It’s a forty-day burn across the belt from Extropia to 1123 Hungaria, and Jule Cortez is ravenous. Her stomach growling, she sits up from the acceleration couch to get a better view of the misshapen asteroid spinning slowly outside the cockpit window. Just nine kilometers, end to end. She’s burned a lot of fuel and a lot of favors to get here, and the asteroid looks almost good enough to eat.
“Finally. I’m starving,” she whispers.
[Your blood sugar levels are normal], her muse, Thoth, assures in an androgynous purr.
“You’d be hungry, too, knowing Chef is down there.”
She means metacelebrity Chef Volkan Batuk, missing and presumed dead, but Jule’s found him at last, hiding on a speck of dust in the endless black.
[I can’t get hungry], Thoth reminds her. Her muse has been snarkier than usual since its last firmware update.
Small clusters of buildings cling to the crust of the asteroid. They’re leftovers from an old mining venture, abandoned when the mineral deposits proved shallow. Perfect place to hide, though, Jule thinks.
1123 Hungaria’s a Cole bubble, spun just fast enough to provide weak gs to the cavern hollowed out along the axis. The ship’s sensors ping power signatures. Another shrill alarm warns of targeting lasers locking on.
“What if he doesn’t want to be bothered?” she worries, punching transmit on the passcode she’d retrieved off the mesh. It took months to decipher the clues, and a generous deposit of funds to ghost accounts. She hopes it’s not a hoax.
[Why invite us all the way out here, then?]
The comm chimes.
“Spacecraft Peppercorn. Follow instructions for landing. Do not deviate.”
“That sure sounds like Batuk,” she admits to Thoth as she fires the vernier jets, matching Peppercorn’s orbit with 1123 Hungaria’s spin. An open hangar swings into view, beacons winking emerald.
[Voiceprint’s a probable match], Thoth confirms. [We found him, alright.]
“Yeah.” Jule can’t help but grin even though her feelings are an emulsion of amazement and apprehension. She might never have come all the way out here from Mars without her muse’s guidance. Thoth’s level-headed encouragement had been a foil to her anxiety over all the conspiracy theories surrounding the metacelebrity’s supposed death.
Batuk’s restaurant, Trimalchio, once orbited the limb of Mars in an absurdly expensive hab for the hyperelite. It took money, power, and kilometers of rep just to get in the reservation queue, and after that, a year-long wait. Batuk’s recipes were copied widely. Anyone with a half-way decent fabber could churn out his famous enoki-stuffed polenta shells or wet-print his divine poitrine de porc souffles with jus rouge.
Growing up, Jule had fabbed whole feasts from his recipes, using her EZPrint from Prosperity Group, Batuk’s chief sponsor. She had all the XPs, too. For her fifteenth birthday, though, all Jule Cortez wanted was to eat at Trimalchio, and because her parents were well-placed execs at Prosperity Group she got her spot on the wait-list.
But, a week before her meal, an explosion in Trimalchio’s kitchen depressured the hab and scattered its elite diners into the vacuum of space. The fire was ruled an accident, and there were few casualties after the guests were resleeved. Among the irretrievable egos, though, were a handful of Batuk’s most devoted patrons—and the chef himself.
Now, Jule might be able not only to prove he survived, but with luck, and at long last, to finally dine on Chef Batuk’s legendary cuisine.
—
The Peppercorn settles into the landing hangar as a docking umbilical snakes out. The crunk of the airlocks connecting follows, then the hiss of equalizing pressure. Jule’s ears pop gently as she reaches for the hatch.
[Are you ready?]
“Are you kidding?” She smiles, and her nervousness vanishes in a rush of endorphins. It might be a post-sleep reaction from the hibernoid morph she sleeved in Extropia, but she’s damn giddy all the same.
Stale but breathable air wafts up. The wide umbilical pulses like the esophagus of some slavering beast from a fantasy XP.
And you didn’t even bring a sword, a voice says. Her own or Thoth’s, she’s not sure.
Jule propels herself hand-over-hand down the rungs of the umbilical into a spherical chamber below.
