Celestial Matters

by Garfinkle, Richard

  I tore the night blanket from the roller on the port wall and wrapped up the bodies of the dead in that shroud of black linen. I promised their bewildered spirits that time would be found to mourn them properly along with the rest of the dead crewmen. While I attended to their deceased comrades-in-arms, Yellow Hare relieved the three living guards of their weapons and tied them up with straps from their own armor.

  “I wonder if there are any more soldiers alive on the ship,” I said after covering the face of Miiama’s last victim.

  Mihradarius laughed, profaning the sadness of the place and time. “Why? Are you worried about dodging Anaxamander’s guards for your last few days of life?”

  “No,” I said. “I will need all the help I can get in order to ensure our survival.”

  Mihradarius snorted like a contemptuous stallion. Yellow Hare nodded to me, and I saw a gleam of pride in her golden eyes. Phan turned to face me. “You believe survival is possible?”

  “Whether it is or not,” I said, “it is my duty to keep the remnants of my crew alive.”

  At those words, Miiama’s hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword, lightly touching the red wingless dragon that stretched from pommel to guard. Yellow Hare saw him and interposed herself between me and the assassin. The Nipponian’s eyes flicked down toward my bodyguard’s limping leg, and I could see him deciding that this was his best chance to kill her. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword and he tensed, ready to draw.

  “Miiama,” Phan said, “I told you, no.”

  “Master Phan,” Miiama said, “he threatens the mission.”

  “That is still for me to decide.”

  The Nipponian stood frozen for a moment, paralyzed by the order; then, one by one, his fingers released their grip on the carved lacquer hilt of his weapon.

  “What now?” Yellow Hare asked me. Her eyes flicked toward Mihradarius, requesting my assent to his death.

  “I see no reason to stay here,” I said, firmly nodding toward the staircase. I did not know if Miiama would defend the Persian, and injured as she was I did not want Yellow Hare to risk her life in another duel with the Nipponian.

  “I will join you,” Phan said. “I would like to see this sun net of yours.”

  I turned to look at him, to study the face of the man who had overseen the destruction of all my works. He now seemed strangely reticent about finishing the task he had been set, and was apparently curious about the project itself. His reluctance struck me as very odd, and I wondered if he had some hidden motive, something he wished to learn before setting his assassin on me.

  But then Athena tapped me on the shoulder and whispered a question into my ear. How would I act in Phan’s place? she wanted to know. If my duty seemed accomplished would I not let my curiosity have its head, like a horse given the leisure to graze in a field after a long day spent pulling a chariot through a hard-won battle.

  I acknowledged the goddess’s point but said back to her that were I in Phan’s place, I would yoke that horse again to its chariot if my enemies showed any sign of rising from defeat. Athena said nothing in response, but she hovered nearby, protecting my thoughts with her presence.

  Yellow Hare and I preceded the others up the winding staircase and out the hillock at the top onto the surface of the ship. Then we walked slowly over to the port edge of the ship, from which we could gaze on Ares, the sun net, and the still-dangling fragment of celestial fire.

  For several minutes Phan stared in silence at the sun net, and with his fingers traced its taut arc over the side of the ship and around the epicycle that imprisoned it.

  “Amazing,” he said at last. “When the Son of Heaven first told me of this plan and sent me to sabotage it, I thought I would be going to my death for nothing.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “I thought it would be impossible, even for your incomprehensible science, to steal fire from the sun. And yet, there it is.”

  “And all for nothing,” I said, turning away from the sight of my greatest error. I found myself staring into Mihradarius’s hateful smile.

  “You admit the folly of Sunthief,” he said.

  “Oh, yes,” I replied. “It was sacrilegious of me to steal fire from ’Elios. I should have devised some other invention for the good of the League.”

  The Persian spat on the ground in front of me. “Ahura Mazda will curse you in the life behind.”

  “Will he?” I said. “And how will your god of truth feel about the lie your life has been?”

