New Ground

The first thing I did when I arrived in Babel that morning, was to go down to the gallery pier to view the life pens for myself, to look upon the Makens wrapped in their Mirage Shrouds, their faces hidden behind ornate dust-masks, all the more mysterious in their anonymity. It gave me time to think about Cass’ letter, about Jon Palamar’s predicament, about why the tribes had chosen to issue Indictment against him like that.
Compared to the Construct auctions at Tern, or the great tribal menageries that were said to have once plied the inland trade routes, the Life Festivals that occurred every few years amongst the Coastal Towns were sad affairs, rare opportunities none-the-less for the tribal Bio-logis to flaunt and strut their organic effigies, their spurious imitations of True Life. What had begun as a closed event had become more open in recent years. Non-tribal interests, if not wholly approved of, were now accommodated, a token gesture aimed squarely at the Makens, allowing those gene-colonies and semi-political biology-collectives to participate in at least an illusion of inclusiveness.
If I was expecting greatness that morning, hoping perhaps that there would be something there that might prompt a rethink of the tribal position, I was to be disappointed. It was the usual tragic array, a carnival of genetic failures: Bedlamites, Quasi-modoes, Mad Jacks and Simple Bravos. None of the organisms there could be said to have conformed to recognised standards, although I took a secret joy from the fact that they existed at all, reminded myself that if the heady days of artificial life were to be rekindled then it began like this, with stumbles, with missteps, with experiments gone wrong.

Jon was a no-show at the spot on the pier where he had asked to meet. Instead, I wandered among the stalls and tents, watched the gene-weavers and meat-looms do their work, got talking to the vendor at the Fortune Teller’s booth.
“Someone’s outdone themselves,” the old man remarked.
“How so?” I said, “I haven’t seen much to inspire.”
He nodded over my shoulder. I followed his gaze, turned with the crowd just in time to see the first Heliotype lift silently over the houses, heard the crowd cry and cheer as a second appeared a moment later, edging its way along the headland from the direction of the Cemetery District, tracing the shoreline perhaps, building up the courage to leave the land, to slip out over the waves.
“To think they used to knock them from the sky,” the old man muttered, squinting as the strange forms crossed the sun, cast a shadow that travelled down the seafront like a phantom.
“It’s where the Snap Dragons of the kite festival come from,” I said,
“Another part of our culture that seems to have been bourn from violence. The Snag Wires, the grapples and plain old Ballistics, all instruments of denial.”
I marvelled at the way the organisms lifted over the terraces, taking pleasure from the thermals perhaps, finding a simple joy in the upward movement of warm air, such a basic tropism. There was no way to be certain. The Heliotypes were an old design, reminiscent of gliders or high altitude, remote aircraft with their slender, almost swan-like bodies and high aspect ratio wings. How they stayed aloft was a mystery, a secret left over no doubt from when such forms were allowed, encouraged even. They would only possess rudimentary instincts, a desire to find the thermals, to gain altitude, to follow the sun. That was all they seemed to need. In that respect they filled a biological niche, was all they could do.
“How long do you think they’ll last?”
I wondered. That they had made it this far without interference could only have been interpreted as luck, a sign perhaps that they had approached the coast without straying into Union airspace. I watched the crowd, saw the small congregations of tribal scientists, noticed the same look of excitement on their faces as there was on everybody else’s, knew that whilst there would be no immediate moves made against, the coming hours would be critical.
“If they manage to get out over the ocean, gain some height, I’d say they’d have a fairly good chance.” I said.
“Then what are they waiting for?”
“A companion?”
“You’d give them that much intelligence?”
I shook my head, “Intelligence no, but there are probably enough tropisms in there to allow for a certain amount of self preservation, a preference for safety in numbers. What matters is that somebody has re-established the form. Somebody has the talent.”
The two life forms arced gracefully overhead before moving off, not out over the ocean as I had hoped, but back towards the Cemetery District, towards Crypt Street perhaps, or the thick scrub land beyond. I stood, captivated, watched until they disappeared from view, descending beyond the curve of the bay towards Jamenta. A spontaneous round of applause sprang from the crowd at their passing, and I wondered if they had even registered the excitement they had caused, knew that despite their apparent adherence to the old templates, there was bound to be tribal protest, knew also that no Maken had produced these. Somebody else had performed the impossible. The quality betrayed a firmer hand, an artist’s vision, and I began to wonder if there was more to Jon’s condemnation than I had initially thought. Timing their release like this, it was exactly the sort of thing that he would have done.

