The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Eight

River was soundly asleep, surrounded by her flock, when it happened. Voices. In her mind. Unfriendly voices. She opened her eyes, immediately awake. They were not here yet. But they were coming. She could feel them coming. Five of them. Bad men. She swept aside her flock and bolted out of bed in her nightgown – one of Kaylee’s too-big hand-me-downs – and ran to the door of her room without turning on the light. She cracked the door a hair, just to confirm what she already felt. There they were. Five men. Four Sinic men in bad suits, garish ties, and uncomfortable shoes. The fifth man – he was the leader, she knew – was an Anglo who looked quite at home in his suit, even though he disliked the cut and color. He also disliked the four thugs in his employ. He thought they were incompetent. They had dishonorable intentions towards the Captain. Even if they didn’t know him or know why, they aimed to do him harm. She couldn’t allow that. He owed her. Four days. He pinky swore. Not making a sound she opened the door wider and padded across to the other hallway, unseen and unheard by the criminals who were searching for the Captain’s room. She was reeling, inside, and despite her own internal protests she was lighting up those areas of her mind that They had put there. The ones she hadn’t wanted. The special knowledge that seventeen-year old girls shouldn’t know. The ones They wanted her to have when they crafted her into a tool. She made it to Zoe and Wash’s door without a sound and without being noticed – They taught her that, too -- and tapped quickly three times. She waited ninety seconds and repeated. She was about to do it again when Zoe answered the door. “River. What is it?” she asked. She was naked. Her eyes were sleepy. They had just made love a while ago. Zoe had thought it was one of Wash’s better performances, although he lingered too maddeningly long on the foreplay. She smelled of sex and whiskey and bubblebath. “Captain’s in danger. Five men, armed. In the hallway. I’ll get Jayne.” And she walked away.

*

It was a fairly disconcerting thing to have River Tam wake you up in the middle of the night and tell you your Captain’s life was in danger. There was a part of her mind that wondered if the girl had just had an episode of unremitting craziness, that she was hallucinating the whole thing. Her brother had said that was possible. But Zoe didn’t take even imagined threats to Mal’s life lightly. She hurried to her bedside, where her beach bag was. “Hunnh?” Wash asked as she rooted around in the bag. “I dreamt I just had sex with the most beautiful, most passionate woman in the ‘verse, and she broke my spine in three places and then wanted to go get me a corned beef sandwich on fresh rye bread with caraway seeds and the brown mustard – not the spicy kind and not the yellow hot dog kind – but the brown deli kind and you aren’t even paying attention much less laughing what’s wrong?” “There’s a problem. River said that there’s bad guys goin’ after Mal.” “Honey,” he whined sleepily. “We’re on vacation! There can’t be bad guys!” “River said there are.” “She’s crazy! And worse case scenario he dies and you get the ship!” “And then you get to bunk with Jayne for the rest of your life ‘cause I was too pissed off at you to sleep with you.” “You can’t do this!” he protested. “Besides, you don’t have any—” he stopped as she pulled a sleek black semiautomatic pistol from her beach bag, checked the magazine, and chambered a round. The sound brought him to full consciousness. “Hey! We had a deal! No guns, no dinos! “ “It’s only a .38,” she said dismissively. “You promised!” “Take me to court later,” she shot back. “Besides, I know you stashed a stegosaur in your bag. The reddish one with the green spots, missin’ two spikes on its tail. In the zipper pocket you think I don’t know about.” “Honey! That’s private!” “You got a wife. Ain’t no such thing as private.” Wash sighed. “Zoë, be careful. You watch your back. What should I do?” “Sneak upstairs and wake up Simon. Might could use a doctor soon,” she said as she pulled on Wash’s latest Hawaiian monstrosity – she didn’t have time to dress proper. But it came half-way down her thighs, and only two buttons kept her from being totally naked. “Pants, honey?” he