Paradox (5 page)

Don't look away.

It swirled beneath the acrid stench: Vortex Mortis, twisting with colour, while the young shaven-headed priestess swung her thurible, trying to overcome acidic fumes with herb-scented purple smoke.

Look.

Tom gripped the observation balcony's rail as the thing slid forwards.

And remember.

The Antistita's prayer-hum; Trude's black-headbanded form; the mourners' small shoulder banners. Clear, yet distant: a dislocated place and time.

Always remember.

Whirlpool, gathering pace.

“…
among infinity's shimmering lights
…”

Tom's lips moved with the prayer's words, but his thoughts were numbed.

“…
commit Davraig Corcorigan
…”

Slowly, slowly, an elongating membrane lowered the thing—that husk which had once held Father's spirit, his life—into the swirling pool.

“Davraig!” Trude, almost whimpering.

Remember.

Released, it floated for a moment, the twisting corpse—and then it sank, spinning, beneath the surface: already burning apart, decomposing into minerals.

Clasped hands over the lifeless chest.

“Time to go.” One of the mourners, hand on Tom's shoulder.

But Tom kept watching as turbulence caused the body to bob upwards once more. Clasped hands, forefingers pointed stiffly in blessing. White bones showing, already scoured by acid.

A fingertip broke loose and plopped back into foaming solvent.

“This way.”

The body disappeared beneath bubbling waves—

Father!

—and was gone.

Dirge.

“My sympathies.”

A skirl of strange pipes.

“Thank you.” An automatic politeness: Tom's consciousness seemed disembodied, suspended from the reality of the mourners, maybe thirty of them, taking their places at the spiral table.

The man who spoke was strong-looking and dressed in green; square-jawed and with hair as red as Mother's.

“This,” said Trude, “is Dervlin. An old friend.”

Twinkle in his eyes: he wanted to make a joke—not so much of the
old
—but he repressed it for Tom's sake. It showed manners, and Tom appreciated that.

“Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Ah, no need to call me sir, lad.” Running blunt fingers through his cupric hair.

Mother
—Tom forced the thought down.

The man, Dervlin, turned away. Across his back—wide shoulders tapering to a narrow waist—was a diagonal sheath holding two slender, black rods.

Musician.

One of the women, Heleka, carefully taking her place at table, had a black hip-sling. Inside, her tiny red-faced baby slept, miniature fist closed, thumb in mouth.

Had Father been like that once? So small, with all of life ahead of him?

In one corner of the heptagonal chamber, Dervlin was setting up floating drum-discs, while a young woman sang:

“To the caverns of my youth
Where shouts were glad
And children laughed:
I return now, seeking truth…”

The Antistita stood at the spiral table's focus, murmuring a blessing in Old Eldraic while the wake-aria continued.
“Beneh y blagos neh repas…”

“The singer's wonderful,” Tom said to Trude, in between bowing to mourners as, one by one, they touched fingertips to forehead in benediction.

Minrastic cakes and fragrant rice balls. Other dishes, which Tom could not have named. All arranged by Trude.

“In the shadowed world of death,
Our works are dead:
Sad, hollow boasts…”

Dervlin, unslinging the slender black drumsticks from his back, stood before his floating discs, waiting for his cue. A soft murmur of conversation, as people began to eat, formed a backdrop.

“Yet hear the newborn drawing breath.
Standing, around the bed:
Rejoicing shades, our dearest ghosts.”

For the meal's duration, Tom remained calm. Polite to well-wishers; charming, even to those few who had borne a grudge against Father, but were shocked now that he was gone: an intimation of their own mortality.

Then it was over, and the mourners were filing silently out. Once more Tom bowed to them, completely composed, as though all were well with the world.

Remember.

Low tavern chamber. Glowclusters of turquoise and jade. Discreet tang of ganja masks from the rear alcoves.

“Dance?”

Tom shook his head, and the girl moved on. Her white dress was slashed through with violet, patchily redyed to suit the fashion.

Dervlin played, his sticks a blur, while the woman sang and metallic sparklets danced in a glittering cloud around her.

Remember.

Not just Father's death, but that Mother did not come—

“Are you all right, lad?”

Break. The music had stopped, and Dervlin was standing over him, a stick held lightly in each strong hand.

“Sorry, s—Dervlin.”

“Aye, maybe”—a stick lightly touched the end of Tom's nose—“I'm the one who should apologize. But this gig's been arranged for a while.”

“I understand.” Tom looked aside.

There's something else: something wrong. But he doesn't want to tell me.

As the wake-fest had ended, Tom had seen Trude talking to a fit-looking woman dressed in grey tunic and red trews, and it had taken him a moment to recognize her
sans
uniform: the woman trooper. What had the male officer called her? He remembered: Elva.

They had been discussing him, and he had read one phrase from the woman's lips:
fourteen SY old.

Too young for a dwelling-permit.

“Time I took you back, lad.”