When I got back to the hotel I found Jon’s younger sister, Cass, waiting for me in the lobby. I could tell that something was wrong. Her face was streaked with dried tears. She looked distraught.
“Thank God you’re here,” she cried.
“Jon didn’t show up.” I said.
I wasn’t expecting what she said next.
“He’s gone into hiding.”
“What?”
“He left the house two days ago and didn’t come back. Somebody tipped him off. The tribes were preparing to act.”
This was obviously more serious than I had realised. Usually it took the tribes several weeks to act on Indictment. I wondered exactly what it was that had aroused their anger, was prepared to accept that I already knew the answer, had already witnessed it out there on the pier.
We walked the short distance to the Seafarer’s inn, took a table on the sun balcony facing the sea. The morning seemed the wrong time for such a discussion. Sunlight gave the ocean a glistening edge, a patina of burnished silver. The seafront was studded with colour.
Cass remained quiet, her eyes fixed upon the water.
“You saw the commotion at the pier?” she muttered, “They’re his - the Heliotypes. I just know it.”
“There’s no proof yet.” I said.
“The tribes will have his head.”
“Not if he can prove that they’re a workable design. If he can get them recognised as True Life.”
Cass looked away, glanced nervously along the terrace, tried to bluster through the tears that were forming.
“Did he share the details of the Indictment with you?”
She shook her head, “You know what he’s like. He’s impossibly private about his work.”
“And you have no idea at all where he might have gone?”
“Somewhere safe, he said. I’m so worried. He’s been ill lately. If the tribes get hold of him…”
“Have you heard anything from them?”
To my relief, Cass shook her head. Usually, a seizure on grounds of Indictment was fairly swiftly followed by a demand for recompense. It was after-all, an overly stylised form of ransom, although some inland tribes were still known to favour bodily mutilation over monetary compensation. It all depended on the seriousness of the perceived slight. Would the illegal release of two bio-forms warrant such action? There was doubt enough to worry me.
Jon was a minor celebrity among the Coastal Towns, a celebrated Bio-logi, used to the increased scrutiny from the tribes that the role brought him. There was little doubt that he was something of a young idealist, but he was also a genius. It was he who had fought to have the remains unearthed at Craw Willow accepted as Standard Template forms, much to the ire of the Unions. The fact that he had also been partly responsible for developing the Corelates, those strange, immobile organisms that were often found infesting the Fossiltowns, made him a figure of some significance within the A.L. community, and something of a natural straw-man to those who followed the Life Laws with a puritanical zeal.
The fact that Cass had heard nothing made it less likely that the tribes were involved - less likely, but not entirely beyond the realms of possibility.

The festival celebrations began in earnest that evening, a curious mixture of carnival and Halloween, as much an acknowledgment of death as it was of life, a remembrance perhaps, a veneration of what had gone before, of what been taken from us.
Every door in the Byzantine sector was lit with a paraffin burner, a superstition harking back to a decades old belief amongst the desert people that the Life Programmes had let the unnatural loose upon the land, that those who practised bio-sculpting were little better than body-snatchers, come to disappear the weak, the old, the infirm. It was a conviction that could only be based upon a suspicion of outsiders, and was mostly now a subject of parody.
Masked figures stalked the lanes and alleyways leading down to the sea, clad in carnival outfits, fancy dress. Ghosts haunted the souks and squares, vaporous and ethereal in the darkness, Heavy Light tricks that concealed the wearers of Shift Suits. Dead men and monsters hugged the shadows, the nightmare visages of a thousand cultures.
The streets lay exposed to the moon, appeared to wind about themselves as in a skein, a spiral that could only lead to one point, an aleph within which all would be seen and understood.
At the Aquarium Terrace, all talk was on the strange visitors of that morning. Small groups of Makens, de-masked and pale in the corpse light, substantial now without their Mirage Shrouds, were involved in heated discussions with similar groups of Unionists. The night would be a time for promises and compromises, for recriminations if those things failed. The Makens would be aiming to release at least some of their bio-forms, seeking tribal endorsements, allowances that would enable their creations to stand. All of those things would come at a price. I felt a certain pity for them. Their show had been eclipsed by the work of another, whoever that may have been, and as a target for tribal anger they were highly visible.
