A Brilliant Void: A Selection of Classic Irish Science Fiction

by Jack Fennell

  THE BIRTH OF A PLANET

  At first silence and then an inner music, and then the sounds of song throughout the vastness of its orbit grew as many in number as there were stars at gaze. Avenues and vistas of sound! They reeled to and fro. They poured from a universal stillness quick with unheard things. They rushed forth and broke into a myriad voices gay with childhood. From age and the eternal, they rushed forth into youth. They filled the void with revelling and exultation. In rebellion they then returned and entered the dreadful Fountain. Again they came forth, and the sounds faded into whispers; they rejoiced once again, and again died into silence.

  And now all around glowed a vast twilight; it filled the cradle of the planet with colourless fire. I felt a rippling motion which impelled me away from the centre to the circumference. At that centre a still flame began to lighten; a new change took place, and space began to curdle, a milky and nebulous substance rocked to and fro. At every motion the pulsation of its rhythm carried it farther and farther away from the centre; it grew darker, and a great purple shadow covered it so that I could see it no longer. I was now on the outer verge, where the twilight still continued to encircle the planet with zones of clear transparent light.

  As night after night I rose up to visit it they grew many-coloured and brighter. I saw the imagination of nature visibly at work. I wandered through shadowy immaterial forests, a titanic vegetation built up of light and colour; I saw it growing denser, hung with festoons and trailers of fire, and spotted with the light of myriad flowers such as earth never knew. Coincident with the appearance of these things I felt within myself, as if in harmonious movement, a sense of joyousness, an increase of self-consciousness: I felt full of gladness, youth, and the mystery of the new. I felt that greater powers were about to appear, those who had thrown outwards this world and erected it as a place in space.

  I could not tell half the wonder of this strange race. I could not myself comprehend more than a little of the mystery of their being. They recognised my presence there, and communicated with me in such a way that I can only describe it by saying that they seemed to enter into my soul, breathing a fiery life; yet I knew that the highest I could reach to was but the outer verge of their spiritual nature, and to tell you but a little I have many times to translate it; for in the first unity with their thought I touched on an almost universal sphere of life, I peered into the ancient heart that beats throughout time; and this knowledge became changed in me, first into a vast and nebulous symbology, and so down through many degrees of human thought into words which hold not at all the pristine and magical beauty.

  I stood before one of this race, and I thought, ‘What is the meaning and end of life here?’ Within me I felt the answering ecstasy that illuminated with vistas of dawn and rest. It seemed to say:

  ‘Our spring and our summer are an unfolding into light and form, and our autumn and winter are a fading into the infinite soul.’

  I questioned in my heart, ‘To what end is this life poured forth and withdrawn?’

  He came nearer and touched me; once more I felt the thrill of being that changed itself into vision.

  ‘The end is creation, and creation is joy. The One awakens out of quiescence as we come forth, and knows itself in us; as we return we enter it in gladness, knowing ourselves. After long cycles the world you live in will become like ours; it will be poured forth and withdrawn; a mystic breath, a mirror to glass your being.’

  He disappeared while I wondered what cyclic changes would transmute our ball of mud into the subtle substance of thought.

  In that world I dared not stay during its period of withdrawal; having entered a little into its life, I became subject to its laws; the Powers on its return would have dissolved my being utterly. I felt with a wild terror its clutch upon me, and I withdrew from the departing glory, from the greatness that was my destiny – but not yet.

  From such dreams I would be aroused, perhaps, by a gentle knock at my door, and my little cousin Margaret’s quaint face would peep in with a ‘Cousin Robert, are you not coming down to supper?’

