Context (17 page)

‘I’d say today’—with a sudden,
startling smile—‘is a day of bright beginnings.’

The
morning was given over to a seminar. Old Professor Davenport and his partner,
an AI doppelganger, were entertaining enough, but the fractal calculus was too
easy for Ro and she sat quietly, visualizing unblemished bronze skin rather
than equations. Dark eyes. A turquoise and silver necklet—

Davenport was asking a question,
but the woman beside Ro answered.

Ro let her attention drift again.

The
sky was one huge sapphire, still devoid of cloud. At the end of the afternoon,
Ro used the outdoor walkway to the dorm block, breathing in the pure still-hot
air. Flowering plants were draped across the overhead trellis; a tiny hummingbird
darted, insect-quick, among the blooms.

Ro opened the door to her room.

No...

A Navajo rug—half beneath, half
covering the thing.

Off to one side, a holo floating:
a chess game, one piece remaining...

Sweet Jesus, no.

Diamond-and-cross pattern, in
brick red, earth brown, violet, white. Ro wanted to see only the rug.
Outstretched hand upon the floor ...

Look at the chessboard.

It was a king, just the one piece
on the floating holo-board. Blurred ...but that was her vision failing, not the
image’s resolution. Staring at the chesspiece.

A distraction ...

Ro squatted down.

This is not happening.

But she reached out nonetheless.

And, hand trembling, she turned
back the rug by one tasselled corner.

Anne-Louise.

The thing’s dark tongue
protruded, filmed-over eyes staring at opaque infinity, a livid crease
encircling the swollen throat. Clothes slashed to shreds. Ankles bound.

Ro cried aloud, like an animal.

But there was no reaction—and
never would be—from Anne-Louise’s pitiful, desecrated remains.

<ENDS>>

~ * ~

10

NULAPEIRON
AD 3418

From
underneath, it looked powerful and mean: teardrop body flaring backwards,
coloured a lustrous butter-yellow, from which its long black tendrils extended.

‘Fate.’ Tom craned back his head,
staring upwards. ‘It’s not exactly inconspicuous.’

‘Double bluff. No-one would
expect secretive types, like us, to be riding inside.’ The amber ovoid, inset
in Velsivith’s cheek, was warm with reflected yellow light. “That’s my theory.’

The arachnargos’s lower thorax
rippled open, and narrow threads extruded down to them, fastened on, then
slowly lifted Tom and Velsivith inside.

The
crew dropped them off in a red-tiled hall. Tom watched the arachnargos move
swiftly away, its tendrils whipping ever faster as it took a tunnel corner at
speed and was gone.

‘Follow me.’

Velsivith led Tom through a short
corridor and out onto a threadway.

That same immense shaft. The
great sphere, where the Seer dwelt, still floated at the centre. But the shaft
itself looked darker, more ominous, and the walls ...

They rippled with movement.

For a moment Tom had to clutch
the safety rail, stricken with vertigo, as the shaft itself seemed momentarily
to come alive. But it was an illusion, though the walls were covered with
movement, stippled with shapes which seemed small only from this height.

Arachnabugs were crawling up and
down the walls, everywhere. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of the one-man
military-grade ‘bugs, on constant defensive patrol.

‘Are you expecting trouble?’

Velsivith answered indirectly. ‘This
is about as safe as anywhere can get.’

They made their way down through
the swaying thread-way—the previous time Tom had come this way, Elva had been
with him—with a squadron of Dragoons following. Their marching steps, in time,
caused a resonant oscillation in the long transparent tube, and Tom was feeling
sickened by the time they reached the huge sphere’s entrance.

Velsivith stopped before the
door-membrane.

‘Go on through, my Lord. You’re
expected.’

Why did the Seer send for me? No
matter...

Tom stepped inside.

This time, I’ll get the answers I
require.

Lev-throne,
hovering, in the great round chamber.

ORACLE KILLER.
The wizened young/old Seer bowed his head forward.
DO
YOU SENSE DEATH?

Tom, not knowing what to make of
this, turned sideways on, crouching slightly on the floating step.

YOU THINK
—
an electric glimmer in the Seer’s eyes —
I’M
THREATENING YOU?

‘You mean you’re not?’

The skull-like throne dropped
lower.

YOUR GIFT TO ORACLE D’OVRAISON
... WAS AN UNEXPECTED SURPRISE. IF YOU’LL FORGIVE THE TAUTOLOGY.

In fact Tom had simulated an
entire personal reality for Gérard d’Ovraison. From a certain moment onwards,
the Oracle’s foreseen future—which he had been reporting as truecasts all his
life until that time—was a fake, a world of rich, deeply interwoven, implanted
perceptions generated by Tom’s modelling ‘ware, using algorithms which could
never be reified, fulfilled, in the realspace universe.

But in mu-space’s fractal
dimensions, logic as well as physics grew more subtle and capable, and the
limitations of this reality’s mathematics, as outlined by Gödel’s Theorem,
faded into insignificance.

‘I gave the Oracle what he
deserved.’

Redmetal poignard, sinking in to
the hilt.

Tom controlled his breathing:
proven logosophically to be the one natural process which links the unconscious
to the conscious mind, a bridge between autonomic and central nervous systems,
the only function where thought and non-thought can share equal control. Since
antiquity, both mystic and fighting disciplines have used breathing techniques
to combat uncertainty and fear, but only a logosopher could fully understand
the reasons why that worked.