by Ian McDonald
The advice of a Pilot is never to be taken lightly, as every shipmaster knows. All save Master Roche, who believed only in his own infallibility. To impress the Admiralty Selectors who had symbiosed him to this command he programmed his machineself to take Esperanza on the fastest, most direct course through Cape Infinity to the New South Georgia Colony. Now, all Pilots make their approach to Cape Infinity through the north or south spinpoles, which, though slow, is safe, and only a fool would attempt to take a ship straight through the accretion disc where the event density is so high as to render even foursight unreliable. But though the Pilot argued day in, day out, Master Roche would not be swayed, and as the navigational computers were not just under his command, but an actual part of him, Esperanza held her course into the heart of the black hole.
One day, after another futile debate which only set Pilot and Master further at odds, the Pilot stormed from the flight deck in search of Anelle, for these days only her brightness and kindness made living bearable for him. He stamped into her room in a dreadful humor, and then stopped, and stared. He should have been horrified, he should have retched and covered his eyes, he should have turned his back and run away through the miles and miles of corridors to the furthest parts of the ship. But he did none of this. All he did was stare. For Anelle turned to greet him, and her breast was open and within delicate mechanisms moved and molecular circuits oozed.
Then she told him that she was the first of the new race, that after a thousand years of study the machines had identified and isolated the phenomenon of foursight and had learned how to duplicate it artificially. So that no human should needlessly cast wind and limb to the sky again, they had built a new race of machines ready to step forward to take man’s place on word of Anelle’s success. She was a machine, and still the Pilot loved her.
Then the Pilot felt the whole million-ton bulk of ship and transport shudder beneath his feet and he knew that they had arrived at the black hole and now he must call the Master’s bluff. Reaching out with his foursight he beheld the rainbow ring of the accretion disc, and ordering short-sail, he took his ship down into the maelstrom. The buffets struck like the fist of God and Esperanza rolled and yawed like a pig, but he held her and the wind screamed into the singularity, seizing the ship like a glass float in a hurricane and driving her down that great gullet past shards of shattered planets, round gravitational whirlpools deep enough to drown whole worlds in. Esperanza plunged towards the shatter-point, and just as gravity reached out to smear her into a radio-stain on the thin edge of the accretion disc, the Pilot took her up and out and over and the ship howled across the face of that ring of solid ylem like every demon of Samhain Eve was after her soul, her way lit by insane neutron lightnings that crawled across the crust. Ahead lay the singularity and the sight of it awed every soul aboard into silence. Even Master Roche crawled from his cozy parlor to stare in wonder and horror, unaware that it was his foolishness and the Pilot’s arrogance that had brought them to this terrible place. But at the sight of him the Pilot felt the rage boil over inside him, and his concentration broke and his foursight vanished like a burst bubble.
Then it happened that a gobbet of unimaginably dense matter broke away from the accretion disc and spun into Esperanza’s path. So close to the horizon it was invisible to normal senses, and though it brushed Esperanza as soft as a butterfly’s kiss, that kiss swept away the portside arms and sails and crewmen in an instant. Worse, it threw Esperanza into a funeral orbit spiraling down to a final rendezvous with the Edge. Lacking enough sail to break free, the Pilot calculated that in less than an hour the ship would drop below the horizon and be lost. But if the crew could blast free from Esperanza’s hulk in the cargo modules, they could use the darksun’s momentum to fling them into the polar approaches and safety. All agreed that this was the only means of survival.
All save Master Roche. His mission would not be abandoned, his ship would be repaired using the automated systems of his machineself, passage would be effected and no dissent brooked. Twice he called for all hands to damage-control. Twice he was refused. A third time he ordered them, and, being refused a third time, turned to face the Pilot and ordered the men to arrest him. And the Pilot’s fury broke. With a cry he swung his silver-shod staff high and brought it down on Master Roche’s head. There was no doubt that he died then for everyone heard bone snap. For an instant they stood stunned at the thing the Pilot had done, and then hurried to save themselves before Roche’s machineself recovered from the death of his flesh.
