by Julian May
“How very kind of you,” she murmured. She began to eat, the very paragon of politesse.
“Dorothée was just telling me about the great sportfishing on Caledonia,” said I.
“Cosmic class, so I’ve heard,” said Marc. “I’ve always meant to give it a whirl, but the new E18 project at CEREM seems to be taking all my time.”
“A new cerebroenergetic application?” Dorothée inquired.
Marc nodded. “We’ll crank the enhancement of innate creativity up to nearly three hundred percent if I can get the bugs out of this model.”
“Why, that’s amazing!” She hesitated momentarily before continuing. “I wonder if your brother has mentioned the spot of seismic bother we’ve been experiencing on Caledonia? If your organization should ever need to field-test your new equipment in a geophysical application, we’d give you a grand Scottish welcome … and take you fishing besides.”
“The offer sounds irresistible,” Marc agreed, smiling his charming asymmetrical smile.
“Mind if I tag along?” Jack asked diffidently.
“You’d both be welcome, of course,” she said. “Shall I keep you posted on the progress of the new survey?”
“Oh, CEREM’s been keeping an eye on you ever since the crustal studies began,” Jack said, with bland innocence.
“Then you must know,” she said a bit more stiffly, “that we may have reason for grave concern. Within the last three years, deep-seated seismic activity has increased throughout the entire northern hemisphere, especially in the vicinity of the Clyde continent. We’ve even had a kimberlite diatreme for the first time in thirty thousand orbits. Fortunately, the pipe was less than a meter wide and the eruption took place in an uninhabited region.”
“What’s a diatreme?” I asked.
“A cold eruption of gas,” Jack said, “usually carbon dioxide or water vapor. The phenomenon undoubtedly accounts for the abundant diamonds of Caledonia. The crystals form at great depths beneath ancient cratonic landmasses and are blasted to the surface when diatrematic activity forms a kimberlite pipe. It’s fascinating—”
“Unless it takes place in the midst of a densely populated area,” Dorothée broke in gently. “But we’re not so much concerned with the diamonds as we are with a possible threat to cratonic stability. A craton is a very ancient chunk of crust that forms the nucleus of a continent. On Earth, each continent is made up of a number of cratons. Caledonia has nineteen small continents with a single craton for each. We’ve left the seven most seismically active landmasses uncolonized. The twelve populated ones were supposed to have cratons that stabilized aeons ago, but as you may know, doubts have been cast on the validity of the original Krondak survey.”
“A charitable way to put it,” Marc murmured.
“We’re not sure yet,” Dorothée continued, “but there may be a sizable reservoir of magma with an extremely high volatile content just below the lithospheric mantle of Clyde’s craton. If signs of imminent instability turn up in the new study, then CE modification of the reservoir contents could be critically important.”
“Sounds challenging,” Jack said. “Do you have many trained CE ops with grandmasterclass creativity who could work on geozap planning with Marc’s CEREM people?”
“We have three,” she said.
Jack was taken aback. “That sounds like a considerable challenge!”
“Forty-two Caledonian grandmaster geophysicists are undergoing training on Satsuma,” Dorothée said, “but it will be some years before they’re all fully certified for cerebroenergetic enhancement. Dirigent Hamilton is adamant about safety considerations.”
“So am I,” Marc said tersely.
“My brother and I have developed some interesting new metaconcert programs for multiple grandmaster heads,” Jack said, “but we don’t usually participate personally in CEREM geophysical projects these days.”
“Oh.” Dorothée was plainly disappointed. “You see, it would be very difficult to get additional experienced grandmasterclass creators to come in to Caledonia from other worlds. Those planets that have CE operators trained in geophysical creativity paid a fortune and waited a long time to get them certified. They’re understandably anxious to keep the workers at home, where there tend to be more projects than they can handle. That’s why I thought—that is, I hoped—that you two might consider working with our Caledonian operators in order to test your new equipment.”
Jack shook his head with real regret. “Frankly, tacking just three grandmasters onto my own metaconcerted input and Marc’s would hardly produce an appropriate configuration.”
