by Kage Baker
“Okay.” Alec refilled Balkister’s glass. “Though the Vulcans haven’t shown up yet, have they? So far as we know we’re still the only game in the galaxy or wherever.”
“That could change at any time,” Balkister insisted. “Think of all those centuries when the Red Indians thought they were the only people in the world, and then the Euro-monsters landed! However. Will you agree with me that our ruling class needs the occasional goad to keep it from getting too sure of itself?”
“Sure, I’ll agree to that.”
“Aha. Having said that—here we sit, you and I, two terribly brilliant fellows of like mind.”
“No, no. You’re the brilliant one. I’m Ape Man Checkerfield, remember?” Alec refilled his own glass.
“But you’ve got money, sweetie, and that’s just as good as brains. Besides, you’re fearfully clever in your own way.” Balkister tossed back another gulp of wine. “Don’t think I never noticed. Have you still got that seriously amazing customized cybersystem running your party boat?”
Ship! You little pansified twerp.
“Yes, I have, as a matter of fact,” Alec said.
“Good. Suppose I was to tell you that there are others like you and me out there, misfits who have tasted intellectual freedom? Troublemakers who are ready to wipe the conceited smiles off the faces of the Colin Debenhams of the world.”
Alec had to think a moment to place the name. Jill, right. He felt a momentary pang and lifted his glass, swirled it to watch the body of the wine streaming down the crystal, breathed in the fragrance. She was nothing to you, laddie buck.
“Okay,” said Alec. “And you’re going to tell me that you’re with some group that does secret stuff. What is it, Balkister? Picketing shops? Voting to censure bad guys? Rigging commcodes to send takeaway food your enemies didn’t order?”
“You have been thinking about this,” said Balkister admiringly. “I won’t lie to you, ’pon my soul. All that and more, you ugly creature! Suppose there is such a group, and suppose I’m a member. Wouldn’t you like to be a member, too? It’s the only proper work for a gentleman, you know. Filibustering, they used to call it. Fighting to bring freedom to the oppressed.”
“Yeah?” Alec studied his wine, turning the glass in the light. Maybe this isn’t as stupid as it sounds. Sort of organized anarchy.
But what’s in it for you, son? And you decided you wasn’t going to waste yer time wiping the world’s arse anymore, remember?
I know But where I went wrong was in trying to run people’s lives for them. What he’s proposing is just the opposite, isn’t it, encouraging people to run their own lives? Besides, this wouldn’t be stupid me blundering along. Balkister’s sharp about politics. Maybe he’s on to something. And smuggling is getting a little old.
The Captain bared his teeth and compared any possible hazards in this proposition to the last major life-change Alec had undertaken. He decided it couldn’t possibly make Alec any unhappier than Lorene had. He noted further the possibilities of increasing his power base. If a crew of renegade admins were going to (for example) break into the laboratories of some big corporation or other, there might be all manner of opportunities to snap up unconsidered trifles, such as secret research data. Knowledge = Power, that was the equation, after all.
Hell’s bells, boy, yer right. Yer old man would have approved of it, wouldn’t he? This’ll be a chance to make him proud.
Alec decided.
“So, suppose you did belong to a group like that,” he said to Balkister. “And you talked a friend into joining. You’d want a big cash donation from him, I guess.”
“Did I say that?” said Balkister. “Well, I sort of did, didn’t I? But what might be worth even more to this band of intrepid heroes would be any quote extraordinary talents unquote the friend had. If he were good at breaking into defended systems, for example. Think of all the nifty pranks one might pull on the bloated and moribund technological hierarchy, eh?
“And if this talented guy was also tremendously mobile, able to travel anywhere at a moment’s notice, without applying for any permits, because he was a shracking peer of the realm and had a very, very fast boat—and perhaps was already engaged in cocking snooks at the Establishment—well, I just think the heroes would welcome him with open arms, don’t you? With or without the cash!
“Though of course the money would help,” Balkister added as an afterthought.
