Paradox Read online

  More laughter. Only Petyo—the only one of Algrin’s gang in the alpha group, and therefore resident in this dorm—did not join in.

  I should have stood up for Kreevil.

  Always the strong forcing their will upon the rest.

  TRY ANOTHER STRATEGY.

  The glowclusters dimmed, and Algrin left before the night praefecti strolled past. Everyone went to their own beds. Kreevil moaned, but slid from flashtrance into sleep.

  ANOTHER STRATEGY.

  Beneath the bedcovers, Tom brought up the infotablet’s display, minimizing its size and disabling audio. Round table, grey-robed diners. Single chopsticks in the gaps between them: thirteen men, thirteen chopsticks.

  Opening a code volume, Tom entered design algorithms by gesture alone, working furiously. Then it was done.

  The simulation executed.

  Each diner modelled as a separate entity, an autonomous control process, choosing right or left at random—a matter of context: can randomness exist in a predetermined universe?—then waiting for the chopstick on the other side to become free.

  The tiny figures moved. One helped himself to food. . .

  People acting in parallel. No slave, no master.

  EVALUATING . . .

  Tom tweaked the design, avoiding deadlock whenever two reached for a chopstick at the same time.

  OPTIMIZED.

  It was a very democratic paradox.

  USE THE NEEDLE TO DOWNLOAD MODULE TWO.

  Solved it.

  ~ * ~

  11

  TERRA AD 2122

  <>

  [2]

  Utter darkness. Soft matting, slippery beneath her bare, damp feet. Sweat gathered under her neck pendant and trickled between her breasts.

  The pendant beeped, giving away her location.

  There was massive movement in the darkness: no time to react. Impact. A brief moment airborne. Then the mats smashed into Karyn, knocking the breath from her body.

  An iron grip pinioned her arm.

  “I know.” The mat, pressing against her mouth, distorted Karyn’s voice. “I screwed up.”

  “Lights,” said a gravelly voice, as the armlock was released.

  “Ongoing scan, requested parameters.” The pendant’s unwelcome voice was tinny. “A third mu-space vessel, found floating in realspace near its insertion—” Karyn thumbed the thing off.

  In front of her, a large, bearish man was already kneeling in seiza position, sitting back on his heels. He was wearing a loose white jacket and black hakama, the traditional split skirt of aikido masters. His wrists and forearms were massive.

  “Sensei.” Karyn knelt, blinking against the light. The walls of the sparse gymnasium were stark white and the padded floor was bright blue.

  High up on one wall, discreetly, a small blue and gold UNSA logo slowly rotated.

  “Centre—”

  “—and balance.” Karyn nodded. “Yes, Sensei.”

  “More important to you,” said her sensei—Father Michael Mulligan, SJ, Ph.D., D.Sc.—”than being able to fight.”

  Karyn let out a long, slow breath, calming herself.

  “I haven’t changed my mind.”

  {{Tom checked the timestamp. This was before Karyn’s arrival at UTech: a prologue, of sorts.}}

  The grizzled priest’s flat, grey stare revealed nothing. Then he sighed and rubbed a massive spadelike hand across his buzz-cut, receding hair.

  “When you get to Virginia, look up my son.”

  “Your ...” Karyn let her voice trail off.

  Sensei—Mike—had been ordained late in life. The rumour was, his wife and son had been killed in a shuttle crash; Karyn had never thought there might be another son.

  “It’s the second time”—there was old pain in Mike’s voice— “someone I care about has chosen the darkness.”

  The next day, she left for the civilian shuttle flight to Richmond. UNSA guards saluted as her autoskimmer slid through the main gate’s scanfield; otherwise, there was no-one to say goodbye.

  Outside, a grey rain was falling. Behind her, the glistening domes of Saarbrücken Fliegerhorst slowly receded, while high winds whipped the surrounding oaks. A chilly draught seeped through a gap in the skimmer’s cabin; its sound was a low, moaning complaint.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  12

  NULAPEIRON AD 3404

  In the changing-stalls, by the shoulder-high block of translucent bathing-gel, they came for him.

  “Hey, it’s a girly!” Algrin’s voice, eerily echoing in the damp chamber.

  Complacency dropped away from Tom.

  A Standard Year without incident had made him overconfident. There had been the field trip with the Captain, when Zhao-ji wandered off alone into a dead zone—not noticing the absence of the air’s normal woody smell, nor the too yellow autotrophic fluorofungus: a sure sign that it lacked oxygen-producing cyanobacterial symbionts— and the Captain had carried the unconscious Zhao-ji to safety.

  But in the school itself, Tom had grown to feel safe.

  Mistake.

  “I got a real problem with girlies.”

  Tom shrank back towards the wall, tying the small, torn towel around his waist. He stopped, with cold rock against his back.

  Behind Algrin shadows moved, and for a moment Tom’s heart thumped with hope, but it was only Algrin’s gang members. Their faces were pulled into smiles but their eyes were dead.

