Bright rays of sunlight pierced the dull haze of the spring sky, pouring liquid gold onto the polished roofs of automobiles, then slipping lower, down to where the icy crystals of skyscrapers grew from the murky desert sidewalks, hitting countless panels of glass before fragmenting and fading into nothingness. The pale morning sun had appeared over the huge imperial city of Libertionne.

Tiberius Crown, reclining on the leather seat of his Mercedes, was looking out the window. His eyes were blind to the thousands of virtual billboards that floated by: “Superfast breakfast cereal – any flavor!” “Superslim – lose three kilograms per day, no artificial ingredients!” “Young? Successful? Rich? Impotent? Our formula will bring back your erection in just a few days!” “Viagra. Improved formula – your boyfriend will be ecstatic!” “Lonely? At the Club Lady Safo we guarantee that you’ll find a girlfriend”… But Tiberius’s thoughts were far away, in the rector’s office of Libertionne State University.

Why is she calling me in first thing in the morning, on the day of exams? Tiberius wondered. We could talk later today – I have so few students in the history department, and I’d be free in two hours. He suddenly realized that he had been sitting in a traffic jam staring at a poster aggressively pushing a sexual stimulant that guaranteed multiple orgasms no matter where you applied it (“It’ll put Adam and Eve back in the Garden of Eden”). Tiberius annoyedly poked at the button on the plasma screen. The glass obediently went dark, hiding the street from view, but now along the edge crawled a blinding, scarlet line of advertising text. After a third unsuccessful attempt to turn off the advertisements, he remembered that the previous day he was supposed to renew his monthly payment subscription; now he would have to look at the crawling text until the end of his ride. Cursing quietly, he opened the window, then chuckled. It used to be that people would pay money to get something; now we pay not to get something.

A traffic jam had formed on the air route. Hundreds of thousands of cars, aligned in a multicolored ribbon, obediently waited their turn, their lacquered sides glinting in the light. Down below on the sidewalks, which were growing dark in the shadows of the houses, there were practically no signs of life except for the occasional ambulance or police car.

“Switch to manual control,” Tiberius grumbled.

Now dive down a hundred meters, and you’ll be hurtling along an empty road, all alone…

“Sorry, sir, that’s impossible,” a woman’s voice emanated from the speaker, polite but completely disinterested. “Today is Friday, and you may only use manual control on weekends.”

“Damn! I completely forgot.”

“Sir, you have broken the law. Under Article 13456, Clause 561, profanity is deemed an administrative offence. Would you like to pay the fine now?”

“What the…” he stopped himself in time.

“Did you want to say something, sir?”

“No, no, nothing.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“But this can’t be – I’m not allowed to say anything out loud in my own car?”

“You can, sir, but according to…”

“That was a rhetorical question,” Tiberius interrupted, irritated, “and yes, transfer the money from the card right now.”

He wearily leaned back on the seat back. No, I have to pull myself together. My lack of self-control has just cost me two hundred dollars. And it’s a good thing I swore in my own car. How much would it cost me at a lecture? Probably a thousand – a third of my salary. But wait, he chuckled. I still haven’t commented on Adam and Eve, or their fall from grace that led to the creation and development of mankind, right up to the peace and happiness that exists today. I wanted to. But that joke would cost me six years in prison, or a mandatory course of therapy and psychology, which could be worse Or have they already increased the punishment for propagandizing heterosexual love? Seems that something like this was in the news recently. I need to find out from that idiot woman. Feeling happy that at least in his thoughts he could express himself, in his own car, as he chose, Tiberius already wanted to ask a question, but he didn’t have time. The car quickly and smoothly descended down to a huge granite staircase, where a multitude of students were ascending and descending.

“We have arrived at our destination, sir. I will go and park; have a good day.”

“I hope you spend a long time looking for a parking space,” muttered Tiberius as he clambered out. The fury on his uncontrollable tongue, as usual, was redirected toward the innocent car. With a quick, long stride he walked through the archway of Libertionne University, where the inscription “Unity, tolerance, freedom” was written in huge gold letters. Looking at his wrist for the time, he remembered that he was forbidden to wear outdated, mechanical watches, and now his wrist was adorned with a modern smartwatch. He spent three minutes leaving the social network Bodybook, then a slew of virtual stores, news items, and advertisements, and finally he saw what time it was. Twenty minutes before the lecture, excellent, he thought to himself, and hurried down the corridor, ignoring the mechanical walkway which, as usual, was crowded with people. Funny, he thought, throwing an indifferent gaze across the young faces of the students. Almost all of them, after the lecture, will go to the fitness center for a few hours of exercise, but all day long before this they will do anything to avoid any exertion or movement whatsoever. Even this walkway goes slower than I walk, and yet…

