Icarus Descending w-3

by Elizabeth Hand

  The shriek came from Metatron. Violet lightning shimmered as his hand sliced through the air and he pushed one of the acolytes forward. The man moved slowly, as though frightened and unsure what to do. But then, as though the replicant’s will moved him, he suddenly darted across the stage. I glimpsed a silvery dart at the energumen’s breast, something flashing at her throat like a feeding hummingbird. Luther Burdock shouted, tried to stand and push away the other man, but the energumen held him too tightly. She seemed not to notice her attacker at all. A last stab of argent light; then she threw her head back, staring at the shadows high high above. Her great hands fell loosely from Luther Burdock. As slowly as though she lay down to sleep, she drooped back upon the floor.

  Burdock stared at her, then savagely pushed the other man aside. He knelt beside her, pulling the huge head into his lap and leaning over her so that his tears fell onto her face.

  “Kalamat.”

  His head bowed as he called to her, his hands stroking back the tangled curls from her forehead. She moved, and I could see how she smiled, how she tried to lift her hand to graze his cheek. “Oh, daughter,” he moaned, and bent closer. Her eyes closed, though she still smiled, a child falling into a long, sweet sleep. Suddenly she cried out. Her back arched violently. One of her hands moved as though to grasp his, dropped with a soft thump to the floor; and the great figure was still.

  For a moment all was silent. Then Metatron shouted a command. Several energumens loped up to the platform and dragged her body out of sight. Behind them Luther Burdock screamed and fought, as Trevor Mallory and another energumen restrained him. The other white-clad figures remained beside the six silver caskets, quiet as ever, though from the way they turned and looked from one to another, I imagined they were as dismayed by this turn of events as those watching them. All around us I could hear whispers and growls, and from the energumens scattered angry shouts. But then Metatron stepped forward and cried out, “It is a sacrifice, that is all—another sacrifice!” He turned to Trevor Mallory and hissed, “Now—do it now .”

  Trevor moved back, so that only the other energumen held Luther Burdock’s struggling form. Burdock’s glasses had come off, and his faded blue uniform was stained with blood. He kicked fiercely at his captor and spat at Trevor Mallory.

  “You let them kill her! You did that, you and the others—you ruined them all—how could you, how could you?—”

  Trevor stared at him, his eyes round and empty. Next to him stood the acolyte who had killed the energumen. His hand still held a red-slicked knife. As I watched he took a quick step forward and plunged it into Luther Burdock’s breast. With one fluid motion he stepped back, as though he had performed a task he had long rehearsed.

  I cried out, aghast, and Jane beside me. But all around us we heard nothing. Luther Burdock’s hand slapped against his chest, gripped the handle of the knife. His fingers tried to close about it, then splayed open as he sank to the floor. Blood spread across his white shirt. His head tipped backward, so that he seemed to stare up to where the full moon hung like a huge calm face above the cavern. In a moment he was dead.

  Metatron stepped across the platform. When he reached the corpse, he stared at it with impassive emerald eyes. Trevor Mallory glanced down as well, but his face was contorted with anguish. He quickly turned away, gazing at the acolytes still waiting patiently beside the remaining capsules. He made a sharp slashing motion with one hand and barked out an order.

  At the signal the acolytes bowed over their silver caskets. They rumbled with unseen clasps, slowly pulled at the lids until each was open. Clear liquid streamed from the metal, pooling on the floor and staining the hems of the acolytes’ robes. My stomach churned and I fought to keep from running. I did not want to see what those caskets held.

  At the steel rim of first one and then another, hands appeared, fingers grabbing at the metal and clutching frantically, slipping on the wet surface. As before, they rose awkwardly from their resting places, liquid streaming from their shoulders and torsos so that they glowed in the moonlight like quicksilver.

  “Jesus,” breathed Jane. “It’s him again.”

  It was Luther Burdock. Six Luther Burdocks, each one naked and shivering, all shaking their heads and looking around with the same blank infant’s gaze. As they stumbled from their cells, they were helped by the acolytes, who wrapped them in stained blue tunics and wiped their faces with the hems of their own robes. When they had finished, the white figures stepped back, turning to where Metatron watched with a small smile.

