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Liberty’s original residents before they’d fled. No one knew where they’d gone, although it was believed that they had started another colony somewhere on Midland, across the East Channel from New Florida.
    Allegra was wondering how hard it might be to seek them out when she heard a mechanical sound behind her: servomotors shifting gears, the thin whine of an electrical power source. Then a filtered burr of a voice, addressing her in Anglo:
    “Pardon me, but are you Allegra DiSilvio?”
    She looked up to see a silver skull peering at her from within a black cowl, her face dully reflected in its ruby eyes. A Savant: a posthuman who had once been flesh and blood until he’d relinquished his humanity to have his mind downloaded into cyborg form, becoming an immortal intellect. Allegra detested them. Savants operated the starships, but it was surprising to find one here and now. And worse, it had come looking for her.
    “That’s me.” She put down her spoon. “Who’re you?”
    “Manuel Castro. Lieutenant governor of the New Florida Colony.” A clawlike hand rose from the folds of its dark cloak. “Please don’t get up. I only meant to introduce myself.”
    Allegra made no effort to rise. “Pleased to meet you, Savant Castro. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
    “Oh, now . . . no reason to be rude. I merely wish to welcome you to Coyote, make sure that all your needs are being met.”
    “Really? Well, then, you could start by giving me a place to stay. A house here in town would be fine . . . one room will do. And some fresh clothing . . . I’ve only got one other change.”
    “Unfortunately, there are no vacancies in Liberty. If you’d like, I canadd your name to the waiting list and notify you if something opens up. As for clothing, I’m afraid you’ll have to continue wearing what you’ve brought until you’ve tallied enough hours in public service to exchange them for new clothes. However, I have a list of work details that are looking for new employees.”
    “Thanks, but I’ll . . .” A new thought occurred to her. “Are there any openings here? I think I could give a hand in the kitchen, if they need some assistance.”
    “Just a moment.” Castro paused for a moment, his quantum-comp brain accessing data from a central AI. “Ah, yes . . . you’re in luck. The community kitchen needs a new dishwasher for the morning-to-midday shift. Eight hours per day, starting at 0600 and ending at 1400. No previous experience required. One and a half hours credit per hour served.”
    “When does it start?”
    “Tomorrow morning.”
    “Thank you. I’ll take it.” She turned back to her meal, yet the Savant made no move to leave. It patiently stood behind her, its body making quiet machine noises. Allegra dipped her spoon into the foul stew, waited for Castro to go away. All around her, the table had gone silent; she felt eyes upon her as others watched and listened.
    “From your records, I understand you had a reputation back on Earth,” Castro said. “You were known as a musician.”
    “Not exactly. I was a composer. I didn’t perform.” Looking straight ahead, she refused to meet his fathomless glass eyes.
    Another pause. “Ah, yes . . . so I see. You wrote music for the Connecticut River Ensemble. In fact, I think I have one of your works. . . .”
    From its mouth grille, a familiar melody emerged: “Sunrise on Holyoke,” a minuet for string quartet. She’d written it early one winter morning when she’d lived in the foothills of the Berkshires, trying to capture the feeling of the dawnlight over the Holyoke range. A delicate and ethereal piece, reconstructed in electronic tonalities by something that had given up all pretense of humanity.
    “Yes, that’s mine. Thank you very much for reminding me.” She glanced over her shoulder. “My stew’s getting cold. If you don’t mind . . .”
    The music abruptly ended. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t do it