I’m sitting on my bed. It’s not my bed the way it is now, all silk and velvet and synthermine, with the ipsissimal crest on the bolsters. It’s the tacky floral duvet I’d been forced to tolerate as a miserably alienated teenager.
I’m in the pleroma.
But how did I get here? Ross and I had gone for dinner at the café. Chef Yuric was offering an authentic Italian menu, and we had just finished a delicious meal of kasmilkase and sucksow lasagna accompanied by a Slacchem merlot, with a chocumber tiramisu for dessert.
Well, maybe not quite authentic.
It was, however, authentically romantic. The light of Sideria rising accentuated my companion’s best features, his handsome profile, his wistful smile. I was very aware of all the women glancing in his direction; even the server flirted with him a little although she should’ve known better. Ross had that effect: not only was he tanned, fit and blonde, but he projected an air of easy success and confidence. If I told anyone who saw him for the first time that he was one of Dolparessa’s most prosperous lawyers and businessmen, it would have come as no surprise.
If I told them that he was a branch on a sentient tree, well, that might have been a little surprising.
The stares made me a bit jealous, but then again, I liked it. I enjoyed showing off Ross like an expensive piece of jewelry. It’s not as though I had serious rivals to worry about. Cu’enashti mate for life – and life, for the Cu’enashti, is quite possibly forever. There was little chance I’d get bored in that eternity, however. Ashtara – the real name of my husband – had already provided 55 (56 if I counted the mothman) alternate versions of himself, of which Ross was one of the least exotic.
He had promised 101. 102 with the mothman. No, wait, 103, because Whirljack and Blackjack were only being counted as one.
My emotional life was a little complicated, but I liked that, too.
Anyway, Ross and I went for a walk on my private beach on the strand beneath Court Emmere. It was a rare occasion when he had ditched his exquisitely tailored suit for something a little more casual. He’d left the first few buttons of his shirt open, and my attention was drawn to the place where his neck met his finely muscled chest. Ross wasn’t overtly muscular – not like Cillian or Balin – but he was strong. It was an easy, casual strength.
I also knew from experience that Ross was a surprising gossip. “So how’s Constantine?” I asked.
“I don’t think he ever quite recovered from the welcome party. You know, I’m not sure I understand him. I know I could never be like that. But a man couldn’t wish for a better brother – brave, loyal and loving. A tree couldn’t wish for a better branch.”
“He’s not too shabby in combat, either. And unlike Mickey, he doesn’t let me win.”
“Mickey just wants to get laid.”
“That’s hardly unique.” Then I asked him about the new emanations. Ostensibly, Ross’ purpose for emanating was to add Stephen to the disclosure, the formal agreement documenting all of Ash’s personas as my legal husbands. We had vowed never to let it slide like the last time, when poor Ross had to add Darius, Briscoe, Rainier, Tannon, Vassali and Benbow all at once. He had been up to his leaves in paperwork.
Solomon, having never emanated on Dolparessa, was still being kept secret from the public.
“Stephen is making himself right at home,” said Ross. “In fact, there’s a little drama. Stephen is making himself right at home with Manasseh, and it’s like a boot stomping on Davy’s roots. So Davy is flirting with Tannon to get even. That’s maybe not such a bad thing. Tannon hangs a lot with Suibhne’s crowd, and he knows he’s always welcome with Constantine and me. Also, Ailann looks out for him. But there’s still a lot of prejudice, people talking about him behind his back because, you know.”
Tannon is a coniferous branch on a deciduous tree. It’s a sensitive topic. “Harem intrigues,” I muttered.
“Fortunately, I think most of that impulse is working itself out in the recruitment committee. Now that we have a better understanding of our true nature, there’s a huge wave of elitism. No one is good enough to get in. Which is maybe good, and maybe bad. I’m not sure we’ll ever complete the pleroma at this rate. There’s been a lot of talk about what happened. Everybody likes Benbow, even if he is a little odd, but Vassali still hasn’t synchronized.”
“I had a vision the other day. A Cu’enashti’s component energies synchronize according to the prime number sequence.”
