When I emanate in our suite, I’m greeted by Mickey, and I seem to be holding a strangely shaped piece of wood.
“What’s that?” Mickey asks.
“Um, I guess it’s a wholo. Julian said that Cord wanted me to look at it.”
I turn it around in my hands, running my thumb over the slightly stippled grain. I’m instantly flooded with experiences – it’s about halfway between the handful of times when I was guided to experience branch memory and an ordinary VR simulation. It’s our trip to Celadon from both Solomon and Cord’s points of view, topped off with a few interviews and a really hot sex scene between Cord and Beat.
“Whoooo,” I say, exhaling hard.
Mickey looks at me curiously. Rather than explain, I hand it to him.
“Oh!” He sits down on the bed. “O-kay. This is similar to branch memory but edited like a holovid. What a strange concept. Also, I’m not sure how it can possibly work outside of the pleroma.”
“Maybe it just works for us because we’re part of the pleroma. I guess it might also work for other Cu’endhari, but I can’t see how humans could possibly experience this just by holding a piece of wood.”
Mickey sets the wholo on the table. “I’m glad you’re back,” he says. “We’ve asked Lord Danak to meet us as soon as we emerge from the wormhole. He’s going to use the teleport.”
“That teleport is like a toy to him,” I mutter. “I wish I could use it, though. Travelling through Newtonian space is such a waste of time.”
“We’ll connect with Erich and Escharton on remote,” Mickey continues. “I’ve been reviewing the facts, and too many things don’t add up. If the assassins were prompted by CenGov, why did they have our tech? And how did that base on the moon stay undetected so long – including the very tardy response time by RevGov to their sudden and dramatic departure?”
Lady Magdelaine sweeps into the room. “I see you’re here promptly,” she says. “That’s becoming a rarity these days. Honestly, I never know when you’re going to drop off the face of the universe…why is there a piece of wood on the table?”
“Don’t!” I cry, lunging at it, but it’s too late; Lady Madonna has carelessly grasped the wholo. In less than a second, she tosses it into the air like a piece of hot metal, and I quickly catch it, slipping it into a pocket.
She blinks. “I think that’s a little too much information about Prince Beat. I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.”
“We all have the same eyes,” says Mickey.
“And Prince Cord – another one? Really, missy, there’s a point where excess becomes tasteless. It’s a bit of a let-down to discover that the mysterious pleroma is nothing more than a hook-up joint.”
“What are they supposed to get up to when I’m gone? Singing Archonist hymns? Besides, it’s more like a cross between a seraglio and a multi-sectioned theme park.”
Mercifully, we receive the signal that we’re emerging into the Domha’vei. A moment later, Lord Danak materializes. “Did you have a chance to look at that material I sent?”
“I did, but Tara didn’t,” says Mickey. “Between the incidents you’ve documented and the ship coated with starslick, I’ve reached a pretty uncomfortable conclusion. There’s someone selling us out, and that person is probably part of my organization.”
It’s almost too shocking to believe, but Lord Danak agrees. “I’ve been in conference with Ta’al Erich, and that’s what he thinks as well. The only way to have orchestrated the sabotage was to have insider access or information. Even the protests are too well-planned, well-timed – Roger ran an analysis showing a 98.7% chance that they were being run by professional agitators.”
“I don’t think we’ve ever had a traitor in SSOps. Those people are chosen for fanatical loyalty.”
“It’s probably more than one,” says Mickey. “Some of the incidents were too chronologically proximate and geographically distant for a single person to be responsible.”
“What about one person with help from CenGov?” I ask. “That ship had CenGov design elements, and that base was obviously theirs. It’s just hard for me to imagine a mass SSOps conspiracy.”
“Yeah, but it’s also hard to imagine CenGov behind these incidents. We’ve had chaos and infrastructure damage, but literally nobody has died. I’ve never known President Gweseki to care about ethics.”
“Well, can’t you just smell out the traitor – literally?”
“I could smell betrayal if it were relatively nearby. Unfortunately, in an incredibly stupid move on my part, the ones most likely to be disloyal are the ones I’ve distanced from myself – the old timers who miss the good old days of being able to disappear people and torture them to death. I’ve mostly had them reassigned to the Ennead Task Force.”
