by Tom Clancy
Apparently, time flies even when I’m having a not-so- good time, he thought. A quick pat to his midsection didn’t start any growls of hunger. But Leif padded through the apartment on stocking feet anyway, heading for the kitchen.
Mom and Dad were out showing their European friends the glories of the real New York City, as opposed to the virtual version anybody could visit by synching into the Net. He had more than enough time to take a shower and join them for dinner. Besides, Leif liked a cup of coffee after spending any length of time on the Net. It brought the real-life edge back to his brain.
He was sitting on a kitchen stool, watching the cof- feemaker brew a cup to his precise specifications, when a sound like chiming silver bells filled the house. Leif took one last, longing look at the coffee still dripping down into the cup, then headed over to the terminal set in the kitchen wall to answer the call. He had to answer. It might be his folks, calling with a change of plan.
Hey, it could even be Megan, calling to talk some more about their afternoon’s adventure. She’d probably prefer to talk to Alan Slaney, but he was probably still in the sim, plotting away as Gray Piotr.
Leif activated the phone connection, but the face he saw in the hologram image was neither Megan’s nor either of his parents.
The model-perfect facial features, dramatically framed by hair as black as a raven’s wing, spoke subtly of expert-and expensive-plastic surgery. After a moment of silence those lovely features arranged themselves into a frown that was more like a sneer. “The polite thing to do when someone calls is to say hello, Leif.”
“Hello, Roberta,” Leif replied cautiously. “Please forgive me. I was … surprised.”
As far as Leif was concerned, that was putting it mildly. He liked girls, and enjoyed going out with them-a lot of them. He had a reputation to uphold as playboy-in-training-at least, his friends thought so- and so his social activities were almost mandatory. But problems came along with having an active social life. Or, as his father called it, a volcanic one.
Some girls got possessive. They seemed to see more in a friendship/flirtation than was actually there. A few got scared at life in the fast lane-especially if their parents got involved. Other girls just got nasty, treating Leif like the flavor of the week. No matter what the attitude, more than a few of Leif’s relationships had ended in explosive breakups.
But Roberta Hendry was in a class by herself. About a year ago, Leif had enjoyed a pretty wild summer with her, running through the Washington social scene with a bunch of diplomatic brats. Roberta’s family was old- money rich-what they called FFV, or “First Family of Virginia.” The Hendrys had hung on. To their wealth since Virginia was a royal colony of Britain. Investments of some of that wealth made two generations ago in early tech stocks had enlarged the family’s fortunes from lavish to obscene. They had more than enough money lying about these days to enjoy Society with a capital S.
The only two things the Hendrys hated were publicity, which Roberta’s escapades sometimes brought on, and politics, which the Hendrys considered vulgar.
Perhaps that’s why Roberta had gone political. Maybe it was some bizarre form of late adolescent rebellion.
Journalists and Net newscasters called her “the radical debutante.” By the time they’d broken up, Leif thought she’d just gone plain wacko.
Roberta had taken up a bunch of weird -isms that frankly contradicted each other-except that they were all revolutionary in tone.
Leif’s interest had quickly sunk to impatience when she started ranting to him about changing the whole social order. Somehow, the rhetoric seemed a bit much when he had to listen to a child of privilege attack his self-made father as a bloodsucking parasite.
Magnus Anderson had worked hard to build the fortune Leif enjoyed. A lot of fine people had gotten jobs from his father’s company and good paychecks along the way to that fortune. Leif knew about his father’s efforts-at times, he’d even helped with them. So being bad-mouthed by a rich girl whose family counted inherited money for a living got to be a little too much.
Leif and Roberta had argued the politics of privilege, their fights getting louder and louder until the rest of their good-time crowd began to avoid them. But the corker had come after a night they’d spent dancing- Roberta had told a valet-parking attendant that it was his class duty to sabotage all the rich folks’ cars in his care. When Leif pointed out that would include her own luxury Dodge SUV, Roberta had used the powerful car to try and run him down.
After that, Leif had returned to New York and succeeded in not talking to Roberta Hendry-until this very surprising call.
