Paradox (44 page)

Flick.

FLASHPOINT FIVE

“For One-Eye!” yell the boys, rushing into the corridor, brandishing short staves and jagged broken flasks.

The militia captain orders his troops to fall back.

“But—” One of the men lowers his graser rifle.

“We're not here,” says the captain, “to open fire on children.”

Again.

FLASHPOINT SIX

“Call yourselves freedom fighters?” Behind the woman, hooded figures are setting the hydroponic nets alight. “Bastards!”

She spits.

They club her unconscious before they leave.

Again.

FLASHPOINT SEVEN

Silver-skinned trio, floating on their lev-discs.

The serried rows of tables are set out with best linen and cutlery:
the officers are in full dress uniform; the dishes brought not by servitors but by enlisted men.

“Wonderful.” Amid the chatter, Brigadier Count Devarel drinks his private toast to the singers.

“Sir.” Younger officer, with the shoulder-patches of an arachnargos company commander. “Shall we allow them to proceed?”

A nod. The younger officer gestures.

At the banquet hall's far end, they begin to sing: triple-braided melodies, inhumanly sweet, which reduce the men to silence. Perhaps some tears; but it has been a long evening, and much drink has been taken.

No instruments, save their voices.

But the song is beautiful, heart-stopping, as the surgically altered gender-neutral singers—long bodies, short limbs, necks held by silver braces—weave their magic.

As the song builds to climax, they float out among the tables…

“Beautiful.”

…and the Brigadier's head rolls as the speeding disc separates it from his body. The singer spins in mid-air, his/her/its levdisc stained with bright arterial blood, still singing as the hooded figures burst in and graser fire splits the air.

When the slaughter is over, one of the killers pulls off his hood: his grim, scarred face is splashed with a purple birthmark. He stands astride Brigadier Count Devarel's corpse, opens his own trews, and begins to urinate.

“That was the academy,” said Corduven.

“After your time there?”

“Oh, yes.” Unreadable expression. “I was busy by then.”

FLASHPOINT EIGHT

The white-haired Lady stumbles back into the room—Lady Darinia—and the officer leads her to an ornate chair: a lev-throne, grounded now, its lev-field cut.

“Don't go back out there, Lieutenant Milran.”

The mustachioed young officer smiles. “Don't worry, ma'am. That rabble have a surprise coming to them.”

Spin, refocus. Viewpoint shift.

They are marching down Furqualry Boulevard—ancient tapestries on fire, statues smashed—with crude holo-banners and no energy weapons, just bits of furniture, anything that comes to hand.

At the riot's head, a broad-shouldered man: red hair, green jerkin. A glimpse of slender black sticks in a diagonal pocket across his back.

Then the reinforcements attack, driving in from the side tunnels using wide-angle fire. The rabble's centre is unarmed, many just children, and the red-haired man leads the attempt to get them out through one corridor. Whirling and spinning his black, deadly sticks, he disarms and drops a dozen men before an amber beam cuts through one foot, dropping him, and then he is submerged beneath a running mass of screaming people, hundreds trampling over the man who gave them an exit from the trap.

Tears.

For all his self-control, there were tears tracking down Tom's cheeks, and he did not attempt to wipe them away.

Dervlin, my friend.

But Corduven said: “She's still alive, thanks to Lieutenant Milran.”

Tom remained silent.

Powering the infotablet off, he pushed it back across the table. There was plenty more on there, but nothing he was going to look at. Not voluntarily.

“One more.” Corduven looked at him. “Just look at the next module, then we'll talk.”

Tom shook his head. “I don't think so.”

“Very well.” After a moment, “I'll just describe it for you. One of the demesnes your people brought down. Dead bodies, dozens of them, hanging from the statues. A pogrom, and the nobility are being slaughtered.”

Closing his eyes, opening them again, Tom said: “We're not going to agree on politics, are we?”

“Understatement.” A short, bitter laugh. “Are you going to tell me why you left LudusVitae—oh, yes, by now I even know what they're called—or do you want me to guess?”

“You said it yourself.” Tom watched Corduven's expression. “Too much bloodshed.”

Corduven pushed his chair back, as though to get up again, then stopped. “Fine. Perhaps there's something we agree on, then.”

“Perhaps.”

