Chapter 2 — BEAUTIFUL DREAMER

We were aboard the flagship: Coral, Ebony, Shelia, and me. Emerald was establishing a Naval cordon around Pineleaf Bubble and all that region, to insure that no further acts of mayhem occurred. Megan would be safe, and my daughter, Hopie. I had never discussed it with Megan, because our separation had come upon us so abruptly, but I knew Hopie would remain with her. My sister, Spirit, was in the state of Golden, where she had gone to organize the Constitutional Convention that had just put me in power; she would join me as soon as she could.

My limited personal staff was understanding and loyal, as Shelia had just demonstrated, but none of these women were politicians. I knew I needed competent advice in a hurry. Had the election been honored, I would have assumed the presidency and designated selected officers from my party in the conventional fashion. But the election had been voided, and now I had taken power outside the normal framework of government. That made it an entirely different game, and I wasn't sure I understood the rules. I was certain to blunder and quite possibly get myself killed if I did not take precisely the correct steps, quickly.

"Sir," Shelia said, summoning my attention. We were at the moment in an officer's dayroom, designated a temporary headquarters. Coral was taking a shower, having gotten grimy when squeezing into the obscure engineer's compartment, restoring the shield and reviving the unconscious engineer. Ebony was sorting through a bundle of my clothing she had had the foresight to take from my former apartment, knowing I would not return. She would see that I had a decent suit to wear for whatever occasion occurred. Shelia remained my liaison with the rest of the planet, fielding a continual hailstorm of messages and disposing of all but the most critical. When she alerted me, I snapped to.

"Admiral Emerald Mondy has the budget expert on the screen," she said.

Oh, yes. I had asked for the most knowledgeable expert on the budget, in that manner signaling my commitment to the cause that had brought me power. That had been scarcely an hour ago, yet it seemed like days. "I, uh, guess I'd better, um, talk to him," I mumbled uncertainly. I had no idea what to say to the man—or woman—I had asked for.

"Hope Hubris will interview Senator Stonebridge immediately," Shelia said smoothly.

A face came on the dayroom's large screen. I recognized it, of course; no person spends twenty years in the Jupiter political arena without becoming familiar with the prime movers of the society. Stonebridge had been a leading financier until tapped by President Kenson to be Budget Director, and in the time he had held that office, the finances of Jupiter had been disciplined. When Kenson retired, Stonebridge had run successfully for the Senate and become the leading critic of President Tocsin's financial policies. I had no doubt of his expertise; had my wits been more about me, I would have realized at the outset that he was the one to consult. I had, however, never dealt with him personally.

"Senator, you know my situation," I said, collecting my wits so as to put on a good front.

"Yes, Mr. President," he agreed.

I grimaced. "I'm not sure I'm president. I have assumed power outside the framework of—"

He smiled. "If you will provide the appropriate title, then."

I pondered the matter of a title, and my mind went blank. I spread my hands. "I suppose you had better stick with what you have. Now I am committed to balance the budget, but I am no budgetary expert. If you will advise me how to—"

"Mr. President, I can't do that."

I was startled. "You—?"

"You must provide me with a context. What are your priorities? Do you plan new taxes? What stress do you place on military preparedness? On social welfare? I can make suggestions, but I have to know my mandates."

I shook my head ruefully. "Senator, I don't even have a government yet!"

"Perhaps you had better consult me at a later date," he suggested delicately.

I made a gesture of submission. "At a later date," I agreed.

The connection broke. Then Emerald entered the dayroom. "You haven't changed, sir," she said, like a mother addressing an errant child.

"My wife and sister aren't here," I replied, knowing that she would understand what I meant. I had never claimed to be expert at organization; the women in my life had always run things for me. In the Navy, Emerald herself had served in that capacity.

"Sir, I don't think you can afford to wait until Spirit gets here," Emerald said. "I would help you if I could, but I don't know the civilian sector, and I think it would be best to keep the military sector subordinate. As it is, we have all we can do to keep the peace during the interim."

"Keep the peace?" I asked blankly.

"There is armed rebellion in some sectors. We can only sit on it so long without your direct input. Also, the other planets are getting restive. I suggest that you get your house in order within the hour, sir."

"But I hardly know where to start!" I wailed.

She nodded, knowing my problem. "I think, sir, that you need a very special consultation. Take half an hour; he will put you straight."

"Who will put me straight?"

She stepped into me, took my head in her hands, and kissed me. I was abruptly aware of how attractive she remained to me, despite the passage of twenty years. "The Beautiful Dreamer," she murmured so that only I could hear. Then she turned around and departed, leaving me stunned.

