The trident whirls, and close upon the whirling rises a waterspout, not black-green, but brilliant blue, that hurls itself toward the low-hanging clouds. The clouds lift. The waterspout follows, howling. Another golden bolt strikes downward, then a shower, attacking the tower of water like the arrows of a besieging army.
The tower quivers, wavers, and tilts. Drops in an instant waterfall into the sea.
Within moments, the tattered fragments of the clouds are gone, and the waves subside, the air fresh with the memory of rain.
In the distance, beyond the vision of most but clear to Martel, a pair of nymphs skates the breaksides of the remaining waves, their laughter chiming like the bells of holidays past.
The empty quarter, the empty half, the empty outside of a full beaker… why are these the things he looks for?
Really, it is a most unusual occurrence when analyzed—a storm to set the scene, followed by a short battle between Apollo the sun-god and the sea-god, completed with a musical finale of two nymphs with laughter. Now, hasn't that been your typical evening on your everyday deserted beach?
Oh, yes, and add to the foregoing that evening isn't evening, but everlasting day, and that most beaches away from Sybernal, Pamyra, and Alesia are usually deserted, O expert on beaches.
All quite understandable, since Sybernal had twenty kilos of perfect beach, and Pamyra another ten. The normal tourist is rich and sedentary or poor and transportationless.
The twinge in his left leg reminds Martel that he has lost track of time. Again.
The wetness of the quick rain has begun to fade with the return of full daylight, and the scent of spring fades into the perpetual golden haze that lies across the sky. The regular beat of waves against the stone point resumes. Martel frowns, concentrates, and a short cloak of darkness flows from his shoulders. With quick steps he crosses the flat green-gray stone, his feet leaving no trace on the damp rock.
From the back of the small peninsula rises a cliff, the gray rock cleft in the middle. The cleft is filled with broken stone.
Each boulder is roughly as wide as the armspan of an average man. None is smaller than a small table, and no sand cushions the space between the rectangular blocks. The sides of the cleft are smooth, and the gray-striped stone is scarred with black lines.
Martel jumps from the top of the bottommost stone to the next one, zigzagging his way up the jumble toward the grassy plateau.
By the time he reaches the short golden grass, the flitter he senses in the distance, coming south from Sybernal, should arrive. Piloted by Rathe Firien.
Martel drops his shadow cloak even before his first step out onto the grass. Black enough for Rathe as he stands. Black trousers, tunic, belt, and boots. The old words rise into his thoughts and to his lips.
“Tell me now, if you can, What is human, what is man…”
He shakes his head, half aware that Rathe sees the gesture as she brings the flitter down, knowing also that she will not misinterpret, that she understands how he argues with himself.
Crooked in her left arm as she swings from the flitter is a wicker basket, the kind made by the Apollonite postulants for the tourist trade, and which would be called old-fashioned almost anywhere else in the Empire of Man. “Flitter?” he asks, still in full stride toward her. “Clinic's. Slow time now, and it has been for weeks. Maybe the Fuardian-Halston thing. Who knows?”
Rathe's red-silk hair is longer these days, covers her ears. With the length has come a slight wave, and a certain softness to her features.
She sets the basket on the grass. From the top she brings forth a thin cloth, which she shakes out and spreads on the ground. The basket then goes in the middle. Rathe seats herself cross-legged and motions. “I know you're restless, but since I've brought you the picnic dinner I don't deserve, at least sit down and enjoy it with me.”
“You don't deserve?” He sits down, not cross-legged but half lying on his left side. He props his head with his left hand and looks across the top of the basket at her freckled face.
“To have dinner with one of Aurore's top faxcasters? Of course I don't deserve. And if all the rich norm ladies knew where you hid when you're not at the CastCenter, I'd never see you.”
“Marta's blacked me.”
“Oh, that. As long as He hasn't, I wouldn't worry.” Martel caught the anxiety beneath the bantering tone, the darkness behind the forced smile. “You caught the special on the postulants?”
