Patrick is good at telling stories, but as a whole, it still doesn’t make sense, says Mickey. It’s a series of vignettes, out-of-context. Maybe we want to include a synopsis, in case the reader gets lost.
If only Tara is going to read this, she’ll understand the references exactly.
So is that what we want? asks Tarlach. I was hoping for a wider audience.
Of course it’s what we want, says Whirljack. No other audience matters.
As expected, Blackjack contradicts him. How about that rush you get from performing for a massive crowd? You like to pretend you’re so noble, but you’ve really got an enormous ego. And Tara likes it that way. She loves it when the groupies scream for us, or when the worshippers kneel in front of Ailann, or when Cillian orders people around and they scramble like ra’aabits.
He’s probably right, says Driscoll. Otherwise, I’d be painting exquisitely detailed miniatures.
Tarlach presses his argument. I think that we’re writing a unique document, and being as open as possible will promote inter-species understanding.
We’ve had too much openness already, Ailann replies. Tara is not an ordinary woman, and as Matriarch must maintain an image beyond reproach.
In that case, she should stop drinking till she pukes and telling the High Council of Skarsia to fuck the business end of a Votiged lamprey, says Cillian.
The truth is Tara enjoys creating public drama. It’s not without cause. In her life, obligation was oppression, and the only freedom she had was in acting out. It is no wonder that she is constantly deflating the dignity of her position. Unfortunately, now that she’s assumed power, it’s self-defeating. The old Matriarch may have been a tyrant, but she was an impressive tyrant. Tara is competent and fair, but parades her vices like an honor guard. It’s not the way people want their ruler to behave.
But I take your point, Cillian admits. Tarlach can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.
I’m sick of this, says Tarlach. Even the Cantor let go of it, so why can’t you? I did what I had to do. How could I not say something? It needed to be out in the open. The self-blame had to stop. Just like the story of Theresa and Ashtheresa had to stop.
Tara said she was proud of Tarlach for speaking out, says Lugh. And she said that Ross suffered for her sake, and that he’s a hero in her eyes.
Tarlach did the right thing, says Daniel. Our people have believed so many lies, lies which have caused so much hurt. After I saw Tara for the first time, I went back to the Cantor, and she told me that story about Theresa and Ashtheresa. It scared me so much that I let myself be killed that day on Starbright Mountain.
It’s not the same thing, says Cillian. That story…
I’m to blame! They took Tara away, and I didn’t fight to stop them. But I was wrong. After I died, I and I flew after Tara’s shuttle, but then it was too late.
Tears spill out of Daniel’s enormous blue eyes; Ross puts his arm around him protectively.
I went to the Cantor, says Sloane. She told me that letting them go was the right thing. She told me that all I could do was wait for Tara to come back.
Sitting and waiting, Whirljack says bitterly, never accomplished a fucking thing. If I and I wanted to sit and wait, He wouldn’t have made the leap.
It’s bullshit, says Cillian, turning and crossing his arms. He doesn’t want us to see that he is crying, too. Which is ridiculous, since we can’t help but know.
Tara forgives you, says Ross. She forgives both of us.
Daniel hugs him. Ross, you didn’t do anything wrong.
Tell the story, Patrick, says Tarlach. Tell the story of Theresa and Ashtheresa. Get the lie out in the open.
Theresa and Ashtheresa lived together for almost forty years. They’d raised three children together, built a successful plantation out on the Stobai Peninsula. Humans said that Theresa had been a beautiful woman when she was young, but Ashtheresa didn’t really understand what they meant. All he could see was the light of the stars pooling in the depths of her eyes. That hadn’t changed. So it came as a shock to him when her health started failing.
Ashtheresa couldn’t bear the thought that Theresa would die. So he broke the silence and showed her the truth about himself. He told her that he could make her young again, that they could be together forever.
The pooling stars in her eyes turned to pitch darkness. “I see now that I have lived with a demon all my days,” she said. “I have a reward that awaits me, the portion of all human souls. I have no need of your living death. Go from me, alien thing.”
If only he’d let her die, they could have clung to the lie of their love. But now there was only one thing left for Ashtheresa to do: to remove the blot from the universe which had offended his beloved, to remove it with fire.
That story does not even have the dignity of being shit, says Cillian. It’s a flood of stinking diarrhea. Look, I dare you, go up to any woman and say – hey honey, I can make you immortal. I can make you filthy rich. I can look like and be like any man you dream of – or woman, if that’s your fancy. I can teach you the real meaning of multiple orgasms. See if she says, “Oh no, I’d rather have my eternal reward.” And if she does, she’s a stupid fucking bint, and Ashtheresa deserved what he got for choosing such a cunt. No, the real problem now is the marriage tourism, the fucking gold-diggers who go running naked through the forests hoping to get lucky.
It’s propaganda, I say. Tara discovered that the 5th Matriarch planted the story. She had a vested interest in keeping the Cu’enashti in line.
That doesn’t mean we didn’t believe it, though, says Evan. How many times did I want to tell the truth – and didn’t?
Evan the bard sits on a pillow in the corner, his long, fine blonde hair falling into his eyes as he leans forward to strum. His lady has come home to Dolparessa; he has to make a good first impression, make her feel welcome.
She’s spent most of the afternoon in the garden, overseeing the enormous effigy to be placed at its heart. Sloane Redmond, Lord of Skalisia, the legend reads. A late promotion – a truly late promotion. During his life, Sloane was merely Master of Horse. If he had been Lord Redmond from the start, this might not have happened. She might have noticed him. It’s a mistake Ash won’t make again, that Evan Finlay-Cole, Esq. will not make.
“Isn’t it a little…you know…” Lady Magdelaine Lorma is fussing. She’s always fussing, has been fussing since the day Tara was born. Probably before that, but Tara wouldn’t know. What she wants to say is “morbid”, but instead she says, “…big.”
“He died to protect me,” says Tara. “I need to remember that such loyal men exist.” What she does not say is that she believes he loved her, and she was too blind to see it. Too preoccupied with refined, unworthy Johannon and his lying eyes. Sloane was a stern man, but he was handsome, and he had the kindest eyes she’d ever known. They haunted her, those eyes. He should have been her lover, not Johannon. One more regret in a lifetime full of regrets. She sits down at the piano, that old antique no one here has ever known how to play. “Close that curtain, please.”
Lady Madonna protests. “But my lady, the evening light is lovely, and the view…”
Tara points into the distance. “Do you see that tree?” she says, and then quietly, “It’s gotten so big. Three trunks now.”
It’s an impressive specimen, perched on a ledge and leaning precariously. “The one you planted when you were a little girl? The seed of destiny?”
It’s a Dolparessan custom. At the age of seven, right before festival, every child plants a seed. It’s used for divination. “You remember what they say when the seed doesn’t grow? That you will be a drifter and never put down roots? I’ll tell you a secret, Lady Madonna. I picked the biggest seed I could find, the one with the thickest husk, and planted it into the hard soil on the side of that cliff. I was hoping it wouldn’t take. I wanted to get the hell away from the Domha’vei. I wanted to go to Earth.”
