Starmind

19 Provincetown, Massachusetts 24 February 2065

Rhea opened the front door wide. “Goodnight, Tommy,” she said politely, and hurled him through the door and clear off the front porch. Tom Cunha landed well, and turned back to her with a baffled expression. She tossed the plastic bag of fresh codfish he had brought her after him, scoring a direct hit on his head. “Not tonight,” she said. “I have a haddock.” She cackled with laughter and slammed the door on him.

The laugh didn’t last long; she was too angry. And then the anger too failed her, and she was back to sad. Her shoulders slumped; she turned and headed wearily for the kitchen.

Two weeks to the day since Rand had gone back up to the Shimizu—for good, he said, and she believed him. Fourteen days since her marriage had officially ended. Half a moon of loneliness and celibacy. Provincetown was a small town, its jungle drums especially efficient in winter; the unaffiliated were already beginning to sniff around. P-town being P-town, no more than half of them were male, Rhea’s own preference. But God dammit, couldn’t one of the oafs approach the business with any class? She wasn’t asking for love, or even strong affection. Given the least salve for her pride, she might have relished a chance to lose herself in simple sweaty exercise. Instead she got fresh codfish and jovial offers to “take her off the hook.”

Soon the global literary grapevine would catch up… and then the offers would be even more offensive.

A whole planet of men to choose from, and she didn’t know one she’d swap for another night with Rand.

Or Duncan, for that matter. As she passed through the living room on her way to the kitchen, her eye fell on Driftglass, tumbling slowly end over end beside the bay window, balanced on an air-jet at head height. She had placed the vacuum sculpture there, defiantly, the day after Rand had gone back to orbit—right beside the spot where the family-portrait holo of the three of them stood. She stopped and contemplated it now. It seemed to belong there, next to the bay view, among all the old photos and mementos of Paixao history, looked to be a true part of Provincetown.

And all at once that irritated her. It was not of Provincetown. It was of space. It did not belong in that living room. The symbolism was wrong, it clashed. Things in Provincetown did not turn end over end in mid-air, defying gravity. Nothing in Provincetown was formed by vacuum except the town government. Space had not only taken her husband and her marriage, it had sent a tentacle down into her very own living room here on Earth. And made her like it. It had seduced her the same way it had Rand… with beauty. She could never, would never, go back… but she would never again fully leave space behind. A piece of her heart was caught there.

All right: if even her childhood home wasn’t safe, there was always the shore. There was nothing of space there. She reversed direction and headed for the door. No sense going to the kitchen anyway; she hadn’t been able to choke down a bite in days.

She paused on the porch, to make sure both that Tommy was gone and that she had smart clothes on, and then summoned the car. The bayside beach was less than a block away by foot… but the ocean beach on the north side of town would be windier, and thus less populated now that the sunset was long over.

As the seat harness enfolded her, she noticed that the passenger seat beside her was still set to Rand’s dimensions. With a sharp gesture, she randomized it again. On second thought, she adjusted it to Colly’s shape, and randomized the back seat. Time for the kid to start sitting up front. “Herring Cove, public lot, via Commercial Street,” she said, and the car moved forward at the local maximum of 20 KPH.

The four days of Rand’s visit had been agony. The first day was Colly’s birthday, and both parents were invincibly cheerful, maintaining the truce even when Colly wasn’t around for fear of shattering it. That was bad, but it was worse when they began talking on the second day. It took them two more days, progressively worse through exhaustion, before both were willing to concede that there was nothing to say, nothing to be done. Rand was staying in space; she was staying on Terra; no compromise existed. Once they had admitted that, they’d made love one last time, ceremonially. Rhea had never made love in despair before. She did not quite regret it in retrospect… but she wished she could stop remembering it for a while.

Perhaps oddly, Duncan’s name had not come up even once. She would always remember him fondly, had interceded with the Shimizu to save his job—but she and Rand both knew he had only been a symptom, an excuse, a way out of a dilemma she had not been consciously willing to resolve. And in any case, that relationship was over: Duncan was, by birth, just as committed to space as Rand intended to become.

She phoned Tia Marguerite on her way to the ocean, and was told that Colly was fine, Tia Marion was just giving her a bath, don’t you worry about a thing, dear. She cut the connection, and worried.

It had been two weeks. She could not stall forever. Sooner or later she was going to have to have a long talk with Colly, and try to explain the change that had come into both of their lives. Colly knew that she and Mommy were going to be living on Earth again for a while—but had not been explicitly told why, or for how long. She did not yet know that Daddy’s visit earthside had been his last. The longer Rhea waited, the harder it would be. But the wordsmith had not yet found the words she needed. Or perhaps it was courage that eluded her.

