The Fall of Tartarus (3 page)

‘How
much is the train fare to Charybdis?’ I asked.

‘A
return fare costs about a thousand shellings.’

I
despaired. A thousand shellings was roughly seventy new credits, which would
take a good chunk from what little funds I had. Then I recalled what Greaves
had said earlier. ‘You mentioned certain monies my father left in your
safe-keeping?’

He
spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. ‘I had them transferred to your
mother’s account many years ago.’

I
nodded, and stood. ‘I think I will make the journey to Charybdis,’ I said.

In
that case I wish you
bon voyage,
Sinclair, and good luck.’

That
night, before I set off to the station, I activated my father’s persona-cube.
He was no longer in the forest. The cube showed the skyball court in the
grounds of the house I recalled from my early years. He stood at the base line,
hitting the puck against the far wall with his shield.

‘Father.’

He
gave the puck a nonchalant swipe, then strolled towards the edge of the court.
His brow was dotted with sweat. As ever, I noticed his size, the quiet power of
his physique. But I saw him in a different light now that I knew of his past.

‘How’s
Tartarus?’ he asked, unbuckling his shield.

I
ignored him. ‘I found out why you came here,’ I said. ‘I ... I found out what
you were.’

He
made a pretence of giving undue attention to a recalcitrant buckle on his
shield. He looked up at last. ‘So?’

‘So
. . . why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you trust me enough to tell me who you
were?’

‘Sinclair
. . . You were young. You’d never have understood. You belonged to a culture with
different values.’

Anger
welled within me. ‘Why did you leave mother?’

He
sighed. ‘Duty, Sinclair. I had to go. My company ordered me to Tartarus. I made
the cube before I went, for your mother.’

I
had to laugh at this. ‘As if that compensated for your desertion! A programmed
puppet in a glass box!’ I stopped there, gathered my thoughts. ‘Did you love
mother?’ I asked at last.

He
took a while to respond, then looked straight out at me. ‘Love? What’s love,
Sinclair? When you get to my age, you’ll wonder if such a thing exists. Love is
just biology’s bluff to get what it wants—’

‘You
don’t know how . . . how mechanistic that sounds.’

My
father smiled. ‘And what do you know about love, then, Sinclair?’

I
was speechless for a few seconds. Then: ‘I loved mother!’

He
winked. ‘Touché, Sinclair. Like I said, biology’s—’ He never finished. I
reached out, deactivated the cube and in the same movement swept it from the
table.

Later,
I packed my bag and checked out of the hotel. The station was two kilometres
away, and I decided to walk in a bid to work off my anger and frustration.

There
is something about setting off from a big city on a long journey to the coast
that fills the soul with joy and expectation. As I walked through the gas-lit
streets - passing hostelries packed with drunken revellers, and a carnival of
giant clockwork amusements in a cobbled square - I soon forgot the words of my
father’s persona and concentrated instead on his deeds since arriving on
Tartarus. It afforded me a measure of satisfaction that he had seen fit to turn
his back on soldiering. I wondered if before he met his end he had also put
behind him his reductionist philosophies.

The
Central Station, despite its title, was situated to the north of the city, in a
quiet district of narrow, cobbled streets and shuttered shops. I had memorised
the route from the hotel map, and I judged that I was almost upon the station
with a good hour to spare before the departure of the train.

The
sun had set two hours ago, though not the light with it. It was a feature of
the erratic primary that its radiation sent probing fingers of light around the
globe and filled the night sky with flickering red and orange streamers. The
heavens between the eaves of the buildings were like none I’d ever seen, as if the
air itself was aflame. I had paused in wonder to appreciate the gaudy display
when I heard, from a nearby side-street, the detonation of what might have been
a blunderbuss. The report echoed in the narrow alley and, seconds later, I was
amazed to hear a sudden cry directly overhead. I looked up in time to see a
strange sight indeed.

