My immediate reaction was an enormous sense of relief, as if I were
to have a massive epidermoid tumour removed. I would soon be free
to sit in the shade somewhere and let others trouble themselves over
the destruction of the world and command languages, uncontrollable
data accumulation and sinisterly subservient Place Holders.
'Kingdoms are but cares' as one of my erstwhile predecessors put it,
and I couldn't agree more. What was there to be gained by holding a
position that symbolised the importance of family structure, the
supremacy of the ego, the physics of the solar system? My brief
occupation of the triple throne had led me to suspect that a lifetime as
a quasi ritual object was not for me and I bent my head for the
removal of the MarkVI only too glad to part company with the
instrument of my elevation.
The engineer clearly did not share my emotions. Much to my surprise
he was close to tears. 'Would it make things any easier,' I suggested,
'if I knelt?' I could only surmise that having tracked the course of my
dramatic ascent he had identified more absolutely with my position
than I had myself. But he was standing before me as I remained
seated on the sofa da reposo and already loomed far above me. He
reached out to detach the Mark VI. I experienced a convulsive
spasm, a blackness that was without sensation, as if I were being
subjected to a total anaesthetic, and then I was aware of my
surroundings once more. 'Forgive me, my Queen!' I heard him
murmur as he placed the MarkVI on the head of Ganymede, 'there
are few things that have given me less pleasure.'
His attachment was not to me, I realised instantly, but to his
achievement. The success of Louise, the initial triumph of the MarkVI
and my partial success as the crown holder - until that fateful gin and
tonic which led to my riotous and wanton destruction of the drawing
room of Balmoral Castle. No butt chugger could have behaved more
recklessly.
'The monarch is now on default mode,' he announced, 'and may
continue in the performance of her duties.' He was referring, of
course, to the intermediate model that lay in bed in Balmoral
recovering from the physical stress of executing handsprings and
backflips. My identity had returned to a complete match with my own,
as he might call it, default mode, but without the MarkVI I found
myself in a very much reduced world. No headlines in Macau, no
instant communication with the editor of Zero Hora. I was alone with a
pencil and a scrap of paper and millions of miles from Earth.
