Sylveste, who had come into contact with both the Jugglers and the Shrouders — or at least the latter’s technology — appreciated that as well as anyone.
Instead, computers had cracked the Amarantin language. It had taken thirty years — correlating millions of artefacts — but finally a consistent model had been evolved which could determine the broad meaning of most inscriptions. It helped that, at least towards the end of their reign, there had only been one Amarantin tongue, and that it had changed very slowly, so that the same model could interpret inscriptions which had been made tens of thousands of years apart. Of course, nuances of meaning were another thing entirely. That was where human intuition — and theory — came in.
Amarantin writing was not, however, like anything in human experience. All Amarantin texts were stereoscopic — consisting of interlaced lines which had to be merged in the reader’s visual cortex. Their ancestors had once been something like birds — flying dinosaurs, but with the intelligence of lemurs. At some point in their past their eyes had been situated on opposite sides of their skulls, leading to a highly bicameral mind, each hemisphere synthesising its own mental model of the world. Later, they had become hunters and evolved binocular vision, but their mental wiring still owed something to that earlier phase of development. Most Amarantin artefacts mirrored their mental duality, with a pronounced symmetry about the vertical axis.
The obelisk was no exception.
Sylveste had no need for the special goggles his co-workers needed to read Amarantin graphicforms: the stereoscopic merging was easily accommodated within his own eyes, employing one of Calvin’s more useful algorithms. But the act of reading was still tortuous, requiring strenuous concentration.
‘Give me some light here,’ he said, and the student unclipped one of the portable floods and held it by hand over the side of the obelisk. From somewhere above lightning strobed: electricity coursing between dust planes in the storm.
‘Can you read it, sir?’
‘I’m trying,’ Sylveste said. ‘It isn’t the easiest thing in the world, you know. Especially if you don’t keep that light steady.’
‘Sorry sir. Doing my best. But it is getting windy here.’
He was right: vortices were forming, even in the pit. It would soon get very much windier, and then the dust would begin to thicken, until it formed sheets of grey opacity in the air. They would not be able to work for very long in those conditions.
‘I apologise,’ Sylveste said. ‘I appreciate your help.’ Feeling that something more was called for, he added: ‘And I’m grateful that you chose to stay with me, rather than Sluka.’
‘It wasn’t difficult, sir. Not all of us are ready to dismiss your ideas.’
Sylveste looked up from the obelisk. ‘All of them?’
‘We at least accept they should be investigated. After all, it’s in the colony’s best interests to understand what happened.’
‘The Event, you mean?’
The student nodded. ‘If it really was something the Amarantin caused to happen… and if it really did coincide with them achieving spaceflight — then it might be of more than academic interest.’
‘I despise that phrase. Academic interest — as if any other kind were automatically more worthy. But you’re right. We have to know.’
Pascale came closer. ‘Know what, exactly?’
‘What it was they did that made their sun kill them.’ Sylveste turned to face her, pinning her down with the oversized silvery facets of his artificial eyes. ‘So that we don’t end up making the same mistake.’
‘You mean it was an accident?’
‘I very much doubt that they did it deliberately, Pascale.’
‘I realise that.’ He had condescended to her, and she hated that, he knew. He also hated himself for doing it. ‘I also know that stone-age aliens just don’t have the means to influence the behaviour of their star, accidentally or otherwise.’
‘We know they were more advanced than that,’ Sylveste said. ‘We know they had the wheel and gunpowder; a rudimentary science of optics and an interest in astronomy for agrarian purposes. Humanity went from that level to spaceflight in no more than five centuries. It would be prejudiced to assume another species was not capable of the same, wouldn’t it?’
‘But where’s the evidence?’ Pascale stood to shake rivulets of settled dust from her greatcoat. ‘Oh, I know what you’re going to say — none of the high-tech artefacts survived, because they were intrinsically less durable than earlier ones. But even if there
‘I know. That’s precisely what bothers me.’
‘Then what does the writing say?’
Sylveste sighed and looked back at it again. He had hoped that the distraction would allow his subconscious to work at the piece, and that now the meaning of the inscription would snap into clarity, like the answer to one of the psychological problems they had been posed before the Shrouder mission. But the moment of revelation stubbornly refused to come; the graphicforms were still not yielding meaning. Or perhaps, he thought, it was his expectations that were at fault. He had been hoping for something momentous; something that would confirm his ideas, terrifying as they were.
But instead, the writing seemed only to commemorate something that had happened here — something that might have been of great importance in Amarantin history, but which — set against his expectations — was bound to be parochial in the extreme. It would take a full computer analysis to be sure, and he had only been able to read the top metre or so of the text — but already he could feel the crush of disappointment. Whatever this obelisk represented, it was no longer of interest to him.
‘Something happened here,’ Sylveste said. ‘Maybe a battle, or the appearance of a god. That’s all it is — a marker stone. We’ll know more when we unearth it and date the context layer. We can run a TE measurement on the artefact itself, too.’
‘It’s not what you were looking for, is it?’
‘I thought it might be, for a while.’ Then Sylveste looked down, towards the lowest exposed part of the obelisk. The text ended a few inches above the highest layer of cladding, and something else began, extending downwards out of sight. It was a diagram, of some sort — he could see the topmost arcs of several concentric circles, and that was all. What was it?
Sylveste could not — would not — begin to guess. The storm was growing stronger. No stars at all were visible now, only a single occluding sheet of dust, roaring overhead like a great bat’s wing. It would be a kind of hell when they left the pit.
‘Give me something to dig with,’ he said. And then started scraping away at the permafrost around the topmost layer of the sarcophagus, like a prisoner who had until dawn to tunnel from his cell. Only a few moments passed before Pascale and the student joined him in the work, while the storm howled above.
‘I don’t remember much,’ the Captain said. ‘Are we still around Bloater?’
‘No,’ Volyova said, trying not to make it seem as if she had already explained this to him a dozen times, each time she had warmed his mind. ‘We left Kruger 60A some years ago, once Hegazi negotiated us the shield ice we needed.’
‘Oh. Then where are we?’
‘Heading towards Yellowstone.’
‘Why?’ The Captain’s basso voice rumbled out of speakers arranged some distance from his corpse. Complex algorithms scanned his brain patterns and translated the results into speech, fleshing out the responses when required. He had no real right to be conscious at all, really — all neural activity should have ended when his core temperature had dropped below freezing. But his brain was webbed by tiny machines, and in a way it was the machines which were thinking now, even though they were doing so at less than half a kelvin above absolute zero.
‘That’s a good question,’ she said. Something was bothering her now and it was more than just this conversation. ‘The reason we’re going to Yellowstone is…’
