The Empire's Corps: Book 03 - When The Bough Breaks

by Christopher Nuttall

  “The Prince has been up since eleven,” the Castellan said, finally. He was a short man, but he somehow managed to look down his nose at Belinda. She hadn’t been able to decide if he had the general contempt for the military that had infected the Empire’s upper echelons or if he thought that she was too pretty to be a soldier. Too many senior officers had ‘aides’ who just happened to be beautiful women. “He will receive you now.”

  “Thank you,” Belinda said. “What sort of person is he?”

  The Castellan sniffed. His record was one of unbroken servitude to the Royal Family; his family had been bound to the Royal Family for centuries, with a legal right to provide at least five senior officials within the Imperial Household. It gave them a level of patronage that, Belinda was starting to realise, allowed them to produce a power base of their own. At least they didn't seem to be moving independently, even in the Childe Roland’s minority. It was a very small power base, after all.

  “His Highness is a Prince of the Royal Blood,” the Castellan said. “He is his father’s son.”

  Belinda rolled her eyes. There was little useful that could be pulled from that statement, certainly nothing she hadn't already known. But then, the Castellan knew nothing about her; for all he knew, Belinda might have been sent to spy on his loyalties. Indiscreet conversation could ruin a career, particularly when the speaker served a very powerful family. And if someone happened to be sacked in Imperial City, they tended to fall all the way down to the undercity. They rarely lasted long in that hellish environment.

  They stopped in front of a wooden door, her implants reporting more probes from the security network. She’d been probed every time they passed through a heavy door, marking the transition from one part of the palace to another. As Powalski had promised, the security network had allowed her to pass unmolested, although the probes were becoming annoying. If she’d actually had to work as a maid, Belinda suspected that she would start going mad inside the palace. Walking through the wrong door would mean a harsh interrogation by the security staff, after waking up with a headache.

  “Be professional,” the Castellan advised. There was a click as the door started to open. “And good luck.”

  Belinda stepped into the Prince’s chambers and looked around, unable to restrain her curiosity. The files hadn't included any details on how Prince Roland had arranged his quarters, an oversight that had puzzled her when she’d realised what was missing. Now, she realised that the file might have been out of date almost as soon as it was produced. The room was vast, luxurious – and crammed. A pile of toys and electronic devices lay on one table, including a set of model starships that actually flew. They’d been a craze for years, Belinda recalled, remembering her brother’s attempt to build a collection. Somehow, she doubted that Prince Roland had done any part-time jobs to raise money to buy his toys.

  A second table held a small section of drinks and snacks. Belinda glanced at the labels and winced inwardly; the drinks were heavily alcoholic. Prince Roland was the product of a considerable amount of genetic engineering, ensuring that alcohol and drugs wouldn't be able to inflict permanent harm on his body; he’d have to consume a great deal of alcohol before feeling any effects at all. Marines had their own countermeasures spliced into their genes – they couldn't get anything more than a pleasant buzz from alcohol – but then, few Marines had the temperament to become addicted to anything. Roland ... might not be so stubborn.

  She looked up and snorted as she saw one wall. It was covered in nude paintings of young women, including a handful she recognised from the files on the Grand Senate. The Castellan showed no reaction as Belinda recognised the daughters of several Grand Senators; God alone knew what the Grand Senators would think if they knew that Prince Roland had paintings of their unclothed daughters. Maybe they’d be horrified ... or maybe they’d see it as a chance to marry their daughters to the prince. Roland would have to marry one day, just to produce the next Emperor.

  The second room was larger, with a comfortable set of sofas perched around a holographic projector and a second table of drinks and snacks. Belinda had no difficulty in recognising the projector as military grade, which raised odd questions about just what Roland was doing with it. A quick probe of the room’s processor revealed a vast number of entertainment files, ranging from ancient movies – including many banned by the Grand Senate – to outright pornography. There were so many files that she doubted that Roland could watch them all, even if he devoted his entire lifetime to the task.