I let loose a derisive guffaw. “Be like hitching a trio of mice alongside a pair of Clydesdales!” But I shut my fool mouth and mentally kicked myself when I saw the look of dismay on the poor girl’s face. It vanished immediately, however, and she appeared as composed as ever.
“I see,” she said. “I apologize for the misunderstanding.” She pushed back her chair and prepared to leave. We all politely climbed to our feet. “Whether or not you choose to test your new equipment on Caledonia,” she said to Marc, “it would make me very happy to welcome you and Jack and Uncle Rogi for the fishing. Now you must excuse me. I promised dances to Ken and Luc before I left.”
She nodded pleasantly at each of us and went back to the ballroom.
“Nice going,” Marc said to me, with heavy irony.
“Aw shit,” I muttered wretchedly. “I didn’t mean to make fun of her dinky little CE corps.”
Jack said, “Three GMs on their own wouldn’t have a prayer of defusing a deep-seated high-pressure magma reservoir—even using CEREM’s new E18 brain-booster.” He lifted his inhuman eyes to his older brother. “Would they?”
“No,” said Marc. “I thought the problem on Caledonia was typical subduction-zone volcanism, ten to fifty kloms deep. If Caledonia’s mantle and crust are nearly terrestrial, then a subcratonic reservoir of the type she spoke of would likely lie one-thirty to two hundred kilometers below the surface. Deep-drillers can descend that far, but getting the metacreative impulse focused and shaped under those conditions of heat and pressure would be a real bitch. It may not be feasible under any circumstances, and it would certainly be bloody dangerous.”
“But you and I might be able to pull it off using the new hats.” Jack’s tone was almost pleading.
“Creative CE is finally gaining acceptance with the Milieu conservatives,” Marc said severely. “A fiasco now would put us back to square one … or worse.”
“But if a big subcratonic reservoir blows, it could be a major disaster for the affected planet.”
“Dammit, Jack, I’m not touching this thing with a barge pole! I almost barbecued myself once before doing experimental geozap CE with you. Pardon me if I can’t get all worked up at the notion of a fresh try! If the boil on Caledonia pops, they’ll just have to evacuate the region and pick up the pieces.”
“Poor Dorothée,” I said.
“Poor CEREM,” Marc retorted, “if I get myself killed or tangled in a no-win mess because Bodiless Bozo, here, thinks he’s in love.”
I gaped at Jack. The paramount naked brain and little Diamond Mask? The absurd contingency had never entered my mind.
“You know, Marc,” Jack said in a friendly fashion, “sometimes you’re really a primo prick.”
“At least I’ve got one to call my own,” Marc snapped, and he went stomping off, coattails and hackles both flying high.
Jack’s mind said: [Freakish obscene image] + [utter dejection].
I tried to force some hearty optimism. “Cheer up, Ti-Jean. Maybe there won’t be any rumble on Caledonia. Maybe those half-assed Krondak surveyors got it right after all.”
“And maybe bears will build latrines in the woods.”
I couldn’t resist asking, “Are you really in love with her?”
The inhuman blue eyes had a sardonic glitter. “What a ludicrous idea. Me, in love? Why, that’s positively sickening. Right?”
&nb
sp; “Oh, Ti-Jean …” I whispered, and my vision began to blur.
“I really can’t stand people who cry at weddings,” Jack said. “See you later, Uncle Rogi.”
I stayed there alone for a good long time, then snuck away to the Sap Bucket Tavern and got paralytic.
A little over a year after Dorothée returned to her home world, Graeme Hamilton died peacefully. She was immediately appointed Planetary Dirigent of Caledonia by the Lylmik Supervisors.
Late in 2077, the team of human geophysical surveyors confirmed the presence of an enormous high-pressure magmatic reservoir beneath the continent of Clyde. In their report to the Dirigent, the scientists estimated that the thing would blow off catastrophically within two to three years unless something drastic was done to modify its development.
Dorothée thanked the surveyors and promised to take the matter under advisement. Then she called me.
And I called Jack.
