The Bloodlight Chronicles: Reconciliation by Steve Stanton Page B

empathy or basic commonality, as though natural instincts were held in check by some higher power.
    â€œYou must be from Earth,” she said.
    He smiled and nodded. “Forty-seven years ago. Is it still that obvious?”
    â€œI’m just feeling a bit of culture shock. And this heat is unbearable.”
    â€œWe’ll stop at an outfitter and get you properly attired. You may want to trim your hair. It’s the beginning of first summer in this hemisphere. I must apologize for the horrid local cosmos.”
    Helena smiled at that. The man was a delight.
    They stepped through plate glass doors into a fresh blast of hot air on a transit stand high above the city surface. An electric tram waited on a monorail as passengers queued for entry. Ian Miller handed her a plastic laminate on a loop of cord.
    â€œThis is a diplomatic transit pass for use during your stay, courtesy of the Overlords.”
    â€œThank you,” she said but realized that her every movement would now be subject to scrutiny. She swallowed back a wave of paranoia. They climbed aboard and sat on padded bench seats. No seatbelts, no hand grips. The tram eased slowly forward and accelerated gently.
    â€œThere’s no evidence of fossil fuels on any of the Cromeus planets,” Ian Miller told her conversationally, “so no ground transportation. Lots of geothermal power and volcanic metals.”
    â€œI see.” Helena looked down from their lofty perch, feeling vertiginous. The crowds on the street below looked like frothy silver bubbles under their glinting parasols.
    â€œYou don’t want to be out in the sun unprotected,” he added, noting her interest. “The umbrellas serve as power-cell generators and communications array. Our technology is unrivalled.”
    â€œEfficient.”
    Ian Miller nodded, his smile pleasant. “We do our best.”
    They made a short trip to a local outfitter, where Helena had her hair cut short and coiffed up from her forehead like a crown. Ian checked through hospital databases on his handheld until he found Zakariah’s admission data. Helena purchased a silver tunic fitted at the neck, tight at the waist, with puffy sleeves to the elbow and an air-cooling system built into large epaulettes and vented at the back. With a sigh of relief, she pulled on silver dress pants, belted with elastic and tight at the ankle to trap in precious moisture.
    They ate a quick meal of protein paste in a cafeteria that was little more than a vestibule outside New Jerusalem Central West Hospital. The spicy grey food was provided freely to all inhabitants from ubiquitous vending machines at the touch of a button. No one ever went hungry in the Cromeus colonies, and no animal ever suffered, thanks to a single factory producing cloned cattle musculature. Baseline nourishment had become a human right, rather than a privilege, although finer delicacies were certainly available for a price. The guided tour, Helena thought to herself as she listened to Ian Miller’s reasoned discourse. She might have preferred a chicken salad but was grateful for the education.
    They confirmed appointments and said polite goodbyes, and Ian ducked down a flight of stairs to a subway underneath the building. Helena made her way to an elevator and, after several false starts and little assistance from hospital staff, managed to locate the appropriate wing and ward. She found Zakariah wearing blue hospital pyjamas with his left arm in a sling, busy dismantling a portable computer system in his room.
    â€œHelena,” he said in greeting, barely glancing up. “Come and hold this for me.”
    She looked back over her shoulder and rushed to close the door behind her. She stepped forward and held a pair of needlenose forceps as directed.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she whispered.
    â€œThis is what they use for a V-net link up here. It’s a simple jackbox.” He tapped the plug outlet on the face