A World Named Cleopatra

by Poul Anderson

  A gust of wind whistled through the crowd. Binh could withstand their blows indefinitely—soon they would forget him in their confusion. He felt drops of rain splattering on his back, and the distant booming of thunder. A downpour soaked through his jumpsuit. The crowd scattered, running for the shelter of the public buildings.

  As Binh stood up, pain shot through the small of his back. He felt the moistness of a bruise, and the pain increased. Simon ran up to him, grabbing his elbow as if he were about to collapse. Brushing him away, Binh walked back to his tent unsteadily, letting the droplets of rain run down his face. The technicians were erecting a protective dome over the stage as the storm gathered force to sweep in from the eastern seaside.

  Binh gazed out of his tent’s plastic window. The storm lashed the boulder-strewn beaches with icy surf.

  The clear weather had been an interval between storms. The rain beat against his tent more violently. He called Juan Bianco, his production assistant, on the intercom.

  “Yes.” Bianco’s abrupt voice crackled over the line.

  “Juan, this is Binh. I want to spend the night in First City. When is the next helicopter leaving?”

  “It isn’t. The storm has grounded everything. The bay is too choppy for hoverboats.”

  “Then get a room for me. I’ll drive right over.”

  “All right, but there’s a problem.” There was a tinge of irritation in his voice. “Some coaches are taping on their own.” Binh heard a babble of voices in the background.

  “I’m coming over,” Binh said, cutting off the intercom. For a moment, he stared through the window in confusion. No one had the authorization to tape without his permission. All the coaches knew that. What could they be thinking of?

  He rushed through the rain to his land car, and drove it toward the public buildings. The lowering clouds were purple verging on black. Lightning pulsed through them.

  The rapid change of weather made him feel as if he were losing control. When the Council had given him this assignment, he had been afraid it was too big for him to handle. Binh had made his reputation on small productions. He had never supervised more than three coaches, and his budgets had been minuscule compared to the one he was now juggling.

  Embrace the Swords, the hobo which had made him famous at twenty-three, was produced with only one assistant. He had used a crew of three on The Untold Want, which most critics considered his masterpiece. On that production, he had lighted the stage himself, and had operated a camera on almost every take.

  On this production Binh directed a huge crew. He sometimes felt powerless, as if the production’s momentum would snatch control of the project out of his hands.

  Bianco met him with an umbrella at the entrance to the public hall. He was swarthy, with thick lips and a broad nose. He stroked his bald head as he always did when a situation had passed beyond his control.

  “I’m glad you got here so quickly,” Bianco said. A confusion of voices floated down the hall from the interior of the building. Bianco glanced nervously over his shoulder, turning back to look at Binh with an exasperated expression.

  Entering the building, they walked down the corridor toward the public hall, where some sets had been erected. Binh had heard a crew member call Bianco “Binh Junior,” and he now realized that the description fit. Bianco wore a white jumpsuit like his own. Binh suspected that his assistant’s baldness was not natural. The man probably shaved his head to match Binh’s own hairlessness.

  Halfway down the corridor, Bianco touched his elbow, moving to block his way.

  “I think you should go in there knowing what’s happening,” Bianco said. “When I realized the storm would lock us in for the rest of the night, I set up some more equipment. We could use it to tape scenes if the weather hadn’t cleared up by tomorrow. That way, we could have some sequences down, and it would take less work once we got outside. We got all the equipment in place and Sobrino went berserk.”

  “Sobrino?”

  “Hussein’s representative. She has credentials from the Council, but since Hussein is financing our cost overrun, she answers directly to him.”

  For a moment, Binh’s mind was a blank. The name meant nothing to him. Then a memory flashed through his mind.

