Context (69 page)

A
silver-lined tunnel. Tom’s ring sparked blue as he passed through a
membrane-barrier; Adam’s earstud winked ruby light.

‘Is this part of the Academy?’

Adam shook his head. ‘Not yet, my
Lord.’

The Academy must take up some
two-thirds of the previous Palace Boltrivar, and extend beyond its bounds.

‘Wait here, would you.’

There was an archway off to the
right; a discreet floating tricon warned that entry was for nobles only. Beyond
an antechamber, in a golden hall, stood fine-gowned Ladies, and Lords in formal
half-capes, conversing.

Tom slipped into the antechamber.
The murmur of conversation grew louder, accompanied by soft flute music.

‘Some orthoplum wine, sir?’ A
majordomo, trailed by junior servitors bearing trays, gestured with a white-gloved
hand towards the selection. ‘We have the finest—’

‘Is there any gripplejuice?’

In answer, the majordomo merely
looked at a servitrix, who departed at a run.

Damn. Why couldn’t they just say
no?

But that, of course, would never
do.

When
the servitrix returned, Tom took the glass directly from her, before she had a
chance to present it to the major-domo.

‘I appreciate this. Full of
antioxidants, you know. And no side effects.’

She blushed, curtsied, withdrew.

Tom nodded to the majordomo—who
bowed—and headed inside.

‘... gestalten successfully,’ a
young Lord was saying, ‘as a way of decoding perception-processing: pattern
against backdrop. But when they founded a school of psychoanalysis ...’

His companions laughed.

But Tom wondered whether archaic
self-actualization cults were as ridiculous as scholars thought. What if the
few surviving texts were satire or parody?

Silently, he moved to another
group.

‘... Valerron’s conjecture.’ The
speaker was a dark-haired Lady of some thirty SY, and her glance flickered in
Tom’s direction. ‘Only a millionth of the nervous system’s processing is
conscious; even contemporary humans are a mix of competing personalities and
cognitive daemons. In the flow, in the midst of writing poetry, defining a
logosophical model—there’s no self-awareness involved.’

This was elementary; Tom wondered
what her point was.

‘... millennium and a half ago,
measurements showed electric potential changes in the brain a third of a second
before
conscious volition takes place.’

A nice paradox: the illusion of
autonomous self.

‘But Lord Valerron concludes,’
said the Lady, ‘that true consciousness itself may be a recent phenomenon,
postdating
culture. Perhaps not even the world’s founders thought as we do now.’

Tom looked at her.

‘Are you saying we don’t think
like Terrans a mere thousand years ago?’

‘Did they have logotropic
integration, or even cognate-daemon mapping?’ Her blue eyes brightened as she
conjured a billowing holo manifold into existence. ‘My own model suggests that
Terrans rarely experienced hyperego formation during the third decade of life.’

Murmurs of appreciation arose
among the onlookers. Rigorous tesseracts and proof-dendrimers backed up the
Lady’s analysis.

Tom gave a small, exact bow. Then
he went to stand by the wall—unconsciously like a servitor—and frowned,
wondering why her hypothesis disturbed him so.

She
sought him out afterwards, as the other Lords and Ladies drifted away. Tom, not
wanting company, angled his body, allowing his cape to fall open on the left.

‘It’s OK, my Lord Corcorigan.’
Her smile was mischievous. ‘I recognized you immediately. I’m Brekana.’

‘Honoured.’ Tom’s bow was
punctiliously correct. ‘But why would you recognize me? I don’t—’

‘My cousin Sylvana’s told me all
about you.’

Tom’s breath caught. ‘Lady
Sylvana, of Darinia Demesne?’

‘Of course. It’s a shame she’s
not here. Normally, she can’t resist our little conversaziones.’

Sylvana.

With a tiny smile, aware of her
words’ devastating effect, Brekana bobbed a curtsy and moved away, catching an
elder Lord’s gaze and waving a greeting.

Sylvana’s living here?

Tom
took a goblet of gripplejuice out to Adam, who started with surprise, but
seemed pleased enough with the drink.

‘Thank you, my Lord.’

Sylvana. You, for one, always had
an interesting way with servitors.

After Adam had drained the goblet
and tossed it into a recvat, Tom indicated a long white tunnel. ‘That leads
into the Academy proper?’

‘Just so, sir. I have access
permission.’

They passed through a membrane
which took longer than usual to liquefy—while its deepscan procedure completed
-before allowing them inside.

‘This way, sir.’

Tom
came out on a high balcony, having left Adam far below on the winding stone
staircase, struggling with the climb. The cavern ceiling, knotwork-decorated,
was close overhead. On one side, a stubby stone gargoyle, missing half its
teeth and a portion of one wing, leered at Tom.

Down below, among exquisite
formal gardens, perhaps a hundred men and women were running in time or
performing group calisthenics.

Tom was not alone. An
athletic-looking man, perhaps a little younger than Tom, had been observing the
training; now he turned, and bowed.

‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’ And,
in a moment of mutual recognition: ‘We can always do with another fighter.’

Tom smiled. ‘I’m Tom Corcorigan.’

‘Jay A’Khelikov yclept.’
Obviously noble-born.

They clasped wrists, but alertly:
each aware of the other’s capabilities.

‘Sorry,’ the man added, ‘but I
must go back to—’

Danger.

A soft sound, behind.

Tom started to spin, forming a
knife-hand, but then he recognized Adam—puffing, out of breath, oblivious to
the danger—and straightened up.

Beside him, Jay A’Khelikov’s gaze
flickered over Adam, dismissed the threat.

Treating him like something
inanimate.

No.

Sounds of training cadences
drifted up from below.

‘This fellow’—there was steel in
Tom’s voice—‘is called Adam Gervicort.’

A person, not an object.

A’Khelikov’s face was like stone:
a warrior’s mask, betraying nothing, ready for anything. But then he did
something which astonished Tom, and would continue to astound him on
reflection.

‘Your pardon, sir.’ Jay A’Khelikov
stepped forward and grasped Adam’s forearm. ‘I’ll not make the same mistake
again.’

Chaos ...

Then he nodded, to Adam and Tom
both, made his way to the staircase, and descended from sight. Adam looked
stunned.

A Lord, apologizing to a
servitor?

What kind of a place is this?

~ * ~

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