Authors: Margaret Weis
"Very good,
Mr. President."
The 'bot
continued on about its duties. It smoothed out and hung the discarded
necktie on a tie rack inside a small dressing room attached to the
office. Whirring to the desk, it touched a button on a hidden panel.
Vertical blinds parted, flooding the room with sunlight.
Robes could now
see his visitor, who had seated himself near the window. Magenta
robes, fancifully decorated by a streak of black lightning, were, at
first glance, all that captured the attention. The man inside the
robes, being old, of small stature, and fragile-boned, was nearly
swallowed alive by the folds of fabric, the vibrant color. The
eyes—too large for the old man's bulbous head—were so
widely open they seemingly had no lids against the dazzling light.
The 'bot
continued its duties. It exchanged yesterday's wilted flowers for
today's fresh ones, started the coffee maker, switched on soothing
music. Robes remained standing by the mirror, finding comfort in the
solid reality of his own reflection. He tugged nervously at his
shirtsleeves.
"Send it
away," said the soft voice.
"That will
be all for now," said the President.
The 'bot
instantly turned and headed for the door.
"I will
wait outside," it said.
Robes cast a
glance at the magenta-clad figure, saw the head move slightly.
"No, I have
other tasks for you to perform. Go to the war room and bring me the
updated reports—"
"I could
call them up for you on the computer—"
"Damn it! I
don't like repeating my words and I don't like being contradicted! I
instructed you to go to the war room. Now do so!"
"I wasn't
being contradictory, Mr. President. I was merely acting as I have
been programmed, offering you the most efficient method of obtaining
information—"
"Yes, yes."
Robes discovered he was sweating. Now he'd have to change his shirt!
"I'm sorry I raised my voice. The military edit everything that
goes into my file. I want the reports directly as they come in. "
"I will
need to use your clearance code, sir."
"Then use
it, damn—" Robes caught himself. He was swearing at a
machine. Extremely bad form. And this was being recorded for
posterity. The bot whirred out the door. "Thank you," the
President said, rather lamely.
"Don't
forget the press conference, Mr. President. 1200 hours. Excuse me, I
have neglected to bring you your tie, sir." The bot switched
direction. Pivoting on its wheels, it headed for the dressing room.
"I've
changed my mind," Robes said hastily. "I want one that is .
. . blue on the edges, deepening to purple down the middle."
The bot whirled.
"You don't have one like that in your collection, sir."
"No? Then
you'll have to stop and pick one up. There's a haberdashery on the
corner of Freedom and Fifth—"
"Very good,
Mr. President."
The bot slid out
of the room, the door closing behind it. Robes placed his hand over a
control panel and the door sealed shut. He now had complete
privacy—at least as complete as a highly placed public figure
was allowed. His bodyguards could always get inside, of course. Which
reminded him.
Crossing over to
his desk, not without an uneasy glance at the motionless magenta
figure by the window, Robes sat down in his leather chair and
summoned security. An image of a' uniformed, grim-faced woman
appeared on his vidphone.
"Yes, Mr.
President?"
"I'm having
a meeting in my office. I've activated the seal. I'm not to be
disturbed."
The woman's eyes
shifted away from his, glancing at a screen to her right. "We
have no record of anyone entering your office, Mr. President. "
A muscle in her jaw twitched, her eyes shifted again, she began
moving a hand stealthily across her desk. "I trust all is well,
sir."
"Everything's
fine! I—I mean, all is well that ends well. " He
remembered in time to give the correct code response. Otherwise, in
the next ten seconds, he would have been surrounded by a S.W.A.T.
team. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his forehead.
He'd have to redo his makeup. "I'll explain later. Thank you."
"Yes, Mr.
President."
The vidphone
image faded with the woman's voice. Robes stared at the blank screen,
avoided lifting his gaze for as long as possible. "You did that
on purpose!" he spoke in hollow tones. "That and the way
you're dressed! Why do you do this to me?" His fists clenched on
the top of the desk.
"Only the
harmless amusements of an old man, my dear. So little pleasure is
left to me these days. Surely you won't deny me the occasional,
harmless practical joke?"
