Diamond Mask (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) (67 page)

Tell us!
said the women in the degassing metaconcert.

When we’re finished
, the Dirigent said.
Perhaps.

The queue began to rupture seven hours later, when less than half the volatiles had been separated from the magma.

Dorothea had tried valiantly not to let herself be distracted, but even the mind of a Paramount Grand Master may be torn by
conflicting emotions. She had avoided analyzing her changing attitude toward Jack, telling herself that it was enough to know that her earlier sense of loathing was finally obliterated. His life story had been moving, at times hilariously funny. He had listened to her own tale with sympathy, and his comments had been sensible and unsentimental. He had refrained from commenting on the obvious comparisons between them, while she had had sense enough to stay on firm emotional ground after making the faux pas about loneliness.

There would be time enough for further exploration, she told herself, when the two of them were no longer enmeshed in this perilous situation. Now she must focus entirely upon the job at hand, just as Jack was doing.

But the distracting thoughts continued to come. Could it be possible that he saw their future relationship as more than an alliance against Fury and Hydra? Was he human enough for that? …

In the midst of her reverie the mental alarm shrieked. The queue had broken through their metacreative sheath.

Jack’s command to alter the configuration of the metaconcert came and she floundered clumsily, trying to regain her concentration. The complex image of the new metaconcert shape that would cap and contain the ruptured queue hovered in her brain, ready for her participation. Jack was saying nothing, only showing her clearly what she must do, but she still tottered off-balance, at first furious with herself and then mortally afraid.

In desperation, she reached deep within her mind, tapping ultimate reserves of metapsychic power that neither she nor the Lylmik examiners had ever suspected were there. A creativity far greater than Jack’s responded. A surge of fresh energy more powerful than what he had called for exploded from her mind—and overwhelmed the metaconcert design.

The phenomenon was called dysergism.

Only a fraction of a second had passed. Jack saw the structure they had created begin to collapse—not only the reinforced sheath enclosing the queue but the entire lid of the reservoir as well. The generating beam that had formerly been green flashed an abrupt blue-white. Shock waves rippled the starry roof. A tiny lance of gold spurted up, penetrating it: a newborn second queue.

He realized immediately what must have happened, heard her despairing mental cry. She was completely unaware of the disaster’s source, frantic because she was unable to reintegrate her
creativity. She did know that something had gone fatally wrong, and there seemed no way she could stop the lid from dissolving.

Jack do something for God’s sake DO SOMETHING!

The new metaconcert … He decided in an instant that it might possibly be changed to accommodate her higher creative flux. But he would be forced to withdraw his own metacreative output from the faltering lid while he refashioned the framework. In the meantime, the high-pressure volatiles would smash against the unshielded mantle as the reservoir of magma was transformed from a caged brute into one set free and eager to escape.

The lithospheric mantle
might
hold if he was quick enough.

The dance of the twin emerald globes had become stumbling and uncoordinated, the metasong a discordant howl as she tried without success to control the blue-white power surges that were destroying the barrier. A third nascent magmatic queue broke through. Jack heard her mind crying out hopelessly as she tried in vain to steady the flickering green beam—

Flashover.

Energy overflowing from her enhanced brain escaped into the command deck of the drill-rig, ionized the atmosphere, and created a burst of incandescent gas.

Jack cut loose from the original metaconcert, drew the new configuration, flung himself into it, and rechanneled the chaotic metacreative force. The entire magmatic reservoir shuddered and began a diapiric ascent.

Focus now!
he cried out to her.
We can make a new lid if you focus now!

Yes
, she said, ignoring the pain, the hideous burning pain.
Now.

The metaconcerted pas de deux resumed in a blare of triumphant mindsong. A brilliant aquamarine beam thrust down at the rising diapir, expanded into a cone, and created a new starry roof, denser and thicker than the first one.

The slowly moving golden crest of the diapir hit the barrier and expanded laterally. Singing in her agony, she widened thefocus, keeping pace with the spreading magma. Finally, when the reservoir was only half its former depth, the pressures stabilized. The new lid held firm. Beneath it, the molten mass contracted slowly into an approximation of its original shape.

