To Hold Infinity Read online

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  As Rafael's link with the exterior holocams faded, he caught a dreamlike image of nubile girls stepping gingerly from the opened crystal segments onto his smartraft, or diving adventurously into the ocean and striking out with athletic strokes towards the flyer.

  He returned his attention to the flyer's lounge.

  Voretta was watching him with expectant eyes.

  <>

  A smile was her only reply. It was enough.

  A black hummingbird darted in front of her, startling Yoshiko. It hung in the air, wings blurred, drinking nectar from a crimson flower; then it flicked away, out of sight.

  Joyous green life stretched all around her, beneath lighting panels replicating Terran daylight. They could shine more brightly, she knew, if oxygen demand increased.

  She took a springy step onto a grassy path. This far up, centripetal acceleration was maybe two-thirds g. Maybe she should live in a space habitat.

  Never to see Ken's grave again…Pay attention.

  She should not be here. A smartcart, laden with pots of hybrid wheat, had passed her in a corridor. Unable to resist, she had followed it into an elevator, keeping to its sensors’ blind spot—a trick Tetsuo had shown her years ago, with her own lab's smartcarts.

  The smartcart's authorization had let her through the bio-area's scan-gate.

  A wispy sensation on her cheek. She stopped, gently transferred a large brown spider from her shoulder to the nearest bush. Walked into its web. Stupid old woman.

  From up ahead came faint strains of music, a melody she ought to recognize. Passing under a tree, beneath a scolding capuchin monkey, she pushed through foliage to a low cluster of white domes.

  From an open doorway came a metallic voice—“Rekka! Look out!”—and the hissing sound of graser fire…or rather, holodramatists’ conventional sound effect.

  The stirring theme tune played.

  A grin broke across Yoshiko's face. Chandri, Space Explorer, had been the boys’ favourite hv serial. She remembered Tetsuo and Akira, glued to the view-stage.

  From the doorway, she watched the terminal in the dome's shadowy interior.

  The tiny figure of the heroine, Rekka Chandri, was bent over a biofact, evolving (in minutes, rather than days) a deadly variant of her remote-controlled beeswarm. Cannibalistic aliens (portrayed with horns instead of antlers, forestalling litigation from the real-life Haxigoji on whom they were based), threatened Rekka's camp, while her young side-kick fired warning shots above their heads.

  Viewpoint shift: a blind Pilot, silver sockets where her eyes should have been, dropping out of mu-space and landing quickly, strapping on her ninja gear and leaping to the rescue—

  Yoshiko laughed aloud.

  There was a muffled curse, and the holodrama winked out.

  “Lights.”

  A big square-jawed red-bearded man rose from a camp chair, and pushed back long red hair from his eyes. He tugged his blue jumpsuit into order. Behind him, on a workbench, lay a jumble of gene-splicers and ecomodellers and jury-rigged lash-ups whose purpose was hard to guess.

  “Sorry, ma'am. Er—What can I do for you?”

  “Pardon me, Mister—” Yoshiko read his name tag. “—Rasmussen. Don't halt the program on my account.”

  “Um…Well, I shouldn't have been watching it. But there's a punctuated evolutionary thread running on the biofact that'll take a couple of hours…”

  “Especially on an old delta forty-seven,” said Yoshiko, nodding at the plain black box beneath the workbench.

  “We could do with a Gemini B-series, though reconfiguring for hypertetrahedral architecture can be a real bi—uh, bear.” He stopped.

  “Guess you've worked with Advanced Thetas, then.”

  “I started on Beta thirties,” said Yoshiko, showing her age. “Oemaru Bios was just taking off. I guess they're on the way down, now.”

  Rasmussen shook his head. “Damned marketing, that's the trouble. Everyone's switching to facet-driven free-pad systems, with the sexy NetEnv interfaces. Never mind whether they can actually do the job.”

  “Always quoting PIPS or EIPS ratings, while the Geminis are optimized for coevolutionary transactions. It's generations per second which counts.”

  “Damned straight.” A grin spread over his broad face, and he held out a large callused hand. “Name's Eric. Nice to meet another Gemini bigot.”

  “Yoshiko.”

  They shook hands.

  “You know,” she added, “that it's field-upgradeable?”

  “Yeah. Still can't get the budget. But I'll keep trying.”

  “Good luck.” She looked at the terminal. “I should let you—get back to work.”

  He laughed. “I've seen it before. She gets rescued in the end.”

  “I know. My favourite was the Coolth story, where she met aquatic aliens who lived under a global icecap.”

  “And her ship was crushed, and she was trapped beneath the ice—”

  “—And she reconfigured her own lungs with a reprogrammed portadoc—”

  “—And aliens swarmed around, worshipping her—”

  “—And their song split the ice.”

  Yoshiko sighed. “That was a while ago.”

  “Wasn't the music great? It seems like yesterday.”

  She guessed his age at thirty-five. Akira's age.

