It was a standard day ahead of schedule when the magnificent star vessel that was the Kalindy XII meshed for the final time with the fabric of this space and time and was content to glide gently through the last three million kilometres by the grace of St Einstein-Lorentz into a parking orbit at Inskerelleryon. That was worrying. For any normal ship of the line the Booker would have rejoiced at unexpected fortune. Time was Promises, after all, and time saved usually meant Promises made. Within the complex and stretched schedules of Vital Void transport a few early deliveries and corresponding contract bonuses could make the difference between regional profit and loss. That could make the difference between having a job and not having a job the Booker often thought when he studied the ferociously complicated tables that centred on Inskerelleryon. But this was no cargo ship. This was the Kalindy XII and it wasn’t supposed to be early. In fact it was better if it was late. So Graham Hertzhog was anxious to see the captain. For reasons of her own, the captain was anxious to see the Booker.

They met on the ship as she was being Replenished at Low Orbit Dock, and despite his apprehension the Booker lost a couple of moments admiring the liner as his little shuttle closed with it. She was an awe inspiring sight. In the course of his duties he often visited Low Orbit Dock but he had never before seen a craft more than half as big as the one that now occupied the largest berth and threatened to stretch Resources to their limit. About a central axis a little over ten kilometres long, a cylinder of fire bright metal span just fast enough to simulate a luxurious 0.2g against the inner surface. Two massive gyro batteries to forward of the centre of mass stored sufficient angular momentum to preserve the effect against casual interstellar degradation even on the longest conceivable high density Trans Nebular run with unfavourable cross winds. They were decoupled now and service engineers were spin boosting the trailing wheel. To aft, the dormant black bulk of the fuser slept far beyond the edge of the facility. The arms that fed its maw with fuel were withdrawn now but the Booker could imagine the windmill magnets spinning with the cylinder and a full two kilometres beyond its thousand meter diameter, to draw in ions through the nuclear engine. That was only one, if the most obvious, of the Kalindy’s methods of movement. Chemical propellants ran through capacious tanks down interior tubes to fire a multiplicity of little rockets angled for close planet manoeuvring. It was only by using these subtle mechanisms that the Liner was able to dock with the planetary superstructures where it must Replenish. Last but not least there was the Strip Engine. It might be literally infinitesimal and locked away at the centre of mass but for a ship this size it was surely the most impressive feature. The Strip Engine controlled strip/intermesh phasing with Einstein-Lorentz space, and made practical travel possible at faster than light speeds. However, the larger the ship, the more difficult it was to tune the dimensionless powerhouse, and the Booker, who had seen enough of the problems associated with the simple adjustment of a small faulty Strip Engine to realise his ignorance couldn’t even conceive how difficult and expensive it must have been to initiate Kalindy’s Strip Engine. So after a while he gave up trying.

It annoyed Hertzhog slightly to think that for all the effort and Promises that had gone into her construction - the largest Vital Void vessel in the fleet - she wasn’t hauling mass like a respectable freighter. There were five other projects in his region alone which he would far rather have seen receive a fraction of the resources that had gone into her construction and he hoped the Centrum knew what they were doing. Even they, especially they, must realise what a gamble the Kalindy XII was on this, her maiden voyage. Which brought him sharply back to the problem in hand. Why, oh why, were they so early?

The captain was a Quella clone of the Vat 9 series. It went without saying that she had a gold experience rating, but the confirmed identity tests would be the merest hint of a start before the stringent requirements and checks for this appointment. Perhaps that was why she called herself simply Quella. It might be unusual for a clone not to have an exotic chosen name but this one had nothing to prove and no one on board with whom she could be confused...

Graham was curious. Cloning had come and gone in the Core Worlds and hardly left a trace on backwaters like Inskerelleryon. He had only seen two certain clones before, although he knew they were common Closer In. Not this series though. He had a vague feeling that a Quella was mixed up with the murky and infamous business that had led to the big Vat shutdown in ‘63. Graham didn’t care much for history. Quella was probably thirty some standard years of age, tall, blonde and beautiful in a dangerous sort of way. He cared more for that.

The two of them were isolated in the Reference Bridge - a tiny cylinder within the great cylinder at the ‘front’ of Kalindy’s axis. Pseudo gravity here was negligible - it was almost a weightless environment, but they were nevertheless sitting in a couple of chairs on the outer surface at the back of the room. Through a transparent circle that partially cut off her office from the rest of the bridge Quella could overlook the long complex of machines and men, most secured to the 360 degree floor but some floating in seeming chaos. It was a three dimensional stage whose logical dance took long training to understand and more than just that to govern. At the far end, a Televisual circle usually relayed images from cameras at the ship’s bow, though it could carry almost any other material at the direction of the main computers. The only access to this office was through a concentric circle cut in the sound damping see through wall, and just over the width of a man. It was no problem to push off and slide through the axis of force if you knew what everything and everyone else was doing. Hertzhog was no stranger to zero gravity environments but he wasn’t used to the conventions of a live bridge. He had been embarrassed by a collision on the way through and it put him at a psychological disadvantage. He was also obscurely disappointed that he hadn’t seen the fabled luxurious interior of the open ship and he suspected he wasn’t going to. The Booker tried to appear calm and collected as he spoke. He knew this interview might be difficult.

