Authors: Margaret Weis
Warden paused
for dramatic effect.
"Do you
trust Derek Sagan, Your Majesty?"
The robotcam
zeroed in on Dion. His blue eyes deepened in color and intensity, but
his facial expression remained unchanged, his voice level and calm.
"Lord Sagan
has done many things in his past that I do not condone, though
perhaps I have come to understand his reasons for doing them. But I
believe Derek Sagan to be innocent of the murder of the king to whom
he had pledged his loyalty. He pledged the same oath to me. Yes, Mr.
Warden. I trust him."
Warden appeared
dubious. "Eyewitness accounts would have us believe otherwise,
Your Majesty."
"It is the
victor who writes the history, Mr. Warden."
The news
commentator turned again to the audience. "Food for thought,
ladies and gentlemen. And now, we'll break for local station
identification. When we return, we will discuss with His Majesty what
is being called the Miracle on Mahab 73."
"He's lying
through his teeth." Robes tugged again at his necktie, finally
jerked it off.
"What?
About trusting Sagan? No, you are wrong there, Peter. Dion trusts
Sagan more than he trusts himself. And that, my dear," Abdiel
remarked complacently, "is the crack in his armor that will
prove his undoing. It is time for you to act. You're slipping in the
polls badly, Peter. Three systems, those belonging to DiLuna,
Rykilth, and Olefsky, are on the verge of open rebellion—"
Robes jumped to
his feet, began to again pace the room.
"What do
you expect? The economy's in a shambles. The galaxy's on the verge of
civil war. Half the Congress is away trying to prevent their systems
from seceding. Six members of my Cabinet are going on trial for
corruption, and I'll be damned lucky if I'm not implicated. Every
important issue's tied up in committee. I can't get anything
accomplished—"
"Stop
fooling with them, Peter."
Robes ceased his
pacing. He turned to look at Abdiel. "What do you mean?"
"I mean
stop fooling with them. You don't need them anymore, Peter, my dear."
"Need who?"
Robes was reluctant to understand.
Abdiel shrugged.
"The Congress, the Cabinet, the . . . people. They've served you
well enough. You've been president eighteen years."
Robes went the
color of a dead fish's underbelly. "You're . . . saying I should
step down . . . turn over the government to this—this—"
He made a feeble gesture at the vidscreen. The interview had resumed.
"Tell us,
Your Majesty, about the healing of the child on Mahab 73."
"I have
nothing to say concerning that incident except that the press blew it
out of proportion."
"But, Your
Majesty—"
Abdiel made a
motion, and the vidscreen shut itself off.
"On the
contrary, Peter. I want you to take charge. This intergalactic
emergency offers you the perfect opportunity. Nations seceding. War
threatening. The Constitution gives you certain powers and you simply
take the rest that you need."
"But the
media? They'll chew me up and spit me out—"
Abdiel sighed
delicately. "I'm not telling you to rush out and seize control
tonight, my dear. It must be carefully thought out, done in stages.
When all is over, the public and the media will be groveling at your
feet. You can be king yourself, if you like."
"You have a
plan?"
"Of course.
That's why I came to see you."
Robes smiled,
relaxed. "What is it?"
Abdiel gestured
to the chair beside him, "Come sit down, Peter. Come sit near
me." He spread his hand, the needles embedded in the palm
flashed in the light.
Peter Robes's
gaze fastened on the needles. He licked dry lips, backed up against a
desk, and began rubbing the palm of his own hand against his thigh.
"Just . . .
tell me your plan."
"You must
rid the galaxy, once and for all, of the Blood Royal. Most
especially, you must rid yourself of this boy-king."
"Murder,
again." Robes shook his head, swallowed hard. "No. I'd be
suspected. You know that. It would ruin me."
Abdiel motioned
again. The needles flashed. "Come sit beside me, Peter. Let us
talk, be comfortable."
Robes attempted
to back up farther, but the solid, massive desk prevented him. His
gaze was fixed on the old man.
Robes's lips
trembled, his body shook. "No, I won't."
Abdiel's lidless
eyes stared into him. The bald head, with its nodes and nodules and
flaking patches of decaying skin oscillated and thrust slightly,
menacingly forward.