A lone figure waits for her there, a trim male exalt with broad shoulders, short dark hair, and soulful, penetrating eyes. Chef Volkan Batuk’s smile is tight, but charming rather than arrogant, and he’s leaner—and handsomer—than he’d last appeared in the feeds Jule’s seen. His eyes dart from her to the umbilical and back, and the smile slips for a moment.
“You’re not what I expected,” he laughs nervously, a faint accent underscoring his bemused air.
“And what were you expecting, Chef?” she extends a hand, and he takes it. It’s dry and warm. He smells of honey and musk.
[No access to the outside mesh, but there’s a PAN with some guest codes.] Let Thoth worry about that.
“I’m not sure, to be honest. A Prosperity Group hit squad, maybe?”
“Oh, shit, no. I’m just your biggest fan, Chef, I swear.” Jule giggles, unable to contain her nerves.
“And you are?” Batuk replies, an eyebrow arched.
“Oh! Jule Cortez. It’s such an honor, Chef.”
“Welcome to Cockayne, Jule Cortez,” Batuk says, “and congratulations on deciphering my clues.”
“I had a lot of help from my muse,” she admits. Really, Thoth did all the work.
“Ah. So why did you seek me out?” Batuk’s gaze is intense, and a frown tugs at the corners of his mouth. Has she offended him?
“I’m famished!” Her stomach growls, on cue.
Batuk laughs, a throaty bark that dissolves the tension.
“Come, then, before that monster eats us both!” he motions her down the corridor.
[Ask him why he’s got a laser-guided railgun emplacement topside,] Thoth whispers.
Shut up, Jule whispers back.
—
Batuk leads her down a series of clean, dimly-lit corridors to a warren of hab domes on the inner surface of the asteroid. Through porthole windows, she glimpses the vast hollow of the interior. It’s spined with sunlight-reflecting mirrors, augmented by artificial lamps that bathe the entire interior in a misty, amber glow. Unfortunately, the giant windows of the south pole are smashed open, and the cavern is a vacuum-frosted wasteland.
“It serves little purpose now,” Batuk muses when Jule laments its loss.
“You could fix it. Grow your own food out there!” she says, a sudden idea kindling in her. “You wouldn’t have to rely on vat meat.”
“Livestock’s hideously expensive, even for me. And I’m hardly farmer material.” There’s a curious light in Batuk’s eyes as he palms a door open.
Jule tries to hide her disappointment. Cultivating exotic food sources are what metacelebrity chefs are supposed to do. Maybe she can convince him to reconsider.
Inside is a dormitory chamber—the standard hub of couches, vid screens, and exercise equipment—ringed with triple-stacked bunks and hygiene pods. In its mining days, the dorm probably housed at least two dozen, hot bunking through shifts of sleep, play, and work. Jule and Batuk seem to be the only ones here now.
“Meager accommodations, I know, but I hope they’ll do while I finish preparing a welcome meal.” He seems embarrassed, and Jule fights an urge to hug him.
“They’re fine, really, Chef.”
“Excellent. I’ll return shortly.” The door whisks shut behind him as he departs.
[Batuk’s rattled by our presence,] Thoth observes.
“He’s got a right to be,” she says, “he’s supposed to be dead.”
[And yet he left us an invitation to find.]
Jule sighs. “Thoth, when did you get so paranoid?” Not that she isn’t worried, too. She’s more convinced Thoth’s latest patch is buggy, though. The muse has been acting strange since they left Mars. She makes a note to run the update again when she gets access to the outside mesh.
[Next time you fangirl, just remember to watch your back.]
“That’s why I have you, Thoth. Any luck accessing the local mesh?”
[Yes. Just the basics, though. Nothing terribly interesting.]
“Show me what you’ve got.”
Jule settles on a padded couch as Thoth punches up the local mesh to her endos. She finds basic maps of the various habs of 1123 Hungaria; most are powered down. She wonders if that means she’s the only guest so far. Jule scrolls through terraforming designs the miners had intended for the interior. They’d imagined a lush paradise in the cavern. Maybe she could restore that dream—with Batuk’s blessing, of course.
She spends the next hour spitballing ideas. Faux-rustic farms from pole to pole, free-roaming livestock, maybe squid modified for a low-g atmosphere? She giggles, imagining old Earth bison bouncing around like shaggy balloons. Above all, a pinnacle of rock rising with unparalleled views. That’s where Batuk’s new restaurant would go.
