Paradox

by John Meaney

  Tom clutched the new charge-bead for Father’s cutting-tools. What if Stavrel tried to take it?

  Last straw. Overload.

  For three days now, Mother had paid visits to the Oracle in his tent, while his militiamen roamed the local tunnels and astymonia intelligence questioned everybody. No-one quite knew why. One word—Pilot—was in everyone’s mind, but never spoken.

  This morning Mother had tied her hair back with silver cord, used precious cred-flakes to buy a basket of jantrasta-filled gripplefruits, and taken them into the black tent.

  I know more about the Pilot than anyone, Tom realized. But all I care about is—

  Stavrel had jerked the flagon away from one of his companions just as the youth had been about to drink, but stopped now, and stared at Tom.

  Up on the ledge, the chrome-headbanded one laughed shortly.

  “Dancers learn lots of positions, don’t they?” He spat to one side. “First there’s—”

  Overload. Tom opened his mouth to—

  “Shut up.” Stavrel. Looking up at the ledge.

  Metal-headband stopped, blood draining from his face.

  Stavrel glanced at Tom, then turned away.

  Unsettled, Tom took the long route back to the market.

  He had been halfway to Garveron Place, getting Father’s charge-bead; the astymonia-regulated power booth served both Farlgrin District and Salis Core. Standing in line, Tom had caught sight of a greyheaded figure in a mandelbrot shawl. Trude? He had not been able to—

  A Jack.

  For the first time, icy fear swept away the constant background images of Mother and the whining question about Father: why didn’t he do something? Suddenly, Tom was afraid for his own sake.

  They will detect emissions—

  Holodrama heroes were golden-skinned and muscular. In real life, this Jack was slender, almost emaciated. His spindly arms and legs were bare, exposing the motile dermaweb.

  Across bone-white skin, fine blue tracery crawled.

  Just for a moment, he-—it—glanced in Tom’s direction. A diffractive rainbow shimmered across microfaceted eyes.

  My fear is natural. Tom was aware of his own sweat, his soaring pulse. He won’t stop me, will he?

  Behind the Jack, keeping their distance—not to overwhelm the Jack’s hyper-reactive senses—were four militiamen in dark combat fatigues.

  If I’m subvocalizing—

  There was a small, unnamed side tunnel and Tom took it, quickening his pace, hoping no-one would follow.

  He hurried through a low, dank inn where hooded men and women were sitting cross-legged around bubbling communal beakers, sipping leth’aqua through narlskin tubes. More hooded robes hung from sticky-tags on the bare rockface wall: clients used them, for anonymity.

  Should he borrow a robe?

  No, he needed to keep moving. And you couldn’t hide from a Jack. Unconsciously he touched his chest, feeling the silver stallion against his skin.

  Detect emissions—

  Tom halted where the chamber narrowed to winding tunnel once more. Something about one of the hooded figures . . . He turned back.

  “Trude?” he asked uncertainly.

  There were three of them huddled by the wall, ignoring him. He must be wrong. Not Trude: not in a place like this.

  “There’s a Jack coming this way,” he added, feeling foolish.

  That got a reaction.

  “Are you sure?” Pulling back her hood.

  “Fate, Trude. It is you.”

  “Time to leave, gentlemen.” She addressed the two still-hooded figures beside her. “Come on, Tom. We’ll go first.”

  Dropping the robe to the ground, she took Tom’s arm and hurried him out along the tunnel.

  Though she gave him one or two strange, appraising looks, they spoke not a word, all the way back to the market chamber.

  Laughter.

  “Come on in, Tom.” Father, waving a bronze cup. “You ought to have a drink, but—”

  Mother grabbed Father’s shoulder, pulling him to her, whispered something into his ear and giggled.

  Father sputtered, spraying wine, then choked it down and shook his head, laughing. He was red-faced with drink, happier than Tom had seen him for a long time.

  Mother winked at Tom.

  “Er…” Tom stood at the family chamber’s entrance. “Padraig and Levro asked if I could stay at their place tonight. Can I?”

  “Huh?” Father looked blearily puzzled. “Are you—?”

  “Anything you want, Tom.”

  “Thank you, Mother.” Not letting the doubt sound in his voice.

  “Aw ... A family should stick together.”

  “It’s OK, Father. I want to go.”

  He let the hanging drop back into place as Mother spoke again in a low voice, and Father laughed once more.

  Everything’s going to be all right. He sighed, leaning back against the wall.

  After a while he started walking, wondering where he might sleep that night.

  “—why the Uncertainty we’re bothering.”

  Tom jerked awake.

  “You what?”

  Cold. Just one of those anomalies, perhaps to do with hidden running water: it happened sometimes, in Split Alley. The temperature must have dropped while Tom was sleeping. He shivered.

