by John Meaney
Breath control. As in Maestro da Silva’s classes: mental state changes triggered by physiological transitions.
“You’re familiar, my Lords, with Lord Avernon’s work?”
A widening of eyes. Surprised that he should know of it.
Use your weakness.
The maestro’s refrain to a small student facing a charging bigger opponent. Use agility, the surroundings, anything . . .
Unable to mix socially with nobility, Tom had worked on his Sorites School assignments alone. Lacking their access levels, he endlessly replayed Karyn’s Tale, exploring the limited hyperlinks to Terran ecology, sociology, to mu-space physics.
I know stuff the others don’t. Slow exhalation. Use it.
“Inspiring, isn’t it?” He meant Avernon’s theory. “Broad as well as deep.”
Striding carefully across the polished floor, he gestured one holodisplay after another into existence.
“So revolutionary, no-one’s had time to work through the implications.” Animated now, he was surrounded by wafting, translucent phase-space manifolds: gossamer sheets manifested in light.
“If you think of it”—causing a burst of new volumes: blue, silver and a hundred pastel shades—”it resolves the ancient negentropy question, once and for all.”
Stillness in the chamber.
Tom drew Avernon-style metavectors into position. The Lords, eyes flickering, descended into deep logosophical trance.
An easy picture.
His key display was a simple 3-D static image: glistening, roughly spheroidal, denoting a flat (2-D) universe. It started as a point, grew larger to a maximum diameter, then shrank again to another point.
The universe as a giant pearl; time as a horizontal axis.
Base everything around that.
It grew from the big bang—with entropic time flowing in the same direction: the big bang was in the past, the period of greater size was in the future—up to a maximum size.
Then the universe began to shrink towards the big crunch but with time reversed, so that, in the second half of the universe’s life, the final big crunch was in the past, and, again, the time of maximum size was in the future.
From left and right, from two opposite points—like an east and west pole—golden arrows pointed across the surface to the vertical circle, like a O-degree longitudinal circle.
Make the arrows glow.
There were, in effect, two big bangs. Two cosmic histories colliding in the middle, where time switched over from one direction to the other. The concept was called Gold-Sakharov negentropy, and it was so old that Tom was not sure of its origins.
Pause now.
Tom allowed the Lords to meditate on his display.
“Previous arguments,” he continued after a few minutes, “have relied on symmetry. Avernon’s—excuse me, Lord Avernon’s—metavector actually requires it”—he pointed to a twisting manifold—”for consistency.”
Beyond the simple pearl image, more sophisticated imagery showed the cosmos as a hypersphere (subtly different-hued, distorted spheroids nestling along a notional time-axis) and as a moving construct in 12-space.
“It would be interesting to see how that would map to mu-space—”
Destiny! The Lords, stony-faced in logotropic trance, said nothing. What have I revealed?
“—which I know nothing of, except that its mythical dimensions were supposed to be fractal. As a thought experiment, consider the possibility of an infinitely recursive, self-referencing statement, attempting to complete itself.”
I’m doing it.
Excited now, almost forgetting the committee, Tom waved golden seas and spongiform black stars into being.
“The number of depths and the number of instances are both infinite. But is one infinity a bigger class of infinity than the other?”
He waited a moment, then plunged on.
“By applying the metavector”—almost dancing, he manoeuvred through his images—”we see that it negates Gödel’s theorem as a direct analogue of negating unidirectional entropic time in realspace.”
No questions.
There could not be, for the Lords were too deep in trance to verbalize, and Tom had full control of the holos.
“—which brings us back to the symmetry arguments. Our realspace cosmos begins from a tiny locus, expands with time until a maximum is reached, then contracts once more to a near-point.”
Pearl. Simple image.
“The universe essentially has two origins in time, which grow forwards to meet each other. Two big bangs. We can’t know which half of the cosmic life cycle we’re in”
Something strange about the Lords’ regard . . .
“It means, of course, that while Destiny remains paramount as always, a physical interpretation is that the cosmos starts at maximum size and shrinks symmetrically in two directions, against the flow of time.”
Unspoken communication between the Lords.
They’re not surprised!
In his peripheral vision, Tom saw the near-subliminal gestures. They know this already. And something more.
He pressed on.
“Now the Avernon metavector”—Tom hid a smile, wondering if he had just coined a name for posterity—”requires the symmetry. But symmetry cannot be broken at the end points, at the big bang or crunch, any more than at the midpoint. So, in fact, the universal history must look like this.”
The universe was no longer a single pearl.
It was a long string of pearls, one after the other.
