Resolution (38 page)

‘Feltima.’ The hurtling manoeuvres before hitting the ocean had been familiar. ‘I should have guessed.’

The fleet swam on with movements which seemed clear and graceful but cut through the darkness of Nether Ocean with surprising speed.

‘So, Trevalkin. What next?’

‘You’ll see. The voyage will take some time.’

‘What are we going to talk about? Childhood reminiscences?’

‘Ah ... My parents knew I was different,’ said Trevalkin, ‘when a Palace servitor found me vivisecting neko-kittens.’

Tom grew cold.

‘Only people,’ he said to Trevalkin, ‘deserve to be tortured to death. Some people.’

Trevalkin smiled, and pitched his voice towards Feltima, now busy at the controls.

‘See? My Lord Corcorigan and I have so much in common.’ His long features grew serious. ‘And I’ve done you a favour, Corcorigan. The terraformer log-records no longer look the way they were.’

It took a moment for Tom to parse the information from Trevalkin’s words.

‘You mean Axolon Array no longer exists, officially?’

‘Oh, it exists. It’s just not the particular sphere you live in, is all. It’s one of the other seventeen thousand or so floating around up there. Until such time as the enemy can take down
every
sphere, your place is safe.’

‘For that, my thanks.’

‘But for the rest, we’re still enemies? You’re priceless, Corcorigan. You really are.’

Then Trevalkin leaned back in his seat, crossed his arms and closed his eyes, and appeared to sink instantly into carefree sleep.

Hours later, they were travelling deeper than Tom had thought possible, far below the Ultimum Stratum of any demesne he had visited. Those black waters knew nothing of the tiny fragile interlopers whose bodies would be crushed to pulp in seconds should the hulls fail.

‘So, Corcorigan. How do we defeat the Anomaly?’

Tom shook his head. ‘We need Avernon. No-one else has the expertise to—’

‘He doesn’t know how to defeat the thing.’

‘What?’ Tom stared at Trevalkin. ‘He
is
working for you.’

For some time, Tom had been trying to locate Avernon. Even Avernon’s sister Renata claimed to have no knowledge of his location or current work.

‘For all the good it’s done. “You can’t fight something as big as that,” Avernon says. It’s what he believes, and he’s never going to achieve a thing in that state of mind.’

Tom looked away. Outside, along the ocean floor, startling lambent orange glowed inside a long fault: molten magma, cooling where it impinged on cool waters, spewing gouts of smoke-like steam.

‘If you had a small infestation of strange bacteria...’ Tom began slowly, ‘or maybe fungi in your realm ... what would you do?’

‘Eradicate it, of course.’

‘What if it was located in some tiny, out-of-the-way shaft, which was closed off by rockfall and quite inaccessible. Then what?’

Trevalkin slowly smiled. ‘I
might
leave it alone, if it’s not worth the bother.’

‘To the Anomaly, I don’t think we’re of any more importance than that. If we could shield the world from its influence, that might be enough.’

‘A
shield ...
’

‘And no,’ said Tom, ‘I don’t know how to build such a thing. But I know what to aim for.’

He remembered his conversation with Eemur, after she had hauled him back from his traumatic trip to the hellworld.

The way is blocked. I cannot reach Siganth again.

‘Fate. Blocked by the Anomaly? Because it knows I was there?’

It knows somebody traversed the Calabi-Yau geodesies.

If the Anomaly could block the crawlspace beneath the universe ... perhaps humankind could do the same.

‘Chaos.’

‘You disagree, Trevalkin?’

‘No, Corcorigan. I think you’ve finally proved your worth. But there’s so little time.’

Tom remained silent, unwilling to agree, but seeing nothing in the shadow ocean outside besides the blank face of predestined defeat.

~ * ~

25

TERRA AD 2165

<>

[7]

Aberdeen has always been Seagull City. Flocks of gulls spread across dour granite buildings draped with guano, ignoring the robot freighters nestling at the docks. While other species perished in the hard-bitten winters that followed the Big Chill, the gulls survived. In the century since other oceans warmed and the North Sea convection cell tipped, Arctic conditions had brought coldwater fish and even land animals: the Scottish Highlands were now home to polar bears.

There were other species the Big Chill failed to eradicate: pub landlords and the hardy folk who frequented their premises. Right now, in one such snug establishment, a bulky weatherbeaten man who looked like a lumberjack or fisherman but whose name was Professor Iain McLean was giving Dirk salient advice on local customs.

“The thing to do, laddie, is spot the biggest person in the room, awright?’ Then, tapping Dirk’s shoulder with one big finger: ‘And ye shout out:
That great numpty over there is gonna pay for ‘em.
Have ye got that now?’

‘That’s the friendly thing to do, is it?’

‘Aye, absolutely. It’s a hospitality thing, like the Arabs.’

‘Hmm.’ Dirk turned to the young woman who sat between them. ‘Orla? Does he expect me to believe that?’

‘Probably. But, to be fair’ - with a sly smile - ‘you may not be as daft as you look.’

‘Thanks, I think.’ Dirk stood up. ‘Same again?’

‘Aye, laddie. You learn fast.’

But, as Dirk threaded his way through the babbling crowd towards the bar, his preternatural hearing picked up the words which McLean, leaning close to Orla, whispered:
‘Watch who you’re making eyes at, sweetheart. Remember what his job’s going to be, when his student days are over.’

Dirk blinked, feeling the contact lenses, as the fun faded from the convivial atmosphere, and left behind regret.

‘—to drink?’

‘Oh, sorry. Same again.’

The barman nodded, his infostrand providing him with the information and directing the pumps to pour.

‘You having a good time here, son?’

‘Yeah,’ said Dirk. ‘Sure I am.’

When the drinks came, he carried them back carefully, managing not to spill a drop.