  Of these visions in the light of after thought I would speak a little. All this was but symbol, requiring to be thrice sublimed in interpretation ere its true meaning can be grasped. I do not know whether worlds are heralded by such glad songs, or whether any have such a fleeting existence, for the mind that reflects truth is deluded with strange phantasies of time and place in which seconds are rolled out into centuries and long cycles are reflected in an instant of time. There is within us a little space through which all the threads of the universe are drawn; and, surrounding that incomprehensible centre, the mind of man sometimes catches glimpses of things which are true only in those glimpses; when we record them the true has vanished, and a shadowy story – such as this – alone remains. Yet, perhaps, the time is not altogether wasted in considering legends like these, for they reveal, though but in phantasy and symbol, a greatness we are heirs to, a destiny which is ours though it be yet far away.

  Mercia, the Astronomer Royal

  AMELIA GARLAND MEARS (1895)

  Though the resurrection of Early Modern

  English and the persistence of ‘empire’

  seem anachronistic, in this abridged

  novel extract Amelia Garland Mears

  extrapolates how new inventions (such

  as the tape recorder) and discoveries

  (such as psychic powers) might be

  incorporated into the legal infrastructure

  of a future society. In Mears’s imagined

  year 2000, the promise of gender

  equality is largely fulfilled in a legal

  sense, but sexist attitudes and sexual

  harassment linger; like Frances Power

  Cobbe, she warns the reader that

  advances in social equality will have to

  be defended.

  THE ROYAL OBSERVATORY was a stately building close to the old building in Greenwich Park. The lower apartments of the new building were occupied by Mercia and her household, while the upper rooms were devoted to the purposes of her profession. In a spacious apartment on the third floor was Mercia, surrounded by curious astroscopes, stellar-spectroscopes, and wonderfully constructed cameras. She was seated at her desk making some mathematical calculations of the celestial depths, and was so completely engrossed in her labours that the entrance of her fellow-worker, Geometrus, went unheeded. At length, she finished, raised her head and smiled.

  ‘Ah, Geometrus, is it thou? I have finished the measurement of our new star.’

  By this time, English was the commercial language of the whole world, but the ancient style was reverted to in the matter of the personal pronoun; the substitution of the plural ‘you’ for its singular ‘thou’ was once again considered ungrammatical.

  ‘You say “our”, my mistress,’ replied the young man. ‘It is thou alone who hast done the work.’

  ‘I made the observations and calculations, but it was thy cunning which formed the instrument. Take thy due, my friend, and be not over-modest; some base imitator may someday defraud thee of thine invention, unless thou wilt consent to acknowledge it openly.’

  No sooner had Mercia made this observation than she heard some unusual noise going on outside, and stepping to the window, she saw several gentlemen assembled near the Observatory, among whom she discerned the Emperor Felicitas himself.

  ‘Here’s a pretty surprise for thee, Mistress Mercia,’ exclaimed Geometrus. ‘None other than the Emperor! It is not I he seeks, but thou, Mistress Mercia; I will then away.’

  ‘Stay, Geometrus!’ exclaimed Mercia quickly, ‘I would prefer thy company when I receive the Emperor. I will now retire and change into something more suitable for so honourable a visitor.’

  But before she could leave the room, a messenger was at the door desiring an audience for his royal master. Mercia silently bowed her assent; and a moment later the monarch entered her studio. As he did so, she rose from her seat
at the large table – which was covered with charts and maps of the celestial regions, all of her own making – but the Emperor quickly said, ‘Stay, lady, keep thy seat, for it is meet that monarchs should serve thee, who art so full of knowledge and wisdom.’

  ‘What is thy wish, Sire, wherefore am I honoured by this visit?’

  ‘I would know, fair Mercia, the cause of this change of temperature throughout the world. For three successive years an extreme cold has prevailed each season. I fain would learn the reason.’

  ‘Some serious internal changes are taking place within the body of our sun. Great caverns, about one-fourth of the sun’s diameter, have discovered themselves in his centre. We are not the only planet-dwellers suffering from cold at this time, for a difference will be experienced throughout the whole of the solar system. But it is only a temporary inconvenience; from close observation I find that our sun is absorbing numerous meteoric bodies, of which there are billions wandering in interstellar space. I conclude therefore that there is no cause for alarm. Interstellar hydrogen is pressed into our sun’s service and a constant heat sustained, which may last for thousands of years to come.’

