Fall of Knight

by Peter David

  “Because we don’t know how he’s doing it,” Stockwell said.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters! If he were passing out specially grown plants that were giving people a sense of euphoria on a national—make that international—scale, wouldn’t it seem reasonable for the Federal government to intercede?”

  “If it’s an unknown substance, of course! But this is water! You said it yourself. Plain water.”

  “It’s obviously not just plain water, and we need to obtain the so-called Holy Grail so it can be subjected to extensive studies.”

  “But it’s not ours to take!”

  “It wasn’t Arthur’s to take either. Nor…what was his name? Percival’s,” Stockwell said reasonably. “Was it? I mean, it was an ancient artifact. According to you, they recovered it from someone fancying himself to be Gilgamesh, of all things. But that doesn’t mean they’re entitled to it. Something like that belongs to the world, not one person.”

  “And the world is reaping its benefits. May I point out, sir, that you didn’t bring any of this up when Arthur was here in the White House with the damned thing!” Ron had never, ever lost his temper in the Oval Office, but he knew he was coming awfully close and did everything he could to rein himself in. “You could have tried to keep him here! You—”

  As angry as Ron was getting, Stockwell was the exact opposite, the picture of calm. “With the whole world watching, the city on the verge of blowing apart, and, oh, by the way, I didn’t really believe what the Grail was capable of accomplishing? Yes, Ron, I could have done that, but I didn’t. I screwed up. I should have just locked him up when I had the opportunity. Does that make you feel better?”

  “No, Mr. President, it really doesn’t.”

  “Ron”—and Stockwell drummed idly on the desk with two fingers—“the simple fact is that there’s every reason for the government to take a stronger hand in this matter. Something that is affecting so many citizens, especially when it possesses properties that we can only guess at, simply has to be under our control. And don’t ask me what right we have, because you know the term ‘eminent domain’ as well as I.”

  “That’s for acquiring property for public works.”

  “It’s for acquiring whatever we damned well say is worth acquiring.”

  “And you have to provide just compensation, as per the Constitution,” Ron reminded him. “Grail Ale is projected to rake in billions. You’ll have to empty out the entire Federal Reserve and throw in the Air and Space Museum and the USS Eisenhower, and you still probably won’t be able to offer him what the thing is worth.”

  “We’ll find ways. I’m sure he’ll take money on an installment plan.”

  “And what I’m sure of,” replied Ron, “is that he’ll take off the head of whoever tries to remove the Grail from his possession. And if he doesn’t, you can sure as hell bet that Percival will. You don’t know what they’re capable of, and you don’t know what the Grail is capable of either.” He leaned forward intensely. “It can transform into a sword, did you know that?”

  “A sword?”

  “A weapon of such power and magnitude, that I don’t know what it’s capable of. The only thing that stood up to it was Excalibur. I don’t know if anything else could.”

  Stockwell’s eyes widened. “So you’re telling me that an object capable of possibly unimaginable destruction is in the hands of several private citizens…and we’re not supposed to do anything about it?”

  That stopped Ron cold. He wanted to rewind time and take back what he’d just said. Failing that, he wanted to beat himself upside the head with a baseball bat for being so damned stupid as to mention the vessel’s other properties.

  “How does it change forms?” asked Stockwell.

  Ron knew that Percival had developed a sort of rapport with the Grail and was capable of controlling its form. But he wasn’t certain if telling the president that was going to make matters better or worse. Which left him in one hell of a position, having to sit there in the Oval Office and lie to the president of the United States. Still, he decided to opt for discretion, and simply said, “I’m really not sure.”

  “You’re really not sure.”

  “No, sir.”

  Stockwell nodded, continuing to drum on his desk. He had elected to use what was called the Kennedy desk when he had taken office. Ron could almost imagine John John darting around under the desk while his father worked. What was it that they called those days again? Oh…right. Camelot. Ron smiled mirthlessly at the recollection.

