The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Thirty Eight

When Inara found out that they were coming to Athens, she was very pleased. She liked Athens. It didn’t really have a super-rich client base, but the clients in the register it did have were well-mannered, cultured, and interesting men – and a few women. She liked this world. It was pretty. The beautiful skylines gleamed with white marble mountains and rolling green hills. The air was sweet with the smell of grassland. The sky traffic was light, though greater than she remembered, and mostly confined to the commercial region around Acropolis. That was where the heart of the industrial section was, mile after mile of factories surrounded my mile after mile of low-cost housing. The smog around the city was starting to be a problem, she noted. She had checked the cortex as a matter of course before she entered atmo. The crime rate was increasing, the unemployment rate wasn’t great, and picketers and protesters of one sort or another haunted the Forum in front of the Archon’s Palace. But Inara wasn’t going to Acropolis. In the wide blue expanse of deep blue water known as the Posidenic Sea, just off the province known as Arcadia, was a beautiful archipelago known for artist colonies and scenic vistas. A number of small, semi-independent communities had sprung up on these islands, communities that attracted the cultured intelligentsia. One of these islands was New Lesbos. It was a feminist community almost entirely populated by women who preferred the company of other women. A town of the same name stood on the eastern end, rising out of the sea dramatically. It had a beautiful main plaza full of quaint shops and boutiques, incredible bistros, and intriguing galleries. In the center was a Classical Greek temple in (what else?) white marble, in which resided a fifteen-foot tall statue of Sappho, the famous and infamous Greek poetess who had become the icon of female love and lesbian sexuality. The Temple dominated the town. It was a beautiful artistic expression, and the scene of many romantic encounters. Inara was here to renew her acquaintance with an old client. And to get some advice. She flew the shuttle just south of town and set it down about a mile away, in front of an adorable, well-appointed cottage. A woman in a long yellow dress and straw hat was in the garden planting posies. She beamed and waved when she saw the shuttle, and Inara smiled to herself and waved back, though there was no chance the woman could see her. In moments she repeated the wave and got the desired response – an elegant woman in her sixties was embracing her fondly, her hat thrown back to reveal a regal crown of silver hair. “Bao bei!” the older woman said, crying with joy. “Juh jen sh guh kwai luh duh jean jan ! I never thought I’d see you again!” “Darling, would you believe I was in the neighborhood?” Inara asked, laughing. “When I found out I was coming, I had to stop in!” “How long?” the woman asked, suddenly. “For the day, at least?” “Oh, at least that long,” Inara assured. “Now let me look at you!” she said, holding the woman at arm’s length. “I can’t believe how good you look! You haven’t aged a day!” “My love, lies like that may work on men, but don’t waste them on me!” the woman reproved gently. “I feel like the grandmother I am. But you . . . you are no longer the little girl I knew! You look magnificent!” A worried look crossed her face. “You are practicing, still, are you not? You aren’t . . . married, or anything, are you?” “Still have my license, in good standing,” assured Inara. “But that wouldn’t stop me from a visit!” Debra Kolcheck was once a brilliant philosophy professor at the main university on Sihnon. She had retained Inara very early in her career – was, in fact, the very first female client she had ever serviced. The two had become friends and had even exchanged occasional waves over the years, after Debra emigrated to Athens. Like many of her old clients, Inara had lost touch with her since she left the Core. Unlike many of her clients, she eagerly looked forward to their time together. “I am so glad, sweetheart! My goddess, you are a