Context (Nulapeiron 2) [Hardcover]

Context is a direct sequel to John Meaney's well-received SF novel Paradox, whose hero Tom Corcorigan sparked an impossible revolution in the teeming underground regimes of planet Nulapeiron. What next?

Tom's ingenious, paradoxical insight was how to short-circuit the ruling "Oracles" whose knowledge of unchangeable future facts held Nulapeiron frozen in slavery and stasis. Now it's AD 3418, and after that partly successful revolution, the logic of paradox rebounds on Tom. His lady love dies or seems to die, yet a Seer shows him a future in which he rescues her. His new path is shaped by the need to make this vision possible.

Meanwhile, an unpleasant force called the Dark Fire or Blight is grabbing power in one subterranean community after another. Initiates become non-people who work and fight with eerily perfect synchronisation. "They're part of the Blight, just components, and that means they're no longer human." Following his personal quest through the wonders and dangers of Nulapeiron's exotic deeps, Tom keeps colliding with the machinations of the Blight.

An alternate storyline in the far past, AD 2142, follows the early life of Ro--the first human Pilot to be born adapted for vision and flight in "mu-space". (Her mother Karyn's story formed a similar strand in Paradox.) This is partly a murder mystery featuring multiple assassins, a cryptic dying message, and the intriguing alien Zajinets from Beta Draconis 3 who know more about mu-space than they're letting on. Ro's father, lost in that strange continuum, may have become a kind of god...

Besides violence, battle, torture, martial-arts extravaganzas and nanotechnology, Context is pervaded by webs of mysticism. There seems to be another, more sinister man-made god behind the Dark Fire. A blue fire is central to the mystery of the Oracles--not to mention the Zajinets--and when Tom himself touched by this fire, the effects are awesome.

This is a big, demanding, compelling novel, full of rewarding complexities and alive with that quantum strangeness where hard science intersects with the unknowable. A third Nulapeiron volume is promised: Resolution. --David Langford

'John Meaney is one of the rising stars of British SF. CONTEXT is a rewarding novel...rich, often dark, deeply seamed' --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

'A worthy follow-up to PARADOX' --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

'A hard-hitting action-packed sequel...all the attributes one would expect from a first-class fantasy novel' --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

Returning to the extraordinarily-imagined subterranean world of Nupaleiron, John Meaney's new novel continues the story of Tom Corcorigan - the one-armed revolutionary, peace-maker and holder of the key to understanding the true nature and significance of mu-space. The concluding pages of Paradox found Tom forcing the two warring factions to recognise the destructiveness of their two opposing paths. Physically, emotionally and spiritually drained - all Tom craves is to be able to return to the simplicity of the life he'd found in the lower strata. But Tom is now a legend, and when unforseen forces threaten to shatter Nulapeiron's fragile peace, it is time for legends to be reborn...John Meaney burst on to the SF scene with his ground-breaking debut novel TO HOLD INFINITY. With PARADOX, he more than fulfilled that promise. Now with this thrilling sequel to that daring and complex second book, he confirms his place at the very forefront of science fiction in the 21st century.

Nulapeiron: a world isolated for twelve centuries. Its billions of inhabitants occupy subterranean strata, ruled by a logosophically trained aristocracy of Lords and Ladies whose power base is upheld by Oracles. But revolution has touched all of its many cultures -- failing in its intent, yet changing everything.

Now Lord Tom Corcorigan -- the commoner-turned-noble who renounced his power,the poet, logosopher and holder of the key to understanding the myriad wonders of mu-space, the legendary one-armed warrior, former revolutionary and would-be peacemaker - lies fatally wounded. His survival is dependent on his meeting with a mysterious Seer whose spacetime-warping talents transcend the merely Oracular. It is a confrontation that will result in bitter tragedy and loss. Can the woman he loves be truly dead, or can quantum mysteries lie beyond the grave?

Turning his back on a society sliding once more into anarchy and chaos, a disillusioned and despairing Tom wanders this strange, stratified world in search of meaning, love and his own salvation. But it seems Nulapeiron is threatened by a vast, insidious and terrifying enemy whose origins may lie beyond their world, beyond their understanding. And now is the time for legends to be reborn . . .

Sequel to the acclaimed Paradox and the second book in the Nulapeiron Sequence, Context is a thrilling, daring and complex novel that confirms John Meaney as one of British science fiction's most original and exciting practitioners.

John Meaney is a black belt in Shotokan karate and works in IT. His first novel, TO HOLD INFINITY, was published by Bantam in 1998 to sensational reviews and was shortlisted for the BSFA Award. His second novel is PARADOX.

