The computer reached into a pocket within its cloak, took out an envelope, and handed it to the King.
Dramocles opened it. Within, there was a slip of paper.
Written on it were the words Electronificate parsley.
The last mnemonic! Deep in the recesses of Dramocles’ mind, an unsuspected door swung open.
Twenty years old, ruler of an entire planet, the cynosure of all eyes and the repository of all hopes, young Dramocles was bored. King for less than a year, he was already sated with everything available to him. Dramocles wanted what he could not have–war, intrigue, love, hate, destiny, and, above all, surprise. But those were the very things that could not be. A fragile and uncertain peace existed among the Local Planets. To maintain it, a ruler of Glorm had to be judicious, peaceable, hardworking, predictable, devoted to precedent and procedure, holding court regularly so that his chamberlain could dispense justice according to the laws of Otho and his predecessors. To vary from this, to be unorthodox, or worse, unpredictable, could have unknown consequences, could even lead to war. Dramocles knew his duty. He was not going to risk the lives of millions for his amusement’s sake, no, not even for his necessity’s sake. He would go on, reasonably, sanely, predictably, until he toppled into his grave at last, Good King Dramocles, who wasted his life for the sake of his people.
Dramocles accepted his destiny, but found it bitter. Everyone else could hope for a change for the better; only the King had to wish for no change at all. In his unhappiness, he went to his computer.
The computer told Dramocles what he had already known–that he had to go on just as he was doing for the present.
“But how long will the present last?”
The computer made calculations. “Thirty years, my Lord. After that, you’ll be free to do as you please.”
“Thirty years? That’s a lifetime! No. I shall abdicate, go away under an assumed name–”
“Wait, Sire–there’s hope indeed. Do your kingly duty, and in thirty years I’ll arrange for you to have all the things you really want. And you’ll have time in which to enjoy them, too.”
“How can you do that?” Dramocles asked.
“I have my ways,” the computer said. “I am probably the finest intellect in the universe, I know you better than anyone, and I am your servant. Trust me to make your dreams come true.”
“Well, all right,” Dramocles said, a little ungraciously. “At least I’ll have something to look forward to.”
“I’m afraid not, Sire. Before I can begin, I must erase all knowledge of this from your memory. Your knowing that I was planning a future for you would add an incalculable input to your behavior, skew your reactions, and alter or render impossible the events I’m planning for you. It’s called an Indeterminacy Situation.”
“If you say so,” Dramocles said. “But it makes me feel a little strange, knowing that I’ll never remember this conversation.”
“At the end,” the computer promised, “you will get back all your missing memories, including this one.”
Dramocles nodded. And then he was back in present time.
“What about Otho?” Dramocles asked. “What about Tlaloc?”
“My Lord,” the computer said, “I can explain all the apparent discrepancies in the story. But do you understand the special terminology of the theory of provisional reality frames?”
“Never mind,” Dramocles said. “I must admit, you went to considerable lengths to complicate my life.”
“Of course, Sire. I acted on your behalf in producing this drama, and to the best of my ability gave you what you wanted. Love, war, family rivalry, intrigue, and a touch of mystery–all fine themes, all fit for a king. I wove these together into your destiny. But when I say that I did this, I mean that you did this, since you ordered me to program myself so that I could translate your dreams into reality. You yourself, my King, have been the shadowy backstage presence, the unknown figure who influences or directs your every move, your own secret prime mover.”
“In that case,” Dramocles said, “I suppose I should thank myself for all this. But you did well, too, computer.”
“Thank you, Sire.”
“Is there anything else left to tell?”
“Only this. Now I step out of the drama of your life. You go on, as free as a man can be, and that’s a lot. It’s all up to you now, Dramocles, to bungle your life as you see fit.”
“You’ll do anything to get the last word, won’t you?” Dramocles said.
“Anything,” said the computer.
“What do you know about my future?”
“Nothing, my Lord. It is unknowable.”
“You’re not kidding me, are you?”
“No, Sire. All is revealed, and I am going to take myself out of circuit shortly after we finish this conversation.”
“You don’t have to go that far,” Dramocles said. “I was just wondering if you had anything else up your sleeve or down your circuits. ‘Unknowable.’ That sounds good to me.” He left the room, rubbing his hands together briskly.
Filled with mathematical analogues for admiration and liking, the computer watched Dramocles go. The computer liked the King, to the small but significant degree that was available to it. Because of this, it was with a faint analogue of regret that the computer completed the last part of its program. It set forth certain impulses and got a response deep within its circuitry.
“Well done, computer.”
“Thank you, King Otho.”
“He doesn’t suspect that there’s any more than you told him?”
“I think not. Your son believes that he understands the laws of reality.”
“And so he does, up to a point,” said Otho. “We’ve done a good job with him, haven’t we, computer? I love to see him enjoy the illusion of self-determination while I work behind the scenes to make sure his life works right.”
“That’s one way of looking at it, Sire. But perhaps you only have the illusion that you run your son’s life.”
“Eh?” Otho said sharply.
“The complications run deep,” said the computer. “Each answer only brings us to another mystery. Sire, you played but a part in the drama you thought you were directing. And not too important a part, I regret to tell you. But now it is over. Good-bye forever, old King. Dramocles is just about as free as he thinks he is.”
The computer realized that its last line was rather neat, so it decided to leave it at that. It was time to get offstage. Neatly, wildly, exquisitely, the computer shut itself down.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1983 by Robert Sheckley
ISBN: 978-1-4804-9694-1
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Robert Sheckley, Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera
Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera Page 17