Free The Death of the Wave by G. L. Adamson Page B

aristo in him.
    The skin as white as bleached chemicals
    and the superciliously lazy smile of the effortlessly superior.
    He is less human than the aristocrats.
    His black eyes are serene and filled with
    a kind of terrible knowing.
    A kind of mindless peace that comes from being mindful.
    Behind that smooth brow and implacable glances
    is a mind as vast and peaceful as a subterranean sea.
    And his eyes betray neither fear nor love
    for his love is the love of an atrophied angel.
    I sat near him once, with our project on the Proto-Pills
    and watched him dole out the chemicals with careful precision.
    His hands are formed like tensile steel.
    “Are you human?” I whispered,
    and smiling again, he bent to his work.
    “Are you an angel?” I questioned,
    and he looked up again at me
    with those eyes as black as space
    and asked:
    “Do I look like an angel?”

BREAKER 256
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    Descartes came to find me, his eyes shuttered like windows
    shut long against the cold.
    He took my hand in his, it was like falling into a winter pool
    I gasped at the contact—such a gesture.
    But his voice, so soft, so placid when discussing our words
    had taken on an edge like a knife,
    and it twisted into my heart.
    “Does he know?” he whispered urgently in the darkness, and my words failed me.
    His hand tightened, I could feel the bones of my hand
    grinding together like the bones of birds.
    So I said what I could think of,
    that Galileo did not know.
    And those gaunt shoulders relaxed, he breathed out and pulled me towards him.
    Descartes.
    He was all bones and smelt of the library, the faintly explosive scent of old literature
    mingled with the chemicals in the labs.
    He was cold, but then, he was still alive.
    We stood for a long time before he broke the embrace
    held me at arm’s length, and searched my eyes.
    “Do not lie to him, he’ll know.”
    I nodded, and tried to smile.
    “Be brave,” he urged. “Hold your head high. Answer all and any questions…
    but I do not know what he wants.”
    I knew.
    Galileo, from which all things spring.
    He wanted my heart.
    Galileo loved me.
    Galileo loved us all,
    but he loved each one of us as a princess loves a bauble,
    or a dragon loves a piece of treasure in his hoard.
    I was insignificant to him, a tiny coin among all the jewels of his kingdom,
    but he couldn’t bear it if I were to go missing
    before he had a chance to throw me away.
    Descartes walked with me to my meeting,
    holding my hand so tightly that I feared that it would break,
    and standing there before the closed doors of Galileo’s chambers whispered:
    “Author, look to your mother. Author go home.”
    It was the first and the last time he called me that name
    as he bent to leave a kiss on my lips
    as insubstantial as a snowflake.
     
    I did not look back.
     
    Galileo.
    I had never seen him in his chambers.
    They were opulent but simple, like him,
    with everything in white.
    Once again, I was painfully aware of being misplaced
    a single spot of color in a field of white.
    But no matter.
    My monster sat gracefully near the window,
    and watched the small crowd
    that had already formed outside the gates.
    The Breakers had fired to disperse them,
    but the survivors returned always to stand in the rain.
    The king was perplexed and displeased with his subjects.
    He did not turn to acknowledge me,
    only held out a small slip of paper
    torn out of a CEE workbook and said:
    “Have you seen it? They found it in the Camps.”
    I took it, and I gave it a cursory glance.
    It was my poem, but I said:
    “No.”
    And Galileo’s eyes flickered, revealing nothing.
    “It must be about the Censor. You know of the Censor?
    vMy son must have told you.”
    “No. I heard of it from an Artist.”
    “They know?”
    “Some still remember.”
    I paused, the words shards in my throat.
    “But mostly they try to forget.”
    He nodded once, and turned to look at me.
    Everything flooded back in that instant.
    The children in the bright