sea.’
‘He helps all the newborns.’
‘Why?’
‘How should I know? But it’s futile. The ocean rises and falls. Every time it comes a little closer, higher up the beach. Soon it will lap right up here, to the forest itself.’
‘We’ll have to go into the forest.’
‘Try that and Night will kill you.’
Night? Callisto looked into the forest’s darkness, and shuddered.
Asgard eyed Callisto with curiosity, no sympathy. ‘You really are a newborn, aren’t you?’ She dug her hand into the dust, shook it until a few grains were left on her palm. ‘You know what the first thing Pharaoh said to me was? “Nothing is real.” ’
‘Yes—’
‘ “Not even the dust. Because every grain is a whole world.” ’ She looked up at Callisto, calculating.
Callisto gazed at the sparkling grains, wondering, baffled, frightened. Too much strangeness.
I want to go home, she thought desperately. But where, and what, is home?
Two women walked into Hama’s office: one short, squat, her face a hard mask, and the other apparently younger, taller, willowy. They both wore bland, rather scuffed Occupation-era robes - as he did - and their heads were shaven bare.
The older woman met his gaze steadily. ‘My name is Gemo Cana. This is my daughter. She is called Sarfi.’
Hama eyed them with brief curiosity. The daughter, Sarfi, averted her eyes. She looked very young, and her face was thin, her skin sallow.
This was a routine appointment. Gemo Cana was, supposedly, a representative of a citizens’ group concerned about details of the testimony being heard by the preliminary hearings of the Truth Commission. The archaic words of family - daughter, mother - were still strange to Hama, but they were becoming increasingly more common, as the era of the Qax cadres faded from memory.
He welcomed them with his standard opening remarks. ‘My name is Hama Druz. I am an adviser to the Interim Coalition and specifically to the Commission for Historical Truth. I will listen to whatever you wish to tell me and will help you any way I can; but you must understand that my role here is not formal, and—’
‘You’re tired,’ Gemo Cana said.
‘What?’
She stepped forward and studied him, her gaze direct, disconcerting. ‘It’s harder than you thought, isn’t it? Running an office, a city - a world. Especially as you must work by persuasion, consent.’ She walked around the room, ran a finger over the data slates fixed on the walls, and paused before the window, gazing out at the glistening rooftops of the Conurbation, the muddy blue-green of the canals. Hama could see the Spline ship rolling in the sky, a wrinkled moon. She said, ‘It was difficult enough in the era of the Qax, whose authority, backed by Spline gunships, was unquestionable.’
‘And,’ asked Hama, ‘how exactly do you know that?’
‘This used to be one of my offices.’
Hama reached immediately for his desktop.
‘Please.’ The girl, Sarfi, reached out towards him, then seemed to think better of it. ‘Don’t call your guards. Hear us out.’
He stood. ‘You’re a jasoft. Aren’t you, Gemo Cana?’
‘Oh, worse than that,’ Gemo murmured. ‘I’m a pharaoh … You know, I have missed this view. The Qax knew what they were doing when they gave us jasofts the sunlight.’
She was the first pharaoh Hama had encountered face to face. Before her easy authority, her sense of dusty age, Hama felt young, foolish, his precious philosophies half-formed. And he found himself staring at the girl; he hadn’t even known pharaohs could have children.
Deliberately he looked away, seeking a way to regain control of the situation. ‘You’ve been in hiding.’
Gemo inclined her head. ‘I spent a long time working in offices like this one, Hama Druz. Longer than you can imagine. I always knew the day would come when the Qax would leave us exposed, us pharaohs.’
‘So you prepared.’
‘Wouldn’t you? I was
‘He helps all the newborns.’
‘Why?’
‘How should I know? But it’s futile. The ocean rises and falls. Every time it comes a little closer, higher up the beach. Soon it will lap right up here, to the forest itself.’
‘We’ll have to go into the forest.’
‘Try that and Night will kill you.’
Night? Callisto looked into the forest’s darkness, and shuddered.
Asgard eyed Callisto with curiosity, no sympathy. ‘You really are a newborn, aren’t you?’ She dug her hand into the dust, shook it until a few grains were left on her palm. ‘You know what the first thing Pharaoh said to me was? “Nothing is real.” ’
‘Yes—’
‘ “Not even the dust. Because every grain is a whole world.” ’ She looked up at Callisto, calculating.
Callisto gazed at the sparkling grains, wondering, baffled, frightened. Too much strangeness.
I want to go home, she thought desperately. But where, and what, is home?
Two women walked into Hama’s office: one short, squat, her face a hard mask, and the other apparently younger, taller, willowy. They both wore bland, rather scuffed Occupation-era robes - as he did - and their heads were shaven bare.
The older woman met his gaze steadily. ‘My name is Gemo Cana. This is my daughter. She is called Sarfi.’
Hama eyed them with brief curiosity. The daughter, Sarfi, averted her eyes. She looked very young, and her face was thin, her skin sallow.
This was a routine appointment. Gemo Cana was, supposedly, a representative of a citizens’ group concerned about details of the testimony being heard by the preliminary hearings of the Truth Commission. The archaic words of family - daughter, mother - were still strange to Hama, but they were becoming increasingly more common, as the era of the Qax cadres faded from memory.
He welcomed them with his standard opening remarks. ‘My name is Hama Druz. I am an adviser to the Interim Coalition and specifically to the Commission for Historical Truth. I will listen to whatever you wish to tell me and will help you any way I can; but you must understand that my role here is not formal, and—’
‘You’re tired,’ Gemo Cana said.
‘What?’
She stepped forward and studied him, her gaze direct, disconcerting. ‘It’s harder than you thought, isn’t it? Running an office, a city - a world. Especially as you must work by persuasion, consent.’ She walked around the room, ran a finger over the data slates fixed on the walls, and paused before the window, gazing out at the glistening rooftops of the Conurbation, the muddy blue-green of the canals. Hama could see the Spline ship rolling in the sky, a wrinkled moon. She said, ‘It was difficult enough in the era of the Qax, whose authority, backed by Spline gunships, was unquestionable.’
‘And,’ asked Hama, ‘how exactly do you know that?’
‘This used to be one of my offices.’
Hama reached immediately for his desktop.
‘Please.’ The girl, Sarfi, reached out towards him, then seemed to think better of it. ‘Don’t call your guards. Hear us out.’
He stood. ‘You’re a jasoft. Aren’t you, Gemo Cana?’
‘Oh, worse than that,’ Gemo murmured. ‘I’m a pharaoh … You know, I have missed this view. The Qax knew what they were doing when they gave us jasofts the sunlight.’
She was the first pharaoh Hama had encountered face to face. Before her easy authority, her sense of dusty age, Hama felt young, foolish, his precious philosophies half-formed. And he found himself staring at the girl; he hadn’t even known pharaohs could have children.
Deliberately he looked away, seeking a way to regain control of the situation. ‘You’ve been in hiding.’
Gemo inclined her head. ‘I spent a long time working in offices like this one, Hama Druz. Longer than you can imagine. I always knew the day would come when the Qax would leave us exposed, us pharaohs.’
‘So you prepared.’
‘Wouldn’t you? I was
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