“No. But everyone's talking about it. Talking about how none of the other faxers are supposed to talk to you. I don't think it set well. Father H'Lerry is supposed to speak on it next service.”
Rathe pursed her lips, returned her attention to the basket, from which she pulled a bottle of Springfire and two tulip glasses.
“I hope he's generous,” Martel answers, forcing a chuckle that sounds hollow even to himself. He extends his arm for a glass. “Farell said it was on my head. Marta Farell, my dear supervisor.” How literally had Farell meant it? He blocks the thought automatically.
Rathe licks her lips, twice catches her lower lip with her upper teeth, worries it, stares down at her half-filled tulip glass.
Martel takes a small sip of the Springfire and waits. Rathe stares at the picnic basket. “You're worried.” She nods, without looking up. He can read exactly what she is thinking… not kind to the gods… shows them spoiled… Thor… who am I to say… Martel… “You're thinking that I was foolish to fax it?”
“Brave. And foolish. That's why I love you. For as long as I can.”
From inside the basket she pulls a small package and thrusts it at him.
“What?”
“Open it. Please.”
He sets his glass on a level spot in the short grass and avoids reading her thoughts so that the gift will be the surprise she intends.
The belt, for that is what it is, uncoils from the wrappings, with the softness and jet-black of natural wehrleather. The buckle is pure silver, a simple triangle, yet hard.
Martel frowns. The buckle alone, with its monalloyed silver, represents an enormous free credit balance. Neither is wehrleather native to Aurore or easy to come by.
He gets up and kneels on both knees to don the belt, looking down at it, admiring the way it feels and fits, and the shine of the buckle, neither muted nor too bright. “You look so good!”
“Thanks to you.” He grins, looking back down at the belt, then across to her. “Rathe…”
His fingertips brush hers, link, and grasp her hand, draw her across the cloth to him, against him.
Lips linger. A touch of salt, a warmth radiating from lip to cheek to…
Yes… no… not now… later… he liked it. Martel cradles her face in both hands as he releases her, runs his fingertips down the side of her face. “You didn't need to.”
“I know, but I wanted to.” Her eyes glisten even in the pervasive indirect light, and that alone tells him that she is pleased.
“I'm hungry,” he announces, not only to change the subject but because the sudden growl of his gut has reminded him that he is. “Ha! Your stomach spoke first.”
“I admit it. So what else is in the basket?”
“Sea duck and kelip.”
“Then serve, wench.”
“Yes, Masterfaxer. At once, sir.”
Rathe does not notice the dark cloud in the distance, toward the sacred mountain behind Pamyra. Martel sees the cloud, notes it, and concentrates on the sea duck. “Napkin?”
“At once, sir! Here you go.”
“More Springfire!”
Rathe arcs the bottle across the cloth at him, but he catches it without spilling a drop. Inhales deeply of the aroma, lets it mingle with the scent of Rathe and the pinsting of the sea below.
“The days of wine and youth Are days of love and truth…”
Martel listens to the song, to the feelings behind the words, and to the hidden harmony that Rathe does not know she brings to the short song. “Martel.” She stares at him.
He starts, realizing his cheeks are wet. “Must have gotten something in my eyes.” Martel, crying… see that?
The wonder in her thoughts leeches the emotion cleanly from him.
He picks up the tulip glass from the grass and takes a swig, a long pull to empty it.
The distant cloud is no closer, but darker. Suddenly it disappears, and a chill breeze swirls the picnic cloth and is gone, and with it goes the sense of summer. “We'd better go.” Rathe nods.
He folds the cloth while she puts the bottle and glasses away. Only crumbs from the sea duck and kelip remain, left for the shy dories, who will flutter down to feast once the flitter and the man and the woman have left.
* * *
XX
The myth of the “thousand ships” persists even in nontechnic cultures… As a practical matter, less than seven hundred possible instances of space colonization fall within the parameters outlined by Corenth… The implications of a power which could scatter a fleet of one thousand warships of advanced design obviously render the whole question moot and leave unanswered the source of an unverifiable panhumanoid myth…
—In Search of the Thousand Ships
Pier V. RonTaur
Alphene, II, 3123 a. a. t.
