“Accepted,” she said, favoring him with the smile that had earned her the love of billions.
“The day grows late,” warned the red-haired Wenders Rodenbeck, in a tone that managed to convey at once a personal sadness, an official gravitas, and a semiamused kind of told-you-so. “A stiff wind rises at last, and we find our house of straw less sturdy than we’d hoped.”
“Don’t gloat, Poet Laureate,” the queen said, clearly annoyed. “It shows off the food in your teeth. If we’d listened to you all these years, I suppose the Queendom would still be a paradise, and never a tear would be shed?”
“No indeed, Majesty.” The playwright’s voice was, to Conrad’s ear, rather shrill, but in a way that enhanced rather than detracted from his air of authority. “I would suggest a more careful reading of my oeuvre, when time permits. In fact, my own paradise would likely have collapsed by now as well, for reasons we couldn’t imagine at the outset. Such is the fate of human endeavor; our vision is not extended merely by the stretching of our lifetimes.”
“Go on,” the queen said skeptically. “You have my attention. What remedies do you propose?”
“Why, none,” said Rodenbeck, spreading his hands as if this should have been obvious. “Who has taught me to plan for the long, long term? Where shall we draw our lessons, when this civilization of ours has outlasted all that came before it? The Queendom rose from the ashes of Old Modernity, which sprang from the embers of Rome, which drew upon the lessons of Greece, and Egypt before her. Indeed, Highness, Egypt had the Minoan example to emulate, and fair Atlantis was a focused echo of the civilizations of Indus and Jomon, drowned in the Deluge at the closing of the Ice Age.
“History is not linear, I’m afraid, but cyclic, for sustainability has never guided human affairs. And in banishing death, we simply condemn ourselves to observe the cycle from within. To live, as it were, in the filth we’ve excreted, with the sound of falling towers all around.”
“Ah,” said Tamra, “so we needn’t listen to you, then.”
“Not at all, Majesty. I am but a mote in the vastness, amazed by all that I perceive. Let’s do take a moment, though, to congratulate ourselves for all that we’ve accomplished. Even this ghastly destruction of Luna, yes, for it speaks to grand intentions. And here at the end of the day, we shall need a warm thought like that to remember ourselves by.”
“Quite,” the queen agreed, in a tone that closed the subject. And then, to Conrad: “We do have evidence, Architect, that Perdition is in regular contact with someone in the Queendom. Does that make you feel better?”
“Um, well,” Conrad said, “that depends on who they’re talking to.”
The queen’s smile deepened. “Someone charming, I’m sure. Shall we have dessert?”
Chapter Thirteen
in which the demands of beggars are voiced
It was, of course, the Fatalists with whom Perdition communicated, and while the details of their exchange were quantum-encrypted and thus impossible to decipher, archaeologists and historians agree on this much:
First, that the exchange was hundreds of petabytes long in both directions—more than adequate for a self-aware data construct to be passed back and forth several times. Or, alternatively, for several constructs to make the crossing once.
Second, that the Queendom recipients of these messages were, without a doubt, located well away from Earth and Mars and Venus. Mercury and the moons of Jupiter are considered unlikely but cannot be ruled out altogether. Almost anywhere else in the system is possible; no physical traces have ever been found.
Third, that the virus released into the Nescog on Lune Day was of Eridanian origin, or evolved from an Eridanian template which in turn traced its heritage back to the early Queendom. Sol had endured crippling network attacks during the Fall, and the “Eridge” plague showed a cunning grasp of both the strengths of that ancient assault, and the weaknesses of the contemporary network.
These weaknesses were few and slight, so the virus spread at only a tiny fraction of the classical speed of light, and was not truly lethal in its effects. Still, it was stealthy, and raised no conclusive alarms until it had wormed its way to the heart of every switch and router, collapsiter and precognitor in the system.
Conrad Mursk first learned of the attack indirectly, faxing home from a meeting with the Europan Ice Authority. As he stepped out of the print plate into his penthouse apartment in the city of Grace, he found himself staggering for a drunken moment. This was not entirely unheard of, for Grace was a floating city, and the Carpal Tower at its center was very slightly flexible. On windy days, you could feel the roll and sway of the city here as nowhere else.
But never this much. Though his balance reasserted itself, Conrad felt at once that something was wrong. For one thing he was covered with a fine white dust, like talcum powder. For another thing, the evening lights of the city below were not all lit. Some were flickering; others were simply out.
Worse, he had the distinct sense that there was something different about him. Inside, in his mind or his memories or his immortal soul. Nothing monumental—he was still Conrad Mursk of Ireland and Sorrow, Lune and Pacifica—but it seemed to him that he was suddenly peppered with small absences. With tiny half-remembered things, now wholly forgotten. Or was he imagining it?
“Call Xmary,” he said to the ceiling, but he needn’t have bothered, for moments later she spilled out of the fax in person. This was, after all, dinnertime, and she’d’ve called him already if her gubernatorial duties required her to be late, or to spawn an extra copy or two.
She was also covered in powder, and looked startled and subtly off-kilter.
“What just happened?” she said, fixing her eyes on Conrad, her hands on the black hair hanging down past her neck.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Are you all right?”
“I…” I think so, she’d been about to say. But something stopped her. She didn’t think so.
“Maintenance,” Conrad instructed the apartment. “Fax diagnostic, now.”
“All functions nominal, sir,” the fax said, sounding ever-so-slightly offended.
“Seconded,” said the ceiling. “No sign of anomalies.”
“Not here,” offered the floor. “But look at sir and madam. They’re quite disturbed. Perhaps they encountered a transit glitch.”
“Impossible,” the fax replied.
“Improbable,” the floor countered, “and yet—”
“Everyone shut up!” Xmary commanded firmly. “Conrad, do you feel…”
“Funny? Full of holes? Dusty? Yes. Something’s happening.”
Xmary looked up at the ceiling. “News.”
“Today’s top story: Travelers report fax anomalies. No details available. Please propagate this message on supraluminal channels where possible.”
Well, that was helpful.
“That could mean anything,” Xmary grumbled. “What travelers? Where? Us? Update the top story every time it changes, please.”
“Yes, madam. Today’s top story: This is a travel advisory. Travelers in the vicinity of Earth and Mars report minor cellular injury after Nescog transport. Citizens are advised to avoid Nescog travel wherever possible. No further details available. Please assign this story top priority on all civilian supraluminal channels.”
And then, on the heels of that: “Today’s top story: Her Majesty has declared a state of emergency. Please remain where you are, or limit necessary travel to licensed air, ground, and space vehicles. The Nescog is hereby reserved for authorized emergency personnel.”