What’s the point? You are your soul, if you are anything. The Kiint are right, simulacrum personalities are nothing more than a sophisticated library of memories.
In our case, the Kiint are wrong. The habitat personality has a soul. Our individual memories are the seeds of its consciousness. The more there are of us in the multiplicity, the richer its existence and heritage becomes. Knowledge of the beyond hasn’t ruined our culture. Edenism can adapt, it can learn and grow. Surmounting this time intact will be our triumph. And that’s what I’m fighting for, to give us that physical chance. I know the Mortonridge Liberation is a fraud, we all do. But that doesn’t stop it from being valid.
You’re going to kill people. However careful you are, however well intentioned you are, they will die.
Yes. I didn’t start this, and I won’t be the one who stops it. But I must play my part. To do nothing would be to sin by omission. What I and the others do on Mortonridge might buy you enough time.
Me?
You, Consensus, the Adamist researchers, maybe even priests. All of you have to keep looking. The Kiint found a way to face the beyond and survive. It’s here somewhere.
I’ll do what I can, which at my age is very limited.
Don’t underestimate yourself.
Thank you. You haven’t been edited down that much, you know.
Some parts of me can’t be edited, not if I want to keep being me. Bearing that in mind, I have one last favour to ask of you.
Go on.
I’d like you to explain this to Syrinx for me. I know my little Sly-minx, she’ll go nova when she hears I volunteered for this.
I’ll tell her. I don’t know if I can explain, but . . .
The serjeant bowed as best the medical packages would allow. Thank you, Athene.
But do please take care.
I can’t give you my blessing.
• • •
There was no lavish farewell party this time. Monterey had a more serious, less triumphant air these days. But Al chose the Hilton’s ballroom anyway to watch the fleet coming together, and to hell with any bad feelings and resentment it stirred up in his head. He stood in front of the window, gazing out at the starships clustered around Monterey. There were over a hundred and fifty of them, dwindling away until the more distant ones were nothing more than big stars. Ion thrusters fired microsecond jets of gauzy blue neon to keep their attitude locked. MSVs and personnel commuters swam among them, delivering new crew and combat wasps.
The stealthed mines which the voidhawks from Yosemite had scattered were no more, returning space around New California to a more peaceful state. Even the voidhawks sent to observe the Organization were finding it increasingly difficult to maintain their inspection high above New California’s poles.
As if to emphasise the change in local strategic fortunes, a hellhawk hurtled past the Hilton tower, twisting about in complex curves to dodge the stationary Adamist starships. It was one of the harpies, a red-eyed beast with a hundred-and-eighty-metre wingspan and a vicious-looking beak.
Al pressed himself up against the window to watch as it skirred around the asteroid. “Go you beaut,” he yelled after it. “Go get ’em. Go!”
A small puff of pink dust erupted from nowhere as a stealthed spyglobe was masered. The hellhawk performed a victory roll, wingtip feathers standing proud to twist the solar wind.
“Wow!” Al pulled back from the window, smiling magnanimously. “Ain’t that something else?”
“Glad I can live up to my part of the bargain,” Kiera said with cool objectivity.
“Lady, after this, you got as many fresh bodies as you want for Valisk. Al Capone knows how to reward his friends. And believe me, this is what I call friendly.”
A serene smile ghosted her beautiful young face. “Thank you, Al.”
The cluster of Organization lieutenants at the rear of the ballroom kept their expressions stoic, while their minds palpitated with jealousy. Al liked that; introduce a new favourite in court, and see how the old-timers bid to prove themselves. He sneaked a look at Kiera’s profile; she was wearing a loose-fitting purple blouse and second- skin-tightness trousers, hair tied back with fussy decorum. Her face was beguiling, with its prim features kept firmly under control. But smouldering deep behind it was the old familiar illness of powerlust. She had more class than most, but she wasn’t so different.
“How we doing, Luigi?” Al bellowed.
“Pretty good, Al. The hellhawk crews say they should have cleared away every mine and spyglobe in another thirty-two hours. We’re pushing those asshole voidhawks back further and further, which means they can’t launch any more crap at us. They don’t know what we’re doing anymore, and they can’t hurt us so bad. It makes one hell of a difference. The fleet’s shaping up great now. The guys, they’re getting their morale back, you know.”
“Glad to hear it.” Which was an understatement. It had been looking bad for a while, what with the voidhawks launching their unseen weapons and the lieutenants down on the planet abusing their authority to carve themselves out some territory. Funny how all problems locked together. Now the hellhawks had arrived the situation in space was improving by the hour. The crews were no longer living in constant fear of a strike by a stealthed mine, which improved their efficiency and confidence by orders of magnitude. People on the ground sensed the fresh tide above them and wanted to play ball again. The number of beefs was dropping; and the guys Leroy had working the Treasury electric adding machines said fraud was levelling out—not falling yet, but shit you couldn’t expect miracles.
“How do you keep the hellhawks in line?” Al asked.
“I can guarantee them human bodies when their work’s finished,” Kiera said. “Bodies which they can go straight into without having to return to the beyond first. They’re very special bodies, and you don’t have any.”
“Hey.” Al spread his arms wide, puffing out a huge cloud of cigar smoke. “I wasn’t trying to muscle in on you, sister. No way. You got a neat operation. I respect that.”
“Good.”
“We need to talk terms about another squadron. I mean, between you and me, I’m in deep shit over Arnstadt—pardon my French. The goddamn voidhawks there are wasting a couple of my ships each day. Something’s gotta be done.”
Kiera gave a noncommittal moue. “And what about this fleet? Won’t you need a squadron to protect it from voidhawks at Toi-Hoi?”
Al didn’t need to consult Luigi over that one, he could sense the hunger in the fleet commander’s mind. “Now you come to mention it, it might not be a bad idea.”
“I’ll see to it,” Kiera said. “There should be another group of hellhawks returning to Valisk today. If I dispatch a messenger now, they should be back here within twenty-four hours.”
“Sounds pretty damn good to me, lady.”
Kiera raised her walkie-talkie, and pulled a long length of chrome aerial out of it. “Magahi, would you return to Monterey’s docking ledge, please.”
“Roger,” a crackling voice said from the walkie-talkie. “Give me twenty minutes.”
Al was aware of an uncomfortable amount of satisfaction in Kiera’s mind. She was pretty sure she’d just won something. “Couldn’t you just tell Magahi to go straight back to the habitat?” he inquired lightly.
Kiera’s smile widened gracefully. It was the same welcoming promise which had ended the Deadnight recording. “I don’t think so. There’s a big security factor if we radio the order; after all there are still some spyglobes out there. I don’t want the Edenists to know Magahi is flying escort on a frigate convoy.”
“Escort? What frigates?”
“The frigates carrying the first batch of my antimatter combat wasps to Valisk. That was your part of the bargain, Al, wasn’t it?”
