Radiance

  The smell of our staterooms flowed over me: sweat, skin, stale breath, lavender, talc, shoe polish, typewriter ribbons, last week’s peach-xochipilli preserves left uncovered on a night table. Above and below it all, penetrating every surface, every linen and lantern glass, was that perfume I had grown to both loathe and long for, Madame Zed’s latest vicious, stinking, delicious golden bottle: My Sin. It smelled like a forest of fallen women.

  I looked down at the shape of Cythera Brass, the source of My Sin, in the emerald sheets of her bunk. She wore that witch’s unguent so often I was convinced that even her marrow would stink of its musk and spice. From her alone I had never smelled—from Uranus past Neptune’s unhinged orbit—even the slightest noxious emanation. Any foulness of air in our quarters belonged to myself alone. I smelled only My Sin on her, only that alien wood where a creature like her might cut her teeth. My warden, my minder, my leash. Her long, lovely limbs lost in sleep—but not so lost that she did not wrap her arms around her shoulders, her head sunk in her chest, guarding and girding herself even in dreaming. I despised her: for her orderliness, her efficiency, her beauty, her imperturbable calm, her—quite correct—disdain of my person, her loyalties, and her constant reminder that I was being tolerated only for the work I could perform. All aboard presumed her my wife, for she kept closer to me than any lover, always at my elbow, my side, practically barracked in my waistcoat pocket. I had risen inhumanly early in order to escape her company at breakfast—but one can never escape the quiet, implacable hell of company.

  I did, in a moment of extreme and regrettable sobriety, try to kiss Cythera at the little Christmas ball held in the starboard conservatory. Shards of the ice road swirled and banged beyond panes of submarine glass overhead. Pine boughs hung festively all about—though of course not actual pine. Our yuletide green had been knitted out of jute and wire and shredded dresses by the Udolpho triplets, those wanton Martian contortionists and—as I had discovered—wanted counterfeiters, from Guan Yu. Each of the nine women aboard had donated a green gown to the effort. We whirled away under Cythera’s lime spangled flapper-fringes, Harper Ibbott’s hunting cloak, every girl’s bright emerald and olive hoopskirts cut and ruched into garlands. We were a strange lot, the Obolus cargo, some famous, most not, all vibrating with the things we did not tell each other. Cythera seemed happy for once, in a long, ghost-grey sigh of a dress, assaying a Charleston, singing carols. True to the word of our mutual masters, Miss Brass had brought along a steamer of intoxicants and exotics that would turn a pirate into a teetotaller, but in those early days I had hatched the comical notion that I would do my job well. I spent my nights reading and rereading the histories and reports provided by Oxblood, staring at photographs as though my gaze could set them ablaze; coming close, I thought, to connections that danced just beyond the reach of my deprived, shrivelled brain, which had thrived on liquor, opiates, and hallucinogens. I could see her, I could see Severin, big and dark as a heart, at the nexus of some glowing web whose edges I was so close to touching.

  Alas, that is the danger of sobriety. Everything seems possible.

  At midnight on Christmas, with the disc of distant, turquoise Uranus like a tiny crescent moon above us, I slung my arm around the waist of Cythera Brass and kissed her. It was a good kiss, one of my best. We are the same height, but our noses did not clash, nor our foreheads collide. The scent of My Sin drenched my fingers, my eyelids, my mouth. I thought perhaps I had impressed her with my dedication to the work, that though we had been forced into sharing a certain chain of events, we might find warmth—indeed, even strength—in each other.

  Those long limbs went to stone in my arms. When I withdrew, her face crackled with contempt. “I am not a perk of your position, Mr St. John,” she said, with the finality of the grave. “Do not mistake me for an opium pipe.”

  And that was the utter terminus of any camaraderie or goodwill between us.

  Yes, I despised her. But I am a strange creature. I am strange even to myself. There is no specialness in my ashen feelings toward Miss Brass. I despise myself as well, and all my works. It does no good. No matter how I practice my despising, I remain Anchises, and my works keep working.

  “Wake up,” I barked, and though I did not mean to bark, I was not sorry. “We make Charon orbit in ten hours.”

