The Unity holds dominion over the breadth of space. And now, at last, they've set their sights on the final prize. That prize is Essegena - a planet at the farthest edge of the universe, ripe for human habitation and yet completely untouched.
But all is not well on Essegena. Three of the colony's pioneers have vanished without a trace, and in their place a man has appeared who - according to all the records - simply does not exist. Worse still, the infant colony is beset with concerning reports of mysterious lights in the distant trees, shadowy phantoms haunting the edges of their nascent home, strange noises from high up on the cliffs.
The colonists need to stay united if they're to make Essegena a success story - but with ambitious vipers around every corner, they've never been more divided.
Once they dreamed of a fresh start, far away from their former lives. Now that dream is fast becoming a nightmare.
The Unity holds dominion over the breadth of space. And now, at last, they've set their sights on the final prize. That prize is Essegena - a planet at the farthest edge of the universe, ripe for human habitation and yet completely untouched.
But all is not well on Essegena. Three of the colony's pioneers have vanished without a trace, and in their place a man has appeared who - according to all the records - simply does not exist. Worse still, the infant colony is beset with concerning reports of mysterious lights in the distant trees, shadowy phantoms haunting the edges of their nascent home, strange noises from high up on the cliffs.
The colonists need to stay united if they're to make Essegena a success story - but with ambitious vipers around every corner, they've never been more divided.
Once they dreamed of a fresh start, far away from their former lives. Now that dream is fast becoming a nightmare.
The shadows of the forest pressed in on him with all the weight of the dead. Long limbs cast longer shadows, rustling leaves gave voice to the ghosts that passed on the wind. No birds were singing. Without them, with only silence, the woods weighed twice as heavy. Thomas Warner did his best to ignore all this. He played the same message in his mind, over and over again.
Keep running.
It was hard to keep running when your legs were on fire. Theyād cramped up half a mile back, cramped up something fierce, but Thomas had not stopped. Now there was a burning deep within. Every sinew was moaning, screamingābegging him to stop and rest. His eyes wanted to rest, too. They kept drooping closed, and he had to force them back open. Otherwise heād have run into a tree or something. He couldnāt stop, not yet. Not until he was safe. If he stopped, heād never start again.
Keep running, or itāll catch you.
He should have made it back to camp ages ago. It wasnāt that far, not after heād made it back out of the dark forest. There were only supposed to be a few thin clusters of trees, lining the valley and leading him on to the comfort of home. Oh, to be again in sight of the bluff upon which the Advanced Partyās camp lay, to have the high hills pressing him close on all sides.
Those same hills had been far from comforting this morning. Heād joked with grey old Corporal Bartley about it. The slope down from the camp was pleasant and gentle, even if the grass was muddy. But at the base of that declivity, following the winding path of a feeble stream, the hills rose high enough to humble any man. They closed in suddenly, the metres closest to the ground impossibly steep. Three of them had set out together, Thomas and Corporal Bartley and Eilidh Cailie with her silly pink hair. The three of them had been forced to walk single-file, their arms tight at their sides. As if the very land was trying to lead them that way.
It would be hard to get lost in that pass. You went in one end and came out the other, and unless you had rope and carabiner there were no detours. If he could just find those hills, get round the far side to the slopes where it all widened out, heād surely be able to see the welcoming campfire. No doubt Liz Hamish was there cooking up some rations. James Wilding would have a flask of ale in his hand as he regaled them all with another unlikely anecdote from the life before. Adela Rice would probably be waiting on hand with a taller tale to top it.
All that was waiting for him. He just had to find the pass.
Ahead, the trees came to an end. Starlight was beyond them, unblemished, a field of white speckles in an endless black. Two moons rose together through the sky, one the colour of mint and the other the colour of parchment. The ground fell away, yielding to a lower valley. Thomas could see a great black tor rising high above a meadow of brown grass. A score and a half nubbins were strewn across the meadow, serfs of stone bowing their heads in reverence to the great king on the horizon. That was where he headed. His feet had decided that for him. He could take cover behind the rock, and get some rest, and hope that the thing behind him might give up and go away.
