Uncle Omm, I know what I’m saying about Qaili confuses you. She confuses me, too. But I promise to come back to her later in my report.

I followed her suggestion, and checked into the other businesses at Lorelei. Everywhere, there were variations on the theme. Coffee houses and concert halls saw particular performers seemingly being singled out for huge success and enormous tips—all the promoters and producers still made money (at least, as many as ever did), it’s just that a handful did better than one would statistically expect. A few taverns had suddenly become unaccountably popular, and some of their owners had actually cashed in by now and gone on to happy retirement. A handful of dealers in custom pharmaceuticals or rare liquors found their wares almost-but-not-quite astoundingly in demand.

Everywhere, the statistical bell curves were just slightly off. And always in the direction of benefiting a lucky few, at a nearly imperceptible individual loss to the great mass of others. Always. This consistency of this sort of anomaly simply does not happen, Uncle.

And the pattern eluded me. I could not see any relationship between the people benefiting. I know enough to follow the money. The people in whose pockets it ended up had absolutely nothing in common.

I finally got my first glimmer of understanding when I was almost done examining the brothels. It was another of those coincidences, I never would have seen it if I didn’t have the background I do with Seal and Sela....

Haven brothels were clean and respectable places. The talent was well-cared-for, the rooms were immaculate, the security was impeccable. Professionals were trained and protected from any sort of mistreatment, their contracts were rock-solid, and they had the best health care in the galaxy, with the possible exception of Fleet personnel. All of them were paid well—as well as their abilities deserved—and a very few made enough money to retire, early and comfortably.

Loki spend three weeks in House Magenta. Her background training as a priestess of Kenesha gave her all the skills she needed. She even turned a quite reasonable profit, though of course, that wasn’t what was of value to her during that time. One vital thing she observed—the most vital for her mission—was a girl named Genie Goss, who had, for most of the previous year, been making a metaphorical killing in business and tips. It so happened that she had collected sufficient funds to buy the remainder of her own contract, and was retiring to an out-of-the way colony world just rimward of the claimed Federation boundaries.

There was nothing particularly special about Genie Goss. She wasn’t especially talented, she didn’t turn peculiarly kinky tricks, her regular clientele was not more wealthy than that of the average brothel companion. She just seemed to have a run of very, very good luck, contracts that paid a little more than they should, tips a little larger than they might have been. She’d invested the funds in ways that did a little better than they should have. She’d gotten enough money to retire sooner than most, more comfortably than would have been expected. To make it all stranger, Genie seemed just slightly antisocial—so the place she chose to spend the rest of her life was rather out of the way, out in a direction most Federation citizens might not choose.

Something clicked for Loki. She remembered the colonist, Kenti Tollermat, who had made so much money in a blackjack game. He’d been from a rimward colony as well—completely unrelated to the place Genie Goss was retiring to, but also just beyond Federation boundaries. Both were encroaching upon Prime Directive protected space—not past that line, not actually touching such worlds, but very close to them.

She went back over all her records, all she had learned, and suddenly, the pattern was there. She still didn’t know what it meant. But it was there.

She knew better than to contact Qaili. Her handler had never answered a direct question, other than to confirm when Loki had discovered all she needed to find on a mission. No, there was more data to gather, and the only people she knew that could help her find it were her trainers, her beloved teachers, the ones who had taught her all she knew about the priesthood, about learning how others thought, about the Haven gods, about sex and pleasure and what was really important, and about what Terrans would call “marketing” and “industrial espionage”.

They were retall, which was the Havani word that was usually translated into Anglo as “priests” or “mystics”—or “market analysts” and “economists”, depending on the context. Her private tutors were a twin brother and sister, Seal and Sela. She didn’t know their family name—she suspected retall renounced their family so as to owe profit to no one. She called Sela on the morning after Genie Goss’ going-away party.

