Patrick and Tara are walking across the Capital Concourse in Cybae City as part of some big procession to honor the esteemed rulers of the Domha’vei. Enormous crowds have gathered to gawk at the legendary Matriarch and Archon of Skarsia on this, their first diplomatic visit outside of their own territory. Later, they are going to attend an enormous gala including a twenty-course dinner and a ball.
I am so fucking pissed off at this steaming pile of compost.
Manan says I should use mindfulness to manage my anger. But no, hell no. I should be out there. All I see is enormous crowds of potential assassins, trying to test how tough we really are. And they don’t even know the truth: our only energy source is Canopus, the little penjing, on a shoestring. It’s feeding off one lousy hidden power crystal plugged into a ra’aabit hole. We don’t have the juice to create an Archonsday dinner ex nihilo. The Archon’s omnipotence is an enormous bluff. Might as well paint a target on us.
« It’s a strategic risk, » says Cillian. « If they think we’re afraid to travel outside the Domha’vei, they’ll pen us there, and we’ll never achieve Tara’s Destiny…»
« I’m with Marius, » says Ari. « I’ve always thought we should just retire with Tara someplace safe. »
« Look at the priorities, » says Ailann. « It’s hard for us to see past our love for Tara, but her destiny is even more important than that. »
« Goliath emanations are so fucking chik-henn shit, » mutters Cillian.
Ailann intervenes before Aran can punch Cillian in the mouth. « Cillian, that kind of talk doesn’t do any good. We’re all part of the pleroma. We’re all part of the grove. »
« Shut up and listen, » I snap.
Patrick has pulled aside one of the Cybaen honor guards. He’s saying, “In twenty seconds, you’ll see a man 10.45 meters in front of us gasping for breath. He’s an assassin.”
Like most of us, Patrick can see about a minute into the future. Lens can see much further, but it gives him a headache. Also, Patrick smells the gun. I know where he’s going with this. He thinks the easiest thing to do is to turn the oxygen in the assassin’s lungs into carbon dioxide. Everyone around him will think that man was having an asthma attack.
But Tara is in danger. Why wasn’t I allowed to deal with it?
« Because you would’ve broken formation, put your fist through the guy’s face and embarrassed our hosts by drawing attention to their piss-poor security provisions, » says Cillian. « Pat saw it coming, and he took care of it tactfully, and now our hosts owe us a big one for helping them to save face. »
The procession continues calmly until all are safely within the famous Independence Accord Pavilion. Then there is an explosion of activity. The Governor of Cybae rushes over to Tara and Patrick, apologizing profusely. Tara waves it off. “I’m a little frazzled, but it’s the kind of thing we expected. If you could just get me a martini to calm my nerves, and my husband, Prince Patrick, a snifter of brandy and RootRiot, we’ll pull ourselves back together for the evening.”
Tara sits heavily on the couch, affecting the bit of apprehension that the men of Cybae would expect of a female ruler. Patrick sits next to her and takes her hand concernedly. The truth is that Tara has a backbone of steel, and it’s Patrick on the verge of crumbling. He’s worried that his hand will tremble when he accepts the brandy.
“How are you?” she asks quietly.
“A bit lightheaded. That took more out of me than I expected. I hope I won’t have to use alchemy again.”
“I could’ve used my nails,” Tara says. She looks disappointed.
“Remember, we’re trying to overcome the impression that the Domha’vei is a primitive backwater and you’re a barbarian queen.”
“The barbarian image didn’t really hurt Attila,” says Tara. “If you’ve got the power to back your words, who gives a fuck?”
“That isn’t what your Irish ancestors would’ve said. They knew the king’s greatest enemy was the satirist.”
In a few minutes, the governor returns with their drinks. As they are escorted into the banquet hall, I warily canvass the people and the layout. There’s no apparent danger, but I’m not letting down my guard. They sit at the head table next to the Defense Councilor, who is wearing one of those tacky mechanical dresses. Tara flinches as the spindly arms on Madame Councilor’s shoulders snap up a burri bun in their pincers.