  “Listen,” she said. “I shouldn't really be here.”

  “I did wonder.”

  “I'm just a passenger, waiting for a mu-space ship, due in—” She touched a finger-ring, and orange digits formed in the air. “—thirty hours, or so.”

  “You've time to look around the rest of the bioarea, then?”

  “Why, yes.” Yoshiko smiled with pleasure. “I'd love to.”

  The refectory's hubbub almost drowned the sound system's lonely wail, about a drifting spacer, all alone in the dark and cold. Station crew were coming off shift, going on: hurried lunches, tech talk in unfamiliar fields which Yoshiko strained to get a sense of. Bleary-eyed breakfasts, relaxed dinners.

  “You run overlapping shifts everywhere, then,” she said.

  Eric nodded. His counterpart, Jenna, had come on duty while he was showing Yoshiko the goat pens, two hours before his shift ended.

  “Don't want people dog-tired if an emergency starts. Although—”

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The station's way too old.

  Dangerous.”

  “What do you mean?” Yoshiko thought of hull explosions, bodies expelled into space.

  “There's not enough p-suits to go round. Don't tell anyone I told you.”

  “What?” Yoshiko couldn't believe it. “If you think I'm going to—Oh, you bastard.”

  His roar of laughter caused half the crew to look around. No one complained. His big bearish chest shook with amusement.

  “Had you there,” he said, and swigged his ethanol-free beer.

  “Very funny.” Yoshiko smiled in spite of herself.

  A beep sounded, and Eric raised his wrist. The image of Jenna, his colleague, grew above his commbracelet.

  “Sorry, Eric. Could you come and lend a hand?”

  “Sure. On my way. Endit.”

  Jenna's image disappeared.

  “Want to come with me?” he asked.

  She ought to be getting back to her cabin.

  “If you wouldn't mind,” she said.

  Some of the crew members glanced at her curiously as they left together, embarrassing her. Thanks to her femtocytes and the shugyo—austere discipline—of her physical training, she could pass in low light for someone under forty. But she did
n't feel that young.

  She hoped Eric wouldn't get the wrong idea.

  They took a fast-access shuttle-car, speeding along a crew-only tunnel, and got out by the bioarea. They walked through a membrane-lock.

  Inside, Eric pulled a bicycle from a rack, and set it down in front of Yoshiko.

  “Don't ask how long it's been.” She took it from him. “But I can ride it, in two-thirds g.”

  He raised an eyebrow as she swung her leg easily over the saddle.

  I'm more supple than you'll ever be, she thought, though I'm nearly twice your age.

  He mounted his own bicycle.

  “Ready?”

  “Lead on.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Jenna.

  It was an apposite remark. On the examination table, a wobbly capuchin monkey had lost bowel control.

  Eric resignedly plunged his hands into a bowl of smartgel, which slid up around his forearms, forming gloves. He began to wipe down the table.

  While Jenna held the monkey, Yoshiko took the soporific delta-band from its forehead.

  “Thanks,” said Jenna.

  There were sick goats in all three scan-units, which was why Jenna had given the monkey his exam in the old-fashioned way.

  “Any time.” Yoshiko wrinkled her nose.

  “I can tell you mean that.”

  “Well…” Yoshiko looked at Eric, who grimaced. “Thanks for showing me round.”

  “You're welcome.”

  “Come back, if you can. We'd love to see you again,” Jenna said, glancing at Eric.

  Yoshiko cleared her throat.

  “Right, then.”

  She left, waving farewell. Her bicycle was propped against the dome's exterior. She mounted quickly.

  Pulse racing, she pushed off onto the grassy path and pedalled hard, digging deep and cycling fast, cycling the way she had when she and Ken were young.

  Stuffed oiseaux d'or, on a bed of pilaf rice. Spiny pears. A spicy sauce.

  Rafael speared one of the tiny birds, and popped it into his mouth.

  “Delicious.” He :

  <>

  <>

  Voretta, using old-fashioned chopsticks, took a bird from his dish. “Mm.” She chewed slowly, eyes closed. “Stereo taste.”

  She was replaying Rafael's , and enjoying it.

  They were in his dining room, alone save for Voretta's grey-liveried servants, standing to attention near the walls.

  “Did you enjoy today?” He raised a glass of crème de lothe, and sipped. “I thought it went very well.”

  “Next time,” said Voretta, eyelids lowered, “we should collaborate. I've a feeling we might choreograph together very well.”

  “You may be right.”

  {{A couple—he in black coat and tails, she in a bright confection of a dress—danced a stately waltz.}}

  The servants did not flinch as Voretta's {image}, invisible to them, danced right through them, and faded.

  Rafael passed a hand across his forehead. Inside, his cache was beginning to burn. Marianan's frozen mindcode, coming back to life.

  “Are you OK?” asked Voretta.

  “I'm fine. A little tired.”