  Mihradarius’s face flushed with my accusation. He turned away. “I look forward to your lingering death from thirst.”

  “Death can always be quick,” Miiama said. He drew his sword and turned to Phan. “Ours are long overdue.”

  The old man looked around him, surveying the silver ruins of Chandra’s Tear. Then he turned to stare again over the side at Ares and the sun fragment. His voice was subdued, but it carried through the dry, thin air. “Not just yet, Miiama. Our deaths are assured. I want to study this part of heaven before I die.”

  The Nipponian stared at the Middler through cold eyes, as if he were contemplating defiance. Then he bowed from the neck and sheathed his sword.

  Phan sat down on the ground near the port edge; the wind of the outer spheres tightened his robes about his body, showing a frail bony form. From the voluminous pockets of his silk gown he removed a hand-sized block of camphorwood that had six spiraling golden wires depending from it, a roll of rice paper, two small clay pots of black ink, and a horsehair calligraphy brush.

  The Taoist scientist dangled the gleaming metal wires over the side of the ship. He began to stare intently at the block. I looked over his shoulder and, to my amazement, I saw that the grain of the wood was changing before my eyes, as if the camphor was not solid wood, but water flowing in a river. After a while Phan put down the block and began to draw strange twisty spirals on the paper.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Charting the Xi flows around this planet,” he said. “I’ve never seen heavenly patterns this complex.”

  I had never watched a Taoist working before, and I found myself fascinated by what he was doing. My thoughts began to fixate on the question of what was causing the wood grain to change. Hypotheses appeared in my mind. Some mysterious force unknown to ’Ellenic science? Something about the particular properties of camphor? Perhaps the wires were responsible. But before I fell into that maelstrom of inquiry, Yellow Hare pulled me away from the edge of the ship and put her hand in front of my mouth, stopping me from breathing.

  I choked and tried to fight back, but then I saw the look of concern in her eyes and I realized how close I had come to another attack of Hyperclear Pneuma. I ceased struggling and she took her hand away.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Mihradarius laughed like a barking coyote, drawing a glare of cold hatred from Yellow Hare. “Aias, if you have that little mental discipline,” the Persian traitor said, “you won’t live long out here. I look forward to watching your bodyguard kill you.”

  Yellow Hare turned to look at him and opened her mouth to speak. Ares moved across her face, filling her words with the power of divine pronouncement.

  “You will die before anyone else here,” she said, and the gold of her eyes seemed bloodred under the light and spirit of Ares.

  Mihradarius glared at her, defying both the woman and the god within her. The cold wind of the outer spheres picked up abruptly and swept his matted hair into his face.

  “I have destroyed Aias’s lifework,” he said, and a spirit rose in him as well, a creature barking and yapping with divine madness. “It does not matter whether I precede him into the world beyond. He will never be honored as a hero by the ’Ellenes, but when the Delian League is destroyed and the Empire of Persia revenged my name and story will be carved on the ruins of the emperor’s palace and I will be remembered forever.”

  I said nothing to this boast, but in my heart I swore by th
e waters of the Styx that I would bring this ship back to Earth, that the full tale of Sunthief would be told, and that Mihradarius’s name would be scraped from the rolls of the Akademe.

  At that moment I caught a glimpse of some movement near the hill. Clovix emerged from the storage cave escorting Ramonojon, who was unsteady on his feet, but, thank Apollo the Healer, he was walking.

  Miiama’s scowl clearly declared his displeasure at the sight of more survivors. Mihradarius also seemed furious, particularly at the sight of Ramonojon.

  “The Chief Dynamicist insisted on coming, Commander,” Clovix said when they reached us. He looked at Phan and Miiama. “Sir, who are—?”

  I explained about our stowaways.

  “You mean they wrecked the ship? They killed my people!” Clovix said. The light of rage returned to his bloodshot eyes; he let go of Ramonojon, who tottered on his feet for a moment, then quickly settled himself on the ground. Clovix turned to face the Nipponian. Miiama waited impassively, as if he felt no threat from the redheaded giant towering over him.