Each pearl was one generation of the visible universe. But it replicated itself, over and over. Identically? Tom could not tell; he was not sure if even Avernon’s metavectors would provide the answer.
It was the true cosmic cycle, revealed for the first time.
“The ancient questions were: (1) does the universe keep expanding for ever? When that was answered—definitely not—they asked: (2) does time reverse when the universe contracts? As we now know, it does.”
With a grand gesture, Tom swept every one of his two hundred displays out of existence, save one.
Only the hanging string of pearls—cosmic necklace—remained.
“So now the question is (3) whether the string extends infinitely or is closed up to form a loop, as in a lady’s necklace ...”
He was bathed with sweat, pumped up with adrenaline, as though he had run for many kilometres.
“And that question, my Lords”—he bowed low—”you are much better equipped to answer than I.”
The silence seemed to last for ever.
There were other things Tom could talk about, a dozen research topics suggesting themselves. Yet he held back, knowing he should keep something in reserve.
Blinking and, in one instance, yawning, the Lords pulled themselves out of trance. Their grave faces seemed blurred, tired.
I’m exhausted, Tom realized. But I’ve done the best I can.
Their eyes refocused on their surroundings.
Tom bowed again, low and courteous.
Let them judge me on this.
Then he left, chin held high.
~ * ~
37
NULAPEIRON AD 3413
Final day.
The Exedra Concordia was a huge hall: platonic solids revolving in mid-air, among lacy web-columns of fine white ceramic. Banked tiers of canopied smartseats. Tapestry banners bearing flat-projected paradoxicons; Tom whiled away the long wait by guessing the missing facets.
He was high up, near the rear. His crimson seat was at the end of a row, with neither canopy nor reshape-capability.
Down below, thirteen nobles—ten Lords Maximi, three Ladies Maximae—gave welcoming speeches. Each stood on a wide, floating crystal sculpture—sapphire, violet, crimson: spread-winged gryphons, eagles—which drifted into the foremost position when it was the rider’s turn to speak.
Haunting music. Dreaming flutes; sweet strings; a distant roll of martial drums—I wonder when Dervlin is now—as Field Marshal Lord Ta
kegawa, in full dress uniform, marched in with other senior military men and women to take seats in the first row.
A more splendid refrain of massed horns and a solitary pipe began to rise. Blue-robed Lords Academic filed in and took their places.
It was Lord A’Dekal who led the ceremony, his voice cast by the hall’s systems across the thousands-strong audience.
“My Lords and Ladies, let us meditate.”
His long, white beard lay in contrast against his azure robe; was complemented by the stiff, white cape, its ornately horned cowl framing his long, stern face.
Did you always look the part of Primus-among-Maximi? Tom wondered. Or have you taken on the image that others expect?
Down below, in the fourth tier from the front, the younger Lords and Ladies wore scarlet trimmed with yellow. They were awaiting the Nuntiatio Dominorum, in which promotions and fiefdoms would be announced, and secondments to heirless realms or elevation to the higher ranks of academia would be made public.
None of them knew their fate.
Tom had briefly talked yesterday with Avernon—”Surely you must know what position you’ve got?”—but Avernon merely shook his head, with an almost bemused smile.
He could see Avernon now, in the middle of the fourth row, his scarlet cap set at an odd angle. Carelessness rather than jauntiness. Two of Avernon’s peers, the devil-may-care duo of Falvonn and Kirindahl, were stiffly formal today.
Your futures have been decided already. Tom almost pitied them. You just don’t know what it is yet.
The ceremony’s agenda had been printed in flat-text on crystalline laminae, and every attendee had a copy. Tom wondered how many of the audience could read the archaic format.
He checked the items still to come.
There were Lord A’Dekal’s summary of the year’s events in the sector; a chorale by the Floating Singers of Kalgathoria; talks on fiscal policy and interdemesne trade agreements; and the Lord Xalteron Anniversary Speech to be delivered by Duke Boltrivar, it being fifty SY since the distinguished logosopher Xalteron (now deceased) had codified his ethical calculus and overseen its widespread dissemination.
Ethics. After so many of Boltrivar’s subjects had died three years ago.
And where were you when the riverflood broke, my Duke?
Tom knew the answer: far away on an “impromptu” diplomatic visit.
He closed his eyes.
His left arm itched. If only it existed, he could have scratched it.
Snapping his eyes open, he scanned the schedule again, estimating the ceremony’s duration. Two hours, at least.
After Duke Boltrivar’s item, there would be the announcements of ambassadorships and appointments to the Fora-Regnorum. They were for older nobles—the grander Lords and Ladies—and were temporary, often part-time assignments, though highly prestigious.
