Statesman (32 page)

“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.

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. Already 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 of course 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.

“I cannot,” the driver protested.

“Why not?”

“There is no road, only a footpath up the mountain.”

Indeed it was so. The driver dropped us off at the edge of the park and took his pay and buzzed away.

The park was impressive. At the low fringe it was planted with native trees, but the interior was a massive mountain slope, covered with snow. Apparently this was a bubble large enough to support as many as a million people, but only a hundred thousand actually occupied it. The remainder of its capacity was devoted to this monumental internal park, that cut across many levels and dominated the interior.

No one came to help us; indeed, the entire city seemed hostile, except for the few common folk we had encountered at the statue. When I looked back, I saw a crowd gathering, but now the local police were herding them away. The common man might be with me, but the authorities were not, and the authorities had the power. We were not in physical danger; the extermination of the nomenklatura of North Saturn had spread a message throughout the System that the Tyrant was not to be molested. But these people did not want us here; that was clear enough.

The route was plain: a winding footpath to the summit, where the Panchen's palatial retreat perched. This was the Potala, taken from the Dalai. He was surely aware of our arrival and approach, but gave no signal; he preferred to pretend that he knew nothing of the visit of the messenger. He played a dangerous game; if this were in deference to the antipathy of Tocsin, it would in due course become apparent where the power ultimately lay.

But now was now, and we had a deadline, and only the Panchen could reverse the veto Laya had cast.

If he did it now, the agreement would take effect, and the Prince and Princess would be freed and promoted, and more than a billion people would reap the joy thereof today, and tomorrow the Dream would be realized as mankind commenced its colonization of the stars. If the Panchen did not reverse the veto, it would cost the lives of King and Wan, and sow dissension that could torpedo South Saturn's participation in the Triton Project, and throw the very Dream into doubt. Oh, Tocsin's mischief was manifest!

However, I knew I retained enough of my ability to read and influence a man to enable me to persuade the Panchen of the error of his way. Once we reached his house, I would of course speak directly to the point. He had to recognize that the interest of his people would not be served by the foiling of the Dream.

For one thing, the colonization of the galaxy represented Laya's best opportunity to escape the dominance of the Middle Kingdom. That was a thing that Laya most wanted to do, for it had always regarded itself as an independent nation. I knew I could make this clear to him, once I talked to him personally; it was only his isolation that had set him up for the deceit spread by Tocsin. Tocsin could be very convincing, when a person lacked access to the facts.

So we wended our way along the path toward the mountain. “This must be the Eightfold Path,” I said, but the humor seemed weak.

Soon another hurdle manifested: It was cold here, and we were not dressed for it. We would never make it to the top of the mountain afoot without winter clothing. Surely the local authorities had known this, so had not interfered with our progress.

Spirit tackled the problem in her typical fashion. “We'll get gear,” she said, and led the way off the path toward a park supply building.

I told Smilo to wait outside the building, and he settled down for a catnap by the door. Inside the building we offered to buy the clothing we required, but the surly proprietor claimed there was none in our sizes. Snowsuits in a full range of sizes hung on racks along the wall, plainly intended for rental to the tourists, but he stuck by his statement. It was evident that we would get no help here.

Again, Spirit reacted typically; Forta really understood my sister! Her laser appeared in her hand, bearing on the proprietor's nose. “Hope, put the money on the counter,” she said. “Then select suits for us.”

I did as directed. The proprietor made as if to reach for a holophone, but a laser beam scorched the table just beside his hand, and he snatched it back. Spirit never bluffed, and never missed her target. The warning sufficed.

I made the selections, and got dressed; then I held the laser while Spirit dressed. Fully outfitted, we left the building, after lasering through the holophone's connecting line. By the time the proprietor was able to alert the hostile authorities, we would be at the Panchen's retreat. Isolation is a sword that cuts both ways.

Outside, I roused Smilo. But I was beginning to regret bringing him along, not because of any bad manners on his part, but because he was a warm-weather creature, and old, and this was cold. I decided that he should be safe enough in the park for a couple of hours. “Smilo, stay,” I said, gesturing to the warmer region behind us. “We'll come back this way.”

The tiger didn't understand all that, of course, but he was familiar with “Stay.” He walked back down toward a pleasant copse and found himself a place to make a nest. He would snooze until we returned.

In past years he would have insisted on coming along, protecting me every step, but now he was satisfied to accept the easy course I urged on him. Age can do that to some of us.

We resumed our trek. The path ascended, and the cold quickly intensified; we really needed our protective clothing. But the scenery was beautiful. As we gained height the mountain also opened out below, showing a deep snowy gorge; the entire interior of the park, high and low, was evidently maintained at subfreezing level.

The path became little more than a niche in the steepening slope, and ice crackled under our boots.

Though gee lessened as we climbed, because we were drawing away from the high-gee rim, this was not enough to compensate for my weakness, and I was soon tired. The mountain had seemed impressive but not huge at the outset; now it seemed that we had just as far to go as we had at the bottom, after an hour's climb.

Spirit took my arm, helping me walk. “I should have anticipated this,” she muttered. “Minimal research—”

My sister surely would have done that. But I could hardly blame Forta. “We came on spot notice,” I reminded her. “No time for research. Had I paused to reflect, I would have brought along a powered snowsled.”