‘Not bad, old chap,’ said Dirk. ‘Not bad at all.’

  Meanwhile, in sun-drenched California, Kian’s study-buddy of choice was a copper-haired young woman with copper-coloured eyes, whose name was Deirdre (pronounced Dee-drè in the Irish fashion), with a ferocious intellect and an uncanny ability to stay upright on a surfboard in the wildest of conditions, who made Kian laugh and would have been a perfect soul-mate were she not, in her own words, ‘a goddamned dyke with attitude’.

  They often worked together in Deirdre’s room, drinking endless cups of lemon tea while Rimsky-Korsakoff’s Capriccio Espagnol or Zimmer’s M-I:2 played in the background. Or they would take their workpads down to the Conundrum Café and sip cappuccinos (or cappuccini as Deirdre insisted on calling them in the plural) while making up fictional biographies of passers-by.

  So it went, until Deirdre chose to do a project on ball lightning and interviewed some people who had seen a strange shining shape over the Caltech campus one dry summer night. It reminded Kian of the students who had been frightened the previous Halloween with their tale of glowing lights.

  ‘Could’ve been the same phenomenon,’ said Deirdre. ‘Unusual time of year for it to happen, though.’

  ‘What, seeing ghosts and ghouls?’

  ‘Ha. You’ll be seein’ stars, pal, if you don’t— Hey, Kian. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. Just some weird coincidence.’

  When Kian h-mailed his musings to Dirk that night, he knew that Dirk would take the sighting seriously.

  You and me both, bro.

  On second thoughts, Kian directed a copy of the message to Mother, which she would pick up as soon as she returned from her current voyage through mu-space.

  At least we‘re keeping the insanity in the family.

  Rain hissed on cobblestones in the quadrangle below Dirk’s window. He stared downwards, seeing nothing, then finally turned and shut down the holodisplay.

  I do take you seriously, bro.

  Because there had been another sighting, here in Oxford, that Kian didn’t know of, and that made three in all. Four, if you counted Zurich.

  So there’s someone I can‘t put off seeing any longer.

  A lone drop sailed down from a ceiling crack and plopped onto the desktop beside his elbow. Dirk ran his fingertip through the water.

  ‘Right then,’ he said to no-one. ‘Let’s get to it.’

  ‘—and his poncey French, pardon me, Français accent—’

  Two male students, clattering down the staircase, passed Dirk on his way up. He recognized the speaker, last seen bloody-nosed and sprawled across a bench formed of wood so old it was black, by a fireplace in a pub on St Giles.

  They were followed by two women, one of whom murmured: ‘Old Doc Chalou’s still got it, in a way that moron never had.’

  ‘You fancy Claude Chalou?’ The second woman sounded Canadian. She giggled. Then, staring at the two young men who had reached ground level: ‘I’ll bet Chalou could whip their asses, however old he—’

  Then Dirk climbed past them, and stood swallowing on the small landing, hand raised to knock, hesitating.

  ‘Don’t just stand there.’ The voice called through the heavy wooden door. ‘Come in.’

  Dirk swung the door open.

  Grizzled beard, short white-grey hair, sitting in a chair by a blazing thermoglow with a rug thrown across his lap: that was Chalou. In the silver sockets where his eyes should have been, reflected orange highlights danced.

  At his feet lay a barrel-bodied black retriever whose muzzle was flecked with grey.

  ‘Mr McNamara. I’m pleased to meet you. Sam’ - he addressed the dog - ‘this is Dirk. C’est un ami, hein?’

  Sam got to his feet and waddled over to Dirk on stiff legs.

  ‘Hey, Sam.’ Dirk bent down, let the dog sniff the back of his hand, then rubbed the flat top of Sam’s head, staring into those brown intelligent eyes. He patted the side of Sam’s convex torso. ‘Good to meet you.’

  Then Dirk straightened up and shook hands with Dr Chalou. Strong grip. Chalou looked to be in his fifties, but must have been over seventy, even allowing for the ultra-relativistic effects of mu-space voyages when time slowed down.

  ‘Ah, bien. Sit, young Dirk. Over there.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Dirk took his seat opposite the ageing tutor. ‘I should have been to see you before now.’

  ‘Pourquoi? Why would you want to talk to an old guy like me?’

  Dirk shook his head.

  Because you‘re like my grandmother. Because you made a sacrifice I’ll never have to.

  Chalou tapped his left eye socket with a fingernail, in a gesture which made Dirk’s skin shrink, with the clutched-scrotum sensation only a male can know.

  ‘Don’t let this ever make you feel guilty, my friend. Even if you are the Admiral’s son, consider this an order.’

  Dirk looked quickly around the room, the mullioned window and the dark ceiling rafters, though surveillance bugs would be invisible. He sensed nothing, but that did not mean—

  ‘The room is clean, don’t worry. And I think UNSA knows how we refer to your mother, hein? So, I take advantage of my age and give you my wisdom, even though you are Karyn McNamara’s grandson.’

