I fucked it up. I fucked it up. I really fucked it up. With all my fine sentiments about embracing the non-human nature of my husband, what do I do? Damn hypocrite! It’s not like X’khaim decided to emanate with a chip in his head. I was just so disgusted that my emotions took over. When the mothman had a moth’s abdomen, I wasn’t nearly as freaked out.
Ash, you bastard, I want to kick you in the thorax. You did that on purpose. Yes, it was a practical solution to the problem of the telepath. But you know damn well what chipping means in the Domha’vei. You were pushing, testing my tolerance. If I didn’t come to accept it, you could have easily removed the chip from X’khaim. You just wanted to see what I was willing to take. Also, I know you did it because I put up with it in Clive. You wanted to see if I would accept in you what I accepted in him. When will you get over that? I don’t love Clive anymore. I haven’t loved him in decades, not since I fell for Patrick. He’s just a friend, and a tetchy friend at that.
And to pull something like this when taking away Patrick – I had wanted so badly to spend time with him, let alone how much of a diplomatic faux pas it is going to be when our hosts find out that Prince Charming is gone. Patrick is very popular.
And you know the one thing I can’t stand is when you abuse your emanations. You’d better make it up to X’khaim, damn it.
So yeah, there was the apology sex. X’khaim really is an attractive man: strong, sensible, handsome. I’m sure he could sense that I was still angry, and hope he realized that I wasn’t angry with him. X’khaim is a good lay, though. I felt loved. I felt safe. It was easy to forget about the chip in his head. I mean, he seemed like a normal person. Well, as normal as an emanation can get, I suppose.
Besides, Ash would know if the chip was hacked, wouldn’t he? I’m sure that one of the engineers – Owen, Barnabas, Ethan – would sense that something was wrong and alchemically repair the problem, right?
UGH.
The door chime rings as I step out of the shower. I can hear X’khaim go to answer it. It is Lady Magdelaine. “The attaché wants to see…oh. Oh my.”
“Hello, I’m X’khaim,” says X’khaim. “You must be Lady Lorma.”
“A new emanation at a time like this? You couldn’t wait until we got home?”
“Lady Madonna, please,” I interrupt, coming out to meet her. I specifically use my childhood name for her because I know it annoys her. “We’ve had an assassin, telepathic attackers, microcam surveillance, inferior sheets and an insulting salad. Ash decided to take measures.”
“Taking measures would be emanating Admiral Whelan to knock around a few heads. You know what they’ll say, don’t you? They’ll say that Ashtara has returned home. They won’t believe that this is really him. Patrick is popular. They’ll feel snubbed.”
“Quennel says let them,” X’khaim replies. “They know they’ve been pushing their luck. Ross says the bigger issue is that since I haven’t been added to the disclosure agreement, I have no legal existence, and thus, no legal power.”
“That could be useful. If they want me to agree to anything I’m iffy on, I can stall, saying that I need the Archon’s approval. As for proving who you are – I’m guessing that you aren’t up for performing a minor miracle?”
Lady Magdelaine goes over to the wardrobe to get my day’s attire. It looks like I am going to have to go full ceremonial again. My battle armor is lighter than that stupid headdress.
“You could tell the Prime Minister that CenGov is building a hidden base in the Solokov System right under their noses,” X’khaim suggests.
That gets my attention. “Did Ash see that? If nothing else, it’s a great distraction. I’ll leverage it into convincing them how much they need our alliance.”
X’khaim shakes his head. “I heard it. The chip in my head is based on the same model Rivers had – without the nul-matter, of course. I’m picking up on CenGov priority transmissions. I also see what he meant about brainwashing. Every other announcement is a piece of propaganda.”
“Do they know you’re there?” I ask, a little uneasily.
“Right now, it’s just passive reception. If I used it to transmit anything, they might pick up on me depending on how sensitive their scanners are. Owen thinks I should adjust it to emulate the kind of chips sold commercially here on Cybae, but they don’t have telepathic defense tech. It’s a pity because in some ways, chipping technology in the IndWorlds is more advanced.”
