Paradox (37 page)

Slowly at first, it began.

Strontium Dragon trading-visits. Recruitment fairs: a natural cover, organized for the most part by Jak—who did not know of their true objective—since the economic viability of the still-young demesne was obviously of high concern. And seminars: Tom wanted publicly to encourage education among freedmen, and bringing in outside lecturers and technicians was a part of that.

It began as a trickle, but soon there were nearly three hundred technicians and scientists working in secret teams on the Tertium Stratum. Administration and security procedures were handled by Elva; Tom himself sat in on the major technical briefings.

Such a waste.

Every time he left an arduous session, exhausted, he thought the same thing: here were a couple of dozen alpha servitors and freedmen—even a few low-born citizens—who could have been Lords under other circumstances.

But the atmosphere was electric: for the first time in their lives, these young men and women were being given the chance to stretch their intellectual talents to the utmost. When he could, Tom spent time preparing eduthreads and logotropes, to help feed their frenzied, voracious appetites for learning.

He remembered his first trip to the Sorites School, seeing the scholars and thinking:
You don't know how lucky you are.

“Recruitment,” said Elva during a security briefing, “will make or break us.”

It was true. The more people they took in, the greater the chances of a misplaced word or even malicious informing.

And, at a later meeting: “I think we need to bring Jak in on this, my Lord.”

“Are you sure, Elva?”

“I've been sounding him out subtly for a long time, and doing background checks. Don't you agree?”

Tom looked away. “We never really discussed politics.”

He made occasional trips to other demesnes, to various secret locations of training-camps and LudusVitae-controlled communities. Whenever he could, he joined in the close-quarter-combat training-sessions, either as a student or, increasingly, as a guest instructor.

In the latter case, they always applauded when the session was over.

His expertise was strategic and technical—at home, his LudusVitae role was technical project management, more than anything—not command. No action cell reported to him. Yet he visited every command group in the sector, and several outside the borders.

“The Planning Council,” said Vilkarzyeh during one pan-sector strategy briefing, “has great plans for you, Tom.”

“I don't think so, Alexei.” By now, they were on first-name terms. “But thanks for trying to cheer me up.”

Yet it was noticeable that Tom saw more of the organization than possibly any other member. For sure, it was an advantage: his detailed mental map of LudusVitae in this sector was vital to his strategic models.

There were internal wrangles and power struggles in the Planning Council and other echelons, but Tom always held himself aloof.

“But that's what makes you popular, my Lord,” said Elva as she escorted him home from one meeting, with a dozen fanned-out troopers in plain clothes covering the corridor ahead and behind. “The way you don't get involved in their stupid chest-pounding.”

“Politics. That's all I need!”

And Elva laughed. “Everything we do is politics.”

Later that night, after Tom had run his usual twelve kilometres and returned to his study for private work, she asked to talk to him.

“What is it?” he said as she came through the membrane.

“You know the MetaConvocation?”

“Well, yes.” Before assuming Lordship, he had never heard of it, but he knew now: from each Convocation, annually, delegates were sent to a global MetaConvocation. Not every demesne, but certainly every sector, was represented there. “What of it?”

“This year's event will be in Bilkranitsa Syektor, did you know?”

“I hadn't thought about it.” Tom frowned. “I guess I'd heard. Is that important?”

“It's where Vilkarzyeh's from.” The tone in her voice indicated her dislike.

Tom leaned against his quickglass desk; it reconfigured to accommodate his weight.

“I don't see—”

“Vilkarzyeh's going to propose you for some sort of regional-delegate position.”

“Well…” Tom shrugged. “Alexei's trying to do me a favour, I guess. But I'm not sure I'd have time, even if he could swing it.”

“He'll swing it, my Lord,” said Elva, “if it's important enough.”

“Probably.” Smiling, to take the sting from his words: “What are you really talking about?”

“It's the Planning Council who want you to take the post.”

Tom stared at her. “But why?”

“When the Prime Strike happens”—the provisional codename for Nulapeiron-wide action, still the best part of two years away—“they're going to want an official ambassador.”

“But…Going public. That hasn't been discussed.”

“Not by us, it hasn't.” Elva crossed her arms. “And that's my point.”

Gold and scarlet: the tricons and network, suspended in mid-air, shifted softly. It looked intricate and static, but that was an illusion.

“Moneylenders?” said Tom. “And cargo hongs?”

The Zhongguo Ren, one of Zhao-ji's lieutenants, nodded. “Not our own hongs, of course.”

“Of course not.”

Armed robbery. But the money was needed to finance operations. Even if the few noble members of LudusVitae—and associated organizations—could afford to bankroll everything, the massive movements of money would be noticed and tracked, sooner or later.

Vilkarzyeh crossed the control chamber and joined them. “The first raid's due to start.”

“Hmm. Thanks, Qing.”

The oriental man bowed, hearing the dismissal in Tom's voice.

“There won't be much tac-feedback. That's due to you, of course.” Vilkarzyeh smiled. “Though, with you here, we'd probably know soon enough if the authorities had our comms tapped.”

“Best to remain undercover.”

“Naturally.”

“I mean, completely unseen.”

