The Fall of Tartarus (17 page)

‘Very
well. No doubt you did your best.’ His calm words did not reflect his mental
turmoil.

Karrel
ventured a smile. ‘In the event, it might prove a blessing. Silverdrift kills.
In five years . . . The galaxy cannot afford to lose an artist of your
standing.’

Fairman
wanted to tell the man to shut up. Karrel did not have the merest inkling of
what the ‘drift meant to him, how only the nightly balm of the cool sparkling
powder made his existence bearable.

Instead,
he merely gestured wearily. ‘Forgive me, Karrel. I have work to do.’ He
indicated the line of statues.

Karrel
backed from the chamber, promising that he would look in upon Fairman at the
soonest, that if he should need anything, anything at all . . .

Then
he was gone. Fairman heaved a great sigh.

He
positioned his chair before the curving face of the dome and stared out at the
early evening landscape. The sun was setting on the oceanic horizon, laying
down orange and scarlet strata. The red dome of the sun reminded him of the
coming night. He wondered how he might see it through with no ‘drift to assuage
his fevered mind.

He
had at one time considered doing without the drug voluntarily, so that he would
become cognizant of the terrors of his past that were locked within his
subconscious. He was an artist, was he not? Why keep that great storehouse
locked - even if its content proved too harrowing to bear? If he was to produce
art out of life, which after all should be the tenet of all great artists, then
surely all experience was valid?

But
over the months his nightmares had grown ever more terrible, and he found
himself unable to cope with the ghastly images within his head. He had steadily
increased his intake of silverdrift, until a week ago when it began to run low
and he had had to ration himself.

Three
nights ago, on a quarter of his usual dosage, he had been tortured by a
procession of unbearable visions. All featured Aramantha in agony, begging him
not to let her die. In the nightmare he had been visited by pangs of guilt
almost physical in their agony. He’d awoken screaming, covered in sweat, still
haunted by images of Aramantha, their villa on Tartarus, and the rugged Grecian
landscape of the island.

Two
nights ago he had dreamed that he himself had brought about Aramantha’s death,
and a sense of guilt had haunted him all the following day.

Last
night he had remained awake, working, determined not to give in to sleep. He
wondered now if he could remain awake a second night, or a third? And how soon
might it be before his subconscious unburdened its freight of anguish upon his
conscious self in the form of hypnagogic hallucinations just as terrible as his
nightmares?

A
little over two years ago Aramantha had contracted a rare terminal disease, and
had spent her final months on the island with Fairman. A week after her death,
Fairman had left Tartarus and returned to Earth. Then, not long after his
arrival, he had employed the services of a neurosurgeon to edit his memories of
Aramantha’s illness. The agony, obviously, had been too much to bear.

The
process was illegal - for obvious reasons. Memories could never be
comprehensively erased. Sooner or later they re-emerged, warped and deformed,
as Fairman’s were doing now.

A
part of him was curious to know exactly what had happened during Aramantha’s
last months - even though he was aware he would probably regret the knowledge;
after all, he had thought it wise to have it edited in the first place. The
note he had written to himself had informed him of all he thought he should
know: ‘Aramantha died on Tartarus on the 40th of St Jude’s month. You had your
memory wiped of this, and her illness, to save your sanity. Let it be.’

As
the sun sank from sight and the stars appeared in the night sky one by one,
Fairman repeatedly caught himself on the brink of sleep. He awoke for perhaps
the fifth time with a start, and was wondering how he might keep himself awake
when he became aware of a dark shape against the luminous starfield.

At
first he thought it was yet another of the floating cameras, though larger.
Then he saw that it had wings. Could it be the latest creation of one of the
gene-artisans who lived a hundred kilometres down the coast, a DNA-created
replica of a bald eagle or condor, extinct these past thousand years?

Then,
as the creature drew closer, his heart began a laboured pounding. He realised
that he was sweating. There could be no doubting it - unless this was just
another peculiar facet of his dreams: the creature advancing through the air
towards his mansion was none other than a Tartarean Messenger. He experienced a
quick stab of panic at the sight of the creature, and wondered why?
Why?

The
delicate Messenger descended to the deck and hovered an inch above the surface,
its great wings a blur of shimmering motion. It proceeded in light, tip-toe
steps towards the entrance, its long wings coming together behind its back.

It
spoke into the receiver, ‘Monsieur Fairman?’ Its voice was light, piping.

Fairman
cleared his throat. ‘The same. Your duty?’

‘To
relay to you a message.’

He
hesitated. ‘From Tartarus?’

The
Messenger blinked. It was bald, as pure in facial feature as a child. It wore a
silver bodysuit, from the shoulder blades of which its wings sprouted on
wrist-thick columns of cartilage. The wings themselves were not feathered, but
as diaphanous as fine lace, like those of a dragonfly.

‘Where
else?’ the Messenger responded at last. ‘Perhaps, if you let me in, we might
talk further?’

Fairman
spoke, and the door slid open. The Messenger stepped through, followed by the
length of its wings. The creature stood within reach of Fairman before the
transparent membranes, fully three metres long, cleared the entrance. This
close, he was amazed at how small the creature was - the apex of its shaven
pate barely reached his chest.

For
all he knew the Messenger to be of human stock, there was something
nevertheless alien about it: the pale skin, large eyes and thin-lipped mouth -
though, at the same time, it was not without a strange, severe beauty. Fairman
detected the slight rise of breasts beneath the bodysuit; it was female, then.

‘I
come from Tartarus; generally, from the western continent, specifically from
the isle of Lyssia.’

Fairman
experienced a second’s disbelief. ‘I lived there,’ he whispered, then quickly,
‘Who sent you?’

‘I
was summoned by the ghost of your wife, Monsieur Fairman.’

