Paradox by John Meaney Page B

his rest day.
    â€œHey, not bad, girly.”
    Behind Algrin, more boys came up. At their head was Petyo, evenpaler-faced than usual. His tunic was open to the waist, and something moved across his stomach. Fear gripped Tom as it shifted: a red dragon outline, wings beating, travelling across Petyo's skin.
    â€œAnd that's for your little friend.” Algrin grinned as Petyo fastened his tunic up.
    â€œWhat—?”
    â€œYou explain.” Algrin reached into the group of boys and dragged out young Durfredo, pulling him by one ear. “We got better things to do. Come on, lads.”
    Tom waited until Algrin and the others had disappeared behind a milling crowd of lightball players. Then he asked Durfredo: “You all right?”
    â€œBastards!” Moist-eyed, Durfredo rubbed at his ear. “Yeah, I'm all right.”
    â€œWhat was all that about?” Red dragon across Petyo's flat stomach. “The motile tattoo, I mean.”
    â€œSupposed to be yours.” Durfredo sniffed. “An old Zhongguo Ren woman. She came to the gate, asking for you. Petyo said his name was Tom Corcorigan, and she injected the thing into him.”
    â€œChaos!”
    He was half glad that Petyo had done it. Who would want femtautomata crawling inside their skin?
    â€œIt's a message or something, for Zhao-ji.” Durfredo sniffed again. “That's all I know.”
    Zhao-ji had not seemed enthusiastic about Tom's visit: maybe because he knew there was a price involved.
    â€œListen, Durfredo. Just stay out of Algrin's sight for a few days, OK?”
    â€œDon't need to tell me that.”
    Tom watched as Durfredo slipped away. Be nice. Strategy, or cowardice? Be nice, until you're pushed too far.

    Music wound through the corridor, past Medical Physics. A pus-yellow holo sign proclaimed the bar's name: THE FIZZY CYST . Karyn shook her head, but went inside.
    â€œGenki , pretty lady?” An ivory-skinned young man, hair falling across his eyes. “You FourSpeak?”
    â€œUh—” Karyn looked where he was pointing.
    Silver holotext strung in text-planes over a black glass table. There were half a dozen students in the booth, all young-looking.
    â€œMy name's Chojun.”
    â€œKaryn.”
    As they slid into the booth, the others made room for them.
    â€œYour turn, Akazawa.” One of them handed a set of finger cursors to Chojun.
    â€œRight.” He winked at Karyn. “Time to see the master in action.”
    Ignoring derisive catcalls from the other players, he reached into the display.
    Karyn examined the sheets of text. References to Ragnarok made some sort of sense, but the overlaid puns, the geometric planes formed between node words, were indecipherable. Watching Chojun—only a few years younger than Karyn—rearranging words and dictating text, she felt suddenly old, out of step.
    Chojun's gestures became almost manic in their intensity, and he muttered voice instructions while his friends cheered or made sarcastic comments, as he built up a disembodied text structure. A story—Twilight of the Gods as comedy—was part of it. But it was also a game, and something more.
    Beyond me .
    Murmuring, “Excuse me,” she slipped quietly from the booth. Neither Chojun—his sweat-damp face lined with concentration—nor the others paid any attention.
    The bar. Despite the little ten-legged robot on the zinc top, there was a real barman behind it, and rows of bottles.
    â€œI think,” muttered Karyn, hiking herself up onto a tall stool, “that I know how this works, at least.”
    A tall, black-jumpsuited man was sitting on the next stool.
    â€œTesseractions,” he said.
    â€œBeg your pardon?” The little robot clanked along the bar, and Karyn tapped its sensor plate. “Cocktail. Anything. The strongest you've got.”
    The big man beside her let out a low whistle.
    â€œSerious drinker.”
    â€œI don't drink.”
    The