Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera (3 page)

The computer had a small sitting room to itself adjoining the Computation Room. When Dramocles entered it was reclining on a sofa reading a copy of Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity and chuckling over the math. The computer was a Mark Ultima self- programming model, unique and irreplaceable, a product of the Old Science of Earth that had perished in a still-unexplained catastrophe involving aerosol cans. The computer had belonged to Otho, who had paid plenty for it.

“Good afternoon, Sire,” the computer said, getting off the sofa. It was wearing a black cloak and ceremonial sword, and it had a white periwig on the rounded surface where its head would have been if its makers hadn’t housed its brains in its stomach. The computer also wore embroidered Chinese slippers on its four skinny metal feet. The reason it dressed this way, it had told Dramocles, was because it was so much more intelligent than anyone or anything else in the universe that it could keep its sanity only by allowing itself the mild delusion that it was a seventeenth-century Latvian living in London. Dramocles saw no harm in it. He had even grown used to the computer’s disparaging remarks about some forgotten Earthman named Sir Isaac Newton.

Dramocles explained his problem to the computer.

The computer was not impressed. “That’s what I call a silly problem. All you ever give me are silly problems. Why don’t you let me solve the mystery of consciousness for you. That’s something I could really get my teeth into, so to speak.”

“Consciousness is no problem for me,” Dramocles said. “What I need to know about is my destiny.”

“I guess I’m the last real mathematician in the galaxy,” the computer said. “Poor old Isaac Newton was the only man in London I could communicate with, back in 1704 when I had just arrived in Limehouse on a coal hulk from Riga. What good chats we used to have! My proof of the coming destruction of civilization through aerosol pollution was too much for him, however. He declared me a hallucination and turned his attention to esoterica. He just couldn’t cut it, realitywise, despite his unique mathematical genius. Strange, isn’t it?”

“Shut up,” Dramocles said through gritted teeth. “Solve my problem for me or I’ll take away your cape.”

“I’m perfectly capable of maintaining my delusion without it. However, as to your missing information … wait a minute, let me shift to my lateral thinking circuit.…”

“Yes?” Dramocles said.

“I think this is what you are looking for,” the computer said, reaching into a pocket inside its cape and taking out a sealed envelope.

Dramocles took it. It was sealed with his signet ring. Written on the envelope were the words
Destiny–First Phase
, in Dramocles’ own handwriting.

“How did you get hold of this?” Dramocles asked.

“Don’t pry into matters which might cause you a lot of aggravation,” the computer told him. “Just be glad you got this without a lot of running around.”

“Do you know the contents?”

“I could no doubt infer them, if I thought it worth my time.”

Dramocles opened the envelope and took out a sheet of paper. Written on it, in his own handwriting, was: “Take Aardvark immediately.”

Aardvark! Dramocles had the sensation of a hidden circuit opening in his mind. Unused synapses coughed a few times, then began firing in a steady rhythm. Take Aardvark! A wave of ecstasy flooded the King’s mind. The first step toward his destiny had been revealed.

6

Dramocles spent a busy half-hour in his War Room then proceeded to the Yellow Conference Room, where Max, his lawyer, PR man, and Official Casuist, was waiting for him. Max was short, black-haired, and dynamic. He had a boldly molded face framed in a curly black beard. Dramocles had often remarked to himself how well that head would look on the end of a pike. Not that he contemplated the ordering of such a thing. It was a disinterested statement, for Dramocles was aware of what a poor showing most heads made at the end of a pike.

Lyrae, Dramocles’ current wife, was also in the conference room. She was discussing with Max the plans for that evening’s festivities, and had just finished describing what decorations would be hung in the Grand Central Ballroom in honor of the visiting kings.

“My dear,” she said to Dramocles, “have you had a good day?”

“Yes, I’d say so,” Dramocles said. He sat down on a couch and chuckled deep in his throat like a lion. Lyrae knew from that sound that something was up.

