Shelia had quite literally given her life to save mine. She had foiled the assassination attempt. It does not surprise me that she did that; she loved me. But it appalled me that she should have had to sacrifice herself like that.
So the iron magnates had plotted to cause my own bodyguard to kill me, but had killed my loyal secretary instead.
As I recovered consciousness, being attended by the White Bubble medics, a scene from history was running through my mind. Back in the twentieth century, before Earth had expanded to space, there had been a dictator of Germany, a man named Hitler. There had been a plot to assassinate him, in which a bomb was left in a case beside him, at a meeting. But the case had been inadvertently moved, so that though it exploded, Hitler survived. Even as I had survived.
Hitler had seen to the complete extirpation of the plotters. I intended to do no less.
But first there were matters to attend to. Coral was setting up for seppuku, the Saturnian ritual suicide of the warrior class. I felt that this was not warranted.
She was adamant. “Had I fathomed the plot, I would not have hurled that grenade,” she said. “I failed you—and killed my friend.”
“It was a most sinister plot, intricately planned,” I reminded her. “We could not judge in seconds what was crafted for months. I was deceived too.”
“It is not your business to foil plots. It is mine.” She gazed at the short sword she had laid out before her. She was kneeling, bare-breasted, on a tarpaulin; she intended to have no blood soil the floor of her room.
“It is your business to safeguard my life. You have not failed.”
She turned to me. “Sir, I love you, as she did. Please do me the great honor of acting as my second in this.”
That would mean taking the large sword she had, waiting while she used the short sword to disembowel herself, then severing her head with one swing. This was the honorable and less agonizing way to go, once the guts had been spilled.
“But your job is unfinished,” I said. “If you do this now, you leave me undefended.”
“There are other bodyguards,” she reminded me.
“You are the one I require.”
“I ask you to release me.”
“I refuse.”
Again she turned to me. “Sir, do you not see the pain I am in? I failed in my duty and I killed my friend.”
I knelt before her, straddling her sword. “Woman, do you not see the pain I am in?” I gazed into her eyes and let my feeling show. It was the north-northwest wind.
Slowly her gaze clarified. “I apologize for my selfishness. What would you have me do?”
“I would have you join me in vengeance.”
She nodded. “We shall wash their bodies.”
“We shall wash their bodies,” I repeated.
Then I opened my arms to her. She leaned into me, we hugged each other, and I felt in her body the mirror of the agony in mine.
• • •
We washed their bodies. All of the top executives of all of the independent iron companies were arrested and interrogated by chemical means, their guilt spilling from them. They were put on trial, found guilty of conspiracy to assassinate the Tyrant, and condemned to death. In a public ceremony the leaders were hanged; that is to say, suspended by the neck by means of ropes, in the ancient style, until dead, and then left hanging for twenty-four hours in public view in New Wash. The lesser conspirators were beheaded, and their heads hurled into deep space to drift forever. Those merely guilty of complicity were permitted to take the euthanasia pill.
Coral supervised it, and I approved it, and we both watched every execution. There were several hundred in all. Then the Tyrancy nationalized their companies. Big Iron was dead.
But it wasn’t enough. Shelia, my loyal secretary, my right hand, my friend and my lover—Shelia remained dead, and the void of her absence refused to heal in me.
I caused a memorial to be erected in her name, and in her name also I allocated the sum of one billion dollars for the treatment of all who were crippled in the legs. The Shelia Foundation was instituted, dedicated to the study of nerve and limb regeneration, that the crippled of the future might walk again.
Still, it wasn’t enough. I ached for the loss of her, and I could find no way to alleviate it. It was not that I loved her, though certainly I had cared for her; it was that she had been close and loyal and reliable, and I had no substitute for her. I needed her, her competence and support, and without her I lacked proper anchorage. Megan had helped me select her when Shelia was still a teen; thus she represented one of my intimate links to Megan.
I strode about my room, alone, trying to abate the void that would not be abated. Then I went to the vision port of the White Bubble and gazed out into the murky atmosphere. “Damn!” I cried, and smote the panel with my fist. “Where are you now, Shelia?”
My fist passed through it. Off-balanced, I fell after it, stumbling through the panel and out into the Jupiter air. I flapped my arms and ascended to the layer of cloud above. There was a stair cut into the cloud bank. I set foot on it and climbed, and the stair wound up in a spiral through the layer until at last it emerged on the cloud surface.
There, parked at the top, was a wheelchair. I got into it and wheeled it forward along the path that showed. This coursed along the mounds and declivities of the cloud bank and to the shining gates of a mighty, walled city.
This was heaven, I knew. I wheeled on into it, and there were people, and all of them were in wheelchairs. One approached me. “For whom are you questing, sir?” he inquired.
“For Shelia,” I replied.
“Why, she arrived last month,” he said. “She has been lonely.”
“She loves me,” I explained.
“Of course. I will locate her for you.”
I followed his wheelchair though the by-paths of the shining city, and soon we came to a small chamber. I entered, and she was there. “Hope!” she said, brightening.
“I have come to take you back,” I said.
“I don’t think I can do that.”
I took her hand. “You must do it.”
