Knight Life

by Peter David

  This garnered confused looks. “Why?” asked one reporter, speaking pretty much for all of them.

  “Why, the man should pay for it. That’s certainly a law I’d like to see. If, thanks to available choices today, the woman decides to have an abortion, the man should bear that cost.”

  “Why shouldn’t the woman share the cost?”

  “Because the man can’t share the physical pain and hazards of the abortion, so at the very least he should be responsible for the entire cost of the procedure. At the very least, I’d wager men would give at least a modicum of thought to putting a woman at risk of pregnancy.”

  “You are aware,” said one reporter with a half-smile, “that some of your attitudes may be regarded as controversial.”

  “Yes. I suppose so. Common sense usually is. That’s a bit of an oxymoron, isn’t it? ‘Common sense.’ Seems rather uncommon, really.” He pointed to another reporter. “Yes?”

  “Gun control?”

  “Ah. Yes, I’ve been thinking about that one. Seems to me it’s based on the entire ‘militia’ business. Fine. Anyone who owns a gun should have to belong to a militia. Otherwise I don’t see any reason for them to have one.”

  “Self-protection.”

  “Get a sword. Broadsword, preferably. Builds the upper torso nicely, and children can’t lift them because they’re too heavy.”

  More puzzled looks. “Sir, many people feel that they should have guns to protect themselves against a potential government gone bad.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that. People don’t trust the government. It’s odd, though. If they don’t trust the government, how is it they know that they can speak against it with impunity? They must trust it on some level. Besides, the entire matter is nonsense, if you ask me, which, I suppose, you have. If the government goes bad, handguns won’t save you. Better to work together to support a good government than arm oneself against a bad one.”

  “Sir, there are many facts which gun advocates can present—”

  “First thing you’ll have to learn about me,” said Arthur reasonably, leaning over the podium. “I never want to get bogged down with facts. Facts get in the way of decisions. Give me a basic summary of the situation and I will generally decide,” and he tapped his chest, “based on what I feel here. I would wager that others will bog themselves down with umpteen reports and countless charts and the like, and it will all still boil down to the basic feeling of what’s right and what’s wrong.” He smiled. “After all, it beats trial by combat. Next question?”

  “Mr. Penn,” one reporter said, “I’d like to go back to the abortion question for a moment. Just out of curiosity ... have you ever gotten a woman pregnant and, if so, did you pay for the abortion?”

  Dead silence.

  Arthur sighed deeply, but he never lowered his gaze. “Yes ... when I was a very young man, a long time ago ... I impregnated a young woman. I could cite you chapter and verse how I was seduced into it, and how it was her doing, not mine, and it would be true to a point ... but only to a point. Ultimately, one takes responsibility for one’s actions. Abortion was not an option, nor was marriage. Had it been, I would have pursued either. As it was, well ...” He let out a long, unsteady breath. “To forestall any further questions ... I have not seen the young woman in many, many years, and the offspring died. But I can tell you in all honesty—which is the only way I know how to deal with matters—that not a day goes by where I don’t think of him, and dwell upon the many ways in which I wish things could have gone differently. Then again ... what else can anyone, particularly someone who calls himself a potential leader, do, other than try to impart his own mistakes to others so that they will learn from his errors and not commit the same ones. Next question.”

  ARTHUR, GWEN, MERLIN, Percival, Buddy, and Elvis sat draped around various parts of the meeting room. Merlin sat upright and cross-legged while the others were fairly at ease. Buddy was stirring a Bloody Mary with his finger. The others were drinking soda or iced tea.

  The reporters had left some time ago to file their stories, and everyone in the room seemed concerned about what would be said. Everyone except Merlin and Arthur.

  “I did my best,” said Arthur reasonably. “If they don’t like what I had to say, what am I supposed to do? Be sorry that I said it?” He shook his head. “No, they’re going to have to warm to me or not, based on who I am.”

