All the Colors of Time (25 page)

A week later, the Tanaka Corporate schooner
Ceilidh
slipped out of time-altered
space, settled into synchronous orbit around Leguin 4, and delivered its
passengers into what a groggy Roderick Halfax immediately dubbed “Fort Stinking
Swamp.” It wasn’t so much a swamp as it was a rain forest, Rhys told him—as if
he didn’t already know the difference—nor did it stink, strictly speaking.

The equatorial forest on Leguin 4 was a place of pungent and
warring perfumes, rather like, Yoshi commented, what happened when all the
Umeki and Sakai aunts gathered for tea on a muggy Hagi day. Rhys had to admit
the cloyingly sweet smell of blooms might grow tiresome. He said that, then
forgot the blooms and their odiferous presence the moment he set eyes on
Professor Sir Drew Burton, K.N.B.E., and his mammoth find.

It was a complex of buildings still half-buried in green and
burgundy plant life that brought to mind Angkor Wat, Teotihuacan, and the
ziggurats of Baroosh at Wan, all at the same moment. Walls of massive granitic
block rose from a froth of shrub and vine to a height of about five meters.
They were interrupted by a rectangular gateway that extended another two meters
above that. The lintel evidently held something of interest, for a scaffold
covered it from edge to edge. Above that rise of native rock, Rhys could see
the top of a thick spire whose rounded sides were cloaked in mosses of varying
hues. So overwhelmed was he by the sheer magnitude of the place, he barely
noticed that the patron saint of Archaeology was vigorously shaking his hand.

“Professor Llewellyn,” the older man enthused, “you have no
idea how pleased I am that you and your associates could join us here. You’ve
done well since leaving University, sir. Your reputation precedes you.”

Rhys caught himself back from the dizzying sight of the
tower looming above its encircling walls, swatted an insect, and murmured, “Sir,
your reputation overwhelms me.”

Burton laughed, showing pleasant crow’s feet and gleaming,
even teeth. “Flattery will get you anywhere. You know, I have to admit, I was
dubious when I heard you’d gone into corporate service. A little disappointed,
if you want the honest truth. But it didn’t seem to slow you down in the ‘real’
world, eh? You practically wrote the book on alien antiquities.”

Rhys flushed pleasantly. “Correction. I wrote one book on
xenoarchaeology; you’ve written dozens on every conceivable subject.”

“Twenty … but really, I thought your analysis of the Poclar
culture on New Scotland was quite insightful. I’ll be interested to see what
you think of our work here.”

oOo

They moved beneath the great stone arch and into the
embrace of the ruins. Rick Halfax, falling in beside Yoshi, caught her eye and
made a face.

“Look at ’em, Yosh. Two peas in a pod and happy as clams. I
think the Professor has found a soul mate.”

Yoshi, to whom colloquial English was a third language at
best, and who had always thought of herself as Rhys Llewellyn’s soul mate, gave
her companion a wrinkle-browed look of puzzlement. “Isn’t that a mixed
metaphor?”

“They’re not metaphors; they’re clichés. Mixed? I dunno. I’d
eat peas with clam.”

“Well, I’ve never understood that saying. How can you tell a
clam is happy?”

Rick rolled his eyes. “Never mind.”

Yoshi shrugged and lengthened her strides so she could hear
what the Professors clam were discussing.

“The modern Leguini are rather an odd bunch of philistines,”
Dr. Burton was saying as he led the way among the lichen-encrusted buildings. “They
don’t seem to care two figs for their distant past. Anything over five hundred
years old is completely uninteresting to them. Scott—that’s our Master
Digger—insists that’s pragmatism. I personally think its laziness. I suppose I
ought to consider us fortunate; if they weren’t so ‘pragmatic,’ the Leguini
would probably be out here making our lives hell.”

Yoshi doubted Rhys even heard him. He was turning in a slow,
unsteady circle, an expression of complete rapture on his face, his eyes
drinking in the ruins that now surrounded them.

The tower was the most outstanding feature in the group. It
sat at the locus of the cluster of buildings, its spiral rising, vine-draped
and majestic, out of a hill of detritus which was still being cleared away by a
team of grimy diggers. Though the top several tiers had crumbled, it stood high
above the surrounding walls, a veil of steamy mist cloaking its highest levels.
A huge tree had grown up right through the middle of it, and spread its
branches out over the mountain of masonry like a fantastic parasol. To Yoshi it
looked like a many tiered cake with green and burgundy icing and a giant floret
ornament. She grimaced at the lack of professionalism in that comparison—her
anthropology professor father would despair of her.

