by Joe Pace
“This can hardly be an idle invitation, love. Something’s afoot. And regardless, when a member of the Privy Council says come, you come. I’ll arrange for Edith to check in on James during the night, and we’ll go.”
****
Saturday next came, and William and Mary Pearce were at the Douglas Bay tube station at twenty minutes before eight, he in a muted black suit and she in her new dress, indigo with white trim. Pearce tried vainly to recall the last time the two of them had ventured out into society. He dimly remembered a dinner in Old Soho with Colin Wilcox and his wife, right after both men had become Lieutenants. Fifteen years ago? Maybe more. They had all gotten drunk on an imported Centauri vintage, more than they could afford, but back then even a junior Lieutenant’s pay had seemed like all the money in the world. Pearce could still recall how good the stripes had felt on his sleeve, and how much he loved to look at the golden anchor embroidered on his hat. Mary had stitched it on herself, in an outdated display of pride and tradition. They had been impossibly young then, naïve and hopeful about the world. Pearce posted to the Wyvern, a science vessel mapping the Leitzel cluster under her taciturn old Commander Jemadari Okoye. Wilcox drew service on the Furious, a battleship engaged in the Altair suppression. Pearce had come home. Wilcox never did. I haven’t thought about Colin in years. He wondered whatever happened to his young wife, though he couldn’t picture her face no matter how hard he tried.
“It’s here, Billy.”
The hiss of brakes and a brief gust of wind in his face jerked Pearce from his reminiscence. Sitting on a cushion of air alongside the platform, fitted neatly within the curvature of the tube tunnel, was a round little compartment. Accustomed to the kilometer-long mass transit trams, Pearce hesitated, but after a moment, a seam in the car split, widening into a door. A man stepped out, dressed in deep-blue dripping with lace, stylized in a modern reinvention of old-fashioned livery, with a cap that he removed as he bowed to them in silence. Mary took the hand he offered, and allowed herself to be escorted into the compartment. Pearce followed. The interior was plush and comfortable, evidently one of Banks’ own private cars.
“Make yourselves comfortable, please,” said the driver, and the Pearces sat on one of the two soft couches inside. The door closed soundlessly, and with no prelude the car was moving down the tunnel, though far more smoothly than any public tram Pearce had ever ridden. Faster, too, he suspected. A shimmering, translucent screen had dropped between the passenger section of the compartment and the driver’s cab, and Pearce assumed this indicated privacy. He took Mary’s hand and smiled at her.
“I have no idea what the Minister wants, but this can’t possibly be a purely social call.”
“Social?” Mary laughed, and it was her old laugh, the one Pearce remembered from the years before James was diagnosed. She’s enjoying this, he thought. And why not? There had surely been little enough joy in her life lately. “That would imply we belong in society, love.”
“True enough. I suppose it is possible that he has need of a merchant captain, but it seems a lot of trouble to go to simply to arrange a commission.”
“Perhaps he just likes to evaluate his potential employees in person,” Mary offered thoughtfully. “Or he could be bored.”
“Nothing like commoners to liven up an evening,” Pearce replied. With a sudden chirp, the screen faded out, and the driver turned to face them.
“We’ve arrived,” he declared. In another moment he had debarked, to open their door from the outside.
“Six minutes from Douglas Bay to Isleworth Station?” Pearce asked, glancing at his wrist chronometer. It would have been at least a twenty minute trip on commercial tram. The driver assisted Mary out of the car, and then stood aside to allow Pearce to exit.
“Not Isleworth Station, sir,” responded the driver as he bowed. “This is the Minister’s private tube stop at Spring Grove. The public trams do not come here.”
Pearce stood alongside his wife and stared. A massive, imposing red-brick mansion filled his view, ancient Victorian in style and sprawling. At least thirty of his own apartment could easily fit into the house. All this for a single man’s use!
“So this is how the other half lives,” he murmured as they moved down the stone walkway, flanked on either side by low hedges and modest, but deeply green, swaths of grass. Pearce had never seen grass on Earth, and here was nearly a full quarter-acre, seeming all the space in the world. There was untrammeled sky above, rimmed on all sides by the glow of the city, but at the center, a patch of indigo, pricked by a single star. It was breathtaking. His life had always been bounded by cramped quarters on board ship, or cramped rooms here on Earth. This was unapologetic opulence.
