Out Far Enough

By Linda Tiernan Kepner

Two centuries from now, in the Confederation, the Tyrellian uprising has ended badly. The Loyalists have defeated the Rebels, but nothing is cut-and-dried. On Earth, the Chicago Fraud Wars have also ended. There is an uneasy truce between North American law enforcement and the terrifying corporate giant, General Mercantile. Officer Jem Grayson of the Chicago Police Department, a nerved-up, burnt-out Fraud teamer straight from the battle, is sent to an out-of-the-way agricultural space station to “assist” GM as a diplomatic measure. But is she investigating a murder, or not? Or is it more fraud? Who is to blame – the bitter, exiled young aristocrat who is watching his lifeline slide away? Or the remarkable aliens who were ditched here during the uprising? Is it possible that an artificial intelligence is behind this – and can it hold a grudge? Grayson and her new ally, the Comte de Bourriac, race to retrieve and preserve this lost paradise before the answers kill them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Tiernan Kepner
• Release date: Sep 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781515419150

Linda Tiernan Kepner

Linda Kepner lives in New Hampshire and works as a professional librarian. She has a general science/liberal arts degree from Eisenhower College. She writes genre fiction - science fiction, fantasy fiction, and romance.

Book preview

So all you have is a guess that it involves fraud. I need proof, Grayson.

If you’ll summon the bailiff and let me ask him some questions, maybe I can give you the proof.

I’m sorry, I cannot, said the Comte de Bourriac, Lennart isn’t here. I’ve permitted him to take that wine shipment to Mars One in the station ship, rather than wait for a fly-by. If we don’t deliver that, we are done for. I won’t even have the money to close down this station gracefully - which is all I plan. It’s no use. I cannot postpone that trip. Bourriac understated the damage. This financial loss would ruin him; but more murders would be worse.

Grayson hid her bitterness in her coffee cup. Sorry, Cap, I tried my best. I understand he’s taking some equipment from the observatory, too.

Bourriac nodded. It’s old and tumble-down, but the Lucherin Museum of Science on Mars One might buy it. We need the credits.

It hit Grayson at last - Sdek’s comments, the deaths… and going off-station. She set down her cup. Let’s go for a ride.

Bourriac stood and removed his morning jacket. Where?

The observatory. Have you been in it?

Not for years.

It’s time you checked it out.

Other Books by Linda Tiernan Kepner:

Science Fiction

Play the Game, FCP, 2009

Planting Walnuts, FCP, 2013

Out Far Enough, FCP 2023

Fantasy Fiction

The Whisperwood Ordinaire, FCP, 2011

The Life and Times of Griswald Grimm (with Bob Liddil), FCP, 2014

Historical (1960’s) Romance

Second Chance, CR, 2012

Second Chance Sister, CR, 2013

Contemporary Romance

Peaceful Easy Feeling, FCP, 2020

The Vampire of Manhattan (Paranormal) Series

Loving the Vampire, FCP, 2014

Vale of Vampires, FCP, 2015

Living With Vampires, FCP, 2015

Magicians And Vampires, FCP, 2016

Phantasms And Vampires, FCP, 2017

The Salem Scholars (Paranormal) Series

The House of the Past, FCP, 2021

The House of the Present, FCP, 2021

The House of the Future, FCP, 2022

FCP = Flying Chipmunk Press

CR = Crimson Romance

For more information about these books, visit Linda’s web site:

www.LindaTKepner.com

Out

Far

Enough

By Linda Tiernan Kepner

Flying Chipmunk Publishing

Bennington, NH

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and locations portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or locations is purely coincidental, and in the imagination of the reader.

All Rights Reserved by the publisher. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without the written permission of the publisher, except short passages for the purpose of reviews.

Out Far Enough

by Linda Tiernan Kepner

Copyright © 2023 by Linda Tiernan Kepner

Cover Art Copyright © 2023 by SelfPubBookCovers.com, jdischert_91053

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Out Far Enough

Published by Flying Chipmunk Publishing

162 Onset Road

Bennington, NH 03442

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 978-1-5154-1914-3

1-5154-1914-2

ebook: 978-1-5154-1915-0

First Flying Chipmunk Publishing edition: August 2023.

Out

Far Enough

About The Book

About The Author

Book Title

Copyright Page

Cheat Sheet For Characters/Events

1 — Just Another Tourist

2 — Local Aliens

3 — A Strange Scent

4 — Jackpot!

