Seeds of Earth

by Michael Cobley

  one of the eastern underlakes, every incision smooth

  and precise; the sighting, on the night before last, of a

  large, dark bird swooping low over the dense heart-

  lands of the Great Central Uplands before lazily

  flapping away eastwards.

  Catriona brought the spiderlike trictra to a halt on a

  natural shelf of interwoven branches and tied it up

  within easy reach of edible foliage. Then it was a brief

  downward climb to the small platform where the

  vodrun waited. She thought about those singular reports

  and what they might mean if yesterday's dream-vision

  was right, the possibility that offworld intruders were

  lurking somewhere, watching, planning . . .

  In her left hand she held a plastic tub on a cloth

  strap - inside were some biscuits, nuts, a small flask of

  turnsprig tea and a luring candle fixed in a seashell

  holder. Then with her right hand she took out her comm

  and called Greg, imagining the signal flying up to one of

  Nivyesta's comsats and then tight-beamed to another

  orbiting Darien, then down to the local hub node. After

  several moments a breathless Greg answered.

  'Yes? . . . hello? . . .'

  'Greg, it's Cat,' she said.

  'Well, hi... did you get my message? Did you ... did

  you go through with it?'

  'I did, and I didn't.'

  At the other end Greg chuckled quietly. 'I detect a

  wee note of indecision there.'

  'Not so much indecision as blind terror,' and she gave

  him a terse summary of that unnerving vision, including

  her encounters with the younger Greg and Julia, which

  also entailed a brief explanation of Julia's role in her past.

  'Uh huh, so you were dreaming about me, eh? I'm

  honoured.'

  She smiled and shook her head. 'No, Greg, there

  wasn't any dreaming involved. I'm certain, now, that I

  was talking to Segrana and that she was using images

  from my memory . . .'

  'I must admit that sounds pretty wild,' Greg said.

  'But I had my own share of surprises last night...'

  She listened as he told of the huge chamber and the

  pattern-inscribed floor that Chel and Listener Weynl

  called a well, and how the Uvovo had awakened some

  kind of automatic defence (which had apparently obliter-

  ated his boots during the first expedition).

  'Your boots?' she said, laughing.

  'Aye, took exception to certain aspects of their man-

  ufacture, it seems.'

  'I think I'd rather be down there than up here,' she

  said.

  'Ach, we are where we are.'

  'Homespun philosophy, Mr Cameron?'

  'Straight from my mother's knee to your ears, Miss

  Macreadie. So - are you going to try again?'

  How did he guess} she wondered.

  'I think ... I think that I have to,' she said. 'It's the

  precautionary principle - if Segrana has been talking to

  me and if there are hostile intruders around, then it's

  wise to be prepared. In the vision she said I could help -

  now I'm going to find out how.' She laughed drily. 'And

  if it turns out to be a wild goose chase, I'll be on the next

  shuttle back to Darien to join the resistance!'

  'It's not quite got to that stage,' Greg said. 'In fact,

  Sundstrom has somehow got the Brolturans to drasti-

  cally reduce their troop presence at the Hegemony

  embassy, and persuaded the Earth people to send some

  marines down from the Heracles'

  'Some good news at last - maybe I'll not have to

  leave Nivyesta after all.'

  'I don't know - we could need a Uvovo expert on call

  when we get round to studying those underground

  chambers!'

  Their shared laughter was easy and warm, but brief.

  'Sorry, Greg, but I'll have to go and get this over with

  while I'm still convinced.'

  'Aye - I have to go, too. Promise me you'll call the

  moment it's done.'

  'I will, I promise. Goodbye, Greg.'

  'Bye, Cat.'

  Call ended, she tucked the comm away, breathed in

  deep . . . then swung round, tugged open the vodrun's

  circular door and ducked inside. Moments later, the

  candle was lit, the tea was poured and the door wedged

  shut with a wad of leaves.

  Right, she thought as she sipped the hot, herby infu-

  sion. I'm here so let's get to work.

  40

  CHEL

  The zeplin pilot was a Finn named Varstrand who kept

  up a stream of gossip and rumour as they flew out from

  Hammergard, heading southwest across Loch Morwen

  towards the Savrenki Mountains, a southerly offshoot

  of the Kentigerns. Varstrand's craft, the Har, was essen-

  tially a true dirigible with a gondola slung beneath a

  gas-filled envelope shaped like a fat cigar. The gondola's

  twin-prop motors could run on either alcofuel or battery

  power and solar cells glued to the outer skin provided

  an emergency backup.

  Chel was seated behind Varstrand, in a wire-and-

  wicker couch that seemed as rickety as the construction

  of the creaky gondola. He was wrapped up well against

  the chill and the icy draughts that slipped through

  cracks in the hide-and-canvas hull. The noise of the

  engines added to the discomfort but this was his first

  visit to some of the Burrows to which he had dispatched

  the teams of Artificer Uvovo over a day ago. He would

  sit it out - there were worse things to be endured.

