Eric Brown - Destiny on Tartarus

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Eric Brown has published seven books so far, the most recent being his

novel PENUMBRA from Millennium. The eagerly-awaited first volume of

his `Virex' trilogy, NEW YORK NIGHTS, will be published by Gollancz in

May 2000.

DESTINY ON TARTARUS, while complete in itself, is the first story in his

`Fall of Tartarus' series. The other stories are: THE ULTIMATE SACRIFICE

(SPECTRUM SF, forthcoming),THE PEOPLE OF THE NOVA, THE ESCHATARIUM

AT LYSSIA, A PRAYER FOR THE DEAD, VULPHEOUS and HUNTING THE

SLARQUE (INTERZONE 150, 122, 96, 129 & 141) plus DARK CALVARY (SF

AGE, January 1999).

DESTINY ON TARTARUS

ERIC BROWN

I'd heard many a tale about Tartarus Major: how certain continents

were technological backwaters five hundred years behind the times;

how the Church governed half the planet with a fist of iron, and yet

how, in the other half, a thousand bizarre and heretic cults prospered

too. I'd heard how a lone traveller was hardly safe upon the planet's

surface, prey to wild animals and cut-throats alike. Most of all I'd

heard that, in a hundred years, Tartarus would be annihilated when

its sun exploded in the magnificent stellar suicide of a nova.

It was hardly the planet on which to spend a year of one's youth -

and many friends had tried to warn me off the trip. But I was at that

age when high adventure would provide an exciting contrast to the

easy life I had lived so far. Besides, I had a valid reason for visiting

Tartarus, a mission no degree of risk could forestall.

I made the journey from Earth aboard a hyperlight sailship like

any other that plied the lanes between the Thousand Worlds. The

spaceport at Baudelaire resembled the one I had left at Athens four

days earlier: a forest of masts in which the sails of the ships were florid

blooms in a hundred pastel shades, contrasting with the stark geometry

of the monitoring towers and stabilising gantries. The port was the

planet's only concession to the modern day, though. Beyond, a hurly-

burly anarchy reigned, which to my pampered sensibilities seemed

positively medieval. In my naivety I had expected a rustic atmosphere,

sedate and unhurried.

The truth, when I stepped from the port and into the streets of the

capital city, was a rude awakening. Without mechanised transport,

the by-ways were thronged with hurrying pedestrians and carts drawn

by the local bovine-equivalent; without baffles to dampen the noise,

the city was a cacophony of clashing sounds: the constant din of

shouted conversation, the cries of vendors, the lowing moans of the

draft-animals. The streets were without the directional lasers in various

colours to guide one's way, without sliding walkways, and even without

airborne deodorants to combat the more noisome odours, in this

case the miasma of unwashed bodies and animal excreta. My horror

must have been evident as I stood transfixed before the gates of the

spaceport.

A stranger at my side, a tall man in Terran dress - seemingly he too

had just arrived on Tartarus - caught my eye and smiled.

"My fifth time on this hell-hole," he said, "and still my first reaction

to the place is shock." He mopped the sweat from his brow and turned

to a street-vendor selling cooled juices from a cart. He signalled for

one, then glanced at me. "Care to join me? I can recommend them -

an antidote to this heat."

I decided that a cool refreshment would go down very well before

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I sought my hotel. The vendor set about blending the drinks in a

shaker.

"First time on Tartarus?" the stranger asked.

"My very first," I said.

"You'll get used to it - you might even come to love the place. I'd

advise you to get out of the city. The beauty of Tartarus is in the

deserted wilds. The planet at sunset is something magical." He stared

across the street, at the great swollen orb of the orange sun setting

behind a skyline of three-storey wooden buildings.

The vendor passed us two tall mugs. "Three lek, three lek," he said,

pointing to each of us.

"Allow me," the stranger said. With his free hand he patted the

pockets of his coat, frowning. "My credit chip must be in my bag," he

said, indicating the case at his feet. "I wonder if you could take...?"

"Of course," I said, accepting his mug while he bent and opened

his case. From within he withdrew his credit chip and proffered it to

the vendor.

The vendor was arguing. "No credit chip! Only coin!" He pointed

to the money pouch on his belt. "Give coins!"

"But I have no coins, or for that matter notes, until I find a bank."

The stranger looked embarrassed.

The vendor waved away the stranger's credit chip and transferred

his attention to me. "You - coins. Six lek."

