J C Mitchell

For Sale
 First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Createspace Limited

Copyright J C Mitchell 2010

The right of J C Mitchell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by
him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 2010

ISBN 978-1456446482

First Edition

I’ve got a website: http://saladonions.tumblr.com

And if you like all this stuff, find me on twitter @jamescmitchell.

I’d love to chat more about it.

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 For Eve and Bess,
who were more than the wafers

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4
1

World

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6
Chapter One - Hungover

Okay, this story starts with a hangover. Now that's not perfect, a hangover is never an
ideal way to start anything, but sometimes that's just the way it is. This wasn't much
comfort to Ben, however. The previous night's inventeror and stocktaker awards
ceremony (which saw him crowned Supply Technician of the Year 2433) had taken its
toll on his mind, and body. Still, he would recover, he thought.
He rolled over, on his bunk, eyes still closed, like the hamsters he remembered
reading about as a child. There had been hamsters, his mum had said. And dolphins,
too. They'd been his favourite. How they got around on those two little flipper things,
he'd had no idea. As always, he took one last mental breath with eyes closed, and then
opened the lids to take in the same scene he'd surveyed for six months now.
Grant was vomiting. Or at least, he was making the essential motions of vomiting.
The lurching, the quiet retching was all there, but nothing seemed to be coming up. "You
alright, mate? I think I've got some ginger somewhere." But Grant had lurched off down
the corridor. Another casualty of last night's enforced jollity. Ben stretched up, felt in the
dim artificial light for his card, took it down from the slim shelf behind and looked at it.
There he was, that easy smile juxtaposed with the damning title, Ben Hitbrush, Supply
Technician. 3rd Class. And no matter what his colleagues in the wing might have
thought, a higher number meant it was a worse job.
He thumbed the surface of the grey opaque window, which smoothly s to the black
of space, gently pocked with stars and dust. And as always, just to the right of his vision
through the window, the orange-purple glow of the great jets of World.
How had he come to be like this? If you asked Ben, he would say that somewhere
along the line - no specific point, and maybe that was precisely the problem -
somewhere along the line of life, when all his friends pulled their boots up and resolved
to do something for World, or just for themselves, he had somehow...not. Somehow,
he'd allowed himself to just live for the next day, the day after that, burying himself in
old discs from the library, idling about on his guitar. And that was why, when Jack and
Robert and the rest had all successfully matriculated, complete with grinning parents
and ceremonial squares of cotton on their heads, his sense of pride had been tinged, just
a little, with jealously.
But no more. Today was going to be different; he had it all arranged. And granted,

7
while beginning with a needling hangover probably didn't enhance the process, the
feeling of constant, slight pain was also somehow focusing. He swung his legs over the
edge of the balcony, dropped to the iron floor, and hunted in the drawers for his best
worksuit. The suit his grandfather, old Harold had left him. People said that old Harold
had been somewhat insane, but if it was true then Ben could not help but feel a sense of
pride as he put on the hopelessly out of date jacket with the lapels, the neo-wool
trousers, and the ceremonial trilby. Out of date perhaps, thought Ben as he gave himself
a last look in the dark glass of the window, but pretty sharp. Harold had possessed taste.
The time jerked Ben back from his reverie. The ship's clock beeped a warning tone:
10:30! His appointment in the Apprentorium was in five minutes, and was at least a
mile of gantries away! He'd had to wait six month for this appointment; there was no
way he'd allow this chance to slip by him now. And with that affirmation, he bodily
hurled himself through the door of his quarters and down the corridor.
As the wide corridor narrowed to a metal gantry, the ground below him fell away to
show the huge bulk of World's stock hull beneath him. There, on thousands of rows of
pallets that he almost knew by name, were millions of tonnes of rice, tins, water, fish (in
short supply, probably artificial), grass. Beyond that the minerals: raw iron gave way to
processed silica, fields of paper, wires, plastics. All of it ever so slightly damaged, ever so
slightly imperfect. It was like someone had taken a junk heap (Ben had heard of these,
though of course he had never seen one), and very carefully sorted it, like a well meaning
pensioner god.
Between the piles, the smoothly coasting lights of stockbots winked in and out. And
alongside them, Ben registered, the only creature lower than the bots - his colleagues.
They'd be there now, counting and recounting the supply without end, only doing so to
verify that it wasn't being stolen by the very people that were counting. Down there
would be Grant, lurching and heaving but also working. Because he had to. Because
everyone works. How Ben had managed to get a morning free of work from Mr Grimes
the foreman he had no idea. Between this fortune and the good luck of waking up on
time and the bored horror of the scene spread out below him, Ben found a new resolve
in a certainty that what he was doing must be right, and he pounded along the walkway
with greater ferocity.
Sliding past trolleys and technicians, squeezing through almost-shut doors, Ben
managed to find himself, at exactly 10:36, almost prostrate before the door of the
Apprentorium and Mr. Duprey's office. It was here that he'd face his destiny. If, that is,
he deserved any. A wiry face oozed up the crack in the door. "You are late," it said, but
the inflection seemed only to imply "...and this fact has been noted accordingly," rather
than any definite prospect of malice. Ben put on his best voice: "indeed I am, Mr.
Duprey, and for that I can only apologise for stopping to co-ordinate some of my stock
colleague's efforts, which if I may add is just one of many examples of my drive to
further the goals of-" he faltered at Duprey's immobile expression.
"Come in, boy. Don't just stand there looking like a damp rag." And Ben came in.
He'd heard about the Apprentorium, of course - all his friends had been here, as
soon as they'd received their exam results. It was a matter of established process: you
were expected, in order to take on your first role essential to the maintenance of World.
Graduation, job interview, and rite of passage all rolled into one. It was in this room,
this temple, that people were finally assigned a sense of meaning and purpose aboard
the great ship. So it was a bit of a disappointment to discover that the Room Of Destiny

8
mainly consisted of yellowing paper (so that's where it went), box files, and model birds.
Duprey caught him looking.
"It's a hobby. If nobody preserves these things, then we'll really wonder what they
were worth. So why didn't I see you here last year like your friends?" was the immediate
first question.
“Mr. Duprey-"
"You realise it's Doctor Duprey, I hope."
"Doctor Duprey, I'm sorry. Doctor, I did want to, really I did. But with everything
that happened with my family, with the hit and everything...". "Please," Duprey cut in,
"don't. I've read your case notes. The meteor smash last May hit your branch, yes? Only
you weren't at home, because you were loitering at the Furnace trying to find things to
throw into the exhaust, to avoid doing your studies. 'Pathological Fear Of Achievement'
is what it says here, Hitbrush. 'Caused by Extreme Trauma during formative years'.
When I grew, in the early days of World, we didn't have such a thing as Extreme
Trauma. Because everyone would have had it. We just got on with things."
He sighed. Ben began to wonder if this was an interview as such, and decided he
didn't really mind if not.
"Anyway, that's why I have had you moved up the list. That's why you sit here
before me. Because sometimes, if circumstances allow, people are able to Get On in life
where they previously couldn't. Perhaps they can find their niche, if they slither around
enough. I knew your father, Ben. He was a great man, if not necessarily a good one. And
recent turns of events within World have changed the landscape a bit. So I'm going to
give you a chance. What did you want to be, Ben? Think hard. There was something..."
The old man was right - there was. He thought back to the playground chats with
Jack and Robert. Of course, they'd all said the usual stuff. Jack wanted to be a pilot,
Robert a prospector. Action, or the undiscovered, that's all anyone really wanted, wasn't
it? But at the same time, he knew there was something else. Dad had been something
else, a... Trader, they called it. But only in whispers. He couldn't be sure but when he
told his seven-year-old school class that his dad was a Trader, there'd been an
uncomfortable silence, a shuffling of seats and opinions, and right then he'd known that
something very bad indeed must have been caused by or involved these Traders.
He'd tried asking his father, of course, but he'd been his usual tacit self. Just once,
he'd got a response. It was in words he could barely understand, like a man speaking in
tongues, but he knew from his father's voice and the glazed expression in his eyes, that
there was something magical and wonderful in that purple building his dad went into in
his robes, every day for 20 years. And then he knew.
"I'd always... I mean, I know it's silly, but I did want to t-" He had to swallow and
spit the word out: "to Trade."
Duprey was ponderous in his reponse. He rolled his thoughts around the office.
Finally, he spoke. Coldly.
"I was a Trader, Ben. You find this revelation slightly improbable, that I have been
anything but the paper-shuffler you see today, but in my prime... well, they knew me at
the Exchange."
Of course! Everyone knew of the legend of DP. The man, if it was a man, if it was
not some perfect supercomputer, who had seemed like a fortune teller. Ben remembered
his father speaking of him in soft, reverential tones. Ben's open mouth gaped in want for
a response.

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 "It was a slightly different world then, I suspect. But let me tell you this. Trading is
not to be taken lightly. Better men than you have fallen victim to its seduction. You want
to do it because you know nothing of it, yes? I believe that you could do it, from the way
you have been searching my office all this time for some clue as to why I even allowed in.
Yes, Ben, Trading you could do. But if you did, could you stop doing it? That's my worry.
His eyes left the question unanswered.
"Yes, I... of course. I mean, that is-" What else could Ben say? That it was better
than nothing? That he couldn't go back to his job in the hull? That, well, it was just
exciting? He had a feeling those answers could be left unspoken, too.
Duprey's eyes pierced him. "The Exchange is not a place to be taken lightly. You
will find many powerful, ambitious people there. Perhaps they could do with a slacker in
their midst, after all. Your transfer has been arranged. In fact, I think you could do well
to start today," he leaned in to speak, "hangover or not."

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Chapter Two - Bye

Ben bounded back along the gantries across his former stockhull. When he began
to traverse above his own section, Storage D-Frozen Food/Medicianals, something made
him stop. He looked down. Below him, all his former workmates, his friends, scurried
antlike between the cases, ticking, checking. Everyone knew the trading rules: he'd have
to move into the Exchange. Contact with the outside would be minimal. But he wanted
this, didn't he? He took one last look at his former workplace, and turned for his old
quarters.
Inside, Grant had somehow found his way back to bed. "Grimey sent me home," he
said, "after I vomited over a supply of bandages. HaAAURGH. What's with your day off,
anyway?". Ben swallowed. He'd hoped to be able to get out without this encounter, but it
was far better that should face it, he knew.
"Mate, I've been offered an apprenticeship." In his nauseous state, Grant was
somehow able to take in the magnitude of this. "Heeeey! Not bad! Living it up, huh?
What's going to be? Nav? Programs? They could probably use someone like you at the
Theatre..."
"Trader," Ben said. And that brought Grant into clarity. He sat up, took off his
goggles, looked Ben straight in the eye.
"Trading's bad business, mate. I know World needs it, of course we do, but there's
something not right there. Best to let other people do it, I say. Can't you find a place in
with the Historians with Rob, or something?". But Ben had seen this conversation
coming. Grant was too good a friend not to have it with him.
"This is what I want to do. I can't explain it, but whenever I've been past that
purple building, I get this shiver, like it's speaking to me. Believe me, I wouldn't do this
lightly." And he somehow managed to say it with enough conviction to silence his friend.
At length, Grant said, "you're never this serious. I guess this means something to
you. But Ben, don't be a stranger. Don't forget who you are, on the outside. And if the
Robies ever let you out of that thing, you owe me a drink. Yeah?"
"Yeah. And don't worry, I'll be around. I'm not one of those mental types. You're a
good mate. Maybe I'll see if I can get you in-" Grant laughed. The same laugh as when
they'd snuck down to Storage D late at night, all six of them on the shift, and rode the icy
corridors on forklifts until they crashed into a case of palate of fish and were docked a

11
week's pay.
"Trading's not for me. Maybe I'll see how far up I can get in the shift, maybe win
your awards now you're gone. Don't worry about me." And at those words, the nausea
had overtaken Grant once more, and he was fast asleep.
Ben turned back to his possessions. His battered gunmetal case, B. Hitbrush
scratched across it in the best hand he could muster. But that wasn't his fault, it had
been great-grandfather Boris' back in the day. He unfastened the latches with a click,
and opened the box he was going to put himself into. His work boots - everyone had
those, of course, but he wondered if he could even wear those in the Exchange. Then his
discs, an alphabetised collection of documentaries they called James Bond. Watching
them night after night instead of studying, he had always thought it strange that the
man's missions had followed such a consistent structure. He had the worn collection of
family effects, of course. Not that he ever looked at them. And of course, the letters to
Jenny.
He picked one up; the same one he always picked up. The last one.

Dear Ben,

It read,

I wish you could see what I'm looking at right now. In front of me there's millions
of twinkling lights, disappearing whenever another huge freighter slips in front of
them, reappearing as it docks in the bays below. Beyond is amazing! It's like anything
could happen here. One day you'll come out here and see it all yourself, right? If they
have an Stocktaking and Inventory conference or something. Everyone here's been so
nice to me. My first concert is in 24 hours; we're just putting the final touches on my
costume. They've got a really nice band backing, and all these lasers. So much to do,
maybe you could come be my manager? I always thought I was gonna stay on World
with you, and maybe we'd- Oh! They're calling for me. I guess we have to star
rehearsals early. Gotta run!
Jenny x

And the X was that swirling, flamboyant cross that Jenny had always used on their
childhood birthday cards. The ridiculous, girly one... Ben took the letters, folded them
carefully in two, let his hand hover near the waste chute for a few seconds, and put the
paper into his case. Grant was right - this 'new life' stuff was a bit overwrought, really.
He grabbed his guitar, his collection of novelty china plants, painstakingly assembled,
his collection of semi-legal medicines (one of the perks of his job, if used properly),
shoved everything in his case, and stood up. Grant was motionless. Best just to go, not
make a big thing of it. He was only a few floors away, after all. He'd send all the boys a
mail when he got there, anyway. And with that vague promise to himself, he turned and
walked out white corridor 159, and the transit rank.

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Chapter 3 - The Exchange

Back when everyone was leaving school and going their separate ways, Ben had
used the transit rank all the time. Every friendship group that splits up always does so
with the best of intentions, always promising to stay in touch. And for a while, they had,
meeting up on a day off at the joy ring, or sitting high in the girders above the dock,
drinking cheap wine and flinging rubbish down, trying to hit shuttles as they left World
for one of the surrounding liners in the convoy. And then, somewhere down the line, it
had just stopped happening. First one person has to change plans because of 'things to
do' or 'a project', then another, then people believe less and less. And while none of them
had meant for this to happen, it was a long time since Ben had stepped on one of the
trains.
The 'train' itself was a great transparent cylinder, like a drum, about 10 metres
across, which would corkscrew its way up the shaft, through the centre of World.
World's engineers had devised this in the early years, when it became clear that the ship
was just too big, its people too many, for the elaborate system of stairs to work on its
own. This was received wisdom, but Jack had told him some Engineer gossip the last
time they'd taken one together. The reason for the slow corkscrewing movement was
simple, he said: the first engineers had realised that the up-down movement of an
elevator would tear the ship in half, so instead the lift were pushed around laterally,
their movement a byproduct of the sideways movement of the engines. Train sickness
was common among the less well-travelled.
As the last passengers shuffled in, Ben caught his reflection in the window. The
curve made his already thin face positively skeletal, but besides that he wasn't looking
too bad for the standards of the Exchange - whatever they might be. Floppy, thick hair
was brushed to one side, and the pale hangover smudge around his eyes had started to
fade. Yes, he'd be alright. Right? Mr. Duprey had asked him to go, after all. He had to be
right for it. But he'd heard strange things about the Traders. Much of it motivated by
jealousy and ignorance, of course, but there were still the rumours of cloaked men and
women shuffling about the streets at night, of the strange deliveries of food and paper,
endless paper, into the purple monolith, of the even stranger guests that docked at
World to see them...
With a hiss and a squeak and a final turn, the drum spun up to street level.

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Stretching in front was a broad road, cobbled in metal, with ancient-looking buildings
on each side. And above was something that Ben rarely saw: the curve of the ceiling, the
upper half of World's great cylinder. "Talent floor," a female voice cooed mechanically,
and all manner of colourful dignitaries and eccentrics disembarked, sweeping Ben up
with them. There was the shiny, purple cube of The Exchange, separated from all the
other buildings like a plague-carrier. Its lack of features played with the scale so that by
the time Ben had reached it, it had taken twice as long and was twice as large as he'd
expected.
What a sight greeted him, as he walked toward that cube! Lights blinked along the
vertices, and ornate filigree laced its way across the faces. Amongst the ornate swirls, he
was sure he could make out faint computer iconography - circuit diagrams, streams of
data, and the like. And, at the bottom of one side, a white portal to within. Ben dragged
his case up the path, the last 200 metres.
Inside, the intense bustle and hum of the Talent floor was completely drowned out
by...nothing. There was a kind of deep, peaceful hum, and the sound of water - real, free
flowing water - oozing and splashing from rocks and sluices. The antechamber was dim
and peaceful on the eyes - all the lights had been softened into a yellow glow. "And you
are, dearie?" A thin, singing voice drifted into his ear, and he looked up - an elderly
robed woman was sitting at a metal desk, knitting. "Ben Technician, supply Hi- er, I
mean..."
"Ben! How lovely of you to stop by. Mister Duprey said you might be coming by for
a chat. I am Miss Magda. I'm what you might call mother to this brood, dearie. And yes,
includes the occasional scarf." Ben wondered about the necessity for scarves inside a
ship running at an even 25 degrees, but didn't say anything. "And I've seen your kind
come through that door before. Sit down, you must be exhausted, and I'll fetch
someone".
She picked up a receiver shaped the wing of a Grey-tailed Tern (he was sure), and
suddenly emitted a burst of impossibly fast chatter. Ben tried to listen but only catch
snatches of sound like guestishere and pleasefetcha before the conversation was over.
When she put the receiver down she looked across and, noticing Ben's confused
expression, smiled. "Of course! how could I forget? Have an iced bun," she said, and
from behind the desk produced a basket of sticky, oozing shapes. Ben remembered that
he hadn't eaten anything at all since waking up, and helped himself greedily. "Now, if
you just wait right here," she gestured towards a couch in the corner of the room, "I'm
sure someone can help you soon".
As strange as the request was, Ben suddenly felt compelled to sit down. "After all,
you must be so very tired, yes". Between the hangover and the running and the massive
life upheaval, he was tired. So tired... darkness crept around the edges of his vision, a
chemical darkness, seizing him and dragging him down. Why had Miss Magda dimmed
the lights? The world started to treacle and the woman's speech took on a slow,
sonorous lilt: "tired, yes... will help...you..."

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Chapter 4 - Passport Control

Ben woke up in a very different place. His mind reached up to scratch his head but
his arm did not follow. But he didn't feel the sense of being restrained. He just didn't
feel. With a monstrous effort, he hauled his eyes open, but as far as he could tell the lids
hadn't budged. Then, slowly, white lines began to trace themselves across the ceiling,
forming a web that easily lit the chamber he was in. "Chamber" was the only way it could
be described - Ben didn't have any kind of reference for this. The walls were panelled
with wood. Books - real books - lined the walls. There was the sound of ticking, just
above and behind his head. And there was a hat, just to his right, the owner beyond the
field of vision. "Wha-" he started, slurring, and the hat jumped up. "You're awake! Took
your time, didn't you? I thought they'd miscalculated the buns."
"Angover," was all he managed to say in his defence. The hat came closer and
revealed itself to be atop a grinning face. A wiry, curly moustache and circular, gold
glasses obscured all but a grin.
"I'm Alex, apprentice Trader. And you'll be Ben." It was a statement rather than a
question. "One last thing," he said, producing a very long syringe, "and up front, let me
say, I'm sorry about this bit, but you have to be awake for this." And without another
word of explanation, he pushed the syringe in through Ben's temple. He was most
definitely awake now. First a blinding flash of pain, and then a slower wave of heat,
coiled out from the injection point and through his body. "Neuronics," Alex said. "Bots,
transmitters, a few stimulants, some genetic material, a few inoculations, some stuff that
even I don't know what it is, and of course the truth serum. Ha! That's just my little joke,
there. Oh, and the antidote to the muscle relaxant. Sorry about all that." And he held out
his hand to pull Ben up, "best to get it done upfront, that's what they said to me."
"Where..?" managed Ben. "Time enough for questions, buddy," said Alex, "that's
what I'm here for. Come on, lots to do, lots to do." And he led Ben from the bed which
now looked more like an altar to an ornate but clinical-looking door.
The door slid open on an impossible sight. It was... a garden. Ben had seen pictures
of these. Figures in purple robes strolled along shining paths, discoursing in pairs or
staring intently at sheaves of paper. White lights traced and danced across every metal
surface, some seemingly directed by the Traders themselves. Alex led him across the
lawn, and into a squat wooden hut. Inside, tea was brewing, real tea. Paper lanterns

15
inscribed with unrecognisable symbols hugged the ceiling. And on the floor sat three
pairs just like their own; each a berobed, calm figure and his confused, work-clothed
companion. Alex motioned for them to sit down next to a mat.
"This is the Tea Room. People find it a fairly pleasant place to spend their first five
minutes here. Here, have a roll. Don't worry, these are fine," he said, as he noticed Ben
squinting at it with suspicion. Alex motioned to a girl with a loose bun of hair and calm
eyes, and whispered something in her ear. She shuffled off with a smile.
Ben had reached his limit of silence: "Okay, the big purple cube I'd heard of. Being
drugged by confectionary, that I can believe. But surprise injections in the brain? Magic
walls? Real plants? I think I need some answers."
Alex smiled. He seemed to be lost in thought. "I asked the same questions as you.
Only two months ago. So perhaps its time I told you what they told me. Ah! The squid is
here. Have some of this. The first bite is absolutely disgusting, but stick with it. You'll
love it." Ben, having had nothing that hadn't drugged or nauseated him in the last 24
hours, bit into the squishy mess gingerly. "Start with this," he said, fingering the needle-
mark between his eyes. What, exactly, did you do to me?"
"Okay, this is going to take some explanation. But just remember," he paused, and
sipped his tea. It was an unnecessary pause, and it annoyed Ben that Alex had
deliberately chosen to highlight the casual nature of the conversation by interrupting it
so demonstratively. He looked up. "Remember that it was you who asked for this. You
walked in here, and I think you'll like it."
"So, you already have a pretty good idea of Trading, from the outside. We keep
World moving, you know that. We only have certain things on the ship, and there's a lot
we need, and we have a long way to go. Exactly how we do that is a bit more of a palava,
but we'll leave that for now. How did we get here? In this room?" And he said this, he
gestured to the ceiling. White lights coalesced round the edges and came together to
draw a grid above them. In the centre of the grid was a point, and the point was labelled,
"World". At either end of this map were two dots, one labelled E, one labelled C. "You
know about Earth. Obviously," said Alex. Ben nodded, "Grandad Boris told me he'd been
one of the children. He said they were loaded on with such a fanfare, with all his toys, all
his parent's estate, servants, everything. He called it an Adventure, in the beginning."
Alex smiled. "All our grandparents did, didn't they? For them, it was. Leaving
Earth had become a big thing. All the governments, all the interest groups had prepared
a ship to do it. If you didn't have a colony, you were nothing. But World was different. It
had no nationality, no ideology. Just a bunch of entrepreneurs and the wealthy, looking
for something new. But they weren't perfect," his voice darkened, "and they certainly
didn't know a lot about logistics." He brought his hand in towards him, as if to draw the
map down, and the point expanded outwards into a shape. The shape of World. Ben
hadn't really seen it before. It morphed into a pie chart, segmented five ways: Fuel,
Food, Mechanical, Sundries, Luxuries. The fifth segment took up over half of the circle.
Alex continued: "did you ever hear about the Apollo missions, back in the past? They
took enough pills to last for a week, a couple of bottles of water each, and probably a
photo of their families, if they were lucky. They didn't take a 17th Century chest of
drawers."
Ben drained his tea (ancestral memories of tea seemed to stir something inside
him), and spoke "so, Trading? And syringing me in the face? That's all to do with some
sort of intergalactic flea market?

16
 “Yes, if you like, except instead of getting money, we’re getting everything we need
to live. I hope you appreciate that about 150 people have seen what I’m showing you
now, maximum. Of course, there are plenty of rumours always flying around - World’s
run on water, World’s running out of water, we’ve been flying in circles for fifty years,
that sort of thing. But as long as this thing is a rumour in amongst the rest, we’ll be
alright. And there won’t be a panic. But believe me, everything must go. And there are
buyers around.” The image zoomed out again, and around the mini-World there
appeared many different, smaller dots of different colours. Tiny streams of text flickered
and updated around them. One was particularly close. Alex enlarged it. “You might have
seen this baby out of the window, yes? The L’Esperanza. A little farming operation that
came within our flightpath a few weeks ago. The team in the negotiating department
have been at it for about 36 hours now, trying to get them to stop and Trade. I should
know, I’ve been working on the slide show”.
Ben thought back. Yes, there was that squat, rusting hulk halfway between what
they called a caravan, and one of the packing crates he’d spent all those months
counting and recounting - and that made him think. “Now, hold on. There must be some
error in your diagram. It’s very nice, but I know every inch of Frozen D.” He pointed at
the section of hull he’d got to know so well, marked on the image as ‘empty’ – “I’ve
counted the stacks, and believe me, we’re not going to run out of Sole any time soon. It’s,
well, it’s everywhere...”
But Alex’s somber, pitying expression stopped him. “Ben... this is the
uncomfortable part. But you have to know how this works. We all have to find out how
things work, what we've got to do to keep things moving. Everything's got to keep
moving, you know? If you don't move, you're not alive. It's obvious". He was babbling
now, Ben could see that clearly enough. There was anxiety in Alex's eyes. Clearly, he'd
never had to explain this to anyone. Maybe the last time he'd heard it was the time it was
explained to him. Strangely, Ben, didn't feel much pity.
"WHAT?"
"Those crates? None of them are real. Well, about 10% are real. The rest are...
props. Or they hold something else. There's plenty of stuff we have in excess. Silica,
chips, computing power. All the things people though would save the world, save World,
at the time we left. Provisions to establish a base. But we haven't found somewhere to go
yet. The journey wasn't supposed to take nearly this long. So we roam. And trade. And
hide, from ourselves. It has to happen this way".
Ben saw through the blind rage enough to think back. Back to the one, single time
he'd ever been allowed to open a crate by the foreman, seen what was inside, and closed
it, satisfied. And that was it, only Mr Swires had any ability to open the crates. And Ben
had never seen him use it. "So... there's nothing? Just, trinkets? Just crap?" Convenient
timing accented Alex's next point: the dumplings had arrived. "Not quite. Ooh, sour
pork! Try these. So," he said through a full mouth, "there's plenty we don't have, it's
true. And there's separate divisions to deal with that. There's people diluting the water
with milligrams of waste and swapping out meat for fungus and sealing up pipes with
tape, sure. Or at least I assume it's something like that, but maybe best not to wonder.
There are people above us that get to lose sleep over that.
"As I said, there are things we have an awful lot of. The things our ancestors
thought mattered. Things that only, as it turns out, occurred on Earth. Who knew
Oxygen mattered to anyone? And then, of course, there's the fact that we're moving,

17
Ben. That's our greatest asset. My grandmother used to tell me stories about these
things called convoys. Apparently, Earth was a bit like this. People back then used to live
close together in groups, but have the groups far apart, and they called them Sitees. I
think. But of course, only some of the citees were next to water" - the phrase 'next to
water' made Ben's head hurt but he concentrated - "So they had plenty of that, but they
didn't have, oh, rocks or something. And there were people who'd travel between the
citees. They needed to travel anyway, to get there, but they had spare space, so they
could make a bit of money by taking more things with them. Anything the new citee
wanted but didn't have - food, books, even people. Well, they didn't sell the people. I
think. But in this way, they could get the things they needed in the course of travelling
around. And that's what we're doing! Amazing, huh?" And, satisfied with the crescendo
in his speech, Alex sipped his tea and sat back.
Ben thought for a moment. He stared at the ceiling. He thought of mysterious
scientists on a green and blue rock, infinities away, laughing and cheering at their new
invention, their new engine of possibility. He thought of government ministers queuing
at the doors of superindustries, their air and sea factories repurposed at speed to
accommodate space freight. He thought of wealthy industrialist meetings in shadowy
boardrooms around beautiful tables, the signings of contracts, the shaking of leathery
hands. He thought of press rooms in a frenzy, networks on fire, of privileged dilettante
families trying to keep up with each other, buying astronomically expensive berths on
freshly painted hunks of steel and superplastic. Of fleets of lights joining the lights in the
sky and disappearing, one by one. And of these small bands of the children of dreamers,
enacting a dream they had not instigated, cheated, forced into a destiny they hadn't
made. These things came unbidden to them. Was it..? "And how does this all relate to
the hole in between my eyes?" He gestured to the tiny pinprick of blood that had formed
there.
Alex looked visibly brightened by being asked a tangible question. He stood up and
held out his hand. "Well, that's an easy one. Perhaps it's best for you to find out for
yourself..."