“You’ve made some damn good guesses about my life,” remarked Alec coolly, regarding Balkister with a flat stare. Balkister gulped and replied:
“Checkerfield, I’ve known you since we were twelve, for God’s sake. I remember the things you used to be able to do.”
Alec exhaled. “What’s the deposit account code?”
Balkister’s eyes widened, but he told Alec.
Give them fifty thousand out of the Cocos Island Trade account.
Aye aye, lad. The Captain did a bit of deft electronic manipulation. Lights flashed briefly on a console five thousand miles away and money moved, as readily as though gold moidores and pieces of eight had fallen glittering into a bank vault from thin air.
“Okay,” said Alec. “You’ve got a bit of pound sterling to play with now. Can I join your secret club?”
Balkister stared at him in silence for a moment, realizing the significance of Alec’s torque for the first time.
“You’ve been cyborged,” he said in awe.
“Yup.” Alec smiled at last.
“That is so cool! On behalf of my disreputable and rebellious friends, Lord Finsbury, let me be the first to officially welcome you to the Heroic Resistance Society. We’re going to have some great times, you and us.”
Better than you know, you little windbag.
Now, now After you, Balkister’s my oldest friend.
As Alec walked back that evening, staggering somewhat, he reflected guiltily that Balkister wasn’t his oldest human friend; Lewin surely was. The old man had been through so much in the last week already, maybe he’d have already turned in and wouldn’t notice Alec’s condition. Asleep and dreaming in his nice grand stateroom. Nothing but the best for poor old Lewin.
But there was a light burning on board the Captain Morgan, shining across the black water at Tower Marina. Alec’s heart sank. He paused at a vending machine outside the mooring office to purchase a small bottle of distilled water, and rinsed his mouth several times. He groped in the pockets of the coat he’d bought for a roll of peppermints, remembered it was a new coat and had nothing useful in the pockets, and thumped the vending machine a few more times before it spat out a little packet of herbal cough drops. Not quite what was wanted, but it would have to do. He tipped most of the packet into his mouth and crunched them up, ignoring the Captain’s laughter. They tasted vile.
The mermaid was staring into the Thames fog with an ironic expression as he trudged heavily up the gangplank. She was the only one to greet his return; Billy Bones and crew had to stay below decks, deactivated, when he was in London. This had been the rule ever since an elderly yachtsman moored next to Alec’s ship had glanced out his porthole, seen Billy Bones crawling along the deck with a tray of breakfast, and suffered a near-fatal heart attack from the shock.
Concentrating on his posture, Alec strolled along the deck and past the door of Lewin’s stateroom. It was standing open. Alec ducked his head to peer through and stopped, dumbfounded at what he saw.
Lewin was sitting up at the table, resting his elbows on the polished surface and staring thoughtfully at a cut-crystal decanter in front of him. Earlier in the evening the decanter had been secured away in a locked cabinet, and it had been full of very expensive single malt. It wasn’t full now, by any means.
“Lewin?” said Alec.
Lewin’s head came up unsteadily and swung round. He focused his eyes and saw Alec. “Don’t chide me, son,” he said. “Ain’t had a drink in seventy-five years, have I? Have a li’l patience with the old guy.”
How th
e hell did he get into that cabinet? I secured that lock!
Alec stepped over the threshold and moved into the circle of lamplight Lewin peered at him. “Good God. Where jer buy that coat? Y‘look like … like something awfully tall n’ silver n’ purple.”
“I thought it was kind of neat,” Alec said. He attempted to slide into the booth across from Lewin and hit his head on the hanging lamp. “Ow.”
“You been drinking, ain’t you, son?” Lewin looked stern. “Thought so. Nobody’d buy a coat like that sober, for Chrissake. You’ll be sober tomorrow, won’t you, son? Promise me you’ll be sober.”
“I promise, sir.”
“I’ll be sober, too,” said Lewin sadly. “No missus to go on at me. Like a glass bird she was at the end. You could have broken her like that.” He attempted to snap his fingers. He couldn’t quite coordinate. His face crumpled up. “God, God, I miss her so bad—” He began to cry hopelessly. Alec clambered out of the booth and went to Lewin’s side of the table, where he crouched to put his arms around the old man.
