The Lion and the Unicorn

by Christopher G. Nuttall

Davies waved to him as he entered the barracks. “You got a bollocking for something?”

  “No.” Colin had to smile. “Worse than that. I’m being held up as a good example.”

  “Really?” Davies struck a shocked pose. “We’re doomed. I tell you, we’re doomed!”

  “Hah,” Colin said. He explained, quickly. “They want me to tell the kids to behave themselves.”

  “Doomed,” Davies repeated. “Why don’t you just tell them the truth?”

  Colin rolled his eyes, remembering some of the guest speakers while he’d been a student. Some of them had been more interesting than others, but they’d all followed the government line. It was little comfort to know they probably hadn’t wanted to speak to the students. The students hadn’t wanted to hear them, either. Colin wondered, suddenly, if that had been deliberate. Nothing killed a kid’s interest in doing something quicker than being told they had to do it.

  He looked at his friend, putting the thought aside for later contemplation. “A speaker tells the truth? Now you really are being perverse.”

  “Really?” Davies grinned. “Are you telling me I wasted all my time trying to invent a new sex position?”

  Colin made a rude gesture. “I think you’ve ruined sex for me. Forever.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Davies said. “Just go there, tell a few lies right out of the latest movie about us and depart before someone starts asking smart questions.”

  “It’s not that sort of school,” Colin said.

  “You might be surprised,” Davies said. He sounded thoughtful, rather than teasing. “My class had a kid who had a general for a father. The poor kid grew up reading his father’s books. And whenever we had a speaker who was a little too big for his boots, the kid would tear the war stories apart.”

  “I wish I’d thought of that,” Colin said. “He must have got into a lot of trouble.”

  “Not really,” Davies said. “He exposed a Walt or two. Just don’t tell any lies and you’ll be fine.”

  “Hah,” Colin said.

  ***

  Tobias lay on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling. The last round of exercises and drills had ended poorly, with the entire squadron wiped out by simulated enemy fire. Bagehot had been quite sarcastic about the whole thing, even though the gunboat pilots had been sleeping when the alarms had gone off and they’d been ordered into their craft. The virus wouldn’t send advance notice of a planned attack, would it? They had to be ready to fight at all times.

  He rubbed his forehead. They’d returned to Sol. They’d been promised leave, although the gunboat pilots had no idea when they would be allowed to depart. There was a small collection of emails and vmails from his mother and sister in his inbox, stored within the navy servers until Lion had returned to Earth, but he hadn’t been able to force himself to open them. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go back to Liverpool, to revisit old haunts … he snorted to himself. He really didn’t want to see Liverpool again.

  The hatch opened. Marigold stepped into the compartment. “You heard the news?”

  “What news?” Tobias turned his head to look at her. “Good news?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Marigold said. “You want to go visit Armstrong City?”

  Tobias sat up. “You and me?”

  “We both have leave, apparently,” Marigold said. She held up her datapad. “Starting from tomorrow, you and I and the rest are free to do whatever we like for three days. And there’s a shuttle heading for Armstrong. We can go there for a couple of days.”

  “That would be nice.” Tobias checked his inbox. The shore leave rota had finally arrived. “And afterwards?”

  “Pick a place,” Marigold said. “There’s lots of things to see on the moon.”

  Tobias nodded as he reread the email. He was tempted to suggest Sin City, but … he knew he didn’t have the nerve. And Marigold probably wouldn’t be any more comfortable there than he was. God alone knew what she’d make of it if he asked. He checked the shuttle schedule again, then started to key through the list of possible hotels. Armstrong City was a big tourist destination. There’d be no shortage of places to stay. The prices were high, even with the military discount. He hesitated, then shrugged. It wasn’t as if he had anything else to do with his money. The navy paid all his expenses as long as he served.

  “There’s a bunch of places I’d like to see,” he said. “Heinlein Crater, Asimov City, Selene …”

  “Anywhere,” Marigold said. “I just want to see something new.”

