In the depths of space, ancient machines whir to life. A signal has been received, written in a language of code that only the Gateways know, that says: [i]Come back.[/i] And they do. From one end of the Galaxy to the other, overlooking worlds of hostile deserts or sunken marshes, they come back. First with a spark, a wavering in space- and then a flash of blinding light and heat, a storm in the void, a celestial crescendo like a sun being born. And then only a steady light. Billions of lifeforms witness it. They wonder for a moment, perhaps, but then they go back to their lives, not knowing that over their heads now sits a portal to countless other worlds.

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A new star is in the sky, and only one person can see it.

She's the only one who was looking up when it happened, you see. She does that sometimes. Everybody else here is always looking down: towards the blinding lights of Neo London, to the speakers blasting out ancient music from Earth's glory days, and at the open-air Holograph Suites that beckon anyone who will listen to come inside, come inside and try for a night of [i]fun[/i]. Those holo-programs offered range from vaguely historical to wildly fictional, but all have one thing in common: they're about Earth.

Everything here, on this planet called New Hollywood, is about Earth. Isn't that strange?

Only a few hours ago, she had tried telling people, strangers lingering outside the Suites in wait for a turn, that something feels wrong about a culture that never looks up. About a world that listens to music, but doesn't make it. Nobody listened. Some of them laughed, a few of them looked pretty uncomfortable- but none of them listened. She knows she looked like a madwoman.

And she knows there are supposed to be other people, out there in the ruins, who might have stopped to hear her. The Mixstists. They don't have Holograph Suites. The only music they listen to is the music they make. And they have God. (Whatever that is.) There's not a day that passes without Martina Ward thinking about running off to find them. She's never quite built up the courage.

Tonight, she will be arrested for anti-Earth activities again. The Protectors, the strong and benevolent guardians of culture, will give her a plain choice: "You can keep your head down, Ms. Ward," they'll say, "keep your mouth shut, and enjoy the show," and here one of them will smile that dazzling New Hollywood smile, "or, you know, we can make you."

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"Savant?"

He's sitting in a plain gray office chair, 21st century American, wearing a charcoal gray greatcoat, 19th century British, scanning over a steel-gray infopad- his own design. There is not a spot of real color in the room, except for the one that's essentially mandated: an intricate golden globe, carved in the figure of Old Earth, rumored to have been owned by first Savant Zhang himself.

Everything else? Gray.

"Um... Savant Heralds?"

"Oh," the man in the chair looks up, and a broad smile spreads everywhere except his eyes, "Oligarch Tanaka, my youthful friend. I was so engrossed in my studies," the usual Noocratic talk, but maybe true in this case, "that I had not heard you enter! I suppose you must have good reason to disturb?" 

Usually, a statement like this is the opening volley in ten minutes of polite apologies, mutual praises, and a subtle competition to out-intellect eachother. But by now, it has become known among the supporters of James Heralds that their Savant does not tolerate the usual Oligarchic games. So Tanaka cuts to the chase: "The Gateway has reopened."

Savant Heralds stares at him for a moment, his smile faded, no expression at all. Is this a joke? At last: "Oh, child... you must have gotten a little too drunk in a Culture party? I'm afraid that Old Ireland will do that to y-"

"No," Tanaka dares to interrupts him, which immediately convinces Heralds he's certain. "I mean that the Gateway. Has. Reopened." His voice wavers between glee and panic.

"Old Earth?" Heralds asks.

"We can get there."

"And... the other colonies?" He doesn't know whether to hope or fear the answer. Tanaka only nods.

The Savant, usually as unshakable as old concrete and twice as stubborn, suddenly can't stay sitting. He's up off the chair, and he's pacing around the desk. "This..." his mouth works in silence for a moment, "this is a significant development." Anyone would have to agree.

Optimistic Tanaka smiles, and his smile does reach the eyes. The young Oligarch had been waiting for this chance to impress Heralds. "I've been listening to reports from the Gateway Listening Post for two hours," he confirms. And it had been his idea to establish it! "We don't know if the others have survived yet, sir. But they may have!"

Possibilities are running through Heralds mind faster than light on steroids. What could be waiting on the other side of those gates? Potential enemies? More problems to contain? ...Space vampires?

He dismisses that last idea.

"Oligarch Tanaka," he says slowly, and with more respect in his voice than he ever has before, "Get me the Listening Post on call." Tanaka beams joy.

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In less than three hours, the arrangements have been made.

A shuttle will be sent into the Gateway. Lightly manned, lightly armed. And Oligarch Tanaka, the man responsible for the creation of the Listening Post that observed the Gateway's reopening, has been selected to lead the mission. (This, of course, is so that Heralds is able to take credit for the discovery in Tanaka's absence, but the youth does not realize this.)

Since they have no way of knowing the situation or nature of any other colonies, Tanaka has been given full discretion to select a destination at will. As the little ship approaches, the Gateway links up automatically to their comm system. ([i]Even after three hundred years[/i], Tanaka thinks, [i]it still recognizes us.[/i]) A list of options appears on their visual feed, automatically, presented in little bullet-points of Old Earth English. Planet and system names are listed. No description is given- only the name. So that's how Tanaka picks.

"[i]Oria[/i]," he says slowly, like the word is magic to him, "uh, here we come."

With it's destination selected, the lone shuttle sails into the Gateway.

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[i]Addressing:[/i]
[@datadogie]