The Fall of Tartarus (2 page)

Then,
when I was twelve, my mother told me that my father had died on Tartarus. It
had been a measure of my confusion - a mixture of my own grief and an inability
to assess the extent of hers - that I had refrained from asking her for
details. In consequence I knew nothing of how he had died, where exactly on Tartarus
he had perished, or even what he had been doing on the planet in the first
place.

Now
my father stepped over a fallen log and sat down. He was a big man, ruggedly
handsome, with blond hair greying at the temples, and blue eyes.

‘Sinclair,
how’s your mother keeping?’

He
always asked after mother, every time I activated the cube. Always he called
her ‘your mother’, and never her name, Susanna.

‘Well,
boy?’ He seemed to stare straight out at me.

‘Mother
died a month ago,’ I whispered. I dared not look up into his eyes, for fear of
seeing simulated grief there, a mirror image of the genuine emotion that filled
me.

‘Oh
. . .’ he said at last. ‘I’m sorry.’

My
mother had died peacefully at the villa I had shared with her. On her deathbed
she had made me promise that I would cast away the persona-cube, forget about
my father. And to please her I had given my promise, knowing full well that I
would do no such thing.

‘So,’
he said, buoyancy in his tone, as if to support me in the ocean of my mourning.
‘How goes it on Tartarus?’

Hesitantly,
bit by bit, I recounted my mishap on the street outside the spaceport. Perhaps
I sought his admonition as punishment for my stupidity.

He
listened with increasing incredulity showing on his face. ‘He robbed you of ten
thousand new credits - he took the notes before your very eyes?’

‘But—’
I began.

‘How
many times have I told you? Trust no one, give nothing away. Look after
yourself and let others look after themselves. The principal and basic tenets
of existence, Sinclair, which you continually fail to comprehend.’

‘But
I can’t live like that - without trust, without charity ...’ I almost added, ’.
. . without love,’ a corollary of his base pragmatism, but restrained myself.
It would have begun an argument we had had many times before.

‘Manifestly,’
was his disgusted reply. ‘You live with trust, always feeling charitable to
those who do not, and then you blubber when you find yourself cheated. Grow up,
boy. You’re supposed to be a man!’

I
reached out quickly and, in anger, switched him off. The cube went opaque. I
sat without moving in the flickering ruddy twilight, anger slowly abating
within me. I tried to tell myself that the sentiments expressed by my father’s
persona were merely those of a lifeless puppet - but I knew that, had my father
been alive today, he would have said the same things, endorsed the philosophy
of self first, second, and last. The programme was, after all, a simulation of
his personality.

I
re-activated the cube. He was still in the forest, sitting on the log, staring
down at his clasped hands.

‘Father
. . .’

He
looked up. ‘What is it, Sinclair?’

‘Have
you never made mistakes?’

‘Of
course I have, when I was young and callow. Like you.’

‘Tell
me.’

He
shook his head. ‘You cannot learn from the mistakes of others,’ he said. ‘Only
from your own.’

I
deactivated the cube.

My
father - or rather this simulation of him - never spoke about his past. How
many times had I heard him say, ‘The past is a foreign country, to which it is
wise never to return’? As a consequence I knew next to nothing of my father, of
his background, his occupations, his hobbies. I knew only his opinions, his
philosophies, which some might say constitute the man. But I was hungry to know
what he had been, what had made him what he was.

Even
my mother had told me nothing of his past. I had wanted to quiz her, but at the
same time had no desire to stir the ghosts that might return to haunt her
lonely later years.

I
returned inside and calculated my assets: the units I had left over from the
ship, the loose coins I had in various pockets, the stash of notes I had
secreted in an inner pocket in case of emergencies. In all I possessed some
ninety new credits - plus a return ticket to Earth. Enough, I estimated, to see
me through perhaps ten days on Tartarus. I would remain here for that long,
then, and see what little I might learn in that short time.

It
was past midnight by the time I got to bed, and well into the early hours
before I finally slept. I dreamed of the teeming streets of Baudelaire, down which
my father must have passed, and I dreamed of my father himself, the man whom I
knew better than anyone else - and yet did not really know at all.

On
the morning of my first full day on Tartarus I woke early and descended to the
foyer, where I consulted the map of Baudelaire hanging on a wall. The lawyer’s
office was a kilometre distant. To save precious credits I elected to walk, and
ignored the rickshaws lined up in the driveway, their drivers importuning me
with ringing bells and cries. Although the hour was early, the streets were
full. My route took me into the commercial heart of the city, down wide avenues
thronged with citizens and flanked by the characteristic three-storey buildings
with red-brick facades and steep, timber-tiled roofs. As I walked I began to
worry that, after all these years, the lawyer might have moved office - or,
worse, retired or died. The address was my only link on the planet to my
father, and without it I would be lost.

I
turned down a comparatively quiet side-street and with relief came across a
crooked, half-timber building, with a sign bearing the legend
Greaves and
Partners
swinging above the low entrance. I entered and climbed three
narrow flights of stairs which switchbacked from landing to landing, the air
redolent of beeswax polish and sun-warmed timber.

I
hesitated before a tiny door bearing the lawyer’s name in gold, found my
identity card, knocked and entered.

I
was in a small chamber that was without the slightest sign of plastics, either
in panelling, furniture or fittings; instead, all was wood, dark timbers warped
with age. Sunlight streamed in through a tiny window at the far end of the
room, illuminating piles of papers, yellowed and brittle with age. Nowhere
could I see a computer.

A
mild voice enquired, ‘And how might I be of assistance?’

A
grey-haired, sharp-featured old man was peering at me through a pair of
spectacles - the first I had ever seen in real life. He sat behind a vast desk
before the window, a pen poised above a pile of paper.

