[ 1.1 ]
Roughly one hundred million miles from Earth, on the flagship ASF Constellation, in the lowers decks reserved for the admiral’s guests, Jim Serafin sits in front of the memory of an antique vanity table and prepares to celebrate the end of the war.
“I mean, bad enough,” says Lucy, who is in the middle of her third sidecar and a long and involved story about some recent cylinder scandal, “bad enough she’s sneaking off into the grey zone to party, but she’s bringing Patty with her, who isn’t even baligh, for crying out loud!”
“Was it bad?”
“Oh, it was a débâcle!”
Serafin wipes away some stubble on his neck, but isn’t really happy with the result.
“Need some help there?”
“We never had to do this when I was your age,” Serafin grumbles. “Menfolk never bothered with this stuff.”
“Yeah, I’ve viewed it,” says Lucy. “Everybody looked terrible back then.”
Lucy is at that fortunate age where she doesn’t need a touchup, although she touched up earlier anyway. She’s sitting on his bed, her blonde hair swept up into its usual chignon. She’s added freckles that slowly spin and dance across her cheeks, which she assures him are all the rage these days.
He taps at the edges of his eyes until the crow’s feet fade away.
“It was better,” he says, “nobody caring. Had time to actually get work done.”
“Oh, you work plenty.”
“Not lately, I don’t.”
“Why don’t you have this stuff preset? I thought you used modifiers all the time.”
“I do. Just, not usually on my real face.”
“Ah.” She closes her eyes and nods in appreciation of the distinction. “So where was I?”
“Débâcle.”
“Oh, yes! So not only do they get caught, but it turns out that there were honest to goodness apparatchiks there. And the girls took one back with them across the line! Can you imagine?”
“I honestly can’t. Where were her parents in all this?”
“At home. I mean, they’re good parents. They’re just… one of those girls. Riotous and wreckful.”
“I’m so glad you weren’t like that at her age.”
“Oh, I was. I just didn’t get caught.”
“Mm.”
Inspired, Serafin pulls up the age controls, dialing down to seventeen, when he was all puffy cheeks and smooth skin.
“There, all done.”
“Come on, baba.”
He heads back to his 50s, then keeps going until he’s mostly sag and snarl.
“There, all done for.”
“You will be, you keep eating the way you do.”
“Synths are perfectly healthy—”
“Sure, as long as you eat something else besides!”
Serafin returns himself back to the present, runs his fingers through the patches of grey that are beginning to spread through his hair.
“What about the hair, do you think?”
“Keep it,” says Lucy. “Makes you look distinguished.”
Serafin scowls.
“Or change it.”
“It’s not that. Just don’t care for that word.”
“Distinguished? What’s wrong with distinguished?”
“Being distinguished is about how one is perceived.”
“Life is about how one is perceived.”
“Not my life.”
She gives him the humoring smile. “What word would you prefer?”
He considers it. “Accomplished.”
“Then you look very accomplished.”
“Thank you, dear. What about the arm?”
“The arm?”
She doesn’t quite follow until he holds it up.
“Oh, right! Hmm, I’m not sure.”
She doubles the mirror, swaps out the prosthetic with a copy of his right arm in the second reflection, and compares both carefully.
“The overlay is diplomatic. It shows you’re willing to play the game and fit in. But the original is an opportunity to tell the story.”
“I’m not sure it’s a story most people want to hear.”
“Most people,” agrees Lucy. “But the right people should. Maybe just permit the overlay for civilians?”
Serafin nods. “That’s good. I like that.”
Lucy adjusts the permissions for him. “There you go.”
The double fades away. In the remaining reflection, Serafin sees Lucy finish her drink.
“They’re not going to run out, you know.”
“Oh, spin around. It’s a party.”
He grunts. “It’s not a party if your boss is there.”
She looks up, excited. “Uncle Tommy is here?”
“Not on board, but he’s local. I’m supposed to have a talk with him later.”
“Oh? What about?”
Serafin smiles tightly. “So, what did become of poor young Patty?”
“Don’t try to distract me! Do you think this is it? I wouldn’t rule the possibility out. But you don’t skin the bear before the hunt.”
“I don’t see how they can’t. You’re a damn war hero!”
Serafin would push back, but he doesn’t want to start an argument, so he settles for a redirect: “Language, missy.”
“A regular Adam Kahn!”
He groans. “Don’t start.”