He blamed Cailie, really. She was the one who saw the bloody light. If sheād just kept her mouth shut, theyād never have even known it was there. Theyād have gone in some other direction, and everything would have been uneventful, and right now Thomas would be dining and laughing with the others around the fire. But no, Cailie just had to say something. And now she was dead, and Bartley too. Both of them were dead and Thomas was who knows where.
Oh, this wasnāt what heād signed up for at all. Essegena was the final and greatest beast the Unity sought to conquer. The pioneers would be heroes, royalty, living the life of luxury. His definition of āluxuryā didnāt stretch to running terrified across a strange land for his very life.
The hooded man had promised betterāthe one who called himself the Ealdor. He told Thomas about the bitter past, the sour present, the sweet future that Essegena held. And Thomas had believed him.
What a fool heād been. Where was he, now? Some fine corner of the universe heād picked to die in.
There were flowers growing here, clusters of them loitering in the shade of the nubbins. He could see some starfire, a few cymes of amaranth. Some unfamiliar flowers grew too, blue things on broad stalks with petals of white that looked uncannily like eyes. They watched him with silent judgement. He took shelter behind a particularly big crop of rock, granite with cracks tearing its surface asunder. If he squeezed, perhaps... yes, he could just about tuck himself into the crack. He wriggled about until the nubbin was his shell, and at last he could stop for a rest.
He must have gone the wrong way at some point. None of this was familiar. The sun had been high in the sky the last time heād seen a familiar landmark, and night had long since fallen. Heād left his helmet on the ground, back in that valley full of colourful trees. Bartley had done the same. Neither was in the mood to subject himself to the restrictive form of the helmet once Cailie had said the air was safe to breatheāand if they got turned around on the way back, the helmets would be a good landmark. They were heavy, unwieldy things. The grey metal loved to reflect the full blaze of the sun. There was no way to miss them.
Bartley was the one whoād suggested it. Thomas was always in awe of people like Bartley, the people who had the ability to think of simple ideas like that. He could never do it. Every time he tried to think of something clever, his brain insisted on over-complicating things, until his thoughts were so complex he couldnāt understand what he was thinking about. But that was why Bartley was a Corporal, and he never would be.
Bartley would probably have been able to find the helmets on the way back.
Keep running, or itāll catch you.
In another life, everything might have been different. Bartley might have been stood just an inch or two to the left when Cailie died. Heād have missed the little rabbit-hole in the dirt, and he wouldnāt have rolled his ankle. Heād have spotted the helmets and led Thomas back the right way. Instead heād fallen. Thomas had been just a shade ahead of him when it happened. He could see Bartleyās shadow beside him, could see the Colonel crumple. When heād turned to help, the old soldier had been clutching his ankle with a grimace on his face.
āDonāt stop, Warner, you damned fool,ā heād screamed. āKeep running, or itāll catch you.ā
That was the only invitation Thomas had needed. He hadnāt looked back since, or allowed himself a secondās pause. Even when he heard the explosion, and Bartleyās sudden cry, heād kept on going. Otherwise heād be dead.
His legs were aching badly now. Theyād seized up properly, as if out of spite that Thomas kept them working for so long. Weāre not going anywhere now, theyād be saying, if legs could somehow talk, so youāve had that.
Melanie had been the one heād always gone to when his legs cramped. She knew just the right way to massage them so that the pain would subside straight awayāa method sheād learned from a dry old crone in the badlands of Kelsiern. Sheād laugh as Thomas moaned in pain. Her laugh was a salve. When duty kept them apart, just the memory of Melanie was enough to make him feel better. But Balking had taken the real Melanie, and left the memories too painful to ever revisit her ghost.