  “Clovix, did you carry out my orders?” I said, trying to pull the slave away from the growing anger that threatened to overwhelm his mind.

  Clovix ignored me and took a step toward Miiama.

  “The commander asked you a question,” Yellow Hare said, filling her voice with Spartan authority.

  “C-Commander.” Clovix faltered; he took a hesitant step toward Miiama, then almost against his will the slave chief turned to face me.

  “Commander,” he said, trying to put back his mask of civility. He enunciated each syllable of his words with great care, like a student unfamiliar with the language he is speaking. “I have not yet had a chance to inspect the storage cave thoroughly. But after a cursory search, I can tell you that our situation is serious. All the heavy equipment is gone, the cranes, the graders, all the dynamicists’ carving machines. The moon sleds apparently broke their moorings during the flight; they are probably orbiting far below us. I checked the Ouranology supplies as well. There are no more than ten pounds of fire-gold left. I understand little science, Commander, but that isn’t enough to get us home, is it?”

  “No, Clovix,” I said. “It is far from enough.”

  He bowed his head and resumed his recitation. “We have plenty of food, Commander, mostly grains and dried fruits and vegetables. But the only drinkables left are olive oil and undiluted wine.”

  Unquenchable thirst stared at me from Clovix’s barely controlled countenance and became the face of Thanatos, the visage of unavoidable death. My mind was suddenly gripped by the god who touches the life of every man. Thanatos opened wide his black robes and two hundred ghosts flew from the shadowy emptiness of his body. Every man and woman who had died in my service on this ship cried to me that it was my duty to avenge their deaths.

  My eyes opened of their own accord and I stared through the red rage of Ares at the men who bore the blame for this disaster: Mihradarius, Miiama, and Phan. None of them seemed to have noticed my reaction. Mihradarius was too intent on exchanging angry glares with Ramonojon, Miiama’s eyes were fixed on Clovix, and Phan was still studying the planet Ares, not knowing how near to him the god of that orb was.

  “Give me a thrower, Yellow Hare,” I hissed in Xeroki.

  “No, Commander,” she said. She turned to face me with Athena in her eyes. My patron goddess reached through those golden orbs to touch my heart. The host of the dead retreated from that divine presence and their cries for vengeance were muted. Ares exchanged words with his sister, but she showed him the Aigis she carried in their father’s name and he too departed, leaving an aching hole in my heart.

  “Why do you stop me?” I asked Yellow Hare.

  “Because you think too much,” she said, and her spirit reached out to me and I knew those words were no rebuke.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Those who think about everything do not make good soldiers. When they take lives, their minds become filled with the contemplation of death. Their hearts become filled with the Khthonian realm. Black bile dominates their humours. They either come to love the act of killing or come to hate it. But whichever happens, they are no longer capable of doing their duty.”

  “And what makes you Spartans different?” I said, asking the question my father had always answered with contemptuous silence.

  “Our souls are filled with war, not death. We kill and die as needed for our victories, and that is where it ends. You are commander here. If you believe the traitor and the spies should die for the good of the League, then I will kill them, and having done my duty I will spare no more thought for them thereafter. That is the mind of a Spartan.”

  “Thank you, Yellow Hare,” I said. I looked again at the three men, and Athena looked with me and whispered wisdom in my ears. Mihradarius would die whether we returned to Earth or not; I saw no need to order his execution. Miiama and Phan were dangerous, but both of them had been doing their duty to their empire. It would have been right for them to die in battle, but there was no need to execute them either unless they acted to prevent our return. It was a dangerous gamble to take, leaving the Nipponian alive, but I knew that had I ordered his death then and there, he would not have died alone, and I needed the help of all my people. The unrevenged ghosts of the dead I would appease with the proper sacrifices when I was able.

  “No deaths,” I said to Yellow Hare. And she acquiesced as soldier to commander.