She laughs, and goes back to her story.
“So, her parents are livid, of course, simply beside themselves, they don’t know what to do…. And so now, naturally, everybody in the family has to get security audits. I was able to keep it from turning into too much of a scandal — I told everybody she was only there to try to protect her sister’s honor — but there’s not much I can do about the people upstairs. Hard to fabulize when they have the full record.”
“Admit what you have to, reframe the rest. That’s my girl.”
“Work with what you’ve got.” She looks down at her glass. “Why don’t I go track down Uncle Tommy? Put in a good word for you?”
“Get a refill, you mean?”
“Wow, guess I’m not the only clever one in the family!”
She wraps her arm around his neck, and kisses the top of his head.
“The war’s over, baba. Do try to have some fun tonight.”
He squeezes her arm. “I’ll be out in a second, Lulu.”
“Love you,” she says.
“With all my heart,” he says, and means it.
When Serafin enters the Bell instance, the admiral is standing on top of a balcony overlooking the cavernous foyer, pacing back and forth in his black and whites, most of the way through his speech. There’s no need for him to raise his voice when he could just pitch it to everyone’s ears, but he’s old fashioned, so he sticks to the familiar stentorian bellow.
They say Admiral Harlin Bell is one of the greatest military minds of the century, and Serafin is inclined to agree. Despite his inauspicious beginnings in the terrestrial British forces, Bell adapted to the ASF as quickly as any starborn officer, where he quickly rose through the ranks until, at the age of forty-five, he was promoted to senior command and given the staggering responsibility of reorganizing the Solar Defense Force into the fast and effective fighting force it remains to this day.
Bell won’t talk about any of that tonight, of course. Tonight — Serafin checks the transcript, to be sure, and yes — tonight, Bell speaks only of the troops, their accomplishments, the sacrifices they’ve made. There were concerns before the war that Bell was too much of an academic, that his various reforms and new approaches wouldn’t survive a real war. But now, a decade later, the man and his theories have been proven a thousand times over.
“… and finally,” says Admiral Bell, leaning forward, looking down at the crowd, “I want to say that, although combat operations have ceased, it is important to note that our battles are not over. Across Copernica, our older, more constant foes remain, spreading their poison, and sowing discord amongst us. But I’m not just talking about the russkiye, or the zhongguoren, or any of those tinpot dictators writhing in their little snake-pits, waiting for an opportunity to try to take our freedom away from us.
“No. I’m talking about a different kind of enemy: an enemy who will hurt you if he can, and will hurt the people around you if he can’t. A devil who is the most insidious of all, because he does not stride the battlefield, does not strike with drones, does not invade our colonies. No.
“The devil I speak of is the devil of the aftermath, and he does not discriminate: he comes for weak and strong, for man and woman, old and young, warrior and civilian alike. Even today, with all of the marvels the Lord has provided for us, we still do not understand how he chooses his targets. All we know is that he is here, and that he walks among us.
“So tonight, I give to you my final command: do not let that devil sweep you up! Do not let him add you to the list of the fallen! When you head back into the empty tomorrow, wherever you go, whether you continue to serve, or you return to civilian life, remember this: it is your duty — each and every one of you — to take care of yourself, and to take care of those around you. Watch out for the signs of his presence. Listen to your med-sense. Do not be afraid to ask your brothers for help.
“We have won this war; do not let the devil win the peace.”
The admiral smiles.
“Now, before I go, a quick announcement: it has been brought to my attention that there’s been some manner of unfortunate malfunction with our implants across the satellite… it would appear that they’re no longer monitoring alcohol intake! But please, don’t let this ruin your evening! I’ve been assured that our finest programmers are on the case… and that they’ll be done in about… oh, forty-eight hours!”
Bell knocks back the rest of his drink, to laughter and cheers.
“Now go ahead and have a good night, you brilliant pebbles! God bless you, and God bless the UFA!”
The lights go up and the crowd begins to venture into the rest of the mansion, giving Serafin his first clear view of the instance. The foyer has two sets of staircases, leading up to Bell’s balcony, and are covered in ornate carvings and golden trim designs which Serafin finds unpleasant and unfamiliar.
A door, slightly ajar, hangs open in the hallway underneath the balcony. Serafin looks at it, curiously, before his attention is drawn to the painting beside it — soldiers in an ostentatious room that looks like it could be behind one of these hallway doors, entertaining themselves at the piano, while a girl and a maid look on, and a young boy tends to the fire.
