Paradox Read online

  “Tesseractions.” The big man nodded in the direction of the booth she had left. “Pointless game.”

  “I don’t know.” The drink which arrived was a shade of burnt orange, and the glass was warm. There was a small eye-dropper beside it. She looked up at the big man. “Maybe it’s just beyond us.”

  His face was ugly as though carved from wood: not good-looking, but a solid presence. A black lightning-flash decal decorated his left cheekbone. “Maybe. That’s no reason to—”

  Karyn took her glass from the robot’s back, and tossed back a slug. It clawed at her throat like acid, and she half choked, almost dropping the glass.

  “—burn your brains.”

  “Jesus.” Through tear-blurred eyes, she could see the room sway from side to side. “Shoulda warned me.”

  “I tried.” His grin was broad. Very . . . physical. Intense. “You’re supposed to use the dropper on your tongue. A drop at a time. The effect’s instantaneous.”

  She sniggered. “Nah.”

  Another swig. This time she coughed only a little.

  “You ...” She reached out to touch the lightning-flash decal, but his face was suddenly swaying, as though on a pendulum. “Know you. You’re—thingy. Him.”

  A chuckle. “That’s me, all right.”

  “Dar’.”

  “Give or take a consonant. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Tryin”‘—Karyn squinted at him—”to be funny?”

  “I was hoping for hilarity.”

  “Huh.” More liquid fire. “Preacher’s son. Thank God for agnos— nossicism. Iss what I say.”

  “You’re wondering, how can you navigate in a fractal continuum if you can’t even play a kids’ game. Right?”

  “Uh…”

  “But you’re making a—never mind.”

  Bright lights swirled around her. Holos twisted apart and flowed.

  “Mu-space” she said, or thought she said, as she toppled from the stool.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  15

  NULAPEIRON AD 3405

  Kaleidoscope: cream panels, mother-of-pearl inlays rimmed with gold. Sparkling fountains; clouds of silver motes dancing. Soft melodies came from crystal birds, soaring and gliding through the rose-scented air which filled the high, spacious halls.

  Things had brightened progressively as the seven boys ascended; the last of the six ceiling hatches had melted away and great brass ramps had slid into position. Like nobility, they had been carried upwards, into this place of light and music.

  “Beautiful,” breathed Petyo.

  To one side, dodecapears stirred softly on a table, and a uniformed attendant asked if they would like to try free gripplefruit or purple sprima.

  “Not likely,” said Algrin, face twisting in disdain.

  If only I could stay up here, thought Tom, staring at a freewheeling copper construct that might have been lev-sculpture or a functional device. But who would look after Paradox?

  Paradox was a lean young feline now—a pure white near-adult neko, and a solitary denizen of lonely tunnels—yet he regained his kittenish ways whenever Tom (or Zhao-ji, until a tenday ago) brought a small lightball with the food.

  “Look.” One of Algrin’s other cronies pointed at a game of airpetanque, played by laughing youths in velvet tunics and soft caps, while gracefully gowned girls looked on.

  Tom knew nothing of Zhao-ji’s parents, or how Zhao-ji had come to the Ragged School in the first place. Left behind by Master Pin’s caravan, perhaps, on some earlier journey through this demesne.

  Gold pavilion floating above a limpid pool into which impossible waterfalls arced. Purple fish flitting through the water.

  If only I could join Zhao-ji’s people. Able to travel anywhere . . .

  On a confectionery stand, a ribbon-wrapped jantrasta dragon was on sale for thirty coronae. Where Tom came from, that much credit would feed a family for half a Standard Year.

  Past strange fluted columns among which eerie music drifted, by more floating pavilions beneath soaring panelled ceilings, the seven boys walked on, through a series of colonnades, into a market area. But it was nothing like the market of Tom’s childhood.

  Here, lev-bikes, for sale, hung from gleaming racks. A crystal case held rows of shining foils and epees. One could buy jewel-encrusted chess sets, psychflash globe-holders of twisted platinum, or heavy velvet capes which fluttered and billowed to unseen breezes.

  A slender young woman of heart-stopping beauty, golden hair tied back with a sparkling net, her ivory gown trailing filmy scarves, walked past racks of clothing—gaudy tunics and fanciful hats— trailed by a retinue of servitors in black and ivory livery.

  She stopped by a stall, pointed to something, then walked on, moving like a floating dream.

  “Sweet Fate!”

  Behind the girl, one of her servitors carried the item she had just bought: a thin marble sheet, like a tabletop, upon which tiny figurines danced and cavorted and sang with voices like flowing silver.

  Tom stood stock-still, watching as girl and servitors passed by.

  When they had gone, Tom looked around. Only Petyo was standing beside him; Algrin and the others were gone.

  Petyo flicked his white hair back from his eyes.

