Keeping a friendly silence, they followed a game trail along the broken perimeter of the cup-shaped depression that held Windlestrow Loch. After they had walked a couple of kilometers the Dirigent gave a little triumphant cry and stooped to pick up something from the side of the path.
“Look, Uncle Rogi—a diamond.”
“You’re kidding.”
She dropped the crystal into his open palm. It was a pea-sized dodecahedron with rounded edges, oddly greasy-looking and faintly blue in the diffused sunlight.
“If this operation is successfully concluded, I’ll have it cut and polished for you as a keepsake. We’ll call it the Star of Windlestrow.” She peered closely at it for a moment. “My deepsight shows it’s a VVS blue-white—with only tiny flaws. Diamonds are very common on Callie.” She indicated the surrounding area. “That little lake is right on top of a very ancient kimberlite pipe. You know—the material diamonds are found in. The old pipe goes clear through the Clyde craton right down to the magma. Millions of years ago, there was another, much smaller diatreme on this site.”
“Batège! It’s been a long time since anyone gave me a diamond.” Rogi fished in the pocket of his chino pants and came up with the key-ring fob known to three generations of Remillard youngsters as the Great Carbuncle. “When I first got hold of this, it was worth millions. I suppose you could buy another for only a few thousand dollars nowadays. It’s been my lucky charm for God knows how many years.”
She examined it with interest. “But it’s gorgeous! That unusual clear red color—and polished into a perfect sphere. Where in the world did you ever get it?”
“From a Lylmik,” the old man said playfully. And when she eyed him askance, he said, “Oh, all right. I found it in a gutter in Hanover. Very mysterious. But I swear it’s saved my life a couple of times.” His face lit with sudden inspiration. He detached the fob from the key ring and pressed the glowing little silver-caged gem into her hand. “Let’s trade, Dorothée. You keep the Great Carbuncle for luck during this operation, and I’ll hang on to the Star of Windlestrow.”
She froze, and for a moment it seemed as though she had stopped looking out of her eyes and had turned instead to some somber inner vision. Then her face lost its haunted aspect and she smiled.
“I’d love to carry the Carbuncle, Uncle Rogi.” She pulled a gold chain out the neck of her sweater. A glittering little mask-charm hung on it. “There. Your good-luck piece can hang next to my own talisman.”
She tucked the chain back into its hiding place. Then her gaze met that of the tall old man and she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest, not making a sound.
Rogi felt his heart plummet. She was twenty years old and she might very well die within the next few days, consumed in a split second by the fires inside her world. Last night, after they had left the others, Jack had confessed to him and Dorothée that even using the double metaconcert, there was only a fifty-fifty chance of the new plan succeeding. The Dirigent had nodded calmly. She had not asked Jack why he was willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of a rather ordinary colonial planet.
Do you know why, Dorothée? Rogi asked her. Would you like me to tell you?
But she pulled away from him, not answering, and stood staring down at the little lake.
“Look,” she said.
The waters were suddenly roiled and bubbling. At the same moment Rogi felt a faint tremor underfoot. In the survey camp on the other side of the depression, people were running out of the buildings and down the steep embankment to the shore, where they waited expectantly. A few minutes later a vast eructation of steam broke the water’s surface. A bullet-shaped black machine the size of a bus thrust up vertically in the middle of it like a broaching leviathan, then fell back with a resounding splash that echoed over the heath. A pair of frightened pink birds burst out of the shrubs and took wing, squawking. The humans down on the lakeshore jumped up and down and their faint cheers reached Rogi and Dorothée on the ridge.
Still steaming gently, the driller floated sedately toward land, deployed its treads, and crawled ashore. It halted next to the four larger machines parked there, and in a few minutes its ventral hatch opened and three people emerged.
The Dirigent watched them with narrowed eyes. “They have the analysis. It’s time for me to go back and learn how to boost my brain. Pray for me, Uncle Rogi!” She turned and ran off along the path.