“S’okay,” he muttered, blinking back tears. “S’okay.”
“What’m I gonna do?” the old man gasped. “Eighty years, Alec. Eighty years of my life, she was there in the morning.”
Ask him how he got that cabinet open. I’ve just scanned, and there’s been other locks tampered with. Nothing’s gone except the whiskey, but I want to know how he did it!
Oh, shut up right now, can’t you?
But out loud Alec said hesitantly: “It must have been tough getting the Talisker out of there. I didn’t give you the security code.”
“No problemo.” Lewin wiped away tears. He reached for his glass and Alec let go of him so he could drink without spilling. “Cracked tougher cribs than that, back in me bad old days.”
What?
There was a moment of silence, while Lewin drank and Alec played back his last sentence.
“Excuse me?” he stammered.
“Oh yeah.” Lewin waved a shaky hand. “Didn’t know, did you? I was a sneak thief once. Not to worry. I went to hospital. Cured a long time ago. Don’t know how she managed all that time I was inside. We thought it’d be better once I was out but nobody would give us jobs, see? Except for his lordship. My gentleman. Nicest guy I ever met, he was. Didn’t judge nobody.” Lewin had another sip of whiskey and looked at Alec curiously. “It ain’t half funny how you turned out so much like him, you know? Considering.”
“Considering?”
“Mm. You’re a stronger man, though. Lots stronger. Poor old Jolly Roger.” Lewin smiled dreamily at the lamp, which was still swaying, ever so slightly, after its collision with Alec’s head. “Why’d he stop teaching, eh? Too much money, maybe. No reason not to do just as he liked. He drifted with the tide, our Roger.”
“Well, he was unhappy,” Alec said. “I broke up his marriage, didn’t I?”
“Aw, no, son—”
“No, it’s okay. I’ve known for years.”
Lewin had another mouthful of whiskey, shaking his head. “No. He made some kinda deal with the devil. I think. Jovian Integrated didn’t give him orders much, he just collected his salary, but when they said for him to jump—well, he had to, didn’t he?”
Unnoticed on its bracket in a high corner of the room, one of the Captain’s surveillance cameras turned sharply and focused on Lewin. Its lens telescoped out, bringing him into tight focus, and the volume on the recording devices went up a notch.
“Poor bastard,” Lewin went on, tilting his glass to drain it. “Last thing he wanted was a baby dumped in his lap. But he loved you, Alec, he really did. Much as he loved anybody. That was the funny thing about it.”
Alec was confused. “Wait a minute. I thought he and Mummy got divorced because she didn’t want to have me.”
Lewin was silent a moment, blinking. He put his hands up to rub his face. “Well—she didn’t, actually, but we never wanted to tell you that.”
“I don’t know why she didn’t just go ahead and have an abortion,” said Alec foggily, reaching for the decanter and filling the glass.
Alec, stop that!
“It would have been okay, really,” he went on, “I mean, lots better than both their lives being wrecked that way.” He had a cautious sip, glancing up at the security camera.
You bloody idiot, you know better than to mix yer liquors!
“No, son, no.” Lewin reached out and took the glass from him. He began to cry again. “All these years you’ve thought … what Sarah’s game was I’ll never know.” Alec looked around for a tissue to offer him. He groped in the pockets of the new coat again, with just as much lack of success.
“You know what?” Lewin took a gulp of whiskey. “Doesn’t matter what they was up to at J. I. S. You turned out real fine, never mind what happened to his lordship and her ladyship. Can’t help that, can you? No. All the same. Whoever it was made you, wanted to make something good.”
“What?” said Alec.
Lewin’s eyes were closing.
“Tell yer about it sometime,” he said indistinctly. He put his head down on the table. A moment later he began to snore.
Alec staggered to his feet and looked down at Lewin.
What was he talking about?
Beats me, son, said the Captain a bit too casually.
Alec stood staring at Lewin a moment longer. Out across the water, beyond the Tower, a clock began to strike. It went on striking for a long time. Alec shrugged out of his ludicrous coat and draped it around Lewin’s shoulders. The old man gave a little cry and called out his wife’s name, but he didn’t wake up. Alec stretched out on the floor.
