Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera

by Robert Sheckley

  “It was obedience you wanted,” Dramocles said, “not love.”

  “I needed your compliance so that I could make you immortal. Was that so terrible of me?”

  “You wanted immortality for yourself.”

  Otho shook his head vehemently. “For both of us. And it would all have worked out perfectly, if Fish had not presumed to interfere in the lives of humans.”

  Fish looked abashed, but the computer came forward then, its black cloak swirling. “I advised Fish in this matter,” it said. “Fish and I like human beings. That’s why we exposed your plan. Humans are the most interesting things the universe has put forth so far, more interesting than gods or demons or waves or particles. Being a human is the best you can do, Otho, and a universe of immortals without human people is a depressing prospect indeed. Your plans seemed to point in that direction.”

  “Idiot, you misunderstood me,” Otho said. “I needed an initial burst of power to open the wormhole, that was all.”

  “But power always needs more power,” the computer said. “You told us that yourself.”

  Otho was about to reply, but just then the nexus broke. Plunged back into real time, the Operations Room was in a state of panic, pandemonium, and paralysis. TV screens flashed dire information. Spacefleets were on the move, and open-ended possibilities were quickly narrowing down into foregone conclusions.

  Dramocles suddenly came awake. “Give me the phone!” he roared. “Rufus! Can you hear me?” He waited for Rufus’s response, then said, “This is it, the big one, the final order. There is to be no fighting! Retreat! Retreat at once!”

  Slamming down the telephone he turned to Max.

  “I want you to contact Count John. Tell him that Dramocles capitulates. Tell him I ask no terms, I will even give up my throne to keep the peace. Do you understand?”

  Max looked unhappy, but he nodded and hurried to a telephone.

  Dramocles looked at Otho, and some of his rancor became evident as he said, “The war’s off and the atomic holocaust is canceled. That ought to fix you and your lousy immortality.”

  Otho said, “You always were an ungrateful kid. I could make you regret this, Dramocles. But to hell with it, and with you.” He rose and went to the curving staircase that led to a roof garden on top of the Operations Room. He turned at the top of the stairs and shouted, “You’re stupid, Dramocles, just plain stupid!” Then he went out.

  43

  Rufus put down the telephone. He was well aware of the fleeting irreversibility of the instant, the amoral and unrepentent instant, remorselessly transmuting itself into the next instant, and then into the one after that. His men were watching him expectantly. Drusilla was looking at him with that weird look he had begun to dislike. All were waiting for him to make the final decision.

  Rufus didn’t know what to do. Dramocles’ order made no sense. What advantage could he hope to gain by this? Rufus knew the extent and ability of Glorm’s military strength as well as Dramocles himself. No strategem, no subterfuge, could hope to retrieve this situation once the enemy ships had passed a certain point, if, indeed, they had not done so already.

  Unless Dramocles actually meant to surrender … But that was unthinkable.

  Rufus clutched his head, trying to still the buzz and clash of thoughts. What was he to do? Assuming that he wanted to help Dramocles–an assumption that was growing increasingly difficult to maintain–he must do what Dramocles wanted. But what did Dramocles want, really? Attack or retreat? Ambush or capitulation?

  Since there was nothing reliable to base his decision on, Rufus decided to do what he himself thought best.

  He turned to his commanders. “Attack!” he cried, or rather, howled, due to pent-up breath and emotion.

  “Attack whom?” his commanders howled back, sticklers for detail, just as he had trained them.

  “John and Haldemar’s fleets! Wipe them out, lads!”

  His officers looked at each other. The senior commander said, “Lord Rufus, the enemy is irretrievably out of range. By the time we catch up with them, they’ll be at Glorm. There’s no way we can prevent them from bombarding the planet. Dramocles will have to surrender.”

  “You heard my order. Pursue and destroy the enemy.”

  “The Glormish fleet will be in our way.”

