by John Meaney
Every now and then Corduven and Sylvana crossed glances, then quickly looked away.
“Did you ever study tactics,” asked Corduven, “with Maestro da Silva?”
“Er ... A little. It was mostly physical training.”
“Pity.” Corduven took a slug of the pale-green spirits he was drinking; it had no discernible effect. “Those bastards are experts at guerrilla warfare. Small action groups, largely autonomous.”
“I didn’t realize . . . The last I heard, you were at Lord Takegawa’s academy.”
“Hmm.” Corduven held out his free hand, as though checking its steadiness. “That was where I started, for sure.”
It correlated with Tom’s first impression: that Corduven’s self-con-trol was massive, but his nerves were wound tightly, close to the limit.
What have you been doing, these last few years? It was a reasonable thing to ask, so he put the question aloud.
“I’ve been in Sector Vilargi, near Kranitsia. It’s something of a hot spot.”
So that was you.
As the campaign to steal more funds had increased, there had been one demesne in particular where the authorities’ countermeasures had proved successful: blowing courier lines, taking out a supra-cell briefing-group, infiltrating the local LudusVitae apparatus and dismantling it from within.
That was the tactical summary: in human terms it meant more orphaned children, screams from isolated chambers as the inquisitors went to work, and the endless paranoia of neighbours watching neighbours, alert for betrayal or the opportunity to betray.
“Hence the rapid promotion?” asked Tom. “It’s still an amazing achievement.”
“Thanks.” Corduven drained the glass and put it down. “But I’m looking forward to getting things moving here. And I’ll tell you—I’m glad I’ve got someone I can trust. A friend.”
For a moment shame flooded through Tom.
“I have to go now, Tom. But I’ll see you at the ops-initiation meeting?”
“Let me know details, and I’ll be there.”
They clasped wrists.
As Corduven left, Tom noticed how the gazes of all five Ladies in the room followed him. His pale, drawn intensity seemed to fascinate them—even Sylvana.
“You knew him when you were younger?” It was Lady V’Delikona, coming to talk to him, waving away the other Lords.
“Yes, I—We knew each other as well as could be expected, given our stations in life.”
He always treated me as an equal.
“That’s very unusual,” said Lady V’Delikona, though the same could be said of her own encouragement, her friendship.
“I know.”
“He’s changed a great deal.”
“Yes, I ... I know what it’s like to lose a family member young.”
Corduven, what have I done to you?
“You’re a good man, Tom Corcorigan.”
No, I’m not.
~ * ~
56
METRONOME STATION
DELTA CEPHEI AD 2123
<
[13]
Steady beat.
The workroom was long and curved, dimly lit on this shift. Only one person was on duty, Dorothy Verzhinski, and her booted feet were up on her console as she leaned back in her chair reading a hardcopy book: Anna Karenina.
Background stimuli fade into the environment, in audio as in the other senses. The pulsar’s steady beeping had been a part of Dorothy’s world for so long that she no longer noticed it.
BEEP-beep BEEP-beep BEEP-beep—
“Bozhe moi!”
She knocked the book aside, swinging her feet to the deck as the signal changed. She’d tipped her mug and cursed again as she wiped coffee from the controls, stabbing at command tabs.
“Waaaah!”
“Impossible.” Tracer codes oscillated across her display.
She punched up a comm session.
“Shuttle Two. How’s it goin’, Dorothy?”
“Wait till you hear, Jean-Paul. I’ve got a distress call.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Out here? Are you feeling all right?”
By “out here” he meant medium-range orbit around Delta Cephei. Shuttle Two was laying out a long chain of research satellites; the other shuttles were, like Dorothy, safely on board Metronome Station.
Lifeless space stretched in all directions, more desolate than humans had ever experienced.
“I picked up the beacon.”
“But—”
“And here’s the audio track.”
She gulped unspilled remnants of cold coffee, not tasting it, as she patched in the parallel signal.
“Wa-waaah!”
“What was that?” Jean-Paul’s voice was quietly serious.
“Tsk, tsk.” Dorothy shook her head. “The lonely life of the dedicated scientist.”
“Dorothy—”
“Have you never heard a baby cry before?”
“Damn you!”
The voice sounded from far away, waking her.
“Just let me in to see her!”
Muted arguments, then a metallic rattle as the door slid open. “Karyn.”
“Hello, Sensei.” She raised her head slightly, then let it fall back weakly onto the soft pillow: the nearest she could come to a bow. “Nice to see you.”
