“Antarctica, actually,” Michael sighed, weakly. “More than a hundred thousand years ago. That was before Atlantis sunk beneath the waves. When Lemuria was empty of human life. When all the world was jungle and tundra. It . . . it . . .”
“It’s bloody madness, is what it is,” Anton said, taking another generous sip of his gin.
“Mark my words, some day we will have the proof we need to establish this as scientific fact. But from the speculative conjecture the scholars have established – conclusively – that we did not originate on this world,” Michael said, as dramatically as he was able.
“So?” Anton dismissed. “So? Michael, I enjoyed puttering around with ancient languages and intriguing theories as much as you did, in school, but we’re adults, now,” he reasoned. “I’m a barrister. I’m going to marry Margery this spring and find a nice place in Ipswich. We’re going to have babies,” he emphasized. “What are you going to do?”
“I have my scholarship,” Michael said, defensively, closing his eyes in regret. He never should have mentioned Mars, he realized. Everyone was mad for Mars since Wells, and then Burroughs started his stories, and now no serious scholarship on the subject was possible.
“Your scholarship?” Anton asked mockingly. “And what has that gotten you?”
“Look, the papers I’ve read suggest that the universe was once much more . . . malleable to thought,” Michael argued. “Over time, for some reason, the ability of our minds to overcome the constraints of mere matter have declined. There were once races on distant worlds that could alter reality with their minds alone,” he said, snapping his fingers. “As easily as we turn on the wireless. But they . . . they declined. Hell, Earth may have been one such place, in our distant past.”
“And how does that matter one way or another, today?” challenged Anton. “You’re speaking of fantasy!”
“I’m speaking of true scholarship!” Michael insisted. “I am part of a . . . a secret group,” he said, in a low voice. “True scientists. Studying the waxing and waning of orgonic forces in the world. The true mystical forces – not some banal yogi in Piccadilly preaching vegetarianism and sexual abstinence, but authentic mystical scholarship. We’ve been . . . conducting some experiments.”
Anton sighed. “What kind of ‘experiments,’ Michael?” he asked, his voice resigned. “Opium? Hashish?” he asked, suspiciously.
“Did you know that psychic ability increases dramatically – more than three hundred-fold! – at precisely thirteen and a half hours, local sideral time?” he asked, triumphantly. “You recall experimenting with mediation and trance—”
“So, you’re a bloody yogi, now?” Anton asked, skeptically.
“Trance is an excellent tool for the science of clairvoyance,” he explained, a passion rising in his voice. “If you know what you are doing you can see far away. That has been long established by the occult masters for centuries. What we discovered,” he continued, excitedly, “is that for one brief hour a day, the powers of the mind can penetrate beyond this mere shell and probe the past, the future, distant worlds, other dimensions . . .”
“Bollocks!” declared Anton. “Local Sidereal Time? What even is that?”
“It’s Universal time,” Michael tried to explain, “You see, as the Earth rotates around the Sun—”
“I’m a barrister, not a bloody astronomer,” Anton said, his voice getting firmer.
“When the mass of the Earth is between you and the center of the galaxy,” Michael insisted, “it blocks the interfering rays from there, and allows a greater access to the higher powers our minds our naturally heir to. If—”
“That’s bloody nonsense,” Anton assured him. “Utter nonsense. It’s not science, Michael. Chemistry is science. Medicine is science. Ballistics is science,” he reminded him – Anton had done service in the Great War as an artillery captain. “But this? This is fantasy, Michael. It is unworthy your intellect or your station. I beg you to reconsider this direction in life, if only to spare my sister her misguided grief over you. Really, Old Man,” he continued, gently, as he set down his empty glass. “You’re better than this. I’ll show myself out,” he said, standing.
Michael sat in his chair for nearly a half-hour, after Anton left. His sense of despair was palpable, and his condition – whatever it was – seemed to flare into a body-wide assault, due to the stress of Anton’s visit.