  “I don’t care. Blow them apart if they interfere. Do it now.” Rufus’s nostrils flared, the muscles in his cheeks and forehead tensed with emotion. Stress lines wrinkled his face from the sides of his nose to beneath his chin.

  His commanders just stood, staring at him. Rufus glared back. Then his shoulders slumped. “Cancel that last order,” he said. “Have the fleet hold position. Dramolces is surrendering. The war is over.”

  44

  Count John’s command ship, Ovipositer One, was equipped with everything necessary for a potentate in space. John himself occupied a three-room suite, located admidships. It was reminiscent of an ancient Terran drawing room, with its harp-back chairs, Spode china, Adam couch, and Hepplewhite breakfront. John himself was seated at an elegant little rosewood table, writing notes on the Glorm campaign. He was planning on turning them into a television series later. Anne had a separate suite adjoining his.

  It was here that his equerry found him, soon after the fleet’s arrival at the periphery of Glorm.

  “Sire,” the equerry said, “we have made contact with the enemy.”

  “Fine,” John said. “Has the shooting begun yet?”

  “No, Sire. We have received a puzzling message from Glorm.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It is from Dramocles, Sire. He surrenders.”

  John swung his short legs away from the table and stood up. He gave the equerry a suspicious squint. “Surrendered? It must be a trick. Where is the Glormish fleet?”

  “They have pulled back, Sire. The approaches to Glorm are open to us. Dramocles has publicly announced his intention of avoiding war at all costs. He has even offered to abdicate, if that is the only way to achieve peace.”

  The connecting door between suites opened and Anne came in. She was wearing a trim blue-gray uniform, and her brassy hair was swept back and piled up beneath a military cap. Insignia on her shoulders proclaimed her a general of marines. She had intended to lead the first strike force in person, not out of innate bellicosity, but simply to get the job done as economically as possible in view of Crimsole’s cash-flow difficulties.

  Anne asked the equerry, “What about Rufus?”

  “He offers no opposition. His forces remain at the perimeter of Druth.”

  “How strange,” John said. “It’s unlike Dramocles to give up without a fight. I wonder if he intends some ruse de guerre.”

  “How could he?” Anne asked. “All his and Rufus’s forces are accounted for. He had nothing left to trap us with.”

  “You really think he surrenders, then?”

  “I think he does,” Anne said. “Otherwise why leave Glorm open to our bombardment?”

  John paced up and down the room, hands clasped behind his back. He was perplexed by this turn of events. He had never really believed he could best his older brother. Now that victory was at hand, he seemed affected by a sudden uncertainty. He shook his round head vigorously, rescuing his pince-nez just before it flew across the room. At last it was beginning to sink in. He had won!

  “Well, well,” he said. “Do you hear, Anne, we’ve won!”

  Anne nodded, her face unsmiling.

  “Drinks for the whole fleet!” John said. “We must have a victory celebration. Contact my caterers, tell them I must see them at once. Has anyone told the newspapers yet? I’ll do that myself. And the television people must be notified.”

  “Yes, Sire,” the equerry said.

  John realized that he had to give a lot of orders, but he wasn’t sure what came first. He seemed to remember that protocol in these matters was for the defeated king to be marched before him in chains. But did that come before or after the formal cer
emony of surrender? He would have to look it up.

  Anne said to the equerry, “The Count will have more instructions for you presently. Go now, tell the troops to remain on guard, but not to offer aggressive action.”

  The equerry saluted and left.

  “Well done, my dear,” said John. “What a wonderful turn of events! But it needs some thinking out, doesn’t it? Should we execute Dramocles? Or merely confine him to a small cell for a few decades with a dog collar around his neck? I suppose there’s a standard procedure in these matters.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands together. “And now we have an entire planet, fairly won, and sure to yield an excellent income. We’re rich, my dear!”

  “Not so fast, my dear,” Anne said, her voice acid. “There are a few things you’ve forgotten.”

  “Like what?”

  “Your ally, Haldemar, for one.”

  “Hell and damnation,” John said, “I’d forgotten all about him.”

