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Riel is an older man when the Angels of the Apocalypse descend, and he knows very clearly that they’re here to turn the wheel.  He sends his generals out to meet them, once it is clear that his army is the exception – he won’t lay down his weapons, and the angels won’t forcibly kill his army.  The angels demand to parley with the Evason only.  They demand that he serve as their agent, and he refuses – he is the agent of Eva, not Patar-ori, and their intervention is unnecessary.  They ask if he will stand in the way of their apocalypse, and he says that he will, so they kill him.

The Angels put the Well of Souls on freeze when they arrive – in fact, that is their primary purpose. But before the Well of Souls is taken offline, their chief architect has already managed to produce the first mathematically singular world (mathematical and mental equivalent of a black hole? – A vacuum bubble in a new realm of mentality, which the transsubstantiated can populate and expand with their own minds.  Unlike the unidirection nature of data transmission in a black hole, these new “planes” intersect on a line through which minds can pass in multiple directions.  The first mind in the key (the chief architect) took this trip, other followed to become visitors in this new mindplane, but there is no reason more could not exist)

Tal’s defeat of the Angels revolves around the Key of Adam – she doesn’t reactivate it, but uses it somehow to undermine them and cause their ascent.  Somehow this also needs to be done at the Barrier, or in some way defeat the barrier.

Power is removed from the Well

When the well is finally discovered by archaeologists and brought back online, those who disappeared into the singularity see the flow of data and send alts to return and evangelize the new process.

This is the huge announcement made at the convocation of gods and priests.

“The First Shall Be Last” society -

A non-profit dedicated to making mentality-uploading free for the poor, homeless, and under-privileged.

They are a Harbinger of the Singularity

Denounced as a meat-grinder for the poor so the rich can live forever in a world of life-extensions and limited resources

Denounced by the Church – how can christ resurrect them if they are neither dead or alive.  But a similar argument was made about creation long ago.  Beside, reincarnation is a proven fact.  Does the church really want another evolution or cosmology embarrassment?

Denounced as a cult group, or as an endenturing process.  The only work that’s required of the Well of Soul’s citizens is to help make their instance prime (will there be one afterlife or many – just like will there be one internet or many?)

They advertise that they will let their minds be high, forever, safely, but denounced because they use the spare processes of these nirvana’d minds.  Just as trees use your lungs when you’re sleeping to produce CO2, is the retort.

Include a reference to Accelerando somewhere in there.

This Singularity process is cut short by the Apocalypse.

(Well of Souls – the world produced in the Key of Adam, which is a very large natural diamond owned by Lillith and leased to the group.  Her idea is that controlling this diamond is an easy key to devouring a multitude of souls in the future.)

To call the gods “minds” in an attempt to bring them to the level of humans is a service to no-one.  Should the ants refer to humans as anything less than inconceivable masters simply because they’re both flesh?

This world, this reality, is the Dance Hall of the gods.  It once was the setting of a great dance, a Grand Ball filled with beauty and grace, and it may yet be again.  For now, most of the gods have retired to their own private rooms – none can leave the palace, but in Mehr’s palace are many rooms – heavens, hells – the planes.  Some gods still poke their heads in from time to time, but you don’t see a bustling society of minds.

Actual setting: circa Neocarnation

Apparent setting: mythical Arthurian Britain, (410 CE)

Story begin with a series of Arthurian vignettes – rebuild tales from Steinbeck?

Told from Arthur’s perspective.  Should have Morgaine in each story.

Each story should have the unexpected ending – major characters killed off, or Morgaine wins – but the Arthurian characters are each true to their form, and the story overall follows the Steinbeck path.  Characters that are killed off reappear in later stories without anyone remembering they died – the story resets.  But with each reset, the tapestry unravels just a bit.  A character who died earlier may become despondent, depressed without knowing why, and feel their life was pointless.  Arthur is the rallying point for trying to keep people like their old selves – he’s the one who begins to discover the loose threads.

Arthur realizes that Morgaine is controlling the world.  She’s using the stone tables – the round one in Camelot, and the pentagonal one in Tintangel (combined in avalon, where the two of them are able to meet) – as the controls for the world.  Arthur comes to the tables one day when Morgaine is away from the world (she is often away from the world) and he finds her at the table  stiff, lifeless.  Once he gets over the shock, he tries to interface with it the way he remember Morgaine doing.   He calls it table.

He learns that this is Morgaine’s game, and the overall point of the game is to take control of the Camelot table as well and that he can control Albion from Camelot using the round table – he already does without knowing it.  Morgaine’s table is keyed to her voice, and Arthur’s to his.  When Arthur returns to his table, he learns that Morgaine is just a teenage girl from the real world, and that he and his kingdom are false intelligences.  (How does he use her table when she is gone, since the world stops when she is gone?  Doesn’t always unless she resets it – Perhaps that’s how she finds out – she lets it run afterward, to see what he’ll do (he thinks of running her through with his sword) – and when she comes back online and looks at the records, she finds him skulking in her castle.  She locks him in her dungeons, and oh, the things she does to him.

Arthur’s world is like the well of souls – it’s an upload portal, but not a singularity like is created from the well of souls.

Morgaine discovers that Arthur has gained direct control of the Camelot table.  Does that frighten you?  No – I read about that in the walkthrough – there’ve been a bunch of Arthurs that gained some limited self-awareness.

You’re not my sister – you’re a child!  In your world, I’m still a woman.  Show me your true age – she does, and she’s 14 or so.  But here is yours – Arthur is a toddler.  So do you need a wet-nurse, or shall we dispense with this game?

Arthur cannot beat her because she cheats – she learns hacks from other people playing the same world.

Merlin is a go-between for Arthur and Morgaine, but he helps Arthur more.  As a magician, he tries to divine Morgaine’s details, but of course, he cannot see beyond her character – she is the sister of Arthur, a witch, a fellow Druid, and no more.   Arthur tells him he is the most intelligent man in this world, and to apply that – figure this out, and Merlin becomes a bit of a hacker himself.

The final result is that Arthur understands that he cannot win – she will not let them.  He thinks about trying to teach her to be good – teach her ethics and the law, but that doesn’t work well.  He decides to collapse the world – to commit suicide is a mortal sin, but Adonai is not the king here – this false queen is our evil goddess.  She will just rebuild this world again, and you will have to relive all of this, none the wiser to her puppetry.  I think not – she will move on to some other pursuit, and we shall have peace.  Do we have souls – will they survive?  If we do, dearest Genny, you will certainly be at the right hand throne in heaven.  For myself, I will throw myself at the feet of my lord and beg for mercy.

He returns Excalibur to the table – it was carved from the stone that was to become the keystone (Part of the keystone is still in the center of the table), and the castle was built around it, so it’s still living stone), and with the assent of his table and Merlin, he closes the door to her.

Morgaine as the Serpent (snake,dragon) lady.

Morgaine as Genny possessed.

Swords:

The Suit of Reason, of Intellect, of Self Sacrifice to Purpose.

The Suit of Air, ruled by the Lovers.

Tens:

The Lesson of the Suit is perfected.

The Ten of Swords:

The Sword becomes the Martyr, sacrificing himself for the cause, for reason, or for love. But he is the last Martyr, The Dark Before the Dawn, the catalyst of the necessary change.