He opens the roll call in his right eye to see if Uncle Tommy — Thomas — the boss — is available, but his rear view appears, displaying an approaching centenarian with excellent posture, possibly compelled by the cinch of her shimmering black and golden dress.
Winsley Bell, the roll call says. Hostess.
“Im Etappenquartier vor Paris,” says Missus Bell, as Serafin turns. “Anton von Werner.”
“Quite well done,” Serafin says. He prefers Iranian post-aniconism, but he tries to be polite. A few other women trail behind, but remain at some distance, deferential to the queen bee.
“I don’t care for it myself, but it’s one of my husband’s favorites.”
A long, uncomfortable silence hangs.
She extends a gloved hand. “I know you young fellows have your scanners and roll calls and whatnot, but I do hope you’ll indulge me. Winsley Bell.”
“Jim Serafin,” says Serafin, adding a deferential nod to the shake. “Although I confess I may not be as young as I look.”
Missus Bell scoffs. “Honestly, Mister Serafin, there’s no need for that. I’m twice as old as my mother when she passed, and I’m certainly not planning on going anywhere.”
“You’ll outlive us all, Winsley!” one of her coterie assures her.
“You have a lovely instance,” Serafin says.
“Thank you kindly. It’s a recreation of our home on Earth.”
“My compliments to your modeler.”
“I thought it would bring Harlin some comfort out here,” she says, with a tone that indicates this is not her favorite topic. “But I do hope he’ll be able to enjoy the real thing, now that this dreadfulness has ended.”
“There’s talk of him becoming the next chairman,” says Serafin.
“Oh, there’s talk of all sorts,” she says. Meaning, talk that is not appropriate here.
This is not going well.
“Are you married, Mister Serafin?” asks one of the followers.
“Oh, yes,” he says. “She’s not here tonight, I’m afraid, but, actually, my daughter—” He taps his wrist. “Lucy, honey?”
“Be right there!” she says cheerfully.
A moment later, Lucy pushes through one of the doors, laughing.
“Father!” Lucy says brightly. “I’m playing — what is it called?”
“Boules,” says someone in Lucy’s physical space.
“Boules!” she says. “I’m terrible at it!”
She tosses the boule away, to excited chatter.
“Lucy,” says Serafin, “I’d like you to meet Missus Bell.”
“Hullo, madam!” Lucy says, brightly. “I’m Lucy Tick! Wonderful to meet you! Can I just say, we’re having a lovely time!”
“Isn’t she a spark!” one of the followers says.
“Isn’t she?” says Missus Bell, warily. “I’m glad to hear it, dear. I must say, your dress is stunning.”
“Thank you!” says Lucy. “It’s a vintage LeBeau pattern, and it’s the color of your eyes!”
“It’s… I’m sorry?”
Lucy beams, spinning to show the dress off. “It connects to the roll call and recolors itself according to the eye color of the observer. I designed it on the flight over.”
“My goodness!” says Missus Bell, laughing warmly. “Oh, that’s wonderful! No wonder you’re feeling your years, Mister Serafin!”
“Overflowing with juvenescent exuberance, her mother would say.”
“But, forgive me,” Missus Bell says. “Mister Serafin, it looks like you could use a drink.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine—”
“Nonsense! What sort of a hostess would I be if my guests weren’t provided for?”
She claps her hands.
The front doors swing open, and rows of robots, gleaming white with a golden inlay, march out into the foyer carrying serving trays. One machine approaches Serafin, who takes a glass of champagne. The robot gives him a polite nod before moving on.
“Goodness,” Serafin says. “Are these—”
“Asimovs!” Lucy cries, delighted.
“A fine eye!” says the admiral’s wife. “Second generation Calibans. My brother found them on some abandoned station near New Morocco, simply couldn’t bear to let the decay take them. There’s none too many of them left these days, but we had several when I was a child, and I was so fond of them.”
It would take Serafin about ten years to earn enough money to afford one. He reckons there’s at least twenty, just in this room.
“They’re lovely,” says Lucy. “Is that ceramic?”
“Oh yes. They were developed before those dreadful blanks become so common.”
“All these fake worlds, they’ve simply ruined us,” grumbles one of the Bell women. “Everything’s so cheap and ugly these days!”
“Are they tethered?” Lucy asks, examining one of the robots closely. “Did you adjust their civility protocols?”
