* * *
They dropped off the body to the magistrate’s tribunal—rundown and overflowing with clerks so harried they gave them a cursory interview, promising them to be in touch and obviously lying about it. It all proved Long Chau—infuriatingly—right again. She wasn’t smug about it. Fortunately, or it’d have crossed the line from annoying to unbearable once again.
When The Shadow’s Child got back to her small office, she saw that Long Chau had paid her for the blend. She hadn’t expected Long Chau to be that fast, but she wasn’t about to complain. She put the money aside in her account, earmarking it for the rent; and, after a brief hesitation, granted Bao viewing access to the transaction. It wasn’t enough to cover the rent, but it was a good enough sum: it should reassure Bao and the Western Pavilion Le that The Shadow’s Child’s business was broadly profitable.
Then she settled down to research. Not the corpse or its history—as, no doubt, Long Chau was doing. She had little doubt Long Chau would be back; and she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do, if that happened.
One thing she did know. She didn’t intend to be defenceless. If Long Chau could effortlessly pry into her past, then The Shadow’s Child could pry into hers.
It was much harder.
Her name was a style name, that much was certain—except that it appeared to be used, insofar as The Shadow’s Child could determine, only for treatises on utterly obscure subjects, ranging from the evolution of bruises in the vacuum to the effects of certain substances on creativity. The face itself, run through the hours of recordings on the habitats, didn’t appear to evoke anything unusual, except that Long Chau, as expected, didn’t have much of a social life: no sightings in poetry clubs or tea houses. Her compartment was in the same habitat as The Shadow’s Child, but not as well placed, the network there sluggish. Her bots were the older kind: slow, and requiring a lot of attention to be commanded.
On her past, there was nothing. Long Chau had sprung into activity six years ago, shortly after the uprising. But before that, nothing. Her accent and demeanour were those of scholars—not only that, but of one used to power. Most likely? A missing scion of an Inner Habitat family, playing at poverty while still supported by her family’s money.
All the checks on that came back negative. There were a handful of rebel children from the Inner Habitats, but all much younger than Long Chau. A minor scion from a numbered planet, closer to the centre of the Empire? She wasn’t nearly high-handed enough for that.
Consulting detective.
The Shadow’s Child would have dug deeper—never minding that her time would have been better spent trying to gain customers rather than pointlessly obsessing about one. Her only obligation was in a few days: a dinner with two of her relatives, Dieu and An Giang—faraway descendants of Mother who always had hilarious anecdotes about their times in the ministries of the Scattered Pearls belt. But Sharpening Steel into Needles intervened.
In the small shipmind community, Sharpening Steel into Needles was a living legend. They were one of the eldest ships in the Scattered Pearls belt, who remembered a time when the Empire had been so small the planets didn’t need to be numbered or classified. And they knew exactly what they wanted, and didn’t let anyone’s objections stand in their way for long.
“You can’t remain cooped up in this office for long,” Sharpening Steel into Needles said. “Come, let’s have a tea together.”
The Shadow’s Child put up a brave but doomed front. “I’m not really here. I’m in space.”
“That’s a trivial part of you. The majority of your processing powers are in the habitat,” they said.
To her surprise, Sharpening Steel into Needles took her, not to a teahouse, but to their own compartment: a riot of colours and display cabinets filled with fine porcelain. Their own hobby was collecting rare pieces, and several of the bowls were exact replicas of ones used in ceremonials at the Imperial Court, made in the exact same workshops. The cabinets were interspersed with holos of space: the overlay Sharpening Steel into Needles reserved for other shipminds, though The Shadow’s Child had a suspicion the other ship had removed all the vids and paintings involving deep spaces. She’d have been embarrassed at needing to be taken care of, but just the thought of deep spaces was enough to make her core clench.
On the low table was an overlay of various dishes from caramel pork to noodle soup, and green tea the colour of verdigris. None of it was real, and neither of them ate, per se, but food for them was memories—of feasts and places and people, accumulated and refined through the centuries of their lives.
The Shadow’s Child picked at the caramel pork. For a brief moment she was a child again, watching fireworks go off in the habitat, and she fell asleep curled up in Mother’s lap. And then the memory passed, and she was an adult again, her human parents since long ashes.
“You’ve been making inquiries,” Sharpening Steel into Needles said.
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
A pause, then, “You’re angry.”
“I’m not.”
“Don’t be unreasonable, child.” Sharpening Steel into Needles sounded amused. “That one annoys everyone.”
“Long Chau? You know her?”
“Not I, no. But a few of the younger shipminds. None of them in your—ah. Line of work.”
They disapproved, though of course they would never put it in so many words: they thought shipminds should serve the Empire and not seek to profit.
As if there was much profit in brewing blends for humans.
The Shadow’s Child thought for a while, trying to keep her feelings leashed. “These other ships—”
“Yes?”
“Do they know who she is?”
Sharpening Steel into Needles shifted closer. Their avatar was small and perfectly formed, hovering over the table—the sharp, flowing designs of the Empire centuries ago. “They were referred to her