  She stirred beneath those soft green linens. My Sin filled the air.

  I spoke more softly, then. I doubt she heard me. “By the way, I think I just had breakfast with Violet El-Hashem.”

  21 February, 1962. Noon (thereabouts). Pluto, High Orbit.

  Shall we have trumpets? Shall we have banners? Shall we have garlands and chords and bursts of coloured flame to announce our presence, descending in a slow angelic spiral from high Plutonian orbit down, down, down into the fields of pale flowers that soften the face of that little lonely world and her twin?

  Perhaps a little trumpeting. Perhaps a little flame.

  Night is Pluto’s native crop. I thought myself darkness’s man, but I had never even kissed her cheek until the sun set on that flower-choked world. Night poured itself down my throat. Night was my wine and my meat. Night wed me and bedded me, widowed me and murdered me and resurrected me whole a thousand times over with each hour. I saw before me, in that selfsame hall that had boasted our Christmas ball, beyond the veins of frost forking through the glass panes, a carousel hanging in space. Severin never came here. The one world she missed in all her profligate travels. At last, I shall have something she did not.

  I will warn you now, Reader: Pluto is a place too mad for metaphor. What is there can only be what it is: a world far gone, decayed from the moment of its birth, lost in the unfathomable tides of these black rivers, so far from the sun that is our heart that it is, quite plainly, a place of delirium and dissolution.

  It is a bestiary of the grotesque.

  It is a Jacobean horror-hall.

  It is a brothel of the undead.

  It is so beautiful.

  Welcome to America, to the Grand Experiment’s last light bulb, left burning long after the household has locked up and fled.

  Your Friend Pluto!

  (Patriot Films, 1921)

  [VISUAL DAMAGED, UNSUITABLE FOR VIEWING.]

  VOICE-OVER

  Welcome to the American sector!

  Feast your eyes on glorious Pluto, her wild frontier, her high standard of living, her rugged, hardworking citizens, her purple mountains majesty! Ride the mighty buffalo! Marvel at the bustling industry of the great cities of Jizo and Ascalaphus! Climb the peaks of Mt. Orcus and Mt. Chernobog!

  Congratulations! You have chosen to stake a claim on your corner of the bountiful Plutonian pampas and start a new life here on the Little Free World. Out here, the old empires fear to tread! On Pluto a man can make his own fate and no one will trouble him to get on his knees and kiss a crown.

  A joint venture of Uncle Sam and the Iroquois League, Pluto and Charon are a wholly self-sufficient binary system—we gotta be! Our unbeatable location requires a special kind of soul: an enterprising, fearless, burly, bootstrap-pulling sort of man with a high tolerance for cold and work ethic to beat a Puritan senseless. We here on Pluto are delighted to welcome you into our family. We only take the best, and you have been specially chosen for one of our provisional citizenship programs, entitled to benefits and privileges that remain the envy of the nine worlds. Please refer to your complimentary deep-freeze rated pocket-size Constitutions for a full accounting of these rights—as well as inspiration, comfort, and the sense of profound well-being conferred by the presence of that most exceptional document.

  No matter your nation of origin, you are now a part of the great American project—and if that doesn’t make you proud, I don’t know what will! In its short time on the interplanetary stage, Pluto has produced, abetted, or sheltered first-class poets like Miss Dickinson and Mr Frost, inventors such as Mr Tesla and Mr Marconi, titans of industry and politics with names as grand as Morgan, Rockefeller,
and the great Emperor Norton II, as well as architects by the bushel who have put the streetscapes of Vienna and Venice to shame. Now you can stand tall among their number and make your mark on this miraculous planet.

  Now that you and Pluto have made a proper acquaintance, you’ll find in your intake portfolio a region assignment, dependent on your skills and background, as well as where folks are needed most. Are you bound for the ivory waves of blossoms on Pluto Actual, or the lucrative mines of Charon? Or perhaps you’re headed for the fashionable districts and urban excitement of Styx, the Great Bridge! Homesteads are available in all three regions; assignments may be revisited every five years.

  Whatever your destiny, Citizen, a life like no other awaits you!