Evan is aghast. He didn’t know. How could he know?
Magdelaine Lorma grins. “We all thought you were touched with folly, my lady. But look how it grew, despite everything. And so fast!”
“The diviner gave me such a funny look when I told him we had to walk all the way up that little twisty path. And when we saw it, we were both knocked back on our heels. In the three days of the festival, it had grown into a sapling! He said he had never seen anything like it, but that I had chosen a hard destiny for myself. A lonely life, a life full of rocks, but in the end, I would not be defeated. But I didn’t feel sorry for myself. I felt sorry for the seedling. I knew from Wyrd Elma that I was doomed, and now I made an innocent tree suffer for it. So every day I could, every day I was on Dolparessa, I would make the long climb up there to tend to it. That’s when I really started to love plants. I grew up with that tree. I would sit there for hours, reading under the leaves, at peace, alone with my thoughts. I’ll tell you another secret – when I was sixteen, during the Nau’gsh Festival, when the people leave tanzaku praying for miracles from the trees, I left that tree a letter.”
Even has stopped playing now. His hands are trembling too much to stroke the strings. He still has that letter. Now that he has eyes to read, he reads it every night even though he has long since memorized every curve of her childish scrawl. Even when he couldn’t see, I and I sensed its intent.
“It said, ‘I wish you were a man, so that I could marry you.’”
Lady Madonna roars with laughter. “So that’s why you want to close the curtain? Reminded of your childhood follies?”
“No,” Tara says, her expression deliberately blank. “It’s because that’s where my uncle Cetin Urhu threw Daniel into the sea.”
Now they notice the bard. It’s because he is sobbing. “Why are you crying, boy?” she asks. “I haven’t had a tear left in me to cry these past fifteen years.”
“Then I shall weep for both of us, milady,” says Evan.
I like that, says Driscoll. It’s full of understated tragic poignancy. Not to mention irony.
You’re such a prick, says Cillian. Fuck your irony.
Don’t get angry at me because you feel like crying.
I do not fucking feel like crying.
Lord love a sucksow. It doesn’t take the great Tarlach Tadgh to figure out you’re upset. Anyone with eyes can see…
Driscoll, I say, stop being a bitch.
You know, says Lugh, changing the subject, Tara told that same story to Edom St. John. It was the day they went up to see the Atlas Tree.
Tara can’t help smiling to herself when Edom sees the tree for the first time. “That’s it, Mr. St. John. I planted that tree when I was seven years old.”
It’s one of those things that seems closer than it is because of its size. As they draw near, gliding down the beach in the hovercar, it becomes apparent just how damn big the tree is. Six enormous trunks, two of them jutting precipitously off the side of the cliff, and the axial one ten times a man’s girth. “It grew that much in nineteen years?”
She nods. “They call it the Atlas Tree now. There are a few tree species on Earth that grow that fast, but Hina nau’gsh usually don’t. That one’s special, though, all personal reasons aside. The ones with blue roses are rare.”
“Why do you want the fruit? Isn’t it poisonous? It doesn’t produce anything interesting, like the Arya or the common nau’gsh…”
“We need as much information as possible to save these trees.” On the surface, CenGov was advocating the destruction of the nau’gsh on the grounds of the moral degeneracy produced by the nau’gsh wine. At this point, Tara believes, truly believes, that her research can be used to save them. But CenGov couldn’t care less about the common nau’gsh. They want to know about Gyre, the powerful drug produced from the fruit of the Arya. They want to know why some – only some – of the people who take it have visions that come true.
Tara has visions that come true. She’s long since sworn off Gyre, though. It nearly killed her, back on Volparnu, when she wanted to die anyway. Before Sloane Redmond’s death convinced her that life was worth something.
“Besides,” she continues,” it’s a mystery. Why do all three nau’gsh species, which are completely unrelated to each other, produce apples bearing a form of nau’gshtamine? And why is the form of nau’gshtamine in only the blue Hina apples always a little different from tree to tree – like a designer drug?”
“It’s still poisonous.” St. John says. “Apples. They aren’t apples, or roses either. Language should be precise.”
Tara shrugs. “It’s common. Colonists miss home. It’s an attempt to convince themselves the new world isn’t so unfamiliar. So we have semi-reptilian bloobirds with five-foot wingspans. You should see the nasty little buggers that pass for squirrels. Apples,” she muses dreamily. “The forbidden fruit. Noon blue apples.”
Edom St. John wrinkles his nose.
“It’s an Earth legend,” Tara explains. “Something to do with the Holy Grail and the blood of the savior.”
“The civilized galaxy long ago banned such superstitions.”
“We think Earth is uncivilized for destroying its own myth. Even the ridiculous stories Volparnians tell are better than no stories at all.”
Edom picks up a scanner and fiddles restlessly with it. One of the attachment clips breaks and goes flying out of the hovercar. He attempts to catch it before it falls, but ends up slipping in an awkward position. “I don’t like stories,” he says quickly, trying to recover himself. “It’s too easy to lose track of what’s real. I’ll put my trust in data.”
“Well, I don’t know about the blood of the savior, but the Blood of the Matriarchs is real enough. And we don’t need the Holy Grail to see alchemical transformations.”
“Alchemy my holy ass. There’s a rational explanation for everything.”
“You only say that because you’ve never seen a mothman.”
“And you have?” The hovercar is pulling up alongside the tree now.
“The day that Daniel died, the day I was forced to go to Volparnu. I was in the shuttle, screaming and crying and banging my fists against the viewport when I saw him. He flew up behind our ship. Unmistakable, just the way the legends say – no legs, just an extended trunk, no face. His wings were really these tendrils of energy – they looked like the fuzz on a moth wing, curling like an orchid petal. He had long drifting hair, and he glowed blue, opalescent blue. For a while it seemed like he was following us, wanted to tell me something. But then, suddenly, he plummeted back to the planet.”
“You were distraught. Hallucinating.”
Tara shakes her scarlet curls. Science can only go so far. Or maybe Edom just doesn’t like to talk about Daniel. She thinks maybe Edom is in love with her. It’s all so fucking difficult – she’s half afraid he’s another Johannon, another betrayer. But half afraid he’s another Sloane. She can’t move, but can’t afford not to move. Instead, she directs her attention to the tree. “Hello, remember me?” she says. “I used to hang out with you when we were kids. I haven’t been around for a while, and I’m sorry about that.”
She places her hand against the bark and is startled by its warmth. But yes, that’s right. She’d been away so long she’d forgotten. Now she remembers how nice it felt against her back when she’d sit beneath it. “I fancied that we were friends. Are we still friends?”
And then the cynical Edom St. John gasps, because every bud on the tree suddenly opens.
Now there’s irony, says Tarlach, St. John’s point about losing track of reality, considering that he was an utter fabrication.
But it was a convincing artifice, counters Driscoll. For example, making him so clumsy is a nice counterpoint to the efficient grace of Rivers.
Convincing enough that Tara fell in love with him, says Tommy, glumly.