suggested as he rolled to the floor and looked up. “Just slow me down. Get the doc. Move!” “Yes, dear,” he said sourly to her back as he struggled awake. By the time she made it back to the door, a shirtless, shoeless Jayne was already in the hall, a tiny little pistol in his hand. She snorted derisively. “Where the hell did you get that? Cereal box?” “Souvenir shop,” he grunted. “Han Cobra .22?” “Cheap knockoff. Crazy girl said Cap’s in trouble.” “Yeah.” “You believe her?” “I’m standin’ in the hallway with no pants on. What do you think?” Jayne started to look. “I got a gun, though,” she reminded. He quit trying to look. They made their way quietly down the carpeted hallway and peered around the corner to where Mal’s room was. Sure enough, there were four ugly looking thugs in cheap suits and bad haircuts trying to figure out which door was his. Two were holding small, blunt objects of some kind, and one held a roll of duct tape. They were arguing about which of two doors it was. A fifth man stood off to the side, more observing and directing than participating. He didn’t look pleased. “How we gonna do this?” Jayne whispered. “I don’t see no guns,” she said, hesitantly. “Don’t mean they ain’t there. See the bulges?” “I know that. But we could probably get off a shot apiece, maybe two. They ain’t expectin’ it.” “We’re here in our underwear, Zoe,” Jayne protested. “Ain’t wearin’ no armor. I ain’t even got shoes on.” “I ain’t even got my panties on, so don’t whine about armorwhen my business is hangin’ out in a firefight. They ain’t got it either,” she pointed out. “That’s the plan. We pop out, shoot, take cover, see what happens.” “Good plan. What if Mal stumbles out?” “He’s smarter than that. I think,” she added. “And if he ain’t?” “Then don’t shoot him. He might take them by surprise.” “Sure is a lotta surprises goin’ ‘round. Regular gorram birthday party.” “Scared?” “Just tired and pissed off. S’posed to be on vacation. Let’s get this over with so I can get back to sleep.” “Good! Let’s go!” She leaned around the corner with her arm, shoulder, and one eye exposed, and popped off three quick shots. Jayne took two shots and ran for the other side of the corridor. Two of her shots hit, one in someone’s temple – sending a colorful spray of crimson all over the tasteful pink and green hallway and two of the remaining thugs – and one in the shoulder. Jayne had similar success, though not as dramatic, taking one man twice in the chest. Being a .22, there wouldn’t be a whole lot of damage, she guessed, at least not enough to drop him just yet. On the other hand, getting shot when you weren’t expecting it was bound to have a disconcerting effect on morale. The bad guys’ guns were out a moment or two later, the Anglo producing a chromed .45 automatic that barked like a cannon, two of the others who hadn’t yet been shot began fumbling clumsy-looking revolvers out of their coats. Obviously, they weren’t used to a shoulder holster. Their volley missed anything of importance, but gave Jayne an opportunity lie prone and put a round into the thigh of one of the man with the shoulder wound before rolling back around the corner. That was one of the reasons – one of the very few reasons – she liked working with Jayne. Once a course of action was decided, he didn’t hold back. He wasn’t stupid – in combat – and he wasn’t a coward. She had served with plenty of soldiers who had lacked one or both of those qualities. They were now mostly dead. She popped out again while they were shooting at Jayne, hit another one in the arm, then pulled back while they responded. She never did like that .38. Not nearly as accurate or satisfying as her shotgun, or her matched 9mm set. But it was small, concealable, and hard to notice. But the men were retreating down the hall toward the stairwell, the ones who weren’t bleeding into the very expensive carpet. “Let them go!” she told Jayne. “We just want them on the run!” “I ain’t chasin’ them with this gorram popgun!” he said with a snarl. “It’d have t’study long and hard to become a piece o’ crap!” Not stupid at all. She let fly another couple of rounds, more to keep them moving than stop them. Jayne moved forward, crouched low, until they disappeared into the stairwell. About that time Mal opened the door a crack, a small pistol of his own in his