As most Havens, Sela had dark hair and dark eyes, but her skin was particularly pale, her eyes huge, her nose small and slightly upturned. She looked a little like Qaili, in fact, though her eyes were not Asian, her ears had not a hint of the slightly pointed quality that Loki generally associated with Vulcan blood. She had not seen Sela in years, and when her lovely face appeared in the viewer, Loki felt herself smiling, felt tears filling her eyes, felt the swell of a nearly nostalgic love. Sela’s delighted and almost maternal smile added to the sentiment, though Loki’s memories of quite physical pleasures were certainly not ones Terrans would associate with the reactions of a child toward a maternal presence.

“Loki!” Sela exclaimed, though she pronounced the name with the Havani accent and emphasis no Outworlder was supposed to know. “It has been so very long!”

“Sela,” she answered, and her voice could not keep out the sigh of love and desire, “I need your help. I need you to discover something for me. Something—no, someone, is making people rich.”

Sela’s image smiled at her. “Of course, dear. The resha provide for whom they choose, and for those who best understand what is truly of value.”

“No, no, something very strange is going on here on Lorelei. I’ve seen a pattern that I don’t understand, something almost—almost chaotic, but directed, controlled.”

Sela raised her eyebrows. The veiled reference to Saford was not lost on her, nor was the fact that, as far as any of the priesthood knew, Lorelei had no indigenous resha of its own. If Saford had claimed it, that mattered. “Tell me, child.”

“All of these people have suddenly gotten very wealthy, through completely normal means—but they don’t really deserve it. They come from all walks of life, they are of every profession I can imagine. But I finally found the one thing they all seem to have in common, Sela. I just don’t know why it should make a difference, and I need to know who is causing it, and what profit it will bring them.”

“Tell me what you know, Loki.”

She took a deep breath. “All of them, Sela—every one—will be in a position to add value to worlds that currently are under Federation Prime Directive status, if that status is ever lifted. There are technologists, economists, pleasure specialists, artists, ecologists—everything that a Prime Directive Protected race would need to make them full members of the Federation. Sela, it is as if someone is setting up a sudden shift, getting young races ready to contact us. It is as if—” and then she stopped, because Sela’s face had suddenly tuned even more pale. “Sela?”

“Hush, Loki. Say nothing more. I am going to come to Lorelei. I will be there in one standard week. Do not contact me again until I see you, Loki. Do not tell anyone what you have discovered.”

“Sela?” Loki asked, but the connection had gone dead.

Retall almost never left Haven. When they did, they almost never made planetfall, staying instead in orbit on Haven transport ships. Contact with non-Havens was often physically painful for them, and was certainly a psychic strain

Sela did not tell Loki when she arrived at Lorelei. Loki found her in the suite she’d rented at Twelve Down one evening when she came back after an audit of a restaurant which had just had a bartender resign, after having earned enough to open his own bar on a colony near the world Kenti Tollermat had settled.

The meditation techniques used by the retall involved extremely sensual and sexually altered states. They trained themselves to go into the deepest trances in the midst of orgasms so strong as to be nearly painful, triggered by acts that most races would see as deviant, or at least, pretty kinky. It was for this reason that the galaxy’s best paid companions were Havani priests and priestesses of Kenesha, though very few non-Havens were aware of the deeply spiritual nature of the profit they were deriving from their contracts.

Sela and Loki were both quite good at what they did, Sela having taught Loki nearly everything she knew. And it was in the altered state of post-orgasmic exhaustion—a gentle version of which Terrans referred to as “afterglow”—that Sela went into a very deep trance, and managed to contact the entity who had been responsible for the anomalies Loki had been investigating.

“What the fuck do you want with me?” Sela suddenly asked. It was her voice, her throat making the words as her body lay beneath Loki, bathed in sweat, but Loki knew well her teacher’s mind was not the source of those words.

Loki rolled off her, and gasped in sudden shock. She stared into the beautiful pale features of her teacher, and tried very hard to compose herself, knowing this was a fateful moment, pregnant with profit and opportunity. Sela had trusted her, utterly, to know how to handle this moment. She’d better do it right.