“I’ll damn well do more than that,” the old man growled to himself. He waited until the Dirigent was far away, then looked around furtively and addressed the open sky. “Ghost! You hear me? … Do something! You can’t let those two young people die. Help them!”
He stood with his head cocked, listening. The pearly sky glowed, the spring wind blew softly over the moor, and the archaic pink birds uttered relieved clucks and returned to their nursery hole.
“Don’t play coy! I know you’re watching, mon fantôme.”
The breeze seemed to sigh in resignation.
The old man smiled then and set off for the survey camp, fingering the slippery little diamond in his jacket pocket and muttering to himself in French.
24
SECTOR 12: STAR 12-337-010 [GRIAN] PLANET 4 [CALEDONIA] 17–18 AN GIBLEAN [28–29 NOVEMBER] 2077
THE TEN OF THEM ASSEMBLED AT DAWN, DRESSED IN SILVERY NOMEX suits as a partial precaution against creative flashback and carrying the matte black CE helmets under their arms. The drill-rigs had been equipped with every piece of safety equipment the CE operators could think of.
It was raining again, and rather than waste mindpower erecting an umbrella they stood together beneath the belly of one of the huge machines listening to Jack’s final instructions.
“If everything goes according to plan, the job should be completed in approximately fifty hours, including the fourteen needed for ascent and descent. This is well within the safety margin for our four full-sized drill-rigs. Keep in mind, however, that the only possible way we can abort is for the Dirigent and I to hold the lid in place until the volatile components return to solution in the magma. I must warn you that the reabsorption process might take over twice as much time as the separation did, and she and I might find ourselves unable to contain the pressure. So we’d damn well better not abort.”
“We understand, Jack,” said Jim MacKelvie. “We do the job right the first time or risk complete disaster.”
The others murmured in acknowledgment. Unspoken was the fact that every settlement on Clyde was now on full seismic-alert status, ready to deal as best they could with the catastrophic results of failure.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” Jack said. As they all went off to the different vehicles, his mind reached out to his great-granduncle, who had withdrawn with the other survey personnel to a safety bunker 20 kilometers away.
Goodbye Uncle Rogi.
Bonne chance Ti-Jean et Dorothée et dieu vous bénisse.
“After you, Madame Dirigent,” Jack said, gesturing to the ladder of the drill-rig he would share with Dorothea Macdonald. Tight-lipped, she climbed into the machine without a word and went immediately to the control room, where she halted in sudden consternation.
Before the command-console was a single chair. Beside it stood a pedestal bearing what looked like an open-topped spherical fishbowl.
“Sorry,” said Jack, coming up behind her. “I forgot to warn you that I’ll have to do this job bodiless to conserve my mental energy. I don’t usually say too much about this aspect of my life to people I work with. It distracts them.”
“I … see.” She sank into the chair and watched, blank-faced, as he set his CE helmet aside, slipped off his boots, and began to remove the rest of his clothing. The deep-driller, which like the other three was temporarily under the command of Jim MacKelvie for the descent below the planetary crust, suddenly came to life.
“Attention,” it said in a Scots-accented voice. “This vehicle, designated D-4, is now being activated via remote control from D-l. C
hecklisting of operating and environmental systems will proceed silently unless a verbal override is given.”
Jack said nothing as he unzipped the fireproof coverall, stepped out of it, and tossed it aside. His PK folded the suit in mid-air before it hit the deck, and stowed it tidily in an open locker. He stripped off his boots, socks, and air-conditioned underwear and disposed of them in the same way. The Dirigent waited in some apprehension for him to remove the last white formfitting garment.
Reading her thoughts, Jack shrugged. And she knew then with sickening certainty that he was already naked.
Except for his normal-looking hands, head, and neck, his body was smooth, hairless, and completely without wrinkle, crease, or blemish. He had no genitals, umbilical scar, or toes. His appearance was that of a man-sized doll made of plass, with human parts inexplicably grafted on. Involuntarily, she gave a low cry of pity.
