The All Father Paradox

by Ian Stuart Sharpe

  Trumba had been at her wit’s end, too depressed to celebrate her twentieth birthday when one of her stallari uncovered the Audgudson’s dirty secret. The ruins of Utgard were still being combed, nearly two years after the siege had ended. After blasting away some rubble, the Einherjar found a vault, full of TTA devices—old microphones, film and AR cameras, greenway circuits—all with the company logo emblazoned across them.

  MIM traced all the serial numbers and shipping documents in a heartbeat, but Trumba already knew what it meant. The brothers had supplied the Roarer with all his equipment. All of it! For years! Unknowingly, of course—they were as rich as Ragnar and wouldn’t have risked trading with the enemy. Still, the Wizards wouldn’t be able to editorialise themselves out of that headline. They had aided and abetted the greatest threat mankind had ever known. They’d given fear his voice.

  Trumba could have had them rounded up and shot or tossed out of their own airlock. She fantasised for days about showing her latest “savage triumph” on one of the Wizards’ own channels. But it was a stalemate: if the Audgudsons went, so would the entertainment industry, and if she massacred everyone in Hulvidland, she’d have to make do with a very few dull years before a new batch of bright young things were ready for action. And besides, the problem with stars is that they were about the only thing the voters wouldn’t forget. They’d been recorded and distributed for decades. You couldn’t wipe all their files and films. You’d just make bootleg martyrs.

  Then, inspiration struck. Trumba congratulated herself for a full twenty-four hours on the ingenuity of MIM’s solution.

  She invited all of them—Holly Kings and Mistletoe Queens—to attend a belated birthday bash, a magnificent, glistening affair to be held at the Summer Palace on the Asgard Aquanet. A suspicious olive branch, perhaps, but all the big names grasped it.

  The invitations insisted on traditional costume, and her guests duly obliged with winged helmets, raven feathers, and bloody broadswords. Trumba had always been thrilled by the bombast of Rikhard Vagner. Frigga arrived, dressed as a Valkyrie, and by unspoken but mutual consent, the two rivals assiduously avoided each other all night. There was an endless supply of boar canapes and fermented shark filets. The mead flowed so freely from fountains that MIM had to recalculate the deficit. The soaring Cloud Capturers were only matched by the majesty of the arias that rained over the lakes. Some of the guests even asked Trumba to dance, and she came close to obliging them. She was in a splendid mood, after all. But then they requested modern music, Priestly music. She drew the line at that. If she wanted synthesized sitars and blue snake shoes, she told them, she’d have invited the Maharaji candidates.

  As the clock struck midnight, she invited the Audgudsons to her father’s study, pointedly omitting their pet potted orchid. Trumba loved the study; some of her first memories were of the walls full of Herodotus, Fang Xuanling, Snorri Sturluson. Trumba found books made for wonderfully erudite decoration. There were also trophies from all over the Nine Worlds. Out of mischief, she sat them next to a stuffed Rabboon, and then she laid out her plan.

  TANGRIST AND TANNGIOST AUDGUDSON ASSEMBLED everyone in the ballroom to announce their latest brainwave. Trumba wanted none of the credit for herself.

  It seemed they had a long-cherished dream, a massive generational commitment to broadcast through and beyond the Gap, to map the stars for the first time and, having discussed it with the future empress, they’d finally found the inspiration they needed. They called it the Naglfar Project, acknowledging that it was a one-way trip. The Audgudsons were generous enough to fund the whole enterprise, of course, as the imperial coffers were sadly dry, but good wishes were all they really needed from Uppsala.

  They looked ludicrous in their costumes, but they were convincing nonetheless. The audience who’d paid for exclusive access to follow the lunatics’ ball lapped it up. The Wizards would fashion a huge ark and head off, half of Hulvidland on board: the New Gods searching the stars for the Old Ones. The best bit was that Frigga had “decided” to go with them, although only, of course, after standing down from the election.

  For the good of mankind, she said.

  Her rival’s face had to be seen to be believed. It almost made Trumba weep for joy. She had clearly missed her calling as a director.

