“I’m sorry,” Vance said. “We have no idea how many months or years the sunspot outbreak will last. Our last instructions from HDA command were to reach Sarvar, which has more than sufficient supplies to last for the rest of the year. The decision has been made. Now please perform your duties as required, or I will have you removed and restrained. There are enough technical specialists in this camp to replace you.”
Karizma glowered around at everyone, then got to her feet. “Yes, sir,” she whispered furiously, and stormed off to the other end of the shack where the printers were thrumming away.
“I’ll talk to her, sir,” Ophelia said.
“Please do.”
The thaw didn’t last long. By midday the winds had returned, bringing strands of high cloud to web the roseate sky. Temperature began to drop quickly. Water refroze, crusting the snow with a dangerous sheet of ice. Work parties hurried to complete their tasks as the cold phosphorescence of the aurora borealis wormed its way back into the upper atmosphere. As yet there was no sign of a blizzard, but the camp was becoming adept at their weather lore; conditions were building. Everyone wanted to be finished as Red Sirius began to sink below the horizon.
Captain Antrinell Viana chose to spend the time working in biolab-1. It was his way of mourning Marvin Trambi. The expedition had begun with ten members in the xenobiology team; now there were only seven. However you looked at it, odds or percentage, it wasn’t good. They all felt vulnerable now, cocooned away inside the pleasant normal environment of their armored laboratories while the rest of the camp personnel hunkered down in fragile domes or the busy microfacture shack, fearful the monster would return. So far there hadn’t been any open hostility, though he’d heard about Karizma Wadhai’s disgruntled protest that afternoon. All of the camp had by now. Gossip continued to flow perfectly despite the faltering net.
He had his own reservations about the convoy, but held his tongue. Elston was doing his best in impossible circumstances. As the executive officer, it was Antrinell’s duty to support the colonel no matter what. In truth, he was just glad he didn’t have to make the decision. And now that the decision had been made, he would support it to the full.
Roarke Kulwinder and Smara Jacka were working in the lab with him, preparing plant samples they’d taken before the temperature fell and encased the jungle in ice. Smara was playing some electric country music, the steel guitar reverberating through the lab.
Antrinell let it ride. As music went it wasn’t his first choice, but it was harmless enough, and it let him ignore his current circumstances. His console was showing him the genetic data they’d collected so far. To begin with, they’d just been running fast-and-easy comparisons, looking for divergence. Antrinell wanted more now; he’d assigned his colleagues to mapping entire genomes rather than the more simplistic fingerprinting techniques they’d been doing to begin with. Genomes took a lot longer to sequence, of course, but Antrinell was looking for a pattern that wouldn’t be visible anywhere else.
The evening wore on. Roarke and Smara took turns to go into the central cabin and grab a meal. Tamisha Smith came in to spell them. Antrinell stayed where he was, burning espresso and chocolate snacks to keep going. Eventually, he was on his own. Just like Marvin. The intricate holographic color bands of St. Libra’s genetic molecules swirled around him, more often than not slightly out of focus as his tired eyes took time to adjust to the new images shone onto his retinas by the console lasers.
He missed Marvin. They’d known each other a long time. Now there was nothing left to mourn. As with Norman Sliwinska, the creature had left no body behind. All they had was the stuttering alarm of Marvin’s bodymesh, a signal consumed by the storm before a fix could be made. Blood in the snow. A lot of blood. Enough for Dr. Coniff to run a DNA fingerprint, confirming it was Marvin’s. Enough to know he was dead.
Panic and fear had penetrated the camp far more efficiently than the arctic cold. Nobody liked the lack of bodies; too much speculation could build around the loss. The blizzard’s howl and ball lightning detonations amplifying the grisly imagination all minds were capable of.
The laboratory door whirred as it slid back. Vance Elston came in and sat at a spare stool next to Antrinell at the bench. He gazed at the coffee cups and crumpled food wrappers without comment. “It’s late,” he said.
“I know. What’s happening outside?”
“The temperature is heading below thirty again. No blizzard, yet, though. For which I’m grateful.”
“I don’t think there can be any more snow to dump on us, can there?”
