Terra (16 page)

Lbbp found himself standing at the window. He found his eyes searching the skies for constellation 133-4/77. Locating it, he gazed into the space between the two centre stars, and whispered. Whispered to the Ymn race in general and to those two Ymns in particular.

-
I have wronged you. I have wronged you, and I’m so so sorry.

Lbbp didn’t get any more work done that night.

L
bbp chose not to share his grim little epiphany with anyone. There was no point burdening anybody else with his guilt; if he had to bear it alone and in silence then that would serve as his punishment.

There was certainly no point in conveying his misgivings to Terra; for the first time since she’d started at the Lyceum she seemed genuinely happy. Lbbp wasn’t going to spoil this by telling her of his suspicions that her entire life on Fnrr thus far had all been a big mistake. So life went on, and Lbbp lived with his shame.

Terra became quite adept at using the Interface, and thankfully (as far as Lbbp was concerned) it was used sparingly at the Lyceum. While Terra’s dream incident had led to good things for Mlmln society, it had raised awkward questions about just exactly what did go on inside someone’s brain when they were plugged into the device. In any event, Terra’s personal Ymn-oriented model was taken to the Lyceum (no more dream-mishaps) and she would use it alongside the other pupils. Terra was starting to feel as if she belonged.

She was even improving at gshkth, possibly because she wasn’t so tired all the time from spending every spare moment reading and revising. To Fthfth’s delight, Terra’s gfrg skills came on in leaps and bounds (quite literally; there’s a fair bit of leaping and bounding goes on in gshkth). She would convert Fthfth’s zmms into zdds, smashing frkts and forcing yk yks and slotting the bdkt neatly to Fthfth so that Fthfth could ram home a victorious ghhh, to the rapturous hisses of their classmates.

Terra’s pet project for that orbit, however, was the Lyceum play.

Since Mlml had immersed itself in Ymn literary traditions, it was with glee and delight that the existence of the theatre was discovered. Stories could not just be written down, they could be read aloud and even acted out. The possibilities!

Preceptor Shm had taken some persuading to allow the play to go ahead. He listened to Bsht, Fthfth and Terra’s proposal (mainly Fthfth’s) with an even greater degree of weariness than was his custom. He expressed deep reservations about Preceptorate time and resources being spent on something so wilfully frivolous, until Bsht explained to him that frivolity was the whole idea. Shm eventually conceded. He did not regard himself as being in a position to judge the merits or value of frivolity. He was a scientist, and science and frivolity are most definitely non-overlapping magisteria. He yielded to Bsht’s evidently superior knowledge of all things frivolous, and bade them good afternoon.

Pshkf, the practical science lector, was happiest of all about the idea of putting on a play. From what he understood about such matters (which wasn’t much so far, but he was enjoying himself reading up on it), plays required sets to be built, props to be made, special effects to be generated. Pshkf was never happier than when he was building things. He set to work immediately. The play itself had yet to be decided upon, but he set to work anyway.

Which play to perform became quite the vexed question. The obvious thing to do, of course, was to select a Ymn play and produce that, but when Bsht researched the matter, she discovered that the most popular play in Ymn history was a rather depressing little piece about two grumpy adolescents from rival families who fall in love and kill themselves. Bsht decided against this play; as far as she could tell, its entertainment value was minimal, and besides, the title of the Fnrrn edition was
The Grumpy Adolescents Who Fall In Love And Kill Themselves,
so staging it seemed a bit redundant once you’d told people what the play was called. Bsht reflected that something needed to be done about the methodology used for titling works of literature. Giving the whole story away did seem to, well, spoil things.

It was Pktk who settled matters.

-
Why don’t we do Tnk?

He was at a meeting convened after class by the hastily formed Play Committee, consisting of Bsht, Terra, Fthfth, Pshkf, Shnst (or Thnst; they took it in turns and it was hard to tell which one was there at any given time) and himself.

There was a pause as his suggestion sank in. The meeting had been going nowhere; with no literary tradition of their own to look back through, and what appeared to be scant resources to be plundered from the Ymn archives, they’d been at something of a loss. Pktk, silent as ever, pondered the issue while the others spoke. They had no literary heroes, and no military heroes that anyone other than him cared about (or had heard of), the only historical character that everyone knew and admired was . . .

