Libertionne. Anna Tishchenko
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