by Joel Glover.
The pretty young things were circulating with silver trays. Gallienus was tired, so tired, and tired of pretending not to be. It shouldn’t be possible for such an expensive suit to feel heavy across his shoulders, but it did, the weight not in the fabric but in the cerulean blue dye. The colour suited him only so far as it acted as the key to open doors; the family blue, the blue of Cavendish Enterprises, and all its subsidiary companies. The monopolies in novel technologies and deep space exploration, and the monopoly to end all monopolies in the communication algorithm that his grandfather had devised, unlocking communication with the carcine races of space.
He wasn’t the main attraction, of course. That would be Doctor Danae Hajiphillipou, newly appointed as the European Union’s Interstellar Trade Commissioner. He was, however, nominally hosting the event.
The silver tray passed him by, spoons shaped like they were designed for eating egg-drop soup filled with a lurid green foam and the white slivers of perfectly poached shellfish.
His favourite.
Amuse-bouche. That was what he had called them, growing up in Monaco. Something to keep the mouth entertained.
Gallienus’s glass contained only water, the bubbles within were terrible for his teeth but the only way of making the liquid anything less than tedious on the tongue.
He smiled, and nodded.
That was his job. Smiling and nodding. He wasn’t the family spokesman, the heir, the most eligible bachelor in the world. But he was still a St John, for all that meant.
Wealth, Power, Influence.
Secrecy, Brutality, Control.
“Doctor Hajiphillipou, or should I say Commissioner Hajiphillipou?” he asked, as the guest of honour crossed his path.
“I prefer Doctor, thank you Mr St John.”
“Gallienus, please Doctor, Gallienus. I hear Mr St John, and I start looking for my father.”
An old joke, it slipped from his mouth with ease and comfort.
She did not smile.
At all.
Or reply. This was a novelty, almost enough of a novelty to puncture the profondeur of his ennui. Someone not just uninterested in the St John legacy, but politely repulsed by it. True revulsion was common, of course, at the greed and the wealth and the malignant influence of all things Cavendish, metastasizing into the body politic. But her rejection, the hints of scorn and bile as green as the foam on the canapés, this was new.
“The sculpture is interesting,” he offered, pointing at a nearby cylindrical installation punched through with a copper rod. “What do you think inspired the artist?”
“I think you must know, surely, Mr St John.”
Her tone had the same heat as must have been used to melt the foot of the statue, which sat in a re-formed puddle of metal.
“I can assure you, I know very little about modern art, Doctor Hajiphillipou. My reputation speaks for itself, and truly.”
Gallienus posed himself sadly, and declaimed in his doleful voice.
“A chaque minute nous sommes écrasés par l’idée et la sensation du temps. Et il n’y a que deux moyens pour échapper à ce cauchemar, pour l’oublier : le plaisir et le travail. Le plaisir nous use. Le travail nous fortifie. Choisissons.”
“I don’t speak French, I am afraid, Mr St John.”
“The language of diplomacy. And romance, of course, Doctor. I apologise. I was quoting Baudelaire, the Intimate Journals they are called in English, though a more literal translation might be ‘my heart laid bare’. I was observing that the only way of escaping from the creeping sensation of death brought about by time is through work or play, and I confess to have made more of the latter than the former. Though I do consider reading poetry to be play.”
The Trade Commissioner arched a thick eyebrow at him.
“I am the artist, Mr St John. When I was a young woman, I saw an accident that changed my life. Years later, I find that moment still acts as an anchor on my creative spirit.”
“Quite a maudlin muse, my dear.”
“We do not choose our inspiration,” she muttered sadly.
“I think you’d like Baudelaire,” Gallienus replied. “He said in the same piece ‘rêves sur la mort et avertissements’, or ‘dreams of death and warnings’.”
Her Aegean skin tone paled slightly.
“Perhaps,” she agreed.
“Well, I shall find a copy for you in Greek. And now, I shall say some witty things to the room, and announce you, shall I?”
She looked shaken, he thought, but by what he could not tell. Gallienus stiffened his shoulders and stepped back under the withering weight of being perceived. Behind him, he knew that the Trade Commissioner was doing quite the opposite.
—
This story occurs in the world of “The Oral History Of The Cavendish Mining Company”, a science fiction serial being published monthly on foofaraw.
You can get up to date by heading to:
https://foofaraw.press/tag/cavendish/