One of the students looked up, timidly. ‘Where are you going, Sluka?’
‘To speak to the other dig teams. Not everyone may know about that advisory. When they hear, I don’t think many of them will be in any hurry to stay.’
She started climbing, but Sylveste reached up and grabbed the heel of her mukluk. Sluka looked down at him. She was wearing the mask now, but Sylveste could still see the contempt in her expression. ‘You’re finished, Sluka.’
‘No,’ she said, climbing. ‘I’ve just begun. It’s you I’d worry about.’
Sylveste examined his own state of mind and found — it was the last thing he had expected — total calm. But it was like the calm that existed on the metallic hydrogen oceans of the gas giant planets further out from Pavonis — only maintained by crushing pressures from above and below.
‘Well?’ Pascale said.
‘There’s someone I need to talk to,’ Sylveste said.
Sylveste climbed the ramp into his crawler. The other was crammed with equipment racks and sample containers, with hammocks for his students pressed into the tiny niches of unoccupied space. They had to sleep aboard the machines because some of the digs in the sector — like this one — were over a day’s travel from Mantell itself. Sylveste’s crawler was considerably better appointed, with over a third of the interior dedicated to his own stateroom and quarters. The rest of the machine was taken up with additional payload space and a couple of more modest quarters for his senior workers or guests: in this case Sluka and Pascale. Now, however, he had the whole crawler to himself.
The stateroom’s decor belied the fact that it was aboard a crawler. It was walled in red velvet, the shelves dotted with facsimile scientific instruments and relics. There were large, elegantly annotated Mercator maps of Resurgam dotted with the sites of major Amarantin finds; other areas of wall were covered in slowly updating texts: academic papers in preparation. His own beta-level was doing most of the scut-work on the papers now; Sylveste had trained the simulation to the point where it could imitate his style more reliably than he could, given the current distractions. Later, if there was time, he would need to proof those texts, but for now he gave them no more than a glance as he moved to the room’s escritoire. The ornate writing desk was decorated in marble and malachite, inset with japanwork scenes of early space exploration.
Sylveste opened a drawer and removed a simulation cartridge, an unmarked grey slab, like a ceramic tile. There was a slot in the escritoire’s upper surface. He would only have to insert the cartridge to invoke Calvin. He hesitated, nonetheless. It had been some time — months, at least — since he had brought Calvin back from the dead, and that last encounter had gone spectacularly badly. He had promised himself he would only invoke Calvin again in the event of crisis. Now it was a matter of judging whether the crisis had really arrived — and if it was sufficiently troublesome to justify an invocation. The problem with Calvin was that his advice was only reliable about half the time.
Sylveste pressed the cartridge into the escritoire.
Fairies wove a figure out of light in the middle of the room: Calvin seated in a vast seigneurial chair. The apparition was more realistic than any hologram — even down to subtle shadowing effects — since it was being generated by direct manipulation of Sylveste’s visual field. The beta-level simulation represented Calvin the way fame best remembered him, as he had been when he was barely fifty years old, in his heyday on Yellowstone. Strangely, he looked older than Sylveste, even though the image of Calvin was twenty years younger in physiological terms. Sylveste was eight years into his third century, but the longevity treatments he had received on Yellowstone had been more advanced than any available in Calvin’s time.
Other than that, their features and build were the same, both of them possessing a permanent amused curve to the lips. Calvin wore his hair shorter and was dressed in Demarchist Belle Epoque finery, rather than the relative austerity of Sylveste’s expeditionary dress: billowing frock shirt and elegantly chequered trousers hooked into buccaneer-boots, his fingers aglint with jewels and metal. His impeccably shaped beard was little more than a rust-coloured delineation along the line of his jaw. Small entoptics surrounded his seated figure, symbols of Boolean and three-valued logics and long cascades of binary. One hand fingered the bristles beneath his chin, while the other toyed with the carved scroll that ended the seat’s armrest.
A wave of animation slithered over the projection, the pale eyes gaining a glisten of interest.
Calvin raised his fingers in lazy acknowledgement. ‘So…’ he said. ‘The shit’s about to match coordinates with the fan.’
‘You presume a lot.’
‘No need to presume anything, dear boy. I just tapped into the net and accessed the last few thousand news reports.’ He craned his neck to survey the stateroom. ‘Nice pad you’ve got here. How are the eyes, by the way?’
‘They’re functioning as well as can be expected.’
Calvin nodded. ‘Resolution’s not up to much, but that was the best I could do with the tools I was forced to work with. I probably only reconnected forty per cent of your optic nerve channels, so putting in better cameras would have been pointless. Now if you had halfway decent surgical equipment lying around on this planet, I could perhaps begin to do something. But you wouldn’t give Michelangelo a toothbrush and expect a great Sistine Chapel.’
‘Rub it in.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Calvin said, all innocence. ‘I’m just saying that if you had to let her take the
His wife had led the mutiny against him twenty years earlier; a fact Calvin never allowed Sylveste to forget.
‘So I made a kind of self-sacrifice.’ Sylveste waved an arm to silence the image. ‘Sorry, but I didn’t invoke you for a fireside chat, Cal.’
‘I do wish you’d call me Father.’
Sylveste ignored him. ‘Do you know where we are?’
‘A dig, I presume.’ Calvin closed his eyes briefly and touched his fingers against his temples, affecting concentration. ‘Yes. Let me see. Two expeditionary crawlers out of Mantell, near the Ptero Steppes… a Wheeler grid… how inordinately quaint! Though I suppose it suits your purpose well enough. And what’s this? High-res gravitometer sections… seismograms… you’ve actually found something, haven’t you?’
At that moment the escritoire popped up a status fairy to tell him there was an incoming call from Mantell. Sylveste held a hand up to Calvin while he debated whether or not to accept the call. The person trying to reach him was Henry Janequin, a specialist in avian biology and one of Sylveste’s few outright allies. But while Janequin had known the real Calvin, Sylveste was fairly sure he had never seen Calvin’s beta-level… and most certainly not in the process of being solicited for advice by his son. The admission that he needed Cal’s help — that he had even considered invoking the sim for this purpose — could be a crucial sign of weakness.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Cal said. ‘Put him on.’
‘He doesn’t know about you… about us.’
Calvin shook his head, then — shockingly — Janequin appeared in the room. Sylveste fought to maintain his composure, but it was obvious what had just happened. Calvin must have found a way to send commands to the escritoire’s private-level functions.
Calvin was and always had been a devious bastard, Sylveste thought. Ultimately that was why he remained of use.
Janequin’s full-body projection was slightly less sharp than Calvin’s, for Janequin’s image was coming over the satellite network — patchy at best — from Mantell. And the cameras imaging him had probably seen better days, Sylveste thought — like much else on Resurgam.
‘There you are,’ Janequin said, noticing only Sylveste at first. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour. Don’t you have a way of being alerted to incoming calls when you’re down in the pit?’
‘I do,’ Sylveste said. ‘But I turned it off. It was too distracting.’
‘Oh,’ Janequin said, with only the tiniest hint of annoyance. ‘Very shrewd indeed. Especially for a man in your position. You realise what I’m talking about, of course. There’s trouble afoot, Dan, perhaps more than you…’ Then Janequin must have noticed Cal for the first time. He studied the figure in the chair for a moment before speaking.
