One problem is that she does not know what questions to ask.
She reaches the carousel and watches the whirling horses, most of them riderless. There are people on the other side of the structure and the party jewel is pulling her there, but she does not want to go just yet. She would rather hide in the tinkling music, the light and the motion: in the small sphere of carousel glow, she can imagine the vastness of Supra City does not exist.
Sydän would love this place. They could have come here, when they left Oort. But no, she wanted true immortality, the kind that only the Sobornost offers.
The thought pinches her with sharp claws. The cold touch of the jewelled chain around her ankle mingles with the phantom pains of her leg. I am losing her. The pellegrini’s constant presence in her mind was a reminder of her mission, a sharp rock she could squeeze in her hand when in doubt; a peach-stone in her mouth.
The pellegrini. Mieli first met the goddess – or the Prime – in her temple on Venus, jealously guarding the singularity she had made out of Amtor City and the matter of Lakshmi Planum and sacrificed minds. A tiny captive star whose event horizon still holds the soul of Sydän and countless others. What will you give me, little girl? She was always a vengeful, hot-tempered taskmaster, a cold bitch, as Perhonen often put it. Never one for self-sacrifice, as the goddess herself told Mieli. Why did she save me? The pellegrini-gogol in her head was one of uncountable billions, but Mieli knows well that it does not make death any less real, sacrifice any easier. She remembers her own copies who died fighting in the wildcode desert of Earth, the pain and sudden nothingness she felt through her metaself.
Remember, the pellegrini said.
And she does. Invasion or not, Sydän is still trapped in a black hole, and the Kaminari jewel is the only way to get her out. She must stay inside the Great Game, find out what they know about the jewel, and think of a way to get to it – all before the Sobornost invasion comes. Again, she wishes the thief was here: he would know what to do. Or Perhonen. Mieli’s song for her is still unfinished. She does not want to think about the ship: she knows too well what it would say.
Mieli is alone, and there is no more time for the past.
She takes a deep breath and walks around the carousel, to the sea of light and conversation.
And that’s when the zombies attack.
They come at her from behind the carousel, four rotting bodies in tuxedos and evening dresses, lurching forward slowly, arms outstretched. She recognises the two women in yellow from before, except that one has a broken neck now, head hanging at an odd angle, and their skin has a deathly pallor. A sickly sweet smell of formaldehyde and rot surrounds them.
The undead elf-man in a dinner jacket reaches for her and brushes her cheek with clammy fingers. Without thinking, Mieli swings her handbag at his head as hard as she can. The force of the blow lifts him off his feet and tosses him into the spinning carousel. The riders of the white wooden horses scream – with delight or terror, Mieli is not sure. She takes a step back and stares at the dead women in yellow, wondering if the party Circle would allow her to try out her new weapon systems.
‘What did I tell you? No zombie games!’ It’s Zinda, in a beautiful green dress that creates an impression of large green leaves made of lace, silk and pearls, but leaves her olive-skinned shoulders and neck bare. She is holding a champagne flute in her hand, and looks furious.
There is a howl somewhere in the distance.
‘Or werewolves!’
The girls in yellow shimmer into more warm-blooded forms and scowl at Mieli. ‘The Circle rules specify a rebirth theme,’ one of them protests, a chestnut-haired girl with an imperious expression on her cherry lips. ‘And it’s appropriate for the period!’ Her honey-blonde companion nods vigorously.
Zinda rolls her eyes. ‘Duh huh. But you don’t have to take it so literally. Look at me: plants. Green. New life. Spring.’
‘Or envy?’ the other girl says. ‘I can understand, with that alter.’
‘I’m sorry, Mieli, this will only take a moment.’
Mieli can’t suppress a smile. Zinda puts her hands on her hips.
‘Zombies get their own sub-Circle, starting now. All right?’ The chestnut girl’s eyes harden, and she brings her hand forward in a challenge. Zinda scoffs. They wave their hands rapidly in the air in the same rhythm, three times. In the end Zinda’s hand is open and flat, and the other girl’s hand is curled in a fist.
‘Damn!’ the chestnut-haired girl swears, stamping her foot. ‘I spent so much time on this alter!’ She takes the hand of the other yellow-dressed girl and they walk towards the busier areas of the party.
Zinda sighs. ‘Can you believe her? I wanted to do something simple and old-fashioned, but once the party zoku got bigger, it got out of hand. I’m afraid the whole thing is a bit inconsistent in terms of style and theme. And it seems some people can’t tell their Fitzgerald from their Lovecraft. So don’t be surprised if you see a few flapper Deep Ones tonight.’
‘Am I supposed to know what those are?’
‘Frankly, it’s better that you don’t. The only ones who are worse than the Mythos Zoku are Manaya High fans, like me. But what am I thinking! It’s your party, and here you are, without a glass in your hand, and being attacked by the undead!’ She hooks her arm through Mieli’s and pulls her towards the music. She smells of a soft perfume, fruit, peach perhaps. ‘Come on. Let’s go meet some people!’
The party proper is a dazzling, whirling clockwork of talk, dance, music and drink. A white-clad band plays jazz. Most guests are elegantly dressed baselines, but there are a few odd ones out, pushing the boundaries of what the Circle allows. One of them is a cyborg with bushy sideburns and a tall black hat that Mieli reckons is even more ancient than most of the party wear, a brass barrel of a man with an elaborate moravec arm that is clutching several champagne glasses at once. He is the centre of a small group of anthropomorphic animal alters, a fox, a badger and a white creature that looks like a pointy-eared hippo; it keeps adjusting its bow tie awkwardly with small paws.
‘And boom!’ the man in the hat says, gesturing. ‘They all started going off! To be honest, we should have thought of it ourselves, to arrange something like that! Perhaps for the centennial of the zoku! But it was so rude!’ He shakes his head. ‘And to cause truedeath – but I won’t tarnish this happy occasion with sad memories. Although Chekhova would surely have liked to be here. Ah, Zinda! And this can surely only be the lady of the hour!’
‘Mieli, this is Barbicane, from the Gun Club Zoku,’ Zinda says. The name is familiar to Mieli from the Protocol War: the Gun Club creates many of the zoku warships and weapons, eccentric and elaborate, but effective designs. He is Great Game, one of us, Zinda qupts. An Elder. A good person to know.
Barbicane kisses Mieli’s hand. His sideburns brush her skin, rough like steel wool. He smells of gun oil and a heavy, stinging aftershave. An Elder, she thinks. He must know more about the jewel. But what should I ask?
‘Charmed! Please join us.’ Congratulations, he qupts. In a very short time, you have achieved great things.
I only want to serve.
The fox and the badger greet her politely. They appear to be a couple and are from a zoku called Dancing Cat. The white creature is too shy to say anything, just shakes her hand quickly.
My goodness, what has Zinda been telling you? Barbicane qupts back, with an amused tone. The Great Game is not just about serving. It’s about having fun! He offers Mieli a champagne flute. She accepts it and takes a sip. The golden liquid is sweet and tickles her throat as it goes down. It makes her feel bolder.