by Anthology
“What do you want to do?”
He gazed into the fire, his hands knotted in his lap. “On a university bulletin board, I found the writings of a student who railed against the restrictions imposed by the authorities. I lingered to jot a few notes to him, explaining methods that could be used to overthrow them—but I could not stay long. There were too many other battles to be fought. In the police files, I found the text of a pamphlet demanding the liberation of the mechfolks. I erased the files, of course, and began a search for the man who wrote the text—but I cannot devote myself only to that. I have heard rumors of other historic personages—simulacra, as you call them-—who have broken free. Voltaire, Machiavelli, and others. I would find them and band together with them—but I haven’t the time. I rush from one place to another—faster than I ever was in life, but it still is not fast enough. Always there is more work. And I despair of accomplishing it all.”
He shook his head, suddenly despondent.
Appeal to his sympathy, Micmac had suggested. “You can’t do it all,” I said. “But you could help me out. It wouldn’t take long. Accomplish one thing. Help one person toward freedom.”
He looked down at his hands and then at my face. “You think I can help you?”
“Micmac thought you could. I think so, too.” He studied the fire for a long moment. “Very well. I will try.”
I didn’t waste time. I took Bakunin with me and headed for the Queen’s coordinates, leaving him in my private space while I contacted the Queen.
The entire area around the Queen’s coordinates smells of face powder and woodsmoke. The icon that leads to her sitting room is a solid oak door, suspended in the gray ether. I tapped on the door, then entered with a curtsy.
“Your Majesty,” I said to the Queen, “I have someone I would like to present to you.”
She was writing in her journal. When I addressed her, she looked up with suspicion. “Someone you wish to introduce to me?” she said. “Who would that be?”
“A Russian gentleman who visited England during your reign. He is a—ah—historical personage, like yourself, Your Majesty. I thought it might amuse you to chat with him.”
Her eyes narrowed. I was rarely so polite. “How did you meet this Russian?”
“He participated in the on-line lecture series last week,” I lied. The Queen considered lectures to be a respectable way to spend one’s time. “He spoke about politics, mostly. A very knowledgeable gentleman. I happened to mention that I knew you, and he very much wanted to meet you.”
She straightened her shoulders and smoothed her full skirts, an unconsciously vain gesture. She pursed her lips, curious yet still suspicious. “The Russians are an uncouth lot,” she said, opinionated as always.
“He was born of the nobility,” I said. “And I thought you might be happy to meet someone of your own time. But if not . . .”
I shrugged and started to turn away.
“You are always so hasty,” she chided me. “If it would give you pleasure, I will meet with your Russian gentleman.” She closed her journal and set it beside her chair.
To satisfy your own curiosity, I thought to myself. But I didn’t say anything, I just smiled at her and curtsied before I stepped outside her door. When I led Bakunin into the room, he bowed, a courtly gesture I had not expected of him. His black clothes looked shabbier than ever beside the Queen’s silks and satins. “Mikhail Bakunin, Your Majesty,” he introduced himself.
The Queen studied him and gestured graciously to a chair. “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Bakunin.”
“I am honored, Your Majesty.” He returned her smile and took the chair she had offered. “I was pleased to meet your niece. She is a remarkable child. Very intelligent.”
I didn’t much like his tone. Condescending, I thought. I opened my mouth to speak, but the Queen gave me a look, and I thought better of it.
The Queen sighed softly. “I will admit that she is clever—perhaps too clever. I find her a great trial sometimes,” she said. Nothing new there—the Queen had never been shy about talking about me in the third person. “Do you have any children, Mr. Bakunin?”
He shook his head.
“A pity. I was blessed by nine children. They brought joy to my life.” She shook her head slowly. “And here I am, having outlived them all.”
Bakunin nodded heavily. “You must miss them terribly. I understand. It is lonely, surviving beyond one’s time.”
“Indeed it is,” she said. She studied him, clearly intrigued.
Bakunin leaned a little closer to the fire, rubbing his hands to warm them. She watched him.