  “I heard His Wisdom say it. The Jacks won’t find the witch’s transmitter.”

  “Some kinda joke.”

  Tom retreated farther into the rough nook, trying to make himself small. The troopers were near the market chamber, just a couple of metres inside the tunnel.

  “Nah, he meant it. Said the trip would be worth the effort, though.”

  “What’s that supposed to . . . ?”

  Their voices faded: moving away, or submerged beneath the rushing of blood in Tom’s ears. The Jacks’ search would fail.

  I’m safe.

  “Father! Morning.”

  Father, picking desultorily at cold rice and shredded gripple, merely pointed with his tine-spoon. “Have some breakfast.”

  “Er, thanks.” Tom, bursting to tell someone his good news, was struck by Father’s downcast expression. “I’ll get a bowl.”

  As he sat down, though, Father stood.

  “I’m going to set up.” He shrugged a jerkin over his plain tunic. “Early start.”

  It was not like Father to leave food uneaten. Puzzled but ravenous, Tom tucked in to his own breakfast.

  Afterwards, he cleaned and stacked the two bowls, grabbed the infotablet and sticky-tagged it to his belt.

  “Tom?”

  He stopped. “Yes, Mother?”

  “Come here.” Leaning past the hanging, she kissed him on the cheek. “I love you, Tom.”

  “Oh, Mother ...”

  “You have your grandfather’s eyes, you know.” Her own blue eyes were unreadable: Tom could not tell if the resemblance was a good thing or bad. “I guess I’ve never—Anyway.” Unfocused dreaminess entered her voice. “Your father needs you. Go now.”

  The hanging swung back into place.

  Unsettled, disoriented, Tom almost bumped into a dark-clothed trooper.

  “Sorry, I didn’t—”

  A stiff-expressioned officer was standing in front of Father’s stall, his scarlet uniform immaculate, throat clasp and bracelets gleaming.

  “Father ...”

  Nobody paid attention to Tom.

  The officer was holding out a small bag. “Please, sir.” He spoke through clenched teeth. In a lower tone: “He can afford it.”

  Father’s expression was wooden. “No.”

  “Please reconsider.” The officer waited. Then: “My respects, sir.”

  He bowed to Father, low and precise, as though to a senior officer. Then he wheeled on his bootheel, and for a moment self-disgust washed across his features.

  “Escort: atten-tion!”

  Six troopers snapped their heels together. In time with the officer, they marched away towards the chamber’s
centre.

  And then he saw her.

  It was too early for marketgoers, and the scattered stallholders moved to the market’s perimeter as the militia ranks formed with the same precision they had shown before. At their centre, the black tent had already lowered itself into the lev-car’s rear luggage hold. It pulled its narrow legs inside.

  From the same entrance Tom had used, she came. Cupric tresses. Elegant, controlled walk.

  There were militiamen standing to attention, but he could have slipped through the gaps between them—were he not paralysed. This was not, could not be happening.

  The Oracle, big and impossibly handsome, was waiting by the lev-car.

  No...

  Courteously, he helped her aboard, then climbed in after her.

  Mother!

  And it moved off slowly, the lev-car, its cockpit membrane still transparent, the couple inside clearly visible. Her hand was upon his gauntleted forearm.

  Two hundred militiamen stamped and turned in unison. Then they marched out, squadron after squadron, as the lev-car edged out of view, and they followed into Skalt Bahreen’s darkness while Tom could only watch, pinned, until only the echoing bootsteps remained, lingering in the market’s still air like the waking fragments of a bad, lost dream.

  ~ * ~

  6

  NULAPEIRON AD 3404

  Where was she now?

  “Tom?” Trude called after him, but he pretended not to hear: head down, holding the empty containers by their loop-handles.

  He passed people he knew, but their gazes slid guiltily from his face, never meeting his eyes.

  Ten whole days.

  It burned at Tom. His own fault for eavesdropping, for using the infotablet again, but Trude’s words would not leave his mind.

  “Stop belittling yourself, Davraig. “ Impatience in her tone. “You ought to ask: what would the Oracle see in her? Beyond the obvious, I mean.“

  Father had been despondent, but anger rose in Tom at the memory.

  “She’ll return, you’ll see.“ A pause, and then she added: “I could get a call session booked. I’ve got some, ah, associates who owe me a favour.“

  “I could talk to her?”

  “We can try. Should take about a tenday.”

  And it had been ten days, of despair.

  In the Aqua Hall, there were too many people—he should have come earlier—but he accepted a token anyway, set down his containers, and sat on a red ceramic bench, awaiting his turn.

  So, where? Some other stratum? Another demesne? Where would the Oracle have taken her?

  “Are you all right, son?” A white-haired man with a concerned expression.

  Tom shook himself, unclenching his fists. “Just a headache. It’s nothing.”

  “If you’re sure ...”

