Because the work never settled, never stopped being a work in progress but remained in a condition of perpetual revolution, a degree of untidiness was inevitable. The histories of characters and places, even their names, sometimes changed as Solanka’s vision of his fictitious universe clarified and sharpened. Certain storyline possibilities turned out to be stronger than he had at first realized, and were greatly amplified. The Zameen/Goddess of Victory strand was the most important of these. In the initial conception, Zameen had simply been a beauty, not a scientist at all. Later, however, when Solanka-prompted, he had to concede, by Mila Milo-understood how important Zameen would be in the story’s climactic phase, he went back and added much material to her early life, turning her into Kronos’s scientific equal as well as his sexual and moral superior. Other avenues turned out to be blind alleys and were discarded. For example, in an early draft of the back-story, Solanka imagined that the “Galilean” figure captured by the Mogol was the cyborg Dollmaker, not the vanished Akasz Kronos. In this version the Dollmaker’s denial of his right to be called a “life-form,” his confession of his own inferiority, became a crime against himself and his own race. Later the Dollmaker escaped from his Baburian jailers, and when news of his “recantation” was spread by the Mogol’s propaganda machine with the aim of undermining his leadership, the cyborg hotly denied the accusations, announcing that he had not been the prisoner in question, that in fact his human avatar, Kronos, was the real traitor to the truth. Even though he discarded this version, Solanka retained a soft spot for it, and often wondered if he’d been wrong. Eventually, benefiting from the Web’s fondness for variora, he added the excised story to the site, as a possible alternate version of the facts.

The names Baburia and Mogol were late additions, too. Mogul of course came from “Mughal,” and Babur had been the first of the Mughal emperors. But the Babur of whom Malik Solanka had been thinking wasn’t an old dead king. He was the designated leader of the aborted “Indo-Lilly” parade-demonstration in New York, to whom, in Solanka’s opinion, Neela Mahendra had paid far too much attention. The parade had started out as a poor affair and ended up as a brawl. At the northwest corner of Washington Square, under the faintly interested scrutiny of assorted cold-drink salesmen, magic tricksters, unicyclists and cutpurses, one hundred or so men and a handful of women of Indian-Lilliputian origin assembled, their numbers augmented by American friends, lovers, spouses, members of the usual left groupuscules, token “solidarity cadres” from other diaspora—Indian communities in Brooklyn and Queens, and the inevitable demonstration tourists. Over a thousand in toto, the organizers claimed; around two hundred and fifty, said the police. The parallel demonstration of the “indigenous” Elbees had been even less well attended, and had shamefacedly dispersed without marching. However, groups of disgruntled and well-lubricated Elbee males had found their way to Washington Square to taunt the Indo-Lilly men and hurl sexual insults at the women. Scuffles broke out; the N.Y.P.D., looking amazed that so tiny an event could have generated such heat, moved in a few beats too late. As the crowd fled the advancing police officers, several quick knifings took place, none of them lethal. Within instants, the square was empty of demonstrators, except for Neela Mahendra, Malik Solanka, and a hairless giant, who stood stripped to the waist, holding a megaphone in one hand and in the other a wooden flagstaff bearing the new saffron-and-green flag of the proposed “Republic of Filbistan”—the FILB stood for “Free Indian Lilliput-Blefuscu” and the rest was added on because it sounded like a word from “home.” This was Babur, the young political leader who had traveled all the way from his distant islands to address the “rally,” and who now looked so forlorn, so shorn of purpose as well as hair, so unexpressed, that Neela Mahendra hastened to his side, leaving Solanka where he stood. When he saw Neela approaching, the young giant let go of the flagstaff, which thumped him on the head as it fell. He staggered but, to his considerable credit, remained upright. Neela was all solicitude, evidently believing that by giving Babur the full benefit of her beauty she could make up for his long, useless trip. And Babur did indeed brighten, and began, after a few moments, to address Neela as if she were the enormous and politically significant public meeting he had hoped for. He spoke of a Rubicon being crossed, of no compromise and no surrender. Now that the hard-won constitution had been abrogated and Indo-Lilly participation in the government of Lilliput-Blefuscu so shamefully terminated, he said, only extreme measures would suffice. “Rights are never given by those who have them,” he declaimed, “only taken by those in need.” Neela’s eyes brightened. She mentioned her television project, and Babur nodded gravely, seeing that something might be salvaged from the rubble of the day. “Come,” he said, taking her arm. (Solanka noted the ease with which she slipped her arm through her countryman’s.) “Come. We must discuss these things for many hours. There is much that needs urgently to be done.” Neela left with Babur without a backward glance.

Solanka was still in Washington Square at closing time that night, sitting wretchedly on a bench. As a patrol car was ordering him to leave, his cell phone rang. “I’m really sorry, honey,” Neela said. “He was so unhappy, and it is my work, we did need to talk. Anyway, I don’t need to explain. You’re a smart man. I’m sure you worked it out. You should meet Babur. He’s so full of passion it’s scary, and after the revolution he may even be president. Oh, can you hold on, honey? It’s the other line.” She had spoken of the revolution as an inevitability. With a deep rumble of alarm, Solanka, on hold, remembered her own declaration of war. I’ll fight alongside them if I have to, shoulder to shoulder. Ira not kidding, I really will. He looked at the bloodstains drying on the darkened square, evidence here in New York City of the force of a gathering fury on the far side of the world: a group fury, born of long injustice, beside which his own unpredictable temper was a thing of pathetic insignificance, the indulgence, perhaps, of a privileged individual with too much selfinterest. And too much time on his hands. He could not give Neela up to this higher, antipodean rage. Come back, he wanted to say. Come to me, my darling, please don’t go. But she was back on the line, and her voice had changed. “It’s Jack,” she said. “He’s dead, his head’s been blown off, and there’s a confession in his hand.” You’ve seen the headless Winged Victory, Solanka dully thought. You’ve heard of the Headless Horseman. Give it up for my headless friend Jack Rhinehart, the Wingless, Horseless Defeat.