Paradox (3 page)

The noise was greater here.

Sick with tension, Tom scrambled along Split Alley—an almost disused tunnel—over broken, tilted flagstones, not knowing what he would find in the market chamber.

“Destiny help us.” An old woman's voice floated down the narrow, jumbled route.

The repetitive stamp of marching feet from the larger Skalt Bahreen, off to the left, accompanied him. This tunnel ran almost parallel: a short-cut. Would he reach the market ahead of them?

He hurried, not knowing why. Perhaps he should be looking for somewhere to hide.

Flames. The acrid stink of smoke.

Father
…

Tom tripped over a broken block, and pain shot through his shin. But the market was just around the corner.

There was no panic.

Rapt, the crowd's attention was focused on something to Tom's left. Slowing down, he limped into the market chamber and leaned against the terracotta wall. What was happening?

Grey banner: faded narl, fangs agape.

There was a group of blue-robed, masked Largin wives in front of Tom. Huge cycle-eunuch guards—on-phase: muscles massively pumped with testosterone—formed a protective ring around the women.

The serpent banner was in flames. As Tom watched, the burning remnants dropped. Marketgoers and stalls blocked Tom's view, but it seemed that the fire sputtered out.

There was an old bale of rough sackcloth beside Tom, and nobody was paying attention, so he awkwardly clambered onto it. His shin, where he had banged it against the stone, was sticky with blood.

The pain faded instantly.

Someone had burned away the banner to clear the entranceway from Skalt Bahreen. Fully revealed, it was greater than Tom expected: a black semicircle wide enough to hold six men marching abreast.

And they did.

At the crowd's rear, near Tom, a small white-haired woman, bent beneath the weight of years, made the double-claw ward-sign with arthritic fingers. Tom shook his head and raised himself on tiptoe atop the unsteady bale, one hand against the wall for balance.

Hundreds of them.

Flanked by ranks of local astymonia in ceremonial headbands and gauntlets, a wave of scarlet-uniformed militia marched into the market chamber. They wheeled in formation, bootsteps reverberating, forming a red arrow into the chamber's centre as the market-going crowd fell back.

The ranks split apart, forming a wide, straight avenue and a hollow circle below the ceiling hatch. For a moment, Tom thought that the hatch might open and
she looked at him with one good eye from the blackened ruin of her face
but he shook the vision away.

“Present…arms!”

Heavy graser rifles spun through effortless curves. Onlookers flinched at the simultaneous clash of bootheels and the discharge flash of guide beams.

Then: nothing.

They stood still as statues, waiting, while Tom—riveted—held his breath.

Then, swallowing, he lowered himself from the bale and crept around the perimeter. Quietly. As he neared Trude's stall, she turned, sensing him, and nodded once.

“Up here.” She was standing on a storage case, and helped Tom to clamber up. “We should be able to—”

Movement.

Cobalt blue and gleaming silver: a lev-car, moving slowly, slid from Skalt Bahreen into the market. The troopers' rigidity increased as the vehicle glided past them. Shivering, Tom watched the lev-car settling to the flagstones at the market's centre. Its cockpit grew transparent.

The man who stepped through the membrane was wide-shouldered and narrow-waisted, deep-blue cloak thrown back, tunic impeccable. He dismounted easily, light of step, and a grin briefly lit up his square, handsome face, neatly framed with a dark beard.

Trude's body was tight, angular with tension.

“Is that—?” Tom stopped.

Dark-liveried servants took up position around their master.

“I know this one.” Trude's voice was a bitter whisper. “Oracle Gérard d'Ovraison.”

But not much like the other one. A very different Oracle.

“And he's staying for a while.” There was no pleasure in Trude's voice.

A black dodecahedron rose from the lev-car's rear on extruded, narrow legs. Spiderlike, it walked to the chamber's exact centre. It sank to the floor. Its legs momentarily retracted, then arced out in long inverted-catenary curves and touched the flagstones. Its feet were points on a circle some fifteen metres wide.

“Tom, I think you should go home now.”

“But…” He looked over at Father's stall. Nothing. Father was watching the Oracle just like everybody else.

At the market's centre, the dodecahedron rose on its legs until it touched the ceiling. Then a black, translucent film flowed down between the legs, filling the interstices.

“It's a tent,” murmured somebody in the crowd.

That's right
, thought Tom. As the film reached floor-level all around, it hardened into opacity, forming a matt black hemisphere.
Neat trick.

“Please, Tom.” Trude's voice jerked him back to reality. “I wish you would leave.”

Tom opened his mouth to ask why—and then he saw: copper-red tresses beneath a blue silk scarf, a slender figure in the crowd, passing through the cordon of militiamen into the cleared space.

“They're expecting her,” said Trude.

Sway-backed dancer's walk.

“Sweet Destiny!” Above the heads of clustered traders, from behind his stall, Father's anguished voice clearly carried. “No…”

Mother?

