~No. Your turn for pleasure.
Rekka made the facial expression of amusement.
~All right.
They changed places. With Rekka on the stool, he began to knead her back.
~Soon, your travelling vessel will arrive, not so?
~That’s right.
~You’ll return home, to the smell of your parents.
She moved beneath his grip, then relaxed.
His intuition told him there was something here, in her memory of family and parents. But it would be complicated, and he only had a flavour of her culture - so much remained unknowable.
And now, there was something he had to ask.
~Will you take me with you, Rekka?
There was a long scentless interlude, then:
~Yes, my friend.
He leaned forward, closing his teeth gently on her ear.
Four nights before the pick-up, Sharp jogged slowly away from the camp. A handful of Rekka’s bees flew overhead, almost invisible.
He jogged through the night, finally reaching farmland, and laid up in fragrant shrubbery until darkness. Finally, lungs burning, he reached the outskirts of the village he called home. Slowly, trying not to emit his exhaustion, he walked to his parents’ house.
There was a small courtyard at the back. He stood for a while, seeing Father’s silhouette against the drapes. Father! He wanted to go in, but it was impossible.
Then movement occurred at another window.
~Sharp?
~Bittersweet!
His sister’s lithe form slipped over the windowsill. They hugged mightily.
~Mother and Father. How are they?
Bittersweet tipped her face back, eyes widening at the sight of Sharp’s antlers. Then she looked down.
~Father . . . hasn’t worked much since you went away. We searched for so long . . .
~I can’t come back yet, little sister. But soon, when I know enough, they’ll never be able to cast us out.
He stopped, then sniffed. There were strangers nearby.
Bittersweet smelled them, too.
~Proctors, from the City Guard. There are stories of lights in the hills, strange creatures . . .
Over the courtyard wall, bobbing outlines told of bannermen, armed with halberds.
~I’m sorry, dear Bittersweet. Be strong.
Her reply was redolent with concern, but he was already moving, exiting alongside the house, on to the street, hidden from the bannermen. He began to jog, and after a while accelerated as an alarm scent floated behind him.
All his hearts were thumping as he ran for cover.
But finally he was into the wilderness, scratched by thorns as he went deep into the overpowering fragrance of sourscrub trees, masked from his pursuers.
Midnight, two days later.
Clasping hands, Rekka and Sharp stood in the centre of their former camp, biofact and equipment cases at their feet. Only a few bees remained to circle overhead.
Her bracelet beeped just as Sharp sniffed.
‘Shit.’
It was one of the few scents she could understand without translation.
‘Proctors?’
‘Yes.’ His voice came from the bracelet. ‘Many of them.’
She could hear the bannermen now, heading this way.
I don’t want to use the bees.
But then a shuttle was descending from the sky, and a male Pilot’s voice came from Rekka’s bracelet.
‘So you’ve got company with you. You know there’s a hell of a lot more on the way.’
He would be in his ship, controlling the shuttle from orbit.
‘My friend here is coming with me.’
‘Shit.’
Beside Rekka, Sharp moved his shoulders in amusement.
‘We have a universal code.’
But the shuttle was hovering, its hatch unopened.
‘Are you invoking Prime Contact protocols? Or do you want me to pretend this is a non-sentient specimen you’re taking back?’
‘Please . . .’
It touched down, opening to reveal a small, blue-lit cabin, with no one inside.
‘Don’t worry. I could give a rat’s ass what the bureaucrats think. And those armed buggers are speeding up, so why don’t you hurry now?’
Sharp slung the equipment inside, then Rekka got in and he followed. The hatch slid shut as they were rising. Rekka expected the clang of thrown spears or fired bolts, but there was nothing as the shuttle rose fast.
Soon they were at high altitude.
‘Hold on to that handle, Sharp.’
‘All right.’ His big arm was around her. ‘Why?’
‘There’s something called freefall I forgot to mention.’
Seconds later, they were experiencing just that.
THIRTEEN
FULGOR, 2603 AD
Pulling herself back to awareness was hard. As Rashella opened her eyes, three of her house drones drew closer, then stopped. She looked at them.
They whipped away in reverse, bolting back to their wall-caches.
<<audio: I summoned medical aid.>>
On Luculentus modalities, she received the house system’s communication.
<<visuaclass="underline" a flying ambulance, its green hull strobing>>
She checked inside herself for pain or injury.
‘I’m fine’ - she used ordinary speech - ‘so cancel, please.’
‘Perhaps,’ the house answered, ‘since they are already close, they can check—’
‘Tell them to go home.’
‘If you insist, ma’am. However—’
Rashella frowned.
<<cmdIF::Assistance.getInstance().invoke(self.getCache( ))>>
From deep inside herself, she simulated biometric data - a false memory all the way down to the biochemical level - and transmitted the results via house surveillance to the incoming ambulance. Fake telemetry poured into the house sensors.
‘Emergency call-out cancelled, ma’am. My apologies for panicking.’
The house memory now contained the fake data, indicating blood pressure anomalies, but nothing beyond either its own or Rashella’s abilities to fix.
‘You’ve done a fine job, House.’
‘Ma’am.’
At the far side of the atrium, a faint outline swirled, like autumn leaves in a twisting wind. An echo of Rashella2.
‘Have to . . . warn . . .’
With a sneer and a gesture, Rashella dispersed the struggling code fragments, pulled them apart all the way down to raw trinary, and set every trit to mu, to neither-nor.
‘You saw nothing, House.’
‘Ma’am?’
She wiped its caches for the last thirty seconds, substituting harmless extrapolations of the previous few minutes’ surveillance.
I was Rafael.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Like pulling one instrument out of an orchestra, memories of a single plexcore should be incoherent fragments - particularly for an individual as unusual as the late, murderous Luculentus Rafael Garcia de la Vega, dead for one hundred years. And he had subsumed so many other Luculentus personalities, absorbing them into his vast plexcore network, trembling on the brink of transcendence, when a single human felled him . . . with the aid of Pilots.
‘Pilots,’ she said out loud.
The ones who had killed her - killed Rafael - would be long dead themselves. She considered this for nearly a thousand milliseconds, a long time for a Luculenta.
Lowering her head, she closed her eyes and immersed herself in Skein. So much data about the past was invisible, but she instantiated a flock of netSprites and netAngels to help, scouring the query-reefs, helping her to interpolate and extrapolate, to form a strong guess about what ordinary Luculenti knew, and what the peacekeepers were likely to suspect.