'That makes no sense, Mr. Charlie. By universal convention, a legally dead person has no claim upon anything, physical remains or otherwise.'
'But I'm not dead!' he cries desperately. 'Can't you see? You're talking to me, for God's sake.'
'We're talking to you only because your dead brain has been reanimated at a measurable expense and for an expected return,' the Clerk patiently explains. 'You were dead for many terrene years and would be dead now otherwise.'
'That's absurd!' 'That is the law.'
'You mean I have no rights at all?' He looks away from the bizarre apparition of the magistrate and his puppet, stares past the veering geometries of Terra Tharsis, and sinks his gaze into the primal horizon-the ruddy vista of
Mars-hoping to calm himself.
'There are important property rights that do pertain,' the Clerk quietly admits. 'Because you were stolen from the Commonality archive by lewdists, this demonstrates negligence of protectorship on the part of the Commonality. The
case may be made that the Commonality has thus forsaken any claim to you. As you were afterward stolen from the lewdists by the Friends of the NonAbelian Gauge Group and subsequently recovered from them by the Commonality, you may claim to be property of public domain. Then, ownership rights will devolve to those who salvaged you.'
'Why are you doing this to me?' Charles moans.
'The law requires the Judge and the Clerk to examine all exhibits prior to presentation in the Moot.' The Clerk floats backward into the glare of noon light. 'Unless the Judge has further questions, I believe our examination is concluded.'
'The exhibit is found whole and without defect,' the Judge decrees, the amethyst vapors around him fluorescing brightly, the flaming halo vanishing. 'It shall be admitted to the Moot and herewith subject to all pending arguments for final and absolute proprietorship.'
'Hey, wait a minute. Please!' Charles pleads 'Where's Mei Nili? Where's the androne Munk? How did I get here?'
The Judge retreats into the sunfire, and in the next instant blackness swarms over Charles Outis.
Mei Nili and Munk sit in the alcove of the Moot, awaiting their turn to testify. Munk's faceless aspect stares out the transparent walls at the supernal ramparts of Terra Tharsis. He is livid inside with fear. So, this is the adytum of the Maat. And here he is at the foot of the dream, far beyond the parameters of all his programming. His hope, however improbable, had been that the flyers who intercepted the incoming pod would deposit them outside the city. But they didn't, and now here they are in the midst of the Maat's creation. An incestuous anxiety possesses him: This is the place of his maker, the very trespass he most dreaded.
The Maat's hand is everywhere apparent, from the artificial terrestrial gravity to the blue tint of the filtered sky. When, in the grip of the flyers' magravity net, the pod touched down on the summit of an onyx tower eight kilometers tall, Munk expected some kind of encounter with his creators. Instead, only a faceless androne on a skim plate awaited them. It ignored all their questions, removed the plasteel capsule with Charles inside, and floated across the rooftop among a panoply of prisms and mirror vanes. They followed, and the mute androne led them a long way down a spiral ramp of abstract
chromatic mosaics to this enormous chamber of sun-shot glass and ivory.
'You are in the Moot of the Maat Pashalik,' a genderless voice softly advised them out of nowhere after Mei seated herself on a transparent bench. 'Please
wait here until you are summoned.'
'How long have we been here?' Mei asks curtly. She has refrained from berating Munk verbally for their predicament, but he can see by her eyes that she thinks the dunefield landing would have been better.
'Two hours and thirty-seven minutes,' Munk replies meekly. Within the first few seconds of entering the chamber, he had already measured its domed ceiling, glass perimeter, and 2,853 viewing loges tiered in midair in the vast space surrounding the amphitheater of the central court. The sleek hoods of the loges are an evanescent blue shading along a lateral line to a hue subtle as the bronze tint on a mushroom, lending them an eerily organic look, like hovering skates or devilfish. Afraid to examine these odd structures too closely and too
embarrassed by their predicament to engage in taciturn conversation with Mei, he turns inward and focuses on listening to the communications of the numerous andrones in the vicinity. Their code logic does not match his, and because he does not understand anything they're saying, he must remain content with their music.
Mei paces about the sterile alcove, returning repeatedly to the window bay to gaze at the surreal skyline. The teetering spires and hyperbolas loom so tall their lower stories disappear below in a haze of ramparts and sparkling viaducts and spans that meld with distance to a golden ether.
Who lives here? she wonders. In the arcade on Deimos, she had once seen film texts of the multitudinous types into which humanity has diversified in the colonies-the morphs, clades, and plasmatics, to name just the three biggest groups. None are permitted in the reservations on Earth, not even the Maat, and in her job with Apollo Combine she had met only morphs, people morphogenetically adapted for specific tasks.
Here in Terra Tharsis, however, she knows there are clades, new branches of humanity that would barely be recognizable to her as human, and the plasmatics, those who have genetically transcended anthropic anatomy altogether. Perhaps
this chamber itself is a hive, and the organic loges floating overhead belong to a plasmatic class...
'Jumper Nili?' a smoky voice calls. 'Androne Munk?'
A tall, sinewy youth with ethereal cheekbones, cumin complexion, fire-blue
eyes blacked with kohl, and red hair glittering with pixel-gems and braided in a long rope down his back shows the palms of his tapered hands in colonial
greeting and bows curtly. 'My name is Shau Bandar. I represent Softcopy, a local news-dip service for the
