The Fall of Tartarus (5 page)

The
sun had set by the time I awoke, and the orange glow of the night sky filled
the chamber. I took the persona-cube from my travelling bag and activated it.
An electric blue glow filled the room. The miniature representation of my
father was in a gym, dealing swift jabs to a hovering punchbag. I watched him,
saying nothing, as he put all his strength into the punches and grunted with
each thrust. Often, in my early years, I had watched him for hours in his world
within the cube, almost content with this substitute father figure. When I was
seven or eight, a part of me - that part which could not come to terms with his
abandonment - began to confide in him, tell him my worries and problems, hopes
and fears. In return, like a true father, he had given advice and
encouragement, praise, and, naturally, criticism and reproof. Consequently, I
had grown up with the fixation that the personality within the cube was a
bona fide,
independent intelligence, even though I knew in my heart that it
was nothing more than a fake, a clever, programmed copy. The result was that
even now I could not interface with my father’s persona without feeling
something for the ridiculous little figure locked within the cube; longing,
resentment, a gut feeling that might have been love, and of course the burning
pain of hatred.

I
felt hatred now as I watched him pummel the punchbag.

‘Father.’

He
caught the swinging bag, winked at me. ‘Sinclair. Still on Tartarus?’

‘Of
course. Did you think I’d turn back, go home?’

‘It’s
a tough planet. You’re not exactly—’

I
interrupted. ‘I found out what happened to you,’ I said.

He
gave the bag one last, almost friendly punch and walked away from it, mopping
the sweat from his face with a towel. ‘Yeah? So, what happened?’

‘You
died.’ I stared at him, wondering how he might react. Would the programme be
concerned for the welfare of his real self, or did he consider his original as
nothing more than a stranger?

He
nodded. ‘In battle?’ he asked at last.

‘No
. . .’ I said, and told him about the Charybdis race. I added, ‘I also found
out something else.’

‘Go
on.’

‘Before
the race, you renounced your life as a soldier. You wanted to make amends, gain
absolution.’

He
just stared at me, as if suspicious. ‘Absolution?’

I
told him what the old lawyer had told me, about the boy who was killed, my
father’s defection from the private army, his desire to take part in the
Charybdis race.

I
finished, ‘By your actions, you admitted that you’d been wrong all along, that
your beliefs counted for nothing. You as good as admitted that your life had
been a mistake—’

His
response enraged me. He laughed, as if unconcerned. ‘Hey, Sinclair - you’ve
only got that lawyer’s word on what happened. For that matter, I’ve only got
your goddamned word!’

I
stared at him as he returned to the punchbag and resumed torturing it with
swift, sharp jabs.

‘Don’t
you feel anything?’ I said, anger seething inside me. ‘Can’t I hurt you?’

He
chose to ignore me, concentrated on the hovering bag.

Then
I whispered, ‘But I think I’d hurt you if I turned you off. I mean for good,
wiped your cube clean.’

He
caught the bag. ‘You wouldn’t dare switch me off,’ he said, grinning out at me,
‘because, Sinclair, I’m all you’ve got.’

Quickly,
unable to bear the look of triumph on his face, I deactivated the cube. The
glow died, leaving me alone in the burnt orange light of the Tartarean night. I
lay in silence for a long, long time, considering what he had said.

Footsteps
sounded on the stairs from the deck above. Blackman stepped into the room,
stooping to avoid the low lintel.

I
sat up. ‘How did it go?’

‘He
drank his fill and more, told me that it was an honour to drink with a
Blackman. We’ll see whether he still thinks the same tomorrow.’

‘We’ll
rescue the Messenger then?’

‘Tomorrow
evening at this time the Messenger will be free.’ He sat down on his bed and
looked across at me. ‘Is something wrong?’

I
gave a short laugh that contained no humour, just bitterness and self-pity. I
activated the cube and threw it over to him. He caught it, turned it the right
way up. He stared at the tiny, ridiculous figure boxing within the cube, then
glanced across at me.