"Allow me to pay for these," I said. I looked around for somewhere

to deposit the mugs while I found my money pouch.

"That's very kind of you," he said.

He saw the difficulty I was having and, before I could pass him the

mugs, reached towards my pocket. "Do you mind? Please, allow me,"

he said. "This one?"

I nodded, turning so that he could take the pouch from my coat

pocket. He opened the drawstrings and withdrew six lek, paid the

vendor and then returned the pouch to my pocket.

The transaction accomplished, the vendor pushed his cart away.

I took a long draft of the delicious juice, like no concoction I had

ever tasted. "Do you know the planet well?" I asked.

"I've spent a couple of years on Tartarus," he said. "Let's say that

have a traveller's knowledge of the place. Buzatti, by the way."

"Sinclair," I said. "Sinclair Singer."

He drained his mug and dropped it into the gutter, and I did the

same. "If you're dining tonight," Buzatti said, "perhaps I could return

the compliment? I'm staying at the Rising Sun, along Bergamot Walk.

How about dinner? Around nine?"

I told him I would be delighted, and took his proffered hand.

"Around nine it is," I said.

"Till then." He saluted, turned, and was soon lost to sight in the

crowd flowing down the street.

I found a rickshaw - or rather a rickshaw driver found me - and I

gave as my destination the Imperial Hotel. As I sat back in the padded

seat and was ferried swiftly down the surging stream of packed

humanity, I felt gladdened by my chance encounter. My major fear

had been to be alone in the alien city; now I had an urbane dining

companion, and one who was familiar with this strange world.

My optimism rose still further when the Imperial Hotel turned out

to be an old, ivied building set back from the street in its own placid

lawns. I paid the driver in the units I had used aboard the sailship, as

he had no machine with which to take my chip. Then I dismounted,

hauled my travelling bag up the wide steps, and entered the cool foyer.

I had had the foresight to book a room from Earth, via the shipping

agency. I gave my name to the clerk. "Three nights, Mr Singer... That

will be three hundred shellings, please."

I pulled my money bag from the pocket of my coat and withdrew

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a bundle of notes, which I proffered to the clerk. He frowned at the

wad in my outstretched hand.

"Is there some problem?" I asked.

"Indeed there is," he said, taking the notes and laying them upon

the counter. "Behold, they are worthless scraps of paper - not even

competent forgeries!"

"But that's impossible!" I cried. "I exchanged my Terran notes for

Tartarean currency at the bank in the port! They would never have

robbed-"

"Then someone else has taken the liberty," he said.

I recalled that Buzatti had helped me with my money bag. Only he

might have robbed me of my life savings! I very nearly collapsed,

overcome with despair at what I might do now, and self-loathing that

I had been such a fool.

Buzatti had given me the name of his hotel. "Do you know if there

is a hotel on Bergamot Walk called the Rising Sun?" I asked.

The clerk frowned at me. "No hotel of that name exists," he replied.

I felt rage towards Buzatti and his cohort the vendor for so cruelly

robbing me.

I told the clerk that I would book a room for one night, and paid

for it with the spare notes I had in my trouser pocket.

He completed various forms and handed me the key. "And I'd

contact the police if I were you, sir."

In a daze I made my way to the elevator and rode to the third floor.

Once in my room I dropped my bag, slammed the door and sat on

the bed, disconsolate at the prospect of an early end to my quest.

The famous night lights of Tartarus were flickering in the southern

sky, a writhing aurora that danced on the horizon like the flames of

hell. I stared through the window, the beauty of the spectacle and the

skyline of the city in silhouette serving to remind me of how little

time I would now be spending here.

My mind in a limbo of uncertainty, I sorted through my bag and

found the persona-cube. I carried it onto the balcony, placed it on the

table, and sat with my feet lodged on the balcony rail. I was loath to

activate the device; at this juncture my self-esteem was at a low ebb,

without it being drained any further.

I pulled the cube towards me. On impulse my finger-tips found

the press-panel. In truth, I was lonely and in need of company - even

the dubious company provided by the persona contained within the

cube.

A sylvan scene appeared in the heart of the crystal: a vista of trees

a summer's day, the wind soughing through the foliage with a sound

like the crashing of surf.

