The Last Days of Krypton (10 page)

When Jor-El came back to
the estate, Lara could tell he was frustrated by what had happened with the Council. His brother had departed directly for Argo City; she’d barely been introduced to him.

Trying to change Jor-El’s mood, she showed him the new paintings she had done. By now, Lara had finished the portraits on eleven of the twelve obelisks. Though she continued to touch up the details, each of the symbolic panels was complete and (even if she said so herself) quite remarkable.

Her parents had already wrapped up most of the artwork along the estate’s buildings, and many of the apprentices were being sent back to Kandor; Ora and Lor-Van would spend several more days documenting nuances in the murals, so that others would interpret them properly. The famed artists were in great demand, and they already had a major new project lined up in the capital city. But Lara wasn’t so anxious to leave.

“And what about that last obelisk?” Jor-El asked, apparently glad to be distracted from his other troubles. “What do you intend to paint there?”

“I’m waiting to be inspired.” On an impulse, she blurted, “In all the times you’ve been to Kandor, have you ever taken a few hours to actually
see
the city—the museums, the humming galleries, the architecture of the crystal temples? There are so many things I’d like to show you, Jor-El. With my parents’ influence, I can get us fine seats for the next opera tapestry.”

He was obviously not thrilled with the idea. “I don’t like opera tapestries. I don’t understand them.”

“And I don’t understand your physics, but that didn’t keep me from getting you out of the Phantom Zone,” she countered. “All it takes is a little care and attention. Come with me to Kandor. Let me show you.”

“An opera tapestry?” he said again, as if pleading with her to choose something else.

“A new epic just debuted, ‘The Legend of Hur-Om and Fra-Jo.’ It has a grand scope, star-crossed lovers, tragedy, and a happy ending. What more could anyone want?” He took her question literally and was about to answer with something specific, but she cut him off. “Trust me in this, Jor-El.”

“All right, I’ll trust you. Go ahead and arrange it.”

They spent most of the following day in Kandor, even though they had no plans until the evening’s opera tapestry. Jor-El was not accustomed to the luxury of simply finding things to do, but Lara’s relaxed mood gradually rubbed off on him. Once his brother did collect the necessary data, he would have to devote all of his time to saving the world. For now, though—just a few hours—he allowed himself to enjoy being with Lara.

After a while he no longer even checked the solar clocks, though he did insist on stopping by the offices of Council members Cera-Si and Mauro-Ji, the two men most likely to implement a mitigation plan for Krypton’s tectonic instabilities. Jor-El spoke with each man briefly, reminding them that he trusted his brother and his predictions, that they must not ignore this potential for disaster. Cera-Si and Mauro-Ji both promised to do their best—but only after they had incontrovertible proof.

Lara took him to a museum, a sculpture garden, and a quick dinner before heading to the opera pavilion, whose design looked like an unfolding nest of tourmaline parabolas. She settled beside him in the dim auditorium and leaned close to make an amusing comment; Jor-El barely heard her words, distracted by her nearness.

On his estate, Jor-El had always thought he had everything he wanted. Off and on over the years, he had pondered the possibility of a politically advantageous marriage, though he had never seen much point in it. Mauro-Ji made no secret of how beautiful and well connected his two daughters were, but the young ladies were so obsessed with transient fashions and esoteric gossip that Jor-El could hardly bear an hour in their company. Though many women pretended to adore him, Jor-El always sensed that they were more impressed with his fame than with
him.

Lara, on the other hand, wasn’t trying to woo him for political or financial gain. She liked him because she
liked
him, and he very much enjoyed her company in return. She neither brushed aside his science nor insisted on comprehending it. “I don’t need to understand the details of your
work,
Jor-El,” she had said. “I need to understand
you.
”

Lights dimmed, casting an ebony blanket of simulated night on the theater walls. The stages levitated, and a holographic representation of the old and ornate city of Orvai appeared, setting the scene.

Lara’s eyes sparkled. “Now instead of you explaining science to me, let me explain the opera tapestry to you.”

“I hope you’re a patient teacher. When does this story take place?”

“It’s a legend. It takes place in some vague ‘long ago.’”

Someone urged them to be quiet. Lights strobed across the stage, and actors appeared. The singing began, and counterpoints of symphonic music clashed with the vocal melodies.