23
SECTOR 12: STAR 12-337-010 [GRIAN] PLANET 4 [CALEDONIA]
13-14 AN GEBLEAN [24-25 NOVEMBER] 2077
BY THE TIME ROGI REVIVED FROM THE STATE OF ENFORCED HIBERNATION he’d endured throughout the tight-leash trip from Earth, Scurra II was dropping through the aurora-streaked ionosphere toward the cloudy Scottish planet.
Scratching himself and yawning, the old man made his way to the flight deck. His great-grandnephew was no longer in the brainboarded fishbowl that was his resting place of choice while disembodied, but sat instead in a command chair like a decent human being, dressed in a blue jumpsuit and a pair of Sauvage Hikers. The blinking light on the terrain display before him indicated that their landing site was nowhere near either of Clyde’s metro areas.
“What’s happening?” Rogi inquired. “You’re not putting down at the Wester Killiecrankie Starport?”
“We’ve got emergency clearance to land at the geophysical operations site,” Jack said. “Callie Traffic Control decided Scurra II is small enough to be designated an honorary egg-bus. We won’t have to transship the equipment to a rhocraft for atmospheric flight.”
“Some bus!” the bookseller snorted. “Damn thing’d leave a Krondak clipper in the dust. I can’t believe we hopped over five hundred lights in two days.”
“Actually, I held back a little to be sure you’d survive. You’re the first passenger I’ve taken in the new ship.”
The old man flexed his arms again and groaned a little. “I’m glad you didn’t tell me that before we started out. I might have thought twice about wanting to come along.”
The bus driver showed immediate concern. “Are you in pain, Uncle Rogi?”
“Just creaky from being zonked out for two days. You redacted me just fine. Didn’t feel a thing. All I need is a square meal. You get any word from Dorothée while I was out for the count?”
Jack turned back to the display. They were swiftly approaching their destination, a plateau situated between two sizable rivers that was labeled WINDLESTROW MUIR. It lay about 700 kilometers south of Caledonia’s capital, New Glasgow, below Clyde’s Lothian Range. There were dozens of small cities and villages in the valleys near the sea, but the moorland itself seemed almost devoid of settlement.
“I farspoke the Dirigent when we emerged from the first subspace vector,” the young man finally said. “I wanted to find out if she’d had any luck recruiting additional CE operators from other worlds. She only got three from Satsuma and one from Yakutia … and now she wants to call off the operation.”
“Merde.” Rogi heaved a disappointed sigh. “But what else can she do? You told her before we ever left Earth that fifteen trained geozappers would be the minimum to fit the E18 metaconcert for a big operation like this.”
“I want to check out the situation myself. Confer with the chief surveyor of the planet. Maybe I can think of something—design a new config for the seven operators or find some different way to tackle the problem.”
The ship said: “Entering planetary tropopause. Opening viewport shutters. ETA Windlestrow Auxiliary Landing Area five minutes. Do you wish a summary of surface conditions?”
Jack gave a sad little laugh. “Why not?”
“Scattered cumulonimbus cells with heavy precipitation and limited visibility at surface. Wind three-six gusting to five-five. Air temp plus-oh-four. Local time 1732 hours. Windlestrow NAVCOM clears us for immediate landing. Shall I proceed?”
“Go,” said Jack. And to Rogi, “Break out a couple of rain jackets, would you, please? And one E18 unit for show-and-tell.”
They touched down in a thundering deluge and near-total darkness. The portable buildings of the geophysical operations camp stood on high ground above a hollow containing a lake about a kilometer in width. Down at the water’s edge, highintensity floodlights on tall standards illuminated four huge machines and a similar smaller model, sigma-shielded deep-drillers capable of penetrating far beneath the planetary crust.
Scurra II shuddered slightly as it came into gravity’s grip, touched down, tilted, then modified the landing-struts’ extension to compensate for the soggy, unstable ground. The pad was nothing but roughly graded earth, scored with shallow erosion channels full of running water. A single big-wheel Bronco, headlights dim in the rain, came lurching and bouncing toward them from the cluster of buildings.
The starship said, “This area is experiencing microseismic activity as well as soil instability due to water saturation. I advise you to leave my systems activated at level two rather than commanding full shutdown. In the event of an emergency, I will assume a holding pattern in the planetary ionosphere and await your mental summons.”