hand. He looked perplexed. “What’s—” “Down, Sir!” Zoe said, advancing close enough to grab him by the hand and pull him down the hall. “They came for you.” “For— for me?” he asked as he slid down the hall, Jayne covering the stairwell. “I’m fair certain. River warned me.” “River?” “Yeah, River. Woke us up, said they was coming.” “They?” “You don’t know anything about it?” she asked, surprised. “Not a gorram thing. Hey, I thought I said no guns,” Mal accused. “Guess it fell into my purse,” Zoe said unapologetically. “I got mine here from a street vendor,” Jayne said defensively. “I only brought knives. Maybe a grenade,” he admitted sullenly. ‘Or two.” “Consider yourselves on report,” Mal grunted, holding up his own pistol at the ready. “Where we going?” Zoe looked around. Her door was shut – Wash headed upstairs, she remembered, And she didn’t have the roomkey – where would she put it? “You got your key, Jayne?” she asked. “In my other pants.” “Chun zi!” “You ain’t lookin’ real bright yourself, nekkid lady.” She glanced around – saw an open door. “River’s room! Quick!” “I’m gonna take a look, I’ll catch up.” The mercenary went back towards the bodies. She didn’t argue. Even with only that toy in his hand, he was still one of the most dangerous men she knew. They withdrew in quiet haste. Zoe closed the door softly behind them, but stayed close to let Jayne in when he came back. She finally took a breath, turned to Mal. And couldn’t help but look. “Sir, didn’t realize you were . . . nude.” Mal looked down. “I was about to take a bath,” he shrugged. “’Sides, seems like it’s all the fashion.” He pointed out where Zoe’s Hawaiian shirt was holding together by virtue of a single button, the other one having popped off somewhere, exposing more of her midriff and parts south than she was truly comfortable with. She flushed – she didn’t know why, she just did it – and finished buttoning up. Mal picked up River’s bathrobe off the hook by the door, about the same time Jayne came back. “They’re gone – down the stairs to the basement, most likely. But lookee here,” he said, holding up a badly forged worker ID card. “We got some names, we got some guns,” he said, holding up two clunky pistols by their barrels, “and by the look of their tattoos, I’d say we got some Tong or other pissed off at us. Oh, an’ we got about eight hundred in cash an’ a tacky gold necklace.” Zoe rolled her eyes. “Jayne!” “What?” he asked, guiltily. “Not like they gonna need it any more.” Zoe sighed. It was too much to expect Jayne to refrain from stripping a corpse. “Tong?” Mal asked. “Triads? Red Rock Tong?” “I ain’t no expert,” Jayne said, shaking his head. “But I’d say its one of the older ones. Has that kinda style. Have no idea which one. Some device with a turtle takin’ a piss, or somethin’. Ain’t Red Rock – their turf’s pretty gorram far away from here. These incompetent gan ni niang are local.” He studied Mal a moment. “What’d you do to piss off a Tong?” “You sure it was me they were after?” “River said it was,” Zoe pointed out. “That ain’t particularly convincin’ for me, sorry,” Jayne said. “But then it ain’t like this hotel is ‘zactly crawlin’ with tourists at the moment. I think you’re the only one on that hall.” “Hell, I don’t know! I just went to the beach,” Mal said innocently. “Maybe they took issue with that.” Jayne snorted. “I seen you at the beach. They might, at that.” “Sure you didn’t . . . appropriate anything you weren’t rightly entitled to, Captain?” Zoe asked. “Not a thing, I swear. I’m on vacation.” Zoe wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him. Mal rarely outright lied to her – but there was something he was holding back. She didn’t push. He had his reasons, no doubt, and she trusted him. “Well, let’s camp out here ‘till Hubby gets back with the key. I—” Mal wasn’t paying attention – he was looking towards the bed. So was Jayne. She turned to see what had captivated them. “Wa cao!” she said, despite herself. All across River’s bed – and it was a big bed – and across her nightstand, her vanity, the windowsill, the top of the curtains, the lamp – pretty much every available space was covered. In tiny little origami birds. Made out of money. One-hundred credit denominations. There were hundreds. Maybe a thousand. “Huh,” Mal said, scratching his chin in surprise.

