Authors: Mike Resnick
Prophet (28 page)
"A few, perhaps,” admitted the Anointed One. “But
riddled
? I think not, Mr. Lomax."
"I hate to disagree, My Lord,” said Lomax, “but whenever one man holds as much power and wealth as you do, it's an open invitation to, shall we say, disloyalty?"
"I am the Anointed One. My people follow me as a matter of faith and belief. Temporal rewards are secondary to them."
"They're no more secondary to your followers than they are to me, My Lord,” said Lomax. “The only difference is that I make no bones about it.” He stared across the table at the ascetic, white-robed man. “Take your man on Olympus, for example."
"Otis Korbekkian has served me loyally for seven years,” responded the Anointed One.
"Otis Korbekkian has served you for seven years,” responded Lomax.
"You are impugning his loyalty?” demanded the Anointed One.
"Let's say I'm trying to define it,” answered Lomax. “I'm sure he's loyal—to Otis Korbekkian. And to Mrs. Korbekkian, if there is one. And to the capitalistic principle. But I know for a fact that Korbekkian has taken commissions from people other than yourself, and has arranged various killings that you know nothing about.” He shrugged. “That doesn't make him disloyal, My Lord. In all likelihood his other dealings have no effect on you or your plans."
"How do you know that he has accepted other commissions?” demanded the Anointed One.
"It's my business to know,” said Lomax. “I'm the kind of man he hires."
"I don't believe you, Mr. Lomax."
"That's your prerogative, My Lord,” said Lomax with an air of unconcern.
The Anointed One stared at him long and hard across the table. “Prove it,” he said at last.
"How?” asked Lomax. “It would just be my word against his.” He paused. “I suppose you could monitor his incoming and outgoing messages, if you wanted to go to the trouble."
"I do not,” said the Anointed One. “The subject is closed."
But Lomax saw the shadow of doubt cross his face, and he knew the subject was far from closed. Satisfied, he devoured the rest of his fruit plate, and spent the rest of the meal offering wild speculations as to which guards had been paid to turn a blind eye to the Kid's presence that morning. Then word of still another body turned up—some hapless attendant that the Kid had killed and hidden earlier in the day—and the Anointed One, suddenly in a rage, went off to see the corpse and question his guards, while Lomax returned to his room and spent most of the afternoon feigning sleep for the benefit of any unseen observers.
Things proceeded uneventfully for the next two days. Lomax remained in his quarters as much as possible, spoke as little as possible during meals, concerned himself with examining the fortress's security, secretly tested his ever-stronger left arm and publicly favored it, and even began developing a taste for blacksheep.
Then, in late afternoon two days after he had spoken to the Iceman, Lomax was summoned once again to the throne room, where Moses Mohammed Christ sat alone on his chair, a look of triumph on his long, lean face.
"You were right, Mr. Lomax,” said the Anointed One, “as you have been right all along."
"My Lord?” said Lomax, trying his best to look confused.
"Otis Korbekkian,” said the Anointed One.
"What about him?"
"He was also in the employ of the Prophet, as you yourself suggested."
"I knew he was working for someone else besides you, My Lord,” replied Lomax. “I never said it was the Prophet.” He paused. “I assume you'll want me to eliminate him."
"That has already been taken care of,” said the Anointed One.
"That's too bad,” said Lomax. “I might have been able to pry some information about the Prophet out of him."
"I am in possession of all the information I need."
"Oh?"
The Anointed One leaned forward excitedly on his throne, his coal black eyes shining with triumph. “She is hiding on a planet named Mozart in the Alpha Montana system—and she is practically defenseless!"
"You're sure of this?” asked Lomax.
"There is no doubt whatsoever!” exclaimed the Anointed One. “The Silicon Kid was sent here to divert my attention from her until she can build up her defenses. And from such information as I now possess, it is absolutely certain that Korbekkian also hired many others to wreak terror and confusion among us, to get us to look inward for traitors and conspirators rather than turning our eyes toward Mozart."
