Adam Troy Castro - Marionettes 01 by The Funeral March of the Marionettes

Author:The Funeral March of the Marionettes
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2012-01-26T00:37:00+00:00

“That’s violent, all right…but it’s not conflict. It’s a highly stylized, intricately planned annual ritual, choreographed down to the very last step.

Which means that it’s about as relevant to typical Vlhani behavior as your birthday party is to the remaining four-hundred-and-ninety-nine days of the year.”

“Which would make me feel a lot better,” said Rory Metcalf, “if not for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“This Ballet hasn’t been typical at all.”

That started everybody arguing at once. I missed most of what got said because Oskar Levine chose that moment to scurry out of the main building and summon me to Dhiju’s quarters. I hesitated just long enough to spare one more look at the army of Marionettes gathering down below, contemplate how long we’d be able to hold them off if we had to, and realize that if it came to that, we wouldn’t even be able to slow them down. We were a peaceful embassy on a peaceful world; we had nothing to fight them with beyond a few inadequate hand-weapons. We might as well start stockpiling sticks and stones…and if it came to that, we were all dead.

I shuddered and went to see Dhiju.

A funny thing. Desks, as practical pieces of office furniture, have been obsolete for over one thousand years. They were helpful enough when most work was done on paper, or on computer screens that needed to be supported at approximately eye-level…but since none of that’s true anymore, desks no longer serve functions important enough to merit all the space they take up. They’re still used only because they’re such effective psychological tools. There’s something about the distancing effect of that great smooth expanse that inherently magnifies the authority figure seated on the other side. And men like Dhiju know it. When I ran into his office, he was in position behind his, glowering as if from Olympus.

He gestured at the hytex projection floating in the air beside his desk. There were four main images fighting for supremacy there: a panoramic view of the amphitheater, where the participants in the Vlhani Ballet still stood motionless, patiently waiting for the show to go on; another view of the Vlhani gathering at the base of our plateau; the surveillance image of Isadora, serenely doing multijointed leg lifts in the Isolation Lab; and finally, a head shot of Hurrr’poth, looking as grave as his inexpressive Riirgaani face ever allowed him. I was unsure which image I was supposed to look at until Hurrr’poth swelled to fill my entire field of vision. The giant head turned to face me.

“Alex,” he said. “The pornographer.”

“Hurrr’poth,” I said. “The criminal.”

He trilled, but it struck me as the Riirgaani equivalent of forced laughter: it went on a little too long and failed to convey any amusement at all. “I thank you for coming Alex. This is a very important communication, and since you were with Isadora in the Ballet, I felt that you might possess the keen perspective that your Ambassador Dhiju seems to lack. — Have I disturbed you in any way?”

I glanced at Dhiju, saw only anger, and remained mystified.

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