by S. J. Ryan
"Later." Matt flopped over and buried his face in the pillow. He still saw Carrot, though. He willed the AR window shut. And then he still saw her.
"Matt, it appears your tear ducts are about to – “
"I'm not going to cry. And be quiet."
He pulled the pillow back, wiped his eyes, and resumed staring at the ceiling. After several minutes, he said:
"It's taken a few centuries, but I've decided what I want to do when I grow up. I'm going to be the kind of person that Carrot likes.”
Sometime later, he heard the voices from the courtyard. A few minutes after that, Jaros knocked on the wall by the doorway.
"Archimedes wishes to see you in haste. He is in the basement.”
"What's up?"
Jaros replied deadpan, "I have elaborate theories upon which I can expound, but if you linger to listen to them he will not be able to see you in haste."
While Jaros lit the courtyard torches to supplement twilight, Matt went to the basement. Archimedes ushered him through the door behind which he had been mysteriously working, an area of the house that Matt had yet to be permitted. It opened into a hallway, and at the far end was a well-lighted, hexagonal room. Around a hexagonal table sat three older persons, two men and a woman. They looked at Matt the same way that Archimedes had done when they first met at Palras, as if he were a machine part and . . . .
"This is the boy," Archimedes said. "He is named Matt of Seattle. And Matt, we four call ourselves the Council of the Moon. This is Prin, the lady is Andra, and the fellow at the end who is giving you a glare is Landar. You may consider us simply as a group of private citizens interested in scientific affairs of the day.”
And today, Matt realized, he was the scientific affair they were most interested in.
"He doesn't strike one as special," said Prin, who wore what on Earth would have been called an artist's beret and whose mustache terminated in points. He reached for the bowl in the center of the table. "Yet you say he invented these?"
"Actually, Prin, it's a dish of Seattlean origin, called 'potato chips.' The mixture at the side is called 'dip.' As the name implies, one must 'dip' the 'chip' to fully experience the intended flavor. And also, after eating from it once, mind not to dip the same chip again."
"You're not the only one who's heard of germs, Archie. Do I look like a patrician? I do have some wits about me.”
Andra patted his hand. “Prin, he's only admonishing you because you're sometimes forgetful.”
Prin slouched and folded his arms. “Yes, dear.”
“I think those two are married,” Matt subvocaled.
“Yes,” said Ivan.
In unison, the group brought out notebooks and pencils.
Landar opened his notebook, hiding the page from Matt's view. "Let's put him through his paces," he said. "Now listen here, Boy – "
"Landar!" Archimedes snapped. "He is not a slave."
"You said that he came from Palras."
"He's freeman now."
Landar put on a pair of spectacles and scrutinized Matt's hands. "Was he ever a slave? I see no tattoo."
"Apparently they failed to tattoo him. You had a question for him?"
"Yes . . . Matt." Landar consulted his notebook. "Are you familiar with the concept of the number pi, and the concept also of the decimal place? Then recite pi to the tenth decimal."
Ivan easily provided the answer, and Matt simply regurgitated.
"Very well, then how about fie to the same? And the natural logarian-theme that is known as 'eh.'"
Matt finished, but Prin snorted. "This proves nothing! A bird can recite! Have him do sums and multiplications. No – have him perform at long division!"
Matt instantly answered calculations involving numbers of three, four, and then five digits in length. They nodded with expressions of growing incredulity as they lengthily cross-checked by hand.
Then came questions about science, chemical formulas and thermodynamics. It wasn't long before those at the table lapsed into silence. They looked at each other, and then at Archimedes, and then Andra said, "I think we are all in agreement.”
Prin looked at her. “In agreement of what?”
Andra looked at him. “That he should be permitted to look at it.”
“At what?”
With deliberation, Andra glanced sideways.
“Oh, that. Yes, that. Yes, I agree. He should be permitted to look at it.”
Andra clasped her hands. “Then we are all in agreement.”
