happening to them, but it is too dangerous to hold here. Please find a machine other than your own, and put the site up there. Do not – do not – put it on your machine, okay? And never talk of it, and do not reply to this e-mail in any way, okay? Sometimes you will get encrypted message like this. It will be an update for the site. Like this message, it will then eat itself. And please, do not put anything about this in an article! And don't reply! Your chum. Okay endmail.'
Mae turned and looked up. 'Kwan? Will that be okay? Can we wipe the site, if this works?'
Kwan hauled in a thick breath through thin nostrils. 'Okay,' she whispered, nodding. 'Okay.'
The sun rose.
Mae tried to sleep, despite sunshine blazing through the windows.
Kwan's warm wine had been a mistake. It burned her stomach. The acids churned like the fear of the soldiers, fear for Kwan. fear of Mrs Tung, fear of everything. Her stomach was as panicked as her soul.
And she began to gag. She felt something tear.
My baby. My strangely nested, new-as-Air, born-from-Air child.
I'm trying to kill it.
Her stomach rose up like a fist. She could feel something heavy but alive bunch up and cram against the top of her belly.
No, no, I don't need this now!
Mae saw Mr Ken's handsome face. It will be such a beautiful child, she thought. She struggled to pull in a breath. The flesh pushed harder against her oesophagus; she felt something gulp open inside her.
As if Kwan's wine were fire, a blast of juices burned her throat and seared tender nasal tissues.
Her child slammed up against her again. Her breath was knocked away.
No!
Mae's face twisted like a rag. She wrenched herself and also something else deep in the world. She twisted and dragged and wrung it. The world felt like silk, ripping in ragged line.
From all around her came the sound of tiny bells. Was that blood in her ears?
Mae remembered the fence, the fence she had torn when she escaped Mr Tunch. The fence had sung when she tore it.
Sing! she told the air. It did. The air around her crinkled like tin foil.
And light seemed to come from the singing. Light wavered in patterns on the walls, as if reflecting from water. The light was confused with the thin tinkling sound from nowhere.
Mae thought of all of them – Tunch, Old Mrs Tung, Fatimah, the village women. No! You will not take my child from me. Soldiers, armies, people who will not learn, people who hate the future, no you will not get him, my last late Unexpected Flower. He is going to live.
Mae swallowed, and swallowed again. The room went dark. Mae's fingers went numb. Mrs Tung was coming, drawn by the fear.
Mae felt her arrive. Mrs Tung seemed to come into the room and sit on the bed next to her.
The old woman was charmed by the homeliness of babies and indigestion. Old Mrs Tung offered advice.
The voice was as kindly and as sweet as pear drops.
Mrs Tung had always been kind. Mae remembered her sweet, blind face.
Yogurt it is, thought Mae, and remembered the tang of it. Yogurt she thought, remembering its creamy sting, and the yogurt sheds with their smell of wood smoke.
Suddenly the light and the singing smelled of yogurt. The whole room smelled like those old sheds. Mae swallowed again.
And was soothed. Like a storm at sea when the wind suddenly dropped, the acids in her stomach seemed to calm. They burned no longer.
Like a barque, clumsy on the waves, the separate flesh inside her settled calmly down into the waters of her stomach. Mae could even feel the foam of the waves.
Mrs Tung was smug.
Everything went still.
Suddenly Kwan's attic was just a room, quiet and full of sunshine, a room full of peace, even joy. Mae cradled her stomach. I will build you a safe harbour, little boat. I will fence you in with docks and sea walls. They won't frighten you out of me. If I have to call on all of Air, you will stay.
Mae felt her face stretch with a relieved smile. She slept.
The army did not come. That day.
Mae still had to find a place to work.
She and Sunni had made amends, but Mae would hardly be welcome working on Sunni's machine day and night as she needed to. And it would be better if the Circle did not operate out of Kwan's premises. So where, how?
____________________
audio file from: Mrs Chung Mae
14 December
Dear Mr Oz-sir
It is plain that my business has reached the point at which it is necessary to run it from our own machine. The grant has been more than generous, especially as regards our beautiful knitting machine. Would money be available for me to operate a service centre of my own?
____________________
audio file from: Mr Oz Oz
14 December
Dear Mrs Chung-ma'am
It is possible. Form for grant is attached, partially filled in for you, but do not submit it until I can take soundings here. Your course of action is wise.
Mae scanned the message and pondered its every word for any sign that Mr Oz had sent the two encrypted mails.
She decided that he had. The soundings he spoke of were to find out how the government viewed Mae's controversial connection with the Wings. Mae felt like a traitor to Kwan. 'Your course of action is wise,' meant simply that she had done as she was warned, and moved her site.
Mae stared at the form, filled in completely by Mr Oz, except for a white box which read:
She could say that she was running a service centre for the whole valley, so more commercial sites could be implanted. She could say that she was offering her own expertise in building sites, and publicizing them.
In fact, that was not just an excuse. In fact that was a very good idea indeed.
Mae sat pondering it, seeing it clearly. Mounting sites for Mr Ah's car repair, setting up an electronic voting station, providing a link for Mrs Mack to her Christian church. She saw specifically, Sunni's Valley Fashion Service. She saw again, the Swallow School, now on the Web itself, giving advice, explaining terms, trading Info with other Net traders.
She sat staring into another new branch of the future, happy.
The machine made a noise like a rooster.
'Mae,' said Mr Oz in video mode. 'My friend, the most amazing thing has happened. Open a second window,
