ANOTHER GIRL, ANOTHER PLANET

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ANOTHER GIRL,

ANOTHER PLANET

Martin Day and Len Beech

First published in Great Britain in 1998 by

Virgin Publishing Ltd

Thames Wharf Studios

Rainville Road

London W6 9HT

Copyright © Martin Day and Len Beech 1998

The right of Martin Day and Len Beech to be identified as the Authors of

this Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Bernice Summerfield was originally created by Paul Cornell

Cover illustration by Fred Gambino

ISBN 0 426 20528 6

Typeset by Galleon Typesetting, Ipswich

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Mackays of Chatham PLC

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real

persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade

or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the

publisher‟s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other

than that in which it is published and without a similar condition

including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

My thanks and gratitude to Martin Day for introducing me to

Benny and suggesting the project. Thanks also to my long-

time friend Laurence Sumeray for co-ordination skills, his

bag of goodies and a love of guanacos and related camelids;

to Sue Baddiley, Dave Brawn, Barry and Heather B. and to

John Little for info and SW tazo 24; to Ben Leech, Phillipa

Stephens (don‟t call me babe!), and especially to Steve

Bowkett, whose intelligent and lively contribution made this

book half possible.

Dedicated to Jon Pertwee, whose hand I was proud to shake

just two weeks before he moved higher up and farther in.

LB

Thanks to (random order) Trina, Elsa, Ben, Audra, Mark,

Felicia, Paul, Dave, Gary G., Jac, Keith, Gary R„ Helen, Andy,

Lisa, Judi and Steve, for a party I won‟t forget in a hurry, and

to everyone at or behind the scenes of Gallifrey Nine; to

Helen, for bravely letting me go (without whom, etc.); to Mum

and Dad, Pete W„ Sarah (and Phil), Marianne (and Colin), for

practical and material help; to Paul and Keith (X-treme

patience (groan)); to Time Team for making „research‟ such

fun; to Roland Barthes, Julian Cope, The Lover Speaks and

the Only Ones; and to Steve Bowkett, John McLaughlin and

Simon Winstone.

Dedicated to Lisa Gaunt, Felicia O‟Sullivan and Audra

McHugh. You know why.

MD

[START]

The statue of embracing lovers was the colour of a burning

sunset, marbled with filigree shadows of burnished gold.

Deep blue water cascaded over entwined hands, urgently

pressed lips, eyelids closed in adoration.

Visitors circled the square, seemingly ignorant of the

fountain at the centre. Only Assan sat at the feet of the

lovers, familiar and comfortable with their passion, staring

into their abandoned faces as flecks of cooling water ran

down his neck. He revelled in the honesty of the carving – the

almost touchable texture of the skin, the hinted-at muscle

and bone beneath, the florid flush that seemed to grip the

couple‟s cheeks and torsos - and the timid embarrassment it

engendered in those who averted their eyes and quickly

passed by.

For Assan, his weekly supplication at the feet of the

statue was something to be enjoyed, a brief release from

the constraints and demands of the project. The obsession of

his colleagues knew no bounds, bar the ultimate sacrifice,

the final step into the unknown that scared them all. In every

other regard the negotiators had so lost a sense of self, of

individuality, that Assan thought they were in danger of

ceasing to exist, of becoming mere machines. Only Assan,

and his beloved Kaygish, held on to life in all its fullness.

It was beneath the statue that Assan felt truly alive, truly

at one with his emotions and passions and fears. Here he

was able to watch the sun glinting on the fountain water and

the shattered rainbows that danced over the faces of the

people that passed. To them, he was an anonymous young

man, enjoying the fine weather and the hubbub of the city.

No one would recognize him as a negotiator or would have

guessed the vital nature of the work he did. Even Kaygish,

the project‟s leader and public face, was able to achieve a

degree of anonymity in the shadows of the embracing

lovers.

Assan was fully alive, and the teasing excitement, the

nervous anticipation, was part of the pleasure.

But not today. Something was wrong.

He closed his eyes for a moment, striving to analyse his

thoughts. There had been nothing in Kaygish‟s behaviour

recently to indicate that her feelings for him had cooled,

although it was difficult to be certain, as they spent most of

their time together in formal meetings with their cold, emo-

tionless colleagues. And Assan was sure his own behaviour -

and certainly his incandescent passions and desires - were

unchanged. What, then, was the source of the depression

that had gripped him this morning?

It was irrational paranoia, the natural insecurity of a lover,

heightened by his fears for the project and its implications

for his entire world.

It had to be. He prayed that it was.

Kaygish came towards him through a crowd of fevered

traders, a self-conscious grin of apology on her face. And

how beautiful she was, her blonde hair cut short to frame her

features, her eyes bright with impish grace. Every time

Assan saw Kaygish it was as if he was seeing her for the first

time.

She did not relax into his embrace, her features softening.

Instead, she held him tightly, awkwardly. And in that

moment, Assan knew that he was right.

„We need to talk,‟ she murmured.

They walked in silence from the square. Kaygish allowed

Assan to hold her hand, lightly, as if a last concession to the

past.

They found a seat by the river. Assan‟s senses were

heightened by his hurt, the wood and stone beneath his legs

feeling alive with the sun‟s warmth. He watched the water-

fowl dancing and diving on the choppy surface of the water,

blissfully ignorant of events on the bank. Ignorant of the

fact that Assan was already dead, and that only an outer

shell remained.

Assan wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Anywhere.

„This can‟t go on,‟ Kaygish said simply.

„But..,‟ Assan paused. But what? How could he tell her

that his life had no meaning without her? If she didn‟t

realize that then their entire relationship had been a tired

sham, a fiction of Assan‟s own invention.

Kaygish reached for the small knapsack. She always

brought it with her, and it was usually crammed full of bits

of old bread and animal fat bought at the market. Assan let

his fingertips brush against the bag, as if he could touch her

through it.

Kaygish sat and fed the birds, looking anywhere but

into Assan‟s eyes. If she had shed tears over her decision,

it had been some time ago. Cold logic enveloped her

now.

„What have I done wrong?‟ Assan wanted to know.

„You‟ve done nothing wrong,‟ she said, a hint of anger in

her voice. Perhaps she was angry at herself, for allowing it

to end like this.

„I can‟t believe this is happening.‟

Kaygish shrugged. „I‟m sorry... But it is important that we

clear up these matters. There is still much work to be done.‟

„Damn the work!‟

Kaygish sighed, ignoring Assan‟s outburst. „The project still

needs you.‟

„No,‟ said Assan, with spiteful finality. „Don‟t you under-

stand? It was you I fell in love with. Not the project.‟

„But you have put so much time - so much of yourself -

into our negotiations. To pull back now, to work elsewhere,

would be to deny yourself. To deny your people!‟

Assan stared with unfettered contempt at the men and

women who passed. How could they even begin to guess

that their futures, their fate, lay in the hands of the lovers

arguing on the bench overlooking the river?

„Damn them all,‟ he said. „The decisions we have taken

have been yours. I‟ve merely given your ideas substance. I

have merely obeyed.’

„It wasn‟t like that.‟

„No? Well, there‟s only one course of action open to me

now.‟

„You cannot... You should not be the first.‟

„A sign of trust between our peoples. They said they

needed a volunteer.‟

„But the unknown...‟

„The unknown no longer scares me,‟ he said. And he was

right. Even death, in that irrational instant, seemed

preferable to the half-life that he was about to return to.

Kaygish seemed almost shocked by the absence of fear in

Assan‟s eyes. Perhaps alone of his race, he was prepared, in

that instant, to stare into the pit of the unknown and not

flinch.

„I had better go,‟ she said, getting to her feet. „There is

much to do.‟

„Indeed there is,‟ Assan replied with stiff formality.

Kaygish reached out to hold Assan one last time. And he

knew nothing but tears.

Minutes turned to hours. Assan found himself back at the

lovers‟ fountain, feeling alone in the teeming, happy city.

The shadows stretched and branched as the light of the sun

gave way to the glow of the twin moons, and the lovers

were transformed. The male figure was now forcing himself

upon the woman, choking her cries for help into silence

with his own lips. Her fingernails, deep in her lover‟s palm,

were tiny daggers. Her arched back was an expression of

disgust, not ecstasy.

The faces of the people walking past the fountain were

alive with expectation, with a sense of carnival. But the

foolish innocents, fed whatever scraps Kaygish felt were

appropriate, knew only that they were not alone in the

cosmos, and that the future was bright.

No one even stopped to enquire why the young man, who

had seemed so happy earlier in the day, was now sobbing

beneath the statue.

Assan watched the shadows lengthen across the square.

Assan volunteered before he could change his mind. The

outsiders were delighted that a member of the negotiating

body would be the first to leave their world behind - the

first to escape from its gravitational pull, and be able to hold

his hand over the entire disc of the planet, blotting every-

thing out.

Yes, he was looking forward to that moment. To annihilate

the world: his work, the city, his past life.

Her.

There was nothing to do but wait. Assan could not bear to

see Kaygish again, so he walked through the empty shell of

his life in enforced patience. He stared at the walls. He

stared at the people making romantic gestures in the cafes.

He stared at the shape of the river, and watched the arcing

trails of bats in the glittering twilight.

A hundred years seemed to pass, a hundred years of

emptiness. And then, at last, it was time for him to leave.

Assan saw Kaygish‟s face everywhere as he walked through

the crowds for the last time. A glance, a murmured phrase, a

glimpse of golden hair or the sound of laughter. It was almost

too much to bear.

Finally he came to the antiseptic room that marked the

divide between his old life and the new and unknowable one.

The outsiders welcomed him warmly, and promised him

much.

Assan didn‟t care. He wanted only release.

He sat in numb silence as the vessel prepared for

departure.

They had just started their ascent when other craft

appeared. Through the window they resembled a swarm

of black flies alighting on a fresh corpse.

Assan‟s world was a shining gem in the ebony sky by the

time the screaming started.

TRACK 1

CODED MESSAGES,

POISON LETTERS

Letter from Lizbeth Fugard to Bernice Summerfield

(Private)

H i , Benny. Thanks for the latest note/complaint/

dissertation, complete with attachments. My screen nearly

died trying to get to grips with it all. So much for my state-of-

the-art equipment.

Ha! State-of-the-art! You should see what I‟ve got access to

at the dig. A full range of sonic and resistance plotters, the

latest digger drones, and more processing power than

youcould shake a corpse pole at. The „troops‟ have even got

new brushes and shovels!

It‟s going OK, thank you for asking (sarcasm). We‟re

making good progress on one of the main mines; less so a

processing plant some five kilometres further south. The

underlying rock is very unstable there. One false move

andthe whole lot will come tumbling down. You should see

the strata, though - it looks like a Gut Bar.

(Which reminds me, I‟m starving. I must get some chocleine

when I finish this.)

I tell you, it‟s weird doing something where I‟m not thinking

about funding the whole time. I‟ve got all the equipment I

could wish for, and more volunteers than I know what to do

with. I‟m not entirely sure how willing they all are, but I‟ve

weeded out the clumsiest, and am keeping faith with those

who can tell their silicrete fragments from their elbows.

Oh, I‟m looking forward to all that „post-split‟ music

you‟ve promised. I‟m listening to nothing but Pachar opera

at the moment, and it‟s driving me crazy.

Bye.

Letter ends

Bernice awoke to the sound of driving rain, which was

normal, and great and loud movement about the college,

which was not. Feet splashed through endless Dellahan

puddles beyond her window, and voices cried out in a

bewildering array of accents and inflections.

Odd. It was dark enough to be the middle of the night.

„Rector!‟

The artificial voice drilled into her mind like a spiteful

dentist. Was it Bernice‟s imagination, or did Joseph, her

porter, sound almost shocked? Surely he - it - had no

business disturbing her yet?

„Rector!‟

With Herculean effort, Bernice pulled her face from the

pillow. Immediately she squinted against the light that

flooded into her eyes. „Uwwww,‟ she groaned.‟ Wattimcissit?‟

„Two thirty p.m.,‟ announced Joseph.

Now that her eyes were becoming used to the brightness,

Bernice realized that the darkness had been that of the pillow

into which she had collapsed, face down. She stared at the

floral material, dumbfounded. It maintained the canyon-like

imprint of her slumbering head, complete with meandering

river of saliva that had crept from her open, and doubtless

snoring, mouth.

Bernice wiped her chin. Goodness but sleep could be a

messy business.

The small white sphere darted around the room with

obvious agitation. „You appear to have “dropped off”. If you

remember, you told me not to disturb you while you “digested

the wisdom of the greats”.‟ Joseph paused before delivering

the hammer-blow with impeccable timing. „I trust you dined

well, Rector.‟

„Oh ha-bloody-ha,‟ grumbled Bernice. Truth be told, she felt

worse now than she had before her nap. That was the

problem with sleeping during the day: to a tired body it

seemed to offer much, but it delivered little bar a pounding

headache and a complete sense of bewilderment.

Bernice bent down to retrieve the book she had been

reading. It had fallen into a knotted pile of tights on the floor.

Bernice struggled to recollect what had happened: she had

started the book in the comfortable chair near the window,

and then made her way towards the bed. She‟d held the

bulky volume over her face at first, so that if she dozed it

would bring her back to consciousness with a rap on the

nose; then - and this was the point of no return - she‟d rolled

over on to her side. She began skipping over paragraphs of

text, her mind drifting, and ended up struggling to re-read an

entire section on the limitations of the technology that

underpinned the rise and fall of geophysical archaeology. Her

eyelids kept sliding shut like security shutters over shop

windows.

She remembered nothing more until Joseph had buzzed

into her bedroom, an indignant and disapproving worker

bee striving to wake its queen.

Bernice struggled to her feet, trying desperately to smooth

away the creases from her crumpled clothing. Her skin felt

rather lived-in as well.

I‟m turning into something very baggy and uncared for,

like a despised jumper, thought Bernice. Turning into?

queried a mocking voice.

Damn. Even her inner insecurity was starting to sound

like Joseph.

„I need to get out more,‟ she announced loudly.

„Rector?‟

„Metaphorically speaking.‟ Bernice paused. „No, literally,

too.‟ She reached out for the little round porter, but it spun

backwards, wary of physical contact, especially from Bernice.

And anyway, you couldn‟t very easily put a Please be honest

with me arm around a spherical drone. „Joseph,‟ she asked

with a weary sigh, „am I getting older, or are my pupils

getting younger?‟

„Your eyes, Rector?‟

„My students, Joseph. I used to thrive on late nights,‟ she

said, walking over to the window. People were running past,

in the direction of Goodyear College, their capes flying

against the steady drizzle.

„I ought to remind you that you have a tutorial in twenty

minutes, Rector,‟ stated Joseph.

„I know.‟ Bernice stared through the window until the

water droplets on the glass and the image beyond became an

unfocused blur.

„And I have compiled the music you wished to send to Ms

Fugard.‟

„No compression?‟

„I followed your instructions to the letter. Although I still

maintain the improved capacity of digital compression more

than compensates for the five per cent aural degradation...‟

„Five per cent? Joseph, you arc a philistine. Have you ever

listened to Relik in real-time? Compression would ruin the

haunting simplicity of their work.‟

„Indeed,‟ said Joseph, although he sounded less than

convinced.

„And you put it all down in the order I asked for?‟

„But of course,‟ said Joseph, sounding hurt. But Bernice

knew better. Once she‟d wanted all her favourite, most

miserable pieces of music on a single storage bead for ease of

access, and Joseph had insisted on ordering the songs

chronologically. Now, where was the fun in that?

„I still maintain that the Pachelbel is a somewhat hack-

neyed choice -‟

„Joseph,‟ interrupted Bernice, a stern note of warning in

her voice.

„And I could only find the song you requested by the

Verve on one of your bootleg Digital Audio Tapes from the

early 2000s. I can‟t say I approve of the language, either.‟

„ Joseph.‟

‘And as for your selections from Outta My Way Monkey -

Boy and The Grey test Hips of Johnny Chess...‟

„Joseph!‟ snapped Bernice, sending the little drone

scurrying for cover. „That‟s enough. I just want to know that

you‟ve done it.‟

„But of course, Rector. You can send it with your next

message to Ms Fugard. I believe a transmission arrived from

Dimetos this morning.‟

Bernice had started corresponding with Lizbeth Fugard

some months previously. It hadn‟t been difficult to recognize

a kindred spirit: young female academics specializing in

archaeology weren‟t exactly thick on the ground. Having said

that, Bernice wasn‟t sure she counted as „young‟ any more.

Fugard, on the other hand, was still in her mid-twenties. And

drop-dead beautiful. Thankfully, Bernice was mature enough

not to give in to jealousy.

Not very often, anyway.

She strolled towards the screen in the main room. „Have

you been looking at my mail again, Joseph?‟ she queried.

„Only with your best interests at heart. Rector,‟ said the

drone, with what passed for an obsequious bow. „You

seemed... “Somewhat the worse for wear” when you awoke

this morning.‟

„You try getting through one of Dr Follett‟s intimate

soirees without the aid of alcohol or mind-numbing drugs.

Or a gas mask, for that matter.‟

Bernice ran through the expected Dellahan downpour, a

scarf at her throat to keep her warm and a plastic body suit

held over her head to ward off the worst of the rain. Even as

she did so, she shook her head against stem mental admoni-

tions to Wrap up warm or you’ll catch something and Make

sure you don’t get a chill on your chest, dear. It seemed that

centuries of matriarchal worry had now seeped into the

average Homo sapiens at the genetic level.

She dodged students and porters trying to escape the rain -

as if this wasn‟t how it was almost every single sodding (or

sodden) day on Dellah. Bernice pined for unobscured

sunsets, and snow, and fog, preferably all at the same time.

But whenever she went off-world, sampling a bedazzling

variety of climatic and meteorological conditions, she often

found herself feeling homesick for the drizzle of Dellah.

Homesick? Dellah is not your home, she scolded herself

firmly. You have no home.

A rounded portal, not unlike the entrance to an Inuit igloo,

offered sanctuary from the rain. Bernice paused, brushing

droplets of water from her sweater. She risked a glance at her

watch. Ten minutes late.

The door opened inwards with a resigned murmur, and

Bernice jogged down the corridor. She concentrated on the

comparative archaeological papers that would be most

appropriate to the subject at hand, and wondered if there

was an excuse she could offer that would seem at least partly

convincing.

She stopped outside the tutorial room.

„Sorry I‟m late,‟ she said, strolling in with feigned coolness.

„I got held up by -‟

The chamber was empty, though die haphazard jumble of

chairs around the central table spoke of recent occupancy.

Someone had left a message on the screen. Bernice triggered

playback with an impatient stab of her thumb.

„Benny? We‟ve decanted to the bar. Maybe we‟ll do the

tutorial there. OK?‟ The voice cut off with a low click.

„Bugger,‟ said Bernice, with feeling.

The man was surrounded by so much smoke that it was

difficult to tell where the tobacco smoke ended and his long

coat, the colour of a cold grey puddle, began.

The hand-rolled cigarette of „sub smouldered in a green

ceramic ashtray on the table in front of him; it seemed to

have been there for some time. His hands were a steeple in

front of his face, which floated in the black pool of shadow

cast by a shapeless hat and the turned-up collar of his coat.

He looked up the moment Bernice walked into the room,

glancing away only when she held his gaze and stared back.

The faintest flicker of a smile twisted his lips; he reached

down for his cigarette, and sucked in a great lungful of

smoke.

Bernice turned to the young man behind the bar. „You‟re

late for your tutorial,‟ he said, sounding only slightly less

stern than Bernice‟s head of department would have done.

„Bloody hell,‟ said Bernice, taken aback that her failings

were such public knowledge. „How‟d you know?‟

„Word travels fast,‟ said the man. „Especially in a bar. Your

group is over there, waiting for you.‟ He pointed; the students

were clustered around a small table, laughing furiously. One

of them saw Bernice at the bar, and waved enthusiastically.

A tiny triangular maintenance drone, fiddling with a broken

glo-bulb over the table, was forced to take evasive

manoeuvres.

Bernice ordered a drink. And then a second.

„I heard you were at Dr Follett‟s party last night,‟ said the

man.

Bernice grunted. „Is there anything you don’t know about

me?‟

„Oh, plenty. But it goes without saying you‟re one of the

most talked-about lecturers on campus.‟

„Thanks,‟ said Bernice, downing the whisky in one. „I think.‟

She glanced back towards the table where the students sat,

although she soon became distracted by the drone overhead.

With a loud crackle the glo-bulb started working again, and

the tiny pyramid dropped into the purple cocktail of a first-

year student. There was a loud hiss and what sounded like

gargling, drowned out by the cheers of the drinkers.

„I need to get out more,‟ she announced loudly, and then

remembered that she‟d only been back on Dellah for six

weeks.

„Sorry?‟ said the man behind the bar, distracted by the

drone‟s attempts to extricate itself from the glass.

„It doesn‟t matter,‟ said Bernice, picking up her remaining

drink and walking across the ale-stained floor of the Witch

and Whirlwind.

„But isn‟t there intrinsic value - and beauty - in any one

particular retelling of a myth?‟ one of her students wanted to

know.

„Of course,‟ said Bernice. „But that‟s not the point I‟m

making. All I‟m saying is that if your interest is the truth,

then your approach has to be comparative. It‟s the difference

between history and art.‟ She paused. The stranger in the

shadowy corner of the bar was getting to his feet and moving

towards the door. „For example,‟ Bernice continued, „if you

wanted to build up a clear impression of an accident

involving two vehicles and three pedestrians, you‟d get

statements from everyone you possibly could. But you

wouldn‟t expect all the stories to be the same, would you?

Some would blame the driver, others would place the blame

elsewhere. You might not even get agreement on the actual,

physical lm is. But sift all the reports, and somewhere at the

bottom is the truth.‟

„So,‟ said one of the others, „you‟re saying that when myths

purport to have a basis in historical actuality, the

contradictions between various retellings of the myth can be

as instructive as the areas of agreement?‟

„In a nutshell,‟ said Bernice. „Look at the legends of Robin

Hood. Two entirely different origin tales, with the hero hailing

from wildly different social strata. The reworking of legend

can be a political activity.‟

‘Propaganda and Myth,‟ stated the first student. „You‟re

quoting from your own paper.‟

„But of course,‟ said Bernice. „That‟s my point again. If

something‟s worth saying once, it‟s probably worth saying

again, but differently.‟

There were groans from around the table.

„So,‟ said Bernice brightly. „Whose round is it anyway?‟

When Bernice stepped out of the bar a man was waiting for

her. „Dimetos,‟ he said, without introduction. „Unusual place

for a holiday.‟

Bernice‟s eyes narrowed. It was the shadowy man from the

bar. His face looked indeterminately vague, even up close.

„I‟m not planning on going there.‟ Bernice paused, her hands

on her hips in what she hoped would be a defiant pose.

„Look, who are you?‟

The stranger seemed not to hear her question. Instead, he

lit a cigarette with great deliberation, and watched as the

smoke drifted up to the brick-coloured ceiling. „Still, I‟m told

the air is getting better all the time.‟

„And how do you know I‟m even remotely interested in

Dimetos?‟ queried Bernice, her usual tiredness turning into

a blunt irritation.

„You will be,‟ said the man, turning away without another

word.

Bernice swept into her room, swearing under her breath.

Joseph‟s sensors picked up every nuance of her irritation,

and he shrank back as if fearing her wrath. „Rector?‟ he

enquired meekly.

„I‟m not going to Dimetos, am I?‟ she asked - though in

truth, she made it sound more like a statement than a query.

„Well...‟ began Joseph, almost ducking behind a tatty

chaise longue.

„I mean, you‟ve not booked me a holiday or anything

without telling me, have you, Joseph?‟

„Of course not. Rector.‟

Bernice threw herself on to the couch with a great

expelled sigh of triumph. „Well, there you go, then! What

was that bloke on about?‟

„Bloke, Rector?‟ Joseph made a little clicking noise as he

ascended. He hadn‟t been quite himself recently.

„Oh, it doesn‟t matter,‟ said Bernice, but then she decided

that it did, and that she may as well tell Joseph. „Someone

mentioned Dimetos to me earlier this afternoon. It‟s as if he

knew that I‟m in touch with someone there.‟

„And the “bloke” in question is...?‟

„I don‟t know,‟ said Bernice. „I‟ve never seen him before.‟

„Well,‟ stated the Porter, „I said you weren‟t planning a

holiday to Dimetos, and I spoke truthfully, but very precisely

in the present tense. I fear your thoughts may change.‟

„But it‟s a dump, Joseph! If I‟m going to take a break,

that‟ll be the last place -‟

Joseph ascended imperiously. „There has been an

emergency communication, Rector. From Ms Fugard.‟ He

came to rest close to the screen. „I believe your presence is

required,‟ he announced.

Letter from Lizbeth Fugard to Bernice Summerfield

(Private and Encrypted - successfully decoded)

Benny. Can you come and visit? I know it‟s a long way. And

short notice, too. You see, I‟m being stalked. I‟m sure of it

now. I‟m very, very frightened, and I need a friend.

Please help me.

Letter ends

TRACK 2

FRAGMENTS FROM A

LOVER’S DISCOURSE

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

I should be used to this by now, right? I mean, I‟ve been all

over, through time and space. And yet I still don‟t think of

myself as a good traveller. Better to journey hopefully than to

arrive? Not for me, it isn‟t.

I‟m writing this in the hope that at least it will stop me

fidgeting.

It‟s only now, as I sit on the ship an hour or two into the

flight, that I can even begin to relax. It‟s not that the length of

the trip bothers me - plenty of time for reading and writing

and sleeping - or that I‟m one of those poor loonies who

spends the entire flight thinking about what would happen if

tire outer hull were breached and we‟d all be sucked out to

explode in the vacuum of space like so much overripe fruit

(change the subject, though, eh?). I suppose a lot of the

feelings that are rushing around my head come down to the

fact that I‟ve been thinking about nothing else for weeks:

once I know I‟m going somewhere, that‟s all I can think of,

and I can‟t sec past it. It‟s a black hole that pulls in light and

prevents me from seeing beyond, to the future. When I left,

one of my students said „See you in a couple of weeks‟, to

which I replied „Hopefully‟.

What on earth am I expecting to happen on Dimetos?

Nothing, is the answer. It‟s a lump of a world – my research

when I first got to know Lizbeth tells me that much. The

stranger was right about one thing - it‟s no place for a

holiday.

So why am I going? To help a friend? True, but I hardly

know her. We might loathe each other. Perhaps that‟s part of

the niggling unease I feel. It‟s too late now - I‟ve applied for

the leave, been granted it, and am now on the ship that‟ll

lake me there. But what do I know about this woman who I‟ll

be staying with? We share similar interests - but then hell

isn‟t just other people, it‟s being trapped in a room with your

best friends. If her letters arc any sign, she seems to have an

ability to grab life by the scruff of the neck, and shake what

she wants from it. (This is how people view me, but I‟m not

sure they‟re right. Only you, dear diary, see the real me. Or

something close, at least.)

Facts: Lizbeth Fugard has better (or at least more

legitimate) qualifications than I do. A while ago she changed

her area of specialization from ancient ruling powers to

recent industry. Now, that‟s weird - they‟re pretty much at

opposite ends of the spectrum. So what‟s going on there?

Then there‟s her personal life: steady boyfriend for years.

(Am I jealous? Discuss in not more than 2000 words, with

reference to... Oh, change the subject, Benny.) Married in all

but name. (I find myself wondering: what happened to her

youth? Is she familiar with one-night stands and eternal

parties and waking up in a pool of ale; or was it always „Alex

will be waiting at home with the meat and two veg, the pipe

and slippers‟? I need to know. Really.)

Then they suddenly split up. She‟s not given a reason - and

that‟s fine, we hardly know each other - but it puzzles me.

What makes a person change? Or - switching things around -

what makes them put up with the same old routine for years.

When do you begin to want out?

Routine... You could hardly say my time on Dellah – or

away from it, even - has been routine. Until her message

about the stalker, I was getting tired of Dellah, resentful of

the grinding routine of seminars and tutorials, of the fresh,

faces that seem so eager to learn but can be just as closed as

the books in front of them. And yet during the last few days,

as I‟ve been preparing to leave, I suddenly found myself

looking at the buildings as if for the last time, thinking of the

people I‟ll miss, the Witch and Whirlwind, Joseph. Even the

interminable rain.

And I have to ask myself again, what am I expecting to

happen on Dimetos? Not much. Maybe even a few scrapes.

But nothing out of the ordinary.

I notice I‟ve started fidgeting again. So much for the diary.

Extract ends

Post-It note over the above entry

Nice, relaxing trip. No problems. Not much to say.

Dimetos unfurled for the descending passenger craft like

petals from behind shrivelled leaves. As the ship came down

through the broiling clouds the barren grey rock gradually

gave way to pockets of terraformed soil and sprawling

buildings. Both had battled valiantly against the elements.

The city‟s numerous spires and towers of silicrete tore holes

in the prevalent mist, allowing the sun to shine.

Bernice was surprised. The capital - imaginatively called

Dimetos City - wasn‟t the shanty town she had imagined. It

was a tiny jewel, held in a cracked old hand of rock. Only the

lowest streets, far below her and in perpetual shadow, hinted

at the filth and poverty that she had expected. Elsewhere, the

sky was criss-crossed with walkways, on which stood tidy-

looking booths where neatly costumed men sold their wares.

The most luxurious apartments and shops towered overhead,

emporia and boudoirs of champagne-coloured metal and

endless, fluted sheets of glass.

Despite her expectations, the sky over Dimetos seemed

reasonably free of pollution. The days of thoughtless mineral

extraction were long gone; the authorities here were

concerned with other things now.

Beyond the city, it was as if the planet‟s surface was formed

from enormous slabs of rock gently pushing against each

other. Plate tectonic movement had forced up enormous and

precarious peaks of stone, and mountains seemed to simmer

with volcanic power.

There was a sonorous roar - not the rocks moving, but the

sound of the ship‟s landing rockets kicking in. The craft came

down through a gap in the buildings like a free-falling

elevator. Bernice forced herself to look through the window -

she‟d feel worse if she didn‟t - and saw a couple of sporty

one-person hover cars streak past.

It took her a moment to work out what was wrong with the

vehicles - they were flying upside down, with the protective

canopies drawn back. Their drivers were hanging downwards

like children at a funfair. The hover cars spun around each

other like amorous flies, narrowly avoiding a lumbering air

tanker that was shifting position - its indignant horn was

audible even over the sound of the retros on Bernice‟s ship.

Then the smaller craft darted upwards almost vertically.

Moments later a black-and-white-striped vehicle emerged

from its hiding place on the side of a building, and set off

after them, siren wailing.

„Kids,‟ came a voice from Bernice‟s side.

„Sorry?‟ Bernice turned. The woman next to her was

middle-aged, her expression pinched into something that

might have been mild disapproval or sly admiration. She‟d

been engrossed in a game of virtual Mah Jong for the entire

journey, and hadn‟t spoken before.

„More money than brain cells,‟ said the woman, with a half-

hearted smile.

She was built like a walrus, but Bernice was determined

not to hold that against her. Bernice indicated the city. „I

wasn‟t expecting such affluence.‟

„Affluence. Decadence. You‟ll find it all on Dimetos.‟ The

woman wore enough jewellery for Bernice to know that she

was talking from personal experience. „We‟re not as backward

as off-worlders might think.‟

Ah, thought Bernice. A local. „I‟ve not been to Dimetos

before,‟ she offered tentatively. „I just mean that it‟s no quite

what I expected.‟

„You don‟t have to dig too deep in Dimetos City to find

exactly what you expect,‟ commented the woman. She gave

another equivocal smile, and returned to the conclusion of

her game.

Bernice stared out of the window again. They‟d slowed to a

vertical crawl, and the interior of the tube-like structure

down which they were travelling was covered with adverts for

Gut Bars -‟Stop your tummy rumbling with a Gut‟ (charming)

- and nicotine substitute (bafflingly, now with added

nicotine).

Moments later they landed. The pilot told the passengers

that it was a beautiful day in Dimetos City, apologized for the

slight delay while in geo-stationary orbit, and advised that all

belongings be taken off the craft.

By the time Bernice looked up, having stuffed the books

and journals back into her rucksack, the ship was almost

empty.

Bernice saw Lizbeth Fugard standing close to the arrivals

gate, nervously surveying the flow of people into the

launchport proper. Bernice recognized Lizbeth instantly from

a picture she‟d sent as part of a recent communication it

pained Bernice to admit it, but it hadn‟t done her justice.

Startling blonde hair fell around the face of a mischievous

angel; her eyes were as wide and blue as those of a child

playing hide and seek. She wore torn denim trousers and

scuffed boots, as if she‟d just come from the dig, and a

thigh-length black coat over a cropped vest the colour of

over-washed smalls. A couple of gold rings pierced her navel:

one carrying a small red gem in the shape of a heart, the

other an ivory-pale skull.

Bernice extended her hand and her broadest grin. „Hi,‟ she

said, dropping her rucksack on to a service drone that had

obediently trundled up beside her. „Thanks for meeting me at

the port.‟

„Bernice,‟ said Lizbeth. Her smile seemed both relieved and

genuine. „Thanks so much for coming. I‟m very grateful. I

expect you could do with a drink.‟

„Actually, a bite to eat would be nice,‟ said Bernice. „I didn‟t

like the look of the last couple of meals on the flight.‟

Lizbeth nodded, and led the way towards a cafe at the far

end of the launchport that offered an excellent view of one of

the city‟s most thriving commercial sectors. A great blister-

shaped window extended overhead and underfoot; they found

a small table right at the end. It was like floating on air. The

drone dumped down Bernice‟s rucksack, and scurried back

towards the arrivals lounge.

Below them a walkway-cum-road stretched between two

great bulbous buildings whose pinnacles were invisible in the

haze that just diminished the glare of the sun. On one side of

the walkway was an apartment store, its opulent Irontage all

frosted marble and burnished gold. Bulky simian creatures,

roughly stuffed into archaic uniforms, watched as well-

dressed humanoids strolled through the doorways. One of

the doormen was arguing with a scruffy young man; Bernice

could make out what they were saying even from where she

was sitting, and it wasn‟t pleasant.

Across the street, the row of much smaller, specialized

shops were less choosy about the attire of their clientele. The

succession of humans and brightly plumed aliens that

streamed into the arcade of delicatessens and palmtop

supply outlets were more ready-to-wear than haute couture.

„I was saying to a charming woman I met on the trip

over,‟ said Bernice with brutal emphasis, „that Dimetos City

isn‟t quite what I was expecting.‟

„This is the bit the government wants people like you to

see,‟ observed Lizbeth with a smile. „Even so, it‟s difficult to

establish a new reputation for a place. Especially when for

centuries Dimetos really was a pimple on the backside of the

galaxy.‟

„But I get the impression that you quite like the place,‟

suggested Bernice.

„Oh, I do,‟ said Lizbeth. ‘Quite. It has its good side and -

though it‟s very shallow of me to think in those terms – most

of our sites are in those more affluent areas. You‟ll see what I

mean tomorrow. Anyway, it makes staying here that little bit

more enjoyable.‟

A spider-faced creature in an immaculate black suit glided

towards their table. He held a discreet voice-recording palm-

top in one hand - appendage - and a cavernous mouth broke

into what passed for a welcoming smile.

„Good evening. Are you ready to order?‟

Bernice plumped for a sushi starter made from Alphan rice

pods, followed by a Cardellen curry in the New Caledonian

style. „And lashings of lager.‟ Lizbeth chose a large Dimetan

dish whose chief ingredients Bernice recognized as fried,

diced sausage and mashed potato.

„Tell me about the man who‟s stalking you,‟ said Bernice

once the waiter had departed. There didn‟t seem to be any

point avoiding the issue.

For a moment, Bernice wasn‟t sure that the younger

woman had heard her. Lizbeth prodded at the menu, as if

having second thoughts about what she had ordered. It was

only when she finally started speaking that Bernice realized

that she had tilted the reflective surface of the palmtop so

that she could see who was seated behind her.

„He‟s difficult to describe. I‟ve never got a really good look at

him. He passes me in the street, and sometimes I don‟t even

know he‟s there until he‟s gone. This is going to sound so

paranoid, but I just know when he‟s around. And he watches

me, with these strange, sad eyes...‟

„When did you first notice him?‟

„Round about the time that Alex and I... split up.‟ The final

words, so light and inoffensive in their non-verbal

communications, sounded like a death sentence now.

„You think there‟s a connection?‟ probed Bernice gently.

Lizbeth shrugged. „Possibly. We fell out, said a few stupid

things. But, ultimately, I thought we‟d parted on good terms.

Best mates, you know? But I suppose he is prone to jealousy.

A while ago, there was one guy he thought was staring at my

breasts - smacked him in the face. Broke his nose and two or

three teeth.‟ Bernice tried to keep her face neutral, but

Lizbeth saw her shock and surprise. „Oh no,‟ added Lizbeth

hurriedly. „Alex was never violent towards me. It‟s just... Well,

I suppose he might have hired a Pink or someone to keep

tabs on me. Just to see if there‟s someone else in my life.‟

Bernice glanced up as their starters arrived. „Why did you

split up? I‟ve meant to ask you before, of course, but bounced

relay link is such a clumsy and impersonal way of

communicating...‟

Lizbeth‟s nervous fingers started pulling at a loose button

on her coat. „It‟s difficult to say,‟ she whispered, avoiding eye

contact. „Sometimes things happen that make you reassess

your life. Where you‟re going - or not, as the case may be.

With us - me - it was my miscarriage.‟

Bernice, fiddling with her chopsticks, almost dropped them

to the table. „I‟m sorry,‟ she said. I had no idea

„It was a while ago now,‟ interjected Lizbeth. „Time heals

most things, don‟t they say? I suppose I‟m over it now. I

wasn‟t very far gone - a few months, that‟s all. It didn‟t hurt

much - physically, I mean.‟ She looked up, and the

vulnerability of her startling blue eyes was almost shocking.

„It‟s quite common for women to lose their first... child. Does

it count as a child? I don‟t know. Anyway, when my mother

heard, she was very sympathetic. Said it had happened to

her.‟ With a tug the button she had been fiddling with came

free, nestling in Lizbeth‟s hand like a jewel. „All these years,

and she‟d never told me.‟

„I know what you mean,‟ said Bernice. „At least, in terms

of those big events. I was married once, you know. It all

went... pear-shaped.‟

„I didn‟t know that,‟ said Lizbeth. „I suppose there‟s a lot

we don‟t know about each other yet.‟ She paused, glancing

down at the floor. „I hope it doesn‟t bother you - me talking

about my miscarriage, when I hardly know you.‟

„Not at all,‟ said Bernice. „We need to be honest with

each other. Ah, look, our starters have arrived,‟ she added

brightly.

As the two women talked and ate their food, many people

passed by. Few glanced in their direction, their focus instead

on departure times or tax exempt shopping or the imminent

arrival of relatives from off-world.

Only one man regarded the table where the women sat

with anything more than idle curiosity. He stood in the

shadows of one of the launchport‟s main structural columns,

hands deep in pockets, eyes unblinking. His gaze spoke of

madness and terror and love.

Their meal completed, the two women got to their feet,

and made their way towards the exit. Not once did they

glance behind and see the dark man who was following

them.

Bernice and Lizbeth took a taxi back to Lizbeth‟s apartment.

The hover car that pulled up outside the launchport seemed

brand-new, the leatherite fabric recently cleaned, although

Bernice noticed that one small window towards the back

had been shattered.

A flat-screen drone hovered around in the back

compartment, showing constantly updated information on

the distance travelled, the current estimated time of arrival,

and, most importantly, their fare. Lizbeth explained that a

law had been passed recently which meant that the

passenger should always be aware of the likely charge, thus

making it more difficult for unscrupulous drivers and

operators to rip off their customers. That was fine, thought

Bernice, but the drone had an annoying habit of getting in

the way, especially when she wanted to look out of the

window. It was as if the little robot had been over-

programmed to constantly present the information. The end

effect was of a child striving for attention.

Bernice shooed the thing away from the transpex just as

the hover car plunged down into a darker area.

„Scenic route,‟ explained the driver, his voice crackling

over the intercom. „Everybody should get at least one good

look at Chinatown.‟

„Heard that one before,‟ muttered Bernice under her

breath. It seemed that the drivers had worked out other ways

of extracting extra money from unwary tourists.

Bernice glanced across at Lizbeth, but she seemed unaware

of the sudden alteration in their route. Her eyes were distant,

focusing not on the gaudy adverts and shop windows that

formed a kaleidoscope of splashed colours behind the win-

dow, but on something within herself.

Only a few days ago Bernice had noticed a student in her

tutorial whose eyes were inward-looking and empty. There

was a big grin permanently stitched across the bottom of his

face, and for a few minutes Bernice wondered if he was high

on something. Then she noticed that the student‟s hand -

as if unbidden - was scribbling intricate floral triangles

across his notepad. The young man was from Tivo, where

geometrical shapes had the same cultural resonance as car-

toon hearts did on Earth.

The boy was in love, and he couldn‟t help but trip on it.

Lizbeth Fugard, on the other hand, was reaping the dark

side of the process: the pain behind the eyes that follows

separation, the constant cold accusation of an empty bed and

an emptier soul. Not for the first time, Bernice wondered why

there wasn‟t a way of enjoying the first state of mind without

the inevitable come-down of the second. In that way, love was

very like an addiction, and if you were unlucky the cold

turkey would kill you. But then, what was the alternative?

Bernice had met people who refused to give anything of

themselves to their relationships, and they were as cold and

as depressing as the Dellahan rain.

And then she thought of Jason, and it was like fingering an

old operation scar, a daily ritual until the white line of

stitches finally fades from view. According to Terran

symbolism, the jagged arc should be somewhere between her

breasts, signifying the seat of her affections, but long ago -

and even during the good times they‟d shared together -

she‟d realized that all this affection and hatred and self-

loathing made itself known far lower. Love is a pain in the

guts.

She massaged her stomach. Either that, or the sushi was

disagreeing with her.

„So, what have you discovered at the digs?‟ she asked

suddenly, her voice splitting the silence like ice thrown into

water.

Lizbeth jerked away from the window, as if someone had

electrified the scat. „Sorry,‟ she babbled, clearly embarrassed.

„I was miles away. Not being a good host, am I? Um.‟ She

paused marshalling her thoughts. „The digs. Right. Well,

most of what we have found has confirmed a lot of recent

work, rather than launching us out into some new direction.

For instance, Kupple‟s position on EB‟s wholesale

assimilation of local architectural techniques has been

supported by a lot of the fragments we‟ve found. Obviously,

metallic infrastructure sections have survived a good deal

better than the other materials, but I think the case is

proven.‟ She paused. „You know, I get asked this sort of thing

a lot at social functions. It‟s so nice to be able to share this

without the other person‟s eyes glazing over.‟

Bernice smiled. She hoped her own weren‟t about to do

just that.

„It‟s a shame, but industrial archaeology really isn‟t very

exciting for the lay person,‟ continued Lizbeth. „Let me give

you an example. My favourite find so far has been a wooden

shower handle, which would have been used in the miners‟

communal area. Now, I think something like that is just

fantastic - a little bit of real life. Thousands of grubby digits

would have pulled on this bit of tree.‟ She sniggered. „Plus,

you can‟t help but be intrigued by the thought of all these

butch and hairy-arsed men getting into the shower together.

I wonder if they were aware of the homoerotic flix that

purported to come from such factory planets.‟

Bernice thought this most unlikely, but she‟d drink to the

suggestion, anyway.

„Now, I tell that to your average little madam on the

government, and she‟s almost reaching for the smelling

salts.‟

„Good job you haven‟t found the latrine trench yet,‟

observed Bernice.

„Well, funny you should mention that,‟ said Lizbeth, „but

only the other day we -‟

„You mentioned Eurogen Duder,‟ interjected Bernice.

„Why are the government so keen for you to investigate

their activities on Dimetos? I‟d have assumed that they

would rather make a clean break with the past.‟

„Well,‟ said Lizbeth. „Let‟s just say that the government

subscribes to the idea that all publicity is good publicity,

even archaeological expeditions to discover more about the

EB Corporation. As grotesque as it may sound, Eurogen

Butler is the closest thing this planet has to a cultural

heritage.‟

„Blimey.‟

„I know. It‟s terrible, isn‟t it? EB, despite the grotesque

things they did, still has a mighty reputation in these parts.

Some folk hanker after the good old days of Eurogen Butler,

when at least there were jobs and you knew who was in

charge.‟

„And the Dimetan government are hoping that some of

that fascist machismo will rub off on them?‟

„I guess so,‟ said Lizbeth. „To be honest, I try to have as

little to do with the government as possible.‟

„Any chance they could be responsible for this man who‟s

tailing you?‟

„I wouldn‟t have thought so,‟ said Lizbeth. „I‟m here at

their request, so -‟

„But perhaps they‟re trying to hurry you along or some-

thing.‟

„Funny way of doing it,‟ said Lizbeth.

„Or perhaps it‟s just a bit of gentle pressure. Make sure

you only find out exactly what they want you to find out.‟

„Maybe so,‟ said Lizbeth, „but I have no idea what they‟re

trying to hide. I‟ve found nothing of any political interest at

all.‟

„Do you think your sponsors expect you to?‟

„No. Or I don‟t think I‟d have been invited. This place is

democratic - up to a point. Look, I‟m under no illusions.

I‟m just one cog in a machine that maintains Dimetos‟s high

profile with the neighbours and with potential investors.‟

„Never forget the potential investors,‟ said Bernice.

„That reminds me...‟ Lizbeth scrabbled around in her

jacket for a gilt-edged square of card. „I‟ve been invited to a

dinner-dance-type thing the night after next. Lots of posh

nobs who don‟t mind us digging in their gardens, plus

sundry folk who are happy to bankroll the government, and

a minister or two. Fancy coming?‟

„It‟s not really me,‟ began Bernice. „But then, I have

brought my best party frock...‟

Lizbeth Fugard‟s apartment was high in a tower block at the

centre of a leafy square framed on two sides by buildings

(hat dated back to the area s industrial past. Huge metal

pipes hissed steam through fractured valves as they plunged

below the planet‟s surface, seeking out the thermal energy

needed to warm the area. The facades of long-closed shops,

now converted into studio flats, were studded with pillars

of metal that carried fibre optic, Hv and „plain vanilla‟

electricity cables. Unblemished stems of metal sprouted

from the concrete sidewalks, bearing exotic glass fruit hold-

ing inert gases. But the light thus produced did not penetrate

far. And, even when it was dry, the splash and drip of water

could be heard from somewhere.

Away from the gloom of the older buildings, the apart-

ment block was airy and expansive. Fugard‟s rooms were

high up in the tower, with split level floors and windows the

size of walls making the best of the light. Fans in the ceiling

circulated filtered air.