  Gwen smiled. “If they knew who you were, they’d vote for you in an instant.”

  “Would they?” asked Arthur, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “Do you think so? My earlier endeavors hardly ended in glowing triumph, now did they?”

  “Oh, people remember what they want to remember,” said Gwen. She stood and walked over to Arthur’s side, sitting on the arm of his chair. “After all is said and done, most people remember Camelot as a time of achievement and pride. I mean, the happiest times this country remembers were with Kennedys’ whole Camelot thing.”

  “Ah!” declared Arthur. “Merlin said that to me once. Didn’t you, Merlin? You see—the two of you do see eye-to-eye every now and again.”

  Merlin made a face. Then he said, “Arthur, I think it best that you spend the night—the next few nights, in fact—in your Bronx place.”

  “Oh, Merlin, is that really necessary?” said Arthur unhappily. “It’s so bloody small. The castle is really so much better.”

  “Arthur, try to be reasonable. It wouldn’t be good form for the press to discover that the Independent mayoral candidate makes his home in a pile of transdimensional rocks in Central Park.”

  Elvis perked up slightly and said, “Sounds okeedokee to me.”

  “Proof enough,” said Merlin tartly. “Arthur, it’s been set up for you, and I suggest that you try to make use of it. If all goes well, the press is going to become intensely interested in such minutiae as how you like to have your English muffins for breakfast. And if you have mysterious comings and goings, it could prompt digging in areas we’d much rather leave undug.”

  “All right, all right,” sighed Arthur. “Gwen, let’s go.”

  “He’s going to have a roommate!” yelled Merlin. “That’s just ruddy wonderful!”

  Arthur’s tone was warning. “Merlin ...”

  But a gentle touch rested on his arm. “No, Arthur, Merlin’s right,” said Gwen reasonably. “Your style is going to be somewhat ... unorthodox for a number of voters. Perhaps we shouldn’t try to drop too much on them right away. I’ll find someplace.”

  “She could bunk in with us,” offered Buddy.

  Gwen looked at them. “Oh. How ... nice,” she said, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

  “Yeah! We got a brand new refrigerator box.”

  She smiled, trying to look genuinely thankful. “I appreciate your concern, but I have a friend I can stay with out in Queens until I find a place of my own.” She shook her head in wonderment. “You know, I’ve never had that. When I went into college I went from living with my parents to living in a dorm. And from there I went to living with Lance.”

  “Lance?” Percival looked up.

  Arthur shook his head. “No relation.”

  “So I’ll finally be out on my own. It’s scary.” She looked thoughtful. “Poor Lance.”

  “Why poor Lance?” asked Percival. Arthur leaned forward, curious to hear her response.

  “Why, because the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve come to realize that he needed me a hell of a lot more than I needed him. He was just determined that I not know that. I think my being on my own is going to be a lot harder on Lance than it will be on me.”

  Arthur’s mouth twitched. “My heart bleeds for him.”

  LANCE LEANED AGAINST the wall of the building to keep himself from toppling over. He felt the solid brick waver under his fingertips for a moment before righting itself, then he breathed a sigh of relief that it had sorted itself out before falling.

  It was a starless night. The full moon was blood red—it would h
ave tinted the clouds, had there been any clouds. There were only a few cars heading uptown on Eighth Avenue this late at night. Most people drove through that area with their car doors locked tight. Drivers would glance disdainfully at the human refuse that lined the streets. Lance was one of those receiving the disdainful glances.

  He sank slowly to the ground and smiled, incredibly happy. Lance had certain images of himself that he felt constrained to live up to. Once that image had been of Suffering Writer. To that end he’d spent long hours churning out reams of garbage, comprehensible only to himself (oh, Gwen had pretended to like them, but he knew better). He had starved himself, refused to go out in the daylight if he could help it. When he did feel the need for sexual release, he’d found hookers with hearts of gold to whom he could vent his creative spleen, not to mention his pent-up urges. For naturally, as with any good tortured writer, he had a woman who did not understand him and wanted him to get a regular nine-to-five job. At least, that was the way he saw it, and how he saw it was really all that mattered.

