City Beyond Time: Tales of the Fall of Metachronopolis by John C. Wright

I’ll make sure they find it.”
    Very gently, Megamedes laid his thin hand on the crown of his son's bowed head. “Yes. I see that you will.”
    “It’s not that I believe you, now. It’s just that–it doesn’t really matter to me whether I believe you or not. I’ll do it for your sake.”
    “Have you ever wondered why you get so angry about this, my son? Why this is the one topic you can never let rest? No? Well, go home and think about it.”
    “If I don’t see you again… I love you, Father.”
    Megamedes smiled. “I am proud and well content with you, my son, and I return your good love. Go now, and when you hear that I have died, believe no such report. In truth, I will not have died. Do not sorrow. We shall meet again in the lawns and gardens beneath the golden towers of Metachronopolis, the City Beyond Time.”
    Phil's eyes stung. “Goodbye, Father.”
    “For now. Only for now.”
    Back at the house, Phil found his wife on the porch, fussing with some crates which were piled there next to the porch swing. She had pried some of the boards of one crate away with a crowbar. Beneath the packing-stuff, Phil caught a glimpse of a slab of pale amber metal.
    “It’s the monument,” Muriel explained. “A van from the lab brought it while you were out.”
    “It’s opened,” Phil said, coming close.
    “I know we talked about trying to send it back… but… well, I had to see what it looked like. That alloy. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s beautiful. And what are all these flowing doodles and curlicues? Those lines and diagrams?”
    Phil reached into the crate and drew some of the plastic packing material aside. The crate held a number of alloy slabs. The metal glistened and gleamed in the sunlight, like silver water rippling across gold sand. The effect was breathtaking.
    Each plate contained the curlicues and swirls inscribed into its surface. Between the swirls were line diagrams showing star positions, perhaps to indicate specific dates.
    “Father has some dog-eared notebooks hidden in the attic that are filled with this swirl-writing. It’s supposed to be the futuristic language of the time travelers. Looks like one of those ciphers that school kids make up, doesn’t it? He probably made it when he was a kid.”
    “I think it's nice looking.”
    Phil ran his fingers across the burnished surface. The metal was hard, obdurate. The stuff of his father’s dream. It had cost his father his life’s savings to buy, so that there was no money left to pay for the operation he needed…
    “I hate it,” Phil whispered. “This thing is going to kill my father.”
    Muriel looked at him, her eyes sad, saying nothing.
    Phil shook his head. “I promised my Dad today that I would finish his damned monument.”
    “Really? Then what’s wrong?”
    Phil couldn’t answer. He didn't know.
    Muriel said, “I know what’s wrong. You’re so proud of the fact that you don’t believe him. You think helping him build his monument would be like admitting defeat. And you can’t stand to do that, not after all these years. Not even when it’s his dying wish!”
    “Muriel! For God’s sake!”
    “Am I wrong?”
    “What a terrible thing to say! How could you say that about me?”
    “Am I wrong?”
    “Of course you’re wrong! You’re so stupid sometimes I can’t believe it! Do you actually think… You think I would–” Phil found himself shouting. He turned his back to his wife, lips shut, arms folded, clutching his elbows with his hands.
    The anger drained out of him. He sighed. “Yes, you’re right. At least, you’re partly right. I always thought that someday, one day, he would admit that he was wrong, that he would tell me he was making it all up. Now would be a good time, considering that he's dying. But he still can’t admit it.”
    Her voice was gentle. “So why does that make you so angry, Philopater? He believes one thing. You believe something else. Why can’t you just let it rest