On Wings of Fire

by Windfola

A very young Kerr Avon is sent away to boarding school, but of course nothing is ever as it seems.This story is a prequel and owes its existance to 'The Last Best Hope' by Melody Clark, which I hope everyone will go on to read.

On Wings of Fire

Ante mare et terras et quod tegit omnia caelum

unus erat toto naturae vultus in orbe,

quem dixere chaos.

Before there was sea and land and the sky that covers all,

Nature had but one face across all the world,

And that they called Chaos.

1

The planet Gondoron sat like nature's freight lay-by at the intersection of two or more busy shipping lanes, which converged just before their final approach to the Terran System. It had become no more and no less than a convenience; an interim storage depot for the comings and goings of the larger trading companies, or at least those that could get permission and could afford the costly outlay required to provision their staff in underground quarters.

Water was scarce, and what there was of it could be found only on the dark side. And that was rank, thick with contaminants and hardly worth the trouble of treating and recycling it to provide a usable supply. It was much cheaper and safer to import everything on the transports. There was moreover nothing of the indigenous flora or fauna worth harvesting for food, indeed, the searing heat permitted little of either to survive. Fire was an ever present danger, as the past had already proved in catastrophic fashion. The atmosphere was technically breathable, but that was scarcely relevant, since no one in their right mind would choose to remain outside on the surface. Some might say that no one in their right mind would choose to remain on Gondoron at all.

And yet an inspired Federation accountant had persuaded the Biosystems Research Funding Committee that what Gondoron had to offer was the ideal location for the education, scientific study and psycho-manipulation of one hundred and fifty of the Federation's most gifted young Terran progeny.

The shuttlecraft landed a little shakily for Mikl Avon's liking, but he had never been comfortable with spaceflight. Landings were without doubt the worst part, even with the promise of escape at the end. Moreover, the music that passed for in-flight entertainment had left him distinctly irritable.

He breathed deeply and stepped from the twilit cool of the airlock into what passed for the landing bay, grateful to be on terra firma again after the journey. But the gratitude was short lived. Before he could take another breath, the heat hit him full on and his hand shot up instinctively to shield his eyes from the coruscating glare that assaulted him. Without pausing to look round, he hurried past the exit sign and into the terminal, where it was at least shaded, although the air conditioning was barely adequate.

The building, a large, featureless hanger, looked dilapidated even by Federation standards. The information office, where he had been told to report, was an afterthought, since Gondoron was a stranger to casual visitors. It appeared empty, so he took a seat in the waiting area and glanced out of the dusty window for a first sight of his brother's present home. No one else had disembarked from the shuttle and the small, utilitarian concourse was deserted.

That the planet Gondoron was so named, had struck Mikl with irony the first time he had heard it. Now that he actually saw the place it struck him again. 'Land of Stone' was an understatement. Apart from the scant covering of the strange, ashen vegetation, that struggled to coexist with the ferocious sun, there was nothing to break up the carapace of fissured granite that clad its surface and surrounded the access domes. The mythical Gondor of its namesake had been a beleaguered land, it was true; but, at the last, it had been a place of spring-time that promised renewal. No such spring awaited here, apparently.

The irony would not have been lost on his little brother either; of that Mikl was certain. It had been Mikl who had secretly slipped Kerr the old fashioned volumes of Tolkien; and Mikl who had both encouraged and covered up for him, while he got to grips with the grand, antiquated prose. He had started Kerr on Latin, too, and still wondered at the alacrity with which he was picking it up. An exercise wholly devoid of scientific application, which had only made it all the more attractive to both boys.

Mikl's own love of pre-atomic languages had set him early on the road to becoming a linguistic historian. It was one of many rebellions. Their mother, Zoa, engineer and scientist by vocation, had expressed consternation at Mikl's choice for his undergraduate studies, but the final insult was her discovery that her elder son had infected his small prodigy of a brother with the same misdirected passion. Kerr, still only six, had devoured Mikl's books greedily, favouring them over the maths tutoring he was being given to prepare him for the Alpha Lyceum entrance exam. He would wait eagerly for Mikl to come home, so that they could talk about the stories, or construct a piece of Latin prose in some quiet corner where no one was listening. Mikl was always glad to indulge him. Their father, Petr, was indifferent to his sons' choices of leisure activity, provided he was himself not disturbed. Zoa remained supremely interested, but her poor health was now a thing beyond mere inconvenience and the prognosis was not good, recent news from which young Kerr had been carefully shielded. Meanwhile, at sixteen and mature for his years with a creditable performance to his Lyceum record, Mikl's interests were beginning take him away from the merely intellectual and into the realms of politics.

Just as Mikl was about to go up to the university, six year old Kerr, a year ahead of his peers and in spite of the other claims on his time, eclipsed his brother's success when he sat the junior entrance exam to the Alpha Lyceum. His results immediately caught the attention of the principal, who passed them straight on to the Bio-Science Division, which was always on the look out for exceptional potential. There was no point in resenting his brother's brilliance, Mikl had later reflected, not with such an age gap, but he allowed himself the rueful hope that Kerr might choose a path other than his own, just so as not to make the difference quite so plain. There was no need to worry. Such were his marks and the results of his psychological profile that the boy was immediately assigned to the Apollonian grade, which would take him in a separate direction from his heart stock brother, although neither knew at the time quite how separate it would be.

Waiting by the information office window, Mikl wondered if Kerr ever read Tolkien these days. Footsteps sounded in the corridor and a young woman appeared. 'You are Mikl Avon?' she said, handing him a pair of eyeshades. 'Welcome to Gondoron. I have been asked to show you to Foyer Main, where someone will meet you. You can freshen up there.'

2

It was soon after Kerr started at the Alpha Central Lyceum that his parents were approached by the Director of a new project, set up to fast track suitable young minds for the recently opened Bio-Systems Institute. An inaugural presentation had been given at the University the previous spring, outlining the purpose of the Institute and its pre-eminent position within the Federation Central Science and Research Division. Zoa had gone along and been sufficiently impressed to discuss it with her husband; had things been different she might have considered applying for a post there. So the prospect of a personal visit by the Director of Studies was sufficient to pique Carn's curiosity, and for once he was actually at home. But it was Zoa who graciously greeted the Director and showed her in, walking a little stiffly with a weary pallor about her rather fine, velvet-dark eyes. She ordered refreshments and then sank gratefully into a chair, gesturing to her husband to take charge of the proceedings. Kerr stayed out of sight, but listened from the stairwell with a sense of foreboding.

So far Rontane had been pleased with the calibre of the young candidates the project had attracted. However, a few of the most outstanding subjects identified by the pupil record scan had fallen through the net. Their parents she would have to target in person, if the intake of subjects for Standard Increase was to be of the highest quality. For her part, Academician Rontane had known of the Avon family long before the child caught her attention, though she had never moved socially in their circles.

Sometimes she wondered at the vanity of the old money Alphas, who could and did give their children everything they could possibly need and then disposed of them to the academies as soon as they were of age, like so much discarded furniture. They approached the raising of children much as they might tackle a new hypothesis, an intellectual challenge to be debated over coffee and ultimately delegated to others when the novelty wore off, or they proved too time-consuming. Petr Carn and, in particular, Zoa Avon came from two such families. The reassuringly restrained expense of their home and their lofty self assurance both impressed Rontane and made her nervous, despite her thorough homework in preparation for their meeting.

Carn was an oddity. He really had no need to indulge in the shadier commercial activities for which he was beginning to become known. His love of flying had not diminished since his Space Corps days, but there was no purpose in putting his talents to such unorthodox uses. Such activities were usually frowned upon, and certainly not openly tolerated, but then Carn's particular brand of personal charm ensured that he got away with a lot more than was officially acknowledged. But more than likely, Rontane reflected, it was actually Zoa's family connections that kept the Federation Fraud Office from his door.

The matronymic was just an example of the dominance of her family over Carn's. The Avon line was widely regarded as untouchable, embedded as deeply as it was in the higher echelons of the ruling classes. Zoa, being a younger daughter of a second son, had been allowed to choose her consort more freely than her older siblings and predictably she had made the most of this freedom. Indeed Rontane had learned that she, too, had been somewhat wild in her youth, before her choice of career had been rewarded in such a cruel fashion.

Accepting her drink (real leaf tea, she noted, impressed), the Director settled herself and began her speech much as though she were addressing a conference.

'As you are aware we are very much hoping that you will consider your son, Kerr, to take part in a vital new programme, that will have far reaching consequences for the advancement of computer science and ultimately for the continued progress of the Federated Worlds.' Carn already looked bored, his features composed for polite, but unimpressed patience.

'We intend to work with a specially selected group of gifted children from the age of seven until they reach sixteen, with performance I.Q.s measured in excess of 140, who closely match the Apollonian profile and who have already shown outstanding potential in the analytical centres of the brain.' Aware that she had now caught at least Zoa's attention, Rontane sat back comfortably and warmed to her theme. 'The students will be fast tracked in a single study facility where state of the art systems will be in place to stretch them to their full potential. They will be shielded from any outside influences that could interfere with this potential. Standard Increase will provide a rounded education, but primary focus will be on the study of mathematics, systems theory and computer science. Your son Kerr's profile has revealed that he has a quite remarkable brain; indeed, he is altogether remarkable. We believe that his psychological make-up will be superbly suited to this type of scholarship and possibly make him one of its most promising candidates, should you decide to enter him into the project. The rewards for him, once he reaches adulthood will be unique and potentially substantial, whether he should choose to remain a civilian, or as we would hope, come into the Biosystems Division of Space Command, which will increasingly need minds like his in the coming years.'

Sudden suspicion spread across Carn's rather boyish features. 'What is the obligation on our part, or for that matter, the child's? He is a little young to be choosing his career, never mind his employer.'

Zoa intervened more diplomatically. 'What my husband is trying to say is that seven is very young to be certain of the potential of any child. It would be a huge commitment. And not only that, you will also be aware that our son is still only six. He was accepted early at the Lyceum.'

'That is precisely why we are so interested in him,' said Rontane. 'But naturally you will want to weigh it up against all the options. Perhaps it would help your decision to know that The Standard Increase Project has been accredited at the highest level. It is financially supported by the Lyceum Upper Council and the Confederated Universities Board.' She turned to Zoa. 'I believe your uncle still serves as Secretary General, if I am not mistaken?'

'He retired last month,' corrected Zoa, smiling patiently.

'Furthermore,' Rontane persisted, her voice gently persuasive as she chose her words carefully, 'the Bio-Systems Division has secured dedicated research resources for the Institute to last the next thirty years. It is expected that the most successful students will assist in the design of a new generation of organic bio-computer technology. Advances that will transform the nature of computers themselves, beyond anything that we would recognise today.'

