Context (Nulapeiron Sequence Series #2)


Nulapeiron: a world isolated for twelve centuries. Its billions of inhabitants occupy subterranean strata, ruled by a 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 ...

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Context: Book II of the Nulapeiron Sequence (Bk. 2)

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Nulapeiron: a world isolated for twelve centuries. Its billions of inhabitants occupy subterranean strata, ruled by a 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.

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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
The Barnes & Noble Review
Science fiction fans looking for the next big genre classic need look no further than the Nulapeiron Sequence, a highly cerebral sci-fi trilogy by British author John Meaney that has been (deservedly) compared to Frank Herbert's epic masterwork, Dune.

Tom Corcorigan (Meaney's answer to Paul Muad'Dib) is an impoverished youth living on one of the lower -- and poorer -- strata of Nulapeiron, a massive planet with a breathtakingly complex subterranean society. When fate intervenes, he is given the chance to topple an unjust system in which an elite few have abused the masses for countless generations. But with revolution imminent -- and a mysterious Blight threatening the planet's 10 billion-plus populace -- the legendary one-armed warrior, Corcorigan, turns his back on the quickly degenerating society and goes in search of lost love. What he finds wandering the dark and twisting pathways of Nulapeiron is spiritual enlightenment, personal salvation, and bloody retribution.

Meaney's Nulapeiron Sequence (Paradox, Context, and the forthcoming Resolution) is a landmark work for multiple reasons: 1) Unparalleled world building: The world of Nulapeiron is one of the most vividly described and utterly unique realms ever imagined in the history of science fiction; 2) Plot density: Like Nulapeiron's multi-leveled society, the story of Tom Corcorigan has innumerable layers, dozens of secondary themes, and subplots; and 3) Readability: Fans of hard science fiction will not be able to put this sweeping and thought-provoking saga down. Although there are no sandworms or spice on Nulapeiron, readers will inevitably compare this unforgettable epic with Frank Herbert's classic. Paul Goat Allen
Publishers Weekly
Replete with thought-provoking ruminations on the nature of space and time, Meaney's second Nulapeiron book (after Paradox) follows Tom Corcorigan as the logosopher and one-armed warrior, now a lord, seeks an antidote for the femtocyte toxins that are slowly killing him. Tom and his chief of security and future inamorata, Capt. Elva Strelsthorm, meet with the mysterious Seer, whose projected visions force Elva to download her personality (and the Seer's all-important information) to a twin sister. Aided by a vision from the Seer, Tom determines to recover Elva in a single-minded quest that's threatened by the invasion of the vicious, alien Dark Fire. While readers may find the personal stories of the characters more accessible than the almost overly detailed realm of Nulapeiron, they should enjoy the exquisite world building of this ambitious SF epic. Agent, John Parker at MBA Literary Agents. (Oct.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781591023357
  • Publisher: Prometheus Books
  • Publication date: 10/28/2005
  • Series: Nulapeiron Sequence Series , #2
  • Pages: 551
  • Product dimensions: 6.30 (w) x 9.30 (h) x 1.76 (d)

Meet the Author

John Meaney is the author of four novels—To Hold Infinity, Paradox, Context, and Resolution, the latter three titles comprising his critically-acclaimed Nulapeiron Sequence. He also has numerous short-fiction publication credits. His novelette "Sharp Tang" was short-listed for the British Science Fiction Association Award in 1995. His novella "The Whisper of Disks" was included in the 2003 edition of The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Twentieth Annual Collection, edited by Gardner Dozois. His novella "The Swastika Bomb" was reprinted in The Best Short Science Fiction Novels of the Year (2004), edited by Jonathan Strahan. His story "Diva’s Bones" was reprinted in The Year’s Best Fantasy 5, edited by David G. Hartwell and Kathryn Cramer. Meaney has a degree in physics and computer science, and holds a black belt in Shotokan Karate. He lives in England. Visit his website at
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Read an Excerpt


Prometheus Books
Copyright © 2005

John Meaney
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-59102-335-7

Chapter One 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:


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.


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.

It was a rich realm. They passed through corridors of solid sapphire; tunnels of stone carved with microscopic intricacy, lit by familiar fluorofungus upon the ceilings. Walls were panelled in milky jade, or polished granite across which ALife mandelbroten pulsed.

Surrounded by the honour guard, Tom's chair skimmed across the floor. Nirilya and Elva walked side by side, like old friends; only the tension in Elva's shoulders indicated otherwise.