“A Cruise liner is supposed to cruise, Captain,” the Booker said in the most reasonable tone he could manage but his eyes were cold. “Why?”

Quella looked at him without discomfort. She said nothing for a full five seconds but she didn’t need to. In that time it was quite plain to Graham that he was totally outclassed.

She might as well have said ‘You and I both know that my passengers pay for the time they spend on this ship. We both know that the longer I can please and delight them, the better for Vital Void who pay me very highly to do so. And if we wanted to we could assume our relative stands and posture for a while. You could pretend to be ‘concerned’ with our early arrival, plead unreadiness of facilities and hint at the displeasure of your superiors. But we would both know that your real worry was your regional profit, cut short by the amount of time I cut short (or make up) here. I can choose where to distribute our time at my own convenience. The passengers pay and Vital Void is happy; only you would loose. On this voyage the usual roles are reversed and I have the authority of the Centrum - not you. Don’t force me to prove it.’

She might have said something like this, but she didn’t. For this the Booker was grateful. Her expression came to mean that they were equals with a problem to solve and instead she said, “L’Rrantora is dead.”

“The omicron?” the Booker queried to confirm, but he already knew and he quickly began to consider what this meant.

“Right”

“How did it happen?”

“That’s part of the problem. We haven’t been able to get full details. His Fellows aren’t saying, or at best they’re suggesting something untranslatable. Could be natural causes or old age. He’s only a day gone.”

"Well then," Hertzhog interrupted sharply, “who knows apart from the Fellows?”

“Mr. Big Eye.” She paused. “But Booker, we’re on our own here.”

Graham glanced quickly at the passenger chart projected on the circular wall behind Quella. By choice, she had this one particular image oriented continuously ‘upward’ from where ever she was sitting. It paralleled the Televisual Screen, reflecting the fact that a responsibility to the paying customers was as much a part of the captain’s duty as the technical and physical well being of the ship. There were only six names and six likenesses and that was part of the folly of this voyage in Graham’s opinion.

Vital Void had launched the Kalindy XII with a supernova of publicity. Special features in all the fashionable Core World Primaries went into ecstasies about the exciting new ship. She was the product of a billion Promises - the ultimate in luxury. She sold status and style like nothing else and a very large part of her attraction lay in her concentration on extreme wealth and privacy. Thus, the advertising agency boasted that unlike ‘conventional’ liners half her size (without mentioning Supra Light’s Gog and Magog by name) the Kalindy XII would not be transporting the rich like cattle. It would be putting the resources of a miniature world at the disposal of a very few clients who could bring their own retinue (Fellows if appropriate) and an unlimited amount of personal belongings whilst receiving individual attention at the highest level. This time, six passengers were carrying the entire costs of the voyage and the Promises they were paying were phenomenal.

The fact was that the Kalindy was a white elephant - a potential disaster. Marketing analysis couldn’t take account of the New Insularity which didn’t begin to bite until construction was almost complete. It started as a small social fashion - a favourable response to the Quiet People - and was now cutting seriously into all casual interstellar transport. The Gog and Magog were having to cut back on their runs so there was no hope for the Kalindy. In desperation the Centrum gambled on a media drive to end all media drives and for this time, at least, it had worked. They had established a new prestige. It didn’t matter to those on board that they could pay for a couple of small Strip Yachts and all the accessories and do the same tour themselves for the price of this voyage. What mattered was that they were on the Kalindy XII and seen to be on the Kalindy XII. It enhanced their reputation enormously because the travellers, as soon as they were announced, themselves became the subject of features in the relevant Primaries. Every socialite in the Core Worlds knew their names as well as if they had really done something important; better in fact. The Booker wouldn’t have had to study his orientation briefing to know a fair amount about L’Rrantora.

So the chance had come off this time, but the Kalindy was still running at the smallest of profits. The cost of individually reformatting the landscape to suit the species was enormous and would have to be done again each time. “How long”, Graham wondered, “before the novelty wears off; before that facade of the advertising agency’s instant fashion - that wonderful bluff, crumbles to dust?” Once the spotlight of publicity was off he suspected it would be very soon. There couldn’t be that many EconLinked members of the Confederacy who could afford to pay anyway.

All these thoughts took but a very short time because they were so often practising in Hertzhog’s mind that they could run their well worn track in less than a second.

“You want me to handle the public information?”

“Precisely.”

