Seeds of Earth

by Michael Cobley

  tions I experienced when I came out of the vodrun'

  'Your importance cannot be overstated, newest of

  Listeners,' the Pathmaster said. 'Segrana has not husked

  forth one such as yourself since the War of the Long

  Night when hundreds of Seers were needed to guide the

  Scholars. There were battles in the high skies, but there

  were also battles here on the ground against the lesser

  servants of the Dreamless, metal things that crept, ran,

  flew and swam and which infested the forests and the

  plains, the hills and the valleys. They strove to disrupt

  the defiant unity of the Uvovo but ultimately failed.

  'Segrana knows that we need the Seers again but she

  is weak - the War of the Long Night took something

  from her that can never be replaced, thus she can only

  do what she may with the little strength that remains.'

  'Venerable one,' Chel said. 'I thought my abilities

  were similar to those of a Listener, yet you named me a

  Seer . . .'

  'There are aspects to your senses that will make

  themselves known to you in time. Realise this, too - the

  path from Scholar to Listener to Pathmaster is in the gift

  of Segrana, but a Seer cannot become a Pathmaster.'

  Chel was intrigued. 'So what does a Seer become?

  What will I be?'

  'After the upheavals and struggles that lie ahead?"

  the Pathmaster said. 'Alive, with any luck.' The

  Pathmaster's form blurred a little. 'Now, please leave

  me to converse with the well's Sentinel - go with the

  Human back to the encampment above. I will come to

  you in a while and relate what has happened.'

  The Pathmaster fell silent. Chel stared at the attenu-

  ated form, hazed, almost fragmentary outlines quivering

  in the golden heat-haze of the lamp. Then he glanced at

  Listener Weynl, who gave a slight shrug and bowed to

  the Pathmaster. Chel did the same and both Uvovo

  stepped off the patterned surface of the well and headed

  round towards the chamber exit.

  'Phruson,' Weynl said thoughtfully as they crossed

  the room of the four pillars.

  'Excuse me, Listener?'

  'Phrusonemejas was one of the three great

  Pathmasters who survived the War of the Long Night -

  in the centuries that followed all three eventually gave

  up their failing flesh and began their journey to the

  Eternal. Although the remains of two were discovered

  where they had lain down for the last time in the

  embrace of Segrana, Phruson's were never found.'

  'Do you believe that he is this Phruson?'

  Weynl smiled. 'It would be hard to determine, but it

  is an explanation of sorts, which is better than no expla-

  nation at all.'

  But if it is wrong, Chel thought, is a wrong explana-

  tion better than none at all!

  35

  PATH MASTER

  All was silent now in the cold gloom at the rock's

  heart. The Pathmaster let the outlines of his old physi-

  cality, maintained for the younger Uvovos' benefit,

  drift and blur like the vestiges of a snuffed candle's

  smoke trail. Before him yawned the great aperture of

  the ancient warpwell, its inscribed control patterns

  stretched faint and wispy across those penumbral

  depths. The Pathmaster's senses could cut through

  appearances to essences and he knew that the Sentinel

  of the well was always there, always alert, always lis-

  tening.

  'Greetings,' he said in the long-forgotten language of

  the Great Ancients. 'I do know that you could have

  responded in the Uvovo tongue yet you did not. I

  wonder why.'

  I WAS NOT ACCORDED MY DUE RESPECT

  NOR ADDRESSED CORRECTLY ... IT HAS BEEN

  MANY CYCLES OF THIS SUN SINCE ANY OF THE

  AUXILIARIES HAVE VISITED THIS DORMANT

  PLACE, APART FROM YOU AND THE WEARER

  OF THE EXTREMITY COVERINGS.

  The Pathmaster smiled to himself, knowing that

  this was a reference to the Human Scholar Greg's

  boots. In any case, the Sentinel knew that the War of

  the Long Night had killed most of the Uvovo on the

  planet and trapped the rest on Segrana's forest moon,

  until the arrival of the Humans - it was just being

  petulant.

  'The times of peace are ending,' he said. 'War is

  almost upon us. You know of the Humans and the inter-

  est being shown towards this world?'

  I HEAR MUCH AND BELIEVE LITTLE. THAT

  WHICH IS KNOWN IS INVARIABLY SHOWN TO

  BE INCORRECT OR INCOMPLETE.

  'A commendable scepticism, if kept within limits,!

  the Pathmaster said. 'This place is now known to our

  enemies, an immense empire of the stars called the

  Hegemony - they are secretly dominated by their ser-

  vants, machine-minds whose power extends to the

  underdomains of the Real.'

  THE DREAMLESS! I HAD THOUGHT THEM

  DESTROYED ALONG WITH ALL THEIR INSTRU-

  MENTALITIES.

  'This appears to be a distinct genus with no apparent

  links with those earlier counterparts,' he said. 'Their

  need for aggressive domination is nearly identical, how-

  ever.'

  THE UVOVO MUST BE MADE READY FOR

  BATTLE - UMARA'S DEFENCES MUST BE STRENG-

  THENED.

  'Such preparations have begun, but resources are

  thinly spread and untried, and Segrana is seriously

  weakened. I would like to speak with the Construct, if

  he still exists, to ask for advice and aid.'

