Transcendence

“May I speak?” E.C. Tally’s voice was loud and off-putting.

Nenda turned to Julian Graves. “Couldn’t you stop him doing that when you gave him a new body copy? What’s wrong now, E.C.?”

“It was reported to me by Councilor Graves that you and Atvar H’sial were left behind on Serenity not to cooperate, but to engage in single combat. That is not at all the way that you are now describing matters.”

“Ah, well, that was somethin’ me and At worked out after your lot had left. Better to cooperate at first, see, until we understood the environment on Serenity, an’ after that we’d have plenty of time to fight it out between us—”

— as indeed we would have fought, Louis, once we were home in the spiral arm with substantial booty. For there are limits to cooperation, and the Builder treasures are vast. But pray continue…

If anyone will let me, I will. Shut up, At, so I can talk.

“ — so Atvar H’sial and I had been working together, trying to figure out where the Zardalu were likely to have gone after they left Serenity—” And making sure we didn’t finish up anywhere near them when we left Serenity ourselves. ” — because, you see, there was this little baby Zardalu who had been left behind when all the others went ass-over-tentacle down the chute—”

“Excuse me.” Julian Graves’s great bald, radiation-scarred head nodded forward on its pipestem neck. “This is of extreme importance. Are you saying that there was a Zardalu left behind on Serenity?”

“That’s exactly what I said. You have a problem with that, Councilor?”

“On the contrary. And by the way, it is now ex-councilor. I resigned from the Council over this very issue. The Alliance Council listened — perfunctorily, in my opinion — and rejected our concerns in their totality! They do not believe that we traveled together to Serenity. They do not believe that we encountered Builder sentient artifacts. Worst of all, they deny that we encountered living, breathing Zardalu. They claim we imagined all of it. So if you have with you a specimen, an infant or a dead body, or even the smallest end sucker of a tentacle—”

“Sorry. I hear you, but we don’t have even a sniff. It’s Speaker-Between’s dumb fault again. He accused me and Atvar H’sial of cooperating, instead of feuding; and before we could tell him that he was full of it, he made one of those hissing teakettle noises like he was boiling over, and another one of them vortices swirled up right next to us. It threw us into the Builder transportation system. Just before the vortex got us it grabbed the little Zardalu. He went God-knows-where. We haven’t seen him since. Atvar H’sial and I come out together in the ass end of the Zardalu Communion, on a little rathole of a planet called Peppermill. But my ship was still on Glister, along with all our major credit. It took our last sou to get us to Miranda. And here we are.”

“May I speak?” But this time Tally did not wait for permission. “You are here. I see that. But why are you here? I mean, why did you come to Miranda, where neither you nor Atvar H’sial are at home? Why did you not go to some other and more familiar region of the spiral arm?”

Careful! Councilor Graves, whether he be Julius, Steven, or Julian, can read more truth than you think. Atvar H’sial’s comment to Louis Nenda was more a command than a warning.

Relax, At! This is the time to tell the truth. “Because until we can return to the planetoid Glister and to my ship, the Have-It-All, Atvar H’sial and I are flat broke. The only valuable things that either of us own” — Nenda reached into his pants pocket, pulled out two little squares of recorder plastic, and squeezed them — “are these.”

Under the pressure of his fingers, the squares began to intone simultaneously: “This is the ownership certificate of the Lo’tfian, J’merlia, ID 1013653, with all rights assigned to the Cecropian dominatrix, Atvar H’sial.” “This is the ownership certificate of the Hymenopt, Kallik WSG, ID 265358979, with all rights assigned to the Karelian human, Louis Nenda.” And to repeat: “This is the ownership certificate of the Lo’tfian, J’merlia, ID—”

“That’ll do.” Nenda pressed the edge of the plastic wafers, and they fell silent. “The slaves J’merlia and Kallik are the only assets we got left, but we own ’em free and clear, as you know and as these documents prove.”

Nenda paused for breath. The hard bit was coming right now.

“So we’ve come here to claim ’em and take ’em back to Miranda Port, and rent ’em out so we’ll have enough credit to travel back to Glister and get the Have-It-All.” He glared at Graves. “And it’s no good you gettin’ mad and tellin’ us that J’merlia and Kallik are free agents because we let ’em go free back on Serenity, because none of that’s documented, and these” — he waved the squares — “prove otherwise. So don’t give me any of that. Just tell me, where are they?”

Graves was going to give him a big argument, Nenda just knew it. He faced the councilor, waiting for the outburst.

It never came. Multiple expressions were ru

“I ca

MIRANDA PORT

“If you wait long enough in the Miranda Spaceport, you’ll run into everyone worth meeting in the whole spiral arm.”

There’s a typical bit of Fourth Alliance thinking for you. Pure flummery. The humans of the Alliance are a cocky lot — no surprise in that, all the senior clade species think they’re God’s gift to the universe, with an inflated view of the importance of their own headquarters world and its spaceport.

But I’m telling you, the first time you visit Miranda Port, you think for a while that the Alliance puffery might be right.

I’ve seen a thousand ports in my time, from the miniship jet points of the Berceuse Chute to the free-space Ark Launch Complex. I’ve been as close as any human dare go to the Builder Synapse, where the test ships shimmer and sparkle and disappear, and no one has ever figured out where those poor bugger “volunteers” inside them go, or why the lucky ones come back.

And Miranda Port? Right up there with the best of them, when it comes to pure boggle-factor.

Visualize a circular plain on a planetary surface, two hundred miles across — and I mean a plain, absolutely level, not part of the surface of the globe. The whole downside of Miranda Port is flat to the millimeter, so the center of the circle is a mile and a half closer to the middle of the planet than the level of the outer edge.

Now imagine that you start driving in from that outer edge toward the middle, across a uniform flat blackness like polished glass. It’s hot, and the atmosphere of Miranda is muggy and a bit hazy. At ten miles in you pass the first ring of buildings — warehouses and storage areas, thousand after thousand of them, thirty stories high and extending that far and more under the surface. You keep going, past the second and third and fourth storage areas, and into the first and second passenger arrival zones. You see humans in all shapes and sizes, plus Cecropians and Varnians and Lo’tfians and Hymenopts and giggling empty-headed Ditrons, and you wonder if it’s all going on forever. But as you clear the second passenger ring, you notice two things. First, there’s a thin vertical line dead ahead, just becoming visible on the horizon. And second, it’s midday but it’s getting darker.

You stare at that vertical line for maybe a couple of seconds. You know it must be the bottom of the stalk, ru

But it’s still getting darker, so you look up. And then you catch your first sight of the Shroud, the edge of it starting to intersect the sun’s disk. There’s the Upside of Miranda Port, the mushroom cap of the Stalk. The Shroud is nine thousand miles across. That’s where the real business is done — the only place in the spiral arm where a Bose access node lies so close to a planet.

You stop the car, and your mind starts ru

And if you’re an old traveler like me, there’s the real magic of Miranda Port; the way you can sit flat on the surface of a planet, like any dead-dog stay-at-home Downsider, and know that you’re only a day away from the whole spiral arm. Before you know it you’re itching for another look at the million-mile lightning bolts playing among the friction rings of Culmain, or wondering what worlds the Tristan free-space Manticore is dreaming these days, or what new lies and boasts old Dulcimer, the Chism Polypheme, is telling in the spaceport bar on Bridle Gap. And suddenly you want to watch the Universe turn into kaleidoscope again, out of the edge of the Torvil Anfract in far Communion territory, where space-time knots and snarls and turns around itself like an old man’s memories…