  When Gwen had walked out, it had permitted him to shift over to a new persona—Utterly Dejected Writer at the End of his Rope. He looked at his distorted reflection in a puddle of water and was overjoyed at what he saw. He was strung out. Dead-ended. Down and out. Ruined by the complete collapse of his one true love’s confidence in him, he had now attained that point where he could die alone, unloved and misunderstood in a gutter in New York. Then some students or some such, cleaning out his papers, would discover the heretofore undiscovered brilliance of Lance Benson and make it public. He’d be published by some university press somewhere and become a runaway hit. He smirked. And he’d be dead. They’d want more of his brilliance, and he’d be dead as a doornail. That would sure show them!

  The clack-clack of the heels had been sounding along the street for some time, but Lance had taken no notice of them. Now, though, he could not help it. The heels had stopped right in front of him—stiletto heels supporting thigh-high black leather boots, which were laced up the front.

  Slowly Lance looked up. The woman before him was dressed entirely in black leather. Her clothes looked as if they’d been spray painted on. The only part of her body that was not covered were the fingers, projecting through five holes cut in each glove. She wore a black beret on her head, which blended perfectly with her black hair. Her lipstick and mascara were black as well, floating against the alabaster of her skin.

  “Hi,” she said. Her voice was low and sultry. “Nice night.”

  “If you like the night,” he said indifferently, and looked down.

  “Oh, yes. Yes indeed, I love the night.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What’s your name?”

  “Lance.”

  “Lance.” She rolled the name around on her tongue, making it sound like a three-syllable name. “Lance, you look very lonely. Would you like to have a good time?”

  He laughed hoarsely. “Yeah, sure. But my idea of a good time and your idea of a good time probably don’t jibe.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, really.” He felt even colder, as if the temperature around him had just dropped by a few degrees with no warning and no reason. “My idea of a good time is sitting here and watching my life pass before my eyes as I prepare to die.”

  “You’re right,” said the woman. “You’re very right.” She shook her head. “That’s not my idea of a good time at all. Tell you what—why don’t I show you my idea of a good time? If that doesn’t do it for you, then we’ll bring you back here and you can continue your little headlong drive to self-destruction. How does that strike you?”

  Lance shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy. I don’t much care.” He got to his feet, and the woman took his hand. He hobbled at first, since his right leg had fallen asleep. “So where are we going?”

  “My place,” she said. She wrapped her fingers in between his, and he shuddered. Her hand was cold, and he told her so. She nodded her head slightly in acknowledgment. “Yes, I know. But don’t worry,” she said, licking her lips slowly, “I can warm up quite nicely.”

  Abruptly Lance dug into his pocket. “I don’t have any money, really,” he said.

  That prompted a laugh. “You charming boy! You think I’m a prostitute! How sweet!”

  “You’re ... you’re not?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then, why are you interested in me?”

  “Because, Lance my love ... I think you have potential. Enormous potential.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. And I’m going to help you fulfill it.”

  His spirit brightened for the first time since Gwen had left him. “That’s ... that’s incredible. I mean, really incredible of you. What’s your name?”

  “Morgan.”

  He nodded. “Morgan? Isn’t that a man’s name?”

  She smiled. “Only if you’re a man. But I happen to be a woman, my dear Lance. More woman, I would suspect, than you would ever believe you could possibly handle.”

  “Oh,” said Lance uncertainly, and then he smiled with grim determination. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to do my best.”

  “Oh, yes, Lance,” said Morgan. “I know you will, I just know it. As will I. Although my best, as it so happens, is also my worst.”

  YE OEDE SOUND BITE

  “Hello. I’m Arthur Penn. I want to be the next mayor of New York City. Vote for me. Thank you.”

