Michael Cobley - Humanity's Fire book 1

by Seeds of Earth

  The Uvovo looked up and seemed to think for a

  moment before his finely furred features broke into a

  wide smile.

  Friend-Gregori,' came his hollow, fluty voice.

  'Whether I ride in a dirigible or make the shuttle journey

  to our blessed Segrana, I am always amazed to discover

  myself alive at the end!'

  They laughed together as they continued down the

  side of Giant's Shoulder. It was a cool, clammy night and

  Greg wished he had worn something heavier than just a

  work shirt.

  'And you've still no idea why they're holding this

  zinsilu at Ibsenskog?' Greg said. For the Uvovo, a zin-

  silu was part life evaluation, part meditation. T mean,

  the Listeners do have access to the government comnet

  if they need to contact any of the seeders and schol-

  ars .. .' Then something occurred to him. 'Here, they're

  not going to reassign ye, are they? Chel, I won't be able

  to manage both the dig and the daughter-forest reports

  on my own! - I really need your help.'

  'Do not worry, friend-Gregori,' said the Uvovo.

  'Listener Weynl has always let it be known that my role

  here is considered very important. Once this zinsilu is

  concluded, I am sure that I will be returning without

  delay.'

  I hope you're right, Greg thought. The Institute isna

  very forgiving when it comes to shortcomings and

  unachieved goals.

  'After all,' Chel went on, 'your Founders' Victory

  celebrations are only a few days away and I want to

  be here to observe all your ceremonies and rituals.'

  Greg gave a wry half-grin. 'Aye . . . well, some of our

  "rituals" can get a bit boisterous . . .'

  By now the gravel path was levelling off as they

  approached the zep station and overhead Greg could

  hear the faint peeps of umisk lizards calling to each

  other from their little lairs scattered across the sheer

  face of Giant's Shoulder. The station was little more

  than a buttressed platform with a couple of buiidb gs

  and a five-yard-long covered gantry jutting straight out.

  A government dirigible was moored there, a gently

  swaying 50-footer consisting of two cylindrical gasbags

  lashed together with taut webbing and an enclosed g< n-

  dola hanging beneath. The skin of the inflatable sections

  was made from a tough composite fabric, but exposure

  to the elements and a number of patch repairs gave it a

  ramshackle appearance, in common with most of the

  workaday government zeplins. A light glowed in the

  cockpit of the boatlike gondola, and the rear-facing,

  three-bladed propeller turned lazily in the steady breeze

  coming in from the sea.

  Fredriksen, the station manager, waved from the

  waiting-room door while a man in a green and grey

  jumpsuit emerged from the gantry to meet them.

  'Good day, good day,' he said, regarding first Greg

  then the Uvovo. 'I am Pilot Yakov. If either of you is

  Scholar Cheluvahar, I am ready to depart.'

  T am Scholar Cheluvahar,' Chel said.

  'Most excellent. I shall start the engine.' He nodded

  at Greg then went back to the gantry, ducking as he

  entered.

  'Mind to send a message when you reach Ibsenskog,'

  Greg told Chel. 'And don't worry about the flight - it'll

  be over before you know it. . .'

  'Ah, friend-Gregori - I am of the Warrior Uvovo.

  Such tests are breath and life itself!'

  Then with a smile he turned and hurried after the

  pilot. A pure electric whine came from the gondola's aft

  section, rising in pitch as the prop spun faster. Greg

  heard the solid knock of wooden gears as the station

  manager cranked in the gantry then triggered the moor-

  ing cable releases. Suddenly free upon the air, the

  dirigible swayed as it began drifting away, picking up

  speed and banking away from the sheer face of Giant's

  Shoulder. The trip down to Port Gagarin was only a

  half-hour hop, after which Chel would catch a com-

  mercial lifter bound for the Eastern Towns and the

  daughter-forest Ibsenskog. Greg could not see his friend

  at any of the gondola's opaque portholes but he waved

  anyway for about a minute, then just stood watching the

  zeplin's descent into the deepening dusk. Feeling a chill

  in the air, he fastened some of his shirt buttons while

  continuing to enjoy the peace. The zep station was

  nearly 50 feet below the main dig site but it was still

  some 300 feet above sea level. Giant's Shoulder itself

  was an imposing spur jutting eastwards from a towering

  massif known as the Kentigern Mountains, a raw

  wilderness largely avoided by trappers and hunters,

  although the Uvovo claimed to have explored a good

  deal of it.

  As the zeplin's running lamps receded, Greg took in

  the panorama before him, the coastal plain stretching

  several miles east to the darkening expanse of the

  Korzybski Sea and the lights of towns scattered all

  around its long western shore. Far off to the south was

  the bright glitterglow of Hammergard, sitting astride a

  land bridge separating Loch Morwen from the sea;

  beyond the city, hidden by the misty murk of evening,

  was a ragged coastline of sealochs and fjords where the

  Eastern Towns nestled. South of them were hills and a

  high valley cloaked by the daughter-forest Ibsenskog.

