by Eric Flint
Jeffrey gazed at the cam; it didn't seem logical that there'd be a cam here, at the seat of the metagovernment. Could it be that the comfort-cams really were automatic and just documenting the trip?
The man seated in the middle, the one wearing the hearing aid, leaned back, put his hands behind his neck, and stared at Jeffrey with a wry smile. "You, Jeffrey," he said, "are beginning to be more of a problem than a solution."
"Who are you, please?"
"Ah." The man moved his hands to lie flat on the table. "I am Sebastian."
"The CAD," said Jeffrey, standing proud and erect. "I'm honored." He'd been caught, but he wouldn't let them think he was cowed.
Sebastian chuckled. "The CAD. Yes. Boffin to the faithful. But my title is simply coordinating secretary. Boring, isn't it?" He indicated the man on his right. "Wolfgang, chief of Ship Engineering" —and then the man on the left— "and Neville, our tropemaster."
"In other words," said Jeffrey, "the secret power ruling the ship."
"Secret?" said Sebastian. "My dear boy, secretary by no means implies secret."
"Well, maybe not secret," said Jeffrey. "But certainly the power."
"Do you know what CAD stands for?" said Sebastian.
Jeffrey shook his head.
"It stands for cruise activity director." He gave a self-effacing smile. "A whimsical, but perhaps accurate description of what I do." He leaned forward. "We're the bureaucracy. The nominal government changes every year, but we keep soldiering on— keeping the ship running smoothly."
"And doing a good job of it, if I may say," said the engineer. "There's only one blight on our existence."
Jeffrey, feeling smug, glanced at his companions. "He means us."
"No!" The engineer slammed a fist on the table. "I mean boredom— oppressive, mind-numbing boredom."
"You are far from a blight," said Sebastian. "You're program."
"We're what?"
"But now," said the Tropemaster, "your actions have crossed the line." He sounded calm and reasonable, but Jeffrey could see anger in his eyes.
"It seems that there's been a rise in youth vandalism lately," said the engineer.
"You mean smashing some comfort-cams?" said Rolf, with a grin.
The tropemaster sprang to his feet. "Look," he said to Sebastian, "he's proud of it."
"My team has to repair those cams," said the engineer in a low, deliberate voice. He turned his head in Sebastion's direction. "A public flogging on Gallery Deck might be interesting, don't you think?"
Jeffrey stiffened.
Sebastian's lips stretched in a tight smile. "Is that in the criminal code this year?"
The tropemaster sat down and faced the engineer, eye-to-eye. "I'm not sure if you're serious," he said. "But I think a flogging very appropriate for the ringleader. And it would be very memorable program."
Claire, who had been watching silently, scrunched up her nose. "I don't understand this," she said. "What do you mean, program?"
"With three thousand people," said Sebastian, "and with machines doing almost everything for us, we have to keep things interesting so we don't all simply turn into vegetables." He nodded. "So yes, program. Your little mutiny is program. Elections are program. The yearly tropes are program— the most successful program." He shot a finger at Jeffrey. "And your beloved university is program."
"Excuse me?"
"The university is the perfect program," said Sebastian. "Young people fill their time learning a narrow specialty, spend more time getting a doctorate in it, then fill up more time teaching it so others can fill up their time." He clapped a hand to the table. "So yes," he said. "You're doing the ship's business."
"Does this mean," said Rolf, "that you're not going to punish us?"
"Punish you?" Sebastian paused, steepling his fingers and gazing up toward the comfort-cam. "For providing program, no." He leaned forward. "But vandalism," he said, his brow furrowed and grim, "is not considered program."
He glanced over at the engineer. "I like your idea of a public flogging. But perhaps we can reserve it for any future acts of vandalism."
The engineer nodded. "Fine by me."
"If you ask me," said the tropemaster. "I think we should make an immediate example of these rabble rousers."
The engineer shushed him and pointed to Sebastian.
Holding a hand over the ear with the hearing aid, Sebastian gazed distractedly at the ceiling.
"The Oracle?" said the tropemaster, in an awed whisper.
Sebastian stood. "Excuse me." He strode toward the door.
When he'd gone, the engineer leaned toward the tropemaster. "What do you think's wrong?" he said in a nervous voice. "The Oracle doesn't usually interrupt meetings."
"I don't know." The tropemaster looked worried.
"Excuse me," said Jeffrey. "Are you saying the Oracle's real?"
The tropemaster shifted his gaze from the cabin door to Jeffrey. "Of course it's real, you moron."
Jeffrey didn't have to look; he could almost feel Rolf smirking beside him.
"I've got to say," the tropemaster went on, "I'm quickly running out of patience with you."
"Why?" said Jeffrey. "Because we think your Weredragons of Mars theme stinks? Because we think you stink?"
"How dare you— "
"We were due for a science fiction year," said Jeffrey. "And you give us this drivel."