Almost gone.

“Ah, Fate.” Dervlin's voice was a lilting murmur. “I'm sorry, Tom.”

Nowhere to live.

“Don't worry,” Tom said steadily. “I was expecting it.”

They were waiting in the corridor: fifteen or sixteen men and women, dressed in shabby tunics and shawls.

“…all you're owed,” Trude was saying to the hunched man at the head of the queue.

Father's creditors.

The hangings were down, in a heap upon the stone floor. Young Alycha and Old Alycha, from the chamber on the left, were damp-eyed as they extended their own hangings into the space which had been the Corcorigans' family chamber. On the other side, the new young couple—who had lived there for only a hectoday, if that—were fastening drapes, ignoring Tom.

“Not that one.” Trude, sharply.

A bent old woman, about to take a small ceramic box, paused.

“It's mine.” Trude held out a carving: a triplet of entwined narl-serpents. “Take this.”

I remember Father making that.

The woman took it, polished it on her dirty shawl, and clucked to herself. She turned and shuffled away.

“I'm sorry, Tom.” Trude let out a long, shaky breath. “I thought we'd be finished by now.”

“I have to get back.” Dervlin tapped Tom's shoulder. “Take care.”

Soon they were down to the last creditor: a hunched, plain-robed man. Accepting cred-flakes, he stopped, looked at Tom, and handed some copper mil-creds back to Trude. “For the boy.”

Then he, too, was gone.

Where the family chamber had been, strange colours now hung: faded ochre, unfamiliar green.

Snick.

It rotated: coated in a patina of rust, but gleaming silver at the disc's circumference, polished by friction against the rim.

Snack.

The sounds came from below: facets snapping into place, forming a spiral staircase down to another stratum.

“Don't be afraid, Tom.” But it was Trude's voice that shook as her permit tag sparked with ruby light.

Some two metres in diameter, the floor hatch. A segment swung aside, revealing the helical stair.

I didn't think it would be like this.

“Can you take this?”

Tom took the small, fabric-wrapped bundle from Trude. All his belongings.

Trude was a little unsteady, leading the way downwards. Tom held back, swallowing nervously, then followed. When he had dreamed of visiting another stratum, it had always involved climbing
upwards.

Stained walls. Trickle of dirty water. A dark echo of distant people, talking.

Above their heads, a grinding noise. The slatted steps pulled upwards, folding into the hatch, as it rotated shut.

Another stratum.

Down again. Two strata below home.

Grey mesociliates scurried away as Trude and Tom clambered through a natural-rock junction, then down a sloping, dank corridor which ended in a small cavern.

“The thing is, it's—”

There was a double image, blurred, with odd parallax effects as they walked past: a big floating Yarandian tricon, script code common to thirty languages.

*** RAGGED SCHOOL ***

“—better than it looks.”

Trude led the way inside.

*** PniO, WENHS something.

“Are you awake, boy?”

*** PniO, LLENHSAN…

“Uh, yes.” Tom squinted. “Yes, sir.”

Obermagister's study. Shelves piled high with crystals. Tom swung himself upright on the couch.

“Hmm.” Long white hair, tied back with white cord. “I've let you sleep in, since you arrived so late. It will be the last time.”

“Yes, sir.”

*** PnrD, LLENHSAH NEDLOV .isM *** Ancient holo flat-script, not triconic, floating near the black-curtained portal. Hard to decipher, even when seen the right way round.

Steam rose from a bowl of herb tea. Not for Tom: it was on the Obermagister's black desk.

*** Mzr. WOLDEN HAZHNELL, DrNP ***

Reversed, it made sense.

“Your benefactrix, Madam Mulgrave, is gone.” Obermagister Hazhnell turned, making some sort of control gesture. Tom's view was obscured by the desk, overflowing with crystal-racks. “You're free for the remainder of the morning. Attend class after lunch.”

A clap from outside.

“In.” The Obermagister looked up as a tall youth came inside. “Praefectus Bruan. This is Corcorigan. Put him in dorm Seven-Beth.”

"Sir."

“Think old Wally's a nice chap?” Bruan asked.

The dorm was low-ceilinged: four rows, eight beds in each. Very clean. Cubbyholes lined one wall.

“Seems OK.”

“Really?” The lightness left Bruan's voice. “Watch your step and you may be all right. The opportunities are here, if you appreciate them. Know what I mean?”

“Uh, sure,” Tom lied.

“Good.” Bruan paused at the short flight of steps which led out of the dorm. “One thing more…”

“Yes?”

“Try to lose that accent.”

Silence.

The dorm was empty. Tom sat on the bed which was to be his own, and pulled out his infotablet from the small bundle.

Reaching inside his tunic—He stopped, looked around. Nothing. No-one looking. Heart beating fast, he drew out his stallion talisman.

Father
…

The Pilot, the strange witchlike woman—
jet-black eye staring as she died
—had marked it somehow, making it more than a symbol of lost childhood. But it was Father's hands that had wielded the graser tool, creating beauty from a metal block.

