He’d done a bit of preliminary research. Prince Ali was a brat who had cowed his father’s subordinates and even the teachers at the Foxcrest Academy, the English military school he’d haphazardly attended.
A comment made by one of his comrades, very off the cuff: The Prince lived in a cocoon, a carefully maintained illusion of superior mental and physical skills. No one dared tell him no, or defeat him at anything. He could guess that Ali might have convinced his father to invest heavily in the Moon, perceived by many of his countrymen to be a waste of precious resources.
A spoiled brat. He’d danced that dance before, and too recently. “The numbers discussed for full participation. Is that amount still on the table?”
“Yes.”
“I would need an additional 20 percent applied to the principal, and the per diem. In essence, I’m off the market for almost a year.”
“That can be accommodated.”
Damn! Well…
“Sir, I would like to provisionally agree, depending on completion of research and interaction. But… I have to admit it sounds interesting.”
“I thought that you would.”
“And I would like to meet your son.”
7
Most of the palace was a mixture of styles ranging from European colonial to traditional Congolese and Pan- African, celebrating the lives and accomplishments of Kikaya’s ancestors and people. The west wing was Kikaya III’s wing. It seemed to Scotty that the decor celebrated, more than anything, an exhaustive addiction to science fiction, fantasy and gaming. He noticed that Kikaya II, walking at his side, grew tight-lipped with disapproval as they moved deeper into the fannish abyss.
Complete sets of original Heinlein, Bradbury, Clarke, Le Guin, Butler, Kanazawa. Scotty recognized signatures on wall paintings from Kelly Freas, Frank Frazetta, Michael Whelan and Sue Tong.
Sculptures crowded every nook and cranny. “Your son is quite the collector.”
“Yes,” Kikaya said. “Some even have value. Purchased through agents, or by traveling to these science fiction conventions. Have you been to such a ‘convention’? The people seem… quite strange.”
“One or two. And the fans are actually pretty normal people in outside life. They just like to cut loose from time to time.”
“He is actually an artist. He has had the best teachers. These drawings are his.” Framed images of mutant sea horses, tool-using insectile creatures and strange robotic devices graced the hall opposite the Prince’s door. The King sighed, and entered without knocking.
Every wall of the room was covered with video chips, capable of slicing the wall into a hundred separate screens, or submerging the occupants into a completely immersive environment. Right now, stepping into that room was like stepping onto an Antarctic plain, even down to the blast of cold wind blowing from the ventilation system. This was a full-service gaming room, custom built by Cowles Industries or a close competitor.
“Ali,” King Kikaya said.
There was no reply. His sole heir gazed intensely into the game room’s control field, using his eyes and hands and feet to manipulate the image of a sled-dog team apparently attempting to outrun a herd of ravenous Yetis. The boy was of moderate height, whip-slender, his hair braided into rows and nodes so tight his head resembled an ear of corn. His facial features were almost excessively fine, as if carved in chocolate by a woman’s hand.
Kikaya raised his voice. “Ali!”
“In a minute, Father.”
The Prince was given his sixty seconds, and when there was still no answer forthcoming, the King clicked a “kill” code with tongue and teeth. The images froze.
Ali rattled off a string of rapid-fire Congolese, and his father replied in the same language. Then, for the first time, the boy looked directly at Scotty. “My father considers it discourteous to speak in a language a guest does not understand. I do not wish to be rude.” He said this in a voice that implied You are not needed.
“Father,” Ali said. “I was approaching the seventh level!”
Kikaya seemed to struggle to control himself, perhaps not wishing to lose his temper in front of an outsider.
“Ali,” he said. “Here is someone I want you to meet. He will travel with you on this lunar adventure.”
“The bodyguard,” Ali said, mocking. “The Moon is an assassin’s paradise, I am sure.”
King Kikaya shook his head. “How will you control this nation?” he asked. “You have sworn to me that you will be ready to accept the mantle of leader, but I do not see it, Ali.”
Ali looked up, earlier irritation giving way to a far more conciliatory tone. “Father. I swear to you that I will fulfill my duties. Until then, I don’t understand why you criticize my little entertainments.”
“And your past follies?
Scotty had an odd feeling, almost as if he, as a commoner, was too unimportant for these two to edit themselves.
“Like England’s Henry,” Ali smiled. When his father did not reply, Ali turned again to Scotty. “Do you know your Shakespeare?”
“Henry set a trap for his father’s enemies by pretending dissipation.” He paused. “Just call me Falstaff. We’ll get along fine.”
Ali raised a royal eyebrow. “Indeed?”
Kikaya wagged his leonine head. “My son, the time for kings is past in this world. Our people want democracy.”
With a last regretful look at the screens before him, Kikaya III slipped off his mesh cap and goggles, and stood to face his father. The boy was slender, whipcord strong and straight. It seemed to Scotty that the monarch was struggling to maintain a stern demeanor.
Did Kikaya remind his father of his own youthful dreams, his own efforts to measure up to paternal demands?
Scotty had read up. Kikaya II’s life had been filled with war and intense political action. His son, in comparison, had been given the world. There had been rumors of tension between father and son… and now he understood. Nineteen-year-old Ali was a spoiled brat, and Daddy was afraid that, when his time came to take power, the boy would be eaten alive.
Every father wants his son to have the advantages he himself was denied. But then, if you provide those advantages, you risk producing a weakling. The core parental paradox.
Ali was speaking to his father, but in another way, he seemed to be talking to himself. “Father… all my life I have awaited the moment when you felt I was ready to serve my people. I hope you live to be two hundred, but I know that when the time comes, I will be a good king. The last king of Kikaya.”
“And what of your own firstborn?”
“He will be raised to wealth, power and privilege… but not a throne. Our family has vast holdings. That will have to be enough.”
It was the right answer, but felt rehearsed. So the grandson wouldn’t be king. Scotty silently bet himself that the kid would go for “President for Life.” What the hell-every other dictator did.
Kikaya II sighed. “You see what concerns me, Mr. Griffin. My son does not appreciate the truth of power. It is all a game to him. I hope that this trip will be the end of one phase of his life, and the beginning of another.”
“Sir,” Scotty said. “I’m sure the Prince will be everything you wish, and more.” He tried to detect a change in expression on Ali’s part. Any hint of his attitudes and emotions. Not much: The kid was a cipher.
Kikaya spoke first. “You need to get to know this man,” he said. “He has agreed to accompany you during your training, transportation and during the game itself.”