  Dirk cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Ha. Fine. I understand why you were reluctant to come here. I’m not your tutor, after all.’

  There was an implied question in that, and Dirk chose to answer softly: ‘J’ai peur, professeur.’

  ‘Mais qu ‘avez vous? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I think the Zajinets are back. I think Pilots should be warned.’

  <>

  ~ * ~

  19

  NULAPEIRON AD 3423

  Black guilt crushed Tom. He came awake before dawnshift, while Elva still slept, and worked out in the lounge. Some of what Tom had seen in the Pilots’ story matched his phi2dao conditioning exercises; under other circumstances, as he bounced like a metronome through five hundred squats, Tom would have grinned as he considered how far back phi2dao’s lineage extended.

  But the thought of Corduven’s bequest beat down upon him.

  They were still in Realm V’Delikona. Tom and Elva had re-booked passage back to the Collegium Perpetuum Delphinorum, and reserved the same apartments there. This time, there was no uncertainty about whether Tom could pay the technicians who were working to free the ruined cyborg.

  For I am ruler of Demesne d’Ovraison.

  Not to mention the terraformer sphere whose exterior Tom had once climbed in order to kill the Oracle ... he now owned the sphere inside which he had found his mostly-dead mother entombed in a sarcophagus, capable of brief moments of consciousness. She died for real just minutes after the Oracle gave a last, blood-choked breath, with Tom’s poignard buried in his side.

  Perhaps I can sell the terraformer.

  Yet who would want to live among the clouds? Only a few thousand specially trained military could even function on the surface; the rest of Nulapeiron’s inhabitants would succumb to agoraphobic catatonia if someone were to drag them from the tunnels and corridors they called home. As a dwelling-place, the sphere was worthless.

  Although it was rare to see more than a single terraformer at a time (assuming that an observer was on the surface in the first place), that was because the world was vast. Something like seventeen thousand such spheres floated above the world. If someone wanted to claim a sphere, there was little to stop them: fewer than a dozen were said to be inhabited. The only reason to purchase such a dwelling from Tom Corcorigan would be that it could be moved into straight away, without expensive recommissioning. (And still the buyer might object, if they learned something of the terraformer’s bloody history.)

  Tom put that aside, and began to work through his new list of obligations.

  He would have to register the realm, Demesne d’Ovraison, under its new name of Corcorigan Demesne. Then perhaps, not needing their financial support, he could try again with Trevalkin and A’Dekal, and persuade them to do ... what, exactly?

  What everyone needed - Tom realized, staring into the grey half-light which blanketed the chamber - was a global Fire Watch, like the coastal beacons of ninth-century watchers who surveilled the sea for Viking sails: not a standing military force, but a warning system formed of observers trained to recognize the signs of Anomalous incursion.

  The Blight had taken over a dozen realms before people began to recognize the danger. This time, with the more powerful true Anomaly, such a delay would leave things far too late to mount any opposition.

  If opposition is possible.

  Even if it were a paranoid delusion on Tom’s part ... still, the reactionary elements might support him, if it gave them footholds in realms throughout the world. Keeping an eye on each realm’s subjects? They would love the idea.

  I could help plunge Nulapeiron into harsh regimes which will endure for centuries.

  Yet if the Anomaly were truly coming ...

  Then it’s our only chance.

  In a nearby eatery, Tom and Elva joined Kraiv and Adam for breakfast. Off to one side, a translucent green gel-block, some three metres high, contained the shadowy, etiolated, once-human forms of Wraith Singers. Their nerves and sinews generated the eerie music transmitted by the vibrating medium which nourished them.

  Most diners paid them little attention, though Tom found his appetite diminishing. Then he had a sudden thought, and put down his tine-spoon.

  ‘Kraiv?’ he said. ‘Would Lima ... ? D’you think she’d be willing to relocate the clan?’

  The former ruler, Edric, had not returned from battle. Lima’s pro tem position had become permanent.

  ‘The whole clan? Well, actually ...’ When Kraiv shrugged, the big muscles of his shoulders bunched and flexed. ‘The Bifrost Bridge field generators can be moved. “The Manse Hetreece consists of people, not a place.” Her words, not mine.’

  In the three years since Kraiv had switched clan allegiance (in recompense for the death of Lima’s son, Horush), he had become a trusted adviser.

  ‘So she might consider a move.’ Tom was planning rapidly. ‘With some forces possibly based elsewhere for short rotations, guarding, say, a habitable terraformer sphere?’

  ‘In the sky? Perhaps.’ Kraiv’s chuckle was deep and resonant. ‘There still aren’t enough who’ve done the agoraphobia deconditioning. It’ll provide a motive.’

  ‘OK. Good.’

  It was Lima as clan ruler who would make the decision; but to have an entire clan of carls based in their realm ...

  ‘Yes.’ Elva was grinning. ‘Yes. We will make your people very welcome, Kraiv.’