Several hours later, amidst written project proposals, funding confirmations, staff compendia and glossy viscasts of the new Bio-Systems Institute, Zoa was feeling distinctly worn down. Petr's superficial interest and the compliment to his vanity had waned, but when Rontane confirmed that with the considerable Federation subsidies, there would be no further expense to the family than the usual Lyceum fees, she almost succeeded in having Carn sign then and there, just to bring the matter to a close. But there was one drawback that brought extreme caution from Zoa. The project location was off world. In point of fact, it was half a day's journey away by planet hopper.

'If the project has been funded at such a high level, then why is it necessary to put the children on this 'Gondoron', which as my husband has said, is a desert planet with so little going for it?' Zoa stood up to ease the pressure on her back and leaned on the side of the chair for support.

Rontane was ready for this question, had toyed with it herself, but had long since given way to the persuasive conditions of the Biosystems funding panel, and ultimately to the sound empirical principles, which usually won her over whenever ethical dilemmas threatened to interfere with her resolve.

'The project is entirely self contained, fitted and staffed to the highest specifications and completely independent of the outside world. Purposely so. On Earth such an environment would be a much more difficult proposition. Everything a child could possibly need for optimum intellectual and physical development has been incorporated there. Besides, it is easily accessible despite the distance, because of the numbers of passenger craft that pass close by.'

'Pass by without stopping,' corrected Carn.

'You are both scientists. I am not going to insult your intelligence by detailing the extent to which the objectivity of the project might be undermined by external variables of the sort which the students would be exposed to by having them remain within easy distance of any familiar environment. The benefits of distance were demonstrated long ago in the boarding schools system of the Pre-atomic era, as I am quite sure you are aware. This paradigm has been found to be particularly advantageous with Apollonian children in sharpening their, - more objective faculties.'

Finally the Director played her trump card.

'I was greatly distressed to hear about your, er, indisposition, Zoa,' she soothed. 'It must be exceedingly difficult for you. It might, well, ease your spirits to know that your son's future is secured.

For a second, fury burned across Zoa's eyes at Rontane's presumption, but their quiet resolution was just as swiftly restored. The fire had turned to ice as she regarded the woman coldly and the smile when she spoke had lost all its warmth.

'Any decision will be based on what is in my son's best interests and on no other consideration. Now, Rontane, if you will leave us, we will let you know when we have considered the options more fully.'

Carn had long given up paying attention. As usual he would let his wife decide whatever she pleased when it came to his younger son. As the front door slid to, Zoa sighed. She caught sight of Kerr retreating to Mikl's room and watched Petr start a conversation over the viscom, connected with some deal he was taking a gamble on. If the boy was not to become as rebellious as his brother, or worse, turn into his father, then perhaps, just perhaps, he really would be better placed somewhere like Standard Increase.

3

To the one hundred and fifty children who stepped from the Eurodome Terminal landing bay into the shuttle craft, everything seemed impossibly alien. Most had never been in space before, and parents had been strongly discouraged from travelling with their children in order to accustom them as quickly as possible to their new condition.

Many of the candidates had not been told, or had not suspected the whole truth of this journey and their eyes shone with anticipation. A few had cried or clung on with pinched fingers, pale like their drawn faces. More were stoical. Perhaps, the Steward reflected as he closed the hatch to the airlock, this last group were not leaving so very much behind that they would miss. Any parent who could willingly give up a child for good at just seven must surely be found lacking. That this was self justificatory he chose not to acknowledge, but, turning away quickly, he shook hands with Academician Rontane, who had overseen the embarkation in person. Nevertheless, thinking of his six year old niece, Trent wished he had not had to witness the departure of the shuttle.

One of the children, a small, dark haired boy who looked even younger than the rest, had shown no outward trace of distress as his mother gently guided him towards the craft and into the care of the waiting Steward. He neither returned her hug, nor smiled as she patted him on the shoulder and pushed a personals bag into his hand, before turning awkwardly to go. As she was walking away, he turned a pair of arresting dark eyes on the awaiting craft and stepped towards the hatch without even glancing back. The woman watched him go, tired regret on her face, before she melted away into the crowd.

Inside the shuttle, one hundred and fifty children settled into their allotted seats. Leana Rontane studied them curiously as she checked the lists. A quiet calm has settled upon the group; there were few visible signs of emotion, except perhaps a kind of wary bravado tinged with loss; not what she would have anticipated at this stage. But then these children are, by definition, strongly Apollonian after all, so why assume the expected?

Kerr Avon sat down and looked about him. Some of the children were talking now, shyly at first, but gradually with more confidence as they examined their temporary quarters. There were no other passengers apart from the project staff; the shuttle had been chartered by the Institute for this soul purpose. Next to Kerr sat another boy, sandy haired, much taller than he was, but very pale in the artificial glow of the over-lit cabin. On his left a blonde, studious looking girl had been going mechanically through her belongings as though she was missing something. She became aware that Kerr was watching her and stared back at him, unsmiling. Kerr thought he caught a quiet seam of fear in her face before she broke his gaze.

Presently he undid the bag that Zoa had given him. Inside were an apple, a large slab of chocolate and two digi-volumes. He lifted them out to look at the titles. The larger one was an abridged, but still formidable looking scientific dictionary, of the kind used by much older Lyceum students. The other was Clane's 'First Principles of Systems Theory.' He was about to put them back when he noticed a third book (a real book this time, with fibre pages), bound in a tired blue hard cover and looking as though it had already seen several previous owners. He glanced at the front without much optimism, but was slightly taken aback by what he saw. It read; 'The Metamorphoses of Ovid. A Reader for the Younger Student.' Inside the cover a name had been written in a child's hand. 'Zoa Avon.' He put it back in the holdall for later and smiled to himself.

'What is that?' asked the pale boy next to him.

'Nothing,' he replied automatically and closed the bag. Concealing his more treasured possessions had become habitual to Kerr at home, a necessary ritual to prevent their disappearance at the hands of adults. He looked around him. The cabin was large enough to seat about twenty in comfort, but was occupied by well over that number of children, perched amidst the clutter of their belongings. Moreover, as the occupants were allowed to get up and walk around the cabin, he was cowed to see that he was amongst the smallest there.

Presently the other boy looked at him again, more curiously this time. Suddenly he grinned and asked brightly, 'Don't I know you?' Kerr regarded him warily, non-plussed.

'You're Kerr Avon, aren't you?' the boy went on. 'From the Central Lyceum? You came up early. Star pupil. My cousin knows your brother.'

Kerr had seldom noticed the others in his year; he had not been there long enough to feel comfortable. Up until the entrance exam he had been home tutored and his first months at that illustrious institution had brought with them an early lesson in staying out of the way. Relieved at not actually being bullied, he had been content just to ignore and be ignored. He studied the boy's face and presently the pale blue eyes and ivory features struck a chord in his memory.

'Faroll?' Kerr hid his embarrassment, uncertain of the boy's forename, but the effort had earned him a second grin and let him off the hook. Confused, he reached back into the bag for the chocolate and held it out.

Faroll took a piece and ate it slowly. 'I might have guessed you'd be here.'

Kerr looked away.

How? he wondered. How did one recognise a clever child? It startled him that he could be so exposed to others in this way and he retreated into the security of the Ovid.

It almost hadn't happened. Kerr had begged his mother not to sign the forms.

4

Mikl followed the attendant along Foyer Main. The hall was bright with lumens that mimicked the Terran sun (not the local one, thank goodness) and filters were humming gently with the air conditioning. He hated to think what the heat would be like if the life support system were to fail. It appeared that some considerable effort had been made to make the entrance to the Project appealing to visitors. Though not a new building by any means, the place had been face lifted to make it appear surprisingly sleek and up to date. The addition of specially imported foliage plants enhanced the air quality without being overdone and the furnishings looked cool and comfortable. Mikl detected the work of marketeers and image consultants in the colours and clean lines. It was all laid on for relatives who required to be impressed.

Leading off the Foyer on both sides were many doors, all of them closed but identical apart from the numbers on them, the only distinguishing features. About halfway along the endless row, he was met by a blond woman in a masculine looking suit that made her look older than her fifty odd years. She smiled warmly and shook Mikl's hand.

'Mikl Avon isn't it?' she said pleasantly. 'Welcome to Standard Increase. You have come to visit your brother, of course.' She studied Mikl's face as though she were examining a specimen. 'My name is Drydn, the deputy director here. I gather that you are a historian.'

'A linguist,' Mikl corrected, but Drydn was not listening.

'Do follow me to the family room. I will see that someone fetches Kerr for you. How is your mother?'

'Thank-you, I have not seen her for several months, but she is better, much better.'

'I am glad to hear it. You'll want to see Kerr's reports. His first six months here have been most encouraging. We expect him to do extremely well. One of our best candidates.'

Briskly the deputy director led Mikl the not inconsiderable length of Foyer Main and into an office. Then, she pressed the intercom.

'Will you have K.A. 104 brought to the visitors' area, Trent?' Mikl flinched. With a touch of Drydn's hand at a keyboard, a few pages rapidly appeared from the printer. 'This file has been sent on to your parents already, but since they have asked me to treat you in loco parentis, as it were.' She handed him the list of results.

Mikl studied the printout. 'I am sorry Deputy Director, I am not a scientist as you know and these headings mean little to me. It is enough to know he is doing well.'

'My dear young man, he is not just doing well. Kerr has advanced beyond the rest of our students in every subject, remarkable given that he is the youngest by a year. It leads me to believe that we might have done better to request intake at six instead of seven. They learn so quickly at that age. But your brother is displaying a promising aptitude for systems theory and analysis. And he is, of course, a linguist which will please you too, no doubt.'

He hardly needed to come here to prove that. 'What do they do in their leisure time?' Mikl had looked out for some evidence of recreation facilities, had seen none.

Drydn waved a hand non committally. 'There is a well equipped gymnasium which caters for all their physical needs. There is also a large swimming pool. Each child has an individualised exercise plan according to his or her physiological profile.'

That hadn't been quite what Mikl meant. 'As you see, they have really no need to go outside at all,' she concluded firmly as though that were the end of the matter. 'But come now, he will be waiting for you.'

She led the way across the hall to another room, furnished for visitors. On an opulent sofa, much too large for a child, sat Kerr, staring into his lap. As the door shut behind them he slowly raised his head and his large dark eyes locked on to Mikl's hazel ones. He did not smile. As Mikl surveyed his brother he saw a young boy who had grown since their last meeting. A healthy glow played about his features. But there was something else - something about the flatness of his gaze, the distance in his eyes that made him look somehow diminished.

'Take your time, 104,' Drydn purred. 'You have a four hour pass.'

Only when she had left them and the door had slid firmly closed again did Kerr smile - the disarming, lop-sided grin with the sideways glance that Mikl had kept close to his heart all the months they had been parted. Mikl grinned in return and drew him into a hug, which was shyly returned.

'So, come on Kerr. What's it really like here?'

There was a pause. 'How is Zoa?' he asked quietly.

'She's fine, really well.' Mikl hesitated, then reassured, 'She told me that she saw her physician last week and he is very pleased with her progress.'

Kerr challenged the platitude with more silence and Mikl cleared his throat uncomfortably.

