“And there Dizzy Csango’s push on the classic Down the Ecliptic, new light shed on an old theme, just in the manner Quellism illuminates those ancient iniquities of the economic order we have carried with us all the darkened way from the shores of Earth. Naturally, Dizzy was a confirmed Quellist all of his life, and as he many times said—”

Groans went up from the gathered deComs.

“Yeah, fucking methhead junkie all his life too,” yelled someone.

The propaganda DJ warbled on amidst the jeers. She’d been singing the same hardwired song for centuries. But the deCom complaints sounded comfortable, habit as well-worn as our protests had been at Watanabe’s place. Orr’s detailed knowledge of Settlement-Years jazz began to make some sense.

“Got to hop,” said Oishii. “Maybe catch up with you in the Uncleared, yeah?”

“Maybe, yeah.” Sylvie watched him leave, then leaned in Lazlo’s direction.

“How we doing for time?”

The wincefish dug in his pocket and displayed the queue chip. The numbers had shifted to fifty-two. Sylvie blew a disgusted breath.

“So what are karakuri?” I asked.

“Mech puppets.” Kiyoka was dismissive. “Don’t worry, you aren’t going to see any around here. We cleaned them out last year.”

Lazlo stuck the chip back in his pocket. “They’re facilitator units. Come in all shapes and sizes, little ones start about the size of a ripwing, only they don’t fly. Arms and legs. Armed, sometimes, and they’re fast.” He grinned.

“Not a lot of fun.”

A sudden, impatient tightening from Sylvie. She got up.

“I’m going to talk to Kurumaya,” she announced. “I think it’s time to volunteer our services for cleanup.”

General protest, louder than the propaganda DJ had elicited.

“—cannot be serious.”

“Clean-up pays shit, skipper.”

“Fucking grubbing about door-to-door—”

“Guys,” she held up her hands. “I don’t care, alright. If we don’t jump the queue, we’re not getting out of here ‘til tomorrow. And that’s no fucking good. In case any of you’ve forgotten, pretty soon Jad is going to start smelling antisocial.”

Kiyoka looked away. Lazlo and Orr muttered into the dregs of their miso soup.

“Anyone coming with me?”

Silence and averted gazes. I glanced around, then propped myself upright, luxuriating in the new absence of pain.

“Sure. I’ll come. This Kurumaya doesn’t bite, does he?”

In fact, he looked as if he might.

On Sharya there was a nomad leader I once had dealings with, a sheikh with wealth stacked away in databases all over the planet who chose to spend his days herding semi-domesticated genetically-adapted bison back and forth across the Jahan steppe and living out of a solar-powered tent.

Directly and indirectly, nearly a hundred thousand hardened steppe nomads owed him allegiance under arms, and when you sat in council with him in that tent, you felt the command coiled inside him.