  Tobias nodded. Tourism was for the wealthy, on Earth. The days when Britons headed to France or Spain in vast numbers had died decades ago. He’d liked to imagine travelling, but … it had been a pipe dream. But, in space, the rules were different. He could go wherever he liked, within reason. The navy wouldn’t be very pleased if he tried to visit a secure zone without permission.

  “We only have three days,” Tobias said. He frowned. Three days was hardly long enough to see everything. The moon was littered with sites of historic interest. “But if we stay in Armstrong, we can take day trips to everywhere else.”

  “Good idea,” Marigold said. “I’ll book the hotel. You book travel.”

  Tobias hesitated. Would they be sharing a room? Would they … he wanted to ask, but he didn’t dare. They’d shared a barracks, and a decon chamber, yet … that was different. He couldn’t imagine sharing a room with her outside the navy. He knew what Colin would say, if he knew they’d shared a room … his blood ran cold. Colin. Would Colin be coming after them? His hand shook. Armstrong City was popular. Colin might go, too …

  No, he told himself. Colin will be going to Sin City and …

  Marigold poked him. “You’ve gone quiet.”

  “Just thinking,” Tobias said. Colin wouldn’t go to Armstrong City. He’d never been interested in history, even stories of brutal battles and raiders pillaging, raping and burning their way across the continent. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Marigold said. “Just think of it as a chance to broaden your mind.”

  Tobias nodded. He’d see where Neil Armstrong had taken the first steps on the moon. He’d see … there was an entire list of places he’d like to see, from the very first mining colonies to giant telescopes and independent settlements. He wondered if they’d have a chance to visit Roddenberry City. He’d been told it was welcoming to people like him, although the entry requirements were very strict. God knew he hadn’t considered it a possible destination back when he’d been looking for a place to go, after he left university …

  I might be able to go now, even if I never went to university, he told himself. They might take me.

  He stood. “We’ll make the arrangements,” he said, silently promising her a good time. “And we’ll come back happy.”

  “Yep.” Marigold grinned. “And then the CO will know we’re planning something.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Just remember to circle the ballroom,” Charlotte said. “And make sure you talk to everyone.”

  Thomas tried to hide his dismay. What had been meant to be a relatively small gathering had mushroomed into a giant party, with aristocrats rubbing shoulders with famous reporters, military officers and celebrities. He’d hoped to spend time with his wife, not … he sighed, inwardly. He’d known his wife wanted to host a party, but still …

  “I’ll do my best,” he promised, as the music grew louder. The band was local, hired from the nearest village. His wife had said something about supporting the local economy. Thomas hadn’t paid much attention at the time. “You have fun. Really.”

  He pasted a polite expression on his face as he started to circle the room. It was easy to spot the patronage networks, clients, cronies and lickspittles surrounding their patrons like planets orbiting stars. The unconnected looked isolated, licking their lips nervously as they tried to work up the nerve to intrude. Normally, as host, Thomas would have done his level best to make sure they felt included. It
helped to bring good publicity, but right now he felt too tired to care. The day had been long and it was far from over.

  This is meant to be shore leave, he thought, as he spotted a trio of aristocratic women heading into the garden. Not … work.

  He smiled as he spotted Captain Campbell, who was chatting to two younger girls in the corner. The girls were probably considering Campbell’s prospects, if Thomas was any judge. It was traditional to bring talent into the aristocracy, a tradition that no one - not even Thomas - could defy. And Captain Campbell was talented … Thomas was tempted to amuse himself by pushing the trio together, but decided against it. Charlotte would kill him, probably literally. She’d worked hard to make the party happen. She’d probably put a great many noses out of joint.

  “Captain,” a voice said. “I trust I’ll be seeing you in the house?”

  Thomas turned to see Duncan, Lord Shields. The older man was a high-ranking politician who’d taken advantage of his brother’s career to boost his own into orbit. Thomas disliked him, yet he had to admit Lord Shields was pretty good at manipulating the system to suit himself. Not the sort of person he’d invite to a private party, he supposed, but definitely someone worth knowing. There’d been suggestions Lord Shields would be Prime Minister one day. He had the clout, the connections and the experience to do a good job.

