Bernice Summerfield: The Weather on Versimmon

By Matthew Griffiths

When Bernice Summerfield awoke from stasis, she found a message waiting: an instruction from a very old acquaintance, telling her to make her away to a planet called Legion… and to her son, Peter.

As she begins her intergalactic road trip through the cosmos, Bernice quickly learns that her journey won’t be easy. Family feuds, noxious nuns and lethal leisure worlds are set to hound her every step of the way, whilst old friends are ready and waiting for her arrival…

Old lives are abandoned. New lives lie in store…with many others hanging in the balance.

* * *

Bernice – or Benny to her friends – is on the ultimate road trip, scouring the universe in search of her missing son, Peter. Along the way, she stops off on the planet Versimmon, where she is soon drawn into an expedition investigating the legendary Caldera Archive. The Archive is a series of tapestries and artworks grown into the ground, cultivated from the giant trees in the Versimmon Forests… and seemingly influenced by the planet’s weather conditions.

The trouble is that the artworks aren’t just tree roots: they are part and parcel of the entire ecosystem of the planet. The trees and everything around them are alive, for now... but unscrupulous politicians are looking for ways to butcher the forests and exploit their DNA, all so that they might recreate the artworks again and again, selling them on to the highest bidder. And all at the expense of every single life-form on Versimmon.

Now Benny and her friends have to find a way to save the Versimmon ecosystem and preserve one of the galaxy’s hidden treasures… but a storm’s already brewing in the Versimmon sky.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Big Finish Productions
• Release date: Apr 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781844356188

Book preview

EPILOGUE

Bernice Summerfield

The Weather on Versimmon

Matthew Griffiths

First published in February 2012

by Big Finish Productions Ltd

PO Box 1127, Maidenhead, SL6 3LW

www.bigfinish.com

Managing Editor: Jason Haigh-Ellery

Series Producer: Gary Russell

Commissioning Editor: Scott Handcock

Production Editor: Xanna Eve Chown

Cover design: Alex Mallinson

Copyright © Matthew Griffiths 2012

The right of Matthew Griffiths to be identified as the author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. The moral right of the author has been asserted. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any forms by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information retrieval system, without prior permission, in writing, from the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

For Isabel, Ray and Caitlin Griffiths, my earliest readers, with love.

PROLOGUE

Red leaves cracked as Ruth raced through the forest. She’d given up trying to be stealthy, the Guard had picked up her scent (like wolves), and she was making for the Archive entrance. She wasn’t sure now whether the noise she heard was the Guard’s pounding feet or the blood throbbing in her ears. (Must be nearly there.) She tugged the keepsake from her pocket and watched the little green line of light thicken and brighten over its surface as she homed in on her target.

The tall dry trees reached out to her (when did it last rain on Versimmon?), and she raised her arms to meet theirs, clattering and blundering and hoping the little device’s sensors weren’t thrown out by all the running. The forest looked to thin out ahead, though, and soon the close sound of her feet on the shed leaves opened into a wide, circular clearing.

The open ground (isn’t so open actually) was dominated by a huge tree, whose canopy grew out until it almost met the forest. The trunk was red, dusty and massive, the bark had a weaving groove that she could see even at this distance in the evening light. The sight took all the urgency from her, and she went on hushed footsteps.

She reached the tree and ran her hand across one of the whorling lines in its surface. The hairs stood up on the back of her hand as she imagined everything the forest encoded, the treasures clutched below the surface in its roots. The crash of boots from the forest behind her brought her out of her reverie.

She circled the tree looking for an entrance. As she did so, the beat of the Guard’s approach circled her. She looked at the keepsake: it showed a way in, but it was much further round the tree, and she hadn’t a hope of getting there before the Guard caught up with her. She sighed, drawing her hands down the bark and half-squatting behind a protruding root, curved like the spine of an animal. The Guard squad emerged into the clearing with the rhythmic crash-crash of boots, carrying shadows from the forest behind them, then rustled to a halt.

