She smiled triumphantly. He wasn’t going to argue his way out of this. Logic had nothing to do with it; he simply had to make up his mind what he wanted. One instinct told him that he should turn her down, because it was a decision he’d made so many times before that it seemed like a betrayal of himself to do otherwise. And another told him that if he didn’t change, there was no point living even one more century.

Tchicaya said, "You’re right. Let’s put an end to our ignorance."

They went to Rasmah’s cabin and lay on the bed together, still dressed, talking, occasionally kissing. Tchicaya knew his Mediator would make the vote known to him instantly, but he couldn’t help but remain distracted. He’d done everything in his power to see that the Preservationists heard the whole case for the far side, but he couldn’t rest until he knew whether or not they’d been persuaded.

Almost two hours after they’d spoken to the gathering, the news came through: the moratorium had been approved. No percentages had been released, but the Preservationists had agreed unanimously before beginning their debate that the majority decision would be binding.

Tchicaya watched Rasmah’s face as the information registered. "We did it," she said.

He nodded. "And Tarek. And Sophus."

"Yeah. More them than us. But we can still celebrate." She kissed him.

"Can we?" Tchicaya wasn’t being coy; he couldn’t tell by mere introspection.

"I’m positive."

As they undressed each other, Tchicaya felt a rush of happiness, beyond sex, beyond his affection for her. Whatever hold he’d imagined Mariama had over him, it was finally dissolving. Their conspiracy over the power plant might have ended any chance that he could be truly at ease with her, but that hadn’t poisoned everything he’d admired in her. He hadn’t forfeited the right to be with someone who had the same strength, the same ideals as she’d once had.

Rasmah stroked the scar on his leg. "Do you want to tell me about this?"

"Not yet. It’s too long a story."

She smiled. "Good. I didn’t really want to hear it right now." She moved her hand higher. "Oh, look what we made! I knew it would be beautiful. And I think I have something that would fit here, almost perfectly. And here. And maybe even…here."

Tchicaya gritted his teeth, but he didn’t stop her moving her fingers over him, inside him. There was no more vulnerable feeling than being touched in a place that had not existed before, a place you’d never seen or touched yourself. He lay still, and allowed her to make him aware of the shape, the sensitivity, the response of each surface.

He took her by the shoulders and kissed her, then did the same for her, mapping the other half of the geometry their bodies had invented. He was four thousand years old, but he was never tired of this, never jaded. Nature had never had much imagination, but people had always found new ways to connect.

Chapter 13

Tchicaya’s Mediator woke him. It had just received a messenger from Branco, and judged it urgent enough to break him out of sleep.

He let the messenger run. He didn’t want to close his eyes and risk drifting off again as he watched, so he hallucinated Branco standing in the darkened cabin beside the bed.

"This had better be important," Tchicaya said.

"I’m very sorry to disturb you," the messenger whispered. It was much more polite than Branco himself. "But this is something you’ll want to hear. I’m only telling a handful of people. People I trust."

"I’m flattered."

The messenger gave him a look that suggested it was not immune to irony. "Someone has been trying to take control of the ship. I don’t know who. The proximate, physical source of the attack was a spare communications link for external instruments, sitting in a storage area that hundreds of people have had access to.

"There was no chance of the attack succeeding. Whoever did this must be awfully naive about some of the technology they’re dealing with." Tchicaya felt a frisson of recognition; hadn’t Tarek imagined that Yann could "corrupt" the ship’s network, just by running on one of its Qusps? "But it suggests a combination of foolishness and desperation that might not stop with this. So I’m telling a few reasonably level-headed members of both factions: you’d better find out who these idiots are, and keep them from going any further. Set your own houses in order, or you might all find yourselves walking the airlock."

The messenger bowed, and vanished. Tchicaya blinked into the darkness. "Walking the airlock" was a quaint way of putting it, but he didn’t think Branco was bluffing. If factional squabbling reached the point where the Rindler itself was at risk, Tchicaya didn’t doubt that the ship’s builders would evict the squatters, one way or another.

He woke Rasmah, and shared the news.

"Why didn’t Branco tell me?" she complained. "Why am I not trustworthy?"