vision. So lovely!” “Not half as lovely as your garden,” Inara said approvingly, looking around. Unlike many Athenian gardens it wasn’t polluted by gaudy sculpture. Instead it boasted a subtle interplay of beautiful greenery and flowers. A single sundial/birdbath was the only non-natural decoration. It was a beautiful living work of art, subtle and sublime. “Then the two should be combined,” agreed Debra, plucking a beautiful white lily from its bed and placing it behind Inara’s ear. “Perfect! Come, let’s have some wine!” she said, leading her to the back of the cottage where a simple stone table and benches were set. She poured a local vintage form an elegant ewer and toasted her Companion. They spent an hour just catching up, enjoying the temporary twilight as the sun was eclipsed by the gas giant above. When most of the wine was gone and the sun was starting to break again, Debra led her inside her home and sat her down on a simple couch. “Now, before we proceed further, I warn you that I don’t have the . . . resources I once had,” she said, a little nervously. “I don’t know what your current rates are, but—” “Hush, bao bei!” Inara said, placing a fingertip on her lips. “The Mother House isn’t looking over my shoulder, now. As long as my dues are paid, I can charge what I will. And for you . . . I’m prepared to be generous. Because I plan on taking some out in trade.” “In trade?” Debra asked, confused. “But I’m . . . I’m a philosopher!” “Exactly. And I have need of some guidance. Philosophical guidance. I was hoping you would help me put something in perspective, help me . . . help me work through it. It’s big. Bigger than I ever dreamed. Bigger than I can handle. So I need your help.” “Well, of course, darling. I’m more than happy to,” she said, cautiously. “You aren’t . . . in trouble, are you?” “Well,” conceded Inara, looking away, “Personally speaking, I’m traveling with a tramp freighter full of outlaws, rebels, and fugitives from justice on a hopeless quest for an ancient lost treasure at the moment. But other than that . . .” “Oh, that sounds simply romantic!” “It has its moments,” she agreed. “Of course, there are days I’d give it all up for a half-hour in a bubble bath. With candles . . .” “Oh, don’t be silly! I’m sure you’ve had just amazing adventures.” “Yes,” admitted Inara, standing and stretching. “Yes I have. All kinds. I’ve done things I never thought I’d do back at the Mother House. I’ve met people . . .well, I’ve met some interesting people.” “And one in particular that interests you. Don’t deny it, I can see it in your eyes!” “Nothing serious. Nothing that could work out. I’ll probably leave, soon, settle someplace out here.” “Out here? You wouldn’t return to Sihnon?” “No,” she said, smiling. “I’ve seen Sihnon. I might find someplace out-of-the-way. Maybe found a temple. Now,” she said unfastening her topcloak and letting it fall to the floor. The wine was making her cheeks flush. “Would you care to indulge in a little pre-dinner entertainment?” Debra eyed her with a growing hunger. “I’m assuming that you don’t mean a game of chess,” she said softly. “We could,” the Companion said, innocently. “But I had something else in mind. Perhaps we could zhou ai'?” She let the rest of her gown fall to the floor, making a silken puddle at her feet. She stood there unclothed, the sound of songbirds in the distance. She inhaled deeply, her breast rising enchantingly. Debra studied her with unabashed lust. “No, right now I don’t want to zhou ai',. Right now I want to gan tsao . . . and nee yin. The local girls, they are enthusiastic, but . . . unskilled. You, my dear, you have raised a passion within me I thought lost with age.” She lifted her hand to unfasten her own gown, never taking her eyes off Inara’s naked form. “You are beautiful. Lovely. Perfect.” She took three steps, and she was in Inara’s arms, their lips dancing madly across each other, their tongues dueling softly. Inara waited a few moments before she broke away, though she never moved her lips more than an inch away from Debra’s. “Here? Or in the bedroom?” she asked breathlessly. “Neither,” Debra insisted in a hoarse whisper. “In the garden.”