“Oh, we know that. Elma told us months ago. But Vassali still can’t do it, even with Daniel trying to help him. He hangs around in the corner during social gatherings, and you can see he’s trying to fit in, but he’s too proud to say anything.”
“He shouldn’t be trying with Daniel. He should partner with Stephen. Stephen is at the beginning of the sequence. Just divide Vassali’s position in the correspondence table by two and his frequency should be the same as Stephen’s multiplied by that number.”
Conversations like this were quite common. I took for granted that I had married what was likely the galaxy’s most exotic form of life – a composite extra-universal energy being who formed a symbiotic relationship with a grove of trees and who manifested as either an energy-being called the mothman or any one of a number of human personifications of the original components. Ross was one of those components; he had started his existence as a clump of nul-energy buried deep in the rocks of another universe, somehow unique and individual and yet as inseparable from the being called Ashtara as my heart is from me.
The conversation continued in a desultory fashion. I couldn’t work up the courage to go deeper. Early in his existence, Ross experienced a lot of trauma – that’s a polite way of saying the kind of torture, rape and death only possible to someone with an alchemically regenerating body. I felt enormously guilty about it, and grateful, and I knew that any attempt to express that would be read as pity. For that reason, I always tried to keep the conversation light, but it had stopped working. It wasn’t so much about him; it was about me, fighting something in myself.
Ross halted, reaching out to touch my face. “It’s fine,” he said.
But I already knew that. Almost 30 years had passed since his ordeal, plenty of time for him to look straight at it, even if I hadn’t. Underneath that veneer of confidence was tempered steel; more than that, was a compassion for misfortune which had grown naturally from pain and isolation. His eyes were so kind. His eyes. Ash’s eyes.
Maybe I’d had a little too much wine, but the strand seemed unsteady beneath my feet. “Ross…” I murmured. I put my hand against his chest to stabilize myself, felt his heart pounding beneath it. I’d been fighting this for a long time, fighting this because I knew how much it was going to hurt when I reached it.
I was not going to cry.
Ross resolved the situation by kissing me, and the swirling stars conveniently melted into the roaring ocean.
We sat on the beach, my body leaned back against his, breathing against his warmth. We were like that for maybe half an hour when suddenly he jerked forward, gasping in distress. “What’s wrong?”
He crouched low to the ground, holding his head and rocking, his expression agonized. “Headache,” he replied. Except that emanations don’t get headaches. I placed my arms around the arc of his back, steadying him.
Then as suddenly as it started, it was over. He blinked repeatedly, then rested his head against his forearm. “We’ve got a problem. Constantine is trying to tell me something, but it’s so hard to focus. Something about what Lens saw and Marius is freaking out…you have to come inside.”
“What?” Ross didn’t answer, but stood, pulling me to my feet. Then he spread his arms and burned himself away into the mothman, who reached for my hand.
The world went blue.
And now I’m sitting on the bed, inside of the pleroma, the world which exists inside of Ash’s mind, forming a ground for his personalities to interact when they aren’t emanated. « Ash? What’s happening? » I don’t really expect an answer, at least not directly: Ash only speaks through his emanations. Therefore, I’m surprised when I hear:
“Ross Adare, J.D., LL.CD. Lord Chief Justice. 16th to emanate, 40 in the color scale, resonates to 173. 1.777 meters tall, cock size 16.71 cm when erect, apparent age 35. Lawyer and CEO of Big Tree Enterprises. Totem is Metrosideros excelsa, the pōhutukawa or iron heartwood tree, fixed star is Ankaa, the phoenix. Esoteric symbol is the Etruscan letter 
. Dessert is nau’gsh scones with honey butter. Function is administrative release, proto-conscious tendency is justice, designated Law. Blazon is gyronny of sixteen forest green and or, on a goutte de sang, a phoenix rising, or.”
It is an odd voice, but it isn’t quite a voice. It’s more like the silent voice that speaks thoughts, the running commentary inside your head. Also, the words flash briefly, burning behind my eyes.
I knock on the door leading into Daniel’s room. There’s no answer. I push the door open tentatively. The room is empty.
