time since childhood. Now she could begin to plan. Now she could keep the Animus safe. She did wonder, for a mo-ment, whether all of her emotions had been similarly im-planted, whether the bond that existed between herself and the Animus had artificial origins, but then she dis-missed the thought. That bond was a given; there was no voice within, telling her that it was wrong.
She had been luxuriating in hate for over two days now. Memnos had done its work well. It remained to be seen whether they had slipped anything else past her men-tal guards: some small neural bomb.
There was nothing Yskatarina could have done about it if they had; they would just have to cross that bridge when they came to it. But she now had a weapon, in the form of the old Matriarch.
Thinking of this, Yskatarina smiled.
The ship flew on, arching past Olympus and around, across the cities that populated the eastern part of the planet. The Small Sea lay at the edge of the horizon, the green-blue glow of algae forming a vivid contrast with the soil. One by one, the cities fell away: Caud, Winter-strike, Ardent, and Ord. Yskatarina watched them pass without emotion. Soon, the ship reached the Martian edge of the Chain.
Night was falling over the South China Sea when Yskata-rina's craft emerged from the Earth-end of the Chain above the Kita Hub. Passengers stirred and muttered restlessly around her; she longed to be alone with the Animus. She looked through the view port to see an ocean of lights be-low, towers nailing the sky. Along a narrow channel, boats starred a narrow harbor.
"What is that city?"
"Fragrant Harbor," the monitor said. Its voice took on a tinny quality. "First city of the region."
"I can see islands." Then, as the ship turned, "It is all islands."
She surveyed the ragged, eaten edge of the coast. Helpfully, the seat oreagraph sent a highlighter running through the view port, so that each island was delineated with a tiny ring of light. There must have been hundreds: a rash of land.
"Ancient mountains and artificially raised settlements like Fragrant Harbor are all that remains. The city has been devoured by the sea, countless times, and each time built again."
To Yskatarina, used to the frozen wastes of Night-shade, it seemed strange to be looking down on this great wash of ocean. It gave her a spinning, disoriented feeling, as though she stood on the deck of a seagoing vessel rather than that of a spacecraft.
She sat impatiently until the-ship docked, then caught a transit into High Kowloon with the Animus.
Compared to the relative emptiness of Nightshade or Mars, the city felt packed. She could sense the press of bodies all around her, feel the city going down and down into its multiple layers, buildings built upon the wreckage of buildings.
"This is an old place," the Animus said, echoing her thoughts.
"Old and dying." She looked through the grimy win-dows of the transit at the peeling paint of a temple wall, a hail of gilt flakes catching the lamplight like golden snow. The bulks of the factory district rose ahead, symbols blaz-ing through the dark. The district went on and on, seem-ingly unending. Figures trudged by, carrying baskets, wheeling carts, and Yskatarina realized that for much of this world's people, little must have changed since the ear-liest days of history. For these women, Mars must be noth-ing more than a cruel, cold dream, and yet it ran their lives.
Eventually they emerged from the factory district. Streets lined with old mansions appeared, half-hidden by trees trailing with moss. But these folk, too, would be de-pendent on the whim of Mars: of the Houses of Winter-strike, or Ord, and ultimately Memnos itself. Yskatarina shifted in her seat and forced open a window. The scent of night jasmine and unburned fuel drifted through, catching at the back of her throat. The transit ground to a halt in front of a towering building, and Yskatarina at last felt safe.
Accompanied by the Animus, she made her
She had been luxuriating in hate for over two days now. Memnos had done its work well. It remained to be seen whether they had slipped anything else past her men-tal guards: some small neural bomb.
There was nothing Yskatarina could have done about it if they had; they would just have to cross that bridge when they came to it. But she now had a weapon, in the form of the old Matriarch.
Thinking of this, Yskatarina smiled.
The ship flew on, arching past Olympus and around, across the cities that populated the eastern part of the planet. The Small Sea lay at the edge of the horizon, the green-blue glow of algae forming a vivid contrast with the soil. One by one, the cities fell away: Caud, Winter-strike, Ardent, and Ord. Yskatarina watched them pass without emotion. Soon, the ship reached the Martian edge of the Chain.
Night was falling over the South China Sea when Yskata-rina's craft emerged from the Earth-end of the Chain above the Kita Hub. Passengers stirred and muttered restlessly around her; she longed to be alone with the Animus. She looked through the view port to see an ocean of lights be-low, towers nailing the sky. Along a narrow channel, boats starred a narrow harbor.
"What is that city?"
"Fragrant Harbor," the monitor said. Its voice took on a tinny quality. "First city of the region."
"I can see islands." Then, as the ship turned, "It is all islands."
She surveyed the ragged, eaten edge of the coast. Helpfully, the seat oreagraph sent a highlighter running through the view port, so that each island was delineated with a tiny ring of light. There must have been hundreds: a rash of land.
"Ancient mountains and artificially raised settlements like Fragrant Harbor are all that remains. The city has been devoured by the sea, countless times, and each time built again."
To Yskatarina, used to the frozen wastes of Night-shade, it seemed strange to be looking down on this great wash of ocean. It gave her a spinning, disoriented feeling, as though she stood on the deck of a seagoing vessel rather than that of a spacecraft.
She sat impatiently until the-ship docked, then caught a transit into High Kowloon with the Animus.
Compared to the relative emptiness of Nightshade or Mars, the city felt packed. She could sense the press of bodies all around her, feel the city going down and down into its multiple layers, buildings built upon the wreckage of buildings.
"This is an old place," the Animus said, echoing her thoughts.
"Old and dying." She looked through the grimy win-dows of the transit at the peeling paint of a temple wall, a hail of gilt flakes catching the lamplight like golden snow. The bulks of the factory district rose ahead, symbols blaz-ing through the dark. The district went on and on, seem-ingly unending. Figures trudged by, carrying baskets, wheeling carts, and Yskatarina realized that for much of this world's people, little must have changed since the ear-liest days of history. For these women, Mars must be noth-ing more than a cruel, cold dream, and yet it ran their lives.
Eventually they emerged from the factory district. Streets lined with old mansions appeared, half-hidden by trees trailing with moss. But these folk, too, would be de-pendent on the whim of Mars: of the Houses of Winter-strike, or Ord, and ultimately Memnos itself. Yskatarina shifted in her seat and forced open a window. The scent of night jasmine and unburned fuel drifted through, catching at the back of her throat. The transit ground to a halt in front of a towering building, and Yskatarina at last felt safe.
Accompanied by the Animus, she made her
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