Seeds of Earth (13 page)

'Oh, just reading my book and listening to the radio,' she said.

The ghostly shape of a book lay on the undisturbed bed, projected there by the intersim which sat on the shoulder-height mantelpiece. Two thin cables ran out from the small unit, one to a module that drew power from the house supply, the other to a pen-sized radio. The book, Robert knew, was most likely either Lewis Carroll's
Alice Through The Looking-Glass
or
The Empire of Propaganda
by Nolan Chilcott, her favourite dissident writer. Her grey cardigan and long blue woollen dress were from a family holiday six years ago, but her short hair and flower earrings were from the last time he saw her alive ...

He knew what Harry would say, that he was being lulled and enervated by the holosim's verisimilitude, but he dismissed it. He was using this detailed imitation of his daughter to dull the grief that he still felt, to help him come to terms with the loss. Harry was mistaken - he knew what was real and what was not.

'If I look between those houses,' Rosa said, 'I can see a lake and a forest and mountains. So beautiful.' She turned to him. 'Daddy, on the radio I heard that the moon people, the Uvovo, have planted what they call daughter-forests, using seeds and saplings from their world. Have you seen one yet? I've heard that they glow at night.'

'Actually, I'm due to visit the one near Port Gagarin the day after tomorrow - would you like to come?'

'Oh, could I? That would be wonderful.'

'It's settled then - we'll go together.'

Rosa's face was bright with a smile free from the burden of care as she picked up the translucent book from the bed. 'I know you've not much time, Daddy,' she said. 'But would you like me to read some
Alice
to you?'

'I'd like that very much,' Robert said, smiling.

So he settled back in the armchair's comfort and listened to his daughter's precious voice tell the story of a little girl who passed through into a looking-glass world.

13

CATRIONA

As soon as the drinks waiter came up onto the temple rampart, she selected a glass of yellowbead and knocked it straight back. Ignoring the waiter's look of amusement, she took a second glass and went to stand next to the rampart's mossy, time-ruined wall, staring morosely down at the chattering knots of people. It was a cloudless day and not yet noon, and from where she stood she could see almost the entirety of the Giant's Shoulder dig site, from the sections of shattered wall that delineated the blunt point of the promontory to the grassy, hillocky expanse almost 300 metres to the rear, where steep, jagged rocks reared up to join the buttresses and crags that jutted from the densely forested ridge overseeing all. The bulk of the ruins were scattered around the area immediately behind the ramparts - fragments of walls, corners, tumbled heaps of masonry debris lying where they were discovered. Numerous ongoing excavations had been roped off, although some of the old ones, like the Stairwell or the Crypt, had been refurbished with benches and infopanels for sightseers. Areas of flagstones long since unearthed from the topsoil were now occupied by small tents within which cabinet displays depicted artefacts and an easy-to-digest potted history of the site. But it was the largely uninterrupted stretch directly below her vantage point where rows of seating had been laid out for the reception and presentation in honour of the Hegemony representative, High Monitor Kuros.

And part of that presentation was to be delivered by Catriona Macreadie. It was a source of raw annoyance to her, knowing as she did that many of the Institute's Darien-based members were perfectly capable of giving a brief talk and answering the esteemed Sendrukan's questions. She had made this point bluntly to her superior, Professor Forbes, in his office at Pilipoint Station nearly fifteen hours ago, but to no avail.

'That may be so, Doctor Macreadie,' Forbes had said, wearing his habitual thin smile. 'But it seems that the Sendruka delegation has specifically requested that you be the one to assist Mr Cameron during their visit to the site.'

'Why me?'

'Sadly, I am not privy to these aliens' reasoning, nor did Director Petrovich indicate that he possessed such information. However, he was most insistent that you be on the next shuttle back to Darien which . . .' he had paused to look round at the hideous ornamental clock on his wall'.. . leaves in less than an hour.'

Catriona had forced herself to be icy calm, determined not to lose her composure and tell him which species of forest-floor bug he most closely resembled This time.

'Professor Forbes, that doesn't give me enough time to return to my quarters and prepare, not to mention the question of what to wear.'

