A World Named Cleopatra Page 7
The “Inner Tape” jumped. A splice had passed through: Jasmine’s looming head faded away. A full view of Jason’s body faded in. On the right holo column, Sobrino let a single tear stream down from her left eye. It was a gratuitous and sentimental touch. Tears are purely human, Binh thought. They have no place in an allegory of an alien world.
Jason began bgan a glissade as the holo-camera followed. The saurian then executed a spectacular grand jeté, following that with another glissade. The sequence was an allegory of the human colonist’s journey from Earth to Cleopatra.
In the other holo, Sobrino’s face disintegrated into a mass of scintillating dots. An image of Philip formed out of the dots; his son began an imitation of the thesp’s dance.
If anything, it was more amateurish than Sobrino’s performance. Where Jason moved with effortless grace, Philip’s leg muscles strained; where Jason’s hands conveyed an illusive shift of mood, Philip’s hands flapped in random movement.
The technicians—his crew!—began to applaud as Philip departed from Jason’s sequence, attempting an inept pirouette. It was an indiction of how grossly he misinterpreted the spirit of th dance.
Philip had always been impatient with this craft, Binh thought. As a student at the Institute, Philip had rebelled against the study of faber anatomy. He did not take seriously the scientific and technical studies necessary to master the art. For Philip, it was all glamor and flash. Somehow, hard grinding work invalidated it for him.
Binh had always thought his son jealous of the fabers, resenting the talents imbued in them by a sophisticated technology. Now Philip’s exhibition was proving him correct.
He has come to drag me down, Binh thought.
M’Wabe’s breath wafted against his ear. “This is a stroke of genius, maestro,” he whispered. “You have great courage. The thesp/human interface is profound!”
Philip smiled self-consciously as he completed the pirouette. Under his leotards his thigh muscles bulged, and he stumbled as he came out of the third turn. Despite this gaucherie, applause erupted from the audience again. All attention was focused on Philip and his great efforting; ignored, the “Inner Tape” ran on, as the thesp executed his dance flawlessly.
Tears welled up in Binh’s eyes. Philip and Sobrino were mocking three months of intense work. The “Inner Tape” was solely his; he had attended to every phase of it from the beginning. He had scoured the thesp markets himself, willing to settle only for perfect specimens. After days of poring over the breeding records, he had discovered Jason and Jasmine.
During their surgical preparation, Binh had stood beside the surgeons as they made the necessary neural modifications. Later, he had stood over the saurians as they awoke. He had been overwhelmed by their beauty. Jason was the most handsome in human terms, with the supple V of his mouth, and the slight suggestion of a human nose. But Jasmine’s golden faber eyes had captivated him.
As her anesthetic wore off, her eyelids had fluttered wildly. Despite himself, he had touched her forearm in reassurance. Not that she could ever understand the gesture. After such extensive surgical modification, she was nothing more than tabula rasa, an animal which would follow his directions perfectly.
As a student, he had despised such sentimentality. To see a thesp in such a light was a remnant of the Romantic phase which the craft had just outgrown. To give in to such emotions, he had thought, was to go backwards. It was a self-indulgence, foreclosing all possibility of advance in the art.
Binh had been merciless with thesps. If a saurian gave a performance which indicated faulty conditioning or surgical preparation, Binh would immediately halt the taping. Mounting the stage, he would kill the thesp immediately, inserting a stainless steel pick into the brain. It would be as emotionless an act as deleting a mediocre section from a script.
Binh had stopped such practices long ago, but he still had a reputation for ruthlessness. Some of his colleagues would have smiled to see him comforting Jasmine after surgery.
Clashing reds, purples, yellows, and greens, a chaos of visual noise, pulsed through the left holo, shaking Binh out of his reverie. Startled murmurs filled the hall. Suddenly, the left holo column went milky white. Bursts of red and yellow dots flashed through it at random intervals.
Binh was dizzy from the shock of it: the Inner Tape had been erased. There was no way to recreate it; Jason and Jasmine had been shipped back to the breeder weeks before. By now they had probably been cremated, after bits of their genetic material had been preserved for study. He had put them through well over sixty takes; they had burned out after that.
Binh pushed through the milling crowd, craning his neck for a clear view of the control room. There was a void in his stomach. This was madness. It had to be nothing more than an incredible mistake. One of the junior technicians must have pushed the wrong button. He would have to fire whoever was responsible, assert his authority.
He saw no one in the control room. The hall lights came up and the remaining holo flickered out.
M’Wabe rushed up to him, waving frantically. He ignored the critic and looked back up at the control room windows, squinting his eyes against the glare of the hall lights reflecting off the panes.
The lights shone brighter for a moment, and then flickered off. The right holo column rose again. An image of Philip and Sobrino embraced. Their tongues glistened moistly just inside their open mouths. They kissed. The technicians, coaches, journalists, and hangers-on gave them an ovation. Philip and Sobrino slowly twisted down, simulating the act of love.
Binh’s lower lip trembled. His son stared down at him through the control room window. A triumphant smile spread across Philip’s face. Sobrino came up beside him and looked over the hall impassively.
