It doesn’t take long to arrive at the gates. The whole block used to be high-end stores, but now it is all a private residence. I didn’t know this before the SFPD told me in the brainload. The average civilian wouldn’t. Distribution of wealth isn’t as uneven as before the Great Upheaval. Most people make enough to live comfortably, poverty is erased in all but the worst of the Zealots, and though citizens can order vast amounts of goods from the replicator, all can be recycled back. There are still obscenely wealthy people in this city but they tend to keep a lower profile than, say, those in Hollywood, where status and ranking have more pull. Having far, far more money than you need is seen as wasteful.

Nazarin walks through the gates. I approach a minute later, projecting Tila’s invitation from my ocular implant onto a little wallscreen to the left. The door opens with a snick, and I walk in.

In front of us is the large, faux brick building, now made of bomb-proof, acid-proof material. We walk through to the second gate, a replica of the original Art Deco iron arched gate, topped by four rings of brick. Like many buildings, it was destroyed in the Great Quake and rebuilt to be larger than the previous plans. The original building was a store, and now it is a mansion.

Nazarin—no, Skel, he is Skel now—lingers enough that we almost walk into the darkened tunnel at the same time. He does not turn back or acknowledge me, but I’m thankful for his nearness.

I take a steadying breath. I am about to enter the same building as the Ratel King and Queen. It’s what I’ve prepared for. I am now, for all intents and purposes, my sister: a lucid dreamer for a Verve lounge for the biggest mob in the city. None of it seems real. I can’t really be doing this. Still, I place one foot in front of the other, moving closer to whatever is to come.

The tunnel fills with soft lights of green, blue, and purple, and a light fog drifts at waist height, scented with lilacs.

“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree,” I whisper.

Nazarin stiffens and almost turns back in confusion. I guess he’s never read Coleridge.

We enter, still staggered, and the droids take our coats. I shed that outer layer like a carapace, wearing only my silver, shining second skin. Nazarin passes over his gun. No weapons at parties. Nazarin’s eyes slide over me, but I ignore him, staring upward, unable to stop myself from gaping.