“Come along, dear,” says Missus Bell. “I’ll introduce you to my programmer, he can give you all the details.”
“Ah,” Serafin says. “I’ll catch up. I’m supposed to meet someone.”
“Of course,” says Missus Bell. “Don’t you worry, Mister Serafin, I’ll take the best care of Lucy. Do have a lovely time.”
Lucy gives her a hug. “Oh, we will, we will!” she laughs.
Serafin tries his best — he’s not the sort of person who can’t enjoy a party — but he’s struggling. He spends an hour shaking hands and flapping gums, but none of it winds up going anywhere. When he finds himself stuck in a small crowd listening to someone drone on about renovating their habsat, he checks the roll call again.
van Arden is listed as local, but unavailable.
Sal Resiner, however, is free.
Serafin throws a marker on Sal and follows it downstairs, through the kitchen to a small, smoky area that has been set up in between barrels of wine, which appears to have been set aside for Admiral Bell’s less savory guests. Sure enough, Sal is in the middle of a crowd of solar marines; a rummied and ornery bunch, so he fits right in. Sal notices him and waves, but they’re belting their way through the final verses of an old Colonials classic, so Serafin just waves back and lets them finish.
And we’ll dock! Dock! Dock! At the Izzy!
It’s not what you would call the maiden flight
But I’ve got one last payload I must deliver
And I’ve got to drop it off before first light!
I thought my thrusters all were running empty,
But the dockmaster, she whispered in my ear,
“Adjust your roll and pitch, and I know you’ll strike it rich!”
And that was all that I needed to hear!
Oh we’ve docked! Docked! Docked! At the Izzy!
We’ve coupled with that grand old satellite!
There’s no better feeling out there for a spaceman
When you know the airlock’s sealed nice and tight!
I was so relieved that I took off my helmet,
At last I’d slipped the surly bonds of earth!
Thought I might enjoy the port, but I cried “mission abort!”
When she starting going on about the berth!
As the boys start cheering and congratulating each other on their performance, Sal pushes through them, sweeping Serafin up in his thick, hairy arms and kissing him on either cheek.
“Jim Serafin!” Sal roars. “It’s been a damn minute!”
Serafin is dragged into the chaos, swiftly seated and ordered to take a puff from Sal’s hookah, the same awful ugly thing Sal has been lugging around since he picked it up in Fan Leng that looks like an obscene cross between a woman and an octopus. Serafin indulges to be polite, but is immediately glad for the experience: the hit comes cool, with a touch of pomegranate, and he can feel some of his tension float off with the smoke he exhales, although this release is not aided by the marine’s vigorously clapping his back.
Serafin sips his drink and coasts in the chatter until he can get a sense of what’s going on. There are two conversations occurring at once: a heated debate over where the marines should spend their free time in Gemini space, and a debate about astropolitics that leaves Serafin convinced that nobody involved has bothered to learn anything about the topic.
“The girls are cuter!” yells Barry, the crew’s hull breacher.
“We should never have stopped!” somebody barks at the next table over, which also is in the midst of what appears to be a combination of poker and a knife fight.
“Just overlay, you dummy!” barks Barry’s friend, irritated.
“It’s not the same!”
“We could have taken them,” agrees the marine on Serafin’s left, a moonborn kid who looks like he’s been eating rocks his whole life. “We’re here to fight, aren’t we?”
The marine sitting next to Sal seems starstruck by the old wardog, and continually peppers him with questions about special forces.
“What about Mars? You ever do any work on Mars?”
“Damn right I did!” Sal says cheerfully. “Jim was with me for a few of those, actually!”
“No kidding. The kid glances at Serafin, who seems much less appealing.
“It was rough,” says Serafin, sipping his beer. “It’s funny, I take to moon grav just fine, but the first couple of days on Mars, I’m always sick as a dog. Spent most of the trip wrapped around the whimsy.”
This isn’t the sort of war story the kid was hoping for.
“Don’t be fooled!” Sal roars, banging his fist on the table before jabbing a thick finger at Serafin. “He may look like a schoolteacher, but Jim here is one of the hardest bastards I know — man did his first tour on Molniya!”
“No kidding,” says the kid again, with some respect this time.
“Nothing special,” says Serafin. “Spent most of my time getting shot at. Wasn’t much older than you.”
“But that was the bad old days!” Sal says. “When it was actually you getting shot at!”