  “Thank you. I’m fine.”

  Tom watched the old man make his way out, bent beneath the canister slung across his shoulders, water sloshing inside. The old man looked back from the tunnel outside—nodding as Tom waved—and then he was gone.

  Tom leaned back, watching triple braids of water arc through the air above the pool. Inset wall aquaria were filled with fish: purple, red, yellow-and-black with impossibly long, trailing fins. Normally he liked to watch them—

  “Gamma nine? Last call.”

  Tom checked the ceramic token: his turn.

  He waited while the attendants filled his containers, spiked Father’s ration flake and helped him sling the handles over his shoulders.

  Awkwardly, trying not to slip, Tom made his long way home.

  “Ranvera Corcorigan, if you would.”

  Trude—as he had never heard her. Not with such refinement and precision.

  “A moment ...” Above the table, the impossibly smooth-featured head was replaced by a human figure: a white-bearded man, with parallel purple scars cut into one cheek. “Chef-Steward Valneer, at your service.”

  Tom, who had been standing frozen in the doorway—this was only the third realtime call he’d seen—slowly lowered his water containers. Neither Trude nor Father even glanced in his direction.

  “I am calling on behalf of Master Trader Corcorigan”—Trude nodded towards Father, who remained stone-faced, unimpressed by his apparent social promotion—”whose wife is a guest of His Wisdom, I believe.”

  A grim pause. “This call is not unexpected. I have been asked to assure you that Madam Corcorigan is well.”

  Father, like a statue, merely watched.

  “She, ah…” The old man, Valneer, cleared his throat. “She is where she wants to be.”

  “My wife.” Father.

  “I’m sorry.” The pain in Valneer’s eyes looked genuine.

  “Not good enough!” Trude, flaying him with her voice.

  “Ma’am, I—” The old man stopped, then wavered: his image split into a thousand revolving fragments which coalesced once more.

  Oracle Gérard d’Ovraison.

  “Sorry, old friend.” Spoken to one side. “This is my burden.” Then he turned his handsome regard upon Trude, and bowed slightly to Father. “My regards, sir.”

  Father’s skin looked suddenly grey.

  “Ran”—a smile tugged at the Oracle’s lips—”is truly fine. But I promised her . . . harmony. She cannot be disturbed.”

  “She is my wife.”

  “Not—ah, damn it.” The Oracle shrugged his massive shoulders. “There is a thing—I don’t want to tell you.” An odd smile flickered, was gone. “But I already know I will.”

  “Ranvera is my wife. “

  “Not for much longer, I fear.” A sudden resonance in the Oracle’s words, like nothing Tom had ever heard. “But I haven’t told Ran . . . of your impending death.”

  Trude’s hands caught Tom’s attention: gripping the table edge, bloodless white with tension.

  “No!” Tom, filled with sudden rage.

  “The son.” Grey eyes, impossibly deep, meeting the force of Tom’s anger, absorbing it. “Our first meeting, chronologically speaking.”

  Trude: “Ranvera’s nothing to you.”

  “I can pull into timeflow more than . . . Well. Let’s say she has qualities only I can appreciate.” His gaze grew darker. “My regrets, all of you.” He swept a courteous bow to everyone in the room. “Davraig—if I may call you that—it would be wise to get your affairs in order.”

  A strangled sound escaped Trude’s lips.

  “Five tendays.” The Oracle looked at her. “That’s how long your friend Davraig has to live.”

  His image winked out of existence.

  Minus thirty. Three tendays remaining.

  Aleph to Zeus: tricons instantiated with a cycle time of 0.11-recurring nanoseconds. The names of God flowed past.

  Background: the nasal prayer-hum, the whistling spin-chain.

  Hb:7.3g dl-1 Glowing amid the incense vapours. Parietal-delta amp: 112.3 μV.

  A touch on Tom’s sleeve: the assistant priestess, scarcely older than Tom, motioning him aside, as the Antistita, the elder priestess, swept past Father’s bed once more, with a rustle of heavy purple silks.

  “I don’t . . . believe ... in this.” Father’s voice was soft.

  The shaven-headed priestess paused in her chants. “You used to.”

  Beside Tom, the younger assistant checked both displays: mediscanner’s holo to the left, prayer processor to the right. Then she swung her thurible again, and a puff of violet incense fumes made Tom cough.

  Blinking away tears, he watched the Antistita perform mudras above Father’s chakra points, chanting softly, while pastel phase-space manifolds billowed and blossomed in the holodisplays.

  Then she bowed to Father, who nodded weakly, slack-faced, from his bed.

  “Be infinitely blessed.”

  The young assistant gestured, wiping the holos, and gathered up the processors. When she was finished, both purple-robed priestesses left quickly, surprising Tom. Then he realized, and went outside to the tunnel, where they were wai
ting.