a cube of ice and cracked it free, and somehow it was still liquid and quite cold. That, the Voice insisted, was the way it should be served. Dinner came on warm plates of silver and bone. Dirk pulled a clawed leg from his entree, peeled back the shell, and tasted the white, buttery meat.
“This is incredible,” he said, nodding down at his plate. “I lived on Jamison’s World for a while, and those Jamies do love their fresh-broiled sand dragon, and this is as good as any I had. Frozen? Frozen and shipped here? Hell, the Emereli must have needed a fleet to move all the food they’d need for this place.”
“Not frozen,” came the reply. It wasn’t Gwen, though she stared at him with a bemused grin. The Voice answered him. “Before the Festival, the trading ship
Blue Plate Special
from ai-Emerel visited as many worlds as it could reach, collecting and preserving samples of their finest foodstuffs. The voyage, long planned, took some forty-three standard years, under four captains and as many crews. Finally the ship came to Worlorn, and in the kitchens and biotanks of Challenge the collected samples were cloned and recloned to feed the multitudes. Thus were the fishes and loaves multiplied by no false prophet but by the scientists of ai-Emerel.”
“It sounds very smug,” Gwen said with a giggle.
“It sounds like a set speech,” Dirk said. Then he shrugged and went back to his dinner, as did Gwen. The two of them ate alone, except for their robowaiter and the Voice, in the center of the restaurant built to hold hundreds. All around them, empty but immaculate, other tables sat waiting with dark red tablecloths and bright silver dinnerware. The customers were gone a decade ago; but the Voice and the city had infinite patience.
Afterwards, over coffee (black and thick with cream and spices, a blend from Avalon of fond memory), Dirk felt mellow and relaxed, perhaps more at ease than he had been since coming to Worlorn. Jaan Vikary and the jade-and-silver—it gleamed dark and beautiful in the dim lights of the restaurant, exquisitely wrought yet oddly drained of menace and meaning—had shrunk somehow in importance now that he was back with Gwen. Across from him, sipping from a white china mug and smiling her dreamy faraway smile, she looked very approachable, very like the Jenny that he had known and loved once, the lady of the whisperjewel.
“Nice,” he said, nodding, meaning everything around them.
And Gwen nodded back at him. “Nice,” she agreed, smiling, and Dirk ached for her, Guinevere of the wide green eyes and the endless black hair, she who had cared, his lost soulmate.
He leaned forward and stared down into his cup. There were no omens in the coffee. He had to talk to her. “It’s all been nice tonight,” he said. “Like Avalon.”
When she murmured, agreeing yet again, he continued. “Is there anything left, Gwen?”
She regarded him levelly and sipped at her coffee. “Not a fair question, Dirk, you know that. There is always something left. If what you had was real to begin with. If not, well, then it doesn’t matter. But if it was real, then something, a chunk of love, a cup of hate, despair, resentment, lust. Whatever. But something.”
“I don’t know,” Dirk t’Larien said, sighing. His eyes looked down and inward. “Maybe you’re the only reality I’ve had, then.”
“Sad,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “I guess.” His eyes came up. “I’ve got a lot left, Gwen. Love, hate, resentment, all of that. Like you said. Lust.” He laughed.
She only smiled. “Sad,” she said again.
He was not willing to let it go. “And you? Something, Gwen?”
“Yes. Can’t deny it. Something. And it’s been growing, off and on.”
“Love?”
“You’re pressing,” she said gently, setting down her cup. The robowaiter at her elbow filled it again, already creamed and spiced. “I asked you not to.”
“I have to,” he said. “Hard enough to be so close to you, and
“This is incredible,” he said, nodding down at his plate. “I lived on Jamison’s World for a while, and those Jamies do love their fresh-broiled sand dragon, and this is as good as any I had. Frozen? Frozen and shipped here? Hell, the Emereli must have needed a fleet to move all the food they’d need for this place.”
“Not frozen,” came the reply. It wasn’t Gwen, though she stared at him with a bemused grin. The Voice answered him. “Before the Festival, the trading ship
Blue Plate Special
from ai-Emerel visited as many worlds as it could reach, collecting and preserving samples of their finest foodstuffs. The voyage, long planned, took some forty-three standard years, under four captains and as many crews. Finally the ship came to Worlorn, and in the kitchens and biotanks of Challenge the collected samples were cloned and recloned to feed the multitudes. Thus were the fishes and loaves multiplied by no false prophet but by the scientists of ai-Emerel.”
“It sounds very smug,” Gwen said with a giggle.
“It sounds like a set speech,” Dirk said. Then he shrugged and went back to his dinner, as did Gwen. The two of them ate alone, except for their robowaiter and the Voice, in the center of the restaurant built to hold hundreds. All around them, empty but immaculate, other tables sat waiting with dark red tablecloths and bright silver dinnerware. The customers were gone a decade ago; but the Voice and the city had infinite patience.
Afterwards, over coffee (black and thick with cream and spices, a blend from Avalon of fond memory), Dirk felt mellow and relaxed, perhaps more at ease than he had been since coming to Worlorn. Jaan Vikary and the jade-and-silver—it gleamed dark and beautiful in the dim lights of the restaurant, exquisitely wrought yet oddly drained of menace and meaning—had shrunk somehow in importance now that he was back with Gwen. Across from him, sipping from a white china mug and smiling her dreamy faraway smile, she looked very approachable, very like the Jenny that he had known and loved once, the lady of the whisperjewel.
“Nice,” he said, nodding, meaning everything around them.
And Gwen nodded back at him. “Nice,” she agreed, smiling, and Dirk ached for her, Guinevere of the wide green eyes and the endless black hair, she who had cared, his lost soulmate.
He leaned forward and stared down into his cup. There were no omens in the coffee. He had to talk to her. “It’s all been nice tonight,” he said. “Like Avalon.”
When she murmured, agreeing yet again, he continued. “Is there anything left, Gwen?”
She regarded him levelly and sipped at her coffee. “Not a fair question, Dirk, you know that. There is always something left. If what you had was real to begin with. If not, well, then it doesn’t matter. But if it was real, then something, a chunk of love, a cup of hate, despair, resentment, lust. Whatever. But something.”
“I don’t know,” Dirk t’Larien said, sighing. His eyes looked down and inward. “Maybe you’re the only reality I’ve had, then.”
“Sad,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “I guess.” His eyes came up. “I’ve got a lot left, Gwen. Love, hate, resentment, all of that. Like you said. Lust.” He laughed.
She only smiled. “Sad,” she said again.
He was not willing to let it go. “And you? Something, Gwen?”
“Yes. Can’t deny it. Something. And it’s been growing, off and on.”
“Love?”
“You’re pressing,” she said gently, setting down her cup. The robowaiter at her elbow filled it again, already creamed and spiced. “I asked you not to.”
“I have to,” he said. “Hard enough to be so close to you, and
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