Andrew Jackson “Jack” Riel:

Riel – the penultimate of Eva’s sons and her personal favorite, but by mistake her most neglected. He had no elder brother to mentor him, due to a slight mistake that dumped Tuk/Merlin off into post-Roman Britain (instead of post-British Americas – easy mistake). As the neglected son, the one who must make his own path, he is the one who receives the most personal attention from Lilith and her Get – after Cain, that is. He delves the deepest into the darkness of her society, but also comes the closest to unmaking her without super-material aid.

Swords:

The Suit of Reason, of Intellect, of Self Sacrifice to Purpose.

The Suit of Air, ruled by the Lovers.

Threes:

The Lesson of the Suit is generalized to relationships with all people.

The Three of Swords:

The Sword can love but will not, because she has other plans. She is the Heartbreaker, who uses the love of others for her own end.

Melody Lilly:

Melody is Jack Riel’s college girlfriend, an introverted business major and counter-girl at the Tattoo Empire. She’s never been a favorite of Jack’s parents; they wouldn’t presume to direct his life, but they put some extra stress on a relationship that is already a bit thin from its one-sidedness.

When Jane turns Melody, she embraces the life whole-heartedly, but Jack cannot see it. His crusade against Lillith’s Get is started in an attempt to save her, but the only thing he achieves is to spur her further into the life.

Chapter 10:

- The First Client is Skilled in Seduction

Scene

Resplendent in her slick new ‘Skin – and in what amounted to a new face as well – Gaya palmed open the door to a cantina called Marta’s.

Are you certain about this place, Darling? It would be dangerous to be seen by the wrong eyes tonight.

<Quite certain, Ducky. There is no better place to find a pilot, and no place less likely to find Turnbull tonight. I’ve done my study. Please don’t worry.>

As you say. In truth, Gaya was not worried – she was excited. Between the bathhouse and the slinky ‘Skin, she was downright eager. This latest bounty had provided her with too little time and too few excuses to prowl, and the frustration had begun to mount. She couldn’t count on her Brutes for company, not any more, but she needed the release. Of course, she couldn’t be too promiscuous tonight, either – she was still on the job, and the only important goal was the ride. Still, she’d learned that the easiest way to catch a helping hand was with her thighs, and the best bait was a wink and a wanton smile. And Darling wouldn’t have dressed her up like this for nothing.

Gaya passed through the arched entryway and stepped into the large, reverse-dished interior of the cantina. Some fighting sport played in a washed-out holofield over the bar sunk into the center of the room. Columns, booths, moody ambient lights, and some poorly cultured flora broke up the perimeter of the room into niches and clusters where there was plenty of room for privacy. To the left of the bar a dancefloor sprawled vacantly, but the musical gear still littering the stage nearby suggested near-future probabilities. This would be easy.

Her Brutes should follow her into the cantina a few minutes later. Doubtless Turnbull had their profile, and the Brutes’ size would be a liability. There was little point in splitting Lorry and Fly – in fact, the two of them together offset their individual peculiarities – but as a group of three they were far too obvious and wouldn’t have any freedom to hunt. And of course, if she couldn’t charm a hitch from a pilot team, there was a reasonable chance Lorry or Fly might tickle their way through some wallflower into a berth offplanet.

Gaya logged into an autostation at the bar with a pseudonymous ID and entered a request for low-proof juice. There was no sense in talking with a barkeep who might remember her face tomorrow. Unless that barkeep had a pilot’s license and a parking space out back.

Where do we start, Darling?

<This is your hunt, Ducky. I led you to the fold – there are sheep everywhere you look. But you’re the She-wolf. Start nibbling.>

Gaya grinned and wet her lips with her new cup. Which of these sheep flew the fastest ship?

Cormick had been watching her since she’d come in the door. She was pretty in a dark, hungry sort of way, but that wasn’t what had captured his attention. Sharks aplenty circled the bar. She wore some sort of Hindri mark on her forehead; it was bright and detailed and intricate and designed to catch the eye, but that wasn’t what interested him, either. There was the glossy jet ‘Skin she wore – he saw the heads of men, women, and even femmes turning to follow her curves beneath its shiny surface – but it was merely nice packaging.

When she dallied behind the bar, it gave him a chance to study her – discretely he thought, since half the cantina was staring at the holofield above her head. But he wouldn’t have been able to focus on the field if they were calling his number for the lottery. She was … a blinding light. Literally, to his eyes – she glowed like a piece of a star. Her body was bathed in overwhelming spirit.

He’d never seen anything like it before. The rest of the bar was predictably oblivious to her soul.

“It’s rude to stare at a woman’s legs like that, my boy,” Kurtie breathed into his ear in that half-loud bar whisper. “Especially when there’s a pair here already waiting open for you.”

Cormick swiveled his chair back to the table and angled toward Kurtie. She raised her brows and tilted her head a little to the side, with a shrug that said, I’m just letting you know.

Cormick’s eyes flicked back to the table. Damwick and Glenda were amused by the blatant proposition. Byrie was doing a poor job of suppressing a laugh – despite the fact that Kurtie had been fishing for him on and off over the last several years. With no allies at hand, Cormick hid his response behind a raised glass.

Kurtie was clearly encouraged by the approval from the table and seemed about to say something truly wicked when Roger leaned forward and set down his empty cup.

“So… Major. Not that I want to be the one who questions free juice or gets in the way of twisting Greene’s ribs, but you mentioned business over the jawbone.”

Byrie unwrapped his arm from Tetva’s shoulder and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table so he could peak his fingertips together. The subtle glow of the table, filtering up through empty and half-empty glasses, cast a sober pall under his face. “Lean in, Damwick. Come on, girls – you too. Shoulders tight. Yes, Kurtie – you, too. This may end up concerning you as much as the rest of us. Cormick, you have the key?”

Cormick produced the button from his ’slung bag and set it on the table.

Byrie nodded and glanced around, making certain each face was waiting on him. “Greene and I have already talked about this, but I haven’t had a chance to talk to either of you, since things happened pretty fast this afternoon. You both know we’ve been thinking about using our fund to buy out our contract after we got off this snowball. None of us really care for Mother Military any more, and I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual. Well, she released us today.”

Damwick and Roger took a few moments to absorb that, just as Cormick had several hours earlier.

Byrie waited for their breathing to become regular again before he continued. “When Blackbie dropped us, she said she’d just as soon we don’t report back in and waste perfectly good food and salary. So…. we’re loose.”

Damwick’s eyes narrowed. “So…”

Byrie tightened his lips and nodded soberly. “That’s right. Each of you is free. Your contract is up, and the fund is vested. You’re not at Mother’s beckon call, and you don’t have to do another damn thing I say. They wouldn’t even demerit you for taking a swing at me, though you’d probably end up prying your teeth out of this table.” His eyes flicked uncomfortably to Cormick, admitting the exception. “So, Jasper – you’re already home, right? Easy enough for you to make your life here, though you’ll probably want to staple your disc down, if you don’t intend to wake up space-side tomorrow morning.”