-
Tnk?
asked Bsht.

-
Yes, Tnk,
said Pktk.
We all know the story, or most of it anyway, and it’s the story of the Preceptorate and its greatest scientist, so even Preceptor Shm can’t complain that we’re wasting our time.

-
Well, I think it’s brilliant,
said Fthfth.
We must start on it at once. I’ll be historical adviser and Terra can write the script. Bsht, you can be, what do they call it, director?

-
Yes, that’s it, I’ll be the director, the person in charge,
said Bsht with irony that Fthfth in no way picked up on.

-
You can build the sets, Pshkf
(they were half built already)
and you can play Tnk,
she said to Pktk, who dropped the slice of ksks he’d been eating.

-
Me?

-
Of course! Who else has the same inner strength, the same quiet resolve?
enthused Fthfth.
You won’t just play Tnk, you’ll BE Tnk . . .

-
But . . .

-
All those in favour of Pktk playing Tnk!

All present said
yes,
except Pktk, who said -
But . . .
again.

The meeting broke up. Everyone hurried off to attend to their allotted task.

Pktk sat alone. When he’d suggested doing a play about Tnk, it had never occurred to him to actually PLAY Tnk. He hadn’t intended to play anyone. They did know that, right? They didn’t think they were acceding to his wishes?

Pktk floated home, his mind full of doubts and his stomach full of anxiety.

When he got home, he made himself some more of the FaZoon’s special soup and felt much better.

F
thfth decided that since the play was now an official Lyceum project, and indeed a celebration of the life and works of the Preceptorate’s greatest hero, then it was the solemn duty of everyone, that is to say, EVERYONE, to get involved.

She posted notices on the Lyceum’s internal information network, reminding pupils of their duty to assist their colleagues in whatever way they could in this most urgent endeavour. She even printed out some notices, actual printed notices on thin sheets of something she’d found a box of in an old dusty cupboard, and stuck them up around the building. She would see pupils huddled around them. Whether they were reading them or just trying to figure out what they were, she couldn’t tell and it didn’t matter. The important thing was to get their attention, and she had.

Terra had started writing the script right away. She chose to start the narrative with Tnk’s arrival at the Preceptorate as a Ponderer, rather than go all the way back to his Lyceum days. She didn’t want to write a four-spectrum epic. She would write about Tnk’s friendship with Kltnt, his rivalry with Spshnf (she would have to be careful not to make Spshnf too villainous; he had differing theories to Tnk’s but that didn’t make him a bad person) and end with his moment of triumph, the posting of his thesis on the Source. If that didn’t get them up and hissing, nothing would.

Lbbp would watch her tapping away on her slate. It filled him with joy and pride to see her working away so contentedly. Even the occasional reports of further skirmishes between the G’grk and Dskt border patrols couldn’t spoil his mood. Surely they’d sort something out; it was the thirty-third era, not the fifteenth, after all.

-
Let’s try that again, shall we, and not so fast, Fthfth.

Fthfth’s enthusiasm was, as ever, boundless and infectious, but she wasn’t the best at taking direction.

-
But there’s so much of it! It’ll take ages if I do it slowly.

-
If you do it at the speed you’ve been doing it,
explained Bsht patiently,
nobody will understand a word you’re saying. It’s better to be slightly long-winded than unintelligible.

Fthfth huffed and went back to her starting position on the Leisure Hub stage. She had, she reminded herself, volunteered to be the play’s narrator. In fairness, she’d at some point volunteered for more or less every job that the play needed doing, but this was the one she’d ended up with and, being Fthfth, she was determined to do it perfectly. Not well; perfectly.

Of course, where the arts are concerned, there really is no such thing as objective ‘perfection’; it’s all a matter of taste and perspective. This was a new concept on Fnrr, and thus far it had been rather lost on Fthfth.

-
I could cut it down a bit,
suggested Terra from her seat in the front row of the auditorium.

-
Maybe you could look at that between now and tomorrow’s rehearsal,
said Bsht, sitting next to her,
but for now we’ll use the text as it is.

