A dessert that, according to connoisseurs, degraded in taste after some twenty standard hours in realspace.

That’s so stupid.

What kind of idiot strategy were the authorities pursuing?

From her hidden room at the far end of Deltaville, Petra Helsen watched the holocast. Young Blackstone, clearly bait, was looking uncomfortable among the urbane, cosmopolitan dignitaries; but his reaction to what seemed a simple dessert caught her attention.

The wall sucked open, and a clean-shaven Greg Ranulph came through. His own chamber, smaller than hers, was equally hidden.

‘Do you know what that dish is?’ she said, pointing at the holo.

Keeping systems access to a minimum was part of her strategy for remaining undetected. She did not want to simply ask for data on a whim, especially not if there was a chance Greg might know.

‘The pudding? It has to be orgasmousse.’ His gaze seemed ambivalent. ‘It’s supposed to be intensely pleasurable.’

She had turned down his requests for sex. Perhaps he thought this was some kind of teasing game.

‘Just tell me,’ she said.

Without the beard, he did look better, but so what?

‘That’s all I know.’

‘Blackstone thinks otherwise.’

‘Who? Not that young Pilot from the multiversity?’

They had known what Roger Blackstone was, just as he had recognized their nature.

‘That’s the one.’

‘I don’t really— No, that’s it. You can only cook the dish, make it, whatever … on one planet. Don’t ask me which one, but the point is, it doesn’t stay fresh.’

‘So they vacuum-froze … You’re saying they can’t do that.’

‘Not when it’s served the posh way.’

From her seat, Helsen reached up, took hold of his big, square-fingered hand, then drew it down between her thighs, and commenced rubbing.

‘You’re a genius, Greg.’

‘I …’

‘Come here.’ She tugged open his clothes. ‘Lie down.’

‘I …’

Pulling her own garments apart, she straddled him, sliding down onto his hugeness, settling and tightening up.

Yes. I can use you.

Beginning the ride, hard and rhythmic.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘But … why now?’

‘Because’ – her pelvis was thrusting as he began to buck – ‘someone’s broken the blockade.’

‘Pilots …?’

‘Oh, no.’ Grinning, she rode him, squeezing intensely. ‘Zajinets for sure.’

‘Ah!’

‘Yes, exactly.’

Riding harder now.

Galloping toward crescendo.

THIRTY-THREE

EARTH, 2147 AD

Singapore felt like the sauna of the gods. After years in Arizona, Rekka was acclimatized to air-conditioning more than the dry outdoors, and certainly not this sweltering humidity where hot moistness seemed to drip in the air itself. She walked along Orchard Road, where single-storey buildings with curled-up Chinese rooftops nestled amid bioluminescent towers. Everything was bright, while she felt dislocated, alien and out of synch.

It’s only another part of Earth.

One far from Simon, who had not been talkative during their last days and nights together. She had stuck her neck out to get him transferred here or to mainland China during the coming UNSA re-org. He had avoided saying anything about it until the final night.

‘Damn it, Rekka. Couldn’t you have fucking asked?’

Simon never swore. Nearly never.

A question in what sounded like Urdu pulled her back to reality. The woman wore a sari, her head moving in a lateral nod.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Rekka.

‘Oh, I am speaking English. I thought—’ She pointed at Rekka’s skin, then her own, their colouring identical; then she frowned. ‘But you were touched by vritra and dasu.’

‘So were a lot of people, if you mean the Changeling Plague.’

‘I am so sorry.’

The woman walked on, shaking her head. Rekka watched until she disappeared among a crowd of shoppers, many of them women with headscarves, Chinese Muslims rather than Indian.

A great start.

She wanted to sleep, but tomorrow she would have to be in synch with local time. Past the tall glass UNSA tower she walked, as far as Doby Ghaut. At the station she turned back, taking smaller roads parallel to Orchard, finally to reach Stanley Hill, where she entered the park.

For a while, she sat on a low stone wall in the old fort, a preserved relic of British imperialism from a nearly forgotten time. Finally, with no one to see her, she performed repetitions of Salute to the Sun, the heat working out her muscle kinks, then went through her asanas, holding each pose to a mental countdown, shallow breaths sucking in humidity.

Afterwards, feeling weak-limbed, she went back to her hotel, a hollow cylinder of a building with an open court where tropical trees grew. A tiny gekko, perched on the outside wall, scuttled away from her.

Sharp, my friend. I wish I could have shown you this city.

She went in to the icy air-conditioned reception, took a glass-walled lift up to her floor, entered her room, lay down on the soft bed, and dropped into deep, exhausted sleep.

Breakfast was hot spicy noodles and jasmine tea. Afterwards, with time to spare, she bought a light silk scarf in a mall on Orchard Road. Her gestures had been no different than if she had been in Arizona; but then she watched a local woman paying for a new blouse, noted the way goods were passed from seller to buyer using two hands, their bodies facing each other squarely.

Rekka had been rude through carelessness.

In a different shop, she bought some eau de parfum, this time with the correct body language and a small bow; and the cashier’s smile was clearly genuine as well as polite. It made Rekka feel good, and at least halfway competent to interact with an alien species whose anthropological history bore no relation to anything seen on Earth, except for occasional chance parallels. Later, in a coffee house across the road from the UNSA tower, she drank an espresso, fastened the new scarf around her neck, took controlled breaths, and deliberately relaxed her shoulder muscles, raised her chin, and smiled at nothing whatsoever.

I can face this.

She crossed the street, entered the glass-dominated reception lounge, and announced herself to the AI, which told her to take a seat and wait. Instead, she stood looking out at the city until someone approached.

‘Ms Chandri?’ The young woman looked Chinese. ‘I’m Google Li.’

It was an old-fashioned forename, the kind that ought to belong to someone’s grandmother.

‘Call me Rekka.’

As they shook hands, Google asked, ‘Would you like to meet the team straight away?’

‘I’d love to.’

They rode a lift to the seventeenth floor, while Google enumerated the available facilities.

‘We’ve category C and F xenoatmospheric facilities on this level, and category B on the next floor up.’

‘I needed minimal meds on their world,’ said Rekka. ‘And … Sharp got around on Earth just fine.’

‘They’re not contained. Strangers are always safe here.’

‘Um, of course.’

The Haxigoji were standing in a group, waiting for her. At the front was a female, strong-looking but lacking antlers, her tabard and skirt of white and gold; while behind her ranged half a dozen huge males, deep amber eyes unreadable, dressed in dark, mossy colours. Only the female wore a translator unit, fastened at her throat.

‘We honour you, Rekka, good friend.’ It was a feminine voice, with subtleties of modulation matching the received scent. ‘My name is Bittersweet.’

Then Bittersweet clasped her double-thumbed hands together and bowed.

‘I know you to be brave and honourable people.’ Rekka bowed back. ‘I’m glad to be working with you here.’

Off to one side, Google Li and other staff were staring, eyes wide, as if this behaviour was unexpected.

‘As are we, knowing that all humans’ – Bittersweet performed a swiping gesture – ‘are our friends.’