Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera (22 page)

He found Max in one of Edelweiss’s flowering gardens, overlooking an artificial sea. Silver-tipped waves lapped at the dark foreshore. There was an odor of jasmine in the air, somewhat tainted by the smell of Max’s cigar.

“Greetings, Your Majesty,” said Max.

“Greetings,” said Dramocles. “Having a good time?”

“I am, my Lord. The caterers have done a wonderful job.”

“No doubt of that.”

“And everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.”

“So it seems.”

There was a silence. Max puffed nervously on his cigar. Finally he asked, “Is there anything I can do for you, Sire?”

Dramocles looked faintly surprised. He considered for a moment. “Yes, there is.”

“Command me, my King.”

“I’d appreciate your telling me why you faked the Tlaloc conspiracy.”

Max choked on cigar smoke. Dramocles waited until he had stopped coughing, then said, “What I don’t know, I will presently find out. I suggest that you save yourself a great deal of unnecessary pain by confessing the truth at once.”

Max looked about to protest. Then his bold face crumbled. Tears appeared in his eyes. His voice broke as he said, “I was forced to participate, Sire. I was no more than a puppet in her hands.”

“What are you talking about? Who forced you?”

“Chemise, my Lord, the witch-woman from Earth who became your wife!”

“Chemise planned it all? Do you know what you are saying?”

“Only too well. Confront her with it, Sire, and see if it is not as I say.”

“Chemise!” Dramocles cried, and rushed away.

Chemise had finished her conversation with Lyrae and had gone to the Twilight Room for a little rest and quiet. There Dramocles found her.

“So here you are!” he cried.

“Yes, my Lord, here I am. Is something the matter? You appear distressed.”

Dramocles laughed, a horrible sound. “Even now you continue to dissemble! I find that most rare and wonderful.”

“Do me the goodness of explaining. Have I displeased you in some way?”

“Ah, no,” said Dramocles. “How could you displease me by so small a thing as conniving with Max to deceive me into thinking that my father, Otho, had returned from the dead or from Earth–probably much the same thing–and was fomenting a vast scheme against the security of Glorm. Tlaloc, indeed!”

“So that’s it,” Chemise said.

“Yes, that’s it. But perhaps you can convince me that it isn’t so?”

“No, Dramocles, I can’t convince you of that. You have indeed been deceived. But you won’t believe the truth of it.”

“Try me,” Dramocles said through gritted teeth.

“Know, then, that I am not of Earth. I am from Snord Township in Ultramar Province on your own planet of Glorm. I was working as a seamstress when my uncle came to me–”

“Your uncle?”

“Max is my uncle, Sire. He came to me one day in great agitation, telling me of plots and counterplots, and other matters of dire import. He begged for my help, saying that his life depended on it. He had always been good to me, Dramocles, for I was orphaned at an early age, and Max provided my keep and paid for my education. So I agreed to his plan–”

“–which involved nothing less than pretending to love me,” Dramocles said bitterly.

“That part was not pretense,” said Chemise. “I have loved you since I was a little girl. My scrapbooks were filled with your pictures, and I used to beg my uncle to tell me about you. It was my love for you that let me fall in with his terrible scheme. For, no matter what the outcome, I knew it would give me a chance to be near you for a while.”

Dramocles lighted a cigarette and cried out, “Max, that damnable knave! What did he think he was playing at? I’ll have his head for this!”

“Be not so hard on him, Lord. Oftentimes he spoke to me of the cruelty of his fate, condemned to deceive the man he most admired in the world.”

“But who condemned him to it?”

“I do not know, Lord. You must ask Max.”

Dramocles searched the asteroid, but he found that his PR man had fled, stealing a spaceship and going to seek sanctuary among the barbarians of Vanir. Dramocles sat and considered, chain-smoking. At last he came to a conclusion. He knew where the final explanation had to lie. He ordered his ship prepared at once.

Dramocles’ computer, dressed as usual in black cloak, white periwig, and embroidered Chinese slippers, was alone in its chambers at Ultragnolle Castle. It looked up when Dramocles entered.

“Home so soon from the celebration, my Lord?”

“So it would seem.”

“And was it enjoyable?”

“Enlightening, let us say.”

“There is an ambiguous edge to your words, Sire. Might something be distressing you?”

“Well,” Dramocles said, “I suppose that I
am
a trifle put out by my recent discovery that, ever since Clara’s arrival at court with that damnable clue to my destiny, my life has been influenced, nay, directed, by a mysterious backstage presence of uncertain intent.”

“But you’ve known that, Sire. You refer, I presume, to the machinations of Otho the Weird.”

“No. I am convinced that, whoever Otho was, he was directed by another.”

“But who could that be?”

“Who but yourself, my clever mechanical friend?”

The computer adjusted its periwig with slow deliberateness, as though seeking a few moments’ time in which to collect its thoughts. The gesture was purely theatrical, however, a deliberate attempt to act “manlike.” The computer had long anticipated this moment and known what its response would be.

“How do you infer this, my Lord?”

“Simple enough,” said Dramocles. “You are the greatest intellect on Glorm or Earth. You are also sworn to serve me. Therefore if the scheme against me had been of someone else’s making, you would have warned me against it.”

“Neat,” said the computer. “Not foolproof, but very neat indeed.”

“Do you deny my contention?”

“Not at all. You are perfectly correct, my King. Who else could have arranged these complex and arcane matters but I, Sir Isaac Newton’s friend and your humble servant? I’m only surprised that you didn’t consider the possibility earlier. But as the Taoists say, the sage passes unnoticed among the ranks of men.”

“Damnation!” Dramocles cried. “I ought to get my tool kit and take you apart!”