Fthfth stood as patiently as she was capable of, and waited for Bsht’s cue.

-
And . . . off you go, Fthfth.

Fthfth gave a tiny cough and commenced. -
In orbit forty-four of the twenty-seventh era, a young student arrives at the mighty Hrrng Preceptorate.

Pktk wandered on from stage left, carrying a bundle of papers (slates hadn’t been invented back in the twenty-seventh era) and looking suitably bewildered. Pktk was good at bewildered.

-
He had travelled far, from the small town of Jfd-Jfd in the province of Mntp. It had taken many days and he was tired from travelling.

Pktk rubbed himself all over and said -
There’s got to be an easier way to travel than by rattly old omnicoach . . .

Ah yes,
thought Terra.
You see? Portentous. I’m not cutting THAT bit.

-
It’s called a proscenium. I looked it up. Good word, isn’t it, proscenium . . .

Pshkf was admiring his own handiwork, and waiting expectantly for everyone else to admire it too.

-
It’s an arch,
said Bsht.

-
A PROSCENIUM arch,
corrected Pshkf.
It’s been used in Rrth theatres for eras. It serves as a frame for the picture of the play, see?

Pshkf’s proscenium dominated the Leisure Hub stage; a gleaming white arc of shimmering plastic-lucite blend. He’d been up all night installing it; putting it up in sections and then molecule-bonding them to form a single expanse.

-
What do you think, Terra?
asked Bsht, who clearly had her doubts.

-
It’s certainly very imposing,
said Terra, who hoped it wouldn’t distract the audience’s attention from the play itself. Not all of the cast had yet developed a particularly commanding stage presence and now they were going to have to compete with this huge white curve.

-
It’s not just imposing,
said Pshkf excitedly.
Watch this.

He tapped his slate; the auditorium lights dimmed. He tapped it again. The stage transformed. Suddenly, through the arch could be seen a diorama of the Preceptorate complex, as it had been in the twenty-seventh era. Another tap and the scene became rolling countryside, purple hills and green trees. One more tap and there was the council chamber in all its quartz-domed magnificence.

Pshkf beamed. -
Holographic backdrop. Infinitely programmable. You could set your play anywhere you wanted. What do you think?

-It’s amazing,
said Terra, and she really thought it was.

-
I don’t see why I have to be the bad guy, that’s all,
said Yshn. He was peering glumly at his slate.

-
You’re not the bad guy,
sighed Bsht,
you’re what’s called the antagonist. You just come into conflict with the PROtagonist, in this case Pktk.
Yshn glanced across at Pktk, who gave him a cheery wave.
It’s not about being good or bad.

-
Yes, but Tnk isn’t just the hero of the play, he’s the hero of the whole nation, and I have to be the person who tries to stop him. It’s not fair. They’re all going to hate me.

-
Cool,
muttered Pktk as he wandered past.

-
Cool?
repeated Yshn, confused.

-
Yes, cool,
said Pktk.
Looks like great fun, playing the bad guy. I get to play the great and wise Tnk, but, well . . .
(he glanced around to make sure Terra wasn’t listening)
he’s a bit . . . dull, isn’t he? He’s all a bit worthy and boring. Spshnf, on the other hand, that’s a great part. He sneers, he plots, he grumps, he shouts . . . Much more fun. I’d offer to swap but it’s a bit late now.

Yshn considered Pktk’s words. Now he thought about it, it was more fun to be the bad guy. What a thrill to go out of your way to be despised by the audience. Like most children, Yshn had spent the better part of his life thus far seeking the approval of adults. The thought of actively seeking their disapproval, even temporary make-believe disapproval, was suddenly very exciting.

-
Who knows,
said Pktk,
you might even get them to make that sound Ymns make when the bad guy comes on.

-
What sound?
asked Yshn eagerly.

-
It’s a sort of low oo sound, like . . .
Pktk tried to boo but it sounded all wrong coming through his tight Fnrrn speech mechanism – just a sort of bbhhh sound.

-
Hmm. That doesn’t really work, does it,
mused Pktk.
Never mind, I’m sure they’ll think of some way to let you know how much they hate you.