NULAPEIRON ad 3418
This was the view from inside the long passenger cabin: glowing orange mists, redolent with inner fires, which billowed and swirled beyond the clear membranous hull. In dark gaps amid the pulsing orange vapours, glimpses of cavern ceiling high above, of rock-strewn floor below.
On distant walls, black teardrop shapes hung, their strong tendrils splayed against the raw, cold stone. They were armoured arachnabugs: military-grade, single-occupant, and armed.
The passenger-transport was a long shuttle-bug, currently holding still, poised at the vast cavern's exact centre. For security scans? None of the passengers seemed worried.
'Why we did stopped?' A child's voice, plaintive.
A lurch, and the long shuttle-bug slid forwards along its longitudinal filament, thread-like braids flowing across the hull. Adults laughed, and the child gave a gap-toothed grin.
Tom was slumped in the soft seat, and his pale skin was etched with unvoiced suffering. Unseen beneath his dark trews, amber gel - sprinkled with healing silver motes - encased his left thigh.
Above them, on the cabin's furry ceiling, big purple servolice crawled, offering snacks. One paused overhead, but Elva, beside Tom, waved the thing on. Few passengers wanted refreshment; they were nearing journey's end. The plush cabin was filled with bright excitement at entering a new realm, or the sweet pleasure of returning home: many people, recently, had been granted wander-leave for the first time in their lives.
But in Tom's injured leg, dark pain crouched like a venomous spider.
'Are you OK, my- Tom?' Elva looked concerned.
Don't call me Lord. His rank meant nothing now.
But he said only: 'I'm fine.'
It was a lie. His leg wound was serious, maybe mortal, but pure agony defined his missing left arm. In the thirteen Standard Years since it had been severed, never had the nonexistent limb burned more painfully than now.
'Good security.' Elva stared out at the unbreathable orange vapour.
Always the tactician. Years ago, Tom had learned to count on her.
Then the glowing clouds were gone, and polished walls were sliding past, tessellated with intricate square-patterned mosaics in bright primary hues. Crystal and bronze sculptures stood in white-lit alcoves.
A huge platform, of pale marble with pale grey swirls, drew close. At its rear stood ornate high archways filled with shimmering scanfields: entrances to the rich, fabled realm which lay beyond.
The shuttle-bug whispered into position, and docked.
And as the transport's doors dissolved open, a long row of mirrormasked soldiers in tan capes hoisted shining grasers, snapped bootheels together, coming to sharp attention.

Huge holos glimmered into being above the exit arches:

*** WELCOME, HONOURED GUESTS ***
*** TO THE ***
*** AURINEATE GRAND'AUME ***

Alongside the disembarking passengers, soldiers - uniformly tall - remained unmoving at strict attention. Watching, from behind their faceless mirrormasks.
'Tasteless.' Elva nodded towards the giant holos, then handed Tom his cane.
But Tom knew her trained awareness was centred upon the soldiers, evaluating the threat. Tom drew his cloak close, limped slowly towards the shimmerfields.
Were there always troops to greet new arrivals? Or was there conflict nearby?
Other passengers streamed past, rushing for the exits. Floating mesodrones bore their luggage; but everything Tom and Elva owned fitted into the one small bag she carried.
'Ahem.' Elva cleared her throat.
Up ahead, near the shimmerfields, stood a slender woman robed in black. Decorative fronds sprouted cowl-like from her collar - black, in contrast to her triangular, bone-white features - moving slowly, as if stirred by unfelt breezes. Black cuffs trailed to the floor.
A bronze microdrone hung above each shoulder. Behind her stood an honour guard of twelve soldiers: bare-headed, stone-faced, formal scimitars fastened across their backs.
'I see her,' murmured Tom.
They had wanted neither fuss nor ceremony. Had thought that, in the Aurineate Grand'aume - one of the few major realms with neither Lords nor Ladies - they could arrive incognito.
'It's all right,' said Elva. 'No-one else cares.'
A tight grin stretched momentarily across Tom's face. She was right: they were anonymous travellers, unnoticed amid the crowd.
They headed towards the waiting woman.

*** INDEPENDENCE & COMMITMENT ***

Another holo shone its greeting.

'Let's hope their medicine' - Tom stopped, pointed at the holo with his cane - 'has more class than their advertising.'
Elva looked away. It was nothing she could joke about. Inside Tom's infected leg, a colony of femtocytes was growing. Engineered pseudatoms, replicating fast, threatened to phase-shift into action and dismantle his cells.
If the Grand'aume's medics were not as advanced as their reputation suggested, then Tom would very shortly die a quick but agonizing death.

The black-robed woman curtsied.
'I am Nirilya.' She spoke in accented Nov'glin. 'Your guide, Lord Corcorigan.'
Tom appreciated her effort: speaking his native tongue.
Beyond the marble platform, the floor was purple glass, the exact colour of orthoplum wine. On it, the twelve-strong honour guard stood to attention. Overhead, near the gilded ceiling, rosy glowglobes floated.
'And you' - Nirilya's tone was cold - 'must be Captain Elva Strelsthorm.'
Elva's hands tightened into half-fists, then relaxed. Such stark words, in another place, would have borne grave insult. Had Elva been noble-born, they would constitute a death-duel challenge. But this was another culture, and Nirilya was not speaking her own language; they would have to make allowances.
Nirilya was staring at Tom: another breach of protocol.
'If you'll permit me' - she gestured towards the purple glass floor - 'my Lord.'
It rippled.
A deformity spread across the floor. Then a two-metre swelling grew, morphed into a lev-chair, and detached itself with a gentle pop. It slid towards Tom.
He glanced at Elva, then surrendered, and eased himself inside the chair.
Fate . . .
A spasm shook his leg, and he briefly closed his eyes.
'Are you-?'
'Let's go.'
The chair rose. Inside, Tom tried to relax.
He was twenty-nine Standard Years of age, athlete and warrior, but he felt like an old, old man.