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Full Planet
part 1
by Feech
My dreams are different on nights of the full
planet.
The light swirls in my sleeping sight like
mists over the Earth herself, and I see, not
stars, but odd motes of brightness as if I am
moving at ground level and the view is obscured by
looming objects.
My brain seems to receive signals of
impossible clarity... In my dreams I have a sense
of humidity and of dryness, of delicate, lingering
food-odors and of chemical-reeking footprints
wending from horizon to horizon... The Observatory
becomes a world, a spanse of infinite detail.
My nostrils convey as many distinct messages
to my dream-mind as my waking eyes do when I gaze
at the stars, and though I know my senses cannot
possibly function so well in sleep, when I wake and
shake off these shadowy dreams I feel that their
full-planet clarity is somehow... Frightening.
As though some other entity had taken my body
from place to place, scanning my private, waking
world. As though the dreams did not belong to
Nathaniel D'Yangelo alone.
This may very well be true. It is a truth I
would rather not face, but since the age of twelve
I have been uncomfortably aware of the cycles of
Earth and Luna and their effects on me. My
mother, Christina D'Yangelo of what is probably
the most soap-opera worthy family on Luna, the
Galileo D'Yangelos, has kept from me her feelings
regarding my monthly experience. So far, I have
no choice but to believe that this indicates a
serious mental disorder on my part, one which she
is too embarrassed or terrified to share with me.
Either way, embarrassment or terror, it makes me
uneasy.
And so, every full planet, I sleep in the
Observatory.
The Lunar University is the _only_ place to
study just about anything. Every department is
state-of-the-art and only improving. My special
love is astronomy. The astronomy department's
crowning glory is the Observatory.
Often, I am the room's only occupant--
nighttime or not. Most of the students, indeed
most of the Lunar people, probably feel that they
get enough of the blackness and stars during
everyday life. But I have to see the stars. If
possible, I need to understand them.
Perhaps it is the combined sense of control
and freedom. When stargazing, I know that the
limits of University equipment and my own eyesight
are the only limits of my vision and, therefore,
of my territory. Yet I am safe, as I attain this
knowledge and freedom, from my own unknown
actions. The computer-locked doors of the
Observatory keep me contained in an infinitely
open space-- a space that connects, by virtue of
its telescopes and glass, to the rest of the
galaxy.
Before entering the University, and since I
was about twelve, I stayed in a mysteriously
locked bedroom every night of the full Earth.
Mother explains it to me no more now than she did
then. But, whatever disorder it is, as far as I
know it has not progressed over the years. And in
my new freedom as a college student, I decided to
have the computer lock me in my favorite place.
Otherwise I have tacitly followed Mother's tacit
advice. And, for a man from a family constantly
in the Lunar news, I lead a fairly normal life.
This is probably due to the amount of voluntary
time I spend away from the other D'Yangelos.
During the culmination of every cycle I gaze
at the blue-white Earth until she moves into
complete light, and then I fall asleep.
At least, I think I fall asleep. That I
occupy this room is certain, for I invariably rise
here each morning after. My own timed
door-opening program allows me to command the
computer to unlock the doors only after the
requisite twelve hours have passed. As long as my
strange dream-state does not progress past nights
of the full planet, I feel that I have nothing to
fear. The fact that my mother's confidentially
contacted therapists (I knew who they were, no
matter how subtle their visits) gradually stopped
coming bears me out, I believe, on that point.
And yet I am uneasy.
I wake on the floor again this month, my
cheek uncomfortable against the stiff, clean
maroon Observatory carpeting. Must have fallen
asleep here without realizing it. The last waking
memory I have is of checking my mail at the smooth
plastisteel console. I rub bleary eyes and hitch
myself up on one elbow, reorienting myself. My
chair is wheeled randomly back from the console.
I probably fell against the keyboard and my weight
pushed the chair back, I reason.
My dream-state fades from memory as I
ensconce this logic in my mind. Then I stand up.
I wheel the chair back into position,
pleasantly conscious of the ever-present stars
above me. I land (a bit heavily, still being
tired) in the chair and crack my knuckles in
readiness for another mail-check. Had an odd
request last night that piqued my curiosity.
There it is again, still waiting.
Who the Hell would want to contact me from
Earth?
