“The Edien emperor was so fond of, of new clothes that he spent most of the planet’s money on being well-dressed. He reviewed his troops, indulged in culture, and traveled the world, but only as an excuse to show off his clothes. Instead of saying, ‘The king’s in council,’ Ediens said ‘The emperor’s in his dressing room.’”
“Are you telling us a fairytale?” The pink-skinned woman sitting beside me frowns; I can see the arch in her hairless eyebrows, even in this screen-lit gloom. I want to sigh.
“It tells most easily that way.
“The emperor summoned his seamstress. He heard the talk; he wanted a new coat for every day. He wanted such fine clothing people would talk about it off-world, checking his choice of the moment like they would their own weather.
‘My dear king,’ the seamstress said, ‘Your plan is wonderful, but I am only one woman and I only have two hands.’ She asked to hire help, but the king said what he had every time she asked all his life: he only trusted her.
“The seamstress fretted herself to sleep that night, and when she woke—she woke sore, and her body was heavy. Two metal arms jutted from her sides, their hands and fingers just as delicate as her own. The king summoned her and said:
‘Now you have double the hands, and can work twice as fast. Make me a robe of silk and lace in every color, and make it before midday.’
‘Oh my king,’ the foolish seamstress said, ‘Now I can make your coats, but lace is too fine for me to work so quickly. If I had a you apprentice, with better eyes—’”
The alien woman beside me makes a noise; the... person?... on the screen still says nothing, but it tilts its head. I flick my fingers in a helpless gesture.
“She was a very stupid woman. Before she realized what she’d said, the emperor’s doctors fell upon her.”
“Surgery would take them past noon,” the woman says. I shrug.
“It’s how the story goes. The king looked upon the four-armed woman with her gleaming eyes and said: ‘Now you have hands and sharp eyes enough to make me coats for every hour.’ The woman knelt on the marble floor, feeling the coolth through half her palms, and said—nothing, as she fell over and gasped and seized, there before the emperor’s throne.
“She was an old woman. She’d gone through two surgeries in as many days. She was dying, and she thought—now my hands and eyes and heart can rest.
“But of course, she woke up to the sight of the emperor on his throne.
‘Now you have hands enough and eyes sharp enough and no need of food or rest,’ the emperor said. ‘Now you can make me a new coat every hour.’ The old woman’s hands did not shake. She could not cry. Her heart did not thunder in her chest.
‘My dear king,’ she said, ‘I will be with you for the rest of your life.’
“When darkness fell that night, she stilled her needles. Four arms made short work of the palace walls; her new eyes showed her where the cameras pointed. When guards prowled by, no gasp of breath gave her away. She slipped into the king’s rooms, and did not have to fear discovery once there—he trusted no one to be with him in sleep. Trusted no one in all the worlds but her.
“After it was done, she slipped out the way she’d come and made her way tirelessly to the starport. Again, her arms and eyes and heart stood her well to escape, lurking in the airless storage container of this very craft.”
I focus on the masked face on the screen.
“Kill me for the trespass, or what I have done, but please—.” I clench the fingers of my hateful hands. “Please.” The figure on the screen doesn’t move, but the woman sitting here laughs.
“Kill you! La Fantoma wants to hire you.”
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