"Honey, you've got to start burning the candle at both ends. You're real young and a looker; get yourself out there again."

"I know. I will." Araminta took a deep breath and went over to Matthew, who was so disgusted that he didn't even rebuke her. She lifted three plates from the ready counter, checked the table number, cranked her mouth open to a smile, and pushed through the doors.

The breakfast session at Niks usually lasted about ninety minutes. There wasn't a time limit, but by a quarter to nine the last customers were heading for the office or store. Occasionally, a tourist or two would linger or a business meeting would run overtime. Today there were not many lagging behind. Araminta did her penance by supervising the cleaning bots as the tables were changed, ready to serve morning coffee to shoppers and visitors. Niks had a good position in the commercial district, five blocks from the docks down on the river.

Tables started to fill up again after ten o'clock. The restaurant had a curving front wall with a slim terrace running around it. Araminta went along the outside tables, adjusting the flowers in the small vases and taking orders for chocolettos and cappuccinos. It kept her out of Matthew's way. He still had not said anything to her, a bad sign.

Some time after eleven the woman appeared and started moving along the tables, talking to the customers. Araminta could see that several of them were annoyed, waving her away. Since Ethan had declared Pilgrimage ten days earlier, Living Dream disciples from the local fane had been coming in and pestering people. It was starting to be a problem.

"Can I help you?" Araminta asked, keeping the tone sharp; this was a chance to earn redemption points with Matthew. The woman was dressed in a charcoal-gray cashmere suit, old-fashioned but expensive, with a long flowing skirt, the kind of thing Araminta might have worn before the separation, back in the days when she had money. "We have several tables available."

"I'm collecting signature certificates," the woman said. She had a very determined look on her face. "We're trying to get the council to stop ingrav capsule use above Colwyn City."

"Why?" It came out before Araminta really thought about it.

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Regrav is bad enough, but at least they're speed- and altitude-limited inside the city boundary. Have you ever thought what would happen if an ingrav drive failed? They fly semiballistic parabolas; that means they'd plummet down at half orbital velocity."

"Ah, yes, I see." She also could see Matthew giving them a wary look.

"Suppose one crashed onto a school at that speed. Or a hospital. There's just no need for them. It's blatant consumerism without any form of responsibility. People are buying them only to show off. And there are studies that suggest the ingrav effect puts a strain on deep geological faults. We could have an earthquake."

Araminta was proud she did not laugh out loud. "I see."

"The city traffic network wasn't designed with those sorts of speeds in mind, either. The number of near-miss incidents logged is rising steadily. Will you add your certificate? Help us keep our lives safe."

A file was presented to Araminta's u-shadow. "Yes, of course. But you'll have to order a tea or coffee; my boss is already cross with me this morning." She flicked her gaze toward Matthew as she added her signature certificate to the petition, confirming she was a Colwyn City resident.

"Typical," the woman grunted. "They never think of anything but themselves and their profit." But she sat down and ordered a peppermint tea.

"What's her problem?" Matthew asked as Araminta collected the tea.

"The universe is a bad place; she just needs to unwind a little." She gave him a sunny smile. "Which is why we're here."

Before he could say anything else, she skipped back to the terrace.

At half past eleven Araminta's u-shadow collated the morning property search it had run through the city's estate agencies and shunted the results into one of her storage lacunae. She was on her break in the little staff lounge beside the kitchen. It did not take long to review them all; she was looking for a suitable flat or even a small house somewhere in the city. There were not many that fit her criteria: cheap, in need of renovation, near the center. She tagged three agency files as possibles and checked on how the previous day's possibles were doing. Half of them already had been snapped up. One really had to be quick in today's market, she reflected wistfully. And have money or at least some decent credit. A renovation was her dream project: buying a small property and refurbishing it in order to sell it at a profit. She knew she could be good at it. She had taken five development and design courses in the last eight months since separating from Laril, as well as studying every interior decorating text her u-shadow could pull out of the unisphere. Property development was a risky proposition, but every case she had accessed showed that the true key was dedication and hard work as well as a lot of market research. And from her point of view she could do it by herself; she wouldn't depend on anyone. But first she needed money.

