by Julian May
She stared up at the man in the kilt, overcome with wonder. “Are you my angel?”
He laughed. “Only this once. But you’ll have others when you need them.” He left the lounge, closing the door behind him.
Dee’s wrist-com peeped. She pressed RECEIVE and Gran’s voice said: “Your brother is awake now and the captain has invited all the first-class passengers for a visit to the command bridge, to show us how the ship is run. Would you like to come, too?”
“Oh, yes! I’d love to! Wait for me, Gran. I’ll be there in just a second.”
She pulled the door open and dashed out into the corridor, all memory of the man named Ewen Cameron erased from her mind.
The ship’s final exit from the hyperspatial matrix into the star system of Caledonia was a moment of magic for Dee. Poor Ken lay drugged in the stateroom and so he missed experiencing the event live, as did the other zonked-out normals aboard. But Dee and Gran and twenty or so operant passengers sat watching in the observation lounge when the ship burst out of featureless subspace for the last time.
The mesmerizing gray outside the window shattered into a blaze of turbulent color. And then a planet appeared, very large and three-quarters-lit against a backdrop of diamond-flecked black. Sparkling artificial satellites hovered about Caledonia like fireflies, and seeming to look over its shoulder was the world’s natural moon, Ré Nuadh, appearing to be shiny and flat as an oval silver medal.
“Crikey!” exclaimed one of the indentured doctors, impressed in spite of himself. “She’s a beaut.”
“As long as you don’t get tired of raindrops falling on your head,” said a female engineer. “Will you look at that cloud cover?”
“Mostly cirrus,” somebody else said in an authoritative tone. “Ice crystals, and also a fair amount of high-altitude volcanic dust. I’ve heard the surface gets hazy sunlight about half the time.”
And the other half you drown.
Most of the operants laughed. Dee was very careful not to.
She had seen pictures and Tri-Ds of Caledonia’s island-strewn surface, but none of them prepared her for the view from space. Unlike the familiar white-splashed blue marble that was Earth, the Scottish world seemed to be a gigantic misty opal mounted on its nightside crescent of black velvet. In contrast to the harsh blaze of its quartered moon, the planet was softly luminous, shadowed with pale lilac and milky aquamarine. Scattered small openings in the nearly universal cloud mantle decorated it with slashes, spirals, and ragged holes that glowed vivid azure—or, rarely, a dark brownish-green splotched with ochre.
“This is your captain speaking. We have emerged into an orbit above Caledonia and shut down our superluminal drive. In a moment we will switch to ordinary inertialess rho-field propulsion and begin the planetary approach.”
A dim web of purplish fire enveloped the window for a split second before fading to invisibility. The planet seemed to swell like a rapidly inflating balloon until it filled the entire opening with mother-of-pearl luster. Then the scene outside darkened as the ship curved around to the world’s nightside. The window showed only blackness, broken by what seemed to be hundreds of scattered small bursts of flickering fuzzy light that rapidly grew in size and intensified in brightness. The captain informed the passengers that most of these silent explosions were huge thunderstorms. Certain deep crimson pulsations, rarer than the lighter-colored ones, signified the presence of active volcanoes.
When the starship broke through the high cloud deck Dee saw the Caledonian ocean shimmering faintly in the blaze of incessant lightning from towering ranks of cumulonimbus cells. The captain told them that the storms reached nearly 21,000 meters into the sky and were so powerful that they could tear an ordinary small passenger-egg to bits. As the starship flew much more slowly above the night sea they saw their destination on the horizon, the continent of Clyde, a black jagged landmass rimmed and spangled with the lights of human habitation. Then came the oddest sight of all, when a myriad of miniature yellow and blue flashes battered the observation port like a sudden snowstorm of fireworks.
“The sparks that you see,” said the captain’s voice, “are due to a natural phenomenon unique to Caledonia. They are caused when the ship’s unshielded rho-field makes contact with aerial plant life called looyunuch anower that float in a zone around six thousand meters above the planetary surface. We do our utmost to avoid passing through drifts of these lifeforms, since they are a special part of Caledonia’s ecology, but sometimes it’s impossible to avoid them.”
