Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (59 page)

She found the
steps in the darkness, then went up, as a sudden flash filled the
stairwell with light.

She went to the
window. The glass was cold against her face, beaded with brilliant
drops. The wooden boards were smooth and cool beneath her feet. Wind
and rain rattled the glass. And then a vast hand seemed to shake the
building. The tower seemed alive. As alive as she. She pressed her
hands against the wood of the window's frame and stared out, waiting
for each vivid stroke, each growl of elemental anger.

As the window
lit up again she turned, looking behind her. On the far side of the
room a metal ladder had been set into the wall. Above it, set square
and solid in the ceiling, was a hatch. For a moment she stared at it,
then pushed away from the window.

In the sudden
dark she stumbled and fell, then clambered up again, her hands held
out before her until they met the cold stone surface. For a moment
she searched the wall blindly, cursing softly to herself, then found
the metal rung and pulling herself across, began to climb.

She was pushing
upward when the next flash filled the room. Above her the great hatch
shuddered against her hands as the thunderclap shook the tower. She
shivered, momentarily frightened by the power of the storm, then
pushed her head and shoulder up against the hatch until it gave.

Suddenly she was
outside, the rain pouring down onto her, the wind whipping cruelly at
her hair, soaking the thin nightgown she was wearing.

She pulled
herself up and, in the half-light, went to the parapet, steeling
herself against the sudden cold, the insane fury of the wind, her
hands gripping the metal rail tightly. As the sky lit up she looked
down. Below her the sea seemed to writhe and boil, then throw a huge,
clear fist of water against the rocks at the base of the tower. Spray
splintered all about her and, as if on cue, the air about her filled
with a ferocious, elemental roar that juddered the tower and shook
her to the bone. And then darkness. An intense, brooding darkness,
filled with the fury of the storm.

She was
breathing deeply now, erratically. It felt as though the storm were
part of her. Each time the lightning flashed and forked in the sky
she felt a tremor go through her from head to toe, as sharp as
splintered ice. And when the thunder growled it sounded in her bones,
exploding with a suddenness that made her shudder with a fierce
delight.

She shivered,
her teeth clenched tight, her eyes wide, her limbs trembling with a
strange, unexpected joy. Water ran freely down her face and neck,
cleansing her, while below her the sea raged and churned, boiling
against the rocks, its voice a scream of unarticulated pain,
indistinguishable from the wind.

"Jelka!"

She heard the
call from far below, the cry almost lost in the roar of the storm,
and turned, looking across at the open hatch. For one brief moment
she failed to recognize what it was, then she came to herself. Her
uncle Jon . . .

The call came
again, closer this time, as if just below.

"Jelka? Are
you up there?"

She turned,
yelling back at him, her voice barely audible over the grumble of the
storm. "It's all right! I'm here!"

She looked out
across the sea again, trembling, her whole body quivering, awaiting
the next flash, the next sudden, thrilling detonation. And as it came
she turned and saw him, his head poking up from the hatch, his eyes
wide with fear.

"What in
heaven's name are you doing, Jelka? Come down! It isn't safe!"

She laughed,
exhilarated by the storm. "But it's wonderful!"

She saw how he
shuddered, his eyes pleading with her. "Come down! Please,
Jelka! It's dangerous!"

The wind howled,
tearing at her breath, hurling great sheets of rain against the
tower. And then with a mighty crash of thunder—louder than
anything that had preceded it—the hillside to her right
exploded in flame.

For a moment the
after-image of the lightning bolt lingered before her eyes; then she
shuddered, awed by the sight that met her eyes.

Seven pines were
on fire, great wings of flame gusting up into the darkness, hissing,
steaming where they met and fought the downpour. She gritted her
teeth, chilled by what she saw. And still the fire raged, as if the
rain had no power to control it.

She turned,
staring at her uncle; then, staggering, she ran across to him and let
him help her down. For a moment he held her to him, trembling against
her, his arms gripping her tightly. Then, bending down, he picked up
the gown he'd brought and wrapped it about her shoulders.

