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Where is she? I no longer was thinking about the child: She was lost, and I was only tormenting
him.
His speech was incoherent, he tried to hump away. I showed him my hand, how it glowed, and his
eyes bugged.
Do you still love me? I asked, touching his groin, hooking my fingers and pulling at some fiber.
Agony bubbled in his throat, and he curled up around his pain, clutching himself.
I could not stop touching him. I orchestrated his screams, producing short ones, long ones, ones that
held a strained hoarse chord. My hatred was a distant emotion. I felt no fury, no glee. I was merely a
craftsman, working to prolong his death. Pink films occluded the whites of his eyes, his teeth were stained
to crimson, and at last he lay still.
I sat beside him for what seemed a long time. Then I donned my cloak and walked back to my
apartment. After making sure no one was in the corridor, I dragged the dead guard out of the front room
and propped him against the corridor wall. I reset the lock, stepped inside, and the door slid shut behind
me. I felt nothing. I took up The Resolute Lover, but even my interest in it had waned. I gazed at the
walls, growing thoughtless, remembering only that I had been somewhere, done some violence; I was
perplexed by my glowing hand. But soon I fell asleep, and when I was waked by the guards unlocking
the door, I found that the hand had returned to normal.
Did you hear anything outside? asked one of the guards. No, I said. What happened?
He told me the gory details, about the dead guard and Brent. Like everyone else on Helios Station, he
seemed more confounded by these incomprehensible deaths than by the fantastic birth that had preceded
them.
-=*=-
The walls of the station have been plated with gold, the corridors are thronged with tourists,
with students come to study the disciplines implicit in the Equations, disciplines that go far beyond
the miraculous transformation of my hand. Souvenir shops sell holos of the Spider, recordings of
the White Dragon Cycle (now used to acclimatize children to the basics of the Equations), and
authorized histories of the sad events surrounding the Spider s emergence. The pleasure domes
reverberate with Alex Dulambre s drifts, and in an auditorium constructed for this purpose,
Reynolds clone delivers daily lectures on the convoluted circumstances of his death and triumph.
The place is half amusement park, half shrine. Yet the greatest memorial to Reynolds work is not
here; it lies beyond the orbit of Pluto and consists of a vast shifting structure of golden light
wherein dwell those students who have mastered the disciplines and overcome the bonds of
corporeality. They are engaged, it is said, in an unfathomable work that may have taken its
inspiration from Reynolds metaphysical flights of fancy, or -- and many hold to this opinion --
may reflect the Spider s design, his desire to rid himself of the human nuisance by setting us upon
a new evolutionary course. After Brent s death I thought to join in this work. But my mind was
not suited to the disciplines; I had displayed all the mastery of which I was capable in dispensing
with Brent.
I have determined to continue the search for my daughter. It may be -- as Brent claimed -- that
she does not exist, but it is all that is left to me, and I have made my resolve accordingly. Still, I
have not managed to leave the station, because I am drawn to Reynolds clone. Again and again I
find myself in the rear of the auditorium, where I watch him pace the dais, declaiming in the most
excited manner. I yearn to approach him, to learn how like Reynolds he truly is. I am certain he
has spotted me on several occasions, and I wonder what he is thinking, how it would be to speak
to him, touch him. Perhaps this is perverse of me, but I cannot help wondering...
--Carolyn Dulambre, Days In The Sun
6
Carolyn/Reynolds
I had been wanting to talk with her since... well, since this peculiar life began. Why? I loved her, for
one thing. But there seemed to be a far more compelling reason, one I could not verbalize. I suppressed
the urge for a time, not wanting to hurt her; but seeing that she had begun to appear at the lectures, I
finally decided to make an approach.
She had taken to frequenting a pleasure dome named Spider s. Its walls were holographic
representations of the Spider, and these were strung together with golden webs that looked molten
against the black backdrop, like seams of unearthly fire. In this golden dimness the faces of the patrons
glowed like spirits, and the glow seemed to be accentuated by the violence of the music. It was not a
place to my taste, nor -- I suspect -- to hers. Perhaps her patronage was a form of courage, of facing
down the creature who had caused her so much pain.
I found her seated in a rear corner, drinking an Amouriste, and when I moved up beside her table, she
paid me no mind. No one ever approached her; she was as much a memorial as the station itself, and
though she was still a beautiful woman, she was treated like the wife of a saint. Doubtless she thought I
was merely pausing by the table, looking for someone. But when I sat opposite her, she glanced up and
her jaw dropped.
Don t be afraid, I said.
Why should I be afraid?
I thought my presence might... discomfort you.
She met my eyes unflinchingly. I suppose I thought that, too.
But...?
It doesn t matter.
A silence built between us.
She wore a robe of golden silk, cut to expose the upper swells of her breasts, and her hair was pulled
back from her face, laying bare the smooth, serene lines of her beauty, a beauty that had once fired me,
that did so even now.
Look, I said. For some reason I was drawn to talk to you, I feel I have...
I feel the same. She said this with a strong degree of urgency, but then tried to disguise the fact.
What shall we talk about?
I m not sure.
She tapped a finger on her glass. Why don t we walk?
Everyone watched as we left, and several people followed us into the corridor, a circumstance that
led me to suggest that we talk in my apartment. She hesitated, then signaled agreement with the briefest
of nods. We moved quickly through the crowds, managing to elude our pursuers, and settled into a
leisurely pace. Now and again I caught her staring at me, and asked if anything was wrong.
Wrong? She seemed to be tasting the word, trying it out. No, she said. No more than usual.
-=*=-
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