“And the space line’s too cheap to shield its old scows with sigmas that’d push the wee airplants aside,” growled a man in a tam-o’-shanter hat who sat in the seat next to Dee’s. His name was Lowrie, and he was an immigrant of the most desirable type—an operant geochemist come to work in the fast-growing fullerene processing cooperatives.
“Airplants!” Dee exclaimed. “My Daddy grows those on his farm!”
Lowrie glanced at her briefly. “Your Daddy doesn’t grow the luib-heannach an adhair, lass, he only harvests them. Skyweeds grow wild—and most of them are verra, verra wild indeed!” There was laughter from the other adults.
The ship now decelerated with startling suddenness, as though it had come up against a glass wall in mid-air, but the passengers felt no discomfort because the rho-field abolished external gravity-inertia. They floated toward a region of patterned lights, where the vessel would land softly in the sea and be towed into a dock. Caledonia’s only starport was not prosperous enough to have the huge sigma generators needed for shielded starship cradles.
“We are entering our final approach and splashdown,” the captain said. “We’ll dock at Wester Killiecrankie Starport at approximately twenty-five-thirty hours Planet Mean Time. Thank you for traveling the MacPherson Line. Safety and economy are our prime directives.”
With an emphasis on the latter!
[Laughter.]
You tell ’em Tam! No live cabaret on the bloodyboat the swimmingpool down for repairs and the houghmagandy cubicles with a fleck selection 4years old.
The kitchen recycled that fewkin’ tureen of Scotch broth so many times it could qualify for historical landmark status! Next time I’ll fly United.
And pay your own bloodyfare? That’ll be the day Charlie.
Try flying Astro Gi you lads. At least the food’s edible and hey there’s worse things than a 2week orgy with the googlyeyed SexTurkeys.
Like what? Circumcision with a grapefruit-knife?
[Laughter.]
Cool it ye hairyarsedgowks! None of your clarty mindtalk in front of the wee lassie.
She’s no TrueHead can’t farsense atall her gorgeous Gramma here told Aylmar so. Ain’t that right Green Eyes darlin’?
[SILENCE.]
Ohright be like that YourRoyalEffingHighness and next time take the QE3 if you don’t fancy the company of honest workingblokes.
“Come along, Dorothea,” said the professor frostily. “There’s nothing more to see and we must all get ready for decon.”
“Yes, Gran.” Dee took her grandmother’s hand and the two of them hurriedly left the lounge.
It had been very interesting, listening to the other passengers’ telepathic conversation throughout the voyage. The miners’ talk, especially, was completely unlike any that Dee had ever heard before. Ken had sometimes been rendered speechless at the things she reported overhearing.
“The decon procedure is very simple,” Gran was saying briskly. “We put on paper clothes, and then step under lights that zap any stray Earth organisms on our skin or hair that might not be compatible with the Caledonian ecology. Our regular clothes and other things will be decontaminated separately before we get them back.”
The carpeted deck beneath Dee’s feet shuddered briefly. Suddenly, she felt slightly heavier.
“They’ve turned off the artificial gravity,” Gran said. “We’ve splashed down.”
“Do you think Daddy will be waiting for us?” Dee asked eagerly.
/> Gran only said, “We’ll see.”
SECTOR 12: STAR 12-337-010 [GRIAN] PLANET 4 [CALEDONIA]
6 MIOS GAILBHEACH [21 JUNE] 2062
A MOVING WALKWAY CARRIED THE PROFESSOR AND THE TWO CHILDREN and the other passengers from the Drumadoon Bay toward the terminal and their first true experience of the planet Caledonia. It was past midnight local time and a violent storm had just broken out, filling the atmosphere with jangling ions and making it impossible for Dee to get a proper feel of the new world’s aura. Through the concourse windows she could see a rain-lashed tarmac and tossing trees down by the seashore where their starship and three others had just docked. Egg transports, hop-lorries, groundcars, and scuttling people in raingear gleamed wetly under the starport’s halide lights. Every few moments the exterior scene was lit up and bleached colorless by blasts of lightning. Thunder made the concourse walls tremble, but its noise seemed almost insignificant compared to the telepathic tempest that began to assault Dee’s mind once she got within “shouting” range of the crowd swarming within the terminal.
