‘This is the Lens. We do not know how it works, or even its original purpose, but in a moment you shall see what few men in our lifetime have ever seen. Look. Look upward.’ And he squeezed Voss’s shoulder.
At first Ronin thought that the ceiling had in some way opened. A swirling opalescent oval lit the darkness. Then he saw that it was a projection from the cylinder of the Lens.
Pearl greys and the lightest of violets swam blurrily above them. Then quite suddenly the scene was sharply delineated. And Ronin stared in awe. This cannot be, he thought. How is it possible?
Thick banks of magenta cloud and pearled, frigid mist whipped by them, forming, and then were gone. The light was diffuse and cold. It seemed infinite.
‘Yes,’ said the Salamander softly and dramatically, ‘we are indeed observing the sky above our planet. This is the outer shell of the world, Ronin.’
Slowly the layers moved upward and out of their field of view as the Lens shifted its focus. They became lighter, finer, shredding before their eyes like gossamer robes.
‘We shall now take a look at the surface of the world.’
A whiteness, a terrible frosty barrenness. Sheets of snow and ice picked up by the heavy winds, dragged across the frozen mountains and crevasses, raking the terrain. Ice and snow and rock and not a hint of anything else. It was impossible for anything to live Up there.
‘This is the world,’ the Salamander intoned. ‘Destroyed by the Ancients. Devastated beyond any hope of redemption. A desolate, decaying hulk, useless now. You are seeing what is directly above us, Ronin. This is why we remain encased three kilometres below the surface. To reach the surface is to die. No food, no shelter, no warmth, no one.’
‘But is it all this way?’ asked Ronin. ‘The Magic Man spoke of a land where the ground was brown and green plants grew.’
The Salamander’s rings glinted as he squeezed Voss’s shoulder again. The scene above them dissolved, shifted, yet all was the same. Ice and snow.
‘The range of the Lens is finite. However, for our purposes here, it is more than enough. What you see now is over fifty kilometres distant. And now—’ Dissolve. ‘One hundred and fifty kilometres distant.’ Dissolve. ‘More than five hundred kilometres away. As you can see, it is all the same. Nothing lives on the world, save us. We are the last. The other Freeholds are gone, contact lost many centuries ago. The Magic Man is quite mad. Perhaps his mind snapped from the constant pressure he was under—they are a strange breed. Or perhaps—’
Ronin turned. ‘What do you know?’
The Salamander smiled. ‘My dear boy, I know as much of this matter as you have seen fit to tell me. But I know Security. And their methods can be somewhat—ah—debilitating at times. It is all according to what Freidal wants.’
‘But Security has no right to—’
‘Dear boy, wielding power is the only right,’ he said sternly, then softening: ‘It is all very personal, surely you have learned that by now.’
He removed his hand and the window on to the bleak world above winked out. The green glow came up again.
‘In any event, this Magic Man has been known for some while to be most difficult; quite a dissident, at times. But then they all are when time-allotment rolls around.’
The velvet darkness enclosed them snugly. From out of it, Ronin heard the Salamander’s voice, soft and reassuring. ‘I trust, dear boy, that this extraordinary demonstration has eliminated all your doubts.’
‘It is the twenty-ninth Cycle.’
He was wide-shouldered and slightly smaller than average, a fact to which, many believed, he had never quite adjusted. His hair was short and dark, coming low on his forehead, giving him a forbidding countenance which he cultivated and used to full effect. Deep lines scored downward from the corners of his ungenerous mouth even when his face was in repose.
He stood on a small raised platform, dressed in white
At first Ronin thought that the ceiling had in some way opened. A swirling opalescent oval lit the darkness. Then he saw that it was a projection from the cylinder of the Lens.
Pearl greys and the lightest of violets swam blurrily above them. Then quite suddenly the scene was sharply delineated. And Ronin stared in awe. This cannot be, he thought. How is it possible?
Thick banks of magenta cloud and pearled, frigid mist whipped by them, forming, and then were gone. The light was diffuse and cold. It seemed infinite.
‘Yes,’ said the Salamander softly and dramatically, ‘we are indeed observing the sky above our planet. This is the outer shell of the world, Ronin.’
Slowly the layers moved upward and out of their field of view as the Lens shifted its focus. They became lighter, finer, shredding before their eyes like gossamer robes.
‘We shall now take a look at the surface of the world.’
A whiteness, a terrible frosty barrenness. Sheets of snow and ice picked up by the heavy winds, dragged across the frozen mountains and crevasses, raking the terrain. Ice and snow and rock and not a hint of anything else. It was impossible for anything to live Up there.
‘This is the world,’ the Salamander intoned. ‘Destroyed by the Ancients. Devastated beyond any hope of redemption. A desolate, decaying hulk, useless now. You are seeing what is directly above us, Ronin. This is why we remain encased three kilometres below the surface. To reach the surface is to die. No food, no shelter, no warmth, no one.’
‘But is it all this way?’ asked Ronin. ‘The Magic Man spoke of a land where the ground was brown and green plants grew.’
The Salamander’s rings glinted as he squeezed Voss’s shoulder again. The scene above them dissolved, shifted, yet all was the same. Ice and snow.
‘The range of the Lens is finite. However, for our purposes here, it is more than enough. What you see now is over fifty kilometres distant. And now—’ Dissolve. ‘One hundred and fifty kilometres distant.’ Dissolve. ‘More than five hundred kilometres away. As you can see, it is all the same. Nothing lives on the world, save us. We are the last. The other Freeholds are gone, contact lost many centuries ago. The Magic Man is quite mad. Perhaps his mind snapped from the constant pressure he was under—they are a strange breed. Or perhaps—’
Ronin turned. ‘What do you know?’
The Salamander smiled. ‘My dear boy, I know as much of this matter as you have seen fit to tell me. But I know Security. And their methods can be somewhat—ah—debilitating at times. It is all according to what Freidal wants.’
‘But Security has no right to—’
‘Dear boy, wielding power is the only right,’ he said sternly, then softening: ‘It is all very personal, surely you have learned that by now.’
He removed his hand and the window on to the bleak world above winked out. The green glow came up again.
‘In any event, this Magic Man has been known for some while to be most difficult; quite a dissident, at times. But then they all are when time-allotment rolls around.’
The velvet darkness enclosed them snugly. From out of it, Ronin heard the Salamander’s voice, soft and reassuring. ‘I trust, dear boy, that this extraordinary demonstration has eliminated all your doubts.’
‘It is the twenty-ninth Cycle.’
He was wide-shouldered and slightly smaller than average, a fact to which, many believed, he had never quite adjusted. His hair was short and dark, coming low on his forehead, giving him a forbidding countenance which he cultivated and used to full effect. Deep lines scored downward from the corners of his ungenerous mouth even when his face was in repose.
He stood on a small raised platform, dressed in white
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