Starship Spring (2 page)

“Fine. I’m not alarmed. What do you want?”

“I want”, breathed the figure, its voice soft, feathery, “you to show courage in the days that follow.”

My heart began a laboured thudding. “Courage?” I parroted stupidly.

“I want you to show the courage, resourcefulness and humanity you showed the very first time you were called upon to do the bidding of the Yall.”

I nodded. “What do you want?” I asked for the third time.

“You will be tested, David Conway, you will be tested and found equal to the task.”

“What task?”

“You will be guided along the way by others charged with this duty. Be prepared. Do not fear. All will be well.”

“I will be tested, along with my friends?” I said.

“Your friends, too, yes.”

I nodded that I understood. “What do you want me to do?”

The alien spectre paused before saying, “We want you to follow the dictates of your… humanity, David Conway, and all will be well.”

Then, before my eyes, the figure began to fade: the corridor behind it gained substance as the spectre became no more than a smoky outline, and then vanished altogether.

I stepped forward. “But what do you want me to do?” I pleaded.

Silence. The ghost was gone. I stood on the threshold of the corridor, my hand outstretched in futile supplication, my heart thudding in the aftermath of the encounter.

I wanted to tell Hannah, but at the same time I didn’t want to alarm her.

I returned to bed, lay down beside her and closed my eyes. I reached out, lay a hand on her warm ribcage, felt her solidity, her humanity, and was reassured.

Miraculously, I slept like a babe and woke refreshed before the alarm sounded.

As I showered, I thought back to my audience with the alien ghost, and I honestly did not know whether to feel elation at what its appearance might augur, or apprehension.

* * *

We took a taxi down the coast to Mackinley, then caught the newly established monotrain, which left the coast and wound through the foothills of the central mountains. For the next hour, as the train bored through the mountain, Ella slept and Hannah buried herself in a detective novel on her flatscreen, harrumphing frequently at the author’s technical errors.

I smiled as I watched her and tried not to think of what had occurred last night.

We emerged from the mountain and burst into shocking sunlight. Ahead were the brilliant green swathes of the interior rainforest, and I was reminded that this was not Brazil by the frequent appearance of bizarre alien growths: trees that shot up a hundred metres above the forest canopy and exploded in a riot of bloody, balloon-like blooms; succulent flowers the size of spinnakers on long stalks beside the track. Ella woke up and stared through the window in amazement.

Hannah said in a whisper, “What’s wrong, David?”

“Wrong? Why?” I shook my head, unaware that I’d evinced anything other than my usual behaviour.

Her detective’s gimlet eyes skewered me. “You’ve been quiet all morning. And last night you didn’t sleep. You were in the kitchen, muttering to yourself.”

“I’m fine. I couldn’t sleep. I’m still tired.” I smiled. “Hell, look at that…” I pointed to an ape-analogue perched on the branch of a tree and staring in at us lugubriously, purple-haired and impossibly thin.

An hour later we came to the central plain and stared in wonder at the Golden Column perhaps fifty kilometres distant.

It never fails to affect me like this. I feel a welling up inside, an emotional constriction that seems to be lodged in my chest. I tell myself that I feel this way because of my direct involvement with the Column, but I know that’s not wholly true. Everyone feels overcome with a rush of some strange emotion—akin to nostalgia, verging on awe—at the sight of the powerful uprushing of golden light spearing from the land.

The reaction has something to do with its alien provenance, of course, and with what the column can do. Starships enter the column and emerge at a destination entered into their smartcores, whether that destination is within the same solar system or thousands of light years distant. That is miracle enough, but more astounding still is the fact that wherever the starships emerge, they reproduce a Golden Column, effectively establishing gateways through which other ships can pass.

Even as we watched, hundreds of tiny starships moved into and emerged from the column like busy insects. Hannah was staring at the Column with tears in her eyes. She reached out and gripped my hand, tight.

Ella scrambled onto my knee. “Tell me about how you found out about the Golden Column, Daddy!”

Dutifully, I recounted the story once again.

The rest of the journey passed without incident and we arrived at Tamara Falls three hours later.