"A joke
that nearly got you shot!" Robes felt suddenly rebellious. He
had three difficult meetings to face today, and now, in addition, he
would have to manufacture some lie to placate security.
"Oh, I
hardly think so." The old man shifted position in his chair,
turned to face Robes directly.
The President
raised his head, determined to stare the old man down, assert some
authority. But the sunlight was too bright. Robes couldn't see the
old man's face for the radiance surrounding him. The brilliance made
his eyes water, and he looked back at his clenched fists.
"Peter,
Peter, I understand," the old man said solicitously. "You
always tend to exaggeration when you're under stress. I make
allowances. That fleeting thought you had—allowing the 'bot to
kill me? Stress, of course. I assure you, my dear, I'm not in the
least offended. "
Robes's fists
suddenly unclenched, his hands went limp. "I—I'm sorry,
Abdiel. It's this damn invasion—"
"—which
both you and I know is not really an invasion at all. More of an
invitation, wouldn't you say? I trust this conversation isn't being
recorded. "
"God
forbid!" Robes shivered.
"He has
more important matters on His mind. If you will allow me ..."
Abdiel raised his right hand. The light bulbs in the mirror went out,
the desk lamp went dark. The coffee maker shut off in mid-cycle, the
music ceased.
"What have
you done?" Robes looked around in alarm.
"Disrupted
the flow of electricity into the room."
"That
will
bring security!" The President was on his feet.
"No, no, my
dear. Don't be so jumpy. They are under the illusion that all is
well. That ends well." Abdiel smirked at his little joke. "I
do hope this ends well, don't you, Peter? Please sit down."
The President
resumed his seat, noticed that his hands had left sweaty marks on the
polished wood. "What was that crack you made when you first came
in?"
"I don't
recall." Abdiel's voice was bland. "The forgetfulness of
old age. Refresh my memory. "
Robes cast him a
bitter glance. "You've never forgotten a thing in your life.
What do you want from me? Why are you here?"
"Don't skip
from subject to subject, Peter. It makes you appear insecure."
Robes drew a
seething breath. He took care, however, to let it out slowly, trying
to remain calm. "I was saying something to the 'bot about
announcing Sagan's death and you said—"
"Ah, yes.
It comes back to me. 'Wishful thinking, or words to that effect."
"What did
you mean?" Robes demanded.
"That Sagan
isn't dead, my dear. He's very far from being dead, in fact."
Robes picked up
a pen, began tapping it on the desk blotter. "Then it's only a
matter of time. I've seen the battle reports. The Corasians outnumber
him almost two hundred to one. No one—not even Derek Sagan—can
win against those odds!"
"As usual,
you have been misinformed. Or rather, you have not seen the updated
information. Sagan was able, at the last minute, to ally himself with
a group of mercenaries under the leadership of one John Dixter."
"Dixter?"
Robes's mouth jerked in a nervous grin. He twiddled the pen. "It's
you who have been misinformed, Abdiel. Dixter and Sagan are bitter
enemies. They have been since before the revolution. Dixter's a
royalist. Sagan was a traitor, leader of the rebellion that murdered
Dixter's beloved king. Then there was that woman, that Guardian.
Morianna. Maigrey Morianna. A love triangle—"
"A
triangle, certainly. But not necessarily one of love. You forget, my
dear, I know both Sagan and the Lady Maigrey well. Very well,
indeed." Smiling, Abdiel began to massage the palm of his left
hand, an absent motion, habitual.
"Not as
well as you'd like," Robes said, but he muttered the words to
himself.
Abdiel either
heard or divined the thought. "You are jealous, my dear, because
you succumbed and they did not. But then, they were very young, in
their teens. That was my mistake. Youth is naturally rebellious,
independent. One has nothing to offer youth, because it has
everything. Or thinks it has. I should have tried again when they
were older, but I had you and I thought that would be enough."
Abdiel sighed, appeared almost wistful.
"What do
you mean, succumbed ?" Robes almost shouted. "I may have
joined with you now and then, but that was to share thoughts, mental
stimulation! You don't control me like you do those wretched
disciples of yours—"
"Calm,
Peter, calm," Abdiel admonished.
Robes snapped
the pen in two. "And why are you blaming me for this mess,
anyway?"