'I'm sure that the Externals office at the Institute can provide suitable attire for you on your arrival,' he had said. 'And you may use the archive hub if you really feel the need to brush up on the Uvovo, but whatever you do please try not to embarrass us. Deliver a straight summary of our findings and restrict any speculation to verified facts. That will be all . . .'

Now, standing on the temple rampart, she could still feel the anger and frustration simmering away inside, unquenched by the glass of yellowbead liqueur. Anger at Forbes, and frustration at being a world away while a certain package was probably sitting in the mail drawer in the enclave storage hut back at Starroof Town. She had persuaded Galyna, a researcher friend at Pilipoint Station, to process her forest-floor recording with a lab imager on the quiet, thus hopefully revealing just what had passed before the minicam. The processed file had been due to arrive in the daily drop several hours ago.

Instead here I am, getting ready to pose as a glorified tour-guide for some self-important alien bureaucrat. Yes, hand-holding offworlders through a pre-teen-level commentary seems to be all the Institute thinks I'm fit for...

She halted her spiralling bitterness, swallowed a mouthful of yellowbead, and sighed. Patience was a virtue she felt she was always having to learn anew, despite which she turned her thoughts to listing all the enigmas she had encountered, ranking the Pathmasters first. . .

Then music interrupted her musing, the sound of a lone piper, the high, pure tone of the chanter floating above the suddenly hushed crowd, picking out the notes of a stately, soulful pibroch. Then the deeper voices of the drones rose, a steady undercurrent for the deliberate pace of the melody. The piper, a young, dark-haired man decked out in the full regalia, walked in time through the ruins towards the attentive gathering.

Catriona loved pipe music in general, even the modernist tranzy dance fads, but it was the performance of a solo piper that truly moved her. To her it sounded lonely yet defiant, dignified but not pompous, and it spoke to her of faraway Earth and that small corner of it which only some of the First Families had known first-hand.

More than once during her years as an Enhanced, she had gone up onto the dormitory roof after dark to sit with pipe music playing quietly on her little radio as she looked up at the dust-hazed point of stars. With no way to know if Earth and Humanity had survived the Swarm invasion, she could only gaze and wonder and wish, thoughts and music spiralling up into the sky . . .

'He is a very good player, is he not?' said a female voice behind her.

She turned to see a tall, middle-aged woman dressed in a pale blue, ankle-length gown that was all elegant folds and embroidered hems and which stopped just short of ostentatious. A patterned grey shawl covered her shoulders and arms, and her silvery hair was braided and held back with a carved wood headband. She seemed vaguely familiar.

'Yes, he is,' she replied, smiling hesitantly. 'Very expressive.'

'When I was younger I saw his father win the Northern Towns Trophy three times,' the woman said in a Norj accent. 'I am Solvjeg Cameron.'

Recognition flooded Catriona's thoughts. 'Ah, you're Greg's mother . .. oh, I'm Catriona Macreadie.'

As they shook hands, Solvjeg Cameron smiled. 'So you are the Doctor Macreadie who worked with Greg before. Are you here today in an official capacity?'

'Yes, I'm going to be giving a brief speech about the Uvovo, and answering questions.'

'Fascinating,' Solvjeg said, suddenly giving her a curious look. 'Macreadie ... are you related to the New Kelso Macreadies, by any chance?'

Although outwardly calm and poised, Catriona's thoughts were scattering in panic, and the lie came to her lips seemingly of its own accord.

'No, my parents were both from Stranghold,' she said. 'They died when I was very young.'

'I am so sorry to hear that, my dear,' Greg's mother said, suddenly sympathetic. 'You must have had a difficult childhood . ..'

But before the next line of questioning could get under way, Solvjeg's gaze shifted to the side a little and she waved. Glancing round, Catriona saw an older man in hillwalker browns wave back briefly before heading along the grassy slope towards the steps that led up to the ramparts.

'My brother wants me to come down,' Solvjeg said. 'But no doubt we shall meet again. I hope the day goes well for you.'

