Resolution (29 page)

‘—and his poncey French, pardon me, Français accent—’

Two male students, clattering down the staircase, passed Dirk on his way up. He recognized the speaker, last seen bloody-nosed and sprawled across a bench formed of wood so old it was black, by a fireplace in a pub on St Giles.

They were followed by two women, one of whom murmured: ‘Old Doc Chalou’s still got it, in a way that moron never had.’

‘You fancy Claude Chalou?’ The second woman sounded Canadian. She giggled. Then, staring at the two young men who had reached ground level: ‘I’ll bet Chalou could whip their asses, however old he—’

Then Dirk climbed past them, and stood swallowing on the small landing, hand raised to knock, hesitating.

‘Don’t just stand there.’
The voice called through the heavy wooden door. ‘Come in.’

Dirk swung the door open.

Grizzled beard, short white-grey hair, sitting in a chair by a blazing thermoglow with a rug thrown across his lap: that was Chalou. In the silver sockets where his eyes should have been, reflected orange highlights danced.

At his feet lay a barrel-bodied black retriever whose muzzle was flecked with grey.

‘Mr McNamara. I’m pleased to meet you. Sam’ - he addressed the dog - ‘this is Dirk.
C’est un ami, hein?’

Sam got to his feet and waddled over to Dirk on stiff legs.

‘Hey, Sam.’ Dirk bent down, let the dog sniff the back of his hand, then rubbed the flat top of Sam’s head, staring into those brown intelligent eyes. He patted the side of Sam’s convex torso. ‘Good to meet you.’

Then Dirk straightened up and shook hands with Dr Chalou. Strong grip. Chalou looked to be in his fifties, but must have been over seventy, even allowing for the ultra-relativistic effects of mu-space voyages when time slowed down.

‘Ah, bien.
Sit, young Dirk. Over there.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Dirk took his seat opposite the ageing tutor. ‘I should have been to see you before now.’

‘Pourquoi?
Why would you want to talk to an old guy like me?’

Dirk shook his head.

Because you‘re like my grandmother. Because you made a sacrifice I’ll never have to.

Chalou tapped his left eye socket with a fingernail, in a gesture which made Dirk’s skin shrink, with the clutched-scrotum sensation only a male can know.

‘Don’t let this
ever
make you feel guilty, my friend. Even if you are the Admiral’s son, consider this an order.’

Dirk looked quickly around the room, the mullioned window and the dark ceiling rafters, though surveillance bugs would be invisible. He sensed nothing, but that did not mean—

‘The room is clean, don’t worry. And I think UNSA knows how we refer to your mother,
hein?
So, I take advantage of my age and give you my wisdom, even though you are Karyn McNamara’s grandson.’

Dirk cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Ha. Fine. I understand why you were reluctant to come here. I’m not your tutor, after all.’

There was an implied question in that, and Dirk chose to answer softly:
‘J’ai peur, professeur.
’

‘Mais qu ‘avez vous?
What’s wrong?’

‘I think the Zajinets are back. I think Pilots should be warned.’

<>

~ * ~

19

NULAPEIRON AD 3423

Black guilt crushed Tom. He came awake before dawnshift, while Elva still slept, and worked out in the lounge. Some of what Tom had seen in the Pilots’ story matched his phi2dao conditioning exercises; under other circumstances, as he bounced like a metronome through five hundred squats, Tom would have grinned as he considered how far back phi2dao’s lineage extended.

But the thought of Corduven’s bequest beat down upon him.

They were still in Realm V’Delikona. Tom and Elva had re-booked passage back to the Collegium Perpetuum Delphinorum, and reserved the same apartments there. This time, there was no uncertainty about whether Tom could pay the technicians who were working to free the ruined cyborg.

For I am ruler of Demesne d’Ovraison.

Not to mention the terraformer sphere whose exterior Tom had once climbed in order to kill the Oracle ... he now owned the sphere inside which he had found his mostly-dead mother entombed in a sarcophagus, capable of brief moments of consciousness. She died for real just minutes after the Oracle gave a last, blood-choked breath, with Tom’s poignard buried in his side.