Marrin Gilmore too had discovered a fascination in watching the little dramas of the evening unfold. Not quite my friend, not quite my enemy, never quite so bold enough to stray into either camp, I found him at his usual table, a votive candle sputtering before him, a nod in the direction of tradition. He was dressed in his trademark white suit, the very embodiment of the urbane businessman, an appearance that belied the dubious nature of his dealings. As a trader in Construct patents and registration documents, any disagreement between the tribes and the Makens would only serve to strengthen his position. His was a questionable trade at best, although one that the Coastal Authority had so far turned a blind eye to. No doubt, if negotiations with the tribes failed, the Makens would turn to him, hoping to gain some form of legitimacy for their genetic concepts, however tenuous. It was perhaps for that reason alone that he had set himself up as a spokesperson for their cause. Without Maken involvement in the festivals, his business would vanish.
“I knew I’d find you here.” I said.
Marrin didn’t blink, “A good businessman always stays one step ahead of possible threats.”
“Threats? This evening? What are you planning?”
He ignored the question, answered it with another, “They’re talking about issuing Complaint. Do you think they’ll go through with it?”
“They’d have a case,” I said, “The outcome would depend on what legal obstacles the Coastal Authority could put in their way.”
“Why am I not struck with confidence at the thought of that? Since when have legal obstacles ever prevented the tribes from doing anything?”
He had a point. The only real factor staying the tribal hand was public opinion, a possible weakening of their position. They would be biding their time, waiting for the right moment in which to act.
“When did you last see Jon Palamar?” I said.
Marrin smiled, “I wondered when his name would crop up in conversation.”
“He’s gone into hiding.”
“I’m not surprised. You know what the Makens are saying? They’re saying that he showed them up, humiliated them.”
“The tribes have issued Indictment.”
“Feelings are running high. He’s made a lot of friends this week. If I was him I’d hide and stay hidden until all of this has blown over.” He paused, “You want to know if he approached me to register the Heliotypes.”
I nodded.
“They’re illegal, unsustainable, un-reproductive, a drain on resources.”
“But you hold the patents anyway?”
Marrin smiled. “It’s so rare that we get anything solid to admire. Usually all we get are hints of brilliance, the seed of something great. Life laws or no, I’m all for illegal releases if the quality is of that standard.”
I marvelled at his obfuscation.
“It rarely is though, is it?” I said.
“You’re right. Usually the wretched things can hardly move to feed themselves. The patents weren’t supplied by Jon, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Oh?”
“A Maken’s colony.”
“People you know?”
He shook his head. “New Ground, they’re calling themselves. They contacted me via a solicitor’s office operating out of Jamenta.”
“Any names?”
“Of course not. We’re talking about an illegal release. They may be idealistic, but they’re not mad.”
“Since when have the Makens used solicitors in their dealings?”
Marrin shrugged, “Times change. There’s a first time for everything.”
I wondered if the tribes would see it that way. To them, the Makens were simply guests at the festival. It was only because the Unions had exercised discretion that they were able to show their creations at all. Any attempt to back that privilege up with legal declarations would only serve to exclude them further. This was a tribal game, adhering to tribal rules.
“What do you intend to do with your assets?” I said.
Marin shrugged, “The patents? Once the fuss has died down, I’ll have a contract drawn up, speak to those who express interest, farm the work out to the highest bidder.”
“So that’s why you’re here. This is a recruitment drive.”
“There are at least a dozen people over there who would give their left kidney to be involved with the Heliotypes. Just think, perhaps one day, you’ll see flocks of them above the terraces.”
I looked at him then, caught the votive flame’s glimmer in his eye, knew that despite that beguiling smile and an inability to answer a straight question, he was being impossibly serious. I thought of Jon, and for a second I didn’t know who to be more worried for.

The next morning brought only disappointment. A prevailing wind blew in from the ocean, making it unlikely that the Heliotypes would attempt a departure. To add to their misfortune, the tribes took the opportunity to register their Complaint. I heard the articles as they were read out at the Civic Centre. It was the usual list of clan grievances - introduction of an illegal bio-form, an unscheduled release, unendorsed and unauthorised by the tribes. The timing was undoubtedly deliberate. There was more than a good chance that the Heliotypes would make another appearance, and by timing their complaint, the tribes hoped that they would be granted permission to stage a Bring-down.

