It may be hard to concentrate when so many conflicting emotions and
physical processes are raking the biochemistry of the body. How
could I possibly remain calm when I had just been informed, in a
mere aside, that we were approaching Earth orbit? I was forced to
assume that the diminution that the MarkVI and I experienced
together had resulted in the telescoping, at least for us, of the journey
of a thousand sols that I had been anticipating - time enough, I had
supposed, to find some solution to my rash command to burn the
earth. But now, what was there? A mere 186 million mile loop around
the sun and we would be ready for near earth approach. What
fiendish plot did the LUCA have in mind? The encapsulation of a
CME? A suicide mission - the body of the vessel increased in mass to
equal Qomolongma - the LUCA itself the impactor, speeding to
ground zero at five times the velocity of a Winchester .233 Super
Short Magnum, that will usher in a new geological age? The
suppression of the Earth's magnetic field? Or something more
alarming still, something to sterilise the surface of the earth forever? I
lay on my kline in a state bordering on panic. I must have fidgeted or
otherwise caused some disturbance, for both the engineer and the
MarkVI directed frowning glances at me as if I were attempting to eat
potato crisps during a screening of La Grande Illusion. And now the
darkness within the triclinium deepened, I was aware of the default
model's heart beat, I became completely absorbed in her perceptions
and her thoughts.
The experience was uncinematic, at least in the seat and screen
sense. I, and I assume my fellow diners, was so completely
immersed in the subject's perceptions that I was, to all intents and
purposes, embodied in them, conscious of pressure changes,
squeaky shoes, motes of dust and the confused, flattering sounds
made by a roomful of fawning men in suits. Our presence
substantially increased the feminine representation in a peace
cabinet that was largely given to discussing war. It's amazing how
taking the monarchical role seriously can sharpen the concentration.
The memory of breakfast, a stiff oaten porridge with a little cream and
panela followed by a modest slice of barley toast with just a scraping
of Black Faced sheep's butter and a large chunky helping of pomelo
marmalade, was suppressed but nevertheless present as a
sustaining element throughout the formalities. This was a long way
from the daisy cutters and devil's chariots used at the mise-en-scene
