The Promise of the Child

by Tom Toner

  Lycaste leaned against a boulder, dry and cool in the dark, waiting. He gripped the branch tightly, absently working the loose bark from its surface with his fingers as he listened. There was no sign that anyone had been here at all. No prints in the sand, no traces of a fire. There was no smell of people here, either, but then he could smell nothing apart from the foetid seaweed.

  He waited for what felt like a long time. There were no portable timepieces in the Province, and nothing exact at all. They weren’t needed anyway, in this relaxed age when everything was done by Quarter. Lycaste was sure he had passed from second to third Quarter by now. His stomach grumbled in the dark and he looked around in panic in case he was heard.

  Cautiously, Lycaste stepped further in, where the light increased as the punctured cave system opened again onto the shore beyond. The sand became dry and loose, dimpled with marks. He bent, unable to tell if any could be footprints. He placed his own foot experimentally in the sand but left no impression other than a trough the grains quickly refilled.

  It was here in the caves that he and Impatiens had first found the ancient markings. They appeared to be so old that they showed none of the fresh, scratched rock beneath, merely indentations of the same colour, as though they had always been there. Lycaste looked for more and found some just below head height on the inside wall. They were small, but varied in size up to about the length of his hand. Patterns repeated in the markings, like the modern writing he was familiar with, so he was convinced it was language. Impatiens had suggested that the markings might be numbers. He reached out and touched them, running his fingers in and out of their chiselled forms, repeatedly checking around him as he did so.

  Finally he sat down, listening instead to the wind and rain outside. There was nobody here, unless they had retreated much further into the cave system that pocked the cliff face. He decided to return with Impatiens and whoever else would come later on, perhaps tomorrow. They would push deeper into the cliff, checking everywhere. It wouldn’t even take a whole day. If someone had been here, they would know.

  PART II

  Procyon

  The clipper dropped, a sinuous, ichthyoid shape thrown into black silhouette by the vast brightness of the chilly, reflective planet beneath it, and plunged like a streamered bullet into the outer layers of the exosphere. At its prow, a finely wrought figurehead spread the parting air into twin crests of vapour, gradually glowing like a wake of fire. Horatio Crook barely spared the dome of thundering cloud-tops roaring up to meet them a second glance, resting his head back and looking at Florian Von Schiller. The other Perennial was staring out of a porthole, his eyes following the grey seas and dark shorelines that traced like oily scum around the cold continent towards which they were dropping at supersonic speeds. Their staterooms aboard the Decadence craft, whilst horribly small and cramped, had been appointed as luxuriously as possible during the nine-day flight, with hangings and tapestries decorating the remoulded, utilitarian interiors. Here, in the forward operations capsule, they sat on gilded ottomans draped with furs and rugs for warmth as they looked out of the portholes, a jug of poorly filtered water trembling upon a table between them. The rules of the clipper commanded that they wear specially made Amaranthine suits for the entire voyage in case of difficulties, inter-Satrapy travel remaining an imperfect and inexact science for any Prism species, even in an ancient, hand-me-down Amaranthine ship such as this. Both Crook and Von Schiller had refused as a matter of principle, fearing for the integrity of their fabulously expensive garments. Their enlarged, custom-made suits stood locked against the bulkhead at the ready, monstrous bulging red sacks barely humanoid in form, chests and shoulders covered with scaled armour.

  Outer Procyon, the second of three now-uninhabited planets in the Seventeenth Solar Satrapy of Procyon, was one of the homes of His Most Venerable Self, the eldest of the Amaranthine and Firmamental Emperor of the twenty-three Solar Satrapies. He might have chosen to receive them on Outer Wolf, the second of his private planets, since it was far closer to Firmament centre (even if it was equally uninviting), but such considerations didn’t appear to cross the Eldest’s mind these days.

