Nightgame

Nightgame

By C.J. Cherryh

The sun climbed higher, and outside, the City sank into its daytime burrowings; and the Lotus Palace sank into its daily hus. Elio bathed, a lingering immersion in a golden bowl only slightly more gleaming than the limbs which curled in it, serpent-lithe and slender. He walked the cool, lily-stemmed halls, and stared restlessly out upon the only unshielded view of the Palace, upon the ruin-flecked valley below the hill, upon the catacombs sheened by the daystar's terrible radiations, and behind him his attendant lesser lords observed this madness with languid-lidded eyes, hoping for something bizarre. But he was not struck by the sun, nor did he leap to his death, as four Tyrants before him had done, when amusements failed; and he turned on them a look which in itself gave them a prized thrill of terror... remembering that to assuage the pangs of the last failed hunt - a minor lord had fallen to him in the Games, rare, rare sport.

But he passed them by with that deadly look and walked on, absorbed in his anticipations, often raised, ever disappointed.

The kill was always too swift. And he knew the whispers, that such power as his always burned itself out, that it grew more and more inward, lacking challenge, until at last nothing should suffice to stir him.

He imagined. Such talent was rare. The sickness was on him, that came on the talented, the brilliant dreamers, who found no further challenges. At twelve, he foresaw a day not far removed when his own death would seem the only excitement yet untried. He knew the halls, each lotus stem and startled, golden fish. He knew the lord and ladies, knew them, not alone the faces, but the very souls, and drank in all their pleasures, fed by them, nourished on their darkest fantasies, and was bored.

He probed the death of victims, and found even that tedious.

He grew thin, pacing the halls by day, and exhausting his body in dreams at night. 

He terrorized captured laborers, but that waking sport palled, for the dreams were more, and deeper, and more colorful, unlimited in fantasy, save by the limits of the mind.

And these he had paced and plumbed as well.

At twelve he knew the limits of all about him, and had experienced all the pleasures, heritor of a thousand thousands of his sort, all of whom died young, in a City which found its Eternity a slow, slow death.

Perhaps tonight, he thought, savoring the thought, I die.

Hammered into rain, the city rebuilt on that ruin, stubbornly rising as if up were the only direction it knew. Photograph by Elena.

The Haunted Tower

The Haunted Tower (London)

By C.J. Cherryh

There were ghosts in old London, that part of London outside the walls and along the river, or at least the townsfolk outside the walls believed in them: mostly they were attributed to the fringes of the city, and the unbelievers inside the walls insisted they were manifestations of sunstruck brains, of senses deceived by the radiations of the dying star and the fogs which tended to gather near the Thames. Ghosts were certainly unfashionable for a city management which prided itself on technology, which confined most of its bulk to a well-ordered cube (geometrically perfect except for the central arch which let the Thames flow through) in which most of the inhabitants lived precisely ordered lives. London had its own spaceport, maintained offices for important offworld companies, and it thrived on trade. It pointed at other cities in its vicinity as declined and degenerate, but held itself as an excellent and enlightened government: since the Restoration and the New Mayoralty, reason reigned in London, and traditions were cultivated only so far as they added to the comfort of the city and those who ruled it. If the governed of the city believed in ghosts and other intangibles, well enough; reliance on astrology and luck and ectoplasmic utterances made it less likely that the governed would seek to analyze the governors upstairs.

There were some individuals who analyzed the nature of things, and reached certain conclusions, and who made their attempts on power.

For them the Tower existed, a second cube some distance down the river, which had very old foundations and very old traditions. The use of it was an inspiration on the part of the New Mayoralty, which studied its records and found itself a way to dispose of unwanted opinion. The city was self-contained. So was the Tower. What disappeared into the Tower only rarely reappeared... and the river ran between, a private, unassailable highway for the damned, so that there was no untidy publicity.

Usually the voyagers were the fallen powerful, setting out from that dire river doorway of the city of London.

On this occasion one Bettine Maunfry came down the steps toward the rusty iron boat and the waters of old Thames. She had her baggage (three big boxes) brought along by the police, and though the police were grim, they did not insult her, because of who she had been, and might be again if the unseen stars favored her.

She boarded the boat in a state of shock, sat with her hands clenched in her lap and stared at something other than the police as the loaded her baggage aboard and finally closes the door of the cabin. This part of the city was an arch above the water, a darksome tunnel agleam with lights which seemed far too few; and she swallowed and clenched her hands the more tightly as the engines began to chug their way downriver toward the daylight which showed at the end.