“Not the other half, Bill,” said Mary. “The other one tenth of one percent.”
They arrived at the front door, and it opened before they could press the bell. Inside was a tall, spare man, well past middle age, dressed similarly to the driver, though his uniform was all black, and on his head was a powdered white wig. Pearce glanced at Mary, who arched an eyebrow in return. Lord John Banks had a reputation for eccentric devotion to anachronism, and Pearce was seeing it was well-earned.
“Mr. Pearce. Ma’am.” The servant nodded at each in turn, then gestured that they should enter. “Lord Banks awaits you in the parlor. Please follow me.”
Pearce did so, Mary alongside, trying not to goggle at the sumptuous luxury all around them. He had never in his life seen such riches on display, from the priceless oil paintings on the walls to the statuary in every corner. The floor was uncarpeted, a rarity. Instead they walked along on dark wood, true wood, he knew, hundreds of years old. Mary’s hold on his hand tightened, and he suspected she was not enjoying herself nearly as much as before. It was one thing to contemplate an invitation to dinner by one of the Kingdom’s leading citizens. It was quite another to find oneself in his home, surrounded by such obvious wealth.
“Down the rabbit hole,” whispered Mary in his ear.
Pearce had expected that everything inside the mansion would be huge, but in a moment the hallway opened into a room that was almost cozy. A fireplace burned in one wall – on closer inspection, he noticed it was an actual fire, not a holographic depiction – and this room was covered with a rug, of a design that he knew was Centari. He had imported them himself, more than once, and they were exceedingly precious. Several people were in the room, some standing and some sitting, but Pearce’s gaze was drawn to a long, low couch before a wall lined with books, hundreds of them, where the great man himself perched. As they entered, Lord John Banks, Earl of Northumberland, rose with fluid grace and crossed the room to greet them, taking Pearce’s hand with one of his own and grasping his elbow with the other.
“Ah, Lieutenant Pearce! So kind of you to join us this evening.” Even as he bowed his head, Pearce found the use of his old naval rank discordant.
“Simply Mr. Pearce now, my Lord. I have not been in the service for some years now.” Banks nodded and raised a hand in acquiescence.
“As you wish, my friend.” He turned his attention to Mary. “This, of course, is your ravishing wife.”
“Yes. Minister, may I present Mary Pearce.” Ravishing? He loved his wife dearly, but ravishing was not a verb he had ever thought to apply to her. More highborn courtesies, he supposed. Mary curtsied properly, and Banks released his grip on Pearce’s hand and deftly seized one of hers.
“You may. In fact, you must. How splendid. Your servant, mum.” He bent over her hand, brushing his lips against her fingers, and for the first time Pearce understood, in part, why the man was so universally revered. He was certainly overly formal, a bit antiquated in his habits, but it took one sideways glance at the rising red bloom in Mary’s cheeks to know that the touch of gentility was not wasted on her. Probably not on most women, he thought. He knew that Banks was not married, never had been. If I had that effect on women, I’d probably never marry either. That, and if I were worth h
alf the Crown Jewels of the King. And the hundred other ifs that apply to John Banks but few other men.
“Mrs. and Mr. Pearce,” Banks went on, and Pearce thought he detected the smallest hint of amusement at his use of the common title. “May I present you to the rest of our company this evening? First, the First Lord of the Admiralty, the Duke of Exeter, and the Duchess.” Pearce’s eyes widened as the stocky nobleman and his handsome wife came forward. The Star Lord was the supreme ruler of the entire Fleet, and to low-ranking officers like Pearce had been, he might as well have been God. Moreover, of course Pearce had heard of Admiral McKinnon, a legend in the service even before his elevation to the peerage. He stammered out his greeting and introduction of Mary, who was surely as struck as he was. Neither of them had ever met so much as a Count before, let alone so exalted a personage as a Duke, a mere step below the Royal Family. The Duchess Exeter was older, as her husband was, and portly as well, but she had a broad, pleasant face, and her eyes twinkled with charm and kindness as she kissed Mary on both cheeks.
