The Fall of Tartarus (40 page)

Francesca
had her dark side, though.

Six
months after they became lovers, she slipped into a sullen, uncommunicative
depression. Often he found her in tears, his entreaties ignored. He assumed
that the chemical magic that had attracted her to him had soured, that their
time together had run its course.

Then,
one rest period, Cramer found her in a personal nacelle which obtruded through
the skin of the ship and afforded a magnificent view of the blazing variable
below. Francesca had sought privacy in which to brood. He lowered himself in
beside her and waited.

After
a period of silence, she asked in a whisper, ‘What do you believe, Hans?’

Cramer
had never spoken to her about his beliefs, or lack of - perhaps fearing that
his apathy might frighten her away. ‘I was once a nihilist,’ he said, ‘but now
I believe in nothing.’

She
slapped his face. ‘Be serious!’

He
was serious. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

She
was silent, a small frown of puzzlement denting her forehead. At last she
murmured, ‘I need belief. I need to believe in something . . . something
more
than all this.’ She made a spread-fingered gesture to indicate
everything, all existence. ‘Life is so meaningless, if this is all there is to
it -
life.
There must be something more!’

He
stroked a strand of hair from her Indian eyes.

She
looked at him. ‘Don’t you fear death? Don’t you wake up panicking in the early
hours, thinking, “One day I’ll be dead for all eternity”?’

He
could not help but smile. ‘At one time I did,’ he said. ‘But no more.’ He told
her that it was as if his subconscious had become inured to the fact of his
mortality, was no longer daunted by the inevitability of his death.

Francesca
was crying. ‘I hate being alive,’ she sobbed, ‘if all it will end in is death.’

Cramer
held her, soothed her with comforting noises, secretly relieved that he knew
the reason for her depression. He told himself that it was nothing more than a
stage through which everyone must pass - but, perhaps, he should have seen in
her terror the seeds of a consuming obsession.

Six
months later Cramer was posted to another ship - there was nothing he could do
to avoid the transfer - and he saw Francesca only once every three months or
so, when their dirtside leaves coincided. He had feared that the separation
might have worked to dampen Francesca’s ardour, but the reverse was true. Their
hurried, stolen weeks together were the happiest times of their lives.

And
then, three years after their first meeting, Francesca was promoted,
transferred to a ship bound for the Rim, to study the effects of an imminent
supernova on the world of Tartarus Major.

Cramer
was on Earth, on long-service leave from the Fleet and teaching part-time at
the University of Rio. Francesca was due back in a week, when her boat would
dock at the Santiago shipyards for refurbishment. Cramer had a trekking holiday
planned in the Andes, followed by a fortnight in Acapulco, before they said
goodbye again and her ship whisked her off to some far, unstable star.

He
could recall precisely where he was, what he was doing - even trivial things
like what he was wearing at the time, and what mood he was in - when he heard
about the crash-landing: in a cafe on the Rio seafront, drinking coffee and
reading
El Globe,
wearing the kaftan Francesca had brought back from the
Emirate colony of Al Haq, and feeling contentment at the thought of her
imminent return. The wall-screen was relaying news to the cafe’s oblivious,
chattering clientele. He took notice only when it was announced that a Fleet
observation vessel had crash-landed on Tartarus Major. ‘The
Pride of
Valencia
was mapping Tartarus for stress patterns and went down two days
ago,’ said the reporter. ‘Casualty figures are not yet known. Other news . . .’

Cramer
returned to his apartment, shock lending him a strange sense of calm in which
he felt removed from the reality of his surroundings. He contacted the Fleet
headquarters in Geneva, but was told that no details of the incident would be
forthcoming until accident investigators had reported from Tartarus Major.
Unable to bear the wait, the feeling of redundancy, he knew that the only
course of action was to make his own way to Tartarus. He booked passage on an
independent ship leaving Earth the following day, and spent the duration of the
voyage under blissful sedation.