But Michael was certain about his group’s findings. They had spent countless days and nights awaiting the precious hour and then had used the time to plumb the depths of past and future, of distant lands and places hidden deep within the Earth. For months, now, they had used the ritual at the appointed time to regard the minds of the hidden civilizations in the Earth and communicate with intelligences otherwise uninterested in this mean world.
Of course, his friend thought him mad. Anton had been mildly interested in the occult for a few years at university, but that interest had faded as the mundanities of the world called his attention. Michael held some scorn for him about that; to trade eternal mystic knowledge for a position in the city seemed foolish and short-sighted.
Alas, his pretty sister, Cecily, had been even less interested in the subject, though she’d seemed eager enough for Michael’s friendship at university, all those years ago.
Despite himself he considered what might have been . . . and then dismissed the matter from his mind. He was a man of science, after all, the esoteric science that had opened the veil and revealed the true nature of the universe. The carnal life of a family man had little appeal to him. Ipswich? The fool!
Perhaps once, when he was young, he might have considered such distractions. But the things that he had seen in trance at the fateful hour had changed him. Witnessing the medieval princes warring across Europe, the appalling glory of the Crusades, the Caesars building their empire, the ancient pharaohs building their pyramids and temples, and the hidden history beyond the mists of time had given Michael a unique perspective on his life.
Despite his sickliness, he had persisted in his trance work with a few select friends and fellow disciples and had thrilled at the result. A secure position at a solid firm was nothing compared to seeing the origin of mankind – not in the Garden of Eden, as the Church insisted, but from the hatches of ships fleeing devastated Mars, tens of thousands of years before Sumer and Babylon rose in Mesopotamia.
He had seen the Shining Ones descend from the heavens, the dark beasts who hid within the Earth, the glory of Atlantis and Lemuria at their heights . . . how could a man turn up the opportunity for such knowledge? he asked himself, as he sighed and tossed up his hands.
He stopped himself, and for no clear reason he stared at his long, pale, bony fingers a moment.
That’s when I finally felt I had some control over him, or at least some influence.
So of course, that’s when Szal tore me out of Michael’s mind and threw me unceremoniously into another: Lieutenant Colonel Martin Fitzgerald Andrews.
I was flying. Over water. Not unaided, but within the hull of a skyship – an aircar, I suddenly knew. Specifically, an aircar belonging to the Callidore Colonial Exploration Authority. And I was piloting – those were my hands on the controls while we hurtled through the clouds. While that terrified me, the man whose eyes I was seeing through contended with the matter with long skill and practice. I tried to relax, even with three other people in my head, and understand the man who was, I suddenly knew, one of the Ancients.
The fog of mystical perspective that Palgrave had imparted me with was scattered, to be replaced by the orderly thoughts of a man well-trained to military service whose mind had absorbed a dizzying array of technical subjects.
“Perwyn Control, this is Piper 112 turning telemetry over to Calsatnav,” Andrews muttered to the console in front of him. “ETA to Merwyn Station is ninety-two minutes. Alfred, autopilot mode.”
“Of course, Sir,” the console replied. “Shall I set an alarm?”
“Ten minu
tes before landing,” Andrews agreed. He turned toward the other seat, where a woman sat, reading a tablet similar to Lilastien’s. “Are you planning on working the entire trip?” he asked her.
It was his wife; I knew at once. His new wife. She was dressed in trousers and a tunic and wore her hair down. Angela. Technically they had been married since before they had left Terra, but only just before. They were still newlyweds when they both went into suspension for the voyage.
“I’m always working,” she said, with a shrug. “That’s why the Foundation likes me and pays me a fortune,” she said, sarcastically. “Just be glad I got permission to go with you on this trip. The condition was that I review reports and grant applications while I was gone.”
“I was hoping for—” Andrews began, as a primal image formed in his mind.