“Such a relief that John invited another lady,” she said welcomingly. A necklace of blue gemstones, each twice as large as Pearce’s thumbnail, glittered in silver netting draped around her thick throat. “I was half afraid the entire evening would be spoiled by unremitting man-talk.”
“Oh, your – my – I’m no lady,” Mary said haltingly, her face now fully given over to crimson, up to the red roots of her hair. The Duchess waved a dismissive hand.
“Ladies are as they behave, child, not as they are born, and I am more than happy to extend the courtesy until you disprove it.” Banks, smiling, all culture and urbanity, was introducing the other two guests.
“The fellow over by the window is my particular friend, Sir Eustace Green, Knight of the Bath, and Royal Gardener at the King’s Botanic Gardens at Kew.” The man was round-shouldered and stooped, graying, but nodded cheerfully at them. “And skulking there by the fireplace is Doctor Adina Reyes, the Kingdom’s foremost xenobiologist, and a fellow Member of the Royal Society.” Youngish, olive-skinned and rather haughtily beautiful, Dr. Reyes arched one eyebrow by way of marginal greeting. “An eclectic bunch we are, but that always makes for the best conviviality, I find.”
“I thought you said…” Pearce heard Mary whispering to the Duchess, who chuckled heartily in response.
“Oh, now, Dr. Reyes – she truly is no lady. Never fear, my dear, if she hears us say so, she will only take it as a compliment. She is a scientist, and brilliant, of course, but carved from ice, I think.” Pearce forced his attention back to the Duke, who was speaking to him directly.
“You sailed with Baker,” he was saying, steel eyes fixed on Pearce, who nodded. “The Fleet has never seen her like, I’m afraid,” Exeter grunted, and Banks sighed nearby.
“You will have to sit with us at dinner, Mr. Pearce, and we can entertain his Lordship as we swap tall tales of our old shipmate.”
For the first time, Pearce began to understand why they had been invited. He had been obtuse not to think of it before. Banks had sailed with Baker on her first voyage, Pearce on her third. He merely wants to reminisce, Pearce thought, and his breathing grew easier. So far, they had navigated the introductions to Banks and his eminent guests moderately well, and now he knew what was expected of him. It was, after all, a purely social call. And who knew? Perhaps the way might be paved for some future lucrative shipping commissions. He had quite forgotten, for the moment, his promise to Mary to remain on Earth.
“To table, then,” Banks announced, ushering them through a door into the most ornate dining room, featuring the finest laid table, Pearce had ever seen. Quite suddenly, his anxieties diminished; he realized he was famished.
****
Pearce took the glass of port that Banks offered him, and the seat as well. The men of the company, and Dr. Reyes, had retired to the parlor, while the Duchess escorted Mary on a tour of the house and grounds. Pearce had never known his stomach to be more full; he was replete with roast fowl and various imported greens, all real and not grain-synthetics, and warm, crusty rolls, followed by several bottles of exquisite wines. Importing his share of liquors in the past decade, he had become, if not expert, then certainly conversant, and the vintages were of staggering quality. He wondered if this was a typical dinner party for Banks, or a special effort, and he rather suspected the former. The end result was that he was not merely stuffed but warmly, pleasantly drunk as well, and when a cigar was pressed into his hands, already lit and smoking, he accepted that, too.
A man could get used to this, thought Pearce, even as he did his best not to be seduced by the unattainable opulence. He knew Mary’s head had been turned by the food as well, but also by the antique china place settings, the sterling silver flatware, and the crystal goblets, not to mention the flurry of servants clearing each course before the next was set. For dessert there had been actual ice cream in chocolate sauce, and with the first spoonful he thought his wife’s face would shatter with delight. He had watched her, through a haze of spirits, caught up in the absurdity of their actually being at such a dinner, and saw her as he had when they were younger, when they had fallen in love. Ravishing indeed, he had thought, as a curled lock of scarlet hair fell to dangle alongside her white cheek.