18
Chapter 5 - Test Drive

The dome was amazing. Geodesic shapes interlocked and seemed to dance around
each other. Faint, musical hums came from above and below like an echo chamber of
the gods. The plates of the ground below seemed to slide and twist, though if Ben fixed
his eye on any one, it was inevitably utterly still. Invisible machinery clicked and
hummed in the darkness, behind piles of box filing, student's notes, textbooks, and
study paraphenalia.
"Impressed? It's not even switched on, friend," said Alex with deliberate mystery.
Don't worry, you've got time for a play. I managed to get us a whole hour booked - not
too bad, considering how mad things are around here at the moment. But you'll need
some time. Don't get motion sickness, do you? Now," he said, and his voice suddenly
seemed to drop an octave. He pointed far off to the crown of the dome, which must have
been 40 metres above their heads, where a small red light was blinking in the darkness.
"What's that? Some kind of camera? A robot?"
"Nah. Standby. Go on, switch it on."
Ben squinted at light, and thought hard. He knew what to do. As he stared at it and
strained, the light began to pulse brighter, its aura steadily getting stronger until it
began to cast a faint red light on their faces below.
Alex smiled. “Think harder! Stretch out, through the ship.” And there, just as in the tea-
room, the white lights of the grid started to lace across the ceiling of the grid and at its
centre, there was World again.
“That’s us?”
“Well, as far as you’re concerned, yes. But look, there’s nothing else around. What
are you aware of?”
Ben thought. “Well, there’s the L’Esperanza, isn’t there.” Beside World, a faint,
hazy shape rippled, far smaller.
“You’re just telling me what you know,” Alex said, “anyone can do that. What are
you aware of?”
“Ships,” the word seemed to come unbidden from Ben. Around World, pin-pricks
of light flashed like firecrackers. Next to World’s metre-long sillhouette, some were like
flattened tennis balls, some seemed infinitesimally small. Ben realised he had seen these
before, too. All around World there were always ships buzzing like hornets, visiting,

19
inspecting, protecting or being protected by...
“...Trading?”
“Trading exactly, mate. You’ve seen these before, as pods and capsules and science
ships and freighters, as rusting hulks and shiny tubes like they had in those movies. Now
you see them as they mean to us: relative position, cargo, power, crew. Take the
L’Esperanza, for example. Think about it, stretch out towards it.”
Although those words meant nothing to Ben, neither had anything else up to that
point, so he did so. The L’Esperanza expanded to five times its size, dominating Ben’s
vision and illuminating the chamber with the eerie white tracing. “Focus,” said Alex, and
the haziness sharpened into a form. There was the ship, and around the ship, through
the ship, data flowed at tremendous speed: Crew: 249 Fuel: 45 Megagallons Energy:
Ionic, 45% Food Stocks Science Complement Destination Bearing Psychometrics
Trigonometry-
The hum from the chamber grew a little louder. “Relax, Ben!” said Alex. “Man, if
they’d told me you were so naturally curious I wouldn’t have let you go in this fast.”
“What am I doing?” He asked. “How is this happening?” He felt the urge to scratch
the spot between his eyes, and realised he already knew the answer.
“Your mind has been... rennovated. Drugged up, a little bit. Do you remember...”
Alex stopped for a second, looked like he was mouthing a question to the distance - “do
you remember James Bond’s watch? With” - he squinted again - “all the gadgets? The
magnets and lasers and things? Don’t worry about how I know about that, by the way. Q
gives Bond an ordinary watch, right? But it can do all these extra things, because it’s so
souped up. The point is, it can still tell the time. What I’m trying to say is, you’re still
basically you. Don’t worry about that. But there’s a little extra in there. a little part of
this big machine here, in fact. A little touch of god. Right now, there’s machines in your
frontal lobe, building bridges, shortcuts directly to your subconscious. And in your inner
ear, transmitters, Back to the Oracle.”
The machine seemed to hear him, as white lights pulsed in a wink. "You and this
thing, you're joined together. See, this thing is a bit like a brain. A hell of a lot of info
coming in at once, to compare and process. It's not just a big calculator. And it's for
dealing with motivations and emotions - with a brain. So it needs a brain to work it
properly. That's where your brain comes in, or mine. When you learn to use the Oracle
properly, you'll stretch your awareness out, and all this data, everything we know, it'll all
come together, it will make sense, and when that happens, well, you'll see. I've only done
the full thing a couple of times, but when you do, you'll see... don't worry, it takes
time..."
But something inside Ben wasn't interested in taking time, not at all. Something
inside Ben felt like a great angry dragon waking up, having scented blood for the first
time in centuries. The filaments and wiring and godsknewwhat inside the Oracle called
out to dark parts of him with a siren lilt. Ignoring Alex's speech, he stretched out once
more to the L'Esperanza. And as the lines above shifted and zoomed, he felt it call
silently back to him. Or was it just an echo? Alex stopped talking, could only watch as
the ships shape ballooned and filled the inside of the dome. Within that there were
further shapes, shifting and dancing in the light. People? Ben's hungry mind stretched
further, like a child at a garden gate trying to squeeze through railings to something
forbidden and beyond. With one effort, he strained his fibres towards the dots in the
ship. As Alex watched in astonishment, the pulsing dots coalesced, shifted together,

20
grew stronger, and began to pulse in rhythm as one.
Ben's mind was pounding. He was furious. Why hadn't Alex explained this power
to him before? Why was it only hidden to a few? Why couldn't he see further? Why had
Caia agreed to come into range of World, couldn't she see the L'Esperanza was
defenceless? Stupid bitch, why couldn't where was what about and suddenly Ben was
sad, so sad. Then elated, then confused. He felt systems and supplies and possibility.
The lights pulsed, filling the whole chamber with a whiteness. The hum of the machines
became a plaintive whine, then an enraged one. Ancient pistons somewhere hissed and
growled as the whiteness became something even more profound and the last thing Ben
heard before that profundity embraced him and took him away was Alex's "mate, maybe
you should-" and there was a retina-frying flash and nothing more.

21
22
Chapter Six - The Ward

Many rumours had swept through the Exchange many times before, of course.
Though the Traders like to pride themselves on a dispassionate control and mastery of
information, a certain detachment, they were to a child ferociously curious. And as such,
any hint of an undesirable tryst or a juicy trading opportunity discovered by a neophyte
had to be investigated, interrogated, catalogued - all for the purposes of accruing greater
information for analysis, of course. Nothing untoward. And as such, the Exchange's
Spartan sick bay was very keen to make clear to all that absolutely nothing unusual
whatsoever had taken place within the oracle chamber three days previously, and that
the patient in question had suffered no more than a little mental fatigue caused by his
speedy induction and would be fine with a little bed rest if he was left alone, please. The
young Undertrader known as Alex had be reprimanded of course, for putting the
candidate through such a hastened induction, but had then immediately been allowed,
even ordered, to visit the patient, and had taken up residence there. He was in the
middle of one such vigil, idly flicking through a text on demand theory in post-
revolution societies when Ben stirred.
"HnyoooooUUU-wha?" The end of some unremembered curse escaped him as he
tried to make sense of his surroundings: plain white sheets over him, on what looked
like a marble altar but was soft to lie on, within a marble room no bigger than his old
quarters. His quarters. They seemed like a more inviting, more welcoming prospect than
ever now. Before opening his eyes, Ben tried to reach back through the last three days.
His mind was a panoply of emotions and confusions. What had he been doing? He had
been floating five kilometres off the starboard wing of World, in L'Esperanza. No, he
had been L'Esperanza. No, that wasn't possible. It had all been a dream, glowing circus
tents and mad wizard-merchants, an impossible job interview. Just the mother of all
hangovers. Please?
"Dream, please? The lights..." was all that he could say, in a moan. Alex sat up in
his chair. "Ben, mate, you're alright! That was a bit of a hairy one. Thanks for not going
mad or anything - they'd have loaded me on the first tradeship out of here if your brain
had been fried. Do you know what happened back there?" Ben's face had lost all its
colour and although it was slowly coming back, he still looked like one of those
dispassionate, drained faces that scientists had optimistically put on stockbots in the
early days to make them 'appeal'. Ben's slurred, emotionless speech greatly added to the

23
effect.
"I was reaching out, like you said I had to. I was reaching further, trying to see it
all. I was the people, each one. And I was all of them, too. Like you could mash them all
together in a soup, I was all of that." He thought back. "It was beautiful. Amazing, to see
people as they really are. And then... something else. Dark, angry. And when I thought I
was looking it... it was looking at me..."
A measured and authoritative voice entered the room behind Ben "I think I can
explain that," the voice said, "up to a point." Ben still couldn't see the voice's owner but
Alex's body tensed and shifted. "Doctor Zhu? You're here? I'm so sorry, I don't know
how he did it, I mean, I told him to stop but-"
"Hush, Undertrader. I'm just checking on the patient. He's been through more
than he should have done at this stage, and while your induction method might well
have been rather, shall we say, slack, there's not much we can do when a hungry mind
takes the initiative. I'm sorry, how rude of me," and the voice came around Ben's head
and to his right, attached to a wiry man in a rough, white robe, his scarred face masked
by thick, dark circular glasses. These impassive giant pupils surveyed Ben, and the good
doctor smiled.
“Kejia Zhu, Auditor. Shepherd of this particular facility. And, since it seems I may
be seeing you more than most, I thought I'd better introduce myself. You are, of course,
Ben, and you are, of course, suffering from serious mental fatigue and so I won't throw
too much information your way for the time being. But you might care to know why a
part of you still thinks it's a small agricultural freighter drifting over a mile out from this
ship." Ben could only nod. What was there to say? 'Yes please, it'd be most interesting to
discover why my life has turned inside out in a week?' or, 'actually, having an intimate
moment with a giant computer is fairly standard for me, a bit of rest and some barley
water and I'll be fine'? So he nodded.
"Doubtless, young Alex has explained the role of the Oracle. It's our process, our
abacus, and our codebook for the markets of life. What he probably hasn't explained to
you, because he isn't supposed to learn it for another year or so, is the method. None of
us could be said to know in the full anyway, but we might be able to take steps towards
it.
"The Oracle is a computer. The mind that controls it is a computer. And the social
systems that we analyse with it are, if you like, computers too. All computers of great
power and extremely confusing output. The idea of the Oracle system is, as you'll learn
properly-" he glanced sideways at a sheepish Alex - "to get rid of as many barriers and
interface gates between the mind of Trader and target as possible. This means a fair few
psychic... liberties have to be taken."
Ben looked suspiciously at the glasses. His own reflection stared back.
"When you look at me, Ben, your mind processes thousands of calculations in an
instant. You see my coat, and ancestral memories of white coats breaking the
boundaries of science tell you I am one of their ilk. You hear my voice and the selection
of words I speak, and you deduce that I am an eccentric, perhaps even a redundant old
man" Ben flushed with embarrassment, but Dr. Zhu continued. "Likewise with the word
Doctor. You see in me, someone that will help you in some way, or hurt you beyond
imagining. All these things are fairly simple to comprehend, of course, but they are
really just learned pieces of code. Programming. Do you follow me?"
Alex was leaning in now. He was as confused as Ben; clearly, this was news to him.

24
To see him uncertain, when he had been so cocky and assured just days before,
disturbed Ben, but Zhu was not stopping. "These are all fairly simple signifiers. A
computer can be taught to recognise these things. However, what about my tone, and
the way I stand? I have had a fairly long day today, can you see that? Of course, a child
can. Can you see how I might be hoping to wrap up this explanation as simply as
possible and not divulge too much, and yet that I am wrapped with passion about this,
my favourite subject and the focus of my study and my role at The Exchange? Can you
see... this?"
And he took off the dark, dark glasses. Ben and Alex both instinctively reached to
protect their foreheads. At the centre of Zhu's head, the same tiny needlepoint that all
traders had from their injection. But surrounding it, dark veins snaked out, winding
around the old man's eyes like a mischievous mask, framing every expression. And the
eyes! The one was a sort of soft green-brown, beady and shimmering. The other was
perfect, marble-black. The face smiled, a masquerade clown in a lab coat.
"A computer here, sees lines on a face. Spaces of darkness where its systems tell it
they should not be, according to average skin-shade statistics of the population. It might
see these things in extraordinarily high definition, stronger than any of us, this is true,
but I know what you two see."
"Something went wrong?" said Alex.
"On the fringe of science, in testing the untested, nothing ever 'goes wrong',
Undertrader," said Zhu, "there is only feedback. I was the first to test the Oracle, to try
and bond with it using our primitive nanotech and homemade enzymes. We, ah, made it
a little too strong. Or perhaps it was unavoidable and the Oracle was too eager.
Nevertheless, for its very first bonding the Oracle took me as its partner, its concubine.
Whilst you two are able to interface with it at will - indeed, only when you are within the
dome itself can you use it to probe - I am forever plugged in. And unlike the two of you,
it always feeds back to me. I am the first, and the only, to be bonded in such a way. What
it actually means, even I don't know. But in my eyes, your human brain already knew
that, didn't it?"
Ben looked - and he saw this strange pull, a mixture of weariness in one world and
vitality in another. He saw the eagerness, almost animal hunger to discover and
interrogate, but he also saw the way that drive was overtaking... usurping and destroying
the body. He saw, and Alex saw, the inescapable future for Dr. Zhu. The way his hunger
would drive him to his end. But neither of them could place why and how they saw it.
"You know me, in ways no computer, however powerful, however many streams of
data it receives, can know me. And you have only just met me. And so, the Oracle needs
a human master with a human brain to know anything." He scratched his head. "But
these connections must have limits. After I recovered from my initial bonding, we were
very careful to make sure of that. So we kept the bonding functions limited to the
conscious mind, to the frontal lobe. Nothing should happen unless you actively wish for
the Oracle to do it..."
Alex spoke up. "I saw it, Doctor! His eyes went blank and he wouldn't speak to me,
and next thing the Oracle's calling up streams of data I've never seen before, and
reaching out farther than we're supposed to, trying to probe individuals. It sounded like
it was straining with the effort, I've never heard a sound like that-"
Zhu raised a hand. "Yes, thank you Alex. Auditors are looking through the data
records from the incident, or at least as much as can be salvaged, and our best guess so

25
far is that the bonding connections have reached back, through the frontal lobe and into
subconscious areas, things like the hippocampus and the amygdala. Emotional
constructs, instinctive areas".
Ben remembered the intense anger, sadness and joy he'd felt as he probed.
"It would seem that you spoke to the Oracle on a basic, subconscious level. And it
got rather excited. Fortunately for us, your young mind was too overwhelmed by the
experience to continue the link and you experienced a sort of mental hiccup.
Nevertheless, it is a cause for... concern."
"Concern?" said Ben. "Did I break it or something?"
Zhu smiled and laughed. "My Oracle is far too robust for one such as you to break
it, young man. Nevertheless you did seem to achieve some sort of peculiar resonance
with it, didn't you? It may be that it was a little to zealous to communicate with a new
one. Or you were too eager to communicate with it. Or someone may have administered
an incorrect dose of nanomachines." Alex flushed. Zhu continued. "But the cause must
be studied. I reluctantly agreed to let the Oracle rest while we investigate. And you shall
rest, also. You are not to use it for a month, not until you've achieved some kind of
theoretical grounding in its principles and use. Alex, they wanted me to ban you too, but
I don't think that's fair. I remember in the early days of the Oracle, she would only listen
to the daring, to people like us who took control and dared to push her capabilities. And
I'm aware your final exam is approaching in a few weeks, so you're to continue Oracle
use. Just don't be so bloody ignorant. Boys, studies begin again tomorrow. Don't fail
me."
And with that, Doctor Kejia Zhu replaced his goggles, and left the ward.

26
Chapter Seven - An Encounter, Or Two

After the excitement of psychic computers and economic destiny and mysterious
purpose, the 'programme of study' seemed like a bit of a sleepy couple of weeks. But
then, Ben was glad of the change. His first few nights had been haunted by strange
dreams of blinking white lights shifting in and out and around each other, and him
imagining he could read the thoughts and desires of those with him in the quarters. But
as each night passed these visions became less distinct, so that even that first encounter
had begun to feel like an imagining. When he passed near the great dark dome, he
sometimes felt he could hear the Oracle calling out to him, but he had far too much
study to do to worry about that.
He had been introduced to his 'class' the next day: all of five students they were,
the oldest must have been 30, the youngest couldn't be more than 16. She was Rachel; a
bright, almost insane girl who had been ejected from school for asking too many difficult
questions and promptly recruited by the Exchange in a speculative deal with her
concerned parents. Part of the deal acknowledged that she was too young to interface
with the Oracle and would not receive her injection until she definitely decided to stay
when she reached 18. Fortunately, the amount of material they threw at her seemed to
keep her occupied, and she seemed pretty confident that she could master the Oracle
when the time was right, whatever it was. She was far too busy trying to mix her studies
with Political Theory, the works of Shakespeare, Historical Dubstep, and other subjects
held over from her time at school.
She was explaining about just such a thing when Professor Ravi Kotecha had
walked into the room for the first time. He slammed five very, very large books onto the
marble desk, screamed down the corridor for his secretary to please fetch some green
tea before I kill someone, and that was when the class knew they were dealing with the
renowned Professor K, scourge of the Exchange and the closest thing it had to an
exchange.
"You are going to suffer. I will hurt you in the brains," were the first words he'd
said. It seemed that their scheduled teacher, the bubbly and vivacious Miss Bury, had
been recalled to handle negotiations with an Art ship, the Waterlily, potentially over a
deal worth in the hundreds of millions of credits. World could not afford to lose such an
opportunity for the sake of babysitting another shoal of Undertraders, so Ravi had
stepped up to fill the need. The speculation was that he had wanted to get his hands on

27
such a class to mould in his method for a long time, to undo what he called "the softness
eating away and the roots of my Exchange". The Kotechas had been a long and austere
line of prominent Earth economists through the 2200s, and it was their stewardship and
careful speculation, many said, that had enabled organisations and governments to fund
the colonies in the first place. It was certainly the case with World. Ben remembered
Robert, then just an amateur historian, telling him the whole story. Old Rudolph
Kotecha had been the speculator that saw the yearning amongst Earth's independently
wealthy to take their place in history by buying their way into space travel. So he had
orchestrated all the funding for the World project. Not that he had the slightest interest
in space travel or colonisation, of course. To him, the dream of space was a commodity,
just like the dream of beauty or the dream of peace of even the dream of a god:
something to be bought when the price was low and sold when the price got higher.
His youngest son, however, brought up on cheap sci-fi flicks and trash novella
alongside the strict economic instruction of his lineage, had another agenda. It was
legend, passed down through the three generations of crew on World, that Ranulph
Kotecha, concerned that he could never escape his father's shadow, engineered the sales
of the World project so that he was the principal shareholder, and immediately took up
residence as chief economist. When it became apparent that the world's wealthy did not
have enough common sense to look after themselves on the voyage, and that there
wouldn't be a habitable planet for another very long time indeed, Ranulph had founded
the Traders and constructed The Exchange, part-business, part-computer, part-temple,
to shepherd the economic future of World. And the last scion of that line was now
bellowing down at Ben's class.
"You will become acquainted with Keynes, with Friedman, with Alus. I will
demand your utmost attentiveness, and you will supply it. Just my little joke, there. I
hope you enjoyed it. That will be the last." Seats shifted uncomfortably. Rachel giggled,
inappropriately.
That had been their first encounter, but in truth, as long as Professor K was given
his due amount of attention, and work was done on time, he proved to be quite an
affable if eccentric man. It was strange for him, as one of the last bearers of economic
theory in the community, in a place where economic theory didn't do anyone much
good, but he was convinced that the mistakes and assumptions of the past were the only
solid foundation on which to build World's future, and his lessons were infused with this
spirit. Ben was just settling down to his first essay, "The Causes And Ramifications Of
The Wall Street Crash," when he had an unexplained idea.
The way events had happened so fast, from stockroom and inventory to the most
powerful computer in The Exchange, had niggled at him. He was pretty sure that asking
too many questions about the Traders' recruitment policy was a very bad idea, but he
was determined to find a way to get the bottom of things from the outside. What about
the other branches of the Apprentorium? Mr. Duprey had given the impression that his
admittance into the Exchange was a simple matter of whim, and yet he'd had such a
strong knowledge of his notes, seemed to know Ben better than he knew himself. Did
that happen for every branch on the Talent floor? There was someone who must know.
Jack.
He saved his essay - a full one and a half lines written - and found his pair of cheap
slippers. He tiptoed past a sleeping group of students, slinked out of the door of the
quarters, and began to make his furtive way toward the Workshop.

28
* * *

"Simulation Failed. Play again?"

Alex hurled the electrodes to the ground with a primal howl. They clattered on the
marble and diode floor of the Oracle with a dull noise. His scream bounced and
reverberated around the curved walls until it came back to him, sounding like the cry of
a wounded animal. It felt as if the chamber screamed back at him, angry at him as he
was angry at it.
"Work, damn you! Stupid machine! PROBE! Again."
He refocused his mind at the eerie lumescant sillhouette on the ceiling, trying to
will information into being. The shape flickered and died.
"Simulation Failed. Play again?" The calm female voice repeated, tauntingly.
"Again."
"Simulation Failed. Pl-"
"Again."
"Simulation F-"
Alex threw his textbook at the banks of readouts along the wall, turned, stormed
towards the portal out. Ever since that brat Ben had woken up from his coma, he hadn't
been able to concentrate in the Oracle's simulation programs.
The very training sims he would be tested with when his exam came next week.
Every time he tried to refocus, his mind would be filled with a hot jealousy, a memory of
the way Ben had seemed to so easily woo the diodes and datalinks of the dome. He
remembered, always, the way he had stood dumbly by like a rejected partner, while Ben
and the Oracle were lost in a psychic dance, a dialogue of pure data and emotions and
intentions. He remembered, with anger, the tone of Dr. Zhu's voice, that same Dr. Kejia
Zhu he had read about since he was a child in clandestine textbooks bought at
tremendous sums by his overbearing parents. The Dr. Zhu that he had spent hours and
weeks trying to arrange 'accidental' meetings with, in corridors being endlessly rebuffed.
He forehead was a sheen of sweat from mental exertion as he stepped out into the
shower of the senior dorm. And, as he caught his reflection in the mirror, what stared
back at him was the cruelest memory of all; a vision of Ben's face at that last moment
before his mind had crashed and he'd blacked out - a picture of pure ecstasy, at one with
the machine. An expression that hadn't left him until he'd woken up from the coma.
Alex thumbed the door lock and stepped into his room. He picked up An
Introduction to Off-World Power Relationship Theory and turned to the battered
glossary page; he wasn't going to let this beat him. He would refocus and conquer, as his
father had always said. He opened his top drawer, under the bed, found another syringe
of Halfidol, slid it into his temple and waited. The icy rush spread through his synapses,
tightened his brow, made him feel strong. Yes, he thought as he picked up the book,
there was a crash waiting for Ben.

* * *

He'd heard about the Workshop from Jack in his letters, to begin with, but it was
clear that Jack had been so engrossed in the doing of the thing that properly describing
its wonders hadn't actually occurred to him. This place was something else; a homage to

29
all things cunning and creative. Jack was dragging Ben at speed through the corridors
and warrens of the Black rhombus of the Workshop, but Ben still had time to catch
snatches of wonders. A floating something here, an impossibly powerful laser there, and
many, many doors marked with variations on the phrase TOP SECRET. Ben had heard
eager young Undertraders talk of being transferred to "New Business," the codename for
consulting with Engineers in the Workshop over new tech and trying to give it some
measure of profitability. Now he understood why...
Over these thoughts crept Jack's casual babble: "they've got me in Aesthetics,
weirdly. I mean in my interview I told the I was kinda interested in form, and they
would do these tests where they gave me two different cubes of material and got me to
say which one was intrinsically better, but I dunno, anyone could do that, right? I mean
it's pretty obvious... You should see what some of the other people are doing, all this
weird stuff that could tear World apart, I'm telling you, people talk a lot of shit in the
cafeteria obviously, but yesterday Jones was saying that in Sonics they'd made this
sound which short-circuited some connection between the drum and the motor system.
So if you heard it, you physically couldn't move. Once they turned it on, they were stuck
for three hours until the deaf caretaker realised what was going on and smashed the
generator. So they've had to make a Research Assistant, obviously. Hey, this is us."
He stopped at a doorway with the words Form et Function emblazoned across the
archway.
"What's that?" asked Ben, "your lab?"
"Nah, the rec room for the Aesthetics department. Come in, but please don't look
too hard at anything."
Ben did his best to follow instructions as they stepped through, and managed to
keep his glances as casual as possible. But what he saw, or half-saw, certainly was
intriguing. Benches of impossible shapes, paintings that seemed to have infinite depth
to them. A tiny square of coloured material hung on the far wall, perhaps the size of a
postage stamp. Ben couldn't help himself, the curiosity of Trader was beginning to worm
its way into him. "What's that thing?"
"Oh, Florange? Yeah, be careful there. A couple of guys think they've come up with
a colour so impossibly beautiful that looking at it makes you collapse in ecstasy. The
staff are letting them test it, but not allowed to have anything bigger than this.
Apparently it'll still make your eyes tear up at ten metres though, so be careful. Could do
with a better name though. Anyway," he motioned for Ben to sit down, "it's good to see
you. Seriously. We were all kind of worried when we stopped seeing you. I wasn't sure
the inventory stuff was right for your kind of person. What are you doing now?" He
clocked the beginnings of frown lines on Ben's face, crowning a slightly weary
expression - and beneath that, that hungry searching look of desperate curiosity just
starting to form, and took a guess.
"Ben... you're not in with that Trading lot, are you?"
Ben grinned, and nodded. "Amazing, huh? It's such a strange place I still don't
really know what they, I mean we do, but I love it. You should come over some time."
Jack's face was edged with concern. "I'm happy for you, seriously, but I don't think
they let us in. I've heard strange things about that place. And call me a mad engineer or
whatever, but there's just something about your guys that come over here - what do they
call them, New Business? - they're shifty. It's all handshakes and stuff when they come
in on visit days, but..." He leaned in closer, motioned for Ben to do the same. "Look,

30
come with me. We may be Aesthetics but there's no telling who's testing out some kind
of listening device here."
After more warren-walking, they reached Red 17-a, Jack's room. The door slid
open and Jack began babbling, too loudly, "see what I mean, mate? Aesthetically perfect
in every way. Look at those proportions! Here, let me show you something." With a
rictus, nervous grin he led Ben inside.
When the door slid shut, his face changed. "Okay, listen to me," he said. "Your guys
come over here, all those purple robes and smiles, but tell me this. Why do we spend
three days beforehand on cleanup?
"Cleanup?"
"Cleaning up. Hiding absolutely everything we have that's of any value or scientific
importance, storing them in deep vaults full of cobwebs that the rest of World knows
absolutely zip about. And getting all our softest, lamest projects out to show your people.
And all the whispering and tension that floats around in the leadup. Seriously,
something's up. Have they told you what you actually do?"
"We keep World moving. We supply it with everything it needs, but fuelling the
engines of commerce and..." he faltered as he realised the relentless, easy flow of
preprogrammed words had almost come unbidden. "Er... no. I wanted to ask you
something, actually. Getting into the Workshop... how? What was it like? You talked
about interviews and stuff but you never went into details. What happened?"
Jack sat back, flicked a few switches on the wall and succession of fans, flouro-tube
lights and static generators kicked in. "Can't me too careful, mate. There's an embargo
on talking about this stuff, but you're a friend. But we only this conversation once, kay?"
"Remember when I got my results? Full marks, blah blah? Total lies. I'd been
studying as hard as I could, but I failed pretty much everything. Just couldn't get
motivated, couldn't care about any of that stuff. I spent all my time working on my
programs, perfecting them."
"Programs? You mean all those stupid pranks? The soundfiles that spread through
everyone's desks and wrecked them? What's to perfect?"
"You don't understand. It was a game that never ended, it was amazing. Every time
I released a new hack, the system changed to block it. And I would stay up all night,
updating EVE."
"Eve?"
"EVE. Engineering Versus Education. It was just my little cause, my adopted
program. Anyway, I would work hours and hours in the dark, making EVE just that little
bit smarter, giving her the sidestep around their stupid security walls. It's something I
could never win, I could only keep getting better, and they always found a new way to
challenge me. So beautiful.
"And then they got bored of just defending against me. The system started
attacking me. Thinking back, they must have known who I was so they could get at me.
But I didn't care, I just cared about the chase. About beating whoever was sitting at that
other screen, doing their stupid job. This was my art. So when I got home and found my
terminal locked out, frozen, wiped, I'd get in there with a screwdriver, mess it up, steal
the parts I needed, get back into the game."
Ben leaned in. "So? You had a tiff with some official, and it got a bit over the top.
What's this got to do with recruiting. How does Duprey fit into this?"
"Don't you see? If they knew where I live, knew who I was, they could have shut me

31
down. Cut the connection. Told my parents. Hell, just found me. But they didn't. They
taunted me. Remember when we used to sit in the rafters of that cargo bay, where we
couldn't be seen? When we'd chuck rubbish down at the dockworkers to get a rise out of
them? That's what they were doing to me. Making me squirm, and fight, to see how far I
would go. They were prepared to let me fuck with the systems of the whole school for the
sake of the game. And then, the day after my results come back, nobody's surprised
when I get "perfect" grades. Nobody except me, because I knew that I'd completely
flunked them from being awake all night building a backdoor for EVE into the lighting
system."
Ben's eyes widened in intrigue, in horror. Jack continued: "and I was sent to
Duprey's office that afternoon. I expected to get the mother of all punishments for my
grades, or be told of the unfortunate administrative error in my grades transcripts, but
no. When I get there, there's these two men in dark overalls, all computers wired up to
them. And one of them goes, Hello Jack. I am AG.”
"…AG?"
"AG had been my enemy. Every wall that was thrown up, every lockout, always had
this signature, AG, attached to it. So she's there and she shakes my hand, and next thing
you know..." He gestured around the room. "They found me, Ben. Or they helped me
find myself. This is why you came, isn't it? Because yours was so casual, so unexpected.
So... lucky? That how it felt?"
"Exactly. How did they know this was what I wanted? I can't tell you the details,
but some stuff has happened in the last few weeks that isn't normal. I think they want
something out of me. And because I don't know what they do, I don't know what it is."
What else was there to say? Ben and Jack couldn't give each other any answers.
They talked the usual friend talk as they left, how they really must meet more often, how
good it was to see each other. But as Ben left the Workshop, the Purple cube of the
Exchange had taken on an ominous quality.

