The Last Days of Krypton

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Some time later, almost like a consolation prize, his stylus drifted into reach. Jor-El grasped it, not knowing what might eventually become useful.

  He had no way to measure how much time had passed. He calmed himself and turned his mind to the challenge rather than succumbing to panic. Normally, when faced with an insurmountable problem, Jor-El would have used his best calculating devices, worked with endless strings of equations, and followed his mathematics to often startling conclusions. Here, though, he had only his mind. Fortunately for Jor-El, his mind was enough. Time to think!

  He applied himself to the physical explanation of this hole in space, trying to learn how he had been transported here and why he couldn’t simply step back out. Once created, the portal would be self-sustaining; he doubted he could close it if he wanted to. He pondered the resonances in his crystal control array, the coherent beams of red sunlight and the quicksilver parabolas, until he devised a technique that just might work to get him out of there. But from this side of the barrier, Jor-El was completely helpless. He needed someone to help him from the opposite side.

  Then, as he stared out into the laboratory, he spotted a face, a beautiful face like that of an ethereal dryad. Her lips moved, but he could not make out her words through the barrier. When Jor-El shouted back at her, she clearly couldn’t hear him either. They were cut off from each other, separated by a gap between universes.

  Jor-El thought he recognized the young woman, having seen her once or twice outside. Yes, she was with the muralists he had invited to embellish the structures on his estate. Maybe she would think to call for help—but who could help him? No one else, except possibly Zor-El, would understand his apparatus or what he had done. But it would take his brother days to arrive from Argo City.

  The young woman paced in his field of view, deep in thought. Jor-El found it maddening that he had concocted a possible solution, yet was unable to communicate it to her. If he could just get the young woman to reverse the polarity on the central crystals, he might be dumped back out. But Jor-El didn’t know how to tell her this.

  Demonstrating amazing patience, the woman cleared her sketchplate and began to write down the Kryptonian alphabet. He quickly grasped what she was doing. It would be a slow process, but since she could see his face, she would have him spell out words one symbol at a time.

  Jor-El clung to a thread of hope and began to compose his message.

  Lara stored her drawings in her sketchplate, cleared the screen, and got to work on the problem. At first she scribed questions that he could answer with a simple nod or shake of his head. Was he in trouble? Yes. Was he in pain? No. Was he in immediate danger? A hesitation, then no. Did he want her to help him? Yes. Did he know how to get back out? A pause, then yes.

  Soon it became obvious that she wouldn’t gather enough information this way. Finally, tapping one letter at a time with the stylus and waiting for him to choose, she painstakingly picked out his message.

  Reverse Polarity.

  Master Crystal.

  Main Array.

  With a look of consternation, Lara wrote, What is the main array? and What is a master crystal? and How do I reverse the polarity? But she could get only one question answered at a time.

  It was often said that Jor-El spoke of things incomprehensible to the average Kryptonian. He created a gulf between himself and the majority of citizens, who were perfectly content to accept the status quo. By the time she spelled out his equally incomprehensible second answer, she still didn’t know what to do.

  Experimental Hub.

  Solar Focusing Grid.

  In Lab.

  Lara looked around, but the whole chamber was full of exotic equipment, none of which made any sense to her. Which question was he answering? She found a great many crystalline panels, glowing arrays, humming equipment. At last she decided to do what she did best, a form of communication that didn’t depend on mathematics or technical terms.

  Lara used quick strokes of her stylus to sketch everything in the chamber. Again, through the meticulous process, she lifted the plate into his field of view and showed him the images. By pointing to each apparatus with the stylus, she gradually narrowed down what he was talking about.

  At last, precisely following Jor-El’s instructions (as she understood them), she located the set of controlling crystals. Jor-El grew obviously tense, but Lara felt only excitement. She wondered if the poor man was beginning to doubt his own theory, but she strangely had no such reservations. She believed in him.

  Lara selected what he had called the “master crystal,” which glowed a bright emerald green. When she slid it out of its socket, the crystal’s light died away; she turned it around and reinserted the opposite end.

