Xmary shrugged. “Yeah. So?”
“Have a seat, please, darling. There are some facts of life that apparently need explaining.”
Sighing, Xmary sat down next to herself, and offered an affectionate pat on the knee. People didn’t have brothers and sisters anymore, but they had their friends, and especially they had themselves. Under other circumstances she might have put an arm over her shoulder— even given herself a little kiss—but here and now she settled for sitting close.
Da cleared his throat, and looked back and forth at his daughter. “Mara, darling, we’ve identified eleven unauthorized duplicates in your network records for this calendar year alone. And the thing about that is, we can only account for ten of them.”
“You scanned my fax records?” She gaped. Why this should surprise or offend her she had no idea. But it did. Was nothing sacred? Was there no privacy at all?
“Where is the other you?” Da pressed.
“I don’t know,” one of her admitted, while the other examined the ceiling.
Da blinked. “You don’t know? She ran off? Did something happen to her?”
More firmly: “I don’t know, Da. I wish I did.”
“Have you called the police?” Mummy asked. Then, “No, of course you haven’t, dear. The police would have called us, first thing. And your sordid misadventures are nothing you’ll share with the law, are they?”
“Right, Mum,” Xmary said. “I kill cops. We all do. It’s all anyone talks about at the pool anymore.”
“Am I supposed to find that funny? Into the fax, both of you. You’re grounded and singled for the month. No copies, no body mods, and your destination lockout will be revived.”
“Mom!” the other Xmary protested. Last year’s lifting of Nescog parental lockouts was the closest she’d ever come to freedom. But not really, since the tariffs would wipe out her allowance if she left the planet or made more than a handful of nonlocal hops. And if Mummy and Da could take away the privilege whenever they felt like it, or track her movements, or possibly (probably?) check her medical trace for fingerprints and foreign substances ...
“I hope you had fun tonight,” she growled to herself. And answered quietly: “Don’t worry. You’re going to love it.”
And then she stepped into the fax, and stepped in again, and the fax did that looking-glass thing where you exited into the same room you’d just left. Except that she was only one Xmary when she stepped out, and after a dizzy moment of integration she understood everything: the pool, the boy, the thing at history class, the fight with Mummy and Da. And she resolved: they could ground her and single her all they liked, but unless they cut off her damn feet they could not keep her away from Feck. Especially on Restoration Day.
“We have much to discuss,” Mummy said, “but perhaps your father ought to call the police first. Love?”
“Yes, my dear.” Da got up off the sofa and traced out a window on a bare patch of wall, right beside Xmary’s head. “Telecom, please. The Denver Metro Police.”
And while the connection was ringing through, the window flashed up headlines, and since Xmary was right there she couldn’t help seeing them. Especially the one that read, KUIPER RAMPAGE: MISSING FRIENDLY PARK ESCAPEES MAY INCLUDE PRINCE BASCAL.
And then it was gone, and Da was talking to some beautiful blond woman in police beige. Xmary staggered to the sofa and plopped down heavily, holding three fresh thoughts in the privacy of her skull. First, that this “rampage” was another volley in Feck’s alleged uprising. Second, that the prince had visited—and disappeared from—Café 1551 on the same night Xmary had. And third, that these events were too bizarre to be unrelated.
And where exactly did that leave Xmary? The Kuiper Belt?
“Gods,” she murmured, then looked up, afraid that Mummy and Da had overheard her and would somehow divine her thoughts. But for once they were paying no attention to her.
Their names and dates in stone engraved,
Their mortal coils in coffins saved,
Their worlds unmade, their streets unpaved,
The last to clear the way, the way,
the last to clear the way.
And through that haze of final tears,
To dam and tame the stream of years,
Had seemed the noblest of careers,
To stretch man’s fleeting day, his day,
to stretch man’s fleeting day.
And now that morning lingers on,
We blink into the sun and yawn,
The joys of night and evening gone,
and tell ourselves we’re gay, we’re gay,
we tell ourselves we’re gay.
— “Cemetery Jingle #3”
BASCAL EDWARD DE TOWAJI LUTUI, age 13
Chapter eleven.
The long carry
There was no clearly defined “morning” aboard the good ship Viridity. The cold had faded with Conrad’s insulation trick, but the heat had continued to build until finally he awoke with a yelp, scrabbling at the itchy, crawling sensation of weightless sweat blobs against his skin. He had no idea what time it was, or how long he’d slept, because the ship’s only chronometer was on Bascal’s control panel in the bridge.
But he had to get up and demirrorize the wrapping again, and while he was up he visited the ’soir. This wasn’t strictly necessary, but if he went back to bed it soon would be. Unfortunately, this was a messy process they really hadn’t worked out yet. You had to peel back the gasket sealing the toilet lid, and then carefully do your business without breaking up the pool of water that clung jiggling at the bottom, by the effluent drain. And then you had to reseal the lid and flush, and inevitably there were droplets of stray liquid—not water—that could only be collected by hand. Thank all the little gods he hadn’t needed to crap yet.
So then Conrad had to wash his hands, another elaborate process. Water here was something akin to toothpaste: you squeezed out only as much as you needed, because any more would just get away from you and make a mess. And yeah, there were several globs that he had to chase down and consolidate. They formed a neat little water ball, and it occurred to him that there’d be water-ball fights before long. Was that bad? Should it be prevented somehow? He stuffed the water balls down the drain and plugged it behind them.
By the time he got back to his bed, he was most of the way awake. In zero gee it turned out there was no tossing and turning. Rolling over involved a lot of work with the blankets and straps, and didn’t accomplish much anyway, since the mattress didn’t press hard enough to be uncomfortable or cut off your blood flow. But he wiggled and sighed for a while, trying to put himself back to sleep.
And then he noticed how rapidly the temperature was falling. Not actually cold yet, but the heat that had woken him was gone, and the sweat trapped between his clothes and skin was turning unpleasantly tepid. He’d have to fix that, keep it from getting too cold, or he’d just be getting up again. And again. And he wasn’t sure how long it’d been since he’d last changed clothes, but once he was up he quietly ordered a new set from the fax, changed into them in the cooling darkness, and disposed of his old ones. Then he went to the environment panel and bumped the reflectivity of the cabin’s wrapper from zero percent to fifty percent, hoping that would be close enough to maintain a comfortable temperature. Then he went back to bed, and sighed and wiggled some more.