At the black tent, she stopped by the smiling, broad-shouldered Oracle, who waved a courteous hand. The membrane puckered open.

Mother.

She and the Oracle walked through the opening, and the tent sealed up behind them.

Hating himself, Tom gestured the thing into motion:

“She was wringing her hands.” Father swallowed. “Did it for hours, in her sleep.”

“Oh, Davraig—” Trude, sitting across the table from Father, placed her hand briefly on his. “But she did come home last night.” It was not quite a question.

Cut. The image froze.

Tom leaned back, heart thumping. He was sitting on his cot, stone at his back, and it felt icy cold.

“Fate, Mother.” He kept his voice low, though the chamber was empty. “Why?”

He pointed, and the holo resumed.

“Yeah.” Father looked to one side, to where the infotablet had been lying on Tom's bed, with the alcove-hanging open
(and seemed for a moment to stare straight into Tom's eyes).
“She came back excited. Talked about the marvellous conversation, amazing food.”

“She danced for him last night.”

“Oh, yes. The Shalko Troupe was quite famous, up there.” He pointed at the ceiling, meaning: famous in the stratum above. “Still is, probably.”

The troupe Mother had danced with. Had run away from, when she was scarcely older than Tom was now…And that was all Tom knew of Mother's early life.

“So he was impressed with her credentials.” Trude. “Doesn't explain why he was expecting—But then, he's an Oracle, isn't he?”

Father looked down. “I'm not good enough for her, Trude. I never have been.”

“She loves you.” Trude's tone was not convincing.

“Dancers aren't stupid, you know.” Father leaned back in his chair—

Tom glanced up at the empty table in the chamber, then back at the image floating beside him.

—
and ran his blunt fingers through his untidy grey hair. “She was trained in physiology, voice control, drama…And it must have been glamorous, performing.”

Trude shook her head. “Glamour's always on the outside,” she said. “Other people's perceptions.”

“Maybe. But it must have been better than here.” He waved a hand around, indicating his surroundings.

Once more, Tom looked around the real chamber. What was wrong with it?

Trude: “Remember how you found her.”

“She was down on her luck.” Father was defensive. “That was all.”

A strange, sick feeling took hold of Tom's stomach.

There was a long silence, then Trude said: “The hand-wringing you described…It's a bad sign, Davraig. If you can get her away from here for a few days—”

“I've no travel permit.”

“Just a klick or two away. I know people in Farlgrin District…”

Father shook his head.

“What about the hand-wringing?” he asked, after a moment. “I've seen her do it sometimes, when she's very stressed.”

“Just something we talked about once.” Trude tapped her bony fingers on the tabletop. “When she was—Never mind. Girl talk.” She stopped tapping and stared straight at Father. “Just follow my advice. I don't often give it.”

“No?” Father forced a laugh. “I remember that time—”

The edge of Tom's hand cut the air and the holo image vanished. He was ashamed of himself: leaving the infotablet recording without telling anyone. But no-one would explain what was happening.

Forcing himself, he scissored his fingers together, wiping the log from existence. He got up from the cot, then sat down again, not
knowing what to do. Stared up at the ceiling, seeing imagined episodes of Mother, dancing.

What the Fate was going on?

“Hey, little Tom.” A youth—knotted-chrome headband woven into his forehead, amber ovoids like pustules beneath each cheekbone—was sitting on a ledge halfway up the wall at Pentangle Interchange, swigging from a flagon. “Hear your ma's out of retirement…”

He leaned over, handing the flagon down to a group of young toughs. One of them turned, and the purple birthmark made Tom's heart sink: Stavrel.

Tom clutched the new charge-bead for Father's cutting-tools. What if Stavrel tried to take it?

Last straw. Overload.

For three days now, Mother had paid visits to the Oracle in his tent, while his militiamen roamed the local tunnels and astymonia intelligence questioned everybody. No-one quite knew why. One word—
Pilot
—was in everyone's mind, but never spoken.

This morning Mother had tied her hair back with silver cord, used precious cred-flakes to buy a basket of jantrasta-filled gripplefruits, and taken them into the black tent.

I know more about the Pilot than anyone
, Tom realized.
But all I care about is—

Stavrel had jerked the flagon away from one of his companions just as the youth had been about to drink, but stopped now, and stared at Tom.

Up on the ledge, the chrome-headbanded one laughed shortly.

“Dancers learn lots of positions, don't they?” He spat to one side. “First there's—”

Overload. Tom opened his mouth to—

“Shut up.” Stavrel. Looking up at the ledge.

Metal-headband stopped, blood draining from his face.

Stavrel glanced at Tom, then turned away.

Unsettled, Tom took the long route back to the market.

He had been halfway to Garveron Place, getting Father's charge-bead; the astymonia-regulated power booth served both Farlgrin District and Salis Core. Standing in line, Tom had caught sight of a greyheaded figure in a mandelbrot shawl. Trude? He had not been able to—

A Jack.