Heād had a dream of Melanie last night. It was the first time heād thought about her in seventeen years. She was all in white, with a scar bisecting her face from forehead to cheek. One eye was cloudy and blind. Heād tried to talk to her, but she wouldnāt answer him.
Wouldnāt, or couldnāt.
She watched, and she smiled, and then he asked her if it had hurt. He had to know that sheād died quickly, that she hadnāt lingered on in suffering. The question would have been better left unanswered. Melanie responded by tracing the scar on her face, running a finger from point to point, and when she was done it opened up, revealing seared flesh and bone and brain where there should have been a scalp.
And Melanie was only at Balking because of him. Her quiet homestead had been given over to Surnettās flames, and she might have died a milkmaid in obscurity were it not for Thomas. Heād been there. Pulled her out from the blazing timbers. He ought to have stopped at that. But the ghosts of dying men had shattered his young heart, and heād filled his head with songs and believed Melanie could mend him.
Instead, her own ghost had added to the fury.
Even after heād woken up, that broken image hadnāt left him.
Heād been quiet all through the breakfast, had barely recognised the taste. Maybe Liz had done a good job, maybe she hadnāt. All heād been able to think about was Melanie. When Lieutenant Bennett had given the order to form up in threes, Thomas had wandered idly towards the nearest group. It was his misfortune that heād been sat beside Eilidh Cailie while he ate his food. Cailie, with her tacky hair and her angel face. He might have tried to kiss her in another life, but in this one she sickened him. Her voice simpered. Her jokes grated. That Meneges lilt she spoke with made Thomas want to punch something. Who did she think she was, to swan about like the Lieutenantās golden girl? Everything she did, Melanie had doneāand better.
Cailie was given the responsibility of holding the atmospheric probe, in the way that pretty girls like her were always given any jobs that combined āeasyā and āimportantā. It meant she got to spend the day waving the probe about, reading out the numbers on the display, and generally lording it over those who hadnāt been chosen for the task. That should have been satisfying enough for her. There was no need to bring up the light, and lead them closer to it. But she had.
āIt could be anything,ā Thomas had said. āItās probably the sun.ā What was the point in getting sidetracked by a light? Better just to get on with what they were supposed to do and get back to the camp, where there was good stuff to drink.
The battle had been lost as soon as Cailie had mentioned it. Bartley was intrigued. Heād have been interested in what she had to say even if she just wanted to discuss the green of the grass. His prime was behind him, and most of his middle-age too. If he hadnāt already tied a beautiful woman to marriage by now he probably never would. What a surprise his dick clouded his thinking.
āWhat could be causing it?ā Bartley had asked.
Cailie had waggled her probe towards the light, because of course sheād take the excuse to use it. āIām getting no anomalies,ā sheād said, in what she probably thought was an important-sounding voice. āItās just a forest.ā
The light had seemed to come from the thickest part of the forest. The trees were so densely packed here that daylight barely reached the floor. Without the light, they might have needed their torches to see in places. With the light they needed nothing. Thomas was loath to admit that his interest had been piqued, but Cailie had definitely stumbled upon something strange. As they drew closer, it became clear that the pulsing light had coalesced around an ancient tree. Once, it might have been a great willow. Leaves had long abandoned this one; the trunk was gnarled and the branches petrified. Dead bark peeled off arthritic joints. The glow was strongest at the heart of the tree, almost blinding as it peeked through knots in the ancient wood. Even the extremities had a pale shimmer to them. It felt somehow spectral.
āThatās definitely not the sun,ā Cailie had said glibly. āThe sun doesnāt shine through trees.ā
āNothing shines through trees like that,ā Corporal Bartley had responded.
āMaybe we should report it to Lieutenant Bennett?ā
Cailie had given Thomas a withering look, like he was an idiot with an absence of imagination. āAnd tell her what? We donāt know anything about this light.ā
āYou can just explain the mechanism by which the sun shines out of your arsehole. Itās probably the same thing.ā
āWarner.ā Corporal Bartleyās lips were pursed tight.