Commercial Street was a single one-way lane along the waterfront, not much wider than her car. Her progress was sporadic: in compliance with local statute, her car braked for all pedestrians and pets. On either side of her as she drove were a parade of temptations, bar after lounge after club after bistro, each as inviting as human ingenuity could make it, overflowing with the light and warmth and sounds of convivial merriment. She shuddered at the thought of entering one. She began to regret choosing this route—but it did keep her within smelling distance of the shore the whole way, and that was worth the aggravation of being surrounded by people and their damned gaiety. She was glad when she passed the rotary and breakwater by the Provincetown Inn, and left town behind. The car speeded up, and soon her headlights showed only dunes and marshgrass and rosehip and blueberry bushes.

She switched on her clothes, and by the time the car parked itself at Herring Cove they had warmed up. She set out at once into the teeth of the wind, leaving her face unlit to indicate that she did not welcome company. She walked along the shore, feeling her way in almost total darkness, until she found a private semicircle of dune, and crept deep into its pool of shadow. It was too overcast to really see the ocean, but the sound of the surf overpowered and calmed her thoughts, and the shore-smell sank into her bones. She lay on her back in the sand, and dialed down her clothes until she could feel some of its coolness.

She was very near to something like peace when, an hour later, the overcast blew away—and the stars came out.

Even here, half of the entire world was space. The only difference between the view here and that from any window in the upper hemisphere of the Shimizu was that here she was under one gravity of acceleration—and here there was not even a layer of glassite between her and all that emptiness…

No, there was another difference. Rhea had always loved the stars. And this beach had always been one of her favorite places from which to view them. Now, as the wind whipped over her, she was forced to admit that they were prettier without atmosphere in the way. In space the stars did not twinkle or shimmer, just burned steadily down forever. There was a better perception of depth, of scale, there. And the distinctions astronomers made—blue star, yellow star, red giant—in space you could actually see them.

Oh, if only the stars could be seen that way without sealing yourself up in a claustrophobic little can!

Or hiring a good shaper…

She found herself clutching at the sand on either side of her, and sat up abruptly. As soon as she did, she realized she would not have this stretch of beach to herself much longer. Something over a dozen people were coming her way along the shoreline, faces glowing softly like jack-o’-lanterns. Unusually, they did not seem to be chattering, did not seem to have fetched any kegs or food or instruments or collected any driftwood for a fire. For a moment, instinct made the hairs rise on the back of her neck—but there had not been any serious crime in Provincetown in decades. She watched them approach, hoping they would pass by and keep going.

To her disappointment, they stopped not far away. She stiffened when she saw them form a circle. Trancers! Just what she needed now: dance imagery against the backdrop of the stars. Worse: trance-dance—as close to zero-gee dance as you could find on Earth, in spirit and in phrasing. She got up, had her clothes repel the moist sand that wanted to cling to her back, and headed back to her car, giving the Trancers as wide a berth as the terrain permitted.

Nonetheless, one of them left the group and approached her, just as the first dancer was getting under way in the center of the circle. She started to speed up to avoid him—but slowed and then stopped as she recognized him: Manuel Brava.

He pronounced his name in the old Portagee way, “M’nal.” He was a local character, even in a region rich with colorful eccentrics. There was no telling his age; Rhea did not know anyone in town of any age who didn’t have childhood memories of him. Nor did anyone know how he made his living. One saw him from time to time, usually in stillness: sitting motionless by the shore of the ocean beach, or on a pier on the bay side, staring out to sea and smiling faintly. He was sort of the Cape Cod equivalent of the wandering Hindu holy man, who lived simply and said little and was fed by all he passed. In return he would give single, short sentences, which were never overheard by anyone but the recipient. People were reluctant to discuss whatever it was Manuel had told them, but the consensus was that he was a smart old bird.

In Rhea’s own case, she had wandered past him one day in her sixteenth year with an extra cheese sandwich… and in return for it had been told, “When you’re alone… you’re in pretty good company.” It had meant little to her at the time, but she had never forgotten the comment, and over the ensuing years it had come to seem wiser and wiser.

At sixteen, being alone had been her greatest fear, and the root of it was exactly as Manuel had diagnosed: a failure to treasure herself. Manuel’s casual, offhand comment might as well have been the final sentence of a full day’s conversation between them. He had known her, without her knowledge, before she’d ever said a word to him. He seemed to know everyone in town that well; at least, he never seemed to need a second sentence.

Why that wasn’t creepy was that what he had said, after studying her that well, was something kind. Good return on a cheese sandwich.

As he approached, now, there was no doubt in her mind that he knew all about the recent upheaval in her life; she waited for her nugget, wishing she had a sandwich on her. God knew she could use a little insight just now.

He stopped beside her and turned so that they both faced the sea and the Trancers. They watched them together for a timeless time. Shortly she forgot that she was waiting for him to speak. Trance-dance lived up to its name: there was something elementally hypnotic about it. There was something otherworldly about it too: in some subtle way she could not pin down, the Trancers reminded her of Stardancers. Perhaps it was only the rosy glow of their illuminated faces against the black sea and sky. Their dance did not seem to require any great skill, yet it held her spellbound. For the first time she began to understand why one would want to spend so many hours doing that.

