Bio of a Space Tyrant Vol. 5. Statesman

  King busied himself with further checking. He discovered that the lock was operative, but that there was only one general-purpose space suit. It would fit either of them, being adjustable in the limbs and torso, and had a competent locomotion jet; with it, a person could travel a fair distance through space. It also had a locator, which meant that it would tune in on the nearest general-access port. The chances were that a person could reach an inhabited bubble, using this suit.

  He explained this to Wan. “I’m sure they would not have provided us with this suit if safety were not within range of it,” he said.

  “But there is only one,” she reminded him.

  “That I do not understand,” he said.

  “It means that only one of us can go,” she said.

  “It doesn’t matter. That one can fetch help to free the other.”

  “Not if we have been condemned for treason.”

  “Yet why leave even one suit, then?” he asked.

  “To add to the punishment,” she said. “If we were—were lovers, it would hurt either one to leave the other. How would we choose who was to live, and who to die?”

  “This is a kind of torture known to my culture,” he said gravely.

  “And to mine,” she agreed with a shudder.

  “Yet if this is so, why would they allow even one of us to survive?” he asked. “Perhaps there is no refuge within range of the suit.”

  “Oh, King, I am afraid!” she said.

  He put his arm about her shoulders. “Perhaps we misjudge the situation,” he said reassuringly.

  “Then we were not lovers,” she said.

  He removed his arm, self-consciously. “Perhaps not.”

  She retreated to the sanitary facility. This, at least, was shielded from the holo camera. In due course she emerged. “We were not lovers,” she said.

  King paused, assessing her meaning. Obviously she had checked, and discovered herself to be still a virgin. Embarrassed, he turned away.

  “I meant no affront,” Wan said quickly. “Only that there must be some other reason for our confinement.”

  They completed their exploration of the premises. King was pleased to discover a small but nice collection of weapons on one wall: a long sword, short sword, assorted daggers, and two laser pistols. Wan gazed at these and shuddered; she had no use for such things. However, there was also a nice collection of cloths and threads, and a modem sewing machine. This delighted Wan, who found that she knew exactly how to use it.

  Then Wan prepared a very nice meal from the available supplies, and they ate. Then, discovering no holo news input or entertainment features, they retired to their separate chambers and slept.

  Which gave the rest of us a chance to return to mundane matters. So far there had been no sign of rivalry or hostility between the contest participants, just the mutual confusion and search for the reality of their situation. Very little, really, had happened. But how riveting the course of that happening! As long as no decision was forthcoming, no one could rest. All in all, it was a very satisfactory contest, though proceeding along a course that had not been anticipated.

  In the morning the two woke and performed their toilets and had breakfast, and discussed their situation. “Obviously we were put here, and if we were not lovers, perhaps we are being tested,” King said. “It is our challenge to obtain our freedom within our deadline.”

  “Then there must be a way,” Wan said.

  “There must be a way,” he repeated.

  But though they quested all day, they found no way for both to go. They explored every possible avenue, and all came to nothing. Only one could be sure of escape.

  They filled in empty hours in their own fashions, staving off the boredom and the fear of their fate. King practiced with the weapons, finding himself marvelously fluent with them, and Wan did dances, her body discovering familiar patterns of motion. King paused in his activity to watch her, making no comment, but his interest was manifest. He was a warrior, true, but it seemed that he also subscribed to a code of honor that prevented him from taking advantage of one who was definitely not a warrior.

  It was Wan who, on the third day, caught on. “This is the test!” she exclaimed with dismay. “To see which one of us escapes!”

  “To decide some issue between our nations,” he agreed, seeing it.

  She lowered her gaze. “I could not prevent you, King.”

  He paced the chamber, reflecting. “May I speak with candor, Wan?”

  She laughed, but did not look at him. “I cannot prevent you,” she repeated.

  “You are fair, and I am smitten with you.”

  “That is not the way a man of the Middle Kingdom addresses a woman,” she replied, her color intensifying.

  “I do not know the appropriate manner to say what I wish, so I will say it outright. Give me your favor, and I will let you take the suit.”

  “And perhaps betray your planet?” she asked. “I would not sell my favor thus.”

  “Then take the suit anyway. I cannot let you perish here.”

  “You are generous,” she murmured.

  “You are fair,” he repeated.

  “Then I suppose it is decided,” she said. “Help me get into the suit.”

  He went to the lock and fetched the suit. He helped her don it, and he adjusted its limbs to fit her properly, and cautioned her about wasting the drive. “We do not know how far you must go,” he said. “If there were any way to avoid this risk, I would not have you take it.”

  “But you could take it,” she reminded him.

  “I think the worse risk is remaining here.” He meant it; I was reading him.

  She donned the helmet and entered the lock. Sealed within it, she touched the air-evacuation control. Then she touched it again, and the dropping pressure rose again.

  She returned to the interior of the bubble, and lifted the helmet.

  “Something is wrong’?” King inquired anxiously.

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “Then we shall fix it! I thought that suit was in good order!”

  “I apologize,” she said.

  “What?”

  “For doubting you. I did not think you would actually let me go.”

