by Kage Baker
“Why, so you are, matey, when it comes to encryptions anyhow; you got no bloody sense about anything else. All right, I won’t start! Listen to me, son. All yer life, I’ve had to fake medical records and genetic test results and brain scans, so nobody’d find out how different you was from other kids.” The Captain put his hands in his pockets and looked at Alec.
“What are you saying?” demanded Alec, aghast. “That I’m some kind of mutant or something? I’m not that different, for God’s sake!”
“Aw, matey, hell no,” soothed the Captain, though he thought Alec might indeed be a mutant. “Yer just differently-abled, that’s all. But you know how things is, here in London. If the public health monitors ever found out you wasn’t like everybody else—”
“They’d lock me up in here and throw away the key,” said Alec, raising his bandaged hands to his mouth. “They’d want to vivisect the shracking freak. They’d be scared of me for being smarter than they are.”
“I reckon so, lad. Now you see why we had to move fast?”
“Yeah.” Alec stared at the soft white walls of his prison, and gradually his fright gave way to rage. “Bloody shracking London! No wonder Roger hated living here.”
“Aye, matey. See, it weren’t yer fault he needed sea-room at all,” said the Captain helpfully. “Who could live in such a place, says I?”
“Public health monitors watching everything you do, man,” said Alec, beginning to pace like a big animal. “You can’t talk too loud. You can’t get mad. You can’t be too tall or too randy or anything that isn’t like the rest of ’em.”
“That’s about the size of it,” agreed the Captain.
“And you really, really can’t hit things.” Alec stopped and put his hands to his mouth again. “Oh, Captain, what’ve I done? What if they won’t let me out of here?”
“Don’t you worry on that score, lad. Old Lewin’s giving ’em powder and ball broadside right now, invoking yer lordship’s lordshipness,” the Captain said reassuringly. “Money and privilege is fine things, to be sure. All the same—they’ll step up surveillance. You’ll have to drop the damn booze and smokes, like I been begging you to do anyhow.”
“Yeah.”
“And I’m thinking it wouldn’t hurt,” the Captain continued judiciously, “to play yer cards just a little closer to yer chest. Nobody’s going to forget what you did to that there car and Crown property, but testosterone happens more often than they’ll admit, and money’ll shut up the law. What we got to hide, son, is how talented you are. See? For I reckon if they think yer as much a twit as the rest of ’em, they’ll let you alone.”
“Stede-Windsor thinks I’m an idiot anyway,” said Alec bitterly, starting to clench his fist and stopping as the pain bit his fingers.
“The snotty-nosed lubber,” the Captain said. “That’s my lad! Feeling a little better about poor old Jolly Roger now, ain’t we?”
“Yeah, actually,” Alec admitted. Both he and the Captain lifted their heads at the sound of someone approaching in the corridor beyond.
“I’ll just get below,” said the Captain, and caused his projection to vanish. Alec stuffed the jotbuke into his pocket and when the door opened he was sitting on the floor, apparently deep in meditation, as whalesong groaned and squealed in the overpoweringly eucalyptus-scented air.
Lewin entered, followed at two paces by the doctor.
“Good news, my lord,” said Lewin. “You’re to be released on your own recognizance.”
“Gosh, thanks,” said Alec, struggling to his feet. “I feel really badly about what I did, sir. I don’t know what came over me.”
“You’re a very disturbed young man, my lord,” said the doctor regretfully. “But in light of the shocking news you received this morning, and the poisons in your system that put you in an altered state, Her Majesty’s Borough Committee has decided that you were not responsible for your episode of violence.”
“The real me wouldn’t ever hit things,” Alec affirmed, shaking his head solemnly.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, my lord. You will, of course, be fined for the destruction of Crown property and the ingestion of illegal substances—” said the doctor.
“His lordship quite understands,” Lewin said.
“—And there will certainly be mandatory therapy of some kind,” the doctor finished, looking perhaps a bit less regretful. Alec concealed his shiver and smiled.
“Cool,” he said. “I think I really need that. Thank you, sir.”
