Authors: Wil McCarthy
The notion troubled him for a few minutes, but finally faded until he was able to enjoy the peace here, the stillness, the absence of pressing gratitude and curiosity with which he knew no graceful way to cope. In the last seven days he’d been wined, dined, interviewed, and applauded without end. Without
purpose
, it seemed, for every demanded speech reinforced what the fax had taught him long ago: that his company was dull, that he had almost nothing witty or fascinating of his own to say, that in fact he had a penchant for offending and embarrassing the very people who offered him kindness. And yet they pressed on, offering more and greater kindness, until for their own sakes he felt compelled to withdraw. He didn’t mind being distressed half as much as he minded causing it in others, and he knew no other way to prevent it.
But eventually, this thought faded as well, and it might be said that Bruno meditated there on the platform, his mind drifting among the planets, untroubled. How long he sat there is not known, but after some interval had elapsed, he became aware of another presence on the platform with him, of Marlon Sykes settling down cross-legged next to him, following his gaze upward.
“I hear you’re leaving,” he said.
“Indeed,” Bruno agreed. “My work demands it.”
“Today?”
“Probably, yes. Does that please you?”
“A bit,” Marlon said, an admission for which Bruno respected him all the more. “It’s difficult, being confronted with the likes of you. I didn’t ask to be resentful; I don’t seek it. Things would be much easier if I could count you as a friend.”
“But you can’t.”
“No. Never. Least of all now. Go back to your brilliant
arc de fin
project, please. I’ve followed your work, you know, sometimes convinced myself I could have done likewise if you hadn’t been there first. I hate that it isn’t true. And of course there’s Tamra, who no longer pines for
me
, her First Philander, if indeed she ever did. I suppose I should keep these thoughts to myself, but I can’t quite manage such courtesy. For that, I apologize.”
“Unnecessary,” Bruno said. “I respect you, and would have you speak your heart.”
“Thank you, Declarant. That means … something to me, at least.”
They were silent for a while, looking up at their collapsium arch, each man alone in thought, until finally another voice called out behind them: Tamra’s. “Marlon, blast it, I told you to get him
dressed
. The ceremony is
dress
. Formal. He can’t wear
that
. Is it your goal to embarrass me?”
“Not you, Highness,” Marlon said innocently. “Why should I desire such a thing?”
“Ceremony?” Bruno asked, with rising alarm. The air, he realized, had been filling slowly with the buzz of news cameras.
“It’s a surprise,” Tamra said, “and we haven’t much time. Quickly, step over to the fax! We’ll … erect a privacy screen or something.” She was wearing the Diamond Crown, he noted, along with the Rings of Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, and a formal gown of deepest purple. Even her perfect golden robots seemed, somehow, to have been gussied up for the occasion.
Sighing, Bruno examined himself; the clothing he’d selected this morning was casual, comfortable, no doubt long out of fashion. Would the eyes of history care about such a thing, or even notice? Did it make, really, the slightest bit of difference? He’d trimmed his foliage back a bit and combed most of the gray out of it, casting aside the ridiculous cartoon sage’s facade, leaving only that measure of maturity that—in his estimation—he’d fairly earned. Surely that was enough.
Smirking uneasily, he spread his arms wide. “If you must take me, Majesty, I think it proper that you take me as I am. For this surprise of yours, which I do not seek.”
“I’m not ‘taking’ you anywhere. We’re doing this right here, in view of the collapsiter, and you
do need
to be properly dressed. Come on.”
He shook his head. “No, Tamra. I won’t.”
Her eyes narrowed, her expression sharpening, weapon-like. She was not accustomed to refusal; the last time it had happened, Bruno had knelt in the mud to placate her. But he was, after all, the man of the hour. He was, after all, leaving once more for his true home in the wilderness, and not in any stiff contrivance of cummerbunds and ribbon silk. She seemed, finally, to sense that he felt no compulsion to obey her. And by corollary, that she had no means to force him.
The standoff ended; she sighed. “My feral sorcerer. All right, have it your way. Do at least stand up straight. We’ll begin.”
