Exile

by Al Sarrantonio

  "It's a question we humans, since our early times on Earth, have not answered," the senator mused to himself, while Pynthas beside him suddenly found his voice, deciding that he had been insulted, and spewed forth invective, which was not listened to.

  Their entry into the residence of the High Prefect of Mars was not a grand one. The convoy, five pink camouflaged Marine trucks, slipped unobtrusively into the rear gates of the building, down into the depths of the parking garage beneath.

  Senator Kris listened to the funereal clang of the metal doors closing behind him. Men like Pynthas Rei were used to entries like this. But to the senator, this was a new experience. Like all new experiences, it sparked his interest. He noted, for instance, how well armored the underground area was with precious steel walls. That steel had been imported from Earth. The steel-making process had never been perfected on this planet. He imagined these walls dated back to the War for Independence, when more than one Martian landmark had been destroyed by sabotage. Remembering his Earth history, Senator Kris recalled that the Martians, too, had had their Tories.

  you please?" Pynthas Rei said sarcastically, waiting for the senator to exit the vehicle, whose door had been opened by a Marine.

  Senator Kris climbed out. Once again, a phalanx formed around him as they walked to an elevator tube nearby. The tube hissed to a halt and the senator was escorted in.

  As it rose, Senator Kris studied the design of the tube's interior. This, too, seemed to date from the war, with ornate designs reminiscent of ancient Earth's art deco period. The floor was inlaid with green marble—another luxury not often found on Mars.

  "Tell me, Pynthas, do you know anything regarding—"

  The tube arrived at its floor and hissed open.

  "Out!" Pynthas Rei shouted, shoving Senator Kris through the phalanx of Marines and nearly into the insect arms of Prime Cornelian.

  "Pynthas!" Prime Cornelian screeched.

  Instantly the sychophant began to tremble. "That's no way to treat our guest! Now get out—and take these men with you!"

  The Marines turned as one, reboarding the elevator, with Pynthas Rei scrambling into the tube behind them, stumbling and then falling as the doors hissed shut. The end of his tunic caught in the closing mechanism, and the doors flew open again, revealing Pynthas on the floor, mumbling to himself, trying to crawl farther into the elevator's cage.

  Striding forward on his ticking limbs, Prime Cornelian kicked at Pynthas as the doors once again sealed.

  With a faint hiss, the tube lowered.

  Prime Cornelian turned his head without moving his body and gave his slit-eyed insect's smile to Senator Kris.

  "How nice of you to come! I trust you enjoyed your journey home?"

  "It was pleasant enough," Senator Kris answered. "Until I landed."

  Prime Cornelian maneuvered his body around to face the same direction as his head.

  "More pleasant than the last—or should I say final—session of the Senate. You missed quite a meeting."

  "I demand to know when the plebiscite will take place."

  Prime Cornelian ignored the challenge, moving past the senator to the depths of the room. At the far end, the wall from ceiling to floor spread out in a magnificent window showing a panorama of the city of Lowell below; nearly to the edge of the field, sandstone structures dotted the landscape, while down the center, between the High Prefect's residence and the dome of the Senate chambers a mile distant, spread a mall of pale green grass. Continually fertilized, a soft fescue completely unlike the tough stiff native grasses, it was the only bed of its kind on the planet. Citizens flew kites and picnicked on that expanse; and occasionally it was the site of protest to various government measures—though this day not a protester was in sight.

  Prime Cornelian stopped at the window, took in the vista for a moment, then turned to face the senator.

  "What news have you from Earth? Did you gain the trading pact the late High Prefect sought?"

  "We both know you have no intention of honoring that pact."

  Cornelian shrugged, an eerie gesture. "Soon there will be no need."

  "I've warned Faulkner of your designs."

  "No matter. There is nothing he can do. This is a resource-poor world, and we have been polite about getting what we need long enough. That will change."

  "With war?"

  Cornelian smiled thinly. "You remember that Mars was the god of war, Kris. You forget the wars that were fought here long ago."