  Suddenly, the glassy shaft glowed a bright scarlet. The hovering silvery rings that framed the dimensional hole began to spin like thin, razor-edged wheels, then flipped over, reversed position—

  —and ejected Jor-El headfirst from the other universe. Sprawling onto the floor where he had fallen, he brushed off his ser viceable white pants and tunic—which were unstained from his ordeal—and shook his head to clear it.

  She ran to him, took his trembling arm, and helped him to his feet. “Jor-El! Are you all right?”

  He could barely find words to speak. At first he flushed, then grinned. “What a fascinating experience.” When he looked at her, his blue eyes sparkling, he seemed to see more of Lara than anyone else ever had. “You saved my life. More than that, you saved me from being trapped forever in that…Phantom Zone.”

  She held out her hand. “My name is Lara. Sorry for the unorthodox way of making your acquaintance.” She decided to wait awhile before asking his permission to paint the twelve obelisks.

  CHAPTER 3

  Rao’s turbulent storm created a silent light show of auroras that night. Colorful, ethereal curtains spilled across Krypton’s sky.

  Since she had been his rescuer, Jor-El invited Lara to dine with him out on the balcony of the manor house. This gesture of gratitude was not a mere formality; it was the right thing to do. He had laughed when her parents apologized because their brash daughter had disturbed his work. If Lara hadn’t interrupted him in his laboratory, who knew how long he might have been trapped in that empty place? He very much wanted to have dinner with her, and to get to know her better.

  Now the two of them sat together in the warm, calm night, eating from many small plates, each of which contained a savory delicacy. Jor-El was something of a loner, not much for casual talk, but conversation with Lara proved to be surprisingly easy.

  Using a dainty pearl-tipped prong, she picked up a spiced morsel of eggfruit from a gilt-edged plate, leaving the last piece for him. “When I’ve attended fancy banquets in Kandor, the food is usually so lovely that the taste can’t possibly live up to its presentation.” She removed the lid from a small enameled pot, drawing a deep breath of the warm peppery steam that rose from stewed fleshy leaves wrapped around edible skewers. “This, though, is all delicious.”

  “I instructed my chef, Fro-Da, to prepare a special meal, but I don’t usually pay much attention to eating. Too busy with other things.” With his fingers he took a small triangular patty. He had no idea what sort of meat it was or what ingredients Fro-Da had put into the sauce. “I’ve been to banquets where the dinner is more of a performance than a meal.”

  Lara brightened. “Nothing wrong with a performance, if that’s what you’re looking for. I enjoy the levitating ballets of Borga City and Kandor’s opera tapestries, but when I’m hungry, I just want to eat.” They both laughed.

  As if eavesdropping on their conversation, the portly chef arrived and presented the colorful dessert course with a minimum of fanfare. “We allow our food to be a celebration of itself,” said Fro-Da. Jor-El tried to thank him, but the chef disappeared along with a flurry of helpers who cleared away the dishes.

  The two of them looked up into a dark sky suffused with pastel colors. In previous years, Jor-El h
ad designed and constructed four telescopes of various apertures on the rooftops of his buildings. Though the Council would never “waste time” staring into the heavens, Jor-El had taken it upon himself to produce a detailed sky survey. He gazed at the stars, cataloguing the different types, searching for the other planets he knew were out there. He could not travel to those amazing worlds, but at least he could look. Perhaps later he would show Lara some of the distant marvels through his largest telescope. But for right now, he was having a surprisingly pleasant time just sitting here.

  Prominent overhead hung the remnants of Koron, one of Krypton’s three moons and once the home of a thriving sister civilization. No Kryptonian could look into the sky without feeling the poignant loss. Jor-El mused as he followed Lara’s gaze, “Have you ever tried to imagine how much power it would take to destroy an entire moon? What kind of science was behind it?”

