“I never thought about it.”

  “Religious people aren’t very smart.”

  “Tell that to Marco.”

  Beautiful Maria thought about that. “Yeah,” she said. “Okay. Point taken.”

  “Show you our room?”

  She turned toward him. “Sure.”

  Maria followed him out of the shrine. As she stepped into the corridor a wave of vertigo swept over her, an eddy of pure panic. She was alone here, in a strange place, Marco had isolated her, and Runaway was no longer an option. She’d never been so thoroughly cut off from her home before.

  Her heart hammered. A whirlwind shrieked through her mind. Somehow she kept her feet moving as she followed Kit down the corridor. She kept her eyes focused deliberately on his back. She saw that he’d had a haircut recently, that his short nape hair came to a central downward point between the two strong tendons at the back of his neck. Her fear abated. Kit stopped, reached out, opened the door.

  Maria’s anger boiled up again. She looked at Kit’s open, smiling face with purest hatred.

  “Here we are,” he said.

  You bastard, she thought.

  CHAPTER 21

  I’d fuck every de Suarez on the ship if it’d get us those coordinates.

  Beautiful Maria’s voice rang suspended in Ubu’s mind, every inflection perfect, each word sharpened by anger, burned with acid. He remembered his fists striking her, knuckles jarring on bone.

  Hatred was no justification for this. Even if Maria wanted it. Even if it was her idea.

  He paced the centrifuge. Maxim rode on his shoulders, claws lightly pricking the flesh. Fucked up again.

  A tremor passed through him. In the name of hatred, he’d just turned pimp.

  *

  The walls were decorated with a complex pattern of pornography and holo pictures of hype-people. Michiko Tanaka, dressed in chain mesh, her eyes heavy with mascara and her lips painted white, grinned as she straddled the bloody corpse of a villain; next to her was a smiling blond girl with freckles on her nose and semen on her face. Phil Mendoza brandished a laser rifle from amid a constellation of aroused nipples, perky buttocks, moist vulvas, and bizarre tattoos. Kit seemed embarrassed about it all, but Beautiful Maria found the sight improbably funny.

  Juan de Suarez was packing all his bathroom stuff into a blue plastic collapsible box. His clothes filled only one small collapsible; his pills, vitamins, tooth cleaner, cologne, cosmetic, and hair pomade filled another box just as large.

  He didn’t claim any of the artwork.

  Kit and Beautiful Maria watched, trying to stay out of his way, Kit on his rack, Maria moving from place to place. “Everybody’s sure surprised,” Juan said. “I think you’re both real lucky.”

  This was the third or fourth time he’d said it. Maria and Kit had given up replying.

  Juan stacked one box on top of another, then bent and picked up both. “Guess I’ll leave you guys alone.” He looked at Maria enviously. “Have fun. Just don’t play Kit at spirals.”

  He left, slid shut the door behind him. Maria looked at Kit.

  “Spirals?” she said.

  “When I got keyed into the shooters’ lounge I found out there’s always a lot of gambling going on. We bet against our shares of the next run. Most of the other shooters are big plungers.” Kit gave a shrug. “They really don’t know how to play. Anyone with half a brain can beat them.”

  “I’ve always been good at games of chance,” Maria said.

  “Too bad they won’t let you into the lounge.”

  There was a long, cold moment of silence. “Yes,” Maria said. “Too bad.”

  “It’s not my fault.” Quickly. “I didn’t make any of these decisions.”

  “I know.”

  “When we get on board Familia, things’ll be normal.” Kit gave an uneasy laugh. “And we’ll probably have lots of money. It looks like the shares I’ve been winning are going to be worth a lot.”

  The thought rang through Maria, clear as a bell, that maybe she ought to be nice to him for a change. She took her bag of clothes and slid it under Kit’s rack, then sat next to him. He took her hand and she couldn’t stop herself from stiffening.

  “Sorry,” she said. She took a breath, tried to relax. “The last guy to touch me did it with his fists.”

  She could feel Kit’s sudden flare of anger, the spring-steel tension running through his limbs at the thought of violence to her. Suddenly it was all too much— her anger, his, her sharp sense of aloneness. She shook her head slowly.