Flanking the tower on either side were two low, massive
structures—two, maybe three stories tall. They were windowless, but had several
huge doors apiece set at regular intervals along the facades. They appeared to
be identical. A glance back toward the gate showed the one apparent difference;
the structure to the east had a square annex at its northern end—an annex with
tall, rectangular windows and a door of normal proportions. Only now did Yoshi
notice the accouterments of archaeology—the ranging pegs, the spades, the finds
trays and canisters that she suspected would always clutter a dig, no matter
how much technology evolved.

“This is incredible!” Rhys’s voice oozed out in hushed awe.

Burton was nodding, smiling. “Isn’t it, though? Reminds one
a bit of Caracol. Except, of course, for the burgundy foliage. We call it
Sper-ets—that’s Temple of the Moon, in the local parlance.”

oOo

They took a whirlwind tour of the major features of
Sper-ets—whirlwind, because the sun was sinking toward the horizon of its
fourth planet, and night, according to their host, was not a safe time to be
poking about among the stones.

“Nocturnal nasties,” he explained. “Leguin 4 is home to a
lovely assortment of poisonous creepy-crawlies. An entomologist’s paradise.”

“So, everything just closes up around here at night?” Rick
asked.

“Around here, yes. Rural Leguini wear ‘night suits’—hip-waders
made of some tough but flexible synthetic; a cowling that reaches almost to the
waist. Of course, we’ve taken the precaution of connecting all the tents and
cabins in our camp complex with slatex tubing.” He glanced at Rhys. “I hear you’re
partially responsible for the increased availability of that commodity.”

Rhys smiled, pleased that Burton knew of his previous year’s
coup in the slatex market. His pleasure was immediately dampened by the regret
that the coup hadn’t been archaeological instead of commercial.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard of the recent developments on
Tson?” he asked hopefully.

“No, sorry, I haven’t. But you can catch me up over supper.”

They dined in the camp commons, a large portable cabin that
would, Dr. Burton assured them, be proof to the local fauna. There they sat at
table with Burton’s associate, Nyami Deer-Walks-Here; his dig master, Scott
Buchanan; his apprentice, Wayne Bell; and a Xthni named Tzia of Qltrel, a
specialist in restoration who also served as Finds Assistant.

There were others, as well, diggers and apprentices (mostly
students from Collective universities), scientific specialists from a variety
of disciplines. But Sir Drew Burton was undisputedly the crowned head of the
gathering, and Rhys felt rather like the starry-eyed traveler who finds himself
assigned to the captain’s table for a galactic cruise.

The only sour note of the evening played when Yoshi stopped
Wayne Bell in the middle of a joke to say, “I notice you keep referring to the
aboriginal population as the ‘Linguine.’ Why is that?”

Bell shrugged and smiled, eyes kindling in a manner that
made Rhys suspect Yoshi was the only person at table he’d not resent for
interrupting a punch line. “Leguini—linguine. You can see how it sort of lends
itself to the word play.”

Yoshi, missing both the humor and the humorist’s intent
expression, shook her head. “Leguin is what we called the star before we
realized there was anybody here. They call it Etsa, which means ‘light-giver.’
And they call their planet Etsat, meaning ‘child of Etsa’, and themselves
Etsatat, meaning ‘children of the child of Etsa.’”

Bell’s brows raised. “You’ve certainly done your homework.”

Yoshi toyed with her braid. “I find the Etsatat culture
interesting. It has striking parallels to nineteenth century Earth. Of course,
on Etsat, there are no significant subcultures to compare with Earth’s
aboriginal groups. In some ways, that makes it all the more fascinating. A
singularly unfragmented global society.”

“Yes, well, I fail to find them the least bit engaging,” interjected
Burton. “They’ve lost touch with their past. So much so that they’re absolutely
useless as guides. They’ve no knowledge of the way their ancestors lived, how
they thought, what they loved.” He shook his head, obviously finding that a
difficult thing to grasp.