*

Three birds flying away. Two birds dead or dying. She couldn’t let them get away. Not without finding out. She had raced down the back stairs after waking up Jayne, she didn’t know why. The combat program that ran her brain right now said it was the tactically intelligent thing to do, so her body did it. She passed the lobby and made it to the basement, where the kitchens and laundry room and store rooms were. She found a way past piles of sheets and towels, through a forest of new mattresses, still in their packaging, and to the other stairwell. Then she slowly started up. She heard shots. She had expected that. Even though Mal had said no guns on this trip, both he and Zoe smelled like gun oil still. She trusted Jayne to likewise ignore the order. All to the good. She heard the door above her bang open – time to disappear. River leaped up and caught the lip on the underside of the stairway above her. It was a narrow strip of steel, and ‘L’ support used to brace the stairs. It was no more than three quarters of an inch wide – plenty of room. Her fingers found purchase, and she swung her feet up to press against the underside of the steps. And she waited. Three men exploded down the stairs, one holding his shoulder and bleeding all over the place. The Anglic man was covering the rear, his big gun out and smoking already. The other two had the stink of fear about them. The other man was calm, if discouraged about the sudden turn of events. She waited until the exact perfect moment, then let her feet fall below her, directly over the shoulders of the leader. With a precisely timed release she dropped down on him, hitting his shoulders and neck with her feet and sending him sprawling into the two thugs. They didn’t fall – although the wounded man screamed. No need for that. River did the math. She righted herself gracefully the instant her bare feet touched the concrete, her balance impeccable as much from thousands of hours dancing as they were from unarmed combat training. She reached out with one hand and grabbed the knotted necktie of the wounded bird, who was screaming and bleeding and scared. She pulled his head into a collision course with the stair rail at the same time she poked his larynx with two straightened fingers on her right hand. They didn’t break the skin, but they shattered any hope he would ever breathe normally again – if at all. The rail hit his temple and sent him tumbling, the side of his head and the gleaming white rail both bright red. One bird gone, and not scared any more. The other bird looked around, frantically pointing his gun at shadows, at his ally, at the ceiling – but not at her. Perhaps he didn’t see a teenager as a threat. Or perhaps he just couldn’t see her. They taught her that, too. She reached out from behind him and delicately cradled his ears with her palms. Before he could react she quickly turned his head a hundred and twenty degrees to the left. There was an unpleasant noise, a spasm, a smell as the nascent corpse emptied its bowels, and a half-sigh as its last lungful of air escaped from his lips. Just like wringing the neck of a chicken. Two birds gone. The third bird was already getting up. He was more resilient, she noticed. More experienced. The others had been brutal bullies. This one was a bird of prey. For a full second their eyes locked, when he turned around, pistol out and pointing at her. That was all she needed, that instant of connection. She knew what she wanted from him. She could see the muscles on the back of his hands tense as he prepared to fire, and she knew four separate ways she could avoid that bullet. She chose method two, and dropped to her knees, one foot daintily out. The bullet missed her forehead by eight inches – though she could feel the shockwave the bullet created – and the eyes of the man – Colonel Campbell, she read, a veteran of the War and current wanted criminal – widened. He didn’t spare her another glance. He flew through the door into the utility level, where he would take a side entrance outside, run up three blocks to a rented flier, and flutter away. It didn’t matter. She got what she needed from him. Looking down, she saw both bodies quiver as their neurons became aware of the fact that they were dead. She shrugged began cover operations. She used the blood of the wounded one to write a pictogram indicating revenge fulfilled, and the chop of . . . she picked the White Lotus Society, a particularly vicious Tong headquartered in Londinium. That should throw off suspicion; give the authorities something to worry about besides a bunch of hapless tourists. A Tong from the central planets, one of the oldest and nastiest, taking revenge on a local group – interstellar gangland warfare was not unknown, of course, but it was rare, expensive and unusually bloody. But it sucked up the attention of security investigators like a vacuum. She turned and walked calmly up the stairs, ready to be the “helpless little teenager” trying to find out what was going on, should the authorities ask questions. She headed to her room, stepping around the two bodies in the hallway. She yawned. She needed a nap.

*

*

*