  Dia Sobrino. Benito M’Wabe, the critic, had introduced her at the party he had given in Binh’s honor at the beginning of the production. Amusement had flashed in the critic’s eyes as Binh and the woman had shaken hands. M’Wabe had continued to speak in his simpering voice, but his words merged into the general babble as Binh stared at Sobrino’s face. The woman stood with her arms akimbo, her face framed by a mass of frizzy brown hair. Binh had rarely been in contact with a woman who projected such overwhelming sexual energy. She looked at him with piercing black eyes. He kept glancing away in embarrassment, his eyes roaming over her muscular, khaki-clad body. Her large breasts were covered by a leather halter, and a silver-studded belt encircled her narrow waist. The woman’s beauty intimidated him, as if at bottom he could never be at peace with it.

  “She and Benito M’Wabe heliocoptered in from First City during the clear weather,” Bianco was saying, “while we were taping.”

  Binh could hear shouts coming from the public hall. He tried to move down the corridor toward them, but Bianco once again blocked his way.

  “I think you should know more,” he said.

  “Well, what are they doing?”

  “Sobrino is fronting for Hussein. Officially, the Council is funding the production, but now the truth is out. Half the original funding was his. Now he’s picking up the overrun. That gives him total control. He intends to keep a close watch.”

  A cheer echoed down the corridor. It sounded as if an audience had gathered in the public ball to watch some spur-of-the-moment entertainment.

  “Hussein,” Binh said absently. “That mob of reporters kept asking me about him. I’ve assumed Hussein was behind the Council all along. That’s nothing new.”

  “That’s not all,’ Bianco said abruptly, as if impatient with Binh’s lack of comprehension. “Sobrino is dangerous. I’ve seen her type in operation. She’s the purest of fanatics. She’d do anything for Hussein. He is financing Scientific Transcendence, he’s their charismatic leader. They advocate bringing to humans the kind of bio-engineering we use on fabers. We fought those battles twenty-five years ago. We won, but the other side’s back, and they’re strong. We’re lucky most of the production is in the can. Hussein’s close interest in us can only mean that he’s about to make demands. He might intend to use us as a propaganda ploy to force the Council to decontrol faber engineering and allow its application to humans It’s the only reason I can see for his support of the production.”

  Suddenly Osbeck appeared in the hall, staggering toward them as if he were drug-intoxicated. “Binh!” he shouted. “Tell your damn son to keep his hands off my work!” He paused, propping himself against the wall.

  “That’s the other thing,” Bianco said “Your son is here. He arrived sometime after Sobrino and M’Wabe. I don’t know how. He’s joined Hussein’s faction, and Sobrino’s taken him over. They’re both in there turning everything upside down.”

  “Damn right,” Osbeck said, his voice slurring. “That son of a bitch took my faber right off the stage in the middle of a drill. He said I didn’t have the right…”

  “Shut up, Osbeck!” Binh said: He felt like hitting the coach, but it would serve no purpose.

  “Maestro,” Bianco said, “we’ve got to get in there. We’ve got to stop whatever they’re doing.”

  Binh turned, nodding. Bianco followed as he hurried down the hall toward the sound of cheering.

  A group of technicians blocked the entrance. Binh did not recognize any of them. They had probably been among the group of sound mixers who had arrived from First City two or three days before. Lounging in the doorway, they wore white smocks. The sign of their guild was tattooed on the back of their left hands, a jagged, blue bolt of lightning.
>
  Binh and Bianco came to a halt and stood before them. There was amusement in the technicians’ eyes as they looked at him. For a moment, nothing was said. He had an urge to shout at them; the disrespect in their faces was plain. He wanted them to shrink away from the door with fear in their eyes. Then he could make a proper entrance into the hall.

  There was no need to shout Bianco gestured, and the technicians moved aside to clear a path for them. As Binh walked past them, his body tensed. The technicians loomed over him. He felt the warmth of their breaths as if the exhalations might burn his skin. Another wave of cheering and applause came out of the hall. Osbeck shouted something behind him, but the uproar drowned out his words.

  The hall was a jumble of people and equipment. The control room was located on a balcony which ran around the upper hail. Binh could see technicians working behind the soundproof glass as if taping were underway. Their faces were illuminated by the lights of their instruments.