‘Where are you?’ called a weary voice. There was a muttered conference among the Guard. ‘Look,’ the voice continued, ‘if it helps, we can get you surrounded in no time. Okay?’

Ruth, her legs realising stiffly what she’d put them through, straightened up. She shuffled away from the side of the tree. ‘Do I need to put my hands up, then?’ she asked, hesitantly doing so as she neared her captors.

‘You’re not carrying a gun are you? Not sure I want any more surprises right now,’ replied the figure. As Ruth approached, the dozen or so Guard seemed to resolve into individual humanoid shapes, most of them stumpy, but with a couple of taller, leaner men. The figure she’d been speaking to, though, was not so tall, not so short, clad in a white tee and battered combats, and, reluctantly, familiar.

‘Now will you be a good girl and tell these gents what this nonsense is all about?’ smiled Bernice.

CHAPTER ONE

CULTURAL ROOTS

The ministerial shuttle powered through space into the Versimmion system, and Arbitor Hordenza watched the blue-white sun bloom across the forward view. It had been too long since she’d been out here. Though the little craft was cramped and the ceiling low, she’d let herself stretch after they’d left Palastor and she could undo her harness. It was as though she had all the room of the vacuum beyond the hull. She had eased a tired smile over her lips.

‘Firstfall’s away, Minister,’ said the pilot. ‘They’ll be forming up a reception squad for you down there.’

‘Thank you, Merla,’ Hordenza said. ‘But there’s no need to make everything sound like a military operation.’

Merla bristled, but said, ‘No, ma’am.’

Hordenza had so long imagined herself back on Versimmon, but now they were nearly there she didn’t quite want the journey to be over. Out here she could pretend all her new responsibilities were suspended for a moment. But the line of communications between the homeworld and its outpost threaded the shuttle’s route, and in case she needed reminding of this she could even see the route traced on the holographic Merla had called up. The line behind showed how far they’d travelled, and the line ahead blipped intermittently indicating the probe that heralded their arrival.

‘And how long have we got before we reach Versimmon?’ the minister asked.

‘Not long now, ma’am.’ The younger woman still spoke as though she’d had to rehearse the politeness in her voice. Couldn’t have been easy, Hordenza reasoned, having to deal with so many new passengers in the last few rings.

The minister nodded. ‘Good. Quite used to this now, I expect.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘How long have you been in the Guard?’

‘Five rings.’ She glanced across at Hordenza. ‘My father and his father both served as well,’ she added, as though she felt she needed greater claim to the title.

‘Really? I might have known them. I had a spell in the Samarans, after the war, we took a lot of the first Guard out. Wasn’t so big in those days. Just getting off the ground.’ She allowed herself a little chuckle.

The young woman looked at her with interest at last. ‘Have you spent much time on Versimmon, then?’

‘Not in a good many rings, no.’ She gazed into the black blanks in the datafield on the forward view, trying to make out their destination. ‘But I always wanted to come back. Council seem to think it’s a good place to plant their elders out. They were just itching for Ribnor to move up to Defence so they could give me Culture.’ She leant in. ‘Though Abenoke’s briefing was, well, rather brief. I don’t suppose you’ve any word on the agenda for our negotiations? Needn’t be on the record.’

She could tell instantly she’d said the wrong thing. ‘No, ma’am,’ said Merla, ‘it’ll be for the canoptin to present his case.’

‘Of course.’ Case, though. That didn’t sound promising. Pity she didn’t have any diplomatic support, but the Culture Ministry’s budget scarcely allowed her this shuttle, let alone an aide.

The samaran was now doing her best to ignore her. Hordenza watched as she plucked some more controls down from the holograms in front of her, the touchlights unfurling from central buds. She chose navigation, and her fingers flitted over the magenta lights, readying the shuttle for the landing clearance from Crowne.

‘Before you switch down to auto…’ Hordenza said, rubbing her eyes.