  “Science? Science wasn’t responsible for all that death and destruction—Jax-Ur was. I’ve read about that tyrant in the epic cycles. No single person has changed Krypton’s history more.”

  Jor-El was startled by the vehemence of her reaction. Lara certainly wasn’t afraid to state her own opinion. He’d merely been interested in deciphering the physics behind the astonishing weapons. Nova javelins, they’d been called. What sort of device could crack open the core of a world and cause such inconceivable destruction?

  More than a thousand years ago, Jax-Ur had attempted to conquer all of Krypton, as well as the other colonized planets and satellites in the solar system. The people of Koron had refused to bow to him, so the warlord threatened to use his doomsday weapons. When they still refused to capitulate, Jax-Ur launched three nova javelins. After the weapons had shattered the whole moon, the warlord revealed that he had at least fifteen more in a hidden stockpile.

  But Jax-Ur had spread his forces too thin; his conquests were too swift and too widely separated. Seven rebel generals gathered desperate armies from independent city-states that had survived the warlord’s depredations. The seven armies converged at the great river delta in the Valley of Elders, risking everything to defeat Jax-Ur. One of the warlord’s trusted advisers betrayed him—whether for noble reasons or just to save his own life, no one was sure. The traitor poisoned Jax-Ur before he could launch more of his weapons, and the despised warlord died without revealing where his stockpile was hidden.

  Jor-El let his imagination roam. “If I could find one of those nova javelins, I could determine how it worked.”

  “Let’s hope nobody ever discovers that stockpile. No one should have access to such weapons. That’s why dangerous technology is forbidden on Krypton.”

  He gave her a wan smile. “Oh, yes, I know that too well. I have butted heads many times with the Commission for Technology Acceptance.”

  After the defeat of Jax-Ur, the leaders of the seven armies established a long-standing peace, and Kryptonians turned their attention to other ways they could salvage their civilization. Since Jax-Ur had learned how to build his nova javelins from an alien visitor, the leaders of Krypton chose to block themselves off from any outside influence. The Seven Army Conference had banned all interstellar travel, all contact with potentially destructive races, and all dangerous technologies.

  Lara stared up at the shattered moon. “I loved reading the historical cycles. In those days every life was part of an epic. Kryptonians had passions and dreams.”

  Jor-El could not entirely veil his sarcasm. “But now the Council says we have everything we can possibly need and should be content. No new discoveries. No progress.”

  Her thin eyebrows drew together, making a gentle furrow on her forehead. Her green eyes had the most amazing sparkle. She seemed so very alive. “But if we don’t aspire to improve ourselves, it removes the zest from life.”

  Jor-El looked at her and smiled. “I couldn’t have said that better myself. I’m hungry for all different kinds of science—physics, chemistry, architecture, optics. Astronomy is my main passion.”

  Lara touched her fingertips to his arm, startling him. “Look at us—an artist and a scientist. At first glance we seem completely different, yet we’re more alike than I could have guessed. My parents want me to specialize in mural painting, like they do, but I also love music, history, epic cycles. I don’t want to be locked into only one area of expertise.”

  “Yes, I understand. Well, not those things, specifically. I’ve never been able to figure out tone symphonies or opera tapestries. Clinically, I recognize that they require significant work and imagination, and a certain level of skill. However, I can’t help but scratch my head and wonder what it all means.”

  Her laughter was like music. “Ha! Now you know how most people feel about your science. It’s all a mystery to them.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “You don’t know this, Jor-El, but I insisted on participating in this project with my parents because of you. You’ve always fascinated me—you and what you represent. I wanted to be where real history is taking place.”

  “History?”

  “History isn’t always old legends or records. History is being created every day, and you’re creating more of it than any Kryptonian alive. You may well be the greatest genius ever born on this planet.”

  Jor-El had heard such things before, but always discounted them. Now he felt embarrassed to have her say it. She laughed softly when she saw him blush.