  Each new Plutonian citizen is furnished with sufficient materiel for the construction of a dwelling, a sturdy and reliable Bunyan Brand Heating System with a free backup generator, seeding for a fast-fertilizing infanta crop, two shotguns, and basic-model breathing masks for the whole family. The rest is up to you! The extraordinary properties of the unique infanta blossom mean that no soul on Pluto will go hungry—easy to grow and easy to harvest, each flower provides a complete nutritional profile, save for folate, riboflavin, Vitamin A, and iron. Our scientists are discovering new and useful qualities of this wonderful species day by day! Don’t eat them all at once!

  Now, a day on Pluto comes out to a week back home, and a year lasts about two hundred and forty-eight Earth years, but lucky for you, good old corn-fed Frank McCoy, John Smoke Johnson, and the crew of the Red Jacket made worldfall smack in the middle of spring—a twenty-year span we call the Rose of May. We won’t see winter in our lifetimes, no sir. And now that summer is on the horizon, it’s a perfect time to put down roots. Summer on Pluto is a balmy life indeed—and there’s a whole lifetime of summer for your pleasure. The lagoons of Tawiskaron call to bathing beauties and fishermen alike; watching the magnificent Sunday Sunsets from the balconies of Mormo will take your breath away. Nowhere in the solar system is a world more blessed, more genteel, with a richer portion of God’s bounty. No more must man labour under the Union Jack or the Red Hammer, Vienna’s long arm, or Nanjing’s watchful gaze. In point of fact, the passage of the Sun between Earth and Pluto some years back means that those lace-cuffed dinosaurs aren’t watching much of anything but their afternoon tea. We won’t be getting word from the Old Worlds until round about the year 2112, so sit back, relax, pour yourself a whiskey and ice, and blow them a real nice kiss.

  Please note that Proserpine and her environs are off-limits to all non-police personnel. The incident there is considered concluded by all involved, and no outbuildings or further items of interest remain. All relevant structures have been subsequently dismantled, recycled into building materials, and used in nearly every Plutonian city as a gesture of solidarity and collective mourning. We declare openly our hostility to treasure hunters, occultists, and other bandits who come to raid our sweet, peaceful land for purely imaginary secrets. There is no mystery; colonies fail. Seek that mother of the Plutonian experiment in the ironworks of Mormo, in the bricks of Niflheim, in the roof tiles of Elysium, in the spires of Tawiskaron and the cobblestones of Lamentation, in the great citadels and their deep foundations.

  We are all Proserpine.

  We ask that you respect the personal tragedy of that city’s loss as you would the widowhood of a dear grandmother—the lady would prefer not to discuss it, and it behoves us all to abide by her wishes.

  Trespassers will be shot on sight.

  Yes, we all pull together here on Pluto. Be a good neighbour and you’ll have good neighbours. Please report weekly to your local Depot for callowmilk and vitamin supplements, work assignments, and other sundry entertainments.

  You can be anyone on Pluto. The possibilities are endless.

  The Deep Blue Devil

  The Man in the Malachite Mask:

  Totentanz

  February 21, 1962. 4:34 p.m.

  Pluto is such a small place. When you dance with the gas giants, you become accustomed to vastness. But this is a doll’s world. We circled the pale planet like a raven round a mouse scurrying over a grey and blasted heath. Down, down into the wishing well of its gravity, gravity like a handshake between Pluto and Charon, those dark, sullen twins, forever bound, waltzing without end on the edge of known space. Neither of them much bigger than Africa, wearing their tawdry bracelets of glaciers and black, brittle land—land covered in fields of infanta flowers so bright and broad I could see them as we spiralled off the ice road: swathes of light, faintly violet, faintly lime. I imagined that if I floated outside of the Obolus, I would have been able to smell them, their perfume permeating the empty void like a nervous lady announcing her presence.

