‘They’ll need folk like us to help with reconstruction, of course.’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Canny types who know which end of the hammer to hold.’
Another long moment of silence. Then Catriona shifted her head to look up at him.
‘How did you beat that slavery dust?’ she said. ‘What did he call it …?’
‘Blue Chain,’ Greg said. ‘Dunno. Perhaps there wasn’t enough of it in the end for Kuros’s purposes. Maybe it self-destructed – all I know is that I felt a sharp tingling all over and suddenly I was back in control … ’ He broke off, ambushed by a jaw-cracking yawn. Cat giggled.
‘There’s a nice hut upstairs where you can sleep, if you like.’
‘Nah, I just want tae sit here with you for a wee bit longer,’ he said drowsily. ‘Watch the sunlight move through the leaves while the Uvovo come out to play … ’
Which is what they did, resting there on the stairs, sipping from drinks brought by the Uvovo or nibbling berries and fruit. Not long after, the tall woman he had met down at the forest floor appeared at the other end of the platform, waved then headed off along another branchway. Later, as the sun dipped and shadows lengthened, and most of the Uvovo retired to their shelters, neither of them noticed when a single glowing mote emerged from the back of Greg’s hand, a bright point surrounded by a shifting corona. It drifted unseen through the air towards the immense trunk of the Watchtree and sank into its gnarled bark.
At one point Greg came out of his drowsy half-sleep all of a sudden, certain for a moment that he’d heard the voice of the Zyradin speaking to him. Then Catriona muttered something into his chest and he settled back while the silvery light of Darienrise shone through the branches, the first pure gleams of a future worth building.
EPILOGUE
THE EMISSARY
Three weeks after the defeat of the Legion and the destruction of the Godhead, a memorial was held on a hillside on Darien. Three funerals had taken place on Darien a fortnight earlier, while Robert Horst’s remains, recovered from the scene of the Godhead’s demise, had been shipped back to Earth where they were laid to rest just outside Berlin. But the memorial still centred on the planting and dedication of four trees just after noon on a grassy slope overlooking Membrance Vale, where the old Hyperion still lay.
The eulogies were just beginning when the Construct’s emissary arrived. As the four spiraleaf saplings were lowered by willing hands into newly dug holes, Greg Cameron stood up before the invited audience and gave a warm and witty speech about his uncle, Theo Karlsson. He was followed by his mother, Karlsson’s sister, Solvjeg, who was dignified and only tearful at the end. Then one of the Tygrans came forward, Franklyn Gideon, looking vaguely uncomfortable without either uniform or combat armour; he spoke briefly about Karlsson’s grit under fire and how he had saved Gideon’s life during Becker’s attack on Tusk Mountain, then ended with that rarity, a piece of Tygran verse –
‘Fold him into the earth,
Lay him down low,
Trust him to peace,
Send him to eternity,
Close at last those eyes,
His work is done.’
After Gideon, a half-drunk Rory McGrain got up to toast Theo’s memory with a hip flask of something potent, and an old Darien marching song, accompanied by several others in the gathering. Representatives from the new Pyre settlements lit small candles and said short prayers.
When they moved along to the next tree, Greg Cameron spoke again about the Uvovo Seer, Cheluvahar, who had died when Legion cyborgs finally broke through to the underground burrow where he had taken refuge. After him, two Uvovo Listeners, Weynl and Faldri, eschewed speechmaking in favour of a sad song in the Uvovo tongue. The quietly sung syllables, repeated back and forth, had a profound effect on some of those present.
At the next planting, an Enhanced by the name of Konstantin then stepped up and said a few halting words about Julia Bryce. It was she who helped Konstantin to switch the missile targets from 500 suns to the Godhead, and it was she who launched them and destroyed the Godhead. ‘She was proud of her intellect, which lit up the different ways of being Human as well as the path to her own Humanity,’ he said. ‘She saved hundreds of worlds, their civilisations and their billions of lives, but she couldn’t save herself.’ There was great sadness in his delivery, and a certain bitterness when he mentioned Catriona Macreadie, who had decided not to attend the ceremony.