The engineer waved him quiet, then turned to the tropemaster. "Let's hold it until Sebastian comes back."
For the next few minutes, Jeffrey and the tropemaster glared at each other in silence.
Abruptly, accompanied by the sound of groaning metal, the ship shook, violently. To keep from falling, Jeffrey had to steady himself against the table.
"Damn it." The engineer half rose to his feet then settled back in his chair. "Not again."
"What's your problem?" said the tropemaster. "The Oracle says it means we're nearing Earth Prime."
"The ship's old. I don't know if it can take much more of this."
"Trust the Oracle!"
"I think," said the engineer, glancing over at Jeffrey and his friends, "that we should continue this little disciplinary matter later." He turned back to the tropemaster. "We can have them picked up at any time."
The tropemaster nodded.
"Okay," said the engineer. He made shooing motions toward the students. "You may go now."
Jeffrey moved a hand toward the pommel of his sword, then remembered his weapon had been impounded. He gave a hint of a bow. "As you wish, sire."
The three started for the door, Claire in the lead.
"Boredom and infantilism," said the engineer, under his breath. "Our two eternal problems. One seems to engender the other."
As Claire neared the door, it swung open. She jumped back to avoid being hit by it. Sebastian walked in and, pointedly, closed the door behind him, keeping Jeffrey and friends inside. His expression was somber.
"What's wrong?" said the tropemaster. "Is the ship all right?"
"The Oracle wants Jeffrey," Sebastian whispered.
"Now?" asked the engineer softly.
Sebastian nodded then looked to Jeffrey. "Your two friends will have to leave."
"We're not leaving," said Rolf.
Sebastian kept his eyes on Jeffrey as he said, "This is not a request, I'm afraid."
The guards raised their stunners.
"You'd better go," said Jeffrey.
Claire looked hard at Jeffrey for a moment, then nudged Rolf toward the door. "Okay," she said in a cheerful voice, clearly forced. "We'll catch you later." She threw an angry glance at Sebastian before leaving with Rolf.
"I'm sorry," said Sebastian, quietly, after the two had closed the door behind them.
"Sorry for what?" Jeffrey didn't like Sebastian's sudden niceness. Something was seriously wrong. "Is it something to do with the shipquake?"
Sebastian shook his head. "Please sit down, son." A guard moved a chair up to the table. Jeffrey
sat.
Sebastian took his seat, then looked over at the tropemaster. "I owe it to Jeffrey to have a talk with him. I should have it in private."
"Alone with this troublemaker? I'm not sure— "
Sebastian waved him quiet. "I'll be fine. If Jeffrey weren't a good and righteous person, the Oracle wouldn't have called him home." He gestured at his colleagues and the guards. "Please, all of you— leave us."
Jeffrey, baffled and a little scared, watched as they left. He wished he were going with them.
"Tell me," said Sebastian in a friendly voice. "How old are you?"
"Seventeen. Why?"
"So young." Sebastian sighed.
"So young for what, please?"
"Why did you think you needed to vandalize the ship? What do you want?"
"Want?" Here, the CAD himself was asking him what he wanted, but Jeffrey found he was too filled with trepidation to think coherently. "We think privilege is wrong and corrupting," he said, quoting from his manifesto.
"What privilege, for instance?" asked Sebastian in an inquisitive but not hostile voice.
"Well. . . ." Jeffrey thought hard. "Well, you get served first in the dining hall."
"Children," said Sebastian, looking down at his hands.
"I'm getting tired of being called a child," said Jeffrey.
"Getting served first isn't privilege," said Sebastian. "It's courtesy. We're older than you."
"Older than us children, you mean."
Sebastian spread his hands. "I'm sorry."
"You keep saying that." Jeffrey almost shouted from the exasperation. "What are you sorry about?"
"You're right." Sebastian gave an unconvincing smile. "I shouldn't be sorry. You're going to a better place."
"What?" Jeffrey squeaked. "What are you talking about, please?"
"Very soon, you must go to the Chapel of the Oracle."
"That doesn't sound all that bad," said Jeffrey, "does it?" From Sebastian's expression, he realized it was bad. "Who exactly is this Oracle?" he asked.
"Through the centuries," said Sebastian, "that's the one question the Oracle has never answered. We think he's . . ." Sebastian took a great breath. "We think he's God."
Jeffrey laughed. "Come on." He forced another laugh. "God communicating via comlink?"
"In space," said Sebastian, solemnly, "the age of miracles may not have ended."
Jeffrey shuddered; as long as the CAD seemed rational, Jeffrey believed he had the advantage; he was in the right and, according to Claire, he was a very good debater. But now Sebastian's eyes held the wild intensity of the true believer. Jeffrey knew reasoned debate was out of the question. "What's going to happen to me?" he said, hoping his fear wasn't obvious in his voice.
