“The drains and gutters . . .” began Hannah.
“To drain the blood of the animals sacrificed,” said Harman. “Mostly sheep and cattle.”
Hannah stepped back from the slab and crossed her arms over her chest. “The people wouldn’t . . . kill the animals?”
“No,” said Harman. “They have the voynix do that. So far.”
Ada stood at the open doorway. Rain dripped down the glowing portal, turning it into a purple-tinted waterfall. “What was this place . . . before? The ruins?”
“I’m pretty sure it was a Lost Age temple,” said Harman.
“To Apollo?” Hannah’s body was rigid, her arms folded tight against her body.
“I don’t think so. In the rubble here are bits and pieces of statuary—not gods, not people, not voynix . . . not quite . . . demons, I think. An old word for them was ‘gargoyle’—but I’m not sure what they signify.”
“Let’s get out of here,” said Ada.
Across the river of skulls and west again toward the crater, the broad boulevards ended where the Lost Age buildings became crowned with newer, taller structures—some very new, probably less than a thousand years old—a rising latticework of black buckylace and rain-glistening bamboo-three. Hannah called up a function to find Daeman, and the rectangle of light floating above her left palm glowed now amber, now red, then green again as they took stairways and lifts from street level to mezzanine level, from mezzanine level to the hanging esplanade fifteen stories above the old rooftops, then up from esplanade level to the residential stacks. Hannah paused at the esplanade rail to look down, mesmerized as most first-time viewers are as they stare into the unblinking red eye miles and miles below in the bottomless black circle of the crater; Ada had to pull her away with a hand on Hannah’s elbow and lead her to the next lift and stairway.
Surprisingly, it was a person, not a servitor, who answered the door at Daeman’s domi. Ada introduced her group, and the woman, who looked to be in her mid-forties as all three and four Twenties did, identified herself as Marina, Daeman’s mother. She led the way down warmly painted hallways and up interior staircases and through common rooms to the private areas on the crater-side of the domi complex.
“The servitor brought the message you were coming, of course,” said Marina, pausing outside a beautifully carved mahogany door, “but I haven’t told Daeman. He is still . . . perturbed . . . by the accident.”
Harman said, “But he doesn’t remember it?”
“Oh, no, of course not,” said Marina. She was an attractive woman and Ada could see the resemblance to her son in her red hair and pleasantly stocky build. “But you know what they say about such things . . . the cells remember.”
But they’re not the same cells, thought Ada. She said nothing.
“Will it upset Daeman to see us?” asked Hannah. To Ada’s ear, the young woman sounded more curious than concerned.
Marina made a graceful shrugging motion with her hand, as if to say “We shall see.” She knocked on the door and opened it when Daeman’s muffled voice bid them enter.
The room was large and draped with richly colored fabrics, floating silk tapestries, and lace curtains around Daeman’s sleeping area, but the far wall was all glass opening onto a private porch. Lamps in the large room were set low, but the brightly lighted city’s edge beyond the balcony curved away on both sides, and more constellations of lanterns, glow globes, and soft electric lights were visible half a mile away across the dark crater. Daeman was sitting in a nesting chair by the rain-streaked window, staring out as if pondering the lights. He blinked at the sight of Ada, Harman, and Hannah, but then waved them over to the circle of soft furniture. Marina excused herself and closed the door behind her as the three took their seats. The glass doors had been opened and the cool air coming through the screens smelled of rain and wet bamboo.
“We wanted to see you how you were doing,” Ada said. “And I wanted to apologize in person for the accident . . . for not taking better care of my guest.”
Daeman smiled and shrugged, but his hands were trembling slightly. He set them on his silk-robed knees. “All I remember is something large crashing through the trees—and the smell of carrion, I remember that—and then waking up in the firmary crèche-tank. The servitors here told me what happened, of course. It would be amusing if the idea weren’t so . . . revolting.”
Ada nodded, leaned closer, and took his hand. “I do apologize, Daeman Uhr. The allosauruses have come onto the estate only very rarely in recent decades and the voynix are always there to protect us . . .”
Daeman frowned but did not remove his hand from hers. “Evidently they didn’t do a very good job protecting me.”
“That is strange,” said Harman, crossing his legs and tapping the corrugated-paper arms of his chair. “Very strange. I can’t remember the last time a voynix failed to protect a human in such a situation.”
Daeman looked at the older man. “You’re used to situations where recombinant animals eat people, Harman Uhr?”
“Not at all. I meant situations where human beings are in jeopardy.”
“I apologize again,” said Ada. “The security failure on the part of the voynix was inexplicable, but my own carelessness was inexcusable. I’m sorry that your weekend at Ardis Hall was ruined and that your sense of harmony was perturbed.”
“Perturbed, yes . . . perhaps an inadequate word to describe being devoured by a six-ton carnivore,” said Daeman, but he smiled slightly and bowed his head even more slightly to acknowledge his acceptance of the apology.
Harman leaned closed and clasped his hands, bobbing them up and down for emphasis as he spoke. “We had an unfinished item for discussion, Daeman Uhr . . .”
“The spaceship.” Now Daeman’s tone of irony had dripped into sarcasm.
Harman was not deterred. His clasped hands rose and fell with the syllables. “Yes. But not just a spaceship . . . that’s the ultimate goal, of course . . . but any form of flying machine. Jinker. Sonie. Ultralight. Anything to allow us to explore between faxports . . .”
Daeman sat back, away from Harman’s intensity, and folded his arms. “Why do you persist with this? Why do you bother me about this?”
Ada touched his arm. “Daeman, Hannah and I had both heard, from different people, that at a recent party in Ulanbat—about a month ago, I believe—you told some acquaintances of ours there that you’d once met someone who mentioned seeing a spaceship . . . and someone who spoke of flying between nodes . . .”
Daeman managed to look both blank and irritated for a moment, but then he laughed and shook his head. “The witch,” he said.
“Witch?” said Hannah.
Daeman opened his hands in an echo of his mother’s graceful shrugging gesture. “We called her that. I forget her real name. A crazy woman. Obviously in her last Twenty . . .” He shot a glance toward Harman. “People begin losing touch with reality in their later years.”
Harman smiled and ignored the gibe. “You don’t remember this woman’s name?”
Daeman gestured again, less gracefully this time. “No.”
“Where did you meet her?” asked Ada.
“The last Burning Man. A year and a half ago. I forget where it was held . . . somewhere cold. I just followed friends from Chom when they faxed there. Lost Age ceremonies never interested me very much, but there were many fascinating young women at this gathering.”
“I was there!” Hannah said, her eyes bright. “About ten thousand people came.”