by Julian May
“Continue hold,” said Jack. “Open intervehicular communication channel … Hello, everybody. I presume we’ve arrived.”
An armored shutter had closed off the viewport at the 50-kilometer level. The console monitor now showed three blips indicating the other drill-rigs positioned around the equator of the magma reservoir, while their own machine lay slightly above the molten mass.
Jim MacKelvie’s voice, sounding faint and hollow, came out of the com speaker. “All units are now deployed at operating station: Drills One, Two, and Three stand at klom-depth one-seven-five-pip-five, azimuth ninety, one-eighty, and two-sixty, range one-pip-five. D-4 stands klom-depth one-six-eight-pip-two, azimuth three hundred, range zero-pip-niner. The asthenospheric temperature outside our sigma-field here in D-l is a brisk eleven-hundred-ought-six degrees Celsius and the pressure fifty-eight kilobars—which I might remind our ignorant lay Paramount Creators is equivalent to fifty-eight thousand times that of Earth atmospheric pressure at sea level.”
“Eek,” whispered the Dirigent.
“I knew that,” Jack chimed in, with mock superiority. There were a few scattered laughs from the experienced geozappers. “Any significant change in the mantle roofing the magma reservoir, Jim?”
“No. The extrusion queue has ascended another three meters or so to the one-three-niner-pip-zilch-two. Still on a slow creep. You’ll find the complete up-to-the-nanosec data on the rigidity of the superimposed lithospheric mantle in your CE-helmet banks, with pull-up graphics galore to assist continuous mental monitoring. An alarm will sound in your minds at the least shift in mantle-phase or mantle-reservoir boundaries. If the queue starts accelerating you’ll also get a shout. The interconcert com-link that provides you with data-feed on the degassing operation—plus jokes, snappy comments, and complaints from all and sundry—is set to activate once we’ve all slotted in.”
“Then,” said the brain, “there’s no reason why we shouldn’t begin. Go for the hats, everybody.”
Jack’s CE helmet levitated from where he had left it on the instrument console and settled over the bowl, hiding it and its contents from sight. Like a golden snake, a power cable emerged from a deck receptacle and plugged itself into the back of the hat. Small LEDs lit up on the dull black surface, indicating that Jack’s brain was energetically enhanced.
The Dirigent put on her own E18 helmet. As always, there was a moment of claustrophobia as the thing covered her eyes, but fortunately this model left the lower part of her face exposed so she could talk and breathe normally. She winced at the brief painful stab of the multiple crown-of-thorns electrodes penetrating her scalp, felt nothing as tiny holes were drilled through her skull and the cobweb-fine wires carried their tiny cargo to the fluid-filled ventricles within her head. The brain-boosting machinery sprouted and activated.
She could see again. Every detail of the drill-rig’s control deck was now exquisitely distinct, even though the CE helmet’s brainboard was set to enhance only creativity. That metafaculty was so deeply enmeshed in the function of all the other mental processes that they became preternaturally efficient as it intensified.
But there were certain disadvantages. Every nuance of bodily feeling and every ultrasense that she possessed was also sharpened. She heard her heart thud, her lungs inhale and expel air, her guts rumble, even the hissing of blood in her eardrums. The tiny noises filling the control room were magnified into a jarring racket. She felt the helmet’s weight, the pressure of the heat-resistant suit intended to protect her in case of mental flashover, even her tongue moving nervously over her teeth in her closed mouth. The distractions would vanish once the metaconcert was established and the work began.
I’m ready, she said to Jack.
The control deck disappeared. She was no longer a human being but a small globe of emerald radiance suspended in darkness. Another green nebula hung nearby. Wispy, crimson mist drifted around them and there seemed to be two lingering musical notes sounding faintly, like a deep chord from some phantom cello. Below, a slowly churning expanse of red represented the magma reservoir. A thin stemlike excrescence, the queue of scarlet molten matter slowly pushing its way toward the surface in an expanding lithospheric fissure, protruded from the top of the reservoir some distance away.