Araminta was back in the restaurant at twelve, getting the table settings ready for lunch, learning the specials the chef was working on. The anti-ingrav crusader had gone, leaving a good tip, and Matthew was treating her humanely again. Cressida walked in at ten past twelve. She was Araminta's cousin on her mother's side of the family, a partner in a midsize law firm, one hundred twenty-three years old and spectacularly beautiful with flaming red hair and skin maintained to silky perfection by expensive cosmetic scales. She was wearing a two-thousand-Vpound emerald and platinum toga suit. Just by walking in to Niks she was raising the whole tone of the place. She was also Araminta's lawyer.

"Darling." Cressida waved and came over for a big hug; air kissing had never been part of her style. "Well, have I got news for you," she said breathlessly. "Your boss won't mind if I steal you for a second, will he?" Without bothering to check, she grabbed Araminta's hand and pulled her over to a corner table.

Araminta winced as she imagined Matthew's stare drilling laser holes in her back. "What's happened?"

Cressida's grinned broadly, her liquid scarlet lip gloss flowing to accommodate the big stretch. "Dear old Laril has skipped planet."

"What?" Araminta could not quite believe that. Laril was her ex-husband in a marriage that had lasted eighteen utterly miserable months. Everyone in her immediate family had objected to Laril from the moment she had met him. They had had cause. She could admit that now; she'd been twenty-one while he was three hundred seven. At the time she'd thought him suave, sophisticated, rich, and her ticket out of boring, small and small-minded, agricultural Langham, a town over on the Suvorov continent, seven thousand miles away. They thought he was just another filthy Punk Skunk; there were enough of them kicking around the Commonwealth, especially on the relatively unsophisticated planets that made up the outer fringes of the External worlds, jaded old folks who had the money to look flawlessly adolescent but still envied the genuinely youthful for their spirit and exuberance. Every partner they snagged was centuries younger in a futile hope that the brio would transfer over magically. That was not quite the case with Laril. Close, though.

Her branch of the family on her father's side had a business supplying and maintaining agricultural cybernetics, an enterprise that was the largest in the county and one in which Araminta was expected to work for at least the first fifty years of her life. After that apprenticeship, family members were considered adult and wealthy enough to take off for new pastures (a depressing number set up subsidiaries of the main business across Suvorov), leaving gaps for the latest batch of youngsters to fill, turning the cycle. It was a prospect Araminta considered so soul-crushing, she would have hired out as a love slave to a Prime motile to escape it. Meeting Laril, an independent businessman with an Andribot franchise among other successful commercial concerns, was like being discovered by Prince Charming. And given that these days an individual's age was not a physical quantity, her family's objection to the three-century difference was so bourgeois. It certainly guaranteed the outcome of the affair.

The fact that they had been more or less right about him using her only made her postseparation life worse. She could never go back to Langham now. Fortunately, Cressida was not judgmental, considering Araminta's colossal mistake as part of life's rich experience. "If you don't screw up," she had told a weeping Araminta at their first meeting, "you haven't got a base to launch your improvement from. Now, what does the separation clause in the marriage contract entitle you to?"

Araminta, who had overcome a mountain of shame even to go to a family member, however distant, for legal help at the start of the divorce, had to admit theirs had been an old fashioned wedding of the till-death-do-us-part variety. They'd even sworn that to the licensed priest in the Langham chapel. It was all very romantic at the time.

"No contract?" an amazed and horrified Cressida had asked. "Gosh, darling, you are headed for a Mount Herculaneum of improvement, aren't you?"

