Or is Lord Velond playing a manipulative game with me, too?

  Either way, it did not matter. Tom walked over to the garment vendor, who was staring into space and ruminating. He jumped a little at Tom’s approach.

  ‘Did you really,’ Tom asked, ‘owe credit to that tall man who was here just now?’

  ‘I... Yes. No ... Well, I don’t think so.’

  ‘But you handed it over.’

  ‘He ...’ The vendor swallowed. ‘He expected me to, like.’

  ‘Even though the credit wasn’t his. You hadn’t sold him anything.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘And if he had bought a garment from you, and wanted a refund, he would have brought the original tunic back, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘I... guess so.’

  Tom waited, then realized he was torturing the poor fellow with uncertainty and self-doubt. ‘My Lady Darinia’ - Tom adopted the patrician tones he heard every day in the Palace - ‘will be pleased to know she has such a loyal subject. And of course you should not be out of credit. Here.’

  Tom handed over the cred-spindles, all twelve minims’ worth.

  Then he strode quickly away, heart beating fast as he sped up, knowing he was in trouble if he did not rejoin the group before they reached a ceiling hatch and ascended to the next stratum ... But somehow he doubted that Lord Velond would leave him behind.

  Tom found them sitting outside an eatery, sipping daistral and eating boljicream cakes, all purchased with Lord Velond’s ill-gotten minims. As Tom joined them, Lord Velond snapped his fingers, and a servitrix brought Tom a goblet, handed it over with a polite curtsy, then withdrew.

  The others, young Lords and Ladies all, were laughing, enjoying the joke they had seen played out in the marketplace, talking over the high points, trying to work out how Lord Velond had accomplished it.

  Tom raised the goblet in a silent toast, and the gleam in Lord Velond’s eyes was both mocking and understanding as Tom, still standing, drank the daistral which in some sense he had paid for himself. He did not expect Lord Velond to reimburse him for the twelve minims.

  But you, my Lord, have given me the greater gift.

  On another occasion, Sylvana said to Tom: ‘To you, logosophy is a weapon.’

  And neurolinguistic rhetoric was the most subtle weapon he could possess.

  That was seventeen Standard Years ago.

  Now shadows shrouded the empty conference chamber. Night winds whispered in empty skies that bore the terraformer aloft, and perhaps Tom heard the spirit of the Oracle he had knifed to death in this place. Then, he had thought that Gérard d’Ovraison, an Oracle who could bring his consciousness into normal timeflow and wield considerable charm, was scarcely human. Now, the Oracle’s words were haunting him.

  ‘If you could remember’ - Gérard d’Ovraison had spoken in ice-cold tones - ‘the moment of your own death, your outlook, too, would change.’

  For Tom had seen his own death, and no longer knew whether it guaranteed victory or defeat in a world that had already fallen to the Enemy.

  Tactical models hung over the table, cast a muted glow, denoting comms-webs and military dispositions; fallen realms; regiments who still fought back, on the surface and far below. Holo images failed to show the hard reality of hand-to-hand struggles in half-lit tunnels: epic battles which history would never record but which for the participants were mortal.

  We‘re losing.

  There was no other interpretation.

  One hundred and thirty-seven terraformer spheres now housed refugees: some were civilians, others were trained military. Many were broken and defeated, their families abandoned in realms that had already been subsumed by the Anomaly. Everyone they had known was now merged into that single, dark entity whose cognitive processes were as far removed from human thought as logosophy was from a microbe’s chemical tropisms.

  Some of the refugees - too few, perhaps - burned with the need for vengeance.

  It’s time.

  Finally. If there was a purpose to life, if Destiny was anything more than a single sloping path down which time tumbled, this was it.

  It’s my time.

  The weapons of manipulation which Lord Velond had allowed Tom to glimpse so long ago were what he needed now.

  The routed military forces, desperate to regroup, had their own commanders, each with his or her own ideas on what should happen next. The shuttles had continued to rise from Nulapeiron’s surface, and no-one had been turned away.

  The Anomaly had not yet directed its attention to the rag-tag army gathering in the sky. Now was the time for someone to take control. Someone who knew what must be done to save the world.

  What if I’m kidding myself?

  The answer was obvious: Nulapeiron would be no worse off than it was right now.

  And if I’m right—

  Tom walked around the chamber, planning. He would stand on this spot to deliver the difficult information. He would stand there to make light-hearted interjections when he needed to lift the attendees’ mood.

  Every off-the-cuff remark Tom planned now, knowing he would deliver it with an apparent spontaneity that even Lord Velond or Lord Linski would applaud. He rehearsed the full sequence of tactical displays in his mind, knowing how the chamber’s lighting and his stance would shape the attendees’ perceptions: the thoughts and feelings of those who commanded the last free forces in the world.

  I have to get it right.

  Again.

  From the beginning ...

