Nikolos nodded solemnly. ‘One smart cookie, Deirdre Dullaghan.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Kian when Nikolos had gone. ‘Let’s grab boards and find some waves.’

  Deirdre started to shake her head, then stopped.

  ‘All right. But you drive.’

  The ancient car was hers, but the onboard AI was bug-ridden - it had a recurring fixation for Anchorage, Alaska, and occasionally spun in circles until someone hit the override - and she considered manual driving a chore, not a pleasure.

  ‘Deal.’

  Twenty minutes later they were at the beach, removing their boards from the back seat. They trudged across hot powdery sand.

  ‘That,’ said Kian, looking back, ‘is a very buggy buggy.’

  ‘Jesus. Give me peace.’

  ‘Well...’A breaker crashed. ‘Surf’s up, dudette.’

  ‘Race you, dude.’

  They caught a tube, and rode it pure. Yelling with fear and pride, they crouched beneath a curling glass-like wave, borrowed its power, cutting the gradients.

  Afterwards, they sat on floating boards, watching the sun splash orange and crimson across the sky as it neared the horizon. The night grew cool.

  ‘The sea engenders life, tugged by the moon. Always.’

  ‘Poetic, Deirdre Dullaghan. Very poetic’

  ‘I’d like to know what’s wrong, though.’

  Gentle wavelets lapped around them.

  ‘ “Sequencing the Memome” is bloody perfect.’

  ‘I doubt it. But that’s not what I’m talking about.’

  Kian sat silently on his bobbing board.

  ‘Come on, Kian. I’ve been self-absorbed, but I’m still on the planet. What is it?’

  ‘I’m ... I’m scared.’

  ‘Jesus. Scared of what?’

  ‘You know Dirk’s arriving tomorrow? Well, we’re going on to PhoenixCentral together.’

  ‘The spaceport.’

  ‘Well, what other—? Yeah. Right. For a kind of, um, fitting session.’

  ‘For a suit?’

  Kian splashed water in Deirdre’s direction; but in the fading light his face was serious, not playful.

  ‘For a ship.’

  Borges Hills had been a residential area before Hot Strike Sunday. Now it was a fused plain on which JLB Shuttle Port stood like a glass confection gleaming in the sun. Every Sunday night, when there were few passengers to be disconcerted by rapid morphing, the architecture reconfigured itself; afterwards, it remained static for another week.

  The car’s AI attempted to argue with the parking garage, but the greater system won and forced the car into the designated slot. Kian and Deirdre walked away while the microwave buzz of machine communication continued.

  They passed through skin-tingling scans, were carried by pedistrip along a maze of glass corridors, and reached the sun-drenched Arrivals concourse three minutes early. Kian stopped beside a weeping, embracing family group.

  ‘Dirk’s here.’

  Deirdre tapped her infostrand. ‘Landed early. How did you—?’

  ‘That way.’

  They were at the gateway some thirty seconds before Dirk came into view, grinning broadly, and strode towards his brother. They hugged tightly.

  ‘Bro.’

  ‘Good to see ya.’

  After a minute: ‘Meet Deirdre.’

  ‘Heard all about ya.’ Dirk shook her hand.

  ‘Shit. I was hoping to make a good impression.’

  Kian clapped his brother’s shoulder and grinned at Deirdre. ‘Too late for that.’

  They left with Kian carrying Dirk’s bag, passing near a coffee booth where a pale young blonde woman, dressed in a grey suit, watched them walk by.

  ‘I think,’ said Kian as they reached the exit corridor, ‘she was looking at me.’

  ‘She fancied one of us, for sure.’ Dirk glanced back. ‘But I could’ve sworn—’

  ‘Jeez, you guys.’ Deirdre shook her head. ‘What makes you think she wasn’t falling in love with me?’

  ‘Er...’

  ‘No reason.’

  They stepped onto a vacant pedistrip.

  ‘Right. That must’ve been—’

  ‘—what she was—’

  ‘—up to. Absolutely.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  The strip beneath their feet slid into motion.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  29

  NULAPEIRON AD 3426

  Orange pillars of flame rotated in the hall, forming twin lines receding down a wide aisle of clean-lined blue-grey stone. The hall was cathedral-like, designed to intimidate.

  Tom finished shutting down the story in which he had been immersed - having for the first time learned the origin of his world’s name - and stepped further into the long hall. Then he shivered.

  Were there figures dancing, trapped inside those flames? The closer Tom drew, the harder it was to see inside the hot, bright conflagration.

  Perhaps flickering fingers reached out as he continued past; perhaps they did not. Tom was both chilled and sweating by the time he reached the hall’s far end, and stood before a hardened membrane wall. Behind him, the flame-pillars crackled.

  ‘Why the Chaos doesn’t—?’

  Off to one side, a patch of wall began to glisten. Head down, Tom pushed his way through the softening membrane before it fully liquefied.