  A crowd of idle crew, journalists, and hangers-on were massed in a circle, applauding and cheering. Binh could not see what was driving them into such a high pitch of enthusiasm. They were talking excitedly among themselves; no one noticed him.

  A hand squeezed his left shoulder. “I was wondering what took you so long to arrive,” a voice said.

  It was Benito M’Wabe. The critic smiled slightly, revealing a row of broken teeth. He wiped a gleam of perspiration off his upper lip with an ornate, white and gold silk handkerchief.

  “What’s happening here,, Benito?” Binh was glad to see M’Wabe in the midst of this confusion. The critic had given him his first favorable reviews, and had taken his side when The Untold Want aroused its initial storm of controversy. Since the early days, M’Wabe had always supported him in print, praising his talent even during the fallow period after the disaster of Robes of Repentance, when most of the other critics had deserted him.

  “You are truly remarkable, maestro,” M’Wabe lisped. “I had no idea you had opened yourself to such innovation. I have only seen such things in back alleys, among the desperate young. I haven’t dared to write about these performances—even a champion of the avant garde has to have some assurance he is right—but here you are, boldly leading the way. And on a government project.”

  “Benito, what are you talking about?”

  “Maestro, you needn’t be coy. I will not leak any word of this stunning breakthrough until I have your authorization.”

  The crowd broke into applause again, and M’Wabe beamed paternalistically. His wide nostrils flared as he smiled at Binh. Wrinkles furrowed his forehead.

  “But you will,” M’Wabe said after a moment, “give me an exclusive interview, before any critical jackals pollute your intentions with their stupidity and ignorance?”

  Binh glanced up at the control room. A technician clapped his hands together once, the signal that a taping had been completed. He then moved his right finger in a circle, signaling that the holo just taped was about to be replayed.

  Binh felt angry,. but tried to let the feeling pass. M’Wabe gestured at him again, but Binh walked away before the critic could speak. The crowd was disbanding, and he wanted an open view of the replay area.

  He looked for Philip in the crowd. Why had Philip not come to him as soon as he arrived on the island? He had last seen his son two years ago. The meeting had been brief. Philip, without consulting him, had dropped out of the Thespian Institute. He had intended to go into the Pindarian Mountains where he would live in a spiritual commune.

  A chill went through Binh as he remembered. There bad been nothing to say. Philip had told him of his plans, with a look of defiance, as if he had expected Binh to oppose him. But Binh had been involved in a project. There had always been a project. Had it been Remembered Sins? Binh was horrified that he could not recall. He had not argued with Philip, as if his son had been a stranger.

  Standing before the replay area, Binh let the memories fade. The floor sensors flickered as the machine was readied for projection. If M’Wabe was so enthusiastic, he thought, why should I be apprehensive?

  The crowd gathered around him, buzzing with excitement. They had already seen whatever was to be projected here. Nothing was real for most of them unless they could see it holoed.

  M’Wabe came over to stand beside him, clasping his hands together as if he were a chef presiding over a steaming banquet table.

  “Speaking frankly, maestro,” he said, “you are a selfish man. After all, keeping your son’s talent from me, your greatest admirer, for all this time.”

  The hall filled with “ahs”. Two columns of mist rose up in the replay area as the room went dark. A rainbow of sparkling dots rapidly suffused both columns as the holotape leaders ran through the playback machines. Binh felt the anticipation of the crowd, and wondered why two tapes were being played simultaneously.

  Glancing over to the spot the crowd had abandoned, he saw holo-cameras grouped around only one performance area. He was angry once again. Surely some comparison was to be made—one of the unedited performances he had taped was being run. He would fire the person responsible for this. Only he could authorize the playing of a tape or the taping of a performance.

  The sparkling dots gradually faded, and the identifying codes flashed up and down the columns. The left holo was the first to clear. Binh’s image appeared in the center of the column. He made a beckoning gesture, and made notes on a clipboard.

  Bianco appeared at his side, taking Binh’s attention away from his representation in the holo projection.

  “I couldn’t do anything to stop this,” Bianco whispered in his ear. “They have written authorization from the Council.”