  “Very good,” he said at last. “You may go now and ready yourselves for departure.”

  The twelve acolytes filed from the platform. Last of all went Trevor Mallory. When he passed Metatron, he stopped and looked at the replicant with burning eyes. Metatron met his gaze coldly.

  “Well?” he asked. I waited for Trevor to say something, to shout or strike the inhuman figure standing there; to show some of the rage and brilliance I had known in Trevor Mallory. But that man, it seemed, had died at Seven Chimneys. After a moment he lowered his head and shuffled after the others.

  Now only Metatron and Luther Burdock’s clones remained, six pallid men blinking and abashed in the moonlight. I cannot explain to you how horrible it was to see them, how they made my flesh crawl until I wanted to do as that acolyte had done and murder each of them with my own hands. They were so alike, so new and utterly unformed, with adult faces and bodies and expressions that were not so much innocent as mindless, so many empty vessels waiting to be filled.

  Metatron stepped forward. He tilted his head, regarding them coolly. For the first time in many minutes he turned his unblinking gaze upon the throng assembled in the cavern.

  “We are ready now,” he cried. He swept his arms out to indicate first the clones of the ancient geneticist, and then the rows of watching energumens. “We have the wisdom of Luther Burdock, the strength and numbers of his children, and enough of humanity to serve us all. Across the globe our brothers and sisters are set to join us as we harvest what remains of this poisoned earth and leave it to be burned clean. Let the avenging star come: we are ready to flee this world and find another!”

  The cavern erupted into cheering and shrieking howls. I pulled Jane to me and held her close as the floor beneath us shook and overhead the stalactites trembled.

  “I will lead you,” cried Metatron. “I will lead you in this last holy war, and I will have as navigator the mightiest of our Enemy’s warriors—”

  His voice shook as he raised his hands and turned. And that was when I saw him, borne forth by two energumens as though he were a man in flames, his face and body destroyed and encased in scarlet metal. Only his eyes remained to betray who and what he had been: the Ascendant’s greatest hero, the Aviator Imperator Margalis Tast’annin.

  “ No! ” His voice rang out, louder even than Metatron’s. My own voice echoed his disbelief. On the platform the six men who were Luther Burdock looked around uneasily. “ Let us go! ”

  Metatron only smiled at the Aviator’s fury, and looked past him to where two other figures stood at the edge of the platform. One struggled within her energumen captor’s grip—another Aviator, her face bruised and bleeding but her eyes aflame with hatred. But the other figure stood quite calmly, between two energumens who kept back from her as though afraid. When I saw her, I gasped, because her form was identical to that of Metatron, only encased in shining silver and blue and gold instead of violet and black. And as though she had heard me, she turned, seeming to search through the crowd until her eyes caught mine. Eyes as green and lambent as Metatron’s own; but where his held malice and cunning, hers were mild, seemingly unperturbed by all the chaos around her. Foolishly, I started to speak, as though she might hear me. Indeed, from the way she tilted her head, it seemed she did. But then Metatron’s voice cut through the air, and she turned away again.

  “Take him to the elÿon Izanagi and install him as its adjutant.” Metatron pointed at the energumen w
ho held Tast’annin. “Since he was careless enough to kill its navigator, he shall act as mine, and guide us to the stars.”

  Tast’annin howled again, but his voice was lost amid the clamor. He fought to turn his head, looking desperately through the crowd; and then his gaze pierced mine. Jane gasped and try to pull me back, but I did not move, only stared at him.

  It seemed that the roaring around me grew still. In all that vast space there was only myself and that crimson figure. Of his human visage nothing but a tormented metal mask remained. His eyes were so pale, it seemed all color had fled from them at sight of things more terrible than I could imagine. But what was most frightening was the expression in those eyes. I had seen them to hold only rage and lust to power. But now they gazed upon me pleadingly and with a desperation so awful, I nearly wept. It seemed I heard his voice again, as I had heard it in the Engulfed Cathedral, telling me, “ Even I must serve something …”

  It was as though he heard my thoughts. The silence was riven by a great roar as he threw his head back and shouted, “ I will not serve you, Metatron! I will not serve! ”

  Metatron laughed. “You have no choice, Tast’annin. None of us have any choice. We all serve a greater master now—”

  He pointed at the sky. A few bats still skimmed across the entrance to the cave, flecks of black skating across the moon’s weary face. On the platform the pale blue-robed figures of Luther Burdock looked up, as did everyone around me. It seemed that the moon grew paler; that it faded until it was little more than a blurred cloud floating in endless darkness. For a moment it was as though we stared into some terrible colorless dawn. And then I saw what it was that drove the moon from her rightful place.