THREE

Tamara Falls was a great rift in the rainforest on the edge of a plateau two thousand metres above sea level. The gash in the land had scabbed over millennia ago and was now overgrown with emerald rainforest; the only evidence of the rift was the mighty river that poured over the lip of the plateau and fell a thousand metres in a perfectly geometrical arc. On either side of the escarpment, nestling amid the riot of vegetation that tumbled down the incline, an assortment of villas sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight: traditional domes, A-frames, and the unique diaphanous “retorts” for which the complex was famous, a series of bulbous habitats that flowed and fitted around the trees like a glass-blower’s daydream.

The monorail terminated beside a placid lagoon at the foot of the Falls. We disembarked and took a cable car up the incline, the trees so close on either side that you could reach out and caress the foliage. We were the only passengers in the carriage.

We stood by the glass window and watched the lagoon and the tiny station diminish in our wake, the features becoming more tiny and toy-like the higher we climbed.

Ella giggled. “Look at the train! It’s like a little worm. How did we fit in it?”

“It’s getting smaller because of perspective,” Hannah said. “I told you all about perspective last week.”

Ella frowned. “Like when Daddy complains about the building in Mackinley and you say you’ve got to put it in per-perspect…”

“Perspective.” Hannah smiled. “Well, not quite like that, darling.”

I left Hannah to explain the difference and moved to the other side of the carriage. We were passing close to a steep embankment, moving in and out of dazzling sunlight; great tumbled rocks, upholstered in mosses and lichens, passed within inches of the window. I looked for examples of wildlife not found on the coast.

Minutes later I saw movement in the umbrageous undergrowth: a fleet, darting shape that seemed to be keeping track with the trajectory of the cable car. As soon as I noticed one figure, I suddenly registered more, a dozen of the slim-limbed, blond humanoids, the natives of the planet: the Ashentay.

They flowed through the forest, moving with fluid motion over rocks and fallen tree trunks, their dexterity made all the more amazing by the fact that they never took their eyes off the carriage. In fact, they seemed to be staring directly at me.

Hannah was at my side. “Odd,” she said. “They don’t remind me in the least of Kee. They seem… I don’t know… like wild animals.”

I recalled the encounter with the tribe of mountain Ashentay eight years ago, how physically human they appeared, but how utterly alien they were beneath the superficial veneer of physiology.

“Some of the tribes of the interior have no contact with humans,” I said. “Some tribes even refuse to have anything to
do
with the tribes that have contact with us.”

“Strange,” she said. Then, “Did I ever tell you, David—there’s no record of a native ever having committed a crime.”

I laughed. “A detective’s dream.”

“I don’t know. If humanity were like the Ashentay, I’d be out of a job.”

“Look!” Ella called from across the carriage.

We joined her. The cable car was slowing as it approached the station overlooking the great spume of the waterfall. Low timber buildings occupied a shelf of land at the terminus; viewing decks projected out over the Falls, occupied by a dozen or so awed tourists.

A tall, dark woman in the trim green uniform of Meredith Holidays met us on the platform. “Hannah van Harben and David Conway? I’m Suzanna Da Souza. I’ll show you to your villa and settle you in.” She knelt and touched Ella’s chin.” And you must be Ella. Welcome to Tamara Falls.”

Ella smiled shyly at the woman, who stood and led the way to a series of timber stairs that switch-backed up the incline. When we were almost at the head of the Falls, parallel with the curved mass of water as it tipped from the river above, Da Souza indicated ahead through the foliage. “And this is your villa…”

It was said more as a pronouncement, a fanfare, and I could see why.

A forecourt extended on a cantilever out over the falls, which was impressive enough, but more so was the dwelling itself. Imagine a free-form mass of molten glass allowed to find its own way between tree-trucks and over rocks; imagine that the glass was hollowed out and fitted with expensive furnishings, soft lighting and tasteful works of art.

Hannah gasped. “I… I don’t know what to say. It’s beautiful. The brochure didn’t capture half its…” She shook her head, lost for words.

Ella, with the down-to-earth practicality of a five-year-old, piped up, “But does it have a swimming pool?”

