Paradox Read Online Free

“Nice to meet you.”
    A sharp intake of breath: the male officer.
    â€œMa'am?” It was the woman who spoke. “Were you in the market chamber yesterday?”
    â€œI don't allow that kind of talk in my home.”
    The officers looked at each other.
    â€œDreamtropes,” murmured Father. “Disturbances…upset her.”
    â€œI see.” The female officer frowned, then retrieved her helmet from the table. “I don't think we'll trouble you further.”
    â€œOh, a moment.” Father held up his work-roughened hand. “The injured militiamen. There must be medical costs—”
    â€œTaken care of.” Snapping her helmet into place, the woman nodded. “Sir. Madam. Thank you for your co-operation.”
    After they had gone, Father sat at the table, shaking his head.
    â€œNever known it.” Puzzled. “Young troopers, refusing payment.”
    Mother, retreating to the rear alcove, pulled the faded red hanging across.
    When Tom returned home, halfway through the afternoon, the chamber was still untidy from the morning, and the sleeping-alcove was still curtained off. Tom shook his head, but went into his own alcove and sat cross-legged on his cot.
    â€œKwere ost?”
    Stallion. Not too dissimilar from his talisman.
    Tom gestured for lower audio volume before answering in Eldraic: “Est ekwos.”
    As he had left the market chamber, Padraig and Levro had cast him sour glances, for none of the other traders' sons or daughters could shirk their duties. But Mother wanted Tom to “better himself.”
    â€œKaroshe.” The holo image shifted, morphing into a twisted spiral organism with hexagonal flukes. “Eh kwees?” A lava-dweller of some sort. “Kwere ost?”
    A stirring outside. Mother, getting up at last?
    â€œNe savro.” Tom could not identify the species in any language.
    â€œAh, Tom!” Mother tugged the hanging aside, smiling brightly. “How lovely!”
    â€œOst thermidron.”
    Spirit sinking, Tom saw that Mother was wearing a one-piece baggy black sweatsuit: her old rehearsal outfit.
    â€œKwere ost?”
    â€œNever mind.” Tom gestured the display away, closing down the language tutorial.
    â€œThe Borehole Lilt?”
    Tom forced a smile. “Great.” Tricons filled the air above the infotablet, and he pointed.
    â€œDancers—”
    â€œâ€”are special people.” Tom sighed as the familiar strains of music began. “Yes, Mother.”
    She took a towel from a shelf, and Tom knew that the Shawl Dance was next. It would finish with a spectacular sequence of pliés, but that was not reason enough to stay. She might drag Tom out onto the floor and force him to try some steps.
    But her eyes, a distant blue, were filled with dreams, and it was easy to slip past her, out into the tunnel, and head back towards the market chamber and sanity.
    Hands jammed into his tunic pockets, Tom took the long way round, not wanting to face Father.
    â€œYou should have stayed with her, Tom,” he would say. Then, “It's a sickness, that's all.”
    Two figures up ahead in the gloom, where the fluorofungus was patchy.
    Tom shook his head. In a mood like this, Mother might be lost to them for days, dancing her dreams while he and Father tidied the chamber, bought and cooked the food, on top of their normal work.
    Something about them—But the two figures were still, heads bent together, talking in low voices.
    No matter. Perhaps he should go back.
    He had never dared to ask Father why he stayed with her, but Father had told him nonetheless: “I love her, son.”
    And there was nothing Tom could say to that.
    â€œâ€”origan. Check them—” A freak whisper echoed down the tunnel, was lost.
    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