“Tell him about the necropolis.”
“Oh, that! That was a hell of a thing!”
As Sal launches into his story, Serafin checks on van Arden again — still not available. When he closes the roll call, he notices another door, left ajar.
This is strange. Doors tend to keep themselves closed, particularly in instances like this.
“Did you hear the russkiye tried to push on New Aden?” says the moonie.
“I’m not surprised,” his friend grumbles. “We shouldn’t be making deals with those Godless scum in the first place.”
Serafin wants to investigate, but before he can, Sal flops down next to him, placing another beer in his hand and wrapping his fingers around it to make sure it’s accepted.
“I see you lost some weight!” says Sal, tapping his own shoulder. “First time, yeah?”
Serafin nods.
“It’s not so bad,” says Sal. “I mean, the prosthetics are a nuisance, but—” He holds up his hands, wiggles his fingers. “Once the replacements take, it’s like nothing ever happened. Hell, only original piece of me left these days is my head and my heart and this hunk of meat.” Sal smacks his right thigh. “But I haven’t lost a step, don’t let anybody tell you different!”
“Glad to hear it,” says Serafin. “I’ve got a meeting with SVMed in a few weeks.”
Sal scowls. “Are you kidding me? Might as well get your arm replaced at a butcher shop! You should go private. I had all my work done at this clinic on Shepard—”
He turns, distracted by the conversation near him.
“No, we did! Razors! Near Phobos!” Barry insists.
“Oh, bunk!” scoffs Sal’s big fan.
“I swear. Here, I’ll show you, let me grab my recall—”
He finds a memory in his timeline, and starts to push it to a nearby display, but Sal leans over the table and slaps his hand away.
The marines stops talking, stop fighting, stop dealing. If another one of them had done that, it would have started a fight. If a civilian had done that, it would have started a beatdown.
But it’s Sal Resiner, so nobody moves. They just wait.
“Kid,” says Sal. “Come on. It’s a party.”
Barry gawks for a moment, astonished. “I — I apologize, sir. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s fine,” says Sal. “It’s just, there’s a time and a place.”
“We believe you,” says the moonie, to Barry.
“Now,” says Sal.
He leans back, furrows his brow. Puts his hands in his pocket.
Grins, and raises up two massive bags of hashish.
“Who’s tired of tobacco?!
The crew roars and bangs the table, eager to get the mood back up. Sal sits down again, smacking Serafin on the knee. He starts again in about the Shepard clinic as he packs the pipe, but a personal notification grabs his attention. He scowls, but apparently needs to take it.
“Alright!” he says, handing the pipe off. “You kids behave yourselves while I take a little break! And watch out for that one.” Sal points at Barry. “He’s been cheating.”
Excited squabbling and vigorous denials fill the air as Sal slips away.
Without Sal, Serafin finds himself drifting. Once again, he finds himself distracted by the door, which Sal slammed shut, in his usual fashion. But now, the door hangs open, ever so slightly, strangely, ajar, and Serafin now finds it impossible to resist. He approaches it and places his hand on the handle, pulling it open slightly.
When Sal went through the door, Serafin had clearly seen what appeared to be a garage, likely used for the kitchen staff. But now, the door opens to a small, dark, narrow hallway — a hallway decidedly out of keeping with the rest of the mansion.
Dread coils up inside him, as it so often does these days, but he chooses instead to embrace curiosity and venture inside.
After the first twenty yards, there’s a left turn, followed by a narrow staircase, which he obligingly climbs. He can’t be sure, but he’s fairly confident that he’s passing outside of the normal dimensions of the instance, because the top of the stairs probably should put him about twenty feet over the garden.
A soft light flows throughout the space, without origin. He runs his fingers against the wall, which ripples slightly, confirming his suspicion he has ventured outside normal bounds.
Soon, he finds another door, which opens to a round black room, where a slim woman with dark hair sits at a control station, surrounded by displays and visualizers.
Eliza Quintana, the roll call reads, but offers no further details.
She’s dressed sharply, but not for the party — she wouldn’t look out of place at StarCom, working with the rest of the code girls. He thinks her outfit is red, but the lighting in the room is so soft and strange he feels like he can’t be sure. Her hair is cut short, shockingly so, most of the way up her neck.
She hasn’t looked up, but he’s confident she knows he’s here.
“Hello,” he says.