“I had an agent checking on the comings and goings from Alan Slaney’s childish amusement park,” Roberta informed him loftily.
Leif wasn’t impressed. If her searchbot had wasted enough time for him nearly to finish making a cup of coffee before getting to Roberta, the agent wasn’t all that great.
Reminded of his coffee, Leif picked up the cup, adding a little sugar. Too bad he couldn’t sweeten the beautiful girl floating in front of him. “You know Alan Slaney?” he asked. “I would think that historical simulations in general-and AHSO in particular-would be pretty far down the list of your interests.”
“On the contrary,” Roberta told him. “The turn-of-the- century era was the breeding ground for some of the great political movements of the twentieth century.” She took a deep breath, as if she were tasting something. “Socialism, communism, fascism … anarchism. They all came to a great flowering twenty years on either side of 1900. I have a deep and valid interest in the turn of the century.”
Her lips curled in that all-too-familiar sneer. “Unlike so many who claim an ‘interest’ in order to play dress- up!”
Leif blinked. “You’re actually taking part in the Latvinia beta-test?”
Roberta nodded. “I was just as surprised to find your name listed among the participants.” She gave him a sidelong look. “Actually I was more surprised when your name turned up in the early reports on the sim. My agent sorts items of political importance for me-even the silly reactionary politics in this charade. Imagine my astonishment when I discovered that you had prevented an attempt to kidnap Princess Gwenda! And you’re staying in the palace!”
Leif rolled his eyes. “And what exactly do you want out of it?”
Roberta leaned forward, intent on her plans-and completely oblivious to Leif’s skeptical reaction. “I’ll be entering Latvinia as Viola da Gamba, an adventurous female reporter.” Her lips twisted again. “It was the least demeaning role I could find in the simulation. I’m sure Slaney planned it that way, to keep me from upsetting his reactionary applecart. As a commoner, I would normally find it almost impossible to speak to the princess, even though I represent the press.”
“Normally,” Leif repeated.
“But now I have a friend at court-literally,” Roberta said with a self-satisfied nod.
Ignoring her rather elastic definition of “friend”- someone who chases you down the street in a car with probable intent to kill wasn’t anywhere on Leif’s definition of friendship-Leif asked, “Isn’t there someone else in the SIG you can … uh … get help from?”
If Roberta had been scornful before, she got three times worse now. “Those … idiots! They have no notion of the importance of the era. For the girls, it’s a chance to try on so-called ‘romantic’ fashions. And the boys all leap into uniforms, playing soldier. It’s the same heedless imperialism that got millions killed in 1914-”
“I’ll take that as a simple ‘no,’ then,” Leif said.
Roberta’s voice became suspiciously sugary. “But you, Leif… even though we weren’t on the same political plane, you always liked to make things happen. I’d say it’s safe to assume that Slaney doesn’t know we have a history. Imagine the look on his face when you usher me in for an interview with the princess!”
Oh, it wouldn’t be an interview, Leif knew. Viola da Gamba would start lecturing “Princess Gwenda” on e
verything she saw wrong with Latvinian society. Megan would be ready to kill him by the time it was over.
Even so, Leif couldn’t quite keep the grin off his lips. Anything that might annoy the great Alan Slaney was all right with him. …
The next day at the fencing salle, Alan had to crack down and make people work-everyone was talking about Latvinia and their adventures there.
Megan found herself standing in front of a mirror, working off her distraction by practicing moulinets-the deadly diagonal cuts Alan had used to harass her during their last practice. The idea was to make the cut as efficiently and quickly as possible-with perfect form. Twist the wrist, slash up with the sword from left to right. Then take the en garde stance with the blade defending the right, and slash up from there-
“You do not do it correctly,” the practice partner, Sergei Chernevsky, suddenly said.
“What’s wrong?” Megan asked. Sergei had been studying at the salle longer than she had. If he could give her the benefit of his experience …
“You move the blade like a modern fencer-with the flat. Listen.” His blade flashed up, making an audible. whiffing noise.
