Authors: Richard Garfinkle
Ramonojon said nothing. He opened the fire box and scooped out a little glowing ball with a pair of tongs.
“This,” he said, “is a model of the sun fragment. It is a mixture of rarified fire and ’Ermean and Selenean matter. I made it according to your formula for simulating the motive properties of celestial fire. I checked your figures against the ’Elios probe data.”
I took a heat meter from the table and held it over the sphere. The water in the glass tube boiled in exactly the right amount of time. My formula was unstable since it used terrestrial fire and celestial solids to simulate celestial fire, but if kept in a fire box it would remain accurate for several days before the celestial matter drifted out of it.
Ramonojon wrapped the ball in the net, unchained the model of
Chandra’s Tear
, and hooked the net to the model. The net started spinning around the ship, chained to a little wheel that rolled along the groove. The full-size net would be tied to a trolley, but on that scale, a wheel would suffice.
Ramonojon walked to the center of the room, released the model into the air, then ran as fast as he could back to us. The little
Chandra’s Tear
flew straight forward for a few yards as the real ship normally did when its native circular motion was counterbalanced by the terrestrial pulls of the ballast spheres and lift orbs. As the ship cut through the air, the pseudo sun fragment orbited it in a perfect circle, once, twice, thrice.
But as it orbited, the net that tethered it to the ship began to drag a little, its lines twisting through the flame. The fireball tried to make a fourth orbit, but it was fouled in the nets; it began to thrash and pull the ship like a whale hauling a fishing boat half its size. The model began to vibrate as the fragment darted this way and that. A crack developed in the groove. The bottom weights snapped off. There was a spray of silver moondust, a noise of breaking stone, and the fragment broke away, carrying the net and the back end of the
Tear
with it.
The rest of the ship, no longer moored to a straight flight path, arced upward and shattered against the ceiling, shrieking the Pythagorean chord of Selene. I covered my ears to dampen the echoes of that pure scream.
Moondust floated gently around the room, congealing gracefully into a circling ring of silver.
“I have tested this three times already,” Ramonojon said, trying unsuccessfully to conceal his distress in a dispassionate monotone. “The first time, the model ship floated around the room, spiraling randomly; the second time it crashed into the floor; the third time the result was the same as this test. The conclusion is inescapable. Mihradarius is using the wrong net.”
I nodded slowly, and asked for his calculations. Ramonojon showed me Mihradarius’s Ouranological formulas and what he had done with them to derive the dynamics for his model. Ramonojon knew nothing of Ouranology, but he was certainly capable of taking someone else’s calculations of impetus and discerning the dynamics of an object subjected to those forces.
I went back to my cave and spent three hours going over my friend’s work. It was compelling, but not convincing. There were so many places where he could have been incorrectly interpreting Mihradarius’s theories that I was tempted to dismiss his fears out of hand. Also, he had been acting so strangely since our vacation. Perhaps something had happened to him.… But what if he was right?…
I returned to the dynamics lab and found Ramonojon seated cross-legged on the floor. He looked up when we came in. “Well?”
I sighed. “One of you is making a mistake,” I said. “But I don’t know which one.”
“I do not envy you your position.” A half smile cracked his facade, then vanished, but not before I could smile in acknowledgment.
“See to the restructuring,” I said. “I’ll talk to Mihradarius and find a solution to this dilemma.”
Yellow Hare and I walked out of the dynamics lab and through the field of mounds toward the Ouranology labs.
“I do not trust Senior Dynamicist Ramonojon,” Yellow Hare said.
“Because he’s Indian, I suppose,” I said, annoyed at her seeming prejudice. “When will you Spartans forget the rebellions?”
“That is not the reason,” she said.
“What, then?”
“Because you who are his friend are beginning to doubt him.”
I rounded on her. “What concern is it of yours, Captain?”
“It is my duty to guard you,” she said, touching her sword hilt. “From friends and enemies alike.”
I held my temper. “And that gives you the power to discern my thoughts?”