But Anelle would not come. You see, Fraser, she was a machine and machines are not as free as you or I. The Pilot pleaded and begged and told her she would surely perish, but she thought not. Working at machine speeds, she could indeed repair Esperanza as Roche had maintained and return her to port.
Then the Pilot said that if she loved him she would come and at that she was sad-and said, “But I am not yours, Mr. Christian Pilot, that I am free to come. I must remain here where time runs out and centuries pass like seconds, but I will not forget you if you will not forget me. Look for me in the steely-bright flash of summer shooting stars or the winter-shadow of my sails across the moon, for one of these years I will return to you, I promise.” And with that she turned a joyful cartwheel across the flight deck and the Pilot went down to the waiting cargo module and never saw her face again.
Now, Fraser, they say there’s no sin in a man loving a machine, for all men agree that in love the outward form is of no consequence and many men have loved machines that are not even remotely human. But what if the machine loves him back?
And this is the second part of Christian’s story.
* * * *
Above the dirty skylight, wisps of blue are at last showing through the wet-cotton clouds where the gray rainkite keeps watch. You sit together in the airy space of a disused packing shed, each of you absorbed with your own thoughts. Christian’s fingers play over the bottom end of his staff, like a blind piper, over the place where there are no notchmarks. Who can tell what he is thinking? Your head is full of heroes and villains. Which was the Pilot? Hero, for playing the brave navigator saving his crew? or villain, for letting his stupidity get them into trouble in the first place? He killed his captain with one blow from his silver-shod staff; does that make him a hero or a villain? Villain in the eyes of the Law, but a hero to you, you decide.
Kicking your way home through the damp sand you find that the circle of your thoughts has brought you round to Christian’s caravan in the dunes. It looks old and shabby on this gray afternoon. Paint blisters are popping on the door panels and the steps are worn white with traffic, but there is really no better place for you to be with Christian’s story rattling round in your head. How nice it would be, you think, to have a Black Kite of your own to float on the edge of the world like one of your little driftwood dreadnoughts. And with that thought comes a terrible certainty of what you want to do, and you creep up the stairs into the caravan.
Its perfect blackness outshines any of the other gaudier kites. “Black as the Black Sun,” you whisper and reach out to take it, to feel an echo of that neutron lightning. Your fingers sink into the blackness, there is nothing there to touch. Startled, you jerk your hand away and the fabric comes with it. Stuck to your fingers, the black material tears silently.
Horror drives all the air out of you. It is like heaven has fallen. For a numb second you cannot breathe. You imagine Christian’s iron tread coming up the stairs, finding you as he found you that first time. You search for a place to hide the pieces of shredded kite but there is nowhere where Christian will not see the desecration.
In your ears is a tight singing like you are going to cry, but you dare not afford that luxury. You scoop up the Black Kite, its delicate ribs snapping like sparrow’s bones, and hide it under your raincoat. Ribbons of black nightmare trail from below the hem. You run from the caravan, run from the skewbald pony who is watching and knows, run all the way home as if Hell itself has opened up b
ehind you.
* * * *
Now that you have had time to think about it, everything seems so very much worse. Of course it is only a matter of time until Christian finds his replacement Black Kite missing, and that makes you a thief, which is much much worse than a vandal. How you wish you had not taken the Black Kite, how you wish you had never touched it, how you wish you had never met Christian and his wretched kites! It is no use wishing now.
Consumed with dread, you sit by your bedroom window. Downstairs you can hear the faraway, safe sounds of the patrons making merry. You can clearly pick out Da’s voice and the cheeky step-a-jig of brother’s mandocello. The binoculars are by your hand on the windowsill. You could pick them up and see if Christian is still flying the first Black Kite, but you are afraid that if you do you will see only empty sky. The wind is rising, quarreling round the rooftiles, but you daren’t look out to watch it. And you daren’t look under the bed either, for there you have hidden the splinters of kite.