'Have you been reading the Ovid?' he ventured.

A sudden glint of fire was ignited and with it another smile. 'Oh yes, but I have to hide it; we're not allowed to read anything not provided through the computer. They'll never find it though, as long as I keep it safe from Mater.'

'From Mater?'

'The Central Computer. She sees everything, except for that. I've found the one place in my room that the scanners can't access.' Kerr was grinning broadly now. 'They think she can see everywhere, but she can't. And her sensors can't detect paper books.'

'She? You talk as though she is a person.'

'It.'

'Well now,' Mikl pondered. 'It sounds as though you have been in need of some light entertainment. It's a good thing I put it in.'

'You?' The whisper floated between them like a feather, as disappointment sparked across Kerr's face.

'Yes, of course. I slipped it in as you were leaving. Did you think it was -?' He stopped. 'Ah. It had her name inside, didn't it?'

'I really thought she had. I should have guessed she wouldn't have done a thing like that.' His tone was entirely flat and featureless, all wrong coming from such a young voice; his face, only momentarily bereft before it rearranged itself for impassive detachment.

'I am sorry, Kerr.'

Mikl looked around. 'Do they use scanners in here?'

The child was suddenly alarmed. 'I don't know. But the scanners in my quarters, I know where they all are, although they're supposed to be hidden.' He made a rapid, but thorough search about the room. Mikl was impressed and a little disturbed by the attention to detail as his brother expertly checked every surface, every corner until he was completely satisfied.

'I don't think they would dare put them in here.' Mikl adopted a tone of amusement, but he was beginning to wonder about this place and its approach to educating seven year olds.

'There's nothing in here that looks like the others.' Kerr sounded relieved, but his eyes, haunted now, continued to pan the room in suspicion.

'But even if there were, what could they do? Take away your things?'

'We're not permitted more than three personal items,' said Kerr in a monotone. 'And no books. More especially not books. Information has to come through the Mater. So they can monitor it.'

Correction, thought Mikl. This isn't education. It's indoctrination.

'What else did you bring? Personal items I mean.'

'Nothing.'

Nothing of his own to remind him of home. Not a toy, not a photograph or a souvenir.

'I'll bring you something next time I come. Who are they anyway?'

'Drydn and Trent and the others. Some of them are alright, but I hardly ever see anyone, so it doesn't really matter. Sometimes Rontane has me in her office and gives me tests; exercises she calls them. She's the Director. They're going to reorganise the system and they want to grade us into different levels. I am to be attached to Mater 9; that is the highest level.'

'You don't say,' said Mikl and grinned. Then he dipped deep into a pocket. 'I can't imagine you've seen one of these lately.'

He produced a small tablet projector with a games console attachment. He switched it on and a black and white image flashed on to the wall in front of them. It showed a 3-D Digi-map with a familiar coastal outline, fringed by the sea, a wide river snaking up from the bay in one corner to a great fortified city that guarded a gap in the mountains. All was drawn in meticulous, artistic detail and labelled in an antique flowing hand.

The child leaned forward to appraise the map, velvet eyes sparkling.

'It's your turn, I believe,' Mikl went on, delighted at the change in his brother's face. 'I haven't touched it since the day you left. It has been waiting for you all this time.'

'Then I am moving my éored… here,' said Kerr, fingers darting across the console. 'Get out of that one, Saruman!'

They played without a break until eventually the door opened and a young man entered. He glanced disdainfully at the console and the map on the wall.

'Forgive me for interrupting your game. My name is Trent. It is time for your brother to return to his study.'

The laughter left the small face abruptly and was replaced by a mask that revealed nothing as he rose to leave. Trent took Kerr's hand and smiled at Mikl. The four hours were up.

'I feel as though I have only just arrived,' replied Mikl.

'I am sorry,' Trent repeated patiently. 'It is project policy. No student is permitted more than a monthly four hour pass for visitors, except for once a year, when a two week holiday home with the family will be actively encouraged.

'Another six months before he gets more than a half day?' returned Mikl acidly, thinking of all the questions he might, or should have asked Kerr.

'It is the policy of Standard Increase. All parents sign up for the same contract in order for their children to fully benefit from the programme.'

'How does that benefit…?' he began and bit his tongue. 'May I walk with my brother to his quarters?'

'I am sorry, that will not be possible,' replied Trent mildly with a benevolent smile. 'Now, if you don't mind taking that games console away with you when you go.' He motioned to the door and took Kerr's hand.

Mikl watched as Trent led Kerr up Foyer Main and thought how young his brother still looked behind the carefully composed mask that he seemed to have perfected since leaving Earth. They disappeared through a doorway, leaving the young man disconsolate. He wanted to go back to Drydn, to demand Kerr's immediate release; for them both to arrive home unannounced to his mother's unconcealed delight and for her to fold the little boy in her arms and hold him. And for their father to finish what he had started and finally leave them all alone. Instead he turned disconsolately down the hallway and submitted himself to the solar furnace above.

5

When the programme subjects first arrived on Gondoron, they had eagerly followed the stewards to the access dome, marvelling at the heat and the sun and the stone, in the few moments it took them to file from the shuttle landing area to the air conditioned covered walkway that led to the habitation zone. Their second surprise was that this landscape was just as quickly lost to them as they were herded into the elevator and down to the underground hive that made up the precinct of Standard Increase.

The children were instructed to be seated in a large open area at the far end of Foyer Main, that had been prepared for the purpose in order for Director Rontane to address the intake.

'Students of Standard Increase. First I want to say a warm Welcome to every one of you. You are Pioneers. You are Unique in the Federation today. This you do not know yet, but you will come to know it, for your lives have today turned a corner and changed forever. Five years ago my colleagues and I conceived this project as the Next Step in the Bio Systems Programme that will one day lay down the fundamentals for a new generation of biocomputers. Yours will be a vital and unique contribution to this new generation. You will be the paradigms, the exemplars. From your hard work will come the very networks that will create them.

'In return, you will have the best education in the Federated World for students with your very particular talents. Some of you will want to stay with Bio Sciences to give back what you have received. The others will be nurtured and schooled to be the intellectuals, the theorists, the analysts of the future. All of you will one day step up to help lead the Terran Federation into the century to come.'

Rontane paused, pleased with herself. One hundred and fifty small, awed faces were fixed upon her, concentrating as though their very survival depended on it.

'In order for this vision to become fact, the project has been very carefully designed. Certain parameters will need to be enforced for the desired outcome to be achieved. To this end, I want each of you to listen very carefully to what will be expected of you, and if at any time you are tempted to stray from these instructions, you must ask yourself, 'Do I want to fail myself and jeopardise the project?' For this will happen if you stray. But if you are obedient to the tenets of Standard Increase then everyone will succeed. And so it lies within each and every one of you to make the project live or die. I have every confidence that you will make it a success.

Most of the children had heard speeches at the Lyceum, during open days and prize-giving ceremonies. But if anyone thought that this was going to be another Alpha Lyceum, where unity and teamwork were of themselves virtues, then her words would surely disabuse them.

'Now to practicalities. This is the first and last time that we shall all meet together as a group. From here you will each be introduced to the System, the dedicated Mater complex, which will be your guide through the years to come. The Mater will be responsible for your development throughout the Project. She will quickly come to know you better than your families know you, better than you know yourselves. As you embrace her, she will nurture you to your full potential. Every need that you have will be identified and supplied by her and no other. Any mutual attachments to your fellow students will soon become superfluous. The Mater will be everything you need. As Apollonian Alphas, such singularity is already in your natures and I know that this will not be any hardship.'

One or two of the children stirred, confused by her message, but most remained steadfast, enraptured simply by her voice, which had been perfected by years of practise at moulding impressionable young minds in the child psychology section of the Psychostrategy division. Kerr watched Rontane impassively. His mother used honeyed words often, to cajole and disarm and yet still he did not know her (the mother he thought he knew would not have sent him here, surely): he knew his father better, ironic though that was. Kerr had learned from his brother's books the power of words and how they could be used. Most of these children had never known oratory and rhetoric, had never heard a Mark Antony caressing the populace, or listened with Odysseus to the sweet ruin of the Sirens' song. But even as Kerr watched and listened, he felt overwhelmed by the desire to believe and to offer himself up at the altar of Standard Increase.

The complex was underground, like every other habitable quarter on Gondoron, but shallowly sunk and all on one level and for that reason it was a complex web of corridors and interlocking rooms. At the centre were the offices of Rontane and her dozen or more senior staff, and at the centre of these was the room containing the Mater Ten, the nexus of the whole system that would govern the programming of each subject. The Machine sprawled like a great bloated spider, tuned to the slightest signals of her 9 daughters, whispering, listening, never sleeping and always vigilant. And spreading out from her capacious abdomen in widening circles were the individual subject rooms, all accessible from Foyer Main.

Kerr's room hadn't seemed so small when the Steward-Technician for his corridor, a smiling young psychologist who introduced himself as Trent, first unlocked the door and showed him inside. Big enough anyway for a rising seven year old, slight for his age and with few belongings. It was grey, metallic and functional throughout, all sharp edges and confining lines, containing nothing that had no useful purpose – a sleep level, automatically tuned to the comfort of the occupant, a narrow wardrobe, a washroom and toilet, a lucite communications console and finally the vismonitor with its twin screens, keyboard and instrumentation panel. The computer dominated the room and left space for little else.

Kerr perched on the sleep level, his feet dangling, while an orderly checked and sorted his belongings and put them away. When she was about half-way through and examining each item closely he felt suddenly gripped by anxiety. He muttered something about needing to relieve himself and darted into the washroom, still carrying the personals bag, which he had not relinquished since their arrival. Opening a faucet wide to mask any sound, he cast about him for a hiding place and lit upon a panel in the wall which appeared to cover the water pipes. A maintenance flap was located by the sink, secured by nothing more than its own weight in the recess. He eased it up with his fingers and slipped the book of Ovid and the remaining chocolate inside. When he came out the orderly was still engrossed in arranging his clothes and hardly gave him a second glance.

Presently the door opened and Trent came in again. He smiled at Kerr and spoke to the orderly, who showed him Kerr's belongings, which he began to tick off on an inventory. When the orderly had gone and all was accounted for except the personals bag, Trent held out his hand.

'Please show me the contents of the bag, Kerr.' Meekly he handed it over. Trent opened it and, removing the apple gave it back to the boy. 'Good healthy choice. You'd better make the most of it - unfortunately we have no fresh apples here. These books, I am afraid, I cannot allow you to have in your room. They will be kept for you and you may take them home when you go for a visit. While you are a student here, all your learning will come through the Mater. There will be no need for any supplementary resources.'

He crossed the floor to the Mater and flicked a switch. Both viscreens flickered into life and were instantly filled with code. Trent entered some data. Then just as quickly the code was replaced by a thousand colours that swirled their way like a sandstorm about the screens and then settled into a perfect uniformity of green. A voice came from nowhere, a warm, gentle presence, the perfect blend of kindness and wisdom. It insinuated itself into Kerr even before he heard the words and when he briefly shut his eyes he believed for a moment that he saw Zoa, or someone very like her.