  Binh waved for him to be silent, turning back to the projection. The right column was still shimmering with multicolored dots, but he knew the left holo well.

  It was the ‘Inner Tape,” the centerpiece of his production. In it, two thesps, a male and female, danced an allegory of Cleopatra’s colonization. All the other mimes and dances reflected and expanded on it.

  The technicians were projecting a middle section of the “Inner Tape.” Since a final version had not been edited, Binh was visible at the beginning of the shot, as he prepared to give the unseen thesps their starting signal.

  A splice in the tape ran through the machine. Binh’s image jumped, and disappeared. An image of a male and female thesp abruptly replaced it.

  Bianco whispered to him again. “I didn’t know they’d gotten hold of this tape. I don’t think the control room crew is responsible. Sobrino must have forced it on them with her damned Council authorization.”

  The right column began to clear. A cloud of glimmering particles coalesced into a three-meter-tall image of Philip. He had his arm around a short, muscular woman. It was Dia Sobrino. They both wore black leotards. The fabric strained against the curves of her breasts. Philip stared blankly into the camera as Sobrino lightly stroked his brown, curly hair.

  On the left tape, the, thesps began their dance. Jason was a Resnick, the most humanoid of the breeds.

  He stood silently as the superimposed face of Jasmine, his partner, swam up to fill the entire holo column. She represented Cleopatra as it was before the human colonization, when none of her species dominated her. Jasmine was one of the finest Ungers with which he had ever worked. He had coached her personally, emphasizing facial mimes which would suggest the aboriginal faber. The Unger breed was perfectly fitted to this task, since its genetic pool contained so many primitive features. Most of his contemporaries would not use Ungers because their tails had not been completely bred away; their appearance in a production smacked of the retrograde, the sentimental. For Binh’s Inner Tape, however, only an Unger would do.

  The crowd applauded, bringing Binh out of his reverie. Philip, imitating Jason, lay face down as Dia Sobrino’s face filled the holo column. Her dark eyes glistened as she imitated Jasmine’s facial expressions.

  Binh winced at the effort she put into her performanc
e. This was not alien, virginal Cleopatra. There was a look of decadence in Sobrino’s face, so unlike the smoothness of faber youth for which Binh had striven.

  Jasmine was running through a gracefully executed series of facial expressions, each one surgically and pharmaceutically programmed. The thesp’s will was not involved. Like all thesps, she was a biological machine totally controlled by the changes induced by two centuries of dedicated scientists and technicians. Given the intervention of a gifted coach, Jasmine’s performance could only be what it was, perfect and fully whole. This was the ultimate justification for the two-hundred-year development of his art.

  Yet these professionals, who had devoted their lives to this art, were entranced with Sobrino. They watched her face in total fascination, ignoring Jasmine’s subtle movements.

  Binh looked away from the holos in anger. He watched M’Wabe hold a lorgnette up to his eyes by its golden stem. The critic smiled as if in rapture. Even this supposed guardian of the highest cultural standards was enchanted by this incompetent performance. What was worse, he thought Binh responsible for this travesty of his production’s grand design.

  Bianco fidgeted beside him. He understood the gravity of the disruption. Fingering his chin, the assistant avoided Binh’s stare, as if to say “What could I have done?”

  In the two holo columns, the gestures of Jasmine and Sobrino were roughly synchronized. M’Wabe threw his arm over Binh’s shoulders. Binh flinched. The weight of the critic’s arm was heavy. M’Wabe’s meaty hand squeezed his shoulder tightly.

  “It is even more delicious on tape,” he said in a stage whisper. Those closest in the crowd, meant to hear this comment, smiled and nodded. The imprimatur had been given.

  The heads of Jasmine and Sobrino floated in the holo projection spaces like slowly rotating planets. Binh let his anger pass. Let the two tapes be compared, he thought. The novelty will fade. The sense of an artistic breakthrough will pall. Jasmine’s grace will soon make Sobrino’s crude performance abhorrent.