“Be ready,” Manuel said. “It’s gonna be good.”

She turned to look at him, and he was smiling. Her first reaction was to ask, what is going to be good? And when? But Manuel never explained, never amplified. So she was surprised when she heard herself ask, “Will I know when it’s coming?”

His smile broadened. “You won’t miss it.”

Two sentences was a record. She decided to go for broke, and ask him how to be ready—but he was already shuffling back through the sand toward the Trancers. She watched in silence until he joined in the dance. Then she turned and trudged away toward her car.

Halfway there she stopped… stood for a moment… then turned and retraced her steps. She stood at the fringe of the dance for perhaps half an hour before joining it. When she did, it welcomed her.

She returned to linear consciousness in the car, on the way home. Her watchfinger said it was a little after four in the morning. She did not feel as tired as she should have; somehow the dance had given more energy than it had taken. She felt as though if she were to unseal her seat harness, she might float up to the ceiling.

In addition, there was an odd, almost forgotten sensation deep within her. She was hungry…

She entered the house at a dead run, and ate nearly half a loaf of massa cevada, Portuguese sweet bread, slathered with butter, washing it down with pirate-strength black tea. When she was done, she made and kneaded a vast batch of bread dough for malassadas. The fried sugarcoated treats—a Portuguese version of beignets, known locally as “flippers”—were Colly’s favorite breakfast.

While the dough was rising, she went upstairs and outside onto the roof, to watch the sun rise from the widow’s walk. It was one of the few authentic widow’s walks left in Provincetown; five generations of Paixao women had paced these very boards, scanning the horizon for signs of their returning husbands. Every time they had been successful too, eventually; none of the Paixao men had been lost at sea—which probably made this the luckiest widow’s walk anywhere. Rhea was conscious that she was breaking the string of good luck, and it brought a pang—but as the colors began to take form on the horizon, she decided it was one she could endure.

Most of the boats had gone out long since, but one unfortunate captain with a cranky engine was just putting out from MacMillan Wharf, warping around the breakwater. A delivery truck was clattering down Commercial Street, and gulls were harassing the garbage collectors. From her high eyrie, Rhea could see the silhouette of a lone figure walking along the shore, beachcombing.

That trance-dance had been her first extended break from pain in many weeks. No, not from pain, but from the suffering of it. At no time had she lost a preconscious awareness of her emotionally damaged condition… but she had relaxed to it, ceased to fear it. She believed now that she was healing—even if she had no idea how long the process would take. And she knew she would be returning to the ocean shore to join more trance-dances. Perhaps Colly might enjoy it too; Rhea had seen children at daytime trance-dances, and it was something they could share…

Just as there was enough light for her to make out Tia Marguerite and Tia Marion’s house, a few blocks distant, she saw a light go on in the room where Colly would have slept. She went back downstairs and punched down the malassada dough. She cut it into pieces, stretched them a little, and set them aside. Then she called Colly, making sure to tell Maxwell not to wake Colly’s guardians if she failed to answer.

But she did answer, at once. “Hi, Mom!”

“Hi, honey. Are you having a good time?”

“Sure!”

The enthusiasm was plainly counterfeit; Rhea was recovered enough to hear that now. Colly loved her great aunts—but knew perfectly well that she only slept under their roof when she was being left out of something. “Well, I don’t want to spoil any big plans or anything… but if you’re not here in ten minutes, the flippers won’t be hot when you eat them.”

“Flippers? Homemade? Wow! Quick: open the door so I don’t break it.” She hung up—and was in the kitchen before the oil was hot. They made the malassadas together, giggling, and gorged themselves until they creaked.

And then they had a long, long talk.

20 Top Step 25 February 2064

Rand hung suspended like a fly in black amber at the precise center of the universe, tethered to a mountain. The only sounds were the oceanic ebb and flow of his own breath, and the persistent slow drumming of his pulse. All of creation was arrayed around him. He felt an impulse to put himself into a spin, so that he could see all of it, but knew that he would foul his umbilical if he did. Probably just as well; even half of infinity was a lot to take in at once.

He found himself thinking of a poem Salieri had retrieved for him last night. He had asked for “something with Fireflies in it,” and the AI’s search engine had yielded up a hauta, a species of Japanese folk song more elaborate than the more common dodoitsu:

Kaäi, kaäi toNaku mushi yori moNakanu hotaru gaMi wo kogasu.Nanno in gwa déJitsu naki hito niShin wo akashité—Aa kuyashi!

(Numberless insects there are thatcall from dawn to evening,Crying, “I love! I love!”—but theFirefly’s silent passion,Making its body burn, is deeperthan all their longing.Even such is my love… yet Icannot think through what KarmaI opened my heart—alas!—toa being not sincere.)

The truly remarkable thing was that the hauta had been transcribed and translated into English by Lafcadio Hearn in 1927—seventy years before “Firefly” meant anything but a species of insect. Yet it seemed to fit Rand’s situation with eerie accuracy.