  A two-hour journey under grey skies took the rest of

  the morning and, following the map scribed by Uvovo

  scouts, brought the Har to a bushy ridge in the foothills

  of the Savrenkis. Chel clambered down a rope ladder to

  be greeted by Tremenogir, the Scholar in charge. Then

  together they grabbed the mooring lines let down by

  Varstrand and tied the zeplin between a couple of sturd)

  trees.

  'How long you be, Listener, sir?' Varstrand yelled

  down.

  'Not very long, Pilot Varstrand,' Chel called back.

  'Maybe half an hour.'

  'Good! - I have book ...'

  Chel grinned and waved then looked round at

  Tremenogir.

  'Let us begin, Scholar Trem.'

  'It is a great relief to have you here, Listener,' the

  Scholar said as he led the way down the other side of the

  ridge then up into a steep-sided gully. 'Our findings are

  astonishing.'

  Chel thought about correcting the Scholar's use of

  the Listener title, but since he was not entirely sure of

  the difference himself he decided to leave it until he was.

  Rocks, bushes and age-twisted trees cluttered the

  gully, carved from the hillside over time by a stream

  which splashed and gurgled down a notched rock face

  at the gully's end, where four immense boulders were

  piled to one side. A stair of flat rocks led up onto the

  second-highest boulder and a dark gap where the third

  boulder leaned against the gully's undergrowth-

  swathed slope. Chel followed Scholar Trem into the

  gap, which became a low, nar
row, curving passage,

  clearly hewn out of the tilted boulder.

  The passage widened, wood-shored sides showing

  many signs of recent repair. Ulby roots and tethered

  ineka beetles shed enough blue-green light to see by as

  they continued further into the hillside.

  'So, Scholar Trem, your findings,' Chel said as they

  walked. 'What makes them so astonishing?'

  'The expected followed by the unexpected, Listener,'

  said Trem as they entered a small, shadowy room where

  three young Uvovo sat at a table, scribbling by the light

  of a candle. Hastily, they stood and bowed.

  'My assistants, Jont, Flir and Kamm - it was Jont

  who literally stumbled upon our discovery. But first, the

  roothouse.'

  The Scholar showed Chel through a doorway leading

  off to the right and down stone steps into cold depths.

  The carapace glows of a few ineka beetles speckled the

  inky darkness. Soon they came to a low, arched entrance

  where Trem paused, took a shell candle from a waist

  pouch, lit it with a Human match then continued. The

  air was dry and musty, like the faint emanation of an

  ancient decay. The passage was about a dozen paces

  long and showed many holes and gouges where plant

  growth had eaten into the stone, most of which had

  been cleared away except for one thick, rough root

  which had burst through then snaked along to the other

  end. And this was the very least of it, as Chel saw when

  they emerged into the roothouse and Trem raised his

  lamp.

  Twisting, coiling and knotted, rootworks filled the

  high, circular chamber before them. Through the tangle

  Chel saw vague suggestions of carved images on the

  walls, all buried beneath encrusting filth, except for a

  massive, fallen shard of rock which stood at an angle

  across the chamber, webbed with roots. He could also

  tell that several other passages led outwards from the

  round room - ten or twelve all told.

  'I had Flir and Kamm clear away some of the roots

  from the bottom,' Trem said. 'There's enough room to

  crawl over to one of the laving galleries.' He crouched

  down and pointed. 'That one.'

  As they crept under the mass of entwined roots, occa-

  sionally snagging clothing on twiggy protrusions, Chel

  went over in his thoughts what Listener Weynl told him

  about the Burrows. They had been built well before the

  War of the Long Night as a means of bringing greater

  focus to the powers of Segrana-that-was, the Segrana

  whose embrace had once enclosed both planet and

  moon. Each Burrow, Weynl said, was the meeting point

  of hundreds of roots, thousands in the larger ones. With

  the use of nutrients and other balms provided by some

  of Segrana's most specialised plants, the growth and

  extent of the forests and jungles could be managed; like-

  wise, Segrana's harsher powers could be channelled and

  intensified and, if necessary, put forth in anger. This was

  the Artificer Uvovo's urgent task, to find out if anything

  useful remained, at least in those Burrows in the imme-

  diate vicinity.

  A few paces into the laving gallery they were able to

  stand up and survey what it had come to. From the grey,

  dust-choked remnants of ducts and wall channels, Chel

  could see how the roots entered from above and curved

  down through one or more stone basins, where they

  were fed specific fluids. Now a snarl of uncontrolled

  roots filled most of the gallery, grey roots, grey dust,

  grey webs.

  'This has been abandoned for a very long time,' Chel

  said. 'And it provokes in me a certain sadness rather

  than astonishment.'

  Trem nodded. 'As it did in me until Jont found some-

  thing more interesting in another gallery.'