“Good evening, Mister Serafin,” she says, smiling politely before returning to her work.
“What is all this?”
“This? This is where the gears of the world turn,” she says. “Come take a look.”
He steps closer. There are maps, models, profiles, and various feeds of the mansion’s different rooms. He sees people dancing; flyboys playing football on the sprawling greens, shirts and skins; a crowd of secretaries crowded around the stage in the ballroom, catcalling the band.
“You’re the hostess.”
“I prefer ‘event programmer.’”
He considers this. “Some of the most important people in the fleet are here tonight. Makes sense it’s not just the admiral’s wife running the show, I suppose.”
“Oh, don’t sell the old lady short. She’s actually been very helpful. Has a clear vision for what she wants, unlike a lot of my clients.”
“She does not lack for clarity,” Serafin agrees, taking a sip of his beer.
“But yes,” the woman says, tapping at her controls. “Throwing a party isn’t as simple as you might think. Scheduling, safety, decorations, equipment — both consensus and physical. Travel to and from the venue, food and drink — had to spend a lot of time on the drinks, let me tell you. It took us almost a week to figure out how to handle those blasted hookahs everyone’s so fond of.”
“Surely Control can handle most of that.”
“Most,” she agrees, although Serafin gets the impression she finds that a bit distasteful — more an objection of aesthetic than fact. “Maybe even better, in some cases. But most high-end clients prefer the human touch. And I don’t have a lot of choice; you can’t run social management systems with over a thousand subjects without a human overseer.”
“Over… a thousand?” It’s a busy party, but that doesn’t sound right.
“You didn’t notice?” She leans past Serafin to touch the model of the house and pulls it up, revealing that it’s layered, even beyond the storeys — stacks upon stacks of the same house, each of which holds crowds of tiny human figures, shifting and moving from room to room in swirling, elegant patterns, all glowing in different colors.
“You’re overlapping your instances.”
“Nine of them, to be precise,” she says, pleased with her work.
“What do the colors mean?”
She pulls up the legend. “Grey is singles, green is for multis — people who are currently appearing in more than one view. Blue is for VIPs, red is for our… shall we say, high-maintenance guests. Whiners and complainers?
“And thieves. Nudists. Drunks. The, shall we say, overly flirtatious.”
“A real rogue’s gallery.”
“Don’t think it’ll be too bad tonight, but they’re worth keeping an eye on. The highlights are for people we want to try to connect; there’s a lot of people are on board who haven’t seen each other in years, so I’m pushing the overlaps to make sure they do.”
“Impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“Must be hard, making everybody happy.”
“Not really, when you’ve got a god’s eye view.”
“I would think the ASF wouldn’t like that.”
She waves his concern away dismissively.. “I went through everything with base security before we even left. The rules are clear: level one predictives only, no intrusives. But anything a talented human being can pick up — pupil dilation, blood flow variations, body language — all that’s fair game.”
“Interesting,” say Serafin. “I use similar systems in my line of work.”
She glances to the right. “Roll call says you’re a… procurement specialist.”
“Basically a fancy way of saying I buy things for a living. Other side of sales.”
For the first time, she lets her attention drift away from her work, examining him carefully.
“Not really the sort of party you’d expect to find someone in sales.”
He shrugs. “Everybody needs something. I figure out what that is, and make sure they get it.”
She considers this, calls her assistant. “Sam, pull up the dissat list for me.”
A list of profiles rolls up the wall, with maps of their locations and publicly available data. She filters a few out, then highlights one, moving it over to her main display.
“Here we go,” she says. “Guest 796. Male, twenty-five, works in munitions. You can see from his charts he’s been out of sync for almost an hour. Throwing off everybody around him, too.”
796 is sitting with some friends, listening to the band play. If someone notices him, he smiles, but observing him at this remove, through the display, it’s obvious he’s not having a good time.
Serafin touches his fingers to his lips, ticking through the possibilities in his head.
“Not war fatigue,” he says. “Relationship with his squad seems healthy. Alcohol intake is light — so he’s not trying to drown his sorrows. That’s interesting.”
“Don’t tell me what he isn’t. Tell me what he is.”
“Honestly? I think he just hates the music.”
Eliza’s nose scrunches at this, but she decides to check. She slides over a timeline of 796’s patterns, then brings up the band’s timeline. They align far too neatly to be coincidence.