It is certainly an Earth connector requesting
the release of my private address; the request was
forwarded to me by the school. Someone on Earth
is hoping they might find me here at Luna
University. But who? I can't think of a soul I
know on that Godforsaken planet.
I'll bet it's someone who wants a ship. The
D'Yangelos are known on both Luna and Earth as The
Family To Contact if you need passage to Luna.
But, Luna being a sane haven from the weird
stirrings of dozens of governments on Earth, the
legal powers here must do _some_ screening. It's
very difficult for an Earth person to gain access.
Especially if they show signs of supporting that
infernal "magic" insanity. I swear, I think
sometimes that all of the decent scientists must
have come to Luna during the split. At least
culture has advanced here in the past centuries.
It's no wonder the Lunar government keeps those
Earthies out when it can. Imagine a world of
superstition and randomness.
Yes, I'll bet it's someone who wants a ship.
The higher echelons of the Immensely Rich
D'Yangelo Family have turned them down, and now
they're seeking out that son they've heard about--
the one named Nathaniel, who must be at the
University now.
Well, at any rate, it won't hurt to let the
message get sent through. I can always have the
school's computers block any further sendings from
the same party, if I don't like it.
I give my address to the sending computer.
The message is patched through to my personal
terminal.
The message appears before my eyes.
The message reads:
"Nathaniel
Or do you go by Nathan?"
"Hope this finds you well and sound. I have had
the opportunity to settle in a castle off the continent
of Iceland and felt a great desire to contact you.
Please respond to this missive if it is at all in
your power to do so.
Yours, eagerly awaiting a reply,
Your father, Oskar Clavius"
Who? What? Oskar... Oh Lord. _Oskar
Clavius_.
The Scandal.
Many subsequent Scandals have slightly masked
the mediafest my mother went through twenty-one
years ago... Just before I was born... _My
father_. Nathaniel D'Yangelo... Clavius. Never
called by that technically correct last name. The
only son of a young, high-society woman who had
the audacity to go to _Earth_ and be married, only
to break it off a short time later and return,
disgraced, home to Luna.
What did she come back for? Alone and
pregnant?
Why, all Earth inhabitants are insane, of
course.
She should have thought of that before she
went in the first place.
And the _audacity_ of this man, expecting a
civil reply from an adult son he has never seen.
Well...
Well... I am from a civil lineage, after all.
And I can brush him off when and if things get too
nasty or personal.
First, I need a wash-up and some breakfast.
I'm still bleary from spending the night here.
Then I will send a reply.
So what the Hell am I doing here on the
platform of McMurdo Base? It was supposed to be
just a reply, just one civil little message to a
man claiming to be my father, a father who had
never in my twenty-one years ever contacted me
before.
Well, my father, I have discovered, is a very
persuasive man. No wonder Mother fell for him.
I can't believe I'm doing this.
I stand here, bewildered, frozen, as Base
patrons mill past. Seems normal enough _so_ far,
except for the fact that everything is so _big_.
And absolutely nothing is familiar. I've never
left the area of Galileo City, nor have I wanted
to. The shapes, the sounds, the echoing hugeness
of McMurdo are all well and good for a
shuttle-landing site, but as I scan passers-by I
find myself sinking into shallow rivulets of
panic.
The inhabitants of Earth are insane.
Everyone knows that. Everyone on Luna, at any
rate. Earth people actually _believe_ in all that
"magic" crap that the history archives detail.
Who knows what these seemingly harmless persons
might do to me if I unwittingly behave in some
arcane fashion? And where the Hell is Damien? Oh
yes, my mind is full of mild profanities today.
And I've only just gotten to Earth.
I don't even know what this "Damien" person
looks like. Only that he's my father's valet, and
is supposed to be coming to meet me. I continue
scanning the crowd. Everyone keeps moving,
oblivious to my thin, tall Lunar self, never
slowing nor looking my way in any attempt to
identify me. Where the Hell is this Damien?
I have never been comfortable with a high,
solid ceiling over my head. I like to see sky.
The white dome of McMurdo base makes me want to
get out, get away. But I can't go anywhere
without that infernal valet.
It seems impossible. There is no way I could
have gotten snookered into this. Yet I remember
the messages, although I'm not entirely certain
which lines, exactly, lured me onto the shuttle
bound for Earth.