Overnight, the storm continued. The winds had shifted to the north, and their velocity had increased. Helicoptering to First City was impossible. Everyone had been forced to spend the night on the island.
Bianco found Binh a room, furnished only with bed and armchair, in a remote public building. Binh left strict orders that he was not to be disturbed. He needed time to think. He found it difficult to believe that Hussein had ordered the tape erased. Hussein was not as mad as that. Open interference with the production would cost him support. It could even jeopardize his control over the Council.
It could only be an aberration, Binh decided, a mis-calculation by Sobrino and Philip. He would have to get Philip alone and reason with him. Perhaps something in their failed relationship could be salvaged.
A knock on the door interrupted Binh’s musings. M’Wabe’s voice hailed him from the corridor. The critic opened the door. Binh, standing by the bed in his red, gold-embroidered nightgown, motioned him inside.
“Bianco insisted I not disturb you, maestro,” M’Wabe said, “but I insisted. I take full responsibility.”
“This isn’t a meeting of the Council, Benito,” Binh said irritably. “There’s no need for protocol.” He stepped away from the bed.
M’Wabe strode across the room, wearing a full, yellow robe which concealed the rotund curves of his body. “It’s a matter of great importance,” M’Wabe said, coming to a halt by the armchair. “I really feel we should talk, given this evening’s happenings.”
“You do.” Binh turned away and stared at the darkness just outside the room’s only window. A tightness formed in his chest. M’Wabe ran his hands lightly over the fabric of the armchair. Binh’s chest pain sharpened and localized, just below his left rib cage.
Binh moved closer to the window, breathing shallowly, nursing the pain away. He squinted into the darkness. He could see only rain splattering against the window.
“Maestro, I spoke too soon during the unfortunate.”
“Forget it. I have only myself to blame, Benito. I was under the misapprehension that I was in control of the production. The Council obviously has other ideas. You, and the others, continued to give me that impression. To save my feelings, perhaps. I can’t blame you for that.”
Binh turned away from the window and leaned against the wall. His legs ached, and his forehead was knotted with tension. M’Wabe’s words had angered him; he would not let the critic see it in his face.
“Sobrino is dangerous,” M’Wabe continued. “You should not underestimate her. Even I have been attracted to her, but my will held me back. But her power is not limitless. Without Hussein she is nothing. And Hussein is changeable. Tomorrow he could deny Sobrino his favor. It is an ambiguous situation.”
“You seem particularly sensitive to these subtle shifts of power,” Binh said. “You were rather enthusiastic about Sobrino’s performance. You thought it a breakthrough, I remember.”
“But you misunderstand me!” M’Wabe leaned forward, and his face emerged from the shadow. “The Inner Tape is the finest creation you have ever achieved. I have never moved from that position. Sobrino misinformed me. She said you had authorized the taping.”
“Do you still think it a brilliant stroke to merge the human and the thesp, bring them together in one production?”
M’Wabe was silent for a moment. “Things are changing, maestro,” he finally said. “The human must be brought together with the serpent, so to speak. I have not always believed this, but the work of some of the younger avant-gardists has convinced me. I would be less than honest if I said that I was not overjoyed to think you had joined me in that opinion.”
“That will never be my intention.” Binh raised his voice. “Can’t you see what Hussein wants? It should be obvious to you. The young faber-masters are simply playing into the hands of those who would destroy my art. He would destroy the thesps, outlaw their use. Humans would undergo bio-engineering. Who can say what the consequences of that will be?”
“Maestro, I understand your concern. But you must put the problem in perspective.”
“You would have me temporize,” Binh interrupted, “play the politician.”
“But you do not serve your purpose by defiance.’
“Benito, their purpose was disruption and nothing more. You read aesthetic motives into their acts where there are none. The intentions of the Council have changed. The ways of my art are no longer politically acceptable.” Binh clenched his fists. “But to use my son in this way…”
His voice trailed away. His mind was a blank. Staring out the window again, his hands began to tremble.
Outside, the darkness was palpable. Despite the thickness of the window pane, he heard the wind moaning against the outer walls of the building. He wanted M’Wabe to leave him alone, but he did not have the courage to tell him. He had to face the fact that he needed this man. Now, with the Inner Tape’s erasure, and the sudden appearance of his son, this need was becoming more obvious.
M’Wabe coughed, and began to speak again.
“Maestro, I have always supported you. I remember the first time we met, after I had written about one of your student productions…”
“I remember that well, Benito.”
“…and I recall that the particular creation—The Mask of Socrates I think you called it—was as controversial in its way as the works coming out of today’s avant garde. This fascination with human dancers, with human mime, is spreading among the revolutionary young—it should be nothing new to you, maestro. Our lives have been committed to the nurturing of this difficult art. It is certainly exacting and rewarding to work with thesps, these products of the unique Cleopatran fusion of high technology and art. But you cannot deny the young artist the right to forge new paths.”
Binh slammed his fist into his palm. “This is all very well, Benito. I’m sure it will make a stirring article for The Thespian, but I am still left with the wreckage of my production. And to have my son…” He could not speak the words.
M’Wabe stared impassively, waiting for him to continue.