Perhaps I can sell the terraformer.

Yet who would want to live among the clouds? Only a few thousand specially trained military could even function on the surface; the rest of Nulapeiron’s inhabitants would succumb to agoraphobic catatonia if someone were to drag them from the tunnels and corridors they called home. As a dwelling-place, the sphere was worthless.

Although it was rare to see more than a single terraformer at a time (assuming that an observer was on the surface in the first place), that was because the world was vast. Something like seventeen thousand such spheres floated above the world. If someone wanted to claim a sphere, there was little to stop them: fewer than a dozen were said to be inhabited. The only reason to purchase such a dwelling from Tom Corcorigan would be that it could be moved into straight away, without expensive recommissioning. (And still the buyer might object, if they learned something of the terraformer’s bloody history.)

Tom put that aside, and began to work through his new list of obligations.

He would have to register the realm, Demesne d’Ovraison, under its new name of Corcorigan Demesne. Then perhaps, not needing their financial support, he could try again with Trevalkin and A’Dekal, and persuade them to do ... what, exactly?

What everyone needed - Tom realized, staring into the grey half-light which blanketed the chamber - was a global Fire Watch, like the coastal beacons of ninth-century watchers who surveilled the sea for Viking sails:
not
a standing military force, but a warning system formed of observers trained to recognize the signs of Anomalous incursion.

The Blight had taken over a dozen realms before people began to recognize the danger. This time, with the more powerful true Anomaly, such a delay would leave things far too late to mount any opposition.

If opposition is possible.

Even if it were a paranoid delusion on Tom’s part ... still, the reactionary elements might support him, if it gave them footholds in realms throughout the world. Keeping an eye on each realm’s subjects? They would love the idea.

I
could help plunge Nulapeiron into harsh regimes which will endure for centuries.

Yet if the Anomaly were truly coming ...

Then it’s our only chance.

In a nearby eatery, Tom and Elva joined Kraiv and Adam for breakfast. Off to one side, a translucent green gel-block, some three metres high, contained the shadowy, etiolated, once-human forms of Wraith Singers. Their nerves and sinews generated the eerie music transmitted by the vibrating medium which nourished them.

Most diners paid them little attention, though Tom found his appetite diminishing. Then he had a sudden thought, and put down his tine-spoon.

‘Kraiv?’ he said. ‘Would Lima ... ? D’you think she’d be willing to relocate the clan?’

The former ruler, Edric, had not returned from battle. Lima’s
pro tem
position had become permanent.

‘The whole clan? Well, actually ...’ When Kraiv shrugged, the big muscles of his shoulders bunched and flexed. ‘The Bifrost Bridge field generators
can
be moved. “The Manse Hetreece consists of people, not a place.” Her words, not mine.’

In the three years since Kraiv had switched clan allegiance (in recompense for the death of Lima’s son, Horush), he had become a trusted adviser.

‘So she might consider a move.’ Tom was planning rapidly. ‘With some forces possibly based elsewhere for short rotations, guarding, say, a habitable terraformer sphere?’

‘In the sky? Perhaps.’ Kraiv’s chuckle was deep and resonant. ‘There still aren’t enough who’ve done the agoraphobia deconditioning. It’ll provide a motive.’

‘OK. Good.’

It was Lima as clan ruler who would make the decision; but to have an entire clan of carls based in their realm ...

‘Yes.’ Elva was grinning. ‘Yes. We will make your people very welcome, Kraiv.’

Not every Liege Lord or Lady liked the idea of berserker warriors living full-time in their own demesne, however useful they found the existence of housecarls when force or the threat of it became desirable. (Even now, Kraiv ate with his heavy jade-coloured morphblade leaning against the back of his chair. Nervous servitors were trying to ignore it.) Elva’s obvious enthusiasm might sway Lima’s decision.

Then Tom let out a long, slow breath, and made a decision which was hard for someone who had been private so long, nursing his grievances and focusing on his goals. Without that hidden intensity, he would have achieved nothing.