  “Ron,” Stockwell finally said, “here’s what I need you to do. You know Arthur better than anyone here. I don’t need to send the army in to invade Seltzer’s compound and take the Grail by force. I don’t need the bad press; I don’t need the lousy pictures that will certainly accompany it that will make us look like a police state. Long story short, I don’t need the grief and, as chief of staff, neither do you. What I want you to do is contact Arthur, tell him to come here. Quietly. Under the table. No fuss, no muss. And he has to bring the Grail. Tell him…tell him whatever you want. Tell him there’s a dying five-year-old boy here in the White House whose last wish is to see the cup of Christ before he dies, that he’s too ill to travel, that they gave him Grail Ale and it wasn’t getting the job done so he needs the real thing. Come up with something. I have confidence in you.”

  “And you figure he’s going to bring the Grail here…”

  “And we’ll do the rest.”

  Ron stared down the president. “The rest meaning…?”

  “Ron…I assume you’ve been listening to what I said. Let’s not take another two or three trips around the barn. You know perfectly well what I mean by ‘the rest.’”

  “You’re going to take it from him.”

  “By force if necessary, yes.”

  “It will have to be by force, I would think,” said Ron Cordoba, “and furthermore, I don’t think you’re going to be successful.”

  “Really. Well, Ron, I have a national security advisor, a secretary of defense, and armed troops with enough gas grenades to bring down a herd of stampeding yak, all of whom say you’re very much mistaken. But I want this to go down with minimal problems, and you’re key to that.”

  Ron took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Somehow he’d known—he’d always known—that it would come to this sooner or later. “Sir…respectfully, I cannot be your ‘key’ in this matter. I think this is an abuse of power, and I cannot be a willing party to it.”

  “Then you can be an unwilling party to it,” Stockwell said, still sounding amazingly reasonable about the whole thing. “Do it under protest, I don’t care. But do it. Consider that a direct order.”

  Ron stood, steeling himself, squaring his shoulders, and wondering how in God’s name he was going to tell Nellie about this. He was certain she would respect him for this decision far more than if he’d served as the bait to coax Arthur and Percival into a trap. Certainly he respected himself more. “Sir…if that is the case, then consider this my official resignation as your chief of staff.”

  He braced himself, wondering what Stockwell would do. He’d certainly seen Stockwell lose his temper any number of times. It could be a truly frightening thing to see. Granted, not as frightening as seeing two epic titans battling to the death while the ground beneath your feet was breaking apart, but daunting nevertheless.

  But Stockwell didn’t seem the least bit put out. Instead he continued to seem unnaturally calm. “And if I refuse to accept?”

  “Well, I think your refusal is going to melt in the face of the irrefutable fact that I’m not going to be in my office anymore. If you want me to stay on, sir, then you’re going to have to drop this plan to ambush Arthur…”

  “So you’re dictating terms to me now, are you?”

  “That is not my intention, sir. But if the price of my remaining as your chief of staff is betraying Arthur Penn, then it’s too high a price to pay.”

&n
bsp; Stockwell considered this for a time, then—infuriatingly—he merely shrugged. “That’s your decision, Ron. If you’d like, we’ll issue a press release in which you simply explain that you want to dedicate more time to being with your imminent family. How’s that?”

  Ron felt as if a body blow had just been delivered to his solar plexus. All he did, though, was nod, and say, “That would be fine.”

  He had been standing the entire time. Now Stockwell rose and stuck out a hand. “It’s been an honor working with you, Ron.”

  “I regret it’s come to an end, sir,” said Ron, shaking Stockwell’s hand and feeling as if he were having an out-of-body experience.

  He started to turn and head for the door that led to his office, his mind still reeling at the unexpected developments of the past few minutes. In retrospect, though, he realized that not only should they have not have been unexpected, they were practically inevitable. Before he could exit, however, Stockwell said, “Ron…one thing.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, without turning back.