Good God almighty!
said Jim MacKelvie.
You saved it, Jack! It’s holding, stronger than before.

But Jack wasn’t listening. His own invulnerable brain had
been unaffected by the flashover, but he knew what had happened to her. He spoke on her intimate telepathic mode.

Diamond—can you hear me?

Yes, she replied. I—I maintain focus now. Myredaction came online as—as flashover dissipated. Nomexsuit protected body but—but—Jack! Myface below CEhelmet burntdeep myentirerespiratorysystem damaged flightdeckenvironmental restored depleted atmosphere … but I can’t breathe Jack somethingwrongnerves can’t see either—

I don’t dare divert any energy from the metaconcert! Your PK—can you use it?

Perhaps … a little. But I’ll die soon and then—

Be quiet. Listen. In the locker to the left of your chair, marked
EMERGENCY IPPB
, is a positive-pressure breathing apparatus. Get it.

Yes. Ahhh God it hurts! … Yes. Oh Jack. Oxygen. Hurts somuch but I can breathe/see again. Jack? …

Diamond. My dear, darling Diamond.

She breathed. Intermittent positive pressure from the oxygen mask inflated her ruined lungs, then let them exhale. Fingers shaking, she fastened the mask in place. A hallucination swept over her, and for a moment she was back in the cockpit of the funny old yellow flitter, filled with joy as she flew high above her father’s farm as free as a falcon. To fly again! She
would
fly again …

Diamond! Come back!

Yes. Sorry Jack. But I didn’t drop the conceit, didn’t stop the dance. I’m still with you.

Of course you are …

But Jack knew that she wouldn’t continue for long. Her metacreative output was slowly sinking. The oxygen was keeping her alive, but she was too badly injured to maintain her role in the metaconcert for more than another five minutes or so. They would have to abort less than halfway into the operation.

There was time enough for the other eight CE operators to escape, but he and Diamond would certainly be caught by the ascending diapir when the lid failed. They would ride the molten rock to the surface of the planet, accelerating faster and faster as the volatiles expanded. When the eruption broke through the surface, their armored, sigma-shielded deep-driller would be blasted high into the air. Perhaps they would survive.

Caledonia would not. There would still be enough ash in the ejecta to devastate the planetary atmosphere.

Jack? Jack? For God’s sake, man, answer me!

Poor Jim MacKelvie was trying to find out what had happened. It was time to tell him.

Jim, the rest of you—listen. The Dirigent has been seriously injured in a flashover event. She won’t be able to carry on much longer in our metaconcert. We’re going to have to abort the operation.

NO.

I know what a horrible disappointment this is, but we have no choice—

I SAID NO, DAMMIT! DON’T ABORT!

Jim, don’t be a bloody fool! Kill your concert! Get out of here while you can!

NONONO! HOLD ON TWO MINUTES MORE!

 … Jack? Jim here. It’s—it’s not me talking. There’s somebody else! Somebody using CE-enhanced farspeech right down here in the fewkin’ asthenosphere!

IT TAKES ONLY TWO MINUTES TO PLUG IN A CREATIVITY BRAINBOARD.

Jack was laughing, nearly hysterical. He knew who it was.

He said he wouldn’t have anything to do with this project. God only knows what he’s doing here. But I’m going to plug him into this metaconcert of mine and he’s going to work with us now whether he wants to or not!

STOP YAMMERING LIKE AN IDIOT AND OPEN UP. I’LL PHASE IN AS SOON AS YOU CUT HER LOOSE. SWITCHING TO CREATIVITY MODE …

“Diamond, can you hear me?”

Yes. What—

“It’s over. The separation of the volatiles is complete. We’re on our way to the surface. We don’t know yet whether the operation was successful, but the probability is high.”

I’m … glad.

“How do you feel?”

It doesn’t hurt so much anymore.

“I’ve been redacting you.”

Featherlight kisses on her closed eyelids. She opened them, saw his face bending over her. She was lying on the deck of the control room, her body somehow cushioned and comfortable. She lifted her hand and he kissed the palm. Silken fabric slipped down her arm. She was no longer wearing the Nomex suit but
was wrapped instead in some peculiar white material that was soft and warm.

