Our striking distance, that is. For all we knew Rorschach could have reached out and swatted us from the sky before we'd even left the solar system.

Sarasti gave the command from his tent. ConSensus carried his voice into the drum as Theseus coasted to apogee: "Now."

Jack had erected a tent about itself, a blister glued to Rorschach's hull and blown semi-taut against vacuum with the merest whiff of nitrogen. Now it brought lasers to bear and started digging; if we'd read the vibrations right, the ground should be only thirty-four centimeters deep beneath its feet. The beams stuttered as they cut, despite six millimeters of doped shielding.

"Son of a bitch," Szpindel murmured. "It's working."

We burned through tough fibrous epidermis. We burned through veins of insulation that might have been some sort of programmable asbestos. We burned through alternating layers of superconducting mesh, and the strata of flaking carbon separating them.

We burned through.

The lasers shut down instantly. Within seconds Rorschach's intestinal gases had blown taut the skin of the tent. Black carbon smoke swirled and danced in sudden thick atmosphere.

Nothing shot back at us. Nothing reacted. Partial pressures piled up on ConSensus: methane, ammonia, hydrogen. Lots of water vapor, freezing as fast as it registered.

Szpindel grunted. "Reducing atmosphere. Pre-Snowball." He sounded disappointed.

"Maybe it's a work in progress," James suggested. "Like the structure itself."

"Maybe."

Jack stuck out its tongue, a giant mechanical sperm with a myo-optical tail. Its head was a thick-skinned lozenge, at least half ceramic shielding by cross-section; the tiny payload of sensors at its core was rudimentary, but small enough for the whole assembly to thread through the pencil-thin hole the laser had cut. It unspooled down the hole, rimming Rorschach's newly-torn orifice.

"Dark down there," James observed.

Bates: "But warm." 281°K. Above freezing.

The endoscope emerged into darkness. Infrared served up a grainy grayscale of a — a tunnel, it looked like, replete with mist and exotic rock formations. The walls curved like honeycomb, like the insides of fossilized intestine. Cul-de-sacs and branches proliferated down the passage. The basic substrate appeared to be a dense pastry of carbon-fiber leaves. Some of the gaps between those layers were barely thick as fingernails; others looked wide enough to stack bodies.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Szpindel said softly, "The Devil's Baklava."

I could have sworn I saw something move. I could have sworn it looked familiar.

The camera died.

I couldn't say goodbye to Dad. I didn't even know where he was.

I didn't want to say goodbye to Helen. I didn't want to go back there. That was the problem: I didn't have to. There was nowhere left in the world where the mountain couldn't simply pick up and move to Mohammed. Heaven was merely a suburb of the global village, and the global village left me no excuse.

I linked from my own apartment. My new inlays—mission-specific, slid into my head just the week before—shook hands with the noosphere and knocked upon the Pearly Gates. Some tame spirit, more plausible than Saint Peter if no less ethereal, took a message and disappeared.

And I was inside.

This was no antechamber, no visiting room. Heaven was not intended for the casual visitor; any paradise in which the flesh-constrained would feel at home would have been intolerably pedestrian to the disembodied souls who lived there. Of course, there was no reason why visitor and resident had to share the same view. I could have pulled any conventional worldview off the shelf if I'd wanted, seen this place rendered in any style I chose. Except for the Ascended themselves, of course. That was one of the perks of the Afterlife: only they got to choose the face we saw.

But the thing my mother had become had no face, and I was damned if she was going to see me hide behind some mask.

"Hello, Helen."

"Siri! What a wonderful surprise!"

She was an abstraction in an abstraction: an impossible intersection of dozens of bright panes, as if the disassembled tiles of a stained-glass window had each been set aglow and animated. She swirled before me like a school of fish. Her world echoed her body: lights and angles and three-dimensional Escher impossibilities, piled like bright thunderheads. And yet, somehow I would have recognised her anywhere. Heaven was a dream; only upon waking do you realize that the characters you encountered looked nothing like they do in real life.

There was only one familiar landmark anywhere in the whole sensorium. My mother's heaven smelled of cinnamon.

I beheld her luminous avatar and imagined the corpus soaking in a tank of nutrients, deep underground. "How are you doing?"

"Very well. Very well. Of course, it takes a little getting used to, knowing your mind isn't quite yours any more." Heaven didn't just feed the brains of its residents; it fed off them, used the surplus power of idle synapses to run its own infrastructure. "You have to move in here, sooner better than later. You'll never leave."

"Actually, I am leaving," I said. "We're shipping out tomorrow."

"Shipping out?"

"The Kuiper. You know. The Fireflies?"

"Oh yes. I think I heard something about that. We don't get much news from the outside world, you know."

"Anyway, just thought I'd call in and say goodbye."

"I'm glad you did. I've been hoping to see you without, you know."

"Without what?"

"You know. Without your father listening in."

Not again.

"Dad's in the field, Helen. Interplanetary crisis. You might have heard something."

"I certainly have. You know, I haven't always been happy about your father's—extended assignments, but maybe it was really a blessing in disguise. The less he was around, the less he could do."

"Do?"

"To you." The apparition stilled for a few moments, feigning hesitation. "I've never told you this before, but—no. I shouldn't."

"Shouldn't what?"

"Bring up, well, old hurts."

"What old hurts?" Right on cue. I couldn't help myself, the training went too deep. I always barked on command.

"Well," she began, "sometimes you'd come back—you were so very young—and your face would be so set and hard, and I'd wonder why are you so angry, little boy? What can someone so young have to be so angry about?"

"Helen, what are you talking about? Back from where?"

"Just from the places he'd take you." Something like a shiver passed across her facets. "He was still around back then. He wasn't so important, he was just an accountant with a karate fetish, going on about forensics and game theory and astronomy until he put everyone to sleep."

I tried to imagine it: my father, the chatterbox. "That doesn't sound like Dad."

"Well of course not. You were too young to remember, but he was just a little man, then. He still is, really, under all the secret missions and classified briefings. I've never understood why people never saw that. But even back then he liked to—well, it wasn't his fault, I suppose. He had a very difficult childhood, and he never learned to deal with problems like an adult. He, well, he'd throw his weight around, I guess you'd say. Of course I didn't know that before we married. If I had, I—but I made a commitment. I made a commitment, and I never broke it."

"What, are you saying you were abused?" Back from the places he'd take you. "Are—are you saying I was?"