The Fireflies had created humanity, seeding Terra with life millions of years ago and moving on. The Fireflies were of space. They had returned here the instant man began making art in space. Surely, then, space was where a human artist should go—even if love called him back to Earth.

Space didn’t solve your problems… but it sure put them into a larger perspective.

“All right, people,” Thecla said in his earphones. “Time’s up. Precess.”

Rand turned with the rest of the class, until they all faced the mountain they had come from: Top Step, the place where humans came to become Stardancers. He was a little self-conscious; he knew he did not really belong here, with these Novices. They were second-month students, only another month away from renouncing their former lives forever and accepting Symbiosis. Being among them made him feel a little like a tourist on Death Row, or an infidel smuggled into Mecca. But Reb Hawkins himself had suggested that he join this class.

Rand already had his “space legs,” could handle himself in free-fall—but all his experience was indoors, inside pressurized cubics. Everyone said that to really feel space, it was necessary to spend a lot of hours EVA. The Shimizu was equipped to take guests EVA if they wished—but strictly as tourists, carefully shepherded and pampered, in permanently tethered suits with no thrusters at all and so much radiation shielding that mobility was severely limited, for a maximum of half an hour. Groundhogs were just too good at getting themselves killed outdoors. Spacers all laughed at anyone whose only EVA hours were in Hotel Suits—but more advanced training was not offered in-house.

When he’d met Reb Hawkins, he’d found himself telling Reb his problem, and the monk had invited him to visit Top Step and join a Suit Class. “But won’t your students resent an outsider?” he’d asked.

“There’ll be no reason for them to know you are one,” Reb said. “Top Step is a big place now, and we have a strong custom of privacy going back half a century. If you show up in a class one day, people will just assume you’ve transferred in for some reason, and leave you alone. Most of them will be in the middle of life-reviews of their own.”

Rand had thanked him—but still felt uneasy about the idea, and put it out of his mind.

Until his marriage had self-destructed.

When both Jay and Eva had suggested, within hours of each other, that he take Reb up on his invitation to visit Top Step, Rand had shrugged and acquiesced. He and Rhea had agreed that there was nothing a counselor could do to help them—but now that the plug had been pulled, he found that he needed to talk to someone. A legendary holy man who made his home in space didn’t sound like a bad choice. Rand had liked Reb at once when they’d met, and Jay and Eva vouched for him, “punched his ticket,” as Eva called it.

And now, as he rotated in space and faced Top Step—an immense stone cigar, glowing softly at the tip—he had to admit that coming here had been a good idea. Talking with Reb had helped: Reb’s end of the conversation had consisted entirely of questions, just the right questions. Taking class had helped: it was hard to sustain self-pity out in naked space. And being around Postulants and Novices and Symbiotics had helped too: all these people were in the process of saying goodbye to their lives, and their company helped reconcile Rand to living his own.

“All right,” Thecla said, “we’re going to try something new, today: you’re all going back in on your own power.”

There was a buzz of excitement, but it cut off quickly. Nobody wanted to louse this up.

“One at a time,” she added. “I don’t want you unsnapping until the person before you has made it all the way inboard. Abadhi, you’re first.”

One of the two dozen-odd p-suited figures in Rand’s field of vision tapped his umbilical join. The tether separated, and Top Step began reeling it in. He oriented himself, starfished, and waited.

“Go ahead.”

There was no visible exhaust from Abadhi’s thrusters, but slowly he began to move toward Top Step. Very slowly. The trick in EVA maneuvering was to go about half as fast as you thought you should—then you only arrived about twice as hard and fast as you wanted.

At such speeds, covering ten thousand meters takes some time. Porter came far down the alphabet. Rand had plenty of time to study his classmates as he waited for his turn.

He had lost a marriage: these people were surrendering everything. They were more committed to space than he would ever be, and they were giving up more to be there.

And in return they would gain so much that part of him envied them. Centuries of life, life free of fear or hunger or loneliness, in the bosom of the largest and closest family that had ever been, working and playing among the stars. Those of them who were artists could spend the next century or two pursuing their art, twenty-four hours a day if they chose, with no need to seek commercial or popular or critical success. Or to look for love.

Maybe someday, he thought. Maybe in another ten or twenty years, I’ll come back here for real.

The thought came back, why not now?

He was not done yet, that was all. Married or not, he was still a parent, and would be for at least another decade. He had not used up his visions yet; he still had shapings to create which would not have worked in a Stardancer context. He had still not outgrown his need for applause, his need to achieve. He had fought for his present position so long and so hard that he could not abandon the cup until he had drained it dry. It had, after all, cost him a good wife.

“Porter—get ready!”

He snapped out of his reverie and ran through the procedure in his mind. This sequence of commands tells the tether to go home; that combination of taps on the palm keypads will deliver matched bursts from all five thrusters; move my chin like this for the heads-up targeting display… “Ready, Thecla.”