The last to be eulogised, as the fourth sapling was planted and bedded into the hillside, was Robert Horst. The Construct’s emissary took a couple of hesitant steps upslope but paused when a middle-aged Human with receding hair came forward. He introduced himself as Ben Tanner, Horst’s chief of staff from a few years ago, then paid tribute to the man’s talents and his warmth of character, a sensibly brief address. When he stepped down the emissary took his place.
‘I come as a messenger from the Construct, who some of you may know played a significant role in the twin struggle so recently resolved. Robert Horst was well known to the Construct, who has directed me to say these few words:
‘Robert Horst was a remarkable Human. He exhibited the finest characteristics of his species – a resolute determination, intelligence, wit, and a compassion that led him to a self-sacrifice which he willingly embraced. His was the essence that stood in the way of hate and havoc and destruction. The fire of his being shall never go out.’
After that most of the guests wandered away in small groups, twos and threes. The emissary noticed the reporter Kaphiri Farag talking with a few people down by the road. A lone piper up on the crest of the hill played a slow lament, its plaintive voice sounding out across the dales and fields below. Waiting behind, the emissary saw that Greg Cameron was crouched next to the sapling dedicated to his uncle.
‘Mr Cameron,’ he said. ‘May I ask why Ms Macreadie did not attend?’
Greg Cameron gave a half-smile as he got to his feet. ‘Aye, well, there’s a question.’ He shrugged. ‘She says that the memories are too painful and that she canna stand funerals anyway, but there she is, up there on Nivyesta, trying to get life out of a grave.’ He paused, then went on. ‘Since the battle, since the destruction of the cyborgs, hardly anything has grown across that entire wasteland of a continent. I mean, there’s still a wee enclave, the Cradle-Veil cove, but the rest … it’s as if the ground is reluctant to let anything take root.
‘Down here, of course, it’s a different story. The Uvovo are starting to say that some remnant of Segrana still lingers on Darien, in the daughter-forests and elsewhere. Perhaps that’s why she’s staying away – it would remind her of how much has been lost to the ash.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘On the other hand, she is adamant about getting pregnant!’
‘That seems an appropriate ambition in the circumstances,’ said the emissary.
The two shook hands and Cameron headed off downhill to join a small group waiting next to an open-top mountain-car. The emissary watched him leave thoughtfully, then took a small pouch from his jacket, tipped out a number of small black seeds and pressed them into the soil near the base of the spiraleaf sapling dedicated to Julia Bryce. Putting away the pouch, he surveyed the scene briefly and listened to the piper for several long moments. Then strode off down the grassy slope to where his own vehicle, a single-seater hire car, was parked.
Two hours later the emissary had reached Port Gagarin and was in his shuttle pod, awaiting clearance from air–orbit traffic control. An hour after that the pod had returned him to the Construct tiership, Finite Codex, and the emissary was entering the airy observation lounge/bridge. Various Rosas and Roberts were in attendance, some working at translucent holoconsoles, others engaged in thought-games or discussion.
‘I read out your speech exactly as you composed it,’ he said as he walked up the ramp to the circular balcony where the Construct waited. ‘I almost felt flattered at such lyrical praise.’
The Construct had exchanged its usual spindly metal-mech remote f
or a humanoid one, its skin configured to display rippling ribbons of silver and gold.
‘That is understandable,’ it said. ‘But the deceased Robert and you are experientially different.’
‘In other words, Robert,’ said a black-dressed man as he rose from an easy chair, ‘the map is not the territory. Did you plant the seeds?’
The emissary smiled. ‘Yes, Harry, I pushed the bluebell seeds into the soil around her tree. When they flower it will be a fine sight. You, on the other hand, have remained a sight draped in black. I thought you said you were thinking of a new wardrobe.’
‘I did think about it, then realised that if you’re tired of the colour black you’re tired of life!’ Harry laughed and tipped his hat back at a rakish angle. ‘Or at least the synthetic equivalent thereof. So – where are we off to next?’
The Construct looked at him.
‘Tier 19. When the Humans used the spacefold bomb to shut down the warpwell there were still many thousands of Legion cyborgs travelling up the portal’s flux conduit. And when it was switched off … ’
‘Don’t tell me – a big, nasty mess, yes?’
