But before Aglaé spoke that first line—she hesitated, her eyes on mine, the God and dragoman forgotten by both of us—I began to undress her. She rushed to undress me.
But the lovemaking was not rushed. I have no need to describe it here and you have no need to hear details, but trust me that there was nothing rushed, nothing self-conscious, no sense of doom or finality, no awareness of other eyes on us—neither divine nor dragomanic—and we made love as joyously and slowly and then as impetuously and wildly as Romeo and Juliet would have at their age and in their depths of first-love rapture.
I did love her. Juliet. Aglaé. My love. My life.
We half-dressed afterward, she delivered her “Wilt thou be gone?” line, we laughed and debated whether it was the lark or the nightingale—the former meant death to me from Juliet’s family, but I laughed out, “‘Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death. I am content, so thou wilt have it so.’”
That wakens her to the morn and danger. She all but shoves me out with protests and final kisses and more final hugs and kisses.
I’d forgotten Abraxas. Forgotten the floating dragoman with the unblinking eyes. I’d forgotten everything but my performance and the truth beneath it—which was my body still vibrating like a struck bell because of my lovemaking with Aglaé and the knowledge that should the human race or universe itself end tomorrow, it was all worth it for these moments.
It was in our final tomb scene together that I realized that we were probably going to die then and there.
Our lovemaking had been spontaneous but real.
Our love was new but real.
The lines we were delivering had never been delivered like this by living actors in all the history of time or theater. Our energies were absolute. Our emotions all real.
I was sure that when I pantomimed drinking the poison in Juliet’s tomb, I would feel the cold spread of the true apothecary’s poison actually move through my veins like death-ice. And then, a moment later, when Aglaé pantomimed my dagger entering her breast, real blood would flow into the Pleroma and she would die.
“‘Here’s to my love,’” I whispered anyway, holding up the imaginary bottle and drinking it all down. “‘O true apothecary. Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.’”
The kiss was brief. I was dying after all. I fell, floating slowly away from where she floated horizontally in the golden glow.
I did not die. Nor did Aglaé’s make-believe dagger pierce an all-too-real and beating heart. The show went on. I summarized Friar Lawrence’s lines, the Page’s, the Watchmen’s, then Aglaé reported Capulet’s wife’s and Montague’s sorrow in snippets of dialogue, and then I delivered Balthasar’s and the Prince’s important lines.
Aglaé floated dead again while I boomed out in a prince’s royal voice.
A glooming peace this morning with it brings,
The sun for sorrow will not show his head.
Go hence to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardoned, and some punishèd:
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
Aglaé floated upright next to me and took my hand. We bowed together in Abraxas’s direction.
The God who was also the Devil, the apotheosis of Night and Day combined, did not move. His rooster eyes did not blink. His arms on the throne were still. His serpent legs with their serpent heads and fangs and serpent eyes did not stir or slither.
Aglaé and I looked to the dragoman.
Time did not move in this timeless place, but I could feel Aglaé’s heartbeats and my own. We lived.
“Well?” I said to the dragoman at last.
“Return to your ship,” he said.
“Not yet,” I said. Aglaé and I kicked forward together, floating closer to the throne and the God Above Gods seated on it. We could clearly see the lion teeth in the huge rooster beak as we came closer.
We stopped in front of Him. “Do you have anything to say to us?” I asked.
“Speak now,” said Aglaé to the thing on the throne, “or forever hold your peace.”
Abraxas did not stir or blink.
I raised my fist and brought it down hard on the God’s head. The chanticleer coxcomb and skull cracked and fell away when I struck again.
Aglaé’s small fists pounded His chest. It also cracked and then opened, showing hollowness inside.
The Unlikely Likely One, the All-Powerful in the Realms of Reality and Unreality, was as hollow and fragile as a plaster statue.
We turned to look at the dragoman.
“It’s always been you,” said Aglaé.
“Of course,” said the naked form. “Let’s get back into the Muse before you catch your death of cold out here.”
The Muse sealed the airlocks, pumped the Pleroma out, released real air into the ship from storage tanks, and the twenty-one other members of our troupe began gasping and gagging and coughing and retching. All had survived.
“There have been alterations,” came the Muse’s voice through the intercoms. “I can transit the Pleroma on my own now. To anywhere in the Tell or beyond. Where would you have us go?”
