Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera (13 page)

“What ho!” Vitello cried.

“Besmirch me your ho’s,” Chuch said. “What news do you bring?”

“Why, Lord, the stars move steadily in their courses, and, on the little worlds of man, the seasons advance, spring to summer, summer to fall–”

“Really, Vitello, you are not to deliver rhapsodic flights under pain of my extreme displeasure.”

Vitello smiled into his sleeve, for he knew that he was presently indispensable to Prince Chuch, who had no one else around with whom he could discuss his situation.

“Don’t be so sure of yourself,” Chuch said, reading Vitello’s thoughts. “This place is full of servants who would listen night and day to my utmost whines if I so desired it.”

“But that would not be satisfactory, Sire,” Vitello said. “Such a discourse would not advance the plot, and would be sure to leave a sour taste of exposition in your mouth.”

“You could talk to
me
,” Doris said wistfully.

“To business,” Chuch said. “Vitello, can you forgo your madcap antics long enough to tell me the news?”

“Aye, Sire, and the news is good. I have been successful in negotiating a treaty with Haldemar. He is your ally now, Sire, and ready to join your attack against Glorm.”

“Oh, that’s good news indeed!” Chuch cried. “Events are moving my way at last! A drink! We must all have a drink!”

Liquor was found and Doris was untied so she could join in. A bathrobe was found for her because she was taking up entirely too much attention.

Several drinks later, Count John came rushing in.

“Haldemar is here!” he cried.

“That’s as it should be,” said Chuch. “He is our ally, Uncle.”

“But those men with him–”

“His retinue, no doubt.”

“There are at least fifty thousand of them,” John said. “They have landed on my planet without permission!”

Chuch turned to Vitello. “Did you tell that barbarian he could land his troops?”

“Certainly not! I was much against it. But what could I do? Haldemar insisted upon accompanying me to Crimsole with his fleet. Since they were allies, I could not stop them from landing. I was just able to divert them from the capital by suggesting they might like to try Fun Park at nearby Vacation City. You know what barbarians are like.”

“But I don’t want them here,” John said. “Can’t we just thank them and give them a good dinner and send them back home until we need them?”

Just then Anne rushed in, her face ashen. “They’re spreading over the countryside, getting drunk and making remarks to women! I’ve pacified them temporarily by giving them unlimited free rides on the roller coaster, but I don’t know how long that will hold them.”

Chuch said, “Uncle, there’s only one way of getting them off the planet. You must muster your ships for the attack on Glorm. Haldemar will follow.”

“No,” Anne said, “we can’t even afford to fight Lekk, much less Glorm.”

“Taking Glorm will make you rich,” Chuch said.

“No, it won’t,” Anne told him. “Most of the profit would go to the surplus conquest tax. Haldemar might even want to keep Glorm for himself. Frankly, I don’t think any of us wants Haldemar for a neighbor.”

They argued, and Doris served tea and went out for cigarettes and sandwiches. By nightfall, Haldemar’s troops were sacking the outskirts of Vacation City. A steady stream of refugees poured out of the city with tales of how blond berserkers in animal skins were using the cabanas without paying for them, charging hotel rooms and expensive dinners to imaginary people, driving around in motorcycle gangs (for the Vanir never went anywhere without their motorcycles), and generally making nuisances of themselves. Pushed and prodded by circumstance, Count John launched his fleet. Haldemar managed to get his men back aboard their ships with talk of the booty they would win. Soon the combined fleets were in space, making final preparations for the great campaign against Glorm.

30

Prince Chuch did not immediately join the combined fleet. There was no need, since the attack on Glorm could not begin until the ships of Crimsole and Vanir had maneuvered together and worked out problems of procedure and precedence. Once that boring stuff was out of the way, Chuch would join the fleet with his own troops, a squadron of killer cyborgs recently purchased at a clearance sale on Atigone. Then the fun would begin! Vividly Chuch pictured himself fighting at the head of his men, a bloodstained handkerchief knotted around his brow, hacking his way with flame sword and vibrator mace through Glorm’s crumbling defenses, penetrating at last to Ultragnolle. There would be deadly fighting, room to room and corridor to corridor, until he came face-to-face with Dramocles, the old stag brought to bay. Ah, the glory of that moment! While everyone watched, breathless, Chuch would defeat Dramocles in a dazzling display of swordsmanship. After that, he might kill the King, or merely disarm him contemptuously and spare his life. It would depend on how he felt at the time.