5 — Renaissance

6 — Re-Energized

7 — Yellow Alert

8 — New Worlds

9 — Security Issues

10 — An Education

11 — Jailbirds

12 — The Surveyors

13 — Old Ghosts

14 — Nightmares

15 — Facing It

16 — Reset

17 — Therapeautics

Afterword

CHEAT SHEET

FOR CHARACTERS AND EVENTS

In the worlds of Planting Walnuts and Out Far Enough

Major races in these stories:

Human. When the Confederation made first contact with Earth a hundred years ago, we already had the rudiments of a planetary administration unit, the United Nations. This qualified us for membership with only a little guidance. Earth’s planetside military are the UN Peacekeepers. Many humans joined the Confederation Fleet (space force), too. Earth’s largest universal retail chain and trading post is General Mercantile.

Paysan (peasant). Mechanical humans. Unlike Earth androids, the artificial people of Station Saint-Sebastien-des-Etoiles are not legally required to sport a silver AI mark, but they require one glass of alcohol per day to function. They have the same rights and responsibilities as their organic peers.

Tyrellian. Tall, highly intelligent, sometimes terrifying humanoids, they are the dominant race of Tyrel 3. An unquestioned matriarchy. Tyrellian women, fanatically loyal to the Empress, tried to hijack the entire Confederation Fleet to her service.

Korgorite. Large, lizard-like humanoids, originally a Tyrellian experiment and formerly Empire slaves. They have established their own Nation on Tyrel 3 and have an uneasy truce with the Empress.

Conflict: Earth fought on two fronts:

The Fraud War, General Mercantile vs City of Chicago (their hometown) and much of Earth, predominantly urban close-quarters combat that occurred simultaneously with…

The Tyrellian Uprising, Tyrellian Empire vs Confederation (the UN Peacekeepers defended Earth; Battle for the Mediterranean was their biggest conflict).

GM and the Empress each sued for peace – no clear winners in either case.

Main Characters (Out Far Enough):

Jem (Jemima) Grayson, police officer retired from Captain Martinelli’s Chicago Fraud War squad. Aged late 20’s, forensic accountant specializing in agriculture, she has distant Tyrel 3 ties.

Alexandre Saint-Sebastien, Comte de Bourriac, a French aristocrat, heir to the seemingly worthless planet (Catalog 259, New France) and space station (Station Saint-Sebastien-des-Etoiles).

Supporting characters, in alphabetical order:

John Brannon, employee, Gonderjhee & Co. Surveyors. Ex-Fleet infantry soldier.

Dr. Barney Colkin inherited GM from his late grandmother Thea Colkin, the monstrous mistress of GM, arch-enemy of Chicago Fraud. Married to Lethe Archer.

Cyntoj Smantek, Tyrellian employee, Gonderjhee & Co. Surveyors, retired Fleet Captain and a survivor of the Uprising.

Eduardo Contes, CBI agent, under light cover as an employee of Gonderjhee & Co. Surveyors.

Mary Ann (Polly) Gonderjhee, Master Surveyor, English owner of Gonderjhee & Co.

Père Gregoire, rector of Église de Saint-Sébastien-des-Etoiles. The conservative parish priest.

Karz, a Korgorite, detailed to monitor the solitary Tyrellian (Sdek). Manages Ferme Sudest.

Denise Labossière, village lycéenne (high school student). Her parents (Henri & Nicola) and little brother, Fred, also live on the station.

Sdek Sreknan, Tyrellian teaching principal and scientific consultant.

Robert S. Sims-MacPherson (R.S.) commands the CFS Star Rover, created the Bad Men and Blue, still-functioning Loyalist movement.

Additional minor characters:

Araee par-Araee, Denebian (alien) intern, Gonderjhee & Co. Surveyors.

Lethe Archer, Chief of Security, General Mercantile. Married to Barney Colkin.

Atlas le paysan géant, giant peasant, the master computer managing the entire space station.

Charles Bertrand, Detective, 259 Police Planetaire, a paysan.

Samuel Byner, office manager, Gonderjhee & Co. Surveyors.

Mlle. Desmarais, village seamstress and businesswoman.

Jules & Eugenie Maillet, innkeepers of Le Leon d’Or. Jules is a paysan but Eugenie is human.

Mme. Gautin, paysan housekeeper for Bourriac.

Michel Gavreau, Chief, 259 Police Planetaire. (259 PP are all early-retired UN Peacekeepers.)

Marcellin Godin, Executive Manager of the GM Agriculture Division.

