The Collapsium (8 page)

Bruno and Tamra seemed to be right on time, at any rate. That was another thing about faxing: it left no sense of the minutes elapsed during transmission through the collapsiter grid. One could, in theory, specify longer-than-optimal packet routes, bouncing a signal to the outer planets and back as many times as desired, effectively transmitting oneself into the future. Why wait for the party, when you could—in effect—bring the party to you? But the cost was such that Bruno doubted many people had tried it; there were easier ways to skip over dull time. Sleeping, for example.

Presently, a little bald man detached himself from the crowd and strode briskly forward, arms outstretched, his attention fully on Tamra. In the corners of Bruno’s vision, the robots tensed.

“Your Majesty,” the man said, sounding delighted.
“Malo e lelei. Na’ake ’i heni kimu’a?”
His hands closed on hers, enfolding; he was bigger than he looked, taller in fact than the “Virgin Queen” herself. There was deception in the stoop of
his shoulders and the draping, nondescript grays and browns of his clothing. Deliberate deception? It seemed unlikely in such a grandfatherly figure.

“Declarant Krogh,” Tamra acknowledged pleasantly, lifting and inclining her hand for a ceremonial kiss.

Suddenly, the face clicked: Ernest Krogh, inventor of the fax morbidity filter that had all but banished death from the Queendom. The first Declarant Tamra had ever named.

“I’ve seated you next to myself,” Krogh said, “if that’s all right. Rhea is eager to speak with you about … something-orother. It escapes.” He waved a hand absently.

“I’ve brought a guest,” Tamra cautioned.

Krogh nodded. “Thought you might. Saved a place. Backups in case, yes, but I thought …” He interrupted himself and turned to Bruno. “Son, you look familiar.”

Son? Son? No one had called him that in decades. But then, few people affected such advanced decrepitude, as if the mechanics of biology weren’t so rigorously mapped and filtered in fax transmissions after all. Krogh had, of course, come by his decrepitude honestly, the old-fashioned way, but so had many others who’d long since abandoned it for the comfort and vitality of youth.

He supposed Krogh was probably healthy in the ways that mattered: free of diseases and mechanical degenerations, his weathered exterior a kind of uniform or honor badge. Like height or muscle or decisive skin pigmentation, it did draw a kind of knee-jerk attention to itself. A kind of respect, he grudgingly supposed, though he’d rather respect the man’s record and title, his taste in buildings, his obviously quite large number of friends.

“De Towaji,” he said finally, thrusting out a hand to be shaken. “Bruno.”

“Declarant,” Her Majesty chimed in.

“Oh! Right!” Krogh exclaimed, grabbing the hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “Collapsium, yes! Still alive, then? Outstanding.” To Tamra he said, “Brought him to us,
have you? Haven’t heard much from this one lately. Bit of a recluse, yes?”

Bruno shrugged. “My work demands isolation.”

“I daresay it does,” Krogh laughed. “Crushing matter into nothingness. None for me, thanks! God’s own spacetime is agreeable enough. Not that there’s anything wrong, of course, with a tweak here and there. Mustn’t grow complacent. Kiss of death for an immorbid society, I’d say.”

“Uh,” Bruno said, then realized he had no response. Bit of a recluse, yes, no longer able to hold up his end of a conversation. Blast.

“Well, do come in, Your Majesty. Declarant.” Krogh urged them both, not seeming to notice Bruno’s discomfiture. “Follow me, follow me. The table is right over here. Rhea, darling, I’ve brought visitors! Now Bruno, this thing about the Ring Collapsiter. Falling into the sun, they tell me. Not very desirable, that.”

“Certainly not.”

“You’re on it, I hazard? Fixing it up for us?”

Bruno, feeling bothered, could only shrug again. Then he identified the source of his irritation: he felt like a child, like a bright little boy in the company of an adult. Not that he was being patronized, particularly, but Young Prodigy was clearly the role he’d be called upon to play here. What a thought! He, the gray, brooding prophet! That was the problem with putting on airs: other people were free to cut right through them.

Well, blast. So be it. Served him right, probably.