Driscoll continues. Isn’t a convincing artifice the definition of art?
Not this shit again, says Cillian. Oscar Wilde said it better.
St. John was an illusion, says Hurley. Dreams are easy to fall in love with. It’s reality that’s difficult to love.
But in the end, it can’t be completely artificial, Mickey protests. True art is rooted in experience.
Now there’s irony, says Lorcan, considering that we are all a dreaming tree’s attempt to make a woman’s dream into flesh.
Realism is an artistic pose, like any other, says Driscoll. In the end, data is merely fodder for interpretation. If I gave a balloon, an apple and an empty cup to three children and told them to make up a story about them, I’d get three radically different stories.
The most convincing artifice is based on truth, says Whirljack. That’s the heart of good propaganda. Start with truth, but tell it in the way most favorable to you.
Art subverted for political ends loses its purity, Driscoll sniffs.
Now there’s a low blow – half of Whirljack’s oeuvre is political. But Whirljack smiles. He won’t be baited – not by anyone but Blackjack. What about Ailann? he asks. Ailann raises propaganda to the highest level of art. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it sometimes. Remember the story about Cara?
Tell the fucking story, says Cillian. It has to be better than this half-assed art theory debate.
Of course it is, says Dermot. The creation of story is an authentic act, the creation of theory an artifice.
“At least Christolea’s cooperation will assure the public that the 5th Matriarch’s death was not an assassination,” says Lord Danak.
Tara wonders if Danak is simply naive, or whether he’s assuming a politically expedient pose of naiveté. “Anyone who cares will probably think Christolea is in on the conspiracy. But most Skarsians won’t. I’ve restored the power grid. That means I’m qualified to rule in the only way that matters.”
“Still,” says the Vizier, “if we present the story properly, the transition will go much more smoothly.” Bok Denevi, the Grand Vizier of Dolparessa, is still struggling to come to terms with events. He had always known Tara could become Empress of Sideria or even Matriarch. However, he didn’t think it likely she’d take one throne, let alone both. He serves her now just as he served her father, but secretly he wonders if Christolea would’ve been a better choice. Christolea knows how to behave.
“Strength is all that matters to Skarsians,” says Clive, “and they know Tara’s got the balls to stand up to Earth.”
“There is also the matter of the Archon,” says the Vizier. “Most Skarsians are only nominally Archonist anyway. They pretend to believe the Archon is God while really believing the religion is a fiction created for the benefit of the Matriarch. It’s just as well to leave it that way. We can have Archbishop Venesti make an announcement that the Archon has blessed your reign.”
Tara won’t hear of it. “I’m telling the truth – a simplified version, at least. The Living God of Dolparessa is a nau’gsh. The old Archon was an Arya hidden in the high forests. The new Archon is the Atlas Tree, and he walks among the people as a man named Ailann Tiarnan.”
“I’m not so sure,” says Danak. “An invisible god is a perfect god. A visible god…”
“…is a public relations disaster waiting to happen,” finishes the Vizier.
“Look at him,” says Tara. Ailann Tiarnan appears timelessly dignified, having nothing about him of the rashness of youth, nor of the weakness of age. His dark hair lends him gravity, his beard emphasizes his manliness. Everything about him, from the tone of his voice to the solid elegance of his movements commands respect. He is like an illustration of God taken from a children’s book. “And then look at me. Who inspires more confidence in the state?”
“I concede the point,” says the Vizier, “but the complications…”
“Politically, the open admission that the Atlas Tree is the Archon will solidify my power base on Dolparessa. I’ll have the absolute loyalty of the Cu’endhari. And it will put an end forever to the talk of deforestation. The Domha’vei will be co-ruled by the two dominant species who share it.”
“That’s quite progressive of you,” says Lord Danak. “How will the heroes of Volparnu take the news that their new ruler is a tree?”
“The heroes of Volparnu can thank their Living God for centralized heating,” says Tara, “and stuff their stupid prejudice in the most convenient orifice.”
“Tara,” says Clive, “is willing to go out on a limb for the Archon.”
“Danak, draft a new law that says I can behead anyone who makes jokes like that.”
Danak and Denevi are able to prevail upon Tara in one way: there must be a ceremony of ascension. When it comes to establishing the legitimacy of a regime in a people’s hearts, nothing suffices like a grand public spectacle.
The obvious location is Eirelantra, the enormous space station that was built to be neutral to the Domha’vei’s conflicting ethnicities. Tara would rather hold the ceremony on Dolparessa, but the Vizier convinces her that she must not be seen as bound to provincial favoritism. By all rights, Ailann shouldn’t be able to go to Eirelantra. His trunk grows straight. Only the branches that jut out over the sea can leave Dolparessa. But the amount of power available to him through the power grid is staggering. And no matter how much power he draws, the crystals seem to handle it. The only limit is on the range that power can reach, as defined by the distribution of the crystals. Not only can he control who receives power and how it is used – he is able to divert it to his own ends. It took me so much energy just to exist on Eirelantra that I would tire after a walk across the station. But when Ailann is there, he can easily lift 100kg with one hand, and then melt the metal into slag with a thought. Later, Cillian will learn how to use the power grid to boost his own endurance, and teach the technique to the rest of us. It will allow us to get as far as Dumati, but only Ailann can function there without extreme fatigue.
The Vizier plans a ceremony the Domha’vei will never forget. After all, the last investiture was over five hundred years ago. He wants as many people as possible to witness the ceremony, despite the security issues. Tara assigns Mickey Riley, her new appointment for head of the SSOps – Skarsian Secret Ops. Of course, nobody knows that Mickey is another branch of the Atlas Tree. Ailann is to be the Living God’s only public face. With the exception of Suibhne’s brief reign, this remains true until the disclosure.
Denevi is impressed with Mickey’s intelligent appraisal of the situation. He is insightful, professional, and takes everything in good humor. Mickey takes everything in good humor because he knows it’s all ridiculous. The conspicuously visible honor guard and the very much invisible snipers will never be able to react faster than Ailann in the case of trouble. Ailann can see the path of a bullet before it leaves the gun. Ailann can tell the kind of gas a laser is using from its smell. He can tell this even if he were standing in another room with the door closed. Events in the near future rarely leave him surprised.
The people cheer as the 2nd Archon and 6th Matriarch walk a flower-strewn path towards the Grand Atrium. Tara finds it annoying; Ailann takes it in stride. Later in life, Tara will come to take a certain pleasure in this kind of pomp. It is the pleasure of a con-artist running a successful scam.
Then Ailann stops. There’s something very wrong. In a crowd of several thousand people, something is out of place with the energy.
He pinpoints it. It’s a little girl in the front row.
The girl is thin and pale, and clings to her mother. Her skin is ever-so-slightly tinged a discomfiting blue. “She’s ill,” says Ailann.
“She’s on her third heart regrowth,” says the mother. “For some reason, they just don’t take well in her, and the insurance won’t pay for another.” The woman is trembling, clearly terrified, apologetic. “She’s too weak to get out much, but I thought I had to take her. I mean, she’ll never see a Living God again, will she?” Realizing that she may have said too much, the mother nervously jams her right fore knuckle into her own mouth.
