The Architect of Aeons by John C. Wright

obscurely glad that the other man was not better able to stand in that terrible gaze of the winged being than he.
    The creature’s voice filled the chamber like a pipe organ, and a dreadful music marched through the words.
    â€œUnless the shadows of the future shown to us by the cliometric science of the Monument are changed, the human race will die in the Seventeenth Millennium. This is fifty-four thousand years before the earliest possible return date for the Princess Rania. You, little man, you will have failed in all you seek and dream, and everything for which you hope will be as dust and ashes in your mouth.”
    The Swan allowed a bitter expression to darken his solemn, ascetic features. “Perhaps then you will know the grief you have bestowed on us, your children, the race you created and set free. We are free indeed; free to die.
    â€œI tolerate no more. Depart from me, you wretches.”
    And he closed his wings about his bowed head, and would say no more.

 
    3
    The Barefoot Moon
    1. Maternity
    Amphith ö e led the two men to where a tent had been set up for them on deck. She bowed a deep bow, her pretty cheeks pink with shame. “Because we are unseen to the higher forms of intelligence connected to the No ö sphere, our quarters, and, indeed, our lives, occupy the overlooked spaces of the civilization: the spandrels, so to speak.”
    Montrose poked his head in the tent, and saw both things he knew, sleeping rolls and lanterns, and things he did not. He tapped a bowl on the deck doubtfully with his toe, and it started up speaking in a highly formal version of the Melusine airborne language from the Tenth Millennium. It was a spoken form of Glyphic, based on Monument symbol logics.
    â€œGreetings, noble sir! I am a chamber pot! For all your needs, from excretion to the expulsion of vomit during seasickness, it will be my pleasure to sterilize and cleanse various biological expulsive material you might be pleased to extrude. If you would care for a demonstration, merely direct any organ of elimination toward the clearly marked orifice…” Montrose kicked it again to hush it. The sleeping roll seemed comfy enough, but he dared not touch it to test its cushion. He was afraid it would begin singing lullabies.
    Meanwhile Del Azarchel, having no concern for creature comfort, was standing on deck next to the tent and asking Amphith ö e, “Who assigned you to us? Are you an ambassador?”
    She said, “I am your mother. You are children in this world, which is strange and dangerous to you, and therefore I have been chemically imprinted toward you, to care for your well-being. This tent and these things are my possessions.”
    Montrose pulled his head back out. “You ain’t my mother, miss. You’re a damn sight too pretty.”
    Del Azarchel scowled at Montrose. “You insult our mother quite cavalierly, sir. Mind your tongue.” To her, with a gallant bow, he said, “As your sons, we will do what is needed to protect your person, your interests, and the honor of the family name. But excuse our confusion! In our time, those who awoke from other eras, either thaws or star-farers returning, created friction because they were alien to the current time. We did not solve the friction between currents and revenants in such a fashion. You are selected at random? Without consulting us?”
    Montrose said, “It’s like dropping someone down a chimney and just hoping the house where he lands in the ashes to take a shine to him.”
    Amphith ö e smiled mysteriously. “And how is a mother giving birth so different? Children appear as oddly as if found at the hearth, and—how did you phrase it?—they shine in our eyes.”
    â€œClose enough.” Montrose shrugged.
    â€œThe custom dates back to the time of the Nymphs, I take it,” said Del Azarchel. Montrose scowled, because whatever clue Del Azarchel had seen to allow him