“I wouldn’t count on it. Ken says this temperature switch is providing the perfect condition for oceanic transpiration. The oceans are still warm, so evaporation rates have accelerated. We may yet get more snow. A lot more.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Everything is bigger on St. Libra.”
“Yeah, I noticed. How are the convoy preparations going?”
“Ophelia Troy and Leif Davdia are working a miracle. But they can only prepare one vehicle at a time. The printers can’t churn out components any faster. Then they have to be fitted and tested. It’ll take a week to ten days to get everything ready.”
“If there’s any of us left by then,” Antrinell said bitterly.
“Are you planning on sleeping tonight?”
“I guess so. I’m not accomplishing much here now. I can’t focus. I think the doc needs to test my eyes.”
“What are you working on? Zhao said you’ve got everyone sequencing entire genomes.”
“I’m trying to establish a way of comparing evolutionary scales with terrestrial plants. I want to see how complex these plants are.”
“Why?”
“It will tell us how old the origin world is, how long life has existed there. I thought that might give us an idea of what we’re dealing with.”
“And has it?”
“Possibly. Comparison is difficult—these plants are a lot more sophisticated than terrestrial plants. I thought it was odd because we haven’t found any equivalent of the viral and fungal predators that we have on Earth. Everything here is in balance. But now I’m thinking that’s because they’ve out-evolved those predators and microbial diseases. Their biological resistance to indigenous bacteria attack is absolute.”
“So they’re old, then?”
“Yes. But the odd thing is, they’ve stopped evolving.”
“How can you know that?”
“I compared the genomes on plant varieties we’ve encountered here in the middle of Brogal against the same species growing on Ambrose. They’re identical.”
“Well, isn’t that to be expected?”
“Not at the most fundamental genetic level,” Antrinell said. “I mean, they are really identical, which even if they were only brought here a hundred thousand years ago shouldn’t happen. That’s plenty of time for mutation to creep in. It hasn’t. Variance checking clued me in. There is no variety even within a species. Every bubble-bush is identical with every other bubble-bush, every noxreed is the same, every falrillary vine, every tobgrass blade, every honeyberry. All of them are the same. There’s no cross-fertilization, the spores simply reproduce the parent plant. Each species’ genetic composition is fixed. We knew they are all parenthogenetic, but this is like perfect clone reproduction. There is only one of everything. Do you understand what that means?”
“There must be some variation, a degree of genetic drift. Look at the Norths, each generation is a little different than the last. A little worse.”
“Forget our world. Comparisons are worthless. The plants here are a billion years ahead of us. St. Libra’s plants don’t mutate or evolve because there’s no need to. They’re the pinnacle of their world’s evolution.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “This is what God intended to create, this is life without flaws. We’re walking among perfection, Vance. This is the life eternal. That’s why the planters brought it here, to a planet orbiting a young star, so it could continue living for a good part of eternity. We shouldn’t be here, we shouldn’t be despoiling it. That is why He’s punishing us.”
“Who brought the plants here, Antrinell? If they are the endpoint of the origin planet, then where are the people, the entities that evolved with them?”
“Well, one of them is just outside. We know that.”
“Yes,” Vance agreed slowly. “But it’s a human shape, not an alien. That’s been the problem all along.”
“Vance, He made us in His image. This is it, this is the proof we’ve been searching for since the day Wan Hi Chan published his theory of trans-spatial connection. Christians have been living in fear of this time; we listened to the atheists mocking us and we doubted Him. We shouldn’t have, it was our ultimate lack of faith. If we can meet St. Libra’s guardian, we can show the trans-space worlds the truth in our gospels. The atheists will repent and join us at our altar, the false religions will whither and die.”
“That’s … a big claim to make.”
“You’re a believer, a true believer, just like me. We are the Gospel Warriors, Vance. We carry the Lord’s name outward into the darkness, it is our sacred duty to carry His light, His enlightenment. Don’t falter now.”
“I do not falter,” Vance said sternly. “I’m simply worried about your enthusiasm. I don’t want it to be misplaced.”
“I know. Vance, we have to meet the guardian, to talk to it, to explain.”
