In the afternoon they explored the jungle around the edge of the clearing, trying to guess the names of the plants. He explained the purpose behind his groundwalk, how it prepared him for difficult campaigns against the enemy over all sorts of terrain, how it showed he had learned all his teachers could give him.
‘A rite of passage,’ she said.
He thought there was admiration in her voice. But then, several times he’d seen her glancing at him when she thought he was unaware. He hadn’t dared do the same.
‘We must know that we can do what we have to do.’
‘Kazimir, please, don’t do anything rash. You never have to prove your worth by risking yourself. Life is too important for that. It’s too short, as well, especially here.’
‘I will be careful. I will learn not to be impetuous.’
‘Thank you. I don’t want to spend my life worrying about you.’
‘Will you do something for me?’
Her smile was mischievous. ‘There’s a lot I’ll do for you, Kazimir.’
The answer surprised him. He knew he would be blushing as he attached his own interpretation to that; one he was sure she didn’t intend, not someone so sweet and good-natured. ‘Please don’t visit the Marie Celeste. I know a lot of tourists do. I would worry for your safety if you did. The Starflyer’s influence is strong around its ship.’
Justine made a show of pondering the request. Fortunately, the old arkship wasn’t on the itinerary anyway. Strangely enough, because of Kazimir’s devout belief that there really was a surviving alien, a little frisson of worry crept into her head and refused to leave. The whole thing was one of those ridiculous legends used by wicked old men like Johansson to keep his followers in line and paying their dues. Yet at the same time, it sounded so plausible . . .
‘I won’t go,’ she promised solemnly. His look of relief made her feel guilty.
They built a fire in the late afternoon. Kazimir had an ageing powerblade in his pack, and seemed intent on showing off his living-off-the-land survival skills to impress her. So she sat back and watched as he built a big pile of wood. He stripped off his little leather waistcoat, and the sweat showed on his skin from the effort of carrying the logs about. It was a sight which raised her own body temperature several degrees. Low gravity certainly hadn’t stopped his bod from developing to late-adolescent excellence. Thankfully, he didn’t want to do anything macho like shoot birds out of the sky so they could roast them on a stick spit. He was quite content to open up more of her food packets. The bonfire was just for warmth and comfort. She finally popped the cork off the champagne, and they drank it with the leaping gold flames glimmering off its energetic bubbles.
Kazimir didn’t want the evening to end, not ever. They sat close on a blanket as the sunlight abandoned the sky. Then there was only a shimmering purple-edged nimbus high above the western horizon as the glacier ring diffracted the last rays through the stratosphere. It shrank away, leaving the crackling bonfire as the only source of illumination. Platinum stars shone above them. For the first time in his life he didn’t think of them as a threat.
They talked and they drank and they nibbled on the exotic food. And all the time Kazimir silently worshipped the smiling, gorgeous angel with all his heart. A while after the sun had set, the bonfire’s wild flames sank away to leave a mound of lambent coals. It was in that teasing radiance that the angel rose to her feet and stood over him. Her T-shirt and shorts gleamed magenta in the quiescent fire, while her hair had become the gold halo his mind had always perceived. Without a word she walked over to her hemispherical tent, disappearing among the shadows which haunted the interior.
‘Kazimir.’
His limbs trembling, he went over to the entrance. Twinkling starlight showed him half of the floor had risen to become a giant mattress. His angel stood before it, a simple silhouette. Her T-shirt lay crumpled on the ground at her feet. As he watched she slid the shorts down her legs.
‘Don’t be afraid.’
Kazimir walked forward into the darkness. Gentle, sensual, hands pushed the waistcoat from his shoulders. Unseen finger-tips stroked his chest as they moved down to his waist, making him whimper helplessly. His belt was undone, and his kilt removed. The naked angel was hot on his skin as she pressed herself up against him.
Kazimir’s astonished cries of ecstasy rang out across the clearing, lasting long after the glittering sparks of the fire had finally died away.
