Julian Comstock: A Story of 22nd-Century America (63 page)

But I fervently hoped those conditions would not arise; or, if they did, that it would happen far in the future, when Flaxie was older and better able to travel. I didn't like to think of taking an infant on a trans-Atlantic journey. I was not even willing to let Flaxie be taken for rides in the streets of Manhattan, especially not now, with a new Pox circulating and half the citizens going about with paper masks over their noses.

"You can't leave these arrangements to the last hour," Calyxa said. "Things need to be set up in advance. We decided on Mediterranean France—"

"Wait—
who
 decided?"

"Emily and I, between us. I consulted the local Parmentierists, and they say it's an ideal refuge. Emily has connections with people in the shipping business—right now she would have no trouble arranging passage for us, though that might change, with a changing situation."

"I still hope to spend my life in America and write books," I said.

"You wouldn't be the only American author in Marseilles. You can send manuscripts by mail."

"I'm not sure my publisher would agree to that."

"If things get much worse in Manhattan, Adam, you may not have a publisher."

Perhaps that observation was true. But it didn't cheer me up, or help me sleep.

All the filming of
The Life and Adventures of the Great Naturalist Charles Darwin
 was finished by Thanksgiving of 2175. That wasn't the end of it, of course. What had been captured on film was only the visual portion of the show; to be presented in a theater it still needed voice-actors, noise-makers, intensive rehearsals, and a suitable venue. But a large part of the hardest work was done, especially for the technicians and screen-actors, and Julian thought it would be appropriate to commemorate the moment by hosting what he called a "wrap party."

The grounds of the Executive Palace had not been a social magnet during Julian's reign, especially so after the unannounced beheadings. Julian was not discomfited by this, since he didn't much care for the companionship of high Eupatridians, including even members of the Senate. Although the Senate had been generous toward his regime in the beginning, there had been friction with that branch of the government as well as with the Dominion.
Julian did not enact any radical labor legislation,
⁹⁷
but he had refused to dispatch troops during the servile insurrection in the thread trades.
⁹⁸
His implied sympathy for the rebels enraged those Senators who had connections with the trade, and strongly-worded protests had been issued from that body.

So we did not have friendly Eupatridians to invite to our Wrap Party; but that wasn't a drawback, in Julian's opinion. Increasingly Julian had chosen to surround himself with a crowd of Aesthetes and Philosophers—not just the movie crew, but a motley assortment of well-born radicals, religious reformers, musicians, Parmentierist tract-writers, artists with more ambition than income, and people of that stripe.

The party took place on the last warm evening of the year. The temperature was nearly tropical, though Thanksgiving was almost on us, and after dark the celebration spilled out onto the great lawn of the Executive Palace.

The efficiency of the New York City Hydroelectric Dynamo had lately been improved, and Julian had extended the hours of the Illumination of Manhattan, so that the cumulative light shed by the city's electric lamps gave the clouds overhead an eerie glow. The Pond and the Hunting Grounds were wrapped in shadow and looked very mysterious and romantic, and the guests and film crew were soon giddy with champagne. They strolled or capered about on the lawn, or shared hempen cigarettes in secluded places, and as the evening wore on their behavior became more flagrant and less discreet.

I sat on the marble steps of the Palace watching the revelry from a safe distance. After a time Pastor Magnus Stepney came and joined me. "It's a cheerful event, Adam," he said, settling his lanky frame onto the step just to the left of me.

"It's a spectacle, anyhow," I said.

"Don't you like to see people enjoy themselves?"

That was a subtler question than he seemed to realize. I had come to be friendly with many of these revelers, especially the crew who had worked on the filming of
Charles Darwin,
 and I knew them to be good-souled and well-intentioned people, for the most part. But the event was beginning to surpass anything I would have recognized as civilized celebration back in Williams Ford. Men and women not related by marriage were dancing to lewd songs, or chasing one another amidst gales of laughter, or indulging in intimate caresses regardless of the observation of those around them.

