Their names were Lancelot, Elaine, Percivale, Gawain, Modred, Lynette
and Vivien, but they were not characters from legend. They were made
people, clone servants designed to suit the fancy of their opulent
owner, the Lady Dela Kirn. And they worked aboard the Maid, an
anachronistic fantasy of a spaceship, decorated with swords, heraldic
banners, old-looking beams masking the structural joints, and lamps
that mimicked live flame.
They lived in a kind of dream, and had
no idea of their origins, their prototypes in those old, old story
tapes of romance, chivalry, heroism and betrayal.
Until a
wandering instability, a knot in time, a ripple in the between sucked
them into a spatial no-man's-land from which there seemed to be no
escape. And they were left alone, with the borrowed personas of their
ancient namesakes, to face a crisis those venerable spirits were never
designed to master.