Transformation Space - Marianne de Pierres [130]
On a clear night like this, the starmist in Darien’s upper atmosphere wreathed Nivyesta in a gauzy halo of mingling colours like some fabulous eye staring down on the little niche that humans had made for themselves on this alien world. It was a sight that never failed to raise his spirits. But the night was growing chilly now, so he buttoned his shirt to the neck and began retracing his steps. He was halfway up the path when his comm chimed. Digging it out of his shirt pocket he saw that it was his elder brother and decided to answer.
‘Hi, Ian – how’re ye doing?’ he said, walking on.
‘Not so bad. Just back from manoeuvres and looking forward to FV Day, chance to get a wee bit of R&R. Yourself?’
Greg smiled. Ian was a part-time soldier with the Darien Volunteer Corps and was never happier than when he was marching across miles of sodden bog or scaling basalt cliffs in the Hrothgars, apart from when he was home with his wife and daughter.
‘I’m settling in pretty well,’ he said. ‘Getting to grips with all the details of the job, making sure that the various teams file their reports on something like a regular schedule, that sort of thing.’
‘But are you happy staying at the temple site, Greg? – because you know that we’ve plenty of room here and I know that you loved living in Hammergard, before the whole Inga episode …’
Greg grinned.
‘Honest, Ian, I’m fine right here. I love my work, the surroundings are peaceful and the view is fantastic! I appreciate the offer, big brother, but I’m where I want to be.’
‘S’okay, laddie, just making sure. Have you heard from Ned since you got back, by the way?’
‘Just a brief letter, which is okay. He’s a busy doctor these days …’
Ned, the third and youngest brother, was very poor at keeping in touch, much to Ian’s annoyance, which often prompted Greg to defend him.
‘Aye, right, busy. So – when are we likely to see ye next? Can ye not come down for the celebrations?’
‘Sorry, Ian, I’m needed here, but I do have a meeting scheduled at the Uminsky Institute in a fortnight – shall we get together then?’
‘That sounds great. Let me know nearer the time and I’ll make arrangements.’
They both said farewell and hung up. Greg strolled leisurely on, smiling expectantly, keeping the comm in his hand. As he walked he thought about the dig site up on Giant’s Shoulder, the many hours he’d spent painstakingly uncovering this carven stela or that section of intricately tiled floor, not to mention the countless days devoted to cataloguing, dating, sample analysis and correlation matching. Sometimes – well, a lot of the time – it was a frustrating process, as there was nothing to guide them in comprehending the meaning of the site’s layout and function. Even the Uvovo scholars were at a loss, explaining that the working of stone was a skill lost at the time of the War of the Long Night, one of the darker episodes in Uvovo folklore.
Ten minutes later he was near the top of the path when his comm chimed again, and without looking at the display he brought it up and said:
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Gregory, son, are you well?’
‘Mum, I’m fine, feeling okay and happy too, really …’
‘Yes, now that you’re out of her clutches! But are you not lonely up there amongst those cold stones and only the little Uvovo to talk to?’
Greg held back the urge to sigh. In a way, she was right – it was a secluded existence, living pretty much on his own in one of the site cabins. There was a three-man team of researchers from the university working on the site’s carvings, but they were all Russian and mostly kept to themselves, as did the Uvovo teams who came in from the outlying stations now and then. Some of the