  Tom rehearsed the whole presentation through, over and over. Then he waved the display out of existence, sat on the tabletop, and waited.

  And waited.

  While the hours passed.

  Finally, as morning brightened the chamber and hard sunlight splayed across the blue-and-white floor, Tom looked up at the ceiling and said: ‘It’s time.’

  A welcome aroma drifted from a side-chamber.

 

  ‘Thank you, Axolon.’

  Tom slid off the table, onto his feet.

  ‘Summon the commanders now.’

  ~ * ~

  39

  NULAPEIRON AD 3426

  Polite murmurs did little to hide the tension as the various commanders and delegates took their places around the long conference table. Others took seats among the rows which spread out to either side, leaving a space clear from which Tom could address them.

  He smiled and nodded, just a little, as they filed in.

  Trevalkin. I wish you were here now.

  At that thought, a sardonic laugh echoed inside Tom’s mind, though he kept his expression blank. Trevalkin was too treacherous to trust; but his support in this could have swung things Tom’s way.

  So I’m on my own.

  That was the way it had always been when the crunch came.

  Until I get these people behind me.

  Tom wore his black tunic with the red insignia emblazoned on the front. Later, he planned to stroll around the terraformer sphere with Jissie beside him, if the day was a success; but for now there was business to transact. The terraformer’s upper levels were clear of children.

  In the skies outside, flyers hovered, and that was a danger: that Anomaly-controlled forces might notice the activity and grow curious. It could not be avoided: this was something that Tom had to do in person, as Lords Velond and Linski had taught him so many years ago.

  I hope I live up to your teachings, my Lords.

  At the table’s far end, Elva was seated with Adam Gervicort to her right, Kraiv on her left. Next to Kraiv sat a narrow-bodied man with long arms roped with muscle: Volksurd, cousin to Queen Lima and ruler of Clan Hetreece ... of those who survived. Both Kraiv and Volksurd bore copper helms thrown back across one shoulder, hanging from straps. Their morphospears stood against the wall.

  Around the main table, in addition to the carls, sat the commanders that Tom considered most valuable to the cause. Some were natural allies; others were here to pursue agendas of their own. Already, cliques had been forming in private meetings in the halls and docking bays outside.

  Beside Volksurd, Captain Goray took his seat. Goray’s Liege Lord, Count Dvalkin, had died before his privy council’s eyes when metallic others appeared from nothingness inside the Star Chambers and cut down the highest ranking nobles first.

  Tom mentally reviewed names and biographies at lightning speed: Goray, who, slim and soft-looking, had led a team of battle-hardened Dragoons who cut and blasted their way to freedom; Vintranne Zhoframinova, tactician and combat instructor for the Rohlmay Spectaculars; Lady Xamila, wide-eyed and trembling, but commanding an impressive regiment of Palace Guards; Truholm Janix, bearded Lord and Academician, an unknown quantity; and a brother and sister of the House A’Vinsenberg, noble-born but gazing at Tom with worshipful eyes; finally their aide, angular-bodied and ebony-skinned, Lieutenant Xim eh’Gelifni.

  Then there were key players whom Tom could not be sure of manipulating, such as Lady Flurella: white-haired and crimson-eyed, most malevolent. Her burning desire for revenge was directed at the alien things which had despoiled her realm. (Tom would not want to number among her enemies.)

  Ankestion Raglok was purple-skinned, his black eyebrows formed of graphite crystals, his eyes green with horizontal slits. Two of his clone-brothers stood near the wall. Twenty-three separate clone-clans had escaped the realm known as Druvogue Fastness.

  And then there was General Lord Ygran.

  The general was white-moustachioed, a senior officer who had served as a colonel under Field-Marshal Lord Takegawa during the Rikoshine Revolt, promoted to General on the battlefield. Ygran was experienced in the enormously complex politics of melding disparate allies into a joint fighting force, despite differences in protocols and command structures and the diverging goals of their separate realms.

  Corduven had admired him.

  Tom knew enough military history to realize that wars had been lost because a commander-in-chief was unable to organize mixed forces under one aegis. Of the military leaders that Tom knew about, only Lord Takegawa, Corduven’s mentor in military logosophy, was better qualified than Ygran.

  But according to Fire Watch reports which Tom had no reason to doubt, Field-Marshal Lord Takegawa had recently taken a battalion into action in the former Realm Boltrivar, destroying significant sections of the encroaching front line, until Absorbed components that had never been human materialized amid swirling black flames, and tore apart the senior officers one by one. Takegawa, just as the Anomaly reached into his brain and began Absorption, turned his graser pistol upon himself, blasting his own head out of existence.

  Perhaps we‘re the best of what’s left.