"If your information is correct,” said Lomax carefully, “and if she is truly defenseless, then our next logical move is—"
"Attack!” cried the Anointed One, finishing his sentence for him. “I have summoned my forces here, and given orders to my commanders: we attack Mozart in three days’ time!"
"Can you mobilize that quickly, My Lord?” asked Lomax, amazed once again at the accuracy of the Iceman's assessment.
"Not all of my followers are warriors, and not all who
are
warriors are available to me,” answered the Anointed One. “But we will attack in force, with almost four million men and women in close to eight thousand vessels that have been equipped for war."
"May I make a suggestion, My Lord?"
"Certainly."
"I don't think any of us know the full extent of the Prophet's powers, if indeed she has any powers at all,” said Lomax. “But if we are to expose this many of our people to potential danger, then I think we should hit Mozart with everything we have. We should settle for nothing less than blowing it out of existence."
"My own thinking precisely,” said the Anointed One, nodding his head in agreement. “We will spare no expense, withhold no weapon, and show no mercy."
"Good,” said Lomax firmly. “I think you've made a wise decision, My Lord.” He smiled. “Today the Prophet, tomorrow the Democracy."
"So it shall be,” intoned the Anointed One. “And you, Mr. Lomax, will be beside me to share in the spoils."
"I wouldn't think there'd be anything left of Mozart to share in,” replied Lomax.
"There will be the glory of victory over my enemy, a victory in which you will have played a fundamental part."
"I'm just doing what you pay me to do, My Lord,” said Lomax. “Nothing more."
"Don't be modest, Mr. Lomax,” said the Anointed One. “Without you, the Silicon Kid might well have killed me. And had you not expressed your doubts about Korbekkian, I might never have learned of the Prophet's whereabouts before she was ready to meet me in battle. You are truly one of the architects of our forthcoming victory."
"I'm flattered that you should think so, My Lord,” answered Lomax.
"In fact,” continued the Anointed One magnanimously, “it would be unfair to you not to allow you to participate in this Holy War. I have decided to give you your own ship to command."
"My own ship?” repeated Lomax, startled.
The Anointed One smiled. “I had my doubts about you initially, I confess it. But by your actions you have overcome every one of them. This is my way of rewarding you."
"You're quite sure, My Lord?” asked Lomax. “I mean, I've killed many men, but I've never commanded a ship or led men into battle."
"You will do both for the first of many times,” said the Anointed One.
"But—"
"I will have no more of your false modesty, Mr. Lomax,” said the Anointed One, still smiling. “It really does not become you.” He got to his feet. “Our interview is over."
Lomax returned unhappily to his room, wondering exactly what the Anointed One's smile actually meant.
Penelope Bailey stood beside a wooden bench next to the pond behind her house, her eyes trained blindly on the sky, seeing what no one else on Mozart could see, what no more than a handful of sophisticated instruments on the planet could detect.
"You are a fool, Moses Mohammed Christ,” she murmured. “Have you learned nothing from our prior encounters? Do you think my power is limited to destroying your churches?” She paused. “There is still time to turn back—but you will not retreat, will you? What lunacy has possessed you, what demons have goaded you into attacking me when the only possible result is your destruction?"
She sighed deeply, then went inside to make herself a cup of tea. The fleet was not yet in the formation she desired, and she knew that she had an hour or more to prepare herself. She sat down at a small table in the kitchen, added some lemon to the tea, stirred it absently, and continued looking out the window.
There were still factors to be sorted out, alternatives to be found, actions to be considered. Six of the Anointed One's ships had developed engine trouble; should she destroy them, or let them live to tell the story of his defeat, to spread tales of her power throughout the galaxy? There was another ship, too, one that she foresaw would not join the formation, that seemed somehow special though she could not yet determine why.
