Лю Цысинь - Supernova Era

The band at the White House banquet played the final notes of “America the Beautiful” and immediately struck up “Hail to the Chief.” President Davey went into action and began shaking hands with his young guests.

The first to shake were President Jean Pierre of France and Prime Minister Nelson Green of the UK, the former a ruddy, enthusiastic chubby fellow, and the latter a beanpole. In solemn expressions and formal evening dress with handsome bow ties around high white collars, they looked every inch the gentlemen, as if they had come to show off the traditional style of European adults.

President Davey had reached one end of the table and was ready to make an address. Behind him was the full-length portrait of George Washington, rescued from destruction by Dolly Madison, who took it from its frame before occupying British troops burned the White House in the War of 1812. Now the sight of Davey dressed in a smart tweed suit, with that storied painting as a backdrop, impressed Pierre enough for him to whisper to Green, “My god, look at how handsome he is! In a powdered wig, he’d be Washington. In a beard, Lincoln. In fatigues, Eisenhower. If he was in a wheelchair and a black overcoat, he’d be Roosevelt. He’s America, and America is him!”

The prime minister was not impressed with Pierre’s superficiality, and replied, without turning his head, “In history, great individuals are ordinary in appearance. Like your Napoleon, a hundred and sixty-five centimeters tall. A short man. They use their internal power to attract people. The pretty ones are mostly just embroidered pillows.”

The children expected the president to begin, but he waited, mouth closed, his eyes searching the crowd. Then he turned to the chief of staff and said, “Where’s China?”

“We just received a call. They’re on their way, and will be here any minute. Carelessness meant that countries beginning with C got notified late.”

“Are you stupid? Don’t you know that the Cs include a country with a fifth of the world’s population, and two with an area larger than ours?”

Benes protested, “It was a problem with the email system. How is that my fault?”

Davey said, “Without the Chinese children, we can’t discuss anything. We’ll wait a bit more. Have something to eat and drink, everyone.”

But just as the children were surging toward the table, Davey shouted, “Wait!,” and, surveying the sumptuous feast, turned to Benes and said, “Did you arrange for this slop?”

Benes opened her eyes wide. “Is something wrong? This is exactly how the adults did it.”

Davey said loudly, “How many times have I told you, stop talking about the adults. Don’t keep showing off how closely you can follow their stupid rules. This is the children’s world. Bring out the ice cream!”

“Ice cream at a state banquet?” Benes stammered, but nevertheless sent someone to fetch it.

“That’s not enough!” Davey said upon seeing the place settings of ice cream. “Not those little packages. I want big plates piled high with scoops!”

“How tasteful,” Benes muttered. But she carried out his request all the same, and had servers bring in ten trays of ice cream. The trays were so big they needed two kids to carry them, and once all ten were spread out on the banquet table, even at a distance you could feel the chill. Davey picked up a goblet and dipped it into the creamy mountain, and then pried it out by the stem, full of ice cream. Then he held it up and in a few bites swallowed its entire contents, quick enough that the watching children felt their own gag reflex triggered, but Davey smacked his lips in satisfaction, as if he had only taken a sip of coffee.

“So everyone, we’re going to have an ice-cream-eating contest. Whoever eats the most, their country is the most interesting. Whoever eats the least, their country is the most boring.” Then he scooped up another gobletful of ice cream and took a bite.

Despite the questionable nature of the standard, one by one the heads of state came forward to dip their goblets as Davey had and defend their national reputation. Davey downed ten glasses in succession, and it didn’t faze him one bit; to prove their countries weren’t boring, the other children took huge bites, as a gaggle of excited reporters snapped photos of the competition. By the end, Davey took top honors with fifteen goblets, while the other leaders turned their stomachs to freezers and more than a few had to race off in search of a White House bathroom.

After the ice cream, they warmed their insides with alcohol, sipping glasses of whiskey or brandy and chatting in small groups. The mix of lively native languages and rigid machine translations into English drew peals of laughter from a few groups. Davey moved among them holding his glass, a large translator hanging around his neck, and at times he interjected his own lengthy opinions. The banquet proceeded in this spirit of pleasant merriment. Servers shuttled back and forth, but no sooner had they put food on the table than it was snatched up. Fortunately the White House had ample supplies. A pile of empty bottles grew next to the piano as the children grew tipsy. Then came something rather unpleasant.

Prime Minister Green and President Pierre, along with the heads of some northern European countries, were engrossed in a discussion of a topic of interest to them when Davey came over holding a large glass of whiskey. Pierre was speaking, with expansive gestures and facial expressions, and Davey tuned his translator to French, and heard the following in his earpiece:

“…at any rate, as far as I am aware, there is no legitimate claimant to the British throne.”

“That’s right,” Green said, nodding. “It’s a worry for us.”

“There’s absolutely no reason for that! Why not follow France and establish a republic? Yes, the Federated Republic of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. It’s entirely justifiable, since the king died on his own, and wasn’t sent to the guillotine like ours was.”

Green shook his head slowly, and then in the manner of an adult, said, “No, my dear Pierre, that would be unthinkable, both today and in the past. Our feelings about the monarchy are different from yours. It’s a spiritual support for the British people.”

“You’re too conservative. That’s the reason why the sun eventually set on the British Empire.”

“You’re too eager for change. The sun set on France, too, and on Europe. Could Napoleon and Wellington have imagined a world congress like this held not in London, Paris, or Vienna, but in the crude, rude country of cowboys? Forget it, let’s not talk history, Pierre,” Green said, shaking his head sadly when he saw Davey.

“But reality is just as hard. Where will you find a queen?”

“We’re going to elect one.”

“What?” Pierre gave an ungraceful yelp, attracting the attention of more people. Their conversation had circle become the largest at the banquet.

“We’re going to get the prettiest, most adorable girl to be queen.”

“And her family and lineage?”

“None of that matters. Simply being English qualifies. But the key is that she’s got to be the prettiest and most charming.”

“That’s fascinating.”

“You French like revolutions. This might count as one.”

“You’ll need to find candidates.”

Green pulled a sheaf of holograms from a pocket in his evening jacket and passed them to Pierre. Ten candidates for queen. The French president flipped through the holograms, sighing in admiration at each one. Practically every child in the hall gathered round to pass the photos, and they sighed in admiration along with him. The girls in the photos were like ten little suns in their radiant beauty.