They crossed a noisy, energetic boulevard whose pearly ceiling glowed with opalescent light. Everyone here wore blue, yet the variety was immense: diamond-crossed doublets, loose jumpsuits, trailing robes.

There were no discreet passageways for servitors. A demesne where everyone was equal?

I wanted to achieve something like this.

They traversed a series of crystal lev-steps, over a copper fountain, to a low balcony where Nirilya dismissed the honour guard. The officer-in-charge bowed, then the men wheeled away, and marched into a transverse corridor.

A doorshimmer evaporated at Nirilya's gesture.

"Your apartments, my Lord."

Inside: sweeping buttresses of dark blue glass; glassine columns, slowly morphing; holoflames dancing above hexagonal flagstones. And for rehab, there was a chamber with a laminar-flow strip for running, and a glassine wall sloping inwards at forty-five degrees and covered with tiny knobs and protuberances, some shaped like miniature whimsical gargoyles.

"You'll need a climbing wall," said Elva. "As soon as you've recovered."

Tom, still in his lev-chair, nodded silently.

A large reception chamber, a dining chamber, a small art gallery and library, and half a dozen sleeping chambers completed the ensemble.

Elva turned to Nirilya. "This is quite satisfactory."

Her words were a dismissal, and Nirilya's face tightened.

But her voice was steady as she said: "We can go straight to the medical centre, if you wish."

Tom, standing in the med centre's reception chamber, watched his levchair melt into the glassine floor. Elva, looking more relaxed since Nirilya had left, examined their surroundings.

"Here we are."

A barefoot young woman, shaven-headed and clad in a russet tabard, came into the chamber. She genuflected.

"Please follow me, my Lord."

Then she retraced her steps ... walking backwards into the corridor from which she had come. Tom leaned on his cane, glanced at Elva, and followed.

Twin rows of arches lined the long corridor. To the left, the first chamber contained a semi-translucent clone/regrow vat. All around the vat, a circle of barefoot men sat cross-legged, watching and waiting.

"A moment." Tom halted.

"Sir?" The young woman stopped, trembling. "Have I given offence in any-?"

"Not even a tiny bit. Are you a servitrix?"

"My Lord? I'm a vassal in the ownership of Malfax Cortindo, who is owned by Dr. Xyenquil himself."

There was pride in her statement.

I should have known.

In the realms of Gelmethri Syektor where he had lived, servitors were owned only by nobility. His own years of servitude were etched forever in his soul. But there had also been opportunity; finally, the joys of logosophical discovery in the Sorites School.

Yet here-he understood immediately-a vassal could be indentured to another vassal, held to merciless account for the most trivial of offences, restricted in education and work, in living quarters and even in marriage. So easily abused, beyond even the immense range of privileges which the law accorded any vassal's owner, knowing there was no redress: receiving the misery passed down from their owner's own suffering.

It was an endless hierarchy of manipulation and cruelty, of all the capricious, devastating acts which follow when human beings are held to be no more than property.

No matter that such propensities come from neural patterns laid down by primate genes, and that Tom could have written the logosophical equations to prove it. When ethical systems become possible, they also become necessary, and that was why Tom had once been part of a revolution which aimed to bring liberty to all of Nulapeiron's ten billion diverse souls.

But now that seemed a time of almost child-like innocence.

So arrogant-to think that I could change all this.

In the last chamber on the right, a grey-haired man with no legs was struggling to cross the floor, walking on his stumps. Pain and determination etched deep lines in his sweat-drenched features; his breath came in painful rasps.

Sweet Destiny. Tom could only stare. Be strong, my friend.

He almost asked the female vassal to explain, but then he realized: clone/regrow vats could regenerate damaged cells, but the processes were expensive. Reserved for whatever élite held sway here: Lords and Ladies, by another name.

"They can fit prosthetics," Elva murmured, "once he's able to walk like that."

Hardening the skin on his stumps, learning to use his hip flexors to maximum effect.

Often, Tom had run and climbed for hours-had once ascended, as a solo free-climb, the outer surface of a kilometre-wide terraformer sphere hanging in the clouds above the surface: the day he killed the Oracle. That same day, he had run sixty klicks in one long, unbroken ultra-endurance session, after escaping in a drop-bug to the ground.

But he had never pushed himself as hard as this poor injured vassal struggling to cross a modest chamber, forcing himself to walk upon legs which did not exist.


