VI

It’s a beautiful fucking morning here on Stein’s Rock. One of those too-beautiful mornings when the raw sunlight hits the filter bank just right and the resulting rays are better than you’d get with an atmosphere, huge 3D angelic shafts of solid radiance jutting down from the central skylight and giving the whole facility the look of a music video set in Heaven.

Below him, the vast plaza resembles nothing more than a movie set in the early stages of setup (the music video’s still in production, perhaps). A mostly empty floor dotted with outcroppings where vigorous little figures swarm about half-built structures. A place where ideals are converted into substance, where dreams do come true—as they do anywhere there is a hand, and a will sufficient to move it.

Hector Stein’s hands are motionless, now, but not from any weakness of will. He is letting the morning wash over him. He’s finishing his customary breakfast of instant ramen in energy-drink broth (a delicacy he urges all to try—yes you too—though few have dared). He is getting amped, and getting amped is something Hector Stein takes very seriously.

A beautiful fucking morning. Three energy drinks worth of caffeine and ox bile extract and god-knows-what-else surging through his hepatic veins. Damian Marley on the speakers (searching for the sign and the sign is us—searching for the truth all you find is us—). On the desk before him, all the sigils of his self-made self: empty ramen containers, great disheveled stacks of paper, technical illustrations in which rectangles of furiously black ink house blazing red circles. Way off to the left is his trusty original copy of Chester Chrestomath and the Moon Medallion, its cover tattered and torn, its already bulky 622 pages bulging awkwardly against themselves, wavy and rigid from water damage.

His room—do not call it an “office,” please—sits on a raised platform embedded in the high sheer bulkhead. It has three walls but not a fourth, so he can look out over his desk upon the plaza below. Before this asteroid had been Stein’s Rock it had been the site of a scientific research station, and the walls still have the pragmatic ugliness of the original design, all bulky white overlapping rectangles, exposed rivets and wires. But Stein’s put up some decorations, at least.

There, on the left wall, is the monochrome photo of Tsung-Dao Lee, rasterbated to gigantic size and crudely edited so it looks like he’s flipping the bird. And to his right, there’s one of the many posters featuring Stein himself accompanied by a slogan. On this one, an imperious Stein points directly at the viewer like Lord Kitchener. Above him in red block letters is the word

COMMUNICATE

and below him, smaller block letters read

BECAUSE NO ONE KNOWS WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE THINKING!

Among all such posters, this one is Stein’s favorite, which is why he’s given it pride of place here. He sees it every day, but seeing it now, with the sunlight splashing a golden gradient across it, he feels a thrill run through him. Good, he thinks, good, he needs this, needs it to stay with him even through all the dismal shit-shoveling and shamefaced hiding that makes up the bulk of the Stein’s Rock lifestyle—yes, even for him, because no way Hector Stein is ever going to let himself grow soft upon his throne as his people do all the dirty work, no, he prides himself on doing a bit of it all himself, yes perhaps just as a symbolic gesture but symbols have power, and—yes!—“symbols have power” has power, because we are bilaterals and we can take just one thing and see the whole within it, and as Marley’s sign-train blares

Soldiers and police dem wising up, realizing they’re no more right than us—Realizing there’s no use fighting us—Realizing they’re opening their eyes to see the same demoralizing life as us—

all at once Hector Stein sees in these words the whole of Angel Squadron and knows that yeah, he’s good and fucking amped.

“Good morning, Stein’s Rock!” he yells over the PA.

From the plaza floor, a diffuse and poorly synchronized but spirited reply: “Good morning, sir!”

So, then. What’s this morning’s first order of business? Stein glances at a ramen-stained legal pad filled with his angular shorthand. But before he can get his bearings, he is interrupted by a flashing amber light on his desk-mounted switchboard. Someone’s here to see him.

Stein feels a twitch of irritation at the distraction. But he suppresses it. He leaves himself open to visitors for a reason. (COMMUNICATE!) If one of his people abuses this privilege, that is between him and that individual; otherwise, his ears must remain open, without prejudice. (BECAUSE NO ONE KNOWS WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE THINKING!)

He taps the button beneath the flashing light, which abruptly cuts Marley off and leaves the room in silence.

