Mother Death

by Robert Reed

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If preparedness means that you have weighed your enemy’s options and taken every sound precaution, then we are unequivocally prepared for whatever is to come.

If it is possible to keep a secret in our porous little universe, then we have one or two or possibly three great secrets in our possession.

If confidence produced a light in those who possessed it, then each of us would shine like the galaxy’s exploding heart.

Paranoia is our greatest attribute.

Patience is our watchword.

Our only imaginable concern—one barely worth mentioning—is that Alice, in her malicious wisdom, did give her talents to a Baby… and who can say what any child in any circumstance will at any given moment do…?

—a dispatch, from the Earth

After a lengthy and generally fair trial, judge and jury found the accused guilty on all counts: Avoiding surrender once his Family was officially disbanded; illegal terraforming coupled with the unkind manipulation of sentient organisms; misleading investigators in pursuit of Chamberlain ringleaders; unbecoming arrogance; plus an ancient charge involving the fondling of women with fingers and penises composed of substances unknown.

After an appropriate delay—slightly more than three minutes—the Emergency Tribunal passed the expected sentence.

Without ceremony, the prison gates dissolved, and Avram Chamberlain was thrown to the mercy of the waiting mob.

It was a clear night on a minor world that until this moment had little place in history. Anticipating the verdict, three million citizens had gathered outside the prison. Many were refugees from the Core, and everyone had a thirst for vengeance. When the gates vanished, the mob pressed forward; nearly eight thousand were critically injured in the wild stampede. It was an armed contingent of off-duty police who finally brought the Chamberlain into the wide, open-air plaza. And with his appearance came a ringing silence. No one spoke, or breathed. The prisoner walked with a numbed calm. His old-fashioned body was naked, and except for scraped knees, he was fit. Hands and feet were unbound. Thick red hair lay short and neat above the most famous face in the galaxy, and piercing blue eyes looked past his captors, gazing up at the night sky.

The Core had just risen.

It was a spectacular sight, and horrible. On some worlds, the popular game was for people to give themselves a selective amnesia. Forgetting why the Core was exploding, forgetting how many hundreds of billions had died, they were free to look at the sky without pain, marveling at its surreal beauty—a vast storm of radiations and superheated plasmas rushing from the galaxy’s heart, shredding suns and worlds, and now, at its height, smashing into dense clouds of interstellar dust and gas.

Clouds gave the explosion its intricacies, the raw purple-white light transformed into swirling masses of crimson and turquoise and cerulean. Dust and gas shielded the rest of the Milky Way, absorbing the terrible energies before they could reach the spiral arms. Without those barriers, natural and otherwise, the galaxy would have already died. Every competent simulation said so. Everyone claimed that the storm would worsen a little more, or a lot more. But after another few millennia, it would begin its very slow fade. Then in another ten or twenty million years, the Core would grow cold again, at peace, and if any people were left alive, they would have to make do with a considerably duller sky.

Avram stared at the distant storm, never blinking.

The only problem left for the angry mob was the means. What’s the very best way to kill a Chamberlain?

A sour voice roared, “Tear him apart with your hands! Your hands!”

Another screamed, “Cook the fuck whole!”

Then a third voice, closer and more lucid, suggested simply, “Whatever you do, take your time! Do it slowly!”

Suddenly everyone was speaking, offering advice in the art of torture.

Thousands reached for the Chamberlain, and the police found themselves using electric wands and cold-gas guns to push back the crush of bodies. It was pure self-defense. A mob of this size would butcher dozens, perhaps hundreds of people. Innocent skulls would be kicked apart, and the anonymous brains would be carried off like trophies, then consumed with plasma torches and homemade A-bombs. The police realized they were sure to take the heaviest casualties. Not only would they die, but therabble who murdered them would boast about it later, each claiming, “I’m the one who did it! I killed that damn Chamberlain!”

Wands and guns fired without pause. Flesh was stunned and frozen, and people collapsed in waves. As she fell, one woman managed to throw a chunk of gray stone, hitting the prisoner in his face. Only then, finally, did Avram seem to notice the mob. He blinked and gasped, his expression more surprised than afraid, and stroking his bloody chin, he took a tiny, useless step backward.

The mob let loose an enormous roar.

For every good reason, this wasn’t fair. Avram was just a middle-aged Chamberlain. He had spent his life serving humanity as well as his own great Family. What were his crimes? Until a few months ago, he’d had the strength to move worlds, and more important, the morality to keep him from doing harm with his talents. Avram was never a true god, but instead he was a scrupulously ordinary person who wore a godly frame and conscience. That’s why the thousand Families had formed in the first place. Didn’t these people remember their own history? The Families had built the Great Peace. They had terraformed worlds and pacified suns, and acted as explorers and diplomats, and with all the talents on hand, they had done everything in their power to keep this ungrateful galaxy at peace.

Avram cursed his older, infinitely more powerful sister. “Alice!” he cried out, spitting blood on the police. “This is your fault!” he screamed. “All yours!”

Alice had done the unthinkable. Working in the Core, in complete secrecy, she and others from half of the Families had built a new universe for themselves.

It was an intricate, demanding enterprise. Too demanding, even for the likes of Alice. The umbilical between universes was unstable. For a horrible moment, the tiny incandescent child touched its mother, causing a blaze still spreading today.

Before judge and jury, Avram had explained what should have been obvious: He was never part of Alice’s work.

In his entire long life, he’d never even met the crazy bitch.

Learning that the Core was exploding, he was astonished. Like everyone in the courtroom. And when he realized that another Chamberlain was partly to blame, he was filled with a horror and revulsion that would have killed any lesser man.

“The guilty deserve their punishments,” he kept saying.

Then, in his next breath, “But don’t blame the innocent. I beg you.”

Over the weeks and months, Avram had listed his life’s glories: He had played small but integral roles in a thousand treaties and diplomatic missions. (“None of you have worked like I have for the Great Peace.”) Like most Chamberlains, he had made his living by terraforming worlds and entire systems—always for fair market prices. (“Only a true god doesn’t need money for his miracles.”) Yet Avram always gave away his talents to charitable causes. (“What good Chamberlain doesn’t?”) Fifty thousand years ago—as the first waves of refugees came from the Core—Avram had helped this little world improve itself, tweaking its atmosphere and its sun to let it double its population without too much hardship.

Those same refugees, embittered by their struggles, eventually helped the untainted Families lure Avram into their trap. And they greedily helped strip him of his talents before his trial began.

Intellect was a fundamental talent. The man standing naked in this plaza was a moron compared to his old self. In this mutilated state, he had tried to sway opinions and emotions, and on both counts, he had failed badly. Catastrophically. Thinking of the verdict now, Avram began to laugh with an easy rancor. Didn’t these bastards understand? Wasn’t it obvious? Most of what Avram was, innocent or guilty, they were. The creature standing before them was the same as them—small and extraordinarily weak, slightly more articulate than stone, and in the end, inconsequential.

Avram couldn’t count the angry hands reaching for him. The air seemed to tear with the screams. I am going to die now, he warned himself, not entirely displeased. Yet as he closed his eyes, he heard a voice, close and strong:

“Why not let a child kill him?”

The words were framed in a reasonable tone. A quietly compelling tone. For a slippery instant, Avram found himself thinking: Yes, why not? He could see a logic. If an execution was a good thing, who stood to benefit most for taking part? A child, surely. An innocent, pure soul too young to remember the Great Peace, much less those times when the Chamberlains were universally adored.

Avram shuddered, astonished by the turn of his mind.

Three million bystanders heard the voice, and they welcomed its words and the oddly seductive logic.

The plaza grew quiet.

Standing in plain view, between the police and the mob, was a halfgrown boy. No one had seen him before now, and afterward, no one would recall his appearance—not his face or his build, or anything else tangible. The only detail that lingered was the knife he was holding in his right hand, fashioned from pink stone and a simple bone hilt.

With a soothing, almost liquid voice, the boy said, “Let me kill him.”

No one moved, or spoke.

He took a step, then another, passing through a curtain of cold vapor that should have frozen him in mid-stride. Half a hundred unconscious, stampeded people lay in a heap before him. He stepped over them with a gentle grace, smiling now, looking at the nearest of the police without malice or scorn. Later, witnesses would talk about how harmless he seemed. Like a boy about to play a game, they said. Centuries later, when the public finally learned the boy’s identity, the surviving witnesses would grow quiet and thoughtful. Some would laugh painfully, while others simply cried.

The only person who knew enough to be afraid was the prisoner. With a cold clean terror, Avram shouted, “Go away! Leave me alone!”

The boy winked at the highest ranking officer, saying, “Ma’am? Would you please hold him for me?”

The police couldn’t help him fast enough.

“Don’t!” Avram cried out. “I don’t want to… no…!”

But Avram couldn’t defend himself. He was nothing but a retrofitted ape, and five strong officers managed to restrain him, holding him absolutely still as the boy put that odd knife to the throat, slicing it open, cutting the larynx in mid-scream.

The next cut opened the skull beneath the short red hair.

That’s a damned sharp piece of stone, the officers thought. And that was about all that occurred to them.

With his free hand, the boy removed a shiny, delicately crenelated brain, placing it under his arm like a loaf of bread. Then he set out in every direction at once. He walked past everyone in that explosive mob, whispering to them, telling them to go home, telling them that the Great Peace hadn’t died and they should honor it in their lives, always.

He vanished without trace or fuss.

People assumed that he would destroy the criminal’s soul, as promised. No one ever touched him or even thought of questioning his motives.

“I believed him,” thousands remarked with the same unconcerned voice. Even when they knew who he was and what eventually transpired on the Earth, they said, “I don’t know what you’re saying. To me, he seemed like a very good person…”

2

At irregular intervals, usually twice every century, our single prisoner undergoes a thorough examination:

We drain the blood from her body, and every cell and nanoliter of plasma is analyzed in scrupulous detail. Muscles and bones as well as organ tissues are biopsied with the same rigor. Her neural system—a sketchy remnant of her former mind—is subjected to every benign test, plus several invasive procedures that have caused some degradation over the last millennia. Staff psychiatrists as well as respected colleagues are able to question her at length, assuring that her mental health is adequate. (What purpose is served in imprisoning someone who can’t understand her crime? Where would be the punishment, or the just sense of vengeance?) Then once the interviews have concluded, the Nuyens and other untainted Families are allowed to meet with the prisoner in private, making their own tests, and if they wish, torturing her.

We assume that even after a hundred thousand years and untold effort on our part, Alice continues to hide portions of herself. But if we persist, with luck, the truth will eventually be pried from whatever is left of her.

—Alice’s jailer, confidential

The Core was dead, and the rest of the galaxy was in chaos: Civil and intersystem wars were common. Apocalyptic religions were spreading. Refugees moved in desperate waves, searching for new homes. Half of the Families were officially disbanded, while the other half were spending their days hunting for Chamberlains and Sanchexes and anyone else who wouldn’t surrender their godly powers.

