Karl Schroeder - Ashes of Candesce - Book Five of Virga

"If you're right about the scale of the threat we face, then what we thought were the adventures of our lives have merely been training, if you will, for our real tasks. Therefore, we will go forth from here, each in our own directions, to gather what we need in order to keep our whole world from vanishing the way that our comfortable lives, our illusions, our families and cities have already gone. We've lost so much, but can we even imagine what it will be like if we lose Virga itself?

"We'll go our ways, and gather information, proof, power, allies, and weapons. We will rendezvous back here in two months, and the grand colloquy will be called. And then, everyone who has been conspiring behind the backs of the people of Virga will be exposed. Then, the real history of our time will be made."

He folded his napkin neatly on the table and stood up. "I think that's it for dinner, then."

* * *

THIS CLOSE TOSlipstream's sun, nights were warm and evenings always sultry. As the sun's eight-hour maintenance shift approached, the sky dimmed through purple and mauve to pink and peach, and the vast cloudscapes became a mandala of shifting colors--endless tunnels of hue and sheen receding in any direction you looked.

There were various places around the Fanning estate where one could pause to watch this fabulous display unfold; one was a tall recessed window, half-curtained, at the end of the attic corridor containing the guest apartments. Keir sat in the window box, his arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees. Fireworks were starting now that the light was dim enough. The crowds--thousands of black dots on the air--had not lessened, and in fact as night came they were turning into stars: each person or family group had brought its lantern and they were now lighting them.

Keir had sat down here because it was a private spot and the view was pretty (he had no comparable view from his guest apartment). As he watched the festivities, however, he caught himself musing that Slipstream's government had somehow managed to turn the return of freedom to an unjustly conquered vassal state into some sort of national triumph. The thought was intrusive--alien--and somehow disturbing. He shifted uncomfortably, as if his own body was a puppet, and he'd suddenly felt someone else tug on the strings. That thought about the cunning of Slipstream's government ... it was as if somebody else had thought it, using his own brain to do so.

He buried his face in his knees for a moment. It must be some effect of the de-indexing, or just shock from losing his dragonflies and his scry. Ever since he'd entered Virga he'd been having these strange flashes--thoughts that were somehow louder than his own thoughts; memories that felt like his but could not be. For instance, these skies felt familiar, as if he'd been in Virga before.

Maybe he had been.

It was hard to remember things without the help of scry, but he clearly recalled Maerta, at the door to Virga, telling him that he'd de-indexed himself. The term had a familiar ring to it, and normally he would simply query scry and the answer would pop into his head, as naturally as if it were his own thought. Scry was gone; so what did his primitive biological memory tell him about de-indexing?

He was racking his mind for clues when he heard voices. Cautiously, he drew himself farther into the window well. The sounds came from down the short flight of stairs that led off the attic; it was Chaison and Venera Fanning speaking.

He: "With all the excitement today I neglected to sign the papers commissioning some new officers. It's important for them, so I'm just going to walk up to the office and do it."

She: "All right, dear. I need to brief my agents on their new assignments, so I'll be in the lounge if you need me."

He: "Bye!"

She: "Bye."

There was a very long pause, during which Keir's thoughts drifted. The clouds outside reminded him of other sunset skies, mauve and pale green, of streaked clouds and a band of orange spanning half the horizon ... some planet's dusk sometime.

What was there, locked in his mind?

Quiet footsteps padded up the stairs, paused at the top, then moved down the hall. Keir peeked around the curtain and saw that it was Chaison Fanning, in his dress uniform, skulking.

Fanning paused at one of the doors, raised his hand, hesitated, then cursed under his breath and knocked. In the pause that followed he put his hands behind his back and leaned back to glance up and down the hallway. Keir ducked back and so did not see who answered the door, but he heard her gasp, and it was Antaea Argyre's voice.

The door thudded softly shut. Keir frowned out the window, but the frown kept twitching into a smile. His feelings hovered between embarrassment and an alien--but very dry--feeling of amusement. He thought about what would happen if Venera Fanning were to come up here now, and found that alien mind intruding again. This time, it clearly held one idea:

This is not a good place to be right now.

At the far end of the hallway, a small set of steps led up to another door; he'd presumed when he saw it earlier that it led to the roof. Keir unwound himself from the window well and moved to it. As quietly as he could, he tried the latch. It opened.

Warm night air coiled around him; to his surprise, as he stepped onto the roof, he found himself among trees and flower beds. Though Slipstream's admiralty wheel was a pretty utilitarian place, the Fannings had managed to find space for a garden between two sloping roofs. Keir was grateful now for the night air and relative silence, and the feel of a warm breeze on his face.

The garden was lit by window and city light--the sky was a glittering tapestry of pinpricks and glowing squares. The air felt wonderful, so like that of a planet ... were it not for the subtle tug in his inner ear that told him he was slowly turning over and over with the whole admiralty wheel. He strolled through the garden, letting his fingers trail through the fronds of living things. He closed his eyes, and flashes of imagery came to him of things he could not remember ever having remembered: plains and forests; sun on his face; and the water of lakes and streams swirling around his ankles, his waist ...

"Stop." He opened his eyes and saw that he'd strayed close to the edge of the roof. City lights and dove-gray scraps of cloud raced by below him.

He turned to find Leal Maspeth looking up at him. She was sitting on a verdigrisy copper box that jutted up out of the carefully tended flowers. She frowned at him. "It looked like you were about to walk off the roof."

"Maybe I was, Ms. Maspeth," he said ruefully. "I don't have a very good sense of where I am--without my dragonflies, you know..."

"Call me Leal."

"Leal ... I was just enjoying the feel of grass."

"Yes, you're from beyond the world," she said. "I guess you wouldn't have touched grass before."

Surprised, he laughed. "Of course we have grass. On planets..." He paused, troubled, then said, "But we make worlds, little ones, you know, and spin them for gravity. Ten kilometers across, a hundred ... lots of room for trees and forests."

She smiled. "Of course."

There was a quiet pause. He looked around for someplace to sit, but Maspeth had the only available perch. Noticing what he was doing, she bumped over a bit and patted the surface next to her. "There's room."

Keir flushed, hoping she couldn't tell in the darkness. Sure he'd hesitated too long, he sat down and found the only way to stay on the box was to be thigh-to-thigh with her. She didn't seem to notice their hips touching, but leaned back, putting her hands behind her. He turned so he could continue to see her, and found her invitingly close.

She'd seemed old when he'd first met her, but maybe what he'd been seeing had been the weight of responsibility burdening her at the time. She was definitely older than he--maybe by ten years--but at dinner he'd caught himself exchanging glances with her that, at times, had the feel of youthful conspiracy to them.