“I’ve looked,” he said to Krogh, nodding. “I’m thinking the problem over, but really I’ve only just arrived. And since Her Majesty insisted I join her for dinner …”

Krogh smiled knowingly, reached out an arm, and for a moment Bruno feared his mad prophet’s hair might be given a good-natured tousling. But no, the arm was merely gesturing, pointing out the seats marked LUTUI TAMRA and LUTUI GUEST.
So many utensils
, Bruno noted with an inward groan.
A few seats down was a place marked SYKES MARLON, which, presently, was occupied by the frowning Declarant-Philander himself, now swathed head to toe in white, a cap and smock and jacket and breeches which, if anything, suited him better than the previous ensemble had done. Pulling out his chair, he cast a smoldering glare in Bruno’s direction, then softened it a little and nodded in simple acknowledgment, one peer to another.

In another moment Tamra seated herself, and with that the crowd seemed to shift, change phase, its members drawn down into their chairs over a period of seconds like kites dropping out of a suddenly windless sky. Not unusual, Bruno recalled; people tended to keep half an eye on the Queen at times like these, and to draw their cues from her. But still it was strange, a thing half forgotten in his years away.

Soon Krogh alone remained standing, whereupon he lifted a metal cup from the table, raised it to eye level, and brought a hush down over all.

Bruno found his eyes drifting toward the back of the chamber again, surveying the rough staircase there. Where did it lead? Outside? To the surface of Venus itself?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Krogh said quietly, his voice echoing from the pastry walls, “Welcome to our planet—a work in progress, I’m afraid—and thank you all for coming. There will be time to continue mingling after dinner; I’ll have to ask you not to do it during. Rhea’s gone to quite a bit of trouble about the seating, you understand, and she won’t see her efforts undone. Now, we have some very special guests tonight, whom I’ll ask you not to pester. This is a fund-raiser after all, and any pestering is to be done by Rhea exclusively.” There was polite laughter all around, which seemed to surprise Krogh a little. He looked around sheepishly. “Er. If you
are
a special guest, do come and talk to her before you leave. Or an ordinary guest, for that matter; I’m sure she’s dying to speak with you all.”

“Pish, there are no ordinary guests here!” the woman at Krogh’s side called out. Like him, she’d chosen an appearance
of physical maturity, and though it was nowhere near as advanced as his, her red dress and rouge and lipstick and eyeliner did clearly emphasize the pallor of her skin. That is, if “pallor” could describe the graying and weathering of a face so darkly brown.

Again, polite laughter filled the chamber. Again, Krogh seemed good-naturedly put off by it. He looked as though he had more to say, but after pausing a moment, he finally shrugged and sat down again. A few diners clapped uncertainly.

“Oh, well done, Cyrano,” the woman—Rhea—teased him, amusement winking in her eyes. “Such an orator, such an inspirer of men. How our coffers will swell tonight.”

“As you say, darling.”

Both faces turned politely toward Tamra then, and waited.

Smiling, Her Majesty delicately lifted a fork, at which signal plates of brightly colored salad rose up from the solid wellwood of the tables, one to a diner.

“Kataki ha’u o’ kai,”
she said in one rote breath, granting permission for the meal to begin.

Bruno, still unsure of his etiquette, waited for others to dig in before doing so himself. When he did, though, he found the salad excellent, every bit as crisp and succulent as anything he’d grown himself, and clothed in a quite zingy dressing he couldn’t identify.

“Very good,” he remarked around a mouthful of it, which technically was a social error but which seemed to please Rhea Krogh well enough. The beverage, too, was striking; when Bruno had last dined among the civilized, fashion had favored mood enhancers of excruciating subtlety, perfumed drugs that elicited a temporary bliss or ardor or thoughtfulness and then erased their own tracks, suppressing the users’ desire for more drug until some seemly interval had passed. But this time his metal cup, when he touched it, filled with a foamy amber fluid that smelled like—and was—ordinary beer. Beer! He nearly choked on it in his surprise.

“It’s only the default, son.” Rhea explained, seeing his
reaction. “Whisper the name of any drink you’d prefer, and the cup will change it. Water to wine, the full menu.”

“No, no,” Bruno said, mastering himself. “It’s quite good. A quaint, clever touch. I haven’t had beer in … well, decades, I suppose. It’s good to taste it again!”

“A little hoppier, perhaps? A touch of the bitter?”

“No,” he insisted. “This is fine. Really.”

Rhea Krogh beamed for a moment, then looked thoughtful for another moment, then shook a finger at him admonishingly. “You are. You’re Bruno de Towaji, aren’t you? Shame on you, not telling me; I suppose I’ve gone on like a fool.”