Yet despite the enormous turmoil, the mother world was enjoying peace.

The Earth had never been richer than it was today. And if the truth were told, Alice Chamberlain was responsible for most of its recent success.

The most famous criminal in Creation was being held in solitary confinement, inside a deep-mantle facility built and maintained specifically for her. The Earth’s Council paid the bills, but those expenses were trivial. What terrified people, civilian and Family alike, was the possibility that someone would steal Alice away. After all, she was the black angel who had brought a judgment day. By owning her, any borderline movement or newborn faith would move into sudden prominence. Or a disgruntled god from one of the disbanded Families might be tempted. More than a few of them had declared that Alice’s imprisonment was obscenely cruel, and at its heart, pointless. Their prisoner wasn’t the woman who helped destroy the Core. That creature was dismantled long ago. What was sitting inside the tiny white cell was nothing—a bit of dermis left behind by a murderer’s hand, scrubbed free of blood, and identity, and its essential soul.

Renegade Chamberlains were considered the most dangerous enemies.

Various specialists, human and otherwise, did nothing but assemble and update lists of potential attackers, and the same name reliably occupied the first slot:

Ord.

He was the last Chamberlain. The Baby. Alice had befriended him during the days leading up to her surrender. She had felt sentimental toward him and the innocence of youth, perhaps. But some years later, Alice slipped away from her first prison cell, and in those critical minutes, she met with the boy, in secret.

Alarms had sounded across the system, accomplishing nothing.

Then the black angel returned to her cell, accomplishing the trick just as easily and as suddenly as she had managed her escape.

That’s when Ord vanished. With his brother Thomas, he went to the edge of interstellar space, pausing at a secret location where great portions of Alice were being stored. There they found fabulous machines composed of strange matter. There were talents that only a god could embrace, and perhaps no god could entirely control—all waiting to be cataloged and studied, and eventually destroyed. But together, the two Chamberlains broke into the facility and stole much of what Alice had been. Then with a terrific acceleration, Thomas and the Baby left the solar system, and eventually, they left the Milky Way, too.

An emergency team chased them, and eventually caught them.

But the team was beaten and sent slinking home again—tens of thousands of years later—bringing the terrible news that Ord was still alive and wielding Alice’s most dangerous powers.

He was the black angel reborn.

Perhaps.

No one knew where to look for Ord. But if he was still streaking across the universe—a likely prospect—little time had passed for him. He was still the Baby. Impulsive, and powerful. And most disturbing, a novice in everything important.

What if the boy-god returned to free his sister?

That was a potent, enduring question.

And there was a rash answer that was equally enduring. “We should kill Alice,” millions proposed, often with the same blunt certainty. “A simple execution,” they advised. “Or we let her escape, then vaporize her. Or we arrange any kind of accident. The more preposterous, the better. Whatever it takes to get rid of the old butcher!”

But the simple and the rash never have simple, clean consequences.

It was a Nuyen who dismantled any hope for an easy homicide. Like every untainted Family, hers had retained its seat on the Earth’s Council. “Let me remind you of three cold certainties,” she shouted from that seat. “First of all, young Chamberlains are usually possessed by a strong, often inflexible sense of morality. If that boy returns someday and learns that we signed Alice’s death warrant, then he may feel obligated to punish each of us in some suitable way.”

A collective shudder passed through the Council’s chamber.

“Certainty two,” said the Nuyen. “Alice may wish to be martyred, and we would be helping her in her cause. Speaking for myself, helping that monster is something I don’t intend to do any day soon.”

Most of the Council members gazed off into the distance, asking themselves how ordinary people could decipher the wants of a creature like Alice.

“Certainty three.”

She said it, then said nothing else, drawing their eyes. A black-haired creature of unknown dimensions and astonishing age, she sat high in the chamber, her seat craftily positioned so that she seemed to hold no special office, yet none of her smaller, weaker colleagues could turn in their seats without noticing her. The archaic face was smiling, they realized. She was wearing a big mischievous grin. Surprising, and in its fashion, discomforting.

After awhile, the Nuyen repeated herself. “Certainty three.”

“We heard you the first time!” shouted the Council president—a fearless little ectotherm of no certain gender or political persuasion. “Just tell us!”

The grin became an austere glare. “Alice is valuable only while she lives,” the Nuyen explained. “And should that boy ever come to rescue her, then her value is magnified a thousandfold.”

“Value?” the president whispered.

She heard him from halfway across the chamber, and with a nod, she replied, “As a lure, she’s precious.”

There was an electric silence.

“Consider this,” she said. “If we make ready for Ord’s return, we’ll need resources and capital. My Family is prepared to donate both to such a good cause. The other Families will do the same. And I’m quite certain that once the situation is explained to them, every responsible government for a thousand light years will be just as generous with their gifts.

“After all, it’s in their best interest to have us holding Alice for them. Squirming on the proverbial hook, as some might say.”

A brief pause, then she added, “If the boy does arrive, we’ll be ready.”

“And if he doesn’t?” shouted the president.

“That will be fine, too,” she replied. “The Earth will be left richer and more secure than ever, and I should think, happy beyond measure…!”

Since that historic day, the Nuyen had been replaced on the Council by a succession of sisters and brothers. The Earth’s population had tripled, and the solar system was an urban park singing with nearly twenty times as many citizens as before. New refugees arrived by the minute. A few still came from the Core, but most were fleeing smaller, closer catastrophes. As a rule, they were wealthy or uniquely talented. Otherwise they couldn’t have booked passage on a starship or paid the draconian immigration fees. Only the most privileged could afford citizenship on the Earth. Many would impoverish themselves for the security it offered. The galaxy had turned deadly; a glance at the night sky proved as much. “But the mother world is safe,” parents would promise. “A storm roars outside, but we’re under a good strong roof here. Do you see?”

“I do, Father.”

This family came from a modified M-class sun not fifty light years distance. Half of their fortune had purchased the starship, and the rest had ensured them the honor of becoming new citizens. Mother and Father made an attractive couple: Tailored for a lush tropical world, they were barely a meter tall, equipped with prehensile three-tipped tails, expressive wide faces and the oversized, florid genitals that once were the fashion on their world.

A dead world now.

The boy never knew his parents’ home. A quiet and pleasant nearchild, he was born during the voyage and had spent his entire life inside the same cramped cabin. The prospect of being anywhere else obviously thrilled him. Drifting before a universal window, he was using it as a simple window, studying the Earth with his blue-black eyes. There were no continents anymore, no visible oceans. Every square kilometer was adorned with towering cities, graceful and oftentimes famous, and the crust beneath was a sponge filled with lesser cities and pockets of ocean and elaborate farms where enough food for a quarter of a trillion people was produced every day.

There were two major moons. The nearer was the Earth’s natural satellite, and, like the Earth, it was a crowded, lovely place. But the other was different. A simple framework of ordinary superconductors enveloped a round mass of dark matter and bizarre plasmas—a liquid blackness swirling rapidly, hinting at fantastic energies barely kept under control.

The boy knew exactly what it was, but for appearance’s sake, he asked, “What’s that ugly thing do, Father?”

Someone replied with a snort.

Pretending to be startled, the boy spun around. Floating in the doorway was a uniformed woman—an immigration officer who interviewed the new refugees. She was taller than most, and strong, and her features were untailored. Purely archaic. A boy from a distant place was entitled to double his surprise. Blinking, he pretended to be flustered, and with a voice designed to mislead, he shouted, “That’s a Sanchex face! Are you a Sanchex—?”

The father growled at his son, then offered a clumsy apology.

Like the Chamberlains, the Sanchexes had been disbanded ages ago. Their wealth was cataloged and divided among the Core’s victims, and by decree, every last one of them was ordered to surrender to the nearest authorities, then allow their powers to be stripped away. Then they were supposed to be tried, and if found innocent of important crimes, they were given their freedom and a small stipend to help them build new lives.

Utterly ordinary hves.

That was this Sanchex’s fate. But she didn’t offer any autobiographies. Instead, she approached the youngster, placed her face close to his, then with the warm stink of garlic and fish innards, said, “A lot of us work in customs. And I bet you can guess why.”

“Because you’re mean,” he said.

“And spiteful,” she added. “And suspicious. And easily angered. And just as quick to act on that anger, I’ll warn you…!”

She looked and sounded like a certain female Sanchex, but the name drawing itself on her uniform, in a thousand languages, was never Ravleen.

An old childhood friend.

“To answer your extremely rude question,” she continued. “That ‘ugly’ object belongs to our defense network, and it’s beautiful. It’s a wonder, and I love it, and I don’t know what it does, and neither of us will ever know anyone who will know what it does. Do you understand that, young man?”

“Yes, Miss Sanchex.”

The woman recoiled, then took a long suck of air before warning, “We don’t use that name anvmore. The Sanchexes are extinct.”

“Yes—”

“Madam Voracious.”

“Yes, Madam Voracious.”

She showed everyone a grim Sanchex smile, then thundered, “Now let’s discuss your names…?”

The boy answered first, in a low voice.

“Excuse me?” said Madam Voracious.

He repeated himself, almost smiling, and for a slippery, mischievous instant, it sounded as if he had said, “Ord.”

3

Small tours will serve us this way:

They will feed public curiosity. They will project a sense of openness on the part of the surviving Families. They will educate. They will mollify. They will give our youngest children valuable practice in the art of addressing audiences. And most important, they will continue the humiliation of the vanquished Families… in particular, the Chamberlains…

—Nuyen policy statement

The immigrants took up unassuming, generally unhappy lives.

Their fortune had been exhausted. They could barely afford an apartment less than a tenth the size of their starship’s small cabins, and the parents spent their days trying to ignore the new world. In their district, the crowding and noise were relentless. Millions lived next door, and everyone was tailored in a different way, with different physiologies and languages and customs. On the Earth, even basic goods were depressingly expensive. Work was easy to find, but menial. Over time, finances were sure to grow tighter. Looking at one another, the parents asked: Why did we think we could live here?

For them, the Earth was a prison.

On their worst days, they could barely speak or even leave their bed, forcing their son to patiently watch over them, voicing encouragement and sometimes taking charge of the family’s day-to-day responsibilities.

It was a standard procedure to shadow every refugee with paranoid AIs. For many reasons, including the recommendation of the immigration officer, their family was given extra attention. Yet nothing incriminating was observed, and after six months, all but one of the AIs were given new, more lucrative assignments.

It was the boy who offered their names to the Family lottery, which was perfectly normal. Most of the citizens routinely did it every day, competing for the chance to tour the abandoned estates. The chances of winning were minimal. Even impossible. Only a few dozen slots opened each day, and most were filled through bribes and political favors. But on his twenty-third attempt, the impossible happened:

Three slots were granted to the immigrants.