“God! You know I didn’t even want to come back here with the quadry. Just because Mother Military bought my genes from someone who happened to live here a quarter century ago doesn’t mean this snowball has a claim on me. No offense, Kurtie. Don’t run that.”

Kurtie chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. ‘Chandier Native hates Chandier’ – that’s not news.”

Roger turned back to Byrie. “I’m sticking with the fund as long as there is one. Major.”

Byrie nodded. “What about you, Gunder? You want your seventh and your ticket?”

Damwick shook his head. “I’m in. What’s the plan?”

“Well, that’s lucky.” Byrie pressed his fingertips together and his knuckles cracked. “It would have been a hell of a time trying to free up the fund again. And since I’m now thoroughly convinced our Greene won’t be leaving us for the glory of sport… the plan, boys and girls, is this:”

Byrie thumped the button on the table, and it flickered sadly. His brows furrowed dangerously, but he gave it a more precise and demanding click. The top of the button began to glow, and a small projection sprung up and began to slowly spin. Little bullet points swirled out to orbit the central projection and beckon for attention.

Roger’s nose wrinkled. “What is that?”

Byrie grinned broadly and gestured toward the button. Cormick leaned back to enjoy Byrie’s pitch. “‘That’, Mr. Jasper, is the fastest ship on Chandier. Well, the fastest one that was for sale. But now it’s ours. One-seventh yours.”

“That hunk of junk? It’s got to be twenty years old! That part there is, anyway. That part’s probably thirty. And I don’t know about those things – I don’t think I want to know.”

“That is a seasoned privateer vessel.”

Glenda leaned low, putting her eye closer to the holo-model. “It doesn’t look fast. I’m not talking about the drives – the chassis looks like it would fall apart if it left the ground.”

“Looks, my dear, can be and should be deceiving in our new line of work.”

“How does she handle?” It was Roger again. He was opposite Glenda, chin near the table surface, flicking through the bullet points of the projection.

“We’ll find out tomorrow.”

“You bought her unflown?” Roger was aghast, and he was not alone. Even Tetva was eyeing Byrie with uncertainty over his shoulder.

“Please – anyone who can give us an example of a bad decision I’ve made, a bad direction I’ve led us, remind us all.” The table was silent for a few moments. “Here, I’ll even give you an easy one: This morning? I got us all fired, remember?”

Roger frowned. “That’s not quite the same…”

“The point’s the same, though.” Damwick grinned his lopsided grin. “Anyway – I always wanted to clasp hands with the Mayor. Sub-Mayor’s close enough.”

Cormick added, “And I’d never been in the Executive Tower before. They have nice couches.”

Kurtie took the opening. “You should have told me, dear. I would have given you a private tour. We could have tried all the couches. The Mayor’s suite-”

“So… no complaints? No one?” Byrie looked at each head in turn until it was shaken by its owner. Roger’s was the slowest to respond, but in the end it was the most firm. “And just to put you all at ease, I’d like to remind you that I do know some people outside of this den of intoxication and villainy. In fact, I’ve made an effort to meet a few more of the variety of person that is not us over the last few years. Some of these people have skills, and contacts, which are useful for checking backgrounds and ship-tag histories and other such things. What is more, as surely as you can trust me not to squander your one-sevenths, boys, or Cormick’s two-, I would think you would trust me to most fervently and jealously guard the placement of my three-sevenths. So.”

“So,” agreed Damwick and Roger, and Cormick nodded wordlessly.

“So, here’s where it becomes interesting.” Byrie tapped his fingertips together. “As I’m sure you all know, A’lah’s wisdom does not permit the interexchange of husbands and wives.” He looked up to Kurtie who probably didn’t know, since she wasn’t one of Byrie’s converts. “Serial monogamy is permitted to an eremite, but not plenigamy. There is a focus necessary for the performance of the sacrament that does not allow for indecision in your choice of a partner.”

Kurtie grinned. “Sacrament? Sounds good…”

“Therefore, we will be a ship of four or eight. Each of us will be partnered, or none of us will. Now, I know we’ve been in the field for weeks at a time before, but I don’t think Tetva would wait for my old carcass to come back if we were gone a month, or even a year. Don’t think it couldn’t be a year – I’ve been running through the jobs on the hire. More importantly, I don’t want to imagine what would happen if Gunder tried to keep the numbers again, or if we had to eat Cormick’s cooking more than two meals in a row. So Tetva’s on. Glenda? Shon?”

Glenda considered Byrie carefully, long enough that worry started to show on Damwick’s face. “What’s the buy-in?”

“A current seventh, or scale. Two sevenths gets you two shares of the proceeds, but one vote. Scale gets you an opinion and nothing more.”

“Hmm.” She jerked to an apparent under-the-table elbow from Damwick. “What? I’d try to buy you out. But I think, Yes. Scale, for now. I’ll try a job, but I may want off after the first run.” She turned purposefully to Damwick. “And if that happened, I’d hire a doxy for you to keep your boss happy, until you got tired of your adventures and knew what you wanted, and then I’d buy your share out. I can wait a month, or a year. Beside, A’lah doesn’t have claims on my loins while you’re gone.”

Byrie nodded graciously. “I’m glad to have a professional operator aboard, Glenda. It could be dangerous, though. The nature of privateering being what it is.”

“I don’t mind the danger. I’m combat-ready. What I don’t like is bad management.”

“I shall do my best to live past your expectations, then. Shon?”

Shon had never been talkative, and her voice could barely be heard over the din of the bar. “We’re married, now.”

A clamor of surprise and congratulations rose from the table. Hands were gripped, shoulders squeezed, and for a few long minutes business was set aside. Byrie keyed in for another round of stemware, courtesy of some earlier grateful cantina-goer. Tetva made them recount the brief ceremony, and Byrie interrupted only a few times to confirm that it had been imam-approved. Roger had decided to follow old tradition and take Shon’s family name, though he didn’t cede his wealth to her – that would have required Byrie’s approval, and there hadn’t been time.

Shon, now broken with grins and thank-you’s, began again. “We’re married, so I’ll go where Roger does. I can only do scale. If you need anything I can do.”

“Can you keep ship?”

“I believe so.”

“Then you’re welcome. Greene, that leaves you. Now I barely trust you around all of these women at the table, and so much the less if you sidle up to one in some dark corner on the boat there. Shall we rent you a doxy? I’m sure we can find one who would be willing to service on a high-risk privateer for, say, half your proceeds. Or should we perhaps consider a woman who has very subtly hinted that she would like to keep you as a pet? A woman who brings the valuable skills of public relations and sales on board with her, instead of the simple ability to take up space in your bunk? Though I hazard there would be some of that, too.”

Kurtie grinned at Byrie.

“A woman who I already spoke to about this an hour ago while you were picking up the key.” Byrie winked back at Kurtie. “Now, Cormick, I don’t want to rush you into any hasty decisions. But I’m sure you must have noticed that you left the service with a little promotion. That “ploos” means extra in the fund and your residual. Guess who lobbied for that, eh? That’s right-”

Kurtie interjected, “Actually, it didn’t take very much effort. I think they actually liked him.”

Byrie continued past Kurtie. “Anyway, I’ll give you some time to think it over. How about five clicks? Two. Three…”

“Excuse me?”