On that cue, the sides of the dome came alive with holie screens, three-dimensional windows looking out as if from balconies, looking down on crowds of people thronging below skies of blue, of pink, of saffron yellow, beneath mirrored domes and huge, vaulted ceilings of rock, of plaster, of ice and wellstone and steel. The bottom of the work platform’s dome was soon covered; a new row started, like an igloo being constructed of video screens, until it seemed there must be at least one window open on every planet, moon, and drifting rock of the Queendom. Tens of millions of people, a goodly sampling of the Queendom’s billions, all planning ahead for this, knowing where and when to show up.
“Typical,” he muttered, looking from one screen to the next. “Everyone’s in on the joke but me.”
The responding laughter all but toppled him from his feet. Thousands of people laughing all at once, from something he’d said! Even Marlon Sykes was chuckling. Bruno could not have been more astonished. Or embarrassed—he felt his cheeks warming. And the laughter went on! The speed of
light placed a moat of seconds or minutes between himself and each of these screens. But every few seconds, his remark reached another crowd, and provoked another explosion of cheer, even as the previous ones were dying out.
“I’ll make this as quick as light speed permits,” Tamra said tartly to the assembled millions, when the chain reaction had finally subsided. “De Towaji has business elsewhere, and doubtless we’ve taken enough of his time already. Declarant Sykes, do you have the medal?”
“I do,” Marlon said, stepping forward, a bronze-colored disc in his outstretched hand, trailing a loop of ribbon.
Tamra lifted it, took the ribbon in both hands, and said, “Declarant-Philander Bruno de Towaji, it is my privilege as monarch of this Queendom to present you with an honor devised specifically for this occasion: the Medal of Salvation. It has no special properties, save the love and gratitude which inspire it.”
Grudgingly, Bruno lowered his head and permitted her to loop the ribbon around his neck. She let the medal fall, so that when he stood up straight again it rested just over his heart.
“As the voice of all humanity, it is my privilege to say to you, ‘Thanks, Bruno. We owe you one.’ ”
It was Bruno’s turn to laugh, the Queendom’s millions falling in behind him, less deafening than before. To the crowds Tamra said, “Actually, that’s it. Thank you all for coming.”
And then, to Bruno’s relief, the holie sceens began winking out, the igloo unbuilding itself around the three of them. Half an hour later, the last of the crowds had vanished, leaving only the Ring Collapsiter itself to observe them.
“Leave us, please,” Her Majesty said to Marlon Sykes.
“Gladly,” he replied, walking to the fax, casting Bruno a pointed look before vanishing into it.
“So,” she said.
“So,” Bruno agreed.
“We’ve quarreled.”
“Indeed.”
“But we’re okay now. Friends again?”
He shrugged. “We always were.”
“Really,” she said, seeming to find that funny. She took his arm, and led him in the direction Marlon had gone. “Will it be another decade before I see you next? Longer, perhaps?”
Bruno shrugged. “I have no way of knowing, Majesty. My work is intricate.”
“Stow the formality, jerk. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too. Did you think otherwise?”
“But you don’t miss … this.” She gestured, somehow indicating the whole of the Queendom.
Startled, he replied. “Who said I didn’t miss it? Of course I do! Not all of it, but enough. I miss the smell of bread on a rainy street. I miss the laughter of children. Not court, of course. Not fortune or fame. Civilization demands things of me which I really don’t know how to provide. Perhaps I’ll learn someday, or people will stop asking, but for the moment I find it much simpler to be alone with my work.”
“Simpler, perhaps. But are you happier?”
He stopped walking for a moment to think about that, and finally decided he didn’t have an answer.
“You may kiss me good-bye,” she said, stopping beside him, turning her face up toward his.
On either side of them, her robots tensed slightly.
Ignoring them, he bent and kissed her, reflecting that this, at least, he treasured from his old life. This, at least, he could always treasure. How many knew the softness of her lips? How many Philanders could a Virgin Queen declare? Precious few.
“Good-bye, Tam,” he said, with unintended gruffness. And then, more softly, “I shouldn’t think it’s forever.”
And then he stepped through the fax gate, into the little spaceship she’d parked on his lawn.