  “Would it be too much to ask you to leave me alone for a couple hours? I’m just— I’ve had a bad day.”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  Maria smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “Thanks.”

  She kissed him and he stood, looking at her with troubled eyes. She could read his concern and confusion, an uncertain disappointment.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?”

  Beautiful Maria watched him close the screen. Relief dizzied her.

  She flopped back on Kit’s rack and closed her eyes. Her cheekbone ached where Ubu had hit her; her neck was stiff with whiplash. The pillow smelled faintly of Kit. Another reminder that she was alone here, no one but de Suarezes on board.

  Maria reached out with her mind, tried to touch the electron world. She could feel it faintly, a gentle web of mutable energy that surrounded her and the ship. The sensation was warm, familiar. The only familiar thing in this place.

  She rose, reached for her bag, stepped to where the desk folded into the wall. She pulled it and the terminal out of the wall, tracked a chair to it. She took a chak of Red Nine from the bag, fired it twice, and turned on Kit’s computer terminal.

  Passwords, she thought. I’ll show them passwords.

  The electron world rose and took her in its arms.

  *

  Sweat gleamed on Beautiful Maria’s body after an hour’s furious work on the de Suarez system. Red Nine made her hyperconscious of her body, of every ache and itch and discomfort. She swallowed some Blue Seven, folded the desk back into the wall, and headed for the shower.

  She’d glitched her way through file after file, found and examined the preliminary agreement with Beloved. Abrazo’s main computer was an old Kanto, and it took some time to get used to it, but once she had she’d leaped like a dancing spark through the comm system and arranged for any further communication with Ubu or Beloved to be dumped into an accounting program full of old data that, she assumed, had only been kept for tax purposes, and which no one had looked at in years.

  That was all she could do now, just prepare for the moment when she got the right data. Red Nine screamed at her to do more— murder, pillage, assassinate, run through the de Suarez system in a fiery particle storm of destruction. The electron world tugged at her, trying to rise in her mind and pull her out of her wired skin.

  She took a shower instead. The shower cubicle featured a mural of three naked holograph girls with sinewy moned bodies and painted prepubescent faces. Maria cackled in surprise as they solemnly fondled one another when Maria moved from one point of view to another. She turned the taps and water bounded from her flesh, each impact a bullet strike. She stood in the shower for a long time, then turned off the water and switched on the blowers, letting them blast her dry until her long hair licked around her body like flame.

  The Blue Seven was beginning to dull Red Nine’s keen edge. Maria left the shower and tried to comb her hair out, but impatience made her toss the comb back in her bag. She ate another Blue Seven, pulled down the terminal again, and called up the game file. She played two fast games of NovaWar, stars exploding on the holo display like patterned retinal flashes, and then the Blue Seven began to drag at her reflexes.

  A sharp pain stabbed her kidneys and she used the toilet. Hype aliens, armor and yellow eyes, threatened her from the toilet door. The electron world caressed her like a slow-motion dream, no longer urgent or demanding. It occurred to her that she was exhausted, that she’d been running for days on little but nerves, pain, and anger. She put away the terminal and dropped into bed, then turned the lights off so she wouldn’t have to look at any more naked women. Patterned radiation danced in her mind. She closed her eyes and slipped away.

  When Kit quietly slid into the rack, she at first had difficulty distinguishing him from the gentle touch of the other world. She laughed when she discovered his reality. The brush of his lips and hands raised a storm of bright photons in their wake.

  Passion, anger, and hatred had all drained away on a warm river of Blue Seven. What remained was texture: the touch of skin, rustle of sheets, hiss of breath, all touched by the spectral rainbow shimmer of electricity. All components of Maria’s perception, an embracing totality of sensation ... it might be possible to build an entire universe from this, she thought, construct a benign creation from which rivalry and mercilessness and anger, all Marco’s weapons, had been excluded, the new universe built out of mental perceptions in the same way the cascade of the Big Bang might have started with a single virtual particle.

  But virtual particles never last— at some point the universe blinks and the particles disappear, and so Maria’s universe was compelled to vanish once reality took notice. The whole creation disappeared, folded into itself until it went away, into the bleakness of an unsettled stomach, stabbing pain behind the eyes, a bright, razor-edged, and merciless morning...