Karife, Patrol Officer, 259 Police Planetaire. Her daughter Danielle is a lycéenne.

Shkanz Karz, Korgorite high-school (lycée) student, Karz’s oldest son.

The Legnards manage the station’s General Store. Their son Chrétien is an honors student.

Lennart, the first Bailiff. His son, Stephane, is a GM-trained accountant.

Gabriel Léonard, Lieutenant, 259 Police Planetaire.

Mary Alice Karz, Karz’s Korgorite wife.

Trent McKenna, cattle farmer, hijacked from Earth by Grayson to manage Ferme Sud.

Marcel Moulin, station villager lycéen and mischief-maker, also on Lucherin science team.

Pierre & Jacques are the two paysans always on active duty at the station docking-bay.

Dr. Pinard, the physician (médecin), a paysan.

Martin Poivre (Pepper), an Inspector at Interpol, Bourriac’s old school chum.

Gopu Singh, real estate scam artist. He was Brannon’s cellmate on Catalog 259.

Vidin, village Mayor, the paysan who assigns tasks to other paysans.

Out

Far

Enough

1 - JUST ANOTHER TOURIST

"I don’t want to go to that station ten or twelve times. Grayson tried to keep the exasperation from her voice, unsuccessfully. I want to go there once. Now." The only difference between the Chicago O’Hare SpaceExpress counter and the worst ground-bound bus station could be measured with a short ruler. Even the unhelpful attitude was the same.

The ticket-desk clerk eyed Grayson suspiciously. Certainly, Jem Grayson was not at her best, wearing a men’s shirt and vest and scruffy pants, her frizzy dark hair held in place by an ancient shovel hat. Her skin was too pale, highlighted by sickly dark rings under hazel eyes. She staggered a little on her feet. The old bitch probably thought it was drugs, not recognizing genuine bone-deep exhaustion when she saw it. Nor would she ever get close enough to discover that Grayson was habitually sponge-bath clean – because in close-quarters combat in the dark, body scent gave you away. It’s a halt-on-demand stop. It’s seasonal. That means we couldn’t repeat it in a week or a month, to pick you up.

‘Seasonal’ means, for you, in the flight path, and it is right now. Grayson yawned horribly. I checked the charts. It’s on your route between Neptune and Pellucida Station. Don’t worry about picking me up again. I’ll hitch a ride once I get there.

Then why don’t you hitch a ride now? the old bat demanded. It will take days, and it’s an economy ship. No beds, no hot food, and nothing but a toilet, for amenities. Obviously, she was not loyal to her company.

Grayson sighed, not wanting to say, So I can make my arrival as ordinary as possible. "I am tired. I want to sleep. Give me my damn ticket and let me on the bus."

She pounced on that. I am authorized to refuse service to anyone who swears at me.

Can’t be me. I can’t remember the last time I swore at anyone. Grayson leaned on the counter and glared. As far as getting any service from you is concerned, that doesn’t seem to be an issue, does it? I’m not getting any service now. How would I be able to tell the difference?

I will call the police, and have you removed!

Grayson growled, Speaking.

The gorgon blinked. What?

I said, Speaking. Grayson pulled out her badge. Now, do you want to call in my buddies, so we can persuade you to give me a ticket, or just do it?

***

Grayson’s destination was a halt-on-demand stop by any definition, a space station orbiting an unnamed planet around another sun. It was days’ travel, even with modern tween-star propulsion. The old bat had been perfectly right. But that was what Cap wanted. Grayson was too burned out to protest. They had won the battle but not the war, and Cap insisted that this was a necessary good-faith gesture. There was no doubt that Grayson needed the rest. There was no adrenaline left in her. There was not much of anything left in her.

The driver was chatty, half-exhausted himself, piloting this interminable trip with a handful of passengers. All safety was his responsibility, too. He called the home office The Ivory Towers. They say oh, Jimmy, you have so few passengers, and just a few parcels, you don’t need relief. So, they put me on alone to do an eighteen-hour pilot job. I swap with somebody just as we leave QA1, but he’s in the same boat as me. Another fifteen hours to Pellucida, and there’s no relief waiting for him, so he just turns around and comes back, full or empty. You folks just pray we don’t meet Tyrellian renegades out here, and no Lizard-man pirates, neither, he added, turning back to his controls, or you’re stuck until they get another driver out. He did not mention running out of food, water, or air.

Nor did Grayson mention that she could pilot a ship perfectly well, knew about the pirates, and could speak Universal Basic, but would rather not. She wanted to sleep.

