The Fall of Tartarus (41 page)

With
scarcely a delay they set off into the jungle, Cramer marvelling at the blind
man’s sure tread as he navigated his way through the jungle. At first the trek
was not arduous. The way had been cleared, and they followed a well-defined
path through the undergrowth. Only later, as they put twenty kilometres behind
them, and the path began to climb, did Cramer begin to feel the strain. They
slowed, and halted often to swallow water from leather canteens.

They
continued through the long, sultry hours of afternoon; at last, when Cramer
thought he could continue no more, they came to a clearing. Before them, the
plateau fell away in a sheer drop, affording an open panorama of tree-tops
stretching all the way to the northern horizon beneath a violent, actinic sky.

Only
then did Cramer notice the tent, to one side of the clearing.

He
turned to the Abbot. ‘Where are we?’

The
holy man gestured. ‘Francesca’s tent,’ was his only reply.

‘But
this can’t be the mission . . .’ Cramer began.

He
heard a sound from across the clearing, and turned quickly. He stared in dread
as Francesca drew aside the tent flap and stepped out. His heart began a
laboured pounding. She stood, tiny and trim in her radiation silvers. He
searched her for any sign of injury - but she seemed whole and perfect, as he
had dreamed of her all along. She stared at him, appearing uncertain at his
presence. A smile came hesitantly to her lips.

He
crossed the clearing and hugged her to his chest.

She
pulled away, shaking her head. ‘I meant to contact you. It’s just . . .’ Cramer
had expected tears; instead, she was almost matter-of-fact.

‘Francesca
. . . What’s happening? The Abbot—’ He nodded towards the holy man, who was
busying himself with a second tent across the clearing. ‘He said that you were
injured, in hospital—’

She
looked pained. ‘Come. We have a lot to talk about.’ She took his hand and drew
him into the tent.

They
sat facing each other. He scanned her for injuries, but saw no bandages,
compresses, or scabs of synthetic flesh.

She
read his gaze, and smiled. ‘Cuts and bruises, nothing serious.’

Cramer
felt a constriction in his throat. ‘You were lucky.’

She
lowered her head, looked at him through her lashes. ‘You don’t know how lucky,’
she murmured.

A
silence developed, and he wished at that moment that silence was all that
separated them; but they seemed divided by more than just the inability to
communicate meaningfully.

Then
he saw the book beside her inflatable pillow. Embossed in scarlet upon its
black cover was the symbol of a scorpion beside a dismembered human figure.

‘Francesca
. . .’ he pleaded. ‘What’s happening?’

She
did not meet his gaze. ‘What do you mean?’

He
indicated the holy book.

It
was some time before she could bring herself to respond. At last she looked up,
her eyes wide, staring, as if still in shock from the trauma of the crash-landing.

‘After
the accident,’ she began, ‘I regained consciousness. I lay in the wreckage,
surrounded by the others . . . my friends and colleagues. They were dead . . .’
She paused, gathered herself. ‘I couldn’t move. I saw a figure, the Abbot, and
then other robed monks, moving among the crew, giving blessings, first-aid
where they could. Eventually the Abbot found me. They loaded me onto a
stretcher, knocked me out. The next thing I remember, I was in the mission
hospital at Chardon’s Landing,’

‘And
the Abbot did all this without eyes—?’

‘He
was sighted then,’ Francesca said. ‘Only later did he return to Baudelaire to
petition for
penance physicale.’
She paused, continued, ‘Before that,
while I recuperated, he told me about his faith, his quest.’

Cramer
echoed that last word, sickened by something in her tone.

‘The
Abbot is searching for the lost temple of the Slarque,’ Francesca went on, ‘the
race which lived on Tartarus before humankind. This temple is of special
significance to his religion.’

Something
turned in his stomach. He gestured towards the book. ‘Do you believe
that?’
he said.

She
stared at him with her green and vital eyes. ‘I’m intrigued by the extinct
aliens,’ she replied. ‘I was always interested in xeno-archaeology. I want to
help the Abbot find the temple.’

He
felt betrayed. ‘You act as his eyes?’

She
nodded, then reached out and took his hand. ‘I love you, Hans. I always have
and always will. This . . . this is something I must experience. Please, don’t
obstruct me.’

The
Abbot called that a meal was prepared.

The
sun was dipping below the horizon, presaging the nightly show of tattered
flames and flares like shredded banners. They sat in the shade of the jungle -
Cramer relieved when Francesca chose to sit next to him - and ate from a platter
of meat, cheese and bread. He recalled her words, her avowal of love, but they
did nothing to banish his jealousy.

The
Abbot poured wine and spoke of his religion, his belief that only through
physical, mortification would his God be appeased and the sun cease its
swelling. Cramer listened with mounting incredulity. From time to time he
glanced at Francesca. The girl he knew of old would have piped up with some
pithy remark along the lines that the holy man’s fellow believers had been
sawing bits off themselves for centuries, and still the sun was unstable. But
she said nothing. She seemed hypnotised by the Abbot’s words.

Cramer
was drunk with the wine, or he would have held his tongue. ‘A lot your
mortification has achieved so far,’ he slurred, indicating the burning heavens.

‘Once
we locate the temple of the Slarque,’ said the Abbot, ‘our efforts will be
rewarded. Be glad and rejoice, for the Lord will do great things.’ According to
his holy book, he said, strange feats and miracles were to be expected in the
alien ruins - but by this time Cramer had heard enough, and concentrated on his
drinking.

He
shared Francesca’s tent that night. He sat cross-legged, a bottle of wine
half-full in his lap. Francesca lay on her back, staring up at the sloping
fabric.

He
processed his thoughts and carefully ordered his words. ‘How . . . how can you
be sure that you’ll find the temple before the sun—?’

