The Circus Infinitus - Genesis Infinitus

by Ethan Somerville

  Francesco Melzi answered the door to a pair of clerics in identical black cassocks. “We understand that the great master Leonardo Da Vinci has just passed away,” one of the priests began in a soft, kindly voice. “We are Padre Paolo Ricci and Padre Antonio Donelli, here to comfort you in this time of grief.”

  Melzi gulped and immediately let them into the hall. “Of course, come in. You are most welcome. I will find my friend Icarus – he has great need of support.”

  Both priests nodded and waited patiently while Melzi ran to get Icarus. He found him in the workshop, cleaning up. His face was still stained with tears. “Two priests are here,” he explained. “They’re offering consolation. Would you like to speak to them?”

  Icarus stared at Melzi. “Priests? Two priests?” he gasped, shock chasing his grief away.

  Melzi jumped in surprise at Icarus’ reaction. He looked almost frightened! “Er – yes. What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve got to get out of here!” Icarus abandoned his broom and headed for the exit. Luckily he had heeded Leonardo’s advice and secreted the money and book away from the house, in a hollow tree not far from where they had experimented with the first Immortality Machine.

  But as he hurried out into the hall he found the two priests there, waiting for him! There was no way out – he was trapped. Could he talk his way out of this like Leonardo had? He didn’t hold much confidence in his ability to lie convincingly. Unlike the late artist, he was quiet and taciturn - not a good communicator.

  “Are you Icarus?” one of the priests asked kindly. “We are Padre Ricci and Padre Donelli – your friend said you might be in need of some comfort.”

  They didn’t appear threatening, but after what Leonardo had told him, Icarus didn’t trust them one bit. They could even be the same priests who had accosted him forty years earlier! Both appeared to be in their sixties, with white hair and heavily lined faces, but surprisingly bright, shrewd eyes. “Um, I’m alright, Fathers,” Icarus managed. “I really need to finish cleaning – if you could perhaps come back tomorrow?”

  Both priests stepped forward, intending simply to move in closer, but Icarus immediately felt like they were hemming him in. “It’s natural during this time of grief to not want to talk, but it will help, we assure you,” continued the first priest who had spoken. Icarus wasn’t sure which one he was. Not that it mattered. “Once you have poured out your sadness, you will feel much better.”

  Icarus felt a strange, rising pressure, as though someone had grabbed both sides of his head and was squeezing hard. What was this?

  “Why don’t you start by telling us about what Leonardo taught you? Did you help him with his art, or with his machines?”

  The odd crushing sensation increased, and Icarus opened his mouth to tell them all about the strange and wonderful devices Leonardo had invented, and he had helped him build. Then he realised what was happening. He was being compelled by some sort of Magick! He froze. Then, with a tongue that felt as heavily as a leaden bar, he said; “I helped him with his art. He had me paint backgrounds for him.”

  “Ah. Did you ever see any of his notebooks?”

  Icarus found himself wanting to blurt out everything about the hidden Magick book. Again he had to resist the urge. “I did see one with pictures of human anatomy. He drew a picture of a child in the womb. It was … fascinating.”

  “You didn’t see any books on machines?”

  “N… no Father.”

  “He never told you about the Omniportallis? Or the Immortality Machine?”

  Icarus really had to struggle to keep the shock from his face. “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about. What is … an ... Omniportcullis?”

  The two priests exchanged glances.

  “Why are you asking me all these questions, anyway? I thought you were here to comfort me.”

  The father who’d been talking sighed. “I’m sorry Icarus. If there’s anything you wish to discuss, we’re only too happy to talk.”

  Icarus wanted to run as fast as his skinny legs could carry him. “I don’t feel very well. Can you come back tomorrow?”

  “Of course.”

  Icarus backed into the workshop, shut the door and leaned against it. Almost immediately a fit of nervous shivering overcame him. The room began to spin around him. Resisting such power had taken a lot out of him. But he couldn’t afford to faint now. He had to escape. So he crossed the room, shoved open a window and scrambled out. Even though he didn’t think he was strong enough, he called on air spirits to cloak his departure as he crept across the garden. He doubted those so-called priests had bought into his lies.

