[ 3.5 ]
The day before the memorial, Serafin is somewhat surprised to find a priority message from the Copernican Capitalist Forum:
Dear Mister Serafin,
Over the last year, you have made important contributions to our interplanetary discourse, and your courage, your honesty, and your scholarship have not gone unnoticed. Thus, it is my great pleasure to inform you that you have been nominated by one of our members to attend our annual Aphelion Summit this year as our honored guest.
One of the core tenets of the CCF is that the free Copernican governances cannot remain free without the frank and open exchange of ideas. Every year, we strive to make the Aphelion Summit the best forum for our best and brightest politicians, thinkers, and businessmen, allowing them to collaborate to find solutions not only to the challenges that our solar system currently faces — but to look ahead to the problems it will face in the years to come. Your contribution to this conversation would be tremendously appreciated.
Should you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.
Sincerely,
Kaden Truscott
Serafin is surprised, but it isn’t until he mentions it to Lucy during lunch down in the Rounds that the magnitude of the invitation begins to sink in.
“Oh my goodness!” Lucy cries, barely able to keep her feet on the floor. “Aphelion! I’m so proud of you!”
“Are you going to go?” JJ asks, returning with his second course — it seems like he’s always eating now, trying to put on muscle for the races.
“Of course he’s going to go, you ghabi!” Lucy says. “It’s a tremendous honor!” JJ throws a grape, which she dodges.
“I don’t know,” Serafin says. “I’m at a critical point in my research. And we’re not exactly headed in the right direction at the moment, are we?”
“One of the support ships, the Varley, I think, is going to break off before Phobos,” Lucy says. “You could hitch a ride with them, transfer at Grissom Station….”
“I suppose….”
“What is it, pop?” JJ asks.
Serafin curls his lips into a grimace, then a lopsided pout, scratching idly at the corner of his mouth as though he can tease out his true feelings. “I’m just not sure. All those fullers and hand-shakers, who am I to them? If they only want me there because of what happened on Hardlight….”
“I think you deserve a medal for what happened on Hardlight,” Lucy says, “but look!” She grabs the message and highlights the end of the first sentence. “See? Your scholarship. They probably read your paper, and want to pick your brain!”
And there’s the allure that Serafin finds almost impossible to resist: his fellow scholars may not be showing much interest in his monograph, but there will be major VIPs at Aphelion, powerful men who might listen to what he has to say — men with the power to do something, to help him identify and fight the rot he’s uncovered.
“You simply have to attend,” Lucy says. “I’ll be so awfully cross with you if you don’t.”
“Probably have good grub, at least,” JJ says.
“Oh, well, that settles it,” Serafin says, skimming through flight plans and travel projections. “But, the timing seems less than ideal… I’d have to ship out right before finals.”
He can’t imagine the department won’t sign off on it — just the invitation carries considerable prestige, and many regular Aphelion attendees are Firnas graduates themselves. The work will get done: he finished recording for his teaching construct last quarter, and it should be capable of handling the Aldrin Rebellion. Preception would handle the testing and grading anyway, and—
“Norah should be able to help, surely?” Lucy asks, helping herself to JJ’s fruit bowl, deftly maneuvering around his attempts to swat her hand away.
“Perhaps,” Serafin says. As long as no one talks back to her or challenges her in any way. But the class has been exceedingly well-behaved since the Scenario lesson (although he wonders much of that is due to Hartshorne’s absence).
“We should celebrate!” Lucy says. “I’ll see if we can get reservations at La Yunkir.”
“Of course,” Serafin says, reflexively, although he wants to say no. A first-ring restaurant, which means yet another solid blow to the financials — he’ll need to think long and hard about how to properly budget for the trip, as well — but he feels compelled to put on a brave face. JJ needs to focus on his studies; Lucy doesn’t need to worry and fuss more than she already does.
There’s no cause for concern, at any rate. The Newet M.C. dividends were larger than expected this year, which has given him some extra air in the tank. As long as nothing nasty pops up before the end of the year, all will be well.
On the day of the memorial, Billy, for whatever reason, chooses to be more difficult than usual — he is easily distracted, takes far too long to put on his suit, and keeps kicking his feet on the people-mover — but Serafin lets his mother handle it. At the entrance of Mina Tindale, they even take some time to allow the boy to gawk at the docks, the towering, intricate latticework of gangways and ramps, and that helps to bring the fuss down to more manageable levels.