Archimedes led them into the hallway and headed in the direction that Andra had glanced, back toward the library. Midway down the hallway, he unlocked a sliding door, pushed it aside, and lit lanterns. It was a workshop. The tables were strewn with metal parts in the same kind of mess that the other workshops in the house had been in before Matt had organized them. The walls were covered with writing boards displaying the same kind of crude project-management diagramming that Matt had seen in the telescope workshop, but here the task blocks were so numerous that their captions were (at greater than arm's length and with normal vision) unreadably tiny and cramped. Whatever this project was, it was much more complex than a telescope.
On the main table had several parts that Matt instantly recognized as pistons. The block of iron in the center of the table had holes just the right size and depth to be the corresponding piston cylinders.
"Matt," Archimedes said, waving at the assemblage. "Do you know what this is?"
"It's an internal combustion engine," Matt replied. Once more, he have to upgrade his estimate of Roman technology by several decades. "Where did you get this?"
"We built it based on the ancient texts."
"I never saw this in any of your books."
"Not all of my books are in the library."
Archimedes unlocked a cabinet and returned with a large and somewhat moldy book, which he carefully laid flat on the table. He opened to the bookmarked page. There was a precise engineering drawing of the engine, with forward and side and cutaway views, dimensions and part callouts. As Matt compared the drawing with the engine, he spotted a crucial difference.
"The one you're building is three times as large," he said.
"The one on Steam Island is ten times larger still," Prin said.
Landar glared, but Archimedes said, "I think we must tell Matt about Steam Island, if we want his help. And we do need his help."
"Help?" Matt asked. "To do what?"
"To render war impossible.”
Matt blinked.
Archimedes smiled and said, “It's time we showed you everything. Assist me, Prin."
Archimedes opened a cabinet, and he and Prin carried a two-meter long draped object over to a side table. Archimedes removed the covering. Revealed was a carved wooden model of exquisite detail: cigar shaped main body – and upon its underside were slung a gondola, fins, engines, and propellers.
"It's an airship," Matt mumbled.
Archimedes replied, "The ancient texts, if I recall, refer to it as a 'zepallion.' But 'airship' is quite apt. How did you know to call it that? Do you have these in Seattle?”
"We're familiar with the concept.” Matt didn't think it would be productive to mention the 'dinner blimp' that had cruised over the city each night.
He examined the model closely and had Ivan examine it closer. He asked, "What kind of gas are you using to fill the balloon?"
"The ancients referred to it as 'hydrogen,'" Andra replied. She pronounced the 'g' as a hard 'g' and not a 'j' sound.
"Hydrogen is very flammable." Matt saw their gazes. "Or – so I've heard."
"The balloon is not capable of catching fire," Andra replied. "It's made of Sarkassian silk."
"What's that?"
She opened her pouch and presented a swatch of gray fabric. “It's very lightweight but also very strong, try it.”
It was thin as foil. Matt yanked and pulled, yet could not rip it. Ivan analyzed, "It is an advanced graphite composite, similar t
o carbonoflex used for construction of magnetic sails."
It took an advanced printer indeed to print carbonoflex, so Matt asked, “Where did you get this?”
"From the anus of a Sarkassian worm, where else?"
The others laughed, and Matt subvocaled, “Ivan, do a search on 'Sarkassian worm.'”
Ivan promptly replied, “There is no information on Sarkassian worms in my archives.”
Aloud, Matt said, “I've never heard of Sarkassian worms.”
“We have a special 'ranch' on Steam Island,” Andra replied. “The worms came to us originally from a trader in the Southern Seas.”
“Ivan, do a search on 'Steam Island.'”
“There is no information on Steam Island in my archives.”
Aloud, Matt said, “Okay, so what do you use for fuel?"
"There's a quandary," Prin said. The others nodded. “You see, the ancients state that any form of alcohol will do, but we tried naval rum and the engine will barely turn. Do you think it's because we're using the wrong fuel?"