Then she turned her attention to the Democracy. The Plan took constant modification, incessant monitoring. This man must die; that woman must not. This world's economy must collapse; that lone miner must discover his planet's only diamond pipe. She twitched, she posed, she postured, she did all that was necessary to bring about the desired events, and then she began reading the permutations of those events, for each of them altered a million possible futures, and she was presented with a new set of choices, a new spate of alternatives, all of which must be read and analyzed and extrapolated.
She concentrated on the Plan for perhaps forty minutes. Then, satisfied that it was on track for another day, she made another cup of tea and walked out to the pond once more. Again she looked blindly up to the skies.
"Soon, Moses Mohammed Christ,” she murmured. “Soon."
She finished her tea and set the cup and saucer down on the wooden bench.
"I would have given you another six years,” she said softly, staring at the sky. “Eventually I would have defeated you in the Spica sector, but you would have enjoyed six more years of power and authority. Now I will have to rebuild your organization, will have to assert myself sooner. I will adjust and I will triumph, but I cannot fathom why you have chosen to throw your life away. When we met at Spica, I would have given you no alternative but to fight or run, and because you could not lose face before your followers you would have fought.” She paused, frowning. “But there is no reason for this confrontation today, no reason for you to die on the Inner Frontier. I must learn what brought you to this unhappy end, for it became likely only a week ago and certain only this morning."
And because she did not have the gift of reading the past, she turned her attention once more to the future, to the infinite number of futures confronting her, searching through them for a key to unlock the recent past, to determine the reason for her enemy's suicidal decision.
And, within a very few minutes, she found it.
"Of course,” she said, with no feeling of surprise. “It had to be
you
."
She closed her eyes to better see the future.
"You learn well, Carlos Mendoza,” she said, a half-smile on her lips. “You will not approach until the attack has begun, and at that time I shall be too busy neutralizing the doomsday weapons to bother with you. Their threat is immediate, while yours, though greater, is further removed in time, and I will have to let you land."
She concentrated harder, sifting through the futures. “You chose your position with foresight and intelligence,” she continued. “No meteor, no asteroid, no debris can reach you before you join the battle. And yet,” she said, “perhaps I can show you that I have more weapons in my arsenal than even
you
anticipate."
Suddenly she smiled. “A pacemaker? Blood thinners? You
are
prepared, are you not? Very well. You shall not die of a heart attack or a stroke before you can face me.” She paused. “Some things even
I
cannot change. Evidently it has been ordained in the Book of Fate that I must confront you one last time."
And now her face contorted with rage. “I have never sought to make you my enemy. Twice I could have killed you, and twice I allowed you to live. I could have destroyed Last Chance in the twinkling of an eye, and yet I did not. And still you seek me out, you remain dedicated to my destruction. It is because of you that I have become a fugitive among my own people, that I have spent the past twenty years in hiding or in confinement. You are the architect of my unhappiness, and today, when I have done what I must do to the fleet that approaches, I shall face you one last time."
She paused, trying to control her emotions.
"I will show you no more mercy than you would show me,” she whispered. “I have things to do in the galaxy, great things, things that are beyond your feeble comprehension. You will never hinder them again."
She looked up at the sky once more, not to where the fleet was gathered, but to where a lone ship, still light years away, was speeding toward Mozart.
"You shall learn what it means to oppose me now that my powers are mature,” she promised. “You shall learn why men fear the darkness, and why death itself can be a mercy. Prepare yourself, Carlos Mendoza, for this is your last day of life."
Lomax summoned his second-in-command to the bridge of the ship.
"Sir?” said the man.
"We have a serious problem here,” he announced.
"Problem, sir?"
Lomax nodded. “One of the goddamned bombs has armed itself."
He stood aside so that the man could study his control panel, and especially the blinking red light on the left side of it.
"Could it be a malfunction on the board, sir?"
"I already thought of that,” answered Lomax. “The board is working perfectly."
"Let me check the bomb itself, sir,” said the man. “Perhaps it's emitting a false signal."
"Do so,” said Lomax. “And be discreet. No sense upsetting the rest of the crew until we know what we're dealing with."
The man nodded and headed off toward the weapons bay. He returned some four minutes later.