Some ‘transients’ had always proven to be rather longer-lived than others. It seemed that the Qax’s tampering with the genomes of their pharaohs had indeed been passed on to subsequent generations, if imperfectly, and that gene complex, a tendency for longevity, was gradually expressing itself. Indeed the Autarchs actively sought out breeding partners for themselves who came from families that showed such tendencies.

So, with time, the Autarchs and their offspring were ageing more slowly than their transient subjects.

It was just natural selection, argued Andres. People had always acquired power so that their genes could be favoured. Traditionally you would propagate your genes by doing your best to outbreed your subjects. But if you were an Autarch, in the confines of the Ship, what were you to do? There was obviously no room here for a swarm of princes, bastards or otherwise. Besides, the Elders’ genetic-health rules wouldn’t allow any such thing. So the Autarchs were seeking to dominate their populations with their own long lives, not numbers of offspring.

Andres seemed to find all this merely intellectually interesting, a working-out of genetic games theory. Rusel wondered what would happen if this went on.

He continued his random wandering. Everybody was busy, intent on their affairs. Some even seemed happy. But it all looked drab to Rusel, the villagers dressed in colourless Ship’s-issue clothing, their lives bounded by the polished-smooth bulkheads of the Ship. Even their language was dull, and becoming duller. The transients had no words for ‘horizon’ or ‘sky’ - but as if in compensation they had over forty words describing degrees of love.

He allowed his consciousness to return to his own body. When he surfaced, he found Andres watching him, as she so often did.

‘We need a new way to interface with the transients,’ she said again. ‘Some of the Autarchs are tough customers, Rusel. If they start to believe we’re weak - for instance, if we sleep for three days before delivering the answer to the simplest question—’

‘I understand. We can’t let the transients see us.’ He sighed, irritated. ‘But what else can we do? Delivering edicts through disembodied voices isn’t going to wash. If they don’t see us they will soon forget who we are.’ ‘Soon’, in the language of the Elders, meaning in another generation or two.

‘Right,’ she snapped. ‘So we have to repersonalise our authority. What do you think of this?’ She gestured feebly, and a Virtual coalesced in the air over her head.

It showed Rusel. Here he was as a young man, up to his elbows in nanofood banks, labouring to make the Ship sound for its long journey. Here he was as a young-ish Elder, bald as ice, administering advice to grateful transients. There were even images of him from the vanishingly remote days before the launch, images of him with a smiling Lora.

‘Where did you get this stuff?’