exposure of bare flesh, and a high proportion of the mourners were tall, long-legged, and extremely handsome women. The Minstrel Boy wondered who had died. The corpse, wrapped in a white lace shroud and wearing a gold crown on its head, was sitting upright in a litter, borne on the muscular shoulders of six identical young men in white loincloths and body paint.
As the procession wound its way to the edge of the nothings, the mourners sang a high, wordless chant that steadily grew in intensity. When they finally halted at the very edge of the non-matter, the song had reached the level of coordinated screaming. The Minstrel Boy had expected that after due ceremony, the corpse would be ejected into the nothings and the funeral party would return to the business of the living. Thus, it came as something of a surprise when nothing of the kind happened. The young men carrying the litter simply walked into the nothings without the slightest hesitation. Two by two, they smoked and vanished and became one with the non. There was a sustained sigh as the corpse itself and the last pair of bearers disappeared. Then the voices picked up a theme that was more jaunty and rhythmic, and the procession started back the way it had come. The Minstrel Boy wondered what had been done to the six young men to make them sacrifice themselves in such a seemingly pointless manner. Brainwashed or drugged or in the throes of some metaphysical madness? It was possible that they had been specifically created for nothing more than the funeral — mere products of the stuff receiver — and that nobody looked on their deaths as a loss. He was reminded that human behavior in Krystaleit could be exceedingly perverse at times.
Reave must have also been remembering. 'You have to watch your ass here in the big city. Krystaleit can be a lot of fun, but it can also get deeply weird. You have to be ready for it.'
The Minstrel Boy engaged the Saab's drive and slowly followed in the wake of the returning funeral. The platform, despite its size, was more crowded than the Minstrel Boy ever remembered seeing it before. Hundreds of people and all manner of vehicles came out of the nothings in a constant stream. A high proportion of the incoming travelers looked scared and exhausted, as though they were on the move not for the fun or adventure of it but from force of circumstance.
'What the hell are all these folks? Refugees, or what?' Reave asked.
They were passing a ragged family of four with pinched, depressed faces who appeared to be lugging all their worldly goods with them.
Billy peered through the port. 'Refugees for sure. There have got to be a lot more of these raider warlords causing trouble out there, more than just the two we've happened across.'
'I suppose you could call us refugees. I mean, we're avoiding the raiders just like everyone else.'
'Yeah, but we've got class.'
'Let's hope we've got enough class. All these refugees may make it hard to get into the city.'
The Minstrel Boy grunted. 'Looks like we're going to find out soon enough.'
The nearest way off the platform was through a high hexagonal arch. The funeral party was heading that way, and the Minstrel Boy saw no reason why they should not do the same. The only snag was that the entrance was guarded. It was flanked by two giant figures in ancient suits of powered battle armor that must have dated back to the Thousand Years War. The suits were scarred and battered, with crude welded patches and areas discolored by old, old blast wounds. The MEWs built into their right forearms were more than capable of vaporizing the Saab without leaving a trace. Any weapon with that kind of capability had to date back to before Stuff Central.
The Minstrel Boy frowned.
'This is looking kind of serious,' the Minstrel Boy commented.
The hulking metal troopers only stood and intimidated, watching the shuffling lines through impassive visor slits. The real business of vetting the new arrivals was conducted by a half dozen militia men in drab gray uniforms toting much more modest sidearms. A movable barrier restricted the free flow of vehicles and pedestrians through the arch and into the city itself. As the funeral party approached, the barrier was raised and the people in white were quickly waved through. Once they were inside, though, the barrier came down again, warning lights flashed, and the laborious process of questioning every arrival resumed. A long line immediately formed, and inside the Saab everyone settled down for a long wait.
'Okay, listen up.' Reave seemed to be falling more and more into the leadership role. Since he did it so well, Billy and the Minstrel Boy were content to let him. 'There are a couple things we all ought to remember about Krystaleit. The most important thing is their credit system. Everything here is based on that.'
Renatta frowned.
'Credit? Why do they need credit when everything comes from Stuff Central?'
'Control. Always someone who wants to control everyone else.'
'So we don't have any credit. What's going to happen to us?'
Billy took up the story. 'In normal times, credit was granted to most new arrivals. You were assessed on the value of your vehicle and whatever you might have brought with you, credited accordingly, and issued with a temporary crys.' He glanced out the port. 'Unfortunately, they seem to have raised the basic qualification level.'
Outside, almost half the people who approached the barrier were being turned away.
'There's one other kicker in the system. Something called the Personal Value Minimum. When they first figure out your credit, you're given what's known as a base number. It's like your real bottom-line value, calculated on your age, skills, physical condition, sexual utility, how smart you are, all that sort of thing. A biode can work that stuff out real fast. The trouble starts if you ever run through that last line of credit and hit the zero. That makes you an indigent, and indigents become property of the city. They literally own your ass.'
'And what can they do with your ass once they own it?'
Billy smiled grimly. 'Anything they like. Anything from impressed servitude to dumping you straight into the nothings without an SG. Of course, they have to catch you first, and there are a lot of places to hide in Krystaleit.'
'You sound like you know this from firsthand experience.'
Billy laughed. 'I came close, but I never quite hit the zero.'
Renatta was not convinced. 'Why the hell did we come here? I don't want to become property of the city.'
'There's drawbacks to every deal. It's a good place to be if you don't screw up. Always something going on.'
The line to the barrier was moving at a snail's pace. The Minstrel Boy remembered the other times he had come into Krystaleit when there had been no lines or barriers or armored men who looked like the incarnation of sudden death. The first time had been with Old Gridghast. The old man had taken some trouble to explain the city to him:
'You don't come here looking for logic or any real social organization. It's got some of the names that go with social organization, but that's about all. It's much easier to get along in the city if you think about it as one huge organism, and a pretty unhealthy organism at that. Take the credit system. It's a perfect example. On an economic level it's a joke. There's no need for it except that it maintains the Ruling Elite like the organism's atrophied brain.'
The Minstrel Boy remembered how he had protested. 'Surely the Great Biode has to be the city's brain?'
Old Gridghast had laughed. 'More like some alien implant.'
'So what about all the cops and militia that you see every where? Isn't that social organization?'
'I find them much easier to handle if I think about them as the organism's immune system, the antibodies that attempt to protect it against destructive parasites. All you have to do is keep your head down and don't look like a disease.'
The Minstrel Boy decided not to share those particular memories with the others. Old Gridghast would be hard to follow for someone who had not been there.
They were just two cars away from the checkpoint. Reave cautioned them all. 'Here we go. Let the Minstrel Boy do the talking.'
The Minstrel Boy raised his eyebrows. 'Why me?'
'Because you're glib, and you're also in the driver's seat.'
Then they were at the head of the line. The Minstrel Boy eased the Saab up to the barrier and popped the port beside him. The armored troopers had turned to face the tank. They clearly were not taking any chances with
