“But what’s to be done?” Bascal asked, putting his elbows down and leaning forward across his plate. Looking friendlier and more engaged. “The Moderns responded by conquering death, which helped not at all. Now the problem simply lasts forever.”
“Long, perhaps,” Tamra answered. “Not forever.”
“Long enough to crush all hope,” the prince said firmly. “And I ask again: what is your solution?”
Bruno had finished the last of his sandwiches and was toying with a little fork. “If you like, Son, I can promise you the moon. Literally. Come back to my study and I’ll show you the plans.”
“A bribe?” the prince said disdainfully. “Give me some credit, Father. It’s all of posterity that concerns me.”
“Well, crushing the moon would be a huge project even by Queendom standards. The combined effort of thousands, perhaps millions, of people. And later a home for even more.”
“Ah. And then what? Most of your subjects have yet to be born. What happens when forty billion people become eighty billion? A hundred billion? What circuses will you devise for their amusement? Your offer is tempting but misguided. The Queendom’s monopoly admits no competition, and therefore offers no escape.”
“There’ll always be other projects,” said a visibly irked king. “If you don’t like mine, go devise your own. You’re neglecting the real irony here: that your mother and I were drafted for these roles, to put a human face on the consensual hallucination of government. You were simply born. Understand, Bascal, the Queendom’s real power isn’t here in the palace at all, but in the hearts of her people. If you can’t make your case there, then you”—he scanned the faces around the table—“and those you speak for, should find some other mountain to climb.”
And here Conrad felt a flicker of sympathy for Bruno, who really was trying to address this problem, though he didn’t quite believe in it. And in the addressing, he’d dreamed up an enterprise—a good one—for his son to inherit. You had to give him points for that much, even if everything else was wrong.
“Someday,” Tamra said, “you’ll have children of your own, impatient for you to step aside, and this debate will come back to haunt you. Your whining would carry more weight if you simply delayed it a hundred years. Your internal clock runs fast. This much is in the wiring; we’ve considered amending the genome to correct it, although a great deal more study is needed before we dare unleash a solution. In the meantime, young man, you really are going to live forever. A bit of old-fashioned patience would improve your character enormously, and bring you closer to the day when you are fit to rule.”
“Easy for you to say, Mother! If I lack character, then surely, as a corollary, I lack the patience to seek it. And whose fault would that be?”
“Fair enough,” the queen agreed, in her only concession of the day. “Your concerns—representative of a small but pivotal demographic—are noted. We shall ponder them further while you finish your term at camp.”
“We’re going back, then,” Bascal said. “To the dumping ground.”
“Don’t be melodramatic,” she chided. “You may learn to appreciate the comforts of our age. Of civil discourse, perhaps even of dining with your parents. If not, then it may be that your camp isn’t rugged enough. Shall we arrange some bad weather for you?” She touched a napkin to her lips and stood up. “I have meetings, I’m afraid.”
“Send a copy,” Bascal snapped.
“I have,” the queen replied evenly. “Several. But the day is fluid, and things keep coming up. I’ll spare you the good-bye kiss.” She looked around the table. “A pleasure meeting you, children. Your companionship is appreciated. In the future, though, do kindly stay out of trouble. If we have to do this again, I’ll be most disappointed. His Majesty will now escort you to the dumping ground. Dear?”
She nodded to her husband, and then with a swishing and rustling of fabrics, she was gone. Conrad felt bemused, and yes, somewhat torn. She was so easy to love. It was part of why she’d been elected—or drafted—in the first place, and the effect was even more pronounced in person than it was on TV. But she was belittling her son’s grievances, and with them an entire—and much-aggrieved—generation.
“We won’t cooperate,” Bascal said to his father. “It wouldn’t be right.”
“No?” the king replied, thinking about it. “We’ve pulled all the humans off the planette, and replaced them with Palace Guards. From this point on, your cooperation and approval are rather moot. You’re only seventeen, lad.”
“Yes. And someday I’ll be ‘only a hundred,’ and then ‘only a thousand.’ Why is it—how is it—that adults forget so quickly what it means to be powerless? When exactly does your attitude fossilize? Mine is still living, still breathing and growing, despite all attempts to petrify it. I’ll always be younger than you, Father. My approval will always be moot.”
Patiently: “By the time you’re a thousand, the difference in our ages will be comparatively small, and you’ll have no excuses left. What a sad day that will be. No one is asking you to grow up at this moment, lads. No one is forcing you to take on responsibility before you’re ready. Relish that, hmm? You’re going to live forever, and once you’ve left childhood behind there’s no reclaiming it. You have my word on that.”
He mused for a further moment, and said, “You know, that camp of yours is gorgeous, probably the finest planette ever built. Did you know there are seven thousand tunable environment variables? Ultimately, the project funding came from my own pocket, so I’ve kept an eye on things. When I was your age I would have loved ... would have ...” His voice trailed away wistfully. Then his gaze jumped up suddenly, and settled on Xmary. “Egad, child, are you a girl?”
“No,” she replied, sounding indignant. Sounding just exactly like an indignant nineteen-year-old girl.
“Hmm,” the king said, studying her for a moment. “All right. No offense meant. Your friends will tease you for it, but the error is mine. Shall we go, then?”
Bascal held his arms out, roadblock style, and looked around warningly. Nobody move.
Seeing this, Bruno nodded. “Hmm. Yes. Well, if you won’t cooperate, you won’t cooperate. I was young once; I remember how it was. We’ll have the guards drag you kicking and screaming through the fax, all right? We’ll all preserve our honor that way.”
Then he looked right at Conrad and winked—a conspiratorial gesture of such portentous friendliness and condescension that the lad would, in some small way, never be the same again.
Chapter six.
Camp discontent
“We’ve got to get off this egg,” Bascal said, for at least the hundredth time that day.
“Learn to fly,” Conrad replied, dropping another peach pie into his bucket. The fax gates wouldn’t open until the end of the term, and that was that. It turned out they also wouldn’t produce any food except chocolate s’mores, roasted marshmallows, and the godawful “beans and franks” slop that tasted like the bottom of somebody’s shoe. Whose brilliant idea that was was a subject of constant speculation, but Bascal’s money was on the queen, and Conrad figured he was probably right.