I
surprised myself by saying, ‘I came to Tartarus to find out how my father
died.’

Then
I told Blackman all about my father and his profession, his
volte face
and his decision to join the boat race.

Blackman
was silent for a while, staring into the cube which he held in his hands
between his knees. ‘If he took part in the race,’ he said, ‘then there will be
records in the race museum of St Benedict’s island, off Charybdis in the
Sapphire sea. You should go there when we arrive.’

He
returned the cube to me.

‘And
in the meantime, if I were you I’d try not to hate your father so.’

‘That’s
easy for you to say!’

He
shrugged. ‘You hate what your father was, very well. But you told me that he
was brought up on Marathon, in a Spartan fighting college.’

‘So?’
I said. ‘I don’t see—’

‘Your
father was a product of his conditioning,’ he said, ‘and because of that he
should be pitied.’

I
made no reply. Blackman lay on his bed, as unmoving in the orange twilight as
the bas-relief of a knight on some sarcophagus.

That
night I woke to find my travelling companion consumed in a familiar crimson
glow. ‘Blackman,’ I whispered, sitting up in bed.

From
his seated, cross-legged position, he said, ‘Do not be alarmed, Sinclair.’ He
did not take his gaze off the black box he held before his face.

‘What
are you doing?’

It
was a second before he replied. ‘I am charging myself for the task ahead. Now,
sleep.’

And
as if I were under hypnosis, I lay down at his command and slept.

I
awoke late again - something in the heat and the lulling motion of the train
promoting sleep - and it was mid-afternoon by the time I took my place beneath
the shade of the dining cart. I ordered a long, refreshing fruit juice and
watched the ingenious means by which the train pulled into the station
platform.

A
hundred metres before the stop, a cart appeared on the tracks ahead, pedalled
by six labourers and pulling a long trailer filled with grain for the vench.
Sighting the cart, the creatures descended, alighted on the trailer and
devoured the food. Robbed of motive power, the train rolled slowly to a halt
before the station. Immediately the noisy business of boarding and alighting,
and stocking the train with provisions, began.

The
station served a small township situated in a clearing in the jungle,
white-painted buildings set out along streets in a grid pattern. Down below,
new passengers supervised the prolonged loading of their goods, trunks and
boxes hauled aboard by toiling, bare-chested porters. A hundred vendors swarmed
along the platform, selling goods through the barred windows of the carriages
and shouting up to the passengers on the top deck. I ignored all offers of
food, wooden carvings and bangles.

One
hour later the grain cart was shunted onto a tangential stretch of track. One
by one the vench took to the air. The train, slowly at first and with much
straining and creaking, rolled from the station. Ahead, the impressive range of
the central mountains, still two days away, rose jagged against the clear blue sky.

Blackman
appeared and joined me, slipping into the opposite seat. ‘Sinclair,’ he said.
‘Tonight we act.’

‘The
Messenger?’ I asked, my pulse racing.

He
nodded. ‘At sunset, Buzatti and I will begin our grand binge.’

‘And
then?’

He
held out his hand, on the blackened palm of which was a small white pill. It
rolled into his fingers, and I half expected to see it covered in soot. ‘The
sedative I take nightly,’ he informed me. ‘Introduced into Buzatti’s ale, it
will induce a long, deep sleep.’

‘Then
we enter his chamber and liberate the Messenger?’ I said. ‘But what of Buzatti
- he’ll naturally suspect you when he finds her gone.’

Blackman
waved aside this trivial detail. ‘Leave that to me. What I want you to do is
simple: return here at midnight, and bring my travelling bag with you.’

‘What
do you plan—?’

But
my question was halted by the arrival, at the tables around us, of a dozen
passengers come for their evening meal.

‘I’ll
apprise you of my plans at midnight,’ Blackman said. ‘Now, how about dinner?’