"I can't say, exactly. It has never happened during my tenure." Sebastian looked down at his hands. "You will be left in the Chapel of the Oracle for two hours."
"And?"
"In the past, when the chapel was opened afterwards, it was always found empty."
"What do you mean?"
"Just that," said Sebastian. "The Oracle, we suppose, just . . ." Sebastian spread his hands.
"That's barbaric!" Jeffrey stood. "It's human sacrifice."
"Don't be silly." Sebastian sounded offended. "You should feel honored. The Oracle is calling you home."
"Not my home!" Wildly, Jeffrey looked around the cabin. He could possibly overpower the CAD— but then what? He couldn't hold out forever. There was no escape. He fought down a twinge of panic and, as a defense against fear, withdrew into his royal persona. I am Baron Von Jeffrey— the brave, resourceful Baron Von Jeffrey. Bowing curtly to Sebastian, he said, "As you wish. I shall be pleased to converse with this oracle of yours." Jeffrey took satisfaction that his voice did not crack.
* * *
The Chapel of the Oracle had no adornments, not even holo-active murals. The walls, metal and cool to the touch, exuded a stark efficiency. There were no chairs and, save for the uniform white illumination from the ceiling, no apparent accommodation to the needs of people. Jeffrey noticed a comfort-cam pointing down at him— a single item of familiarity in the spare environment.
The rear wall showed a slight curvature indicating it might be the actual hull of the ship. Recessed into that wall, Jeffrey noticed a disk of blackness. He walked to it, peered in, and saw what he deduced were stars. He knew about portholes but had never encountered one. He stared into the white-pricked void and shivered. Space did not look friendly. It was frightening to think that just a few inches of metal separated him from the cold emptiness. He backed away and leaned against the closed, and locked, hatchway. There was nothing to do but wait— and think.
Maybe, he thought, they were just trying to scare him. If so, they're doing a pretty good job of it. He consoled himself with the thought that it, whatever it was, would be over in two hours. He looked for a time-display but, unlike any other cabin he'd ever been in, there wasn't one. This would be a very long two hours. Jeffrey decided to count aloud. There were 3600 seconds in an hour. When his count reached 7200, it would be over.
At four hundred, he gave up; counting was hard. After an additional indeterminate amount of time, he decided that uncertainty was worse, and he resumed counting. He'd barely started when he heard the thrum of machinery. A moment later, on the far wall, he saw a door-shaped, thin, white outline appear. With an uncontrollable shudder, he understood his fate. He was in an airlock, and the white outline was a door about to open— a portal opening on the emptiness of space. All this talk of the Oracle was garbage. They were going to kill him; he was a threat and they'd just blow him out into space.
Knowing it was senseless, he nonetheless looked for something to grab on to. He grasped the hatchway handle and watched as the outline grew wider. He wondered how long it would take him to die.
There came a hiss from the curved wall and Jeffrey took his presumed last breath of air.
The door pulled out then swung open to reveal, not the vacuum of space, but a woman standing on some sort of platform.
Jeffrey let out his breath and took a few quick open-mouthed gasps. He pressed himself hard against the bulkhead and gazed— his mind contradicting his eyes.
High above the woman, lights, not stars, cast down a stark white illumination. The woman looked to be about thirty-five or forty. With an expression of bemusement, she stared at him.
Fighting for sanity, Jeffrey calmed his breathing and forced a veneer of rationality. "Is this . . . This must be Earth Prime. Terraformed."
"No." She laughed, warmly and with inclusive humor. "Well, maybe yes. Earth, terraformed. Or maybe you could call it reformed Terra."
Jeffrey caught sight of the porthole. It still showed the starry blackness. "Wait!" He wrinkled his nose. "This doesn't make any sense."
"High-res graphics." She smiled and walked toward him. "And, of course, you're my Jeffrey."
Jeffrey balled his fists; he felt used, abused, and angry. " Your Jeffrey?" he said. "Baron Von Jeffrey to you, lady. Geez. Here I am, preparing to die and you waltz in and talk as if we're the best of friends."
She gave him a hurt look and, suddenly he was struck with the humor of the situation. He giggled. "Hey. I'm not dead," he said, brightly. Then he had another thought. "I'm not, am I?"
"No," she said, her eyes sparkling, "you're the spunky, lovable Jeffrey we all adore."
"What are you talking about, please?" He looked into those eager eyes and, with a start, noticed they were changing color. Her suit changed color as well— keeping a match to her eyes. It was unusual clothing: a one-piece suit including the shoes. Jeffrey looked without success for buttons, zippers, or any other mechanism that would allow her to undress. He noticed her studying him and, feeling she was reading his mind, he blushed.
"Sorry for staring," she said. "But I can't believe I'm seeing you in person— after watching you all these years."
"Watching me?" Jeffrey more mouthed the words than spoke them.