“Who is it?”

“Angel Squadron Sgt. A Particular Ice Crystal In A Cirrus Cloud Above Morden Park, London, At A Time Between 5:43 AM And 5:44 AM On September 7, 1725, sir, wishing to consult with you briefly about three matters requiring your official judgment, sir.”

That’s an Angel Squadron name all right, Stein thinks. Early on, there had been attempts to get the Angels to use abbreviations, but this was one of the many things that made them so uncomfortable as to interfere with their duties. The names, like so much else, could be easily tolerated, for it was a miracle that the Angels were here at all.

“Understood. Come in, Sergeant.”

Stein swivels his chair 180 degrees to face the opening door. Before him is a short, hobbitish man clad in the biker jacket and chaps that comprise the Angel Squadron uniform. A great mop of curly red-brown hair frames his pudgy, pock-marked face. He looks uneasy in that way Angels always look uneasy, like he’s overwhelmed by having so many muscles that can be moved in so many different ways, most of them ill-advised.

“What do you have for me, Sergeant?”

“Three things, sir. In which order shall I relate them to you, sir?”

“I can’t tell you that until I know what the things are, Sergeant, and I won’t know that until you relate them.”

“Then we are at an impasse, sir.”

Stein sighs indulgently. It’s a miracle they’re here at all, he reminds himself. He fumbles around in a mental attic for a moment, looking for the right words, the ones least likely to lead them further into the brambles of semantics.

“Tell me the one you learned about first.”

“Of course, sir. Approximately four hours ago, I was told that the Stein’s Rock Players are unsure whether they can prepare this year’s Celebratory Concert on schedule.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“I was told that one of the soloists has pneumonia, sir.”

“That’s a shame. But my concert will happen on schedule, pneumonia or no pneumonia.”

“Certainly, sir. But the Players would like your advice on how to proceed. The soloist in question has the highest vocal range on the Rock, and a crucial aria had been written for her specifically. The Players, sir, are especially concerned about the role of this aria in the emotional arc of the entire composition. Were she to be replaced by a less skilled performer—”

“Forget it. If we can’t do what we planned, we won’t settle for a pale imitation. Pick a new performer and write a new aria.”

“I will relate your instructions to the Players, sir. But in light of what I have been told about the significance of this aria, I expect they will have trouble selecting a vocalist with the requisite talent.”

“Talent is one way to make an impact, but not the only one. How about we do something new, something shocking? How about you sing the aria?”

“I cannot sing, sir.”

“Well, you’d better learn!”

“The aria, as currently written, celebrates the daring spirit of a bilateral in lone rebellion against her crash. With all due respect, sir, I do not see how I, not being a bilateral at all, could capture this spirit.”

“Then don’t. Capture your daring spirit.”

“Is my spirit daring, sir?”

“Tell me, Sergeant. How did you come to join the Squadron?”

“Defection, sir. I had been sent as a procedural shade to CC-Crash 03β, and my eyes were opened through dialogue with an agent of Whisper Squadron, whose persistent patience in the face of my shadely obstinance still fills me, sir, with an awe verging on disbelief.”

Hector Stein has a whole repertoire of specific facial and bodily gestures he can call up on demand, as if pressing buttons on a rhetorical soundboard. He now activates one of his favorites, a downward tilt of the head that automatically intensifies his gaze, accompanied by a very slight smile, a smile of mastery, just one shade of benevolence away from being a sneer.

“So you became a traitor to your people. Discarded everything you had known, and been. In the name of a belief.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Sounds like you’ve got plenty of daring spirit.”

“I take your meaning, sir.”

“Good. I can’t wait to hear your aria.” Stein actually rubs his hands together in excitement, here, and this gesture’s not from the soundboard, it’s fully spontaneous and surprises even him. “Now, what was the second thing you came to tell me?”

“Another journalist wants an interview with you, sir. I’ve looked into him, and his prestige rating on the social web is 97th percentile. He’s willing to meet all our security requirements and appears equipped to do so.”

Stein suppresses a laugh. “Is he an idiot?”