"You're
soaked," he said, his voice pained. "Gods, Jelka, what do
you think you were doing? Didn't you know how dangerous it was?"

The sight of the
burning trees had sobered her. "No," she said quietly,
shivering now, realizing just how cold she was. "It was so . .
."

She fell quiet,
letting him lead her down, his pained remonstrances washing over her.

He helped her
down the last few steps then let her move past him out into the
passageway. The passage light was on. At the far end, at the bottom
of the great staircase, stood her aunt, her look of concern mirroring
her husband's.

"It's all
right," Jelka said. "I couldn't sleep. The storm. I wanted
to see."

Jon nodded, a
look passing between him and his wife. Then he placed his arm about
Jelka's shoulders.

"I can see
that, my love, but it really wasn't safe. What if you'd fallen?"

But Jelka could
think only of the power of the storm, of the way it had seemed a part
of her; each sudden, brilliant flash, each brutal detonation bringing
her alive, vividly alive. She could see it yet, the sea foaming
wildly below, the huge sky spread out like a bruise above, the air
alive with voices.

"There are
fresh clothes in the bathroom," her uncle said gently, squeezing
her shoulder, bringing her back from her reverie. "Get changed
then come through into the kitchen. I'll make some toast and
ch'a.
We can sit and talk."

He looked up,
waving his wife away, then looked back at Jelka, smiling. "Go on
now. I can see you won't sleep until this has blown over."

She did as she
was told, then went into the kitchen and stood by the window, staring
out through the glass at the storm-tossed waters of the harbor while
he brewed the ch'a.

"Here,"
he said after a while, handing her an old earthenware mug filled with
steaming
ch'a.
He stood beside her, staring outward, then gave
a soft laugh. "I've done this before, you know, when I was much
younger than I am now. Your mother was like you, Jelka. Knut could
never understand it. If there was a storm he would tuck his head
beneath the blankets and try to sleep through it, as if it were all a
damned nuisance sent to rob him of his sleep and no more than that.
But she was like you. She wanted to see. Wanted to be out there in
the thick of it. I think she would have thrown herself in the water
if she'd not had the sense to know she'd drown."

He laughed again
and looked down at her. Jelka was staring up at him, fascinated.

"What was
she like? I mean, what was she really like?"

He nodded toward
the broad pine table. They sat, he in the huge farmhouse chair, she
on the bench beside him, a heavy dressing gown draped about her
shoulders.

"That's
better. It gets in my bones, you know. The damp. The changes in
pressure." He smiled and sipped at his mug. "But that's not
what you want to know, is it? You want to know about your mother . .
."

He shook his
head slowly. "Where to start, eh? What to say first?" He
looked at her, his eyes grown sad. "Oh, she was like you, Jelka.
So very much like you." He let out a long breath, then leaned
forward, folding his big broad hands together on the tabletop. "Let
me start with the first moment I ever saw her, there on the rocks at
the harbor's mouth . . ."

She sat there,
listening, her mouth open, her breathing shallow. The
ch'a
in
her mug grew cold and still she listened, as if gazing through a door
into the past.

Through into
another world. Into a time before her time. A place at once familiar
and utterly alien. That pre-existent world a child can only imagine,
never be part of. And yet how she ached to see the things he spoke
of; how she longed to go back and see what he had seen.

She could almost
see it. Her mother, turning slowly in the firelight, dancing to a
song that was in her head alone, up on her toes, her arms extended,
dreaming . . . Or, later, her mother, heavily pregnant with herself,
standing in the doorway of the kitchen where she now sat, smiling . .
.

She turned and
looked but there was nothing; nothing but the empty doorway. She
closed her eyes and listened, but again there was nothing; nothing
but the storm outside. She could not see it—not as it really
was. Even with her eyes closed she couldn't see it.

Ghosts. The past
was filled with ghosts. Images from the dark side of vision.

Hours passed.
The storm died. And then a faint dawn light showed at the sea's far
edge, beyond the harbor and the hills. She watched it grow, feeling
tired now, ready for sleep.

