Oncaterius was proud of the skill he had developed at the sport.
He stroked on, oblivious to the space around him save for the fuzzy black mark of the lane centre-line printed under the ice. Around him stretched kilometres of ice, lightly populated by people on skates, ice boards and ice yachts. The thin air of the level-five Great Flying Room sounded to the zizz of blades inscribing the floor-lake's frozen surface and the propeller blades of the microlights describing lazy arcs about its lofted spaces.
Something clicked in Oncaterius' mind and a display superimposed itself in his vision, giving him his time for the kilometre course.
He shipped oars and sat back, breathing hard, the scull still skidding quickly across the ice. He gazed up at the microlights circling round the ornate, suspended architecture of the central stalactite at the crux of the room's groin-vaulted ceiling.
Soon, he thought, in perhaps as little as a century, all this would be gone. The Great Flying Room, Serehfa, Earth itself. Even the sun would never again be the same.
It was a thought that filled Oncaterius with a sort of delicious gloom; a melancholic ecstasy which made the appreciation of this current life all the sweeter. To treasure each moment, to savour every experience, to evaluate individually one's multitudinous feelings and sensations with the knowledge lodged within that events were hurrying to a close, that there was no longer a seeming infinitude of time stretching ahead of one; that was truly to live.
All that they and their ancestors had known throughout the monotonous millennia of the past since the Diaspora had been a kind of elegant death, an automaton's graceful impersonation of life; the surface without the substance. Well, it was going now. The arc of humanity's purpose — that is, real humanity, the part that had chosen to stay true to the past and what it meant — was finally drawing itself back into the shade after whole long troubled ages spent in the vexatious light of day.
Fruition. Consummation. Termination… Closure.
Oncaterius savoured the thoughts and correlations such words evoked, drawing their meanings and associations into his mind as he drew the cool, sharp air into his lungs; arid — even sterile — and yet invigorating. Especially when one knew that one would not necessarily have to share the fate of one's fellows, or one's surroundings.
The scull skated on across the water-filmed ice, gradually slowing.
Oncaterius leant back against the seat's spindly head-rest, letting it cup his neck and scalp. He crypted for a moment, reviewing the current security condition.
They still sought Sessine, who remained loose after all this time. Probably in hiding.
Security's quasi-official leak/rumour that any asuras would actually be agents of the crypt's chaotic levels sent with the purpose of infecting the properly functioning Cryptosphere seemed to be meeting with a mixed reception; however, enough people/entities appeared to believe it for an atmosphere of satisfyingly useful paranoia to have settled over at least some sections of the data corpus.
His Majesty himself had first reported the loss of a soldier at the bomb-workings; it remained to be seen to what extent this had jeopardised the project. There had been no reaction yet from the Chapel ambassadorial mission, though they had to assume that the Engineer emissaries had been informed through their secure channel to the Palace.
Concern remained over unusual patterns within the lower crypt; some obscure species of chimeric bird appeared to have developed behaviour above its station and so was under suspicion of being an agent for the chaos; the birds would be sought out and apprehended as soon as was practical. Linked with that, perhaps, was a young Teller who'd been making a nuisance of himself and who also appeared to have a suspiciously unusual turn of mind. He too had got away, like Sessine. Oncaterius cursed the millennia of peace and prosperity which had left the Security service so unpractised in dealing with genuinely serious problems. Still, they were keeping watch; the boy would show up sooner or later.
And, at last, his fellow Consistorians had finally agreed that it was time to act against the conspiracy they had known existed for the last five years.
That… was being dealt with satisfactorily.
Chief Scientist Gadfium and her staff left the office of the High Sortileger with the issue of the stray crypt signals still not resolved. They returned to the Great Hall the following day and ascended to the Lantern Palace so that Gadfium could attend the weekly cabinet briefing. Gadfium found these meetings exasperating; they were supposed to keep people up to date with developments and help facilitate actions which might be of use in the current emergency, but so far all they ever seemed to do was pander to some of the attendees' feelings of self-importance and produce vast amounts of talk that substituted for deeds rather than leading to them.
Nevertheless, with that familiar feeling that she was wasting her breath on matters more easily — and far more quickly — dealt with by reference to the data corpus, she outlined her opinions on the various issues she had been involved with during the past seven days, including the progress on the oxygen works, the odd pattern formed on the Plain of Sliding Stones and the worrying irregularities in the Cryptosphere which were making the Sortileger's predictions unreliable.
The meeting — in a fair approximation of the Hall of Mirrors in ancient Versailles — was attended in person by most of the participants including the King and Pol Cserse for the Cryptographers, though Heln Austermise, the second Consistory member, was at the rocketry test site at Ogooué-Maritime and so represented at the meeting by her court attaché, and speaking through him. He was a slim, middle-aged man in a tight-fitting court uniform; Gadfium suspected Rasfline — sitting behind her along with Goscil — would look like this man when he was older.
'Nevertheless, Chief Scientist, the tests with both the direct-lift and aerofoil-assist vehicles are proceeding as planned,' the attaché said. It was his own voice; the only sign that it was not his thoughts and volition producing it was that he sat very still, with none of the usual shiftings and fidgets people tended to exhibit. Gadfium had long since ceased to find it odd talking to somebody who wasn't there through somebody who — in a sense — wasn't there either.
'I don't doubt it, ma'am,' Gadfium said. 'But some of us are a little concerned at the lack of raw data being provided. The critical nature of this project —'
'I'm sure the Chief Scientist appreciates the importance of retaining the prophylactic distance we have been fortunate enough to achieve from the chaos of the Cryptosphere,' the attaché said.
Gadfium paused before replying. She glanced at some of the others seated around the long table; the group was made up of the King, Consistorian Cserse, Austermise's attaché, representatives of other important clans and various civil servants, technicians and scientists. Gadfium thought the King — dressed soberly in a white shirt, black hose and tunic — looked bored in a handsome and elegant way.
Probably crypting somewhere more interesting.
'Indeed, ma'am,' Gadfium said, and sighed. She was starting to lose patience. 'I'm not sure I follow. Sending us data can pose no threat to —'
'On the contrary,' the attaché said. 'If the Chief Scientist will consult with Consistory member Cserse, she will perhaps be reminded that recent cryptographic research indicates that the transmission of chaotic data virus is possible through interface-handshakes and error-checking mechanisms. Even the link through which I am talking to you now cannot be guaranteed totally proof against such contamination.'