  At the edge of the sky a radiance appeared, a brilliance that was not white but tinged with blue and red and violet and yellow, like a shattered rainbow hurled into the night. It grew brighter, and brighter still, until I shaded my eyes with my hands and gasped, my voice lost amid a thousand others.

  “Behold Icarus!” cried Metatron. “My son in his glory, the burning boy! He comes, he comes. Within weeks he will be here, and the mutilated Earth at last will be freed from its suffering!”

  Within the blinding light that filled the sky a point of black appeared, a small ragged core of darkness like an eye or mouth. It did not move or grow larger; only seemed to pulse slightly, like a heart beating within the void of heaven.

  “This is crazy !” Jane yelled. Fear and anger tore at her face; anger won, and she pounded her thigh with her fist. “I thought the Aviator was mad, but this—” She grabbed me and began to pull me through the crowd. No one stopped us now; no one noticed us at all. “Come on, Wendy, this is—”

  I yanked back from her. “We can’t go,” I said numbly. My eyes remained fixed on the deathly radiance above us. “Don’t you see what that is? Metatron is right—it’s some kind of falling star—where can we go?”

  And in answer I felt huge hands close around my arms, and saw Jane fall back into the grip of another energumen.

  “You’re to come with us,” it said. I did not fight, and after a moment I saw Jane grow limp as well. She shot me a last desperate glance as they led us from the shouting throng, up the steps to where Metatron stood surrounded by his cloned aides. I tried to shake off my captor’s hands, and looked to see Tast’annin and his two companions being led out through the cave’s entrance. Then the energumen pulled me, until I faced Metatron upon the dais. He looked at me and smiled, his eyes throwing off shafts of jade and emerald where they caught the reflection of Icarus’s brilliance. His voice was mocking as he greeted me.

  “ Come with me, ladies and gentlemen who are in any wise weary of London: come with me: and those that tire at all of the world we know: for we have new worlds here.”

  Another wave of shouts and snarling cheers rose from the cavern. Metatron stretched out his glowing hand to touch my chin.

  “You are very fortunate, Wendy Wanders, to see the new world that awaits us.”

  For a long moment he held my gaze, then pushed me away. “Bring them to the Izanagi with Imperator Tast’annin,” he commanded the energumens, and stalked from the platform.

  Behind me in the darkness Luther Burdock’s corpse lay cold and still. Above it the empty-eyed forms of his cloned brethren stared impassively into the sky. I turned to where the corpse of the creature who had called herself his daughter was sprawled upon the floor. As I stared, it seemed to move slightly. Then it did move, and with pity and horror I watched as it struggled to turn its head. At my side, Jane’s brown eyes grew wide with rage and compassion.

  “It’s not dead yet!—” She looked around for help. “They can’t just leave it, it’s not—”

  But then our guards tugged gently at us. Jane’s hand groped for mine as we were led away. A warm wind poured through the cave’s opening, and a rosy light that came from the elÿon fleet.

  All about us the air echoed with cries of wonder and terror, as the geneslaves and people of Cassandra gazed into the sky. I walked slowly before my captors, as though I were being taken to see a marvelous surprise and wanted to delay the pleasure. I could see my own shadow in the brilliance cast off by Icarus, faint as though drawn in water. I continued slowly until someone pulled Jane’s hand from mine. Then I was borne by arms larger and stronger than my own, up the rocky slope to the billowing crimson cloud that had swallowed the Aviator Tast’annin. I did not look back, though I heard Jane calling for me, her voice faint as a swallow’s thrown into the throat of a storm: not then, nor when the energumen carried me into the waiting elÿon.