I
introduced myself, proffering my identity card. ‘You worked on behalf of my
father, a good number of years ago.’

‘Take
a seat, young man. Sinclair Singer?’ he said, peering at the card. ‘Your father
was . . . don’t tell me, it’s coming back . . . Gregor - Gregor Singer.’ He
nodded in evident satisfaction. ‘You’re very much like your father.’

I
smiled, almost saying that I hoped my resemblance was only physical. ‘I came to
Tartarus to find out more about him,’ I began.

Greaves
constructed an obelisk of his long, thin fingers. ‘More than what?’ he asked
pedantically.

‘More
than what I know already, which is not much at all. I was young when my father
left for Tartarus. My memories of him are vague.’

Greaves
nodded in a gesture I took to be one of genuine understanding. ‘One minute,’ he
said, pushing himself from his desk. On a wheeled swivel-chair he rattled
across the floorboards, came to a timber cabinet and hauled open a drawer. He
walked his fingers down a wad of tattered folders, found the relevant one and
plucked it out. A second later he was parking himself behind the desk.

He
shuffled through the papers. ‘I would hand these documents over to you,
Sinclair - but as they are in code I doubt you would find them of much use. But
if you have any questions I might be able to answer, then I’ll do my best.’

I
stared at the sheaf of yellow paper on the desk, the contents of which surely
said more about my father than I had ever known. But where to begin? I was
aware that I had broken into a prickling sweat.

At
a loss, I shrugged. ‘Well . . . why did he leave Earth? What was he doing on
Tartarus?’

Greaves
peered at me over his spectacles. ‘You certainly do not know much about your
father, do you?’

I
made an embarrassed gesture, as if the blame for my ignorance lay with myself,
and not my father.

Greaves
stared down at the papers spread before him, then up at me. ‘Gregor Singer was
a soldier,’ he said. ‘He came to Tartarus to fight.’

I
think I echoed his words in shock. A soldier? If there was one profession I
abhorred above all others, it was that of a soldier. On Earth we lived in
peaceful times; we settled disputes through negotiations and diplomacy.

‘I
can see what you are thinking,’ Greaves said. ‘And, to answer your question -
no, your father was not from Earth.’

The
old lawyer was one step ahead of me. I had failed to work out that my father
was not Terran.

‘He
was born on Marathon, and reared in the Spartan guild. He was ordained from
birth to be a fighter. He went to Earth to complete his training, and there he
met the woman who became your mother. I know this much because he told me.’

I
listened to his words in silence. From what I knew of my father through the
persona-cube, his personal philosophy would suit a life-long soldier.

‘What
was he doing on Tartarus?’ I asked, fearful of the answer.

Greaves
peered at his papers. ‘He was a mercenary, hired to serve in the private army
of a dictator who ruled the state of Zambria.’

‘And
he died fighting for this dictator?’

‘Not
at all. Your father resigned his commission. That was when I last saw him, a
little over six years ago. He . . . he was a changed man from the soldier I had
first encountered years before. Not only had he resigned, but he told me that
no longer would he sell his services.’

‘He
would no longer serve as a soldier?’ I said. ‘But why? What happened?’

Greaves
leaned back in his chair and regarded me. ‘He did not tell me precisely, but I
pieced together hints, read between the lines ... I cannot be certain, but I
received the impression that your father led an invasion of a neighbouring
state, to kidnap the son of the monarch. Something went tragically wrong with
the mission and the boy was shot dead - I do not know whether your father was
himself responsible, or a man under his command, but at any rate he carried the
burden of guilt. Consequently, he resigned.’

Sunlight
poured into the room through the cramped window. I sat in silence and tried to
digest what Greaves had told me.

I
came to my senses with the obvious question. ‘But you did write to my mother
informing her of my father’s death?’ I asked.

Greaves
frowned. ‘Not in so many words,’ he said at last. ‘I wrote to your mother to
tell her that, as Gregor had not returned to reclaim certain possessions and
monies left in my care, I therefore suspected that your father had passed on.’

‘But
what proof did you have? Where did he go when he left here?’

‘Let
me try to explain,’ Greaves murmured. ‘It was my impression that your father
was seeking a way of exorcising the guilt he felt, that he was in need of
absolution - perhaps through some form of self-sacrifice or mortification. He
told me that he was heading for Charybdis, on the river Laurent which feeds
into the Sapphire sea, a thousand kilometres west of here. There he intended to
sign on a racing ship in the annual Charybdis challenge.’

I
shook my head. ‘Which is?’

‘An
event famous on Tartarus, a galleon race down the treacherous Laurent river and
into the Sapphire sea. Perhaps thirty boats take part every year, and maybe two
or three survive. The majority are broken on the underwater corals, and their
crews either cut to death, drowned, or devoured by ferocious river-dwelling
creatures. Your father left Baudelaire to join a ship. Two years later he had
not returned ... I then wrote to your mother, stating as much as I’ve told you
today.’

I
sat, dazed by the barrage of images the old man’s words had conjured. From
knowing so little about my father, I suddenly knew so much.

I
heard myself saying, ‘I must go to Charybdis.’

Greaves
spread his hands. ‘There are vench-trains daily from Baudelaire to the Sapphire
sea, leaving the central station at ten in the evening.’

I
recalled that he had said Charybdis was a thousand kilometres distant. ‘And how
long does the journey take?’

‘If
all goes well, the journey can be made in three to four days.’

‘Four
days,’ I repeated. A week to make the round trip - and who knew how long I
would need in Charybdis itself to learn my father’s fate ... I had just enough
funds to last me a little over a week.