Had it not been for the theoretical work performed by Avernon’s grandfather, the current Lord would scarcely have thought of this. But the earlier results were intriguing, with the kaon-antikaon decay rates indicating the potential for reversing time’s arrow.
Finally, deVries flew.
Kenna’s airborne surveillance motes showed her: from barely a metre above the surface, deVries’s bronze ship disappeared in a white flash that Kenna knew to be as risky as it was flamboyant. There was no realtime signal relaying the ship’s reappearance in distant orbit; neither the deployment of the first master-drone, nor the subsequent hops as it deployed the other eight, were tightcast to the ground. It was only when the master-drones themselves completed initialisation procedures that the signals began.
First, readings established that each drone was in clear space, with no hindrances to letting loose the cargo, comprising thousands of fist-sized mini-drones.
The last of the master-drones also sent holovideo footage of deVries’s vessel, until it transited out of realspace, leaving nothing to see. If the experimental programme worked, any or all of the master-drones would commence a slow descent back to the shaft on Nulapeiron’s surface that led down to Demesne Avernon, where the ruling Lord and his logosophical research team would commence work on whatever came back.
Soon clouds of mini-drones were spraying out into space.
I wonder what they’ll find.
Kenna already possessed dangerous knowledge of the future, assuming that everything she had learned as Rhianna Chiang from placing Roger Blackstone into deepest trance so long ago was true, and not a delusion formed during her reconstruction and resurrection as a static cyborg formed of distributed components.
A few mini-drones performed initial checks on kaon-antikaon decay rates, finding them skewed further from previous readings by 0.06 per cent. There were no other unusual phenomena. This was a research programme whose payoff might come in days (as the current Lord Avernon hoped) or decades or never.
While deep inside the Palace walls, where no surveillance system beyond Kenna’s own could see, her own programme of experiments was well under way, although she had to be careful because of one severely limited resource.
The splinter of crystal, removed from the spearhead now in mu-space, was so very, very small. She had to plan hard and ration carefully at every stage: that was obvious from the start.
But the energy spectrum . . .
Whatever Kenna was, she was no longer a Pilot, no longer able to perceive mu-space or to work directly with Labyrinthine technologies; but she remembered things, and the results of her every analysis implied a strange construction pathway – transitions to impossible minima – to produce that splinter of crystal taken originally from the spearhead. It did not match any physical process in mu-space that she could remember or imagine.
Which was strange, because the crystal sure as hell did not originate in realspace either.
It doesn’t matter.
Practicality overrode theory every time.
I only have to work the stuff.
In the event, it took fifty-one more years to achieve a breakthrough.
To the continuing sequence of Lords Avernon, Kenna made herself indispensable, because she could not count on them all ignoring her like Lord Dalgen Avernon. Ironically, he, short-sighted and machiavellian, had commissioned one of the most far-sighted experiments to be carried out by Nulapeiron’s logosophers. But he lost interest during the years that followed, as the tiny anomalous results produced zero payoff.
People got on with the march of their lives, and in due course died, while Kenna remained immobile, her pseudo-face embedded in the wall of a laboratory chamber deep inside Palace Avernon. Her larger components were splayed across that same wall, while many more components, far smaller, were distributed throughout the Palace.
Lord Alvix, who had dropped the Avernon suffix though it remained the legal name of his line, was the fifth Lord chronologically, and the nearest so far to recreating the intellectual daring and humour of the old Duke.
But the demesne he had inherited was not financially stable, and so he was forced consciously to use his brilliance and expertise in areas he would rather have avoided – or so Kenna read the situation, on the basis of both passive observation and their personal chats, when Alvix felt there was no one he could talk to besides his immobile cyborg adviser.
What Kenna had kept to herself for decades was the truth about Dalgen Avernon’s death, for the causes were not natural, as everyone in the demesne had believed: not unless you counted an assassin’s work paid for by Lord Vikal, a scheming Lord Minor from Realm Grisengahl, as a natural occurrence.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Lord Alvix now. ‘Kenna, will you look at this?’
He was in the centre of the lab chamber, surrounded by a plethora of holovolumes: sheaves of numbers; intricate, shifting phase spaces rendered in a thousand hues where every nuance of colour held meaning; and many-dimensioned emergenic maps, which tracked the generation of properties emergent from complex substrates, always checking and attempting to predict the emergence of order from chaos.
Alvix’s self-mending tunic had failed to do so: his faded once-black-now-grey garment looked as if a rat had been chewing at the sleeves. In public he knew how to dress with propriety, but when he withdrew himself from matters political, he became the distracted scholar he was meant to be.
‘Not that old thing,’ said Kenna.
Lord Alvix laughed.
‘My grandfather’s great disappointment,’ he said. ‘But look at these gamma-rays.’
‘Holy shit.’ Kenna absorbed the readings, allowing herself to feel surprised. ‘You’ve found a second temporal phenomenon.’
Was this the beginning of a successful logosophical attempt to read the future? It was over a century ago that Max Gould, dear Uncle Max, director of Labyrinth’s intelligence service, had despatched her here – or rather, despatched Rhianna Chiang – to investigate the rumour.
‘I always thought,’ Kenna added, ‘that only the kaon-antikaon thing was sensitive to the direction of time. But this one was always there, waiting to be seen.’
‘Yes,’ said Alvix. ‘Except that I never thought I would see it.’
He dimmed the holovolumes, except for one that he shifted to the centre, and caused to magnify and brighten. Inside, successive layers of spherical waves, with a common centre, shrank inwards to that central point and were absorbed.
Over and over, wavefronts diminished to nothing.
In terms of subatomic process, the kaon reaction stands alone; but there is one other phenomenon not seen in nature, because it would be the equivalent of a smashed egg reforming. Emissions of radiation outwards from a point are common; what is rarely seen is the reverse: spherical wave-forms shrinking inwards – except that was what the data was showing Alvix now.
‘I’m going to call them spinpoints,’ he said. ‘Singularities being born. They’re appearing in the regions around Nulapeiron where the kaon-antikaon decay was most strongly affected before. Just look how they behave.’ He could not stop smiling. ‘Time to contact l’Academia. This is going to cause such a stir.’
‘Or you could call on your friends’ – Kenna meant his allies – ‘to fund a private research effort.’
Alvix paused, then: ‘Practicalities. That’s why I like you hanging around, Kenna. Unless you’ve reconsidered my offer.’