Matt had sampled naval rum and knew that lack of volatility wasn't an issue. He looked between the drawing and the engine, and already had a fair idea of what had gone wrong. He consulted with Ivan, and conveyed, "I think your problem is the cube-square law."
"What is that?" Archimedes asked.
"Basically, you can't just directly scale up the design in the book, because the volume will increase faster than the surface area, and that will affect engine performance. The proportions of the dimensions and other quantities will have to be recalculated, and there are other design changes that will be required too."
"Can you do that?"
"Sure."
He studied the model again, consulting with Ivan to determine engine performance requirements based on aerodynamic characteristics. But then his gaze came to the racks behind the gondola. The racks contained tiny barrels, each about the size of a thumb from tip to first joint. Scaled to life-size, the barrels would be about 350 liters in volume, and there were two rows of twenty. Matt felt the proverbial chill down the spine.
He crouched over the model and moved his hand beneath the balloon, past the gondola to the end of the walkway. Poised over a control panel, his forefinger pushed a miniature lever. This pulled on a threadlike cable, which operated a release mechanism. One of the barrels dropped free and rolled on the table, then onto the floor. Matt stared for a moment. He stooped and set the barrel on the table. He stood straight and turned to the others. They stared motionlessly at him.
"Say again, why are you building this?"
"To render war impossible," Archimedes replied.
"How do you figure that?"
Archimedes held up his palm. He went to the hallway and Matt heard the click of the library door being shut. Archimedes returned and slid the workshop door closed.
Wearing a most solemn expression, Archimedes said, "What we tell you now must never be mentioned to another soul. Do you swear, Matt?"
"Yes," said Matt, slowly.
“Well, here is how it will work. The barrels you see are what are called 'bombs.' They are filled with a very powerful type of incendiary that is made from a highly flammable type of jellied rum. The mechanisms are such that the crew of the zepallion may fly over a given target and with merely the pull of levers they may drop a bomb upon the target, and upon impact the target will be destroyed with a conflagration of fire. Follow so far?”
“Yes,” Matt said, feeling unsteady.
"Well, think of what this means to the nature of war. With walls and sieges obsolete, one such ship could destroy much of a city in minutes. All from above, with complete impunity."
"So . . . how does that make war impossible?"
Archimedes glanced to the door again, then riveted his eyes on Matt.
"Our plan – and this is the part you must absolutely never utter outside our circle – is to provide all nations with the design of a working airship. When all nations have fleets of zepallions, the leaders will realize that war has become unthinkably horrible in its potential for ultimate destruction. And so we will achieve lasting peace upon this planet."
Matt looked at their shining faces, all nodding in agreement.
"I see," Matt said.
Archimedes continued, "Of course, if the Senate were to learn of our intent to share the weapon with other nations, we would be executed as traitors and Rome would keep the design for itself, to build a fleet of such ships to launch a final war of conquest against the rest of the world."
"I see."
"And that is why you must keep it secret."
Matt caught himself from mechanically saying 'I see' again. Finally, taking a deep breath, he said, "I can't help you."
Landar shot Archimedes a hard glare. "You told us we could trust him!"
"You can trust me to keep your secret," Matt said. "But I'm not helping you build this thing. You may mean well, but this thing will be put to evil use. It won't make war impossible, just worse.”
“And how do you know that?” Landar demanded.
“Seattle once built another type of flying machine that dropped bombs. It didn't stop us from having wars. Like I said, the wars only got worse.”
Landar threw up his hands. “Seattle! Can you even prove that such a place exists?”
Matt felt his face flush, and in a low voice replied, "I'm sorry, I can't help you with this."
There was a long silence.
"Cube-Square Law," Andra mused. "Perhaps that insight is really all the help we need."
"We may as well go," Prin said to Archimedes. "Thank you for the chips."
"Thank Matt," Archimedes replied.
But no one did.
