by Ruth Morgan
I was still half-aware of the far-off cello music drifting sadly and sweetly down the stairs and through the corridors. I heard something else crackle above my head. A shower of sparks fell from the ceiling, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the chair. Suddenly and horribly unexpectedly, a harsh, sulphurous yellow light flashed on and off, on and off. Something had brought the old electricity system back to life. I looked up at the ceiling and all around me. The light was incredibly bright, flashing on and off, making everything in the room almost unbearably sharp: the case of stuffed red foxes fighting each other in the snow, the silken tapestry of interwoven branches and leaves which had been torn in two, the model of the moon with its craters, the darkened portrait of a woman and her children.
And the man in the chair.
On and off, on and off. In the light I could see him sitting bolt upright with his eyes closed, like a dead man. On and off, on and off. In the dark I could still see the negative of his shape.
I opened my mouth to scream but the sound stuck in my throat.
On and off, on and off, until the crackling stopped and a last few sparks burned themselves out halfway to the ground. There was silence.
I could sense that he was still there. The impression of him was burned onto my eyeballs, his eyes and mouth dark, sketchy shapes. A young, curly-haired Earth man, slim-faced and shabbily dressed, stubble on his cheeks, with his strange eyes closed and his lips slightly parted.
I jumped. My tile was bleeping with an incoming message.
The man started to melt into the vague impression of hardened air I had seen first of all.
I raised my tile level with my face and scrolled to find the message.
One word. Sender unknown.
BACH
Robeen finished playing, the final notes from her cello disappearing like vapour, and I knew I was alone again.
BACH
What did it mean?
The encounter hadn’t been as terrible as the last but it was more unsettling. I went to find Robeen in the hall. I decided to show her the message, even though I couldn’t tell her where it had come from. Of course, I couldn’t be sure the message had come from the man in the chair, but the whole business was so strange, I was prepared to believe anything.
‘Bach,’ she said. ‘Funny, that’s what I was just playing. That music was by Johann Sebastian Bach.’ I must have looked confused, but at least she hadn’t explained as though she was speaking to an idiot, the way she would have done once. ‘Who sent it?’
‘I don’t know.’ I did. The man in the chair.
Robeen just chuckled, a most un-Robeen-like thing to do.
‘Coincidence I suppose,’ she said. ‘Bach’s my favourite composer, always has been. It’s impossible to do him justice on the virtual cello, no matter how well you play.’
‘And you play brilliantly, Robeen,’ I said. ‘I’ve always told you that.’
‘Bree? What is it? What’s wrong?’
I turned away, afraid I was going to cry. ‘Please, carry on playing.’ I sat at the feet of the unhappy marble girl. ‘It’s wonderful.’
That intense look on the man’s face, the message on my tile, they both told me the same thing: how much he’d loved Robeen’s playing. Now we were sort of friends, that shouldn’t have mattered, but it was just another reminder of how clever she was and how stupid I was. All I could do was make the man mad and that wasn’t me, it was the damn celephet goading him. Robeen’s musical skills had calmed the dead man’s energy, had soothed it. Her music had even made him appear, a full body appearance for the first time. Well, I wasn’t going to reveal that to Doc Carter and make his day.
My hand crept up to the back of my head and I picked at the celephet again. I was more determined than ever to get it off, no matter how painful, no matter what.
On returning to Base that afternoon, I knew that avoiding Doc Carter was going to be impossible. If I had stopped the celephet from working properly already and he hadn’t received any data, he was bound to want to check it. I didn’t want to think what would happen then. What was the worst he could do to me?
There was a big surprise in store. Lana Leoni was hurrying out of the front door cradling a large equipment box, looking as busy as ever and apologetic.
‘I’m sorry but Doc Carter’s had to go away for a couple of days,’ she said. ‘He asked me to explain to you but I’m just on my way up to the site. He’s gone to Mumbai to train SSO scientists there.’