  Before his standpoint were the jewelled clusters of Port

  Gagarin, slightly to the south, High Lochiel a few miles

  northwest, and Landfall, where the cannibalised hulk of

  the old colonyship, the Hyperion, lay in the sad tran-

  quillity of Membrance Vale. Then further north were

  New Kelso, Engerhold, Laika, and the logging and

  farmer settlements scattering north and west, while off

  past the northeast horizon was Trond.

  His mood darkened. Trond was the city he had left

  just two short months ago, fleeing the trap of his disas-

  trous cohabitance with Inga, a mistake whose wounds

  were still raw. But before his thoughts could begin cir-

  cling the pain of it, he stood straighter and breathed in

  the cold air, determined not to dwell on bitterness and

  regret. Instead, he turned his gaze southwards to see the

  moonrise.

  A curve of blue-green was gradually emerging from

  behind the jagged peaks of the Hrothgar Range which

  lined the horizon: Nivyesta, Darien's lush arboreal

  moon, brimming with life and mystery, and home to the

  Uvovo, wardens of the girdling forest they called

  Segrana. Once, millennia ago, the greater part of their

  arboreal civilisation had inhabited Darien, which they

  called Umara, but some indeterminate catastrophe had

  wiped out the planetary population, leaving those on

  the moon alive but stranded.

  On a clear night like this, the starmist in Darien's

  upper atmosphere wreathed Nivyesta in a gauzy halo of

  mingling colours like some fabulous eye staring down

  on the little niche that
humans had made for themselves

  on this alien world. It was a sight that never failed to

  raise his spirits. But the night was growing chilly now, so

  he buttoned his shirt to the neck and began retracing his

  steps. He was halfway up the path when his comm

  chimed. Digging it out of his shirt pocket he saw that it

  was his elder brother and decided to answer.

  'Hi, Ian - how're ye doing?' he said, walking on.

  'Not so bad. Just back from manoeuvres and looking

  forward to FV Day, chance to get a wee bit of R&R.

  Yourself}'

  Greg smiled. Ian was a part-time soldier with the

  Darien Volunteer Corps and was never happier than

  when he was marching across miles of sodden bog or

  scaling basalt cliffs in the Hrothgars, apart from when

  he was home with his wife and daughter.

  'I'm settling in pretty well,' he said. 'Getting to grips

  with all the details of the job, making sure that the var-

  ious teams file their reports on something like a regular

  schedule, that sort of thing.'

  'But are you happy staying at the temple site, Greg? -

  because you know that we've plenty of room here and I

  know that you loved living in Hammergard, before the

  whole Inga episode . . .'

  Greg grinned.

  'Honest, Ian, I'm fine right here. I love my work, the

  surroundings are peaceful and the view is fantastic! I

  appreciate the offer, big brother, but I'm where I want to

  be.'

  'S'okay, laddie, just making sure. Have you heard

  from Ned since you got back, by the way}'

  'Just a brief letter, which is okay. He's a busy doctor

  these days . . .'

  Ned, the third and youngest brother, was very poor at

  keeping in touch, much to Ian's annoyance, which often

  prompted Greg to defend him.

  'Aye, right, busy. So - when are we likely to see ye

  next} Can ye not come down for the celebrations ?'

  'Sorry, Ian, I'm needed here, but I do have a meeting

  scheduled at the Uminsky Institute in a fortnight - shall

  we get together then?'

  'That sounds great. Let me know nearer the time and

  I'll make arrangements.'

  They both said farewell and hung up. Greg strolled

  leisurely on, smiling expectantly, keeping the comm in

  his hand. As he walked he thought about the dig site up

  on Giant's Shoulder, the many hours he'd spent

  painstakingly uncovering this carven stela or that section

  of intricately tiled floor, not to mention the countless

  days devoted to cataloguing, dating, sample analysis and

  correlation matching. Sometimes - well, a lot of the

  time - it was a frustrating process, as there was nothing

  to guide them in comprehending the meaning of the

  site's layout and function. Even the Uvovo scholars were

  at a loss, explaining that the working of stone was a skill

  lost at the time of the War of the Long Night, one of the

  darker episodes in Uvovo folklore.

  Ten minutes later he was near the top of the path

  when his comm chimed again, and without looking at

  the display he brought it up and said:

  'Hi, Mum.'

  'Gregory, son, are you well?

  'Mum, I'm fine, feeling okay and happy too, really ...'

  'Yes, now that you're out of her clutches! But are

  you not lonely up there amongst those cold stones and

  only the little Uvovo to talk to?'

  Greg held back the urge to sigh. In a way, she was

  right - it was a secluded existence, living pretty much on

  his own in one of the site cabins. There was a three-man

  team of researchers from the university working on the

  site's carvings, but they were all Russian and mostly

  kept to themselves, as did the Uvovo teams who came in

  from the outlying stations now and then. Some of the

  Uvovo scholars he knew by name but only Chel had

  become a friend.