*

*

* Julian hated having workmen onboard. Not only were they wandering blithely through secure areas, they symbolized something that Julian found unbearable. Not only had his prey escaped, but he had almost lost his ship in the process. The frigate was tough. She had seen battle before. And Sinclair had fought her well – no, fought her brilliantly. But the destroyer masquerading as a barge had been deceptively tough, and commanded by a genius. A two-hour battle had reduced both ships to half-powered hulks, with large sections of the Relentless depressurized smoking ruins. Over half of his men were dead. In the end, the Relentless had lost drive power, and the pirate had limped away. It had taken two weeks to tow her to the shipyard at Madonna, and another month – and thousands of credits – to get the worst of the hull damage and the engines repaired. Since then the repairs had concentrated on internal systems, and that work was drawing to a close. She was almost ready. In a matter of days . . . While his ship was healed in orbit, Julian and Sinclair had been conducting interviews on the ground to replenish their lost manpower. The pickings were slim, but the bounty they offered lured the best of the paramilitary mercenaries and professional security people in the system to their employ. Nothing compared to the finely honed team they had started with, but he wasn’t really in a position to be choosy. They had warm bodies and guns. More than a third were convicted criminals. He told himself it was a temporary measure and gritted his teeth. It was bad enough to consider the financial cost and the price they’d paid in blood. What added insult to injury was the fact that he’d had to sub out tracking that damned Firefly to lesser bounty hunters. He had a half-dozen independent contractors scouring the ‘verse on the lookout for them, now. Idiots. Brutes. Thugs. But necessary, until he could continue the job himself. And for the first time they had paid off. Three days ago he had received a wave from one of the independents – a nasty little shit named Fox, Ramses Fox – who had picked up the Firefly’s trail at the dusty rock called Hamlet. The ship had pulled in, refueled, and pulled out. The landing gear had barely touched down. And his agents on Salisbury had reported a possible sighting, although the evidence was inconclusive. It may well have been another Firefly. But the sighting at Hamlet, that had been a positive ID. He was anxious to be underway. He had a score to settle. And a galaxy to save. That was one of the more disturbing things about that ship. It had just disappeared for two months, popped out of the ‘verse, it seemed. Then it reappears, lands at Hamlet, and skulks back off into the Black. That made him nervous, especially after what poor Randy had told him. He wasn’t certain how much to believe Randy. He had always been a solid guy, a good tactical man with an excellent grasp of explosives. Never had an occasion to doubt him before. But now he was telling a tale about a Browncoat mind-reading machine. How much stock could he put in that? If it was true, then that pretty much confirmed the theory that the Tams and their minions were plotting something tragically devastating, something to overthrow the Alliance. They had been off the radar for two months. They could have put anything together. But what? And where? If the mind reading machine was part of the plan, that didn’t bode well. His thoughts were interrupted by Sinclair, who came in with a flexi and a haggard expression. Despite the stress of the last few months he was still firmly in control and calm. He blamed himself for losing the battle at Salisbury. He blamed himself for all the deaths among his crew. He blamed himself for allowing the Tams to get away. But he never said anything. He never expressed it. Julian admired and respected that. “I just saw the repair foreman,” he said, handing him the flexi. “He wants to meet with you. He did say we should be at 100% in three days, assuming he gets the parts he needs. Maybe four, depending upon how things go with the wiring.” “Good,” Julian grunted. “I’m sick of this place. I’m sick of paella. I want to get back on track and nail those gan ni niang to a south facing board and start shooting at their toes, and work my way up. I want to find out where the hell they are, what the hell they’re doing, and who the hell they’re doing it with.” “Shouldn’t we consider the profit and loss ratio?” Sinclair asked, simply. “If we took both of them alive, right now, we’d still be in the hole. Even with our blue-handed friends paying what they said, we’d lose money.” “I’m guessing that if we get the Tams, their associates will also have a fair price on their heads. We can use that as our profit. But Sinclair?” “Yes?” “This isn’t about profit anymore.” “I figured that. That’s why I had more drones brought in,” he said, gesturing towards the flexi. “We wont be able to replace the guns for a while, not until we go back to the Core, but I managed to get another dozen drones in. And some missiles, although I am not convinced of their effectiveness. War surplus, and the warheads are pretty dated. But we can’t really afford to adhere to our usual standards.” “Agreed,” Julian said with a sigh. “How about our new troops?” “Quentin has them down on the surface now, training. They’ll be ready to go after a nigh on the town. And more good news: if we can