The Fall of Tartarus

by Eric Brown

  * * * *

  The Fall of Tartarus

  By Eric Brown

  Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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  Acknowledgements

  ‘Destiny on Tartarus’ Spectrum SF 2, 2000

  ‘A Prayer for the Dead’ Interzone 96,1995

  ‘The Eschatarium at Lyssia’ Interzone 122,1997

  ‘The Ultimate Sacrifice’ Spectrum SF 4, 2000

  ‘The People of the Nova’ Interzone 150,1999

  ‘Vulpheous’ Interzone 129,1998

  ‘Hunting the Slarque’ Interzone 141,1999

  ‘Dark Calvary’ SF Age, January, 1999

  I’d like to thank the editors of the magazines where these stories first appeared: Scott Edelman, Paul Fraser and David Pringle.

  * * * *

  Contents

  Destiny on Tartarus

  A Prayer for the Dead

  The Eschatarium at Lyssia

  The Ultimate Sacrifice

  The People of the Nova

  Vulpheous

  Hunting the Slarque

  Dark Calvary

  * * * *

  Destiny on Tartarus

  I

  ’d heard many a tale about Tartarus Major, how certain continents were technological backwaters five hundred years behind the times; how the Church governed half the planet with a fist of iron, and yet how, across scattered islands and sequestered lands, a thousand bizarre and heretic cults prospered too. I’d heard how a lone traveller was hardly safe upon the planet’s surface, prey to wild animals and cut-throats. Most of all I’d heard that, in two hundred years, Tartarus would be annihilated when its sun exploded in the magnificent stellar suicide of a supernova.

  It was hardly the planet on which to spend a year of one’s youth, and many friends had tried to warn me off the trip. But I was at that age when high adventure would provide an exciting contrast to the easy life I had lived so far. Besides, I had a valid reason for visiting Tartarus, a mission no degree of risk could forestall.

  I made the journey from Earth aboard a hyperlight sailship like any other that plied the lanes between the Thousand Worlds. The spaceport at Baudelaire resembled the one I had left at Athens four days earlier: a forest of masts in which the sails of the ships were florid blooms in a hundred pastel shades, contrasting with the stark geometry of the monitoring towers and stabilising gantries. The port was the planet’s only concession to the modern day, though. Beyond, a hurly-burly anarchy reigned, which to my pampered sensibilities seemed positively medieval. In my naivety I had expected a rustic atmosphere, sedate and unhurried.

  The truth, when I stepped from the port and into the streets of the capital city, was a rude awakening. Without mechanised transport, the by-ways were thronged with hurrying pedestrians and carts drawn by the local bovine-equivalent; without baffles to dampen the noise, the city was a cacophony of clashing sounds: the constant din of shouted conversation, the cries of vendors, the lowing moans of draught-animals. The streets were without the directional lasers in various colours to guide one’s way, without sliding walkways, and even without airborne deodorants to combat the more noisome odours, in this case the miasma of unwashed bodies and animal excreta. My horror must have been evident as I stood transfixed before the gates of the spaceport.

  A stranger at my side, a tall man in Terran dress - seemingly he too had just arrived on Tartarus - caught my eye and smiled.

  ‘My fifth time on this hell-hole,’ he said, ‘and still my first reaction to the place is shock.’ He mopped the sweat from his brow and turned to a street-vendor selling cooled juices from a cart. He signalled for one, then glanced at me. ‘Care to join me? I can recommend them - an antidote to this heat.’

  I decided that a cool refreshment would go down very well before I sought my hotel. The vendor set about blending the drinks in a shaker.

  ‘First time on Tartarus?’ the stranger asked.

  ‘My very first,’ I said.

  ‘You’ll get used to it - you might even come to love the place. I’d advise you to get out of the city. The beauty of Tartarus is in the deserted wilds. The planet at sunset is something magical.’ He stared across the street, at the great swollen orb of the orange sun setting behind a skyline of three-storey wooden buildings.

  The vendor passed us two tall mugs. ‘Three lek, three lek,’ he said, pointing to each of us.

  ‘Allow me,’ the stranger said. From his coat pocket he withdrew a credit chip and proffered it to the vendor.

  The vendor was arguing. ‘No credit chip! Only coins!’

  ‘But I have no coins, or for that matter notes, until I find a bank.’ The stranger looked embarrassed.

  The vendor waved away the stranger’s credit chip and transferred his attention to me. ‘You - coins. Six lek.’

  ‘Allow me to pay for these,’ I said. I looked around for somewhere to deposit the mugs while I found my money pouch.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said.

  He saw the difficulty I was having and, before I could pass him the mugs, reached towards my pocket. ‘Do you mind? Please, allow me,’ he said. ‘This one?’

  I nodded, turning so that he could take the pouch from my coat pocket. He opened the drawstrings and withdrew six lek, paid the vendor and then returned the pouch to my pocket.

