"You're still considering surgery," she asked, "even though the ordeal is most likely to be pointless?"
"I'll let you know," Kea said.
She left, a puzzled woman. But no more puzzled than Kea. What was he thinking? What could he do? The best physician in the Federation had just told him he was doomed. His advisers were urging him to choose a successor. Meaning one of them. Unspoken—but implicit—in their constant hammering was that it was also time to reveal the source of Anti-Matter Two.
If I die now, he thought, the system—that perfect system—he had designed would automatically shut down. All traces wiped. And the secret of AM2 would die with him. The system had been the only real protection against his enemies. A shield of knowledge against their assassins. But what was the point of it now? Without AM2, the Federation would collapse. All his work for nothing.
So? Giving them the secret would be worse, wouldn't it? There would be terrible wars over control of AM2. He'd run the progs countless times. Each time the death toll burst through the top of the scale.
It was too late to produce an heir. Besides, he had dismissed that prospect from the beginning. He knew too much about kings and their children. They lived miserable lives waiting to succeed. Sometimes plotting against their parent. Almost always overseeing the death of the kingdom that parent had built. You had to look no further than the Bargetas to see the deterioration from generation to generation.
Enough wandering. He had to make up his mind. Who should succeed him? Who could he trust with the secret of AM2?
The answer came back: No one.
I must decide, he argued. I have no other choice.
There must be another option, came the insistent voice. There must be.
But... everyone has to die... Eventually.
But we're different, the voice said. Special. We know a thing no one else knows. A great pure thing that sets us apart from anyone who lives now... or has ever lived before.
Kea wrestled with this insanity—for he thought he must have gone insane—for a long time. Finally, he slept. Floating. Dreamless. Aides and nurses monitored him. Noted the peacefulness of the bio charts.
He awakened. Refreshed. Alert. Ravenous.
He sent for his breakfast.
And he sent for Imbrociano.
She answered all his questions, then listened closely as he outlined his proposal. Calmly. Dispassionately. "Yes. I could do it," she finally said. "I could build a living body... a human form... exactly like yours. There are theoretical obstacles, to be certain. But with the right team and sufficient funds... it could be done."
"Then you'll do it?‘ Kea asked.
"No. I won't."
"Why not, for godsakes?"
"You can't deny death, Mr. President," she said. "And that's what you're doing. You must see this whole thing is highly irrational. I can make a copy of you. Duplicate you. But... I can't make that new organism be you't"
"What would be the difference?" Kea pressed. "If it had all my thoughts... my knowledge... my motivations... identical cells... all the stuff that makes me... then it would be me. Wouldn't it?"
Imbrociano sighed. "I'm a doctor. Not a philosopher. A philosopher could better explain the difference."
"I can make you very rich," Kea said. "Bestow many honors."
"1 know," Imbrociano said. "Enough to overcome even my ethics. But if I participated in such an endeavor—and succeeded—I can't help but think I would more likely be signing my own death warrant. It would be dangerous knowledge, you must admit."
"I thought of that," Kea said. "However, for you to accomplish what I have in mind will most likely take the rest of your professional life. It will be a very secure, very lavish life. This I guarantee."
Imbrociano thought for a long time. Then she said, "If I don't do this, you'll find someone else. Albeit not as skilled."
"Yes, I will," Kea said.
"Which would once again leave me in jeopardy. For knowing too much."
"This is true," Kea said. Rat.
"We'd better get to work, then," Imbrociano said. "We might not have much time."
His luck returned. Along with health, bestowed by Imbro-ciano's talents. The nerve rewiring was simple. The rehabilitation exercises torture. But it was worth it.
Richards rose from his chair and walked to the far end of his office. He was alone. He watched his progress in a mirror. Approved. Now, only a slight limp betrayed the lingering traces of his paralysis from the stroke. It had been easy to hide this from the public. Politics has long experience keeping those kinds of things hushed up. In FDR's time, Kea recalled, few people were even aware he was bound to a wheelchair for life. He walked back to his desk. Eased his fifty-nine-year-old bones into the soft chair. And poured himself a drink from a decanter on his desk.
It was Scotch.
He savored it. Just as he savored a few moments' peace from the breakneck pace of his duties. Then he tensed as a headache twinged. His heart fluttered—was this it? But the pain fled along with fear. Thank God, he thought, that worry will be over soon. One way or the other.
Imbrociano was almost ready. Everything was in place. He only had to say the word and great, shadowy forces would be put in motion. Kea had worked feverishly to reach this point. Shifting staff. Pulling strings. Creating and collapsing whole bureaucracies. Covering his tracks in a hailstorm of governmental actions and decrees. Vast industries were at his disposal, with no one manager aware of what the other was doing. Starships had been flung here and there at his bidding. He had spun an elaborate, supersecret network, with cutouts and switchbacks and complex electronic mazes created by canny old spies. During that time Imbrociano and her team had worked at equally as furious a pace. With the entire Federation's treasury at their disposal as a budget.
Kea sipped his Scotch, letting the warmth tease the kinks in his side.
The first part of his plan to cheat death had been relatively simple. Imbrociano would build a walking, talking, thinking duplicate of Kea Richards. The second part—yet to be put into motion—was simpler still. Horrifically so.
He steered his mind away from yowling terror. He'd have to deal with it when the moment came.
The third part of his plan was vastly complex. To begin with, he'd had new improvements of the old model in mind. Tinkering with several genes to make his alter ego invulnerable to disease and aging. When the organism was in place, the aging process would be gradually reversed. He had picked thirty-five as the place to stop. Kea thought that had been the best time for him. His peak in many ways. With the process spread out over many years, his people would barely notice their President For Life shedding middle age like a snake its skin. In theory, the new Kea Richards would be able to go on and on throughout the centuries without wearing out. Virtual immortality.
"In practice," Imbrociano had said, "I doubt very much this is possible. An organism—especially a thinking organism—is too complex. Vulnerable to many things we are ignorant of. Not just physically vulnerable, either. There is the psychological to consider."
"I could go mad," Kea had said. With no emotion. Imbrociano had only nodded.
"I could also be assassinated," Kea had said. "Or, held against my will. Forced to do and reveal things."
"There is that, too," Imbrociano had said.
These problems had led to the key part of the grand scheme. An engineer at heart, Kea had started with a machine. A judg-ment machine. Fitted with powerful reasoning programs. Remote sensors to monitor the alter ego. Judging mental and physical conditions, as well as outward threats. The organism itself would have a bomb implanted in its gut. Threatened by torture, brainscan, or fatal attack, the bomb would blow with an enormous force. Killing all within its range. The same would happen if the judgment machine decided he was no longer mentally fit to rule the Federation. Kea called it the Caligula Factor.