Catriona smiled and gave a little wave goodbye while inside she was thinking,
Why did I say that? How could I be so stupid?
Greg's mother was one of those ultra-connected matriarch types - it would only take a couple of enquiries to find out that Catriona was a failed Enhanced. She knew she shouldn't be ashamed or embarrassed, but it was an undeniable fact that the Enhanced, failed or not, were treated differently and not especially positively, even though the programme ended years ago. And Solvjeg would then wonder why she had lied and might jump to conclusions about her and Greg ...

Catriona gnawed her lip - and what if she asked Greg if they were involved? The embarrassment would be unbearable.

But before she could brood any further, her comm gave its cheery little call tune. Seeing it was Greg, she thumbed the accept and answered.

'Hello, Greg.'

'Cat, I thought you should know that our visiting VIP has just disembarked from his executive zeplin and will be here shortly. Can you meet me at the mural wall?'

'I'm on my way,' she said, heading for the stairs.

'Incidentally, will you be able to wait behind after this circus is over? There's some new findings I'd like your opinion on.'

'Sounds interesting,' she said. 'I'd like that.'
And hopefully I'll get up the courage to tell you what I said before you hear it from your mother.

'Excellent,' he said. 'See you shortly.'

Finishing off the last of the yellowbead, she left the glass next to the waiter's table and hurried downstairs, wishing for the umpteenth time that she was back on Nivyesta.

14

CHEL

In an alcove at the top of a grassy slope, Cheluvahar sat with Listener Weynl and two other Uvovo scholars, watching the Human gathering. All had listened intently to the piper, who finished to an enthusiastic round of applause, and now another group of musicians was commencing on a variety of stringed and wind instruments.

'Humans are always making songs and stories,' Chel said. 'Interesting to discover that other races create similar things.'

'But not surprising,' said Listener Weynl. 'An existence divided always seeks attunement, ways to bridge the gap between the mind and the eternal. Songs and stories are expressions of the need for attunement, but when that becomes a yearning to hear the voice of the eternal it leads to gods and demons, holy books and such things as the Dreamless.'

Chel knew the principles of attunement well, as did every Uvovo - from birth the vital rhythms of Segrana were part of blood and breath and the daily pulse of living. But Humans had to imagine,
needed
to imagine the entirety of the world beyond their own poor senses, trying to bridge the gap with illusions.

Some distance away from where they sat, a solitary four-armed figure came into view, pacing deliberately along the perimeter of the temple site as it had done for well over an hour. It - there was no outward indication of gender - was a member of the Sendrukan envoy's bodyguard, a squad of Ezgara commandos. It wore some kind of close-fitting, full-body dull blue armour, with a near-black visor covering the face and no obvious sign of weapons.

On seeing the soldier making what had to be its fourth circuit, one of the scholars - a Meshtowner called Kolumivenur - turned to Weynl.

'Learned one,' he said. 'How can a race such as this one seek attunement while serving the Sendruka?'

'I know little about these Ezgara,' Weynl said. 'But it is clear that they have given themselves over to the needs and methods of military service, just as many Humans here do. I have heard it said, however, that Ezgara soldiers are fanatically loyal to their Sendruka masters, in which case I find myself wondering what kind of people require utter obedience from their servants. But then, we now know that all the worlds of the Sendruka, their society and culture and government, are permeated with the Dreamless. Machine minds are everywhere, spying, manipulating, and coordinating the resources of a vast empire, which clearly include these Ezgara. Perhaps they in turn extract a kind of obedience from the Sendruka.'

'What of the Humans from Earth,' said the other scholar, Tesobrenilor by name. 'Some of them have the Dreamless . . . tiny machines planted inside their heads, just like this High Monitor Kuros and his companions. Can they be trusted?'

'Everything they see and hear reaches the Dreamless,' Weynl said. 'At the time of the War of the Long Night, the Dreamless were joined to one another by a hidden web that reached into the underlayers of existence. We cannot know if these Dreamless have a similar . . . pattern but in caution we should assume so ...'

The Listener suddenly stopped and looked round. Following his gaze, the rest saw that the Ezgara commando had paused at the foot of the grassy slope with the gleaming blackness of its visor angled up at them. For a moment or two no one moved, then the Ezgara began to ascend the slope.