  With surprising gentleness, it bore me through twisting passages, until we reached a tiny room where it placed me in a sling. Carefully it bound me against the rigors of the journey, then showed me where soon tiny needles would prick my wrists and throat and lead me into dark sleep. Only after it left did I turn to gaze out the tiny window opening onto the world.

  It was all there: trees, rocks, mountains, river: all of it, and people besides, weeping and pointing at the sky; and aardmen and energumens and the other geneslaves, rushing to herd their charges into me waiting elÿon. For many minutes I stared out, never lifting my gaze to the sky. Not until the walls surrounding me quivered, and I knew the elÿon was beginning to take flight. Then I looked up.

  There it was. Icarus, the falling boy, the black eye of fate gazing down upon us with that deceptively calm and brilliant stare. I could imagine his laughter, a sound that would rock worlds, and see his hand reaching for me, reaching for all of us: vast and implacable and terrifying. Soon he would be upon us; soon there would be no escape. But then like a cold kiss I felt the prick of unseen needles upon my flesh. Warmth surged into my veins. I saw the eye recede, saw the imagined retreat of the asteroid into the void; and in darkness fell into my final voyage.

  In the darkness something warm and wet streams from Kalamat’s breast. Behind her closed eyelids she can sense a brightness, a warmth; the promise of something wonderful, something more marvelous than she has ever known. She can feel her father’s hands upon her forehead, so small and light they might be leaves blowing across her skin, and though the raging pain does not subside, her body relaxes, her hands unclench, and her jaw, and she tries to speak.

  “Daddy,” she chokes. “Daddy—”

  Even as she winces from the effort, she smiles; because this time she knows he hears her.

  “Do not fear the dark, daughter,” he whispers. His voice catches, and something falls upon her face. “The night can never harm you, and anyhow soon it will be time for us to wake.”

  “Yes,” she wants to say. “Yes, I know.” But already death has drawn a noose tight around her, yanking words and finally thought from her mind.

  And then in the darkness Kalamat smiles, knowing her father is there amid all those small struggling figures, knowing that even death is a small thing now. Because she has found him, she has found him at last.

  A Biography of Elizabeth Hand

  Eli
zabeth Hand (b. 1957) is the award-winning author of science fiction and fantasy titles such as Winterlong , Waking the Moon , Black Light , and Glimmering , as well as the thrillers Generation Loss and Available Dark . She is commonly regarded as one of the most poetic writers working in speculative fiction and horror today.

  Hand was born in San Diego and grew up in Yonkers and Pound Ridge, New York. During the height of the Cold War, she was exposed to constant air raid drills and firehouse sirens, giving her early practice in thinking about the apocalypse. She attended the Catholic University of America in Washington, DC, where she received a BS in cultural anthropology.

  Hand’s first love was writing, but many Broadway actors lived in her hometown of Pound Ridge, and by high school she was consumed with the theater. She wrote and acted in a number of plays in school and with a local troupe, The Hamlet Players. After college, writing stories became her primary interest, and the work of Angela Carter cemented that interest. Hand realized that she wanted to create new myths and retell old ones, using a heightened prose style.

  Hand’s first break came in 1988 with the publication of Winterlong . In this novel, Hand explores the City of Trees, a post-apocalyptic Washington, DC. The story focuses on a psychically enhanced woman who can read dreams and her journey through the strange city with her courtesan twin brother. The book’s success led to two sequels: Aestival Tide and Icarus Descending . All three novels were nominated for the Philip K. Dick Award.

  Beginning with the James Tiptree, Jr. Award–winning Waking the Moon , Hand wrote a succession of books involving themes of apocalypse, ancient deities, and mysticism. Waking the Moon centers on the Benandanti, an ancient secret society in modern-day Washington, DC. that also appeared in Black Light , a New York Times Notable Book.

  In 1998, Hand released her short story collection Last Summer at Mars Hill . The title story won the Nebula Award and the World Fantasy Award. Most recently, she has published two crime novels focusing on punk rock photographer Cass Neary—the Shirley Jackson Award–winning Generation Loss (2007) and Available Dark (2012).