  Outer Procyon was relatively unmeddled with, its centre being still intact, not scooped out like many of the other Firmamental planets had been to make the Vaulted Lands that most of the Amaranthine chose to live within. It was home to a handful of boring, imported Old World species hardy enough to weather the conditions and, for half of his time, the Most Venerable himself. Few ever visited him in his self-imposed exile, despite his unimpeachable status as ruler of the 1,300 light-year volume of the Firmament. It was said he lived in rags, wandering continually across the continents until he came back to where he’d started, then crossing to his other world and repeating the process. Nobody even knew if he had Melius acolytes staying with him—he could conceivably be down there alone. The penultimate Amaranthine to visit had met with him on Wolf twenty-one years before, and since then he had only been called upon by one other, Hugo Hassan Maneker, on behalf of the new Parliament of Gliese and the Pretender himself.

  Maneker, a Perennial Amaranthine who had lived through the inception and popularisation of Immortality, had been a Firmamental Satrap during the two-hundred-year Wars of Decadence. The campaign—the end of which had seen the creation of the Prism Investiture and the resulting forty centuries of darkness—had raged far beyond the boundaries of the Firmament, cutting into virgin volumes of space that had never before been explored. The proto-Threen kingdoms the Amaranthine fought to subdue had eventually capitulated, lessening their vast power and bringing other Prism species under Amaranthine rule, notably the ever-obedient Pifoon, whose crude monarchy had benefitted immeasurably over the course of the two-century campaign as a result of huge injections of Firmamental Ducats and the gift of hundreds of ancient Amaranthine vessels stripped down almost to the bare bones. The increasingly useful Vulgar, too, as a reward for their loyalty, had been given their eighth moon, Port Olpoth, further humiliating the Lacaille, who were even now—despite the slow rebuilding of their navy—languishing in poverty.

  For his efforts, Hugo Maneker had been considered for the newly created role of Firmamental Vice-Regent, to rule from the throne of Gliese in the event of the Most Venerable’s absence. Crook himself had agreed with the idea, until it was suggested that Maneker’s closest friend, the universally admired Sotiris Gianakos, might yet be a better choice for the post. To avoid embarrassing Maneker or Gianakos, the idea had been scrapped, though every century or so the notion would grow in popularity once more among Immortals displeased with the dusty order of Succession, only to fade again, all but forgotten.

  By the time news—carried by Amaranthine journeymen and Prism pilgrims—of a claim against His Most Venerable Self had percolated from the Westerly Provinces of the Old World, Maneker had long since retired to a life of gentlemanly study and contemplation, tinkering with economic models and reforms that might assist the undeveloped empires of the Amaranthine’s nobler Prism allies. He hadn’t shown an interest in Amaranthine affairs in more than five hundred years, and some had even begun to suspect that he might have gone to a Utopia—a place for the mad—to live out the last of his days.

  It was with great surprise, then, that he suddenly became a vocal supporter of the Devout, the Amaranthine sect that had embraced the Pretender’s claims and taken up residence on the Old World. The scorn of twenty thousand Amaranthine had—until then—ensured that their cause remained an unfashionable one, but all that had changed when Maneker pledged his assistance. The Devout (an order made up mostly of younger Immortals) had immediately declared Maneker their figurehead, inviting him to be among them in the kingdom of the giant Melius to await the crowning of the new Firmamental Emperor.

  A ban on all travel to the Old Satrapy was soon imposed by the Parliament of Gliese for anyone less than vocal in their support of the Devout and their cause, though most polite Amaranthine society found this less than worrying; the Old
World was a fearsome, dangerous place and nobody ever went there anyway despite its sacred protection within the Firmament. The fact that Maneker now apparently went by the Melius name of Caracal was evidence enough of his burgeoning insanity—common in Perennials of advanced age—and many thought that perhaps he should just be left there to do as he wished. What had caused him to side so absolutely with a group of impressionable younger Immortals remained a mystery, as well as the true identity of this Pretender. Most of the Vaulted Lands thought it of little consequence, even if the Most Venerable appeared inclined to hear the man’s claim. What harm could the Pretender do, especially when the Firmament had the weight of two Prism empires on its side? But these facts now appeared to matter little to whoever was pulling Maneker’s strings; the destruction of Virginis had proved that.