  ‘Of all the stars, thou art the brightest, Mercia. Thou art as fair as thou art far-seeing. Thy words give comfort to the world, and thy beauty brings thy Sovereign much delight.’

  While Felicitas was uttering these pleasant gallantries, he was gradually edging his chair nearer and nearer to that of Mercia.

  Mercia’s countenance at once assumed a more serious expression; hastily glancing towards that part of the room where Geometrus was seated, she found he had slipped out unobserved, doubtless with the intention of leaving them quietly to their discussion on the sun’s condition.

  ‘Truly, it is most kind of thee, Sire, to show such appreciation; but I seek no flatteries, or compliments,’ she answered with downcast eyes.

  ‘Why, what harm is there in speaking a truth, Mercia? I do affirm that thy beauty only exceeds thy knowledge, or thy knowledge thy beauty, I know not which.’

  ‘Be it so, then, Sire. It is nothing to my credit if I be beautiful; I had no part in the making.’

  ‘Ah, Mercia, why spoil those eyes more beautiful than the brightest star in gazing into unknown regions day and night; year in, year out? Thou knowest no enjoyment – thou hast no pleasure of life, as other women; thine existence is lonely, colourless. Drink of the draught of love as nature wills it, and let the study of the stars stand over for a space.’

  The voice of Felicitas as he uttered these words was low and full of passion; but Mercia, owing to the confusion that covered her, did not notice the change of tone. She was dumb, tonguetied; at this inopportune moment a knock was heard at the door, and the Emperor himself touched the button and gave admittance to another visitor.

  It was Geometrus, who had returned for a part of an instrument he was making, which he had inadvertently left behind. His entrance put a prompt stop to the Emperor’s wooing. Mercia, hardly knowing what she was doing, rose from her seat and turned to leave the apartment. Observing her intention, the Emperor concluded that it was time to withdraw.

  ‘Farewell, mistress,’ he said as he made her a bow, ‘I will come again, ere long, and learn of the sun’s condition which is so necessary to be acquainted with.’

  Mercia made her way into her most private apartment, and shutting herself within, she sank upon the silken couch. Was the Emperor putting her probity to the test, or was it only a random shot on his part, made for mere amusement? Had some person, envious of her position, told some tale to Felicitas with a view of bringing about her downfall? If so, who could it be?

  Then the thought crossed her mind of the possibility that the Emperor might have been giving voice to his true feelings, but she dismissed this possibility, for Felicitas was already married, and to offer Mercia an illicit love would be an unparalleled presumption – even from an Emperor.

  It was, indeed, a bold step for the Emperor to take with one so high-minded, so self-controlled as she. But her very unattainability made her more desirable in his eyes: the more he dwelt on the futility of his wish the more his passion raged within him.

  ‘I must have Mercia!’ he exclaimed to himself as he lay awake dwelling on her beauty, her goodness, and her extraordinary abilities. ‘I will go to her again. I will risk all, and tell her of my love. If she refuses to become mine secretly, I will wed her openly, and get rid of that flat-faced Russian woman whom my ministers talked me into marrying.’

  Mercia, meanwhile, was somewhat settled in her mind regarding the course she ought to take with the Emperor. If Felicitas should chance not to make mention of the subject of love, which was a forbidden one to her, owing to her position, she made up her mind to forbear making inquiries concerning his motive for introducing it.

  Quite alone, and unattended by any member of his suite, Felicitas set off to pay Mercia his promised visit; she gave him a pleasant welcome. In her heart, she hoped that the interpretation of his words would prove favourable. After all, could he not influence his ministers to do away with this absurd marriage objection?

  It so happened that Geometrus on that day had business in the city, which detained him several hours, and as the Emperor was being driven, he saw Geometrus enter a machine warehouse, or shop, where electrical household machines were vended.

  ‘Ah,’ thought the Emperor, ‘thou art there, my friend: pray make no hurry on my account.’