“It’s all right,” he said with casual reassurance. “I don’t usually bother with body-construction details if it’s not absolutely necessary. But all the usual humanoid equipment is optionally available. And then some!”
She gasped. For the merest instant his body had grown an astonishing coat of light brown fur, curled ivory horns, and membranous wings that stretched between his wrists and ankles. The fantastic embellishments disappeared almost as soon as they were created, and Jack’s pale pseudoflesh began to dissolve, flowing to the deck like heavy smoke and gathering in a grayish-pink puddle. The fluid contracted into a gelatinous lump the size of a large melon, then bounced into the locker where the clothes were. The door slammed behind it.
Hovering in mid-air was a glistening silvery brain.
The driller said: “Checklist completed. Prepare for inertialess descent.”
As the Dirigent continued to watch, stunned and disbelieving, the thing that was Jack floated to the crystal fishbowl and fitted itself neatly inside. Outside the forward viewport, the rainy landscape seemed to be in motion as the driller entered Windlestrow Loch.
“But … your physical form isn’t disgusting at all!” she blurted at last.
There was a disembodied laugh. “I hope not. But aesthetic standards vary quite a lot, don’t they? When I was very young and just getting the hang of living with the mutation, I made my share of social errors cooking up weird bodies to nauseate my elders. Marc and Uncle Rogi made me—er—shape up rather quickly.”
She could not take her fascinated eyes off the brain. “Does—does it hurt when you come all apart?”
“Certainly not. Physical sensors are lacking in the bodies I create unless I have some special need to install them, which I rarely do. Ultrasenses deliver a full spectrum of external stimuli to my brain, and my metacreativity and PK modulate the output.”
“And the sound of your voice is only—”
“My PK vibrating the atmosphere molecules. I do usually create vocal cords, lungs, and all the rest of it when I incarnate. It gives a more natural vocal timbre. And I do a partial gastrointestinal tract to accommodate social eating, and a set of male plumbing when I’m put into a situation that requires social peeing. You know how men are. The camaraderie of the porcelain.”
She had to laugh in spite of herself, and then looked away. Turgid gray water now covered the viewport, and light from the surface was rapidly fading. The rig was descending into the lake at an angle of nearly sixty degrees, but there was no sensation of tilting or falling in a vehicle with inertialess propulsion.
“Activating penetration beam and level-one sigma-field in preparation for entry into lithospheric overburden of the maar,” the driller announced importantly.
“Just shut up and drive,” Jack told it. “You can let us know when we arrive at our destination, but don’t bother us with details en route unless there’s an emergency. Understand?”
“Affirmative.” The mechanical voice had a slight overlay of wounded pride.
The Dirigent regarded the brain with a little smile of approval. “That’s telling it.”
“Life’s too short to waste time chitchatting with machines for no good reason,” Jack said.
“I agree … but I thought all members of the Remillard family were essentially immortal.”
“All except me. My mutation made a mess of the self-rejuvenating gene complex. The brain will age. Its hardware will deteriorate more or less in the normal human fashion as redactive processes fail, and I’ll die after reaching the biblical three score and ten years. Or thereabouts.”
Her face was unreadable and her voice calm. “The regeneration-tank can’t help you?”
“It operates at normal human parameters, and I’m not normal. Don’t feel sorry for me, Diamond. I plan to accomplish a thing or two before I go to glory. Provided that we survive this little adventure, of course.”
She nodded, and pretended to study the console’s instrument readouts. After a few minutes, there was nothing but darkness outside the viewport. The drill-rig was capable of illuminating the ancient kimberlite pipe as they descended, but the formation was uninteresting except to a specialist, and neither Jack nor Dorothea cared to be reminded that they were plunging deeper and deeper into solid rock.
“I suppose we should practice our metaconcert,” she said without enthusiasm.
