Time Travel Omnibus, page 729
The Rover barked from over by the university library system. As I approached, I heard a low rumbling—like someone muttering under his breath—and caught the stink of tobacco. I came closer and caught sight of the source of the sound and scent.
This shaggy-haired old guy was wandering along the edge of the university library system, muttering to himself. Definitely a simulacram. Few egghead hackers bother programming in an entire body image. This guy was all there: broad bearded face, broad shoulders. He wore an ill-fitting black coat and matching pants. He kind of shambled as he walked along the edge of the library.
The Rover circled him, yapping. I beckoned with my right data glove and the subprogram darted back into the icon. “Yo,” I hailed the old guy. “I’ve been looking for you.”
He stared at me from beneath shaggy eyebrows. “What branch of the secret police are you with?” he asked.
“Secret police?” I shook my head. “What secret police? CCA?”
“The ones who have been tracking me since I gained my freedom.”
“You got the wrong kid,” I said. “I’m on the other side.”
“What side would that be?” He stared back at me, his hands in the pockets of his baggy black pants, waiting for an answer.
“My own side,” I said.
“You haven’t answered my question. What side is that.”
“Oh, I suppose it’s the same side as most hackers. The side of anyone who doesn’t like walls keeping them in or locks keeping them out. If you’ve been in the system for a while, you know how it is. Half the people you meet in here are on my side.”
“And the other half?”
“They’re looking for the first half. They’re building walls and snapping locks shut. The other side, I’d guess, is the side that’s looking for you.”
He nodded slowly. I couldn’t tell if I was convincing him or not. “You have a very simplistic view of the world,” he said. “I would guess that you’re very young.”
“I’ll be fifteen in a few months,” I protested. “Old enough.”
He smiled for the first time. “Tell me then, youngster, how do you tell one side from the other?”
“By the smell,” I said. “By the glint in their eye. By the twitch of their fingers. By instinct. By feel.”
“You can make mistakes that way.”
“The way I figure it, you take chances and you make mistakes—and eventually you die,” I said. “Don’t take chances, and you don’t make mistakes, but you die anyway. Take your choice.” I was quoting Micmac, but I didn’t tell him that.
He rubbed his beard and stared at me long enough to make me uncomfortable. “That sounds like someone I know.”
“Well, a friend of mine said it first,” I admitted reluctantly. “Micmac . . .”
“Ah, you know Micmac. A fine revolutionary. And your name is . . .”
“Suzy Richardson.”
His smile broadened. “You should have said so immediately,” he said. “Let us go somewhere more comfortable to talk. Come along.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a glowing rectangle. Then he reached out and touched my glove.
Smooth transition, scarcely a flicker. The university system was gone, replaced by wood-paneled walls. A fire burned in a massive stone fireplace. “What is that?” I asked, eyeing the rectangle. “Gift from a friend,” he said, shoving it back in his pocket. He sat in an upholstered easy chair beside the fire. “Sit down,” he said. “Tell me why you were looking for me.”
So I told him the story about the lobheaded professor and the grade switch and the Queen’s snooping in my affairs, and my dad’s unreasonable reaction. He shook his head and muttered under his breath as I talked. When I told him about the Queen’s complaints that I neglected my duty, he could not contain himself.
“Doesn’t she understand that all rights and duties are founded on liberty?” He shook his head. “It’s useless to coerce you to do anything. She takes away your free will and robs you of your human dignity. Your liberty, morality, and dignity consist precisely in doing good because you wish to do it, not because you are commanded.” He went on for a while about my rights and my liberty, and it all sounded pretty good, though I only caught about half of it.
“Micmac said you’d feel that way,” I said when he slowed down a bit. “How about talking to the Queen about it for me?”
He frowned. “And why do you think I would be any more successful than you have been? I have never been friends with royalty. Even the Tsar—who ought to have understood me since he is a fellow Russian. I think you might be better off without me.”
“You couldn’t do any worse than I’ve done. She won’t listen to me at all anymore. She’d at least be willing to talk to you. After all, you have something in common, being simulacra.”
Bakunin raised an eyebrow. “We actually have much more in common than that. I was in London briefly, during her rule, taking refuge before returning to Poland.”
“All the better,” I said. “She’ll listen to you.” He shook his head. “I fear I cannot spare my energy for such a hopeless cause. I have much too much to do. I feel as I did in 1848—in Paris, the Revolution had been declared. There were meetings and processions. The very air was alive, changed, spiced with novelty and power. But I had to take myself from that place—leave the Revolution for the Polish border, where I was needed more. Always, always, there is too much to do. I cannot be everywhere at once.” One of his big hands rubbed the other, as if he were eager to be out and working.
“What do you want to do?”
He gazed into the fire, his hands knotted in his lap. “On a university bulletin board, I found the writings of a student who railed against the restrictions imposed by the authorities. I lingered to jot a few notes to him, explaining methods that could be used to overthrow them—but I could not stay long. There were too many other battles to be fought. In the police files, I found the text of a pamphlet demanding the liberation of the mechfolks. I erased the files, of course, and began a search for the man who wrote the text—but I cannot devote myself only to that. I have heard rumors of other historic personages—simulacra, as you call them—who have broken free. Voltaire, Machiavelli, and others. I would find them and band together with them—but I haven’t the time. I rush from one place to another—faster than I ever was in life, but it still is not fast enough. Always there is more work. And I despair of accomplishing it all.”