He
had no idea what to expect on landing, but it was not the decrepit, medieval
city of Baudelaire. It seemed to him that he had stepped back in time. Not only
was the architecture and atmosphere of the place archaic, but the bureaucracy
and services were likewise mired in the past. The prevailing ethos of the
government departments he petitioned seemed to be that the loss of any starship
- and minor officials seemed unsure as to whether a starship
had
been
lost on Tartarus Major - was not the responsibility of their department, and
Cramer was advised to see so-and-so at such-and-such a bureau. Added to which
confusion, the entire population of the planet seemed to be packed into the
capital city, eager to catch a boat off-planet before the supernova blew.
Eventually, and with scant regard for his feelings, he was advised to check at
the city morgue. Beside himself, he battled through the bustling streets until
he came upon the relevant building. The chambers and corridors of the morgue
were packed with the stiffened, shrouded figures of the dead. Here, tearful and
in obvious distress, he had his first stroke of luck. He happened upon a
harassed Fleet official, checking charred remains against the crew-list of the
Pride of Valencia.

Cramer
explained his predicament, and the official took sympathy and went through the
names of the dead for that of Francesca.

She
was not, apparently, in the morgue. All the bodies had been recovered from the
site of the crash. According to the official, Cramer was in luck: he was
advised to try the infirmary, where the twelve surviving crew members were
receiving treatment.

Given
hope, he was filled with fear, now, at the thought of Francesca’s having
survived - or rather he feared the state in which she might have survived.
Would he find Francesca reduced to a brain-dead wreck, a hopelessly injured
cripple? He considered only the worst-case scenario as he made his way to the
infirmary. He explained his situation to a doctor who escorted him to the ward
where the survivors lay. As the medic checked the records, Cramer strode down
the line of beds - not rejuvenation pods, in this backward hole, but beds! - fearful
lest he should come upon Francesca, yet petrified that he should not.

She
was not on the ward.

The
doctor joined Cramer, carrying the crew-list of the
Pride of Valencia.
There was one name outstanding, accounted for neither in the morgue nor in the hospital:
Francesca Maria Rodriguez.

Cramer
was in turmoil. ‘Then where the hell is she?’

The
doctor placed a soothing hand on his shoulder. ‘Two of the injured were found
in the jungle by an order of monks who took them in and treated their wounds.
One male crew member died - the other, Rodriguez, is still undergoing
treatment.’

‘Is
she badly injured?’

‘I’m
sorry. I have no records . . .’ He paused. ‘You might try the Church of the
Ultimate Sacrifice, just along the street. They should be able to help you.’

Cramer
thanked him and, filled with a mixture of despair and hope that left him
mentally exhausted, he almost ran from the infirmary. He found the church
without difficulty: in a street of mean timber buildings, it was the only
stone-built edifice, a towering cathedral along classical lines.

He
hurried inside. A cowled figure riding an invalid carriage barred his way.
Desperately Cramer explained himself. The disabled cleric told him to wait, and
propelled his carriage up the aisle. While he was gone, Cramer gazed about the
sumptuous interior. He noticed the strange, scorpion-like statue above the
altar, flanked by a human figure bound to a cross - its arms and legs removed
so that it resembled the remains of some ancient statue. He could not help but
wonder what perverted cult he had stumbled upon.

The
monk returned and gestured that Cramer should follow him. He led the way to a
small study behind the altar. ‘The Abbot,’ he murmured as Cramer passed inside.

Behind
a large desk was an imposing figure garbed in a black habit, his face concealed
by a deep cowl.

Nervously,
Cramer sat down. Prompted by the Abbot’s silence, he babbled his story.

Halfway
through, he paused and peered into the shadow of the Abbot’s hood. The holy man
seemed to have his eyes closed. Cramer noticed the dried, discoloured orbs tied
to his right wrist, but failed to make the connection.