  “You don’t want to know, Tom.” A knowing smile twisted across his smooth face. “But we’ll see them again soon enough.”

  “It’s always nice”—the thin woman smiled beneath her high coiffure, which looked on the point of toppling—”when young people take an interest in local government.” She waved them inside.

  I hate this. Tom closed his eyes momentarily, then snapped them open for balance. The drop—

  Vertigo clawed at his guts as he and Petyo took the transparent walkway alongside the District Council chamber. Below, representatives and their aides sat in curved tiers. Personal holodisplays blossomed and twisted while, in a central pit, a huge tesseract of evolving tricons mapped out issues, context fields, realtime voting-scores.

  “And now,” said one of the speakers, his voice amplified around the amphitheatre, “my private bill on behalf of Madam Karlkinto and other animal traders, allowing free flight of avian species within designated—”

  “The Parrot Lady!” came from the floor. Then a chorus: “Caw!” “Free parrots!” “Caw-caw!” “Caw-caw!”

  Petyo, shaking his head, pointed up at an observation balcony, where an old woman, parakeet on shoulder, was peering down at the speaker.

  “Serious business, this politics.”

  Sniggering, the two boys took the first exit, and Tom’s knees almost gave way with relief on their return to a solid, polished floor. Then Petyo added a surprising comment: “They haven’t a clue, you know. It’s all show.”

  “What?”

  “Their council. Playing at politics, when they haven’t any real power at all.”

  Narrow silver blades, cutting through the air.

  The unseen drums’ rhythm accelerated; pipes and strings strained towards crescendo.

  Beat and clash of simultaneous parries, then all the attackers leaped backwards together, suddenly on the retreat, as their opponents pressed forwards, blade sliding along blade, then thrusting out in sudden riposte.

  “Destiny,” breathed Petyo. “They’re deadlier than Zhao-ji’s crowd.”

  Different. Tom shook his head. Not better.

  Down below, on a velvet-carpeted stage, the pairs of fencers disengaged, stepped back, raising their blades, then swept them downwards in intricate salute, just as the music ended. Around the dais, the crowd applauded.

  “What’s happening, ma’am?” Petyo asked a matronly woman beside them on the balcony.

  “Just part of the celebrations,” the woman said, and beamed. “Haven’t you heard? Rumour is, there’s a Lady all the way down from the Primum Stratum, visiting.”

  Primum Stratum! Blood roared in Tom’s ears. The mystical, mythical highest level . . .

  “C
ome shopping, most likely,” the woman continued. “Getting Darkday presents early.”

  On the other hand, I thought the Pilots were legend, too.

  A crystal bird glided past the balcony as, on the stage below, the blue-garbed fencers removed their masks. In front of them, an older, purple-suited man—their instructor, perhaps—bowed to the assembled crowd.

  “Is the Lady watching?” Petyo, leaned over the balustrade.

  “Not yet.” The matronly woman beamed, the colour high in her cheeks. “But I think I saw her, er, vehicle, earlier . . . Levanquin, isn’t that what they call it?”

  Petyo shrugged, and Tom answered: “Yes, ma’am. I think that’s the right term.”

  “Good boys.” The woman smiled again, then her face grew serious. Like Petyo, she leaned forward to get a better view.

  A murmur passed through the crowd below.

  “Call that a fencing display?” The voice drifted up from beneath the balcony. “Dancing, more like!”

  Then a wide-shouldered, green-capped figure leaped up onto the stage, and a collective gasp arose from the onlookers.

  “It’s one of the musicians,” muttered the woman beside Tom. “Thieving gypsies. They ought to be flogged.”

  A live band? Tom had not heard live music since the day of Father’s—

  Dervlin.

  Had he spoken aloud? Beside him, the woman drew back. But down below, the intruder whipped off his soft green cap, revealing a shock of bright copper hair, then slapped it across the fencing-master’s face.

  Dervlin, for sure.

  “Since you insist, sir.” The fencing-master, his voice carrying upwards in the suddenly still air, took a blade from one of his students. “En garde!” He stepped back into a fighting stance.

  “Ah, see . . .” Dervlin, shaking his head, stepped back, circling away to make some distance. “Yer fancy words won’t help ya now.”

  Reaching over his shoulder, Dervlin drew the two black drumsticks from their sheath across his back. One stick in each hand, he began manoeuvring across the stage, taking odd arcing steps, spinning the sticks.

  The fencing-master lunged and retreated, measuring distance, while Dervlin’s sticks whirled in a blur, like propeller blades cutting the air.

  From beneath the balcony, music grew.

  The other fencers sat down cross-legged around the stage’s edges, defining a fighting-area, while their teacher and Dervlin leaped and turned, engaging with a clash, then breaking off. As the music quickened, the watching fencers began to clap in time.

  From the crowd, a burst of relieved laughter.

