"God forbid!" Robes shivered.
"He has more important matters on His mind. If you will allow me ..." Abdiel raised his right hand. The light bulbs in the mirror went out, the desk lamp went dark. The coffee maker shut off in mid-cycle, the music ceased.
"What have you done?" Robes looked around in alarm.
"Disrupted the flow of electricity into the room."
"That will bring security!" The President was on his feet.
"No, no, my dear. Don't be so jumpy. They are under the illusion that all is well. That ends well." Abdiel smirked at his little joke. "I do hope this ends well, don't you, Peter? Please sit down."
The President resumed his seat, noticed that his hands had left sweaty marks on the polished wood. "What was that crack you made when you first came in?"
"I don't recall." Abdiel's voice was bland. "The forgetfulness of old age. Refresh my memory. "
Robes cast him a bitter glance. "You've never forgotten a thing in your life. What do you want from me? Why are you here?"
"Don't skip from subject to subject, Peter. It makes you appear insecure."
Robes drew a seething breath. He took care, however, to let it out slowly, trying to remain calm. "I was saying something to the 'bot about announcing Sagan's death and you said—"
"Ah, yes. It comes back to me. 'Wishful thinking, or words to that effect."
"What did you mean?" Robes demanded.
"That Sagan isn't dead, my dear. He's very far from being dead, in fact."
Robes picked up a pen, began tapping it on the desk blotter. "Then it's only a matter of time. I've seen the battle reports. The Corasians outnumber him almost two hundred to one. No one—not even Derek Sagan—can win against those odds!"
"As usual, you have been misinformed. Or rather, you have not seen the updated information. Sagan was able, at the last minute, to ally himself with a group of mercenaries under the leadership of one John Dixter."
"Dixter?" Robes's mouth jerked in a nervous grin. He twiddled the pen. "It's you who have been misinformed, Abdiel. Dixter and Sagan are bitter enemies. They have been since before the revolution. Dixter's a royalist. Sagan was a traitor, leader of the rebellion that murdered Dixter's beloved king. Then there was that woman, that Guardian. Morianna. Maigrey Morianna. A love triangle—"
"A triangle, certainly. But not necessarily one of love. You forget, my dear, I know both Sagan and the Lady Maigrey well. Very well, indeed." Smiling, Abdiel began to massage the palm of his left hand, an absent motion, habitual.
"Not as well as you'd like," Robes said, but he muttered the words to himself.
Abdiel either heard or divined the thought. "You are jealous, my dear, because you succumbed and they did not. But then, they were very young, in their teens. That was my mistake. Youth is naturally rebellious, independent. One has nothing to offer youth, because it has everything. Or thinks it has. I should have tried again when they were older, but I had you and I thought that would be enough." Abdiel sighed, appeared almost wistful.
"What do you mean, succumbed ?" Robes almost shouted. "I may have joined with you now and then, but that was to share thoughts, mental stimulation! You don't control me like you do those wretched disciples of yours—"
"Calm, Peter, calm," Abdiel admonished.
Robes snapped the pen in two. "And why are you blaming me for this mess, anyway?"
"Because you should have dealt with Sagan long ago, as I advised. He helped you gain the presidency. But I foresaw— and I was correct—a time when he would become disillusioned with 'democracy.' The Blood Royal would burn in his veins. And, as I predicted, he has become a dangerous foe."
"I needed him! You know that! Sagan was the only one who had a chance of finding the true heir—"
"Stop whining, Peter! It doesn't become you. And now that you've found the true heir to the throne, my dear, what in the name of all that is holy do you intend to do with him? If anything, he is more dangerous than Sagan!
"No, my dear," Abdiel continued, "you've bungled it badly. If you had taken my advice, this self-styled Warlord would be dead by now. The upstart prince Starfire would have faded into obscurity, lived a humdrum ordinary life, never knowing, never dreaming he could lay claim to the galactic throne. " The old man rose from his chair and started forward.
Robes watched him, unable to take his eyes off him. The old man seemed always to slither rather than walk.
