Fortuna

by Nicholas Maes

  The sun was bright and blinded him slightly.

  A burst of music broke in on Felix. The sound was scratchy, but he recognized the piece: Bach’s 2nd Brandenburg Concerto. He set his book down and pushed back the chair. Twenty metres off, his dad was wrestling with a ladder by a shelf. Because the shelves rolled on for thirty metres and almost touched the elevated ceiling, the ladder was handy, never mind that it would jam against the sliding bar. That had happened now and his dad was trying to unstick it.

  “Do you need help?” Felix asked, making his way over. He had to yell over the music.

  “That’s alright. I can manage. Continue reading.”

  “I could use a break.” That was true. Felix was feeling tense after hearing Angstrom’s speech and knowing it was quits with Carolyn. At the same time he was trying not to think of his mother. She was leaving that night and he dreaded her departure. He’d been reading to distract himself, but the tactic wasn’t working.

  “Where are you in the text?” his father asked, his head bobbing in time to the music.

  “Caesar’s about to die. Are you sure you can manage?”

  “I’m fine. But tell me. When Caesar met his assassins, did he guess what they were planning? Did he know that death was lying in wait?”

  “I don’t think he would have joined them if he had.”

  “That’s true,” his father mused, freeing the ladder. “But after Pharsalus I think his feelings changed. The battle set Rome on an even keel. It was less corrupt, more stable, too. Caesar had lots of blood on his hands, Roman blood at that, but the city was renewed. With his job accomplished, he could die in peace.”

  Felix was puzzled by his father’s comment. He was going to ask him to be more specific, when again the sliding ladder stuck. At the same time a pencil fell to the floor and rolled beneath a shelf. As his father cursed, Felix smiled. In a world whose shape was always changing, his dad was a factor that remained the same.

  Most adults liked to alter their hair, modify their bodies, and vary their clothes to suit the day’s tastes. When Angstrom changed the ERR strictures, everyone took these protocols on. When new supplements appeared, new games, new gadgets, new conveniences, new fashions, new habits, or new uploads, everybody would embrace this “progress” except his father. He stuck with his routines, his books, and music, his Zacron suits and pencil stubs. While the world moved faster, he continued at the same pace, deliberate, consistent, and easy-going.

  No, that wasn’t quite true. He’d changed a bit in recent months, on account of the plague. Mr. Taylor had been its victim and actually died. Felix had saved him by jumping back in time and handing him the cure before the plague could kill him. But his dad had been ambivalent. As he’d confessed weeks later, he hadn’t been despondent at death’s door. He’d hated the idea of leaving his family, but been relieved to leave a world that struck him as empty.

  He was more frail now, and angrier, too. Tiny incidents could set him cursing and waving his pencil about like a dagger. Even the Repository and Bach barely soothed him these days.

  “Could you hand me that book?” his father said. He was standing on the ladder and motioning to a pile. “The big one with the glossy cover.”

  “What book is this?” Felix asked, as he examined the cover’s English title: Cuisine of Provence. He handed the heavy tome to his dad. “Do we have enough space to save cookbooks now? Mentor can track these recipes down.”

  “It’s not the recipes that interest me,” Mr. Taylor replied, “but the book’s implications.” He shelved the book and descended the ladder, speaking as he picked his way down. “As late as 2083, people still fixed meals for themselves. Domestic units were very rare. People ate outside the house, in something called a restaurant, or bought ingredients and cooked these at home, in an oven they controlled themselves. It was a common practice in the recent past.”

  “What a strange idea,” Felix said.

  “And there was more,” his father added. “Look.” He stooped and retrieved four more books from the floor. “Here’s a book on sewing. Imagine. Some people actually sewed their clothes. And here’s one on car repairs and another on plumbing. And here’s one that teaches you to play a piano. Can you imagine? Not only did people listen to music; some were able to play it themselves. When I think …”

  He couldn’t finish. Setting the books down, he went to his desk. Before following him, Felix gazed around. The Repository was located in a steel-girder building, built as a department store in the late nineteenth century. People had assembled here to buy clothes, perfumes, and household goods; on a holiday called Christmas they had packed the aisles. Now these aisles were packed with books. Seven centuries of tomes filled its shelves, which stretched as far as the eye could see. When Felix roamed its hollows, he could practically hear the books talking, pleading to have their contents saved and promising in exchange to share their secrets.

