Джек Макдевитт - A Voice in the Night

She’d made a pendant for him, engraving his name, the date, and the legend Eagles’ Nest on the polished black stone that formed its centerpiece. She’d have liked to cut it in the form of the Aerie, but that would have required a professional jeweler. The pendant was in the box he’d picked up. “You’re not supposed to look,” she said.

“Oh.” He flashed disappointment, held the package to his ear, and shook it gently. “It tinkles.”

She frowned, took it from him, and put it back beneath the tree. “Shame on you.”

“I love presents,” he said, displaying a pout.

“Christmas is the season to give.” She tilted her head in the coquettish manner that she had recently developed. It seemed to charm males of all ages.

“Yes, it is.” He put his arm around her shoulder, and his voice turned serious: “But I’ll tell you a secret.”

“What’s that?” she asked, her eyes alight.

“I don’t know if there is a pleasure in this world to equal the feeling that comes with a thoughtful gift from someone you love.” His eyes looked off into the distance, and she knew he was thinking of her mother, lost these six years. But the mood passed quickly, and he hugged her.

It was a good moment.

“I have an idea,” she said.

Her father eased himself into a chair. “What’s that, love?”

“I was thinking about the Christmas party this evening.”

He crossed one knee over the other, and joined his hands behind his head. “What about the Christmas party?”

They were outgrowing their community center, which was now reduced to serving its meals in two shifts. It was a long single-story building located conveniently near the center of the archaeological site. The community would be doubled in size with the arrival of the Exeter in a few months. And the prospect of trying next Christmas to crowd everyone in was daunting.

“Dad, there are a couple of spaces in the towers that are pretty big. Why not move everything over there?”

He looked startled, and his smile hardened. “You mean the party?” He seemed scarcely to believe she could be serious.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Why? Why on earth would you want to do that?”

Because it’s where the Capellans lived. Because it’s a way of celebrating why we’re here. But she only said, “Because there’s a lot of room.”

He softened. “It wouldn’t work. It’s a nice idea, but we really can’t do it.”

It was almost physically painful to think of the home of the Capellans left dark and cold tonight. Of all nights. “It wouldn’t be hard to set up,” she persisted. Heating units were already installed for the comfort of the researchers, so the cold would be no problem. As far as she could see, it would just be a matter of getting the tables and chairs, moving the alcohol over, and putting up a few quick-fix decorations. A little bit of bother, but it would be worth it.

“I think it would take a lot of work, Sylvie. And it’s already late in the day.”

The tops of the towers glittered in the setting sun.

“We’d help.” She knew that, for such a cause, her friends would pitch in. And the prospect of light and warmth in the ancient buildings overwhelmed her. It was what the Capellans would have wanted. “Please, Dad.”

He smiled that sad bad-weather smile that was intended to suggest this was a complicated issue, an adult thing, one best left alone. “We really can’t do it, Sylvie. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Wouldn’t be right? Why not?”

He looked uncomfortable. Her father was a slight man in his mid-thirties. He possessed a formality of manner and dress that set him apart from most of his colleagues. An older observer would have noticed that he seemed always to be speaking from a distance. His gray eyes were set far apart, and tended to focus at a point over one’s shoulder. Combined with a perpetual sense of distraction, as though he had something very important on his mind, they conveyed the sense that he could give a listener only a fraction of his attention. He was better with Sylvie, who was the only person in the world, this or any other, who could be truly said to touch him. Nevertheless, he now turned that preoccupied gaze toward her. “Because we have to have some respect for these places, Sylvie. I don’t know how to explain this. I’m not sure I can put it in words that will make sense, but it would just be in bad taste to throw a party over there.” He gazed out at the towers. “There are some people here who would think of it as almost sacrilegious. And I’m not sure they wouldn’t be right.”

Sylvie could not imagine why anyone would object. And she loved the idea of giving the Capellans a Christmas tree. “They never had one, Dad. Never even had a Christmas.”

“We’ve got one over in the corner. Maybe you didn’t notice, love.”

“That’s for us, Dad. There needs to be one up where everybody can see it. I don’t think the Capellans would have minded.”

He got up, and his tone shifted to its end-of-discussion mode. “If they were around, we could ask them, Sylvie.”

He went out to help with preparations for the evening party, and left her staring glumly at the tree, and at the towers.

There were five of them, named, for reasons she wasn’t entirely clear about, the Queen, the Aerie, the Diamond, the Castle, and the Court. They were round buildings, and, when the light was right, they suggested chess pieces. The Queen was capped by a penthouse that someone must have thought resembled a crown; the walls of the Court formed a three-tiered enclosure. The Diamond was a faceted structure, a building with numerous faces and angles. The side of the Aerie that faced the town was marked by a wide open balcony. The shortest and broadest of the structures was the Castle: it was roughly three stories high, with turrets, parapets, and a crenelated roof.

Sylvie went out onto the deck.

She was entranced by Marik’s vision: she would have loved standing with the male Eagle on its perch. His perch. She wouldn’t tell anyone, not even her best friend Jaime, but it had occurred to her that boys would be far more interesting if they had wings. And the laser-blue glance of the Capellans which penetrated right to the soul.

Her gaze fell on the balcony near the top of the Aerie. She pictured the Eagles from the print, standing casually at its lip, their wings touching, looking out across the city.

The sky had clouded over; flakes were in the air.

The five towers were stark and empty. Long abandoned. Occasional carols drifted through the night, and a few lights were visible. More than were usual. Some people were already moving toward the community center. She had noticed a few years back that the memory of her mother tended, during this happiest of seasons, to acquire a spiked edge. She was beginning to suspect there was something about Christmas that heightened all emotions, and not just the pleasurable ones. Something that spoke to her about more than simply an appreciation of others, but rather that seemed to penetrate to her deepest core. Here is what you are. Here is what is gone.

She wanted, more than anything, to give credence to the Capellans. She wanted to connect her own existence with theirs.

Behind the Aerie, low rolling hills receded into the gathering darkness.

“Sylvie? Are you going?” Evan and Lana Culpepper were in the gateway. Both were wrapped tightly in thick jackets. It was cool tonight, but not that cool.

“In a few minutes,” she called back. “I’ll see you there.”

“Nice lights,” Lana chirped. Her father had strung a few in a gold bush, which looked garishly purple in their glow.