link up with them, there’s a merc unit out of Greenleaf that’s looking for work. Called Ranji’s Rangers. They’re between assignments right now, and we can get them cheap. Which is good. Scroll down and look at the repair bill.” Julian did so. “Tzau ni Daye! This can’t be right!” “It did seem a little high. He claims that he had to bring in extra help, and that some of the parts were at a premium. I figure he’s inflated everything by about twenty-five percent over standard. That’s why he wants to talk to you. He wants to get paid.” “Send the gorram extortionist in,” Julian snarled. “I’ll deal with him.” A moment later he and the repair foreman were shouting at each other over the bill. The mechanic insisted that he’d not only had to hire extra workers, but that he had to turn down work from some of his regulars. Julian screamed back that this amounted to fraud, which was a criminal offense – though this didn’t seem to faze the man much. They screamed back and forth for a while, essentially haggling – a practice Sinclair loathed, but Julian was familiar with. They had to stop when a wave came through. It was Fox. Julian excused himself immediately and took the call while the mechanic waited patiently. It was clear he was not leaving without some money. “What is it?” he barked at the pickup. “Just thought you’d be interested in this,” Fox said. He had a nasty reputation as a cruel bastard, a former Browncoat who cut his teeth working behind enemy lines, and he looked the part. His nose had been broken several times, his face was crisscrossed with scars, and he had a permanent sneer. There was a maniacal gleam in his eye which Julian didn’t like – but it did mean he’d found something. “Go on.” “I tracked the Firefly from Hamlet. You’ll never guess where they went!” “My Great Aunt Sadie’s chamber pot. Just tell me, gorram it!” “Athens. I entered orbit right behind them – oh, they didn’t see me, didn’t even know I was there.” “Athens?” Julian repeated, surprised. “Affirmative. Funny thing is, as soon as they entered atmo their signal, it just disappeared. I did a little research, and I found something funny.” “Good, I could use a laugh.” “Someone locked down a place, just outside of the capital. Locked it down tighter than a twelve-year-old. For all practical purposes, it just disappeared off of the gorram map! I dug a little deeper, found that someone used an old Alliance Intelligence code, one from the Security Services. Problem is, you can’t get an exact location if they use that particular code. So I have no gorram clue where the ship is. But it definitely is on Athens.” “An Intel code? You sure?” “I’d stake my reputation on it.” “That’s . . . not a large wager.” “It’s a gorram Intel code, okay? I saw plenty of them in the war. Purplebellies wanted to work a prisoner over, they use the code and none of the pickups work, you can’t fly in, whole gorram area gets shut down. It’s pretty humpin’ thorough!” “Great! Let me know if the situation changes.” “Wait! Who the hell is this guy?” “It’s ‘need to know’, Fox,” Julian explained tiredly. “And you don’t. But the Captain isn’t the main target, understand. But he’s a mean SOB, name o’ Reynolds, and he’s likely to shoot first. It’s been said that he took out Jubal Early.” “It’s gotta be pretty big, if y’all are involved,” the big man reasoned. “Probably lots of swag involved. Big reward.” “Don’t, I repeat Do Not attempt to go after these people,” warned Julian. “Not unless you’ve grown tired of life. I lost two tac squads and damn near lost my ship chasing them.” “They shot up the Relentless?” “Badly,” admitted Julian. “Bad enough so I gotta hire scum like you to keep an eye out while we get shipshape again.” “I do got somethin’ else,” the big man admitted. “Might could be a clue.” “What’s that?” “Can’t find the ship. But it launched a shuttle before she entered. And that shuttle ain’t covered by this code. Could be that they ditched the transport and escaped in the shuttle.” “Could be that your mother probably should have given your daddy a handjob the night you were conceived, too,” snapped Julian. “You leave them the hell alone. You screw this up, I’ll see to it that you’re getting gang humped on a daily basis by hairy sex-crazed slaves on some nameless icy rock for the rest of your pathetic life. You leave the gorram brainwork to us.” “Easy!” Fox said. “I ain’t gonna screw with it. If it humped up that gorram warship o’ yours, I got no need for a piece o’ that. I’m content to sit here and wait for them to leave the world.” “Good. Remember: any changes, you come to me before you think about thinking. Dong ma?” “Yeah, yeah. You just get here with my money, soon, or I might forget that part.” “I’ll be there. Repairman says we’ll be spaceworthy in three days.” He looked at the mechanic. “But it might be two. So stay vigilant.” When the connection was broken, Julian turned back to the repair foreman. “So, I take it you heard all of that. So I should not have to impress upon you the importance of completing repairs in a timely fashion. I have criminals to catch, and dead men to avenge.” “And I have my men to pay,” he shot back. “And if I don’t see some money now, you will never catch that ship.” “Fine! I give you half now, half when we launch. Who’s account do I send it to?” “Sanchez Brothers Repair and Salvage,” the man said. “My name is Jorge Sanchez. And I swear I will take care of you. You have my word.”

