Tom’s agents had formed a protective shield around a cowering family who swallowed continually and could not look at the men and women who threatened them.

  ‘Witnesses, by the look of it,’ said Trevalkin.

  ‘The kind of people we’re trying to save.’ Tom dug cred-slivers from his belt and crossed to the family group. ‘Stand up.’ It was the thin-faced woman who looked most composed, so he gave the cred-slivers to her while pretending to address the husband: ‘If you have relatives you can stay with, go there. Leave the demesne if you can. Right now.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The woman took her husband’s arm, and the family of six slunk away, while Doria moved to stand between the retreating figures and Trevalkin’s agents.

  Trevalkin looked up at the hanging vehicles, then down at Tom.

  ‘My people are more valuable than the dubious gain of eliminating witnesses. And we don’t have the time.’

  ‘So you’re not sending anyone after that family.’ It was not a question.

  ‘No, we’re getting out of here. This minute.’

  Tom sat between Trevalkin and Doria on a bench-seat at the rear bulkhead, while before him the two pilots readied their phase-space displays. The control cabin was like that of an arachnargos, but the vehicle itself—

  ‘Ready to go, sir.’

  ‘Then do so.’ Trevalkin’s voice was flat, eyelids flickering as he scrolled through tactical displays only he could see. ‘Quick as you can.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Acceleration hammered Tom back into his seat, then banged him against Doria as they swerved through a tight arc before speeding up again. Through the forward view-membrane Tom watched rockface rushing past, chiaroscuro-play of light and shadow as they swung sideways over a wide vertical shaft filled with ink-solid darkness ... and paused.

  For a moment, they hung above the abyss.

  Then dropped.

  They fell headfirst. A gossamer, ghostly sheet grew closer, filled the shaft, and then they were through the membrane. The other vehicles kept formation as they fell. What interested Tom was a small rear-view display which showed the shaft’s tattered protective membrane re-forming: there would be nothing left to betray the vehicles’ passage.

  Such membranes were designed to shriek in alarm when penetrated, and to deliver massive doses of hydrofluoric acid from glass arteries. This vehicle’s ability to subvert the membrane was impressive; so was the quiet professionalism of its crew.

  ‘Hold tight.’ Trevalkin sounded almost amused. ‘This is where it gets interesting.’

  They plunged into black water.

  ‘Nether Ocean,’ Trevalkin added. ‘We’re in our element now.’

  Streamers of bioluminescence hung in the surrounding darkness, playing their ghostly light across the small submerged fleet. Then, one by one, each vessel unfurled great flexible wings like manta-rays. Their finer sensory tendrils remained, testing the environment, while the greater manipulative tendrils pulled back into the central bodies.

  ‘Mantargoi.’ Tom stared at the displays. ‘We’re in a mantargos.’

  Then one of the pilots turned, and her face was familiar.

  ‘First time, my Lord?’

  ‘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.

  Their aircab skimmed above the ground, throwing up swirls of snow, then settled in a quiet street. Dirk felt giddy as he stepped out into the clear night air, and saw an aurora billowing scarlet near the horizon.

  An iron gate clicked open; Orla led the way up narrow steps to a stained-glass door. It, too, opened at her approach, and in a minute all three of them - Dirk, Orla, McLean - were stamping snow from their boots, then pulling them off in the stifling warm narrow hallway.

  In his socks, Dirk crept into the cosy sitting-room where Claude Chalou, hands crossed over his stomach, lolled back in an easy-chair, an old-fashioned hardcopy Braille book open on his lap. At his feet, barrel-chested Sam lay; the black retriever opened one dark eye, gave a small twitch of his tail, slipped back into sleep.

  Holoflames danced in the fireplace, cast bright reflections across Chalou’s silver eye sockets. Dirk turned just as Orla mouthed the question - Coffee? - and pointed towards the kitchen. McLean nodded first, then Dirk.

  Tiptoeing, they began to leave the room.

  ‘Et un petit café crime pour moi, chère Orla. S’il te plait.’

  ‘Uncle Claude, you old faker.’

  ‘The UNSA review board’ - Chalou’s gravelly voice was full of disapproval - ‘is tightening its restrictions on matter compiler shipments.’

  McLean nodded, knowing the blind Pilot (or ex-Pilot) could detect such gestures. True matter compilers, if they ever reached their full potential, would change economic systems for ever. A compiler’s owner could create anything from food to a house; they could even build another compiler. But that was in theory. Current devices were nowhere near that level, and they consumed vast amounts of energy. If you wanted a building, it was cheaper to grow it, not compile it.