Graham had to admit that he was impressed with the cool way Quella was handling a serious threat to the voyage. Like most regulars he had a certain prejudice against clones which had nothing to do with the scandal of ‘63. He wondered how she had managed to conceal the death from the rest of the ship. There were five accredited Gossip Hounds on board (a necessary part of the way Vital Void were handling this tour) and since their whole purpose was to dig for the spectacular it was surprising that they hadn’t found out. Of course it helped that the omicrons were a secretive race. Lumbering herbivores of largely solitary habit and an infrequent herding habit, they were rarely seen on the Core Worlds. L’Rrantora had been the sole benefactor from a major drugs contract with Corrin Pharmaceuticals. He happened to own the only continent where Ocyfoil, the source plant for Invicerine could be grown, and while industrial chemists struggled in vain to duplicate the natural synthesis for even a low multiple of harvesting costs, the omicron became steadily richer and richer. From a chance discovery, Invicerine became ‘indispensable’ to five of the main Confederacy species within ten years. Two standard years ago L’Rrantora bought a controlling interest in Corrin Pharmaceuticals.

“I know that there is an omicron embassy at Inskerelleryon, otherwise I would have directed the ship to the nearest one and you wouldn’t have seen me at all. I take it that the Vital Void team here is capable of handling the liaison?”

“We have contacts”, he said, nettled.

“Good. The Fellows will accompany the body to mass before the regular shuttle run. They seem prepared to follow our suggestions - eager even. It’s odd but I don’t think they’re going to make much of a fuss.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Quella smiled tightly and just for a moment he could see a hint of human warmth through the outer layer of stiff convention and awe inspiring competence.

“So do I,” she said. There was an interesting suggestion of vulnerability and at that moment Graham was very, very glad that it was she who would be held responsible for the success or failure of this colossal journey and that he was only safely in charge of Inskerelleryon. Then the moment was gone.

“You have the plans for the entertainment and sightseeing?”

With some relief the Booker turned to the expected business of the meeting.

Malchior found Quella on the continent of Esperuntyhn in the Deep Woods. The tourists were exploring a ravine a hundred ons from Calidoor. Sparse grey tatattorn trees were scattered over a steep hillside descending to the rushing falls of the Wythamor brook. They were gnarled and twisted with age, their trunks repeatedly bent and cut into intricate shapes from which the live branches seemed to spring to the steel blue air with desperate purpose. Sharp shadows cut the rumpled and stony ground which was covered with last season’s dark brown foliage across a deep green moss. Grey papery, large winged flies buzzed anxiously from tree to tree.

“Come back to me, Quella,” the clone said.

“How did you get here?”

Her question was a hopeless evasion to gain time and he brushed it off with a mental gesture which paralleled the action of his hand across his face to clear the native insects.

“That doesn’t matter. You know what we meant to each other. You know that you can never be happy in regular culture. Why did you leave me?”

Malchior looked like Malchior always looked. The handsome features were repeated across a hundred thousand individuals; broad intelligent forehead, curly black hair and a sharp aquiline nose. But this was undoubtedly her Malchior just as she was his Quella. She recognised the subliminal signals of unique identity which reflected their shared history. Like her, he refused to choose another name.

She faced the clone for a long moment and inside that interval of time there was an embedded instant during which she doubted herself. But it passed.

“No. You know that isn’t what I need. You can find someone else who wants to settle down and raise your family. There must be a thousand women who would love you and fulfil you. I’m not the one.”

Even as she said this, Quella recognised its cruelty. She saw in the man’s expression how he needed her and how it was her individual nature - their shared experience - which cried to him. But, she thought, it is a cruelty born of necessity. Malchior will never understand me - never! She felt more vehement as her subconscious recognised his desperation. It was as though she could be trapped by his need; as though it were a sticky prison like the one which these flies made for their mates.

“I am starting a farm on Free Lapatom,” he said, in a matter of fact voice which already seemed deadened with the prescience of defeat. “I will breed Lioama birds for the Environmental Anarchists in the Spinward Zone. If you do not join me, I will never marry. I say this not in the spirit of remorse (although I will feel this later, I have no doubt). I say this only as a simple fact. It is the truth, Quella.”

The blonde turned to look at the ravine, where small brown flying lizards flitted across the stream, their jaws snapping over the flies with an unremitting certainty which seemed half as old as the universe and twice as cruel. She believed him, but it made no difference. He did not understand and he could not understand.

Quella felt a bleak sense of desperation which came with the full revelation that good will can be desperately inadequate to cure pain; that kindness can inflict nearly as much involuntary hurt as cruelties consciousness; and that there can be no compromise with compulsion.

When she turned back to face him again, she thought it was the hardest thing she had ever done.

“Don’t think badly of me. Nothing lasts for ever. Nothing.”

He turned then, without another word and walked back down the slope towards the flyer which had brought him from Calidoor. She realised that he had never answered her question and that it must have cost him a great deal to reach her here. Although she could not see his face, she knew that he was crying.