Maybe it was the way he started signing his
missives "Love, Dad..."
A figure. Not moving. Standing still.
Revealed by the parting of a large group of
travellers. He balances carefully on his carefully
spaced feet, hands behind his back, long off-black
trench coat brushing the cuffs of his brown pants.
He sees me, similarly standing still, and even
from across the spanse of white I think I see his
lips turn up in a slight smile.
A white-gloved hand emerges from behind the
coat, and he waves.
Damien. Good. Now maybe I can get out of
here. And maybe my father can start in on some
explaining. He'd better.
The man is coming towards me, looking not at
all nervous. He gives me a real smile as he
approaches, and holds out one of those impeccable
gloved hands.
"You must be Nathaniel. I'm Damien, and I
work for your father. So nice to meet you."
I almost take the hand, but hesitate.
Something-- I don't know. Something _clean_.
Unnatural. Antiseptic. A false human? Is he an
android? No, I decide. But despite his definite
real-ness I am not entirely comfortable. I can't
see the hand under that snow-white glove... I nod
soberly in acknowledgment of his grin and shake
his hand.
"My name is Nathaniel D'Yangelo. As you
already know. It's... nice to meet you, Mr.
Damien."
"Just Damien is fine, Mr. D'Yangelo."
"And you can call me Nathaniel."
"Right, Nathaniel."
That unnaturally clean smell. An incredibly
welcoming smile. I weigh my choices and opt for
trusting him. The soonest I can get another
shuttle back to Luna is in two weeks. I can rot
here at the Base, or go with him and meet Oskar
Clavius. My father.
Damien grips my hand in what I feel is an
oddly cautious way, as though he might break me.
Then he takes my elbow, in an equally cautious
manner, and directs me to one of the exits. We're
taking a plane, a primitive form of transportation
still, big surprise, used on Earth, to the island
far to the north where my father's newly inherited
property lies.
It is on the way to the exit, Damien's hand
still on my arm, that I see it. My mind reels so
that I actually stop short and vigorously shake my
head. I try to clear my sight, but the apparition
is still there. Then it disappears down a side
corridor and I am left, ashen and breathing rather
hard, with Damien looking at me concernedly.
"Are you okay, Nathaniel?"
"What?"
"Are... you... O-Kay."
"Mm. Yeah. Sure. Fine. Um...What the HELL
was that?"
He regards me quizzically for a second, then
follows my confused gaze in the direction the
apparition took.
"You mean the man who just passed by."
"What man? That was a-- a THING!"
My companion shakes his blond head, smiling
in a way which I suddenly find somewhat insulting.
"Are all Loonies like you?"
I yank my elbow from his gentle grip and
glare at him. "What do you mean by that?"
"Hey, calm down, it's okay. It's just that
if you think that was strange... Well, I'll let
Oskar talk to you when we get home. But what did
you find so all-fired frightening about him?"
You see, I was right. I was raised knowing
all of these people are utterly off their heads.
I must steel myself for the possibility that my
estranged father is as bad as the rest of them. I
decide to humor Damien by relating my version of
the apparition. "Well, I found the _horn_ growing
out of his forehead a bit disconcerting..."
Damien laughs. I sulk. He says, "Oh, I
wouldn't worry about that. I'm sure he won't use
it for violence. Besides, there are plenty of
guards around."
Ab-so-lute-ly nuts. Still, he's my only
choice in a sea of madmen. "Well, where I come
from, we consider humans with the heads of
mythical creatures to be disadvantaged, diseased
individuals and I find it extremely inappropriate
for such a monster to be out in public by
himself."
"He was wearing a pilot's uniform. I'm
certain he can take care of himself."
I hadn't noticed the uniform. Damien might
be lying. But somehow I find myself unable to
avoid liking him. I board the plane in silence.
Twenty minutes later we are winging our way
to Iceland.
Uranenborg on Hven.
Yes, my father has settled in a castle, and
that castle is the sole building occupying the
smallish island of Hven, a few miles south of the
southernmost coast of Iceland.
Centuries ago, at the time of the split
between the peoples of Luna and of Earth, the
Earth's geography was radically skewed.
A Fissure opened, they say, somewhere in the
Pacific Ocean, and while many attempts were made
to understand its properties none of the
expeditions returned intact, nor with much
information.