'Good afternoon Kerr Avon, student number 104. My name is Mater. I am very pleased to meet you at last. I have been waiting for you for a long time.'

'Mater?' whispered the boy, barely audibly. 'But you are not my mother.'

'Indeed I am not. Your mother is far away, my child,' said the voice, registering his understanding of the Latin with the precise intonation that would have accompanied a proud smile, had the voice belonged to a human face. 'While you are here, I shall look after you. I am not your mother, but like her. Soon we shall come to know one another and then we shall be friends, you and I.'

'I shall leave you to it, Kerr,' said Trent. 'The Mater will tell you whatever you want to know and much more besides; the sooner you start talking to her the sooner she can help you settle in. When you are hungry tell her what you want and your meals will be brought to you. Your preferences have all be noted and balanced with your nutritional needs. The teaching programme will start tomorrow, but will be mainly taken up with familiarisation sessions at first. I shall come back in the morning to check the system and see how you are getting on.'

By the time the child had realised what it was he wanted to say to Trent, the door had slid closed and the lock had clicked into place.

For the longest time he sat on the bed, totally still, saying nothing. The Mater screens continued to radiate green, which fell upon the gun metal surfaces, rendering them a sickly variant of their true grey. As the minutes passed Kerr wondered how long he might have to sit in silence before the computer either spoke to him, or raised the alarm in some way, if he refused to engage.

He wondered if he was even visible to the sensors when he was not moving. The system at home was old and temperamental. It could not recognise body heat with its sensors, only movement and Kerr had often given it the slip when it suited him. Perhaps, if he sat still for long enough, this Mater would eventually give up and he would be sent home.

The back of his neck began to itch. A hand moved involuntarily as though to scratch it, but even as it did so, Kerr resisted and presently the irritation faded. Time slowed to a crawl.

The boy compensated with a deliberate and systematic scan of everything within his visual field, taking in every surface, every switch, the clinical lines of the meagre furniture, the shape of the lumens that dotted the ceiling, the hard, metallic surfaces and the absence of natural daylight. Dominating it all was the Mater, watching him watching her.

'Are you testing me, Kerr?' The Voice sounded gently mocking but not unkind as it stole its way into his thoughts. 'Do not be shy. I can see you sitting on the sleep level. There is nowhere in your quarters where I cannot see you. You look tired. It would be good for you to rest now and then eat something. When you wake we will talk again.'

Motionless and silent Kerr sat for another hour. Finally he sank down on to his back and rolled to face the wall.

6

Rontane sat at her desk and thought about her son, Adam, recently graduated with honours in political psychology from the High Lyceum University. She thought of him often in the absence of any real likelihood that she would see or speak to him in the near future, not since their dispute about the biocomputer programme in which Leana had defended her proposals with a vehemence she had come to regret. His words of condemnation still rang in her ears. How can you separate children from one another and their families and turn them into mini-computers? I don't care in the name of what damnable innovation you think you are running this project, it doesn't make it right. The Federation has no business doing this to its children and you of all people should know better than to be part of it. She was interrupted by the comm system.

'Academician Rontane,' it said metallically, 'I have Academician Leusip for you.'

'Put him through,' she replied wearily. Leusip would want to know how the intake of subjects was progressing and whether the Mater was throwing up any problems. The Mater and its subsystems had been designed, built and programmed entirely by Sen Leusip and offered for the exclusive use of Standard Increase on the sole condition that he be kept informed throughout the term of the project and consulted at regular intervals. It was the involvement of Leusip, the most highly regarded systems analyst in all the Federated worlds, which had been instrumental in getting Biosystems approval for funding and Rontane had grudgingly come to realise that although he had never set one foot on Gondoron, he couldn't have had more control over her proposals if he had written them himself.

There would be teething problems, of course. Even the most Apollonian alphas could be highly unpredictable, especially as children and, as no one could claim that personality and potential were fixed at such a young age, there was always the possibility of error in the assessment process. Moreover, anomalies in the Mater programming might arise that could not have been foreseen even by Leusip; he had been the first to say so, try as he might to build multi-factorial compensation into the system.

The boy woke, disorientated and acutely claustrophobic from a dream that had threatened to suffocate him. As he slept the lights had dimmed and now, in the near dark, he lurched out of bed and almost hit his head on something harsh and metallic that turned out to be the locker door, left open by the orderly. Even as he moved, the lumens were triggered and cast their artificial brightness across the room. At the same time the console flickered into life and regarded him clinically like a pair of great eyes from the centre of the room.

'Good morning, Kerr,' purred the Voice, its synthetic intonation precisely programmed for warmth and gentle persuasion. Kerr's gaze turned involuntarily towards the monitor, which rewarded his attention with a swirl of colour that settled into blue, an improvement on the green of the previous day, if it were possible to be sure that this was a new day, with no windows and no natural light to guide the boy's senses and inform his internal clock.

'You have slept for six hours,' the Mater continued. 'You may choose breakfast when you have washed and changed. In future you will put on your pyjamas to sleep, but you must have been tired yesterday to have forgotten.'

In spite of himself, Kerr realised how badly he wanted to eat. He had had nothing since the chocolate on the shuttle. Then he remembered the apple that was still on the desk where he had left it. He put it in his pocket and moved towards the washroom.

'Breakfast will be served shortly, Kerr,' intoned the Mater, maternal still, but firmer now, more assertive. 'If you do not tell me what you would like then I shall have to choose on your behalf.'

Let it choose. Away from the console, he triggered the door shut and perched on the water closet, holding the apple in front of him, miserably certain that it would not suffice to quell his hunger. The chocolate bar had started off as big as one of the digi-books, but after sharing it with Faroll and the girl it had been reduced by half. Kerr decided to keep the apple for more desperate times, once bitten it would not keep. He took out the remaining chocolate and, breaking off a piece no larger than his thumb, began to nibble at the corners, trying to make it last as long as he could.

'The washroom is not the place to eat, Kerr.' The voice was that of an ill-used aunt, practised in tolerance, but weary from her charge's habitual indifference to her advice.

The chocolate slab hit the wall and broke as he punched the door trigger, almost cracking the casing in his rage. Tears pricked at his long lashes as he threw himself back on the bed, refusing to face the console.

There was a long pause and then in a flat, expressionless tone, 'Passion is a form of chaos, 104,'

The substitution of the number for his name did not register. What registered was that Kerr did not understand the statement, a condition that habitually triggered the sort of obsessional anxiety that would simmer at the back of his mind, until it could be cooled by the application of understanding. In the tales of Ovid, Chaos was the primal matter that filled the void between heaven and the earth, before the gods came. How could passion be a subset of that?

She had read his thoughts it seemed. 'Any seemingly insignificant event in a system has the potential to trigger a chain reaction that will change the whole system,' stated the Mater by way of explanation. 'That phenomenon has been a fundament of systems analysis since the dawn of computer technology. But what you must learn is that your own emotions, however slight, can trigger such chain reactions and should therefore be minimised, Kerr, and in time eliminated. I shall help you to learn how and if you can do it you will be successful at Standard Increase.'

The viscreens flickered as she drove her point home, but Kerr was staring steadfastly at the grey metallic wall, a hand-span from his face, on which, had there been anyone there to see, seethed a foment of fear and rage that fought for dominance in the grief-dark eyes.

Kerr had never been a physically aggressive child, had only to access his already prodigious vocabulary to vent his frustrations. It was a facility much remarked upon by his elders. But at that moment he wanted to smash the viscreens, tearing the Mater console circuit from circuit, and eviscerating the wiring. At home, when such sudden storms had threatened him, he had ridden them out through distraction or denial, fearing the consequences of his own wrath, but much more fearful of the wrath itself. Here he was helpless, trapped; a spectator at the battle that saw his willpower at war with his feelings.

A click from the direction of the door brought the promise of human intervention. Kerr caught his breath, but did not permit himself to move, not yet. The door did not open. Instead a flap in the wall next to it dropped down to form a tray, on which presently appeared a viscous looking fruit drink and something in the shape of a large biscuit which resembled the rusks he had enjoyed at home as a very young child. Kerr ignored it for the best part of an hour before sheer hunger and growing boredom drove him to pick up the biscuit, and put it tentatively to his lips.

It smelled warmly familiar. As it crumbled into the little boy's mouth small explosions of flavour burst upon his tongue, flavour that took him home to his mother's kitchen where the domestic would be preparing the day's meals and where patience and good manners were occasionally rewarded with a treat. And further back, to a time when he was small enough to be wrapped in his mother's still strong arms and held tight.

The Mater whirled into life, a palette of cheerful colours playing over the twin screens as It registered this small but significant victory. It would not speak just yet, not until the boy had finished eating.

7

Mikl's lectures resumed the following day, after the mid year break. He had recently elected to take philosophy as an option and he found himself looking forward to the new challenge. Admittedly his choice had been influenced more than he was prepared to admit by the attributes of the young woman with whom he had previously discussed the course at the faculty bar. They had met quite by chance through Adam Rontane, a mutual acquaintance, but Mikl would later persuade himself that their encounter had been fated, whatever his brother might say.

A year or so older than him, she was not exceptionally pretty, but neither was she plain. Her hair was between blonde and brown and could have been better cared for. She made little effort to dress for others, preferring, it seemed, the casual comfort of shapeless slacks and tunic. But she had talked to Mikl of Plato and of Aeschylus and Sophocles; Of Descartes and Kant and Teague. How she had talked! And her lively green eyes and easy smile had demanded his attention, shining with her convictions and sweeping Mikl along, until he felt dizzy and helplessly infected with her enthusiasm. He determined then and there to excel at philosophy and to spend more time with Helena Kasabi.

But it had to be said that the lectures themselves were disappointing. They were arid in their intellectual verbiage and the tutors non committal in their personal beliefs. Doctrines that had toppled nations and castrated empires were subjected to the analytical reductionism of systems theory. Mikl wanted to be enthused, fired like Helena and yet he was not. Too much was always left unsaid, undebated, lest contention lead to questions that could not easily be dispelled. In the student bars it was different. Less rigorous maybe, but much, much more alive.

Helena and Mikl started going to the bar regularly after classes to deconstruct the topic of the day and air the questions they had felt unable to cast at Academician Berkin or his assistants. Often Helena's friends, of which there seemed to be an endless supply, would congregate to join in and the conversation, fuelled by cheap alcohol, would invariably turn sooner or later to dissatisfaction about the student grants, about the recent crippling hikes in taxation or about the increasingly hard line the Federation was taking with political unrest, especially since the vast increases in the Intra-Commodities Register Levy and the heavy toll this was taking on the service grades.

Mikl listened with interest. He had never visited the service grade sectors, nor mixed much even with the betas; had had no cause to. If he thought about such things at all, he had always imagined them to be not unlike the world and the people he was used to at home. The reality of shortages or poverty was as alien to him as the idea of living without real coffee; although he had long known that such conditions existed he had always assumed that they were as a result of indolence or stupidity. But at the same time he started to recall the affection he had felt towards the domestics at home and an early sense of injustice at their poor lot in life.

