The Fall of Tartarus by Eric Brown

would
burn up. Tartarus does not have satellites; it has Blackmen instead.’
    ‘Does
this account for their appearance? They fly too close to the sun?’
    Loi
laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh, no! Of course not! They are made that way to protect them from the sun. Many are surveyors who must
cross the vast deserts of the northern continent. They must withstand the
withering heat of the day, and the intense cold of the night. Others are
troubleshooters, explorers, experts in a thousand fields. They are a hundred
per cent efficient at all times, and fail in their duties only when problematic
factors weigh against them. Because of their excellence, therefore, their
lifespans are short. It is as if they must pay for their supreme ability with
the penance of burn-out.’
    I
stared at her. ‘How short?’ I whispered.
    ‘Some
last for three years, others five or six. But it is said that in that time they
experience such heightened perception, are programmed with such knowledge
beyond the understanding of us mere mortals, that the lack of longevity is no
sacrifice at all.’
    I
said, ‘I see why you revered Blackman just now.’
    The
Messenger nodded, licking her fingers. ‘Him especially,’ she said.
    I
looked up. ‘Especially?’
    She
smiled and laid her head on her shoulder. ‘Because, as I said earlier, he is
garbed in black. Others wear leathers of blue or green or red, denoting their
specialisation. Black leathers denote a Blackman at the end of his lifespan, on
a kind of pilgrimage to perform one last task of his choice.’
    I
laid down my teacup, a sensation like a ball of ice weighing heavy in my
stomach. ‘My friend,’ I began, ‘. . . he is going to the race at Charybdis, to
serve as the eyes of a ship.’
    The
Messenger nodded. ‘A noble finale,’ she said. ‘In fact, none finer, to end
one’s life helping to save the lives of others.’
    ‘How
. . . how will he die?’ I managed at last.
    ‘I
cannot say. Only the Blackman himself knows that.’ Loi reached out and touched
my hand. ‘This is the duty of the Blackmen. He knew his fate when he was
initiated. He would have it no other way.’
    After
the meal I left Loi to shower herself, and slipped from the stateroom. I found
Blackman on the deck of a central carriage. He stood in the merciless light of
the sun, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. There was an expression
approaching rapture on his wire-graphed face. I remained in the shade of a
nearby canopy.
    ‘Blackman,’
I murmured.
    ‘Sinclair.’
He did not move his head or open his eyes. ‘How is the Messenger?’
    ‘She
seems to be doing well,’ I said. I hesitated. ‘She told me about you . . .
about the significance of your leathers.’
    He
looked at me then, and smiled. ‘A carafe of red wine would go down very
nicely,’ he said.
    We
returned along the walkway and sat at a table beside the rail. The waiter
placed a carafe and two glasses between us.
    ‘How
can you?’ I said. ‘How can you contemplate your death and still remain sane?’
    Blackman
carefully poured two measures of the thick red syrup. ‘Please believe me, the
benefits of being a Blackman far outweigh the fact of my premature demise. For
years I have had access to more knowledge than you would dream possible. I seem
to have lived several times over. Now, my systems are failing. I can feel
myself weakening. I must charge myself nightly, not every month as once it was.
I am soon to die, but I have prepared for the eventuality. Don’t be horrified.
You are young - you cannot hope to understand what I have gone through.’
    I
regarded him in silence as he stared off into the distance. We had left the
jungle behind and were passing through cultivated fields, a bright patchwork of
yellows and greens stretching for as far as the eye could see beneath the glare
of the sun. Ahead, the central mountains rose sheer and majestic from the
rolling ramparts of the foothills.
    ‘When?’
I asked at last. ‘How