* * *
XXI
The white-tipped peak juts through the white carpet of clouds like an imperfect obelisk, evenly lit and evenly shadowed at the same time.
On the empty air, close enough to reach out and touch the impossibly knife-pointed tip of the mountain, sits a man clothed in a pale sunbeam-yellow tunic, leather sandals with the straps circling his crossed and perfect legs and ankles up to his knees, and wearing a crown of light that blurs his features.
Across the peak from him stands a dark and cloudy figure, combining both the blockiness of a Minotaur and the indistinctness of a thunderstorm.
At the third vertex of the imaginary triangle appears another figure, slender, tall, feminine, and ghostly, clad in white with long golden-blond hair flowing down her back.
Martel puts another foot forward, takes another step upward through the cotton clouds, through the indistinctness, knowing the three figures above await him. Step, step, step.
The fog swirls around him, parts in front of him, closes behind him. But it has no scent, no smell of salt and fish like sea fog, no smell of pine and rock like mountain fog, no sting of ice needles like arctic fog.
His head breaks through, and he steps clear of the fog, standing on nothing at all, to face the trio. “Slow, Martel,” observes Apollo.
The bull-god says nothing.
The golden goddess turns her head toward Apollo. Martel cannot see her eyes.
“Still… a slow demigod is better than no demigod.” Martel does nothing. Knows he should do something. Knows he does not know what he should do. He clenches his hands at his sides. “If I knew… if I only knew…”
“But you don't, Martel. And you never will, not unless you accept that you are a god. Then you'll understand. Then you'll be just like us.”
“Never! Never!”
Martel throws himself at the brilliance of the sun-god. “Martel! No!”
The scene dissolves around him. The white clouds flare red, fade into a backdrop of dark wood.
He is half lying, half sitting on his bed, sweat dripping off his forehead. His left hand is falling away from Rathe's forearm.
“You started talking in your sleep again, and you grabbed me. Hard. Screamed something about knowing, and never, never…” Her voice is filled with pain, as are her thoughts.
Martel sees the dampness on her cheeks and looks down at the arm she cradles, strangely crooked, resting below her bare and full breasts. The quilt is wound around her waist and legs still. Her arm is broken.
Control, Martel. When are you going to get control over yourself?
“Let me see.” He runs his fingers over her skin, letting his awareness build, realizing the damage is worse than Rathe knows—both bones, blood vessels, ripped muscles.
With a sudden jab at her thoughts, he takes them over, lets himself flow into her, trying to put her to sleep for what he has to do. Unlike the case with Gates Devero, this time he cares, and will spare Rathe the pain, if he can.
In slow motion, as she loses consciousness, the pictures and words float past him.
Item: “Pierce” and “gentle,” coupled with a black lamb frolicking across an unfenced clearing. The lamb jumps and does not land. In its place glares a black mountain ram, black lightning for horns. Item: A man dressed in black, standing silhouetted against the sea, wearing a cloak. The cloak whips around him, but there is no wind.
Item: Two bodies moving as one upon a bed. Item: A man lying in a hospital bed, asleep, face contorted, one hand bending the metal railing that rings the bed.
Item… item… item… item…
Martel breaks out of Rathe's thoughts, stares down at the freckles on the tear-streaked face, at the closed eyes still tight-tensed, at the smooth skin, the light nipples, the short red-silk hair.
His own cheeks are damp, he knows. He wipes the right side of his face with his upper right arm, still holding his unconscious lover, his unconscious greeter, and perhaps his unconscious conscience.
Gently he moves, stretches her out on the bed, concentrates on the arm, straightens it, using his perceptions, and gets the bone ends aligned. Now, kneeling beside the bed, he thinks, his thoughts reaching out to repair the damage he has wrought, trying to mend nerves, to touch the right cells in the right way to heal what has brought the pain and the tears. Time stands silent as he works. He is done.