The meeting was not going well. The Ginger Group was a real estate consortium whose usual method of making a profit was based on buying up huge tracts of land on newly Certified worlds, then re-selling smaller parcels at a high profit. They had interests on seven worlds, now, and assets in the hundreds of billions. Epiphany had been on their investing radar for a while, now, and they had been intrigued by the personal invitation to tour the new world. They were less pleased, now. Inara had directed the servants to prepare the Observatory for the meeting. It was the casual sort of meeting, the kind where the real deals were made between moguls before things were turned over to lawyers and financial officers. The stars were out, and a glorious night’s ocean breeze wafted in from the wide windows. The centerpiece of the room was, of course, an ancient-looking brass telescope. But along the periphery of the round room were chairs, coffee tables, lamps, and a fireplace hologram, which she had programmed on low. A tasteful array of beverages was ready at the bar, and two trays of hors d’orves were laid out on a convenient table. She had chosen the background music – Holdt’s Tripudio Astrum suite for violins and bells – because it had a hopeful, optimistic character and a soft base that would be persuasive. The lighting was likewise soft, a warm pink glow that was just dim enough to cause the pupils of the eyes of the group to dilate, encouraging them to like the presentation. Her own gown was a formal but stylish blue with gold ornaments – not her favorite by any means, nor a great color for her – but the light would be dim and blue was a trust-building color. She dressed Mason in a dark blue evening jacket of raw silk, an ascot tie, and cream-colored trousers. The wine was a delicate Merovingian white, twenty years old and tastefully expensive. Likewise the scents she chose for the evening, lavender, cucumber, and rosemary, were designed to encourage favorable decisions. She had drawn the line at drugs – not that she couldn’t do it (she had been trained in the preparation and administration of all sorts of drugs, from raw opium to experimental mood drugs so rare they hadn’t yet developed “street names”) but she found it was usually unethical and unwise to so alter a person’s condition when this much money was at stake. Companions who did that often discovered unintentional repercussions. Despite her best efforts, though, things were not going well. The Ginger Group sent four members of their Board to Epiphany on a fact-finding mission. Three men and a woman. She had studied their dossiers on the cortex until late last night, and had done her best to ensure that their individual tastes were taken into account. Mario Weston, of Ariel, 71 year old Secretary to the Group, and leader of this delegation. Preferred white wines to red, had a penchant for traditional forms of entertainment – the “timeless classics” – and was a sourpuss, it was reported between the lines, since the moment he struggled out of his mother’s womb. Jerome P. Cho, of Londinium, 55 years old, Member of the Board. He was a motorsports mavin, sponsoring teams in everything from go-cart racing to competitive interplanetary sailing. Had a history of picking investments others had passed up, turning them into fortunes orders of magnitude larger than forecasters ever dreamed. Rising star within the investment community. Carol Watson-Andrews, of Isis, 53 year old Head of New Business. As tough as anyone in the room, and shrewed beyond her years. She could take a part a prospectus like Jayne could field-strip a rifle, figure out if it was worth it, and if it wasn’t she never wanted to see it again. Hated wasting time. Her business was real estate – her hobby was real estate. When she relaxed at home, she played around with real estate. Meyer Weinman, who lived on his luxury-liner-yacht the New Empire, the 60 year old founder of New Empire Development, with substantial holdings in Honda-Garret, Linstock Services, Blue Sun, Xiao Imperial Construction, Braun Shipyard, and a hundred lesser companies. A tycoon’s tycoon. His mammoth “yacht” had been the vehicle for the group to visit, and was now orbiting overhead. Rumor had it that his ambition was to be the sole owner of an entire world – something that hadn’t happened since the days before the Alliance. All four were tough, hyper-competent businesspeople who would not be swayed by light music, hors d’ovres, or lavender scented charm. She could have stripped naked and masturbated for their amusement and it wouldn’t have made a difference. They wanted numbers. They spoke in numbers. They had seen numbers. The meeting was not going well. “Biggest problem I see,” the venerable Mr. Weston said in a slow, creaking voice, “is that you’re too damn far from the center of things out here. We’re almost on the Rim! How are you going to attract clients when you are so gorram far from civilization?” “We’re bringing civilization here,” Mason said, smiling confidently. “Anything you could find back in the central worlds, you will be able to find here.” “Hmph. Maybe eventually. But that still doesn’t answer the security issue. What if there’s another war? Or these Reavers that people whisper about? Too far from help if you need it.” “The Alliance is everywhere,” Mason shot back. “There’s a cruiser, at least, skulking around within a day of here at all times. And that’s in addition to the two stations in orbit – both fitted with the latest security features. Top of the line stuff, best men money could hire.” “Only two platoons, though,” Cho pointed out. “Not even a full company. And those missile batteries are impressive – but how long could they last against a determined enemy? Hate to sink a ton of money in this place just to have it sacked at some later date.” “Or taken over by peasants,” Watson pointed out, sniffing disdainfully. “I saw in your prospectus that your labor force is almost entirely made up of, or descended from, bondsmen involved in the riots on Yuan a few generations back. While I’m sure the rebellion has been beaten out of them, the Yuanese have a strong traditional sense that makes me think that rebellion could flare back up at any moment.” “Why would you say that? There hasn’t been any serious trouble among the servile class here in decades. And as we have allowed them to stay on our little paradise, providing excellent work