They left the room and went out to the waiting area, where Balkister was perched nervously on the edge of a chair, clutching Alec’s shoes and tie.
By the night of the swing gaskell for the Wimbledon Thirty, Alec’s car had been repaired. It still had a vaguely skewed appearance. Alec had fared little better.
The fine had been steep, but the council-ordered therapy consisted of a few sessions of talk about Roger with a mental health AI, and mandatory time in front of a console playing Totter Dan games to discharge his violent tendencies. Alec dutifully shot purple cartoon monsters and collected magic cubes for an hour every day. Being an earl, his daily urine test was waived and he was allowed to become clean and sober on the honor system. More important, the mandated hormone therapy was deferred due to his status as a minor, though it was scheduled for review when he came of age.
Alec was not especially concerned about this, certain he’d be cleared given his status as the last surviving Checkerfield. All the same, chemical emasculation was an unpleasant thing to have hanging over one’s head for six months.
He worked methodically at cultivating the image of an upper-class twit, to further mask any discernible genius. Staring into his mirror, he found it appallingly easy to mug up a slack-featured expression that made him look a complete imbecile. More amusing was doing subtle imitations of the authentic twits in the circle. For one whole afternoon he had himself in silent fits being reedy Dennis Neville. Another day he minced around as Elvis Churchill. Nobody caught the imitations but Balkister, who thought it was all wickedly funny, and Jill, who didn’t seem to find it as entertaining.
Still, everybody else accepted his pose of slightly unstable idiot savant as authentic. The other boys in his circle (with the exception of Blaise) avoided him, regarded him with poorly concealed contempt or fear. The girls, on the other hand, seemed desperate to offer him comfort, especially of a physical nature. He ran through eight boxes of Happihealthy shields over a three-week period. His pleasure faded, though, when he discovered he was expected to behave like a primitive savage in bed.
And there was still a smoking hole in his heart where Roger had been.
Jill was thinking, regretfully, that the new Alec was devastatingly attractive, with his outlaw attitude and sad eyes, particularly in the swing ensemble in which she’d dressed him tonight She’d designed it herself, basing it on old cinema footage, all black and white: full black trousers, full white shirt, black and white spectator shoes, long watch chain. Only the dark red braces brought any color to the ensemble. He looked like a doomed young aristocrat from some luckless pre-Hitler monarchy, but he was supposed to. She herself was similarly spectral, in a very brief black dress and pointed slippers, face painted for pallor and desperate gaiety.
Alec had been silent as they’d zoomed through the night, though he’d taken her hand crossing the car park, holding a bit more tightly than she found comfortable. He seemed to need more intimacy from her now, even with all the other girls he was entertaining. She found herself gloomily remembering her parents.
Alec, on the other hand, felt his spirits rising as they came closer to the big double doors standing wide, as he heard the music rolling out of McCartney Hall, saw the lights, glimpsed the black and white streamers and balloons. He liked ballrooms. He liked losing himself in the pattern of the dance.
“Tickets, please,” said Balkister at the door. He was made up as a cabaret emcee, truly grotesque in black and white makeup and an early twentieth-century
tuxedo that fit perfectly but somehow made him even uglier.
“What’re you doing on door duty?” hooted Alec, handing him the old-fashioned pasteboard slips.
“Like I’ve got a date,” he said morosely. “Skip on in, kiddies. Rumor has it there’s real gin in the orange punch.”
“Ooo,” said Alec and Jill, and shoved past him into the swirling vortex of what passed for high life in modern London.
At least the band was hot. They were playing a medley of historical tunes and some late twenty-third-century neobaroque fusion, which was completely out of period but accommodated swing steps perfectly. The musicians leaned into exaggerated poses, stabbing at the ceiling with their clarinets or bending down with their saxophones between their knees, trying to look like the historical posters of the period. The dancers strutted and shimmied, jittered and hopped, in all the ashen tones of ancient cinema.
“My lord.” The adult at the hatcheck window inclined toward Alec. “What may I do for you this evening?”
