The Fall of Tartarus

by Eric Brown

  * * * *

  On the morning of my first full day on Tartarus I woke early and descended to the foyer, where I consulted the map of Baudelaire hanging on a wall. The lawyer’s office was a kilometre distant. To save precious credits I elected to walk, and ignored the rickshaws lined up in the driveway, their drivers importuning me with ringing bells and cries. Although the hour was early, the streets were full. My route took me into the commercial heart of the city, down wide avenues thronged with citizens and flanked by the characteristic three-storey buildings with red-brick facades and steep, timber-tiled roofs. As I walked I began to worry that, after all these years, the lawyer might have moved office - or, worse, retired or died. The address was my only link on the planet to my father, and without it I would be lost.

  I turned down a comparatively quiet side-street and with relief came across a crooked, half-timber building, with a sign bearing the legend Greaves and Partners swinging above the low entrance. I entered and climbed three narrow flights of stairs which switchbacked from landing to landing, the air redolent of beeswax polish and sun-warmed timber.

  I hesitated before a tiny door bearing the lawyer’s name in gold, found my identity card, knocked and entered.

  I was in a small chamber that was without the slightest sign of plastics, either in panelling, furniture or fittings; instead, all was wood, dark timbers warped with age. Sunlight streamed in through a tiny window at the far end of the room, illuminating piles of papers, yellowed and brittle with age. Nowhere could I see a computer.

  A mild voice enquired, ‘And how might I be of assistance?’

  A grey-haired, sharp-featured old man was peering at me through a pair of spectacles - the first I had ever seen in real life. He sat behind a vast desk before the window, a pen poised above a pile of paper.

  I introduced myself, proffering my identity card. ‘You worked on behalf of my father, a good number of years ago.’

  ‘Take a seat, young man. Sinclair Singer?’ he said, peering at the card. ‘Your father was . . . don’t tell me, it’s coming back . . . Gregor - Gregor Singer.’ He nodded in evident satisfaction. ‘You’re very much like your father.’

  I smiled, almost saying that I hoped my resemblance was only physical. ‘I came to Tartarus to find out more about him,’ I began.

  Greaves constructed an obelisk of his long, thin fingers. ‘More than what?’ he asked pedantically.

  ‘More than what I know already, which is not much at all. I was young when my father left for Tartarus. My memories of him are vague.’

  Greaves nodded in a gesture I took to be one of genuine understanding. ‘One minute,’ he said, pushing himself from his desk. On a wheeled swivel-chair he rattled across the floorboards, came to a timber cabinet and hauled open a drawer. He walked his fingers down a wad of tattered folders, found the relevant one and plucked it out. A second later he was parking himself behind the desk.

  He shuffled through the papers. ‘I would hand these documents over to you, Sinclair - but as they are in code I doubt you would find them of much use. But if you have any questions I might be able to answer, then I’ll do my best.’

  I stared at the sheaf of yellow paper on the desk, the contents of which surely said more about my father than I had ever known. But where to begin? I was aware that I had broken into a prickling sweat.

  At a loss, I shrugged. ‘Well . . . why did he leave Earth? What was he doing on Tartarus?’

  Greaves peered at me over his spectacles. ‘You certainly do not know much about your father, do you?’

  I made an embarrassed gesture, as if the blame for my ignorance lay with myself, and not my father.

  Greaves stared down at the papers spread before him, then up at me. ‘Gregor Singer was a soldier,’ he said. ‘He came to Tartarus to fight.’

  I think I echoed his words in shock. A soldier? If there was one profession I abhorred above all others, it was that of a soldier. On Earth we lived in peaceful times; we settled disputes through negotiations and diplomacy.

  ‘I can see what you are thinking,’ Greaves said. ‘And, to answer your question - no, your father was not from Earth.’

  The old lawyer was one step ahead of me. I had failed to work out that my father was not Terran.

  ‘He was born on Marathon, and reared in the Spartan guild. He was ordained from birth to be a fighter. He went to Earth to complete his training, and there he met the woman who became your mother. I know this much because he told me.’

  I listened to his words in silence. From what I knew of my father through the persona-cube, his personal philosophy would suit a life-long soldier.

  ‘What was he doing on Tartarus?’ I asked, fearful of the answer.

  Greaves peered at his papers. ‘He was a mercenary, hired to serve in the private army of a dictator who ruled the state of Zambria.’

  ‘And he died fighting for this dictator?’

  ‘Not at all. Your father resigned his commission. That was when I last saw him, a little over six years ago. He . . . he was a changed man from the soldier I had first encountered years before. Not only had he resigned, but he told me that no longer would he sell his services.’

  ‘He would no longer serve as a soldier?’ I said. ‘But why? What happened?’

  Greaves leaned back in his chair and regarded me. ‘He did not tell me precisely, but I pieced together hints, read between the lines ... I cannot be certain, but I received the impression that your father led an invasion of a neighbouring state, to kidnap the son of the monarch. Something went tragically wrong with the mission and the boy was shot dead - I do not know whether your father was himself responsible, or a man under his command, but at any rate he carried the burden of guilt. Consequently, he resigned.’

