Paradox (39 page)

“OK soon, sweetheart,” he said to the child.

Faster now
.

It was a good choice. Dark, with puddles underfoot, but this tunnel's floor was relatively unbroken and the air smelled cleaner as he poured on the speed.

No time to glance back, but footsteps splashed and thudded behind: they were keeping up.

The young girl he was carrying made no sound.

Don't be afraid
.

“My Lord—”

Faster
.

“Can't keep going…”

He slowed, stopped. Looked back.

Elva was bent over, clutching her side.

“Just a…stitch, my Lord.” Her face was wan, illuminated by sickly fluorofungus clinging to the damp wall.

Don't worry, little one
.

The three troopers came splashing up behind her, then turned and went down in the puddles on one knee, chests heaving, grasers pointing back the way they had come.

Just a moment's rest, and we'll continue
.

Then Elva, trying to control her breathing, was saying, “I'll take her, my Lord.”

Other hands steadied him as he swayed. “No…”

Taking the girl.

No
.

Suddenly, he pounded the wall with a hammer-fist.

“NO!”

But they found an alcove, and Elva gently laid the dead child down. Eyes closed, as though sleeping.

“Come on, Tom.” Elva took his sleeve. “We have to carry on.”

They were waiting for him in the Palace.

It's all going wrong
.

“If you would follow me, my Lord.”

The alpha servitor and his attendant betas bowed low, then walked ahead of Tom and his group, leading the way—
you think I don't know this place?
—along an eggshell-blue and yellow corridor which Tom had walked a thousand times before.

“They're all inside.” Gesturing with a white-gloved hand towards the shimmering white/gold membrane. “And the others?” Raised eyebrow, asking Tom what Elva and the three men should do.

“Show them to my suite.”

“Very good, my Lord.”

Tom slowly exhaled. The membrane slipped softly across his skin as he stepped inside.

Lacking clean-gel, they had washed using water stolen by Elva from a restaurant kitchen—wasting a precious resource—but Tom thought he could still smell burning, even above the clean yet musty smell of his new clothes. The garments had come from a small marketplace and been legitimately paid for by Elva, whose original outfit had been comparatively unmarked, while Tom and the three troopers remained hidden.

“Tom.”

“My Lady.” He smiled. “Sylvana.”

He felt disadvantaged: skin scaly with old sweat, fifth-stratum clothes—pale yellowish pink and burnt orange predominating—and exhaustion weighing him down.

“It's good to see you, Tom.”

By Palace standards, the chamber was modest. Round, low-ceilinged, in scarlet encrusted with gold. Some twenty nobles were in the room, in small groups of three or four, attended by only three alpha servitors.

“I'm looking forward to the big party.”

“Me, too.” Sylvana took his arm, and the thrill washed through him, even in his condition. “Though this thing here is not quite the happy affair I'd hoped.”

Lord A'Dekal, white-haired and frowning, tracked Tom's progress across the room. But, behind him, Lady V'Delikona's eyes twinkled as she caught sight of him.

“Is that Lord Corcorigan I see over there?”

“The same, ma'am.” He hurried across, bent over her offered hand and kissed it.

“Delighted, old chap”—A'Dekal's tone was frosty, conspicuously lacking delight—“that you could make it.”

Danger here.
Did he suspect where Tom had been?

“We were discussing the latest outrages.” Another Lord, whom Tom did not know. “Three robberies in the sector this past tenday, and some kind of disturbance today, in this very realm.” Sipping clear wine, he added, “Down below, of course.”

“Of course,” murmured Tom.

“What do you think we should do, Tom?” asked Lady V'Delikona seriously. “About these terrorists, I mean.”

“Does anyone”—he put the question, knowing the answer—“actually know what they want?”

The unknown Lord snorted, and Lord A'Dekal said: “Brigands, pure and simple. We should sweep through the place with full military forces. Through every single stratum of every single realm, if we have to, until we clear the devils out.”

“Easier said than done, I think,” Lady V'Delikona replied before Tom could.

Control your anger
.

But that, too, was more easily said than done, and bright-red target spots leaped out across A'Dekal's skin—
limp body, Elva lowering the lifeless child
—as Tom felt the growing pressure inside him to strike out and kill.

“—is why,” Lady V'Delikona was saying, “I especially asked for you, Tom.”

“I…”

Control
.

“…thank you, of course.”

Breathe, relax
.

“I would say”—A'Dekal's tone was clipped—“you could bring a unique perspective to the team, Corcorigan.”

Tom bowed slightly, as though that were a compliment.

“Define for me exactly,” he said carefully, “this team's objectives.”

