seed husks which grew only at the highest places of
Segrana. Bonded to a branch or trunk near a Uvovo
town or village, they served as a Listener shrine, a
refuge for private meditation, as well as the centrepiece
of public ceremonies. An outcast like Pgal could
become a full member of either Uvovo clade by taking
a vigil in a vudron, but only if invited by a Listener.
Like Weynl.
'I am happy for you, Pgal,' she said. 'Thank you for
all your help, and go in peace.'
The herder smiled, bowed his head, then steered his
trictra down from the platform and along the meshed
vines.
And thank you, Weynl, she thought, watching him
leave. You really don't want me going near the forest
floor, do you? Well, let's see what my wee camera spot-
ted, shall we}
She glanced around her to make sure she was alone,
then took out the cam, fitted a viewing ocle to the
output, pressed Play and held it up to her eye.
And saw . . . only flickering confusion. The timer
readout was the same as when she got the trip signal,
but the recording was a blurred, stuttering mess. She
ran it again and again, trying to find more than just
hints of a dark form that might have been a creature,
or shaky stick-like things that might have been
limbs . . .
She lowered the cam and sagged against one of the
platform's heavy, woven hawsers. She suddenly felt
weary, as if the recording had knocked the vitality out of
her. It had been such a waste, scrounging the cam from
Lyssa Devlin's team over at Skygarden, skulking down
there to plant it then retrieving it, all a waste of time and
effort. It might be possible to process and filter the
image data, but only the Institute office at Viridian
Station would have that kind of equipment and anyway,
how could she explain how she obtained such a record-
ing without admitting to multiple violations of the
Respect Accords?
Disconsolate, she put the minicam away in her
pouch, slung the baggy robe over one shoulder and
climbed the branch stairway that led to the Human
enclave. Halfway up, the stairs trembled a little under-
foot as someone came hurrying across a flimsy-looking
gantry from another platform. It was Tomas Villon, one
of her team's tech assistants. His features were ffusl ed
and excited as he raised a hand in greeting and :al ed
out.
'Doctor Macreadie,' he said. 'Have you heard the
news?'
'No - what news?'
He grinned. 'The president announced it in his wide-
cast this morning, and the channel heads have been
talking about nothing else . . .'
'Sorry, Tomas, but I've been working hard, and Ive
been away all morning. What's happened?'
Clearly delighted at being able to let her in on the
story, he cleared his throat. 'Well, as I said, the president
came on the vee this morning to tell us that the
Hammergard government has been in contact with a
ship from Earth!'
First she gasped in disbelief, then started talking,
almost tripping over her own words.
'But that's . . . incredible! You're sure, Tom as,
absolutely sure?'
'It's the honest truth, Catriona, I swear! The ship is
called the Heracles and it's entering orbit around Dan en
right this moment. Look, there's a vee-panel up in the
mess hut which is where the rest'll be, watching the live
relay from Port Gagarin.'
A web-tethered flock of membrane insectoids drifted
past on a warm updraught as they hastened up to the
enclave buildings. Catriona grinned while trying to
think through the giddy thrill she was feeling.
'It's unbelievable,' she said. 'I never thought I'd live to
see this - I wonder what they'll be like? You remember
that play by Fergus Brandon?'
'The Lifeline?" He chuckled. 'I doubt that any would-
be colonists will be queueing to come out here. Said as
much to Greg Cameron earlier.'
'Greg?' she said, trying to sound vaguely disinter-
ested. 'What were you calling him about?'
'Neh, he called us to gossip about the announcement.
We gabbed on about it and the Brandon play came up.
Yah, he's just as excited about it as everyone.'
Of course, Catriona thought. Those two were good
friends at college, so it's no surprise that he would call. She
felt a small shiver go through her. I wonder how he's been
since he came back .. . but why should I wonder? He's
just another man who's got better things to do than .. .
She had only met him a few times, ever since she'd
suggested the link between the proportions of the temple
on Giant's Shoulder and the physique of the Uvovo, and
she had hoped that their professional friendship might
become something deeper. And then he gave up every-
thing and moved away up north to Trond to get
married, settle down and have kids, apparently - only to
return several months later, alone. Hopes which had col-
lapsed rose again, but tempered this time with a dash of
realism and caution.
And now she was resolved not to let Greg Cameron
or her failed minicam experiment dilute her excitement
at Tomas's news.
'Right, Tomas,' she said with a determined laugh as
they came up to the mess hut. 'Let's see if we can get a
good seat!'