*
Not even the cabin’s insulation could protect Estella Fenton from the roar of the powerful diesel engine. She held her hiball glass up high as the suspension rocked the four-wheel drive Telmar ranger from side to side, trying not to spill any of the elaborate fruit cocktail. It wasn’t working, so she downed the rest of the drink in a couple of quick gulps. There was definitely vodka in it, she could feel the distinctive chill burning along her throat.
The recovery vehicles sent out from the main convoy had picked her up twenty hours ago. Which had come as a profound relief; two and a half days alone in the temperate forest was slightly more wilderness adventure than she’d wanted. Now there was just her friend Justine to find. The convoy had picked up her hyperglider’s beacon signal. Its location had caused a flutter of interest among the crews; few people, apparently, managed to fly quite as far as Justine had.
So once they’d loaded up Estella’s hyperglider into its container trailer, the five remaining recovery vehicles had set off in search of their last client. For all that Far Away’s population had left Mount Herculaneum as a natural wild park, there were plenty of paths through the rainforests of the lower slopes which vehicles like the Telmar used on tourist expeditions. Branching off them were tracks that were less well used. And then there were lines on the map which were marked as ‘passable routes’. They’d been on one of those for three hours solid, pushing their way through the vines and undergrowth of the jungle. Then came the really tough work of cutting a new route through the trees.
The trailblazer vehicle was fifty yards ahead of them, its forward harmonic blades sending out dense clouds of fractured woodchips as it chewed its way ever onwards. Watching its progress had sent Estella to the back of the cabin where she started raiding the refrigerated bar.
‘Couple more minutes should do it,’ the driver, Cam Tong, called out.
Estella put the empty glass down, and peered through the bubble canopy at the broken swathe of vegetation left behind the trailblazer. The thick green walls of trees and vines came to an abrupt end, and they lurched out into a long clearing. Justine’s hyperglider was intact, standing in the middle of a carpet of lush grass. Her tent was a few yards away.
‘Looks like she’s okay,’ Cam Tong said happily.
‘I never doubted it.’
The recovery vehicles picked up speed, which increased the rocking motion. They all started sounding their horns.
A head poked out of the tent.
‘That’s not her,’ Estella exclaimed.
It was a teenage boy, wearing Justine’s tatty old bushranger hat. His mouth gaped wide at the big vehicles rushing towards him, then he yelled something back into the tent. Next second he’d snatched a small backpack off the ground, and was sprinting towards the nearest tree line. Estella stared on in astonishment. He was wearing a long orange and green skirt. No, she corrected herself, a kilt, she could see the pleats. His small pack had a leather garment of some kind tied to it. He kept looking over his shoulder at the vehicles. One hand pressed the hat on his head, black hair streamed out from below the brim.
Cam Tong was laughing as he braked the big Telmar behind the hyperglider. Estella’s grin spread right across her mouth as she opened the door to climb down. Just then, Justine emerged from the tent. All she wore was a very small scarlet thong and a pair of sunglasses.
‘Come back,’ Justine shouted above the blaring horns and yammering engines. ‘Don’t be frightened. They’re my friends. Oh, fuck it!’ She put her hands on her hips, and glared at the
recovery vehicles.
Estella dropped lightly to the ground. By now the grin had grown into near-hysterical laughter. Other vehicle doors were opening, the smiling crews clambering out. Horns were still being tooted enthusiastically. The frantic boy had almost reached the jungle. Whoops of encouragement were yelled after him.
‘Afternoon, darling,’ Estella called brightly.
‘You scared him off,’ Justine accused, her voice sounding hurt.
Estella raised her hand to her throat in theatrical shock. ‘Why thank heavens, we got here just in time by the look of it.’ She still couldn’t stop laughing. ‘We obviously saved you from a fate worse than death.’
‘Goddamn it!’ Justine gave the fleeing boy a last look as he disappeared into the foliage. She raised her hand limply, hoping he would see her forlorn gesture. The horns fell silent as the engines were turned off, but the hearty laughter of the crews remained loud in the muggy air.
