“And how do we know that's sufficient? How will we know they work? That they don't pinch, or leak, or whatever?”
“Oh ye of little faith! We'll have to test them, obviously, and while we could rig a special chamber here on Bubble Hood, we do eventually have to visit the surface. Go make a backup copy of yourself, boyo. I'm issuing my first royal proclamation: that you and I, Ho Ng and Steve Grush, will visit the planet next shift. Have your people prep a reentry vehicle. In fact, have them prep two, and print an extra copy of yourself to bring along. There may be unforeseen hazards, and a bit of redundancy never hurts.”
Conrad processed these words with mingled disappointment and relief. Suddenly, he was not in charge anymore. Bascal was resuming the mantle of leadership, establishing the early facets of civilian government, under which the military chain of command would fit. Fortunately, while Conrad had gotten used to his leadership role, he hadn't sought it, nor ever particularly relished it. His rebellious youth was still pretty fresh; if he stopped to calculate, he was probably thirty chronological years old, maybe even younger than that. Running a planet, or at least an orbiting colony above one, was an interesting experience, and educational, and most of his duties related to that would presumably continue for the foreseeable future. He would simply be answering to his king rather than himself or, via long-distance transmission, to Xmary. And that was a good thing, right?
He forced a smile, and then felt a genuine smile creep up underneath it, propping it up. “As you wish, Your Highness. Visiting the planet, wow. This is one of those historic events, isn't it?”
“Conrad, I wouldn't dream of doing it without you.”
Conrad's Bubble Hood quarters were considerably roomier, and more nicely appointed, than his quarters onboard Newhope. Here he had a bilevel apartment, with not only an exterior view through the hull, looking down on the beiges and browns and disconcerting blues of the planet, but also one looking out over the interior of the bubble itself. Keeping an eye on things, yeah, but more importantly he simply enjoyed the view. When he was finally permitted to quit his position as Newhope's first mate in absentia, and as a commander in what would become Barnard's navy, he would probably miss these privileges of rank. But he would hang onto this apartment!
His long-term plans, ever clearer in his mind, were painfully straightforward: he would be the Chief Architect of the Kingdom of Barnard. He probably didn't even need to make that a request, and if he did, it was difficult to imagine that Bascal would refuse him. And maybe that, in the long run, was a better rank, with a whole kingdom of privileges to choose from. It was certainly a pleasant, daydreamy sort of thought.
But when he entered his apartment, stepping through as the door recognized him and curled open, he found the ceiling flashing red—the signal he'd told the apartment to use when messages were waiting which required immediate attention, but which were not actual life-or-death matters worth interrupting him at work or tracking him down in a corridor somewhere. This drove all other thoughts from his mind.
“Play message,” he said.
He was expecting something from Bascal, some addendum or correction, but instead a hologram of Xmary appeared, hanging down from the ceiling in a column of not-quite-invisible light. He stepped toward it, and it retreated an equal distance, for if it didn't, its illusion of three-dimensionality would break down in a confusion of distortions. Still, it looked uncomfortably like Xmary was backing away from him in fear. And he didn't like that, so he stood his ground, and Xmary stood hers.
“Yes?” he asked the recording.
“Hello, Conrad,” the recording said. “You look well.”
“I feel well,” he answered. “We're about to visit the planet, Bascal and I. Visit the surface, I mean. It's very exciting. It's the culmination of a lot of waiting and effort, obviously, and I feel sorry for the four thousand people who don't get to go. But it'll be just like old times. Me and Bascal, Ho and Steve. Raising a little hell.”
The recording's smile had a strained quality. “That sounds nice. Conrad, I know I should tell you this in person. I know it's awful to send a recording, and I apologize for that. But there just isn't opportunity. It'll be months before I see you again, and this conversation can't wait.”
Conrad felt a sinking sensation in his gut. “You're breaking off with me.”
The recording looked at the floor.
“This,” Conrad said, “is where you say, ‘No, no, nothing like that.' This is where you reassure me.”
“I wish I could,” the recording answered, with simulated gloom. “I wish things were different, but they aren't. I can't live like this, and if you search your heart, I doubt you're really enjoying it either. We have to be fair to ourselves.”
“Especially to you,” Conrad said, with sudden, sullen bitterness. Had he been anything less than supportive and loving? He hated to use the word perfect, but hadn't he been exactly that? What could he possibly have done to deserve this? Nothing!
“I'm so sorry.”
“I told you you should leave a copy with me, Xmary, or I should leave one with you. These things are workable. Or is that not it? Is there someone else involved? Some new interest catching your eye?”
The recording shrugged. “I don't have that information, Conrad. I'm just a recording. Does it matter?”
“You're damn right it matters! Shit, the mating pool is pretty limited up there. Is it Money Izolo? Is it Peter? Or one of the kids, fresh from storage? Is he better for you than I am? Oh, my gods, you're breaking off with me to bunk with some career spaceman. How humiliating.”
“He's not a career spaceman.”
Conrad felt his eyebrows rise. “No? He's on the ship. He's not leaving, or you'd see the same problem with him that you claim to see with me. Anyway, I thought you didn't have that information.”
The recording shrugged. “I suppose I do. I'm not self-aware in the way that you are, Conrad. I'm not here to be interrogated.”
“Ah. I see. You're some measly petabyte avatar, here to insert your barbs and evaporate into the ether.”
Unhappily: “Something like that. I'm truly sorry, Conrad.”
“You're sorry? I thought you weren't self-aware. Listen, Ms. Recording, this is a very small community we live in. I'm going to hear this person's name sooner or later, and I'd rather hear it from you.”
“Would you? Are you so certain of that?”
His lip curled. “Don't get smart with me. If you're not Xmary, you have . . . no right to talk to me like that. I want a name.”
The recording sighed. “It's Feck.”
“Feck?” Conrad gaped. “Yinebeb Fecre? Feck the Fairy? Again?”
Now the recording managed to look annoyed. “That's not what they call him, Conrad, and you know it.”
And that was true. He was “Feck the Facilitator,” hero of the August Riots and proud explorer of Xmary's pants. And he was . . . not a bad fellow. Damn it.
“How can Xmary do this to me? How, exactly, can she feel this is justified?”
“I'm sorry, Conrad.”
“Who does she think she is? Does she think she has the right to treat someone like this? She said she loved me. Was that just a lie? We've been together for, what? Fifteen subjective years? Even longer for you. For her. This is what I get? What I somehow deserve?”
“I'm sorry, Conrad.”