water, and in every tank he could see floated the suspended, mutilated head and torso of a single chimaera, their golden carapaces gleaming in the light.
Wolff lowered himself the remainder of the way, and dropped to the floor. He looked around the room in wonder once more, trying to take it all in. The floor and ceiling were fabricated from the same dark, lustrous metal as the corridor above and much of the Shamrock ’s internal surfaces. The chimaera here must have numbered into the hundreds. Some were enormous, heads as wide as he was high, but in one tank a glittering myriad of tiny arrow-sized chimaeras spun and convected in the aeration current.
A table stood farther down the room, with another chimaera upon it—the one Jed had shot just after the downswing. The tail had been amputated and its pale shaft lay on the floor, the potassium barbs missing. The vivid scarlet of the thorny fans adorning its body had tarnished in the air, and the plates of organometallic skin were now stiff and flaky brown. Its legs and sensory antennae had not yet been torn off, and the joints were beautifully made, articulated perfectly in a way no forging artisan of metal could emulate, but useless under the encumbrance of gravity.
It was a broken butterfly with tattered wings—a deposed monarch in fading robes, chained in this dungeon far from its starry dominion.
The antennae reached out toward the place Wolff stood, circling in the air as if trying to construe him, this alien creature of flesh, hair, heat and water.
Wolff moved closer and stooped, inclining his head toward it, hands on knees.
Did the oxygen in the atmosphere of the Shamrock burn this creature’s golden scales? Did the pressure of the atmosphere weigh heavy on it after the airless void? Do you feel the sting of the arrow, the Archer’s blade ? Did it know or understand how men sought it for their own ends? What was the loneliness of the void, the flavour of an emission spectrum, the rich nourishment of ionised hydrogen? Did it wonder, in that primitive circuitry of its brain, and ask itself if Wolff stood here, fragile man, in curiosity?
Or was it just a machine that came weirdly from nature, and pained no more than a computer and thought no more than an insect? Do you observe our plights, and laugh at our bickering lives, sailing free in your endless river of stars? How strange I must seem .
The man reached out and allowed himself a brief, cautious hesitation, before laying his hand on that golden exoskull. Mobile antennae described lazy circles—hunter and hunted, the ancient symbiosis.
The arrow’s point of entry still showed on the creature’s flank, but a white silicone-like substance had occluded the hole punched by the violent point. He ran his hand over the stiff thorns of the fans, pressing the flexible gold laminae and stroking the coarse ruff of copper-wire hair of this giant metal moth.
Turning back to the hall, he strained his eyes to resolve the most distant wall. Some of the tanks were dark and unoccupied. This Archer had made a good haul, but she hadn’t yet achieved her full complement of chimaera. He remounted the ladder and once more made the tight manoeuvre through the gap, leaving the eerie hall. They were not what he had come here for.
He selected the left door and his guess was right. The door opened into a small chamber, with cases stacked against the far wall. Crouching before the pile, he lifted the catch on the top case and raised the lid. Its contents had gone, but a vestige remained of a bitter, desiccated smell that burnt the membranes of his nostrils, and a few small, uneven lumps of a chalky material hid in the crevices of its lining. Moving it aside, he opened one of the lower cases. This one was not empty. The smell was stronger, and the box was half filled with paper-wrapped half-inch cubes. Cubes from the right side of the case were missing, its levels eaten down into in square graduations. Wolff smiled to himself. How
Wolff lowered himself the remainder of the way, and dropped to the floor. He looked around the room in wonder once more, trying to take it all in. The floor and ceiling were fabricated from the same dark, lustrous metal as the corridor above and much of the Shamrock ’s internal surfaces. The chimaera here must have numbered into the hundreds. Some were enormous, heads as wide as he was high, but in one tank a glittering myriad of tiny arrow-sized chimaeras spun and convected in the aeration current.
A table stood farther down the room, with another chimaera upon it—the one Jed had shot just after the downswing. The tail had been amputated and its pale shaft lay on the floor, the potassium barbs missing. The vivid scarlet of the thorny fans adorning its body had tarnished in the air, and the plates of organometallic skin were now stiff and flaky brown. Its legs and sensory antennae had not yet been torn off, and the joints were beautifully made, articulated perfectly in a way no forging artisan of metal could emulate, but useless under the encumbrance of gravity.
It was a broken butterfly with tattered wings—a deposed monarch in fading robes, chained in this dungeon far from its starry dominion.
The antennae reached out toward the place Wolff stood, circling in the air as if trying to construe him, this alien creature of flesh, hair, heat and water.
Wolff moved closer and stooped, inclining his head toward it, hands on knees.
Did the oxygen in the atmosphere of the Shamrock burn this creature’s golden scales? Did the pressure of the atmosphere weigh heavy on it after the airless void? Do you feel the sting of the arrow, the Archer’s blade ? Did it know or understand how men sought it for their own ends? What was the loneliness of the void, the flavour of an emission spectrum, the rich nourishment of ionised hydrogen? Did it wonder, in that primitive circuitry of its brain, and ask itself if Wolff stood here, fragile man, in curiosity?
Or was it just a machine that came weirdly from nature, and pained no more than a computer and thought no more than an insect? Do you observe our plights, and laugh at our bickering lives, sailing free in your endless river of stars? How strange I must seem .
The man reached out and allowed himself a brief, cautious hesitation, before laying his hand on that golden exoskull. Mobile antennae described lazy circles—hunter and hunted, the ancient symbiosis.
The arrow’s point of entry still showed on the creature’s flank, but a white silicone-like substance had occluded the hole punched by the violent point. He ran his hand over the stiff thorns of the fans, pressing the flexible gold laminae and stroking the coarse ruff of copper-wire hair of this giant metal moth.
Turning back to the hall, he strained his eyes to resolve the most distant wall. Some of the tanks were dark and unoccupied. This Archer had made a good haul, but she hadn’t yet achieved her full complement of chimaera. He remounted the ladder and once more made the tight manoeuvre through the gap, leaving the eerie hall. They were not what he had come here for.
He selected the left door and his guess was right. The door opened into a small chamber, with cases stacked against the far wall. Crouching before the pile, he lifted the catch on the top case and raised the lid. Its contents had gone, but a vestige remained of a bitter, desiccated smell that burnt the membranes of his nostrils, and a few small, uneven lumps of a chalky material hid in the crevices of its lining. Moving it aside, he opened one of the lower cases. This one was not empty. The smell was stronger, and the box was half filled with paper-wrapped half-inch cubes. Cubes from the right side of the case were missing, its levels eaten down into in square graduations. Wolff smiled to himself. How
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