The later it gets the more the fear grows. What if Christian already knows what you’ve done through foursight? Will he then forgive, or is he preparing some punishment too dreadful even to think about? Hero, or villain? There is no doubt about which role you play. You wrap your quilt around you and wish wish wish that this night was over.
Tomorrow you will explain. You will take the kite and tell him it was an accident, and you won’t mind what he does because anything, anything, is better than this waiting in fear. Firm with resolution, at last you slide into a shallow, dream-ridden sleep.
The tapping wakes you. The wind is really wild now, snatching at the guttering and beating the pear trees in the garden together. Lashing branches and storm-driven clouds racing through the twilight throw crazy, scary shadows over the carpet. For a moment terror holds you, because you think that he has stepped out of your dream into the world of shapes and substances. Then you listen. The inn is quiet. It is well past even the unofficial closing time, but there is this tap, tap, tap; clearly audible over the shrieking of the storm, like a little winter-blighted bird seeking entrance at the window. You turn to look, and there it is.
A great black kite as wide as the sky is flying outside your window and tapping gently on the glass as it dances on the edge of the storm. The stormkite.
At that same instant of horrified recognition there is a hammering on the door downstairs. That door is six-inch shiptimber, but under those blows it sounds as fragile as dried drift.
“Open up, Mr. MacHenry, open up, I say!” That bellowing voice drains all motion from you.
Christian.
Locks are being drawn back, latches lifted. The door scrapes open.
No, Da, don’t let him in, don’t let him near me! you want to shout but the words have died in your throat. The stormkite scratches malevolently at the glass. It is almost as if it has summoned this evil wind to come hunting you.
“Where is he, where is the boy, the thief, the little thief who stole my Black Kite?” Christian’s voice sweeps Ma and Da away like leaves in a tempest.
“No, Christian, I didn’t steal, I didn’t,” you whimper and dive to lock the door. Da is shouting loudly now, demanding names and reasons, ordering your brother to run up to the Coast Guard Station for help, but Christian roars “Silence!” and even the storm falls quiet for an instant.
In that instant you know he has fourseen and found you.
Now he is coming up the stairs, one step, two step, three step, four, now he is on the landing, now he is at the door.
The door handle rattles, the door jars against the lock. There is a pause for a second, then an ugly shout with nothing of the pebble-worn old voice of the kiteman left in it:
“Boy, open the door! Open this door; give me back my kite and I will go in peace, just return my property to me, I have dire need of it.”
There is no way you will ever open that door.
Then the blows come, each one twice as heavy as the one before. The doorframe shudders under the impacts. Surely no human fist could strike that hard, and every second the blows double in strength.
There is an explosion and the door blows into splinters. Christian stands there like a tree riven by lightning, holding his staff in both hands. Blue fire shimmers around its silver heels.
“Fraser, where is my kite?” There is a grief too heavy for whole worlds to bear in those words.
Time freezes over like a winter estuary; Christian, your Ma, your Da, your sister trembling by the bannister, all stand frozen like bulrushes in January as you present the dead, ruined thing to Christian.
“It was a mistake,” you plead, holding it up before him. “I touched it.”
Christian looks down at you from light-year’s distance.
“Oh, Fraser,” he says, with aching gentleness, “Fraser!” and that final syllable howls out in a roar that goes on and on and on and on and you tear at your ears and squeal, “Stop it, Christian, stop it, stop it, stop it!” And at last it does stop and the room is empty.
Christian and his kites are gone.
Replaced by—a hall full of grim people with lanterns and weapons—someone asking, “Where, Fraser, where where?”—light catching on shotguns and polished Coast Guard cap-badges—all these come to you like an album of summer snapshots. What is real is that dreadful, dreadful scream ringing round and round in your head. You know it will echo there for always.
