The Fall of Tartarus (4 page)

‘This
team of vench will take us as far as the third station, some two hundred
kilometres inland,’ Blackman informed me. ‘Then a fresh team will take over.’

I
stared at the creatures, which were stropping their bills on the tracks and
giving vent to eerie, high-pitched caws of impatience.

‘On
Earth,’ I said, ‘we have fusion-powered trains. The journey would take but two
or three hours.’

Blackman
smiled, tolerantly. ‘Tartarus is not Earth,’ he said. ‘The planet has been
governed by the Church for nigh on a thousand years. Early on they proscribed
all devices mechanical, deeming them unnecessary to the well-being of the
people. The only machines on the planet are in the employ of the Church
itself.’

I
considered mentioning the hypocrisy of this, but decided to hold my tongue. For
all I knew, Blackman might have been a believer.

We
walked back along the platform to our carriage. I was about to climb the steps
which ascended to the stateroom when Blackman touched my arm. ‘Look who joins
us.’

I
turned and followed his gaze. Crossing the platform towards the train were two
men hauling a large chest between them. Something in the shape and demeanour of
the taller of the two was familiar - and of course I recognised the chest from
the alleyway.

I
stared at Blackman. ‘You knew?’

‘Simplicity
itself. There is an illegal but growing trade in Messengers. Criminals from the
next province along the track pay well for them as pets, and worse.’

‘Messengers?’

‘The
winged faerie creature captured by these two villains.’

‘Are
they human?’ I asked.

‘Who?
The villains or the Messengers?’ Blackman laughed. ‘I suggest that the
kidnappers are less than human - the Messengers more than. They are a race of
beings genetically engineered many millennia ago, and have little truck with
regular humans.’

I
wanted to ask Blackman if he belonged to a similar, engineered race - but at
that moment my attention returned to the kidnappers. I had noted a familiarity
in the taller figure, and now I realised it was not merely through seeing his
silhouette in the alley one hour ago. As the two men passed us, staggering with
their burden, I gave a strangled cry.

‘Buzatti!’
I murmured to myself, and then, ‘I know him. Or rather I’ve met him briefly.’

As
the two men bundled the trunk up the steps of the neighbouring carriage, I told
Blackman of my foolishness the day before.

‘So
as well as effecting the release of the hapless Messenger,’ he said, ‘we must
also reimburse you to the tune of some ten thousand new credits.’

Having
stowed away their treasure, the two men emerged and stood on the platform. They
shook hands, payment was exchanged, and the shorter villain took his leave.
Buzatti returned to his carriage.

There
was a bustle of activity along the platform as a uniformed official swung a
lantern and yelled an incomprehensible cry. The passengers hurried to their
respective carriages and doors slammed shut. I followed Blackman up the steps.
Our chamber occupied half the carriage, with a lounge on one side and a room
containing two beds on the other. Blackman indicated a flight of steps, and I
followed him to a railed area on the roof of the carriage.

Ahead,
the vench were relinquishing their perches on the rails and flapping with lazy
grace into the air. The chains attached to their legs pulled taut, and a
tremendous jolt passed through the carriages. Slowly at first, and then with
increasing speed, the train left the station and trundled on raised tracks
above the streets of Baudelaire. Silhouetted against the orange light of night,
the vench presented a stirring sight. They flew in layered formations affected
by the length of the chains that connected them to the train. The first
arrow-head flight of eight was perhaps just thirty metres from, and level with,
the forward carriage. Above them, and twenty metres in front, were yet eight
more prehistoric creatures - and above and beyond them a further eight, their
wings working in vast, slow-motion sweeps. From time to time one of their
number called out a high, piercing cry.

We
remained upon the upper deck for an hour, as the train left the outskirts of
the city and plunged into the jungle, the vegetation dark beneath the fiery
sky.

Midnight
arrived, and the events of the day caught up with me. I said good night to
Blackman and made my way to the bed-chamber. I took a shower in a crude cubicle
in the corner, and then retired. I was almost asleep when Blackman entered the
room and sat on his bed. From a vial he took a pill and swallowed it dry, then
lay down fully clothed. Within seconds he was asleep, his breathing even.

Despite
the drumming of the wheels, I too soon fell asleep. I was awoken only once, by
a red glow that emanated from across the room. I opened my eyes and blinked at
what I saw. Blackman sat cross-legged on the floor next to his bed. Leads
cascaded from the slits in the back of his jerkin, and were attached to a small
black box he held on the palm of his right hand. Where before the wires that
covered his body had been silver, now they glowed red like heating filaments
and surrounded him with a roseate aura. He sat like this for a long time. At
last I fell asleep again, and might have dreamed the episode.

Bright
sunlight filled the chamber when I awoke the following morning. Blackman was
not upon his bed, nor was there any sign of his black box or leads. I dressed
and stepped into the empty lounge.

As
I climbed the narrow flight of stairs leading to the top of the carriage, I was
hit by the intense heat of the sun directly overhead. Evidently I had slept
till midday. A railed walkway connected each carriage, and the fifth carriage along
was covered by a large white awning, in the shade of which travellers sat
around a dozen tables. I noticed Blackman at a table by himself, a drink and a
plate of food before him. At the sight of this I realised how hungry I was. I
made my way along the swaying aisle, holding the rails with both hands. We were
travelling at a fair speed along a section of track high above the surrounding
tree-tops. For as far as the eye could see in every direction the jungle rolled
away like a vast green ocean.

I
entered the welcome shade of the dining carriage and joined my travelling
companion. He was eating a plate of bread and sectioned fruit and drinking iced
tea. ‘Sinclair, you’re up at last. I trust you slept well?’

‘Well,
but too long. I feel heavy-headed.’