Alarms sounded in a thousand high offices. Quantumware and various officials were interrogated at length. A brigade of AIs as well as human officers began to follow the winners, studying their composition, and to the best of ability, their thoughts. Then as a final precaution, an adult Nuyen dressed up like an unmodified youngster, and he took the role of the smiling, charming tour guide.

“Hello,” the Nuyen began, examining his audience with many senses. “It is a lovely morning, isn’t it?”

Happy souls agreed. Yes, it was delightful.

The rest of the Earth existed in a perpetual summer—a consequence of so many machines and warm bodies. But on the Families’ estates, climate obeyed the angle of the sun. Summer was a few months of intense growth sandwiched between the cold dead winters. Seasons meant wealth and waste, but their guide mentioned neither. Focusing every sense on the mysterious boy, he asked himself, Are you Ord?

Nothing tasted unusual, much less remarkable.

Their guide introduced himself, saying simply, “I am Xo.”

The boy didn’t blink, and his heart didn’t quicken, and no portion of his visible mind showed surprised or more than usual curiosity.

If anything, it was the Nuyen who was anxious. For as long as Xo could remember, this was his job. He was a scent hound testing the wind. This was a common situation: What if the lottery system had been manipulated, giving him access to the estates? At first glance, it seemed like a ludicrous possibility. Someone with Alice’s powers wouldn’t bother with this kind of subterfuge. But Xo grew up with Ord, and he knew him, and he could almost believe that the boy would find this route to his home alluring—camouflaging himself inside the Families’ own contrived game.

“Xo,” he repeated, using a thousand channels reserved for the Families. Then in the next nanoseconds, he told anyone with the proper ears, “It’s me, yes. Your dear friend. Welcome home, Ord.”

There was no response.

But the boy raised his tail, then both of his hands. “Sir,” he said with a soft respect. “Will we visit your home too, sir?”

Xo shook his head, saying, “We won’t have enough time today. I’m sorry.”

The boy looked saddened.

“Why would you want to see my house?” Xo inquired.

A quick, guileless voice said, “The Nuyens are my favorite Family, sir.”

“Are we?”

“One of your brothers helped my world during our stupid wars.” Emotions played across his face. “I’ve always wanted to step inside your house, sir!”

When Xo last saw Ord, he was standing at the mansion’s door, holding a crude atomic weapon in both hands. Its detonator had been rendered useless, but Ord didn’t care. He was driving it into the stone walkway, threatening to keep pounding and pounding until simple random motions caused the uranium to detonate.

In a sense, nothing in Xo’s life had changed since that moment.

He was still a worried, immature boy cowering behind the door, watching out for his bomb-wielding friend.

The guests were ushered through several of the abandoned estates, each one held in trust by the Nuyens. Lunch was a modest feast served inside the Sanchex pyramid. Xo explained that once everyone had their fill, the tour would culminate with a studious, scornful walk through the Chamberlains’ mansion. “We’re climbing a ladder of guilt,” he remarked, pretending that the cliche was profound. “Sanchexes did the most dangerous assignments in the Core. Which was why they were the second Family to be disbanded wholesale… two moments after the Chamberlains were ordered to surrender their wealth, and their selves…”

The Sanchexes once served humanity as warriors. But when the Great Peace was established, every enemy vanquished, they turned themselves into marvelous, almost fearless engineers. Manipulating mayhem, they used to tame old suns and build new ones. They learned how to rob energy from pulsars and black holes, enriching themselves along the way. More than any other Family, the Sanchexes poured their wealth and reputation into the Core, making it habitable. And after all that good work, a few Sanchexes helped destroy everything, which made all of them guilty. Beyond redemption.

“Even still,” Xo spouted, “they weren’t the guiltiest of the guilty.”

The refugee boy sat between his parents, eating because it was polite to eat, but his attention fixed firmly on the Nuyen.

“The worst ones were the Chamberlains. Naturally.” Even if Ord was somewhere close, he wouldn’t react to that simple taunt. But there was a script to follow, and other Nuyens were judging Xo’s technique. “The Chamberlains weren’t natural fighters,” he added. “No, they were worse than that. They were intellectuals, colder than the emptiest space and without a single heart to their name.”

The boy nodded soberly, apparently believing the propaganda.

Using private channels, Xo offered more elaborate arguments—highly reasoned and much-practiced monologues that were supposed to create doubt in a young Chamberlain. That was the routine. Almost certainly, Ord wasn’t here. But then again, Ord could be anywhere. Everywhere. He could have arrived last night, undetected, and by chance, Xo was delivering the opening salvos of his well-planned assault.

The boy lifted his tail and hands again, and after saying, “Sir,” with the proper respect, he asked, “What can you tell me about this wonderful room, sir?”

More than a kilometer long, with a towering triangular ceiling fashioned from polished basalt, this was once a sacred place for the Sanchexes. But after laying empty for so long, it felt sad, cold despite the warm air, and forgotten.

Xo waited for a half-moment, letting his audience look about.

Then the boy answered his own question. “It was their dining hall, wasn’t it? This was where the Sanchexes held their ceremonial feasts.”

“Yes. That’s what it was.”

The blue-black eyes smiled. Turning to his mother, the boy said, “When they finished eating—meat or cold plasmas or whatever—they would clear away the furniture and hold contests. They would fight each other, mostly.”

The woman swished her tail nervously. “How do you know that, dear?”

“It’s in the histories,” he replied. “I read it somewhere.”

Xo accessed every word that the boy had read since immigrating, then consumed the entire library salvaged from the starship. Buried in that mass of information was a single article that mentioned that historic curiosity.

Faintly disgusted, the mother looked at the Nuyen and asked, “Is that true?”

But again, the boy answered first. “Grown-ups took the shape of giant animals, real or not, and they would stand at opposite ends of the room, then run at each other.” He pointed calmly at an odd little doorway, now sealed. “That’s where the blood was drained away. Fighters would weigh their fluids afterward, and the winner was whomever lost the least of himself, or herself.”

Outwardly calm, Xo kept monitoring the boy.

With an impressed voice, he told everyone, “It’s basically all true.”

The boy gave a little nod, happy with himself.

Those last details weren’t included in the article. But the boy could have overheard someone talking. Unlikely as it sounded, that was a much more reasonable explanation than having Ord himself sitting at the table, baiting him with this slender clue.

An impressed hush had fallen over the group. Every diamond knife and shield—Sanchex utensils authentic to their pyramid embossing— was laid neatly on the remains of their lunches. Keeping to the topic, Xo confessed, “This may have been the most aggressive Family. By temperament and by training, the people who were born in this house were capable of the most astonishing violence.”

The boy was staring through him, his face suddenly flat. Empty.

“If the Core hadn’t exploded,” Xo continued, “there still might have come a day when we would have disarmed and disarmored the Sanchexes. For everyone’s safety, including their own.”

Most of the guests nodded amiably.

It was another who took offense. Swimming the length of the room, unseen, she came as a sudden chill of the air and a vague electric sensation slithering beneath Xo’s false skin. Only he could hear her whispering into his deepest, most private ears.

“Fuck you,” said the familiar voice, followed by a long, dry laugh.

Xo was afraid. But more than that, he was amused, thinking how the Sanchexes weren’t like Chamberlains: They rose reliably to every little taunt.

“Hello, Ravleen,” he said with his own laughing whisper.

“Fuck you,” she repeated. Then as she pulled away, retreating into the depths of the pyramid, she said, “Get your assholes out of here! I want to be alone!”

4

He won’t send the whole of himself…

What we imagine is that we will first see just the affable tip of his tiniest finger… which, nonetheless, should be an awesome sight…

—Nuyen memo, classified

What with the compression of time after so much racing through space, it felt to Ord as if he hadn’t been away from home for more than a long afternoon.

Or a few decades, at most.

Yet something else inside him, persistent and bittersweet, felt the press of the ages. These beautiful mansions had stood empty on these sculpted peaks for a very long time, and the splendid forests and meadows had grown wild, and every extraordinary city on the Earth had swollen until there was only one megatropolis encircling the globe… and not only had Ord been gone for a long time, but in some ways, he had never been to this place before.

Perched on a comfortable seat inside the luxurious Family transport, he studied his surroundings with a thousand heightened senses. For the last seven months, he had done little else. And likewise, the Earth had never stopped studying him. He could feel every stare, every subtle touch, and coursing through the air were the whispered questions:

“Is he the one?”

“Or a decoy?” “Or a lesser criminal, maybe?

“Or nobody… perhaps…?”

And then, as always:

“But if it is Ord, when how where do we act…?”

Even in its heyday, the gray-gold Sanchex pyramid had a foreboding, almost angry appearance. As it fell away behind him, Ord gratefully turned his eyes by the dozens, more and more of him watching the Chamberlain mansion—an enormous cylinder of tailored white coral laid over pink granite bones. And again, Ord had that divided impression of never having left, and seeing nothing that was truly familiar.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” a voice inquired.

Xo’s voice.

Looking up, Ord conjured a smile and flipped his tail in an amiable fashion, answering the question with gestures, then saying, “This is very fun. Sir.”

The Nuyen dropped to his knees, touching a shoulder while a private voice remarked, “I know it’s you, Ord. I know.”

It felt like an ancient trick. A trick tried often and one that had never worked.

With his public voice, the boy said, “I don’t blame the Nuyens for what happened. To my home world, I mean. My parents have explained it—”

“We tried to help you,” Xo interjected.

“Your brother tried his very best. Absolutely.” It had been an enormous public relations disaster, not to mention a tragedy. Anti-Family forces had outmaneuvered a young Nuyen, and nearly a billion civilians died in the crossfire. “I’m just sorry that I can’t visit your home today,” Ord claimed. “I would so much want to thank each of you personally…

Xo nodded. He was wearing a smooth face and the body of a young adult and the bright cheerful eyes of an imbecile. It was all decoration, all a ruse. No one else inside the transport suspected that this wasn’t one of the Nuyens’ young children. He was a full adult, modified and enlarged, and for most of humanity, indecipherable.

This wasn’t a fearful and simple and clumsy Nuyen, and that was another sign—perhaps the most powerful yet—that Ord didn’t belong in this place.

With his private voice, Xo promised, “We absolutely don’t want to harm you. We only want to help you, Ord.”

Then came a seductive argument—intense and focused, full of promises of forgiveness for every crime, known and unknown—and while Xo’s secret voices begged with him to confess and surrender, his public voice was saying, “On the first day of the year, my Family opens its doors to the Earth. It’s a show of friendship. Anyone can join us through his universal window. And if you come, I’ll give you a tour of my house.”

Ord said nothing.

With every voice, Xo said, “Think about it then,” and he rose, then retreated, nothing about him showing the slightest concern.