Without really thinking or waiting for Kemp or Burbank or Condella or the others—even my beloved Aglaé—to respond, I said, “25–25–261B.”
This transit took less than thirty minutes.
As much as we all wanted to crawl to our bunks and sleep for a month, most of us showered and dressed in our clean ship tunics and gathered in the common room, where Kemp and other older ones—still thinking they commanded the ship or their destinies—demanded to know what had happened in the Pleroma. I let Aglaé tell them.
“What was Abraxas’s verdict then?” asked Heminges. “On whether the human race continues or ends?” Aglaé had left out the part where we had found our God to be brittle, dead, false, and hollow.
“Perhaps we’ll see on 25–25–261B,” I said just as the Muse announced that we had exited the Pleroma and were approaching the planet.
The Muse roared down through cloud and sky on her thundering three-mile-long pillar of fire. It was daytime and the hot winds were howling in from the high desert above the arbeiters’ and doles’ plateau.
We suited up in hot condition suits and filter masks and went out anyway.
What we’d seen from orbit was true: the arbeiter barracks were empty, the dole hovels and offices deserted, the mushroom mine works abandoned and silent except for the howling of the wind.
Everyone was gone.
We returned to the ship and I ordered it to rise and hover near the Archon keep.
The stone-steel walls were there, but only a shell now. It looked as if a great fire had consumed every part of the interior. Embers still glowed.
“Where is everyone?” I asked the dragoman.
He showed spatulate fingers in an openhanded gesture even while he gave his small-shouldered shrug. “Perhaps the Archons have gone home—”
“I don’t mean the goddamned Archons,” I interrupted. “I mean the people. The human beings. The slaves. The people.”
If he had shrugged again, or smiled, I would have killed him then—be he dragoman or divinity or both—but he only said, “Perhaps you failed your tests and your people are no more. Gone from the galaxy, with your troupe soon to follow.”
“No,” I said. It was not a protest, merely a statement of certainty.
“Then perhaps some . . . force . . . has removed them from all worlds in the Tell where they were in bondage and sent them home to Earth,” he said.
I shook my head. “There’s not room enough on Earth, even without the oceans, even if the goddamned tombs were to be torn down, for the billions upon billions of us from the Tell,” I said.
“Then perhaps the oceans are being refilled and the . . . goddamned tombs . . . torn down as we speak,” said the dragoman. “And perhaps your kind has been returned also to more Earthlike worlds—beyond the Tell, perhaps even among the Spheres,
where they can resume their stumble toward their destiny.”
“What in the hell is this . . . thing . . . babbling about?” demanded Kemp.
“This thing is more God than Abraxas or the Poimen or the Archons were or will ever be,” I said tiredly.
Kemp and the others could only stare with their mouths open. I think all of our mouths were open. We were all learning to breathe air again.
“It was never really a test of us, was it?” I asked the dragoman.
“Only in the sense that every one of your performances is always a test,” he said.
“But you were testing them,” I said. “The Archons. The Poimen. The Demiurgos. Even Abraxas, if there is such a thing.”
“Yes,” said the dragoman. “There is no Abraxas, but there are the Abraxi. They are the Pleroma. Think of them as a sort of primal cosmic zooplankton. They are not very intelligent and make piss-poor gods.”
“Did all these species pass?” I asked.
“Not all of them.” The dragoman walked past us and looked at the Archon keep a mile below us. “Do you want that to remain?” he asked.
“No,” I said. While the others were trying to understand what we were talking about, I said to the Muse, “Full fusion thrust, please. Melt that place to slag.”
The Muse did what I asked. We felt the internal fields press around us as the ship leaped back into space.
“Were you really dead?” I asked the dragoman. “Did the Poimen really resurrect you from the dead?”
“I was. They thought they did. I have allowed others to believe the same in other places and at other times. Illusions are important for children, especially illusions about oneself or one’s place in the universe.”
“Do they know who you are? What you are?”
“No,” said the dragoman. He showed his thin, lipless smile again. “Do you?”
