1: The Girl from the Sky
“That crescent shape, just above the horizon.” He pointed it out — if only more people could be this ignorant, maybe the world would be a better place! “It might not look much bigger than your thumb at the moment, but that’s because it’s far away.”
Still nothing. Dante grimaced; there was ignorance — the Sophists had it in spades — and then there was this. He cast his thoughts back to his schooling and tried to recall how a teacher might explain the obvious to a oblivious child.
“Look through this,” he said, tapping the telescope’s eyepiece.
His telescope was as tall as she was, its body as thick as her shoulders were wide. She studied it with a look of confusion at first, then put her eye to the eyepiece — almost as if the relevant information had just implanted itself into her thoughts — before drawing back, confused once more.
“I see nothing to be afraid of,” she said.
Dante pictured Theia’s weathered surface, cracked with veins of molten blood that pooled into ancient craters. It was easy to see how impressionable minds could mistake it for some heaven-sent catastrophe, liable to lurch down from the skies at any moment, but people who should have known better believed it too.
“People are weird,” he replied.
“But it is an illusion, trapped inside this telescope.”
He could only conclude her knowledge focused more on etiquette and mannerisms than scientific principles. “It’s not an illusion,” he said, trying his best not to sound condescending, “it’s a reflection.”
“As I said, an illusion.”
He blushed; it was a good job he never followed Denny and Hermia into the teaching business. “Well, yes, but Theia itself is…” He bit down on his lip. If she could access information on telescopes and understand the principles of reflection, then why did she not understand the concept of a moon? The avatars in the forest had an entire datasphere of knowledge at their command.
Maybe, then, she was some kind of rogue, the result of misappropriated technology designed to gather reconnaissance on Torsten and its people. Theia, certainly, would be forefront of many a mind. As blissful as the town might appear on the surface, its underworld teemed with hedonistic cults convinced of their impending, heaven-sent doom. For a simple synthetic intelligence without access to the Malkuthian datasphere, such a widespread fear would probably warrant investigation.
But then why would she come to him, of all people? Dante Orpheus was nobody important, nobody special; he was nothing more than a struggling initiate of Seelie, hoping to one day graduate their training program so he could make the journey to Malkuth, where his mother was waiting for him.
He realised then, as he studied that immaterial projection of a confused young girl, that portrait of a royal beauty as if plucked from his dreams, what she was — what she had to be.
She was from Malkuth herself, from its highest terraces, where heavenly gardens sat among the clouds and the Mother Merope of the Saptamatrikas watched over the land with her pale winter eyes, ready to judge all those who wished to join her in Paradise. Those like Dante. And this girl, this inhumanly pretty girl with her flowing white hair and oversized eyes, was her means of judgement.
And now Dante had to prove himself worthy.
“Theia is a curse,” he said, talking slowly so as not to make a mistake. “People think that it will fall out of its orbit and destroy the world any day now, but it won’t. The laws of physics won’t allow it.”
The girl’s eyes widened, like those of a young Shelley Eoghan whenever Dante had offered to paint her stories. “Destroy the world? Then that is why others fear it so! And, yet, I cannot see it…” She had Shelley’s frown, too. Her eyes flicked to the side. “No, that is not good enough. Lord Dionysus said that my eyes could see all things, and that I was the only one who could save this world from the Erebus. Then what if this Theia is the Erebus and I cannot see it as he believes? What purpose have I then?”
If she received an answer, Dante did not hear it. He was grasping the parapet again, trying to shake the words out of head, pass them off as some sleep-deprived hallucination. Just hearing that name — thinking it — was enough to send a shiver of nausea reverberating about his insides.
The girl sprung forward with a startled cry, but he waved her away before she could reach him. With a pained expression, as if she wanted to do so much more, she said, “You are troubled.”
As blind as she was to Theia, there were some things she didn’t miss.
Two pages in and Dante is already overthinking things? Maaan.