I give Tara’s hand one last squeeze before we enter the foyer of the club. We’re formally announced, but soon we have to split up to mingle. Long practice has taught me the art of looking at her while I seem to be looking away. I can always feel her, smell her, hear her, but my peripheral vision is better than a human’s, and the first thing I do upon entering – entirely subconsciously – is become aware of any reflective surfaces in the room. I almost never lose sight of her.
I circle the perimeter of the casino, nodding briefly at a group of attractive women. Usually I would flirt shamelessly with them, but tonight – no games. We’ve had enough trouble lately.
I spot Clive Rivers talking to Sweet Blonde Suzanna. “…wasn’t like that at all. At first, it was annoying, but after a while I got used to it,” I hear her reply. “Lucius was pretty considerate, even if he does have awful taste in shoes.”
“There was so much I wanted to do,” says Rivers. “The SongLuminant tolerated only the slimmest amount of research. We were in a different galaxy, and it wasn’t interested at all.”
“I suppose they get jaded. I wish I could’ve gone with you.” Suzanna spots a server passing with a plate of sweets. She grabs a handful. “Imestid pralines. I haven’t had these in ages. I always used to pick up a case when I was running guns to the Fomalhaut Corridor.”
I come up behind them, wrapping my arm around Suzanna’s shoulder. “You should go to Shambhala. We can use pilots for the colonization effort – and Mickey can use operatives.”
Suzanna wriggles against me a little. The game is “Make Rivers Uncomfortable.” I let go before the game turns into “Make Tara Crazy.” It’s my favorite game, too. Keeping my nose clean is a challenge.
“I think I will. And you should go too, Clive. After what you’ve been through…”
“I’m going back to Earth.”
“You must be a genius because you sure are stupid,” says Suzanna. “You almost got killed on Mars. If it weren’t for Ashtara, you’d be dead right now.”
“We’ve made real progress. We’re starting to get CenGov in a corner. We’ll make them pay for all the years of lies and oppression.”
This is an old discussion, and it’s going nowhere. I could almost feel sorry for Suzanna, but hell, we make our own choices. We make our own luck. “Cillian says that wars are obsolete, and that you should find another way to solve the problem,” I tell them.
“Cillian said that?” asks Rivers. “Did someone put saltpeter in his RootRiot? What does he expect us to do, write sonnets to each other?”
“Actually, that isn’t too far from wrong.” But the last thing I want to do is get involved in a debate with Rivers about the relative merits of the pen and the sword – not when there are spinette wheels so close to hand. “I’m going to check on the gaming. Catch you later.”
“You mean you’re going to rook some poor slob with your preternatural luck,” Rivers mutters as I move away. “You should be banned from this casino.”
“I own this casino.” But Rivers knows that. Rivers knows that for all intents and purposes, I and I owns the Domha’vei, and he’s playing on our turf. Maybe that’s why he’s so eager to get back to Earth.
*****
I pull myself away from the gaming tables long enough to check out the show on Tommy’s main stage. It’s called “The Cabaret of Sentience,” and even for one of Driscoll’s productions, it’s demented. When I walk in, Floatfish garbed in tutus are rotating gracefully in midair as miniscule sparks of light form designs behind them – coordinated patterns of photon excitation set off by their hidden partners in the dance, the subatomic sentient particles known as the Twist. It’s followed by a more somber act – a Cu’enmerengi playing a heart rending melody on the rasharp while a prominent poet of the Ateher *hissclick* Masock recites a eulogy for her mate. Fortunately, the sonorous thread of her buzzing and clicking remains untranslated to the general public. I understand enough of her language to know that she’s describing the bittersweet emotions that come with savoring the soft flesh of her mate’s fifth segment. According to the poem, it’s a special delicacy which is traditionally served with a sauce taking days to make properly.
She’s joined on stage by another of her species. The second is smaller, more angular. I realize that for the first time, I’m seeing an Ateher. He sings a song about the honor obtained through a glorious death. It sounds like every war song ever written, except that it’s supposed to be a love song. I can sense that he’s trying to impress the Masock poet. From the way she’s tilting her head and clicking her mandibles, I think he’s succeeding. I wonder if he’ll survive the night.
And then Tara is behind me. “Evan’s playing is better,” she says.
“Evan’s playing is better than anyone’s,” I say. “Evan can make a fasharp sound like two mandolins and a bass starmonica.”
Tara shrugs. “That’s because you’re perfect.”
“It takes work.”
“Does it?” She sounds surprised.
“It’s hard to explain. It isn’t the same kind of work a human needs to perfect a skill. We don’t require physical practice, and with our branches, memorization is instantaneous and complete. It’s different – a sort of mental concentration. Being able to recognize the important sensory inputs in enormous detail and reject the others. Evan’s playing requires him to manipulate his own body and nervous system in a manner similar to Ailann manipulating someone else’s to repair it. When we try something new, we have to keep trying until we get it right – remember Seth and the flowers? But once we’ve done it, we’ll never forget. Unlike a human musician, once Evan’s learned a piece, he’ll never miss a note.”
“Wynne, are you all right?” she says abruptly. “You walked away from a winning streak at the tables.”
“I guess we’ve all been through a lot of changes recently, Sweetness. Sloane and Lorcan and Cillian…”
“Cillian? I’d heard that he hasn’t been himself lately.”
“He’s renounced violence.”
“WHAT?” Tara is loud enough that a number of guests in the back row look away from the current act, a jaw-dropping display of underwater acrobatics by a troupe of Hreck.
“He’s decided to become a writer. He’s formed a literary circle with Patrick, Dermot and Lorcan.”
“He does realize that he’s still Fleet Admiral of the Unified Forces?”
“He thinks that he’ll be able to develop non-violent solutions to most situations that occur through a perfecting of our intel system. He says that wars escalate because the combatants are lacking vital information or are refusing to accept it.”
“I suppose we’ll see. But we’re still moving forward with the colonization project. That doesn’t sound like being cautious to me.”
“Whirljack says it’s a political necessity. People are overwhelmed by everything that’s happened – it’s a problem that we Cu’enashti understand all too well. If we don’t give humans a focus for their attention, there will be a backlash. Tonight they’re listening to a Masock poet, but tomorrow, they could be freaking out at the giant insects. If they don’t totally buy into Ailann’s thing about the destiny of humanity, they’ll develop conspiracy theories about the Combine, and revolt against their immortal aristocratic oppressors.”
“Conspiracy theories about the Combine,” says Tara. “Why would anyone think of such a thing? Certainly not after our Combine mentors, the Floatfish, meddled in the politics of the Forest to get Ash banished.” She presses closer to me, lowering her voice. “People are already saying those things. A few days ago, Patrick and I were scanning the push from GalMedi. They still have a bug the size of an Ateher *hissclick* Masock stuck up their asses about Bobert coming to run Vega Vids for us, so they’ve become sort of the self-proclaimed official opposition to Archonist policies. They were going on about how the Draco colony is a distraction tactic to keep the aristos in power.”
“It’s pretty much true, Sweetness.”
“Yes, but it’s also a real attempt to find a solution to the problem. It’s just lucky for us that the economy is booming. With Earth so messed up, a lot of the IndWorld contractors are coming here. When you’ve got a good economy, you can get away with almost anything. If the economy is bad, hire the wrong babysitter and you’re fucked.”
“You should write your own book,” I suggest. “An update of Machiavelli.”
“Complete with prophecies. Speaking of which, I’m going to take the amrita tonight. I think Ash is hiding something from us, and that’s one way to find out.”
I smile my best smile. I hope she doesn’t look down the strand at the Atlas Tree, because I think my branch just dropped all its leaves.