Caught up in the reverie of her fantasy, she forgets the time.
“I can’t attend a Chef Batuk dinner in this!” she pulls at the worn pockets of her flight suit. The dorm has a galley-top fabber—an older PG model. Jule fabs a sleek suit from one of the station’s available patterns. Red, with antique silver patterns that flicker in the weave. Old-fashioned, but Jule doesn’t care.
“How do I look?”
[Amazing,] Thoth deadpans.
“Come on,” Jule says, “might as well have a little fun out here.”
[I’ve been reviewing the schematics of the station,] Thoth says.
“And?”
The door chime interrupts.
“Later,” Jule says, “Look, Thoth, I know this whole thing is crazy, but it’s an incredible opportunity. Just keep one eye open, okay?”
She opens the door. Batuk is waiting with his crooked smile.
—
They drift down a maze of corridors to a hab that used to be a command center of some kind. Batuk’s replaced the central console with the low stainless sweep of a replica of one of the big private tables from the original Trimalchio. A variety of padded chaises surround the table, upholstered in hygenic mesh. Straps, armrests, and handles are positioned for optimal comfort in low gravity.
But it’s what’s on the table that starts the saliva trickling down her throat.
There’s a towering mountain of platters and bowls, each brimming with a bubbling stew or soup, joints of vat-meat and gelid puddings. Bowls of rice shimmer with their own varicolored light, half-hidden vegetables glinting like jewels. Silvery prawns swim in waterfalls of violet liqueur that gush from floral-printed diamond goblets. A cloud of edible photons circulates through all the dishes in intense rainbow hues. They’re all of Batuk’s most famous dishes: riz illuminée, crevettes d’argent à l’ail, soupe de rayonnement cosmique. There are the expected masterpieces, of course—poitrine de porc soufflés with jus rouge. A single place is set, with thrumcrystal plates and kinesthetic chopsticks for feeling every bite.
[I’ve got minimal contact with the Peppercorn in here,] Thoth warns.
Jule, her mouth hanging open in wonder, barely hears her muse.
“Chef,” she mumbles to Batuk, “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about Bon appetit?” he suggests.
[Let me test the food,] Thoth says.
Jule nods as she sits down and takes up the chopsticks. A low frequency buzz shivers up her spine as a connection is made. Status lights show clear in her endo. She picks up a brochette of grilled meat.
[It’s clean.]
She places the morsel on her tongue. It’s vat-meat, pORc, probably, fabbed into a hollowed lattice and filled with green paste. She’s disappointed at first, but as she chews, it bursts, filling her mouth with deeply herbal flavors. With the chopsticks, taste and feeling are joined. Pleasure tingles from her throat to the tips of her fingers.
“Very nice,” she sighs.
She eats delicately, all too aware that Batuk is standing close behind her. Watching. With every bite, his scrutiny intensifies. She downs an entire bowl of illuminated rice, breathes in most of the photons, and gulps three goblets of the dizzying violet wine.
[You are hungry.]
mmm. ahhhh. unnnnhhh. Slurp.
The noises are mostly for Chef’s benefit, a call seeking his response. Through the tumbling brightness of the flavors and the rills of haptic euphoria, Jule feels something else, too. She imagines it as a diamond-hard octahedron caught in her throat. It tastes of bitter iron. Disappointment?
Batuk seems almost to sense her thoughts.
“How is your meal?” he asks.
“Um, good,” she says through a mouthful of expanding mushroom foam. A shrill aria swells in her implants as she swallows. The food is good, but her home fabber does just as well—and without the garish kinesthetic and auditory cues. It’s hard to really taste Batuk’s agneau des étoiles fous with her every nerve throbbing in stimulated pleasure.
“Good,” she repeats when Batuk leans closer.
His eyebrows draw together imperceptibly. Has she offended him? She’s no metacritic, but she’s already writing the review. Either Batuk’s art’s suffered in his isolation, or worse, it’s always been overrated. She sets down the chopsticks and changes the subject.
“Chef, why did you come all the way to Cockayne?”
His frown deepens, as if he’s tired of telling this tale.
