The Fall of Tartarus

by Eric Brown

  I fetched a cup of water from the lounge. Awkwardly, she lifted her head and I held the cup to her lips. She drank thirstily, paused to gasp for breath, then drained the cup. Her head collapsed onto the pillow and her eyes closed. I set about arranging her wings on either side of the bed, attempting gingerly to straighten out their kinks and folds. To my surprise they were not torn; the damage sustained was to the veins that threaded the membranes like the lead of a stained glass window, several sections bent and bruised. The wings rustled dryly at my touch like fine silk, and once or twice, when I was not as gentle as I should have been, my clumsiness communicated pain and caused her to twitch in her sleep.

  There was little else for me to do, then, but sit beside her and wait until she regained consciousness. In the light slanting through the window, she seemed like something from a fairytale, a slight and beauteous creature that did not belong in this coarse world. In the sky above the rooftops of Baudelaire, I had not truly appreciated her diminutive stature. She was little more than a metre tall, with a correspondingly tiny frame, short fair hair and a thin, pointed face. Her beauty had that strange alluring quality on the borderline of ugliness, a refinement of feature that was at first glance alien, and then, only on closer inspection, human.

  Twice during the next hour she stirred from sleep. The first time, disoriented, she thrashed her wings and tried to push herself onto all fours. I held her shoulders and eased her back to the bed. ‘Be calm,’ I soothed. ‘All is well. You’re safe now. Try to sleep.’

  She calmed down, lay her head on the pillow and slept fitfully. Later she jerked awake again, as if frightened in a dream. Her eyes seemed to focus on me with difficulty. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  I knelt beside her and took her hand. ‘Don’t be afraid. You’re safe now. You’re free.’

  She nodded, and then managed, ‘Thirsty.’

  She raised her head as I tipped the cup to her lips. She was asleep within seconds.

  I was on the verge of sleep myself when I heard footsteps on the stairs. By the time I’d struggled into a sitting position, Blackman was ducking into the room. He held his wing-spars in his hand.

  I rubbed my eyes. ‘Buzatti?’ I asked.

  ‘He won’t be bothering us for quite some time,’ Blackman said. ‘I deposited him in the wilds, two days from the nearest township and sail-rail station.’ He leaned over the girl, his hands lodged on his knees. The contrast between the giant Blackman, whose dark figure seemed to fill the room, and the wraith-like Messenger on the bed, struck me as almost comic.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘As well as can be expected,’ I said. ‘She was still in the trunk.’

  He inspected her wings. ‘There seems to be no lasting damage, no thanks to Buzatti. I’ll let you get back to sleep. I’ll be in the lounge if you need me.’

  He stepped from the room and closed the door behind him. I turned my attention to the girl on the bed, until I could stay awake no longer and joined her in sleep.

  * * * *

  When I awoke the following morning - or rather at midday, as ever - it was some seconds before my brain reacquainted itself with the events of the night before. I turned over and beheld the Messenger with the shock of renewed appreciation.

  She was watching me with an expression of timid gratitude.

  I sat up. ‘Sleep well?’

  She blew out her cheeks. ‘I suppose so - at least, better than the previous night. I ache in every bone of my body, and my wings . . .’

  She moved herself onto all fours and tenderly tested her great dragonfly membranes: the left vane was upright and alert; the right one hung forlorn. She was frowning. ‘I should be thankful they weren’t ripped to shreds. He kept me in the box for hours.’ She looked suddenly afraid. ‘But where is my captor?’

  ‘Kilometres away, and no danger to us any more,’ I reassured her. ‘My name is Sinclair.’

  ‘I’m Loi, and thank you for saving my life.’ She winced in pain as, from all fours, she manoeuvred herself into a cross-legged sitting position, facing me with her wings arranged along the bed. Fully extended, her wing-span filled the length of the bed-chamber.

  ‘I didn’t do it alone,’ I admitted.

  She paused in the process of massaging an arm, glanced up at me. ‘Was I dreaming last night, or did you say that you were in league with a Blackman?’

  ‘You weren’t dreaming. I am travelling with a Blackman. He took care of your abductor while I brought you here.’

  I stopped at the sight of her expression. She was staring at me with wide eyes. ‘You are honoured indeed. The Guild of Blackmen are even more insular than my own Guild. It is very rare that they mix.’

  I shrugged and told her how it was that we had come to meet in the back alley in Baudelaire. ‘I wanted to do something there and then to rescue you, but Blackman counselled patience. It is because of you that we met.’

  ‘Well, Sinclair,’ Loi pronounced with prim fastidiousness, ‘pleased as I am that you and Blackman became travelling companions, all in all I would rather have remained at liberty.’

  Our dialogue was interrupted by a knock on the door. Blackman stepped through, carrying a tray of food. ‘Breakfast,’ he announced.

  His appearance had a sudden and startling effect on Loi. She fell forward on her face, arms outstretched as if in supplication. ‘Blackman!’ she intoned.