“You must understand the implications,” Binh said after a moment. “If this woman Sabrina can invade my set—I felt like strangling them both. If she weren’t Hussein’s representative…”
M’Wabe stood up with a grunt. He blinked his eyes shut and smiled, as if he were listening to an inner voice.
“You were wise to restrain yourself. It must have been a great effort after such provocation. But surely you can piece something together from the outtakes? Failing that, other thesps can be procured. After all, Hussein has agreed to extend the production’s financing over the original budget—which, you must remember, you have run through already. The Inner Tape can still be shot.”
M’Wabe stared at him sharply for a moment. He moved toward the door. A sudden realization chilled Binh. He turned away from M’Wabe. If his expression had changed, he could not let the critic see it.
It was so obvious—why had he not seen it from the first? M’Wabe was not representing himself. He was serving Hussein’s interests. Hussein had decided that Binh could no longer be trusted with complete authority of the production. Politically, there was too much at stake. M’Wabe had been sent here to keep him within bounds. The critic had done his first job well—the Inner Tape had been erased. Binh had been kept from confronting Sobrino and his son. They had taken the source of his creativity, his self-control, very much for granted. Now the parameters of the game had been changed. The new ground rules had to be explained. Who better to explain them than Benito M’Wabe, his old friend, his confidant, his supporter?
Binh glanced around after a moment. M’Wabe was standing silently by the door.
“So it should be clear, maestro,” M’Wabe said quietly, “nothing is irreparable. Hussein’s financing is unlimited, for all practical purposes. For patriotic reasons, he had a great interest in this production. Let him serve you.”
M’Wabe opened the door and waited for a moment. It was as if be expected Binh to make a reply. After a few moments of silence, the critic shrugged and walked out into the hall.
“The situation should be seen clearly, maestro,” M’Wabe said, turning. “Your son and this young woman are impetuous, as we were. All your artistic intentions can still be fulfilled. Politically, however, some cosmetics are in order.”
M’Wabe walked down the hallway, leaving the door open. A bright shaft of yellow light streamed into the room. Moving slowly across the room, Binh pushed the door shut. He stared through the storm-battered window. Outside, the darkness gathered thickly, as if its weight would break through the glass and engulf him.
Binh dreamt himself a young man again, a student. Somehow he had lost his way in a rainstorm. He came upon his teacher’s home, a large stone house surrounded by gardens. It rained harder, until he was soaked to the skin. There was no answer. He had an image in his mind of his teacher lurking behind the walls, angry with him over an imagined slight, set on teaching him a lesson by refusing to come to the door.
He heard a stirring behind the door. He shouted out, and thunder rumbled. Suddenly he panicked.
Something nameless stalked him. Only by entering the house could he escape it. He shouted his teacher’s name. A face appeared at the window in the middle of the door. It was not his teacher. It was a face without features, a blank surface of flesh confronting him, unable to gesture, unable to speak.
Binh jolted awake. Caesar’s harsh light glared through the window, forcing him to close his eyes again. The light tinged his eyelids a brilliant orange. A dull pain throbbed behind his eyes.
He sat on the edge of the bed, shivering with uneasiness. Binh could usually sense the meaning of a dream, but the significance of this nightmare escaped him. Why had he dreamed of his teacher? It was so long ago; he had forgotten the man’s name. He had learned
meditation from this man, one of the required courses at the institute, but he had never regarded it ‘as a technique by which mystical truths would be revealed. He had not formed a devotion to the teacher as so many others had done. By practicing his own art he would find whatever truths he would find. Meditation was simply a way to ease his mind and body out of the torment of overwork.
Binh dressed and left the room. Walking on the beach, he watched Caesar rise above the water. It was still less than an hour after daybreak. Sectos swarmed in the humid morning air, feeding on the detritus of the sea.
Binh eased his way along the side of a dune. A cloud of smidgens flew at his face. He waved his arms to fend them off. In spring, these sectos were common at this latitude; Binh was particularly sensitive to their bite.
Beyond the dunes, the beach was level. Binh walked slowly toward the sea. His head still throbbed, and his muscles were unusually stiff. Images from the last twenty-four hours swirled chaotically in his mind. He tried to think of ways to salvage something from yesterday’s wreckage, but there were no easy solutions.
There were no facilities for boarding thesps on the island. Every saurian had to be brought over from First City for a day’s shooting. The week’s storms had forced him to use every available thesp. Those who had performed during the week had all been exhausted.
Work would have to be suspended while the markets were searched. It would not be easy. Bianco would have to go himself. He would have to pass on the saurians. To make matters worse, this was the height of the production season. There was no guarantee a suitable pair could be found. The production might have to be terminated indefinitely.
There was one other option, but he had no confidence in it. The outtakes could be edited, as M’Wabe had suggested. Something like the erased Inner Tape could be constructed. But it would be a compromise, nothing more. Binh watched the sea ripple slowly to the shore. It might be the only course he had left.
Halfway to the water’s edge, Binh stopped. It was too early for most of the journalists, but some of them might be awake in hopes of getting transportation back to First City. He did not want to face them after last night. The dunes behind him were the only protection he would have on the beach. Despite this headache, he hurried back toward them.