  The two padres found Melzi in the kitchen, fetching himself a drink. He turned in surprise. “Did you speak to Icarus?” he asked.

  This time, the priests didn’t look as friendly as before. They cornered Melzi, and almost immediately he experienced the same strange pressure that Icarus had. But he had no idea what it was, or how to resist it. They asked him the same questions and he was compelled to answer, and answer truthfully. He had only basic ideas about Leonardo’s machines, but then one of the holy men asked him about the Immortality Machine.

  “Icarus and Leonardo did build one, but it didn’t work. They made it from wood, and when the lightning struck it, it blew apart.” Melzi suddenly realised that he’d broken Leonardo’s trust, and clapped both hands over his mouth in horror.

  “That little shit lied to us!” growled one of the priests. “How the hell did he do that?”

  “Da Vinci must have taught him resistance!” snarled the other. “Come on – he’s probably half-way across the hills by now!” Leaving the distraught Melzi gaping after them, the priests hurried from the manor without a backward glance.

  But Icarus’s concealment saved him, confounding the priests long enough for him to grab the articles he’d hidden, and flee. He couldn’t afford to grieve any longer – he had to run for his life. Even though he had led a very sheltered existence, he now had to survive on his own, with only his wits and spells to help. He journeyed north, keeping to the country roads and sleeping in ditches. He tried not to use Magick as each spell sapped his strength, which had never been particularly good. Because of his slight build and his pretty face, he was able to beg enough supplies to continue on into the Netherlands, where he hoped the churchmen wouldn’t follow. But he had no idea what to do. Where should he stop? How did he go about finding a place to build Leonardo’s machine? What supplies could he buy?

  Icarus spent almost a dozen years wandering from place to place, looking for a permanent home. It seemed whenever he found a likely site to begin building the machine, local priests would start asking him awkward questions. Now their suspicions had been aroused, there was no escaping them! Only through his wits and Magick did he manage to stay one step ahead of them. He discovered they were from a mysterious, secretive arm of the Catholic Church known as the Stigmata, but could not glean any more knowledge than that. He began to despair of ever escaping their clutches until he heard that King Henry of England had renounced his Catholic faith and set himself up as the head of the Church of England!

  Icarus, now well into his forties and his health beginning to fail, could not get himself to England fast enough. Due to his extreme frugality and careful use of spells, he still had some of Leonardo’s money left. He managed to buy passage – under an assumed name of course – and disappear into the seething city of London. In a land where Catholicism had become illegal, and priests and monks were being arrested, Icarus finally found a home. He found himself an old forge to use, and paid a bell maker to fashion him the man-sized metal container he needed for his machine. Of course that used up the rest of his funds, but he didn’t care. He could finally pursue his master’s dream in peace.

  But without any money left to his name, he was forced to steal the rest of the equipment he needed; the cart upon which to mount the machine, the internal platform and its accompanying mechanism, the chains, the lightning-rod �
�� and finally another ox to pull the damn thing up onto a hill. He hated thieving. He had come from a good family and had been brought up with a strong sense of honesty. And besides, stealing was an almost certain way to get noticed. He employed Magick and the aid of spirits to help, but still felt there were many eyes upon him. After all, just because the Catholic Church had been outlawed, didn’t mean its Stigmata spies didn’t lurk on English soil.

  Icarus’s increased use of Magick took its toll him, sapping his already flagging strength and ageing him beyond his years. He had long ago lost his youthful looks, becoming a bony, stooped old man with a fringe of wispy white hair. He needed a stick to walk. On the day he had his completed machine dragged out into the open, concealed from prying eyes beneath a heavy canvas tarpaulin, he could feel the icy fingers of death threatening to close around his heart. He knew if the machine didn’t work today, it never would.