“You should have had them taken out and shot.”
“That would’ve caused a rebellion, even amongst the good agents,” Mickey replies. “An organization like SSOps runs on group identification. Members are more-or-less brainwashed into thinking that they’re superior to everyone else, which is why they’re brave and strong enough to take superior risks. It’s a time-honored military technique. The dark side is that it’s not uncommon for such an organization to feel that the laws don’t apply to them, that they have more rights than others.”
“With SSOps, that’s literally true,” says Danak.
“Well, I have effected some reform. Under the 5th Matriarch, SSOps could legally do anything they wanted other than betray Her Eminence and each other. Now, they have to show cause whenever a civilian is killed during an operation. The most unpopular thing I ever did was to decree that rape and major larceny by operatives would be prosecuted. They were used to taking anyone and anything they wanted. We’ve cut way down on demands for bribes and protection money simply through recruiting honest officers. It was easy enough to do by using psychological profiles, but the 5th Matriarch never bothered – she didn’t see it as necessary. We’re stuck with her bad apples, and we haven’t purged them for fear of undermining the cohesion of the group.”
“Still, it would’ve been the right thing to do,” I murmur.
“The right thing is the thing which advances your destiny. That usually means the thing that results in the most good for the most people. My agents have a function in our social stability. Oh, shut up, Seth.”
I can only imagine what’s going on in Mickey’s head right now – Seth will probably write another church publication on the topic. But I’m more practical. “The reason to do the right thing is that the wrong thing always comes back to bite us in the ass. Like now. The longer we stay in power, the more ethical we’ll need to become.”
“But why now?” asks Lord Danak. “If these men bore a grudge in the name of the 5th Matriarch, why not strike long ago?”
“Maybe lack of promotion? I’ve spent the better part of three decades getting the best agents – idealists like Cara the Arrow and Graysal – into command positions. Frankly, I’ve been waiting for the old-school thugs to die off.”
“That’s it,” I realize.
“It is?” says Lord Danak, confused.
“It is,” says Lady Magdelaine. “Because the hand-picked people won’t die off – ever.”
“Maybe we’ve kept certain disreputable elements on the payroll,” I explain, “but we’re not taking care of them. If it’s a sense of loyalty which holds a group like that together, then being denied immortality is the ultimate betrayal. You’ll have men and women who think they’ve given their lives to the organization, and not gotten the same reward as somebody new. They’re going to be bitter as all hell.”
“So the ones who are aging probably figure that since they’ll die anyway, they haven’t got much to lose,” muses Lord Danak.
“But we can’t take care of everyone,” Mickey protests. “Wasn’t that the point of the church inundating people with propaganda? Move to the colony for your chance to be immortal, the Archon will make your grandchildren immortal…”
“And to a great extent, it’s working. In the Exploitation Era, the corporate robbers kept the populace under control with a similarly slim promise of personal wealth. As long as the people believe that enterprise is rewarded with social mobility, they’ll buy in.”
“The point which you don’t quite seem to understand is that not everyone in the Domha’vei believes in social mobility,” says Danak. “It would’ve gone so much easier if you could have made all the aristos and their retainers immortal first. Instead, the majority of immortals are from Dolparessan farming families.”
Mickey shrugs. “We can’t help it. Cu’enashti like farmers. They’re good-hearted people with a connection to the soil and to each other. They’re often musically talented and excellent craft workers. In contrast, the average aristo is superficial, concerned only with social standing and personal aggrandizement. The selling point of aristocracy is that it breeds eccentrics. Cu’enashti love eccentrics – they have such interesting dreams.”
“True enough,” I reply. “But either is better than the commercial class.”
“I can’t possibly imagine a Cu’enashti choosing an investment banker,” Mickey agrees.
“People have noticed,” says Lady Magdelaine. “It’s becoming a problem on Dolparessa – we’re having to employ financial professionals on Sideria because nobody wants the taint of being a stockbroker. It’s the kiss of death.”
“Ah, there’s Ta’al Erich and Battlequeen Escharton on holo,” says Danak. “I’ll brief them on the discussion so far.”
“I’ve narrowed down the suspects based on who had access to the formula for starslick and our itinerary for the Ind-Alliance tour,” says Mickey.