“No,” she said. “Athena bade me watch your face as you examined Ramonojon’s work. Your expression was not one of concentrated effort but of friendly concern mixed with bewilderment.”
At that point we reached the entrance to Mihradarius’s laboratory, and the conversation ended for a time.
My chief Ouranologist’s lab was in the center of the research warren. It was a cube six yards on a side buried deep down in the body of the ship. A much smaller working space than Ramonojon’s, but Mihradarius was a theoretician; there was no risk of colliding with exploding models in his underground den.
With the safety of theory came the luxury of decoration; carved on Mihradarius’s walls were friezes of the two events beloved of most ’Ellenized Persians. The richly sculpted images depicted first Xerxes’ surrender of the western third of Persia to Athens and Sparta at the end of the Persian war. This took up only one of the three walls; the rest were occupied with Alexander’s conquest of the rest of Persia and his capture of the emperor Darius. The scene was carved in the moon rock and colored with bright, transparent paint that gave a supernatural glow to that great triumph.
One of Mihradarius’s assistants met us as we came down and conducted us to him. My genius subordinate was poring over a page of stress and balance formulas for arrangements of ’Ermean and Aphroditean matter so complex it would have taken me days to check them for accuracy.
He looked up as we approached. “Aias?” He looked over at Yellow Hare. “Is it safe for the commander to be wandering around?”
“No,” she said. “But it is necessary.”
“Ramonojon has some problems with your net design,” I said slowly.
He narrowed his eyes into a glare. “What problems?”
I described Ramonojon’s demonstration.
Mihradarius scowled, and his eyes lost their focus as they always did when he was in the depths of thought. I waited.
“The net design is perfect,” he said at last. “Ramonojon must have made a mistake.”
“One of you has,” I said. “How do I judge between the most skilled dynamicist and the most brilliant Ouranologist in the League?”
“You do have a problem,” he said stiffly.
“I could go over your calculations with you.”
“With respect, Commander, your knowledge of Ouranology is too specialized for such a review. You know too much about the celestial fire and too little about the celestial solids.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
Mihradarius stroked his beard thoughtfully and stared at me. I could almost feel his mind working, racing through possible options, looking for one that would satisfy me. A moment later he clapped his hands and smiled broadly. “I have it. I will work out a demonstration of my own using
Chandra’s Tear
itself.”
“You will not put my ship at risk!”
“Not to worry, Commander,” he said, raising a hand to calm me. “I will build a net one-quarter the size of net Delta. If Ramonojon is right, a net on that scale would cause us some flight problems, but nothing Kleon could not handle. But if my calculations are correct, we will suffer no difficulties at all.”
It sounded like a good idea at the time. After all, I rationalized, such an experiment would conclusively demonstrate the truth to my satisfaction and that of my subordinates.
“How long will you need to set up such a demonstration?”
He tapped his fingers together excitedly. “Three weeks, since I assume you want me to be careful.”
“Very careful,” I said, and walked out of the cave.
* * *
Four days later, I had a few hours away from the rigors of command and the constant presence of Captain Yellow Hare when the monthly meeting of the new Orphic mysteries was held. I had been invited to join the exclusive mystery twenty years ago during my first fling with Fame, and it had been a comfort and an assurance during the lean times that followed. Of the three-hundred-some soldiers and scientists on
Chandra’s Tear
, there were only eight New Orphics, including myself, Aeson, and Kleon.
Yellow Hare waited for me outside while the eight of us marched carrying torches down the black-painted tunnel carved into the side of the hill that led into the black-painted, naturalistically carved cave which the various mystery cults took turns using. In that artistically cut, pseudo earthly cavern, it did not take much imagination to believe that we were deep in Gaea’s umbral womb rather than flying five hundred miles above her.
The mystery began with each member taking an assigned role in the story of Orpheus. This time I wore the mask of ’Ades. Phaedra played Persephone. Aeson had the unrewarding role of Kerberus, and Kleon wore the mantle of Orpheus. He was too nervous and excitable for the role, but he could play the lyre, which lent verisimilitude to his overly frenetic performance.