In the chaos following the Fissure's
appearance, the smart ones escaped to Luna.
There, _normal_ life continued and continues
today. Here, on Earth, the Medically Inexplicable
mutations run rampant, superstition reigns over
decisions of individual and government alike, and
people _laugh_ when I show a little shock at the
sight of a bipedal Unicorn walking through McMurdo
Base.
On Luna, mutants have always been fairly
treated, as the ill-fortuned medical cases that
they are. Whenever possible, their lives are
improved through the latest technology. In some
cases, the kindest thing is euthanasia.
But the people of Earth call it "Magic".
Denial of the sickness and chaos the Fissure
released must be the only way they can maintain
some fragile semblance of sanity. Sad, really.
The castle is beautiful.
No, there are not green swathes of lawn
surrounding it. The grass is rather flat and
brown, currently.
The stones and decorative carvings of
Uranenborg are hardly noteworthy. The sea
surrounding the isle of Hven is choppy and grey as
we approach in the hired boat that brings us here
from the airport in Norway.
Uranenborg on Hven is a large, only
marginally handsome castle in the classical sense.
But above, arching forever in a cloudy dome
of open air and celestial phenomenons only hinted
at from my home vantage point on Luna, is The Sky.
And as we approach, I literally take in my
breath in a gasp as the beauty of my father's
property strikes me.
For in the middle of the looming structure,
shining black and curved in the odd light of a
cloudy Earth afternoon, nestled in a heavy
decorative balcony circling the highest part of
the castle, is a glass dome.
Uranenborg on Hven has an Observatory.
Damien, at my side in the boat, smiles at me.
"Pretty, isn't it?"
I nod.
This could get interesting.
Damien works off his gloves, shaking them out
in the chill, humid air, and inspects his hands.
When I next look over at him he is wearing a
pair of light-grey gloves.
That's the fifth glove-change he has engaged
in, to my knowledge, on the trip from McMurdo.
Nutcases. All of 'em.
The boat-pilot lets us off at the dock
jutting from Hven's pebbly shore, and I notice a
couple of small motorboats moored to the pier.
Hm. I roll my eyes at the incongruity of Earth
technology. The only reason that McMurdo itself
is so advanced is that the Lunar government
oversaw its construction.
I regard the castle skeptically and clutch my
small personal computer, resting in my coat
pocket. A link to home and sanity. Damien comes
behind me as I climb the slope to Uranenborg's
front set of heavy, wooden double doors.
I'm very interested in that Observatory, of
course. To see the moon from Earth, to own a
whole new view of the sky I consider my own... But
there is the matter of Oskar Clavius.
And he's standing there at the door now, a
goofy grin spread across his face above the
grey-streaked beard, dressed to meet company.
Beside him is a woman, also dressed for company
but protecting her skirt with a large
kitchen-apron. I think I see another figure
behind them, but it quickly fades into shadow.
I look to Damien for reassurance. At least I
am somewhat acquainted with him.
The valet is giving me an encouraging smile
which is particularly welcome right now. He waves
me on towards the castle, towards the man who out
of nowhere has appeared and asked me to come
"home."
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders,
and continue up the slope.
Thank Goodness he doesn't hug me. The cook,
whose name, I learn, is Mrs. Hudson, looks as if
she'd _like_ to hug me, but she refrains.
My father just looks at me, that goofy grin
pasted on his otherwise-dignified face as though
he forgot to take it off when preparing for my
arrival.
He's as uneasy as I am.
He's considerably taller, and heavier, than I
am. I back off so that the difference doesn't
seem so obvious.
"Hello, Son," he manages to say.
I wince. "Just call me Nathaniel, Sir," I
say. No one is going to get intimate with me just
yet.
He looks just slightly hurt, but recovers. I
sense a certain tension in the front hall that may
or may not come from the way everyone... smells.
Hm. My senses seem to have gone into overdrive
since my landing at McMurdo. "Well, Nathaniel,
you can call me Oskar. Or Dad. And... It is
_really_ good seeing you."
"Yeah, well, about time, I guess."
He motions to Damien and Mrs. Hudson and they
exit the hall.
Just us. Father and Son. I fail to feel
deeply moved.
