John grabbed at the heavy Abaca hemp of the net and climbed; it was easy, compared to the obstacle courses at school. Jeffrey followed in an awkward scramble, all elbows and knees.
“It’s just a rock,” he said in disappointment, peering through the sprung panels.
“No, it’s a meteorite,” John said.
The lumpy rock was about a meter across, suspended in an elastic cradle in the center of the crate. It hadn’t taken any damage when the net dropped—unlike a keg of brandy, which they could smell leaking—but then, from the slagged and pitted appearance, it had survived an incandescent journey through the atmosphere. John was surprised that it was being sent to the museum; meteorites were common. You saw dozens in the sky, any night. There must be something unusual about this one, maybe its chemical composition. He reached through and touched it.
“Sort of cold,” he said. Not quite icy, but not natural, either. “Feel it.”
Jeffrey stretched a long thin arm through the crack. “Yeah, like—”
The universe vanished.
* * *
Sally looked over her shoulder. Where was John? Then she saw him, scrambling over the cargo net with another boy. With Maurice’s son. She opened her mouth to call them back, then closed it. It’s important that they get along. Maurice hadn’t made a formal proposal yet, but . . . She turned back.
Karl had his witnesses to either side: his legal children, Heinrich and Gerta, adopted in the fashion of the Chosen. Heinrich was the son of a friend who’d died in an expedition to the Far West Islands; they were dangerous, and the seas between, with their abundant and vicious native life, even more so. The other had been born to Protégé laborers on the Hosten estates and christened Gitana. Karl had sponsored her; she was a bright active youngster and her parents were John’s nurse and attendant valet/bodyguard respectively.
Maria and Angelo stood at a respectful distance; their daughter ignored them. Ex-daughter; no Chosen were as strict as those Chosen from Protégé ranks. She was Gerta Hosten now, not Gitana Pesalozi.
A Chosen attorney exchanged papers with the plump little Santander consul, then turned to Sarah.
“Sarah Hosten, née Kingman, do you hereby irrevocably renounce connubial ties with Karl Hosten, Chosen of the Land?”
“I do.”
“Karl Hosten, do you acknowledge this renunciation?”
“I do.”
“Do you also acknowledge Sarah Hosten as bearing full parental rights to John Hosten, issue of this union?”
“Excepting that John Hosten may continue to claim my name if he wishes, I do.” Karl swallowed, but his face might have been carved from the basalt of the volcanoes.
“Heinrich Hosten, Gerta Hosten, Probationers-adoptee of the line of Hosten, do you witness?”
“We do.”
“All parties will now sign, fingerprint and list their geburtsnumero on this document.”
Sally complied, although unlike anyone born in the Land of the Chosen she didn’t have a birth-number tattooed on her right shoulderblade and memorized like her name. The ink from the fingerprinting stained her handkerchief as she wiped her hands.
The consul stepped forward. “Sarah Jennings Kingman, as representative of the Republic of Santander, I hereby officially certify that your lapsed citizenship in the Republic is fully restored with all rights and duties appertaining thereunto; and that your son John Hosten as issue of your body is accordingly entitled to Santander citizenship also. . . . Where is the boy?”
* * *
The universe vanished. John found himself in a . . . place. It seemed to be the inside of a perfectly reflective sphere, like being inside a bubble made of mirror glass. He tried to scream.
Nothing happened. That was when he realized that he had no throat, and no mouth. No body.
No body no body nobodynobody—
The hysteria damped down suddenly, as if he’d been slipped a tranquilizer. Then he became conscious of weight, breath, himself. For a moment he wanted to weep with relief.
“Excuse me,” a voice said behind him.
He turned, and the mirrored sphere had vanished. Instead he saw a room. The furnishings were familiar, and wrong. A fireplace, rugs, deep armchairs, books, table, decanters, but none of them quite as he remembered. A man was standing by a table, in uniform, but none he knew: baggy maroon pants, a blue swallowtail jacket, a belt with a saber; a pistol was thrown on the table beside the glasses. He was dark, darker than a tan could be, with short very black hair and gray eyes. A tall man, standing like a soldier.