Even among the most luxurious spaceships in Copernica, The Nasreddin stands out, a dominant, ostentatious liveaboard that makes no concessions to engineering, expense, or modesty. Its rear is swooping, organic curves, flowing in parametric patterns toward the sharp, brutal edge at the front, a cubist’s rendering of some massive aquatic creature.
Serafin has made regular visits to The Nasreddin throughout his life, even staying in one of the guest habitats during a difficult patch back in ‘48, although he never did quite manage to adjust to the opulence of the craft. The interior has remained largely unchanged, over the years — the same series of flowing corridors, yonic doors, and slanted walls, interrupted only by the occasional priceless artifact or work of art: a tattered illuminated 14th century Quran here, a glimmering iridium Hembree/Estrada sculpture there, a collection of letters from terrestrial world leaders hanging in the hallway leading to the restroom.
Serafin has only visited on one occasion since his return to Firnas, a long, lovely lunch on the observation deck, with its Martian tiles and cantilevered marble table. They had enjoyed foie gras dumplings with plum sauce and truffles from the Alhazen farms, which Serafin found exquisite, although the children all came away unimpressed.
He had not particularly wanted to make that trip either, but had no choice: he needed to see after the widow McNaughton. He was obligated, tradition being what it was, to look after her well-being, but it was almost immediately clear this would not be necessary; in addition to the support of the Dowers, Miriam’s mother and one of her sisters were now traveling with the fleet. The Ghanem family was an old terrestrial dynasty, the sort that settles deep into the loamy soil, their vast wealth only attested to by the plethora of buildings and stations rise up bearing their name.
Also plain was Miriam’s lack of interest in remarrying, so there was no need to make that offer, although she did express at length and with considerable sincerity her deep affection for Serafin, such that if she had wanted to take another husband, he would surely be her first choice.
All of this had been expressed during the lunch with such exquisite subtlety that it had only dawned on him afterward, in such a fashion where he could not necessarily point to any specific thing she said that had left him with these impressions. It was a feat all the more impressive given his suspicious disposition; while some might have felt manipulated, Serafin had been charmed, preferring to interpret it as evidence of Miriam’s sophistication. When Serafin thinks of class, in its most positive connotations, it is always Miriam McNaughton who comes first to his mind. They say Earth is infested with royals, thousands of little kings puffing up their chests and chirping in their little palaces, powerless vestiges of an older world, but today, as Miriam welcomes the Serafin family to the memorial, he can’t help but feel some kinship with the commoners who instinctively knelt when the monarchs passed by. She is kind to Serafin, sweet with Lucy, gentle with Billy, and she even makes a point to ask after JJ, who will be arriving when his practice is done.
There had been a brief period, after Firnas, before Olivia, when Serafin believed himself to be in love Miriam. Even now, decades later, she remains the most delightful treasure in a ship full of delights. She still has the same slim figure, the same elegant zygomatic curves and puckish nose, the same green eyes, somehow made all the more striking through her thin mourning veil. In her presence — in college, at that lunch, and today — Serafin has always felt the same disorienting mixture of concern and adoration.
Tell her about the report, comes the thought, unbidden. Tell her what they found.
No. What good would that do?
“Have you been to a Singularitarian gathering before?” Miriam asks Billy, kneeling to meet his eye.
“No,” Billy says. “Single — singu—”
She helps him sound it out. “Do you know what that is?”
Billy shakes his head.
“Well, you go to church every week, yes?”
“We try to,” Lucy says, giving Billy a nudge.
Miriam laughs sweetly. “Well, not everyone can find a church that really suits them. But everybody needs something to belong to, and something to believe in. The Singularitarians are a group for people like me, who were never able to find their place somewhere else.”
“You remember Sharee?” Lucy says. “Your Unitarian friend, back on Mitchell? It’s a little like that.”
Billy is fascinated. “Do you believe in heaven?”
“I do!” Miriam says. “Maybe not exactly the same heaven as you, but I definitely believe in an afterlife.”
“Come on,” Lucy says, taking the boy’s hand and guiding him away. “Let’s let Aunt Miriam get back to it. I think I see Donny and Abby over there, let’s go talk to them, okay, sweetie?”
“I didn’t know you’d converted,” Serafin says, doing his best not to sound judgmental.