“The suit was scorched and filthy from the flashover,” he explained. “I made you a gown and robe. From the food rations. I’ve had a lot of practice transforming organic matter.”

She tried to smile.

She couldn’t.

Her fingers touched the mask that still covered her lower face and gently fed oxygen to her damaged lungs. She let her seekersense look beneath the smooth plass and found hideous charred muscle and bone.

Jack’s redaction anticipated her shock and horror, neutralizing it so that she only felt a mild sadness.

“I couldn’t heal you completely. I’m sorry. Your injuries are too severe and I’m wrung out myself from our ordeal. I didn’t want to make any mistakes. I dealt with the pain and certain internal problems and did some superficial tidying. The rest had better wait until we reach the surface and let medic redactors look you over.”

All right.

“I just thank God you survived. There was nothing I could do to prevent the flashover from harming you. The E18s are too powerful.”

Why … did it happen? I know it was my fault.

“No. Blame the Lylmik who did your last MP assay. You had reserves of creativity that were still uncalibrated, and when you fed them into the concert unexpectedly, dysergism resulted. It wasn’t your fault. We paramounts are full of surprises, my darling.”

Her eyes widened.

He bent closer. There were tears on his face. “My dearest Diamond! I love you so very much. Ever since we first met at Marc’s party. I know it’s impossible, though, so please don’t give it another thought. I promise never to make a pest of myself ever again. But I had to tell you. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Her own vision fogged. She tried to bespeak him but her thoughts were too chaotic. He loved her … That was why he had come to Caledonia and risked his life. Uncle Rogi had tried to tell her, but she had refused to listen.

Knowing it already. Not wanting to know.

All she could say was: But I look so horrible!

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and showed her the mental image of her that he treasured.

That’s … not me.

He laughed softly. “It is, you know! But don’t fuss about it. What you need now is rest. It’ll be hours before we reach the surface. Go to sleep, little Diamond.”

But she continued to stare anxiously at his face instead—that smiling face with the ordinary features and the extraordinary blue eyes. That face that she now realized did not really exist, except in her imagination.

He projected no illusion, wore no creative disguise, and still she saw him, heard him, felt his kisses and his falling tears. How?
Why?

“Don’t worry about it now,” said the hovering brain. “We’ll sort it out later. When you’re feeling better.”

I
WAS IN THE
W
INDLESTROW SAFETY BUNKER, WHERE
I
HAD SPENT
the previous 48 hours together with a skeleton crew of geophysicists, several government observers, and three media reps, waiting on events below. We played poker and tizz and Monopoly, listened to music, ate nuked pizza, Scotch eggs, sausage rolls, and scones with jam. Some of us, including me, drank to excess.

There was no way we could contact the people in the drill-rigs down in the magma and no way we could tell what progress they were making. Continual microtremors from the subterranean activities made a hash of any attempt at fine monitoring. Only when the diatreme began its ascent would we know for certain whether or not the operation had been a success.

The fifty-fifty odds had first made us optimistic; but as the hours dragged on and the deep seismic disturbances grew more alarmingly intense, our spirits did a one-eighty flip and our once-hopeful vigil turned into a virtual deathwatch. It was futile, we all agreed, to think that ten human minds could forestall the awesome eruption that was going to devastate the Scottish planet.

The Celtic soul has a natural bent toward melancholy fatalism. My kiltie companions and I, by unspoken agreement, began to conduct a wake for Caledonia.

When he arrived I was well on my way to alcoholic oblivion, sitting in a dim corner of the bunker’s main seismic monitoring room with Calum Sorley and a couple of sozzled Tri-D reporters. A big wall-mounted screen showed a view of rainswept Loch Windlestrow 20 kloms away, where the eruption was expected to surface.

I was pouring myself another shot of Glenfiddich and wishing somebody would turn off the damned bagpipe music on the intercom when there was a sudden rumpus at the entrance to the bunker—a great metallic clang, confused yelling, and a familiar voice bellowing for people to get out of his way or he’d zap them into piles of dogshit.