And All the Queen’s Men
by Robyn McCoy
Novella Three
of
The Erobotica Series
Also by Robyn McCoy:
Novella One: The Love Machine
Novella Two: Sleeping Beauty’s Spring Awakening
Copyright© 2009 by Doublethumb Press at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition
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O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in't
– William Shakespeare, The Tempest
“So, our first night in The White House.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, hoping her husband would say something.
“I can’t do this without you,” she whispered when no reply came.
“You won’t have to,” she heard him say, and she felt herself relax.
“There’s so much to do.”
“But not tonight,” he told her.
She closed her eyes and waited for his touch. She could almost imagine it – the feel of his lips on the nape of her neck, his strong hands holding her waist, sliding across her thin silk blouse and then beginning to softly tug the edges up so he could get his hands to the skin beneath. She waited longer than she usually did, tonight tantalizing herself longer than usual. The same tantalizing fantasy she’d been punishing herself with for almost six months.
“I miss you,” she said.
As always, there was no answer. She opened her eyes to see if at least his image was still there.
She was all alone.
She wasn’t alone in the morning. It was January 21, 2040, the first day of her new life as president of the United States, and all eyes were on her. This had been his dream, not hers. It was only after much cajoling by the people that she accepted the nomination at the national convention. When the gunfire popped twice in the lobby of The Plaza, when she saw John collapse like a dropped marionette and saw the hole through his forehead and saw his eyes open wide but unseeing, she thought it was over. Not just for her husband and their life together, but for politics as well.
But here she was.
“Hello, Frank,” she said as the vice president held out his hand.
“Susan. How are you holding up?”
Susan shook his hand, but found herself almost laughing over her own fleeting indignant reaction to his welcome. She’d been told that everyone was supposed to call her President Tiller or Madam President, even the vice president whom she’d known for ten years as a colleague of her husband in the senate. She was uncomfortable with the title, but a part of her wanted to hear Frank say it. She’d always had the feeling that he objectified women. She hoped his lapse was merely an old habit, and not a lack of respect. Or worse. Envy over her nomination.
“So far so good,” she said, trying to put on a reluctant smile.
“You’ll be fine,” he promised.
“Yeah, okay. Just be ready to take over if I suddenly resign.”
He didn’t say anything. Just grinned awkwardly and turned away.
“Could you be anymore obvious,” she thought. Before she was elected president, she would have said it out loud. Now she fought her urge to speak her mind, which her husband had always said was more deadly in politics than committing murder.
“You need to meet your in-house secret service detail,” he said, pointing to a door as he headed towards it.
She followed him into the room, still not knowing the name of this or most of the rooms in The White House. She felt uncomfortable there and thought back to the days of George W. Bush, when you could be president and spend most of your time telecommuting from home. Although her Republican husband never tied himself too much to the policies of the “Herbert Hoover of the Twenty-first Century,” that was one legacy she definitely wanted to bring back to the executive branch.
That wasn’t what she was thinking about when she entered the room. “All the President’s Men,” she thought pleasantly, again proud of herself for not saying it aloud. Seven men, all in their late twenties or early thirties, prime specimens. For the first time, she wondered what men would think about having a relatively young, relatively attractive women in the office. Would having affairs be even easier for her than they were for Bill Clinton? She suspected that most men would find the first female president fairly irresistible considering she was far more alluring than a seventy-year-old Margaret Thatcher. Not that she’d take advantage of that. At least, not yet. Those kinds of problems should be avoided until she was tired of the job and ready to get out.
“This is your team,” Frank said.
She nodded as professionally as she could, her eyes looking over their faces, then their chests and shoulders, then their packages. “So now who’s objectifying people?” she asked herself, and almost laughed.