As expected, perhaps by chance, perhaps because even they were aware that they had already stayed too long, the two Heliotypes reappeared above the town again at 13:00, mysterious and aloof, tracing the street lines, angling and banking in the sunlight, garlanded with flocks of curious seabirds. Groups of children gathered on the beach, released tethered kites, an apparent attempt to catch the creatures’ attention. The Heliotypes appeared uninterested, unable to comprehend or simply unwilling. After three slow perambulations of the seafront they moved off, once again heading out towards the Cemetery District. I decided to follow them, knew that if the Coastal Authority was to succeed in preventing their destruction, I would have to find out where they were coming down. The moratorium Hatton had extracted from the Unions was fragile. Unless the bio-forms departed, every hour that passed made it more likely that it would be broken.
I took the indirect route out to the Cemetary District, walking the coastal path that wound its way around the bay before eventually climbing into the hills to become a maze of ancient steps and overgrown pathways, clogged with brambles and roots. Occasional clearings revealed the lonely sun terraces where phototrophic Ornamentals had once greeted each sunrise with keening song.
Beyond, the narrow lanes led out towards Crypt Street, Mausoleum Way, Dead End, all those frayed and decaying avenues of the town with names that betrayed the past in strange whispers.
The houses and shops lay sealed and shuttered, whitewashed and quick-limed, draped in tapestries of vegetation, home only to the mummified dead, interred in their caskets like little leathery pouches, and who knew who else. The Cemetery District was a town for the dead, an ossuary, almost overrun by the Old Districts not far to the West. What had begun as an overflow from Babel’s overcrowded, and frequently storm desecrated burial grounds had taken on a permanence of its own.
I saw the Heliotypes again as they crossed the rooflines over Sepulchre Road, knew then that I would lose them amongst the closed alleyways, the walled courtyards and hidden necropolis gardens that encircled the area, resolved to quicken my pace, took a shortcut through a series of abandoned allotments.
It was to be of no use. I caught one more glimpse of them as they circled beyond the tree line, a hint perhaps that they were preparing to land. Then they were gone.
I made my way back into town, determined to try again should the opportunity present itself.

That night, I ate with Marrin at his villa. The table at the bottom of his garden looked out over the ocean, over a horizon strung with the faint and distant lights from Fisher Boats, fireflies arranged along a wire.
Marrin had failed to find out anything about Jon’s whereabouts. The Unions were refusing to divulge anything and the Makens, although they knew Jon - could hardly have failed to - were saying nothing. There was a possibility that their ignorance was genuine, although part of me suspected they were still prickly with embarrassment at their humiliation, withholding information as part of some misguided form of protest.
I was still hopeful that Jon had foreseen the effects the Heliotypes would have had upon the festival - his Heliotypes if Cass was correct, and decided to put some distance between himself and the resulting storm of protest. Perhaps a check with the trade convoys or the airship services would reveal if he had actually left Babel.
Down in the town, the festival celebrations were continuing for a second night. Processions of Hurricane Lamps and Flash Harries weaved their way through the alleys and lanes, moving door-to-door, tiny patches of light amidst the labyrinthine darkness.
“So have you considered the feasibility of my plan?” Marrin said.
He lost me for a second.
“The Heliotypes. Do you think I’d be able to get them going again? Do you think the Makens have the technical know-how?”
I looked at him, still unsure that this wasn’t just idle evening talk.
“I didn’t say anything before,” I said, “because I wasn’t sure if you were serious.”
“Why on Earth wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you know the implications. The tribes would never stand for it. The Life Laws are complicated arrangements, hewn out of the bedrock of decades of disagreement. Heaven knows the Unions only tolerate the Life Festival because they are certain in their own ways that nothing the Makens produce will ever amount to anything.”
“You and I both know that’s untrue. Just look at the Heliotypes.”
“The Heliotypes are Jon’s, Marrin. They’re his latest project.”
“You don’t know that. Where’s the proof?”