This man is not my friend.

There was a temptation to think otherwise, but Tom had better bloody well resist it.

I killed his brother.

“Well then.” Corduven pulled forwards, leaned his elbows on the green crystal desk. “Let me fill you in on world politics over the last four years.”

“Keep it simple,” said Tom. “We're pretty isolated here.”

And two of those years are a blur.

“Simple. A question, first. Was Flashpoint, Prime Strike, supposed to be a simultaneous attack on every single Oracle in the world?”

Tom hesitated, but the action had already happened. Four SY ago. “Every one of them. Four thousand nine hundred and twenty-three individuals.”

“Individuals, yes.” A flicker of the eyelids. “Thank you. In the event, the attacks affected three thousand Oracles, many of whom were killed outright.”

Tom looked away.

“I'm willing to believe”—Corduven—“that the original plans had more finesse. But it was more than enough to cause Chaos. We continued to receive truecasts, you see, but
no-one knew which ones to believe.
Nearly every sector was destabilized.”

“So it worked.”

Corduven's knuckles were white, gripping his chair-arms. He saw Tom watching, and released them. “There's hardly a sector without trouble by now. Some have occasional violence, some are in the midst of open warfare.”

“And who controls them?” Tom asked. “The demesnes where there aren't pitched battles, I mean.”

Corduven shrugged. “Original Lords, new warlords, interim governments. No-one at all. Take your pick. When I said I want troops in every demesne, I meant this sector: there's no such thing as a global political system, not any more.”

Good.

“You're in my power, Tom. Any victory you think you've achieved should be outweighed by that.”

“If you say so.”

They stopped for breakfast.

Tom was appalled. Observing the niceties: it was a sign of Corduven's massive self-control, as well as confidence.

But it gave Tom a chance to remind himself of his own objective. He would do whatever it took to get Corduven's soldiers away from here. This was Tom's
home.

“I still care for Sylvana.” Corduven put down his daistral cup. “As a sister, if you like.”

The remark was unexpected, and Tom very carefully put down his own cup. It would make a useful weapon, but that was unnecessary: he could use his hand before anyone had time to react.

“I don't know what to say to that.”

“Ah, Tom.” A twisted smile. “You obviously hid a lot of things when you were in service, but some emotions were plain upon your face. Every time she was in the same room as you.”

Tom was too old to blush. He inclined his head, acknowledging the truth.

“They're going to execute her, Tom.”

What?
He felt the blood drain from his face.

“That is why”—Corduven laid his slender hands flat upon the table—“you're going to help me.”

Creamy spume beneath the blue skimmer's bow. At the bow, the team leader's stance was wide as he steered avoidance around pillars while the sea flew past in a blur.

Four soldiers, plus Tom. Looking astern, he could see the other skimmer as it wove its path amid stone and sea: Corduven at its centre, plus another crew of four.

I can't stand this.

Worse: he might not be able to go through with it. Not capable.

It wasn't muscle that propelled me up the terraformer.

If his hate was no longer strong enough, would he be able to help Sylvana?

The motion became choppy, the waves white-capped, and the wind began to sting Tom's face as he huddled cross-legged on the deck with his black cape pulled tightly around him. The soldiers, in heavy jumpsuits, seemed unaffected.

It was not visible yet.

Cold, though: the temperature was definitely dropping by degrees as their trajectory across the waves became bumpier, even wild, and then they were truly in the maelstrom as waves smashed against pillars, flinging foam droplets upwards, halfway to the cavern's dark ceiling.

The skimmer dropped.

It fell metres into the trough and he reacted at panic speed, grabbing a smooth bolt—
not enough
—as momentum tried to carry him off the deck—
got it
—and into the roiling waters.

Whirlpool.

The vortex was beneath the ceiling's darkest shadows, not by coincidence; as they span through the turbulence he was splashed in turn by water hot enough to scald, cold enough to chill, while the winds below the shaft's black entrance rotated madly.

Two taps on his shoulder.

Twenty seconds.

Can't do it.

Dipped again, forty-five-degree tilt the other way, and this time he slid two metres along the deck before one of the soldiers caught him.

One tap.

Ten seconds—

Have to.

Churning seas.

For Sylvana.

Sharp crack and the red line unravelling upwards.

Three.