It’s just rude; Patrick pretends not to see. Fortunately, those things never caught on in the Domha’vei. Especially on Dolparessa, the aesthetic is organic, mostly based on flowers and leaves.
After an overlong speech of welcome, the salad course is served. “Hearts of palm,” says Patrick. “How delightful.”
“Should I treat it as a deliberate insult, or simply a sad breach of etiquette?”
“In my experience, many people have difficulty accepting the reality that I’m part of a tree. They are also very resistant to the idea of sentient plants. For the sake of smooth relations, I’ll eat the salad. Palmetto is none too bright – I suppose it might be like asking a human to dine on monkey roast.”
“Ugh,” says Tara. “I owe you one.”
“You can pay me back with sexual favors.” Patrick is smiling like he means it, but for once in his life, he doesn’t. Riding along with him, it’s impossible not to notice that he’s getting an enormous headache.
Dermot looks worried. « Could it be an energy depletion effect? »
« No, » Whirljack replies. « Before Ailann became Archon and we could tap into the power grid, Patrick had that problem whenever he was on Eirelantra. He’d get dizzy, exhausted, suffer muscular weakness, but not a headache. »
« There’s only one time we ever get headaches, » I note.
Ross nods. « Telepathic attack. I’ve been there. »
« You don’t think it’s the SongLuminants? » asks Ailann.
« Nah, » says Cillian. « This is crude – also, the SongLuminants and the CenGov telepathic corps know what happens when they mess with a Cu’enashti. I’m putting my money on an Ennead telepath, an assassin for hire. »
« It’s foolishness, » says Tarlach. « If the attack succeeds, and the telepath gets a glimpse of our pleroma, he or she will go insane. »
« Yeah, but it’s still fucking annoying, » says Cillian.
« More than that, » says Ailann. « At home, we could brush it off, but here, with Patrick functioning on so little energy, that attack will wear him down. »
« This is a major red flag, » I protest. « I want to go out there. »
« There’s nothing you can do against a telepathic attack, » says Cillian. « We’d be better off with Manan or Hurley. »
« Then get out of there. Pat, do you hear me? Get back to the hotel room and under the eyes of our own guards. »
He hears me. For diplomatic reasons, he stays longer than I’d like, but they do leave immediately after dinner, begging off due to exhaustion from their long voyage. Their hosts interpret this as justified paranoia resulting from the assassination attempt.
“Fucking compost,” Patrick mutters when they close the door to their suite.
Tara’s surprised. So am I. Patrick’s language is usually pretty genteel. But it takes her a moment to smell the burnt electronics – what I sensed from the get-go: microcams.
“They’re spying on us,” she says. “Droidfucking assholes.”
Patrick face-plants onto the luxurious 800 thread synth kottawn sheets. “I had to use alchemy again, to disable them.”
« I hate synth kottawn, » says Quennel. « It’s tacky and nouveau riche. It’s a worse insult than the hearts of palm and the assassination attempt. »
Patrick sighs and relates the message. “Quennel says it’s time to speak privately, but firmly, to the attaché assigned to us. He thinks we’re being tested to see how much we’ll take.”
He’s exhausted, and his head is pounding. I should just emanate.
« Will you chill? » asks Cillian. « Pat is going to handle it. In the shape we’re in, we don’t want to swap emanations unless it’s an emergency. It’s a fucking waste of energy. »
Patrick rises and heads towards the bathroom. He can barely stand. “My love, please excuse me while I change,” he says.
We can hear Tara bitching in the other room. “First you ask for sexual favors, and now you get modest? It’s not like you don’t have a gorgeous body – firm, well-muscled, but understated.” But that’s not what Patrick meant. I’m ready for action when the world turns blue.
