This last warp had been nasty, leaving Babineau nauseous and unfocused. The livestock containers had come through intact, and the grain and vegetable bins, but even the routine unloading of them had been a unusual chore. The solar flares, he thought.
As they finished he let the transport drivers go early while his gauchos herded the last lots of cattle into the pens overnight, ready for the slaughterers and processors to start work early next morning.
That done he stripped of his working gear and took the elevator up through the air-locks from the vast industrial understorey complex below into the showers and purifying vents, and thus cleansed of possible contaminants up again into the towering quarters of the pod proper far above.
He stepped out into his own apartment, but instead of dressing went straight through to his sleeping bay and slipped quietly under the covers, leaving the flag up not to be disturbed while he settled.
Eventually a light knock at the door drew him awake and he pulled on a gown to answer it, to find his housekeeper there with a draft for him, and signing, “Monsieur Babineau”, that a light meal had been prepared.
His disorientation aside, the same culture-shock effect he always felt on returning left him walking past the servant without acknowledgment.
The shimmering field enclosing the pod, making the sky a sickly pink apparition compared to that over the outstations where their food was grown, only partly disturbed him. He had learned to ignore it. After all, it only kept the weather out, and the humidity and temperature within at steady comfort, costing them naught on good days but the soft fluffy white and clear blue.
It was the podlings themselves, ostensibly servants as they themselves happily admit, all plugged in and connected together via their i-pod implants constantly receiving instructions, and off duty unending podcasts, streaming videos and music, news, blogs and chats, and subscription e-lectures in society and philosophy, psychology and the state of the environment, as prelude to advancement, that left him ill at ease.
They must think it wonderful, he surmised, he among their nominated lords and masters to feed them, or so they deferred, and keep them safe, with they content to serve meals and tend the long streets and corridors and apartments, cleaning the carpets and toilets, their complexion so fair, unblemished.
One might be happy for them, except while their eyes saw everything they looked at nothing, their thoughts so taken up with receiving and sending messages, and keeping in close touch with friends and loved-ones far and wide, and life-long learning and education; and music, always music, silent as not to disturb anyone but internally dark metal, or rocking, or symphonic, or popular or country. You could see the bandwidth in their walk.
It was their connectedness that bothered him, but he ate his meal in silence while his thoughts wandered off toward the new ranch ready for harvest during the next warp.
The gauchos would have left already, not bothering to come up through the pod sterilisation process merely to wander about the endless corridors, and whore and drink themselves silly, wasting their pay; simply gone again while they had the chance once the warp gate coordinates had been recalculated, before the clock was reset to the new cycle sealing the pod from the outside.
At least they were safe. They were always safe, apart from the warp itself; the folding in time/space that let them travel, always avoiding droughts, and plagues, and wars; always planting and harvesting during the best seasons wherever and whenever they found them.
His own job was less safe, but manageable and well paid for that, and it gave him status, not merely as commodities broker but for his diplomacy and friendliness, and his equipment and crew always in good order, and with that good standing among the peoples whose land they periodically claimed for their crops and herds; allowing him his tattoos of rank and leaving them plenty in compensation.
It may not always be that way, he knew, depending on the pod’s demands, and how happy the podlings, but things worked out for now.
The draft had relaxed him, and finishing his meal he went and showered again, this time in the clear fragrant waters distilled by the podshield itself, which produced it as rain collected on pristine roofs and gutters, in the upper storey, and draining down into the cisterns. He stepped into the drying chamber, then out into his master bedroom where his town clothes were laid out for him.
He dressed and went out. There was a live show at his club, and he had a choice of that or a game of bridge if there were a tournament in progress.
But as he made his way through the crowd he began to sense eyes looking at him, which was odd because none of the other Kadians lived hereabouts, and podlings never looked at anything.
Continuing along the corridor he slowed and turned into an elevator lobby to stand waiting for a lift up to his club. The odd feeling stayed with him. He looked down to see a snowy head of hair right next to his elbow, and as the lift arrived and he moved to enter it came with him.
“OK.” He said, to nothing in particular, then as he came to his stop and the doors slid open he stepped out and went over to a settee in the lobby and sat down. It sat next to him.
“Supposing I were to be wondering what a podling boy would be doing following me around, and sitting next to me, how would that be,” he mused aloud.
The boy snapped up at him, startled by the question, but had no answer to give, or shy. Embarrassingly so. His unblemished skin glowed bright pink, as his eyes stared bright liquid right into his face.
“Scared, eh? No problem,” he said, then stood and re-entered the lift. Inside, with the noise of the motors backing him, he squatted to bring his face level with the boy’s. Turning him around to face the wall away from him, he reached up and parted his hair right where the implant would have been injected at birth. Nothing amiss, he turned him to face him again.
“Your name?” he asked.
“solxv98fg6”, the boy snapped to attention.
“Ha!” Babineau. “Don’t fuck with me. What is your name?”
“Sola.”