  “PAID FOR BY THE ARTHUR PENN FOR MAYOR COMMITTEE.”

  CHAPTRE

  THE FOURTEENTH

  “IT WAS JUST on!”

  “Damn! I blinked and missed it again!”

  Percival, hunched over his ledgers in the offices of Arthur Penn, the check book and bank balances spread out nearby, shook his head in grim amusement. The television set was on in the background. Campaign workers sat around stuffing envelopes and sealing them, or canvassing telephone books and comparing names to lists provided by the League of Women Voters, to see if they could encourage those not already registered to do so.

  On the portable color Sony, Arthur’s commercial had just aired. It had been shot in an empty studio, the only prop on the set being a stool. Arthur was leaning against it, gazing out at the viewer with that easy familiarity of his.

  “Hello,” he said pleasantly. “I’m Arthur Penn. I want to be the next mayor of New York City. Vote for me. Thank you.”

  The screen then went to black, and Gwen’s voice, sounding very sultry, said “Paid for by the Arthur Penn for Mayor Committee.”

  Percival, laughing softly, returned to his work. He remembered when Arthur had first presented the script for the commercial to all and sundry. There had been a long moment of skeptical silence, but Arthur had remained firm, despite the swell of subsequent protest and disbelief. As the primaries approached, Arthur had studied the commercials of other candidates very carefully. His decision was to try and find a different angle. Once he had eliminated the Meet-the-People Approach, the Photographed - in - Front - of- a - Recognizable - Monument approach, the Meet-My-Family-Aren’t-We-Wholesome approach, the Hard-Hitting-Tough-Talker approach, and the My-Opponent-Is-a-Cheating-Son-of-a-Bitch approach, that had left him with exactly one option.

  “But h—Arthur,” Percival said, still working hard to break himself of the habit of calling his liege “highness” no matter how instinctively right it seemed. “All that’s going to happen is that people will see your commercial and wonder, ‘Yeah, but why should I vote for him?’”

  “Precisely!” Arthur had said delightedly. “The beauty of this commercial is that it’s only ten seconds long. So we can afford—what is it called, Gwen?”

  “Saturation,” she said.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “But Arthur,” Gwen cut in, “when I mentioned that as an option, it was just that, an option. I didn’t mean you should base the whole of your TV campaign around ...”

  “Whatever you meant or didn’t mean, Gwen, I’ve decided it’s the best
way to go. This way, we’ll get people curious. People like to be tested, to be challenged. Every politician sounds like every other politician. As far as I’m concerned, people are no different now than they were centuries ago. Before you can accomplish anything, you have to get their attention. And frequently the best way to get their attention is to hit them on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.” He grinned. “My entire campaign is directed toward hitting them with that newspaper. To a large extent what I say is irrelevant, as long as it’s making people—” he tapped his temple with his forefinger, “—think! No one thinks anymore. Well, my friends, this campaign is not going to lay things out in nice easy packages.”

  That’s for sure, Percival thought. He shook his head. This whole campaign was hardly an easy package. As the treasurer of the Arthur Penn for Mayor Committee, he had his work cut out for him.

  Merlin had certainly done his groundwork, paving the way for Arthur’s return. That much was certain. The creation of an entire fictional history of Arthur being silent partner in a number of extremely successful businesses, as well as selling the public on the notion that he was an independent thinker (and therefore, likely, a canny investor) had given credence to Arthur’s personal fortune. The actual origin of the fortune was unknown to Percival, although he had a suspicion that if someone happened to stumble over the pot at the end of the rainbow, they might now find it empty. Merlin had a knack for making things happen. That same fictional history had supported Arthur’s bid for the mayoralty. Coming from outside of politics, he could claim no prior party obligations. Coming (ostensibly) from a background in business, he could claim that he had a businessman’s sense of running things, and that was what New York City needed. Someone who knew how to eliminate waste, to maximize profits. In short, to run New York City like the profit-making center it should and could be.