by Eric Flint
"For years," she said. "Loved you in 'Life in Valhalla.' You were just a little boy then— blond, blue eyes and simply adorable. And you were brilliant in 'The Curse of the Pharaohs.'"
Jeffrey canted his head and scrunched his nose.
She laughed. "You are so appealing when you're confused." She brought an arm to chest level and the cuff of her suit lit up with a digital time display. She glanced at it, then gestured with the same arm. "Come," she said. "We've less than two hours. I'll explain as we go. By the way, my name is Tanya Loy."
"You have two names?"
Tanya chuckled and again gestured Jeffrey toward the hatchway. "Most everyone does."
She set foot onto the platform outside the ship. "Come on. This should be fun."
Walking tentatively to the hatchway, Jeffrey looked out upon what, by all rights, should be the cold vacuum of space. "Where are we?" he asked.
"At the bottom of a diamond mine."
"What?" Taking a big breath, Jeffrey stepped onto the platform. "This air smells," he said.
"Does it really?" Tanya took a deep sniff. "I don't notice it. A few years ago though, it was almost unbreathable."
Jeffrey looked back at the ship. "I'd never thought I'd see it from the outside. It looks— smaller than I'd imagined."
Tanya patted him on the shoulder.
Jeffrey turned to gaze at the woman. "What's going on, please?" he said, his voice plaintive, even to his own ears. "Tanya Loy, please tell me."
"Soon. But just call me Tanya." She pointed to a wooden staircase and the two of them padded down to a rough stone floor. "I'm a professor of near-archaic English. And my grandfather was a crew member on the ship."
"Really?"
"He got sent to the Oracle for guessing too much." She steered Jeffrey toward an elevator. The shaft was exposed.
Jeffrey stared upward. "Geez. Look how far it goes. What's at the top?"
"The Earth." Tanya opened the door to the open-frame elevator car and they got in. "What do you actually know about the Trans Global Hope?" she said.
"Apparently, a lot less than I thought."
She pushed a button and the car began to rise.
Jeffrey fixed his eyes on the ship receding below. "I was taught that the United Federated Nations built the ship to send humanity to the stars— as insurance."
"Life insurance for the planet." Tanya nodded. "That part is correct. It looked as if the Earth might no longer be able to sustain human life and that the gene pool might be corrupted by radiation. But instead of sending humanity spaceborne, the idea was to insulate a few thousand people from genetic damage, creating a self-sufficient little world that we could keep isolated until Earth recovered."
"But how . . . Wait! Has the CAD been keeping this from us?"
"No." Tanya smiled. "Along with everyone else, they think they're on a starship."
"What about the first crew? They would have told their kids. How can you keep a secret like this?"
"They were all neural memory conditioned. It was a condition for acceptance."
"Why? What was wrong with letting everyone know the truth?"
"If they'd known the truth," —Tanya shrugged— "then eventually, some might have decided to leave."
* * *
About ten minutes later, as the elevator neared the surface, Jeffrey had absorbed the information and had managed to believe it.
"Now that Earth has recovered," —Jeffrey still struggled with the concept— "the ship isn't needed anymore."
Tanya nodded. "And, of course, the ratings have gone down."
"What?"
"Oh, not your fault." Tanya touched his arm. "Everyone loves your work. But you see, on the ship, the language hasn't evolved. And even though historical themes make archaic speech more tolerable to the viewers, the series doesn't have universal appeal any more."
"Excuse me?" said Jeffrey. "I think I'm missing something."
"Oh, don't get me wrong." She patted him on the arm. "The show's still very popular in India and Australia. It's not an expensive series; TGM amortized the capital expenses long ago. And the fans will pay to keep the show going if they have to."
"The show?"
"The real problem though," she said, softly, as if to herself, "is the ship itself. I'm afraid the show's being cancelled at the end of the season."
Jeffrey stood open-mouthed.
She looked at him with an expression saying she expected him to understand. "The ship was indeed a project of the United Federation," she said, "but it was co-sponsored by Trans Global Media."
Still, Jeffrey stood mute.
After a few seconds, she said, "Do you know the term, reality TV?"
Jeffrey shook his head.
Tanya explained the concept.
The elevator clunked to a stop and Tanya led the way to a glass-paneled door. Jeffrey looked through and then took a few quick steps back. From behind barriers, there were throngs of people looking toward him. But worse, there were no walls, nothing on which to rest his eyes. Jeffrey took yet another step back.
"Agoraphobia," said Tanya. "It's nothing to worry about— quite natural after generations of living on the ship." She urged him forward and then pushed open the door. A roar of noise greeted him.
"Who are those people?"
"Your fans," she said. "Wave to them. You're quite a media star, you know. Go ahead. Don't be rude."
Feeling dazed, Jeffrey waved. The roar grew louder.
Tanya tapped her cuff and the noise dulled.