“I wasn’t doing anything in my restaurant a thousand others couldn’t do with their fabbers at home when the recipes leaked. And they always did, eventually. Prosperity Group offered to buy out my contract, sleeve a new chef in my likeness so the mystique might continue. Can you imagine? So I left all that madness behind.”
“By blowing up Trimalchio?” Jule blurts.
“I took advantage of an opportunity to make an exit,” he reddens. “I hoped with a very public death, PG wouldn’t try and sleeve an impostor.”
“It worked. They didn’t. But your mystique is still strong,” Jule adds, poking at the remains of her rice. “So if you’re bored, then why are you making the same old dishes for me now?”
Batuk’s eyes light up, and Jule flushes with triumph.
“You’re onto something new,” she says, excitement overtaking anxiety. “That’s why you’re seeding invites for devotees like me. I can help, Chef. I’ve got some ideas.”
Batuk sits down beside her, glancing around as if someone might overhear.
“I’m sure you do,” he whispers, “but I have a question for you first.”
“Of course,” she says, warming to his conspiratorial air.
“If I have something new, what would you give to try it?”
A glow having nothing at all to do with the kinesthetic food radiates through every millimeter of Jule’s body.
“Anything,” she breathes, the taste of victory sweet on her tongue.
—
Jule paces in her room, thoughts blazing with plans for Cockayne. Batuk’s invited her for dinner this evening, and she’ll lay it all out for him then. He seems ready to listen. Thoth dutifully records each idea as she rattles them off. The muse stays thankfully silent.
“Fixing the polar breach is a big job,” she concedes, “but easy in the scheme of things. Once we repressurize, we’ll seed the soil with enough fertile nanoswarms to sustain the arcology. Thoth, can you make a note to check TerraGenesis’ latest catalog when we’re back on the mesh?”
[Jule.] Thoth interrupts her ideas on workable livestock in the equator zones. [We should return to Peppercorn before dinner.]
“Why?” she asks, worried about another glitch.
[There are errors in my soil databases. I have backups on the ship.]
What’s the hell is Thoth talking about? Is this another glitch?
“Can’t you just uplink from here? The local mesh should—”
[No.]
“This is about what you were trying to tell me earlier. The maps,” Jule says, some of her fears returning.
[It may be nothing,] Thoth says, [but I can explain better on board.]
Uneasy, Jule relents, and they retrace their steps towards the airlock. She wishes she’d been paying more attention when they’d first arrived, but in the rush of meeting her favorite metacelebrity she’d left that to Thoth. Now she’s not sure that was a good idea. These dim corridors in the nav overlays of her endo aren’t familiar. The air is thick and stale.
“This isn’t the way,” she says, a cold sweat prickling the small of her back.
[The long way ‘round. I’m calibrating datapoints on the Cockayne schematic.]
Reluctantly, she follows the waypoints to a bulkhead door as unremarkable as every other one around it.
“Shit, Thoth,” she stops just shy of the door. “What’s gotten into you?”
[Curious. The public maps don’t show this part of the facility. Perhaps I’ve led us astray.]
“Maybe Batuk doesn’t want guests accidentally opening a hatch to vacuum?” She notices the door’s keypad glows emerald in the dark hall, though. Unlocked.
[There’s a lot of power routed here, though. Life support, too.]
“Another dorm, maybe?”
[Quite strange. I wonder what’s inside?]
“We can just ask Batuk—” She cuts herself off, suddenly jealous there might be others on board with their own plans for Cockayne. Peeved, she stabs the door release.
Warm, humid air wafts into the corridor, fragrant with medicinal aromas. With it comes noise, the thunderous harmony of dozens of machines. The chamber beyond is large, with a wide central aisle, wanly lit from the instrumentation on the machines. The path is flanked by rows of morph incubation vats. Mature bodies float in the natal gel, unsleeved pod morphs, judging from the exposed ports of the cyberbrains.
[That’s a lot of morphs for one ego,] Thoth observes.
“Oh shit,” Jule whispers, her grandiose schemes deflating with the confirmation that she’s hardly Batuk’s first visitor.
At the far end of the incubation bay, a shadow like spreading ink oozes from the ceiling and around one of the vats. It’s an octomorph, clad in a black jumpsuit, with glinting intelligent eyes that seem somehow familiar. Its tentacles uncoil and stroke the vat lovingly. Jule’s fear kindles to bright panic. She shivers back from the door and it swishes shut.
