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invisible, so they sat in lazy chairs above nothing, in silence with the sky above. John took the controls with sure hands and they lifted off, hovering slowly, and then zooming faster and faster towards the blurring sky, to burst through the electric beat of the cloud shear, and mingle among the stars.

3. A Vertigo of Stars
    They flew above the roil of black smog, so high it seemed like on tippy toes the stars could just be touched. The color in the night sky had been a shock, and now too the motion, the twinkle and tear-drop flashes of shooting stars—rare and wondrous on the feeds, but now so common Saru had run out of things to wish for. There was music there in that sky, in those billion lights so still and frenzied at once, and she could hear the light as it sang out, each point with its own voice, some blue and clear, or low and red, and all in harmony. Looking down at the endless smear of gray, she saw the Earth was in a prison, cut off from the light, and motion, and music of the universe. And she wondered if it was a prison of fear, because the music was loud and there was so much, and though it was beautiful it was not nice or easy or catchy like a Pop40 tune. Or if it was a prison of laziness—smoke sent up to the heavens, infinite until they filled, and then there was no better place to put the smoke. Or if it was simply the natural way of things, that a planet wrapped itself in filth to hide from the rest, like a possum limping off to die alone.
    The plane had a bar, a luxurious bar with cute mini bottles that Saru suspected were made of real diamond, and the vodka within was so smooth and sweet it was like drinking diamonds themselves. Saru took a long gulp before confronting the Gaesporan, tilting back the bottle and emptying it, relishing those final drops of perfection. Her vision swam nicely.
    “Your name’s John?” Saru asked.
    “An interesting question,” the Gaesporan said. “It was John. Maybe it’s different now. But call me John.”
    This was off to a bad start.
    “Hi, John,” Saru said, lolling into a dumb smile. “I’m Maggie.”
    “You may conclude your deceit,” John said. “I know you are Saru Solan. You reek of violence.”
    “Oh?” Saru said. “You don’t smell so great yourself.” Her hand travelled to the hilt of the sword. John followed the movement out of the corner of his eye.
    “There is no need for that,” he said, archly. “I wish you no harm.”
    “I’ve heard that before,” Saru said. “And the funny thing is afterwards I always wind up almost getting killed. So, John. How do you know my name?”
    “I belonged to the Gaespora,” John said.
    “And you think that’s an answer?”
    “Please,” John said. “You share a margin with a God. You know how we plumb their mysteries. I have dreamt of your face. I have heard your music in the stars. I know everything and nothing about you. The Gods speak plainly. But they speak in the language of Gods. It is the burden of mortals to divine their meaning.”
    “That’s some damn convenient bullshit,” Saru hissed. “Did you see my name on a feed?”
    “No.”
    “My face?”
    “No.”
    “No mentions at all?”
    “I have seen you in no feeds, letters, telegrams, palimpsests, urns, icons, or facsimiles,” John said. “You are known to me as you are known to the shared consciousness of my erstwhile brethren, through the being that lives within you. I felt that you were a worshipper of SaialqlaiaS, the so-called Blue God, and I searched the shared memory of the Gaespora and found your name as it was remembered by the one who speaks for us in Philadelphia, whom you know as ElilE. I learned that you had dealt with the Gaespora before, and vexed them to no end.”
    “And what else did you learn, huh?”
    “Little else. You see, I am no longer of the Gaespora. You freed me.”
    “I freed you?” Saru said, liking this less and less.
    “In effect,” John said, evenly, flat voice, expression flat—and then