The Years Best Science Fiction & Fantasy: 2009
Page 49
Furious, I thumped a fist against my desk. I am not a girl. I am the Queen.
So be one.
The words came to me in my father’s voice.
I wiped the tears from my eyes and pulled the closest stack of papers toward me. These were applications and petitions my secretary had reviewed already and forwarded to me according to our own obscure set of criteria. The first few I scanned automatically: a petition from a district in the north, asking for temporary reduction in their taxes, a long rambling paper setting forth grievances between two major guilds, yet another polemic concerning Anglian liberty, request upon request for monies to support this or that worthy cause, . . . .
. . . a request from Doctor Breandan Reid ó Cuilinn, asking for an extension to his grant.
I stopped. Flicked away the other papers and concentrated on his alone.
He was no politician, I thought, reading closely. He stated without apology or preamble that he had quit his position at Awveline University, though they had offered him more money and a higher position.
. . . I have discovered, through painful experience, that I cannot do proper research when I am distracted by other obligations. My blessed father died the year before and left me a small inheritance—enough to live off, but not enough to afford a laboratory and materials for any substantial endeavor. Your father’s generosity enabled me to accomplish a great deal, but—and here I apologize to you, just as I did to your father, for such blatant beggary—I must have another year’s funding if I am to transform my theories into reality . . . .
He believes in his cause, I thought. So do they all.
And yet, I remembered that handful of iron dust, the shiver in the air when ó Cuilinn’s golden octopus worked its magic.
It was not golden, but brass, I reminded myself. And he used science, not magic.
Nevertheless, I found myself transported back to that cold sunlit room, watching a shabbily-dressed scientist perform a miracle before my father and his Court.
At least I can do some good here, I thought as I called for my secretary.
“Doctor ó Cuilinn.”
“Your Majesty. Thank you for inviting me to Cill Cannig.”
He had changed little in the past two years, but the differences intrigued me—his fine golden hair lay thin over his skull, a tracery of lines marked his pale complexion. And though his eyes were just as dark and brilliant, the gaze as direct, I thought I detected a new uncertainty in his manner. Not a good sign, for my purposes.
I gestured toward the waiting chairs. “Please. Let us be comfortable. I invited you because I wanted to discuss your research.”
There was the briefest hesitation, an even briefer glint of wariness, before he smiled and bowed and followed me to the comfortable grouping of stuffed chairs set round a low table. Beside us, tall windows overlooked one of the palace courtyards, now rife with lilies and roses and the last sweet-smelling blossoms now dripping from the apple trees. Spring rains had given way to the brief summer sun, which poured through the windows.
Servants silently poured tea into porcelain cups etched with falling leaves. At my glance, they withdrew. ó Cuilinn watched them throughout their work. Only when we were alone did he glance back in my direction. Expectant.
“I was not entirely truthful,” I told him. “I want you to move your laboratory here, into the palace, and—”
“You cannot purchase me,” he said abruptly. Then added, “Your Majesty.”
Ah, so he had not entirely lost his arrogance. Good.
I nodded. “I do not intend to. But you see, I believe in your work. I have ever since I observed your demonstration to my father two years ago.”
His dark blue eyes widened as I opened a drawer in the table and withdrew a handkerchief wrapped many times around. I set the handkerchief on the table. Its contents shifted slightly. Was it only in my imagination, or could one hear the hiss of its contents? Smell the faint metallic scent, old and stale?
Breandan ó Cuilinn stared at the handkerchief. “What is that?”
“Your metal bar,” I told him. “The one you sent forward in time, when you last were here.”
“How did you—”
“I waited.” Never mind that I had not known what to expect, or when. The essence was true. “A few moments after you left, the bar reappeared. Or rather, part of it did.”
I undid the handkerchief carefully, layer by layer, until the cloth lay flat upon the table. There in the center lay the handful of dust, somewhat diminished. ó Cuilinn stretched out a hand, plucked it back. He glanced up at me. “What do you want?”
No honorifics. I hardly cared.
“I want you to continue your research,” I said. “I am willing to allot you substantial funds. However, I would find it simpler if we could eliminate the layers of letter writers and secretaries and other middle-men.”
His mouth relaxed and the tension eased from his jaw. “I believe I understand. But your Majesty, if you truly want me to continue my work—and dedicate myself to it entirely, not in piecemeal fashion as I have over the years—then I will require a great deal of equipment. And money.”
A faint flush edged his cheeks. He had freckles, I noticed.
“I understand,” I said. “Please, tell me what you’ve discovered so far. And what you hope to accomplish in the future.”
He told me far more than I could understand. In between careless sips of tea, he spoke about using carbon-free chromium objects for his experiments, which resulted in less corrosion. His most recent experiments with the material had yielded larger flakes of dust, along with fragments of the bar itself. But that alone, he told me, was useless—merely a device for proving the concept. What he needed to do was reduce the effect of time travel itself. In fact—and here his gaze went diffuse, obviously following this thought along all its permutations—he ought to search for ways to shield objects inside the chamber. A combination of the two branches of research . . .
