Variable Star Read online

  I was beginning to understand why there were no pictures of Conrad of Conrad. There’s an expression actors use: “He can’t wear the clothes.” Meaning that actor, however talented he may be, just isn’t right for that part. No one would have cast this man as Conrad.

  Not that he was in any way unimpressive, quite the contrary. He just didn’t look nearly heartless or soulless or ruthless enough to fit my preconceptions of the head of a multiplanet empire. He looked… learned, and wise, and kind. He would have been excellent casting for, say, a brilliant college professor. In some warm, fuzzy subject, like ecology, or sociobiology, or poetry, or even theology. His students would all love him, and write him letters years later to tell him he’d changed their lives. But he would never make department chairman because he wasn’t willing to kill for it.

  I knew this impression had to be utterly false. This was Conrad of Conrad. But he did not bear the kind of face that would inspire the countless armies of remorseless sharks in suits who constituted the Conrad empire. He had the kind of face that would reassure their mothers. He was more effective as a Man of Mystery, never seen.

  “Have a seat, Joel,” Conrad said.

  It was a superbly comfortable chair, and became more so the longer I sat in it. This wasn’t going so badly…

  “I am informed that my granddaughter Jinnia Anne has revealed her true identity to you, and you have accepted her proposal of matrimony—”

  I opened my mouth but no sound came out.

  He went on quickly, as one who is determined to get through his little speech however banal it may be. “I commend you heartily on your good fortune, Jinny on her good sense, and both of you on your good taste; I wish you both every happiness; I am confident you will prove a welcome and valuable addition to our great family; we will now define the terms and conditions under which that may occur—”

  I opened my mouth even farther. Even less sound came out.

  His eyes narrowed very slightly. The department chairman reluctantly suspected me of plagiarizing my thesis. “—unless you would feel more comfortable represented by counsel?”

  I had to reject the slander. “No!” I managed to say, and got nearly halfway through my follow-up monosyllable, “I—,” before he steamrollered ahead.

  “No, of course not. Excellent. I’m sure Jinny has made her family situation clear to you, explained all the ramifications, brought you up to speed.” She damn well had not! “Preliminary genetic analysis is satisfactory, as expected given your heritage.” Apparently my consent had been assumed. “I might add that I consider such analysis a mere pro forma check on my granddaughter’s intuition and judgment: you were in the moment she said you are. But I am pleased with her choice. I met your father, you know. Many years ago, when he came Earthside to receive his prize.”

  “Then you met me,” I blurted out.

  “Eh?”

  “I never left his side, that trip.”

  “Ah.” He did the math, worked out how old I would have been. “Oh!” He started slightly at a memory. “Uh…”

  The only vowel he had not tried in front of an “h” yet was “i”—and perhaps “y.” What was his problem?

  Then all of a sudden I remembered, too.

  “Ih!” I gasped. “I bit you.”

  I’d never seen anyone try to unfrown, before. “Yes.” He gave up and surrendered to the frown. “You did.” Then without warning he smiled, so broadly it was as if another man had burst out laughing. “Good for you!” It made him look much younger, and it took me an instant to work out the sad reason why: his smile wrinkles were almost entirely nonexistent. I tried to remember why I had felt he needed biting, back then, but failed. All I could recall was the fuss after I had done it. Everyone had been upset… except Dad. He had apologized for me—once—and then stopped hearing conversation about the matter.

  “And good for Jinny, too,” he went on. “I’m more convinced than ever that she’s found just the man we need. And just when we need him, too.”

  “‘We’?”

  We frowned at each other for a few seconds.

  “I don’t understand your question,” he said. “Unless you are speaking French.”

  “I guess,” I said slowly, “I had the idea marriage involved the needs of just two people, and the interests of the rest of their families. So far, I’ve been thinking exclusively of Jinny’s needs and mine. If you need me for something, it has not yet been explained to me, and I have not yet agreed.”