  He came into what could only be a prison cell, with a captive who turned at Tom’s entrance and jumped back. The man’s hair was white and cropped short, his jaw square; his blocky body had lost weight. His face was lined in a way Tom had not seen before.

  ‘Sentinel. Is that you?’

  ‘Tom! Oh ... They’ve got you as well.’

  ‘No, they—’

  Tom’s voice trailed off.

  Perhaps they have got me.

  It occurred to Tom that he was here because he trusted Trevalkin, of all people; and this was Sentinel, whom Tom knew only by his codename: once a senior officer in LudusVitae, later serving in the intelligence service attached to Corduven’s Academy. For an outsider, it was hard to tell where Sentinel’s core loyalty was situated ... but then, the same might be thought of Tom.

  Sentinel sat down on a soft dark-grey cubic block (which blended into the rest of the cell: the furniture and walls were matching monochrome). ‘Five tendays, I’ve been here. Maybe more.’ There was a tremble in Sentinel’s voice that was very different from before.

  ‘What happened, my friend?’

  That was a misnomer, for their relationship had always been professional, edged with mistrust. But Tom needed information, so he sat on the edge of Sentinel’s bunk, facing him, matching body language to establish rapport: legs splayed in the same fashion, hand on knee to mirror the position of Sentinel’s left hand.

  It was basic psych manipulation and the Sentinel that Tom had known would never have fallen for it; but Tom had already sensed that Sentinel was different now.

  ‘Infiltrating an Action League got me here. I found that another organization had already penetrated them, and when I followed that trail...’ Sentinel blinked away tears. ‘They lace my food, I think. Not with logotropes, but... something else. Or perhaps it’s just the ...’

  Sentinel gestured at the blank walls, the rank hole in one corner of the floor, the wall-mounted spigot above it.

  ‘Fate,’ said Tom. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know if I’ve any influence in this place.’

  Sentinel scowled. ‘You’re not a prisoner?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Hmm.’ A sly look descended on Sentinel’s face. ‘Tell me something only Tom would know.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It’s not as if they lack holos in this place. How do I know you’re really ... ?’ Sentinel turned his face to the wall, shivering. ‘I don’t know what to believe.’

  Tom stood up.

  ‘If they let me, I’m going to leave now. Whatever I can do, I will.’

  The membrane softened at his approach and allowed him through. No thump sounded from behind him. Sentinel no longer had the will to try to batter his way out.

  Tom turned left, and continued walking.

  Rotating flames, a hushing sound; then a new opening formed in the blue-grey wall. Tom stepped inside, then held himself still as, with a great sucking sound, the stone flowed and formed a spherical chamber all around him, sealing off the hall outside.

  An oddly liquid squeal sounded. The bubble-like chamber lurched, rotated, and began to slide. The motion continued, as a patch of stone grew partially transparent; outside was a white-orange blaze. Tom realized he was trapped in a floating bubble in a magma sea.

  There were white-hot ellipses and hexagonal flukes within the molten rock. Lifeforms, close to the heart of the world.

  Darkness gathered as the sphere grew opaque. For a while, it continued to move. Then it scraped to a halt, there was a long pause, and the stone split neatly open. Tom stepped out into a basalt chamber adorned with fractal trees of quartz. Behind him, the stone bubble sealed up.

  Here, the air was lilac-scented and cool. The chamber was largely triangular, formed of interlocking slabs. There was detailed knotwork carved at random - or apparently so. Tom took a step back, reappraising, then chuckled: the chamber delineated the inverse of a static tricon, like a mould of the original, which combined the motifs for Strength and Stealth to form a more complex ideomeme: Warrior Observing Silently.

  A doorshimmer sparkled, white and silver; then a Lady stepped through.

  Destiny.

  A Lady formed of living crystal.

  A blue cape was draped around her shoulders; the rest of her feminine form stood revealed in flawless diamond perfection. Her voice was a song more than words, beyond sound.

  —You are most welcome in this place, Thomas Corcorigan.

  A tear coalesced in Tom’s eye. ‘I don’t deserve to be here.’

  Microstructures danced with vermilion light inside her, washed with violet and cobalt and fiery scarlet. —Your form belongs in this place.

  Tom did not understand, but he could not question her. He was in awe. Tom was a child; he was thirty-six Standard Years old.

  What happened next he could never clearly recall, for the Lady sang her questions in tones which would melt a statue’s heart, and his soul responded without words, honest in its faults, without embarrassment before the purity of her regard. Almost incidentally, he learned - somehow - that Sentinel would be cared for until it was safe to release him.

  Then the Lady was gone.

  It took a while for the realization to sink in; then Tom dropped to the flagstones with a whooping sob of regret and pain and old wounds and the dirty, scratching knowledge of unworthiness.

  He was sobbing like a child when the Kobolds came to fetch him.

  At the platform where the sluglev train stood waiting, the Kobold platoon saluted Tom, fists to foreheads. One-handed, Tom returned his version of the gesture.