The Dirigent found that if she exerted herself slightly, she could see all the way through the mass of magma below and discern three widely separated groups of little white lights gathered round it that represented the poised minds of the others.
Jack said to her: Come together.
Their metaconcert established itself. The two green nebulae began to orbit a common center, describing complex glowing patterns that constantly changed as they moved closer and closer. The sustained notes of mental music became melodies that rose and fell, creating a subtle, coordinated fugue. When it seemed that the two shining globes had nearly metamorphosed into one, a luminous emerald cone flashed into existence, extending from the center of the metaconcert to the upper surface of the reservoir. The beam drew a bright, sparkling circle that rapidly expanded until the entire mass of magma was roofed in scintillating points of prismatic light. The queue extension was a red stalk sheathed in twinkling stars.
Jack was the executive continuously organizing and guiding the creative impulse. Dorothea was the living lens through which it was focused and activated. She felt marvelous. There was none of the frightening tension she had experienced during the practice metaconcert maneuvers. This time the two of them were combined to do real work. They had created something exquisite together and it was very, very good.
The lid is in place, Jack told the other metaconcert. And he asked her, Are you all right, Diamond? Is the energetic flow consonant?
Yes, she sang. Oh, yes!
The luminous parts of the other metaconcert seemed to come together in the heart of the reservoir, even though the generating minds actually remained outside its boundaries. The eight white lights began their own intricate orbital dance, but their unique harmony was inaudible beneath the adamant vault Dorothea and Jack had made.
Begin degassing operation, said Jim. We’re on our way, people. Mo dia’s mo dhuchaich!
For a long time the effect of the separation effort was imperceptible to the Dirigent; but at last she became aware that a real change was taking place in the magmatic reservoir. It was visible first in the queue, where bubbles seemed to be rising, creating a golden zone free of the scarlet matter as they reached the tip and coalesced.
Slowly, the queue filled with the volatile components of the magmatic mass that were being separated from the molten rock by the other merged minds. The Dirigent watched the process in mesmerized fascination, never interrupting her own metasong, for what seemed to be many hours. When the entire fissure was filled with gold the bubbles began to gather at the ceiling of the reservoir itself. The gaseous brightness expanded like a swarm of fiery organisms, swelling and joining and spreading until the entire top of the magma-chamber turned to a layer of fluid gold.
It’s working, Jack said to her. There are no signs of instability yet in the lithospheric mantle above us. It’s staying nicely rigid. But as the volume of separated volatiles grows, there will be a tremendous increase in pressure against our barrier. If the alarm sounds, we’ll have only a fraction of a second to alter the structure of the lid—to strengthen it at whatever point the lithosphere has weakened.
I understand. I won’t let myself get lulled by the song. But it’s wonderful, isn’t it, the way the contrapuntal duet works …
Yes. It’s a kind of magic. Very satisfying. The pattern is so elegant, so right. It’s been a while since I worked in concert. I’d nearly forgotten how exciting it can be. Of course, working with my brother Marc was quite a bit different from this. You and I together are a Bach invention. When you link with Marc it’s apt to be either Stravinsky or Wagner at his wildest.
[Laughter.] Do the E18 helmets make much of a difference?
Yes. There’s an apt analogy, b
ut I don’t think I want to go into it just now. [Half-formed image.]
Oh? … OH!!
Let’s see how the others are getting along: Jim?
MacKelvie said: Aye. We’re keepin’ the pot stirred down here. You realize we’ve been at this for over ten hours? Twenty-six left to go, plus or minus, till we’ve wrung as much volatile matter out of the beastie as we can. Then you two pull the cork … and it’s either Party Time or Apocalypse Now.
Dirigent Macdonald said: It seems to be working well so far.
Neelya Demidova said: Both Tisha and I are amazed, actually. And quite relieved.
Toru Yorita said: D-2 crew is gratified that its faith in Jack’s ingenuity is being so well repaid.
Ailsa Gordon said: Oh, he’s a clever wee bugger, for certain. But you just remember that he’s got our Dirigent doing the really tough work in the configuration.
