Elizabeth Hand - Icarus Descending

“I am not armed,” I said, and stopped. “Name yourselves.”

Despite my cold tone I gazed down at them fearfully. Because surely here was the Oracle and another like it, come to wrest us from Quirinus and thrust us into the genewars below.

Behind the kneeling woman stood two constructs. One was a replicant in the form of a man cast in crimson metal and plasteel, wearing an Aviator’s leather uniform and upon its breast the sigils of an Ascendant Imperator—the Aviators’ blighted moon and the Autocracy’s malevolent Eye of HORUS. And beside this crimson figure was another, as like to the Oracle as my sisters and I are to each other.

Only this oracle was silver and cobalt where Metatron was limned in violet and black, and in the likeness of a woman. But it was far more beautiful than any human woman, or even an energumen, because of the exquisite symmetry of its form and face, the shining array of lights that coursed up and down and around its crystalline body, silver and blue and gold and green, and its eyes: the purest jadeite shot with gold.

“Who—who are you?” I said, my voice catching.

The woman of glass and steel stepped forward, and as she did so, the kneeling Aviator clicked the safety on her weapon. “Greetings, sister,” the replicant called in a low, clear voice. She raised her arms slowly, a motion that had nothing human in it at all, and rippling light fell like water from her hands. From within her breast I could hear a faint whirring as of hidden and subtle engines. “I am the United Provinces Recorded History project, copyright 2109, Registered Nemosyne Unit number 45: NFRTI, the National Feminist Recorded Technical Index, or Nefertity.”

She paused. Behind her the female aviator shifted slightly, and took her eyes from me long enough to look at the replicant in surprise.

The woman of glass continued, “Greetings, good child. Hello, daughter of the suffering Earth. I greet you, whoever you are.”

I gasped. She spoke of the Mysteries of Lysis, the words of the Great Mother in that hymn we call the “Latria Matrix.” I dropped to my knees in amazement. The Aviator started, swinging her weapon, but the glittering construct called Nefertity stopped her.

“Who are you ?” she asked softly.

“I am the energumen called Kalamat. Are you—are you an emissary from the Asterine Alliance?”

Nefertity glanced at the ominously silent replicant behind her. She shook her head. “No. We have no formal affiliation with anyone. We disembarked from Cisneros several days ago on the elÿon Izanagi, in search of another nemosyne, the military unit called Metatron. We thought it might be on Quirinus.”

“No, Mother,” I said, relief making me unwary and perhaps overbold. “He is not here—he is with our father, Dr. Luther Burdock, awaiting us upon the Element. But if you are looking for him, are you members of the Asterine Alliance?”

I frowned. I thought this would be very strange, if Ascendant Aviators had joined with the rebels.

“No.” The crimson figure behind Nefertity spoke for the first time. He had a man’s voice, a commanding voice, but so cold and wretched, it might have been summoned from a corpse. “We are members of no Alliance nor do we answer to the Autocracy.”

“That is good,” I said, “because the Autocracy has fallen.”

The figure looked at me. I shuddered a little then, for though he had been modeled after a man and was smaller than I by a foot, his eyes like his voice were deathly cold. Human eyes, which I had never known a construct to have, the palest blue I had ever seen and the cruelest, too. “I gather you have aided in its defeat, Kalamat,” he said. “Are there any human survivors on Quirinus?”

“None,” I replied. I returned his gaze boldly despite my fears, and added, “And no Master died here from any act of Kalamat’s, nor any of my sister’s. But I would know your name, and your pilot’s”—I tipped my chin toward the kneeling woman, who still clutched her weapon and watched me with grim intent—“and what business you have here.”

The replicant shook his head. “My nemosyne told you: we are searching for Metatron. I had reason to believe he was brought here during a previous Ascension. I have since learned I was wrong. As for who I am—”

His voice rose to a roar that sent the sunlamps blinking their warning beacon. “ I am the Aviator Imperator Margalis Tast’annin.”

“Margalis Tast’annin!” I said in amazement. Of course I had heard of him—even the Architects, the chief-ranking members of the Autocracy, had spoken of Margalis Tast’annin with fear. He was the Ascendants’ greatest warrior, the most famous Aviator since Ciarin Jhabvilos, but he was rumored to be mad; at least he had done things in battle that no sane man would ever do.

“Margalis Tast’annin!” I repeated, marveling. But then I frowned as I gazed at that chiseled metal face, the corpus of molded metal that was neither body armor nor uniform. “But what have they done to you? Because surely you are not a man?”

Tast’annin bared his metal teeth in a grimace. “No, I am not a man, Kalamat. I am a rasa. Do you know what that is? A regenerated corpse. But my Ascendant Masters proved to have less of a will in my creation than I myself; and so I do not answer to them any longer. If I am no longer a man, still I am not less than a man.”

I regarded the crimson-and-black leathers that he wore over his reconstructed body, the insignia of the blighted moon that shone upon his breast. “But are you still an Aviator, then? Can you be an Aviator and not serve the Autocracy?”

At this the woman kneeling before him lowered her weapon and looked up with great interest. Tast’annin laughed harshly, swiping at the air with one hand; and I saw that was all that remained of his humanity—those bleached dead eyes and that hand, its skin a sulfurous yellow and mottled with bruises. A corpse’s hand. I shuddered, thinking of the rotted shell that had gone into making him. The Aviator Imperator cried, “Not an Aviator, then! Call me something else—rebel angel, rebel corpse, traitor—or no!—

“Call me this. Call me Sky Pilot. That is a name I have answered to before.”

At this outburst his aide blanched and quickly returned her attention to me. I shook my head. “No, Imperator. Kalamat will call you Tast’annin. And this one—?” I pointed at the kneeling warrior.

“She is Captain Valeska Novus, Pilot Second Class.”

“Very well. Will you ask Captain Novus to retire her weapon? As I told you, I am unarmed. Though if I had wanted to, I could have summoned my sisters here minutes ago. You might have withstood them for a little while; but not long, I think. And my brothers who are arriving now—I do not think you could withstand them at all.”

At that Tast’annin smiled coldly, looking up at me with those orphaned eyes. “That is why she will keep her weapon where it is. Tell me, Mistress Kalamat—your Ascendant Masters, the Architects of Quirinus—what became of them?”

“They died of a plague brought aboard by a human spy, a delator from the Asterine Alliance. We did not kill them. We did not even know of the existence of these rebels, until after many of our Masters had died.”

“Did you try to save them?”

I shrugged. “There was nothing to be done for them. The delator died as well. We performed our own rites for them and gave their bodies to the Ether—you may have seen them as you docked.”

A glimmer of unease passed across Captain Novus’s face. She glanced back at Tast’annin, who stared at her for a long moment before saying curtly, “Put away your gun, Captain. For now, at least.”

With the weapon gone I felt emboldened. I turned to the replicant Nefertity and asked, “But you, Mother—what are you doing here?”