Bernice smiled. „I‟m impressed.‟ She ran a hand over an

exquisite set of kneeling chairs, seemingly hand-carved

in traditional Mulo style. She turned her head to fully

appreciate the stark simplicity, the almost oriental mini-

malism, of the apartment. „I guarantee I‟d make this place

look like a complete tip in less than a week.‟

Lizbeth smiled. „Well, I have two confessions to make.

Firstly, they send a cleaning drone in every other day. And

secondly...‟ She walked over to a door of ink-tinted glass,

and pushed it open. Beyond was a small boxroom, stuffed to

the rafters with stale clothing, old computer equipment, soft

toys and still unpacked personal effects. „This is my junk

room. You‟ll be sleeping here. Is that OK?‟

Bernice grinned. „Just like home,‟ she said.

Bernice decided to go to bed almost immediately. The long

journey had caught up with her, and the gathering shadows

beyond the windows told her that the Dimetan night wasn‟t

too far off. She changed into an enormous T-shirt covered

with cartoon characters and the legend „Oh my God... He

killed Kenny!‟ which she had found in a cupboard on

Dellah while packing. She was sure she‟d never even seen it

before.

The bathroom was outrageously bright, a whole row of glo-

bulbs set into the ceiling. The mirror behind the sink was

enormous and crystal-clear, showing every blemish, every

imperfection, of Bernice‟s face and neck with unflinching and

brutal honesty. A small spot had developed just to the side of

her nose; in here, it looked like Mount Vesuvius, ready to

explode.

Bernice clamped her eyes shut, and got on with the job of

brushing her teeth. Anything else could wait until morning.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Lizbeth was

curled up in the middle of an enormous white sofa-pillow,

her hair a blonde halo around her face. She was snoring

lightly.

A screen - showing an interminable discussion of Dimetan

politics, which, Bernice supposed, was enough to send

anyone to sleep - had detected Lizbeth‟s slowed breathing

and had dimmed the image and reduced the volume.

Bernice rooted around for a blanket, and finally found one

in a cupboard near the kitchen area. She pulled this over

Lizbeth, who murmured something, but otherwise did not

stir. Then Bernice padded back to her temporary bed in the

junk room.

And proceeded to spend the next two and a half hours

scribbling random notes and impressions in her diary, and

trying to lix a broken hairdryer she‟d found on the floor.

TRACK 3

NO MORE ‘I LOVE YOU’S

Extract from Dimetan Infobase (Public), as requested by Professor

Bernice S. Summerfield

Eurogen Butler came to Dimetos in 2142. They found a

barren rock of a world, and transformed it into something

almost as hideous. With precious little wildlife or other

ecological considerations to trouble them, the EB Corporation

set about plundering the mineral wealth of the planet.

Although much of Dimetos is geologically unstable, which

made open cast mining possible in only a few areas, the

deposits of jebusk and argonite were rich enough to make

other forms of extraction profitable. Dimetos was one of the

first of EB‘s infamous ‗factory planets‘.

Contemporary accounts speak of the squalid conditions in

which the human and humanoid miners lived and worked; of

the perpetual grey clouds that blocked out the light of the

sun. Eurogen Butler‘s activities were unregulated: their only

objective was profit through round-the-clock mineral

extraction. In 2147, when a pit shaft at the third site on the

southern continent collapsed, killing between a hundred and

two hundred and fifty miners (reports vary), the entire area

was made safe with polyslene. The dead were left where they

fell; work carried on unhindered around the site of the

tragedy.

Interviewed at the time, an anonymous EB official spoke of

‗sadness but no regret‘ at the tragedy. It is believed that such

insensitivity caused a riot and general strike in 2149, which

was ruthlessly quelled, but all records from this period are

lost or unreliable.

The EB Corporation left Dimetos in 2151. A colony of

miners and other officials - it is not clear whether they were

sacked or whether they voluntarily left the employ of EB -

remained behind, attempting to make a new life for

themselves. Given the parlous state of the planet‘s

atmosphere, and the inherent danger of earthquake and

massive subsidence, it is a miracle that any of them

succeeded.

Extract ends

When Bernice trudged into the living room the next day

Lizbeth was already dressed and working at the screen. It

looked as if she had been up for hours, the blanket and the

sofa-pillow having been tidied away. The door to Lizbeth‘s

room was closed, so Bernice couldn‘t tell if she‘d slept in the

lounge all night or had later awoken and sought out the

comfort of her own bed.

Bernice grunted something - she was just plain crap at

mornings - and Lizbeth turned with a smile.

No one deserved to look that good early in the morning. ‗Hi,

Benny,‘ she said. ‗Sleep well? I was just about to wake you.

We ought to be off to the dig soon.‘

‗Give me twenty minutes in the bathroom,‘ said Bernice. if

I‘m not out by then, send in a search party armed with

caffeine syringes.‘

‗Fine,‘ said Lizbeth. ‗I‘m just catching up with my mail.‘

Bernice shambled towards the bathroom, pushing the door

open with her head. ‗Oh, and I mended that hairdryer you

had in bits on the floor.‘

‗Thanks,‘ said Lizbeth automatically. ‗Er... why‘d you do

that?‘

‗I couldn‘t sleep. And when I did, I had the most bizarre

dreams you can imagine. One minute I was attacking Jason

with electrical flex and a blunt screwdriver, the next he was

attacking me with yoghurt and the biggest erection you‘ve

seen this side of...‘ She switched on the light, squinting

against its brightness, and pushed the door closed. She leant

against the sink, like a drunk grateful for support. ‗No,‘ she

said to herself. ‗Let‘s leave that image right where it was.‘

She grimaced at the mirror, then stuck out her tongue. It

looked normal enough, but she felt dreadful. Perhaps she

should have had a night cap before retiring, just to -

There was a muffled cry from the living room. Even from

where she stood, Bernice could hear the shock in Lizbeth‘s

voice.

Bernice pushed open the door. ‗What‘s the matter?‘ she

asked.

Lizbeth tried to affect a smile, but she looked lost and

wounded. ‗I‘ve just had a very... interesting... message.‘

Bernice walked across the room. ‗Interesting, as in...‘ She

paused, reading the communication on the screen. ‗As in

downright nasty.‘

Lizbeth sniffed back the tears and walked into the kitchen

area. Bernice read the message again.

Ms Fugard. A warning from a friend: tread carefully. I‘m

told archaeological digs can be quite dangerous. All those

tools lying around, all that earth waiting to collapse... But

then, I‘m sure you‘re conversant with safety regulations. You

know how to stay out of trouble.

Bernice turned. Lizbeth was emerging from the kitchen with

a glass of water, which she sipped, gingerly. ‗I don‘t know

what to think,‘ she said, in a tiny voice. ‗I‘ve never had a

message like that before.‘

‗I‘m glad to hear it,‘ said Bernice. She ran her fingers over

the touch-sensitive screen, but there was no way of

establishing where the communication had originated. The

transmission protocols had been fooled by a source ID that

was valid just long enough for transmission, but had

collapsed in on itself shortly afterwards. ‗And they‘ve covered

their tracks pretty well, though I suppose we could try an

intuitive stealth algorithm...‘

‗You just made that up,‘ said Lizbeth.

‗I know.‘ Bernice rechecked the message relay details,

knowing that she was well out of her depth. There was a

world of difference between hairdryers and integrated

communication packages. She sighed, then turned back to

Lizbeth. ‗Any ideas who this is from?‘

‗No.‘

The response was so automatic that Bernice distrusted it in

a moment. ‗Oh, come on,‘ she said. ‗We‘re into serious ―You‘ll

take a walk with the fishes‖ territory here, and you can‘t

think of a single reason why?‘

‗Everything is political on Dimetos,‘ said Lizbeth after a

moment‘s thought, ‗I‘ve already told you that I‘m only here for

PR reasons —‘

‗So who wants you not to discover something?‘ ‗There‘s

nothing not to discover,‘ said Lizbeth. ‗It‘s all bog-standard

industrial archaeology. Dimetos City isn‘t the Valley of the

Kings!‘

Bernice persisted. ‗Yes, but this is recent archaeology, so

the descendants of the original miners and EB personnel are

still around... Doesn‘t that mean it‘s more likely you‘ll find

out something that you shouldn‘t?‘

A flicker of emotion - it could almost have been pain

crossed Lizbeth‘s face. Bernice could tell that Lizbeth was

trying hard to keep a lid on her emotions, but she wasn‘t that

good an actress. ‗I suppose you‘re right,‘ she said, although

she did not sound convinced.

‗What else could this message he about?‘

‗It must be from Alex,‘ said Lizbeth suddenly.

‗He‘d do something like that?‘ queried Bernice. ‗Something

so spiteful?‘

Lizbeth paused. Bernice noticed for the first time that there

was a framed photograph standing on a table to one side of

the screen. It showed Lizbeth - looking even younger and a

handsome, well-muscled black man. They were holding each

other, laughing and pulling faces for the camera, streamers

covering their heads. Blurred partygoers jostled in the

background; only the two figures, locked in the amber of a

carefree moment, were in focus.

Lizbeth was staring at the photograph, as if searching for a

trace of aggression in the features of her former partner. ‗No,‘

she said at last. ‗He wouldn‘t do anything like that.‘ She

reached towards the screen, and deleted the document with

an impatient stab of the thumb.

And didn‘t mention the message again until they were far

beyond the apartment.

The cab was late, and the clouds were turning increasingly

dark. Lizbeth and Bernice stood in the lobby, waiting for the

right hover car to appear. Conversation was coming out of

them like drips of rain.

‗I‘ll take you to the office later,‘ said Lizbeth. ‗Show you the

data.‘

‗Ah, good,‘ said Bernice. And she meant it, but somehow it

came out like strangulated sarcasm. Not that Lizbeth seemed

to have noticed. She wore a permanent, girlish grin like a

mask that concealed any deeper feelings.

‗One thing I‘ve been meaning to ask you,‘ said Bernice,

tired of watching the service drones sweeping the streets.

‗You‘re an industrial archaeologist, right? Means studying

things, what, a few hundred years old at most?‘

‗Something like that. The definition is rather complex, and

of course depends on the society -‘

‗Of course,‘ said Bernice. ‗It‘s just that I recently came

across a paper of yours that dealt exclusively with the

ancient civilization on Sekka.‘

Lizbeth looked almost embarrassed. ‗Yes...‘

Bernice shrugged. ‗Why the change of emphasis?‘

‗It‘s still archaeology, isn‘t it?‘ said Lizbeth, somewhat

defensively.

‗Well, I suppose so,‘ said Bernice. ‗Though I must admit, if

it‘s not at least a thousand years old, I tend not to be

interested.‘

‗But whether you‘re investigating a two-hundred-year-old

industrial complex, or searching for the tombs of kings from

previous millennia, there are always gaps in our knowledge.

And filling those gaps is what archaeology is all about.‘

‗I‘m sure you‘re right,‘ said Bernice. ‗I‘m just a bit more

interested if the society we‘re looking at was very different

from our own. It‘s escapism, I suppose.‘

‗Oh, believe me, you‘ll find some real differences between

Dimetos now and how it was,‘ said Lizbeth.

By the time the hover car arrived, it had started raining,

the weather adding an extra note of gloom to the increasing

darkness of Bernice‘s mood. Bernice and Lizbeth climbed in,

operating their energy harnesses just as the craft rose into

the air. Almost immediately the vehicle pitched to one side to

avoid an enormous cargolugger that slid past, horns blaring.

The rest of the journey was uneventful. Bernice fidgeted

like a caged animal, suddenly wanting nothing more than to

stop the vehicle, go back to the apartment and pack her

hags, and then hop on the first flight back to Dellah – or

anywhere else, come to think of it. Even as Lizbeth made

some chatty remark about how much better she felt with

Bernice around, Bernice was wondering if this was all one big

mistake.

‗I suppose the companionship counts for a lot,‘ Lizbeth was

saying. ‗You know, having someone you can trust, to talk

things through with. A friendly shoulder.‘ Lizbeth gave a

grateful smile and the sour knot in Bernice‘s stomach

tightened a fraction further.

The hover car slipped swiftly through the low cloud above

the suburbs of Dimetos City. A three-dimensional simulation,

rendered in real-time with seamless fluidity of movement,

played across hi-plasma panels set into the sides of the

vehicle in place of windows. It conveyed an impression of the

terrain and buildings below: Italianate towers and low-

pitched roofs; piazzas and water gardens; generous lawns

and clumps of designer shrubbery to break up the symmetry

of the layout and delight the eye. The image on the screens

could be manipulated to sweep low over the landscape, or

stop at any location to look around at the easy opulence

enjoyed by the rich elite of Dimetos. The ever-helpful comfort

drone informed Bernice and Lizbeth that in some cases you

could actually take a virtual tour through some of the

apartments.

The real world by contrast - just visible towards the front of

the vehicle - was dismal and grey. Rain spat at the transpex

canopy of the hover car, the drops tadpoling quickly around

the smooth curvature of plastic and out of Bernice‘s line of

sight. She pointedly turned away from Lizbeth, not out of

pique, but simply to try to pin down the source of her

emotions.

It was deep. That much became clear as soon as Bernice

allowed her thoughts to turn inwards. It was something to do

with Lizbeth, and an inner resilience that Bernice detected in

the other woman. Bernice was beginning to wonder why

Lizbeth had asked her here at all. Despite the younger

woman‘s show of gratitude, Bernice was sure that Lizbeth

was actually one pretty tough woman who could look after

herself in almost any situation. Such capability, so

attractively packaged, could disconcert anyone, and Bernice

wondered for the first time if Lizbeth was being entirely

straight with her.

‗ETA at our destination is four minutes, ladies,‘ the drone

informed them in sickly PR tones. ‗And might I add at this

point what a pleasure it has been to travel with you.‘ Bernice

thought that perhaps the Dimetan government was taking its

image cultivation programmes just a little too far.

‗The dig is sheltered,‘ Lizbeth said, stirring herself to check

her rucksack. ‗No need for weatherproofs.‘

‗Glad to hear it. Is that the site?‘ Bernice pointed to the

display sim woven in delicate light, watching its perspectives

change as the vehicle dropped down through the misty

undercroft of cloud.

Lizbeth nodded. ‗Luckily some of it lies on government-

owned commonland. Private individuals charge the earth for

us to excavate on their property.‘

‗―Charge the earth‖.‘ Bernice chuckled mirthlessly.

Lizbeth‘s friendly smile shrank fractionally. She turned

back to the haversack, searching for her palmtop, allowing

Bernice to complete her introspective assessment.

Maybe at the heart of her unease was the similarity

between them. The thought came up from the depths quite

unexpectedly. The little green-eyed-god thing was all on the

surface, dwelling on whatever Lizbeth had that Bernice didn‘t

have - youth, beauty and other trivia - but missing the point

entirely. Both women shared a love of the past. Both had

suffered the failure of a relationship that had meant so

much. And now Lizbeth was standing on the brink of

important events, as Bernice had done on many previous

occasions. There was intrigue, there was danger, there was

the prospect of making a difference to somebody, somewhere.

Or, if one was to be brutally honest, of being wiped out and

rather quickly forgotten.

But it was in this determination to face the odds and

prevail that Bernice saw the essential link between them

both.

The hover car arrived amid the declining harmonics of its

engines powering down, then swayed gently on a stasis field

as the canopy swished back and Lizbeth and Bernice stepped

out to the drone‘s effusive goodbyes.

‗It‘s just a short walk up the hill,‘ Lizbeth said, pointing

through the trees. And in that moment Bernice felt the

compass needle of her thoughts swing round to the positive.

It is wisely said, she recalled, that when you feel animosity

towards someone else, it is really some aspect of yourself that

you dislike. In Lizbeth she had seen herself mirrored. The

ambition and the fragility, the fear and the absolute bloody-

mindedness, was Bernice, some ten years younger.

Elsewhere it would have been easier. The incredibly advanced

race known only as the People would simply manipulate

energy fields to peel back the turf, slicing down through

topsoil and clay to the archaeologically significant material

beneath - not that they showed much inclination to leave

there vast Dyson sphere home. On Kaus Nunki IV the dig

would be entirely unnecessary, the Kausians having kept

such complete records throughout their history that it was

believed that no new facts existed to be unearthed.

Here on Dimetos things were more familiar, and Bernice

found herself again at the wet end of the science, despite

Lizbeth‘s assurance of shelter.

They followed a steep track through the trees - a genetically

adapted variation of copper beech, to Bernice‘s eye -

emerging a couple of hundred metres further up the hill on a

plateau, itself clear of woodland, but surrounded by further

tracts of beech and a species of robust conifer that Bernice

couldn‘t identify. The plateau had obviously been part of the

mining operation originally: Lizbeth flicked open her palm-

top and pressed buttons. They both watched intrigued as a

miniholograph grew out of the screen, back-extrapolating the

appearance of the area to the time of the EB Corporation‘s

peak activity.

‗As you see, the pithead existed just about on that spot.‘

Lizbeth indicated a rubble pile of huge boulders, grassed over

now and half hidden by saplings. ‗I‘ve not been able to

ascertain how far generations of local inhabitants have

landscaped the area, but I suspect it‘s quite substantially.

The Dimetans have always loved the wild-tamed look.‘ She

grinned cheesily. ‗Doesn‘t make our work any easier.‘

‗I‘m surprised nobody‘s thought of building up here,‘ said

Bernice. ‗Space seems to be at such a premium on Dimetos.‘

‗Don‘t let the tranquillity fool you,‘ said Lizbeth. it‘s all very

unstable. The trees can probably handle a couple of

centimetres subsidence every year. I doubt a house would.‘

‗Where are you currently digging?‘ Bernice asked. The soft

drizzle was penetrating down through the leaf canopy and

Bernice was getting quietly and thoroughly soaked. Lizbeth

swung her arm through thirty degrees, indicating the

distance beyond where the shaft winch had stood.

‗Because the impossible takes a little longer, we‘re leaving

the really major excavations a while. The current focus is an

area that we suspect used to be the miners‘ living quarters.

Much more interesting, actually.‘

‗Absolutely.‘ Bernice remembered Lizbeth‘s earlier mention

of the wooden handle, and was pleased to be able to agree

unequivocally. It helped salve the effects of her earlier

musings. ‗A piece of graffito, some personal belongings, a

notebook, a bit of jewellery…‘ She continued with a sudden

rush of enthusiasm, ‗Give me those rather than an official

historical record any day!‘

‗Speaking of which...‘ Lizbeth hit the keypad and the

miniholograph scrolled upwards, bringing a labyrinth of

mineworkings into view, a three-dimensional version of the

find-your-way-out-of-the-maze puzzles Bernice had enjoyed

solving as a child.

‗This is speculative, of course,‘ Lizbeth said, based on

extant documentation and comparison with other Dimetan

workings previously excavated. They did tend to follow a

pattern, though with plenty of variation due to local

geological conditions.‘

‗How far have you got with the dig?‘ Bernice wondered.

Lizbeth made a face that summed up a whole clutch of

feelings Bernice knew very well.

‗Scratched the surface. You know how it is: under-

resourced, overstretched. The government‘s image building

programme only translates into so much extra cash.‘

‗Tell me about it,‘ said Bernice, thinking of the shoestring

budgets of most of the digs organized by St Oscar‘s. And then

she remembered the expensive hover car they‘d come over in,

and Lizbeth‘s earlier, gleeful messages. ‗Hang on, I thought

you said you had more money than you knew what to do

with.‘

‗That was a while ago. Our funding‘s been cut, at least on

site. Most of our ―volunteers‖ have found other, more

diverting, occupations. We‘ve still got half a dozen digger

drones, two with AI capability in a master-slave relationship

with the other four. That gives us a self-sufficient work-force,

able to continue round the clock, though the slave drones

require a couple of hours off-shift each cycle to recharge

themselves.‘

Bernice acknowledged with little businesslike nods as they

continued through the clearing. The set-up would have been

standard on a thousand worlds. She wondered if the cut in

funding was significant, but decided not to pursue it. ‗And I

take it the drones conform to a dominant/subordinate

hierarchy, to keep initiative programs within reasonable

parameters?‘

‗Yes. The alpha-drone will always stop the excavations and

report directly to me if there‘s a glitch, or if it sees something

it fails to recognize.‘

‗Then it looks like something‘s buggered up the works, to

use a technical term...‘

Bernice had been gazing ahead as Lizbeth studied the

palmtop and talked. Now, coming around the slate-dark bulk

of a house-sized boulder, both women stopped dead.

Ahead of them the opalescent material of the cellathene

canopy sheltering the dig was in tatters, banners of the stuff

hanging from branches and the skewed and toppled support

poles that covered the trench. There was no sign of the

diggerdrones, though one of the master machines - the

subordinate, Bernice reckoned - lay smashed by the wayside,

a mangled mess of fragments that still sparked here and

there with residual charge.

Bernice waved a hand back and forth across its visual

sensors, noting the lack of reaction.

‗There‘s a blackbox recorder,‘ Lizbeth said heavily, stepping

among the remains.

‗Maybe it‘ll give us some data on this.‘

‗Maybe.‘ Bernice looked around, cautiously but not

fearfully. Instinct was telling her that the damage had been

done. The perpetrators had come in fast, completed their

work, and cleared off with minimum delay. It might, however,

be worth scanning for explosives.

Just as Bernice considered this, Lizbeth gave a groan from

some metres away. The kind of groan that said Well, it’s back

to bloody square one again, isn’t it?

‗What‘s wrong?‘ Bernice left the drone and moved towards

the excavation trench, where Lizbeth was leaning on one of

the buckled support poles.

The little drone work party had been busy and very

efficient. Over the past few weeks they had cut a trench some

twenty metres long by three wide, while uncovering, logging,

describing and noting hundreds or thousands of artefacts

and related items before downloading the data in a constant

stream back to Lizbeth‘s office.

It was the kind of efficiency and effort that one took entirely

for granted, unless something went awry, as it had done now.

For apart from the fact that there was no trace of the other

five drones, Bernice saw that the trench they had created had

been neatly and infuriatingly filled in with supertough, flash-

dry polystene.

Homam Matar Sadalbari made a clicking sound with his

tongue and shook his head with the same kind of weary

resignation that Bernice, in sympathy with Lizbeth and her

endeavours, felt inside.

‗To be precise, it‘s a derivative of polystene called buck-

minsterfullerite. Lighter than aluminium, more durable and

less brittle than mylar.‘

‗Bit of a sod to shift, then.‘ Bernice had heard about this

stuff before, though this was the first time she‘d seen it in

use.

Homam looked up from the trench and treated Bernice to

one of his more winning smiles. He was sapien-

Arabic/Denebolan hybrid, an eminently workable genetic

combination, but one that made his mouth disconcertingly

wide. Folk tales around St Oscar‘s perpetuated the myth that

people like Homam could put both fists in their mouth at

once; that they possessed retractable stabbing fangs and

were able to dislocate their lower jaws at will. Bernice

wondered fleetingly what kind of a snog Homam would be

able to offer, and then wondered whether the idea disgusted

or excited her.

‗Correct, Ms Summerfield —‘

‗Benny. It‘s just Benny.‘

‗Benny,‘ Homam echoed, stretching the smile a fraction

wider.

Bernice decided it was excitement.

‗So, how do we remove the polystene?‘

‗Carefully. You see, this looks like nothing more than a

delaying tactic. The drones should be able to dig it out inside

a week.‘

‗Well that‘s no good!‘ Lizbeth‘s voice sounded high and

brittle, the immediate shock of the discovery having worked

itself round to a gathering rage. ‗One of the drones has been

trashed, and the digging team is nowhere to be found. You

know that, Homam!‘

Bernice watched Homam‘s reaction to this outburst. From

all accounts, he had worked with Lizbeth ever since her

arrival on Dimetos, so he might well be used to these

moments when her usual brightness became single-minded

intensity. He perhaps also knew something of the stalking

and the threats, and the consequent pressure she was under.

Homam rubbed his chin, as if considering his response.

Then, with sudden and catlike grace, he leapt lightly out of

the trench, his robes billowing about him. He stepped over to

Lizbeth and put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

Bernice, standing just a couple of metres away, breathed in

the scent of cassia bark, the natural odour of Homam‘s

breed.

‗Listen,‘ he whispered reasonably, it doesn‘t make sense

that the digger drones were removed just to be destroyed.

They‘d have been smashed like the other one and left lying,

wouldn‘t they?‘

‗I suppose so.‘

‗They‘re hidden, then. Therefore we can find them.‘

Homam beamed startlingly, though it was a second or two

before Lizbeth understood and fumbled in her haversack for

the palmtop.

‗A locator signal,‘ Homam explained helpfully to Bernice, as

Lizbeth keyed in the sequence. ‗All drones have them, each

with an individual signature of course. Or you can program a

team-trace. Best try that first, Lizbeth

The sine tone beeped from the palmtop even as he said it,

followed by a complicated spiralling of flatscreen pixels as the

tracer software reconfigured. A detailed plan of the

excavation and locale popped up a moment later.

Bernice‘s mouth dropped open. ‗We‘re standing on them!‘

Homam pointed a lean finger towards the rippled surface of

the polystene infill.

‗Ingenious. Except whoever buried the digger drones has

seriously underestimated their capabilities. They were

originally developed for deepspace asteroid mining, with von

Neumann replicating driveware - breeding programs, to you

and me. So, a hundred machines can become two hundred,

then four hundred, then eight hundred. With that kind of

strategy you can dismantle a rock the size of a continent in

under a year.‘

‗Is this relevant?‘ Bernice wanted to know. Homam

shrugged in a way that clued Bernice in to the fact that his

musculature must be significantly different from her own.

‗The point is that the basic constructional patterns of our

drones are similar to those of their ancestors. They‘re built to

last, and a hundred or so tonnes of buckminsterfullerite

aren‘t going to stop them. So don‘t worry. Lizbeth, if you‘ll

allow me, I can rig up a self-recovery strategy. Perhaps we

could set half the team to dig themselves out, while the other

half continue with the excavation: working under the

polystene won‘t be a hindrance. It just means that it‘ll be

some days before you start getting artefacts again - though

the data will stay on-stream throughout.‘

‗Sounds fine.‘ Lizbeth handed over the palmtop without

argument, and as Homam got down to machine code level,

Lizbeth took Bernice to one side. ‗Whoever did this must be

pretty stupid, then,‘ she said.

Bernice‘s expression begged the obvious question.

‗Well, I mean, from what Homam has said, our work

schedule has hardly been interrupted,‘ continued Lizbeth.

‗Surely that wasn‘t the idea…‘

‗There is of course the matter of the smashed subordinate.‘

Bernice glanced over to the shattered carapace and scattering

of jewel-like innards. ‗Whoever did that used some force. And

how convenient that the drone was left just where we‘d

stumble across it.‘

‗As a warning?‘

‗Well, what do you think?‘ said Bernice.

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

Of all the bars in all the towns in all the worlds, I had to end

up in this one in this one on this one. The trouble with being

helpful in circumstances like these, of course, is that it does

impinge on one‘s social life.

What am I saying? What social life? It‘s been pretty quiet

back on Dellah recently, and I guess I had no naive

expectations about what I‘d find on Dimetos. Lizbeth didn‘t

really drag me out here for a girlie weekend around the

shops. She‘s into something that‘s making waves, maybe big

time - and I hereby revise any earlier ideas I might have had

that her fears are the result of hysterical overreaction.

Homam‘s a good friend of hers, it seems; something of an

adviser and confidant (why the hell couldn‘t she have

contacted him instead of me at the outset?), and he was of

the view that the delaying of the dig required some

considerable resource. It isn‘t that easy to transport a

hundred tonnes of liquid polystene into the hills. Similarly,

there isn‘t any lo-tech way of destroying a digger drone so

efficiently that you can virtually strain the results with a

sieve. Something very powerful came up to the site and did

its work without leaving any identifiable clues. And the more

I think about it, the more I reckon the subordinate drone was

smashed and left above ground as a definite warning about

what could happen to us.

I kind of mentioned this to Lizbeth, without turning it into

a scare story, which she may have interpreted as being my

hysterical overreaction to events. I decided not to discuss this

with Homam. It‘s not fair that he should in any way be put at

risk. Hell, all he was asked to do was offer his technical

advice on spinning the dig up to speed. Job done, and I

expect he‘ll be back in a week to check on progress and

oversee the emergence of the digging team, and review the

results of their ongoing work.

Meantime, I have to nurse my worries and - would you

believe it? - Lizbeth‘s attempt at reconciliation with her ex,

Alex Mphahlele.

At least that‘s what I‘m assuming it is. Homam mentioned

to me how intense Lizbeth is in all aspects of her life - all

important aspects, anyway. But the payback is emotional

turmoil when things go wrong. She has a brittle brilliance

about her. When she said she wanted to meet with Alex

again, and indeed had gone ahead and arranged it, who was I

to put common sense in her way? If it had been me, I‘d have

let him whistle in the wind. Actually, I‘d never have hooked

up with him in the first place. Who needs a high-explosive

lovebomb rigged to a trigger that sensitive?

Mind you, if looks were everything he‘d be pretty hard to

ditch. But I‘m jumping ahead.

Cold logic forced Lizbeth to concede that there was nothing

useful she could do up at the dig for the next few days. The

drones would take as long as they needed to fulfil their

modified programming. Therefore, time would be better spent

consolidating the data they‘d previously produced; liaising

with the appropriate government department for a little extra

funding to replace the smashed unit; and maybe making

some tentative enquiries about why the event had happened,

and how it was linked, or if it was linked, with Lizbeth‘s

stalker.

A stalker, I couldn‘t help but notice, who neither of us had

seen since my arrival. Anyway, Lizbeth said yes, yes and yes

to my plan. But she also insisted on seeing Mphahlele again,

despite any concerns that we might have had that he was

somehow connected to the threatening stranger. Men can get

utterly warped by jealousy, and when the object of their

desire is as beautiful as Lizbeth, perhaps extreme reactions

would be the result. Maybe Lizbeth was far more familiar

with these violent games than she was letting on.

I didn‘t even know at the start of the evening if Lizbeth was

going to broach that subject with him. I told her to be careful,

of course, and she said she would, but that she would feel

that extra bit safer with me there, observing Alex Mphahlele

from a distance with a neutral‘s detachment. And ready to

intervene if necessary.

What could I do? We took a cab across town to the

rendezvous, though alighted a full block away and

approached from separate directions. Pretty cloak and

dagger, eh? But the cloak was useful since it was raining

again (causing an unexpectedly powerful pang of quasi-

homesickness just when I didn‘t need it).

The exterior of the Neon Night restaurant was as tacky as

its name suggested, a tall, drab brownstone decked out in

bright lights and a gaudy canopied entrance. The Dimetans

are such a strange lot: fanatically Terran in their cultural

accoutrements, a Californian/Tokyo neo-cyber-retro 1930s

amalgam that seems to blend the very worst qualities of them

all. The planet is fundamentally a mined-out nest of

workings, geologically wobbly, archaeologically tedious

virtually bankrupt - and yet with a prosperous elite who fart

money and will go to any lengths to preserve what regard to

be their admirable self-image of dignified nobility But check

this out, they‘ve created a facade of downtown squalor in

uptown areas, where they can drink overprice cocktails and

indulge their fashion fantasies in safety.

The Neon Night was in one such zone, a kind of Capon-

esque theme park which was part of the wealthy enclave of

Dimetos City, fenced off from the real, crappy poverty.

I watched Lizbeth breeze past the doorman with a gleaming

smile which, if it was feigned, was still effective. Luckily I

wore a sleek black Chanel-style dress and air of fresh-faced

innocence (one hundred per cent total feigned); I‘m not sure if

I looked like a virginal angel or devilish tart (probably both),

but it got me by.

Inside, the restaurant was opulent and surprisingly

tasteful, though achieving it through a minimalist approach

furniture and decor that could easily have been misjudge

Lizbeth had booked a table for herself and Mphahlele, private

nook tucked away among the soft-lit shadows to the right of

the dais where a combo was playing lazy-as-molasses blues

with effortless ease. Beyond them and the tables in close

proximity, a huge panoramic window showed the glittering

cityscape, while above it through a speckling of raindrops on

the glass I could see the coloured tag-lights of many ships

moving slowly across. It was truly magnificent, for all my

cynicism about Dimetos.

I sat at the bar and worked on my non-verbals: a posture

which said I’m waiting for someone and spoken for, and a

facial expression reflecting appreciation of the music, slight

impatience that my hypothetical date was late, underpinned

by a sense of weariness that someone of my calibre should

have to be here at all.

It worked for the first fifteen minutes, anyway, during

which time Alex Mphahlele entered the room and walked with

an athlete‘s grace to his seat opposite Lizbeth, ordered

drinks, and then some delicate hors d‘oeuvres, which they

nibbled while I debated whether to eat or simply observe and

be ready for action.

Talking of body language, for all I‘ve said about Lizbeth‘s

highly strung nature, she seemed pretty relaxed. It‘s never

easy chatting to your ex, as I know only loo well.

Before I continue, let me sketch for future reference my

impressions of Alex Mphahlele.

Wow! Cor! and all that. He can‘t be more than a thumbnail-

width short of two metres tall, broad-shouldered and

slimwaisted. His skin looks flawless, and if that seems a

strange tiling to say about a man, well so be it; in Alex‘s case

the black‘s just short of blue-black, and indeed it took me a

while to notice the subtlety of the rich brown sheen when he

moved - so — and the cast of light across his cheekbone mid

jaw. And his smile is every bit as powerful as Lizbeth‘s,

creating a charisma born of sheer beauty.

I spent a good ten minutes just - how do they say it in the

pulp paperbacks? - just drinking in the sight of him. He was

gorgeous, setting off in me a negative feedback loop of self-

pity and stirring up such memories and feelings it took all my

force of will to keep them down.

But at least I succeeded in that. Lizbeth failed.

A waiter came along to take away the little china hors

d‘oeuvre plates and the empty cocktail glasses. That left a

gleaming white table cloth and a slim-necked vase between

the couple, a vase containing a single perfect black rose, (call

me old-fashioned, but it was the most romantic thing I‘d ever

seen. The rose petals were so striking that I could feel their

velvet and was tantalized by the scent that must have been

as exotic as the appearance of the bloom itself. Alex

Mphahlele‘s hands as they reached across the snowy cloth

were complemented by the flower. He was saying something

softly to Lizbeth, and there was such pleading in his eyes

that I felt my own start to prickle with emotion.

Lizbeth did not accept the offer of his hands, and I thought

she shook her head ever so slightly.

I was so wrapped up in being the gooseberry that I only felt

the hand on my knee when it moved, sweeping slowly and

suggestively up towards my thigh. I nearly jumped off my

stool, but managed to compose myself as I looked witheringly

to my right.

‗Hi. Tell me, what‘s a nice girl like you doing in a joint like

this?‘ He was Dimetan, a businessman I guessed, mid-fifties

and oozing lustful intentions even more freely than the oily

sweat on his brow. I cursed my ill luck and his timing.

‗Give me a break,‘ I said.

‗Can‘t get a table? I can help you out there, doll face.‘

He smiled, showing teeth like old ivory dotted with

embedded gems: diamonds, emeralds, starstones. I learnt

later this was the way the Dimetans who had wealth showed

it off.

I told my unwanted companion to engineer a voyage into

his own Swarchzchild singularity, or words to that effect; and

felt immensely relieved when he shrugged, taking no offence,

and moved along to the next countertop lush who, noted with

a small burst of amusement, responded with an overblown

display of coy flattery and a rather obvious heaving of

cleavage.

A change of tempo from the band brought me back to

myself and the task at hand. Alex was still talking to Lizbeth,

perhaps a little more intensely now, and she continued to

answer him with denial on her face; an oddly inappropriate

response, I thought, in light of the trouble she’d taken to set

up the evening.

But there was something else niggling at me, something

that didn‘t obviously or immediately impinge upon my

consciousness.

Like I said, for all its air of sleaziness externally, the Neon

Night was a professionally run establishment; the dark nooks

and low uplighting and the massaging seductiveness of the

music were cleverly integrated to produce the required effect.

You could imagine deals being done, promises made and

broken, loves gained and lost amid the thin, smoky veil of

unadulterated tobacco, the quietly efficient coming and going

of waiters, the bright glassy busyness of the bar... Essentially

it was a friendly and welcoming place with a certain streak of

childlike innocence about it.

And that‘s what had changed.

I concluded this reluctantly as my eyes were drawn towards

one of the darker corners of the room, where shadows were

overlaid with shadows.

A small table, bare save for the obligatory white cloth and a

cocktail glass filled with a clear reddish liquid. There was a

man - I assumed it was a man - sitting there watching, not

me, thank God, but Lizbeth and Mphahlele as they talked. It

was odd that I had not noticed him before; odder that he

produced this chill in me now, this fearfulness of an evil in

him which was entirely speculation on my part. There was

nothing I knew to connect him with Lizbeth or me or the

incident at the dig... Maybe he was an incurable old romantic

like I was, warming his heart by the heat of Alex‘s obvious

passion for Lizbeth...

Who was I kidding? He was cold and dark and his manner

possessed the latent viciousness of a switchblade. He leant

forward to pick up his drink, moving fractionally into the

penumbral shadows cast across the cloth.

His gaze swung round to take me in, and I never noticed

any details of his face, but only of his eyes, the cruellest,

most beautiful, most frightening eyes I had ever seen. They

were the eyes of the most passionate lover, the coldest killer –

it was a gaze that encompassed and understood everything.

Take it easy, Bernice, he knows nothing about you - not

your name, not your business, not anything!

My little mind-voice sang its calming song as I looked away

from him to sip some mineral water, determined not to be

terrified. But I knew deep down in myself that I was in

danger of becoming entwined in his web.

I glanced back at him. And was terrified.

Extract ends

TRACK 4

AN ARCHAEOLOGIST IN THE

HOUSE OF LOVE

Bernice watched Alex Mphahlele and Lizbeth Fugard eat their

meal. Her own stomach felt dry and nauseous now; even her

glass of sweet wine tasted bitter. The man in the comer had

retreated back into the shadows. Only his hand, unmoving,

was visible on the table top. But Bernice could imagine his

eyes, staring in blank fascination at Lizbeth. Bernice‘s head

moved back and forth, not sure now who she should be

watching.

When their meal was finished, Mphahlele and Lizbeth

spoke briefly before leaving separately. Bernice glanced over

to the shadows, and was shocked to see that the mysterious

onlooker had already departed, although she hadn‘t noticed

him leave. One moment he was there, the next he had gone.

Bernice wondered what to do next. She supposed that it

was just possible that Mphahlele, rejected once more by

Lizbeth, would head straight for his private detective-cum-

stalker, if that‘s who the shadowy man was. If Bernice was

quick, she might just catch Mphahlele and the stranger

together.

She followed Mphahlele from the restaurant. The streets

were busy with people, but it was easy to spot Mphahlele, a

full head taller than most of the people around him. He

forged a path through a group milling outside a total

immersion flick joint, his striding gait appearing unhurried

but actually pushing him forward at great speed.

He turned a corner sharply, and Bernice hurried after him.

Just for a moment she thought she‘d lost him in the shadows

and crates of refuse at the back of a department store. Then

she saw the old-fashioned headphones he was wearing on the

back of his head, glinting in the light cast by a pair of drones

who were struggling with the refuse. ‗Mind your backs!‘ one

trilled when Bernice brushed against it.

Mphahlele, some distance in front, seemed not to hear. He

strolled into an even smaller alley.

Bernice ran to the intersection, and stood there, hands on

hips. The alleyway was absolutely empty, terminating in a

wall of crumbling brick. There were some windows high

overhead, but, unless Alex Mphahlele had a secret super-

heroic identity, there was no way he could have shinned all

the way up there.

She‘d lost him. Bollocking buggers, that wasn‘t supposed to

happen.

She exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from her.

She‘d best head back to Lizbeth‘s apartment.

There was a tap on her shoulder. Bernice fought to

suppress a startled whelp of surprise.

‗You lookin‘ for me?‘ said a deep voice, half an inch from

her ear.

Bernice turned slowly, giving herself as long as possible to

affect a certain composure and think of something witty to

say. In the end, the best she could manage was a croaky-

sounding ‗Hi‘.

‗You followed me out of that restaurant, right?‘ said

Mphahlele. He looked really big up close. Drop-dead gorgeous

- his jaw was square, and his eyes sparkled with humour -

but, still, really big. Hadn‘t Lizbeth said something about him

beating up people who took an unhealthy interest in his

woman? A man prone to anger. He probably didn‘t like being

followed much, either.

‗Yes,‘ said Bernice, with a grin. ‗I‘ll cut the crap, shall I?‘

‗That would be cool.‘

‗I‘m a friend of Lizbeth‘s. I just wanted a chat.‘

Mphahlele chuckled, his head swinging back. His laughter

sounded like a minor god trying his hand at thunder. Then

his face snapped towards hers, his eyes unblinking. ‗We‘ve

just had a fine time. What is it that she couldn‘t ask me

then?‘

‗Someone‘s following her. And been sending her threatening

messages. We had to make sure it wasn‘t you.‘ The last

sentence came out before Bernice had really thought it

through, and she flinched inside, but Mphahlele seemed only

to pick up on the violence implied against Lizbeth.

‗Following her?‘

‗Yeah. I think I caught a glimpse of him tonight. He was

watching the two of you. Didn‘t you notice?‘

‗I saw no one.‘

‗Well, he was there all right.‘

‗And he‘s been sending messages to Lizbeth?‘

‗Well, it could be him. Lizbeth received one this morning.

Real Mafia stuff. ―You know what we want, so stay out of

trouble.‖ That sort of thing.‘

‗It‘s to do with the dig, right?‘

‗Well, probably,‘ said Bernice. ‗There‘s been some...

interference.‘ She glanced back at the drones which were still

sorting and grading the refuse. ‗Anyway, why do you ask?‘

‗I still care for her,‘ said Alex Mphahlele. ‗Don‘t let anyone

tell you different. And, in the diplomatic circles in which I

move, I hear things. And I‘m very good at hearing things

where Lizbeth is concerned.‘

‗You know something about what‘s been going on?‘

‗Only that the government are probably more interested in

the dig than they - or Lizbeth - make out.‘

‗I guessed as much. Lizbeth is really cagey when I ask her

about it, though. She‘s happy to talk about the archaeology,

but says she has no idea why she‘s being followed.‘

‗You‘re an archaeologist, too?‘

‗Yeah.‘ Bernice suddenly realized she hadn‘t introduced

herself. ‗Bernice Summerfield. Benny to my friends. Professor

to my students.‘ She extended her hand.

Mphahlele shook it. Firmly. It was like placing your palm

and fingers in a great big vice and tightening the jaws just for

the fun of it. Bernice became acutely aware of every bone in

her hand. And how fragile they seemed.

‗Does archaeology and beauty always go hand-in-hand?‘

said Mphahlele with a charming smile. ‗Forgive my rudeness,‘

he continued, before Bernice could respond, ‗only I don‘t like

being followed, and I don‘t like strangers. But, if you‘re a

friend of Lizbeth‘s, then I suppose I‘ll make an exception - for

the moment, at least.‘ He smiled broadly, but the threat in

his voice was unmistakable. I am entrusting the woman I still

love to you. Don’t neglect that trust.

‗I was sorry to hear that the two of you had split up,‘

ventured Bernice, wondering how much to say. ‗To be honest,

I only got to know Lizbeth recently. But it‘s obvious she‘s still

very fond of you.‘

Mphahlele glanced up at the sky. ‗It all seems a long time

ago now.‘

Abruptly he turned to walk back to the brightly lit streets.

As Bernice followed she saw that his eyes had become hard

again.

‗You believe I‘m innocent now?‘ he asked.

‗I think so,‘ said Bernice, though, in truth, she had no real

evidence on which to base any sort of conclusion. ‗But

perhaps you care about her too much.‘

‗Damn right,‘ he said. ‗Tell me about the guy you saw

tonight.‘

‗Creepy-looking. Sad, too - apart from his eyes. They were

beautiful. The deepest blue you‘ll ever see.‘

‗When did he start following Lizbeth?‘

‗Quite some time ago,‘ said Bernice. ‗You see, I‘m here more

as a friend than as an archaeologist. For some reason,

Lizbeth thought I could help her track this man down. Sort

the problem out.‘

‗She should have come to me,’ said Mphahlele in a plaintive

voice.

Yeah, thought Bernice, and we all know how you‘d like to

sort the problem out. ‗She couldn‘t,‘ said Bernice. ‗She wasn‘t

sure -‘

‗She really thinks I‘d stoop low enough to get someone to

tail her?‘ said Mphahlele. ‗Her life is her own.‘ They were back

on one of the brightly lit streets now, not too far from the

restaurant where the evening had begun. He turned to face

Bernice, his eyes shining in the bright light of the street‘s glo-

bulbs. ‗Anyway, if I was tailing Lizbeth... I‘d make sure she

never realized.‘

Bernice made her way back to the apartment. Lizbeth was

already there, fixing herself a night-cap in the kitchen. ‗Want

one?‘ she asked brightly.

Bernice nodded. ‗Yeah. It‘s been a funny old evening.‘

‗Where did you go?‘ asked Lizbeth. ‗I waited for you, but I

couldn‘t see you anywhere.‘

‗Went after lover boy,‘ said Bernice, more brutally than she

intended. ‗You saw the man who was watching you both from

the comer?‘

Lizbeth shook her head, ‗I was rather preoccupied.‘

‗Well, anyway, I was wondering if Alex had arranged a

meeting with this man - who may or may not be your stalker.

It appears he hadn‘t, incidentally.‘ Bernice sat down on a

couch, tugging off her shoes. ‗Funny, Alex seemed not to

have seen the man in the corner of the restaurant either.‘

Lizbeth glared at Bernice. ‗You told him?‘

‗Do you still not trust him?‘ Bernice countered. She

remembered Lizbeth‘s apparent rejection of Mphahlele in the

restaurant, and began to understand her niggling

resentment. Some naive, hopelessly optimistic, part of herself

had hoped they would get back together, because then it

would mean that love could rekindle itself. Instead, she‘d

watched as the norms of romantic fiction had been replaced

with the grim finality of everyday life: when it‘s over, it really

is over.

Lizbeth struggled with Bernice‘s question. ‗I don‘t know,‘

she said. ‗In all honesty, not at the moment, no. Trust needs

strength, and I feel too fragile for anything like that now.‘

‗Then why the meal?‘ Bernice asked gently. She realized it

was unfair to see her own aspirations and insecurities played

out through the actions of Lizbeth and Alex Mphahlele.

Perhaps the only thing that she would learn from them was

that people are unique and frustrating and wonderful and

crass; that the only generalization is that there should be no

generalizations.