  Not every Liege Lord or Lady liked the idea of berserker warriors living full-time in their own demesne, however useful they found the existence of housecarls when force or the threat of it became desirable. (Even now, Kraiv ate with his heavy jade-coloured morphblade leaning against the back of his chair. Nervous servitors were trying to ignore it.) Elva’s obvious enthusiasm might sway Lima’s decision.

  Then Tom let out a long, slow breath, and made a decision which was hard for someone who had been private so long, nursing his grievances and focusing on his goals. Without that hidden intensity, he would have achieved nothing.

  ‘There are things I’ve ... not mentioned.’ Tom glanced at Adam. ‘Not even during Academy debriefings. Perhaps I should have shared them.’

  Then he related events from New Year’s Day of the previous year, when as an Academy-trained operative Tom was running a cell in the

  Blight-occupied realm known as the Aurineate Grand’aume.

  The restaurant is on a wide balcony, overlooking the greater hall below. The diners realize now that something is wrong, for every exit-membrane is blocked by troops in ceremonial scarlet-and-silver, bearing grasers in addition to their sabres.

  At Tom’s table, Tyentro and Velsivith whip to their feet in one smooth motion.

  ‘Tom, get away!’

  Velsivith’s beam arcs through the air and Tom drops to the floor, begins crawling. It is his duty to escape.

  Something round and palm-sized rolls from Tyentro’s hand along the floor: a sphere containing glowing sapphire fluid, captured from the chamber in which the Grand’aume’s Seer died.

  Graser beams impale Tyentro, lance through Velsivith, and tear them into steaming meat. Tom rises slowly.

  ‘That one.‘ An officer points.

  Tom hurls the glowing sphere in a high arc off the balcony, into the hall, then uses his situational gymnastics training for real: chair, table-top, two quick paces and a vault over the balustrade as emerald beams split the air and then he falls.

  Impact, as he hits the flagstones far below the restaurant, and rolls.

  Tom tries to catch the sphere.

  ‘I know all this,’ said Adam. ‘It was in your report. They were briefing me for a possible follow-up mission, overtly military.’

  ‘I didn’t catch the sphere. I nearly did, but I fell and it shattered.’

  ‘Yes ...’ Adam noticed Elva frowning.

  ‘And the sapphire fluid was gone.’

  Elva shook her head. ‘Chaos.’

  ‘Yeah. It was inside me. Just like that.’

  Adam looked around at the Collegium eatery.

  ‘Relax, Adam. If we’re under surveillance, I don’t care. I want them to know this.’

  ‘And if we’re not being watched, they don’t deserve to know?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  The soldiers are closing in on them, and that was the strangest thing: that he would never afterwards be able to see when the split occurred, when he became them, one Tom Corcorigan turning into two individuals. Then they pass through a door and stop, staring at each other.

  ‘You should go.’

  Then the disagreement. I’m nearer to the door. You go on ahead.’

  ‘We can both—’

  ‘No, we can’t.’

  Tom Corcorigan runs, surviving the manhunt which is looking for only one person.

  Meanwhile, Tom Corcorigan stays, fighting until the inevitable death.

  Tom wiped the sweat from his face, shaking at the memory.

  ‘Two of me. And it happened on two other occasions.’

  Elva blinked. ‘It seemed like a blur, an illusion ...’

  She had seen a thousand Toms fighting a thousand identical Absorbed opponents, as the Blight multiplied its human component and Tom somehow rode the wave of energies involved and harnessed the same effect upon himself. It was an effect catalysed, somehow, by Eemur’s Head.

  That time, the ephemeral Toms had conjoined afterwards, become singleton once more, when the action was over. On the other two occasions, a corpse had remained, identical in all respects to the Tom Corcorigan who still lived.

  ‘And I can’t explain it,’ he said to his breakfast companions, ‘any more than you can.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It relates to the reason’ - Tom looked at Elva, then Kraiv, then Adam - ‘that I’m so sure the Anomaly is coming. It’s not just that I think the Blight made contact. With Eemur’s help, I made a traumatic trip, or something, to the hellworld known as—’

  Then there was a commotion at the eatery’s entrance, and chairs were being pushed back as a phalanx of greystone warriors marched inside, with Altus Magister Strostiv of the Collegium Perpetuum Delphinorum at their head.

  He scanned the tables, stopped when he saw Tom.

  ‘There he is.’ Strostiv pointed. ‘Warriors ... Surround him. Now!’

  Two dozen figures of living stone rushed forward at his command.

  ~ * ~

  20

  NULAPEIRON AD 3423

  Before the greystone warriors reached their table, all four were on their feet: Kraiv, gripping his huge jade morphblade; Elva and Adam with graser pistols drawn; Tom with his hand upon his poignard’s hilt.

  ‘No!’ cried Strostiv ‘We’re not attacking you!’

  Then the greystone warriors each went down on one knee and faced away from the table, training graser staves towards every entrance, including the one they had used.