“There is none. That’s why I’m dealing with a missing person instead of a dead body. There’s a status quo to uphold. That’s why the tribes are so upset. The Heliotypes represent a shift in the balance of power in the favour of the Coastal Authority, a shift that they can’t tolerate. Look at what happened to the Watchman Reserve. Look at what happened to Markus Tyson.”
“Markus was a brigand. You recognised that yourself. Tribal antagonism or no, it was his own selfish agenda that ultimately caused his downfall.”
“And you’re different.” I said, realised immediately the harshness in what I had said.
“Frankly, yes I am. I’ll work with the tribes. They’re free to come with me on this.”
“But they won’t. You must see that. They’re slaves to their own principles. They can’t allow exceptions to the Life Laws. There are facades to uphold.”
“Then they will have had their chance.”
“Such action will only threaten the stability of the festival. It was a struggle to get the tribes to open it up in the first place.”
“Oh come on,” Tony scoffed, “Surely you must see the inequalities. The Makens may have been invited to the ball, but they aren’t included on the business rosters. There are meetings going on this minute, gatherings in locked rooms in the hotels along the seafront, decisions being made on the future of the Artificial Life Programmes, on schedules, on acceptable geno-types, on release permissions. The Makens aren’t invited. They don’t have a vote, let alone a credible stake in the future of their interests. The double standards are obvious. Take the Union acceptance of sentient sea vessels for instance, and their vehement opposition to the Teknik movement. Or their approval of artificial fish species and their objection towards all land based Constructs.”
“I’m not denying there is a certain level of hypocrisy in their dealings,” I said, “but these things have to be taken one step at a time. Even you have to admit that the festival is freer now, more inclusive than it has ever been.”
“More inclusive?” Tony laughed.
“Developing an outlaw bio-form under their noses will only have a detrimental effect.” I continued, “They’ll withdraw Maken membership, maybe even abandon the festival altogether, take it underground in the way that it was years ago. You know, gatherings like this serve to provide us with more than fresh contracts, more than tribal cooperation. It allows us to keep an eye on what they’re up to. Are you willing to throw all of that away for a cause that can only fail?”
There was, of course, no credible answer that he could give to such a question. I left him a little later, despondent with what I saw, a familiar stubbornness that seemed to affect more and more among the Coastal Towns. I made my way back into town to mingle with the partygoers, the fancy-dressed and skeleton masked revellers, the ghosts in their suits of parlour trickery, the monsters I could understand.

Despite the frivolities of the previous night, the morning could only bring with it a renewed sense of seriousness that was immediately apparent when I made it down to the seafront.
A tribal convocation of over fifty Unionists, priests, acolytes and sycophants, had gathered on the beach, dressed in their ceremonial robes, their Kaftans and fighting suits. They were obviously there with the permission of their tribal elders, obviously there for a Bring-down. I saw weapons amongst them: sand Rifles, portable Concussion lances, antique ballistic pieces, ancient tribal tech, concealed, although not too thoroughly. Several tribes seemed to be represented. I recognised the colour patches, the snapper flags planted in the sand, made a mental note to commit them to memory should Hatton decide to press for sanctions. There was some solace to be had from the fact that the Coastal Authority had yet to give its permission for such a display, was still pinning its hopes on whatever arcane and forgotten by-laws the solicitors could dig up from the archives. It mattered little. This was a show of strength more than anything else, a deliberate ramping up of pressure.
A crowd had gathered along the seafront, already three or four deep. That would only increase if the Heliotypes chose to show themselves. I wondered if the tribes had factored public opinion into their plans. A sense of unease rippled along the promenade like wind in a sail. Several times I saw, or thought I saw, Jon’s face amongst them. It was that kind of morning. The sunlight gave proceedings an elusive quality, an air of disbelief.
I stayed only as long as my patience allowed, knew that without an appearance by the Heliotypes, nothing would happen, that my time was better spent elsewhere.

There were three further Unionists outside Jon’s town house, doing their best to look as though they had stumbled upon that part of town by accident, failing miserably in the fact that they were obviously waiting for Jon to show himself.
I found Cass inside, going through her brother’s belongings, his paperwork, his electronic records, searching no-doubt for any clue, any hint of his whereabouts.
“I almost invited them in,” she said of her three visitors, “let them rest in the shade a while.”
I smiled, “They have a job to do, just as we have. Has there been any word from Jon?”