‗I just wanted to see him again,‘ said Lizbeth in a weak

voice, seemingly on the verge of tears. ‗That‘s not so terrible,

is it?‘

‗No,‘ said Bernice. ‗No, of course not.‘

Lizbeth bent down to pull a wine bottle from a rack, and

the conversation effectively ended. Lizbeth‘s introverted

preoccupation was such that she didn‘t even ask about the

stranger who Bernice had observed spying on them: and for

her part Bernice wanted to hear nothing more about

Lizbeth‘s meal with Alex Mphahlele.

They watched the screen in near silence for a few minutes,

and then Bernice went to bed.

She woke some hours later, her stomach grumbling and

complaining of its emptiness. It was only then that she

remembered that she had not eaten earlier at the Neon Night,

and that she‘d only had a biscuit and a glass or two of wine

on her return to Lizbeth‘s apartment.

Bernice lay in the darkness, alternatively trying to guess

the time and ignore the low murmurs of her hunger. When

she became bored of counting the lights that flashed past the

curtained window, she decided to get up and make herself a

sandwich.

She padded into the kitchen, flicking on a couple of dim

lights to guide her way. She discovered half a loaf in a large

earthenware pot, and, with the most vicious-looking knife

she had ever seen, she began to carve herself doorstops of

bread.

As Bernice began spreading the butter, she found herself

replaying the conversation with Alex Mphahlele in her mind.

Could he be trusted? He was charismatic, for sure, but, as he

himself had implied, he probably had the contacts and

experience necessary to tail Lizbeth properly. Any diplomat,

after all, is at best one step removed from being a spy.

In Bernice‘s mind, that led to the worrying possibility that

Lizbeth‘s stalker was just that: not a hired detective or a

Pinkerton at all, but a stalker, a plain and simple, everyday

loony with some sort of crush on Lizbeth. Lizbeth had

mentioned the helpers who had been on site in the early

days: perhaps it was worth investigating the archaeological

volunteers, to see if any of them had a history of mental

illness or a past conviction for date-rape or stalking.

And then Bernice remembered the eyes of the man in the

restaurant: how deep they had been, and yet how beyond

comprehension.

Bernice suppressed a shiver, and reached for a pot of

honey.

It was then that she saw the spider.

It had just approached the edge of the circle of light cast by

the glo-bulb over her head, as if attracted by Bernice‘s

movement. Its legs drummed faintly on the work surface,

most of its body still in shadow. Bernice could just glimpse

some of its compound eyes, flashing like polished diamonds

in the gloom. Its bristled head came forward slightly, its

jointed mandibles twitching.

Without moving the rest of her body, Bernice slowly

reached for the carving knife. It wasn‘t that she had a

particular fear of spiders, but she had no idea if Dimetan

fauna tended to be poisonous or not. And in any case, she

told herself, there is a world of difference between a tiny little

creature that builds webs to hold the early morning dew, and

this fist-sized slab of arachnid grotesquery.

She grasped the imitation bone handle of the knife just as

the spider jumped. Its huge rear legs snapped straight,

powering the creature forward like a cricket.

Bernice whipped the knife upwards instinctively, just

clipping the thing as it arced through the air. It tumbled to

the polished floor, where it rested on its back, its legs

twitching. Bernice didn‘t know whether it had aimed its jump

at her, or towards the darkness beyond, but she wasn‘t

prepared to give it a chance.

She slammed the bread-bin lid down on to the spider. The

disc of pottery shattered over the creature‘s concentrated

bulk, sending orange-coloured shards into the air.

Before it could move again, Bernice thumped the blunt end

of the knife against the creature‘s carapace. It was like

hitting something made of stone. However, one side of its

body had split open, and a couple of legs had fallen away.

But no blood flowed from the jagged gash; as it twitched

again, globules of silver fluid dripped on to the kitchen floor.

Bernice reached for the bread bin, placing its bulk squarely

on top of the spider, and then ground and twisted with all

her strength. There were bits of the creature left when she‘d

finished, but nothing big enough to frighten anyone.

She slumped to the floor just as Lizbeth appeared, pulling

on a dressing gown.

‗Looks like someone‘s been spying on us,‘ Bernice said,

poking at the remains of the arachnid with the bread knife.

Lizbeth flicked on all the lights, and walked over to the

kitchen area. She could scarcely believe it. ‗A spider?‘ she

said, dropping down to her hands and knees to look at the

creature.

Its body was made out of some sort of black-green plastic,

supported by an internal musculature of silver alloy. The

bristles that covered its head were tiny metal aerials, some

not much thicker than a human hair.

And behind the eyes, themselves no more than a few

millimetres across, trailed strands of almost invisible fibre

optic cable.

‗Which all raises the question,‘ said Bernice, calm despite

the adrenaline rush that still gripped her body, ‗why? Either

the sicko who‘s pursuing you fancied some intimate shots of

you getting into the shower, or there‘s something else going

on here...‘

‗I don‘t like the sound of either explanation,‘ said Lizbeth.

‗Perhaps Alex could tell us what this thing is.‘

Lizbeth shook her head. ‗No,‘ she said firmly.

Bernice could see her point. It was impossible to establish

how long the spider had been in the flat, but it had certainly

appeared just after both of them had come into contact with

Mphahlele. Although he did not strike Bernice as being a

man driven by jealousy, he, perhaps more than most, would

have access to equipment like this.

And she remembered what she had told herself earlier: Any

diplomat is at best one step removed from being a spy.

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

We went back to bed soon after that. Well, once you‘ve

squashed the life out of a robotic spider, there‘s not really

much more to be said.

I barely saw Lizbeth the next day. She told me she had a

number of important meetings with her sponsors in the

Dimetan government; I said that was fine, as I suddenly felt

very tired. It all catches up with you, in the end. She also

said that she wanted to see what Homam made of the

arachnid.

I‘m not sure I even emerged from my bed properly until

midday, but when I did, the gooey, glittering mess in the

kitchen had all gone. Once awake and decent, I contented

myself with reading and catching up with correspondence. It

was only really as I looked back on that day that I saw it as a

turning point: not because of anything that happened

(although plenty did), but because of what didn‘ t. It would be

quite some time until I saw much of Lizbeth again.

My afternoon was interrupted only by a call from Alex, with

reference to the party that night, which Lizbeth had

mentioned soon after my arrival: he would be going; would I

care to accompany him? I wasn‘t sure what to say, given the

events of the previous night, but avoiding him wasn‘t going to

answer any of our questions. So I said ‗Yes‘.

That usually works for me.

Extract ends

Once, on the holiday planet of Alnasl, Bernice had been

swimming in a shallow sea the exact purple-blue colour of

lapis lazuli. Looking clown through the perfect transparency

of the water, she had seen a golden shadow of herself

hanging between the surface and the sugar-sand bed. Her

companion at the time, a young woman named Zavijava

Akubens, had explained that this delightful phenomenon was

caused by the presence of Midan zooplankton in the water,

gathering beneath their bodies for shelter. Bernice recalled

her total enchantment at the sight - and her subsequent fear

as the twinkling shadow-phantom flew apart in a billion

struggling pixels.

For a second she was confused, before detecting for herself

the vibrations of the approaching craft through the water.

Bernice broke surface and lifted her head, in time to have it

almost taken off by the waterskeet as it flashed past virtually

in silence, at unguessable speed. Then came the slipstream;

a terror of bubbles and spray and a tangled surging of

currents that disoriented her totally.

Bernice squeezed her eyes closed in the here-and-now and

actually held her breath, immersed as she was in the power

of her memory.

The ‗skeet was a common watercraft on Alnasl; very

popular with tourists because of its simplicity and power.

There were of course strict standards regulating its use. But

maybe on this occasion Bernice and Zavijava had drifted too

far out beyond the swimming zone, or perhaps the driver of

the ‗skeet was not paying attention, or had been careless or

stupid, or perhaps...

The two girls had wrapped their arms around each other

until they were over the shock. Bernice noticed a cut below

Zavi‘s left eye as she cried, and the blood drops plipping into

the water and twisting down, down, unravelling and fading...

And how the Midan particles had clamoured to feast on this

unexpected nourishment from above. And ever since that

day, Bernice had never allowed herself to be beguiled by the

illusion of beauty, nor would she ever relax completely, no

matter how peaceful or apparently safe was the setting.

‗Unusual, Benny. Yes?‘

Alex Mphahlele‘s voice, as rich as his skin tone and as

seductive as his smile, cut through Bernice‘s reminiscence

and caused her to shudder. The symbolism of her memory

had dropped like a jigsaw puzzle piece with uncanny

precision into the current events of her life. Ahead of them,

above the grandiose mansion which was their destination, a

million swirling molecules of light were gathering and

breaking, swirling and separating in the starry sky. Now a

thin veil of silvery smoke, then a perfect Mandelbrot Set

unfolding with fractal complexity; now a twisting galaxy,

becoming a fountain of red and golden fire spouting above

the trees. The display was utterly breathtaking - as Bernice

felt her muscles tightening, her instincts warning of possible

danger beyond.

‗Microbots,‘ Mphahlele explained. ‗Or ―nanocules‖ as they‘re

popularly called. Programmed for entertainment. Look at one

under a microscope and you‘ll see it‘s mainly self-fluorescing

glass operating through a piezo crystal effect caused by the

friction of the bot‘s body with the air...‘

‗Fascinating.‘ Bernice smiled, but did not permit herself to

be carried away on the slipstream of Mphahlele‘s

attractiveness and charm. She frowned fractionally. ‗But how

do they all know what they‘re doing? I mean, this display is

coordinated.‘ She glanced briefly through the hoverlimo‘s

passenger window again - into the pulsing multicoloured

heart of a nebula - before turning back for an answer.

‗Morphic field technology. It‘s something the Jauza race

have developed; highly secret; profound implications for the

military; probably limitless applications in a thousand other

areas of research -‘

‗And they‘re expressing this technology as a load of pretty

lights!‘

‗Catches your attention though, doesn‘t it?‘ Mphahlele

grinned. ‗And you can bet your eye teeth that if the Jauzans

are releasing this much, they already have the jump on just

about everyone else researching in the field. It‘s a PR

exercise, of course. Roll up, roll up! Look at our cute little

microbots, then learn how you can use the principles for

psychosocial engineering, or simply to wipe out your enemy.

Word on the street is that the Bantu Cooperative are acting

as intermediaries for the Jauzans. You might be interested to

hear that Cooperative representatives will be here tonight, at

the express request of the Dimetan government. Wheels

within wheels.‘

‗Within wheels,‘ Bernice agreed. ‗But why don‘t the Jauzans

come here to peddle the goods themselves?‘

‗Perhaps they have.‘ Alex‘s smile grew mischievous and

Bernice wondered then if he was teasing. ‗Thing is, using

MorphTech they can also make themselves invisible.‘

‗I see,‘ Bernice said as the limo tilted slightly in the sky and

began its smooth approach to the landing area. ‗Or rather, I

don‘t.‘

The hoverlimo came down on an immaculate lawn of

clipped, perfect grass. It was one of a score of such vehicles

coming in like slowly falling leaves to deposit their

passengers and rise again with a sigh.

Bernice found her anxious caution being tempered by the

glitter of the whole occasion, by Alex Mphahlele‘s suave

attention, and - though it pained her to admit it - by the ease

with which she had been admitted into the higher echelons of

Dimetan society.

‗Tell me,‘ she said, inclining her head in the direction of

Mphahlele as they walked into the great house, ‗why am I

here with you? And why is Lizbeth coming - presumably - on

her own?‘

Alex answered readily enough, though at the same time

Bernice wondered if he was keeping things back, leaving her

intrigued and infuriated.

‗Lizbeth and I are not... reconciled,‘ he said, his muscles

bunching and rippling under his perfectly tailored tuxedo. ‗It

would be inappropriate for us to arrive together. Etiquette

allows us to converse during the evening, however.‘ Bernice

couldn‘t help but notice that Alex had a diction for every

occasion. She supposed it went with the territory.

‗Etiquette?‘ she queried.

Alex nodded. ‗And common sense. On the other hand, it is

perfectly legitimate for me to chaperone you, Benny. Whether

you realize it or not, you are a Dellahan representative, an

ambassador for your world just by being here...‘

‗I must try not to dribble mayonnaise down my dress. OK,

I‘ll buy that.‘ Bernice struggled to make her voice heard

above the many voices and languages. ‗The Dimetans are

consummate self-salesmen. They are keeping this planet

from bankruptcy by wooing the governments of a hundred

different worlds. They‘re living on credit and need to keep

cultivating relationships. Dellah, I dunno, Dellah might be

interested in dealing one day. But I have no connection with

that at all.‘

‗Look around,‘ Mphahlele said smoothly. ‗This is one big

advertisement for Dimetos. You came, you saw, you reported

back favourably.‘

‗Well…‘

‗That‘s the idea, anyway. Besides, if I may say without

being accused of false flattery, the name Bernice

Summerfield is not entirely unknown on this world. Your

articles and monographs are wed thought of among the

historical fraternity on Dimetos.‘

‗Why thank you, kind sir…‘

‗I‘m serious.‘ Mphahlele guided Bernice towards the lights

and soft music and relaxed bustle of the balconied patio. ‗You

will perhaps already have realized that the Dimetans‘ drive to

promote themselves has led to an outrageous over-inflation of

the collective ego. This manifests itself in part as an intense

enthusiasm for all things academic. It‘s a kind of intellectual

snobbery, disdained on many other planets in Dimetos‘ area

of influence -‘

‗You mean, they like my work because it helps them show

off!‘

Mphahlele laughed richly. They were reaching the fringes of

the crowds now, and Mphahlele‘s conversation with Bernice

had

become

punctuated

by

little

nods

and

acknowledgements, subsidiary smiles and small social hand

movements directed at a number of other people. Bernice

realized that he was operating on two levels; the personal

with her, and working the social dynamic among his friends,

acquaintances and contacts.

‗You misunderstand.‘ Mphahlele held up his hand to

forestall any upset. Bernice noticed that the palm was

creamy-coffee-coloured and looked surprisingly smooth.

‗Your own achievements are undoubted, and deeply

appreciated among many researchers on Dimetos, Lizbeth

included, of course. She has a profound respect for your

work - as has our old friend Homam Matar..

‗You know Homam?‘

‗Homam has many flexible fingers in any number of pies.

Industrial archaeology is just one of them. That boyish

enthusiasm for his job conceals a shrewd mind and a

business sense sharp as a scalpel - which he uses with

surgical precision on many occasions, I can tell you. We may

even see him around here this evening…‘ Mphahlele scanned

the distance, looking tall and strong, like some magnificent

antelope gazing over the plains.

Bernice nudged him in the side. ‗Anyway, you were

lavishing praise on my work.‘

‗Ah, yes.‘ Alex looked directly at Bernice, his seductive eyes

the colour of teak. ‗The point I make is that you are welcome

here for many reasons. So please don‘t think we are simply

being polite or courteous. Certainly there are some

individuals who are probably already wishing you had never

arrived - whoever poured polystene in the trench at the

excavation site, for instance.‘

Bernice questioned him with a glance.

‗Oh, I spoke to Homam earlier today. He is most

forthcoming where Lizbeth is concerned.‘ Mphahlele paused,

and just for a moment his unflappable veneer faded. ‗As I

said yesterday, I still worry about Lizbeth and would never

want to see her harmed. So on a personal note, Benny, I too

am glad that you‘re here.‘

Mphahlele took Bernice‘s hand and raised it to his lips and

gently brushed her knuckles; not so much a kiss as a

sampling of the scent and texture of her skin. In that

moment, he was no longer a king antelope, but one of the

predatory big cats.

Bernice stopped herself from blushing. Just. Alex led her

over to one of the long tables of food and drink, allowing

himself the luxury of surveying the magnificent array of

delicacies spread before them. His attention swung away

from Bernice while he picked at a morsel of food, and

Bernice fell a subtle kind of release, a freedom to be out of

his spotlight. Alex Mphahlele was a powerful man:

wonderfully self-assured, supremely capable at getting what

he wanted - except Lizbeth Fugard, whom Bernice noticed

some distance away inside the drawing room adjacent to the

patio. She was wearing a simple dark blue dress; she was

absolutely stunning, and she knew it. Bernice guessed that

Lizbeth had seen her, or at least had seen Mphahlele and

concluded that Bernice was there by association, but she

seemed intent on pretending that they weren‘t there. Instead,

she was chatting animatedly to a young man Bernice did not

recognize, sparkling in front of him, laughing at his jokes.

‗Jeeerahh?‘ Mphahlele was holding out a small plate

containing four wafer-thin slices of a dark pinkish fruit that

resembled smoked salmon.

‗I don‘t know it. What‘s the attraction?‘ Bernice asked.

‗It‘s gustatorily hallucinogenic,‘ Mphahlele said with a

grin, it tastes of whatever you like, just as you think of it.‘

‗Wow.‘

He leant closer. ‗Living cells, genetically altered so that

they can create a psychobiological feedback loop between

your own mind and the fruit itself. You have to eat it fresh.

And you have to eat it now: Jeeerahh‘s very rare, very

expensive, much sought after. I only got this nibble because

I‘m bigger than the other guy who was reaching for it.‘

Bernice chuckled at his mischief, then wondered at its

dark undertones. She picked up a slice and studied it closely,

as though expecting it to start wriggling.

‗Go on,‘ Mphahlele dared. ‗Give your taste buds an

orgasm.‘

Bernice popped the whole slice on to her tongue. It

began to dissolve, giving off bursts of absinthe, apples,

peaches, elderberries, vanilla, cherries, carrots and juniper

as Bernice‘s mind jumped from one flavour to another.

‗Yes,‘ she said. ‗Oh yes!‘

But by then Mphahlele was talking to someone else, a tall

willowy redhead (literally a red head, as she was from

Mirach), gallantly offering her a slice of the Jeeerahh fruit as

well.

The final tastes became bland and were lost as Bernice‘s

mood swung downwards. She brightened only as Lizbeth

and her companion approached, having apparently only just

noticed Bernice and Mphahlele.

Lizbeth‘s companion was certainly striking. His skin had

a discernible opalescent sheen which Bernice found

intriguing, so much so that she had to make an effort of will

to avoid staring at him rudely.

Lizbeth introduced Bernice and Mphahlele before indicating

her companion. ‗This is Karl Csokor. Karl comes from the

Thuban Zone and is here on business.‘

‗But you aren‘t here as a Thuban representative?‘

Mphahlele pitched it as a question, just.

Csokor‘s chromium-tinted eyes indicated the negative.

‗I‘m here for myself. But then as you know, all business is

selfish.‘

‗Gosh, that‘s heavy.‘ Bernice smiled broadly, endeavouring

to lighten up the conversation. A tension had developed,

emerging like the universe itself out of nothingness. Suddenly

she felt uncomfortable without knowing why, and was a little

frustrated that her instincts had nothing to say on the

matter. But Lizbeth was obviously captivated by Csokor and

was unashamedly hanging on to his every gesture and

remark. Maybe it was a ploy to punish Alex, Bernice thought;

surely she couldn‘t have shifted the focus of her affections so

quickly?

‗So what business are you in, Mr Csokor?‘ Mphahlele

wondered, testing for reaction, just as you might prod with a

stick at some unknown and potentially dangerous animal.

‗Import-export. Is there any other sort?‘

‗Well, possibly not. But it would be bound to be selfish

nevertheless.‘

‗Quite,‘ Csokor said with a humourless flash of teeth,

pointedly turning away to refresh his glass.

Bernice spent a few panicky seconds considering how

this whole encounter might be salvaged, though was spared

further effort when Mphahlele suggested he introduce her to

a number of people he‘d just spotted.

‗Delegates from the Bantu Cooperative,‘ he explained

as they took their leave of Lizbeth and Csokor. ‗They

specialize in defence systems. But since die best form of

defence is attack, I guess the Cooperative boil down to plain

old-fashioned arms dealers in the end.‘

Bernice wished profoundly that being part of the social

undercurrent of Dimetan high society wasn‘t such damned

hard work. Mphahlele signalled his intention of joining the

Bantu delegation with a wave and a high keening cry that, it

later transpired, was one of the galaxy‘s countless variations

of hello. The reddish-skinned delegates responded

enthusiastically in kind, briefly drowning out all other noises

in the room.

Bernice glanced back. Lizbeth appeared hardly to have

noticed. She was gazing up into Csokor‘s eyes, reading

them intently as she might a complex multi-layered book.

He seemed to be doing most of the talking, to Lizbeth and

one or two others who had joined them; yet his face was

barely animated, contrasting unusually with the hot mercury

of his eyes and with the taut anger he had displayed at

Mphahlele‘s mildly provocative questioning. He accompanied

one particular comment with a brisk stabbing movement of

an index finger into the air at eye level. Fugard and the other

listeners laughed loudly. Csokor grinned his barracuda grin.

‗Benny, allow me to introduce you to Mas-ta-ba-gal-

gal-al-kharatani of the Bantu Cooperative…‘ Mphahlele‘s

large hand was in the small of Bernice‘s back, guiding her

round to meet the Bantu delegation. Before struggling to

remember the first tonsil-knotting name, she had time to

reflect on how happy Lizbeth looked, how captivated she

seemed in Csokor‘s company . . . Except, she reminded

herself, the trouble with captivity is that you place your

freedom into someone else‘s hands.

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

Mas-ta-ba-gal-gal-al-kharatani.

There,

no

problem.

Incredibly, this was the shortest and simplest of the names

among the delegates. They were an OK bunch, I suppose,

given that they had devised some of the most astonishingly

efficient and destructive weaponry in the known universe, as

far as I can judge - capable of wiping out the known

universe over the course of a long sunny summer after-

noon, if Mas-ta-ba-whatsisname‘s post-prandial tales were

not entirely apocryphal.

Alex handled them brilliantly, of course, with a respect

and diplomacy which endeared the Cooperative to him,

and which also, coincidentally, laid the groundwork for

what was shaping up to be a rather significant deal between

the Bantu delegation and the Dimetan government. Some-

thing to do with using morphic field technology to

retrodevelop the unstable areas of Dimetos. I asked Alex

about it during a brief lull in discussions, and it seems that

retrodevelopment is a cutting edge version of ancient

alchemy, transmuting mined-out wasteland and the like

into prime, fertile, real estate within the span of a human

lifetime. Add a pinch of nanotechnix, eye of bat and ear of

toad, and Bob‘s your mother‘s brother. It sounded pretty

scary to me: Alex was getting rather excited at the

prospect.

I kind of tagged along for the ride, trying not to drift into

slipstream mode. I did not want to be Alex Mphahlele‘s

shadow, even less his ornamental bimbo in front of the rich

and pissed of a dozen worlds. To be fair, he never once

treated me as such, and even steered the conversation round

to archaeology (bless him), and to a couple of my ongoing pet

projects. The Cooperative showed polite interest, and one of

them - Shad-la-wa-na-na-na... oh, I forget - extended an

open invitation for me to visit the Cooperative‘s prime world

and excavate a couple of sites of military importance.

Whatever that meant. I could just see myself crouched over

some bloody great ancient bomb, debating with myself: cut

the green wire, Benny - no! it‘s the red wire; no, it‘s the green

wire, you fool!

Apart from the invitation, Shad also offered me a hatal

nut, which was supposed to be a powerful aphrodisiac.

Apart from having no one to share its effects with, I didn‘t

like the look of it. The shell was yellowish and translucent,

showing something inside which had many legs and was

stirring slightly. It reminded me a little of the robotic spider

from the night before.

Shad explained that I would need to crack the shell with

my back teeth, and then quickly swallow the nut without

chewing — presumably releasing the creature live into the

stomach? Well, what a turn-off.

I thanked Shad politely and declined. He ate the hatal nut

himself, grew rather flushed, and went off in search of

relief.

From that point the evening opened out into a daze of con-

versation and laughter. I talked archaeology and had them

listening attentively. Mas-ta-ba-gal-gal-al-kharatani repeated

the invitation for me to visit, and this time, after five or six

cocktails, it sounded more attractive.

All in all I conducted myself rather well, I thought, except

for dribbling mayonnaise on my dress towards the end of

the evening.

It was no big deal. The Cooperative didn‘t notice, and

Alex pretended he hadn‘t. I reached into my hip bag for a

tissue, and discovered instead a plastic business card; a card

I‘d seen nobody place there, though during the past hour or

so someone clearly had. For a second or two it was perfectly

blank, then sprouted a gold embossed address and a brief

message - I know - together with a date and time.

I lifted my thumb from the datapad built into the card. It

was programmable, naturally, and was probably hooked up

to a computer network elsewhere on Dimetos. Micro-optics

might even, at that moment, be transmitting an image of my

face to some distant terminal, together perhaps with good-

ness knows what other data drawn from my skin.

I wondered what to do about the card. Slip it back in my

hip bag, show Alex, chuck the thing away?

And while I was wondering, a spark cracked across its

surface, spread into a wave of blue liquid flame, and caused

it to disintegrate on its way from my fingers to the floor.

Extract ends

The early morning sun glinted on the startling green water

of the marina, encircled as it was by a ‗u‘ of silicrete and

rose-coloured metal. Bernice wondered if high levels of

copper or some other mining effluent had changed the

colour of the sea.

The strong tang of ozone blocked out any other smell that

might also indicate the legacy of Dimetos‘s industrial past.

Although, from what Bernice had seen in Lizbeth‘s apart-

ment, it seemed quite possible that the air had been filtered

in any case. There was, after all, more money in the marina

area than most of the people who stayed there knew what to

do with.

Like those of a child pressed against the glass of a toy

shop, Bernice‘s eyes grew wide as she looked at the craft

that rose and fell to the slow heartbeat of the water. There

were dart-shaped ultraboats, with their powerful chemical

engines, jostling with sedate yachts, complete with sails and

masts and all the trimmings. There was a cluster of anti-grav

ships out above the deeper water, motionless some metres

above the gentle waves.

‗Luxury.‘ The drone pilot whistled as the taxi made its

way slowly past the marina. ‗You‘ve gotta be absolutely

loaded to keep your boat here.‘ Its head clicked slightly to

one side. ‗Actually, you‘ve gotta be loaded to have a boat in

the first place.‘

‗Do you know who any of them belong to?‘ asked

Bernice as they passed a gleaming jet yacht about the size of

a small village.

The drone turned its head away from Bernice. A shutter

slid up to reveal a simple screen set into the back of its skull.

A different voice emanated from the pilot as it moved

swiftly into one of its tourist programs. ‗The marina is the

home, especially in summer, of many of the richest and

most powerful men on Dimetos.‘

Bernice‘s eyebrows arched. It seemed whoever had pro-

grammed the drone had introduced a subroutine for sexism,

which Bernice thought was taking old Earth realism a little

too far. What next? You won’t believe who I had in the back

of the cab the other day. Yeah, and them darkies are

lowering the tone of this area, know what I mean ? And as

for the government...

The drone continued in its soulless monotone. ‗Many of

the businessmen have their main offices within their luxury

yachts. These days, the busy executive rarely needs to

venture into town.‘

Of course, thought Bernice, if most of the rich folk who

lived here were male, it would explain a lot about the

excessive size and power of many of the boats. Penis

substitutes, and no mistake.

‗We are now passing a yacht owned by KK-Vert

Industries, as you can tell by the use of the corporate colour

scheme. As chief executive Marc Duk commented when the

boat was commissioned -‘ the voice clicked into an audio

sample taken from a news broadcast ‗―you can‘t lose any

opportunity to promote yourself, no matter what the

scale.‖‘

The vast craft resembled a purple and silver blancmange,

its masts festooned with info-feeds, i can live without the

adverts,‘ snapped Bernice irritably. ‗Are we there yet?‘

The drone changed modes again, the screen sliding shut.

‗Almost there, darling. I tell you, not all the drivers would

come out this far, but, when you said the government was

paying, well, I thought to myself -‘

Bernice pressed a muting button set in the back of the

drone‘s neck, and revelled in the silence.

They drew up alongside a typical yacht, typical only in

that it was as extraordinary as its neighbours. Children - at

least, they looked like children - in dirty clothes ascended

masts the height of a small tower block; more smartly

dressed men and women were busy scrubbing the decks.

Bernice checked behind her. Mphahlele‘s own hover car

was still following at a discreet distance. Lizbeth had

offered to come too, but Bernice could tell that she‘d rather

be checking the latest data from the site. While Bernice still

wasn‘t entirely sure she could trust Mphahlele, the only

alternative was going alone to the address on the card, and

so she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Bernice authorized the drone to take the fare from her

account, and watched the car rise swiftly into the air, before

darting off towards the mountains that sat between the city

and the bay area. Within moments it was a dot in the sky,

almost indistinguishable from the black gulls and pale skuas

that wheeled overhead.

As Bernice turned towards the yacht she noticed a young

man, not in uniform, making his way purposefully towards

her. He stepped on to the mock-wood walkway between the

boats, a big grin etched on to his face. The arrogance of rich

youth seeped from every well-maintained centimetre of his

body, and die obtuse message on the business card suddenly

made sense to Bernice. If Mphahlele was at least acquainted

with espionage, then here was a boy playing at being a spy.

‗Hi,‘ he said. ‗Glad you could come. Saw you at the party

last night. Terrific, wasn‘t it?‘ He paused just long enough to

suck in half a lungful of air. ‗Thought you looked gorgeous,

too. If I can say that. You‘re not married, are you?‘

He seemed not much more than eighteen years old.

Bernice finally managed to get a word in. ‗And you are?‘

she asked.

‗Oh, gosh, yes, sorry. Afraid I can‘t tell you. This is all

hush-hush.‘

‗Bit of a public place for a meeting,‘ said Bernice, glancing

around. Mphahlele had parked the hover somewhere, and

was talking to a man just inside the doorway of a small shop

a few hundred metres away. Probably discussing fishing, or

something.

‗Oh no, there‘s no one else here, apart from the servants,

and they‘re very discreet. Father‘s away, you see. On

business.‘

‗And Father is?‘

The young man paused, in the government. I‘ll say no

more.‘

‗Your message said that ―you know‖. Know what?‘

‗Your friend. The archaeologist. I know what she‘s

discovered.‘

‗And that is?‘

The young man began to walk away from the yacht,

casting an anxious glance over his shoulder. None of the

uniformed individuals cleaning the ship seemed to be paying

him the slightest attention, but Bernice could understand the

man‘s caution. People who indulged in intimidation and

vandalism probably weren‘t averse to spying on kith and kin

either.

‗The original EB Corporation maps arc inaccurate,‘ the

man said in a whisper.

Bernice couldn‘t help but laugh. ‗You‘re joking,‘ she

spluttered, is that all?‘

‗It means a lot.‘

Bernice had read a number of papers on the political

significance of maps - that to be in a position to disseminate

maps and control their content was to be in a position of

great power - but she couldn‘t see why this would interest

the political rulers of Dimetos. She said as much to the

young man.

‗Think back to where we were last night,‘ he continued.

‗The landscaped gardens, the imposing buildings. Imagine

what would happen if you told people that their homes were

built over an unmarked nuclear reactor.‘

‗What?‘

‗When the original dwellings were built - and you‘ve

probably noticed that good quality land is very scarce on

Dimetos - the area was investigated and passed as fit. But,

in truth, when the government checked, they didn‘t do much

more than just glance at the old EB maps to make sure there

was nothing untoward buried underground.‘

‗But there is, because the maps are wrong.‘

The young man nodded. ‗Like I say, in this particular

case, it‘s an old nuclear reactor. Who knows what‘s under

the rest of the city.‘

‗So the government want to suppress this information?‘

‗Yes. Panic and fear - especially among the upper classes

- is not good for trade. Now, I‘m not entirely sure your

friend fully understands what‘s going on. She might not

even understand the evidence her own work is revealing.

But there are people on Dimetos who leave nothing to

chance.‘

Bernice nodded. In an instant, the young man seemed to

have offered an explanation for the stalker, the spider, the

threatening message, and the destruction at the site. She

just couldn‘t believe it was that simple.

They stood at the end of the walkway, in front of most of

the ships, the artificial harbour walls stretching away behind

them. A gull alighted on a mooring post and watched them

quizzically, its dark eyes as soulless as computer screens.

‗You know all this from your father,‘ said Bernice.

‗I‘m in a very good position to hear all sorts of interesting

titbits. I found out who you were at the party last night, paid

one of the butlers to slip the card into your bag. Probably

thought I wanted to chat you up or something.‘ He smiled

nervously, staring down into the slowly lapping waters, i

mean, I don‘t suppose you‘d be interested in someone like

me…‘

‗No.‘ Bernice hadn‘t meant it to sound so curt and final,

hut she‘d blurted the word out without thinking.

The young man seemed to take it in his stride. In fact, he

looked almost relieved, and carried on talking. ‗I thought

you‘d be worth contacting. An outsider. Not mired in

Dimetan politics.‘

‗What else do you know?‘

‗That‘s about it, really. Obviously, I see things, but I

rarely get close to actual physical proof.‘

‗Why are you doing this? Won‘t your father be annoyed if

he finds out?‘

The boy turned back towards the yacht. ‗He won‘t find

out. He mustn‘t.‘ There was just the faintest quiver in his

voice as he pointed to the luxurious boats that surrounded

them. ‗All my life I‘ve been really lucky. Lots of money,

lots of opportunities, the finest education money can buy.‘

‗I gather that your father isn‘t interested in politics as a

way of serving the populace, then,‘ commented Bernice,

although the young man seemed not to hear.

‗Some might say that I was educated too well; that despite

my father‘s hopes, I developed a sense of morality.‘ He

sighed. ‗Others would just say that I‘m a spoilt brat who

hates my father‘s guts. Everything I do is a payback for all

the privileges I‘ve been blessed with.‘ The contempt in his

voice was obvious.

‗So I‘m not the first person you‘ve contacted with a bit of

governmental gossip?‘

‗No,‘ said the young man. He approached the smaller

walkway that led up on to the deck of his father‘s yacht. ‗I‘d

better be going.‘

‗You‘ve been very helpful.‘

‗Thank you. Though I warn you, if you ever come back

here, I‘ll deny all knowledge.‘ His voice picked up a notch

as a group of children dressed in ragged sailor suits climbed

down from the rigging behind him. ‗Really was most splendid

of you to come and see me. Perhaps we‘ll meet again at

another bash before too long.‘

‗Let‘s hope so,‘ said Bernice, beginning the walk to

where Mphahlele would be waiting. When she glanced back

at the yacht, the young man had already slipped from sight.

On the way back to the city, Mphahlele turned to Bernice.

‗So, what did the guy say?‘

Bernice scratched the back of her head absently. ‗He

indicated that the government are behind the attack on the

dig, and the threatening message. Lizbeth has discovered -

or is about to discover — that the original EB maps are not to

be trusted, and I guess they‘re hoping that she won‘t go

public with the revelation.‘

Mphahlele nodded, concentrating for a moment on

ascending the mountains between Dimetos City and the

ocean.

‗You see, a lot of buildings have been constructed on sites

that aren‘t as safe as they appear,‘ continued Bernice.

‗I see,‘ said Mphahlele. ‗And did our friend say who he

was?‘

‗Son of a minister. High-ranking, I guess, given what he

knows.‘

‗Do you trust him?‘

‗Yes,‘ Bernice answered automatically. ‗Well, I think so,‘

she continued. ‗He seems harmless enough.‘

‗Perhaps that‘s what they wanted you to think.‘

‗It‘s possible,‘ admitted Bernice.

‗Do we tell Lizbeth what we know?‘

‗If what the boy said is to be believed, it could be her

ignorance that‘s kept her alive this long. Whenever I ask

her about what‘s going on, she genuinely doesn‘t seem to

know.‘

‗Either that, or she‘s too frightened to tell us what she

knows.‘

‗Maybe.‘

The city lay below them, a pale square of construction in

a turbulent, broiling landscape. A passenger ship, not unlike

the one Bernice had come in, was just coming down through

the churning clouds. Following it was a smaller vessel, its

filigree wings extending to catch the thermals.

‗A driftop,‘ commented Mphahlele. ‗I‘d kill for one of

those.‘

The butterfly-like craft spun lower. Bernice could see now

that it was a two-seater, the transparent cockpit rising to

twin points like eyes. The rest of the vessel was a black

protective carapace adorned with the circles-and-triangle logo

of the Bantu Cooperative. ‗Corporate hospitality,‘ breathed

Bernice. ‗Say you‘re interested in the latest percussive crater

bombs, and they‘ll take you for a ride.‘

‗In every sense of the word,‘ agreed Mphahlele, plunging

the hover car downwards without a word of warning.

Bernice clutched at her stomach, letting out a groan of

discomfort.

‗I like you, Benny,‘ said Mphahlele. if that was Lizbeth,

she‘d pretend she didn‘t mind my driving.‘ As if to accentuate

the point, he flipped the craft over.

Bernice felt herself hanging downwards in the soft

enveloping arms of the protective energy harness. ‗You mean

she‘s more cool than I am? Thanks.‘

But Mphahlele seemed not to hear. He was too busy

chuckling to himself. ‗The latest craze is to fly upside down

with the canopy open,‘ he said, flipping the hover car back

over again.

‗Yes,‘ said Bernice, through gritted teeth, i remember from

my arrival. The police seemed to be taking a keen interest.‘

‗Saves them looking too hard into the real issues,‘ said

Mphahlele. ‗Forgive my cynicism.‘

They were on a level with the tallest buildings now, the

horizon cut through with communication arrays and slabs of

penthouse.

‗Talking of which,‘ continued Mphahlele, ‗did this guy

give you any proof?‘

Bernice shook her head. ‗No. And he said that if we

contacted him again, then he‘ll deny that we even had the

conversation.‘

‗Then that‘s what we‘ll do,‘ said Mphahlele with a smile

of satisfaction.

As Mphahlele‘s hover car zigzagged above the streets

towards Lizbeth Fugard‘s apartment, a similar-sized vehicle

slotted into an uncomplicated tracking pattern just behind. It

was a military vehicle, somewhat resembling a squid, its

interlocking panels of rust-coloured metal disguising state-

of-the-art scrambling and surveillance equipment. It was

entirely invisible to the hover car in front: only if one of the

occupants happened to glance behind would the vehicle be

seen, tracking them exactly. And then it would be easy to

change course, until the moment passed.

Like the earlier driftop, it bore the logo of the Bantu

Cooperative. But this time the mark was smaller and more

discreet. This craft had seen action.

Inside its armour-plated cockpit, real-time and recorded

information flowed along a number of virtual head-up dis-

play screens. A pair of suited men concentrated on the audio

tracks relayed through cochleal implants.

...I’m in a very good position to hear all sorts of interesting

things. I found out who you were at the party last night, paid

one of the butlers to slip the card into your bag...

A

well-manicured

finger

advanced

the

playback

impatiently.

...And he said that if we contacted him again, then he’ll

deny that we even had the conversation.

Then that’s what we’ll do.

You sure?

Hell, yes. The dude’ll be even more forthcoming if we

threaten to blow his cover...

The two suited men nodded to each other approvingly.

The squid-like craft left the hover car in peace, accelerating

away towards the mountains.

TRACK 5

LOVE IS: ‘I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING!’

Extract from Dimetan Infobase (Level Two), as requested by Professor

Bernice S. Summerfield

...The current political situation on Dimetos is stable, albeit

with a simmering undercurrent of ‗subversive‘ activity. The

incumbent government is democratically elected, but

rumoured to be strengthening its links with the military in

case of future electoral opposition. It swept to power on a

platform of austerity measures and anti-inflationism; its

relative popularity has declined ever since. Its failure to deal

with the problems of unemployment and poverty - problems

so long-standing as to have been prevalent ever since

Dimetos gained its de facto independence - have prompted a

groundswell of antagonism and cynicism. Cita Rul wrote in

The Zette that ‗were it not for the bewildering array of fringe

and splinter groups in Dimetan politics, it is unlikely that the

KYO party would ever have come to power. The leadership is

nothing if not skilled at exploiting weaknesses beyond its own

power structures.‘

Recently, the Dimetan government has turned its attention

to its neighbouring worlds. It has an enviable – if somewhat

puzzling - reputation in its sector as being a safe place to do

business. The government believes in good publicity above all

else, and is desperate for continuing and increasing external

investment. It is even said that +

Download encrypted from here until conclusion

Bernice spent the rest of the day with Alex Mphahlele.

Lizbeth was again busy with work - or so she said - which

gave Bernice plenty of time to do some overdue shopping.

Mphahlele followed obediently, the long-suffering boyfriend-

dragged-through-malls look etched on his face. But he

remained cheery, even as the bags he carried multiplied in

size and number. He offered the occasional comment on

Bernice‘s proposed purchases, although they tended to be

along the lines of ‗it makes you look like a tart‘ or ‗that would

look nice, if it was a curtain‘.

The only time his eyes really lit up was when Bernice had

stepped into the discreet lingerie section of one of the bigger

stores. He found it hard to conceal his disappointment when

Bernice had ordered him to stay put (‗preferably with your

eyes closed‘).

Mphahlele dropped Bernice back at Lizbeth‘s apartment,

and Bernice settled down to wait for her to return. She

suddenly felt very maudlin indeed. Perhaps it was the result

of seeing Alex‘s sadness, as obvious and painful as a tattoo

gained after combat. He‘d be talking about nothing in

particular, and then a sudden look - it was the crushed

puppy-dog look, Bernice recognized it of old - flooded his

features. He‘d stare into the air, as if watching a memory play

across the front of his eyes. It all made that big, butch man

look faintly soppy.

She‘d seen the hurt of their split from both sides now, and

neither looked especially cheerful about the situation. And to

think she‘d trivialized the whole thing by compiling a

collection of sad and happy songs to cheer Lizbeth up. It

seemed so crass in retrospect.

And Bernice, of all people, should have known better.

Bernice activated the screen, but could find nothing of

interest: the news was uninteresting, the interactive

immersion progs were old-hat, and the aniprogs were strictly

for the children.

She deliberately took a chair to one of the big windows, and

sat there, looking at the street and die cars and people that

crossed it. She felt very, very alone, in a big city where almost

no one knew her.

She remembered a time when she and Jason had made

love, a week or two after their wedding. She couldn‘t recall

the exact location, but the feelings came flooding back, as

fresh as an oozing wound. Unfettered intimacy had given way

to plain, uninvolving humping. Lying there, Jason banging

away, seemingly in his own little world, she experienced a

crushing sense of loneliness. The only communion she felt

was with anyone else who was out there in the dark, being

made love to but feeling unloved, uncherished and worthless.

It was very dark now. Shutters were drawing across

windows; lights were switching on.

In bars and strip joints, restaurants and apartments,

people lived out their vacuum-sealed lives, far beyond

Bernice, ignorant of her thoughts, looking only for affirmation

and love.

Soon Bernice was asleep.

Lizbeth shook Bernice‘s shoulders. ‗Come on,‘ she said, ‗it‘s

not bedtime yet.‘

‗Sorry,‘ said Bernice, waking at last with an enormous

yawn. ‗I‘m making a habit of this ..She rubbed her eyes,

sitting up straight on the couch. It was nine o‘clock. The sky

through the enormous windows was the colour of gently

smoothed velvet. ‗Busy day sightseeing.‘

‗I‘ve got something to show you,‘ said Lizbeth, walking

towards the screen. ‗An update on the excavation from

Homam. Mainly technical stuff about the drones themselves,

though there is some puzzling data from the expanded

trench.‘ She pointed to a particular schematic on the screen.

‗Looks like there are anomalies in the holomaps the digger

drones were using to continue their work beneath the

polystene.‘

Bernice stretched. ‗I suppose...‘ She paused, as if waiting

for her brain to warm up. ‗I suppose the drones‘ circuits

could have been trashed during the attack...‘

Lizbeth nodded. ‗Yeah, that‘s what I thought at first. But

Homam indicates they‘re running acceptably. If they are fine,

then they‘re simply coming across passageways and the

remains of walls where there shouldn‘t be any. Oh, and the

background rad readings and other indicators are way off

predicted levels.‘

‘That could be frazzling the drones.‘

Lizbeth shrugged. ‗I suppose so. I‘m no expert.‘

She played through Homam‘s entire communication again

for Bernice‘s benefit. The women watched it together,

Homam‘s typically excited exposition presented with split-

screen scroll-downs of relevant facts and figures.

‗So.‘ Bernice leant back in her seat when Homam was done

and pushed her fingers through her hair. ‗Could it be that

pouring polystene into the transect has caused the plot to

thicken?‘

It was a bad pun which Lizbeth thought Bernice was using

to avoid making any meaningful comment. ‗But why would

the government sponsor the dig and then try to sabotage it?‘

she asked.

‗You tell me,‘ said Bernice. ‗You met your bosses today.‘

‗Nothing happened that gave me any insight into all this.‘

Bernice sighed. ‗Well, perhaps you‘re doing your work too

well.‘ She regarded Lizbeth frankly. ‗Could it be that the

image-sensitive government wanted only to be seen to be

magnanimous in preserving their ―cultural heritage‖? In

short, they wanted window dressing. Here you are, Lizbeth:

young, pretty, with a dynamic approach to your work. The

perfect advertisement

‗I‘m not sure I like that.‘

‗I‘m not saying you aren‘t competent, but maybe the

government didn‘t give you the credit you deserve. Perhaps

they thought you‘d pull a few pots out of the ground and

never bother about the underlying motives that generated the

project.‘

Lizbeth‘s temper was up despite Bernice‘s assurances. And

even as she snapped back at her guest, Lizbeth knew her

anger was down to the way Mphahlele had looked at Bernice

at the party the previous night, and the way Bernice had

responded to his attentions. ‗That‘s crazy,‘ she said. ‗The

polystene incident has drawn attention to the dig. Why would

the Government do that if they wanted a low profile on the

job?‘

‗The story never hit the headlines, Lizbeth,‘ Bernice said.

‗We‘ve already speculated that its purpose might be to warn

us away, just like the scare over your stalker, and possibly

even the spider that was spying on us. Apart from me, Alex

and Homam, to how many other people have you dared to

confide your suspicions?‘

‗Karl Csokor, actually,‘ Lizbeth wanted to say. But she

shut up instead as Bernice continued with a quiet passion.

‗Point is, we‘re vulnerable in these circumstances. We have

potentially damaging evidence of some kind of coverup -

metaphorical as well as literal - and only a handful of us

know. Our safest course of action would either be to back off

entirely, or to go public and blow the lid off the whole can of

worms.‘

‗We could end up looking like fools.‘

‗Better than ending up looking like corpses, Lizbeth.‘

‗Being wrong could ruin our careers

‗So could being right.‘

‗So what the hell do we do?‘ Lizbeth knew that she sounded

like a hysterical child, and was ashamed of herself; ashamed

of doubting Bernice‘s good intentions, ashamed of her

petulant and ungenerous behaviour towards Alex Mphahlele.

And ashamed, more subtly, of the new thoughts she was

having about Karl Csokor.

New thoughts, but underneath bubbled deep and ancient

emotions.

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

I was too tired to argue: I didn‘t even know what we were

arguing about. I didn‘t know what to say, what not to say.

We shuffled off in our different directions, to bed.