6
ROBERT
On board the Earthsphere cruiser Heracles, in the
largest of its three staterooms, Ambassador Robert
Horst was indulging in the archaic practice of packing
luggage.
'I don't know why you don't ask the room to do it for
you,' said Harry, his AI companion.
'But the room doesn't know what I need to take with
me.'
'The room has access to your sartorial profile, as well
as Darien's styles and customs, such as they are. So
where's the problem?'
'The room can't know what I need,' Robert said,
smiling as he placed a semi-formal tunic into his parti-
tioned valise. 'Because I don't know myself. Or rather,
when I see it I'll know that I need it.'
Harry smiled and shook his head. In Robert's field of
vision, Harry seemed to be standing over by the state-
room's centrepiece, a sleek porcelain and perspex
column with a holobase in each of its five faces. He
resembled a young man dressed in an immaculate but
outmoded black suit, his round features displaying a
perpetual amusement and a hint of cynicism. Robert
had chosen to model his companion upon the main
character from an American black-and-white flat-movie
from the mid-twentieth century, whose storyline dealt
with postwar intrigue and betrayal. Orson Welles's por-
trayal of the mercurial Harry Lime had captivated the
young Robert Horst, and after deciding on his compan-
ion's form he had also resolved that he would appear in
monochrome. After all, he was the only one who would
see it.
'I'm not sure that the personal touch will be helpfu ,'
Harry said. 'After 150 years of isolation and resource
scarcity, social fashions are bound to be a little rustic'
'My God, Harry, you're a snob.'
'Not at all. I just feel sure that these poor, Earth-
hungry colonists will want an ambassador from the auld
country to look the part.'
Robert wagged a finger. 'What, play the lofty aristo
come to dispense wisdom to the local yokels? Sorry,
no - that's the Sendruka approach, not mine.'
'Shame on you, Robert, for denigrating the high
ideals of our allies in the cause of peace and justice,'
Llarry said, adopting a stance of mock grandeur fol-
lowed by a sly grin. 'Besides, your honoured Senclruka
colleague Kuros and his Ezgara goons are just along the
corridor. Who knows how many spymotes are drifting
around the ship by now, listening to our every word?"
'Not with the new antisurveillance systems the
Earthsphere Navy brought in after the Freya incident,'
Robert said, selecting from a small open section of the
storage wall a pair of Russian leather gloves, a couple of
plaid kerchiefs and a carved wooden ring. 'I'm more
concerned about why they're here at all.'
The Heracles had been en route to the Huvuun
Deepzone when new orders came through to divert to
Chasulon, the capital world of Broltur, and take on
board the honoured High Monitor Utavess Kuros and
his unspecified personal guard. Which turned out to be
eight Ezgara commandos, four-armed biped soldiers
with a fearsome reputation, who wore all-enclosing,
steel-blue body-armour and never revealed their faces.
But Kuros and his guards were to be accorded every
courtesy, since they were there at the personal request of
Earthsphere President Erica Castiglione, apparently in a
dual capacity: as Alliance advisers, and as observers on
behalf of the Brolturan government.
Personal request*, he thought. I bet it was more like a
demand and Erica was on the receiving end of it.
T don't imagine that there's much to be anxious
about,' Harry said, resting his foot on the edge of a low
table. 'The Hegemony thinks that it has to keep tabs on
every political event otherwise things might fall apart,
the centre cannot hold and so on. Whereas things would
probably proceed quite normally if Hegemony attention
was elsewhere.'
'Harry, for you that's practically heresy.'
'I know. I blame it on prolonged exposure to the life
and works of Robert Horst! Anyway, it'll be politics on
a rather lesser scale for you in the weeks ahead.'
'True, but it could turn out to be quite productive.
One of the files sent from President Sundstrom's office
gave an interesting summary of their resource manage-
ment and extraction policies . . .'
'Ah, you mean these sifter roots that they got from
the Uvovo?' Harry chuckled. 'Ingenious way of getting
hold of pure elements, for a pre-nanofac society
Properly adapted, they could be put to use in other or -
texts, like hardvac prospecting for example. Or even
licensed out to cultures that prohibit nano applications.'
Robert shrugged. 'That sounds possible. I'm more
interested in the relations between our people and the
Uvovo, not to mention the colony's inner politics.'
'Well, for a small colony they've had a somewhat
chequered history. Problems with a shipboard AI that
went rogue, then a very tough first fifty years, expansion
problems, lack of resources, then contact with these
Uvovo sentients and an abortive civil war which exac-
erbated some already prickly divisions. But it's this Al
taboo that could pose difficulties. You should read some
of their novels and plays - artificial intelligences come
across like the rampaging death machines of the
Commodity Age. I find it positively insulting. What's
more, every year they celebrate the trashing of that poor,
dumb AI. Founders' Victory Day, they call it.'