"But no. You knew best, didn't you, my dear? You refused to listen to Abdiel. You—the professor. Peter Robes, Ph.D., renowned for your knowledge of political science. Peter, Robes, leader of the revolution. Peter Robes, President of the Galactic Democratic Republic. Peter Robes, fool."
Abdiel came to stand beside the desk. A motion of his hand and the vertical blinds revolved, closed, shut out the sunlight. The room grew dark. Robes had the eerie impression that Abdiel had blotted out the sun itself.
The President hunched over his desk, his hands curled, the fingers twitching like the legs of a dying spider.
"The Creator moves against you, Peter," Abdiel said softly.
"I feel His anger. He lifts His rod to chastise you. Derek Sagan has made contact with one Snaga Ohme, a genius when it comes to designing engines of destruction. You know. You've read the reports of your late and unlamented spy, Captain Nada. But do you know, my dear, that the space-rotation bomb's manufacture has been completed? It is ready for use. And if Sagan succeeds in laying his hands on it, you had best start hoping that some university has a job for you in their political science department. Because that's what you'll be doing. If you live that long. "
Robes lifted a haggard face. "What do you mean if Sagan succeeds? He doesn't have the bomb yet?"
"No, my dear. The obstacle you threw in his path has at least accomplished that much. Though I have no doubt such a brilliant move was inadvertent on your part."
"Then we can get the bomb! We can steal it!"
"From Snaga Ohme?" Abdiel laughed derisively. "My dear Peter, a gnat couldn't fly undetected through the Adonian’s security field!"
"Maybe not a gnat!" Robes switched on a desk lamp, looked directly into the old man's face. He was confident now, self-assured, business as usual. "But a mind-seizer could get inside. A mind-seizer could persuade' Ohme to turn over the bomb!"
"So now you come to me at last, do you, Peter, my dear? When everything is falling apart around you, you expect me to pick up the pieces."
Robes swallowed, mopped his forehead again. His makeup was leaving large pink-colored patches on the white linen; he might truly have been sweating blood. He was suddenly sorry he'd turned on the light.
"Very well. What do you what?"
Abdiel drew near Peter Robes, the magenta robes brushed against the man's arm. The President jumped, hurriedly pulled away. He tried to stand up from the chair but felt a hand on his shoulder, gently pressing him down. Robes, quivering, remained seated.
"What do you want?" he repeated hoarsely.
"You, my dear." Abdiel began to pull the flesh from the palm of his left hand, peeling it off in strips.
A tremor shook Robes's body, he shrank back in the chair.
The flesh wasn't flesh at all, but plastic designed to resemble skin. Abdiel removed it. Five steel needles, surgically implanted in the old man's palm, glittered in the light that seemed to emanate, not from the lamp, but from the old man's bright eyes.
Robes gazed at the needles in a horrible fascination. His own right hand trembled. He moved it, slid it down surreptitiously beneath the desk, but Abdiel's hand snaked out, caught hold of him. Gently, caressingly, the old man stroked the hand he held in his.
"I am the only one who can save you, Peter, my dear."
Robes shivered; his teeth ground together. Sweat trickled down his face; his muscles were stiff, rigid. He made a choked, swallowing sound. The hand in the old man's clenched tightly into a ball, a fist.
Abdiel continued patiently stroking the fingers and slowly Robes relaxed, his
hand opened, revealing the palm. Abdiel studied the palm's smooth surface a moment, then delicately began stripping away the plastic flesh, laying bare five red puncture marks. The marks were old, the scars healed over, seeming not to have been used in a long time.
"You, Peter, will put yourself 'in my hands,' if you'll forgive my little joke." Abdiel laughed, a dry chuckle. "You will give yourself to me, completely, unreservedly. You will become my 'disciple.' In return, my dear ..."
"Yes!" Robes cried out in a ghastly voice. "What do I get in return?"
"Whatever you desire, my dear. You can continue to be President of this galaxy. Or, if you are growing tired of putting up with the nonsense of these senators and representatives, you can proclaim yourself dictator, king, emperor. With my guidance, my wisdom, my power, you can become anything you want." Abdiel drew the hand near him, pressed it against the soft magenta robes. "Or you can continue as you are, without my help. You can deal with Derek Sagan. You can handle the upstart prince. You can prevent the civil war that will tear the galaxy apart and end your political career forever!" Abdiel gently patted the hand he held. "You do see clearly, don't you, my dear, the divergent paths before you?"