“You’ve barely spoken, madam.”

“Oh, you.”

Her Majesty cleared her throat and smiled. “Bruno is here at my behest. Doing some work for us, some consultation.”

Her words echoed a little; their end of the table had gone silent, all eyes on Bruno, all faces surprised or expectant or hopeful. Even Marlon Sykes was looking at him with some grudging cousin of admiration.

“Sir!” someone exclaimed. “Declarant, you’ve come to save the Ring Collapsiter?”

“To save us
from
the Ring Collapsiter?” another demanded. And
their
words echoed; the ring of silence was spreading.

Suddenly, the air around Bruno and Tamra filled with buzzing, swooping cameras.

“Your Majesty!” one of them called out in a tinny but amplified voice. “How long has de Towaji been with us?”

“Is he collecting a fee?” another asked.

And then, “Philander, have you resumed sexual relations with the Queen?”

Bruno had been drinking, hiding behind his cup really, but at this he gasped and spluttered, remembering too late the crassness of civilization, ever the counterpoint to its huge, brittle lexicon of manners. Sexual relations? With the Queen? As if the old title of Philander made this, somehow, a matter for public discussion?

“You dare,” Tamra said warningly to the nearest camera, to
all the cameras. Instantly, hairlines of sharp blue light connected the buzzing faux insect to the pointing fingers of Tamra’s robots, who suddenly were no longer unobtrusive, no longer standing politely among the shadows.

“Reportant Clive W. Swenger,” they said together in quick robot voices. “
Luna Daily Tabloid
. Teleoperating from this building, although the camera pings, fraudulently, as an autonomous agent billing to Universal Press.”

“Eighty thousand dollar fine,” Tamra said, eyeing the camera coldly. Her gaze swept the other buzzing insects. “Cordon is set at two hundred meters, effective immediately.”

The blue beams vanished, and as if pushed by invisible turbulence, the cameras fled wildly toward the exit; the dining chamber was barely seventy meters across, much too small for them to obey the cordon and remain inside. Her Majesty’s word wasn’t law, exactly, but as the strong recommendation of law it carried considerable weight and consequence. No doubt Clive W. Swenger would pay his steep noncompulsory fine, rather than explore the quite dismal consequences of challenging or—God help him—ignoring it. And the other reporters and their robotic agents would obey the cordon almost as if their lives depended on it. Almost.

“Now, the rest of you,” Ernest Krogh said dryly to the many human faces still staring, “back to what you were doing, right? No bothering the other guests; that’s our agreement.”

Bruno, wishing he could slip through the floor, shot him a grateful look. Then, because he had to say something about something other than himself, he said, perhaps too quickly, “Tell me, Declarant: how did you come to invent immortality?”

“Eh?” Krogh turned fully toward Bruno, blinking. “Immortality? Immorbidity, you mean.”

Bruno waited.

“How did I?” Krogh repeated, as if the question were a strange one. “Yes, well, there were lots of people working on it, of course. Evolutionary, not revolutionary; once you had the fax able to reproduce whole people, it was rather an obvious notion to fix them up in the process. I say obvious, but of
course I wasn’t in on the early stages of it. Standing on the shoulders of giants, as they say, one gets a better view than the giants themselves have got. No, it wasn’t until little Ania was born that I really became concerned. She’s my daughter, you see. I was in pharmaceuticals until then; waste of time, but I suppose I had it to waste, didn’t I?

“Anyway yes, when Ania was born and I held her, brown and perfect in my two hands, I burst out crying because I realized something right then and there: death was going to take her someday. Really crying, I mean. Needed sedation to quiet me up. Because she’d grow old and wrinkly, you see, and fill up with pain until it extinguished her, and it just … seemed intolerable. Shouldn’t it? I mean, even a
diamond
is forever, and a diamond can’t grip your finger.

“So I switched professions, right there, and I daresay it was the proper course. Very nearly lost the race, too, not so much with my colleagues as with the Reaper himself. Got rather wrinkly before I was through.”

“But you didn’t lose,” Tamra said.

“No. No, I didn’t. Our backers were … very generous.”

“So, what are you raising funds for this time?” Bruno asked.

Krogh’s eyebrows went up. “Why, for Venus, of course. Can’t change a whole planet so easily; not on what I make, at any rate.”

“So much the better,” a sharp, reedy voice said from farther up the table.