ten meters of her physical person, and to ask—within the bounds of decorum!—anything they wished.
“The king,” she went on, “does not divide his attention when matters of science loom large. He is cloistered at his workshop on Maplesphere, and will remain there until his experiments are complete.”
“Does that mean weeks?” Bechs followed up. “Years?”
Bechs was, at the moment, a four-winged news camera only slightly larger than the queen's pinkie nail. Strictly speaking this wasn't necessary; they were in Chryse Downs Amphitheater on the northern lowlands of Mars, and Bechs' physical self—one of him, anyway—was in a rental office just a few kilometers away. He could remote this bug; there was no need to
be
it, to run a shadow of his brain within it. Too, he was among the most respected reportants in the Queendom, and would be welcome at her side in his own human body. But old habits die hard, and Bechs was an old, old man. He was accustomed to interviewing Her Majesty in this way, and she, for her part, always recognized his signature wine-red cameras.
“Weeks, most likely,” the queen said. “If his problem is tractable he'll solve it, and if it isn't he'll move on to something more immediate. It's possible he'll uncover new principles requiring much more detailed investigation, but if so he will delegate the problem—at least temporarily—to his technical staff. He's aware that I have pressing tasks for him here, and he won't lightly refuse.”
“Is it the wormhole physics again?” asked another of the cameras.
“I don't discuss my husband's work,” she reminded. But her tone was indulgent, for when Bruno retreated to Maplesphere, which happened three or four times each decade, he generally returned with treasures: the backtime processor, the quantum screw, the popular word-cypher game known as “Nickels.” Nothing could match the twin bombshells of his early career—collapsium and ertial shielding—but he remained the most inventive soul in a population of one hundred and sixty billion. Tamra would never blame her subjects for being curious about his current interests.
“What's happening with the Barnard refugees?” asked someone else.
“The four living crewmates remain in Red Sun custody,” she said. “No decisions have been made about the others.”
“Has the attack on
Newhope
accelerated the timetable for their revival?”
“I repeat,” she said, less patiently than before, “no decisions have been made. Whatever we finally do here will set a precedent for all time hereafter. There is no reason to enter into it hastily.”
“What about radiation damage?” another reportant demanded, somewhat angrily. “You can't leave them out there forever.”
“Steps are being taken,” the queen assured. “Whatever status these people are finally accorded, we will treat their remains with utmost dignity.”
Meanwhile, another Bernhart Bechs camera had found its way to
Sealillia,
to interview one Conrad Ethel Mursk. It would be the climax of a series; Bechs had already profiled the other three, whom he thought of as the Captain, the Comedian, and the Cactus. He'd even interviewed the ship itself.
In a lurid, voyeuristic sense, the Cactus was by far the most interesting of these; Xiomara Li Weng and her jokester second mate, Yinebeb Fecre, had been born in the Queendom and exiled in the Revolt. They'd had real lives, if sad ones, whereas Eustace Faxborn was
created
specifically for the interstellar return mission, stepping live and whole and nearly adult from a Barnardean fax machine. This custom had been commonplace out in the colonies, where—strange notion!—there was a chronic shortage of human beings. But in the Queendom this was considered one of the the basest possible perversions.
Especially since people named “Faxborn” were, for the most part, sexually active from the word go. Indeed, if the refugees' accounts were accurate—and Bechs had
“The king,” she went on, “does not divide his attention when matters of science loom large. He is cloistered at his workshop on Maplesphere, and will remain there until his experiments are complete.”
“Does that mean weeks?” Bechs followed up. “Years?”
Bechs was, at the moment, a four-winged news camera only slightly larger than the queen's pinkie nail. Strictly speaking this wasn't necessary; they were in Chryse Downs Amphitheater on the northern lowlands of Mars, and Bechs' physical self—one of him, anyway—was in a rental office just a few kilometers away. He could remote this bug; there was no need to
be
it, to run a shadow of his brain within it. Too, he was among the most respected reportants in the Queendom, and would be welcome at her side in his own human body. But old habits die hard, and Bechs was an old, old man. He was accustomed to interviewing Her Majesty in this way, and she, for her part, always recognized his signature wine-red cameras.
“Weeks, most likely,” the queen said. “If his problem is tractable he'll solve it, and if it isn't he'll move on to something more immediate. It's possible he'll uncover new principles requiring much more detailed investigation, but if so he will delegate the problem—at least temporarily—to his technical staff. He's aware that I have pressing tasks for him here, and he won't lightly refuse.”
“Is it the wormhole physics again?” asked another of the cameras.
“I don't discuss my husband's work,” she reminded. But her tone was indulgent, for when Bruno retreated to Maplesphere, which happened three or four times each decade, he generally returned with treasures: the backtime processor, the quantum screw, the popular word-cypher game known as “Nickels.” Nothing could match the twin bombshells of his early career—collapsium and ertial shielding—but he remained the most inventive soul in a population of one hundred and sixty billion. Tamra would never blame her subjects for being curious about his current interests.
“What's happening with the Barnard refugees?” asked someone else.
“The four living crewmates remain in Red Sun custody,” she said. “No decisions have been made about the others.”
“Has the attack on
Newhope
accelerated the timetable for their revival?”
“I repeat,” she said, less patiently than before, “no decisions have been made. Whatever we finally do here will set a precedent for all time hereafter. There is no reason to enter into it hastily.”
“What about radiation damage?” another reportant demanded, somewhat angrily. “You can't leave them out there forever.”
“Steps are being taken,” the queen assured. “Whatever status these people are finally accorded, we will treat their remains with utmost dignity.”
Meanwhile, another Bernhart Bechs camera had found its way to
Sealillia,
to interview one Conrad Ethel Mursk. It would be the climax of a series; Bechs had already profiled the other three, whom he thought of as the Captain, the Comedian, and the Cactus. He'd even interviewed the ship itself.
In a lurid, voyeuristic sense, the Cactus was by far the most interesting of these; Xiomara Li Weng and her jokester second mate, Yinebeb Fecre, had been born in the Queendom and exiled in the Revolt. They'd had real lives, if sad ones, whereas Eustace Faxborn was
created
specifically for the interstellar return mission, stepping live and whole and nearly adult from a Barnardean fax machine. This custom had been commonplace out in the colonies, where—strange notion!—there was a chronic shortage of human beings. But in the Queendom this was considered one of the the basest possible perversions.
Especially since people named “Faxborn” were, for the most part, sexually active from the word go. Indeed, if the refugees' accounts were accurate—and Bechs had
Similar Books