When I awoke, Lizbeth was already up. Apart from when I

saw her crashed out that first night, I‘d seen little evidence

that she ever slept. Well, whatever it is she does at night, she

looks good on it. Sort of radiant, like an advert for a body

spray or something.

And yet that morning there was something at the back of

her eyes, like a hangover that even the most invigorating of

pummelshowers can‘t shake off. She looked at me, just for a

moment - then she was all sweetness and light - but I spent

the rest of the day turning that gaze over in my mind. Was it

embarrassment, contempt, anger, cynicism, distrust? It was

only later in the day that I realized that it was all of these

feelings, rolled into one.

Extract ends

‗Sorry I woke you last night,‘ said Lizbeth.

‗S‘OK,‘ said Bernice, reaching across the table for a jug of

juice. ‗I was interested to see what Homam had to say.‘

‗I meant to ask you, did you find anything at the address

on the card? Any link to the man who was following me?‘

Bernice shook her head. ‗No one there. Just another person

playing games with us,‘ she lied. She felt another section of a

wall of deceit slide between them.

‗You said the man who was following you,‘ she continued.

‗I‘ve not seen him since before that evening in the

restaurant,‘ said Lizbeth, with a smile of relief that was

clearly genuine. ‗If that was him that you saw then it was the

first and last time he really came out of the shadows. Since

then... I just feel that he‘s gone. I can‘t really explain it.‘

‗And having a new man on your arm probably helps,‘

Bernice blurted out. And then winced. What little subtlety

she had refused to surface before midday. At the earliest.

‗Karl has been really sweet,‘ said Lizbeth, ignoring or not

noticing any potential malice in Bernice‘s words. ‗He‘s helped

me to see one or two things a bit more clearly.‘

‗I‘m glad. Lizbeth, really I am.‘

‗Good,‘ said Lizbeth, getting to her feet and activating the

screen.

‗No threatening messages today?‘ asked Bernice, sprinkling

caff-sub drops into her orange juice.

‗No,‘ said Lizbeth. ‗I‘ve copied across the latest energy flux

readings from the office.‘ She pointed to a three-dimensional

schematic of a number of buildings, overlaid with the

contemporary landscape. ‗Along with some of the other

information that was getting Homam so excited.‘

‗Seeing all that work done without lifting a sodding sod,‘

said Bernice, ‗just makes me want to get out a spade and

start shovelling.‘

Lizbeth smiled. ‗I‘ve never been as hands-on as you,

Benny. Still, I‘m thinking of going over to the dig some

time this morning. You want to come?‘

‗Alex has kindly offered to show me around,‘ said Bernice.

The truth was that Mphahlele had suggested that they return

to the marina and try to talk to the politician‘s son again.

‗Maybe I‘ll join you at the office this afternoon. We can have a

look at the results we saw last night.‘

‗Fine,‘ said Lizbeth. There wasn‘t any trace of bitterness in

her voice. Which either meant that she was good at

concealing her jealousy, or she genuinely didn‘t care about

Mphahlele any more. Bernice didn‘t know whether she felt

relieved or disappointed.

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

What do I feel about Alex? I just don‘t know. There‘s an

animal attraction there, to be sure, but surely I‘m too old and

spinsterish for all this biological messing around.

Anyway, Lizbeth left soon after, and I stared into my juice,

thinking.

Extract ends

Note in right margin (pencil, very scrawled handwriting)

Don‘t dance around the issue. You know what they say

about bla-

Rest of note unreadable

Alex Mphahlele expertly brought the hover car down to street

level, parking it between an executive flyer and a rusty-

looking Trudger that hadn‘t moved since Bernice‘s arrival.

Hyperdraulic pistons opened the passenger door for Bernice,

but Mphahlele stood and helped Bernice in, like a well-

trained chauffeur. Bernice wondered if he was going to play

the gentleman all day, but it didn‘t last long.

‗Is madam wearing her new panties today?‘ he asked with a

lascivious grin moments after take-off.

‗What makes you think she‘s wearing any?’ replied Bernice

in an instant.

Tart, she scolded herself.

Mphahlele chuckled, and placed a pair of dark sunglasses

over his eyes. He asked politely about Lizbeth, but Bernice

was unsure how best to describe the woman‘s new-found

confidence and happiness (seeing as how that seemed to be

in the arms of one Karl Csokor), and so instead mentioned

what Lizbeth had said about the sudden disappearance of

the stranger. ‗I suppose I may as well go home,‘ said

Bernice, playfully. ‗I mean, that’s the only reason I‘m here.‘

‗But you like adventures and mysteries,‘ said Mphahlele. ‗I

saw that in your eyes when we first met. At the very least,

you want to uncover why it is that Lizbeth is unpopular with

the government.‘

‗What you saw in my eyes,‘ said Bernice, remembering the

encounter in the alleyway, ‗was ―Oh bugger, he‘s found me. I

hope he doesn‘t beat me to a pulp.‖‘

Mphahlele laughed. ‗I‘ve not beaten anyone to a pulp for at

least a week,‘ he admitted. ‗In fact, you could say I‘m a

reformed character.‘ They were far from the city now, and

Mphahlele brought the car down into a deep valley, a chasm

of purple and red stone. Where the rock had split, silver-

coloured strata were visible, ruler-straight marks stretching

as far as the eye could see. Deeper still in the ravine, where

the early morning sun had barely penetrated, huge clouds of

white smoke jostled for position like sheep in a pen.

Mphahlele skidded the car just along the top of the super-

heated water. The plumes of steam seemed solid enough to

touch. Bernice imagined getting out and walking from here to

the marina.

Then the car plunged deeper, right into the clouds, and the

temperature rose immediately. Water rained on to the

transpex screen, sounding like pebbles thrown by children.

The entire craft bucked and jumped in protest at the gases

assailing it.

Mphahlele grinned and pulled the vehicle upwards and

back into the relative coolness of the valley‘s shadow. ‗I

thought we‘d take the scenic route today,‘ he explained.

Bernice smiled. ‗If I was a geologist, I might just live here,‘

she observed. ‗Dellah seems so old and set in its ways

compared to this world.‘

‗But you must travel a lot,‘ Mphahlele said. ‗See different

places, different planets.‘

‗My job is very academic,‘ said Bernice. ‗Lots of teaching,

lots of books and journals and commenting on other people‘s

fieldwork. Perhaps too little of my own.‘

‗Time for a change?‘

‗Maybe. You can never rule out change, can you? The

moment you think you‘re in comfortable pipe-and-slippers

territory is just when you can guarantee something will

come along and knock you base over apex.‘

‗I think you‘re missing your home.‘

‗I‘m missing something,‘ said Bernice, and then realized

how that probably sounded. ‗Oh good,‘ she said brightly, as

the marina came finally into view, ‗there it is.‘

‗Let‘s go and have another look,‘ said Mphahlele.

The same opalescence that distinguished Karl Csokor‘s skin

was also present in his fingernails, giving them the tint and

delicate lustre of abalone. Lizbeth found herself intrigued by

the satiny slide of light off the nails as Csokor reached

forward and plucked a morsel of food from the cool tray. He

paused with the titbit to his lips, glancing sidelong at

Lizbeth before looking at her fully with a smile.

‗Oh - I‘m sorry.‘ Lizbeth grew flustered and reached for her

cup, fumbled it and spilt the sadallberry juice on the blanket

between them. She might have lost it completely then,

collapsing into a welter of emotions she didn‘t understand,

but instead grew very quiet and slowed her breathing, letting

it settle her. Her blushing subsided.

‗You must have thought me very rude, Karl. I didn‘t mean

to stare...‘

‗But of course you did.‘ There was no criticism in his tone,

and his smile widened as if to reaffirm that. ‗You have never

seen anyone quite like me before; at the very least I‘m a

curiosity, and at best - well, perhaps you‘d like to know

more.‘

Lizbeth read his eyes for arrogance and failed to find it in

their liquid metal depths. Karl‘s eyes were even more

impressive than his complexion. They changed minute by

minute like a coastal sky: now watery and fathomless, now

silvery grey and semi-opaque, revealing nothing. She

wondered what caused them to move through their spectrum

of shades and hues. His moods? Atmospheric conditions? Or

was the phenomenon partly or entirely under his conscious

control? In which case, what was their significance? The

eyes being the windows of the soul was an adage far older

than any artefact Lizbeth had ever uncovered. She realized it

was true also for whatever eyes failed to reveal.

‗I would never regard you as a curiosity,‘ she told him

honestly. ‗That is so patronizing I can‘t believe you thought it

of me!‘ The brief flare of anger was good, clearing away the

confusion, setting her on an even keel. ‗You interest me, Karl,

I‘ll admit it.‘ She smiled coyly and was pleased to see him

react. ‗Why else would I invite you out here today?‘

He shrugged beneath his robes. ‗―You interest me.‖ What a

beautiful euphemism that is. How wonderfully ambiguous.

On many worlds you will come across the invitation to ―have

an interesting day‖. I have always found that to be as much

of an insult and a warning as it is an expression of

friendliness...‘

‗Well, if you‘d rather leave -‘ A pulse of hot spite came to

the surface and Lizbeth tried to swat it from her mind like an

irritating mosquito. Csokor had the knack of stirring her - in

a number of ways - bringing out feelings unexpectedly, so

that she had found herself steering erratically through a

suddenly complicated emotional landscape. Or maybe now

she was reading too much into things: maybe he was just an

uncaring bastard like several men she‘d known, failing to

recognize or care about her sensitive state. Since she‘d

finished with Alex - since the life they had tried to create

between them had failed - she had projected a thin gloss of

coping and getting on with her job. But how fragile was that

facade, how easily bruised and broken. She had hoped that

meeting with Alex again would have helped the healing

process, or at least put what they‘d had into perspective. But

knots like theirs were never easily untangled. And her

meeting Karl - and no less significantly, Alex‘s seeming

interest in Bernice - served simply to burden her with other

worries.

Csokor had fallen silent by way of reply, and continued

eating from the picnic she‘d prepared. Well, his saying

nothing said something, Lizbeth supposed.

Csokor poured her another measure of sadallberry juice,

his face serene, his eyes full of reconciliation. He offered

Lizbeth the glass and she took it, a simple little ritual that

served to salvage their afternoon.

Going home, she reflected that it was all probably a

rebound thing anyway. It would follow the usual course: that

first kiss, the early passions, sex, seeing more of one another,

more sex, the plateau of their feelings, seeing less of one

another, less sex, no sex, the suggestion that they separate

for a while, or perhaps the final parting. A tedious chapter in

the story of an ordinary life. Ultimately knowing Karl would

mean nothing and yet, Lizbeth realized with a pang of self-

pity, her existence and that of countess others was entirely

composed of such trivialities.

He had offered to take her back to her apartment, and

Lizbeth had readily agreed. It would have been easy enough

to call a cab, but Karl had insisted and Lizbeth took that to

be a small compliment to her company.

He drove capably, and seemed to be enjoying himself,

taking the hover car up high above the summer sunny cloud

layer and into the wide blue, so that only cirrus hung

between them and the heavens.

‗What is it like, where you come from?‘ Lizbeth asked him

at one point. Csokor checked the positioning display in the

dash, a grid-crossed space showing the few tiny motes of

other craft. Just for an instant, a look of bewilderment

crossed his face as he flicked the vehicle into autocruise.

Then he smiled, surprising Lizbeth by leaning back in his

leatherite seat and putting a casual arm around her

shoulders.

‗The Thuban Zone? Well, it‘s a conglomeration of many

worlds and many cultures. We‘re an ancient race, as you may

know, deriving from a number of disparate peoples. Millennia

ago we evolved beyond the pure need to survive, so that our

primary drive now is to flourish - but not at the expense of

other beings‘ lives and freedoms

‗In line with Petrakis‘s concept of the hierarchy of motives.‘

Lizbeth was familiar with the idea from her undergrad

studies. But it was a pure idea no longer, for here was a

living example of a primary drive very different from her own

- and yet, how similar she and Karl Csokor now seemed.

He nodded. ‗Beyond the need to survive is the need to be.

Ruchbah also predicted it a thousand years ago in her

Theory of the Development of Galactic Consciousness.‘

Lizbeth mirrored his gesture, though back in her student

days Alhena Ruchbah‘s work had been several levels of

complexity beyond her understanding.

The hover car made a slight adjustment to its course,

compensating for the flight path of another craft still beyond

visible range. The world far below tilted slightly upwards to

the right; Lizbeth took advantage of the shift to nestle a little

more closely into Csokor‘s arm. She was getting bored with

talk of grand abstracts.

‗The Thubans‘ greatest achievement has been the large-

scale engineering of our stellar system: basic terraforming

of inner worlds, the partial dismantling of several gas giants

for raw materials, and the establishment of three gravity

sinks from interstellar dust reserves to help soak up detritus

and maintain the stability of the system‘s cloud of cometary

debris.‘

‗I heard your people actually towed a planet out of a nearby

system and into Thuban space.‘

Csokor‘s eyes changed the depth of their colour, becoming

a lighter shade of pewter grey. Suddenly Lizbeth could see

her own convex reflection, smiling back at herself wistfully.

‗Well,‘ Csokor said with a little laugh. ‗Yes, we brought a

world home. And many times I‘ve watched the archive footage

as Giausar settled into place among our retinue of natural

planets. Speed-framing the process, compressing a decade

into a few seconds, makes the whole thing look like a well-

placed shot in a pool game! But, you know, the most

magnificent sight is of the Hummingbird Nebula in which our

system is embedded. Imagine that whole sky, Lizbeth, on a

dark and clear night, overarched by veils and streamers of

mist, green, red, pale blue, sprinkled with stars themselves

richly coloured in golds and emeralds - and one,

Vindemiatrix, just three light-years distant, the colour of

caramel...‘

Csokor illustrated this with sweeps of his hand, drawing

Lizbeth with a gentle mesmerism into the wonder and

romance of his vision. And then his hand moved towards

her, cupping her chin and turning her face upwards, urging

her closer.

Lizbeth closed her eyes and allowed the moment to happen.

The Hummingbird Nebula was a delicious dream in her head,

and Karl‘s lips were cool and moist on hers. But still one

sane and wide-awake part of her was minutely disappointed

that the predictable path of their love had now started its sad

and inevitable course.

Lizbeth saw the flash of fast-moving metal and plastic as

Csokor walked her across an esplanade in the direction of

her apartment. The early morning overcast had largely dis-

appeared now: the sun was out and the air beginning to

vibrate with an afternoon heat.

Even as the thing swooped towards them and she started

to flinch, Csokor was grabbing her hand and swinging her

out of harm‘s way.

But the tiny device stopped a few metres short and

unfolded itself into a glittering read-me screen displaying

Homam Matar‘s mischievously grinning face – though Lizbeth

did notice the slight frown of unease there as well.

‗It‘s a memodrone,‘ she told Csokor, who looked furious.

‗A bit juvenile I admit, but it keeps messages private. Are

you voice-checking?‘ she asked the device.

‗Voice and retinal patterning, ma‘am. Identity confirmed.

Lizbeth Fugard. Communication from Mr Homam Matar

Sadalbari follows -‘

Homam‘s face became animated and he spoke briskly.

‗Lizbeth. I‘ve just double-checked the message I transmitted

to you last night. All the information about the anomalies

discovered by the digger drones is present and correct, but

my preliminary report about the robot spider was entirely

deleted. I‘m trying to find out how this happened. I‘ll

re-send die details, but, suffice it to say, your friend Benny

was right. It‘s a miniaturized spy drone, capable of the

instantaneous transmission of any information it uncovers.

Its primary capability is to download computer information

- one of the ―fangs‖ is a data probe, able to physically

penetrate just about any information system to extract the

information required.‘

Lizbeth glanced at Csokor, but his face showed little

discernible emotion.

Homam‘s message continued. ‗Oh, and one other thing you

should know. The other needle in the arachnid‘s head had a

much simpler function. It was a micro-syringe loaded with

fast-acting poison.‘ He gave a cheerily inappropriate wave,

terminating the recording.

The memodrone tucked itself back into a more compact

and aerodynamically suitable shape, spun round with a

slight cellophane crackling of power fields, and shot vertically

upwards.

Mphahlele brought the hover car down, leaving it some

distance beyond the marina complex itself. He said he was

damned if he was going to pay over the odds for a parking

space. Mphahlele and Bernice played the happy tourist

couple, just out for a stroll to see the ocean and the

expensive boats. Mphahlele took her arm in his, and Bernice,

after some consideration, relaxed against him.

‗It‘s amazing,‘ he said, ‗that people still want to travel the

seas in boats. Seeing as you can zip across them in mere

minutes in fliers and hover cars.‘

‗I‘m glad that they do,‘ said Bernice. it shows that... I don‘t

know, some spark of romanticism, of the spirit of adventure,

hasn‘t entirely been crashed by civilization.‘

‗It speaks to me,‘ said Mphahlele, ‗of a lot of very rich men

showing off. But I take your point. They could be spending

their money on something really disgusting. Like guns.‘

Bernice nodded, remembering the weapons dealers they‘d

seen at the ball, and the Bantu craft they‘d spotted the

previous day. She hadn‘t really given them much thought,

but, from Mphahlele‘s fixed expression, it seemed quite

possible they‘d had quite an effect on him. ‗You‘re thinking

about the Cooperative, aren‘t you?‘ asked Bernice.

Mphahlele nodded. ‗We all want investment in Dimetos.

But why does it always have to be like that? It seems to me

we‘ve exchanged one bunch of fascists for another.‘

He lapsed into brooding silence then, staring out to sea as

they walked. Bernice wasn‘t sure if she was just picking up

Mphahlele‘s own unease and disquiet, or if something about

the marina itself had altered. There were less people milling

about than there had been, but then this place was

somewhat off the beaten track. The sun was shining again,

the water lapped and sucked against the boats... What had

changed?

She realized what it was when the berth they were looking

for came into sight. The yacht had gone. Nothing surprising

in that, of course, but somehow it felt wrong. That yacht

didn‘t look the sort to go anywhere without an awful lot of

fuss and hard work. ‗Oh well,‘ said Bernice brightly. ‗That

door seems to have been closed on us.‘

Mphahlele said nothing, looking into the glittering expanse

of water as if a clue rested there. A dark slick of oil lay where

the yacht had been, but Bernice didn‘t read too much into

that. For all their apparent retrogressive charm, most of

these yachts had back-up engines and turbines, and that

meant lubricants and fuel and God knows what else.

Bernice turned to watch a single seagull land somewhat

clumsily in the middle of a knot of birds at the bottom of the

walkway. The others abandoned their quarrel over discarded

food, and flew off with a series of cackling cries, leaving the

solitary individual behind to patrol the area.

‗Don‘t look now,‘ said Mphahlele, ‗but I think we‘re

being watched.‘

‗What?‘ It wasn‘t entirely clear where Mphahlele was

looking, his eyes unfathomable behind his shades, but with a

nudge of his hand he indicated what he meant. Bernice

looked back towards a little row of shops and saw a sedan-

hover of such shining darkness that it wouldn‘t have called

more attention to itself if it had been sky-blue pink.

‗It‘s just arrived,‘ whispered Mphahlele. ‗And I don‘t like

the look of it.‘

A door flicked upwards like a gull‘s wing, and two suited

individuals stepped out. They tried very hard not to look

over towards Bernice and Mphahlele, but subtlety was not

their forte.

Bernice stared back, and the men ambled along the

harbour side, as if they had nothing better to do and were

just out for a stroll. One was as tall as a blo-ball player, but

built like a silicrete shit-house. The other was tiny and

skinny, and he seemed to do little but talk. The brains of the

outfit, no doubt.

‗They look like Laurel and Hardy,‘ breathed Bernice.

‗Who?‘

‗Doesn‘t matter. I suppose we‘d better be going.‘

Mphahlele nodded curtly. ‗Good call.‘ He took Bernice‘s

arm, and steered her back up the walkway.

Bernice risked a glimpse over her shoulder when they were

part way across the marina complex. The two men got back

into their sedan, which rose a foot or two above the ground,

its powerful engines just audible over the noise of the gulls

overhead. Then it began to move forwards, slowly, after the

couple.

‗Poo,‘ said Bernice. ‗I think they‘re coming after us.‘

With a whine the hover car picked up speed, its blunt nose

still pointing towards them.

TRACK 6

LA FOLIE

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

Stupid thoughts and images ran through my mind. Not quite

a whole-life-before-your-eyes jobby, but rather a heightened

version of the clutter that fills your head all the time. Or

maybe it‘s just me. I‘ve never asked. The way you suddenly

think about your parents in the middle of a lecture, or

remember a bag of fish and chips in Blackpool when you‘re

ordering a pint in the bar. That sort of thing.

As we ran from the black sedan, I suddenly saw - as clear

as anything I saw that day - manicured fingers unwrapping a

bandaged fist. The skin being stroked, the little hairs on the

back of the hand just visible in the chiaroscuro lighting of a

cell. And then a burning cigarette stabbing down, just behind

the knuckle. A scream of pain.

And then I remembered that the scream was mine – or had

been, rather. My interrogation by a Nazi called Oskar

Steinmann.

What was my subconscious trying to tell me? That this was

the worst thing that had ever been done to me? That this was

the lowest of the lows, and that nothing else – even running

away from a hover car - would compare? Chin up, Benny,

and all that?

Maybe.

It doesn‘t really matter, I suppose.

All that matters is that I ran.

A tight pencil line runs through all the above, leaving

only ‘I ran’ unmarked

Extract ends

Bernice risked a glance over her shoulder. The sedan,

skimming a metre or so above the sea-lashed silicrete of the

marina, was less than fifty metres away now. It was

accelerating all the time, its blunt nose dipping like the head

of a charging bull.

Blind panic took over long before Mphahlele tugged her

arm, encouraging Bernice to turn her half-casual trot into

hell-for-leather sprinting. Their own hover car was tucked out

of sight down a back street; if they could only reach the next

turning they might be able to lose their attackers in the criss-

cross of narrow lanes behind the waterside shops.

The engine noise - a mild, dissonant throbbing, well within

stringent noise pollution parameters - grew stronger all the

time. Bernice resisted the temptation to look behind,

concentrating instead on forcing every last surge of forward

motion from her legs. Her throat felt cold and raw, sucking in

undignified gulps of air with feverish intensity. She was

aware of a hammering noise from somewhere, and assumed

it was her heart, pounding away like a percussive industrial

rhythm heard on someone else‘s WalkPerson.

A shove from Mphahlele sent her sprawling, and Bernice

cried out in instinctive alarm. With a rush of warmed air the

sedan flashed overhead, its motors chuckling like amused

demons.

Mphahlele pulled Bernice to her feet, then ran towards the

corner a few metres away, dragging her with him.

The black hover car, sunlight fracturing off it like broken

glass, slowed and rose higher in the air, rotating as it did so.

It seemed to be recalibrating their position.

Mphahlele and Bernice staggered around the comer. The

street, bisected by shadow, was little more than the gap

between the esplanade and a large residential dwelling.

Underfoot the surface was cobbled with sea-smoothed

pebbles and glass, which glinted in the light like a fairy-tale

path to safety.

They were just approaching a criss-cross of alleyways when

Mphahlele turned his head to spot their attackers. The sedan

was tracking them, flying high over the buildings rather than

coming down to street level. ‗Looks like they‘re worried about

scratching their paintwork,‘ he breathed.

He rounded a corner, slowing to a jogging speed which

Bernice could match. ‗Safe... for a... bit... then...‘ said Bernice

between gasps. She couldn‘t help but notice that Mphahlele

was barely out of breath.

‗Yeah. And if we can get back to our hover we might just be

able to lose them.‘

The black shadow of the sedan slid over them. By the time

it had passed down the length of the street and was turning

again, Bernice and Mphahlele had reached their hover car

and were impatiently waiting for the doors to swing open.

Mphahlele operated the motors the moment he was in his

seat, the vehicle rising into the air before the canopy had

closed securely. A flash of light from the uncovered sun was

enough to trigger the transpex‘s autodarkening function,

giving Bernice‘s view of the buildings and the sedan-hover

car some distance away a suitably melodramatic sheen. The

sedan seemed even darker through the monochromatic

filters, a snub-nosed, car-shaped black hole that absorbed

light and threatened to engulf their flimsy craft.

‗Hold on,‘ breathed Mphahlele, although there was nothing

within grasping distance. Bernice toyed with the idea of

closing her eyes, but couldn‘t bear the thought of every diary

entry about their escape from the marina being a work of

fiction.

Assuming they escaped at all.

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

From standstill, the sedan flew at us like... well, like a thing

that moves from zero to bloody fast in the blink of an eye.

Alex pushed down with the control column, and we ducked

underneath them. As I craned my head around - cursing,

just for a moment, the restrictive energy harness – I just

caught the back of their vehicle jamming down on the rear of

our own. There was a clicking sound, audible within the

canopy, as something peeled away from our hover‘s rear-end.

‗Thought you said they didn‘t want to scratch their

paintwork?‘ I queried.

‗Looks like they‘ve changed their minds,‘ said Alex.

‗I hope they‘ve not hit anything important.‘

‗Me too,‘ said Alex, his eyes fixed on a miniholographic

display of our relative positions just in front of the canopy.

‗Look,‘ he said, pointing, ‗they‘ve got an inertial vectoring

system. Allows them to pull cool stunts like turning on the

spot with minimal loss of forward momentum.‘

‗Yes, I‘ve noticed that,‘ I said.

‗And it‘s strong, too.‘

‗So, you‘re telling me we‘re going to end up as sushi-sized

pieces down in the marina, then?‘

‗All this could be to our advantage,‘ said Alex, flipping the

hover over and spiralling away as the black car whizzed

(look, I know that‘s not a very good word: it should be ‗roared‘

or ‗screamed‘, but the more I think about it, the less accurate

those words would be. Hover cars don‘t scream, or roar, or

even shout. You can hold your foot to the floor for as long as

you like, but you‘re unlikely to get more out of them than an

embarrassed whisper) underneath us.

‗Why‘s that?‘ I asked. (I said this while trying to locate my

stomach. Half of it seemed to have jumped at my tonsils; the

other half lay squirming at my feet. A charming image, I

think you‘ll agree.)

‗Most people aren‘t used to inertial vectoring systems,‘ said

Alex. ‗Those two don‘t look like they own that vehicle. Seems

to me the boss has let them have a play for a few hours. So,

there‘s a couple of things that might take them by surprise.

For example, when the AI control protocol decides they are

overcompensating during a full-power thrust-and-tum

manoeuvre blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

blah.‘

If it‘s possible for your eyes to glaze over when your

mortal life is in danger, mine did at that point.

‗Just show me,‘ I said, as the sedan geared itself for

another run.

Extract ends

The two vehicles had ascended high into the sky. To those

that watched them from the marina, the craft looked like

little more than mating insects, the larger, darker car (the

male) making aggressive darting runs through the intricate

dance of the more vulnerable female.

Suddenly the female stood still. It seemed that the

courtship was over - she had agreed to the advance of her

powerful suitor, and was waiting for the final moment of

contact.

It was easy to imagine the black male looking very pleased

with himself as he charged forwards, towards the

acquiescent, weaker partner.

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

We ground to a halt - if that‘s the right way of putting it -

hundreds of metres above the marina area. We didn‘t fall – I

could feel the vibration from the engines keeping us up - but

we weren‘t going anywhere, either.

I looked across at Alex. ‗This is part of the plan, right?‘ I

asked nervously.

He didn‘t answer, his hands moving over a pad of controls.

He seemed to be doing a series of calculations, the results

playing out on the miniholographic display. But then I

remembered the chunk the sedan had taken off the back of

our own craft, and I wondered if something was the matter.

I didn‘t say anything else. I didn‘t want to be a distraction.

In any case, out of my side of the canopy, I could see the

black hover car hurtling towards us.

Somehow, it seemed worse knowing that it was going to hit

me first.

I closed my eyes.

Post-It note over the previous extract

I stared at the ship as it came. I couldn‘t really tell how fast it

was going - it just seemed to be getting bigger all the time.

Just when I thought it was close enough to touch - when I

could see every ghastly inch of the two grinning buffoons

under the canopy - we shot upwards almost vertically.

The black craft followed, still getting closer. We couldn‘t

outrun it, hadn‘t Alex said as much? The sedan was just

beginning to nudge its nose towards us - towards mc – when

Alex pressed a control in front of him.

The hum of our engines died to nothing.

We began tumbling, like a pebble dropped out of heaven.

Without turning around, the sedan came after us.

Alex‘s hands moved over the instruments. The engines

surged into life again, and the craft Hipped on to its back

before executing a twisting, vaguely horizontal arc over the

ocean. I hadn‘t realized how low we‘d got, how quickly. All of

this must have happened in under live seconds.

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield (continued)

I looked behind us, and the black sedan flipped over on to its

back, then clipped the water.

It sank in seconds.

‗Hurrah,‘ I said, or words to that effect.

‗Cool, eh?‘ Alex‘s grin was as wide as the Cheshire cat‘s.

‗Wanna know how it was done?‘

‗Not really. I -‘

‗You see, a big craft like that is fundamentally unstable.

The inertial vectoring gives it a computer-aided stability, but

if it blah blah blah blah then it blah blah blah blah blah. Do

you understand?‘

‗Yes,‘ I said with a smile, watching his big, well-muscled

hands moving over the hover car‘s controls, thinking only

about...

(Sorry, I‘m off for a cold shower.)

Extract ends

Marginal note next to previous extract

I still don‘t trust him. No, really. I don‘t.

‗It doesn‘t make sense,‘ said Bernice. They were flying high

over the city now, waiting for the air traffic to diminish before

descending.

‗What doesn‘t?‘ Mphahlele barely looked up from the

hover‘s instruments. Bernice had yet to see him switch his

vehicle over to computer control, though she knew it came

with a perfectly serviceable one. It made their travelling more

exhilarating, though the downside was that conversation

could be stilted at times.

‗What the young man told us yesterday. About the

government being behind some sort of cover-up. I mean,

what‘s the one thing that is true of any political party in

power, anywhere in the universe?‘

‗That they‘re corrupt?‘ ventured Mphahlele.

‗No. Well, yes, possibly. I meant that you can guarantee

that they will take delight in the misfortunes of their

adversaries. Party-political schadenfreude.’

‗I still don‘t follow you.‘

‗This lot have only just come to power, right? So why would

they be interested in covering up poor planning decisions

made by a previous administration? If anything, they‘d love

to get the sort of ammunition that Lizbeth could provide.‘

Mphahlele rubbed the back of his neck as he considered

this. ‗Well,‘ he ventured, ‗like the guy said, I don‘t suppose

you‘d want to frighten your richest supporters and potential

voters. Maybe they can just do without that level of hassle.‘

‗No,‘ said Bernice. ‗No, I don‘t think it‘s as simple as that.‘

‗Then you‘re right, it doesn‘t make sense,‘ said Mphahlele.

The hover car was starting to come down through the clouds,

little vortices of cold air spiralling upwards as it fell.

‗Unless...‘ he began, in a quiet voice.

Bernice barely heard him above the hum of the engines.

‗Unless?‘ she prompted.

‗Unless the current lot have made the same mistake.‘

‗Any process is only as effective as people‘s underlying belief

that it will work.‘ Bernice turned the statement over in her

mind. She had first come across the idea in a book about

magic tricks when she was a child. She wondered if everyone

goes through the phase of wanting to make things appear -

clothes, money, boyfriends - and disappear - teachers, rivals,

acne... The manual of magic had suggested that sheer bluff

and bravado were the prestidigitator‘s most powerful tools,

that if something is done right out in the open with as much

self-confidence as possible then it is much more likely to

succeed.

Making king marbles appear out of thin air hadn‘t exactly

allowed Bernice to win friends and influence people. But she

knew all about the importance of self-belief.

The trouble with cloak-and-dagger scenarios, she thought,

was that they involve daggers. After recent events at the

marina, she wondered how qualified she and Mphahlele were

to give Lizbeth the kind of help she needed. ‗I‘m not

suggesting that we run out on her,‘ she said, ‗but if we did

the wrong thing at the wrong time, or the right thing at the

wrong time, or just about any other combination of time,

space and intervention, then we may end up being buried in

polystene ourselves.‘

They were walking along the riverbank inside the western

enclave on the outskirts of the city, close to where Mphahlele

had his apartment. Efficient filtration had turned the water

back to its natural aquamarine: Bernice could see for many

metres into the glassy depths where, close to die pebbly bed,

huge fish as big as tuna and electrically coloured like neon

tetra swam lazily.

‗The only thing that is required for evil to succeed is that

good people stand by and do nothing,‘ said Mphahlele.

‗Taking the moral high ground doesn‘t necessarily give you

the best view of the situation,‘ Bernice replied. ‗And, in any

case, doing the good thing isn‘t inevitably doing what‘s most

effective.‘ She ran through the options available to them.

‗Now, we can‘t tell the authorities about the problem...‘

‗Yeah,‘ Alex agreed. ‗The authorities are the problem.

Besides, without proof we have no power to change the

situation.‘

‗It‘s getting the proof that‘s going to kill us!‘ Bernice said.

‗Whoever‘s behind this has already cautioned Lizbeth, and

now we tot) have been warned.‘

‘Warned? They tried to kill us, Benny!‘

‗We don‘t know that for a fact.‘

‗I wasn‘t prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Anyway, I thought you were the one who reckoned our lives

were at risk.‘

‗You know, Alex, I‘m tempted to think they haven‘t bumped

us off yet because your death or disappearance would cause

a stir... Mine too, maybe,‘ Bernice added with a modest

cough, interplanetary repercussions and all that. My

creditors would be up the wall!‘

‗So that‘s one advantage we have on our side,‘ said

Mphahlele, as they stepped under a perfumed tree. ‗But our

suspicion that the government is covering up information

relevant to public safety is nothing more than that. The

possibility does exist that we‘re wrong, or even that we‘ve

been fed misleading information.‘

Bernice shrugged. ‗Whenever I‘ve lifted up stones in the

past I‘ve found nasty wriggly things underneath, Alex. And so

have you. Admit it.‘

‗I admit it,‘ he said, surprisingly. ‗But what are you saying,

Benny? One minute you‘re advocating caution, the next

you‘re suggesting that we go in with our guns blazing.‘

‗I don‘t know what I‘m suggesting,‘ said Bernice. ‗I suppose

I‘m just playing devil‘s advocate.‘

‗So am I. I‘m just seeing if we can brainstorm our way to a

more reasonable, and safer, solution. But I think we can‘t.

It‘s obvious that Lizbeth‘s excavations arc threatening to

uncover data of profound importance - data which will prove

damaging to the Dimetan government and its relations with

other worlds. I think we‘re being dissuaded from pursuing

the matter any further -‘

‗Oh well, so in that case -‘

‗So in that case, if only to protect ourselves with knowledge,

I think we need to dig deeper. Which is where you come in.‘

Mphahlele outlined his plan with a suavity that made

Bernice think he had worked it all out beforehand, together

with the twists and turns of her logical, though increasingly

desperate, arguments not to go ahead with it. But ultimately

Bernice was forced to concede, not because Mphahlele was

cleverer, but because he was right.

They came to a small, cosy inn where a weir tumbled the

water in a wide cascade to a deep pool. Above this was a

transpex seating area; people seemed to be floating above the

water where the giant neon fish gathered in kaleidoscopic

crowds. Mphahlele bought Bernice a very expensive cocktail,

told her that she was a brave and beautiful woman, and

toasted her certain success.

‗Bullshit smells the same on any world, Alex,‘ Bernice

said. And she wondered if she should have read the magic

manual more carefully all those years ago. She would have

given anything to disappear at that moment.

At least his name was not Mas-ta-ba-gal-gal-al-kharatani or

Shad-la-wa-na-na-na-whatever-it-was. Mphahlele assured

Bernice that she could call him Katri.

Once Bernice had been given her instructions, she realized

two things immediately. Firstly that the whole situation was

vastly more complex and dangerous than she had estimated,

and secondly that Mphahlele must have been working very

effectively behind the scenes to arrange the meeting.

‗They say that a person has as many faces as he has

friends,‘ Mphahlele had said in the honeyed tone which

Bernice had come to recognize as being his most dangerously

persuasive. He had treated Bernice to a devastating smile.

But cynicism laced through with fear makes a sobering

combination. The first cocktail and the second had no effect.

And neither did Mphahlele‘s charm.

‗So which face am I to wear in front of Katri?‘ Bernice had

wondered.

Mphahlele told her. And she had laughed to stop herself

from screaming.

Bernice had always assumed, rather naively, that wheeling

and dealing of this sort went on covertly, perhaps in old

abandoned warehouses or way out in the country - or even

way-out at some distant deep-space rendezvous. But no. The

Far Horizons Hotel lay in the Aljuan Hills outside the city,

which was discernible as a faint hazy shadow on die skyline.

The place had a five crescent rating from the Dimetan Tourist

Board, plus recommendations from several off-world

organizations. It was constructed largely of huge seamless

sections of a delicate transparent substance which was

neither glass nor transpex, subtly tinted to lend the land and

the sky a rich and vibrant tone. The effect had not been

overdone - the colours did not look false, but more natural

than reality itself, as though the doors of perception had

been cleansed. Bernice couldn‘t help but be impressed.

Bernice arrived by hover car and made herself known at

reception. The receptionist was a pretty Dimetan girl, but it

was a desk drone that escorted Bernice upwards through

several shining levels of the building to the private balcony

where her meeting with Katri was to take place.

He stood up as Bernice arrived; a tall, gangly humanoid

half a metre taller than her. He cupped his huge bony hands

around Bernice‘s in the standard Bantu greeting.

‗I am,‘ she said, ‗pleased to meet you - Katri?‘

‗Actually Katrianadmanijadhimashamali.‘

‗Right.‘

‗But Katri for tonight. I would not wish to embarrass you by

standing upon etiquette. And - Bernice?‘

‗Benny for tonight. Likewise,‘ she told him, trying to lighten

up, trying to relax.

Katri smiled and half closed his eyes, a hooded look that

might have been one of appreciation or offence. Bernice

reminded herself that most of the Bantu delegation were non-

human and that she should keep things simple.

They ordered drinks and Katri eased back into his seat and

stared out through die almost nonexistent substance of the

window into the glorious Dimetan evening. He seemed lost in

his thoughts, giving Bernice the chance to look around and

admire all over again the hotel‘s astonishing architecture. It

was like sitting in a castle of soap bubbles.

Snacks arrived with the drinks. Bernice tucked in,

watching as Katri picked delicately at a dish of what looked

like greenish lichees. The massiveness of his hands struck

her again, together with the flash-panic thought of the

damage those hands could do if he so chose.

Katri popped the lichee thing into his mouth and chewed

slowly. His skin had the dark sheen of a native American.

The veins beneath spread in strange patterns, like circuitry.

He was doing nothing, saying nothing. But even so, Bernice

was frightened.

Bernice swigged another gulp of beer to stop her mouth

from becoming dry.

‗It is customary in such circumstances,‘ Katri said at last,

‗for the buyer to make the first approach.‘ Bernice realized

that he was helping her, but his mouth inside looked black

when he smiled, his eyes hooding over even more.

‗Yes, yes of course. I guess I‘m not very good at this...‘

Bernice put a brake on her tumbling words, realizing how

easily she might put herself and Mphahlele at risk.

‗Or, you‘re very good at it.‘ Katri‘s smile grew wider and

more knowing. ‗I have never known Alex Mphahlele to act

clumsily in such matters.‘

‗Well.‘ Bernice chuckled ambiguously. ‗You must realize,

Katri, that this is purely a, ah, a fact-finding mission. As you

possibly know, Alex acts as an intermediary for many

peoples, including the Dellahan Network.‘ Bernice wasn‘t

quite sure what the last bit meant, but it sounded good.

Dellah itself was strictly neutral, but perhaps Katri would be

swayed by the idea of some sort of faction that wanted to

wrest power from the ruling sultans. ‗They have expressed an

interest to Alex in liaising with the Bantu Cooperative over

the possibility of purchasing some of your defensive

technology

Katri laughed suddenly, so that a little fleck of the lichee-

like fruit spat from his mouth and landed on the table‘s white

cloth.

Forgive me, Benny. It‘s just that I always find euphemism

so ridiculously amusing.‘

‗It wouldn‘t do for us to be overheard, Katri.‘

‗No, no indeed,‘ he said, controlling himself. Yellow drops of

ichor had appeared at the comers of his eyes, mirth-tears

which he swiftly wiped away. ‗I apologize. I have to say that

I‘m also delighted by your facade of naivety in this process.

My dealings are usually with hard-nosed businessmen or,

more offensively, their drone representatives. Talking with

machines annoys me tremendously.‘

‗Me too. Now let‘s get down to business. You have

something we want, Katri. And we have money to spend.‘

‗Tell me something I don‘t know.‘

‗Not until you tell me something I don‘t. We on Dellah

aren‘t interested in pulse-beam weapons or singularity

bombs - old hat, you know. Our interest would be in

weaponry of a more subtle nature.‘

‗All.‘ Katri nodded sympathetically. ‗The quiet revolution.‘

‗Well, yes. Therefore, before we eat, I‘d like to look at the

menu...‘

‗Nicely put,‘ Katri said. ‗The difficulty is that I would not

wish to be in the centre of a conflict of interests. Dellah and

Dimetos,‘ he added.

‗But our respective alliances are at peace.‘

Today is not tomorrow, Benny. And you are taking your

role as the innocent a little too far. Any deal with your

―network‖ will have political ramifications. And you know well

enough that the Bantu delegation is here at the express

invitation of the Dimetan government. It can be no secret to

you that our presence is not entirely diplomatic. The Dimetan

authorities aren‘t interested in simple courtesy. We expect a

generous offer for our services from them imminently

Katri loomed forward, cobra-like, and Bernice flinched

back.

‗So better it, Benny, and we‘ll talk.‘

‗I still don‘t know what you can do for us, and wonder,

perhaps, if you‘re a shopkeeper with old stock on the

shelves.‘

Bernice was playing her role well and to the limits of her

bravado, hut, even so, she tensed herself to either apologize

or to ran away. Astonishingly, the black skin tone she had

noticed inside Katri‘s mouth was spreading through his lips,

down over his jaw, upwards into his cheeks; the equivalent,

perhaps, of an angry flush.

As they had talked the sun had set over Dimetos and the

sky had turned darker. It was rather like sitting in the crystal

depths of an elaborate chandelier. Katri‘s impatient hand

waved suddenly and the golden orange sunset was back,

replayed from the data stored in the molecules of the hotel‘s

transparent material.

‗You test protocol to the limit,‘ Katri said. The repeated

sunlight made his face clearer; the black flush was fading. ‗I

am still suspicious about many things — your true

allegiance, for instance, not to mention your motives.‘

‗For goodness‘ sake, Katri, I‘m not asking you to show me

the blueprints of your latest weapons technology, or to

demonstrate the - whatever it might be. All the Network

wants is my recommendation to buy Bantu!‘

‗That‘s reasonable. And in a few months‘ time you will be

able to see the weapons in action at our new facility, here on

Dimetos.‘

in a few months I‘ll be long gone, together with my offer.‘

Bernice made it sound final.

Katri shrugged, then drew Bernice‘s attention to the white

tablecloth. The speck of lichee that had been lying there was

gone, and as she looked up at him, puzzled, something

happened which Bernice could not entirely comprehend.

Katri changed. Not just his expression but, only for a

moment, his whole face and musculature shifted out of true;

swirling, becoming, returning. Katri again.

Bernice doubted the veracity of her vision for a moment,

but knew intuitively that she had seen something. It was

beautiful control, to weave the change and then unstitch it

inside a second; a flickering proof that was terrifyingly

effective.

Katri lifted his glass and downed his drink, then stood,

smoothing the creases out of his stylish square-cut purple

tunic. At that moment, he was huge, imposing, utterly alien.

When he gazed down at Bernice she was again reminded of a

cobra.

‗Your intelligence denies, but your emotions remember,‘

Katri said. ‗We will sell to the highest bidder, Bernice. Tell

that to Alex Mphahlele and your Network. But keep what you

have witnessed in your innermost heart.‘

He turned to take his leave. Bernice reached out and

gripped his arm - his lean, powerful arm in her slight fingers

- and she fancied she could feel the very cells of his body

dancing in a surge of Brownian motion.

‗I thank you for being forthright with me. And I wish to say

that, even if perhaps you haven‘t earned our custom, you

have earned my respect - Katrianadmanijadhimashamali.‘

Bernice watched him descend the stairs away from the

balcony with a strangely elegant loping walk. Then she sat for

a while, pondering, while the sunset happened for the second

time before the image blinked out to reveal full night and a

pair of blue moons hanging like Christmas baubles in the

wide Dimetan sky.

Feeling quite exhausted, Bernice sipped the last of her

beer, pushed her chair away, and followed Katri‘s path

towards the lobby.

Bernice realized afterwards that she wasn‘t particularly

alert to anything at that moment. Therefore the fleeting image

of the face barely registered. By the time Bernice paid it some

conscious attention, he had gone, and she was left not

knowing whether Karl Csokor had been spying on her or not.

‗Are you sure?‘ Mphahlele wanted to know.

‗Of course I‘m not sure,‘ said Bernice. ‗I told you, I only

caught a glimpse.‘ She paused, flustered by Mphahlele‘s

intense questioning and niggled by the worry that she had

already let him down; that the meeting with Katri should

have gone so very differently, and she was the only one to

blame for that.

‗I‘ve never trusted him,‘ said Mphahlele, flexing his big fists

under the table. He and Bernice sat at a simple street-side

cafe opposite the Far Horizons hotel. The waiter had brought

two steaming glasses of Repareet coffee to them some time

ago, but neither had touched their drinks.

‗Of course you don‘t trust him,‘ said Bernice.

‗I don‘t mean that,‘ snapped Mphahlele. ‗It‘s got nothing to

do with jealousy, Benny. Believe me. But... think back to

when we met him at the ball. Can you honesty tell me that

you warmed to the man? That you didn‘t find him... sinister?‘

‗I‘m not sure what I thought of him,‘ said Bernice. ‗He was

rather charming, and I can understand what Lizbeth sees in

him, but... well, he seemed very sad somehow.

Tense or something.‘ She finally took a swig from her glass.

Like all Repareet coffee, it felt cold on her lips, but was warm

in her mouth. It tasted faintly of vanilla and liquorice. ‗No,

you‘re right. I don‘t trust him either.‘ She placed the glass

down on the table, watching the cogs turning behind

Mphahlele‘s eyes. ‗So, what do we do now?‘

‗Well,‘ said Mphahlele after a long pause, ‗I suggest you

return to the hotel. Think of a reason. The most important

thing we can do right now is link Csokor to the Bantu

traders.‘

‗Why?‘

‗The Bantu Cooperative are here after being invited by the

government; the government are trying to keep Lizbeth quiet;

Lizbeth is intimately involved with Csokor... If we can prove

that Csokor is working for the Bantu delegation, we must be

some way to seeing the whole picture.‘

‗Very neat,‘ said Bernice, with a hint of sarcasm in her

voice. ‗A circle of intrigue!‘ She stared back at the hotel.