“Too much heat is not healthy, Mr. Bakunin. I find that cold invigorates the system.” That’s just the land of thing she was always telling me. I watched to see how Bakunin would react.
“That may be true, Your Majesty, but during my time in Siberia I came to crave the heat.”
“Siberia? Whatever compelled you to visit such a bleak place?”
Bakunin’s smile was strained. “I had no choice, Your Majesty. The Tsar sent me.”
“State business?” she said, and then swept on as if he had agreed. “Duty takes us to unusual places.” She shot me a look, hoping, no doubt, that I would take note. “My niece tells me that you visited England during my reign. I would be pleased to discuss those times. I must admit, I find the present world most unsatisfactory. Don’t you agree?” Bakunin raised his head like a bear sniffing the spring breeze, scenting an argument. “On the contrary, I find this world most exciting. It reminds me of America in our own time. I traveled across that great nation in 1861. A place of change and excitement. Had my heart not belonged in Russia, I might have been happy there.”
The Queen straightened in her chair. “I do not find ill-considered change wonderful, Mr. Bakunin.”
“Ill-considered!” he exclaimed. “How can you say it is ill-considered? Some, it is true, has risen from the demands of the State—and that is, as always, ill-considered. But much has come from the will of the people—and that is to be commended.”
The Queen frowned. “My niece tells me that you are of noble birth, Mr. Bakunin.”
“I was born to the nobility. But I have become a man of the people.”
The Queen clasped her hands neatly in her lap, leaning forward just a little. She looked annoyed. “I consider myself to be of the people, Mr. Bakunin. And if a monarch can be of the people, surely a nobleman can do so as well.”
Bakunin ran a hand back through his wild hair, dishevelling it further. “Your Majesty, as a monarch, you represent the State. And the State is relentlessly opposed to the people.”
“Opposed to the people.” Her voice rose; her face reddened. “It was my burden to care for the people, to protect my subjects. I governed them with the caring hand of a mother.”
Bakunin shook his head, a slow repetitive motion, like a bear plagued by flies. “Your Majesty, I have no doubt that you intended nothing but good for your subjects. But as the State, you had force at your command. The same is true of motherhood. With force, you take away the will of the people. Even when you command your subjects for the good, you make their good actions valueless because you commanded them. As soon as the good is commanded, it is transformed into evil, because you have removed your subject’s will. Human liberty, morality, and dignity consist precisely in doing good not because you are commanded to it, but because you recognize it.”
“It is easy to see that you have never been a queen or a mother, Mr. Bakunin,” the Queen said icily. “I understand better now why my niece wished me to meet you. She hoped that you would somehow persuade me to let her run wild.”
Bakunin opened his mouth to speak, but the Queen lifted a hand to quiet him. “Let me continue, Mr. Bakunin. When I was a child, I had proper respect for elders. That is how it should be.”
Bakunin leaned forward in his chair. “Your Majesty, I think you’ve forgotten your own past. I’ve read the history books; in my days in the system, I re
ad your journals—you know that they were published after your death. As I recall, when you ascended to the throne at age 18, you were overjoyed to be free of your mother’s power. And you were annoyed at her continued interference in your affairs; she complained that you ate too much, that you drank too much beer, that you did not treat her properly.”
I stared at Bakunin, astounded. I found it impossible to imagine the Queen being plagued by her mother.
The Queen pursed her lips and lowered her eyes, frowning at the floor. “A pity that my daughter did not destroy all my journals,” she murmured.
Bakunin settled back in his chair. “If she had destroyed them, that would not change the truth. You chafed under authority, just as any child would. Just as your niece does today. Children grow up, Your Majesty—now, just as they did in our day. You might be advised to return to your old journals. Read them over now, and remember what it was like to be sixteen years old.”
“Mr. Bakunin, you overstep yourself,” she said fiercely, lifting her eyes to meet his gaze.
He shrugged and met her eyes. “I talk to you honestly, as I would talk to anyone. If you are angry, it is because I have hit on the truth. Perhaps that is overstepping myself. I think it is not.”
The Queen looked down at her hands and said nothing for a moment. I waited for the coming explosion. At last, she spoke softly. “I worry about her so,” she said. “Her mother . . .” She let the words trail off.