  While he’d spent a lot of time in this space, it was only recently, because of his dad’s weakness, that he’d really come to know it well. He’d wandered each section a million times, memorized titles by the tens of thousands and could track down materials with blinding speed. Having scoured out every nook and cranny, he knew the Repository inside out.

  With the exception of the storage room. In the building’s northwest corner, there was a tiny space with an old-fashioned lock. When Felix asked his dad about it, he answered that the room was where he kept the family skeletons, ones that he was best off forgetting. Felix didn’t care. There was plenty of other stuff to hold his interest. Each day introduced him to a thousand new titles.

  But his dad was waiting. Felix hurried down the aisle toward his desk. As he emerged from the shelving, a statue hailed him — the goddess Diana. Felix threw her a smile, mindful that she’d saved him from the past last year.

  He sat at the desk. He’d barely settled down when an object drew his eye. His smile faded and he clenched his teeth. An e-notice was hovering just out of reach. It bore a 3-D image of the presidential seal and paraded words like “Eviction, “Efficiencies,” and “Waste.” He turned to his father who was sprawled out in an armchair.

  “I’m sorry, Felix,” he said, “I shouldn’t be so gruff. These days I just can’t help myself. Objects like that cookbook seem like such a … reproach. Not to mention crap like that.” He pointed to the notice.

  Felix nodded sympathetically “Two teas,” he spoke into a cube on the desk. “Milk, no sugar.” He glanced back at his dad. “What do you mean by a reproach?”

  “We’re so removed from what we used to be.” His father sighed and squirmed in his chair. “Suetonius’ day was admittedly rough. But at least he saw humans at their best. They were generous, courageous, idealistic, and enduring. Our age is the opposite. We’re blessed with affluence and would never hurt our neighbours. Yet we’re unfeeling and uninterested in anything other than the present. Is this the price we pay for progress? We can’t have comfort without losing our best instincts?”

  His words didn’t come as a surprise; after all, he’d been expressing such opinions for years. The difference now was that his mood was bleak. Whereas formerly he’d always spoken with humour, as well as hope, his tone these days was only despondent. The fluttering e-notice only mocked him further.

  A light flashed once and a whistle sounded. Approaching a panel that stood waist-high, Felix tugged it open. Behind it were two cups of tea. Removing these, he handed one to this father. He then returned to his chair and blew on his drink.

  “When I was young, fili mi,” his father continued, “the violence of the past used to make me tremble. I pitied the Romans when the Vandals smashed their city, the Aztecs when the Spanish crushed them like ants, the victims of the two World Wars, the rats who died at the hands of the theos and the theos whom the rats extinguished. It reassured me, too, to know that I would never see such acts committed, that art, books, and music would never die before my eyes. And yet, for all our comfort, no, because of our comf
orts, the barbarians are at the gates again.”

  “Barbarians?” Felix asked. As he spoke, the concerto hit a climax in the background.

  “There are different types,” his father said, sipping from his cup. “Some are louts toting guns and knives. Others are soft-spoken and possess the smartest minds you’ll ever meet. They’re more dangerous than the first variety. With their technology and gadgets, they’ve made all culture obsolete and altered the very thrust of our souls. As for the past …” He pointed to the e-notice. Its presidential seal was like a slap in the face.

  Felix frowned as he sipped his tea. He was thinking how Stephen had won Carolyn over. He’d never see her again, would he? His eccentricities had chased her off.

  As if sensing his tension, Mr. Taylor smiled whimsically. Reaching over, he squeezed Felix’s hand.

  “Enough of that,” he said. “Let’s go home and talk to your mother. When she leaves tonight, we won’t see her for a while. Let’s enjoy the evening and shelve our gloomy thoughts.”