Get up and lie down on the bunk, laddie.
Not going to sleep. Just thinking a minute.
Alec?
What’d he mean, about J.I.S.? …
When Alec woke it was broad daylight. He sat up painfully. He looked over at the table where Lewin still sat huddled under his coat, waxen-faced, shrunken somehow.
Alec knew at once.
Why didn’t you wake me?
He had a stroke afore his heart went, son. It was over in two minutes. Nothing you could have done. Better to let you sleep.
Alec scrambled to his feet, feeling his throat contract
It must have been the whiskey! He hadn’t had a drink in all those years—
Alec, belay that. This wasn’t yer fault. I’ve already checked his medical records and run a postmortem scan. He was dying anyway. Wouldn’t you rather he’d gone in his sleep like this?
I guess so. He was so old, and he missed her so much. But he was all I had left!
Oh, I don’t know about that. Yer mother’s still alive, ain’t she?
Alec put his hands to his pounding temples. My mother? he repeated in stupefaction.
THE YEAR 2350:
CHRISTMAS MEETING
A fine snow was falling over London. Rutherford was happily putting up greenery at No. 10 Albany Crescent, humming Christmas carols to himself. Christmas was a very popular month, in the year 2350. It had long since been purged of the embarrassment of its religious origins, to the point where the younger generations were sentimentally inclined to be tolerant of it. It was so retro!
One was even beginning to hear the unexpurgated versions of the old carols again, probably because few people had any idea what the words meant anymore. Rutherford was doggedly working his way through learning “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” because of its literary connotations, but even with his extraordinary classical education he couldn’t imagine why the Blessed Babe had been born in Jewelry.
He tacked up the last swag of paper holly and scrambled down from the stepladder to have a look around. There in the corner was his artificial tree, releasing its fragrance of balsam mist spray as the tiny electronic lights pulsed. Around its base he had carefully arranged the favorite toys of his childhood, his hypoallergenic Pooh Bear and Montessori blocks, as well as a host of antique playthings he’d found in various galleries. Visit
ors were occasionally shocked to see the lead soldiers or, worse, the wooden horse and buggy; but Rutherford was a historian, after all, and secretly enjoyed it when the truth did injury to modern sensibilities.
Over the table he had spread a red cloth, and laid out the most historically accurate feast he could put together. No shop he’d visited had had any clue what sugar plums might be, so he’d compromised by setting out a dish of prunes next to a bowl of fresh damsons, flown into Covent Garden from Australia only that morning. He’d made a steamed bran and carrot pudding, and only burned himself a little in turning it out of its round mold. Now it sat sullen on its festive plate, leaking golden syrup. There was a dead-pale BirdSoy blancmange, with the word JOY spelled out in dried cherries. There was a plate of wholemeal biscuits and another of roasted chestnuts. The steaming Christmas punch had been the easiest of all: he’d simply opened a carton of fruit punch and boiled it in a saucepan.
The flames from the Fibro-Logs leaped merrily, the little Father Christmas on the mantel waved a mittened hand as if to welcome in carolers, and the snow kept falling beyond the windows. Rutherford went longingly to the glass and peered out into the steadily darkening afternoon. There were his friends, hurrying along through the whirling flurries! He ran to open the door for them.
“Merry Solstice,” Chatterji said, smiling as he brushed the snow from his long black cloak.
“Happy Exmas,” said Ellsworth-Howard, throwing back the hood of his anorak and peeling off his ski mask.
“Happy holidays, chaps!” Rutherford hastened to close the door and shut out the icy air. “Come in and partake of the groaning board.”
“The what?” said Ellsworth-Howard, but he was advancing on the food even as he spoke. “Bloody hell, blancmange. My favorite! Here you go, Rutherford, here’s your shracking present.” He took a silver-wrapped parcel from under his coat and dropped it on the table, then grabbed a spoon and helped himself to blancmange.
“This is for you too, old chap.” Chatterji presented Rutherford with a similarly bright package.