He
continued with what the doctor had told him about Francesca. When he had
finished, the Abbot remained silent for some time. He placed his fingertips together
in a miniature facsimile of the spire that surmounted the cathedral. He seemed
to be contemplating.

He
said at last, his voice a rasp, ‘Are you a believer, Mr Cramer?’

‘In
your religion?’ Cramer shifted uncomfortably.

‘In
any.’

‘I
... I have my own beliefs.’

‘That
sounds to me like another way of admitting you’re an atheist.’

‘Does
it matter?’ he asked. He contained his anger. The Abbot was, after all, his
only link with Francesca.

The
holy man seemed to take an age before he next spoke. ‘I can help you, Mr
Cramer. Francesca is in the jungle.’

‘How
badly . . .’ he began, the words catching in his throat.

‘Do
not worry yourself unduly. She will live.’

Cramer
sat back in his seat, relief washing over him. He imagined Francesca
recuperating in some remote jungle hospital.

‘When
can I see her?’

‘Tomorrow
I return to the jungle to resume my pilgrimage. If you wish, you may accompany
me.’

Cramer
thanked him, relieved that at last his search was almost over.

‘I
leave at first light,’ said the Abbot. ‘You will meet me here.’ And he gestured
- parting his spired hands - to indicate that the audience was over.

That
night Cramer found expensive lodging in a crowded boarding house. In the
morning the sun rose huge and brooding over the parched city, though the sky
had been lit all night long with the primary’s technicolour fulminations. He
had slept badly, apprehensive as to the state in which he might find Francesca.
At dawn he returned to the cathedral and met the Abbot, and they hurried
through narrow alleyways to a jetty and a barge painted in the sable and
scarlet colours of the Church.

The
crew of two natives cast off the moorings and the barge slipped sideways into
mid-stream before the engines caught. Cramer sat on the foredeck, in the shade
of a canvas awning, and shared a thick red wine with the Abbot. The holy man
threw back his cowl, and Cramer could not help but stare. The Abbot’s ears and
nose had been removed, leaving only dark holes and scabrous scar tissue. His
eyelids, stitched shut over hollow sockets, were curiously flattened, like
miniature drum-heads. He kept his eyeballs, dried and shrunken, on a thong of
optic nerves around his wrist.

The
barge proceeded upriver, against a tide of smaller craft streaming in the
opposite direction. The Abbot cocked his head towards their puttering engines.
‘Some believed the things which were spoken,’ he quoted, ‘and some did not.
Once, sir, all Tartarus believed. Now the faith is defended by a devout
minority.’

Cramer
murmured something non-committal in reply. He was not interested in the Abbot’s
belief system and its macabre extremes. For fifteen years he had taught
students the rudiments of the various major faiths. Now religion, every
religion, sickened him. In his opinion, superstitious belief systems were just
one more political tool that man used to subjugate, terrorise and enslave his
fellow man.

He
sat and drank and watched the passing landscape. At one point they idled by an
ancient temple complex. Many of the buildings were in ruins; others,
miraculously, considering their age, stood tall and proud. Towers and minarets
of some effulgent stone like rose-coloured marble, they were sufficiently alien
in design to inspire wonder. As the barge sailed slowly by, Cramer made out six
statues — another example of the long, scorpion-like insects, tails hooked in
readiness.

He
finished his wine, excused himself and retreated to his cabin. He drew the
shutters against the light and, despite the heat, enjoyed the sleep he had been
denied the night before.

He
awoke hours later, much refreshed, hardly able to believe after the trials of
the past two days that Francesca would soon be in his arms. He climbed to the
deck. The sun was directly overhead - he must have slept for five or six hours.
The barge was pulling into a jetty. A tumble-down collection of timber
buildings lined the riverbank. The Abbot appeared at Cramer’s side. ‘Chardon’s
Landing,’ he said. ‘From here we walk. It is thirty kilometres to the plateau.’