  I CONVERSED WITH THE CONSTRUCT A

  SHORT TIME AGO - HE SAID THAT YOU WOULD

  SOON VISIT ME WITH THE INTENTION OF CON-

  TACTING HIM.

  The Pathmaster felt a quiver of surprise. 'Did he say

  more?'

  HE TOLD ME TO SAY THAT AID WOULD BE

  RECIPROCAL. HE SAID TO ASK YOU TO PROVIDE

  HIM WITH AN ENVOY, PREFERABLY ONE OF

  THE HUMANS BUT A UVOVO SCHOLAR WOULD

  SUFFICE - THIS ENVOY WILL HELP TO OBTAIN

  THE AID YOU REQUIRE. THERE WAS NO FUR-

  THER MESSAGE.

  Possibilities flickered through the Pathmaster's mind.

  Until his husking, Cheluvahar would have been ideal

  for such a task, but now he had a new purpose and the

  abilities to go with it. It would have to be another of the

  Scholars, or . . . or a Human, such as the scholarly

  Gregori? It seemed unlikely that he, or indeed any of the

  Humans involved in the work of the intellect, would

  consider an undertaking like this. Then there was the

  matter of secrecy. Keeping the Humans ignorant of the

  warpwell and its entrance would prevent such knowl-

  edge falling into the hands of the Sendrukans and the

  Hegemony machines, although that might delay them

  only for a while.

  'Did the Construct reveal the nature of the aid that he

  might provide?'

  HE DID NOT, BUT IT IS CLEAR THAT HE IS

  EXTENDING HIS CAPACITIES AND AWAKENING

  SELECTED CADRES OF THE AGGRESSION IN

  RESPONSE TO SOME THREAT IN THE LOWER

  DOMAINS OF HYPERSPACE. IF YOU WISH r0

&n
bsp; SPEAK WITH HIM IN PERSON I CAN TAKE YOU

  TO HIM.

  The Pathmaster almost laughed out loud. 'My incor-

  poreal state makes it impossible for me to undertake

  such a journey. However, please convey to the Construct

  my gratitude at his offer -1 shall give it the most intense

  and immediate consideration, and return with a repl)

  tomorrow. In the meantime, if you would excuse my

  younger companions their earlier lack of courtesy and

  engage them in dialogue, I am certain you would find

  them a most appreciative and respectful audience.'

  I SHALL DO THIS. DO YOU WISH ANY LIMITS

  PLACED ON WHAT I MAY SAY TO THEM?

  'None, although perhaps you should be vague about

  some of the warpwell control patterns.'

  NOW THAT I AM APPRISED OF YOUR UVOVO

  COMPANIONS, I SHALL ENSURE THEIR SAFETY.

  'Thank you - I am gratified.'

  There was no response. The Pathmaster listened care-

  fully in the deepening silence, widened senses soon

  confirming that the Sentinel's immediate presence hail

  receded.

  The Pathmaster thought on what he had learned. The

  Construct, a near-mythical ally of the Great Ancients,

  had apparently known or guessed that he would try to

  make contact: did that imply that the Construct was

  somehow monitoring events here on Umara? Then he

  recalled the reporters who kept up a flow of information

  to their offworld organisations and the arenas of the

  tiernet beyond, and realised that the Construct had

  access to more than he could know.

  The request for an envoy was strange, however, and

  curiously lacking in detail, which he would return to

  tomorrow. Also, the mention of cadres of the Aggression

  being awoken to deal with an unspecified threat was

  sufficient to provoke unease. Many centuries ago, when

  he was young enough to still have a physical form, he

  had travelled via the warpwell to the Construct's strong-

  hold in the unsettling underdomains of hyperspace, the

  Garden of the Machines. During his stay he had been

  taken to a gloomy vastness where the Aggression

  waited, sleeping, an immense phalanx of war machines:

  he remembered the inactive hush that hung over the

  motionless serried rows, columns and files stretching

  back into shadow, thousands upon thousands, yet

  knowing that even these great numbers would have been

  swallowed by the Legion of Avatars.

  None of the Aggression had been awoken during the

  War of the Long Night, but some were now. It was a

  conundrum which implied much and begged many

  questions.

  Which I intend to have answered tomorrow, he

  thought as he drifted from the chamber.

  36

  CATRIONA

  The darkness of the vodrun was broken by the tiny

  flame of a luring candle, the kind some Uvovo used to

  catch certain insects for the wing casings they shed.

  Catriona lay back against the cushion she had brought

  for her back, both hands cupping a beaker of turnsprij

  tea, breathing in its vapour and occasionally sipping as

  she waited for it to cool. There was no way to get hole1

  of the special sapdrink that the Uvovo used in their rit-

  uals, so she had made up a flask of turnsprig for its

  relaxing, de-stressing properties, which turned out to be

  invaluable.