“Sharp eye, Mister Serafin!” she says, laughing. “Well spotted. Sam, do me a favor and extricate our poor guest until the band is finished for tonight, would you?”
The console hums assent.
“Notice anything else?”
“As a matter of fact,” says Serafin. “I think I have.”
But he’s not looking at the list anymore.
She turns, looks back at him. Doesn’t mind the attention.
“And what is that?”
He motions toward the command center. “This… isn’t real, is it?”
“Why, Mister Serafin,” she says, with the tone of someone walking on a tightrope in high heels and enjoying the experience, “whatever do you mean?”
He steps closer.
“I’ll confess,” Serafin says. “I wasn’t having the best night. But I’d assume you already knew that. So you saw me coming. More than that — the doors — you set me up. Gave me a game to play. Let me peek behind the curtain, see behind the pantomime.”
“Mm,” she says. “And why is that, do you think?”
“I don’t know. Am I wrong?”
“Half wrong. And, may I just say, a little paranoid.”
“That’s the job.”
“Your sales job.”
Procurement specialist, he reminds himself.
“Got to make sure I’m not getting taken for a ride.”
“Rides can be fun.”
“And expensive.”
“Best kind of ride.”
Serafin can’t help but smile. “Okay, then, Miss Quintana. What am I half-wrong about?”
She raises a finger — hold, please — closes one of her displays, directs some Asimovs to the calculators out on the observation deck. She clearly enjoys making him wait.
“First,” she says, “I’ll tell you what you’re right about.
“Like you said: sure, some people just aren’t in the mood. Multiple rooms, multiple instances, multiple experiences, doesn’t matter: no matter how big the feast, no matter how much variety we offer, some people just won’t partake. And every now and then we get… let’s say, an oddball like you. Someone more interested in how the meal is prepared than the meal itself.”
“But?”
“But: it’s not my job to make everybody happy. In fact, when you’re dealing with a party like this, it’s usually impossible. Too many psych-states, too many conflicts. Guy wants to win a game but his boss wants to win it more. Boy meets a girl but the girl isn’t interested. And some people are only happy when they’re making other people unhappy. Dissats are inevitable, and you can’t fix them all. So we make choices. Prioritize.”
“Triage.”
“Story of the worlds,” she agrees. “I’m one of the best event programmers in the system, but that’s because I’m willing to be tough. Some people are expendable. I do try to cushion the blow so they don’t have a bad night but….” She shrugs.
“Not everybody gets what they wants.”
He steps closer, toward the console; looks at all the rooms he’s walked through, the people he’s spoken with. At her, and her dress, the color of uncertainty. Close enough to touch. Freckles dance across her cheeks — Lucy is right again, like always.
“I think I understand,” he says.
She stands up. They’re moving around each other now, slow and careful.
“It that so? Why do you think you’re here, then?”
“I think maybe I’ve been looking at this the wrong way.”
“Oh?”
“Maybe it’s not about what I want.”
She reaches out, runs her hand down his sleeve, rungs her fingers along his hand. Takes his beer, takes a sip.
“I suppose,” she says softly, “that would depend on what you want.”
He considers this, desires and possibilities. The reflections of the visualizers dance in her eyes.
A kiss, then — in the dim, impossible light, in this room outside of everything, a stolen moment in a world where all things are seen. Imperfect, at first — he will need to duck down a little more, next time, but there is a dizzying jolt that comes with her lips against his, a thrill that dances through his real fingers when he trails them through her hair. After a moment she retreats slightly, with what he can only describe as a predatory smile.
But then, the color of the room changes.
Her smile vanishes.
“Oh, Lord,” she groans.
She pulls away, raising her station up with a wave of her hand so she can work standing. She expands it the monitor: two men wrestling in the library, heads against shoulders, stomping back and forth like bulls across the carpet, sending a globe and a stack of books tumbling to the floor.
“This is early. That’s the senator’s son; I need to take care of this.”
“Want some help?”
She shakes her head. “He’s just overreacting to a dominant male personality in his group. You’d just make him more aggressive.”
“I’m flattered.”
“He also outranks you.”
Serafin checks the list. “Must be nice, being a senator’s son.”
Eliza raises her fingers, pulling up a business card. Then, as she backs away, she taps some adjustments on it, tossing it to him just as she vanishes through the wall.
“Here,” she says. “In case you find you need plans for some night.”