Lady Magdelaine stares at us with a horrified expression. “Am I to understand that…”
But fortunately, there is another knock. It’s the Cybaen attaché. “Excuse me, Your Eminence…”
X’khaim approaches immediately, sticking out his hand. “I’m Prince X’khaim.”
I can see from the expression on his face that the attaché is completely put off his game. “We were expecting Prince Patrick to accompany the Matriarch.”
I go on the offensive. “Let’s cut the pleasantries. Last night I was thinking that maybe our welcome wasn’t so friendly, seeing that both an assassination attempt and a telepathic attack got in right under your noses…”
Ha! He’s completely befuddled. I can see the gears in his head spinning as he blurts, “Surely, Eminence, you don’t think…”
“…combined with the microcams…”
“For your own security!”
“…but then the Archon emanated Prince X’khaim to warn you about the base that CenGov is building in your backyard…”
“What?”
“Check the Solokov System. Considering all these factors, I can only conclude that you’re totally incompetent. Well, now you’ve done it – Prince Patrick, the nice one, the diplomatic one is gone, and you have to deal with X’khaim and myself, and we don’t mince words. Get your shit together before we make a very public exit. And consider before you serve up another slab of murdered tree that X’khaim is not the kind of man who plays down when he’s been offended.”
I reach my arms above my head, making a show of stretching. “Now I need a drink and a nice hot bath to soothe my temper, so tell the press corps that we’ll be delayed a few hours with affairs of state.”
“Quennel says that you forgot to mention the sheets,” says X’khaim.
The next stop on our tour is to be Frangfrang. This is a potentially volatile situation; once part of the IndWorld Alliance, Frangfrang had withdrawn and joined the Alliance of Mankind as a gesture of protest against the Combine of Sentients. However, recent events had soured some of the members of the Alliance against the so-called Central Government of Earth in Exile on Memehaven. This trip is supposedly a thawing of diplomatic relations.
I had my doubts, especially about the food. Frangfrang is home to radical ecologists who refused to terraform the world. As a result, all the food is native. Lord Danak had warned me not to eat any of it, but that would be an incredible faux pas. Besides, it’s not like I’d grow a third arm or something. Genetic damage incurred by eating alien foodstuffs is subtle and cumulative. Ailann could easily fix it once we return home.
Before we arrive, however, X’khaim tells me that Ailann wants me in the pleroma. The region just outside of Frangfrang is, apparently, a significantly different sort of spacetime – at least, as it appears in the nul-universe. Ailann wants to put down roots and go fishing.
I am a little hesitant to leave X’khaim by himself. He covers it well, but it is clear that I have hurt him. He insists that he is fine, and that I should take advantage of the opportunity to find more sparks.
We gather again at Ailann’s temple. Quite a few emanations are here to observe. I feel a little skeptical considering how the last expedition had gone. However, one look convinces me that the circumstances are quite different. The sparks in the water are blue, yellow, and primarily, green.
« Potential Cu’enmerengi, » says Ailann. « We should probably put an orchard here. They’ll want to escape from the nul-universe. »
« Pseudo-color is an indication of the presence of bounce and scatter in the nultrons, » Cüinn adds. « It’s likely that physical conditions we don’t yet understand influence those particle properties. »
« They aren’t Cu’enmerengi yet, » says Malachi. « Green sparks are also vital components in a Cu’enashti, and we still need more than a few. »
« They’re here, » says Davy. « They’re checking us out. »
« Before we get started, » I inject, « how are the new emanations coming along? »
« Making good progress, » says Ailann evasively.
« When can I see them? Other than X’khaim, I mean. »
« They’re still in the field, » says Ailann, clearly fudging. « The ones who have made the achievement feel responsible for the others in their hatch. »
« Let’s hatch another group, » says Davy.
« What? » says Ailann.
« What? » says Malachi.
« I haven’t even met seven of the eight you’ve hatched so far. »
« That isn’t important, » says Davy. « Well, it is, but the really important thing is that we need some of those guys. Look, we can do that red-light district scenario so that you can meet the new ones right away. »
« I was joking. »
« Aw, come on, you know you wanna, » says Davy.