The stallion fell apart into two halves: Tom had correctly memorized the control gesture.

Without any command, his infotablet's holodisplay blossomed into life:
a metre-wide representation of an Aqua Hall, blank-faced people queuing up with empty containers in their hands. Beside one figure, a descriptive tricon, hanging:

THIS IS TOM.

“What the—?” Tom was confused.

The figures moving, shuffling forwards.

TOM FETCHES WATER FOR ALL IN THE MARKET WHO DO NOT FETCH THEIR OWN.

He swallowed. This fragment was not downloaded from the crystal: that was still wrapped in its black nul-gel coating. Either it had transferred itself just now, by induction from the needle which lay alongside the gel-coated crystal, or the Pilot had directly transferred it into the infotablet just before she—

“You're the new boy?” A strange voice, from the dorm's narrow entrance arch.

Tom just had time to see the final tricon, shaded an interrogative pink—
QUESTION: WHO FETCHES WATER FOR TOM?
—before he shut down the display.

“That's me.” He powered off the infotablet completely. “I'm Tom. Tom Corcorigan.”

The oriental boy grinned. His black hair was a spiky brush. “Not your fault, I suppose.”

“Er…Who are you?”

“Zhao-ji. Pleased to meet ya.” Another impudent grin. “Really.”

Massive vibration. Blast of air, screech of noise.

The cargo engine was huge, greenish bronze and grime-streaked, and its roar filled the tunnel. Even from up here, the pulse of its brake jets was enormous.

“What are we doing here?” Tom raised his voice above the din.

“Following them.” Zhao-ji pointed downwards. “Algrin and his gang.”

Tom and Zhao-ji were high up near the cavern's ceiling, hiding behind an embrasure. Down below, on a cargo platform, six boys from the school were dodging behind dumb-crates, keeping out of the stevedore crew's sight.

Black studded spheres rolled down an unloading-ramp from an opened cargo car. As a crewleader waved her control baton, the spheres
stopped, shuffled into position on their short, stubby protrusions, and split open to disgorge their goods.

“Don't we have to get back?” What would happen if Tom missed his first lesson? “Come on, Zhao-ji.”

“Wait a minute.”

Down below, a group of brown-garbed men had disembarked, and Zhao-ji laughed shortly. “Professionals. Brown Panthers. No-one would steal from them, except maybe—Well, not Algrin.”

Tom shook his head. He had allowed this boy to lead him outside the school during the midday break—when leaving the school bounds was allowed—and he realized that he was going to miss lunch, if nothing else.

“Aw, no!”

“What's wrong?” Tom was concerned.

“Follow me.”

Dead.

“Those bastards,” Zhao-ji said, meaning Algrin and his cronies.

“An accident?” Tom looked at the poor thing. “Or the cargo men?”

Zhao-ji glanced back—they were in an alcove just off the main unloading-chamber—and shook his head. “I saw them.”

The pool of blood was thick maroon. The feline's head lay in the pool, amber eyes focused on infinity, its long body arched in one last leap for freedom which would never end.

“Just because they couldn't steal anything. Damn it,” said Zhao-ji, as a soft mew sounded. “Fate—”

A tiny white neko-kitten, up on a ledge. Thin enough for ribs to be outlined through fur.

“We can't keep pets.” As though Zhao-ji had read Tom's mind.

Tom held out a finger. The kitten swiped at it, purring loudly. “We can't let him starve, either.”

Zhao-ji sighed.

“Evening break. We'll come back with food.”

“Good.”

Tom smiled; it had been a while since anything had amused him.

“What the little fella needs,” said Zhao-ji, “is a name.”

“How about”—Tom thought for a moment—“Paradox?”

“Paradox. That's perfect.”

After lessons and the evening meal, they sneaked out, bearing proto-block. They left Paradox hungrily lapping at the food, and hurried back, barely making curfew.

It was the middle of the night when Tom jerked awake and stared into darkness, the puzzle looping over and over in his mind. Then, moving quietly, he took his infotablet to the corridor outside the dorm—he could not leave the school's confines at night, when alarm fields were enabled—and powered it on.

QUESTION: WHO FETCHES TOM'S WATER?

“No-one,” whispered Tom. “He only drinks daistral.”

BREAKING CONTEXT
, read the answering tricon,
RESOLVES ANTINOMY. LATER, MORE SOPHISTICATED SOLUTIONS WILL BE REQUIRED.

“I don't—”

NOW, USE THE NEEDLE TO DOWNLOAD MODULE ONE

“Module one?” But he remembered the Pilot's words:
Download just one module at a time.

He took out his talisman, split it, and dug the needle through the nul-gel coating, making contact with the embedded crystal.

COMPLETE.

Hurrying, he resealed the thing, remembering her warning about emissions.

ACTIVATE MODULE?

“Go,” said Tom.