  "Those were foolish times, and we've tried to banish that spirit from Mars."

  "Tried, yes. But succeeded? I don't think so. You yourself have watched the people recently. At first they thought me a circus freak. So did the High Prefect. They listened, smiled, and then went back to their daily lives. But in the last months my word has started to take hold. They've begun to listen. As shortages began to affect them—less Earth sugar for their coffee, less Titanian metals for their jewelry—their ears have pricked up. They look around at the other of the Four Worlds and say, 'Why don't we have that? Why must we pay so much for that?' And soon they will be ready to say, 'Why don't we just take that?'

  "You'll never get them to follow you blindly, Cornelian."

  "We both know how wrong you are, Senator. The amount of unrest following the Senate's and High Prefect's departure was surprisingly small. I crushed it, of course. It also helped that I blamed the High Prefect's assassination on Venusian agents. The Senate was wiped out by agents from Earth, of course."

  Senator Kris barely held in his boiling anger. "They won't follow you into war."

  "Oh, but they will. They want someone to lead them, to tell them what to do. A little terror may be necessary, of course—but in the end they'll follow gladly. Already the old war spirit is resurfacing. Enlistment in the Marines is up thirty-five percent!"

  "Once again I ask you: When will the plebiscite take place?"

  Prime Cornelian's eye slits narrowed. "I notice that your daughter did not come up with you. Is she resting?"

  Senator Kris said nothing.

  "Did she proceed to your residence to refresh herself after the journey? I trust I'll see her this evening?"

  "She's not on Mars, Cornelian."

  For a moment Prime Cornelian was visibly stunned.

  He quickly recovered. His nails clicking on the stone floor, he walked slowly over to stand beside the senator.

  "Did I hear you correctly?" he hissed, his metallic breath warm on Senator Kris's face.

  With effort, Senator Kris retained his composure. "She's not on Mars. I know what you want from her, and I've taken steps to assure that you never receive it."

  For a moment there was nothing but the hot, oilscented bellows of Prime Cornelian's breath on the senator's face.

  "You were very foolish to do this, Kris."

  "She's my daughter."

  "Yes, but she would have been—will be—much more!"

  "I could not allow that to happen."

  "She will go through that with or without you! Who do you dare to think you are?" One metallic hand, fingers splayed and locked, drew back and came across Senator Kris's face, cutting deep across the cheek and knocking him to the ground.

  "You dare to oppose me? Your daughter belongs to me!"

  "Not if I can help it," Kris said through pain.

  Prime Cornelian moved forward to stand over the fallen senator; straddling his body, his head ratcheted down to stop inches from Kris's own. Kris could hear the whirs and tickings within Prime Cornelian's corpus; could smell the faint scent of plastic, metal, and lubricants.

  "Listen to me very carefully," Prime Cornelian hissed. The slits of his eyes had become thin and sharp as knife blades. "No one ever disobeys me, Kris. No one."

  Prime Cornelian lowered his metallic torso to rest upon the prone body of Senator Kris. Sudden fear rose into the senator's eyes, and he stared straight into the huge elongated quartz orbs of Prime Cornelian.

  With a faint humming sound,
Prime Cornelian's body began to descend, like a shop press toward its lower plate. The senator's body began to feel pressure, and he found it hard to breathe.

  "Comfortable, Kris?" Cornelian purred.

  Prime Cornelian's body continued to lower in precise increments.

  Senator Kris gasped, and suddenly two ribs in his chest cracked with a muffled snap, followed by two more.

  "Cornelian—for the love of--God!"

  Cornelian's face split into a smile, even as the rest of his torso continued its inexorable lowering.

  Another rib cracked, and another, and now Senator Kris's face began to go blue with lack of oxygen. The red gash on the senator's face showed deep purple.

  "Cor . . . nelian!"

  There was another chorus of breaking ribs, and then Prime Cornelian suddenly pulled his body up and away from the gasping senator.

  Senator Kris fell into unconsciousness, then rose out of it to find himself being dragged across the floor toward the elevator cage by two burly Marines.