It was a long shot, and I already knew the answer, knew that I would be the first to be informed if the situation had changed. The morning demanded obvious questions however, required that the bases be covered.
Cass shook her head, “How are things down at the sea-front?”
“Delicate.”
“I saw them setting up, knew I couldn’t watch that. I came here instead. I have to do something.”
“A wise move.” I said.
“You saw them yesterday afternoon?”
I nodded, knew that we were talking about the Heliotypes again.
“Did you discover where they’re hiding?”
I smiled. She knew as well as I did that the three stationed outside were probably recording our meeting, would have wave monitors trained at the house.
“There’s a rumour that the tribes have moved a bird overhead.” I said.
“A satellite? A High Spear?”
“There’s no way to be certain.”
“Surely a strike on the Coastal Authority is out of the question, even for the tribes.”
“It won’t be used,” I said, “can’t be used. Its mere presence above Babel is enough to earn the tribe responsible heavy penalties, trading sanctions. It’s a message, a potent symbol of just how seriously they’re taking this. If the Heliotypes are to be allowed to stand we need to know if they’re viable. Is there anything here that Jon left?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out. There’s so much paperwork but none of it is useful.” She indicated the boxes that lined the room. “He must have kept every correspondence from the last ten years. For an impossibly private man, he still managed to generate a substantial pile of officialdom. There are plans for Constructs here, genetic maps, organisms that he never got round to working on. It’s a mess.”
I noticed the small pile that she had put to one side.
“What are those?”
“Those are papers from a business project. He was making enquiries about the Cemetery District. He was going to buy some property out that way, set up a lab or something, start a business mapping genomes, cataloguing bio-forms, maybe even create his own, who knows.”
I flicked through the small collection, came across a surveyor’s report for what looked like an industrial unit out in the Old District.
“Do you remember the name of the project?” I said.
“It never happened,” Cass remarked, “Another of his flash-in-the-pan ideas, like so much else. ‘New Ground’, that was what he was going to call it.”

I had planned to go out there, to find Jon’s failed business and see what was still there, see what had taken the place as its shelter. As is always the case however, fate had other plans. The call that I had been dreading came just as I reached the outskirts of the town, forcing me to turn back. The Heliotypes had re-appeared.
I took a detour down Pier Street, approached the sea-front via the storm brakes, saw the Heliotypes pass overhead, heard the wind caress their forms as they angled towards the sea. Where they had been hiding during the day was now irrelevant. Now they had returned, flying orbits around each other, engaged in a ritual dance perhaps. Was that recognition, an indication of something more than basic cognisance, an intelligence that we hadn’t allowed for?
I heard the crowd’s gasp of surprise as I made my way onto the promenade, saw the Unionists on the beach, their weapons raised, ready to fire at a nod or a glance from the tribal elders lining the beach. The situation seemed balanced on a knife-edge.
I found one of the tribal elders at the front of the crowd, surrounded by his minders, a big African who I knew as Purmina Alloah.
“Call your men off.” I shouted above the din.
Purmina smiled, obviously enjoying this moment of power, true power, over the Coastal Authority, however fleeting.
“They’re illegal forms,” he said, “A corruption of the Life Laws. Such a flagrant breech demands action.”
“I can assure you that we’re doing all we can to identify those responsible. When we discover who it was, there will be sanctions.”
“A slap on the wrist.” Purmina scoffed, “A programme ban. In the meantime, the Heliotypes remain, the outrage is allowed to stand.”
“Surely there’s scientific merit in letting them stand,” I shouted, “They may be viable.”
Purmina shook his head, “Nothing the Makens produce has ever been viable. We make sure of it. Why do you think we tolerate the colonies in the first place? Why do you think they’re invited to the festival?”
There was no answer that I could give that would shake Purmina’s evangelical zeal. This was getting out of control. I had to think fast.
“We both know it wasn’t the Makens who were responsible.” I said.
“Ah.” Purmina chuckled, “Clarity at last.”
I wanted to grab him by the lapels, took a step forward. His minders closed in, hands already on the Concussion Batons at their sides. This was what they had been waiting for after-all, what they were paid to do.
The roar of the crowd increased suddenly. I turned, saw what had caught their imagination, felt my heart race as a third Heliotype appeared over the houses, smaller and paler than the others although no less beautiful for it. The other two moved to take up flanking positions, protecting their offspring perhaps. I stared in awe, found myself willing them out over the ocean, took a secret delight when they turned towards the sea, felt something like relief break inside of me as they finally slipped the bonds of the land.