For the first time, icy fear swept away the constant background images of Mother and the whining question about Father: why didn't he
do
something? Suddenly, Tom was afraid for his own sake.

They will detect emissions—

Holodrama heroes were golden-skinned and muscular. In real life, this Jack was slender, almost emaciated. His spindly arms and legs were bare, exposing the motile dermaweb.

Across bone-white skin, fine blue tracery
crawled.

Just for a moment, he—it—glanced in Tom's direction. A diffractive rainbow shimmered across microfaceted eyes.

My fear is natural.
Tom was aware of his own sweat, his soaring pulse.
He won't stop me, will he?

Behind the Jack, keeping their distance—not to overwhelm the Jack's hyper-reactive senses—were four militiamen in dark combat fatigues.

If I'm subvocalizing—

There was a small, unnamed side tunnel and Tom took it, quickening his pace, hoping no-one would follow.

He hurried through a low, dank inn where hooded men and women were sitting cross-legged around bubbling communal beakers, sipping leth'aqua through narlskin tubes. More hooded robes hung
from sticky-tags on the bare rockface wall: clients used them, for anonymity.

Should he borrow a robe?

No, he needed to keep moving. And you couldn't hide from a Jack. Unconsciously he touched his chest, feeling the silver stallion against his skin.

Detect emissions—

Tom halted where the chamber narrowed to winding tunnel once more. Something about one of the hooded figures…He turned back.

“Trude?” he asked uncertainly.

There were three of them huddled by the wall, ignoring him. He must be wrong. Not Trude: not in a place like this.

“There's a Jack coming this way,” he added, feeling foolish.

That got a reaction.

“Are you sure?” Pulling back her hood.

“Fate, Trude. It is you.”

“Time to leave, gentlemen.” She addressed the two still-hooded figures beside her. “Come on, Tom. We'll go first.”

Dropping the robe to the ground, she took Tom's arm and hurried him out along the tunnel.

Though she gave him one or two strange, appraising looks, they spoke not a word, all the way back to the market chamber.

Laughter.

“Come on in, Tom.” Father, waving a bronze cup. “You ought to have a drink, but—”

Mother grabbed Father's shoulder, pulling him to her, whispered something into his ear and giggled.

Father sputtered, spraying wine, then choked it down and shook his head, laughing. He was red-faced with drink, happier than Tom had seen him for a long time.

Mother winked at Tom.

“Er…” Tom stood at the family chamber's entrance. “Padraig and Levro asked if I could stay at their place tonight. Can I?”

“Huh?” Father looked blearily puzzled. “Are you—?”

“Anything you want, Tom.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Not letting the doubt sound in his voice.

“Aw…A family should stick together.”

“It's OK, Father. I want to go.”

He let the hanging drop back into place as Mother spoke again in a low voice, and Father laughed once more.

Everything's going to be all right.
He sighed, leaning back against the wall.

After a while he started walking, wondering where he might sleep that night.

“—why the Uncertainty we're bothering.”

Tom jerked awake.

“You what?”

Cold. Just one of those anomalies, perhaps to do with hidden running water: it happened sometimes, in Split Alley. The temperature must have dropped while Tom was sleeping. He shivered.

“I heard His Wisdom say it. The Jacks won't find the witch's transmitter.”

“Some kinda joke.”

Tom retreated farther into the rough nook, trying to make himself small. The troopers were near the market chamber, just a couple of metres inside the tunnel.

“Nah, he meant it. Said the trip would be worth the effort, though.”

“What's that supposed to…?”

Their voices faded: moving away, or submerged beneath the rushing of blood in Tom's ears. The Jacks' search would fail.

I'm safe.

“Father! Morning.”

Father, picking desultorily at cold rice and shredded gripple, merely pointed with his tine-spoon. “Have some breakfast.”

“Er, thanks.” Tom, bursting to tell someone his good news, was struck by Father's downcast expression. “I'll get a bowl.”

As he sat down, though, Father stood.

“I'm going to set up.” He shrugged a jerkin over his plain tunic. “Early start.”

It was not like Father to leave food uneaten. Puzzled but ravenous, Tom tucked in to his own breakfast.

Afterwards, he cleaned and stacked the two bowls, grabbed the infotablet and sticky-tagged it to his belt.

“Tom?”

He stopped. “Yes, Mother?”

“Come here.” Leaning past the hanging, she kissed him on the cheek. “I love you, Tom.”

“Oh, Mother…”

“You have your grandfather's eyes, you know.” Her own blue eyes were unreadable: Tom could not tell if the resemblance was a good thing or bad. “I guess I've never—Anyway.” Unfocused dreaminess entered her voice. “Your father needs you. Go now.”

The hanging swung back into place.

Unsettled, disoriented, Tom almost bumped into a dark-clothed trooper.

“Sorry, I didn't—”

A stiff-expressioned officer was standing in front of Father's stall, his scarlet uniform immaculate, throat clasp and bracelets gleaming.