PRIDE AND SACRIFICE.

The words had been cut into the granite above the doorway, and as people filed inside, listening more to one another than their guide, Ord couldn’t help but leap up, touching the dense pink rock with his fingertips.

That was his habit, his little ritual.

Xo saw the gesture, and froze. Other Nuyens triggered a silent alarm that engulfed the Earth, then jumped across the solar system, alerting the appropriate AIs and humans. Before the little group of sightseers could reach the first stair, a multitude of defensive networks were begging for information and instructions. Ord watched the careful panic, and in the same moment, he concentrated on closer, more immediate hazards.

The mansion was a trap. Or more accurately, it was a series of ingenious, closely nested and independent traps.

Antimatter mines lay beneath the stairs and behind solid walls. Null-field generators waited to ensnare anyone foolish enough to stumble too close. Straight overhead, inside Ord’s old bedroom, an AI assassin waited to inject its victim with quantumware toxins and assorted eschers that would muddle the most sophisticated mind. But perhaps the most dangerous enemy stood behind him, pressing lightly at the small of his back, the dry, smooth, and worried voice saying, “Please don’t. Don’t touch the emblems, son.”

With a boy’s voice, Ord said, “I’m sorry. Sir.”

Each guest stood on his own stair, and they were being lifted, spiraling their way up through the famous structure.

With a stronger voice, Xo asked, “What would you like to see first?”

“The penthouse, please.” The boy smiled at his adoptive parents. “I want to see where Alice lived after she came home again.”

The Nuyen smiled and said, “Naturally.”

Ord could feel Xo’s invisible bulk. Family members were given more and more talents as they grew, and Xo was a respectable age. But he was oddly transformed. Ord smelled weird abilities laid over his ape bones. Dark matter and profound energies clung to him, reaching for kilometers in every direction. There were eschers and quantumware toxins as well as charismatic talents at least as powerful as Alice’s old systems. And woven into everything were talents that Ord couldn’t quite weigh. Yet.

An enormous quantity of human genius had spent the millennia doing nothing but making ready for Ord’s return.

Ord always nourished a healthy sense of fear. But glancing over his shoulder, a genuine terror took hold. What if he had come all this way for nothing? Instead of answers, what if he was captured? Dismembered? Or worse?

How could he help rebuild the Great Peace if he were dead?

Unless that’s what Alice wanted to have happen. My death saves the galaxy, somehow. It was a seductive, fatalistic notion that found a ready home inside him. It spread through him like an explosion, then he just as abruptly realized where that crippling notion had come from… and he threw it aside…

Xo.

For an instant, Ord considered fleeing.

But that was another one of Xo’s tricks. Ord crushed the idea, telling himself that he wouldn’t leave, that he would see this through, whatever happened…

Xo sensed a change. “Yes?”

“In the histories,” said the boy, “there’s a Nuyen with your name. Xo was a friend of the Chamberlains’ baby.”

“Ord,” said Xo. “Which, by coincidence, is very similar to your name.”

“Is it?” He almost laughed. “Alice became Ord’s friend.”

“She manipulated him, you mean. She practically enslaved him.” Xo said the words with every mouth, in a great chorus.

“Are you the same Xo?”

“I am. Yes.”

People were startled. Unnerved. The boy’s father bristled, then with a wounded tone said, “Sir,” twice. “Sir. I don’t understand. I was led to believe that only youngsters served as tour guides—”

Ord explained, “He thinks that I’m dangerous, Father.”

The parents clung to one another, horrified by the idea.

“But I’m not dangerous. Not even a little.” He stared at his childhood friend, saying, “There was another Baby. A Sanchex. What was her name?”

“You know,” the Nuyen replied.

“So where’s Ravleen? Giving tours, like you do?”

Silence.

They had already risen through most of the mansion. The cylindrical walls were covered with an elaborate, ever-changing mural. Originally, these projected images showed historic moments of glory, the Chamberlains always front and center. But old successes had been replaced by stark images: Living worlds were turned to molten iron and steam; panicked faces evaporated in storms of hard radiation; a trillion refugees fought for berths on scarce, overcrowded starships, sometimes with nothing but fingernails and teeth.

“The Chamberlain legacy.” Their guide’s voice was booming. “This is why they were disbanded. This is why they earned our scorn. And this is why my Family—those who would never hurt you—are disarming and neutralizing the outlaw Chamberlains.”

The razored sense of tension was infectious.

Staring at the nightmarish images, the boy’s eyes changed in subtle ways, pulling the face with them.

Suddenly he was intrigued by the carnage. Awestruck.

“Alice’s final days of freedom were spent in here,” Xo declared. Then he paused, openly glaring at the boy.

“Mama?” the boy squeaked.

With hands and tails, then their bodies, his parents surrounded him, pretending they could actually protect him.

The stairs suddenly deposited everyone on the landing, standing before a thick crystal door that shouldn’t have been closed.

Xo whispered something too soft to be understood.

“Where’s the penthouse?” asked the boy. “I want to see the penthouse!”

Xo said, “No.”

He said, “We have to leave now. I’m sorry.”

Then the boy gave the door a little kick, blubbering, “Why? I want to see it! I want to see where Alice was…!”

Ord was standing on the opposite side of the door, watching, carefully cutting the final tethers to his camouflage. He had woven that child from ordinary matter, then convinced the childless couple that he was theirs, and genuine. And that’s how they regarded him now, still trying to shield him, riding the descending stairs with the other dumbfounded guests.

Only the Nuyen lingered.

With a mixture of terror and awe, Xo touched the crystal door softly, using a thousand hands.

“Why did you have to come back here?” he asked. “When you could be anywhere, doing anything, why did you have to pick on little me…?”

5

The Chamberlain mansion has been carefully inspected for residual dark matter machines, subatomic keys and graffiti-encrusted motes of dust. Every appropriate authority has been invited to participate, at our discretion, and new inspections are carried out at irregular intervals, using both the newest and most proven means.

Naturally, the estate grounds are shown the same thorough respect.

For the moment, more elaborate measures, including the total dismantling of every artifact, have been shelved.

We don’t need to make ourselves look any more desperate here…

—Nuyen memo, classified

“What’s your name, brother?”

“Keep still. For a few moments, please.”

But Avram couldn’t just lie there. He tried to sit up with a half-formed body, and with blue eyes staring, asked, “What is this place?”

“You don’t recognize it?”

The newborn face turned left, then right. Then, with a sigh, he faced forward again. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“No reason to be,” Ord replied. “I just hoped you knew more than me.” In better days, the penthouse would have been fitted to make visiting Chamberlains comfortable. But instead of luxurious furniture or elaborate energy fields, Ord had created a starless night sky beneath which stood a string of beds—wooden frames covered with dense alien symbols and filled with a meter of soft gray dust. Inside each bed was a human skeleton, archaic in form, the elegant bones vanishing behind an assortment of bright young organs and new flesh, the toothy white skulls transformed into familiar, wide-eyed faces.

“This talent doesn’t come equipped with a history,” Ord confessed. “I can work it, but I don’t know why things look the way they do.”

The brothers had identical faces, sharp and pale and gently handsome, their strawberry hair unkempt and their sky-blue eyes projecting the same sense of wary amazement.

“You saved my life,” said Avram.

“You’re welcome.”

A deep, grateful breath. “Are you the Baby?”

“Ord.”

Avram closed his eyes. “The Baby.”

Bodies began moving inside each of the adjacent beds. Hands and bare feet flinched, then everyone tried to sit up, lungs blowing the healing dust high into the dry, dark air.

To each of his patients, Ord said, “Relax. Please.”

“This is one of Alice’s talents,” said Avram. “Am I right?”

He gave a little nod.

“It must be awful… being transformed before your time…

Nearly two dozen people were being reborn. There was a Papago and a Lee and two Ussens, and so on. Each belonged to a disbanded Family. Each asked the same questions, then listened to Ord’s gentle voice while watching his face float above them.

“I know about that Papago,” said Avram, pointing to his neighbor. “Someone like her vanished while awaiting trail.”

“Buteo wouldn’t have gotten a fair hearing,” Ord explained. “What else could I do?”

“My jailers were terrified of you. They seemed convinced that you were coming for me next, which was why they hurried to convict.”

“Your trial smelled, too.”

“You were watching over me?”

“When I could.”

Avram took a breath, for courage. “But if judge and jury had been fair…

Silence.

Avram laughed, bitterness bleeding into resignation. “Is this how you live now? Charging around the Milky Way, righting wrongs against the Families… ?”

“I’ve also put an end to a dozen major wars,” said Ord. “Plus hundreds of little fights. And I’ve reterraformed mutilated worlds. And I’ve rescued overloaded starships. And when I can, I’ve tried to convince people to support the Great Peace—”

“Well,” said his brother, “it’s good to keep busy.”

Without warning, Ord was the Baby again.

“It’s a big galaxy,” his older brother warned. “How many places can you be at once?”

Silence.

“Even with Alice’s talents… what? Two or four. Maybe ten. But not everywhere.” Avram threw his naked legs out of the bed, then added, “Alice was spectacular, but finite. The same as you, I’m guessing.”

Ord didn’t reply.

“Is that why she gave you these gifts? So you can run from system to system, putting out proverbial fires—?”

“I don’t know,” Ord conceded. “I’m never been sure what she intends for me.”

Avram blinked, unable to contain his surprise. Then, after a long pause, he made himself ask, “What do you intend for me?”

“If you’re willing, I’d like your help.”

“Of course.” Avram looked between his feet, judging the distance to the dusty ground. “How long has it been since you saved me?”

Ord told him.

And his brother winced, his face tightening as it lifted. A fire shone in the dark of his eyes. “Where are we? Exactly.”

“Earth.”

There was no reaction.

“Inside our old house, as it happens.”

For a very long while, Avram sat motionless. Then his face softened, and with the beginnings of a smile, he said, “So you’ve come home to rescue Alice.”

Ord said, “No.”

His brother stubbornly ignored the answer. “What you were doing before… saving each of us like you did… you were practicing for today, weren’t you…?”

“No,” Ord told him again.

Then he added, “Saving you was easy. Much too easy to make it any kind of practice, I’m afraid.”

Once Ord had stripped the mansion of its traps and lesser terrors, he invited his reborn companions to wander at will, and if possible, grow used to their circumstances. In their own way, each was grateful, but they were obviously worried about the future. Buteo, a tiny walnut-colored woman, reported activity in the nearby forest. “There’s a hundred fancy uniforms with people set inside them,” she said. “And either they’re extraordinarily stupid, or those uniforms want me to see them watching the house.”

Ord saw quite a lot more: The local districts had been evacuated. Elite military units were rushing from the ends of the solar system. The Earth’s artificial moon was being brought close to the Earth. But most alarming were the sophisticated energy barriers—invisible curtains shrouding the estate, designed to withstand nuclear detonations, tetrawatt discharges, and any sudden retreats by the criminals trapped inside.