“You’ve done your best,” Bakunin said. “I’m certain her mother would approve.”
She looked up. “Mr. Bakunin, no one has spoken to me so frankly in many years. Perhaps not since Albert died. I’ll consider what you say.”
She studied his face. “If you are no longer a nobleman, Mr. Bakunin, what are you now?”
“You might call me a philosopher. Some have called me a socialist revolutionary.”
She regarded him calmly. “A revolutionary? How curious.”
“Does it alarm you?”
“I have no kingdom now. Why should it alarm me?”
“I am glad to hear that,” he said.
“Why is that, Mr. Bakunin?” When she smiled at him, her expression was soft, almost coquettish.
“Because I have enjoyed talking with you, Your Majesty.”
“Perhaps we can talk again,” she suggested. “Perhaps we can.”
When I escorted Bakunin from the room, he was smiling. “A formidable lady,” he said of the Queen. “Forthright, direct. Were it not for her upbringing, she might have made an excellent revolutionary.”
“Maybe you could overcome her upbringing,” I said. “You seemed to like talking to her. I was surprised at how well you hit it off. ”
He looked mournful. “I did enjoy her company. But there are things I must do. I can’t rest here and chat idly with a former monarch.”
“Sure you can,” I said. “I’ve been thinking. You could stick around here—and take care of business elsewhere in the system too if you like. After all, it wouldn’t be that much trouble to duplicate you.” He frowned. “There is only one Bakunin.”
“Not necessarily. You’re a program now. Give me a few days, and I’ll make a few copies and package you as a virus program—you know, one that invades other systems and duplicates itself. It would just be a matter of enlarging the memory space in my latest virus by a few million megs, and modifying it in a couple of trivial ways.”
Bakunin’s frown deepened. “It is difficult to think of myself as a program.”
I shrugged. “When I’m done, you’ll be in dozens of places at once: at the university, in the military complex, in corporate computers, on the moon base, and sitting by the fire having a cosy chat with Queen Victoria. No problem.”
He stared at me, his eyes blazing. “Hundreds of anarchists,” he murmured, his voice low and powerful. “An army of soldiers, all cast from the same mold. There’s no limit to what we could do—inflame the students, liberate the mechfolk, prepare for the inevitable revolution.”
“You bet,” I said. “But I’d like to ask you one thing before I get started. When you talked to the Queen, you spoke as if you knew my mother. What do you know?”
“Ah,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “That. You should ask Micmac about that, I suppose.”
I had to be content with that; he wouldn’t tell me more.
“So he’s hanging around while I work it out,” I told Micmac. “The Queen hardly bugs me at all these days. She’s usually in the sitting room with Bakunin, arguing politics. She quotes Albert and Bakunin chips away at her, talking about the rights and liberties of every human being. I don’t know if he’ll ever persuade her, but he’s distracted her, and that’s good enough for me.”
Micmac nodded. That day, she was wearing a chrome mask instead of a face, completely expressionless.
“So it all worked out,” I repeated. “Thanks for your help.”
Micmac’s face flowed and took on flesh tones: a craggy faced teenage boy. “James Dean,” she said. “Cult hero of teenagers in rebellion. You had to break away from the Queen. It was time.”
“Past time,” I said. I hesitated, then plunged on. “You know, I have something I wanted to ask you. Why did you help me?”
Her face paled, taking on the look of a Kabuki mask. “Why not?”
“Not a good enough answer,” I said. “I have a feeling there’s more. I smell it.” I stared at her.
“Maybe I just identified with your predicament. I felt responsible.”
I studied the pale mask. “What do you really look like?”
She hesitated and the mask shifted and flowed. “A little like you,” she said softly. I recognized the face that formed in the ether from the hologram on my father’s desk. My mother returned my stare.
“Do you suppose you can teach me how to be a revolutionary?” I asked her.
And then, things started to get really interesting.