Silhouetted
against the tangerine light was a slight, winged figure - human in form - made
miniature by its altitude. It seemed to be engaged in a struggle with an
invisible assailant. I made out madly kicking legs and a circular blur of
wings, fighting against whatever was inexorably drawing it to earth. Then, as
the shrieking girl lost height - she was close enough now for me to make out
that she was little more than a child with long, diaphanous wings - I saw that
her right ankle was ensnared by a rope, its diagonal vector crossing the
rooftops and leading, presumably, to the poor girl’s assailants.

I
looked up and down the street, hoping that I was not alone in witnessing this
crime - and so might have allies in attempting a rescue - but there was not a
soul in sight.

As
the seconds passed, the flying girl was drawn closer to the rooftops. Fearing
that she would soon by lost to sight, I ran down the alley towards where I judged
the rope would come to earth. When I came to a turn in the alley, I paused and
peered cautiously around the corner. Perhaps ten yards down the darkened by-way
stood two figures and a large chest, its lid standing upright ready to receive
its captive. The men were hauling on a rope, a great rifle discarded at their
feet. The girl had lost all will to fight. She was treading air, mewling in
pathetic entreaty as her captors pulled her down. At last they grabbed her by
the ankles and forced her into the trunk, crushing her wings in the process.

I
was about to step forward with a shout - hoping that my sudden appearance might
startle the pair into flight - when an iron grip fixed on my wrist. I feared I
had been caught by another of their party, but the words hissed in my ear told
me otherwise. ‘Don’t be so impetuous! They would have no qualms about shooting
you dead!’

‘But
we can’t let them get away with it!’ I began, not even turning to look at my
counsellor. I tried to struggle from his hold.

‘They
won’t get away with their crime, believe me. Now come, this way.’ So saying he
tugged me back around the corner. I struggled no further, picked up my bag
where I had dropped it and followed the tall, striding figure down the alley.
Only when we emerged into the cobbled main street, flushed with the roseate
light from above, did I fully make out the man who had in all likelihood saved
my life.

He
towered over me, staring down impassively. I returned his gaze, in wonder and
not a little revulsion. I think I might even have backed off a pace.

To
begin with what is easy to describe: he wore a pair of thigh-high cavalier
boots in jet-black leather, and a sleeveless jerkin of the same material. His
head and arms were bare. His skin was also black - as jet black as his leathers
- but not black in pigmentation. I peered more closely. His flesh was that of a
charred corpse, burned and blistered, and - even more amazing - enmeshed in a
grid of silver wires.

‘We
had better make a move if we wish to catch the vench-train,’ he said.

I
stared at him. ‘How do you know?’

He
smiled, the reticulation of wires shifting on either side of his mouth. ‘What
else would you be doing this close to the station, with a travelling bag?’

‘I’m
leaving on the ten o’clock to Charybdis,’ I said.

He
nodded. ‘The only train that leaves tonight,’ he said. ‘I too am heading for
Charybdis.’

He
shouldered his bag and turned, and as he walked off I made out two vertical
slits in the back of his jerkin. Through each slit could be seen a silver spar,
indented with sockets.

I
hurried to catch him up. ‘Who . . . ?’ I began, unsure. ‘What are you?’

He
stared ahead, eating up the cobbles with his giant stride. ‘I belong to the
Guild of Blackmen,’ he replied. ‘You may call me Blackman.’

I
introduced myself, my many questions silenced by his reserve and dominating
presence.

As
we turned the corner and approached the station - a long, low building on the
far side of a square - he glanced down at me. ‘From Earth?’

‘I
arrived just yesterday.’

‘Alone?’
He sounded surprised. ‘Alone on Tartarus?’

‘Alone.’

‘You
are either a fool, boy - or supremely confident. What brings you here?’

‘Curiosity.
Adventure. I’ve heard a lot about the planet. I want to see it for myself.’

He
strode along in quiet contemplation for a while, his leathers creaking. ‘Were
you informed also of the dangers? Tartarus is hardly safe for a lone
traveller.’

