Wil McCarthy - The Collapsium

She actually blushed at that, a fact in which Bruno took some satisfaction. Not bad for a recluse. Actually, he didn’t feel that his style or behavior had changed all that much, but people did seem to respond to him better these days, to find more enjoyment than discomfort in his company. Perhaps he’d simply been born with an old man’s personality and was finally growing into it, or at least learning to walk in the oversized shoes society had chosen for him.

“You’d make an excellent investigator,” Cheng Shiao told him a little while after that. “I’ve learned some things by watching you.”

Bruno suspected that was one of the highest compliments the man had at his disposal. His first impulse was therefore to brush it off, to deny it or make a poor joke of it, but with effort he restrained himself, nodded once, and returned with, “Your talent at reconstruction would serve brilliantly in any field of science. If Vivian here weren’t immortal, I’m sure you’d have her job someday.”

Shiao made a visible effort to smile at that. “I’m quite glad she is immortal, sir.”

“Naturally, yes. As we all are. But it does crush any hope of ambition, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose so, sir. I suppose I’m fortunate not to have any.”

“As am I.” Bruno laughed. “And look where it’s got me. Still, I imagine your childhood on a bitter plateau somewhere, all rocks and weeds and poisonous snakes.”

Shiao smirked at that. “Sir, I grew up in a posh Xingtai suburb, with lemon-tea summers and snow-dragon winters, and everywhere the smell of roasted meat. Superstition thick enough to dance on—we had thousands of little gods running around, but no one particularly believed in them, not with fear and awe like a proper god should inspire. It was just one more lazy game to play; the whole place was a game. I like my life now because it’s serious, because what I do matters.

“It has nothing to do with place, really. You look at me and you see a stiff policeman, which is entirely correct. But it’s not an affliction, right? It’s an aspiration. There are personable, easygoing police as well, and we need them, because it takes a certain variety to balance out a force. From an early age, I guess you could say I cultivated myself to be the person I am, and really I’m very pleased it’s turned out so well.”

“Choosing to isolate and deprive yourself,” Bruno mused. “Why does that sound familiar?”

Shiao politely waved a hand. “Quite the opposite, sir; I enjoy being this way. It’s very rewarding.”

“It also suits his face,” Vivian added. “He has such stern features. You know that cartoon show, ‘Barnes and Manetti’? He looks just like Manetti sometimes. Talks like him, too.”

Shiao looked surprised. “Is that show still on? It’s true: Manetti was an idol of mine. Barnes always had it easy; he would just bend the rules more and more until a solution finally fell into his lap. Intimidation, tampering, unauthorized surveillance… He’s supposed to be the hero, right? Manetti is just an obstacle, this infuriating person standing between the perpetrators and their hard-won justice. But Manetti actually obeys the law , which is much harder. Doing the right thing is always harder. Barnes wouldn’t last two weeks in the Constabulary.”

“No,” Vivian agreed, “he certainly wouldn’t.”

A seagull screeched nearby, drawing everyone’s attention. For a while, they just watched the sunlight on the waves.

Finally, Tamra turned to Marlon. “Do you have any parting words for our guest of honor? If not, we might as well get on with this.”

“Thank him for his services,” Marlon said, with a good solid attempt at sincerity, “and wish him well in his research. I’ve little doubt there’ll be many more breakthroughs with his name attached.”

“Is that all?” Tamra prodded.

“I think so, yes.”

“No good-byes?”

“No. Life is long. The Queendom is small. He and I will be seeing each other again.”

She looked ready to respond to that, but finally shrugged. “All right, then. Bruno, I’ve kept the media away this time— cordon set at twenty kilometers—but I’m sure you understand, we can’t let you out of here without another Medal of Salvation.”

“No,” Bruno agreed ruefully, “I don’t suppose you can. Is this a ceremony, then?”

She shook her head. “You’ve earned the right to have this your way. But I will say thank you; you didn’t have to come help us again.”

“Oh, pish,” he said, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Of course I did. I’m not half the misanthrope you seem to believe, dear. I do wish for people to be happy, free of harm, all that sort of thing. It’s just that usually I can best accomplish this by being far away; Rodenbeck is correct about one thing: collapsium research is fraught with perils. Marlon is braver than I, to risk his reputation so close to home.”

“That may be,” she conceded, silencing Marlon’s protest with a look. “And we wouldn’t dream of depriving you of your passions, nor of depriving ourselves of the benefits thereof. But we do miss you; surely you understand that.”

“I’ve never doubted it.”

“Well, then,” she said, and stuck out her hand, a little gold medallion dangling from it by a length of green ribbon. “Here’s your medal.”

He took it from her. It was heavier than it looked, and warm from having been in her pocket. Somewhat embarrassed, he nonetheless slipped the thing around his neck and let it hang.

The Royal Committee applauded politely for a full minute, at which point Tamra said, “All right, everyone, thanks for coming. Now I’ll ask you to excuse us.”

They all rose with a chorus of good-byes, to which Bruno responded with, surprisingly, a little lump in his throat. And then, without further ado, they were all walking away, blankets in hand, their rising conversation now with one another, rather than with Bruno. In another minute, he and Tamra were alone. They rose, leaving their own blankets behind for beach attendants to clean up, and made their way toward the fax gate that stood by the washrooms, just beyond the tree-line.

“You’re more regal than you used to be,” Bruno remarked. “More comfortable with your regality.”

She shrugged. “The people expect no less: elective monarchy is basically a scapegoating tactic.”

Bruno smirked at this; in Girona, the word “scapegoat” had meant, literally, a goat on whom the city’s problems were blamed. Every year, in a grand festival, the people would stack themselves into human pyramids—a prize for the highest! the widest! the jiggliest!—and then they’d throw this poor goat off a tower. No one particularly disputed the cruelty of the practice, but centuries of tradition weighed heavy then, as they probably did today.

Tamra, who knew all about the goat but apparently hadn’t made the connection, continued. “Once upon a time, democrats overthrew monarchs for the promise of freedom. What a laugh! As if responsibility and accountability were something people wanted for themselves! Freedom means finding someone else to worry about all the little details for you, and all the big details you’re too immersed in your life to see. People don’t want a dictator, obviously. Quite the contrary; they want a dictatee , a conscripted functionary who can be endlessly blamed and imposed upon. It is democracy, for all but the monarch herself.”

“Ah, but we love you in return,” Bruno pointed out. “And there’s a lot of money and privilege involved.”

“Yes. Yes, there is. And it-s my duty to enjoy and appreciate that, up to a point. But if I begin to feel entitled , I undermine the very principles of my office, and wherever I go I find myself sharply and impatiently reminded of the fact. They aren’t shy about it, these subjects of mine. Isn’t it the least bit ironic, Bruno, that a Queendom which seeks to match jobs to people for optimum happiness and efficiency also insists on, at best, grudging leadership at its highest levels? Isn’t that an odd thing?”