If that failed, according to Nejme, there was a coop daisy field not far away? Set up on the bulldozed remains of an old industrial warehouse, with the collection tower retrofitted into the old crane deck? The daisies were small, self-orienting parabolic dishes. Anyone could add one (for a fee). Anyone could buy power from the coop (for an even bigger fee). But the coop had not yet wired this neighborhood, and Michael had not wanted to bear the expense, personally, of a rooftop line? So the house was dependant upon the (thankfully low-maintenance) Stirling? So if it needed a part, maybe The Lads could run down to the souk and get it fabricated? And if not, maybe lug some backup cells down to the daisy field, and wave their TCM badges around?

No problem, said Asach, and sent the ecstatic Lads off for a day of mechanical engineering. Meanwhile, Asach returned to the roof. The early morning sun had broken over the horizon, and its shadow was slowly climbing an opposite wall. Asach moved out of what was soon to be the shadow of the parabolic collectors that fed the house Stirling and kitchen cooker, spread the cloak out flat on the deck, then unzipped the hood.

From within the collar, Asach pulled a thin wire, ending in a connector. Asach then inverted the hood, and jerked a toggle near what had been the throat tie. The hood, now with a shiny side out, snapped into a rigid, octagonal shape, with stays connecting each point to the center. From the cloak facing, Asach extracted what looked like a disjointed snake. Another tug on its end, and this became a rigid staff, about a meter long, which socketed neatly into the center back of the hood-parabola. From a pocket, Asach extracted a pencil-sized tripod, which worked to stand and stabilize the staff.

Then, from the cloak hem, Asach extracted four objects, each the size of two thick thumbs. These fit together to form a four-pointed star, with another short staff that socketed into the dish center. Asach sat cross-legged, plugged the wire into the base of the dish antenna, wiggled the tripod around so that the whole thing faced roughly the opposite horizon, and then pulled back a flap on the cloak, revealing a flat keypad below a flexible view screen. Fishing around in a pocket, Asach found two nano-clips. One snapped into place on the back of the hood-dish; the second just above the keypad.

Asach waited for the sun to clear the roof and power the solar cloak. It climbed slowly. Asach daydreamed, and wondered about all those things, on all those worlds, that were known and unknown.

For example: Asach knew what a duck-billed platypus was. Asach knew about its leathery beak, aquatic habits, mammalian kinship, and bizarre reproductive habits, including now-forgotten details of courtship and its near-uniqueness among mammals of laying leathery eggs. The egg-laying somehow loomed larger than their absolute uniqueness among mammals of possessing venomous—spines? The method of poison delivery had dimmed, but Asach was nonetheless sure of the fact, despite never actually having seen one of the creatures, now a millennium away on another, unvisited world.

Sure. With an absolute, stalwart, evangelical faith, of the existence and hard, objective reality of the duck-billed platypus. It was reassuring to know that, on a distant planet, in a touchable closeness of memory, there lived sleek, furry little mammals that might be cute, save for their toxic, egg-laying, leathery qualities.

That Asach knew this was at the same time immensely disturbing, because Asach did not know why. The how was easy: it was depicted in school texts; there were explanatory panels at zoos (not that Asach ever saw an actual platypus there, either); there had been video excursions to a sort of duck-billed platypus theme park, which Asach found most bizarre. But why? Of all the things of this galaxy that are known or knowable, why, in the end, was it so sure, and so certain, and so ensured that Asach knew of the duck-billed platypus? Was there some hidden institutional wisdom in teaching the truth and palpability of a bizarre little creature, based upon the evidence of things unseen?

Asach was not at all sure that the Empire was—that Asach was—at all doing the right thing, on the right path, in the right way, here. Asach was not at all sure that the Empire was not merely planting seeds of disappointment. Asach was not at all sure that they had not made a cascading series of enormous mistakes, ending up in a backwater of obscurity, with nothing much to show for the dislocation and travail but the evangelical depths of a montoreme faith. See the platypus, and believe: anything can happen. Anything often does. Insh’ Allah.

The sun broke. It crept lazily across the roof. Equally lazily, Asach waited for it to reach the cloak, rather than moving the cloak to greet it. At last, its warming rays crept out of the morning chill, each nano-cell embedded on the fabric sparkling for a nanosecond, then soaking the light into its black depths as the line of rosy light marched on.

Only when the entire cloak was basked in rapidly rising heat; only when the photovoltaics were pumping at full power, did Asach stir and rub on the keypad. A chart appeared. Asach tapped an icon, then took a bearing and tapped on a point at the hemline that was directly aligned to the sun. Another tap on the chart. Another tap on the cloak, this time in line with the setting chip of a moon. The moon was only a pathetic chip of an asteroid, but it glittered on the dawn horizon. Another tap. A pause. Then the fabric of the dish began writhing, as if it wished to twist off the tripod, reinvert, and rejoin the cloak. At last, it settled on an orientation, and a shape.

Asach unsnapped a ‘tooth from beside the keypad, and stuffed it into one ear. One more tap. An inaudible sound burped into the ether. It hurtled across the roof, away from the hill, away from Bonneville. It raced across scorched fields; past wastelands. It raced the sun across the plains, trying to beat the light to the horizon. It met the horizon; left the horizon; raced to the edge of atmosphere. Where Air met No Air, it bounced, just a little, and dragged down even further it plunged out of the sun’s reach altogether, into New Utah’s black shadow, sheeting through the ice of space. It was a tiny message. It was only one word. It was:

“[Ping!]”

The little composite sphere, left to drift alone for thirteen years, snapped awake from its reverie. Thirteen years, and an eon of technology later, it still knew what was wanted. It still knew what to do. It answered.

An agonizing second later, Asach laughed out loud at its cheery reply. It was: “[Ping!]”

Saint George, New Utah

Michael Van Zandt was not having a good day. Because he was having a bad day, he was having a bad tantrum for the benefit of the clerk at Orcutt Land & Mining. The office was hot and stuffy. City electricity was out again. It was incomprehensible to him why. People in Bonneville managed to keep their buildings cool. People in Pahrump managed to keep their buildings cool. He managed to keep his own house cool. So why was air conditioning out of the reach of Orcutt Land & Mining?

Zia sighed, and tried again. “Myneer Van Zandt, I cannot give you a receipt for deliveries that you have not made! If you—”

“Why is this so hard to grasp? Deliveries have been made. We stockpiled twenty-two kilos at your depot in Bonneville! The chit is—”

“Is not OLaM scrip! It is—”

“Not scrip, because it is not scrip! It’s a full-fledged promissory voucher, and—”

“It can be a full-fledged whatever you like, but it is not going to fly! I cannot validate a voucher issued by a contract buyer I’ve never heard of! If you needed—”