by John Meaney
Coming this way.
He recognized them now: the two patrol officers. Heart thumping, Tom looked around, saw a familiar wall hanging, and remembered the young courting couple who had given him a fright. Before he could think, he had slipped inside, into darkness.
“Come on, Elva.” The voice was right outside the alcove. “She was pretty odd, don’t you think?”
“Of all the people we’ve seen today”—the woman officer, exasperated—”she must be the least dangerous.”
Tom swallowed, trying not to breathe. They were standing outside, at a junction: a natural place to stop.
“Besides,” the woman continued, “she showed all the symptoms. Dreamtrope addict, for sure.”
“Yeah, but . . . She’s a babe, isn’t she?”
Something in here with him.
“Keep it in your trews, Pyotr.”
A sense of dark presence. A . . . drip. Wet, on his cheek. Tom thought he was going to be sick.
“I’m calling it in, anyway.”
“You sure we’re in range?”
Idiot. Just old cleaning gear.
“Just about. Who are we?”
“What?” The woman sounded puzzled. “Oh, Tango-Aleph.”
Tom shifted uncomfortably, and touched the old mop: it scraped, and he froze.
“Did you—?”
But the woman’s voice was lost beneath her companion’s officious words: identifying himself by their call-sign and requesting access. “Citizens’ Details. Current district, deepest detail.”
In the darkness, Tom moved by millimetres, fingertips questing, and found it. Ceramic carapace. An old scrub drone, standing on end.
“What have you got?” The woman.
“Corcorigan, Davraig.” Reading from a display. “Zero records. No criminal future.”
“What about history?”
“Or history. He’s clean.”
Lowering himself—slowly, slowly—into a crouch, body aching with tension, Tom bit into his bottom lip, stifling his desire to call out and be done with it.
“And as for the babe—” The man fell silent.
“What is it, Pyotr?”
“Corcorigan, Ranvera.” Quietly. “Silver star.”
“You’re kidding. Show me.”
After a moment, Tom could hear her chuckle. He was halfway down now, behind the disused drone.
“Well . . . Bad luck, mate. Watch, don’t touch. Trust you to fall for a silver star.”
“Very funny” Scorn in his voice. “Hey, young Elva. Wanna know what they call you in the men’s chamber?”
“No.” Her tone grew hard. “Shut up!”
Light cascaded into Tom’s hiding place. The woman, dragging back the hanging.
“What are you—?”
“Nothing.” She scanned the storage alcove’s darkness. “Thought I heard something, that’s all.”
For a moment Tom could have sworn her grey eyes locked with his, but then she was turning away and the hanging fell back into place, and shadows hid him once more.
“Come on, big-brain,” he heard her say. “We’ve got work to do.”
~ * ~
It made a great lightball court.
Zing!
A hollowed-out spindle formed the round chamber’s centre, its elliptical window-holes revealing the cracked triangular altar inside.
Pow! Green streak flying through a hole, rebounding from the outer circle’s wall.
Once-red tiles were cracked, and many were missing, revealing blackened stone. Some said the old Zharkrastrian temple was haunted.
“My point.”
Wham! The lightball sang as Padraig’s palm slammed it across the chamber. It bounced, flew past Tom’s face, and had already dropped to the floor with a dying whine by the time he made a grab for it.
“Play or stay away, Corcorigan.”
“Sorry.” He picked up the ball and threw it awkwardly, underhand.
“Friggin’ Chaos!” The voice was behind Tom, but his heart sank: only one person used language that bad. “What you doin’ here?”
“Just heading home.”
Stavrel scowled. “You like lightball?” His wide face, splashed with a purple birthmark, was a frightening mask. “Anyone who don’t, must be queer. Am I right?”
“Er, yeah,” Tom lied. “I love it.”
But that was not good enough. He backed away as Stavrel came close, pushing Tom hard against the spindle wall.
“Listen, pretty boy.” Big hand, pressing against Tom’s sternum. “Know what I’m gonna do?”
Tom’s diaphragm was paralysed. He could not speak. No talking his way out of this.
Stavrel spat. “First I’m—”
Running footsteps. Coming into the chamber.
“Come quick!” Almost skidding to a halt: small Levro, Padraig’s younger brother. “There’s hundreds of ’em!”
The pressure of Stavrel’s hand increased. Tom thought his heart might burst.
“What’s going on?” Padraig grabbed Levro’s shoulder.
“Militiamen! Ain’t never seen so many—”
“Where?”
“Heading down Skalt Bahreen. Straight for the market.”
“Better get home.” Their father, the head trader, was rumoured to have shady dealings. “Come on!”
