It stopped.
Hamed sat, staring in shock at the claw protruding from his chest, the blood running across his drum and into the sand. Behind him, emerald eyes gleamed from a great brass scarab. Fadiyah stared numbly as his young life seeped from his body, and with it her hope. Instinct flung her forwards, footsteps shifting to the dance of blades as she tried to drive the scarab back, to rescue Hamed from its grasp. But the monster dragged its blade upward, ripping his chest open. Blood poured across her skin, as hot and hopeless as her tears. No breath came from his lips. No spark glimmered in his eyes. All that remained was the beating of his drummer's heart, as it fell from between his ribs.
With a clatter and a clunk, the machines closed in.
Fadiyah stumbled with the other prisoners into the Sultan's echoing audience chamber, her legs heavy with chains, manacles weighing down her hands. Edges of cold, rough, metal bit into her skin. In here, past the ancient stone walls of the city and the painted grandeur of the palace, the guards were living, breathing men. They prodded and jostled the prisoners with their spears, showing a spitefulness beyond the capacity of clockwork.
The Sultan watched from his throne, one hand swirling wine around an ornate goblet, the other picking at the beaded hem of his tunic. He narrowed his eyes, lip rising in a sneer as he spied Fadiyah.
'And so the thief returns,' he crowed. 'Should I have your hand, do you think? Or something more...'
A shudder ran up Fadiyah's spine. She remembered that lascivious gaze, those fingers beating their sharp rhythm as he watched her dance. He had owned her as much with that gaze as with all his wealth and power. Her stomach knotted at the sight of him, her very soul curling inward, shriveled with loathing and fear. Fear not just for herself, but for the people of the desert, the people of the city, all those who fell within the Sultan's grasp.
She slid a hand inside the bloody sheet still wrapped around her. She felt the small, soft thing that lay within, close to her chest. It pulsed in the palm of her hand, somehow still warm to the touch.
A tear scorched her cheek.
The Sultan's laugh rasped like a torn drum skin.
'I could just kill you,' he said. 'That would be easier, and certainly more decisive. But it would be a waste to destroy such a thing of beauty.' He leaned forward, the goblet clinking against the golden arm of his throne. 'As long as it still is a thing of beauty.'
There was a long silence. Guards, prisoner, courtiers, all turned towards Fadiyah. She felt their eyes burning across her skin, the ripple of each expectation, willing her to suffer, to save them, to fail.
Fadiyah stepped forward, trembling, into the center of the hall, keeping her eyes downcast, her demeanor humble. Battered and heart-broken, a short life and a swift end seemed the only things that would keep her from her loneliness. But there was one chance left, one hope before they were cast into the lightless cells beneath the palace, sent to wait for the headsman's blade.
'Mighty Sultan.' Her voice almost betrayed her, stumbling over the words of obedience. 'Allow me to show you the beauty of my dance.'
The Sultan grinned. 'Of course.' His eyes narrowed, sparkling with a cunning as cold and hard as diamonds. 'But no drums. No clapping. I know what you are now, Fadiyah, and I will not be fooled again.'
At a nod from the Sultan a guard stepped forward and released her from her chains. She rose, eyes closed, clutching the small thing in her hand. Something so soft and so terrible. Something of loss and of power.
Hamed's heart pulsed, the rhythm of life and of love still beating in her hand.
She embraced the rhythm, let it guide her steps. It seemed to grow louder with every movement she made, and yet the Sultan and his court watched, oblivious, only seeing the sway of hips, the flow of her hands, the patter of her feet across the marble floor. The sheet fell away as the cadence built within her, power surging through every part of her body. Hamed's power. The power of what they had shared.
A single tear slid down her cheek.
She danced the dance of blood, the dance of living and loving, the dance that bound all men and women. The rhythm flowed from her in waves. It washed over the captives, her friends and allies, her love lifting them up. Their heads rose from the stoop of servitude, their chests swelled with pride. It swept over the guards and courtiers, weighing them down with the shame of their deeds, of watching this naked, blood-spattered woman dance for their pleasure.