“Go,” Jack agreed. He stared through the ship’s forward port for a moment, checking out the approaching truck with his farsight. The Dirigent was driving and Intendant General Calum Sorley sat in the backseat. Her face was without expression but her eyes had dark smudges beneath them, betraying anxiety and lack of sleep. She looked years older. Poor little Diamond Mask! She had pleaded with the Supervisors not to appoint her to the dirigentship, but they had been adamant. And now her beloved home world was on the brink of ruin, and she would have to preside over its demise.
Jack joined Rogi and donned a jacket. When the big Ford four-wheeler pulled up he opened the starship’s air lock. The waiting vehicle had cleated tires nearly a meter in diameter and stood in mud up to the hubs. Jack propelled Rogi and the carrier with the CE equipment into the front seat with unceremonious PK, levitated himself into the backseat, and slammed the truck doors after them.
“Welcome to bonnie Caledonia,” said Dorothea Macdonald, lifting her hand in the open-palmed operant greeting. “Sorry about the wee sprinkle. It’ll pass by in half an hour or so.” She introduced IG Sorley, a well-built man in his late thirties. Both of them wore Day-Glo orange environmental suits without headpieces. Their hair was soaked and their faces beaded with raindrops.
The Bronco began to wallow toward the lighted buildings. “Thank you for coming, Jack,” the Dirigent said, rather coolly. “Uncle Rogi should never have pressured you to involve yourself, but—”
“He didn’t. I’m glad to be here and I’ll do anything in my power to help. I can’t understand why you didn’t ask me yourself.”
She was staring straight ahead, clutching the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. “I wouldn’t have presumed. You have so many other demands on your valuable time. I asked Rogi to approach your brother Marc about lending us the new CE equipment from CEREM, but I never dreamed he’d ask you to come here.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jack muttered. “Would you really put Caledonia at risk just because you can’t stand me?”
“I have the greatest respect for you. I simply didn’t feel it was proper to involve you in a hopeless situation.”
“How do you know it’s hopeless?” he challenged her.
“You can see for yourself in just a few minutes. Our chief surveyor is ready to give you an overview. I told you in our subspace conversation yesterday that you were on
ly wasting your time—”
“Dammit, let me be the judge of that!”
“I’m responsible for this world, not you, Jack!” she snapped. “And the final judgment on this project will be mine!”
“Then be sure that judgment is based on reason and not on your stubborn pride!”
“Will you two cut it out?” Rogi pleaded.
“One piece of good news,” Calum Sorley put in hastily. “Another geozap recruit signed on. From Okanagon. She’ll be here by suppertime.”
“That’s eight qualified CE operators all told, then,” Jack muttered. “Better, but still not enough for the fifteen-head metaconcert the job probably needs.”
“The Yakutia operator made a suggestion this morning,” Sorley went on. “She said that we might abandon the metaconcert approach and attack the subcratonic reservoir with multiple individual creative impulses instead. It seems they’ve had some success with the technique on their world, coping with smaller magma chambers. The beastie under Clyde is much larger and deeper, of course, but with the added power of your E18s …”
“I’ll need a better picture of the reservoir,” Jack said.
“We’ll give you a full Tri-D model with all the bells and whistles right now—unless you’d rather freshen up first.”
“Not at all. Let’s go for it.”
Sorley nodded. “Narendra has it all set up.”
They were approaching a large portable building crowned with antenna arrays. The Dirigent skidded to a stop in front of it, flinging a sheet of muddy spray. The four of them climbed out and raced through the rain to the entrance, where they were met by a dark-complected man with a dazzling smile. The Dirigent introduced Caledonia’s chief surveyor, Narendra Shah MacNabb. He greeted Jack and Rogi with effusive enthusiasm and led the way to a holographic display chamber.
“Are you familiar with the latest geophysical graphic models?” the scientist inquired. “No? Well, you should find this interesting. I’ll just start the simulation.” He glanced at a little monitor just outside the chamber, took a portable keypad from its holder, and tapped away for a few moments. Then he opened the door.