“It is an honour,” Miss Clymene replied, eyeing a plate of samosa pastries. “We are still trying to secure a flight to Daode but I’m sure something will turn up.”
“Have you asked Quirinus, the pilot of the Platypus?” asked the Maharani innocently. “I believe he sometimes accepts private charters.”
“I don’t think he would be interested in taking us,” said Miss Clymene.
“He was very angry with your man,” observed Endymion. “I’m not sure why.”
Bored with adult conversation, Philyra turned to Surya’s clone. “Who do you like best in the current series?” she asked.
“I believe all the contestants are fine people,” the clone replied diplomatically.
“I like Eve best,” Philyra told the clone. “She’s smart, funny and kicks ass. Did you see the way she dealt with the zombie guards at Blackfoot Dock?”
The clone paused while it downloaded everything that was known about the Gods of Avalon show from the palace network databanks, which was not much.
“Eve is a fine warrior,” it said at last.
“The young Indian girl is his daughter, is she not?” Miss Clymene asked the Maharani. “I couldn’t help noticing the nasty scar on her face. Could she not have treatment to remove it?”
“Ravana is Indian on her mother’s side,” the Maharani confirmed, noting the hidden query in the teacher’s curiosity. She confined her own dining to a small plate of salad. “Medical facilities on the Dandridge Cole are basic. Life can be hard out here on the fringes, which makes society’s obsession with physical perfection rather superfluous. Were you aware of Ravana’s own musical prowess?” she added, swiftly changing the subject. “Opportunities for public performance are however sadly few and far between in our little community.”
“What does she play?” asked Miss Clymene, mildly interested.
The Maharani had forgotten to ask Fenris that question. “I have no idea,” she admitted. “I’m sure you will get a chance to ask her later.”
“I hope so,” mused Miss Clymene. The Maharani inwardly smiled, for she could almost see the teacher’s mind whirring exactly along the lines she had hoped for.
“Do you really watch that show?” Bellona asked the clone, disbelievingly.
“It is entertaining to watch celebrities outside their normal lives,” the clone replied, somewhat conspicuously the only one not partaking in the feast.
“See!” exclaimed Philyra.
“But it’s so cruel,” protested Bellona. “The monsters the audience control are horrible and vicious. Some of the stars get really hurt.”
“They’re not exactly stars, are they?” retorted Endymion. “The last time I watched it, the most famous person they had was known for being an advertising hologram for cat food!”
“I remember her,” said Philyra. “She was voted off after she lost a leg to a dragon.”
“Yuck!” Bellona pulled a face. “That’s horrible!”
“They sewed it back on afterwards,” Philyra reassured her.
“What on Frigg are you four talking about?” exclaimed Miss Clymene.
“Gods of Avalon,” replied Bellona meekly.
“A truly terrible celebrity holovid show,” Endymion explained to the Maharani.
“He likes it,” retorted Philyra, indicating the clone. “He told me so. You don’t say much, do you? I can tell we’ve got a lot in common, though,” she added, looking hopeful. She looked down at his empty plate. “Are you not hungry?”
“You do not eat, do you?” the Maharani said to the clone.
“Maybe a drink then,” Philyra said, filling a glass with orange juice. She leaned across the table and offered the glass to the clone.
“No!” cried Bellona, seeing the Maharani’s look of horror. “Stop!”
She lunged across the table to snatch the glass from Philyra’s hand, then shrieked as she knocked it from her grasp and into the clone’s lap. Surya’s cyberclone looked momentarily stunned, then a small wisp of smoke rose from between its legs. Suddenly, the clone slumped forward and collapsed face-first upon the table.
“Reboot me!” it murmured, then fell silent.
A faint smell of burning drifted upon the air. Philyra looked around at the other diners with an expression both terrified and apologetic. Endymion grinned sheepishly.
“My dear,” the Maharani said icily. “Surya’s cyberclone does not care to drink either.”
Ravana rode the monocycle furiously through the streets of Petit Havre, earning startled stares from the villagers as she went by. The electric motor behind her seat whined in protest as she urged the vehicle forward at close to maximum revolutions. Monocycles were single-seat machines where the rider sat inside the hub of a huge wheel, then hung on for dear life as AI-controlled gyroscopes handled the tedious business of making sure it did not fall over on corners. A monocycle’s top speed was barely thirty kilometres an hour, but when perched upon the low-slung saddle mere centimetres from the ground, where the only view of what lay directly ahead was via a monitor screen, such a speed seemed dangerously fast.
She was angry, for her father was clearly keeping something from her. After she collapsed aboard the Platypus he had taken her to the medical unit, where a young doctor on duty had run a scanner over her skull before walking away to talk to her father in private. Ravana had seen them pointing to something on the scanner display, but although they reassured her there was nothing wrong, all her questions had gone unanswered. The pain in her head had been fleeting but excruciating and even now the memory of it remained. It was not something she wanted to experience again in a hurry.
Upon leaving the medical unit, she had looked for Zotz but he was nowhere to be seen. Nor indeed was her poor cat, but her electric pet had an inbuilt tracking device and it did not take Ravana long to ascertain that in the two hours since it had run from the Platypus it had somehow managed to make its way from one end of the hollow moon to the other.
The ride was doing Ravana good and already her anger was fading. Leaving the streets of Petit Havre behind she sped onwards down the road, the gates of the palace now visible in the distance. Up ahead, the road passed a large brick maintenance shed, outside which stood Professor Wak’s familiar blue hovertruck, the flatbed loaded with tools and ropes. Ravana decided to stop and see whether Zotz was there with his father.
As she parked the monocycle behind the battered hovertruck, Ravana spied the professor himself walking up and down outside the open doors of the shed, looking gloomy. She was pleased to see that Ostara was with him, for although some people made fun of the security officer’s misguided enthusiasm, Ravana liked her a lot and often went to her for advice on personal matters, particularly those she would not have been comfortable taking to her father. Ostara was kind and always ready to chat, for she understood that Ravana was of an age where men and women started looking like they were from totally different planets. Seeing Ravana arrive, Ostara waved in greeting.
“It’s a mess!” Wak was saying. “The kidnappers knew the Dandridge Cole well, but it baffles me as to why they were so destructive. There was no need!”
“Hullo, Ravana!” greeted Ostara, ignoring Wak. “On the way to the palace?”
“I wasn’t invited,” replied Ravana glumly, thinking of the visitors from Ascension. She found herself distracted by the professor, who was pacing in circles and running a hand across his mop of ginger hair in exasperation. “Hello, Professor Wak.”