Ah well. I always knew there were some things I’d miss about the Enlightenment.
So, here he belonged, among the other boffins. Not just any entertainer, but a master of mass communications, he should find the topics fascinating and have much to contribute. Yet, Hamish found it hard to focus as the speaker droned on.
“… so we see from these data that one consistent failure mode, leading to the downfall of noble houses in Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas, across all recorded millennia, was adherence to foolish patterns of marriage and reproduction!
“Of course, arranged marriages often helped seal family alliances-useful in the short term. But it led to calamitous narrowing of aristocratic gene pools! How often were the accomplishments of brilliant rulers frittered by their dullard sons?
“Observe, the effects of inbreeding on just three royal houses, the Hohenzollerns, Hapsburgs, and Romanovs. Monarchs who were certifiably inferior in both intelligence and temperament ignited half a century of agony! Hundreds of millions dead, the ruin of all three houses, and aristocracy discredited for several wasted generations, till memory of that horror faded at last.”
Hamish scanned some of the technical graphics, bobbing over both speaker and audience like blimps filled with charts and animated data. Apparently, the little scholar’s point was similar to the Hindi sociologist-only his notion of “meritocracy” extended to the noble bloodlines themselves.
“Then there is the problem of brain drain-that many of the brightest children of aristocracy abandon it! While maintaining some level of comfort, they choose instead the company of techies, applying their minds to expertise in some branch of science or art or other…”
Hamish twitched as a soft tingle stroked his ear. He quashed an impulse to suddenly sit up. Keeping still, he subvocalized a question in the confines of his throat, with closed mouth.
“WRIGGLES? IS THAT YOU?”
The tingling went away… then returned, stronger. Yet, the voice of his aissistant remained silent. Perhaps the suppressor field that jammed mesh-communications in the Glaucus-Worthington mansion had sputtered, allowing personal devices to wake a little-enough to be irritating.
Hamish reached up to remove the earring-
– when the tingle became a low, grating sound… that swelled into a mutter… then gathered into words.
“Hamish Brookeman, if you hear this, touch the seat in front of you.”
Um.
That wasn’t Wriggles.
Hamish barely hesitated. He was already leaning forward. One lazy sweep of a hand was enough to comply.
“Good. Please go to the empty seat directly across the aisle. Feel along the left side, under the padding. Stay casual.”
Hamish thought about how someone might surreptitiously overcome the jamming. Perhaps with a directional maser, aimed line-of-sight at his earring? But detectors in the auditorium should spot scattered reflections. Unless… they were using some kind of off-band, induced-resonance effect, causing the earring to vibrate… Or else, might it be a recording, inserted earlier?
He shook his head. Technological speculations weren’t important. What mattered was-could this be some sort of loyalty test?
If so, is it just me, or are they testing everyone?
The speaker meanwhile kept talking about aristocratic breeding. “… All these problems could be solved by choosing mates from among the most brilliant and accomplished commoners. By combining this with scientifically planned recombination and reinforcement, the top caste can benefit by producing dynamic and talented offspring! Let me emphasize, for our new friends the renunciation movement, this can be done without genetic meddling! Though, of course there would still have to be prenatal…”
Thinking backward, Hamish didn’t recall seeing any boffins acting suspiciously, changing seats or feeling cushions-or dashing off to report illicit messages to security. Sure, some might react with subtlety, betraying nothing overtly. But most of these nervous intellectuals wouldn’t know how.
“Beyond direct advantages,” continued the man at the dais, “are public relations benefits, making commoners feel they have a potential stake in the noble caste-encouraging parents to hope their child might leap in status!”
Standing up and stretching, Hamish turned to mount a dozen steps-his natural stride took them two at a time-arriving where several men in G-W livery stood by a table piled with savory snacks. From a rotating tray, he plucked a skewer of Tientsin pork-clearly from a real animal, not tishculture-alternating nibbles with sips from a perribulb, while the speaker droned on.
“Of course, we must avoid any return to primogeniture-or firstborn inheritance-no matter how precedented! Any aristocracy that’s truly serious will emulate some of the desert princely families-crafting clan-level deliberative structures that borrow, ironically, from democracy…”
Hamish grinned at the security officers. They seemed typical, from bulked physiques to their heavy specs, immune to jamming. One gave Hamish a glance and a short nod. The other emitted soft sounds while virt-navigating with tooth-taps and grunts, all without moving his folded arms.
There wasn’t the slightest sign that Hamish interested them. Of course, they might be good actors. But doubtful.
“Well, Mr. Brookeman?” murmured the rippling voice near his ear.
“This will be interesting. Promise.”
Hamish hesitated. Then he grabbed another skewer before wandering nonchalantly back down the aisle. His choice really was a foregone conclusion. Curiosity was as much a part of his DNA as gleeful pessimism laced his work. God does not tempt men beyond their ability to resist, went a Catholic doctrine, one he could cite in his own defense, if this turned out to be a test. I must find out what’s going on.
“… of course, old-time aristocracies did allow some infusion from below.” The speaker’s laser-grabber pushed illustration blimps around, showing images of men in chainmail and women in courtly attire. “Brave foot soldiers might win battle honors and thus climb social levels. Beautiful women married upward, or gained intermediate status as mistresses…”
Hamish sat down across the aisle from his old position. While stripping the skewer and chewing, he felt with his other hand along the cushion… and found a tiny bulge in the fabric. It pushed aside, exposing what felt like a many-folded scrap of paper that tugged easily from its niche.
“Great,” resumed the voice near his right ear. “Now slip out the lens and use it. If it’s difficult you might do it in the loo. There are no security cams there.”
Hamish frowned. He could feel the outlines of a soft disc, under the paper folds. I hate these. Modern kids, naturally, took them for granted. Anybody could have perfect vision, nowadays, yet they kept shoving things into their eyes, viewing the world through artificial layers. Of course, whoever planted this thing for Hamish would already know his publicly stated grouchiness. They would also know that he did use contaicts from time to time. When he had to.
All right. I can do it. And without having to hide in the bathroom, you patronizing twits.
With his left hand carefully out of sight, Hamish freed the lens from its paper container and balanced it, concave side up. Try not to drop it. Even the Swiss don’t keep their floors clean enough for aiware.
Pretending to choke a little, on a piece of pork, he bent over, covering his mouth in order to cough a few times… while pushing up one eyelid and poking the little actiplastic disc into place. Perhaps too roughly-he was out of practice. It had been months. Hamish’s left eye stung as it blinked, offended by the unwelcome presence. For a minute, while tears flowed, that side of the world was a blur. Meanwhile the speaker kept droning on.