  The Audgudsons had opted to take the long way around, as opposed to a quick death in a gas chamber. The Mistiltonians were stupid enough to believe they were being heroes, that they carried the world on their shoulders. The ship of the dead was a ship of fools.

  As a finishing touch, Trumba then had them appoint Bergelmir as skipper. The Varangian was sworn to uphold imperial interests and could be trusted to see the project through. It was perfect casting. Berg would oversee the telomerase supply too.

  They couldn’t set off straight away, of course—the ark was quite an undertaking. So Trumba packed them all off out of harm’s way, to the Elvidnir graving dock on Helheim. The Verðandi had built seasteads on synthetic limestone reefs there, before the war, and she had her skalds arrange that part of the Order’s war reparations would be to help to make the Naglfar Project a reality. She had broadcasts of the shaping work: they used proto-cells, fatty bags of DNA that could grow, self-repair, and respond to the pressures of the Gap. To ensure an on-time departure, Trumba provided all the keratinised thralls necessary to glue it together and, in a mad moment of generosity, donated all the solar sails. If you want to go fast, go alone; if you want to go far, go together using obsolete technology. It was a Great Work worthy of the name; her father would have been proud.

  Soon it would be far vel and gotha nott! She couldn’t wait.

  They would stay in range—and in memory—long enough to ensure a smooth transition to a new, more pliable set of aesthetes. She wasn’t sure if she would write in a wicked little twist to the ending: a limited supply of telomerase, for example, or a fracture in the sail. Let them fight to the death, perhaps: the survivors could broadcast as they choked on their little white berries for all she cared. She occasionally followed Berg as he doled out daily doses of telomerase on his broadcast, an insight into interstellar logistics for most, a macabre feast for those in the know. She didn’t tell him, of course. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

  It was a foolproof plan, but Trumba wanted to leave nothing to chance. Just in case of an electoral embarrassment, the Audgudsons were told to make sure their voting machines, the standard for fifty years now, registered the right result. The voting machines were also useful when Trumba called a snap plebiscite on the office of High Urdur. Separation of powers had been an illusion anyway; why not formally invest all their fates in the new fylkir?

  She’d won by a landslide. Even the dead had voted for her. Women wanted to be her, men wanted to be inside her. You only had to scan the broadcasts to find a hundred body doubles recreating her Knattleiker game on all fours. And in a way, Frigga was where she wanted to be. She made it to being head of state. Or, part of her at least; harvesting all that genetic excellence had taken weeks.

  Now it was just Trumba, MIM, and the mushrooms, the perfect triumvirate, with a little Vagner for good measure. The Roarer deserved some truly gruesome punishment, something worthy of a major broadcast, and she planned to discuss it with her new consuls.

  TRUMBA DIDN’T SLEEP WELL THAT night either. She had tried drinking herself to bed, but now just felt terrible. She couldn’t rouse much enthusiasm for getting up even when she received a new message on her visor. Bohr had finally scheduled the inspection of the new fleet with the navy.

  Her house-slaves brought forward a selection of clothing. Trumba felt like she needed to be armoured, so she chose something with the right mix of delicacy and danger—a gold choker and chain combination that wound tightly around her whole neck and plunged down the centre of her chest. It looked as if Jormungand himself was wrapped around her, his scales shimmering in the sun. She bronzed her face and admired herself: positively pharaonic.

  The emp
ress was collected from her chambers and escorted to a shuttle that would take her through the nest of spiders. It was all very… insectoid? Arachnoid? Whatever the word, it wasn’t a place you could feel relaxed in. The black Ring twitched with excitement and energy. The constant winds whirling from one hemisphere to the other powered great turbines. Piezoelectric transducers, ion channels, quorum sensors, signalling cascades—all linked to MIM, the cerebral cortex of the whole ecosystem.

  The Skuld ants were followed everywhere by black Mímameiðr boxes. Bohr’s Thralls, they called them, Bots for short. It was just like a Skuld to participate in an emancipation struggle and then have the indelicacy to come up with a name like that. Bohr called the little runts amusing pet names like “Tall Enough” and “Just High.” Trumba imagined they were perverse toys, “tall enough” for sex games. It was sickening what went on with these rassragrs, even behind closed doors. It was only a matter of time before these Bots were being broadcast on the fetish channels.