  *

  Maria pushed her breakfast tray away. “I wish you’d think about it again,” Kit said.

  “I have.” Breakfast chiles burned in her stomach. Pain throbbed in her neck with every skip of her heart. She rubbed her stiff neck. “I’m not welcome anywhere in the ship. So why leave the room?”

  “There are only a few places you can’t go,” Kit said.

  “I can go to the galley,” she said. “Great. I’m allowed to cook for everybody if I want to, I’m just not allowed to do my job.”

  “Everyone would like to meet you.”

  “I meet them on my own turf, or everyone can go to hell.”

  Kit turned away, took a few resentful steps. Maria propped herself in the rack and reached for her comb. Her hair had knotted impossibly overnight. She worked at it for a few furious moments.

  Kit reached for the tray. “I’ll take this back to the galley.”

  He stepped to the door. She remembered, at the last minute, to look up and say thanks before he slid the door shut behind him.

  *

  “I am pleased to see you, Volitional Twelve.”

  “I am honored to be aboard Runaway once more, reverend bossrider.”

  “I hope you will convey my compliments to Beloved.”

  “It will be my pleasure to do so, Bossrider Ubu Roy.”

  Ubu helped Twelve out of his vac suit, then led him to auxiliary control. The room was shut down now, cage empty, the boards dead. A sad place. Ubu remembered Pasco here, drifting and weeping while the drugs increased their slow, certain grip on his throat. Pasco’s holograph ghost had been contained, but now Ubu had begun to feel spectral himself, a lonely remnant haunting the empty ship, abandoned or forgotten by all who knew him.

  Ubu touched a castoff bar, spun slowly to face Twelve. “I’m glad that Clan Lustre requested this meeting.”

  “Clan Lustre will not forget that Runaway is our oldest human acquaintance.”

  Maybe, Ubu thought, he’d get separate deliveries, after all.

  “Runaway will always consider Clan Lustre a treasured friend,” he said.

  “Beloved hopes that Clan Lustre and Runaway may be of service to one another. Perhaps we may assist one another irrespective of the agreement between Clan Lustre and Clan de Suarez.”

  “Glory to Beloved,” Ubu said. Glee filled him. Was Beloved preparing to stab Marco in the back?

  “Glory to Beloved,” Twelve answered.

  “Runaway hopes always to be of service to its friends.”

  “Glory to Runaway.” Politely.

  “Glory.”

  Twelve drifted for a moment, his body turned so as to regard Ubu with three of his eyes.

  “Clan Lustre would like to purchase knowledge from Runaway. Knowledge, bossrider, rather than hardware.”

  “I understand.” Ubu’s mind spun. “What knowledge does Clan Lustre desire?”

  “Beloved would like to learn the technical skills to produce certain items contained within human artificial intelligences.”

  I just bet Beloved would, Ubu thought.

  “May I ask the items in which Beloved is interested?” Ubu figured he already knew.

  “Clan Lustre wishes the ability to produce resistance-free wiring and circuits.”

  That’s one, Ubu thought. “Very good,” he said.

  Twelve stiffened. His limbs trembled. “Does this mean you know this secret, bossrider?”

  “It is... obtainable, Volitional Twelve.”

  “We wish also to obtain knowledge to produce the electric switches that transmit a signal at superluminal velocity.”

  That’s two, thought Ubu. Triumph surged through him. Maybe he had something to fight Marco with, after all.

  Macroatomic switches and superconducting glassware circuits. With them Beloved could build her own AIs.

  And Ubu had the knowledge in Runaway’s own databanks. None of this was a secret among humans. For that matter Ubu could design and build his own macroatoms in Runaway’s clean boxes.

  “Clan Lustre asks a great deal,” said Ubu.

  “Beloved hopes the deal would be profitable for all concerned,” Twelve said. “For each ability, Beloved would offer twelve cargoes filled with whatever Bossrider Ubu desires, provided that it is within Beloved’s power to create it. This arrangement would be independent of any arrangement made with Clan de Suarez.”

  “I regret that Runaway could not part with either technology for less than twenty cargoes,” Ubu said.