The Dirigent said: I’m fine. Really. This is turning out to be a very educational experience in more ways than one. Working in concert with Director Remillard is … an interesting challenge.
Tell us! said the women in the degassing metaconcert.
When we’re finished, the Dirigent said. Perhaps.
The queue began to rupture seven hours later, when less than half the volatiles had been separated from the magma.
Dorothea had tried valiantly not to let herself be distracted, but even the mind of a Paramount Grand Master may be torn by conflicting emotions. She had avoided analyzing her changing attitude toward Jack, telling herself that it was enough to know that her earlier sense of loathing was finally obliterated. His life story had been moving, at times hilariously funny. He had listened to her own tale with sympathy, and his comments had been sensible and unsentimental. He had refrained from commenting on the obvious comparisons between them, while she had had sense enough to stay on firm emotional ground after making the faux pas about loneliness.
There would be time enough for further exploration, she told herself, when the two of them were no longer enmeshed in this perilous situation. Now she must focus entirely upon the job at hand, just as Jack was doing.
But the distracting thoughts continued to come. Could it be possible that he saw their future relationship as more than an alliance against Fury and Hydra? Was he human enough for that? …
In the midst of her reverie the mental alarm shrieked. The queue had broken through their metacreative sheath.
Jack’s command to alter the configuration of the metaconcert came and she floundered clumsily, trying to regain her concentration. The complex image of the new metaconcert shape that would cap and contain the ruptured queue hovered in her brain, ready for her participation. Jack was saying nothing, only showing her clearly what she must do, but she still tottered off-balance, at first furious with herself and then mortally afraid.
In desperation, she reached deep within her mind, tapping ultimate reserves of metapsychic power that neither she nor the Lylmik examiners had ever suspected were there. A creativity far greater than Jack’s responded. A surge of fresh energy more powerful than what he had called for exploded from her mind—and overwhelmed the metaconcert design.
The phenomenon was called dysergism.
Only a fraction of a second had passed. Jack saw the structure they had created begin to collapse—not only the reinforced sheath enclosing the queue but the entire lid of the reservoir as well. The generating beam that had formerly been green flashed an abrupt blue-white. Shock waves rippled the starry roof. A tiny lance of gold spurted up, penetrating it: a newborn second queue.
He realized immediately what must have happened, heard her despairing mental cry. She was completely unaware of the disaster’s source, frantic because she was unable to reintegrate her creativity. She did know that something had gone fatally wrong, and there seemed no way she could stop the lid from dissolving.
Jack do something for God’s sake DO SOMETHING!
The new metaconcert … He decided in an instant that it might possibly be changed to accommodate her higher creative flux. But he would be forced to withdraw his own metacreative output from the faltering lid while he refashioned the framework. In the meantime, the high-pressure volatiles would smash against the unshielded mantle as the reservoir of magma was transformed from a caged brute into one set free and eager to escape.
The lithospheric mantle might hold if he was quick enough.
The dance of the twin emerald globes had become stumbling and uncoordinated, the metasong a discordant howl as she tried without success to control the blue-white power surges that were destroying the barrier. A third nascent magmatic queue broke through. Jack heard her mind crying out hopelessly as she tried in vain to steady the flickering green beam—
Flashover.
Energy overflowing from her enhanced brain escaped into the command deck of the drill-rig, ionized the atmosphere, and created a burst of incandescent gas.
Jack cut loose from the original metaconcert, drew the new configuration, flung himself into it, and rechanneled the chaotic metacreative force. The entire magmatic reservoir shuddered and began a diapiric ascent.
Focus now! he cried out to her. We can make a new lid if you focus now!
Yes, she said, ignoring the pain, the hideous burning pain. Now.
The metaconcerted pas de deux resumed in a blare of triumphant mindsong. A brilliant aquamarine beam thrust down at the rising diapir, expanded into a cone, and created a new starry roof, denser and thicker than the first one.