‘Mumbai?’
‘Yes, I’m really sorry, Bree.’ Lana had seen my amazement but hadn’t spotted the underlying relief. ‘I know you two are still working on this invention of his; I don’t know much about it but it’s obviously hugely important. He was hoping there’d be no need to go but then he got a call through this morning and he couldn’t very well say no, it would have been undiplomatic, you know: “frowned upon”. Our organisations have been working together very closely for the last few years.’
‘Honestly, it’s fine. Any idea when he’ll be back?’
‘A day or two is all I know. But he told me to tell you to carry on. He said he wouldn’t have much time to work on it while he’s away, but for you to carry on at the Museum and he’s got absolute faith in you. Does that make sense?’
‘Perfectly,’ I said, trying not to smile.
‘Great.’ After a few steps she turned and called back. ‘He took Halley with him.’
Of course he had. Halley couldn’t be trusted to hang about with me at Base in case he decided to tell the truth for once in his life.
‘Halley’ll be pleased,’ said Robeen. ‘He’ll get to see a lot more of Earth.’
I felt strangely elated. Two days lay ahead without Carter or the hateful, treacherous Halley. My interest in my poem immediately re-kindled. Even if no one on Earth or Mars believed it was any good or gave the remotest damn about it, I would satisfy myself by finishing it. I would also get rid of the parasite clinging to the back of my head and the man in the chair and the footsteps in the dark would cease. Once Carter returned, it would all be over: no more days at the Museum and some unimaginable punishment for me, but hey, that was at least two days away and I was going to spend that time doing what I most wanted to do in this world or any other. No one was going to stop me.
The next day, I made straight for Origins of Earth and constructed a larger arrangement of crinoid fossils, ammonites and trilobites on the floor all around me. I was going to let my imagination run riot. Let it swim through tropical seas, swing from the branches of trees, run headlong through fields and descend into crystal-filled caves. Let it fly over all the wonders of Earth. When Robeen began playing in the hall, the music swelled to a heartbreaking sweetness, permeating the chill darkness. I wasn’t surprised when the footsteps began and they didn’t sound angry at all. I almost managed to ignore them but not quite. I guessed they belonged to the man in the chair and couldn’t help but wonder who he had been. Had he really been one of the scientists who’d developed the dragomansk? Doc Carter was so sure he’d tuned the celephet to that specific period in history but how could he possibly know? Whoever the man in the chair had been, his anger bore out everything I’d been told about the warlike Earth humans.
I was almost past caring. I’d had another go at the celephet that morning and it felt like it was at least half off. When it finally came off, I’d lose any chance of finding out about the dead man. It was Robeen and her music he’d responded to so well, not me, so he could get lost. We weren’t about to discover the dragomansk’s genetic code either, but if the dragomansk were safe, the Earth would stay safe a little longer. Of course, this thought was best kept to myself.
I failed to add anything to my poem. I wrote a few weak, unimaginative lines but I found it impossible to get into the right creative state, even though I tried and tried, even though I knew that this was one of my last chances. The elation I’d felt the day before had vanished and in its place were the familiar inner voices taunting me
, telling me how useless I was, how stupid, how talentless compared to someone like Robeen. Her beautiful playing began to grate on me. The sound of the slow footsteps, treading gently and reverentially on the other side of the wall annoyed the hell out of me. Even a ghost could detect Robeen’s talent. All it could find to say to an inadequate idiot like me was, ‘Go away’. Well, there was something I could do about it. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I managed to get my finger right underneath the celephet. My finger went under and came out on the other side. I tugged sharply, four times, my finger sticky with blood and sliding about. I could just about tolerate how much it hurt, right up to the fifth tug when the celephet came away, pinging off like a tooth coming out of its socket. I cried out in spite of myself and the footsteps ceased.
They ceased.
