Frank Herbert - High-Opp

“Wait!” It was Addington. “He may be telling the truth, Helmut.”

“What if he is?”

“Where’s Grace?” asked Movius in the same even tone. “I’ll trade you your lives for Grace’s life.”

“You planted that Lang bitch on me, didn’t you?” demanded Glass.

Movius understood then that Glass and Addington did not have Grace. Cecelia had rescued Grace or Cecelia and Grace had been killed in an attempt to escape. Either way, let Glass squirm for what he had done. “Yes, I did,” said Movius. “Cecie was one of my most trusted operatives.”

The Coor’s face contorted. He raised his gun until the muzzle was level with Movius’ chest.

They’ll slaughter you , thought Movius. Those men who stood at attention for me will tear you to pieces a little bit at a time.

A stutter gun chattered. With a remote feeling of amazement, Movius watched Glass crumple to the floor.

“Drop it!” The voice was Addington’s, crazy, hysterical.

Again there was the sound of the gun, the thump of a body falling behind Movius. Vapid-face at the door! Addington stood behind the table with the gun in his hands. He dropped it to the table, held out his hands, palms up.

“I saved your life, Movius. I give myself up to you.”

Movius felt a moment of disgust so deep it sickened him. He took a deep breath. “Tell your men to lay down their arms.”

“You’ll protect me, Movius?”

“I’ll protect you.”

Movius looked out at the dawn light, blue and lucid on the river, the pigeons strutting on O’Brien’s window ledge. He felt drained of all emotion. Would they find her?

Janus Peterson came into the office. Movius heard, turned. Peterson saluted, a stiff motion of finger to forehead. Why did all of the damned fools insist on that stupid gesture? Even Navvy.

Peterson smiled. “We found them, sir. Miss Lang got her away and they found Quilliam. He hid ’em in the tunnels.”

“Where is…”

“She’s on her…”

Grace pushed past Peterson. “Here, darling.” She rushed into his arms.

The little elf , he thought, stroking her hair. The wonderful little elf! He lifted his head, saw Cecelia Lang just outside the door. For a split instant, the shield behind her eyes dropped and he saw the lost, hopeless hurt there. Then she turned away. Quilliam London took her place, came into the room, shut the door. Something odd about Quilliam , he thought. A glazed look in the eyes. A gun in his hand! Janus was backing away from the gun. Movius stiffened.

“Now the reckoning, Mr. Movius,” said Quilliam London. His voice was tight, strange.

Grace pushed away from Movius, turned. “Father! You said…”

“I said many things to come to grips with this monster.” He motioned with the gun. “Stand away from him.”

Grace shook her head.

“I said stand away from him!”

“Listen to me,” said Grace. Her voice was low, flat. “If you kill Dan I shall tell the world who did it. I’ll explain about your precious charts. They’ll tear you and your work to pieces. Your whole life will have been for nothing!”

London’s gun hand wavered. Movius saw Peterson moving a hand slowly toward a pocket.

“Grace…” How old Quilliam’s voice sounded. “I’m…”

“You’ll be a forgotten nothing,” she said. “I’ll teach your grandchild to hate your memory.”

Grandchild, thought Movius. Great Roper! Did any man ever learn under stranger circumstances that he was to be a father?

London said, “Grandchild?” His voice sounded querulous.

Grace strode toward him. “Give me that gun!”

He handed it to her. “Yes, Leone.”

Leone was Grace’s mother.

He allowed Grace to lead him from the room, following quietly.

O’Brien came in sight, strode briskly into the room, stared after Grace and her father, started to turn away and whirled back, “That’s Quilliam!” he said. “He swore he’d…”

“It’s all right,” said Movius. “They’re going down to the infirmary for a sedative. Quilliam isn’t feeling well.” He pointed to the papers O’Brien carried. “What are those?”

O’Brien seemed to recall his mission. “Dan, we’ve got to do something fast. They’re smashing the registration kiosks. A mob broke into Comp Section, ripped apart the Selector. It’ll take a month to repair it. I’ve a…”

Movius took the papers from O’Brien, waved them. “What are these?”

“Messages.” Creases appeared above O’Brien’s eyebrows. “I don’t understand them.”

Movius smiled. “Is there really something you don’t understand, Nate?”

“This is no joke, Dan!” O’Brien snatched back the papers, read from the first one. “Hail, O Movius, savior of the LPs.” He shuffled the papers. “That was from Athens. This is from Peking: ‘To Movius, Light of the Earth.’ Here’s one from New York: ‘Movius, we await your orders.’”

Movius pulled the papers from O’Brien’s hand, examined them.

“They were brought in by couriers,” said O’Brien. “They all say they await your commands.”

“Let me study them,” said Movius. “Bring me any others that arrive.” He took the papers to the table, sat down.

“Dan, this requires immediate action! The people are completely out of hand.”

“Later,” said Movius, waving a hand.

O’Brien started to protest, felt a hand on his arm. He looked up to see Peterson scowling at him. “Mr. Movius wants to be alone to think.” Peterson urged him toward the door.

“But this is my…”

“You heard Mr. Movius!” Peterson growled the words.

O’Brien allowed himself to be led from his own office.

The pendulum had swung through its full arc. What smacked of the old regime could not be tolerated. Although it was not expressed in these terms, the words smacking too much of the poll government, Movius bowed to popular opinion.

The ceremony was held in St. Peter’s Church, Rome, beneath the dome that centuries of worship had gone to preserve. It was a ceremony which took several months to research and preparation to get all of the details correct, but correct they were, down to the smallest costume for the smallest page. Video cameras focused on the event for all the world to see.

On the island of St. Kitts in the Caribbean, three exiles also watched. They sat in a warm room, open to the sea breeze and the smell of flowers. A wide verandah shaded them from the hot sun. In the dim room there was the big, square screen, the murmurous buzzing of flies.

Warren Gerard leaned back in a rattan chair, nervously wiping perspiration from his bald head. Loren Addington sat with his back to a wall, chewed placidly on a lozenge. A door slammed somewhere in the house. He jumped, resumed his chewing.

Quilliam London, his body finally failing after the years of poor food in the Warrens, sat in a wheel chair, a crutch across his lap. As the spiritual descendant of Peter lowered the golden crown onto Emperor Movius’ head, Quilliam London threw his crutch at the video screen, smashing the picture tube.

“Thank you,” said Gerard. “I had nothing to throw.”

“I thought it was kind of pretty,” said Addington.

“You would, owl guts,” said Gerard.

Across the ocean in Rome, Emperor Movius stepped back, watched the crowning of his empress. The bulge of her abdomen where she carried Movius II hardly showed at all through her royal robes.

Afterward, at the remodeled Palazzo San Lorenzo, Emperor Movius granted an audience to his chief counselor, Nathan O’Brien. The audience was in a throne room with O’Brien’s short figure standing at the foot of six steps leading up to a gold throne. Emperor Movius relaxed on the throne.