I saw Purmina’s face, saw the realisation in his eyes that these were fully reproducing Constructs, viable forms worthy of Patent, True Life and therefore untouchable. It was only a second later that I saw his hand drop anyway, a signal to those waiting on the beach.
That was why I wasn’t watching as the figure detached itself from the crowd to slide down the sea wall. I only heard the collective gasp from the crowd. From the corner of my eye, I saw the figure, clad in the dust mask and Sand Shroud of a Maken, race across the sand, towards the assembled executioners. I turned, watched with mounting horror as he pulled the Sand Shroud aside to reveal a Katana, knew that there was nothing I could do.
The crack of the Ballistic shot, when it came, was muffled by the din from the crowd, sounding more like the pop of a cork rather than the bright, sharp concussion that I had been expecting.
The figure stumbled, remained impossibly upright, feet locked in an inscrutable form of dance. The dust mask fell away and I recognised the face of Jon Palamar, a look of determination on his features, a look not of hatred, but of triumph. He staggered four more steps, then collapsed to his knees, remained their like a Muslim prostrated in prayer, his blood staining the sand.
The crowd remained silent for a second, a sense of disbelief hanging upon the air for just as long as it took them to find their voices, a hesitation that was broken a second later by the second figure, tiny and pathetic against the beach, racing out to join her brother’s broken and crumpled form.

It was two weeks before I caught up with Cass again. I found her at Jon’s town house, going through his paperwork. The funeral had gone smoothly, although I knew there was little I could say or do that would affect her grief, knew that she was having a hard time accepting the fact that nobody was to be punished for her brother’s death. Hatton had taken the difficult decision to hand the Unions immunity from prosecution in exchange for the Heliotype’s continued recognition. Even that had not been enough to satisfy some, though.
Marrin had been found in his studio, two days later, his heart removed with a tribal blade. The price of recognition for the Heliotypes was to be higher than one life alone. As a man who had mocked the Life Laws with talk of reviving illegal forms, with political support for rebellious Bio-logis, he was an obvious target.
I wandered around Jon’s house expecting every footfall, every opened door to trigger the holograms, the music, summoned by clockwork mechanisms, the memories that were so often installed in the tomb houses out in the Cemetery District, to give an impression of life, to soak the house in memories.
Cass found me in the conservatory that looked out over his garden.
“He left you this,” she said, handed me a plain, brown envelope.
I recognised Jon’s spidery writing on the front, knew even before opening it what it would contain.
“A little death,” the letter inside began, “a little piece of mortality chipped from me and set free upon the world. There are some truths that demand to be taken at face value. But there is yet another truth that is simpler still. I am dying. Bannerman’s disease. I’ve been taking retro-viral drugs for three years, but now it seems the virus has developed a tolerance. My doctor says that I shall be dead inside three months. But there remains hope. If I can finish what I have started, if the Heliotypes are allowed to stand, as they should have been all those decades ago, then all is not lost, all is not for nothing.
It is funny in a way. I’ve made a career based upon evolution, upon the ability of certain species to adapt to their environment, only now the environment is me, and adaptability will be the death of me.
But I have a parting gift for the Unions. The creating will continue, despite their protectionism, despite their so-called Life Laws. The Heliotypes are viable. They are programmed to leave the shore, seek out a quiet island somewhere. A basic instinct, I know, but a noble one.
This is where it ends, and yet this is where it begins again.”

I left soon after, showed myself out, closed the front door behind me, turned the house into a tomb, a little piece of the Cemetery District encroaching onto Furnival Street. I stood on the pavement outside, suddenly cold despite the midday heat. The town lay quiet in the afternoon, the silence punctuated by cicadas and the soft shuffle of dried leaves.
I recalled the surveyor’s report, the mention of a property, hinted at but never clear, an old industrial unit on Jeremia Street, or somewhere even further out? He couldn’t have restricted himself to the Heliotypes. The genetic tinkering had been in his blood, as much a part of him as any internal organ. There had to have been other experiments, tentative explorations, forms that were never completed, never viable. Who knew what he had left behind? I set off to see what I could find.