A moment later, she appears in the library viewer, getting ready to stop the fight. But before she steps into the fray, she looks up at the recorder. She grins, raises her hand, and snaps her fingers.
The console disappears. He turns, and a door to the mansion is there, slightly ajar.
He looks down at the card, which is sharp and simple and tasteful. No picture or model, which is standard — which makes sense, because he’s not likely to forget her any time soon. There’s a call symbol on the back, currently greyed out, and a local symbol that will light up when she’s available.
He can’t help but smile as he files it away.
“There you are,” van Arden says. “Where’d you go? You were off the map.”
“Just getting some fresh air.”
“We have a situation,” van Arden says, taking him by the arm.
As they walk, Serafin pops a sober tab and requests a kick from med-sense. van Arden guides him to a small room upstairs, a staging area near the ballroom full of supplies, chairs and tables and kitchenware. As they enter, Sal shoos out one of the Asimovs.
“Take a break,” Sal says to the squawking machine. “You’ve earned it.”
van Arden closes the door, locks it.
It takes Serafin a moment to notice Arthur Nock on the other side of the room, perched with shoulders hunched and arms folded like an astringent little buzzard. van Arden and Sal both look concerned; Nock looks mostly furious.
Nock sits on the board of the Solar Security Committee, and is the current Office of the Executive Liaison for Solar Intelligence Services’ Covert Operations Force. The man is widely disliked, but not by anybody in a position to do much about it; to his credit, he’s effective enough most are willing to suffer through dealing with him.
But none of that matters right now. If Nock is here, they are veering toward catastrophe.
“Jim,” says van Arden. “Have a seat.”
Serafin sits. Resiner hands him a cup of coffee. van Arden opens a display.
“We have a situation,” van Arden says. “There’s been a recording—”
Serafin’s real hand spasms slightly. Already, he’s working through it: threats are too common these days. A bombing or shooting would mean a full house and a shift in venue, as would a hijacking. Sabotage would be bad, but there’s a hundred other people they’d call in first—
“Hostage,” say Serafin, before van Arden can finish.
Nock raises an eyebrow, glances at van Arden. van Arden ignores it.
“Jim,” says Resiner. “Drink.”
“Yes,” says van Arden. “We received a recording—”
Serafin drinks his coffee, whittles it down: someone connected to him. Can’t be Lucy, she’s here now. Olivia’s… unlikely. Jim Junior is currently finishing out his service on board the ASF Argo, and anyone capable of sneaking onto that beast and taking a captive would probably rather use their skills to knock over 16 Psyche.
Can’t be Ashley, that would be good news, proof of life.
Someone in command, maybe? Someone in the government?
He’s missing something.
“Who is it?”
van Arden has the same look he had when they lost Arment.
“It’s you.”
They play the recording.
When it’s over, Serafin can’t find a place to rest his eyes. Looking at the recording reminds him of those months in captivity, of what they did when the recorder was off. Looking at Sal reminds him of Ashley. Looking at van Arden reminds him of how badly he failed his brothers, his mission, his duty. Looking at his physical hand reminds him of the missing one.
He closes his eyes. “What’s the exposure?”
“Total,” says van Arden. “Apparently it’s been floating through covert rednet for weeks. Trickled through to our side at some point in the last twelve hours.”
“System wide,” says Nock. “No chance of containment.”
Serafin sits back. His heart is racing. He can’t put this together.
His life is over.
Med-sense spins up:
You appear to be experiencing a traumatic event. Do you require assistance?
Serafin taps yes, but if the pack’s dumping anything helpful into his bloodstream, he can’t tell. He puts his palms against his eyes and pushes like he can shove the memory out of his head.
“What do you need me to do?” he asks, at last.
“What can you do?” Nock snaps.
“General,” says van Arden.
“Look, I’m sorry,” says Nock. “Really, I am. But this is unprecedented. System wide! The things he said! On record! I’ve got Earth screaming in my ear, Executive is talking about putting Coverts on standby—”
van Arden responds, but Serafin isn’t really listening. It takes a moment to notice Sal’s big hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t you worry, brother,” growls Sal. “We’re going to make them regret this, I promise you. We’re going to make them pay.”
The old wardog says something else, but Serafin doesn’t listen. He stares at his reflection in the display — at the other Serafin, suffering in that room. He feels as though his past self can see him too, through the time and glass, to this moment. That they are both reflected in each other’s eyes, trapped in the light, and their agony will echo on, now and forever.