"Noise-canceling clothing." She pointed to what looked like a small spacecraft, and urged him toward it.
"Where are we going?"
"Up. The junior program coordinator wants to see you. And airborne meetings are trendy these days."
"Junior program coordinator." Jeffrey played with the term. "Is that by any chance, the Oracle?"
She laughed. "The Oracle? That's just some text-to-speech software."
Jeffrey, feeling more saddened than vindicated, thought of Rolf.
They walked toward the craft. "Oh," said Tanya. "The people you meet will be speaking modern English. It'll be a problem but I'll translate for you."
* * *
"I'm glad you comed," said the program coordinator. "The star of the show in the bod. Imo, you're the dingy-how best we've ever haved."
"Tanya tells me I have you to thank for that well-timed weredragon alert," said Jeffrey. "So, thanks." He cast a smiling glance to Tanya. Problem? What problem?
"Lol," said the coordinator. "Love your dialect." He gave Jeffrey a pat on the back. "We never used to intrude like that, but, where's the hay! It's the last season. And what a season. Wait'll you hear about it." He guided Jeffrey toward a wall of glass and pointed down at the scene below. "The ren on the street. Our public." He let out a long breath. "Been with the show a long time. Sad to see it end. But the Global Hope is fritzing. No way it'll last for more'n another season."
"You mean the shipquakes?" said Jeffrey.
"Zat what you call it?" The coordinator smiled sadly. "Metal fatigue. Even on its own, the ship will crack like an egg." He looked away from the window. "But we've taked a hand and arranged that it happen near the end of the season. And you'll be onboard, managing the chaos."
He glanced at Tanya. "The promotion have already started, yes?"
"Yes," she said. "Afaik."
"Great!"
"Crack like an . . . egg?" said Jeffrey, in a puzzled voice.
The coordinator glanced at Jeffrey and then to Tanya. "You doedn't prep him?"
"Wasn't time."
Turning back to Jeffrey, the coordinator said, "The ship is old. It can't be saved." He furrowed his brow. "Ruok?"
"What?"
"He asked if you are okay," said Tanya.
"I don't want to go back to the ship," said Jeffrey quietly.
"What?" The coordinator jerked back as if he'd been hit. He swiveled to Tanya. "Doed he say what I thinked he sayed?"
She nod
ded.
"Do he mean it?"
"Probably."
The program coordinator threw up his hands and glowered at Jeffrey. " Why don't you want to go back?"
"You're just using and manipulating people."
"Your point?"
"It's all playacting. I need some meaning in my life." Jeffrey pawed the ground with a foot. "Anyway," he said, haltingly. "I'm not going back. None of it is real."
Tanya walked over and took him by the hand. "The people on the ship are real," she said in a soft voice. "And for them, the destruction of the ship will be traumatic. We need to prepare them. We need you and your friends to get people used to the idea."
"They'd never believe us."
"Not at first, perhaps, but after a while, they will. If advertising's taught me anything, it's taught me that" She looked into his eyes. "Please. We need you."
"Well . . ."
The coordinator's eyes narrowed. He gave Jeffrey a long, analytical stare. "Imo, you are not telling me something."
Jeffrey looked down at his feet. "I have some issues with the tropemaster."
"Oh," said the coordinator, "is that all? No problem! Slice of cake!" He turned to Tanya. "Just picture it. This youth leading his people back to Earth— to the real Earth Prime. What a great finale!"
* * *
Jeffrey, leaning casually against the rear wall of the chapel, watched as the inner hatch swung open. Sebastian walked in, his eyes cast down, his face somber. Behind him, sauntered the tropemaster. The man was smiling.
Sebastian took a few steps, looked up— and froze. "You're still here," he gasped. The tropemaster froze as well, his smile replaced with wide-eyed astonishment.
"Apparently." Jeffrey took a step forward.
"Praise be to the Oracle," said Sebastian. He gazed on Jeffrey with a look of awe.
The tropemaster stepped forward and pointed an accusatory finger. "The Oracle rejected him," he said in a righteous tone. His face showed fury. "It is our solemn duty to give him the punishment he deserves— in the name of the Oracle."
"Oh, I believe you'll be hearing from your oracle before long," said Jeffrey, calmly, "in just a couple of minutes, I would think."
Just then, Claire and Rolf ran into the cabin. "Are you okay?" said Rolf breathlessly. "We've been keeping an eye on this place, and . . ." He gave Jeffrey a quizzical look. "What is that you're wearing?"
"It's neat, isn't it?" Jeffrey rubbed his hands down his sleek, new suit. "And my eyes change color, too."
Claire stepped forward and took his hand. "We were so worried."
Jeffrey covered her hand with his, and gave a quick squeeze. "We've got real work to do, now." He glanced from Claire to Rolf. "Important work."
