Executive (24 page)

But the neighborhood where my family had lived was gone, or at least changed. Increasing population had forced more crowded quarters, and the look of it differed. The street where my lovely sister Faith had been braced by the scion, setting off our ruin—I could not tell which one it was now. Our old domicile—impossible to tell exactly where it had been. Too much time had passed, too much recent history had intervened. It might have been easier to locate Amber's root-location, elsewhere in Halfcal, but she had no desire to do that, and I didn't push it.

What of that scion, the young punk whose misshapen vengeance had so threatened us? I didn't even inquire, knowing that today, if he lived, he would be nearing sixty years old, a completely different person. I was not here for this sort of retribution.

We were received at the domicile of the current leader, Junior Doc. The name had become a kind of title in an ongoing repression that had endured for centuries. Junior was actually about my age, which meant he hadn't been in power when I departed Callisto; that helped. It made it possible for him to assure me that things had changed and that families like mine would not be forced to flee today.

“I am most gratified to hear you say that, señor ,” I replied. “Because Jupiter is being overrun by illegal immigrants, and this is causing us considerable expense. I have talked to the authorities of RedSpot about this, and they have graciously agreed to take positive steps to restrict the flow of people from their border.” Because I had made it plain that no loans or financial guarantees would be extended otherwise and that the all-important rate of interest on the loans extant could be raised or lowered at my whim.

Every point those rates increased was like a sledgehammer blow to the economy of RedSpot.

“But you are of Halfcal stock!” Junior protested. “Surely you cannot turn your back on your own kind!”

“Surely not,” I agreed. “But there are ways and ways.”

“As you know, Señor Tyrant, we are very poor,” he said cunningly. “A good loan would enable us to take better care of our poor.”

“Odd thing about good loans,” I remarked. “In the past the money has somehow found its way to the coffers of the richest class, while the poor have been benefited very little, and, of course, those loans are seldom, if ever, repaid.”

“Much of our budget goes necessarily to defense,” he continued almost without pause. “If we were to receive sufficient military aid, then more of the basic resources would be available for our basic needs.”

“Odd thing about military aid,” I remarked in the same tone as before. “Somehow it seems to have made the military commands of Latin nations so strong that they have then taken over the governments of their countries, replacing republics with military oligarchies or outright dictatorships.”

“There may be something to be said for an enlightened dictatorship,” he observed, glancing at me sidelong. “Certainly when conscientious reforms are undertaken. If Halfcal were to receive, for example, a preferred price for its coffee exports, I'm sure certain reforms—”

“Odd thing about reforms, señor . Either they fail to proceed far beyond the stage of rhetoric or they become too effective. An oppressive government that ceases to torture its citizens can be overthrown by those who are less concerned about human rights, so the effort is wasted.”

“Small danger of that here,” he murmured, but for some reason did not push the point. “However, direct economic aid should be effective—”

“Odd thing: the donations of food and machinery and materials we have made in the past have somehow turned up for sale on the interplanetary black market.”

Junior sighed. “You are a hard man to bargain with, ¡señor! But surely we could find some accommodation?”

“If the bubble-folk were to stop arriving in our atmosphere, so that we were not constantly distracted by these unfortunates, we might be inclined to contribute somewhat to their betterment at home. Food, perhaps—the same we use on Jupiter.”

“Yours is dosed to make your people sterile!” he protested.

“Temporarily infecund,” I agreed. “The antidote is in the hands of the government. Your birthrate would decline, of course. Is that too great a sacrifice?”

He considered. “Antidote available to the elite—assuming any of them used that food? No, I think we can accommodate that sacrifice.”

“We do expect most of that food to go to the poor.” That was the same pitch I had made to RedSpot: food that would not only help feed their impoverished but would drastically curtail the birthrate of that class—the class that was encroaching on the territory of the U.S. of J. If that food found its way to the black market, it would be easy for us to withhold the antidote; that enforced proper distribution.