  “I told you: If I may not have your favor, I can at least save your life.”

  She lowered her gaze in the way she had. “You have my favor now.”

  He paused, then slowly nodded.

  She got out of the suit, and there followed a scene that one seldom has opportunity to witness on holo broadcast. Wan’s favor, once won, was a spectacular thing.

  “We are lovers now, “ she murmured before they slept.

  And Forta came to me in the guise of Wan, a lovely make-believe princess. But I hesitated. “She was never one of my women.” Actually, my hesitation was because of that Helse image; I enjoyed making love to the replicas of my other women, but Helse and Megan were sacred.

  “At your age,” she said, “you have to learn to live vicariously.” She brought out a mask and her makeup kit, and she put the mask on my face and secured it, and she worked on my body with pseudoflesh. I let her proceed, for I liked the touch of her hands on my body, and I liked what she was doing.

  In due course she brought me before a full-length mirror. I was amazed: my scarred arms and legs had become smooth and powerfully muscled, and my face was that of King. I was the make-believe prince, and she the princess, and we made as fetching a couple as the one we had watched.

  “You have my favor now,” she said.

  I fear that if it could be objectively viewed, our subsequent performance would hardly have approached that of the originals. But in my fond memory, it was identical. I felt young and strong, and she was ravishingly delicious, and we made love that should not have shamed the model on which it was based.

  Ah, Forta! What a joy she was to me in the late stage of my life! She was correct about the joys of vicarious existence, and she rehearsed the loves of all my life,
except the major ones. Perhaps it was inappropriate of me to deny her those; if it was right for my lesser loves, how could it be wrong for the major ones?

  I had to have my dialysis, and though I tried to watch the ongoing holo, and thought I followed it perfectly, my memory fogs out, and I realize that I must have lost concentration and slept through goodly portions. This I regret, but it is another sign of my advancing weakness. That love scene with Forta’s Wan emulation evidently took much out of me, though it was worth all it cost.

  My next clear memory is of crisis: King and Wan had seen themselves coming up on their week’s deadline, and their extraordinary efforts to lose themselves in loveplay had not blinded them to their reality. They had concluded that there was only one satisfactory way out: They would die together. They planned their suicide carefully. He would use the largest sword to decapitate her cleanly, then stab himself through the heart. Their blood would mingle, and they would travel together to the afterlife. “And don’t go without me!” he cautioned her with mock severity. “I will join you in fifteen seconds.”

  “My spirit will wait at least that long for you, my love,” she said seriously.

  They set it for the final day, when the food ran out and the power had only one hour to go. That was only two days away. In the interim they proposed to love each other to the maximum possible extent.

  There was of course a storm of reaction and protest outside. Not only did this totally unanticipated conclusion threaten to bring no victory to either side, the people of both Wan and the Middle Kingdom had in the course of these few days become enraptured by the romance of their representatives, and could not bear to see them die. Delegations marched on the capitals, and the media were filled with a single coalescing sentiment: It hardly mattered by what name the mission operated. What mattered was that the lives of these two noble lovers be saved.

  An accord was achieved in record time: The project would proceed under the title King/Wan, and the two of them would be placed in charge of the project, each to represent the interest of his/her nation and that of all its people. The two would be informed of this on the planetary holo, and all other officials would defer absolutely to their decisions. They were, in truth, to be Prince and Princess.

  CHAPTER 20

  LAYA

  Only one step remained, on the day before the suicide deadline: The provinces of the Middle Kingdom had to ratify the decision. These provinces had a good deal of autonomy, and the terms of the hasty accord were that any province could cast a veto. None was expected—but the unexpected occurred.

  My old nemesis Tocsin naturally opposed the accord, and he had retreated to the Province of Laya, in the “mountainous” ragged-wind band of South Saturn. Tocsin had lost favor elsewhere in the Middle Kingdom, but Laya was his final stronghold, and Laya it was that cast the lone veto.

  Thus the challenge was abruptly on us. There was just one day to get Laya to reverse its veto, and I knew it would never do so while Tocsin had influence. The Premier of the Middle Kingdom, having finally achieved an accord with the rings that would give his nation access to the galaxy, was furious; he threatened to invade the errant province and execute its leadership. Certainly it was in his power to do so—but such a mission would have required months to organize properly, and at least a week as an emergency spot measure. Meanwhile, the lovers would die; no one doubted that.

  I knew it was up to me. Only the Tyrant of Space could hope to achieve a reversal in a single day. I had no idea how I would do it, but I intended to do it. I would go to Laya.

  “I’ll have to take Spirit,” I said. “She can organize—”

  “She’s on a private mission to Triton,” Forta advised me. “It would take several hours just to reach her with a message, and several more for her to get here. I don’t think you can afford to wait.”

  With time already critical, I knew she was right. “But I’ll bungle it alone,” I said. “I’m a figurehead; I need her to set me up for a score.”

  “But if Laya sees you coming with her, their officials will know you will score,” Forta said. “The psychological aspect is half the battle.”

  “But—”

  Already she was changing. “By the time more is needed, she will be able to join us—as me.”