Claire narrowed her eyes. "You're more serious," she said. "It looks good on you, Jeffrey."
Jeffrey drew himself to mock attention. "Tropemaster Jeffrey, if you please."
The current tropemaster jerked his head around and glared with angry eyes.
Jeffrey looked away at the porthole filled with imitation stars. "We'll each be our own tropemasters," he said, quietly. "Free to dream our own dreams and work to make them happen." He chuckled, softy, laughing at himself— his former self. Then he gazed up at the comfort-cam and smiled for it.
* * *
A bibliography of Carl Frederick's short fiction may be found at The Internet Speculative Fiction Database.
http://www.isfdb.org/cgi-bin/index.cgi
Swing Time
Written by Carrie Vaughn
Illustrated by Jennifer Miller
He emerged suddenly from behind a potted shrub. Taking Madeline's hand, he shouldered her bewildered former partner out of the way and turned her toward the hall where couples gathered for the next figure.
"Ned, fancy meeting you here." Madeline deftly shifted so that her voluminous skirts were not trod upon.
"Fancy? You're pleased to see me then?" he said, smiling his insufferably ironic smile.
"Amused is more accurate. You always amuse me."
"How long has it been? Two, three hundred years? That volta in Florence, wasn't it?"
"Si, signor. But only two weeks subjective."
"Ah yes." He leaned close, to converse without being overheard. "I've been meaning to ask you: have you noticed anything strange on your last few expeditions?"
"Strange?"
"Any doorways you expected to be there not opening? Anyone following you and the like?"
"Just you, Ned."
He chuckled flatly.
The orchestra's strings played the opening strains of a Mozart piece. She curtseyed— low enough to allure, but not so low as to unnecessarily expose d'colletage. Give a hint, not the secret. Lower the gaze for a demure moment only. Smile, tempt. Ned bowed, a gesture as practiced as hers. Clothed in white silk stockings and velvet breeches, one leg straightened as the other leg stepped back. He made a precise turn of his hand and never broke eye contact.
They raised their arms —their hands never quite touched— and began to dance. Elegant steps made graceful turns, a leisurely pace allowed her to study him. He wore dark green velvet trimmed with white and gold, sea spray of lace at the cuffs and collar. He wore a young man's short wig powdered to perfection.
"I know why you're here," he said, when they stepped close enough for conversation. "You're after Lady Petulant's diamond brooch."
"That would be telling."
"I'll bet you I take it first."
"I'll counter that bet."
"And whoever wins— "
Opening her fan with a jerk of her wrist, she looked over her shoulder. "Gets the diamond brooch."
The figure of the dance wheeled her away and gave her to another partner, an old man whose wig was slipping over one ear. She curtseyed, kept one eye on Lady Petulant, holding court over a tray of bonbons and a ratlike lap dog, and the other on Ned.
With a few measures of dancing, a charge of power crept into Madeline's bones, enough energy to take her anywhere: London 1590. New York 1950. There was power in dancing.
The song drew to a close. Madeline begged off the next, fanning herself and complaining of the heat. Drifting off in a rustle of satin, she moved to the empty chair near Lady Petulant.
"Is this seat taken?"
"Not at all," the lady said. The diamond, large as a walnut, glittered against the peach-colored satin of her bodice.
"Lovely evening, isn't it?"
"Quite."
For the next fifteen minutes, Madeline engaged in harmless conversation, insinuating herself into Lady Petulant's good graces. The lady was a widow, rich but no longer young. White powder caked the wrinkles of her face. Her fortune was entailed, bestowed upon her heirs and not a second husband, so no suitors paid her court. She was starved for attention.
So when Madeline stopped to chat with her, she was cheerful. When Ned appeared and gave greeting, she was ecstatic.
"I do believe I've found the ideal treat for your little dear," he said, kneeling before her and offering a bite-sized pastry to the dog.
"Why, how thoughtful! Isn't he a thoughtful gentleman, Frufru darling? Say thank you." She lifted the creature's paw and shook it at Ned. "You are too kind!"
Madeline glared at Ned, who winked back.
A servant passed with a silver tray of sweets. When he bowed to offer her one, she took the whole tray. "Marzipan, Lady Petulant?" she said, presenting the tray.
"No thank you, dear. Sticks to my teeth dreadfully."
"Sherry, Lady Petulant?" Ned put forward a crystal glass which he'd got from God knew where.
"Thank you, that would be lovely." Lady Petulant took the glass and sipped.
"I'm very sorry, Miss Madeline, but I don't seem to have an extra glass to offer you."
"That's quite all right, sir. I've always found sherry to be rather too sweet. Unpalatable, really."
"Is that so?"
"Hm." She fanned.
And so it went, until the orchestra rous
ed them with another chord. Lady Petulant gestured a gloved hand toward the open floor.
"You young people should dance. You make such a fine couple."
"Pardon me?" Ned said.