32
Chapter Eight - Baptism

"All I'm saying is," said Rachel through a mouth of broccoli, "this economics stuff
that K talks is basically a lot like the Titanic"
"Titanic? Huh?," said Amelia, another of the younger students. "Sounds like
another of those philosophers he's always going on about."
"The Titanic was this awesome ship they had back in Earth times," said Rachel. "It
was huge, for them, but could only fly on the water. And some guys tried to crash it into
a big chunk of frozen water, I think it was for a joke or something, but the ship sank."
"Doesn't sound that awesome to me," said Ben.
Rachel continued. "Well it was. The point is that it was perfectly built. They had
exactly the right number of lifeboats for the ship. But they put too many people on it. So
the excess people drowned when the ship went down. Pass the peas, would you? Now
what I'm saying is, if they'd had an Oracle thingy like us they could have reached out to
find people nearby, and swapped their extra napkins - they had loads of those - swapped
their extra napkins for some more lifeboats or something. Or swapped their extra
people."
Ben coughed. Ever since he'd got back from the Workshop, he'd noticed something
strange happening to his classmates. Arguments seemed to be working backwards.
Priorities shifted. And yet, everyone kept the same sunny disposition they'd always had.
The food hall still echoed with laughter and joking. China and stainless steel cutlery
clattered around. Perhaps Ben was being left behind by everyone... but after his meeting
with Jack, he'd had a worrying, niggling doubt, curled up in his brain like a worm. If
they were all neophytes like him, how were the so committed and easy, while he was so
confused and uncertain?
"Ben? Ben, are you even paying attention?" It was Amelia. "Or are you that worried
about the ritual?" Everyone had been speaking in hushed tones about the ritual for a
while now, that mix of exam and matriculation that every student went through to
become a fully robed Undertrader, to gain access to the Exchange's store of knowledge -
and yes, material wealth - and to begin working on real briefs. And if the gossip in the
transhubs was to be believed, the need for more working Traders was stronger than it
had ever been. There had been one word on everyone's lips.
"Broadhaven!" whispered Amelia, breathlessly, as the others murmured in assent
and wonder. "Mum says Broadhaven's the most amazing station on the route. You can

33
buy or sell anything there, if you've got credit. They're going to need us, badly."
Everyone nodded. Broadhaven was the most significant event in World's existence
for the last ten years. The planning alone for the stop (for stop it was, at least six months
in port) had begun 24 e-months ago, a fact he'd been made aware of even down in the D-
hold. He remembered Grimes ordering him to count faster, faster, to meet his quotas for
the week to get a miserable 5% increase in his allowance. A full and complete inventory
of everything on World had been ordered - Domesday, they'd called it. And on the upper
floors, the fastest ships had been dispatched in advance, carrying the most eminent
Traders, to be separated from their families for over a year. All to begin the crucial
probing and bargaining process that would be needed to make sure the ship took on
everything, absolutely everything it needed for the next stage of its voyage.
Ben realised that much the same conversation was being repeated with even
greater relish across every table in the food hall. And the profit possible! Broadhaven
was conveniently placed along several major routes, and far enough from any nationalist
space to be untaxed, yet profitable enough to maintain a loose sense of order via several
shrewd dealings, and straight mercenary hire. When World docked with Broadhaven it
would be the most significant, the most weird and wonderful event in the station's
history. World would be absolutely inundated with offers and requests from merchants,
local governments, entrepreneurs, Mom-and-Pop family outfits, everything - and World
would need as much Trading resource as possible to cope with the influx. The Ritual
deadlines had been moved forward and the call had been thrown open: every student
who fancied their chances could take the Ritual and try to become an Undertrader. If
they succeeded, the wealth of Broadhaven - and free passage around its wonders, its
chambers and passages, its docks of legend, would be theirs.
Rachel was already getting up to return to the library. Ben would have followed -
he too was enamored with the idea of Free Market in Broadhaven - but he had more
important things to do.

* * *

"So, you have come. Gotta say, mate, I'm impressed. Or was it just the withdrawal
symptoms?" The voice from the shadows was dismissive, mocking, but there was the
faintest hint of tension there, too. Alex stepped from the dark into the eerie circle at the
centre. "What's wrong, Ben? I'm trying to help you."
"That's great, but... why the secrecy? A note under my door? Do people really do
that? And here, in the dead of night?" He gestured to the sleeping, gently pulsing red
light of the Oracle. "What are we doing here?"
"You know what, Ben my friend. Or you wouldn't have come. I know you're still
under the Exchange's ban from Oracle use... and I know that you'd give anything to pass
the Ritual, because we all would. Who doesn't want to be one of the Broadhaven trading
party?"
"I can't though. My ban isn't lifted ‘til a week before Ritual. That's not enough time
to learn. The test isn't about power, it's about control, so even if all that weird stuff
happens again, I'll just get myself another ban."
"Not if you have time to train. Not if a certain hardworking Undertrader, who still
has a little favour with the establishment and has access keys to the Oracle, allows you in
for a couple of private lessons in the dead of night. We can start slow, start careful, and

34
before you know it you'll be ready."
Ben scratched his head, dizzy at the prospect. He'd tried to cover up his situation
with the other students because he didn't want to admit it to himself, wanted to hope
against hope that something would happen that would allow him to take - and pass - the
Ritual. Now that the possibility had opened up to him he instinctively started to back
away. The familiar cocktail of greed and fear clouded his vision. "But Alex... if they find
you doing this, you'll be disqualified instantly. Star pupil or not, they won't risk rogue
Traders running around Broadhaven. Why are you doing this for me?"
Alex began to laugh his familiar, derisive laugh, then stopped. He levelled his gaze,
unblinking. "Zhu's engineers are having a lot of fun going through the transcript of the
last time we were in here, all the datastreams, but I don't think they'll find much. They
won't find what you did, how you did it." He brought his face closer. "And I need to
know, hear me? I need to know what the hell you pulled to make the machine reach out
like that. I'm not settling for being a good student. I'm going to be a fucking legend in
the place. Everyone's talking about you like you're King Arthur or something. But you
don't know the first thing about Trading; you've just got a weird brain. But I'm going to
learn it," and as he said this, Alex produced a short, thin electrode. He grinned. Ben
blinked.
"This? Oh, it's just a little probe. Just a teeny tiny little probe that'll record and
copy your brain activity, that's all. I have a few friends in the Workshop. Interesting
what they'll do for a bit of 17th Century brasswork."
Ben started to back away, but Alex continued. "Lift up your hair. You won't feel a
thing. But by the time we're done with a few sessions, I'll know what's going on in that
freak head of yours." His eyes were wide, intense. "Just think, you'll be helping the
Exchange. Well, helping me to help the Exchange. And you'll have that Undertrader's
pass, just in time to be a sensation in Broadhaven. Or, of course, you could wait
another... five years or so? Scratch together the odd deal with a passing hot dog stand.
Yeah, maybe that's more your style." Alex began to walk past and away, the perfect
gambit, but felt Ben's hand on his shoulder. Too easy.
"How many sessions?" asked Ben.

* * *

The session seemed to pass in millimetres. As promised, Alex had Ben creeping
along the circuits and pathways of the Oracle with meditative slowness and deliberation,
for fear of creating even the slightest disturbance. Ben found that doing everything with
such care and restraint actually pleased him, and while a dark part of his brain would
occasionally growl and probe, he kept it under control with promises of deep
exploration, trading glory awaiting at the Ritual.
Alex would have him reach out to the tiniest systems in ineffectual ships buzzing
alongside world, in the gentlest of ways. He'd examine their dimensions and shapes,
calculate their speeds, get a very rough estimation of their cargo - any question, so long
as it was utterly mundane, nothing that would trigger confusion in the logs or bother the
Oracle's systems in the slightest. And all the while, Alex sat cross-legged on the floor
staring to Ben's glassy eyes, trying to discern what, what was going on behind them.
Alex checked the notes he'd scrawled into the back of an old exercise book, notes
from one of his first classes. "Concentrate on my voice. Breathe in. As you breathe out,

35
expand your awareness in front of World. Stretch out for something that's not there."
And Ben's mind reached out in front, trying to fill the void with a sense of sense. But all
that came back was a mental white noise, fizzing and busy and complicated. Near-
feelings and communications twisted in and out of the fuzz but they felt like things left
over from his probing of the the ships, and gave Ben a headache. "Ahhh... that's enough.
I can't take this any longer. We must have been here all night." Alex looked at his watch,
laughed. "Something like that. Well, about an hour anyway." And without a by-your-
leave he reached behind Ben's head, located the stubby chip he'd inserted, and yanked
the needle out.
Ben would have heard the scream, if he hadn't fainted.
The next three nights passed in the same way: Alex testing Ben gradually, making
him probe the ships that came close then retreat. Always taking notes, pondering and
muttering to himself. At the end of each session, he would make Ben stretch his
awareness out ahead of World, into the coldness of the vacuum. He had a theory that it
was the stress of new discovery that had made Ben's mind crack and reach out to the
Oracle that first day. Each time he forced Ben to look outwards into nothing, hoping that
his mind would fill the impossible gap and set off the same chain of events, but each
time Ben had stumbled away dizzy, head pounding, and things had stopped there.
Gradually, he had got better. He was more confident in his movements, and far
more subtle: Alex's overcautious instruction made him quiet, cautious, and above all
deliberate. This was all perfect practice, and it confused him when Alex would ask, at the
end of every session, to let all of this care go and leap into the void - but he trusted him,
he thought, and so he followed instruction. Alex began patient, but as he crashed out of
the final task again and again, the patience seemed to wane. Alex's tone got more
snappy, then insistent, and even angry. Finally, on the fifth night he threw down his
notes and wordlessly flicked the 'off' switch on the wall.
"Training's over," he said abruptly. "Whatever the fuck you did that first time,
you're not doing it now. I guess you're not so amazing after all." He turned to walk out of
the dark dome.
"But I'm still not ready!" Ben shouted after him.
"Yeah, good luck with that," came the reply.

36
Chapter Nine - A Deal

To begin with, Ben tried to take matters into his own hands, to keep training
himself, but he found that without someone else's presence he was too scared of losing
control to focus on commanding the Oracle, so in the end he resigned himself to theory.
Besides, the anger and jealousy the Oracle has brought out in Alex, and the other
student Traders, troubled him. But there was one person connected to the Oracle who
Ben thought he could trust. And this is how he found himself at three in the morning, on
a metal threshold, hand hovering over the door of Dr. K. Zhu, when a familiar hand
tapped him on the shoulder.
"Jack?" He hissed. "What are you doing here?"
"Just returning a favour, friend. There's something we need to talk about.
Elsewhere."
Ben hadn't realised how accustomed he'd got to the old-world pleasantness of the
Talent floors until now. Jack had insisted on dragging him to the lift, taking that same,
winding journey of two months ago, in reverse. They'd gazed out of the transparent
drum in the same way they had as children, transfixed on the lights twinkling in the
cavern-spaces of World, over the dark shapes sliding in and out and around house-
blocks, taking in the whole gloriousmess of human endeavour. But as children, this had
been something of wonder. How did so many people live together in this magical place?
Could he ever meet them all? This time, the conversation had a dark tint. Things they
wanted to say, but couldn't because to say them was making them real. There was only
one other passenger in the lift tonight, a bedraggled man in a worn parka, the kind that
wasn't often seen in the new world. He seemed asleep.
"Do you ever wonder how this all holds together, Ben?," Jack had asked, and as
Ben groped for an answer past that which his Trader conditioning was poised to give,
the man stirred from his torpor on the floor.
"Exploitation," he said, and coughed a sickened cough. They looked round.
"Ask me how I got here. Go on, ask me."
There was three minutes' transit left and their conversation had taken a difficult
turn, so Jack asked. "How did you get here?"
"John. The name's John. And I got here by being too good at what I could do. I was
the best stocktaker in section C - dairy produce and sand. I knew every alley of crates
inside out, I could count and recount them in seconds. I knew the contents better than I

37
new my children, all seven-to-ten of them. And one night, when people started moving
things around, putting stock where it shouldn't be, I spoke out. I'd seen them purple
men in the dead of night, seen them moving when they shouldn't, and I said something.
And that was it for me."
Jack shrugged, but Ben had a dark countenance. He knew.
"Oh, lovely redundancy package, of course, possibility of retraining, they said. A
very comfortable life. Well, for about a month. Now, I ride the lifts, the trams. Sleep near
the furnaces. All because I said something about the machine. All I cared about was
stock, but it's obvious. We're all at the edge of something that's very big and wrong, and
that big thing is a mote from swallowing us up. Believe me." He coughed a great cough
once more, and passed out as the drum had reached the lift with a gentle bump.
And Ben was just about to explain the uncomfortable truth that lay behind this
episode, when they reached the front of the queue. Food! After the esoteric teas and
chips of the Exchange, he positively salivated at the thought of an honest, unpretentious
bowl of noodles. The custom of Dan's Authentic Noodle Emporium shared much the
same vision: namely, that Dan's Authentic Noodle Emporium was Authentically an
Emporium, that it contained Noodles of a not inedible standard, and that the angry,
hatted wonderchef, although she rarely spoke beyond shouting "Service!" may well have
had a name, which was just as likely to be Dan as any other.
She was now shouting "Service!" in order to get two bowls of steaming paste
passed down the bar to Ben and Jack. And Ben would have been very content indeed, if
he didn't know that they were there under very secretive circumstances.
Jack slurped. "So, how's the training going?".
"Pretty good," he said, "a bit strange though. This Alex guy, he's nice enough most
of the time but he gets the weird edge around the - well, there's a big computer. It's kind
of hard to explain..."
"Ben, I know what the Oracle is. And I know what it's for, and what you're doing
with it."
"You do? You're not supposed to, but if you do then you know we need it to do all
our trading, right? Big business, and I'm going to be the best." He took a celebratory
chopstickful of noodles.
Jack's expression didn't change. "Ben, I mean I really know what you're doing with
it. I... remember when I told you about EVE?"
"Your virus? What about it?"
"Well, I realised back in school days that the feds only went after it when it was
causing trouble, when it looked like it was going to be a problem for them. If it didn't do
anything to them, they wouldn't come after me. So when my little project was over, I just
left it to hang around on the systems. It's been slinking about, eavesdropping, telling me
little nuggets. Nothing that wouldn't be any bigger than gossip. Until - Ben, what's that
mark between your eyes? All Traders seem to have it.
Ben self-consciously fingered the pinprick on his face. "This? It's just an injection
we have. Innoculations and neuronics, he said."
"Neuronics? As in, transmitters?"
"Well yeah, we need them to control the, er, Oracle. It's just transmitting
instructions and stuff..."
"Anything else?"
"How would I know?"

38
 Jack considered his food for a long time before saying anything. "A lot of things
can be taken from the mind. It's just electricity, and you and store and transmit it like
anything else. EVE's been sending me a lot of Oracle data the last two weeks. She seems
to think something's up. Is there anything big coming up?"
The word sprang instantly to his mind - Broadhaven - but he swallowed it. There
was the deepest and sharpest of embargoes on that particular nugget of information, for
another week at least. They'd been cautioned about the last time a big trading event had
been leaked early - absolute panic, even anarchy had broken out amongst the small
merchant factions and artisans of World. Competition was good, but it had escalated in
bloody violence. Gangs of otherwise placid workers had rioted in desperation. So
Broadhaven was being kept very quiet indeed. At the right time, the news would come
out - in a calm and sensible way, they said.
Jack noticed the hesitation. "Tell me."
"Okay, but it's really not something you share. This is between you and me and the
navigators, and not all of them know, probably. Now stay very calm." He put his
chopsticks down with subterfuge-like cunning. "We're going to this amazing trading
port... called Broadhaven." He said it with the practiced breathlessness they all used in
the Exchange.
Jack said nothing for five seconds. Then, he laughed.
"Broadhaven? That's it? Oh dear mate, they really do keep you in a bubble. Come
here."
Jack led Ben to the window of the cafe. Below, thousands of revellers thronged the
lower deck. They sat on the balcony.
"Broadhaven is not news. The decks have been talking about it for a month now.
But now, we've got a serious fucking problem. I know what Alex has been making you
do. EVE sent me the logs from your sessions. You reach out with that computer thing,
right? Like a telescope?"
Ben looked a bit flattened by the news but wasn't thinking about that now. Have
you ever had the feeling that you're at the edge of knowing something you really, really
don't want to know? That feeling you experience as you wake up on a very, very bad
morning, and your brain fits the pieces together of a puzzle you don't want to solve? Ben
felt this, but he knew how inevitable it was. Somehow.
Jack held up a scrappy notebook. "The last five minutes of each session, You
brain's flicking into Delta waves." He drew a line that pulsed in even waves , then made
it flick and dance wildly upward and down. "Here. You're projecting. You're transmitting
as much as you receive."
"What? But I never find anything. It's just like there's some weird static in my
brain that I can't pick up, then I run out of concentration. What's going on?"
"Running out? No, you’re coming to rest. You feel the need to stop because you've
accomplished what you were supposed to do. And that is something I think I've just
found out." He shivered. "I got EVE to transmit last night's session in text for me." He
brought out a sheet of cheap paper.

39
TIMESTAMP XX-12-54
B. HITBRUSH DIALOGUE WITH BROADHAVEN AGENT LAZARUS
SBJ: TRADE
WORLD REQUESTS DOCK ACCESS FOR 2 SOLAR MONTHS, TRADE LICENSE UP
TO NOT EXCLUDING PRODUCE / TECHNOLOGY / CULTURAL MATERIAL /
LIVESTOCK / KNOWLEDGE / NECESSITIES
CONFIRMS CARGO TRANSMISSION AS FOLLOWS
---
453 PERSONNEL CLASS E-G FOR CONSUMPTION / USE
F JONES L BRYAND D HALLOWS G RUSH J KELLEY...

Ben vomited his Authentic Noodles over the balcony. He'd been ready to let go as
soon as he saw the word 'livestock'.
"Ben, there's a fucking lot you don't know, I guess. You know what people call
Broadhaven? The Cage. You know why we're rushing to get there? Because anything can
be bought there, and there's a lot we need. Do you know why anything can be bought
there? Because anything can be sold. Anything. We're going there on a slave-deal, mate.
And you've been the negotiator. Let's hope you kept the price down, eh?"
Ben turned his pale, sallow face to his friend. "How? Ju- ho... the injection?"
"What can transmit can also receive, mate. I haven't been able to, but I'd like to do a few
blood tests on you. But I'd be willing to bet there's bots in there you don't control.
Directly relaying what we need, our demands and offers, straight from the control room
up there" - he pointed derisively in what he imagined to be the direction of Professor
Kotecha's office - "directly our in front of us to Broadhaven. Docking space there is like
gold, and even harder to get for something the size of World. Better to start the
negotiations early, right?"
"But, PEOPLE? What the fuck? What about all the supplies? The tech?" He had a
lot more anger to dispense than he realised, and he turned on Jack. "What about your
stupid fucking inventions, huh? Your perfect shapes, your sounds that turn solid into...
gas? What's that worth?"
But Jack could only shrug. "Not a lot, I guess. I think they take most of that and try
to turn it into weapons, anyway. Still, I thought you'd better know what you're up to."
Ben turned back to the list, the names clustered together in 6-point text like a
funeral roll. If Broadhaven was anything like Jack made out, they'd be lucky to be
stocktaking. Then, without a word, he dropped the list and ran, back down the corridor,
back to his old home.

40
Chapter Ten - Buyer's Remorse

The lights were just starting to fade up for the morning shift as Ben pounded the
gantry once more, towards Sleeping Quarters H, Jack racing to catch up and shouting
after him. Old coworkers, friends, turned to call to Ben as he passed. They'd thought he
was dead, so to see him alive, in purple robes, even, was a shock. Ben couldn't bear to
stop and acknowledge them. They were dead. Worse than dead, they were livestock,
commodity, like plastic toys or sand or his James Bond discs. He couldn't even save
them, didn't even know if it was right now. If that's what World ran on, what else was
there to do? What that what it had always run on? Things bigger than himself had been
turning, and he'd been a cog.
Those were the thoughts that ran through his mind, over and over again, but he'd
something that cut through all of the confusion. Theory disappeared when he'd looked
to the bottom of the list, and seen Grant's name. Grant had done nothing wrong,
nothing that meant he should be sold, to anyone. He'd merely worked hard, stayed
positive - but perhaps that was enough for a Broadhaven deal. The system didn't look for
rightness, he thought.
They crashed through the door of the quarters. They were utterly empty, however.
Where were the posters? Their crappy wallchart they'd created? Where was all the
rubbish? All there was was a single scrap of paper on the desk, which seemed to have
been tossed down in a hurry. Ben picked it up, read the single sentence: Work Transfer:
Your presence is requested in Cargo Bay 3. That single sentence tore at the two of them
like knives.
"We're too late," said Jack.
Ben looked out of the glass window that had been his countryside just months ago,
a view from the life he'd left behind. From when he'd been happy.
"Not to late to fuck this place up," he said.

* * *

AG was bored. AG was frequently bored. "Going straight" was the perennial
hacker's dream, it was supposed, as the theory went that it was all of the combat and
trickery, but with government resources and government pay. But the problem with pay
was that it immediately sanctioned the act. There had been something missing from her
life even since he'd defected and that something, she now realised, was a badness. She

41
sipped her socially approved, non-contraband gin and reflected.
"What," she asked no-one in particular, "is ze essence of life? What is our
purpose?" The French woman (for so she would have been, according to the best efforts
of her research in World's libraries) flicked her cigar towards the bin, where it was
expertly and automatically extinguished by fans. "Ha!" she laughed derisively at the
failsafe. "It is ze individual's exploration of their own agency. It is walking the boundary
between what one can and should do, is it not?" She felt that she had definitely walked
the wrong side of the boundary for a while now, had been feeling it ever since she met
the Jack-child. There had to be a powerful streak of rebellion in the boy to make him
carry on for so long on such a futile task, and it had impressed her to finally see him in
the flesh. It had nearly destroyed her to send the same rebellious spark off into the
system, to recruit him, and him as a willing participant!
She looked across the table to her tattered papers: info on Broadhaven, its
supplies, customs, major trade routes, and more. A means of escape. She was lost in that
same fantasy when there was a stealthy knock at the door.
Beyond the knock, two young men. A gaunt, weary-looking figure in a purple robe,
and beside him-
"EVE's creator has returned? Come to gloat, my child? I only wish zat we were still
enemies. Or had something to fight against."
"You could have kept fighting me. But you left EVE to live. Why? What did you
expect my program to find?"
"Oh, je ne sais quoi. Something you shouldn't. Quoi?"
And they explained it all: a computer that took more than it let on, World travelling
to Broadhaven to take part in a slave auction, a ship with nothing left to give but its
people. Throughout, the woman known as A.G. only nodded and smiled. When they'd
finished, she packed a satchel with unidentifiable bits of tech, wrapped them in a
blanket, and strapped on her boots, still smiling.
"Little boy," she said, "do you remember how EVE finally managed to defeat my
programs? What happened in the end?"
Jack remembered perfectly. In fact, now that he thought back, it was the last
feeling of true exhilaration he'd experienced, until that day. "You'd set them up with
every possible failsafe and crack possible. They were designed to overrun any new
process in the system, learn its configuration, and reset it. Like an inoculation. So..."
"So?" Ben looked incredulous. Time was wasting, but Jack and the woman called
A.G. were lost in reliving a private battle from another time, palpable exhilaration on
their faces.
"...so, I changed EVE's signature to match your programs. When she mimicked
them, they only learnt how to defeat themselves. Are they still lost in a recursive loop?"
"Zey would be, had I not reset zem. But what does this tell you, acolyte?"
But Ben knew. "The Oracle is set up to penetrate into the mindstate of every society
and system in its reach. But to do that it has to be built as a system. It's intimately
connected to the structure of the Exchange, and of World, right?"
"So?"
"What would happen if it analysed itself?"

* * *

42
 Professor K looked disparagingly over his monocle at the ragged young man with
the bags under his eyes. "Normally I wouldn't deign to speak with an Undertrader such
as you. I must be in an odd mood today, I suggest you take advantage of it". He turned
and began to walk down the corridor, Alex pursuing him. "Professor, Ben knows! I've
been reading his brain activity over the last two hours. Increased beta waves, anxiety,
incredibly high frontal lobe activity. He's found out, I'm sure of it."
"Hmm. You know him best. What do you think he will think? How will he react, to
our perfectly reasonable business?" He began spinning his pen, and derisively thumbed
the door lock to the trading floor.
The floor was in pandaemonium, as it had been for a week now. Runners, children
of no more than ten, dashed about the floor and along walkways carrying stacks of
reports between terminals, computers and desks. At every desk, traders were sitting,
reading, typing or dictating proposals and communiques. On every face there were lines
of worry and tiredness, but also signs of exhilaration. They were days away from
Broadhaven, and everything was being finessed. The sheer mental strain of a thousand
interconnected and interdependent deals was carved in faces, but was matched with the
massive promise of reward, all the glory and the luxuries on the side that those
tremendous, famous business deals of Broadhaven would bring.
Over the chatter of machine and man, Alex spoke: "I know he's not doing well in
Economics and Morality, sir, and whenever I try to get him to reach out he's stopping
himself somehow. Maybe he is some kind of freak, maybe he's powerful like you say, but
he's weak. The truth will have broken him. Professor, we have to put an end to him."
"No. You might have heard the rumours around the Exhange, young man, that I
am a rusty traditionalist. That I would take any chance I could to undo the techno-
mysticism that pollutes the economics that my ancestors and I believed in. You might
well think that I would be the weak link that you could press upon to destroy your peer,
the one you are so jealous of. Oh, wipe that incredulous expression off of your face. I see
the way you bristle and blush when you talk about him. You're consumed with hate. And
while I certainly don't hold much tolerance of Zhu's particular brand of voodoo, I'm also
a pragmatist. Pragmatic enough to know what this ship, my ship, my World, needs. And
I will not destroy its key asset now, not to satisfy some childish need for a vendetta."
The old man sighed. "Nevertheless, perhaps he should be watched. Events are far
too delicate at this stage to start pressing and squeezing at them like some spider's web
in the hand of a child." And with that, they set off. Off to the Oracle.

* * *
Zhu was pondering. He'd tried to seed all the right patterns of behaviour, the right
urges to question, in the young Ben, right from first meeting. He'd arranged events in
such a way in that hospital ward to seed doubt in his mind. Excitement about the almost
mystical properties of his Oracle, but a worry and suspicion about what it was being
used for. If the boy had any sense, he should have knocked on the very door Zhu was
now staring at, either with desire to learn the ways of the Oracle, to become his
apprentice, or with doubt at the mission of the Traders. Was he cowardly? Or just
incompetent? Or had he moved ahead..?
Zhu gestured a hand towards the ceiling. "Oracle, my Oracle, tell me your secrets. What
have the brutal ones been demanding of you?"
In the centre of Zhu's vision, a point of light appeared on the ceiling. Gradually, it

43
expanded to become the hazy shape of World, but unlike most, this shape of World
seemed to achieve more solidity than the average Oracle projection. Next to this, a list of
access logs overlaid with colours, intense angry purples and calm, inquisitive blues. The
doctor scanned the last three days. There was a strange pattern, a repeatedness in the
list. Just there, at 3:32 every night for the last week, the same session. Gentle, local
enquiries, probably some kind of standard maintenance test. Except that his Oracle
would never hide such tests from him, would it?
And these sessions, while beginning local, seemed to expand in range and scope
toward their end. And they would, at a very certain point, switch from reception to
transmission. And just there, in the tiniest mote of underlying activity, were those
familiar, extraordinary brain patterns of Ben's.
As he watched, the list scrolled up. A new entry was forming, then and there. The same
localised range, but this time, Ben's distinctive powers were showing themselves from
the start.
Kejia seized his goggles, pulled them over his sunblasted pupils, and bolted out of
the door towards the dark purple dome.