His tether wiggled away toward Top Step. He centered the target ring in his display, stiffened his limbs, and triggered the thrusters. Aside from a mild pressure at wrists and ankles, nothing seemed to happen. The thruster at the base of his spine produced no sensation at all. Could it be broken? No, his display claimed he was jaunting, just as planned. He glanced around, and saw that the others were indeed receding, just quickly enough to perceive. He waited—and after a while, Top Step suddenly began to visibly approach. He checked his position carefully, decided he needed a course correction, and made it.

His aim was good: if the vast open window of the Solarium had had a bull’s-eye, he would have hit it on his way through. His deceleration was equally perfect: he ended up motionless within arm’s reach of the handgrip he had been aiming for. He saw admiring glances from other returnees, and preened. “Very nice,” Thecla said. “Okay, Pribram: get ready!”

His AI, Salieri, whispered in his ear. “Phone, Rand. Reb Hawkins.”

He cut off his suit radio and took the call. “Hi, Reb.”

“Hello, Rand. Are you enjoying EVA?”

“A lot!” he said. “Thanks for letting me sit in. It’s different outside…”

“It certainly is. Listen, I just wanted to tell you I’m not going to be around for the next couple of days. I have to shuttle over to the Shimizu.”

“Really? What’s up?”

“A party, of sorts. You’re invited if you want, actually—if you don’t mind taking a couple of days off from EVA classes, you could hop over and back with me. It should be a memorable event.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“You know Fat Humphrey?”

“Who doesn’t?” The round restaurateur had been famous ever since the release of Armstead’s Starseed Transmission at the turn of the century; it was said that his Le Puis rivalled the Hall of Lucullus as a gourmet’s and gourmand’s paradise. Armstead claimed you never had to tell Humphrey what you wanted to eat, how you wanted it done, or how much you felt like eating. Over the past week, Rand had found that to be literal truth.

“Well, he just turned one hundred… and he’s retiring to the Shimizu to enjoy his golden years.”

“Wow. That’s going to disappoint a lot of folks.”

“Yes, it will. He’s been swearing for decades that he was going to retire the day his odometer showed three figures, and it seems he meant it. Last night after dinner he took off his tux and spaced the thing. The chefs are all people he trained, of course—but it just won’t be the same without him sizing up the customers and serving the orders. Fat sweetens the air where he is. Anyway, he won’t let us have a farewell party for him here, prefers to just leave like a cat—so Meiya and I are bringing him over to the Shimizu tonight in a special shuttle. There’s room for you if you want to come along.”

“Sounds good,” he said. “I’d like a chance to get to know Fat half as well as he knows me. Every time he pulls that magic act of his, I can’t help wondering what he likes to eat.”

Reb’s answer was a moment in coming. “Do you know… in almost fifty years, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Fat eat?”

“He must do it some time,” Rand said dryly. Fat Humphrey massed well over a hundred and forty kilos; in repose he resembled a Jell-O model of the Shimizu.

“True enough. Well, maybe we’ll get to see him in action when we get him to the hotel.”

“I’ll take him to Lucullus’s tomorrow,” Rand said. “It would be an honor to buy Fat Humphrey a meal. And you and Meiya.”

“Done,” Reb said. “Meet us at the dock at 17:00.” He broke the connection. Reb never seemed to be in a hurry—but he never wasted time or words either.

The last of the students had returned inboard; Rand turned his radio back on in time to hear Thecla dismiss the class. He left the Solarium and with Salieri’s help found his way through the maze of tunnels that honeycombed Top Step to the room he’d been assigned. There he took off his airtanks and thrusters and set both to recharging, and packed a small overnight bag. He was not yet ready to return to the Shimizu full time, but a day or two couldn’t hurt. It might be instructive to test the strength of the scab Top Step had begun to form over the deep wound in his heart.

And he could check in with Jay, see how the new piece was going. He hadn’t produced a note of music yet, hadn’t even viewed the working tapes Jay sent every day… but Jay would understand. Rand had left him a perfectly good shaping to use—the New Mexico desert setting he’d already had in the can—and Jay knew his brother was perfectly capable of showing up a week or two before curtain and producing an acceptable score for whatever choreography he came up with. This retreat had been Jay’s idea as much as anybody’s.

A thought struck him as he packed. “Salieri—can you determine relative locations for Colly and Rhea?”

“Maxwell indicates they are approximately fifty meters apart, Rand.”

“Good. Get me Colly on a hush-circuit.”

“Hi, Daddy! What’s up?” Colly’s cheerful voice asked a few seconds later.

“Hi, princess. I just wanted to let you know I’m going back to the Shimizu for a couple of days. I know we were scheduled for a long chat tonight, but it looks like I’m going to be too busy. Can we reschedule for Thursday?”

“Sure. I guess…”

“Problem?”

The answer was a while in coming. “Dad?”

“Yes?”