The university building was huge. In fact it was an entire city comprising countless structures, pathways, and galleries, and resembling a polished octopus. It was the only university in Libertionne; likewise, the city had one prison, one psychiatric clinic, one Court, and one House of Government. Arriving at the only elevator that connected to all the floors, he once again found himself stuck in a traffic jam. He mixed in with the crowd of students, mechanically determining the ages of the boys and girls. No, not by how mature they looked – modern medicine had made it possible for anyone over the age of eighteen to never change again. At least on the outside. But those born before 2064 could still be distinguished by phenotype, by the shape of their body, or by the color of their skin. It was decided that these differences were the source of many of society’s problems, so under Unity and Tolerance, when the Vile Remnants of the Past* were finally conquered, people began to look more or less the same – a convenient common denominator for humanity. And to think there was a time, thought Tiberius, when a person was born with the help of biological parents, and it was all left to chance.

The lift swallowed up another group of riders, and only he and two girls were left standing on the platform. Judging from their extravagant clothing they were from the Faculty of Design. He shot an admiring glance at one of them, a tall, shapely brunette. Evidently this glance, which drifted across her rather revealing clothing, was too overt, and did not meet the standards of Tolerance. The girl, surprised, raised her dark, almost velvety eyes toward him quizzically.

“A very stylish blouse,” Tiberius said, regaining his composure and trying to manage a friendly yet silly expression.

“Oh, thank you,” she replied, calming down and breaking into a wide smile. “It’s really popular this season. I read it in Androgyne. That means it has to be true.”

“Androgyne?”

“The fashion magazine? It’s famous. You don’t know it?”

“No,” answered Tiberius, amused by the honesty in her surprised reaction, almost a sense of fear.

Tiberius might have finally gotten a chance to learn something about high fashion, but suddenly he was grabbed around the shoulders, and the chance was irretrievably lost. Which he actually did not regret.

“Tiberius, hello, my dear!”

A chubby, pink-cheeked man with faux cheerfulness embraced the sulking Tiberius.

“And hello to you, Normann.”

What rotten luck. This guy always showed up at the wrong time, and always tried to ruin his day somehow. Tiberius’s relationship with the math professor could be characterized as something like “tender hatred.” Normann lost no time.

“Judging from the fact that you are not running up to your sixth floor office, but instead you’re submissively waiting for the elevator, I’d say you are probably being called onto the carpet by the boss. Did you slip up again?”

“Normann, you don’t have to project your own experiences onto others.”

“Perhaps,” the mathematician said, feigning innocence, “you are not guilty of anything. Maybe they just want to let you know that the department is closing down. What will you do then?”

“Well, maybe I’ll return to my old job,” Tiberius said absently.

The pink physiognomy of Normann took on a slight green color, which was oddly pleasing to Tiberius.

“You can’t!” Normann cried, then stepped back and mumbled “There’s nothing to return to.”

“Whatever. But this other matter – about the department being shut down?” Tiberius inquired in a steady voice.

The two girls stepped into the elevator, and he and Normann were left standing alone.

“Well, I have a thousand students in my course, and you have how many? Ten?” The mathematician bared his teeth in a sickly-sweet smile.

His shot had hit the target, and revenge was called for. Tiberius absent-mindedly let his eyes wander over Normann’s entire round, doughy body, and suddenly he froze theatrically, staring hard at Normann’s feet, or rather his leopard-print high-heeled shoes. Tiberius’s actions did not go unnoticed.

“What? Something’s not right?” the mathematician asked, startled.

“Normann, how could you do this? You’re wearing three leopard-print items of clothing. You know that more than one is considered extremely bad form!”

“Are you sure?” said Normann, his eyes darting nervously. “Last season it was all the rage.”

“And now it’s simply a crime. I read it in Androgyne,” he remarked drily.

The lift opened, and he walked in, as triumphant as Perseus after slaying Medusa.