44
Chapter Eleven - Caveat Emptor

As Ben warmed up his mind and made some initial probes, gently waking the
Oracle up in the manner he'd learned under Alex, AG began to wire the doors to the
great chamber shut while Jack worked furiously at a portable terminal. Across docking
bays, through old friend networks, to any ship in the area, he sent a simple message:
S.O.S.
"What does soss mean, anyway?" asked Jack. Nobody knew, but the calm,
malevolent hum of the Oracle's systems was too menacing to leave alone. AG sniffed.
"As much of a thrilling nostalgia-fest as it is to break governmental systems, as much as
it roundly thrills the wrongest, bastille-storming, guillotine releasing parts of me, I'd
love an explanation as to what, exactly, is going on."
"Bad stuff," said Jack. "I know you and I were into messing with things, but that's
not what it's about this time. If you want the moral version, it goes like this: this ship
runs on people trading what we have a lot of for what we don't need. Secret is, what we
need is a lot, and what we have a lot of isn't much. Smart trading is only getting us so
far. So apparently, we're down to our last tradeable resource. People. Cheap labour, for
any purpose, to give the people here a bit more food, or more fuel, or whatever. They
used to call it slavery."
"Now, I'll have to ask you to hold on just one second there." The voice had come
from the perimeter of the dome. A large figure emerged in purple robes, trader's robes of
state, embossed with gold filigree. Kotecha levelled a gun at the young engineer. "You
wouldn't want to offend our Oracle's sensibilities. How dare you suggest that the trading
of people is a practice borne out of despereration? How dare you even insinuate that the
things we do are anything other than sensible economic practice? You make us sound
like wasterels, beggars, panhandling our way across the stars."
Ben's concentration wavered at the sight of his oldest friend with a gun to his head.
"Then... why? Why sell people?"
"My dear boy, why not sell people? People are an investment, like coal or fish or
computer chips. They require resources to create, to develop, to store. It's the least we
can expect to have some of sort or return on them. They are a resource, bought and paid
for the the governance of World. They live because we let them."
"But they're not cattle!" shouted Jack. They have minds. They can create things,
make the world better, but you're selling them off like beasts of burden!"
"Not at all, young engineer. As you and your, aha, faux-French companion
doubtless know, skilled labour can come from any part of society." He turned to Ben,

45
caught between wrestling with the Oracle and his own mind. "As your good friend
Rachel will soon see, in her new capacity."
"You're selling RACHEL? She has to be the best person in The Exchange!"
"We have many worthy people," K said calmly, "again, you might say that we have
a surplus. Do you see where this is going?". Ben screwed up his face and tried to refocus.
"You'll see where this is going, mate." The lights on the Oracle started to pulse as it let
out a low whine.
K stopped smiling, his face took on stone-like quality. "I'm not exactly sure what
you're up to, but if you're attempting to cancel our deals I can assure you that's not
possible. Our esteemed hosts in Broadhaven have been contacted. The are aware that a
certain rogue trader may attempt to undo our arrangements, and that the subtleties of
the deals are going to be worked out by one of our more reliable agents."
At this, Alex stepped out of the shadows, dressed in a new purple robe with a single
white stripe down the side: the mark and making of a fully-qualified, invested Trader.
"It's too late, mate. It's shame you had to make it like this, really. You were gonna be big
here, bigger than I ever could be, but after this... well, I don't know what they'll do with
you." He smiled. "I'm sure I'll get over it, though."
K let Alex have his victory speech - ah, the exuberance of youth - and levelled his gun at
Ben. "Now, young man, I'm afraid business hours are over. Sever the link, please."
"You fire that weapon," said a voice, "and the trading records stored in the Oracle
will be deleted. Forever." Dr Kejia Zhu stepped through the door. AG laughed derisively.
This was almost too much to bear with a straight face."
"Very funny, Zhu," said Professor Kotecha, "now sever Ben's link before we have to
sever his head. That would be an unfortunate waste of resource."
"Go ahead," said Zhu, "but if you do, the Oracle is instructed to dump all its
inventory records, its deal history, all of its contacts and its behavioural database. And
good riddance, if you ask me."
"You'd rip the guts out of the Oracle?"
"Of my Oracle, yes." He was trembling now. He took his goggles off and stood
there, framed in the light from outside, like the spirit of an ancient temple, come to
wreak vengeance on brutish modern intruders. His eyes were boiling with a kind of
anger that looked like it had been bottled up to vintage and mature for months. Finally,
he spoke. "You have tainted her, polluted her. She is not some open guitar case to peddle
with. She was not meant for this." He was almost weeping. Kotecha was about to bellow.
"It is meant for whatever I desire! It is mine! You think I wanted to buy some giant
fortune teller from you? I didn't want this. Billions, we've poured into this disgrace. Into
your 'project'. And I'm not about to let it go on the verge of it paying us back, just
because some scientist goes all diddums. You either play the game, Kejia, like we used to
across that board table, or you give up your stake. What's it to be?"
A great rumble shook the Oracle. "What's he doing?" asked K. On the ceiling, the
familiar ghostly silhouette of the Oracle was hovering, but something was different. It
was far bigger, and as they watched it began to be filled in: small points of light
appeared inside, flickering and moving across each other. People.
"He's doing what I couldn't," said Kejia, "what I hoped he would."
The Oracle's whining got louder. The World-shape grew in clarity, and the dots
inside began to cluster in certain places. Kotecha's eyes widened with wonder as he
finally grasped what he was seeing. "The economic activity of World..."

46
 And so it was. There was the gentle, strong foundationary hum of the hulls,
containing their easy reassurance of potential trade. Just above, in flashing strobe, were
the cafes, bars, entertainment hubs of the lower levels, fiery with the activity of
underpaid workers desperate to let off steam. In the centre of the ship, strong regular
pulsings which evidenced the factories and workshops, the only places within World
where wealth was created from through ingenuity, where small things could become big.
Jack allowed himself to smile when he spotted his own Workshop, glowing happily.
The shape grew larger still. Around the rim, jets of white energy seemed to shoot
off into the dark like solar flares: fleets of small ships, some loaded with goods to trade,
some containing people, and the promise of trade. Was a dignitary from Broadhaven
within one of them?
But the very corner of the ship-shape was the strangest sight of all. A perfect, dark
sphere, a hole in the heart of World. "Ben, you know what to do," Zhu said. "Focus
harder." And Kotecha too was too mesmerised by what he was seeing to stop anything.
As Ben strained, the dark sphere began to tighten and suddenly imploded with force.
There, at the very centre of the shape, was a fiery red core of energy.
"Zhu, what is this?" asked K.
"Why Professor, that's us. That's the Oracle. The Oracle, facing itself for the first
time. I wonder how it feels?"
As if in answer, the Oracle let out a scream. "What's it doing?" asked Jack. Zhu
replied with a smile "it's facing itself. Tearing itself apart. It's freeing itself from its
terrible purpose."
The Professor growled. "Absolutely out of the question. Boy, stop this nonsense."
Alex snarled and focused his mind on the shape. The ball of energy began to change to a
cooler blue and shrank. Ben groaned and sank to his knees.
"I taught you," said Alex through gritted teeth, "me! And I'll put you in your place,
too." Alex tightened his eyes and concentrated, and Ben did the same. The ball grew
then shrank, then grew again, flashing red-blue-purple with anger and conflict. The
others could only stand and stare in horror as the shape of World twisted and undulated
with pain. The Oracle started making tearing noises, the fibres of electrics parting from
the wall and writhing, hissing on the floor. There was a purple deadlock, and none dared
interfere - what would it do to the ship?
AG hissed at Jack: "we'll have to get out of here. Whatever happens here, we're all
implicated. 'ow does a hacking life suit you?" Jack nodded, and lightly fingered a few
keys on his terminal. There was a single message there: a farming ship, the Prince
Ricochet, was offering a simple trade: passage for four off the ship, in exchange for the
economic knowledge of The Exchange. A lopsided and exploitative trade, but who were
they to barter? Jack sent a message of acceptance. "Dock Four," he whispered. AG only
nodded.
At that moment, Ben let out a howl and collapsed. Alex laughed: "no stamina, Ben?
What a shame." And he began to calm to Oracle, which seemed to let out a sigh. But Zhu
was there, still shaking. "Forgive me, my love, but this must be done. A mercy killing,
then." He straightened, stared at Alex and K. "I did not wish to do this," he said, "but I
will save my creation from you, by killing it if I have to." His eyes narrowed and he
focused on the red light in the ceiling, which began again to wink, faster and faster. Alex
faltered. K burst out, "stop what you're doing, old man," but his voice was quivering. He
remembered Zhu's mad passion, the drive that had pushed him to transgress all those

47
psychoeconomic boundaries in the early years.
In the World-shape, the different sources of energy began blinking slightly, then
more ferociously, as small pulses of energy moved between different points on the ship.
"What's he doing," asked Jack.
Ben looked up from the floor, shaking.
"He's trading. He's making World trade with itself."

48
49
50
2

Broadhaven

51
52
Chapter Twelve - The Crash

In a tiny room, somewhere high above a dusty, airless slum, was a makeup table.
Upon this makeup table was an intimidating array of powders, sprays, creams, gels,
scents and pens of every hue, and beside this table sat a very stressed young lady. Elle E,
first lady of new-wave political journalism, was preparing for the most significant news
event of her career.
Through the door, in the studio, some thirty runners and crew were furiously
racing to and fro with perfect purpose. Lights were rigged, rigging was lit, papers and
notecards shuffled and checked. The complex system of transmitters and relays that
connected Channel Q, Broadhaven's Alternative News Outlet to the rest of the great
wheel of the space station was switched on to check it worked, then immediately killed
to avoid detection. They would only have one chance at the broadcast.
Elle was reading her notes for the sixth time. She'd just got to the part about 'an
unprecedented trading summit, one of the biggest in Broadhaven history', when the
door burst in. Aran was dripping with sweat, his wild hair poking over the top of his
goggles in a way that only a member of crew could possibly get away with. Elle envied
that. "Something... something's happened. Come with me."
Out in the studio, everything had stopped. Crew and techs, all between about 13
and 25 at the most, were staring at a small screen someone had set up. It was relaying
stock reports. "Look at that," said Lucy, a dealer-turned lighting rigger, "the
commodities prices are going crazy." Everything connected with the arrival of World
was either flying or crashing, sometimes both. Orders for five million raw fish were
coming in alongside requests to trade fine art for paint. The Exchange was placing
orders to buy all of Broadhaven's silica, while selling their own. The Broadhaven traders
had flown into panic and speculation, and the press had too.
"What the hell's going on?" asked Elle.
The producer, Jeremy, took a long drag from his illicitly purloined cigarette. He
closed his eyes, seeming to relish the brewing of trouble, the scent of a story in its
infancy. He straightened his rakish blazer and found a scarf from his pocket. "I'm not
sure, but it looks as though either that K figure really has gone mad, or someone up
there is being a little naughty." He adjusted his trilby and motioned for a runner. "Either
way, there's a story in it. Fire up the Quattro, would you
Aran?"

* * *

53
 Like a hungry snake digesting itself, the complex trading and inventory systems,
both electronic and human, went into overdrive as Zhu's commands were relayed
throughout the great ship. Automated processes that had grown rusty and antiquated
were dug up and set into motion as raw materials were sent up from storage to be
exchanged for the canteen's food, weapons from the armoury were swapped with
maintenance robots from the engine room which were then grafted onto each other in
impossible combinations. Supply ships were loaded with sand and flow out of docking
bays, only to cross each other in space and re-enter on the opposite sides of the ship.
Everywhere, there was utter chaos. The Oracle's systems screamed under the pressure.
Jack saw their chance in the flickering, sparking light and hauled Ben up. As they
sprinted for the door, Alex saw them and yelled with frustration, but it was all he could
do to fight Zhu. The last thing the trio heard before the Oracle's door slid shut was Alex's
angry howl. The last thing they saw was Dr. Zhu's calm face. He and the Oracle were
having their last dance as they turned and headed for Docking Bay 4.
What had happened to Grant? To Robert? Did Duprey just sit back in his chair
light, another cigar, and laugh as the world fell apart around him, as he had always
predicted it would? It was impossible to tell, and it was all Ben could do to focus through
the pain in his mind and limp along between AG and Jack. Everywhere was shouting
and noise as crew and citizens processed transactions and swapped materials. Some
were convinced they were part of the biggest deal in the ship's history, fulfilling the
dreams of their ancestors. Others, those who had never trusted the trading system,
shouted for the end of the world. But nobody had thought to consider the ruined mess
that was Dock 4.
Dock 4 had seen better days, but it was now a ruined shell. As trading
opportunities had got fewer for World the extra docks, built with great fanfare in the
early days, had been decommissioned - or rather, neglected. Jack coughed at the thick
film of dust which lay across the controls in the dark bay. As AG poked around the
control panels to find a way of getting power back to the dock's doors, Ben sat on the
floor and thought of home. All around him, there were tattered scraps of reports,
bundles of paper, things that looked like they'd been put down just for a second, just for
now, and then... just left. Without thinking, Ben grabbed one, and bundled it into his
pocked. He had to take something from World. That, and the tiny black data stick in
Jack's pocket - the stick that held in transcript all of Ben's thought patterns,
transmissions, a step-by-step guide to the Oracle.
Behind the safety screen, the huge doors of the dock slid open to reveal a dirty
white, ship, more a crate than anything else: the Prince Ricochet. It swerved into a
clumsy landing amongst the mess, and a narrow ramp came down. A female voice from
a loudspeaker called out: "the data. Do you have it?" Jack pulled out the stick. "This is
what you need... and good riddance, if you ask me."
A couple poked their faces through the hatch, both wearing rather fetching
admiralty hats. The woman spoke: "well, that's wonderful! Won't you come aboard?"
What else could they do? Ben, Jack and AG stepped to the hatch as the ship's
thrusters warmed up. The sounds of shouting from behind the door quickened their
pace and they bolted inside without a moment to inspect the curious ship. They sat,
panting in the darkness of the hold, as the ship turned and rose into space with a
shudder.

54
 The mysterious couple must have decided to run the ship silent for its journey
away from World, as the cargo bay remained plunged in an eerie darkness for some
minutes.
It was AG who broke the silence. "So, zey seem nice. Friends of yours, I expect?"
"Considering we haven't just destroyed their supercomputer, I wouldn't call them
enemies," said Jack, "but there is something weird about them, isn't there? They're
clever enough to know how to slink away from World. And this ship isn't big enough to
do much decent farming shipping." Somehow, he'd managed to bring his mini-terminal
with him. He flicked it open. "In fact, I'm not seeing any freight here... at all..."
The lights flickered into life. They were sitting in various states of disschevelment
around a bright pink room littered with chaise longes, birdcages, and oil paintings. The
man came through a door in the corner, resplendent in spectacles and his admiralty hat.
"We call this the drawing room," he said. "Please! Do make yourself comfortable.
You're very valuable guests, after all. My dear boy," he looked at Ben, still reeling from
the encounter, "you do look peaky. Don't worry, you're out of it now and there's
camomile tea on the stove. My name is Hugh, and I am the proprietor of this fine craft,
the Prince Ricochet."
"Don't you mean co-proprietor, dear? I thought we were on a 50-50 split, after all."
This voice was followed by the face of the kindly woman, now dressed in a laced
worksuit. "How foolish of me my dear, I am sorry. This is my wife and business partner,
Dorothy. She'll be making sure you have a pleasant journey. You are, after all, very
valuable merchandise."
The word merchandise made the trio recoil in horror. AG reached for a weapon but
everything was too ornamental to look useful. Hugh saw her gaze: "Oh, but how could I
have been so foolish? Your knowledge, dearie. Perhaps you've noticed that this hold
isn't exactly full of grain, as they say. We are what you might call brokers in knowledge.
Trading secrets, divining lies. Far more profitable that real goods nowadays. We tried
our hand at all that farming business, but what do the people with the money really
want? Their appetite for secrets is far greater than their appetite for food. And you
three... well, once this young man told me the situation, we just had to invest."
Hugh sat down on an ornamental footstool, put his feet up on a sedan. "Something
about destroying the economic hub of World, eh? Big business there. I suppose you
know that about a third of the economy of Broadhaven is resting and speculating on the
deals they've set up with your former home? Yes sir, you won't be that popular there.
But at the same time, there are those who'll want to know what happened. And of
course, there's the small detail that you" - he pointed at Ben with his pipe - "might be the
only person left who knows how it works. Somewhere in that noggin of yours, anyway.
Yes yes, there's lots we can do
with you. Question is, how to do it safely, eh? It's truly a pickle."

* * *
"Transmitting in five, four, three, two..."
Elle-E gave a deep breath, Aran gave the thumbs up, and the cameras rolled.
"This is your reporter, Elle E, at the scene of something I've never seen before.
Channel Q brings you, exclusively, live pictures from the trading room of Broadhaven as
all hell breaks loose!"
Jeremy smiled his rakish smile from behind the camera. Nothing like a good

55
scandal. Elle E took a deep breath to find something to say. Her training hadn't really
covered Unprecedented Crises.
"At half past six Broadhaven Standard Time, reports came in of big jumps in the
early trade patterns on the World 100 index." She broke composure for a second with a
wink: "if you've got any stock in there, maybe it's time to think again, guys. Commodity
prices have either gone through the roof or crashed, totally at random. Like, totally. This
seems to have been caused by a sudden flurry of nonsensical trades in the early hours of
today. At the moment, spokesmen from World have been unavailable for comment.
Engineers are trying to freeze the exchange system, but it's been built with so many
failsafes that it's almost impossible to do so." A smile escaped her face. "Isn't that a
bitch?"
We're joined now by..." she scanned the chaos, looking for juicy malcontent to have a
breakdown on camera. A man was running past with a stack of files, screaming
obscenities. She stuck a foot out and he tripped, sprawled on the floor. Aran effortlessly
panned the camera down, tight-zoomed on his face.
"Sir, what's your reaction to what journalists are already calling the Broadhaven
Crash? Any thoughts?"
"The numbers! THE NUMBERS! MERCY!" And he started wailing and tearing at
his sheets of paper. "My savings... my career... for what?" He looked straight down the
lens with a flash of panic: "citizens of Broadhaven, sell everything!", and Elle E hurriedly
stepped into shot. "The government of Broadhaven have mandated that we remind you
that there is, of course, no need to sell everything." Again, she winked. "Stay tuned to
Channel Q, cats. We'll be covering every grisly detail of this crisis as it unfolds, in
glorious HHD where available. Stay lucky!"
After the still red light indicated a cut to adverts, Elle E breathed an exasperated
sigh. "Jez, really? Are we really staying here, just because this is where it's happening?
I'm telling you, the story's not here. A few crying traders? We need to work out what's
really going on. What about the people who are affected?"
Jeremy took a drag. "You ask quite a lot of questions, for a face. What do you
suggest?"
"Well, let's get to the bottom of this."

56
Chapter Thirteen - Chapter Thirteen

Ben, Jack and AG had the strangest week. After the excitement of causing ship-
wide economic collapse, and the assumption that they would be chased by all the powers
World could muster, a week of sitting, reading and playing cards in that small room was
almost disturbing. Dorothy had explained that their payment for passage was their
knowledge of the Oracle: since anyone who knew how it worked was unlikely to share,
and since it had very possibly been destroyed, the whole of Broadhaven would want to
know what had happened. All that remained was for Hugh to broker a deal, but until
then, they were to keep a low profile. And so, as the ship coasted gently through the web
of nebulas that surrounded Broadhaven like a miasma, Ben suddenly found himself with
very little to do. But then, there were the books.
Hugh and Dorothy had somehow amassed a library to rival anything Ben had seen
the Historians carry, though undoubted there'd been secrets Robert couldn't show him.
In the quiet white room, book jostled with book on shelves and in piles in corners - and
extraordinarily for a collection of books, they all looked actually read by someone. It
wasn't in Ben's nature to be a great reader - but then, what else was there to do? Jack
was thumbing through The Design Yearbook 2380; every so often, he would exclaim
with delight and show the others a particularly well-formed chair. AG was still futilely
trying to contact other would-be dissidents nearby but either the nebula was stopping
short-range contact, or there simply were none. So Ben picked up A True And Accurate
History Of Broadhaven. He might as well see what they were getting into.
The book was worn and angry, pages folded and covered with hundreds of tiny
annotations. In fact, it looked more like annotations than book. He let the book fall open
at random:

-unlike the more traditionally constructed, surrounding colonies. While places

such as New Titan and Bostonon have some kind of material basis to their existence,
Broadhaven exists only by dint of being lawless and neutral. Formed from a great
artificial bridge connecting two otherwise disparate chunks of rock, later fashioned
into a wheel by the industrial powerhouses of the area, Broadhaven should, all
historians agree, not exist. The fact that it does at all is testament to the economic
ingenuity and moral laxity of those that created it.
Broadhaven's chief imports are anything it can get its hands on: the populace are
masters of speculation and are known to take a chance on anything. Frequently, such

57
chances pay off, though nobody is sure how. If the methods are not entirely above
board - and it's very possible that they're not - this is regarded as totally acceptable
business practice. These two factors established the waystation as the regions foremost
market in 2300, when the Economic Forum moved its headquarters there to be closer
to things. When the accusation was raised that this move leant legitimacy and
credibility to what was no more than an illegal flea market, the authorities reiterated
that they could only work in the interests of pragmatism and good business sense.
With the 'officiating' of Broadhaven's business practice, there came moves to try
to regulate the trade so that it could be taxed. These were ostensibly put in place by the
Forum, but in practice enacted and enforced by a cartel of interested parties. One of
the central complaints from Broadhaven's populace was not so much the immortality
of the goods traded, but more the fact that the wealth involved seemed to pass through
a very limited number of hands, lubricating a small circle of industry. Thus the
Economic Forum started to put certain laws in place, banning the trade of less savoury
goods: drugs, people, weaponry. This also extended to 'Historicals', the very limited
number of Earth-goods that came on the colony ships in the old days.
Such bans were punishable by huge fines; however, the fines were calculated to
be punishing but not prohibitive to the trade, so that they amounted to little more than
levies on immoral trade. In practice, these fines only served to decrease the availability
of the same goods and attract a premium. In the case of Historical items, this has led to
some strange anomalies: it is now estimated that there are at least five 'true' Mona
Lisas in circulation among the merchant-barons of the region. In fact...

Ben looked up. So it was as Jack had said: a lawless paradise, where anything had a
value. His heart sank. Even with the Oracle destroyed, the prisoner-deal of World would
still go ahead; clearly there were far too many interests at work to stop it just because
World couldn't get its act together. If anything, the panic caused by all the fluctuation
would make people more likely to cluster around 'real' goods like slaves. What kind of
place was this? He picked the book up again:

...in fact, there are several interested parties on and near Broadhaven that, at the
time of writing, have begun to raise even moral objections to certain trade. Whether
this comes from a guilt, a conspiracy or even a desire simply to shut down one's
opponents is uncertain, but the voices of dissent are there, operating through pseudos
and front companies and institutions. The number and type are uncertain, but they are
all united in a call for a mass, effective banning of unethical trades to be enacted as
law. This law they have given an identity, and it is this that gives the loose
organisation its name: Chapter Thirteen.

And that was highlighted. Extensively. "AG?"

"Euh?" Barely a sound, so buried in her comms interface was she.
"Have you ever heard of an organisation called Chapter Thirteen?"
"Chapitre Treize? Ah, mais oui. Dissidents. The lawless. Mad traders with nothing
to lose, causing havoc, funded by mysterious sources. Like your Contras. Wholly
fictional."
"This book doesn't seem to think so. The people who last read it don't, either." He
flicked to the back. "There's pages and pages of notes about them. Sketches, maps, code

58
words..." One loose page fell out: CODESIGNS, it read. It was covered in intricate
symbols, some in text, some in a hand none of them had ever seen. "What the hell is
this?" He turned it over: Suspected Organisations was the other title. "Listen to this list,
it's got a bit of everything: Pan-Ma Mining Corp, Future Prophecy Worker's Union,
Zenith Glass, Andy's Interstellar Fish Emporium, something called Channel Q...".
Just then, the screen at the end of the room crackled into life. On its face, a strange
looking girl in cerulean makeup with bright coral hair, which was done in an impossible
bun.
"Hey, Q-ers! This is your roving news ranger, your lookout on the hookout, Elle E
for the one and only Channel Q and we are broadcasting LIVE from the Q-ship itself!
Things have taken a turn for the bizarre on the B-haven trading side, so we're packing
up and jetting off to find some answers! All the normal news networks are staying on
surface to talk to politicians and traders and boring stuff like that, but we're about to
break the blockade and find the truth about what's going on at World! All in the name of
NEWS! Aren't you lucky?" The lights and dials on the panels behind Elle E began to
flash wildly, and the camera shook and crackled as the interior lit up with eerie green
bolt of energy. "They're firing at us!" Elle said, "Hey guys, you never heard 'a diplomatic
immunity?". The broadcast fizzled and died.
"Did you hear that? She said Channel Q, they're on here," said Ben. AG replied,
"ahh, but it cannot be zem. How old did you say that book was, about 100 years? I do
not think the inhabitants of Broadhaven are living quite that long, not on what they eat."
"Well, maybe its not quite the same as it used to be, but if the Broadhaven
authorities are trying to stop them leaving, they can't be best friends," said Jack. "But
they don't exactly look like hardcore rebels either..."

* * *

The Major Scoop shuddered with the impact of Broadhaven's antiquated cannons,
which hurled crude remelted lead slugs with brutal force towards the rising ship, but the
flimsy hull escaped the full brunt of any blow and made it safely out of range. As it
disappeared in the maze of nebulas just beyond the station, it began to slow to a coasting
speed, and the film crew turned ship gave it a look over for signs of damage. Elle turned
back from the camera, which was now lying on its side, straight into the smoking face of
Jeremy. Who didn't look impressed.
"Well, as long as we're getting shot at by the biggest station in the area, where I
happen to live, I guess you might as well tell me what the fuck we're doing breaking the
blockade? You stupid girl." He face was fury, but in his eyes there was the gleam of
excitement at a young, gestating, oh-so-juicy story. "What, exactly, do you propose we
do next?"
"Something's not right on World, right? I'm no economist - well, obviously - but
trades that weird don't normally come from a visiting big ship. But World isn't a normal
ship, is it? They've got that big freaky deaky computer thing they take their orders from.
That's what the guys in the bar say. A giant computer you go into and it like, sees the
future or something. Makes their trades for ‘em. And they do what ever it says.
Remember when we did those interviews with traders who had deals set up with World?
None of them could tell us exactly who they were contracted with. Trust me, the story's
on World, or near it. So we get there first, before all the networks."

59
 Jeremy smiled and lit another cigar. "Remember when I found you on the streets?
You were about to get arrested for illegally trading sweets, and then you offered the cop
all the street gossip in exchange for a blind eye."
"Ahh, yeah. I kinda made all that stuff up."
"I know. That's when I knew you had the knack for spinning a tale But the thing
about that stuff us, you have to know where you're pulling your story from. You need
good sources to make the narrative. But you've got the instinct for that, Elle. And that's
why we're here. We are on this chase because I'm allowing it. Never forget that."
Around them, the Major Scoop was buzzing with chatter. Techs retrofitted the
ageing systems with deep-space scanners they had never anticipated needing, while
Aran and the runners promoted themselves to PR gurus and rode the comms channels,
trying to find big distribution deals for the story they hadn't yet written. From the upper
deck, there came a shout:
"Jez? Have a look at this!"