It was a mountain that Laril's lawyers were doing their very best to prevent her from ever setting foot on; their countersuit had frozen Araminta's own assets, all seven hundred thirty-two Vpounds she had in her savings account. Even Cressida with all her firm's resources was finding it hard to break through Laril's legal protection, and as for his commercial activities, they had proved even more elusive to pin down. All his early talk of being the center of a dynasty-like network of profitable companies was either a lie or a cover-up for some astonishing financial irregularities. Intriguingly, Viota's National Revenue Service had no record of his paying tax at any time in the last hundred years and was showing a healthy interest in his activities.

"Skipped. Departed. Left this world. Gone vertical. Uprooted." Cressida grasped Araminta's hands and gave them a nearly painful squeeze. "He didn't even pay his lawyers." Her happiness at that eventuality was indecent. "And now they're just another name on the list of fifty creditors after his ass."

Araminta's brief moment of delight suddenly darkened. "So I get nothing?"

"On the contrary. His remaining solid assets-that's his town house and the stadium food franchise, which we did manage to freeze right at the start-are rightfully yours. Admittedly, they don't quite add up to the kind of assets that will sway a naive young girl's head."

Araminta blushed furiously.

"But not to be sneered at. Unfortunately, there is the question of back taxes, which I'm afraid amounts to three hundred thirty-seven thousand Viotia pounds. And if the NRS could ever prove half of Laril's ventures that you told me about, they'd claim the rest, too. Bloodsucking fiends. However, they can't prove a damn thing thanks to the excellent encryption and strange lack of records your slippery ex has muddled his life with. Then there's my fee, which is ten percent seeing as how you're family and I admire your late-found pride. So the rest is yours, clear and free."

"How much?"

"Eighty-three thousand."

Araminta could not speak. It was a fortune. Agreed, nothing like the corporate megastructure Laril had claimed he owned and controlled, but more than she had expected and asked for in the divorce petition. Ever since she had walked into Cressida's office, she had allowed herself to dream that she might, just might, come out of this with thirty or forty thousand, that Laril would pay just to be rid of her. "Oh, great Ozzie, you are kidding," she whispered.

"Not a bit. A judge friend of mine has allowed us to expedite matters on account of the circumstances of the truly tragic hardship I claimed you're suffering. Your savings are now unfrozen, and we'll transfer Laril's money into your account at four o'clock this afternoon. Congratulations. You're a free and single woman again."

Araminta was horrified that she was crying; her hands seemed to flap about in front of her face of their own volition.

"Wow!" Cressida put her arm around Araminta's shoulders, rocking her playfully. "How do you take bad news?"

"It's over? Really over?"

"Yep. Really. So what say you and I go celebrate. Tell your manager where to stick his menu, go pour soup over a customer's head, then we'll hit the coolest clubs in town and ruin half the male population. How about it?"

"Oh." Araminta looked up, wiping tears with the back of her hand; the mention of Matthew made her realize she was supposed to be serving. "I need to get back. Lunch is really busy. They rely on me."

"Hey, calm down, take a minute. Think of what's happened here."

Araminta nodded her head sheepishly, glancing around the restaurant. Her co-workers were all trying not to glance in her direction; Matthew was annoyed again. "I know. I'm sorry. It's going to take a while to sink in. I can't believe it's all over. I've got to...Oh, Ozzie, there are so many things I want to do."

"Great! Let's get you out of here and bring on the serious partying. We'll start with a decent meal."

"No." Araminta could see Tandra staring anxiously and gave her a weak thumbs-up in return. "I can't just walk out; that's not fair to everyone else here. They'll need to get a replacement. I'll hand in my notice properly and work the rest of the week for them."

"Damnit, you are horrendously sweet. No wonder your filthy ex could take advantage so easily."

"It won't happen again."

"Too bloody true it won't." Cressida stood up, smiling proudly.

"From now on I'm vetting anyone you date. At least come out for a drink tonight."

"Um, I really do need to go home after this and work things out."