“I… uh… Mom and I had a talk this morning.”

“Oh.” The first sensation he was conscious of was of a large weight leaving his shoulders. He had not relished the prospect of explaining things to Colly—but it hadn’t looked as if Rhea was ever going to get off the dime. He was enormously relieved to learn that she had.

Then he realized that only half the weight was gone. “Are you… okay with that?”

Again the answer was agonizingly slow in arriving. “Can I ask you something? I asked Mom, but she said she didn’t know, and I should ask you.”

He took a deep breath, and held it. “Go ahead, honey.”

“What’s the most time I can spend up there with you?”

He exhaled noisily. There was a sound in his ears like bad reception on a suit radio, a sort of vast echoing hum. “Without adapting, you mean.”

“No, I found that out from the White Rabbit,” she said. “I mean, without being a pain in the butt.”

His heart turned over in his chest. “The max, baby. The max. And if that isn’t enough to suit us both, I’ll come down there and see you sometimes. Until I adapt, anyway.”

“That’s good,” she said firmly. “Uh… can I ask you one more thing?”

“Sure.”

“Are you still mad at Duncan, Daddy?”

The question was like a surprise punch in the stomach. He took it, and shook his head, and answered honestly. “No, Colly. I’m not mad at Duncan.”

“I’m glad. Tell him I said hi. Bye, Daddy—I love you!”

“What an extraordinary coincidence: I love you.”

“What are the odds of that, huh?” She hung up smiling.

Rand finished packing. Then, with time to kill before he was due at the dock, he played some of Jay’s tapes, and tinkered with ideas for musical accompaniment. Hell, maybe he should stay at the Shimizu when he got there, and get back to work. Maybe it was time to resume his life. He could play around with EVA another time, when there wasn’t so much to do. He thought of calling Jay, to tell him he was coming. But the timing was bad: Jay would be in the studio now. He decided to call when he got in.

The trip to the Shimizu was thoroughly enjoyable, despite the spartan furnishings aboard the small shuttle. Fat Humphrey in a p-suit was an unforgettable sight, for one thing. And as a traveling companion, he was the original barrel of monkeys; while they were all unstrapped between acceleration and deceleration he even managed to produce a recognizable parody of Kinergy that reduced Rand and everyone else aboard to tears of laughter.

Rand was honored to be included in the merriment. It was apparent to him that this trip was a sentimental journey for Reb—and for Meiya, Reb’s successor as Head Teacher at Top Step. While they had been training and graduating a quarter of a million Stardancers together over the past half century, Fat Humphrey had been one of the very few constants in their lives. Meiya, a quiet, solemn woman, wore an expression that reminded Rand of old pictures he had seen of mothers sending their sons off to war.

As he watched Fat Humphrey mock the moves of a Stardancer, he suddenly wondered why Fat had not accepted Symbiosis on retirement. But he knew he would not ask, not today anyway. The question was in an area of privacy you learned not to violate if you spent any time at Top Step: he didn’t know Fat well enough yet.

And the man read his mind. The moment the laughter for his performance had died away, he looked at Rand and said, “You wonderin’ how come I didn’t eat the red Jell-O for my dessert, huh?”

“Well… yes, Fat, I was, as a matter of fact.”

Fat Humphrey grinned. “You ever hear about the time them assholes blew up about a cubic kilometer of Sym?”

“Sure.” Almost a decade before Rand’s birth, a fanatic antiStardancer terrorist group, headed by Chen Ling Ho’s father, had somehow managed to destroy a large mass of Symbiote on its way from its source in the upper atmosphere of Titan to Earth orbit, where it was supposed to serve the needs of the next generation of Top Step graduates. Several Stardancers riding herd on the load had been killed.

“Well, most o’ that was suppose’ be for me. They been tryin’ to catch up ever since, but it’s gonna be another twenty year or so before they ready to handle me again.” Rand cracked up; so did Reb and Meiya. “I figure in the meantime I watch a little TV, go for a swim, catch a show. You get me a good seat?”

“Well, I’ll tell you, Fat,” he said thoughtfully, “in terms of sightlines and vectors, maybe what we should do is mount a special show just for you.”

“How you mean?”

“Put you in the center of the theater, and work around you.”

Fat roared with glee and slapped him on the back; fortunately his seat belt held. “You’re all right, kid.”

They reached the Shimizu by 19:30. The deceleration was as mild as the acceleration had been, no more than half a gee, and for only a few minutes. Rand could have taken more easily, but the others were all spacers, intolerant of gees.

Fat Humphrey had specifically requested that there be no reception on his arrival. Of course Evelyn Martin had double-crossed him, and was waiting at dockside to drag him off to a press conference. But Rand had halfway expected that: he debarked first, took Martin aside, and threatened to take him by the testicles and fling him through the nearest bulkhead into hard vacuum if he didn’t change orbits, now. Grumbling and muttering, the little PR man complied. It is difficult to slink in free-fall, but he managed it. “Don’t bother with check-in,” he snarled over his shoulder as he went. “It’s covered. Just take him right to P-427.”

