And if young Roger Blackstone was an undercover Pilot, what were the chances that his parents were, as well?
There was no sign of Stef, Rick or the others near the mannequin; but Alisha was there, holding a jantrasta-coated apple from which she had taken a single bite.
‘Hey,’ said Roger.
‘You’re not with the guys?’
‘No. What have you been up to?’
Merrymakers swirled around them. Music played, cheerful and loud, with none of the discordant tones that seemed linked to danger.
‘Talking to Rafaella Stargonier, in actual person.’
‘The Luculenta? She’s here for Festival?’
‘Sure. She was asking about Dr Helsen, but if she’s researched in Skein then she already knows more than I do, because I’ve never bothered.’
‘So you’re still trying to get this Stargonier person to come and give a talk?’
‘Her precondition still applies. I mean, about me having to produce some original work just to tempt her.’
‘And when’s the talk due to take place? If it happens, I mean.’
‘The day after Festival.’
That would give him time to get home and tell Dad everything. There was something dangerous about the Luculenta, and he did not want Alisha to be at risk. Not only was she his friend - her father Xavier had done Dad a favour, allowing him to shield against the new peacekeeper scanners.
There was a way to guarantee that Rafaella Stargonier would deliver that talk, provided she was serious about doing it if Alisha produced original research. Perhaps it was a way to pin the Luculenta down to a known place and time.
‘My Dad knows some people, sort of.’ He tapped his turing, then pointed at Alisha. ‘I’m not sure if mentioning his name will do any good, but at least you now know they exist.’
‘A research institute?’ Alisha blinked, scanning virtual holos: the data he had just sent, plus more. ‘I see what you mean. They’re legitimate, but you wouldn’t find them easily. Makes you wonder how they get their funding.’
Roger wished he had thought of that. Perhaps he should have talked to Dad before offering this much - but he had done it now.
Alisha was blinking fast, her eyes focused on a point one metre in front of her. Her throat and lips moved, and then she nodded.
Finally, she said aloud: ‘Thank you, Ms Weissmann. We’ll be right there.’
After a final blink, she focused on Roger and smiled.
‘There’s someone in the building, despite the time. Obviously not the kind to celebrate Festival.’
‘You just talked to the institute?’
‘Sure. Shall we walk to someplace an aircab can land?’
‘Uh—’
‘You are coming with me, right?’
‘I . . .’ What he wanted was to sleep. ‘Sure.’
Alisha looked down at the jantrasta apple she was still holding. She dropped it, watched the ground swallow it, licked her fingertips, then returned her attention to Roger.
‘And while we fly, you can explain to me what Zajinets have to do with realspace hyperdimensions.’
‘Um. Right. Okay.’
They alighted from the aircab, in a pedestrian precinct that was otherwise deserted. Then the aircab whispered up into the air, and disappeared behind a tall quickglass tower at the precinct’s far end. Roger turned to the ochre building in front of them: quickstone pillars with motile scrollwork, ceramic doors that resembled antique wood, floating brass glowglobes. Old, discreet, well-financed.
‘No name sign,’ said Alisha.
The main doors curled open.
‘Hello,’ said a white-haired woman. ‘I’m Stella Weissmann. Do come in, you two.’
Her eyes were bright, her stance erect. Her forehead and scalp held no hint of wires or studs, but for a non-Luculenta she broadcast a lot of charisma.
‘Thank you,’ said Alisha. ‘We won’t take up much of your time.’
‘A chat would be very welcome, in fact. This way.’
There was a foyer of marble quickstone, then a corridor containing display cases, and finally Ms Weissmann’s office, with a faux wooden desk and chairs. Everyone sat.
‘So you’re interested in our alien friends?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Alisha. ‘Certainly in their reputed ability to teleport.’
‘Well, this is the Zajinet Research Institute, so you’re in the right place.’
‘I think we are.’ Alisha smiled at her. ‘Can I ask, is Zajinet teleportation a real phenomenon, or is it something else?’
‘What other kinds of thing were you thinking of, Alisha? Is it okay if I call you Alisha?’
‘Of course, ma’am. Uh, confabulation among witnesses, maybe caused by neurochemical imbalance. Aliens able to mess with human biochemistry are more likely than those with an ability to manipulate spacetime.’
‘That’s true, but the Zajinets’ known abilities mean they’re rather different from the average, don’t you think?’
‘There is that. Do you think that they can make short hops through mu-space without using ships? Is that it?’
‘We’ve researched that possibility among all known sightings, ’ said Weissmann. ‘Some of the translocation events - that’s our term - have taken place amid smart buildings, leaving full surveillance data, and not just here on Fulgor. There has been no indication of the energy spillage one would expect from a mu-space transition.’
‘Then it’s just a coincidence, that they can teleport in realspace and fly mu-space ships?’
‘No, my dear.’ Weissmann’s eyes were wonderfully intelligent. ‘I think they grasp spacetime physics in a way none of us has, not even Pilots.’
Roger did not like the glance she gave him.
She can’t suspect.
‘Pilots can’t teleport,’ said Alisha. ‘If they could, there’d be at least a rumour of it by now.’
‘Which implies, my dear, that an ability to function in mu-space is not sufficient. But you’re aware of the macroscopic superposition of Zajinet mentality. Parallel identities in every individual.’
‘Um, sure.’ Alisha’s eyelids flickered as she accessed data. ‘Very . . . different.’
‘If Pilots had minds like that’ - Weissmann smiled at Roger - ‘perhaps they could do the same. Or perhaps they couldn’t. We truly don’t know.’
‘But the Zajinets transport themselves among the Calabi-Yau dimensions?’
‘It’s the only hypothesis that remains. They don’t leave our universe, they don’t travel through the four dimensions we perceive, so it’s only the hyperdimensions that are left to them.’
‘If we could do the same—’
‘Wouldn’t that be wonderful? But there’s no hope of that, not for many centuries. The research is far beyond us.’
‘Well . . . Thank you for your time, ma’am. Thank you so much.’
‘Just a moment. Here.’ Weissmann gestured, and Alisha’s eyes widened. ‘Those are monographs that we’ve written here in the Institute. Feel free to quote from them. With attribution, naturally.’
‘Oh, gosh. Ms Weissmann, this is far more than I expected.’
‘Well, I like you.’ She stood up behind her desk. ‘Let me know how you get on.’
‘Sure.’
‘Thank you,’ said Roger.
‘I’ll see you both out.’
Partway along the corridor, Weissmann paused before a display case.
‘Fragments of a mu-space ship. Part of the hull.’
‘A Zajinet ship?’ asked Alisha.
Roger already knew the answer - to him, the material clearly did not come from a Pilots’ vessel.
‘Absolutely,’ said Weissmann. ‘The poor thing crash-landed in a hypozone, nearly twenty years ago, just after it departed from the Zajinet embassy.’
‘Of course. Was that when they withdrew their delegation?’
‘Embarrassing, but yes. They thought we could not guarantee their safety, which perhaps the accident demonstrated, but it was their ship that malfunctioned. It’s also why our little institute is such a quiet backwater. Since their species stopped visiting Fulgor, people’s interest has waned.’