The Fall of Tartarus

by Eric Brown

  Sam: What happened, Father?

  Fr Rogers: Mmm? What happened? What happened? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. You’d be like all the others, disbelievers all—

  Sam: I have seen a Slarque, too.

  Fr Rogers: So you say, so you say ... I haven’t told anyone for a long time. Became tired of being disbelieved, you see. They thought I’d gone mad . . . But I didn’t tell anyone what really happened. I didn’t want the authorities to go and find Codey, arrest him.

  Sam: Codey, your co-pilot? But I thought he died in the crash-landing?

  Fr Rogers: That’s what I told everyone. Easier that way. He wanted people to think he hadn’t survived, the sinner.

  Sam: Father, can you tell me what happened?

  Fr Rogers: It’s . . . how long ago? Thirty years? More? There’s little chance Codey will still be alive. Oh, he had supplies aplenty, but up here ... up here he was sick and getting worse. He made me promise that I’d keep quiet about what he did - and until now I have. But what harm can it do now, with Codey surely long dead?

  (He stopped here and stared off into the distance and the gothic monastery rearing against the twilight sky. Tears appeared in his eyes. I felt sorry for him. Part of me regretted what I was putting him through, but I was intrigued by the little he’d told me so far. I had to find out what he’d experienced, all those years ago.)

  Sam: Father . . . ?

  Fr Rogers: Eh? Oh, the crash-landing. We came down too soon. Don’t ask me why. I can’t remember. Miracle we survived. We found ourselves in a high valley in the central mountains, shut in by snow-covered peaks all around. We were a small ship, a shuttle. The radio was wrecked and we had no other means of communication with the outside world. We didn’t reckon the Fleet would waste much time trying to find us. We had supplies enough for years, and the part of the ship not completely stove in we used as living quarters. I made a few expeditions into the surrounding hills, trying to find a way out, a navigable pass that’d get us to the sea-level jungle below the central range . . . But the going was too tough, the snow impassable.

  It was on one of these abortive expeditions that I saw the first Slarque. I was coming back to the ship, wading through a waist-high snowdrift, frozen to the bone and sick with the thought that I’d never get away from this frozen hell.

  The Slarque was on a spur of rock overlooking the valley. It was on all fours, though later I saw them standing upright. It was watching me. It was a long way off, and in silhouette, so I couldn’t really make out much detail. I recognised the arched tail, though, whipping around above its back.

  So when I returned to the ship I told Codey what I’d seen. He just stared at me for a long time - and I assumed he thought I’d gone mad - but then he began nodding, and he said, ‘I know. They’ve been communicating with me for the past three days.’ Then it was my turn to think he’d flipped.

  (His gaze slipped out of focus again. He no longer saw the monastery. He was back in the mountain valley.)

  Fr Rogers: Codey was strangely calm, like a man blessed with a vision. I asked him what he meant by ‘communicating’. Looking straight through me, he just pointed to his head. ‘They put thoughts into here - not words, but thoughts: emotions, facts . . .’

  I said, ‘Codey, you’ve finally gone, man. Don’t give me any of that shit!’ But Codey just went on staring through me like I wasn’t there, and he began talking, telling me about the Slarque, and there was so much of it, so many details Codey just couldn’t have known or made up, that by the end of it all I was scared, real scared, not wanting to believe a word of it, but at the same time finding myself half-believing . . .

  Codey said that there were just two Slarque left. They were old, a couple of hundred years old. They had lived near the coast in their early years, but with the arrival of humans on the southern continent they’d retreated further south, into the snowfields of the central mountains. Codey told me that the Slarque had dwindled because a certain species of animal, on which they were dependent, had become extinct long ago. Codey said that the female Slarque was bearing a litter of young, that she was due to birth soon ... He told me many other things that night, as the snow fell and the wind howled outside - but either I’ve forgotten what else he said, or I never heard it at the time through fear ... I went straight out into that gale and rigged up an electric fence around the ship, and I didn’t stop work until I was sure it’d keep out the most fearsome predator.

  The next day or two, I kept out of Codey’s way, like he was contaminated ... I ate in my own cabin, tried not to dwell on what he’d told me.

  One night he came to my cabin, knocked on the door. He just stood there, staring at me. ‘They want one of us,’ he told me. As soon as he spoke, it was as if this was what I’d been fearing all along. I had no doubt who ‘they’ were. I think I went berserk then. I attacked Codey, beat him back out of my cabin. I was frightened. Oh, Christ was I frightened.

  In the morning he came to me again, strangely subdued, remote. He said he wanted to show me something in the hold. I was wary, expecting a trick. I armed myself and followed him down the corridor of the broken-backed ship and into the hold. He crossed to a suspension unit, opened the lid and said, ‘Look.’

  So I looked. We were carrying a prisoner, a criminal suspended for the trip between Tartarus and Earth, where he was due to go on trial for the assassination of a Tartarean government official. I hadn’t known what we were carrying - I hadn’t bothered to check the manifest before take-off. But Codey had.

  He said, ‘He’d only be executed on Earth.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  Codey stared at me. ‘It’s either him or you, Rogers.’ He had his laser out and aimed at my head. I lifted my own pistol, saw that the charge was empty. Codey just smiled.