“One doesn’t really convert, exactly,” says Miriam. “We just follow the science. That’s what I like about it, really, the flexibility. The practice updates every year; it’s always being optimized.” She motions around the room. “This is all based on the latest research on mourning and loss.”
“Whatever works, I suppose. I certainly haven’t managed it nearly as well as you have.”
She takes his remaining hand, and kisses his knuckles. “Maybe the room will help; it’s done wonders for me. I’m so happy you’re here, Jim. I know you… you’re the only one who loved him as much as I did. Please, take as much time as you need in there.”
“I will,” Serafin says, embracing her warmly before fleeing from her light. As much as he cares for Miriam, he finds it painful to be around her; in all their years together, Ashley was the constant, and sharing her company now means sharing his loss.
There’s quite a crowd in the dining room, a mixture of professors and alumni, who all feel the desperate need to tell Serafin how sad they were to hear the news about Ashley, how sorry they are. They all ask him how he’s holding up. Serafin’s an old hand at mourning; an occupational hazard, unfortunately, but he’s always preferred offering condolences to receiving them.
He finds some peace in a darkened room with a series of rather grotesque sculptures and paintings. The display suggests that this room is intended for pondering about death, what it means and our relationship with it, which would likely explain why no one wants to be in there. He finds himself standing in front of a glass case, where a dark shimmering sculpture of a rather disturbing winged man raises a flaming whip into the air. When Serafin steps closer, he realizes the body is covered in eyes and tongues, that turn and twist grotesquely as the viewer moves.
He takes a step back, startled, when the sculpture begins twisting and writhing as it liquefies and collapses before his eyes. When it descends into the puddle, he sees Norah on the other side of the case, doing her best to hide herself among the objets d’art. He gives a wave; she returns a frown.
It’s been like this for weeks now — he’s done something to offend her. He hasn’t the slightest idea what, and can’t be bothered to find out yet.
She says something, too quiet for him to hear.
“Come again?” he says, joining her on the other side.
“It’s a Solun original,” she mumbles, gesturing toward the box of goop, which is beginning to shift again, stacking itself into a new form. “A dynamic sculpture, which takes its form according to the artist’s mental patterns — this is part of his death series.”
“Impressive. Magnetized ferrofluid, by the looks of it?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say.”
A long silence hangs, as they watch the next sculpture assemble — a variation on Ilya Repin’s Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan, if he’s not mistaken. A rather controversial choice, these days.
“Did you know Ashley?”
Norah shakes her head. “Just here with the club.”
The doors to the memorial room open, and a massive, muscular man with ocular implants lumbers out, mumbling apologies as he works through a group of mourners like an icebreaker churning through the frozen sea. Some seem irritated, but no one is willing to complain about it.
Professor Maksim Sladkov, the roll call reads. Post-Terrestrial Resource Economics.
“Are those russkiy implants?” Serafin asks — they have the hard, boxy appearance common to older Universal Soviet hardware.
“Oh yes,” says Norah. “That’s Max. I’ve told you about him, haven’t I?”
“You did. You failed to mention he’s the size of an AMG.”
“I’d be happy to introduce you. Max! (He’s really quite sweet, a lamb, really.) Max, darling, come and say hello!”
Max, still sniffling, plods over.
“Missus Lincoln,” Max says, his voice emerging tremulous and reedy, a startling contrast from his thick neck and strong features. “How pleasant to see you. I read your latest paper on Earth logistics in the Interplanetary War, very impressive. You have such great… creativity? No, no, that is not the word….”
Max glances at his fad, which appears absurdly small between his thick fingers, trying to figure out what he actually means. He has no trace of an accent; only his sentence structure and cadence betray his origins.
“Max,” she says. “I’d like to introduce you to Jim Serafin.”
“Ah! Professor Serafin!” Max offers one of the limpest handshakes Serafin has ever received. “I saw you on Copernica 24 Hardlight, yes? You are a very brave man, very brave. If such occurred… if you did this on a Universal Soviet broadcast… well! There would be no more public appearances by you, let us leave it at that.”
“I’m just an interlocutor,” Serafin says. “How did you know Ashley?”
