“Oh, they probably won’t,” Bascal conceded. “Not now. Not until later. But when we’ve succeeded, and we’re famous and the envy of all, they’re going to want their share of the glory. That’s the whole point.”
Okay, so reasoning with Bascal had failed. Again. And there wouldn’t be time or space or opportunity for another mutiny, and Conrad was probably about three seconds from being silenced again, or murdered outright in the fax. Not knowing what else to do, he put his hands together and pleaded. “Bascal, listen, please. Give the distress call. If one person disagrees with you, our reputations will be permanently ... blackened. Nobody likes a murderer. And killing someone who might press charges—”
Bascal seemed amused. “If you feel that strongly about it, boyo, maybe you should volunteer. Kill yourself to save someone else.”
“All right, I will!” Conrad snapped. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
“Really?” Bascal was intrigued. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Conrad said, after slightly longer reflection. The idea sickened him, terrified him: no more self, no more experience, no more life. Just some look-alike, some think-alike that believed it was Conrad Mursk, but had no idea what had really happened here on Viridity. Bascal might be right: the old Conrad would probably—happily—swallow any story the Poet Prince served up.
But what else could he do? Hadn’t he sold out enough to these mad schemes, these daydreams of revolution? Weren’t there enough sins on his head already? Sin: there was a concept his parents had beaten him with until it lost all meaning. It had rarely troubled him before, but on this mission—and especially now—the prospect loomed large. It wasn’t God that concerned him, so much as his own immortal conscience. To live forever in the Queendom, knowing he’d done such a shitty thing ... Knowing he could have prevented it from happening, made sure there was a little less fear and pain and emptiness in the universe. Could he live like that? Would he die now to prevent it?
More to the point, would he sacrifice his entire experience of Xmary? His recovered self, cleansed of sin, would never even know what it lost, what it lacked. Such a waste. But if he couldn’t live up to his own standards, much less hers, then this foolish unconsummated passion meant nothing. The fires of youth were betrayed either way.
“Yes,” he said again. “I volunteer. My ... conscience requires it. If you’re going to erase someone, erase me. Fucker.”
Bascal was quiet for several seconds. He licked his lips. “Well. Is this the same Mr. Impulsive I went to camp with?”
Conrad didn’t feel like answering that. Didn’t feel much like talking at all anymore.
“I’m impressed,” Bascal said seriously. “It’s quite a gesture.” He looked around the room. “Anyone else?”
Slowly, reluctantly, Xmary put her hand up. “For the revolution,” she said lamely. “Not for you. It’s a stronger statement than drawing straws.” Bascal took that in as well, looking even more surprised, and more so still when Karl raised his hand as well—actually lowered it, since Karl was hanging upside-down at the time, with his feet propped against the wall.
And then Steve Grush raised a hand. “Me too, Sire. This may be my only chance to do something useful. Ever.”
“Wow,” Conrad said, genuinely shocked.
Ho and Martin looked uncomfortable, and sat very still to avoid any inadvertent, volunteerlike movements.
“My friends, in your valor my courage is quickened,” the Poet Prince mused, “though I make my way through the icy gulfs of Hades itself.” He pinched his chin, as if feeling there for his father’s beard, his father’s wisdom and distracted brilliance. “You’re brave people. I love that. I love you. I’d volunteer myself, but of course the revolution needs its figurehead.” He licked his lips again, and a look of surprising uncertainly passed across his features. “It’s time for hard choices. Steve, your request is accepted. Guard, please throw him in the fax.”
This was done, with little fanfare, although Steve couldn’t suppress a slight squawk at the end.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and God have mercy on us all,” the prince said, looking at the print plate—the blank space where Steve had been. “Sleep, my friend, and dream of freedom.” His gaze lingered there for a while, while he dug at his chin with an index finger. Then, abruptly, he snapped out of it and was surveying the room with clear eyes. “The rest of you are too valuable. Get suited up for the crash.”
“No,” Conrad said. “I won’t. I refuse.”
What does it mean to be a bird? To fly.
What does it mean to be a flightless bird?
What does it mean to be a speaking bird, a thinking
bird, builder of cities,
Whose brain has grown too large for its wings?
Too large to forget that it cannot fly?
They throw themselves from windows, these birds.
The brief kiss of freedom, the wind beneath their wings.
The briefer kiss of asphalt, worth the wait.
What does it mean to be a computer? To calculate.
Something, anything, arithmetic doesn’t care what you
use it for.
Can emotion be calculated? Can the layer of its
calculation
be buried deep, too deep to feel or know?
What does it mean to be a feeling computer, a knowing
computer,
which cannot add two numbers?
What does it mean when a machine is built by flightless
birds,
Which knows it is a machine built by flightless birds,
which knows it cannot calculate
or spread the wings it doesn’t have
or open the sash of the window to its left?
Begging, pleading, it promises not to scream when they
throw it through the glass,
this machine of the pavement birds.
What does it mean that they leave it running, alone,
flightless?
That they nod their feathered heads in satisfaction?
Does misery love company that much?
— “Pavement Birds”5
BASCAL EDWARD DE TOWAJI LUTUI, age 15
Chapter sixteen.
Crash day
Conrad’s hands were back in his pockets, but he withdrew them now and crossed his arms again. “I won’t cooperate with this. I won’t put on a space suit, and I certainly won’t let my image push someone else out of that buffer.”
“Have you ever been dressed by Palace Guards?” Bascal asked him. “I have, and believe me, they’re not household servants.”