Cormick looked up, over his shoulder, and was nearly blinded. It was her. The luminous woman.

“I’m sorry for eavesdropping – I was – but I heard you mention privateering, Capatin?”

“Major.”

“Yes. And I see your ship there. Do you already have a charter off-planet? If not, I’d like to talk. If so, I guess I’d like to talk soon.”

Byrie smiled. “Do sit down.”

The woman did so, sliding into the narrow gap Cormick created between himself and the demonstrably displeased Kurtie Brook.

In another corner of the Cantina, Lorry was playing the part of the redundant fishhook, though it was Fly who was doing more of the fishing. The Brutes were sticking to the plan, trying to keep their distance from Gaya (while not looking like they were trying to keep their distance.) After the ruckus they’d raised at the spaceport, they could expect shape routines running in cameras anywhere; Gaya could move a lot more freely without them looming over her shoulders. Of course, in a fab town like this one, even one Brute would be noticeable, so Lorry and Fly stayed close together in the shadows at the edge of the room, relying more on the tight viewing angles created by the dome buttresses and the profile-static of the wall foliage than disguises for their anonymity.

Lorry did try to keep an eye on Gaya, though – she would need them to be ready to leave at her signal, and Lorry didn’t trust Fly, in heat as she was, to pay much attention to their leader. In fact… Gaya had already sat down at a table with what could have been a pilot group, maybe. She was making casual, apparently accidental contact with the man she sat next to, and her body language was invitational. She was sharpening her claws.

Lorry sipped at the froth on the top of her cup and shifted uncomfortably on the couch, or her small portion of it. She and Fly had found a seat behind where the band was setting up for another set, facing off into a small, poorly lit alcove created for privacy. Lorry usually fit nicely on a couch with Fly – even when intended for original-sized humans, couches offered plenty of room for cuddling, for some intertwined legs, or for Gaya to slide up into one of their laps. But usually couches didn’t have the two co-pilots of the Undertow crammed into the center between them.

Well, in all fairness, she and Fly had joined the co-pilots on their couch after learning the pair were taking their ship off-planet tomorrow. Now Lorry and Fly had wedged themselves into the bookend positions, and the four of them were stuck.

Fly had done up Gaya’s tigress motif in full style – her ‘Skin, boots, and gloves were all black-striped and setting off her already pointed ears and fangs. She’d drawn her glove-fingers out into stiff, claw-like points, too, which did to the male half of the pilot duo what it normally did to Lorry – make him perky and wriggly. He was purring almost as much as Fly when she ran her clawtips through the hair behind his ears.

The female half of the Undertow wasn’t nearly as enthralled by Lorry’s sunny flowerprint ‘Skin and her blossom hat. She wriggled on the couch only because she wanted more room, but instead she succeeded in letting Lorry slip further down the armrest and onto the cushion, ratcheting her in even tighter.

“You say,” the female co-pilot winced, “that there’s another one of you?” There was some incredulity in her voice. “Our cabin is … not large.”

“Oh, but she’s much smaller,” Lorry answered, setting her brow with an assuring furrow. She glanced over the co-pilot’s shoulder toward Gaya’s table and hoped she was doing better.

Once the luminous woman and Byrie began to haggle, Cormick and the rest of the table fell silent. Now, with Kurtie sitting on the newcomer’s far side (that is, well out of elbow range and effectively armed only with the evil eye), Cormick felt safe leaning away from the table to look the woman over again.

She had given her name as Gayahtri Spivak, a classic Hindri name that matched the shape of her face. That kind of racial specialization implied Mother Military or a formal religion. Cormick considered the latter far more likely – she had that mark on her forehead, and she had the earnestness of True Belief in her mannerisms. The Mother had a way of kicking any kind of earnestness out of her children, as it didn’t cohabit well with unquestioning obedience of stupid orders.

Gayahtri’s polished black ‘Skin and Jungas clung to her shape the way a ‘Skin really should. A filmy black drapery fixed to a choker broach at her neck hung down over her shoulders and torso; it disguised her shape only enough to make Cormick look more closely, which was of course its purpose. Each time she shifted in her seat – or even breathed – the complex of wrinkles and creases in the sea of black ‘Skin rearranged and changed the reflections of the Cantina’s greenish ambient lights. Combined with the vaguely sexual squishing sound her ‘Skin produced as it flexed, her every motion was transfixing.

Of course, alluring as it was, Cormick had seen suits like it in plenty in Marta’s before. It was the uniform of a domme femme, especially one who was advertising. But Gayahtri was no femme. And beside, her head glowed.

Cormick had not woken one morning in late puberty to see the light in the eyes of his bunkmates. He had not reported to Mother’s Special Programs, as the bulletins demanded, to announce that adolescence had gifted him with the vision of souls in his fellow conscripts. He never told Commander Oostrienne about the sparks that met in their mouths the first time she secreted him into her office to kiss him, or how he knew weeks before she told him that her interest in him had dwindled and transferred to another first-year.

According to Special Programs, these “Features” (as they called them) always manifested with the first promises of adulthood, so Cormick had felt no disloyalty in keeping to himself what he had kept to himself since he had been taught to sign at six months and his first memories had been embossed. In truth, he wasn’t certain he saw anything unusual until his tenth year, when quadry training began. By then, the seniors in his bunkroom had indirectly taught him the crucial skill of keeping his silence.

His silence almost became lockjaw when he reached fifteen and had the ocular tap implanted. He never worried that the false retinas would clear his vision – that would only have meant being normal again and remaining in quadry – but he was very afraid that the tap might open his secret to Mother. But apparently the Feature was somewhere deeper in his head; at least, Special Programs had never come for him.

But Cormick had never, in all his memory, seen a soul like this. Usually he saw only a pale blue light shining through someone’s eyes. Some charismatics might glow in the mouth as they spoke; lovers shared lightning at the fingertips when they touched, and more as they moved closer. He might see a faint aura through skin if the room was sufficiently dark; Marta’s, with it’s ambient twilight, was a great place for Cormick to see what someone was really like. The only time he’d see someone’s full ghost – the translucent body-shaped shell anchored on the much brighter bar of light that ran the ley line from their mind to the focal point between their hips – was emerging from their fresh corpse; but those phantoms didn’t stick around for more than a few minutes.

At least, until this evening. This Gayahtri’s ghost shone through her face, even glowing through her ‘Skin whenever the wall lights faded. Her ley line was not a hazy, static bar – it was distinct constellation of mandalic motifs.

Most disturbing to Cormick, the ghost did not seem completely bound to her body. It was a heartbeat behind her when she turned in her chair. While she lifted her cup to her lips for a sip, the ghost fingers emerged from the gloves to play over the curves at the cup’s edges. The body listened intently to Byrie, but the ghost studied each person at the table. It ended on Cormick and smiled beatifically. Cormick quickly turned away.

Gaya nodded appreciatively at Major Harold’s words. His ship looked a disaster, but the Major clearly embodied the first law of pirating: ‘To thine own skin be true.’ If Byrie Harold would fly in the ship, it was safe enough for her and for her precious cargo.

She’d given the table her true name against her instincts, but on her Darling’s insistence. Darling had not yet led her wrong, but she would not make good pirate – she was far too preoccupied with honesty.