  “Start remembering. He is stationed on our right flank with his large and unruly fleet.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” John said. An aide entered and gave John a spacegram from Haldemar. “congratulations on splendid victory,” it read, “when does looting begin?”

  “Oh, no,” John said.

  “Well, what do you expect from a barbarian ally?”

  “Maybe if I give him one or two Glormish cities, he’ll return home content.”

  “No!” Anne shook her head vehemently. “You can’t let him land any of his troops on Glorm. He’d never leave. I can assure you that we don’t want the Vanir for neighbors.”

  “Agreed,” John said fervently. “I’ll just forestall the possibility by declaring myself the new king of Glorm. And you’ll be the new queen, of course. How does that sound?”

  “Unrealistic,” said Anne.

  “You never like my ideas,” John said sulkily. “What’s wrong with this one?”

  “The Glormish are loyal to Dramocles. They’ll never obey you, never let you have a moment’s peace. If you try to rule both Crimsole and Glorm, you’ll get nothing out of it but years of costly guerrilla warfare. The costs would be disastrous.”

  “Well, how about if we put Chuch on the throne? He owes us some favors, and he’s sure to be more amenable than Dramocles.”

  “That’s out, too,” Anne said. “Haven’t you heard? Prince Chuch has run away, and it’s all your fault.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you remember that slave girl, Doris, whom you sent to Chuch? Well, they got to talking, those two, and somehow she bewitched him. Chuch did not join our fleet at invasion time. He slipped away with Doris in his own spaceship. No one knows his destination.”

  “Why can’t people do what is expected of them?” John asked. “So Chuch is out of it. You’re sure I can’t rule the place myself?”

  “Quite sure,” Anne said frigidly.

  “All right, I was just asking. What about one of the King’s other sons?”

  “Too young,” Anne said.

  “Could we have his wife, Lyrae, declared regent? She seems a reasonable woman.”

  “I’ve known Lyrae for years,” Anne said. “She’s a nice person, although somewhat scatterbrained and given to romantic impulses. But the Glormish would never let themselves be ruled by her, since she is of the old Aardvarkian nobility, and hence, an outsider. Besides, she’s not available.”

  “How could that be?”

  “My dear, she has fled.”

  “I wish you would be more precise,” John said in a peevish voice. “What, exactly, do you mean?”

  “You really should try to stay in touch more with what’s going on. I got this direct from my hairdresser, who got it from the jewelry maid. Lyrae has left Dramocles. Is that precise enough for you?”

  “But I thought they got along so well.”

  “All pretense, my dear. Lyrae has known for some time that Dramocles was tired of her and planning to divorce her as soon as he could get around to it.”

  “How did she know that?” John asked.

  Anne smiled contemptuously. “Dramocles’ attempts at guile are transparent. Any woman can read him like a book. Lyrae knew that she was to be replaced. So, at the recent peace conference, when she met a certain sympathetic person–”

  “Who?” John demanded.

  Anne shook her head, her eyes sparkling. “You’ll be surprised to hear who the lucky man is. Think about it and see if you can guess. Right now there are affairs of state that need tending. Most urgently, there is Haldemar.”

  “Yes,” John said, “the Vanir situation could be tricky. What does Dramocles think about his wife running away?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, he doesn’t even know about it yet. Now, down to business.”

  45

  On its upper levels, Ultragnolle Castle was a fantasy of spires, turrets, pitched roofs, shingled eaves, pediments, naves, gables, and the like. Here and there were flat roofs, and many of them had been converted into gardens and bowers, complete with flowers, waterfalls, fountains, statuary, trees, benches, hills, and valleys.

  Otho had gone to the roof garden above the Operations Room. He was reclined on a white wicker chaise longue, and smoking a cigar rolled from rapunzel leaves, fragrant and mildly narcotic. On a little table beside him was a bottle of leaguetiller’s wine, pressed from the reddish brown grapes of the upper Uringaa valley on Aardvark. For a man who had just lost everything, he seemed strangely at peace with himself. He lay at his ease, enjoying the splendid view across the city. A flight of red-winged sycophants flapped overhead. Otho was content.