A figure strolled into view, emerging from between the rows of

trees and approaching the front plane of the cube. The image

magnified, so that the tall, broad-shouldered figure filled the scene. It

had been a while since I had last sought his company. I felt a

constriction in my throat at the sight of him, a strange anxiety that

visited me whenever I was in his presence - compounded this time by

what I had to tell him.

Was it a measure of my lack of self-confidence that I felt I had to

ask his advice at the risk of earning his opprobrium?

"Father..."

Alerted to my presence, he smiled out at me. "Isn't it beautiful,

Sinclair?" He gestured about him. "Big Sur, California. Where are

you? How are you keeping?"

I swallowed. "On Tartarus," I replied. "I'm well."

"Tartarus Major?" he said.

I nodded. I had never been able to bring myself to tell him that

Tartarus was where my flesh and blood father had met his end.

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"Well?" he snapped, impatient.

"Yes," I said. I still made the mistake of not answering his question

verbally: the verisimilitude of his likeness persuaded me that he could

observe my every movement and gesture.

"What are you doing on Tartarus, Sinclair?" he asked.

I shrugged, then remembered myself and said, "I'm curious. I wanted

to see the place. It's unique, after all..."

The persona of my father before me was just that, a memory-

response programme loaded into the cube's computer banks ten years

ago - a present from my father to my mother. I always considered it a

measure of his cruelty - or his unthinking sentimentality - that he

should have made a gift of such a thing shortly before he walked out

on her.

She had given me the cube six years ago, on my tenth birthday,

programmed to respond only to my voice. "Here - your father. It's all

you'll ever see of him, Sinclair."

Not long after that, I found a letter from my father on my mother's

bureau. I did not have the opportunity to read it before my mother

entered her study and found me lurking suspiciously - but I did

memorise his return address: that of a solicitor in Baudelaire. Over

the next three nights, in the safety of my bedroom, I had written a

long letter to my absent father - and added a postscript that upon my

sixteenth birthday I would make the voyage to Tartarus and attempt

to find him.

Then, when I was twelve, my mother told me that my father had

died on Tartarus. It had been a measure of my confusion - a mixture

of my own grief and an inability to assess the extent of hers - that I

had refrained from asking her for details. In consequence I knew

nothing of how he had died, where exactly on Tartarus he had perished,

or even what he had been doing on the planet in the first place.

Now my father stepped over a fallen log and sat down. He was a

big man, ruggedly handsome, with blond hair greying at the temples,

and blue eyes.

"Sinclair, how's your mother keeping?"

He always asked after mother, every time I activated the cube. Always

he called her `your mother,' and never her name, Susanna.

"Well, boy?" He seemed to stare straight out at me.

"Mother died a month ago," I whispered. I dared not look up into

his eyes, for fear of seeing simulated grief there, a mirror image of the

genuine emotion that filled me.

"Oh..." he said at last. "I'm sorry."

My mother had died peacefully at the villa I had shared with her.

On her deathbed she had made me promise that I would cast away

the persona-cube, forget about my father. And to please her I had

given my promise, knowing full well that I would not do as she

commanded.

"So," he said, buoyancy in his tone, as if to support me in the

ocean of my mourning. "How goes it on Tartarus?"

Hesitantly, bit by bit, I recounted my mishap on the street outside

the spaceport. Perhaps I sought his admonition as punishment for my

stupidity.

He listened with increasing incredulity showing on his face. "He

robbed you of ten thousand new credits - he took the notes before

your very eyes?"

"But-" I began.

"How many times have I told you? Trust no-one, give nothing away.

Look after yourself and let others look after themselves. The principal

and basic tenets of existence, Sinclair, which you continually fail to

comprehend."

"But I can't live like that - without trust, without charity..." I

almost added, "...without love," a corollary of his base pragmatism -

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but restrained myself. It would have begun an argument we had had

many times before.

"Manifestly," was his disgusted reply. "You live with trust, always

feeling charitable to those who do not, and then you blubber when

you find yourself cheated. Grow up, boy. You're supposed to be a

man!"

I reached out quickly and, in anger, switched him off. The cube went

opaque. I sat without moving in the flickering ruddy twilight,anger slowly

abating within me. I tried to tell myself that the sentiments

expressed by my father's persona were merely those of a lifeless puppet

- but I knew that, had my father been alive today, he would have said

the same things, endorsed the philosophy of self first, second, and

last. The programme was, after all, a simulation of his personality.

I re-activated the cube. He was still in the forest, sitting on the log

staring down at his clasped hands.

