docks until you leave the city. Fare well, Gajananvihari Pilot. When we meet again, we will discuss how you can repay our
hospitality.’
4
Dressed in leggings and a plain jerkin issued by the commissars, the cryoflask that contained Dr Gagarian’s head slung over one shoulder, Kinson Ib Kana’s book in
his pocket, Hari walked out into Fei Shen. It was as scary-strange as his first foray across the surface of Themba. His bios couldn’t handshake with the antique protocols of the city’s
commons, so everything he encountered – the wide corridors (called avenues), the buildings, street furniture, bots, drones, avatars, people – was naked and unreadable. Alien and
mysterious, thrilling and terrifying.
Fei Shen, the flying mountain, sometimes called Wufen Shan, the Fifth Sacred Mountain, sometimes First New Shanghai, was an old city. Earth’s Pacific Community had built it inside an
impact crater at the prow of a small, wedge-shaped asteroid some fifteen hundred years ago, in the early years of the Great Expansion. At the height of the True Empire, it had been shifted into
orbit around Vesta to serve as a platform for crews tending the ongoing terraforming project, and as an interchange for highborn Trues on their way to Vesta’s hunting grounds. It had been
largely untouched by the wars that had brought down the Trues; the Free People had demolished the palace inside the tent of the new section and replaced it with a gardened forest, but had changed
little else.
The Pacific Community had used Fei Shen as a centre for trade with the gardens and settlements of the Belt, and now it was a trade centre again, although much diminished. There was a bazaar that
sold half-life carpets in every colour and pattern and texture, another that sold vacuum organisms, genetic templates, and facsimiles of animals and birds from the long ago, from legends and sagas,
and from the single extrasolar world that possessed its own biosphere. One avenue was dedicated to the repair and refurbishment of gardens and other enclosed biomes. Two more were crowded with
life-extension parlours and chop shops advertising every kind of tweak and augmentation, many related to exotic forms of sexual intercourse.
Because he couldn’t call up a map or a helpful eidolon, Hari had to ask a passer-by to direct him to the city’s bourse. It was in the ground level of the big rotunda at the hub of
the starburst of avenues, beneath the apex of the city’s dome. Inside, individuals and gossipy little groups of baseliners, avatars and eidolons studying empty air (no doubt packed with
picts, sims and windows that Hari’s bios was unable to detect) were scattered across the bare, white, circular floor. As he looked around, a pale-skinned man drifted over and said, ‘I
know you. The kid who crashed on Vesta, with dacoits in hot pursuit. More fun than I ever expect to see in my humble life. I’m Gabriel. Gabriel Daza. One of the proctors. I know, I look far
too young to be a proctor. That’s because I
am
young. But I’m also a proctor. The son, grandson, and great-grandson of proctors. Whether you’re here to buy or sell, I can
help.’
‘My ship has credit on deposit with the bourse at Tannhauser Gate,’ Hari said. ‘I need to access it.’
Gabriel Daza studied him. His sharp, clever face was framed by the high collar of his white, silver-trimmed tunic. ‘You aren’t connected to the commons,’ he said.
‘I need to fix that. But first I need to be able to draw on my ship’s credit.’
‘You have a tag, an embedded licence, some other form of a guarantee?’
‘A card,’ Hari said, and took it out.
It was a small rectangle of plastic that displayed a pict of
Pabuji’s Gift
slowly rotating against the star smoke of the Milky Way.
‘Fabulously old-fashioned, but I can make it work,’ Gabriel Daza said. ‘You understand the terms?’
‘Perhaps you could explain them.’
‘Of course. You
hospitality.’
4
Dressed in leggings and a plain jerkin issued by the commissars, the cryoflask that contained Dr Gagarian’s head slung over one shoulder, Kinson Ib Kana’s book in
his pocket, Hari walked out into Fei Shen. It was as scary-strange as his first foray across the surface of Themba. His bios couldn’t handshake with the antique protocols of the city’s
commons, so everything he encountered – the wide corridors (called avenues), the buildings, street furniture, bots, drones, avatars, people – was naked and unreadable. Alien and
mysterious, thrilling and terrifying.
Fei Shen, the flying mountain, sometimes called Wufen Shan, the Fifth Sacred Mountain, sometimes First New Shanghai, was an old city. Earth’s Pacific Community had built it inside an
impact crater at the prow of a small, wedge-shaped asteroid some fifteen hundred years ago, in the early years of the Great Expansion. At the height of the True Empire, it had been shifted into
orbit around Vesta to serve as a platform for crews tending the ongoing terraforming project, and as an interchange for highborn Trues on their way to Vesta’s hunting grounds. It had been
largely untouched by the wars that had brought down the Trues; the Free People had demolished the palace inside the tent of the new section and replaced it with a gardened forest, but had changed
little else.
The Pacific Community had used Fei Shen as a centre for trade with the gardens and settlements of the Belt, and now it was a trade centre again, although much diminished. There was a bazaar that
sold half-life carpets in every colour and pattern and texture, another that sold vacuum organisms, genetic templates, and facsimiles of animals and birds from the long ago, from legends and sagas,
and from the single extrasolar world that possessed its own biosphere. One avenue was dedicated to the repair and refurbishment of gardens and other enclosed biomes. Two more were crowded with
life-extension parlours and chop shops advertising every kind of tweak and augmentation, many related to exotic forms of sexual intercourse.
Because he couldn’t call up a map or a helpful eidolon, Hari had to ask a passer-by to direct him to the city’s bourse. It was in the ground level of the big rotunda at the hub of
the starburst of avenues, beneath the apex of the city’s dome. Inside, individuals and gossipy little groups of baseliners, avatars and eidolons studying empty air (no doubt packed with
picts, sims and windows that Hari’s bios was unable to detect) were scattered across the bare, white, circular floor. As he looked around, a pale-skinned man drifted over and said, ‘I
know you. The kid who crashed on Vesta, with dacoits in hot pursuit. More fun than I ever expect to see in my humble life. I’m Gabriel. Gabriel Daza. One of the proctors. I know, I look far
too young to be a proctor. That’s because I
am
young. But I’m also a proctor. The son, grandson, and great-grandson of proctors. Whether you’re here to buy or sell, I can
help.’
‘My ship has credit on deposit with the bourse at Tannhauser Gate,’ Hari said. ‘I need to access it.’
Gabriel Daza studied him. His sharp, clever face was framed by the high collar of his white, silver-trimmed tunic. ‘You aren’t connected to the commons,’ he said.
‘I need to fix that. But first I need to be able to draw on my ship’s credit.’
‘You have a tag, an embedded licence, some other form of a guarantee?’
‘A card,’ Hari said, and took it out.
It was a small rectangle of plastic that displayed a pict of
Pabuji’s Gift
slowly rotating against the star smoke of the Milky Way.
‘Fabulously old-fashioned, but I can make it work,’ Gabriel Daza said. ‘You understand the terms?’
‘Perhaps you could explain them.’
‘Of course. You
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