  The transaction accomplished, the vendor pushed his cart away.

  I took a long draught of the delicious juice, like no concoction I had ever tasted. ‘Do you know the planet well?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve spent a couple of years on Tartarus,’ he said. ‘Let’s say that I have a traveller’s knowledge of the place. Buzatti, by the way.’

  ‘Sinclair,’ I said. ‘Sinclair Singer.’

  He drained his mug and dropped it into the gutter, and I did the same. ‘If you’re dining tonight,’ Buzatti said, ‘perhaps I could return the compliment? I’m staying at the Rising Sun, along Bergamot Walk. How about dinner? Around nine?’

  I told him I would be delighted, and took his proffered hand. ‘Around nine it is,’ I said.

  ‘Till then.’ He saluted, turned, and was soon lost to sight in the crowd flowing down the street.

  I found a rickshaw - or rather a rickshaw driver found me - and I gave as my destination the Imperial Hotel. As I sat back in the padded seat and was ferried swiftly down the surging stream of packed humanity, I felt gladdened by my chance encounter. My major fear had been to be alone in the alien city; now I had an urbane dining companion, and one who was familiar with this strange world.

  My optimism rose still further when the Imperial Hotel turned out to be an old, ivied building set back from the street in its own placid lawns. I paid the driver in the units I had used aboard the sailship, as he had no machine with which to take my chip. Then I dismounted, hauled my travelling bag up the wide steps, and entered the cool foyer.

  I had had the foresight to book a room from Earth, via the shipping agency. I gave my name to the clerk. ‘Three nights, Mr Singer . . . That will be three hundred shellings, please.’

  I pulled my money bag from the pocket of my coat and withdrew a bundle of notes, which I proffered to the clerk. He frowned at the wad in my outstretched hand.

  ‘Is there some problem?’ I asked.

  ‘Indeed there is,’ he said, taking the notes and laying them upon the counter. ‘Behold, they are worthless scraps of paper - not even competent forgeries!’

  ‘But that’s impossible!’ I cried. ‘I exchanged my Terran notes for Tartarean currency at the bank in the port! They would never have robbed—’

  ‘Then someone else has taken the liberty,’ he said.

  I recalled that Buzatti had helped me with my money bag. Only he might have robbed me of my life
savings! I very nearly collapsed, overcome with despair at what I might do now, and self-loathing that I had been such a fool.

  Buzatti had given me the name of his hotel. ‘Do you know if there is a hotel on Bergamot Walk called the Rising Sun?’ I asked.

  The clerk frowned at me. ‘No hotel of that name exists,’ he replied.

  I told him that I would book a room for one night, and paid for it with the spare notes I had in my trouser pocket.

  He completed various forms and handed me the key. ‘And I’d contact the police if I were you, sir.’

  In a daze I made my way to the elevator and rode to the third floor. Once in my room I dropped my bag, slammed the door and sat on the bed, disconsolate at the prospect of an early end to my quest.

  The famous night lights of Tartarus were flickering in the southern sky, a writhing aurora that danced on the horizon like the flames of hell. I stared through the window, the beauty of the spectacle and the skyline of the city in silhouette serving to remind me of how little time I would now be spending here.

  My mind in a limbo of uncertainty, I sorted through my bag and found the persona-cube. I carried it onto the balcony, placed it on the table, and sat with my feet lodged on the balcony rail. I was loath to activate the device; at this juncture my self-esteem was at a low ebb, without it being drained any further.

  I pulled the cube towards me. On impulse my fingertips found the press-panel. In truth, I was lonely and in need of company - even the dubious company provided by the persona contained within the cube.

  A sylvan scene appeared in the heart of the crystal: a vista of trees, a summer’s day, the wind soughing through the foliage with a sound like the crashing of surf.

  A figure strolled into view, emerging from between the rows of trees and approaching the front plane of the cube. The image magnified, so that the tall, broad-shouldered figure filled the scene. It had been a while since I had last sought his company. I felt a constriction in my throat at the sight of him, a strange anxiety that visited me whenever I was in his presence - compounded this time by what I had to tell him.

  Was it a measure of my lack of self-confidence that I felt I had to ask his advice at the risk of earning his opprobrium?

  ‘Father . . .’

  Alerted to my presence, he smiled out at me. ‘Isn’t it beautiful, Sinclair?’ He gestured about him. ‘Big Sur, California. Where are you? How are you keeping?’

  I swallowed. ‘On Tartarus,’ I replied. ‘I’m well.’

  ‘Tartarus Major?’ he said.

  I nodded. I had never been able to bring myself to tell him that Tartarus was where my flesh and blood father had met his end.

  ‘Well?’ he snapped, impatient.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I still made the mistake of not answering his questions verbally: the verisimilitude of his likeness persuaded me that he could observe my every movement and gesture.

  ‘What are you doing on Tartarus, Sinclair?’ he asked.

