Look to Windward

the orchestra were filing off stage after their final rehearsal. Kabe had watched but hadn’t wanted to hear; a trio of earplugs had fed him the sounds of a waterfall instead.

The musicians—not all human, and some of them human but very unusual looking—went back to their rest suite, doing a lot of muttering. They were troubled that one of Hub’s avatars had conducted the rehearsal. It had done a creditable impression of Ziller, though without the short temper, bad language and colourful curses. One might, Kabe thought, have imagined that the musicians would have preferred such an even-tempered conductor, but they seemed genuinely concerned that the composer might not be there for the real performance to conduct the work himself.

“Hub,” Kabe said.

The silver-skinned creature turned to him. It was dressed very formally in a severe grey suit. “Yes, Kabe?”

“Could I get to Aquime and back in time to catch the start of the concert?”

“Easily,” the machine said. “Is Tersono looking for reinforcements on the Ziller front?”

“You guessed. It appears to believe I may be of assistance in persuading him to attend the concert.”

“It might even be right. I’ll come too. Shall we underground it or take a plane?”

“A plane would be quicker?”

“Yes, it would. Displacing would be quickest.”

“I have never been Displaced. Let’s do that.”

“I have to draw your attention to the fact that a Displace incurs an approximately one in sixty-one million chance of utter failure resulting in death for the subject.” The avatar smiled wickedly. “Still willing?”

“Certainly.”

There was a pop, preceded by the briefest impression of a silver field disappearing alongside them, and another avatar stood beside the one he’d been talking to, dressed similarly but not identically.

Kabe tapped his nose-ring terminal. “Tersono?”

“Yes?” said the drone’s voice.

The silver-skinned twins bowed fractionally to each other.

“We’re on our way.”

Kabe experienced something he would later characterise as like having somebody else perform a blink for you, and as the avatar’s head rose back up after its brief bow, suddenly they were both standing in the main reception room of Ziller’s apartment in Aquime City, where the drone E. H. Tersono was waiting.

Expiring Light

The late afternoon sun shone through a kilometre-high gap between the mountains and the cloud. Ziller came out of the bathroom puffing his fur dry with a powerful little hand-held blower. He frowned at Tersono and looked mildly surprised to see Kabe and the avatar.

“Hello all. Still not going. Anything else?”

He threw himself down onto a big couch and stretched out, rubbing the fluffed-up fur over his belly.

“I took the liberty of asking Ar Ischloear and Hub here to attempt to reason with you one last time,” Tersono said. “There would still be ample time to get to the Stullien Bowl in a seemly manner and—”

“Drone, I don’t know what you don’t understand,” Ziller said, smiling. “It’s perfectly simple. If he goes, I don’t. Screen, please. Stullien Bowl.”

A screen, out-holo’d, burst into life across the whole of the wall on the other side of the room, protruding just beyond the furniture. The projection filled with a couple of dozen views of the Bowl, its surroundings and various groups of people and talking heads. There was no sound. With the rehearsal finished, some enthusiasts could be seen already making their way into the giant amphitheatre.

The drone swivelled its body quickly, jerking once, to indicate it was looking at first the avatar and then Kabe. When neither said anything, it said, “Ziller, please.”

“Tersono, you’re in the way.”

“Kabe; will you talk to him?”

“Certainly,” Kabe said, nodding massively. “Ziller. How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you, Kabe.”

“I thought you were moving a little awkwardly.”

“I confess I am a little stiff; I was neck-jumping a Kussel’s Janmandresile earlier this morning and it threw me.”

“You are otherwise uninjured?”

“Some bruises.”

“I thought you disapproved of such activities.”

“All the more so now.”

“You wouldn’t recommend it, then?”

“Certainly not for you, Kabe; if you neck-jumped a Kussel’s Janmandresile you’d probably break its back.”

“You are probably correct,” Kabe chuckled. He put one hand to cup his chin. “Hmm. Kussel’s Janmandresiles; they’re only found on—”

“Will you stop it?” screeched the drone. Its aura field burned white with anger.

Kabe turned, blinking, to the machine. He spread his arms wide, setting a chandelier tinkling. “You said talk to him,” he rumbled.

“Not about him making an exhibit of himself indulging in some ridiculous so-called sport! I meant about going to the Bowl! About conducting his own symphony!”

“I did not make an exhibit of myself. I rode that giant beast for a good hundred metres.”

“It was sixty at the most and it was a hopeless neck-jump,” the drone said, doing a good vocal impression of a human spitting with fury. “It wasn’t even a neck-jump! It was a back jump followed by an undignified scramble. Do that in a competition and you’d get negative style marks!”

“I still didn’t—”

“You did make an exhibit of yourself!” the machine shouted. “That simian in the trees by the river was Marel Pomiheker; news-feeder, guerrilla journalist, media-raptor and all-round data-hound. Look!” The drone swept away from the screen and pointed a strobing grey field at one of the twenty-four rectangular projections protruding from the screen. It showed Ziller squatting on a branch, hiding up a tree in a jungle.

“Shit,” Ziller said, looking aghast. The view cut to a large purple animal coming down a jungle path. “Screen off,” Ziller said. The holos disappeared. Ziller looked at the three others, brows furled. “Well, I certainly can’t go out in public now, can I?” he said sarcastically to Tersono.

“Ziller, of course you can!” Tersono yelped. “Nobody cares you got thrown off some stupid animal!”

Ziller looked at the avatar and the Homomdan and briefly crossed his eyes.

“Tersono would like me to try and argue you into attending the concert,” Kabe told Ziller. “I doubt that anything I might say would change your mind.”

Ziller nodded. “If he goes, I stay here,” he said. He looked at the timepiece standing on top of the antique mosaikey on a platform near the windows. “Still over an hour.” He stretched out more fully and clasped his hands behind his head. He grimaced and brought his arms down again, massaging one shoulder. “Actually I doubt I could conduct anyway. Pulled a muscle, I think.” He lay back again. “So, I imagine our Major Quilan is dressing now, yes?”

“He’s dressed,” the avatar said. “In fact, he’s gone.”

“Gone?” Ziller asked.

“Left for the Bowl,” the avatar said. “He’s in a car right now. Already ordered his interval drinks.”

Ziller looked briefly troubled, then brightened and said, “Ha.”