Stavrel looked from one brother to the other. Padraig glanced back at Tom, shook his head, but spoke only to Levro: “Come on.” They exited together, moving quickly.
What now?
Stavrel thumped Tom once in the chest. Then, wordlessly—as Tom braced himself for more—he turned and hurried out, bearing left instead of right: away from the market.
Out of danger.
Pain and shame kept Tom pinned to the wall. Then, blinking back tears, he slowly sank to his haunches. His arms were trembling, and he leaned back against the solid stone, feeling the dull vibration. A marching army’s rhythmic beat: two hundred troopers’ bootsteps pounding in counterpoint to Tom Corcorigan’s thumping heart.
~ * ~
4
NULAPEIRON AD 3404
The noise was greater here.
Sick with tension, Tom scrambled along Split Alley—an almost disused tunnel—over broken, tilted flagstones, not knowing what he would find in the market chamber.
“Destiny help us.” An old woman’s voice floated down the narrow, jumbled route.
The repetitive stamp of marching feet from the larger Skalt Bahreen, off to the left, accompanied him. This tunnel ran almost parallel: a short-cut. Would he reach the market ahead of them?
He hurried, not knowing why. Perhaps he should be looking for somewhere to hide.
Flames. The acrid stink of smoke.
Father . . .
Tom tripped over a broken block, and pain shot through his shin. But the market was just around the corner.
There was no panic.
Rapt, the crowd’s attention was focused on something to Tom’s left. Slowing down, he limped into the market chamber and leaned against the terracotta wall. What was happening?
Grey banner: faded narl, fangs agape.
There was a group of blue-robed, masked Largin wives in front of Tom. Huge cycle-eunuch guards-—on-phase: muscles massively pumped with testosterone—formed a protective ring around the women.
The serpent banner was in flames. As Tom watched, the burning remnants dropped. Marketgoers and stalls blocked Tom’s view, but it seemed that the fire sputtered out.
There was an old bale of rough sackcloth beside Tom, and nobody was paying attention, so he awkwardly clambered onto it. His shin, where he had banged it against the stone, was sticky with blood.
The pain faded instantly.
Someone had burned away the banner to clear the entranceway from Skalt Bahreen. Fully revealed, it was greater than Tom expected: a black semicircle wide enough to hold six men marching abreast.
And they did.
At the crowd’s rear, near Tom, a small white-haired woman, be
nt beneath the weight of years, made the double-claw ward-sign with arthritic fingers. Tom shook his head and raised himself on tiptoe atop the unsteady bale, one hand against the wall for balance.
Hundreds of them.
Flanked by ranks of local astymonia in ceremonial headbands and gauntlets, a wave of scarlet-uniformed militia marched into the market chamber. They wheeled in formation, bootsteps reverberating, forming a red arrow into the chamber’s centre as the market-going crowd fell back.
The ranks split apart, forming a wide, straight avenue and a hollow circle below the ceiling hatch. For a moment, Tom thought that the hatch might open and she looked at him with one good eye from the blackened ruin of her face but he shook the vision away.
“Present . . . arms!”
Heavy graser rifles spun through effortless curves. Onlookers flinched at the simultaneous clash of bootheels and the discharge flash of guide beams.
Then: nothing.
They stood still as statues, waiting, while Tom—riveted—held his breath.
Then, swallowing, he lowered himself from the bale and crept around the perimeter. Quietly. As he neared Trude’s stall, she turned, sensing him, and nodded once.
“Up here.” She was standing on a storage case, and helped Tom to clamber up. “We should be able to—”
Movement.
Cobalt blue and gleaming silver: a lev-car, moving slowly, slid from Skalt Bahreen into the market. The troopers’ rigidity increased as the vehicle glided past them. Shivering, Tom watched the lev-car settling to the flagstones at the market’s centre. Its cockpit grew transparent.
The man who stepped through the membrane was wide-shouldered and narrow-waisted, deep-blue cloak thrown back, tunic impeccable. He dismounted easily, light of step, and a grin briefly lit up his square, handsome face, neatly framed with a dark beard.
Trude’s body was tight, angular with tension.
“Is that—?” Tom stopped.
Dark-liveried servants took up position around their master.
“I know this one.” Trude’s voice was a bitter whisper. “Oracle Gérard d’Ovraison.”
But not much like the other one. A very different Oracle.
“And he’s staying for a while.” There was no pleasure in Trude’s voice.
A black dodecahedron rose from the lev-car’s rear on extruded, narrow legs. Spiderlike, it walked to the chamber’s exact centre. It sank to the floor. Its legs momentarily retracted, then arced out in long inverted-catenary curves and touched the flagstones. Its feet were points on a circle some fifteen metres wide.