The futures of the more senior peers were not at stake today. They would have been party to the arrangements; the announcements were pro forma.
“…like to review the events of a most propitious year ...”
There were few freedmen among the gathering’s members. No proletarian promotions would be announced here.
Later, when the Convocation proper had ended, there would be three more days of meetings. Some commoners’ assignments might be decided then, but it was still rare. A subject’s future was normally decided by his or her own Lord.
But they brought me before the Review Committee.
Tom did not know what to expect. Maybe a teaching assistantship? In the Sorites School, perhaps. Or in some other realm.
“. . . increased revenue by . . .”
Today he was here only to watch Avernon’s official recognition and assignment. But that was hours away.
I shouldn’t have drunk all that daistral.
He slipped from his seat and headed up the aisle to the rear membrane. Outside, the corridor was a sweeping grey-black curve, almost deserted. He nodded to a servitor, who bowed awkwardly (discomfited by Tom’s wearing a guest’s scarlet sash but a servitor’s earstud), and headed for the wash-chamber.
Afterwards, he returned to the corridor. It was cool and peaceful, and long black bench-seats arced along one wall.
I have no duties, Tom realized with a kind of eerie shock. There’s a grand ceremony going on in the hall, which most servitors would kill to see. But it’s boring.
Half amused at his own actions, he slipped off his half-cape and laid it on the seat. Carefully ignoring the servitors, Tom sat down, pulled his legs up into lotus, and closed his eyes.
He exhaled.
“Sir?”
Tom opened his eyes. From the hall, applause.
“They’re announcing senior ambassadors, sir.” The tall servitor, standing by Tom’s bench-seat, spoke respectfully.
“Thank you.”
Wisely, Tom had changed earlier from lotus to an easier cross-legged position. Now, as he slid off the bench and stood, there was only the tiniest twinge of stiffness. “I’d better get back to my proper place.”
The other servitor bowed and backed away.
Don’t treat me like that.
Tom slipped through the membrane and walked down the aisle to his waiting seat.
The audience applauded another appointment. Down below, Lord A’Dekal was handing a thumb ring of office to a distinguished Lady.
Nobody paid attention as Tom regained his place.
“... to become Duke of Pelokrinitsa ...” The first of the younger Lords was now being awarded office. “by virtue of logos and thinatos, power in thought and deed ...”
Tom applauded, clapping his hand against his thigh. Then he sighed inwardly as Lord A’Dekal announced the next elevation in rank.
One by one the young nobles, Lords and Ladies, ascended on floating crystal stepping-discs to Lord A’Dekal’s platform. Their scarlet-and-yellow robes were bright, almost glowing as they accepted their honours.
Finally, it was Avernon’s turn.
“. . . for a great leap forward in human understanding, in a sweeping but subtle reformation of deepest logos, soon to be known in every realm ... I present the new Sapiens Primus of l’Academia Ultima, and visiting Isslyedavetel of Skola Na’wchnya, the most honourable Lord Avernon!”
Tom joined in the thunderous applause.
You’re winning our bet so far. The two positions were pure-research roles, the highest attainable. Good for you, Avernon.
There were three or four more appointments announced by Lord A’Dekal, and the clapping was prolonged. Partly, it was a continuation of the genuine warmth for Avernon.
But also, the long ceremony was drawing to a close.
“. . . last of all, and most unexpected: an elevation from the common ranks. A rare event, my Lords and Ladies, and unknown in this sector for nearly a century. “
Stunned silence.
“Thomas Corcorigan, would you stand, please?”
Blood-rush in his ears. The world slipped in and out of focus.
Shakily, he stood.
“Come down, if you would.”
Scattered clapping.
He felt disembodied. Unsteadily, swallowing, Tom made his way along the downward-sloping aisle.
“. . . with fewer advantages than the rest of us, and despite his background ...”
There were attendants, alpha-class servitors, and their gentle hands helped him up to the first floating crystal step. Then he was on his own.
“. . . and an outstanding presentation to the Review Committee ...”
Above him, Lord A’Dekal beckoned.
Heart hammering, Tom climbed to the next crystal—glancing at Avernon’s beaming face amid the crowd—then to the next, moving automatically.
Then he was standing, paralysed, before the tall Lord.
“Take this,” Lord A’Dekal murmured. “Go on.”
It was a silver thumb ring. Hand shaking, Tom reached for it.
“My Lords and Ladies ...”
Lord A’
Dekal turned around on the floating platform. His regal voice, projected by the hall systems, rang out across the great hall.
“. . . may I present to you Lord Corcorigan. He will be ruler of Veldrin Provincia, a new realm bordering Lord Shinkenar’s demesne.”