Alec gulped; he still wasn’t used to being addressed with Roger’s title. “Check these, okay?” he said, handing over Jill’s wrap and handbag.
“Certainly,” said the adult, presenting him with a numbered tag as though it were a privilege to serve him. Alec passed the tag to Jill, who handed it back impatiently.
“You’re the one with pockets, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” Alec thrust it in his pocket, trying to collect his wits. “Um—can I get you a drink?”
There wasn’t any gin in the punch, in fact, but it was fun to pretend they were drinking Orange Blossoms. They stood at the edge of the floor, sipping from their chlorilar cups and watching the carefully approximated mad whirl.
“Young Finsbury, isn’t it?” said a voice at Alec’s shoulder, causing him to jump. He turned to meet the stare of Lord Howard, highest ranking of the official chaperones for the evening. It was all the more unnerving because Lord Howard was resplendent in a flawlessly recreated flapper ensemble, complete with beaded slippers. He had moreover located a real monocle in some antique shop and wore it carefully screwed into one eye, the black ribbon trailing down over his powdered cheek.
“Yes, sir,” stammered Alec.
“And how are we getting on? Perfectly awful thing to happen to the sixth earl, but I trust he’s well represented by his successor?”
“I, er, hope so, sir.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it!” said Lady Howard, emerging from the crowd at the bar to hand a cup of punch to her husband. She had donned gentlemen’s evening dress for the occasion, and grease-penciled a thin black moustache on her upper lip. She linked arms with Lord Howard now and continued: “We do hope you’ll show some interest in your birthright, young man. We’d so like to see that dusty old seat in the House occupied for a change.”
“Well—er—” Alec noticed a passing tray and set his empty cup on it. He’s never going to sit in the House of Lords, Jill thought.
“Of course, you’ll want time to adjust,” said Lord Howard. “When’s the investiture, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“We sort of did it already, at the solicitor’s office,” said Alec. “We, er, haven’t set a date for the formal ceremony yet.”
“Hm?” Lord Howard looked stern, the corners of his scarlet mouth disappearing into his powdered jowls. “But you’ll see that you do, of course. Must go round for a kneel before the old girl. The whole pomp and circumstance bit. Remember, young Finsbury, this is what we are. Duty carries certain honors, and if one can’t enjoy them, one’s cheating oneself. Besides, you know, it’s all part of the show, and as such must go on! Don’t you think?”
“Well, of course he does,” said Lady Howard. “Don’t you, Roger dear?”
Jill coughed discreetly. Alec flushed and said: “Actually, I’m—” just as the dance ended and applause swept the room.
“Oh, but you kids don’t want to hear stodgy old speeches,” Lady Howard giggled. “Go on and dance! What a beautiful job they’ve all done, conjuring up the Last Days of Empire. Do you suppose there’s any chance we’ll get to do a good old time warp before the evening’s ended?”
“Wrong period, dear,” said Lord Howard.
“I get so tired of these history snobs. What would it matter—” Lady Howard was complaining when Alec and Jill took their hasty leave. They escaped onto the dance floor as the band struck up “The Saint Louis Blues.”
There, at last, Alec felt better. The music was fast and loud, the steps were quick, and his body exulted in movement. If competitive sports had still been permitted he’d probably have been an athlete. He swung Jill through the intricate steps, lifted her and turned her, bowed and skipped through all the ancient paces as the ancient song blared. He was so caught up in the pleasure of his blood he didn’t notice the tightness of Jill’s mouth, or the way she pulled her hands back when the figures of the dance didn’t require her to be touching him.
Perhaps if he had noticed, he mightn’t have spoken. Then again, he might have, for his question came blurting out without any conscious planning on his part:
“So, um … will you marry me?”
She didn’t answer. He swung back toward her and took her hand, and as he looked down at her he was astonished to see her staring resolutely at their feet. There was a spot of scarlet in either of her cheeks, visible even under the artificial pallor.
So long a pause followed that he was about to repeat his question when she said, in a quiet voice he had to strain to hear below the music:
“I don’t think so, Alec.”
