by Tim Wirkus
That would certainly be the prudent course of action, but Sertôrian was sick to death of such caution. How had prudence, after all, benefitted her crew? Nearly all of them were dead now and if she were a betting woman she would not lay great odds on the survival of those who remained. If—and this was a big if—they made it off Rhadamanthus IX, it was only a matter of time before another backwater Minoan planet pulled them into its squabbling, deadly grasp. Their odds of returning home felt so remote that Sertôrian had a hard time seeing the downside of taking a chance on the Bulgakov Apparatus.
“I appreciate your concern,” said Sertôrian to Valenti, “but we’ll proceed as planned.”
Sertôrian stepped into the cage and pulled the door shut behind her. Valenti and de Bronk took several paces backward. Sertôrian slipped her arm through the straps of the harness and buckled the thick belt around her waist. When she had cinched the leg straps tight, the harness lifted Sertôrian until her feet dangled several feet above the ground. From the top of the dome, a small metal bowl, previously unnoticeable, descended and fitted itself to Sertôrian’s head. She looked down at her shipmates, who stared back up at her, their necks craned. The Apparatus began to hum, a steady liquid sound that under other circumstances might have been quite soothing.
The humming rose in pitch and the jellyfish membrane between the bars of the cage glowed pink and green. Sertôrian shifted in her harness, and all but three of the dome’s bars unfastened themselves from the base and lifted upward like the spokes of an umbrella. The jellyfish material remained in place, forming a ghostly dome. The humming grew louder, accompanied now by an industrial sucking from the holes in the base of the Apparatus.
Sertôrian felt an alarming hollowness spreading through her body and found that she couldn’t move her limbs. Up above her head, the raised bars began to spin, cutting through the air with a dangerous whistle. The feeling of hollowness grew more intense, permeating her bones. Sertôrian would have doubled over midair from the unpleasantness of it, but the movements of her body remained beyond her control. As the bars spun faster, the jellyfish membrane, now glowing a deep red, suddenly went limp and hung like a cloak around Sertôrian’s body. The hollowness inside her dissipated, replaced with a melting warmth, and Sertôrian could move again.
She looked up through the translucent material, which cycled frantically now from one color to the next, and saw the metal bars spinning faster and faster and faster, heard the sucking from below growing louder and louder and louder. The warm, melting feeling inside her grew less and less pleasant.
And then, with disturbing abruptness, everything stopped. The metal bars descended and refitted themselves to the now silent base. The jellyfish material expanded outward, reattaching itself to the bars of the cage. And the cables by which Sertôrian hung lowered her until her feet touched the floor. She tested her weight on her legs and discovered she could stand comfortably. Any strange feelings had dissipated the moment the device shut off. Unsure of how else to proceed, Sertôrian freed herself from the harness and stepped out of the cage. She closed the door behind her.
“Well,” said Sertôrian.
“Do you feel different at all?” said Valenti cautiously.
Briefly taking mental stock, Sertôrian shook her head. Valenti eyed her suspiciously.
“Nothing?” said de Bronk.
“Not that I can tell,” said Sertôrian.
But the Apparatus hadn’t finished. From the tiny holes in the base of the cage, a fleshy vapor arose, pouring out in greater and greater profusion until it filled the space inside the domed machine. The three shipmates watched in wonder as the meaty cloud touched the walls of the cage. The jellyfish substance glowed a rich purple, and the long metal bars once again unfixed themselves from the base and rose upward. The glowing purple membrane contracted around the cloud of vapor, and the metal bars spun with a wobbly kineticism.
“Is it broken?” said Valenti.
Before anyone could respond, arcs of electricity danced across the spinning bars with ear-numbing crackles. The jellyfish membrane contracted tighter and tighter, and the erratic spinning of the bars set the Apparatus wobbling on its base.
De Bronk fell to the ground, facedown, hands covering his neck. Valenti followed suit. Sertôrian remained standing, unable to look away from the spectacle before her. The noise grew even more terrible, the sparks even more frightful, and Sertôrian considered dropping to the ground next to her shipmates. Just as she began to crouch down, though, the Apparatus fell silent with a heavy mechanical sigh. The metal bars descended to re-form a dome and the glowing membrane ballooned back out to meet them. The mist inside the machine was gone. Everything had returned to normal, except that now a woman hung from the harness inside the cage.
Sertôrian stood and nudged her prone shipmates with her toe. She told them it was safe to get up, and they rose to their feet. When they saw the woman hanging from the harness inside the cage, they approached the Apparatus with awed trepidation. Sertôrian followed close behind. Though the woman’s eyes were closed, her chest rose and fell with vital regularity. She seemed to be alive.
The presence of a previously nonexistent woman was, in itself, remarkable enough. But that alone was not the most striking aspect of this apparition.
“It’s you,” said de Bronk, turning to face Sertôrian. “It’s a copy of you.”
Indeed, the woman bore a strong resemblance to Captain Irena Sertôrian—the same lean, athletic build; the same dark hair and coppery skin; the same strong jawline; and on her face, the same expression, manifest even in repose, of flinty competence.