  I said, ‘But . . . but when they’ve done with him - how long will he keep them satisfied? How long before they want one of us?’

  Codey shook his head. ‘Not for a long while, believe me.’

  I ranted and raved at him, cried and swore, but the terrible inevitability of his logic wore me down - it was either the prisoner or me. And so at last I helped him drag the suspension unit from the ship, through the snow to the far end of the valley, where we left it with the lid open for the Slarque ... I - I have never forgiven myself to this day. I wish now that I’d had the strength to sacrifice myself.

  (He broke down then, bowed his head and wept. I soothed him as best I could, murmured platitudes, my hand on the stump of his shoulder.)

  Fr Rogers: That night I watched two shadowy ghosts appear at the end of the valley, haul the prisoner from the unit and drag him off through the snow. At first light next morning I kitted up, took my share of provisions and told Codey I was going to find a way out, that I’d rather die trying than remain here with him. I reckoned that with the Slarque busy with the prisoner, I had a slim chance of getting away from the valley. After that . . . who could tell?

  Codey didn’t say a word. I tried to persuade him to come with me, but he kept shaking his head and saying that I didn’t understand, that they needed him ... So I left him and trekked north, fearful of the aliens, the snow, the cold. All I recall is getting clear of the valley and the Slarque, and the tremendous feeling of relief when I did. I don’t remember much else. The terror of what I was leaving was worse than the thought of dying alone in the mountains. They tell me it’s one and a half thousand kilometres from the central range to the coast. I don’t know. I just walked and kept on walking.

  (He was silent for a long, long time after that. At last he spoke, almost to himself.)

  Fr Rogers: Poor Codey. Poor, poor Codey . . .

  Sam: And . . . then you joined the Church?

  Fr Rogers: Almost as soon as I got back. It seemed . . . the only thing to do. I had to make amends, to thank God for my survival and at the same time to make reparations for the fact that I did survive.

  We sat for a time in silence, Father Rogers contemplating the past while
I considered the future. I knew what I was going to do. I unfolded the map of the southern continent I had brought with me and spread it across the arms of the invalid carriage. I asked him where the shuttle had come down. He stared at the map for a long time, frowning, and finally quoted an approximate grid reference coordinate. I marked the valley with a cross.

  I sat and talked with Father Rogers for a while, and then left him sitting in the garden overlooking the sea, and made my way back to Apollinaire.

  That was yesterday. Today I’ve been preparing for the expedition. Unfortunately I’ve found no one willing to act as my bodyguard this time - because of the duration of the planned trip and the sun’s lack of stability. I set off tomorrow in a tracked bison, with plenty of food, water and arms. I’ve calculated that it’ll take me a couple of months to cover the one and a half thousand kays to the valley where the ship crash-landed. Fortunately, with the rise of the global temperature, the snow on the high ground of the central mountains has melted, so that leg of the journey should be relatively easy. With luck, the sun should hold steady for a while yet, though it does seem to be getting hotter every day. The latest forecast I’ve heard is that we’re safe for another six to nine months . . .

  I don’t know what I’ll find when I get to the valley. Certainly not Codey. As Father Rogers said, after thirty years he should be long dead. Maybe I’ll hit lucky and find the Slarque? I’ll leave transmitter beacons along my route, so you can follow me when you get here, whenever that might be.

  Okay, Alvarez, that’s about it. If you don’t mind, I’d like the next bit to remain private, between Hunter and me, okay?

  Hunter, the thought that sooner or later we’ll be together again has kept me going. Don’t worry about me, I have everything under control. Freya is with me; I’m taking her into the interior tomorrow. And before you protest - don’t! She’s perfectly safe. Hunter, I can’t wait until we’re reunited, until we can watch our daughter grow, share her discoveries ... I love you, Hunter. Take care.

  * * * *

  Hunter sat on the balcony of Halbeck House, where weeks before Sam had made the recording. He had tried to contact her by radio upon his arrival, but of course the activity of the solar flares made such communication impossible.

  He sipped an iced lemon beer and stared out across what had once been a pretty provincial town. Now the increased temperature of the past few months had taken its toll. The trees lining the canal were scorched and dying, and the water in the canal itself had evaporated, leaving a bed of evil-smelling mud. Even the three-storey timber buildings of the town seemed weary, dried out and warped by the incessant heat. Although the sun had set one hour ago, pulling in its wake a gaudy, pyrotechnical display of flaring lights above the crowded rooftops, the twilight song of the nightgulls was not to be heard. Nor was there any sign of Leverfre’s mandrills, usually to be seen swinging crazily through the wrought-ironwork of the balcony. An eerie silence hung in the air, a funereal calm presaging the planet’s inevitable demise.

  Hunter, Alvarez and his entourage had arrived on Tartarus by the very last scheduled sailship; they would entrust their departure to one of the illegal pirate lines still ferrying adventurers, thrill-seekers, or just plain fools, to and from the planet.

  They had arrived in Apollinaire that morning, to find the town deserted but for a handful of citizens determined to leave their flight to the very last weeks.