Justine stomped back into the tent, and picked up a light cardigan. Estella trailed after her. The floor mattress was still inflated. Empty food packets littered the ground around it, along with a couple of bottles of wine.
‘I don’t believe your luck,’ Estella chortled. ‘I’m going to complain to the tour company. The only thing waiting for me at my landing site was a squirrel, and I’m pretty sure he was gay.’
Justine started buttoning up her cardigan. ‘Don’t,’ she said irritably. ‘Kazimir was sweet.’
‘Yeah: was.’
‘You don’t understand.’ She pulled up her shorts. ‘It wasn’t just that. I wanted to teach him a different view of the universe, make him question what he sees.’
‘Ah, like: what position is this called? And: I didn’t know you could do it that way round.’
Justine growled at her and went back outside. She ordered the tent to contract, forcing Estella to hurry through the entrance. The crew were backing an empty trailer up to the hyperglider. Broad, knowing smiles were flashed in her direction; several of them winked. Justine had to roll her eyes at that, thinking what it must have looked like to them. A small sheepish smile appeared on her own lips as her sense of humour returned.
‘What was he doing here?’ Estella asked. ‘This is nowhere.’
‘It’s somewhere now,’ Justine replied tartly.
‘God, your luck. I’m as jealous as hell. He looked divine.’
Justine pushed her lips together modestly. ‘He was.’
‘Come on, let’s go find a bottle, we should celebrate your grand victory: longest flight and greatest landing. I expect you need to sit down, too, must be difficult trying to walk properly after all that education you gave him.’ She glanced pointedly at the tent which had finished contracting. All the empty packets and bottles now lay around it, ejected by the shrinking walls. ‘Did you even get to see the outside world?’
‘There is one?’
Estella giggled wildly, and started to climb up the short ladder to the Telmar’s cabin. ‘So is it true, does everything really rise higher in low gravity?’
Justine ignored her, scanning the jungle’s dense wall one last time. There was no sign of him, not even using infrared. She’d taught him that, if nothing else.
‘Goodbye, Kazimir,’ she whispered.
He would be out there. Watching. Probably feeling a little foolish now. But this was probably the best way. A swift clean break, and a golden memory for both of them. No regrets.
And maybe, just maybe, I taught him something about real life. Maybe he will start to question his idiotic Guardians’ doctrine.
There was a loud pop of a champagne cork in the cabin. Justine climbed inside and shut the door, enjoying the chill of the air conditioning as it banished the jungle’s raw heat.
5
From their admittedly elitist point of view, the residents of York5 often claimed that theirs was one of the luckier planets in the Commonwealth’s phase one space. This particular world never got to experience pollution or human population pressure, and financial irregularities and corrupt politicians passed it by. Throughout its pre-human history, a quirk of evolution had produced a far smaller than average number of plant and animal genera. Such conditions made the establishment of alien species on its surface an undemanding enterprise. For people who wanted to develop land in their own special way, that made it highly desirable real estate.
When CST announced that the planet was open for settlement in 2138, the consortium of families behind the Big15 planet Los Vada put in an offer, effectively buying the entire planet. CST got an immediate payoff on its exploration costs, but York5 was never opened for general immigration. The families in the consortium were too diversified to qualify as an Intersolar Dynasty although, as they all now lived on a single world, the future genealogy dynamics were such that they’d probably wind up as one, defined by the classic model.
York5 had no real capital city; the largest urban area was a small service town that supported the CST gateway and the airport which sprang up beside it. No factories were ever shipped in, denying it any industrial facilities. Everything a person wanted or needed, from cutlery to paving stones, electronics to clothes, had to be imported. There were no roads or railways providing a civil transport infrastructure, only aircraft owned by the resident families. And in all of its two hundred and forty year history, the population never rose above ten million; of which almost three million were staff employed by the families. Instead, it was divided up into vast estates, with each family building their mansions and lodges and beach homes as they wanted, where they wanted, and planting whatever kind of surrounding flora took their fancy. Consequently, the continents became magnificent quilts of designer landscapes; it was terraforming on a scale not even seen on Far Away, and all for aesthetics’ sake.
