Authors: Walter Jon Williams
“How may I be of service to the Elvii?”
Behind his holographic camouflage, Maijstral smiled.
“Could you check the directory and remind me of the location of the resting place of Fleet Admiral Song?”
“Right away, sir.”
The captain went to a service plate, consulted it for a moment, and then returned.
“Level Three, Row 300, number 341. He has a freestanding monument that will make the location plain. Do you wish me to escort you to the vault?”
“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.” Maijstral nodded regally and led his group through the entrance.
“It is my constant joy to serve the Elvii!” the captain said fervently, and saluted again.
Maijstral entered and found himself in a huge room paneled in marble and draped in red velour. As he walked toward the center, the flagstones under his feet lit up one by one as he stepped on them, and an invisible organ began to sigh “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”
The Heart of Graceland loomed ahead, a huge slab of polished black marble beneath which lay the mortal remains of Elvis Aron Presley, lying forever with members of his family.
“Of
course
,” Kuusinen said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it.”
“I feel the same way,” Roberta added. “Now it seems perfectly obvious.”
“Beg pardon?" Conchita said. “It’s not that obvious to
me.”
The party approached the King’s final resting place and came to a stop against the polished brass rail that circled the monument.
“Alice Manderley said that Major Song was just following orders,” Maijstral said, “Which means she isn’t behind the scheme. And Mr. Kuusinen was right when he suggested that there had to be a reason why my father’s coffin was taken to Graceland, and not somewhere else.”
“He was taken here to meet his chief adversary,” Kuusinen said, “the man who headed the plot against him. It was necessary that Gustav Maijstral be brought here, because otherwise the meeting couldn’t take place.”
“Who is it?” Conchita demanded. “One of the Elvii?”
“Fleet Admiral Song,” Kuusinen said.
“Admiral Song?” Roman roared. “But he’s dead!”
“So is my father,” Maijstral said. “But my father retains a kind of tenuous existence in his cryocoffin, and I suspect the same is true of Admiral Song.”
Roberta nodded. “The late Duke—I hope this observation does not cause offense—is not always in a rational state. I suspect the same is true of Admiral Song.”
“Long freezes rarely benefit the rational faculty,” Kuusinen pointed out.
“Admiral Song was one of the Constellation's greatest heroes,” Maijstral said, “and I suspect his granddaughter obeys his slightest wish without question. My grandfather caused the death of the Admiral’s first wife, and he’s been hungering for revenge ever since. Since his death, I suspect his vengeful desires have overwhelmed his reason.”
Conchita whistled. “That Admiral’s a sad case.”
“Yes,” Maijstral said. “And it’s high time we deprived him of his prize. To the vaults!”
The elevator was lined with mirrors shot with gold veins, large enough to carry any number of cryocoffins without crowding, and played a cheerful arrangement of “Bossa Nova Baby” as it rose with a certain deliberate grandeur to the third level of the structure.
As soon as the doors opened, Maijstral’s amplified senses began to hear a high-pitched, hectoring voice that rose and fell over the cheerful elevator music. He used the proximity wire in his darksuit to open his private communications channel, and subvocalized as he gave his instructions, inaudible to any eavesdroppers but clear enough to his own party.
“Something’s up,” he said. “Quiet now . . . and let’s be certain to find the right vault. And if you have to talk, remember to subvocalize.”
The others, silent, nodded.
The entire level consisted of the long, solemn marble rows of those who lay for eternity in the Arms of Elvis. An invisible chorus of angel voices sang a dirgelike, minor key version of “Mystery Train.” Tasteful gold flashing neon signs directed Maijstral to Row 300.
The hectoring voice grew louder.
“Ridiculous drivelling fool!” it said. “All my years of planning, and for this?”
“Now, now, Bertie. Don’t get upset—it will injure your digestion.”
Maijstral stiffened as he recognized the voice of his father.
“I’m not Bertie, you maniac!”
“Admiral—don’t get upset.” Major Song’s voice, a female baritone.
Maijstral drew his spitfire from its holster and set the charge to maximum.
“Why shouldn’t I get upset?” said the first voice. “My vengeance is ruined! This fool is too thick-witted to appreciate the Hell I had in store for him, and you’ve bungled the other part of your assignment!”
“Sir—”
“When will Maijstral die in a duel, that’s what I want to know!”