Tuning out the mind-chatter of the crew and the other passengers on the Drumadoon Bay had become second nature to Dee by the time the voyage ended, but this fresh attack on her immature ultrasense left her shocked to numbness until she finally managed to regain control. The mental voices had never seemed so loud before, not even back on Earth. Were there more operants on Caledonia? Surely not. More people lived in Edinburgh Metro than on the entire Scottish planet. Were the minds here more powerful then?
No. You are simply becoming more sensitive to farspeech.
She gave a great start. (Fortunately, it coincided with a deafening thunderclap and Gran never noticed.) The telepathic voice seemed to be that of the man named Ewen Cameron, but when Dee cautiously looked about there was no sign of him among the other disembarking passengers on the walkways. How odd! Up until this moment she had completely forgotten the mysterious stranger who had inexplicably promised to help her. Holding tight to the walk’s rail, she closed her eyes and tried to summon up a mental picture of him; but all she perceived was a shadowy figure who appeared to be wrapped in a huge pair of folded wings, standing before a rampart of glowing, multicolored boxes.
… Angel? Was it YOU talking to me?
Yes. When you really need the answers to questions about your metapsychic abilities, you may ask me.
Are you really Citizen Cameron?
No. I am a preprogrammed response with psychoanalytic discretionary options. Now open your eyes. You are at the end of the moving walkway and you don’t want to trip and fall down and look silly.
Dee hadn’t the least idea what a “preprogrammed response” with all the rest of it was. But she did as she was told and saw that they had reached the terminal’s luggage-claim area. Gran herded the children ahead of her once they stepped off the walkway. The air inside the building was chilly and humid and had an unfamiliar perfumey smell that Dee decided she liked. Even the canned music playing on the public address system was pleasant, a woman’s voice singing a haunting tune.
Let me tell you that I love you,
That I think about you all the time.
Caledonia, you’re calling me,
Now I’m going home.
But if I shall become a stranger—
No, it would make me more than sad.
Caledonia’s been everything I’ve ever had.
The aura of the place was invigorating, hopeful, friendly. Here and there among the tourist-services booths, rent-a-rho kiosks, roboporter stands, and banks of televiews were glazed crocks with odd little trees growing in them. They reminded Dee of the colorful coleus plants that grew in shady nooks of Gran’s garden during the summer. The big leaves had crisped edges and were blotched and spotted and striped with every conceivable shade of green, and also with purple, pink, white, orange, yellow, and rose red.
Ken poked her in the ribs. “Those trees. They’re like the ones in Dad’s picture. Aren’t they weird?”
“I think they’re pretty. Most of the plants here on Caledonia have colored leaves. I read about them in the ship’s library. They make food from sunlight with chlorophyll just like green plants on Earth do.”
Ken pulled a face. “Ooo! Aren’t you the clever clogs!” But an instant later he forgot about teasing her and began anxiously searching the crowd that awaited the arriving passengers, trying to find their father. The welcomers were all human and all of caucasoid appearance. Dee recalled that exotics and humans of non-Scottish heritage were allowed to visit Caledonia freely and even work on the planet for a limited time, but they were forbidden to settle permanently. Hardly anyone among the natives wore kilts (perhaps because of the weather), but a kaleidoscope of tartan patterns graced everything from raincoats to baby bonnets.
