Context (96 page)

NULAPEIRON
AD 3422

Scarlet
banners. Armbands on the civilians who marched in rows through the boulevards
and gallerias, their febrile manic excitement washing through the air, bouncing
back from stone walls which had seen everything over the passing centuries.

Soldiers were everywhere.

In the quieter residential
tunnels, there were people who turned away from Tom as he passed by, not
wanting to lock gazes. They were the rationalists, the scared ones who could
not openly share their fear.

It was the first day of Phoenix
Year, and the community was giving birth to itself in a new guise, with new
loyalties. The occupation had continued for long enough. Something in the
cultural psyche had given way with the passing of the old year, and acceptance
of the new order (with the over-enthusiasm of new converts) pushed its
insistent way through every corridor, inserted its self-serving images into
every family and social group.

And blocked out memories of
deportation: the disappearance of former neighbours and friends enveloped now
by an overarching wave of desperate optimism.

At the first checkpoint, an
officer had insisted on chatting in Lintran, and Tom had made it through the
interrogation-by-gossip, careful not to over-use his memorized trivia of that region.
But he had been sweating heavily by the conversation’s end.

Finally, a waiter-servitor showed
him to an expensive restaurant table, on a semicircular grey balcony which
overlooked a wide passageway below. Bronze glowclusters floated near the
silver-decorated ceiling.

Tom took the chair nearest to the
railing, so that he could watch the expected parade pass by. The waiter
complimented him on his choice, and waved a command at the table.

Menu-tricons floated
meaninglessly before Tom.

The waiter leaned close.

‘Phase One complete. We’ve just
had word.’

Tom picked a dish at random.

And,
as he brought the silver carafe—‘A nice gripplewine, sir?’—another whispered
update:
‘Phase Two. They’re in.’

Tom nodded his thanks.

Tom
pushed food around on the plate with his tine-spoon, watching his fellow diners—there
were occupation officers among them, and willing dining partners to share their
jokes and bonhomie—and, occasionally, looking down, over the balustrade, at the
crowd which swelled below the balcony. A tunnel party had expanded into the main
broadway, and the laughter was both coarser and more genuine than the brittle
affectations up here in the restaurant.

Tyentro’s team had set up
tight-beam comms along an old service tunnel. In places, it was scarcely wide
enough for maint-drones to pass along; it seemed safe enough from
eavesdropping. The control end was here, behind an access panel in the kitchen;
for now, Tom preferred to maintain his merchant-trader cover and stay outside,
pretending to eat alone, while two agents among the kitchen staff listened
carefully.

By now, in any case, Tyentro and
Velsivith would be out of contact.

Tyentro’s lieutenant, Stilvan,
was manning the comms at the other end. He would have watched them using
cling-gloves and slippers—formed of gekkomere, covered with fine, invisible
fractal hairs, like arachnargoi tendril pads—to crawl along the outside of the
catenary walkways, until they reached workers’ entrances (as revealed by Yano)
and slipped inside the former Seer’s headquarters: the great chamber which was
now the mausoleum holding his remains, suspended above a dark abyss which
seemed to fall away forever.

At the restaurant’s far end, the
waiter caught Tom’s gaze and blinked slowly, three times.

They’re inside.

And
then the waiting.

Unpredictable, this phase, but
there was that Clausewitzian principle related to the role of chance in war—which
normally brought a grim smile to Tom’s face, but not this time. He would count
this mission a success if all his agents, and Velsivith, returned alive.

I’d make a poor general.

For a former revolutionary, it
was a strange thought. A fragment of half-formed poetry came to mind—and it had
been a while since he had written anything—but he pushed it gently to the back
of his mind, letting his subconscious daemons nurture the idea before trying to
pull it forwards into the limiting constraints of language.

Then the waiter, having brought
another table’s main course, threw a white towel over his left shoulder as he
headed back towards the kitchen, and Tom slowly put down his tine-spoon,
swallowing hard.

It was the signal he had been
hoping not to receive.

There
were skaters below, using smooth-boots as they glided through intricate dance
steps: a hundred people in approximate coordination, while a makeshift band
played music, and onlookers laughed—without malice—if anyone slipped or fell.
For they were amateurs all, and this was supposed to be a celebration.

But Tom was a merchant-trader,
too grand for mixing with the commoners, and his face twisted at the aftertaste
of his food as he stood self-importantly, and strode with a determined glare
towards the restaurant’s rear.

‘I’ve got a complaint to make.’

Play-acting came naturally, but
it was real fear which thickened his voice as he stepped through the membrane,
and let his complaint die away.

Inside, they ushered him straight
through to a dark grimy service tunnel, where he crouched down beside a
narrow-faced man who sat on an upturned box, manipulating a holopad.

‘I don’t know.’ The agent shook
his head. ‘There was graser fire, then we lost contact.’

‘Chaos.’ Tom closed his eyes.

‘I think... Stilvan was hit.’

‘Hazard and perdition.’ Tom spat
the curse. ‘I should’ve been with them.’

After a moment: ‘Perhaps you
should go back inside, my Lord.’

‘No. I’m staying here.’

The
waiting now was worse.

The access panel opened, and
light from the kitchen flooded in, along with the tail end of an argument: ‘...the
sorbet this way. Then serve across the person’s
right
shoulder. Got it?’

There was a mumbled reply, lost
as the head waiter poked his head into the tunnel and said: ‘The intelligence
forces have a guest. Not here, I mean, but at their HQ. Tortured and eventually
turned, someone from another network. I can’t believe they’re discussing it
openly.’