His thoughts turned to his brother, as they often had done since the visit. The passive acceptance on the boy's face as he was led away down the long corridor still caught in Mikl's throat and left him feeling nauseous even days later. He hated to think that Kerr's intellectual future might be deprived of the freedom to explore, to invent, even to be contentedly mistaken; that his fertile intelligence might be enchained and objectified, forced into one of Berkin's nihilistic non-entities, until his youthful creativity had nothing left to feed on but hypotheticals and circle turning.

Once, as a young boy, Mikl had been taken to the Natural History Museum. An educational visit organised by the Lyceum, it was intended to give the students an insight into what little remained of the pre-atomic life forms that had once been so abundant on Earth. A few species survived, carefully preserved in special enclosures and conditions designed to optimise their chances for the purpose of scientific study. Many had failed; the biggest cats, the pachyderms, reptiles, most of the European native mammals. But a few hung on despite the wars and global warming and the attendant losses of habitat and genetic diversity. Mikl had been struck by the sight of a lynx, once common in Southern Yuropa, its fine fur glistening, well muscled and healthy with the distinctive long ear tips; a magnificent creature. But the cat had worn a path around the edge of its pen, and, as he had watched it with the eager excitement of his friends, the animal had paused to regard him dully with a dead and impervious gaze before resuming its immutable pacing. Mikl had been seized by the urge to free the cat from its prison, even to its death, if that was what it would take to release it from its psychological chains. He had forgotten that look, but now it returned to haunt him.

8

'I was interested to notice that you have been learning Latin, Kerr,' purred the Mater in an encouraging tone designed to elicit the boy's trust. 'Few have enjoyed that particular privilege. It will be of great benefit to your capacity for analysis.'

Kerr's eyes opened abruptly as he turned to face the room and for the first time in the days since his arrival, he allowed himself overtly to survey the console. The twin monitors flickered brightly at him as he watched them with undisguised suspicion. He almost opened his mouth to reply, but then faltered.

'I commend you for your studies, Kerr,' insinuated the Mater. 'Tell me, what have you read so far?'

Slowly, in spite of himself, the boy answered. 'Caesar; Ovid; a bit of Livy and Virgil.'

'The Historians? Good. That is very good.' The Mater's voice was electronically smiling Its approval. 'Which books?'

Of all conversations, Kerr had least expected this one. 'I, I am not sure,' he stammered. 'The Gallic Wars, I think, and something about the Carthaginians.'

'We shall read them together, 104,' said the Mater with an edge to Its gentle, synthesised voice that indicated some considerable satisfaction, 'and then you shall start Greek. I think some Homer and Xenophon and later on Plato and Sophocles.'

In Kerr's dark eyes, confusion began to vie with the suspicion, while the corners of his mouth folded very slightly into a shy, but hopeful smile.

The vismonitor flickered again and this time some text appeared on a background that resembled nothing so much as a Roman legionary Standard, its eagle staring sternly and proudly back at the boy. Kerr stared at it, eyes wide; it looked real enough to put his hand out and take it.

'We shall read about The Battle of Utica today,' intoned the Mater. 'I shall help you, for not all of the vocabulary will be known to you, nor the grammar either, but you will learn quickly. Later we shall move on to some calculus.'

And that is how it began. The Mater complex found chinks in the small boy's armour and worked Its way slowly, but surely into his confidence, so that, long before he knew what was happening, he was welcoming It as a friend. To have done otherwise would have rendered him utterly alone in his grey metallic cell. But he kept the book of Ovid in its hiding place and made sure that the Mater could not see it.

In the control room Trent looked on and made notes as subject K.A. 104 began to relax a little, to eat better and to lose some of the pallor that had come with recent stress. Trent was relieved for he liked the boy, liked his strength of will and his sensitive and appealing young face; and he worried for the child too, in the light of what he knew to be happening to some of his older cohorts.

9

Professor Berkin surveyed his class distractedly as the candidates took up their semester examination papers. Of the forty odd first year students taking philosophy, he did not expect that more than two or perhaps three would startle him with their brilliance.

If only, he thought distractedly as he intoned the liturgy of rules with the precise measure of boredom that came of too many years of practise. Then he started the clock.

Alta Morag, of course, could be relied upon to succeed. Then there was Steavn Change, who was born, it seemed, to come in second at everything he did. Dependably excellent was young Steav, but not cut out to be a laureate. Although with looks like his that might not trouble him much, since looks and charm could so often achieve where brains alone could not. The historical evidence for brains without charisma was that a harder, clearer intellect could be relied upon to win out, but the owner of said intellect might not be listened to for a long time; ejected, Cassandra-like, into the wilderness from the woollen cosiness that inhabited the discourse of lesser brains.

Berkin cast his eye further down the row and it lit upon Helena Kasabi. Now there was one who might cause an upset, he mused. Her file had already been requested by Space Command during the annual review of potential recruits and were it not for her record of left wing political sympathies, then she would have been a perfect candidate for a student sponsorship. But even so, with her family credentials in the military, a future in Space Command was all but guaranteed, whether or not she achieved academically and, as things were, she would almost certainly gain a first class degree.

At last week's seminar Kasabi's critical discourse had impressed him with a turn of incisive clarity during a discussion about Teague's New Model for Civil Unity. But minutes later she had rounded on the same precepts with such anger that he had almost had to ask her to leave the room.

And as Kasabi herself would recall years later, she had been hurrying on the way to a lecture earlier that very week, just as the first of many planned demonstrations erupted down the walkway.

She had been aware of a sound like a wave, at first distant, but which began to sweep inexorably towards her from the direction of Via Yuropa, several streets away and then abruptly she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand erect. As she listened the organic sweep of sound fragmented into shouts of something between challenge and anger and the marching of determined feet. Curiosity made her pause and crane her neck to see what was going on behind her, although, even as she did so, a small voice in her head was telling her to slip out of sight down a side street and leave well alone. But before she could do anything else a surge of people rounded the corner of Caledonia Square and Palace Main and they were on her in seconds, shouting, throwing missiles and almost crushing their leaders, who were themselves attempting to move somewhat more sedately, carrying banners demanding lower taxes and increased rights.

Suddenly Helena was seized by a great desire to join them, a desire which overwhelmed any rational decision to get out of their way, to question their methods or consider the consequences.

She felt no sense of threat as the mob surrounded her amicably, pouring to either side and then engulfing her in its midst so that she could no longer see the edges, small as she was, nor make out much of anything around her except seething bodies. Instead she became dimly aware amidst the dissident voices of one that she knew and as she turned, it called her name urgently.

'Helena, over here, with me!'

Adam Rontane grinned as, with difficulty, she reached him through the shoving and pushing and he pulled her into his arms.

'Glad you could join us,' he cried raising his voice so he could be heard. 'Come on, walk with me.'

Helena stared at him incredulously.

'Adam! What are you doing… this is crazy.'

'Why not? Shouldn't we practise what we preach?' A smile, but a serious one, was spreading across his face and Helena knew he meant every word. 'All those evenings in the bar for nothing then?'

'No!' she gasped, catching her breath at last. 'No, of course not. I'm supposed to be in a tutorial in half…but hell, this is more important.'

'This is people's lives, not stuffy libraries and theorising. They're going up to Foyer Main to try to address the High Council and hand in a petition.'

Through more than twelve hundred years and one galactic and three world wars this means of political expression by the proletariat had never been bettered. The crowd slowly reached Foyer Main and came to a disorganised but determined standstill in front of the High Council Chambers. to deliver their demands, amidst Federation police officers who held them back from throwing down the barriers put there for just such a contingency. As she listened, Helena realised with a shock that she had never felt so exhilarated, so directly involved, but then as she looked around her and saw the desperation on the faces of the people she was with, she felt ashamed of her own childish excitement. For them it was real. For her, even a modicum of success at the Alpha Lyceum promised a good job in Space Command and a comfortable commission. Had she been dressed in the immaculate fashions of the Alphas and not as a dishevelled student, her welcome by the demonstrators might have been somewhat different.

When they met later, Mikl thought Helena had never looked so animated, as he listened to her account of what had happened. It was clear that she knew all of the arguments too; this was no spur of the moment impulse, even though she had not known of the demo.

'How can it be just' she expounded, 'to levy these taxes on the lower service grades which try as they might, will never contribute anything more than physical labour to the Federation coffers? And after shouldering the heaviest physical burden they'll now be forced to pay, credit for credit, the highest financial penalties in the history of the post atomic era, for the privilege of others, like us.'

And why was she even surprised at that? she laughed sardonically afterwards, once it was again safe for Mikl and Adam to draw out her humour without being rewarded with a torrent of articulate invective. It had always been thus in the whole history of man.

'But not in the history of women, I'll warrant,' returned Mikl sheepishly, with the right amount of humour in his warm green eyes to avoid a further drubbing and elicit a smile.

'And Teague is entirely to blame,' she went on, as always, driving her point home with tenacity. 'His categories have blighted the way we have been living for three centuries and fuelled Taylor and the eugenicists and both the far left and far right alike. Why must we always be Apollonians or Heartstock? This grade or that grade? Why not just people?

'Like in the pre-atomic era?' said Mikl. 'That was chaos, surely. The planet couldn't sustain itself, much less the galaxy.'

'I might have guessed you'd say that. Agreeing with Alta Morag again. She's got an answer for everything, that woman.' Helena looked so crestfallen, that Mikl wanted more than anything just to kiss her and have his words erased by the soft warmth of her mouth. Not yet maybe, but one day soon. Carefully he watched Adam to try to determine the post grad student's intentions, but drew a blank. Adam, a serious, rather mousy young man was giving nothing away, and Helena was no different towards him than towards any of her other friends, including himself, he thought sadly.

'They'll not stop at today's protest,' said Adam. 'There's a great deal more to come.'

'How do you know?'

Helena gave Mikl a hard stare. 'Meet Adam and me here at the same time a week tomorrow. There's a meeting. You'll be allowed in if you're with us. Just make sure no one else knows you're coming.'

And as for Teague and Taylor and the eugenicists, Helena was right, as usual. An afternoon with his little brother had taught Mikl just that. Whatever gifted children like him were cut out for, it surely wasn't Standard Increase. As soon as his own exams were over (a negligible part of his life that could not be avoided but had somehow to be endured), Mikl took an air shuttle home to visit his mother.

10

She looked a little better, Mikl lied to himself. He had grown accustomed to self deception, certainly, but his increasingly long absences had made it harder to be clear and there was always the necessary filter between reality and his perception of it. The filter he required to enable him to go away from home and leave his mother at all. Rationalising his feelings, he would convince himself that his presence was not required at home. Zoa was a strong woman emotionally, not one to let illness pull her down, not one even to discuss it, which always made any conversation about the future like skating on thin ice and did nothing for Mikl's attempts to reassure himself. The fact was that, according to house rules, one didn't ask Zoa detailed questions about her health. One became expert at subtly fishing for clues, and failing that, at denial.