  The clipper burst through the thermosphere and into the mesosphere, sizzling like an iron skillet despite the turbulent wake of air billowing from its fins. Smashed icebergs and cracked plates of land had become distinguishable from the blue-grey contours, beaches of brown shale choked with discoloured ice circling forbidding inland seas. Though any Amaranthine of sufficiently advanced age could tap into the weak magnetic lines of force that joined each Solar Satrapy and journey along it in an instant, the Most Venerable forbade any Bilocation in his presence or on his planets for obscure reasons known only to him. Consequently, the two Amaranthine had been forced to pay a small fortune in Firma-mental Ducats just to secure passage in these troubled times. They were tired, and knew when they landed at their destination somewhere in the Procyon-Baline Ranges that coldness and dampness would also be included on the list of their miseries.

  Mountains clarified from the tributary patterns of rock and snow, rising to meet the falling ship, and it slowed its descent in retro-rocket fashion, bursts of sooty, tropical cyan filling the portholes on either side. Von Schiller returned to his ornamental seat, the vehicle’s gyroscopes keeping them stable and upright no matter what acrobatic manoeuvres it was forced to enact, and tapped Crook on the shoulder.

  “If he’s not there and we’re forced to wait, we’ve got three days until the ship returns.”

  “He’d better be there,” Crook grunted, rearranging his fur blanket and buttoning his collar.

  “I might be able to persuade them to stay with us for a few hours while we search, but they won’t promise anything.”

  The blasted brown outcrops of the mountain range came into view, cornices of brilliant, pure snow passing just beneath. The graceful clipper, its verdigrised scales repatched with strips of tin stained carbon-black by the heat of its entry, fell between the mountain summits to the foothills of the highest peak, Mount Lawrence, opening dirty cream linen sails along its fins to catch the wind. It slowed, bleached sections of its undercarriage extending like pectoral fins tipped with rockets, and roared into the gravel and stone, scattering rock. Finally it settled with a thump, the landing steps swinging down.

  They exited quickly, gathering their bags and shuddering as a blast of frigid air filled the cylindrical airlock hung beneath the Void-ship’s tubular genitals. Crook stepped out into the weak white sunlight clad in full ornamental attire, jewelled collar and ruffs feeling ridiculous should they never find the man they were looking for. The biting wind stung his ears as he looked up at the mountain, about two-thirds the size of Everest on the Old World. He could see five of the planet’s eighteen moons, faded in the sky above, while rocky moraine slipped between his velvet boots and clattered down the hillside to make empty echoes in the light wind. Below, the valley stretched to the base of the next mountain, its rock-strewn floor patterned with grey, slowly moving cloud-shadows.

  Von Schiller joined him, rubbing his gloved hands together. Behind them, the small crew were carrying elegant rococo-style chairs down the steps, staggering under their weight. They watched the Prism deposit the furniture, visibly exhausted, and make their way back to the clipper. The ship’s sails furled slowly away, its forlorn, Amaranthine-sculpted lion-face regarding them dolefully. Smoke coiled about the rocks as the thumping, poorly-maintained superluminal engines idled, waiting for the two Amaranthine to decide.

  Over the rise they saw him approach, a hunched figure in a dirty robe. He waved jauntily, pointing to a slope of large boulders closer to the bottom of the hill. Von Schiller turned and gave the ship the sign and it roared into life, scattering gravel.

  “No fire. That’s my bet,” said Crook.

  Von Schiller shook his head. “He must have fire. I’m not sitting here three days without a fire.”

  “You’ll see.”

  There was no fire. His Venerable Self welcomed them in his boulder-strewn camp and showed them where they could stow their luggage. It was too far for the two to have carried the chairs, so they’d simply left them on the mountainside.

  James Fitzroy Sabran, the Most Venerable, was indeed wearing rags, as the two men had suspected from the far-off glimpse they’d had of him. They were stained and lined with water marks and clinging pieces of gravel and sand, water from a trek through the ice earlier that day still darkening the hem. The man’s face, frozen at around the age of sixty owing to the late introduction of the suite of treatments that would develop into Immortality, was slender, sun-lined, the eyes rheumy and distracted. It was just as well that none of them ever needed to shave—those sorts of bodily changes were no longer an issue—for Sabran’s beard would measure more than six thousand feet long by now, a serious impediment to his global walks.