Empty? There’s usually at least two dozen people in here.
I run out of the tiny flat and into the lobby of the enormous treedominium. « Ash? Hello? Anyone? » My voice echoes up and down the central hilift column.
« I’m down here. » It’s Ross, a floor below me, in the main lobby. Using the hilift, I join him.
« What happened? »
« I don’t know. It’s odd that I didn’t end up back in Daniel’s flat when my emanation was withdrawn. I ended up in the Gold Lounge instead. »
He’s blushing.
« Ross…» I stammer. Of course – he’s in the Gold Club now, the exclusive organization for the emanations I’d fallen in love with. There’s a lot I’d better say to him, but my gut instinct tells me that can’t take the time. I embrace him quickly, pressing my face against his chest. He smells like the forest.
« Marius wanted you in here, » he says. « That means you’re in danger. »
« Can you contact the others? »
He shakes his head. « But I can feel the life in their branches. They aren’t unconscious. They’re around somewhere, but I don’t know where. »
« Try branch memory. Anyone’s will do. Look at the last thing they remember. »
His eyes flicker electric blue, looking beyond me. « We’re under attack. We had very little warning. Lens only saw it several minutes before it happened, and then Marius suddenly remembered that it was a problem. » This clearly upsets him. « For Lens to not see it is believable. His vision gets fogged with a lot of minutiae. But Marius knows down to the second the occasions on which you’ll be in danger. He doesn’t just forget. »
« There’s something terribly wrong. If I know Marius, he’s going to blame himself for it. »
« And then the memories stop, and I can’t access any more. I think they’ve all gone into hiding. Constantine left a note for me. It’s hidden between the cushions of my chair in Daniel’s flat. »
We go back up to Daniel’s flat. « Leaving a note is strange behavior. Why not use a datapad? »
« Here’s the answer, » says Ross, handing me an offline datapad.
That kills another possibility – datapads in the pleroma have the inexplicable ability to communicate with Ash’s datapad in the material world. If it had been working, we could’ve gotten a message to one of our retainers.
Ross fishes out the note. « Constantine says that they broke into five teams, and they’re trying to covertly discover the nature of the attacker. Cillian determined the safest place to weather this out is a bomb shelter in the basement of Yggdrasil. It’s in the maintenance section, off the emergency stair. My instructions are to take you there. »
I almost ask why my husband would need a bomb shelter inside of an imaginary construct within his mind. But then again, perhaps it’s for situations like this.
« How can we be under attack inside of the pleroma? »
« That’s an easy one, » said Ross. « Telepathy. We’ve been attacked several times by Terran telepaths, and twice by the SongLuminants. That headache I had is similar to the pain caused by a telepathic deep scan. But this is just a broad assumption. If we knew exactly what we were dealing with, I don’t think we’d be in hiding. »
« Who is emanated right now – the mothman? »
« No, it’s…I don’t know who it is. A new emanation. »
« A new emanation, during a crisis? »
« Apparently, a reaction to the trauma. He’s just lying on the beach and not moving. »
« Maybe he can’t. In the past, you’ve experienced a sort of paralysis when SongLuminants try to possess you. »
Ross shakes his head. « That’s not it. I get the sense that he’s trying to do something, but I’m not sure what. We can try to figure more of this out once we’re safely at the bomb shelter. »
When we return to the lobby, I glance through the windows down the coast. Then I grab at Ross’ sleeve, pointing outside. I’ve never seen the pleroma look like this. The peaceful sea has turned black; branches whip in the wind; the coast is buffeted by raging waves.
