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began as an insult used by the captains. But the insult was stolen by the unexpected culture, becoming their own proud name.
    A Remora never left his lifesuit. From conception until his eventual death, he was a wor ld onto himself, elaborate recycl e systems giving him water and food and fresh oxygen, his suit belonging to his body, his tough genetics constantly battered by the endless flux of radiations. Mutations were common on the hull, and cherished. What's more, a true Re mora learned to direct his mutations, rapidly evolving new kinds of eyes and novel organs and mouths of every nightmarish shape.
    Wune died early, and she died heroically.
    But the prophet left behind thousands of belie vers. They invented ways to make children, and eventually they numbered in the millions, building their own cities and artforms and passions and, Miocene presumed, their own odd dreams. In some ways, she had to admire their culture, if not the individual believers. But as she watched Orleans piloting the skimmer, she wondered — not for the first time — if these people were too obstinate for the ship s good, and how she could tame them with a minimum of force and controversy.
    That's what Miocene was thinking when the coded message arrived.
    They were still a thousand kilometers from Port Erinidi, and the message had to be a test. Black level; Alpha protocols? Of course it was a test!
    Yet she followed the ancient protocols. Without a word, she left Orleans, walking to the back of the cabin and closing the lavatory door, scanning the walls and ceiling, the floor and fixtures, making sure that not so much as a molecule-ear was present.
    Through a nexus-link buried in her mind, Miocene downloaded the brief message, and within her mind's eye, she translated it. No emotion showed on her face. She wouldn't let any leak out. But her hands, more h onest by a long ways, were wrestl ing in her long lap — two perfectly matched opponents, neither capable of winning their contest.
    The R EMORA delivered her to the port.
    Sensing the importance of the moment, Miocene tried to leave Orleans with a few healing words. 'I'm sorry,' she lied. Then she placed a hand on the gray lifesuit, its psuedoneurons delivering the feel of her warm palm to his own odd flesh.Then quietly and firmly, she added.'You made valid points.The next time I sit at the Master's table, I'll do more than mention today's conversation. That's a promise.'
    'Is that what it's called?' said the blue tongues and rubbery mouth. 'A promise?' The obnoxious shit.
    Yet Miocene offered him a little stiff-backed bow, in feigned respect, then calmly slipped off into the port's useful chaos.
    Passengers were roiling into a tall capsule-car. They were an alien species, each larger than a good-sized room, and judging by their wheeled, self-contained lifesuits, they were a low-gravity species. She nearly asked her nexuses about the species. But she thought better of it, lowering her gaze and moving at a crisp pace, appearing distracted as she slipped between two of them, barely hearing voices that sounded like much water pushed through a narrow pipe.
    'A Submaster,' said her implanted translator.
    'Look, see!'
    'Smart as can be, that one!'
    'Powerful!'
    'Look, see!'
    Miocene's private cap-car waited nearby. She passed it without a glance, stepping into one of the public cars that had brought the aliens up to Port Erinidi. It was a vast machine, empty and perfect. She gave it a destination and rented its loyalties with anonymous credits. Once she was moving, Miocene removed her cap and her uniform, habit making her lay them out on top of a padded bench. She couldn't help but stare at the uniform, examining her reflection, her face and long neck borrowing the folds and dents of that mirrored fabric.
    'Look, see,' she whispered.
    She accessed command accounts set up by and known only to her. The compliant cap-car found itself with a seri es of new destinations and odd littl e jobs. Waiting at one