Da Souza smiled. “You’ll find the pool on the roof, in the shade of some shola trees.”

She turned to us. “The complex comprises five bedrooms and three extensive communal areas, bars, kitchens, fully stocked with provisions—in fact everything you’ll need for a complete break. There are also restaurants and bars down at the station. I’ll be your guide to the area for the next week so I’ll be in contact when your friends arrive a little later to arrange your guided tour of the archaeological dig. I’ll be delighted to show you around when you’ve fully settled in.”

She said farewell and left us to choose our rooms. We wandered through the complex like tourists in wonderland. The interior was just as impressive as the exterior, with flowing floors and walls, elevated and sunken rooms, every one of which was designed to give an optimum view of the rainforest and waterfall.

When we’d unpacked, Ella insisted on exploring. We took a short walk along timbered cat-walks and over swaying rope bridges, and I gripped Ella’s hand with typical parental over-anxiety.

At one point we emerged on a mossy knoll high above the Falls. Ella darted ahead and knelt, peering into what looked like an over-sized rabbit hole. She made to scramble inside before I restrained her.

“Aw!”

“You don’t know what’s down there,” I said.

“Let’s go back and have a snack,” Hannah suggested, and my daughter’s butterfly mind alighted on that delight, the rabbit hole forgotten.

As I was turning from the hole, I saw sudden movement in the foliage beyond: I turned in time to see a small, blonde figure retreat further into the undergrowth and vanish. I shivered, still spooked, I told myself, from the apparition last night.

I rejoined Hannah and Ella and looked forward to meeting up with my friends later that day.

* * *

We were relaxing by the pool, in the shade of the shola trees, Ella splashing about with glee, when I heard voices drifting up from below.

From our vantage point we could see over the voluptuous curves of the dwelling to the cantilevered timber patio: Da Souza was giving Matt and Maddie, Hawk and Kee the company spiel. I waited until she’d left, then made my way through the house and down the steps that led from the entrance.

I hadn’t seen my friends for more than six months, which was way too long, and I had anticipated this reunion for weeks. I felt the pressure of delight in my chest as I crossed the patio and hugged Maddie to me, surprised yet again at the slight, bird-boned delicacy of the tiny Englishwoman with the feisty temperament; then I shook Matt’s hand and pulled him to me in a long embrace.

“You don’t know how good it is to see you, Matt! I’ve missed you all.”

“It’s great to be home, David.”

Hawk was next, and I had to reach up ridiculously to fully embrace the piratical giant: he was solid and iron-muscled, his flesh augmented by rigid spars and ports with which he accessed the flight-deck of his ship: the must of sweat and engine oil seemed to perpetually cling to him.

Kee dithered in the background, congenitally shy.

“Come here, you!” I said, and pulled her to me. She is even slighter than Maddie, like a twelve-year-old human girl, and I can never look at her without being reminded of my daughter Carrie, thirteen when she died.

Hannah and Ella joined us, and I watched with pride and happiness, a lump of some pleasant emotion in my throat, as a new round of greetings began.

“My,” Maddie said, “how you’ve grown, Ella!” She looked up at Hannah. “It’s amazing—just six months and she’s shot up.”

“And got a lot cheekier, too,” I said.

Maddie grinned at Ella. “Do you know, I brought something back for you from Sirius II. If you’re a good girl, I’ll give it to you after dinner.”

Ella beamed and gripped Maddie’s hand.

I gestured at the “retort” dwelling. “Well, what do you think?”

Matt scanned it with an aesthetic eye. “My God, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? And the setting… I need this break, David.”

Hawk said, “How about we freshen up then go down to one of the restaurants for a meal and a drink?”

“I don’t think anyone’ll oppose that suggestion,” I said. “Carried?”

An hour later we were sitting around a big table on a verandah overlooking the rainbow-spangled waterfall. The conversation flowed, along with the beer. I can’t even recall what we ate—all I do remember is how wonderful it was to be back in the company of the people who, beside Hannah and Ella, mattered most to me. I sat back, pleasantly drunk, and listened to Maddie’s stories of their tour around the Expansion, the wondrous planets she and Matt had visited.