What’s that big fuck playing at? The next few days are the crucial ones; the only ones. We might need those ships now.

∞

It’s being cautious and protecting a pop of umpteen bill. When you carry around that sort of responsibility you can’t help but become ultra careful. Mostly these big ships pursue a no-risks-whatever policy; I’m mildly surprised it deigned to visit Gzilt at all given the recent excitements.

∞

That’s the trouble with ships that size; too big to risk, and also, therefore, to be effective. Terribly impressive, and if all the bios plonk down to Zyse and walk around they can surely make the place look busy for the first time in years, but so what? Couldn’t be more of a liability if it had hauled a train of Orbitals behind it and parked them in the local asteroid belt. Anyway, what does that leave us with? The Mistake Not … is about to hit Xown – again – and the Passing By …’s two Thugs are keeping remarkably quiet. Wasn’t one meant to be shadowing the Liseiden?

∞

Allegedly. Sending a private request for a public statement; we do kind of need a general update now the big-but-plugged gun has arrived … nope; the Passing By … wishes to remain reticent on the subject. Bet the new boy asks. Anyway, back to listening. Worshipful listening, as I don’t doubt it will be interpreted …

The reception was muted due to the recent death of the president, but was, nevertheless, still quite entirely splendid. The enormous central Receiving Hall of the parliament’s Upper Chamber had been trimmed everywhere in mourning red, the towering mirror panels reflecting a seeming infinitude of scarlet corridors leading in every horizontal direction.

“Place looks rather good like this,” Yegres said, nodding over his glass at the huge central scoop of red marking the covered chandelier cluster hanging from the centre of the space. “We should have lost presidents more often.”

“It’s a little late, though, isn’t it?” Banstegeyn replied.

“Everything is,” Yegres agreed. “Oh,” he said, catching sight of seven tall figures moving liquidly through the crowd on the main floor. “Oh well, here come the relations. I’d better leave you to your ceremonial solitariness.” He chucked back his drink, hitched up his long robes and stepped down from the dais.

The septame watched the arrow-shaped mass of avatars and their hangers-on move towards him, like something aimed. “Solitude,” he said, to himself rather than really to Yegres, who was too far away and submerged in the crowd of people behind. “Solitude, not solitariness.” Of course, he was careful not to move his lips, in case.

Banstegeyn greeted the seven tall, silver-skinned creatures with all the dignity and politeness he could muster. Solemnity, too, though really it was easy to be solemn; it was the dignity and politeness he was having problems with.