‘No!’
What cruel joke was being played on him? ‘My wife?’

‘She
haunts the western peninsula of the isle. I was traversing the archipelago when
she manifested herself and called a summons. Messengers ignore no summons,
especially those of a ghost.’

Fairman
was shaking his head. The western peninsula? He recalled the amphitheatre, what
he and Aramantha had seen and heard there. Could it be? His heart leaped at the
thought.

‘Aramantha
wishes to talk to you,’ the Messenger said.

He
considered Aramantha, her alleged ghost. Then it came to him that on the island
neighbouring Lyssia was a forest of silver trees . . .

‘But
a ship—?’ he began.

‘Boats
leave Diego daily, bound for Tartarus,’ the Messenger said. ‘I have made
arrangements.’

‘And
you?’

‘I
will accompany you, of course. It is my destiny to go with the glory of
Tartarus when the sun blows in twenty years.’

Fairman
looked across the studio at the six statues. ‘Give me a little time. I have one
or two tasks to complete.’

The
Messenger inclined her head. She turned, mindful of her wings, and processed
herself through the exit.

Fairman
approached the sculptures. He would meld them back into the block from which
they had come. He did not wish these sub-standard pieces to stand as his last
work, should tragedy befall him on Tartarus.

The
landing on Tartarus suggested that much had changed. In the past the transition
from omega-space to planetary atmosphere had been achieved without the
passengers’ realisation. This time, the ancient barque bucked and juddered as
it entered the orbit of Tartarus, then was rattled almost to the point of
disintegration by the planet’s overheated troposphere. The touchdown itself
seemed more of a drop from a great height, which jarred Fairman’s bones and
left the ship creaking ominously.

An
even greater shock was in store when the ramp was lowered and the passengers,
with Fairman and the tiny Messenger in their wake, swarmed out. The surrounding
hills of Baudelaire, once emerald green, were parched and straw-coloured now.

In
the sky, dominating and oppressing the landscape, was the cause. The sun - once
the size of an orange held at arm’s length - filled a quarter of the heavens, a
blinding white disc.

Fairman
selected a flier from the port hire service, hoisted it into the searing, white
expanse of the sky and banked away in the direction of the western continent.
The Messenger insisted on accompanying him in the flier. The creature claimed
it was her duty to take him to she who had summoned him, and though Fairman
wished to travel alone - something about the Messenger still troubling him - he
was too exhausted to argue after the uncomfortable voyage, too apprehensive as
to what he might find on the island. She folded her wings and sat beside him in
silence.

They
flew over the sluggish sea of Marea, the equatorial ocean that stretched for
two thousand kilometres between the densely populated landmass they had just
left and the sequestered western continent of Kithira. The heat was such that
the sea gave off foul-smelling veils of steam; it seemed that the higher they
flew, the hotter the air became, and Fairman chose to keep the flier at low altitude,
preferring the reeking discharge to the wilting heat.

Fairman
reclined on the comfortable control couch before the bulbous viewscreen, the
side-panels open to admit what little breeze their passage generated. He had to
fight to keep from falling asleep; repeatedly he awoke with a start and busied
himself needlessly with minor adjustments to the controls.

Although
sedated for the three day duration of the voyage from Earth, he had managed
only a few hours of genuine sleep, and predictably these were haunted by
familiar images. Prominent were those of his wife, her handsome Latin features
twisted into a mask of agony, her body, once fulsome, reduced now to parlous
skin and bone. More terrifying had been the mental anguish that Fairman had
experienced: the sense of guilt, of hopelessness and grief that had threatened
to take his sanity.

He
had emerged from sedation just before transition, and the realisation of where
he was, and the promise of the silverdrift, had served to push back the horror
and give him hope.

The
Messenger perched beside him on the passenger couch, leaning forward, her
posture suggesting an attitude of observation, an eagerness to arrive at
journey’s end.

They
had spoken hardly a word to each other since their communication at his mansion.
Fairman had wanted to ask her more about her meeting with Aramantha’s ghost,
but had found the creature’s silence, her absorption in a reality that seemed
at many removes from his own, a powerful deterrent to enquiry.

Now,
as a roundabout way of finding out what he wanted to know, he determined to ask
the creature about herself.

‘Why
is it that your Guild has vowed to remain on Tartarus?’

The
Messenger turned her large dark eyes on him, as if deciding whether she should
deign to reply.

‘We
were created to communicate,’ she said, ambiguously.

‘Yes,
but why?’

‘In
the early days we were created to act as liaisons between the many castes of
colonists who were forbidden, for reasons of etiquette, to speak to each other.
Our wings, our eidetic memories, were designed to aid this function.’

‘And
when the castes were no more?’

‘There
were always tasks we could perform. Many of my forbears were bards, poets,
reciters of the Tartarean sagas.’

‘And
then, with the swelling of the sun, you again come into your own.’

‘That
is so. And when the sun explodes, we will effect the final communication.’

Fairman
stared at the childlike Messenger. ‘How so?’

‘On
the day before the apocalypse we will gather at prearranged sites around
Tartarus and end our lives of flesh. Then, when the sun blows, our collective
consciousness will be fired outwards, our atoms will commingle with the cosmos,
communicating with all sentient life in the galaxy, telling of our sacrifice,
our elevation.’ The creature fell silent, as if contemplating this hallowed
event.

Fairman
shook his head, but remained silent. He wanted to point out to the fey being
just what would happen, come the day of destruction. First, the breathable
atmosphere of the planet would be burned up by the intensifying heat of the sun,
the seas would boil and evaporate and all organic matter would ignite in a
world-wide conflagration; then the photon sleet of the exploding sun would
blast all that remained from the planet’s surface.