“Where, Fraser, tell us where!” the voice insists.
“Caravan by the Cannery, in the dunes,” you sob and in seven words betray him.
“Right!” Heavy men in heavy boots stamp in the hall. Hastily wrapped in a heavy sea-coat, your own brother carries a ponderous whaling lance and a look on his face that he will not have to use it. The men crunch off down the path in puddles of lantern-light. Ma takes you upstairs, but you struggle free and skip away from the snatching hand. Then you are after them into the twilight.
How fast they are! You had hoped to dash ahead of them and warn Christian, but the heat in their blood must drive them on like ship’s boilers. They are easy to follow: the sway of their lanterns and the mumble-grumble of their angry voices carry over the windswept dunes and when those are lost there are their heavy, nailed bootprints pressed hard into the sand. Boots are good in the sand, that is why they are so far ahead of you, slithering and sliding in your slippers. The sky hangs huge above yet the stars feel as close and familiar as thistledown. Meteors kindle away to nothing on the edge of the horizon.
There are no kites flying in the gloaming above Cannery Pier.
In the hollow in the dunes is a yellow knot of lantern-light. Men’s voices are raised, ugly and angry, and Da’s ugliest and angriest of all. You scrabble up the dune face and part the grass to peer down unnoticed into the valley.
In a circle of yellow light, Christian sits on the steps of the caravan turning the smashed frame of the Black Kite over and over in his hands. The stormkite sits propped against the rear of the caravan by his side. Da is shouting questions and the faces of the men come to arrest him are grim, but Christian does not look up. They might as well not be there.
Tiring of Christian’s obstinacy, Da gives an order. The men close in. Two of them grasp Christian and drag him to his feet. He does not resist. The kite falls from his hands and is unheedingly trampled under the heavy boots.
You cannot bear to see this. You cannot let them take him without a word. You climb to the crest of the dune and shout, “Christian!” You wave to him, he must see you. “Christian!”
Heads turn. Every eye fixes on you standing there in your dressing gown and slippers.
“Fraser,” your Da cries, “Fraser, you shouldn’t be here. Away home with you; Dougal, take him home.” Obediently, your brother drops his whaling lance and comes for you, feet sinking deep in the sand. Christian stirs, sees you.
“Ah, Fraser,” he rumbles like sad stones rolling on a beach. With a slow flex of his muscles he throws his captors away from him and comes to you. There are
shouts. Men surge around Christian. There is scuffling. Christian is incredibly strong, strong as iron. Men tumble and wrestle in the sand. There are oaths and cries. The sudden crack of a shotgun splits the night in two.
The old skewbald pony goes mad with fright, plunging and kicking. The hollow is full of frantic motion.
“Hold the horse, the damn horse, somebody hold him,” a man shouts. One man dives for the frenzied pony’s halter, the others try to hold Christian down. The pony shies away from the looming man and kicks out.
From your forgotten vantage point you are perfectly placed to see the awful thing that happens next.
In its skittering dance the pony kicks a lantern against the caravan wheel. Glass shatters and burning oil splashes all over the woodwork. Paint blisters, blackens, bums. Within seconds the caravan is a bonfire.
The wind fans the greedy flames; with an ugly, gleeful roaring and sucking they snap and shrivel the lovely thing. The beautiful kites are seared away like so much scrap paper: the sunkite and the moonkite, the dragon and the butterfly and the hawk, the windkite and the kite with clouds on it, all turned to ash in a second. Even the stormkite by the door shrivels and bursts into flame. The blazing timbers crumble and the burning caravan folds up and collapses inwards in a gout of fire.
There is nothing left of the stormkite but a white metal skeleton. With its death the wind dies down.
The fire knocks the fight out of everyone. The men watch with horror. This was not their intent, to burn the beautiful caravan, they only came to bring justice to this man who stands looking with eyes nailed open by the flames. The blaze settles lower. Soon it will be out.