Suddenly Venera put her hand next to her temple and splayed open her fingers, said something short, and brayed with laughter. The entire table broke into howls of mirth and, as she sat down again, they leaned forward, even more relaxed than they'd been before her tirade.
"I believe," Keir said somberly, "that Venera Fanning just told a joke."
"Well, at least they're having a good time," muttered Leal. She and Keir had been introduced as minor members of Venera's ambassadorial staff, which meant they had to sit in waiting rooms, or stand in the hall, or, as now, eat at what Leal insisted on calling "the kid's table" far to one side of the real action.
"I told you to bring your notebook," he said as he tucked into the dinner. "You could have been writing your book all this time."
"They'd think I was spying," she countered; then she frowned at his plate. "And what exactly are you doing?"
Keir looked down and realized he had, once again, dismembered and dissected his dinner in such a way as to lay out his main course's bone structure for examination. "Sorry," he said. "I've just never seen birds like these. I keep trying to figure out how they fly."
"Birds don't fly," she said with an air of great patience. "Flying is something you do under gravity. Virgan birds swim. Like fish. Or people."
"Ah. I suppose." He grinned at the little skeleton.
Leal eyed him. "You're having the time of your life, aren't you?"
He shrugged. "I really don't know, I haven't had a moment to think about it." It was true; he was starting to feel safe again here in Virga--if not feel at home--and Venera kept him too busy to brood about the past. "I just..." Now he did frown.
"What?"
"I hope I remember all of this later, that's all."
"And why wouldn't you?"
Because scry used to be my memory, and now it's gone. But he didn't say that, firstly because she wouldn't understand; and secondly because increasingly, he was realizing that he could remember things without using the neural implant system.
This whole whirlwind diplomatic mission, for instance: it seemed every instant was indelibly printed in his mind. The curling mists that enwrapped the frozen city of Seasory were as vivid to him now as when they had arrived there. Mostly what he remembered about Seasory was Leal--Leal emerging from her cabin to breathe deep the brisk air of one of her own country's major trading partners; her craning her neck at the city's sights--its tenements made of ice that loomed over cleated iron streets, the men and women like feathered pillars in their coats, gliding to and fro in the mist. Throughout their visit she had seemed under some spell caused by the permanent darkness and cold; once, Keir had seen her dance a few steps to an inaudible tune when she stood in shadow and thought no one could see her.
He remembered the mechanical back-and-forth of Venera's hips as she stalked straight to the palace of Seasory's satrap to bow here, bow there, give gifts, kiss barons on the cheeks and baronesses on the hand, and then, swaying tick tick tick, leave just as quickly. "Next stop, Aeolia," was all she said as Keir and Leal (confusedly looking back at the bright palace where they'd only been for ten minutes) followed.
And he remembered Aeolia. In Aeolia, the skies sang. Rather than single big town wheels, the Aeolians spun thousands of small ones, each boasting a dozen or so buildings. They begrudged their ancient genes that required they spend some time in gravity, so everything of value that they built soared in the weightless spaces between their wheels. Most important of all these creations were the symphonicads: gigantic assemblages that filtered wind through thousands of pipes and horns and across the strings of countless harps and dulcimers. The symphonicads sang, but it was no random clitter-clatter such as a wind chime might make. Their design was so cunning that they improvised melodies and harmonies of entrancing beauty and complexity. The Aeolians staged plays and built brilliantly lit tableaux around them. They hooped wires to catch water, touching a single drop of oil to the stretched surfaces, and built vast intricate cities of quivering rainbow transparency, disguising their town wheels behind bouquets of silvered color.
They feted Venera on a single giant spinning hoop of golden silk. It undulated in the air, turning only as quickly as necessary to keep the tables and chairs in contact with its inner surface. Keir bounced, delighted on this pliant surface whose outer edges rippled in the wind; jugglers and tumblers rolled onto and off the ribbon, the symphonicads chorused like angels, and Venera earnestly declared Slipstream's eternal pledge to defend Aeolia.
The Aeolians laughed. No one attacked them. They were too beautiful.
"No one has ever yet attacked you," replied Venera. "But they will. And soon."
The Aeolians laughed again, but, when they left the next morning, Venera carried with her a sheaf of gilded documents bearing the Aeolian seal. Keir hadn't seen who had given them to her--but then, he'd not had the stamina to stay up half the night talking and drinking as she had.
"Next stop, Emperaza," Venera had said. And in the Judgment's lounge, she added a green dot to the giant chart that half-filled one wall.
"Memory..." Keir said now. Leal raised an eyebrow expectantly. "Where I come from, all our experiences are recorded by devices like my dragonflies. Stored in perfect faithful detail. We only use our biological memories to find those records and then we replay them, instead of remembering in full the natural way."
Leal thought about that. "I don't get it," she said after a minute. "How would you remember this dinner, then? Wouldn't you have to sit through the whole damn interminable hours-long grind of it again? Wouldn't it take longer to remember things that way?"
"Oh! No, you see, scry builds emblems for us." She looked puzzled. "An emblem is a collection of perceptual moments that registered as important to us at the time," he said. "Scry builds a little tableau or mini-scene, usually just a second or two long, out of those elements. But you can focus on any one of them and spin it out into as much detail as you want, right up to slowing down or stopping time so you can thoroughly explore any given second."
Leal leaned across the table and pushed at his forearm. "And you said you were human."
"I'm serious! I had that, and I've lost it."
Instead of concern, he saw a mischievous look bloom across her face. "You know, we have something like that, too--and so do you. It's called imagination.
"--Oh, wait," she said suddenly. "Someone's coming."
A diminutive page appeared at the tableside. He was not more than ten years old but crammed into a starched black uniform. "Lady requests your presence," he said solemnly to Keir.
"Mine? Oh." He glanced at Leal, who shrugged; so he wiped his lips on the napkin and followed the boy back to the head table.
"See?" said Venera, putting out her arms in a span to show Keir off to the others at the table. "This is one of them."
An elderly woman in fine silks frowned skeptically at Keir. "The boy is from Artificial Nature?"
Keir bowed, as Venera had coached him.
"Come on, then," prompted the man next to the frowning woman. "Prove it."
Keir looked at Venera.
"He's not a dancing raven," she snapped. "He doesn't do tricks."
"Well, then..."
"Excuse me," interrupted Keir. "Perhaps if I knew what it was you had been debating?"
"No, that's--" Venera began, but the frowning woman said, "What is Artificial Nature?"
"Ah." Venera glowered, and he imagined she had just spent a few minutes trying to explain that on her own. "Artificial Nature is technology that is employed by and for nonhuman ends, including the ends of plants, animals, and even other technologies."