“Tom, I think you should go home now.”
“But ...” He looked over at Father’s stall. Nothing. Father was watching the Oracle just like everybody else.
At the market’s centre, the dodecahedron rose on its legs until it touched the ceiling. Then a black, translucent film flowed down between the legs, filling the interstices.
“It’s a tent,” murmured somebody in the crowd.
That’s right, thought Tom. As the film reached floor-level all around, it hardened into opacity, forming a matt black hemisphere.
Neat trick.
“Please, Tom.” Trude’s voice jerked him back to reality. “I wish you would leave.”
Tom opened his mouth to ask why—and then he saw: copper-red tresses beneath a blue silk scarf, a slender figure in the crowd, passing through the cordon of militiamen into the cleared space.
“They’re expecting her,” said Trude.
Sway-backed dancer’s walk.
“Sweet Destiny!” Above the heads of clustered traders, from behind his stall, Father’s anguished voice clearly carried. “No ...”
Mother?
At the black tent, she stopped by the smiling, broad-shouldered Oracle, who waved a courteous hand. The membrane puckered open.
Mother.
She and the Oracle walked through the opening, and the tent sealed up behind them.
~ * ~
5
NULAPEIRON AD 3404
Hating himself, Tom gestured the thing into motion:
“She was wringing her hands. “ Father swallowed. “Did it for hours, in her sleep. “
“Oh, Davraig—” Trude, sitting across the table from Father, placed her hand briefly on his. “But she did come home last night. “ It was not quite a question.
Cut. The image froze.
Tom leaned back, heart thumping. He was sitting on his cot, stone at his back, and it felt icy cold.
“Fate, Mother.” He kept his voice low, though the chamber was empty. “Why?”
He pointed, and the holo resumed.
“Yeah.“ Father looked to one side, to where the infotablet had been lying on Tom’s bed, with the alcove-hanging open (and seemed for a moment to stare straight into Tom’s eyes). “She came back excited. Talked about the marvellous conversation, amazing food. “
“She danced for him last night. “
“Oh, yes. The Shalko Troupe was quite famous, up there.” He pointed at the ceiling, meaning: famous in the stratum above. “Still is, probably.”
The troupe Mother had danced with. Had run away from, when she was scarcely older than Tom was now . . . And that was all Tom knew of Mother’s early life.
“So he was impressed with her credentials.” Trude. “Doesn’t explain why he was expecting—But then, he’s an Oracle, isn’t he?”
Father looked down. “I’m not good enough for her, Trude. I never have been. “
“She loves you. “ Trude’s tone was not convincing.
“Dancers aren’t stupid, you know. “ Father leaned back in his chair—
Tom glanced up at the empty table in the chamber, then back at the image floating beside him.
—and ran his blunt fingers through his untidy grey hair. “She was trained in physiology, voice control, drama ... And it must have been glamorous, performing. “
Trude shook her head. “Glamour’s always on the outside,“ she said. “Other people’s perceptions. “
“Maybe. But it must have been better than here.” He waved a hand around, indicating his surroundings.
Once more, Tom looked around the real chamber. What was wrong with it?
Trude: “Remember how you found her.“
“She was down on her luck.“ Father was defensive. “That was all.“
A strange, sick feeling took hold of Tom’s stomach.
There was a long silence, then Trude said: “The hand-wringing you described . . . It’s a bad sign, Davraig. If you can get her away from here for a few days—”
“I’ve no travel permit.“
“Just a klick or two away. I know people in Farlgrin District...”
Father shook his head.
“What about the hand-wringing?” he asked, after a moment. “I’ve seen her do it sometimes, when she’s very stressed.“
“Just something we talked about once.“ Trude tapped her bony fingers on the tabletop. “When she was—Never mind. Girl talk.“ She stopped tapping and stared straight at Father. “Just follow my advice. I don’t often give it.“
“No?” Father forced a laugh. “I remember that time—”
The edge of Tom’s hand cut the air and the holo image vanished. He was ashamed of himself: leaving the infotablet recording without telling anyone. But no-one would explain what was happening.
Forcing himself, he scissored his fingers together, wiping the log from existence. He got up from the cot, then sat down again, not knowing what to do. Stared up at the ceiling, seeing imagined episodes of Mother, dancing.
What the Fate was going on?
“Hey, little Tom.” A youth—knotted-chrome headband woven into his forehead, amber ovoids like pustules beneath each cheekbone—was sitting on a ledge halfway up the wall at Pentangle Interchange, swigging from a flagon. “Hear your ma’s out of retirement…”
He leaned over, handing the flagon down to a group of young toughs. One of them turned, and the purple birthmark made To
m’s heart sink: Stavrel.