They filed out of the workshop, into the hall and library. While the others went up to the courtyard, Matt remained in the library. This time, on the table, Carrot had her miniature army besieging a city wall.
Wars are cute, Matt thought, when they're that small.
The voices stopped talking and the door to the street slammed, followed by the clunk of the crossbeam. Matt flipped through library books, but his heart was not in it. He climbed the steps to the courtyard. The sky had grown completely dark, and the torches were sputtering from exhaustion of their fuel pots.
Archimedes approached and asked, "How is the work on the weather station?"
"I'm designing a machine to record wind speed automatically," Matt replied.
Archimedes patted him on the shoulder and headed toward his office. Matt sat on a bench in the garden and gazed at flowers and stars, and mulled over what he had seen and what he could do about it, and whether it was his business to do anything about it.
An hour or so later, Ivan said, “Matt, a person is standing on the roof over the street entry.”
Matt turned and looked up. The shadow took a back-step, hesitated, then came forward into the torchlight. It was Carrot. She leaped down, from one ledge to the next, as nimble as a mountain goat. Matt was waiting where she landed in her bare feet which were, he noticed, blackened by charcoal.
"What are you doing out so late?" he asked.
"Nothing special," she replied.
She was wearing long pants and a shirt with long sleeves. Both were dark blue and loose-fitting.
“I've never seen you in those clothes before.”
“They are new.”
“Where did you get them?”
“I made them.”
Tucked in her belt were three pieces of cloth matching her outfit. Two pieces were the right size for gloves and one, Matt noticed, was the right size to fit over her head as a hood that would cover the entire face.
She smiled casually and met his gaze directly. “I perceive the scent of visitors.”
"Just some friend of Archimedes who wanted to meet me."
"About what?"
Despite his promise not to tell anyone, Matt desperately wanted to tell her everything, but then Ivan said, “Matt, Carrot has a pouch concealed beneath her shirt on t
he left side. It is empty, but is the appropriate size to carry a knife.”
Which she probably left on the roof, Matt thought. By now, Carrot knew that Ivan would have no difficulty spotting a concealed weapon.
Matt fixed a smile and said aloud, "Nothing special."
"Oh.” She shrugged. “Then may you have a good night, Matt.”
“You too, Carrot.”
With a bow of her head, she walked across the courtyard toward the servant rooms, keeping her arm pressed to her side where the knife sheath was hidden.
35.
From Victory Square to the imperial palace snaked Golden Street – a wide boulevard lined with trees and the homes of the 'best' families in the Empire. Near the base of the slope, one of the houses had been bequeathed by the sole survivor of an ancient patriarchal line to the Sisters of Wisdom.
The transfer of title for the choice piece of real estate had been somewhat controversial, as the patrician in question had never manifested any association with the Sisters and his will had been altered just before his death to name them sole inheritor of his estate. All the more odd, as the codicil had been urged by his young wife who had been perceived as an opportunist but had turned out to want nothing for herself – and had promptly disappeared after the will was executed and the house delivered into the hands of the Sisters.
But the paperwork seemed to be in order. That was the consensus of the lawyers and judges who had examined the documents and were still alive.
And so every day, upon leaving their homes and descending the gentle outermost slopes of Mount Enta into the city, the servant-borne litters of almost every patrician of Rome had to pass before the gates of the Temple of the Sisters of Wisdom.
Not that there was much to see. The windows were forever shuttered, the marble unadorned with decoration. The original owner's bird baths and fountains and sculptures of nymphs had been removed and the orchid gardens uprooted, replaced by grass that uniformly grew exactly three centimeters and stopped.
All in all, the temple looked threadbare, even sterile, a massive utilitarian box on an avenue known for ostentation. Nothing could have chilled the passing patricians more.
That particular morning, as always, a long line of supplicants waited outside the gates. When a handful exited, another handful was allowed admittance to ascend the steps. The great doors of redwood from the forests of Frans cracked open, revealing the dark and cavernous interior. The supplicants entered and the doors swung shut.