There was no worse place for war than the overcrowded Earth.

Some believed that Ord needed to be reminded of the obvious. “You should just go get Alice now,” said one of the Ussens. “Or better, why didn’t you slip in and out of her cell when you first got here?”

“Because I wasn’t strong enough,” he explained. “And I’m still too weak, frankly. Most of my talents—”

“Alice’s talents.”

“Are elsewhere. Waiting.” Ord gestured in a random direction. “If I’d brought everything, I would have lost any chance of surprise.”

“Surprise,” the Ussen echoed, choking out a laugh.

“Besides,” said the Baby, “being small has blessings. I still look harmless. I’m not forcing anyone to panic quite yet.”

Avram asked the obvious. “But what if they keep you separated from your other talents?”

“They won’t,” Ord promised, showing them nothing but confidence.

The Ussens grumbled, but said nothing.

Buteo showed a half-grin.

“Fine,” said Avram. “We’re here with you. We owe you a debt, and you need our help, you say. So what are we suppose to accomplish?”

“I can modify you.” Ord gave them a wide smile. “I’ll make it so you can study my surveillance feeds. I want your impressions about what’s happening. Your best hunches, and your worst.”

“Wouldn’t you do the better job?” asked Buteo.

Ord shook his head.

“I’m just the Baby. Remember?” Then he gave them a soft, self-deprecating laugh, wondering if they could see just how lonely he was…

When Ord was still a child—when the authorities had moved to arrest Alice—she wasn’t found in the spacious penthouse. She was waiting for her captors inside a tiny, nearly anonymous bedroom deep in the mansion’s bones. It was the same room where she had lived as the Chamber-lain baby, and wrapped up in thick nostalgia, she had bided her time by watching scenes from those ancient days.

The room’s furnishings were exactly as Alice had left them, complete to the small, old-style universal window. The only structural change was the transparent wall set between the room and the adjacent hallway. This was where the daily tours ended. Guests would pause and stare, and their Nuyen guides would finally, mercifully grow quiet, allowing each person the freedom to consider the red-haired monster who had taken refuge here, and how very much she meant to their lives.

Ord passed gently through the wall, influencing nothing.

The window showed the present: Alice alone inside her prison cell, dressed in a plain white prison smock, nothing substantial changed for millennia. Ord watched as she paced from toilet to door, every step made slowly and carefully, three steps required to cross her universe… and she turned with a dancer’s unconscious grace, retracing her steps so precisely that Ord could see where the hyperrock floor had slumped in four places, worn down by the naked balls of her feet.

The cell and this old bedroom were the same size.

Ord wasn’t the first guest to note the irony.

With a corporeal hand, he touched the warm electric image of the face. Did she sense that he was here? Did Alice retain those kinds of powers? It would be lovely if she could simply come up and visit him for a moment, like she had done once before. Things would come easily and quickly. But if it were possible, the prisoner never gave him a sign.

With every other hand, Ord searched the room. This was where Alice would leave him instructions. It would be like her. A motile scrap of flesh; a whisper of refined dark matter. Either could have slinked about for thousands of years, evading detection, waiting for his touch to unfold itself, then explaining exactly why she had selected him, or damned him, into becoming her successor.

But there were no keys, or clues. Or anything else worthwhile.

The one possible exception was set on one of the crystal shelves above the narrow bed. Like any Chamberlain, Alice had been a rabid collector; odd gems and favorite holos were mixed together with fossils of every age and origin. One fossil showed a human handprint set in yellow mudstone. In a glance, Ord knew its age and its curious origin: It was a female Chamberlain’s hand, and the stone beneath was ten million years old. Alice had created it. On some alien world—a single taste gave Ord twenty candidates—his newly grown sister had pressed her right hand into a streambed. Then she had buried her mark, and several million years later, she had dug it up again. Cooked to stone, and in a rugged fashion, lovely.

Ord reached for the handprint, almost by reflex.

Then, he hesitated.

The trap was almost perfectly disguised, its elegant trigger married to the young rock, waiting patiently for his hand. A camouflaged relay connected it to a single globule of molten, magnetized antiiron set deep underground. The weapon was far too small to hurt Ord, even at close range, and he wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t been searching for it. The globule was inside a null-chamber set beneath that very bored woman, and it had probably always been there, her pacing back and forth above it, oblivious to any danger.

Ord’s first analysis taught him about the trigger and the relay.

And the next ten analyses showed him nothing new.

There was a temptation to put his hand in hers. For a slippery, seductive moment, Ord wondered if that was why he had come here. Not to ask advice, but to instead do one more good thing for a needy Chamberlain.

He slowly, slowly withdrew his corporeal hand.

Then he pulled it through his hair, his scalp more than a little damp, the perspiration tasting of oceans and fear.

6

Ravleen is nothing hut polite. We appreciate the quality in anyone, but particularly in her. And that even though we’re certain that she’s only pretending to have manners.

So that our polite friend could better understand herself, we took her into the wilderness.

We own several hundred sunless Earth-class worlds between Sol and its nearer neighbors. They’re investments for the day when our solar system is full. One of the worlds was terraformed in preparation for Ravleen. At our insistence, she examined it in detail, then very politely asked permission to play.

For the next three hours, Ravleen used her new talents—first in small doses, then in larger, more expert fusillades. And afterward, with scrupulous care, she thanked each of us for the opportunity to learn.

“When he does come,” she said, more than once, “I’ll do the same to him.”

We manacled each of her hands afterward, then brought her home again. And to help recoup our expenses, we sold portions of that world’s exposed core… its metals and rare earths… at a very considerable profit…

—Nuyen memo, classified

Xo would never admit it, but he felt a genuine pity for Ravleen.

When the Sanchexes were disbanded, Ravleen was still the Baby, still living at home and largely unmodified. Ordinary life wouldn’t have been a wrenching change for her. Not like it was for her older, more talented siblings. Yet to be ordinary wasn’t an option. Ord had just vanished, taking Alice’s talents with him. The good Families were panicking. Even before the Sanchexes could officially surrender, a delegation of high-ranking Nuyens was dispatched, sweeping into the pyramid as if they owned it, pushing past hundreds of embittered souls. Xo wasn’t there, and for good reasons, no visual record was made. But the moment had acquired a legendary status inside his Family. From the stories told, he could imagine his brothers and sisters moving en masse. He could taste the vivid, bilious tensions swirling around them. And the tensions only grew when they reached the young woman’s quarters, entering after a cursory knock, and with a single booming voice, announcing, “We have come to ask for your help.”

Ravleen was a beautiful woman. Black hair and arching black eyes gave her a feral quality, and in those days she would amplify her looks with infections of benign, radiant bacteria. The Nuyens’ eternal curse was to feel lust for the Sanchexes, and fear, and despite the rank and power of her guests, Ravleen knew how to toy with those emotions. She sat on her bed, wearing only a sablecat robe, and using a single finger, she opened the robe, calmly fondling her left breast as she smiled, coldly amused, pointing out to them:

ЭYou don’t sound as if you’re asking.”

The Nuyens laughed. They sounded like men and women in perfect control, their little worries buried deep.

“Let me guess,” Ravleen continued. “This is about Ord, isn’t it? You think I can help you just because I grew up with him. Right?”

Sober faces nodded.

Every voice said, “Naturally.”

She stood suddenly, letting her robe slip and tumble to the floor. Brothers and sisters stared at her legs, at the strong full curve of her ass, and at that famous smile, winsome and predatory in the same bewitching moment.

“I’ve heard Xo’s helping you.” Telling it, she admitted to knowing at least one minor secret. “You’re grooming that turd. Feeding him advanced talents. Intellects. Propagandas. And he’ll be invulnerable to attack—”

“Any reasonable attack, yes.”

Ravleen scratched herself in one place, then another. Then she inquired, “So am I getting the same deal?”

They told her, “No.”

Then they laughed, perhaps trying too hard to seem in command.

“You’ll be given talents, but of a narrow sort,” they warned. Then they reminded her, “You’re just a Sanchex. You’ll be lucky to have one talent. Since, according to the new laws, we aren’t entitled to give you shit.”

She said nothing for a long while, black eyes fixed on her sablecat robe, watching as it crawled toward its burrow-closet.

Then she took a deep breath, and said, “All right. What do I get?”

The package included a Xo-type invulnerability. They explained that and her other powers, then cautioned there would be no added intellects, except for the instincts needed to control the talents. In essence, Ravleen would be a functioning moron, incapable of million-tongue language skills or nonhnear modeling or even the cherished ability to use private, intraFamily channels.

“That should keep me under control,” she observed.

The highest-ranking Nuyen agreed, then said, “And we’ll take other precautions. You’ll wear restraints until we choose to remove them. And even when your manacles aren’t in place, implants will ride inside your mind. Some will coax you into hating the Chamberlains, particularly Ord—”

“As if I need help,” she interrupted.

“And the other implants will be waiting for a word from us. Waiting to kill your very tiny, very fragile mind…!”

The young woman passed from a shameless tease to simply naked. Exposed, and painfully helpless.

She caught her robe and put it on again.

“Xo’s job is to reason with the boy,” said the Nuyens, “and if he doesn’t succeed—”

“I get to kill him.”

No one responded.

Quietly and soberly, Ravleen promised her audience, “I’ll do this thing for me. Not for you.”

Every Nuyen broke into a huge and honest smile.

“I could live a long time,” their new ally ventured, “waiting for a little vengeance.”

It was early evening when two figures slipped out of the forest. They wore archaic bodies and the simple magenta robes common to diplomats, and they moved with a steady purpose, their talents following after them—Xo’s intellects meant to appeal to the boy-god’s better nature, and Ravleen’s weapons still in their manacles, but straining, eager for the chance to attack.

As always, Xo felt sorry for his extraordinary companion. And as always, he pushed his sorrow and pity off into other, more profitable directions.

With a steady, practiced voice, he said, “Ord? Isn’t it time to talk?”

Nothing happened.

They paused at the mansion’s main entrance. Xo made no attempt to look inside. He didn’t believe that he could see much, and besides, it was important to appear polite. To seem patient. To be exactly the kind of person Ord would accept, and with whom he could agree on terms.

Ravleen enjoyed a different attitude. Storming up to the coral door, she gave it a kick with her bare foot. “You might as well talk to us,” she sang, “because we’re damn well not leaving!”

Nothing.

She groaned and made a fist, taking aim.

Xo grabbed her by the wrist.

Even manacled, she was full of white-hot energies. But she didn’t resist him, relaxing suddenly, a strange little smile hiding in her eyes and the expression telling the world, “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

From the forest, from a dozen hiding places, came a chorus of wails.