  I shrugged, then remembered myself and said, ‘I’m curious. I wanted to see the place. It’s unique, after all . . .’

  The persona of my father before me was just that, a memory-response programme loaded into the cube’s computer banks ten years ago - a present from my father to my mother. I always considered it a measure of his cruelty - or his unthinking sentimentality - that he should have made a gift of such a thing shortly before he walked out on her.

  She had given me the cube six years ago, on my tenth birthday, programmed to respond to my voice only. ‘Here, your father. It’s all you’ll ever see of him, Sinclair.’

  Not long after that, I found a letter from my father on my mother’s bureau. I did not have the opportunity to read it before my mother entered her study and found me lurking suspiciously - but I did memorise his return address: that of a solicitor in Baudelaire. Over the next three nights, in the safety of my bedroom, I had written a long letter to my absent father, and added a postscript that upon my sixteenth birthday I would make the voyage to Tartarus and attempt to find him.

  Then, when I was twelve, my mother told me that my father had died on Tartarus. It had been a measure of my confusion - a mixture of my own grief and an inability to assess the extent of hers - that I had refrained from asking her for details. In consequence I knew nothing of how he had died, where exactly on Tartarus he had perished, or even what he had been doing on the planet in the first place.

  Now my father stepped over a fallen log and sat down. He was a big man, ruggedly handsome, with blond hair greying at the temples, and blue eyes.

  ‘Sinclair, how’s your mother keeping?’

  He always asked after mother, every time I activated the cube. Always he called her ‘your mother’, and never her name, Susanna.

  ‘Well, boy?’ He seemed to stare straight out at me.

  ‘Mother died a month ago,’ I whispered. I dared not look up into his eyes, for fear of seeing simulated grief there, a mirror image of the genuine emotion that filled me.

  ‘Oh . . .’ he said at last. ‘I’m sorry.’

  My mother had died peacefully at the villa I had shared with her. On her deathbed she had made me promise that I would cast away the persona-cube, forget about my father. And to please her I had given my promise, knowing full well that I would do no such thing.

  ‘So,’ he said, buoyancy in his tone, as if to support me in the ocean of my mourning. ‘How goes it on Tartarus?’

  Hesitantly, bit by bit, I recounted my mishap on the street outside the spaceport. Perhaps I sought his admonition as punishment for my stupidity.

  He listened with increasing incredulity showing on his face. ‘He robbed you of ten thousand new credits - he took the notes before your very eyes?’

  ‘But—’ I began.

  ‘How many times have I told you? Trust no one, give nothing away. Look after yourself and let others look after themselves. The principal and basic tenets of existence, Sinclair, which you continually fail to comprehend.’

  ‘But I can’t live like that - without trust, without charity ...’ I almost added, ’. . . without love,’ a corollary of his base pragmatism, but restrained myself. It would have begun an argument we had had many times before.

  ‘Manifestly,’ was his disgusted reply. ‘You live with trust, always feeling charitable to those who do not, and then you blubber when you find yourself cheated. Grow up, boy. You’re supposed to be a man!’

  I reached out quickly and, in anger, switched him off. The cube went opaque. I sat without moving in the flickering ruddy twilight, anger slowly abating within me. I tried to tell myself that the sentiments expressed by my father’s persona were merely those of a lifeless puppet - but I knew that, had my father been alive today, he would have said the same things, endorsed the philosophy of self first, second, and last. The programme was, after all, a simulation of his personality.

  I re-activated the cube. He was still in the forest, sitting on the log, staring down at his clasped hands.

  ‘Father . . .’

  He looked up. ‘What is it, Sinclair?’

  ‘Have you never made mistakes?’

  ‘Of course I have, when I was young and callow. Like you.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  He shook his head. ‘You cannot learn from the mistakes of others,’ he said. ‘Only from your own.’

  I deactivated the cube.

  My father - or rather this simulation of him - never spoke about his past. How many times had I heard him say, ‘The past is a foreign country, to which it is wise never to return’? As a consequence I knew next to nothing of my father, of his background, his occupations, his hobbies. I knew only his opinions, his philosophies, which some might say constitute the man. But I was hungry to know what he had been, what had made him what he was.

  Even my mother had told me nothing of his past. I had wanted to quiz her, but at the same time had no desire to stir the ghosts that might return to haunt her lonely later years.

  I returned inside and calculat
ed my assets: the units I had left over from the ship, the loose coins I had in various pockets, the stash of notes I had secreted in an inner pocket in case of emergencies. In all I possessed some ninety new credits - plus a return ticket to Earth. Enough, I estimated, to see me through perhaps ten days on Tartarus. I would remain here for that long, then, and see what little I might learn in that short time.

  It was past midnight by the time I got to bed, and well into the early hours before I finally slept. I dreamed of the teeming streets of Baudelaire, down which my father must have passed, and I dreamed of my father himself, the man whom I knew better than anyone else - and yet did not really know at all.