‘But they didn’t know him, not like they do us. The four of us are practically the only government anyone can name.’
‘Us and Yirella,’ Kandara added gruffly. ‘If we’re Saints, she’s a fucking angel to the rest of the galaxy.’
Callum gave a sheepish nod. ‘What do you think we should do, build a memorial?’
‘Fuck no,’ Yuri said. ‘He would have hated that. He was a spook; he lived in the shadows. He lived for the shadows.’
‘It’s enough that we come here for him,’ Kandara said. ‘Not every year, that would be maudlin, and I’m not lighting candles or crap like that, either. But we will keep doing this when we can. He would enjoy the inconvenience it causes us, if nothing else.’
Yuri smiled. ‘Then here’s to the inconvenience of Saint Alik Monday, with thanks from the galaxy he liberated.’
Yirella2
London
Yirella loved the snow. Even after living on Earth for two years, she still relished going outside to experience it falling magically from the sky. That was why she insisted their house be on the northern edge of London, giving her a panoramic view of the subarctic landscape. In its new incarnation, the ancient capital city was an amalgamation of cosy villages, intended to provide residents a strongly knit community, which was essential for those recovering. For all they were now blessed with perfect new bodies and a post-scarcity interstellar civilization, the shock and abrupt transition from the invasion was overwhelming.
The village they’d settled in was called Lavender Hill. Homes were either solitary lodges, like theirs, or long stone terraces patterned in authentic Georgian style. The quaint architecture made her laugh, but the character did have a certain elegance, and it belonged in her mental image of London.
Standing in front of the curving bay window, she watched daylight fading from the comatose grey sky. The curving street outside was wide, with discreet lighting hidden amid the tall spruce trees. Snow had been cleared from the central pathway, but everywhere else it was a good thirty centimetres deep and compacted, while the boughs and twigs of the trees and bushes were varnished in tough ice. Autumn and winter lasted for at least seven months, and spring was often delayed. Everyone walked around wrapped in thick coats and long scarves, and moaned a lot about the cold. Yirella, who’d grown up in the tropics, relished all the snow and ice, the frozen lakes and frosted trees. For her, the vista was a romantic winter wonderland. Her only disappointment was that they were too far south to see the glacier that covered most of northern England.
It wasn’t an opinion Dellian shared. He never complained. But she knew.
A figure was moving cautiously along the central pathway, checking all the buildings. He stopped outside the lodge, staring up at it. Yirella used her direct meld with the civic net to pull basic information on the stranger. His name was Horatio Seymore. According to his file he was a London resident, captured in 2226, re-bodied a couple of years ago, and currently working as a therapist for newly restored kids – the most difficult cases.
She watched him glance around, then open the iron gate and start up the front path. ‘We have a visitor,’ she called out.
Dellian glanced around from the hanging fire in the middle of the room. It was a Scandinavian design – a metal saucer with a copper top, suspended by an iron flue. She’d included it in the lodge more as an aesthetic statement than anything practical, but it threw out a surprising amount of heat. Not that the logs Dellian was shoving in were real wood, of course; these cylinders were a self-oxygenating burner that was CO2 neutral. After all, nobody wanted to disturb the delicate rebalancing of Earth’s climate now that the ice age had been coaxed into retreat.
Dellian used a poker to rearrange the logs, lunging as if he were fencing with a far more skilful opponent. ‘Who?’
‘Don’t know him.’
‘Saints!’ A shower of sparks erupted from the fireplace, and he started stomping on them as they bounced across the polished parquet flooring.
The door sensor sent her a polite notification of presence. ‘I’ll go and find out.’ She held back a frown as she walked past him. As usual, Dellian was in his constable’s uniform, which wasn’t the most welcoming for guests, but there’d only be an argument if she mentioned it. Again.
Yirella opened the front door and found it easy to smile a greeting at Horatio Seymore. He was very handsome, and taller than Dellian, but it was more than that; something about him just made her feel comfortable. She knew he’d be perfect for helping troubled kids. Shame he looks so troubled himself.
‘I’m really sorry to intrude,’ Horatio said straight away, ‘but I’m looking for my wife, and you’re the only person on Earth who can help.’
Yirella hesitated. ‘I’m afraid I’m only a part-time adviser to the Alliance alien assessment committee these days,’ she said. ‘I have no official status. And anyway, you’ll need the family-tracing agency for that.’
‘No, I don’t need to trace her. I already know where she is.’
‘Where?’ she asked automatically.
‘Sanctuary.’
‘You’d better come in.’
They settled on a long couch facing the fire, Yirella and Dellian cosying up close at the end nearest to the fire and Horatio at the other end, straight-backed and tense, ignoring the Darjeeling tea a remote had poured for him.
‘If you’ve been in a cocoon since 2226, how do you know your wife is in Sanctuary?’ Yirella asked.
‘Gwendoline was on the Pasobla when the Olyix came,’ Horatio told them. ‘It portalled out of Delta Pavonis and became one of the exodus fleet. They established a string of generation worlds.’
She felt Del’s arm tighten around her at the mention of the Pasobla. ‘That’s the same exodus habitat Emilja and Ainsley were on,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Wait . . .’ Her meld extracted a whole batch of