  And so here she was, following the mystic utterances

  of the spectral Pathmaster whom she might or mighr

  not have seen. In fact, the stress of the situation derived

  not from the Pathmaster's promptings but from the pos-

  sibility of being discovered. True, this vodrun was part

  of a high-canopy town which was empty due to the

  steady migration down to Darien, but travellers and

  traders, humans and Listeners still tramped along the

  nearby branchways. It was not impossible that someone

  might chance to pass by and see that foliage had been

  cleared away from the vodrun .. .

  Catriona smiled, shook her head, and took a mouth-

  ful of her tea, which had lost some of its heat. Eyes

  closed, she could feel the warmth spread through her,

  calming, relaxing. She sipped again, cleared her throat

  and, with a yawn, settled further back into her cushion's

  comfort. Suddenly it was easy to keep her eyes closed, to

  breathe deeper, to feel that simultaneous heaviness of

  limbs and lightness of thoughts that floated free to

  pursue the whims of unfathomable intent.

  The first definite thread of her dream was the thing

  she was holding in her hands: a datapad, a tech-func-

  tions model with a battered alloy casing and worn keys.

  She turned it over, examining it, recognising it as the one

  she had used during her early Enhanced years.

  Deliberately she looked up and found she was standing

  in the small, cramped room she had occupied at

  Zhilinsky House. There was the bed, the desk, the book-

  shelf, the always-closed window shutters, yet everything

  was pale, colourless and grainy. She was also aware that

  she was dreaming, conscious that she was still in the

  vodrun while also standing there in the doorway, staring

  along an empty corridor. Out the corner of her eye she

  caught sight of herself in a square, wooden-framed

  mirror - dark hair tied in a bun, grey nondescript uni-

  form, a face that looked on edge and showed her to be

  about twelve or thirteen.

  Catriona walked, datatpad in hand, shoeheels rap-

  ping loudly on wooden floors. Zhilinsky House seemed

  deserted and she smiled as an idea occurred to her. It's

  my dream, so let's go and take a look at the director's

  office, see what my file really says! She took the main

  stairwell to the second floor and was halfway along the

  south gallery overlooking the senior dining room when a

  door opened in the north gallery on the opposite wall

  and Julia Bryce stepped into view. Amid the mono

  chrome surroundings, the soft greys and inky blacks.

  Julia was a knot of rich colour, the pale pink of her skin,

  the dark mahogany of her hair, the sky-blue dress uni-

  form, the shiny brown shoes. The moment she saw

  Catriona, her eyes widened and she rushed to the railing.

  'Catriona! - I need to speak to you . . .'

  But Catriona didn't wait to listen and dashed for the

  door at the gallery's end. Then it was up the fire stairs to

  the next floor and quickly along to the opening that led

  into the annexe. As she fled she noticed other students

  beginning to emerge, peering out from behind cup-

  boards or sitting in corners or ducking back into

  doorways as she passed.

  'Join us, Catriona! Join me!'

  She gasped. She was up on the balcony in the minor

  gym and Julia was down in the centre of the court,

  gazing up.

  'I need you, Catriona!'

  She ran.

  Out the annexe side door, down the garden, past the

  brollyberry trees and back into the main building. A

  windowed
corridor led past the junior canteen where a

  few others sat singly here and there, their colouring as

  grey-shaded as the environment and the food on their

  plates. Then a boy hurried down a stairway in the centre

  of the canteen, and came over to the window where

  Catriona stood on the other side. Like Julia he was in

  full colour - red hair, blue shirt and shorts, and a grin

  that she knew, although he had never been at Zhilinsky,

  simply because he was a normal. She placed him at per-

  haps fifteen, but it was definitely Greg.

  'This is my dream,' she said. 'Why are you and Julia

  here? I'm aware that I'm dreaming so I should be able to

  guide it where I like ...'

  'That would be true,' said the young Greg. 'If this

  was a dream. Cat, you've got to speak with her.'

  'What, with the Julia in my head? Aye, as if I'm going

  to waste my time.'

  Greg smiled. 'She's not in your head, Catriona -

  you're in hers.'

  Suddenly fearful, she stepped back and continued

  along the corridor which she remembered led to the east

  lobby, but once through the door she found herself in

  one of the lecturers' offices, a small wood-panelled room

  with a cluttered desk, a wall of filing cabinets, a small

  window up high . ..

  The door clicked shut behind her and she whirled to

  see Julia standing before it.

  'We're all in terrible danger,' Julia said. 'Two of their

  servants arrived last night but I have lost them, some-

  where/within my abundance ...'

  'This is all very un-Julia-like of you,' Catriona said

  sharply. 'But then you did put me through the help-

  remorseful-Julia-redeem-herself playlet a few times, I

  seem to recall. Not this time, though.'

  'I cannot see them, and who can tell what they are

  planning?' She stretched out her hands. 'Please,

  Catriona, I have been blind for so long - join with me

  and be my eyes. You are special, so different from the

  People of the Leaves, and so rare, even among your own

  kind ...'

  A chill went through her, the cold realisation that

  this truly was no dream, nor was this in any sense Julia.

  She's not in your head, you're in hers.

  An unreasoning terror welled up in her, wiping away

  the room and the pleading Julia — and suddenly she was

  wide-eyed and awake, fumbling the vodrun's door open,

  tumbling out to sprawl on damp mats, gasping for