The Angel’s discomfort ratchets up a perceptible notch. “I am . . . I am sorry, sir. I have tried, with unflinching effort, to find a path which beg- . . . excuse me, I mean, to understand this sign, ‘idiot,’ as used by you, sir, but I confess that my efforts are ongoing and inconclusive.”

“Don’t worry about it.” From the soundboard, a reassuring brush of the hand, a minute relaxation of the shoulders that bumps Stein’s vibe a few percentage points towards chill. “Any idea what he wants to talk to me about?”

“He mentioned your erstwhile association with the infamous Geometric Brotherhood, sir.”

“He’s an idiot. Might be worth it for optics, but I’m too fucking busy. Tell him I politely decline, convey my best regards et cetera et cetera.”

Hector Stein has been actively seeking out unsavory associates for longer than he can remember. Occasionally they are actually useful. But useful or useless, they always swell Stein’s reservoirs of squid ink, to be squirted whenever the need arises. If you set out to dig up dirt on Hector Stein, you will find an embarrassment of riches—a hundred sordid trails to follow, a hundred different blemishes on Stein’s reputation to be investigated, analyzed, pored over for hints as to the dark truth behind the luminous facade of Stein’s Rock. A hundred dead ends, which will keep the best and brightest distracted and oblivious forever, while in the meantime Stein keeps on doing the same damn thing he’s been doing this whole time.

“Of course, sir.”

“So about that third thing you’re here for.”

On the Angel’s face, a whole new flavor of discomfort. “Well, sir,” he begins, and then his eyes glaze over with the effort of condensing into sign-train some particularly ineffable blob of Angelic thought-fluid.

“We now occupy one vertex of a spacelike-path-connected triad of . . . sorry, um . . . there has been an . . . an unexpected conjunction of events.

“Half an hour ago, we received a transmission from Earth. The Wolf Squadron unit there is reporting operational success. Their latest metrics indicate rapid thawing activity in the Project Mooncrash facility.”

“Fuck yeah!” Stein bellows, his fist raised in victory, and while all of this is standard soundboard material, Stein’s so amped right now that the distinction between Stein the man and Stein the myth, between rallying the troops and rallying the self, has all but melted away. “We did it! We fucking did it! The crash that can’t be thawed, they said, and we fucking thawed it.”

“Indeed, sir. But there is a . . . complication. We have also just received news of an unexpected outbound request from another crash. This request used highly privileged credentials and was . . . sir, the request was accepted, and resulted in a communication call that lasted 33 seconds before the other end hung up.”

“That wasn’t us, was it?”

“No, sir.”

“Then how the hell did they get those credentials?”

“That’s the thing, sir. The credentials were your own. The request came from CC-Crash 09μ. Your origin crash.”

In moments like these Stein is a maestro at the soundboard, and in this one he chooses to appear coolly alert, a sleek predator in his element. Behind this facade, as always, is a landscape dense with underbrush, with hidden nooks and trails. One such trail ends in a shadowy grotto hiding a deep pool, usually stagnant. Now it roils, as long unused memories burble to its surface.

“Any news on the response?”

“No, sir. But in my former life I was a part of such matters, and I expect there is by now an investigation, and it will almost certainly end in a decision to rebase the crash.”

“And,” Stein says, “I imagine it will not escape their notice that a certain Hector Stein is still at large after ascending from that very crash, and just might have something to do with the incident that just happened on Earth.”

“I have heard that very concern voiced many times this morning, sir.”

“Fuck,” Stein mutters, his eyes downcast and perplexed. (This too is soundboard. In the grotto, whorls of muck arrange themselves into lithe, purposeful currents.)

“Do we know anything,” he says at last, “about the person who sent the request?”

“We have ID, sir. Never heard of her before. As far as we know, just another crashed bilateral among billions.”

The little almost-sneer smile again. “You know, I’d love to see that place again. They’ve always been my Ells, those ones, you know.”

“Sir! Do you mean to say you’re going to . . . what do they call it . . . ‘do your Morpheus thing’? In CC-Crash 09μ?”

The motley crew of Stein’s Rock have never been able to resist this turn of phrase, not least because Hector Stein does look eerily like Laurence Fishburne.

“I just might. You know what, I just might.”