« What? » I hear Cillian mutter. « Is the situation critical now? »
But I don’t emanate. X’khaim emanates. X’khaim? And then we all hear it:
“X’khaim of Seachange, Lord High Administrator. 66th to emanate, 10 in the color scale, resonates to 29. 1.773 meters tall, cock size 16.67 cm when erect, apparent age 34. Systems administrator. Totem is Nau’gshtium sapiens, the arya nau’gsh, fixed star is HIP 98152, called T’varra Barar, the gathering of leaves. Esoteric symbol is the Archimedean solid rhombicuboctahedron. Dessert is Cu’endhari surprise, a nau’gsh galette baked inside of a burnt-kasmilbutter gâteau. Function is adjusting insight, proto-conscious tendency is logistics, designated Administrator. Blazon is sable, a chevron voided silver, to base a data crystal, silver.”
« He just got the quest achievement, » says Ailann. « What happened? »
« I’m on it, » says Wynne. « I’ll have to pop by the armory to check the scoreboard. »
X’khaim is as confused as the rest of us. No – more confused, since a minute ago, he was on a train out of Ophionia, and he didn’t have a clue about anything. He takes a deep breath – two deep breaths. But he doesn’t have to look in the mirror. He knows his name.
“Oliver,” he gasps. “You tried to warn us. You were so right…”
Hang in there, X’khaim, says Oliver, whirling his emotions into a chatburl. But right now, he’s got his hands full dealing with the panicked Cyrus and Pallav, who have no way of understanding why X’khaim is gone and Patrick is on the train with them.
X’khaim takes another deep breath, because he knows he’s going to have to face Tara, and the last thing he wants is to see her unhappy. And she’s just had one of her favorites taken from her, so yes, she’s going to be unhappy. Also, Patrick has expertise in dealing with diplomatic situations. X’khaim doesn’t have the faintest idea why he’s been dispatched to Universe Prime.
He inches the bathroom door open slightly. Then he feels it, the incredible warmth of the second sun. He stumbles forward, frozen in the doorway, staring at her, speechless.
“What the fuck?” says Tara.
“Um, hi,” says X’khaim nervously. “This wasn’t exactly planned. At least I don’t think.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“X’khaim. I was part of the second hatch.”
“X’khaim? What happened to Patrick?”
“I’m afraid that Patrick is inside for the duration. I and Us doesn’t have enough energy to do another swap. Sorry.”
Tara rubs her forehead in that way that lets us know she’s really pissed. “Swapping might not have been the wisest move, considering.”
“I know. I’m stuck handling the diplomacy, and I know nothing about it.”
She sighs, falling back onto the bed. “There is that, but I meant that I wanted to fuck Patrick into the mattress.”
He’s thinking hard now. It’s interesting; since he’s new, I’ve never ridden along with him before. Even though he’s panicking, he’s still thinking.
“Considering that I and Us had a really good reason for doing this, could I perhaps offer you my virginity in exchange?” he says.
“You aren’t lacking in intelligence,” says Tara grinning. But you’d better tell me the reason.”
I found out the quest achievement, chatburls Wynne. But we’re not really paying attention. This scene between Tara and X’khaim is just getting interesting.
“Patrick was being attacked by a telepath.”
“WHAT?”
“I took care of it.”
“You figured out a way to defend Ash from telepathic attacks?”
Suddenly, X’khaim seems spooked, awkward. “Well, not exactly figured out. I used the standard method.”
It was #93, “Become a heretic,” chatburls Wynne.
“The standard method is to implant a data chip which will deflect a telepathic deep scan by sending a potentially damaging volume of psionic static back at the intruder,” says Tara. “Surely that’s not what you mean. Surely you realize that chipping is in violation of the heresy laws.”
X’khaim clears his throat. “I and Us was thinking that perhaps since he’s God, the heresy laws didn’t really apply.”
Tara jumps up, slamming her fist into the pillow. “The heresy laws don’t have a fucking thing to do with religion! It’s about being human, which you aren’t with a chip in your fucking head.”