“Huh?” He was so shocked his body refused to acknowledge what he’d heard, and kept moving him through the dance steps like a machine.
“I don’t think I want to get married after all,” she said, not looking up. “At least, I don’t think it’s in the cards for us.”
“But …” Suddenly the dance steps were more important than ever, his feet were moving with frantic precision, though his mouth hung open. He tilted his head and inhaled, unconsciously trying to catch her scent. “But we made plans, babe.”
“I know we did,” she said. “But things change.”
“You mean my Episode? But I’ve had therapy for that. I’m better now. Babe, you know I’d never hurt you.” He lifted her hand and she pirouetted under his arm, still resolutely avoiding his gaze.
“I know,” she said tersely. “It still wouldn’t work out.”
“But why?”
“Well—for one thing, you sleep with a lot of other girls.”
“But we talked about that.” Alec was beginning to lose the steps, staggering a little. “You said you didn’t mind!”
“I thought I wouldn’t,” Jill said, attempting to keep on dancing. “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
“But—I’ll stop. Okay?” Alec tried to get her to look up at him. She frowned judiciously at the parquet under their shoes.
“That wouldn’t do any good, don’t you see? It would limit your freedom, which wouldn’t be fair to you, after all. And you’d resent that, which would make things worse,” she said. “I’m sorry, but this just won’t work. For both our sakes—”
“But I love you!” said Alec, faltering to a stop at last in the middle of the dance floor. She stopped, too. She drew herself up, took a deep breath, and said calmly:
“Alec, this has been a wonderful relationship, but I really feel it cannot be a permanent one. Okay?”
Alec actually bent down, found himself reaching to turn her face up, anything to get her to look into his eyes, because if he could only do that—NO! he screamed silently, realizing what he’d been about to do, squeezing his eyes tight shut.
All around them the members of the London Circle and the Wimbledon Circle were capering, watching the play in sidelong glimpses, ears pricked to hear Alec cry out:
“You mean it’s over, then?”
She raised her eyes at last and saw his stricken face, and: “Yes!” she said, and burst into tears and fled away to t
he ladies’ lavatory.
Alec stood there like a monolith in the midst of the dancers, white as chalk. His mouth worked, tightened, turned down at the comers. He strode over to the bar and helped himself to a whole bottle of orange juice and another cup, and the chaperone responsible for mixing the punch gave up any thought of protest after one look at Alec’s eyes.
A wrought-iron catwalk ran around the room about five meters up, where in former times it had been pleasant for lovers to stroll and look down on the festivities. McCartney Hall was very old, however, and the catwalk had long been closed pending the arrival of funds from somewhere to bring it up to modern safety codes. There was a sign to that effect at the entrance to the stairway, which Alec ignored as he vaulted over the rope and climbed up to sprawl in splendid isolation on the catwalk, sneering at the balloons that drifted along the ceiling. Thirty-seven balloons exactly; fourteen black, twenty-three white. Wasn’t it just great to be smart as paint?
From the depths of his shirt he drew out a flask, a beautiful antique of hammered silver. In full view of the dance floor he poured gin into his cup and added orange juice, and sat there arrogantly sipping a real cocktail. Below him the band swung into “Hep-Hep! (The Jumpin’ Jive).”
The news spread like wildfire.
“My God, is she nuts?” gasped the Honourable Cynthia Bryce-Peckinghill.
“But he’s an earl,” gasped Beatrice Louise Jagger.
“She didn’t! She knows how much money he’s inherited,” gasped Marilyn Deighton-True.
“I knew she was a snooty bitch, but I never dreamed—” gasped Diana Lewton-Bygraves.
“Look here, old man, are you all right?” said Balkister, clinging to the stair rail as he ventured out on the catwalk. He looked down and turned pale. Dropping to hands and knees he crawled out after Alec.
“Fine,” Alec said. “Want a drink?”
“Don’t mind if I do. Real Orange Blossoms, eh?” Balkister accepted the cup and took an experimental swallow. His eyes bugged slightly but he said: “S-superb. You have such a sense of cool, Checkerfield.”