“It’s you,” repeated de Bronk, this time urgently.
Mouth agape, eyes on the woman in the harness, Valenti nodded in confirmation.
“It’s not,” said Sertôrian, already moving to the door of the cage. “Look again.”
A closer look revealed a smattering of subtle physical differences between the woman and Sertôrian—a wider set to the woman’s mouth; thicker, more dramatic eyebrows; streaks of gray in her hair; and altogether a slightly older appearance.
De Bronk said, “Then what—”
“It’s Rosa,” said Sertôrian, fumbling with the hasp of the door. “It’s my sister.”
TEN
A person might keep a secret for any number of reasons—shame, self-preservation, caution, generosity—but no matter how base or elevated the motives, secrets corrode their keepers. They’re potent things, secrets are, and by sad experience I’ve come to know how the decades-long concealment of a certain truth can nibble and gnaw at the iron girders of the soul until rust threatens to consume the entire structure. I often wonder if the maintenance of such secrecy represents a strength or a weakness of character, but that might be the wrong question entirely.
With cryptic rigor, Irena Sertôrian kept secret her views on the afterlife. Nowhere in her writings, her sermons, or her Four Shrouded Visions does she endorse or oppose the possibility of a life after this one. Articulating a view held by many scholars and lay believers alike, Vladimir Petrokoff, in his Visions of the Eternal: Irena Sertôrian’s Silent Eschatology, argues that such silence represents a tacit approval of status quo religious beliefs held by citizens of the Lachesian Empire in Sertôrian’s day, a more or less bifurcating afterlife in which worthy souls enjoy an eternity dwelling in paradise while the wicked are consigned to a realm of endless torment. If there were no afterlife, argues Petrokoff, then it would have been incumbent on Sertôrian to say so. Silence, then, can be taken as confirmation of Lachesian beliefs regarding the hereafter, and no significant mystery exists.
I say nonsense. I know a secret when I see one, and Sertôrian’s absolute silence on the possibility of an afterlife fits the bill. Such a spotless omission suggests not a lazy endorsement of prevailing beliefs but a vigorous preemptive scrubbing of any trace of the idea from her public discourse.
&
nbsp; But why the compulsive vigilance? For a compelling theory, we need look no further than the Rhadamanthus IX narrative.
It’s a testament to the story’s unpopularity that as I reviewed the key scholarly literature on Sertôrian and the hereafter over the past few days, I found nothing—nothing!—that considers the uncanny fruit of the Bulgakov Apparatus as a possible contributing factor to Sertôrian’s reticence on the subject. As we’ll see to an even greater degree as the Rhadamanthus IX narrative progresses toward its finale, no rational person could argue that Sertôrian’s silence on all things eschatological could arise from apathy.
Earlier this evening, I was holding forth on this very topic to Sister Beatriz. We sat at a metal folding table in the calefactory playing two-handed oubliette, the most popular game on Hermes VII, Sister Beatriz’s home planet. She taught me how to play it on our first rest day as postulants, and we’ve had a standing appointment every Steladay evening since. We both know the game so well by this point—the rules, the odds, the favored strategies of the other player—that any given round holds little suspense for either of us. Our back-and-forth gambits with the well-worn cards have become an amicable ritual, the gestures, the objects, and the sequence of play sacralizing and cementing our friendship. With our hands and certain portions of our brain pleasantly occupied with the tasks of the game, we devote our remaining attentions to airing and discussing the week’s grievances and triumphs.
Such was the case this evening. I was working myself into a fine, righteous lather on the topic of Sertôrian’s eschatology when Sister Beatriz, normally such a patient listener, cut me off mid-sentence.
“Excuse me?” I said. So unexpected was her interruption that her words flew straight past my ears.
“I said I have a question for you.”
The holo-fire crackled in the hearth. At the other end of the calefactory, Sister Greta, a youngish cenobite who specializes in astronomy, manipulated a three-dimensional scale model of the Orpheus System with her magno-wand, completely absorbed in her task. Otherwise, we had the room to ourselves.
“You think my reasoning is unsound?” I said.
“No,” she said. “It’s nothing to do with that.” She executed a neat waterfall with the impossible-to-shuffle round oubliette cards and dealt a new hand. Eyes still on the cards, she said, “Do you think there’s an afterlife?”
From time to time, when my musings ratchet up into heated diatribes, Sister Beatriz will respond with a well-crafted question that nudges me toward an alternate perspective or an oversight in my thinking. She’s a firm believer in this type of dialogue, though I often wish she would just come out with what she has to say rather than shepherding me toward it like a beleaguered work dog.
But this query about the afterlife was not like that. No, there was a plaintive quality to it, a distinct vulnerability opening up in its wake.
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I reminded Sister Beatriz that among Sertôrian’s followers, various conceptions of the afterlife exist. While nearly all versions agree that the soul, once it’s in the afterlife, will live on forever, dissent exists regarding whether the respective punishments and rewards will also be eternal. Many believe that once the soul has suffered sufficiently, it will be released from its hell and allowed into paradise. Others argue that this would be a travesty of justice.