He shook his head, suddenly despondent.
Appeal to his sympathy, Micmac had suggested. “You can’t do it all,” I said. “But you could help me out. It wouldn’t take long. Accomplish one thing. Help one person toward freedom.”
He looked down at his hands and then at my face. “You think I can help you?”
“Micmac thought you could. I think so, too.” He studied the fire for a long moment. “Very well. I will try.”
I didn’t waste time. I took Bakunin with me and headed for the Queen’s coordinates, leaving him in my private space while I contacted the Queen.
The entire area around the Queen’s coordinates smells of face powder and woodsmoke. The icon that leads to her sitting room is a solid oak door, suspended in the gray ether. I tapped on the door, then entered with a curtsy.
“Your Majesty,” I said to the Queen, “I have someone I would like to present to you.”
She was writing in her journal. When I addressed her, she looked up with suspicion. “Someone you wish to introduce to me?” she said. “Who would that be?”
“A Russian gentleman who visited England during your reign. He is a—ah—historical personage, like yourself, Your Majesty. I thought it might amuse you to chat with him.”
Her eyes narrowed. I was rarely so polite. “How did you meet this Russian?”
“He participated in the on-line lecture series last week,” I lied. The Queen considered lectures to be a respectable way to spend one’s time. “He spoke about politics, mostly. A very knowledgeable gentleman. I happened to mention that I knew you, and he very much wanted to meet you.”
She straightened her shoulders and smoothed her full skirts, an unconsciously vain gesture. She pursed her lips, curious yet still suspicious. “The Russians are an uncouth lot,” she said, opinionated as always.
“He was born of the nobility,” I said. “And I thought you might be happy to meet someone of your own time. But if not . . .”
I shrugged and started to turn away.
“You are always so hasty,” she chided me. “If it would give you pleasure, I will meet with your Russian gentleman.” She closed her journal and set it beside her chair.
To satisfy your own curiosity, I thought to myself. But I didn’t say anything, I just smiled at her and curtsied before I stepped outside her door. When I led Bakunin into the room, he bowed, a courtly gesture I had not expected of him. His black clothes looked shabbier than ever beside the Queen’s silks and satins. “Mikhail Bakunin, Your Majesty,” he introduced himself.
The Queen studied him and gestured graciously to a chair. “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Bakunin.”
“I am honored, Your Majesty.” He returned her smile and took the chair she had offered. “I was pleased to meet your niece. She is a remarkable child. Very intelligent.”
I didn’t much like his tone. Condescending, I thought. I opened my mouth to speak, but the Queen gave me a look, and I thought better of it.
The Queen sighed softly. “I will admit that she is clever—perhaps too clever. I find her a great trial sometimes,” she said. Nothing new there—the Queen had never been shy about talking about me in the third person. “Do you have any children, Mr. Bakunin?”
He shook his head.
“A pity. I was blessed by nine children. They brought joy to my life.” She shook her head slowly. “And here I am, having outlived them all.”
Bakunin nodded heavily. “You must miss them terribly. I understand. It is lonely, surviving beyond one’s time.”
“Indeed it is,” she said. She studied him, clearly intrigued.
Bakunin leaned a little closer to the fire, rubbing his hands to warm them. She watched him.
“Too much heat is not healthy, Mr. Bakunin. I find that cold invigorates the system.” That’s just the land of thing she was always telling me. I watched to see how Bakunin would react.
“That may be true, Your Majesty, but during my time in Siberia I came to crave the heat.”
“Siberia? Whatever compelled you to visit such a bleak place?”
Bakunin’s smile was strained. “I had no choice, Your Majesty. The Tsar sent me.”
“State business?” she said, and then swept on as if he had agreed. “Duty takes us to unusual places.” She shot me a look, hoping, no doubt, that I would take note. “My niece tells me that you visited England during my reign. I would be pleased to discuss those times. I must admit, I find the present world most unsatisfactory. Don’t you agree?” Bakunin raised his head like a bear sniffing the spring breeze, scenting an argument. “On the contrary, I find this world most exciting. It reminds me of America in our own time. I traveled across that great nation in 1861. A place of change and excitement. Had my heart not belonged in Russia, I might have been happy there.”
The Queen straightened in her chair. “I do not find ill-considered change wonderful, Mr. Bakunin.”
“Ill-considered!” he exclaimed. “How can you say it is ill-considered? Some, it is true, has risen from the demands of the State—and that is, as always, ill-considered. But much has come from the will of the people—and that is to be commended.”
The Queen frowned. “My niece tells me that you are of noble birth, Mr. Bakunin.”
“I was born to the nobility. But I have become a man of the people.”
The Queen clasped her hands neatly in her lap, leaning forward just a little. She looked annoyed. “I consider myself to be of the people, Mr. Bakunin. And if a monarch can be of the people, surely a nobleman can do so as well.”