Well, what else could she do? She breathed the big compartment’s stale, recycled canned air and looked out portholes while she chewed on unidentifiable salty dried things from packets. All she saw was black space. It was like the Grand Canyon. Step out, take a picture, ride for miles, step out again, see the same view. No need for a second picture. As far as being tactful and politick was concerned, that was not an issue, either. She slept.

***

Miz Grayson, we’ll be at Station Saint-Sébastien in half an hour. The driver’s voice woke her up.

She shook her head groggily. Saint-Sébastien?

Yeah, that’s the name of the space station. Station Saint-Sébastien-des-Étoiles. He said it in very bad French, smiling reminiscently. I didn’t feel my age until I thought of some of the stops I’ve made here. There was one kid – he must be thirty now. He used to cry because he was leaving for school on Earth, and he used to cry when he was leaving Earth to come home. The driver chuckled. I’m sure he made it to Earth and never returned. I’ll give ‘em credit for one thing, though – they always have a dock ready for SpaceExpress. I never have to wait for another ship to get out of the way.

That’s a bad sign, right there. No docking queue, no business. But she said nothing aloud. Wonder if the kid ever came back?

They just fit the entry gate. The spacebus settled onto the deck. The entire open bay repressurized. The bus hatches opened. The pilot escorted her out the hatch, pointed her toward baggage retrieval, and left her. This station was near enough to the planet, with supplemental generators, to have almost full gravity. She walked along the deck to a personnel door which slid open as she approached and slid solidly shut behind her. A red PORT FERMÉ light flashed as the bay depressurized. She did not stay to watch through the clear panels as the SpaceExpress ship departed. That was old news. Grayson’s footsteps echoed through the empty dock as she walked through a series of hatches. Each hatch opened before her and closed silently behind, controlled by the space station’s master computer.

There was no Customs, no one in charge. Three scruffy, bearded working men eyed her, but it was the natural reaction of men to a lone female. No one said hello. No one asked her a single question. Grayson traded brief nods with them as she scooped up her lone duffle bag and walked through darkened corridors toward the inner hatch.

All she wanted was someplace to be horizontal. She slid through the last interior door, labeled Saint-Sébastien-des-Étoiles, Saint Sebastian of the Stars, into the artificial sun dome and stopped, transfixed.

The sun was beautiful!

Impossible to tell that she was seeing it through a skydome. This sun grew crops, gave warmth, lit up a sixteen-hour day, same as summer at home. The docking-bay gateway had been a magic portal. Grayson was back on old-world Earth. She walked along the sunlit dirt roads, marveling at everything around her. Whiffs of lavender and garlic wafted on the breezes that brushed against her face. Grain rustled in the fields. Plump grapes dangled invitingly from old vines. She pulled off a grape and bit into a luscious, juicy mouthful.

Some paysans – peasants – worked in the fields. Cap said that with the older unmarked paysan models, there was no way to tell human from artificial. Here, both drank alcohol from le Lion d’Or, the Golden Lion. The paysans drank it to refuel. The humans drank it to get drunk.

As Grayson approached the village, she saw whitewash, chipped paint, and broken fences. Like the land, full of potential, but not kept up. Chickens and little dogs chased each other around her feet as she walked the village road. A few houses looked neater than others. Paysans, probably, programmed to keep their homes at a certain level of repair.

Grayson reached le Lion d’Or. Evening was near. Everyone was knocking off work. Naturally, the entire bar stared at her. A plump woman said, "Ah, mademoiselle! Bienvenue! I’m called Eugenie Maillet. That’s my husband Jules, over there by the window. If we’d known when you were arriving, we’d have come for your luggage!" Eugenie eyed the formidable duffle bag.

"Merci, but I’m strong enough. Just very tired. I understand I can rest here."

That you can! Eugenie showed Grayson upstairs to a serviceable little room and gave her the old-fashioned metal key. Bathroom was a shared one at the end of the hall; Grayson had expected that. She had not expected the sheets to smell quite so clean, or the bed to feel quite so soft...

It was daylight when Grayson opened her eyes. She checked her watch. 0800. She had slept through the night, without shutting the door… or taking off her boots.

The barroom downstairs was deserted except for the landlord, sitting by the bay window. Delectable breakfast scents issued from behind the kitchen doors. Eugenie bustled around a corner, beaming. "Bon matin! Did you sleep well? I was afraid the noise would disturb you!"