The days passed slowly while the allied fleet practiced right turns and about-faces. Vitello fulfilled his marriage vow by taking Hulga to a rock concert in venerable Sligny Hall in downtown Crimsole. The band was a group from Lekk called Nose Candy. Their lead singer claimed to be Jim Morrison, a famous Earth rock singer of the 1960s, whose story of how he came to be doing gigs on Crimsole rather than lying dead in Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris is too long to go into just now. Whoever “Jim Morrison” was, his rendition of “Crystal Ship” was declared “somewhere beyond inimitable” by Galba Davers, music critic for the
Crimsole Times.
Hulga said that she had been “just completely blown away.” It was the highest compliment she could render. Vitello’s marriage was getting off to a better start than it’s casual beginnings might have augured.

Fufnir was given hospitality by a hospitable troll tribe living in the dark hills of Crimsole’s northern province of Feare. They swapped spells and got drunk and talked about the good old days when magic ruled the universe and science consisted only of solid geometry and a little physics. Chuch tried to resume his torturing of Doris, but the pleasure seemed to have gone out of it for him, and the girl was no help at all. When she was not tied to the rack, Doris was sweeping out the torture chamber, making cucumber sandwiches, dusting the gloomy portraits of Crimsole’s former kings, and chatting incessantly. Chuch always responded politely, since he felt that being a sadist didn’t excuse a man from having manners. But was he a sadist, really? He never seemed to think about pain anymore. What he enjoyed nowadays was consulting Doris on matters of homely practicality, like why he was always out of clean shirts and who had left the top off the mustard. Although he despised himself for it, Chuch walked around most of the time in a daze of domestic bliss.

Then, suddenly, it was over. Count John signaled to him that the fleets would depart for Glorm in twelve hours. Ahead lay death or glory, or possibly some other alternative. The time for action had come at last.

For his last night on Crimsole, Chuch decided to give Doris a birthday party. Vitello and Hulga came over, and Fufnir flew in from Feare. After dinner, it was time for presents.

Vitello gave Doris a miniature castle made of marzipan, with four fine pearls nestled in each of its four turrets. Hulga’s gift was a parrot that could recite the opening stanzas of Longfellow’s “Hiawatha.” Fufnir presented her with an antique storybook that troll mothers used to frighten troll children. The opening lines were, “Once upon a time, a troll child wandered away from its mother and came to a clearing in the forest where humans were eating boiled babies and laughing.”

Chuch had two gifts for Doris. The first was a box of precious gems. The second was her freedom–for Doris was still legally a slave. She had been born a free citizen of Aardvark, but had been captured by raiders and sold to Count John. Since Anne wouldn’t permit him to use the pretty Aardvarkian girl as he desired, the Count had given her to Chuch to debauch, figuring that a vicarious pleasure was better than no pleasure at all.

Two tears stood out in Doris’s blue eyes as she read the Parchment of Enfranchisement. Then, opening the jewel box, she looked through the fine stones, exclaiming at their magnificence. One in particular caught her eye–a solitaire diamond in a delicate gold setting.

“My Lord,” she said, “it looks exceedingly like an engagement ring.”

Chuch scowled, but he was obviously pleased. “I suppose it does,” he said gruffly.

“Then may I pretend from time to time that it was meant as such for me?”

Chuch bit the end of his mustache. His sallow face grew pink. “Doris,” he said, “you may pretend to be engaged to me, and I shall pretend to do the same.”

She thought for a few moments. “But my Lord, in that case, will not the pretense be true?”

“And what if it is?” Chuch said, embarrassed but proud of himself. “But mark me, have clean T-shirts for my return, or the whole thing’s off.”

Vitello, Hulga, and Fufnir congratulated the happy young couple. Then it was time to join the fleet.