Robes closed his eyes. He was shivering as with a fever. His right hand had closed again over the marks on the palm—the marks that designated him, in reality, one of the Blood Royal. The marks that had once been a badge of honor. The blood-sword, the weapon of the Blood Royal, inserted its needles into those marks, injected a genetically coded virus and a flood of micromachines into the body that aligned the weapon directly with the brain, allowing the user to control the sword with his or her own mental processes. It gave the user heightened mental powers, as well. And it let two people, connected through the use of the bloodsword, share their minds with each other.
Once marks of honor, the scars on my palm have become marks of shame! Robes thought. I should break his grip on me, order the old man out of my office. He's given me the choice! A choice.
But the defiance drained from the President; his shoulders slumped in despair. Abdiel always gives you a choice, Robes realized. It makes you more surely his when you come to him of your own free will.
The President kept his hand shut fast. Too much was going wrong, too fast. The situation was bad and growing worse. Systems—wealthy, powerful systems—threatening secession. The opposition party swelling in strength and numbers. His own popularity slipping. His advisers had told him, only last week, that, unless the situation changed, he couldn't win another election. That was why he'd started this war—destroy Sagan, bring everyone running home to their President in panic.
But the only one running in panic was Peter Robes.
Slowly, trembling, the President bowed his head, opened the palm of his right hand. Abdiel aligned the five needles in his left palm to the five red wounds on Robes's right.
The President did not lift his head, did not look up.
Smiling, Abdiel inserted the needles into the man's flesh.
Robes cried out with the pain; his body jerked convulsively as the virus, the micromachines flowed, not from a bloodsword, but from the body of the old man, giving his mind direct access to Robes's, to the brain, to the conscious, to the subconscious.
Abdiel probed and penetrated, plunging deeper and deeper into the President's mind, learning its secrets, learning what caused pleasure . . . what caused pain. Though he had given in, Robes's mind fought instinctively, struggled to defend itself against invasion, but wherever Abdiel encountered resistance, he pressed harder. The old man now knew too much. The punishment for defiance was terrible, arising as it did from Robes's own inner being.
Eventually, Peter Robes gave in. He surrendered himself utterly.
Abdiel sucked the man's mind dry. From now on, whenever he wanted, he would be able to manipulate Robes. The man was under his complete and total control. Gently, Abdiel withdrew the needles. Five small pools of blood on the President's palm glistened in lamplight.
Robes had long ago lost consciousness. Abdiel rested the President's limp and unresisting head back against the chair,
"You are mine," Abdiel said, running his fingers along the sweat-dampened forehead,"my dear."
Chapter Three
We took him for a coward . . .
William Shakespeare, Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act V, Scene 1
The battle against the Corasians was straggling to its inglorious end. Abdiel's awarding of the victory to Warlord Sagan was perhaps a bit premature. One giant enemy moth-ership had been destroyed, but another had come out of nowhere (or hyperspace, which amounted to the same thing) and had launched an attack against Sagan's command ship, Phoenix.
Dion, from his vantage point in space, could see that Phoenix was taking heavy damage. The other ships of the line hovered near but had not been called to assist. Dion wondered why, then concluded that Sagan undoubtedly wanted the honor of destroying the enemy himself.
Dion knew why one ship wasn't fighting the Corasians. Defiant was no longer a hunter. It had been turned into a trap, whose jaws were set to close over Dion's friends—by orders of Lord Derek Sagan.
"Sir," the irritatingly calm voice of the shipboard computer broke in on the young man's thoughts, "your bodily function signs are registering a debilitating level of stress—"
"Shut up," Dion said.
Whoever was winning or losing this battle, the young man knew that he, personally, had lost.
Sagan despised him. Not that what the Warlord thought mattered. The feeling was mutual. Dion despised Sagan with a hatred all the more bitter for being tangled up with admiration.