No, nothing could disturb me. I was exhausted. She sat down and let Eugenie fuss around her, bringing superb-tasting coffee and big cheesy gougères that Grayson sank her teeth into. "Where can I get some fishing gear? I can fish here, oui?"

Jules Maillet looked up from his table. Best place is the Comte’s lake. Ask Lennart, the bailiff, for permission. Tackle, I have some. Fished much?

Some. Lake Michigan. The Mississippi River.

"Americaine? So that’s what that accent is."

A bit of this, a bit of that. I move around.

What brings you here? The burning question of all Saint-Sébastien-des-Étoiles.

I worked for a man who was a friend of la Comtesse de Bourriac. When I fell ill, he suggested I come here to recuperate. Grayson did not mention that her friend commanded the Chicago Police Department, Fraud Division.

Ah! The poor Comtesse! Eugenie clucked. "Everyone thought she was just deep in prayer! Two hours she sat there! Of course, by then, she had been too long dead for any life-saving measures."

"Histoire triste," Grayson said. Sad story.

Maillet grunted, that odd Oui of old men that sounds more like a tired duck’s quack. Both rude and familiar, it made Grayson feel at home. Maillet lit his pipe. His grunt told Grayson more than all his wife’s words.

"You are, perhaps, bon catholique?" Eugenie asked.

"Catholique, yes, bon, a matter of opinion."

A cloud of smoke rose from the pipe. It might have masked a chuckle. Not everyone in Saint-Sébastien went to church. Certainly no one who could have saved the Comtesse’s life.

***

She was asleep in the bottom of the boat when someone yelled, What the hell are you doing?

Grayson sat up and blinked in the bright sunlight. She wore her scrubbiest clothes, fishing pole still in hand. On the shore was an irate-looking man.

Who wants to know?

"I want to know. Lennart."

Oh. Grayson grabbed the oars, rowed the few strokes to shore, and beached the rowboat.

He was staring at her, since he had obviously just realized he’d sworn at a perfect stranger. Who are you?

"Jemima Grayson. I looked for you, Monsieur, but you were out on one of the farms. So I decided to wait here for you."

He snarled, And if you’d caught fish in the meantime, without permission, I’d run you in to the Comte.

Grayson held up the fishing pole, showing him the empty line. I don’t think so, Monsieur Lennart.

A slow smile came to his lips. So what did you expect to catch with no hook?

Nothing. Truth is, I caught three. Every time they jerked the line they woke me up. I cut it off so I could get some sleep.

Still smiling, he shook his head. I heard there was someone here for a rest. Eugenie Maillet said you had rings under your eyes and fell asleep at the breakfast table.

Checking up on me? Well, I am a stranger. "Bien sûr. So, may I fish here?"

Yes, but not with this boat.

Why not?

"That’s where I fish from. How long are you here for?"

"A couple of weeks, I think. I’m going to be lazy – just eat, sleep, and fish. I may read, but I doubt it. Too much like work. Pas de problème?"

"Pas de problème. Not a problem. I just wondered if the Police Judiciaire…" Lennart paused.

Ah. The Comtesse died recently, is that what you mean?

Well, yes. There was no suspicion of foul play.

Heart attack in church, wasn’t that what Eugenie told me?

Yes.

"Oui." Grayson realized as she spoke to him that she had already adopted the old men’s Quack. Must be hard on you.

He threw her a sharp glance. What do you mean?

Well, I heard that the new Comte de Bourriac is rarely here. That must mean the burden of managing this estate falls on the bailiff.

Lennart indicated the overgrowth around them. He spends it faster than I can make it. I cut back on the staff here, part to save money, part because of attrition.

Grayson frowned, puzzled. "Even the paysans?"

"The paysans especially. Revenues have fallen off. Ferme Sudest is almost all mud now. Soon the last farms will go, then the village. Paysans wear out. I can’t get parts. So they die."

Out here we all have souls, eh? Another thought struck Grayson. The Pope’s against treating androids as humans. How do you explain it to Père Gregoire?

"I don’t. The boat is where you’ll find me, Sunday morning. Let him figure out who’s barred from the church, and who’s faking it."

Grayson watched him step into the boat, other questions in her mind but not on her lips.

***

Grayson had fish in her creel to take back to the inn, so she was stepping along. She heard a voice say, "Allo!" Hello, not bonjour. Grayson slowed down and let the elderly man catch up with her. "Nothing wrong with your legs, mademoiselle!"