‘So
people have told me,’ I said.

‘I
take it you go to Charybdis to watch the boat race?’

‘It
takes place soon?’

‘In
less than a week.’

I
considered the prospect of watching the race in which four years ago my father
had met his end. ‘In that case I’ll certainly be there,’ I said. ‘And you? Why
do you go to Charybdis?’

He
was a couple of seconds before replying, giving the impression that he did so
with reluctance. ‘Work,’ he said at last, and would grant no more.

The
covered concourse outside the station was full of waiting travellers. Families
sat in circles around their possessions, bed-rolls, trunks, and bundles of
anonymous oddments. Curled figures, covered from head to foot in blankets,
slept despite the constant hubbub of conversation and the strident cries of
food-vendors.

A
melee of citizens jostled before the ticket counter. I did not relish the
prospect of joining the fray. Blackman must have noticed my apprehension. ‘Wait
here.’

He
strode off across the concourse. I was surprised to see that perhaps a dozen
individuals scurried to intercept him. Some remained at a respectful distance,
palms pressed together and raised to their foreheads; others diffidently
reached out and touched him as he brushed past, then touched their fingers to
their lips and scurried off. When he approached the counter, the crowd there
parted to allow him through, individuals bowing and backing away. Within
seconds he stood before the grille, a barred opening hardly reaching the height
of his chest, and a minute later he returned with the tickets. ‘All the single
berths were taken,’ he said. ‘I took the liberty of booking a stateroom. I hope
you have no objection to sharing?’

‘Not
at all,’ I said, producing my money pouch. He waved it away, smiling. ‘One of
the advantages of belonging to my guild is that one rarely pays for anything.’

‘Why
. . . thank you,’ I said, thinking that with this saving I would be able to
remain on Tartarus a little longer.

We
passed through an arched entrance into the station. Baudelaire being the
terminus, there were six platforms serving as many rail lines which branched
out and crossed the continent in every direction. Only one platform was
occupied by a train, its multiple carriages diminishing into the distance.
Crowds promenaded up and down, preparatory to boarding the carriages for the
long journey west.

I
had expected to find steamtrains, but there was no chuntering of antique
engines to be heard, and no great grey plumes filling the station. Nor were the
rails as I had expected: they were arranged in a V formation, with one on the
ground and two in the air, supported on a solid timber frame. If the rails were
bizarre, then so were the carriages. Each coach, perhaps twenty metres long and
five broad, was constructed of timber like a miniature galleon, with four
central wheels where the keel would have been on an oceangoing vessel. A long
beam, terminating in a wheel at each end, crossed the top of each carriage and
ran upon the outer rails. I counted twenty such bulbous carriages before the
perspective got the better of my eyesight.

‘But
what kind of engine can pull such a train?’ I asked of my companion.

‘No
engine as such,’ he said. ‘Or rather engines of flesh and blood. Come.’

We
strode along the platform. The carriages closest to the entrance were the
first-class staterooms and private berths; then came the second-class carriages
- through barred openings I made out two-tier bunks on either side of a central
passage. The six carriages at the very front of the train were third-class:
each narrow compartment consisted of four-tier timber bunks, rude and unpadded.
I was aware of a foul stench, and assumed that it issued from these lowly
carriages - before Blackman touched my arm and pointed ahead.

‘The
vench,’ he said.

Perched
upon the empty rails which emerged from the cover of the station were perhaps
two dozen huge birds - then I looked again and saw that they were not birds at
all, but some scythe-beaked, sweep-winged creatures less avian than saurian.
They stood perhaps three metres tall - and when one beast creakily unfolded its
wings I judged their span to be of some ten metres - and they put me in mind of
nothing so much as prehistoric pterodactyls. Each vench was chained by its
right leg, and each chain was attached to the forward carriage of the train.
The stench that attended these creatures came from the prodigious droppings
piled beneath the makeshift perch.