*

*

* Fox severed his connection with Julian, his sneer increasing in intensity as his disdain for the self-righteous bounty-hunter grew. Once a cop, always a cop. It was pathetic. And insulting. Here he was, the only one of a dozen independents who had had the brains and balls to track the Firefly this far, and that ji bai Julian wanted him to sit on his hands while he dragged his lazy ass and his big boat half-way across the ‘verse to handle it. What did he expect him to do? Play babysitter? Not when he could be earning good coin. He and his boys needed to eat, after all. Micah and Tonk were big guys, and needed a lot of feeding. More mercs than bounty hunters, they pulled their weight and had proven valuable over and over again. Both had been with him since the War. They’d stay with him forever . . . but they were more manageable when they were paid. The fact that the Hammer Group was involved was telling. They were professionals, big time, and more than half their work was running clandestine ops for corps or Feds. It took a lot of brass to keep that money-pit they called a ship in the Black – so whatever they were after, it was worth far more than the pittance they were paying him to sit here and wait. Fox hated waiting. He stared at the monitor where that shuttle signal blinked, big as life, and taunted him. Regardless of where that Firefly was hiding, he knew where that shuttle was. The comment about Early had troubled him a might. Early was a badass in a profession of badasses. He had brought in more high-end captures than any single bounty hunter in living memory. A man who had taken out Early, well, he did deserve some consideration. Personally, Fox disliked the man – not for the quality of his work, but on a personal level. Arrogant bastard. Always talking. You could not shut Early up. Fox was of the opinion that Early made his captures by boring them into a stupor. Especially about how great he was, how deadly, how professional. And about that gorram midget. Just for giggles, Fox looked up Reynolds. In moments a fragmented dossier appeared on his monitor, and Fox raised his eyebrows. Reynolds had been a Browncoat – not that that was an impediment to his capture. Fox had worked on former comrades before. He only felt bad about it occasionally, and sometimes it was a pure pleasure. And this guy was special. He had been at Serenity Valley, where the war was lost. He had commanded the defense there – or had been left in command when everyone else was wiped out. Yes, that was a deadly man. No doubt. Serenity had been a meat grinder of a battle, a long, tortuous meat-grinder. And apparently he had a sick humpin’ sense of humor, because he had named the rattletrap he now flew Serenity. Sick son of a bitch, Reynolds. But there were no serious outstanding warrants. Reynolds had faded from being one of the Browncoats most impressive warriors to being a petty smuggler and hired gun. Hardly the kind of man that would attract heat like the Hammer Group dealt with. So there must be more to it. A lot more. Fox sat there and stared back and forth from the dossier screen to the telemetry monitor. He thought about it. That shuttle was a concrete tie to that ship. Either Reynolds was on it, or someone important to Reynolds, or some cargo important to Reynolds. It could be bait for a trap, Fox conceded to himself – and there was no way of making that determination without going there and seeing for himself. Worst case scenario: he would find nothing, and alert Reynolds to the fact someone was looking for him. If he didn’t know that by now, though, Reynolds didn’t deserve to live. Best case scenario: Reynolds and whatever it was that Julian was so anxious about was actually on the shuttle, just waiting to be picked up. Fox really didn’t see much downside. It would take Julian and his butt-buddies a week to get here, minimum. By that time Fox could have the whole thing tidied up, a fat reward in his pocket, and the leisure time to spit in Julian’s eye for insulting him. He had the firepower, he reasoned – he was all about some firepower. His time as a Browncoat commando on Boros had made him a dangerous man, and his bounty license gave him broad discretionary powers when it came to apprehending a capture. And snaking a capture out from under the nose of Julian, well, that wouldn’t do his rep any harm at all. Hell, the reward for whatever-it-was he was chasing, well that had to be orders of magnitude higher than the babysitting money he was making now. He thought about it for another half-hour and then decided. Fox hated waiting.

