Out on the beach the air was already bright, agitated. Kittiwakes swooped and fought over something in a clump of tidewrack. Up on the dunes Anna found flattened marram, the residue of some chemical smell, a long, shallow depression, as though something vast had settled there in the night. She looked down at Monster Beach: no marks.
“Michael!” she called.
Only the cries of the gulls.
She hugged herself against the cold breeze off the ocean, then walked back to the cottage, where she cooked eggs and sausages and ate them hungrily. “I haven’t felt so hungry,” she said to her own face in the bathroom mirror, “since . . .” But she couldn’t think what to add, it had been so long ago.
She waited for him for three days. She walked on the dunes, drove into Boston, cleaned the cottage from top to bottom. She ate. Much of the time she just sat in a chair with her legs curled up, listening to the afternoon rain on the window and remembering everything she could about him. Every so often she switched the TV on, but mostly she left it off and, staring at it thoughtfully, tried to picture the things they had done the night he went.
On the morning of the third day she stood at the door listening to the gulls fighting up and down above the beach. “You won’t come back now,” she said, and went inside to pack her things. “I’ll miss you,” she said. “I really will.” She disconnected the outboard drive from Kearney’s laptop and hid it under a layer of clothes. Then, unsure how it would be affected by the airport fluoroscope, slipped it in her purse instead. She would ask them at the desk. She had nothing to hide, and she was sure they would let it through. When she got back she would find Brian Tate, and hope—whatever had happened to him—he could carry on Michael’s work. If not, she would have to phone someone at Sony.
She locked the beach house door and put the bags in the BMW. One last look along the dunes. Up there, with the wind taking her breath away, she had a clear memory of him at Cambridge, twenty years old, telling her with a kind of urgent wonder, “Information might be a substance. Can you imagine that?”
She laughed out loud.
“Oh, Michael,” she said.
29
Surgery
The shadow operators flew to Seria Mau from all parts of the ship. They left the dark upper corners of the human quarters where, mourning the loss of Billy Anker and his girl, they had clung in loose temporary skeins like cobwebs in the folds of an old curtain. They abandoned the portholes, next to which they had been biting their thin, bony knuckles. They emerged from the software bridges and fakebook archives, the racked hardware on the smart-plastic surfaces of which they had lain undistinguishable from two weeks’ dust in her father’s house. They had undergone a sea change. Gossip rustled between them, bursts of data flickering like silver and random colours—
They said: “Has she—?”
They said: “Dare we—?”
They said: “Is she really going out with him?”
Seria Mau watched them for a moment, feeling as remote as space. Then she ordered:
“Cut me the cultivar you have always wanted me to have.”
The shadow operators could scarcely believe their ears. They grew the cultivar in a tank much like her own, in an off-the-shelf proteome called Tailors’ Soup, customised with inorganic substrates, code neither human nor machine, pinches of alien DNA and live math. They dried it out and eyed it critically. “You’ll look very nice, dear,” they told it, “if you just wipe the sleep from your blue eyes now. Very nice indeed.” They brought it to the room in which she kept the Dr. Haends package.
“Here she is,” they said. “Isn’t she lovely? Isn’t she charming?”
“I could have done without the dress,” said Seria Mau.
“Oh but dear: she had to wear something.”
It was herself, twelve years old. They had decorated her pale hands with spirals of tiny seed pearls, and turned her out in a floor-length frock of icy white satin sprigged with muslin bows and draped in cream lace. Her train was supported at each corner by hovering, perfect, baby boys. She stared shyly up at the cameras in the corners, whispering:
“What was relinquished returns.”
“I can do without that, too,” said Seria Mau.
“But you must have a voice, dear—”
She didn’t have time to argue. Suddenly she wanted it all over with. “Bridge me in,” she said.
They bridged her in. Under the impact of this, the cultivar lost psychomotor control and fell back against a bulkhead. “Oh,” it whispered. It slid down onto the deck, staring puzzledly at its own hands. “Am I me?” it asked. “Don’t you want me to be me?” It kept glancing up and then down again, wiping compulsively at its face. “I’m not sure where I am,” it said, before it shivered once and got to its feet as Seria Mau Genlicher. “Aah,” whispered the shadow operators. “It’s all too beautiful.” Deco uplighters introduced to the room a gradual pearly illumination, wavering yet triumphant; while rediscovered choral works by Janácek and Philip Glass filled the air itself. Seria Mau stared around. She felt no more “alive” than she had in the tank. What had she been so frightened of? Bodies were not new to her, and besides, this one had never been her self.
“The air smells like nothing in here,” she said. “It smells like nothing.”
The Dr. Haends package lay on the floor in front of her, locked up in Uncle Zip’s red and green beribboned box—which, she saw now, was a kind of metaphor for the actual mechanisms of confinement the gene-tailor had used. She studied the box for a moment, as if it might look different viewed from real human eyes, then knelt down and threw back its lid. Instantly, a creamy white foam began to spill out into the room. The Photographer (revisioned from five surviving notes on a corrupted optical storage disc by the twenty-second-century composer Onotodo-Ra) faded to the Muzak it so resembled. Over it, a gentle chime rang, and a woman’s voice called:
“Dr. Haends. Dr. Haends to surgery, please.”
Meanwhile, though dead by his own definitions since the collision with Uncle Zip’s K-ship, the commander of the Nastic vessel Touching the Void flickered in and out of view in one of the darkened corners of the room. He looked like a cage made of leaky insect legs, but while his ship remained, so did the burden of his responsibilities. Among these he included Seria Mau Genlicher. She had impressed him as capable of behaviour even more meaningless than most human beings. He had watched her kill her own people with a ferocity that betrayed real grief. But she was someone, he had decided early, who struggled harder with life than she needed to: this he respected, even admired. It was a Nastic quality. Because of it, he had been surprised to discover, he felt he owed her a duty of care; and he had been trying to discharge it since he died. He had done what he could to protect her from the Krishna Moire. More importantly, he had been trying to tell her what he knew.
He wasn’t sure he could remember all of it. He had no clear idea, for instance, why he had been co-operating with Uncle Zip in the first place: though he guessed perhaps that Uncle Zip had promised to share Billy Anker’s discovery with him. An entire planet of unmined K-tech! On the eve of another war with human beings, this certainly would have seemed an attractive offer. It must, however, have begun to seem less attractive after the attempt to retailor the Dr. Haends package. Uncle Zip had met with little success. All he had done was wake up something which already lived inside it. What that was, neither he nor the Nastic tailors had any idea. It was something much more intelligent than any of its predecessors. It was self-aware in a way that might take years to comprehend. If it had once been what Uncle Zip claimed it to be—a package of measures powerful enough to undo safely the bridge between the operator and the code: a kind of reverse signing-up—it was no longer anything like that.