Noksalika ran, in her mind.  She ran in circles and through fresh meadows, ran up cliffs and ran down again, ran through fire and icy waters and under the falling leaves of blue trees.

In reality she ambled along quite calmly, through the narrow cobbled streets of the city.  Of course she didn’t want any extra attention, but she had another problem now too:  she was not the infamous Noksalika Chuunim, and she was not going to get away with any unconventional behaviour.  A bored, overzealous golem might kill her before even finding out her disguise and her Ethecrime.

Her disguise was based almost exclusively on three rules:

• No make-up.
  She looked amazing anyway, good start.
  
  
• Messy hair over the face at all times.
  To hide aforesaid amazing good looks, sadly.
  
  
• Being someone else.
  Behaving without ambition, self-respect, organisation, confidence or wit whatsoever.
  
  

This last point she was particularly proud of – all she had to do was act in all the ways Noksalika Chuunim was famous for not being.  Simple but effective.  And it was only now, investigating this poor girl’s rather vacant psyche, that she realised how lucky she’d been.  This girl, Tarabonitz … her face had looked very much like Noksalika, especially with the right eye shadow and her trademark blue lipstick.  But she’d been almost entirely different in every other possible way – bubbly, superficial, empty, useless.  Vacuous.  It was the perfect cover.

Who knew what kind of pig’s ear she would have made imitating the all-conquering media princess Noksalika Chuunim?

So part of her plan involved wandering rather aimlessly like any other young person socialising on a night out.  Being nearly three days after the unpleasantries at the tower (which she tried not to think about), it was admittedly quite a long night out, and she’d already been through four towns and numerous rural hampsteads.  She was wandering carefree, from one place and one moment to the next, seemingly aimlessly.  Seemingly…

Zha Bernstia, this town was called.  Locals walked past her stuffily, as though they were all bureaucrats being kept away from work.  Even the occasional act of public sex seemed rather respectful (which was certainly a new concept to Noksalika).  It was a small town but distinguished, or self-important anyway, with many traditional stone buildings and alleyways.  However, it didn’t have a surface, and existed mainly in three smallish interconnected spaces; Noksalika likened it to a town being inland rather than on the coast, somehow isolated, emotionally cut off.  Harder to reach.  Like other “deeptowns”, as she referred to them, the light was dim and had to be supported by artificial lights along the tight, stuffy avenues and difficult winding passages.  Well, only “artificial” in a sense – they were powered by the Ethe, after all.

She drank coffees, she watched passers-by, and politely declined the sexy enquiries of strangers who recognised a pretty girl despite the hair over her face.  They called her by a funny name, “Tarabonitz”, and she had to remind herself several times that this was her new name.  She had to remind herself not to look at various pictures and videos of her on the Ethe media with gory fascination, like some surgery patient staring in a mirror – and then had to remind herself that everybody wanted to know about Noksalika Chuunim, and forced herself to look in passing at least once or twice.

Noksalika had spent her life pretending not to be interested at all in various men, business deals, world politics and fashion editors of magazine articles (who were always wrong, by the way).  Pretending to be only mildly interested in something was proving to be a big challenge.

In truth, she had a strong mind, and these things shouldn’t have phased her so much.  But there was something wrong, something annoying in the back of her head she couldn’t see, preventing her from concentrating.  She only put her finger on it at a café when leaving the town:

‘Cold cranberry coffee please.’

‘Sure.  Anything in it?’

‘Hmm, apple concentrate and a twist of pollen?’

‘Coming right up.’

In a hilarious, primitive stunt, the calm and conservative brunette girl behind the counter was making drinks herself, and visitors had to queue up like, like animals or something.  Noksalika had thankfully investigated it before arriving, and knew not to attract attention by sitting down and actually expecting service.

  Was the girl was doing it as some kind of bet?  Maybe she was insane?

‘There you go,’ said the girl, who clearly didn’t look insane.  She even seemed quite nice.  Her hair was tied in a high ponytail, and she wore a brown woollen dress down to her knees, and no shoes for some reason.  Noksalika accepted the china goblet of chilled, red liquid and paid for it; the back of her head glowed green briefly.

‘You know,’ started the girl, as her own head flashing green also, ‘you look really familiar…’

Oh god, she thought.  She’s going to chat me up.

The girl gasped.  ‘I know!  It’s that music girl, Noksalika whatsit!  Oh my god, you look just like her.’  Suddenly this conservative-looking young woman had the look of an excited child.

Yeah, music, and the rest, she thought with an inward grimace.  ‘Oh … thanks,’ she replied marvelling at her new ability to act mild and relatively shy.   ‘Someone said that the other day.’

‘She’s amazing that girl.  All her music, and her other stuff,’ she giggled cheekily.  Then suddenly, with a darker shift and an odd gleam in her eye, came out with: ‘I’d love to be her.’

Noksalika managed to sit down at one of the tables without dropping her glass, or pitching it at the ground declaring her true identity (which no-one would have believed, at first anyway).  But she was locked in this sudden realisation, this ever-decreasing circle in her mind.

In her perfect disguise as someone else, she’d taken the identity of someone who’d desperately wanted to be her.

It was at this café she met the mantrel called Hanaman.

‘So where are you headed?’ said Hanaman, trotting along beside her.  While his horns came up to her chin, his eyes were level with her breasts, and she was fully aware of him constantly staring at them.  So long as he didn’t look at her face, that was fine by her.

‘Oh, nowhere,’ she said vaguely, all melancholy and wistful.

This wasn’t true in the slightest.  She had a very good mental map of the regions near her home city, and a very good idea where she was going.  Only the keenest examiner would realise she wasn’t drifting at all; her haphazard zigzagging was actually cutting a curved line north-by-north-zha-westwards.  She was making good ground too.  But she had acquired a problem.