  His jaw did not drop. But his lower lip went slack, and his eyes unfocused slightly for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I know you are not stupid; I’ve seen your genes. I know you are not ignorant; I’ve seen your transcripts. It has to be… a rather staggering naïveté.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “Joel, do you honestly believe your marriage is going to be a normal, mundane union? Do you think its purpose is simply to provide the two of you with agreeable companionship and licensed sexual relief? Can you really imagine that your life together will be anything like what you were picturing as recently as yesterday morning?”

  Well, no. But neither could I imagine what it would be like. The furthest I had gotten in my thinking so far was trying to encompass the preposterous notion that I could stop balancing my checkbook, now: that I would never again be short of money, no matter how much I developed a wish for. “What will it be like?”

  “You kids will marry and continue in school under the name Johnston, but your legal name will be Conrad. Your training has been planned for you by experts familiar with your background and capabilities—at least ten years, and as a minimum you’ll take degrees in engineering, law, business administration, one of the practical sciences, and a language. I suggest Portuguese, but of course that’s up to you. It won’t all be academic fun and games, of course: you’ll need field experience in the company, as many areas of it as you can handle. Plus additional special coaching in social skills, and in politics, both governmental and corporate, and—”

  “But you’re sure you won’t mind if I go for Swahili instead of Portuguese?”

  “Anything but French.”

  I gave up on sarcasm. He honestly didn’t know what it was. “You’re talking about grooming me for a top executive position in the Conrad empire. What makes you think—” I stopped because he was shaking his head.

  “Not a top position,” he said.

  I felt the blood start to drain from my head. “Are you trying to tell me—”

  “Listen to me, Joel.” He leaned forward slightly, and his chair adjusted at once. “It is conceivable that one day you might sit in this chair and give the orders. It is even likely, on the basis of what can be extrapolated from your ancestry, present abilities, and accomplishments to date. It is certain that one or more of your children will sit in this chair one day. I’ve had you most fully investigated, else Jinny would never have received permission to propose to you.”

  I felt two extremely strong and inappropriate impulses, fortunately so contradictory they canceled each other out: the urge to faint, and the urge to giggle.

  “Oh, I understand,” he said. “Really I do, son. Your interest in music is commendable in one of your age, a sign of a mathematical mind, and Jinny assures me your work is agreeable, not at all like this… well. But surely you see the time for childish things is now behind you. The real world is now open to you: you’ve been given the opportunity to become one of those men music is written about.”

  Conrad Continued Speaking for several more minutes, and I kept an attentive look on my face, but I’m afraid it all pretty much went in one ear and out the other from that point on. To the best of my addled recollection he was explaining my destiny to me. Telling me about challenges I would face, and things I would need to know to meet them—about looming crises and how to resolve them—about potential achievements and how best to realize them. He used the word “scarcity” several times. I think he was trying to give me a short course
in how to run a commercial empire over the next hundred years or so. He went on and on about the crucial importance of making sure humanity was firmly established outside the Solar System. Something about the System, any system, being too fragile a basket for the human race to keep all its eggs in. It seemed paranoid thinking even for a Conrad.

  I have no doubt there were thousands of people in the System at that time who would have given a limb, maybe even one of their own, to hear that lecture from that man. It’s a real shame I missed it. But my brain was so busy trying to think six contradictory thoughts at once that it had no processing power left over for new incoming audio or video. He could have told me the exact hour and manner of my own death, and I’d have kept on looking him in the eye and nodding thoughtfully. I think Mr. Albert may have realized I wasn’t tracking, but he kept silent.