But this time, at least, I managed to outsmart him, the young man thought in gloomy satisfaction. My coward act fooled him completely. I can't take any of the credit, though. Sagan's already convinced I'm worthless. I merely confirmed his faith in me. Yeah, I fooled him good!
Who am I kidding? I didn't fool Sagan. I only fooled myself. The cowardice wasn't an act. This . . . this is the act. And I didn't escape. He tossed me aside. He let me go because I don't matter anymore. Who wants a king who leads his people into battle, gets scared and runs away?
"Enemy approaching," the computer announced. "Locking on to target—"
"No!" Dion jerked the controls, wrenched the spaceplane in a steep climb. He looked around frantically, peering out the viewscreen. He couldn't see any enemy plane! Was it coming up on him from behind? "Where is it?" he demanded, voice cracking in panic.
"Now out of range and not following in pursuit. Is your targeting scanner malfunctioning, sir? You should be able to locate the blip—"
Dion felt a hot flush suffuse his skin. "No, th-the scanner is . . . functioning . . . just fine." I'm the one who's not!
"Sir, perhaps you are not aware of the most current data we have received on the enemy. Most of the Corasian central computer systems have been knocked out, leaving the small, individual enemy planes operating on their own without guidance from their commanders. Since Corasians are almost totally dependent on computerized guidance, these small planes, such as the one we just fled from"—was it Dion's imagination, or was the computer actually putting a sneering emphasis on the word—"are practically helpless—"
"Obey your orders." Dion licked his dry, cracked lips. "I don't have time to swat flies." That sounded well, it would sound well to anyone listening in on him. Sagan would be, of course. Probably the Warlord was laughing, remarking to Admiral Aks right now, "The boy's a coward. What can you expect?"
"Maintain course to Defiant," Dion instructed. I have to warn my friends, he added to himself. Warn them that a man they trusted, a man they admired and believed in, is nothing but a treacherous, despicable liar!
"Sir, your heart rate is at an extremely dangerous level—"
"The hell with my heart rate!" Dion didn't need to see the flashing digital readouts to know he was falling apart, crumbling inside. He counseled calm, recalled Maigrey's advice.
Think about his friends. Their danger.
They were the ones who mattered. He had to reach them in time, warn them of Sagan's plan to capture them, execute John Dixter.
"Computer, when we reach Defiant, broadcast the emergency landing signal—"
"Begging your pardon, sir, but there's no need for that. Simply utilize the standard transmission—"
"What do you mean, no need? The transmitters not working! Sagan tried using it to contact ..." Dion's voice died.
The computer didn't respond; its lights flickered.
"The transmitter is working," Dion said, stunned. "It's been working all along!"
"There was a malfunction, sir. But it has now been corrected."
"Malfunction, huh? Just what was the nature of the malfunction?"
"Highly technical, sir. You wouldn't understand."
"You're right there. I don't understand. ..."
He could hear the voice. Lord Derek Sagan to Captain Michael Williams. Battle won. You may proceed with the extermination of the mercenaries as planned. Take no prisoners. . . ,
And the computer's response. Transmission failed, sir.
It was a setup! Sagan had known Dion would respond to any threat to his friends, to John Dixter, Tusk, Link, Nola . . . The Warlord had conned him with a phony message! No such order had really been transmitted. What was this? Another one of Sagan's little tests'"'
Dion sagged over the control panel, shaking with anger, disappointment.
I'll probably arrive on Defiant, find Dixter and Tusk guzzling beer and laughing at me, he thought. Well, well, kid. You passed the test. You were going to come to our rescue. You're not a coward, after all. Not a complete coward, anyway. I'll bet your ego feels a whole lot better, doesn't it, son? A hearty slap on the back. We're real proud of you, boy. Now, run along back home. . . .
I have to find out the truth! I have to know what's going on! Dion reached for the water bottle, drank, spit it out on the deck. The water tasted stale, like blood.
This is the Warlord's private plane I stole! Dion realized suddenly. He sat bolt upright. The communications must tie in with Sagan's own personal channel.
King's Test Page 2