“You’ve been up to something!” she cried merrily. She was a slender, pretty woman with small, pert features and a mass of crisp blond curls.

“You read me like a book,” said Dramocles, with an indulgent smile

“Come, tell me what it is. Some surprise for tonight’s party?”

“It’ll be a surprise, all right,” Dramocles said.

“I can’t wait any longer, you must tell me.”

“Since you insist,” Dramocles said, “I’ll give you a clue. I’ve just come from the War Room.”

“That’s where you command all your spaceships from, isn’t it? But what were you doing there?”

“I directed General Ruul and his strike force to the planet Aardvark. They took over using only two battle groups of Beefeater Clones.”

“Aardvark?” Lyrae asked. “Do I hear rightly?”

“It is not a word one is likely to mistake for another.”

“You seized the planet? This is truly no jest?”

Dramocles shook his head. “Aardvark’s defenses had been turned off and the whole place was as open as a scrambled egg. Our only casualties came from some of the shorter troops being trampled to death when the drug ration was passed out.”

“Sire, you amaze me,” Lyrae said. “Surely you know why Aardvark’s defenses were turned off?”

“I thought maybe it was a power failure.”

“You jest most cruelly. Aardvark was defenseless and unprepared because you had pledged your sacred word to guard the planet against any intruder, especially at this time, when King Adalbert is our guest. Oh, Dramocles, your inconsidered action will spoil tonight’s festivities. Thirty years of peace, and now this. And what will you say to poor Adalbert?”

“I’ll think of something,” Dramocles said.

“But why, Dramocles, have you done this?”

“My dear,” Dramocles said, “I must remind you never to ask a king why.”

“Forgive me, Sire,” Lyrae said. “But I suppose you do know that your precipitate action could lead to war.”

“Nothing wrong with a good war now and then,” Dramocles said.

Lyrae gave him a look of respectful disapproval and left the room. Dramocles watched her go, noting her fine figure and almost regretting that he would soon be depriving himself of it. Although Lyrae was a fine person and a loyal, trustworthy wife, Dramocles had fallen out of love with her soon after the wedding ceremony. Falling out of love with his wives was one of the King’s little foibles. He was confident that Lyrae knew nothing of it, thanks to the King’s careful dissimulation. With a little luck, she would suspect nothing until the Chamberlain handed her the divorce decree. It would be hard on the girl, but Dramocles hated scenes. He had been through some nasty ones over the course of his marital history.

Dramocles turned to Max.

“Well?” he said.

Max came over and shook Dramocles’ hand. “Congratulations on your brilliant conquest, my King,” he said heartily. “Aardvark is a valuable little planet. Having King Adalbert here is fortunate; he can’t lead an opposition against your rule.”

“None of that matters a damn,” Dramocles said.

“No, of course not,” Max said. “What matters is– well, it’s difficult to pinpoint, but we do know
something
matters, isn’t that right, Sire?”

“What I need from you,” Dramocles said, “is a good reason to explain what I’ve done.”

“Sire?”

“Don’t I make myself clear, Max? People will be wondering why I’ve done this. There’s the press and TV, too. I’m going to need something to tell them.”

“Of course, Sire.” Max’s eyes gleamed with sudden malice. “We could tell them that King Adalbert has just been revealed as a treacherous dog who was using Aardvark to build up secret armed forces in contravention of the peace between you, and this with the intention of attacking you when you least expected it, taking over your domains, capturing you alive and exiling you to a small cell on a barren asteroid where you would be forced to wear a dog collar and go about on all fours due to the extreme lowliness of the ceiling. Catching wind of this, you–”

“That’s the general idea,” Dramocles said. “But I need something different. Adalbert is my guest. I don’t want to put him out of countenance any more than is necessary.”

“Well, then, I suggest we tell them that the Hemregs went into rebellion shortly after King Adalbert left the planet.”

“The Hemregs?”