  Sooner or later, he would pause long enough for me to speak. I had until then to come up with some really smooth, diplomatic way to begin explaining to him how many erroneous assumptions he was making, how vast was the gulf between his picture of my future and my own. The trouble was, for the life of me I could not think of any diplomatic way to express the concept, “I’m not remotely sure I want any part of you or your family or your empire, and I’m having serious second thoughts about your granddaughter.” I could think of no gentle way to ask, “Excuse me, but are my own wishes, plans, thoughts, or opinions of any interest to you at all?” There didn’t seem to be a polite circumlocution for, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Besides, I knew perfectly well who the hell he thought he was—and he was right. He was assuming my assent, not because I looked like some kind of patsy, but because nobody, weak or strong, ever said no to him. He assumed that I wanted to become him one day because everybody he knew did, because who would not? Jinny would never have taken up with me if I weren’t sensible.

  I heard a story once about a PreCollapse songwriter named Russell who’d written a song called “I’m Lost in the Woods,” and because its melody sounded African, he decided he wanted a background chorus to sing the title in Zulu. But all the translators he found told him the same frustrating thing: there was no way to say “I’m lost in the woods” in Zulu. They didn’t have that concept. Zulu didn’t get lost in the woods. He had to settle for a chorus singing the Zulu for, “I am in the woods and I have gone crazy.”

  There was no sense even trying to tell this man, “I do not want to become infinitely rich and infinitely powerful”—it would come through as noise. When that pause in his flow of words finally came, he was going to hear whatever I said as, “I have gone crazy.”

  Well, if it didn’t matter what he heard, then I could say whatever I liked; the only question was what I wanted to say. Ideally, something that would not make me cringe every time I remembered this day in years to come. Something that would not force me to lie when asked what I’d told the old buzzard then. Something respectful, but dignified; polite but firm.

  As I worked on it, I became aware of distraction. I played back the last fifteen or twenty seconds and spotted a plausible cause: a few sentences ago, he had dropped a subtle remark that implied, without stating it explicitly, that he was sure I had figured out Jinny’s real identity long ago… and that he applauded my good sense and good taste in continuing to play dumb for the sake of her feelings. It was annoyingly difficult to work out which of us he’d insulted worse—a distraction from the distraction.

  But that wasn’t even the distraction. Suddenly I realized what had really bothered me enough to try to demand my attention in the middle of an important conundrum—a problem far more urgent than an insult to me or a beloved I was thinking seriously of strangling.

  I was on my feet. In motion. Walking toward the door.

  Being walked toward the door, by Mr. Albert. His hand rested far too lightly on my shoulder to be steering me, exactly. But it did make it a little easier to keep going than to stop or turn around.

  The conversation was over already. The insult I’d focused on had been part of some larger pattern of unnoticed sentences that had ended it, somehow. The pause I’d been waiting for, in which I could have my say, had simply never happened. Or had come and gone in an instant, while I was thinking of something else. It was too late, now. My choices were to keep on walking, or to make a scene. Albert had handled me as smoothly as an awards presenter getting the disoriented winner the hell offstage so they can get to the next, more important award.

  I was angry at myself for having been outmaneuvered so effortlessly, for letting somebody march me around like a show dog with nothing more than a combination of body language cues, feather-gentle touch, and total confidence.

  But I was also secretly grateful. I hadn’t been looking forward to that pause. Now I could take as long as I liked to compose, refine, and polish my manifesto—and when it was ready, I could deliver it by e-mail, rather than face-to-face to the most powerful man on earth. Since I had done and said nothing, I had nothing to wish I could take back. Since no one was interested in my opinions, why bring them up? Especially since I had no clear idea what they were.

  We reached the door, Albert said something or other, I made whatever was the appropriate response without thinking about it, and the door irised shut behind me.

  Rennick was not waiting outside. Dorothy smiled as I came through the door and gave me a thumbs-up. I gave her what I thought was my very best sunny smile in reply, and she winced. “I—” I began, and stopped.

  When she saw that I had no words, she stepped in smoothly. “I enjoyed meeting you as well, Joel. Would you like Leo to guide you back to your room, or would you care to see some of the grounds, now? I don’t believe you’ve had time for the tour, yet.”

