CAPACITY

shape that had formed in the roof space, back at the last motion of the stacks of VNMs behind them which seemed to have settled on a final shape.

Rain began to fall over half the extent of the factory floor. Judy could look through the silver curtain of water to the dry floor lying beyond the golden pools. Fat drops splashed against her kimono, plastering the thin silk against her skin.

“Why is it raining?” she asked.

“You know,” Frances said in a voice of awed wonder, “I don’t know straight off. I have to look it up.”

“It’s not too late to come back, Frances,” called one of the voices from the console.

“No, Lemuel. I want to stay…”

“Aren’t you going to put a skin on?” Sukara asked. There came a crackling noise from around the base of the brain of the blue skeleton, and then Frances spoke from the robot’s body.

“Oh, yes, I know the perfect thing. Judy, help me.”

Frances led Judy across the factory floor, the black-and-white woman supporting this blue, spongy, fizzing, stick creature. They were heading towards the base of one of the wishbone legs.

Frances climbed into the yellow pool and Judy watched the blue skeleton sink beneath its surface.

“But the wishbone is so hard,” said Judy. “Frances won’t be able to move.”

“Frances was an expert engineer,” Cadence said. The surface of the yellow pool began to stir.

“She still is,” Judy murmured. None of the omnipresent AIs were so rude as to contradict her.

Frances emerged from the pool in a golden suit, yellow liquid slowly setting around her body like buttery toffee. Frances’ body was to be smooth and featureless, and Judy had a sudden flash of recognition: that was how she, Judy, liked to think of herself. And then she saw the buttons between Frances’s legs, and she heard a peal of laughter from her console.

“You’re her template, Judy,” Sukara explained. “She’s not been totally honest with you. Already the strain of being focused into one point is restricting her. She’s reacting to you. She’s the rest of you. She’s exploring humanity by completing you.”

Ten years later, Judy and Frances stood on a road that wound its way along the Brittany coastline. White spray, carried by the brisk wind from waves crashing on the rocks below, glistened on Judy’s golden skin. She moved her head this way and that, searching for a route to Peter Onethirteen.

“My feet are cold.”

“Put your tabi back on, then,” Frances said, pointing to the scraps of material tucked into the white silk of her friend’s obi.

“They’re genuine cotton!” Judy said indignantly. “They’ll get stained.”

The wind gusted again and she shivered. The pines standing on the low hills that rose out of the sand dunes were almost doubled over, their branches waving inland, bent by the ceaseless winds blowing over the iron-grey sea.

“This way.” Frances led her along a strip of rough grass weaving inland from the sand dunes between the green reeds of a saltmarsh.

“I hate this wilderness.” Judy fastidiously pulled the legs of her cotton trousers up a little. She had tucked the five separate robes of her dress up into her sash to stop them getting dirty. “The sooner they release VNMs to convert the whole Earth to plastic, the better.”

Frances laughed. “I find it quite sensual. You’re too clinical, Judy. I’m sure that your digital selves have a better time of it. They can always take refuge in the thought that their world is all bits, in the end.”

“And my world is all atoms. It’s all the same.”

The air was damp. Rough grass coated in gritty sand rubbed against their legs as they strode on through the no-man’s-land between the dunes and the low green hills. Ahead of them, a sparkling pattern of lavender lights formed a wall in the air as a warning. Judy waved her hand through the barrier experimentally. Frances stepped straight through and turned to wait for her friend.

“According to the records, the atomic Peter Onethirteen spends most of his time in here,” she said. “I can see why. I sometimes think about coming to live in a common land. It seems to me to be an echo of the thinking behind the Shawl, only without compromise-purer.”

“You should move to Penumbra.” Judy took a deep breath, then followed her friend through the lavender wall.

“See, you’re still alive,” Frances said.

Judy ignored her, examining a scrubby brown tree that twisted itself close to the ground, its ragged green leaves flickering in the wind. The overlaps of her robes flickered in sympathy. “Look at that tree. Is it natural, or a venumb?”

“Natural,” Frances said. “It’s a hawthorn. Now that looks like a venumb to me.”

Judy turned in the direction she was pointing. Keeping just inside the lavender wall, a brown spider bush shuffled backwards, tugging at a piece of silver foil. Silver metal hinges bent and clicked, forming joints in the brown thorny twigs that comprised its legs.

“Where did the foil come from?” she asked.

“Trunk of another spider tree, probably,” Frances said. “Let’s follow it. It’s heading in Peter’s direction.”

Sand spilled across the green mounds in long yellow tongues. Judy’s ankles felt cold and raw from the damp abrading wind. The spider bush seemed unconcerned, its legs clicking along like clockwork, the topmost joints weaving in loops like knitting needles as it dragged its prize back home. Next to the bright colors of Judy’s kimono, it looked dull and unimpressive.

“Where’s its processing space?”

“Probably in the main tree,” Frances suggested, her attention elsewhere as she scanned around for Peter Onethirteen. “It’s rare for a species to waste materials by incorporating a brain into each separate servant.”

The spider bush stood as high as Judy’s waist, formed of brown thorny twigs as thick as her finger, all joined together by metal hinges. The top half of the venumb was a woven mass of twigs from which four thorny pincers reached out to grasp the piece of silver foil, now sending giddy flashes of grass and sky and kimono reflecting in the dull day. As the spider bush made its way down the other side of the low hill, there was a moment of discontinuity, then Judy suddenly found herself standing beneath a huge silver tree.

“Whoa!”

“Couldn’t you see it?” Frances said. “I didn’t think the baffles on this tree were that strong.”

“Just strong enough,” a man’s voice said. “That’s how it has survived.” There was another moment of discontinuity, and a middle-aged man appeared before them wearing an apologetic expression.

“I’m Peter Onethirteen.”

Judy took a deep breath and resumed her professional exterior. Her face assumed its impassive expression.

“You were expecting us, weren’t you?” she said.

Peter Onethirteen nodded, glancing at Judy’s bare feet.

“My digital self contacted me this morning. I don’t know what you did to him, but he was terrified.”

Judy folded her hands into the sleeves of her kimono. “But you’re not, are you?” she said. “Interesting.”

“Oh, I’m still scared,” said Peter calmly, “but I have learned that it’s more effective to ride events than oppose them.” The atomic Peter’s short, stocky body was winning the battle against middle-aged spread. His thinning hair was shaved close to his head. The contrast with his digital self was marked.

Judy said nothing. The spider bush had by now dragged its piece of foil to the base of the silver tree. It