“Maybe on the return trip,” she proposed, biting her lip. “If I get these done. Some of them are hard,” she admitted. “I can get through the terraforming survey reports easily enough, and the bio and chem, but when it comes to xenoarchaeology?” she asked, with a snort of frustration. “We don’t even know how many intelligent species are on this planet now, much less a million years ago. Oh, and this – this is rich. New evidence of potential life in the subterranean oceans. Which the natives won’t give us access to. And they want thirty thousand credits to study it when we haven’t cataloged more than a quarter of the lifeforms on Perwyn yet.”
“Most of them are cows, now,” he joked. The ECHO stations had been thawing and importing a wide selection of cattle to help secure the nascent colony’s food supply. There were dozens of herds wandering the pastures of the island, now.
“By percentage, you might be right,” she smiled. “I meant native lifeforms.” She was a biologist, Andrews knew – thus, so did I. A special scholar who studied plant and animal life. “That’s the fun part of this job, the xenobiology. Even the biochem studies are interesting.
“But then there are the bad ones – oh, this one is complaining about the planetary quantum field effect in equations I can’t begin to understand. This one from Heliology is proposing a back-up orbital soliel in case the natives get restless and take away the solar protections they’ve given us. This one is from the Astronomy team, of all things, noting that there is a ninety-two percent difference in Hawking radiation in this system compared to Earth, thanks to that nebula blocking Sag A. As if that made the slightest difference to the colony. We can barely detect Hawking radiation. I don’t think we’ll miss it. I get a lot of silly crap like that on my desk.”
“I’m starting to be glad I’m still mostly in the field,” Andrews chuckled. I suddenly knew that he had spent three long, lonely years in the earliest days of the colony as an active member of the Colonial Exploration Corps, part of the twenty-year survey effort that predicated the terraformation effort.
Those had been exciting days. He’d flown to incredibly exotic places on this magnificent world, seen some astonishing things, and worked with some of the most competent and daring people he’d ever met in his long career. The CEC was the point of the spear for the colonial effort. He’d been part of the initial contact team that had met the odd humanoid aliens, the fishy aliens, the tree aliens, and the others, and negotiated terms with their council to permit the colony. He’d been the first human being to go and explore it on behalf of the colony while his new wife slept agelessly in her suspension capsule.
But she was out now, as young and as beautiful as ever. For the last six months she’d gotten used to the new planet’s sprouting culture, as the New Horizon launched hundreds of projects to make the zone they’d been given more habitable. That had required a lot of organization, and Angela excelled at organization. She had been in high demand at the Colonial Science Foundation, despite a competing offer from the Terraforming Authority.
He’d known she was brilliant when he’d married her . . . but a research or administrative job didn’t always work well with an exploration job that could keep him in the field for weeks. That’s why he’d transferred to Inspections and Investigations at a more senior rank. That kept his travel to a minimum and allowed him to spend more time at home. It also allowed him to bring her along as an observer on these I&I trips.
“I was thinking,” she said, with a sigh as she deactivated her tablet. “Our flat is getting a little cramped now that you’re home all the time. What do you think about building a little place in the rural zone? Maybe in Brighton? There are some pretty parcels available in Brighton,” she reasoned.
“Which means you’ve already been looking,” he chuckled. “So, when do we move?”
“It’s not like that, Martin!” she said, rolling her eyes. “When you were gone on the island survey, I spent a couple of days out there with April and Renee. It’s gorgeous – farmland that looks out over the bay, mountains in the south, and someday you’ll be able to see the Colonial Tower, when its built. It’s quite a view. That also puts it close enough to our offices. And the school is excellent,” she assured.
“Uh, we don’t have children,” he pointed out.
“About that . . .” Angela said, staring out the window. “What if that wasn’t the case?” she asked, hesitantly.
“What if . . . Angela? Are you pregnant?” he asked, shocked.
“Not yet,” she admitted. “But I want to be – soon. I was in that tin can for how many years? I’m finally in my new home, it’s peaceful, it’s safe . . . I think it’s time we start thinking about it. Planning for it.” She looked back at him. “We’re not going to get any younger. What do you think?”
