Asimov's Science Fiction: September 2013 by Penny Publications Page A
Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: Asimov's #452
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on. However, I could take a few precautions. The shuttle had a full complement of weaponry: I fired several blasts with the pulse-gun, hoping to clear our route ahead and vaporize anything coming behind us.
Soon I'd need to make my escape. But not yet. I expected my rivals to aim most of their fusillade at the outer regions of the hole. Deeper inside, I would paradoxically be safer—assuming the hole itself didn't kill me. I had time to talk to Veronica. "You linger, Sir Astoundio," said Veronica. "It is for the pleasure of your company, my Queen," I replied in the approved courtly fashion.
This was our latest ritual: a little old-fashioned romance, as if I were a knight courting her favor. We'd been lovers a long time, but we always sought new ways to aff irm it. "The pleasure is all mine," Veronica said. She clasped the sleeve of my black-and-purple tailcoat. Veronica wore a white dress with accents of pink, its style subtly mirroring my own costume. In her hair she wore the silver circlet that had once been the crown of Elfland, in a former frolic that still held fond memories. Her skin was impossibly youthful, inhumanly perfect, save for one area on the left of her neck where three warts lurked. The fad of grotesquerie remains popular because its blemishes can symbolically represent any vices. We often joked about which vices Veronica exhibited.
I have my own blemish, of course. Veronica's fads were mine too. My personal grotesquerie consists of an extravagant scar upon my left hand. I sustained it during a skirmish with the Blight, in the days when Veronica and I helped defend the borders of Cockaigne. I kept the scar for showmanship: it suggests the danger of my trade, implying a narrow brush with death.
"Any regrets?" I asked. "Since you're going to die anyway, you can be honest."
"How long have I got to list them? Should I stick to the top hundred?" Veronica smiled and shook her head. "No, I don't believe in regrets.
" "That's not the same as saying you don't have any.
" "I know. But why don't you narrow it down? Tell me what you're really asking."
"I'm just wondering if you're still happy with me, that's all," I said. Veronica raised her eyebrows a mere fraction, like a queen whose tiniest gesture moves worlds. "If I weren't, I wouldn't wait for imminent death to tell you. You'd have heard about it before now. Quite loudly!"
I exhaled a breath that I hadn't realized I was holding. "All right, I take your point. Still... generalities, trivialities—speak now or forever rest in peace. Anything you'd like to say?"
She shrugged. "We're only in this position because you're performing yet another escape. You've been an escapologist as long as I've known you. It gets old, sometimes. I wonder why you don't..." She paused, in case I wanted to jump in, but I waited for her to finish. "Well, why don't you find another hobby?"
Veronica had plenty of interests, and she kept them on heavy rotation. There was nothing unusual in that: most of her friends did the same. Every few months, she would download some expertise from the Facilitator and dive into an unexplored realm of art or mathematics or gardening or history. Whenever any new fad came along—speaking in iambic pentameter, installing a household spirit, gambling for social forfeits—she would embrace it with good cheer, then abandon it until its ironic revival.
I was the exception. Although I absorbed some of Veronica's enthusiasms, I was an escapologist first and always. "I want to be the best," I said. "It takes time to achieve that."
"I respect your dedication, I really do. And you've achieved a lot." Veronica waved her arm, gesturing to the ship, the black hole, and by implication my audience in the auditorium and beyond. "Isn't this enough? How can you do any better than this?"
"You'll find out," I said. My hand flew to my mouth as I realized I needed to rephrase that. "Your original self will, anyway. The next escape I perform will be my best ever:
Soon I'd need to make my escape. But not yet. I expected my rivals to aim most of their fusillade at the outer regions of the hole. Deeper inside, I would paradoxically be safer—assuming the hole itself didn't kill me. I had time to talk to Veronica. "You linger, Sir Astoundio," said Veronica. "It is for the pleasure of your company, my Queen," I replied in the approved courtly fashion.
This was our latest ritual: a little old-fashioned romance, as if I were a knight courting her favor. We'd been lovers a long time, but we always sought new ways to aff irm it. "The pleasure is all mine," Veronica said. She clasped the sleeve of my black-and-purple tailcoat. Veronica wore a white dress with accents of pink, its style subtly mirroring my own costume. In her hair she wore the silver circlet that had once been the crown of Elfland, in a former frolic that still held fond memories. Her skin was impossibly youthful, inhumanly perfect, save for one area on the left of her neck where three warts lurked. The fad of grotesquerie remains popular because its blemishes can symbolically represent any vices. We often joked about which vices Veronica exhibited.
I have my own blemish, of course. Veronica's fads were mine too. My personal grotesquerie consists of an extravagant scar upon my left hand. I sustained it during a skirmish with the Blight, in the days when Veronica and I helped defend the borders of Cockaigne. I kept the scar for showmanship: it suggests the danger of my trade, implying a narrow brush with death.
"Any regrets?" I asked. "Since you're going to die anyway, you can be honest."
"How long have I got to list them? Should I stick to the top hundred?" Veronica smiled and shook her head. "No, I don't believe in regrets.
" "That's not the same as saying you don't have any.
" "I know. But why don't you narrow it down? Tell me what you're really asking."
"I'm just wondering if you're still happy with me, that's all," I said. Veronica raised her eyebrows a mere fraction, like a queen whose tiniest gesture moves worlds. "If I weren't, I wouldn't wait for imminent death to tell you. You'd have heard about it before now. Quite loudly!"
I exhaled a breath that I hadn't realized I was holding. "All right, I take your point. Still... generalities, trivialities—speak now or forever rest in peace. Anything you'd like to say?"
She shrugged. "We're only in this position because you're performing yet another escape. You've been an escapologist as long as I've known you. It gets old, sometimes. I wonder why you don't..." She paused, in case I wanted to jump in, but I waited for her to finish. "Well, why don't you find another hobby?"
Veronica had plenty of interests, and she kept them on heavy rotation. There was nothing unusual in that: most of her friends did the same. Every few months, she would download some expertise from the Facilitator and dive into an unexplored realm of art or mathematics or gardening or history. Whenever any new fad came along—speaking in iambic pentameter, installing a household spirit, gambling for social forfeits—she would embrace it with good cheer, then abandon it until its ironic revival.
I was the exception. Although I absorbed some of Veronica's enthusiasms, I was an escapologist first and always. "I want to be the best," I said. "It takes time to achieve that."
"I respect your dedication, I really do. And you've achieved a lot." Veronica waved her arm, gesturing to the ship, the black hole, and by implication my audience in the auditorium and beyond. "Isn't this enough? How can you do any better than this?"
"You'll find out," I said. My hand flew to my mouth as I realized I needed to rephrase that. "Your original self will, anyway. The next escape I perform will be my best ever:
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