I couldn’t see where the hateful patch had gone, all I knew was it wasn’t attached to me anymore. I felt a little blood trickle down the back of my neck and remembered that I hadn’t replenished the medicating powder in the small canister tucked into my belt. I realised how dangerous this was, exposing a very open wound to the unstable Earth air which was full of hazardous, alien microbes. This was yet another situation they’d given us big warnings us about, the risk of infection if you happened to injure yourself. I was sure well-prepared Robeen would have some medicating powder, but if I asked her for some, she’d want to know why. I hesitated, but I had no option: I would have to ask for the powder.
‘What happened?’ said Robeen. ‘Let me see. Bree, your celephet. It’s gone!’
‘I know.’
‘But it was the only one working! Doc Carter’s going to be…’
I gave her a warning look.
‘I mean,’ she carried on, ‘the wound must be really painful.’
I bent over and let her sprinkle the blue powder onto the back of my head.
‘There’s no need to tell anyone, Robeen. I know I’m going to get into trouble but I can’t help that.’
‘You mean… You didn’t pull it off – not on purpose?’
I nearly laughed, she sounded so shocked. I was on the point of denying it but then I thought, no. Even if I couldn’t tell everything, I wanted to tell someone something. Robeen was the obvious choice.
‘Sit down.’ We both sat on the bottom of the staircase. ‘Do you remember earlier on, at the start of the mission? You didn’t think I deserved a place on it?’
She looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry I said those things. I didn’t mean it, Bree, I was just in a bad mood. I feel better now I can play the cello again and of course, it’s you I’ve got to thank for that.’
‘Shut up, Robeen,’ I said, startling her. ‘You meant every word and you know you did. You were right. I don’t deserve to be here with you and Nisien.’ I deliberately didn’t include Halley. ‘I was only chosen because the celephet would work on me and probably wouldn’t on you. Doc Carter already knew that, before we started off.’
Robeen’s eyes grew round and her mouth hung open. ‘You mean…’
‘Yes. I don’t know if Doc Carter even put proper celephets on the rest of you. They must be vastly expensive. Yours were probably dummies. Mine was the only one he had any confidence in, but he didn’t tell me that, not at first. Believe me, I was as sick of Doc Carter’s attention as you were. You have no idea how stifled I’ve been feeling all this time but he only ever valued me because of the celephet. So you were right, you were all right. I don’t deserve to be here. Teyra should be here, not me.’
Robeen looked like she didn’t know what to say.
‘It’s all right,’ I said, tears filling my eyes. ‘I’m all right with it. Now I’ve finally got the damn thing off. He should have told me what was going on from the very beginning. Well, no, I’m not all right. I’m angry. So angry.’
I didn’t make any further progress with my poem and by the time we left I was thoroughly depressed. Robeen tried to comfort me, saying that my poems were reason enough for me to be on the mission, but it sounded hollow. She hadn’t even read them and I didn’t want her to. I didn’t want anyone to, ever.
I tortured myself all afternoon and evening. My last chance to finish my poem was slipping away and I so wanted to finish it, even though it was probably total rubbish. Writing poems had always made me feel good. It satisfied some inner need, but I’d confused ‘feeling good’ with the poetry actually being good. For all her friendliness, Robeen made it worse because her playing only reminded me how talented she was and how useless I was. The only way my poem was ever going to get finished was if I could be alone at the Museum and the only time that was possible was nighttime.
I’d sneaked off with a class one before – I knew I could get away with it. It was probably easier now there were only a few of us left at Base. Security was lax. Everyone on the mission was trusted and too busy to bother checking equipment in or out. That night, once we were all in bed and I’d allowed time for the rest of them to get to sleep, I took my chance.
