I had no idea what he was talking about, and I was about to run the recording back when he picked his helmet up off the clean pad where it had been sitting. The mirrored visor made a brief infinity loop with the recording wall screen — a million helmets strobed. “Look, if you saw this by itself, up close, you would assume someone was in it, right?” He slid the visor up to show the empty interior. “My guess is, these people — let’s call them the Company, like an opera company — have left their physical forms behind long ago. They might even be dead and gone, but that’s another libretto.” Again, that irritating grin. “But what they haven’t done is given up art. Just as our operas often imitate the past in which they were written, the Company’s art mimics the time when they had bodies. Entire constructs that perform acts of aggression and destruction and who knows what else? Programmed, operating in empty space at the edge of a distant galaxy, for the nostalgic pleasure of bodiless alien intelligences. Of course they would violently destroy what they come into contact with — because they’re pretending to be the kind of ancient savages that would do that. But that’s why I’m guessing that the Company are no longer wearing bodies — they assumed that anything they came in contact with would be more of their own lifeless constructs, part of this art form of theirs that we can’t hope to understand…yet.
“So that’s my idea, and in an hour or so we’ll find out if it’s true. I’ve convinced the captain it’s worth a try, and she’s brought in the other Confederation ships, so at the very least I will be the center of a fairly expensive little drama of my own.” Balcescu stood then, his helmet under his arm as though he were some kind of antique cavalier. “Sorry I couldn’t explain this to you in person, but as I said, it’s been a busy last 48 hours or so, putting together my hypothesis and then getting ready to test it.” He turned toward the door. “But I did want to thank you, Mr. Jatt. You opened my eyes in a couple of ways, and that doesn’t happen very often.”
I’ll bet it doesn’t, I thought, but suddenly I wished I’d told him my first name.
“And now one of two things are going to happen,” the recorded Balcescu said. “Either I’m wrong somehow — about the purpose of that ship, or about how realistic and thorough its defenses are, in which case by the time you see this I’ll have been delatticed, as Diane puts it. Or, I’ll be right, and I’ll be able to use the little bit of Company language I’ve put together, along with some useful algorithms from Dr. Swainsea, to override the programming and cancel the show, as it were.” He moved to the door of his cabin, so that he stood just at edge of the recorded picture. “And if I succeed with that, then I’m going to start looking for some kind of emergency return pod. You see, the Confederation are welcome to the ship itself. I don’t give a damn about how it works or how far it came to get here or anything of the things they want to know. I just want to go where the show is happening — where the opera, or religious passion play, or children’s game, or whatever this thing represents, is really going on. I’m hoping that the Company has some kind of recoverable module — like a ship’s black box — and that it will return to their space, wherever that might be. I intend to be on it.
“How could I miss that chance? A whole new culture, language, and even more importantly, a whole new art form! Nine muses aren’t going to be enough anymore, Mr. Jatt. So that’s why I made this recording, my friend. Either way, I wanted to say thank you — and goodbye.” And with that the recorded Balcescu held out his comwand and the recording went black.
Maybe he hadn’t guessed how soon I’d watch the recording — maybe he was still on the alien ship. I commed the captain’s cabin but she was on the observation deck with everyone else, celebrating. I rushed up, but before I could say a thing to Captain Watanabe or any of the other officers I spotted Dr. Swainsea leaning against the biggest view-portal looking out at the jellyfish ship, so strange, so large, so distant.
“Doc…Doc…!” I called as I ran up.
“I know, Rahul,” she said without turning. “Look — there it goes.” She pointed. I thought I could see a dim streak of light moving away from the alien ship — but not toward the Visser ring, I was surprised to see. “God only knows what kind of path those things travel,” she said. “Well, Stefan will find out soon enough.”
“You knew what he was going to do?”
“Of course. I helped him.” She looked at me. “Oh, Rahul, what else was I going to do? Beg him to stay? We had…maybe the beginning of something. How could that compete against a Big Idea, especially for a man who lived for big ideas? No, I couldn’t have asked him and he couldn’t have agreed — we both would have hated ourselves. You’ll understand someday.”
I understand now, I wanted to say, but everyone needs to tell their own story their own way. You don’t have to be six feet tall to know that. “It was just…” I shook my head. “At first I didn’t like him. But then, I kind of thought he and I might be…we might…”
“It might have been the beginning of a beautiful friendship?” she asked. Something in my expression must have amused her, because she laughed. “You don’t think you’re the only one who watches old pictures, do you?”
“I guess not.” I frowned. “I think Balcescu’s crazy, anyway. We’ve already got music and art and Fred Astaire and Katharine HePRETTY BOYurn and Howard Hawks — do we even need a tenth muse?”
“I need a drink,” she said. “Then maybe I’ll feel a little bit less like Ingrid Bergman.”
We walked across the observation deck, threading our way through the happy crew members, many of whom were already well into the champagne. She still looked sad, so I reached up and took Doc Swainsea’s hand…Diana’s hand. Lose a friend, make a friend. Sometimes life does imitate art, I guess.
“Well,” I told her — my best Bogart — “whatever else happens, we’ll always have Rainwater Hub.”
The Lamentably Comical Tragedy (or the Laughably Tragic Comedy) of Lixal Laqavee
“ I am not a magician,” Lixal Laqavee announced to the shopkeeper who had come forward at the ringing of the bell upon the counter, “but I play one in a traveling show.”
“Then you have come to precisely the right place, sir,” the man said, smiling and nodding. “Twitterel’s Emporium is known throughout the length of Almery for its unrivaled selection of effects, marvels, and confidence enhancers.”
“And are you Twitterel?” Lixal inquired. “The one whose name is above the door of this establishment?”
“I have that honor,” said the small, bewhiskered man and brushed a fleck of dust from his velvet robe. “But let us not waste time on such trivia as my name. How may I serve you, sir? Flash-dust, perhaps? It gives the impression of a great outrush of thaumaturgical energies while posing no great danger to its employer.” Twitterel reached into a ceramic jar on the scarred counterop and produced a handful of silvery dust, which he threw to the floor with a flick of his wrist. It burst with a percussive crack and produced a voluminous puff of white smoke. The shopkeeper then fanned vigorously with his hand until he and Lixal were face to face again. “As you see, it also provides ample distraction for a well-conceived disappearance or sleight-of-hand effect.”
Lixal nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I think a portion or two of flash-dust might serve admirably, although by no means will it fulfill all my needs.”
“Ah!” Twitterel smiled, showing fewer teeth than one might expect even in a man his age. “A gentleman who wishes his impostures to be both believable and exciting. May I say, sir, that your audience will thank you for your care. Perhaps this length of rope, which when properly exhibited seems to have the living qualities of a serpent? Or this Benaraxian Cabinet, whose interior can comfortably contain a shapely female assistant — the type whose curvaceous form, and your menacing of same with these cleverly constructed sabers, will particularly stimulate your audience…”