“It’ll be hours before we reach the magma reservoir. Later, we ought to put the hats on and review the program. But I’d rather talk about other things now. That is, if you don’t mind.”
“I … No, of course not. Would you think I was prying if I asked you about your life? I know from talking to Uncle Rogi that you weren’t born … that way, but he didn’t tell me much else. He saw that the very idea of your mutation frightened and repelled me.”
“And you were angry,” the brain said softly, “because of my stupid attempts to farspeak you. I’m sorry about that.”
“I thought you were trying to trick me into demonstrating my operancy. That would have meant my leaving Caledonia. I pretended to be latent as long as I could.”
“I was a tactless idiot. Adolescents are apt to be insensitive and I was probably worse than most. It went with the territory. It was Rogi who finally got me to back off.”
“He said you farspoke me because you were lonely.”
The brain produced a dry little laugh. “And then there are those who remain insensitive even though they’re centenarians! I love Uncle Rogi, but sometimes he’s a damned blabbermouth.”
“Loneliness is nothing to be ashamed of. Or defensive about. It’s a human thing.”
“Reassuring, you mean? Proving I’m not a monster?”
“I’m glad you can be straightforward about your condition. And laugh.” She lifted her chin in a small defiant gesture, to show she didn’t much care. “That’s probably a sign of mental health.”
“Maybe. I’ve never let shrinks mess with me. How about you?”
“I simply locked the snoopy bastards out. The one who really troubled me was my mother …” And she began to tell him about her.
Later, she wondered if he had managed to coerce her when she was distracted by the emotion-laden thought of Viola Strachan. Or was there another reason why she suddenly felt compelled to tell him all about her difficult early years? The words came tumbling out almost without volition, her terrible time with the latency therapists, her fears that her powers would destroy her if she failed to keep them locked away, her struggle between wanting to please her mother and wanting to be true to herself.
She described the ambiguous trauma of Viola’s death, the appearance of the mysterious guardian angel, the escape of one metafaculty after another from the bonds she had imposed on them. And then she told him about her encounters with Fury and the Hydras.
When she finally ran out of breath she felt both relieved and furious with herself. “I—I don’t know why I told you all that. It’s none of your business.”
“Yes it is,” Jack said. “I want to know everything about you. Not only your life story, but what you like and dislike, what your
ambitions are, even your fears—”
She fixed her intent gaze on the brain. “I’ll tell you one thing I’m afraid of: an inhuman mutant who can force me to reveal my secret thoughts!”
“I swear I didn’t! And to prove it, I’ll tell you my own cerebral tale.”
“H’mph.”
She got up from her seat and went to make some coffee in the drill-rig’s tiny galley. Jack oozed out of the bowl and floated companionably after, and began to spin the improbable story of his birth and childhood. He was a bewitching raconteur, embroidering his amazing autobiography not only with slapstick humor but also with a poignancy that brought tears to her eyes. By the time they returned to the control console, the drill-rigs had passed the Moho and entered the lithospheric mantle.
They continued talking for hours, he about himself and she about herself. She was now quite sure that he was not coercing her. A real compassion for the disembodied brain began to stir within her, and reluctant sympathy as well. He was so full of quixotic ideals, so determined to use his awesome power and influence for the good of the human race … to which he only marginally belonged.
So eager for her approval.
Why? What did he want from her? Did it have something to do with his family’s attempts to track down Fury and Hydra?
More hours passed. They practiced their metaconcert, she had a meal and a nap, and then they talked again, this time more easily. By the time the drill-rig reached its destination in the red-hot magma far beneath the surface of Caledonia, she had nearly managed to forget what her companion was.
He was simply Jack, and if they managed to survive, they might become friends after all.
“Attention. D-4 has now reached a depth of one hundred sixty-eight pip two kilometers below mean sea level and has reached its preselected station. Remote-control operation is now suspended. Manual control may be assumed ad lib. Please give the appropriate command if you desire to activate an alternative navigation program.”