‘It’s funny, I’m going that way myself,’ chirped the mantrel.

They’d left behind the edges of the town and walked through a forest, in higher, wider open spaces than before.  The trees were bare, but dotted with green shoots, fresh signs of life breaking free from the death of Winter.  Dry bark peeled off the trees and lay strewn across the floor, while squirrels played and chased noisily in the pale light.

‘So what do you do?’ she asked him.  A rugged, bearded man passed them the other way on the otherwise-lonely trail, and said hello.  She sent a wave through the Ethe without turning.

‘I’m a researcher,’ answered Hanaman, hopping from one hoofed foot to the other.  Noksalika couldn’t tell if he was anxious or excited, or if that was just his normal way of walking.  It was certainly annoying.

She very nearly looked towards him at this statement.  ‘You?  A researcher?  I didn’t know they let mantrels do research.’

‘Huh, thanks very much.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Well I’ve just never heard of one.  I thought you guys did … you know, manual stuff.  Crafts and that.’

At this point he did turn his horned head to look up at her.  From the corner of her eye, she saw his sad little face, slightly angry, slightly disappointed.  ‘Shows how much you know.  I don’t come from these parts.’  His demeanour changed back, as though he’d almost instantly forgiven her.  ‘It’s tech stuff, almost entirely on the Ethe, very little hardware involved.  So what do you do?’

Noksalika flushed with panic.  But she’d covered this.  ‘Oh, some fashion stuff, writing and that.  Just small stuff for the zines, you know.’

She’d spent the few days exploring the psychological furniture she’d inherited.  It hadn’t taken long.  But these things needed to be done properly.  Tarabonitz Suhanrohan had indeed been into fashion, and by default partying and culture, although not in the same way Noksalika had – she’d seemed somehow stuck on the fringes, always behind the camera.  From the articles, photos, videos and collected items on the Ethe, it seemed as though she’d been either unwilling or unable to put her own self forward – although it was unclear which.  Of course with interests (and looks) like hers, it would have been perfectly normal for this girl to become her own little starlet – hell knew there were enough of them around, all trying to be like the original Ms. Chuunim.  But a shy, reclusive fashionista who outwardly shunned glory and self-promotion, but secretly harboured dreams of grandeur – that was interesting…

She hadn’t had many friends – Noksalika was basking in the emptiness of a mere three or four hundred contacts, who mostly left her alone.  She easily batted away a few messages with some generic answer, made easier by a trawl through her past conversations.  For instance, a message she’d received yesterday, after she’d feigned being busy:

Miklovio Rrischka

Time: 8:21pm 32secs

‘Hey Tara how’s my favourite hot sexy bitch?  Wondering how you’re doing, it’s been absolutely ages.  Everything’s pretty crazy over here as usual, nearly got this generator dam thing finished.  Been partying with the enviro-architects, those guys are just HILARIOUS.  Do you fancy coming out with us one night?  I can show them I really do have some sexy friends!  Oh heard some whispers about some funny stuff in the Southwest, do you know anything?  Get back to me soon yeah, hope you’re well!’

Location:  Tak Tiiramanga (Outer Suburbs)

Mood:  Mikka is working hard, water’s tough to beat!

She’d very nearly replied with “no”.

However, she’d read through Tarabonitz’s previous replies and messages, in particular her conversations with this man Miklovio, and given a polite reply that she was rather busy here thank you and was backing out of public life for a short time and wouldn’t be available.

Tak Tiiramanga, she thought to herself.  She’d been there several times, they had a nice (if over-decorated) concert hall and a couple of fun bar districts.  It was a long trip, although nothing more for her – something like two or three thousand miles away, roughly north-zha-westwards.  But it would have been a huge distance for Tarabonitz, and a night out with Miklovio would have meant joining up across the Ethe, partying together over cyberspace.  She shrugged.  She’d had sexual relationships over further distances.

‘I need a wee, could you just wait here a sec?’ said the mantrel anxiously.  She watched his small frame bouncing off between the bare trees and evergreen shrubs.

‘Er, sure, if you really want.’  Maybe that’s what all the hopping was about, she thought.  She stood and waited.  It was less hassle than running off.

Mantrels were just another species.  They were like small men and women, and had majestic horns that curved up and over their heads, although often had curved spines too and looked awfully wretched trotting around on their hoofed feet.  This one had introduced himself as Hanaman.  Hanaman was the first one Noksalika had seen wearing more than an old-fashioned loincloth (or its modern equivalent, the g-string) – he wore a pair of blue three-quarter lengths, with his long ankles showing at the bottom, and a semi-military casual shirt open at the chest.  Gold rings hung from his horns and jingled very slightly as he walked.

Despite all this Noksalika still found it easier to think of mantrels more as animals than people; anyway, they’d only been accepted an auxiliary species by the state in the last few thousand years.

‘Get rid of him.’  The crusty bark of a nearby tree had formed a familiar face, with a familiar voice; Noksalika barely had to turn round.  ‘He’s a spy.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘How do you think?  Trust me.  He’s more than a liability.’

‘It’ll take more time.  I’m doing my best, I can’t go any faster, people will notice.’

‘Alright.’  Hanaman started walking back towards her, clearly more relaxed.  She stood so that he couldn’t see the tree.  ‘Just quickly – there’s something brewing in the Southwest.’

She looked directly at Piarowef’s face.  The gnarly little eyes looked back.  ‘What is it?  Anything I should know about?’  She scanned the margins of the Ethe, but saw nothing.

The face remained static, neutral.  ‘Possibly.  Could be something serious, we’re not sure.  I’ll let you know if you need to know.’

The features melted away, until just a cracked smile remained.