  “It depends on my orders,” Thomas said. Technically, he had a seat in the House of Lords; practically, Charlotte had held his proxy since their marriage. “I may be leaving the system again in a week or so.”

  “Or so we’re told,” Lord Shields said. “The navy has something in mind, doesn’t it?”

  Thomas shrugged. He’d be very surprised if Lord Shields didn’t know precisely what the navy had in mind. It wasn’t as if the First Lord of the Admiralty was a law unto himself, beholden to no one. The War Cabinet had probably authorised the operation weeks ago, long before Lion had returned to Sol. Thomas kept his face under tight control. Lord Shields was digging. But digging for what?

  “There’s talk of putting together a whole new offensive fleet,” Lord Shields said. “What would you say to that?”

  “I’d say it was about time,” Thomas said. He’d seen the reports. The human race was on the defensive, which was tantamount to accepting inevitable defeat. “However, it would depend on how many ships we could free up without weakening the defences.”

  Lord Shields lifted an eyebrow. “And do you have any feel for how many ships we could redeploy?”

  Thomas frowned. The conversation had wandered into dangerous waters. “I’m not familiar with the overall state of the fleet,” he said. It was true, although he could make a pretty good guess from what he’d heard over the last two days. “The decision would have to be made by someone a little higher up the chain of command than me.”

  “And organising a multi-species fleet isn’t easy,” Lord Shields said, as if Thomas hadn’t spoken. “What’s your take on that?”

  “We must hang together or hang separately,” Thomas said. “I think the certainty of total destruction if we fail will concentrate a few minds.”

  He sighed, inwardly. Everyone - human and alien alike - had good reason to cooperate, but there would be problems. Of course there would be problems. Humans and aliens thought differently, ensuring that something one race would consider a minor matter would be a deal-breaker for another. The Tadpoles and Foxes found human politics to be as incomprehensible as humans found theirs. It was hard, sometimes, to even get a fleet going in the same direction. If it wasn’t for the virus, he had a feeling the known races would have continued to maintain a polite distance from each other. Better that than another round of interstellar war.

  Lord Shields shrugged. “And the planned union?”

  Thomas gave him a sharp look. “Is there a reason you ask, My Lord?”

  “We are caught on the horns of a dilemma,” Lord Shields said. “Do we risk forming a union that may grow into a de facto world government? Or do we risk forming an alliance that does not, that cannot, force everyone to work together?”

  “I thought it was a done deal,” Thomas said. “It’s been five years!”

  “Fifty years might not be enough,” Lord Shields told him. “I think …”

  The dinner bell rang. “I think you’d better have this discussion with my wife,” Thomas said, as the guests started making their way towards the dining hall. “She’s the political mastermind of the family.”

  He bowed, then headed towards the dining hall himself. Lord Shields had worried him. There were political implications to his words Thomas couldn’t pretend to understand. Was the older man trying to lure him into … into what? Thomas shook his head. It wasn’t as if there was any need for underhanded dealings. Everyone knew everyone did it. If Lord Shields wanted to form a political alliance, he could do it openly. And there’d be no hint of anything untoward about it.

  And instead he chose to talk to me privately, Thomas thought. The older man had placed him in an awkward position. He might wind up clashing with people who outranked him. What is going on?

  Charlotte nodded to him as he took his seat at the high table. The hall was crammed with tables, with guests carefully assigned to promote good feeling and conversation. Or at least conversation … Thomas smiled as he noted a pair of society reporters, women who could be relied upon to produce a fawning account of the evening. He’d never understood why some people followed the aristocracy as if they were animals in the zoo, particularly people who would never have the breeding or connections of born aristocrats … he rolled his eyes. The nobility was deluding itself if it thought the majority of the population cared. They had too many other problems.

  “We need to talk, later,” he said. “Lord Shields had some odd questions for me.”