RedSpot had been similarly hospitable to the notion. Thorley and other commentators were to castigate me roundly for this device, but it seemed at the time to be the expedient course. I was, after all, the Tyrant; the hard decisions were mine to make.

His eyes almost glinted. “Certainly they would be more inclined to remain at home if their situation were bettered. I think it very likely that few, if any, would seek your skies.”

I nodded. Underlings would work out the details: aid for Halfcal, a cutoff of the flow of refugees for Jupiter. We parted with understanding smiles.

But on the ship, on the way home, Amber spoke up. She addressed me in Spanish, of course. “I do not know about these things, but I think Hopie would ask—”

“How can I torpedo my own kind?” I finished with a sigh. "I would just have to explain to my daughter that no matter how bad things may seem to the poverty-stricken natives of Halfcal, they would be worse in space. We cleaned out the pirates, to be sure, but space remains dangerous for those inadequately prepared, and the chances of any given refugee making it safely to Jupiter are only one in three or four.

And what will he find there? Only unemployment, if he can't speak English—and most of them can't. He will hardly be better off than he was before."

“She would say, 'But you were a refugee!' ”

“I would reply: 'I am no longer a refugee. I am the Government of Jupiter. My loyalties have changed.' ”

“She would say, 'You have been corrupted by power.' ”

“I am the Tyrant,” I agreed.

And it came home to me with special force now: I was, indeed, the Tyrant. Power had not corrupted me, it had merely changed my perspective. But how was any Halfcal refugee to perceive the distinction? I was now acting exactly the way any dictator did, with seeming callousness for the common man. Yet what else could I do? The rationale, as stated indirectly to my daughter, was valid. No single man could repeal the basic laws of economics.

“Who is Megan?” she asked abruptly.

I was not entirely comfortable with this question from this source at this time, but I answered. “She is my wife.”

“Why isn't she with you now?”

“She cannot bring herself to participate in the Tyrancy.”

“But she loves you?”

“Yes.”

“How can that be?”

“She would say that it is possible to hate the sin but to love the sinner.”

She was silent. I was braced for questions about my relations with other women and with Amber herself, while I remained married to this great and good woman, but they did not come. Apparently Amber now understood as much as she needed to.

Amber came to me when I was alone in my room. I knew Shelia and Coral had arranged to provide us this privacy. My skin experienced a cold wash; I was abruptly afraid.

She stood before me silently. I forced open my mouth and whispered: “You are in English?”

She nodded. I would have to change her over to Spanish to have her talk. I was tempted to avoid the issue by declining to do that. I compromised. “Amber, it is you in the helmet,” I said. She nodded again.

“But there you can speak.” Once more the nod.

“But not in life.” I sighed. “Amber, I am afraid of you now. I don't know whether I should change you over to Spanish and let you talk.”

She remained mute and unmoving. I looked into her face and saw a shine in her eye. Tears were forming.

They melted me. “Oh, Amber!” I exclaimed, and stepped into her and embraced her. She hugged me back, and our tears flowed. No, I could not deny her!

But neither could I accept her—yet. “Amber,” I said gently into her hair as I held her. “I do not truly love anyone, in the sense that love is normally understood. But you—what I feel for you is close.” I kissed her, and she returned the kiss, exactly as she had always done in the helmet. "But this—this is not yet right.

There are things I—we—must clear first."

She merely gazed at me. I thought again of putting her into Spanish mode but delayed it again. I knew that she would go along with anything I decided; I was the one who was hesitant. So I tried to explain, to myself as much as to her.

“Amber, I am fifty-two years old. You are fifteen. You have been placed in my charge. It is not right for me to do this with you.”

Again the tears formed in her eyes. She thought I was rejecting her.

I embraced her again. She was not Helse, and I knew that; she differed markedly in personality and abilities. But the way she looked—it was as if she were just coming into Helse's range, physically.

Perhaps all girls, all Hispanic girls, have a similar aspect at that age. Megan, who was Saxon, had also resembled Helse, and in that resemblance my fascination had been caught, though Megan was a totally different person. I knew better, but I knew I had to have this girl. Maybe it was a retreat to an impossible past, but it was necessary.