"Friday night, then. Come on! Everyone goes out Friday night."

Araminta couldn't keep the grin off her face. "All right. Friday night."

"Thank Ozzie for that. And get yourself some serious bad girl clothes first. We're going to do this properly."

"Okay. Yeah, okay, I will." She actually could feel her mood changing, like some warm liquid invading her arteries. "Uh, where do I go for clothes like that?"

"Oh, I'll show you, darling; don't you worry."

Araminta did work the lunch shift, then told Matthew she was quitting but was happy to stay on as long as he needed her. He completely surprised her by giving her a kiss and congratulating her on finally breaking free of Laril. Tandra got all teary and affectionate while the others gathered around to hear the news and cheer.

By half past three in the afternoon she had put on a light coat and walked out. The cool late spring air sobered her up, allowing her to think clearly again. Even so, she walked the route she so often walked in the afternoon. Along Ware Street, take a left at the major junction, and head down the slope along Daryad Avenue. The buildings on either side were five or six stories tall, a typical mix of commercial properties. Regrav capsules slid silently overhead, and the metro track running down the center of the avenue hummed with public cabs. The roads had few vehicles, yet Araminta still waited at the crossings for the traffic solidos to change shape and color. She barely noticed her fellow pedestrians.

The Glayfield was a bar and restaurant at the bottom of the slope, occupying two stories of an old wood and composite building, part of the original planet landing camp. She made her way through the dark deserted bar to the stairs at the back and went up to the restaurant. That, too, was virtually empty. Up at the front it boasted a sheltered balcony where in her opinion the tables were too close; waitresses would have trouble squeezing between them when they were full. She sat at one next to the rail, which gave her an excellent view along Daryad Avenue. This was where she came most afternoons to wind down after her shift at Niks, sitting with a hot orange chocolate and watching the people and the ships. Over to her right the avenue curved upward into the bulk of the city, producing a wall of tall buildings expressing the many construction phases and styles that had come and gone in Colwyn's hundred-seventy-year history. To her left the river Cairns cut through the land in a gentle northward curve as it flowed out to the Great Cloud Ocean twenty miles away. The river was half a mile wide in the city, the top of a deep estuary that made an excellent natural harbor. Several marinas had been built on both sides, providing anchorage to thousands of private yachts ranging from little sailing dinghies up to regrav-assisted pleasure cruisers. Two giant bridges spanned the water, one a single unsupported arch of nanotube carbon and the other a more traditional suspension bridge with pure white pillars a flamboyant three hundred meters tall. Capsules slid along beside them, but ground traffic was almost nonexistent these days and they were used mainly by pedestrians. They led over to the exclusive districts on the south bank, where the city's wealthier residents flocked amid long green boulevards and extensive parks.

On the northern shore, barely half a mile from the Glayfield, the docks were built into the bank and out into the mud flats: two square miles of cargo-handling machinery and warehouses and quays and landing pads and caravan platforms. It was the hub from which the Izyum continent had been developed, the second starport on the planet. There was no heavy industry on Viotia; major engineering systems and advanced technology were all imported. With Ellezelin only seventy-five light-years away, Viotia was on the fringe of the Free Trade Zone, a market that the local population grumbled was free for Ellezelin companies all right, but disadvantaged everyone else caught in its commercial web. There wasn't a wormhole linking Viotia to Ellezelin yet. But talk was that in another hundred years, when Viotia's internal market had grown sufficiently, one would be opened, allowing the full range of cheap Ellezelin products to flood through, turning them into an economic colony. In the meantime, starships from External worlds came and went. She watched them as she sipped her orange chocolate: a line of huge freighters, their metal hulls as dull as lead, heavy and ungainly, drifting down vertically out of the sky. Behind them, the departing ships rose away from the planet, brushing through Viota's legendary pink clouds, accelerating fast once they reached the stratosphere. Araminta gave them a mild grin, thinking of the anti-ingrav woman. If she was right, what would the starships' field effect be doing to the geology beneath the city? Maybe a simple wormhole would be the answer; she rather liked the idea, a throwback to the First Commonwealth era of genteel and elegant train travel between star systems. It was a shame that the External worlds rejected such links out of hand, but they valued their political freedom too much to risk a return to a monoculture, especially with the threat of Higher culture overwhelming their hard-won independence.

