‘You’re working too hard,’ Pascale said.
She had entered the room unheard; now he had to visualise her standing at his side — or sitting, whichever was the case.
‘I think I’m getting somewhere,’ Sylveste said.
‘Still banging your head against those old inscriptions?’
‘One of us is beginning to crack.’ He turned his bodyless point of view away from the wall, towards the centre of the enclosed city. ‘Still, I didn’t think it would take this long.’
‘Me neither.’
He knew what she meant. Eighteen months since Nils Girardieau had shown him the buried city; a year since their wedding had been mooted and then put on hold until he had made significant progress on the translating work. Now he was doing exactly that — and it scared him. No more excuses, and she knew it as well as he did.
Why was that such a big problem? Was it only a problem because he chose to classify it as such?
‘You’re frowning again,’ Pascale said. ‘Are you having problems with the inscriptions?’
‘No,’ Sylveste said. ‘They aren’t the problem any more.’ And it was the truth; it was now second nature for him to merge the bimodal streams of Amarantin writing into their implied whole, like a cartographer studying a stereographic image.
‘Let me look.’
He heard her move across the room and address the escritoire, instructing it to open a parallel channel for her sensorium. The console — and, indeed, Sylveste’s whole access to the data-model of the city — had come not long after that first visit. For once the idea had not been Girardieau’s, but something Pascale had initiated. The success of Descent into Darkness, the recently published biography, and the upcoming wedding had increased her leverage over her father, and Sylveste had known better than to argue when she had offered him — literally — the keys to the city.
The wedding was the talk of the colony now. Most of the gossip which reached its way back to Sylveste assumed that the motives were purely political; that Sylveste had courted Pascale as a way of marrying his way back into something close to power; that — seen cynically — the wedding was only a means to an end, and that the end was a colonial expedition to Cerberus/Hades. Perhaps, for the briefest of instants, Sylveste had wondered that himself; wondered if his subconscious had not engineered his love for Pascale with this deeper ambition in mind. Perhaps there was the tiniest grain of truth in that, as well. But from his current standpoint, it was mercifully impossible to tell. He certainly felt as if he loved her — which, as far as he could tell, was the same thing as loving her — but he was not blind to the advantages that the marriage would bring. Now he was publishing again; modest articles based on tiny portions of translated Amarantin text; co-authorship with Pascale; Girardieau himself acknowledged as having assisted in the work. The Sylveste of fifteen years ago would have been appalled, but now he found it hard to stir up much self-disgust. What mattered was that the city was a step towards understanding the Event.
‘I’m here,’ Pascale said — louder now, but just as bodyless as Sylveste. ‘Are we sharing the same point of view?’
‘What are you seeing?’
‘The spire; the temple — whatever you call it.’
‘That’s right.’
The temple was at the geometric centre of the quarter-scale city, shaped like the upper third of an egg. Its topmost point extended upwards, becoming a spiriform tower which ascended — narrowing as it did — towards the roof of the city chamber. The buildings around the temple had the fused look of weaver-bird nests; perhaps the expression of some submerged evolutionary imperative. They huddled like misshapen orisons before the vast central spire which curled from the temple.
‘Something bothering you about this?’
He envied her. Pascale had visited the real city dozens of times. She had even climbed the spire on foot, following the gulletlike spiral passage which wound up its height.
‘The figure on the spire? It doesn’t fit.’
It looked like a small, daintily carved figurine by comparison with the rest of the city, but was still ten or fifteen metres tall, comparable to the Egyptian figures in the Temple of Kings. The buried city was built to an approximate quarter-scale, based on comparisons with other digs. The full-size counterpart of the spire figure would have been at least forty metres tall. But if this city had ever existed on the surface, it would have been lucky to survive the firestorms of the Event, let alone the subsequent nine hundred and ninety thousand years of planetary weathering, glaciation, meteorite impacts and tectonics.
‘Doesn’t fit?’
‘It isn’t Amarantin — at least not any kind I’ve ever seen.’
‘Some kind of deity, then?’
‘Maybe. But I don’t understand why they’ve given it wings.’
‘Ah. And this is problematic?’
‘Take a look around the city wall if you don’t believe me.’
‘Better lead me there, Dan.’
Their twin points of view curved away from the spire, dropping down dizzyingly.
Volyova watched the effect the voices had on Khouri, certain that somewhere in Khouri’s armour of self-assurance was a chink of fearful doubt — the thought that maybe these really were ghosts after all, and that Volyova had found a way to tune into their phantom emanations.
The sound that the ghosts made was moaning and cavernous; long drawn-out howls so low that they were almost felt rather than heard. It was like the eeriest winter night’s wind imaginable; the sound that a wind might make after blowing through a thousand miles of cavern. But this was clearly no natural phenomenon, not the particle wind streaming past the ship, translated into sound; not even the fluctuations in the delicately balanced reactions in the engines. There were souls in that ghost-howl; voices calling across the night. In the moaning, though not one word was understandable, there remained nonetheless the unmistakable structure of human language.
‘What do you think?’ Volyova asked.
‘They’re voices, aren’t they? Human voices. But they sound so… exhausted; so sad.’ Khouri listened attentively. ‘Every now and then I think I understand a word.’
‘You know what they are, of course.’ Volyova diminished the sound, until the ghosts formed only a muted, infinitely pained chorus. ‘They’re crew. Like you and me. Occupants of other vessels, talking to each other across the void.’
‘Then why—’ Khouri hesitated. ‘Oh, wait a minute. Now I understand. They’re moving faster than us, aren’t they? Much faster. Their voices sound slow because they are, literally. Clocks run slower on ships moving near the speed of light.’
Volyova nodded, the tiniest bit saddened that Khouri had understood so swiftly. ‘Time dilation. Of course, some of those ships are moving towards us, so doppler-blueshifting acts to reduce the effect, but the dilation factor usually wins…’ She shrugged, seeing that Khouri was not yet ready for a treatise on the finer principles of relativistic communications. ‘Normally, of course, Infinity corrects for all this; removes the doppler and dilatory distortions, and translates the result into something which sounds perfectly intelligible.’
‘Show me.’
‘No,’ Volyova said. ‘It isn’t worth it. The end product is always the same. Trivia, technical talk, boastful old trade rhetoric. That’s the interesting end of the spectrum. At the boring end you get paranoid gossip or brain-damaged cases baring their souls to the night. Most of the time it’s just two ships handshaking as they pass in the night; exchanging bland pleasantries. There’s hardly ever any interaction since the light-travel times between ships are seldom less than months. And anyway, half the time the voices are just prerecorded messages, since the crew are usually in reefersleep. ’