Free Exurbia: A Novel About Caterpillars (An Infinite Triptych Book 1) by Alex McKechnie

bridge podium, the spyles lagging politely behind.
    ‘Your Exurbic is rather good, if I might say so,’ gushed the tersh.
    ‘As proficient as your diplomacy, Your Eminence,’ she replied. ‘I spent the duration of the journey to your planet studying the dialect.’
    ‘The duration of the journey? But your accent is perfect. How long have you been in transit?’
    ‘About fourty-eight hours.’
    ‘But -’
    ‘It behoves me to tell you that there have been a few changes in syndicate policy. We will discuss them later at length, but for now I hope it’s sufficient to say that certain high-ranking members of the hub are permitted to use implant technology. This is how I accomplished the feat.’
    The tersh swallowed violently and stared agape. ‘This is a recent development, yes?’
    ‘Somewhat.’ 
    Those rivers of blood, thought Jura. Those coursing rivers of state-sanctioned blood that have been spilled, and for nothing. 
    ‘Nonetheless, wiremind technology is still prohibited under the Pergrin Decree. If anything, the punishments are more stringent than ever before. In the place of execution we now enforce something of a more lasting punishment. But these are overly serious matters for the time being. I’m sure my visit will be beneficial for both the syndicate and Exurbia. She turned then to Jura and smiled with unrestrained gusto. ‘So long as no citizen, official or otherwise, is coveting contraband technology in secret.’
    ‘We take great efforts,’ said the tersh, ‘to ensure that the Pergrin Decree is kept holy as scripture.’
    ‘Holier, I should hope.’
    ‘Absolutely.’
    ‘And there is yet to be a Pergrin crisis on the planet?’ she said, addressing them both then.
    ‘Well -’ Jura began.
    ‘One,’ said the tersh. There was something about her face, about her eyes and her symmetry, about the way she stood, indignant and inviting at the same time, that suggested deception would be impossible, or stupid at the least.
    ‘This was not reported to the syndicate hub. When?’
    ‘Seven years ago,’ said the tersh.
    ‘Eight,’ Jura corrected.
    ‘What happened?’ said the syndicate woman.
    ‘Come, let me show you to the guest district of the city and -’
    ‘What happened?’ she said again, blocking the way ahead with her sleek frame.
    ‘Professor,’ said the tersh. ‘You’re the authority on this kind of thing, after all. Please.’
    Gnesha’s feet, you spineless bastard.
    ‘A student at the Stratigraphics Department began smuggling research equipment into his dormitory and constructing a makeshift wiremind rig,’ Jura said.
    ‘Go on,’ purred Miss Butterworth.
    ‘Our detection fields weren’t as sophisticated as they are today. We weren’t able to shut the rig down before it went critical. As soon as it did go critical, we dispatched an action team and had the student incarcerated indefinitely and the rig destroyed.’
    ‘For exactly how long was the machine critical for, Professor?’
    ‘We estimate about an hour, though from the readings we suspect it wasn’t fully conscious, probably about three quarters of the way there.’
    She nodded and turned about without comment, leading the way now down the bridge podium. The crowd was silent and reverential beyond the sonic equalisers.
    What a strange episode that had been, eight years ago, the day god had risen briefly from his sleeping. It was Jura who had kicked the student's door in, the security men in close tow with their glitzes at the ready. The kid’s face - there had only been one Ixenite in the end - was bathed in t’assali orange, still fixedly staring into the spinning rings even as the grunts stormed the room. Jura hadn’t seen a t’assali orb like that before, expanding and contracting all at once, warping the light of the field at its outer edges. The kid hadn’t resisted, hadn’t said a damn word, just stood and raised his hands. One of the lowlys shuffled him out and then it was just the security men