  A few moments later, in the root-framed entrance to

  that gallery, they were standing over a rectangular hole

  in the floor.

  'While clearing away dead roots and dried-out debris,

  Jont tripped and fell to his knees right here.' Trem squat-

  ted down beside the opening. 'Some rotted framework

  gave way beneath and he would have plunged into dark-

  ness had he not caught the edge and climbed back out.'

  A narrow set of steps was visible by the meagre light

  of Trem's shell lamp as he led the way down. Chel

  immediately smelled something different from the root-

  house - a hint of damp, a woody odour, then the

  pungency of mould. Something was growing down here.

  The steps ended in a small alcove just off a corridor,

  but the way was blocked by a large pipe. No, not a

  pipe, he realised as Trem went over to it with his lamp,

  but a huge root. Like the Scholar he ducked under and

  saw a high-walled passageway not unlike the galleries

  above, except that here the roots were big and alive,

  some bulbous, some bifurcated, some sprouting pale

  rootlets that spread across the walls, over faint,

  labyrinthine traces of previous rootlet webs. And there

  in the quiet, underground dimness he heard the sound of

  droplets falling from high onto roots or plinking into

  small puddles. He was tempted to tug aside the blind-

  fold and open some of his new eyes to all this, but his

  perceptions were still unpredictable so perhaps another

  time would be better.

  'Yes, Scholar Trem,' he said. 'Astonishing is the right

  word.'

  'Thousands of years,' Trem said. 'Thousands of win-

  ters and summers and still it functions - if we'd brought

  more lamps you would see the fenfinil roots where the)

  come down through the ceiling then push through the

  cutting collars that feed the sap down to the spouts -

  true, there is mould and moss everywhere, but never so

  much that they staunch the flow.'

  'Well, Scholar Trem, if the roothouse is above us,

  then what is this place?'

  Trem smiled and gave a little shake of the head. 'I can

  only make a tentative guess, Listener, that it may be

  some kind of master regulating system which we've

  stumbled upon by chance. But if the other Burrows also

  have something similar, we may have to think again on

  its purpose.'

  If only I had known of this before leaving

  Hammergard, Chel thought. But Weynl and the other

  Listeners had banned the use of radios to ensure that

  positions were not given away by signals easily detected

  by those in orbit above. Thus all communication was by

  courier, either on foot or by dirigible. Which was what

  Chel would have to do now, take Varstrand's zeplin back

  to Waonwir rather than continue on to the next Burrow.

  The other Listeners would have to be informed and then

  enough messengers would have to be dispatched to dis-

  cover if there were similar galleries elsewhere.

  He explained this to Trem, who nodded.

  'A sensible approach, Listener,' he said. 'Would you

  like any or all of my assistants to return with you and

  give what he
lp they can?'

  'No, Scholar Trem - I need you all working hard

  here. If your Burrow turns out to be the only one with a

  gallery like this, we will need to know all there is to

  know as quickly as possible.'

  'I shall get them back to work at once,' Trem said.

  'Good. Now I shall return to my zeplin and be off

  back to Waonwir. We must use the Humans' flying craft

  for swift travel while we are still able to do so.'

  'Are the Dreamless close to assuming control?' Trem

  said as he led the way back up to the roothouse.

  'Not yet,' Chel said. 'An emissary from the

  Brolturans was assassinated soon after landing at Port

  Gagarin, which the Brolturans then used as an excuse to

  start sending troops down from their huge warship, sup-

  posedly as protection for the Hegemony envoy. Yet the

  Humans' president somehow persuaded them to with-

  draw while obtaining Human soldiers from the Earth

  ship.'

  'This Human Sundstrom has great cunning,' Trem

  said, helping Chel up out of the floor opening. 'I have

  heard some Listeners speak highly of him.'

  'Cunning may not be enough,' Chel said. 'I have been

  told that the Dreamless are as numerous amongst the

  Brolturans as they are across the Hegemony. I fear that

  it is only a matter of "when" not "if" they reach out to

  take what they want.'

  'I fear you may be right,' Trem said. 'Ah, now we

  have made several sketches of the roothouse and the

  galleries since our arrival. Would you care to take them

  with you?'

  'That would be most useful, Scholar, my thanks.' By

  now they had reached the narrow passage leading to

  the exit. 'Shall I send you more paper with the next

  courier?'

  'That and more blankets,' Trem said, as they emerged

  blinking into the daylight. 'There are centuries of cold in

  those underground stones and it feels as if I am getting

  to know it all too well!'

  41

  THEO

  Grimy, sweaty, streaked with dirt and grease, weary and

  aching, Theo, Rory and the Firmanov brothers staggered

  into the Bell and Cat, an old-fashioned dockside pub.

  Outside, sunlight gleamed on cobbles wetted by a brief

  shower; inside, it was as murky and smoky as it would be

  by the evening, though perhaps not quite as crowded. As

  Alexei Firmanov went to buy the first round, the others