“What about the past?” I asked.
“What about the past?” he said.
A moment of uncomfortable silence followed.
“You want to change the past?” he said. “Why? Or is this a scheme you have for some political end?”
“I do not mean that. I only mean—”
“—what everyone else means,” he said bitterly.
“If you think I will make any preconditions on you, you are mistaken,” I said crisply.
For the first time, he seemed to notice me. “No. I did not think that—”
“You did,” I said. “But never mind. I am sure we can come to some agreement. You want money. I want to continue my father’s legacy with scientific progress.”
A smile twitched at his mouth. “I see. Yes. Yes, your Majesty, I believe we can meet both our goals.”
Orders, however easily spoken, are not so lightly carried out. Doctor ó Cuilinn had no outstanding obligations to any landlord or university, but he did have an enormous quantity of records and equipment to transfer from Awveline City to Cill Cannig. A month went simply to negotiate what quarters he required for his work. Two more passed in transferring his belongings to the palace, and arranging them to his satisfaction. An arrogant man. I had thought that a good quality, but I found myself hissing whenever my steward or secretary mentioned ó Cuilinn’s name.
That, unfortunately, was not the end of my worries.
“You say this fellow—”
“—scientist,” I murmured.
“—this scientist holds the keys to time?”
Seven months had passed since Doctor ó Cuilinn took up residence in Cill Cannig. I was breakfasting with Lord Tallon, a senior member of Eíreann’s Congress and an elderly man, used to the perquisites of age and rank. Others were present, but they all deferred to him.
“He investigates them,” I said patiently.
Apparently my patience was too transparent.
“He walks the time roads,” Tallon said.
A shiver went t
hrough me, in spite of knowing he used only the terms from legends past.
“He is a scientist,” I said. “He researches possibilities.”
“At a considerable cost,” another said. I recognized him—Lord Begley, newly arrived in Congress after his father’s death. An ambitious man, with a reputation for cleverness. He had attached himself to the Council for Economic and Monetary Affairs.
“Explain yourself,” I said.
The other members of Congress flinched at my tone, but Begley himself was oblivious. “The monies spent on Doctor ó Cuilinn’s research is a matter of public record, your Majesty. And as part of their duties, the Committee has studied those records. We wish merely to express our concern about spending so freely—”
“We are hardly in danger of ruin.” It took a great effort to keep my voice calm.
“No, but as you know, your Majesty, there are troubling rumors from the Continent, echoed by troubling rumors within our own borders. We need an advantage, be it economic or political or . . . ” Here he offered me an oily smile. “ . . . or an advantage both scientific and concrete.”
“You mean a weapon,” I said.
He dipped his head. “Whatever you wish to call it, your Majesty.”
I studied the man before me with growing anger. Subtlety played no part in his speech. If I did not give him the assurances he wanted, he and the Committee would work to undermine ó Cuilinn’s project. Though I had established a measure of authority over the past year, I could not afford to insult or ignore these men, however badly I wished to.
You must make concessions, my father’s voice added. He holds a portion of influence, and has the means and determination to increase it.
That night, in a rare private conference with Adrian Dee, I reopened the matter. Though he knew all about the invitation, and ó Cuilinn himself, I recounted everything, from ó Cuilinn’s first visit, three years before, to Begley’s speech.
“They want reassurance,” Dee said.
“I know that,” I said. “I only wished to know your opinion about the matter. As a friend,” I added in an undertone.
His expression remained immobile, but I thought I glimpsed a quickening of his pulse, the clues so faint despite the ubiquitous gaslight.
“If you wish my opinion,” he said, “then I will give it. Spend the money for his research, if you believe it necessary and right for Éireann. For you. But do not promise anything to your Congress. Otherwise you break the promise you made to him.”
No need to ask how he knew. He knew everything.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“No need to thank me, your Majesty.”
The odd inflection caught my attention. I jerked my head up.
But Adrian Dee was already rising and bowing—a deep graceful bow expressing loyalty and obedience and all the qualities I loved in him.
And damned him for.
Alone, I considered the problem. The difficulty was that Begley did have a point. Our alliance with Frankonia, sealed with treaties and blood ties, had assured us security for decades. But now Frankonia’s king was failing, and the electors were voicing disagreement about his successor. The Turkish States were embroiled in another succession battle. The American experiment had crumbled into warfare. The Prussian States and Dietsch Empire pressed upon our colonial borders in Africa and the Hindu Peninsula. The Austrian Empire, failing for decades now, proved no less dangerous in its dying throes.
We needed a means to keep ourselves predominant.
“I will not renege on my promises,” I told Doctor ó Cuilinn.
He seemed unsurprised by the rumors I told him.
“It has always been the case,” he said. “Mention science, and someone mentions war.”
And, as if I had not mentioned any difficulties at all, he went on to talk about his latest discoveries. He had made great progress in mapping out the time fractures. Indeed, they seemed to be multiplying, though he could not yet determine why. The largest cluster centered over Awveline City; others had appeared in the neighborhood of Osraighe and the northern provinces, and he was corresponding with scientists on the Continent to determine if they had discovered any. Whatever their origin, he said, they represented a weakness in the fabric of time. If his theories were correct, he could use them as avenues between the years.