Araminta stayed at the table long after she usually packed up and went home. The sun began to fall, turning the clouds a genuine gold-pink as the planet's hazy mesosphere diffused the dying rays of the K-class star. Transocean barges shone brightly out on the Cairns, regrav engines keeping their flat hulls just above the slowly rippling water as they nosed out of the dock and headed for the open sea and the islands beyond. She always was soothed by the sight of the city, a huge edifice of human activity buzzing along efficiently, a reassurance that civilization did actually work, that nothing could kick the basics out from under her. And now, finally, she could begin to take an active part, to carve out a life for herself. The files from the property agencies floated gently through her exoimage display, allowing her to plan what she might do in more detail than she ever had bothered with before. Without money such reviews had been pointless daydreams, but this evening they took on a comfortable solidity. Part of her was scared by the notion. If she made a mistake now, she would be back to waitressing tables for the next few decades. She had only one shot. Eighty-three thousand was a tidy sum, but it had to be made to work for her. Despite the trepidation, she was looking forward to the challenge. It marked her life's true beginning.

The sun set amid a warm scarlet glow, seeming to match Araminta's mood. By then the first customers of the evening were starting to fill up the restaurant. She left a big tip and went downstairs. Her usual routine had her walking back to Niks, maybe doing some shopping on the way, and taking the trike pod home. But there was nothing usual about this day. There was music blasting through the bar. People were leaning on the counter, ordering drinks and aerosols. Araminta glanced down at her clothes. She was wearing a sensible skirt, navy blue, that came down below her knees, and a white top with short sleeves made from a fabric that was specifically wipe-clean so that she could cope with spills. Around her, people had made an effort to smarten up for the evening; she felt slightly downmarket by comparison.

But then, who are they to judge me?

It was a liberating thought of the kind she had not entertained since leaving Langham back when the future was full of opportunity, at least in her imagination.

Araminta sidled her way up to the bar and studied the bottles and beer taps. "Green Fog, please," she told the barman. It earned her a slightly bemused smile, but he mixed it perfectly. She drank it slowly, trying not to let the smoldering mist get up her nose. Sneezing would blow away any remaining credibility.

"Haven't seen anybody drink one of those for a while," a man's voice said.

She turned and looked at him. He was handsome in that precise way everyone was these days, with features aligned perfectly; she guessed that meant he had been through at least a couple of rejuve treatments. Like the rest of the bar's clientele, he had dressed up, a simple gray and purple toga jacket that cloaked him in a gentle shimmer.

And he's not Laril.

"Been awhile since I was let out," she retorted. Then she smirked at her own answer, the fact she was bold enough to say it.

"Can I get you another? I'm Jaful, by the way."

"Araminta. And no, not a Green Fog; that's a nostalgia thing for me. What's current?"

"They say Adlier 88Vodka is going down in all the wrong places."

She finished her Green Fog in a single gulp, tried not to grimace too hard, and pushed the empty glass across the bar. "Best start there, then."

"Are you awake?"

Araminta stirred when she heard the question. She wasn't awake exactly, more like dozing pleasantly, content in the afterglow of a night spent in busy lovemaking. Her mind was full of a strange vision, as if she were being chased through the dark sky by an angel. Her slight movement was enough for Jaful. His hands slid up her belly to cup her breasts. "Uh," she murmured, still drowsy as the angel dwindled. Jaful rolled her onto her front, which was confusing. Then his cock was sliding up inside her again, hard and insistent. It was not a comfortable position. Each thrust pushed her face down into the soft mattress. She wriggled to try to get into a more acceptable stance, which he interpreted as full acceptance. Heated panting became shouts of joy. Araminta cooperated as best she could; the pleasure was minimal at best. Out of practice, she thought, and tried not to laugh. He wouldn't understand. At least she was doing her best to make up for lost time, though. They had coupled three or four times after going back to his place.

