Resolution (106 page)

So they wait.

I never hoped to See such a ...

Wait.

Glorious light, fading.

Dying down.

Nothing.

Where the spinpoints used to shine, nothing at all. The collapse has taken place.

Tom. You don’t know how much I
...

Eemur?

The shield is in place.

One word is broadcast around the fleet: ‘Success.’

Nulapeiron is safe.

The tiniest hint of blue washed across Tom’s skin as he tried to See for the last time.

Inside the shadowed chamber, a silver lev-tray floats. And on it...

No. Please, no.

... sideways, lies a flensed head, looking dry and purple now.

A black moirée cap lies like a veil half across the skinless face, over one spherical eye already growing opaque.

No. Not because of me.

The air shimmers as Tom bends it to his will.

Inside the nearest med-ward containers of parablood spin in place and medics step back in horror as the blood squirts into nowhere
—

You can
not
die.

—
through unseen dimensions into the disembodied head
—

Come on.

—forcing the nutrients inside—

Come on.

—forcing life—

Don’t.

—forcing
—

Die.

—
trying.

No.

But he forces until blood springs out around the eyes like tears, nothing inside her is responding, and he forces more but there is no point and then he stops.

Eemur, you know I
—

No.

Blackness comes.

~ * ~

62

NULAPEIRON AD 3427

They waited until Tom could walk without a cane. The beginning of a new year.

And, as he waited in the wings and peeked into the vast auditorium, he thought they must have used the delay to scour Nulapeiron for the biggest Convocation Hall they could find.

So many people.

They were taking their seats, excited murmurs filling the air as they made themselves comfortable, leaning back to take in the setting. Circular lev-steps formed two arcs in the air, rising from ground-level wings to the circular crystal platform that hung above the expectant crowd.

‘Tom?’ Elva squeezed his arm.

‘I’m all right, my love.’

From higher up, a bright illumination shone. Hidden backstage, Tom could not make out the holo, but he had read it earlier when the auditorium was empty.

*** PEACE REGAINED ***

And, beneath:

PRAISE TO

LORD CORCORIGAN

WARLORD PRIMUS

RULER OF NULAPEIRON

No-one could deny him that position now.

There were nobles in the audience, in their finest capes and stoles and coronets and torcs, dripping with precious stones. There were freemen and freewomen who had fought in the war. And there were the pale, ashen figures who walked slowly as though measuring their surroundings, unable to forget the dark flood that once claimed their minds.

‘They’ll recover,’ said Elva, knowing what Tom was looking at. ‘Just like this realm.’

But for all the opulent magnificence of the new-looking Convocation Hall, they had seen tunnels strewn with rubble still, and the broken boulevards where vendors set up stalls amid charred devastation: the merest beginning of regrowth.

‘Maybe not,’ Tom answered. ‘But their children will.’

Others waited in the wings to take places beside their Warlord. Volksurd wore the ornate helm of a clan ruler; beside him, so did Kraiv: chieftain of the new Clan Guelfsson.

Viscount Trevalkin, dressed in black, was wrapped in filigree silver wire: an exoskeleton with style. His physical recovery would take longer than Tom’s. Trevalkin stood next to General Lord Ygran, though the two men had little to say to each other.

Tom thought about those who should have been here: Corduven, and Adam Gervicort. And Eemur.

I’ll not betray anyone today.

But that was the moment that Viscount Trevalkin chose to walk over to Tom, in the strange fluid-yet-jerky gait provided by his exoskeleton.

‘Well, Warlord. Are you ready for your big moment?’

‘I could do without more big moments in my life.’

‘Ha.’ Trevalkin’s smile was full of triumph. ‘Nevertheless, you have my congratulations, sir.’

‘We survived. We all survived. Nothing more.’

‘But you know they’ll offer you the position today, don’t you? They’ll ratify you as ruler. Ask old Ygran. He knows his history.’

Tom shook his head, knowing Trevalkin was right. Every tyrant, every caesar, every shogun had been through this: having taken control during war, they maintained their position when they won the peace.

‘This is a ceremony of thanksgiving, Trevalkin. Nothing more.’

‘Certainly. My congratulations again, Warlord.’

Trevalkin bowed and withdrew two paces.

Of course he’s correct.

Tom did not like agreeing with Trevalkin, that was all.

They waited until the hall was full. Then a majordomo came to Tom, went down on one knee and bowed his head.

‘Warlord, we are ready to commence.’

‘Stand up. Thank you.’

Tom looked around. Elva was ready. So were the others. But before Tom could begin his stately walk to the floating stage, Trevalkin sank his final barb: ‘Can I convey Lord A’Dekal’s congratulations also, sir? They are well meant.’

Tom stopped.

‘He stands for everything I despise, Trevalkin. I thought you knew that.’

‘But you’ve saved the system he and I fought for, Warlord.’ To someone who did not know Trevalkin, the tone in his voice might have seemed innocent puzzlement. ‘Fate, sir. In a real sense, it was Tom Corcorigan who founded the entire aristocracy which has existed for over a millennium. You enabled it to work.’

‘No.’

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, Warlord.’

‘I
have
thought about it, and you’re wrong.’

‘But the spinpoints existed backwards in time. When they apparently ceased to exist - when the shield fell into place - that was really the moment of their creation, not their death.’

‘Go heisenberg yourself, Trevalkin.’

‘Ah. But there’s no avoiding it, Warlord. You created the spinpoints as a side effect of the shield.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.
You
made the Oracles, Tom Corcorigan. Only you.’

Trevalkin’s words burned. Tom turned and walked out onto the first step but the words remained like trickling acid in his mind.

An Oracle killed my father.

Applause rushed through the auditorium, a tidal wave of sound.

One of the Oracles ...

Every person stood.

...
that I created.