"Father..."

He looked up. "What is it, Sinclair?"

"Have you never made mistakes?"

"Of course I have, when I was young and callow. Like you."

"Tell me."

He shook his head. "You cannot learn from the mistakes of others,"

he said. "Only from your own."

I deactivated the cube.

My father - or rather this simulation of him - never spoke about

his past. How many times had I heard him say, `The past is a foreign

country, to which it is wise never to return'? As a consequence I knew

next to nothing of my father, of his background, his occupations, his

hobbies. I knew only his opinions, his philosophies, which some might

say constitute the man. But I was hungry to know what he had been,

what had made him what he was.

Even my mother had told me nothing of his past. I had wanted to

quiz her, but at the same time had no desire to stir the ghosts that

might return to haunt her lonely later years.

I returned inside and calculated my assets: the units I had left over

from the ship, the loose coins I had in various pockets, the stash of

notes I had secreted in an inner pocket in case of emergencies. In all I

possessed some ninety new credits - plus a return ticket to Earth.

Enough, I estimated, to see me through perhaps ten days on Tartarus.

I would remain here for that long, then, and see what little I might

learn in that short time.

It was past midnight by the time I got to bed, and well into the

early hours before I finally slept. I dreamed of the teeming streets of

Baudelaire, down which my father must have passed, and I dreamed

of my father himself, the man whom I knew better than anyone else -

and yet did not really know at all.

On the morning of my first full day on Tartarus I woke early and

descended to the foyer, where I consulted the map of Baudelaire

hanging on one wall. The lawyer's office was a kilometre distant. To

save precious credits I elected to walk, and ignored the rickshaws lined

up in the driveway, their drivers importuning me with ringing bells

and cries. Although the hour was early, the streets were full. My

route took me into the commercial heart of the city, down wide

avenues thronged with citizens and flanked by the characteristic three-

storey buildings with red-brick facades and steep, timber-tiled roofs.

As I walked I began to worry that, after all these years, the lawyer

might have moved office - or, worse, retired or died. The address was

my only link on the planet with my father, and without it I would be

lost.

I turned down a comparatively quiet side-street and with relief came

across a crooked, half-timber building, with a sign bearing the legend

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Greaves and Partners swinging above the low entrance. I entered and

climbed three narrow flights of stairs which switchbacked from landing

to landing, the air redolent of beeswax polish and sun-warmed timber.

I hesitated before a tiny door bearing the lawyer's name in gold

leaf, found my identity card, knocked and entered.

I was in a small chamber that was without the slightest sign of

plastics, either in panelling, furniture or fittings; instead, all was wood,

dark timbers warped with age. Sunlight streamed in through a tiny

window at the far end of the room, illuminating piles of papers,

yellowed and brittle with age. Nowhere could I see a computer.

A mild voice enquired, "And how might I be of assistance?"

A grey-haired, sharp-featured old man was peering at me through a

pair of spectacles - the first I had ever seen in real life. He sat behind

a vast desk before the window, a pen poised above a pile of paper.

I introduced myself, proffering my identity card. "You worked on

behalf of my father, a good number of years ago."

"Take a seat, young man. Sinclair Singer?" he said, peering at the

card. "Your father was... don't tell me, it's coming back... Gregor-

Gregor Singer." He nodded in evident satisfaction. "You're very much

like your father."

I smiled, almost saying that I hoped my resemblance was only

physical. "I came to Tartarus to find out more about him," I began.

Greaves constructed an obelisk of his long, thin fingers. "More

than what?" he asked pedantically.

"More than what I know already, which is not much at all. I was six

when my father left for Tartarus. My memories of him are vague."

Greaves nodded in a gesture I took to be one of genuine

understanding. "One minute," he said, pushing himself from his desk.

On a wheeled swivel-chair he rattled across the floorboards, came to a

timber cabinet and hauled open a drawer. He walked his fingers down

a wad of tattered folders, found the relevant one and plucked it out. A

second later he was parking himself behind the desk.

He shuffled through the papers. "I would hand these documents

over to you, Sinclair - but as they are in code I doubt you would find

them of much use. But if you have any questions I might be able to

answer, then I'll do my best."

I stared at the sheaf of yellow paper on the desk, the contents of

which surely said more about my father than I had ever known.

But where to begin? I was aware that I had broken into a prickling

sweat.