In better days, the Chamberlains kept bear-dogs as pets. When their estate was abandoned, the pack went wild, and these were their descendants. Xo made sure of it. But as he studied the animals, in that instant of split attentions, Ord emerged, coming from no particular direction to stand before them with his hands open, his palms up.

“It’s nice to have old friends drop by,” he said.

To Ravleen, he said, “You were inside the pyramid. Weren’t you?” And he began to laugh, admitting, “I felt something. An incandescent rage. And I thought: If they’re using Xo, they must be using Ravleen, too. In service of the Nuyens…!”

Energies surged, diminished.

Then the beautiful Sanchex face was smiling, the eyes filled with mischief, and she let her tongue play along her top lip, then slide back against its mate.

Xo spoke, asking and begging and cajoling Ord to open up a dialogue.

The Chamberlain responded with a steely glance, then gave fair warning. “They made a bad choice. I’ve never liked you.”

“You don’t know me,” Xo growled. Then, “What do you think? That you’re the only one of us who’s better than he used to be?”

Silence.

With his simplest mouth, Xo said, “We have to talk. Without Ravleen.”

They were somewhere else. They were suddenly inside the penthouse, and others were watching. Xo examined the silent associates. And Ord touched him, a firm hand on the shoulder as a matching voice told him, “Try to convince me. And then, when it’s my turn, I’ll try to convince you.”

Xo spoke, disgorging a hundred practiced speeches and as many impromptu pleadings. He sang about the great purpose of the Families. He roared knowledgeably about service and sacrifice, moral principles and immoral pitfalls. He gave cold technical estimates of Ord’s position and the Earth’s weaponry, showing that the situation was hopeless. And he knitted together words of understanding and compassion that proved how even the hopeless could, when the time came, expect mercy.

Then, on a whim, Xo pulled live feeds from across the solar system:

A new mother on Pluto; a dozen winged humans perched on one of Saturn’s cloud continents; an Amish community on Ceres; an ancient, revered poet floating on Mars’ northern sea. Each of them was visible, and terrified. They were concentrating on the news feeds. They were praying, each in his own fashion. Praying that this visitor—this mutilated Chamber-lain—wouldn’t make a tragic blunder, obliterating all of them.

The final view was from a surveillance AI. A refugee family, recently arrived on the Earth, sat holding hands, their tails tied into a communal knot. The father and mother were more depressed than ever, obviously waiting to die, while their son kept smiling, chattering on and on about the astonishing coincidence… that they were just inside the mansion, and wasn’t it something… they must have just missed the arrival of that crazy Chamberlain…!

Crazy or not, Ord was moved.

Was weakened.

With empathic talents proven in the lab and in field tests, Xo could sense his opponent’s resolve beginning to falter, if only a little—

Then they suddenly were outside again, standing in the same positions. Barely a moment had passed. Ravleen wasn’t even aware of their absence.

“Fair warning!” she wailed. “I’m going to butcher you and fuck every one of your body parts, you fucking shit!”

Ord stared at her.

Out of curiosity, or some misguided sense of compassion, he opened his right hand and offered it to Ravleen.

She grabbed the hand and shoved it into her mouth and neatly bit off two fingers, the sharp crunch of the bones lingering. Then she spat the fingers to the ground and stomped on them, cursing without breath or the smallest pause.

Later, replaying events for his siblings, Xo defended Ravleen. The criminal wouldn’t have surrendered. He felt sure. And Ravleen was just being herself, which probably did some good, lending the moment a sense of enormous danger.

If there was blame, it was his. Xo had spent his life preparing, and the magic hadn’t worked, and he seriously doubted he would have another chance.

The eldest Nuyen touched him lightly, fondly.

A cool feminine voice flowed over him, saying, “When Ravleen’s tantrum was finished, what did Ord say?”

“ ‘I only came here to talk to Alice,’ ” Xo replied, mimicking the voice and the pale boyish face. “ ‘Bring her here and let me see her, in private. Then I’ll leave again. I won’t hurt anyone, and I promise, I won’t take her with me.’ ”

The Nuyens fell silent, contemplating those simple words.

Allowing himself a dose of self-pity, Xo whispered, “I failed my Family. And my species. I’m sorry that I let you down—”

“But you didn’t,” the ancient woman replied. Not to comfort, just to inform. “Honestly, we never expected your success.”

No?

Then she touched him again, saying, “Again, please. Tell us about the people you saw with him in the penthouse—”

7

Measure the soul exactly, and it becomes yours.

—a Nuyen saying

The offer was delivered by Alice herself.

Sitting alone in her cell, propped on the foot of her narrow bed, she read the words projected on her normally blank window with a steady, colorless voice. “To anyone with my brother Ord,” she read, “we will grant you a total amnesty. Leave the Chamberlain property before dawn, and every crime will be forgotten. Your past will be forgiven. And we will grant you every freedom and responsibility deserved by citizens of your mother world.”

She paused, then said, “Sincerely, the Earth’s Council.”

Then Alice became puzzled, staring up at the omniscient window, and after a long moment, whispering, “Ord?”

Then, “Why did you come back here? Why—?”

The feed evaporated into blackness.

The others wanted to speak, almost shouting, claiming that the image wasn’t real and the offer was just as bogus. But Ord admitted, “She was authentic. And so is their offer.” He had analyzed every communication and every careless word uttered by ten thousand high-placed souls, and though he had doubts, not one of them had a backbone.

Seeing his resignation, the others began to adjust their opinions, repeating the word, “Amnesty,” with a mixture of gentle horror and tentative hope.

Buteo was first to ask, “So what happens at dawn?”

“They assault our position,” Ord replied.

There was a long silence.

In the faces, particularly in the wide thoughtful eyes, he could see the others replaying Xo’s arguments. Pride, they thought. And sacrifice. Ord had saved their lives, but their Families and a sense of duty had given them life in the first place, and delivered their purpose. They said as much with glances, with half-sighs, and with a persistent, embarrassed quiet that was finally shattered when Ord smiled wistfully, reminding them, “You’re not prisoners. If you wish, leave. That’s absolutely what I expect from you.”

Through the night, one by one, people made their apologies and slipped outside, out into the grasp of the Nuyens.

Only Buteo and Avram remained at sunrise.

Ord never asked for their reasons, but both offered them.

“Nuyens are winning too much, and too easily,” was the Papago’s excuse, offering a flirtatious little smile.

His older brother simply shrugged his shoulders, asking, “What can I do? Chamberlains have to help each other.”

Then he smiled, and when Ord smiled back at him, he added:

“Eons of habit. They can’t vanish in one dangerous little night.”

The bear-dogs were neither bears or dogs, but instead had been built from an assortment of popular species, ancient as well as recent. Into that rich genetic stew mutations were gathered from over a thousand centuries of living in the wild. Possessing a modest, pragmatic intelligence, each pack had its oral history reaching back to the times of the Chamberlains. They weren’t fools. They realized something had gone horribly wrong in their world. The hot night air had crackled with strange energies, and phantoms had drifted through them without offering explanations or apologies. The disruptions only grew worse at daybreak.

The morning chants were interrupted twice by sharp, inexplicable sounds that came from everywhere. The enchanted moon was suddenly close, almost filling the brilliant blue sky. Then a spirit army began its charge up through the mountain, rising toward the summit and the holy mansion. At least one old bitch priestess sensed their bloody purpose, the bear-dogs’ world about to change.

Quietly but firmly, she offered thanks to the mountain for giving them this beautiful home and ample food—every priestess made the same morning prayer—and then she stumbled over her own tongue, trying to find the suitable words for the inevitable.

Today, they would die.

She felt certain.

But before she could warn the others, a Chamberlain materialized beside each of them. They had never seen a Chamberlain before, but they knew him immediately. He scratched behind their ears, knowing exactly what every bear-dog liked, and he smiled at them, telling them, “If you come with me, I’ll keep you safe.”

The priestess had her little doubts.

But she grunted her compliance just the same, and the Chamberlain touched them in a different way… and an instant later, the forest dissolved into plasmas, and the ancient mountain turned to magma and ash and a scalding white pillar of dirty light…

The barrage of shaped plasmas lasted four seconds.

In its wake, the mansion was left blackened but intact, held together by Ord’s own hands. And with the mountain collapsed into a cherry-red lake, its deepest foundations lay exposed, making the structure taller, and if possible, even more imposing.

The army attacked with a wild fury, accomplishing nothing.

But a tiny unit masquerading as the butt end of a kinetic charge managed to slip through Ord’s defenses. Then with a Nuyen general at the lead, the invaders rose swiftly along fissures and a forgotten conduit, materializing inside the central staircase not ten meters below the penthouse.

The murals were gone, replaced with an infinite grayness and a powerful, unnerving cold.

Extinction, perfectly rendered.

The Nuyen attacked the crystal door, then pulled back as it dissolved, becoming a pocket of stale air with Ord standing at its center.

His face was miserable, his eyes pale and tired, and with a voice that matched the face, he said, “I want to talk to Alice. Just that. Then I’ll repair all the damage, and I’ll leave. I promise you.”

The Nuyen shook what passed for a head, then drifted aside.

Ravleen stood waiting, grinning in a cheerless, expectant fashion. A few of her hands had been freed for the occasion. She reached with them, engulfing her enemy, ripping away his talents and senses and strange dark-matter meats, aiming for what lay at the center.

Ord winced and shut his eyes.

Standing on a long green lawn, he found himself wearing nothing but a boy’s half-grown and very naked body. The grass was short and soft and overly perfumed, and the mansion was white again, rooted into the old mountaintop. A pack of tame bear-dogs were lying nearby, drinking in the blue skies and the sun. Ord stood still exactly long enough to believe in the place. Then a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him, and a second hand—hard as basalt—drove itself into his astonished face.

Ord lay on his back, his face bloodied.

The Sanchex towered over him, naked and unexpectedly alluring. With a practiced, almost surgical precision, she placed a long bare foot to his neck, then pressed hard enough to make the mountain’s bones groan beneath them.

On another day, Ord would have already lost the fight.

Ravleen would have given him a thorough, expert beating, and he would have endured it, knowing that she could never inflict permanent harm.

But this Ord grabbed an ankle and yanked her off her feet.

Then he jumped up and set his foot against her neck, letting her curse and lash at him, then in her rage biting through her own tongue and spitting it at him.

The air gave a supersonic crack as the tongue passed.

New hands were unmanacled. But instead of throwing him off, she grabbed Ord and pulled him close, an irresistible strength leaving him lying on top of her, chest to chest, his left ear pressed against her tongue-less mouth.

This wasn’t Ravleen. This was a monster, nothing but a scorching rage and a shred of embittered, poisoned intellect that gave the rage its direction.

“More talents,” she begged with other mouths. “Let me kill him, please. Please.”

“No,” said a Nuyen’s calculating voice. “No.”