  ‘Okay, little one - no need for such drama. Get up.’

  As if fearing his wrath, Loi resumed her cross-legged position.

  He laid the tray on the bed before her. ‘Fruit, bread and cheese enough for you both. And a canteen of iced tea. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take a stroll.’

  He ducked awkwardly from the room, the startled Messenger watching him all the way. As the door closed behind him, she turned to me with wide eyes. ‘But he’s all in black,’ she whispered.

  ‘I had noticed.’

  ‘But you have no idea what that means?’

  ‘To be truthful, I know very little about him. He says nothing of his past, and very little of his plans for the future.’

  ‘So you know nothing of him individually, or of his Guild in general?’

  ‘I arrived on Tartarus from Earth four days ago,’ I said. ‘I confess that I find your planet full of mystery.’

  She was shaking her head. ‘Then where to begin?’

  ‘First,’ I suggested, ‘how about breakfast?’

  I fell to eating the bread and cheese, and Loi joined me. As she ate, she told me about the Guild of Blackmen.

  ‘Unlike most of the Guilds, which are independent,’ she said, ‘the Guild of Blackmen work for the Church, even though for centuries the Church has proscribed the use of technology. They have one set of standards for themselves, and another for the rest of us.’

  I recalled something I had wondered earlier. ‘Are the Blackmen a race, such as yourself, or are they ... I can think of no other word . . . manufactured?’

  ‘They are not a race - they date back a hundred years, no more. We Messengers are almost as old as the colonisation of the planet, which dates back thousands of years.’

  ‘So they are manufactured?’

  She frowned. ‘Well, they are normal human beings to begin with, but then they are changed, augmented. They undergo neurological operations, numerous implants - they are wired to give them strength, and much more.’

  ‘Who are they? Who can become Blackmen?’

  ‘Oh, all kinds of people. I don’t know how they are selected, but I’ve heard that poets and scholars have been initiated, philosophers and great teachers, as well as criminals, murderers and madmen - but all this is conjecture. You see, they are programmed not to reveal their pasts. They find it impossible to talk of what they were in their previous lives. When they are initiated, what they were before ceases to have any relevance - only what they are now matters. The Blackmen are often sent to arbitrate disputes in the outlying and inaccessible areas on Tartarus, broker peace deals, sett
le enmities and the like. Perhaps the Church in its wisdom thinks that people with no pasts will be seen as being without prejudice and preference.’

  ‘What kind of jobs do they do, other than enforce the law?’

  ‘Many are surveyors. They can fly, and can reach altitudes w here Messengers would burn up. Tartarus does not have s atellites; it has Blackmen instead.’

  ‘Does this account for their appearance? They fly too close to the sun?’

  Loi laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh, no! Of course not! They are made that way to protect them from the sun. Many are surveyors who must cross the vast deserts of the northern continent. They must withstand the withering heat of the day, and the intense cold of the night. Others are troubleshooters, explorers, experts in a thousand fields. They are a hundred per cent efficient at all times, and fail in their duties only when problematic factors weigh against them. Because of their excellence, therefore, their lifespans are short. It is as if they must pay for their supreme ability with the penance of burn-out.’

  I stared at her. ‘How short?’ I whispered.

  ‘Some last for three years, others five or six. But it is said that in that time they experience such heightened perception, are programmed with such knowledge beyond the understanding of us mere mortals, that the lack of longevity is no sacrifice at all.’

  I said, ‘I see why you revered Blackman just now.’

  The Messenger nodded, licking her fingers. ‘Him especially,’ she said.

  I looked up. ‘Especially?’

  She smiled and laid her head on her shoulder. ‘Because, as I said earlier, he is garbed in black. Others wear leathers of blue or green or red, denoting their specialisation. Black leathers denote a Blackman at the end of his lifespan, on a kind of pilgrimage to perform one last task of his choice.’

  I laid down my teacup, a sensation like a ball of ice weighing heavy in my stomach. ‘My friend,’ I began, ‘. . . he is going to the race at Charybdis, to serve as the eyes of a ship.’

  The Messenger nodded. ‘A noble finale,’ she said. ‘In fact, none finer, to end one’s life helping to save the lives of others.’

  ‘How . . . how will he die?’ I managed at last.

  ‘I cannot say. Only the Blackman himself knows that.’ Loi reached out and touched my hand. ‘This is the duty of the Blackmen. He knew his fate when he was initiated. He would have it no other way.’

  After the meal I left Loi to shower herself, and slipped from the stateroom. I found Blackman on the deck of a central carriage. He stood in the merciless light of the sun, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. There was an expression approaching rapture on his wire-graphed face. I remained in the shade of a nearby canopy.

  ‘Blackman,’ I murmured.

  ‘Sinclair.’ He did not move his head or open his eyes. ‘How is the Messenger?’

  ‘She seems to be doing well,’ I said. I hesitated. ‘She told me about you . . . about the significance of your leathers.’

  He looked at me then, and smiled. ‘A carafe of red wine would go down very nicely,’ he said.

