize to this new lead.

Scene

Outside the café, the snowboys are brushing off the soot and apologizing to the café owner for the mess.

The reporter pulls up in a Turnbell Red vehicle, and clarifies that Cormick is the bait, but once they have their fish, he is to be let off the hook.

She then arrives to do a follow up story with the two heroes, including information on this latest attack, and rising Squishie violence. She calls Cormick an eligible bachelor, and tries to find out if he has a “girl”, but Cormick sees through the scheme and tries to get her to stop. When Gaia and the Brutes come out of the Nymphaeum, they care caught by surprise by the media. It takes a fraction of a second for the face analyzer to match Gaia’s face, and just about the same amount of time for Kurtie to see Cormick’s reaction and turn the camera on her.

Gaia bolts, and immediately TR is after her. One of the Brutes is shot and wounded minorly. Cormick manages to pull away from the tussle, and he gets in his car and is off after Gaia. Cormick picks up Gaia, the brutes, and a stowaway squishie.

Byrie and his girl submit and are taken by TR.

Scene
The Car Chase cuts through the city, starting below ground to (reduce radio detection) and moving above ground when Cormick starts getting boxed in.  Cormick calls Byrie to have him ready at the ship, but Byrie lets him know that he’s currently detained.  They agree that Cormick will lose TR out of town and wait at the spot for pickup.  Cormick skates out over the ice where it’s sublimating in the morning air, and loses them in the fog and with a few tricks.  He drives down into a cave where they can hide.  (it’s possible this cavern is not entirely stable!)   Cormick knows it because they cleared a bunch of Squishies out of it.  While they run

 Scene

Show Byrie and wife in the room being questioned by Pas.  Byrie is shooting eye daggers at Kurtie, who pleads her innocence.  Byrie vocals over to Rog and Damwick that he needs help, and the plan is to steal a bunch of eggs the submayor has prepped for city cleanup.  Another quadry sees him and frees him (since Tassfalon is working for Turbull now, he can’t really be our superior, right?”) and helps him steal the eggs.

In that cave, Cormick and Gaia clear things up enough to make up, and right then, the Squishies blow up his car, killing Gaia. Cormick sees her soul begin to pass, and then get pulled back in. Squishies take them all.