I’m not serializing this book, okay?

Just having fun with exposition for the first time in a while. Maroli Tango. A second editing pass on early chapters. Pulling material from later chapters, consolidating, foreshadowing, boiling it down, turning up the pace. I hope it's good for you, too.

Pulina Nava, Planet Jivada

It was Wednesday morning on the east coast of the United States, Friday on the west coast of Jivada’s main continent, offset sixteen minutes, deviating further every day on a twenty-seven-year cycle.

Offshore of PN, a stately Tuscan Renaissance villa drifted at a thousand meters altitude, aimless, nudged along by the wind, meandering on gravitic tensors as though sliding on ice.

SagGha House, circa 1438, the work of Italian/AjJivadi architect Mechelozzo, a prototype for Palazzo Medici, Florence, Italy, circa 1444.

Erected nearly six-hundred years in the past atop a surplus grav-lift marine construction barge, commissioned as an owner-managed airborne luxury residential complex, then serving as a monastery, a college and a reform school.

Until occupied by SagGha Prefect Samuel Orsa — priest, scholar, family man. A furry Anye Mahat Limar, one-hundred-thirty-eight years old, bearlike in appearance, sometimes referred to on Earth as the ‘Space Pope’.

Guru Orsa was in the habit of spending Fridays ministering to a congregation at the Star Forge cluster, eight light-years distant, about fourteen minutes via Saraf Drive.

He was up early. Showered. Groomed his ruff himself. In a mud room off the owner’s kitchen, Charles the maroli applied a number-two clipper guard to buzz the rest of him, saying, “This one sees a lot of skin.”

Orsa’s wife Maryanne, human, Norwegian/AjJivadi, arrived on the tail-end of the procedure. She said, “Is this all you, or did someone shear a long-haired ox.”

Guru Orsa looked in a mirror. “My pelt is thinner than it was the last time I got a shavedown.”

Brandon Lopez told him, “When I was a kid, I did my dog that way. He went and hid under the porch.”

Charles the maroli offered a comforting tentacle. “Nobody will see Guru Sam naked today.”

Brandon had come down from his apartment with groceries. He put prepared cinnamon roll dough in the oven, eggs in a poacher, bacon on a griddle, pablum, goat’s milk and soy powder in a saucepan for Charles the maroli.

SagGha House turned the exterior courtyard passage east to face a rising sun. The wind was coming from the same direction. Charles the maroli activated radiant heat under the pavers. Guru Orsa helped him set a table.

The breakfast party sat with fly-away paper napkins anchored between thighs. Brandon reported on his week. “Last Friday, an IDF think-tank analyst walked into the CH Banks storefront in Tel Aviv asking for an appointment.”

Guru Orsa shook his head. “After being told not to bother the Space Mafia detective agency.”

“It was an offer to share resources. Economist, early fifties, nice guy. Had dinner at his house, met his wife who is, by the way, a real sweet lady and something of a character.”

“Productive?”

“Maybe.” Brandon nodded at Maryanne. “I see you fidgeting. What’s up?”

Maryanne Orsa said, “I spoke with our glamorous President of the United States this morning. Her neural implant came online. Dull throb behind the left eye. I told her to call me if it doesn’t go away.”

“Did Carmen say anything about me?”

“She asked about Mayur Upanaya.”

“Oh, yeah? Who shared the rumor?”

“Pascal.” Maryanne gave Charles the side-eye. “And I wonder who told Pascal.”

Charles the maroli rotated to face her. “This one is innocent.”

Guru Orsa said, “We’ll see Carmen tomorrow, assuming Glenn Mehrenholz gets Bharamin running.”

Maryanne made a wistful expression. “I wish I was going with him. What an adventure. Ancient Anye migration ship lurking out by Saturn, active again for the first time in twenty-five hundred years …”

Brandon poured coffee. “I tried to invite myself. Connie Sorenson said her shipwrights had enough to do without more tourists on board.”

“Darn.” Maryanne lifted her chin at him. “You know, maybe you should get your soul image recorded; find out if it’s true that you are, in fact, the reincarnation of a famous warrior priest.”

“Wouldn’t that be a hoot?” He shrugged. “What do you bet someone’s already taken my picture, without permission, and that’s how it got started.”

She frowned. “It wouldn’t have been the Cadre Policy Office. Louise Karnak would never consent to invade your privacy.”

“Her boss would.” Brandon stacked tableware and cups on his plate. “Did Carmen say anything else?”

“She intends to visit her daughter in New Zealand, today.”

He pushed away from the table. “And there’s my cue. Great visit, everyone. Gotta go.”