The slowly moving golden crest of the diapir hit the barrier and expanded laterally. Singing in her agony, she widened thefocus, keeping pace with the spreading magma. Finally, when the reservoir was only half its former depth, the pressures stabilized. The new lid held firm. Beneath it, the molten mass contracted slowly into an approximation of its original shape.
Good God almighty! said Jim MacKelvie. You saved it, Jack! It’s holding, stronger than before.
But Jack wasn’t listening. His own invulnerable brain had been unaffected by the flashover, but he knew what had happened to her. He spoke on her intimate telepathic mode.
Diamond—can you hear me?
Yes, she replied. I—I maintain focus now. Myredaction came online as—as flashover dissipated. Nomexsuit protected body but—but—Jack! Myface below CEhelmet burntdeep myentirerespiratorysystem damaged flightdeckenvironmental restored depleted atmosphere … but I can’t breathe Jack somethingwrongnerves can’t see either—
I don’t dare divert any energy from the metaconcert! Your PK—can you use it?
Perhaps … a little. But I’ll die soon and then—
Be quiet. Listen. In the locker to the left of your chair, marked EMERGENCY IPPB, is a positive-pressure breathing apparatus. Get it.
Yes. Ahhh God it hurts! … Yes. Oh Jack. Oxygen. Hurts somuch but I can breathe/see again. Jack? …
Diamond. My dear, darling Diamond.
She breathed. Intermittent positive pressure from the oxygen mask inflated her ruined lungs, then let them exhale. Fingers shaking, she fastened the mask in place. A hallucination swept over her, and for a moment she was back in the cockpit of the funny old yellow flitter, filled with joy as she flew high above her father’s farm as free as a falcon. To fly again! She would fly again …
Diamond! Come back!
Yes. Sorry Jack. But I didn’t drop the conceit, didn’t stop the dance. I’m still with you.
Of course you are …
But Jack knew that she wouldn’t continue for long. Her metacreative output was slowly sinking. The oxygen was keeping her alive, but she was too badly injured to maintain her role in the metaconcert for more than another five minutes or so. They would have to abort less than halfway into the operation.
There was time enough for the other eight CE operators to escape, but he and Diamond would certainly be caught by the ascending diapir when the lid failed. They would ride the molten rock to the surface of the planet, accelerating faster and faster as the volatiles expanded.
When the eruption broke through the surface, their armored, sigma-shielded deep-driller would be blasted high into the air. Perhaps they would survive.
Caledonia would not. There would still be enough ash in the ejecta to devastate the planetary atmosphere.
Jack? Jack? For God’s sake, man, answer me!
Poor Jim MacKelvie was trying to find out what had happened. It was time to tell him.
Jim, the rest of you—listen. The Dirigent has been seriously injured in a flashover event. She won’t be able to carry on much longer in our metaconcert. We’re going to have to abort the operation.
NO.
I know what a horrible disappointment this is, but we have no choice—
I SAID NO, DAMMIT! DON’T ABORT!
Jim, don’t be a bloody fool! Kill your concert! Get out of here while you can!
NONONO! HOLD ON TWO MINUTES MORE!
… Jack? Jim here. It’s—it’s not me talking. There’s somebody else! Somebody using CE-enhanced farspeech right down here in the fewkin’ asthenosphere!
IT TAKES ONLY TWO MINUTES TO PLUG IN A CREATIVITY BRAINBOARD.
Jack was laughing, nearly hysterical. He knew who it was.
He said he wouldn’t have anything to do with this project. God only knows what he’s doing here. But I’m going to plug him into this metaconcert of mine and he’s going to work with us now whether he wants to or not!
STOP YAMMERING LIKE AN IDIOT AND OPEN UP. I’LL PHASE IN AS SOON AS YOU CUT HER LOOSE. SWITCHING TO CREATIVITY MODE …
“Diamond, can you hear me?”
Yes. What—
“It’s over. The separation of the volatiles is complete. We’re on our way to the surface. We don’t know yet whether the operation was successful, but the probability is high.”
I’m … glad.
“How do you feel?”