  Sunlight poured into the room through the cramped window. I sat in silence and tried to digest what Greaves had told me.

  I came to my senses with the obvious question. ‘But you did write to my mother informing her of my father’s death?’ I asked.

  Greaves frowned. ‘Not in so many words,’ he said at last. ‘I wrote to your mother to tell her that, as Gregor had not returned to reclaim certain possessions and monies left in my care, I therefore suspected that your father had passed on.’

  ‘But what proof did you have? Where did he go when he left here?’

  ‘Let me try to explain,’ Greaves murmured. ‘It was my impression that your father was seeking a way of exorcising the guilt he felt, that he was in need of absolution - perhaps through some form of self-sacrifice or mortification. He told me that he was heading for Charybdis, on the river Laurent which feeds into the Sapphire sea, a thousand kilometres west of here. There he intended to sign on a racing ship in the annual Charybdis challenge.’

  I shook my head. ‘Which is?’

  ‘An event famous on Tartarus, a galleon race down the treacherous Laurent river and into the Sapphire sea. Perhaps thirty boats take part every year, and maybe two or three survive. The majority are broken on the underwater corals, and their crews either cut to death, drowned, or devoured by ferocious river-dwelling creatures. Your father left Baudelaire to join a ship. Two years later he had not returned ... I then wrote to your mother, stating as much as I’ve told you today.’

  I sat, dazed by the barrage of images the old man’s words had conjured. From knowing so little about my father, I suddenly knew so much.

  I heard myself saying, ‘I must go to Charybdis.’

  Greaves spread his hands. ‘There are vench-trains daily from Baudelaire to the Sapphire sea, leaving the central station at ten in the evening.’

  I recalled that he had said Charybdis was a thousand kilometres distant. ‘And how long does the journey take?’

  ‘If all goes well, the journey can be made in three to four days.’

  ‘Four days,’ I repeated. A week to make the round trip - and who knew how long I would need in Charybdis itself to learn my father’s fate ... I had just enough funds to last me a little over a week. />
  ‘How much is the train fare to Charybdis?’ I asked.

  ‘A return fare costs about a thousand shellings.’

  I despaired. A thousand shellings was roughly seventy new credits, which would take a good chunk from what little funds I had. Then I recalled what Greaves had said earlier. ‘You mentioned certain monies my father left in your safe-keeping?’

  He spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. ‘I had them transferred to your mother’s account many years ago.’

  I nodded, and stood. ‘I think I will make the journey to Charybdis,’ I said.

  In that case I wish you bon voyage, Sinclair, and good luck.’

  * * * *

  That night, before I set off to the station, I activated my father’s persona-cube. He was no longer in the forest. The cube showed the skyball court in the grounds of the house I recalled from my early years. He stood at the base line, hitting the puck against the far wall with his shield.

  ‘Father.’

  He gave the puck a nonchalant swipe, then strolled towards the edge of the court. His brow was dotted with sweat. As ever, I noticed his size, the quiet power of his physique. But I saw him in a different light now that I knew of his past.

  ‘How’s Tartarus?’ he asked, unbuckling his shield.

  I ignored him. ‘I found out why you came here,’ I said. ‘I ... I found out what you were.’

  He made a pretence of giving undue attention to a recalcitrant buckle on his shield. He looked up at last. ‘So?’

  ‘So . . . why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you trust me enough to tell me who you were?’

  ‘Sinclair . . . You were young. You’d never have understood. You belonged to a culture with different values.’

  Anger welled within me. ‘Why did you leave mother?’

  He sighed. ‘Duty, Sinclair. I had to go. My company ordered me to Tartarus. I made the cube before I went, for your mother.’

  I had to laugh at this. ‘As if that compensated for your desertion! A programmed puppet in a glass box!’ I stopped there, gathered my thoughts. ‘Did you love mother?’ I asked at last.

  He took a while to respond, then looked straight out at me. ‘Love? What’s love, Sinclair? When you get to my age, you’ll wonder if such a thing exists. Love is just biology’s bluff to get what it wants—’

  ‘You don’t know how . . . how mechanistic that sounds.’

  My father smiled. ‘And what do you know about love, then, Sinclair?’

  I was speechless for a few seconds. Then: ‘I loved mother!’

  He winked. ‘Touché, Sinclair. Like I said, biology’s—’ He never finished. I reached out, deactivated the cube and in the same movement swept it from the table.

  Later, I packed my bag and checked out of the hotel. The station was two kilometres away, and I decided to walk in a bid to work off my anger and frustration.