The mystery play closely follows the myth of the divine musician. Orpheus’s wife, Eurydice, dies, and the heroic musician goes down to ’Ades to rescue her. His music charms ’Ades, and the god of the dead promises to give Orpheus his wife if he follows a certain condition. In the mystery the condition laid on him and the ending of the myth are different from the normal telling of the tale. Initiation in the mystery requires that one swear never to reveal this version of the story. That I subsequently broke this oath should be taken into account in your judgment of me, but I will come to that event in due course.
After the ceremony we put away the masks and robes and settled down in our torchlit privacy to drink and talk. In the cities of the League many important political deals are made at such meetings, but there were so few of us on
Chandra’s Tear
that we usually took the opportunity to relax in pleasant company.
As the player of Orpheus, Kleon had the duty to pour and mix the wine, since no slaves were permitted in the mystery cave.
Aeson and I settled on adjacent couches to talk.
“I need to ask you about Captain Yellow Hare.”
He sipped thin wine from a dish and shrugged his broad shoulders. “What do you want to know?”
“Why is a Spartan officer serving as a bodyguard?” I said, finally voicing the question that had been troubling me for weeks. I had not been willing to ask this in Yellow Hare’s presence in case the assignment involved some disgrace on her part. I had not yet learned that nothing could disgrace that perfect Spartan.
Aeson studied my face for a few minutes. He had that look of serious concentration that all Spartans have when deliberating. I once asked him, facetiously, if there was a course in frowning at the war college. He in turn inquired if there was one in sarcasm at the Akademe.
“I met Yellow Hare at the Olympics five years ago,” he said. “She took the laurel in pankration.”
I nearly spilled my wine in shock. I did not pay much attention to the Olympics. My father’s constant prodding at me had taken away any interest I might have had in athletics. But I knew about pankration; it was unarmed fighting with no rules. The participants could use any style of combat, any tricks, any deceptions they liked. Deaths were not uncommon in those contests. I remembered vaguely hearing that for the first time in several centuries a woman had won that competition. Having seen her fight, I was not surprised that Yellow Hare was that victor, but that did not answer my question.
“But why was she assigned as my bodyguard?”
“The order to protect you said I could choose anyone. I chose the best.”
“My father would never have accepted such a lowly assignment.
Aeson stared for a few moments into the flickering torchlight. “Aias, your father’s name is entered in the Spartan rolls of honor. His advice is heeded by several members of the general staff. He was a great warrior and an able governor.…”
“But?” I said, hearing the lingering absence of completion in his words.
“But he only had half of the Spartan spirit. Captain Yellow Hare has all of it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I can’t explain it better than that.”
Kleon brought me a fresh bowl of wine, which I drank in silence, waiting for some god to explain Aeson’s words to me. But no divinity came to fill my needs.
“Thank you for trying,” I said to Aeson.
My co-commander smiled at me. “Any further questions?”
“Yes. Why did the Archons allow you such discretion in picking a bodyguard?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I have had a few hints from the general staff that the Archons now consider the Prometheus Projects vital to the security of the League.”
“That’s crazy. Sunthief and Manmaker could be of great benefit to the war effort, if they work, but that’s a very large if, and as for Forethought, that project’s a complete waste of time.”
He nodded and sipped a little more wine. “That’s what I’ve heard, Aias. I did not say I believed it.”
I chuckled at the dryness of his Spartan humor and handed him a plate of figs. “Has Anaxamander had any success tracking down the source of that commando?”
Aeson’s face darkened and he waved away the fruits. “No, he has not. I am beginning to wonder if we need a new Security Chief.”
“Is there any reason not to replace him?” I said.
“Yes,” Aeson replied, studying his reflection in the bowl of wine. “Anaxamander knows this ship and its crew. A new Security Chief would need months to learn what he knows. I have given Yellow Hare authority over him, and I have recently been watching his actions carefully. That should suffice.”
“Did you know that he was interfering in the scientific side of this command?”