Shelia wheeled up to me. "Are you all right, sir?"

"I—"

"You still have feeling for her? It's obvious that she still loves you."

"All true," I agreed. "I retain feeling for every woman I have had, in whatever fashion, and they for me." I touched her hand momentarily. "But this is something else."

"Did she give you a name, sir? I can connect—"

"You cannot connect me to this party," I said. "He is... like Helse, in one respect."

She paused, and I could almost see the synapses connecting in her head. Shelia had made it her business to know every business and personal connection I had, so that when I asked for "What'shisname in Ebor" she could have him on the screen in a moment without asking for clarification. Now she was sifting, computerlike, through my Naval contacts that predated her tenure, knowing that this was the most likely area of Emerald's suggestion. Her face paled. "Lieutenant Commander Repro?" she whispered.

"The same. The one whose dream of grandeur I implemented."

She paused again, and I knew she was assessing the implications. She had helped me animate Helse, but that had been a special case. She could not do the same for a dead man.

It was Ebony who came to the rescue. From the collection of my things she brought out a device with five steel balls. "If you take this into the chapel, sir," she said, holding it out, "I don't think God would object."

I took the device into the chapel chamber adjoining the dayroom. This was a nondenominational place intended for prayer of whatever nature desired. Indeed I did not think God would object if I sought communion with the dead here.

I set the little structure on the table. It was a framework like a cube with five steel balls suspended by paired threads from the top beams.

The balls hung in a row, almost touching each other. When one at the end was swung into the next, the shock was transmitted through the line until the ball at the far end swung out, leaving the four others virtually stationary. Friction made it imperfect, of course, but it remained a nice demonstration of a physical principle. I had amused myself for many hours, swinging those balls by ones, twos, and threes, noting how perfectly the pattern transmitted to the far side.

This device had belonged originally to Lieutenant Commander Repro, who had used it to illustrate his thesis that every force had its impact and its reaction. He had conceived the notion of an ideal military unit, staffed by the most capable, yet unknown, officers. He was a drug addict, and the Navy had not taken him seriously. But I had become his ideal commander, because of my talent in understanding people, and with his help I had formed that ideal cadre, and in due course we had swept the pirates out of the Belt. Success hath its price in the Navy, and that price had been my retirement and his death, but the unit we had formed remained and now governed the Navy itself. That, of course, was the true root of my present power: the Navy was backing me.

I had had a rule: every member of my unit had his song. It had to be bestowed on him by the group, in the manner of the migrant workers. My song was Worried Man Blues; Repro's song was Beautiful Dreamer. He had not been beautiful physically, and perhaps not mentally; he had been wasting away from the ravages of his addiction. But his dream had been beautiful, and its legacy remained—and was now ready to expand to planetary scale. I owed what I was emotionally to Helse, and what I was politically to Megan, but I owed what I had been militarily to the Dreamer. In that sense I was his dream.

I lifted an end ball and let it go. It swung to impact on the next, and the far ball swung out. The far one swung back, knocking the near one out, not quite as far, and so on, back and forth, until the inefficiency of the system caused all five balls to be swinging gently in unison. I watched, feeling myself being mesmerized by that process.

I lifted two balls and let them go. Two swung out opposite, and back, and two near balls again, and on, until again the swings diminished into uniform motion. Then three balls, so that only two remained stationary in the center, and the center ball was always in motion, swinging back and forth, as it were picking up the two on one side and then the other. Fascinating!

Then I lifted two from the near side, one from the far side, and let them go simultaneously. Sure enough, one rebounded on the near side and two on the far side, their impetuses passing through each other unscathed. This always fascinated me most. Every force did have its reaction, regardless of the other forces operating.

I hummed, hearing the words clearly in my mind: Beautiful Dreamer, wake unto me...

And he was there, sitting across from me. "You steal my song, Worry?"

"I steal your dream," I replied. "I cannot handle it alone. I need your guidance."

"Where do you stand?"

"I have assumed power over Jupiter, politically. I must balance the budget. But I don't know how to start."

"Over Jupiter!" he exclaimed. "You have gone beyond my dream!"

"No. I merely seek to extend it. I have the power now, but not the insight."

"The very first thing you must do is to consolidate your power," he said. "You have enemies; eliminate them. You have opposition; nullify it. Do not allow any challenge to your power or you will lose it."

"But power is not my object!" I protested. "I simply want the chance to right the wrongs that exist on the planet."

"Power is the means, not the end," he agreed. "Secure it first, then get on with your ends. Just see that the means do not become the ends."

It did make sense. "But after that—I have no government, no structure to accomplish my ends."