A Visit to Mount Olympus

In stark contrast to the lower floors, the fiftieth floor was a haven of peace, calm, and emptiness. The interior design was typical – black polished floor, fake granite trim, chrome planters with artificial plants. Bird noises emanated from hidden speakers, in a clumsy attempt to emulate traditional eastern concepts of relaxation, and the chirping mixing in with trivial background music, completely lacking in expression or melody. The bird sounds were supposed to be soothing, but Tiberius found them annoying. Once he was forced to wait twenty minutes here, and he imagined himself shooting them out of the sky, even wishing he had brought a gun. But this time there was no need for such violent fantasies, as there was no one else in the reception area.

“I’m here to see Mr. Darnley.”

Tiberius threw a glance at the secretary, who despite her youth had already managed to perfect an imperious air. She hesitated before replying.

“I see… is he expecting you?”

“Yes.”

His answer was terse and confident, but she looked him over once again, even more disdainfully, before getting up from the black leather couch. Only a handful of mortals were granted an audience here, along with members of the government, patrons, and other celestial beings. Tiberius, with his humble suit and cheap smartphone, looked suspiciously like a professor, or even that most questionable type – a historian.

After a pause, she relented. “I’ll ask,” she said, looking timidly through the frosted glass of the massive door that led into the office. “Mr. Darnley, you have, um… a visitor. A certain Mr. Crown…. You may go in.”

The secretary flattened herself against the wall, in order to avoid the slightest physical contact with the dubious guest. The door began to retract slowly, and Tiberius impatiently gave it a kick as he walked into the room. A sharp whiteness cut into his eyes. It was a bright, pure color, but also a dead and naked one. Everything was white: the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the furniture. Eight years since his first visit, and he still wasn’t used to this blinding, sterile, cold whiteness. And although white was thought to be the pinnacle of design and the epitome of taste, reflecting the cleanness and perfection of our ideal era, Tiberius desperately longed for something dirtier.

“Well hello, Mr. Darnley,” said Tiberius as he walked into the office, smiling sincerely for the first time in two weeks.

Under the accepted norms, the inhabitants of Libertionne addressed each other officially as “feminolibertinian” and “masculolibertinian.” Ten years earlier, the Tolerance had introduced these terms to replace the sexist “man” and “woman.” It was decided that the informal title “Mr.” would be used for sexes, although Tiberius still felt awkward addressing women as “Mr.” It was never explained why “Mr.” was chosen and not “Miss.” Why, Tiberius wondered, hadn’t humanity’s feminine half protested against such gender domination? Perhaps for the same reason that for over a hundred years, while women were fighting for equality, they also loved to dress like men and cut their hair short. Come to think of it, most of the women he knew seemed to prefer the company of men (as did all of the men).

“I’ve missed you, Laura,” said Tiberius. “But what’s the urgency?” He unceremoniously dropped into a wide chair near the rector’s desk.

Laura quickly reached with one hand under the desktop, where Tiberius knew there was a “white noise” button, an unimaginable luxury that only members of the government had the right to own. But the rector of a university was a position no less important than a state worker; after all, what could be more significant than shaping the minds and attitudes of the young generation, the pillar upon which the superpower stood?

“Two items of news,” she said, raising her eyebrows gravely.

“Start with the good news.”

“Why do you think there’s good news? We’ve come up with a program to select one graduating student each year from each of the eleven academic departments, through a competition, and send them on a one-week excursion to one of the old cities. Please, close your mouth, that’s not the whole story. They have to be accompanied by the head of the history department, in other words, you. There will be a base of operations, fully-equipped with everything you might need. You’ll go out into the city only to explore…”

“Laura. You want me to be a babysitter to ten greenhorns for an entire week?”

“Eleven. The best students of the university. Questions?

“Only one. Why?!”

“The government wants future specialists to be able to extract fresh ideas from the rotting foundations of the past. And at the same time, they’ll learn just how miserable that past was.”

“Aha, that’s why…”

“Fine, I’ll be completely frank. They wanted to shut down the history department. Something like, a two-week history course in the primary school would be enough. Yes, that’s right, now stop imitating an crocodile that’s trying to swallow the Egyptian sun. If you only knew what I had to do in order to get this project approved, and also to find the money for it. But tell me,” she said, anxiously looking him straight in the eye, “don’t you want to see for yourself what you’ve been reading so much about?”

She stopped, then quietly added, “I was able to convince Him. And He gave the money for it.”

At that point Tiberius realized that he had no choice. If the project was being sponsored by the emperor himself, then of course neither Laura nor he could jump off this train until it had successfully reached its destination. But he was interested in another thing.