They came finally into the wan light of the sun, colors which spread themselves amber and orange across the dirty glass of the cabin windows. The ancient ruins of old London appeared along the banks, upthrust monoliths and pillars and ruined bits of wall which no one ever had to look at but those born outside – as she had been, but she had tried to forget that.

In not so long a time there was a smooth modern wall on the left side, which was the wall of the Tower, and the boat ground and bumped its way to the landing.

The city soared, a single spire aimed at the clouds, concave-curved from sprawling base to needle heights. Photograph by Elena.

Catch the Lightning

Catch the Lightning

A novel in the Saga of the Skolian Empire by Catherine Asaro

The Abaj Tacalique

The Raylicon sky glowered red above the horizon, its streamered clouds lined with fluorescent pink. Directly above us the sky calmed into gray and at the opposite horizon it deepened into black.

Athor and I stood alone, surrounded by desert. Low red hills rolled out in every direction as far as we could see. In the distance, claws of rock stretched like skeletal fingers up to the angry sky. The horizon was closer than on Earth and the gravity weaker. Although it looked like how I imagined Mars, Raylicon is actually a darker red than Earth's neighbor and has a more complex biosphere. Her atmosphere is oxygen rich and dense, giving the daytime sky a pale blue color.

Althor still wore the pants and boots of his dress uniform, with a black knit pullover. He had given me his flight jacket, and it hung down over my dress to my hips. Made from the same insulating material as his regular uniform, it even carried its own web system.

We stood staring at the sky. The receding spark that had been the Jag was gone now. “Do you think it can make it back without a pilot?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Althor said.

I wanted to offer comfort, to take away his haunted look. But in the few minutes since the Jag had revived us, Althor had remained distant and closed.

“The Jag was right.” I said. “We're safe here. Both of us.”

“It needs a pilot.” He looked no more accepting now of its decision than he had when it first told him it was going solo.

A rumbling finally registered on my mind. As I became aware of it, I realized it had been in the ground for a while, growing stronger. With it came the memory of that morning so many years ago in Chiapas, when an earthquake shook the ground until fissures opened. After it was over, my aunt and uncle had been dead, our home destroyed, our sheep lost, and our crops gone.

The rumbling grew stronger, shaking the desert, stirring dust. Thunder in the ground. I moved closer to Althor, but when I touched his arm he stiffened. So I dropped my hand. He wouldn't look at me, just stood staring at the horizon.

The came silhouetted against the crimson sky, hundreds of them, sweeping over the curve of the world like phantasms created from the burning horizon. In wave after wave, a horde of riders thundered out of the sunset.

“Go away,” I whispered. “No more.”

“These are friends,” Althor said. “Abaj”

“Your ancient bodyguards?”

He nodded, his attention on the riders. The force of their coming raised clouds of dust.

“If these are bodyguards,” I said, “why weren't they here when the Jag set us down?”

He continued to stare out at the riders. “The Abaj Tacalique control the ground-based, orbital-based, and interplanetary defenses for this system. They've one of the most extensive defense matrices in settled space.” Dust swirled around his feet, agitated by the rumbling ground. “It makes no difference where we are on the planet. They have been guarding us since we entered the system.” He motioned at the riders. “This is ceremony”.

They came on, resolving out of the gathering shadows, tall forms on mounts. Long strips of cloth trailed behind their heads, snapping in the wind.

The lightning. Illustration by Elena.

The Last Hawk

The Last Hawk

By Catherine Asaro

(A novel of the Skolian Empire)

The escort returned Kelric to the AmberRoom the same way they had taken him from it; in complete silence, his wrists locked behind his back, without Deha or her retinue. The journey up the tower seemed endless. He couldn't even use his hands to lean on the rail as he climbed.

Inside the AmberRoom, Hacha freed his wrists. Brusquely she said, “Don't try to leave. An armed octet will be posted Outside at all times.” She turned and walked toward the door, motioning for the others to follow.

Rev spoke: “I'll stay a while.”

Hacha glanced back and shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Then she left with the others, closing the door behind her.

Kelric sat on the edge of the bed. “Is she always that abrupt? Or is it just me?”

Rev said nothing.

“Ekaf took the vow of silence.” Kelric said. “Not me.”

“I have no right to speak with you.”

“Hacha just did.”