Before I could speak—and I do not know to this day what I was about to say—the dragoman said to us all, “You will encounter hundreds of other races of sentient and tool-using, if not always intelligent, beings if you cross the Pleroma to places beyond the Tell. None of them are gods. You will have to war with some if you want to survive. Some may have to die out. Some will want to destroy you. Some you may wish to destroy or conquer. You will have to look inside yourselves and to your poetry when those choices are faced.”
Aglaé said, “So there are no gods out there?”
“None out there,” said the dragoman. “Perhaps one or more in here.” He disappeared and we all leaped back as the air rushing into the space where he had been made a small thunderclap.
The Muse’s sudden voice from the walls made us all jump again.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
“Which of the Bard’s plays is that from?” asked Burbank, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and disbelief that there were lines he did not know.
“It’s not Shakespeare,” replied the Muse in her new, young voice so filled with dark energy. “It’s by a man named Wystan Hugh Auden. You people need to learn some new poets.”
“Perhaps you’ll have time to teach us,” I said. “Where are we now, please?” The viewstrips showed only stars, darkness, and arcane coordinates.
“We’re approaching pleromic transit-phase velocity,” said the Muse. “What is your desired destination?”
Only Aglaé spoke, but she spoke for all of us.
“Home.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
GARDNER DOZOIS is the most acclaimed editor in the history of science fiction. Editor of Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine since the mid-’8Os, he has also edited twenty-five consecutive Year ’s Best Science Fiction annuals, as well as many other anthologies, and has played an instrumental part in shaping modern science fiction. Gardner has received fourteen Hugo Awards, twenty-eight Locus Awards, and one Readercon Award for his editing, and is also recognized as a distinguished and respected short-fiction writer, twice receiving the coveted Nebula Award for his work.
JONATHAN STRAHAN has co-edited The Year’s Best Australian Science Fiction and Fantasy series of anthologies for HarperCollins Australia, co-edits the Science Fiction: The Best of . . . and Fantasy: The Best of . . . anthology series with Karen Haber for Simon & Schuster/ibooks, edits the Best Short Novels anthology series for the Doubleday Science Fiction Book Club, and co-edited The Locus Awards for Eos with Charles N. Brown. He is also the Reviews Editor for Locus: The Magazine of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Fields, and reviews for the magazine regularly.
They are currently working on The New Space Opera II .
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
ALSO BY GARDNER DOZOIS AND JONATHAN STRAHAN
THE NEW SPACE OPERA
THE NEW SPACE OPERA 2
COPYRIGHT NOTICES
“Saving Tiamaat” by Gwyneth Jones. Copyright © 2007 by Gwyneth Jones.
“Verthandi’s Ring” by Ian McDonald. Copyright © 2007 by Ian McDonald.
“Hatch” by Robert Reed. Copyright © 2007 by Robert Reed.
“Winning Peace” by Paul J. McAuley. Copyright © 2007 by Paul J. McAuley.
“Glory” by Greg Egan. Copyright © 2007 by Greg Egan.
“Maelstrom” by Kage Baker. Copyright © 2007 by Kage Baker.
“Blessed by an Angel” by Peter F. Hamilton. Copyright © 2007 by Peter F. Hamilton.
“Who’s Afraid of Wolf 359?” by Ken Macleod. Copyright © 2007 by Ken Macleod.
“The Valley of the Gardens” by Tony Daniel. Copyright © 2007 by Tony Daniel.
“Dividing the Sustain” by James Patrick Kelly. Copyright © 2007 by James Patrick Kelly.
“Minla’s Flowers” by Alastair Reynolds. Copyright © 2007 by Alastair Reynolds.
“Splinters of Glass” by Mary Rosenblum. Copyright © 2007 by Mary Rosenblum.
“Remembrance” by Stephen Baxter. Copyright © 2007 by Stephen Baxter.
“The Emperor and the Maula” by Robert Silverberg. Copyright © 2007 by Robert Silverberg.
“The Worm Turns” by Gregory Benford. Copyright © 2007 by Gregory Benford.
“Send Them Flowers” by Walter Jon Williams. Copyright © 2007 by Walter Jon Williams.
“Art of War” by Nancy Kress. Copyright © 2007 by Nancy Kress.
“Muse of Fire” by Dan Simmons. Copyright © 2007 by Dan Simmons.
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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THE NEW SPACE OPERA. Collection, introduction, and story notes copyright © 2007 by Gardner Dozois and Jonathan Strahan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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