Conflicting emotions warred in the Sultan's face. She could see the shame and sorrow. But that wily glint still flickered in his eye, and the sorrow turned to rage.
'What are you doing?' He staggered to his feet, clutching at his heart. 'This is your doing! I know it!'
She danced faster and faster, flowing towards him, riding the power. Her heart beat like the pistons of his terrible machines, hammering fast and strong, a beat that threatened to consume her, to burst her apart with its strength. A rhythm that flowed from her to the Sultan. Hamed's rhythm, the wild wonder of youth and freedom.
The Sultan clutched his chest, his face turning red.
'You... What have you...' He sputtered and fell, twitching, on the ground, the beat too much for his cold, shriveled heart to bear.
Fadiyah came to a stop. In her hand, Hamed's heart beat out its last and fell still, its passion burned out. Around the room, guards and courtiers watched in stunned silence as the captives, proud and powerful, took the keys from their jailers and cast off their shackles.
Someone took hold of Fadiyah's shoulders, guided her, shaking, out the door. She could hear the bedouin running through the palace, hear the pounding of the machine hall being broken open, and crashing and smashing as its works were overturned. She knew, in the distant echo of a thought, that she had won.
And inside her, still taking its lead from Hamed's rhythm, her heart danced the dance of blood. And it was good.
THE END.
THE LAST CURMUDGEON by James Jensen
I hate interstellar space travel. Of all the obscene follies humanity has perpetrated in the name of exploration and scientific progress, this might very well be the worst.
There, I said it—someone had to.
It’s not a popular opinion, not exactly an icebreaker at parties. And I’ve spoiled many polite gatherings because someone was foolish enough to get me going on the subject. Or I got myself going—a fifth of whiskey usually did the trick, though I never needed much excuse. Especially when surrounded by smug, overforunate fuckers like government officials and other assorted society types, in their formal finest, nursing half-finished champagnes, paying patient attention to me, to hear the Great Man’s thoughts on superluminal spaceflight, or appear as if they were, looking thoughtful, nodding at what they hoped were the right moments, pretending to give a shit, more for each other’s benefit than for mine.
That is until they surfaced from the swamp of their own narcissism and actually listened to what I was saying.
That’s when they’d audibly sigh, start to fidget, clearly wishing they were elsewhere. The few brave or tipsy enough to clear their throats and offer meek conjecture whenever I paused long enough for them to get a word in would be swiftly and aggressively shut down. This sent most of them packing, mumbling excuses, dwindling down to a handful who, given the clout I still had in the scientific community as a Great Mind of Our Age were still willing to give me some benefit of doubt. Less and less willing as time went by, especially when I became notorious for pulling stunts like this.
So I stopped being invited to parties. I didn’t care. I took my spleen elsewhere, to vent on anyone who had the misfortune to be in my immediate vicinity: on the street, on public transport, waiting in line at the supermarket, at the bank, or the bar. So many poor, unsuspecting souls just getting on with their days found themselves an unwilling audience for scabrous sermons on interstellar flight. People who recognised me fled when they saw me coming.
I can’t say I blamed them. My clothes were shabby and drink-stained, my beard s
o long I could just about tuck it into my pants. I certainly looked the part of a hysterical crank. My age and appearance had caught up with my temperament; I’d grown into my bitterness. Even total strangers—if the sight of me didn’t warn them off, a psychic whiff of the overpowering air of self-righteous indignation usually did.
The beard is gone now. I still feel a small shock whenever I feel the wind or my hand on my face. I feel vulnerable without it. I am wearing an inexpensive suit that doesn’t quite fit me right, but it’s neatly pressed and stain-free.
With a shaking hand, I touch the hearing aid in my right ear, as if I’m adjusting the volume or something—an unnecessary reassurance, but it calms me a little.