Ailann kneels to the little girl’s level. “What’s your name?”
“Cara.” Unlike her mother, she isn’t shy. This man has kind eyes; why should she be afraid?
Ailann places his hand on her chest. The girl gasps, then smiles as a warm radiance fills her.
Ailann stands. “I fixed it,” he says. “She should be fine now.”
Tara takes his arm, and they continue the procession as the crowd roars. The Vizier, who is behind them, whispers, “Magnificent! What an incredible publicity stunt.”
Ailann has no idea what he’s talking about. That night, Danak and Denevi arrange a special briefing on the use of miracles as propaganda.
There’s no scientific reason why only branches that hang out over the cliff can naturally exist in space, says Cuinn. I studied it.
Well, it doesn’t really matter anymore, says Lugh. We can all travel.
But it does, Cuinn counters. Remember during the coup? It was only because Chase’s branch is overhanging that he was able to leave Dolparessa without using the grid. My best theory is that the overhang isn’t a cause, it’s the visible sign that a certain branch was cultivated to have that capacity.
The reason why overhanging branches can travel in space is obvious, says Davy.
It is? Cuinn asks.
There is a moment of silence.
I was hoping you would explain, says Cuinn.
Davy blinks. It’s obvious, he says.
There is a moment of silence.
Right, says Driscoll. I’m more interested in that bit of realpolitik at the end. It’s too bad the Vizier turned out to be such a scumbag. He understood how to manipulate public opinion.
Public opinion is tricky, though, I say. It hurts as much as it helps.
I really don’t give a fuck what people think, says Cillian.
You’re being deliberately obtuse, says Ailann. It matters. I found out just how much it matters. Look at what happened to Suibhne. Look at the troubles with Tasea.
Tara doesn’t give a fuck, either, Cillian retorts. Public opinion has never stopped her from doing what she damn well pleases.
Jamey looks at me and we both start to laugh.
What’s so funny? Cillian asks.
Jamey loves to work the soil. Whenever I and I is feeling tapped out, Jamey shows up and puts his hands in the dirt. The soil is cool and moist and welcoming. It’s healing.
At those times, Tara goes into the garden with him. There’s no need for words. They work side by side, nurturing life. Jamey digs and plants the seeds. Tara plans and prunes and makes things lovely.
Tara pulls Jamey back into the bushes. The soil is warm and wet and welcoming. Jamey plants the seed.
She’s lying in his arms, and everything he needs to say is in his eyes.
She giggles. “I could never fuck Patrick in the garden,” she says. “He’d make too much goddamn noise.”
You’re confusing propriety with public relations, says Tarlach. Maybe she didn’t want anyone to overhear a private moment, but that certainly didn’t stop rumors from getting around.
It’s true. Everyone at court was gossiping about the Sublime and Holy Matriarch doing her gardener. The rumor started to circulate that the Matriarch was doing Fleet Admiral Whelan, too.
I wonder where they got that idea, says Cillian. Maybe I made too much noise.
At least you weren’t papped, says Cuinn.
It’s Eirelantra’s turn to play host for the PanGal Prize ceremonies. Ailann thinks it would be perfect if Dolparessa won one of the prizes. The Domha’vei has been through so much, he says, disasters and revolution, threats from without and within, and finally having to adjust to the Great Reveal, to the reality of the Cu’endhari. The system needs something to unite it, to feel proud about. And so, he prods Cuinn and Davy into entering.
It’s Davy’s task to come up with the entry. He presents Cuinn with the javamelon. It’s so practical, and yet so delightful. It will mutate to adapt to any climate with minimal impact on the native species. It’s packed with nutrition. The juice, when heated, tastes like Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee – but it’s not from a bean, it’s from a fruit. Fruits are meant to be consumed. A fruit, like a flower, is just another means a plant has for seducing an animal.
It’s Cuinn’s job, however, to write a scientific paper faking the R&D behind their bioscience. Somehow, the truth, “Davy just makes stuff; no one knows how he does it,” doesn’t seem like it will sit well with the judges. Fortunately, Cuinn has a good brain.
Cuinn goes to the award ceremony; obviously I and I couldn’t be two places at once (at least before Whirljack and Blackjack) so Cuinn makes the acceptance speech. Ailann thinks that of the two of them, Cuinn is the safer bet not to say something too weird. The place is swamped with reporters because Cuinn is photogenic, and the javamelon has an immediate popular appeal that, say, the Hettler-Godol MicroTausine Wave-Particle Converter does not. Cuinn’s speech is broadcast throughout the IndWorlds and even back to Earth. Of course, Tara is there in person. For Eirelantra to host the prestigious prize is a big deal. For Dolparessa to beat out CenGov in the natural sciences/bioengineering division is a Very Big Deal.
As to whether he managed to say something not too weird, I’ll let you be the judge of that:
“Wow, this is great. And Davy thanks you, too. Davy can’t be here today, even though he did most of the work. Davy’s kind of a shut-in. He just sort of stays in his room and plays with dolls. And does groundbreaking work in bioengineering. You know the type. Anyway, we’d both like to thank the Matriarch because she’s ace. And the Archon, because he’s God. And the staff of Dalgherdia science station for letting us test the javajuice on Terran consumers. And Tom Duffy for giving us free drinks every night. He owns a club called Tom O’Bedlam’s in Dalgherdia City – you should check it out if you ever go there. But really, what I want to talk about today is the importance of our cultural heritage. It’s so easy to rely on machines and stuff, and science would be nowhere without computers, but without cultural artifacts, our lives are so much poorer. That’s why I always use these – sticky notes. They’re every bit as good as setting a note on your datapad. Maybe better. I’ll tell you, deleting a calendar entry isn’t nearly as satisfying as crumpling up one of those little buggers and throwing it into the trash. And they just lend an atmosphere of class to a research lab. Just make sure that you get the fancy rag-paper ones that have flowers pressed into them, and not the cheap ones made of murdered trees. In closing, the javamelon would never have been developed without the use of sticky notes. So I urge everyone to embrace this grand tradition. Thank you again. This means the universe to Davy and me.”
Later that day, Tara and Cuinn are walking together in the central courtyard of the political sector. It’s twilight – well, induced twilight – and the yard appears deserted. All of the councilors are at their evening meals. It’s the first time she’s seen him in ages, and they have a lot of unfinished business. She meant to finish it the last time they met, but Cuinn had to spontaneously combust to destroy the vanguard of an alien invasion fleet. I and I’s sex life is not without complications.
“Do you think the speech went well?” Cuinn asks. “The other thing I thought about saying is how cool trebuchets are. Davy made a little one out of fleshiwood, and it’s awesome! We were shooting javamelons around Court Emmere – that’s another advantage of the javamelon. It’s aerodynamically perfect. But javajuice stains, though. That’s a downside. Anyway, I had second thoughts. The prize is kind of a universal brotherhood sort of thing, and trebuchets seem a little hostile.”