Excerpted from CONTEXT BOOK TWO OF THE NULAPEIRON SEQUENCE by JOHN MEANEY Copyright © 2005 by John Meaney. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Interviews & Essays

Explorations Interview with John Meaney

Paul Goat Allen: John, the first question has to be about the Frank Herbert factor. Although the realm of Nulapeiron is utterly unique, I saw a lot of similarities with the Dune saga. Two questions: How much of an influence was Herbert, and how does it feel having your Nulapeiron novels compared to the work of the most renowned science fiction sequence ever written?

John Meaney: Er...gulp! Of all the books I read as a teenager, it was Dune that took my breath away. I've always wanted to reproduce that feeling of awe, that sweeping fractal complexity of a future history with so many layers and offshoots that Herbert only hinted at. And of course Dune is an exciting story, full of heroism and courage, which cloaks some deep thinking about ecology: a word which scarcely anyone knew in the 1960s. If people think I've achieved a small portion of that, burying speculations on the nature of time inside a human drama, then I'm honored. Dune rocks!

PGA: In an interview with Lou Anders, you described your theory of world building as "Zen and the art of dreaming." Can you describe how this magnificent world of Nulapeiron came to be?

JM: Here's a safety tip: Don't ever accept a lift from a writer! I was driving through the countryside at dawn, when I saw a (purely imaginary) terraformer sphere, constructed of pale, carved stone, floating in the gray sky overhead...and a tiny figure clinging to the exterior. Sometime later, though I couldn't say when -- it's the dream that's important, not my mundane surroundings -- I saw (and touched and smelled) in my mind the tunnels where Tom and his family lived. And it occurred to me that this was an impoverished district, ruled by highly educated aristocrats whose palaces and vehicles are formed of almost living material. (The spiderlike arachnargoi, ideal for subterranean strata, are organic...but they're still vehicles.)

Simultaneously, I'd been reading about the "transactional interpretation" of quantum physics, and I tied that in with cosmological expansion, to create Oracles that really can see the future, in the face of quantum indeterminacy and chaos. Straight quantum physics dates back to the 1920s -- flappers were dancing the Charleston! -- but this stuff is different. Mind-blowing. And I realized that the Oracles would be strange, awful, and tragic, and certainly not the rulers of Nulapeiron.

PGA: Where did the inspiration for Tom Corcorigan -- arguably one of the most complex protagonists to come along in years -- come from?

JM: In retrospect, I can untangle a few of the threads that make up his personality. There's my childhood in England, having working-class Irish parents (I lost the accent fast) who left school aged 14; bumping up against rotten remnants of the British class culture which once was oppressive; plus the liberating and constraining aspects of education. Another thread: I had a school friend who was considered to be a genius, but much of this was sheer self-discipline. After our Saturday jobs at a bookstore, when I'd go home to read science fiction, my pal David -- utterly driven -- would be practicing on old exam papers. (He studied physics at Cambridge, joined the air force, became a Top Gun, and flew his jet straight into a German mountainside. End of story.) Tom's obsession with martial arts is my own.

And partly, he just grew with the story. In Paradox, there's a period of several years when the young Tom is in servitude, and in many ways powerless. I couldn't stand the idea that he might be a passive observer, so I dug down deep into his bitterness and strength: it's an ongoing, disciplined preparation for breaking free. And it's not entirely healthy: Tom is borderline psychopath, and smart enough to know that.

PGA: How significant -- or insignificant -- was it to finally see your Nulapeiron Sequence released in the States? And why did it take so long to find an American publisher?

JM: Perhaps Tom's endless discipline is a metaphor for the writing life, too... You gotta hang in there! I'm a transatlantic kind of guy: My brother lives in the States, and I fly over several times a year. I can see that U.K. books don't always show up on U.S. radar... and vice versa. Since Lou Anders championed my short fiction and then published my novels, I can finally reach my natural audience. Even Dune was slow to catch on, you know: Frank Herbert needed champions who loved his work -- in his case, a couple of obscure folk called Arthur C. Clarke and Anne McCaffrey!

PGA: Can you give fans in the States a little teaser about what happens in the third and concluding volume, Resolution?

JM: Resolution blows away the other books.... Everyone says so! Tom is at the height of his full (and not entirely human) powers; the Blight's hugely powerful parent, the Anomaly, rips through Nulapeiron until only a small surviving army remains, huddled in the sky; the Pilots' true home is revealed (and the Pilots' story is entangled with Tom's); it ends with the culmination of everything Tom has fought for in his life... and the human drama is wrapped around one last paradox, underpinning the whole trilogy. What a blast! I loved every second I spent writing it.

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