  “It is getting late.” Voretta raised a hand.

  Her servants left the room, without a word.

  Rafael barely saw them go.

  “Voretta.”

  Her eyes were very big, and very dark.

  {{Warms streams of golden light.}}

  {{Rose petals falling, sweetly fragrant.}}

  In private overlay:

  <>

  <>

  <>

  Rafael gestured, and orange flames rose in the hearth.

  “My lady?” He rose from his seat, and offered his hand.

  Voretta stood, elegant and proud, and she was almost as tall as he.

  They kissed.

  {{Explosion of fireworks.}}

  <>

  <>

  Rafael's gentle fingertip degaussed her gown's mag-seam; the gown slid to the floor with a whisper.

  His shirt fell away at her touch.

  Her flawless body was clothed in {{luminescent white orchids}} which he kissed away, one by one. As the freeform floor shaped itself, rising up to support Voretta, his tongue left a <> along the inside of her thigh.

  <>

  {{Cannons, booming.}}

  {{Burst of flaring light.}}

  And she came with a deep sob of laughter.

  Deftly, he led her back up the long slope of pleasure.

  <>

  <>

  <>

  Voretta contributed <> as she drew him deep inside her.

  {{Endless soft white thighs.}}

  He could do her now.

  Really do her.

  A {{kaleidoscope of swirling colours}} enveloped him, a {{rising drumbeat}} accompanying his nearing climax, but Rafael held back…

  The fragments of Marianan, soft and warm, waited in his cache, yearning to be savoured.

  Voretta…

  Hold back. Hold back the moment.

  Should he?

  He could plunge into Voretta's mind, strip it apart, suck it into his own mind along with the sweet remnants of dead Marianan. Such a river, such a flood of ecstasy that would be…

  Hold back.

  He felt the near-overspill of his cache, a deep internal trembling, while {{fiery gold streamers}} of Voretta's {vision} poured through his shuddering body.

  Control…

  Watch it. Don't let her see.

  He was losing control. Only microseconds left…

  Marianan?

  Or Voretta and Marianan, both?

  Decide…

  Practicalities: he would have to kill her servants, also, and find some way of wiping out traces of her visit here. Could he possibly get away with it?

  A vision of proctors, hunting him down.

  Decide now.

  Voretta.

  Marianan.

  Damn it…

  Marianan only, that was the way to go, but Voretta's eyes snapped opened as she gasped, and his own guard was close to dropping. He dared not let her see inside his mind, to see what he had done.

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  Desperately, he drove into her pleasure centres—writing, not scanning—and {{black lace and overwhelming heat}} hailed their coming.

  For a moment, he saw through her eyes <> and felt her <> and <>, but then he was in, wiping everything but pleasure from her mind.

  Voretta cried aloud as she passed out and Rafael, triumphant, yelled as cached ware flooded through him and he became one with Marianan and all the dead Luculentae subsumed within his plexcores and he was the centre of the mighty universe and everything was his, forever.

  Later, draped in one of Rafael's bathrobes, Voretta perched on a low couch, staring inwards with eyes like dead crystals.

  Rafael toyed with a long-stemmed glass, waiting for her to leave.

  “I…should be going,” she said in a small voice.

  Rafael put down his glass, and picked up Voretta's discarded gown from the floor. Her s
cent was still upon it.

  “Thank you.” She accepted the gown, and looked around vaguely. “Uh—”

  “Use the bathroom through there,” he said kindly.

  Clutching the bathrobe's lapels high at her throat, she walked to the door, and stepped unsteadily through as it liquefied.

  Rafael gestured, and the house system opened up a holo volume beside him.

  Voretta's servants, in one of the drawing rooms. They looked up from the role-playing game they were engaged in.

  “My lady will be leaving shortly,” he said, and closed the display.

  She did not reappear.

  Hoping she had not been so inconsiderate as to do something stupid, he queried the house.

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  It found her outside, walking down the broad steps, flanked by her tight-lipped servants. She had slipped out, past this room.

  They boarded her flyer in silence.

  It rose like an ungainly bird, then fled into the distance, gaining speed.

  Rafael picked up his glass.

  “To beauty.”

  He drank his solitary toast.

  In her plain cabin, Yoshiko stripped off her jumpsuit and boots, down to her leotard, and ordered the bed to retract itself into the wall, making room.

  “Command: music. Brahms, any piece. Lights at twenty percent.”

  As she began her warm-up, the rugged first symphony filled the darkened room. A more heuristic system might have sensed her mood, and chosen something lighter.

  Neck rotations. Hips. As the music softened from allegroto andante sostenuto, she assumed a low straddle stance and held it for a count of two hundred. She lowered herself into a hurdler's stretch.

  For forty minutes she worked, then knelt in zazen, meditating. Her heart slowed.

  Still kneeling, she asked for a realtime comm to Eric Rasmussen, crewmember, and the terminal sprang to life.