“I’m, ah, not entirely human anyway, but I thought you knew that,” replies X’khaim sheepishly.
“You were a tree. You were a nul-entity. So what? Now you’ve been defiled with technology.”
X’khaim plops heavily onto the bed. “I’m really having trouble following the logic of this,” he says numbly.
In here, everyone is looking at each other, worried. Tara’s upset. Tara’s really upset. The sky is falling. « It’s probably not that bad…» begins Whirljack.
Then Tara pushes X’khaim off the bed. “Get off! You don’t think I’m sleeping with a chipped-up freak?”
X’khaim doesn’t know what to say. “You don’t get it, do you?” she screams. “Someone could spy on us.”
“Patrick took care of the microcams.”
“Someone could take over your brain!”
“The chip prevents telepathic interference.”
But it isn’t about logic. Tara is throwing a compost conniption, the like of which we haven’t seen in years. I feel for the guy. I know what it’s like to be on the end of one of those – like having your heart stuck in a whirlwind full of broken glass.
“Aaargh!” she screams, throwing her glass across the room, narrowly missing X’khaim’s head. “When I first saw you, I thought you were hot! How could you do something so disgusting?”
“You didn’t react this way when Clive Rivers got chipped,” says X’khaim, reaching desperately into our memories.
“I wasn’t sleeping with the bastard at the time. Gah, a husband of mine is chipped! My mother is spinning in her grave.” Tara throws herself back onto the bed, covering her head with the pillow.
After a moment, X’khaim turns off the lights. “I guess I’ll sleep on the floor,” he murmurs.
For a moment, the pleroma is silent.
« He’s…chipped, » says Ace incredulously, repeating what we all know.
« Eew, » says Ethan.
« Something seriously wrong with that, » Ari adds.
« You’re being unfair, » snaps Ross. He looks livid. « X’khaim has been put into a very bad position by I and I. »
« If I and I really wanted a telepathic protection chip, any of us could’ve been forced to do it, » says Ailann slowly.
« But Patrick wasn’t, » says Ethan. « Patrick came inside, and X’khaim was emanated. There’s probably a reason for that. X’khaim is one of those freaks from Ophion, not a normal person like Patrick. »
« That’s such an ugly thing to say, » retorts Barnabas. « Maybe this guy is questionable, but what about Benbow and Vassali? They’re our brothers. »
« Shut up, » says Ethan. « I don’t have to listen to you. »
Oh great. This has become an excuse for another showdown between Ethan and Barnabas. When will those guys get it together?
« Don’t talk that way about X’khaim, » says Benbow. « Don’t talk that way about a branch on my tree. »
« Benbow, you’re a cool guy, but also, you’re a little different, » says Mickey. « I don’t think you’re getting the implications of this. He’s chipped. »
So that’s how this is gonna go. Benbow has got rootballs, so Mickey knocks him down. I’m not gonna say anything. It’s not like I’m Mister Popularity. Even if I do kinda feel bad for the guy, it won’t do him any good. Even if I do kinda feel that if we need a telepathic chip to protect Tara, we ought to have one…but Tara thinks they’re gross, so that’s that. The whole point of our existence is to be pleasing to Tara.
« Her safety comes before her pleasure, » says Ellery quietly. « Of all emanations, you should know that. »
It just doesn’t seem fair to X’khaim, chatburls Oliver. It’s not like he chose to emanate like that.
I’m still riding with X’khaim, but it’s getting really uncomfortable. He has set his glasses on an end table and is sitting on the floor with his elbows propped on his knees, head in hands, trying not to cry. Worse, he now realizes that he no longer needs to sleep, so there is no respite from his misery. His heart is a sinking stone in his chest. And to add injury, most of us have left him alone because we’re either actively ostracizing him or simply unwilling to share in the worst pain we can imagine: Tara’s rejection.
I’m still there, Tarlach, Oliver, Benbow, Ross, and…Lorcan?!?