“What about our communications network?” asks Escharton.
“I’m already on it. I had the AI at RR-2 Labs run an analysis, but we couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. X’khaim says that if the double-agents are working for CenGov, they’re probably using nul-coated chips, like the prototype that Rivers had.”
“So they won’t show up on routine scans,” says Danak. “If we call all our agents in for a complete medical work-up, we’ll tip our hands.”
“How much do we know about chip technology?” asks Ta’al Erich.
“Enough to perfectly duplicate one,” says Mickey.
“Then why don’t we use those chips against them in the same way that CenGov does – to brainwash people? If they have chips, it makes them vulnerable.”
“Talk about unethical!” Lady Magdelaine exclaims. “That’s disgusting.”
“Why not?” Erich rebuts. “If they were foolish enough to allow themselves to be chipped, it will serve them right.”
“But it’s not so easily done,” says Mickey. “Those chips have a neutronium[1] firewall. It would be a disaster if just anyone could hack into them.”
“Clive could do it,” I realize.
“No,” says Mickey.
“Why not?” asks Erich. “Why not use every tool at our disposal?”
“Tool is the appropriate word,” mutters Mickey.
“Will you get over it?” I snap. “Clive and I were done decades ago. Look, can X’khaim do it?”
“No,” says Mickey sullenly.
“Then we’ll ask Clive.”
“We’ll also need someone capable of designing the message,” says Mickey. “It isn’t like the SongLuminants using mind control to force someone to jump off a bridge. Our citizens are much more sophisticated about media than Terrans. If the message is too obvious, it will call attention to itself and will ultimately be ineffective, like it was with Rivers. We require an expert specialization in media manipulation.”
“Bobert Crandon,” suggests Danak. “Isn’t this what we pay him for?”
“I’d rather not involve him,” says Erich. “He’d know that we used chip technology for brainwashing. He might hold that over our heads.”
“You’re being paranoid,” says Danak. “Bobert is a fanatical Archonist, and he’s under our protection. He has everything to gain by being loyal.”
“I’m being cautious,” Erich rebuts, “a demonstrable characteristic of political survival.”
“We’ve got it handled,” says Mickey. “Excuse me.” He heads for the bathroom.
Escharton giggles. “I guess nature calls even His Holiness.”
“Um,” I say. “There are a couple of ways this could go.”
A minute later, as I expected, Ash emerges from the bathroom a new man. He’s in his mid-twenties, shag cut chestnut hair, a fashionable jumper of a rambat-ramie blend with a pair of skousers – a unisex bottom combining slacks and a miniskirt.
“Your name had better be Gwion, Lennox, Bastien, Diego, Ishan or Varen.”
Lady Magdelaine looks like she swallowed a bloobird.
“My name is Dig.” he replies. “A curious choice, I must admit.”
Now I look like I swallowed a bloobird. “Ash, what part of ‘enough’ must I explain to you?”
“And your name must be Fabulous,” Dig continues, unperturbed. “Are you in the media? If not, I’ll make you a star.”
“I’m in the media much more often than I’d like,” I mutter.
“Except for his incredible looks and charisma, I don’t care for this one a single bit,” says Lady Magdelaine. “I’m sure he’s a degenerate.”
“He looks almost as slick as Harsh.”
“I’m harsh?” asks Dig. “You wound me.”
“Aargh, you’re still unrecognized. Otherwise, you’d know who Harsh was. It’s a person, somebody close to you.”
“I think I’d rather be named Dig although it is somewhat curious.”
Ash’s datapad, sitting on the table, begins to beep furiously. I glance at the screen. “Message for you,” I say, handing it to him.
“It says that the name ‘Dig’ is Sanskrit in origin, meaning direction or sky.”
“Sanskrit? But you’re not from Ashvattha. You’re the one from Ailann’s pool who tried so hard to be eucalyptus, right?”
“It seems my supposition that words have meaning has proved to be fallacious,” murmurs Ta’al Erich.
Meanwhile, Danak is hastily explaining the problem to Clive Rivers, who has joined on holo from Eirelantra. “Impossible,” he decrees.
“I thought you could hack into anything?” I challenge.