“A think-tank,” said the unnamed Lord, as Lady V'Delikona nodded agreement. “To advise on counter-terrorist strategies for the entire sector.”

Chaos!

“For brainstorming sessions only, I take it?”

“Oh, no. With a large budget and the ability to initiate projects.”

Projects. That could mean anything.

“Any military involvement?” Tom asked.

“The overall responsibility, of course”—A'Dekal—“rests with the military. But the group will be presided over by a high-ranking officer; that's a measure of our serious commitment.”

“And who will—?”

But another group of Lords was approaching, and at their centre was a gaunt, blond man with taut skin, pale in contrast to his dark grey military uniform.

“Lord Corcorigan”—A'Dekal fingered his white beard as he spoke—“may I present General Lord Corduven d'Ovraison.”

“Good to see you, Tom.” The others had left them alone for a time; it was just Tom and Corduven. “Shame about the circumstances.”

“Just what I was thinking.”

Every now and then Corduven and Sylvana crossed glances, then quickly looked away.

“Did you ever study tactics,” asked Corduven, “with Maestro da Silva?”

“Er…A little. It was mostly physical training.”

“Pity.” Corduven took a slug of the pale-green spirits he was drinking; it had no discernible effect. “Those bastards are experts at guerrilla warfare. Small action groups, largely autonomous.”

“I didn't realize…The last I heard, you were at Lord Takegawa's academy.”

“Hmm.” Corduven held out his free hand, as though checking its steadiness. “That was where I started, for sure.”

It correlated with Tom's first impression: that Corduven's self-control was massive, but his nerves were wound tightly, close to the limit.

What have you been doing, these last few years?
It was a reasonable thing to ask, so he put the question aloud.

“I've been in Sector Vilargi, near Kranitsia. It's something of a hot spot.”

So that was you
.

As the campaign to steal more funds had increased, there had been one demesne in particular where the authorities' countermeasures had proved successful: blowing courier lines, taking out a supra-cell briefing-group, infiltrating the local LudusVitae apparatus and dismantling it from within.

That was the tactical summary: in human terms it meant more
orphaned children, screams from isolated chambers as the inquisitors went to work, and the endless paranoia of neighbours watching neighbours, alert for betrayal or the opportunity to betray.

“Hence the rapid promotion?” asked Tom. “It's still an amazing achievement.”

“Thanks.” Corduven drained the glass and put it down. “But I'm looking forward to getting things moving here. And I'll tell you—I'm glad I've got someone I can trust. A friend.”

For a moment shame flooded through Tom.

“I have to go now, Tom. But I'll see you at the ops-initiation meeting?”

“Let me know details, and I'll be there.”

They clasped wrists.

As Corduven left, Tom noticed how the gazes of all five Ladies in the room followed him. His pale, drawn intensity seemed to fascinate them—even Sylvana.

“You knew him when you were younger?” It was Lady V'Delikona, coming to talk to him, waving away the other Lords.

“Yes, I—We knew each other as well as could be expected, given our stations in life.”

He always treated me as an equal
.

“That's very unusual,” said Lady V'Delikona, though the same could be said of her own encouragement, her friendship.

“I know.”

“He's changed a great deal.”

“Yes, I…I know what it's like to lose a family member young.”

Corduven, what have I done to you?

“You're a good man, Tom Corcorigan.”

No, I'm not
.

Steady beat.

The workroom was long and curved, dimly lit on this shift. Only one person was on duty, Dorothy Verzhinski, and her booted feet were up on her console as she leaned back in her chair reading a hardcopy book:
Anna Karenina.

Background stimuli fade into the environment, in audio as in the other senses. The pulsar's steady beeping had been a part of Dorothy's world for so long that she no longer noticed it.

BEEP-beep BEEP-beep BEEP-beep—

“Bozhe moi!”

She knocked the book aside, swinging her feet to the deck as the signal changed. She'd tipped her mug and cursed again as she wiped coffee from the controls, stabbing at command tabs.

“
Waaaah!
”

“Impossible.” Tracer codes oscillated across her display.

She punched up a comm session.

“Shuttle Two. How's it goin', Dorothy?”

“Wait till you hear, Jean-Paul. I've got a distress call.”

There was a moment's silence.

“Out here? Are you feeling all right?”

By “out here” he meant medium-range orbit around Delta Cephei. Shuttle Two was laying out a long chain of research satellites; the other shuttles were, like Dorothy, safely on board Metronome Station.

Lifeless space stretched in all directions, more desolate than humans had ever experienced.

“I picked up the beacon.”

“But—”

“And here's the audio track.”

She gulped unspilled remnants of cold coffee, not tasting it, as she patched in the parallel signal.