Cailie looked hurt for a second, then turned back to the glowing tree. āMaybe if I get a bit closer...ā
The instant she came within armās reach of the tree, the light died. Daylight went with it. The darkness that remained was one more suffocating than night. Thomas looked frantically around him, every direction. He couldnāt see the treesāneither the glowing tree nor the normal ones around it. Nor could he see Bartley or Cailie. There was just black.
āWhatās happened?ā
The sun was returned in an explosion of light and sound. Thomas whipped his head around as Cailie screamed; he caught just a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and saw her slumped against an unassuming boulder.
Heād made eye contact with Bartley, both bewildered, and started to back away. Cailie was still moving, slow, dazed. Her helmet was still on. When she pulled it off, Thomas saw her face was streaked with blood. She dropped the helmet to the ground and looked to him, with a silent, desperate appeal in her eyes. Sheād crumpled to the floor then. Behind her the petrified old tree once again began to shine.
Thomas had run, then, and heād been running ever since.
At last, he could rest.
Over the sound of his heavy-beating heart, he thought he heard a noise. Feet slipping on the scree? The thing had followed him all this way, and now it had caught him. Now it could feast.
Or maybe he was imagining things. He was parched and drenched with sweat. When was the last time heād had some water? It was little wonder he was beginning to hallucinate. Briefly he tried to remember which pocket held his flask of water. He couldnāt even remember bringing one with him when theyād left camp. Brilliant. Nothing to drink. By day, if he was still alive, he could look for a stream. There had to be running water somewhere on this rock, else what were the trees living off?
Then again, if he got eaten by some unfathomable terror, dehydration wouldnāt be something he had to worry about.
That noise again. Louder. Closer. And with it, a low growl.
This was definitely not his imagination.
For an eternity he lay in silence, each breath a betrayal. He dared not peek out of the rock. What might he see if he did? More importantly, what might see him?
He pressed himself tight into the granite, tucked his face against the ground, begged for sleep to come. And when it did, he embraced it as an old friend.
They say true creativity is putting two ideas together for the first time. In the case of On Virgin Moors, the idea was to put Space Opera and Soap Opera together. Soap Opera won out, although thereās a nice Sci-Fi plot hidden in there somewhere.Ā
The format of the story is a series of chapters like daily TV episodes, each from the point of view of one of the half-dozen main characters. Interspersed with the present story are quick flashbacks of incidents that brought that character to this point in his or her life. These tidbits are key in the creation of complex, fascinating personalities, but they slow down the action.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā The element of Soap Opera that stands out is that the importance of social conflict is paramount, eclipsing a plot with a reasonable chain of events and characterization that includes a normal cross-section of society. The Sci-Fi plotline is interesting and believable, but we see very little of it. The whole plot thread about creating a queen is very weak, and the woman given the job, who acts like a fourteen-year-old wannabe prom queen, doesnāt help any.Ā Ā
The main conflict of the story is rather too obvious political infighting, which loses its charm rapidly. The idea that any organization would choose to send such an incompatible, antisocial and unmatched group of people to colonize a planet is hard to fathom.
Suspension of disbelief is stock in trade for Sci-Fi, but the one place the writer canāt get too creative is characterization.Ā Although these characters are beautifully detailed in their personalities, as a group they donāt ring true. If characters donāt act like we expect real people do, we find it hard to become attached to them emotionally. In this book it seems like everyone hates everyone else, and, quite frankly, they have good reason to.
One strength of the writing is the amount of creative energy that has been put into it. Every setting and every character, important or not, gets a few lines of detailed description. Again, a good technique when used in moderation, but overuse slows down the story.Ā
And the ending? After well over 900 pages, a few plot strands are tied up, but in general, the story doesnāt finish. Of course not. Itās a serial. Stay tuned for next season.Ā
Recommended for Soap Opera fans.Ā
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