Some Caledonians held up small signs with names on them or messages written in English or Gaelic. Others rushed forward calling greetings when they managed to locate friends or relatives. A tremendous gabble of farspeech filled the aether, some of it emanating from operants using the declamatory mode and even more being broadcast inadvertently by nonoperants. Of course Daddy was latent, so Dee knew there was very little chance that she would be able to pick up his subvocal speech even if he did chance to farspeak her name. But no one called her, and finally she shut out the crowd-thoughts altogether.
The professor led the way to the nearest roboporter kiosk, where she and the children joined a queue to retrieve their checked luggage. Gran Masha’s face was serene and her thoughts remained in the intimate mode, screened almost as perfectly as Dee’s own and quite unreadable; but the little girl did perceive that her grandmother was becoming increasingly apprehensive and irritated because Ian Macdonald had failed to appear.
A number of people in the queue were talking Scots Gaelic, and Dee was both shocked and delighted to discover that she understood the spoken language quite well, even though she had learned only a few words and phrases from teacher-flecks at her day school in Edinburgh. However, the written Gaelic on the bilingual signs in the terminal remained as difficult to decipher as ever.
Dee asked the angel why this should be, and he replied promptly:
Farsensors who are very talented, as you are, perceive the meaning of spoken foreign languages easily. All words are symbols for meaningful thoughts. When people speak to each other, they think the meaning of the words at the same time their lips pronounce them, and this meaning is evident to you. But written words are only accompanied by thoughts when they are first put down by the writer. You will also find that your ultrasenses will not enable you to speak Gaelic without studying. You will still have to learn the vocabulary, grammar, and pronunciation, or else use a Sony Translator.
I see. Am … am I really very talented?
But this time the angel did not reply, and before she could formulate another question her brother spoke and brought her back to the reality of the starport terminal.
“Do you think something might have happened to Dad?” Ken was asking Gran.
The professor had finally been able to take her turn at the roboporter. She handed Ken the release token the machine had spit out after it scanned her ticket. “Stand over there and accept the luggage when it comes up. I’m going to make a phone call and see why we weren’t met.”
She went into one of the nearby teleview cubicles. The children could not see the screen, but they saw Gran’s face tighten as she carried on a conversation for some minutes. Unfortunately, Gran’s thoughts were shielded and Dee was still unable to eavesdrop with any other ultrasenses.
“Maybe Dad was delayed by the storm,” Dee said. “It’s the beginning of autumn here. The sixth of Mios Gailbheach. That means ‘blustery month.’ ”
“Quit being such a show-off,” Ken muttered grouchily. He was feeling badly let down. “I hope Dad still talks Standard English. What a stone dragola it’d be to have to learn Gaelic right away.”
“I could help you,” Dee said eagerly. She would have told hi
m about her new translation talent, but one of the floor-doors of the roboporter suddenly opened and up popped a carrier with their bags and the big trunk on it The carrier’s mechanical voice said: “The citizen claiming this baggage must deposit the claim-token in the slot below the red light.” When Ken did, the light turned green and the thing said: “Thank you. Shall I follow you to your ground transport? Or do you wish the baggage transferred to the egg platform via tube? For other options, please consult my command menu.”
“Wait,” Ken snapped. The roboporter blinked its green light at him and rolled a short distance away from the lift so that the next batch of bags could be delivered. The two children followed it. Then Gran came striding back, pale and tight-lipped and obviously trying to hold her temper.
“We will spend the night at the terminal hotel,” she said, “and go on to Glen Tuath Farm tomorrow. It seems there was an extraordinary bloom of airplants. According to your father’s housekeeper, the phenomenon represents an opportunity for him to earn a great deal of money. He and every other qualified person on the farm have done nothing but harvest and process the plants for the past two weeks. He has been working night and day with very little sleep and could not spare the time to come for us since the harvesting season will end tomorrow. Someone else will meet us in the morning and fly us to Glen Tuath.”
“Who?” Ken asked.
But the professor had turned to address the roboporter, instructing it where to take the luggage. Then she was off to Tourist Services to book rooms, with Dee and Ken trailing slowly behind.