For example a conversation might start, 'Mother, it's really good to see you! How are things?'

Zoa would answer automatically in her warmest, most dismissive tone, 'I'm very well thank-you,' and then adjust her dispassionate gaze until it settled like a guided missile on some aspect of her older son's attire or haircut, where she would ever so gently begin her assault.

'Really Mikl, do you think that is really suitable for wearing on public transport?' she would remark, brushing some dirt from his too often worn jacket. 'I shall give you some extra allowance so that you can buy new things. But tell me, how did you get on with that essay for Maehler? Do let me see his remarks…'

And the moment would have passed. Mikl hadn't the courage to challenge her directly and so would have to satisfy himself with watching her for days like a hawk, to determine what had changed, what, hopefully, had eased, what symptoms were worse.

Actually, she did look a little better today; there was less pallor in her face and more life than he could recently recall in those impervious dark eyes that perceived so much more than they would ever express. They drank tea to the music of Vaughan Williams (it was nearly always Vaughan Williams, for some reason, or Tallis; the pre-atomic English composers would never be replaced in Zoa's house) and dismembered the minutiae of student life, and his mother's smile felt more real than it had of late and less dutifully arranged. Like her eyes, Zoa's smile had been reincarnated in her younger son and in the midst of her sadness it was rare but disarming, stern and at the same time soft; well able to melt the hardest heart. Kerr and his mother had both used that smile many times to get what they wanted. Mikl knew only too well how much his own blander features matched his father's and the similarity made him loathe and resent Petr all the more.

If he was going to tackle his mother about Kerr, he would have to do it straightaway, or as with so much else, the opportunity would be lost.

'I went to see Kerr the other day. It's a long trek to Gondoron on that shuttle.'

Zoa sat up, her demeanour changed. 'How is he?'

'He's fine, in himself.' Mikl could not think what else to say. Kerr had been fine, it was simply that he had given nothing whatever away. Not that he ever did, as though that were fine in a seven year old.

'I didn't much like the set up there, Zoa.' Mikl plucked up the courage to go on. 'It didn't feel right. Outside, the place is grim, like a furnace. And in the complex it is all regimented, all rules for this and that. No play facilities and they hardly ever see any other children, or adults either for that matter. Just Kerr and his computer. It's called the Mater. I don't like it. He says that it is always watching him, all the time.'

'That is the purpose of scientific study,' said Zoa gently. 'It is part of what we signed up for in return for his education.'

'You knew about it?'

'Yes, of course.'

'And the segregation?'

She hesitated for only a second. 'That is a deliberate policy also. It is part of the Biosystems model for the children to learn complete autonomy and to link with the System. Being adapted to function in isolation from their peers is an important part of the programme.'

Mikl didn't know what to say. It was another example of the way in which the strength of his feelings separated him from his Apollonian mother, made him doubt himself before he doubted her. He had seen Kerr and what he had found had disturbed him. But his mother had been privy to all the plans, to the location and to the study parameters and she loved her son. Oh yes, she loved Kerr without question. So it must be alright. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and changed the subject.

11

Once every 12 time units, the Children of Standard Increase were given what Rontane called an interaction period, in order to talk to one another and to play. It comprised a two hour session which included physical exercise and carefully selected games, designed to foster a suitable degree of progressively objective and intellectualised social intercourse. What constituted a suitable degree had been carefully predetermined by Academician Rontane and her staff and any deviation from the required key stage would be corrected, if necessary using conservative levels of electrical stimulus to specified areas of the forebrain. The conditioning followed standard Federation procedures, using precepts long laid down by the psychostrategists, following Taylor's Model for Social Conditioning. It invariably worked on even the most recalcitrant adults and therefore Rontane expected no problems.

Each period would involve no more than twenty subjects, ten boys and ten girls, which would be changed regularly, in order to discourage bonding. Rontane had thought long and hard about the merits of this decision.

Kerr regarded the children around him. They were all looking similarly bemused, unsure how they were supposed to conduct themselves, shy in each other's presence, literally lost for words. Faroll was mooching around the edges of a ball game that one of the psychologists was attempting to begin across the room. Kerr smiled a secret, amused smile. There was little more entertaining to him than the sight of adults degrading themselves in their misdirected zeal at engaging reluctant little boys in their ideas of so called play. At the Lyceum, Kerr had begun as victim and finished up victor in many of these matches, where he made the rules and his elders tried to understand them.

Trent had apparently misunderstood the boy's smile and was even now advancing on Kerr with a soft-ball. A girl standing next to him displayed the same sense of alarm in her eyes that Kerr felt himself and rather than face Trent, he suddenly took his courage and spoke to her.

'Come on, let's get out of this.'

She replied by tossing her dark head of implausibly straight long hair and nodding, they turned away from Trent and raced back to the corner of the hall. Wrong footed, Trent wandered away to try his luck elsewhere. Perhaps this wasn't going to be so difficult after all, mused Kerr.

His courage up from the victory, he looked at the girl square on. She returned his gaze for a moment, but then turned away.

'What's your name?' The words were out there before Kerr's customary reticence could retrieve them. The girl looked at him again, neither surprised nor put out, her green eyes expressionless. She was merely indifferent.

'I don't know.'

'You don't know?'

'I never had one.'

'Oh.'

'You can call me what the Mater calls me.'

'What is that?'

'Twenty One'. Her voice was flat and void like a stone.

'Twenty One?'

'Is that all you do? Repeat what other people say like an echo?'

A disarming smile erupted on the boy's face; the only discernible feature in the emotional wasteland of the exercise hall. 'My name is Kerr.'

But if Twenty One had softened she did not show it. She merely regarded him scornfully. 'That is no sort of a name. What is your number?'

'One hundred and four,' The figures crept out doubtfully, as though thoroughly ashamed of their latest employment.

They reached the furthest part of the hall and Twenty One slid behind a large gymnasium horse, ducking down and beckoning to Kerr to follow. To his surprise, they found another boy already crouching there in hiding. If anything he was smaller than Kerr, though his pinched face had him far older and he looked skinny and malnourished, like an apology.

'Who the hell are you?' asked the girl curtly as though annoyed that he had thought of it first. Well, there's nothing like being direct, thought Kerr.

'Callum Steele.' As though it were somehow catching, Kerr could hardly bear to witness the lingering fear that had held the other boy for days longer than it should any child and now intensified its grip in his strained blue eyes.

'Well, Callum Steele, this is our place now, so if you want to stay you'll have to be very quiet and do just what I tell you, you hear me?'

'Yes, ' he replied weakly and caught his breath as though it was an effort for him.

'If we're careful they might not notice us for a while,' said Kerr. Through a gap in the side of the metal horse he caught sight of Faroll talking aimlessly to a member of staff and looking as though he would rather be almost anywhere else. 'Long enough to get out of some of these so called games at any rate.'

'To do what in the meantime?' Twenty One shot Kerr a disparaging glare.

Kerr shrugged. 'Plan our escape?'

'Yeah, right.' she retorted, the roughness in her intonation answering some small questions about her past. 'And the rest. You don't escape from places like this. Minor case of nowhere to escape to. What would you do, thumb a lift from a passing freighter?'

'Maybe.' said Kerr almost inaudibly. He knew she was right. They had all seen the industrial silos and the hangers, with the complete absence of any over-ground habitation or other cover. And then there was the heat. A cunning child might hide for weeks in those silos, but with nothing to eat or drink, the chances of anyone remaining alive for more than a day or perhaps two at the most, were remote.

His compliance did nothing to soften her tone.

'I've met your sort before,' she went on. 'You always think you know it all. Well you're wrong.' Exactly where she had met 'his sort' before, Twenty One did not reveal.

Kerr decided to ignore her and turned his attention to the boy, who regarded him wanly.

'Why do we have to do this stuff?' the older child asked nobody in particular.

Kerr hiked an eyebrow. 'Well, we're not Apollonians for nothing, are we,' he began with a knowing air, the sort of irony that in such a young voice met with no welcome from adults. 'They must think we'll forget how to talk to real people if we don't get any practise.'

Callum's breath was rasping again. 'Why would they think that?'

'Would you speak to this lot if you had a choice?' said Twenty One.

'That's not fair,' said Callum. 'I had plenty of friends before I came here.'

'Friends are such a waste of time,' snapped the girl. 'They only get into you trouble and then they leave.'

'I'm not surprised, if you talk to them like that,' said Kerr. 'And who said anything about life being fair?' he added, just as Trent's looming figure appeared above their heads.

It was weeks before the three of them were next afforded the opportunity to speak to one another.

12

Academician Rontane surveyed the figures on her desk with concern. Three months into the programme and twenty six children had already dropped out. There had been various causes, all of them good enough on their own. The anticipated percentage of parents had changed their minds almost immediately, for their own reasons and their children had left within days. One such girl, believed particularly promising, promptly lost her family in a shuttle accident and her new guardians had refused to stand the continued extra costs, however small. But these external reasons were to be predicted and had thus been factored into the budgeting and analytical forecasts, Leana told herself.

More recently, among certain of the candidates, an emerging pattern of severe behavioural anomaly had been observed. One child had started well and then become mute and stopped eating. Force feeding was eventually required to prevent self-starvation and a somewhat gruelling discussion with his parents had resulted in his going home. Rontane did not wish to repeat that experience, but she was not to be so fortunate. Several others had within twelve weeks become so disturbed that any civilian psychiatrist would have diagnosed psychosis and remanded them to juvenile psychiatric custody for further assessment. However Rontane and her colleagues, in consultation with Leusip, had themselves treated the symptoms with neuroleptics and left the children where they were. That is to say, they remained in the project until it became apparent that the sequelae to their illness and necessary medication with antipsychotics had left them incapable of further meaningful progression with the Mater. For the parents of these subjects, explanations had been made in writing and the children sent home, or more often to hospital, under medical escort. The letters, while expressing an appropriate degree of kindness and sympathy, had drawn subtle, but firm attention to the risk clauses signed by all parents during the application process.

After drop-out number twenty six had been removed to the juvenile wing on Moraine High Security Hospital planet, after an especially disturbing incident involving a great deal of blood, it had been Rontane who found herself seeking words of reassurance for Sen Leusip, as the young professor had put his head in his hands at the news and rubbed long fingers across his brow.

'The funding panel will want to know what is going on, Leana,' said Leusip wearily as he tried to smile over the viscom. 'A few breakdowns we might have expected, but nineteen? That's a total drop out rate of nearly 13 within the first semester. How am I supposed to get that past the ethics committee for next year?'

Leana valiantly marshalled her case. 'By pointing out that a few problems are necessary collateral damage and a small price to pay for the advances that will come about as a result of this project.