« A sexual initiation would have a lot of advantages over our previous methods, » Tarlach muses.
« Absolutely not, » says Ailann.
« I think I have enough new husbands, at least for this week. » I wonder if I should specify that I’m being sarcastic? Knowing Davy, he’ll start harping on it again first thing Moonday morning.
« Let’s get back to fishing, » Malachi says hastily.
I scan the surface of the pool. There are so many, and they’re moving so fast, and honestly, they’re all so cute. Maybe I really do lack discrimination. Then I spot a richly colored spark in the far left corner. When I close my eyes, I see a gorgeous pattern, green and white, like banded agate. « That one. It’s beautiful. »
Davy looks unhappy. « Well, okay, but it’s not about surface attractiveness. »
« She can have whatever ones she wants, » says Whirljack.
« As long as we get the right colors, » says Malachi. « That one works, though. Chlorophyll. »
« What’s his name? »
« Since he was chosen for such a shallow reason, we’ll call him Beauregard, » sniffs Davy.
« Davy! Don’t be mean, » Malachi scolds. « He’s fine, Tara. Davy is being a jerk. »
Driscoll appears, handing me a stack of paint chips. “Here, » he says. “Try to match these. There’s spring green, eucalyptus, greengrain, Floatfish, SSOps drab… »
« Blame the Decorators Guild for the naming conventions, » says Lucius. « I’m none too happy that my pseudo-color is called SongLuminant. »
I flip through the swatches. « The last one is kind of…well, do we have to have that color? It’s bland – a bit murky. »
« I knew it! » snaps Davy. « Didn’t I say that it’s not about surface attractiveness? We’re developing a model of reality, not redecorating the bathroom. »
« Having the right pseudo-colors is essential, » says Malachi. « Otherwise, the Mover’s final form will be unbalanced. However, we can do a lot with the human form of the emanations. »
« I promise I’ll make him hot, » Davy says grudgingly. « Especially hot. »
My attention is caught by a commotion near the center of the pool. The sparks are smashing into each other, roiling the waters, a mosh pit of extra-universal energy. Some grow larger, merging as they collide, others are unstable and fling themselves apart, spinning to the opposite ends of the pool. Driscoll walks around the edge, waving his cards in the air and shouting like a spaceport tour guide. « Greengrain! Anyone for SSOps drab? »
I wade into the water. One spark remains, glowing a deep, rich green.
« A match, » says Driscoll. « Eucalyptus. »
Tarlach nods. « He really worked for it. »
« His name is Dig, » says Davy, scooping him out of the water. « That’s all for now. Gotta run. Bye! »
« That was precipitous, » mutters Ailann, watching as Davy trots off. « I was hoping to find more. »
« Tara should get back to X’khaim anyway, » says Cillian. « It’s almost time to contact Frangfrang control. »
The situation dictates that X’khaim and I dress to the nines. My frock is ridiculously antique, like an English trifle encrusted with disco balls. To add to my irritation, when we arrive at the spaceport on Frangfrang, we are met by a wave of protestors waving signs and chanting, “Go home, gmos!”
“Gmos?” asks X’khaim.
“Archaic term – it means ‘genetically modified organism,’” I explain. “Strictly speaking, all the people of the Domha’vei are gmos. Frangfrangians reject genetic engineering on a philosophical basis. That’s why they’re all ugly, stupid and have hereditary diseases.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” says X’khaim.
“They think that modifying their genes will make them less human, and they cling to odd superstitions about the harmfulness of modified foodstuffs. In reality, the natural food of Frangfrang is what’s dangerous to humans. I can’t pretend to understand it. It’s really a silly, mystical belief. Only barbarians would narrow-mindedly reject a technology which would improve their health and well-being.”
X’khaim rolls his eyes.
“Don’t go there.”
“I’m not going to say anything.”
“Everyone knows that once you get a chip, you’ll be susceptible to mind-control. You’ll be nothing more than an android. That’s why it’s heretical.”