  'A bit of solitude is just what I need right now, Mum.

  Beside, there's always people coming and going up here.'

  'Mm-hmm. There were always people coming and

  going here at the house when your father was a coun-

  cilman, hut most of them I did not care for, as you might

  recall'

  'Oh, I remember, all right.'

  Greg also remembered which ones stayed loyal when

  his father fell ill with the tumour that eventually killed

  him.

  'As a matter of fact, I was discussing both you and

  your father with your Uncle Theodor, who came by this

  afternoon.''

  Greg raised his eyebrows. Theodor Karlsson was his

  mother's oldest brother and had earned himself a certain

  notoriety and the nickname 'Black Theo' for his role in

  the abortive Winter Coup twenty years ago. As a pun-

  ishment he had been kept under house arrest on New

  Kelso for twelve years, during which he fished, studied

  military history and wrote, although on his release the

  Hammergard government informed him that he was

  forbidden to publish anything, fact or fiction, on pain of

  bail suspension. For the last eight years he had tried his

  hand at a variety of jobs, while keeping in occasional

  contact with his sister, and Greg vaguely recalled that he

  had somehow got involved with the Hyperion Data

  Project. . .

  'So what's Uncle Theo been saying?'

  'Well, he has heard some news that will amaze you -

  I can still scarcely believe it myself. It is going to change

  everyone's life.'

  'Don't tell me that he wants to overthrow the gov-

  ernment again.'

  'Please, Gregori, that is not even slightly funny ..."

  'Sorry, Mum, sorry. Please, what did he say?'

  From where he stood at the head of the path he had

  a clear view of the dig, the square central building look-

  ing bleached and grey in the glare of the nightlamps. As

  Greg listened his expression went from puzzled to aston-

  ished, and he let out an elated laugh as he looked up at

  the stars. Then he got his mother to tell him again.

  'Mum, you've got to be kidding me! . . .'

  2

  THEO

  Theodor Karlsson had a spring in his step as he walked

  up a private footpath towards the presidential villa. Tall,

  thick bushes concealed it from inquisitive eyes, and

  waist-high lantern posts shed pools of subdued radiance

  all along its length. His long, heavy coat was three-quar-

  ters fastened and his custom-soled shoes made little

  noise on the tiled path. The villa grounds were dark and

  still in the cool of the evening but Karlsson could almost

  smell the weave of seamless security which enclosed the

  place. There was a visible perimeter of patrols and cam-

  eras down at the main wall and gate, and a pair of

  guards at the side-door up ahead, but Theo knew that

  the best security was seldom seen. The question that

  loomed large in his mind, however, was who was it all

  meant to keep out?

  The guards, both wearing dark imager eye-pieces,

  were muttering into collar mikes as he approached.

&nb
sp; 'Good evening, Major,' said one. 'If you could look

  into the scanner with your right eye.'

  He stepped up to the plain wooden door, followed

  instructions, and moments later he heard several muf-

  fled thuds. The door swung open. Inside he was met by

  a composed, middle-aged woman who took his coat

  then led him along a narrow, windowless corridor, past

  a number of bland, pastoral paintings, then up a poorly

  lit curve of steps to a landing with two doors. Without

  pause she continued through the left one and Karlsson

  found himself in a warm, carpeted study.

  'Please make yourself comfortable, Major Karlsson.

  The president will see you shortly'

  'Thank you . . .' Theo began to say, but she ,vas

  already leaving the room, closing the door behind her He

  surveyed his surroundings, a medium-sized room with

  well-stocked bookshelves, a log fire burning in the herrth,

  and an ornate adjustable lamp hanging over a large cl zsi .

  A ceiling-high rack of shelves partially concealed a second

  door in one corner and a hand-eye security lock.

  The belly of the beast, he thought. Or maybe the

  lion's den.

  It always felt like this whenever he had these meetings

  with Sundstrom, no matter where they took place.

  Which was why he had got into the habit of visiting his

  sister, Solvjeg, shortly beforehand, just to quietly let her

  know where he would be for the next few hours, with a

  veiled hint as to whom he was meeting. Today, though,

  she was full of eagerness to know if the rumours were

  true, that there had been a signal from Earth.

  Theo grinned, recalling the moment. The message

  had apparently been received that morning, yet he had

  heard it sixth-hand from an old friend in the Corps by

  mid-afternoon, so it was no surprise that Solvjeg picked

  it up from the old girls' network. Now it was evening

  and the rumours were all over the colony. Even

  Kirkland, the leader of the opposition, had issued a

  statement, but so far there had been no official confir-

  mation from either the council or the president's office.

  A ship from Earthl he thought. So now we know

  that the human race survived the Swarm War, but did

  we beat them or did other survivors flee from Earth?

  And what happened to the other two colonyships, the