“Oh!” Max says, pressing broad fingers against his broader chest. “Mister McNaughton, he saved my life! When I was at Ordzhonikidze, I was put in charge of a research project on the impact of our Belt extraction program, and there were… discrepancies. This was not my fault, of course — I only follow the numbers! But they began to ask questions… and I began to be followed… and it began to be clear I was in grave danger. If it was just me, well, that is no great matter, but my parents, my wife, my son… this cannot be. Too much, too much. Mister McNaughton approached me, and helped us to escape — he risked his own life — and he helped us to start anew in the UFA.”
“That’s wonderful,” Serafin says.
“Were you close to him as well?”
“We went to school together.”
“Completely and utterly disgraceful!” booms a loud female voice from across the room — Serafin winces, recognizing it immediately. “You understand this is a memorial, yes? A great man has died! I suppose that means nothing to you?!”
At the threshold, a tall woman in a black dress with an elaborate feathered ruff collar rising above her head is in the midst of berating a human server, although it’s not immediately clear what atrocity he’s committed to warrant such treatment.
“I’m so sorry, madam, I’ll clean this up right away—”
“How dare you! Desecration, that’s the only word for it! You may not be Singularitarian yourself, young man, but that’s no excuse to disrespect these beautiful traditions!”
Genevra Fyfe, the terror of Firnas, has arrived.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Serafin says, retreating to the next room, where he burrows into a small crowd gathered in the library and does his best imitation of Norah.
Not that it does any good. Slowly but surely, as he rotates through the rooms, she seems to follow, as implacable as any Soviet tail. His avoidance is made more difficult by his attempt to avoid without appearing to avoid — he carefully times his disengagements from each chat and tries to keep as many obstacles between them as possible — but she eventually catches up to him in the library, where he’s pretending to listen to a conversation about the recent protests.
Professor Krim, who is remoting in from the Archimedes, is carrying on about ungrateful students when Genevra walks through his projection, pushes her way in between Benton Cordwainer and his wife Sayeda, and envelopes Serafin in a highly undesirable embrace.
“Jim!” Genevra wails. “Oh, Jim, there you are! I feel so sorry for you! May the one true God give you relief from your grief, and, you know, all that.”
“Thank you,” Serafin says, carefully removing her hands as though defusing a bomb.
She looks down at his suit, patting his lapels. “Oh! Oh! Look at you, poor thing! So distraught, you’ve hardly even managed to get dressed! It must be so hard, without Olivia… and of course, Ashley always was the fashionable one….”
Here we go.
There had been a time, once, long ago, when Genevra Gooderham had been considered quite the catch. In addition to her beauty — in the full-figured Europan fashion — her family had been quite prominent, having held a seat in the Legislative since its foundation.
But over time, Genevra came to believe the worlds did not appreciate her value, and so she grew increasingly vicious — with staff, tutors, would-be suitors, and finally, eventually, even her friends and loved ones. Serafin, having been admitted to Firnas on the basis of merit and military service, and with no family or fortune to his credit, was beneath notice; that said, a surprising amount of the men on campus had found her irresistible. Ashley had once speculated it was because she was the first woman many of them had encountered who was capable of putting up an actual fight.
Following the death of her third husband — Drew Nayak, son of the previous Vice-Executive — Genevra had returned to the fleet, where she had been made head of Admissions. The position granted her a seat on the board — non-voting, to be fair, but still close enough to her father’s ear that it allowed her considerable sway over university affairs.
(Serafin remains unclear as to how she came to be Missus Fyfe, but Fyfe has never discussed the matter, and Serafin has been given the distinct impression it would be best not to ask.)
The decades have not been kind to Genevra, and she has been equally unkind in turn. Lucy has reported her to be unfailingly sweet with wives and widows, but an absolute terror otherwise. The struggle seems to extend to Genevra’s appearance as well: she has responded to the ravages of age not with cosmetic surgeries or anti-senescents, but with consensus overlays, which she splashes over herself with unfortunate enthusiasm. Her eyes now appear slightly too large for her head, and her skin is heavily saturated and unnaturally smooth; she has filled in the areas of her face that time has hollowed, but the opacity is off and the textures are inconsistent. The overall effect is at once cadaverous and spectral, making her appear as though she were haunting her own body, an unsettling effect only magnified by her latest pregnancy.
“Oh, go easy on the boy,” Cordwainer says, which Serafin finds more insulting than Genevra’s remark. “He’s been through the burn.”