There was a regular procession of expensive fliers coming to

rest just outside the entrance; they disgorged their rich

passengers, before sinking through a house-sized slot in the

road into the underground parking matrix. ‗But you‘re right,

of course.‘

A big black sedan drew up outside the hotel. These craft

weren‘t exactly two-a-penny, and Bernice couldn‘t help but

remember their experience earlier that day.

Mphahlele glanced across at the hover car and nodded.

‗Maybe things are just starting to fit together. Maybe -‘

He swung his head around to look over his shoulder. The

waiter drone had come up behind them. Silently. Bernice had

no idea how long it had been there, hovering, its optical units

twitching like compound eyes on stalks.

Mphahlele made an animal growling noise, and the drone

scurried back into the c af e building.

* * *

The young Dimetan girl was still behind the counter at

reception. She was half-turned away from Bernice, engrossed

in a conversation, a simple voicelink device held against her

cheek. Bernice stood, patiently.

‗Yeah,‘ said the girl, ‗I‘ve heard hot-metal branding is all the

rage again. Yeah. It was in that immersion flick. Brutal,

yeah?‘ By now the young woman‘s back was to the entrance.

Bernice had glimpsed the girl‘s badge earlier, and it was

obvious that she was starting out at the bottom of the heap.

Her uniform was smart enough, but her shoes – presumably

her own - were scuffed. Bernice came to the conclusion that

she wasn‘t being deliberately ignorant - but she was making

a big mistake.

‗Oh, it‘s amazing what you can brand,‘ said the girl. ‗Yeah,

you tell that to your father. That should make his hair stand

on end. Yeah.‘

Bernice tapped her on the shoulder. ‗Excuse me.‘

Immediately the young woman dropped the voicelink unit

to the counter and swung round. Her face was red with

shock. And fear. ‗I‘m sorry,‘ she said, her voice little more

than a squeaking whisper. ‗I didn‘t realize you were waiting.‘

‗That‘s fine,‘ said Bernice. Her voice was soothing, an

attempt to put the girl at rest. And win her confidence. ‗I‘m

looking for my friend, Karl Csokor. Is he here?‘

‗At the moment I‘m unable to divulge information of that

sort,‘ said the girl, a little confidence returning to her voice.

Bernice smiled. The young woman had been well trained.

‗It‘s business,‘ said Bernice. ‗Important news.‘

The girl looked lost, jammed between well-drummed

procedures and a very real knowledge that most of the hotel‘s

clientele would wipe her off their feet as much as look at her.

Bernice knew the girl didn‘t want a confrontation, so she

played her trump card. She didn‘t want to come over as the

big bully, but sometimes there was no alternative. And, given

the events at the marina earlier in the day, Bernice decided

that maybe it was time to do a bit of stamping and shouting

herself.

‗Listen,‘ said Bernice in a slow, frosty voice. ‗We don‘t want

the management to find out that you‘re using their comms

budget to talk to your friends, do we? Now, just tell me where

Karl is. If he gets funny, blame me.‘

At last the girl relented, and checked a list on a discreetly

hidden screen in front of her. ‗Yes, he‘s here.‘

‗Is he in his room?‘

The girl‘s hands hovered over the readout, indecisive for a

moment.

‗Come on,‘ cajoled Bernice. ‗He‘s a businessman, right? So

I‘m here on business.‘ Then she considered the type of

business the Bantu Cooperative engaged in, and the secrecy

seemed to make more sense.

The young woman relented, but there was no reply from his

room. ‗Would you like to leave a message?‘ asked the girl.

Bernice nodded. A second holographic display appeared in

front of her, shimmering slightly, waiting for her to input a

message. ‗But I think I‘ll take it in person.‘

Bernice walked towards the main hotel elevator. The

woman at the reception desk went to say something, but fell

silent.

Bernice had noted Csokor‘s room number from the display,

and she strode into the lift with the confidence of someone

who was just starting to believe in the game they were

playing. Rococo metal doors eased close and a computer-

modelled three-dimensional face appeared in front of her. It

smiled broadly. ‗Floor, madam?‘

Twelfth.‘

‗Very good.‘

The reception vanished into darkness, the lift rising so

smoothly there was no sense of movement whatsoever. The

synthetic face made a show of not staring at Bernice while

still looking alert and ready to deal with any problems.

‗Twelfth floor,‘ it announced when the elevator came to rest.

‗Have a nice day.‘

‗Whatever,‘ said Bernice, pushing through the metal doors,

and running straight into Katri.

He looked, if it was possible, even more pensive than

before, his great hands folded together at the front of his

tunic, his head bowed, so that he looked less strikingly tall

than usual. ‗Terribly sorry,‘ he breathed.

‗My fault,‘ said Bernice.

There was an embarrassed pause. Bernice knew that some

sort of explanation was in order, but she was unwilling to

betray her hard-fought sense of cool. Katri eventually broke

the silence. ‗I am pleased to see you again.‘ He gestured

Bernice away from the lift, where a number of suited guests

and their luggage-dragging drones were gathering. ‗You

returned for something?‘

‗Yes.‘ Bernice realized that outright denial wouldn‘t wash -

what reason did she have to return to the hotel? – but

struggled for a convincing lie that did not involve mentioning

Karl Csokor. ‗I... I wanted to apologize.‘

‗Really? For what?‘

‗I might have been... over-strenuous in my argument.‘

‗Over-strenuous?‘ The detached amusement was audible in

Katri‘s voice again, but now it was mixed with something

else. He spoke even more slowly than before, as if weighing

up something of great importance. ‗I do find your idiom most

appealing.‘ His hooded eyes glanced around. ‗If any apology is

forthcoming, it should be from my lips, Benny. I said more

than I meant.‘

He spoke as though he had already incriminated himself in

some way, but Bernice struggled to recollect anything out of

the ordinary in what Katri had earlier said. ‗I don‘t

understand,‘ she eventually blurted out.

Katri glanced around him. He suddenly seemed nervous of

crowds, of the very fabric of the hotel itself. ‗There is a club in

the city that might amuse. Let us go there, and I will be able

to tell you more about what you want to know.‘

And without another word he swept back towards the

elevator. After a moment‘s thought, Bernice followed.

Kadi‘s hover car was waiting for them underneath the hotel.

The subterranean chamber was full of hoverlimos and ornate

fliers. They were just about the most obscenely enormous

vehicles Bernice had ever seen. Not so much big as long. She

reckoned it would take a week to clean just one of them by

hand - by which time, the front would be dirty again. And

before her sat hundreds of them, all gleaming and polished

and perfect, and in every colour of the metallic rainbow: gold,

sparkling umber, silver, splashes of rose or champagne.

Katri‘s hover car was small and dark in contrast. It was not

especially clean, its lines utilitarian rather than aesthetically

pleasing. Built to do a job, and do it well, but not to excite in

the process.

Bernice looked around for Mphahlele. He said he‘d stay

close, but she hadn‘t seen him since talking to the girl at

reception. Then again, he did seem to be rather good at

hiding in the shadows. His passion for skulduggery certainly

seemed to exceed her own.

Katri clicked his watch, and the doors of the car slid open.

Bernice was not sure she could trust Katri, but it seemed too

late to back out now. She climbed in, just to show willing.

Katri, settling into his own seat, instructed the hover car‘s

onboard computer to bring up a holographic map of the city,

with their present location and eventual destinations picked

out in red. ‗That‘s where we‘re going,‘ he said. ‗A lot of our

clients have requested this venue. I think you‘ll like it.‘

‗As long as my backers and I are impressed by what you‘re

selling,‘ Bernice said, slipping back into her role,

‗I‘d be prepared to discuss matters anywhere.‘

‗Really.‘ The word wasn‘t a question or a statement – there

was no emotion or thought in the word whatsoever. It was a

noise made to fill in a gap in the conversation. Something

had changed about Katri. Bernice was sure of it now. When

faced with this inarticulate, distracted individual it was hard

to remember the charm and confidence - and the anger - he

had displayed some hours previously. He was bothered by

something, and was completely failing to hide it from her.

Katri switched off die Al-driver, preferring, as Alex had

done, to pilot the car himself. The hover car rose into the air

and Katri lapsed into silence. Bernice passed the time by

turning over in her mind their previous conversation. Her

interest had been piqued by the Bantu negotiator admitting

that he had said more than he meant to. Whatever it was, it

seemed to have rattled him. She wondered if his superiors

had been monitoring their conversation, and that they‘d

ticked him off for some indiscretion. But what could it be?

They flew low over one of the poorer areas of the city. These

regions were dotted around the capital, shanty towns of

squalor thrusting up through the opulence like dark cancers.

Bernice looked down, and caught glimpses of long lines of

washing stretching between the ramshackle buildings, and of

people hurrying through the shadows. She wondered if the

mystery she had uncovered had any bearing at all on their

lives. She somewhat doubted it. Conspiracies involving old

maps, rich people‘s houses and weapons traders would seem

esoteric to them: their only concern was the constant straggle

for food, warmth and employment.

Just for a moment Bernice considered asking Katri to let

her out here. She wondered if it wouldn‘t be for the best if

she spent her remaining days on Dimetos helping the needy,

leaving Lizbeth to sort out whatever mess it was that she had

discovered. Bernice knew she was no saint, but she had a

brain and a pair of hands, and so perhaps could help on a

practical level, fixing roofs and filling out job applications.

And then Katri spoke and she put these thoughts to one

side. And a voice in her mind said: Thus does distraction

make cowards of us all.

‗I apologize for being poor company,‘ he said, with a

nervous sideways glance. ‗I have a lot on my mind.‘

‗That‘s OK,‘ Bernice replied. ‗I‘m not here for the high life.‘

They were now at the street level of one of the nicer

commercial districts, swooping past hotels and clubs that

looked like twisted sculptures, and sculptures that were as

big as the hotels. Myriad lights studded gleaming facades. A

floating advertising platform, complete with male and female

dancers, skipped past, pumping out music.

‗Even so,‘ continued Katri, ‗we do like to entertain.‘

‗I can‘t argue with that,‘ she said.

‗Of course, we both know this is all window-dressing - or,

to change the simile, the glitter-cream atop an Olarkian

sundae. It is a shame that we have to do such things to cover

over our inadequacies and failings.‘

The deep regret in his voice caused Bernice to look at him

more closely. ‗Failings?‘

‗We‘re beings of flesh and blood, arc we not, Benny? Prone

to errors and misunderstandings, exaggeration and conceit.

We‘re so very fragile, on all levels.‘

Katri had one hand on the controls of the hover car; the

other was Addling with something set to one side of his seat.

Bernice caught a glimpse of a polished metal spheroid, with

recessed controls for impossibly small fingers. It seemed so

very different from the angular black framework of the rest of

the car that she was surprised she‘d not noticed it before.

Katri turned to Bernice, his eyes wide. ‗I‘m so sorry,‘ he

said in a whisper.

Bernice pulled the manual door release just before he

detonated the bomb.

TRACK 7

SONG TO THE SIREN

Extract from Dimetan Infobase (Level Four), as requested by

Professor Bernice S. Summerfield

The Bantu Cooperative has enjoyed - some would say

suffered - a long and chequered history. The first reference

comes in 2011 CE, with a political movement that

championed the rights of the oppressed in southern Africa,

Earth. Resentful of perceived governmental failure, the Bantu

Independence Group (BIG) was able to buy land and build its

own model communities under the watchful eye of sceptical

national authorities. This, at least, has always been true of

the Bantu Cooperative: a suspicion of any system of

authority, other than its own.

Despite this partial embrace of capitalism (which, it has

been argued, sowed many of the seeds for future decisions

that would so radically impact upon the Cooperative), by

2044 the BIG existed in (abbreviated) name only as a small

holding company, lacking any political or social motivation.

Olle Ahlin became chief executive in 2067, and immediately

set about expanding the group. He had the money to achieve

his aims. In the 2040s, Ahlin had invested in solid fuel

systems when most had turned to alternative technologies;

his reward was to become one of the world‘s richest men by

the 2060s. He ensured that the BIG ruling council consisted

almost entirely of nationalists and fundamentalists from

regions such as Scandinavia and central Africa; once more,

the BIG had a political emphasis, although until the 2070s

and 80s it was not clear what that agenda might be.

The BIG sent out many of the first sub-light-speed vessels

and, freed from the constraints of operating on Earth, it

began to colonize. Ahlin‘s final address to the ruling council,

a year before his death in 2099, stated the new credo most

clearly: ‗Our metal glove of military and economic strength

contains within a hand of compassion and hope. As we create

our own laws and systems, so we become accountable to the

people who live under them.‘

Commentators on Earth were less elegant in their

summation. ‗The BIG are imperialist terrorists, acting

inappropriately beyond any natural jurisdiction. If we could

stop them, we would.‘

As far as Earth was concerned, the BIG vanished from the

scene in the early 2200s. In fact, they were colonizing and

subverting whole swathes of the galaxy, much as the newly

named [information deleted] were doing elsewhere. With each

passing generation, the Bantu Cooperative, as it was now

known, became more militaristic in structure. In time the

Cooperative became a loose alliance of dominated worlds,

maintained, supported and governed by countless alien

races. It established a complete economic and trading system

where everything worked to the benefit of the Cooperative.

Wisely, the Cooperative had concentrated on a region of the

galaxy that Earth was unlikely to become interested in. As

Emah-ji-ji-Ke-gege, the first non-human leader of the Bantu

Cooperative put it in 2397, ‗Earth has the richest pickings.

However, we make better use of our more meagre resources.‘

Covert links were established with various Earth

organizations, most notably [information deleted] and the

[information deleted]. A chance diplomatic encounter with the

dragon people, some hundred years before their war with the

Earth Empire, led to the Bantu Cooperative co-funding a pre-

emptive weapons creation programme with Terran personnel.

It is not known whether the Bantu peoples and the dragons

ever went to war, but this preparation speaks volumes of the

Cooperative‘s unwillingness to leave anything to chance.

Protected from Earth by light-years of buffer space, and

Terra‘s absolute indifference and distraction by war, the

Bantu worlds flourished until the early 2500s.

Defeated in war in 2511 - the exact details, and even the

name and nature of the aggressor, are hard to establish – the

Bantu Cooperative re-emerged as a purely commercial body

in 2543. Many of the structures remained from before, but its

emphasis was now on weapon development. So successful

has it been in this field that many of its employees do not

even know of its former life as a pan-world imperialistic body;

still less its obscure origins some hundreds of years

previously on Earth.

Extract ends

The hover car fractured, listed to one side, then exploded in a

fireball of heat and oily smoke.

Mphahlele was out of his own vehicle and running before

he‘d fully taken in what had happened.

Boiling-hot shards of plastic and alloy fell like hail on to the

sidewalk. Passers-by were screaming, holding their arms over

their heads against the debris that mined down. A couple of

service drones were already circling the smoking hulk warily,

their warning lights pulsing.

There wasn‘t much of the vehicle left when Mphahlele got

to the fiercely burning angular pyre. A little distance away

was a charred pile of rags that might have been a body, but

was probably just some shredded hover-car fragments.

Flames flickered across the wreckage, engulfing what

remained. It was as if they were obeying some external

authority, searching out what was untainted and consuming

it utterly.

Someone groaned from the side of the road.

Mphahlele turned, pushing his way through the excited

crowd that was gathering there.

Bernice lay face-down in the gutter, her back and legs

blackened by the blast.

Impulsively, Mphahlele reached to roll her over.

There was a cut across her forehead and a bruise the size

of a fist at the side of her face. Her eyes were little smudged

slits, clamped shut; her breathing was irregular but strong.

‗Benny?‘

She twisted her head to one side, as if keen to avoid the

sound of Mphahlele‘s voice.

‗Benny? It‘s OK. You‘re all right.‘

Her eyes, shockingly pale and damp, flicked open. Her lips

moved, but they were bruised and dry. She paused, gathering

together the last of her energy. ‗Is he... ?‘ she began, before

slumping into Mphahlele‘s arms, exhausted.

Mphahlele shook his head slowly.

With a whimpering sigh, Bernice‘s eyes closed again.

Mphahlele pulled Bernice closer to him, waiting for the

emergency services to put in an appearance. Even as he

scanned the crowd he noticed that the debris was vanishing

before his eyes, the flames completing the last of the job.

Whatever technology had destroyed the hover car was

advanced enough to obliterate every last piece of evidence.

Only Bernice remained, thrown free by her hurry to escape

and the blast that engulfed the vehicle.

Mphahlele looked up as sirens sounded from a few blocks

away; medical vehicles were coming, preceded by a rapid

newscast flier. The latter was already disgorging reporters

and camera drones.

A number of hover cars made their way slowly down the

street, its occupants gawping at the mass of people but

denied the pleasure of any actual wreckage. Mphahlele‘s

attention was drawn to one in particular, a dark vehicle with

gunmetal reflective windows. Only in the back was the

transpex clear, the rear seat containing one individual. Their

eyes locked, just for a moment.

Karl Csokor.

The man turned back to the front of the craft, and it

accelerated away.

Mas-ta-ba-gal-gal-al-Kharatani wiped a serviette across his

thin lips.

‗I‘m not disturbing you?‘ queried the man who stood to one

side of the table, wringing his hands nervously.

‗Of course not,‘ Mastaba replied, positioning his cutlery

precisely on his plate. Almost immediately a waiter cleared

the table and retreated back into the shadows. ‗Though the

cuisine at this hotel is magnificent. I must compliment

whoever chose this establishment. It is an excellent

temporary base for our work here.‘

‗It was Csokor, sir.‘

‗Ah. I should have guessed.‘

‗It‘s Csokor I wished to talk about. It‘s important.‘

Mastaba nodded slowly. ‗As befits the primary asset of

the Cooperative. Go on.‘

The man settled into a chair, leaning across the white linen

that covered the table. ‗You see, I have reason to believe he is

no longer taking his medication. And I can‘t stress how

important those drugs are to him at the moment.‘

‗You have proof of this?‘

‗No. The tablets are disappearing, but I don‘t believe he is

ingesting them. I‘ve heard that he is simply flushing them

away.‘ The man paused, glancing into the eyes of the leader

of the Bantu delegation. ‗I always said it was a risk giving

him even this measure of autonomy.‘

‗We cannot keep him in chains for ever,‘ said Mastaba

coldly. ‗The Cooperative works best by liberating the true

potential in people. That does, however, mean that

sometimes mistakes are made.‘

‗I heard about Katri‘s blunder.‘

‗Indeed? Well, I have just this moment been informed that

he has tried to make amends in the most brutal of ways.‘

‗The girl...?‘

‗Summerfield will recover soon. I am told that the

authorities hope to hold her in the med centre for no more

than an hour or two.‘ Mastaba picked at some crumbs on the

table. ‗I can see the logic of what Katri had planned, but it

lacked finesse. It is as well that he bungled even his own

death.‘

The man rose to his feet. ‗I just thought you should know

about Csokor.‘

‗Thank you.‘ Mastaba looked about the almost empty

dining room with a bitter expression. ‗One rogue element we

can handle. Two is another matter entirely – especially when

the individual concerned is Csokor.‘

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

When is a door not a door? I told the naff old joke to Alex and

he didn‘t understand it.

‗How can it be a jar?‘ His big handsome face looked serious;

not puzzled, but decidedly concerned for my mental health

perhaps.‘

‗Ajar, one word. It‘s a pun, Alex. Oh, forget it...‘

After what I‘d seen Katri do at the hotel, I was in a mind to

doubt that he had taken me to the club and then self-

destructed the vehicle. When I first met Katri he had seemed

too strong for that, much too obviously in control. Was it

really he who had exploded the bomb? Would the Bantu

Cooperative risk the scrutiny of the public by pulling such a

stunt? Fact is, I knew I‘d seen Csokor at the Far Horizons,

and Alex had spotted him after the explosion. How does the

saying go? Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three

times is enemy action. Csokor was cropping up a little too

frequently, during too many critical moments, for me to think

of him as an innocent bystander...

If it was Karl Csokor, said the devil on my shoulder. If Katri

- and by implication the Cooperative generally - could morph

at will, by whatever means, then our whole frame of reference

was meaningless.

I looked back at Alex across the width of his lounge as he

poured drinks and brought them over.

‗But if a door‘s been opened a little, how come it‘s not then

a door?‘

‗Alex,‘ I said, ‗just shut it, will you?‘

He will never understand why I broke into a spontaneous

fit of giggling immediately afterwards.

We brainstormed until our heads were in a spin. What kept

coming back to haunt me, even as we talked about cutting-

edge science and the destruction of worlds, was the little bit

of lichee fruit that Katri had spat on the tablecloth, but

which had vanished a few moments later. It seemed deeply

significant, a little jigsaw-puzzle piece that would somehow

complete the whole picture if only I knew where it fitted in.

Generously I thought, Alex accepted I‘d seen Katri do

something at the hotel. We batted around the idea of

telepathy, hallucinogenic drugs, nanotechnix, Al-optics,

morphic field technology (whatever that might be), hypnotism

and its variants, genetic engineering, and all kinds of

combinations of these. The answer, we felt, must be in there

somewhere.

‗And it will be sophisticated. The Bantu Cooperative would

not be strutting their stuff if they didn‘t have a product worth

selling. And they must have convinced the Dimetan

government already, to get clearance for their new weapons

facility.‘

‗So we‘re back to square one.‘ Alex swirled his brandy

around in its eggshell glass, if the Cooperative are so

technologically advanced, why try to turn you into

hamburger with a suicide bomber? It‘s so - uninventive.‘

‗Well let‘s be thankful for small mercies,‘ I said, slightly

miffed. ‗Even using such a conventional method the Bantu

Cooperative nearly succeeded.‘

‗If it was the Cooperative,‘ Alex replied, ‗and if they really

wanted to succeed, and if you were the intended target...‘

‗Oh great. With all these ifs and buts there‘s only one

thing for it then,‘ I told him. He frowned. I held out my glass.

‗More brandy, please.‘

Extract ends

Mphahlele manoeuvred the hover car with practised ease

through the complex skeletal framework of the parking

matrix. Huge structures like these, made possible by the use

of ultralight, super-strong polymers, were evident throughout

the industrial and more heavily populated areas of Dimetos

City. The planet‘s geologically unstable surface made

subterranean work or living spaces an uneconomical

proposition: in recent times at least the Dimetans had gone

for height and lightness.

In the end, thought Bernice, it just means that you can‘t

bank on finding street-level parking outside your office or

home. So much for progress.

Bernice closed her eyes as the onside wing of the hover car

came within millimetres of a guide rail. She was remembering

the many bumps and scrapes that had punctuated her own

driving career, and had noted previously the pristine

condition of Alex‘s vehicle.

‗After the first dent, you don‘t worry so much,‘ she said,

half to herself. Mphahlele chuckled softly. There was a gentle

breath of hyperdraulics and the whining-down of motors as

the car came to a cushioned halt, swaying gently on its

rockers as Alex flicked off systems and remote-activated the

courtesy software in the matrix to provide light and guidance

for them to find their way out.

‗The biggest structure can hold fifty thousand vehicles,‘ he

told Bernice casually as they stepped into a televator made

entirely, Benny suspected, of the same glassy substance as

the Far Horizons Hotel. ‗You can see it from here on a clear

day, like a crosshatching of tiny lines over on the south

side...‘

Bernice ceased paying attention at that point. The televator

was not only dropping swiftly downwards, but slipping

alarmingly away to the right. It was a severely disconcerting

sensation, exacerbated by the fact that they seemed to be

riding inside nothing at all: the televator‘s surface was non-

refractive, optically perfect, invisible, and only the lack of

wind-buffeting told Benny‘s brain she wasn‘t falling freely

through space.

‗Can we go back for my stomach?‘ she quipped as the

cubicle came to an infuriatingly tame halt within the

apartment block where Lizbeth Fugard lived. They were

looking out across a spacious atrium, beautifully stocked

with vegetation including spectacular cascades of orchid

vines. The door slid back and Bernice and Mphahlele stepped

into the perfumed green coolness, Mphahlele leading the way

to Lizbeth‘s apartment.

‗What if Csokor‘s with her?‘ The thought brought a flare of

near panic into Bernice‘s chest, even as she regretted saying

such a tactless thing. Mphahlele looked at her darkly.

‗We play it by ear. Since we don‘t know precisely how

Csokor fits into the scheme of things, I suggest we keep

anything we say light on detail. We‘re puzzled, we‘re nervous,

we‘re concerned for the safety of both Lizbeth and Karl... The

Dimetan government seems to be trying to put a stop to our

investigations, and is leading us to suspect the involvement

of the Bantu Cooperative, who we feel are trying to implicate

Csokor in turn. We don‘t believe that, of course, although

Katri‘s actions against you are indicative. If it was Katri. And

if his actions were against you.‘

‗Alex, that‘s really dumb.‘

He grinned. ‗Which is exactly the impression we want to

create.‘

They turned a comer to be greeted by a page drone. It

flashed a pixelated image of Lizbeth across its display screen,

bade them welcome, and escorted them along the final two

corridors to their destination. Bernice wondered if the drone

were also covertly checking them for weapons.

Perhaps it was fall-out from the bomb attack and the two

hours spent in the med centre, having her braises bled away

and her cuts grafted back together. Perhaps it was simple

paranoia, a state of mind that Bernice knew only too well

even when nothing was going wrong. But Lizbeth‘s use of a

page drone unsettled Bernice. It was as if Lizbeth was putting

up barriers, in all sorts of ways. Bernice wondered if it was

time to bite the bullet and move all her stuff into Alex‘s

apartment. After all, they were spending most of their time

together now, even if it wasn‘t for the reason Lizbeth probably

imagined. And Lizbeth herself had Karl Csokor. Bernice

hadn‘t come all this way just to play gooseberry.

Lizbeth was waiting just inside her open door as Bernice

and Mphahlele came into view. Bernice gave a little sigh of

resignation when she noticed how attractive Lizbeth managed

to look in her casual leisure wear and ponytailed hair. Her

expression, however, was not so laid back. She was glaring

razor blades at Mphahlele while hardly deigning to notice

Bernice at all. Benny wondered what Csokor might have been

saying to her, recalling Sartre‘s powerful epithet that words

arc loaded pistols - yet they would pass the page drone‘s

safety scans every single time.

‗Hello, Lizbeth -‘ Bernice began tentatively, but Mphahlele

waded in, walking right up to her and past her into the

apartment. Bernice thought that perhaps he‘d seen her in

this mood before.

‗We‘d like ten minutes of your time, Lizbeth. After which

you can throw us out if that‘s what you want.‘

‗That‘s just what I intend to do unless you‘ve got proof to

back up whatever outrageous claims you‘re about to make.‘

‗Well...‘ Mphahlele kept his voice calm, his body language

suggesting that he too was having difficulty taking in what

had happened. ‗We could start with Katri‘s exploding hover

car, and Bernice‘s narrow escape from it.‘

He spoke so convincingly that Bernice herself was tempted

to buy it, weaving a tapestry of intrigue and lies that

portrayed the four of them - himself, Bernice, Lizbeth and

Csokor - as unwitting puppets in a high level powerplay of

money and politics.

‗Without wishing to patronize Karl,‘ Mphahlele went on, ‗it

occurs to me that he was invited to Dimetos for the express

purpose of taking the blame for the crimes of the Bantu

Cooperative on this planet.‘

‗He‘s just an independent businessman,‘ said Lizbeth hotly.

‗He‘s not about to take the blame for anything.‘

‗Look, we‘re concerned about Karl too, Lizbeth,‘ Mphahlele

lied beautifully, becoming conciliatory as he saw her face

soften. ‗However things stand with us, it‘s clear to me that

you have a certain fondness for him. At the very least, you

wouldn‘t want to see him wrongly implicated in what‘s going

on, would you?‘

‗Whatever that might be,‘ Bernice echoed, reading Lizbeth

carefully for clues. ‗Point is, if the Bantu delegation or the

government were prepared to sanction my assassination,

then God knows who‘s safe in the city right now.‘

Lizbeth looked away from her visitors, her arms tightly

folded, standing with the city as a backdrop beyond the

room‘s large window-wall.

‗Do you really think Karl is so stupid that he‘d let himself

be manipulated like this?‘

‗Not stupid, but unknowing,‘ Bernice replied quickly,

sensing the storm that was coming. ‗As we all are. I mean, be

honest, Lizbeth, we still don‘t know who filled the trench, or

why -‘

Then she saw the shift in Lizbeth‘s averted gaze, swiftly

veiled, to be replaced by an anger she recognized.

‗Karl would never be so naive and you know it!‘

The barriers were going up and Mphahlele shrugged his

shoulders with a sigh.

‗Lizbeth, please, be reasonable-‘

‗Reasonable? You know what I think? I think that

underneath you‘re blaming Karl for this. You‘ve already made

him the scapegoat; condemned him because, I don‘t know,

because of who he is, or the fact that he likes me -‘

‗This is absurd!‘

Bernice touched Alex‘s arm to forestall his outburst. ‗You

don‘t have to do this, Lizbeth,‘ she said.

‗You think he‘s in it up to his neck. Helping the Bantu

delegation, plotting against the government, trying to harm

you -‘

The rage had risen; Lizbeth‘s face was flushed and her

eyes, bright as mica flecks, were looking out on a different

reality. She was losing control. Bernice had seen hysteria

before, and its onset: that wonderfully sexist Freudian term

that so casually labelled so many people‘s pain. In Lizbeth‘s

case, Bernice guessed, the fury was the energy of misplaced

betrayal of Mphahlele and their unborn baby. Her guilt must

be unbearable.

Mphahlele began to deny Lizbeth‘s assertions, trying to talk

over her ranting. But that wasn‘t the way. For all his skills in

diplomacy, he was inadvertently leading her to the brink and

encouraging her over.

Bernice acted quickly. She gripped Mphahlele‘s arm to shut

him up, then said, just as loudly as was necessary, ‗No point

arguing, Alex. She‘s only like this because she thinks we‘re

sleeping together.‘

The effect, instantaneous, was just what Bernice had

anticipated. Lizbeth‘s flow of accusation stopped dead as

effectively as if Mphahlele had delivered an open-handed slap

to her face. And in that hurricane-centre, in that moment of

vacuum when Lizbeth‘s emotions were disabled, Bernice went

up and hugged her close, and whispered in her ear that they

would never hurt her.

Then she stepped back.

‗Come on, Alex. She‘ll be all right now... Call us if you need

us, Lizbeth. Any time. OK?‘

Lizbeth, starting to shake with the onset of shock, nodded

compliantly. Bernice and Mphahlele walked towards the

door.

Lizbeth watched her two friends, whom she loved so much in

their different ways, letting themselves out. Bernice glanced

back once as if to reaffirm her promise.

When they were gone, Lizbeth moved over to the panoramic

wall overlooking the city. It had been a key selling point when

she‘d been searching for just the right place for her - and

Alex - and...

She spoke a single keyword and the wall opened silently,

letting in the cool air of the evening. There was a little

balcony and a rail which felt cold under Lizbeth‘s hands as

she gripped it, steadying herself and bracing herself against

the awful shivering inside.

So many people out there. Such a swarming, vigorous,

fertile sky —

A police car swooped out of the heavens on a long parabola,

a spinning jewel of lights. It swept by, trailing its ululations,

and the wind-wake of its passing washed against Lizbeth like

a refreshing wave. She gasped as the breeze caught her and

fluttered her hair.

She wondered where the police car was going, and why.

Then she wondered which of the hundreds of moving dots in

the busy airlanes marked the vehicle in which Bernice and

Mphahlele were travelling.

Did she believe what Bernice had said? She was too shaken

to decide. But looking down now, hundreds of metres to the

night-crowded streets, Lizbeth realized that for the first time

that day she could do this and not think of jumping.

‗I‘m impressed,‘ Mphahlele said. Bernice thought he didn‘t

sound it. His voice was full of gratitude and hurt. He flicked a

switch and put the hover car into autocruise mode. It rose

smoothly a hundred metres, then levelled out.

‗It was nothing really.‘ Bernice sounded matter-of-fact, it‘s

called a biolinguistic intervention. We all get through the day

by running little subroutines in the way we think and feel

and behave. Sometimes things get out of hand and negative

feedback sets in - Lizbeth may have been convincing herself

we were lovers for days. That belief was linked with an

expectation that we‘d deny it. The way to break the loop was

to bring it to light, and then modify the program to make

Lizbeth more resourceful.‘

‗It sounds very logical.‘

‗It‘s powerful,‘ Bernice said. ‗Next time you go to shake

hands with an ambassador, instead of actually shaking his

hand, take it and bring it up before his eyes and make some

positive suggestion. Do it quickly and smoothly. You‘ll be

amazed at the effect. Or, try this: as someone begins to greet

you, say ―Hello, how am I?‖ It‘s like a whiff of tranquillizer.

Move into their confusion and say whatever you need to say

to help the meeting along...‘

They sailed on through the night. At one point Mphahlele

spoke quietly to the guidance controls in the vehicle: the

hover car tilted and dropped, the stars swinging round them

in a slow pivot.

‗Where are we going?‘ Bernice wanted to know. ‗Some

exclusive restaurant perhaps, so you can thank me for

calming Lizbeth down?‘

‗Maybe later.‘ The craft was busy making attitude

adjustments as it drifted over the spacious grounds of what

Bernice recognized as the government buildings where

Lizbeth worked. ‗First I‘d like us to check out a few things...

What troubles me, frankly, is that everything Lizbeth accused

us of thinking about Karl Csokor might yet turn out to be

true.‘

Bernice decided that even her biolinguistic sleight-of-hand

wouldn‘t have gotten them past the smartlocks protecting

Lizbeth‘s office. Luckily Mphahlele knew, and was known by,

both the human and electronic guardians of the building. In

the reception lobby he chatted amiably with the night

watchman and with the desk drone who, despite its

friendliness, insisted on hand-print and retinal-pattern

identification before allowing them to proceed.

‗That‘s the trouble with drones; you can‘t ask after their

kids,‘ Mphahlele said with a broad smile as they walked the

quiet corridors towards their destination. More ID verification

was necessary, and Bernice was required to provide a

voiceprint for records, before the final door was opened to

admit them to Lizbeth‘s office.

Machinery talked quietly in the dimness, carrying on the

routine work of organizing data while its human controllers

were absent. As Bernice had expected - and in complete

contrast to herself - Lizbeth‘s workplace was wonderfully

organized and neat. And this seemed to have nothing to do

with any installed tidyware programs; Lizbeth was simply

meticulous.

Bernice gave a little sigh, reflecting that perfectionists are

never happy -

Then shrieked as something snaked out and touched the

back of her hand.

She lunged sideways, away from the thing, catching her left

hip on the rounded comer of a tabletop, tumbling off balance

into a pile of box files stacked beside Lizbeth‘s desk.

‗I am sorry to have startled you.‘ The robotic helper

sounded demure and precise and, actually, pretty sincere. ‗Is

there any way in which I might be of service, ma‘am?‘

‗Yes,‘ Bernice said as embarrassment brought a flush to

her face. ‗Tell me honestly, how am I?‘

‗That‘ll teach you to sneak about like a common burglar.‘

Mphahlele came in from the adjacent room and dismissed

the drone with a code word. He tutted as the little device

tucked itself tidily into a niche. ‗More trouble than they‘re

worth, if you ask me. Five years ago there was a government

initiative to buy for universities, libraries, and various

departments in the government itself. They were intended for

secretarial

and

administrative

duties.

Being

semi-

autonomous, they can get on quietly with the minimum

instruction. Or so the theory goes. But if you mil a quirky

filing system like I do - in other words, one that‘s useful

rather than logical - having one of those damn drones around

is a nightmare.‘

Mphahlele‘s tirade had allowed Bernice to clamber up and

check for damage without feeling even sillier than she did

already. ‗Well, I agree with you completely. But maybe the

drone can help us find what we‘re looking for.‘

‗Oh, no need for that,‘ Mphahlele said airily. ‗I‘ve already

found it. Or at least, something that gives us a useful lead.

Come on, it‘s through here...‘

He led Bernice into the next room, an annex of the main

office which was much more obviously Lizbeth‘s personal

space. There were some ornaments on the shelves and a

notice-board which was an untidy jumble of reminders,

mottoes and other visual bric-a-brac - like the spare room at

her apartment, this was Lizbeth‘s only concession to chaos.

And, Bernice noticed, there was another framed photograph

of Alex and Lizbeth on her desk; nothing holographical or

fancy, just a flat image of them smiling, his arm around her

shoulder, both looking happier than Bernice had seen them

since her arrival.

Mphahlele ignored the snapshot, or pretended he hadn‘t

noticed it: he was busy with a palmtop, cueing-in some data

sequences that flickered between shots of Homam, bits of

Lizbeth‘s videolog and scrolls of technical information which,

Bernice assumed, were being summarized by Lizbeth in her

video abstracts.

‗This can‘t all be to do with the dig,‘ Bernice said.

‗Clearly not.‘ Mphahlele pointed to something on the

screen. ‗This bit, for instance. Something to do with an

electronic spider?‘

‗Ah,‘ said Bernice. ‗I‘d almost forgotten about that.‘

‗You hadn‘t mentioned it to me.‘

‗I wasn‘t sure I could trust you before,‘ said Bernice. ‗And

then I forgot. Sorry.‘

Mphahlele shrugged. ‗Looks like we‘re not the only ones

interested in electronic information, then,‘ he said. ‗Wouldn‘t

surprise me if the bug wasn‘t sent to see if there was any

interesting data stored at the flat. All other avenues

exhausted, try the home. It‘s standard procedure.‘

He pulled a seat across for Bernice, then stood beside her

and issued some voice commands to the palmtop. ‗We‘ll take

a couple of copies of the rest of this material. Personal

security,‘ Alex added with a cold, hard smile. ‗I‘ll also transfer

the data to a stasis bank, and give it a time code so that if

we, er, aren‘t around in two weeks‘ time, the information will

proliferate throughout the Dimetan web.‘

‗It‘s that serious?‘

‗Watch,‘ Mphahlele said.

The sequence, crisply edited and capably presented by

Lizbeth, took fifteen minutes to play. Essentially her thesis -

her accusation - was an extension of what the minister‘s son

had told Bernice, namely that the Dimetan government was

knowingly allowing a number of building projects to go

ahead, including the construction of the Bantu weapons

testing facility, on ground which was geologically unstable,

mainly as a result of the extensive mining carried out by the

EB Corporation in the past. Over the years, Lizbeth

surmised, scores of similar projects had been allowed, the

government passing off structurally dangerous sites as prime

land. And it wasn‘t only the Dimetan people that had been

fooled. The planet for some decades had attracted off-world

attention with billions being invested in redevelopment of

various kinds.

‗If she didn‘t know what was going on before,‘ said

Mphahlele, ‗she does now.‘

‗And if the news leaks out, Dimetos could be bankrupted

within weeks.‘ Bernice looked up at Mphahlele and saw the

sombre glow of grave responsibility in his eyes.

‗The government would be forced to resign. I mean, it

wouldn‘t affect me, but for others... well, the political

uncertainty might be as damaging as the geological

weaknesses of the planet itself.‘

‗Shit,‘ Bernice said with feeling. ‗So that‘s why Lizbeth was

threatened, and why the excavation was filled in – to scare

her away from finding this out, or at least to delay it.‘

‗But the government didn‘t anticipate Homam‘s expertise in

reprogramming the buried digger drones to continue their

work underground. Lizbeth had the jump on the authorities

and put the picture together before they could intervene

further. In her own way, she‘s been trying to protect us by

keeping us in the dark about this.‘ Alex sighed and shook his

head. ‗The bitch always was headstrong...‘

They watched the rest of the presentation in shocked

silence. The sequence concluded with a brief sparkle of

rainbow lights which Bernice recognized as a ‗clamshell‘:

terabytes of sensitive information fractally enfolded and deep-

coded within the molecular framework of the data crystal

itself. This was a standard added safeguard, something

Bernice had used herself to verily the integrity of data and

protect it from corruption or misuse. The clamshell could

never be opened except under special circumstances

designed by and known only to the person who had

implanted it. It amounted to a high-tech version of a wax seal

on a private document - but a seal which also contained a

copy of the document and all other significant information.

Lizbeth was being as clever as she was careful, Bernice

realized. Which was an indication of how terribly frightened

she must be.

Mphahlele reset the palmtop and did what he could to

erase any trace of their use of it. He extracted two small

crystals from a recorder attached to the device and passed

one over to Bernice.

‗I‘ll wear it always,‘ she smiled, fluttering her eyelids in a

failed attempt to lighten the bleak scenario.

‗Make sure you do.‘ Alex sounded deadly serious. ‗But it

will only confer full protection when certain individuals know

about it, and know what we know.‘

‗Government ministers?‘ queried Bernice, tucking the

crystal into a locket around her neck.

Alex nodded. ‗And, I‘m tempted to add, members of the

Bantu delegation.‘

‗I‘m still confused about that. I can‘t imagine the

government wanting the Cooperative to know all about this,

so perhaps they‘re as much in the dark as the rest of us. In

which case, why did Katri try to kill me?‘

‗I don‘t know. Perhaps Katri was a maverick in some way we don‘t yet

understand. But our immediate concern is not to answer that question –‘

it‘s not?‘

‗No.‘ Mphahlele switched off the desk light and indicated to Bernice

they should leave now. ‗After what we‘ve seen, Benny, I think our main

problem is how to stay alive.‘

TRACK 8

LET ME WATCH YOU MAKE LOVE

‗Being a diplomat, Benny, I refuse to walk like Daniel into the

lions‘ den.‘

‗But,‘ reasoned Bernice, ‗somehow we have to confront the

Cooperative with what we know.‘

‗Don‘t you understand how dangerous that is?‘ Mphahlele

persisted, sticking to the same arguments he had used ever

since they had left the government site. Bernice thought

Mphahlele was being totally paranoid: rather than riding into

the city in his hover car, he had sent the vehicle home in

auto-return mode, and called a cab. He had not been pleased

when Bernice had suggested that the taxi driver might be a

government spy.

‗Alex,‘ Bernice said reasonably, ‗not that long ago, you were

more than happy for me to go traipsing into the hotel to meet

the Cooperative. What‘s changed?‘

‗The stakes.‘

‗Tell me, what‘s the best form of defence?‘

‗In this case, it could be running away. And in your case, I

suggest back to Dellah. Both of us have our careers to

consider.‘

‗Sure. And on the way back to Dellah, the cruiser can be

safely vaporized, the ―accident‖ being blamed on an engine

fault, or pilot error, or any one of a hundred other

unverifiable factors!‘

‗You said I was getting paranoid.‘ Mphahlele nodded. ‗But

you may have a point.‘

‗And that same point applies if I stay on Dimetos,‘ Bernice

added. ‗If I‘m low profile I can be wiped out and it won‘t even

make the headlines. I don‘t want my death to be a half-

column news item tucked in next to the weather forecast

‗You‘d rather go out in a blaze of glory?‘

‗I‘d rather not go out in any kind of blaze. Alex, see sense. If

the Cooperative is part of the puzzle, by facing them off we‘re

telling the Dimetan government that we know what they‘re

up to. You said as much yourself. If all this is news to

Mastaba and his friends, we‘re still protected because then

they‘ll be on our side.‘

‗You are assessing an alien psychology from a human

perspective,‘ Mphahlele replied. ‗Also, making this move

constitutes a state of change in a finely balanced situation.

What you intend doing, Benny, is tactically dangerous.‘

‗Yeah, where have I heard that before?‘

They were approaching the centre now and the hover car

was descending towards one of the illuminated landing

parks.

‗It all comes down to the fact that I travelled to Dimetos to

help Lizbeth. And although the position has changed

considerably in a short time, that part of it still applies. She‘s

still at risk. She still needs my help. I think going to the

Bantu delegation will improve our position.‘

The vehicle settled on its stasis fields and the canopy lifted

away like beetles‘ wing cases. Mphahlele and Bernice strode

swiftly across the lawn towards the hotel where the Bantu

Cooperative was staying.

‗After all I‘ve said!‘ Mphahlele complained, his voice rising

angrily. ‗Despite the threat to your safety, you‘re still going

ahead with your hare-brained scheme!‘

‗Yep.‘

‗But why?‘

‗Because I feel like it,‘ Bernice said, fed up with battling

over the same ground.

Mphahlele placed himself in front of Bernice, forcing her to

stop. ‗Very well,‘ he said. ‗But I insist that you take

precautions.‘ He reached into his jacket for a black metal

case. From this he took a small transceiver, which he fitted

inside Bernice‘s locket alongside the data crystal. Then he

attached a small speaker to one of Bernice‘s drooping

earrings.

‗Where did you get this from?‘ asked Bernice.

‗Spies R Us. I never go anywhere without this stuff.‘

‗What sort of diplomat are you, Alex?‘

‗You don‘t need to know. Now, test it out,‘ he instructed,

pointing. ‗Walk over there and say something.‘

‗I feel silly.‘

‗So you‘ll tell that to the mortician, will you?‘ Mphahlele

said.

Bernice scowled, then did as she was told, reciting poetry

from the Early Ikkaban period until Mphahlele bleeped a

signal through the transceiver when she was several hundred

metres away. Bernice guessed that either the device worked

fine, or he was bored stiff with early Ikkaban poetry.

She walked towards the hotel, Mphahlele pacing her at a

discreet distance. As Bernice reached the elegant entrance

portico, she whispered a reassurance that she‘d back off if

anything looked at all suspicious -

But events had already overtaken her anticipation of them.

Alex heard her message just as Karl Csokor appeared from a

side alley adjacent to the hotel. He began walking quickly

down the street, his eyes dark and staring.

* * *

‗Where are you going‘?‘ whispered Bernice.

‗Sorry. I‘ve got to find out what Csokor is up to.‘

Mphahlele‘s voice at her ear was beginning to dwindle away

to nothing.

‗Don‘t be so bloody stupid,‘ snapped Bernice.

‗I beg your pardon?‘ This voice was loud and unfiltered by

technology.

Bernice turned, and saw an elderly woman watching her

closely. With her diamond-studded dress and hat of jungle

egret feathers the woman looked like some sort of exotic and

aged poultry. She had two moggy-tiger hybrids on leads of

golden rope.

‗What are you looking at?‘ snapped Bernice, cupping the

earring closer to the side of her head to try to make out what

Mphahlele was saying.

‗Are you quite all right, dear?‘ asked the old woman.

‗I‘m fine.‘ Bernice frowned, banging the side of her head.

‗Look, haven‘t you ever seen someone talking to themselves

before?‘

The woman harrumphed, and disappeared down the

corridor.

With a crackle of interference Mphahlele‘s voice rang out in

Bernice‘s ear again: ‗- think he‘s going to Lizbeth‘s

apartment,‘ he said.