  When arrived at his destination, the Emperor entered the Observatory with a firm resolution to make good use of the opportunity with which fortune had favoured him. Now, Mercia, with the same motive in her mind, received him very cordially, for she desired to make a favourable impression, with a view of obtaining his royal clemency in the matter of matrimony, even though it was not certain that she would at any time change her present condition.

  Neither of them noticed the presence of an old man named Sadbag, a leading Radical politician, reformist, anti-monarchist and fervent Republican, seated behind a screen in one corner of the room; he had been awaiting an audience with Mercia, and had fallen asleep while reading. He was soon roused, however, by the Emperor’s voice.

  ‘Ah, Mistress Mercia,’ he exclaimed, ‘what cheerful looks thou dost carry today, methinks thy face betokens much content – hast thou taken my words to heart, fair lady?’

  ‘Sire, thou said something concerning the sun – thou didst talk of coming to learn more of his condition, I believe,’ answered Mercia.

  ‘True,’ he replied with a laugh, ‘I would know more of the sun’s late vagaries, but it would please me better to learn something of thyself: dost thou never feel lonely?’

  ‘Often enough, Sire; the hours speed away at times very quickly when I am hard at work.’

  ‘Art thou then tired of this occupation? It is indeed, too much for thee. Rest a while, sweet Mercia, and let the stars take care of themselves for a season.’

  ‘Oh, that would spoil all my calculations; the work of years would be as naught were I to stay my hand now.’

  ‘Health, and Love, sweet Mercia, go hand in hand together. I know it; for thine eyes were made for the conquest of man’s heart, rather than star-gazing. Cease to disregard the designs of Nature when she formed thee, and yield thyself to the pleasure of love.’

  Mercia essayed to answer him, but her tongue refused her utterance, so great was her confusion. ‘Sire, I know not what answer to give in this matter.’

  ‘Hast thou not felt the want of companionship, dear Mercia? It is good to be loved, fair one, to realise how much thy womanhood means: hast thou never felt its joys – its pains?’

  ‘Sire, I cannot break my bond, signed by my own hand, to forswear love and marriage: no one but thyself can relieve me of this obligation.’

  ‘I heartily relieve thee, then, my good Mercia,’ replied the delighted monarch. ‘I care not for the bond one iota, if that’s all that’s in thy way. Keep thy post, and enjoy the delights of love at the same time.’ Then
, forgetting all his caution and self-restraint, he caught her in his arms, and in a perfect frenzy of rapture commenced to shower hot kisses on her brow, her cheeks, her lips.

  Mercia was so taken aback by this that her brain reeled for a moment; then, recovering her senses, she wrenched herself out of his arms. Gazing on him with blanched face, she cried in a voice gasping with pain and indignation –

  ‘What means the Emperor by this unheard-of liberty? What have I done that I should be treated as a courtesan by my Sovereign?’

  ‘A courtesan!’ he repeated. ‘Why Mercia, I would give thee a crown if I could! Thy queenly brow was truly made for one; and by the stars, thou shalt have it yet!’

  ‘Surely, Sire, thou hast gone mad!’

  ‘Yes, truly, I am mad – mad with love for thee, and thou knowest it, Mercia, else wouldst thou have kissed my hand in acknowledgment of it?’

  ‘It was not so!’ she answered in strong indignant tones. ‘Thy love never entered my thought.’

  ‘Dost thou place that poltroon Geometrus before me? Am I to be flouted for him? Mercia, Mercia, give me thy love!’ he cried. ‘Take me, my beloved, spurn me no longer, for without thee I am as one dead!’

  For an instant Mercia paused, and passed her hand across her brow, as if to recover her senses; then she said in a deliberate and dignified voice:

  ‘Felicitas, the Emperor hath no crown to offer his subject, Mercia, for it sits already on the brow of his royal spouse; neither has he love to offer his servant, Mercia, for it is sworn to his Empress for ever. It is an insult to me, thine offer of illicit love, and I refuse to longer remain in thy service.’