“What do you want with Lorelei?” Loki responded. “What do you want with primitive races who aren’t ready to contact the Federation?”

Sela’s body laughed. “They’re all ready, you fool. It’s the Federation that’s not ready to contact them.”

“Why do you care?”

“Me? I don’t.” She snorted. “But it’ll serve certain people right to have their precious Fleet rules thrown all to hell.” Sela’s eyes looked directly into Loki’s. “Certain people are not going to like what they see.”

Loki scowled. “Who are you talking about?”

“You know him. Him and his Indiian bitch.” There was a bitter laugh. “I’m going to make his life a living hell for what they did to me.”

Loki took a deep breath, and leaned back. She put a hand on Sela’s chest, waiting to see if her teacher was going to suddenly leap from the bed, or lash out—the anger and pain were that strong. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Is this personal?”

Sela coughed, as if trying to expel something caught in her throat. Finally, she answered. “For me, yes, I’m going to love every minute of it. But not for—” and she paused. She continued again, her voice quieter. “I’m being used, just as you are, just as he is, just as they all are.” And then her eyes turned hard and cold. “Just you wait, Willow. One day, your guilt is going to get the better of you.”

Loki drew a sharp breath. She hadn’t been called by that particular Clave handle for more years than she wanted to count. Her answer was sharper than she intended. “I have nothing to be guilty about. All my dealings are fair—”

“Oh, you’ll remember. Just give it time.”

“Who are you?”

Sela breathed deep, several times, long and slow, and her eyes closed. She finally spoke again, her voice far away, almost dreamy. “I was on a ship once. I was murdered, my atoms scattered to the stars, because a lover threw me away. I died in fear and loneliness, because his bitch couldn’t let me stay alive.”

A ghost? A soul wandering between the stars? “If you’re dead, how are you talking to me?”

“One of them found me, little priestess. One of the star-born, one of the shining ones, one you call the resha.”

Loki gasped again. Tak Rodin was right, she thought, desperately. The gods are screwing with me. “What are you doing here?”

Sela’s laugh was bitter. “I’m the goddess of Lorelei now.”

What the Scab? “You expect me to believe that?”

“I really don’t care. The Seeders fear for their lives, and they use what they find.” Sela gave a long, slow sigh. Her eyes opened again, and she stared into Loki’s face. “They don’t understand Federation culture, Federation rules and laws.” She spat this out, her voice quiet but unable to hide contempt. “They found me, and decided to use me to make a few ready for when the rules change.” Sela shrugged. “I’m alive again, sort of, so I can’t complain about how I’m being used.” She smiled, and the look on Sela’s face was not a pleasant one.

“I still don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t. If you ever do, count yourself lucky.”

“So,” Loki tried to puzzle it out, “you really are an agent of Saford.” The whole purpose of chaos was to throw ordered dealings into confusion.

“What you call Saford is just a tool, too. It’s a way to keep you from looking too close at the patterns of chaos.” Sela’s voice was becoming more distant, and Loki knew the trance couldn’t be held much longer. But Loki realized, with a start, that Qaili had said something similar. Even chaos has patterns, Qaili had said.

“Who are you?” Loki asked again.

“Once,” Sela breathed, “I was called LiLing.” And she closed her eyes, and fell into a deep, unresponsive sleep.

Sela stayed only a single standard day. I knew it was a terrible strain on her to be on Lorelei. I’m glad she left with her sanity whole. Well, as whole as it ever is for one of the retall.

I asked Sela before she left if she had any idea how Qaili had come to know about any of this. That was how I found out that Sela had never even heard of Qaili. Sela insisted I didn’t have a handler, and that she would know if you had assigned one to me. Uncle Omm, that scares the crap out of me. I don’t have any idea who Qaili is, and I promise you, I never intended to do anything that would harm the Monolem family in any way.