“I am starting to feel a little weird,” says X’khaim. “Like something is pushing at the back of my mind.”
“It’s the chip! I knew it!”
Before I can fully consider this alarming development, the crowd parts deferentially for a woman wearing pointed flip-flops and a metallic poncho; her dark braids are bound tightly to her head. “I am Remma, Clan-leader of Tavukk,” she announces.
“Oh good grief,” I whisper to X’khaim. “How pretentious can you get? The clan-leaders have no real political authority. They’re local figureheads.”
Nevertheless, Remma throws back her head, gesturing imperiously. “Do you imagine that the people of Frangfrang believe your ridiculous fairy tales of Archons and moths which are men which are trees?”
Mithras help me, there’s nothing worse than these little power people. I’d rather deal with the most obsequious serf or the most arrogant pasha than a bank manager.
“Oh, so that’s what it is,” says X’khaim, raising his arms.
A spiral of energy rises from his feet up his spine, stripping away the molecules of matter in an iridescent spray to reveal the core of nul-energy within. Then the mothman hovers in the air, wild whips of blue fire streaming from his hair, wings beating an incandescent dance of gaslight flame.
“Right,” I say to Remma. “You got me. We were just fooling.”
The mothman rises and dives towards the crowd. Then people are screaming, scattering in panic. The Frangfrangian police regulars, who have been mysteriously absent during our arrival, suddenly appear, striving to keep the crowd from madly trampling each other.
The mothman returns to the platform, descending again into matter. The figure who stands there is a rough man, large, wearing an enormous coat of animal furs. His hair is shaggy and unkempt, a muddy brown streaked with ash blond, and his eyes are tightly closed. “Mirror?” he whispers.
I fumble at my sash. There is a compartment containing a ceremonial datapad styled to resemble an ancient pocket-watch. “Reflection setting,” I command. A holographic mirror forms above the data-circle. I hold it in front of my new companion. “Look.”
“Hyde of Seachange, Ipsissimal Food-taster. 67th to emanate, 89 in the color scale, resonates to 461. 1.94 meters tall, cock size 17.53cm when erect, apparent age 35. Hazmat specialist. Totem is Zelkova serrata, the Japanese zelkova, fixed star is Dabih, the butcher. Esoteric symbol is the Minchiate trump Il Capricorno, Capricorn. Dessert is roasted nau’gsh and rambat cheese tart. Function is exegetic resistance, proto-conscious tendency is appetite, designated Hunger. Blazon is quartered, to dexter chief sable, universal inflammable symbol, mooniberri, to dexter base or, universal biohazard warning symbol, sable, to sinister chief or, universal radiation warning symbol, mooniberri, to sinister base mooniberri, universal nul-matter warning symbol, proper.”
“The achievement was #68, ‘Experience a completely alien planet.’ Do you mind if I taste your blood?”
“What? Are you some kind of vampire?”
“No, but Cillian said that he’d pound me if I ever bit you again.”
“Oh,” I reply. “You’re that one.”
“It’s kind of awkward,” he admits.
That’s why Davy went running off. Great – not only does Hyde have a sparkling personality, he’s also a rush job. “May I ask why you were emanated instead of the new branches already hatched?”
“I’m a hazmat specialist,” he says. “From the smell of this place, I don’t even want to set foot on the ground, but I guess there’s no avoiding it.” He sniffs the air. “It’s hard to smell their pheromones over the stink of this vegetation, but this situation is totally wrong. These people are testing us.”
“I know. I’m getting sick of it. How many noses are we going to have to smack?”
We are assured – over and over – that we have been given the best accommodations on Frangfrang. Our suite reminds me vaguely of the premium campsite at Woodstick. Located between the spackle-mime colony and the straw effigy of CenGov President Harmoulis, I had a great view of the Rhumba Rhybaa Discovery Stage, so it was worth putting up with the questionable sanitation and the insects. I can’t say the same for this hotel room.
Hyde goes immediately to the bath, fills his hands with water, brings it up to his face, sniffs. He dumps it back into the sink. “For washing, not drinking,” he says. “The filtration leaves something to be desired.”