  He tried to gasp out words, but they would not rise through the pain he felt.

  "Don't worry, Kris—you'll live, at least for a while. Look on this as an example of what is to come. I very much wanted to kill you a moment ago. I could have lowered myself until your body had turned to jelly. Besides being messy, though, it occurred to me in the middle of that plan that it would be best to let you live—although in a rather reduced state. "By the way: I lied about the plebiscite."

  There came excruciating pain in Senator Kris's chest as the Marines dumped his body on the floor of the elevator.

  The senator floated down toward unconsciousness once more, hearing Prime Cornelian's final words:

  "You're alive because you'll make wonderful bait to catch your daughter!"

  Chapter 6

  It is strange how, one's perspective changes with morning light.

  Despite his heartsickness, Dalin Shar slept well. And when he awoke, with the sun streaming through his open window and a soft breeze wafting the curtains, it seemed as if the events of the day before had happened to someone else.

  He was not quite himself again, to be sure. But now it seemed like his interlude with Tabrel Kris had been a pleasant afternoon spent in a dream. That Dalin Shar, who had given away his heart so quickly and so freely, seemed somewhat distant now, somewhat foolish. After all, how could one tell, from a single brief meeting, that one had met the love of one's life? How could a king, ruler of a planet, declare true love with his heart before his head had had time to be brought in for consultation?

  After all, Dalin Shar had known love before. There had been other meetings in that garden, other gazings into various eyes, of blue, of hazel green, of violet—yes, he particularly remembered those violet eyes, set in the perfectly chiseled bronze face of the daughter of his Nubian governor. Hadn't that been an afternoon to remember! And hadn't the rest of her body proven to be as perfectly sculpted as her face.

  But something tugged at the corners of Dalin Shar's memories of these other garden meetings, seeking to push them aside to inconsequence. Yes, there had been kissing involved, and groping limbs, but—

  A measure of the misery Dalin Shar had felt the night before, on learning that Tabrel Kris was betrothed to another, returned like a wave through him. He suddenly felt sick in his stomach, short of breath, a pain no doctor could treat moving through him from head to toe—

  "Damnation!"

  He ran to the window, sought to draw the fresh morning air into his lungs, feel the warming sun on his face, sought to forget—

  But no, there was her face, in his mind, in his heart. Burned there as if by raser fire. He knew that he would never be able to burn it out without tearing his own heart and brain from his body. It was as if some hideous disease had taken hold of him—hideous and wonderful at the same time—and he would always, from now on, be beholden to this parasite within him.

  From the window, he looked out over the beauty of the royal grounds, the topiary sculptures of extinct animals—lion, elephant, tiger—bordering theperfectly clipped lawns, the rolling hills of verdant green, the bloomed flowers in riotous colors in the mazed garden—and once more, all he could see on this beautiful day was her face.

  "Damnation!"

  Concurrent with this oath came a brisk knock on the door, and Dalin Shar turned his attention to it rather than bask in his present anguish.

  "Come in!"

  The door opened, revealing his valet, the manlike, chromed length of his body bedecked in a crisp black and white servant's uniform. The smooth oval sphere of his head, eyeless and bald, turned in Dalin's direction as the valet rose from his bow.

  "It is time for you to dress, sir. And eat. Have you showered yet? Shaved?"

  "No . . ." Dalin said absently.

  "May I serve your breakfast then, sir?"

  "Yes . . ."

  Instantly, another robot, not more than a table with wheels, rolled in around the valet and stopped by Dalin Shar's side. An arrangement of covered dishes smoothly slid their silver covers off, revealing a perfect slice of deep green melon, steaming scrambled eggs, a neat row of bacon.

  Absently Dalin reached down to pick up a slice of bacon; absently he chewed on it while he turned his attention to the breezy day outside the window.

  "Valet, has Minister Faulkner arrived yet?"

  "Funny you should ask, sir. He has arrived and is awaiting you in the conference chamber."

  Dalin Shar absently chewed on his bacon, staring toward the gardens.