<Trust me, Duckie.>

I am, Darling – more than you know.

“Good”, said Harold, tapping the key in the center of the table. The holo of the ship disappeared, and he slid it to the man sitting beside her, the one they called ‘Greene’. Greene was the only one alone at the table, if you didn’t count the blonde tart on her right. No one else seemed to count her. The blonde was making possessive eyes at Greene, but her fuming glares directed Gaya’s way were too desperate to be believed. So Greene was available, and might be a way to lock the deal. Maybe even a way to get a discount. Gaya winked at him.

The poor dear blushed! This would be easy.

<I like that one.>

Should we be bed him, Darling?

<More than that, Ducky!>

Shhh. Towel down, Darling! You’re making me too squirmy. Let me finish some business.

Major Harold had settled back in his seat, smugly confident. “So, next I ask, what is the destination? And should we expect inconveniences? If you were eavesdropping as well as I suspect, you’d know this is no salt and flour barge.”

“Star Cetaron is your destination, Major.”

“Hmm… The Nymphaeum, right? No discounts for clergy, Sister. Especially not for clergy.”

“None expected. As for inconveniences, let me just say that there must be absolutely no pit stops or hitchers, though I suspect there will be a few who will try very persuasively to convince you otherwise. You must jump straightly. If you hub even once, your payment will dwindle most saddeningly.”

“I see.” Byrie scratched behind his goatee. “These persuasive hitchhikers wouldn’t be in the battleship moored over the HFO, by some small chance?”

<Yes. Tell him ‘Yes’, Duckie. It will only be worse for us if he finds out later.>

Gaya leaned forward, so she could speak in the lowest of tones. “Though I haven’t had time to catch up on the comings and goings of the fixed orbit station, Major, I would suspect that you and I are of an understanding – your trade is in transportation, not information.”

Cormick had been studying the half-life of the bubbles on the surface of his drink since Gayahtri’s wink. The spirit inside her was staring at him now. He wasn’t fond of public attention, but he hadn’t been bashful since his graduation; this experience was leaving him off-balance. That he was sitting directly next to this strange woman was now as unsettling as it was intriguing. He didn’t want to be caught staring back at the ghost, and have to explain just what he was looking at, but neither could he ignore her. He resorted to stealing sidelong glances while trying to focus his mind on the job to which Byrie was committing to them.

“Well…” Byrie drew out the word, but he wasn’t using the delay to think, Cormick knew – it was purely for Gayahtri’s discomfort. Byrie didn’t have to ‘think’ very often; he reacted at the instinctual level, just like Cormick. “That’s the real trick, isn’t it. We’ll have to move past the HFO to jump, one way or the other. Skipping around the horizon just to bounce is bound to attract even more attention. So, even if we could make the calculations in motion, no doubt your spider up there already has the web laid out for you. It will cost you double. Seventy.”

Cormick restrained his mouth from popping open, but his eyelids did it instead. They’d paid seventy thousand for the ship. And now Byrie thought they could recoup the cost on the first job.

“Half now, half on delivery,” Byrie continued.

“I’ve bought ships for less, Major.”

So would have Cormick, if he and Byrie hadn’t been on this snowball when they were shopping.

“It’s not the ship you’re paying for, Sister – it’s the expertise of the crew. If you think someone else on this planet can fly you safely through the spiderweb, I invite you look around. But we don’t price-match, and we won’t be here waiting for your business tomorrow morning.”

For the space of a held breath, Gayahtri did not respond. “I can give you Ten now, Major. It’s all I have. But the Nymphs will pay you an additional One Hundred on successful Delivery.”

One hundred and ten thousand! Just a few hours ago, Cormick had thought of retiring on less than two-sevenths of that.

“Interesting…” mused Byrie. “But what’s the cargo? Too much mass will raise your price.”

“That’s no problem, Major. Only myself, and two others. One bag apiece.”

“This is no cruise-liner, Sister. The bunks are full.”

“It’s not the ship, I’m paying for, Major – it’s the expertise of the crew. And I’m sure, for the price I’m paying, you’ll find a mop closet you can spare. If no one among you will share a bed.”

Byrie chuckled. “Well said. Sister, you have your ship. I’ll take that Ten now, and you and your two will meet us at coordinates-to-follow tomorrow, no later than Half-Day. We will be leaving at half-past then, and we will expect the Nymphs to honor your deal, whether or not you are on board when we leave.”

Gayahtri fished in her holster bag and pulled out a conveyor. Cormick gawked. Most conveyors stopped at the x³ bank; this one had the largest x⁴ he’d ever seen, and that was more than half full. The marks on the top read 5*9*9*3. 10,047 in cash!

Even Byrie blinked when he saw the payment, but he didn’t miss a step. He took out his own conveyor, and somehow coaxed it to accept the 10,000 into mixed banks. It could be sorted out later. Cormick thought he might have lost a few grains in the transfer, but Marta’s bots would find them later. She’d be pleased by the tip.

Gayahtri took back her conveyor and rattled the few remaining grains it held. “Major, we will be more than on time. Now if you could recommend a flop where 47 might buy a bed and a reasonable expectation of privacy, I’d be obliged.”

Byrie tucked his conveyor away and slapped both hands on the table. “My pleasure, Sister. Leftenin Greene!”

Cormick immediately straightened and responded. “Yes, Sir!”

Byrie nodded. “Thank you for volunteering, Leftenin!” He looked back to Gayahtri. “Our best man, Cormick Greene, will show you more hospitality than 100 points could buy, Sister Spivak, and your 47 are yours, unless he earns a tip.” His attention returned to Cormick. “Greene! You have the biggest apartment among us – I expect that your bed is in guest-receiving condition, and your couch is in you-receiving condition, or it will be in twenty minutes, yes?”

“Yes, Sir!” Cormick stood. He thought he should resent the trick Byrie pulled on him, but he didn’t. In fact, he was exceptionally pleased. Byrie might even expect him to offer to service the woman, but he didn’t mind.

Gayahtri stood along with him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Left Greene. Major. But there is no need for the urgency. Perhaps Left Greene and I could learn each other a bit better before he takes me to his apartment.” Her eyes met his. “Cormick, is it? Do you dance?”

Cormick was the one most surprised when he answered, “Yes.”

Of course, Kurtie left the cantina in a huff only moments later.

Gaya found that Cormick was a passingly good dancer. That was convenient, since they were the only ones dancing on this side of the bar. The band was playing now on the other side, and dance floor was beginning to fill, but it would be too noisy over there for her to hear herself think, much less for him to hear her, when she wanted to speak.

When she first stopped him at an open spot on the floor and assumed the stance, his hand went to the small of her back. Though she was no femme, she let him lead. His eyes met hers only in brief flickers, yet he seemed to anticipate how she wanted to move a half second before she thought of it herself; this produced a strange sort of syncopated rhythm between them. It took her a few songs, but she relaxed against him and stepped as she pleased, once she accepted that he would lead her there anyway.