“I mean that Helse would not approve.”
So I searched for Helse. She was in a wheelchair, too, but it was just a formality, as it was with me. “I want to take Shelia back with me,” I said.
“Of course, Hope,” she agreed. “You know I want only what is best for you.”
“But if she can return,” I asked, “why can’t you?”
“I am already with you,” she said. “I was with you the first time you used her body; don’t you remember?”
I remembered. “But that isn’t physical!” I protested.
“It is when it needs to be.”
Then I understood. I wheeled on out of the city of Heaven, alone, and back along the path. I parked the wheelchair at the head of the stairs and walked down. I swam through the atmosphere at the base and into the White Bubble.
I caused the crippled women of the region to be brought before me, and when I found one that resembled Shelia, I brought her to the White Bubble and to my room, and I lifted her to the bed and undressed her and made love to her. “Shelia!” I whispered in her ear as I climaxed. “Hope!” she responded raptly.
I dressed her and returned her to the wheelchair and brought her out to meet the others. “This is Shelia,” I informed them. “Take her home.” Then I departed the bubble, returning to my alternate identity as Jose Garcia.
The madness was upon the Tyrant but not on Garcia. Not so that it showed.
• • •
In the tenth year of the Tyrancy Jupiter was prospering, but the people were restive. As Garcia I knew the cause: it was the madness of the Tyrant, who was given to odd habits, such as summoning some woman in a wheelchair at random, taking her to the White Bubble, forcing her to commit sex with him, and returning her to her home. The women involved did not seem to object, but other members of the Jupiter society did. “He’s loco!” I heard men of th
e company exclaim. “One of these days he’s going to go all the way off the deep end!” But there were also women who took to going around in wheelchairs, though they were not crippled. There were even scattered reports of pregnancies in these women—for now the birthrate had been restored, limited to zero population growth—but these were not confirmed. It was known that long service in space could render a man sterile, and the Tyrant had spent fifteen years in space before coming to Jupiter. “But he did sire a daughter,” the gossipers would murmur.
Of deeper concern were the continued executions. Early in the Tyrancy no one was executed; all were sent to space. But gradually that changed, first for a few capital cases, then for lesser crimes, like conspiring against the Tyrancy. It was as though the Tyrant had become more callous as he aged. Also, the manner of execution changed, so that now men could be hanged in public, instead of taking the euthanasia pill in private. It seemed that the Tyrant’s anger over the assassination attempt that took the life of his secretary had never faded. Yet there had been no such reaction when his sister had died. (I suspect, in retrospect, that there had been that reaction for Faith, but it was hidden. The first blow had weakened my sanity; the second had shattered it.)
As Garcia, I shared the doubts of the common man. I was now high in the councils of the Resistance and knew things about it that most did not. Its leader was a woman—a highly intelligent, educated, experienced older woman who knew the political process inside and out and guided the Resistance unerringly to greater influence. But I did not yet know her identity.
In private, as the Tyrant, I speculated on that. Paranoia surged in me: had Reba, the head of QYV, betrayed me? Did her aspiration for power go beyond her present position? Should I have her liquidated? I was uncertain on all counts, so did not act—and this too, was perhaps a sign of my madness. I was no longer doing what I knew it was advisable to do.
But as the behavior of the Tyrant became more bizarre, the Resistance gained strength. It was not that Jupiter chafed under the policies of the Tyrancy; it was that Jupiter feared that too many of the successful policies would be eroded or dismantled, in the manner of the criminal code. The Tyrant was becoming a loose cannon: a thing without proper anchorage whose random blunderings were a threat to all around him.
As Jose Garcia, I had to agree. It would be best to depose the Tyrant, before he betrayed the Tyrancy. Jupiter could not afford madness.
But how was that to be accomplished?
The Resistance had an answer. It sponsored a general strike. It had been years since anything like this had been tried before, and it took some courage, because the Tyrant had acted swiftly and effectively in the past to squelch such efforts. But this one was extremely broadly based; in fact, nearly half of all the employed citizens of North Jupiter participated in it, and a quarter of those in the Latin provinces. As Jose Garcia, I led Jupiter Bubble on strike, granting all workers a holiday for the duration.
This was a significant surprise. The Resistance had developed so quietly and peacefully that few people realized the proportions to which it had grown. Probably not all the strikers were members, but this demonstration was enough to paralyze the vital planetary services and too widespread to be amenable to wholesale discipline. It was peaceful but impressive.
Something had to be done, and because this demonstration was obviously well meant, Spirit concluded that it should be met with appropriate restraint. Violent methods, in this case, would alienate a far greater segment of the population than we could afford. What would be both gentle yet effective?
As Tyrant I made the decision: I would challenge the leader of the Resistance to a contest of some kind, winner take all. If I won, the Resistance would be dismantled; if she won, I would retire from the Tyrancy. Spirit was against this, but I think she was getting tired of governing, so she did not object strenuously. Or perhaps she was wary of my madness and thought in her secret heart that it would be better if I did step down. Maybe I was looking for a pretext to do that. Then I could retire to my life as Garcia, which was more productive. Though even that was not a perfect solution, because Amber was now twenty-three years old, was able to function competently in Spanish, and not needed in other languages. I felt it was time for her to go forward into her own life, but she would not do so as long as I was there. I think eight years of being my mistress had finally abated her fascination with me, but she felt she owed me, so duty kept her with me. We both needed a good excuse to separate amicably.