  “Later,” Charlotte agreed. The servants were already bringing great plates of meat and vegetables out of the side doors, placing them on the tables for the guests to pick at as they pleased. “Right now, keep smiling.”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Thomas said.

  “I mean it.” Charlotte’s voice hardened. “I went to a lot of trouble to get the right people here.”

  Thomas nodded, concealing his irritation behind a blank mask. “Yes, My Lady.”

  ***

  Mitch hadn’t been quite sure what to expect, when he’d accompanied Captain Hammond to his family seat. A big house, naturally, but what else? Someone - he couldn’t remember who - had once remarked that the only real difference between the very rich and everyone else was that they had more money, but … stepping into the hall was like stepping into a very different world. There was a butler, a dignified older man who could have stepped out of a period drama, and a small army of manservants and maids who appeared to have been chosen for their looks as well as their competence. The hall was like a giant hotel, complete with swimming pool, massage services, a library and just about everything else. Truthfully, he found it a little overwhelming. The modern world co-existed oddly with a past that had never really existed.

  He shook his head in disbelief as the dinner was served. The aristocracy was a world unto itself. He could have gotten laid a dozen times, he thought, from the way some of the younger girls had been flirting with him. Mitch was no stranger to women - he’d never had any trouble finding female company - but there’d been something about the girls that had bothered him. He wasn’t sure how to put it into words. It was … it was as if they had completely different ideas of how the world worked.

  His gaze wandered the room. There was enough food on the tables to make them groan under the weight. The fine wines were so expensive he knew he couldn’t have purchased a single bottle on his salary, if they’d been for sale. He had a feeling they couldn’t be obtained for love or money, unless one had the right connections. And the guests … he couldn’t help feeling as though they were nothing more than peacocks. The men wore suits, the women wore dresses … both so expensive that, again, he could never have afforded them on his sa
lary. He breathed a sigh of relief that he was expected to wear his dress uniform. As uncomfortable as it was, at least he didn’t have to pay for it.

  The dinner was cooked to perfection, of course. Roast meat - beef, lamb, chicken, venison - mingled with piles of potatoes, vegetables and puddings. He ate slowly, savouring every bite even as he tried to look unimpressed. The aristocracy … he felt a dull flash of envy for anyone who grew up in such an environment. They were the lords and masters of everything they surveyed … he understood, suddenly, just why the girls had been so forward. They didn’t think anything could go wrong, not for them. If they ran into trouble, they just had to throw money at the problem until it went away.

  And the virus is not going to be impressed, he mused, as the evening wore on. You can’t bribe it to go away.

  He smirked at the thought, then sobered. The maids had given him a tour of the hall. They’d shown him Captain Hammond’s railway set - apparently, he’d built it when he’d been a child - and a dozen other diversions for kids who rarely saw their parents. Mitch had been too stunned to say much of anything. The whole hall was like a VR game, one where the player could afford anything, anything at all. He was reminded of the BBC’s shows about lottery winners, most of whom spent their way back into bankruptcy within months, but here … the money never ran out. Captain Hammond and his family were so rich they could practically buy their own battleship. His lips thinned at the thought. It would be a more productive use of their money.

  Captain Hammond’s wife tapped her glass for silence, then introduced a government minster Mitch didn’t recognise. The guests listened politely as the minster spoke about government and naval policy, somehow managing to make it sound boring. It was lucky, Mitch decided, that the poor bugger had a captive audience. He’d once attended a wedding where the bride’s stepfather had decided to lecture everyone about a great opportunity to make money, only to watch in dismay as the guests walked out. The poor bride had never lived it down.

  He forced himself to pay attention as a handful of other speakers held the floor for a few brief moments each. They didn’t say anything of importance, certainly nothing Mitch couldn’t have gleaned from a few moments with a newspaper or two. He’d half-hoped some of them would touch on something interesting, but there was nothing. It was an endless combination of vague remarks about policy, fawning over the host’s beautiful house and two beautiful daughters … really, Mitch found the latter more than a little creepy. The poor girls were both victims and victimisers. It was … odd.