“He’s still supposed to fight Hunac, sir,” Major Song said weakly. “We just don’t know when.”
“Robert the Butcher’s offspring must die! That’s what my vengeance demands!”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Maijstral reached Row 299, just before Admiral Song’s resting place. He looked at the others—with his enhanced vision, he could do it without turning his head—and subvocalized.
“Roman, take Mr. Kuusinen down this aisle. Prepare to fly over the row of vaults and aid us on my signal.”
“Hrrrrr, sir!”
“All of you, be careful when it comes to shooting. I don’t want my father’s coffin hit.”
Roman’s party drifted down the aisle and positioned themselves.
“I’m tired of waiting for Hunac to do the job,” the Admiral ranted. “Go out and have Maijstral killed!”
Maijstral’s blood froze. His pistol trembled in his hand.
“Have Hood do it," ranting on, "or have him hire someone. Just blow the monster’s head off!”
“Yes, sir.”
The Admiral’s voice turned smug. “There is no guilt,” he said, “in extinguishing vermin.”
“I say, Bertie,” ex-Dornier said reproachfully, “this prank is going a little far, don’t ’ee think? What if someone takes you seriously with this killing business?”
“Shut up, you—you—”
While the late Admiral spluttered in search of an appropriate epithet, Maijstral heard Roman’s voice subvocalizing on his communications channel.
“These people intend to assassinate you, sir! We should eradicate them!”
Maijstral reflected how cheerful it might be to simply order Roman! Kill! and then sit back until it was all over.
But no. Something in him cringed from ordering a coldblooded murder, even with all the provocation in the world.
His heart thrashed in his throat, making it difficult to subvocalize.
“Save my father first,” he said. “If they resist, that’s one thing—but if they don’t, it’s another. We have plenty of witnesses to their plan—we can have them arrested later. A crazy man in a coffin and a woman surgically altered to look like Elvis won’t get very far.”
“Hrrrrr!” Roman replied, his tone resentful. And then, “Very good, sir.”
Maijstral turned to face the others in his party. (He could have seen them without turning, but they wouldn’t have known he was talking to them.)
“Keep large intervals,” he said. “If we clump up, we’re just one large target. Keep your weapons ready, but no shooting unless I shoot first.”
Where, he suddenly wondered, were these phrases coming from? He’d never been in the military, and he’d done his best to run away from any dangerous situations in his life; but now here he was lecturing the others on tactics like some wizened Death Commando sergeant in an action vid.
Probably it was all bubbling up from his subconscious. Maybe he’d watched too many Westerns.
He holstered his pistol, wiped sweat from his palms, took his pistol in hand again.
“I say, Bertie!” ex-Dornier said cheerfully. “You wouldn’t have any of the bubbly about, would you?”
“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
For some reason the sound of the deranged corpse shouting at his father set Maijstral’s blood boiling, and the anger set him marching around the corner and down Row 300 without conscious thought. And immediately he knew this business was going to be a lot more difficult than he’d expected.
There wasn’t just Song in the aisle, for one thing. She had three companions disguised as Elvis. Maijstral recognized one of them as Commander Hood, the ex-naval officer turned bully, whose burly form was unmistakable even in a wig and paste-on sideburns. The two others looked like hired muscle. And a fourth companion, unless Maijstral missed his guess, was one of the Elvii himself, a sullen-looking youth in black leather vestments.
A pedestal bust of Admiral Song had been moved aside to permit access to his vault. The marble front of the vault, with his name and a patriotic inscription, had been removed. Two coffins were visible, both for the moment suspended in the grappler beams of a kind of cartlike lifting apparatus that itself hovered on its repellers a few inches above the ground. One of Song’s henchmen was sitting in the cart’s seat, operating the controls. Apparently both coffins had been jammed into the same vault, and it was necessary to remove both at once in order to sort them out.
That was the one piece of luck that Maijstral could see. He had brought straps and a-grav repellers to help carry his father’s coffin from Graceland, but instead, if he worked things right, he could just commandeer the cart and drive it off.
Maijstral tried to summon authority and dignity as he marched toward the group. He held his pistol behind him, because he wasn’t certain if the commercial hologram would conceal it or not. His enhanced vision showed Roberta and Conchita marching out behind him, spreading out as per instructions. One by one, Song’s party noticed his approach and stared at him nervously while the late Admiral raved on.
