nonsense. And that’s what Dweller Studies is all about. Maybe one day we’ll know for sure… What?’ There was something about the way Taince was looking at him.
‘Nothing. Just wondering. You still sticking to the line you haven’t decided what to do after college?’
‘I might not become a Seer, Taince, or anything to do with Dweller Studies; it isn’t compulsory. We don’t get drafted.’
‘Mm-hmm. Well,’ she said, ‘time for another attempt to contact the real world.’ She rose smoothly to her feet. ‘Coming?’
‘Mind if I stay behind?’ Fassin rubbed his face, looked around. ‘Bit tired. I think we’re safe enough here, yeah?’
‘Guess so,’ Taince told him. ‘Back soon.’ She turned and tramped off into the darkness, quickly disappearing and leaving Fassin alone with the soft lights of the flier in the vast, unechoing space.
He did and didn’t want to fall asleep, and after a few moments alone thought that maybe he didn’t feel so secure here by himself after all, and nearly went after Taince, but then thought he might get lost, and so stayed where he was. He cleared his throat and sat more upright, telling himself he wasn’t going to fall asleep. But he must have, because when the screams started, they woke him.
*
He left in the false dawn of an albedo sunrise, Ulubis still well below the horizon but lighting up half the facing hemisphere of Nasqueron, flooding the Northern Tropical Uplands of ‘glantine with a soft, golden-brown light. A small yellow auroral display to the north added its own unsteady glow. He’d already said various goodbyes to friends and family in the Sept the night before and left messages for those, like his mother, he couldn’t contact immediately. He’d left Jaal asleep.
Slovius, somewhat to Fassin’s surprise, came to see him off at the house port, a hundred-metre circle of dead flat granite coldmelt a kilometre downslope from the house, near the river and the gently rising edge of the Upland forest. Light rain fell from high, thin clouds moving in from the west. A sleek, soot-black Navarchy craft, maybe sixty metres long, sat on a tripod of struts at the centre of the circle, radiating heat and bannered by drifting steam.
They stopped and looked at it. ‘That’s a needle ship, isn’t it?’ Fassin said.
His uncle nodded. ‘I do believe it is. You will be going to Pirrintipiti in some style, nephew.’ Slovius’s own suborb yacht, a streamlined yet stubbier machine, half the size of the black Navarchy ship, lay on a circular parking pad just off the main circle. They walked on, Fassin in his thin one-piece gee-suit, worn under his light Sept robe, feeling as if he was walking with a sort of warm gel extending from ankle to neck.
Fassin carried the grip holding his formal wear. A pony-tailed servant had his other bag and held a large umbrella over Fassin. Slovius’s chair-tub had extended a transparent cover above him. Another servant held the sleeping form of Fassin’s niece Zab in her arms; the child - up scandalously late the evening before and somehow hearing of her uncle’s summons to Sepekte - had insisted she wanted to say goodbye to Fassin and wheedled her grandfather and parents into granting permission, but then had fallen back asleep almost as soon as they’d left the house in the little funicular which served the port.
‘Oh, and my regards to my old friend Seer-Chief Chyne, of the Favrial,’ Slovius said as they crossed to the Navarchy craft. ‘Should you see him. Oh, and most especially to Braam Ganscerel, of Sept Tonderon, naturally.’
‘I’ll try to say hello to all who know you, uncle.’
‘I should have come with you,’ Slovius said absently. ‘No, maybe not.’
A grey-uniformed figure appeared from a drop-platform under the black ship and walked towards them. The officer, a fresh-faced, cheery-looking woman, took off her cap, bowed to Slovius, and to Fassin said, ‘Major Taak?’
Fassin stood looking at her
‘Nothing. Just wondering. You still sticking to the line you haven’t decided what to do after college?’
‘I might not become a Seer, Taince, or anything to do with Dweller Studies; it isn’t compulsory. We don’t get drafted.’
‘Mm-hmm. Well,’ she said, ‘time for another attempt to contact the real world.’ She rose smoothly to her feet. ‘Coming?’
‘Mind if I stay behind?’ Fassin rubbed his face, looked around. ‘Bit tired. I think we’re safe enough here, yeah?’
‘Guess so,’ Taince told him. ‘Back soon.’ She turned and tramped off into the darkness, quickly disappearing and leaving Fassin alone with the soft lights of the flier in the vast, unechoing space.
He did and didn’t want to fall asleep, and after a few moments alone thought that maybe he didn’t feel so secure here by himself after all, and nearly went after Taince, but then thought he might get lost, and so stayed where he was. He cleared his throat and sat more upright, telling himself he wasn’t going to fall asleep. But he must have, because when the screams started, they woke him.
*
He left in the false dawn of an albedo sunrise, Ulubis still well below the horizon but lighting up half the facing hemisphere of Nasqueron, flooding the Northern Tropical Uplands of ‘glantine with a soft, golden-brown light. A small yellow auroral display to the north added its own unsteady glow. He’d already said various goodbyes to friends and family in the Sept the night before and left messages for those, like his mother, he couldn’t contact immediately. He’d left Jaal asleep.
Slovius, somewhat to Fassin’s surprise, came to see him off at the house port, a hundred-metre circle of dead flat granite coldmelt a kilometre downslope from the house, near the river and the gently rising edge of the Upland forest. Light rain fell from high, thin clouds moving in from the west. A sleek, soot-black Navarchy craft, maybe sixty metres long, sat on a tripod of struts at the centre of the circle, radiating heat and bannered by drifting steam.
They stopped and looked at it. ‘That’s a needle ship, isn’t it?’ Fassin said.
His uncle nodded. ‘I do believe it is. You will be going to Pirrintipiti in some style, nephew.’ Slovius’s own suborb yacht, a streamlined yet stubbier machine, half the size of the black Navarchy ship, lay on a circular parking pad just off the main circle. They walked on, Fassin in his thin one-piece gee-suit, worn under his light Sept robe, feeling as if he was walking with a sort of warm gel extending from ankle to neck.
Fassin carried the grip holding his formal wear. A pony-tailed servant had his other bag and held a large umbrella over Fassin. Slovius’s chair-tub had extended a transparent cover above him. Another servant held the sleeping form of Fassin’s niece Zab in her arms; the child - up scandalously late the evening before and somehow hearing of her uncle’s summons to Sepekte - had insisted she wanted to say goodbye to Fassin and wheedled her grandfather and parents into granting permission, but then had fallen back asleep almost as soon as they’d left the house in the little funicular which served the port.
‘Oh, and my regards to my old friend Seer-Chief Chyne, of the Favrial,’ Slovius said as they crossed to the Navarchy craft. ‘Should you see him. Oh, and most especially to Braam Ganscerel, of Sept Tonderon, naturally.’
‘I’ll try to say hello to all who know you, uncle.’
‘I should have come with you,’ Slovius said absently. ‘No, maybe not.’
A grey-uniformed figure appeared from a drop-platform under the black ship and walked towards them. The officer, a fresh-faced, cheery-looking woman, took off her cap, bowed to Slovius, and to Fassin said, ‘Major Taak?’
Fassin stood looking at her
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