‘The
Abbot and his minions have searched most of the jungle - there is only this
sector to go. We
will
find the shrine.’

‘You
sound in little doubt.’

She
turned her head and stared at him. ‘I am in no doubt,’ she said.

He
determined, then, that he would not let her go. He would restrain her somehow,
drag her back to Baudelaire and then to Earth.

‘When
do you set out on this . . . this
expedition
?’ he asked.

‘Tomorrow,
or maybe the day after.’ There was defiance in her tone.

‘Then
you’ll return . . . ?’ He could not bring himself to say, ‘to me?’ Instead he
said, ‘You’ll rejoin the Fleet?’

She
glanced at him, seemed to be searching for the words with which to explain
herself. ‘Hans ... I joined the Fleet believing that through science we might
do something to stabilise these novae. Over the years, I’ve come to realise
that nothing can be done.’ She frowned. ‘I can’t go back, rejoin the Fleet.’
She hesitated, seemed to want to go on, but instead just shook her head in
frustration.

She
turned her back on him and slept.

Her
words echoing in his head, Cramer drank himself unconscious.

He
was awoken by a sound, perhaps hours later. He oriented himself and reached out
for Francesca, but she was gone. He gathered his wits, peered from the tent.
Across the clearing he made out Francesca’s short figure next to the tall form
of the Abbot. They were shouldering their packs, their movements careful so as
not to wake him. Cramer felt the smouldering pain of betrayal in his gut. From
his pack he drew his laser and slipped from the tent. As he moved around the
clearing, keeping to the shadows, he was formulating a plan. He would stun both
Francesca and the Abbot, then flee with her back to the port and take the first
ship home. The girl was not in her right mind, could not be held responsible
for her actions.

Francesca
saw him coming. She stared at him, wide-eyed.

Dry
of throat, Cramer said, ‘You were leaving me!’

‘Do
not try to stop us,’ the Abbot warned.

Francesca
cried, ‘I must go! If you love me, if you trust me, then you’ll let me go!’

‘What
have you done to her!’ he yelled at the Abbot.

‘You
cannot stop us,’ the holy fool said. ‘The way of the pious will not be impeded
by those of scant faith!’

Cramer
raised his laser, clicked off the safety catch.

Francesca
was shaking her head. ‘No . . .’

His
vision swam. A combination of the heat, the drink, the emotional consequences
of what was happening conspired to addle his wits.

Francesca
made to turn and go.

He
reached out, caught her arm. The sudden feel of her, the hot flesh above her
elbow, reminded Cramer of what he was losing. He pulled her to him. ‘Francesca
. . .’

Her
eyes communicated an anger close to hatred. She struggled. She was small, but
the determination with which she fought was testament to her desire to be free.
He was incensed. He roared like a maniac and dragged her across the clearing
towards the tent. She screamed and broke free.

Then
Cramer raised his laser and fired, hitting her in the chest and knocking her
off her feet, the large-eyed expression of disbelief at what he’d done still on
her face as she hit the ground.

The
Abbot was on his knees beside her, his fingers fumbling for her pulse. He
stared blindly in Cramer’s direction. ‘You’ve killed her! My God, you’ve killed
her!’

‘No
. . .’ He collapsed and held the loose bundle of Francesca in his arms. There
was no movement, no heartbeat. Her head lolled. He cried into her hair that he
had not meant to . . .

The
Abbot began a doleful prayer for Cramer’s soul. Cramer wanted to hate him then,
revile the holy man for infecting Francesca with his insane belief, but in his
grief and guilt he could only weep and beg forgiveness.

At
the Abbot’s suggestion Cramer buried Francesca in the rank jungle soil, while
the night sky pulsed and flared with all the colours of Hell.

When
it was done, and they stood above the fresh mound of earth, Cramer asked, ‘And
you?’

‘I
will continue on my quest.’

‘Without
eyes?’

‘We
walk by faith, not by sight,’ the Abbot said. ‘If God wishes me to find the
shrine, that is his will.’

Cramer
remained kneeling by the grave for hours, not quite sane. As the sun rose he
set off on the long trek south, the Abbot’s dolorous chant following him into
the jungle. He caught one of the many ferries bound for Baudelaire, and the
following day bought passage aboard a slowboat to Earth.

He
lost himself in Venezuela’s vast interior, relived his time with Francesca,
wallowed in grief and guilt and cursed himself for her death.

Then,
just short of four months later, the Abbot came to Earth with news from
Tartarus Major.

Cramer
was sitting on the porch of his jungle retreat, the abandoned timber villa of
some long-dead oil prospector. It was not yet noon and already his senses were
numbed by alcohol. The encroaching jungle, the variation of greens and the odd
splash of colour from bird or flower, reminded him of Tartarus - though the
sky, what little of it could be seen through the tree-tops, was innocent of the
baleful eye of the supernova.

The
rattle of loose boards sounded through the humid air. His first visitor in four
months approached along the walkway from the riverbank.

He
sat up, fearful of trouble. He checked the pistol beneath the cushion at his
side.

The
walkway rose from the river in an erratic series of zigzags, and only when the
caller negotiated the final turn could Cramer make him out. With his long sable
habit and peaked hood he looked the very image of Death itself.

The
boards were loose and treacherous. The Abbot had to tread with care, but not
once did he reach for the side-rails - and only when he arrived at the verandah
did Cramer realise why. The Abbot had had his arms removed since their last
encounter.

To
each his own mortification, Cramer thought. He hoisted his bottle in greeting.

‘What
the hell brings you here?’ he asked. ‘You’ve finally abandoned your damn-fool
quest?’

The
holy man sat cross-legged before Cramer, a feat of some achievement considering
the absence of his arms. He tipped his head back, and his cowl slipped from his
bald pate to reveal his face ravaged by the depredations of his piety.