In the story, Hur-Om was a wealthy young man, highly opinionated but well respected. Fra-Jo was a beautiful young woman, just as passionate, from a rival family. The two disagreed on almost everything, so naturally they fell in love, though neither of them would admit it. Sparks flew with their every conversation; they opposed each other’s propositions during numerous Council sessions. They debated furiously, but with each encounter they felt a strange pull tying their hearts together. Still, their stubborn personalities made them deny their mutual attraction.

Finally, Fra-Jo accused Hur-Om of loving her, and he accused her of loving him. Each indignant, they angrily parted company, vowing never to see the other again. Fra-Jo took to the sea, leaving Orvai and sailing off through the great lakes and onto the open ocean; Hur-Om marched in the opposite direction, leading a caravan expedition out into the desert.

Now, the levitating stages split, showing both stories simultaneously. From his seat, Jor-El had to flick his gaze back and forth to follow it all. Fra-Jo’s half of the stage filled with water to show ocean waves through a transparent static barrier. Rain poured down as a storm tossed her boat from side to side. Finally she was cast overboard, left to drift, clinging to a few pieces of wreckage in the depthless sea.

On the opposite side of the stage, Hur-Om led his caravan into the scorched wastelands, but a quake shook the desert and shifted the dunes. Like a great mouth, the desert swallowed up his party, pack animals, and supplies. They all vanished into the gaping pool of sand, leaving Hur-Om alone and lost.

Somehow, though, through all their tragedies, the two characters managed to keep
singing.

Lara repeatedly leaned over to whisper in his ear, explaining what was happening, pointing out nuances of stage direction, the shifting holograms of the sets, the lighting effects. In the building climax, the conflicting choruses drew together so that Hur-Om’s voice and Fra-Jo’s voice joined into a single song. With his last breath, parched and dying of thirst and heat exhaustion, Hur-Om sang out, admitting his love for Fra-Jo. Meanwhile, the woman, unable to swim any longer, dipping under the water and about to drown, called out her love for Hur-Om.

Then a miracle happened. Clouds broke, and rain poured down upon Hur-Om in the desert. On the other side of the stage, a sleek, gray dolphus buoyed up Fra-Jo; she held on to its fin as it streaked toward the distant shore. Meanwhile Hur-Om followed the run-off water into a canyon, then found a river, which guided him to the nearest village.

Many in the audience were weeping while others cheered. Jor-El just said, “That’s not physically possible.”

Lara chuckled. “But it is
metaphorically
necessary, and romantically required.”

Jor-El accepted the story for what it was. Once he opened his mind and put aside his skepticism, he began to see an almost mathematical dance in the performance, a perfection to the music that he had never noticed before.

Afterward he took Lara’s arm, and they waited in the mezzanine gallery for the crowds to thin. So many unexpected things in one day! They walked out into the gentle night, where people sat in outdoor cafés or strolled along the boulevards. Atop the Council temple, the flaring image of Rao spilled crimson light over the metropolis, even at night. Jor-El looked up to the speckle of stars that were bright enough to shine even against the glow of city lights.

When he saw a streak of light, he realized it was not one of the usual meteors falling down from Koron. This was a deliberate flaring trail that arrowed down toward the city, moving one way and then another, as if choosing a place to land. “Look! Up in the sky!”

Lara followed his pointing finger. “Is it a bird? Or an aircraft of some kind?”

“No, see the way it moves.” Absently he took her hand. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

In the middle of the great plaza, other people spotted the approaching craft and backed away as it came in for a landing. Jor-El pushed closer, anxious to see. The unusual ship was small, and its curves and fins were unlike any vehicle of Kryptonian manufacture. The markings on the silver and blue hull plates were in a language he could not understand.

Jor-El felt a thrill, certain that this ship came from outside. It had crossed the pathways between the stars and had somehow found Krypton.

After a long and silent moment, a hatch disengaged with a hiss. A metal plate lifted up and a figure emerged—humanoid, through of much smaller stature than a Kryptonian. He had pale blue skin, wide-set eyes that seemed much too large for his face, and a fringe of twitching wormlike blue feelers around his chin, like a beard of tentacles. His flat nose had thin vertical nostrils. He wore a baggy, slick jumpsuit that sported many pockets and pouches, each of which held a small tool or glowing device. He looked wizened, almost comical.

The Kryptonians were terrified. Heavily muscled Sapphire Guards hurried to the scene, but even they were not trained for this.

