Another tale is told. The Illyrians dance for us. The Meccans enact a puppet play of inordinate skill and beauty. A gang of Lopers enact a hunting scene.
Lena bangs her tankard. All eyes turn. She stands. “This is my story,” she tells them.
Lena
“I have a son, and I cannot love him.”
The words ripple through the hall.
Lena continues: “And you may ask: So what? Compared to what others have been through? I know of your suffering. I have friends who have spent their lives in a prison cell, too low for them to stand up, on preposterous trumped-up charges. Refused access to lawyers and the rule of justice. For what? For nothing. They have lost their lives not as punishment, not as deterrent, and not because they were guilty, but because the system sometimes chews people up and does not spit them out.
“I know all this and yet… I cannot love my son and it corrodes my heart.
“I didn’t love his father either. And my son Peter was a frozen embryo for nearly a century, as I went about living my life. When he was born my situation was difficult. When he was a toddler I became very ill. I spent months in hospital, and convalesced for nearly four years. My son was effectively raised by strangers, but when he became my son again I tried to love him. I tried so hard. When he was eleven we danced together in Saint Mark’s Square in Venice, Earth, to the music of the band in Florian’s Cafe. He was sandy-haired. Freckled, like me. Very intense, very serious. But he was a cruel child. He once skinned a cat. Later, he became a drunk. An alcoholic in fact. He abused drugs. As an adult, he had a juvenile sense of humour, he loved to taunt his friends and humiliate them. He wasn’t like me, so much, after all. But by then I was busy again. I had entered the world of politics. I was responsible for great changes in society.
“I created Heimdall.”
Another ripple; this time of astonishment.
“I was a politician, and a pioneer of the space colonisation movement. My son was on one of the second wave of spaceships that went out to settle space, he eventually landed on Meconium. A bleak, desperate planet which was never adequately terraformed. When they landed, my son was still a relatively young man. And ambitious, too. He murdered the elected President and took power himself. By this time I was a powerful woman, I was the first President of Humanity, I went by the name of Xabar.”
The ripple is a hush. It is an invisible sword, poised in the air.
“I am blamed for many things, but we had dreams in those days. My first planet was called Hope. I yearned to make it an earthly paradise. I almost succeeded. But then I was impeached, for an act of, let’s face it, cold-blooded murder. I was brain-fried, following procedures set in place and devised by myself. I became a reformed character, but also a broken woman. My son went from strength to strength.
“I know I have done bad things, but… but…” Lena wipes the tears from her eyes.
Then she continues: “What kind of Universe have we created when a mother can be apart from her child for entire centuries?
“I travelled into space. My son by this time had expanded his empire. And finally, accompanied by a large and ruthless army and navy, he decided to come home. He spent many many years at near-light speed. We met in space, as he journeyed to Earth to invade it. I barely recognised him. We spent some time together, he was very charming. But I found him cold, arrogant, dictatorial, and contemptuous of women. I realised: I had failed to raise him well.
“Perhaps he would always have been a monster. Or perhaps it is all my fault.
“Ask yourselves this: Is it all my fault? I know what you have suffered. Do you blame me?
“Look at my history, my life. What I have tried to achieve. Judge me by that. Don’t judge me for being a bad mother.
“But, I fear, you will.
“My companions already know the truth; my son is the Cheo. He now lives on Earth, we haven’t met for centuries. But we regularly communicate. He tells me of his various schemes. I don’t ask for it, but I am kept extremely well informed.
“I know more than any of you what this Universe is like.
“Hera, I have heard your story. You are my sister. I am your sister. Please, do not judge me for what I have done. Judge me for what I will do. Judge me with the eyes of posterity.” Ugly phrase.
Shut up, I have them in the palm of my hand.
“When I held my newborn baby in my arms, I thought that nothing could ever stop me loving him. I was wrong.”
I sit.
The silence is awkward.
Flanagan stands up. In a calm, conversational tone, he says to the assembled crowd of cut-hroats, “Who’s for war, then?”
The roar of approval almost knocks him off his feet.