  We returned along the walkway and sat at a table beside the rail. The waiter placed a carafe and two glasses between us.

  ‘How can you?’ I said. ‘How can you contemplate your death and still remain sane?’

  Blackman carefully poured two measures of the thick red syrup. ‘Please believe me, the benefits of being a Blackman far outweigh the fact of my premature demise. For years I have had access to more knowledge than you would dream possible. I seem to have lived several times over. Now, my systems are failing. I can feel myself weakening. I must charge myself nightly, not every month as once it was. I am soon to die, but I have prepared for the eventuality. Don’t be horrified. You are young - you cannot hope to understand what I have gone through.’

  I regarded him in silence as he stared off into the distance. We had left the jungle behind and were passing through cultivated fields, a bright patchwork of yellows and greens stretching for as far as the eye could see beneath the glare of the sun. Ahead, the central mountains rose sheer and majestic from the rolling ramparts of the foothills.

  ‘When?’ I asked at last. ‘How will you . . . die?’

  He nodded, as if he found my question perfectly acceptable. ‘When the race is over and I have discharged my obligations as the eyes of a ship, I will join others of my Guild in an aerial ceremony, a celebration for the winning Captain. During this flight I will expire, to make room for a new initiate to the Guild, which is how it should be.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just . . .’ I shrugged. ‘I don’t know - retire? Have your systems stripped, become once more just . . . human?’

  Blackman laughed at me, but gently. ‘Sinclair, I am my systems. Without them, there would be no human left. I’m sorry that this news has shocked you - but please be present when I fly with the Guild at the ceremony. I think the beauty of it might assure you of my acceptance.’

  I wanted to tell him that I could not accept such assurances, that I would not stand by and calmly watch his expiration, but I realised - even as these thoughts were passing through my head - how selfish I was being. I was not mourning Blackman’s loss of life, of course, but my loss of a friend.

  I lifted my glass. ‘To the ceremony,’ I pronounced, a quaver in my voice.

  That night we had dinner in the stateroom. After the meal, Loi knelt on the settee, radiant in the orange light of the setting sun. Her right wing, so desolate this morning, had gained animation during the day and was now as pert as its partner. She tested them, articulating the great diaphanous spans as best she could in the confines of the lounge. She turned them this way and that, swept them up and down, stirring the warm air.

  ‘My wings are almost mended,’ Loi pronounced. ‘Tomorrow they shall be as good as new. At first light I will take my leave.’

  Coming as it did so soon after news of Blackman’s more final exit, Loi’s imminent departure saddened me. ‘Back to Baudelaire?’ I asked.

  She shook her head, frowning as she rotated her left wing. ‘To Charybdis. I am signed on as the Messenger for Shipmaster Sigmund Gastarian’s boat, the Golden Swan.’

  ‘You’ll take part in the race?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes and no. I will be flying above the Golden Swan. Should the ship run into trouble, it is my duty to report to race officials.’

  ‘Then I’ll be cheering for you and Gastarian all the way.’

  ‘If I were you I’d place a wager on the Swan. Gastarian is a fine Shipmaster, and one of the favourites to take the race.’ She paused there, a sly look stealing over her features as her eyes slid from me to Blackman. ‘I don’t suppose, Blackman, sir, that you would consider . . . ?’

  He smiled. ‘What is it, child?’

  ‘Well, what a cheek I have. After all, you did save my life, and here I am asking favours.’

  ‘Out with it!’

  ‘Very well! Could you possibly see your way to acting as the eyes for the Golden Swan?’ And she hunched her shoulders and winced, as if expecting Blackman’s negative reply to be as painful as a slap.

  ‘Mmm,’ Blackman said, stretching out in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. ‘An interesting proposition. I don’t see why I should favour the Swan—’

  Loi pulled a face at me.

  ‘But then again, I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I will make my decision when I’ve spoken to your master and inspected the boat.’

  ‘Magnifico!’ She clapped her hands, then turned to me. ‘And you, Sinclair. Would you care to sign aboard as a member of the crew?’

  ‘Me?’ I spluttered. ‘But I know nothing about sailing!’

  ‘You don’t need to. The main work is done by the eyes and the Shipmaster. The crew are ballast, and hard to find at that.’

  ‘I’m not surprised! We lowly humans dislike being dashed to death on rocks, ripped to shreds on coral, or even drowned.’

  ‘But the Swan’s a fine ship, and Gastarian a fi
ne master. There is no danger of an accident, especially if Blackman sights for us. And it would be so cosy, we three friends together.’

  ‘It will be cosier still on the bank of the river,’ I told her. ‘Where I intend to be.’

  Loi scowled. ‘I’ll persuade you otherwise when we meet up in Charybdis, Sinclair. I’m staying with Gastarian and his crew at the Jasmine Hotel, on Mariners’ Walk. He will treat you both like brothers when he learns you saved my life.’

  I refilled our glasses with wine. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘please tell me more about the race.’