"You are
refusing me, Peter?"
"Yes!"
Robes gasped.
"Why?"
"You know
why." Robes spoke feverishly, like a man in delirium, or a man
being tortured, who has reached the limit of his endurance. "In
the beginning I was clean. I meant well. My intentions—Abdiel,
you knew my intentions! I believed in the people, in democratic rule.
I believed in myself!" He paused, struggled for breath. "Now,
look at me. Wallowing in the mire you created! Coated in filth,
slime, blood.
"You"—Robes
pointed a shaking finger—"you, Abdiel. You've dragged me
down, deeper and deeper. It started with a he. Just a little he. Then
a bribe to cover the lie. Another he to conceal the bribe, and
another bribe. You wound your coils around me, pulled me down,
dragging me under an inch at a time.
"And then
the night of the Revolution. The murder of the king, the slaughter of
the Guardians, the destruction of the priests! You, all your doing! I
knew nothing!"
"You knew,"
Abdiel said softly, so very softly.
"No!"
Peter Robes cried, clenching his fist. "I swear before
God—Listen to me!" He raised an anguished face to heaven.
"I'm swearing to a God I don't believe in! Or maybe I do believe
in Him! Maybe I feel His eyes on me. Maybe I see in them die same
loathing and hatred I see when I look at my own reflection. You've
used me, Abdiel. You've used me from die beginning and now"—opening
his palm, he stared in horror at the five swollen marks upon it—"now
you've sucked my soul dry."
Abdiel said
nothing, waited patiently.
Robes wiped his
face, cast die old man a bitter, haunted look. "I should kill
myself," he said in a low voice.
"You
should," Abdiel agreed, "but you won't."
Robes—haggard,
gray—stared at the old man. "You're right. I won't. You
won't let me."
"Someday,
perhaps. But not now. You're of use to me, still."
Spittle frothed
on Robes's lips. "I won't do it! I won't go along with you. Not
this time!"
"Yes, you
will." Abdiel rose to his feet. Gathering the magenta robes
around him, he glided over to where Peter Robes stood, hunched in
misery. The old man placed a bony arm, its flesh rotting and
scabrous, around the President's shoulders.
Robes cringed at
the touch, shrank within the old man's grasp. The President was in
his forties, in good physical condition. The old man was feeble,
sickly, bones likely to snap in two if he coughed. Peter Robes had
only to speak a word and his security 'bot would kill the old man
instantly. The President had only to speak two words and the room
would be filled with bodyguards. His muscles leapt in a sudden,
convulsive effort to escape. He raised his head, his mouth opened.
Abdiel placed
his hand over the hand of Peter Robes, pressed it gently,
caressingly. "There, there, my dear. You're tired. You don't
know what you're saying."
Robes gabbled,
but no words came from his mouth. He kept his hand clenched tightly
shut over the five scars. Abdiel made no move to force it open, but
merely continued stroking the flesh with the tips of his long,
tapered fingers.
"It will be
easy, Peter, my dear. So very easy. No one will suspect a thing. All
your worries will be at an end. You will take complete and absolute
control. And I will be by your side, to guide you. Come, my dear.
Relax. Relax."
Peter shook his
head in disbelief. "What can you do against Starfire? He has the
space-rotation bomb! He has Sagan and his fleet! He has youth,
beauty—"
"I have his
bloodsword. And that," Abdiel added, seeing that Robes was still
refusing to understand, "gives me much the same influence over
him that I wield over you, my dear."
Slowly, Peter
Robes lowered his head, his shoulders slumped. His hand went limp,
flopped down on his leg; the fingers slowly unclenched, opened,
revealing the five swollen marks.
Abdiel gripped
Robes's hand tightly, pressed the needles into Peter Robes's flesh.
The President
moaned and writhed. Abdiel held on, increased the pressure, drove the
needles deeper.
Robes sighed.
His pain, through Abdiel's skill in controlling his mind, had changed
to pleasure: reward for obedience. He leaned against the old man.
Abdiel's arm encompassed the President, drew him near, cradled his
head on the bony shoulder.