  "Valet, do you know anything about love?"

  Behind him, the valet straightened. "What is it you wish to know, sir? I can access anything you desire." The valet's even voice retained its flat demeanor. "If you meai physical love, there are precisely two hundred and fourteen positions between human female and human male—"

  "That's not what I meant, valet," Dalin Shar said. "I was speaking of being in love."

  "Ah. I can, of course, access love poetry, or other classical allusions to the subject, such as Mahideen's Chasteness of the Lair or Shakespeare's ancient play Romeo and Juliet. I can—"

  "Never mind, valet."

  "I presume you are in love, sir?"

  Dalin almost laughed at the placid preciseness with which the valet's words were delivered.

  "Oh, yes, valet: I am in love."

  "Congratulations, sir."

  This time a laugh broke from Dalin's lips, and Dalin's morose spell was broken.

  He looked down at the slice of bacon he was eating and at the rest of his breakfast, and realized he had an appetite after all.

  "All right, valet," he said, "that's enough of love for now. You may fetch my clothes."

  The valet bowed. "Very well, sir."

  Tabrel Kris was sick of starlight.

  She used to think, when she was a girl, that starlight was for lovers. But now she was not so sure. With little else to do during the trip and little space to do it in the Titanian freighter that had picked up her life raft, she had spent most of her days wedged between pallets of goods in the cargo hold, staring out the single porthole. The crew—two androids and a lecherous old salt who had spent as much of the first few days regaling Tabrel with stories of his life on cargo ships as he did eyeing her bosom—had proven inadequate company, and she had at first found solace alone with only perpetual night as her companion.

  But that companionship had proven as inadequate as that of the crew, and, when she wasn't worrying about her father, she found herself thinking more and more of that first startling kiss with King Dalin Shar of Earth.

  She had never felt anything like it before —and knew in her heart that she would never feel anything-quite like it again. It had been like putting a hand into a wave generator a shock one was not likely to forget.

  And she was sure he had felt it, too.

  She wondered what Dalin Shar was doing now. Her first impressions of him—too young, callow, insulated, and inexperienced—had proven in many way
s to be correct. She had known, going into that garden with him, that he would try to kiss her; she imagined he had done 'such a thing many times before. She had entered into an agreement with herself that she would let him play out his game, since at the very least it would be a diplomatic thing to do—but when the kiss finally came, she knew it had been like a bolt of lightning to both of them.

  Is this how true love comes?

  Once again, staring idly at the wash of passing stars outside her window, she wondered what he was doing now, if he was thinking of her.

  Such foolishness, but so much time to do nothing else, unless she wanted to worry about her father. There came a bang and creaking sound which

  announced the opening of the cargo bay's old hatch. "Missy, you in there?"

  Where else would I be, you old lecher? she thought—but out of inbred politeness she said, "Yes, Captain, I'm here."

  "At your old porthole, eh?" Captain Weens cackled, making his appearance between two lashed pallets of tall crates. He put his hands on his hips, and once more his one good eye strayed down to her bust.

  Tabrel crossed her arms over her chest to thwart his stare.

  "You require something, Captain?"

  "Just company, deary," Weens said. "I gets tired o' scrapping with them two metal heaps up front. They don't want to hear 'bout nothing save the truth." He cackled again, leaning closer to Tabrel. "Did I tell ye about when I was a younger man, on

  62 Al Sarrantonio

  the crew o' the Abilene, when the whole aft section o' the ship got blowed away by a meteorite?" Weens shook his head. "Oh, that was a sight—."

  As politely as she could, Tabrel interjected, "Yes, Captain, you told me."

  Weens stood up straight. "Oh. Then did I tell you 'bout losing me eye?" He flipped up his black patch to reveal, for the tenth time, the charred crater of his socket. "Took a raser shot right in the looker, I did. Would o' burned me brain out if my retina hadn't deflected it portside." He pointed to a scarred round section on the same side of his temple. "Shot came out right there, it did. That's when they named me Popeye—"