We stare, transfixed. « In all the time I’ve been alive, the weather has been exactly the same, » he says. « It never occurred to me that it was capable of changing. »
« You think that telepaths are causing it? »
« If I had to guess, I’d say it was a sort of immune response. If there’s a telepathic invader, maybe the pleroma is trying to fight it off. »
« We’d probably better stay indoors. »
« Yes, but not for the reasons you think, » says Ross. « I’d bet my last leaf that if you went into that tempest, it would stop. I and I would never harm you. But because of that, you might interfere with our ability to fight the invader. Let’s just use the corridor extending between Atlas and Yggdrasil. »
When we emerge into the Yggdrasil Tower, Ross makes an immediate left turn down the emergency stair. It leads into an area of the building I’ve never explored before, a service wing. It’s not at all what I expect. The technology is pulled from the age of steam: huge cogs and pulleys and turbines, all painted bright shades of red, green and blue. The exposed metal is copper and brass, and it shines. The walls shake with the rhythmic hum and clank of the machines. It’s beautiful and intimidating at the same time.
Ross rests his hand against a turbine. « If Hurley is correct, this is a metaphor for photosynthesis. The copper pipes are the xylem, and the brass ones are the phloem. »
This is why I’m not sure I entirely believe the theory that the mind of Ashtara is simply some kind of emanation gestalt. Who the hell would think of this?
The bomb shelter is tucked away in a corridor behind the turbine banks. It’s cramped and windowless, but well-stocked with supplies and comfortable bedding. I open up a packet of biiskits. « Why, exactly, would you need a supply of food inside of your own mind? »
Ross shrugs. « Emanations are basically human, » he says. « Even when we don’t have physical bodies, we like to eat. We’re used to it, and it’s enjoyable. »
« But it’s not like we’ll run out, right? It’s imaginary food. Can’t you just wish for some and have it appear? »
« It doesn’t work that way, » says Ross. « For years, whenever one of us felt like eating, we’d get something out of Daniel’s stasisstorer. There was always a leftover pizza in there, some fruit, stuff for sandwiches. No matter how much we ate, the pizza never got any smaller; it was like the miracle of loaves and fishes. Then the food court appeared in this Tower, so now a lot of us go out to eat. I don’t know where it comes from. I don’t know if it will replenish itself. It’s ironic – if we were outside, I could use alchemy to make food, but in here, I can’t. Some of us can create things, though, like Quennel can make clothing. Maybe we need a cook? »
Ross looks rueful. « We’ve learned so much about ourselves in the past year or so, but we still know so little. Until you shared that dream with Hurley, we never knew that anything existed in the pleroma beyond Daniel’s room and Ari’s cave. We still don’t know the extent of the pleroma, and we don’t know how it functions. I’m neither a philosopher nor a scientist, but I’d venture to say that we don’t even have a theory about how it arises. It’s not something the trees would naturally develop, nor is it something that comes from the root impulses of nul-entities. »
« As strange as it is, it’s fundamentally human, » I muse. « The Physical Plant is an attempt to symbolize a tree’s biological processes by using symbols familiar to humans. And it has to be coming from the minds of the emanations. Just a minute ago, you made a Biblical allusion when describing your leftovers. Everything seems strange because it’s arising from the unconscious: the logic behind it is like a dream or a surrealist performance. But dreams are fleeting and mutable; the pleroma has a concreteness to it. »
« We might as well get comfortable, » says Ross, pulling out a pillow. « We might be here for a while. »
I settle back against him. I’ve fallen in love yet again, and it feels good to be touching the man I desire. We’re having a cozy little adventure together. Knowing Ash, that might just be the point of all this. But if we don’t get answers soon, I’m going to get restless. Then, no matter how much Ash wants me to stay put, I’m going to take a look around.
The minute the thought comes into my mind, I sense that Ash is somehow aware of it on an instinctive level. Ross puts his arms around me, drawing me closer. Then he says, « You know, you can access branch memory while you’re in here. Everything seems to be perfectly functional until the moment of the attack. »
« I’ve done it a few times before, when it was convenient. And then that one time when I accidentally picked up on Whirljack’s memories. »
« Those are unusual circumstances. We mostly do it for recreation, reliving and sharing our best moments with each other. We were talking about Constantine’s party earlier. Because I wasn’t there, I had to rely on everyone else’s memories. Want to see it from another perspective – say Patrick’s? »
This is clearly a distraction tactic, to keep me here as long as possible. But to see Patrick’s perspective on what turned into an enormous orgy, now that’s an offer too good to refuse…