  After lengthy handshakes and bows, the two found a place to sit among the boulders. By law they were the next two Perennials in line for Venerability—Von Schiller was a few days older than Crook and therefore would be ruler when Sabran died—but they still practised extreme, almost godly reverence for the one who could supposedly remember the longest out of anyone alive.

  Sabran offered them water for swilling, as was the Amaranthine custom (the one totally unexpected and uncomfortable side effect of Immortality was an eternally dry mouth), and put some ragged garments on a clothes-horse made from twigs to dry. How he lived out here, exposed to the elements, was a mystery.

  “Do you not have any servants to support you?” ventured Von Schiller.

  Sabran appeared to think long and hard about the question, the dry wind sighing above the boulders. He still hadn’t said a word.

  “What use would they be?” he asked at last. His voice had a whistling, lispy quality to it. Crook remembered it had sounded deeper last time they met, about a century previously. “I live among ghosts. They are of greater help on my travels than any living thing could be.”

  Von Schiller nodded sagely, though Crook refused to. Everyone knew the man was destined for a Utopia before he died, but nobody quite realised how deranged he had become.

  “Do the ghosts keep you abreast of the happenings in the Firmament?” Crook asked.

  Sabran shook his head. “They are the ghosts of the mountains, spirits not born of organic life. They have no use for prattle and stories.”

  “Then you are not aware of the attack on the Satrapy of Virginis? The deaths of thousands?”

  Von Schiller glanced sharply at him; they had planned to lead into the subject slowly, for Sabran’s benefit.

  Sabran shook his head thoughtfully. “No, no they wouldn’t have known about that. Though it sounds very interesting, I’m sure.” He said it in the way someone enquiring after a child’s schooling would feign fascination at the answer. Crook could see he didn’t care a jot.

  “Your favourite Perennial, Hugo Hassan Maneker, appears to be responsible. He and your chosen successor.”

  “My successor?” Sabran chuckled. “No, no, no. Not Aaron the Long-Life. He is an Amaranthine of peace.”

  Crook hesitated, unaware that Sabran had even known the Pretender’s name, content only that the Law of Succession was being honoured. “Then you at least believe Maneker capable?” He could hear the unplanned note of interrogation in his voice.

>   “I hardly remember Maneker. I thought the Long-Life might have come alone. It feels …” His Venerable Self paused, looking off gloomily to the mountains. “It is as if he came to me in a dream.”

  “Dream or no,” Crook continued carefully, “your edict alone has caused this, Sire.”

  “Edict?”

  Crook sighed, preparing to elaborate, but Von Schiller cut in. “To allow investigation into Aaron’s claim, crown him Emperor and award his prophet Maneker the title of Vice-Regent and the Solar Satrapy of Gliese upon the Succession.”

  “Succession. What a beautiful word.” Sabran had begun plaiting something together between his fingers, making a loose crown. “My ghosts here, they play word games with me when it grows too dark to read. They are quite clever—their riddles are very challenging.”

  Von Schiller smiled. “It is good that you are not lonely, as we had feared.”

  Crook leaned forward, exasperated. “What is to be done with him? Maneker must be removed from his position, tried for murder. Tried for genocide.”

  Sabran pulled a face, placing the crown carefully on his white-blond hair. “What do you think?”

  Crook stared at it. It was made from living dragonflies twisted together. They squirmed on Sabran’s head as if a huge pale blue parasite had wrapped itself around his skull.

  Crook glanced back to Von Schiller. “Florian and I believe something must be done. You must allow us to find and punish Maneker.”

  “Must, must, must,” muttered Sabran, adjusting his crown.

  “He is responsible for the most appalling atrocity since the Volirian Conflict. The Devout have made their statement clearly—oppose us or suffer. Already Satrapy Parliaments are rushing to appease them. What are you going to do about it? They think they are protected on the sacred Old World, but we have debts we might call in; Prism armies are ours to command, should we need them. The Melius Provinces will not dare harbour him when they see our strength.”