“
Wa-waaah!
”

“What was that?” Jean-Paul's voice was quietly serious.

“Tsk, tsk.” Dorothy shook her head. “The lonely life of the dedicated scientist.”

“Dorothy—”

“Have you never heard a baby cry before?”

“Damn you!”

The voice sounded from far away, waking her.

“Just let me in to see her!”

Muted arguments, then a metallic rattle as the door slid open.

“Karyn.”

“Hello, Sensei.” She raised her head slightly, then let it fall back weakly onto the soft pillow: the nearest she could come to a bow. “Nice to see you.”

But she saw nothing. The world was darkness.

“Thank God.” His beard brushed against her cheek in a swift kiss, then he took one of her hands—still so weak—in his callused grip.

“I heard you cursing at the medical officer.”

“They told me you'd made it OK, but I had to see…”

“I know.”

It was total darkness, but the bed's softness pressed beneath her, and the covers felt solid and heavy, cocooning her. Not like a ship—

“Sensei. Dart…He didn't…”

I can't cry
.

“Don't speak.” Big hands squeezing hers gently. “I've been briefed.”

They took my eyes and I can't cry
.

“He saved us.” A whisper.

Perhaps she drifted into sleep then. Sometimes it was hard to tell. But when she came back to full awareness, Sensei was still there, his warmth and strength a comfort.

“Sensei…”

“It's all right, Karyn.”

“They won't let me see my baby.”

Dart's baby
.

She might have heard more arguments, but she was not sure. But Sensei, Mike, had come all this way to Metronome Station, and he was not going to let subordinate officers or trivial regulations get in his way. Blend and harmonize when possible, thrust when necessary.

Then the door was sliding open, and Sensei was helping to raise her into a sitting position.

“Hello.” Faint Slavic accent as a woman's hands transferred the baby's tiny form. “I'm Dorothy.”

Baby.
A new reality.

Another individual, but part of her, part of Dart—

Suddenly frantic, she moved fluttering, scarcely touching fingertips across her baby's warm face, head, with its furlike patch of hair, and body, checking the limbs, counting the tiny fingers and toes.

“She's beautiful.” Sensei.

“Definitely.” The woman, Dorothy, agreed.

Relaxing, Karyn settled back into the cushioning pillow, her tiny, wriggling daughter held in her arms. She felt a smile tugging at her face.

She had never expected to smile again.

“Is she…really all right?” Turning slightly to face Dorothy, judging the position by her voice and the rustling of her clothes. “What scans have you done?”

“Ah, I don't know. I'm an astrophysicist, not a medic.”

“Dorothy was the one,” said Sensei, “who picked up your signal.”

“Oh.” Karyn shook her head, very slightly. “I don't know how to thank you.”

“Least I could do.” The words were light-hearted, but Karyn could hear the emotion catching in her throat.

“Tell me straight, Sensei.” Laying her head to one side, facing him, knowing he would focus on the useless silver sockets where her eyes should be. “This is your granddaughter. Why wouldn't they let me see her?”

“The strain—” Dorothy began.

“I came to take her home.” Sensei avoided the question. “I can retire, or work part time; I haven't decided the details. You don't have anything to worry about.”

“
Nothing to worry—?
” She forced herself to calmness. Sensei was the last person she should be angry with.

“I mean, she won't be raised in an orphanage. Your daughter.”

Dorothy said quickly, “Two whole tech crews came in on the same ship.” Mu-space vessel: Karyn wondered who the Pilot was. “When you've recovered, they'll re-interface you right here.”

If Sensei were to raise his granddaughter, would that mean giving up the priesthood, breaking his vows? It didn't matter, because Karyn had made her own decision, not realizing it until now.

“I'm not going back into mu-space.” Quietly. “I'm going to be a mother, on Earth.”

“But you'll be—”

“Blind, I know.”

They took my eyes
.

“But that's what I'm going to do.”

Then there were arms around her, silently hugging her, and the warm tears which trickled down her cheek could have been Dorothy's or Sensei's, and she accepted them as though they were her own.

After a minute, when they had disengaged, she asked again: “So why didn't they let me see her?”

“There's nothing actually
wrong
…” Dorothy.

“What is it?”

Silence. Were the two of them communicating by subtle gesture?

“It's her eyes.”

Dear God, no.

“But—”

“Visual reflex appears normal.” Sensei's hand grasped her wrist. “She tracks moving objects.”

“It's hard to—” Dorothy started, then shut up.

Not her eyes
.

“They're black,” said Sensei, very softly.

“I—Oh. But why should—?”

“He means totally black.” Dorothy. “No surrounding whites at all. It's quite…eerie.”

My daughter.

“But she's very beautiful.”