  She heard the Castellan clear his throat as they entered the third room. “Your Highness,” he said. His voice was tightly controlled. “I present to you Belinda Lawson.”

  Belinda followed him into the third room and saw Prince Roland for the first time. He was lying on a massive four-poster bed, easily large enough to hold five or six people without them being too friendly. Roland looked fit – the enhancements to his body wouldn't allow him to get too far out of shape – but there was an air of slovenliness around him that made him seem unhealthy. His ancestors had engineered themselves so that the Royal Family would have the same basic appearance – hawk-like cheekbones, brilliantly-blonde hair and bright blue eyes – but his face had turned puffy through overindulgence. And there was a dull look in the Prince’s blue eyes she didn't like at all. It reminded her of the drugged-up insurgents the Marines had fought on several worlds.

  She straightened to attention and saluted the Prince. Royal Protocol demanded that he returned the salute, but instead all he did was wave his hand in the air, as if he couldn't be bothered to form a proper salute. Or, she realised, as if he didn't know how to salute. The files had all agreed that no one was actually teaching him how to rule.

  But that makes sense, she thought, sourly. The Grand Senators don’t want an effective Emperor; they want someone who will sit in his palace and rubber-stamp their decrees ... and take all the blame if things go wrong.

  “Specialist Lawson is here to be your bodyguard,” the Castellan said, patiently. “You will be escorted by her everywhere, so you should get to know her and ...”

  The Prince snickered. “Does that include the toilet?”

  Belinda scowled at his tone. Prince Roland sounded petulant – and partly drunk. She could smell enough alcohol in the air to suggest that he had been drinking; glancing around, she saw a handful of bottles near the bed. How long had he been drinking? And, coming to think of it, what had he been drinking? Perhaps she would have to suggest – firmly – that he touched less alcohol in future.

  “If necessary,” the Castellan said. He bowed deeply. “I shall leave you to get to know her.”

  Belinda heard the door closing behind him as he left, but she didn't take her eyes off the Prince. Roland stared back at her, his eyes drifting all over her body. She scowled inwardly as a faint smile drifted over his face. The briefing files on the Prince hadn't been anything like detailed enough. And she made a mental note to get her hands on his medical file as quickly as possible. Colonel Hicks would have a copy in his files, she was sure. She would have to ask Sergeant Powalski for access.

  “You’re my bodyguard,” Roland said. “Is mine a body you’d like to guard?”

  “You need to get into shape,” Belinda said, already feeling tired. She stood up and glanced around the room. “What are you supposed to be doing today?”

  “Nothing,” the Prince said. His voice dropped, slightly. “I was going to visit the Arena later.”

  “Not in that state, you’re not,” Belinda snapped, allowing her irritation to enter her voice. The doctors had tried to interest her in a Drill Instructor post on the Slaughterhouse, but she didn't have the patience to deal with recruits. “Let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?”

  She walked over to the drinks cabinet and peered inside. The bottles were largely unmarked, suggesting that they were produced in the Summer Palace by the staff, rather than imported from outside. A couple were marked with the thistle and rose of Nova Sco
tia, identifying them as Scotch from a world that carefully regulated the number of bottles that left the planet every year. Just one of them cost more than most people in Imperial City earned in a year. Behind the bottles, there was a single injector tab containing sober-up. By law, they had to be included in every drinks cabinet on Earth, but she would have been surprised if any of the bureaucrats had dared to inspect the Prince’s quarters.

  Roland stared at her as she walked back to the bed. “What are you doing with that ... ?”

  “Injecting you,” Belinda said, tightly. The Prince started to move away from her, but she caught his arm and held it while she pushed the tab against his neck. There was a faint hiss as it shot the drug into his bloodstream. “That should make you feel better.”

  “You ... you ...”

  Roland’s voice broke off as he started to shake. Sober-up forced alcohol and other drugs out of the body as rapidly as possible. It wasn't a very pleasant process. Belinda helped him to his feet, feeling sweat already trickling down his arm, and escorted him into the massive bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet before he threw up into the bowl.