But she saw nothing. The world was darkness.
“Thank God.” His beard brushed against her cheek in a swift kiss, then he took one of her hands—still so weak—in his callused grip.
“I heard you cursing at the medical officer.”
“They told me you’d made it OK, but I had to see ...”
“I know.”
It was total darkness, but the bed’s softness pressed beneath her, and the covers felt solid and heavy, cocooning her. Not like a ship—
“Sensei. Dart . . . He didn’t ...”
I can’t cry.
“Don’t speak.” Big hands squeezing hers gently. “I’ve been briefed.”
They took my eyes and I can’t cry.
“He saved us.” A whisper.
Perhaps she drifted into sleep then. Sometimes it was hard to tell. But when she came back to full awareness, Sensei was still there, his warmth and strength a comfort.
“Sensei ...”
“It’s all right, Karyn.”
“They won’t let me see my baby.”
Dart’s baby.
She might have heard more arguments, but she was not sure. But Sensei, Mike, had come all this way to Metronome Station, and he was not going to let subordinate officers or trivial regulations get in his way. Blend and harmonize when possible, thrust when necessary.
Then the door was sliding open, and Sensei was helping to raise her into a sitting position.
“Hello.” Faint Slavic accent as a woman’s hands transferred the baby’s tiny form. “I’m Dorothy.”
Baby. A new reality.
Another individual, but part of her, part of Dart—
Suddenly frantic, she moved fluttering, scarcely touching fingertips across her baby’s warm face, head, with its furlike patch of hair, and body, checking the limbs, counting the tiny fingers and toes.
“She’s beautiful.” Sensei.
“Definitely.” The woman, Dorothy, agreed.
Relaxing, Karyn settled back into the cushioning pillow, her tiny, wriggling daughter held in her arms. She felt a smile tugging at her face.
She had never expected to smile again.
“Is she . . . really all right?” Turning slightly to face Dorothy, judging the position by her voice and the rustling of her clothes. “What scans have you done?”
“Ah, I don’t know. I’m an astrophysicist, not a medic.”
“Dorothy was the one,” said Sensei, “who picked up your signal.”
“Oh.” Karyn shook her head, very slightly. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Least I could do.” The words were light-hearted,
but Karyn could hear the emotion catching in her throat.
“Tell me straight, Sensei.” Laying her head to one side, facing him, knowing he would focus on the useless silver sockets where her eyes should be. “This is your granddaughter. Why wouldn’t they let me see her?”
“The strain—” Dorothy began.
“I came to take her home.” Sensei avoided the question. “I can retire, or work part time; I haven’t decided the details. You don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Nothing to worry—?” She forced herself to calmness. Sensei was the last person she should be angry with.
“I mean, she won’t be raised in an orphanage. Your daughter.”
Dorothy said quickly, “Two whole tech crews came in on the same ship.” Mu-space vessel: Karyn wondered who the Pilot was. “When you’ve recovered, they’ll re-interface you right here.”
If Sensei were to raise his granddaughter, would that mean giving up the priesthood, breaking his vows? It didn’t matter, because Karyn had made her own decision, not realizing it until now.
“I’m not going back into mu-space.” Quietly. “I’m going to be a mother, on Earth.”
“But you’ll be—”
“Blind, I know.”
They took my eyes.
“But that’s what I’m going to do.”
Then there were arms around her, silently hugging her, and the warm tears which trickled down her cheek could have been Dorothy’s or Sensei’s, and she accepted them as though they were her own.
After a minute, when they had disengaged, she asked again: “So why didn’t they let me see her?”
“There’s nothing actually wrong ...” Dorothy.
“What is it?”
Silence. Were the two of them communicating by subtle gesture?
“It’s her eyes.”
Dear God, no.
“But—”
“Visual reflex appears normal.” Sensei’s hand grasped her wrist. “She tracks moving objects.”
“It’s hard to—” Dorothy started, then shut up.
Not her eyes.
“They’re black,” said Sensei, very softly.
“I—Oh. But why should—?”
“He means totally black.” Dorothy. “No surrounding whites at all. It’s quite . . . eerie.”
My daughter.
“But she’s very beautiful.”
<
~ * ~
57
NULAPEIRON AD 3414
“It’s about time.”
The technician did not look up as Tom lowered the stallion on its black cord to the desktop and let go.
“What’s he been doing with it?” the young man added, checking the depths of his display.
“Bedtime reading, I guess.”