Rand rapped on the hatch to signal that it was safe, and the others emerged. As nanobots scurried away with luggage, he tried to show Fat Humphrey where to insert the wafer that would install his AI in the Shimizu’s data crystals… and was startled and a little nonplussed to learn that Fat did not have one.

“How about you, Meiya?” he tried.

But she shook her head too. “I won’t be inboard long enough to bother. We’ll all use Reb’s to get around.”

“Well, okay,” he said. “But stick close to him. This place can be a rabbit warren if you don’t have an AI.”

“There are public terminals all over, left over from the old days,” she pointed out. “If I get lost, I can just ask for you.”

“Sure. I’m not listed, but my AI is: Antonio Salieri. How about if I go get my brother and meet you all at Fat’s new suite in about an hour? I’d like to grab a shower too; I’ve been in this p-suit all day.”

“Good with me,” Fat Humphrey said.

“We’ll meet you there in an hour,” Reb said, and installed his own AI. “Rild—direct us to Suite Prime 427, please.”

One of several exits began to blink softly. “This way, Tenshin.”

Rand jaunted to his own room, checked the time, and decided to phone Jay before showering. He would have just finished dinner by now.

“Hey, bro, what’s shapin’? When are you coming back?”

“About five minutes ago. Want to meet the happiest fat man in human space?”

Jay blinked. “ ‘… the happiest fat man…’ Hey, you mean Fat Humphrey? Is he here?”

“To stay. He’s just retired; it’s his centennial. I came along for the ride; I’m going back with Reb tomorrow. Little gathering at his new digs in about an hour: just him, you, me, Reb and Meiya, as far as I know. You know Meiya, right?”

“Sure. Hey, this is great! I’ve always wanted a chance to kick back and talk with Fat for a few hours. Where’s he at?”

“Prime 427. Meet me at the nearest corner at 20:25 and we’ll go in together.”

“See you there.”

Fifty minutes later he was waiting at the appointed spot. Almost at once, Jay arrived from another direction, grinning. They hugged, and pounded each other’s shoulder blades.

“How are you, bro?”

“Fine,” Rand said. “I’ve gotten a little work done—I’ll show you later.”

“The hell with that—how are you?”

“Okay,” he said. “Not well, yet, but I can see daylight, you know?”

“That’s good. I told you that place’d be good for you. Hey, Eva’s gonna be here too: Reb called her. Probably in the suite already, in fact; I spoke with her half an hour ago and she said she was leaving right away. I get the idea she and Fat are old friends.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me in the—”

The lights went out.

“What the fuck—” Jay said. “Diaghilev!”

No answer.

“Diaghilev, God dammit!”

“Salieri?” Rand tried.

Silence.

There was a public terminal nearby, but it was unlit, presumed dead. “Jesus,” Jay said softly, clearly controlling his voice with an obvious effort. “I think the whole fucking system is down. That’s never happened. I’d have bet a billion dollars it couldn’t possibly happen.”

They heard a scream somewhere in the far distance; no telling even the direction. The Shimizu corridors had some funny acoustics.

Rand’s heart hammered. “Oh my God…” If they had no lights, no AIs, no phones—how long before they had no air? He fought for calm in the claustrophobic darkness. “All right, what’s our move?”

Just then lights came on. Small red emergency lights, every hundred meters along the corridor, with larger blinking ones marking intersections. Rand found them an immense relief, a sign of recovery, but he saw Jay frowning. “They should have kicked on a lot sooner, even if this is a total system collapse,” Jay said. “Something really weird is going on.”

“Have we got air?”

Jay spotted the nearest grille, jaunted to it, and put his face near it. “Yeah. Reduced flow, but it’s air.”

“What do you think: is this just local, or is the whole damn hotel really dark right now?”

“Beats me. They’re supposed to be equally impossible. I pray to God it’s local.”

A suite door opened not far from them, and someone stuck his head out. “Hey, mate,” he called in an Aussie accent, “any idea what the bloody hell is goin’ on?”

“Look at it this way,” Jay called back. “You’re getting tonight’s rent free.”

“Too right,” he said, and closed his door again.

“God,” Rand said, “Fat and the others must be freaking out in there. If they had the window closed when the power failed, they’re in minimal emergency lighting: it could take them an hour to find the manual door release, let alone figure out how to use it.”

“Hell of a welcome to the Shimizu,” Jay agreed. “Come on, let’s go try and calm them down.”

They jaunted in the eerie pale red light to Suite 427. “We’ll never convince Fat the place is safe now,” Jay complained as they neared it. “Shit, I just don’t believe this. The only thing I can imagine taking out the Shimizu system is a comet right through the core crystals—and we didn’t feel any impact. It just doesn’t… oh, you asshole.” Automatically, he had stopped in front of the door and waited for an AI to ask his business. “Hit that release for me, will you, bro?” he said, pointing.