Jaful climaxed with a happy yell. Araminta matched him. Yep, remember how to do that bit as well. Eighteen months with Laril had made faking orgasms automatic.

Jaful flopped onto his back and let out a long breath. He grinned at her. "Fantastic. I haven't had a night like that for a long time, if ever."

She dropped her voice a couple of octaves. "You were good." It was so funny, as if they were reading from a script.

Picked up in a bar. Back to his place for a one-night stand. Compliment each other. Both of them playing their part of the ritual to perfection.

But it has been fun.

"I'm going to grab a shower," he said. "Tell the culinary unit what you want. It's got some good synthesis routines."

"I'll do that." She watched him stroll across the room and into the en suite. Only then did she stare in curiosity. It was a chic city bachelor pad; that much was evident by the plain yet expensive furniture and contemporary art. The wall opposite the bed was a single window covered with snow-white curtains.

Araminta started hunting for her clothes as the spore shower came on. Underwear-practical rather than sexy, she acknowledged with a sigh-close to the bed. Skirt halfway between bed and door. Her white top in the living room. She pulled it on, then looked back at the bedroom. The shower was still on. Did he always take so long, or was he sticking with the part of the script that gave her a polite opportunity to exit? She shrugged and let herself out.

There wasn't anything wrong with Jaful. She certainly had enjoyed herself in his bed most of the time. It was just that she couldn't think what they could say to each other over breakfast. It would have been awkward. This way she kept the memory agreeable. "More practice," she told herself, and smiled wickedly. And why not? This is real life again.

The building had a big lobby. When she walked out into the street, she blinked against the bright pink light; it was twelve minutes until she was supposed to start the morning shift at Niks. Her u-shadow told her she was in the Spalding district, which was halfway across the city, so she called a taxi down. It took about thirty seconds until the yellow and purple capsule was resting a couple of centimeters above the concrete, three meters in front of her. She watched in bemusement as the door opened. In all her life she'd never called a taxi herself; it had always been Laril who ordered them. After the separation, of course, she couldn't afford them. Another blow for freedom.

As soon as she arrived at Niks, she rushed into the staff toilets.

Tandra gave her a leery look when she came out, tying her apron on. "You know, those look like the very same clothes you wore when you left yesterday." She sniffed elaborately. "Yep, travel-clean again. Did something happen to your plumbing last night?"

"You know, I'm really going to miss you when I leave," Araminta replied, trying not to laugh.

"What's his name? How long have you been dating?"

"Nobody. I'm not dating; you know that."

"Oh, come on!"

"I need coffee."

"Not much sleep, huh?"

"I was reviewing property files, that's all."

Tandra gave her a malicious sneer. "Sweetie, I ain't never heard it called that before."

After the breakfast shift was over, Araminta ran her usual review. This time it was different. This time her u-shadow contacted the agencies, which gave her virtual tours of the five most promising properties, using a full sense relay bot. On that basis, she made an appointment to visit one that afternoon.

As soon as she walked through the door, she knew it was right for her. The flat was the second floor of a converted three-story house in the Philburgh district. A mile and a half north of the dock and three blocks back from the river, with two bedrooms, it was perfect for someone working in the city center on a modest salary. There was even a balcony from which one could just see the Cairns if one leaned out over the railing.

She went through the official survey scan with the modern analysis programs recommended by half a dozen professional property development companies. It needed redecorating; the current vendor had lived there for thirty years and had not done much to it. The plumbing needed replacing; it would require new domestic units. But the structure was perfectly sound.

"I'll take it," she told the agent.