60
Chapter Fourteen - Publicity

"Breakfast, my dears!" Dorothy came through the galley with a tray, clinking
loudly. She seemed to operate on a time that the three travellers could never understand
or acclimatise to. They half suspected that was because it never stayed the same, but in
the floating study of the Prince Ricochet, who could tell?
"Scones again, I'm afraid! Oh, whatever must you think of me?" Where this strange
woman recovered her seemingly limitless supply of scones from, nobody could guess,
but they also wouldn't dare question it. Having real food every day, well prepared, from
one human to another, was a strange experience for all of them. The system of World
was cold, impersonal, but-
"At least you always knew what you were getting. We would always get what we
needed," Ben said wistfully.
"Oh, come on," Jack said, "you miss that place? With all the lies, all the weirdness?
Giant computers plugging into your mind?"
"Hey, I was making friends there. They may have been weird, but they weren't all
evil."
AG laughed, a single ha.
"Look, I was starting to become happy there. The people at the Exchange wanted
me to be something; they thought I could be a success at... whatever it is they do. I don't
know. And my classmates. We were all learning together! Maybe we didn't know what it
was for, but I've never felt like I had so much purpose. You don't know what it's like,
pushing crates all day! Counting shelves!"
"Dude-" Jack started.
"Oh no, you just had to worry about designing a perfectly proportioned fucking
chair, didn't you? We don't all get to be geniuses in the genius-house, Jack. Even people
who think they've got everything to offer World, sometimes things just don't work out
their way. And they sit there, doing what they're doing, trying to get on, watching the
people they know going to amazing places, doing wonderful things, making a life - and
they have to be happy for them. And I got a chance, you understand? I got put in a place
where I meant something, I don't know how, but there it is. And people respected me."
"But it was evil," said AG. "You know, even by my standards."
"Fine, so it turns out to be a bit shady. But you're somewhere where everyone says
its okay, where you can't really see what you're doing but you know people are going to
respect you. Is it really that bad? How am I supposed to know for sure? But I've given it

61
up, now, and that's the end of it. Just listen to me, Jack: it's not easy getting pulled out
of that world."
Characteristically, AG had got rather bored during this tirade and had switched on
the TV for some diversion. She was scanning for something to watch, but everything was
unwatchably distorted by the dense gases of the nebula. On the fifth pass though, the
screen flickered and stopped on a familiar scene:
"...ecause I said so, okay? Jeez, the staff here- heeey! Someone's watching this, I
think! Hold on, switching to receive." And the coral-headed girl leaned under the
picture, searching for a switch. Suddenly, there was an ear-splitting burst of feedback
around the room.
Everyone winced with pain except Hugh, who continued standing serenely. "Sorry
everyone, kind of a newbie at this. Normally someone else is doing my broadcasting for
me. Wait, let me - Hey, Aran! Get over here."
In the background, a man in a faded T-shirt sighed and came over. He leaned
under the camera's view, and there was a loud crackle, then silence. "Hey guys, I can see
you now!" The camera above the screen had winked into life.
"...wow, interesting bunch. Jez, have a look at this!". A louche man came into shot
from the right. The adopted crew of the Prince Ricochet had been motionless with
confusion for some time, but at the sight of this man Dorothy collected herself.
"Ahh, you're that Ettinghausen chap, aren't you? Now what would a fellow like you
be doing, drifting in a nebula just out of reach of Broadhaven? Unless you'd all been
naughty. Isn't that so? Perhaps you'd like to explain what's going on here, dearie." Ben
couldn't quite believe what he was hearing but as she said this, her free hand behind her
back flicked in a series of complicated positions. Without a word, Hugh leaned against
the wall and pressed a small, grey button recessed into the wall. Around them, the
circuits and technology of the ship began to emit an almost imperceptible hum. Panelled
wood slid aside soundlessly to reveal consoles of blinking lights, tactical screens,
consoles. AG smiled to herself at the enviable guile of this ship and its crew.
Jeremy had leaned across to whisper to Elle. When he turned back to camera, he
was smiling with all the lack of disdain he could muster. "Gentlemen, ladies, you must
excuse me. In my profession, we are rather more used to asking the questions ourselves.
But if you know who I am, you'll know what we're doing here. This is the, aha. mobile
broadcast unit of Channel Q, and we're here to investigate-"
"We're searching for a scoop!" blurted Elle. "Someone wrecked the deals between
Broadhaven and World, and if we find out who it is it'll be the biggest story in a decade!"
At the mention of story Ben's eye twitched and he looked at Ben with all the casuality he
could muster. He gave Dorothy his best "please" look. She smiled benevolently, and
turned back. "Well dears, you may just be in luck. We have with us certain, ah, witnesses
to the unfortunate events that happened on World a week ago. And I'm sure you'd find
their story very compelling. We could arrange for you to speak with them. For a fee. But
I have to stress that for us, our clients' safety is paramount. I will not have them beaten,
I won't let them be captured, coerced, or delivered into unpleasant hands. But if that all
floats your boat, well, I'd be happy to arrange a little interview."
Jeremy's eye twitched. "How much?"
"Thirty million should cover it, I think."
"Thirty million? For a vox pop? You're as mad as you look."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. What if I told you that these three scamps were the

62
perpetrators of the incident on World, hmm? 'Channel Q interviews the World Three,
the very people who brought the system to collapse'. I wonder, do you think anyone
would watch that?"
Jeremy took a deep drag of a cigar, scrunched his face in thought for a long, long
time.
"...exclusive?"
"Of course, love."
"Alright. Thirty million."
"Oh dear, did I say thirty? I must have misspoke. Thirty-five."
A deep glower.
"We'll set the studio up," replied Jeremy. "Have your people ready to come over in
thirty minutes. My dear." And the screen went blank.
Jack was up and in a rage instantly. "What was that? 'Hmm, I guess we'll hide in
the nebula for a while. I wonder what the best way to stay ingonito would be? Oh I
know, we'll give an interview live on television?' Thanks for that. Really appreciated."
Ben was shaking. Thoughts of cameras pressed to his face like that needle, boring
straight into him and examining his being, filled his mind. Of everyone looking at him,
and judging what he'd done. With no way to explain it. Back in the early days of lessons
at the Exchange, Professor Kotecha had subjected him to barrages of questions - he
wasn't impressed by Zhu's wunderkind, this child who had a voodoo connection with
some computer. K had always picked on him first for difficult questions, delighting in
Ben's sudden panic that washed over his face whenever he was confronted with
something he didn't know.
And worse, there were the personal questions, the kind of questions that a teacher
can just about get away with asking in class under the pretence of 'getting to know the
student' but which, if used with a barbed precision, are able to perfectly get under the
skin of a nervous young man. Where was his family? What had he been doing before
coming to the Exchange? Really, down in the hold? How unfortunate. How tragic. And
he would do his best to answer, but how he would squirm. And as he'd discovered
everything that was wrong about that place and learnt how to destroy and not just be
destroyed by another, his confidence had grown and he'd felt free. But the idea of being
questioned, prodded, and punctured brought that creeping back into the corners of his
mind.
Jack was still shouting, still angry at what Hugh and Dorothy had arranged behind
their back, right in front of their faces. But AG stood up with a sigh, and put a hand on
his shoulder. "Jack," she started, and he spun round. "You! And you'd do this, wouldn't
you. You sold yourself out for the right money, and you'd sell us out too. Why did you
come, why did you help? Where you just waiting for an opportunity like this, for some
big PR ship like this or the Pappa Razzi or the Mach Clifford to come along? Was 35
million enough, or were you hoping for more?"
AG sighed. Part of the problem of being a mercenary was that people always
assumed you had something to sell. "Jack, it doesn't look good. But think about it. This
is the only option we have. You want to fly back to World? Or cruise down into
Broadhaven, just to say bonjour? They fired on their own who tried to escape. They're
about to buy your friends as workers. Oh yes, I'm sure they'd love to meet us. Besides,
you knew the kind of deal we were making when you got us picked up by this ship."
Dorothy sidled up with a crumpet. "Jack, love, don't get us wrong. When I said you

63
were our clients, I meant it. Wouldn't give a very good interview if we forced you now,
would you? We need to you to help us. And we'll give you a fair of the money, won't we
dear?"
"Yes dear, we will," came the reply, "minus transit and booking fees, I think five
million each should be more than adequate."
AG chipped in. "And think about it, boys. They're not going to stop the sale just
because you ruined the Oracle. They'll find some way - they need it now more than ever.
And the money may come in handy."
"What's all this sale business, anyway?" asked Dorothy. "Don't you mean the
auction?"
"Auction?" they said in unison.
"Well, of course. They have this system on Broadhaven. Quite unlike anything else
we've been to, actually. They call it Monopoly. Whenever a deal falls through, whatever
reason, the goods involved go to auction, for anybody who wants them. Quite brilliant,
yes indeed," she mused. "It means that anything that is put up to be sold, is sold,
guaranteed, for at least some price. It keeps the economy as liquid as one of my delicious
lemon cakes."
"So the prisoner deal...?" asked Ben.
"They'll be getting the details set up with The Hammer right now, I shouldn't
wonder. Why, are you looking to buy some slaves?"
Ben looked from Dorothy to Jack, to AG, back to Dorothy.
"Yes," he said. "I suppose we are."

64
Chapter Fifteen - Interviews

The interior of the Major Scoop was a flurry of activity. The 20-strong crew of
technician-cum-astronomers were back in their element setting up a studio. Lights and
rigging were flung up wherever they could hang, microphones were checked and
rechecked, and a primitive backdrop was found. Staff draped anything they could find
over chairs swiped from the Navigation deck, and arranged modern-looking ornaments
and artificial flowers around them. The now-standing crew in Navigation began to
maneuver the ship as close to the edge of the nebula as they could on the Broadhaven
side, and Aran gingerly sent a single tight-beam signal back through space to a solitary,
lonely receiver on top of the building Channel Q was using. Negotiations were made
about deals about trades with the shadowy sponsors to secure 35 million credits for the
crew of the Prince Ricochet, and only after this was transferred did the passengers and
Dorothy, holding a clipboard in the most professional manner possible, step through the
dock and onto the studio-ship.
It was Jeremy. Dressed in what appeared to be a trench crossed with a filthy
jumpsuit. Evidently, he'd had to muck in on the production of this show. In real life, his
gaze was calm, yet piercing, as if he were trying to decipher the story the existed just
behind your eyes, in your mind. After five considered seconds, he spoke.
"Who's Ben?"
"I'm Ben," said Ben.
"The wrecker. The boy who destroyed the Oracle."
"Sounds like you don't need the interview," said Ben.
"We may have a few sources, sketchy whispers, but it's always better to get these
things from the source. Come."
They followed him, through the humming communications centre and the tech
areas, to the hastily cleared studio. On a cheap couch was Elle E, hurriedly rifling
through scribbled notecards and muttering: "When did you first... no, that's not right.
What's your favourite...? Hmm. F-" but she looked up as the troop came in, and her face
flicked back to best showstopping style.
"GUYS! The celebrities are here... names?"
AG cast a snort. "Won't they have to tell you this again when the camera's rolling?"
"Well, maybe... but it's nice to start somewhere, right?"
"Well I'm Jack, and he's Ben, and we're terrorists." Jack gave his best, slightly
sardonic terrorist grin.

65
 "Awesome! Let's start with that. Okay guys, sit down. We've only got about 20
minutes of transmission time before the feds come for us, but that's long enough to
break the biggest exclusive in the history of Channel Q!" She looked at the clock. "Shit.
Two minutes to go. We've been running trailers on this for about a day now. I hope you
don't mind!" Behind her, VT monitors showed garishly graphiced frames superimposed
over shots that must have been taken from their conversation earlier. There was a visibly
shaken Ben, beneath who was the caption "TERRORIST OF WORLD". A faint voiceover
intoned: "see inside the mind of the greatest economic criminal since the days of the
Banker! What was he thinking? ONLY on Channel Q, the people's alternative station!"
Elle chivvied them to the couch, where a phalanx of stylists descended on them
with powders, sprays, lights and interesting hats. Lights were angled and tested,
microphones positioned close but not too close. Elle checked her notes one last time and
took a deep breath on cue. The crew dived aside just as Aran shouted, "Live!"
"Gooooood evening, dissidents, independent thinkers, and generally funky dudes
and ladies of Broadhaven! It's me, your newspipe, Elle to the E, with the broadcast
you've all been waiting for. We know them as the terrorists of the Exchange, as the
people who send our who damn station in chaos. Yes, they're the Exchange Two-"
AG snorted.
"...the young men who brought down all the deals. But why did they do it? A
schoolboy prank? Dangerous ideologues? Anarchy in space, right guys? With this
interview, exclusive to Channel Q, we're going to find out."
And down on the spires of Broadhaven, the people wanted to find out. In the slums
of the city, near-destitute merchants huddled round a communal screen, adjusting dials
and moving aerials to pick up the weak signal. Clustered around their perimeter were
the casual observers. Everyone knew, deep down, that they were in some way connected
to the 'catastrophe' that had happened high above, and their gallows inquisitiveness and
bravado disguised a genuine fear. In the soup kitchens and cafes on every level, dock
workers and maintenance techs skipped work to watch this most unusual of broadcasts.
Sickening moonshine was passed out while theories were exchanged, bets made,
contingency plans masterminded with all the quiet finesse of someone with too much
time on their hands.
And high above these soup kitchens, in candlelit marble rooms in superstructures
that scraped the rocks around, somber-suited men and women cleared their throats and
had their staff turn the monitors off of the legal frequencies, and onto Channel Q.
Around them, interns and servants stood with clipboards in hand, the pens shaking. The
greatest marble room resounded gently with the frequencies the TV threw out,
generating a low bass hum that found its way to the ears of a huge, black-suited man in a
high-backed armchair. His face barely registered an expression as the broadcast of the
decade filled the room. The dark glasses, which allowed nothing but blackness,
remained fixed to the thick, broken nose. The perfect sweep of thin hair across the wide,
smiling brow was undisturbed. All things considered, The Hammer was remarkably
calm about the situation. After a few minutes, he pressed a small gold button on his
desk. A concealed speaker crackled into life.
"Yes, Mr. Hammer?"
"Carrie. Come in here."
Moments later, a lanky, officious-looking woman swept in carrying a data pad.
"You wanted to see me, Mr. H?"

66
 The Hammer gestured to the screen. "You watching these cats, Carrie?".
Carrie jumped and flushed at the accusation that she'd been watching illegal
material. "No, I've er-"
"Course y'are, doll, who wouldn't be? Anyway, they look like a couple a real swell
guys. Yep, real swell..." He pursed his lips in thought. "They'll be coming to Broadhaven
soon, I got a feeling. When they do, make sure they can find us, won't you?
Carrie nodded, and swept out of the room.

* * *

Alex was in a boardroom of his own. Well, a board dome. The chipped Mahogany
table sat forlornly amidst shards of glass, scorch marks, and electronic debris. Around
the table were several rather pathetic-looking stools. On the table were several pathetic-
looking piles of paper, reports and files. Nobody seemed to want to venture into the
oracle since its destruction, which is why Alex had set it up as his own office. At the
other end of the table was a man. The man wore a rather faded tweed blazer, pinstripe
trousers, and loafers. And carried a more-than-menacing gun. And a smile.
"You see this?" said Alex, gesturing to the ruin and debris around him. "This is why
I want him. I don't expect you're gonna understand this, but this place was the best
thing this stupid little ship had. We needed it, and its been destroyed because some little
moralising brat went all diddums. That's why he going to pay, and I'm going to be the
one to make him do it."
The pinstriped-man chuckled. "And what do you know of me? Despite what they say on
the network?"
"You're the cypher. You're the man for the job, they say. You're Veksner."
"Ahh, so Veksner is the name you know me by? That's a blast from the previous. I
used to trade under that name when it was mostly political assassinations, actually. Nice
little morsel of trivia for you there. Is that the sort of thing we're talking about, by the
way? Nice to know."
"You could say it was political, yeah. In a manner of speaking. In that anyone who
brings this fucker down, him and his little friend, are gonna be the saviours of this ship's
economic future, and will get the job they want in a second. You fancy being mayor,
buddy?"
Veksner laughed. "Ahh, mayor, that's quaint. Office isn't really a big thing for me -
too much paper, not enough cutting, if you get my meaning. That's why I quit the killing
game, actually; because things just started looking too much like a job. The word
'contract' started appearing more and more at the top of my death warrants. There was
salary, stock options, performance reviews. I needed to steer clear of that, really... and
yet, something about this case intrigues me. A criminal mastermind, fleeing across
space? A deranged ideologue with his terrorist and hacker friends? And a pretty unusual
reward, for my line of employment..."
"The joint gratitude of both World and Broadhaven. Maybe even exoneration for
all your crimes." He took out a list. It took a long time to unravel.
"Please, Mr. Alex, suspected crimes. I must insist."
"Whatever, mate. I'd say they could still find enough to get you in for a couple of
lifetimes. Ever wonder why they don't?"
"Because I'm useful."

67
 "Totally. And you'll need to keep being useful to keep being free. But something
like this would get you in good with Broadhaven. You could have the run of the city."
"Don't worry yourself with all this explanation, Alex. I kill for sport, after all. And
this is sport. There's enough unexplained factors in here to make this is a really
interesting case. Who are they? Where are they? Who are they with? Do they have some
external support? We had, back on earth, a hero of myth. People called him The
Sherlock. People of the old state of Mexico used to worship him, invoking his name at
every opportunity. He would find people. He was... a hunter, like me. Taking the loosest
links and forging them together into a great chain of logic and meaning, and using that
chain to pull in a wrongdoer. "The Sherlock was an enigma. We only have writings on
him from once source, a Doctor What? Son, who paints the picture of a mad driven
almost to madness but actually to elation by his single-minded devotion to an art form.
He would track not for a living, but in order to be alive. This was what he did, and he did
spectacularly well. But that was because even if he hadn't done well, he would still have
relished that chase. And so, I hunt." He gestured around the room in a grand arc. "And
such a hunt must begin here."
"Fine," said Alex with a smile. "But I'm coming with you."
Veksner's expression dropped. He tapped his pipe on the mahogany, testily. "I
work alone, Mr. Trader."
"Not this time. Ben is mine - he betrayed The Exchange, and fucked me over.
Besides, there'll be things about him, things he knows and ways he works, that you won't
understand. And, oh yeah" - he held a small data stick - "I have a record of his mind.
Including the escape trajectory of the ship he left on. Just think of me as your What?
Son."
Veksner smiled. Perhaps the right kind of protege wouldn't be so bad after all. Very
well, young doctor. Where do you think we should start?"
At the moment a screen across the room crackled into life - seated on a couch were
a girl with coral hair, a thin-faced boy with a needle-mark between his eyes, and a wild-
eyed engineer in the middle of a polemical.
"Elementary," Alex said.

68
Chapter Sixteen - This Morning With Richard And Judy And A Terrorist

The experience was a strange one. The last thing Ben had truly heard with clarity
was a camera engineer, the one they'd called Aran, whispering: "rolling!". From that
moment on, everything was a blur. As much as he'd promised he would stop himself, the
moment he was asked about his experiences he found them all pouring out in a torrent.
Jack had tried to stop him as subtlely as he could, but found it was impossible, and so
had resorted to chipping in every so often with a clarification. But as the interview wore
on and started to turn its attention to Jack's involvement, he too found himself making
an impassioned defence of their actions. They had not hurt anyone, they had acted to
save lives. "What would you have done, just stood by and watched it happen?"
Elle blushed briefly, but laughed the accusation off: "Hey buddy, I'm asking the
questions here. We have sponsors, you know..." and she pulled out that famous wink.
She shifted in the couch. "So guys, moving on... your very own home ship, the World
that all our viewers at home have been so eager to see, will be docking at Broadhaven
within... oh, about six hours? And most of its resupply deals have been seriously
kiboshed, leaving your countrymen out of pocket. Hey, they might be in range of
listening now! What would you say to them, right now, on live TV?"
The room span around Ben. The dimensions started to twist and stretch, and an
angry purple mist clouded his vision.
"I..."
The entire crew breathed in reverentially.
"I..."
Camera Two slid in closer to catch a tight angle of Ben's nauseous face.
"I'm sorry," he said weakly, and fell forward. Then was an almighty explosion and
shower of sparks, and the cameras went dead. Nobody wanted to be Jeremy's coffee cup
at that moment, as it sailed through the air and smashed against the garish steel vista of
the backdrop. Everyone stepped back, except AG, who remained nonchalantly reclined
in a deckchair sipping chai.
"Fffffff," he spat. "What WAS that? I swear, if I find a loose wire anywhere in this
studio I'll..." He sat down, lit another cigar, a visibly more expensive one this time.
"Well, we got more than our twenty minutes. And that part where you broke down and
started screaming about your parents, that's worth millions in syndication alone."
("I did what?" whispered Ben. "Don't worry about it," came Jack's reply.)
The awkardness was broken by a mighty klaxon as the room began flashing red and

69
orange. "Feds!" shouted Elle, with the faintest trace of a grin. "Guess it's time to pack
up!"
"Hmm, zey must 'ave hit our electroniques when they found us, non? That's what
spoiled the cameras." Jeremy nodded. "We got what we needed, you can save the rest for
your memoirs. Hey, do you fancy a publishing deal with Q Books? Very competitive
royalties..." his economic reverie was broken by an explosion that rocked the bow. "They
are still a little way off, but they can't find you here. As long as you're off the ship, you
can get away and we can claim the interview was prerecorded. Go!"
They ran to the airlock, still thankfully intact as the Prince Ricochet had docked on
the nebula-side of Jeremy's ship. Over the ship's speakers crackled a voice that was
somehow riddled with the mix of authority and the boredom that comes from high
bureaucracy. "This is the Broadhaven Port Authority, you are in violation of Forum
Municipal Charter Section eleven point two, that is to say dissident transmission and
scaremongering within Broadhaven airspace. Please stand down, surrender such
dissident materials and sources forthwith and have you transmission license ready for
inspection and subsequent destruction."
Jeremy turned to yell down the corridor: "get our lawyers on the line, tell them it's
going to be a late one!" then turned back to the escaping interviewees. "Nice talking to
you chaps, thanks for the scoop. I have a feeling we'll be meeting again." And without
another word, they were through the airlock, the bulkhead doors slammed shut with a
sense of certainty, and they felt the strange half-weightlessness of the Prince Ricochet
drifting away from the studio.
"Lucky we got attacked before you had to answer, at least," said Jack.
"Yes," said AG. "Most fortunate." She studied the EMP box in her hand.

* * *

Constable Ross Moody had not been having a good day. The last 24 hours had been
taken up by a million minor offences caused by the crash. People are one minor crisis
away from being pushed from their fragile state of order into utter, utter chaos, he
reflected. People had taken the minor economic destabilisation of Broadhaven to
commit all sorts of minor nuisances - everything from looting to arson to parking ticket
avoidance. 'End of The World' syndrome had settled across the colony, with desperate
couples fornicating on every street corner, and desperater individuals settling old scores
with each other under cover of chaos. The paperwork piling up was horrendous,
unthinkable. And now this: vagabond youngsters causing trouble and feeding the
hysteria with their foolish broadcasts. Who on earth could be funding them he couldn't
bear to think. The fact remained that while the broadcast force had failed to detect and
shut down all of Q's radio stations of the years - many years - when the individuals
showed their faced, they exposed themselves. The opinion in the force was unanimous;
despite all of the civil disorder, despite all the juicy kettling required down on the
station, this opportunity was too good to miss. Moody had been frothing at a chance to
get to these troublemakers for five years now, and out of the Crash of Broadhaven would
rise the phoenix of his greatness. He checked his moustache one last time in the mirror
of his quarters.
As they approached the nebula, the Damocles finally picked up a sniff of their
signal. Moody could barely restrain himself. "Fire into the nebula. Anything that's in

70
there, shouldn't be." Young officers scuttled about deck, checking meters and levels.
"Come on!" Moody hissed, "appalling inefficiency." Finally, a whole five seconds later,
the ship was rocked as a mighty blast of lead and shrapnel flew from the cannons in the
side of the Damocles, hurling themselves towards the green-blue gases. A young
Lieutenant at a console shouted: "a hit! Nothing fatal, but I think we got one of the
engine pods."
Moody's stern face issued calm commands: to reload, recharge, maneuver. But
beneath the visage, he allowed himself a smile. Perhaps he would get a medal for this.

* * *

Amidst the dust and debris, the Prince Ricochet slipped away from the scene with
an eerie calm. Except for one thing: the Major Scoop broke its self imposed radio silence
to issue one message on the screen:
"<3"
Ben smiled. In silence, the Prince Ricochet slipped backwards into the mist. Again, as
they had before, the crew found themselves sitting in silence in a circle. There was only
the lowest of him to reassure that anything was moving at all. After a few minutes, Jack
spoke. "So, what happens now? I've never been quite so rich. Five million."
AG seemed to be staring wistfully into space at that point. "Cinque millions. The
biggest bank hack I ever did was for five hundred thousand... what do I do with five
million?"
In the darkness, Ben's voice hardened. "I know what we're all doing with our five
million. We're going to the slave auction. We're going to buy back the World citizens, or
as many as we can."
"Now 'old on." AG was abrupt. "I never agreed to that. Remember, I came here for
my own amusement, and my financial gain is my own. Why should I buy a selection of
misfits unfortunate enough to make themselves compliant and saleable?"
"Maybe because we're telling you to. You're just as implicated as we are in what's
happened. And we really need you... you're the only one who wasn't seen in the
interview. People know there's a third person, but nobody really knows who you are.
What are you going to do with your riches, anyway? Retire, and live a nice, quiet life?
That's not you, AG, we know that."
Jack spoke: "you didn't have to fight me the way you did, that year ago. You got
something from that. And why did you come with us? Because you said you missed the
badness of life. What could be badder than hijacking a slave auction? Come with us.
Really screw those bastards when they come over from World."
AG sighed, deeply. "As much as it pains me, I think you might be right. I will come
to the auction, to make sure you don't do anything stupid, and because I love trouble.
But you'd best remember; I have no moral dimension in this. If you were hoping to
cultivate one in me, that hope is slim. Remember that I'm doing this because I want to,
and make it worth my while. Comprendez-vous?"
They nodded. It was enough, for the time being. At this, the light began to fade up
from their cautious, dimmed red. Dorothy came down the steps from the galley. "Well,
whatever trouble we had seems to be a little further away now," she said, "and not
before time. My word, what an awful lot of mess you got us into! It's lucky we've been
able to negotiate such a favourable fee, isn't it? Yes, I think twenty million will cover it

71
nicely. Now, I wonder if you've thought about how exactly you're going to get out of this
alive, dears?"
Jack sat and thought. He thought back to the time he was first inducted into the
engineers at the workshop. He'd been worried that they'd ostracise him, the others with
their good grades and qualifications, and him with nothing but a strange story, a battle
against a mysterious foe. The cyber warfare between EVE, and AG's programme, called
L.U.C.Y, had been printed all over the World Enquirer, touted as a massive waste of
government resources and a selfish spat between players that had collaterally damaged
every aspect of tech on World. Databases had been wiped, systems crashed as the two
programs fought, and Jack had half-expected to be ostracised in the Workshop. But
instead, they'd welcomed him as a hero, as one of their own and something to aspire to.
It was strange and a little sad, but it was as though how you did something was more
important than what you did. Finally, he spoke. "Channel Q seemed to like us, didn't
they? A few other people must do. Dorothy, what's the population of Broadhaven?"
"About two hundred thousand, dear, give or take."
"With our combined fifteen million in offworld cash, we've got to be in the top one
percent of that. And remember, we have credit, not stocks or speculations or anything
that's fallen to pieces in the last 48 hours. Yes, they might like a visit from some wealthy
speculators. Just so long as they don't know what we've done."
For the first time in many days, Ben smiled. He knew what Jack wanted to do. "But
they do know what you've done," said Hugh, "and I don't think they like it a lot. How are
you going to get back into Broadhaven when you're everyone's enemy?"
"Simple!" said Ben. "AG, could you change the ship's signature? Give us a different
ID?"
"In my sleep. Mon Dieu, this is certainly a scheme you two 'ave cooked up." She
flipped open her terminal and started tapping away. "I'm clearing the ship's log of recent
transactions and movements - we'll have to write a new one. Adjusting the radar
signature by 0.0003. Ejecting cargo-"
"Now hold on a minute!" Hugh cried, "I've got a century's collection of historical
works here! You are not ejecting those, miss. Besides, I wonder what the authorities
would say if they found a tiny nebula of speculative economic fiction floating off the
coast of Broadhaven?"
"Very well," AG conceded, "but we are going to have to come up with an effective
backstory for this ship. I'm changing the designation. Congractulations, you are now the
proud owners of La Napoleon." Hugh looked furious, Dorothy secretly pleased by this
intriguing new life that was being mapped out for them.
"Your trade is transporting the wealthy young speculators of this part of the galaxy
in comfort, and of course style, so that they can make highly important and not-to-be-
interfeared-with business deals and speculation. You have made lots of money because
you are very good. Why are you very good? Because you are discreet, and because you
know when and how to cut the hardworking, under-appreciated Port Authorities in for a
break. All the best traders have heard of your services, but only the best. Those who
haven't, well... they just don't cut it, it seems." AG caught the glint in Dorothy's eye. "You
might say you're pioneers. You're the best and only players in the most glamorous
industry this century." She clocked the look of concern on Hugh's: "And on the side, you
do a fine line in collecting valuable historical works, which are kept very safe and most
certainly not to be ejected into the vacuum of space." Hugh relaxed. "In fact," she kept

72
tapping away, "Broadhaven's historical collection community is already in a bit of a
frenzy over your arrival, having heard that you intend to spend some of your fabulous
wealth acquiring certain items." She looked around the room, slowly. "Do you think you
can manage that story?"
They nodded.
"Most fortunate, as it's out now."
The next 12 hours were a blur of information. Ben had only just managed to decide
that he definitely wasn't a trader, and he was now expected to become one again. As he
discovered, possibly an even more twisted version than World had expected him to be.
He was now Ben Amundsen-Hughes, technology millionaire. Well, 'technology' was the
savoury term for it. He had made his fortune speculating that a certain colony would
'run out' of access to oxygen at a certain time, pushing prices through the roof at a time
when he'd stockpiled vast quantities of the liquid life in great tanker-ships, orbiting the
colony, tantalisingly out of reach. The people of the colony, Osiris V, had cried out to his
humanitarian instincts, but he had none. He listened only to an effective mottom line, a
P&L forecast, and this had told him to buy every oxygen supply in the area, shut them
down, and hold off on selling until his espionage agents told him that V's supplies were
low enough. At that point, the authorities had approached him with a very large cheque
indeed. The local council had declared such arbtrage utterly immoral and illegalised it,
but not before Ben Amundsen-Hughes had cruised off with a cool twenty million from
the deal. He was now looking to spend some of this in partnership with his two 'business
partners' to trade in the next most valuable commodity: people.
Jack and AG had similar stories, each crafted to make their appearance at auction
believable, but also with a sense of mystique and extravagance, enough to get them
through Port Authorities without too much trouble. They hoped. The three sat in a
circle, testing, retesting, on the tiniest details, forcing each other to come up with
backstory and make it consistent, talking in character, playing the roles until they felt
like a trio of steaming financial dragons, angrily single-minded on an ever-increasing
pile of cash. It became difficult to seperate the true and false, and ever-easier to
appreciate and love the cool five million that had been loaded into each of their
accounts.
Meanwhile, Hugh had spent a precious hour in EVA. They'd found some leftover
paint in the hold from a deal that hadn't worked out and used it in applying new decals
and registration to the ship. It helped that back of the backstory was for their ship's
business to be nondescript, but the job was still utterly essential. Inside was another
matter. Dorothy had done just a little interior design before and was now wrestling these
skills to the surface to create La Napoleon's "Waterloo Suite," a chamber fit for the
sector's most fabulously immoral young tycoons. Their very sparse collection of 17th
Century furniture, bought on a whim after a particularly big score, was brought to the
hold and rearranged time and again. Drapes were hung in seemingly nonsensical places,
paintings created, placed, and given the names of obscure or even made up abstract
artists. In short, everything was done possible to make Ben, Jack, and AG seem utterly
insufferable. Finally, they were ready. They had to be - news reports were coming
through of World entering Broadhaven airspace.
Gingerly, the newly-christened La Napoleon began to turn, and slide its way out of the
nebula.

73
* * *

The Hammer and his associates, cronies and business partners, were lined up like
elders of state alongside the dock. With them, the masters of the Port, the Broadhaven
authorities, local dignitaries and of course, the colony's media. Of course, there was
nothing to see or to report at this point; World's first ship would not dock for another
thirty minutes or so, but that did not stop everyone there from utterly panicking. Even
the well-respected official news source, BHBC, was made up of people who hadn't seen a
story of this size in their professional lives, and were treating it with all the pomp of a
state visit. The Hammer had no problem with BHBC - indeed, many of his closest
partners were now controlling the upper functions of the station and they were a great
ally - but next to them-
"Who the shit let him in?" hissed The Hammer to a subordinate, beneath his broadest
smile. They looked across as a cigar-chomping Baudrillard figure slid onto the dock.
"Sir, I'm sorry but the fallout from not inviting Channel Q to this... well, it's too much to
bear". Saul wiped the sweat from his brow but The Hammer ignored him and stepped
over to his most hated enemy: "Jeremy. You think there's a story here?"
Jeremy put away his notepad. "The first delegation arriving from a ship that's come
close to destabilising half of Broadhaven's economy? I imagine people might like to
know what's happened, yes. And since it's unlikely to come up in any of your trade talks,
I thought the public might want some access."
"Not here. You'll get your exposure but please, not here. Not unless you want full-
scale panic."
They both smiled intently as a roaring hum indicated the approach of the first
delegate ship. Through the grin, Jeremy continued: "very well, Hammer. I'll keep silent
for now. If you let us sit in on the auctions, of course".
The Hammer took a deep zen breath, but his forehead had tightened. "Deal. Now
keep your mouth shut, or they'll think we let just anyone come to these things."
World hung across space like a great dark egg, blotting out the normal lights of
stars and freighters - not that freighters would be leaving Broadhaven with the
opportunities that World would supposedly bring. Not that World could ever actually
'dock' with Broadhaven as such anyway. It was simply too big. Engineers had tried to
find a solution but all their schematics looked more like two giant steel octopi mating, so
all the trades would have to be conducted by smaller ship. The first of such was
descending now - a gleaming red-white liner, shining in the lights of the dock in a way
that only a barely-used ship. Even the hardened, cynical dignitaries had to gasp at its
elegance - this was the Queen Bess, World's flagship. Spoilers and exhaust ports
clustered together, fighting for position in amongst the trim, the gleaming plates, the
filigree of old Kotecha's misspent fortune. Inside would be figureheads only: the
Professor and his retainers, the heads of the major Talents of World, the descendant
lines of the ship's main investors all those years ago. And a phalanx of actuaries,
statisticians, and Traders. All there to negotiate the biggest deal in both peoples'
histories.