Merla’s hands paused over the touchlights. ‘Yes?’

‘What weather will we have on Versimmon when we arrive?’

‘It’s Dry Season at the Archive right now. The Tree’s consolidating.’ Her tone was impatient. She hadn’t, Hordenza spotted, needed to look at any of the data before telling her.

‘Pity. It was in Greenery when I was last here. That was all the Corps could talk about before I left Palastor. The Guard are a sentimental old bunch, sometimes, don’t you find?’

‘You could put it that way.’ Merla swiped the controls back into the dock at the side of the screen; Hordenza watched as the lights passed across her face. It was probably the only thing that would brighten the young lady’s expression, she thought.

So she stood from the couch, autolights tracking her as she moved off towards her cabin at the back. ‘I’m going for a lie-down, Merla. Be sure to blurt me before we land, won’t you?’

‘Aye-aye, Minister. Green dreams.’

* * *

Night was falling in the clearing. It was falling on half of the planet, in fact, Versimmon was a tiny world, they’d seen as much from orbit yesterday. The clearing was getting cooler now, the dust and broken leaves stirring slightly. In the twilight, the figures of Benny and the Guard at the edge of the forest had taken on a bluish tinge. It was easier on the eyes, Ruth thought, than the red trees and the sunken sun.

‘Oh, come on,’ she said. ‘Haven’t we been through all this?’

‘Yes,’ said Benny. ‘But I wanted to see whether you’d changed your mind.’ The archaeologist’s tone was reasonable, but then she sighed. ‘Oh, come on, Ruth. You weren’t a student very long, were you? You must have grown out of antics like this.’

‘Haven’t you? You know how changeable this planet is, it can’t be safe to stash its treasures down there!’ She jabbed a finger at the Tree behind her; she jabbed it again for emphasis when she realised that Benny probably wouldn’t have seen very well in the dark. The Guard’s helmet lamps were warming up, and Ruth was sure she could see some of them flick their lenscans down with a twitch of their heads.

Benny spread her hands. ‘Fine. You’re the expert. You tell us all how it can be preserved. Come on, boys.’ She turned and made as though to walk back through the Guard ranks and into the forest.

She’d not gone more than a couple of steps when Canoptin Abenoke boomed, ‘We’ve been very patient with you, Professor Summerfield. We understood that you could talk your colleague round. If that’s not going to be the case…’

Benny spun on her heel, a little plume of dust stirring into the still air. Even at this range, Ruth could sense her friend glowering at the back of Abenoke’s broad, dark head. ‘You’re not a poker player, I see, Canoptin.’

Ruth was half-listening to the exchange, trying to shuffle backwards round the bole of the Tree. With each inch of darkness the planet crept into, she could back further away from the Guard and into the gloaming, beyond the range of their crossbows.

‘If I may, sir?’ said a different voice. There was no mistaking his warm tones; Verral had been there to greet them when they touched down. Abenoke simply grunted in reply. ‘Thanks,’ continued the second-in-command.

He stepped from the pack of Guard, his long pale features almost pink in the setting sun. ‘Miss Leonidas? We know what your concern is. Believe me, it’s one we’re very familiar with.’ He smiled. ‘But you won’t achieve much this way, will you? Really. You’re not exactly in a good position to negotiate.’

‘So what are you going to do? Shoot me?’ shouted Ruth (yeah, good one, get him thinking about his crossbow). ‘You wouldn’t do that, you’d risk damaging the tree.’

‘You’re right, I’m not going to shoot you. We’re security, not soldiers after all.’

Ruth chewed her lip and wondering what to say next. It had gone very quiet, suddenly, and the Guard weren’t moving. ‘No,’ she managed. (But where’s Abenoke gone?) Then she heard the leaf litter hissing and crackling, and she was sure she’d been tricked. The canoptin and a couple of other Guard must have skirted the clearing’s edge, snuck up on her from the side. (And why is it getting so much darker?)