“That was a good call,” says Tara, pressing her lips together in that way she does when she’s trying not to laugh. “You know, I have no idea what you’re thinking sometimes.”
“I’m thinking about you. I’m thinking about sticky notes and trebuchets and Skarsium crystals and the topography of the nul-universe, but it all comes back to you.”
She stops and takes his hand. “I said that when I was ready, you would be first on the list,” she says. “I’m well past ready.”
They kiss.
Tara doesn’t notice that they have been followed, and since the stalker is not hostile, Cuinn doesn’t give a squirrel turd.
The next morning, every media outlet is carrying the papi shot: “Matriarch caught in peccadillo with award-winning scientist.” And, of course, at the next affair of state requiring the presence of the Prince Consort, a reporter comes straight to me. “Your Highness, what about Cuinn Cleary?”
I smile. “I know all about Cuinn Cleary,” I say. “It doesn’t bother me in the least.”
People start saying that the reason Tara and I had separated during the wars was over her infidelities. We let the talk go. At that time, we were trying to keep most of the emanations secret, and it was a lot easier than making up our own lie about what had happened. The funny thing is that they said she was having an affair with the Archon, too. It’s funny because Ailann was a virgin until the night of the disclosure, years down the line.
Tara’s name also gets connected with the “art world darling Driscoll Garrett” when the rumors start to spread that she was the model for the famous statue of Daphne. But never with Whirljack Riordan, even though Jack’s the most famous of our emanations, except for the Archon. Maybe even the Archon, since Whirljack sells records far outside of the Domha’vei.
Half of Dolparessa knows that Jack and Tara were festival lovers, but it’s never spoken of. Festival lovers are sacred.
By the time Callum arrives, Tara doesn’t care anymore. She openly flaunts her sex-slave. The smart set thinks it’s the height of sophistication; the bourgeoisie is scandalized.
“You might think about how Patrick must feel,” scolds Lady Madonna.
Tara has an audience with Gol’l Marstk, an obnoxious Volparnian lordling. He’s come to complain about the new education program. He doesn’t realize how lucky he is. The 5th Matriarch would’ve turned him into a frozen novelty treat for his presumption.
Callum enters first. He falls to his hands and knees in front of the enormous throne. Tara places her foot on his back, boosting herself into her seat. He coils up at her feet, and she rests her hand on his head, absently stroking his wildly colored hair.
Appalled by the spectacle, Marstk gets right to the point. “I’m not sending my sons to be schooled by females.”
“Oh, give me some credit for cultural sensitivity,” Tara replies. “Their instructors will be male.” Mostly.
“Like that pathetic creature?” he says, kicking at Callum. The blow is intended to be insulting, not painful. Callum ignores it. “What could a half-man of Sideria possibly have to teach a hero of Volparnu?”
“How to read?”
“A useless skill. My sons know how to hunt.”
“Look, Marstk. Perhaps you haven’t considered that the former Matriarch encouraged the men of Volparnu to remain illiterate. Kept ignorant of the true history of Earth, kept from a true appreciation of the arts and sciences. It suited her well to have that sort of advantage. She also encouraged you to remain sexist boors because it would alienate the rest of the Domha’vei. Sideria is your natural ally since both of your worlds are in the position of being completely dependent on the Skarsian power grid. But you would never stand together against Skarsia because Volparnians think Siderians are pantywaists, and Siderians think Volparnians are ignorant savages.”
She’s making enough sense that he’s uncomfortable. And so he reacts the way any hero of Volparnu would react in this potentially humiliating situation. He grabs the woman by the arm and pulls her out of her seat. Then it occurs to him that this is what she wants and needs – a real man. Otherwise, she would have acted like any sane ruler and surrounded herself with loyal guardsmen. “Women should know their place,” he says, ripping her bodice.
Callum is up, a felinoid spring that whirls into a roundhouse kick. The blow was intended to be both insulting and painful. Before he knows what’s happening, Marstk is halfway across the room, splayed ungracefully beneath the Tasean tapestries, eyes wide as a whole baked fish.
“An expanded knowledge of the subtleties of language will spare your sons many painful lessons,” says Tara. “For example, the difference between the pronouns ‘my’ and ‘your.’ As in, ‘This is my submissive.’ Not ‘your submissive.’ The difference between ‘service’ and ‘weakness’ is another important distinction. I’ve always equated weakness with fear. Are your sons really too afraid of women to come to Skarsia?”
That was awesome, says Cillian. I gained a new respect for Callum after that.
Callum is looking at the ground. I am her dog, he says. As such, I wear her collar, and beg, and perform for her amusement. I will also tear anyone who threatens her to pieces. And then he raises his eyes to meet Cillian’s, and smiles a little. A wolf is another kind of dog, he says, just as a dove is another kind of hawk.
Callum is referring to his name. Callum O’Shea literally means “Dove, son of hawk.” “Cuinn Cleary” means “intelligent and learned.” Jamey Maonach means “silent supplanter.” Dermot and Suibhne refer to the legends behind them – Dermot, the man with the beauty spot which made everyone instantly love him, and Suibhne, the mad king who sat in trees reciting poetry. The spellings of the names are important also: Dermot, not Diarmuid, to keep him from being too closely identified with the legendary figure’s romantic disasters, and Suibhne, not Sweeney, precisely to identify him with the legendary figure, and not the murderous psychopath of musical infamy.
We didn’t pick these names. Here’s how it happens: we’re standing at the foot of the tree. We’re fully dressed with clothing we’ve never seen before. There’s a mirror stashed under one of the big roots – the Cantor taught us this trick. We dig it up and look in it.
“Oh,” I remember thinking, “I’m Patrick Fitzroy.”
The names are always significant. Mine means “Noble, son of the king.” They’re also always drawn from ancient Irish names on Earth. Why? Good question. It probably has something to do with the fact that Dolparessa was colonized by the Nation of Keltika. There’s also a legend of Tara being a hill with a sacred stone which chooses the king, which seems pretty significant – except Tara told me that she was named after a Hindu goddess who wears skulls around her neck and dances on corpses. A good Skarsian name.
Perhaps a better question is “How?” As far as I know, there’s no database of baby names buried under the root next to the mirror. There’s no rational explanation for how I and I could select these names so unerringly.
The incident with Cara is another example of this sort of thing. There must have been a dozen people in that crowd with serious health issues. But Ailann notices her. And then a decade later, she will prove of inestimable value to us. Did I and I manipulate the situation? How much does He know?
Could our suffering have been avoided? For example, did he realize that Tara had faked her death, and not tell us? Could we have saved Owen’s branch from that explosion?
I suppose the answer is similar to the human parable about Job, except with one big difference. That story posits a God, which although incomprehensible, still intends only benefit for His creations. They have souls that are precious, and worth saving. Our emanations are disposable. Throwaway souls. Maybe Tara was right – God wanted to replace Owen with Lugh.
This line of reasoning is just too depressing.
Why is I and I letting you write this? asks Davy. It’s weird.
There’s a long, uncomfortable silence.