  The shuttle levitated around the Ring. Magnetic presumably. She didn’t ask, and the escorts didn’t offer an explanation. It didn’t matter how things worked, so long as they did. Through the hollow, she could see the destination and started to rekindle some of her own excitement, but along with it came a sense of annoyance that the journey wasn’t yet over. Every time the shuttle paused, momentary stops that would be imperceptible to most people, she tapped her feet or sighed in frustration. Sleep would be welcome tonight. If she was honest with herself, the Roarer had gotten under her skin. She’d need to scrub that whole episode from her mind. She shouldn’t have watched the broadcasts; they made her feel dirty, like she had wasted her time. A bed-slave and a bath would do the trick, and the fleet inspection would be a compelling distraction in the meantime.

  A whole third of Mímisbrunnr was carrying on the long traditions of the established naval yards at Rødsverven and Nóatún. There was nothing so cherished, so respected as the ancient tradition of shipbuilding. Ships had spread the Norse seed across Midgard; they were synonymous with Viking raids, trading, and even burials; their crafting born from deep understanding of wood that presaged staggering. The Skuld shipwrights had turned traditional craftsmanship into a holy discipline, solemnly delivered from master to apprentice, father to son, for over ten generations. They retained the core belief that only experienced seafarers, men who’d plied the fisheries in the fjords and offshore from a young age, had the right experience to discern a good boat from a dangerous one. These modern mariners were called gapmenn or sometimes, lifers, although whether in honour of their devotion and the commitment they made or the risks they took with their existence daily, she couldn’t say.

  Bohr was waiting in an observation suite, just off the arrival hall. Two other Skuld stood behind him; further back still were some naval officers in dress uniform, each man conspicuously wearing the Order of the Polar Star around his neck, and a host of other insignia and decorations on their overcoats. Her Varangians were there too, some in plain view, others no doubt watching her from other vantage points, covering all approaches.

  “Your Majesty, I trust you sl—”

  “No, Bohr, I didn’t sleep well. Let’s dispense with the niceties. Show me the new fleet then send them off to hunt the last Jötnar and let me get back to bed.”

  She shouted over his hooded head to the back of the room.

  “Tell me, Admirals, are any of your men due shore leave? I have an itch that needs scratching.”

  There was an embarrassed shuffling; most military men had no idea of how to deal with a female who was in charge. They were probably pining for her father. Trumba groaned and walked to where she could get a clearer view of the docks. The assembled dignitaries stepped into order behind her.

  Each of the ships was a long, slender graceful cylinder, like a jet-black woodwind instrument. The hollows, viewing holes made airtight with a transparent membrane, even looked like finger holes. They were ornately carved from bow to stern, although the shapes were difficult to see clearly, even with spotlights.

  “Drakkar-class, your Majesty.”

  Admiral Mannerheim, the hero of the Deathless Acre, stepped up alongside her.

  She might have guessed. Mannerheim had been a close friend of her father. As a girl, she’d often seen him parading through the halls of Uppsala, blueprints in hand for a new barracks or veterans’ housing, always wanting something built. The ever-jealous jarls joked that he had the whiff of sawdust about him, but he’d silenced them with a war record second-to-none. He was the only officer to fight an engagement with no Einherjar casualties, having blinded the Jötnar with dazzlers before mowing them down with thermobarics. Since Jötunheim, he wore a prosthetic jaw that jutted out, firmly, telling the world he could take anything it could throw at him squarely on the chin. His men, struck with awe, called him Marshall Thunder. She’d pinned some of those medals on him herself not six months ago, and more on his brother, who’d been vital in the hunt for the horrendous Hafgufa. The family had become so illustrious, there had even been discussions as to a suitable bride-price for Trumba to marry his son.

  Mannerheim meant she wouldn’t be able to hurry through Bohr’s show and tell after all. She summoned all the polite smiles and earnest nods at her disposal and avoided looking over at Bohr.