Rand pulled open the access hatch indicated and pulled the handle inside. It moved easily—but the door did not move. “Seems to be broken,” he reported.

Jay grimaced. “Naturally. Things never go wrong one at a time.” He put his hands on his hips. “Christ, the door’s soundproof—we can’t even bang out ‘Calm down’ in Morse code.”

“What’s Morse code?” Rand asked.

“Eva would know, but it doesn’t—wait a god damn minute! What do you mean, ‘broken’? That’s a mechanical latch: it can’t be broken.”

“Okay,” Rand said agreeably. “Then what does nonfunction and a blinking red light mean?”

“A blinking—”

In free-fall one almost never pales visibly; blood does not drain from the head as pressure drops. But even in the poor light, Rand could see his brother’s expression come apart. He jaunted quickly to Rand’s side and stared at the little flashing pilot bulb. After a few seconds, he began to shake his head slowly back and forth, the picture of denial.

Rand grabbed his shoulder, hard, and shook him. “What does it mean?” he cried.

Jay turned to him. There was horror in his eyes. He needed three tries to get the words out, and when he did, they were barely audible. “There is no pressure on the other side of that door.”

21 High Earth Orbit 25 February 2065

Sulke Drager had always hated it when everybody talked at once. Thirty years as a member of a telepathic community had taught her a great deal about handling multiple inputs—more than any human being had ever known—but never before in history had so much of the Starmind all been sending at the same time. And underlying it all, pervading the whole Solar System like a taste of metal in the back of the mouth, was the wordless shriek from Saturn.

And naturally, the “voices” she most needed to “hear” were the weakest. They were also the closest, but distance means nothing to a telepath; signal strength and bandwidth were all that counted.

So she borrowed energy from every Stardancer in the heavens who was not shouting something, and used it to drive a message that had never before been sent across the matrix.

Shut the fuck up!

The System seemed to echo in the sudden relative quiet. Even the wordless wail from the Ring halved its “volume” and “pitch” and dropped back down into the region of speech. The words—Save him, Sulke!—repeated endlessly, like a mantra.

And now Sulke could clearly hear the gentle voice she most needed to hear. All right so far, cousins, Reb said. We are all unharmed so far, which means they intend to parley. Be calm.

She knew his location precisely now. The vessel in which he was imprisoned was superbly stealthed—the combined power of the United Nations could not have found it—but she had detection gear no battle cruiser could match, if the target was another telepath. Reb had been one years before he’d met his first Stardancer; a natural adept. So were Fat Humphrey and Meiya.

So were four other humans currently in space, and fourteen on Terra. About average for humanity. All of them had been kidnapped too, at the same time as Reb, Fat and Meiya—every one was now a prisoner—but this vessel was Sulke’s pidgin: the one she personally happened to be close enough to do something about. She instructed her subconscious to monitor the other ongoing rescue operations for data relevant to her own problem, and consciously ignored them.

She fed Reb’s location to those who were good at orbital ballistics, grabbed the report that echoed back and swore. You’re going nowhere fast! Your trajectory is taking you up out of the ecliptic, and there’s nothing there!

He was still calm. Naturally. We knew they must have a covert base in space; now they’re leading us to it. We already know where the ones dirtside are being taken.

Yeah, and we can’t touch the place. What if where you’re going is just as well defended?

Then we will have to be very clever. And very lucky.

She went briefly into rapport with those who had had military training back in their human lives, and swore again. We have Stardancers vectoring to intercept your projected path at multiple points… but there’s no way to know where you’re going until they decelerate. And if they maneuver in the meantime, we could lose you completely.

They probably will. They’re paranoid; they’ll assume their stealthing may not be good enough, and try every trick there is.

I can match orbits with you right now, she said. You’re coming right at me, near enough.

What about relative speeds?

She was already adjusting her lightsail, spinning out Symbiote like pizza dough. You’re a bat out of hell—but if I can grab hold, and it doesn’t kill me… She had an unusually powerful thruster on her belt she had never expected to use; she poked it carefully through the Symbiote membrane, borrowed a hundred brains to help her aim it, and fired it to exhaustion.

What can you accomplish? Meiya asked.

Tear off antennas, bugger up their communications, bang on the hull and distract them while you jump ’em… if I have to, I’ll unscrew the fucking drive with my fingernails.

There was a hint of a chuckle in Reb’s voice. I love you too, Sulke. Whoops—they’re about to drug me…

Me too, Fat Humphrey said. Watch your ass, Sulke.

She could see them now, by eyeball, and they were indeed coming on fast. But she was confident; she had learned to board a moving freight when she was eight years old, leaving a place then called East Germany. Yeah? she sent back. I’ll give you a two-kilo gold asteroid if you can pull off that trick, pal.

His answering giggle was the last thing she ever heard. She never saw the white-winged figure who came up behind her and put a laser bolt through her brain.