It’s also weird, Cuinn blurts out, that some humans, like that man Marstk, prefer ignorance to knowledge. It doesn’t seem like a trait that enhances the possibility of survival.
And some humans like to be lied to, says Wynne. Like Sir Lloyd Crevan.
Everyone bursts into relieved laughter.
Sir Lloyd was the sort of man who fancied himself a player. He had a wife, but also openly kept a mistress. Her name was Margot, and she was a member of the smart set. Independently wealthy, she was stunningly beautiful, long, loping legs, her chic gold earrings set off against her blue-black skin. Her sparking blue eyes always seemed to be laughing, taking in the follies of the world at a distance, and forgiving them with wry amusement. Everything she did was tasteful and sophisticated; she was always invited to all the best parties.
In fact, the only thing about her that was not tasteful and elegant was the rather overstuffed Sir Lloyd. No one could understand why a woman like her would take up with a pompous fool like him.
But it was worse than that. Rumors started to swirl that Lloyd had another woman on the side, an exotic dancer named Tania. Tania was a blonde amazon who was prone to spitting fits of jealousy, and who constantly nagged Sir Lloyd for increasingly more expensive gifts. As classy as Margot was, Tania was trashy, but no one could deny that she had a raw, animal sexuality which posed a powerful trap for a foolish man such as Sir Lloyd.
Tara and I were invited to a dinner party at Sir Lloyd’s. We were bored that night; on a lark, we decided to go. Sir Lloyd was beside himself. The invitation had been a matter of protocol – he had never imagined that the Matriarch and her Prince Consort would really show up.
It was Lloyd’s wife Betti who saved the evening. Round as a dumpling, lively as a little dog, her rollicking good humor charmed the company. She wasn’t in the least bit pretty, but she was fun, and her love of life made her adorable. She had a reputation for being a perfect hostess, an exemplary wife and a loving mother. As the evening went on, Tara found herself more and more offended that Sir Lloyd would so openly betray such a good-hearted diamond in the rough.
And then she saw Betti exchange a glance with me, a smile, a hidden acknowledgement from Betti’s laughing blue eyes.
“No,” said Tara as we left. “No.”
“Yes,” I said, laughing. Lloydashra is Betti and Margot and Tania…and another one named V’hosh. She’ll never disclose – Lloyd adores his lifestyle, and Lloydashra is just having too much fun.”
Tara is a lot different from Lloyd, says Callum. When we lie to her, we get in trouble.
It depends on the circumstance, says Lugh. I don’t even think she was angry with me – I mean Owen. She knew that we were trying to protect her. She even forgave Driscoll. Owen and Driscoll were created to lie to her, but in the end, she accepted us.
Do you really want me to tell that story? I ask. It’s not a happy one.
Patrick is being tactful, says Dermot. You know what he’s talking about. We’re back to the idea of disposable emanations. Owen was created to be disposable. And he was, although in a much different way than we expected.
But it’s Owen’s story, Lugh argues. Owen’s story is important. Owen isn’t disposable at all.
It’s Lugh’s story, too, says Owen. You have to tell it so that he can remember it.
“I don’t understand you. If we can make more crystals, we can extend the power grid.”
“Give Cuinn more time and he’ll figure it out,” Ailann pleads. It’s a source of continuing frustration. The crystals developed by the 4th Matriarch are opaque to us. Unlike the rest of the universe, I and I has no idea how they are formulated – which makes us suspect that Skarsium might come from the nul-universe. But it isn’t just pride that leads Ailann to argue against Tara’s plan. “There’s something about this I don’t like.”
“You can’t name anything specific,” says Tara. “We have to take this opportunity. If we can rediscover the technology my ancestors used…”
“But the mine was abandoned for a reason,” says Ailann.
“Remember, the 4th Matriarch’s aim was to control the Domha’vei. She was in the middle of the great war with Volparnu.”
“The War of the Sexes.”
“Yes. Her ambitions didn’t extend beyond that.”
“But yours do.”
Tara gives him that look. “Why would she risk if she had no need? Skarsium is very unstable in its unrefined form. But it isn’t like either of us has to go into the mine personally.”
“That’s callous. Don’t you care about the mine workers?”
“That’s what they’re paid for. Don’t tell me that you care?”
It is a difficult question. Being human, his branch having been cultivated for the purpose of being a leader, Ailann did care. But I and I didn’t. It was not on his list of priorities. If all things were equal, he’d intervene to save human lives, out of a sense of efficiency and a vague respect for sentient species. But he wouldn’t lose too many leaves worrying about it.
Ailann sometimes wonders whether his compassion is innate, or if it is just a byproduct of his second priority. It would be easier for Tara to fulfill her destiny if the people were under the illusion that God loved them. And perhaps the illusion is easier for I and I to sustain if Ailann really does love them. Or maybe the rush of satisfaction Ailann feels when he is able to cure the sick is just the same as Whirljack feels onstage – only ego.
Tara’s right. More crystals would mean more range. Then why is Ailann so uneasy?
Tara has to go to Eirelantra. Ailann makes up a reason not to go with her. Tara laughs, accusing him of being a poor loser. But Ailann doesn’t know how to lose. Instead, I and I grows a branch, one that cannot be seen from the great picture window at the palace.
The new emanation is a mining engineer named Owen. He knows that he’s been cultivated for the express purpose of deceiving and defying Tara. His first two words are, “This sucks.”
Owen applies for a job. The company depends on Tara’s blessing for their mining rights, which means if they knew who he was, they’d bow and scrape and suck his mulch. But they don’t, and they’re assholes. They hire him, though. He has the perfect skill set. “I was born to get this job,” he tells them, and it isn’t hyperbole.
The crews are taken to the asteroid in a special shuttle. They’re scanned, then every orifice is searched. Security is tight, no chances taken that someone has a way to block the scanner. And then they’re subjected to a different kind of scan.
It’s Molly, the telepath from Clive’s terrorist cell. What the hell is Molly doing here? No matter the reason, it’s trouble. Molly really hates I and I.
A hush falls over Owen’s brain. It’s a trick Mickey learned when he was cooped up at the science station with Traeger. Normally, telepaths are doing a shallow scan. They’re just listening in on the normal mental chatter. If you know they’re listening, you can control your thoughts. Most of the time, the issue is that you don’t know, and so they hear all kinds of careless secrets. But since Owen recognizes Molly, but Molly doesn’t know Owen, he can trick her.
If she decides to do a deep scan, it’s a different story. A strong telepath can get almost anything out of you with a deep scan – or put things in. Brainwashing. But Molly doesn’t want to do a deep scan of Owen. She may not know it, but she really doesn’t. Not after what happened when she tried to do a deep scan of Jamey.
Molly really really hates I and I. In fact, she’d like nothing better than to see the forests burn. She wants to eradicate the “Dolparessan Abomination.” It’s a cause of stress between her and Clive, who is trying to maintain good enough relations with Tara. Tara allows his operatives to work freely in the Domha’vei out of a sense of old obligation – and also because she knows just how much it aggravates General Panic.
