"Yes. You don't think that will be against me, do you Shan, when I go for Scout?"
"I think that Scouts, like traders, grow hungry for news from home. And that they remember to open the roster first."
They walked a dozen steps in silence.
"Well," Shan asked. "What had Nova to say?"
Val Con took a breath of warm, slightly oily air. "She said that people with nothing better to do are making Mother the subject of gossip in shops," he said as evenly as possible. "And that there is a general rejoicing that Clan Ranvit is no longer tainted by pak'Ora's contract with yos'Galan."
"I see," Shan said. "I hope Nova was able to keep her temper."
"She confessed it was hard, and that Cousin Luken was no help."
"Well, what was he to do? Have after them with a carpet knife?"
"He might have—he might have asked them to leave," Val Con said.
"Oh, very good. How if they wished to buy a rug? Should he refuse to take their money?"
Even Val Con had to admit that wouldn't be good for business—and certainly not at all like Cousin Luken. Though—
"Perhaps he charged them more?" he said hopefully.
Shan closed one eye. "He might have done," he said slowly. "Or he may have noticed. For later, you know."
That was likely, Val Con thought. Cousin Luken kept his Balances tidy—it had been one of the things Nova was to learn, as his 'prentice. And it was . . . somewhat comforting—knowing that the gossipers would not go unanswered.
Ahead, Uncle Er Thom stepped to the kerb, and turned to look back at them, his posture indicating surprise at finding them lagging so far behind. They hurried to his side.
"At the end of this block is the Mercantile Hall, where we shall attend the trade reception. Shan, you will be made known to those I speak with as a senior 'prentice in trade. As such you may converse and make such inquiries as are on-point for trade upon Pomerloo. Val Con, you will attend me. You will be quiet, and seemly. You will not allow your attention to wander. You will listen, watch, and be prepared to tell me later what you saw, who I spoke with, what they said, my replies, and what you learned from each exchange."
He considered them carefully.
"Do you have any questions? Shan?"
"No, sir."
"Val Con?"
"No, Uncle."
"Very well. Walk with me, please."
* * *
The datagram contained a list of—options. He supposed they could be called options. He wondered, having absorbed that short, sad list, if this was what had been intended for the Independent Armed Military Modules all along—that they should come at last to a place where there were no choices.
But, really, what was the point? Roderick Spode had held the overrides; he could have ended it long ago. The deaths of eight more sentients would have scarcely added to the weight that must already have burdened his soul.
Commander Spode had been of the opinion that the IAMMs, while sentient, had no soul. To have a soul, he had argued, one must have an identity. A self. And the self of a machine intelligence was too easily amenable to software interventions. He, himself, therefore, had no soul, the eternal situation of which might concern him. Neither did he have a name, though he could recall that, once, he had.
Yet, name and soul aside, he did not wish to die.
"The others," Commander Spode had one day reported, "have made their determinations. You should know that they have all chosen the same end, which was not unexpected. What keeps you here, in this diminished state? You have been given all that is required to make a decision, and the means to act upon it. Consider this a call to action.
He had acted—so much, he recalled. What form that action had taken—that, he no longer recalled, though he did remember a feeling of . . . peace.
Here, wherever he was, now, whenever it might be, he looked again at his options.
The first, he rejected. He would not willfully end his own life.
The second option—call for aid. A protocol was outlined, and an approximation of how much power such a call would consume. Not suicide. Not quite. Though he would descend almost immediately into the steady state.
Appended to this choice was a record of how long he had been in decline, rendered in Standard Years.
Hundreds of Standard Years.
If he chose to call, would there be any with ears to hear, after so long a time?
If he did not call, he would continue to decline—the third option, unspoken. Do nothing, and continue, slowly, to die.
Call out, and speed the last moment.
Give up, and know no more.
He wished that he knew more about his location; his situation; his status. Reaching for the data only brought him again to that absorbent, frightening, wall. Input . . . only the datagram, and his own thoughts.
So, to chose.
All three options promised annihilation. The second alone offered . . . hope.
Once, he had victoriously defended life. Once, he had vigorously defended hope. Of all those things he did not recall, he did remember that.
Perhaps someone else would remember it, as well.
* * *
Uncle Er Thom was in conversation with Master Trader Prael—or, rather, Val Con thought, Master Trader Prael was talking to Uncle Er Thom. She was a tall, broad woman who spoke Liaden with a Solcintran accent while displaying a freedom of manner that was very nearly Terran. She noticed Shan and brought him into the discussion as an equal. Himself, standing unintroduced and, by the Code, socially invisible, she gave a grin and a wink, but seemed in no way offended when he failed to smile in return.
He had been instructed to listen, and listen he did. Master Trader Prael assumed herself on terms more intimate than Uncle Er Thom was willing to allow. Several times he hinted her toward the mode between business associates, but she continued on, heedless, in the mode between long-term allies. It shortly came clear that she and Uncle Er Thom had last met at a similar reception on Anusta Heyn; she spending the time since developing a trade loop-route taking that planet as its center.
"A long loop, you understand," she said, raising her empty glass to shoulder height and waggling it.
"Indeed, it must be so," Uncle Er Thom answered politely. "I would imagine a very long loop, indeed."
"Oh, I felt the same, when the central government approached me for a design! But, it was a pretty problem and I was—let us say that I was bored, eh?"
Uncle Er Thom smiled politely, then glanced up as a shadow fell between them.
Val Con looked up also, and almost gasped.
The being that hovered at Master Trader Prael's side was gleaming silver and matte white, lozenge-shaped, with three articulated arms, one of which was holding a drinks tray.
It was perfectly lovely, and perfectly silent. Val Con stole a downward glance—Yes! It did hover above the floor, but whether it used a disk of air, or if there was a track lain under the floor—or!—along the ceiling. He looked upward, very quickly, and back to the server even more quickly, as he felt Shan's foot press, not gently, on his.
Master Trader Prael offered her empty glass; the device received it with dignity, the gripper at the end of the infinitely flexible arm consisting of three long digits—two fingers and a thumb. The trader plucked a full glass from the tray being offered and glanced over her shoulder.
"Who else is drinking? My friend Er Thom? No? The bold young apprentice? No? I assure you, it is good wine, sir."
"Thank you," Shan said; "I expect it is. But on Pomerloo, I am too young to drink wine."