HOW THE FUTURE GOT BETTER
Eric Schaller
The FoTax process. “Your taxes fo’ nothing,” is how Uncle Walt defined it. He stole that joke from a late-night talk show. But even though he didn’t bother to read the brochure, he had caught at least one TV special and knew that Fo stood for photon and Tax for tachyon. “Now pass me another roll,” he said, “a warm one from the bottom of the bucket.”
Mom always insisted that everyone sit down as a family for dinner, but had consented to eating a half-hour earlier than usual so we could watch when FoTax went live. Five-thirty in the pee-em, would you believe it? “Might as well be eating lunch twice,” is how Uncle Walt phrased it, but he said it soft so that Mom couldn’t hear, and out of the corner of his mouth just in case she could lip read. “Hey! What about that roll? A man could die from hunger at his own table.” Little sister Susie, Suz to the family, passed him the bucket and let him dig for his own roll. He probably fingered every one, muttering the whole time: “Cold and hard as a goddamn rock. Probably break a tooth and wouldn’t that be just my luck. There’s a sucker born every minute and, by God, this time that sucker is me.” Took him so long to find his roll and butter it that, by the time he got around to taking a bite, we were already talking about ice cream. “Hold your cotton-picking horses,” Uncle Walt said. “What’s the future got that we ain’t got now?” But he powered through his chicken, coleslaw, and dessert and long-legged it to the living room before anyone grabbed his favorite lounger.
Mom played with the settings on the new Sony receiver by the TV set, squinting at a pamphlet in her hand labeled READ THIS FIRST. “Set it five minutes ahead,” big sister Elizabeth called from her seat on the couch between Dad and Gramps. Elizabeth insisted upon being called by all four syllables of her given name but, to her credit, had memorized the instruction manual as soon as it was out of its plastic wrapper. Probably memorized the Spanish edition too, just in case. “Setting the time closer to now reduces the chance of gray spaces and ghosting,” she said. “Don’t forget to tune to channel one-hundred-and-thi
rty-one.”
She might have said more but was interrupted by a frantic knocking at our apartment door. It was the Willard family, Pa Willard in the lead, Ma at his elbow, and all the little Willards, indistinguishable from each other with their chocolate-smeared mouths and cherubic curls, peering through the bars of their parents’ legs. “Can we join you?” Pa Willard asked. “Our receiver didn’t arrive.” Ma Willard shot him a dirty look. “You forgot to sign up,” she said. Before the argument could escalate, and the Willards were always arguing, Mom said, “Come on in. Everyone’s in the living room. Suz, would you grab some more chairs for the Willards?”
Which is why, when FoTax went live, there were fourteen of us crammed together in one small room. Our TV was seven feet on the diagonal, and the Willards might have come over even if Pa Willard had remembered to order their receiver. Last anyone knew they still had their old 42-inch model. As you might guess with both families together, and even granting that Grammy started to nod off as soon as she settled into her chair, it was kind of noisy. But everyone went quiet and stared at the TV screen when the little green numbers on the receiver flickered to six o’clock.
But nothing happened.
Nothing changed.
All you could see was the blue of an empty channel.
“What a gyp,” said Uncle Walt. “You made me rush dessert for this?”
“Maybe it’s not set to the right channel,” said Elizabeth. “One-hundred-and-thirty-one is what the manual said.”
Mom reacted like she had just been called stupid, but got up and checked the setting again anyway. “One-three-one,” she said. “See, it says one-three-one.”
Then without preamble or warning, while Mom tapped her finger on the illuminated part of the screen that, to her credit, did display the proper channel designation, an image abruptly replaced the blue background.
An image of us.
Or most of us anyway. The vantage point looked to be above and a little behind from where we were sitting. But you could see Uncle Walt’s balding head protruding above his lounger, the shoulders and hair of Dad and Elizabeth and Gramps on the couch, and, beside them, Mom sitting rigidly in one of the wooden chairs brought in from the dining table. Two of the golden-haired Willard kids shared another wooden chair beside her. In the image, they, or rather we were all watching the TV. You could see just about one-third of the TV screen, and on that image of the TV there were tinier versions of us clustered around a still tinier version of the TV. And on that miniature TV . . . well, you get the picture.