At a loss, I shrugged. "Well... why did he leave Earth? What was he

doing on Tartarus?"

Greaves peered at me over his spectacles. "You certainly do not

know much about your father, do you?"

I made an embarrassed gesture, as if the blame for my ignorance

lay with myself, and not my father.

Greaves stared down at the papers spread before him, then up at

me. "Gregor Singer was a soldier," he said. "He came to Tartarus to

fight."

I think I echoed his words in shock. A soldier? If there was one

profession I abhorred above all others, it was that of a soldier. On

Earth we lived in peaceful times; we settled disputes through diplomatic

negotiations.

"I can see what you are thinking," Greaves said. "And, to answer

your question - no, your father was not from Earth."

The old lawyer was one step ahead of me. I had not worked out

that my father was not Terran.

"He was born on Marathon, and reared in the Spartan guild. He

was ordained from birth to be a fighter. He went to Earth to complete

his training, and there he met the woman who became your mother. I

know this much because he told me."

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I listened to his words in silence. From what I knew of my father

through the persona-cube, his personal philosophy would suit a life-

long soldier.

"What was he doing on Tartarus?" I asked, fearful of the answer.

Greaves peered at his papers. "He was a mercenary, hired to serve

in the private army of a dictator who ruled the state of Zambria."

"And he died fighting for this dictator?"

"Not at all. Your father resigned his commission. That was when I

last saw him, a little over six years ago. He... he was a changed man

from the soldier I had first encountered years before. Not only had he

resigned, but he told me that no longer would he sell his services."

"He would no longer serve as a soldier?" I said. "But why? What

happened?"

Greaves leaned back in his chair and regarded me. "He did not tell

me precisely, but I pieced together hints, read between the lines... I

cannot be certain, but I received the impression that your father led

an invasion of a neighbouring state, to kidnap the son of the monarch.

Something went tragically wrong with the mission and the boy was

shot dead - I do not know whether your father was himself responsible,

or a man under his command, but at any rate he carried the burden of

guilt. Consequently, he resigned."

Sunlight poured into the room through the cramped window. I sat

in silence and tried to digest what Greaves had told me.

I came to my senses with the obvious question. "But you did write

to my mother informing her of my father's death?" I asked.

Greaves frowned. "Not in so many words," he said at last. "I wrote

to your mother to tell her that, as Gregor had not returned to reclaim

certain possessions and monies left in my care, I therefore suspected

that your father had passed on."

"But what proof did you have? Where did he go when he left here?"

"Let me try to explain," Greaves murmured. "It was my impression that your

father was seeking a way of exorcising the guilt he felt, thathe was in need of

absolution - perhaps through some form of self-

sacrifice or mortification. He told me that he was heading for

Charybdis, on the river Laurent which feeds into the Sapphire sea, a

thousand kilometres west of here. There he intended to sign on a

racing ship in the annual Charybdis challenge."

I shook my head. "Which is?"

"An event famous on Tartarus, a galleon race down the treacherous

Laurent river and into the Sapphire sea. Perhaps thirty boats take part

every year, and maybe two or three survive. The majority are broken

on the underwater corals, and their crews either cut to death, drowned,

or devoured by ferocious river-dwelling creatures. Your father left

Baudelaire to join a ship. Two years later he had not returned... I then

wrote to your mother, stating as much as I've told you today."

I sat, dazed by the barrage of images the old man's words had

conjured. From knowing so little about my father, I suddenly knew so

much.

I heard myself saying, "I must go to Charybdis."

Greaves spread his hands. "There are vench-trains daily from

Baudelaire to the Sapphire sea, leaving the central station at ten in the

evening."

I recalled that he had said Charybdis was a thousand kilometres

distant. "And how long does the journey take?"

"If all goes well, the journey can be made in three to four days."

"Four days..." I repeated. A week to make the round trip - and

who knew how long I would need in Charybdis itself to learn my

father's fate... I had just enough funds to last me a little over a week.

"How much is the train fare to Charybdis?" I asked.

"A return fare costs about a thousand shellings."

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I frowned. A thousand shellings was roughly seventy new credits.

That much would take a good chunk from what little funds I had.

Then I recalled what Greaves had said earlier. "You mentioned certain

monies my father left in your safe-keeping?"

He spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. "I had them

transferred to your mother's account many years ago."

I nodded, and stood. "I think I will make the journey to Charybdis,"

I said.