Owen’s team’s job is to get the old processing machinery working. It would be much easier if anyone understood just how the process worked. The mechanical aspect is quite simple, and some of it is obvious – a temperature control mechanism intended to stabilize the refined Skarsium before it is changed into crystals. Skarsium can only be processed as a liquid, but unfortunately, there’s only a 5 degree difference between its freezing point and its boiling point. And it’s super-reactive – if Skarsium gas gets into the air, it will bond with all the oxygen in seconds – which isn’t a good thing. It isn’t generally the missing oxygen that is the problem – oxygen is pretty useless when a massive exothermic reaction reduces the lungs to cinders. Solid Skarsium is reactive too – it binds with almost anything, changing back to useless, inert ore. It’s not wise to get it on your hands. The ore has to be heated to just the right temperature, with a current running through it to separate out the liquid Skarsium.
And then you pour the liquid into the hopper, press the button and something happens, and you get a crystal. Something that involves enough energy to heat the largest city on Volparnu.
They’re running out of fuel fast. Owen nearly busts out laughing, the solution is so obvious. They’re sitting on a mountain of Skarsium crystals. Hook one up to a generator, and hook it into the power grid.
But there’s only one way to hook a new node into the grid. The Staff of the Matriarch controls it, and the process requires an authorization from both the Matriarch and the Archon.
Ironically, Owen is exactly the right man for the job, but he can’t even tell them without blowing his cover. So instead he suggests hooking the processor up to the shuttle’s antimatter drive. They’d better send for a fuel tanker, though.
The next day, things get even weirder. Traeger shows up.
Molly used to work for CenGov, but she was actually a mole working for the resistance. Traeger has to know that. Why would they be cooperating? And why would anyone need two telepaths? One is trouble enough. It’s illegal to make telepaths in the Domha’vei. Honestly, we’d prefer that they were completely illegal, but that would be prejudicial. The brain mod has to be done before birth. They can’t help what they are.
I and I has a really bad feeling about this. It intensifies when he finds out why the 4th Matriarch closed the mine. The survey team was right – the mine isn’t played out. There’s tons of Skarsium here. But the whole asteroid is shot through with holes – an extensive cavern system, made unstable by the mining tunnels. At any time the surface could cave in, exposing the Skarsium to the sun’s heat. If it volatizes, it will react with the artificial atmosphere being pumped into the mine tunnels.
That would not be a good thing.
Owen is really uneasy about something else – the amount of humans here. Mining engineers like himself are always needed, but in conditions like this, it is industry standard to use robots for the labor. The company is cutting corners. Human life is cheap, and a lot of these guys are Taseans. Owen is pretty sure that Tara wouldn’t authorize this, and he has enough to convince her to shut down the mine – temporarily. But then he’ll never figure out what’s going on.
Owen pretends to sleep. Halfway through the shift, he starts to hear a noise. It’s really annoying, giving him a headache. And the funny thing is that he can’t stop the headache, and that’s just wrong.
The other men on his shift are waking up. Probably the noise has disturbed them. But when he calls out to one, he is ignored. He calls out to several, and is still ignored. Their movements are strained and sluggish.
Owen decides to follow them. They pass the refinery. The crystals are glowing. Not the icy blue they glow when Ailann is using them. Neither is it the brilliant golden light which used to emit from the Staff of the 5th Matriarch. They are glowing a dull orange.
Owen figures it out. The crystals aren’t just good for channeling the energy from the nul-universe. They have other uses, can amplify and channel other things. Telepathic commands.
Now he’s stuck. He’s a mining engineer. He was born to get that job. He wasn’t born to deal with mind-controlled zombies. Not that many are. Maybe Whirljack knows what to do.
And then he hears the scream.
I need help with this one, I say.
You did good, says Owen. You got all the technical crap right.
Yes, but I don’t know how to proceed from here. I don’t know how Tara got there.
She said the company’s board of directors made her suspicious or something like that.
Just make it up, suggests Ailann, like I made up that scene between Tara and Clive.
I don’t know how. And it had to be happening while Owen was at the mine, so maybe I should go back and edit? Or should I use a flashback?
Does it matter? asks Driscoll. If it doesn’t matter, if we just have to make up some boring conversation between Tara and some bureaucrat, we should just leave it out. The reader won’t care if we leave the boring bits out.
How could a conversation with Tara be boring?
It isn’t a real conversation with Tara, says Driscoll, exasperated. Of course a real conversation with Tara isn’t boring. If she says “I’ve got a hangnail,” or recites the multiples of seven, it’s laden with poignant cosmic significance. But this isn’t the real Tara. It isn’t even a memory of the real Tara. It’s an imaginary Tara.
If we’re going to imagine Tara, let’s imagine her in the bathtub, says Tommy.
We all try it.
Imagining her in the bathtub is not as good as remembering her in the bathtub, Mickey observes. And not nearly as good as really having her in the bathtub.
That’s a significant difference between humans and Cu’enashti, says Dermot. With humans, the imagination is often better than the reality.
That’s messed up, says Owen.
If it is, then we’re even more messed up, says Tarlach. Without Tara, we would never exist. If she couldn’t imagine us, we wouldn’t be here.
But we’re the dreams made flesh, says Dermot. We are better than imagination, because we’re what she imagined made real.
Value-added, says Ross.
Yeah, but human dreams don’t work that way, says Tarlach. They’re full of contradictions. They think they want something when they really want something else – or they want things that are mutually exclusive. Like wanting your lover to be high-minded and kind, and at the same time brutal and abusive.
You mean like Patrick and Cillian, says Ailann.
That’s a pretty interesting observation, says Tarlach. The Cu’enashti are multi-trunked. Cu’enmerengi don’t undergo branching when they are injured. Their root growth is echoed by an increase in growth to the primary trunk.
You’re saying that we have to have multiple emanations in order to fulfill the dreams of our Chosen?
According to my research, the average Cu’enashti has four trunks. A tree with only one trunk is still in an adolescent stage – it can’t bear fruit.
That’s because we self-pollinate, says Cuinn. Cu’enmerengi pollinate each other. We pollinate between branches.
The production of pollen is triggered by sexual interaction with the Chosen, says Dermot. The Cu’enmerengi pollinate at set intervals. They could get along just fine on a world without humans. We can’t.
I’d assumed the multiple trunks were simply an answer to the problem of human infidelity, says Tarlach. But now I think it’s deeper. It may be an answer to the problem of human contradiction.
Yes, but did you ever notice the way some trees have emanations which are pretty similar? asks Mickey. Like the Chosen just wants the same one over and over.
Tara is complicated. Tara always wants something new.
This happened at a time when Tara was depressed about the loss of Owen’s branch, and worried about the damage to Whirljack. I and I has his own problems. He thinks he can solve both at once. When Tara emerges from her evening bath, a man she has never seen before is waiting.
He’s slick, affably handsome, instantly likeable. He reminds Tara most of Ross, except that Ross radiates respectability. This man promises a walk that wanders a little bit into the shade. “Wynne Rafferty,” he says, “and very happy to finally meet.”
“Finally,” she says. “Why now?”