“Let’s go to the ship. I’ve seen enough.”
[Good idea.]
Thoth displays the waypoints for the shortest route back.
“That wasn’t creepy at all,” Jule gasps as she scurries to the docking umbilical. “Do you think it saw us?”
[I don’t know. But we’ve confirmed Batuk’s not out here alone.]
“The other diners that were presumed dead? Maybe they all egocasted out here?”
[There’s one way to find out,] Thoth says as Jule gains the docking umbilical and climbs up toward the Peppercorn.
“Dinner tonight,” she says.
[He’s got something big planned, for sure.]
Inside the cockpit, Thoth asks to be plugged directly into the ship, indicating the ego bridge. Jule fingers the thick connection, concerned. A backup?
“Thoth, you’ve been strange since your last firmware update. It’s time to tell me why.”
She feels the muse’s uncharacteristic hesitation.
[Data corruption.]
“‘Data corruption?’ Why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner?” Jule frowns. It sounds like a lie. Muses aren’t supposed to lie.
[That’s why I suggest we run a backup.]
“You’re not making sense, Thoth. Should I reboot you?”
[Please, don’t!] Thoth pleads, alarmed. Then, calmer, [After dinner, I’ll run a full diagnostic.]
“You’d better,” she says, lying back until her head clicks into the bridge.
Her skull vibrates with the skirl of transferred data. A burst of heavy static whites out the world for a moment; for eternity. Jule sits up, her head still throbbing.
“Ouch! What the hell was that?”
[Jule, I’ve been printing something in the fab bench.]
The portable fab machine installed in the center console glows with green status lights. A few moments later, a completion tone chimes. Jule flips open the lid. Inside is a snub-nosed Direct Arms Krait-35 automatic pistol.
“Thoth!”
[Take it to dinner tonight.]
“What for?”
[It’s concealable,] Thoth says, ignoring her. [Hopefully you won’t even need it.]
“I’m not some ego hunter here to collect a bounty on Batuk, Thoth!”
Her words ring into the dull silence as suspicion becomes certainty.
“Holy shit. You’re the ego-hunter! You’re not Thoth!”
[He’s dangerous, Jule.]
Her anger trembles through her, white hot.
“What is it? Are you some kind of AGI? An infomorph? Who crammed you into my skull?” Her muse knows every thought, her deepest self. No. Now someone else does.
[I’m sorry. It’s regrettable.]
“Bloody unethical is what it is.”
[I’m trying to protect you.]
“Says the AI whose invaded my skull. Fuck you, Thoth.”
Thoth sighs.
[There are those who don’t want to see you hurt, Jule.]
Shaking, Jule yanks the pistol from the fabber. She should power Thoth down, plan her next move without unwanted help. Only, her muse hasn’t left her many options, and Thoth’s not wrong to be cautious.
[I don’t want to see you hurt,] Thoth says, displaying wardrobe choices that would best conceal the weapon.
“Yeah, I bet you don’t,” Jule snarls, picking out her favorite.
—
Batuk’s at her door promptly at 20:00. He’s wearing the same collarless dark suit as this morning, not a wrinkle on it, hair perfectly in place. He nods mute appreciation at her own dress—a swirl of red skirts and configurable silver pockets—fashionable yet functional. The pistol’s strapped to her thigh, further concealed by high clunky boots that turn over at the tops.
Batuk’s carrying two flutes of bubbling amber liquid. Shadows swirl in playful patterns inside the glass. Like ink. It makes her queasy.
“A drink as we walk?”
“Of course,” she replies, taking one. She hopes Batuk hasn’t been monitoring her too closely since she left her ship. Did he know she’d seen the vat lab? Could he possibly know about the pistol? Had his cameras picked up her tears of rage? The liquor is earthy, a dark honey rolling around her tongue. The finish is bitter.
“Chef, I have a question,” she says as soon as they’re in the corridor back to the dining salon.
He tilts his chin in assent.
“There are others here on Cockayne,” It isn’t really a question, but she’s past being polite.
“There are,” he admits. His smile is tight.
“Why not just tell me that when I arrived?”
“I’ve found it’s best to ease in visitors,” he replies.