She paused a poignant moment. 'Hell, Sen, we are talking about the future of Federation technology here. You know perfectly well that this project could ultimately make the difference between terminal stagnation and the exponential expansion of the Biosystems model across and beyond the Federated worlds. And if Space Command does not get what it wants from us then Taylor and Preston will look elsewhere. I am not understating the facts here. But it's you who persuaded me the risk was worth taking, six years ago; you who've been persuading me ever since.'

Leusip sighed audibly and in his brown face the hooded eyes looked sadder than usual. 'Did I? Perhaps I was actually trying to persuade myself all along.' After a long pause he continued, 'Well, there's nothing to be done now except press ahead and trust that these are all the casualties we shall see.'

'Those children will recover, Sen, in time. They won't suffer any long term effects.'

'Let us hope not, Academician.'

Kerr was sprawling on his bed under the grey metallic lumens, which lit the room just enough to allow vision without eyestrain, but no more, as if there were any distinguishable features to attract attention. The sleep level, true to its design parameters, had reduced in height to suit the child's precise needs, so that his feet no longer dangled when he sat on the edge.

All that typical, spectral morning the Mater and he had been reading Cicero's De Amicitia and Kerr had felt stimulated by it, if not exactly moved. It was a challenge, like a crossword, understanding first the Latin and then the concepts. The Mater had been unobtrusive; had not tried to mother him, nor play, nor cajole and he preferred it that way. Its presence had instead been useful and informative. Later it would be the turn of physics and then an hour with Trent in the gym, neither of which he was particularly looking forward to. But at that moment, boredom was his greatest displeasure, threatening to insinuate itself like a cancer, recurring with brain-numbing predictability. Still, he resisted telling the Mater that he wanted more to do, for he was reluctant to do anything that openly displayed any kind of dependence on the machine. He thought about the book of Ovid, hidden in the washroom, and almost fetched it out. On several occasions he had nearly done so, once in a fit of pique, and the rest more in hope of showing his independence than in optimism, as though to test the reality of this Mater which wanted to be like his mother and yet more so. But the price of failure would be too high. So instead he thought about ways in which he could test the Mater's powers of observation.

Over several weeks he had already begun to affect small, deliberate acts of clumsiness, by dropping insignificant items on the floor, or behind other objects, and so he hoped to build up a map in his mind of any small flaws within the Mater's field of scrutiny. Flaws that he might later exploit. In the bedroom there was little or no useful space that the computer could not detect. In the bathroom, smaller in size but more simply designed, he found a little more scope for deception and this he determined to maximise. As he had noticed from the first day when he had inadvertently found a hiding place for the book, it was apparent that the area directly below the faucet was out of range of the detectors and this, as he had suspected, gave him access to the recess without being seen. The one problem he faced appeared to be how he was going to find a place where he could sit without arousing suspicion, even supposing he found a way to hold the book without its being noticed. He would have to practise with other objects, make the Mater believe that sitting still for long periods apparently without purpose and in odd corners was a harmless activity, not indicative that anything was the matter or required recording and was, moreover, something that he did often.

In the meantime the dreams had been growing worse, more nightmarish and more bizarre. Often they would merge into his waking, leaving him disoriented, vulnerable to the Mater's more insidious incursions into his conscious efforts to keep her detached. Once or twice he woke to soaking sheets and tearstained pillow, woke to realise he was speaking not the machine's name, but his mother's. He was shamed and humiliated. And the orderlies would not come in, would not give him a scolding, much less the chance of a surrogate hug or a kind word, but instead, clean sheets and pyjamas would appear at the hatch and the Mater would calmly, clinically instruct him in their exchange.

And so on that particular morning, after one of the most disturbed nights he had had since his arrival, Kerr felt as close as he had ever done to risking being found out. In the break after the mid-day meal he got up and went into the bathroom. Closing the door he quickly removed the book from its hiding place and slipped it under his clothes. It could stay there as long as necessary while he worked out a way to read it unseen. Just having it next to his skin made him feel less empty and more purposeful.

In the end he carried it about like that for several hours over the next few time units, only putting it back when the Mater instructed him to change his clothes. Eventually he crawled with it into the recess under his desk and sat cross legged, making himself as small and silent as he could.

He knew it was a safe place, if a little on the dark side; safe anyway from the visual detectors. This he had verified on the occasion when he had let a sock fall under there and then asked the Mater where it was. The computer had replied in artificially supercilious tones that it was not for her to run around after his underwear, but when he had pushed the matter it had conceded that it had no data. It also taught him that when push came to shove the Mater was incapable of fabrication. Instead, when he had been sitting under the desk for several minutes, the Mater invited him in plaintive tones to tell it what he was doing and Kerr felt suddenly victorious, for clearly, by having to ask, it had given away that it could not see him.

The book felt odd in his hand. It smelled old and musty. The pages threatened to rustle when he turned them, which made him even more cautious. Everything about it looked manufactured, with not a megabyte nor a digi-font in sight.

All 12000 lines of the Metamorphoses were there, with notes and explanations on translation and on the myths. And, in places amidst the text, there were annotations in a small, elegant hand that he knew to be his mother's. Some passages were evidently favourites, he decided, from the density of her handwriting and these he poured over as if to access something hitherto unknown, some vital clue to his mother's youth. Book eight was especially well thumbed and slowly Kerr read the Latin under his breath, trying to remember the rhythm as Mikl had taught him.

'Creverat obprobrium generis, foedumque patebat

matris adulterium monstri novitate biformis;

destinat hunc Minos thalamo removere pudorem

multiplicique domo caecisque includere tectis.

Then he began falteringly to translate;

The family disgrace had become widespread and the mother's foul adultery

was clear to all with this new hybrid monster;

Minos determined to remove this thing from his home

and to hide it amidst the blind alleys of a labyrinth for a house.'

'Kerr; K.A. 104' a coaxing voice interrupted. 'It is time to start two hours of physics, 104. You will return to your desk and view the console.'

Daedalus ingenio fabrae celeberrimus artis

ponit opus turbatque notas et lumina flexum

ducit in errorem variarum ambage viarum.

Daedalus, a man most celebrated for his architecture's art,

Was placed in charge and he mixed up the usual routes in a conflicting maze of diverse winding paths…

'104, you will return to the console.' The boy scowled. There was little point in refusing. The Mater had begun to find subtle physical ways to dissuade Kerr from disengaging which were at best uncomfortable. At worst they made him feel ill. At home his father would capriciously withhold promised treats or impose small punishments without telling his son why and Kerr was left to try to understand the reasoning, if there was any, on his own account. This he was used to. It made life confusing but interesting.

13

Later that same day was gym and Kerr's first swimming lesson. Apart from the relief of getting out of his cell, as he had come to call it, it meant that he spent time with Trent, whom he liked in spite of himself.

It wasn't simply that Trent was the only human with whom he could claim any relationship in his present circumstance, though that was true enough. But the young man was open, offered generous, unconditional praise and more importantly when he smiled, he meant it, all of which felt refreshingly new and intoxicatingly seductive to the child.

Physical exercise, which Kerr had never particularly rated except in the ulterior gains it brought, had begun to be more satisfying than he had known it in the past. However he had not yet learned to swim. His father never had the time, so he said, and Zoa disliked the water, though swimming might have done her good. Mikl was rarely at home the last couple of years and what time they had was too precious for such things. And so this was his first time. People had spoken positively of the pleasures of moving through water, had told Kerr how much he would enjoy it when the time came and how natural it would feel. Physical confidence came easily to Kerr and so he expected to find it simple enough.

The instructor was not Trent unfortunately, but an older man, silent except for his barked directions; At first it had been fine, entering the warm water in the shallows; a little deeper with each step until he found that he could float. Soon he was beginning to enjoy himself and then he was swimming, a few intuitive strokes at first and then more, until they became almost automatic.

Then half an hour into the lesson, the instructor ordered him abruptly out of the water and flicked a switch.

'In a moment you will enter the water head first. The pool has just been super-saturated with oxygen and you will remain under the surface until I tell you to come up. You will be able to breathe naturally underwater, do you understand?'

A terrified silence brokered more than any 'yes' could have done. The boy understood only too well; it was belief that was at that moment defeating him.

'The oxygen level in the water has been raised to a degree that enables humans to breathe it underwater, straight into their lungs. Just imagine that you are breathing normally in air.'

Before Kerr had a chance to protest or move away, he felt strong hands grasp him round his waist and the next thing he knew he hit deep water at speed and was under the surface, terrified for his life.

'Now breathe!' he heard from above as the instructor joined him in the pool. His mouth opened involuntarily and water poured into his lungs. Panic stricken, thrashing wildly like a wounded animal, instinct took over and he strove upwards, but strong hands pushed and held him down again as the focus of his terror found its mark and ripped through him and Kerr knew with a crushing, sickening certainty that he was about to die.

'Breathe!' the instructor insisted.

And then he breathed and lived.

Slowly, even there in the water, blind panic at the seeming paradox slowly surrendered to rational thought. The boy was not drowning, therefore it was an immutable fact that he must be absorbing oxygen. And the only place that was coming from was the water. Therefore he was breathing the oxygen in the water. Seconds and minutes felt like hours, before he was permitted to surface, coughing, blinking back hot, furious tears mixed with water and choking the last molecules of H²O from his lungs as he gasped for pure air.

The instructor's bark softened momentarily to a low growl. 'Good. You're tougher than you look. If you can do that, there is nothing you cannot achieve in the water.'

But as Kerr recovered from his panic in time to turn a volcanic glare on the man, the grizzled instructor was positively unsettled by the molten hostility that emanated between them. No one, not even his father, had betrayed the boy's trust like that in all his meagre seven years and there was nothing that scared Kerr more than fear itself. From then on, this man would receive not a jot of ready cooperation from the boy.

And that very day, a rather singular day of mythology and physics and near drowning, was indeed, had Kerr any means of knowing it, his seventh birthday. And Standard Increase's gift to Kerr was that the negligible list of potentials that might have made it more tolerable had just been made shorter by one item. 14

Mikl's latest questions about Teague and his influence on Taylor had ended in a kiss. This he had long hoped and prayed for to any gods that might just possibly be out there. But expected? No, not at all. He and Helena had just been arguing yet again about the merits or otherwise of Teague's categorisations, and as usual Mikl had lost. So he had decided not to fight anymore, to let his natural feelings hold sway over his judgement and in the end he felt grateful, cured of a doctrine that he was beginning now to realise had in any case never really been his. He was after all one of its Heartstock progeny, when all was said and done, manipulated from his parents' genes as carefully as his little brother's singularly Apollonian nature had been. Helena had nodded and without warning suddenly folded him into her arms.

'What was that for?' he enquired, breathless, when they had finished.

'For seeing the light,' she said smiling. 'Maybe the purchase price to get you to attend the next meeting.'

'I'd have come anyway,' Mikl tried to return casually, his heart bursting in his chest. 'But don't let that put you off.'

'Really?' She paused and cradled his face in her hand. 'Perhaps. Though I'm not sure whether I have you down as the rebellious type.'