“Each of those chips has an individual ID code. It would be possible to reverse engineer the ID code if we could scan the chips. Which we can’t. We don’t even know who is chipped.” He sighs dramatically. “You Skarsians have such ridiculous superstitions concerning memchips. Do you think it’s supposed to be easy to take over someone’s mind?”
“Well, you had yours removed, right?”
“The easiest way to use the chips for brainwashing is to hard code them at the manufacturer. Each chip automatically receives a certain amount of encoded propaganda in its off-cycles, generally embedded in news reporting or comedy. Thus, only the government is allowed to brainwash you.”
“They must be receiving data on certain frequencies,” I reply. “So wouldn’t it be easier to substitute our own broadcast for theirs?”
“Easy?” Clive sneers. “Those transmissions are encoded, cycling according to a rotating kaleidoscopic key. I could break the coding, but you’d risk detection unless you used a very short-range broadcast. You’d need to put your own transmitter close to the targets. Ideally, inside of SSOps headquarters.”
I finally realize what this is about. It’s Dig’s quest achievement. “All right,” I groan. “Dig and I will break in. We’ll need disguises.”
“What are you talking about?” shrieks Lord Danak. “Let Prince Mickey handle it. He knows what he’s doing. You’ll put yourself at risk and also potentially bungle the assignment. You’re not a spy.”
“Don’t underestimate me,” I sniff.
“Remember the last time you were in disguise?” asks Lady Magdelaine. “The incident at Hyperland?”
“No disguises,” says Lord Danak. “I absolutely forbid it. Whose ridiculous idea was it to risk yourselves by tracking assassins to Earth? You should have come directly home the minute you felt threatened. You have to remember that you’re the heads of state. You have been for decades. You have responsibilities. You can’t behave like children.”
“Tubby,” says Lady Magdelaine, “we were following the direct orders of Archon Tielo.”
“Tielo! I should’ve known. He was responsible for the Hyperland mess. He’s more unstable than Suibhne.”
“That’s completely unfair,” I retort. “Tielo wouldn’t be the least unstable if he wasn’t always having to do things like circumvent the power grid and take part in other people’s drug experimentation projects.”
“I think I’ve got something,” says Dig, holding up his datapad. “At first I thought I’d gradually flood the traitors with doubt and guilt for betraying us. Then I realized that we’re probably dealing with a large percentage of sociopaths pretty much incapable of remorse. Instead, I decided to go for creeping paranoia, relying on the cultural conditioning of their youth. It’s always easy to convince people of something they already believe. Sooner or later, one of them will crack and come to us, begging to remove the chip which is contaminating his or her brain. If we’re lucky, that one will flush out the whole conspiracy.”
“This man is scaring me,” says Clive. “Is there any particular reason why you trust him?”
“He’s Ash, Clive.”
“I repeat my question. His mastery of propaganda is disturbing.”
Apparently, Dig takes great umbrage at this observation. “Please! Propaganda is such an ugly word, which is why it’s used to describe the media productions of one’s enemies. One’s allies simply make public service announcements.” He pauses for a moment, deep in thought. “Assuming he is an ally. I’m helping you out of a deep intuition that I ought to. But why are we associated with such a disagreeable person?”
“His memory is fucked up, too?” says Clive. “Ashhole has been supplying a remarkable number of defective models lately.”
“Dig, my young friend,” says Ta’al Erich, “Humans have found various methods of performing a valuable calculation called a cost-benefit analysis. One of my favorites is a simple formula: Usefulness minus Degree of Annoyance equals Probable Lifespan. For better or worse, Ambassador Rivers is useful.”
“Also, I don’t understand why I have such an encyclopedic knowledge of media tactics, techniques and history, but I can’t remember anything about myself before I emerged from that bathroom,” says Dig. “Or maybe what I don’t understand is why I’m not more worried about it.”
This gives me an idea. “Do you know what a Cu’enashti is?”
“Of course. Everybody knows that. Do you need to market something to Cu’enashti?”
“You’re a Cu’enashti emanation, and I’m your Chosen.”
He’s silent for a moment. “That would make sense of a lot of things. But aren’t I supposed to be able to communicate with the other branches? Unless I’m the first…but I don’t remember the grand jeté.”