I was used to making my way around the Museum in the dark with only my tilelight for company so I wasn’t worried to be going there at night. I knew coolly and rationally that there wouldn’t be anything there to hurt me, if there ever had been. The dead man in the chair was gone for good and the celephet was stowed safely in a drawer in my bedroom at Base. I was hoping that by the time Doc Carter returned, my wound might not look so bad and I might persuade him that the celephet had worked itself loose. Another part of me would have enjoyed looking him squarely in the face and confessing what I’d done and why I’d done it, but I wasn’t as brave as all that. My best hope was to try and persuade him that I wasn’t to blame, then merge into the background for the rest of the trip and fly back home, safe in the knowledge that they’d never kick anyone out of Pioneer School if they’d been on a mission to Earth. Yes, I was back to that again.
The sky was bright with stars and there was a fine view of the western arm of the galaxy, once known by Earth humans as the Milky Way. The pale stone of the Museum glowed in the moonlight, as did the other buildings around it, the ones I hadn’t explored yet and wasn’t likely to now. I found it pitch black inside as expected and turned the beam of my tile up full. The fossils were still spread out all over the floor in Origins of Earth exactly as I’d left them. I sat down in the middle.
To my surprise, the words began flowing freely but suffused with a new sadness. I knew I’d never forget this room. In spite of the horror, it was my own special, private place on an amazing planet which was nearing the end of its existence.
After working on the new section for a bit, I decided to review the start of the poem for the umpteenth time. It was quite different now, beginning with the fossils themselves:
Growing a world
A moment of life, captured like a photograph
Etched upon rock by layers of time
Wasn’t ‘like a photograph’ rather overplaying the point? Instead I tried:
A moment of life captured,
Etched upon rock by layers of time,
Bodies of stone.
‘Rock’ and ‘stone’ were too much together. ‘Bodies of stone’ was the stronger phrase, so I’d keep that. I carried on playing around until I arrived at:
A moment of life, etched by layers of time,
Bodies captured in stone.
I liked it, it sounded right. The poem carried on:
Before life chose what it wanted to be,
Scales could be feathery, feathers could be scaly
Crinoid arms could be both,
Fishing in warm Silurian seas…
I’d had this debate with myself before. Although I was imagining a scene from long ago before humans appeared, how could I write without some human viewpoint? What excited me about the proterozoic era was the potential for life to evolve in so many different directions, and how could you really write about that without the standpoint of knowing what came next in Earth’s history? I decided not to let this worry me for the moment; I was
enjoying myself too much.
The poem was becoming quite long. I returned to the lines I’d set down previously, about the bodies of these and other extinct creatures forming the Earth’s limestone layers:
Depositing their shelly skeletons,
their … their…
I didn’t know what came next.
There was a bleep on my tile. I froze. Someone must have realised that I wasn’t in my bed and now they were looking for me. Maybe whoever it was had even found the celephet in my bedside table. My insides clenched. Yet as I looked at my hand and the flashing incoming message signal, another thought occurred to me: hadn’t I turned off my messaging function that afternoon? I was almost sure … no, I was sure. To block any messages from Mumbai I had switched it off after stowing the celephet in my bedside drawer. So who could this message be from?
I held my finger above the ‘open’ button before finally pressing it. The screen widened. One word, just one.
CARAPACES
What? What did that mean? The sender was unknown.
‘Carapaces?’ I turned the word over in my mind but didn’t think I’d ever heard of it before.
A bleep on my tile. I took nearly as long as the last time to open the new message.
A BILLION CALCITE CARAPACES
Another bleep. Another message.
COULD COME NEXT
I held my hand away from myself in horror. If I could have shaken my tile right off my hand, I think I would have, I wouldn’t have been able to help myself. I looked around. There was no one there in the room with me.
How was I supposed to respond to this message? I had to, if I wasn’t about to jump to my feet and run away. ‘What are carapaces?’ I typed tentatively. With the hairs rising on the back of my neck, I sent the message.
Almost instantly, the reply came.
SHELL OF THE TRILOBITE
I nearly fainted. How could this be happening? Someone was playing a joke on me. It had to be Halley. But then I remembered Halley was with Doc Carter in Mumbai.