“Good afternoon, Genevra,” says Professor Krim, with some trepidation. “I wasn’t aware you knew Mister McNaughton.”
“Oh, Ashley and I?” Genevra leans her chin on her shoulder and bats her eyes. “We got on quite well. It was a lifetime ago, but back in our student days… I shan’t speak much of it, out of respect for Miri, but we were… intimate, you might say, for a time.”
“Almost two weeks,” Serafin clarifies, though he knows better than to engage.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, Jim!” Genevra clasps her hands against her heart. “A thousand apologies! I certainly don’t mean to imply that my own relationship with Ashley could ever hold a candle to yours! I know you were close. Quite close, in fact. As close as close can be—”
“Are you simply here to be vulgar?” snaps Professor Sajan. The head of Antiquities appears to hold a particularly strong dislike for her; not surprising, considering he’s both a hard-line conservative and fundamentalist.
“Oh, goodness, Abby, relax!” laughs Genevra. “I’m only having a bit of fun! How do you think Ashley would have like to have been remembered, Jim — everyone going about in sackcloth and ashes, or people remembering the good times and enjoying themselves?”
He starts to answer, but she chatters over it.
“Will your husband be joining us?” Cordwainer asks,.
(Which is to say: keeping you under control?)
Genevra smirks — message received, darling. “I should think not. Christopher really has no time for these Singy nonsensicals. Honestly, I think the Kuipers had the right of it — say a prayer, burn the body, and get on with your life. Wouldn’t you say, Benton?”
This is a highly inflammatory statement — the revelation that the Triton outpost had been cremating its dead during the outbreak in the ‘60s caused a revolt so violent it had threatened the physical integrity of the station. Genevra smiles warmly, sweeping her gaze across the assembled party to see if is willing to take the bait.
No one bites. Genevra tries again:
“Yes, yes, just get rid of the body and be done with it, that’s what I say. I certainly don’t expect any grand ceremonies when I finally snuff it — why, they’ll probably throw a parade, the way some people natter on about me.” She leans in close to Sayeda. “But such is a woman’s lot, in this life — don’t you think, dear?”
Sayeda’s eyes widen, not expecting the attention. She looks to her husband, who can’t do much but offer a subtle nervous glance — just try not to make any sudden moves. “You must be Benton’s new bride,” purrs Genevra, taking the young woman’s hands. “What a gorgeous creature! Skin the color of an ostrich egg. She’s so much younger and prettier than the others, Benton, my congratulations!”
“Thank you?”
She strokes Sayeda’s hair tenderly. “You’ve nothing to worry about, my sweet little desert mouse — I’ll see to it you’re taken care of when Benton shuffles off.”
“You know Genevra,” Krim says, and Serafin can already tell it’s going to go poorly — “if someone is concerned about their reputation, some people might suggest the easiest solution might be to change one’s behavior.”
“Absolutely, Professor! I give thanks to God for the insight of our wise professors, to share such profound insights with us simple women! What would you have me change first, do you think? My tireless efforts to find the best students for our humble little caravan? My charity work? But no, you’re right — as much as I pour my blood out for this institution, it is not enough; I deserve all of the snips and snides.”
“I, for one, have only the deepest appreciation for all your work with the Dowers,” Cordwainer says. “But I have wondered, Genny — haven’t you been married to Christopher for over a decade, now? How does that work, exactly? Is there no expiration date on widowdom?”
Genevra laughs, but there’s a malicious, eager glint in her eyes that makes Serafin want to head for the escape pods.
“Oh, I would love nothing more than to give it all up,” Genevra says, “but alas, you menfolk seem to insist on throwing your lives away and adding more members to my little black veil sorority. That’s why I have so much respect for Professor Krim here — he plays it smart, nestled safe and sound in his little den. He never served, never risked his life in combat — never been in a real fight, as far as I know!” She waves her arm through Krim’s projection to emphasize her point. “Why, he’s so cautious he didn’t even show up in person today!
“I mean, it is a little curious — all that time spent carrying on about the need for revolution and the need for change, but when the Lunar Revolution kicked off… our dear Krim was smart enough to steer well clear of all that, wasn’t he? You never saw Krim on any of the broadcasts, no sir — he wrote the theory, let someone else worry about the practice! He’s the wisest man among all the wisemen… he’ll outlive us all, I’m sure.”