Banks now sat alongside him on the couch, all grace and easy nobility. Exeter was in a rocking chair, head back and eyes half-closed, puffing contentedly on a cigar. Sir Green had found the sofa as well, on the other side of Banks, and Dr. Reyes was back at the fireplace, leaning against the mantel, holding neither cigar nor glass. Green had become more jovial as the night wore on, but Reyes had neither drunk nor spoken throughout dinner, and eaten only sparingly. She was staring into the fire, and it played sinister tricks on her sharp face, carving deep and flickering lines around the edges of her nose, her eyes, her thin lips.
Pearce found his own gaze drawn inexorably to the fire as well. He had never seen real fire before, except in vids. As a source for human light and heat it had been long since abandoned, though he knew that the very wealthiest still used true fire as a decoration. Imagine burning authentic wood! The stuff was so scarce, so protected, so expensive, that the idea of turning it into smoke and ash for a transitory visual effect was the height of vanity. Which was, of course, the purpose, thought Pearce. Money enough to literally burn. It was one of the great horrors of the starman, a fire in space, where oxygen was scarce and explosions were death, and yet, he could not deny the beauty of the flames. There was a kind of music to them, a soft staccato crackle with popping grace notes, and they moved as though alive, writhing in the black-lined stone hearth, casting as much shadow as light. It was hypnotic. He remembered reading as a student that the ancients had worshipped fire, and he could, for the first time, sense why.
“Thank you for indulging us at table,” Banks was saying, drawing Pearce from his drunken musings. “I fear we may have bored the others with our talk of times gone by.”
“Never in life,” Green interjected. His round face had gone from gray to very pink, especially in his cheeks and over much of his nose. “To hear from two men who knew our late Captain Baker so well was most edifying and enjoyable.” Exeter grunted his assent. Reyes, alone at the mantel, said nothing.
“I wish I could have been with you on Cygnus,” the Minister said, and it seemed to Pearce that even though he spoke to him, he exchanged a look with the Star Lord as he said it. A sudden chill descended upon him at the mention of the word, and he shuddered despite the warmth of the cigar in his hand and the radiating heat of the hearth.
“I am glad you were not, my Lord,” he said in a low voice, not lifting his eyes from his glass. “Would that we had never gone at all.”
“You think so?” Exeter was speaking now, gruffly, though his eyes opened no wider. “Tragic losses, of course, but such is the way of exploration.”
“We did learn a great deal,” said Green, leaning forward animatedly, nearly falling into Ba
nks’ lap in his excitement. “Our knowledge of the flora and fauna of Kepler-22 revealed some exciting parallels to our own earthly life forms.” Now it seemed that Banks and Exeter shared a long glance. Something is happening, Pearce thought, and he wished all at once that he had not drunk quite so much. He set his glass on the table nearby, placed his cigar gently into the tray there, and folded his hands together in his lap.
“Far be it for me to argue with such men,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “but the price, my Lords, was too high. For Captain Baker…for many of us that were there. It was…” he paused, gathering himself. As much as he had thought of Cygnus over the years, fought nightmares, he had never spoken of it aloud, not to Christine Fletcher, not even to Mary, not until now. “It was utterly horrific.”
It was silent for long minutes, until Banks placed a familiar hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
“We need you to go back.” He said it quietly, but to Pearce it was as if a thunderclap had sounded in the middle of the parlor. Pearce tried to reply, tried to make his throat loosen enough to make meaningful sound, but all he could manage was a weak shake of his head. “I quite understand your reluctance,” Banks continued gently. “But Mr. Pearce, this is no idle cruise we propose. Our entire existence may depend on it.” Then, much as he had some days earlier at the Admiralty for the Star Lord, Banks presented his plan for rescuing the food stock of Earth by introducing fresh genetic material from Cygnus. Pearce watched the holographic presentation, comprehending only a few of the more technical scientific points. All the while, he found his mind, abruptly sobering, fighting back against a cascade of memories from that deadly voyage years before.
“I am sorry, Minister,” he muttered when Banks concluded. “But there is no way I am suitable. I am no longer a commissioned naval officer, and have been out of the service these dozen years.”
