The Wellstone by Wil McCarthy

rule.”
    “Easy for you to say, Mother! If I lack character, then surely, as a corollary, I lack the patience to seek it. And whose fault would that be?”
    “Fair enough,” the queen agreed, in her only concession of the day. “Your concerns—representative of a small but pivotal demographic—are noted. We shall ponder them further while you finish your term at camp.”
    “We’re going back, then,” Bascal said. “To the dumping ground.”
    “Don’t be melodramatic,” she chided. “You may learn to appreciate the comforts of our age. Of civil discourse, perhaps even of dining with your parents. If not, then it may be that your camp isn’t rugged enough. Shall we arrange some bad weather for you?” She touched a napkin to her lips and stood up. “I have meetings, I’m afraid.”
    “Send a copy,” Bascal snapped.
    “I have,” the queen replied evenly. “Several. But the day is fluid, and things keep coming up. I’ll spare you the good-bye kiss.” She looked around the table. “A pleasure meeting you, children. Your companionship is appreciated. In the future, though, do kindly stay out of trouble. If we have to do this again, I’ll be most disappointed. His Majesty will now escort you to the dumping ground. Dear?”
    She nodded to her husband, and then with a swishing and rustling of fabrics, she was gone. Conrad felt bemused, and yes, somewhat torn. She was so easy to love. It was part of why she’d been elected—or drafted—in the first place, and the effect was even more pronounced in person than it was on TV. But she
was
belittling her son’s grievances, and with them an entire—and much-aggrieved—generation.
    “We won’t cooperate,” Bascal said to his father. “It wouldn’t be right.”
    “No?” the king replied, thinking about it. “We’ve pulled all the humans off the planette, and replaced them with Palace Guards. From this point on, your cooperation and approval are rather moot. You’re only seventeen, lad.”
    “Yes. And someday I’ll be ‘only a hundred,’ and then ‘only a thousand.’ Why is it—
how
is it—that adults forget so quickly what it means to be powerless? When exactly does your attitude fossilize? Mine is still living, still breathing and growing, despite all attempts to petrify it. I’ll
always
be younger than you, Father. My approval will always be moot.”
    Patiently: “By the time you’re a thousand, the difference in our ages will be comparatively small, and you’ll have no excuses left. What a sad day
that
will be. No one is asking you to grow up at this moment, lads. No one is forcing you to take on responsibility before you’re ready. Relish that, hmm? You’re going to live forever, and once you’ve left childhood behind there’s no reclaiming it. You have my word on that.”
    He mused for a further moment, and said, “You know, that camp of yours is gorgeous, probably the finest planette ever built. Did you know there are seven thousand tunable environment variables? Ultimately, the project funding came from my own pocket, so I’ve kept an eye on things. When I was your age I would have loved ... would have ...” His voice trailed away wistfully. Then his gaze jumped up suddenly, and settled on Xmary. “Egad, child, are you a girl?”
    “No,” she replied, sounding indignant. Sounding just exactly like an indignant nineteen-year-old girl.
    “Hmm,” the king said, studying her for a moment. “All right. No offense meant. Your friends will tease you for it, but the error is mine. Shall we go, then?”
    Bascal held his arms out, roadblock style, and looked around warningly.
Nobody move.
    Seeing this, Bruno nodded. “Hmm. Yes. Well, if you won’t cooperate, you won’t cooperate. I was young once; I remember how it was. We’ll have the guards drag you kicking and screaming through the fax, all right? We’ll all preserve our honor that way.”
    Then he looked right at Conrad and winked—a conspiratorial gesture of such