74
Chapter Seventeen - New Arrivals

In a far less savoury quarter of Broadhaven there was a far less savoury dock, and
in this far less savoury dock there was an apprentice dockminder called Lauren. The
unluckiest dockminder in Broadhaven's history, she thought. On the biggest day in the
colony's history, to be given cover duty! While everyone gathered at the main dock or
organised street parties or mounted innumerable pop up businesses to cash in on the
trade, she was stuck minding Reserve Dock D, on the least inspiring spoke of the
colony's wheel, specifically created as a squat, ugly-looking Tradesman's Entrance to
keep the dirty part of business away from the businessmen. But all eyes were on the
arrival of the Queen Bess - so she flicked the four-inch screen over to Channel Q. There
was Elle, with the action far, far in the background. Mutterings about terrorism had kept
the press exclusion zone far, far away from anything resembling action this time. Her
gaze was interrupted by a harsh, hectoring buzz from the intercom. She flicked a switch
and in her textbook-practiced voice said "Reserve Dock D, Lauren speaking, how may I
help y-"
Her spiel was interrupted by a voice, thickly French. "La Napoleon. Your superiors
know us. Landing s'il vous plait". Then silence. Lauren scanned the schedule. There was
nothing scheduled to drop for the next three hours - but then, scrawled in pen across the
entire page, the note: World arrive date. Poss overflow use. Of course! The entire main
dock had been shut. Even fairly senior industrialists would be getting diverted today -
this had to be one of them. And she'd sounded very angry indeed. Lauren quickly
activated landing light switches, beacons, and retracted the gantries. "Napoleon, you're
cleared to land. I've just managed to free up K1".
"La Napoleon," came the reply. And as the words came out she saw the ship hove
into view. In was, in honesty, rather underwhelming. An ugly white thing with slightly
drippy paint that marked the ship's designation. Still, it takes all sorts, thought Lauren.
Perhaps it was a cargo of wealthy eccentrics? It docked with little more than a hiccup,
and five figures stepped out onto the deck. There were too far away for Lauren to really
discern properly, but evidently there was something special about them. Long, long
robes. Shiny things. An upright air of self importance. They turned and strode towards
the maintenance hatch, paused, turned 180 degrees and strode towards the exit.
Extraordinary, these important people.

75
* * *

"You idiot," hissed AG to Dorothy, "we're being watched every step of the way here.
There's camera everywhere. They'll be expecting some kind of terrorist attack - if we do
anything strange or suspicious, we'll be found out.
"What, you mean like acting completely paranoid?" whispered Jack. "Relax, AG.
Remember, we're fabulously wealthy in a place where money matters more than
anything. We're above the law. All we need to do is act like we own everything and don't
rub anyone even richer up the wrong way. Now, let's find this auction."
"Where?" asked Ben.
"It doesn't matter, really. Once we start spending, they'll want to be found."

* * *

Lauren turned back to the monitor. At last, something interesting was happening.
The Queen Bess had touched down against the clamps and a series of overly-important
looking berobed people were stepping out to be greeted by Broadhaven's finest. Well,
richest - a mixture of similarly serene figures in white suits and hard-nosed traders in
dark workclothes. And there, in a pinstripe number with gold chain, The Hammer. She'd
seen him once before, far above the crowd at a huge party he'd thrown to celebrate the
building of Broadhaven's factory quarter, which he'd owned every inch of. He was
wearing that same expression of calm surety, of absolute ownership and mastery of a
destiny, that the teevee transmitted to Lauren now.
But again, the buzzer sounded, Lauren flicked the intercom. "Hel-"
"It'd be an absolute joy if you could tease the locks open and give us permission to land,
there's a dear," a solubrious voice poured through the speaker.
"Er, yes. Your designation...?"
"Of course, how silly of me. The Arbitrage, here. Nice to meet you, too."
A dark, purple dart of a ship swung into the bay with precision and elegantly
parked alongside the white ship from before. The intercom must have been left on, as
the voice came through again, as though in aside to another: "a perfect finish, I think
you'll find. Now, let's find our bearings and, ah, reacquaint ourselves with your friends."
Out of the dart stepped two figures: the first an average-looking male with dark, angry
hair; the second seemed barely more than a shadow. A mannequin suit, darker than
dark, sliding towards the exit of the dock. Lighting... a pipe.
Lauren shrugged, and turned back to the teevee screen.

* * *

Broadhaven is not a place that warrants overdescription, gentle reader. For a trio
such as Ben, Jack and AG, accustomed to the large but essentially closed system of
World, the sprawling mess of Broadhaven, built piecemeal and scrappy, was a shock to
say the least. Developments fought with each other for space, clustered in military rows
along each side of the metal walkway. Jack could swear he saw, more than once, one
building or workshop subtly jut out a piece of metal plate as if breathing out, expanding
76
to crush the buildings either side. More facilities placed themselves on top of these,
unceremoniously built onto the town below, brashly shiny and new - comparatively. And
where possible, more shacks and shelters had found their way underneath the street. In
every one of these the party could see clusters of workers in dirty overalls staring at
screens, nervously. Ben stopped long enough to peer into a screen and could see - yes, a
familiar face, Professor K.
His gasp was loud enough to attract the attention of everyone in the bar: every
person turned and eyed him suspiciously. He was just trying to think of something to
say when Dorothy grabbed his sleeve and pulled him along with a cheery, "come along,
sir."
"What was that about?" asked Ben, when they were far enough away.
"Perhaps this is all amazing and new to you, boy," said Hugh, sterner than he'd heard
him before, "but remember who you are. You shouldn't even really be here, and if we'd
had a chance we wouldn't have parked in the slums. So you three are going to have to act
like you own the place for us to get out of the slums unmugged. Take it all in but please,
don't amble round with your jaws hanging loose, alright?" They nodded.
Bars gave way to ruinous little trading posts, which alternately looked as though
they had existed for two hundred years or around five minutes. Every single one had
some kind of hastily scrawled "World Arrival Special" scrawled on it. Huge "Welcome
Citizens Of World" banners hung across shop fronts and in those same shops, all
manner of terrible, irrelevant Broadhaven merchandise was arrayed, all at
incomprehensibly expensive prices. A 1:8 scale model of Miltone, a kind of local mascot
of the colony, rendered in cyan plastic, leered out of a window next to 'Genuine
Broadhaven Building Materials Souvenir' and various sizes of "I stopped at Broadhaven
and I Only Got Mugged Once" shirt.
Hugh nodded toward the shops: "Dorothy and I have been around. We've seen this
a few times. Believe me, this is only the tip of the iceberg. It's tatty souvenirs and dodgy
local cuisine down here but go to other quarters and there'll be art trading, ingredients,
knowledge. Go to one of the industrial docks and they'll be exchanging base metals and
components by the megaton. I don't think you realise quite what's going on here."
They reached a deserted tram and stepped on as it rustily slid off towards the
upper levels. Hugh continued. "See this tram? It has its set of rails to run on, and
nothing else. When it starts to fall apart, as it pretty obviously is, it can't tram its way up
to a workshop. It's in a closed system. And the mayhem you see around us is what
happens when two closed societies finally get to meet and exchange their limited
resources. World is part of that tiny trickle of artefacts from Earth that cannot come
from any other place. And World is stocked to the gills with people who have been
waiting all their lives to be economically active. What happens when you bring these two
groups together? The biggest exchange in most people's lives."
Hugh went back to staring out the window as the metropolis slid past, but the three
exchanged looks. Nothing was said, but Ben guessed they were all thinking back to when
they were back in that dark dome of the Oracle, plotting its destruction. The economic
conduit between two civilisations. They were thinking: what did we do?
A shuddering stop jerked Ben out of his reverie. "We'll have to walk from here,"
chirped Dorothy, "they don't really like trams going near anything too nice." The five
stepped out and into one of the biggest chambers they Ben or Jack had ever seen. Steel
arches, at least fifty feet high, in a line like the easiest game of croquet ever, connected

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by great glass plates, behind which were the impossible metal shapes of the colony's
corridors and chambers, framed by the perfect black of space. The great chamber itself
was basically a huge metal plate concourse, surrounded on all sides by 30 or 40
platforms with an endless procession of trams of various qualities swinging past and
away again into tunnels.
AG didn't see any of that. She saw a proliferation of very simple, hackable tech, and
lots of people in dense, ignorant, pickpocketable crowds. But Hugh and Dorothy led
them expertly and swiftly through the crowd and out, along the concourse, towards a
towering golden building.
"What's that?" asked Jack.
"I'm not really sure," said Dorothy, "but it looks like the most expensive place here."
They stepped through double doors grander than grand and twice their height, and
Ben tried to put on his best "I own everything" face. He did his best to recall the hastily
revised character of Ben Amundsen-Hughes, and affected a disdain for all around him.
The others did likewise, and it was lucky because they were greeted by an ice-stony thin
faced man with a watery, far-off gaze. He waited ineffeable eras before deigning to
begin: "and you are..?"
Ben's identity came out of him in a sickly torrent: "Benjamin Amundsen-Hughes,
and you are impeding me. I've made more from the markets during this conversation
that your job is worth, so show us to your executive rooms and get me a phone. I have
meetings to arrange. No doubt you've been informed of them already, though we can
forgive your laxity." He sharpened his gaze into a point of lead, "...this once."
The thin man's countenance fell half a millimetre before extensive hospitality
training pulled it up again. A gentle, discreet chime had rung in the background,
indicating that the guests' credit had been checked and was indeed very wealthy, and so
he redoubled his smarm. "Forgive me Sir. What with upcoming events, all sorts of
characters are, ah-"
"You consider me and my associates 'characters'?"
"No no, Sir, not characters at all." He mopped his brow. "Please, do follow me".
How had his staff failed to inform him of such a dignified guest? He pressed a button
which send innumerable signals out to bellboys, maids, bar staff. The perfectly oiled
machine of The Broadhaven Embassy swung into action to ensure that, in the twenty
seconds it would take to get there, the Magistrate's Suite would be ready, utterly without
flaw. The group journeyed up the ten floors in a soundless lift of velvet, as Ben reiterated
to the man: "I'm sure my staff have informed you, but we will be attending the major
auction sessions. I'm sure Broadhaven's finest establishment can make all the necessary
arrangement for us, yes? I'd hate to have to buy your establishment and melt it for
scrap..."
The thin man sweated palpably. But such men are trained for perfect demeanour,
no matter what their innate biological signals of panic, run, flee might tell them. He held
his face in a mask of serenity, while his butlering brain calculated who to talk to and
how, to ensure his clients' satisfaction. These things are above all worldly ideas such as
safety or propriety. From his mouth: "Sir." And he left them at the door to Room 1, the
Magistrate's Suite.
As the group poked their head through the door, they ran into a number of things
they weren't expecting. They were, of course, expecting the finest in hotel furnishing
excellence, but as dedicated ship-travellers they didn't have any frame of reference for

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what that might mean. So when they saw beds as big a storage containers, balancing on
ornate claws and paws of animals they had never imagined, let alone seen, they had no
idea if this was better or worse than the walls decked with 13th Century Moroccan
tapestry work, or the immense crystal chandelier that hung above, in the centre, a great
circular pool depicting the twin forces of Yin and Yang. Not that anyone apart from AG
had heard of those, either. They had certainly not expected to find a large assortment of
automatic and semi-automatic firearms laid out across the bed like a cutlery set. And,
when the confusion of all of this made Ben decide that he needed the loo, he did not
expect to open the bathroom door and find a gun pointing in his face, and Broadhaven's
most followed news reporter holding it.
"Benny!" Elle E purred. "I had a few more questions to ask you."

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80
Chapter Eighteen - Going, Going, Gone

"Say what you like about these Broadhaven people," said Jack, "but they do know
how to furnish a room, don't they?" he sipped his margarita, and looked around the
circle of the others, feet dangling in the Daoist pool.
"For a price, dude," said Elle. "Anything, for the right price. That's Broadhaven. Be
prepared to be offered a lot of very strange shit." She poured another gimlet. "Oh, and be
careful about the tab you run up here. Benjamin."
It had been decided that cocktails and a swim was probably the only sensible way
of trying to work exactly what the hell was going on, while maintaining the trio's image
of inter-colony playboy entrepreneurs. After Elle had lowered the gun - a cautionary
measure, since police were sweeping every Broadhaven building during the major
auctions - she had asked them all sorts of questions, but one stood out:
"What do you know about Chapter Thirteen?"
They had all sat in silence. Ben looked accusingly across to Hugh but he was silent.
It was very possible that he hadn't read that book, but then why was it so heavily
annotated?
She looked round, just a little disappointed. "Hmm. Okay, well then let's keep this
simple. We need to get outta here for the auction anyway. Basically, it may be hard to
believe but not every here is a hundred percent down with the whole 'selling people'
thing, okay? Some people, I'm not gonna say who, have been kind of against it for a
while. For their own reasons." Her cocktail stick found a glace cherry, and she ate it.
"Sooooo, those cats got together a while ago and made up this group called Chapter
Thirteen, trying to get a law passed that would ban a lot of bad shit. Problem is that all
the big boys make their money off the bad shit, so they're not exactly down with putting
a stop to it. Chapter Thirteen started out as a lobby group but truth is, they're pretty
angry people, guys. Angry enough to get militant if the right opportunity came up. Some
kind of big event to ruin."
Hugh gave a knowing look. "So, how do you know this? One of your...scoops, is it?"
Elle smiled. "Ah, so you did know a little bit at least. Yeah, Channel Q has been a
part of C13 for a while now. My producer, Jeremy's great-granddad or something was a
former slave and he wanted to bring it down. But by exposing what's wrong about it, not
terrorism! And that's what could happen. I know you're going to the auction tonight.
And I don't know if they're going to do something, but... be careful. I know you're taking
part to try and save your friends, right? Well they won't see it like that. As far as they're
concerned, you're funding it, you're helping it carry on. Just... be careful who you're seen

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with. That's all." She gestured to the bed. "Oh yeah, and take all those guns and stuff.
They could help."
There was the discretest of knocks at the door. "And this is where I gotta jet, guys.
I'll try and keep you informed if something's going down but just try to stay low. Low-
ish. Ciao!" And with that, she swan-dived through the open window. There was no
sound of her hitting the ground.
"Mr Amundsen-Hughes? Sir?" The thin man's voice drifted under the door.
"Coming!" said Ben in a not very Amundsen-Hughes voice. The party jumped up and
hastily gathered together the guns, throwing them into the bathroom as quickly as they
dared. A nightmarish ten seconds later, it was safe for Ben to open the door.
"Sir, I have taken the liberty of liasing with contacts. You and your, ah, associates
have passes to attend tonight's auction at the Broadhaven Exchange, ten PM.
Entertainments are commencing at eight, therefore I have arranged for a car to collect
you in half an hour. I trust this is to your satisfaction?"
"Er, yes. Very much so. Thank you." The thin man left.
"Entertainments?" asked AG.

* * *

The car purred softly along the steel in complete ignorance of the filth and the
chaos and the uncertainty of Broadhaven's trading district. The passengers however,
were utterly enthralled. They peered through the tinted, bulletproof glass at the
incomparable spectacle that is the District on a big trade day. Every shop, every outlet of
every kind was decked out in carnival colours. Sunday traders hung out on street
corners, smoking and speculating on the big moves of the day. Great displays had been
erected everywhere, bearing the black-gold of Broadhaven framing prices, news tickers,
endless punditry. On the other side of the street, Ben could see a great grandstand had
been erected which faced an enormous screen - a screen which broadcast pictures of the
auction hall. People were already taking their spots in the stand, vying for the best view,
dads taking their eager sons out to watch a piece of history, both decked in the colours of
their favourite celebrity trader. And all around, speculators were betting on who would
win various lots, and what price they would go for. There was money riding on the
money.
Hugh and Dorothy had decided to stay at the hotel; for the first time in days, Ben,
Jack and AG were on their own. In a city which would applaud them as wealthy, but
destroy them and slave them if it ever, ever found out what they had done. Then the
black car turned a corner and suddenly, suddenly, there behemothed into view a
monstrous building.
"The Exchange, sirs."
In his early architectural training, the Aesthetics profs had given Jack just one
reference book: Civic Works Of Rome. "This," they had said, "is all you need to know
about devotional art. Whenever anything is built as a form of praise, the Romans did it
first." It had all been impressive but there was one page that he always lingered on: The
Colosseum. The brash, brutal size and combative shape of the thing had enchanted him;
there was absolutely no doubt that it was a place of violent conquest, of victory and
horrible, merciless defeat. As he gazed up at the great steel drum of the Broadhaven
Exchange, ringed with spikes, surrounded by queues of bloodthirsty spectators, he

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began to feel very sick indeed.
"Ben," Jack said, "this is going to be pretty nasty. You know that, right?"
"Yeah, of course."
"No, I'm serious. This is different from your exchange. This isn't computers and
robes." He pointed out of the window, at a stall selling air horns. "This is a fucking blood
sport."
"Excellent," said AG.
"I don't think you understand. What Ben was doing with the other traders on World,
they did that because they needed to, to keep everything going properly. And they were a
little subgroup, in amongst the rest of us. Nothing could go that far out of hand. Here, in
Broadhaven? It's different. People from across a wide area all choosing to come
somewhere not because they need to, but because they choose to make sport out of it.
This is a society that's absolutely trading mad. They'll be here to see people get crushed,
ruined for life. They'll see a man destroyed by a bad deal, and they'll love it. Maybe even
kill for it."
The car swept up the Tradesman's Entrance, and the three could see that Jack was
right. The baying, clamouring mobs gave way to an eerie calm. They were in a long, dark
tunnel, filthy and metal on its bottom but velvet and wood-panneled on either side. On
these walls hang portraits of all manner of rakes and villains, framed in gold. Some faces
bore a kind of sharp, sinewy intelligence, calculating and cold. Others wore the violence
of their owners in their curled, angry lips and narrowed eyes. Still others had a kind of
perfectly calm demeanor. These were the most disturbing of all. Beneath each, a
valuation, some stretching into ten or eleven figures. Ben recognised some of the faces
from his textbooks; felt the strangest pang of longing for home.
"Famous traders?" whispered Jack.
"Yes," he said. "the richest, the most powerful men and women in the galaxy. Some of
these were born into wealth, but not all. And not the richest ones. There's people up here
who've done anything, everything, to pull themselves out of the dirt. Hurt anyone,
bought and sold anything. People who've been mistreated as they grew up and have felt
the right to do the same thing to everyone around them."
"...and they're Broadhaven's heroes," AG finished. "Their legends. They're the
bedtime stories for kids all over this station. Merde."
"Something like that."
Ben scanned the faces as they went past, looking for something familiar. Various
industrialists that had been mentioned in passing in lessons, then a name that leaped at
him like an arc of lightning: Richard Kotecha. So, this was the face of the precursor to
the World project? Whose actions - his greed - had dictated the lives of all three of the
them. He was responsible for their existence, for what it was. Then the face was gone.
"So, what do we do?" asked Jack.
"Ben took one last look at the pictures as they disappeared into the tunnel behind. "We
be like them."
The car slid to rest in a plush foyer, dimly lit with torches and chandeliers.
Surrounding theirs were many other cars of a similar type: big and black and angry.
Sombre, mute chauffeurs waited in each, and from each stepped suited men, swimming
in self-importance. As they spotted each other, some pairings would embrace like
brothers reuniting, but others shook hands with all the rigid fury of duelling swordsmen.
Already, people were producing contracts and stock displays from pockets and settling

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down to deal.
A sombre white-robed woman slid into the room and said, with the softest of
honeyed voices, but one which managed to bring silence to the chamber:
"Gentlepersons, if I could interrupt your trading for just a moment - entertainment shall
begin in five minutes. Therefore, please make you way up the stairs to the Sugar
Enclosure at your earliest convenience. I thank you."
Paralysis had frozen the three to their seats in the car. At this, AG spoke: "She
means us. Let us go. I warn you however - your prisoner exchange is a last resort for me.
If I find anything superior to purchase then I shall be doing so with haste." Jack gave her
an angry glance but Ben just shook his head, and the three of them stepped out of the
car. No sooner had they done so than a booming voice hurled itself at them: "Benjamin!"
They were about ready to jump back in the car and escape when a huge hand clasped
Ben's shoulder. He spun around.
"SO good of you to join us, buddy. The floor wouldn't be the same without you, I'm
telling ya! My associates at the embassy sent word your team was coming. When I heard
about it I'm serious, I was excited. And here's the man himself, at long last."
Ben looked up. The booming voice had come from a booming face. A cheshire-cat
grin, studded with gems, sat smugly upon huge ruddy cheeks, below wide eyes in big
bronze frames. The tallest top hat Ben had ever seen threatened to breach the ceiling,
and gave way to a long, gold robe interlaced with furs of unknown animals. Ben had to
crane up and down for a good five seconds to take the figure in, and felt very self-
conscious about it, until he decided that Benjamin was probably the sort of person who
took a long time looking over things if he wanted.
"I am Rook, sir. The Hammer's personal servant and representative at these
auctions. He has sent me to take very, very special care of you, while you consider your
purchases at this historic occasion. Everything to your satisfaction so far?"
"Er, well-"
"Grrreat! Let's go catch the show before the main event."
Ben was floundering slightly for an answer until Jack stepped up. "That's perfect,
Rook. Thanks for meeting us so promptly. We'll be going up, now."
Rook bowed slightly. "Perfect, Sir, follow me."
And Rook let the way towards a marble staircase. As they walked after him, AG
turned to Jack: "so there's a little more to you than you let on, hmm? A little of the
entrepreneur behind the hacker?"
"What can I say?" he replied. "I've always wanted to do shit like this."
As they scaled the many flights of curving steps up through the metalwork, a high-
pitched hiss turned into a stronger roar, and then a swirling torrent of cheering,
screaming, chanting. The stairs were nearing their end. An eerie yellow light was
pouring down from an aperture at their end, and as they got closer the alien light
became blinding, intense. The crowd-roar seemed to reach its creschendo as they broke
through the light and found themselves on an ornate, curved balcony, large in size but
just one, a mere single chamber that made up part of a circle of boxes, the very top of a
great, circular arena. The Exchange.
Rook allowed himself the biggest of grins. "Welcome to the greatest show on
Broadhaven." They were ushered to ornate copper couches at the front of the balcony,
and from there they stopped to look around. The scale of the great arena was mind-
aching, but it was the decor that was more troubling. The working of the stands as they

84
tapered down was positively repelling; stained steel, chipped and rusting, topped with
busts and statues of creatures that, Ben hoped, could never have existed. They looked
across to the far side; in the tier below theirs, mobs of fans bayed for blood. Banners
waved from balconies, each calling out a different district or daubed with sayings like
"BUY 'EM OUT, THADDEUS!" or "3RD DISTRICT TECHS HOSTILE TAKEOVER".
And if the fans outside had been intimidating, those inside made the trio shudder.
Eyes bulged with pent-up, aggressive fury to the point of elation. "Horrible," said Jack.
"Amazing," AG mouthed silently. She couldn't help but feel a strange kinship with this
breed of people. Their eyes travelled down to the base of the arena, to a great, ornate pit.
An impossibly complex marble tableau covered the floor. In the centre, a great cog, a
symbol they'd seen elsewhere. Emanating from the cog, many different lines of different
lengths, some pointing out, some in.
"The trade of Broadhaven," drawled a rotund man to their right. "What we came
from, what we are. I can't believe it took them so long to put me in. Look," and he
pointed towards on particular line which reached almost to the edge of the arena. At its
end, a small symbol of ship. And around each symbol, ornate lettering which could only
just be made out with the brass opera glasses they'd been provided by Rook: Oswald
Brune III. Methane, Osmium, Livestock. 110mC.
"We are the builders, the benefactors of Broadhaven, my friend. What we do
enriches this society, we captains of industry." He reached for a grape. "It is a hard
burden to bear, for certain, but we must never shirk it." He threw the grape at a nearby
servant. "Bring me the cheese, product. Bring me several cheeses." He looked back to
Ben. "I swear, they build obsolescence into these beastly things nowadays." Ben
managed a weak ha, but felt very, very sick. Then he noticed the faint, many-times-
washed blood spatters across the marble. And the proliferation of spikes. And the almost
utter lack of doors in the pit. A showy voice crackled over a soundsystem.
"Ladies and Gentlemen! Free citizens and entrepreneurs of Broadhaven! Take your
seats, close your options, because we have one hell of a show for you! And one hell of
host. You've seen him on teevee, you've seen his quarterly performance, now to see him
in the flesh, he is... The HAM-MERRRRR!"
The crowd's turn turned a collective orgasmic scream of ecstasy as spotlights
turned on a darkened onyx balcony about 40 degree clockwise of their own, revealing a
single figure. Behind the layers and layers of bulletproof glass, between the phalanxes of
troopers, was a huge grinning man. He held up and hand an in the hand was a ice-white
gavel, no bigger than a teacup. The crowds chanted hammer, hammer, hammer, but all
the lights and cameras focused on that tiny gavel as if it were about to seal a contract on
their lives. The Hammer gave one last smile and wave, and sat down.
"And now, before we get down to business" - there was another roar at the word
business - "it's time for our first event." There was a hushed silence from the crowd. A
child started to cry out, but was hushed by its concerned parents. Behind Jack, a
haughty woman fumbled around for a pair of opera glasses. And then, with a fanfare,
the metal gates in the floor slid open and two cages slid up from below. In each cage
were about ten people, and in front of each cage was a terminal. And at each terminal
was a very small, very scared-looking person in ceremonial white robes. "Mheh,
excellent," said the haughty woman, "I like this one."
The voice from the speakers crackled again: "before you, you see two aspiring
merchants, handpicked by The Hammer for this greatest of honours. When the gavel

85
falls, both have five minutes to accrue as much money though deals as they can. They'd
better work quickly, because the winner will become one of the Hammer's chosen
apprentices, and will gain ownership of his slaves. The loser's slaves... well, it doesn't
bear thinking about." At this, a jet of flame burst from the floor beneath the cage, and
the crowd gasped and cheered.
"Barbaric," said Jack, "I'd choose death over slavery."
"It's certainly motivational," said AG.
"This bout's theme is..." A huge roulette wheel appeared at the base of the arena,
covered in symbols. It span, faster and faster, the crowd chanted spin, spin, spin. Other
shouted many different names, that the three couldn't comprehend. An arrow at one
end lit up, and suddenly the wheel was braking with an almighty scream. Sparks flew off
in all directions, dousing the frantic audience in heat. Finally, it the wheel shrieked to a
stop. "Metal!" intoned the voice. A great "ooh," went up from the crowd.
From the ceiling, a great four-sided display cube slid down, hanging above the
audience. Ben's eyes were wild with old excitement at seeing the figures and charts that
had been his life back at the Exchange in world. There, across the display, were figures,
red and green, constantly changing - placed against different metals, Osmium, Copper,
Steel. He noted with some curiosity that Titanium was valued the highest here: not the
way it had been on World. No wonder this trade meant so much to them. He looked at
the figures: they had begun fluctuating like mayflies, dancing up and down. At the same
time, he clocked a feverish activity from spectators in the galleries below: people barking
into intercoms, or furiously swiping at data displays. "Look," he said to the others,
"everyone wants to take part in the action."
"Well, of sorts, mheh." It was the rotund man to their right. "The bout markets are
too volatile to perform the kind of arbitrage I'm comfortable with. Anyone with any
money is only taking part to destabilise the prices, make it more interesting for our two
combatants down there. Not that they need it. First time at the Broadhaven Exchange, is
it?"
Ben-jamin found the desperate courage to play his role. "Yes, we're just passing
after scoring a little oxygen coup, and thought this World stop might provide some
useful opportunities. This is impressive, however. We have competitive trade where we
come from, but it's never been as bombastic as this. This is excellent. A model we'd do
well to export."
"Nothing like the Exchange for the heady, angry thrill of the trade. I'll be intrigued
to watch you take part. Which lot were you after?"
Ben looked blank and AG flicked quickly through the catalogue that had been left
under their couches. "Fourteen. The Two Hundred Persons, Varying Ability."
"Ahh! Excellent. That's my quarry, too. I wouldn't be surprised if the bidding tops
Twenty, Thirty million. Good stock is so hard to find these days."
The three exchanged cold, scared glances. Twenty million credit was far more than
they had between them. Jack coughed with shock but AG answered her: "See you on the
floor, then."
They looked down to the floor. The two combatants had been hooked up to their
terminals and fed the drugs they required. One, the younger one, had experienced a
minor vomiting. Technicians wiped the sweat from their temples and attached
electrodes to the two young men. At once, the display cube also began to show the men's
vital stats: heart rate, blood pressure, adrenaline levels - and against these were