'I agree, it's a problem, but I'm going to wait until
I've experienced Darien culture first-hand before con-
sidering solutions.' Robert parted another tall section of
the wall and touch-opened the units within. 'It's a matter
of how to establish the notion of everyday, common -
place, benevolent AIs . . .'
As he reached in, almost absentmindedly, and pulled
out one of the shallow drawers, he stopped and stared in
dread at the palm-sized object it contained.
'Ah, so that's where the room put it,' Harry mur-
mured. T can have it stored somewhere else if you like.'
'No, no, it's all right,' Robert said. T can't keep on
avoiding it. . .'
It was an intersim, a flat octagonal pad, mainly pale
blue in colour with ochre trim around the readout and
fingertip controls on one of the sides. The projection
plate on top was like dark, smoky glass within which
clusters of faceted emitters were just visible. It had a
certain solidity to it, like the weight of compacted tech-
nology, or the weight of memory.
It was now almost a year since his daughter Rosa
had died while on board the Pax Terra, z. refitted,
Peace. The Pax Terra had been taking part in an
attempted blockade of a wayport on the Metraj border
from which Earthsphere and Sendruka Hegemony war-
ships were leaving for the Yamanon Domain. The
official version was that the protest boat was a sus-
pected bombship pursuing a collision course with a
Hegemony cruiser whose commander had no option but
to open fire. Initially Earthsphere government had made
mild objections, but soon dropped the matter.
Robert and his wife Giselle were distraught, and the
Diplomatic Service was thankfully swift to offer him
compassionate leave. But Robert was unable to stay at
home in Bonn and mourn - he had to know the truth
about Rosa's death.
Sitting at the end of a blue settle, he held the interac-
tive sim in his hands and recalled the months spent
tracking down witnesses to the blockade incident and
speaking with her friends and colleagues at Life and
Peace. What he learned utterly contradicted the official
version of events, while confirming much of what he
knew about his daughter, about her intellect and wit,
and about her compassion and her willingness to put
herself on the line for what she believed in. Millions
had died when the Earthsphere-Hegemony coalition
invaded the Yamanon Domain and bombarded the Dol -
Das regime's key worlds. Rosa had called those deaths
an atrocity, a judgement he could no longer disagree
with.
'We taught her to love,' he once said in a message to
his wife during his travels, 'and she did what she did out
of love.'
He was on Xasome in the Kingdom of Metraj, trying
to glean corroborating data from public archive reports,
when he received a package via the local Earthsphere
consulate. It was from Earth, from his wife, and accom -
panying it was a short note that read: 'Dearest, I have
found a way to bring the light back into our lives, and
now you have one too. With love and joy - Giselle.1
Thinking it to be some compendium of images and
other recordings from the family archive, Robert had
placed the intersim on a desk and switched it on. The
device had emitted three flashes, mapping the room, and
a moment later, abruptly, Rosa was standing then,
dressed in one of her favourite outdoor rigs, smiling at
him.
'Hi, Daddy!' she had said.
So brightly she spoke, so vibrant with that delighted
alertness of hers, that he almost said, 'Rosa! - you're
alive . . .'
But the words had choked in his throat as reason
took hold, and he had stared at the simulation of his
daughter in a wordless horror.
'Daddy, how are you?'
Unable to speak or look away, still he had reached
out deliberately, with all of his will, and switched the
device off. Looking at it now, resting on his palm, he
knew what had driven Giselle to have such a thing
made. He had understood and let the anger fade, know-
ing that part of the anger had been directed at his own
despairing need for Rosa not to be dead.
And yet . . . and yet he could not bring himself to
destroy the sim, or at least have its memory wiped, not
then and not now.
Then, reaching a decision, he slipped the intersim
into his jacket pocket, stood and resumed packing.
'Are you sure that's wise?' said Harry.
Robert smiled as he tucked away the last items of
clothing. 'You think I may be putting my negotiating
temperament and thus this assignment at risk?'
Harry assumed a look of mock surprise.
'What a hurtful interpretation of my genuine con-
cern. I merely suggest that leaving the damned thing
here would help your peace of mind.' He paused, face
becoming more serious. 'Robert, I think that you're
hurting yourself by taking it with you.'
Robert sighed. 'I appreciate the concern, Harry, truly.