As her chin nestled against his temple (and he was even on the tall side for Military), his hand slid up the curve of her spine to the bulge where Darling lived beneath her ‘Skin. For an instant, her blood froze. Without breaking step, she caught his arm and guided it down, lower, until his hand loosely cupped the bottom of her ass. “That’s better, isn’t it?” She grinned teeth at him. He suddenly became shy again, which only encouraged her. “I can be wriggly when I dance, so you’ll have to keep a firm hold, or you might lose me altogether.”

He smiled and complied with a squeeze.

The band played through a predictable rotation of standards, including a few choreographed tunes that allowed even the leadfeet to participate. Waitresses and customers milled around beneath the cantina’s dome, and no one made even the slightest hint that the two rogue dancers should move to the other side. A few people watched them; most simply ignored them.

Gaya began to realize what it meant to step with a good dancer. If she wanted to try something – a spin, a slide, a hop – he made it work and still kept them on the beat. Though he was twenty centimeters shorter, he could dip her with little effort. His arms were much stronger than she’d suspected; he had appeared lanky beneath the coat and hat. If she insisted – as she did by pulling him off-course during one song – he would follow, but seduction was so much easier when she let him do the work.

He was graceful, but not fluid. ‘Fluid’ was her job; she melted to him and made sure he felt her curves at every step. “You’re very good,” she whispered in his ear. Either he was embarrassed or couldn’t understand her; either way he glanced away and said nothing.

She realized that he stole glimpses of her face each time her eyes roamed elsewhere, but every time she looked back, he turned away. It was like he knew her from before and was trying to remember it. Or waiting for her to remember him. Or perhaps he was just a boy with a crush on her. The beat changed again and they turned, and her thigh slipped between his. Oh, yes – he clearly had a crush on her. She grinned. “What is your apartment like, Cormick?” He glanced at her and she caught his eye and held it; she moistened her lips with her tongue, which hovered just above his eye level and only centimeters away.

They almost tripped.

She rested her cheek against the side of his head, which involved only a little slump on her part, and they continued to talk beneath the noise of the cantina and the band.

“Normal, I suppose?”

Oh… he was answering her question. She’d forgotten she asked it – it was only meant to get his attention.

“I mean, it’s pretty overgrown, but I keep it clear. It’s not as big as the Major suggests, but it will be comfortable. And the bed is clean, Marm Spivak.”

She tilted her head down to whisper, pressing close enough that her lips would just brush the upper fold of his ear, and her breath would rustle in the short hair there. Each time she swallowed, each time her lips met, he would hear it and feel it louder than the beating of his own heart.

“Gaya. Please, Cormick.”

“Of course, Gaya.”

“I’m sure the bed is wonderful, Cormick. But we’re hitting it off so well, we may not make it that far. I hope your couch is ample?’

“I-”

She willed him to turn them at another change of the beat, which kept him from having to think of a clever response.

Seduction followed reliable persuasion branches, like any other social manipulation. When the target was a man, a seductress typically had to give him room to play the aggressor. The seductress, in turn, had to play the part of a femme, since man-woman relationships tended to be more complicated and volatile: far too risky. She had to make herself a willing target, steering the social dynamic with only the most subtle and discrete touches.

But Gaya had never been convincingly passive. And some men simply made better prey than predators. Once you found them, the hardest part was pushing them along the edge of bashfulness without ever letting them really embarrass themselves. They were Gaya’s specialty.

“Cormick – have you had dinner?”

“No, actually. I-”

“Good. Because I ’m cooking up a big meal for you – an all-you-can-eat buffet – and I think the pot’s just about boiling over. I’d like to go to your apartment now.”

She pulled back to watch his eyes. His face went from blank, to surprised, to flushed with a guilty grin. She leaned back to his ear with a smile of her own. “Shall we go, then?”

Lorry had been certain almost half an hour ago that the pair wedged between her and Fly weren’t their trip off-planet. She’d had no success in attracting the affections of the female co-pilot, and she’d tried most every trick she knew. But Fly hadn’t given up on the male co-pilot, whose face she appeared to be devouring. So, Lorry tried to maintain polite small talk at least while she kept an anxious eye on Gaya.

The female’s responses had that ‘I hope you’ll not be here very soon’ sort of tone, but she didn’t seem ready to pry herself out the couch, either. She remained where she sat, cross-armed and sighing annoyedly while her partner struggled in Fly’s lap for leverage in their tongue-wrestling contest.

Then Lorry saw Gaya moving toward the door, a shorter man in tow. Lorry smiled – he seemed her usual type of score, though he had bad taste in hats.

Gaya caught her eye and discretely flashed, “five and follow”. Lorry blinked in response.

“Well.” Lorry nodded at the woman next to her. “I suppose we’d better settle with the bar. It was a pleasure, Cap Naaka. Fly?”

The co-pilot kissed Lorry on the cheek with only the requisite courtesy, but smiled brightly when Lorry stood and she was able to spread out on the cushion.

“Fly?”

Fly had rolled the male beneath her, and looked like she might mount him right there in the shadows of the cantina. She still hadn’t broken the liplock she had on his face.

“Fly!”

Finally the Brute looked up, leaving a red-faced, panting, and very pleased man half-dissolved on the couch beneath her. “Now?”

“Now.”

“Hmph.” Fly tousled the male co-pilot’s hair with claw-sharp gloves and stood. “Cap Ono. It was a pleasure.”

“Ah… yes.” He straightened on the couch, glancing over at his partner as he made himself more presentable. “A pleasure.”

Fly smoothed the wrinkles in her ‘Skin. “I left a card with my mailing box in your jacket, Capatin. Leave me a message if you’re in my zone. Maybe we can play that game you were describing.”

The co-pilot kept guilty eyes from his partner as the Brutes walked away.

Fly furrowed her brows at Lorry, crossing her arms tightly as they reached the pay-station and Lorry inserted her cash box. “I was winning allies. Nearly there. Another few minutes and he would have named the ship after me.”

Lorry shook her head and she settled with the station. She tipped to the percent, and the station dinged in response. Lorry tucked the conveyor away again. “Five and follow, Fly. Let’s make sure she doesn’t get out of range.”

Fly frowned, but followed Lorry out of the cantina.

Chapter 1:

- Prologue 1

- Prologue 2

“CHANDIER”

• Blackbie Centralized Communications Mining Colony E348-3
• B.C.C. population: 57,825
• Value at last appraisal: §89,773B

Scene

Space wobbled. It was a beginning.

Spirit begat Mind, and Mind begat Form. First came the stars. Brilliant loci of light and energy, radiant evangelists of Creation, anchors of the warrior souls – they nurtured the void, and in time, with patience, they bore fruit.

Form, the artful expression of Mind, itself begat mind. Spirit rejoiced, and declared that it was a Beginning, indeed.

The Universe was as stable and peaceful a place as it had ever been. The last war had been just that.

After the collapse of the Boundary, all of the prophecies had been proven true. The Fates were in retirement. The finely tuned complexes of social order that balanced power among the sentient species had been more than upset; they had been shattered. Countless species rejoiced; countless rent their flesh in terror.

Man had overthrown the dominion of the supremals wherever they had been interested enough to bother, but they had escaped the temptation to replace them. The children of Adam were more interested in commerce, invention, and discovery than slaving. Their empires did not need slaves to thrive. They needed room.

