new soul without the slightest memory of what you have been before. Found this out quite by accident a couple of years before my term was due—I somehow got access to a restricted Ministry of Pain file. Passing strange, I thought, something restricted from even the wonderful gallant Elector? So I hired a Scorpio punk to pick the file, and when I found what was inside, I started planning my escape. I began the construction of Victorialand—God bless her and all who sail upon her—my little nest egg, my hedge against the great inevitable. So, maybe it wasn’t what an Elector should be doing, but have you any idea how many Electors of Yu would be classified as Socially Disfunctional had they not ascended to the Salamander Throne? Not counting myself, there have been at least three Genuine Bedouine PainCriminals nominated to Electordom since the whole burlesque began four hundred and fifty years back.” Leaving the plastic ballerina’s panties round her ankles, the King of Nebraska crossed to the aquarium, picked out a fish, and popped it into his mouth.
“Don’t bother trying to shock me,” said Courtney Hall. “They’re just carrots. I looked.”
“Ten points for observation. You’ll go a long way down here, daughter.”
“So, if you slipped off the Salamander Throne before you made your recording—”
“Biogram,” said the King of Nebraska, snapping plastic dentures like castanets.
“Whatever, that means that whoever is Elector now—”
“Hasn’t the slightest clue of what he or she or it is meant to do.” Jonathon Ammonier stamped his heels in a flamenco spin. “Regular little bastard, amn’t I?” He held out a pair of dentures in classic mock-Shakespearean style. “To biogram or not to biogram; that is the question. Whether it is better to suffer the slings and arrows of personality erasure and become a drooling cretin, or beat it to one’s own private underground kingdom, leaving your successor flat on his ass on the Salamander Throne. Well, it should be an education for him … Or her. Or it.”
“So, that’s why Victorialand. But why Nebraska?”
“Why not?” The King stood tall behind the suit of diminutive samurai armor, hand on metal shoulder in a gesture of fraternal solidarity. “Ah, Nebraska, Nebraska, mythical kingdom of the plains: gone like sunken Lyonesse, vanished like the dew of Taprobane, swallowed by the sands like Timbuktu or the Ethiopic Empire of Prester John. It is no more. Mourn poor Nebraska, your flat fields of wheat, yellow wheat, while beneath the soil grow your crops of missiles. You know what missiles are? Nebraska knew but it is no more. It’s a good name to be king of.” He minced across the Persian carpet to offer a hand to Courtney Hall. Courtney Hall could no longer resist his fine madness. Jonathon Ammonier, King of Nebraska, was a king truly and really, possessed of that mystical energy of command that is all the robe, crown, scepter, throne, and kingdom a true king requires.
She shook the spell away from her head like insects.
“Why did you stick me in a white sleep tank for three days?”
The King looked up from kissing her hand for the second time in her life and grinned. Courtney Hall noticed his gums were bleeding.
“My dear woman, you were cut up like a radish salad when my Striped Knights brought you in.”
“Don’t you think it was a pretty high-handed thing to do without my consent?” The idea of her having been vulnerable, nude, naked , before him made her cringe.
“Possibly,” said the King. “And then again, possibly not.” Dapper hands butterflied, a razzle of diamond knuckles. Between His Majesty’s fingers, a small plastic vial with some … thing within. Some … thing black and white and silver, impossibly thin, invisible when its writhing turned it side on to Courtney Hall’s eye.
She knew the question was obvious, but she had to ask it nonetheless: “What is it?”
“Unh unh. Wrong question, radish salad.
“Don’t bother trying to shock me,” said Courtney Hall. “They’re just carrots. I looked.”
“Ten points for observation. You’ll go a long way down here, daughter.”
“So, if you slipped off the Salamander Throne before you made your recording—”
“Biogram,” said the King of Nebraska, snapping plastic dentures like castanets.
“Whatever, that means that whoever is Elector now—”
“Hasn’t the slightest clue of what he or she or it is meant to do.” Jonathon Ammonier stamped his heels in a flamenco spin. “Regular little bastard, amn’t I?” He held out a pair of dentures in classic mock-Shakespearean style. “To biogram or not to biogram; that is the question. Whether it is better to suffer the slings and arrows of personality erasure and become a drooling cretin, or beat it to one’s own private underground kingdom, leaving your successor flat on his ass on the Salamander Throne. Well, it should be an education for him … Or her. Or it.”
“So, that’s why Victorialand. But why Nebraska?”
“Why not?” The King stood tall behind the suit of diminutive samurai armor, hand on metal shoulder in a gesture of fraternal solidarity. “Ah, Nebraska, Nebraska, mythical kingdom of the plains: gone like sunken Lyonesse, vanished like the dew of Taprobane, swallowed by the sands like Timbuktu or the Ethiopic Empire of Prester John. It is no more. Mourn poor Nebraska, your flat fields of wheat, yellow wheat, while beneath the soil grow your crops of missiles. You know what missiles are? Nebraska knew but it is no more. It’s a good name to be king of.” He minced across the Persian carpet to offer a hand to Courtney Hall. Courtney Hall could no longer resist his fine madness. Jonathon Ammonier, King of Nebraska, was a king truly and really, possessed of that mystical energy of command that is all the robe, crown, scepter, throne, and kingdom a true king requires.
She shook the spell away from her head like insects.
“Why did you stick me in a white sleep tank for three days?”
The King looked up from kissing her hand for the second time in her life and grinned. Courtney Hall noticed his gums were bleeding.
“My dear woman, you were cut up like a radish salad when my Striped Knights brought you in.”
“Don’t you think it was a pretty high-handed thing to do without my consent?” The idea of her having been vulnerable, nude, naked , before him made her cringe.
“Possibly,” said the King. “And then again, possibly not.” Dapper hands butterflied, a razzle of diamond knuckles. Between His Majesty’s fingers, a small plastic vial with some … thing within. Some … thing black and white and silver, impossibly thin, invisible when its writhing turned it side on to Courtney Hall’s eye.
She knew the question was obvious, but she had to ask it nonetheless: “What is it?”
“Unh unh. Wrong question, radish salad.
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