« I know Tara, » says Lorcan. « It will all blow over. X’khaim, when you come back inside, you’re welcome to party at Sloane’s. »
There is a loud mutual gasp.
« Do you really think you ought… » Quennel begins.
« I do whatever the fuck I please, » says Lorcan. « I don’t give a squirrel turd what anyone thinks. »
« That’s very compassionate of you, » says Tarlach. « I also think X’khaim may need some therapy. »
« I guess we can tell who has nuts around here, » says Ross.
And then Suibhne starts laughing his crazy laugh. « Suibhne understands now, » he says.
« No matter what happens, Lorcan wins, » adds Malachi. « Lorcan has already won Ross’ respect, which means he might bring Constantine to Sloane’s parties. And if he loses the gamble, and X’khaim gets ostracized permanently, then it adds to Lorcan’s reputation as a deviant rebel. But if Lorcan wins the bet, and X’khaim is accepted, then X’khaim will be grateful for Lorcan’s support and come to Sloane’s parties, too. »
Damn, he’s right. And I feel kind of sheepish because I didn’t stay to back X’khaim, no matter how sorry I felt. I stayed to keep an eye on Tara. Because that’s my job.
And right now, she’s thrashing restlessly in her sleep. “Ash…Ash?” she moans.
« She always does that, » says Lorcan. « Like most people with steel hides, her heart is glass. Go comfort her, moron. »
X’khaim rises silently from the floor. He sits gently on the side of the bed, barely disturbing the mattress. “I’m here.”
Tara sits up, blinking sleepily. “It’s the chipped freak.” She stares into his eyes for a few seconds, then says, “Oh, Ash, what will I do with you? Get undressed and come to bed.”
A few minutes later, and she is curled up against his chest, sleeping. X’khaim has his eyes pressed as tightly as he can, but he still can’t stop the tears from leaking out.
Malachi lets out a sigh of relief. « That could’ve been a lot worse. »
« It was another test, » says Dermot. “Of Tara, and of us. I and I wanted to see how far he could push her acceptance of Him. If it failed, it would have been easy enough for X’khaim to get rid of the chip. »
And then Cüinn pipes in. « This is an important development, » he says. « If Tara can get over her irrational distaste for crispware[1], it opens all sorts of new pathways to human evolution. We can catch up to the kind of technology CenGov has in a matter of decades. »
« Basically, you agreed with Marius, » says Ross, « but you didn’t have the guts to stick it out. »
Cüinn falls silent, ashamed. But Ethan is not convinced. « We don’t need to be fucking robots. »
« I see little danger of that, » says Dermot. « We’re trees, with our roots solidly in the ground. We’ll never forsake organic life. Within reason, technology could just be used to enhance it. »
« We had better go slowly, or we’ll have a revolt on our hands, » adds Quennel. « We’ve had enough turmoil getting the people of the Domha’vei used to the Combine of Sentients and the prospect of immortality. As we just witnessed from Tara’s earlier display, the prejudice against chipping runs very deep. »
« Will you guys fucking shut up? » Lorcan snaps. « Can’t you see that X’khaim is having a really bad time of it? »
« I don’t think you understood what I meant, » says Dermot. « Tara passed the test, but we failed it. Everybody except Lorcan and Ross and Tarlach, and maybe Benbow and Oliver and Marius although their reaction was colored by their various loyalties. The point is that if we’re building a pleroma where everyone is needed, you can’t just ostracize somebody. X’khaim is here for good. »
There’s a moment of solemn silence. Then Lorcan says, « Hey, Tarlach. I want to file a cross-pollination request for X’khaim. »
« Moving quickly, aren’t you? » asks Tarlach.
« In the morning, Tara’s going to feel terrible about this, » Lorcan replies. « And you know what that means, don’t you? Apology sex. »
[1] An interface which combines hardware and wetware; the term plays on the equivalence of a chip and a crisp as a type of snack – trans.