I point at the datapad. It reads “X’khaim says hello.”
“Um, Ex-kaim?”
“It’s pronounced Sh-khaim. It’s an old Skarsian name meaning ‘living wood.’ He’s a branch on your tree. You’re just having a few communications difficulties right now.”
“Should I be worried about that? I feel disinclined to be worried about anything you say. If you’re my Chosen, I suppose that’s understandable.”
“Nah,” I tell him. “It will all work out. Let’s go find a good disguise.”
Lord Danak summons Captain Leukk Zosim, a trusted member of our personal security guard, to run the operation in Mickey’s absence. “If you insist on doing a stupid thing,” Danak mutters, “we can at least try to do it in a less stupid fashion.”
“Oh, Tubby,” says Lady Magdelaine, “you just don’t understand Skarsian women. Leaving important tasks to your minions is something only a man would do.”
Danak glares at her. Before it turns into a full-blown lover’s spat, Dig says, “I don’t understand why I have to wear a disguise. The only people who have ever seen me are in this room. It’s not like I’ll be identified.”
“At the very least, you should wear contact lenses,” says Zosim. “Those SSOps guys are no slouches. They’d spot your eyes for certain, and even if they don’t know you’re an emanation of Ashtara, there’s something very suspicious about a Cu’enashti on Skarsia.”
Dig’s mouth falls open. “I’m an emanation of Ashtara?” he gasps incredulously.
“He didn’t know?” says Zosim.
“We’ve been giving information to him on a need to know basis. His amnesia should be clearing up soon.”
“If I’m Ashtara, it would explain just about anything, but…” He looks at me with wide eyes. “Is it true…I mean, the media push…the rumors…”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the wholo. “Here,” I say, “see for yourself.”
He takes the wholo. His face freezes; he blinks once. “Ah…” he says. “Whoa. Woot.”
“Yes,” I say, taking it back. “All this can be yours for the small price of breaking into a top security instillation.”
“May I once again register my disapproval?” asks Danak rhetorically. “This is a foolishly dangerous mission that should be left to professionals. There is no particular reason why the rulers of our entire civilization need to do something better done by trained operatives.”
“True,” I muse, “and Ash would know that. Which makes me wonder why it’s a part of the quest achievement to have me accompany the emanation. It’s not like him to want to put me in unnecessary danger.”
“Just avoid confrontation,” says Zosim. “Plant the transmitter and get out.”
“If all goes to plan,” I remind them, “the minute we set foot inside headquarters, Dig will be able to communicate with the other emanations. He’ll have instant access to a team of experts, including Mickey and Cillian.”
“You have all the security codes, but there’s still the matter of the manned checkpoints,” says Zosim. “Are you certain that you don’t want a fabricated identity?”
“There would be no point. According to the last communication from Mickey, although a properly vetted outsider will be allowed access to the building, s/he will be under constant scrutiny, and if anything goes wrong, the places that person went would be the first to undergo an extensive search.”
“If you’re spotted by someone, the disguise should keep you from immediate harassment,” says Zosim, “but someone might report it later. Concentrate on staying out of sight.”
“Why not use invisi-suits?” suggests Danak.
Zosim shakes his head. “Characteristic energy signature. There’s a reason those are only used for corporate espionage.”
“It would be so much better if we could use the teleport,” says Danak.
“Obviously impossible.”
“Not if we use an agent without Cu’enashti ancestors,” refutes Danak.
“Through the maintenance entrance, turn left, left, right, and into the supply closet,” repeats Dig. “Place the transmitter behind the combustion suppression device, and hope there’s not a fire in the building before we flush out the traitors.”
“Don’t forget, you have to get out again,” says Zosim. “Say, can’t you just use Prince Lucius to possess the body of somebody in the complex?”
“Once it was over, that person would remember it. Look, if we get into any trouble, we can always abandon the mission, and Dig can withdraw our emanations into the pleroma.”
“How do I do that?” Dig asks.
“If the occasion arises, you’ll know. Don’t sweat it.”