  The bargaining was pure reflex. Ubu couldn’t tell whether he wanted to work this deal or not.

  Beloved had played it wonderfully, Ubu thought. She had threatened to let Marco control the delivery schedule and limit Runaway’s action, then offered Ubu this way out. He could make a fortune and undercut Marco at the same time.

  One thing was certain. If he sold the knowledge, any further trading with the aliens would be wrecked. Artificial intelligence was humanity’s edge, the thing Beloved wanted most.

  A cold thrill hummed in Ubu’s nerves as he realized he didn’t need to make any decision now, that he could destroy Marco at any time. Wait, he thought. Find out the delivery schedule. Wait till Marco overextends. Wreck him then.

  “Does the reverend bossrider have this information available now?” Twelve asked.

  “The information will not be available until I have visited human society at least once more.” Which would give him a breathing space. He’d see how Maria did aboard Abrazo.

  Or maybe Ubu could wreck Marco in some other way. He’d have to give it time.

  “Does Bossrider Ubu Roy wish to conclude an agreement at this time?”

  Ubu smiled. “With all respect to Beloved and Clan Lustre, it may not be possible to discover this information. I wish to acquire it before I conclude any agreement with Clan Lustre.”

  “As the reverend bossrider wishes.”

  “Please thank Beloved for her considering Runaway in this matter.”

  “I am honored to be the emissary between your greatness and hers.”

  Ubu drifted in the dead control room, his mind on fire. If only Beloved had made this offer before, he knew, he wouldn’t have let Maria sacrifice herself.

  *

  Glory to Beloved.

  Was the bossrider intrigued?

  In this-individual’s best judgment, he was.

  Was the bossrider telling the truth when he said he did not possess this knowledge? Or was this a bargaining ploy?

  Glory to Beloved, this-individual cannot say. Perhaps so.

  Has the bossrider inquired concerning the schedule for delivery of this knowledge?

  Glory to Beloved, he did not.

  There was a moment’s pause. The bossrider has a limited comprehension of consequence.

  This lack of response in the bossrider was, perhaps, a stratagem. Twelve offered the thought cautiously. Why, he wondered, did he feel an impulse to defend Bossrider Ubu’s intelligence?

  Perhaps. Twelve received the impression that Beloved did not rate this theory highly.

  General Volitional Twelve, you will next visit the ship of Clan de Suarez. I wish you to confirm that control of the human delivery schedule is entirely in the hands of Bossrider Marco.

  This-individual is honored to be of service to his Beloved. Correctly.

  You doubt the wisdom of My strategy?

  Chill fear entered Twelve’s mind. Beloved had divined his mind, but to doubt Beloved’s wisdom was appalling blasphemy. His answer was carefully phrased.

  Clan de Suarez has shown itself ruthless and opportunistic. This-individual wonders at the consequences of giving them sole control of our commerce.

  Beloved’s reply was curt. If Clan Lustre receives the primary human technologies, I will have no need of Clan de Suarez.

  Glory to Beloved, that is so. But there are many things not yet understood concerning the humans.

  I understand all that is necessary for Me to understand. From Beloved’s mind, Twelve felt a stab of hostility. Fear possessed him.

  Glory to Beloved, he babbled. Glory glory glory.

  Beloved’s consciousness withdrew from Twelve, though the umbilicus itself did not withdraw. Twelve could still discern, at a distance, the awesome workings of her many-tiered mind.

  A cold, unwelcome thought lodged in his brain, and he squirmed involuntarily at the discomfort it caused him. He understood Beloved’s decision, and his own instinctive opposition to it; and he knew it had entirely to do with the difference in their natures.

  Since opening communication with the humans, Beloved had been taking one appalling risk after another— she had dared, at the peril of contamination, to open her mind to human language and thought, even though it had driven many of her servants mad; she had dared open trade with an alien species who might use their knowledge of Beloved and her capabilities in an attack upon her; she had dared to parlay alien, incompletely understood technologies among other independent intelligences of her species, risking the spreading of any contamination; and finally, without being able to fully comprehend the consequences or the natures of the parties involved, Beloved now dared to play one human faction against another in a gamble aimed at acquiring their most valuable resource.