So the mad Tyrant made the challenge, and the public attention focused on this, for this was indeed the kind of madness he was noted for. Wagers were made: would the Resistance leader answer?
The leader answered: Yes, she would meet me in a contest. The terms were acceptable. To the winner would go the management of Jupiter, and to the loser, exile.
This really wasn’t as crazy as it sounds. All parties knew that the Tyrant, now sixty years old, would not live forever, even if his sanity recovered. It was best to arrange for an orderly transfer of power before his condition worsened. Probably the Tyrant would overcome the Resistance leader—wagers were being made on that too, of course—but even so, it would establish the principle of a peaceful change of government.
It was necessary to have an intermediary, to arrange the details of the contest. The Resistance leader designated Jose Garcia.
Now, this made sense. Garcia was a highly respected figure and a solid member of the Resistance. He had been appointed to his post by the Tyrant. The Tyrancy could hardly object.
But it put me in a most interesting position. How could I negotiate when I was actually the Tyrant?
Spirit was elated. “They have played into our hands!” she exclaimed. “They don’t know who you are!”
Perhaps not. But what bothered me was that I wasn’t quite sure who I was, either. The positions of the Resistance were generally good, and I agreed with them. A return to democracy, with elections within two years. Release of the client nations. A considered restoration of medical benefits for those in serious need, so that no one would be required to die when he could be saved. Curtailment of the euthanasia program. Abolition of capital punishment. As Garcia, I supported these principle and perhaps as Hope Hubris too. The machinery of the Tyrancy was such that I could not simply change existing policies, but the urge to do so was growing in me.
Was I to set up an encounter that could result in the destruction of the Resistance? It seemed to be a conflict of interest.
On the other hand, if by this mechanism I could finally meet the Resistance leader personally and identify her, there would be no need for the contest. The Tyrant could arrest her and root out the leaders of the organization.
It seemed I had no choice about this office. The public approved, widely and emphatically. Thus, as Garcia, I traveled formally to New Wash and was received at the White Bubble. I consulted with Spirit privately, then emerged to say that the Tyrant had suggested a number of possible types of contests, ranging from chance to a game of chess, and had suggested that the leader of the Resistance come to the White Bubble herself to participate.
Now, this was a bit more than the average man could swallow. Obviously the head of the Resistance was not about to place herself in the power of the Tyrant. So next I traveled to Ston, where a representative of the Resistance was to pick me up in a private vessel and take me to the secret residence of the leader. There I would present the Tyrant’s offers and listen to her counteroffers.
The process of negotiation promised to be convoluted, but meanwhile the strike was suspended. Jupiter was operating again, and all attention was on the progress of the meetings.
I boarded the Resistance vessel in Ston, in the Old Colony State, and was taken to the unknown destination. This was going smoothly; no one suspected my nature. But still I wrestled with myself. As Hope Hubris I could use my bare hands to kill the woman and free the Tyrancy of this challenge. As Jose Garcia, I was honor-bound to carry the negotiations through. Yet if I did,
what would I do when I had to meet her formally for the contest, in my other identity? Then my duplicity would be revealed, and all would fall apart. So I might as well act as the Tyrant.
But if I killed her, then I would be trapped in the heart of the Resistance and would be killed myself. So I should complete the negotiations as Garcia, then return to the White Bubble and use the information to strike against the Resistance most effectively. Yet if I did that, where was honor? The Tyrant might suffer the touch of madness, but he had always acted honorably by his definition.
I still had not resolved my internal conflict when the ship docked. I did not know the city and was ushered into a closed car. I realized with a kind of relief that I might not be able to betray the location of the Resistance, and if the leader masked herself or addressed me via another intermediary, I would not know her, either. Still, she would know me—when I showed up for the contest as the Tyrant. Well, would that be a disaster? I wasn’t sure.
As I was guided into a building I made my decision: If I met the woman face-to-face and she was Reba, I would leap at her and kill her, for she would otherwise recognize me and kill me. If she was a stranger, I would talk with her and use my talent to judge her nature, then decide.
I entered the apartment, and my guide retreated, leaving me alone. I saw a chair that faced away from me, and the back of a head. Now was the point of decision.
“I am here,” I said, stepping forward.
The chair swung around, bringing the woman into view. I froze, stunned. “Hello, Hope,” she said.
It was Megan.
EDITORIAL EPILOG
Apparently Hope Hubris was unable to write beyond that point. He had encountered, to his total surprise, the one woman he could not deny. His wife had finally called him to account. He had forgotten the Beautiful Dreamer’s warning. He had in the end allowed the means to become the end and his namesake to overtake his common sense: the hubris of power. “I caused a memorial to be erected ...” he writes, as if he is a deific figure. Megan was correct: it was time for sane people to set things right. The rest followed: his voluntary abdication from power and acceptance of exile, together with Spirit Hubris.