“Do we have a problem here?” Maijstral’s voice sounded faint over the crashing of his own heart.
“Who the hell is that?” Admiral Song snarled.
“I am of the Elvii,” Maijstral said. “I heard a disturbance.”
Maijstral was terrified that someone would simply ask, Why’s he wearing a hologram? but it didn’t happen. The young Elvis—the genuine one—stepped forward. Sweat glazed his brow. “There is no problem, sibling,” he said. “Two of the deceased have been arguing, and we’ve decided to move one of them to a different vault. There’s no reason for you to concern yourself.”
Maijstral affected to consider this as he peered down his nose at the young Elvis. "I do not believe you are authorized to make these decisions," he said, making a hopeful guess.
The Elivs looked abashed and mumbled something. Song and Hood exchanged glances. Maijstral looked at the vault, at the two coffins.
“Two coffins in a single vault?" he said. "This is quite irregular.”
Major Song stepped forward. “Sir? If you will permit—”
Maijstral looked at her. She was devout, supposedly, and perhaps would be disinclined to harm or question one of the Elvii.
“I do not recall that I gave you permission to speak,” he said, and Major Song fell back in confusion. Maijstral cleared his throat. “I believe I will have to take the coffins downstairs and sort this all out with the proper authorities. Follow me, please.”
For a moment he thought they’d actually do it—he could see the inclination in their eyes, the automatic impulse to obey the voice of authority when they had no plan of their own. But then the worst thing possible happened.
Maijstral’s father spoke.
“Drake?” he said. “That’s you, isn’t it, Drake?”
There was a long moment of horrified paralysis. Maijstral could see calculations running behind all the others’ eyes. Then Hood went for his gun and without thought Maijstral raised his spitfire and fired. “Yaaaaaah!” he shouted, the Yell of Hate coming to his lips unbidden. Flame fountained off Hood’s shields, which apparently he’d managed to trigger in time. Slugs from Hood’s chugger whanged off Maijstral’s shields.
“What’s that noise?” asked Maijstral’s father. “Is it fireworks?”
And then things got confusing.
In a surge of terror Maijstral realized he was not accomplishing anything standing there and yelling, and that furthermore he was in the line of fire. He flung himself to the ground. Hood and one of Song’s henchmen dived behind the coffins and began shooting from behind cover. Gunfire roared in the enclosed marble space. Spitfire charges fountained bright fire. Alarms began to ring, and purple fire-retardant foam began to pour from hidden reservoirs in the ceiling.
The Elvis, caught in the middle of it all, patted the pockets of his leather jacket frantically, looking for a weapon that wasn’t there.
“I’m not shielded!” he shouted as bullets cracked by his ear. “Help!”
“Cease fire!” the late Admiral roared in a voice of thunder. “Cease firing, you fools! You could hit me, and I’m not shielded!”
The shooting dwindled away as this line of reasoning penetrated the startled combatants. Each side wanted at least one of the coffins to survive.
“Fireworks!” exclaimed Maijstral’s father. “Is it the Emperor’s birthday?”
At this instant two figures appeared, silhouetted against the ceiling—the flying holographic Elvis that was Paavo Kuusinen, and a giant roaring Ronnie Romper, both stooping on the villains like falcons on their prey.
Roman went for the burly Commander Hood, recognizing a fellow professional when he saw one, but on his way clotheslined the henchman who was sitting on the cart and knocked him into Song and the other henchman. Hit hard, Hood went down but dragged Roman with him into the growing river of purple foam. Kuusinen, acting with perfect logic, dropped into the cart’s seat and seized the controls. As the cart spun on its heel, the coffins knocked the bust of Admiral Song to the floor and revealed Major Song and one of her henchmen, deprived of cover, struggling to their feet in the froth. Maijstral fired at the targets while he had the chance, his spitfire charges bouncing off shields but raising a huge purple cloud of steam.
Kuusinen got the cart pointed in the right direction and accelerated, running smash into the back of the leather-clad Elvis, who was flung forward into the foam, sliding along on his stomach until he cracked heads with Maijstral. Seeing stars, Maijstral grabbed the Elvis’s collar, prepared to beat him senseless with the butt of his spitfire, but observed that the Elvis was already unconscious.