  The weather spirits had told him that a truly spectacular summer thunderstorm was on the way. If only he could get his cart to Hampstead Heath in time. It took him several hours of long, slow slog along the road, coaxing his powerful, but ponderous ox with weak slaps on the backside. He paused to cough and rub his back. He could feel his time approaching. Some mage I turned out to be, Leo, he thought darkly. Not even strong enough to cast the simplest of spells without hacking up blood!

  But he made it to the park, where dark clouds were already piling up above his head. The fine gentlemen and their ladies were departing as he arrived, packing up their picnics and collaring their dogs. Only he wanted to be caught out on an afternoon like this. Lightning flickered on the horizon and he smiled. One way or another, by the end of today this would all be over!

  On his own he started setting up, trying to move as quickly as he could. The storm approached steadily, bringing an icy wind. Thunder rumbled. Icarus hammered in the lightning-rod as deep as he could, set the chain around it, then released the ox. The animal took one look at him, and quickly lumbered off to some distant trees, a safe place to watch the fireworks. “You have the right idea,” he wheezed. He climbed up onto the platform. He couldn’t chain himself in, so he summoned up the machine’s own spirit to help him. Because the machine hadn’t been successfully used yet, the spirit was very small and weak. But strong – and more importantly – willing enough to lock him into the manacles and lower him into the cold, briny water. The chill stole the breath from his body, but he didn’t drop far enough into the liquid to drown. He still needed to command the elements. For that reason he didn’t ask the spirits to place the lid on top of the device, sealing him in.

  Lightning seared across the sky like the swipe of a dragon’s claw. Icarus contacted the storm spirits, praying they would cooperate. He had spent his entire life only asking the spirits for help – he didn’t want to take control now, and maybe earn their enmity forever. But when he told them what he wanted, they were only too happy to help. After all, they thought he was bringing about his own destruction.

  The machine-spirit knew otherwise. It waited, hoping for success. Then its embryonic existence would be justified. And assured.

  Icarus yelled out the final word of command at the snarling sky. The thunderbolts writhed above him. Then an enormous column of light shot down and slammed into the lightning-rod. Electricity snarled along the chain and into the device, amplified by both its metal exterior, and the highly conductive salty water inside. Icarus found himself suspended in a white-hot bath of light and pain. He convulsed against his bonds, his entire body jerking into a bow. He couldn’t scream, but only froth at the mouth. The water boiled as though alive.

  He felt the life rush from him towards a gaping chasm. No, he thought desperately. I will not die! I will live forever! I am Icarus Abbacus!

  Somehow he managed to hang onto his last thread of life as he writhed and bucked in the machine’s cruel iron shackles. The sizzling, crackling agony seemed to go on forever. He felt like he aged a hundred lifetimes in its terrible grip. But even through his pain he felt the Magick start working, transforming him from a weak, bent old man into … something else.

  Then, abruptly, the snakes of white light stopped burning. Everything collapsed into quiet darkness. At first Icarus thought he was lying in death, that his wonderful machine had failed. But then he felt the rain on his face and saw the shafts of lightning receding towards the east. He was still lying in the water, but was no longer cold. But he wasn’t warm either. He was just … numb.

  He was still alive. But was he immortal? He didn’t feel that different. He tried to lift his arms, but still found them locked into the manacles. He sent out a telepathic message to the spirits to help him, but they had departed, their job done. If he wanted their aid, he would have to coerce them. He pulled on the cuffs, hoping to simply slide his skinny wrists through, but with very little effort he yanked the shackles from their moorings. He couldn’t believe his senses! Had he become that much stronger? Excitement swelled in him as he climbed dripping from the belly of the machine. He stood up in the rain and slowly straightened his bent back. Old bones creaked in protest, but he felt no pain as he stood erect once more. “It worked,” he whispered. “I am young again!”