  Spellbound, Tom watched as Dervlin and the fencing-master fought, disengaged, renewed their blistering attack, while the spectators, realizing the truth, clapped along. Faster and faster, building to a climax as Dervlin leaped high, dropped low, elbow-striking as a stick went flying—

  I’ve seen that movement before.

  —then he fell as the fencing-master swept his legs out from under him—to a clash of cymbals—and lay there, panting, with the master’s blade at his throat.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  “Do you yield, sir?”

  “Aye.” Dervlin grinned. “Grant me mercy, an’ ye will.”

  “I do.”

  The crowd roared its approval as they stood and took a bow.

  I’ve never done sports. What do I know about physical movement?

  But he couldn’t force the notion aside. Dervlin’s technique, his flowing tactics, struck a strong resonance inside Tom’s memory: of the market where the Pilot whirled, striking troopers, moving and fighting against the odds until they cut her down.

  After the demonstration, as the crowd began to break up, Tom made his way down the staircase, sighting on the red hair.

  “Tom Corcorigan! How are you?”

  “Hello, Derv—” Tom began, then: “You’re injured!”

  Dervlin was leaning back on a deep-green slab against curlicued abstract sculpture. A small, dark stain showed below his ribs.

  “Not from the demo, lad.” He blanked his features, then smiled. “Yesterday, some fellers got playful. Their enthusiasm outmatched their ability.”

  “But why?” Tom shook his head, not understanding. “What about an autodoc?”

  “No time. I’d made the commitment to help out here.”

  Blinking, Tom glanced back among the gold-trimmed ivory colonnades, looking for Petyo, but he had slipped away while Tom was descending the twisting staircase from the balcony.

  “Anyway, lad. How’s the school?”

  “All right.” Tom remembered Trude’s words. “Better than you’d think, given where it is.”

  Dervlin’s blue eyes sparkled.

  “So,” he said finally. “You hate it that much, do you?”

  Tom tried to argue, but could not.

  “The other boys—?” Dervlin began, then stopped. “I see. That bad, is it?”

  Deep, shaky breath. Don’t cry. That was one lesson he had learned.

  “About this little scratch ...” Dervlin pointed to his ribs. “It would have made medical sense to get treatment, but I gave my word that I’d do the demo.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You have to live with your own self. When you can’t change the circumstances, you can still control your own reactions, don’t you see?”

  But Algrin’s bigger than I am …

  “Kneel down, lad. Let me help you.”

  Tom knelt, then sat back on his heels, like Karyn and her sensei in Karyn’s Tale. He sensed surprise from Dervlin, then a quiet chuckle.

  “Interesting. Now, think of. . . Let’s see. Think of freedom.”

  Tom shivered at the word. Reaching inside his tunic, he clenched his fist around the stallion talisman’s hard, curved form.

  Stallion . . .

  “This”—Dervlin’s voice, oddly lilting; a light touch on Tom’s fist (and Tom realized his eyes were closed)—”is stronger than you think. It can hit solid stone without injury, if you focus your intention.”

  Drifting.

  “… intention, and intensity ...”

  There were other words, but Tom no longer truly heard Dervlin’s voice. Instead, he was adrift in a sea of sharp-tinged moving air, washed by cold air beneath a yellow/purple open sky. Silver grasses whipped back and forth by weather. And, on a curving beach by a steel-grey sea, a stallion raced, hooves plunging, mane wildly flying—

  “Hold the picture, lad. It’s your image.”

  Fist . . . and stallion.

  Running for ever. Chasing liberty, scorning fear.

  Fist and stallion.

  “Remember ...”

  I will, Father.

  “. . . and wake up as I count . . . three, two, one.”

  Tom rocked back on his heels, pain throbbing in his knees.

  “What—?” Wincing, he pushed himself into a sitting position on the hard flagstones. “What did you do?”

  “Call it voodoo, lad, or call it Zen Neuronic Coding.” Dervlin laughed. “Either way, it works. Just—”

  “Don’t worry,” said Tom quietly, surprising himself. “I’ll remember.”

  Fist and stallion.

  ~ * ~

  16

  NULAPEIRON AD 3405

  Low, grey ceiling covered in something that might have been soft fur, embossed with metre-wide silver hemispheres. In a wide sunken area, the restaurant; each table, a floating crystal disc. A hushed sense of relaxation: a place to take one’s ease.

  Maybe I’ll see Mother.

  Who knew where she was living? Or where Oracles lived, for that matter. Was she this high up, or in some stratum below his feet?

  “Hey, it’s the girly.”

  But Mother could be anywhere in Nulapeiron; anywhere in the world.

  “Aw, we’ve finished all our daistral. Sorry, girly.”

  Tom wished that Dervlin were here, but the other band members had fetched him for some function they had to attend.
r />   I never asked him about his fighting style . . . But then, Tom had never mentioned the Pilot to anybody, ever.