“Uh . . . yeah,” Andrews agreed, his head spinning. He had always been hesitant about starting a family on Earth, after the war – that was one reason he had emigrated. “Yes, let’s do it,” he agreed, more decisively. “The natives gave us a three-thousand-year lease on the place with an option to renew. Perwyn is in Stage Three. They’re already bringing down colonists,” he reminded her. “This is about as safe and secure as we could ask for, unless you wanted to go back to the New Horizon and get a luxury flat, there. I can afford it,” he added.
“No, no, we came here to enjoy life and build a new world,” she reminded him. “We can’t do that on a spaceship that’s falling apart. But we could do it on a dairy farm in Brighton,” she promised.
He was quiet for a moment. “You’ve already got a place picked out, haven’t you?”
“Why, as a matter of fact, I did get a few listings for you to look at, after dinner tonight. By the way, where are we having dinner tonight?”
“The fleshpots of Merwyn Station are pretty limited,” he admitted. “It’s only been there for three years, but it has some charming little places. Germans, mostly – Saxons, Thuringians, and Mars Germans. Of course, the moment they settled they started growing barley and hops, so there are two tiny beer halls, there. And the sausages are good. But there’s also the commissary, and they’re getting fresh seafood flown in from the coast, now. Greek chef. It’s actually pretty charming,” he promised.
“Just think what it will look like in a year, when the first wave actually begins?” she asked, a hint of excitement in her voice. “They’re calling for six Cultural Preservation Organizations to be part of it – one of the UN pods, of course, but five others for Perwyn and the mainland. They want to raise that to ten, next year.”
“The place is going to get pretty crowded – hey, look! A leviathan!” Andrews said, pointing out the windscreen. “Have you ever seen one, before?” he asked.
Angela looked surprised. “Me? No! They don’t get too close to Perwyn.”
“We’re supposed to keep our distance, but the occasional fly-over doesn’t rile them, too much,” he said, touching a control. “Calsatnav Control, Piper 122 requesting deviation from flight plan.”
“Nature of the deviation?” the Constructed Intelligence that controlled the air corridor asked.
“I saw something shiny. I can give you my override code if you’d like.”
> “Unnecessary,” the distant machine assured him. “Deviation granted, Lieutenant Colonel Andrews. Please notify when you resume course.”
“Alfred, end autopilot,” he instructed the aircar’s own CI, as he grabbed the wheel and began to descend toward the giant alien sea creature.
“Are you sure we won’t get into trouble?” Angela asked, biting her lip.
“I’m an inspector,” he reminded her. “I’m inspecting. Wow! Look at the size of that one!” he said, as he slowed his speed and began to circle around the gigantic thing. It was long, at least a mile long, and rose hundreds of feet in the air from the surface. “Hard to believe that thing is two hundred times smarter than a human,” he said, shaking his head.
“The Lexington Scale is an approximation,” she chided. “It’s falling out of favor, anyway, because we can’t use human standards to assess alien intelligence with any reliability. But yes . . . they are very, very smart. What are those things, surrounding it?”
“Those are the clippermen,” Andrews supplied. “We’re not sure if they’re just undeveloped, or if they’re a separate species. But they protect the leviathan. See all those hairs on the back of the thing? That’s where at least one stage of the hatchlings is tended.”
“They have the most elegantly complex life-cycle I’ve ever seen, and we’ve just started studying it,” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “That thing is probably a hundred and fifty thousand years old. Think about that. A hundred and fifty thousand.”
“They say the ones in the big bays in the southern hemisphere are at least half a million years old,” Andrews said, thoughtfully. They flew a slow circle around the island-like alien to see it thoroughly. They were gratified to see a terrestrial addition – a whale of some sort – break the surface in the lagoon between the clippermen and the leviathan. Finally, he turned the aircar back to its course.
“That was simply amazing,” Angela sighed. “I had no idea how inspiring it would be. Something that old, that big, with that many young . . . well, it makes you think how briefly we’re here,” she said, thoughtfully. “Let’s start thinking about that.”
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