Musing, he felt a sharp envy at the other's ability even while recognizing his own dependency. To be able to predict the course of events from a bare handful of data, to extrapolate the most probable path any act would incur and so both to anticipate and guard against the inevitable reaction was tantamount to having the ability to manipulate the future. But Zao was quick to deny this ability, insisting that he could do no more than advise, to use trained logic and skill to make his predictions, and yet that same logic and skill had bested savage attacks on his holdings and maintained him as the Maximus, the acknowledged ruler of Sacaweena.
Yet he could be bested given the right opportunity, the right combination of circumstances despite the advice of the cyber. When greed grew too strong, and so did the hunger for power and the envy in which he was held, then they would strike and it would take all his skill and cunning to forestall the attack. Only their mutual hate and antagonism had saved him since that time, years ago now, when he had taken the greatest risk of his life and had, incredibly, won.
Won to rule the world and to lie in an uneasy bed.
The lights changed as he watched, showing the flow of holdings; Lobel had gained at Prador's expense, Chargel was edging upwards as was Traske. A combination? It was most probable and the threat, though small, could not be ignored. He would monitor the increase and take steps to negate it should it rise too high. An alliance with Veden? One with Macari? Both were lacking in ambition and neither had love for the others. Well, he would see-for now it was enough simply to watch.
A bell chimed and a soft voice whispered from the air. "Maximus, the hour has come for your waking. Do you wish to continue your repose?"
"No." He softened the snap of his voice. "I am awake. Instruct Cyber Zao to attend me."
An unnecessary precaution, but having paid the fee to the Cyclan there was no reason why he should not make use of the service provided. He halted the movement of his hand; to summon aid was to admit, if only to himself, the growing weakness of his body, yet to refuse it was to act without calculated logic. Would Zao refuse?
The answer caused him to throw back the covers and rise from the bed, to stand with one hand clutching the ornate headboard. A cyber did not admit to physical weakness; to Zao his body was a machine, an artifact of flesh and blood to be fueled and maintained in a state of optimum condition but never to be pampered lest it develop ingrained weakness of its own. An odd concept-could a body have a will and desire not of the brain? Appetites and passions divorced from conscious decision?
A question to be mulled over later but now other work had to be done. He released his grip on the board, thankful the expected dizziness had not materialized-further proof of Zao's skill. The new medication he had suggested seemed to be working. His mind, too, held a new brilliance-the thought, as to the individual life of the body, for example, and things seemed to be sharper, clearer than before. Or it could be the result of contrast-a man with repaired vision often thought he saw better than before when the truth was that he had forgotten the power of his sight when young.
These musings had no place and he moved toward the bathroom, the mirrors fogging as they reacted to his presence, water streaming from above as he stepped into the shower. A gentle rain of soothing warmth, strengthening to a driving storm, a blast of stinging droplets. A torment he endured for moments only then the pressure eased and again he stood in a warm and soothing rain as lather graced his body to be washed away, replaced with more, followed by effulgent lotions and delicate perfume.
A trace, no more, he had no liking for the prevailing fashion, but even so he wrinkled his nose as he stepped toward the mirrors. Fernesh, he guessed, with some rose and a touch of musk. A blend suitable for his years and dignity and an armor against any unsuspected exudation. A ruler should be sweet to the nostrils of his people in more ways than one.
Sweet and strong, but as the mirrors cleared to his command he saw his failure.
Still tall, his shoulders wide, the face still with a stern, patrician grace, yet the flesh of chest and stomach betrayed their weakness, the wasting of muscle in arms and thighs, the shrinkage of calves, the ugly protrusions of the bones of feet and knees. Surgical art could only do so much and to hope for more was to yearn for the impossible. Patching and grafting, toning, regrowths, transplanting of hair, replacements- all were but delaying tactics against the relentless pressure of age. And, each day it seemed, the battle was a little more lost, the victory of the grave a little closer.
Why did men have to die?
Why did he-when he had so much?
The chime broke his introspection, the soft voice a velvet caress. "Maximus, Cyber Zao awaits your pleasure."
"Let him wait-no!" The Cyclan was not to be flouted. "Let him be admitted."
An honor he wouldn't recognize or, if he did, would fail to appreciate. To him as to all cybers such things were of little value; demonstrations of the emotional sickness from which they did not suffer. Had he ordered, Zao would have waited his pleasure and felt no anger or irritation as now he would feel no pleasure or satisfaction. The only joy any cyber could experience was that of mental achievement.
He rose as Kalova entered the lounge from the bathroom, a robe covering his nakedness. An ornate thing of fine weave blazoned with intricate designs in a variety of colors with glitter at sleeves and throat. A robe which seemed cheap and gaudy in contrast to the cyber's own; one of scarlet, the Seal of the Cyclan proud on its breast.
"My Lord!" A salutation accompanied by a slight inclination of the shaven head. "I trust you are well?"
"Well enough."
"Your orders, my lord?"
Kalova gestured to the wall, the blaze of signals matching those in his bedroom. "What do you think?" He waited, one hand smoothing back the still-damp mane of his hair. Thick locks streaked with gray which hung low over the nape of his neck, trimmed and shaped to accentuate the clean lines of his profile. "Well?"
"Normal movement, my lord." Zao was, always, calm, his tone a smooth modulation divorced of all irritating qualities. "There was a storm during the night, and a rise in the ion count usually results in heightened emotions. The trading, while at a time frantic, leveled out an hour before dawn. My prediction is that by noon the situation will be much the same as yesterday with the exception of the holdings of Arment and Barracola. The former will rise and the latter fall."
"And later?"
"Each trend will reverse."
"The rest?" Kalova was asking too much and he knew it. "Never mind. Can you assess Chargel and Traske?"
A stupid question and he had betrayed his concern by asking it. Given the data, Zao could provide the probable outcome. To have phrased the request in the way he had smacked of doubt as to the cyber's ability. Better to have given a straight order. Better still to have remained silent. The day he was unable to check the situation for himself would be the day he would be bested. That day was not yet.
"They are planning something, right? Uniting to achieve a common goal. But what? They don't have the power to threaten me and aren't popular enough to gain the support of many others. A kill, you think? Against whom?"
Zao didn't hesitate. "Their target is Prador, my lord."
"Prador?" The lights shifted, blinked, settled to tell the man's holdings. "Prador!" Kalova studied the signals. "Holdings in mining, offshore installations, refining, property, land to the north-what can they hope to gain from him?"