  Climbing to his feet, his dad began shutting the Repository down. He flicked a long series of switches and, as the ceiling lights went off, successive aisles went black. Watching the shadows enfold the books, Felix thought they captured all his father’s fears. The present was eating into the past, so thoroughly that no trace of it would survive into the future.

  Chapter Four

  “How pretty the earth is,” Mrs. Taylor gushed. “I’ve seen this view a thousand times yet it never fails to thrill me.”

  “It is beautiful,” her husband agreed.

  “The strangest part about working off-world,” Mrs. Taylor went on, “is that the farther off you are from Earth, the less unique it seems. From Ganymede it’s like another rock in space. You’d never guess it was home to thinking creatures like us.”

  “How do you do it?” Mr. Taylor said, “If I were standing on Ganymede, I’d miss Earth so badly. I couldn’t be away from it for three long months. Why are you laughing?”

  “Because you of all people have good reason to leave. It really is funny. You hate this world, yet you insist on staying.”

  “I have to stay. Who else will keep these people honest? Besides Felix, that is.”

  Felix started when he heard his name. He’d been staring out the window at the start of outer space. They were in a private shuttle, travelling to the Space Hub, which was floating in the Earth’s exosphere.

  The Earth. It was poised beneath Felix’s feet, and, for all its vastness, looked strangely frail. Surrounded by a tract of space, it seemed on the verge of suffering some crisis. Maybe a comet would strike from out of the blue, cosmic rays would burn it to cinders, or another plague would rear its head and bring people to their knees. Would he like that? Would he like its masses to be hammered again, only this time no one would come to the rescue? As his family floated safely on high, Siegfried Angstrom would sicken, Stephen Gowan, too, the general, Carolyn …

  No. Not Carolyn. The thought of something hurting her…

  “You’re very quiet,” his mother said.

  Felix merely smiled. A week ago there’d been a “leak” on Ganymede and all its housing had been badly affected. CosmoComm needed someone to supervise on site, and by “someone” they meant Mrs. Taylor. She’d booked a seat on the next heavy transport and the day of her departure had finally come, much to Felix’s disappointment. He liked having his mother home. Her comfort with technology balanced out his dad’s obsession with the past. She’d be gone three months and the house would seem empty.

  “What’ll you do while I’m away?”

  “I’ll read Tacitus,” Felix answered, “and some more recent authors. The twenty-first century interests me; the way religion and technology went to war with each other.”

  “That period reminds me of Rome’s last days,” his dad broke in. “We should read Procopius of Caesarea. He writes about barbarians and the city’s final gasps.”

  “That sounds cheerful,” Mrs. Taylor joked.

  “And I’ll hunt for more books,” Felix added, before his dad could mention the Repository and how the new barbarians were plotting to close it. “Cookbooks in particular.”

  “Cookbooks?” Mrs. Taylor asked. “What are those?”

  “It’s a joke,” Felix answered, winking at his father. While his mother believed in her husband’s project, she knew nothing about history. “I was born in 2170,” she always argued. “I remember events from my own day and not much more.” Her family’s talk of Julius Caesar, Pericles, Napoleon, and Karl Marx, and events and figures closer to the present, Clavius, Xiu, Goldberg, rats and theos; these baffled her in much the same way that her talk of zero gravity torque mystified Felix.

  Felix had once asked his mom what had drawn her to his father. Their perspectives were different, their tastes were different, their jobs were different, they were different. Why had she thought their marriage would work?

  “I may not know about the past,” she’d answered, pausing briefly to consider his question, “but I respect it deeply. It comforts me to know that, while I construct my units, someone is keeping our history alive. Nowadays everyone knows math and physics. Only rare birds, like your father and you, have studied languages from earlier times. How couldn’t I fall for such a man? The same way an engineer will one day lose her heart to you.”