Xo was kneeling on the sweet grass, and with a genuine pain, he told Ord, “You know, you really can’t win this thing.”

Part of Ord wanted to believe him. Defeat meant peace and a kind of freedom, all of his massive responsibilities taken from him.

“You’re simply too weak,” Xo informed him.

Ord said nothing.

The Nuyen’s talents were at work. Oily and cold, they slipped inside him and spoke with a pure confidence, telling his soul, “If you surrender, at this moment, nobody needs to die. Including you.”

“Shut up!” Ravleen screamed. She laid beneath Ord as if he was her lover, and her face colored and twisted, the eyes throwing fire at Xo. “Just please give me another fucking hand, and shut up!”

For an instant, her grip was stronger.

Slightly.

Then weakened again; Ord barely noticed.

Unnoticed, the bear-dogs had made a circle around them. Then one of the beasts became Avram, and he grabbed Xo and pulled him away. Another was Buteo, and she calmly and expertly took hold of the Sanchex monster, peeling back hands until Ord could find his way to his feet again. Then the other bear-dogs—much modified in the last moments— put their cavernous mouths around various body parts, and waited. And the humans watched Ord, waiting for whatever he said or did next.

The artificial moon filled the sky, and the mountain turned to magma again.

Then came a rumbling thunder, vast and vaguely musical, and Ord smiled as if embarrassed. He hid his genitals with his hands, and quietly, in a near-whisper, told Xo, “You were right. I wasn’t strong enough to win.”

No one spoke.

“But I am now,” he admitted.

The Nuyen’s face lost its color, its life. “You can’t be. The defense grid is on full alert. Talent requires mass, and nothing has moved into the system since—”

He hesitated, and winced.

Quietly, to himself, he said, “Shit.”

Ravleen chewed off her lower lip, then spat it at her captors.

Wide-eyed, Xo gazed up at the sky. “You’ve always been here,” he muttered. “That refugee boy was the last of you, not the first.”

Ord nodded, distracted now.

The moon’s framework was dissolving, its mysterious guts obeying gravity, pouring out of it like a great, invisible river.

Xo tried to pull his arms free, and the bear-dogs snipped them off at the shoulders and left them flexing and twitching in a neat pile, the hands instinctively clinging to one another.

Then Ord opened a ten-kilometer mouth, finally slaking his fantastic thirst.

8

It was meant to be a weapon, a tool that could destroy talents en masse.

Nothing like it has ever been produced—certainly not in our galaxy— and we should point out, the device was designed and built by every surviving Family, plus civilian agencies. Costs were shared, and responsibilities were shared, and there were inevitable failures in security. Its final assembly took a thousand years in deep interstellar space—a requirement born of microgravity constraints—and our best guess is that the Chamberlain took control of the project then. He gutted our work, then successfully hid his own body parts inside the device. Then he let us make fools of ourselves, delivering him to the unsuspecting Earth… with as much pageantry as security allowed… each one of us boasting, “This is for you. We have done this wonderful thing for you…!”

—a Nuyen memo, confidential

For Xo, there was no compelling sense of failure. No self-pity tugged at him, and in a strange fashion, there wasn’t so much as a breath of remorse. The truth was clear-cut: No combination of skill and luck could have beaten the Chamberlain. This situation was born hopeless, and he was blameless. Free of his obligations, Xo could halfway relax. Inside himself, in secret, he nearly smiled. Then he made an effort to adapt to his new circumstances—as a prisoner, as a hostage—watching events but knowing that he had no role but to witness these momentous, inevitable deeds.

With an soft, almost pissy voice, Ord announced, “Now, finally, I’m going to visit my sister.”

The words saturated every channel, public and Family, then trailed off into a screaming white hiss that frustrated every other attempt to speak.

The Papago woman said, “Finally! It’s about time!”

Ord clothed himself in gray trousers and a bulky gray shirt, but he left his body young and his chin injured by Ravleen, still dripping its illusionary blood.

Avram was still holding Xo. He had a relentless grip and a nervous, loud voice. “What do you want from me?” he inquired.

“Stay with Buteo,” Ord replied. “While I’m gone, help her hold the Sanchex.”

Ravleen was too dangerous to be left with just one of them. Xo would agree, if anyone bothered to ask him.

“What about this one?” Avram asked, giving Xo a hard shake. “What do you want done with him?”

Ord’s eyes were distant. Unreadable.

Eventually he said, “The Nuyen will stay with me.”

Xo found himself freed, sporting two functioning arms again.

“I want you to watch,” Ord promised. “Everything. Then you’ll tell your big brothers and sisters that I meant it. I came to talk to Alice. And everything else that’s happened was their fault. No one else’s.”

The last few steps were exactly that. Steps.

The two of them had already passed through plastic rock and collapsing defenses, an army left scattered above them. Temporarily blind; utterly lost. Xo found himself inside an infinite hallway lined with an infinite number of identical doors, armored and mined. It was a powerful escher. He took two steps, then looked over his shoulder. Ord was standing before one door. His face seemed empty, his bare feet frozen to the slick white floor. Reaching for the coded pad, he slowly changed his hand to match the jailer’s.

Then, he hesitated.

“Is she there?” Xo asked.

“Yes.”

Ord spoke in a whisper, fearful and abrupt.

Xo heard himself ask, “Are you scared?”

“For every imaginable reason,” the Chamberlain confessed.

“Don’t be,” Xo advised. He laughed for a moment, then explained, “Alice has been locked up for so long, and treated so badly by so many people… honestly, I doubt if she’ll remember much more than her name.”

The Chamberlain nodded, then touched the pad, and pushed.

Alice was in the middle of her tiny cell, walking away from them: Step, and step, and then at the tiny white toilet, the smooth turn. For a slippery instant, she seemed oblivious to her guests. Soft blue eyes stared through them, and she took another step, then paused gradually, ignoring her brother but staring hard at the Nuyen.

She was exceptionally pretty. That’s what took Xo by surprise.

Ageless and well-rested, Alice looked as clean as her surroundings. She wore a simple prison gown, and her long hair was braided into little red ropes that she had artfully tied together and draped over a half-bare, milky shoulder. She didn’t look so lovely on the real-time feeds. The feeds had to be doctored. Xo realized that her jailers wanted audiences to see an unkempt prisoner, suffering and disreputable. They didn’t want a simple, contented creature. They certainly didn’t want someone who would smile with an easy charm, and bow, saying, “I’m glad to see you, master. As always.”

She took Xo’s hand, kissing his knuckles one after another.

Xo pulled back, in disgust.

“Alice?” said Ord. “He’s not here to torture you.”

The beautiful face grinned, turning toward the voice. “Because he’s already had his fun with you, by the looks of it.”

Ord’s face was still oozing, the blood probably mixing with more elusive fluids.

Alice turned back to the Nuyen. “Is he really the Baby? Or has this been one of your little tricks?”

“It’s him,” Xo maintained.

She preferred doubt.

Ord took her hand, placing it against his face. Fingers vanished into the gore, and Alice flinched, gave a little moan, then flinched again. Then she yanked her hand free and wiped it clean against her gown.

“It is him!” she conceded. Her voice was excited and suspicious, and beneath everything, it was angry. “How terribly lovely! You’ve taken an incalculable risk, Ord… just so you could accomplish… what…?”

“I want help.” Ord grabbed her by the shoulder, then her forehead. “The Core is obhterated. The rest of the galaxy is in shambles. My intuition—your old intuition—tells me that total war is inevitable. I’ve tried to defend the Peace. Just as you told me to, I’ve tried. But I’m alone, Alice. Alone. And things are worse than you could have guessed—”

“Help you?” she interrupted. “Help you how?”

“I’m not sure,” Ord confessed. “I’ve searched every memory you gave me, and something’s missing. Something you didn’t quite tell me. I think.”

Alice laughed lightly. Almost flippantly. She was the Baby now. Her long incarceration had left her stupid and unworldly, and in an unexpected way, blessed with a strange innocence. She seemed at a loss about what to tell her brother, but she tried dredging up answers. Ancient memories began to emerge, but without coordination. There was nonsense about her childhood and early education, then she rambled on about the Core. How hard she worked with its worlds, making them live. How lovely everything had been in its prime. “So many stars,” she sang, “I wish you could have seen it, Ord—!”

“Why me?” he blurted. Plainly angry.

Alice flinched, wounded. “Because you must have fit the duty, I would imagine.”

“How can I do this duty?”

A soft, little girl laugh fell into the word, “Think.”

Ord looked frustrated, incapable of real thought.

“Think,” she repeated. “Why’s the galaxy in turmoil? Because people can’t find enough homes and peace. But that’s the curse of a universe where life is common, like ours. It always becomes crowded. Always.”

“Sure,” said her brother.

Looking at Xo for a moment, her smile turning poisonous. Then she gradually returned her attentions to Ord, saying, “You need help that I can’t give you. But where can you go to find help?”

Silence.

Without warning, she asked, “How did I try to save our little universe?”

Xo answered for Ord, half-shouting, “You built a new one—”

“And it was beautiful! Spectacular and glorious!” She wouldn’t look at the Nuyen again. With eyes focused on her brother, she said, “Think,” twice. “Think. We had the umbilical pried open long enough for it grow unstable, and that’s when the new universe exploded out into our realm—!”

Ord made a low, inarticulate sound.

“What?” Xo muttered. “What is it?”

He shook his head, saying, “That’s what happened. One of you… someone from the Families… crossed over into that new universe. Is that it?”

She didn’t answer him directly. But grinning with an incandescent pride, she asked, “Do you know how difficult it’s been to keep that delicious secret all to myself?”

Xo shuddered.

Ord touched his chin, then played with the blood between his fingertips. Finally, summoning the courage, he asked, “Who crossed over? What are they doing—?”

With a whisper, Alice said, “Closer.”

Her brother obeyed, dipping his head until his ear rested against her pretty mouth. Alice kissed the ear, running her bright pink tongue over the embarrassed lobes, and with an inaudible voice, for a moment or two, she spoke to him.

Then Ord raised up again, his face pale, and simple, and stunned.

He was reacting to what Alice had told him. That was Xo’s first guess, and perhaps he was right. Perhaps. But then the prison cell shook and shuddered, and the air grew warmer, and a look of horror came over him. Ord stared at the white ceiling, lifting his arms, screaming, “No!”

And he was gone.

Alice seemed oblivious to any problem. Yet when she looked at Xo, she wore a strange smile. Pulling his head down, she kissed his mouth. She had no odor. No flavor. She was as pure as medical technology could insure, her saliva like water from a mountain brook, her tongue feeling wondrous against his dirty tongue.

“I won’t have the pleasure of your company again, I think.”

She was speaking to all the Nuyens.

Then, as Ord reached down to reclaim Xo, she said mildly, “Oh, Mr. Nuyen. What do you believe is the best way for someone to have her revenge?”