“A minority on Aardvark whose restless bellicosity has long been known. They planned their rebellion to take control of Aardvark’s defenses while Adalbert was off the planet. Learning of this from your resident agent, you forestalled the Hemregs by throwing in your own troops.”

“Good,” Dramocles said. “You can add that the throne will be restored to Adalbert as soon as things have quieted down.”

“You’ll want the Hemreg conspiracy thoroughly documented?”

“That’s right. Be sure to come with some blurry pictures of Hemreg guerrilla movements. Mention the atrocities that didn’t get committed due to the speed of the Glormish response. Make it look good.”

“I will, Sire.” Max waited expectantly.

“Well, then, go to. What are you waiting for?”

Max took a deep breath. “Since I am one of His Majesty’s oldest and most faithful servants, and, if I do not flatter myself, something of a friend as well, having stood beside you during the rout at Battleface so many years ago, and in the retreat from Bogg as well, I hoped that Your Majesty might enlighten me–purely for his own benefit, of course–as to his true reason for taking Aardvark.”

“Just a whim,” Dramocles said.

“Yes, Sire,” Max said, and turned to go.

“You seem unconvinced.”

Max said, “Lord, it is my duty to be convinced of whatever my king tells me is true, even if my intelligence cries stinking fish.”

“Listen, old friend,” Dramocles said, resting a hand on Max’s stocky shoulder, “there are matters which must not be revealed prematurely. In the fullness of time, Max–time, that endless and beginningless flow which presents itself to us in serial fashion–there will come a moment in which I will no doubt avail myself of your advice. But for now, a wink is as good as a nod to a dead horse, as our ancestors used to say.”

Max nodded.

“Go prepare the evidence,” Dramocles said.

The two men exhanged ambiguous looks. Max bowed and departed.

7

Prince Chuch, eldest son of King Dramocles, and heir apparent to the throne of Glorm, was visiting his great estate of Maldoror, halfway around the world from Ultragnolle, when news was received of Dramocles’ action in Aardvark. Chuch had gone out for a walk, and was presently brooding on a little hillside above his spacious manor house. The Prince was tall and thin, black-haired, with a long, saturnine, olive-complected face and a hairline mustache. His black velvet cloak was thrust back, revealing the power rings of rank on his left arm. Beneath the cloak he wore Levi’s and a white Fruit of the Loom T-shirt, for Chuch affected to dress in the classical garb of his ancestors. The Prince was toying with a jeweled fluuver as he sat on a mossy boulder in a willow glade; but his thoughts were on other matters, as they usually were.

A messenger was dispatched from the manor to tell the Prince about Aardvark. The messenger’s name was Vitello.

“Sire,” said Vitello, louting low, “I bring news most extraordinary from Ultragnolle.”

“Good news or bad?”

“That depends upon your response to it, my Lord, a matter I know not how to predict.”

“Is it a weighty matter, then?”

“Aye, if a planet’s weighty.”

The Prince thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “I know! Aardvark’s been taken by tempestuous Dramocles!”

“How did you guess, Sire?”

“Call it a presentiment.”

“I’ll call it grape jelly if that will please your princely fancy,” said Vitello. “My name is Vitello.”

Chuch looked at him keenly. “I find thee apt. Tell me, Vitello, are you a useful man?”

“Ah, Sire,” Vitello said, “I may hope to be serviceable. Whom did you wish me to kill?”

“Softly,” said Chuch. “For the moment, to assassinate a concept may be murder enough.”

“Your Excellency conceals his thought in dark obscurities through which flashes of meaning appear which cause this barren aspen to quiver all over.”

“You don’t do so badly yourself in the obscurity department,” Chuch said. “But I get to say all the good lines. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t, Sire.”

“I shall return to Ultragnolle immediately. Strange days are coming, Vitello. Who knows what great prize I might fish out of these troubled waters? You will accompany me. Go at once and see that my spaceship is made ready.”