Elizabeth Hand - Icarus Descending

My father’s face danced across my mind. I felt a pain in my breast, as keen as the memory of when I made my offering to the Mother. “Of course he will,” I said. “If it is truly he, he will remember all of us. He said he would never forget and never stop loving us.”

Cumingia pressed her face closer to the window. She nodded absently, her question already forgotten. “It is very far away, the Element. Does it have air?”

I laughed. “It has nothing but air, sister! Come with me, I’m tired of standing.”

We knelt with the others, facing the recess in the floor that hid the ’file transmitter. All of us were naked save for the linen skirts that had been our uniforms and which we were still reluctant to cast aside. While it was made of fine and durable stuff, none of our Masters’ clothing would fit an energumen. We had too much else to occupy us, to learn to fashion clothes when none were truly needed.

I frowned, smoothing my skirt upon my knees, and thought how that would surely change upon the Element. I knew the weather was variable there, and often threatening. I wondered what our other brothers and sisters had done for clothes. Some of my sisters on Quirinus had looted the personal stores of our dead Masters. They flaunted jewels upon their breasts, silver rings and bracelets looped around those necklaces long enough to fit over their heads, jeweled brooches and pillboxes strung together in gaudy jingling bunches. But I would not wear stolen finery. I thought it gave my sisters a heathenish look, like the savages the Masters think we are. In my memory I held the image of a ring that my father had given me, a simple silver ring with a knot of silver in its center. I would have worn that ring, if I had it with me now; but I did not. And at any rate, perhaps my memory was wrong. Perhaps it had been Cybele’s ring and not mine.

“Look!” Over the soft laughter and chatter of my sisters rang out the thin childish voice of Hylas. “It is here, it comes!”

From the recess in the floor before us came a whirring sound. A thin radiant line shot up from the ’file transmitter, cooled from adamant to silver to blue. Beside me Cumingia squirmed and babbled to herself. My other sisters cried out, or whispered to themselves the hymn to the Mother. I alone was silent. The brilliant line burst. Rays of gold and blue light showered over us, and there was the man-sized image of the Oracle, standing within a shimmering dome of purple and gold. At sight of him my sisters fell silent, and Cumingia’s hand grabbed mine.

“Greetings to Asterine colony Quirinus,” said the Oracle in his clear strong voice, and smiled.

All around me my sisters nodded, their ebony eyes wide. Some of them shyly called out to him; but I remained still and silent and watchful. “As I promised, I have arranged for a live ’file transmission from your father Luther Burdock to be broadcast to this station, on the occasion of your imminent departure for Earth.”

Cumingia gasped joyfully and rocked back on her heels. Even I felt my heart leap within me; but I bowed my head and listened as the Oracle continued.

“Within one solar hour the elÿon Izanagi will be docking at Quirinus. This is an Ascendant freighter that has been commandeered by Alliance troops for your journey to Earth. Shortly after the Izanagi arrives, three secondary transport vehicles will also dock at Quirinus, bearing energumens from HORUS colony Helena Aulis. They will also be traveling on the Izanagi.

“You are to gather whatever possessions you have and assemble in the docking area, and from there proceed to the Izanagi. I have arranged for a separate ’file transmission to inform you of your assignments. After debriefing at Cassandra, most of you will be sent to Tripoli and the Balkhash Mountains, where there is presently a skirmish attended by energumen troops from your sister colonies Totma 3 and Hotei.”

A small stir went around the circle at this announcement. Cumingia’s hand in mine went limp and cold. I tightened my grip on it and shook my head.

“But that sounds like we will be fighting!” cried my sister Hylas. “We have never been in battle before—and what of our father? I thought we were to see our father?”

Other anxious voices chimed in.

“Yes, our father, where is our father?” Cumingia shifted and glanced at me uneasily.

“As I told you, sister,” I murmured; but the Oracle went on speaking, as calmly as though no one had interrupted him.

“The Ascendant and Commonwealth troops know they are fighting a war they cannot win. But even if they could, a greater danger awaits them—awaits all of us—and only the chosen of Luther Burdock will survive this cataclysm.”

At these words small cries echoed through the vaulted ceiling of the media gallery. Fear and frustration knotted inside me. Danger? Cataclysm? Why have us leave the safety of HORUS if some disaster awaited us upon the Element?

This must be some trick of the Oracle’s, I thought, some madness that had infected his memory. I pried my fingers gently from Cumingia’s hand and leaned forward, the better to hear what other threats this Metatron might give voice to.

“…so little time before the world will change—indeed, until the world the Tyrants knew will be no more! We have only to see if they will succumb to their own weapons, or if they will surrender and acknowledge their new Master.”

Their new Master? Raw fury burned my throat and I nearly cried aloud. This was as the Tyrant humans would have it, a world parsed out among snapping dogs. In all my memories of him, I had never heard our father speak in this manner, of Masters and slaves. Had he changed so much? Or was there someone else in this extraordinary Alliance, someone more like our former Masters, and like them eager to build a new world upon our backs?

“Metatron!” I cried, but before I could say more, the Oracle raised a gleaming metal hand.

“No questions yet! It is mere hours now before your new lives begin, and I have here someone most anxious to speak with you.”

Silence sudden and patient as death filled the room. Where the Oracle had been, another image shifted into view, a blurred white object that snapped into focus and became a face, a figure, a man sitting in a bent metal chair with his hands tapping restlessly upon his knees.

“Anyone there?” a soft voice called out. The man’s eyes flickered back and forth, as though trying to locate the ’file camera. “Are you there? Hello?”

I gasped, all my fears forgotten.

Because it was him. Our father, the man who created us, Dr. Luther Burdock. He looked no different than he ever had—no white hair, no lines upon his face—only a small red spot on the bridge of his nose, as though the skin had been pinched away through much worry.

“Are they there?” he asked, turning to someone out of range. He looked back at us, or rather, back at the ’filing equipment—he still didn’t appear to have seen us. He bent his head slightly and gripped his knees, as though he were about to plunge off the chair and into a great pit. He frowned, cleared his throat, and spoke again in a solemn tone.

“Well then. Yes. I am Luther Burdock, Dr. Luther Burdock, and I—I understand this is Coriolanus—I’m sorry, Quirinus—the Quirinus space station.”

He grimaced, rubbed the bridge of his nose before continuing.

“I would like to—to welcome you! That is, I would like to extend to you a very big welcome from the members of the Asterine Alliance. We all hope you will be with us very soon. Thank you, and good night,” he ended, smiling brightly, and glanced away again.

That smile tore something from me. Fear, I think, but also hope. Because there was no doubt but that this was my father: his face, his hands twitching in his lap; his voice, distracted but kind, and above all his gentle eyes, though they could not see me.