  “Actually, I’d like to speak with Jinny,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, she’s offsite at the moment. An errand for her father. She should be—”

  “I’ll phone her, then,” I said, and lifted my wrist.

  “We discourage phone calls to the outside,” she said quickly. “It compromises security. She’s due back before dinnertime, and I’ll make sure she speaks with you the moment she’s back inside the perimeter.”

  Right. “I see.” Giving me time to calm down. “Very well, then. Thank you.” It might just be a terrific idea to cool down a little before speaking to Jinny. Three or four years ought to do it.

  “You’re welcome. Would you like that tour of the grounds? It’s quite—”

  “Later, perhaps. Right now I’d like to go back to my room.”

  “Of course. Leo? Please guide Mr. Johnston back to his quarters.”

  “Yes, Dorothy.” Green fireflies led me away. I followed them gratefully.

  When I’d passed this way in the other direction, the corridors I’d walked through had seemed wastefully, ostentatiously large. Now they seemed cramped and claustrophobic. There was barely room for me, let alone for the billion thoughts swarming around my head, trying to gain entry. I wished mightily that I knew what I thought, how I felt, what I wanted, but I had the idea that I would not know any of those things for certain until I screamed them at Jinny. My mind kept trying to take refuge in disbelief that any of this was really happening. The trouble was, I knew my imagination just wasn’t good enough to manufacture a hallucination like this.

  I recognized, from the other direction, the intersection where I’d collided with little Evelyn earlier. I approached it with some caution, this time, listening carefully for someone swooping through the air on a skyboard. But of course I had no clear idea what, if anything, one sounded like. I eased up on the intersection, hooked one eye around the corner for a quick peek—

  —nearly bumped noses with Evelyn.

  She tried to keep a straight face, did pretty well for a few seconds, and then lost it. As soon as she did, I whooped with laughter myself. The tension release was welcome, almost too much so. I laughed a little bit harder than necessary for a little bit longer than I should have. She finished before I did.


  Maybe it shook loose some brains. When I finally spoke, what I said surprised me. I expected to hear myself say something polite, banal, phony. What came out was, “Can you tell me how to get a cab around here?”

  As I heard the words come out of my mouth I realized I very badly wanted to be away from here. To be back home. Alone. As quickly as possible. So I needed transportation. And I had no idea how to get any. And here before me, by happy chance, was about the only person in the entire compound, including Leo the AI, that I felt comfortable asking.

  She just stared at me, unblinking.

  “Transportation from here back to the Lower Mainland,” I amplified.

  When she stared like that she looked remarkably like an owl.

  “I came here in Jinny’s car, but right now she’s taken it offsite, and I need to get back home as soon as p… you’re imitating an owl, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Yes, I was. I’ll stop.”

  “Thanks. As I was s—”

  “I’m not really sorry. But I’ll pretend, as long as I don’t have to do a very good job.”

  “Evelyn, honey—”

  The owl lit up. “You remember my name.”

  “Look, I really need to—”

  “Most grown-ups don’t.”

  “Evelyn, how do—”

  “You can’t get a cab here, silly. There’s no here.”

  I nodded. “I figured as much. But that implies there has to be some way to get guests where they need to go, when they need to be there. Do you know what it is?”

  I nearly lost her with that question. Then her ferocious frown relaxed. “I deserved that. I was the one playing dumb. Yes, Joel, I do know. I’ll help you.”

  I sighed. “Thank you, Ev. Will it take very long?”

  “Is there anything in your room you have to go back for?”

  I thought about it and shook my head no.

  “Follow me, then.”

  Three turns and perhaps a hundred meters later, she stopped, and touched a wall, and an elevator door opened up where not even a visible seam had been a moment ago. She touched the wall just beside the door, in a different way, and the wall developed a monitor and extruded a keypad—at a height convenient for a seven-year-old. She typed something on it, with only her index fingers, but at a speed that would have been remarkable even if she’d been using all ten. Finally she made a small grunt of satisfaction, and turned to me.