9

It is best when you can keep yourself innocent, in every eye but your own. Innocent, yet at that same glorious moment, you are hiding in your enemy’s shadow, watching him inside his own kitchen, preparing a vat of sweet poisons intended for you… and the luscious scent is too much… he risks a little taste, then another, and before long, he’s consumed every fatal morsel for himself…

—a Nuyen proverb

Ord roared up through the mantle, up into the mansion and the tiny bedroom, then wove a child’s body, saying with a smooth urgency, “Keep. Your. Hand. There!”

Avram flinched, but his palm remained flush against the mudstone.

He wore a distant, almost embarrassed expression. In the eyes, he was ashamed. For an instant, Ord could almost believe that his brother had done nothing provocative: He must have wandered into this room out of simple curiosity, and curiosity made him place his hand into the ancient imprint of Alice’s hand. This was an accident. An enormous, forgivable miscue. Ord was desperate to say, “You didn’t know. This is my fault, not yours…!”

But then Avram wrestled up his courage, saying, “Surrender.”

The word came out under pressure, wrapped in a white misery. Sliding out after it was the softer, almost mournful:

“Please.”

Ord had seen the trigger embedded in that stone, and when it was tripped, Ord had neatly strangled the explosion beneath Alice’s cell. But in the next microseconds, he watched in a wild astonishment as a second trigger emerged. It was a design that he had never anticipated, made of slippery dark matter materials that he still couldn’t comprehend. Waiting half-evolved until it felt the pressure and heat of a Chamberlain’s hand, it had completed itself in an instant, its complex workings obvious. Blatant. Mirroring the first booby trap, this trigger was linked to globules of molten anti-iron suspended inside magnetic fields. But the waiting bombs didn’t come by the handful. Ord began counting them while Alice was whispering into his ear, and he was counting them now, and it seemed as though there was no end to them, tens of millions of them scattered through the Earth’s upper mantle, waiting patiently for the chance to be set loose.

Again, with a grim resolve, Avram said, “Surrender.”

He didn’t offer, “Please,” this time.

The booby trap would injure him. Badly, perhaps. But in the milliseconds it would take a detonation signal to cross the world, triggering the weapons in a rippling inferno, most of Ord could retreat to space and its relative safety.

But he wasn’t the target, was he?

Avram stared at Ord, his expression changing, an easy disgust making him flinch and shake his head slightly. Then for the final time, he said, “Surrender.” And he breathed. Then because he hoped it would help, he smiled, aiming for a hopefulness, asking his little brother, “Really, what choice do you have…?”

The tiny bedroom was suffocating. Even as portions of Ord spun out estimates of how many would die and how much Earth’s loss would cost humanity, the rest of him—the center of his soul—felt trapped, helpless and worse than half-dead.

With a quiet, mournful voice, he muttered, “Brother,” and began to cry. A woman’s voice asked, “What’s happening here?”

Buteo had arrived, Ravleen still wrapped up in her strong arms, still twisting in her grip. Materializing in the hallway, the Papago stared in through the transparent wall, understanding nothing when she added the second question:

“What’s wrong with you, Chamberlain?”

Ord explained on a private channel, in an instant.

Buteo’s eyes became enormous, and vacant, and she squeezed Ravleen as if trying to crush her.

Ord reached deep and yanked Xo from the jail. Then, ignoring his brother, he directed his rage at the convenient Nuyen. “What were you thinking? The Earth on a precipice… just so you could catch me… what were you assholes thinking—?”

“I don’t understand,” Xo replied. Then as he saw things for himself, with his own senses, he began to shake his head numbly and pull at his hair, screaming, “I didn’t know! I didn’t!”

Avram flexed his right wrist.

Ord reached for him, then hesitated. The trigger was clever in the worst ways, and it was proud of its cleverness. “Touch your brother,” it warned, “and I’ll detonate. Touch me, and I’ll definitely detonate. These are my specifications, and my redundant systems, and every field test result. Look at them. Look at me! You’ve never seen anything like me, and you can’t beat me on your first try.”

Ord winced, then looked straight at Avram’s eyes.

“You were waiting for me,” he remarked. “On the night of your execution… you knew that I would come and save you…”

The pale hand moved inside the fossil print, just slightly.

Then Avram gave a little nod, saying, “Honestly? I’d given up on you. The Nuyens had come long ago and made their offer. If I got my chance, I was supposed to take it. They didn’t explain what this thing was… but I could guess. They told me, ‘He’s not evil, this brother of yours. But he’s sadly misguided. And when the circumstance arises, we promise, Ord will make the sane, decent choice.’ ”

“If I hadn’t come for you?” Ord inquired.

“I would have been killed. Of course. If the execution was theater, you wouldn’t have trusted me.” He sighed, then said, “Honestly, I expected to die. I didn’t want this. Not to save my life, I didn’t. Or even if I was doing some incredible good.” He sighed again, then said, “That’s why I was scared when I saw you… I knew that you’d come to save me at the last possible moment… and I was sick of heroics….”

Ord closed his corporeal eyes, his fatigue genuine.

When he opened them again, Avram was starting to say, “Surrender,” once more.

“I’m doing it,” Ord interrupted. “I’m doing it now.”

With a graceless crash of systems, he began setting his talents into a deep sleep. By the dozens, by the hundreds. He stripped away his camouflage first, letting the world watch him. Then put his weapons to sleep, and every talent with deadly applications. After thirty seconds of hard work, he had almost dismantled himself. Another few moments would have left him astonishingly ordinary. But then his surviving eyes saw something, and his head turned as Ravleen screamed, “No!”

Too late, Ord understood.

The Sanchex was wrestling with Buteo, distracting her with her strongest limbs, while a weak arm composed of the thinnest materials reached through the wall and across the tiny bedroom. Ravleen ignored Ord; she couldn’t have harmed him if she tried. What she grabbed was Avram’s sturdy wrist, and with all of the strength in that secret limb, she gave him a hard swift calculated jerk, barely lifting the hand off the cool mudstone.

But it had lifted. Just enough.

With a cool desperation, Avram pressed his palm back against Alice’s fossil palm. Even as the world began to tear apart, and as the gods screamed in rage and in grief, he kept his hand exactly where it belonged. And with the ancient mansion evaporating around him, he used his other hands to help in his sacred duty… thinking this wasn’t what it seemed to be… telling himself that he mattered, and he was noble, and he was doing, as always, something good…

10

Blame for this horrendous tragedy rests squarely with the Chamberlain… and with his violent, immoral allies, including, we fear, a renegade Sanchex…!

—a Nuyen announcement

The Families held a private gathering in lieu of their usual public new year celebration.

With their ancient estates obliterated, and the Earth itself a bright white world encased in steam and oceans of irradiated magma, the gathering was held on Mars. It was a sober, prolonged affair. One popular subject was the plan for future estates: The Nuyens had graciously donated one of their intersolar worlds. Over the next few thousand years, the cold body would be eased into the Kuiper belt, then terraformed, and each Family would receive its share of the new land and water.

It was a good, sensible change, many argued. A bittersweet blessing. Having normal citizens living beside the Families was always an unreasonable risk. If Ord had come to their future homeland, not one person would have died. Except the little bastard himself, naturally. Without fragile souls underfoot, the Families could have responded appropriately. And they could have guarded Alice all the better, too.

Had she died with the Earth? Hopefully, was the general verdict.

The Families had saved billions in the first moments after the Chamberlain used that unthinkable weapon. Nuyens had died during the evacuation, all considered heroes today. There were moments when Xo, reflecting on events, wished that his siblings hadn’t wasted time rescuing him. But it was a reflexive altruism, and fragile. Besides, if he had died then, he would be some flavor of martyr today—a role that disgusted him for more reasons, and emotions, than he seemed able to count.

An ancient sister approached him during the dour festivities. But she insisted on smiling, almost laughing as she told Xo, “I know you did your best for us. For all of humanity. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the first Nuyen who deserves to feel pride.”

Because it was expected, he said, “Thank you.” More than two hundred billion were dead, and their ancestral homeland was a ravaged wasteland. And he was expected to be polite, accepting this graceless, ridiculous praise.

“I’ve just heard,” the sister continued. “Did you? A dark-matter body matching Ord’s configuration raced past one of our Oort stations.”

“Which station?”

She told, then added, “It’s obvious. Ord’s running for the Core now.”

“He believes Alice,” Xo replied.

The sister watched him, saying nothing in a certain way.

Xo prompted her, asking, “Don’t you believe Alice?”

“That someone managed to make their way into this other universe? Perhaps I do, perhaps I don’t. Whatever’s true, our plans have always left room for that possibility.”

“Nuyens are thorough people,” said Xo.

She went for the bait, saying, “Absolutely,” with a prideful wide smile.

“So what about Ravleen?” He asked it with a careful voice, then added, “That same station might have spotted her, too.”

“Perhaps it did,” the sister allowed. “Twenty minutes later, perhaps.”

Ravleen had escaped in the chaos. She would still be wearing manacles, but not all of them, and given time and ample freedom, they were temporary constraints. And nobody could doubt what the Sanchex wanted.

Xo’s doubts lay closer than space. With the help of simple charm, he mentioned to his companion, “Twenty minutes is a long gap. It’s a shame, really, that Ravleen couldn’t have started her chase sooner.”

The sister nodded, smiling in a distracted fashion.

Using his most powerful talents, Xo reached inside her mind, trying to coax out the secrets, hiding in its bloody corners.

The smile vanished abruptly, and she set a powerful hand to his shoulder. “What do you think you know, brother?”

“With her talents, it should have taken Ravleen two moments to leave the Earth. Not twenty damned minutes.” He didn’t care about punishments or sanctions. “But if we disabled her with the implants set in her brain, then captured and interrogated her…”

The woman couldn’t imagine that she was anything but in control. She thought it was her own iron will that told her to admit, “It took us fifteen minutes to make our decision. And we haven’t regretted it for a greasy moment, brother.”

“Who killed the Earth?” he asked.

Calmly, with a dry, simple voice, she told him, “The Chamberlain, of course. And whoever didn’t notice Ravleen cutting one of her own hands into two hands, then hiding half of it. For eons, probably. And there were a few other miscalculations, too. But nothing you did, and don’t confuse yourself by dwelling on it.”

“I won’t,” Xo lied.

“Good,” she replied.

A little while later, using appropriate formality and the stiffest of smiles, Xo left the gathering and his Family, and moments after that, he abandoned Mars, too, using stolen talents to shp out into space, then dipping past the clean white face of the Earth on his way out of the solar system.

It was as beautiful in death as it ever was in life.

He thought.

And the Core was glorious, and hideous, and he steered straight for it while wiping every flavor of tear from every sort of eye.

Content

Mother Death
by Robert Reed

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2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10