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Night Songs at Um [MultiFormat]
eBook by John T. Cullen
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eBook Category: Science Fiction
eBook Description: Pontin, terraformer, has completed his twelfth planet and is eligible to be made its governor under Vyzantine law. At the high water mark of a brilliant career, he finds himself longing for the simple but adventurous life of a roughhouse chieftain creating new worlds in the image of old, lost Earth. He also finds his heart strings tugging strangely for the good genefym who has been his bed partner and soul mate for five otherwise lonely years. And then there is the enigmatic, beautiful singing ruin from eons ago, which he has saved as a gift for the Cosmarch ruler of thousands of suns. But first, there will be a going away party in the ruins, with unexpected and shattering results.
eBook Publisher: Clocktower Books and Far Sector SFFH (magazine), Published: Far Sector SFFH, 2006
Fictionwise Release Date: March 2006
22 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [54 KB]
, ePub (EPUB) [62 KB]
, Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [38 KB]
, Portable Document Format (PDF) [322 KB]
, Palm Doc (PDB) [42 KB]
, Microsoft Reader (LIT) [81 KB]
, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [112 KB]
, hiebook (KML) [144 KB]
, Sony Reader (LRF) [90 KB]
, iSilo (PDB) [35 KB]
, Mobipocket (PRC) [43 KB]
, Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [77 KB]
, OEBFF Format (IMP) [58 KB]
Words: 12177
Reading time: 34-48 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Portable Document Format (PDF) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
 
The terraformer stood at a row of picture windows with his hands idly clasped behind his back, and stared out over the world he had nearly finished creating. He had forgotten he was not alone, so still was it in the nearly dark bunker. He felt strangely troubled at the very pinnacle of his life's success. A hard, bronzed man with the first few white hairs sprinkled in his otherwise dark, short hair, Pontin wore a khaki tunic, blue denim trousers, and tan boots. Massive concrete walls, thick plate glass windows, and multi-filter climate mixers in the building attested to bygone days just a few years ago in a poison atmosphere. This was a very special private moment. He had already removed the Master Engineer I shoulder boards. His tunic hung half open, revealing a lean, sculpted body used to demanding physical work as well as daunting intellectual and leadership powers. His tuxedo for the evening's ceremonial dinner lay on the bed nearby, put there by Menet. Menet, his femgyne companion of the past five years, hustled about in the background preparing his new uniform and dinner and checking on their pets and a hundred other things. Her time with him was coming to an end, and he was surprised that she seemed a bit sad, as he was too, though for different reasons. "Are you ready to see the Chorearch?" Menet said in her quiet, patient voice. "I'm trying to put it off." "I can see that." She wasn't looking at him, he saw with amusement, but she knew him well enough to know his thoughts, and he supposed he knew her well enough to know that she knew. Last night had been their last together. She kept busy. Her robust, shapely body launched in a dozen directions at once, so it seemed, in the sunny, airy kitchen overlooking the sea through glass and shining metal counters, and in the lower, darker rooms oppressed by tons of dark concrete and joined by small, disjointed stairways. "You are wanted at the Team Lodge," Menet called from above. "Right away!" he said. That was different. He'd been a well liked leader and he never turned his back or said no to a legitimate request from his engineers or their roughhousers. He spoke to the appropriate buttons on a brass panel. After a momentary blurring, a holographic exchange with a remote location filled the sunken living room. The Team were having their closing out party. "There's the boss!" someone cheered. The air filled with aluminum bottles and grins--the men's in bearded faces, the women's under shaggy hair. "Hey Boss!" someone yelled. "You gonna invite us to the palace when you're governor?" "Yeah, sure," he said, telling them his first lie. "Next time you're in the area, drop on by and we'll check out the ponds together. Pop a beer open over the beach, and watch our fish come up to say hello." They all knew it was blarn, but with their fat bonuses tucked under their belts, and first-class transit passes taped to their luggage blocks, nobody was feeling any pain. In the final weeks of his stature as the Engineer I, Pontin had supervised the installation of the last great steam scrubbers on Fotal, the northern continent of this largely water world. The huge white machines, made of ceramic and alloys, and shaped like a pile of 1000 foot tall broken eggs, would humidify the atmosphere of this arid region and inject enough biospores to start a rainforest. The biospores carried the seeds of a million species of plants from dozens of worlds. As the first plumes of steam shot silently into the powder-blue sky, Yvold and his roughhousers had cheered. With his powerful bronzed arms, his tanned face, his blazing eyes, and white grin, he was one of them. Hands clapped him on the back as he turned from his last great accomplishment on Mirabel IV. Now he must either move on--become Engineer II or I of some other world being built, move out--retire, which he had no taste to do--or move up--become Governor. At that moment the State Bureaucrat in Place had stopped clapping, stepped forward to shake Pontin's hand, and handed him the Letter of Intent to elevate him to the Governorship. He had felt giddy, weak-kneed, and he could only nod. Now, in this holo, his closest officers stopped by to wish him well, and he promised them he'd visit in person before leaving his bunker for his new palace in First City.
* * * *He'd hardly rewinked the living room to default when Menet called from the kitchen: "The Chorearch needs to see you." "Wink her in." The living room flickered and changed into a dark, rambling palace audience chamber--the hall would be his own, after the Chorearch, or Mistress of Ceremony, left for the next opening world. She was a tall, severe woman with blue-gray skin in a face whose very wrinkles had smoothed themselves out with their own age and severity. Her eyewhites were pink-rimmed, her lids gilded. She was a highfym, he could see, though gynefym nonetheless. She and several advisors, all local women of the same farmed stock and dress, stood near his empty audience throne. In the background, workers were still busy drilling and hammering and raising clouds of dust. "Lord," the Chorearch said in a reedy, mannish voice. "Preparations are moving in good order, and we must confer twice a day now so that the visiting dignitaries will speak your praise in other parts of the galaxy." "Of course, Mother," he addressed her formally. She was no more his mother than those rocks outside, but one had run with the formalities. From here on, he'd have a live of the utmost luxury, with as many as three of the most beautiful young wives if he wished, but the price would be this endless doubletalk and posturing. "Your Lordship is not used to Vyzant ceremonies and diplomacies," the Chorearch said drily. Is she reading my mind? he wondered. "I am a bit stiff and rustic. I'm used to eating on the run, usually from the same bowl as my roughhousers and without much ceremony." "We understand," she said with veiled patience. "We help men and women like yourself frequently. It is our mission in life, and we try to serve His Vyzantine Majesty the Cosmarch with passion for our work." She'd said that to push him against the wall a bit, and take her seriously while starting to let go of his roughhouse ways. "I understand, Mother. Your services are most needed and welcome." "Your Lordship will come to First City today, we are told." "You have ordered it, and I serve," he said in a tone bordering on sarcasm, accompanied by a sharp bow of the head. For the first time, the faintest of combative smiles flickered on her dour countenance. Her blood-rimmed eyes lit up as she recognized a capable sparring partner, though their relative statuses would never permit her to tangle with him. Not unless she wanted to end her days waist-deep in some distant outflow pond, cutting rice sheaves with a hand scythe, or sampling raw water with a glass tube. Two of her attendants raised gloved hands before their mistress as if in warning or protection, while regarding Pontin with cold, wary eyes. Pontin felt a chill of his own. These courtiers had a dance all their own, and he'd have to learn its steps quickly if he hoped to be their master. And it occurred to him to wonder what the mortality rate of Vyzantine planetary governors might be.
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