  * * * *

  There is something about setting off from a big city on a long journey to the coast that fills the soul with joy and expectation. As I walked through the gas-lit streets - passing hostelries packed with drunken revellers, and a carnival of giant clockwork amusements in a cobbled square - I soon forgot the words of my father’s persona and concentrated instead on his deeds since arriving on Tartarus. It afforded me a measure of satisfaction that he had seen fit to turn his back on soldiering. I wondered if before he met his end he had also put behind him his reductionist philosophies.

  The Central Station, despite its title, was situated to the north of the city, in a quiet district of narrow, cobbled streets and shuttered shops. I had memorised the route from the hotel map, and I judged that I was almost upon the station with a good hour to spare before the departure of the train.

  The sun had set two hours ago, though not the light with it. It was a feature of the erratic primary that its radiation sent probing fingers of light around the globe and filled the night sky with flickering red and orange streamers. The heavens between the eaves of the buildings were like none I’d ever seen, as if the air itself was aflame. I had paused in wonder to appreciate the gaudy display when I heard, from a nearby side-street, the detonation of what might have been a blunderbuss. The report echoed in the narrow alley and, seconds later, I was amazed to hear a sudden cry directly overhead. I looked up in time to see a strange sight indeed.

  Silhouetted against the tangerine light was a slight, winged figure - human in form - made miniature by its altitude. It seemed to be engaged in a struggle with an invisible assailant. I made out madly kicking legs and a circular blur of wings, fighting against whatever was inexorably drawing it to earth. Then, as the shrieking girl lost height - she was close enough now for me to make out that she was little more than a child with long, diaphanous wings - I saw that her right ankle was ensnared by a rope, its diagonal vector crossing the rooftops and leading, presumably, to the poor girl’s assailants.

  I looked up and down the street, hoping that I was not alone in witnessing this crime - and so might have allies in attempting a rescue - but there was not a soul in sight.

  As the seconds passed, the flying girl was drawn closer to the rooftops. Fearing that she would soon by lost to sight, I ran down the alley towards where I judged the rope would come to earth. When I came to a turn in the alley, I paused and peered cautiously around the corner. Perhaps ten yards down the darkened by-way stood two figures and a large chest, its lid standing upright ready to receive its captive. The men were hauling on a rope, a great rifle discarded at their feet. The girl had lost all will to fight. She was treading air, mewling in pathetic entreaty as her captors pulled her down. At last they grabbed her by the ankles and forced her into the trunk, crushing her wings in the process.

  I was about to step forward with a shout - hoping that my sudden appearance might startle the pair into flight - when an iron grip fixed on my wrist. I feared I had been caught by another of their party, but the words hissed in my ear told me otherwise. ‘Don’t be so impetuous! They would have no qualms about shooting you dead!’

  ‘But we can’t let them get away with it!’ I began, not even turning to look at my counsellor. I tried to struggle from his hold.

  ‘They won’t get away with their crime, believe me. Now come, this way.’ So saying he tugged me back around the corner. I struggled no further, picked up my bag where I had dropped it and followed the tall, striding figure down the alley. Only when we emerged into the cobbled main street, flushed with the roseate light from above, did I fully make out the man who had in all likelihood saved my life.

  He towered over me, staring down impassively. I returned his gaze, in wonder and not a little revulsion. I think I might even have backed off a pace.

  To begin with what is easy to describe: he wore a pair of thigh-high cavalier boots in jet-black leather, and a sleeveless jerkin of the same material. His head and arms were bare. His skin was also black - as jet black as his leathers - but not black in pigmentation. I peered more closely. His flesh was that of a charred corpse, burned and blistered, and - even more amazing - enmeshed in a grid of silver wires.

  ‘We had better make a move if we wish to catch the vench-train,’ he said.

  I stared at him. ‘How do you know?’

  He smiled, the reticulation of wires shifting on either side of his mouth. ‘What else would you be doing this close to the station, with a travelling bag?’

  ‘I’m leaving on the ten o’clock to Charybdis,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘The only train that leaves tonight,’ he said. ‘I too am heading for Charybdis.’

  He shouldered his bag and turned, and as he walked off I made out two vertical slits in the back of his jerkin. Through each slit could be seen a silver spar, indented with sockets.

  I hurried to catch him up. ‘Who . . . ?’ I began, unsure. ‘What are you?’

  He stared ahead, eating up the cobbles with his giant stride. ‘I belong to the Guild of Blackmen,’ he replied. ‘You may call me Blackman.’

  I introduced
myself, my many questions silenced by his reserve and dominating presence.

  As we turned the corner and approached the station - a long, low building on the far side of a square - he glanced down at me. ‘From Earth?’

  ‘I arrived just yesterday.’

  ‘Alone?’ He sounded surprised. ‘Alone on Tartarus?’

  ‘Alone.’

  ‘You are either a fool, boy - or supremely confident. What brings you here?’

  ‘Curiosity. Adventure. I’ve heard a lot about the planet. I want to see it for myself.’

  He strode along in quiet contemplation for a while, his leathers creaking. ‘Were you informed also of the dangers? Tartarus is hardly safe for a lone traveller.’