Blackman
laughed. ‘A meal will see you right. Waiter!’ he called, and a red-jacketed
steward hurried over with a menu. I indicated my friend’s plate and ordered the
same.

I
sat back and scanned my fellow diners. They appeared well-dressed and
dignified, with the privileged air of the upper classes. There were several
couples taking lunch beneath the awning, and a group of men playing a board
game at a corner table.

‘No
sign of Buzatti,’ I whispered, ‘or whatever his name might be.’

‘He
breakfasted earlier. I exchanged pleasantries with him. His story is that he is
a traveller in exotic merchandise, which I suppose is true enough. He is
heading for San Sebastian, two days away, and is still using the
nom de
guerre
of Buzatti.’

My
meal arrived, and I sampled the strange local fruits. As I did so I considered
what I had seen in the early hours, and thought of questioning Blackman. I
decided against it; although companionable enough, he seemed reluctant to
discuss personal details.

After
the meal, he suggested a stroll to the front of the train, and despite the heat
I agreed. Every fifth carriage was covered by an awning, and in these oases of
shade I paused to regain my breath while Blackman, seeming to relish the heat,
stood beyond the awning with his charred face tipped towards the sun.

We
arrived at the very first carriage, which thankfully sported a canvas cover.
Ahead, the three formations of vench were dark, leathery shapes against the
blue sky. We were trundling along high above the jungle, our passage agitating
flocks of birds which rose from their tree-top nests in whirlpools of
multi-coloured plumage.

Blackman
pointed across the jungle to our right. ‘Observe the towers protruding through
the canopy - and there are more.’

I
made out tall, dark spires and minarets. ‘A city?’ I asked.

‘Once,
a long time ago. Those are the remains of a temple complex built by the alien
race native to Tartarus aeons past. The Slarque became extinct long before the
first human exploration ship discovered the planet.’

In
silence we observed the passing scene for a further fifteen minutes. I
marvelled at the miracle of finding myself
here,
on a strange world in a
sector of galaxy so far from Earth. I considered the amazing fact that six
years ago my father had passed this way, on a rendezvous with destiny.

Blackman
laid a hand upon my arm, his touch as dry as embers. ‘Don’t look now, but our
friend takes the air on the next shaded carriage. Excuse me while I further
gain his confidence.’

He
stepped from the shade and strode along the jolting walkway, to where a
white-suited Buzatti gazed out across the jungle. I made myself comfortable
against the rail and turned my attention to the view ahead. Beyond the
labouring vench, on the far horizon, I made out a hazy line of mountains, their
snow-covered peaks appearing to float above the surrounding cloud like icebergs
in an ocean. This range, I knew from studying the map at the hotel, overlooked
the vast, inland Sapphire sea; Charybdis clung to the foothills on the far
slope of these mountains, a sprawling town straddling the river Laurent.

Later,
after Buzatti had departed, I joined my friend. He stood in the sunlight before
the awning, while I sat on the rail in the shade.

‘Did
you learn any more?’ I asked.

‘I
suspect that he told me nothing but lies. I’m meeting him for a drink on the
dining carriage at sunset. I need to gain his trust before I make my move.’

‘To
save the Messenger? What have you planned?’

‘As
yet . . . nothing. We have two days to act before Buzatti reaches his
destination - time enough and more.’ He closed his eyes and lifted his face to
the sun.

I
left him to it, returned to the dining carriage and ordered iced tea. For the
next hour or two I admired the view, observed my fellow passengers and read a
news-sheet printed in Baudelaire - the novelty of actually reading news on
paper
spoilt by having to wrestle with the over-sized pages which flapped
like sails in the breeze.

We
took a late lunch together, consisting of black bread, ripe yellow cheese and a
salad drenched in spiced oil, washed down with a strong red wine as thick as
syrup. After two glasses of the stuff my head was spinning. I felt the urge to
talk.

I
gestured expansively at the passing jungle. ‘A little over a month ago I
graduated from university, after two years studying Twenty-second-Century
Renaissance art. Just a week ago I set sail for Tartarus.’

Blackman
smiled indulgently, contemplating his glass. ‘What of your parents? What did
they say when you announced your plans?’

‘My
mother is dead,’ I said.

‘And
your father?’

‘He
too.’ I sought to check my tongue with a long draught of wine. I wanted to
explain my mission on Tartarus, but I found myself unable to do so without
declaring my innermost emotions to someone who was, after all, no more than a
stranger.

‘Were
you close?’

‘To
my mother, yes.’ I shrugged. ‘We were together until I was fourteen and left
for university. To my father . . .’

I
hesitated. It seemed not quite right to admit to Blackman that I hated my
father.

‘My
father left when I was six,’ I said, ‘and never came back. I remember very
little of him - but what little I do recall, and what I’ve learned about him
since . . . lead me to believe that we would never have seen eye to eye.’

I
changed the subject. ‘And you?’ I asked. ‘Do you have a family?’

‘The
nature of my existence precludes attachment,’ he said, as if to discourage
further enquiry.

I
ventured, ‘You mentioned that you were going to Charybdis to work?’

‘That
is correct,’ he said. ‘I will act as the eyes of a ship in the annual race.’

‘The
eyes?’

‘The
underwater hazards of the river change from year to year. A ship needs a
Blackman to plot a safe course.’

I
nodded to myself. I wanted to know how long the Guild of Blackmen had been
serving as the eyes of the ships, and if my travelling companion might know
anything about the fate of my father. I wondered, paradoxically, if the reason
I did not question Blackman then was that I was secretly afraid to learn
conclusively that my father was indeed dead.

I
finished my wine. It was late afternoon; the sun hung above the jungle horizon,
one hour from setting. As I did not want to be around when Buzatti returned for
his rendezvous with Blackman, I excused myself, stumbled back to the stateroom
and slept.