'I'm crushed,' he retorted. 'What does one do to convince you?' he put his mouth to hers again, but Helena gently pushed him away.

'Nothing, and especially not that,' she smiled. 'But one does not learn subversion, one has to be born with it.'

'I thought anything could be conditioned these days. If not, then I'm lost,' laughed Mikl sadly, thinking of his mother. Helena had heard all about her and guessed his thoughts.

'She doesn't approve of you, does she?'

'In general no. My brother's her golden boy. He'll be the achiever. I never could manage to do what she wanted.'

Helena grinned. 'Then you're already a rebel. What about your father?'

'Petr? He doesn't give a damn.'

'And your brother?'

'Kerr's only seven, but everyone adores him and he's a prodigy as far as the Lyceum is concerned. He'll do something amazing one day when he's older. Although…'

'What?' Helena questioned him with her far too seductive green eyes.

'My parents have sent him to this institution, on a planet called Gondoron, for gifted Apollonian children. Standard Increase it's called. I visited him last month and I don't like it there at all. It gave me a bad feeling. I tried to tell my mother, but she cant go and check it out, she's too ill for space flight. But there's something strange about that place and the way they treat the children.'

He filled Helena in on the regime, its cool, clinical approach; on the supremacy of the Mater and the absence of human warmth and companionship; on the searing heat that covered everything. She was frankly and openly horrified.

'My god, Mikl, can't you see what they're doing? It's Teague and Taylor all over again. I bet it's got Preston's Mandate written all over it. What was it the Jesuits used to say? Give me a child at seven? Catch the really bright ones when they're young and condition them so they can't be any trouble when they're older. I can't believe they would do that to a bunch of small children.'

She was right, Mikl thought. It had taken Helena Kasabi to crystallise his thoughts into belief and tell him what his heart already knew. And even as the shutters that had kept him from the truth were blown open, he realised all at once that he knew where his belief lay, had long known, and it was not with his mother. Nor was it with Berkin and his cronies. Taylor's treatise on Applied Brain Research had led to the monstrous proposals that Preston had put forward just ten years earlier, in his Psychotherapeutic Mandate. It sanctioned mass biochemical therapy as a preventative against social deviancy and when all was said and done, how far removed from that was Standard Increase? When the appalled reaction from the High Council liberals had got the people right behind them, Preston had officially been sidelined, or so the viscasts had it. But Kasabi was not so sure that Preston had been quite as sidelined as the people were encouraged to believe. Standard Increase sounded like just another plant for Federation mind processing, only it would be so much easier with impressionable young minds.

Fury caught Mikl in his throat as he wondered when he would have saved enough credits to visit again. Then it occurred to him that getting a job might be the simplest solution.

And so it was that Mikl found himself doing menial work out of hours at a local components plant near his student digs.

15

Kerr's experience in the swimming pool led to behaviours that both alarmed and surprised Trent. For several days he lay on the bed, not sleeping, but refusing to engage with the Mater, ignoring all attempts to rouse him using electrical or other physiological stimuli, not speaking or eating or even drinking. On the fourth day, the Mater's complex physiological interface registered a sudden and dramatic rise in the boy's core temperature. Trent intervened and Kerr was immediately removed to the infirmary, where the Medtechs diagnosed a bacterial infection. Even as the test results were being confirmed, the infirmary began to fill up with more casualties. Finally eighteen children had been admitted before the pool was identified as the source of the problem and immediately shut down.

The infirmary was bright, cool and comfortable and the close company of others for the first time in months ensured that none of its occupants were in any hurry to leave. The Medtechs were in sympathy with their small charges and, once the pool had been closed and the stream of new admissions had come to a halt, they were in no rush to empty the beds and send eighteen seven year olds back to solitary confinement.

For the first time in his life Kerr found that he was enjoying the company of other children. Though he said little to the girl in the bed next to his, he found that he rather liked just having her nearby. The tender ministrations of the staff reminded him of the time when he had contracted influenza and his mother had personally devoted a whole week to his beside, while his temperature remained dangerously high. Now he was more than reluctant to return to the metal cage that was no substitute for home. Despite his fever, the nightmares had diminished and he was sleeping better than he had since his arrival on Gondoron.

On the second day Callum Steele was admitted to the infirmary and he was fighting for his life.

Through the isolation room window, Kerr watched Callum struggling for each breath, his thin little body writhing with the effort. Twice the Medtechs rushed in and applied electricity to his chest amid general expressions of hushed concern. Kerr was afraid for him. Now Callum seemed quieter, but the oxygen mask had still not been removed and Kerr knew that for him the fever risked something much worse than for any of the others. So he watched him closely through the window, and when Callum raised his head and seemed able to look about him for the first time, Kerr caught his eye and smiled.

One of the Medtechs, an older woman with a kind face, noticed the two boys as they silently communicated through the glass and came over to Kerr.

'Cal's asthmatic, you know, but I expect you guessed that already.' She reached down and picked up Kerr's chart and then bent over to take his temperature. 'Open wide.' Warming the thermometer in her hand, she inserted it gently under his tongue.

'Mmm, better,' she mused as she took a reading and scrutinised his face, which looked tired and altogether too haunted for her liking. 'But not better enough.' She grinned and winked at him. 'You still look peaky to me. Not contagious, but not well enough to go back to your studies. That lad next door needs some company to help him pick up, but he's not strong enough to be on the open ward. I'll see what I can do to get your bed moved in there next to his, shall I?'

She disappeared into the office and Kerr waited for several minutes before she returned with a senior colleague, who studied his chart.

'Very well,' he agreed. 'Just for a few days until 73 is well enough to leave isolation.'

Years later, far into his adulthood and half way across the galaxy, Kerr Avon would think back to that week in the isolation room with Callum Steele. For two days Cal could not speak through the oxygen mask, but they had little need for conversation. The kindly Medtech provided a scrounged digipad and pen and with them, he and Cal swapped many messages, jokes and puzzles. When, finally, the supplementary oxygen was no longer deemed a necessity, it was with a renewed shyness, but as firm friends, that the two boys were reacquainted from the first day they met behind the horse in the gym. And for the first time in his life Kerr found that he was not lost for words when called upon to make small talk with one of his peers. He merely continued where the digipad had left off. He joked about the Medtechs, the food and the bedpans. He and Cal laughed as they swapped anecdotes about Trent and the orderlies and they invented complex word and number games that the Medtechs could not understand. Cal's vocabulary was not as extensive as Kerr's, but he had a facility with anagrams and expertly introduced Kerr to the unsurpassed joy of composing his first cryptic crossword. But of the Mater and its methods, of their lessons and the sullen, alloyed coldness of their quarters they did not speak.

When Callum was taken off isolation, Kerr, long recovered, had to go back to his room.

The Mater greeted him with its carefully honed conviviality, undoing the generous warmth of the last seven days and injecting its own tiny shard of ice into the boy. Immediately it began working its way inwards. And when it reached the part of him that could recall his mother's love and his brother's affection, it implanted itself there and would not be melted, but went to work with clinical precision. 'You'll always be alone,' it projected to him in cold, persuasive tones as it took hold and started to grow. 'Why would you want anything different?'

That night he dreamed he was encased within a dome made of glass, clear but distorting, like a concave lens. Outside he could see the faces of Mikl and his parents, but they were thin and stretched and out of reach. Their mouths kept forming words to speak to him, but he could hear nothing except the deliberate, carefully modulated tones of the Mater speaking the words like a mantra; Passion is a form of chaos, 104.

16

Twenty four hours was the notice Kerr was given for Mikl's visit. A cloudburst of emotion at the news thundered uproariously for his attention, from waves of joy, to yearning, to stomach clenching anxiety and small needle pricks of envy. And then abruptly, like the flicking of a switch, they were gone and Kerr was left with nothing.

'Your brother is coming to see you, K. A. 104. You have been granted a four hour pass.'

Had the softly painted, opaque tones become marbled with jealousy? Of course not, he told himself. The Mater was, after all, just a machine. Kerr flinched.

Trent led him to the visitors' room like a lamb to the slaughter.

When Mikl first walked in he was all smiles. Slowly Kerr lifted his gaze to look at his brother, now almost a man; broader in the chest, his voice deeper, a small but visible trace of down on his chin. Six months had wrought years of change in him. Kerr instantly saw his father in the hazel eyes and sandy hair and in the easy confidence of his bearing. But this young man, Kerr barely knew and the moment was like a bereavement in him. Then, even as the boy shyly reciprocated the smile, searching his older brother's face for the easy playfulness that was the bond between them, Mikl's own smile faded and they was staring at each other in silence. The seven year old baulked in alarm. Suddenly Kerr needed very badly just to get it right, whatever it was. But somewhere, far beneath his consciousness, that defined the problem. Kerr had simply never known what it was and nor did anyone ever seem willing or able to tell him.

'How is Zoa?' This Kerr needed to know more than anything.

'She's fine, really well. She told me that she saw her physician last week and he is very pleased with her progress.' Kerr stiffened. He had always been able to tell when his brother was dissembling, but the courage to challenge Mikl had deserted him.

'Have you been reading the Ovid?' Mikl was smiling again. A wave of relief at the return of safe territory elicited a wolfish grin in return.

'Oh yes, but I have to hide it; we're not allowed to read anything not provided through the computer. They'll never find it though, as long as I keep it safe from Mater.'

'From Mater?' Mikl's face was incredulous and again Kerr felt his safety zone slipping just out of reach.

'The Central Computer. She sees everything, except for that. I've found the one place in my room that the scanners can't access. They think she can see everywhere, but she can't. And her sensors can't detect paper books.'

'She? You talk as though she is a person.'

'It.' Confused and then embarrassed, Kerr chided himself for the slip, couldn't account for it.

'Well now.' Concern was in Mikl's eyes now, his face grown pale in the artificial light. 'It sounds as though you have been in need of some light entertainment. It's a good thing I put it in.'

'You?' The emotional scaffold of the past six months suffered another severe blow at its critical centre of gravity. Something deep inside Kerr shifted and then fractured.

'Yes, of course. I slipped it in as you were leaving. Did you think it was -?' A look of clear regret crossed the older boy's face as he leaned over to claim his little brother's hand. 'Ah. It had her name inside, didn't it?'

'I really thought she had. I should have guessed she wouldn't have done a thing like that.' The words sounded distant in Kerr's ears, their voice not his own.

And so he welcomed the Mater's cool otherness as a refuge. Even through their game it sheltered him and, when Trent returned, he gratefully felt it close round him like a shield. A frost had taken hold and the web of Standard Increase glistened; proud of the incalculable, tensile strength in its silken threads. The Mater had him wrapped securely in triumphant bonds and was now more than ever reluctant to share its captive or to own up to the world outside and family ties to small boys.

End of Part One

Ovid, Metamorphoses 1, 5-7

Gondor (Quenya): 'Land of stone' (J.R.R.Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings).

Laelius de Amicitia; Laelius on Frendship, Cicero, 44 B.C.

Ovid Metam. VIII 155-161