All of them crouching in a low squat.

Two.

A white eruption spun them but linear momentum took them onwards beneath the—

One.

—dark opening above.

Jump.

Boiling waves, thunderous current rushing past as the little girl's chubby hand reached above the surface, trying to grasp, then pulled downwards out of sight—

“Snap out of it.”

Tom shook his head to clear it. “I'm OK.”

“We have to—”

“Get
going
, will you?”

The soldier, grim-mouthed, climbed up the swaying red rope
while Tom clung on, conscious of the turbulent sea below but trying not to look down.

Not used to rope-climbing, he used his crossed feet and worked hard, careful to slide his hand upwards without fully loosening his grip. He was last man on the line. As the four soldiers, one by one, reached the vertical shaft above, the rope's oscillations grew wilder.

Second red line, snaking upwards.

No attention to spare for the other team. The other rope clung in position but that was all he could tell; his focus zeroed in on the rhythm of feet-hand, feet-hand.

Made it.

Rock-face.

Strange rhythm.

The other four—elite soldiers, all—were used to rope and piton, to harness and karabiner; above all, they knew how to climb as a team. Tom's presence, for all his driving force, was a discord, a tear in the fabric of their co-ordinated unity.

Directly opposite them, on the hundred-metre-wide shaft, Corduven's team made slightly better progress.

Foothold. Reach and pull.

Out of practice.

It took twenty minutes to reach the first membrane.

They would not let him see what they used.

The membrane was a shimmering, gossamer sheet which stretched horizontally across the shaft. It could deliver toxic fatal stings while shrieking alarms to local astymonia patrols; there would be more, a membrane before every stratum.

No smart-tech was allowed for any part of the climb, and this was the reason. Higher up, the more sophisticated sensor webs would occur, but the membranes were sufficient deterrent.

Whatever the tool they used—obviously undetectable by the membrane itself—the soldiers cut away huge swathes of the stuff, throwing them with gloved hands into the shaft's centre, where they fluttered downwards.

As they climbed up through the gap, Tom saw that the rest of the membrane was already degrading: from glistening gossamer to darkened, fibrous gel. It set a time limit, though perhaps not a critical one—sooner or later, someone was going to lean over a balcony in one of the horizontal view-slits and notice the damage.

Corduven's group were already on this stratum's window, sitting on the ledge with their feet dangling over the shaft. Tom's team drew level, then had to traverse nearly half the shaft's diameter to reach them.

“Have some daistral.” Corduven offered a self-warming flask as Tom sat beside him.

“Thanks.” A welcome sip. Hot and tart, stimulating. “Quite like old times.”

Corduven took the flask back.

“I wouldn't go that far.”

Next stage.

The rate of ascent, while they were actually climbing, increased; though fatigue was setting in, Tom was learning the rhythm. The other four took turns to act as lead climber; he was always last, in belay.

But the nature of the membranes changed, became more problematical. The last one they cut through, the fourteenth, took an hour of painstaking work to penetrate, and the shaft was deep in shadow by the time they had finished.

“We stay here tonight, if we can.” Corduven's team went through the view-window first, slipping over the balustrade and sliding into crouched positions, weapons drawn.

“Clear.”

Tom's team followed.

Purple shadows. The constant splash of water, spurting in tiny arcs between the copper cups; intertwined rivulets winding around the sculpture's flow-channels.

“How did you know I could climb?”

A spark of fluorescence.

“I know more than you think.”

Spark.

The aquaria contained strange species: fish with long tendrils, gorgeous colours and the ability to glow, just for a second, in the darkness.

“The thing is—” Corduven stopped, reconsidering his words. “You've heard of impoverished nobility?”

Tom tried to read his expression, but it was too dark, here in the Aqua Hall. “I ran my own demesne, remember? I understand balances of payment.”

“Then you'll know…” Rustling. Corduven was checking, Tom thought, whether his men were in earshot: they weren't. “Gérard and I both had the potential, you know. They do the tests before you learn to walk.”

Potential.

“Sweet…Destiny.”

“Not so sweet. They took Gérard away before I was born, of course. I came along sixteen years later: an accident, or an attempt to replace Gérard; I never found out for sure.”

The words were worse, spoken in darkness.

Tom could not speak.