And done, he lets go, feels himself sink toward the hard floor, exhausted. “Martel…”
A cool hand touches his face. Rathe's. “The arm? How are you?” The words burst forth even as he tries to uncurl from the stiff heap he has become. “Sore, but just a little.”
He heaves himself upward and sits on the edge of the bed next to her.
Rathe pulls the quilt over her breasts, leaving her shoulders bare, and turns to face him. “Kiss me.”
Warm lips, salty, and her eyelashes flutter against his closed eyes like butterflies.
Butterflies, but Aurore has no butterflies, and the glittermotes are no substitutes.
The quilt drops away as two bodies meet, hold… and hold.
Rathe sobs, buries her head against his shoulder, sobs once more, then again. Harder and quicker, the sad shudders mount.
Martel finds himself aroused, hard against her softness, her sadness. Finds himself angry at his arousal.
He takes her face, takes her lips, kisses her once, long, evenly, trying to add heat to the salty chill, draws her to him more tightly still.
After a time, her shudders subside, and another motion begins, which he joins. And joins. And joins again. After the joinings comes sleep.
He wakes first, leaves his arm around her, studies her body, from her full thighs through narrow waist to light-nippled and full breasts… smooth skin, creamy with the ubiquitous freckles of a true redhead. His eyes trace her features, the nose sharp enough for character but straight, the green eyes hidden under sleeping lids, the light eyebrows, the narrow lips that kiss so fully.
She smiles, sleeping, and the happiness lifts a corner of the darkness from him.
He thinks, finally reaches into her thoughts as narrowly as he can, makes a change, an adjustment.
After a time, she wakes. She smiles again, then frowns. Starts to pull the dark green quilt over her, then lets it drop.
“You like seeing me? You always have. Will you remember?”
“Remember?”
“Martel. Please. Be gentle. I'm not meant to sleep with gods. Not once we both know. I kept hoping you were just crazy, not divine. But you're not. It hurts too much to love you, and They'll just use me to hurt you. It's too hard…”
“I know.” He could feel the tears well up in his eyes again.
Why? Cried more in the last day than in my whole life…going
to pieces? “I know you know. But that won't stop you. It can't. But it doesn't matter.”
“What will you do?”
“Now that I don't have to be a greeter?” He nods. “I don't know. Maybe I won't change. Maybe I will. It's nice to have the choice.” He lies back, watches as she stands, still naked. Drinks in each movement as she dresses. Against the dark panels of the bedroom her skin lends her the air of a classical statue. Her pale green tunic all in place, she comes over to the bed and sits down next to him.
“In your own way, Rathe, dear, you're a goddess.”
“Remember me that way. And don't fix my memories.
“Broken arms need to be fixed, but I am what I remember.” He turns his face toward her, arms reaching to enfold her. She plants a quick kiss on his forehead and ducks away under his arms.
“Wouldn't be the same now.” She is gone through the portal. Martel lies propped on the bed for a time. Then he arises and heads to the ultrashower. He is scheduled for his usual night shift at the CastCenter, and lots of time for thought.
* * *
XXII
The sky outside the cottage grumbles. The room within is dark, dimmed by clouds, which are natural, and therefore rare. No artificial light, also rare on Aurore, or glittermotes, which are not, intrude. Though the corner where the vidfax is mounted gathers shadows, the man does not need light to see.
He touches the address studs, and his fingers ran through the combination with the effortlessness of habit. For he knows the pattern by heart.
By heart, he affirms.
His hand hovers near the contact plate, ready to break the connection when she does not answer.
“Greetings,” she says automatically, her eyes widening as she recognizes the caller on the screen. “Persistent, aren't you?”
“Yes,” he admits, drinking in her green eyes and warm face. “ 'Persistent', I suppose, is as good a word as any.”
He realizes her hair is longer now, as it could be after a standard year.
“Foolish, and blind, too,” she says and he can sense the bitterness. He waits.
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