“Genevra—”
“They may not say much at the funeral, mind, but he’s not really on speaking terms with his daughters anyway, so that’s no bother—”
“Genevra!” Cordwainer barks.
“Oh, goodness, please don’t misunderstand!” Genevra coos. “I’m on his side! You should hear the awful things my other children say about me… ‘sharper than a serpent’s tooth,’ and all that! But I have high hopes for this next one….”
Krim’s mouth is moving, forming words too obscene for comms. Finally he gives up, leans forward, jabbing a finger forward to disconnect — the projection freezes and fades away. Probably the smart move, to be honest.
“Hm!” Genevra says, waving her hand in the air. “Bad connection, I’m sure.”
“Missus Fyfe,” Sajan says, “you are, without a doubt, the rudest person—”
“And how are we all holding up?” asks Dean Basil Kannon, stepping into the circle. The dean is besuited in black, his wardrobe clearly of a higher caliber than Serafin’s, but with a cut on the sleeves and lapels that dates back to the Leap. His skin is grey, nearly the same color as his hair, and he looks exceedingly unhealthy — but he’s looked exceedingly unhealthy for as long as Serafin has known him, so that might actually be a positive sign.
“Mister Serafin,” Kannon says. “I know you and Mister McNaughton were close. May the Lord God grant you consolation in this tragic hour.”
“Thank you.”
“I apologize for my lateness — bit of a situation on the Archimedes we had to take care of.”
“Another protest?” Cordwainer asks.
“Attempted gluttoning.”
“What on earth is that?” asks Sajan.
“Method of protest,” Serafin says, eager to contribute at last to a conversation that doesn’t involve condolences or derision or blasphemy. “An attempt to overuse resources — eat too much food, breathe too much air, that sort of thing.”
Kannon nods. “Just so. The students were attempting to overwhelm the system so we’d have to cancel the redirect. Easy enough to fix — just a matter of re-balancing from the other ships’ stores — but we might have been in some trouble if we hadn’t noticed it early on.”
“Interfaith, no doubt,” grumbles Cordwainer. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Kannon, Admin should shut down that dreadful little cult before it gets out of—”
Kannon sighs. “And I’ve told you a hundred times, Benton, your etiology is all wrong; Interfaith is the medium for transmission, not the source. All the studies are clear: post-terrestrial youth across Copernica, regardless of their faith, are highly concerned about autonomics, highly skeptical about War Tech, particularly the Iblis program—”
“And this business with Valerie Moss certainly hasn’t helped,” Sajan chimes in.
“Quite.”
“It all comes down to discipline,” Genevra says. “Don’t you think? The students are too wild and untrammeled. They need a man, a real man, to keep them in line. If only there was one on board.”
“I don’t see how this can be said,” says Sajan. “So many of our young charges are positively ascetic — particularly the Interfaith boys, Cordwainer. They’re constantly monitoring each other. And themselves!”
“And yet we have this abortive rebellion to contend with. How might you explain that?”
“We only measure what we measure.”
All eyes turn to Serafin, who is unnerved, having barely even realized he shared his observation out loud.
“How do you mean, Mister Serafin?” Kannon asks.
Too late now. He attempts to coat as much nonchalance onto the thought as he can: “The monitoring system is self-administered. It’s equipped to deal with the usual collegiate mischief — illicit substances, cheating, fornicating, so on and so forth. But who’s to say if the protests are virtuous or not? For genuinely complex questions, the system would likely defer to the students’ own moral compass. If a student sincerely believes they’re in the right, then…”
“… they wouldn’t get flagged.”
“Say what you will about the current class, but they certainly do not lack for passionate intensity!” Cordwainer says.
“That… surely can’t be it,” Kannon says, shaking his head in a way that suggests he thinks that might be it exactly.
“If only Ashley were still here,” Genevra says, glancing up at the portrait on the wall. “He could have talked some sense into them. He was wonderful with the students, wasn’t he? Did you know he had the highest attendance and best MRRs out of every teacher on the Augustine?”
“I’d believe it.”
“Such a shame, such a shame. And now his wife has no husband, and his children have no father — why, they don’t even have a body to bury. Not that it’s any great mystery what happened, is it, Jim?”