  I will tell you what I saw in my descent, for I have seen no photograph of it nor any film, only sound stages peopled with half-witted guesses, fancies far too sensible to match the original. Cythera stood by me at the porthole, each of us in our own way policing our faces so that the wonder we felt made no mark upon our cheeks. Pluto and Charon in a verdant jungle embrace: between them grew vines as thick and long and mighty as the Mississippi river, great lily-lime leaves opening, curling toward the distant star of the sun like grasping hands wider than Lake Erie. And upon them unspeakable blossoms, petals of lavender tallow, infanta greater than ships, obscene chrysanthemums pointing like radio antennae in every direction. Those mighty Mississip-vines lashed round both planets in a suckling clutch, so enmeshed that I could not say whose earth they grew in, just that whoever’s plant it was loved the other world so much that it could not let it go. And the Styx, the bridge of flowers! Towers and spires in Boschean number and Escherean style, torqued and corkscrewed by the currents of gravity and pollen that pooled between Pluto and Charon, their angles all out of proportion, sinuous, unreal, a hanging garden of architecture, upside down and right side up and protruding in every possible direction like broken, arthritic hands. Coloured lights glowed in warped windows. Tunnels of some sort of taffy-like glass ran like flying buttresses between the gnarled edifices. The braided bridge twisted like the very double helix of life, and on it life seemed to bristle, to boom. I felt sick. My breakfast moved in me no less than gravity.

  “‘When I looked upon that new world, splendid in every way and in every way terrible, I looked upon a tiger with stars falling from his striped tongue. I looked and saw my true bridegroom—but would it also be my grave?’”

  So said the crone, who appeared silently beside us as if she ran on wheels and not flight-swollen feet. I knew those words. Everyone knew them: episode one, series one, broadcast March 1914.

  “It’s bad taste to quote yourself, Violet,” I said, certain now in my guess. She merely snorted as that Plutonian Babylon rose up to envelop us. “The new Vespertine is shit,” I added, with the barest twitch of a smile. I took her hand in mind and kissed it as our engines roared into undeniable red life, braking into the thin atmosphere, skidding into the tiger feet first, eyes open.

  24 February, 1962. Midnight. Setebos Hall.

  This is how one becomes temporarily American: stuff yourself into the uttermost depths of the best cold-weather gear you’ve managed to borrow and hoard, hold your documentation before you like a knight’s shield—Yes, Officer, a bear and phoenix rampant indicates that I summered on Mars three years past; four panthers passant mark my sabbatical on Callisto; this single whale embowed shows me Venus-born. My passport is my troth; you may find upon it all my soul displayed. Queue in the most disorderly fashion you can manage, always remembering to yell when you could just as easily whisper. Intrude upon the privacy of the gentleman beside you while he tries to enter the pleasant meditative trance any citizen of the Empire craves upon taking a number and waiting his turn in the embrace of bureaucracy. Ask him his name at least three times, his business, his romantic history, his dreams and hopes and failures, his favourite way of preparing beef when he can get it, how many bones he has broken, whether he prefers
men or women or Proteans, if he has any plans for supper, and how many times he has seen The Abduction of Proserpine. Before allowing him to answer any of these questions, interrupt with your own chronicle of longings and losses and boeuf bourguignon. As you move through the queue and the queue moves through you, you will pass through little nations without number: Here, a lady in an atrocious plaid cloche has managed to get a tuba through the weight restrictions; a throng presses round her, throws her coins and bread, and, by god, she can make a tuba sound as mournful and subtle as it was never intended. A slim lad with a choirboy voice warbles extemporized lyrics to her weird, sad, lovely, bleating horn. There, six or eight travellers in white furs and sealskin wallop on their trunks with drummers’ hands, hooting in rhythm and grinning. Though it is February, a family sings Christmas carols in a pretty, uneven harmony, then switches to the alphabet song and multiplication mnemonics, anything to pass the time and keep the little ones pleasant. And when your number is finally called, you show your worth, plead your case, watch a short informational film, and don your mask.

  Everyone wears masks here. It is a Plutonian necessity, eminently practical, and, in the space of minutes, my own became dearer to me than a lover. They say the wind on Earth can steal your breath, but such phrases are quaint antiquities now. The mask is a semipermeable heat shield, cycling the warmth of your breath back into useful service, oxygenating the thin air, keeping the sensitive airways safe from the worst of the vicious Stygian cold. All one needs is a callowfibre mesh, a hypoallergenic liner, a secure strap, a simple filter, and flat-disc heating unit.