  Felix knew it hadn’t been quite like that. When his mom had met his father, she’d been equipped with ERR. Without it, she maintained, she couldn’t perform her job. Off-world housing had to be perfect. If the O2 flow was off by one percent or the vacuum seals slipped by even a micron, people would die. When she handled these jobs, she had to focus. She couldn’t dwell on anything but the task at hand because for a working engineer, emotions could be lethal.

  But to value Mr. Taylor, her feelings couldn’t be “filtered.” Suspicious as he was of ERR, he’d never have assumed it just for her, and never have befriended her if she’d “worn” it all the time. At the start of their relationship, they’d discussed this subject bitterly and come within a hair of splitting up. Finally they’d brokered a compromise. When her job required it, her ERR was on; when her family beckoned, it was disengaged. After that, the pair had gotten along and been happily married for the longest time.

  Only once had Felix seen her in ERR mode. He’d been five years old. An emergency had come up and she’d installed the filter before leaving home. Her demeanour had been chilling. Felix remembered the look in her eye, the dull, cold glaze of her brain at work, unhindered by fear, sadness, or affection. If Felix had been killed in front of her eyes, she could have ignored his death and continued working. It had taken him weeks to get over this trauma and to see her as his mom again and not as some cyborg.

  “Hello there!” a voice broke in. “I hope I’m not intruding?”

  Felix glanced round in confusion. Like both his parents, he cracked a smile when he spied Professor MacPherson on a Teledata screen. Besides the Taylors, MacPherson was the only man alive who knew Latin, Greek, and other foreign languages, as well as history, art, and culture. He was part of the TPM project and had helped Felix out the previous year. Not only had the professor been in touch since then, but he’d befriended the older Taylors, too. They’d had him over for dinner often, and Felix and his dad would sometimes meet him for lunch. MacPherson was the cheerful sort and never failed to raise the family’s spirits.

  “You’re never intruding, Ewan,” Mrs. Taylor said. “You should know that by now.”

  “I’m a slow learner,” the professor joked, “but I did remember that you’re leaving tonight. I wanted to wish you a very safe trip. I also wanted to remind the Taylor men that we must meet while you’re frolicking on Ganymede. This will keep your boys from getting into mischief. Do you hear me, Eric?”

  “Loud and clear,” Mr. Taylor replied. For the first time that day, he was smiling widely. “We’ll be sure to take you up on your offer. Felix is reading Suetonius and he’d love to hear what you make of the
Caesars.”

  “And I would love to hear what he thinks. We three must form a triumvirate soon.”

  “Very soon,” Felix and his father agreed.

  “In that case, pax vobiscum.”

  A second later, his face was gone. The Taylors were beaming still and thinking they were lucky to have such a friend.

  “We’re almost there,” Mrs. Taylor observed, breaking the silence. “The station looks spectacular if I say so myself.”

  She was glancing at a wheel-shaped structure whose diameter was eight kilometres in length. At the Space Hub’s centre was a Welcome Hall; radiating outward were twelve passageways, the “spokes” on this orbiting wheel. Each spoke led to a docking port where various heavy transports lay waiting; from the Hub they would fly to their off-world destinations. With its Class P solar panels, totalium joints and thrusters neutralizing orbit decay, the Hub was a monument to human daring.

  “It’s still working,” Mrs. Taylor said, pointing out a house-sized device that resembled a giant honeycomb forged from metal. This object was a CO2 filter that enabled people on the Hub to breathe. It was Mrs. Taylor’s addition to the project.

  “You must be proud your work lets people travel in space,” Felix said, with a note of awe. The shuttle was approaching a dock on the Hub; the closer they drew to the structure, the more majestic it seemed.

  “I am proud,” his mom admitted. “But engineering is a means to an end. And the end is what the two of you do, history, literature, that sort of thing. Besides, your dad contributed to this project, too —”

  She was interrupted by a low-pitched hum. A magnetic field had embraced the shuttle and was guiding its bulk toward a space on the dock. At the same time a Greeting Tube attached itself to the shuttle’s exit and, with a hiss that sounded like a dragon exhaling, joined the craft and the Hub’s exterior. A voice announced that the shuttle had docked and they could exit safely.