Serafin blinks. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, no, please,” Genevra moans. “Please don’t make me play the game, the silly little game. God! I might simply die if you do. There’s no need for it here, surely? We all know the truth about you and Ashley — if we didn’t before, we surely do now. We’re all — what’s the term? We’re all read in, here.”
“Genevra,” Kannon says. There’s a note of warning in his voice, but it could be a full symphony and it wouldn’t help.
“I’m just saying, you mustn’t beat yourself up about it,” Genevra says. “I know you must feel so terribly responsible, but you mustn’t blame yourself. Our dear Ashley was rather predisposed to mischief, wasn’t he? All those little pranks he used to play, I’m sure he would have gotten tangled up in the great game one way or another.”
“I don’t—”
“Ashley McNaughton was a hush-man!” Genevra whispers, somehow even more loudly than her usual bellowed contralto. “That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? He was playing cloak and daggers on one of those sad little waystays, and he blundered into something he should have steered well clear of. And for what, I ask? What does any of it accomplish, really? The Iblis made a slaughterhouse of the entire solar system, we have red zones on nearly every station in the Belt—”
“For God’s sake, Genevra,” Kannon says. “This is the man’s memorial.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Basil. You’re absolutely right. I would of course defer to you in all matters of etiquette. I mean, you did turn my last husband’s funeral into an extended audition for his position, but it almost worked, didn’t it? Give it another decade or two, I’m sure the Board will come around.”
Kannon pauses, mouth open, having gone from moral paragon to grasping upstarter so quickly he needs a moment to collect himself. Genevra is only too happy to wait.
“Genevra,” he finally says. “You don’t seem quite yourself today. Perhaps it would be best if you took the afternoon off—”
“Oh, brilliant!” Genevra laughs. “He wants to put me in his place. I wish someone would! Don’t get me wrong, I’m no bare-haired feminist. But who? All the good men are gone. That’s the real tragedy of war — who remains but the inferior specimens we see gathered before us today? Poor Jim’s the closest thing to a real man here, and he’s barely one step removed from janitorial services. Still — you do have to give him credit; he is a proper disciplinarian, to be sure!”
“That’s not really—”
“Are you referring to the paddling of the Hartshorne spawn?” Cordwainer says. “Magnificent work. A long time coming, I’d say. He tried to get my tenure revoked.”
“The boy was in my Ottoman Empire seminar last quarter,” Sajan says. “Unbearable little beast.”
“Yes, I reviewed that,” Kannon says. “An inspired use of Scenario, Mister Serafin. You were a tad rough on the boy, but it being a dynamic situation, I suppose it couldn’t be helped—”
“Oh, no no no!” Genevra cries. “You misunderstand — Jim took the initiative, God bless him!”
“The initiative?”
“Genevra—”
She plunges on. “Oh, yes. You didn’t know? Jim planned it all out from the beginning! He keyed the whole lesson to the brat’s psychological profile, and took him apart piece by piece — a bravura performance, don’t you think?”
“I see,” Kannon says, and just the tone is enough to make Serafin feel as though he’s now the one kneeling on the ground with a rifle pressed against the back of his head.
“I cannot thank you enough,” says Genevra, patting Serafin on the arm. “Little Chippy was so rude to me last year, it’s high time someone taught him some manners. Perhaps if the rest of our faculty wasn’t such wilting flowers, we wouldn’t find ourselves in such dire straits!”
Kannon is locked onto Serafin now, thick grey eyebrows struggling to find a compromise between astonishment and absolute rage.
“Is this true, Mister Serafin?”
“I… I don’t….”
Serafin stammers, but is honestly flummoxed. It’s the combination, perhaps, of what appears to be sincere praise from Genevra mixed with her astonishing indiscretion — and worst of all, she doesn’t seem to realize what she’s done.
“No, Mister Serafin. I would really like to know: did you place one of your students under extreme psychological distress… as a favor to Missus Fyfe?”
Genevra’s eyes widen, but her oversized eyes quickly shift to heavy-lidded fluttering, now patting at Kannon’s chest as though attempting to infuse him with her own nonchalance. “Oh, heavens, Basil! Don’t be so tedious. You said it yourself, these students are out of control; there’s really no reason—”
“We will speak later, Genevra,” Kannon snaps, prying her fingers away. “Likely with your father in attendance. Mister Serafin: a word?”