But that, I said to Sister Beatriz, was only one of numerous debates surrounding the afterlife. Other topics of speculation include what form the eternal soul will take—corporeal? spiritual? recognizably human? And then there’s the question of the Infinite Eremites. Will we encounter them in the afterlife? Or do they occupy a separate plane of existence altogether? As this question requires a grafting of Sertôrial cosmology onto ancient eschatology, searching for an answer with any degree of scholarly rigor proves nearly impossible.
Of course, I said, hundreds, even thousands, of smaller debates, questions, and theories exist, but those ideas I’ve mentioned constitute the key features of the afterlife as envisioned by followers of Sertôrian.
I also reminded Sister Beatriz that not all of Sertôrian’s disciples believe in a hereafter. Some argue that Sertôrian’s silence on the topic reflects the post-mortal oblivion that awaits us all, but that this should not be cause for despair. They argue that a finite human existence renders the teachings of Sertôrian, as well as her visions, all the more significant—a major implication of death’s finality being that life is a precious, rare commodity that should always be treated as such. Though they have the textual support—or rather, the strength of textual absence—on their side, their position remains perennially unpopular.
“That’s an impressive abstract of the field,” said Sister Beatriz, laying a card down on the table. “But what do you believe?”
I played the three of knives to her three of spoons and thought for a moment.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I suppose I’m something of an agnostic on the question.”
“Do you like the idea, though?” she said. “Of an afterlife, I mean.”
Sister Beatriz played the three of forks and I laid down the seven. At the other end of the room, Sister Greta muttered an angry string of words in her native tongue and erased a long thread of calculations with her magno-wand.
“The notion of hell frightens me,” I said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to end up there, if it exists. I’ve striven to live an ethical life, but who knows?”
“But if you avoided hell?”
These questions were beginning to irritate me, and I wasn’t sure why.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, pretending to examine my cards.
Sister Beatriz tossed the ten of forks onto the table.
“Do you find any comfort in the possibility of a post-mortal paradise?” she said.
“Don’t you?” I said, laying down the hound of forks.
Sister Beatriz leaned over and turned down the volume on the crackling holo-fire. Then she played the thief of forks and took the trick. I dealt a new hand.
“The more seriously I contemplate death,” Sister Beatriz said, “the more terrifying I find the prospect of a life after this one.”
“Terrifying?” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve come to realize that for me to be happy in the afterlife”—she ran her finger along the round edges of her card—“for me to be truly happy . . . Well . . . Certain elements would have to be in place.”
“Like what?” I asked. She had my full attention now, and I waited for her to answer with a nervous jangling in my chest.
“Well.” She opened the trick with a jailer’s double: the ace of spoons and the map of knives. She looked up at me in triumph. “Care to redact your bid?”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said, though it was clear to both of us that she would now, in all likelihood, take the trick. It didn’t matter; our conversation had decisively trumped my interest in the game. I knew what I wanted Sister Beatriz to say about the afterlife—something I’d thought myself on many occasions—but I didn’t dare believe she might say it. As casually as possible, as if I wasn’t aching to hear what she said next, I played a prisoner’s delight—the ace of knives and the hound of forks. Sister Beatriz responded with the deuce and the ten of spoons.
“So?” I said, finding it increasingly difficult to feign disinterest.
“I just played a digger’s double,” she said. “It’s your turn.”
“I know that,” I said. “But you haven’t answered my question.”
Her bottom lip shrugged upward.
At the other end of the room, Sister Greta, still engrossed in her three-dimensional map, uttered a relieved “of course,” and scribbled furiously in the air above the ghostly planets before her.
“I don’t know,” said Sister Beatriz. “It’s not . . .”
She turned and stared into the holo-fire
.
Turning back to look at me, she said, “You do understand what I mean, though, don’t you? Aren’t there certain things that would have to be true about paradise for you to be happy there?”
I laid down a pair of moons, not meeting Sister Beatriz’s eyes.
“I suppose so,” I said. “If paradise does exist, though, I imagine I’d be happy there.”
“But would you be happy there no matter what?” she said. “The trick’s yours, by the way—well done.” She pushed the cards toward me, and I gathered them into my pile.
“If it’s paradise,” I said, “by definition I think I’d have to be happy.”
“Really?” she said. “No matter what it’s like?”
Did I detect a pleading strain in her voice, or was that just wishful thinking?
“Well, if it’s paradise,” I said.
Sister Beatriz turned in her chair, her gaze resting on the wide map of the Hyperion System that hangs on the wall of the calefactory. She was rarely like this, rarely so at a loss for words. Without looking at me, she said, “But what if you couldn’t be . . .”
The light of the holo-fire flickered across her face.
“Couldn’t be what?” I said, my heart pounding.
A shake of the head and she turned back to look at me.
“I don’t know. Forget it,” she said. “I can’t think of a good example of what I mean.”
I leaned back in my chair, not wanting to betray my acute desire to know what she’d wanted to say. Sister Beatriz dealt a new hand.
“Are you sure?” I said, unwilling to let it go so easily. “Because it seemed like you might have had something specific in mind.”
“Well, I didn’t,” she said. “It’s your turn.”