  “Everything I’ve discussed with you falls under the heading of National Security. You may have tendered your resignation, but you’re still bound by the confidentiality agreements you signed. If I have reason to believe that you’ve somehow warned Arthur of our intent…if I have reason to believe that you’ve interfered in this endeavor in anyway…if I have reason to believe that you’ve violated confidentiality and betrayed government secrets…the first physical contact you’re going to have with your baby is when you shake his hand at his college graduation. Do I make myself clear?”

  Ron looked over his shoulder at the president, who was staring at him with an unwavering gaze. “I said,” Stockwell repeated, “do I make myself clear?”

  “Abundantly, sir.”

  “This remains between us, then. You’re not even to tell your wife the specifics of what’s gone on here. If you do, we’ll find out.”

  Unable to believe what he was hearing, Ron asked, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, “Are you saying that you have my house bugged?”

  “No,” said Stockwell coolly. “But I know women. She won’t be able to keep it to herself. She’ll tell Arthur or Gwen, and we’ll run into the same problem.”

  “You threatening to throw her in prison as well?”

  President Stockwell gave the slightest shrug. “I certainly hope not. I will say, however, that I’ve certainly made far more difficult decisions in my time as president.” Then he gave a cold smile. “Good night, Ron.”

  “Good night, Mr. President.”

  Ron exited the Oval Office for the last time, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Stockwell sat there for a time, staring at it, wondering if Ron wasn’t going to throw it open, and say “Surprise!” or “Gotcha!” or beg forgiveness. But none of that happened. Ron did not return nor, Stockwell suspected, would he ever.

  He reached over and tapped his intercom. “You can come in now,” he said.

  A door on the far side opened into a waiting area and a man in elaborate robes entered. “Well?” he asked quietly.

  “He reacted in exactly the way you said he would, your Eminence,” Stockwell admitted.

  “It was to be expected,” Cardinal Ruehl said.

  “In a way…I’m jealous.”

  Ruehl looked confused. “Jealous, Mr. President?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever commanded that level of loyalty from anyone.” It was clearly not something that he was comfortable or happy admitting, but he did so nevertheless.

  “You are a good man, Mr. President,” Ruehl assured him. “People recognize that. His Holiness recognizes that. And he knows that you will trust me now to do what must be done. Unless, of course, you wish to send troops in…”

  Stockwell shook his head. “That, your Eminence, is the last thing we want to do. I can’t even begin to imagine how that would play on CNN. No, actually, I can imagine it. They’ll be howling for my head and my approval ratings will be subzero.”

  “Then do not worry about it,” said Cardinal Ruehl, and he patted Stockwell’s back in an avuncular manner. “As I’ve told you…my people will attend to this matter.”

  “And who, precisely, are your people?” asked Stockwell suspiciously.

  Ruehl smiled thinly. “Mr. President…”

  Stockwell put up a hand before he could continue. “Plausible deniability?”

  “Just so.”

  “All right. I’m trusting in you, then.”

  “You don’t have to,” the Cardinal assured him, and he pointed heavenward. “Place your trust in Him…and all good things will flow from that trust and benefit you and humanity.”

  “And the Grail?”

  “We’re on it,” Ruehl said.

  CHAPTRE

  THE SEVENTEENTH

  ARTHUR IS CASTING about, surrounded by water. He is drowning. No…stranger than that. He is submerged, but doesn’t need to breathe. He is somehow drawing oxygen from the water itself, as if he were a fish. Still, he feels a sense of utter disorientation, unsure of which way is up or down. He reaches out all around himself and discovers that he is hemmed in on all sides. The prison that is holding him is round, cylindrical. He wonders how this can possibly be. He brings his fist through the water in slow motion and thumps against the clear container, but he can’t get any velocity with his fist. He is trapped, feeling frustrated and impotent.

  Then, drifting a bit, he suddenly realizes where he is: He is trapped inside a gigantic bottle of Grail Ale. He has no clear idea how high it goes, although from where he’s situated, it seems to go on forever.

