Context (22 page)

On
the eighth morning he jogged—slowly, wheezing—a little over five klicks. His
gait was awkward, almost stumbling, and his diaphragm was tight with pain.

Ninth day. Keeping the same
distance, Tom tried for a smoother motion, with controlled breathing. Over
short stretches, it almost came together.

It was very early, before
dawnshift, and the gallery was empty. The day before, there had been stares
from the few passers-by, and he wanted to remain anonymous. Whatever the
reasons for the realm’s change in atmosphere, Tom took a new accessory with him
on his workout: the bluemetal poignard, tagged to his waist.

As a message, its meaning was one
he could not decipher: he did not know who had sent it, and had no idea of its
significance unless its near duplication of a weapon he had lost was some
comment upon his current quest for the new, living Elva.

And if someone knew that much,
they ought to show themselves and help him. But it seemed that was not going to
happen.

In the evening, slowly, for the
first time in many days, he worked through a phi2dao fighting set, a beginner’s
form.

There
was an old woman who sold minrastic cakes and broth from a stall. Tom got into
the habit of buying a cake, mid-morning, as he strolled the busy length of
Arkinol Boulevard. One day, as Tom walked away munching, a man sidled up to
him, crystal in hand, and whispered: ‘Want to see the news?’

But there was something about his
expression which Tom did not like.

He moved away, close to a female
astymonia trooper who was standing beside a pillar. When he saw her uniform,
the furtive man started, then turned and slipped away into the crowd, leaving
Tom puzzled and uncertain.

Is the news a black-market
commodity now?

At the minrasta stall, the old
woman was determinedly staring the other way. It told Tom all that he needed to
know. The Aurineate Grand’aume was changing, undergoing one of those societal
phase transitions which happen seldom, but he was here to see it happen. He
could investigate ... Yet soon he would be moving on, and the political affairs
of one small though prosperous realm within the whole of Nulapeiron were hardly
his concern.

Day
forty.

‘Sir, can you ...’ A freedman,
asking for directions.

But Tom was hurtling past, legs
pumping, thrill-adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Sorry.

He hit the arched footbridge at
top acceleration, sprinted over the top, turned left and pushed down hard. He
raced along the redbrick footpath, black canal to his left, dark rounded
ceiling overhead.

Digging deep, he ran.

Laughter inside, the pure joy of
free athletic movement, once lost but now regained.

Bright silvery cargo bubbles
drifted past on the canal, a chain of them heading back the way Tom had come,
and he wondered what might be inside. Then he was past them, entering a
three-dimensional maze of deserted but clean ramps and stairways, arches and
spirals, and he took the obstacles as fast as he could, vaulting a banister—to
his own surprise—and dropping onto another pathway.

The path was tiled in ochre and
green. On a whim, he followed it, running easily, as it led into a side tunnel,
a tributary of the main canal. His footsteps echoed strangely, almost musically,
as he ran, enjoying the physicality, deep into kinaesthetic Zen.

And then he heard a scream.

The
gunman was a large square-faced man, shining graser pistol in hand, trained
upon the small elfin woman. She stared at him defiantly.

‘Bitch! I’m going—’

Tom kicked the back of his right
knee, smashing it downwards into stone, hooked the sleeve and stamped on the
man’s exposed ankle, splitting the achilles tendon. Smiling as he wrist-locked
the arm, straightened it, and broke the elbow across his knee.

The graser pistol clattered on
the tiles.

‘Nasty,’ said the woman he had
rescued.

The disarmed gunman lay in silent
frightened shock, staring up at Tom.

‘Thanks. Really,’ she added. Her
voice was high, almost fluting, but it was the rainbow shimmer which held Tom’s
attention. ‘I’m very grateful.’

Pretty diffraction patterns
played across the transmission end of the graser. He had not seen her pick it
up.

‘And you gave me back my pistol,
too.’

Chaos. I’m a bifurcating fool. .
.

She backed slowly away. Reaching
a narrow exit, she slipped inside, was gone.

‘My ... Lord. You have to leave
this realm.’ The injured gunman was panting now. ‘She stole ... crystal. Thief.’

‘Who are you? A courier?’

For a moment, the man could not
speak.

Then, ‘Sentinel

He passed out.

The
journey back was nightmare and farce combined.

A dead weight across Tom’s
shoulders, the near comatose man—a courier, despatched by Sentinel to deliver
information to Tom, not get half-killed by him—stirred and muttered from time
to time, throwing Tom off balance. Then came the convoluted conjunction of
ramps and stairs, where Tom had to climb, thighs burning, pain clawing his
lower back, struggling to keep upright.

‘Bifurcatin’... Chaos.’

Downwards. He looked for a ramp,
found none, used the steps. But it was hard, descending but unable to look down
at his feet. Towards the bottom the open staircase spiralled and the wide steps
themselves were curved and that was where he lost it.

Black waters coming towards his
face.

There was a heavy splash—the
injured courier falling in—and then cold water enveloped Tom, before his
conscious mind had even noticed that his foot had slipped.

Fate damn it!

He had never learned to swim.

Struggling at first, but thirteen
Standard Years of physical training told him to relax, and he did. Floating to
the surface, striking out, but the courier was drowning—

Cargo bubbles.

It was another string of the big
floating bubbles and Tom jerked his head out of the way just in time, as the
leading bubble slid past. There was a protruding rim around each one, just
above the surface; Tom grabbed the nearest, jack-knifed upwards, kicked through
the membranous top, and was in.

‘Help...’

Cold water had revived the
courier and that helped: he reached out and Tom grabbed then hauled him bodily
over the edge before his strength gave out. The man’s legs were still dragging
in the water but Tom lay back on broken cargo boxes, too tired to care.

Something small and black sprang
into the air, dropped into the water with a tiny
plop.

‘Catch
it!’

Black, the size of a child’s
fist, they bounded all over the loading dock.

‘I’ve got one.’

Laughter, as it slipped from the
stevedore’s grasp and bounced out of reach.

It was the cargo Tom had
disturbed, coming to life now where the warmth was greater: hundreds of
frogglies, each one black and round with a single yellow eye, a pair of springy
legs—and a dislike of being roughly handled.