Her uncle stood,
gently touching her shoulder. "Bed, my child," he said
softly. "Your father will be here tomorrow."

* *
*

THE DEEP-LEVEL
telescope at Heilbronn was more than a hundred and fifty years old.
The big satellite observatories at the edge of the solar system had
made it almost an irrelevancy, yet it was still popular with many
astronomers, perhaps because the idea of going deep into the earth to
see the stars held some curious, paradoxical appeal.

"It feels
strange," Kim said, turning to face Hammond as they rode the
elevator down into the earth. "Like going back."

Hammond nodded.
"But not uncomfortable, I hope?"

"No."
Kim looked away thoughtfully, then smiled. "Just odd, that's
all. Like being lowered down a well."

The elevator
slowed, then shuddered to a halt. The safety doors hissed open and
they stepped out, two suited guards greeting them.

"In there,"
said one of the guards, pointing to their right. They went in. It was
a decontamination room. Ten minutes later they emerged, their skin
tingling, the special clothing clinging uncomfortably to them. An
official greeted them and led them along a narrow, brightly lit
corridor and into the complex of labs and viewing rooms.

There were four
telescopes in Heilbronn's shaft, but only one of them could be used
at any one time, a vast roundabout, set into the rock, holding the
four huge lenses. One of the research scientists—a young man in
his early twenties—acted as their guide, showing them around,
talking excitedly of the most recent discoveries. Few of them were
made at Heilbronn now—the edge observatories were the pioneers
of new research—but Heilbronn did good work nonetheless,
checking and amassing detail, verifying what the edge observatories
hadn't time to process.

Hammond listened
politely, amused by the young man's enthusiasm, but for Kim it was
different: he shared that sense of excitement. For him the young
man's words were alive, vivid with burgeoning life. Listening, Kim
found he wanted to know much more than he already did. Wanted to
grasp it whole.

Finally, their
guide took them into one of the hemispherical viewing rooms, settled
them into chairs, and demonstrated how they could use the inquiry
facility.

His explanation
over, he bowed, leaving them to it.

Kim looked to
Hammond.

"No, Kim.
You're the one Prince Yuan arranged this for."

Kim smiled and
leaned forward, drawing the control panel into his lap, then dimmed
the lights.

It was like
being out in the open, floating high above the world, the night sky
all about them. But that was only the beginning. Computer graphics
transformed the viewing room into an armchair spaceship. From where
they sat they could travel anywhere they liked among the stars: to
distant galaxies far across the universe, or to nearer,
better-charted stars, circling them, moving among their planetary
systems. Here distance was of little consequence and the relativistic
laws of physics held no sway. In an instant you had crossed the
heavens. It was exhilarating to see the stars rush by at such
incredible speeds, flickering in the corners of the eyes like
agitated dust particles. For a while they rushed here and there,
laughing, enjoying the giddy vistas of the room. Then they came back
to earth, to a night sky that ought to have been familiar to them,
but wasn't.

"There are
losses, living as we do," Kim said wistfully.

Hammond grunted
his assent. "You know, it makes me feel, well—
insignificant. I mean, just look at it." He raised his hand.
"It's so big. There's so much power there. So many worlds. And
all so old. So unimaginably old." He laughed awkwardly, his hand
falling back to the arm of the chair. "It makes me feel so
small."

"Why?
They're only stars."

"Only
stars!" Hammond laughed, amused by the understatement. "How
can you say that?"

Kim turned in
his chair, his face, his tiny figure indistinct in the darkness, only
the curved, wet surfaces of his eyes lit by reflected starlight.
"It's only matter, reacting in predictable ways. Physical
things, bound on all sides by things physical. But look at you, Joel
Hammond. You're a man. Homo sapiens. A beast that thinks, that has
feelings."

"Four pails
of water and a bag of salts, that's all we are."

Kim shook his
head. "No. We're more than mere chemicals. Even the meanest of
us."

Hammond looked
down. "I don't know, Kim. I don't really see it like that. I've
never been able to see myself that way."