Serafin follows. Cordwainer, Sayeda, and Sajan are decent enough to look away, but Genevra seems to go out of her way to make eye contact — worse, she mouths sorry! — although she clearly finds this all more amusing than anything.
In the conservatory, amidst the hanging gardens, Kannon holds a finger against his upper lip, as if to take measure of his wrath before he begins to let it flow. Serafin isn’t sure if the silence is a test, but he takes the opportunity to gather his wits and prepare some exculpatory remarks as best he can.
But that’s difficult, when he’s not even sure about the truth of the matter any longer. Fyfe pitched the task as an assignment from on high — but everything’s off-book, so there certainly won’t be a paper trail. And even if there was, it’s not as though he can show it to Kannon.
Is it possible Hartshorne job was in service to some personal vendetta?
He realizes, with considerable horror and humiliation, that he can’t rule it out. But again: under no circumstances can he disclose any of this to Kannon.
No. Serafin is going to have to take his licks.
Kannon taps his arm, summoning his personals. He turns something off — Serafin isn’t sure what, until Kannon pulls a flask from his jacket and takes a pull. Rank hath its privileges. He does not offer any to Serafin.
“Dean Kannon, sir—”
“Mister Serafin, why do you think you’re here? With Firnas, I mean?”
“I’m here to teach. Offer a unique perspective—”
“No. My goodness, no,” Kannon says, waving this off. “Please, Mister Serafin. You know better than this. We do not lack for interlocutors, and as for your perspective — well. Even if we did care about that, the Preception system can replicate your style and pedagogical method so precisely that not even your family could tell the difference. And I do mean that quite literally; we’ve done extensive testing.”
“I’ve also been doing research—”
“Yes, your little monograph. Alternately prosaic and byzantine, by my reckoning, a rather unfortunate combination — and an effort that you would surely agree has not really inflamed the imagination of your peers.”
“Well, sir, I really—”
Kannon raises hand. “Mister Serafin, it might be best if I do not coat it in sugar. To put it plain: you are here as a favor to better men. Do you grasp my meaning? The committee was not inclined to bring you aboard — I personally spoke against your hiring, in fact. But calls were made, on your behalf.”
News to Serafin, but he’s not surprised.
“Do not misunderstand,” Kannon continues. “I thank you for your service, and the great sacrifices you’ve made for the UFA. But your previous occupation was rather… rough and unsavory, wouldn’t you say? I understand the grim necessity of the work, of course. But it does leave a… certain stain.”
“‘Gentlemen do not read each other’s mail.’”
“Precisely, Mister Serafin. Precisely.”
“Sir,” says Serafin, “if I may—”
“You may not.” Kannon takes another pull. “The Administrative was aware of your deviation from the Curriculum. Obviously. We are not fools. And Mister Hartshorne has indeed been in need of correction for some time. Obviously. And as loathe as I am to admit it, Genevra is right: we have a discipline problem. Obviously.
“But while we are willing to afford considerable latitude in matters of discipline, said discipline must always, and in all ways, be for the betterment of the student. I will not countenance the power and authority you have been granted over our students being used in the pursuit of some… personal grievance.”
I have some difficulty countenancing that myself, Serafin doesn’t say. There’s a chat that needs to be had with Fyfe, once this chat is done.
“This isn’t one of your uncle’s manufactories,” Kannon says, and Serafin feels the tremors, in his thumb this time. “The students are not your playthings to abuse according to your whim and fancy.”
Kannon places his hand on Serafin’s shoulder, and the dressing down continues. And here, observe: when the grey hand falls away, it is still intact, is it not? How rough and unsavory can Serafin be, when each phalanx remains fully skinned, when every muscle is still connected to its tendons? See how Serafin endures, when a simple twist of the wrist is all that would be necessary to bring this farce to fast conclusion. Is he not the very spirit of restraint, to allow such indignity?
In the hallway, some of the younger children shuffle around each other in slow circles, clearly wanting to play but reluctant to disturb the solemnity of the setting. When Serafin checks the roll call, he notices Genevra has left the ship — probably for the best, really.
“Please don’t misunderstand me, Mister Serafin,” Kannon says eventually, in a tone that indicates the lecture is, at last, winding up. “You seem an alright fellow, and I’m sure your trying your best. I would just say… your son has a bright future here — but I do wonder if you might not perhaps find greater joy elsewhere.”
“Yes sir,” says Serafin, because what else is there to say?