"In that case I wish you bon voyage, Sinclair, and good luck."

That night, before I set off to the station, I activated my father's

persona-cube. He was no longer in the forest. The cube showed

the skyball court in the grounds of the house I recalled from my early

years. He stood at the base line, hitting the puck against the far wall

with his shield.

"Father."

He gave the puck a nonchalant swipe, then strolled towards the

edge of the court. His brow was dotted with sweat. As ever, I noticed

his size, the quiet power of his physique. But I saw him in a different

light now that I knew of his past.

"How's Tartarus?" he asked, unbuckling his shield.

I ignored him. "I found out why you came here," I said. "I... I

found out what you were."

He made a pretence of giving undue attention to a recalcitrant

buckle on his shield. He looked up at last. "So?"

"So... why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you trust me enough to

tell me who you were?"

"Sinclair... You were young. You'd never have understood. You

belonged to a culture with different values."

Anger welled within me. "Why did you leave mother?"

He sighed. "Duty, Sinclair. I had to go. My company ordered me

to Tartarus. I made the cube before I went, for your mother."

I had to laugh at this. "As if that compensated for your desertion! A

programmed puppet in a glass box!" I stopped there, gathered my

thoughts. "Did you love mother?" I asked at last.

He took a while to respond, then looked straight out at me. "Love?

What's love, Sinclair? When you get to my age, you'll wonder if such

a thing exists. Love is just biology's bluff to get what it wants-"

"You don't know how... how mechanistic that sounds."

My father smiled. "And what do you know about love, then,

Sinclair?"

I was speechless for a few seconds. Then: "I loved mother!"

He winked. "Touché, Sinclair. Like I said, Biology's-" He never

finished. I reached out, deactivated the cube and in the same movement

swept it from the table.

Later, I packed my bag and checked out of the hotel. The station

was two kilometres away, and I decided to walk in a bid to work off

my anger and frustration.

There is something about setting off from a big city on a long

journey to the coast that fills the soul with joy and expectation.

As I walked through the gas-lit streets - passing hostelries packed

with drunken revellers, and a carnival of giant clockwork amusements

in a cobbled square - I soon forgot the words of my father's persona

and concentrated instead on his deeds since arriving on Tartarus. It

afforded me a measure of satisfaction that he had seen fit to turn his

back on soldiering. I wondered if before he met his end he had also

put behind him his reductionist philosophies.

The Central Station, despite its title, was situated to the north of

the city, in a quiet district of narrow, cobbled streets and shuttered

shops. I had memorised the route from the hotel map, and I judged

that I was almost upon the station with a good hour to spare before

the departure of the train.

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The sun had set two hours ago, though not the light with it. It was

a feature of the erratic primary that its radiation sent probing fingers

of light around the globe and filled the night sky with flickering red

and orange streamers. The heavens between the eaves of the buildings

were like none I'd ever seen, as if the air itself was aflame. I had paused

in wonder to appreciate the gaudy display when I heard, from a nearby

side-street, the detonation of what might have been a blunderbuss.

The report echoed in the narrow alley and, seconds later, I was amazed

to hear a sudden cry directly overhead. I looked up in time to see a

strange sight indeed.

Silhouetted against the tangerine light was a slight, winged figure -

human in form - made miniature by its altitude. It seemed to be

engaged in a struggle with an invisible assailant. I made out madly

kicking legs and a circular blur of wings, fighting against whatever

was inexorably drawing it to earth. Then, as the shrieking girl lost

height - she was close enough now for me to make out that she was

little more than a child with long, diaphanous wings - I saw that her

right ankle was ensnared by a long rope, its diagonal vector crossing

the rooftops and leading, presumably, to the poor girl's assailants.

I looked up and down the street, hoping that I was not alone in

witnessing this crime - and so might have allies in attempting a rescue

- but there was not a soul in sight.

As the seconds passed, the flying girl was drawn closer to the

rooftops. Fearing that she would soon be lost to sight, I ran down the

alley towards where I judged the rope would come to earth. When I

came to a turn in the alley, I paused and peered cautiously around the

corner. Perhaps ten yards down the darkened by-way stood two figures

and a large chest, its lid standing upright ready to receive its captive.

The men were hauling on a rope, a great rifle discarded at their feet.

The girl had lost all will to fight. She was treading air, mewling in

pathetic entreaty as her captors pulled her down. At last they grabbed

her by the ankles and forced her into the trunk, crushing her wings in

the process.