  He quickly pointed up at the sky. “Look, the meteors are about to start.” He was too shy to look at her, but he knew she was staring at him with that warm expression on her face. Each month as the moon’s rubble orbited Krypton, gravity tugged at the debris. Fireworks streaked across the night sky, radiating from Koron as if the moon were still exploding.

  Lara was captivated as the shower intensified. Streak after streak, meteors scratched like bright fingernails across the sky. Shooting stars flared out, then vanished. “I’ve never seen so many.”

  “That’s the advantage of living outside the city where the skies are dark. In Kandor, the bright lights make it impossible to see most of the meteors. The trails are made by ionized gas caused by the frictional heating of—”

  She brought his words to a halt with more laughter. He couldn’t understand what was funny, but Lara continued to grin. “Sometimes, Jor-El, a scientific explanation serves only to dilute beauty. Just watch and enjoy it.”

  Sitting close to her, he forced himself to lean back and stare at the night. “For you, I’ll try.” He did indeed see the beauty of the meteor shower for its own sake, and he felt a surprising elation to be watching it with her.

  While Lara continued to marvel at the particularly bright bolides, Jor-El’s thoughts wandered back to the Phantom Zone. Even under such pleasant circumstances he couldn’t stop his scientific mind from working. He had created a hole to another dimension, though it wasn’t what he had expected. Not a doorway to wondrous new worlds, but a trap. He had hoped to venture into numerous parallel universes, but now he could see no benefit to that empty place where he’d been trapped alone and adrift. Before the Commission for Technology Acceptance allowed him to keep such a discovery, he would have to demonstrate some incontrovertibly practical application.

  When the meteor show had died down, Lara stretched. “It’s late.” Jor-El realized that the sparkling rubble of Koron was close to the western horizon; he had been lost in thought for a long time. “Thank you, Jor-El, it’s been an unforgettable evening.”

  “An unforgettable day. And tomorrow I will take the Phantom Zone to Kandor.” He stood to lead her back toward the guest quarters where her parents, younger brother, and all the artist apprentices were staying. “I need to meet with Commissioner Zod.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Kandor’s grand stadium was a perfect ellipse with high walls, colonnades, and stately arches. All strata of Kryptonian society attended the spectacular hrakka races, sitting shoulder to shoulder in seats carved from polished bloodstone.

&
nbsp; Pennants bearing the crests of Krypton’s prominent noble families adorned the parapets of the grand stadium, and the spectators sat within section boundaries so they could cheer for their favorite charioteers. They whistled and shouted for whichever racing teams they considered to be the most exciting, and their fickle attentions changed throughout the course of the competition.

  Veinrock stairs crusted with crystal dust led from one seating level to another like stone waterfalls. Prominent, private boxes were reserved for special viewers. The eleven members of the Kryptonian Council sat in the middle tiers with the best view. Below, the tan gravel of the track had been raked smooth for the beasts to run on when they emerged.

  Commissioner Dru-Zod found the event both uncomfortable and uninteresting. The ruddy afternoon sunlight was too bright, too hot. Though ventilation systems dispersed cool air into his viewing stand, Zod still felt sweaty. Outside, the environment was too difficult to control, and he didn’t like things out of his control. The stands were overcrowded, and he could smell the teeming populace even from his private box.

  Nevertheless, the Commissioner pretended to be enjoying himself. Leadership was all about appearances. The great hrakka races were a cultural event, a circus thrill for people who had nothing important to accomplish. Zod had plenty of more important things to do, but he couldn’t accomplish them unless he played to the expectations of the people. Everyone in the capital city gathered for this monthly spectacle. It kept them happy. It kept them calm. It kept them under control.

  Zod’s designated box was located in a dustier tier, two levels below the elaborate private boxes of the Council members, where the view wasn’t as good, but Zod didn’t care a whit for the spectacle. Since he supervised the Commission for Technology Acceptance, the eleven-member Council considered his position to be subordinate to their own. They thought that Zod happily did their bidding. They were fools. The smile on his face was perfect; neatly barbered dark hair and a trim beard and mustache gave him a distinguished appearance.