Completely real, that dream. Completely new, like some suppressed but photographic memory, a brighter coin for its lack of circulation.
And it wasn't from one of her missions for the gods. It was from... before. Her childhood, so long missing.
She feels the wounds of her lovemaking with Darling, the stony warmness of him lying awake (he's old-fashioned, doesn't sleep) next to her.
How strange that from this battered sleep she would awake so fresh. How odd that she would dream this now.
Maybe Darling is the key; the brutality, the cranial shock therapy, the utter intrusiveness of his fucking. Has that got her remembering her lost childhood? A strange benefit at the fringes of this golem's love.
"Darling?"
"Yes?"
"Again."
"Are you sure? Your injuries."
"Again. Harder. Then let me sleep some more."
Chapter 7
RANDOMNESS
The towering artifical accessed the Queen Favor the next afternoon, soon after Mira had left his cabin.
"She has no planet of origin?" he asked again.
"None," it answered primly. "That is not entirely unheard of. Even in the Expansion, there have been periods of discord and warfare. Records are destroyed, the continuity of organized information disrupted."
"You mean she doesn't know what planet she's from?"
"Apparently not."
The stone man put one hand against his brow heavily.
"What's her native language?"
"Diplomatique."
"That's absurd!" Darling objected. "No one speaks native Diplomatique. The whole point of the language is that it doesn't come from anywhere."
The ship made one of its rare attempts at humor.
"Perhaps, then, neither does she."
Failure. The artificial didn't laugh, he merely cut the direct interface connection with intentional rudeness, ignoring all step-down protocols, the circuit suddenly reduced to noise, almost as if there had been equipment failure.
After this encounter, the Queen Favor oversaw the medical treatment of Mira Santiarre Hidalgo with a high degree of attention, running the recorders on the medical drones and nanos at their highest level of resolution. Professional interest required it. Her wounds, abrasions, and collateral damage contained evidence of several exotic pleasure techniques. Most were not suitable for general consumption, but it was always good to keep informed. Styles changed.
It was also interesting to see the effect of the extraordinary sexual behavior on Mira's peculiar calm. The brainwave pattern in her profile was so regular, like that of a yogi or someone trained to defeat lie-detection devices. The smoothness of it, the lack of individuality, had always intrigued the Queen Favor. But now, unexpectedly, the pattern had grown new complexity, as if a hidden dimension of the woman's mind were awakening.
During the procedure, Mira insisted on remaining conscious.
"When is he getting off?" she asked.
The ship pretended not to understand.
"When is Darling disembarking?" Mira repeated. "Going dirt-side? Getting off?"
"I'm afraid that information is private."
"Give me access, damn it!" she shouted.
"I'm afraid not. True, you have access to all areas of the ship. You can order reconfiguration of its interior, or command that I fabricate any object or device up to the limits of my matter reserve. You can demand a course change, or even insist that I bring my weapons to bear on a non-aligned or enemy-aligned vessel or planet. But privacy is privacy."
"Bitch," she muttered.
"Have you asked him?"
"He can't tell me. Ouch!"
"Might I suggest a mild sedative until the procedure is over?"
"Might I suggest a short self-destruct sequence?"
"Certainly not!" replied the ship, for the first time allowing annoyance to creep into its voice.
But it was secretly pleased.
It had by now compared the itineraries of the two travellers. They were both headed to Malvir.
Randomness at work again!
The ship juggled their off-load schedules onto different shuttles, then tight-beamed an acquaintance, the distributed but sentient intelligence that handled Malvir's tourism and currency exchange operations. Perhaps it would appreciate the dramatic possibilities of bringing the two lovers together. After a millisecond's thought, the ship attached a copy of its essay-in-progress (the title of which was now "Random Pleasures/Pleasures of the Random: Why Gods Should Play Dice with the Universe") for any comments the tourism AI might have.
Yes, the universe was delicious.
PART II
BIDDING WAR
A second buyer in the shop raises the rug's price more than golden threads.
- Arab saying
Chapter 8
STRANGE CUSTOMS
A bad hangover is on its way.
Class A. Fully declarable. Penal sanctions apply.
A combination hangover. Not just beer-and-whiskey, not merely vodka-and-ryewine, not simply canerum-and-birdshit. No.
Well beyond the limit for personal use and import, well beyond the Standard Human Species Toxicity. A very bad hangover. But at least it isn't here yet. For the moment, Ferdi Hansum is still well and truly drunk, not as yet in pain. But the battering ram of agony is being built with deliberate surety outside the city walls: the great tree felled, the branches stripped, the iron cap smelted and fitted. The besieging forces know they have all day.
The Peril of the Open Bar, thinks Ferdi. There ought to be an ordinance, a protocol, a fucking law.
The night before was colored with the realization (said realization gone from glorious to murderous with the light of day - a work day) that not only were the drinks free, they were being provided by the Local Taxation Authority. That's right. It was a limited-time offer to get back all duties, tariffs, and fees imposed upon Ferdi her whole life long.
The sole proviso, duly noted and observed: Ferdi Hansum had to roll this refund down her throat in liquid form(s), which, if plaintive memory served even partly, had included (but was not limited to) fifteen (15) liters of seized whiskey (originating from a small island on Terra), twenty-three (23) liters of pre-duty cask strength vodka (Paratean, and not yet watered down to match local taxable proof), and one hundred forty-five (145!) grams of psychotropic grade cannabis sativa (please declare all products of agricultural origin) all split between fifty (50) or so (+/-) partaking sad bastards.