“Only because she is now captain of your Calanya escort and Deha has allowed it. But she can't talk with you. Only to you.”

Kelric exhaled. “I don't understand any of this.”

“You can speak with other Dahl Calami,” Rev said. “And with Deha. But not to anyone Outside.”

“You do it too.”

“It?”

“Say Outside as if it were a title.”

“It is,” Rev said. “Those within Calanya are Inside. The rest of the universe is Outside.”

Dryly, Kelric said, “That leaves a lot of people Outside.”

“Yes. You are one of a very few.”

“Great,” Kelric muttered.

Rev sat in a chair. “Kelric, it is considered a great honor among our people.” He stopped. “I should call you Sevtar now.”

“Why Sevtar?”

“He is the dawn god, a giant with skin made from sunlight. He strides across the sky, pushing back the night so the sundgoddess Savina can sail out from behind the mountains on her giant hawk.” Rev smiles. “Deha thought it appropriate.”

“What's wrong with the name Kelric?”

“Kelric isn't Coban.”

“You're right, he isn't. But my name is Kelric.”

“You have a new name now.”

Kelric shook his head. This was getting him nowhere. He ran his fingers over his right armband. Akasi? Deha reminded him too much of Corey, his first wife, stirring ghosts better left buried. Corey had been a well-known figure, a hero of the people. During the long days after her death, at the ceremonies and state funeral, all broadcast to a grieving public, he had stood silent in his black dress uniform, a widower when he was barely twenty-four. On display before everyone, he had kept it all inside, how it tore him apart to lose her. In the ten years since, he had gradually regained his equilibrium. Now Deha came along, throwing everything off balance.

It was safer to thin of other things. He regarded Rev. “I thank you for your speech.”

“It was my honor.”

“I'm glad someone feels that way. I think Llach wants to heave me off a cliff.”

Soft thoughts. Photo by Elena.

New York, 2140 - The Flood

New York, 2140. a novel by Kim Stanley Robinson

The next day it was still windy and raining hard, sometimes pelting down, but all within the norms of an ordinary summer storm – drenching, cool, blustery – but compared to the two days before, not very dangerous, and much better lit. White gray rather than black gray. Also the tide, though the dawn began with a high tide, was no longer a storm surge. It was down to only a couple feet higher than an ordinary high tide. Now on the buildings around Madison Square there was a faint bathtub ring of leaves and plastered gunk much higher than the usual high tie mark. The surge had apparently already poured back out the Narrows and through Hell Gate into the sound. It had to have been one hell of an ebb run.

Vlade could now get back into his boathouse, and so he unsealed the door to it and began to sort out the confusion created by having all the boats floated up into each other, and in some cases crushed a bit against the ceiling. Many of them were internally flooded by this, but oh well. Could be pumped out and dried out.

Getting the boathouse sorted took half the day, and after that he could go out in the Met runabout and inspect the building and the neighborhood. The canals were everywhere filled with flotsam and jetsam, pieces of the city knocked loose and floating around. People were back out on the water, although the vapors were not running yet. Police cruiser zipped around ordering people out of their way, stopping to collect floating bodies, animal or human. The health challenges were going to be severe, Vlad saw; it was already warm again, and cholera was all too likely. The freshets of rain that came that day were a good thing in that sense. The longer it was before the sun hit the water and began to cook the wreckage, the better.

Idelba's tug now served as a good passenger ferry up Park Avenue to Central Park, where there were some new jury-rigged docks, very busy with lines of waiting boats, most of the, unloading people from downtown. The glimpses into Central Park that they got before they returned down Park were shocking; it looked like all the trees in the park were down. Which seemed all too possible, and at the moment was not the problem, but it made an awful sight. They returned to the Met and took the last load of refugees out of the building, ignoring the occasion protest, telling them the building was maxed and more than maxed, and Central Park was now becoming the better place for them to get shelter and refuge status. “Also, we're out of food,” Vlade told them, which was close enough to true to allow him to say it. And it worked to get people to leave.

Inspector Gen had been out working since the storm began, but she had come back home the night before on a police cruiser, to change clothes and catch a couple of hours of sleep. Now she asked for a ride up to Central Park, where her people said she was needed again.

“I believe it,” Idelba said. “Won't be long before New Yorkers start a riot on you, right?”

“So far so good,” the inspector said.

“Well, but it's still raining. They can't get out to protest yet...”

The boats. Photo by Elena.