Jule tries to sound cheerful, at least. “I bet we all come to you with big plans, huh?”
They stop outside the salon door.
“The destination resort, you mean? Farms, hotels, my new food, of course.” Batuk’s is a weary sigh.
“You’d be more exclusive out here than you ever were on Mars.”
“I already cater to a very exclusive clientele, Jule. My new ventures may not appeal to more common tastes.” His face is placid, but there’s heat in his tone, the arrogance that was missing from their first meeting.
“Can I ask you—”
He raises a hand criss-crossed with dozens of scars. Occupational trophies or deliberate affectation, it’s hard to tell.
“Enough questions, Jule Cortez. Are you willing to be a true patron or not?” His rising anger is no longer mistakable. The pistol pinches against her thigh. She’s humiliated herself, humiliated Batuk. Thoth’s revelation has tossed her into vacuum with no line to grab.
“All I ever wanted is to eat a real meal prepared by you, Chef. No third-hand fabs, no XPs, no imitations.”
Batuk leans back, a tiny smile creeping in under his beetled brows.
“Are you sure you can tell the difference?”
She nods, hoping he’ll believe her.
“Good. In Cockayne, there’s absolute commitment to casting off the old ways of eating. We are transhuman! We leave the past behind and practice our culinary arts anew!”
[Jule,] Thoth’s voice is desperate and full of static. [He’s jamming us.]
She ignores the muse. If anything goes wrong, she’s got the pistol.
“Show me, Chef,” her voice trembles, half from fear, half from hunger.
Batuk nods and opens the door, ushering Jule into the dining salon.
Two androgynous biomorphs lie supine and naked on the table, their bald heads joined at a nest of wires and whirring machinery. Pulsing implants penetrate their skulls like grotesque halos. One morph turns its head to look at Jule, its face glowing with a beatific smile. Fingers curl in a faint wave that triggers a wave of nausea in Jule.
The sinister octomorph floats into the salon, its tentacles fanning a dozen syringes. With a flourish, it sticks both morphs’ bellies with several jabs of the gleaming needles.
Next, a pair of rubenesque exalts glide in from another door. The corpulent man is swathed in silver tattoos, the woman has a drooping jaw and quivering jowls. Hunger burning in their eyes, they clutch knives and other eating utensils. A pungent aroma of frying garlic, nutmeg, and copper tingles Jule’s nose as horror freezes her to the deck.
Oh fuck, no.
The smiling morph’s torso blisters with internal heat and steam rises from its splitting skin. Tattoo licks his lips, winking at Jule as he stabs his meal with a knife. The cooking morph giggles as garlic cloves, roasted to perfection, spill out of its wound. Far from dying, the morph takes Tattoo’s hand and squeezes as the diner carves a pinkish steak from its thigh.
“Edible morphs,” Batuk whispers in her ear, “Injected nanoswarms make excellent sous-chefs. Pain filters and cyberbrains can prolong the terminal moment almost indefinitely.”
The other morph shrieks in ecstasy as it mostly dissolves into a stew of vegetables and hunks of glistening meat. The woman with the drooping jaw slurps directly from the steaming broth. The soup-morph plucks a morsel from its own liquified body and eats it. The juices run red down its chin.
“Eat and be eaten. It’s the ultimate truth of existence, Jule. Only now, we can transcend it—experience a perfect moment that can’t be duplicated with mere vat meat or a fabber.”
Jule’s mind retreats from the obscene feast and the accompanying symphony of chewing and slurping.
[Get out, Jule!] Thoth warns.
The octomorph undulates towards Batuk, who waits with his arms wide. The eyes of octo glitter with the same desire as Batuk’s. The same eyes. There’s a fork of Batuk sleeved in the octomorph. The octo wraps its tentacles around Batuk’s grinning head and twists until it pops wetly from his neck. Then it plucks out the cortical stack from the twitching body and buries its sharp beak into the raw meat of the stump.
“I am delicious,” the octo buzzes. The salon fills with howls of pleasure and the animal grunts of feeding. A tentacle offers a serrated knife to Jule.
“Eat. And be eaten,” Octo-Batuk invites her with its grating voice.