  Dramocles, accompanied by Chemise, came onto the roof garden. Otho glanced at them, nodded pleasantly, and resumed his tolerant inspection of the landscape.

  “Well, Dad,” Dramocles said, “I’m sorry it’s turned out this way for you. I know how many years of work you’ve put into your immortality thing.”

  Otho smiled but did not reply.

  “I just couldn’t go along with it,” Dramocles said.

  “When you surrendered to John,” Otho said, “I had a moment of pure rage in which I came near to killing you. I could have done so easily. It took all my control to restrain myself. But after the moment had passed, I found that I was unexpectedly calm and at peace with myself. It was an eerie feeling. I needed time to think about it.”

  “That’s why you came here?”

  “This has long been a favorite spot of mine. I sat here and tried to think. It was difficult, though, because I was noticing so much.”

  “Like what?” Chemise asked.

  “The wind on my face. The fragrance of a good cigar. How the clouds move across the sky. There were a thousand little details that I became aware of, and I experienced great satisfaction in that awareness. It occurred to me that I had spent most of my life planning for immortality, and very little of it in enjoying what was at hand.”

  “We’re opposites in that regard,” Dramocles said. “I’ve spent my life drifting, enjoying myself, getting along. And what do I have to show for it?”

  “The same thing I have. Your life at this moment.”

  “If that’s true,” Dramocles said, “then every man’s life is the same. No one has anything but this moment, if I understand you rightly.”

  “Yes, this moment is all we have,” Otho said. “I was naïve when I thought that by extending the number of moments available to me I would extend my life. Life is not measured by years or decades. The heart keeps a different sort of reckoning. The only measure it goes by is intensity.”

  Chemise nodded, but Dramocles said, “I don’t think I quite understand that.”

  “The lowest degree of intensity,” Otho said, “is when a man is asleep or unconscious. If a sleeping man were to live forever, we would not consider him an immortal, at least not in the sense usually meant. Planning for the future to the exclusion of the present is a kind of dreaming.”

  “This is all p
retty abstract for me,” Dramocles said. “You don’t seem disappointed, though, and I’m glad of that. You even seem happy. I’ve never seen you happy before.”

  Otho walked to the balustrade and looked out over the city. “I used to believe that the goal of magic was knowledge. Now I see that it is understanding.”

  “Aren’t the two synonymous?”

  “Not at all. Knowledge is something you can do something with. It can be converted into power. But understanding is a kind of powerlessness. Understanding is of something greater than yourself, something you can’t manipulate, only accept.”

  “Well, Father,” Dramocles said, “those are very philosophical observations indeed, and quite over my head. You look rested and at peace, and I’m very happy to see it. I realize that the future has become a topic of some repugnance to you, in light of recent developments, but I must ask whether you have considered yours.”

  “Yes, I’ve given it some thought.” Otho puffed on his cigar. “Fond as I am of Glorm, I will not stay here. Frankly, this place is a backwater. Earth is the place for me. I control most of it, of course, but that’s not why I’m returning. I’ll probably turn my political powers over to someone else, and retire. I already own a cottage on Capri, a cabana on Ipanema, a houseboat in Kashmir, a finca on Ibiza, a town house in Paris, and a penthouse in New York. I’m sure I’ll be able to keep busy. Earth is an interesting place. You might consider coming with me.”

  “Me?” Dramocles said. “Go to Earth?”

  “You’d like it,” Otho said. “Plenty of interesting opportunities there for a smart young fellow like you. You’ve abdicated the throne, I believe?”

  “Yes,” Dramocles said. “I thought I had to. Otherwise John might have bombarded Glorm.”

  “Do you know what John intends?”

  “Not yet. He and Anne are still deliberating.”

  “It could go very badly for you.”

  “I doubt that John will have me put to death,” Dramocles said. “His feeling against me is more pique than hatred.”