  Elva. Adam. Kraiv. Volksurd, the carls’ leader. Pale Captain Goray. Vintranne Zhoframinova, capable and professional. Lady Xamila, afraid but commanding strong forces. Truholm Janix, intellectual, character unknown. The A’Vinsenberg siblings and the tough-looking Lieutenant eh’Gelifni. Lady Flurella, the malevolent albino. Ankestion Raglok and his clone-brothers: Academy-trained members of an elite long-range penetration squadron. General Lord Ygran.

  You‘re the key, Ygran.

  There were nearly two hundred others crowding in now: tactical officers, aristocrats with little to offer by way of military force or competence, technical researchers, experienced partisans who had already fought in Anomaly-dominated demesnes. Lady Renata had a seat near the door.

  Hovering in the background on her silver lev-tray was the glistening flensed head of Eemur, which so disconcerted those who did not know her that they looked away, unable to process the sight.

  You’re different now, my sweet Lord. Stronger. More determined.

  Tom inclined his head. That was the truth.

  But are you determined enough?

  He smiled.

  We’ll soon find out.

  Then he nodded to Elva, who rose to her feet and addressed the assembled nobles and officers. ‘It’s time to make a start.’

  Tom was resourceful. He was inspired.

  ‘—one great chance to survive is our strongest means of victory—’

  Using every trick of rhetoric, the hidden commands in speech backed up with subliminal directives of body posture which went straight to hardwired primate behaviour ... and in some cases all the way to the ancient reptilian mind situated deep inside every human brain.

  ‘—the Enemy is concentrated below, but we have freedom of the skies and near-space beyond—’

  Tactical displays whirled through their sequence of messages: designed not just to build up a subtle emotional impact but to hit beats and rhythms in synch with the electrical cycles of the visual cortex, as Tom controlled the chamber’s mood.

  At one point, as that mood became too sombre, Tom stepped to the floor-tile which he had already stood on to make appropriate jokes. The hairs rose up on the back of Tom’s neck as the commanders - subconsciously conditioned - straightened in their seats and smiled before he had even begun to make his lighthearted aside.

  It’s as if I’m controlling their emotions with a slider switch.

  Tom knew now why dictators fell victim to their own adrenaline rush. Imagine the god-like power you would feel addressing a thousand, or a hundred thousand people in this fashion!

  It was possible. In fact, it might be easier: a vast crowd automatically grew a collective mind of its own, one with fewer psychological defences than individuals.

  ‘—certain it is not our Destiny to fall before a different kind of life-form. We may be more complex than bacteria, but bacteria still exist! They are the dominant biomass, and if they can manage to find niches in which to live, then I’m damned sure that human beings have the guts and determination and foresight and will to—’

  Volksurd was nodding. Anomaly be damned: if it truly were unstoppable, he would still go down fighting. Lady Xamila, who had been so afraid she trembled, was looking stronger by the minute, as if strengthened by the mental force broadcast by Tom.

  Not so much force, Tom thought, as resonance.

  Locking their thoughts in synch with his.

  ‘—we can fight and run, merge back into the forests and wastelands of the surface—’

  Lieutenant eh’Gelifni smiled. This was a concept he cared for.

  But that was when Tom paused, and General Lord Ygran coughed. And Tom knew he would have to let this renowned soldier take the floor, and deal with the consequences afterwards.

  ‘There.’ Ygran pointed at the chamber’s floor. ‘Is that the spot where you slew the previous owner of this sphere?’

  Tom blinked.

  Ygran’s words drew a reaction among the commanders. Intakes of breath. Some jerked back in their chairs, losing their subconscious rapport with Tom.

  ‘You know,’ Tom said, ‘I was declared innocent in that matter.’ General Ygran began to speak, but Tom continued: ‘Yet if we are to fight together, we must trust each other. So, yes ... I slew the Oracle. I had reason to.’

  That’s done it.

  General Ygran stared at Tom for a long moment. Then:

  ‘Well said, sir. The exploit is legendary.’ General Ygran’s white moustache bristled as he smiled. ‘According to our elite forces who analysed the scenario, the only way in was a free-climb from the very bottom of the sphere up to the top. Entering right there.’ Ygran pointed at the membrane-window leading to the balcony. ‘With no smart-tech whatsoever, since internal scans would have picked up the microwave resonance.’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘And you killed an Oracle whose sworn truecast indicated his eventual death of old age, decades from now.’

  ‘That’s right, General.’

  So now they knew.

  Try me now, if you want.

  There must be a way of finding Tom guilty despite the document signed by Corduven ... but General Lord Ygran was standing up, hands at his sides.

  Making a formal bow.

  ‘Then you are the right man, Lord Corcorigan, to lead the free forces of Nulapeiron against the Anomaly.’

  There were murmurs, there were nods, and then every one of the two-hundred-and-more nobles and freeborn rose to their feet and cheered. All of them ... save for the albino Lady Flurella, whose scarlet eyes glowed in a way Tom had not seen before. Suddenly tricons were floating before him: virtual images, lased directly into Tom’s retinas, invisible to everyone else.