  ‘You have allies now’ - their officer’s bluestone face was craggy, hard with experience - ‘my Lord Corcorigan. Both Viscount Trevalkin and pak tsz sin Zhao-ji will obey your orders. They are already journeying back to their respective bases.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom, not questioning how the Kobolds had established this.

  ‘This crystal’ - blue, square-ended fingers held out a violet dodecahedron - ‘allows you to contact the Grey Shadows in extremis.’

  There was a warning in the Kobold’s voice, and a question.

  ‘I would die, sooner than betray her.’ Tom accepted the crystal.

  The Kobold warriors bowed.

  ‘Fate go with you, Lord.’

  Some ten minutes later, Tom was riding the otherwise empty train along deserted tunnels, wondering what had occurred. Had he been dazzled and manipulated? Or had he gained an ally greater than the Grey Shadows or any human organization?

  And what kind of being was the Crystal Lady?

  It was hard to imagine that she might represent a presence that predated humankind’s arrival in this world, or that she somehow reflected the will of Nulapeiron itself.

  Destiny. What other hope is there?

  Perhaps there was none, besides the ability to stare unflinchingly at overwhelming odds, and the determination never to back down or betray a sign of weakness, in conditions where giving way meant death.

  ~ * ~

  30

  NULAPEIRON AD 3426

  It should have been the second Corcorigan Demesne. Instead, it was Elva’s original family name which designated this place: Realm Strelsthorm.

  I shouldn‘t have waited so long to come here.

  As Tom’s jade-shelled levanquin passed along luminous halls and broadways, he saw how the populace, both freedfolk and servitors, stared at the strange noble who was visiting them: with curiosity, not fear. That told him all he needed to know about the openness of conditions here. It highlighted one simple joyful fact: the Anomaly held no dominion in the realm where Lady Elva Strelsthorm-Corcorigan ruled.

  Masked children chased each other, laughing, across an aqueduct. Bright sashes were draped across millennium-old statues of the Founding Lords. Perched on a high gargoyle, a black neko-feline gazed down on Tom and blinked her lazy oceanic eyes.

  As Tom’s floating levanquin passed into an Outer Court, two squadrons of Chevaliers sprang to attention, then bowed. Tom stepped down, and the Chevaliers escorted him on foot to a marble waiting-hall. The hall was adorned with woven platinum drapes and drifting airplants, which trailed tantalizing scents on their graceful meanderings.

  ‘Her Ladyship is conducting formal audience, my Lord, with Ambassador Lord Khaliran and others. We’ll take you straight—’

  ‘I don’t think’ - Tom looked down at his travel-stained clothes - ‘I’m dressed for the occasion.’

  The officer scarcely blinked.

  ‘No problem, sir. Give me a moment.’

  Ten minutes later, clad only in training-tights, Tom was being fitted for a formal tunic by one Ferdinar Twilbodin, an angular, ebony-skinned alpha servitor, whose twittering and fussing almost concealed the precision with which he executed his craft. ‘For most, it is the clothes who wear the man. But for you, my Lord, it is most certainly the man who wears the—’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said Tom.

  ‘Hmmph. Well, if I might suggest the additional golden pleats—’

  Tom frowned.

  ‘—will of course not be required. You two’ - Ferdinar Twilbodin gestured to a pair of helpers standing by with handheld smartfabric-configuration modules - ‘will get on with this at once.’

  The Chevaliers had left, but they had been replaced by Adam Gervicort. Now he stood leaning beneath a holoportrait of the late Chancellor Xalteron (whose ethical calculus still survived, and was taught at the Sorites School). Adam gave a short, ironic laugh.

  ‘Old Ferdie here is the best smartfabric designer around.’

  ‘Well thank you, I suppose, Captain Gervicort.’

  Since Adam had become Realm Strelsthorm’s chief of security, he had bulked up a little, but from the gauntness of his face it appeared the additional mass was lean muscle. ‘Ferdie programmed the Chevaliers’ chameleoflage to perfection.’

  ‘Shame I couldn’t redesign those hideous control-cabin interiors. Simply eyesores ... Right, good.’ Ferdinar Twilbodin snapped his fingers, and his two helpers removed sections of fabric which had been draped around Tom. ‘We’ll just be a short while.’

  Carrying the fabric carefully on their forearms, the assistants left the chamber with Ferdinar Twilbodin, and the exit vitrified behind them. Tom picked up his old and somewhat shabby tunic, and pulled it on.

  ‘There was a man just like Ferdie,’ said Adam, ‘in my battalion in Dilvin Secteur. His name was Libron.’

  Tom nodded. Adam had won his first award for bravery in Dilvin, at the Battle For Kithin Blŵr.

  ‘Libron called us all “dears”,’ Adam continued, ‘even while he was ranging parashrikes against incoming minemists. Kept us almost laughing, when half our men were dying there.’