"One thing at a time," he said. "Rome was not built in a day, and Jupiter will not be revamped in a day. Declare the present institutions to remain in force until further notice, on an advisory basis. Then, piecemeal, as convenient, revise them. But always make sure your base of power is secure."

"My base of power is the will of the people—and the Jupiter Navy," I said.

"Then heed the will of the people—and keep your own folk in charge of the Navy."

Suddenly it seemed so simple! Still, I doubted. "I must have a context! I must have priorities. I need to establish mandates. I need personnel to execute these things."

"You can promote them from the existing structures as you turn your attention to each. It will be years before your program is complete. Have patience. As long as you maintain your purpose and your power and are not corrupted by either, you may safely pursue both. Remember"—here he lifted a ball and let it go—"action—reaction. Take care that you understand the consequences of your actions."

"I will," I said.

He smiled and put his hand out to still the moving balls, and when their motion stopped, he was gone.

I sighed, missing him already. But the dead cannot be held beyond their terms. I stood, picked up the structure, and stepped back into the dayroom.

There are those who do not seem to understand my contacts with the dead. Over the years explanations have been put forward, few of which are complimentary to me. It has been said that I am crazy, or that I suffer hallucinations, or that I dose myself with mind-distorting drugs, or that I merely invent the visions to justify my actions. The most popular theory is that I am a covert epileptic and that the visions are seizures. That may be so; certainly there has never been any physical evidence of what I have experienced. Yet it seems to me that the visitations are authentic, and certainly I have benefited both emotionally and practically from the reassurance and advice they have brought me. When I was fifteen, stranded in a bubble in space, my deceased father came to me and showed our group how to survive. Thereafter, Helse came many times to me, always at my greatest need, and whether she came without physical substance or by animating a living woman, her visits were always most precious and welcome. Once Megan visited me, before I met her in person; the contacts are not necessarily limited to the dead. Now Repro, the Dreamer, had come to set me straight, and if this can be said to be a feature only of my imagination, then my imagination has a wider scope than my ordinary consciousness does. Perhaps the visits are real, and the technical term for this type of reality is epilepsy. Regardless, I would be poorer and less effective without it. In fact, I would be dead without it. So call it what you will, and call me what you will; it is the way I am. I believe that every person exists in a construct of his own reality, and if that reality includes the occasional restoration of those other people whom he loves or values, that is no bad thing.

I returned the steel balls to Ebony. "Thank you," I said, reaching out to tweak a strand of her glossy black hair. "I reached him."

"Good thing, sir," Shelia said. "Because all hell is breaking loose on Jupiter."

"I am ready for it now."

Emerald came on the dayroom screen, evidently connected by Shelia. "Sir, there is trouble."

"I'm sure there is," I agreed.

"I have been removed as commander of this task force."

Thanks to my interview with the Dreamer, I knew how to proceed. "Get me the commanding admiral of the Jupiter Navy," I told Shelia.

"Admiral London," Emerald said.

After a moment Shelia reported: "His office doesn't answer."

"Then put out a planetary bulletin: Admiral London has one minute to report to me via this network, or he will be disciplined."

"In process, sir." She made her connections, and in a moment Emerald's face on the screen was replaced by that of a staff officer.

"By order of Hope Hubris, Admiral London to report within sixty seconds or be disciplined. All units advise."

Coral emerged, clean and fresh. She was in her mid-thirties but possessed the figure and features of a woman a decade younger. "I begin to get nervous," she murmured.

"It's being handled," Ebony said.

The minute finished without response by the admiral. "Admiral London is as of this moment relieved of command," I said. "Admiral Emerald Mondy is elevated to that command. Notify all units—immediately."

Shelia got busy again, sending out the word. Emerald's face reappeared on the screen. "Further orders, sir?"

"Consolidate your position," I said. "You know what to do."

"Aye-aye, sir," she said, saluting smartly.

I returned the salute. For an instant it was like old times, when I had commanded my own task force. But now we were playing for larger stakes.

"Sir," Shelia said. "Broadcast from Admiral London."

"Put it on."

The Admiral's face appeared on the screen. "...usurper," he was saying. "Repeat: There is rebellion in the Navy. All loyal units to declare for President Tocsin and against the usurper. Report immediately."

But Emerald was on the job. "The Constitutional Convention is the ultimate authority of North Jupiter. It has appointed Hope Hubris to govern the planet. Hope Hubris has appointed me commanding admiral of the Jupiter Navy. Neither Tocsin nor London retains power. Verify this for yourselves and do as you deem proper." She smiled. She was the same age as I, fifty, but still a compelling woman.

