I circulate discreetly, a goblet of viscous red liqueur in one gloved hand, trying to keep my elaborate costume from sweeping up any of the smaller partygoers, eyes hidden behind a diamond-rimmed mask. In the bangles dangling from my earlobes I carry concealed cameras and signal-processing equipment. Jeeves sent me to follow up a rumor that She is holding a meeting here today. There are cabals and conspiracies among the aristos, for although the intricate political system of our Creators withholds from us the status of active participants (and thus is stalled, deadlocked and silent in the absence of even a minimal quorum for any of the hundred legislatures they bequeathed us), the dance of politics proceeds by other means, savage and knife-silent. I’m here tonight to see as much as a minor aristo like the honorable Katherine Sorico might be allowed to glimpse of certain plans — which is somewhat ironic, but I really oughtn’t to think too hard about that while I’m wearing my soul chip.

Over here I pass a string quartet, sawing away at their instruments with dogged persistence. (I try not to wince. Even moody Freya with her hurdy-gurdy would be an improvement over these poor damned souls; arbeiter musicians, enslaved by an override chip, can’t help but broadcast their despair when they play.) Over there, a fire-eater juggles blazing oxygen candles while reeling on a unicycle. I pass a gaggle of munchkins bundled up in silk and fullerene lace, loudly placing bets on a pair of slowly circling slaves who reluctantly slice strips from one another with blunt flaying knives. This I try to ignore. It would do them no good — and my mission, less — to vent my rage on these braying ruffians. Besides, I remind myself, if the Black Talon really is trying to organize a puppet show, we’re all in the same ring as those slaves—

(Black Talon? that corner of me that is Freya wonders confusedly. Jeeves mentioned them… )

I’m so busy ignoring the butcher’s floor that I walk straight into another partygoer who is seemingly likewise preoccupied. I trip on the hem of my fancy-dress gown, and plant my face on the shoulder of his black velvet frock coat. He catches my hand before I realize I’m holding a goblet, and I blink and realize he’s holding me upright. “Why, hello,” he says, with a faint smile: “I must apologize—”

“I’m sorry—” I begin—

Then I look into the eyes behind his mask and smell his skin, and time stands still.

… AND I OPEN my eyes reluctantly, back in my own head in the aristo lounge of Barsoom liftport. “Ten minutes to boarding, mistress,” says the timid waitron, retreating back to the niche by the door. I nod, too tired to care. Who do I think I’m kidding? I ask myself. Running to Barsoom; changing my clothes, my face, my name at every stop; obeying orders to meet a strange employer, half-glimpsed through secondhand memories, on Callisto? Meanwhile, my real life rots in self-inflicted neglect, my arm’s-length relationship with my sibs is punctuated by increasingly long silences, my few real friends are scattered across the inner solar system… I was a fool, back on Venus, I think bitterly. The voyage to Jupiter will take months, at best — years, if not. And what for? I don’t really know what Jeeves is up to, although I am haunted by disturbingly political memories. And there’s Emma with her scandalous talk of an inner circle within our sisterhood, and Juliette’s strange memories of cloak and dagger, and Jeeves with his fears of infiltration, and these Black Talon people who seem to think I hold a piece of the puzzle…

Almost without noticing, I find I’m calling up my mail-drop service and supplying my own unveiled authenticators: Freya Nakamichi- 47 wants to talk. Can anybody hear me? I’ll be out of here in ten minutes, I rationalize, and then I’ll be gone.

Six new letters, three with imagos attached, download themselves into my pad. Then a blinking red-rimmed warning comes up. ATTENTION UNAUTHORIZED USER. Huh? I wonder. USER ID REVOKED. CORPORATION #468724572103 DECLARED BANKRUPT PURSUANT TO CIVIL CLAIM…IN LIQUIDATION… ASSETS SUBJECT TO SEIZURE.

The court order pulses at me and I disconnect convulsively, my skin cold and clammy with fear. What on Earth? I quickly check my current name, but it’s clean. I shudder and stand up. Numinous dread fills me. Civil claim. Bankruptcy. My legal personhood has been suspended. Someone wants to own me, I realize. But who and why? Who would do that to me? I shudder again, biomimetic reflexes winning out. Someone wants to take me by force…

THE SUBORBITAL HOP doesn’t take long: a minute of acceleration, then free fall for almost four thousand kilometers, terminated by a hammering pulse of deceleration and touchdown on a smoking concrete pad ten kilometers outside Barsoom. It’s almost noon, and we’re entering the long Martian summer, so I catch the tube halfway into town and walk the rest of the way. (Or rather, I bounce.) When I arrive, I’ve switched identities and outfits again — back to good-time-girl Kate.

Barsoom is a one-locomotive town surrounded by atmosphere plantations, ore-extraction facilities, and the remains of a huge, abandoned terraforming complex. It has seen better days, as has the cheap dive I check myself into. The Barsoom Ibis was probably once a refined center of upmarket accommodation, but with the increasing tendency of aristos to entertain their own at home, it has had to hold its nose and take what it can get. I ghost unseen past the decaying finery in the lobby and trudge up an empty seventh-floor corridor toward my underfurnished, peeling-walled room.

In my room, I remove my eye turrets, use the ultrasonic cleaner, purge my waste bladder, and settle down to work. Meet me on Callisto, says Jeeves? That’s easier said than done. (Especially as someone’s just tried to legally enslave me, one of my selves is screaming in the back of my head.)

A quick search of the shipping pages reveals the depressing truth. Mars to Jupiter demands a whole load of delta vee; a straightforward Hohmann transfer orbit — the cheapest — takes three and a half years, and the launch window only opens up about once every Martian year, just under once every two Earth years. Even worse, Mars and Jupiter are nearing opposition right now, adding nearly four astronomical units — 600 million kilometers — to the high-delta-vee flight path, so the normally fast M2P2 magsail ships spend a good part of their voyage tacking against the solar wind. You can get it down to just a year, if you’ve the money to pay for passage on a fast VASIMR liner — but the mass ratio is so poor that you’ll want to make the trip in hibernation; for every kilogram that arrives, twenty set off. On anything faster than a Hohmann transfer, the excess baggage charges are so monstrous that travelers have been known to amputate their limbs before departure and buy new ones on arrival. Finally, then, there are the nuclear rockets, but they’re out of my price range; I’m not a millionaire.

I check ticket prices for someone of my mass, out of idle curiosity. If I was Daks, it’d be affordable, but every way I plan the trip, I end up sixteen thousand Reals over budget. I could make the figures line up if I ditched an arm as well as both legs, but a quick check of body-shop prices tells me I’d only be able to afford a hook and a pair of cheap caterpillar tracks at the other end. Resigned, I save the calculations for later.

It’s still early afternoon, but the fun and games of running all night have really taken it out of me — on top of the damage I sustained when that little shit Stone tagged me at the museum. I call room service for a pile of tasty feedstock (being careful how I answer the door, this time!), then lock myself in, lie down on the bed, and gingerly enter deepsleep maintenance mode.