  “As I am sure your Majesty is aware, the ancient clinkered Viking vessels started with a shell—laying the keel first, then adding strakes and fitting the internal timbers as the last stage. They were lighter and more flexible, capable of crossing shallow waters and allowing the crew to pull them onshore in a hurry. The new fleet follows the same general principles, being grown in layers, as it were, rather than assembled around a frame.”

  The admiral prattled on and on, his jaw almost dislocating on some words.

  “Our gapmenn take a very holistic approach: it looks a little like growing a tree in reverse, using an accelerated cambium process to add layers of load-bearing heartwood, onto a skein of bark—a suit of Mímameiðr armor, you see? It protects the ship from impacts, solar storms, and the extremes of the Gap. The heartwood is hewn into bulkheads to form deck and compartments, and then younger layers, sapwood, is grown to carry air, water, and nutrients. There are some systems stored in the stern there—anchoring, cargo, and energy cells. Propulsion comes from the crown, via the exchange of gases and, of course, the solar sail, when extended.”

  Bohr injected some sycophancy into the proceedings. “We took the liberty of naming them after your forefathers, Odin, Thor, Tyr, and so on. Suitable carriages for the gods, remind the Jötnar of who they are up against.”

  Mannerheim grinned like a lindworm who’d just gulped down a whole pig.

  “Now, we’ve put on a little display for you today, so you can see the latest iteration of the Thought and Memory Drive these old sorcerers have spun up.”

  Trumba was underwhelmed. What was being proposed was for a pitch-black ship, moored on the dark side of a planet, to temporarily vanish—and then return. At best, it would be like a moth fluttering around the edge of candlelight. She could probably get the same effect by closing her eyes.

  The empress wasn’t at all sure about her new clothes.

  “How wonderful,” she croaked.

  Thought/Memory Drive was an integral part of each ship. Without it, each vessel was cumbersome, like a raft fighting against the tide. The T/M Drive allowed near instantaneous crossing of the Gap, a large-scale version of staggering. The theory had existed for years, based on a broad understanding of mimetic osmosis, but the Jötunn War had fuelled the forges of innovation. No one had fought inter-world battles before that, staggering stretched army logistics to breaking point. Skyships would get troops to the broad sphere of operations, but unless they stayed away from the front, they’d be shredded by blood-eagles. The Jötnar conducted a lightning war, hit hard and run fast. The empire had a huge numbers advantage, but it could never deploy enough manpower to pen the enemy in or keep them contained.

&
nbsp; Bohr piped up.

  “Your Majesty will remember our discussion earlier in the week about how the war was won. Once perfected, the T/M Drive allowed huge numbers of Einherjar to finally establish a bridgehead. From there, they eventually moved to lay siege to Utgard and Thrymheim simultaneously, with MIM’s help of course. Well worth those the budget increases, wouldn’t you say, Admiral?”

  So, it wasn’t the prison after all. Trumba saw it now. This wasn’t so much an inspection as an ambush. They probably lay in bed together at night, plotting about how they could spend more of her money. It explained the ancient star charts too. Give them a few months and they’d have a miraculous breakthrough. The stars could all be hers, a universe for the taking. But only once they could extort some more cash. Bohr knew just how to play her, and his long game was punishing. She felt nauseous.

  “Your Majesty,” said Bohr, “this is my colleague, Von Schröding. He is the man who theorised how we might learn from Yggdrasil and create our own, independent mode of travel. He is the intellect behind the Thought and Memory proofs.”

  Trumba’s only real option was to try to stifle the yawns that crept up on her in waves and brave things out. She needed to retreat and return from a position of strength. She was dimly aware that someone else was talking, a man with a receding hairline, bulbous forehead, and piggy eyes. He’d affected a kind of hilarious Hindoo dress that made him look even more of a rassragr than Bohr. He had a small-scale replica of a ship, a thin black tube which he held at eye level to demonstrate his genius, but the whole episode played like a children’s broadcast. He may as well have been using sock puppets.