  Ramonojon had been sitting a few feet away, staring intently at me. He did not speak Xeroki, but he asked me a question that told me he had understood as friend to friend what had just happened to me.

  “You have decided that we will live?” he said.

  “Yes.” And I realized that I had so decided.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” he said.

  “We need water,” I said. “Do you have any ideas on how some can be obtained, Chief Dynamicist?”

  Ramonojon was momentarily startled at the title, but he recovered quickly and composed himself to think. After a few minutes of introspection he spoke. “We could make a desert-water collector as they do in Iudea and Sa’ara. We need to put a porous blanket over a barrel and cover that with a grate of fire-gold. Water will drip out of the air the fire-gold rarefies and seep through the blanket into the barrel.”

  “That will not work this far away from Earth,” I said. “The air is too dry.”

  But then Athena struck me with an idea. “Packing crates!” I said.

  “What?” Ramonojon said.

  “Wooden packing crates! There is a great deal of water in wood. All we have to do is remove the earth from it. We can use air-silver and fire-gold for that. Clovix!”

  “Yes, Commander?” he said.

  “Get all the fire-gold we have out of storage. And remove the air-silver lining from some solar protector cloaks. Then bring up a wool blanket, a large empty barrel, and some wood from the broken crates.”

  “We’ll have water, Commander?” he said, his eyes lighting up with the thought of life. “We’ll live?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “No,” Miiama said, cutting the air with one syllable of the Middle Kingdom tongue.

  “Miiama!” Phan looked up from his work. “Leave them to their work. Water will only prolong their lives a short time.”

  The Nipponian looked at the old Taoist scientist. Something cold descended onto the commando’s shoulders. He stood poised for a moment, balancing on the edge of a decision, but at last he bowed his head and walked portward around the edge of the hill.

  Yellow Hare looked at me inquiringly.

  “Keep track of him,” I said. “But do not attack.”

  “I am doing so,” she said, cocking her head to listen.

  I turned to Clovix. “Do as I said.”

  Clovix bowed quickly and darted off through the laboratory hillocks and down a tunnel into the storage cave. A few minutes later he returned carrying a large oaken barrel unde
r his right arm and clutching a dozen cracked pine boards under his left. He put the barrel down in front of me and pulled a blanket, several one-foot-long rods of fire-gold, and six hastily extracted webs of air-silver mesh out of it.

  “Well done, Clovix,” I said.

  “Thank you, Commander,” he replied.

  It took Ramonojon and me an hour to arrange the fire-gold and air-silver rods on top of the blanket, which covered the barrel in such a way as to force the water out of the wooden planks without setting them on fire.

  Sometime during all this preparation, Phan finished his drawings and came over to watch. His eyes gleamed with interest as we placed the first bits of wood on top of the metal gridwork and the first curlicues of steam began to rise. A moment later dew began to form on the upper lip of the barrel and the air filled with the unmistakable scent of wet wool.

  “How does this work?” Phan asked.

  “The fire and air force the water from the wood,” I said. “We use the wool blanket to soak it up before it has a chance to evaporate into the air. When the blanket’s completely sodden, we’ll squeeze the water out and drink it.”

  Phan frowned. “More of your incomprehensible science. Why does turning wood into earth produce water?”

  “We are not turning wood into earth,” I said. “That would be impossible. We are extracting water from wood, leaving a residue of earth.”

  His brows knit in puzzlement. “Wood is wood, earth is earth. One changes into the other. Why should anything remain?”

  I considered giving up on the conversation, but I had never had the opportunity to speak to a Taoist scientist before and my curiosity was too strong. But before continuing the discussion I spoke to Yellow Hare. “Watch me,” I said. “And stop the conversation if I show any signs of hyperclarity.”

  “Yes, Aias,” she said.

  “We seem to be having a language problem,” I said to Phan. “Let us start from first principles. You know the atomic theory, of course.”

  “I have seen that phrase in your books, but I have never understood it.”