86
valuations also, which almost immediately began jumping up and down.
"They're betting on the health of those two?"
"Of course," the woman said. "I once made a small fortune betting on the death of a
seemingly healthy young man in his bout. It turned out he had a little heart murmur.
Made quite a killing, you might say." She laughed and her jowls applauded her. "It adds
a certain frisson of delight to proceedings, don't you think? Go on, place a bet." She
gestured to the interface built into Ben's armrest. On it, a display had already been
loaded with Ben's account: c5,000,000 usable, it read. There were several buttons: One,
Two, Short, Long, Deriv., Exhange, and more.
"Get yourself warmed up before the main event. The smaller lad's looking a little
shaky. I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't last the five minutes, after all." She made
some quick movements on her pad and a small bleep emerged. "There, that's my ten
thousand going to a better home. Fly, my pretties! Bring mother home some largesse!"
She gave a knowing look at Ben. Ben nodded, "it looks excellent. But I'll have to discuss
my strategy with my, er, consortium." He turned to Jack and AG, with a look of if we
don't do this we're dead - but AG was already eagerly examining vital stats on her
keypad and muttering to herself: "hmm... history of adrenaline overproduction here...
but this one has hereditary panic attacks... but the better past trading history...ah!" With
a triumphant smile she jabbed a few commands into her pad, which gave out an obliging
chirrup. "Excellent."
Finally, the crowd subsided to a expectant hum. And the booming voice rang out:
"Challengers, ready! Traders, ready! Three... Two... One... BEGIN!" And an air horn with
bass notes that shook Ben's soul saturated the arena. The crowd let out a single guttural
roar. The two challengers threw themselves at their terminals, jabbing and sweeping
through the screens as tough they held all the answers. The prisoners behind them gave
desperate shouts of encouragement, but then men in the middle were oblivious to the
roars, the distractions. They seemed to be utterly focused on their terminals.
Ben looked down at his own, at the multitude of trading and betting options. The
smaller man, it seemed, was a man called Georges. The other, an oily rake, was Remi.
The odds weren't as profitable on Remi but he reasoned that to keep their pretence up,
he would have to be seen to win, so he pressed: c50,000 active, Remi. Jack leaned
across. "It's difficult to tell, but look at how focused they are. If I'm right, I'd say they're
hooked up to the system. Almost like the way you were, back in the dome. When it's our
turn, this could get difficult."
It was getting difficult enough for the two men in the centre already. As a huge
chime signalled that two minutes had passed, the prices of the various metals started to
change even faster and wilder as others in the upper balconies laughed and threw their
own bets and trades in. The smaller man vomited again, all over his terminal, but his
concentrated gaze never broke, and when they looked up at the cube display, Ben and
Jack realised that-
"He's winning?" said Jack.
"Mais oui," said AG with a smile. "The vomiting is just the body. Look in his eyes. The
mind is one with the market, right there. Is it fear, exhilaration? I don't know. But
something in him compels him to give himself over, utterly and without question, to the
task at hand." She held up her display. "That's why I bought stock in him." Jack and Ben
gawped at the readout. c2,000,000 shares Georges. New Value: c3,500,100. She smiled,
and pressed Sell. "Of course, such advantages in intelligence don't last, do they? Better

87
to stay ahead of the curve." As she said that, the price began to shift unfavourably as
more and more people caught on to the disparity.
When the chime sounded for one minute remaining, the pace accelerated even
faster. The roar got louder. Georges had been comfortably ahead, but Remi scored a
chance derivative that nobody could have predicted - shouts were swirling round the
stands, that news had just come in of a huge explosion on a copper facility five days
away, killing 2,000. Copper prices soared, and the crowd whooped at this development
as Remi's total came to within a few thousand of Georges. The prisoners in Georges'
cage started screaming, imploring him to focus, to make the profit, to save them from
death and deliver them into a life of slavery. Georges was sweating, stumbling. He was a
distant figure to the watchers in the Sugar Enclosure, but they could see his knees start
to weaken and buckle. "Uh oh folks, looks like the pressure's getting too much for our
younger contender!" With superhuman effort, he stayed at the terminal on his knees,
pressed a final few commands, and collapsed to the marble. The clock ticked 5, 4, the
crowd as one beast chanted "Going... going... GONE!," whooping and cheering. The final
totals flashed up - Remi: 234,119 Georges: 236,002.
The announcer voice cried: "Georges wins!" But there was no movement from the
body on the marble. Staff in green overalls ran on to collect the body on a stretcher, and
carried him off. The life signs on the cube indicated that he was alive, but just. The fat
man snorted. "A little case of overexcitement, nothing more. They'll give him the right
drugs and he'll be up in no time. In a way. It's a shame the Hammer gets him all to
himself, I could have used him on my staff. Never mind, that fool Remi might be good
for something."
The man Remi could only stand before his terminal, frozen and stony-faced.
Behind him, the slaves in the cage screamed hate at him as the cage sunk into the pit
below, but he would not turn to hear them. He just stood, vacantly. Then a man in a suit
clapped him on the shoulder, and led him away, as junk and abuse from the crowd
rained down on him. In his face, Ben saw himself - or a version of himself - a young man
thrown into a strange and cold world. A world that applauded him as a hero and
damned him as a villain in equal measure. He wondered what Remi was about to face
from his masters when he left the arena. The fat man prodded him. "So, how did you do?
Oh dear, doesn't look good." Then he saw AG's pad. "This lady however, has done
excellent business."
"Ah yeah, well she's our people expert, of course," said Ben hastily.
"I should think so too," said the woman, "with a performance like that. I don't suppose
you'd like to come at work for my house, would you?"
"Now hold on-" started Jack, but AG silenced him with a hand. "We are running a
very successful operation, thank you." Just then, there was the politest of coughs from
behind them. A man in coattails had silently drifted into the enclosure.
"Ladies and gentleman, our main lots are about to start. By special request, our
first order of business is Lots Five through Fourteen. If all interested parties would like
to follow me to the floor, we shall begin forthwith."
And in silence, Ben, Jack and AG gathered their data pads and their drinks and
filed down the stairs with the rest of Broadhaven's trading aristocracy.

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Chapter Nineteen - The Hammer and The Gavel

There was so much chatter and bragging on the enormous flight of stairs that led to
the floor that Ben, Jack and AG barely had to whisper to keep their conversation secret.
"We've got a problem," said Jack. If that woman's right, the price of Lot Fourteen is
going to go way above the money we have. And if they do that, we've lost everything.
Judging by the people we've just spoken to, I wouldn't fancy my chances being bought
by any of them." He was interrupted by a loud guffaw as a gentleman in a steel stovepipe
hat finished a particularly vile anecdote.
"So what do we do?" asked Ben.
Jack had been scribbling notes into his data pad during the events upstairs, and he held
them up now: "it's not about me, I think it's about you two. Listen. We have eight lots
coming up before the big one. I've had a look through the schedule, they're a mix of
esoteric commodities from World, and service contracts. World is staying docked with
Broadhaven for the next three weeks; they might as well use that time like a big service
factory, I guess."
"So?"
"AG has it right. In five minutes, she made 1.5 million. If she'd bet all of it - and I'm
not saying she should have - she'd have made about 3.5. And if we'd all bet, it would be
about 9 million." Their eyes widened at the idea, and Jack continued: "But that only
works so long as we have the proper mechanism to sell, and we do it at the right time.
And it's gonna get more difficult with complicated contracts like these."
"So how are we gonna do it?" asked Ben.
"Here's what happens. You and AG will take part in the auctions, with my money
too. Meanwhile, anything we manage to buy, I'll try to sell on the open market via aliases
to make a profit. We should be able to stir up some rumours that the stuff is
undervalued, that we can see something in it nobody else can. As soon as we have the
contracts, I'll post on the public nets as myself, saying that I'm an engineer in the
Workshop, and I know exactly what kind of tech is available. And I'll say that all the IP
around it comes with the deal."
AG looked very darkly indeed. "Jacques, I worked as recruiter for the Workshop.
You know that. But you don't know how hard I had to work to bring you in. They saw
you as the worst possible risk - a threat to their secrets. If you do this, if you try and sell
their creations, they will cut you off for good. I don't where you planned to make home
but after this, it certainly won't be World."
Jack's grin was mischievous: "Fuck it. I think we're pretty much not welcome back

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there anyway." They nodded, and the distant roar of the crowd began to grow stronger
as they rounded the corner and we're faced with a blinding portal.
"Gentlemen," the man in coattails said, "welcome to the trading floor. Bene Bonum
Forum," he intoned. And on that, the traders and merchants strode through the portal.
Their eyes adjusted to the light and they saw that they were in the same circular space
they had seen from above, but it had been changed. a great red carpet had been laid
across the floor, embroidered in gold with the same symbols and devices as the marble
floor below. Spotlights, though these may have been there all along, ringed the walls and
pointed straight at their faces. And, in a wide circle, were twelve golden booths. The
auctioneers each advanced to a booth, flanked and trailed by their teams of actuaries,
statisticians, and business advisers. "Let's take one together," said Ben, and so they
moved to occupy the furthest chamber. Overhead, in a echoing voice they could barely
make out, the announcer was whipping the crowd into a frenzy.
Ben and AG studied the panels in the booth, and then looked out of the glass front
window into the arena. The instruments and dials were all very mechanical, not like the
subtle mental pathways of the Oracle. Ben found two sets of electrodes, and handed one
to AG. "We'll need these, when the time comes." Out the front of the booth, they could
see across the circle, and into the other booths. Each contained one or two suited or
robed individuals, surrounded by their entourage. Some were intently studying the
figures put before them, others preferred to gaze out at their competitors, sizing up the
personalities. Ben found his gaze locked with another: a mysterious woman in a red
fedora. Her gaze pierced - he felt himself being unpicked, analyzed-
"Concentrate," said AG, waving a hand in front of his face. "They're starting, and
we're in for all of these."
Ben shook his head and turned round. "Jack, are you ready for this?"
Jack was crouched out of sight behind the low walls of the booth. He looked up
from his display: "all ready. I'm plugged into the public nets one side, the major trading
outlets on the other. Got a couple of potentially interested parties already." It was clear
that he'd been setting up the deals since they were up in the balcony.
"Okay, great. Whenever we get something through, you put the details out. Then
what?"
"I have a couple of aliases that we can have bid against our own stuff, to generate
some hype. Make everyone think there's something big going on. Listen, you guys better
get plugged in. They're about to start."
As Ben and AG fumbled with the electrodes in their headsets, a team of girls in silk
kimonos came out, pulling an eight-foot high tapestry strung in mahogany on wheels
between them. "Lot Five!" the voice cried. "A real speciality from World, a great place to
start. Old world tapestries from a place called Mongolia. Nobody knows where this was
but one thing's for sure, it's a real piece of history! Which one of our businessmen will
see an opportunity here?"
AG put on her headset, and was hit in the mind with the full force of commerce and
desire. She could see everything that was truly in front of her, of course - the booths and
the crowds and the circle, and the tapestry - but the headset made the tapestry look
different. Suddenly, it was overlaid with displays, information, pricing charts. All the
tapestry's weave and features, design, providence, everything was enhanced and
combined to make her feel the sore longing for the world's beautiful and cunning things.
She saw in the eyes of the other traders, the lust and anger swirling around their money

90
and above all of them, she could see the darkening storm of information that flowed
between the mobs of people in the stands. In the cloud, she could see intentions like her
own; betrayals in the making, double-dealing, searching for advantage, the cross-
referencing and comparing of thousands of pieces of information.
"Ben..." she started, "wha..?"
Ben could see it too. Back on World, the Oracle had laid out the truth for him, in
brilliant white energy, across its own body. It had displayed for him. But this crude beast
forced its information over his own consciousness, meshed them together in a greedy
mess. It was forceful but somehow... comforting. The lines and charts hovering in green
energy around the tapestry were the analytical shapes of his education. They had been
part of his world at the Exchange, but further back than that - they had been the things
he'd had to draw up in the Hulls. His excellent pie charts had won him Supply
Technician of the Year 2433, yes. On the tapestry itself, the most beautiful patterns he
could never have imagined, surrounding and framing impossible animals that could
never have existed. One, a strange cross between a dog and a human, crouching
meditatively on all fours. It seemed to look straight at him with a knowing gaze. And
beyond the tapestry, around it, the faces of his enemies, all doing the same thing as he -
trying to balance analysis, rationality, with the primal lust to acquire and to win.
The lights flicked up to the top tier, to illuminate the chamber of The Hammer. He
raised a microphone to his lips.
"The opening valuation is five hundred thousand." He raised his gavel. "Begin."
And everything went dark.

* * *

High above the arena, in the darkened bulletproof bombproof box, The Hammer
sat back. Nothing like a ten percent commission, a little 'handling fee', to keep any
auction running smoothly and safely. He took a sip from a particularly pleasing Muscat,
obtained at great expense from nameless sources, and offered the bottle to his guest.
"Obliged, I'm sure," said Professor K. "I must say, Mr. Hammer, your methods of
commerce may well be... unorthodox, but they certainly seem to extract maximum value
from a sale. We shall certainly have to export this method, though I wouldn't want to
share it with an overzealous young trader. Moderation, you know." The professor shifted
in his couch and searched for another grape to his liking. The Hammer laughed.
"Cool it, K, my methods are good for all. The traders win, their industry just gets
bigger and bigger. The crowds win - they have something to believe in on this floating
wheel. You guys get more money, more resource than you could have hoped for. Me?"
He sipped again. "I'm just a facilitator, baby." He leaned forward, pressed against the
glass. "Hey, who's that?" He pointed to a young trio making their way to a booth, three
long, shining robes. He flicked his display down, scanned the data, and frowned. "Now
hold on, Prof. A party buying its own merchandise back? That's a little unorthodox, if
you get my meaning."
K leaned over, squinted, reached for a paid of binoculars. It was them. Hammer
turned to him, questioningly, but he kept gazing down at the three as they checked
displays, plugged in prepared to auction as though they were born in the system, as
though they were native to it. "Mr. Hammer, we may have a little complication. They're
nothing to do with us, but I'd be very interested to speak to them. Very interested

91
indeed."
He waved Carrie close to him, and watched.

* * *

The next four hours seemed to pass in an instant. The first lot, the tapestries, was
utterly dizzying to Ben, and he barely had time to recover from the shouting, the endless
requests and demands and offers both audible and inside his own mind, before the lot
had ended at an impossible price: seven million. AG jabbed him in the ribs "come on,"
she hissed. "Focus. Speak up." Ben shook the fuzz from his head. He had to do this. It
was almost too much to revisit, relive the direct information-mind connection that had
caused him so much pain and damaged so much of World, not to mention Dr. Zhu, the
martyr. He struggled to concentrate on what was directly in front of him. Not on the
abstracts. And as he did so, the overwhelming torrent of data narrowed into a subtle
stream, a workable intermittent flow of usable information. He realised the subtle tells,
which purchase intentions were true and which were false, the interplay of emotions
between the ancient, bitter rivals.
And he acted accordingly. As the people bayed for blood and conquest, he won first
one lot, then another - a portion of World's massive Zinc surplus and a contract for
twenty hours of work from Aesthetics. Jack dutifully began putting out rumours of
World having sold all of its Zinc on one alias while simultaneously spreading news of
World's formidable aesthetics reputation. When deals were set up, he channeled the
promised credit directly back into the auction account which rose to twenty, then thirty,
then thirty-five million. After two hours, the auctioneers agreed on a break. Allowed to
consider its own condition for the first time in hours, Ben's body started shaking from
the strain of dealership, but his mind was still utterly plugged into the system. AG made
him sit down, gave him water, then took over the controls. She began to scan through
the participants. They were mostly old-money industrialists, it seemed, reluctant to
trade in the more abstract concepts on offer. However, news would surely be reaching
them of the tidy markups that the lots had already been sold on for, and they would look
to jump on the trend, if such a trend it was.
A siren signalled the impending restart of the bidding, and Ben staggered to his
feet. "...how much more?"
"Our lot is next, hopefully we've got enough. But look at that." AG hinted through
the window.
Outside, in the other booths, traders were starting to look towards their booth very
suspiciously. Pointing, and questioning. Through his headset, Ben could feel the probes
of other people, traders and crowd - who was he? What was he really here to trade? The
speculation buzzed round his head like locusts.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen," the announcer boomed through the speakers,
"The first great lot of the night. The first lot of its kind to come through Broadhaven in
two years." A soft ooh came up from the stands. "Two hundred people, straight from the
depths of space on World! A full company in a box! From menial slaves" - Ben flushed at
this description of his former life - "to some of the best geniuses world has to offer, in
one amazing auction! The starting valuation is five million credits!" The mere mention
of such a large amount of money whipped the people up into a cheer.
The lot was on.

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Chapter Twenty - Interlude

In a small, golden booth, on the floor of the Exchange, an angry old man was
cursing his luck for the fourth time that day. An honest exploiter of men for years, he
had found the industry run away with him as commodities and abstractions were traded
that he simply didn't understand, that, no matter how often his actuaries told, he could
not begin to fathom purchasing. The new world was running away with him. He cursed
the youths in the box opposite.
Across the circle, the three unaccountably wealthy chancers prepared, seeded
stories, and tried to hold themselves together. A young man at a terminal tried one last
time to assure himself of the ethical credentials of a purchaser, but could not, and
reluctantly pressed send. Somewhere in a docking bay, tonnes of Zinc were tagged with
a new owner code and new destination. Possibly a factory. Possibly an arms dealer.
Impossible to tell.
Below, in the dark service tunnels of the Exchange, now deserted by those who had
gone to watch the auctions, a young man and a rakish shadow crept steadily on, as they
had done every inch since they had left a lonely docking port, twelve hours before.
Above, in the darkened box, a wise and learned man clutched at his robes as he watched.
He turned to The Hammer and give him a jovial salute. Then he turned to the corner
and said, as loud as he dared: "forgive me, grandfather."
Higher still, in the roof of the Exchange, a desperate young woman with blue hair
tied in a dark wrap fixed a scope to a high-powered bolt rifle. She checked the focus one
more time, fitted a silencing barrel of her own making, and began to sweep across the
upper boxes until she'd found the one she wanted. She smiled: "bonne nuit, mes amis."
Beyond even that, in the dark husk of World, people began to stir, and mutter. Angry
and confused citizens gathered together, tried to find some kind of news source they
could trust, met and talked and questioned, and began to advance towards the bridge.
And just behind the bridge, in a darkened dome lit only by the occasional
intermittent and pathetic spark, surrounded by hissing, coiling cables, a one-eyed man,
burnt beyond recognition, began to feel his way back to the bosom of his lover.

* * *

"Begin," said the voice. Ben stretched out his mind, feeling his way through the
collection of people for sale. There they were, both Grant and Rachel - and more. Robert
was there, and even-

93
 "Who can you see? Who's in there?" asked Jack.
"Just... just people," said Ben. "Grant, and Rachel, and about two hundred more.
We can get them out." And with that, he began making cautious offers; c7.5m plus some
resource for the lot, just a bit of speculation, not that interested. In his mind that was
immediately pushed back, with force, by an angry counterbid from across the room.
There were a lot of people it could have come from - in fact, that bid was being
countered from all sides. Voices were shouting from all around:
"Ten million!"
"Twelve million!"
"Fifteen!"
"Thirty." It was the fedora'd woman. Her voice betrayed no hint of emotion as she
laid this particular card on the table. The crowd gasped. She stared straight into Ben's
eyes, as if she knew what this meant to him. Her look - was he daring him to continue
this, fight, or imploring him to stop. With a quivering voice, Ben replied.
"Thirty five million." AG clenched her fists.
There was a deathly silence across the chamber. Traders were turning to their
actuaries and advisors, who were shaking their heads in anguish. One by one, many
indicated they were leaving the bidding. But there was one man, an angry old man who
had seemed most frustrated through the preliminary auctions, who looked like he wasn't
about to lie down. His eyes bulged, his face reddened. His advisor went to place a hand
on his shoulder; he swatted him away. He looked up and opened his mouth-
"ONE HUNDRED MILLION CREDITS," a booming voice intoned in every head on
the trading floor, sending them reeling to the ground. It echoed and reverberated
around the inside of Ben's skull, ringing his ears, blurring his vision out of focus. All the
traders looked around the room, uncertain as to who had spoke. After a few seconds, the
announcer's voice crackled into life. "Er... it looks as though we have a telephone bid
here, folks! We're just going to have to-"
"What the hell's happened?" Jack spoke. "The nets have gone crazy. There's about
ten different plausible theories as to who it might be, but nobody knows how. Ben!
Ben..?"
But Ben wasn't listening. He was desperately stretching out his mind towards the
voice with the primitive equipment he had, trying to find its source. He recognised it, he
was sure. It had boomed at everyone out of the blue, of course, but something about it
was, to him, a voice of reassurance, a voice that he felt might have explained everything
to him, a long, long time ago. He closed his eyes, tightly.
"...Doctor Zhu?"
After some seconds, there was an answer. "In a manner of speaking, certainly."
"How?"
"That's a little hard to explain. But for your purposes, suffice to it say that a) we failed in
our attempt to destroy the Oracle, and b) I am actually rather glad of that. But you might
wish to depart this area, Ben. Grave things are afoot."
"What?"
"Something is about to go very wrong, as they say."
Then, from the rafters: Bang. An immense shattering of darkened glass, shards
cascading into the arena below, slicing through those spectators unwise enough to lean
over the edge, striking and bouncing off of the floor with an almost magical tinkle. A
gasp from the audience in the upper tier.

94
 Venture de Saboulin, assassin extraordinaire, moved quickly to find a new vantage
point. She estimated she had one more shot before she was captured. 'Captured' being a
rather gentle term for what she'd face. She slid behind a column and fumbled for
another .50 cal bullet. "Merde," she muttered as she pulled the rifle up and swept across
the box again. The dead body of The Hammer was surrounded by six armoured men
pointing, shouting, their training priming them for action and reaction in the moment of
crisis, but only leaving with impotent energy to act after the event. None of these men
were her quarry. Then she spotted the wizened old professor crouched in the corner.
Sobbing. Something had broken in this man, and it didn't look like it was the shooting
that had done it, truly. She rested her finger on the rifle's trigger with a perfectly
practised movement. But the man on the stairs, weeping, his face and robe spattered
with blood - he cut too pathetic a figure to kill.
And what of Professor K himself? He wiped his brow, slick with gore from the
incendiary bullet's flight through the head of his paymaster, and as he watched techs
and medics swarm across the dead body slumping back in the chair, face still twisted
into that rictus grin, he saw the economic world he'd come to understand fall apart
before his eyes. He saw the teachings of his father and grandfather, sacred teachings
about the purity of supply and demand, cast aside in favour of entertainment and gain.
Purest gain. Trading, Ranulph had said, was the unlocker of desires, and through that
the way to a man's heart. It might, if you searched, show you a faint, flickering way
towards what it meant to be human. But not like this. He silently cursed the assassin,
willing him to finish him too. This was not a place for one such as him. He looked down
over the balcony, through the shattered dark glass.
Below, traders were running, screaming. Some were making quick exits through
doors, running like animals towards whatever exit presented itself. Other
unceremoniously threw themselves beneath the barriers of their booths, waiting for
death, or pulled their actuaries and advisors in front of themselves, struggling to find a
way out. The clamour was deafening. And then, from the corner, strode a different
figure. A man, in a pinstripe suit, carrying the strangest device. K recognised this from
an old portrait of his great grandfather: an umbrella, they'd called it. It was from a time
when water would occasionally migrate to the sky and come down once again, in
droplets. Foolish, cyclical nonsense. And yet, somehow beautiful, like the strange,
beguiling beauty of the glass as it had rushed towards the floor.
But the man wasn't using the umbrella as intended; the girl in the rafters could see
enough to know that. She swivelled the rifle to get a better look through its scope. Time
slowed to treacle as the man slowly raised the umbrella to point it at a thin-faced boy in
one of the booths. The boy seemed to be talking to himself, but on seeing the umbrella
he stopped, and looked up.
"Who are you?" asked Ben.
"For this contract? Call me Veksner. Lovely to make your acquaintance, at last."
His finger reached for a small, red button on the handle. And then there was another
Bang, and his head exploded.
Venture de Saboulin, Broadhaven's foremost gun-for-hire would have preferred to
get her idol's autograph before she ventilated his head with a 50 cal, but it would still
make a good story in the bars. She re-applied the safety catch, slid the gun under her
arm, and rapelled down the outside of the Exchange. There had been something about
the young man, something worth saving, something that intrigued. If he made it out

95
alive, it would be good to talk to him.
As Veksner's knees buckled and he slithered to the ground, gore trickling from the
half-inch hole in his head, All the glib pronouncements, the pithy sayings, evaporated.
He said, "well, how could I have expected that?"
"I think," Jack said, "that we might need to get the fuck out of here." As they
struggled to stand up amidst the slithering glass, Ben caught sight of a familiar face. An
angry face, framed by the sparking electrics of shattered machinery. The face spoke.
"You," said Alex, "have quite a lot to answer for." And from his pocket he produced
a very big, very cruel-looking gun.
Without a word, the three turned and fled towards the door, any door, skittering on
bloody blackened glass, as gunfire rang out behind them with angry shouts: "Wrecker!
Anarchist! I'll bring you to justice for Professor Kotecha!"
"He's dead!" Jack managed to shout, before they bolted behind a door. There was a
familiar female voice: "Oh my god!" said Elle E. "Fancy seeing you here, eh? I am getting
good with the scoops."
They grabbed her as they ran past. "How about 'crazed gunman murders four in
Exchange? You might get time to file that before your head's blown off." Further
gunshots echoing down the corridor confirmed this threat. They ran along the metal
passage encircling the arena, surrounded by screaming. Panicking spectators were
everywhere, cascading down stairs and down corridors, over and under each other like
shoals of fish, mouths open, flapping, trying to coordinate but only failing, falling. The
sense of animal excitement, shepherded and built up by the pomp of the arena, was
being released in uncontrolled spasms amongst the populace. Some of the more zealous
fans, those that had brought guns, started firing them to clear a path, but this only
whipped the stampede up into a frenzy, a trampling, swirling commotion of feet.
Elle grabbed Jack, pulled him down a side maintenance shaft and the others
followed. Inside was pure blackness. They slid and slithered along the metal, unearthly
screams echoing and magnifying behind them. In the perfect dark of the shaft, Ben saw
a vision of his life as fugitive: the three of them running from place to place, hiding and
hurting, caught up forever in someone else's fight. Professor Kotecha had had his
beliefs, Zhu had his, Elle and the rest of Channel Q had theirs. Jack seemed driven by
his, while AG seemed driven by her complete lack of beliefs. He felt swept along in a
narrative arc of others' making, an arc that didn't make sense and couldn't end well.
There would be flashes of orange light in the tunnel as explosions went off far behind
them. Great rumblings and the creaking of metal chased them down the tunnel. Finally,
they reached an enormous iron grate, and charged at it with all their might.
They burst out into the light, squinting: all around them, the bursting of flashes on
cameras, both surveillance and tourist, sent them stumbling through the crowd and into
the street beyond. And something strange must have happened to Ben because, when
the confusion cleared and he looked up, Elle, Jack, and AG were gone. He stumbled on,
bleeding from glass, blinded by the phosphate glow, down streets that grew darker. The
lights of the pleasure and commerce district faded away, still he heard the shouts of Alex
behind him. When he couldn't run any more, when the pain in his legs grew too strong
and they started to buckle and twist, he staggered to a stop, in the strangest place.