He grins, a new grin I can't quite place an
emotion on, and ushers me to a narrow wooden door
off the main hall. "My own favorite dining and
sitting hall is right in here," he tells me in a
rough, yet rich voice. "Not too far from the
kitchen and not so impersonally huge as the
regular dining room. Come on in and have a seat.
Please. We have a lot to catch up on."
My father, I have learned so far, is
persuasive, strangely impressive, has a beard, and
is a master of understatement.
The long, narrow room has a long antique
table, two stuffed chairs and several polished
cherrywood dining chairs. On the wall, between
two of the many tall, lace-curtained windows, is a
painting of a man who at first glance looks like
Oskar but who is not, I decide, Oskar. I wonder
who he is.
Oskar looks at me in rather mournful silence
for a minute or two. Then he speaks, and I can't
help but inwardly respond to the pleading in his
voice.
"I'm sorry, Son. Nathaniel. The first thing
you're going to ask me is why not sooner? So I'll
answer that question right now.
"I wanted to contact you. Please understand,
I did not even know whether my child was a boy or
a girl. I could not contact your mother. She
made it abundantly clear that her choice is to be
away from Earth, away from me, on Luna.
"I thought of you often, every day in fact.
Nathaniel, I wanted to tell you of your father,
give you knowledge that I know must be impossible
for your mother to impart. Ever since meeting
your wonderful mother [I scoff inwardly at this--
if he thinks she's so wonderful then why all the
Scandal], I prepared myself for the possible
arrival of a child, for the possibility that my
lineage might affect that child in ways that would
require careful explanations and much emotional
support during the teenage years."
The teenage years? Dreams... Is he saying
this Earth insanity is hereditary? Is that why I
have been relegated to a locked room every month?
"Well, the sentiment is nice and all, Oskar, but
if you were so concerned about my welfare as a
child then why did you not show some of this
fatherly 'love' a little sooner?"
He sighs and shifts in his chair.
"Nathaniel, you don't know how sorry I am that
your mother decided to return to Luna. But it was
her choice. And you have been hers to raise. Now
that you are an adult, you make your own choices.
I am grateful for the choice you have made to come
to Uranenborg on Hven.
"However, I am going to try not to make the
same mistake twice. I assumed that your mother
would take certain truths in stride, the way the
rest of us on Earth do. I found that I was wrong.
Nathaniel, I wish to help you to understand
yourself. But you are an adult, and can leave as
quickly as you came. I will _try_ to make this
explanation one that you can digest, one that will
not frighten you off the way I did your mother."
I am about to ask him to elaborate on this
strange and wandering story when Mrs. Hudson comes
in with cakes and coffee. Smells delectable. I
feel my guard dropping a little.
Damien takes me on a tour of Uranenborg as I
turn my father's words over and over in my mind.
"The concourse," says Damien, showing me,
and I barely notice the beautifully inlaid floor
design, patterned after constellations. I am
thinking of how my father is related to the
Renaissance astronomer Christopher Clavius, who
had Uranenborg after Mad King Rudolph was put into
exile, which happened after the castle itself was
built for the astronomer Tycho Brahe...
"The music room," he announces, gesturing.
But I'm thinking of my father's inheritance, _my_
inheritance, the Observatory, and my great-uncle
Manfred Clavius who lived here until...
"The spiral staircase..." ...until his death
in an institution in Norway, after which Oskar
inherited the castle...
It's not long before I manage to block out
Damien completely, telling myself I'll have plenty
of time to look around later. I have to order the
facts of his words in my mind, sorting out the
unlikely and the ridiculous.
Damien may or may not notice my lack of
attention, but tastefully continues the tour as if
nothing is amiss.
Let's see... There's a girl, someone I
haven't met yet, a niece or something.
Great-uncle Manfred's daughter? That part doesn't
make much sense to me. Of course, the business
about _werewolves_ followed right on the heels of
the bit about the niece or whoever she is, so it's
only natural that I'm a little swimmy about this
whole thing.
Manfred. Yes, that was it. He died-- no,
his _wife_ died, and then he died, and the girl
stayed here. But I still haven't met her yet.
That part seems to make sense. I'll just
mentally delete that outrageous bit about
werewolves.
So much for breaking things to me gently,
Oskar. You've managed to convince me you are
completely balmy and I'm keeping an eye out for
dangerous behavior on your part.
"Cybernetic parrot," says Damien with another
flourish, and this time he gets my attention.