  He doesn’t know how he got in there, and isn’t at all confident that he’s going to be able to continue breathing or surviving or doing whatever the hell it is he’s doing there. He reaches for Excalibur at his side, but it’s not there. Desperately Arthur is grabbing at his hip and his belt, but there’s no sign of the sword. He is alone. Alone and helpless. He calls for Gwen, he calls for Merlin, for Percival, for anyone who can possibly help him. He cannot see beyond the perimeter of the bottle. For all he knows, he’s surrounded by people peering in at him, pointing and shouting in derision as if he were a zoo animal.

  He brings his foot up and slams it against the bottle, but it simply propels him to the other side, and he bounces back and forth between them like a pinball. He shouts again for aid. None is forthcoming.

  And then a voice sounds angrily in his head. It’s a voice he knows all too well.

  Is this what you’re reduced to?

  Merlin?

  Of course Merlin, says Merlin’s voice. Who else would it be?

  Where are you? Can you help me?

  Merlin’s tone is derisive. How typical. You hear from me for the first time in months, and the first thing you do is beg for help.

  I wasn’t begging! I was simply asking for help!

  You got yourself into this. Get yourself out of it.

  Merlin! Merlin!

  He thrusts about, tossing and turning so violently that he swings his arm around, only to be rewarded with a loud shriek of pain as Gwen sat up in bed, clutching the side of her head.

  Arthur, still feeling disoriented and confused, blinked in the darkness of the room, his eyes stinging with pain from being forced open without sufficient rest. “What…?”

  “Arthur!” Gwen shouted. “You hit me!”

  “I what?”

  “You were shouting something about Merlin, and thrashing around like a crazy man. I was just starting to wake up when all of a sudden, you clocked me in the face.”

  “I was asleep, Gwen. I really don’t think it’s fair to be held responsible for something I did when I was borderline unconscious.”

  “I suppose.” She lowered her hand and presented her face. “Is there a bruise?”

  “It’s dark in here, and my eyes are half-closed. I’m not the best person to ask. Hold on.” He reached over and turned on the lamp on their nightstand. Then he reached over, t
ook Gwen’s face gently by the chin, and turned her right and left. “Nothing. You look fine.”

  “Well…you got off lucky,” she informed him.

  “I’ll say. I certainly don’t need people saying I’m smacking my wife around.”

  The bedroom they were in was nowhere near the opulence of their digs back in the castle, but it was reasonably hospitable. Gwen and he had become accustomed to it. It had been a necessity, since Percival would not leave the Grail unattended and constantly commuting to and from Central Park simply wasn’t practical. Percival’s relocation to the compound had been a necessity, and Arthur and Gwen weren’t about to leave him alone to his fate. When Arthur had reminded Barry that there was no telling how long they would have to be there, Barry had cheerfully declared, “Stay as long as you want! Stay forever! My home is your home!”

  He wasn’t exaggerating: The vast, walled compound where his factory was situated doubled as his residence, with a large and respectively impressive Victorian house situated smack within its confines. Gwen had raised questions about zoning, but Barry had simply grinned, and said, “You’d be amazed how flexible the zoning laws can be when the right people become…convinced.” He had been as good as his word when it came to Arthur, Gwen, and Percival having anything they needed at their disposal.

  Best of all, Barry had a private beach, the compound bordering on the Atlantic Ocean. So from time to time, Arthur and Gwen romped in the surf and enjoyed time together, although it was occasionally spoiled by determined paparazzi sweeping by in helicopters.

  Percival never joined them.

  Percival stayed by the Grail. At all times.

  During the ten-hour manufacturing cycle, he was always by the Grail’s side. At the end of the day, the Grail was returned to him, and he kept it with him until the morning. Gwen was even moved to comment to Arthur that Percival was a touch obsessive about the cup, but Arthur had simply said, “He is the Grail Knight. It is his duty. His calling. Who am I to contradict him?”

  “His king,” replied Gwen.