‗What?‘ said Bernice. ‗Sorry, couldn‘t hear you for a

moment then.‘

‗I was apologizing for leaving you in the lurch,‘ said

Mphahlele.

‗I need you here,’ whispered Bernice, making her way

towards an elevator.

‗Sometimes,‘ said Mphahlele, with what sounded like a

sigh, ‗sometimes you‘ve just got to make a snap decision.‘

‗That‘s what I‘m going to do to your neck when next I see

it,‘ said Bernice.

* * *

Alex Mphahlele turned down the input volume on his

transceiver. He hadn‘t taken the decision to leave Bernice

lightly, but she‘d proved she could look after herself. Lizbeth

was another matter entirely. If the exploding hover car was

Csokor‘s handiwork, then Mphahlele had seen more than

enough evidence of the threat the man posed. And the person

closest to Csokor at the moment was Lizbeth.

Mphahlele followed Csokor at a safe distance, ready to

become an anonymous tourist at the merest turn of his head.

But Csokor had walked straight to a parked hover car

without looking around, leaving Mphahlele to break into an

undignified run towards the back of the hotel for his own.

‗Come on, come on,‘ breathed Mphahlele as the energy

harness for a moment stubbornly refused to engage, the

security protocols cutting off the engines. When everything

was ready, Mphahlele pushed the car into the air and,

swerving to avoid a couple of kids out for a high-speed

deathride, set off in pursuit of Csokor.

Thankfully, Csokor had not changed course, his own hover

car - smaller than the black one Mphahlele had seen him in

earlier, but no less impressive for that – skidding over the

roof tops and penthouses in the direction of the city‘s western

downtown area.

Lizbeth‘s apartment. It just had to be.

Mphahlele knew the various routes so well. Watching

Csokor fly between the same buildings and take the same

short-cuts that Mphahlele had done so often in the past was

almost an intrusion in itself. This was the sacred route home

from work, when home had been Lizbeth‘s place, her rooms

and her bed. And now a man who sold weapons for a living

was treading the same path.

Mphahlele could feel his pulse quickening, and he fought to

control his anger. He‘d let his own car drift a little bit too

close to Csokor‘s sunburst-coloured vehicle and, not wanting

to draw attention to himself, he turned down towards some

warehouses in order to take an alternative route to Lizbeth‘s

apartment.

What if he lost him? Well, if Csokor‘s destination wasn’t

Lizbeth‘s apartment then, for the moment at least, Mphahlele

didn‘t greatly care where he was going.

And if it was? What would he do then? Wait in the hover

car, a boiling mess of anger and frustration? What was the

alternative - spying on them?

Without prompting, he imagined watching Csokor taking

Lizbeth in his arms, peeling back her blouse, running his lips

over her neck. That glorious chuckle Lizbeth made when she

was aroused; the way her pupils dilated and her mouth

suddenly seemed so very moist: all those sensations that had

once been his - theirs - Mphahlele in an instant projected on

to Csokor.

He pushed the image away with a mixture of self-loathing

and jealous haired, pounding his fists into the hover car‘s

instrumentation.

He dipped the vehicle down towards street level, and

turned the comer that would bring him to Lizbeth‘s

apartment. It looked like Csokor was already there, having

spumed the nearby parking matrix for the last bay right

outside the tower-block entrance. Mphahlele brought his own

craft to rest half a block away, and sat watching the building

intently, as if its facade of chrome and frosted glass would

tell him all that he needed to know.

What if Csokor stayed in there all night? How long would

Mphahlele wait outside?

He flicked the volume of his link to Bernice a little higher.

She was talking to someone now, a woman - one of the Bantu

delegates, possibly. Everything seemed to be fine at her end.

Csokor and Lizbeth suddenly appeared in the lower-block

foyer. His arm was draped around her slender shoulders. He

helped her into the hover car, and seemed to spend a few

moments switching the controls over to Lizbeth.

Then Csokor eased himself into his own seat, and the

transpex seals clicked into place. The hover car darted into

the air.

Mphahlele set off after them.

It was a kind of dream, one part of Lizbeth said; a dream of

comfort and peace, of safety and of never having to be

frightened or hurt again. It felt like coming home.

They drove out into the hills beyond the city, to a private,

quiet place where they could stroll and talk, simply be

together. Lizbeth thought this was an important thing,

allowing her to get a perspective on her feelings for Karl. She

had settled the hover car close to a stand of oriana trees,

their delicate paper-lantern fruits glowing with a yellowish

bioluminescence: the whole dell was filled with gentle veils of

such light. It looked so romantic, though Lizbeth had sense

enough to realize the shallow transparency of romance when

set against what was happening inside herself now.

‗You‘re very lucky to have such beautiful scenery close by,‘

Karl commented. He walked a few paces away from Lizbeth

and their vehicle, to stare out through the orianas at the

broad swathe of the city below in the distance. It was a

galaxy fallen to earth, the farthest stars sparkling madly on

the horizon, shimmering through distant layers of unevenly

heated air.

‗I‘m luckier than many.‘ Lizbeth came up beside him and

slid an arm naturally and comfortably through his own. ‗This

is regulated land. You need to pay to come here. The place is

wrapped in low-level surveillance fields which read your ID as

you approach. If you don‘t carry the right smart-cards, you

don‘t come in.‘

‗How do they stop you?‘ Karl wondered. He sounded slightly

alarmed, and Lizbeth smiled.

‗An unauthorized hover ear will begin to lose power; you

have time to turn round and fly on out of here, of course -

but if you carry on the car‘s regulators will cut in and deposit

you at the base of the hills. Oh, and you automatically get

booked for the trespass and fined.‘

‗What happens if you try to walk up here?‘

‗Alarms trigger in one of several security stations in the

area, and the wardens come and get heavy-handed as they

explain the rules to you all over again. But you needn‘t

worry, Karl. Offworld visitors have automade access as a

courtesy. It‘s only the poorer native Dimetans who can‘t enjoy

the beauty of their own planet...‘

Lizbeth caught herself sounding bitter, and shut up. She

didn‘t want it to be her fault if the occasion failed to turn out

as she‘d fantasized it many times now since Karl had

suggested the date.

The date. It made her want to giggle. This was no schoolgirl

crush. But neither - she hesitated before admitting it - was it

the same kind of clear, bright and passionate love she‘d

shared with Alex. That had been good; that had been so good

and due while it had lasted. Yet if things were finished

between them now, well, so be it. But what she felt for Karl

was different - different, actually, from any emotion she‘d

experienced before or could name. And perhaps, Lizbeth

reflected, part of the excitement for her and the anticipation

was this quality of not knowing. Karl was a mystery, a dark

continent he had invited her to explore by the offer of his

company. As they turned their backs on the city and walked

slowly amongst the trees, Lizbeth thought maybe that was it:

Karl was so attractive because being with him was like

setting out on a holiday, and the days and months and

maybe the years ahead glowed with his companionship and

promise.

‗Are there any sites you‘ve excavated near here?‘ Csokor

wanted to know. Lizbeth wondered if he was just making

conversation, being polite. If so, he needn‘t. Simply being

here with him, knowing he wanted to be near her, was

enough.

‗No. The latest digs are towards the eastern fringe of the

city. As far as I‘m aware this region has never been worked...

There may be relics, possibly very early Eurogen Butler stuff,

and it would be good to do some preliminary surveys to find

out... But one day, not now. Funding, time, resources. You

know how it is.‘

Lizbeth looked up into Karl Csokor‘s eyes and saw them

shining with a strange, unreadable light. The sense of his

sheer difference struck her again very strongly. How odd,

then, that she should feel so close to him now, as though she

had known him for ever.

‗And would you like to excavate sites on other worlds, like

your friend Summerfield does?‘

The idea of it made Lizbeth‘s breath catch. Benny had

many qualities she admired, not least the gutsy way she took

up any challenge. Lizbeth had always regarded herself more

as the deskbound academician, earning her accolades by

dint of sheer intellectual effort. She had routinely felt more

comfortable with a screenful of stats than making leaps of

the imagination as she held a just-unearthed potsherd in her

hands. Benny didn‘t mind trudging knee-deep in mud, but

Lizbeth had never really contemplated doing that, or enjoyed

it when she had to. But as to the future? Well, why not? Why

shouldn‘t she do just what she felt like doing; be exactly who

she wanted to be?

‗Do you know, Karl, I think I would.‘ The note of

determination in her own voice cheered Lizbeth enormously.

‗Yes...‘ Her mind was leaping ahead into the future,

envisioning herself breaking the seals of a tomb of some alien

king beneath a faraway sky. It was, for the brief moment the

image existed, exhilarating, a reminder of her true

aspirations before events had conspired otherwise.

They had strolled some little way from the hover car and

the oriana grove, moving out of the trees‘ natural glow on to

gloomier ground. Lizbeth‘s foot caught on a stone and she

stumbled suddenly. Karl tensed as he supported her and

stopped her from falling.

‗Karl, I‘m not sure I -‘

‗We could go on a bit farther.‘ he insisted. ‗I‘d like to see the

stars... It is such a wonderful night.‘

She couldn‘t argue with that. After the recent rains, this

spell of fine, warm weather was welcome, and the balmy,

sweet-scented summer nights were one of Dimetos‘s finest

and most delicate treasures.

The land rose more steeply, and there was a narrow track,

just visible, twisting up through the rocks and billowing

purplish tufts of velvet heathers. Their musk was very strong

in the windless air.

Csokor took the lead, guiding Lizbeth along until they

reached a flat limestone shelf that formed a natural vantage

point giving a wide prospect to the south. Of Dimetos‘s two

natural satellites, only one, the minor moon, was visible low

down in the east, like a dim, bluish coin lying on the bottom

of a pond. Its light did not detract from the splendour of the

stars, swarms of them dusting the heavens, gathering to a

bright nucleus, like a ghost moon.

‗It‘s lovely, Karl. Thank you for suggesting it.‘

Lizbeth had wanted to go on and say what a welcome

change this was to having her head buried in a book, or bent

over some screen digesting data. It was true that the dig,

together with all of the other recent complications in her life,

had taken their toll. After losing the baby, and then Alex, she

had felt emotionally drained, so that the world looked dull

and grey and pointless, reflecting her mood. To do this now,

to take time simply for herself, to sit and gaze at the stars,

was no luxury, she suddenly understood, but an absolute

necessity for survival.

Her own thoughts, drifting slowly through, were making

her uncommunicative. And she could see the same had

happened to Karl. He was staring upwards, his mouth

slightly open, letting the starlight pour in. Lizbeth realized

that her eyes were adjusting to the night, becoming sensitive

to the dimness... And yet surely the dark was playing tricks

on her? As she studied Csokor more closely, it seemed as

though his skin was moving; not obviously, but with a

subtlety suggesting that the very cells were teeming like a

busy hive, second by second maintaining his overall form.

It was an absurdity, of course. And as Csokor moved,

shifting his weight to lean on his left hand, the illusion was

lost and he was just Karl Csokor again, handsome and

exciting and silvery beside her.

‗So many different planets out there,‘ he murmured. ‗So

many unique and alien peoples... each with their own story of

becoming.‘

‗You mean mythology?‘

He glanced at her with his fathomless, haematite eyes.

‗Mythology makes it sound like a product of the

imagination. But the core stories of all races, of their creation

and final destiny, must have some basis in truth...‘

It wasn‘t an idea Lizbeth had ever really considered, not

deeply anyway. But it occurred to her now that if her job was

to bring to light the pages of a people‘s history, then

somewhere there had to be a first chapter, and a first page of

that first chapter, lying buried deep down in the stones of the

earliest times.

‗Well,‘ she said, ‗perhaps...‘ Profound discussion of this or

any other topic - with the exception of their own future -

seemed out of place.

Csokor grinned at her suddenly and Lizbeth felt uneasy.

The minor moon, rising higher through the haze, cast him in

a cold light. He reached and picked up a small round stone

that lay between them.

‗We are each of us unique, Lizbeth. You‘d accept that of

course?‘

‗Of course...‘

‗And what makes us so? Tell me - why am I Karl Csokor

and you Lizbeth Fugard, so that even if there existed a

million other Csokors and Fugards, none of them would be

just as we are, now, in our individuality?‘

‗Our - genes?‘ Lizbeth suggested tentatively. This was

ridiculous. Even as Csokor was taking her through his

pantomime, for whatever obscure reasons, she felt the echoes

of her schooldays, of lectures in the headmaster‘s office, of

playing the game of guessing the right answers -

Csokor made a sound of derision. ‗Our genes! Simply

psychobiological instructions programmed to unfold at

various times through our lives, or else lie latent until the

circumstances are right. They are the dumb and blind

envelopes of meaning. Within exist the messages. But who

wrote them, Lizbeth? And how are they rewritten to cope as

the universe evolves?‘

‗I‘m afraid,‘ Lizbeth said, ‗you‘ve lost me...‘

‗I‘ve lost you!‘ It was almost a sob. Csokor reached out to

touch Lizbeth‘s cheek, her chin, and she found herself

cringing away, frightened now as the nature of the experience

changed. No longer the stem headmaster and the slow-witted

pupil, but, unbelievably, the spider and the fly.

‗Karl, why are you being like this? What‘s got into you?‘

‗Beneath the genetic pattern, Lizbeth - what shapes us?‘

‗The - collective unconscious -‘

He laughed aloud, a harsh bark. A crude and obsolete

concept.‘ He held the stone up closer, turning it in front of

her eyes. Lizbeth saw it was limestone, weathered at some

point out of the bedrock and rounded to a pebble by the blind

lapidary of an ancient sea.

‗There‘s something else, beneath all we‘ve said; a force that

tells the rocks how to be themselves, the same force that

maintains every expression of such rock throughout its

history… built into the basic fabric of things, Lizbeth, an

imperative finely targeted, infinitely precise. This stone is the

only one of its kind, uniquely itself once born from the matrix

of the limestone.‘

‗Karl...‘ Lizbeth noted the brink of panic in her voice. ‗I

want to understand this - and maybe I do. I‘ve heard of

things like this, ideas... morphic fields, spread through space

and time... I think Benny mentioned something of the sort…‘

‗Now you are beginning to appreciate the power of what

I‘m telling you, Lizbeth.‘ Csokor hefted the pebble in his

hand- tossed it once, twice, then regarded it curiously, losing

himself in his thoughts. And as his attention shifted, Lizbeth

glanced carefully around herself, planning the moves of her

escape.

‗It‘s more than that, of course. The Bantu Cooperative have

begun to tap the forces of the morphic fields - oh, and what

delightful nightmares they will suffer because of it! But just

imagine, Lizbeth, fields that encode mythologies, as you

would call them: instructions that reach across the light-

years and down the great spans of time from one epoch to

the next. What would it be like to be a part of such a

magnificent destiny?‘

‗I... I don‘t know.‘

‗Yes you do, Lizbeth. Listen carefully to yourself. In your

deepest heart, don‘t you hear a word whispered endlessly to

remind you of your true and secret nature? Shiga, Shiga,

Shiga…‘

Lizbeth could make little sense of Csokor‘s words, but the

name was tantalizingly familiar. Lizbeth‘s mind flickered

desperately through the books she had read, the lectures she

had listened to, the huge input of knowledge that at the time

she had thought to be trivial and quite inconsequential.

Shiga- Shiga.

‗The Narayayan people of Thuba Castelani!‘ The answer

bloomed in her head like a redemption. ‗One of the cycle of

destruction myths from the Thuban Zone. I remember now,

Karl. The Shiga was a creature out of space, some terrible

malevolence that wiped out the Narayayans. The Shiga,

awesomely powerful but mean in its ways - it destroyed in

order to live, but then hid itself in the flesh of other beings,

waiting through die centuries until it grew hungry again…‘

She felt pleased she‘d remembered, though that small

satisfaction was wiped away by the import of what Csokor

seemed to be saying.

‗Karl, I‘m confused. The Shiga myth marks the earliest

record of Thuban storymaking, like Earth‘s Gilgamesh. It‘s a

metaphor - it‘s Yin-Yang, the balance of the forces of good

and evil. The Shiga and...‘

‗And Asan, last of the Thuba Castelani race, sole survivor of

the Shiga‘s horrific evil.‘ Csokor said it quietly, though his

expression was tortured. He eased back with a sigh. Lizbeth

became very still, not wanting to provoke him.

‗You can‘t imagine, Shiga, the frustration of seeking you

out each time you re-embody the flesh of some unknowing

host.‘

‗Wait, you called me -‘ Lizbeth interrupted, but Csokor

seemed not to hear.

‗I only have my instincts to guide me, you know... And

sometimes I find you again swiftly and the killing is easy. But

then again it may take centuries, for you can be so elusive,

so very clever...‘

Lizbeth tensed, ready to run. Csokor‘s words were a

madness that promised only violence. All trace of the man

she had been so attracted to seemed to have faded. ‗I‘m sorry,

Karl, but...‘ What was the old advice, humour madmen or

stay clear of their crazy delusions? Lizbeth couldn‘t

remember. ‗I‘ve got to go,‘ she said in a quiet voice.

Csokor still wasn‘t listening. ‗Of course, you will help me

finally, Shiga. Because one day when I destroy you, you‘ll

stay dead. The obliteration of the Narayayans is a teaching

tale, one of perseverance and the nobility of revenge. You

must understand that, so that you don‘t go down into the

darkness in ignorance.‘

It was utterly impossible, and no trick of the light this lime.

Csokor‘s hand seemed to melt like a powder over the

limestone pebble, dissolving it away into dust. Then, suave as

a master magician‘s artistry, the powder gathered itself back

into fingers and skin, reached into Csokor‘s robes, and

emerged with a long-bladed knife.

‗Anything more sophisticated would have triggered the

security systems in your apartment, Shiga,‘ he said, almost

apologetically. ‗But then again, there is a certain rightness,

and a wonderful irony, don‘t you think, in so simple a means

of slaughter.‘

Lizbeth lashed out with her foot and kicked the knife away.

It clattered down among the rocks.

He lunged for her with a howl, but Lizbeth was already on

her feet and running. She leapt over the larger stones on the

path, finding her way by instinct and fear.

She ran with the image of Shiga, destroyer of worlds, in her

mind. It was a monstrous shadowy thing, harpy-like but in

other ways beautiful beyond imagining.

She dared not imagine Csokor at her back - his driven

eyes, his fixed expression. Her breathing was harsh and

ragged now, blocking out any sound of pursuit.

As she ran through the oriana grove, she turned to look for

Csokor, hoping that she might spot him as a tiny figure still

struggling up among the rocks.

Instead, she screamed at the sight of the looming, surging

mist that came sweeping towards her, as silver grey as his

eyes, ghostly with the form of his face and its smile of

vengeance.

TRACK 9

IN PRAISE OF TEARS

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

At first, everything seemed to go alarmingly well. Which, I

reckon, is reason enough to get nervous.

I strode into the hotel reception, and asked to speak to

Mas-ta-ba-gal-gal-al-Kharatani now, if not sooner. When the

young woman behind the desk (a different one; I hoped they

hadn‘t sacked the other girl, or taken her away to be used as

a human carpet or something) started to prevaricate I

snapped, i know his secret. I need to talk with him.‘ I then

gave her a knowing wink, as if she ought to know the secret,

too.

Mastaba turned up soon enough.

I‘ve always been taken with the idea that the quickest way

to clear a lecture theatre is to shout at the top of your voice

‗Quick! The secret‘s out!‘ Of course I‘ve never tried it, but the

point is, everyone has a secret. And, it seems to me, the more

important you are, the more secrets you have. And I

reckoned that Mastaba must register at least 8.7 on the

skeleton-in-the-closet-ometer.

Even so, he greeted me warmly, almost purring like a cat.

‗So good to see you again... even if you do employ a most

melodramatic method of getting my attention.‘

The leader of the Bantu Cooperative delegation on Dimetos

was flanked by four dark-suited figures. One was (almost

literally) an ape; the second was a human, augmented to

such an extent that he really did seem as wide as he was tall.

The other pair were small and tall, and looked strangely

familiar. It was Laurel and Hardy, fresh from their swim in

the marina, no doubt.

Which either meant that Mastaba was wanting to put his

cards on the table or, more likely, that he was keen to remind

me of the pitfalls that awaited anyone who crossed him.

Extract ends

‗We needed to talk,‘ Bernice said.

‗Indeed.‘ Mastaba forced his lips into a sly smile as he

waited for Bernice to make the first move.

They sat at a small, round table in a quiet area towards the

back of the hotel. Fronds of palmlike trees concealed them

from scrutiny, but the four thugs patrolled the area

relentlessly, trying not to look conspicuous. Although,

Bernice thought, they wouldn‘t have looked any more

conspicuous if they‘d had ‗I am not a sinister goon‘ stamped

on their foreheads.

‗I‘d like to be very honest with you,‘ Bernice said, after

concluding that she knew so little of the truth that lying

about that would only get her still more confused.

‗Honesty is policy, where the Bantu Cooperative is

concerned,‘ said Mastaba.

‗I know that you‘ve been trying to kill me.‘

‗No,‘ said Mastaba immediately. ‗No, that is not quite how I

see it.‘

‗Our hover was deliberately attacked at the marina.‘

‗The truth is, friends of the Cooperative asked us if we

would - how can I put this? - assess your abilities under

pressure.‘

‗That sort of pressure I can do without.‘

‗As you say. Unfortunately, my minions were somewhat

overzealous in their pursuit of you.‘

Bernice could sense the tall man and the fat man shrinking

still further into the shrubbery. She paused for a moment,

reflecting on Mastaba‘s sudden openness. Such incriminating

truthfulness does not come without a price or an agenda,

somewhere. ‗Hang on a minute,‘ she said. ‗What‘s to stop me

recording this and going to the security forces with your

confession?‘

Mastaba laughed. ‗To my mind, there are two reasons why

that would be a most precipitous course of action. Firstly,

you won‘t be able to, because we‘ve scanned you for

recording equipment and the like, and have found only a

simple two-way transceiver. We‘ve been blocking all out-going

signals since this conversation began.‘ He paused, the sort of

self-satisfied smile on his face that Bernice really felt like

rubbing off. With the broken end of a bottle, for instance.

‗Secondly?‘ she prompted.

‗I am afraid that the Dimetan security services are among

the very best friends the Cooperative has on this planet.‘

‗Meaning: they put you up to all this?‘

‗Meaning: that they would hardly prosecute us for following

a governmental agenda.‘

‗Neat,‘ said Bernice. ‗So, the minister‘s son...?‘

‗Dealt with,‘ said Mastaba, as if he was referring to a memo

that needed shredding. ‗The friends of the Cooperative really

are most grateful to you. They had been aware of security

lapses for some time. In following you, they were led straight

to the culprit.‘

‗What happened to him?‘ Bernice asked. In her headlong

pursuit of the truth she had almost completely forgotten that

individual lives were at stake. She remembered the young

man‘s charm and warmth: for all his faults, and unlike her

current company, his heart seemed to have been in the right

place.

‗I do not know. That at least is not of my concern.‘

‗And yet you‘re happy to supply some thugs to do the job?‘.

‗If this comes to light, far better that the security services

are not directly involved. Sometimes friendship means a

willingness to be a scapegoat.‘ He paused, drumming his

fingers on the tabletop. ‗Of course, I use the word ―if‖ merely

to make a point. I am sure that none of this will ever come to

light.‘

‗Which is why Katri tried to kill me.‘

Mastaba shook his head. ‗Again, I feel the reality is rather

different from your perception of it. You took it upon yourself

to meet Katri again. We initiated nothing.‘

‗I bumped into him in a corridor.‘

‗Yes, I know. You were looking for Karl Csokor, were you

not? Anyway, Katri took it into his head to try to kill himself

and you - with one of our weapons.‘ Mastaba spread his

hands wide on the table, palms uppermost as if to show that

he had nothing to hide. ‗I cannot think why he did that.‘

‗Oh, come on! You didn‘t order him to try to kill me?‘

‗No.‘

‗I don‘t believe you.‘

‗Believe what you will. The Bantu Cooperative prefers

alliance to conflict.‘

‗But conflict is good for trade.‘

‗Perhaps.‘

‗Before he detonated the bomb, he spoke of personal failure

- that he had said something to me during our first meeting

which he should not have.‘

‗Really.‘ Mastaba tried to sound bored, but Bernice was

unconvinced by his acting skills. Only later did she realize

that he was using reverse-psychology to get her to say what

she knew.

‗I think it was something to do with your weapons testing

facility.‘ It had suddenly occurred to Bernice that this was

the only thing that seemed to connect what Katri had

discussed to the revelations that Lizbeth had uncovered.

‗No one is supposed to know of that.‘ But Mastaba‘s

eyebrows were arched like those of a delighted teacher when

a pupil finally comes up with the answer to a complex

question.

‗Katri blurted it out. That soon the people I represent will

be able to see your military technology in action, at a

purpose-built location. And I think that you put pressure on

Katri to eliminate me, after he inadvertently revealed that you

were building this R&D centre here on Dimetos.‘

‗I reminded him of his error. I said no more than that.‘

Bernice didn‘t believe Mastaba, but he seemed unwilling to

do other than protest his innocence. ‗Tell me about the

weapons testing centre,‘ she said.

‗It does not officially exist, so I‘m afraid I cannot tell you

anything.‘

‗I thought we were laying our cards on the table.‘

‗In the games we play, it is always wise to keep one or two

in reserve.‘

‗Fine,‘ Bernice said, rising to her feet in feigned anger.

‗Then you won‘t want to know what the Dimetan authorities

are keeping from you.’

‗I already know that,‘ said Mastaba.

‗Ah,‘ said Bernice, taken aback. ‗That wasn‘t supposed to

happen.‘

‗No?‘

‗No. You were supposed to act all grateful, and then we‘d

come to a deal where we trade information.‘

‗I don‘t do those sorts of deals, Ms Summerfield. And

certainly not when there is nothing on the table that I want.‘

‗Oh.‘ Bernice couldn‘t work out why Mastaba didn‘t just

wind up the conversation there and then, and send her

packing. Perhaps with a bullet in the small of her back, for

good measure.

‗I, too, am grateful to you,‘ said Mastaba at last. ‗You see,

the moment that our friends in the government said they

were interested in Ms Fugard‘s work, but wouldn‘t tell us

why, we became suspicious. There were important gaps in

our knowledge and, it goes without saying, that can be rather

bad for business.‘ He paused, waiting for a couple of tourists

to pass by. ‗We found out about the maps when you did. Our

ears and eyes are everywhere, observing good and evil deeds

alike.‘

And with that, a small ant scuttled across the tabletop. It

was the colour of quicksilver.

‗The spider...‘ said Bernice.

‗Unlike Mr Mphahlele, we weren‘t able to access Ms

Fugard‘s data at her office, so we tried other means. And, as I

said, we were observing you anyway when you met that poor,

foolish boy.‘

‗So, now you know.‘

‗Now we know. We know that our weapons testing centre,

which was supposed to be ―presented‖ to the Dimetan people

as a fait accompli, is being built on a site that the idiotic

government is no longer sure is safe.‘

‗In my experience, politicians much prefer to ignore their

mistakes and hope they‘ll go away than admit to them.‘

‗Well put,‘ said Mastaba.

‗Tell me about Karl Csokor,‘ said Bernice. ‗He‘s working for

you, right?‘

‗Correct,‘ said Mastaba. ‗But that‘s all I‘m going to tell you.‘

‗You‘re not going to tell me your entire plot before you shoot

me, then?‘

‗Who said anything about shooting you, Ms Summerfield?

Although I will admit that I am surprised you are interested

in Csokor. Unlike Katri, he has always been a model member

of the Cooperative.‘

‗Until now,‘ Bernice said. ‗I saw Csokor after the car blew

up.‘

‗I sent Csokor and some of the others out to look for Katri

and your good self.‘

‗I don‘t remember them stopping to help.‘

‗They didn‘t want to get involved.‘

‗And yet Csokor has got involved - very involved – with

Lizbeth.‘

Mastaba could not hide his surprise. ‗He was under no

orders to interfere with Ms Fugard or to continue his

observation of her.‘ He paused, sighing deeply. ‗I wondered if

it would come to this...‘

‗Csokor is romantically involved with Lizbeth,‘ Bernice

continued. ‗I‘m not sure she‘s safe. Tell me about him, or I‘ll

go to the press with what I know,‘

‗As I said, you know nothing.’

‗I‘ve got proof that your employees have tried to kill me, and

that your friends in the government have interfered with a

legitimate scientific exercise.‘

‗None of that sounds especially incriminating to me. Bar

the odd bruise, it seems to me you‘ve got very little proof of

anything.‘

‗The evidence that Alex and I found in Lizbeth‘s office -

evidence that you‘ve admitted you have been unable to get

hold of - could bring down the government at least. Do you

want to get mired in all that?‘

‗Very well,‘ said Mastaba. ‗Csokor is of a rare shape-

changing species. In addition, he has a certain... charisma

about him. A charm, if you will. I‘ve seen him change people‘s

minds as if at the flick of a switch.‘

‗Which is why he works for you. He‘d make an excellent

negotiator.‘

Mastaba nodded. ‗Amongst other things. His chameleon

abilities are invaluable. Most races respond best to a familiar

face.‘

Bernice remembered the physical change that had come

over Katri, and wondered if he had been similarly equipped.

‗Where is he from?‘ Bernice asked.

Mastaba paused, as if formulating a careful response. ‗He

says that he comes from

There was a sudden explosion of sound at Bernice‘s ear.

She had forgotten that Mastaba had only jammed the out-

going signals. During most of her conversation with the

Bantu leader, Mphahlele seemed to have turned off his own

unit. Now it was back on again, transmitting loud and clear.

Very loud and clear.

Bernice could hear that Mphahlele was running, and,

somewhere in the distance, someone was screaming – she

couldn‘t immediately tell if it was a man or a woman.

And Mphahlele was saying - shouting - ‗Benny! Benny! Get

over here! Csokor‘s gone nuts, and he‘s attacking Liz -‘

And then the whole thing cut off.

Bernice paused for a moment, ignoring every part of her

mind that screamed at her to do something! She didn‘t know

where Mphahlele was, how she could get there, or what she

could do to help.

She glanced up. Mastaba was watching her closely. Bernice

had missed what he had said when the transceiver had

suddenly reactivated, and it looked as if he had lapsed into

silence when he had realized Bernice was no longer listening.

‗Right,‘ Bernice said as calmly as she could, trying to force

her beating heart to slow to a normal rate by sheer

concentration. And trying to forget the terrifying screams. ‗I‘m

afraid this conversation will have to wait. It seems that your

obedient servant Csokor has gone mental in the head, to use

a technical term that I‘m rather fond of. He‘s attacking

Lizbeth Fugard. Now, I need something from you that can

track him, take me there, and - what phrase would you use?

- neutralize him, if I have no other option.‘

‗Why should I help you, Ms Summerfield?‘

‗Come on!‘ Bernice snapped. ‗One of your employees is

about to murder someone in full view of many witnesses.‘

That wasn‘t strictly true, but Bernice was grateful that

Mastaba wasn‘t to know that. ‗The authorities will have to

investigate. And the person in question isn‘t just anyone, but

the very woman whose research the government were so keen

to keep from you. There will be repercussions if she‘s

harmed, Mastaba. I promise you that.‘

‗We do not wish to see our good relationship with the

government destroyed,‘ said Mastaba, thinking aloud.

‗Having said that, we are only allowed to keep civil vehicles in

the hotel. Local by-laws prohibit -‘

‗Oh, bollocks!‘ Bernice exploded. ‗Don‘t give me that. You‘re

here to sell weapons. You‘re not telling me you‘ve brought no

product samples with you?‘

Mastaba paused, his hands drumming on the table again.

‗Very well,‘ he said. ‗I think we have just the vehicle you‘re

looking for.‘

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

It was squat, black and murderous-looking; some alien bug

bristling with sensors and nasty weaponry that curled neatly

into its shell. ‗Wow,‘ I said softly, an expression of admiration

that came out before I had time to begrudge it.

‗I suggest you use the scarab merely for conveyance,‘

Mastaba said with an evil twinkle. ‗We wouldn‘t want you

destroying a sizeable portion of the continent.‘

He handed me a silver smartkey, and as I took it I looked

into Mastaba‘s eyes and read the secret message there: that

little or none of this was happening outside the frame that

Mastaba and his colleagues (and perhaps the Dimetan

government) had constructed. That even if Csokor was out of

control, it could be a design parameter the Cooperative would

use to see how we reacted.

‗You‘ve got full AI capability.‘ Mastaba chittered some fast

commands in his native tongue and the attack vehicle

stirred, seeming to come to attention as a clutch of systems

blinked on and the ship‘s micromotors powered up. The

smartkey grew warm in my hand, and when I opened my list

its metal had spread over my palm like hot solder.

‗Oh, and we‘ve incorporated nanotechnix into the package

too. Don‘t worry. The nanocules that have already entered

your body have a limited lifespan. The problem was that

organic pilots were reacting about a thousand times too

slowly to take advantage of the scarab‘s AI drive systems: it‘s

a bit like working with someone who answers your questions

an hour later. At least this way the ship can use its insight

circuits to assess your responses before you make them.‘

Mastaba touched the vehicle and a wing of metal lifted like

a bract uncovering some lovely elegant seed.

‗All very impressive, Mastaba, the perfect sales pitch,‘ I

said. ‗But I‘ve gotta dash. A friend of mine might be dying.‘

He gave me a barracuda grin. ‗Oh, I think you‘ll find the

transport will get you there in plenty of time...‘

I jumped into the close and cosy cockpit and felt the

leatherite seat moulding itself to my body. Around me lights

were sparkling in complex patterns, visual analogues of the

scarab‘s busy superspeed selftalk. Without me having to say

anything, the ship lifted like a gazelle priming itself to run -

Then it leapt and the underground vehicle park became a

blur.

OK, I admit I made a little girlie squeal and tried to gasp

out some clumsy instruction for the AI systems to avoid the

walls and ceiling - by which time we were already out into

open sky and the lights of Dimetos City were dropping away

behind like a bagful of diamonds tumbling into

fathomless darkness.

I began to think about how to locate the source of Alex‘s

transmission: my earring was transmitting sounds of high

drama again, and it occurred to me that a ship as advanced

as the scarab would surely possess a decent tracking

device...

The attack vehicle stopped dead, paused, and shot off again

an instant later at about ninety degrees to the east. At the

same time a gentle womb of force contracted around me, so

that all I felt was a slight and fleeting disorientation as my

inner ear concluded that something interesting had

happened. Simultaneously, a warm gush spread through my

body, an electrochemical reassurance that everything was all

right - a natural reaction, or had the teeming nanocules

inside me deliberately triggered the endorphin release from

my brain?

‗How long until we reach the transmission source?‘ It was a

long shot, I know, hoping the vehicle spoke contemporary,

colloquial English -

‗Madam, we are here.‘

The ship was in my eyes and in my seeing; in my head, and

in my understanding.

‗Oh. Well done...‘

The inertia dampers engaged a second time. I looked down

at the city lights and was instantly annoyed.

‗Bloody hell, we haven‘t left the suburbs yet!‘

The ship reassured me with another endorphin balm, and I

realized with some embarrassment that I was staring at the

stars, millions of them, bright and blazing freed from the

polluting city-glow.

‗Above‘ me, startlingly close, a range of hills and swathes of

woodland swung into view. I heard a scream, intimately near,

not just from my transceiver: the scarab‘s acoustic scanners

were operating, picking up the sounds of Lizbeth‘s fear - and

Alex‘s too, and his anger, as he battled with Csokor.

The world somersaulted high and wide and searchlights

dazzled on, catching the action in raw brilliance – Lizbeth

lying sprawled at the edge of a grove of odd-looking trees;

Alex furiously struggling with a figure that must have been

Csokor inside some kind of milky fog.

Alex gave a grunt of pain, swore, and stumbled backwards,

falling heavily into the dust. His opponent (Csokor, or

something other, something new to the equation?) emitted a

shriek that was truly beyond the capabilities of any human

or Thuban throat.

‗She is not yours to let live. The Shiga‘s destiny is to die at

my hand.‘

That was weird enough. But then the real insanity began.

The fog that had surrounded them both began to coagulate,

gathering itself and oozing into Csokor‘s body like a timelapse

sequence run backwards. It was hard to believe. Easier to

react to.

I wanted something disabling, not to destroy but perhaps

to delay.

The scarab, almost static in the air like a weightless

dandelion puff, dipped closer to earth, putting the thought in

my mind that stun grenades would be best for the job.

‗You sure about that, ship?‘

‗Yes, madam.‘

‗Enough of the madam, if you please.‘

‗Certainly, sir -‘

And they launched, bumph-bumph, with lovers‘ sighs, fist-

sized oval pods like little comets trailing their tails of tracer

light.

The first came down midway between Csokor and the spot

where Alex was lying: the pod, impact-sensitive, disintegrated

instantly and let loose a bloom of sound and smoke and

blinding radiance. Alex curled foetally with a shrill scream.

Csokor, buffeted backwards, regained his balance and came

on holding what looked like a knife.

The second grenade hit him solidly on the left shoulder,

and he went spinning away in a whirl of shredded clothing,

crashed against a rock and lay still. A second later, that

sickening fog started to rise around him and, unaccountably

perhaps, I felt he was more dangerous now than ever before.

‗Get me down, quickly - get me down!‘ I shouted at the

scarab, needlessly, of course. It had already picked up my

adrenaline surge and interpreted it and acted accordingly: I

was at zero metres before I‘d finished yelling.

The ship touched ground and opened to let me leave, like a

protective fist uncurling so I could go free. But it was still

doing its work: even as I hurried over towards Alex, its

multiple sensors were scanning the scene across the

frequency range, its weaponry poised. Waves of reassurance

washed through me again and again as the nanocules inside

fulfilled their function. I felt like crying, for all kinds of

reasons.

‗Sir, we have alerted the authorities. An air ambulance and

the enclave wardens are on their way. Will there be anything

else?‘

‗Yes,‘ I said. In seconds the scarab turned my thoughts into

a detailed series of instructions, complete with flight path

and objectives.

It was bizarre to be speaking with a vehicle that had the

engines of a starship and the manners of a Victorian English

butler. I wanted it to stay, but my chemistry said differently.

The scarab hummed softly and started to rise.

‗Ship, do you have a name?‘ I asked. But it was already a

star in the night-time heavens, then a splinter of diamond,

then nothing at all.

The sky was empty. It felt like a lifelong companion was

leaving.

Extract ends

Bernice noted that the stun grenades had lived up to their

name as far as Mphahlele was concerned. He was out cold,

possibly concussed. Something told Bernice to touch his

brow. She did so and understood with a powerful surge of

factless knowledge that his injuries were superficial, though

requiring treatment. Smiling delightedly, she looked at her

right palm and the smartkey which had been controlling the

nanocules, peeled it off like tinfoil and dropped it to the

ground, where it degraded away within seconds.

Mphahlele would be all right, and the air ambulance was

already approaching beyond the grove. Bernice left his side

and hurried over to where Lizbeth was lying, weeping

uncontrollably.

‗Don‘t let him near me!‘

‗Shh, shh. It‘s OK now. I think... Lizbeth, I think Karl‘s

dead. One of the stun grenades struck him direct. I didn‘t

want it to, but -‘

But what? Bernice wondered. It seemed odd that the

scarab‘s perfect control of itself should lapse and misguide

the stunner. Perhaps Thuban physiology was different -

evidently so, given the miasma that had surrounded him, but

which seemed now to have been reabsorbed.

The air ambulance broke out from above the trees in a

burst of light and engine noise: several drones dropped from

the craft on cushion fields, scurrying quickly about once they

were down to survey the scene and assess the situation.

Bernice had heard from somewhere that such outriders were

known affectionately as hot spot bots.

She let them do their work, staying with Lizbeth and

comforting her as the ambulance landed and the Dimetan

paramedics deployed. Two of them checked Mphahlele and

Csokor, a third, an elfin girl, came over and ran a hand-

scanner over Lizbeth‘s crumpled form.

‗Shock, bruises. How do you feel?‘

‗Shocked and bruised,‘ Lizbeth said, with a flash of humour

that Bernice greatly appreciated.

The paramedic smiled. ‗Glad to hear it, if you know what I

mean. My name‘s Zaniah and I‘ll be staying with your friends

on their way to the med centre... What‘s been going on here?‘

Bernice caught the panicky look in Lizbeth‘s eyes. She said,

‗Is knowing a matter of medical necessity?‘

Zaniah shrugged. ‗Just nosy.‘

‗Glad to hear it, if you know what I mean...‘

Zaniah‘s smile moderated. She nodded, her sterilene jump-

suit crackling as she glanced over her shoulder. ‗I‘ll check on

the others for you. Back soon.‘

Bernice watched Zaniah move towards her colleague and

Mphahlele, then helped Lizbeth sit up against the coppery

trunk of one of the orianas.

‗Her question was impertinent,‘ Bernice said. ‗But also

valid. What has been going on here?‘

Lizbeth told her as calmly and with as much detachment as

she could. If it had comm from anyone else, Bernice would

have called it neurotic at the very least. From Lizbeth it

sounded bizarre but plausible.

‗When he was inside the cloud, he seemed to be so many

things,‘ Lizbeth went on, trembling slightly as the memory hit

her again. ‗For a few moments he looked like the man that

had stalked me, but then he was a stranger again, then Karl,

then a creature I didn‘t know at all, a monstrous thing.‘

An explanation popped into Bernice‘s mind. Some years

before, a biopharmaceutical company called BioTek had

devised an organo/synthetic hologen capable of re-creating

schizophrenic delusional visions in people otherwise sane.

The hologen, a heavier-than-air gas compound with the

appearance of dry ice, directly affected the eyes and optic

nerves, producing semi-externalized imagery directly from the

most ancient parts of the brain.

‗Monsters from the id,‘ Bernice concluded as she explained

the idea to Lizbeth.

‗Do you really think so?‘

‗Who knows? I remember reading that BioTek did some

development and field testing of the drug, but then the whole

thing dropped out of the public eye. Maybe the Bantu

Cooperative bought out the technology and turned it into a

weapons system. Pretty effective loo, if your experience is

anything to go by.‘

‗Benny...‘ Lizbeth reached out suddenly and gripped her

arm. Bernice thought it was because one of the paramedics

had pulled a sheet up over Csokor‘s face, just prior to the

drones stretchering him away to the air ambulance.

‗Benny, I‘m as human as you are. You believe me, don‘t

you?‘

‗Course I do.‘ Bernice felt dreadfully sorry for all this, for

everything Lizbeth had suffered with Mphahlele, and now

with Csokor, the mad man with his pledge, not of new love,

but of terrible ancient hatred. A man who had let the black

dreams of history metastasize in his own mind to the

exclusion of all else. She was saddened by the fact that her

own assistance had been anything but effective. And by the

feelings she had for Alex Mphahlele.

‗Of course I do,‘ Bernice repeated, to convince herself a

little more. Csokor was inside the big medical transport now,

while the drone team were efficiently fitting Alex up to a

standard lifesigns monitor array as they moved him aboard.

Zaniah wandered back over, casually friendly now that the

situation was under control. ‗Mr Mphahlele will be fine. I

guess he‘ll be unconscious for the next hour or so. Then he

should rest overnight.‘

Bernice nodded. ‗What about the other one?‘

‗No ID on him that we could find. He‘s dead. Um, possibly

one of you could supply some background to the incident -‘

‗No problem,‘ Bernice said brightly. ‗There are implications,

if, er -‘

‗I know what you mean.‘ Zaniah beamed at them.

‗So we‘ll drop by the hospital later,‘ said Bernice. ‗I think,

right now, Ms Fugard also needs to rest.‘

‗Sure.‘ Zaniah went through the formality of having Bernice

swipe her ID card through the reader, Lizbeth‘s datafile

having been downloaded automatically during the handscan.

‗Right, I think that‘s all.‘ She returned to the air ambulance,

which whisked her away.

‗I‘ll take you back in Alex‘s hover car,‘ Bernice said, helping

Lizbeth to stand. ‗What about the one you came in?‘

‗Karl‘s.‘

‗We‘ll leave it. Not our problem.‘

Lizbeth didn‘t argue as she allowed Bernice to lead her

towards Mphahlele‘s vehicle parked nearby.

‗You will stay with me, won‘t you, Benny?‘ The note of

desperation in her voice was obvious and deep.

Bernice voice-activated the hover car‘s systems including

the home-James software to allow the craft to autocruise

back.

‗Of course.‘ She smiled darkly. But I reckon the powers that

be won‘t let me leave even if I wanted to. I‘m in this up to my

split ends, and that‘s no exaggeration.‘

Lizbeth‘s face twisted into an expression of gratitude and

pain. She settled back and closed her eyes, quickly lapsing

into a shallow and much-troubled sleep.

Bernice stared through the transpex, watching the dusters

of oriana fruit, shining palely like hollow Hallowe‘en

pumpkins, dwindling into the distance.

Then her attention turned inwards as she thought of many

things, and so failed to notice another craft lift like a stealthy

shadow out of the grove and pace their ship as it flew back to

the city.

TRACK 10

IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE

Max Rucca looked up as the senior pathologist, still dressed

in formal suit and head scarf, breezed into the operating

theatre. ‗Who‘s the stiff?‘ It was the same old question,

always asked with the same air of indifference.

Max had been working in the pathological sciences

department of the city‘s med centre for six months. He had

become used to the terrible black humour of the morgue, but

he still could not see the dead as the senior clinicians did -

as commodities or currency, to be dealt with as efficiently

and soullessly as possible. It was, he supposed, a very

necessary defence mechanism: the job could not be done if

one paused to reflect on the life led by the individual, on the

sorrow caused by the death, whether untimely or expected

not that either context made grief easier to cope with.

Max felt for the person who lay on the slab in the brightly

lit centre of the room, denied even the privilege of

individuality. To the pathologist, Ryte, on the other hand,

this was just another stiff, another stack of biological

components to examine and consider. He - it - was

noteworthy only in as much as his sudden arrival had

interrupted what had probably been a rather grand dinner

party.

Max shook his head, forcing out a reply to Ryte‘s question.

‗No details have been given,‘ he said while continuing his

propping of the body. ‗Sorry we had to call you in. The place

has been swarming with security officers and government

officials. They want to know exactly what happened, and

they‘re not prepared to wait for long.‘

‗Of course they‘re not.‘ Ryte pulled a large green smock over

her trouser suit. ‗And a virtual post mortem wouldn‘t really

cut it with them, would it? Forgive the pun.‘ She laughed as

she removed some gloves from their packaging. ‗Shame,

though. The last one I performed was the highlight of the

party. Picture the scene: lavish food atop a groaning table,

and I‘m elbow-deep in a computer-modelled corpse. Broke

the ice, I can tell you.‘ She reached over to the drone that

hovered at her side, and instructed it to begin recording her

PM notes. It stamped the recording with a tamper-proof date

and time marker which sounded to human ears like a burst

of feedback, and then everything was ready for Ryte to begin.