The alien stepped out, looked around, and twitched his beard tentacles. He startled them all by saying in a language they could clearly understand, “My name is Donodon. I have come to Krypton to speak to your leaders.” He spread his arms in a gesture of welcome. “It is time for you to leave your isolation and join the rest of the galactic community.”

On her own in the
wilderness, surviving by her instincts and abilities, Aethyr made her way across the trackless landscape. After weeks of searching, she finally arrived at the majestic ruins of Xan City, the abandoned stronghold of the deposed warlord Jax-Ur.

She had studied historical records, analyzed antique maps, followed roads long fallen into disuse. The ancient metropolis was not, in fact, difficult to locate. Aethyr felt disdain for most other Kryptonians who simply never bothered to look.

Originally, Xan City had been built at the intersection of major trade routes, when caravans crossed the baked plains from the coastal mountains to the great river network. Over the centuries after the tyrant’s defeat, with gradual developments in technology and transportation alternatives, Kryptonians had stopped using the old caravan routes, and so the fallen capital of Jax-Ur had been left to decay in the wasteland.

And Aethyr found it.

The historic city had remained untouched by scholars or treasure seekers for centuries. Treasure seekers! She snorted at the thought. As if any of those were still around—such a profession would require ambition.

When Aethyr at last surveyed the ruins from a hill overlooking the once-impressive city, she drew in a triumphant breath. The tallest buildings had crumbled, the soaring towers snapped in half, leaving only the rubble of what had once been great boulevards and viaducts.

Others might have viewed this site with a sense of forlorn loss, but Aethyr saw the grandeur of a better time when Krypton’s rulers had left a unique mark, rather than cementing the status quo for generation after generation. History called Jax-Ur a heinous tyrant, but Aethyr knew that history was often wrong. Each “objective” chronicler had his or her own bias.

As Rao sank like a hot coal to the horizon, she burned the skyline into her mind’s eye: the fluted towers and cylindrical minarets, the soaring pyramids topped with delicate crystal. Every building had been designed to proclaim the glory of Jax-Ur.

The sky here at these latitudes was redder than she was accustomed to, the climate hotter and dryer. The grasses were seared brown, the rock outcroppings a rusty tan. The day’s heat cooled abruptly with sunset, bringing dry and furious winds across the plains. Unruly breezes sighed among the broken-topped towers, whispering and whistling through the cavities as if the pinnacles were the components of a huge pipe organ.

Aethyr unslung her pack in a grassy hollow and decided to make camp outside the ancient tomb city. Savoring the anticipation, she wanted a full day to begin her explorations of Xan City. The sharply honed excitement made her feel more alive. She spread her blankets and chose not to bother with her geometrical tent structure. Aethyr preferred to be out in the open, free, staring up at the auroras and the stars.

She ate dried food, drank from her bottle of enhanced water, then closed her eyes so that she could listen to the winds moan through the broken towers. The haunting random notes rose and fell. Aethyr could almost imagine that it was the wailing of Jax-Ur’s countless victims from so long ago.

This was a symphony she could comprehend, unlike the traditional composition called “Jax-Ur’s March.” Her professors at the Academy called it a work of Kryptonian genius, but Aethyr had always found the piece to be overblown; she wasn’t even sure she believed Jax-Ur himself had commissioned the march. Her friend Lara had been certain, though. They had spent many weeks together debating literary and musical merit, discussing classics and works of genius.

Back in school, the two of them had done the impetuous and unconventional things that students usually did. The Academy considered it sufficient for a student to read the official records published in the archives. But Lara and Aethyr had not agreed. They and a small group of their friends had gone to explore for themselves.

For herself, Aethyr had wanted to be the first to go places, to do things other Kryptonians simply did not do. After graduating, Lara had settled down, presumably falling into conventional social behavior, but Aethyr had never given up. She wondered where Lara was now….

She lay back in her camp, comfortable and warm, yet tingling with anticipation. All of Xan City waited for her. Tomorrow.

To amuse herself during the evening, she withdrew a personal flute from her pack. It was a simple, primitive musical instrument, small enough to carry anywhere. She blew into the mouthpiece and moved her fingers over the holes to play melodies of her own devising. Aethyr entertained herself with her own skill. She didn’t need to copy anyone else’s creativity.

Later, as she went to sleep, she considered Xan City—untouched, unexplored for decades, if not centuries. Tomorrow the ancient collapsed city would be her playground. There, Aethyr would look upon secrets that no one else on Krypton had the nerve to discover.