He was. “We shall inform his lordship that his great-nephew is landing,” Maxima Control said, with a hint of reproach in her tone.
Magnus took it in stride. “I would appreciate the courtesy. I sent a message a week ago by hyper-radio, but I could not at that time give them an exact date of arrival.”
“We understand.” The voice seemed to thaw a bit. “How has Rodney Gallowglass come into possession of a title?”
Magnus stiffened. “In recognition of his services to the Crown of an interdicted colony, which he entered in his role as an agent of SCENT. You understand that any information more specific than that is also interdicted for protection of that colony, and may not be spoken publicly.”
“I understand.” But by its tone, the owner didn’t. “Surely you can notify the head of the family of Rodney’s … excuse me, Lord Rodney … of his location.”
She wasn’t sure the title was legitimate, Magnus noted. “Certainly,” he said. “As head of a major corporation, he is cleared for secure knowledge, is he not?”
“He is. May I request visual contact?”
“At once! My apologies. Fess…” But before he could say, “if you please,” a smaller screen suddenly came to life, filled with the picture of an imposing woman, imperially slim, with coiffeured iron-gray hair and a face that was a tribute to the cosmetician’s art. “I am your great-aunt Matilda, nephew Magnus. Welcome to Maxima.”
Fess explained it on the way down—the robots took care of all the routine chores, such as traffic control, but when an unusual situation arose, requiring human judgement, the traffic computer would refer the matter to whichever human being happened to be on duty that day—and since everyone on Maxima claimed to be an aristocrat, it followed that even a countess had to take her shift at supervision. Besides, it lightened the boredom.
There was a great deal of boredom on Maxima, as Magnus quickly found out. Everyone thought of himself or herself as an aristocrat, and consequently did very little work. Of course, their ancestors had been commoners, though outstanding ones—scientists, manufacturers, and businessmen, and many had been combinations of all three. They had come to Maxima for the freedom to do basic research into artificial intelligence and cybernetics without the interference of the Terran government (which became more and more restrictive as the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra took hold more and more firmly, or to apply that research to making bigger and better robots. To support themselves, they went into manufacturing, and quickly gained a reputation for making the best robots in the Terran Sphere. Some of the sons who matured about that time had a bent for business, and by the second generation, every family on Maxima was wealthy. Since they lived like lords, they decided they should be lords, and in their legislative assembly, started ennobling each other at a startling rate. Since they were a sovereign government, even the Terran College of Heralds couldn’t deny the technical legality of it, though they could certainly cast a skeptical glance.
On the other hand, many of the noble houses of Terra had had similarly disreputable founders.
After five hundred years of learning aristocratic ways, though, the Maximans had become nobility so thoroughly as to be indistinguishable from the old Terran families, in behavior if not in lineage. The more energetic of the sons ran the family businesses, thereby giving the lie to their pretended nobility, though they maintained the façade of leaving the business to their robots; they merely amused themselves by setting policy. Those activities couldn’t absorb more than a handful, though, so some of the best and brightest began to emigrate to other planets—and as the centuries rolled by and the businesses came inevitably into the hands of the eldest sons, the brain drain increased. Additionally, Maximans tended to marry Maximans, even after they had all become cousins of one another, and the inbreeding took its toll.
Magnus’s father, Rod, had been one of the energetic ones, as well as one of the brighter souls thrown up by inbreeding—and if he wasn’t completely stable, well, who was? In any event, he had also become part of the brain drain, leaving Maxima for a career of high adventure and low income. Being the second son of a second son had had something to do with it, but so had boredom.
Which may also have had something to do with Magnus’s feeling like a canary invited to a cats’ party, as he stepped out of the airlock of his ancestral mansion to find himself confronted with a milling mob of richly dressed people, loud with excited conversation—which stopped abruptly as they realized he was there, and all eyes turned to him. Magnus felt like bolting right back into the boarding tunnel, but he remembered that he came of a warrior sire, and stiffened his spine, drawing himself up to his full height. He was much taller than the norm. He was, he knew, an impressive figure, and he smiled slightly at the reaction of the crowd.
Aunt Matilda stepped forward—or the Countess d’Armand, Magnus reminded himself—and said, “Welcome to Castle d’Armand, nephew Magnus.”
Magnus suppressed the jolt of surprise he felt at the term “castle”—this glittering assemblage of baroque and rococo towers and arches might have been a palace, but certainly not a castle—and inclined his head politely. “Thank you, Countess.”
It was the right choice; she smiled, pleased, but assured him, “ ‘Aunt Matilda,’ nephew—we are all family here.”
That was true enough, Magnus reflected—for the whole asteroid, not just Castle d’Armand.
“Your relatives.” Matilda gestured toward the mob behind her, and one buxom, blonde vision pushed forward, eyes alight with curiosity and eagerness, reminding Magnus that he was probably the biggest event to happen all year—anything to break the monotony. The Countess tried to give the girl a frown of displeasure, but she couldn’t sustain it. “My youngest granddaughter, Pelisse.”
The lady stepped forward, extending her hand. Magnus bowed his head and pressed Pelisse’s fingers briefly to his lips, trying to adjust to the notion of his uncle’s youngest being nearly of an age with him, the eldest of Rod’s children—but Uncle Richard was older than Rod by a few years, and had no doubt begun his family at a younger age.
Then Magnus looked up into the largest pair of sky-blue eyes he had ever seen, framed by a wealth of blonde hair so light as to be almost white, and froze, feeling as though he’d been filled with a humming energy, and as though his brain were not quite within his skull any longer. Desperately, he reminded himself that she was his first cousin, and that helped—but his hackles were still raised.
“I shall look forward to your closer acquaintance, cousin,” she said, with amusement in her heavy-lidded glance, and the Countess cleared her throat. Pelisse made a moue and stepped back. Aunt Matilda said, “Your cousin Rath,” and a long, lean individual stepped forward to give Magnus a perfunctory bow, and a look of morose hostility.
It helped bring Magnus back to the reality of the situation. He returned the bow stiffly, and Aunt Matilda said, “Your cousin Robert…”
Inwardly, Magnus sighed, and braced himself for a long session of bowing and kissing hands.
A long half-hour later, he straightened up from greeting the last relative, and turned to Aunt Matilda with a frown—which he quickly removed. Fess, I’ve not met the Count!
It would be impolitic to ask why, Fess replied, broadcasting on the frequency of human thought, but in the encoded mode of the Gallowglass family. You may, however, request permission to greet him.