“Laura, that means you saw Him?”

“Yes,” she answered, reluctantly.

“Then you know what He looks like…”

“Yes, I do. But of course I can’t discuss it.”

“But don’t you think it a bit strange that in our modern era, when it’s acceptable to announce every single step you take to the entire world, that a figure such as the emperor is so cautious about hiding his name and image? A strange approach to PR, don’t you think?”

“Does this surprise you?” Laura said, squinting at him mockingly. “You’re a historian. Try and think of a single PR move, as you put it, like this one. There’s never been one.”

“Well, then,” he chuckled, his head still spinning from the unexpected news, “as an old and shabby wolf like myself once said, ‘We accept the fight.’” [a classic line from the Russian animated film Mowgli, adapted from Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book]

The awkward pause was broken by the quiet but relentless ringing of Laura’s smartphone. She glanced at it, nodded, and then turned off the sound.

“Martha?” asked Tiberius, trying to imbue his voice with an uncharacteristic delicacy.

Laura nodded, upset.

“You had another fight?”

“Not exactly, it’s just…”

“That means you did have a fight,” Tiberius said, looking at her point-blank. “Are you going to renew the marriage license?”

“Probably not.”

She nervously drummed her fingers on the table.

“But you’ve been together for four years! It’s so rare these days that anyone renews their marriage even once, and you’ve done it three times!”

“Let’s talk about you,” she exhaled, eager to change the unpleasant topic of conversation. “Tiberius, there are rumors…”

He burst out laughing. “You don’t say!! What rumors? That I’m a sadist and a pervert? Maybe even a secret heterosexual?”

“No, nothing that serious, of course, but…”

“And what are you ordering me to do? Copulate with my partner in the central square?”

“Well, that would be a start. But no, seriously, go with your partner to a club, get more people to see you, take a selfie in a cafe, on a dance floor…”

“Maybe a selfie in bed?”

“It would actually be good. I’m sure that Paul would post them all to his social accounts, if he doesn’t first explode with joy. You don’t exactly spoil him with your company, right? Listen. You already stand out because of your appearance and your abnormal lifestyle. You can’t swim against the current all the time! Just look at us!”

She rose effortlessly from the table and led him, laughing, to a large mirror on the wall. It seemed like the man and woman reflected in the indifferent surface of the mirror were separated by twenty years, no less. Tiberius didn’t look at himself, but as always he was lost in admiration of his classmate – her young, tender face, and her hair, which was the flaxen color of a linen Pre-Raphaelites goddess. And it was her natural color. Why do women always dye their hair some other color, he thought, regardless of whether their natural hair color is so beautiful? She could easily pass for Lorelei, from German folklore, if it weren’t for her eyes. Iridescent as jasper, they were unromantically piercing; her stern, sharp glare seemed capable of penetrating the very soul of an opponent, causing them to cower like a government bureaucrat at the Court of Fear.

“You see? Just look at your gray hairs, your wrinkles, and your hands! When was the last time you were in a manicure salon?”

“Never.”

She sighed, looking at him as tenderly as a lawyer gazing at a beloved, longtime client, whose case he hasn’t been able to win for the last fifteen years, but thanks to whom the bank account is not exactly hurting.

“I’m not going to ask which rejuvenation procedures you use; I’m just going to give you the phone number of my doctor.”

“I could care less about rejuvenation.”

Smiling, he turned to her, took her by the hand, and then spoke in a serious voice. “It’s been ages since we’ve gone somewhere nice. Maybe we could get together in the woods?”

“Only after you start behaving like a good boy. Do you promise? And it’s about time – exams are about to start.”

“Yes, mama,” he said, unable to resist a risque little joke.

Laura jumped when she heard the vulgar word, but then pulled herself together and smiled. Taking something from a desk drawer, she put a small object into his hand.

“Here, have this. Open it one week from today, no earlier. And don’t be angry with me. If you can manage that.”

Taken aback by the unexpected gift, and by her strange words, Tiberius couldn’t hide his annoyance. Despite his strong gratitude for everything she had done for him, she had once again refused his offer to simply get together and talk freely, about nothing in particular…

“Thank you,” he muttered drily, already turning toward the door.

“Tiberius. You know that I know everything.”

He flinched, then slowly turned and calmly asked, “For how long?”

“From the moment that I first saw you.”

12 3 4 5 6 Next

Libertionne

Libertionne

A Visit to Mount Olympus

People who read this book also read