Home again.
He took a moment to admire the ship’s red velvet interior, its burnished silver fittings and leather seats, superfluous since Tamra had no need to actually
ride
in this thing. But he
supposed the ship would look strange without them. He drew a breath, then stepped out toward the little debarkation staircase and descended to his meadow below.
His sky was a much deeper blue than Earth’s, and much clearer than Venus’. The little clouds drifting through it seemed like toys; the horizon was so very close. Behind him, the little teardrop-shaped spaceship closed its hatch and began to hum as if warning him of impending liftoff. Very well. He strode purposefully toward his tiny house. His cottage, really.
“Door,” he said when he was close enough. Obligingly, the house opened up, and he entered. All was still neat and tidy and gaudily chandeliered from Tamra’s too-brief visit. Robots lined up in front of him, forming a corridor, bowing in twin waves as he passed.
“Stop it,” he ordered, refusing at least to put up with that sort of thing in his own home. “Unseal the bedroom,” he said after another moment.
Again, the house obliged immediately, but still Bruno looked around him, frowning, dissatisfied.
Outside, Tamra’s spaceship lifted silently from the ground, hurling a shadow at the horizon and then vanishing into the sky. Still, Bruno frowned.
“Is anything wrong, sir?” the house finally asked.
Bruno grunted, then threw himself down on the sofa and grudgingly shook his head. “No, it’s fine; everything’s fine. It just looks smaller, that’s all.”
Every known tradition of human folklore includes references to “ghosts,” lingering traces of people and events long past, and particularly to hauntings, the infusion of certain places with ghostly happenings. Such places are usually man-made, usually built of stone, and the images captured therein are typically unpleasant in character and almost always described in frightening terms regardless of content. A ghost is, to a first approximation, a multimedia record of human terror or anguish, impressed in cut stone and released gradually over time
.
In the early ages of rationalism, even through the beginnings of space flight, disbelief in such phenomena was considered a fashionable—even obligatory—rejection of primitive and outmoded superstition. This despite the almost universal dread inspired by graveyards and mausoleums and ruined castles, most particularly at night, when their thermal infrared emissions stood out most prominently. This despite the discovery of semiconductors, the invention of cameras whose siliconoxide lenses channeled images onto arrays of silicon detectors and thence to silicon memories, from which they could be viewed through silicon-based video displays
.
Any rock is 99.999% computationally inert, yes, but particularly in iron-rich basalts and granites, most particularly in those that have been shaped with metal tools—which of course tend to become magnetized with frequent use—chance doping of conveniently sized pockets or vacuoles yields electrical properties ideal for the capture and storage of patterned radiation, such as the image of a body flushed with fear or rage. That the inventors of magnetic tape and bubble memory failed to recognize this is often cited as one of history’s stranger anomalies
.
Granted, it often takes quite sophisticated archaeological instruments to extract the information
again, to reconstitute some recognizable echo of the image itself. It’s difficult to imagine that human sensory processors can distinguish so finely, and filter so well. Unaided ghost “sightings” remain rare and difficult to confirm, leading perhaps to the conclusion that they don’t really occur. But it pays to remember that ancient folklorists—the well-nourished ones, at least—were as intelligent and reliable as any modern witness, and also that they knew, one way or another, not only about hauntings but about the vanished “dragons” and “oni” and “troglodytes” of ages past
.
At any rate, modern archaeologists make a livelihood of studying ghosts virtually indistinguishable from those described by medieval scholars. It’s from just such a source that we know the following:
1. That while faxing himself home that day, Bruno de Towaji was simultaneously diverted to a place of cut stone, deep inside the Uranian moon of Miranda
.
2. That he looked around in puzzlement for several seconds upon arriving there
.
3. That his eyes settled on a particular location, about six meters away from where he was standing
.
4. That his skin temperature rose by nearly a full degree and then dropped precipitously, and that he said “God, oh God, you’ve got to be joking.”
The ghost reveals nothing else about that particular incident, although archaeologists dutifully report a sense of dread and foreboding in the heel marks where de Towaji stood
.