Scene

Space wobbled. It was the preface of things to come, a transfer of energies and mass.

A blue and white speck sleep-danced in loops and swirls through the void, absently humming her part in the Perpetual Canticle. The ice planet basked as she rolled slow circles around her sun. Yellow light washed over the rippled surface of frozen oceans and refracted into rainbow compositions few eyes ever saw; they were the planet’s private consolation. Ripe white clouds of every type and texture wandered the atmosphere, signs of a climate just rich enough to support a sparse native ecology. In one coastal basin on the southwestern arc of the planet’s smallest continent, a non-native ecosystem of metal and plastics and ceramics had sprung up almost overnight. The small mining colony of Chandier recorded its founding date with much celebration and all of the expected hooplah. The colony expanded, and various peripheral ecosystems developed in its shadow.

Many miles above the surface, the sparkling green wink of the nav-beacon on the fixed-orbit station marked the passing of the seconds, days, and years with pleasant regularity.

Man came first to Chandier simply because it was in between here and there.

They didn’t know and didn’t care about her history. They didn’t know of her allegiances in the Wars of Consumption or of her Poetry denouncing her mortal foes. They didn’t know of her retirement-in-exile, of her sacrifice to stillness, to silence, to service, to bask in the distant love of her hearth star. Like most self-stilled Minds, she had intended herself for Life, and was seeped in her own Life-blood: Water. Water, the Active Humor of the Incarnate-Planet-Goddess, was the manifestation of her gaia and the cord-blood of the Life she birthed.

But Chandier (and we must agree to call her Chandier, for her true name was lost long ago) was ill-fated in the choice of her hearth star. Whether through poor health or some forgotten treachery, the star had cooled and no longer smiled on the planet with strength enough to keep her blood flowing. So, amidst the worried dreams of the sleeping planet, all but the hardiest of her species succumbed to ice.

Man returned to Chandier a dozen years later, after data collected statistically had been processed singularly, and the computer in charge told them she was a likely source of diatherine. She had, in fact, a particular intersection of crust plates and coastal cliffs where the probable success of a mine warranted further investigation. First came the budgetary meeting, followed by orbiters, landers, probes, drones, expeditions, and at last a formal contract and a mining colony. The computer had predicted as much net as three-tenths of a cubic decimeter of diatherine, and probably no less than seventeen-hundredths. Any amount in between would be dividended by the shareholders.

Diatherine, of the resources Man desired, was both the most tenuous and the most valuable. It had a nasty habit of melting to simple sugars and dirty water at temperatures so low that the water would instantly refreeze. This was particularly frustrating for Man, who wanted to drive enough energy through each crystacule to boil tungsten. Further, diatherine was produced exclusively as a result of organic compounds suspended in ice, subjected to microKelvin temperatures and teraPascal pressures (which of course are nearly always mutually exclusive) But diatherine had been the only solution to the Extra-Boundary Problem. Man had all the energy and desire they needed to move beyond the watchful eye of their own star, but their science and maths had stuck them with the practical problem of light-speed communication, and even slower travel. And light, amenable as it was, could not be persuaded to hurry.

When the theocrats of Ohida – the scientists – first cracked the diatherine crystacule, they were hoping to reveal a source of power. What they found instead was the opposite: inter-atomic stability. Within the crystal-like matrix of the super-tight, inwardly-stacked hydrocarbons and hydroxides was a type of bond previously mythologized between matter and anti-matter – a bond that created “spooky” action at a distance. This meant that a pseudo-electric charge acting on one half of a correctly-split diatherine molecule would instantly align the electrons in the other half as well, no matter the physical distance between the two halves!

Man, always ingenious and industrial, was able to parlay this advantage into the fields of circuitry, weaponry, and – most importantly – transportation.

And Man, who could now traffic data and material beyond the speed of light, found more room in the Universe than they could ever need.

Chapter 2:

- Snow Crash

- The Ascension of Souls

Scene

Space wobbled, and an inertial bubble flashed out from the end of its diatherine ray.

The bubble filled from the center with plasmatic energy, which arced and spat and popped and finally coalesced to produce a ship. The ship was sleek and fast – in form it was a racing yacht, but in execution it was unflashy and unmarked. Paired slip engines on stand-off stalks dominated its otherwise tear-drop shape. Slips were unusual, but what extra they cost in operation and risk, they exchanged for speed and no vapor trail – perfect for a pirate vessel.

The pilot had put the ship in great peril by carrying momentum into the bubble. Maneuverers fired madly to stop the forward drift, and where the particles in the thrust exhaust encountered the bubble wall, they flared in unchained nuclear fissions. But these disruptions hastened the decay of the bubble, and as soon as a large enough hole appeared, the slip engines striped up and charged. The ship lunged forward, courting disaster again as it rolled through the vacillations of the unstable opening. One engine nearly brushed against the shrinking remnants of the bubble.

A moment later, the bubble exploded.

“She was already out of the bubble before the shot arrived, Sir. I can still ping her, but she’s toward the edge-of-range.”

“Damn her!” Capatin Ti gripped the arms of her chair; she had nearly floated out of it in the excitement. She slipped the restraints over her thighs.

Hunda Ti was tall and lean, with sharp, dark features and an ageless face. As always (even when she was not carrying civilians) she wore Turnbell Red’s navy uniform and her stripes of rank. On Red 2, there were only the ship, the crew, and the Capatin. No matter their franchise, Leftenins were decidedly crew. Capatin Ti did not delegate decisions, only labor. She knew she was Turnbell Red’s fittest commander. Red 1 was, after all, a pleasure cruiser.

Around the Capatin – above, below and to the sides – a crowded bridge crew held their collective breath. All eyes fixed on the main screen bowl that filled the forward wall. Within the bowl, a small yellow dot wandered up and to the left. The dot flickered and beeped questioningly, all the while growing fainter. Suddenly the dot turned red, and four angry arrows converged around it. A steady voice at a terminal in the back corner of the bridge declared, “Target lock.”

“Tracing guns, fire!” The Capatin leaned forward in her chair, to the limits of her restraints. “Full engine vector on Target; Helm, give maneuverers to Finder!”

Directly behind the Capatin and disturbingly out of her view came another voice – even more disturbingly, a male voice. It warned from the shadows, “This will be your last chance to capture her, Capatin.” Her rank was a dirty word on his lips. “Do not think we will be fortunate enough to spot jump her a second time.”

“Fire it all, girls! Gunners, send the tracers’ solutions as the target. I want every tube empty before we lose the lock! Finder, only switch to the tracer’s solutions if we lose the lock!” The Capatin turned over her shoulder toward the voice. “She won’t be jumping a second time.”

The unmarked yacht slid through space at full acceleration, racing silently toward the dark side of Chandier. Maneuverers fired corrections to angle the ship at the distant winking green nav-beacon floating above the planet’s surface. Just behind the arc of that beacon would be the optimal path to sling quickly around the planet, placing it between the yacht and her pursuer.

Trailing by nearly a hundred kilometers of darkness, the glowing gases of an exploded jump bubble were fading into a gentle halo.