“There’s no mini-bar,” I grumble. “They left us this fruit basket.”
“Sad,” says Hyde. “Look at this stuff. Quennel says we’re being insulted again.”
“Actually, I doubt it. This is pure organic. No pesticides, herbicides or genetic modification.”
“I’d be ashamed to put out fruit like this. Don’t their trees have any pride?”
“Their trees don’t practice alchemy.”
“It’s not about alchemy,” Hyde sniffs. “They just aren’t making the effort.” He picks up a greenish-orange elongated fruit. “What is this thing, anyway?”
“It’s called a daznasa. It tastes a bit like banana, but not really. I’ve had chemstripped ones before.”
Hyde smells it. “This one’s fresh,” he says. “I wouldn’t eat it.”
“We’re going to have to eat something.”
“Get supplies from our ship.”
“We’ll insult our hosts if we don’t eat something. The fruit basket isn’t such a bad idea. At dinner, we might be presented with meat. Problems always compound the higher you go up the food chain.”
Hyde picks up a mottled purple fruit, slightly smaller than his fist. “This looks remarkably low in mutagens.”
“That’s because it’s an organic plum imported from Cybae.” I took it from him and bit into it. “Not bad,” I comment, handing it back to him. “These heirloom fruit usually aren’t. Not as good as a plummi, though. Besides being engineered for disease, drought and damage resistance, plummis have been enhanced to have an ideal flavor profile.”
“It makes sense,” says Hyde smugly. “Trees evolve with human contact.”
“I wouldn’t say that in polite company here. One of the fundamental beliefs of Frangfrangian society is that humans are brutal and intrusive. On that note, I probably wouldn’t debate them. Their remedy is to live in cooperation with nature. They see the genetic damage they suffer from eating native foods as the will of the gods.”
“I’m no philosopher,” says Hyde, “but isn’t a little hypocritical to move to an alien ecosphere in order to live in harmony with nature?”
“I’m sure they would’ve preferred to stay on Earth, but CenGov wanted to exterminate the eco-freaks. They would’ve been killed or reprogrammed…” Suddenly, I am hit with my most brilliant idea of the year, maybe even the decade. I grab Hyde’s arm in excitement. “Hyde, that’s perfect!”
“Um?”
“I’ll announce it in my speech later tonight – a repatriation program to Earth. The deal is that anyone willing to go back to there and clean it up will get a homestead. Think about it – the surface is so fucked that Earth’s elites have lived in satellite cities for centuries. But if these morons aren’t afraid of alien mutagens, they’re not going to be afraid of toxic waste. I can pose it as a kind of religious crusade to redeem the mother world. Can you imagine how much money we’ll save if we don’t have to clean that shit up ourselves?”
Hyde stares at the floor. “Quennel says it won’t be so easy.”
“Oh?”
“Basically, he says you’re proposing a sort of gentrification, and there will be resentment from the bottom-feeders still left on Earth’s surface. Frangfrangians are idealists, naturalists, reasonably well-educated despite some crackpot ideas, and have chosen their own discomforts. They might get cancer, but nobody starves. On the other hand, the surface-dwellers of Terra are hardscrabble, impoverished, poorly-educated and fight for everything they have.”
“Oh good grief.” Quennel is such a wet blanket sometimes. “Have Ross run a cost-benefit analysis. I’ll bet it will result in an overall improvement.”
“He says it will, but we’d better plan to deal with riots for the next few decades.”
“Then it’s settled.” I feel rather proud of myself for coming up with such an elegant idea. I regard Hyde. He is a little rough around the edges, but he has a sort of primitive appeal. Not too bad for a rush job, really. And he bit me…I wonder what his other appetites are like.
“We have a few hours before dinner. Let’s see what you’re made of.” I hold up a finger tipped with thrice-hardened steel and slash quickly across my own hand. A thin, red line beads at the surface.
I offer my palm to Hyde. “The rule for this afternoon is taste, don’t bite. I have other bodily fluids available.”