The Guard swung their helmet lamps up into the low, sudden cloud. The sky was hissing and broiling. Ruth looked up too and saw a long, fine tear in the sky, and then it was an after-image because there were black streaks in the indigo air, as though someone were prodding the atmosphere above with matches.

‘Incoming!’ came a yell amid the din; so loud it was now that Ruth could not tell whether Bernice or Abenoke or Verral had shouted. As she scrambled between the thick roots for somewhere to shelter, she thought she might have heard the Guard racing for cover somewhere as well.

Something hit the ground nearby with a tremendous impact and Ruth instantly felt the left-hand side of her face sting. She raised her hand, touching it gingerly. It was cold and (Ow!) tiny pieces of shrapnel were embedded in it. She huddled against the bark, keeping low, and gingerly put her fingertips to her face. No, wait, it wasn’t shrapnel, but…ice?

Huge hailstones were thundering into the forest, and with the sound of their impact there was also the sound of dry branches splintering from the trees and crashing to the ground. Ruth couldn’t hear the Guard at all (Benny has to be safe, though. she lives for stuff like this…) and trying to keep her face still so as not to aggravate her wounds, she hauled herself around the Tree’s roots until she found a raised lip of bark and squeezed herself into the opening beneath it. (Safe. Just about safe.)

The clearing around still hissed with hail, and the ground near her juddered every now and again with another impact. Ruth realised there was room to shuffle further in, if she was careful, on her behind. She moved awkwardly backwards, reaching around with her hands to make sure she had room, trying to keep her face from scraping the bark. She didn’t let herself imagine that she’d actually found a way in, now, she didn’t want her brain to do anything that felt like thinking until the bombardment had passed and she was safe. She paused.

The ground tremors were now more apparent than the noise of the falling hailstones, she realised, and (what was that? No, it’s only me breathing) she allowed herself to stop. She couldn’t see anything, so she must have got in underneath the Tree. She could just about sit up, and the air, though warm, was not oppressive. She got the keepsake out, stroking the smooth, irregular edges until the light came on. It hummed, and the light zigzagged across it until it was right at her wrists. That meant she needed to go backwards (further down. Oh great). She stuffed the device back in her kitbag, wrapping the bag’s strap around her hand. If she was going to get any further she’d have to drag it with her, otherwise she might get jammed, and that would be embarrassing. It was difficult enough to turn without—

A thick hand grasped her arm. She pulled against it but the grip was firm (it was her breathing, surely, she couldn’t have missed someone following her down here…) and ‘Hold it!’ hissed a male voice right in her ear.

‘Get off!’ she cried, but she couldn’t hear herself now, nor her captor, there was an enormous tremor, not like the impact of one of the hailstones but coming from deep beneath, under the roots of the Tree, deep down in the Archive somewhere…

Versimmon squirmed, and shuddered; something man-heavy fell against Ruth and then there was a crash and it became a different kind of dark.

* * *

Bernice was prone, her hands over her ears and the back of her head. She could feel dust and leaf litter pressed into her cheek, and the ground still seemed to be shivering with the impacts. She drew a long breath, warm with the ground beneath her. That small cloud of air was all the warmth she could feel, though. And those weren’t ground tremors. She was shivering. She swung her arms down by her side and pushed herself up, swinging her feet into a sitting position.

The stumpy silhouettes of the Guard were huddled against the ground across the clearing, some of them in the lee of the forest. She wanted to say ‘Is everyone all right?’, but as she went to speak her breath caught in a cough. She blinked and her eyes watered. There was a low sort of mist curling around the clearing.

At first, she thought it was dust stirred up by the impacts, but it was milk-white and vapourous. Some kind of gas attack? Her fingers jittering, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, securing it around her nose and mouth. Her breath condensed in the tightened cloth.

She could barely see a thing, and the sky, cloudless when the sun had gone down, must have lowered quickly. So here she was, only an hour