“Ah.” A knowing nod from Vilkarzyeh. “Elva Strelsthorm has been digging, has she?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

Vilkarzyeh pretended to watch the tac-display.

“It's true,” he said, “that we've never gone public before. But after Prime Strike, that will be the time to present our terms.”

“Maybe.” Tom had not planned beyond that point.

“Definitely. And who better than Lords with official recognition? Lords who understand the noble ways of thought.”

“You and me, you mean.”

“I see myself as your lieutenant, Tom.”

No, you're setting me up for a fall.

The young Zhongguo Ren, Qing, was in earnest discussion with the support team. Then he nodded, tapped one of them encouragingly on the shoulder, and headed back towards Tom and Vilkarzyeh.

“Thank you, Alexei.” Tom tried to keep his voice sincere.

A fall. And then you'll take over, and leverage that into leadership of the Planning Council.

Qing: “Pentomino Two and all three Gliders report success. Minimal casualties.”

But I've got two years to prepare for you.

Aloud, Tom said, “Minimal casualties?”

Vilkarzyeh shrugged. “We're going to war, Tom. I thought you'd realized.”

“Oh, yes.” Tom stared at the tac-display, seeing nothing. “I knew that when we started.”

Many nights he awoke with purely imaginary triconic lattices fading before his eyes. Though he would have run earlier, he would go again: tearing along deserted tunnels as though devils were at his heels.

If he was away from home, undercover in some strange demesne, he would unroll his flat running-pad and run—alone in some strange chamber—automatonlike on the spot, eyes set to infinity-focus.

He travelled anonymously to many demesnes, met hundreds of people, losing track of where he was. When he could, he listened to individuals' stories: the draper whose mother died of a curable wasting disease, unable to pay for treatment; the astymonia sergeant whose sister had been taken by an Oracle's entourage; the old couple who had lost four sons in the Belkranitsan food riots. The schoolteacher who cried as she recounted the conditions of her young pupils' lives. The young men and women with clenched fists and fire in their eyes as they
talked of strikes broken by deadly force, families evicted at graser point, of enforced bans on education.

Then Tom would leave behind copies of his poems, designed to stir the populace to rebellion.

A pitiful effort.

A chime. It was late evening and Tom was at home in his own demesne; as usual, he was in his study.

“Come in,” he said.

“My Lord.” It was Elva. “I don't suppose you fancy going to a wedding?”

There was an outstanding invitation to which he had not replied: Lady Sylvana was throwing a party; it was the third such invitation and it was probably time he went.

As for the wedding, that was the day before: ten strata down, in the same demesne, Elva's brother was getting married to his long-time fiancée.

Tom had not even known she had a brother.

“It'll be strange,” he said, “going back to Lady Darinia's demesne.”

“A homecoming, my Lord?”

“I guess so.”

Although it was contrary to normal policy, Tom had asked Jak if he wanted to come along—but Jak was too busy on the tax-regulation reforms, running committees which in other demesnes would have been presided over by their Lord.

One had only to glance at warehousing and distribution revenue to see just how diligent Jak was in fulfilling Tom's fiduciary duty. Had they not been diverting funds to LudusVitae, the demesne would have shown an amazing profit for its first year.

Two arachnargoi, rented from a hong in Lord Shinkenar's realm,
hung stationary in the high-ceilinged inner court of Tom's Palace. Small cases were being drawn up into the thoracic cargo holds.

“Definitely going home in style, my Lord.” Jak was there to see them off.

“I'll say.”

Elva gave Jak a brief hug.

Then, catching the eye of one of the loading-crew, she went over to talk to him.

“I'm off. Take care of my realm, Jak.”

Tom grabbed a slender hoist-tendril, and it drew him upwards. He grinned as he saw Elva give the stevedore a goodbye kiss.

Good for you, Elva.

She glanced upwards, saw Tom looking, and shrugged. But her cheeks were faintly pink as she caught a tendril and ascended after him.

Inside the arachnargos, he helped her onto the cargo hold's catwalk.

“True love?” he murmured.

He could not help laughing as she blushed bright red.

Immersed for so long in deadly plans, Tom found it hard to think of ordinary life proceeding as usual: marriages and funerals, everyday employment, shopping—
damn, I didn't buy a present
—and the trivial, bickering arguments and off-the-cuff humorous pleasantries which made up a normal day.

“Hey, not bad!” Elva was riding up front with Tom.

“Oh, of course.” Tom looked out at the great, square-cross-sectioned thoroughfare: its white and pink marble, its massive floating sculptures. “You haven't been here before. This is Rilker Broadway, named after her Ladyship's father.”

It was Elva's home demesne, but the first time she had travelled through the Primum Stratum here, and her eyes were wide in amazement.

When they alighted at the Palace, there were twenty servitors to lead the way. Tom recognized none of them.

What do they think of me?

Servitor-impassive expressions hid their thoughts. He wondered, as they walked on foot through the familiar plush corridors, whether the servitors knew he had once been one of them.

The walls became nacreous, more opulent, as they came to the inner Palace.

Shimmering.

Just for a moment, a faint ripple—as though of recognition—passed across the nearest wall, and was gone.