The Death of the Wave by G. L. Adamson

building.

COMET
----
    There, near a revolution.
    Darwin.
    You said once that we would change the history books.
    And I believe you.
    I remember, watching out the window.
    You stood there like a scarecrow or a conqueror,
    watching the crowds grow.
    And always return,
    the bodies carted off in the morning,
    and living ones to take their place.
    Newton died, was murdered, Darwin.
    He was such a symbol.
    How could we quell them?
    Imperious and removed, then, Darwin.
    There still are times when I see some of your father, Galileo, in you.
    Despite your gentleness, you were meant to be a king.
    We merely hurried the process along.
    Didn’t we?
    Through late night conversations.
    You with your writing that you never spoke of,
    and I with my equations.
    “The Scientist, ” you would call me affectionately, but
    your eyes were always unreadable.
    Entirely black, with no whites at all.
    I think that you once loved me.
    Only once you loved me,
    when we plotted together the death of a king.
    “My father must die,” you would muse calmly,
    sitting elegantly, turned to gaze upon the fire.
    “There is no longer any room for his politics.”
    How many times did I volunteer to murder,
    only to see you smile?
    Years of petty rebellion passed before you agreed
    to let me bear the knife myself.
    “The Artists will not understand your intentions,” you still admonished.
    “If you kill Galileo, whom they perceive to be their enemy, they’ll think you’re on their side.”
    “And if we create the State anew not to their liking, they will call you traitor.”
    What emotion then, Darwin?
    Was it fear? Fear for me?
    “I knew you to be a good man,” I murmured, moving closer.
    And yet your pale face registered nothing.
    “I am no man, Comet,” you replied firmly. “I am—”
    “An aristo,” I retorted, and my bitterness was complete.
    “I am just…something. But you must trust me.”
    You touched my shoulder gently to stay me.
    “I cannot give you what you want from me. But I can give you a promise.”
    “You cannot love me,” I replied, harsher than I intended.
    “Love,” you questioned as if hearing a word in a foreign language.
    “What is—”
    And then your lips were upon my forehead in a chaste kiss,
    the kiss of a protective friend or an angel.
    “Strike true when you strike,” you whispered,
    “Stay safe,” I answered.
    “I need you.”
    And I could hear the strange heart beating.
    This time it beat for me.
    I took my leave
    My purpose.
    But
    Your kiss burned.
    Your kiss burned like ice,
    long after I had gone.

FIFTH LETTER
DESCARTES
----
    To the Artist:
    It has been so long since I have heard from you.
    So her words were spread through the children in the Hives.
    Ingenious.
    How apt were my words!
    I have received your draft and I must say that I rather like it.
    Specifically the bit about the burning symbol.
    The tree of Eden aflame.
    Imagine that.
    But it will still need some reworking.
    So, in return, you might wish to know who I really am.
    But really, the question that is far more interesting is who you are.
    Isn’t it?
    My newest experiment.
    Keep writing the words, and practice the message.
    You, who bridle at the fact that I write under a stolen name.
    We are not so different, you and I, Blue.
    Not different at all.
    The Artists have grown stronger.
    Now they even have some normatives in the Palaces sympathetic to their cause.
    Will you lead them?
    The king is dead,
    but the prince has just been crowned.
    And you were wrong.
    Wrong again.
    There is so much more to take away.

PART FIVE: FALL

    EDICT 8082: The State of Eden is just. If a hand is raised against one of the officials of Eden, there will be a careful review. If the review proves that the offender is culpable, that man will be imprisoned or else put to death.

AUTHOR
----
    The last before the fire:
    To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
    Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
    To the last syllable of recorded time;
    And all our