*

*

*

The village of Lesbos at dusk had that magical quality, when it was still bright enough to see detail but dark enough so that the smallest light shone like a beacon. Debra had brought Inara to her favorite little café for dinner. They had walked the whole way, barefoot, after they had made passionate love in Debra’s magnificent garden. They still had smudges of soil here and there, and the occasional blade of grass still clung to their hair. Inara was pleasantly sated in a way she didn’t feel with a man – not better, just different. She was also sore. She had grass burns on her knees. But the lily in her ear had not moved. Café Bilitis was a whitewashed adobe building in front of the temple, with twice as many tables outside on the plaza than inside. Wonderful aromas involving wood fires and chicken and garlic filled the air, and there seemed to be a never-ending supply of red table wine somewhere in the back. Debra ordered for them both, choosing half a roasted chicken on a bed of wild rice with olives and peppers on the side for herself and an enormous spinach salad with the local version of feta, olives, and sardines for Inara. The Companion ate with gusto, draining glass after glass of wine and eating flatbread dipped in olive oil between bites of salad. A young woman with a violin It was an amazingly good meal. “Darling, what is this trouble you were telling me about?” Debra asked, when she had run short of lover’s repartee. “I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of anything you might have encountered that would require the services of a philosopher. Since I’ve come up with nothing . . .” “It concerns the Alliance,” Inara said with a sigh. “I’ve recently discovered something disturbing.” She went on to tell her old friend how she had discovered the plan by the ultra-rich to abandon the central planets to inevitable self-destruction in favor of heavily guarded enclaves like Epiphany. She related her misgivings about the whole thing, how she saw it as a betrayal of a sacred trust, and how she felt absolutely helpless in the face of it. Debra sighed. “I’m sorry, love,” she said, patting her hand. “It is never easy to learn the ugly truths in life. The fact is, as soon as we think all has been revealed to us, that the old lies of childhood and adolescence have been swept away in adulthood, we discover that there is a whole new set of assumptions and beliefs that are, in essence, illusions. And it gets no easier with age. In fact, in some ways it gets worse. This wealthy diaspora of which you speak . . . I’ve known about it for a while.” “What?” “I have. I was consulted on something like this several times over the years at the University. Your rich men, they are, unfortunately, correct. The Core worlds will fall. It’s inevitable.” “I refuse to believe that!” Inara insisted. “They have a moral obligation to see it right!” “No, my dear, they don’t,” Debra said, sadly. “What I mean by that is this isn’t an issue that can be cured by money. The problem isn’t financial, you see. Not really. It’s cultural.” “How do you mean?” The darkness had fallen now, and the late summer breeze gently blew the single candle at their table into paroxysms that caused the light to dance engagingly across the older woman’s face. “I mean that the Core planets need more than mere markets to survive. They need fresh input, cultural input. Londinium and Sihnon especially, but the others as well. A hundred years ago they were vibrant, rich cultures. Now? Not nearly as much. Much of the intellectual fire that once kept the balloon of their culture aloft has left . . . has come out to the Rim to seek its fortune.” “But . . . but the people who leave the Core to settle outwards, those are just factory workers . . . farmers! Not the educated. Not the intelligentsia!” “Sweetie, where do you think the intelligentsia come from?” Debra asked, amused. “Think about the great thinkers on Sihnon in the last hundred years: Shou. Brust. Han Lin. Lasherda. Ho. Jed Shinlin. The Chou sisters. None of them came from wealthy or fortunate families. Whereas there are plenty of very wealthy idiots who have had ever advantage from before birth, and still couldn’t compose a haiku if you put a gun to their head.” “I find I like that mental image,” Inara giggled, picturing some of her less-favorite clients in that situation. “The Core planets, they have lost the passion, the struggle that is at the heart of cultural wealth. There are no real ‘poor’ in the Core – not poverty the way it is out here. If they don’t work, the government feeds them, clothes them. The government provides a perfect society for them. A society with no hope of adventure, but no fear of hunger. A society with little sickness, but no passion. A society with no challenge beyond the school system and the ability to get promoted at a job you hate. The smart ones, they leave. They emigrate to find something better, something