Wil McCarthy - The Collapsium

Marlon smoldered visibly at the rebuke, and it was several seconds before Bruno, deep in thought, realized the obligatory reply was his to make. “Um, yes,” he said, looking up and nodding, because he didn’t disagree with that statement, either.

He and Marlon were orbiting Tamra, he saw, striding slowly around her on the platform as if she had some dangerous gravity of her own. Which of course, she did, and his reticence clearly did not put him on the right side of it. A not-so-subtle no-no in the grammar of decorum: ignoring the Queen of All Things.

“I do need time to think,” he pointed out.

She nodded once, and her gravity seemed to drop a bit. Permission granted; his orbit could slow and widen. God, how many times had scenes like this played out? Tamra impatient for answers—scientific or otherwise—and Bruno begging silence to contemplate them? He hadn’t missed the feeling, exactly, but now it had a kind of deja vu effect, reminding him of a lot of things he had missed. He was back in her world, yes. Nodding to himself, he pinched his chin again, and looked down to examine the reflection of the collapsium in the di-clad whiteness of the platform.

Time passed.

“Can I answer anything else for you, Bruno?” Marlon asked, with perfect politeness, when ten minutes had gone by.

“Bruno?” he prompted diplomatically, after another sixty seconds. Finally he snapped his fingers. “Hey you, fathead! Are we through here?”

Bruno looked up, blinking. “Hmm? Oh, yes, please, go on about your business. I think I have all the information I need for the time being. The problem, as you say, is an exceedingly simple one, even if its solution is not.”

“You don’t need anything more from me, then?” Marlon prompted.

“Er, not that I can think of,” Bruno said, realizing that some more time had passed. “I can reach you, yes? If further questions occur?” Then it dawned on him that he was being rude again, perfunctory, exactly the sort of boor Marlon had probably thought him in the first place. Peerless indeed, usurping this other man’s place, his project, his problems. To compensate, if belatedly, he allowed his gaze to narrow, his face to grow shrewd. “If you must go, Declarant, I implore you not to go far. This matter’s been on my mind a fraction of the time it’s been on yours, but once we’re on a more equal footing, I’ll be more ready to assist you.”

Marlon Sykes was, it seemed, not impressed by such transparent flattery. Without a word he doffed his cap, bowed deeply, replaced it again, and walked to the fax gate; and if it’s possible to disappear in a testy, irritable way, then be assured Marlon Sykes did just that.

“Nicely handled,” Tamra chided, emphasizing the remark with a not-so-playful punch in the arm.

“Hmm?” he said, looking up. “What?”

She sighed, then removed the diamond crown and scratched the indented band it left across her forehead. “Bruno, Bruno. I thought you’d changed. You seemed to have grown at first, matured, but maybe that was just the gray hair. Maybe we’re just ourselves, irredeemably, until the end of time. A dreary thought. So are you going to stand there all night? If I send for a chair, will you sit?”

He looked at her, his attention divided, struggling to understand what she wanted here. Finally he just shrugged. “I’m comfortable enough, Tam. If I need to sit, I’ll sit. There’s a fax machine, right? So really, I’ve got everything I need.”

He saw right away that it wasn’t an optimal response. In fact, she seemed to find it funny.

“Have you? Are you dismissing me now, Philander? Don’t be foolish: left to your own devices you’ll happily starve out here.”

He frowned, not liking the condescension in her tone. Was that what she thought of him? “You’re the first human being I’ve seen in nearly a decade, Majesty. I think I’ve gotten on rather well without your assistance.”

“I suppose you have,” she said, clearly amused at his expense. “But I must attend a dinner party tonight, and I think you shall accompany me. You’ll eat; you’ll socialize; you’ll astonish me with your ability to get on.”

“Ah.” Dinner parties: loud, complicated. Bruno sighed, feeling his delicate chain of thought breaking apart already. “Bother.”

“Oh, bother yourself. For all your complaining, you do think best when you’re distracted. Leaving you here alone is really a disservice to all.” Frowning, she pinched the shoulder seam of his vest. “Bruno, where did you get this pattern? We’ll need to stop by the palace, have it dress you in something suitable. And me, for that matter; we look like a couple of time travelers.”

“From twenty years ago?”

She nodded. “At least.”

Well humph, he’d been trying to continue his apparent funny streak. He was pretty sure there’d been a time when Tamra had laughed at his jokes, finding them witty and apropos. So long ago? Perhaps he should go partying with her, freshen up the skills a bit. With six whole months until disaster struck, he could hardly begrudge himself a single evening’s fellowship, could he? Particularly when the Queen herself commanded it.

He grunted suddenly, recalling that “disaster” meant, literally, “bad star.” Perhaps that could be made into a joke later. Or perhaps not, since nothing leaped immediately to mind. Jokes you had to think about were not usually the funniest. Especially if they were in bad taste to begin with. He did smile a little at that.

“What?” Her Majesty asked, marking his shift of mood.

“Er, nothing. I’ll… tell you later.”

Accepting that answer, she smiled, took his hand, threaded her fingers through his, and began leading him toward the blank vertical slab of the fax gate. “Well. It’s time, then.”

“Wait,” he protested, “it’s not evening wow, is it?”

“It is on Maxwell Monies.”

“Maxwell Monies? Venus ? That’s where we’re going?”

“Yep. And it occurs to me we’ve less than an hour to get ready.”

“But…” he said, realizing the futility of the words even as they left his lips. “An hour? Bother it, I’ve only just eaten breakfast.”

Maxwell Montes Is the highest point on Venus, reaching through fully a third of the planet’s thick, toxic atmosphere, and as such, was the first place to become marginally habitable once terraforming began. Or so Tamra informed Bruno as her Tongan courtiers— a trio of gorgeous but nearly flat-chested ladies affecting a quite implausible adolescence—fussed with the final details of his hair and clothing.

Two of the women were vaguely familiar; he’d already feigned embarrassment over forgetting their names. He had been at court for almost three decades, so there really wasn’t much excuse. The third woman, Tusite something, was one of Tamra’s personal friends, and consequently treated him with chilly regard. Are you back, Trouble ? Her conversational barbs were subtle, though, and since he had pretty well earned them, he resolved to take them with good grace.

But still, eyeing his triple reflection, he had to ask her. “You’re not playing a trick on me, are you?”

“You’ll be with Her Majesty, Declarant,” Tusite replied coolly. He supposed that meant no, it wasn’t possible to embarrass Bruno without also embarrassing Tamra. But there might be another barb here he was missing. This was typical; Tamra’s courtiers were mostly kind people, but their sparring was constant, driven by hypertrophied senses of wit and honor and propriety. They were like athletes who had honed a particular set of skills to the point of bodily distortion: runners with cricket legs, or weightlifters who could no longer throw a ball. He could believe Tusite had altogether lost the ability to speak plainly, without layers of veiled meaning.