I check the time: forty-five minutes. Not long now.
I’m surrounded by people, but they needn’t fear harassment or random explosive diatribes, not from me. My ranting days are behind me. All the hot air has left these broken bellows; I’m all spleened out.
The crush of bodies presses on me, budging and barging me without relent. I voice no complaint.
The Observation Lounge is always like this. Commuters, well-wishers and onlookers all sardined half on top of one another. No one is looking where they’re going; there’s too much to distract the eye. Even for veteran travellers, at odd moments, something peripheral will snatch their attention from their phone screens, and they’ll look up in gaping, fish-eyed wonder . . .
This is the Scitech Central International Air and Space Terminal, and it’s every bit as ostentatiously impressive as it sounds: mainly composed of transparent domes, of metre-thick high-tensile polymer-glass, interconnected by curving tubes (also transparent), making it look, especially from the air, rather like a cartoon diagram of an atom. Or, more correctly, a planetary system, because it’s huge. The Observation Lounge occupies most of the centre dome, offering a 360° view of the airfield. Or it would if not for the clamouring clusterfuck of digital projection screens popping out of the walls. Flickering tables of flight and gate numbers, departure and arrival times, expected delays, weather conditions in other countries, other worlds, plus news updates, sports scores, celebrity gossip, and ads, ads and more ads.
As if this isn’t enough (the interior designers obviously thought so), a twenty-five metre hologram of a globe turns glacially just above our heads. Children and adults in equal number can’t help raising their hands to touch it, even knowing their fingers will pass right through, just to marvel at the technological miracle of it.
Which is the whole idea. The ‘state of the artness’ of it all is designed to lull us into an enraptured stupor. Look at what we’re capable of, it says. What can we not do?
Amid the announcements, advertisements, muzak and general cacophony of conversation, one of the larger screens reminds us why we’re here, replaying the year-old departure of a spacecraft. The P.A.’s subwoofers replicate the rumble and roar of its engines as it tears itself free of homeworld gravity to embark on another intrepid interstellar voyage. All eyes follow the bird-like ship, with not a few gasps, as it takes thunderous flight. Mine too, despite myself, pricked with tears, of both sorrow and shameful pride.
I’m the one. I broke the universal speed limit, cracking the unsolvable riddle, the secret of spanning the stars.
That’s why it’s up to me to make sure the world knows the true horror of space travel, because I made it possible. It’s all my fault.
If only I’d known, I could say. But doesn’t everyone say that? Would it really have made any difference? The world was so full of problems, any solution, any decisive step forward, was a ray of hope to cling to, as if it would make everything better, instead of worse (which it did).
Just when it seemed things couldn’t get worse. You name it—street riots, civil wars, food shortages, pandemics, environmental disasters. Civilisation teetered interminably on the brink of collapse. Space travel was the last thing on anyone’s mind.
Except for us in the Space and Aeronautics division at Scitech. We had to fight for the meagre funding we had been barely scraping by on for decades. Then word came down from on high that the faculty was being “deprioritised in federal fiscal budgets for the foreseeable future”. In other words, we were being shut down. Voyaging to distant stars was a luxury humanity couldn’t afford, nor would it for some time, perhaps ever, the way things were going.
All our projects stalled, abandoned, unfinished. My colleagues spent their days slowly clearing their desks, boxing books, taking down gridworks of sticky notes and tiny models from beloved popular sci-fi franchises they’d used to personalise their workspace; or just staring out the window, biding their time until the budget ran out, wondering what they were going to do next, torn between career-suicidal leaps either into the private sector or vying for tenure at uninspiring academic positions for even less pay.
I drank and railed against the government, the world and humanity for allowing it to get into such a state as to make pursuing my life’s work no longer possible.
I could sink into defeat, but I couldn’t stay there, not even at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. I’m too stubborn—to my detriment, most would argue, but sometimes to my benefit.