  Now I understood. She was donning the mask, and resembled my sister. Certainly she could fool the Layas.

  We sent a private message to Spirit, with no answer required; I knew she would join us as rapidly as possible.

  “But you cannot go to Laya alone!” the Premier protested when we notified him. “They will kill you, Tyrant!”

  “And bring the wrath of the planet on their heads?” I asked. “Even rulers who hate me are not that crazy.”

  “Just the same, I will provide an armed escort.”

  “That will just lead to violence,” I said. “Just let me go in alone, no threat to anyone. I am sure I can persuade the Panchen to reverse the veto.” The Panchen was the ranking religious official of Laya, and therefore in that framework the political leader too. He had been installed some years back by the Middle Kingdom, over the protest of the people of Laya, whose prior ruler, the Dalai, had fled to Earth.

  “He will not see you,” the Premier said. “I know him; he is intractable. Tyrant, this is dangerous!”

  “I have faced danger before. I know the people of Laya support me. After all, I tried to get the Dalai restored—” I broke off, realizing what I had said. Naturally the Panchen hated me! But still, there was no time for complex maneuvering; I had to brave the enemy in his den and win his cooperation. It was a fitting challenge for the Tyrant. “Anyway, I’ll have Smilo along; he’s the perfect bodyguard.” The truth was that Smilo was now getting old, and he spent most of his time sleeping. But he was my mascot, and his worth was considerable.

  “I will send a fleet after you,” the Premier said, acceding to my seeming folly. He knew the stakes as well as I did. So we took a plane directly to Laya, just the three of us, making the dramatic play.

  We passed the region of the Great Wall as we traveled to the far province. This was an enormous net set up to balk intruders, theoretically the nomads near the equator, but actually the Union of Saturnine Republics. The People’s Republic of the Middle Kingdom was somewhat paranoid about potential invasion from the north. The net was girt with bubbles and checkpoints, and of course it was mined, so that intruding ships would have trouble penetrating it. But today any such invasion would be by missiles, so the Wall had become a historic artifact.

  The winds at thirty degrees South Saturn were not nearly as strong as those of the equator; they were equivalent to those of the Jupiter equator. But the band of greatest velocity was very narrow, and the shear on either side was ferocious. There was a similar zone at forty-five degrees North Saturn, called Beria, where political prisoners were exiled. Such regions of shear were called mountains, because it was dangerous to cross them; an airplane could be thrown out of control. Our pilot was experienced and careful as we approached Hasa; even so, we experienced considerable buffeting as we navigated the eddy-swirls. This region was thinly populated, and it was easy to appreciate why.

  We arrived at Hasa, the so-called Forbidden City. I really had not expected a rousing welcome, and I received none. A lowly functionary met us at the lock and informed us that the Panchen was not accepting visitors this day.

  Forta, emulating Spirit, drew herself up impressively. “He will see the Tyrant,” she said.

  “No one,” the functionary repeated stonily.

  Spirit had never been one to take no for an answer. She marched out of the terminal and commandeered a vehicle large enough to accommodate Smilo. The driver seemed reluctant, but Smilo growled mildly, and the man decided to cooperate. In moments Spirit had called up a local map on the car’s screen and was zeroing in on the Panchen’s residence. Forta, as a secretary, was versed in this sort of thing, but it was impressive enough even so.

  We caught brief glimpses of the city
of Hasa as our car moved through the narrow streets. Ancient-style buildings were interspersed with completely modern ones, but overall the city appeared to be poor rather than rich. There were many temples and lamaseries, evidence of a devout people. Near the center was a large shrine, with a statue of Buddha as a young prince. I remembered that he had renounced the royal life in favor of piety and asceticism. “Stop!” I cried.

  “What?”

  “I must pay homage to Buddha.”

  Spirit had the driver stop, and we got out. “Buddha was a great man,” I said. “And Asoka was a great leader who honored his principles. I always wanted to be like Asoka, but never came close.”

  “But you tried,” she said.

  “I tried,” I agreed. “Now here is Buddha, and I wish I could be one with him.”

  I stood for a time, just gazing at the statue, and the tears flowed down my face. They were not tears of sadness, but of appreciation for greatness. “He spoke the four great truths,” I said.

  “Existence is suffering,” Spirit said, only perhaps I should say Forta, because she it was who truly understood these principles.

  “The origin of suffering is desire,” I said, remembering the next truth.

  “But suffering ceases when desire ceases,” she continued.

  “And the way to reach the end of desire is by following the Eightfold Path,” I concluded. “Oh, how I wish I could have done so!”

  We returned to the car, passing by the people who had gathered. They were common folk, and I knew they knew me and were with me, but none spoke. They simply stood and gazed at Smilo with awe. We resumed our drive.

  “There,” Spirit said. “There in the park.”

  “The leader of the province lives in a park?” I asked.

  “It is his retreat at the height,” the driver explained.

  “Then drive us there,” she said. I am rendering this dialogue approximately; the fact is the driver spoke only Chinese, and Forta was using her linguistic ability and equipment to communicate, and translating in snatches for me. Spirit could not have done that; in this sense I was better off with Forta.