"Because
you should have dealt with Sagan long ago, as I advised. He helped
you gain the presidency. But I foresaw— and I was correct—a
time when he would become disillusioned with 'democracy.' The Blood
Royal would burn in his veins. And, as I predicted, he has become a
dangerous foe."
"I needed
him! You know that! Sagan was the only one who had a chance of
finding the true heir—"
"Stop
whining, Peter! It doesn't become you. And now that you've found the
true heir to the throne, my dear, what in the name of all that is
holy do you intend to do with him? If anything, he is more dangerous
than Sagan!
"No, my
dear," Abdiel continued, "you've bungled it badly. If you
had taken my advice, this self-styled Warlord would be dead by now.
The upstart prince Starfire would have faded into obscurity, lived a
humdrum ordinary life, never knowing, never dreaming he could lay
claim to the galactic throne. " The old man rose from his chair
and started forward.
Robes watched
him, unable to take his eyes off him. The old man seemed always to
slither rather than walk.
"But no.
You knew best, didn't you, my dear? You refused to listen to Abdiel.
You—the professor. Peter Robes, Ph.D., renowned for your
knowledge of political science. Peter, Robes, leader of the
revolution. Peter Robes, President of the Galactic Democratic
Republic. Peter Robes, fool."
Abdiel came to
stand beside the desk. A motion of his hand and the vertical blinds
revolved, closed, shut out the sunlight. The room grew dark. Robes
had the eerie impression that Abdiel had blotted out the sun itself.
The President
hunched over his desk, his hands curled, the fingers twitching like
the legs of a dying spider.
"The
Creator moves against you, Peter," Abdiel said softly.
"I feel His
anger. He lifts His rod to chastise you. Derek Sagan has made contact
with one Snaga Ohme, a genius when it comes to designing engines of
destruction. You know. You've read the reports of your late and
unlamented spy, Captain Nada. But do you know, my dear, that the
space-rotation bomb's manufacture has been completed? It is ready for
use. And if Sagan succeeds in laying his hands on it, you had best
start hoping that some university has a job for you in their
political science department. Because that's what you'll be doing. If
you live that long. "
Robes lifted a
haggard face. "What do you mean
if
Sagan succeeds? He
doesn't have the bomb yet?"
"No, my
dear. The obstacle you threw in his path has at least accomplished
that much. Though I have no doubt such a brilliant move was
inadvertent on your part."
"Then we
can get the bomb! We can steal it!"
"From Snaga
Ohme?" Abdiel laughed derisively. "My dear Peter, a gnat
couldn't fly undetected through the Adonian’s security field!"
"Maybe not
a gnat!" Robes switched on a desk lamp, looked directly into the
old man's face. He was confident now, self-assured, business as
usual. "But a mind-seizer could get inside. A mind-seizer could
persuade' Ohme to turn over the bomb!"
"So now you
come to me at last, do you, Peter, my dear? When everything is
falling apart around you, you expect me to pick up the pieces."
Robes swallowed,
mopped his forehead again. His makeup was leaving large pink-colored
patches on the white linen; he might truly have been sweating blood.
He was suddenly sorry he'd turned on the light.
"Very well.
What do you what?"
Abdiel drew near
Peter Robes, the magenta robes brushed against the man's arm. The
President jumped, hurriedly pulled away. He tried to stand up from
the chair but felt a hand on his shoulder, gently pressing him down.
Robes, quivering, remained seated.
"What do
you want?" he repeated hoarsely.
"You, my
dear." Abdiel began to pull the flesh from the palm of his left
hand, peeling it off in strips.
A tremor shook
Robes's body, he shrank back in the chair.
The flesh wasn't
flesh at all, but plastic designed to resemble skin. Abdiel removed
it. Five steel needles, surgically implanted in the old man's palm,
glittered in the light that seemed to emanate, not from the lamp, but
from the old man's bright eyes.
Robes gazed at
the needles in a horrible fascination. His own right hand trembled.
He moved it, slid it down surreptitiously beneath the desk, but
Abdiel's hand snaked out, caught hold of him. Gently, caressingly,
the old man stroked the hand he held in his.