  Icarus retrieved the lightning conductor and chains, and sealed up the machine, once more hiding it beneath the soaking canvas. The wet cloth should have been nearly impossible for a decrepit old man like him to lift, but he slung it over the device without effort. Then he turned, looking for the ox he had freed. He couldn’t see it anywhere. The spectacular lightning display must have scared it off. For a moment he wondered how to get the machine back home, then he grabbed the yoke himself. Was he this strong? He lifted the yoke easily onto his bony shoulders. Then he placed one foot in front of the other. And another. And another. The cart was heavy – he could feel its massive weight dragging on him, but he could move it! He truly was as strong as an ox.

  It was dark by the time he returned to his little forge, and no one had noticed the strange sight of an old man pulling an enormous cart all by himself. The rain had set in now, and rivers of mud and refuse flowed down the narrow London streets. Icarus locked up the machine and lit his fire, even though he still didn’t feel cold. He still felt strangely numb, but another sensation had started to rise deep within him, especially now he had stopped drawing that wagon. He felt a need for something, but he wasn’t sure what. The food and beer he had laid out for his supper didn’t appeal, and he pushed it aside. In the flickering light of the fire, he paused to study his hand. It looked even more gnarled than before, his skin pasty white and his nails as long and sharp as bird claws. Wasn’t he supposed to be younger rather than older?

  Icarus found a dirty old mirror under his bed, a relic from a time when he had actually enjoyed admiring his appearance. He stared into it – and froze in horror for several long minutes. His face resembled a leering skull with only the barest coating of flesh. The strange process had desiccated him so much his eyes appeared to bulge grotesquely. His hair appeared even more scant, floating in wisps around the back of his head. He couldn’t even pass for human anymore! He clapped a hand to his chest, as though to still his pounding heart – and realised that organ was no longer beating. In the excitement, he hadn’t even noticed. He wasn’t breathing, either.

  And the fire, although small, seemed to fill the room with roaring heat, almost more than he could stand. No wonder he had felt numb before – he had become acclimatized to the cold. He backed away from the hearth, still shaking his head at his horrific appearance. He had become a walking corpse.

  “It worked,” he whispered, feeling a hysterical laugh bubble up inside him. “I am immortal! It made me into one of the living dead!”

  Chapter 2

  The Fifth Dimensional Transportation Unit

  The accused slouched in a hard anti-gravity chair, head bowed, strands of sweaty hair hanging in his eyes. They did little to block the harsh light emanating from the stark walls and floor. It seemed to wring the last drops of ener
gy from his exhausted flesh.

  Slowly he looked up.

  Knowing the weakness of his last desperate appeal to the Great Council, the Hall of High Inquisitions was probably the last room he would see before he was marched off to the Time-Control Centre. Its vaulted ceiling soared to dizzying heights above an arena-like floor. A circular balcony, free from the terrible light below, ringed the room at head-height, and the faces of the many crammed into it appeared to rise like spectres from the darkness. Shadows and hatred transformed them from normal citizens into the evil beings they accused him of being one of.

  Despite the deadstone torc around his neck, his mentalist curse still enabled him to pick up their telepathic whispers, audible through the cloying fog the mindwave-absorbing gems had created around his consciousness.

  murderer I hope they throw his lifestream into reverse termination's too good for him exile's too good for him Jalsad'll probably pardon him spineless Kamryte that he is can’t even bear to see a Necronite condemned I bet he really is a Necronite behind that golden earring

  No-one believed him. Not even his own mother and brother.

  The accused watched his mother bow her blonde head and turn her second child's face away. The skinny boy with the wavy, honey-brown hair and huge green eyes buried his face in her ample breast.

  The accused considered braving the light. At least it didn't charge him with being a murdering Necronite!

  The five members of the Great Council, faces seamed with pain and worry, were seated on a raised platform high above him, engaged in a heated telepathic argument far beyond his blunted perception. It was up to them now.

  Again the accused tried to remember, hoping that somehow during the past few hours his memory had been restored to him.

  One minute he was heading towards his father's cabin, intending to speak to him about the rapidly diminishing supply of nutrition cubes-