Paradox (20 page)

Years flowed past, but changed his life. Relentlessly, Tom pursued his studies; ran every night, climbed often, sparred and instructed at Maestro da Silva's academy; performed his duties as servitor.

Arlanna was promoted to beta-plus, then alpha-minus servitrix: an almost unheard-of promotion rate.

Tom did not care. Cold and disciplined, he worked harder than ever. He replayed his downloaded modules of Karyn's Tale, exploring every hyperlink for clues to the science that was not on his curriculum.

New downloads, though, were out of the question. During Tom's convalescence in Lady V'Delikona's demesne, Lieutenant Milran had again upgraded the Palace sensor webs.

Lady V'Delikona. Though Tom had not talked to her during his tenday-long recovery, it had been by her orders that he had stayed in a lavish suite, attended by delta servitors. Afterwards, one of her Ladyship's own arachnargoi had taken him back to Darinia Demesne, where he was assigned light duties.

For a while, he was listless. Limava had remained in Duke Boltrivar's realm: she had transferred allegiance in return for command of her own arachnargoi squadron. Great career move. Bitterness and relief swirled through Tom in equal measures.

Then he knuckled down.

Attitudes towards him altered—some became friendlier; others more distant—but the real change was internal: certainty, knowing how far he could push himself.

He would have given that up, to have prevented all those deaths. Grey dreams of swirling waters and white-faced corpses visited every night.

Tom studied harder, relentlessly.

Occasionally, at the Sorites School, a slight, pale youth was seen conversing with Lord Velond and other logosophers. Tom heard the rumours: that the youth was a true genius, whose insight and intuition were like magic. He spent most of his time far away, at the famous Veritas Institute.

Corduven's marriage to Lady Sylvana was annulled.

He was gone: off to Lord Takegawa's military school—incredibly—or so it was said. Lady Sylvana resumed her studies at the Sorites School, withdrawn and intent: more and more, she appeared in her mother's place at official functions. Tom knew nothing of Lady Darinia's state of health.

One day, during a break at the Sorites School, Tom heard: “Genius, you wouldn't believe,” from a huddled group of scholars, and sensed sidelong glances in his direction.

I don't think so.
Did they not realize how hard he worked? Lord Velond knew the difference: otherwise Tom would have been transferred to the Veritas Institute, servitor though he was.

Jak left the Palace. He was relocated to a major bonded hong at the edge of Darinia Demesne, with pan-sector responsibilities.

No-one gave Tom extra responsibilities or promoted him.

His private tutorials with Mistress eh'Nalephi continued, and his respect for her increased: she was alpha-class, but had more ability, Tom suspected, than many Ladies. She pushed him to the limit, offering neither congratulations nor encouragement. But on his twenty-third birthday (a servitor's celebration: a noble would have celebrated his OctiMilDay), she presented him with a crystal shard.

It contained
Playing the Paradox—collected verses by Thomas Corcorigan.
His first official publication; payment received as academic merit points.

Nine Standard Years had passed since the mysterious Pilot had
stumbled over Thomas Corcorigan, huddled in a lonely corridor, writing verse.

In the Sorites School, the atmosphere seemed changed: not just because of the respect Tom had earned, but because there was a sense of fruition, of training coming to an end.

Auntie Antinomy Dances the Fractal Fantastic
was Tom's second publication, light-hearted but complex. The strangest moment occurred when he saw Lord Velond chuckling over a holodisplay, reading about Auntie's paradoxical exploits.

Then, early one morning, Tat, who was on the dawn-light kitchen shift, came into Tom's room and told him to report to the Sorites School immediately.

“I'm due there in an hour, anyway.”

“I know. Thing is, Tom, while you're there, I'm supposed to pack your gear for a long trip.”

A sinking feeling in Tom's stomach. “You don't know—?”

“Sorry, old mate.” Tat shook his head. “I've asked the others. None of us has a clue.”

Lord Velond's private study had a sweeping curved window overlooking the outer cavern, and plain eggshell walls. Crystals, as usual, were scattered everywhere: abstract mosaics of violets, blacks, oranges, reds—a schema Tom had never deciphered, but Lord Velond could unerringly pick up any required crystal. Dozens of abstruse holodisplays cycled through skeletal six-dimensional proof-dendrimers.

“Good morning, Tom.”

There were three people waiting for him: Lord Velond, long, snowy hair brushed back, stern and regal; Mistress eh'Nalephi, aloof and self-composed; and a stranger.

It was the pale youth, the alleged genius from the Veritas Institute.

“Lord Avernon.” Tom bowed, dragging the name up from memory. “Lord Velond, Mistress eh'Nalephi.”

“Ahem.” Lord Velond cleared his throat. “Very nice, but Avernon stands on ceremony even less than I do.”

In Mistress eh'Nalephi's eyes Tom caught a flicker of disapproval of the Lords' informality. Her tone was businesslike: “You have a journey to make, Tom.”

He smiled. “I promise to record everything. And to study hard.”

