inter had once stood on the pier at South Queensferry, and noticed the three-metre height between high and low tide. He had guessed that the area of sea in front of him, between the Road Bridge and the Forth Bridge, was approximately a kilometre square. In that little area, that tiny fraction of the sea’s surface, three million tons of water had been raised in a few hours, airily lofted by the distant moon. He had been struck by what had then seemed deep thoughts about physics and gravity and tidal forces, of the sheer power in the great machine of the world.
Or maybe he hadn’t, and the memory had been provided for him by another machine, as a logical consequence of some surviving fragment of his experiences and beliefs, rather than from, say, a recorded snatch of reminiscence caught on late-night television.
Whatever. He remembered it now, looking across the city at the black ship that hung above the park like a cartoon weight marked one! million! tons! and poised for an impossible instant before it flattened whatever or whoever was under it.
‘Bugs you, doesn’t it?’ said Calder, evidently noticing the way Winter’s gaze gravitated to the thing. They were drinking mid-morning coffee in an open-air waterfront cafe where Ben-Ami had arranged to meet them.
‘It does,’ said Winter. ‘Like, what’s holding it up?’
‘Ask the Knights.’ Calder jerked his head, indicating several black-clad men drinking tea a few tables away.
‘I have,’ Winter said, leaning out of his partner’s sidestream smoke. ‘They asked me a few questions about my knowledge of physics, and politely suggested that I acquire some more before asking questions whose answers I couldn’t understand.’
‘Sound advice.’
‘On the other hand, maybe they don’t know either.’
Calder snorted. ‘There’s a lot of that about. You ask any of the locals how their system works, they look at you as if you’re stupid for even asking. They don’t even give you a handwave.’ He waved his arms about. ‘I mean, where’s our guided tour of utopia? That’s part of the package. It’s in the brochure. I checked.’
‘This isn’t utopia,’ said Winter. ‘It’s what we had back in Polarity, with the rations and incentives and all. It’s just got more sophisticated. More abstract. Lucinda got the guided tour. Couldn’t make head nor tail of it, she said.’
‘Still carrying that torch,’ Calder said.
‘Yes,’ said Winter. He felt a sudden surge of frustration, a tension from his groin to his throat via his solar plexus. ‘You know, I’m getting fed up with this place.’
Calder looked surprised and bothered. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s because it’s like Polarity, I guess. I feel like we’re still in the fucking tunnels.’ He swung his hands back and forth on both sides of his head. ‘I can’t wait for them to open their wormhole gates or for some ships to arrive that aren’t stuffed with smiling samurai. I want to see the other planets, right, and I want to go back to Earth.’
Calder nodded and didn’t seem to want to say any more, so Winter helped himself to more coffee and stared out to sea, inhaling the breeze. Freighters and bulk carriers filled the harbour, sailing dinghies and cruise liners dotted the sea to the horizon, aircars and entopters buzzed above it. All no doubt economically justified in some way he couldn’t quite get his head around. Cornucopian capitalism ran on something even more abstract than money, a calculus of reputation and reward that tweaked the material balances and made or broke the fortunes of promoters and projectors, physical accountants, and venture planners. Loafing and lotus-eating earned contempt; providing goods and services that couldn’t be churned out on a drexler bought respect. Art and design were big, as were entrepreneurship, advice—existential consultancy, philosophical mentoring, physical training, erotic education—and a surprising amount of manual labour, practical skill, and personal service all paid big dividends in credit and interest.
It was a great place, a lively city, a venue where he could make it big. So why did feel this way, as if he was trapped indoors in winter and getting cabin fever? Stir-crazy or SAD; maybe there was a vital line missing from the thin spectrum of the sun. Or it could be a combination of homesickness and lovesickness. That Lucinda Carlyle had visited Earth, and that she spoke and acted like the people he remembered from Earth, that even in her appearance and accent she could have stepped straight out of his remembered past—all these resonated with the spurious memories of Irene and nostalgia for Earth that had gnawed at him so needlessly and so long.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Ben-Ami, swooping to the table in the batwinged, knife-pleated gunmetal habit that was the fashion of the day. He poured coffee, sat back and grinned at the musicians. ‘I have news. Very interesting news.’ He paused, as if to tease out the moment.
‘Fire away, mate,’ said Calder, earning a puzzled glance and a confidential hunch.
‘I’ve just been called to a meeting with my MEA. He’s warned me against putting on this production, for fear of—he leaned closer, spoke quieter—‘offending the Knights.’ He sat back and brushed his palms against each other. ‘Worth about a thousand hours of publicity, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Hah!’ said Calder. ‘That’s one way of looking at it, and good for you. But how do you know it isn’t a wise move to keep on the right side of the black-pyjama guys?’
Ben-Ami flapped a sleeve. ‘I don’t care if it is or not. If our so-called security requires self-censorship of artistic work, then frankly we’ve lost the planet already. Genuine military and diplomatic considerations are one thing, and cultural cringing is another entirely. Let the Knights shut the production down themselves, should it come to that. I for one will not shut myself up on the basis of heavy hints dropped on my toe.’ He sipped a little more coffee, and darted a sharp glance at each of them. ‘Are you with me, gentlemen?’
They both nodded. At that Ben-Ami stood up. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. He lifted the crockery and
‘Attention, people!’ he shouted. He spun around, cloak swirling and flashing. ‘Listen, everyone!’
He had a fine deep voice and he knew how to project it. Heads turned.
‘For anyone who doesn’t know me—yes, gentlemen of the Knights, that means you—my name is Benjamin Ben-Ami. I am a playwright and promoter, and I intend to produce and have performed a spectacular musical entertainment based upon the history of Eurydice and its glorious precursor states. It will be called …
Winter saw Calder put his head in his hands, then look up and mouth silently
‘All are welcome!’ Ben-Ami shouted. ‘And yes, gentlemen, that very much includes you, the Knights—’
The Knights stood up as one, tipped their heads towards Ben-Ami, and walked off.
A man jumped up, sending his table crashing.
‘Now look what you’ve done, Ben-Ami! You’ve offended them! And I don’t blame them, this is no time for this kind of divisive, contentious stuff!’
‘Who says it’s going to be divisive?’ someone else shouted, and in the subsequent contention had his answer. Ben-Ami jumped down as the first thrown tomato whizzed past his head. More tables went over. Shouts. Winter stood up. Calder was already on his feet, in his forced fighting crouch, hands out, glaring around. Scuffles were breaking out. Out of the corner of his eye Winter saw a blade flash, then heard a grunt. He reached inside his jacket, forgetting that there was no weapon there.
Calder grinned, or maybe just bared his teeth.
‘I hope you’re getting all this, Benjy old boy,’ he said. ‘This is just like it was back on—’
A shoulder hit his hip and he went over.
L
amont stared at the patterns of the gravity-wave display, his mind translating it into a visual image as though it was a stereogram. The resulting magic-eye picture of the starships converging on Eurydice was as disturbing as it was vivid.
Hours passed. The patterns stabilised around the planet.
‘The Knights aren’t fighting them’ he remarked.
‘In part it is a question of the balance of forces,’ said the