Captain (retired) Wilson Kime had watched his family estate develop over the last two centuries, returning time and again for vacations and long weekends and annual reunions to enjoy the perfect tranquillity it offered. The land he’d chosen was hilly with long sweeping valleys, and situated well inside the southern temperate zone. When he’d arrived, the ground was covered in native tuffgrass, a gaunt reddy brown in colour, and a few manky scrub trees. Slowly, a tide of verdant, and far more pleasing, terrestrial green had rippled out over hill and vale alike, cooler and more soothing. Spinneys had sprung up, bunches of wildly different trees from dozens of worlds, their foliage varying in colour from snow-white to eye-wrenching orange. Valley floors had been forested in oaks and walnuts and willow, while a few special enclaves among the taller hills were now host to giant sequoia.
One day at the height of an exceptional midsummer heat wave, Wilson walked along a long, meandering gravel track on the broad, south-facing slopes a couple of miles from the huge mock chateau that was the family home, inspecting the vines. His only company was two of the senior family’s youngest children, who skipped along with him. Emily, a six-year-old with braided fawny hair who was his great-great-great-great-granddaughter; and eight-year-old Victor, a quiet inquisitive lad who was a nephew with a connection that was too complicated to memorize. He’d made both of them wear big white hats to protect their young skin from the blue-tinged sun’s powerful UV, even though both of them had received extensive germline modification, which included high resistance to all types of cancer. The way they charged around they’d be exhausted long before lunch, and he didn’t want heatstroke added to that.
Every now and then he would stop at the end of another row of the vines, and inspect the clusters of grapes which were just beginning to fill out. It was going to be a high-quality crop this year, possibly good enough to qualify as a classic vintage. Though everybody abused that term dreadfully nowadays. The small light-green spheres were wonderfully trans-lucent, with a tinge of colour creeping in as they soaked up the sunlight. Their rows stretched all the way down the slope to the broad valley floor, two miles away. In total, the vineyards covered nearly forty square miles now, after flourishing for a hundred and twenty yea
rs in the slightly chalky soil. Buried irrigation pipes made sure they had enough water in sweltering years like this one, pumped out here from the inland freshwater sea twenty miles away. The Kime estate occupied a quarter of the coastline.
Red-painted viniculturebots, the size of a motorbike, trundled up and down the rows with their electromuscle arms flashing in and out as they carefully thinned out the clusters, and forked over the soil. There couldn’t have been more than five human supervisors covering the entire vineyard. Not that any of the wine would ever be sold. This wasn’t a commercial venture; it was for the family, with a small number of bottles made available to other Farndale board members.
Wilson stopped and picked a couple more grapes. They were immature and sour; but that taste was right for this moment in their development. He spat them out after he’d chewed them thoroughly.
‘Urrgh!’ little Emily said, wrinkling her nose up. ‘That’s gross, Grandpa.’
‘No it’s not,’ he assured her. He tipped his own straw hat back and smiled. ‘They decay straight back into the soil as fertilizer. That’s good for the plants. Query your e-butler when we get back home if you don’t believe me.’
‘Wilson’s right,’ Victor said, using a lofty tone. ‘We did environmental cycles in biology.’
‘You mean the vines drink your spit?’ Emily was even more appalled.
Wilson put his arms round her, and gave a swift hug. ‘No, no, it doesn’t work like that. It’s all to do with organic chemistry. Very complicated when you get down to details. But trust me, the vines don’t drink spit, okay?’
‘Okay,’ she said dubiously.
Victor’s look was condescending, so she scowled at him. Then the two of them were suddenly racing off down one of the rows, chasing a Forlien delong, similar to a porcupine but with a silly collar wing that flapped green and yellow when it was excited.