  Three days ago, the sun had sent out a searing pulse of flame, a great flaring tongue, as if in derision of the citizens who remained. The people of Baudelaire and Apollinaire had panicked. There had been riots, much looting and burning - and another great exodus off-world. The regular shipping lines had been inundated by frantic souls desperate to flee, and the surplus had been taken by the opportunistic pirate ships that had just happened to be orbiting like flies around a corpse.

  Technically, Halbeck House was no longer open for business, but its proprietor had greeted Hunter like a long-lost brother and insisted that he, Alvarez and the rest of the team make themselves at home. Then he had taken the last boat to Baudelaire, leaving a supply of iced beer and a table set for the evening meal.

  Hunter drank his beer and considered Father Rogers’ story, which he had listened to again and again on the voyage to Tartarus. Although the old astronaut’s words had about them a kind of insane veracity which suggested he believed his own story, even if no one else did, it was stretching the limits of credulity to believe that not only did a last pair of Slarque still exist in the central mountains, but that they had been in mental contact with Codey. And the beast that had attacked and killed Hunter? Sam’s footage of the incident was not conclusive proof that the Slarque existed, despite Alvarez’s assumptions otherwise.

  The more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that the trip into the interior would prove fruitless. He looked forward to the time when he would be reunited with Sam, and meet his daughter Freya for the very first time.

  He had expected Sam to have left some message for him at the hotel - maybe even a pix of Freya. But nothing had awaited him, and when he asked the proprietor about his daughter, the man had looked puzzled. ‘But your wife had no little girl with her, Monsieur Hunter.’

  Dinner that evening was taken on the patio beside the empty canal. The meal was a subdued affair, stifled by the oppressing humidity and the collective realisation of the enormity of the mission they were about to embark upon. Hunter ate sparingly and said little, speaking only to answer questions concerning the planet’s natural history. The chest pains which had bothered him on Million had increased in severity over the past few days; that afternoon he had lain on his bed, racked with what he thought was a heart attack. Now he felt the familiar tightness in his chest. He was reassured that Dr Fischer was on hand.

  The rest of their party, other than himself, Alvarez and the Doctor, consisted of a team of four drivers-cum-guards, men from Million in the employ of the Alvarez Foundation. They tended to keep to themselves, indeed were congregated at the far end of the table now, leaving the others to talk together.

  Alvarez was saying: ‘I made a trip out to the St Cyprian monastery this afternoon, to see if I could get anything more from Rogers.’

  Hunter looked up from his plate of cold meat and salad. ‘And?’ He winced as a stabbing pain lanced through his lungs.

  The entrepreneur was leaning back in his chair, turning a glass of wine in his fingers. He was dressed in a light-weight white suit of extravagantly flamboyant design. ‘I found Rogers, and a number of the other monks.’

  Dr Fischer asked, ‘Did you learn anything more?’

  Alvarez shook his head. ‘A couple of the monks were dead. Rogers was still alive, but only just. They were strapped to great wooden stakes on the clifftop greensward, naked, reduced to torsos. Many had had their eyes and facial features removed. They were chanting. I must admit that in a perverse kind of way, there was something almost beautiful in the tableau.’

  ‘As an atheist,’ Hunter said, ‘I could not look upon such depredation with sufficient objectivity to appreciate any beauty. As far as I’m concerned, their cult is a sick tragedy.’

  ‘They could be helped,’ Dr Fischer said tentatively.

  Hunter grunted a laugh. ‘I somehow doubt that your ministrations would meet with their approval.’

  The three men drank on in silence. At length, talk turned to the expedition.

  Alvarez indicated the huge tracked bison he had transported from Million. The vehicle sat in the drive beside the hotel, loaded with provisions — food, water, weapons and, Hunter noticed, a collapsible cage lashed to the side.

  ‘All is ready,’ Alvarez said. ‘We set off at dawn. Your wife’s radio beacons are transmitting, and all we have to do is follow them. Our progress should be considerably quicker than hers. We’ll be following the route she has carved through the jungle, and as we have four drivers working in shifts we’ll be able to journey throughout the night. I estimate that, if al
l goes well, we should arrive at the valley of the crash-landing within two weeks. Then you take over, Mr Hunter, and with luck on our side we should bring about the salvation of the Slarque.’

  Hunter restrained himself from commenting. The pain in his chest was mounting. He told himself that he should not worry - Dr Fischer had brought him back to life once; he could no doubt do so again, should it be necessary - but something instinctive deep within him brought Hunter out in hot and cold sweats of fear.

  Alvarez leaned forward. ‘Hunter? Are you—?’

  Hunter clasped his chest. Pain filled his lungs, constricting his breathing. Dr Fischer, with surprising agility for a man his size, rounded the table and bent over Hunter. He slipped an injector from a wallet and sank it into Hunter’s neck. The cool spread of the drug down through his chest brought instant relief. He regained his breath little by little as the pain ebbed.

  Dr Fischer said, ‘You’ve undergone a rapid resurrection programme, Mr Hunter. Some minor problems are to be expected. At the first sign of the slightest pain, please consult me.’ The Doctor exchanged a quick glance with Alvarez, who nodded.