She pulled a cloth mask over her nose and mouth. It

contained a filament microphone, her voice sounding

unmuffled as it emanated from a speaker built into the

drone.

‗Subject is a male humanoid, indeterminate - indeed,

changeable - skin colouring. This appears to be a residual

chemical process as no cardiovascular motion has been

detected. The nervous system is dormant.‘ Ryte looked the

corpse up and down, prodding here and there. ‗No evidence

of any puncture wounds or bruising.‘

She glanced across at Max, who was also examining the

body. He ran a gloved hand across the soles of the feet; the

skin looked clean and unwrinkled, like a baby‘s.

He nodded in agreement. Just another stiff.

‗The sectional mapping scan has given us a pretty clear

idea of what‘s going on here, but I‘ll open up immediately

below the ribcage and have a quick look inside, just to be

sure,‘ said Ryte, reaching for a maser scalpel. She held the

tip just over the body, setting a tiny gauge on top of the

device with her thumb. ‗We‘ll begin by revealing the muscle

tissue,‘ she said quietly, as if to herself.

Max watched intently as the tip of the scalpel glowed green.

The theatre door crashed open.

Max clutched his chest and turned, trying to conceal his

shocked surprise. There were two of them: one in an

expensive-looking silver-grey suit, the other in informal

country attire. They walked in as if they owned the place.

‗What the hell are you doing?‘ exploded Ryte, her flushed

checks just visible behind the mask. Max allowed himself a

sly smile.

‗Just reminding you of the need for a rapid conclusion,‘

said the man in the casual clothing. Max suddenly noticed

the badge he wore on his shirt, and the ministerial

designation beneath the governmental logo. Which meant

that he did own the place, in effect.

‗I‘ll get on a lot quicker without interruption,‘ snapped Ryte.

‗And for heavens‘ sake, put on a mask or something. This is

an operating theatre.‘

‗But he‘s dead,‘ said the man in the silver suit. Max and

Ryte exchanged resigned glances.

‗We‘re not staying,‘ said the minister. ‗Just thought it might

be helpful if you knew the context of how this man died.‘

Ryte shook her head. ‗That‘s the last thing I want. I’ll decide

on cause of death. I don‘t need government bullies putting

ideas into my head.‘

‗No bullying,‘ continued the man. ‗It‘s just... these are very

unusual circumstances.‘

‗I‘ll be the judge of that.‘

‗And he worked for people we are keen to maintain good

relations with. A sudden and unexplained death -‘

‗Get out,‘ snapped Ryte. Max wondered for a minute if she

was going to aim the scalpel at the two men, but they turned

away, leaving the door to close behind them.

Ryte swore, but even the microphone struggled to pick up

her words. She glanced back at Max. ‗Now, where were we?‘

she asked rhetorically.

The green light again appeared on the end of the maser

device. Ryte gently cased the beam on to the body.

The two men strolled through the medical centre corridors.

The lights had dimmed and the wards were silent but for the

low hum of machinery. Only an occasional nurse drone

crossed their path.

‗What do we do now?‘ asked the man in the bright grey

suit, his nose wrinkling at the sharp, antiseptic smell that

seemed to be everywhere.

‗We wait.‘ The minister pushed open a door, revealing a

brightly lit computer room. From here the medical systems of

the entire centre could be monitored. There was a single

doctor on duty, dwarfed by the wall-covering screens, his face

obscured by a book. The controlling software would alert him

if there was a problem quickly enough.

He glanced at the men, then returned to his novel.

The minister adjusted the controls beneath one of the

displays.

The woman‘s clear voice came through a speaker built into

the screen: ‗- external evidence of tissue damage to any of the

major organs. Some necrotic tissue attached to the kidneys,

but it seems possible that -‘

The minister lowered the volume a little, smiling at his

companion. ‗We can hear the pathologist‘s conclusions from

here. No point watching all the gore if we don‘t have to.‘

‗I‘ll be glad when we‘re through,‘ said the suited man,

fingering his collar. ‗Can‘t stand hospitals.‘

‗Don‘t tell me: they‘re full of ill people.‘

‗Yeah. Who is this guy, anyway? Why‘s he so important?‘

‗If you don‘t understand now, you never will.‘

‗Yeah, but...‘ The suited man lapsed into silence for a

moment, watching the lights from countless read-outs

splashing droplets of bold colour over the room‘s Spartan

furniture. ‗How are you feeling?‘ he asked at last.

‗Fine.‘ said the other man automatically. Then he caught

the real intent behind his companion‘s words. ‗Why do you

ask?‘

‗I was sorry to hear about your son.‘

The minister‘s warning look was like a distant rumble of

thunder. ‗Don‘t,‘ he said quietly. ‗Just... don‘t.‘

The suited man sighed, inclining his head to one side as he

tried to read the back of the doctor‘s book. ‗Sorry,‘ he said at

length. ‗Just want the time to pass.‘

‗We‘ll be away from here soon enough. We‘ve just got to-‘

A terrified scream fractured the air. The doctor dropped his

book to the floor; all three men jumped to their feet.

For a moment it was impossible to establish where it had

originated; then, with dumb disbelief, the minister nudged up

the volume of the autopsy report.

There was another shrill cry, which collapsed into choking

silence.

The government men ran from the room.

The man‘s skin swirled like fog. His eyes were blank, then

dark, then full of blinding light. Finally, everything... settled.

Only then did he remember to stop screaming.

The pain subsided, helped by the anger he had unleashed.

His mind, for a moment, was empty. Then came a rush of

contradictory information, more than his consciousness was

designed to cope with:

I left the woman behind. Why? I can barely remember. It was

long ago... But I feel the emotions again, surging over me,

wave after wave... But I can name few of them now. So much

has changed. I remember the black ships as they descended,

and the pain that they brought. My world, dwindling into

infinity. Then years of movement and torture and

biomechanical tampering; unending, unremitting decades of

pain, with scant hours of senselessness in which to prepare

for the next ordeal. Then, one glorious day, I remembered

nothing...

Induction was the proudest moment of my life, though I

knew many viewed the Cooperative with contempt. But what

better way to explore my Thuban heritage than to swear

obedience to the unarguable tenets of the Bantu creed? I

remember the modest ceremony in an uncluttered room;

militaristic flags pinned to the walls, simple plaques

commemorating the founders. With the ceremonial dagger, I

pledged myself to the Cooperative, and they to me. An undying

devotion and dedication. I lost myself in true selflessness. And

then my journey began...

I am Asan, last of the Narayayans. My purpose is to find the

Shiga, to love her, and then to abuse that love by ripping out

her heart, and choking the breath from her throat — to re-enact

what that once great creature did to my entire race. With each

death, she dwindles; as each passing life falls from her, her

ability to resist dwindles. She resurrects, as do I. She tries to

flee, but I am always at her back Watching, waiting - and,

when the time is right, I fall in love, and then I kill her. Again

and again and again. Until she dies...

‗Who am I?‘ he asked.

He let the doors close behind him, and breathed deeply, his

face showing disbelief and fear. Then he held out his arms.

The sleeves of the light jacket were a little too short, leaving

much of his well-muscled lower arms exposed. He stared at

his wrists and hands as if amused by something. He watched

as a miasma seeped from his skin. Muscle tone changed,

bones began to re-form. Within moments the jacket fitted

him perfectly. It was as if he had always owned it.

He paced the corridors, still buttoning up his shirt. The

incision had been deep, but the violation he had felt was

beyond

expression.

He

rubbed

his

lower

chest

absentmindedly, feeling organs pull back into place, cells

knitting together, ribs restrengthening their protective cage.

Anything could be mended, in time.

Well, almost anything.

He was approaching the reception area when a voice halted

his progress. ‗Excuse me, sir?‘

It was a security officer, a firm-faced man carrying a slim

palmtop.

‗Can I help you?‘

The officer broke into a smile, as if delighted by such

simple politeness. ‗I was just wondering if you were with the

government delegation?‘

The man nodded. ‗Yes, though I‘m off to attend to matters

elsewhere now.‘

‗All sorted, then?‘

‗Indeed.‘

‗I heard the screams,‘ said the security officer. ‗Wondered

what the hell was going on.‘

‗It‘s quiet enough now,‘ said the man. He nodded curtly,

and walked towards the exit.

Just for a moment there was a crackle of silver energy

around him, but the guard had already turned away.

The government men pushed open the door to the operating

theatre. The room beyond was in a terrible mess, machines

pulled over and the slab-like table resting on its side. A hand

reached up from the clutter of smashed fibre optics and

plastic fragments, the fingers set in an ironic wave.

The suited man clattered over the synthetic scree, pulling

at the wreckage that surrounded the arm. The hand was

resting against a storage locker and the attached body was

motionless, it‘s the woman,‘ he called over to his companion.

‗The pathologist. I think her neck‘s been broken.‘

The man in the casual clothing had spotted a second

figure, a pale beacon in the shadowy comer of the room. It

was a young man, stripped half-naked and, seemingly,

dropped on the floor again from a height. His arms and legs

stretched away from his skinny-looking body in random

directions. His white skin, peppered with small bruises, was

clammy to the touch.

‗Damn,‘ said the minister. ‗He‘s gone.‘

‗Who?‘

‗Our merchandise.‘ It was a different voice, from the

doorway. Three enormous figures stood there, dressed from

neck to foot in black. It was impossible for the moment to

establish which of them had spoken.

‗Sorry?‘ said the minister, getting to his feet and striding

over towards the newcomers.

‗How far did you get with your analysis?‘ The central figure

spoke, his head swinging around to gaze upon the minister.

‗The Cooperative does not appreciate attempts to back-

process our technology.‘

‗Your name‘s Sharat, right?‘

‗Correct.‘

‗Well, as we told your leader, Sharat,‘ said the minister, ‗we

were about to carry out a standard post mortem. We were as

puzzled as you were by the unexpected death of your

employee. As you are our guests on this world, we felt in

some way responsible.‘

‗Responsibility does not explain why you ignored Mastaba‘s

request not to perform the autopsy,‘ said one of the Bantu

delegates.

‗Or why our attempt to follow the body from the scene of

the accident was... interrupted... by your own security

forces,‘ said Sharat.

‗We put an immediate cordon around the hillside,‘ said the

Dimetan in the silver-grey suit. ‗I‘m sorry if you were...

inconvenienced.‘

The delegates from the Bantu Cooperative stood motionless

in the doorway, three slabs of deeper darkness against the

twilight of the corridor beyond.

The minister held his hands up, a calculated gesture of

openness. ‗Look. You can see we weren‘t trying to keep

anything from you. Our only concern was the unexplained

death of your employee. We want to ensure it does not

happen again.‘

‗He was not our employee,‘ said Sharat. ‗Or, rather, he was

that and more. We suspect that you already know this.‘

The minister shook his head firmly. ‗No. No, I wasn‘t

expecting any of this.‘

‗I am told that Mr Csokor has something of a history of

mental illness,‘ said Sharat, as if noticing the two corpses for

the first time.

‗And a history of coming back from the dead?‘ queried the

minister.

Sharat smiled lightly. ‗Excuse me. We must retrieve what

is rightfully ours.‘ Then all three delegates turned as one and

walked back down the corridor.

Alex Mphahlele ebbed - vaguely - back to consciousness.

There appeared to be a myopic film over his eyes, and his

throat was locked solid, as if something had crawled into his

throat. And died there.

He pushed himself up with his elbows, staring in panic at

his blurred surroundings.

‗Wha-‘

His voice faded to a croak after a single syllable, but it was

enough to attract the attention of one of the ever-vigilant med

drones. It skipped over towards him, emitting some sort of

sensor field to check on Mphahlele‘s life signs.

It was like being gently tickled all over.

Mphahlele scanned the room - a hospital ward, clearly. He

didn‘t remember being brought here, but maybe if he worked

backwards from his present location... Yes, a blur of

corridors and speed lifts, some sort of air ambulance. A

hillside. He remembered the smell of damp... grass?

Something sweetly scented, as if with herbs. A camomile

variant, possibly. And he had rested there, just for a moment,

breathing in the perfumed, dewy moisture. Rested? No, he‘d

been knocked down... thrown down, hit by... some sort of

attack vehicle, like a rounded beetle.

And Csokor. Yes, it was all there now, every piece, in the

right order. Csokor had been screaming some incredible

mythological madness at Lizbeth, threatening to -

Lizbeth.

Mphahlele sat bolt upright just as a human nurse

appeared on the ward. Her eyes were on him, unflinching

with their don’t even think about it stare.

Mphahlele ignored her and rolled over - every fibre of his

body screaming in protest, and just for a moment he wasn‘t

even sure if he had cried out in pain - and reached for the

bedside cabinet. His fingers scrabbled at some sort of lock;

he was so confused he couldn‘t even work out if it needed a

retina print or a password or just a plain, solid key.

His vision flashed to white - he definitely cried out this time

- and he wondered if his eyesight was giving up the ghost

again. Then he smelt something - a cologne, perhaps, but

somehow utilitarian and splashed with flowers at the same

time - and strong arms began to ease him back towards the

bed.

The nurse looked down at him. She was a being from

heaven, dragged down by the cries of a starving man in the

desert. A halo of short dark hair, eyes the colour of dew-

encrusted apples, lips like candy and sugar, a just hinted-at

cleavage to drown in. For a moment, in the junky madness of

painkillers and pain, Alex Mphahlele thought he had found

love.

Then something like sanity washed over him, an anti-

adrenaline buzz of sudden calmness. He swore under his

breath.

‗You see?‘ said the nurse. It was as if she had been talking

for an age. ‗You‘re not fit for anything.‘

‗I wouldn‘t say that,‘ said Mphahlele.

The nurse tutted and got to her feet; the last fragment of

the spell was ripped aside. She was nice, yeah - but nothing

special. Not like Lizbeth.

Then he remembered why he‘d nearly fallen out of bed, and

what was at stake - that Lizbeth was relying on him, even if

she didn‘t realize it yet. ‗Nurse?‘ he said. Inside his skull, his

voice sounded like a startled bullfrog.

‗Yes?‘

‗The man who was brought in with me...‘ He remembered

that much; arriving at the same time as Csokor. Or Csokor‘s

body, at least.

‗Yes?‘

‗He‘s dead, right?‘

The woman looked puzzled, and turned away from him.

Then she glanced over her shoulder. ‗Well, you know what

they say about rumours of death...‘

Mphahlele slid from his bed, pounding on the bedside

locker.

Lizbeth slumped into an enveloping armchair. It wheezed like

an asthmatic old man, sending up an invisible plume of

Always Smell New fragrance. For once, the scent was

irritating, and Lizbeth stifled a sneeze. But then, anything

and everything seemed to irritate her at the moment.

Her apartment - with its little luxuries and wilfully imposed

idiosyncrasies - had felt like home for months, but now it was

violated. It was like the desecration wreaked by a petty thief,

but the damage was entirely internal. She had let a monster

into her rooms and into her life, and he had betrayed that

trust with... what? Violence and insanity, at the very least.

She looked around at the personal space that had once

offered security but now seemed full of vengeful, violating

ghosts.

Thank God Bernice was still around, a reassuring presence

in a world turned upside down. Lizbeth watched as her friend

fiddled about in the kitchen, making drinks or something. An

auto-pilot response to unexpected adversity. Well, this might

be par for the course for an adventurer like Bernice, but it

was something new and frightening to Lizbeth. She wanted

her old life back - a life before governmental conspiracies and

cover-ups, before inhuman boyfriends with sudden

revelations of insane mythologies. She thought, just for a

moment, of Alex‘s strong arms around her and the simple

protection they offered. Then she pushed those feelings away.

Lizbeth looked up as Bernice handed her a cup of

something hot and sweet-smelling. ‗Why do you think the

knock-out weapons killed...‘ Lizbeth sighed, her voice fading

to nothing. Even now, she couldn‘t bring herself to mention

Csokor by name - if, indeed, that was his name. It seems like

he‘d lied about most things - or been guilty of deluding

himself, which, perhaps, was worse.

‗Maybe he‘s even less human than he appears,‘ speculated

Bernice. ‗I guess the Bantu Cooperative only test their

merchandise on bog-standard humans or the more common

human derivatives or equivalents. Each species will react to

things differently.‘ She took a cautious swig from her coffee.

‗This is going to sound so inadequate, but I‘m sorry all this

happened.‘

‗My taste in men, eh?‘ Lizbeth forced a smile. ‗I suppose

whatever-he-was counts as a man.‘

‗Barking insanity is part of my preferred definition of

masculinity,‘ said Bernice.

‗Insanity ..Lizbeth turned the word over in her mind. Yes, of

course Csokor had been mad - it really was as simple as that.

He was a twisted and sad individual who quite possibly was

not responsible for his actions, and - though any death is

regrettable - perhaps it was as well that it had all ended as it

had. Yes, it was some sort of merciful release. And she was

fine, wasn‘t she? She‘d looked into the eyes of a madman,

and lived to tell the tale.

Then Lizbeth remembered those eyes, burning with hatred

and desire as Csokor told his story of the Shiga, of the

reincarnating quest to love and destroy that spanned a

thousand worlds and ten thousand years. Eyes that flickered

like flames, fuelled by truth and self-loathing - eyes that

believed every word he said, because they felt like the truth.

‗I suppose,‘ said Lizbeth in a quiet voice, ‗that what he said

would explain a lot of things.‘

‗Sorry?‘

‗This story about me being the Shiga. It might explain why I

had a miscarriage. Humans and Shigas don‘t mix!‘ Lizbeth‘s

laugh was brittle and carried little warmth, as false as an

undertaker‘s compassion.

‗Oh, come on,‘ said Bernice. ‗Some things just happen.

That‘s all there is to it.‘

‗Nothing just happens,‘ said Lizbeth. The madness that

drew me to Csokor - that must have come from somewhere.‘

‗Earlier,‘ said Bernice, ‗ you were the one who was adamant

that you were human, that Csokor was just deranged.‘

‗But who‘s to say I was right? Have you ever looked inside

yourself, Bernice? Seen the heart and lungs and ribs that

would prove that you are human?‘

‗Now you‘re just being silly.‘

‗Am I?‘ Lizbeth placed the cup on a table. ‗And if we can‘t

really be sure what we are biologically, who‘s to say what the

truth is up here?‘ Lizbeth tapped the side of her head.

‗The scarab homed in on just one unusual life sign,‘ said

Bernice.

‗But you weren‘t looking for two, were you?‘

‗Well, no. But the point is -‘

‗The point is I‘m just not sure about anything.‘

‗So you believe all that bollocks about the Narayayans?‘

‘No. No, of course not. What Csokor said is absurd. I pity

him. It‘s just...‘ Lizbeth got to her feet, pacing the room in

confused frustration. ‗Oh, I don‘t know, Benny. I haven‘t felt

this worried since...‘

‗Since?‘ prompted Bernice.

‗It doesn‘t matter,‘ said Lizbeth. ‗Some other time.‘ She

turned towards the door. ‗Come on, we‘d better go and check

that Alex is OK.‘

Bernice nodded. Built like an ox, though, is our Alex. He‘ll

probably be conscious by now. Flirting with the nurses

already.‘

Lizbeth caught a glimpse of the sudden, resigned why can’t

I keep my big mouth shut look on Bernice‘s face just before

the apartment‘s main screen chimed the arrival of a guest in

reception.

‗Who is it?‘ Lizbeth asked.

The screen dissolved to show a grinning black face. Lizbeth

fought back the simultaneous temptations to laugh and cry

and whoop for joy and dive for the sofa.

‗It‘s me,‘ said Mphahlele, shoving his eye right up to the

tiny page drone down in the foyer. That part of his face

ballooned in size, like a face in a trick mirror or a cartoon

character about to explode.

‗We were just talking about you,‘ said Bernice.

Mphahlele smiled at this. ‗I like being this popular,‘ he said.

‗They let you out pretty quickly,‘ said Lizbeth, keying in the

sequence that would start the lift moving to her apartment.

‗Yeah. They said I‘m fine.‘ The screen clicked off, but

moments later the voice continued, for real, from the hallway.

‗To prove it, I‘m here.‘

Mphahlele strode into the room, still smiling.

Then the delight vanished from his face, like someone

switching off a light. ‗You thought you could evade me so

easily, Shiga?‘ he asked.

Mphahlele‘s

form

faded,

became

something

less

substantial, a generic humanoid shape of plasma and fibre

and flickering light. The mist stabilized momentarily, and

from it came Csokor, his eyes bright with fury.

Bernice threw herself at Csokor; a bludgeoning fist

shattered into her face, knocking her unconscious. In one

sweeping, impossible movement, Csokor was upon Lizbeth,

hands around her throat. ‗Time to die again,‘ he said.

High above the surface of Dimetos, the scarab was day-

dreaming. Unlike most organic beings, the attack vehicle‘s

mind was constructed as a parallel consciousness; it could

attend, quite deliberately and simultaneously, to many

hundreds of different tasks. So that even as it primed its

weapons systems to take out the designated target quickly

and cleanly, a different part of its mental field was reciting

Antaren poetry, another was pondering a number of

advanced equations of quantum chronodynamics, and yet

another was reflecting on its encounter with the creature

called Benny.

She had been... ‗interesting‘ was the word that came to

mind; a wonderful complexity, a bundle of contradictions so

disparate that the scarab was led to wonder how she

managed to function at all. Certainly her psychological

landscape was more varied and colourful than those of the

scarab‘s own creators. The attack vehicle‘s origins on the

planet Rho Menkaliah were clear in its memory, together with

the impression it had gained at the time of the Menkaliahn

engineers and programmers being a dull and boring bunch.

They were driven solely, it seemed, by the challenge of ever-

greater technology, striving endlessly to produce the perfect

machine. It was a grail quest and nothing more, the scarab

mused as it updated its holomaps of the Dimetan terrain in

light of a fresh landslip it had just spotted, together with a

number of other more minor changes. Nothing could be

perfect, because perfection itself was the supreme abstract,

beyond definition, let alone realization...

A tiny malfunction in one of the attack vehicle‘s subsidiary

guidance systems made itself known. Instantly the scarab‘s

multimind deployed half a billion routine maintenance

nanocules to sort the matter out, and less than a millisecond

later was informed that the repair had been completed.

And even this capability, projected almost to infinity, the

ship reflected, would fail to achieve perfection. Because the

scarab had come to realize that it too was a bundle of

contradictions, knowing clearly then that it had learnt this

important lesson from Bernice. She was many kilometres

away now, right on the limits of her implanted nanocules‘

transmission range. There were only a few million of the

machines still active inside her, mainly the clean-up squad

ensuring that the swarms of dead nanocules whose job was

now done were being safely ingested by the body‘s own

natural defences. In another ten minutes the scarab‘s

presence would have left her entirely, and all links would be

broken. But even before then, of course, the scarab itself

would have ceased to exist as it completed the final

requirement of Bernice‘s program directive.

Strange that, thought the ghost in the machine. Strange

that a being with such compassion for life should not regard

the scarab itself as alive. I think, therefore I am, the ship told

itself. But although I think, am I alive? No scientist or

philosopher had ever really got to the bottom of that one —

and the ancient question still remained unanswered. What is

the difference between a live rat and a dead one?

An image of Bernice chuckling about this puzzle slipped

into the scarab‘s reverie. And perhaps from its deep

subconscious the solution now presented itself. Life is not

just animation or the ability to reason or reproduce. Or even,

the vehicle considered, to construct an emotion it recognized

as regret for all the things it had never been or done... Life

surely is the capacity to be alive, and to be uniquely alive,

complete in oneself, ever growing but always whole, moment

by moment re-perfected.

The scarab experienced a certain glow of pleasure at having

come to this rather clever conclusion. Bernice was alive

because of her rage, her fear, her humour, her essential self-

like-ness; far more truly alive than the Menkaliahn

technologists intent on their dead and passionless mission,

or the Bantu traders who purchased their wares. For both,

life was what happened while they were making other plans...

The scarab wondered where it had heard that before. And if

there had been time, it might have searched through its

colossal database for the source of the memory. But time was

its most limited commodity just now and, besides, its

primary consciousness was being distracted by other

matters.

The target described earlier by Bernice had appeared over

the horizon, a complex of girders and panels set amongst a

circlet of granite hills. That was good, allowing the energy of

the destruction to be contained and the damage radius

limited.

Applying a sizeable fraction of its mentality to the task, the

scarab performed half a million simultaneous functions to

ready itself - not to die, it thought a little wistfully, but simply

to end.

At ten thousand metres high it stopped dead, tilted on a

pivot of force and plummeted downwards, accelerating on a

geometrical curve. Through the screaming air it unfurled its

arsenal, pulseguns, pods of omegaviruses more effective than

the strongest acids, a gravity net to help concentrate the

force of the attack... There was plenty more where that came

from, but the scarab judged its strike would be effective

enough. Besides, it had been brought up to be economical.

Its last act before unleashing enough energy to power a

small planet was to scan for life-signs in the valley below. It

found some surveillance drones, organic lower forms, a

number of verminous mammals, nothing more highly

advanced than a Dimetan scrubcat. Good enough. Mens sibi

conscia recti - a mind conscious of the right.

In its first and final moment of life, the scarab felt satisfied.

A hypothetical person standing on the site of what was to

have been the new Bantu Cooperative weapons testing

facility would have noticed nothing until the penultimate

second before impact. The Dimetan equivalent of summer

cicadas were chirruping among the satinbrush; somewhere

far off a scrubcat yowled a mating call, which went

unanswered; the stars were out, the minor moon sailing high

through veils of misty cirrus, while the glow of its larger

companion was strengthening by the minute beyond the

hills.

Then, perhaps, a sigh that might have drawn the onlooker‘s

eyes upward. And was that a shadowy wing streaking

obliquely across the constellations, so stealthy, so

unbelievably fast? Maybe not. The mind might easily have

dismissed it as an illusion.

Then the sun came out, belying the fact of the night. Ten

suns. A hundred. Anything alive in the strike zone before

that instant was gone now. Steel and silicrete were melting,

tree trunks were spontaneously combusting in a series of

loud detonations as their internal sap flash-boiled and the

pressure exploded the wood. Rocks cracked and shattered,

scattering shrapnel. There came a dull thunder.

Then the scarab dived into its own cauldron of flames,

timing the self-destruction of its engines to coincide with the

moment of reaching ground zero. There was a titanic emption

as the attack vehicle smashed through the earth and

underlying rocks, plunging deep into the old mineshaft over

which the weapons facility was being built, the enormous

energy of its momentum carrying the incandescent ball of lire

and light it had become hundreds of metres down through

the crust of the planet.

Seconds afterwards, a plume of blinding superheated gases

and vaporized rock surged upwards, broke the surface and

burst high into the air, slowly dispersing and cascading down

as waves of liquid flame lapped against the ring of hills before

fading. Minutes later there was only a rash of small fires

burning in the valley. By morning, there would just be smoke

curling out of the char.

Something had dropped from space on that scented

summer night. And its name was oblivion.

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

I‘ve never really been able to describe accurately what it feels

like to be unconscious, and then to come round. On this

occasion the whole unpleasant experience was made worse

by the shock of seeing the dead walk.

After Csokor had struck me - bloody hard, I can tell you - I

remember hitting the floor and then nothing else for a while.

There‘s a gap in my life; it could only have been a few

seconds, but enough time for Csokor to step over me, catch

Lizbeth as she desperately tried to escape him, and lock his

fingers firmly around her throat.

I heard the screams first, just before my vision switched on.

Then sensadons crashed back in a rush: the sting of a carpet

burn on my left forearm, a churning oily nausea that made

my stomach clench up, and the mother of all headaches, a

real blaster, like the punishment of a hangover without the

pleasure of getting pissed. Oh, and I‘d bitten my tongue too

and it was bleeding over my hand.

I turned over. The headache shifted and got worse,

throbbing above my right eye. Everything had a bright fringe

of grey and red, the furniture, pictures, houseplants, all

viewed as though through a poorly ground lens. Csokor and

Lizbeth seemed to be straggling in slow motion, her strangled

cries reaching me out of synch with the movement of her lips.

Karl Csokor, clone, revenant or avenging spirit, was in the

process of murdering her.

She had told me about him, what she thought she had

seen him become, and to be honest the intelligent and

rational part of me had not been able to believe her. But this

was not rational, and no degree of intelligent thought could

understand or explain it.

He roared at her - he actually roared like some furious

predatory animal, the sound filling the room to bursting, as

his already greyish skin turned a darker shade of pale like

some thunderous leaden sky.

Lizbeth screamed and lashed out, I think catching one of

his eyes with a fingernail. Csokor howled and broke his grip

momentarily, allowing her to turn away from him and

stumble towards me, her face ashen, lost in its own private

terror.

I scrambled up and dropped back down on to one knee. My

balance was gone; it was like trying to stand on a raft

pitching in a four-metre swell. Lizbeth saw me and I could

see the hope of salvation light in her eyes. But much help I

could be against a monster on the loose... He had died, for

God‘s sake! I had seen the medics pronounce him dead, seen

him taken away in a black bag -

‗Lizbeth!‘ I stood up and grabbed for her, thinking I might

drag her out of the room and slam the door and we‘d run

together along the yellow brick road and take the second star

on the left and straight on till morning.

Our hands touched, then he reclaimed her, smothering

over her with some filthy grey shawl that wasn‘t smoke,

wasn‘t flesh, but seemed to be something between both.

Briefly she was enfolded in his membranes, dragged back as

bony hands broke through the veil and wrapped round her

neck once again.

I searched round for a weapon - any damned thing! – but

there was a clamouring then in the corridor outside.

I shouted out something incoherent and entirely unhelpful,

to attract the attention of whoever it was, this impromptu

cavalry.

They came into the room and my heart sank... Four or five

of them, assorted off-worlders, but Bantu minions all of

them, dressed in black, looking like they meant the kind of

business that tended to be terminal.

On the other hand, the Bantu delegates I had met had been

as fearful of bad publicity as the Dimetan government, and I

was convinced that they would stop Csokor for this reason

alone.

I turned towards Lizbeth, opening my mouth to speak,

finding that words would not come...

It was not Csokor any more who was killing her, but

Mastaba-gal-gal-al-Kharatani. I caught the change just as it

was completed, an obscene seething of Csokor‘s skin, right

down to the flush of coppery colour that spread through in

an instant. But Lizbeth had seen it all, and went still, held in

a grip of awe more powerful than Csokor‘s clenching fingers.

‗Mastaba‘ grinned as the thugs approached, and in one of

the Bantu languages he chattered out a few words which

made the others laugh; even I could tell they were richly

laced with sarcasm. The Cooperative heavies hadn‘t noticed

the transformation: as far as they were concerned, if Mastaba

chose to throttle the life out of someone, then fair enough. He

was their boss, after all.

One of the minions took hold of me and I instinctively

back-kicked him hard in his balls. Except either he didn‘t

have any balls, or they were kept somewhere else. He hardly

budged.

Csokor gazed at me, and there was such profound passion

in that look, such depthless emotion, that for a moment I had

to turn my head away.

When I looked back, Lizbeth was trying to talk, but could

not. Her face, purple and congested, was beginning to lose all

expression as her eyelids fluttered closed.

Extract ends

TRACK 11

SAY HELLO, WAVE GOODBYE

A woman lay on the floor, somewhere between death and life,

a man‘s hands around her throat. Her attacker was crying

and screaming like a lover in the throes of passion,

surrounded by ashamed voyeurs made impotent by

obedience and fear.

It is not surprising that only the mute witness, the dark-

haired woman who had been bludgeoned into powerlessness,

saw the tiny canister roll into the room.

It seemed such an unimportant detail.

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

A big grey cloud of gas poured from the blunt cylinder. It was

like being in the front row of a heavy metal gig. I‘d have

laughed, if it weren‘t for the fact that my throat was still

clogged with blood. And Lizbeth... she might not have been at

death‘s door, but she was certainly in the right street.

The wall of mist flooded over us like a polluted ocean wave,

prickling nostrils and tasting of rubber and cinnamon.

Through the haze, I could see the Bantu goons coughing and

retching, clawing at their throats, eyes popping like the guy

in all those Laurel and Hardy films whose name I can never

remember. My ears exploded with rending bursts of sound;

only later did I realize that I was listening to myself coughing

my guts up.

If this gas wasn‘t doing us humans any favours, its impact

on Csokor was even more dramatic. A moment before the

canister‘s intervention, all eyes had been on him, as if he had

been performing a solo drama in a theatre-in-the-round. But

as soon as the fog swept over him - his own form, in the blink

of an eye, blurring, ebbing, flowing - his hands jerked away

from Lizbeth‘s neck. The unchecked momentum carried him

backwards. He faded into, rather than hit, the carpet, but the

result was clear enough: he was out cold, like he had been on

the hillside.

All this happened in a second or two, of course. All this,

and more. My mind was a jumble of a million voices, a

thousand whispers asking inappropriate questions. Was this

susceptibility a biological trait, an extreme defensive reaction

to attack? Who had hurled the canister through the

doorway? And what was this gas? Was it lethal?

That last thought seemed suddenly more important than

the others, the neurons responsible for that gem of gut-

wrenching, terrifying void-of-death insight having equipped

themselves with a megaphone.

And, as I faded into unconsciousness, with the Bantu

thugs falling around me like clumsily felled trees - and with

another, tinier voice in my head saying stroppily, Bugger! Not

again! - the thought came through once more.

What if this gas is lethal?

Extract ends

In the darkness. Lizbeth felt the pressure on her neck easing,

replaced instead by the sensation of something being held

over her mouth.

Mouth. Yes, that was important. A mouth meant a body, and

a body meant a bridge between the inner world and the outer.

Concentrate on that.

It wasn‘t a hand over her mouth. It was... not a fabric; no,

something stronger. It encased her nose as well.

Nose. Mouth.

Breathing.

Yes, that‘s what she had to do.

Lizbeth‘s lungs began sucking greedily, and her world

exploded in a blinding burst of light and confusion.

Mphahlele stood over her, gently holding the – whatever it

was - to her face. Smiling. Grinning. But...

This was the real Alex. He had come and made everything

safe, banishing Csokor, the man who had stalked her and

dominated her nightmares and dreams for so long.

‗Is he...?‘ she tried to say, but Mphahlele made a hushing

sound and put his lingers to his lips.

‗It‘s OK,‘ he said, bringing his face down against hers so

that his lips almost brushed her ear. ‗I found out about

Csokor‘s escape from the med centre. He was obviously

unstable and dangerous. I discharged myself, and borrowed

some old anaesthetic equipment. I knew he was coming here.‘

He laughed. His skin smelt of honey. ‗That‘s twice I‘ve tried to

save your beautiful ass in as many hours.‘

‗Leave her bum out of this.‘

Bernice came over, holding a mask defiantly to her face. It

was almost completely transparent, and merely softened her

features, giving her jaw and mouth a glassy sheen.

Mphahlele rose to his feet. Only now did Lizbeth realize

that he wore one too, flexing around his lower face to

encompass an uninhibited grin. ‗How are you feeling?‘ he

asked Bernice.

She grinned back. ‗Like there‘s an all-night rave in my

head, and I‘ve not been invited.‘

‗You‘ll get over it.‘ Mphahlele looked down at Lizbeth, his

eyes wide with compassion. ‗I reckon we‘ll all be OK now.‘

Bernice shook her head firmly. ‗I‘m not so sure. I know I

need to get away from here. Possibly off-world. Pronto.‘

Lizbeth coughed out a question. ‗Why the rush?‖

‗Because the Cooperative are going to come here, and find

their best boys snoring. They won‘t be impressed.‘

‗Better get packing,‘ said Mphahlele.

Bernice grinned. ‗Almost done. Just need my toothbrush.‘

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

I never like getting ready to leave. I hate packing, and I hate

looking at things thinking, ‗I may never see this again.‘ Still,

the idea of another bunch of black-suited minions from the

Cooperative turning up on Lizbeth‘s doorstep did aid my

concentration.

Lizbeth kept asking - and I couldn‘t really blame her - what

was going to happen to her. Surely the Bantu Cooperative

and/or the Dimetan government would come after her the

minute I left. I reassured her that I wasn‘t running away and

leaving her up a certain creek without a certain implement.

We left the Bantu thugs and Csokor on the floor. I had no

idea whether the latter was dead or merely unconscious, and,

frankly, I had no desire to find out. In any case, I had a

hunch that when Lizbeth returned, the apartment would be

empty and swept clean. There wouldn‘t even be a fingerprint

or dust-sized fragment of skin left to indicate the drama that

had unfolded there.

Alex had his hover car ready for the off the minute Lizbeth

and I clattered into our seats with my luggage. I took my last

hurried look at Lizbeth‘s apartment block, and then in a blur

of building and sky and ground, it was gone.

I wish now I‘d been looking in another direction. I might

have seen the Bantu craft following us. It brought us down to

earth with a bump a few minutes later.

Extract ends

Lizbeth screamed. Mphahlele‘s hover car was lurching like a

sleeper waking from dreams.

‗The controls aren‘t responding!‘ shouted Mphahlele in

frustration.

Lizbeth glanced behind; the big Bantu craft was almost

close enough to touch.

Mphahlele‘s hover car crashed into the ground and

crumpled on impact, sending chunks of cold grey earth and

fractured machine parts flying high in the air. The nose

buckled, the transpex canopy splintering like crazy paving.

The attacking insectoid craft came down gently over the

ruptured hover car, alighting first on three legs, then six,

then lowering its alloy carapace on to the stricken vehicle.

The sensors and jamming equipment drooped like now-

redundant mouth parts; the bug shell split down the middle

to disgorge impatient occupants. They surrounded the

wreckage of the hover car, shouting orders and nervously

powering up hand weapons.

Last out of the attack vehicle was Mastaba, a grim

expression on his face. Like he didn‘t really enjoy doing this

sort of thing, but he had no other option open to him.

Lizbeth couldn‘t help but smile. Yeah, right.

The air crackled with potential energy as the guns turned

in their direction. Bernice and Mphahlele were still pulling

themselves from the smouldering remains of the vehicle;

Lizbeth had been thrown free, and her back throbbed as if

from the impact of a train.

Mastaba strode towards them, followed by a couple of

anonymous-looking Bantu officials. He affected a bow, of

sorts. ‗I trust you are all unharmed.‘

Bernice was on her feet now. Lizbeth couldn‘t help but

admire her. She strode towards the Bantu Cooperative leader

as if the henchmen simply weren‘t there, and stabbed an

angry finger into the man‘s midriff. ‗I‘ll make you pay for this,

Mastaba.‘

Mastaba smiled, savouring the moment. ‗I think not.‘ He

paused, casting his gaze around the wasteland in which they

found themselves. Lizbeth knew they were just on the edge of

one of Dimetos City‘s main industrial areas. And that

murders could - and perhaps did - take place here without

anyone ever knowing.

Mastaba revelled in the silence, in his superiority and the

strength of his position. But he refused to speak immediately,

like an official pretending to read a memo in order to remind

the interviewee who was boss.

Lizbeth pulled herself to her feet, and, ignoring the pain,

walked over to stand at the side of Bernice and Mphahlele. It

was then that Mastaba chose to speak again.

‗I knew I could not trust you,‘ he said, glaring at Bernice.

‗The feeling‘s mutual,‘ she replied.

‗The scarab was a splendid device. It performed well, even

on the suicide strike you initiated. Potential buyers were

impressed.‘

‗I had an idea you might be watching,‘ she said.

Mastaba nodded, it‘s rare my clients sec the merchandise

used in anger. Of course, it‘ll be rarer still now that the

testing centre has been destroyed.‘

‗Then at least I‘ve achieved something,‘ said Bernice.

‗You have achieved far too much!‘ snapped Mastaba.

‗You‘ve wiped out a legitimate project that offered

employment to thousands of Dimetans.‘

‗Cut the liberal-hearted shit,‘ snapped Mphahlele. ‗We know

what you deal in. You don‘t give a damn about jobs.‘

‗True.‘ Mastaba smiled, his own devil‘s advocate. He

returned his gaze to Bernice and spoke more quietly. ‗But the

lives you put at risk -*

‗I put no one at risk,‘ said Bernice. She spoke slowly,

clearly trying to keep a lid on her feelings. And she was

succeeding, thought Lizbeth, but only just. ‗The scarab was

instructed to injure no one.‘

‗If you say so. But then, the scarab was more than a

machine. Perhaps it didn‘t obey your instructions to the

letter.‘

‗It had more soul than you‘ll ever have.‘

Mastaba smiled. ‗I don‘t disagree with you.‘ He turned over

a fragment of wreckage with his shoe, distracted for a

moment, i can‘t let you leave, of course.‘

‗So you‘re not here to wish me safe passage back to

Dellah?‘

‗Sadly, no. Although, as I have said before, without you I

would never have found out what the Dimetan government

were hiding from me. Your destruction of the weapons centre,

on the other hand, is most regrettable.‘

Lizbeth let the air whistle through her teeth. ‗It was built

over a bloody part-filled mineshaft, wasn‘t it? I‘d have loved

to have watched your little building vanish into the ground.‘

‗It was quite a sight,‘ admitted Mastaba. ‗You should have

seen the faces of my governmental colleagues... Heard their

feeble excuses.‘

‗Now you know what it‘s like to have the wool pulled over

your eyes,‘ said Bernice.

‗Oh, hardly. The Dimetan authorities told us that Ms

Fugard was on the verge of uncovering something that,

really, she shouldn‘t.‘ Mastaba stared at Lizbeth, his

expression neutral. ‗I‘m told that you are making a habit of

that, Ms Fugard.‘

Bernice and Mphahlele both looked quizzically at their

friend. Lizbeth fought back the embarrassment, struggling to

maintain her poker-face. ‗Aren‘t I the lucky one?‘

‗Lizbeth?‘ queried Bernice.

‘Later,‘ she snapped.

‗Later?‘ Mastaba chuckled. ‗Such confidence in your safety

is a pleasure to behold. You‘re misguided and naive, of

course, but it‘s a pleasure, all the same.‘ He clicked his

fingers, and his henchmen restrained Lizbeth and the others,

cruelly twisting their arms behind their backs.

‗Why were you so keen to build here anyway?‘ asked

Lizbeth. Despite the pressure on her shoulders, she spoke

with a rhetorical smile, for she already knew the answer.

‗We were led to believe it was a prime site,‘ answered

Mastaba coolly. ‗Dimetos is crucial to our plans for this

sector.‘

‗No. Tell me the real reason.‘

‗Why should I do that?‘ queried Mastaba. ‗I was quite

forthcoming when I spoke to Ms Summerfield earlier - but at

that stage, I was still hopeful of keeping a lid on this whole

affair. I wanted to destroy the information you had amassed,

before it reached the news media. A peace offering, if you will,

to our partners in the government - one that would also keep

our good name intact.‘ Mastuba walked around his three

prisoners, clearly enjoying himself. ‗But even the Dimetan

government won‘t be able to explain away a crater the size of

their parliament building. The truth will out. There will be

repercussions.‘ Mastaba sighed ‗So you no longer have

anything that I need.‘ He turned away. ‗Kill them.‘

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

At that point, I think I either swore or prayed. It might have

been both. And I cursed myself, too. He was right, of course.

My impulsive, spiteful programming of the scarab may well

have invalidated the usefulness of the information stored in

the locket around my neck.

What did I have to bargain with now?

Extract ends

Without warning, one of the Bantu thugs turned on Mastaba,

gun raised. ‗Stop,‘ he said, in a croaked whisper.

Mastaba was incredulous. ‗What are you doing? Turn your

gun away.‘

‗Answer her question,‘ said the man, wheezing, ‗or I will kill

you.‘

The Cooperative guards were paralysed by this unexpected

development, some even going so far as to lower their own

weapons in an admission of temporary defeat. Mastaba

opened his mouth to prevaricate further, but the man jabbed

his gun into Mastaba‘s lean stomach.

‗Do it.‘

Lizbeth, Bernice and Mphahlele exchanged glances, baffled

by this mm of events, but grateful for any stay of execution. It

was only when Lizbeth turned back towards Mastaba that

she noticed that the skin of the man holding him hostage

was flickering and billowing, like marsh fog.

‗Heritage,‘ said Mastaba. He turned his head to one side, as

if that was ad he was prepared to say.

‗Heritage?‘ queried Mphahlele.

Lizbeth nodded. An awful stillness seemed to have

descended. Her attention was fixed on the man whose gun

was trained on Mastaba. ‗The Bantu Cooperative has been to

Dimetos before,‘ she said.

‗When?‘ asked Bernice. She was looking at Lizbeth, but it

was Mastaba who chose to answer.

‗We were here when Eurogen Butler pillaged the planet.‘

The man with the gun staggered for a moment, as if dealt a

body blow, but righted himself before the other thugs could

respond.

Bernice struggled to take this in. ‗And your role was?‘

‗My predecessors also sold weapons, amongst other things.

But I wonder if even they anticipated the genocide that

resulted.‘

‗Genocide?‘ Bernice shook her head. ‗No, hang on, there

wasn‘t anyone here when EB hoved into view.‘

‗There was,‘ Mastaba said simply. Then he turned to

Lizbeth. ‗You asked why we were keen to come here. Well,

surprising as it may sound, even gun-runners can ill afford a

reputation as clumsy practitioners in mass slaughter. Our

products are clean and safe, if used wisely. We can do

without the unearthing of the past.‘

‗So that‘s why you interfered with my research,‘ said

Lizbeth.

‗Actually, it was the government who did most of the actual

interference. But we too wanted the past to stay there, where

it belongs, dead and buried. Compared to that imperative,

the desire of the Dimetan authorities to hide from us the

instability of the weapons testing site becomes less

significant.‘

‗You were both working together, but hiding from each

other the reason for your interest,‘ said Bernice.

‗Just so,‘ said Mastaba. ‗Our interests have a certain

synergy. It is important that we can continue to work

together.‘

‗Tell them...‘ said the man. ‗Tell them about the genocide.‘

‗EB wanted the planet cleared, the intelligent life-forms

shipped off-world. But the natives refused to cooperate. They

were frightened of interstellar travel. Religious belief or

simple weakness, I‘m not sure. So the plans were changed.

To genocide. The people proved strong in some ways, weak in

others. Very proud and resilient, but very susceptible to even

minor stun weapons.‘

Something connected in Lizbeth‘s head. It was like the

dawn of a great star. She stared at the man standing over

Mastaba. ‗Csokor,‘ she said in a hushed whisper.

The man screamed at the mere mention of his name. It was

the most appallingly tortured sound Lizbeth had ever heard.

His body came apart, literally collapsing in on itself to form a

pale blue fog. From this a great red wave erupted, teeming

points of light that flowed towards Mastaba.

