Context (81 page)

Awaiting
phase-transition, the pattern-shift...

Are mathematical minds made
vulnerable by their abilities, or is it that, seeing so deeply, the arbitrary
and ephemeral nature of consensual reality becomes too flimsy to hold on to?

Ro thought of Cantor: periods of
deep insight into the nature of infinite sets, invariably followed by
incarceration -amid black depression—in the Nerveninstitut von Halle.

Are thoughts, then, so fragile?

Nash’s Nobel Prize-winning
one-page paper, founding the concept of game-theoretical equilibria, highlighting
the nuclear madness of Mutual Assured Destruction—the product of a mind about
to be torn apart by schizophrenia.

Or is infinite truth so
dangerous?

Of the first four Kabbalists,
conjuring up a group vision — of God’s manifestation upon Mount Sinai—one was
shocked into permanent disbelief, and two died insane, before the blazing glory
of
Ein Sof,
of infinity glimpsed—

Transition.

It’s starting.

‘Behind you,’ murmured Ro, ‘at
three hundred degrees.’

Transition
now.

She saw:
gunman, eleven o’clock.

Despite the gloom, pale silver
light washed across the weapon’s transmission face, a bulky figure kneeling,
aiming at her and Zoë, and Ro knew she had a tenth of a second, no more—

Evade!

Zoë was fast, but not fast
enough. Ro used a scissoring sacrifice-sweep, kicking Zoë’s feet from under
her, as she herself dropped prone.

‘
Tarapityes!’
Zoë screamed
into her bracelet. ‘Go, go, go!’

Tracer beam, cutting the air
above them.

And the pattern: white shapes
rising silently from the snow.

‘Damn it—’ Zoë rolled over to
elbow-crawl.

Too late.

Ro could see the gunman: rising
to his feet, taking new aim—

Acceptance:

I’m going to die.

Then there was a blur of motion,
a white-suited figure arcing through the air—flying thrust-kick with perfect
extension—and the crunch of snapping vertebrae.

The gunman dropped, neck broken,
into the snowbank.

Other white-clad soldiers fell on
him, bayonets glinting on their magThrow rifles, and stabbed downwards, making
sure.

Laughter.

Zoë, on her knees, retched into
the snow.

But the students, dragging their
sleds upslope, had seen nothing.

‘Let’s go.’ Ro helped Zoë to her
feet. “This—’

‘No, this way.’

Trudging through drifts, they
headed directly to the residence block. Beyond, in a slush-bordered courtyard
of black wet cobblestones, white-jumpsuited soldiers were sliding a body bag
into a TDV.

My God
—

Ro recognized the corpse.

The would-be assassin’s movements
had been altered by his thermal suit, but suddenly she was sure. Moving
quickly, taking them by surprise, she palmed the membranous bag into
transparency.

Soldiers, grabbing ...They
stopped at Zoë’s soft command.

‘I know him,’ Ro said to Zoë. ‘And
so do you.’

Coffee-coloured features, broad cheekbones.
Nothing out of place: this country’s historic Sovietski empire had once been
bigger than AmeriFed’s.

‘I don’t—’

Ro remembered: the bare-headed
Mexican in the burning early sun, staring at her with dark impassive eyes as
she ran at the desert’s edge, where red sand met cultivated greenery.

‘He was a gardener at DistribOne.’

The TDV’s door descended, clicked
shut. The vehicle murmured into motion.

‘Christ.’ Zoë. ‘Someone will pay.’

Soldiers moved off at a
noiseless, loping run, disappearing among black-limbed trees, as thickening
snow fell, then gushed, from the bone-white sky, enveloping the world in heavy
silence.

‘So we’re safe,’ said Ro.

‘Not yet. Let’s go.’

<>

~ * ~

42

NULAPEIRON
AD 3421

The
long balcony was exquisite—rose-pink flagstones with platinum borders, floating
lev-tables of clearest crystal—in contrast to the shadowy training cavern it
overlooked. Though antisound deadened the clamour of unseen manoeuvres below,
odd highlights spattered across the raw, jumbled cavern ceiling: reflected
graser fire.

Beside Tom, Corduven looked more
highly strung than ever, his pale skin taut across prominent cheekbones, his
narrow body angular with tension.

‘You’re sure about this, aren’t
you, Tom?’

‘Going into the field? Yes, I am.’

Lihru was the last agent he would
send into danger; it was time to do something active himself.

They walked in step, pacing along
the balcony. Corduven’s hands were clasped behind his back, hidden by the
dark-blue half-cape he wore over his plain uniform.

Daistral and minrasta cakes
waited on a nearby table, untouched.

‘It would be a tragedy,’ Tom
said, ‘an Avernon were dead. Have you tried to—?’

‘He’s safe.’ A fleeting
half-smile tightened Corduven’s features. ‘Which means, he isn’t here.’

At the balcony’s end they
stopped. Tom leaned over the balustrade, staring down upon the dark crawling
figures of troops on the cavern floor. The terrain was jagged, and they used
every possible concealment: broken outcrops, shallow craters half-filled with
dirty water.

‘I’m sorry.’ Corduven’s voice
tugged Tom back. ‘We don’t spend any time together.’

His skin looked almost
translucent, blood vessels visible as pale-blue shadow lines.

‘You’ve enough on your plate, old
friend.’

‘Too much, perhaps.’ For a
moment, despair webbed Corduven’s features. ‘I don’t—There’s something I’ve
been meaning to ask you.’

Here it comes.

Tom was not sure he had faced up
to his own feelings; he did not want to discuss the Oracle Gérard d’Ovraison’s
death with Corduven.

I killed your brother.

But the question was: ‘Why did
you really join us, Tom?’

Caught off guard, he answered, ‘I’m
not... sure. I needed a purpose. I couldn’t just stand by, you know? I’m
looking for ...’ His voice trailed off.

There was so much he had left out
of his debriefing, after he had offered to describe his experiences in the
Aurineate Grand’aume. He had been interviewed by a single portly man in
civilian cloak and tunic, whose timid manner belied the astuteness of his
questions. Tom had furnished descriptions of the Grand’aume’s torture chambers
and the names of his interrogators; he had passed on his speculations about the
Seer’s origins and capabilities, and everything he knew about the Dark Fire’s
manifestation and the manner in which the Seer died.

Tom had lied, though only by
omission and misdirection: he had worded his account so that it sounded as
though Elva had perished at the same time as the Seer, during the Blight’s
strange attack.

Was it natural paranoia?

Perhaps they could help me.

But he had access to many levels
of the strategy net, could query the intelligence results and perform
interpolations/extrapolations (assisted by tactical AIs whose
inductive/deductive capacity obeyed the letter, if not the spirit, of the
anti-Turing laws).

Internal security officers, who
monitored all Labyrinth personnel, must surely have noted his obsession; and
Corduven was too thorough not to have acquainted himself with the contents of
Tom’s dossier.

Perhaps it was just a reluctance
to appear insane, to share his belief that the woman whose body had long been
consumed by teloworms in a black burial lake was still alive, in another person’s
body.

“They’ve taken you through the
implications, Tom?’

Corduven began to walk again,
back along the balcony, and Tom moved to keep pace.

‘Of becoming an active agent, you
mean?’

‘Exactly. With your knowledge—’

‘I need triple-redundant
fail-safe thanatotropes. Of course. And the will to use them.’