  “Let it all out,” Belinda said. “Don’t worry, just let it all out.”

  She’d heard of close-protection details who had ended up effectively serving as nursemaids, but she’d never had to do it until now. Roland didn't just need a bodyguard; he needed a nurse and a personal trainer. What if he’d damaged his brain by drinking so much alcohol? It should have been impossible, but genetic engineering didn't always live up to its promise.

  “That was disgusting,” Roland protested. He still sounded petulant, but at least the drunken haze was gone from his voice. “I’m going to have you sacked. And fired. And disembarked ...”

  “I think you mean disbarred,” Belinda said. Roland couldn't sack her, at least until he was Emperor. He could complain to the Commandant, she supposed, but the Commandant would probably take it as a sign she was doing her job properly. “Besides, you can't both sack and fire me. You can only have one.”

  Roland glared at her as he tried to work it out. Belinda took advantage of the silence to pour a glass of water from the sink and pass it to the Prince.

  “Drink,” she ordered. “You need rehydration.”

  Roland’s expression didn't change as he sipped the water. “I’ll have you fired,” he said, finally. He passed her the empty glass. “And then you won’t work again ...”

  “Believe me, that would be a relief,” Belinda said, as she refilled the glass. “Drink again, then we can find you something to eat.”

  The Prince blinked at her in surprise. “You want to be fired?”

  “When you are the Emperor, you can fire me and I will happily go into retirement,” Belinda told him. “Until then, you will have to put up with me.”

  She’d given some thought to retiring and going back to Greenway, or another world along the Rim. The corporations that founded colony worlds loved to hire retired Marines or experienced soldiers from the Imperial Army as colony marshals and other law-enforcement agents. She’d even looked at a few of the job offers, although most of them had come from corporations that seemed to specialise in causing problems for the Marines by mistreating their settlers.

  Pushing the thought aside, she escorted Roland out of his bathroom, through the bedroom and into the dining room. It was larger than she had expected, easily big enough to allow him to invite over a hundred guests to share his table. The table was massive, but only one place had been set at the near end. A menu had been placed between the knives and forks.

  “You need something healthy,” Belinda said, plucking up the menu before he could object and skimming through it. She’d been in fancy restaurants with less elaborate menus. Most of the options were unhealthy. Somehow, she doubted that any of the kitchen staff had been encouraged to prepare healthy food for the young man. “Let’s see now ...”

  “I’m not a child,” Roland objected, sharply. “I can make my own decisions ...”

  “Really?” Belinda asked, in the sweetest tone she could muster. “And what are you going to choose for breakfast?”

  Roland didn't glance at the menu. “Chocolate toast, half-boiled eggs on toast and fettered cheese,” he said. “Very healthy.”

  “Not even remotely healthy,” Belinda contradicted. She had to glance at the menu again to find out what fettered cheese actually was. Merely looking at the picture made her arteries feel as if they were clogging up. “We’ll compromise. You can have the half-boiled eggs if you also have cereal beforehand.”

  Roland smirked at her. “I could have cereal afterwards?”

  “I’ve been lied to by experts,” Belinda told him, dryly. She accessed the room’s processor through her implants and transmitted the order to the kitchens, after adding hot unsweetened coffee to the list. “You can eat the cereal first.”

  It took only five minutes before the serving maid arrived, carrying a bowl of cereal, a steaming mug of coffee and a small jug of milk. The maid was young – she couldn't have been more than sixteen, perhaps younger – and the way she looked at Roland when she thought no one was watching her told its own story. Belinda eyed the young prince as the maid set the food in front of him, daring him to do anything stupid, but he did nothing. Maybe he’d been in a drunken haze all the other times ... or maybe his eyes were doing all the feasting. The maid’s outfit left very little to the imagination.

  “Put some milk into the coffee,” she ordered, once the maid had left. “And then you can start eating.”

  Roland grimaced as soon as he tasted the coffee. “What sort of shit is this?”