96
Chapter Twenty-One - The Strangest Place

It was a garden. Ben had seen very few gardens in his life, and he still had difficulty
explaining to himself what they were for. But on a deeper level, a level he somehow
knew went back to different days with his mother and father, it felt right to exist in this
place. He walked on, past ponds and trees and fences, to a bench which he promptly
collapsed on.
In his fevered dream, Dr. Zhu was speaking to him. They stood on top of a huge
glacier, under a burning sun, as Ben began. "Zhu... where are we? What is this place?"
"Well, I'm no expert but - ah, who am I kidding, I am an expert, and a leading one
at that. You have found yourself at some kind of meeting point, some kind of confluence
of many subconscious desires. And, you appear to have transplanted me into this world.
I am of course flattered, I can tell you, but it leaves me wondering what you want
from me, I think. Or rather, you are making me wonder what you want from me, which
suggests to me, paradoxically that-"
"I want an explanation," said Ben, over the howling winds, "of what's going on
here. What I'm supposed to do." He kicked a snow drift.
"My boy, I can only tell you what you already know. That's the nature of this
construct. But it's always good to ask, after all. Come with me." They began to walk
along the ridgeline of the mountain. To Ben's left, the sun beat down an angry yellow. To
the right, tiny streams of numbers and symbols seemed to flap and fly away from them
like flocks of birds, migrating to a better, simpler place. Kejia began to talk. "Where shall
we begin?"
"It was you, wasn't it? At the Exchange."
"If you say so, then so it was. And the only logical explanation for this is that some
part of me has survived the destruction of the Oracle, yes? That is indeed possible. But if
so I would have no agency, yes? The question you are now asking yourself is, 'how was
he able to make the bid?'
"Yes. How did it happen?"
They passed between a narrow regiment of pine trees, the like of which Ben had
only seen in books. "How do you think it happened, Ben?" And at this he reached into
the tree, took down a crude, fragile-looking bird's nest, and gave a knowing look.
"The Oracle... hasn't been destroyed, has it? Or it was in total, but you're still in
there, in parts of it."
"I have reassembled the components of it, around my own consciousness. As you
were leaving, it seems I was immolated, in a way. My mind fused with what was left of

97
the machine, and we became one. Which is, as you have suspected, what I always
wanted." He twirled the bird's nest on one finger. "A fragile creation, to be sure, but one
of integrity, of wholeness. A perfect O. You see in this, in me, Ben, how something of
value can be created out of the remnants, the discards, of another?"
"It makes sense, yeah. So why get involved in the auction?"
"To destroy it. Ben, you don't believe in it. You believe in this." He indicated the
tundra, the whiteness and the infinite rockiness, with a sweep of his arm. "You don't
truly think, like all the others, that life is a process of packaging up thoughts, and
feelings, and abstract concepts into discrete commodities. For what? Just to make
cymbals, to clang together in some kind of commercial orchestra of meaning? Well, I
think that it's a load of old bollocks, my friend. Now shut up." The Zhu figure flickered
and crackled. "Hmm, it seems as though you may just be waking up. We haven't got a lot
of time. Any significant questions, I'd advise you to ask them now."
"Doctor, what do I do now? I have no idea where the prisoners are, how to get
them, how to get them somewhere safe. I've been separated from AG, from Jack. I don't
know if Hugh and Dorothy are still alive. And what about you? I can't leave you up there,
drifting in space. And then there's Alex. What happens if he finds me?"
Zhu sat down on a snowdrift, flickered again. "Come, sit. It's surprisingly warm.
You don't want it to be cold, after all." Ben came and sat next to the phantom doctor.
"Now, there's one thing I want to point out first, and that is: these aren't the kind of
questions you were asking a couple of months ago, are they? Big questions, planning,
considering both what's immediately in front of you and what's at arm's length.
Remember your time before, in the holds? I don't, but your version of me does. And I
remember that you were, to certain extents, content. You're going to have a face a lot of
difficult decisions, Ben. But don't worry, you can navigate though it. You and Jack and
AG will find a way. The prisoners have been bought by me so that they can be delivered
to you. I imagine that The Oracle buying its own merchandise back for one hundred
million will finally put paid to this terrible system. There is nothing you can do about
Hugh and Dorothy. One of the things you will come to learn, very slowly indeed it
seems, is the difference between what you can change and what you can't. You were
given too much responsibility too quickly, and if things work out the way they should,
you'll find those responsibilities diminish and focus. You'll work out the difference
between what you can do and what you can't. And the things you can do, you'll learn to
do very, very well. "
"And what about you, up in space?"
"World is finished. Or at least, finished in its current form. It will have to become
something else entirely to continue to exist - if even it should. Perhaps it is my lot to be
the computerised oligarch of that floating hulk. Perhaps as the benevolent ruler of the
ark? Perhaps I'll be overthrown? Perhaps everyone will desert me, and I'll plough into
the nearest sun. None of these things are any concern of yours. You will know what you
need to do with those two hundred, I think." Zhu started walking out across the ridge.
All around, the snow was melting, exposing digital grass. The sun beat stronger and
stronger, beginning to blind Ben with its intensity. "And Alex? What do I do about him?
He wants to kill me."
Zhu had his back turned to Ben, but Ben could tell he was smiling. "Now Ben, I
can't tell you everything. Especially the things I don't know. All I know is, you and he
were not meant to be enemies."

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 The scene was whiting out now as Zhu started to disappear over the ridge. Ben
cried out after him: "what if I want to stay here?".
Zhu laughed. "Don't be silly, Ben! We can't hold on to our dreams forever."

* * *

Ben saw two significant things as he came to. The main thing he saw was the barrel
of a cruel gun. The second thing he saw was a gloved finger on the trigger, and as he
scanned upwards, he realised that the finger belonged to Alex.
Alex smiled. "Let's play a game. I call it, Murder in the Park."
"It's finished, Alex. Why kill me? The Exchanges have been destroyed. Who's going
to reward you?"
"I don't need a reward, chum. I just need to do what's right." The barrel shook.
Ben sat up, slowly. "And what, exactly, is that? Selling people, what for? All that
Exchange stuff, doesn't mean anything outside those buildings. The problem is when
you spend too long inside them, and that becomes the only thing that matters. We don't
have to win all the time, mate. Sometimes, I think it might be enough just to live." And
from his pocket, quite without thinking, Ben produced a set of dominoes.
"Tell you what," he said, "we will play for it. I got given these when I was a boy. I'm
pretty rusty, but it's just a game of logic. We'll play a game. If you win, you get to turn
me in - I don't know where you could turn me in and for what, but you can try. If I win,
you have to hear us out. Okay?"
Alex faltered, but a desire to win against his old partner and rival flickered across
his face. "Fine," he said. "This shouldn't take long, after all."
They walked along the path towards a cafe in the distance, ringed by polished steel
tables. "Okay," said Ben, "it's actually really simple rules, so don't worry." He shook the
pieces out of the box, and they played.
And they played for some time. It took them both a little while to fully grasp the
rules, but as they did so, turns took longer and longer as they began to think. Alex
screwed up his brow and looked over his pieces. "This game is stupid," he said, but he
still grinned as he laid a double five. Ben smiled: "sure it is, Alex. Maybe you just need to
stretch out your mind a little more, though," and the five-two he put down punctuated
his point.
Eventually, Ben won but without thinking Alex said, sharp and low, "again." Ben
smiled and reshuffled the pieces. They spread them out, and began to play once more.
It went on like that for at least two hours: the men became boys, deprived of play, forced
to play out their competition on stages too big for them, that hurt too many people.
There was something about the simple click of wooden pieces together, the sense of
solidity but also of humbleness - when two pieces touched, it was not the idea of a
factory being sold or hundreds deprived of their lives and liberty. It was the tiniest
arbitrary rules and affordances: one wooden nothing touching another, a superior move,
a cunning trick, the tiny power balance between two insignificants. Chai tea was refilled,
just like before, and just like before, Alex began to explain.
"It was too much, back there. My parents, everything, everyone pushing me to be a
Trader. The most noble profession there was on World, you know? And you know what
it was like, don't you. You remember the amazing feeling of being told you could become
a trader. It was that feeling that after all this time, struggling, pushing against

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something, that you are allowed to be what you think you could do best." He sipped his
tea. Around, people had stopped drinking and chatting. One by one, they'd slowly
turned round to watch the conversation between the two strangely costumed characters.
Alex sipped once more, and continued.
"And I remember seeing your face when you walked in, on the monitors, too. I
remember the delight and the joy and the wonder. You had that expression all of us
have, that face that's a mixture of what the hell happened here? and damn, I've made it.
Like everything, from this point on, is going to be a great adventure. Everything's going
to be alright and you're going to be valued." A woman with a pushchair slowed as she
passed the scene, hushed her baby to be quiet.
"You don't know what it was like when you left, Ben. Those two weeks were like a
country at war. Everyone shouting for your head, trying to find you. Anyone who was
suspected as a co-conspirator was dragged up before the council, denounced as a traitor,
and 'tested'." He rolled up his sleeve. His arm was covered with welts and scars. "The
Exchange was a place of rage. They were going to work everything out, to resolve
everything in the trades with Broadhaven, you knew that. When you wrecked
everything, that anger had nowhere to go."
He cast his eyes down. "I was there with you, of course. In the Oracle. And I was
your mentor, so some people never stopped believing I had something to do with it.
They cast me out of the exchange. And when the Exchange couldn't keep it quiet any
more, the anger spread through the ship. All sorts of people went on strike - why should
they do their job, when the traders couldn't do theirs? And there were mobs, looting.
The authorities tried to keep it down, but what can you do? It's such a fragile system,
Ben. When it even looked like it could fall apart, there was panic. Vigilantes started
coming after me... after Mum and Dad." He placed his blank tile against Ben's five, and
sighed.
"That's when I told them everything I could think of. That you were mad, a traitor
to World, an anarchist. I'd tried to stop you but I knew all along that you were
dangerous. That you'd talked of killing Dr. Zhu..." there were, he was sure, tears forming
in Alex's eyes. "I told them I would stop at nothing to find you, to bring you to justice.
Said that I'd bring back your head on a stick. How much would they trade for that?".
Ben slid another domino across the table and slotted it into place. "I know it, Alex. And I
didn't ask for things to turn out the way they did. I didn't think it would be like this, all
anger and deception and winning at any cost. I think, somehow, that the thing we're
both looking for is out there, somewhere, but it's not here. Do you want to come find it
with us?"
Around them, the park flickered in and out. For just the briefest period in time
they were two friends, old rivals, sipping coffee and discussing the world's problems, or
their problems which they'd blown up to be of massive importance. For that second, in
that bubble, pidgeons waddled between their feet. Breezes curled between the
dominoes. A bright sun lingered sentinel in a cloudless spring sky. Then, just as
suddenly, it was gone.
Alex held a hand over the gun, then picked up a domino. "we could try that. I'm
tired, Ben. So tired, mate."
"Well it's not quite over yet. We have a few more things to do - but I've got a plan."
They stood up, and began to walk across the metal deckplates towards the district.
Towards the twisting high-rise that housed Channel Q.

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* * *

"So what you're saying to me is, you lost him. Can I get a quote of that?" Elle E's
voice was a balance between chirpy reporter on Broadhaven's Rockinest News Source,
and flabbergasted, exasperated party member.
"We all lost him, okay? That's what I'm saying to you. And we were observed at the
scene of a major terrorist action, having appeared out of nowhere and amassed fifteen
million usable of pure profit, in two hours. Basically," sighed Jack, "it's going to look a
bit odd."
"So what do we do now?" asked Jeremy. He had a habit of throwing provocative
questions into any discussion, even those he wasn't connected with - but took pleasure
in recording the results for future use.
AG ignored him. "I'm leaving, I'm taking my third, and finding some new
opportunities elsewhere. As much fun as it has been, in constant fear for my life over a
cause I don't entirely believe in, I think I might start again somewhere else. One could
acquire a reasonable ship for twelve million, I think."
"No," said Jack, "let's all go. Let's see if we can't find something interesting
together. Us, and the two hundred from World, if we can get to them."
"That shouldn't be a problem," said Alex. A host of rifles turned to point at him.
"So, come for the Anarchist, have you?" said Jack.
"Not exactly," he said. And Ben stepped through the doorway. "He's with us now,
guys. I've got an idea how we can get out of this mess. His eyes rolled back. "Yes. Yes,
good." He looked ahead again. "Zhu's alive. It's hard to explain, but he's the one who bid
for the prisoners. Right now, they're being transported to Reserve Dock D. Between us,
thirty five million is more than enough to buy passage a reasonable ship and take
whoever wants to come with us. Are you in?"
Jeremy took a long drag of his cigar. "Oh, I see. Come to Broadhaven, have some
and make some money, then jump ship after the trouble the starts. You're really no
better than they are, aren't you? What about Channel Q?"
"It's not a question of who's better, or who's worse. It's not about right and wrong,
any more. I don't about you guys but I'm sick of fighting fights. Alex and I, we have an
idea. Let's get out of here and see if we can make a life based on we can do, not just on
what we can buy and sell. You wanna try?"
Jack brightened at this. "I can build things. I can make things. I know how to help
people, if that's what we'd need to do to survive. And the rest of the two hundred do,
too."
Elle came up. "Can I come too? I mean, this might make a good story..." Jeremy
looked harshly at her for a second, but nodded.
Jack was already punching in the codes on the public nets to request passage on
any ship going towards a colony for themselves and others. "There's a farming liner
heading towards Sirius in six hours. How about that?"
"Anywhere," said Ben. "AG, how about you? We owe you a lot. Won't you come?"
She smiled wearily. "You boys will be fine without me for a while, I think. I have a
life to create, too. Didn't you say something about working out what you can do for
people? Well," she turned to Jeremy, "Chapter Thirteen's hacking capabilities could do
with some leadership." He smiled.

101
 "Alex, are you sure you want to do this?" asked Ben. "We can't really turn back on
it."
"Well," he said, "what have I got left to go back to, exactly? World is falling apart.
Maybe it could never have lasted, I don't know."
They left Channel Q in three separate cars, heading in three opposite directions,
with instructions to rendezvous at Reserve Dock D. Another three decoys were sent at
the same time in other directions, the better to confuse the Broadhaven Port Authority.
Fearfully, Ben crouched down in his car as low as he could, what little he dared see
from the window was frightening enough: all around, authority police were overturning
stalls, capturing people, hunting through stalls and bars for contraband. There were
roadblocks everywhere, and these roadblocks were staffed by men and machines, strips
of spikes, barriers, and anger. Ben peeped his head up, then ducked down quickly as a
moustachioed cop glared his way. "Drive!" he hissed, "slowly." The car inched its way
towards the roadblock and, to Ben's absolute horror, slowed to a stop at the cop's signal.
What else could they do? He walked up and rapped on the window. Slow as melting ice,
Ben wound the window down. "Good afternoon, officer. Everything alright?"
"It's Constable, actually. Constable Ross Moody, at your service. Checking out all
vehicles since the incident at the Exchange. You wouldn't happen to know anything
about that now, would you?"
Ben's heart turned to ice. His hands trembled. "No...nothing at all. Exchange? No,
I'm travelling to Dock D to pick up a shipment."
"Ah, Dock D! Beautiful dock. So you must be Benjamin Amundsen-Hughes.
They're all expecting you. Bay Thirteen, I believe it is." And in his eye there was an
almost imperceptible glint as he waved the car through
"Good luck, sir."

102
Chapter Twenty-Two - A Final Deal

Lauren had been idly flicking through her copy of Broadhaven Today - everything
but the Business section anyway, little better than a gossip column - when she looked up
and saw a growing sense of ceremony over Reserve Dock D. She had let World's
freighter in on schedule, the supertransporter Strange Cargo, and that had docked
without incident. The passengers had shuffled off - lonely and wretched-looking, as
passengers sometimes seemed to be these days - and waited in huddles on the floor.
Then first one, then another, then a third sleek black car had pulled into the bay.
The passengers had got out, and she was almost certain that they were the shiny-robed
passengers from before, plus the angry-haired male she'd also seen dock. They stepped
from the cars, and suddenly, quite suddenly, there was this palpable pulse of electricity
in the air. Lauren knew she was seeing something Big happening.
Ben stepped out of the car. He stepped toward the big ship. He stepped towards the
people and stopped, faltered, staggered to the ground.
"They... they told me you were dead." It was all he could say.
A man and a woman stepped forward from the crowd, in filthy worksuits. Tears were
streaming from their eyes. Jack opened his mouth to say something, but there was just
nothing to say. The man and the woman bent down. And just like that, like one of the
dreams he'd had every night since he left his quarters, Ben's Mother and Father knelt
down and embraced him.
"But you were killed! The explosion... when they sent me down to work in the
hull..."
His dad shook his head. "No, Ben. I'd found out too much about the trading. All
those things I told you about Traders being part of a noble tradition? It was, I swear it.
We'd always, always had the best interests of World at heart, in my day. But as I got
higher and higher up the ranks, they started letting me into different meetings.
Whispered discussions. We used to just talk about managing survival and the essential
resources of World... but these people, and that damned Kotecha" - he shook at the
memory - "they started using words like profit and loss, and forecast, and they begun to
speculate and theorise. They started to theorise the value of a human life - speculating
what it meant and what it was worth, to me. And I know what broke me."

* * *

A dusty, rusted boardroom in the corridors of World. Behind a marble desk, a

103
younger Professor K sits, smiling and wreathed in smoke. He does not see smoking as
necessarily a bad investment - through being seen to smoke he can propogate its status
as a luxury commodity, and so increase the value of his own supply. Buoyed up by his
own recent conquests, the buying merging of his rivals on-ship, he is in one of his more
philosophical moods.
"Tell me, Mr. Hitbrush," he coos soothingly, "what is the value of your wife?"
"What? What are you talking about?" A jovial answering tone, but tinged with
edge.
"Come, Jules, I'm only speculating. Playing a little mental experiment, as it were. If
you were to place a monetary value on your darling wife, how much would it be?"
"Kotecha, I'm not playing this game with you. Stop."
"Fair enough. Gentlemen," the Professor cast his eyes round the table, smiling.
"How much would you bid for the commodity that is Julian Hitbrush's lovely wife?
Let's start the bidding at, say, ten thousand."

* * *

"I couldn't take it, Ben. So when I found out what they were intending to do when
we reached Broadhaven, well, I had to tell someone. But before I could fully research the
story, they got to me and threw me in with the deal."
"But not before he'd told me," said a langurous voice from the back of the crowd.
Still clad in a rather tattier version of his coattails, Duprey emerged. "Your father
warned me that something was up - and while I don't have the power to investigate the
Exchange, never have, I am able to recommend certain people to join the various Talent
schools. And who better to recommend than you, Ben? Someone curious, dissatisfied.."
Ben's Dad interrupted. "Now Ben, you have to understand. I didn't want you to be any
part of this. I didn't think Duprey would send you in. But you've done well. You resisted,
and survived-"
Ben broke. "Survived? Look at me!"
And for the first time in days, Jack and AG looked closely at Ben's face. It was
changed. The scar hole between his eyes seemed to have healed itself but had darkened,
and dark lines that seemed no more than wrinkles on a cursory inspection went far deep
and darker than wrinkles should, and began to weave their way back across Ben's brow,
to the temples. They had subtly wreathed themselves around his eyes. And his eyes
themselves - they were wary, searching, anxious. They darted back and forth, but their
feverish activity hid a great watery tiredness that you could see if you looked, really
looked into the milkiness around. AG could not help a small gasp.
"It's broken me, dad. I think this was meant for something else. Some kind of hero
was supposed to take this on, to defeat it and bring down a system, to build a new
civilisation and reap all the rewards. Not me. I'm just a guy who got pulled along by
bigger things."
Jules looked at him, shook his head. "Oh, son. Don't you get it? There aren't any
heroes. Everyone gets swept up by events, big or small, that they don't control. And a
hero never comes along. It's just us. And we have to do the best we can, at that point, in
that moment. And it's confusing, and angry and scary, and full of betrayal and things

104
that don't make sense. But nobody ever writes that story, do they? You're right, you're
not a hero." He smiled. "Nobody is. We're just us, and we do the best we can, whatever
the situation requires of us. You certainly did that."
AG was speechless. She could only set about trying to organise the two hundred
people into vague groups; those that wanted to come with them and those that would
take their chances in Broadhaven. Robert and Rachel were both in the group that
wanted to move on - in fact, everyone under thirty was desperate to board the farming
liner. A disparate party of people that, regardless of background, of experience, knew
that life for them was richer than one ecosystem, one pursuit of one goal, one mindset. A
set of people that knew that their fulfilment was in their own hands, somewhere beyond
the stars.
As newly freed slaves cheered and hugged each other, as Robert ran up to shake
Jack's hand, Ben felt oddly distant from events. He had helped save these people,
perhaps he and his friends had saved themselves - but from what? And what for?
A faint voice crackled in Ben's mind. "Ben..."
"Dr. Zhu?"
"I... won't make you sign for this particular delivery. Just make sure you guide
them safely."
"Me?"
"Ben, you've seen the hardest edges of desire on this journey. You've seen it corrupt
other people. You've felt it corrupt yourself. You know what your friends have come
within inches of doing, all through their greed. You and your family have suffered the
worst effects of our system... of what I did, to you."
"What you did?"
"Ben, I was the one who interfered with your injection, back at the Exchange. It
had to be you who experienced that connection to the Oracle like no other. You were
already hurt by it, already wanting to find out more. I had to damage you just a little bit
more, to push you over the edge. You had to feel, in the closest possible way, what kind
of violent desire was guiding World and Broadhaven. And that's why you're are the only
person who can stop history repeating."
"But, Dr. Zhu... all these people were enslaved. They'd never do that anyone else,
right?" Ben looked out across the hugging, cheering, dispossessed victims of World's
trading system. They were so happy. The voice crackled through again, weaker this time.
"Ben. Do not forget how you were beguiled by the Oracle, how deeply you wanted to find
out its secrets. When you used it to probe the ship, I used it to probe you. I could see
that same material lust develop in you. When we think we're part of a group, when we
think we're not solely responsible - that's when our actions start to change, when we do
things in ourselves we would deplore in others. I did it, in creating the Oracle, indulging
a fantasy. A fantasy that must now come to an end."
"What do you mean?"
"The people of World have all been evacuated to Broadhaven. With the death of
The Hammer, and the destabilisation of the markets, perhaps they can turn Broadhaven
into what Chapter Thirteen want it to be, for good or ill. But there is only one way to
destroy the Oracle and its technology for good."
There was a grinding, belching, screaming noise, and the crowd looked up to see its
source. In the starlight space high above, beyond the glass dome, the great fist of World
began to turn, slowly, slowly, and gently accelerate away from Broadhaven.

105
 "Prometheus, the largest star in the system. A fitting grave for this atrocity."
Ben wanted to say something, to implore Zhu to stop, to think, to try and use the
marvelous, miraculous technology of the Oracle for good in some way. But in his heart,
he knew it was impossible. And Zhu's last wish, if he had one, would be for an
unimpeded redemption. So Ben swallowed his words of warning, of caution, and said
instead:
"Thank you, Doctor."
Jack ran up: "Ben, what's going on? Where's World going?"
Ben looked back: "I think it's moving on. I guess it got what it needed."
Around them, crates and palates of supplies were being loaded on the farming
liner. Onto what would be their new home for a couple of months, at least. The new
refugees sat in small circles on the deckplate, discussing ideas, plans for the future,
comparing skills. So many had been held in caste for a long time. There were cleaners,
maintenance workers who felt they had ideas to offer, just as much as there were
beleaguered so-called "Talents" who longed for the freedom and honesty of real work
with corporeal results. Of course, many were happy to keep their old roles, in a new
world. Robert was eager expostulating to a group of any who would listen:
"The new history of World, Two! Imagine! All those old tomes about Earth, so
passionate, so polemical! Full of opinions and ideas. And then what? When people scan
back through the history of World, what will they see? Nothing but dry facts and figures,
outputs and stock tables. Nothing to learn, no lessons of history. Except the greatest
lesson of all - a civilisation's destruction by its own greed. This is the lesson we must
carry with us, into New History! A history of lessons, of analysis and understanding. It
will take brave people to take those positions and lead the charge, but it can be done. I
am willing to volunteer. Who else?"
"Hey, I could give that a go." It was Grant. Ben couldn't guess what had happened
to him in the months since he last saw him, but whatever it was it had subsided beneath
that easy expression once more. Grant, the model of contentment. Was the future a
society of Grants? Ben couldn't help but think that wouldn't be a bad one.
AG tapped him on the shoulder. "Mon frere. I have decided to stay on Broadhaven.
Your new society sounds fine, but for me, I suspect another form of prison. When you
knocked on my door, I was ready to dismiss the whining of youngsters. But my last
weeks, with you two, have awakened something old and buried within me. I have found
a new layers of urges, of aliveness. Maybe it's something to do with the danger. But for
that, I thank you."
"And thank you, AG. You saved us - and whatever life you make here, it'll be right
for you. What are you going to do?"
"Oh, I don't know. But there are many opportunities for someone resourceful.
There is even many a fortune to be made here, though I don't much care for it. But if
things go well, I am sure you will hear of me under some guise or other, soon." She
turned, and walked towards the waiting car. Ben called after her.
"Wait! What does AG mean, anyway?"
AG smiled as she sat in the car. "Aah. C'est mystérieuse, non?" And she was gone.
Ben looked after her as the car pulled away. She'd been interesting.
He turned to his parents. "Dad, you were a Trader, too. What are you going to do?"
He smiled. "Your mother and I were other things before we traded. Parents, for
example. There's plenty of things we could do. And the same goes for you, too. I only

106
hope you can forgive me for dragging you down my path. You, you and Jack, can do
anything you want. Whatever you do, you'll be a great help to all of us. We just want you
to be happy, Ben. Just be happy."
They turned and walked up the gangplank, towards their new society.

107
108
3

And Beyond

109
110
 Far away in the Twenty-Third Century of Earth, rich men had clamoured round
tables and dry, dark rooms and sweated, discussed argued with each other. They had
battled pragmatism with purest desire and greed, and greed had won. From that greed,
things were born.
The things were many. Some glistened on mountain-tops, projecting wealth across
the land. Some were built as objects of pain and cruelty, things meant to destroy other
things. Some were cunning and clever, they built and produced and spread the desire
across the nations. This made the men very happy, for a time.
Other things were larger, larger and longer in scope than any of the men, than all
of the men; they outlived them. For that, they were beautiful. It is in those things we
make that are bigger than us that we find out who we are.
Now: a louche man in a battered raincoat pores over a table of transcripts,
intercepted data, eyewitness reports. He sifts through countless pictures taken on
telephoto lens, or purloined from Broadhaven's security footage. He listens back,
intently, to audio captured on a lapel mic by an unwitting coral-haired girl. He motions
for sub-editors and researchers to begin compositing the masses of evidence, mixed the
right dose of speculation, into a narrative. He calls his favoured distributors, old friends,
old allies, to sell them Broadhaven's Biggest Scoop. Just another story.
Now: a giant ship, a city-sized ship, manufactured from the dreams of old
industrialists and running for a hundred years on a shared social fantasy, begins the
inexorable death-march towards a shining star. The star blazes as mightily as it ever has,
indifferent to the new material investment it is about to receive. The bulkheads of the
city-ship start to tear and fray as it gathers speed and the forces and heat of the star put
in under unprepared-for stresses. The supplies of art, the ceremonial drapes, the
technology within and the paint without chip and crack.
Now: within said ship, a single man with one eye sits meditatively within a dome.
His legs are crossed, hit palms together in silent prayer. His eyes are closed, he is in
silent commune. He waits for death, but he does not welcome it. He simply knows what
must happen. He does manage a smile however, at the new world he had helped, he
hopes, to precipitate. He breaks his last link with the outside. A beautiful white light
traces shapes, simple shapes undulating and spinning, across the ceiling of the dome.
He communes with the shapes, delights in nothing other than their simple symmetry,
their regular sides, their even movement. He takes a final sip of tea, as he sees the edges
of the dome begin to tear and disintegrate.

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Thank you, Oracle, he says. Thank you, and good bye.
Now: a lowly farming liner is loaded with the good a farming liner possesses and
nothing more: the subsistent materials of survival. Fuel, food, water. The small trinkets
connecting one with the creative spirit. And a brave new set of people who have seen the
hardest edges of desire, who have seen the commoditisation of everything, of
themselves, who have taken part in it and encouraged it as beneficiaries. These people
hold hands, laugh, but inside they are nervous, taking steps towards a great unknown,
perhaps the first unknown many of them have ever experienced.
Now: Five friends sit together in a cargo hold. Not all have met each other before,
but they do now. They do not have agendas, they do not seek greater fulfilment or gain
or social advancement. They seek only each other's company. They talk of old times.
They share stories, stories of innocence and wonder and discovery. They tell old jokes.
The friend, the dissident, the prodigy, the lover of knowledge, the vector. They sit in
their circle. They sit, and they play dominoes.
Now: in a board-room of deepest onyx, a withered old man clutching at his robes
sits at a table. He sits and he sweats. He sits and he worries and he relives a vision he
was shown long ago - a vision of great men falling by each other's hands, driven against
each other by greed, guided to death by bullets. He sees visions of all the enemies he has
accrued across the years, coming for him with knife and gun. Around him, younger men,
ruthless men, nervous inside of each other but all projecting impenetrable self-
confidence. One of the men pushes a document towards the old man, and on the
document sits a bone pen. "Of course, we understand your misgivings, Professor," the
younger man says, teeth flashing. "But you shouldn't think of it so much as a burden,
more an honour. A duty, even. Governorship of Broadhaven is the most illustrious office
this community can bestow. We implore you. Use your talents, your sound economic
guidance, and lead us to a new golden age. Become our Hammer, adopt our customs.
They are the vision you had for World, are they not? Grasp the reins of power."
The old man's right hand hovers over the bone pen. It shakes.
Now: In a dusty, dingy antiques shop in the Commercial district, a woman sweeps
her new stock. A little worn, perhaps, but the genuine article. These will fetch a pretty
penny, from the right person, she thinks. Maybe there are more to find where these
came from. If not, perhaps there's a design job in them. Find some unemployed street
urchins to make copies, sell them as the genuine article. Raw materials would be easy.
Plastic could be sources from the dump, melted down. Why stop there? People seemed
to want to linger in her shop, surely they could be worth something as they did so. A
little cafe, perhaps, with tea marked up on festival and big auction days. Hell, a chain of
cafes. Of restaurants. all themed around the strange events that had happened when
World came to trade. People would go mad for it They loved that sort of thing. And from
there, who knows?
A male voice called out of the interior. "Claire! What are you doing out there?"
"Oh nothing, she said," as she worked at her sales pitch. She shuffled a small piece
of card, and wrote a few words on it in cheap pen. Yes, perfect. Nice and punchy, but not
too salesy.
"Genuine Aesthetically Perfect World Chairs," the sign said. "For Sale."

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Brixton-Soho-Farnham Nov 2010

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Acknowledgements and Roll Of Heroes

For Sale was written within a single month, November, 2010, as a challenge (I wonder if
you could tell?). So initially, thanks go to Chris Baty and the NaNoWriMo crew
(www.nanowrimo.org - check them out and try it yourself) for organising the adventure.
And thanks to everyone else who I met while taking part – I hope you all left the process
at least as happy as I was about the whole thing.

To add some spice to the process, I asked for sponsorship money – specifically,
donations to the fantastic creative writing charity First Story. Thanks to them for
providing a sense of motivation when I was lacking it.

But prime thanks goes to those people who coughed up the cash. It was making the bet
with you, as well as your interest and encouragement, that turned what could have been
an arduous process into a game. It made it not only bearable, but even fun, at least 40%
of the time. I only hope that you are not too offended by your novel representations.
There’s a lot of artistic license in there, I promise.

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You are, in no particular order:

Allan Robinson Ravi Kotecha

Dan Chen Robert Wadman

Lucy Nebel Rachel Goodyer

Ross Berthinussen Kejia Zhu

Simon Veksner Alex Boyer

Aran Potkin Agathe Guerrier

Ellie Robinson Eve Coates and Bessie Gardiner

Lucy Nebel Jack Mitchell

Hugh and Dorothy Surgeoner Ben Wynne

Claire Byus

You are all absolutely awesome. Thanks.

-James

22nd December, 2010.

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