‘Abort abort abort!’ he yelled, stabbing switches that didn’t get any response.
‘I’m afraid that will not be possible,’ said the
F
rom the narrow window nothing was visible of their destination, only the rolling and varied green of countryside with few roads, and then, quite suddenly, the long strip of tarmac and fleeting glimpses of flat buildings and bright-painted vehicles. After the aircraft had landed Carlyle hoped to see more of where she was, but something docked with the door as soon as it came to a halt, and there was nothing to see but ribbed translucent plastic. She and the other passengers shuffled forward through the long tube to a terminal building. There was a minute or so of milling about in some kind of windowless antechamber. Carlyle managed to place herself momentarily beside the renegade suit. It now had the helmet and shoulder pieces back on, so it looked less bizarre, as long as you didn’t notice the helmet was empty. She seized the opportunity to speak to it.
‘Don’t
‘How uncharacteristic,’ sneered Shlaim. ‘How very kind. How very …
‘Full manumission!’ Carlyle whispered. ‘We can wipe your slate totally, throw in a free download
The suit didn’t have to face her to look at her, but it did.
‘Do you seriously think,’ Shlaim’s voice said, ‘that I would pass up the first chance I’ve had to escape to civilisation, in exchange for a promise from you?’ Its armpiece gesticulated at the surroundings. ‘What makes you think I would want to live among the Carlyles, even free?’
‘You can go anywhere. Anywhere you like.’
‘So far, I like it here.’ It turned away.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Carlyle, smiling. She had just thought of a way to sabotage his chances of escape.
Then Armand moved in between her and the suit, and Koshravi to her other side. They escorted her to a door which opened on to a wide plaza surrounded by low glass-fronted buildings. Aircars were taking off and landing, others were parked near the sides. The sun was by now near its zenith, very high; they must have travelled far to the south. A dry heat struck sweat instantly from her face. The air smelled of dust and plants. People strolled or hurried to and from the aircars, thin colourful clothes flapping in the downdraughts. The noise, echoing off the buildings, was horrendous. The whole setup looked like a massive design flaw in some utopian architectural showpiece.
Armand led the way to a four-seater aircar. Ducking under gull-wing doors, Koshravi and Carlyle took the back seat, Armand and the suit the front.
‘The Joint Chiefs,’ said Armand, leaning back, keeping his hands away from the manual controls. The craft took off vertically, then as it rose above the square shot forward in a sharp climb. Carlyle felt herself pressed against the back of the seat. As the aircar levelled off at two thousand metres she looked out of the window. They were just clearing the edge of the skyport. Ahead of them a city filled the landscape almost to the horizon. Sea glinted beyond its far side. The buildings over which the aircar flitted were large complexes, hundreds of metres high, separated by parkland, linked by roads and monorails. Aircars and other small craft that looked like giant bees whizzed about at various levels. The ground traffic looked about half as fast and twice as dangerous.
‘What city is this?’ Carlyle asked.
‘It’s called New Start,’ said Armand. ‘Capital of Eurydice.’
‘You have only one government?’
‘If that,’ said Armand. ‘There’s an elected Assembly which has an Executive that’s in charge of routine stuff, but the final authority is a sort of emergency committee. A junta, to be frank.’
‘The Joint Chiefs are the collective presidency of the Reformed Government,’ said Koshravi stiffly, frowning at Armand’s flippant tone.
Armand responded with a placating wave. ‘Let’s not argue the point.’
They were approaching a higher and larger central block of buildings, which as the aircar descended resolved into the tall towers of a city centre, their lower levels joined by walkways, suspension bridges and trellises, looped by the monorail lines, the whole infiltrated by greenery and fringed by lower buildings in a warren of narrow streets. The aircar dropped to a rooftop and landed on a pad marked by a large circled ‘A.’
As she followed Armand to the top of a liftshaft her knees wobbled. Behind her the aircar birled back into the sky. In the fast-dropping elevator her head felt lighter than her feet, and she took a single quick step to recover her balance as the lift decelerated.
‘Are you all right?’ Koshravi asked.
She swallowed hard, ears popping. ‘Fine.’ She glanced down at herself. Her knees were still knocking. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To see the Joint Chiefs,’ said Armand.
Koshravi knocked lightly on her shoulder. ‘Don’t fret,’ she said. ‘They’re only human beings.’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ added Armand, with a dark chuckle.
The doors sighed open on an acre of carpet.
She found herself walking in step beside Koshravi and behind the suit, not sparing the guards a glance, her heels coming down firmly on a carpet that deadened their thud and ate their dirt. Through big pseudowood doors with uniforms saluting and rifles presenting at either side, to stand before a table of the real deal, its hardwood fragrance filling the air like an unlit expensive cigar. The table had nine people sitting behind it. Six men, three women, all with the subtle but unmistakeable signs of age on their smooth faces. In front of each was a pad and a pen, a glass of water, and a little racked nameplate showing their post. The Joint Chiefs all wore antique grey or black suits with white shirts or blouses, severely plain.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Chair. ‘At ease. Take a seat.’
Armand sat on the left between Carlyle and the suit, Koshravi to her right. Carlyle looked back at the Joint Chiefs with a faint, polite smile. They might be potential enemies, but they were also potential clients. Everyone was a potential client; you just had to get them hooked, or duff them up a bit.
‘You are not a prisoner,’ Chair said to Carlyle. ‘Neither are you an accredited representative of another power. We have, at the moment, no provision for diplomatic relations. Nor are you one of our citizens. We can offer you the status of resident alien, pro tem.’
Carlyle nodded. ‘That’s acceptable, if it has no hidden catches.’
‘Very well. We have examined a transmission from Mr. Armand. It includes a deposition by a piece of software claiming to be an uploaded human personality, one Isaac Shlaim, currently running in this suit, which I gather is your property. Before further questioning the upload, we wish to hear what you have to say.’ He leaned forward with a look of open interest and query. The others all pinned her likewise with their gaze.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Before I say anything further, I’d like to point out that we may have a difference of opinion as to the legal status of my, uh, former familiar, and that I understand you find my view of its status unacceptable. I have no wish to antagonise anyone by arguing over that.’
‘The facts will be quite enough,’ said Chair.
‘Fine. Well, I don’t dispute that it’s who it says it is—an upload of a Professor Shlaim.’
‘With respect,’ said Space, ‘that is not the most pressing question before us. We wish to hear your version of who you are and what you represent, and of what’s going on in the galaxy.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Carlyle. ‘Well, I’ll come back to the matter of Shlaim presently. As for the big picture. My name is Lucinda Carlyle. I’m a member of an exploration team sent to this planet by my family. The Carlyles are, you might say, a family business. We specialise in exploring the wormhole skein and organising traffic through it. The skein stretches aw the way back tae the Solar System, and takes in, well, a whole load a planets.’
‘Do you claim to own or rule these planets?’ asked Chair.
‘Good God, no! Just the skein and the gates.’
‘I … see,’ said Space, wincing slightly. ‘And who does rule them?’
She shrugged. ‘What our clients do is their business, see? But if you’re asking who else is out there, well, there are three other powers that we know about, kindae wee empires like. There’s the one we thought you were at first—America Offline. They’re farmers—terraformers. They’re descended from the folks who escaped the Hard Rapture due to no being wired up, and they kindae continue like that. We get on aw right wi them, they trade