In the end, I was the one that pulled us together for one last grasp at the golden ring.
I dragged everyone into a series of crisis meetings, into long, often heated discussions in cramped, fœtid boardrooms that continued at the pub afterwards, sometimes to the wee hours. I insisted we fight for our existence. Our days of quiet experimentation and data collation to publish papers that maybe a dozen people would read were over. We needed something big, public sensation-making.
“Like what?” one of them slurred. Then came the sighs and groans from the others, knowing what I was going to say before I said it.
It was, after all, as I pointed out, only the whole reason any of us subsisted on three hours of sleep a night for seven years to obtain our astrophysics degrees: to go to the stars.
To put the faculty’s name up in lights, we needed to outrun light itself.
299,792.458 kilometres/second is no joke. Even if we could propel manned spacecraft to anything close to that, it still made journeys to even the closest stars, tens of trillions of kilometres away, a matter of years.
We had reached the nearby planets in our solar system by then. Hot hellholes or icy wastes whose public novelty had worn off decades ago and were now of negligible interest to non-scientists. We needed a new frontier and we needed it to be accessible. This meant breaking the universal speed limit, travelling faster than light, the challenge that had thus-far confounded us since we looked up at the night sky and dreamed of other worlds, and we needed it in a near-light speed timeframe.
This was far from the first time I’d proposed this. Superluminal spaceflight was my ‘thing’, my special obsession, to the point where I bored and irritated people with it, even fellow astrophysicists, which is no small feat.
So picture the uproar, the scoffs and shaken heads. This was the worst time, they insisted, to hurl ourselves and our fast-dwindling funding into such a psychotically ambitious project. I said it was the best time. They called me a stubborn prick, a drunk and a rancid egomaniac. While I couldn’t argue with that, I did argue that the worse the situation for our world became, the more imperative it was we find other ones. They were out there, we just had to figure out how to get to them. It elevated the project from a matter of national pride to international emergency.
Some seemed keen, but were outnumbered by the detractors. The demise of the faculty was humiliating enough, why compound it by killing ourselves chasing an impossible goal? Finding work after this would be difficult enough without the stain of such a hubristic (and surely inevitable) failure on their résumés?
“We’ve failed already if we never even try!” I shouted. Then everyone else started shouting, mocking the cliché, and me, all over top of one another. A couple of times, we almost came to blows.
The popular image of a typical scientist is col
d and emotionally-stunted. But you will never find a crazier, more passionate group of people. Wild temperaments, explosive egos.
After an hour or so name-calling and almost-fisticuffs, I stormed out.
If they wouldn’t listen to me, I knew who would.
I still had a couple of contacts in the government: fellow drunks and windbags with overinflated senses of self-importance. I knew to pitch this project in victory-against-the-odds, legacy-defining language to appeal to their already monstrous vanity.
They weren’t completely convinced, but admired my gumption enough to garner the faculty a little more financial leeway on the agreement that we could give them some viable results within a wildly unreasonable deadline. I took the deal anyway. Who knows? It just might be the pressure we needed to achieve the impossible. Or so I rationalised it to myself, as I knew I’d have to to the others.
My supporters hated me and my detractors hated me even more for going over their heads, but even they changed their tune when the money started to trickle in again. They raised their hands, however begrudgingly, when the vote when around.
And that was how, in a world full of seemingly unresolvable problems, we attacked the most unresolvable problem in scientific history.
We dispersed into teams to pursue our own theories, liase with experimentalists to conduct tests; trying, failing, trying again, reconvening to verify results or discuss other options. There were endless discussions, many escalating into arguments.
At night, I tossed on sweat-stained bedsheets in my dank one-bedroom apartment. Numbers and algebraic symbols swam against the backs of my eyelids, refusing to cohere into comprehendible patterns. I mentally swatted at them like insects, but they swirled out of my grasp.
9 Tales From Elsewhere 6 Page 3