SSOps headquarters is on the surface of Skarsia. We use a flyer coated in starslick to avoid detection on approach, and land as close to the base as possible, trusting that Clive can disable the intruder detection sensors on the ground. The plan is to wait until a delivery hovertruck arrives with a planned shipment of cleaning supplies. Following standard protocol, the maintenance checkpoint manager will go out to verify the truck’s clearance. While he is distracted, we will make a run for the door, using our security codes to gain access.
All goes well until Dig steps through the door. Faintly, I hear:
“Dig of Seachange, Luxe Impresario. 92nd to emanate, 45 in the color scale, resonates to 197. 1.764 meters tall, cock size 17.17 cm when erect, apparent age 25. Media analyst. Totem is Eucalyptus globulus, the blue gum tree, fixed star is Men, the south gate, also called Kakkab, the left-hand star. Esoteric symbol is the Etruscan letter 
. Dessert is nau’gsh punsch-roll. Function is exegetic attainment, proto-conscious tendency is rooting, designated Depth. Blazon is eucalyptus, a fess sinewavy, proper.”
Dig reels a little, then grabs my hand, pulling me as he runs down a right-hand corridor.
“Dig…”
“If we stick to plan, we’re going to bump into an employee heading for the rest room,” he whispers. “Turn left and go into the first closet.”
An instant later, two people in lab coats walk down the corridor. The woman is saying, “…could massively influence weapon development.”
“The problem is the environmental protection laws,” replies the male.
“Well, it’s not like we’re going to use Cu’endhari nau’gsh! Even though Cu’enashti roots will obviously produce the largest effect.”
What the hell? There’s some plan to weaponize nau’gsh trees? It’s wrong on so many levels…but I can’t think about that now. These interruptions have completely disrupted our timetable.
In the darkness of the closet, I can feel Dig moving behind me, jostling cleaning supplies and various equipment. “I’ve positioned the transmitter,” he whispers. “It’s not the ideal location, but it will do.”
Now we have a problem. Our departure was timed for a narrow window when the checkpoint manager performs a routine roster update. The deviation from the original plan has cut the margin of error to nothing. Worse, we end up having to run a twisted route to avoid more casual encounters. I’m grateful that Zosim provided us with stealthshoes equipped with sound dampers. When we finally reach the exit, I’m a little out-of-breath. That’s what I get for lazing around the pleroma instead of keeping up with my battle exercises.
One last long jog across the back lawn to the hidden flyer. Finally, we’re safely inside, and I pull off the ridiculous and itchy wig the useless disguise required. “Are you all right?” I ask, touching Dig’s arm.
He nods. “It’s crazy, all that’s going on. I can see why you didn’t want to explain it.”
“What happened in there?” says Zosim. “The transmitter isn’t in the right place.”
“Somebody had to pee,” says Dig. “It wasn’t in our projections.”
“You tell Danak that any ordinary agent might have blown it. It was Dig’s ability to sense the presence of the employees that allowed us to get in and out unseen.”
Clive sighs. I’ve known him long enough to recognize that it’s an I-told-you-so sigh, and not a Why-do-I-have-to-put-up-with-this sigh or a The-entire-universe-is-a-pathetic-disappointment sigh. “CenGov agents receive heat-detection and sonar scans directly through their chips.”
Best to ignore him. “We might have another problem. It sounded like those scientists were talking about using nau’gsh roots to make weapons of some kind.”
“That’s appalling,” says Zosim, “and politically toxic, if true.”
“Cillian says that it’s a top-secret project,” Dig explains. “Since we figured out that the presence of Cu’endhari roots in the nul-universe causes nul-matter to break down into nul-energy, we’ve been theorizing that a massive energy discharge could be used like a kind of bomb. The problem is that it would probably destroy the tree, and using cloned root-parts is expressly illegal, even for the common nau’gsh.”
“Well, there are good reasons for that. Remember what happened to Owen when people started to think about cloning nau’gsh to be used as weapons? We don’t want to encourage that line of investigation.”
“Right,” Dig murmurs, looking decidedly disturbed. “You know, I think we should get back to the flagship as soon as possible.”
[1] A literal translation of a figurative expression. Seeing that these memoirs seemingly fall into the science fiction genre, the translator is at pains to explain that the firewall is not made of neutronium, but is metaphorically impenetrable, in the same fashion that one would describe a mother-in-law’s cheesecake.