“A road between times?” I said.
“Possibly. I need more time before I can guarantee anything.”
“Of course,” I murmured.
There were no guarantees in science, I knew. None at all in politics. Nevertheless, I found myself reviewing Doctor ó Cuilinn’s reports with greater eagerness than I knew was wholesome. And though I hated the necessity, I played the conciliator to Lord Begley and his faction. But to what end?
Uncertainty nibbled at me. In turn, I asked each of my advisors their opinion.
“Remember your father,” Lord Melville said.
“Remember the longest road,” Lord Kiley told me.
And from my closest friend, “Remember what you wish others to remember of you.”
“Is that how you make decisions?” I asked Adrian Dee.
He never answered me; I never pressed him.
By autumn of the following year, I had several answers, none of which satisfied me.
“Tell me again,” I said, “what you have accomplished.”
We stared at one another a few moments. He disliked being questioned—I could see that at once—but then, I disliked excuses and obfuscations.
At last he bowed his head.
“We have made progress, your Majesty.”
“How much?”
“A great deal.”
“Show me.”
Now his anger was unmistakable. “Why? Because you want a good return on your investment?”
I met his glare with one of my own. “Why not? Or are you so gifted by God and Gaia that I dare not question you?”
At that he gave a snorting, breathless laugh. “Ah, I should have known . . . ” Then, before my anger could flare hotter, he added, “Your Majesty, I have been a thankless, arrogant creature. My apologies. Here, let me show you what you have bought with your generosity.”
He led me from the interview chamber through a series of ever-narrower corridors into an unused wing of the palace. Nearly unused, I thought, taking in the many recent renovations. Surely my secretary had cleared all these beforehand. Or no. I remembered saying once, Do whatever it takes.
We came into a vast, brightly-lit laboratory, lined with shelves and cabinets. Several assistants sat at workbenches. At our entrance, they glanced up and made as if to stand, but I signaled them to remain seated. ó Cuilinn trailed me as I advanced into the room. Bins of supplies, all of them neatly labeled, took up most of the shelves, but others held books and folders, half-finished replicas of that original machine, and several strange devices I could not identify. More shelves and more cabinets crowded the far end; in front of them stood a huge worktable, with neatly arranged stacks of record books and tools set out in ordered rows.
All of these paled before the machine that ó Cuilinn wheeled out before me.
The octopus, I thought.
But this octopus overshadowed everything else.
It was three times the size of a man, golden and polished and wrapped all around with gleaming glass tubes. More wires than before filled the tubes. A vast cube of batteries, or who knew what, crouched under the workbench, and there were other, larger cubes sheathed in lead off to one side, connected with an umbilical cord of wires. The air in the room felt close and stale and charged with electricity.
ó Cuilinn crouched down, tugged open a drawer.
“I meant to show you this earlier, but . . . ”
Without finishing his explanation, Breandan ó Cuilinn extracted a small object from the drawer. It was a balloon and its basket, I saw, worked in the finest gold and silver. An artist’s rendering, a craftsman’s masterpiece. Then, as if inspired, he picked up one of the book
s from his worktable. He pressed a button, and the octopus’s mouth stretched wide. He placed both objects inside, pressed the same button again, and took a hasty step backward.
The octopus closed its mouth.
“Wait,” he said, before I could speak.
One moment, two. Just like before, my skin prickled, and the air went taut.
“What is it?” I asked.
A note rang through the laboratory, as though someone had plucked a gigantic string. As I waited, I felt my pulse thrum inside me, and an answering vibration from Breandan’s hand pressed against mine. He had dismissed his assistants, I realized belatedly, and my pulse beat faster.
“I sent them forward in time,” he whispered.
I had no answer for that, only a stupid, “How long?”
“A year.”
“Why so long?”
“To prove myself. To everyone else. To you.”
We were both breathing fast in excitement. Afterwards, I could not tell who turned first toward the other. All I remember is that our lips met and pressed together briefly. Pressed again and did not part for an impossibly long interval. Only when we paused to breathe, I realized I did not wish to stop. My hand snaked around his neck. Both of his grasped my waist. Time and time uninterrupted, and none of it satisfied me.
At last, he pulled back. His face was flushed, his eyes so dark, they appeared black.
“I have taken too many liberties.”
His voice was husking and low.
“Not nearly enough,” I said.
Even in my bed, in the midst of kissing me, he could not refrain from speaking about his research. “There must be a way,” he murmured, as he ran his fingertips along my hip. His hands were cool and raised a trail of goose bumps; the rest of him was like a winter’s fire.
“A way for what?” I asked when he did not continue.
“To send a person ahead in time, like a courier to the future.”
I noticed that he was tracing a pattern on my skin. A mathematical formula, a schematic for a new octopus, a pathway through time for his imaginary courier. Laughter fluttered in my belly. When he kissed me again, I had no doubt his attention was focused entirely upon me, and the laughter changed to a new and sharper sensation. Almost painful.