Nyami Deer-Walks-Here nodded in agreement. “Drew’s right.
The Etsatat are a singularly future-oriented people. What’s past is past, what’s
buried might as well stay that way. I have to admit, I found that very
disconcerting when we first arrived.” She chuckled. “When we told the regional
governor what we wanted to do out here in the wildy woods, he thought we were
insane. Just a bunch of rusticating lovers of antiquity, eh, Drew? I sometimes
think we’d be content to live life backwards.”

Burton harrumphed. “Well, there’s to be a balance, I’m sure,
but dammit, Nyami, these people have been so bloody unhelpful. Can’t tell us
anything, because they’ve never bothered to explore.” He leaned toward Rhys
across the table. “Do you know, we’ve never found the slightest evidence of
latter-day looting? No one has been in these buildings since they were
abandoned.”

“Except for the vermin,” amended Bell.

“Except for that. And this is by no means the only site we’ve
been working. There’s a village about five klicks from here, and temple
complexes like this one—” He thumbed toward the dig. “—are all over the map.
But the Leguini have absolutely no record of any of them.” His eyes wandered to
the dark outside the cabin windows—a dark lit by plasma torches on tall poles. “The
treasures that have lain buried here for countless centuries . . .”

“Are still here for you to find,” Rhys finished, grinning.

Burton returned the grin. “You count my blessings for me.
Tomorrow, you’ll get to join in the finding. Now, before we all turn in, I want
to give you a preview of what’s in store for you.”

He rose from the table and disappeared into the connecting
tube that led to the Finds tent. When he reappeared two minutes later, he
carried a wrapped object in his hands. Setting it on the table, he carefully
peeled away the soft swaddling. Inside was a statuette approximately thirty
centimeters in height. That the person portrayed was Etsatat was obvious,
though the statue was somewhat stylized. Vaguely humanoid, it had the characteristic
wide face with the tiny, pointed chin, low set, oversized eyes and wide
thin-lipped mouth. One long-fingered hand clutched a staff of some dull metal,
the other was raised to a necklace of large rectangular bangles that hung
around the effigy’s neck. Atop the staff was a vaguely crescent- or fan-shaped
cap. Whether it was a scepter or weapon wasn’t readily apparent.

The Etsatat’s oddly jointed legs seemed to be encased in
boots of a different material than the body and, on second glance, Rhys realized
the hands and forearms were also sheathed in the same stuff. A long, flat apron
hung from beneath the necklace and seemed, on closer inspection, to be part of
a stole that covered the figure’s shoulders completely. Taken all together it
looked to be protective gear—armor perhaps, or protection from Etsat’s “nocturnal
nasties,” or yet again, ceremonial garb or uniform.

By far the most outstanding bit of apparel was the figure’s
elaborate headdress. Fitted to the wide, shallow skull was a helmet of the same
metal as the staff. Atop it was a flat, gleaming silver crest that was a larger
twin of the one mounted atop the staff. It reminded Rhys much of a figure found
on Earth at Teotihuacan in the late twentieth century.

“Meet the Moon God, whose temple this appears to be. We call
him Ets-eket, which is Etsatat for Moon God, naturally. As you can see, he’s a
warrior deity of some sort. Or the priest-surrogate for same. We haven’t found
out quite as much about him as we’d like, but this entire complex, as I said,
appears to be dedicated to him. We’re not quite certain of the purpose of the
buildings on site—although they seem to be depositories for treasure, tribute,
perhaps burial goods. The tower…well, there’s a mystery. The hole in the roof
is the only obvious access point—though that giant conifer’s clogged that up
pretty effectively. We’re fairly certain there’s an entrance hidden in that
mound of spoil around the base. Scott and I are all for cutting the tree out
chunk by chunk, but Nyami here will have none of it.” He afforded her an
indulgent glance to which she replied with a shrug. “So, it’s dig we do.”

“There’s an accretion of ash on one side of some of the
bricks we’ve collected at the top of the tower,” Scott Buchanan offered. “It’s
possible the apex of the tower served as a sacrificial altar.”

“We suspect it might be the tomb of this fellow.” Burton
patted Ets-eket on the headdress.

“Of course, we’ve not found any humanoid remains yet,” said
Tzia, entering the conversation for the first time. “Just small animal bones.”

Burton cleared his throat. “The sheer volume of animal
sacrifices we’ve found in the pits at the southern end of the complex is
astounding. I’ve never seen anything to compare with it.”