“We will. That’s the one thing all of agree about. But in the meantime, we take every precaution. I don’t want you taking any risks, is that understood?”
“I understand. Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of venturing out there alone.”
M
ONDAY,
A
PRIL 15, 2143
The alarm clock buzzed sharply. Sid felt around for the snooze button on top. Too late, his bodymesh registered a change of status and activated his iris smartcells. The grid expanded across blurry vision, diary function reminding him of today’s events. He groaned in dismay.
“Come on, pet,” Jacinta said. “This is an important day for you.”
“Aye,” Sid mumbled. He told his e-i to banish the grid. The bedroom was comfortably dark, with slivers of pale sunlight sliding around the thick towels they’d hung across the windows. It was temporary, Jacinta said, until the curtains she’d ordered arrived. And when they did, they’d show up the rest of the room. It would need decorating. With a new carpet. Their old furniture didn’t fit right, either.
“Have you got much work on this week?” he asked as he climbed out of bed.
“Not too much. Bypass tomorrow, so I’ll be late back home. And there’s a lung replacement scheduled for Friday—early start. Other than that it’ll be light A and E work.”
“So nobody’s cutting back on operations?”
She grinned as she pinned up her hair. “Cutting back.”
“Yes.”
“Sorry, pet, bad old hospital joke. No, it’s just average. Why?”
“People are talking about a recession. I just wondered if the insurance companies were reducing funding.”
“Pet, insurance companies are always trying to reduce payouts. Nothing new there. It’s the engineering companies you want to watch if you want to know how bad things are. Half the city factories supply stuff to Highcastle and the algaepaddies and refineries. They’re the ones that’ll suffer in the shutdown. Anyway, everyone’s making lots of profit from bioil. Have you seen how much it costs to fill the cars up?”
“Aye. But that’s supply and demand. Without St. Libra’s supply, the other producers can charge what they like.”
“Sunspots can’t last forever.”
“No,” he said carefully. “But I’d like us to think about how we’d get through next winter if GE does go into recession.”
“All right, pet, we’ll do that.”
“Thanks.” He went into the en suite and started the shower.
When he came out, he found that Jacinta had laid out his one decent suit, a Heron Trall they’d bought a couple of years back. The shop had tailored it to him for a perfect fit.
“You need to look good for this,” she told him as she held up various ties for scrutiny.
Sid sucked his belly in. For some reason the trouser waist was tight. “That’ll be the day.”
Jacinta picked out the dark purple silk tie. “This one,” she decided.
“I look like I’m going to a wedding.”
“You look just fine.”
Zara and Will were already sitting at the kitchen table when Sid got downstairs. They were dressed in their school clothes, eating cereal and juice they’d gotten for themselves. The French doors were open, letting in the fresh morning air.
“Dad! Are you going to a funeral?” Will asked.
“No I’m not! Don’t be so bloody cheeky.”
“Language,” Jacinta warned behind him.
Zara started giggling.
“I’ve got a court case,” Sid explained. “It’s important. There will be a lot of reporters there.”
“Is it the North carjacker?” Will asked.
“Yes. But it wasn’t a carjacking.”
“You said it was,” Zara insisted. “You told us Brussels didn’t whack him.”
“They didn’t.”
“So who did?” Will asked.
“We don’t know.”
“Then why are you going to court?”
“To charge the person who covered up everything afterward. Look, it’s complicated, okay. I’ll tell you all about it tonight.” He made himself some toast, and went out through the French doors onto the patio. It was being unfair to the kids, but he wasn’t sure he could make happy small talk with them, not today. Apprehension was building. Even his bodymesh was catching signs of it, the medical function flashing up heart rate and blood sugar warnings into his grid. His metabolism was accelerating, gushing out adrenaline.
Jacinta joined him. “Are you all right, pet? You seem a bit … distracted.”
“I’m fine.” He looked up at the steep roof with its small rust-red clay tiles and jet-black PV panels. “You know, there’s room for a lot more panels up there. Modern ones, with a decent energy conversion percentage.”
“I suppose so.”
“We could get a proper regenerative gell-cell installed, store the summer power so we don’t need to buy any in during the winter.”
“They cost a fortune. We’ve got all the decorating to do.”