Some of the crew were so intoxicated that they began to press such intimacies even on members of their own sex;
and often enough these attentions were willingly received.
⁹⁹

"Well," I said, "that depends. I don't disapprove of anybody having a good time. And I don't like to set myself up in judgment. But what about you, Magnus? You being a church pastor and all, even if your church is an eccentric one.

Is this how you encourage your congregation to behave?"

"My only God is Conscience, Adam. I put that statement up on a sign, to warn the unwary."

"Your conscience is happy to sit here and watch your friends debauch by moonlight?"

"The moon's not up quite yet."

"That's a dodge, Pastor."

"You misunderstand my doctrine. Perhaps I can give you a pamphlet. I encourage people to obey their conscience, and follow the Golden Rule, and so forth. But Conscience isn't the mean-spirited overseer so many people seem to think it is. Genuine Conscience speaks to all people in all tongues, and it can do so because it has just a few simple things to say. 'Love your neighbor as your brother,' and do all that that entails—visit the sick, refrain from beating wives and children, don't murder people for profit, etc. You know how I think of Conscience, Adam? I think of Conscience as a great green God—literally green, the color of spring leaves. With a garland of laurels, perhaps, or some leafy underwear, as in the Greek paintings. He says: Trust one another, even if you aren't trusted. He says: Do as I tell you, and you'll be back in Eden in no time. Do you know anything about Game Theory, Adam Hazzard?"

I said I did not. Magnus Stepney explained that it was an obscure Science of the Secular Ancients, and that it dealt with the mathematics of bargains, and mutually beneficial exchanges, and such matters. "Basically, Adam, Game Theory suggests that there are two ways for human beings to operate. You can be trustworthy and trust others, or you can be untrustworthy to your own advantage. The trustworthy man makes a deal and keeps it; the untrustworthy man makes the same deal but absconds with the cash. Conscience tells us, 'Be the trustworthy man.' That's a tall order, for the trustworthy man is often cheated and exploited; while the untrustworthy man often occupies thrones and pulpits, and revels in his riches. But the untrustworthy man, if we all emulated him, would hasten us into an eternal Hell of mutual predation; while the trustworthy man, if his behavior became general, would throw open the gates of Heaven. That's what Heaven
is,
 Adam, if it's anything at all—a place where you can trust others without hesitation, and they can trust you."

I asked Pastor Stepney if he had been drinking. He said he had not.

"Well," I said, "is this a sample of Paradise, then—this raucous party?"

"Conscience isn't a brutal taskmaster. Conscience has no argument with kisses in the dark, if they're freely given and freely received. Conscience offers no cavils to our taste in music, clothing, literature, or amative behavior.

It smiles on intimacy and banishes hatred. It doesn't scourge the reckless lover."

That was an interesting doctrine, and it seemed sensible, if heretical.

"So, then, yes," he said, waving his hand at the champagne-and hemp-fueled festivities proceeding about us, "you can think of all this as a rehearsal for Paradise."

I meant to ask him what Conscience in his leafy underwear might have to say about Julian's conflict with the Dominion, or the posting of severed heads on iron spikes. But Pastor Stepney rose and went off to pursue his own unspecified pleasures before I could pose the question. So I took his advice, and tried to look at the revelries unfolding before me as if they were a foretaste of that Reward to which we all aspire; and I had some success at this effort, until a drunken camera-man stumbling up the Palace stairs paused and vom-ited at my feet, which diminished the illusion considerably.

Conspicuous by his absence from these revels was Julian himself. He had appeared briefly at the opening of the Wrap Party, waving at us from one of the indoor balconies where his murderous uncle used to address Independence Day gatherings—but he had absented himself shortly thereafter, and I hadn't seen him since. That was not unusual, for his moods were mercurial, and he was increasingly inclined to brood alone in the Library Wing or in some other part of the labyrinthine Executive Palace. In truth I didn't give it much thought, until Lymon Pugh came down the marble stairs, sparing a disgusted glance for the gamboling Aesthetes, and said I ought to come see to Julian.

"Why, where is he?"

