preferred to sit in the thoracic hold, alone.
There, he reached inside his tunic, and drew out the metal stallion talisman which his father had made, a lifetime before. His fingers formed the same old control gesture, and the solid metal clove apart, revealing the crystal hidden in its hollow core.
It was the crystal which Brino had given him, replacement to the one which had been Tom’s companion over the years, with its teaching puzzles and tales of the first Pilots. For a long time, Tom held it in his palm, smiling with anticipation, before inserting it into his holopad.
Then he activated it in full sensory mode, and sank inside the tale.
~ * ~
8
TERRA AD 2160
<>
[1]
It was a December night, black and cold over Zurich. White snow slid softly from the sky. From the false Christmas tree, formed of wide floating disks decorated with greenery, with boughs of pine and sprigs of holly, the choir’s voices rose sweetly into the chill air.
Bystanders, their shopping temporarily forgotten, stopped to listen.
Ro, in her heavy jumpsuit and muffler, stood between Dirk and Kian and hugged her twin boys towards her. They stiffened before giving in: they were fifteen years old, identical, alternately awkward and mature.
Golden holoflames flickered among the children in the six-metre-tall artificial tree, while very real white snow was caked atop the green pine branches, and on the shoulders and red caps of the children. They sang:
‘Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht ...’
It was a small square off the luxurious Bahnhofstrasse. The miniature park was surrounded by cobblestone pathways where vendors hawked intricate craft items from tent-like stalls, and sold hot chestnuts and fat-spitting sausages from crackling braziers.
Beyond, over the Bahnhofstrasse thoroughfare, long rows of white/gold holo stars glimmered in the air, overlooking some of the most exclusive and expensive stores in Europe. They were still open, this late on a December night: the Swiss take their Christmas shopping seriously.
A lifetime ago, Mother had taken Ro to this very square.
I miss you.
But she was gone. Last year, as summer slid into autumn, Karyn McNamara had slipped quietly from the world.
Dirk’s infostrand beeped. He wore it wrapped helically around the bronze torc encircling his neck: all the fashion this year.
Sorry, he mouthed to his mother, as bystanders looked round.
He walked away, muttering to the holo image lased into his grey contact lenses.
After the call was finished, Dirk remained where he was. Frowning, Ro gave Kian’s sleeve a tug, and they went to join Dirk.
‘It was Josette,’ he said to Kian. ‘She’s in the café.’
‘The Royale?’
‘Ouais, d’accord.’
‘Well, what kind of espèce de crétin does she think you are?’
Ro, who was as quintilingual as her sons, said: ‘Not the kind to stand her up, I hope. On m ‘a posé un lapin when I was her age, and I was pissed.’
‘Mother ...’ Dirk looked pained. Kian checked that no-one nearby had overheard Ro’s coarse language; in her youth, it would have been considered mild.
‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘Dirk’s too soft to give her the heave-ho.’
Ro looked at Dirk.
‘Josette and Lorraine had a little meeting,’ he said. ‘They decided that Josette was the one who was going to have me.’
‘And which of them,’ asked Ro, ‘do you prefer?’
Dirk shrugged. Kian answered for him:
‘Neither one of them.’
In the artificial tree, now lit by bright white light as the snowfall grew heavier, the school choir began to sing in Latin, calling the faithful to the cause.
‘ Adeste fideles ...’
‘You have to tell her, Dirk.’ Ro chucked him under the chin.
Dirk refused to be annoyed by the gesture. He was growing up.
‘I know I should, but—’
It was Kian who
There, he reached inside his tunic, and drew out the metal stallion talisman which his father had made, a lifetime before. His fingers formed the same old control gesture, and the solid metal clove apart, revealing the crystal hidden in its hollow core.
It was the crystal which Brino had given him, replacement to the one which had been Tom’s companion over the years, with its teaching puzzles and tales of the first Pilots. For a long time, Tom held it in his palm, smiling with anticipation, before inserting it into his holopad.
Then he activated it in full sensory mode, and sank inside the tale.
~ * ~
8
TERRA AD 2160
<
[1]
It was a December night, black and cold over Zurich. White snow slid softly from the sky. From the false Christmas tree, formed of wide floating disks decorated with greenery, with boughs of pine and sprigs of holly, the choir’s voices rose sweetly into the chill air.
Bystanders, their shopping temporarily forgotten, stopped to listen.
Ro, in her heavy jumpsuit and muffler, stood between Dirk and Kian and hugged her twin boys towards her. They stiffened before giving in: they were fifteen years old, identical, alternately awkward and mature.
Golden holoflames flickered among the children in the six-metre-tall artificial tree, while very real white snow was caked atop the green pine branches, and on the shoulders and red caps of the children. They sang:
‘Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht ...’
It was a small square off the luxurious Bahnhofstrasse. The miniature park was surrounded by cobblestone pathways where vendors hawked intricate craft items from tent-like stalls, and sold hot chestnuts and fat-spitting sausages from crackling braziers.
Beyond, over the Bahnhofstrasse thoroughfare, long rows of white/gold holo stars glimmered in the air, overlooking some of the most exclusive and expensive stores in Europe. They were still open, this late on a December night: the Swiss take their Christmas shopping seriously.
A lifetime ago, Mother had taken Ro to this very square.
I miss you.
But she was gone. Last year, as summer slid into autumn, Karyn McNamara had slipped quietly from the world.
Dirk’s infostrand beeped. He wore it wrapped helically around the bronze torc encircling his neck: all the fashion this year.
Sorry, he mouthed to his mother, as bystanders looked round.
He walked away, muttering to the holo image lased into his grey contact lenses.
After the call was finished, Dirk remained where he was. Frowning, Ro gave Kian’s sleeve a tug, and they went to join Dirk.
‘It was Josette,’ he said to Kian. ‘She’s in the café.’
‘The Royale?’
‘Ouais, d’accord.’
‘Well, what kind of espèce de crétin does she think you are?’
Ro, who was as quintilingual as her sons, said: ‘Not the kind to stand her up, I hope. On m ‘a posé un lapin when I was her age, and I was pissed.’
‘Mother ...’ Dirk looked pained. Kian checked that no-one nearby had overheard Ro’s coarse language; in her youth, it would have been considered mild.
‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘Dirk’s too soft to give her the heave-ho.’
Ro looked at Dirk.
‘Josette and Lorraine had a little meeting,’ he said. ‘They decided that Josette was the one who was going to have me.’
‘And which of them,’ asked Ro, ‘do you prefer?’
Dirk shrugged. Kian answered for him:
‘Neither one of them.’
In the artificial tree, now lit by bright white light as the snowfall grew heavier, the school choir began to sing in Latin, calling the faithful to the cause.
‘ Adeste fideles ...’
‘You have to tell her, Dirk.’ Ro chucked him under the chin.
Dirk refused to be annoyed by the gesture. He was growing up.
‘I know I should, but—’
It was Kian who
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