  The compilers turned energy into matter, whereas most people found it more useful to make the transformation go the other way: matter into energy.

  ‘You’ll still get the Elleston 9000 we talked about,’ said McLean. ‘But—’

  ‘Oui, d’accord. It would be impossible to hide your tracks if we try again.’

  ‘Scanners at every spaceport. SatScan tracking every vessel.’

  Orla said: ‘It’s a kind of defence, isn’t it?’ Coffee mug between her hands, sitting cross-legged on the beige rug, she looked up at the others. ‘Personal weaponry is already obsolete, just because it’s always detectable. I’m writing a paper on it.’

  ‘Right.’ McLean put down his coffee, took a sip of the Laphroaig he had poured himself. (The drinks cabinet was well stocked.) ‘Maser pistols will soon be as outdated as swords and daggers.’

  Real wars would be fought by smartmiasmas and killmists, at dimensions invisible to humans. The coordinating generals would be AIs reacting faster than people could think. That was the popular view.

  ‘No-one’s going to hand over the reins to machines,’ said Dirk.

  ‘And the first time an AI applies for membership to a church ... ?’

  ‘Then we’ll have some interesting debates.’

  ‘Which side would you be on?’

  ‘I don’t think an AI has a soul’ Dirk, sitting on the rug near Orla, clasped his knees. ‘But then, I don’t think anybody here does, either.’ He half-consciously echoed his mother’s usual argument in this regard: ‘Can anyone spell “emergent properties”?’

  Chalou’s rumbling tones lent his voice a natural gravitas. ‘I’d fight on the AI’s behalf myself.’

  Dirk tipped his head to one side, seeing reflected flames dance like devils in Chalou’s silver eye sockets. ‘Sir? I thought you insisted on Darwinian processes being sufficient to explain consciousness.’

  ‘And linked AIs, if they form an environment where memeplexes like religion can propagate, should have the same rights as us, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Ouais, bien sûr.’

  ‘But then, it is unwise to discount the mystic experience ...’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Orla shifted on the floor. ‘Is it time for ghost stories?’

  In the half-lit room where holoflames danced in the fireplace, sitting around in a cosy half-circle with Sam the black retriever curled up at Chalou’s feet, it seemed the perfect moment for it. Only the chill winds outside were inaudible, the modern house insulating them from the snowbound winter night.

  But, ‘This is no story,’ said Chalou. ‘Every word is true.’

  Rivulets of energy in a sea of golden light filled with black spiky stars. The seedpoint: an insertion from another continuum. Whorls and loops of energy spiral, tighten, and then replicate.

  Selection acts within the pattern. Dendrimers branch, seeking energy: it is perception, and a form of tropism: blindly searching for survival; learning coping strategies; absorbing others of its kind, lesser patterns that are helpless before its burgeoning capabilities.

  Call it alive, but not self-aware. Not conscious.

  Not yet.

  ‘Such patterns still exist in mu-space,’ Chalou added in a lighter tone. ‘Nowadays, we know to avoid them.’

  ‘This pattern,’ said Orla, ignoring Dirk’s frown. ‘What did it do?’

  Karyn stares at the black lightning-flash decal on his cheekbone, at his muscular, ugly/attractive face. Dart Mulligan, her sensei’s son. Hand in hand, they walk across the green campus, and she feels more alive than she has ever done.

  Two weeks, and UNSA surgeons will be removing Dart’s eyes.

  ‘What’s it like?’ They stop beside a silver birch.

  As they sit down on the grass, Dart says: Almost normal. Everything looks a little flat, a little grey, you know? But the viral insertion was only three days ago.’

  Another few days’ - suddenly Karyn can hardly look at him - ‘and perspectives will start shifting.’

  ‘Yeah. But’ - Dart grins, and everything changes back to being exactly right - ‘you’ll still look beautiful, babe.’

  Orla sensed the change in atmosphere.

  ‘What is it, Dirk?’

  ‘My grandparents.’ Dirk nodded in Chalou’s direction. ‘He’s talking about my grandparents.’

  ‘That,’ said Chalou, ‘is exactly correct.’

  It spreads, a fractal web of recursive patterns, hovering on the verge of self-organized criticality. Something new is happening. Through golden space, streamers of scarlet and purple blaze.

  A tiny copper form, born of unnaturally smooth geometry, is trapped at the pattern’s centre. Offshoots struggle to pierce the event membrane surrounding the intruder.