“Classical moulinet means leading with the edge. You can hear the difference.” His sword leaped up again, but this time there was a whistle as the blade’s edge cut the air.
“I see,” Megan said. “Actually, I hear.” They grinned at each other, then resumed their positions. Up and around-slice! Down and around-slice!
Soon Megan’s blade began to whistle instead of whisper as she got the trick of it. She also began to get a sweaty face and an aching arm. “I really, really hope this is an important move,” she puffed.
Sergei’s breathing was a bit labored, too. “I read about some old-time fencing masters, they would expect you to do thirty minutes’ worth-moulinet with lunge.”
“Great.” Megan laughed. “Burn out your legs and your arm.”
They resumed their practice. “By the way,” Megan added as her sword whistled through the air, “I was very impressed by your uniform in the sim.”
“It is the costume of the old Hungarian Hussars,” Sergei replied. “Embroidered frogging across the chest, and the fur-trimmed jacket-the pelisse-worn over one shoulder.”
He smiled as he swung his sword around. “The saber, you know, came from Hungary. The cavalry there adopted it from the Turkish scimitar.” Sergei actually blushed. “Excuse the lecture. Back home, I went to a military school. Every cadet had to learn the motherland’s glorious military history. I was always fascinated by swords and cavalry. My dream was to be a Hussar.”
He brought his blade around with a flourish, slicing his moulinets back and forth, creating a sideways figure eight in steel.
“Even more impressive,” Megan said. “Except that it looks like the sign for infinity.”
“Let us hope Alan does not keep us that long on the exercise,” Sergei said. “It is supposed to make the fingers more flexible, the wrist more limber.”
“If my wrist gets any more limber, my hand will fall off.” Megan glanced in the mirror, searching for their instructor in the reflection. “Where did Alan go?”
Sergei took a break, shrugging. “Disappeared, just like the kidnappers in the sim. We followed their trail right onto the slopes of the great mountain-Grauheim. But we couldn’t find another trace.”
Transferring her saber to her left hand, Megan shook out her right, trying to get the lactic acid out of her burning muscles. Then, gritting her teeth, she resumed the practice.
So, the guys who got the real Princess Gwenda disappeared on the slopes of Grauheim, the wildest mountain in Latvinia. Not surprising.
Especially not surprising, if Gray Piotr, Master of Grauheim, was behind the plot to steal the throne. What was Alan Slaney up to behind that monocle and mustache?
“You’ve lost your whistle again.” Sergei’s voice intruded on her thoughts.
Megan blinked, glaring at her sword as the flat whiffled through the air instead of the edge slicing. She resumed the guard position for the left side of her body, concentrating on every move.
Can’t do this right if you don’t think of what you’re doing, she scolded herself. Fencing now. Latvinia later.
She shook her head as her blade whistled through the air.
Damn, but Alan had created a seductive little world!
Chapter 6
For about the fifteenth time since he’d synched into Latvinia, Leif tried to readjust the uniform he wore. It wasn’t that the crimson-and-gold jacket and light gray trousers didn’t fit him. It was more that the perfectly tailored uniform fit a little too well. The cavalry trousers tucked into knee-high boots felt more like ski pants-or possibly like a pair of tights. His memory of that exposed feeling, a natural result of taking lessons at his mother’s ballet school, was one of the few unpleasant ones he’d taken from his stint as a boy dancer. The pants he had on now were what they’d have called spray-ons way back in the disco era. Skin tight and a bit too blatant. And his Hussar-style jacket only came to his waist. In this 1890s style, he felt as though everyone was checking out parts of him that guys didn’t generally show off in public in the year 2025.
But it was the wish of the princess that he become an honorary member of the Royal Guard, complete with fancy uniform and a sword at his side. Leif suspected that Megan took a secret glee in seeing him prancing around like this. P. J. had adopted the uniform, too, with the addition of his cowboy hat. David-or rather, Men-elik-had flatly refused to wear the rig, preferring his royal robes.