“My Lord!” He jerked upright, face paling as he looked up at Tom. “My apologies, sir. I—”
“It doesn’t matter.” Tom clapped his hand on the fellow’s shoulder and looked around. The place was long and wide, low-ceilinged, and mostly in shadow: deserted workstations, holodisplays cycling through intricate routines no-one was observing. There were only two other people in a work chamber designed for fifty. “It doesn’t look like any of us can sleep.”
Not wben dead children wait in my dreams.
“Ah, well, my Lord. That’s because we’re making progress.” Swivelling on his seat, the technician waved subsidiary display volumes into being. “Look at this displacement algorithm ...”
Tom let him talk for a few minutes, and followed as best he could. After asking a few questions—which the technician was kind enough to pretend were not totally naive—Tom congratulated him on his progress, and left.
There was no particular need, in his own demesne, to carry the crystal around inside his childhood talisman, but it seemed appropriate. One thing that everyone agreed on, though, was that it was never going to be repaired.
Instead, the hundreds of men and women working in Tom’s palace were engaged on a clandestine reverse-engineering project, trying to decipher the comms relay’s design from femtanalysis of its components and topology. Later the emphasis would swing the other way, as they started to manufacture their own crystals.
But that step was a year away, at least.
Will this never end?
“Sweet Fate!”
Jammed into the tiny space, arm wrapped around his knees, Tom felt sickened as the dark blue ceiling and floor outside the view slit suddenly spun around and they plunged down, then sideways.
“One minute.” Elva’s voice, muffled by her helmet.
“I hope so.”
Crammed in behind the control seat, Tom swallowed bile as the black arachnabug spun, actually leaped across a sunken pit, and whipped into a narrow, twisting tunnel.
“We’re here. Broke a world record or two, I’d say.”
“And my bones.”
Bright light burst into the small cabin as they came out into a wide hall and Elva threw out all tendrils to halt progress. They swung sickeningly for a few oscillations until the tendrils damped them out.
“Everybody out,” Elva said, knowing that Tom would have to follow her.
“After you, please.”
She popped the bug, swung her legs over the side, and lowered herself on a threadlike descent fibre to the ground.
Ignoring the muscle cramps, Tom grabbed another fibre and followed.
Some twenty executive officers, with various aides, were in the hall. Zhao-ji was there, raising a hand in greeting, and Viscount Vilkarzyeh was already hurrying over, bootsteps clacking across translucent violet flagstones.
“Tom. Good to see you.”
“Hi, Alexei.” They clasped wrists. “Mind telling me what the fuss is all about?”
Looking around, Tom counted three Planning Council representatives: Dr Sukhram, a big woman called Galvina Chalviro, and the blocky man whom he still knew only by his codename, Sentinel.
“There’s no rush,” Vilkarzyeh was saying, “now that you’re here.”
“Nice to know.”
In one corner, a small buffet had been set up. Tom was relieved to see Elva refuse wine and opt for gripplejuice; if the journey back was even half as fast as the outward trip, she would need her wits about her.
“Really, Tom, they’ve just brought forward a meeting which would have been held anyway. In three tendays’ time.”
“I see.”
“With the beta-net blown we’ve got to—”
“With the what!”
Tom swung round quickly and Vilkarzyeh flinched. Then he stepped back and coughed, covering his embarrassment, and said quickly: “Not my decision, Tom.”
Fist clenched, Tom scanned the room—
Limp body. Elva laying the dead child down.
—as scarlet pinpoints blossomed everywhere—
Small hand disappearing beneath the turbulent flood.
—even on Elva, and Tom squeezed his eyes shut until yellow fluorescence appeared and the tacware overlay went away.
Then he stalked across the room, leaving Vilkarzyeh behind, to the buffet beside Elva.
“Tom? What’s the—?”
Picking up a shot of dodecapear vodka, he tossed the hot spirit down his throat in one go. He coughed, blinking away nascent tears.
“Destiny!” said Elva. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you drink alcohol.”
It burned nicely inside him.
“Today I need it.”
“Why?” Keeping her voice low, trying to calm him.
“Lord A’Dekal’s counter-terrorist Chaos-blighted think-tank.” Tom had been to three major sessions now, worked there for days at a time, even brought back some of their material to his own demesne. “I showed them, these bastards”—-gesturing at Sentinel and Dr Sukhram, who were staring in his direction—”all of Corduven’s infiltration plans. You know they were ready to crack open half our courier lines in this sector?”