"In the Throne Room with Sam Godwin. They've been shouting at each other for most of an hour, ferociously. You might need to interfere, if it comes to blows—if you can walk straight."

"I'm completely sober."

"That makes one of you, then."

"Do you find this shocking, Lymon?"

He shrugged. "I've seen drunker parties. Though where I come from they usually end in a murder or a mass arrest."

I followed him to the Executive Office, which Lymon and other members of the Republican Guard called the Throne Room. Perhaps they can be pardoned for the exaggeration. The Executive Office was a vast square tiled room at the very heart of the Palace, windowless but forever ablaze with electric lamps.
Its high ceiling was painted with a panoramic picture of Otis
¹⁰⁰
on his gunboat fighting the Battle of the Potomac long ago. This was the room in which Presidents signed their Proclamations, or met with foreign consuls or Senatorial delegations on formal occasions. As such, it was set up to emphasize the dignity and power of the Presidency. The Presidential Chair wasn't quite a "throne," but approached that description as closely (or more closely) than any respectable republican chair really ought to have: it was carved from the heart of some noble oak, upholstered in purple cloth and plastered with gold leaf, and raised on a marble dais. Just now Julian sat sidelong on it, while Sam paced before him in short angry strides.

"All yours," Lymon Pugh whispered, ducking out of the room before I could announce myself. Neither Sam nor Julian took any notice of my presence, for they were too busy arguing. Their voices echoed from the ornamental tile floor and bounced back from the high ceiling.

I didn't like to see the unhappiness so obviously written on Julian's face, nor was it pleasant to hear Sam berating him. The argument concerned some decision Julian had given out without Sam's knowledge or approval.

"Do you have any conception," Sam was asking, "of what you've done—of what the
consequences
 of this will be?"

"The consequence I'm hoping for," said Julian, "is the extinction of an old and ugly tyranny."

"What you'll get is a civil war!"

"The Dominion is a noose around the neck of the nation, and I mean to cut the rope."

"A noose is what
you're
 staring at, if you don't desist! You act as if you can proclaim any doctrine you like, and enforce it with soldiers—"

"Can't I? Isn't that exactly what my uncle did?"

"And where is your uncle now?"

Julian looked away.

"The enemies of a President hold daggers in their hands," Sam went on. "The more enemies, the more daggers. You offended the Dominion—well, that can't be undone. You've defied the Senate, which doubles your danger. And if these orders reach the Army of the Californias—"

"The orders have been dispatched. They can't be withdrawn."

"You mean you
won't
 withdraw them!"

"No," Julian said, in a softer but no less hostile tone. "No, I won't."

There were smaller chairs arrayed before the Throne, presumably for lesser dignitaries to sit in. Sam kicked one of these chairs with his foot and sent it screeching across the tiled floor.
"I will not let you commit suicide!"

"You'll do as you're told, and be quiet about it! The fact that you married my mother doesn't make you my master! I had but one father, and he was killed by Deklan Conqueror."

"If I protected you all these years, Julian, it was out of my loyalty to your father, and my affection for you, and for no other reason! I don't have any ambition to sit on a throne, or meddle with the man who does so!"

"But you
didn't
 protect me, Sam, and you
do
 meddle! By all rights I should have died in the Goose Bay Campaign! Everything that's happened since then is just a ridiculously prolonged
last gasp
—can't you see that?"

"That's not the sort of thing your father would ever have said, or allowed you to say."

"Your debt to my father is your own business. Mine was paid in full, with Deklan's head."

"You can't salve your conscience with an execution! Bryce Comstock would tell you the same thing, if he was here."

Julian had ceased shouting, but his anger had not abated. It had run underground, instead, and glittered in his eyes like a rushing torrent glimpsed through the crevice of a glacier. "Thank you for your advice. But there's nothing more to discuss. You're dismissed."

Sam looked as if he might kick over another chair. But he didn't. His shoulders slumped, and he turned to the door, defeated.

"Talk to him if you can," he whispered to me on his way out. "I can't."

"I'm sorry you had to hear that," Julian said as Sam's footsteps faded down the corridor.