opportunities for their children and a stake in the future of the world, why would they? Their conditions are far preferable to those on Yuan, or any of the other Sinic Core worlds. Here, they have a future. Rebellion would be foolish.” “That hasn’t stopped it before,” Weinman said, drinking his wine like it was water. “Remember a little group that everyone thought was nothing, just ten years ago? The Independents, I think they were called?” he asked, sarcastically. “Everyone thought they wouldn’t amount to anything – it’d be foolish, people said, for them to rise up. Today some worlds still have an insurgency going on – it just doesn’t make the news very often.” “There is absolutely no indication at all that the servile class is even considering such a course,” Mason said, flatly. “Our internal security is better than on the Core worlds. Less people to police.” “I’m just saying,” Weinman grunted. “It can happen.” “It can happen anywhere. Most new worlds aren’t even remotely ready to handle something like that. On Epiphany, we could quash any kind of worker rebellion inside two days.” “What about crime?” Watson asked, pointedly. “Outside of your labor camps, your security seems light. I saw the news about the hotel shooting in Apex last night. Four dead? That’s as much as Ariel City has in six months!” “That was an unrelated gang killing,” Mason assured. “Our investigators are looking into it. You have Triads and gangs in the Core, and they try to spread their filth wherever they can. It didn’t involve a single guest, although I admit it was disturbing.” Mason shrugged. “An unfortunate, isolated incident. It happens.” Weston grunted. The others didn’t look impressed. “Now that we’ve dwelt on the negatives, let’s review some selling points,” he continued, brightly. “More beach-front property than . . . well, than damn near anywhere. Nice, gentle mountain ranges, fertile land, and soon, the best entertainment facilities outside of the Core! That’s got to be a draw, don’t you think?” “It will get people here,” Weinman said, “at least for holiday. What’s to make them stay?” “How about a beneficial tax program? How about state-of-the-art geriatric and medical facilities – like nothing else on the Rim! How about high quality of life, low cost of living, and a problem-free ecosphere?” “So far,” grumbled Watkins. “You’ve only started the Certification process. Has the Alliance inspection team even arrived yet?” “Next year,” Mason admitted. “But that’s why you should get in now, before both the stock and the real-estate prices go up.” “And if they go down?” Cho asked, eyebrows raised. “You’ll be slightly less wealthy for a very short period of time,” Inara interrupted. “Consider: the central worlds are getting crowded. There are over three billion people each on Londinium and Sihnon, a billion apiece on Yuan, Osiris, Xiao, Ariel, Isis, and exploding populations on Merovingia, Greenleaf, Persephone, Verbana, Boros, Odin, and about a dozen others. The Core worlds are getting crowded, my friends, and despite your vast estates on those worlds, you will, eventually have neighbors. “Development will continue, and continue, and continue. The populations will expand, political instability will be inevitable, and eventual civil war and revolution will occur. You can, and will, spend a great deal of money and influence keeping that in check. In the meantime, you and your clients will lose tremendously. “Banks can be nationalized. Stock markets crash. Governments fail. But tell, me, my friends, where else can you and your clients settle where there will be no massive development? Where the banks are relatively independent – and out of the eyes of the government, present and future? Epiphany is remote. You said so yourself. Where, in the future, will it be safer to enjoy your affluence: back in the central worlds among rioting throngs, or out here, where you can be as a lord in a well-defended paradise?” She looked at the faces while they absorbed what she said. It had risen spontaneously, the result of hours of conversation with Mason and her own knowledge of economics. It wasn’t something she enjoyed saying – she loved the Alliance and believed in its importance with all of her heart. But she had studied history, and politics, as well as so many other things. She knew, even as she said it, that it was inevitable, and the realization stabbed at her. Why would the elite of the Core invest so much in Epiphany, when all the trappings of civilization were easily available there? Because they were worried. They could have turned any of the moons closer into what Epiphany had been designed to be: a golden fortress – on the edge of the wilderness. Small population. Excellent defenses. Favorable business climate – but not business here. Epiphany, she realized, was to be an island of affluence in a sea of poor – but weak – worlds. A retreat from strife, should lawlessness and totalitarianism ever come again. A control room for the Alliance economy, with no natural assets to raid or covet. Just beaches, rich people, and more beaches. Epiphany meant that the powerful were preparing to abandon the Core. Oh, they would still control everything, but they would not have to see the painful struggles as the populations soared. Population pressure was the root cause to most human conflict. It was widely supposed in academic circles that the present Alliance would hold together a century or two – no more – before the political issues of population became expressed . . . violently. And Epiphany was guaranteed – by law – to have an artificially low, very wealthy population. The citizens here could sit by and escape the crumbling. Even participate, through proxies, while the Alliance descended into anarchy. “More wine?” she asked, her throat dry.