  “And she’s got a necklace.”

  Tom clasped his hand tightly around his talisman.

  A white-haired figure stepped forward. Petyo.

  “One chance, Tom. We need a runner, maybe a spotter.”

  Tom’s knees felt weak.

  “I can’t run,” he said, feeling awful. “Not like Kreevil—”

  A whisper from outside—”Captain’s coming”—and they turned and began to move out. Petyo remained for a moment, looking at Tom, then shook his head and followed Algrin and the others out.

  I’ve betrayed Kreevil.

  Tom leaned back against the chill wall, chest pounding, feeling sick.

  The Captain took the whole of his alpha group along: fifteen boys, including Tom and Zhao-ji. From a natural ledge near the top of Laridonia Cavern, they watched.

  *** RED DRAGON EMPORIUM ***

  The tricon was huge, enwrapped by a holo dragon: scarlet, with bulbous white eyes and a long tongue. Its wings unfurled slightly, shook, and were laid back upon its long, narrow body.

  “Wow,” said one of the boys.

  For a moment, the dragon’s eyes seemed to glance upwards at the ledge, and Tom felt a shiver of fear and delight. He glanced over at Zhao-ji, but Zhao-ji’s face was pinched with tension. Tom wondered what was wrong.

  Forcing aside thoughts of Algrin, Tom determined to enjoy himself. It was not often that a magister would take boys out on any kind of trip.

  “They’re caravanserai.” One of the brighter lads, Hekron, trying to impress the Captain. “Wouldn’t you say so, sir?”

  The Captain’s eye gleamed. “Could be. What do you think, Corcorigan?”

  “I’d say”—Tom paused, as a giant blue horizontal disc flowed on a thousand tendril-like legs into the cavern below—”that’s a travelling yurt, sir.”

  There was a ripple of laughter among the boys, which stopped as the great disc halted and blossomed into a wide tent, extruding corridorlike extensions, until a star-shaped temporary edifice covered the cavern floor.

  From small tunnel entranceways, more groups of local people came in to see the visitors.

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  Local oriental storekeepers—Zhongguo Ren—had set up small displays of produce on ledges two metres above the cavern floor. From the large tent, an artificial dragon came-—holo projected around a flexible frame, beneath which men’s legs were visible.

  “Dragon dance,”
said the Captain, as cymbal players accompanied the dragon below—clash-clash, clash-clash, clash-clash—and the storekeepers held out good-luck offerings of green vat vegetables which the dragon “ate.”

  “What do they sell there, sir?” asked Hekron, but it was Zhao-ji who answered:

  “Anything you can afford.”

  The Captain looked at him sharply.

  Below, dance ended, the dragon retired inside the great tent, and the growing crowd began to mill around. Then tiny holo tigers— more mythical creatures: Tom’s hand strayed unconsciously to the talisman at his chest—sprang into being and raced across the cavern floor, clearing a space, and the spectators drew back with a sense of anticipation.

  And then they came.

  Clad in orange, performing spectacular feats: butterfly kicks and spinning punches (and Tom, throat dry, remembered the Pilot); heavy halberds flying, one passing so close to a girl’s head (as she dropped into splits, avoiding the cut) that some of her long, black hair was shorn away.

  They broke blocks of ice with hammer-fist strikes and even headbutts; whirled flails and chain-whips which left white fluorescent trails in the air, marking complex nonlinear trajectories as the warriors leaped and spun and fought.

  “It’s called wu shu,” murmured Zhao-ji, as though naming it could take away the magic.

  A small boy, maybe six SY old, performed an intricate form alongside a shaven-headed master. The old man’s face was lined with age, seventy SY at least, but he lowered himself into a splits position while the crowd watched, struck into silence, then burst into thunderous applause.

  “I wish I could do that,” said Tom, surprising himself.

  Afterwards—after the old man had defeated six opponents in a spectacularly choreographed fight—the warriors returned to the star-shaped tent, and small holo flames danced above the cavern floor, inviting customers into the emporium.

  The crowd began to break up: some to go inside the tent, others to go back about their normal business.

  “Sir…”

  On the high ledge, the boys turned to the Captain, wondering if their trip was over, but Hekron was pointing downwards, to the winding path which led to their position. A small boy, Durfredo, was running up towards them.

  “The old man,” said Tom, ignoring Durfredo’s arrival, “was incredible.”

  “Sagging Pin.” Zhao-ji grinned at Tom. “If we get permission, I’ll introduce you.”

  “Permission?”

  “Oh, yes.” Some of the humour left Zhao-ji’s eyes. “Uncle Pin will be glad to see me.”

  Dark. Membranous corridor, leading towards the hub.

  “Nĭmen hăo.“

  Old woman, almost invisible in the shadows.

  “Nĭ hăo.” Zhao-ji bowed; Tom clumsily followed suit.