new, something where the potential hasn’t all left the world.” “You make it sound so . . . so pathetic!” “But it is, darling!” Debra insisted. “It’s serene, peaceful, secure . . . and dull, dull, dull!” The exaggerated face she made forced a laugh from Inara. “Trust me, take the suffering out of a culture, and you take the art away and replace it with mere entertainment. I figure the Core has another fifty years, maybe a hundred, and things will start falling apart – because no one will have enough passion to keep it together. All of that is out here,” she said, tapping the table with her forefinger. “I was hoping the war would help . . . wars often do, you know, great generators of artistic suffering. Remember ‘Guernica’?” “That was a protest against war,” Inara disagreed. “I didn’t say I liked war, I said it was good for artistic suffering. Walt Whitman, for example. His war did not spawn his art, like Guernica did, but it influenced it dramatically. Tolkien’s experiences in World War I. Ikold’s paintings at the end of World War III – again, not of the war, but from it. Only religion equals war when it comes to adding emotional spice to a culture. But religion has become moribund in the Core, has been for a century. I had hopes that the War would bring some creative spark to the society, but the factions were never any serious threat to the Core. Oh, there were some incursions, especially at the beginning, but the military kept the Core safe from any serious mayhem. Too safe.” “I can’t believe you are arguing in favor of war! You’re the one who wrote On the Frailties of Man, the biggest anti-war piece of the last century!” “In a few small intellectual circles,” Debra dismissed, blushing. “I didn’t realize at the time how important it was. I couldn’t see past the suffering and death and colossal waste of resources to the important part: the cultural revitalization of the Alliance. Without that, the only result is homogeneity, and that’s cultural suicide. That’s where Earth-That-Was was heading, before the Diaspora. And that’s just what the Alliance has done. For good or ill, it’s driving its passionate heart out to the farthest reaches, and the result, apart from any economics, is that it is bleeding away its cultural life’ s blood.” “But the powerful elite don’t need to follow, like rats leaving a sinking ship!” insisted Inara fervently. “Running away with their money and their power and their vapid spouses to little holiday worlds where it’s always afternoon! They have a responsibility!” “Do you?” Debra asked, raising an eyebrow. “Me?” asked Inara, confused. “Yes, you, Inara Serra. Do you have a responsibility to the cultural life of Sihnon? If you do, you are betraying it just as much as those wealthy playboys you are railing against. So am I, for that matter. I could have stayed and endlessly butted heads against my collegues about obtuse points of philosophy, then gone home to my miserable little flat and pretended I was fulfilled while secretly dreading work the next day. Instead, I got this,” she said, waving her arms around. “This is suffering?” “There are poor here,” conceded Debra. “There are remote sheep stations and farmsteads, ranches in the middle of nowhere and mountain towns. Acropolis is growing a very healthy slum, you know. And it all feeds the work I do here. A little gardening, a little philosophizing, the occasional rendezvous with a pretty girl . . . and I never dread getting up in the morning. Today is a perfect example. I could die right now and be completely satisfied with my life. I couldn’t make that same claim on Sihnon.” “That still doesn’t make their flight the right thing to do, art or no.” “It doesn’t make it wrong, either. The wealthy are just doing what all creatures do when they smell smoke on the breeze – they get the hell out of the forest. That’s what we’ve all done. You and me included. So the answer to your philosophical question, darling, is there is precious little you can do, either to save the Core or to keep the power brokers from skulking off. Forget it, little one. The sparrow cannot beat back the wave with its wings . . . or something like that. I think I’m drunk.” “I think I’m drunk, too,” agreed Inara, burping wine and feta. “So, little girl,” Debra said slyly, “Would you like to go see the temple? It’s particularly romantic at night.” “But there aren’t any lights – you can’t see it!” “Exactly.” They held each other up as they slowly crossed the plaza and came to the tall, elegant pillars, against which Debra aggressively pushed Inara, then proceeded to cover her face and neck with languid kisses. Inara relaxed and tried to enjoy the moment, letting the haze of wine and endorphins wash away the worries of the ‘verse. This was a perfect day, she thought, as Debra’s hands found her waist. She was about to suggest that they go deeper into the temple and find a convenient bench when the first explosion sounded.