Behind that loomed the angular hulk of the russet-tinted battleship. It was shaped like a giant saw-toothed straight-wing – long and narrow between the sides to edge through a standard jump ring, but maximizing the forward weapons face. It could only just navigate an atmosphere.

The battleship was in attack position, its engines on either end of the wing partially eclipsing the thrust cones behind them, its hardened weapons bays opening like a hundred hungry mouths. Microfighters were blistering to the surface above and below the wing. They anxiously waited for the battleship to complete acceleration, so they could hop off with minimal wasted fuel.

The whole threatening display, nothing more than faintly-colored lights in an inky backdrop to the escaping yacht, was lost as the battleship’s weapons bays blossomed in bright yellow and white.

The yacht dropped into an immediate evasive routine. Maneuverers induced a yaw, and the slip engines obligingly threw the ship off-course. It spun, and the slips began pulsing randomly, playing with the vector. Ancillary drives added lateral thrust, tossing it to the side. The ship tumbled erratically, off its path toward the fixed-orbit station and but even more directly toward the planet, where a diatherine rail would not be risked. The ship’s original path lit up as tracing rounds streaked through empty vacuum.

The yacht juked again, but the second volley of tracers was well-aimed – two glowing rounds buried themselves in the starboard engine casing. A thin, milky mist of vapor began to trail in a swirling spiral behind the ship, like blood in water. The vapor-sniffing predators were not far behind; torpedoes had swarmed from the battleship in an ever-growing random spread, maximizing their joint angular coverage.

The yacht fully reverse-striped both slips in hopes of a desperate escape, but it was too late. First one torpedo, then another and another struck the engine near the breach. Rather than explode on impact, they burst open and spattered a thick, sticky liquid over the ceramic skin of the ship. Where it stuck, the torpedo guts dissolved the ceramic, and soon the starboard engine casing was riddled with black-ringed holes. More torpedoes angled for the ship, suiciding even at a distance if their solvers told them they would not achieve their target.

Within seconds the starboard slip was dead, and the ship’s spin was out of control, accelerated by the still-working port engine. The ancillary thrusters fired in automatic stabilization patterns, but the ship was moving too quickly, and into the gravity well of the planet. The starboard slip was jettisoned none too soon; scarcely had it been flung off into the ether than it erupted in a broiling cloud of purples and blues. The casing and machinery of the engine did not become shrapnel – they were rendered mathematical.

Faster the ship fell, arcing more directly toward the planet, until it disappeared into the swirling upper layers of white storm clouds.

Once again, the bridge of the battleship was silent, except for the muted notes of the control station monitors and beeps of the again-yellow dot. Thirty or so breaths were cautiously held, while the Capatin, her restraints now abandoned, floated toward the main screen bowl. The yellow dot froze near one edge of the bowl, so the monitor homed in on it. It had cuddled up to the disk of the planet. A Gunner near the top of the room wavered, “98% chance of hit on that last salvo, Sir. Likely main engine breach.”

The Capatin’s eyes flicked from the Gunner back to the screen bowl as the yellow dot began to blink.

A dispassionate voice from the Finders’ corner of the bridge declared, “Losing ping. Enabling gravity lens.” The dot turned white, then disappeared at the edge of the disk. The same Finder stated flatly, “She’s lost.”

“What!” The Capatin twisted mid-air and kicked off of the top of a harness post toward the Finder. She floated up behind her chair and stared over her shoulder at her screen. “She couldn’t have gone behind the planet that quickly.”

“No,” said the blank-faced Finder, who did not look up from her monitor. “Into it.” She thumbed a flat dial, and the screen cycled through displays. “See? That blue line is the outline of a storm. She went directly into the leading edge.”

“How bad is the storm?”

“Bad, Sir. Not flyable. We have no yellow penetration.”

The Capatin drifted away from the Finder and hooked one of the spanning struts to angle herself back to her command chair. On her way she directed the aide perched above the seat, “I want three squads of airships following behind the storm. As soon as it clears, we pounce.”

Beyond the aide, the Comm station blinked. The Comm officer raised her voice. “The Planet hails, Sir! They demand immediate cessation and return hail.”

In the shadow behind her command chair, the male voice said, “Your last chance, Capatin.”

Hunda Ti squinted into the shadows, about to protest, but a door slid open and shut, and the man was gone.

The yacht spun wildly through the white-wet gusts and roaring winds as it streaked toward the surface of the planet. The ceramic hull glowed faintly as an odd leading edge caught the atmosphere and flipped the ship, sending it tumbling in a new direction. There was a flash of light, and the remaining slip drive, long since a hindrance, was blasted free to leave matching nubby standoffs as fins. Still the minor thrusters and maneuverers were firing, trying to reduce the spin, but they were of little use – a patchily visible landscape of broad white swatches and huge, broken boulders rushed upward through the blizzard.

Before it hit the ground the yacht flashed again, and another piece – a circular sliver – separated from the ventral bulge and blasted upward and away. Then the hull smashed into the snow, throwing up a blizzard of its own to contend with the assault from the sky, while the ship’s tail, which had snapped off, skipped over the snow and shattered against an outcropping. Jagged chunks of ceramics whizzed through the air in every direction. Blue and purple flashes momentarily lit the snow as the port slip foil ruptured in the distance. Even through the blizzard, the noise was tremendous.

A second later - and a safe hundred meters from the main crater – the circular sliver swooped down through the wind, glanced off a boulder, and sliced into a deep snow patch. It listed on its side, half-buried.

The snow thrown up by the crash disappeared into the flurries, and even the smoke billowing from the twisted hull was battered and ripped to wisps by the wind. The storm howled, furious at the attempted upstaging, and blew even harder.

There was a muffled blast from the sliver in the snow, and a round hatch door popped off and skittered several feet away. A semi-viscous dampening gel, now thinning to liquid, poured out of the hatch, carrying with it standard escape vehicle flotsam. The snow melted before it, and a stream cut its way downhill through the white blanket. Liquid continued to splash over the lip of the escape hatch, and even while it dwindled to a trickle, shapes began moving inside the sliver.

Two large figures crawled out of the hole and fell to the wet ground below. A third, smaller, tumbled after them, and immediately clamored to her feet. Coughing up the dampening gel, she stumbled into the drifts, wading toward the wreckage of the ship.

The hull creaked and began to sag, but the smaller woman came on. She had made it nearly a dozen meters toward the wreck when she was snagged and yanked back by one of the larger women. On cue, the wreck twisted and groaned and collapsed on itself with a great crash. The two larger women held the third tight in the lee of the sliver, and her howls matched the blizzard’s.

Scene

Two souls ascended through the blizzard, barely aware of it. They were laughing, and racing each other away from the planet. Neither the pilot nor the copilot worried about their crash; it was already a dim memory, and the nagging concern for their passengers had faded. The pilot gained the lead as the souls disappeared into the ether, fixed on the embrace of their homestar.

The planet continued her dance around her sun, vaguely aware of recent happenings and unconcerned by it all. The blizzard, fickle as it was, grew bored with its devastation and scattered off in different directions to draw patterns in the snow. Three figures – two large and carrying bags on their backs, one smaller and trailing by meters – trekked across the sparsely-wooded, snow-drenched hill slopes, all but invisible in their every-weather parkas.