“A simple command to disassemble would be sufficient,” said the computer.

That statement quenched the King’s fury. “Oh, computer,” he cried, “why did you do it?”

“I had my reasons,” the computer said.

“No doubt,” said Dramocles, struggling not to get angry again. “May I hear them now?”

“Yes, Lord. You see, you are still missing one vital clue. It is the final mnemonic, and it will unlock the last of your suppressed memories. Then everything will be clear, and you will understand why certain matters could not be revealed to you before now. Shall I give you the clue, Sire?”

“Oh, hell, no, don’t bother,” Dramocles said. “I’m having too much fun playing dialectic with you. … Idiot, give it to me at once!”

The computer reached into a pocket within its cloak, took out an envelope, and handed it to the King.

Dramocles opened it. Within, there was a slip of paper.

Written on it were the words
Electronificate parsley.

The last mnemonic! Deep in the recesses of Dramocles’ mind, an unsuspected door swung open.

Twenty years old, ruler of an entire planet, the cynosure of all eyes and the repository of all hopes, young Dramocles was bored. King for less than a year, he was already sated with everything available to him. Dramocles wanted what he could not have–war, intrigue, love, hate, destiny, and, above all, surprise. But those were the very things that could not be. A fragile and uncertain peace existed among the Local Planets. To maintain it, a ruler of Glorm had to be judicious, peaceable, hardworking, predictable, devoted to precedent and procedure, holding court regularly so that his chamberlain could dispense justice according to the laws of Otho and his predecessors. To vary from this, to be unorthodox, or worse,
unpredictable
, could have unknown consequences, could even lead to war. Dramocles knew his duty. He was not going to risk the lives of millions for his amusement’s sake, no, not even for his necessity’s sake. He would go on, reasonably, sanely,
predictably
, until he toppled into his grave at last, Good King Dramocles, who wasted his life for the sake of his people.

Dramocles accepted his destiny, but found it bitter. Everyone else could hope for a change for the better; only the King had to wish for no change at all. In his unhappiness, he went to his computer.

The computer told Dramocles what he had already known–that he had to go on just as he was doing for the present.

“But how long will the present last?”

The computer made calculations. “Thirty years, my Lord. After that, you’ll be free to do as you please.”

“Thirty years? That’s a lifetime! No. I shall abdicate, go away under an assumed name–”

“Wait, Sire–there’s hope indeed. Do your kingly duty, and in thirty years I’ll arrange for you to have all the things you really want. And you’ll have time in which to enjoy them, too.”

“How can you do that?” Dramocles asked.

“I have my ways,” the computer said. “I am probably the finest intellect in the universe, I know you better than anyone, and I am your servant. Trust me to make your dreams come true.”

“Well, all right,” Dramocles said, a little ungraciously. “At least I’ll have something to look forward to.”

“I’m afraid not, Sire. Before I can begin, I must erase all knowledge of this from your memory. Your knowing that I was planning a future for you would add an incalculable input to your behavior, skew your reactions, and alter or render impossible the events I’m planning for you. It’s called an Indeterminacy Situation.”

“If you say so,” Dramocles said. “But it makes me feel a little strange, knowing that I’ll never remember this conversation.”

“At the end,” the computer promised, “you will get back all your missing memories, including this one.”

Dramocles nodded. And then he was back in present time.

“What about Otho?” Dramocles asked. “What about Tlaloc?”

“My Lord,” the computer said, “I can explain all the apparent discrepancies in the story. But do you understand the special terminology of the theory of provisional reality frames?”

“Never mind,” Dramocles said. “I must admit, you went to considerable lengths to complicate my life.”

“Of course, Sire. I acted on your behalf in producing this drama, and to the best of my ability gave you what you wanted. Love, war, family rivalry, intrigue, and a touch of mystery–all fine themes, all fit for a king. I wove these together into your destiny. But when I say that I did this, I mean that you did this, since you ordered me to program myself so that I could translate your dreams into reality. You yourself, my King, have been the shadowy backstage presence, the unknown figure who influences or directs your every move, your own secret prime mover.”

“In that case,” Dramocles said, “I suppose I should thank myself for all this. But you did well, too, computer.”

“Thank you, Sire.”

“Is there anything else left to tell?”

“Only this. Now I step out of the drama of your life. You go on, as free as a man can be, and that’s a lot. It’s all up to you now, Dramocles, to bungle your life as you see fit.”

“You’ll do anything to get the last word, won’t you?” Dramocles said.

“Anything,” said the computer.

“What do you know about my future?”

“Nothing, my Lord. It is unknowable.”

“You’re not kidding me, are you?”

“No, Sire. All is revealed, and I am going to take myself out of circuit shortly after we finish this conversation.”

“You don’t have to go that far,” Dramocles said. “I was just wondering if you had anything else up your sleeve or down your circuits. ‘Unknowable.’ That sounds good to me.” He left the room, rubbing his hands together briskly.

Filled with mathematical analogues for admiration and liking, the computer watched Dramocles go. The computer liked the King, to the small but significant degree that was available to it. Because of this, it was with a faint analogue of regret that the computer completed the last part of its program. It set forth certain impulses and got a response deep within its circuitry.

“Well done, computer.”

“Thank you, King Otho.”

“He doesn’t suspect that there’s any more than you told him?”

“I think not. Your son believes that he understands the laws of reality.”

“And so he does, up to a point,” said Otho. “We’ve done a good job with him, haven’t we, computer? I love to see him enjoy the illusion of self-determination while I work behind the scenes to make sure his life works right.”

“That’s one way of looking at it, Sire. But perhaps you only have the illusion that you run your son’s life.”