“But my family—my parents—were very well off by then. The payments are quite lavish, you know; not enough to keep a demesne running, but sufficient seed money to kick-start a small demesne's
economy. My father”—Corduven's voice thickened—“was very able, you see. It was Grandfather who'd allowed our realm to decline.”

“Did you see—I mean, did Gérard live with you or—?”

“Oh, there were visits.” Unreadable emotion. “The Collegium Perpetuum Delphinorum allows family sessions; but they can't
predict
whether the subject's consciousness will be in normal timeflow on any given occasion.”

“Fate.”

“Exactly.”

Later, Tom said: “It can't excuse…You know how Oracles treat their servitors. What they do for stimulation.”

“Yes. But Gérard was better than the others.” Pause. “He never lost his humanity.”

Briefing session.

For the others, sitting cross-legged in a circle—save for the two lookouts—it was a recap. Tom was seeing the holo for the first time.

“The reason we travelled so far by sea-skimmer,” Corduven said to Tom, “was to come up here directly, into Darinia Demesne.”

“Understood.”

The schematic hung in the air, glowing brightly in contrast: shadows still filled the Aqua Hall, though soon the ceiling's fluorofungus would awaken into its light-phase, and the glowclusters' reactants would phase-shift into illumination.

Tom had fallen asleep to the sound of running water, and awoken the same way. In other circumstances, it would have felt refreshing.

“The political significance”—Corduven pointed into the schematic—“is that Aleph Hall, here, has been fitted with newscast systems, camglobes and relays. If events of the last two years have achieved anything”—glancing at Tom—“it's the opening-up of comms. At any rate, this is the first trial that is being widely broadcast; eventually, within most of Nulapeiron.”

“I don't understand.” Tom.

“Plenty of nobles have been summarily executed.” Corduven's taut face looked grim. “But this is a big show trial with all the trimmings.”

Tom did not want to know the geopolitical background. “Where do we go once we reach the Primum Stratum?”

“Here. Or here.” Arcs briefly flared as Corduven pointed. “Seven possible staging-points. We'll be relying on your knowledge, Tom, to proceed from there.”

“OK. You don't know where they're actually being held?”

“No. Nor, in fact, how many nobles are on trial. But Sylvana and my Lady Darinia for sure. Possibly Lord Velond.”

One of the soldiers asked about infiltration and egress, and Corduven highlighted the vectors one by one. Then the two team leaders repeated the briefing, in clipped abbreviation, confirming their understanding.

Corduven nodded.

“Breakfast now”—they'd had sweetened daistral, that was all—“and use the washrooms. Departing in fifteen minutes. Go.”

Climbing.

Frog-position, reach, and boost.

The other four had adapted to him, too. Though they were four-limbed, their understanding of his needs had grown almost instinctively; he could now follow most of their holds, though not their moves.

“Having fun?” one of them asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

Another said: “Girls? Can we keep the noise down?”

“Fate, we must be mad.”

Foot, foot, and reach—

Climb.

Their overall ascent rate was slower, though they were climbing more quickly, as they spent increasing amounts of time working on the horizontal membranes. This had been included in Corduven's estimates; the plan was to reach the Quarternium Stratum tonight, and breach the last three membranes in the morning.

Climb
…

They were six strata from their destination, in late afternoon, when amber beams split the air. The face of the man above blackened—
roast-meat aroma
—and he died instantly.

“On belay!” Tom yelled, but there was more to worry about than one falling climber.

Return fire spat from below: Corduven's team.

Part of Tom's awareness noted that the ambushers had fired too soon, not noticing the second team; but his immediate problem was hanging on—
my hold is unbreakable
—as the shock of the fallen soldier's weight jerked him, trying to pull him off—
unbreakable
—and one of the men above him screamed but did not fall.

Tom's forearm was burning with lactic acid build-up but he could not move. He hung there with the corpse weighing him down until somebody shifted overhead—crackle of a lattice blade—and Tom almost rebounded from reaction as the weight came off.

The red line snaked through his ‘biner, was gone.

Beams flicking this way and that. A whimper sounded; Tom realized it was him, and forced himself to silence.

“Tom! Go!”

It was Corduven's voice but Tom shook his head—
what do you expect of me?
—as a wide, white beam tore upwards, missing him by centimetres.