As far as I can tell, nothing Qaili has ever told me to do has been of harm to us. In fact, from how you’ve responded to my status reports, it’s all been of profit to us, and to all of Haven. But Saford’s Hell, Uncle, I’m scared. For twenty standard years, I’ve been following the hints of someone I thought you had assigned to me. I don’t know any more if what I’ve been doing is right.

When Sela was in trance, the being she contacted dropped enough hints that I was able to find out what she was referring to. I know you know about Sulu. Scab it, Uncle, you might know more about him than I do, and I know more than anyone thinks I do. I know about his Indiian wife, I know about his affair with this LiLing person—and I know what he was at the Clave. I know Sela and Seal knew him, though they won’t talk to me about it very much, they say it is for my own good. I know I welshed on him, and I owe him more even than maybe he knows himself.

What I don’t know is if any of this can be trusted, or if Saford is messing with us—or if Saford has been messing with me my whole life. From what I can gather, what happened is that one of the resha—Feddies call them “Seeders”—rescued this horrible and manipulative woman from the stardust, and decided she could be used to help direct Federation citizens into positions where, if the Prime Directive is ever repealed, they’d be able to help so-called “undeveloped” races to become full participants in the galactic economy. That would be a boon to Haven interests, certainly—we stand to make incredible profit through trade with them—so once again, Qaili’s hints seem to be, in the long run, good for us. But Scab it all, I’ve been lied to and misled my whole life, and I don’t know who or what I can trust any more.

Except you.

And Sela.

So I’m telling you what I know, and what I did, and what I discovered. Uncle Omm, forgive me, please. Tell me what to do. Please.

“Who are you, really?”

“You’ve known me for a very long time, Loki.”

“Don’t call me that. You’re not Havani. You have no right to say my name that way.”

“I’ve never lied to you. I’ve always dealt with you straight and honest—”

“Bullshit, Qaili. No one on Haven knows you. Not my uncle, not my teachers—”

“I never said they did. You never asked.”

“You said you were my handler.”

“And I have been, haven’t I? Have I ever steered you wrong?”

“How should I know?”

“Everything I’ve told you has been profitable.”

“Yes, but for whom?”

“For you, for your family, for Haven, for the galaxy—”

”Who the Scab are you?”

“Think about it, Loki. I told you, the first time I met you.”

“No. No, you are not one of the resha. If you were, you’d have known—”

“I said I was sent by the resha. I said I was related to you. I never said I was one of the resha.” There was a long pause. “You were sent as well, Loki. As are all of the priesthood.”

“Then you’re a priestess of Kenesha?”

“There is Kenesha, and there is Kenesh, and there is Saford, and over them all, there is Devri. In the end, is there a difference?”

“I don’t know any more.”

“Ask your Federation friends about the Seeders, Loki. They are the star-born. They are the most ancient.” There was another long pause. Qaili sighed. “Loki, their children are the resha.”

“No. No, I can’t believe that.”

“Believe what you will. You’re making a profit either way, aren’t you?”

Loki scowled. She hadn’t yet sent her report to Uncle Omm. She wanted to have a final conversation with Qaili first. She was no longer certain she should send it at all. Finally, she asked, “You said you weren’t sure what was causing the statistical anomalies on Lorelei. Did you get your answers?”

“You tell me. Did you?”

“That’s not fair, Qaili.”

“I warned you that you wouldn’t like it.”

“That’s not fair, either.”

Qaili sighed. “There’s a reason I never answer your questions. In the end, Loki, I don’t know anything that you don’t know. Tomorrow isn’t written yet, and I might not be here to see it. There isn’t anything that isn’t stardust. But you already knew that.”

“Who are you?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I don’t know if I can trust you any more.”

“I understand. Think about it, Loki. Call me again when you decide.”

“Qaili? Saford’s Hell, Qaili, don’t break the connection! Qaili? Qaili!”

The End