  Low-intensity holos. She led them past mythological scenes— “Monkey King,” said Zhao-ji, pointing at a small figure spinning a staff— and stopped before a black velvet drape which furled up at her approach.

  Like a graven statue, the old man sat cross-legged on a folded mat.

  “Nĭmen hăo.”

  “Lăo shīfu” Zhao-ji bowed low. “Nín hăo.”

  “Master Pin,” said Tom, attempting to bow gracefully.

  There was a sense of presence in the room: not physical, but formed from the strength of the old man’s spirit.

  Chuckling, the old man turned to a small table beside him, took a small porcelain cup and drank from it. Strong liquor: Tom was surprised. Nevertheless, the old man’s presence was strong.

  “This is Tom Corcorigan, Uncle.”

  A nod of acknowledgement.

  Speaking softly but rapidly, Master Pin and Zhao-ji conversed without glancing at Tom. How long would this take? The Captain had told them to be back soon.

  It was not like the Captain to be imprecise. But young Durfredo’s whispered news, whatever it was, seemed to have unsettled him.

  The Captain knows this is Zhao-ji’s family. Tom was suddenly certain.

  Master Pin clapped his hands.

  “Ah, Feng-ying.” He smiled as a slender girl, about Tom’s and Zhao-ji’s age, entered the tent chamber bearing a black cushion. “One for each of our visitors.”

  Half a dozen narrow silver bracelets. Tom took one from the cushion, then watched as Zhao-ji took another and bowed to the girl, Feng-ying. Her skin was unblemished, her black hair long and lustrous.

  The look which passed between her and Zhao-ji was intense but momentary.

  “Young Corcorigan.”

  Fear swept across Tom’s skin as the old man addressed him directly.

  “Your travel permit will expire in two tendays. Visit us, before then. Zhao-ji will instruct you.”

  Travel permit?

  Swallowing, Tom fastened the bracelet around his wrist.

  “Thank you, Uncle.” Zhao-ji.

  “Zàijiàn.”

  Tom knew they had been dismissed.

  As they left, awareness of the old man’s presence trailed like spiderwebs across Tom’s back. He shivered with relief as they stepped back out into the main cavern, and the tent’s wall sealed up behind them.

  “Stokhastikos, Zhao-ji.” It was a curse Tom had recently heard for the first time.

  Zhao-ji said merely, “There’s Durfredo. Looks like he was left behind, to wait for us.”

  “Why—?” Tom stopped, as young Durfredo hurried towards them.

  Travel permit. Travel to where?

  But Durfredo’s words swept away his thoughts: “Guess what? You’ll never guess. Old Kreevil’s been arrested. Would you believe that?”

  “Kreevil?” asked Zhao-ji. “Arrested? Why?”

  Tom’s spirit sank.

  “Robbing, with Algrin. Only Kreevil got caught.”

  Sweet Destiny! Tom closed his eyes. What have I done?

  ~ * ~

  13

  NULAPEIRON AD 3405

  It glowed electric blue.

  “Where’s Kreevil?” Tom’s voice was a shaky whisper. “I can’t see him.”

  Half-shadows drifted in the sapphire liquid.

  “There.” Zhao-ji leaned forwards, and the warmth of his breath caused faint orange ripples to spread across the membrane, attenuating to nothingness.

  “I can’t—Fate! Is that him?”

  There was a dark, fibrous core at the chamber’s centre: a shadowed mass of deeper blue. Around it, the slowly changing parabolic curves of tendrils, and the suspended figures of the boys. Perhaps twenty of them: engaged in tasks-—Tom could not make out details—like so many attendant fish.

  From behind them, the bulky overseer spoke. “You’ve seen him now, lads.” There was an odd, strained note in the man’s voice. “Let that be enough.”

  Zhao-ji did not turn away from the membranous wall.

  “We have the right to talk to him.” Orange pulses accompanied his words. “Your boss said so.”

  Tom shrugged, about to apologize for Zhao-ji’s rudeness, but the overseer’s expression stopped him. It was hard to tell in the eerie blue light, but the man’s eyes looked damp with tears.

  He waved Tom and Zhao-ji aside, formed a control gesture with one stubby-fingered hand, and the membrane pulsed visibly as orange waves accompanied his words: “Kreevil Dilwinney. Egress now.”

  The man turned back to Tom. “Go easy on him.”

  Tom swallowed.

  Swimming with painfully slow strokes, one of the shadowy figures moved through the viscous phosphorescent medium and drew close to the membrane, hanging there, corpselike in the blue light. Kreevil’s bare hands and feet paddled gently. Behind him, a tendril—some sort of safety line, perhaps—stretched back into the fluid.

  A brusque gesture from the overseer, and Kreevil slowly jack-knifed forwards, thrust one hand through the membrane—”Don’t touch him, lads,” the overseer warned—then wriggled and pushed forwards until he was through, and he knelt down, coughing up blue liquid onto the bare flagstones.