I was about to step forward with a shout - hoping that my sudden

appearance might startle the pair into flight - when an iron grip fixed

on my wrist. I feared I had been caught by another of their party, but

the words hissed in my ear told me otherwise. "Don't be so impetuous!

They would have no qualms about shooting you dead!"

"But we can't let them get away with it-" I began, not even turning

to look at my counsellor. I tried to struggle from his hold.

"They won't get away with their crime, believe me. Now come, this

way." So saying he tugged me back around the corner. I struggled no

further, picked up my bag where I had dropped it and followed the

tall, striding figure down the alley. Only when we emerged into the

cobbled main street, flushed with the roseate light from above, did I

fully make out the man who had in all likelihood saved my life.

He towered over me, staring down impassively. I returned his gaze,

in wonder and not a little revulsion. I think I might even have backed

off a pace.

To begin with what is easy to describe: he wore a pair of thigh-high

cavalier boots in jet-black leather, and a sleeveless jerkin of the same

material. His head and arms were bare. His skin was also black - as jet

black as his leathers - but not black in pigmentation. I peered more

closely. His flesh was that of a charred corpse, burned and blistered,

and - even more amazing - enmeshed in a grid of silver wires.

"We had better make a move if we wish to catch the vench-train,"

he said.

I stared at him. "How do you know?"

He smiled, the reticulation of wires shifting on either side of his

mouth. "What else would you be doing this close to the station, with

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a travelling bag?"

"I'm leaving on the ten o'clock to Charybdis," I said.

He nodded. "The only train that leaves tonight," he said. "I too am

heading for Charybdis."

He shouldered his bag and turned, and as he walked off I made out

two vertical slits in the back of his jerkin. Through each slit could be

seen a silver spar, indented with sockets.

I hurried to catch him up. "Who...?" I began, unsure. "What are

you?"

He stared ahead, eating up the cobbles with his giant stride. "I

belong to the Guild of Blackmen," he replied. "You may call me

Blackman."

I introduced myself, my many questions silenced by his reserve

and dominating presence.

As we turned the corner and approached the station - a long, low

building on the far side of a square - he glanced down at me. "From

Earth?"

"I arrived just yesterday."

"Alone?" He sounded surprised. "Alone on Tartarus?"

"Alone."

"You are either a fool, boy - or supremely confident. What brings

you here?"

"Curiosity. Adventure. I've heard a lot about the planet. I want to

see it for myself."

He strode along in quiet contemplation for a while, his leathers

creaking. "Were you informed also of the dangers? Tartarus is hardly

safe for a lone traveller."

"So people have told me," I said.

"I take it you go to Charybdis to watch the boat race?"

"It takes place soon?"

"In less than a week."

I considered the prospect of watching the race in which four years

ago my father had met his end. "In that case I'll certainly be there," I

said. "And you? Why do you go to Charybdis?"

He was a couple of seconds before replying, giving the impression

that he did so with reluctance. "Work," he said at last, and would

grant no more.

The covered concourse outside the station was full of waiting

travellers. Families sat in circles around their possessions, bed-rolls,

trunks, and bundles of anonymous oddments. Curled figures, covered

from head to foot in blankets, slept despite the constant hubbub of

conversation and the strident cries of food-vendors.

A melee of citizens jostled before the ticket counter. I did not relish

the prospect of joining the fray. Blackman must have noticed my

apprehension. "Wait here."

He strode off across the concourse. I was surprised to see that perhaps

a dozen individuals scurried to intercept him. Some remained at a

respectful distance, palms pressed together and raised to their foreheads;

others diffidently reached out and touched him as he brushed past,

then touched their fingers to their lips and scurried off. When he

approached the counter, the crowd there parted to allow him through,

individuals bowing and backing away. Within seconds he stood before

the grille, a barred opening hardly reaching the height of his chest,

and a minute later he returned with the tickets. "All the single berths

were taken," he said. "I took the liberty of booking a stateroom. I

hope you have no objection to sharing?"

"Not at all," I said, producing my credit chip. He waved it away,

smiling. "One of the advantages of belonging to my guild is that one

rarely pays for anything."

We passed through an arched entrance into the station. Baudelaire

being the terminus, there were six platforms serving as many rail lines

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Eric Brown - Destiny on Tartarus

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