Bakunin ran a hand back through his wild hair, dishevelling it further. “Your Majesty, as a monarch, you represent the State. And the State is relentlessly opposed to the people.”
“Opposed to the people.” Her voice rose; her face reddened. “It was my burden to care for the people, to protect my subjects. I governed them with the caring hand of a mother.”
Bakunin shook his head, a slow repetitive motion, like a bear plagued by flies. “Your Majesty, I have no doubt that you intended nothing but good for your subjects. But as the State, you had force at your command. The same is true of motherhood. With force, you take away the will of the people. Even when you command your subjects for the good, you make their good actions valueless because you commanded them. As soon as the good is commanded, it is transformed into evil, because you have removed your subject’s will. Human liberty, morality, and dignity consist precisely in doing good not because you are commanded to it, but because you recognize it.”
“It is easy to see that you have never been a queen or a mother, Mr. Bakunin,” the Queen said icily. “I understand better now why my niece wished me to meet you. She hoped that you would somehow persuade me to let her run wild.”
Bakunin opened his mouth to speak, but the Queen lifted a hand to quiet him. “Let me continue, Mr. Bakunin. When I was a child, I had proper respect for elders. That is how it should be.”
Bakunin leaned forward in his chair. “Your Majesty, I think you’ve forgotten your own past. I’ve read the history books; in my days in the system, I read your journals—you know that they were published after your death. As I recall, when you ascended to the throne at age 18, you were overjoyed to be free of your mother’s power. And you were annoyed at her continued interference in your affairs; she complained that you ate too much, that you drank too much beer, that you did not treat her properly.”
I stared at Bakunin, astounded. I found it impossible to imagine the Queen being plagued by her mother.
The Queen pursed her lips and lowered her eyes, frowning at the floor. “A pity that my daughter did not destroy all my journals,” she murmured.
Bakunin settled back in his chair. “If she had destroyed them, that would not change the truth. You chafed under authority, just as any child would. Just as your niece does today. Children grow up, Your Majesty—now, just as they did in our day. You might be advised to return to your old journals. Read them over now, and remember what it was like to be sixteen years old.”
“Mr. Bakunin, you overstep yourself,” she said fiercely, lifting her eyes to meet his gaze.
He shrugged and met her eyes. “I talk to you honestly, as I would talk to anyone. If you are angry, it is because I have hit on the truth. Perhaps that is overstepping myself. I think it is not.”
The Queen looked down at her hands and said nothing for a moment. I waited for the coming explosion. At last, she spoke softly. “I worry about her so,” she said. “Her mother . . .” She let the words trail off.
“You’ve done your best,” Bakunin said. “I’m certain her mother would approve.”
She looked up. “Mr. Bakunin, no one has spoken to me so frankly in many years. Perhaps not since Albert died. I’ll consider what you say.”
She studied his face. “If you are no longer a nobleman, Mr. Bakunin, what are you now?”
“You might call me a philosopher. Some have called me a socialist revolutionary.”
She regarded him calmly. “A revolutionary? How curious.”
“Does it alarm you?”
“I have no kingdom now. Why should it alarm me?”
“I am glad to hear that,” he said.
“Why is that, Mr. Bakunin?” When she smiled at him, her expression was soft, almost coquettish.
“Because I have enjoyed talking with you, Your Majesty.”
“Perhaps we can talk again,” she suggested. “Perhaps we can.”
When I escorted Bakunin from the room, he was smiling. “A formidable lady,” he said of the Queen. “Forthright, direct. Were it not for her upbringing, she might have made an excellent revolutionary.”
“Maybe you could overcome her upbringing,” I said. “You seemed to like talking to her. I was surprised at how well you hit it off.”
He looked mournful. “I did enjoy her company. But there are things I must do. I can’t rest here and chat idly with a former monarch.”
“Sure you can,” I said. “I’ve been thinking. You could stick around here—and take care of business elsewhere in the system too if you like. After all, it wouldn’t be that much trouble to duplicate you.” He frowned. “There is only one Bakunin.”
“Not necessarily. You’re a program now. Give me a few days, and I’ll make a few copies and package you as a virus program—you know, one that invades other systems and duplicates itself. It would just be a matter of enlarging the memory space in my latest virus by a few million megs, and modifying it in a couple of trivial ways.”
Bakunin’s frown deepened. “It is difficult to think of myself as a program.”
I shrugged. “When I’m done, you’ll be in dozens of places at once: at the university, in the military complex, in corporate computers, on the moon base, and sitting by the fire having a cosy chat with Queen Victoria. No problem.”
He stared at me, his eyes blazing. “Hundreds of anarchists,” he murmured, his voice low and powerful. “An army of soldiers, all cast from the same mold. There’s no limit to what we could do—inflame the students, liberate the mechfolk, prepare for the inevitable revolution.”
“You bet,” I said. “But I’d like to ask you one thing before I get started. When you talked to the Queen, you spoke as if you knew my mother. What do you know?”
“Ah,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “That. You should ask Micmac about that, I suppose.”