“You need some fun in your life,” he says. “Let’s go out tonight.”
Tara calls a personal shopper who arrives ten minutes later with a blonde wig and a dress that’s just a touch too sexy. It’s not really a good disguise; if she were going to a premiere or an expensive restaurant, the press would recognize her immediately. But that’s not where she’s going. Where she’s going, no one would expect the Matriarch of Skarsia, especially not accompanied by an unknown man, a man who would wear a red velvet jacket with diamond cufflinks, not to mention vlizaard-skin loafers.
Eirelantra is a gathering place for the rich and ultra-rich. A good bit of government business is conducted there because it is considered neutral ground by the four worlds. Tara has lived there, on and off, for the past decade. She’s never much liked it in comparison to Dolparessa, so she never bothered venturing far outside the political sector.
But there are places on Eirelantra which are far removed from protocol and formality. It’s more like Dalgherdia, but not as gritty. Or perhaps the grit is all high-quality grit which has been applied purposefully for artistic effect. Wynne brings her to a casino. He avoids the rows and rows of gaming machines, steering her towards the few tables every club keeps to lend a sense of antiquarian classiness. They play spinette for a bit, and he breaks even.
“I thought you were supposed to be good at this,” Tara says.
“I am. The house is cheating.” Tara laughs, but she sees he’s serious. “They should have around a three percent advantage, but my guess is that the wheel is rigged and it’s more like five.”
“Two percent doesn’t sound like much.”
“Sweetness, it’s at least a few million a day.” Tara is shocked. “Places like this pull in a lot of money.”
“Maybe I should invest in one,” Tara muses.
“Let’s play a game without a house advantage.” Wynne sits at cards. On either side of him, hostesses slink up in tight sequined dresses. It’s a distraction tactic, but Wynne flirts shamelessly. One of them brings him a drink. Tara smiles, but she’s livid. Between the girls and the game, Wynne isn’t paying any attention to her at all.
She leans forward to whisper something to him. “I gotta win this one, sweets,” he says, waving her off.
She moves away from the table. There’s coffee available at a buffet table – coffee and alcohol. The casino wants you awake enough to keep playing, but drunk enough to make mistakes. When Tara gets close enough to the buffet, she sees it isn’t real coffee: the cups have the familiar NBAI logo. She laughs. She doesn’t need to buy a casino. She already has a piece of this one. She dumps two shots of vodka into the javajuice.
Back at the table, Wynne has hit a streak. He’s attracted more women now, each hoping to get a piece of the handsome high-roller. He’s smiling and joking with them, but from a distance, Tara can see that his focus is undisturbed. He’s playing like his life depends on it.
The eye in the sky is on him, but he’s not counting cards. He’s just really, really good at playing the odds. The manager is wondering whether he’ll quit while he’s ahead, or if he’s the type who will blow it all when his streak breaks. Tara’s impatient now; games of chance bore her. She’d rather trust in skill than luck.
Wynne has amassed an enormous pile of chips. The woman next to him is stroking his leg. Tara amuses herself by envisioning the small bones in the woman’s hands and wrists and how much pressure it would take to snap them.
The next hand is dealt. Wynne gets the ace and jack of spades. He takes the 3:2 payout and cashes in. He gets it in real currency, and gives half to Tara. It’s an enormous novelty. She’s lived her life buying with bank debits. The feel of the coins is heavy and unfamiliar.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “The stakes were really high. I had to get blackjack. Let’s go dancing.”
They go to a seedy little club, packed so tight you can breathe the moisture on other people’s bodies. The music is live, Tornbrian Thump, a blend of IndWorld folk music and generic electro-dance. The vocalist is using an instrument called a kalatea, which adds two harmonics to her voice, but the timing is staggered at intervals. The effect is like a deranged priestess singing a motet to a disco backing.
Tara excuses herself to powder her nose. There’s plenty of nose powder in that bathroom, but Tara chooses instead a drug called Sparkle. She buys two hits; notes with amusement the little RR-2 logo at the bottom of the packets. She pays twice what she charges for it, observing she needs a better distribution network. There’s too much profit for the middleman.
Tara pours the fine, shimmering dust onto the back of her wrist, where it is absorbed almost immediately. The world snaps into focus, sensory impressions heightened.
Sparkle is also a mood elevator, which is a good thing, for when she gets back, Wynne is chatting up some girl with enhanced breasts and too much lipstick. Her face is a little too perfect, so Tara knows she’s had genework done. Tacky.
Wynne knows exactly what Tara’s been up to; he could feel the spike in her metabolism. “Bad girl,” he says, holding out his hand. She presses the second packet into it. He steps into a shadowy corner so that he can apply it discreetly. She finds it funny. She’s the Matriarch, after all. It’s not like they’re going to be arrested. Her own inclination is to legalize everything, but that would cut her profits in half, and for what? The police would go on strike, and the Ennead would put out a hit on her. Not worth it.
They dance, pressed close against each other in the crowded club. Wynne moves expertly, and Tara finds herself thinking about how he moves in bed. If he were Jack, he’d take her home now. But he’s not Jack. He’s going to play with her for a while. Finally, he grabs her hand and pulls her off the dance floor towards a staircase in the back. He slips a few credits into the hand of a man standing at the bannister. Tara is starting to understand why he wanted cash.
They go to a room on the second floor. It’s an efficiency, with a tiny shower built into the back of the corner of the room. Most of the space is taken up by an enormous bed. Tara realizes she’s in a love hotel. She’s never been in this kind of place before. “I wonder what sort of woman goes here?” she muses.
“Rich bitches who are cheating on their husbands with handsome strangers they picked up at a casino,” says Wynne, shoving her back on the bed. He hikes up her too-tight skirt, rips her nylons. It’s adamanylon, the expensive ones that are guaranteed against tears and runs, so he has to alter the chemical composition to make it work. “Women who want to be treated like sluts.”
“Cillian treats me like a slut,” says Tara.
“Cillian treats you like a princess. He just roughs you up a little because he knows you like to be dominated. I could never manhandle you like that. But this isn’t about domination. It’s about dirt. It’s about the fact that I could’ve come here with any of five bitches who were rubbing their tits in my face all night. It’s about how that made your hot Dolparessan blood boil. It’s about how you’re going to go home tonight with your hair mussed and your hose ripped, not bothering to use that shower, because when you get into that big bed, you want your husband to smell another man when he takes you. You’re going to fuck him hard while your snatch is still wet from when I was inside of you.”
“You’re playing a game.”
“That’s what I do, sweetness. I play games.”
Later that night, when Tara is with me, she says, “You know, for all the years we’ve been together, we’ve never done anything like that. I mean, I’ve never had two of you back to back.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“I did, but also, I feel dirty. Like I really did cheat on you. Do you mind?”
I have to laugh. “Why would I mind getting laid twice in one evening?” I lean close, so that I’m speaking softly into her ear. “I’ll tell you a secret. I could never do what Wynne did tonight. I could never do what Cillian does, or, for that matter, what Callum does. But it’s fun, so much fun, to feel what it’s like to be somebody else.”