We
ordered boiled fish and salad, with a carafe of the wine we had enjoyed last
night. The fish when it arrived was the length of my arm, included a
ferocious-looking headpiece, and was sweet and succulent to the taste.

We
ate and watched the sun drop towards the horizon. The sky turned red, then
mellowed to orange. As the sun dipped finally over the jungle horizon, it flung
back fiery bolts of illumination in a display that seemed especially contrived
for our benefit. Tropical birds gave vent to continuous song, left their nests
and wheeled in silhouette against the sun’s posthumous glory.

After
the meal, Blackman excused himself and moved to an empty table. I was about to
take my leave, so as to avoid Buzatti, when the man himself emerged from below.
He was outfitted in an elegant, off-white suit and a pastel-pink cravat. He
carried a swagger stick, and it was this, as he strolled into the dining area
and took his place across from Blackman with a loud greeting, which emphasised
his arrogance. He was revelling in the attention he was attracting as the guest
of a Blackman, and so did not see me as I slipped from the dining carriage and
made for the stateroom.

I
lay on my bed and thought about summoning the image of my father, wondering if
this time I might initiate a dialogue that would be other than rancorous and
mutually hostile, if I might detect in his simulated personality some scintilla
of humanity. I told myself that I was drunk, and stared instead through the
window at the passing jungle.

At
a quarter to twelve I could wait no longer. Blackman’s travelling bag stood at
the end of his bed; although no larger than mine, it was three times as heavy.
I had to use both hands to drag it from the bed-chamber and up the steps. The
light in the sky had dimmed, though there was still sufficient illumination to
make out the figures of Blackman and Buzatti seated at their table five coaches
ahead. I proceeded carefully along the swaying walkway, sweating in the rank
night-time humidity. When I reached the dining carriage I saw that one other
drinker was present, an old man staring morosely into his beer at a corner
table. I seated myself at a table behind my friend and Buzatti, and prepared to
wait for the other traveller to drink up and retire.

Buzatti
was slumped against the enclosing rail of the carriage, silent and unmoving. If
he were still conscious, he was giving a fine performance as a comatose
drunkard. For the benefit of the third party, Blackman was speaking. I heard
Buzatti reply, his words slurred beyond comprehension.

Just
as I was beginning to think that the old man might remain seated all night, he
drained his glass, nodded to Blackman and myself, and moved off down the
walkway. Blackman beckoned me over.

‘I’d
like to introduce you to someone, Buzatti,’ my friend said. ‘Meet Sinclair
Singer - though you might have met him before.’

Buzatti
tried to focus on me. His cravat was askew and he was drooling down his chin.
At last his eyes registered something. He sat back with shock, the combination
of ale and sedative giving the movement an aspect of pantomime alarm. ‘You . .
.’

‘So
you recognise my friend,’ Blackman said. ‘Perhaps you recall the circumstances
in which you first made his acquaintance?’

A
flicker of fear showed in the con-man’s eyes.

‘Sinclair,
I think you’ll find Mr Buzatti’s credit chip in his left jacket pocket.’

I
dipped my hand into the pocket and sure enough came out with the chip. I
coupled it with mine and transferred ten thousand new credits, gladly restoring
my finances. Watching me, the drug inhibiting stronger protest, Buzatti let out
a strangled splutter.

‘Sinclair,
search him for the key to his cabin.’

I
returned his credit chip, then located a wooden key in an inside pocket. The
con-man tried to resist my search, but he was hardly able to move in his seat.

‘Open
my bag,’ Blackman said. ‘You’ll find two metal spars inside.’

I
did as instructed. The spars were heavy silver bars more like ingots, a dozen
jacks projecting from each one. I passed them to Blackman, still without
knowing what he intended.

My
friend reached behind him and snapped the first spar, then the second, into the
socket arrangement I had seen implanted in his back the night before.
Instantly, a shimmering jet black membrane sprang up from each shoulder, like a
sheet of oil in the shape of delta-wings. He flexed the wings experimentally,
lifting himself a matter of centimetres above the deck.