"And now,
my dear, this is what you will do. . . ."
"Most blest
believer he! Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes Thy long
expected healing wings could see ..."
Henry Vaughan,
The Night
Tusk waited,
fidgeting nervously, at the very edge of the studio set.
Galaxy in
Depth
was still in progress, though winding down. An alien on the
floor was wiggling three of its five antennae in what Tusk supposed
was a sign to Warden that he had three minutes to wrap up his
interview.
Which meant Tusk
had three minutes before he went into action.
A robotcam
hurtled straight at him. Tusk dodged, stumbled over a trailing length
of cable, and nearly crashed into a nuke lamp. The steadying hand of
a centurion reached out, caught hold of Tusk, and helped restore his
balance.
"Thanks,
Agis," Tusk muttered.
The centurion
said nothing; he had, after all, merely done his duty. The
iron-disciplined men of Lord Sagan's own personal legion rarely
spoke. They acted. Tusk figured that by now he should be used to it,
but he wasn't.
The alien glared
at him and made a peremptory gesture. A young human female with what
appeared to be a satellite dish, revolving radar, and a battery of
anti-aircraft guns protruding from a helmet on her head bore down on
Tusk.
"What are
you doing here? Who let you on the set?"
"No one
exactly 'let' us," Tusk began.
A second
robotcam trundled past, narrowly missed running over Tusk's foot.
The alien
wiggled two antennae.
The young woman
glanced up at a dark, glass-encased booth located above the studio.
Someone up there was making frantic hand signals. Tusk could hear
faint sounds of shouting coming over the various devices in the young
woman's headset. She turned to Tusk.
"Mr. Warden
won't like this. You'll have to leave. Go out that door and wait in
the hall until the red light—"
Tusk grinned,
shook his head. "No."
The young
woman's face went rigid. James Warden was asking Dion about his stand
on education, advising him that he had about thirty seconds in which
to give it.
"Please
step out that door!" the young woman hissed.
"I'm not
stepping anywhere and neither are they." Tusk jerked his thumb
back at the centurions, standing at attention as they'd been standing
for the last hour.
The young woman
glared at him, stomped her foot. "You will be forcibly ejected—"
The centurion's
captain shifted his eyes from Dion for the first time since they'd
entered the broadcast studio, focused on the young woman. He said
nothing, made no move. He merely looked.
The young woman
gulped, glanced helplessly back up at the booth. James Warden was
thanking Dion and informing the audience of next week's guest. The
alien director's purple skin had turned a sickening shade of gray.
Every antenna on its head wiggled wildly.
Robotcams
swooped down on the two.
"And that's
a wrap," stated the alien through its translator.
Warden stood up,
said something pleasant to Dion. Dion rose to his feet.
"We'll be
heading your direction any minute now," Tusk said into his
commlink to the centurions on duty outside the building. "The
jet-limo waiting?"
"Yes, sir,"
came the report.
James Warden and
Dion were walking companionably off the set. The news commentator
stopped, held out his hand.
"I look
forward to following your career, Your Majesty. I don't think we've
heard the last of you, by any means. Good luck."
"Thank you,
sir." Dion shook hands.
Warden walked
off, with only a brief glance at Tusk and the waiting centurions. The
young woman hastened after him, apologizing volubly for the
disruption.
Dion walked over
to Tusk. "How was it?" he asked.
"Good, kid.
You did great," Tusk said absently. His mind was on getting Dion
out of the building. "You ready to go?"
Dion nodded. He
was exhilarated. He hadn't come down yet. He knew he'd done well.
The centurions
closed ranks around him. The studio door crashed open, and they were
in the hallway. Tusk trotted out in front, comforted by the rhythmic
thudding of booted feet behind. "We're on our way," he said
into his commlink.
The hall was
empty. All nonessential personnel had been cleared from the area.
"Keep it
moving," Tusk said unnecessarily.
The centurions
would have kept moving through a null-grav steel wall if one had
blocked their path. But the distance to the elevators at the end erf"
the black marble hallway seemed to stretch on interminably.
Nola shot out
from a side door marked
no admittance, authorized
personnel only
. Tusk scooped her up in his arm as they passed.