31

Drusilla and Rufus met at their special place, Anastragon, a planetoid lying between Glorm and Druth. Anastragon had once belonged to mad King Bidocq of Druth, who had built a hunting lodge there, but had never gotten around to stocking the place with animals and oxygen. Anastragon was airless except for the hunting lodge. The little planetoid had one other peculiarity: it was invisible. Bidocq had had the entire place painted with Nondetecto, a product of the Old Science of Earth that turned back all frequencies of the visual spectrum and was also waterproof. Much of the paint had worn off now. Viewed from space, Anastragon looked like islets of volcanic rock floating next to each other in space for no apparent reason at all.

Rufus was already there when Drusilla arrived. He loved Anastragon, for here he kept his collection of toy soldiers, the largest in the galaxy. At present he was recreating the Battle of Waterloo on the kitchen floor.

Commander Rufus was in many ways a typical product of the War College on Antigone. He was brave, loyal, unsophisticated, perhaps even a bit simpleminded. His attention to detail was well known among his troops, who adored him. They used to say that Rufus could find dust on the edge of a palimpar. It was a standing joke among his officers that even during the supreme moment of the act of love, Rufus could be counted on to be thinking of thriolatry and its relation to field logistics.

Rufus excelled at games of physical contact, and was an expert at kree-alai, the ancient Glormish game involving three balls, a baton, and a small green net. He seemed a simple and predictable man.

“Hello, darling,” Drusilla said, throwing back her ermine hood.

“Ah,” Rufus said. He was busy setting up Marshal Ney’s position at Quatre Bras. Rufus never seemed to notice Drusilla when they were alone together, and this fascinated her.

Drusilla said, “Do you love me?”

Rufus replied, “You know I do.”

“But you never say so.”

“Well, I’m saying it now.”

“Saying what?”

“You know.”

“No, tell me.”

“Damnit, Drusilla, I love you. Now will you stop nagging me?”

“I suppose that will have to do,” Drusilla said, pouring herself a goblet of purplish green wine from Mendocino.

“Was there something in particular you wanted to discuss?” Rufus asked. “Your request for a meeting was rather peremptory in tone.”

“Well, I have something urgent on my mind,” Drusilla said. “Not to mince words, what would you think about betraying Dramocles?”

“Betray Dramocles!” Rufus gave an uncertain laugh. “That’s a hell of a thing for his beloved daughter to say to his best friend. You always tell me I miss the point of jokes. Is this one?”

“Unfortunately, it is not. I’m suggesting it in all seriousness as the only way of saving Dramocles from destroying himself and everybody else in an interplanetary war. Were he in his right senses, I’m sure that Dramocles himself would agree that betrayal was justified under these circumstances.”

“But we can’t ask him, can we?” Rufus asked, fingering his mustache.

“Of course not. If he were in his right mind, we wouldn’t have to ask him, would we?”

Rufus showed his inner perturbation by picking up Wellington and absentmindedly setting him down in the English Channel. He gave his mustache a painful twist and said, “It wouldn’t look very good, my dear.”

“I’ve spoken about it to Mr. Doyle, your public relations man. He says that, given the urgency of the situation, he could fix it so that the population of the Local Planets would consider you a savior rather than a treacherous dog.”

“Brutus had the loftiest motives, too, when he joined the conspiracy against Julius Caesar. But his name ever since has been synonymous with treachery.”

“My dear, that’s because he had no press agent,” Drusilla said. “Mark Anthony preempted the media and turned everyone against him. You know Mr. Doyle would never allow anything like that to happen to you. It would mean his job.”

Rufus paced up and down the room, hands clasped behind his back. “It’s quite impossible. If I betrayed my friend Dramocles, I could never live with myself afterwards.”

“As for that,” Drusilla said, “I took the liberty of discussing the matter with your therapist, Dr. Geltfoot. In his opinion, your ego strength is sufficient to bear the short-lived guilt you would experience. About a year of remorse is the worst you would have to expect, and that could be shortened considerably with drugs. Dr. Geltfoot asked me to point out that he is not advising you in this matter one way or the other. He is simply telling you that you
can
betray Dramocles without psychological damage to yourself if you think the circumstances warrant it.”