The Bantu thugs, silenced for so long by the threat to their

leader, finally tried to react; to run, shoot or bellow as their

dispositions took them. All uselessly. The angel of death had

been visited upon them, and as it swept in every direction it

broke them, burst them, eviscerated them, cast them down

into their own offal, which swiftly dissolved into the ground.

And somewhere, at the heart of the cloud, was a humanoid

shape. Quite dead, as far as any standard medical

assessment would conclude. But something inside him

continued, urged on by hatred, betrayal and the lust for

death.

The mist and corpse that was Karl Csokor enveloped

Mastaba.

The Bantu leader had drawn some kind of beam weapon

and was firing it wildly. The cloud lit up like a glo-bulb. Again

Mastaba fired. Again. A stray reflection streaked by at a

tangent and scared the side of Lizbeth‘s face.

Mastaba‘s hand clenched, his finger jerking on the trigger.

And the beam drilled into the earth, because by that time the

hand was severed and lying on the grass.

Mastaba reaped a whirlwind of his own creation. He

shrieked briefly, once, twice, before his vocal cords

unravelled and collapsed down into the dark, glinting mass

that he had become.

Lizbeth turned away, revolted. Her body shook

uncontrollably. Bernice was at her side, trying to hold her, to

comfort her. ‗It‘s all right,‘ she was saying. ‗He won‘t hurt

you, Lizbeth...‘

Csokor discarded what was left of the Bantu leader and

stumbled towards Lizbeth, his feet dragging. Amid the fog,

Csokor‘s right hand lifted, open palm upwards, perhaps in

supplication or a plea to be forgiven. And the flesh of his

dead face writhed, attempting expression, and a cavernous

noise emerged from his mouth - just meaningless sound,

failed words that no longer had the mind to be spoken.

Lizbeth reached out and clasped Csokor‘s cold fingers.

‗Let it end,‘ she sobbed. ‗Let it end, and... rest.‘

And he became a memory in front of her eyes: fingers

turning to ash, crumbling down gently through the papery

fragments of his body; becoming smoke within the smoke,

that settled to the ground and was gone in only a few

moments.

‗He... he‘s gone...‘ Lizbeth said softly to herself.

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

Some of the Cooperative thugs survived Csokor‘s attack, as

did one of the delegates. They struggled to their feet, looking

about as dazed and shocked as the rest of us were.

Csokor had gone - died - finally. The remaining Bantu men

were still armed and dangerous, as the saying goes. It didn‘t

take the de facto leader long to realize this. ‗What we have

seen changes nothing,‘ he stated. ‗Mastaba ordered your

termination.‘ He had a gun in his hand, as if he proposed to

do the job himself.

‗Why?‘ I said, bravely (I hoped). ‗You can‘t keep trying to

obliterate what you don‘t like with still more force. You‘re

only adding to your problems, um... what is your name,

anyway?‘

He told me, but I lost it after the fifteenth syllable. He

almost flinched as he did so, perhaps because he could tell I

wasn‘t persuaded by his attempt to pick up where Mastaba

left off. I assumed that he was reasonably inexperienced, and

I had to play to that.

‗Look around you, Sharat,‘ I said. ‗You‘ve got a hillside

littered with corpses. You‘ve got a hole in the ground where

your weapons centre was going to be, and a relationship with

an incompetent government to salvage. Don‘t add to your

problems by killing us. It will achieve nothing.‘ I realized that

I was using similar arguments to those that Mastaba had

used to justify our executions, but things had changed subtly

since then. In fact, it seemed to me that the death of Csokor

had changed quite a lot. ‗Tell me about Csokor,‘ I said.

To my amazement, Sharat answered, but he addressed his

words to Lizbeth. ‗Csokor was a unique experimental being.

He became mentally ill shortly after arriving on Dimetos. In

part our own reprogramming of him at a genetic level might

be to blame. But it was also because he recognized you, Ms

Fugard. Or thought he did. Hundreds of years ago, he had...

loved someone.‘ Sharat paused. His use of the word ‗love‘ was

cold and clumsy, like a businessman reading from a phonetic

report in a foreign language. Which perhaps, in his own way,

he was. ‗I am informed that this love was spumed. And that

person betrayed his world to Eurogen Butler, and in turn to

us, to my predecessors. And he saw in you some similarity to

his betrayer, to his unrequited love.‘

‗So he started following me,‘ said Lizbeth slowly. ‗And he

was then able to shape-shift into someone who I would find...

attractive.‘

‗Mastaba always used to say that the ultimate weapon isn‘t

the biggest bomb. It‘s misplaced trust.‘ Sharat smiled, his

eyes faraway. ‗We had hoped to keep him sedated until our

experimentation was complete, but as you saw, things have

escalated. The stress of returning to his home world. You see,

one thing he told you was true. Somewhere, deep down in the

core of his being, where even our scientists could not reach,

he was an ethnic Dimetan. He was the last of his race.‘

There was a little, rational part of me that felt a brief glow

of satisfaction to see another loose end neatly tied off. But

deeper down the old anger stirred, like the embers of an

undying fire raked over by Sharat‘s words. What he‘d said

just boiled down to one more bleak chapter in another tawdry

talc of exploitation. Whatever Csokor had originally been had

ended up as a twisted mess, corrupted by the same crass

commercial imperative that had riddled this world like a

Swiss cheese and destroyed, near enough, the last traces of

its original people. Another example of the survival of the

shittiest, first law of the bungle.

‗Hundreds of years ago,‘ continued Sharat, ‗the Bantu

Cooperative took Csokor - or Assan, as he was then known -

away from Dimetos. ―Saved him from Armageddon‖ is the

phrase that Mastaba used. To them, he was merely a

fascinating oddity, a relic of an extinct species. Like a...‘ He

struggled to find the word he was looking for. ‗Like a dodo, on

Earth. Later, the Cooperative began researching and buying

into morphic field technology and nanotechnical systems.

The vision was glorious - a living being, wrapped around with

billions of nanocules, each capable of slaughter; a being

capable of blending in on any world or in any culture, living

for years or decades or centuries until its pre-programming

triggered it into action. A sleeping dragon, if you will, waiting

for its command to destroy. Our predecessors tried to erase

every trace of Assan‘s past life, and gave him a new identity.

They worked on him, tirelessly. Years became decades.

Eventually the scientists came to recognize that Csokor had

an ability to control these various biomechanical

augmentations. The original Dimetan race appeared to have

the in-built capability of manipulating the morphic fields

underwriting their genetic code, allowing them to change, not

generation by generation, but moment by moment. We‘ve

been able to mimic such shape-shifting in a very crude way

with technology. But to have it hardwired into the cells would

be quite a breakthrough.‘

‗Except that you, and Eurogen Butler, had already

exterminated every last trace of Csokor‘s people,‘ I said. ‗Your

laboratory rat was unique and irreplaceable.‘

He didn‘t seem to pick up the bitterness in my words, but

nodded sagely, indeed. A short-sighted decision.‘

And then - for no reason I could fathom at first – I thought

of Katri, and the lichee, and the facial transformation. And

then it dawned on me. ‗You wanted to be able to mass

produce the technology, apply its dubious benefits to any

given species. Your work didn‘t stop with Csokor...‘

‗Oh, but Katri agreed,‘ said Sharal, picking up my

inference. ‗And bringing Csokor - Assan - here was our

attempt at a - what is the word? - a dummy run.‘

‗But Katri couldn‘t handle the technology.‘

‗It seems not.‘

At that moment, we heard the sirens - still far in the

distance, but shrill enough to disturb our tete-a-tete.

‗I would imagine,‘ said Alex, ‗that the authorities have

discovered Csokor‘s handiwork at the hospital. Two innocent

corpses that simple corruption will not be able to sweep

away. And they‘ll find us soon enough.‘ He pointed up at the

dark sky, overlaid with a thin grey veil, the last smoke from

the remains of his hover car.

I saw Sharat‘s finger tense on the trigger of his weapon.

‗Don‘t do it, Sharat,‘ I said. ‗You‘ll only make things worse.‘

‗Really?‘

‗Yes. Every scrap of data we have has been clamshelled in

numerous locations, far beyond your reach. And the dead-

man‘s-handle subroutines I‘ve encrypted with them will

ensure that if I fail to key in my passwords on a regular

basis, the data will transmit itself automatically right across

the Dimetan net.‘ I rubbed the locket around my neck, as if

to remind Alex that the idea had been his in the first place.

‗We‘ve got evidence of a governmental cover-up, of sabotage

and intimidation, and the first archaeological hints of a pre-

Eurogen Buder culture on Dimetos. It‘s a real can of worms.

Killing us will only open the lid, so to speak.‘

‗There are ways of subverting clamshell programs.‘

‗Name one that‘s going to work in time.‘

‗Why didn‘t you tell Mastaba this?‘

‗Because I thought he‘d shoot us anyway. But you don‘t

have to be like him, Sharat. Make a new start. Let us go.‘

Meekly, he acquiesced, without asking for proof of my

claims or anything. He kept staring at what little remained of

Csokor. I think he was only just realizing that he had

witnessed the destruction of the Bantu Cooperative‘s most

amazing piece of merchandise - and that he, as the senior

survivor, would be held responsible.

Extract ends

‗I‘ve never understood why the government even allowed me

to excavate at all,‘ said Lizbeth bitterly. ‗They must have

realized there was a risk of past mistakes being uncovered.‘

She and Mphahlele were accompanying Bernice to the

launchport. All were uneasy, as if a great weight had been

lifted from their shoulders, but they had become so used to it

that they couldn‘t believe it was no longer there.

‗I said before,‘ said Bernice, ‗and I think it‘s true, that

perhaps they underestimated you. They really didn‘t think

you‘d uncover anything of interest - but the moment you did,

they got very cold feet.‘

‗And doggedly refused to tell the Cooperative what was

going on, which only made them more interested,‘ said

Mphahlele. His hand rested gently in Lizbeth‘s; Bernice didn‘t

want to read too much into so simple a gesture, but it was

certainly a start. ‗Knowing that you were somehow involved,

they sent Csokor to trail you. And the moment he saw you,

something went ―click‖ in his head.‘ Mphahlele laughed.

‗That‘s also true of mc, of course. I think they call it love at

first sight.‘

‗Oh, don‘t,‘ said Lizbeth. ‗It‘s not funny. Poor Karl. No one

deserves to live and die like that.‘

Or Assan, I suppose we should call him,‘ said Bernice. ‗I

guess that was the problem: he‘d been brainwashed so

much, he forgot who he was. Was he Assan, last of the ethnic

Dimetans, or Karl Csokor, a Thuban who had elected to work

for the Cooperative?‘

‗Or Asan, last of the Narayayans, dedicated to pursue Shiga

the destroyer for ever,‘ added Lizbeth. ‗The parallel in the

names bothers me. Asan and Shiga are the protagonists in

an ancient Thuban myth: what are the chances of Assan

having almost the same name, and having lived a comparable

life?‘

‗Astronomical,‘ said Bernice. ‗But then, the coincidental

similarities and differences between the shootings of

American presidents Lincoln and Kennedy have been well

documented. Alternatively, the other reading is simply this:

we don‘t know for sure what Csokor‘s Dimetan name was, or

what his background was. It‘s only hearsay, originating in a

man whose mind and memories had been shredded and

abused beyond words.‘ Bernice sighed. ‗And I thought I was

guilty of rewriting my past.‘

‗Could be a thesis in that,‘ said Mphahlele, catching

Lizbeth‘s eye. ‗I‘m told the Thuban Zone is lovely at this time

of year.‘

‗I‘m told the Thuban Zone is always worth exploring,‘ said

Lizbeth. ‗Nice try, though.‘ She turned away for a moment,

staring through the transpex as the launchport came into

view. ‗But to find such resonance in a myth that you come to

believe it utterly...‘

‗But myths are only believable,‘ said Bernice, picking up

Lizbeth‘s quiet words, ‗because we feel they are, in some way,

true.‘

And then she shivered, because she didn‘t like the

implication of what she was saying.

Bernice spotted the little clutch of Bantu representatives

immediately. They stood on the launchport concourse,

Sharat at their head, scanning the crowds eagerly. They

swept towards Bernice, Lizbeth and Mphahlele with an air of

casual arrogance. Normal service has been resumed, thought

Bernice.

‘Don’t, ‘ she said with firm finality. ‗Just don‘t do anything

to annoy me.‘

Sharat smiled. ‗My purpose here is simply to ask you, and

your friend, to watch out for any mention of the Shiga in the

work that you do. It is a powerful creature, incomprehensibly

so. And inconceivably dangerous. Its mission, whatever that

might ultimately be, does not take you or me into account,

nor all the worlds we know and all we may love. The Shiga

crushes worlds as we might tread on flowers as we walk

towards our final destination. It doesn‘t even trouble to

disdain us...‘

‗The Shiga‘s just a myth,‘ said Bernice.

‗I have walked on Dellah,‘ the alien announced.

‗And it rained, right?‘

‗Can you conceive of Dellah without rain? Without plants or

animals or any living things? Can you imagine your current

home as a sun-cracked dustbowl where only the hot wind

moves, where nothing whatever remains - nothing, not even a

warning, buried for some future archaeologist to find.‘

‗OK, you win,‘ said Bernice. ‗I‘ll keep my eyes open. But,

what if - and I mean ―if‖ - I should find something?‘

‗Be very polite,‘ Sharat said, absolutely deadpan, ‗and be

prepared for a long journey.‘

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

We settled down in one of the lounges that overlooked the

furious activity of the launchport. Ships came and went

against the backdrop of the city, and from here its true

nature could be seen: an expanse of fairy-tale towers,

surrounded by a black moat of shanty towns.

We didn‘t say much. For my part, I was nervous about the

flight, and about what awaited me back on Dellah. I couldn‘t

work out why.

‗Ah, I had hoped to find you here.‘ We all turned to see

Homam walking towards us, hands held behind his back like

a two-metre-tall schoolboy. His grin was even larger than I

remembered it.

I shook his hand energetically. Frankly, compared to most

of the creeps I‘d encountered in Dimetos City, Homam Matar

Sadalbari was pretty much on the side of the angels, and

that was good enough for me. ‗I‘d hate to have gone off and

not said goodbye,‘ I gushed.

‗The feeling is mutual,‘ he said, ‗though I understand that

you‘ve been a little busy just recently.‘

‗That‘s one way of putting it,‘ said Lizbeth.

Homam bobbed up and down excitedly. ‗Word is beginning

to filter out. Exploding hover cars. Strange events in the med

centre. A big hole in the ground where a top secret building

site used to be. There are already calls for ministerial

resignations.‘

Alex groaned. ‗Looks like we‘ll be having an election sooner

rather than later.‘

‗Yeah,‘ I said. ‗I mean, forgive me for not leaping for joy,

but... what did they say on Earth? Whoever you vote for, the

government always wins.‘

‗Oh, don‘t be so cynical,‘ said Lizbeth. ‗The next lot might

be that bit more suspicious of the Cooperative.‘

‗Let‘s hope so,‘ said Homam. ‗But, for the moment, every

news channel in the city has their own slant on the whole

Eurogen Butler-Bantu Cooperative-government scandal.‘

‗EB?‘ I queried. ‗How do they know about all that?‘

‗I‘ve not been sitting on my laurels either, you know,‘

replied Homam. ‗The digger drones are still working hard,

transmitting information. I keep having to reprogram them.

My hunch is that the Cooperative have found a way of

operating them remotely. More electronic spiders, I suppose,‘

he said, glancing in my direction.

‗What are they looking for?‘ I asked.

‗Believe it or not,‘ said Homam, ‗die drones keep trying to

find traces of early Dimetan culture.‘

‗Why?‘

It was Alex who had guessed the answer. ‗They‘re

wondering if there‘s a trace of the Shiga on Dimetos, too.

Because, if the Shiga‘s for real... it would make one helluva

weapon.‘

Tears would come later, on the tedious haul home. As the

final call to board sounded across the airy space of the

departure lounge, I gave Lizbeth and Alex a big hug and got

their assurances they‘d take some time out for themselves;

healing time, I called it, and I saw that my words had struck

home.

‗In a couple of weeks, I‘ll call you for an update,‘ I said

cheerfully. ‗By that time those digger drones will have come

out at the antipodes...‘

‗As you saw, Homam has that side of things well under

control.‘ Lizbeth smiled. It was a qualified smile. Maybe she

was thinking that drone problems were so much simpler

than the human equivalent.

‗Yes. Good. Well, if I can I‘ll put in for some leave and come

and visit you all again soon.‘

A small, very irritated-sounding drone spun up beside me

and absolutely insisted I board now, or risk missing my

flight. I used that as the excuse I needed to leave.

In space, no one can hear you dream. I dreamt of planets

united by respect and consideration for all life, joined by the

urge of living things just to be, and in that being to fit into

the greater plan - the one true program underwriting genes

and morphic fields and matter itself.

It was a grand dream, and though I was the merest particle

of flesh within that vast picture, I still felt proud, and

profoundly content to be a part of it.

I awoke to the sight of stars, wiped tears from my eyes and

ordered a double bourbon with ice from the comfort drone. I

took a big guzzle of it and felt better. Around me was the

quiet murmuring of passengers as they talked, a soft

background susurration of clean air breathing through the

recyclers; quiet light and a sense of calm competence as the

ship streaked through space.

Beyond the portal, the universe lay waiting. There was no

sense of movement at all, nor of the violence and horror that

the Shiga symbolized, if not embodied. And it occurred to me

then, as it had done so many times before when I‘d held

some ancient remnant in my hands, that the greatest

wisdoms had all been spoken thousands of years ago. And

among them, one came to my mind just then: that despite all

our petty conflicts and schemes, our ambitions and the

passion that attained them, dis aliter visum.

Heaven thought otherwise.

Extract ends

TRACK 12

YOU ALWAYS HURT THE ONE

YOU LOVE

Dimetos seemed like a billion miles away. Which it was. And

a million years ago, which it wasn‘t.

The Witch and Whirlwind was almost empty. Bernice sat in

her favoured position at the bar, nursing a soft drink. The

stool seemed so used to her presence that Bernice was sure it

had by now moulded itself to fit her buttocks perfectly. The

young mail behind the bar appeared to barely realize that

Bernice was there. She was part of the furniture, then. A

mere nanocule in the greater workings of the university.

On her return to Dellah, Bernice had trawled puterspace

looking for a definitive account of the Shiga. She found more

information than she knew what to do with: if there was a

deeper truth amongst all this fractured symbolism and

mythology, it was difficult to spot.

She left the whole thing well alone for a few days, hoping

that perhaps her subconscious would make the link for her.

It hadn‘t yet.

Bernice glared at her drink, as if it was responsible for

everything that had happened over the past few weeks. She

glanced up as the bartender came over towards her. ‗A Moni

sherry, please,‘ she said.

When it arrived, Bernice gulped down the sweet wine. She

imagined synapses tiring, well-fuelled blips of electrical

processing power jumping across gaps and reawakening

whole swathes of her mind. Either that, or the sherry was

unbelievably potent.

‗That‘s better,‘ she breathed.

‗Drowning your sorrows?‘

The voice was quiet and strong, right at her ear. Bernice

turned, scarcely believing that someone could creep up on

her so quietly.

It was the stranger she‘d encountered just before she‘d left

for Dimetos. The man very deliberately lit a cigarette with

some sort of metal lighter that stank of ancient fuel. He

puffed on it contentedly for a few moments, eyebrows partly

raised as if encouraging a response.

‗What do you want?‘ It wasn‘t one of Bernice‘s better

ripostes, but it was the only one that came to mind.

‗Word is you had a very unusual holiday.‘

‗I battled against fascists, uncovered a conspiracy. The

usual.‘

‗Conspiracy is a very grand word to describe what you

discovered,‘ said the man. ‗If the news reports are to believed,

you stumbled upon... a straining in the relationship between

two business partners.‘

‗Maybe,‘ said Bernice, imitating the man‘s non-committal

style.

‗Which reminds me,‘ he continued, ‗how is Ms Fugard?‘

‗You know her?‘

The man shook his head, the smoke spiralling around him.

Bernice was suddenly reminded of Karl Csokor, of his

unnerving abilities and his tragic and grotesque death. She

forced away the image with a flurry of inconsequential

distractions while she waited for the stranger to reply.

‗I know of her,‘ the man said at last. He paused for a

moment, scanning the bar intently, then abruptly turned for

the door. ‗You might want to ask her what she knows of this

place.‘

‗Sorry?‘

‗You‘re not the first female academic archaeologist to work

on Dellah.‘

And with that, the stranger was gone.

Extract from the diary of Bernice Summerfield

At first I didn‘t have a clue what the man was dribbling on

about. And then my newly recharged mind jumped to a few

wild conclusions, and the colour drained from my face.

I ran back to my rooms, got Joseph to establish a

governmental FTL link. It took a while, and it wasn‘t the most

stable near-real-time connection I‘d ever used, but it would

do.

Eventually the Dimetan end of the link gave me access to

Fugard‘s office, and then to Lizbeth herself. I had no idea

what time it would be on Dimetos - early in the morning or

late in the evening, if die sky through the windows was any

guide.

‗Hello, Benny,‘ said Lizbeth brightly. ‗This must be

important.‘

I came straight to the point. ‗What do you know about St

Oscar‘s?‘ I asked.

There was a pause as the signal raced across the galaxy,

and then a look of confusion gripped Lizbeth‘s face. She

didn‘t try to hide it from me. That was pleasing. There was

mileage in our friendship after all. ‗Who told you?‘ she said at

last.

‗It doesn‘t matter.‘ And then I thought that I ought to

reciprocate by being honest, so I added, ‗Actually, it was the

stranger in the bar. I don‘t know if I mentioned him or not.‘

She nodded when my voice reached her. ‗There‘s not much

I want to say over this link,‘ said Lizbeth.

‗It‘s secure,‘ I said as quickly as I could.

Lizbeth shrugged. ‗So they say.‘ She paused. The hurt that

time had not dimmed was still clear at the back of her eyes.

‗But... the simple fact of the matter is, I did an advanced

research thesis at St Oscar‘s. This was about five years ago, I

guess. I‘d only just graduated.‘ She stared at the screen, and

I wondered what she was reading in my face. ‗I‘m sorry I

didn‘t tell you. I don‘t like hiding things from my friends. It‘s

just that there didn‘t seem any real need for you to know,

and so... Oh, I don‘t know. Sometimes ignorance is safety.‘

I smiled, remembering how Alex and I had come to the

same conclusion about Lizbeth. ‗Too late for that now,‘ I said.

‗What happened here?‘

‗Let‘s just say that as part of my work I discovered

something that I shouldn‘t have.‘

‗Story of your life.‘ I had a vague idea that Sharat had said

something similar on Dimetos.

‗Yeah.‘

And that was all that Lizbeth seemed prepared to say, but I

wasn‘t prepared to leave it there. So I pushed on with ‗Tell me

more...‘

She said nothing for some time, and it wasn‘t just the gap

while the message was being transmitted. At last she said:

‗There‘s nothing I want to tell you of all people, Benny. But

the upshot was that I left Dellah with my tail between my

metaphorical legs.‘

‗Which would be about the time you changed your

specialization from ancient archaeology to industrial?‘

She nodded, but refused to say anything else. I was about

to apologize for disturbing her and terminate the link, when

she changed the subject. ‗While you‘re there,‘ she said, ‗I may

as well tell you about the latest research into the ethnic

Dimetans.‘

‗Please do.‘

‗Suffice it to say, they had lived here for thousands of years

before Eurogen Butler arrived. A complex and evolving

society, with all the expected peaks and troughs of

civilization and technology.‘

I laughed. ‗So there is real archaeology on Dimetos after

all...‘

A moment later Lizbeth laughed too, but, God, she sounded

bitter. It was the sort of strange noise you make at a funeral

when, frankly, there‘s less than sod all to laugh at. ‗Eurogen

Butler built over all the major sites in an attempt to obliterate

the species from the historical record. And, more by luck

than by judgement, the Bantu Cooperative were continuing

that policy.‘

I had an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach; a sense of

what was coming. I resisted the temptation to look away as

Lizbeth continued.

‗As you know, the Bantu weapons centre was being built

over an old EB mine. Unfortunately, it now looks as if below

that there lay the most extensive of all the ancient Dimetan

sites. Which, Benny, you blew into a million pieces.‘

[FINISH]

Translator’s note:

The Shahinitarazad Codex dating from the pre-Aludrai

period of early Thuban culture is, though fragmentary,

the clearest account we possess of the sidereal-

mythological stories of the era, including those

reproduced here. I am grateful to Christos Michaelides,

Professor of Eschatology, the Grosvenor Datanetwork,

based at Caph Beta IV, for his general assistance in my

work of translation, and specifically for his useful

speculations on the thematic links between Narayayan

core myths and the Orion cycle of creation/destruction

tales to be found throughout the Perseus arm of the

galaxy. In time, a comparison will be possible between

this mythology, and that being pieced together on

Dimetos. Until that time, this translation, I hope, can

happily stand alone.

Lizbeth Fugard, Professor of Sidereal Mythology,

Youkali University, 2597

A STORY OF CIRCLES

He who wants to see his time rightly must look upon

it from a distance.

Ortega y Gasset

1 - In those days even the planet was young, its name now

long forgotten.1 In the heart of that world‘s greatest

continent, Asan, True Emperor of the Narayayans, was

walking as he often did among his people. On this occasion,

he had chosen to visit the town on market day, followed by

1 Or deliberately deleted?

his retinue of guards and advisers, and accompanied by

Akiki, his betrothed. Despite the fact that Asan was well

loved by the populace and felt comfortable among them,

Yuanch‘un his lieutenant stayed close by his side, ever

vigilant for trouble.

Now it so happened that Akiki was passionately fond of

jewellery, and although she possessed many fine pieces

wrought from the rarest of metals, she had come to market in

search of something rarer still, the fabled mirrorglass found

only in the nearby Losun Mountains. Since Asan‘s interest

lay elsewhere, in the delicious fish, fruits and meats caught

and grown throughout the lush valley, he and Akiki decided

to go their separate ways for a time, each accompanied by a

number of well-armed protectors.

For the next hour, Asan, Yuanch‘un and his men wandered

through the extensive market, mingling with the crowds who

smiled and bowed to the Emperor in deep respect. Presently,

Asan happened upon a fruit stall that had obviously done

particularly good business that day: the beds of straw upon

the table were almost empty of fruit, the rest having been

sold. All that remained were a few rather blemished pearl-

apples and a thin clutch of andarin stalks, browning and

starting to wither. Ordinarily Asan would have simply passed

by, but he found himself in an impish mood, so picked up

one of the wrinkled pearl-apples, bit into it, and grimaced

with distaste.

‗Pah! Just look at this, Yuanch‘un. This fruit is only fit to

give to the pigs! Who would sell a nobleman such rubbish?

Let the one who would seek to rob Asan come forward to

justify himself!‘

Several people and other traders nearby chuckled at Asan‘s

teasing. The stallholder whom the Emperor was addressing

had been out of sight, tidying up a pile of cloth bags. Now she

stood up, much embarrassed, and bowed low in fear and

humility.

‗Forgive me, Emperor. Indeed, this fruit was to be given to

the pigs, or to the beggars who come by at the end of the day.

I was about to remove it from the stall, since you are right, it

is not fit for my customers to eat. All I can do is apologize...‘

Asan had fallen silent, though his mouth still hung open in

admiration. The girl who had stepped out of the shadows was

the most beautiful he had ever seen. Her skin was as

unblemished as a cloudless sky, her eyes as clear as

mountain pools. Her hair, long and golden - which was a

rarity among the valley folk - shimmered in the sunlight. And

her smile, as she caught Asan‘s frivolous mood and gazed at

him coyly, was utterly perfect.

But even as she realized that the great Emperor of the

Narayayans was only joking with her, Asan‘s demeanour had

changed. He was now looking upon the girl with an

expression she had seen before in other men, reflecting an

extremity of passion and longing that neither she nor any

other woman could ever satisfy. It was a look of dangerous

love, and although the girl was young and only just into

womanhood, she knew with a deep and ancient instinct that

any relationship with someone possessed of such a yearning

infatuation could bring nothing but unhappiness and pain.

Tell me your name,‘ Asan demanded quietly, and she did

so, feeling much afraid.

‗Lord, I am Kaiagish,2 only daughter of the fruit grower

Kanryo.‘

Asan nodded and handed over a small coin for the pearl-

apple. ‗Tomorrow, when you have better fruit to sell, I will

comm back for more.‘

Kaiagish accepted the coin, for it would have been most

improper to refuse, but as Asan and his minions turned their

backs and walked away through the bustling crowds she felt

despair overwhelming her, for Kaiagish knew her life, and the

lives of her family, would never be the same again.

2 - Akiki too came across what she was looking for and yet

had never expected to find. In one of the darker comers of the

vast market she happened upon a trinket seller whose

appearance, whose entire stall in fact, was grubby and run-

down. Various cheap items lay piled untidily, one on top of

another; ornaments, weaponry, bric-a-brac, oddments and

bits of jewellery - hundreds of diverse objects, but nothing

that seemed worth buying.

Akiki surveyed this array of junk with a disdainful

expression, noticing that among all that drabness only the

stallholder‘s eyes were gleaming and bright.

‗Do you know me, trader?‘ she asked. The man, vast and

slothful, shifted in his seat and inclined his head in

acknowledgement.

‗Then you know I am serious in my wish to purchase, and

have money aplenty to do so.‘

‗Indeed, good lady.‘ The stallholder smiled rather

revoltingly, and Akiki guessed there was much behind that

smile for her to beware.

‗I am searching for mirrorglass, the finest examples. Only a

body-weight of it has ever been mined, I know, and most of

that is of poor quality. I want...‘ Akiki‘s lips were moist with

avarice. ‗I want some that will shine!‘

Naturally, she had never anticipated the stallholder

actually owning decent mirrorglass, but a man like this

would belong to a network of dealers; he would have many

dubious contacts, someone knowing someone knowing

someone who just might be able to procure, at a price...

The stallholder moved his great bulk, rose with a grunt and

bustled about at the rear of the stall, pulling on something

stuck beneath a mound of worthless rubbish. A moment later

he turned to face Akiki, meanwhile polishing the object on

the frayed sleeve of his grimy tunic.

‗Perhaps - this…‘

Akiki saw what he was holding and the breath caught in

her throat, and her heart for a time beat more quickly. The

trinket was no bigger than her tightly clenched fist, an ornate

and mysterious polygonal shape made of some dark, bronzy

metal, each facet inlaid with what appeared to be a flawless

slice of the precious mirrorglass.

2 The names ―Asan‘ and ‗Kaiagish‘ (and variations of them) are, as one might expect, prevalent in Thuban myth.

What is more surprising is that such names arc found in (ales associated with many Perscid cultures and religions. It is difficult to establish whether this onomastic repetition is merely the result of the ongoing popularity of these names, or whether we are witnessing the partial rewriting of earlier myths.

Akiki made an effort to bring her excitement under control.

She knew that the law of the market meant that the trader

could refuse to sell her this or indeed any item, and that once

he had given his decision, it was final. This was a long

tradition throughout the land, one that even the wealthiest

and most powerful must respect. Thus she did not want to

seem too eager, or to indicate anything that might cause the

stallholder offence.

‗May I...?‘

The trader passed the ball across and laid it in Akiki‘s open

palms. Both of them knew the value of the item; all that

needed to be established was the cost.

Akiki slowly turned the artefact this way and that, trying to

avoid actively staring into its many reflecting surfaces.

Mirrorglass was a capricious substance, that on one day

might show nothing, yet on another would reveal the deepest

secrets and truths.

‗My lady,‘ the trader reminded her, ‗you should purchase

the item before you use it.‘

‗Oh -‘ Akiki blushed at her mistake. ‗Of course. Yes, I wish

to buy.‘

The trader made a small bow of gratitude. ‗Then let us

settle on a price...‘

And so they negotiated while the life of the market went on

around them, and about it the town and the land beyond,

and the whole world in the infinity of space.

Finally an offer was made and accepted. The trader took

Akiki‘s bag of money and wrapped up the ball in a plain cloth

for her to take away. She thanked him, not too profusely, and

moved to a quieter place the better to study her treasure.

The stallholder watched her leave. He had lived too long,

and experienced too much that was selfish and mean, to feel

any remorse for the fact that he had bought his future

comfort and happiness with this woman‘s certain

destruction.

Akiki found a quiet tent where just a few browsers had

paused to rest. While her guardians refreshed themselves,

she took out the mirror ball and tilted it, now up, now down,

now right and now left, hoping to catch a vision of her future.

To her disappointment most of the facets were grey and

obscure. Others revealed the merest flickers of imagery -

perhaps Asan, though looking more furious than she had

ever seen him; and was that her own face, wreathed in

flowers and as pale as death? And once, just for a moment, a

glimpse of a girl so breathtakingly beautiful that Akiki felt a

helpless pang of jealousy and spite, without quite knowing

why...

A little impatiently she tumbled the polyhedron about in

her hands. And then was rewarded by a moving image of

startling colour and clarity -

A little girl was playing in a garden, her bright yellow dress

set against the backdrop of a black and thunderous sky. Like

any young child, her attention leapt from one interesting

sight to another, moment by moment – until presently she

noticed something on a leaf nearby, leant closer -

And was astonished to behold two tiny beetle-like insects

struggling together, locked in ferocious combat. These insects

were unlike any that the little girl had ever seen before. One

of them was pure white, with a small black dot marking the

centre of its back. The other, equal and opposite, was utterly

black, with a white dot marking its hard carapace.

The girl watched the battle going on: such a tiny conflict,

beneath the attention of everyone but her, and yet so fierce

and unrelenting. As the minutes went by, she came to feel

sorry for the white insect. It seemed so clean and good,

unlike the black beetle that looked sinister and dark.

The battle raged this way and that in a dance of subtle

balances. Now the black insect was on top of the white,

thrashing its many legs about. Then, after a huge effort, the

white beetle gained the advantage briefly, before the black

fought back and regained the ascendancy.

The girl had seen enough. She decided to act before the

white creature was harmed or killed. So she reached out to

separate the insects, intending to crush the black one under

her heel. But she found to her surprise that they could not

be moved. No matter how hard she tried, she was unable to

draw the beetle-things apart, so closely and tightly were they

intertwined.

She became so engrossed in her task that for some minutes

she failed to realize that the dark thunderclouds were moving

away. A warm shaft of sunlight on her neck eventually

caused her to glance up.

One half of the sky was now clear and bright, the other half

ominous with cloud. Perhaps the storm would come to

nothing, or maybe it would gain the advantage and the

afternoon would be rainswept and bleak...

There was no way of telling, of course. And then,

understanding at last, the little girl left the two creatures

alone, because the force that bound them was no different

from that which made the day and the night, summer and

winter, life and death, the stars and the spaces between.

3 - [The Shahinitarazad Codex is fragmentary at this point,

and its continuity broken. Other sources - most notably the

so-called Avalon Stone found on Omicron Canes Venatici VI -

reveal a similar and possibly associated myth that allows us

to speculate with some confidence that Asan‘s yearning for

the peasant girl Kaiagish never abated. Indeed, if we accept

Doctor San Quo Yen‘s thesis of a multiplanetary collective

unconscious perpetuated through resonant space-time fields,

then it may well be that the Omicron CV VI fragment picks

up the very same story as that recounted in the Codex.

If this is the case, then we know Asan returned to the

market as he had promised, but found that Kaiagish and her

entire family had disappeared. Though he searched far and

wide, his efforts were in vain. We can also deduce that he

never stopped loving Kaiagish, and never forgave her for

disdaining him. Indeed, his obsession with her increased

through the years, overwhelmed him and became twisted and

dark.

As for Akiki, we have no clue as to how much she knew of

Asan‘s torment. What is clear is that, perhaps through the

power of the mirrorglass artefact, she became immensely

influential, eventually ruling over the Narayayans effectively

and successfully for some years. She almost certainly

married Asan, probably to ensure political stability, but his

role in the power structure of the dynasty during this time

remains unclear. As far as our researches can tell, the

marriage was never consummated and Akiki lived an isolated

and lonely life. Just prior to her death, she left instructions

for her remains to be laid in a simple stone casket carved

with the following words: Remember me as a shooting star

that blazes swiftly and then fades. People notice it at the time

and remember it when it has gone...

Two other extracts may be pertinent here to give the story

of Asan and his love for Kaiagish some semblance of

‗roundedness‘; one is again taken from the Avalon stone, the

other was gleaned from hieroglyphs discovered in the

inverted subterranean pyramid of Delta Camaeleonds, many

light-years distant from Omicron Canes Venatici VI, but

perhaps just a rung away on the ladder of legend.

L. F.]

4 - After Akiki‘s death, Asan the Emperor of the Narayayans

grieved publicly, but perhaps in his heart of hearts he

remained aloof.

He ordered that his wife‘s stone coffin he placed on a

granite plinth in the middle of a plain, far away from the

cities and trade routes. He summoned his most gifted

architects and craftsmen, and a small army of labourers,

instructing them to build a great palace as an eternal

memorial to Akiki and as a tribute to the love that they

shared.

Asan‘s chief architect was Ynsu. He followed his lord‘s

wishes to the letter and oversaw the work as the huge edifice

took shape. The entire project would take many years to

complete. During this time, Asan began to leave the site, and

indeed the Empire itself, to venture out on long journeys

that, it was rumoured, took him to the farthest corners

of the planet and, perhaps, beyond. Upon his return, he

invariably expressed his dissatisfaction with the tomb of

Akiki, ordering yet more chambers, more lavish carvings and

decorations, grander facades and porticoes, as well as

numerous alterations to the icons of his dead wife which

were scattered throughout the mausoleum.

And it was the issue of the icons that led Ynsu to wonder if

Asan‘s orders represented more than just the huge grief of

his loss... For it became clear, as Asan personally directed

the work of the stonesmiths, that the altered features of the

statue no longer seemed to resemble Akiki, but those of

another woman entirely, who was rather younger, thinner of

face, and even more beautiful than the Empress herself had

been.

Ynsu felt tempted to mention these disparities to his

master, but clearly Asan‘s thinking was becoming

increasingly confused. So the building continued, until the

sheer size and grandeur of the tomb held all onlookers

spellbound. It had also, by the by, been such an expensive

project that the Narayayan Empire had become effectively

penniless. And, it was said at the time, where there is not the

strength of wealth, there cannot be the strength of faith.

Civil unrest ensued, but this itself was an insignificant

thing when set against the more terrifying invasions of

barbarian hordes, flocking to the Narayayan empire like

scavengers around the weak and dying body of a felled

gazelle.

To Asan, it was as though none of it was happening. Even

as news of the incursions and subsequent atrocities was

brought to him, he was busy ordering his master mason to

chisel just a fraction farther here, and to add a tiny detail

here, on the face of the stranger that had taken the place of

Akiki.

Finally, old Ynsu was compelled to speak up. He walked

with Asan through the vast labyrinth of the tomb one

evening, as the smell of ravaged and burning cities drifted in

on the cooling air. They came at last to the central chamber,

which now was dominated by a huge adamantine statue of

the woman who was the focus of Asan‘s infinite passion.

‗Can it be,‘ Ynsu enquired gently, ‗that you have come to

love this girl more than you ever did Akiki?‘

Asan stared at him, puzzled. ‗Why no, Ynsu my friend. I

have graven this woman‘s face in stone because I hate her.

Because of her, I and my people and all the world have come

to this. These rooms and likenesses arc here so that I may

never forget what she has done to me. I keep her face in front

of me so that the blade of my vengeance stays sharp…‘

Ynsu was appalled, and might have said more. But just

then, the entire structure was rocked. Dust sifted down from

the high ceilings. One of Asan‘s cadre of elite bodyguards

hurried into the chamber and urged both men to leave

quickly, for the oppressors were only a short distance away.

But Asan was not listening: he seemed to be preoccupied

with some other matter, with the simple stone casket before

him, inscribed with its few humble words -

Remember me as a shooting star that blazes

swiftly and then fades.

People notice it at the time and remember it

when it has gone.

‗What is this doing here?‘ Asan demanded to know.

Ynsu, devastated by the madness he recognized in his lord,

could only shrug and shake his head, the tears coming hot

into his eyes.

‗Then take it out,‘ Asan said, his voice rising shrilly.

‗Take it out and destroy it. That thing has no place here!‘

* * *

5 - The tale is told of a time long ago when some children

were playing at the edge of their village, close to the desert

that separated the settlement from the mountains. It was a

warm evening, for the land had absorbed the sun‘s heat

through the day and was now giving it back to the sky at

dusk.

As they played their simple games of dance and catch and

chase, the children were distracted by a sound that appeared

to come from high above them. Looking towards where the

sun had set, they saw a bright light streak across the

heavens, grow to a glowing jewel that hovered in the purple

twilight, and then drop quickly down to the plain, where it

settled in a storm of billowing sand.

Soon afterwards, a solitary figure emerged from the sky

ship and strode towards the village. By this time, word of the

stranger‘s arrival had spread and every single villager had

gathered to greet him. Within minutes, the stranger had

reached the settlement. All could see that he was tall and

proud and powerful. And yet, despite these strengths, his

face was twisted with a pain the children didn‘t understand,

and his eyes were full of agony.

‗I am Asan,‘ the warrior declared, ‗last of the Narayayan

people. I demand to speak with your village elder!‘

For a few seconds no one moved, for all were frightened by

the stranger‘s fierce and tortured demeanour. Then there

came a rustling among the crowd and an old man stepped

forward. This ancient fellow had wispy white hair and a beard

as fine as cobweb. He was stooped with age and needed to

walk with a stick made from river willow wood. His name was

Tsancho.

When Asan caught sight of him, he laughed aloud,

although very soon the laughter changed so that it sounded

very like sobbing.

‗Surely you are not the leader of these poor, doomed

peasants? How can you possibly survive - how can you

prevail against her?‘

Asan‘s voice was cracked with madness. The children

cowered back. Tsancho looked upon the stranger coolly,

though with pity in his eyes.

‗Great lord, you are right,‘ Tsancho said. ‗I do not rule these

people. We are all ruled equally by the seasons.‘

Asan seemed not to hear. He gazed beyond the old man

and upward as the sky began to darken and the first stars

appeared. ‗Only I can destroy the Shiga, who will one day

sweep through space towards this world and wipe you out

with her breath! Indeed, that is my purpose now, to destroy

her and destroy her each time she pours her spirit into a

living form. She no longer deserves life and flesh and beauty

after what she did to me. So bow down before me, old man,

for I am Asan, slayer of the Shiga, and your protector!‘

Tsancho glanced back at his terrified people, then looked

upon Asan and shrugged his shoulders in apology.

‗Mighty lord, alas the years have made me bow down as far

as I am able. And while you might easily conquer this village

and indeed the whole world, time conquers all in the end.‘

Asan laughed loudly, a booming discordant sound like a

fractured bell.

‗It‘s obvious you don‘t realize your danger. Look here!‘

So saying, Asan drew a weapon that might have been a

sword and used it to trace a circle in the dust of the village

clearing. ‗This is what you poor people understand…‘

Then Asan drew a much greater circle to encompass the

first. And this is what I understand, so you should beware!‘

He grinned insanely at Tsancho and his people, nodding as

though the point had been proven.

Tsancho regarded the markings in the dust and stroked his

beard thoughtfully.

‗Yes, powerful Asan, you are quite correct. There is a great

deal that I do not know.‘ And everyone watched as he used

his crooked willow stick to draw a much larger circle around

the other two. ‗But this is what neither of us understands, so

we should all beware.‘

As Tsancho‘s words faded to silence the people looked

fearfully upon the stranger Asan. Had the old one offended

him? Enraged him? He was surely powerful enough to

obliterate them all with a wave of his hand.

Now he was gazing at the nested circles, letting out a slow

breath, like a deep sigh of release.

‗Yes,‘ Asan said presently. ‗Yes, old one, of course. Only by

knowing more about the Shiga and her ways can I hope to

defeat her finally.‘

At this, Tsancho hobbled forward and rested his crabbed

hand on Asan‘s forearm.

‗Is your mission so very important, young man, that you

should spend your lifetime driven by such anger?‘

‗She who was dear to me,‘ Asan replied, ‗who is now the

Shiga, cannot be allowed to rest easy in her betrayal of my

love. In killing her finally, I will put an end to my pain.‘

Now the night had come and the sky was heavy with stars.

Asan was a vague silhouette, his form palely defined by

moonlight.

He pointed his sword to the heavens.

‗I cannot stay any longer to discuss this with you. I must go

there, I must see for myself. I must learn all there is to know.‘

So saying, he bade farewell to Tsancho and his people, and

returned quickly to his craft. Moments later it bloomed a

flower of blue fire and rose out of sight as swiftly as the eye

could follow. Very soon it was lost amongst the

constellations.

‗So,‘ Tsancho muttered after a while, breaking the silence of

the villagers. ‗I cannot help but wonder how strange will be

that time and place when, at long last, Asan reaches his final

goal and finds that for which he is searching...‘

He smiled, but then felt a tugging at his sleeve. Glancing

down, he saw that a child with his friends had gathered

round him in concern. ‗Sumai, the stranger has gone now.

What still troubles you?‘ he asked.

Sumai said, ‗But what will happen when Asan does learn

all there is to be learnt? Will he come to the edge of the

greatest circle? Will he kill the Shiga? Will he return to

destroy us?‘

‗Such big worries for so little a head.‘ Tsancho ruffled

Sumai‘s hair. ‗Well, there is something that Asan failed to

realize and that I, being a forgetful old fool, did not think to

explain...‘

‗What was that?‘ Sumai wondered, frowning.

‗We drew our circles in the dust, but really they should

have been written on water.‘

‗How is that possible?‘

‗Walk with me to the pool and I will show you.‘

Tsancho led the way, followed by the children and, behind

them, the rest of the villagers. It was only a short distance,

and as they reached the drinking pool, Tsancho asked Sumai

to pass him a pebble.

‗Here are the things the mighty Asan needed to learn, to

make his peace with himself -‘

Tsancho pitched the pebble high into the air. It dropped

into the pool with a splash, sending ripples circling away

from the point where it had landed. The. villagers watched

the outer circle growing larger and larger, until finally it faded

completely away. Then, with contented smiles on their faces,

the children bowed low to Tsancho in respect and thanks,

and returned with lighter hearts to their play.

Translator’s note:

The discerning reader may guess that I have used a

certain creative licence in my interpretation of several

details of this legend, most notably using the name of

Asan when, in fact, the sky-stranger is never

specifically identified; and my assumption of the

Shiga‘s part in the story, having extrapolated this from

various technical correspondences between source

materials, and the interesting coincidence of ‗Shiga‘ and

‗Kaiagish‘.

I hope, therefore, that the reader (and no less the

academician) will forgive me for these liberties, which I

have taken to highlight a point that, at any age and

level of influence, remains pertinent to we who follow

our own individual myths through life: wisely it is said

that we obtain the thing we most fear.

L.F.

Document Outline

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Back Cover

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