  “Finest Arabian blend from Ramadan,” Belinda said. Like the Scotch, it had to be imported to Earth and cost more money than anyone outside the nobility could easily afford. “And it will give you an energy boost.”

  “I want alcohol,” Roland insisted, flatly. “Get me a glass of the pink one.”

  It doesn't have a name? Belinda thought. “No,” she said, out loud. “You’ve drunk far too much already today.”

  Roland ate his way through the cereal, grumbling all the time. Belinda ignored the grumbles, knowing that hunger – a side-effect of the sober-up – would encourage him to eat. She’d picked the brand carefully; it was reasonably healthy, but it also tasted better than the cereal they’d been fed at Boot Camp, back when she’d first signed up with the Marine Corps. Who knew? Maybe Roland could develop a taste for healthy foodstuffs. Stranger things had happened.

  The door opened again, revealing a different maid carrying a plate of sloppy eggs, toast and several tiny bottles of sauce. Unlike the first maid, this one seemed eager to attract Roland’s attention, as if they were almost welcome. Belinda puzzled over it for a long moment before realising that if Roland kept her in his quarters, her superiors could hardly complain. Besides, if she did start a long-term affair with the Prince, it might lead to social promotion for her. Several minor noble families had started with someone who had been the Emperor’s mistress for a time.

  Belinda motioned for the maid to leave before anything could happen and watched with mild disgust as Roland slurped the eggs. His table manners were worse than those of raw recruits, even though as Emperor he would be hosting formal dinners. Clearly, no one had even bothered to teach him how to be a good little puppet. Sooner or later, someone would realise that they didn't need Roland at all.

  “I’ll have to get you an etiquette tutor,” she said, once Roland had finished. She’d been briefed on fitting into society on Han and a couple of other worlds, but Imperial City was a universe unto itself. “For the moment, you have a lot of work to do.”

  The Prince looked appalled. “Bitch,” he muttered.

  “Quite right,” Belinda agreed. “But it’s Drill Sergeant Nasty to you.”

  Chapter Six

  Thus began the Unification Wars, which pitted the newborn Empire against much of the settled galaxy. We lack many details of what happened in the wars, but we do know that t
he Empire scored many successes - and that each success made it stronger. Further, those planetary systems that submitted quickly were allowed a degree of internal autonomy, as long as they did not seek to regain their independence.

  -Professor Leo Caesius, The End of Empire

  “Mandy would have loved this, you know?”

  “Don’t mention her name here,” Jacqueline advised. “You never know who might be listening.”

  Amethyst Winston shot her best friend a sharp look. Mandy Caesius had been her friend – had been their friend – until her father, a professor at Imperial University, had been fired under mysterious circumstances. Since then, she hadn’t heard anything from Mandy – and rumour had it that she’d been banished completely from the planet. What had her father done?

  She dismissed the thought as she caught sight of a pair of handsome boys from Social Studies class and smiled at them. They smiled back, clearly impressed with the amount of effort Amethyst had put into her appearance; her long brown hair drew attention to the shape of her body and the tight shirt she wore over her chest. Her mother wouldn’t have approved of her decision to leave the apartment without a bra, but it had definitely paid off. If only she’d been able to convince Jacqueline to follow suit. Both of the boys were definitely hunks and members of a particular society she wanted to join.

  “I’ll have the beefy one,” she muttered, keeping her eyes on the boys. “You can have the other one.”

  “You wish,” Jacqueline said. She ran a dark hand through her white hair. “He’s clearly paying more attention to me.”

  A dull gong sounded in the distance, drawing their attention towards the man standing on the podium. Imperial University was a hotbed of student dissent, at least partly because the tutors encouraged the students to join protests to boost their grades. Amethyst liked to think that she was there because she had considered the issues personally and decided where best to place her political support. The planned deployment to Albion was going to be stunningly expensive and that money could be better spent on Earth. Imperial University was permanently short of funds. Why, some of the students had actually had to withdraw because they couldn’t keep up the payments on their student loans.