A brusque nod. “This time, I have only one assignment for you.” She held his gaze. “Plan your own logosophical research. And”—she held up a hand as Tom started to speak—“don't tell me. This is for you to do.”

Solemnly, Lord Velond handed Tom a crystal. “Your itinerary. This year's Convocation is hosted by Count Shernafil's demesne. You'll both be attending.” He nodded in Lord Avernon's direction.

“My Lord.”

Then something surprising happened.

“I want to thank you.” The pale Lord Avernon
held out his hand
as though Tom were his peer. “Though I don't know what to say.”

Mistress eh'Nalephi gasped audibly.

“I—” Swallowing, Tom held out his hand.

They clasped wrists, in the noble fashion.

“I could have tracked you down at the time,” Lord Avernon said, “but I didn't know what…”

Then Tom remembered: his first time in Maestro da Silva's salle d'armes, following the ill-looking boy out into the corridor.

“My Fate, it's you! The one who collapsed.”

“I nearly died.”

“Thank Destiny you didn't.” Lord Velond smiled. “Or the Veritas Institute would have missed its brightest star for decades.”

Lord Avernon looked embarrassed.

“Anyway”—Mistress eh'Nalephi cleared her throat—“I wish you luck, Tom. And you, Lord Avernon. May you both receive what you deserve.”

“Er, very nice.” Tom peered at the display as Lord Avernon minimized it and waved it to one side. “What's that theta-function supposed to represent?”

“Total bidirectional temporal energy. Here.” Lord Avernon tossed a crystal in Tom's direction, and Tom snagged it from the air. “Read up about it, and we'll talk.”

They were in a modest passenger cabin; only occasional arcing acceleration reminded them that they were in a small arachnargos. There were no external views.

“So, what's a Convocation?”

“Ah, right. Annual gathering. Ours covers four sectors: that's about eighty demesnes.”

“That many?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Held in interstitial territory, at the boundary intersection of all four sectors. Each year, one demesne provides the host services: the obligation rotates.”

“And?”

“I'm sorry?”

“What do they do, my Lord?”

“Just Avernon, please.” He looked distracted. “Policy reviews, dispute arbitration, that sort of thing. Ratify limited military action, if it comes to that. And then there are appointments to office.”

“Oh, I see. You're hoping to become a full academician?”

Avernon shrugged. “I can't imagine anything else, really. Who'd want to run a demesne?”

“Mm.”

Five days later, they arrived.

Congressio-Interstata Beth-Gamma was opulent: a shining red-and-cream palace nestling in a giant cavern, supported by silver buttresses. The guest wing had black, shining floors, high ivory ceilings.

Servitors carried Avernon's baggage; Tom carried his own. But their guest suites were identical.

“Can we review some sorites before dinner, Tom? I wanted to look over cathartic transform strategies.”

“In an hour and a half?” asked Tom. He wanted to go for a run.

“Perfect, old chap.”

“Er—” Tom spoke up just as Avernon started to walk through his liquefied door membrane. “I would have thought there was nothing in drama theory you didn't know.”

“There are always weak areas to be strengthened, don't you think?”

“Frankly?” Tom looked at him. “Not in your case, no.”

“Damn it, Tom.” Avernon stepped back from the membrane; it quivered, then vitrified. “Maybe it's your weaknesses I'm concerned with.”

“Tom?”

“Huh!”
Kicking the light sheets from him, Tom rolled to his feet beside the bed, crouched, his arm held in front of him, fingers extended, as though feeling the darkness.

“Can I come in?” Avernon.

“Uh, yeah.” Tom pulled a cape around his shoulders as Avernon came inside. “Room: raise lights.”

Diffuse illumination made the peach-coloured room warm. A brocaded chair slid up as Avernon dropped to a sitting position, raising a crystal.

“Display.”

He was pale, eyes feverish.

“Authorized.” Tom, the designated guest, gave the go-ahead. Then, “What's wrong?” he asked, as spectral manifolds unfurled.

“Look at this.” Triconic lattices slid into place. “See here…”

And then he began to explain.

It took several hours for Tom just to learn Avernon's peculiar abbreviated metavector notation, but by then the excitement had taken him over, galvanizing his nerves so that sleep was forgotten. Layer by layer, drilling in through holotesseracts, Avernon laid out his theory's skeleton, fleshing in the details when Tom could not understand the principles.

“Destiny,” Tom murmured at one point. “Just that corollary over there”—he pointed—“is what the ancients called a Theory of Everything, and never found.”

Simplicity theory lasted a century; connectivity theory lasted a further three hundred years. Then, in the twenty-fifth century, the old paradigms had been overturned by the Amber Maze model: combining bidirectional time loops with contextual emergenics.

Sub-quantum twistors, vertebrate consciousness, stock-market dynamics and stellar evolution were linked by a web of step-functions which correctly predicted a plethora of phenomena, including the emergence of one-way timeflow at the thermodynamic level.

It was a view of the cosmos that had reigned four and a half times longer than Newton's once had, and now Avernon was challenging it.

And Tom Corcorigan was there to see it happen.