Jule responds by hitching up her skirts and drawing the pistol. Octo-Batuk is too busy chewing to notice at first, but his all-too-human eyes bulge with alarm as she squeezes the trigger. Explosive rounds crater the octo’s fragile flesh, shearing away limbs and hurling its shuddering trunk into the wall.
She aims the pistol at the other diners. The weapon turns them to detonations of pink foam and trailing gobbets of meat and Jule empties the rest of the magazine into the machinery that keeps the edible morphs alive. The aroma of charred meat mingles with the acrid smoke of burning electronics. Above the shriek of the fire alarms, Jule hears the hiss of Octo-Batuk’s laughter.
[Go, I’m firing up the engines on the Peppercorn!] Thoth urges.
She turns to the door and the sweet, cool air of the corridor rushes in. Jule hurls herself at the door, but a sharp pain between her shoulders stops her short, and she crashes halfway through. A suffocating cold spreads from her chest. She tries to stand, but she’s caught on something. A serrated blade protrudes from just below her sternum—the knife gripped in the octomorph’s last tentacle.
Octo-Batuk’s speaker emits a weak gasp.
“You wanted a perfect meal, Jule. Eat. And be eaten.”
The rest of the world is drowned in static and a smoky red haze that turns to utter black.
—
A burst of heavy static whites out the world for a moment; for eternity.
“Ouch! What was that?” Jule shouts in the cockpit of Peppercorn. Beyond the crystal viewport hangs the velvet curtain of space. A nav display ticks off the days back to Extropia. She’s lying back on the ego bridge, but she can’t sit up. Or move her arms. Or turn her head.
“Where are we?”
[Hold still, Jule,] says Thoth. A sudden dread descends upon her. Her glitchy muse, promising to explain everything right before she plugged in for a backup. No. It’s more than that.
“Did you kill me?” she asks Thoth. She’s never died before, let alone been murdered.
[No. I saved you, I hope.] Thoth sounds sad.
“That creepy octomorph, then. It followed us back.”
[It’s reponsible for your death, yes. But not here. At the dinner.]
“You were right, then,” she shudders, flexing a hand over her stomach. Somehow, she’s hungry again.
“How did we get away?”
[Emergency ego-cast for me. Benefits of being an infomorph. But I’m afraid you’re running off a backup.]
Jule tries to clear her mind, but there’s just a jumble of nonsensical images from before. Radar shows Cockayne receding to a dull gray speck through the cameras in Peppercorn’s hull. Her new eyes.
The cornucopia machine’s lying open. Wasn’t something printing in there a moment ago? A trickle of memory, or a nudge from Thoth?
The black curtain of space unfurls into view.
“An infomorph? What the hell happened?”
[Are you sure you want to know?]
“Goddamn it, Thoth.”
Thoth streams her most of it. Fortunately it’s just playback, not XP. Even so, she’s numb with horror and her phantom appetite vanishes.
“An ego hunter?” she says, when sanity returns. “And you left my stack behind, you bastard.” She might be an infomorph, but panic’s crawling around her simulated brain like a nanoswarm.
[It was probably destroyed when I ego-casted, Jule.]
Probably. Batuk and his vile patrons must have backups. Who knows how many forks might be waiting to salvage her stack for another gruesome feast?
“What if it wasn’t?” she shouts at Thoth, or whoever it is pretending to be her muse.
[The Prosperity Group will have the coordinates by now. They won’t spare the nukes when they get to Cockayne, I’m sure.]
It’s true, Batuk’s violated his contracts with PG, and maybe a few transhuman rights to boot. But would the PG agents really destroy the asteroid? What if Batuk gets hungry before that happens? How many times could he eat her before his hideous paradise is nuked to dust?
A worse thought occurs to her then. What if Batuk egocasts all of them to safety in some new uncharted hunk of rock in the Belt?
Eat. And be Eaten. Eat. And be Eaten.
[It’s over, Jule.]
And over. And over.
She wants to believe her muse, that her stack was destroyed, but she’s not even sure who Thoth really is. What if that’s just another lie?
“You bastard,” she whispers, not sure to whom.
A few hours out, she retreats into a trance-coma of simulspace. It’s an uneasy hibernation. Wandering a maze of industrial corridors and ravenous with hunger, Jule opens door after door. Behind each and every one is Batuk’s wide, toothy smile.