“Amber, I'll do it,” I told her. “But you will have to help. We shall have to tell my daughter Hopie, and that will be the most difficult part. Then I must notify my leading critic, for reasons that you would not understand. But for you: Hopie will come to you, and then you must tell her how you feel. She may then become your enemy. Are you prepared to face that?”

Slowly Amber nodded.

I felt, almost, regret. This was going to complicate my life significantly. But my nature gave me no choice.

I talked to Hopie. It was every bit as bad as I had feared. I tried to come at it obliquely, but I suspect that there was no approach I could have made that would have avoided her reaction. “Hopie, I have to ask you to do something that I fear you will not like,” I said.

“What else is new, Daddy?” she inquired brightly.

“This does not relate to education. You have been doing well enough on that, and I'm pleased.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You're up to something.”

“I will need your cooperation, and this may not be easy for you,” I continued grimly. “And I must ask you to go to Thorley and inform him of the situation.”

“Thorley's not so bad,” she said. “He really helped me on education; you know that. I could almost like him, if he weren't so conservative.”

“You will not like telling him this.”

“I can tell him whatever I need to; he doesn't have to like it,” she said confidently. “But what is this big mystery?”

“It involves Amber.” My throat tried to tighten.

“She's doing very well, Daddy; she's gotten taller and she's filling out and she's happy.”

“I am aware of that. But her status is about to change.”

Hopie abruptly sobered. “Daddy, you can't send her away! She's like a little sister to me! She's very good with Robertico, and she makes no demands at all. And she thinks the world of you.”

“Not to send her away,” I said with difficulty.

She relaxed somewhat. “What, then?”

“I want you to continue to—to treat her as a sister. To go places with her, to help her deal with those who do not understand her nature. To be her friend.”

“Daddy, that goes without saying!” she chided me. “I love her!”

“So do I,” I whispered.

“Of course! You understand her best of all. So what's the problem?”

“She will not always be spending the night with you anymore. You must accept that without being angry.”

“Not with me? Where would she sleep, then? Daddy, she doesn't like to be alone.”

“She will not be alone.”

“With whom, then? There's really nobody—”

“With me.”

“Oh. You have special languages for her to listen to?”

“In a sense.” I wished I could postpone this indefinitely.

“Daddy, exactly what are you trying to tell me?” she demanded.

“I want... to take Amber...to be my mistress.”

This was so far from her expectation that she missed the implication entirely. “Mistress of what, Daddy?”

I took a shuddering breath. “To be my sexual companion.”

Now it dawned. “To what? ”

“I—she and I have had a relationship via the helmet. An affair. Now we want to make it real.”

She stared at me. “Helmet—the feelies? You and Amber?”

I nodded.

“Sex? As in the Navy?”

“Yes.”

“With her? ”

“Yes.”

She considered. “I don't believe this!”

“Believe it,” I said miserably.

“You—she—Daddy, she's younger than I am! ”

“Yes.”

“And you mean to—to force her to—to satisfy your lusts?”

“No force.”

“No force!” she exclaimed, her face flaming. “Fifteen years old, absolutely dependent on you for her very life and you want her body, and you say there's no force?! ”

“She wants it too,” I said.

“She wants not to be thrown out into space if she says no!” she cried. “She's afraid she'll be tortured if she tries to resist the mighty Tyrant!”

“No. No fear. She came to me, via the helmet. She—”

“And you raped her in the helmet? And now you want to do it for real? And you expect me to go along?”

“Hopie, I wish you would try to understand,” I said. I put my hand on her arm. It was a mistake.

She became violent. She threw my hand off. “How could you!” she cried, and punched me in the right eye.

The pain flared, but I did not move or resist. “I do love her, in my fashion.”

“ In your fashion! ” she exclaimed derisively. “The way you loved Roulette in the Navy?”

“Somewhat like that,” I agreed. “But without violence.”