between star systems. And to enforce its Four Rules. Number One said no planet interferes with the internal affairs of another planet. Number Two said all planets obey Anarchate orders. Number Three said every planet pays taxes to the Anarchate—or suffers interstellar quarantine. And Number Four said no one challenges an Anarchate Nova-class Battleglobe--on pain of total destruction.
In his dreaming, the harsh lessons of survival in an uncaring universe dominated. But Matt also dreamed of her .
Helen Sayinga Trinh. A mix of Vietnamese, Indonesian and Danish bloodlines, only her blond hair betrayed her mother’s Scandinavian heritage. The rest of her was brown-skinned, petite, and lovely. Also very wise. He’d met her at a resort planet orbiting 57 Zeta Serpentis, where he’d come as the personal Guard for an ammonia-breathing gaggle of tentacles. She ran the baccarat table, where rich beings deftly threw dice in an old-style gravity field without any use of covert pressor, tractor or gravity fields. It was simple, pure and elegant. Her game, being both honest and with a chance for the house to lose, attracted the high-rollers. Helen had taught him the love that lay beyond wild sex. He’d shared with her his love of weaving Amerindian-style blankets and the uses of a knife carefully thrown. They’d left together, hand-in-hand, heart-to-heart, on a wild venture to homestead far beyond the reach of the resort merchants who owned her service contract.
She had been his first love.
Then she’d died in the pirate attack. He’d lived and escaped in the freighter lifepod—unable to die with her.
Months later, with Matt in stasis, the lifepod drifted into the tractor beams of Mata Hari. A question had been asked. An offer had been made. A Choice had been made.
It was a life whose strangeness still amazed him. A life where he could be close to something, and yet not be affected by closeness. A life where he could insulate himself from caring, from attachment. From the circumstance of watching as—inevitably—anything he cared for was eventually destroyed, damaged, or taken from him. It was a surcease from caring, with challenging work. It helped him forget Helen—forget everything . . . except the Promise he’d given her—a Promise to never refuse help to those in need.
And yet, the Choice was imperfect.
Even in his dreams, caring memories returned to haunt Matt. The memory of his dead childhood. The memory of his dead pet. The memory of his dead love. Along with memories of implacable aliens doing unmentionable things to helpless people all across the galaxy. Like rude strangers, the dream memories accosted him. But there was only one of him and billions of needy people. What could he—
“Matt?”
A strange image invaded his dream universe. An image of fiery clouds, lightning, and resonant song that both uplifted and frightened him. An image—
“Cyborg unit Matthew Dragoneaux—awaken!”
In his chest, something thumped. In his mind, awareness glowed. In his hands, feet and body, electricity moved, firing synapses, activating muscle groups, changing metabolic levels, and dosing him with strange chemicals. Prodding, poking and bothering him. It could be only one entity.
“Mata Hari?” he thought.
“Of course. Are you functional?” she said in his mind.
Matt opened his eyes. He was inside Mata Hari’s ice-cold Biolab, stretched out nude on a magnetic resonance imaging platform, with myriads of optical fiber cables touching his skin. “Functional. What happened?”
“Ship status is nominal,” said the Biolab’s overhead speaker now that he was conscious. An effort to draw him away from dreams and into contact with external reality. Silly AI . . . . “Systems check. Think-activate your Suit systems, please.”
Damn . “Complying.” Internally, Matt thought-imaged the alpha wave codes that activated various systems of Suit. It stood by itself now, encased in a clear glass tube at the other end
In his dreaming, the harsh lessons of survival in an uncaring universe dominated. But Matt also dreamed of her .
Helen Sayinga Trinh. A mix of Vietnamese, Indonesian and Danish bloodlines, only her blond hair betrayed her mother’s Scandinavian heritage. The rest of her was brown-skinned, petite, and lovely. Also very wise. He’d met her at a resort planet orbiting 57 Zeta Serpentis, where he’d come as the personal Guard for an ammonia-breathing gaggle of tentacles. She ran the baccarat table, where rich beings deftly threw dice in an old-style gravity field without any use of covert pressor, tractor or gravity fields. It was simple, pure and elegant. Her game, being both honest and with a chance for the house to lose, attracted the high-rollers. Helen had taught him the love that lay beyond wild sex. He’d shared with her his love of weaving Amerindian-style blankets and the uses of a knife carefully thrown. They’d left together, hand-in-hand, heart-to-heart, on a wild venture to homestead far beyond the reach of the resort merchants who owned her service contract.
She had been his first love.
Then she’d died in the pirate attack. He’d lived and escaped in the freighter lifepod—unable to die with her.
Months later, with Matt in stasis, the lifepod drifted into the tractor beams of Mata Hari. A question had been asked. An offer had been made. A Choice had been made.
It was a life whose strangeness still amazed him. A life where he could be close to something, and yet not be affected by closeness. A life where he could insulate himself from caring, from attachment. From the circumstance of watching as—inevitably—anything he cared for was eventually destroyed, damaged, or taken from him. It was a surcease from caring, with challenging work. It helped him forget Helen—forget everything . . . except the Promise he’d given her—a Promise to never refuse help to those in need.
And yet, the Choice was imperfect.
Even in his dreams, caring memories returned to haunt Matt. The memory of his dead childhood. The memory of his dead pet. The memory of his dead love. Along with memories of implacable aliens doing unmentionable things to helpless people all across the galaxy. Like rude strangers, the dream memories accosted him. But there was only one of him and billions of needy people. What could he—
“Matt?”
A strange image invaded his dream universe. An image of fiery clouds, lightning, and resonant song that both uplifted and frightened him. An image—
“Cyborg unit Matthew Dragoneaux—awaken!”
In his chest, something thumped. In his mind, awareness glowed. In his hands, feet and body, electricity moved, firing synapses, activating muscle groups, changing metabolic levels, and dosing him with strange chemicals. Prodding, poking and bothering him. It could be only one entity.
“Mata Hari?” he thought.
“Of course. Are you functional?” she said in his mind.
Matt opened his eyes. He was inside Mata Hari’s ice-cold Biolab, stretched out nude on a magnetic resonance imaging platform, with myriads of optical fiber cables touching his skin. “Functional. What happened?”
“Ship status is nominal,” said the Biolab’s overhead speaker now that he was conscious. An effort to draw him away from dreams and into contact with external reality. Silly AI . . . . “Systems check. Think-activate your Suit systems, please.”
Damn . “Complying.” Internally, Matt thought-imaged the alpha wave codes that activated various systems of Suit. It stood by itself now, encased in a clear glass tube at the other end
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