The bulkhead formed a static bulge, dense and unmoving.

‘Say what?’

Roger put a fingertip against the solid quickglass.

‘The Zajinets are hiding in there.’

Roger’s tu-ring, with the espionageware inherited from Dad, had capabilities he remained a long way from knowing fully. Breaking the architectural authorization codes should not be that hard, however. And it was only the security features that prevented him from commanding the bulkhead to open up: once he had access, he could command the procedure using his implant, just as any Molsin native might.

But Tannier was taking his time, going through official procedures that presumably involved communications between Barbour and Deltaville authorities, with additional complexity due to this being the daughter city. Perhaps there had been subterfuge or cover-up, but if so, no one was going to the length of denying Tannier’s very specific request.

The bulkhead was beginning to glisten as if sweating, about to change state. Then splits opened, and three glowing lattice-shapes floated out, one – a brilliant scarlet – in the lead.

<<Not welcome, unwelcome.>>

<<Kinds diverge, disjunction.>>

<<For humans, salvation perhaps.>>

<<To your kind, stay clear.>>

The simultaneous non-acoustic words formed in Roger’s mind, seeming to be addressed to him. From Tannier’s stare, shifting from Zajinet to Roger, he understood the message in the same way: a warning to Pilots.

‘Is this because of our quarantine?’ he said.

<<Yes.>>

<<Is no.>>

<<Neither-nor.>>

<<Yes.>>

Tannier rubbed his face, masking his reaction.

‘But you must—’

Roger stopped. At the far end of the room, another section of wall was liquefying. Then he picked up a resonance, and blinked.

‘It’s OK,’ he said, as Tannier turned to look. ‘Not a threat.’

All three Zajinets pulsed with luminescence.

‘You have to know what happened on Fulgor’ – he raised his hand to the nearest Zajinet – ‘don’t you?’

The wall was melting open.

<<Cognition equals resonance with the real.>>

<<Understanding flows throughout.>>

<<Blind humans, blind Pilots.>>

<<One or none to save from night.>>

The woman who stepped out had shed the most glittering, confection-like parts of her haute-couture robe, so the remaining gown was black and gold-trimmed, already reshaping itself into a practical (though stylish) jumpsuit.

‘Rhianna Chiang,’ said Tannier. ‘May I ask what—?’

She dabbed at her eyes, removing smartlenses.

‘Just to save time explaining,’ she said. ‘You’ll inform your superiors, I’m sure, but it’s mutually beneficial not to make things public.’

Rhianna’s eyes were glittering obsidian; but Roger had already sensed the neural induction that she had kept quiescent before, fooling him as well as everyone else.

‘She’s an agent-in-place,’ said Roger. ‘Just as my father was on Fulgor.’

‘Very well play-acted,’ Tannier told him. ‘You fooled me, pal.’

‘He didn’t know until this moment.’ Rhianna’s eyes remained devoid of golden sparks, but her nervous system thrummed with energy. ‘If things are moving into the open, we need to be ready. D-2’s defensive systems are largely unformed. You know that.’

Tannier’s facial tension was a confirmation. Roger turned back to the scarlet Zajinet.

‘Why do you call Pilots blind?’

Sparks moved along the shining lattice-form.

<<Ignorance and inability throughout.>>

<<Assessing risk along null channel.>>

<<Acuity is void from appearance.>>

<<Danger pervades without response.>>

Rhianna came close enough to cup one hand on Roger’s shoulder.

‘Let me do the—’

But Roger felt the words come sure and strong:

‘You think that none of us can see the darkness, is that it?’

The Zajinets, normally shimmering and adjusting, became frozen 3-D images for a moment.

‘What did you say?’ whispered Rhianna.

All three Zajinets slammed into a conjoined configuration – in human terms, it might have been a huddle – and blazing patterns of light swirled around and around the new joint figure, white-gold and emerald green, sheets and webs of brilliance whirling and twisting and rippling through transformation after transformation. After a time, they separated, then drifted closer to Roger. Rhianna and Tannier both backed off, saying nothing but clearly alert, giving Roger his lead for now.

I have to get this right.

He had seen one world die; but the implications here might stretch even further than saving Molsin – assuming Molsin really was in danger – for these were Zajinets, at home in realspace and mu-space both, just as Pilots were: not tied to any one world.

And they know about the darkness.

Anthropomorphizing xeno behaviour was problematic – sometimes deluded – but this was one reaction he felt he could read.

<<Assess.>>

<<Assess.>>

<<Assess.>>

<<Assess.>>

Could he turn the Zajinets, at least these three, into allies?

If they’re enemies of the darkness, why not?

He shook his head at Rhianna, then turned to the Zajinets.

‘You do sense the darkness, don’t you?’

The Zajinets flared, one after the other.

<<Yes.>>

<<Yes.>>

<<Yes.>>

<<Proximity.>>

Fear drew the blood from Roger’s face and skin, into his muscles.

‘It’s close?’

The air rippled around Rhianna – she was deploying a smart-miasma – and tiny nozzles appeared on the nearby wall and ceiling, Tannier’s eyelids flickering as he entered into a deep control-trance, interfacing as best he could with the newborn city’s untried, part-formed weaponry.

Da, da-dum, da-da-da-dum, da-da.

Roger could hear it now.

THIRTY-NINE

EARTH, 778 AD

Chief Folkvar met the traders and looked over the contents of their first two carts – weaponry and worked goods – while ignoring the captives in the third, for the village had no need of thralls. Hallstein had his eye on a fine-toothed comb formed from antler bone, a slit handle enclosing the comb proper. Beyond the carts, Ulfr walked, Brandr at his heel as usual.

A trader looked about to call out, but Folkvar touched his arm.

‘Wait,’ he said.

When Ulfr was past the women’s hall and out of earshot, he added: ‘We lost our volva, who was Ulfr’s lover, nine days ago. The berserkr inside remains close.’

‘My sympathies,’ said the trader. ‘Ulfr, you say?’

He indicated a bronze buckle, shaped like a wolf’s head, with small runes inscribed:

‘So,’ said Folkvar. ‘That is well thought of. He was rewarded for bravery at the Thing, but not by me. Show me that sword, would you?’

The trader offered the sheathed weapon hilt-first. Folkvar drew it, admired the gladius-like heft, and slid it back into place.

‘Is your weapons master among you?’ he added.

‘Yes, Chief Folkvar.’

‘Can an inscription be made here without damaging the blade?’

‘The sword was made with that in mind.’

‘Have him put the same runes there, and we have a deal, master trader.’

The man was still business-like, not yet smiling.

‘Do you pay in silver shards or coins, good Folkvar? Mead and food in part payment is welcome, of course.’