The units, for the moment perplexed, did just that. Then, one by one, they declared for the new order. My authority, however precedent-breaking, was legitimate; Tocsin's was illegitimate, and it did not require any great amount of research to verify that. The ongoing news of my elevation to power had been dominating the media; very few citizens, whether civilian or military, could be in ignorance of it. When it became apparent that the majority supported me, the conversion of those in doubt was prompt. Only a few units held out, and these were promptly isolated and nullified without violence.

I relaxed. "So the Navy supports me," I said. "I know that the majority of the people support me too."

Later there would be stories published about the supposedly horrendous campaign I waged to tame the rebellious elements of the Navy, making it seem as if Planet Jupiter was the center of a blazing battle, with several ships holed and several more plummeting into the deadly depth of the atmosphere. The truth was otherwise; it was really only a minor question, settled peacefully in a few minutes. No blood was shed at my accession. If this makes my own narration seem trivial, so be it; I have seen more than enough genuine bloodshed and do not care to enhance my notoriety by fiction. Admiral London was guilty of a misjudgment, no more, and was permitted to take early retirement with an unblemished record.

The irony is that though many of the dramatic stories about me are false, there are true episodes that would have been equally dramatic in print but that were never published. In some cases the reasons for nonpublication are as interesting as the items themselves, for I never practiced censorship. My enemies could have blasted me with the truth, but their attention was so firmly fixed on what was false that they overlooked the reality. In this manuscript I mean to present as much of the truth as is warranted. About the only ugly action was in connection with ex-President Tocsin. He was holed up in New Wash, in the White Bubble itself, and refused to acknowledge the change of government. I realized that I had to deal with him directly.

Tocsin was a completely unscrupulous man. He had shown his nature during his campaign against Megan for a seat as a senator, twenty-two years before. It had become a textbook example of scurrilous politics. He had proceeded from height to height—more properly, depth to depth—until I defeated him for the highest office. Then he had used several nefarious devices to block my ascension, until the Constitutional Convention had swept the entire prior government aside and appointed me. Now he fought a stubborn rear-guard action, perhaps believing that the people would in the end support him as the defender of the status quo, rather than me, as a completely new order. I was not concerned about the people, but there were records in the White Bubble that I wanted to recover intact, and I did not want to give him opportunity to destroy them. He had to be dealt with swiftly.

But the White Bubble was a very special place. It was associated with New Wash, where the major portion of the North Jupiter governmental apparatus was, and I knew that had to be preserved. Even if I had not had a care for the population there, I would not have threatened the administrative structures of the nation. How could we get the worm out of the apple without harming the apple?

I discussed it with my limited staff, there in the flagship, and we concluded that there was only one feasible way. I had to make a deal. The only way Tocsin would ever let those records fall into my hands was if he was assured that nothing in them could be used against him.

I really had no choice. "Call him," I told Shelia.

Tocsin had evidently anticipated the call, because in a moment his homely face was on screen. "You know what I want, Governor," he said when he saw me. Since the last public office I had held was that of governor of the State of Sunshine, it was a legitimate address. This was a public call, open to the media; there would be no secrets here, and because it was to our mutual interest to make a good impression, he was polite.

"I want an orderly transition of administration," I said. "I presume your interest is similar."

"The Supreme Court denied you, but the Navy supports you," he said. "You have taken over by force, not by the political process. But might makes right, eh? You've got the power."

I did not care to debate with him the ethics of my ascension. I had taken power legitimately if unconstitutionally; the force had been required only because of his intransigence. "I have the power," I agreed.

"But I have the White Bubble," he said. "And you want it. What do you offer for it?"

This galled me, as I had known it would. He was trying to make me pose the offer when I would have preferred to have him ask for it. "A safe conduct out of it," I said shortly.

He shook his head. "You can do better than that, Governor."

I ground my teeth, almost literally. "A pardon," I said. My reputation as governor had suffered grievously when I pardoned four unfairly condemned men. Tocsin was certainly guilty—and I had to let him off. My mouth tasted of gall.

He nodded. "Your word on that, Governor."

"I give it," I said grimly. I felt unclean. I had long dreamed of bringing this man to trial, of making him pay for everything—and now he would not.

That was all there was to it. Tocsin knew that my word was good, though his was not. But to the best of my knowledge he never again conspired against me, because he could be held accountable for anything he did following the pardon. If he gave me a legitimate pretext to go after him...

In this manner I consolidated my power. Oh, there were pockets of resistance scattered around the planet, but I was now in control, and the population seemed satisfied to have the matter settled.

I thought the worst was over. I thought, in that early day, that I really could do it. Such was my hubris, my namesake: the arrogance of pride and passion. Hope Hubris, the foolish dream of glory.