‘Indeed. Everything inside was crash-transitioned to whatever tier it was passing through at the time. Resonant transition effects ripped apart most of the cyborgs and left a trail of debris all the way down. But approximately three hundred somehow survived and are turning their attentions to several of the worlds in Tier 19.’
Harry’s joviality faded. ‘Invade, slaughter any opposition, then turn the remaining population into slaves to build more of their charming brethren.’
‘That is what we are going to investigate. You on the other hand once expressed an eagerness to return to the tiernet – if you are ready I can have you paradigitised and transloaded in less than a minute … ’
‘You know, actually I find that I have become attached to this autonomous physical-form experience. What’s more, it’s time that I played a more active role in this ongoing undertaking of yours. I am certain that I can make a valuable contribution, maybe even provide a new perspective.’
‘I might ask you to exchange that form you’ve adopted for something more suited to field activity,’ the Construct said.
‘That is to be expected.’
The Construct looked at the emissary, who said, ‘I can stand him if you can.’
‘Very well,’ said the Construct. ‘At least I will be able to complete my studies of him. Let us be on our way.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Words are scarcely enough when it comes to thanking the various folk who have in one way or another made this book and the preceding volumes possible. To my agents, John Parker and John Berlyne, who have been my ever-supportive shepherds and negotiators, to the most excellent Bella Pagan whose perceptions and polite insistence kept my writer-brain in the game (aided of course by Joanna Kramer, James Long, Rose Tremlett and everyone else at Orbit/Little, Brown). Thanks are due as well to Dave Wingrove and his fine eye for detail and the big picture.
Tips of the hat go out to my publishers in Germany and France, Heyne and Bragelonne, and to Tom Clegg and Stephane Marsan – bonjour, mes braves! – and to my French translator, Laurent Queyssi, and my German translator, Norbert Stobe. And a big howdy to such luminaries as Eric Brown, Ian McDonald, Keith Brooke, Ian Whates, Ian Watson, Mark Chitty, Phil Palmer, Ian Sales, Craig Marnoch, Neil Williamson, Andrew J Wilson and sundry others who soldiered on through the thickets of the Birmingham Eastercon – will we ever see its like again?
To Debbie Miller and Tiffany, to Rog Peyton, to Stewart Robinson in Musselburgh (the wee Edinburgh even further to the east!), to the Glasgow Writers’ Circle, to the Edinburgh Writers Group, to Graeme Fleming, Progmaster General of Greater Paisley, to Ronnie and Katie, to Spencer and Adrian, to Dave Bradley at SFX, to Cuddles and Ralph and Vince Docherty and Ian Sorensen, and to those tireless legions of con-runners everywhere, who have all added their idiosyncratic soupçon of enrichment to life itself. A long and winding list of thanks would not be complete without a wave of the banner to Norman, John and Allan, the other members of the New Wave of Gang-of-Fourism – who knows where we (and indeed the Cleggster) will be by the time this book comes out?
As ever, Susan coped with my absent-mindedness and numerous other writerly foibles during the scribbling with fortitude and loving good humour, for which I am deeply thankful. My thoughts are also with my dad, who has undergone many difficult months this past year but has endured, along with my mother, and come out the other side.
My soundtrack for this book has ranged far and wide, taking in several cinematic instrumental CDs by Nox Arcana and Midnight Syndicate, as well as the superfine doom rock of Alunah, Orchid and Witchburn, three awesome bands, three awesome albums. Honourable mentions go out to Honcho (Battle Of Wits), Pallas (XXV), SAHG (3), and to Black Space Riders, whose self-titled CD remains a hi-octane rocket ride to the starz!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Cobley was born in Leicester, England, and has lived in Glasgow, Scotland, for most of his life. He has studied engineering, been a DJ and has an abiding interest in democratic politics. His previous books include Shadowkings dark fantasy trilogy, and Iron Mosaic, a short story collection. The Ascendant Stars concludes the Humanity’s Fire Trilogy, but he insists that there are many other stories to be told.
Find out more about Michael Cobley and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net
The Ascendant Stars_Book Three of Humanity's Fire Page 49