Unfortunately, Leif didn’t have any native dress to use as an excuse to get out of this costume. He wouldn’t see Megan until the royal court late in the afternoon, so he’d decided to spend his free time exploring the palace and trying to get used to his new clothes.
And there had been one other piece of business. A note had come from Viola da Gamba, just arrived in Herzen, asking her old friend Hengist to help her get an interview with Princess Gwenda. As he’d promised the night before, Leif had passed along the request to the Graf von Esbach and the royal appointments secretary. They had assured Leif that his friend would be received at court that very day.
The good effect of the day’s wanderings was that Leif had a much better idea of the geography inside the royal palace. On the bad side of the ledger were the several duels Leif had witnessed. The would-be swordsmen had ranged from merely incompetent to dangerously inept. One duelist had lost control of his saber during a wild slash and sliced into his own leg.
Leif had offered a little first aid with an improvised tourniquet-and began to appreciate why the code duello required that a physician be on hand. Unfortunately, these amateurs hadn’t taken that elementary precaution. Leif had managed to keep the failed swordsman “alive” until medical help had arrived. But he suspected this guy would spend most of the beta-testing period of this sim waiting for his wound to heal.
Strolling along, hand on the hilt of his own blade, Leif shook his head. It was just as well that Alan Slaney hadn’t included an actual Ostwald in his sim. If it came to out-and-out war between the two vest-pocket states, there wouldn’t be enough officers to lead that Latvinian army-too many of the players would have put themselves on the injured list with stupid sword tricks.
At last the time came for royal audiences. Leif marched to the entrance of the throne room, where he found P. J. and David already waiting.
P. J. gave him a grin as big as Texas. “You look like the doorman for a very expensive, but slightly kinky, hotel,” he told Leif.
“Can it, cowboy,” Leif replied. “Keep in mind you’re wearing the same uniform. Have either of you caught up with Meg-the princess-today?”
“I saw her briefly, when I regretfully declined to wear that insane costume,” David said. “She was halfway through a royal makeover-I can hardly wait to see the final results.”
When Megan arrived, accompanied by the Graf von Esbach, Colonel Vojak, and a company of guards, Leif could see wha
t David meant. Megan’s usual cloud of dark curls had been coiled carefully around her head, and a diadem of gold and jewels sat above her forehead. The style suited her all too well. She was a knockout. She wore a magnificent low-cut off-white court gown and a stern expression on her features-the result of royal cares … or maybe annoyance at the enforced changes in her look. Megan had never been a silk-and- ruffles kind of girl.
The bewigged flunkies threw open the throne room doors, and the court sorted itself out. A few changes had been made, including the addition of a simple seat on the step below the royal throne. That was where Megan sat. Von Esbach, Vojak, David, Leif, and P. J. took positions to the right of the throne. Gray Piotr and a knot of his tough guys stood off to the left.
Another flunky who looked like a refugee from Colonial Williamsburg stood by the door, brandishing a large parchment scroll. He raised it and began speaking in German, announcing people as they came to be presented at court.
After several ambassadors had bowed to the princess, the name of Viola da Gamba was announced. Roberta Hendry swept into the throne room with all the poise that life as a jet-set debutante had given her. She wore a plum-colored velvet riding suit with a matching hat set at a perky angle-and a smile of triumph as she looked at Alan Slaney. The Master of Grauheim-not to mention the creator of Latvinia-was not pleased to see her in the royal presence.
Roberta stepped to the dais where Megan sat. “Your Majesty, it is a pleasure to visit Latvinia, and a privilege to be in your presence.” She sank into a graceful curtsy, but her tone was almost challenging as she went on. “I hope to discuss the true state of the realm with you-”
Then disaster struck as Roberta came out of her curtsy. Although she must have practiced the move a million times in dance classes and at debutante balls, the heel of her boot caught in the hem of her riding habit’s skirt. Roberta rose to a ripping sound-and her velvet skirt crumpled gracefully down until it was merely a purple ring around Roberta’s ankles.
The color of the young woman’s face almost matched the hue of her clothing as she stood in front of the assembled nobility in jacket, ascot, and a pair of shapeless lilac bloomers.