He was well-groomed, educated-looking – I didn’t know you were looking for me, Dr. Pinard.

The médecin smiled ruefully. "So. My profession shows that much, does it? I wanted to welcome you. It’s a pleasure to see a lovely mademoiselle, even if she is in baggy pants and smelling of fish."

"Well, thank you. That is a warm welcome."

Pinard shugged. The villagers are a hostile group. You can’t blame them. Perhaps, occasionally, a visitor whizzes through town, maybe killing a chicken or a dog, and leaves again for Earth. And here we are, unendingly cutting lavender, making flour, making brandy. No one likes to be a freak.

Do you feel the same?

The physician merely smiled.

"Come to le Lion d’Or. I’ll buy you a drink."

"Non, non, chère mademoiselle, he protested. Come to my house for dinner. I have a wonderful housekeeper, Madame Claire Gautin. She is as good as Mme. Émilie Gautin at the château." Mme. Gautin must have been the old Comte de Bourriac’s favorite cook as a child, for two models to end up in two different places.

I’m glad I brought along the little black dress. All right. When?

Will you honor me tonight? At 1800 – that would give us four hours to make ready.

I’d love to. I’ll see you then.

"Intelligent and beautiful company. I am charmed. À toute à l’heure."

Back at the inn, Grayson asked Eugenie to store the fish. And there’s plenty for you if you want some.

For me? Merci! Maillet goes fishing sometimes, but he hasn’t lately. Those trout look wonderful! I’ll take one, then, if you don’t mind.

Grayson did a double-take. One?

For me. Eugenie smiled slyly. "Didn’t you realize Jules was a paysan?"

Surprised, Grayson answered, No, I didn’t.

"His first wife wasn’t a paysan, either. Marie Maillet died fifteen years ago. Maillet grieved so! Finally, he asked me to marry him. We can’t have children, of course, but other than that – well, let me just say that life is very pleasant with a paysan husband. I wouldn’t go back to a human man for anything."

Well, why not? Grayson murmured, with a grin. After all, if respectable married women still use vibrators…

Eugenie laughed. Why not have the vibrator connected to something useful? It is Paradise, truly.

***

The Doctor’s house was well-kept. The white tablecloth, local French linen, glowed in the lamplight.

The food was as good as promised – an aromatic, cheese-laden, beefy brown onion soup for starters, followed by trout in wine sauce, and for the main course, lemon-garlic chicken with minted new potatoes. In old French country fashion, an apple for dessert that you peeled yourself. Fine wine to go with it all. Grayson was surprised to see two place settings. She had expected only one.

Dr. Pinard cast a sly glance at her as he dined.

You know why I’m looking at you, you old cheat, she said.

"It’s good for you, mademoiselle. Eat. As for me, well, it’s all grist for the mill. I shall burn it. Pinard indicated the decanter on the sideboard. That’s all the fuel I need, but I am still capable of being civilized company. What gave me away?"

Eugenie suggesting that I’d have a very good time here tonight, if I wished, for one thing. She told me about Jules. But especially, the certainty of everyone I met that of course you wouldn’t be in church, and of course the Comtesse would have been saved if you were.

Pinard nodded. My sensor units would have detected her heart attack. However, they only have a range of thirty meters. I was half a kilometer away, tending to Mme. Navare.

Neither you nor Monsieur Lennart at church, her son on Earth, her secretary elsewhere. By the way, where on Earth did he come from? Literally.

The doctor set down his soup spoon. "Mademoiselle, what are you hinting?"

"I merely observe that the Comtesse died in a place where she was very vulnerable, that’s all. No paysan monitors, no médecin, no one daring to sit near her or disturb her. Is that so shocking?"

What was shocking, was the procession of ‘secretaries’ she had after the old Comte’s death. You know how it is.

I don’t, but I can guess. Unlike English lineages, if a French husband died, the wife (or the eldest now-orphaned legitimate child) inherited title and estate.

"I dare say your guess is correct. She was bon catholique in that regard – no toying around with paysans. She imported her fun from Earth, and paid well for it. Those young men suffered no financial losses from Saint-Sébastien! His tone changed. Well, what of it? Her son is useless. That bailiff is good for nothing. What’s to live for? A bunch of machines?"

There are humans mixed in here, too.

"I wouldn’t give you a centime for the entire lot, in the real world. We’re relics, Mademoiselle, all of us."

That is untrue. This place has a lot of potential.

He gave her a straight look. You really mean that.

"Of course I