Idiot, Belinda thought. No one would act like that on the Slaughterhouse. Boot Camp perhaps ... but a recruit who discovered that the military life wasn't for him could always just request dismissal from the camp. Roland couldn’t run away from his position unless he was prepared to abdicate completely – and it was possible that the Grand Senate wouldn't even allow him to do that. If he’d been one of her brothers, failing to carry out his household chores, her father would have given him a good strapping. Absently, she wondered if that would be a good idea before pushing it aside for the moment. There were other things she could try first.
“You shouldn't have run,” she said, pulling him towards her. He’d put on weight, thanks to the course of appetite enhancers and supplements she'd ordered for him, but he was still alarmingly slim. “It wouldn't have made it easy to protect you.”
“I don't want your protection,” Roland howled, tears streaming down his face. “I wish I was dead.”
“Death is permanent,” Belinda said, unsure of how seriously to take him. A couple of the brats she'd babysat while trying to make some money as a teenager had said the same thing, although they hadn't really meant it. “Do you really want to die?”
“I don’t have a life,” Roland said, pushing at her as he tried to pull free. “I’m just ... just a puppet!”
Belinda frowned. That showed more self-awareness than she’d realised, although Roland hadn't really been shielded from the truth behind his position. Or one of his few friends had pointed it out during a drinking session. Or maybe one of the servants had told him ... there were too many possibilities, none of them good.
“The Grand Senators want me to look good, marry one of their bitches and bless all their laws,” Roland said. “You want to control my life! You say it is for my own good, but you control me and control me and control me ...”
Belinda shook her head, tiredly. Perhaps she had come on too strong, but there had been no choice. Not that she could really explain it to Roland, at least not yet. Teenage boys lacked any sense of long-term planning, particularly when they’d been raised to get more or less whatever they wanted whenever they wanted it. The more drink and drugs he took, the harder it would be for his body to repair itself afterwards. Maybe she should have removed the drugs first, then banished the alcohol later.
“They all laugh at me,” Roland screamed. “They call me a child! I’m sixteen and they call me a child!”
“You are growing up,” Belinda said, as reassuringly as she could. None of her brothers had acted like Roland – but then, none of them had been raised to think that the world was their oyster. “You’re doing much better on the tennis court ...”
“It's not good enough,” Roland said. “It’s never good enough.”
“You should see some of my failures,” Belinda said. She'd known that she was good when she went to Boot Camp, but the Drill Instructors had been masters at showing her just how little she really knew. “You’re getting much better.”
“But for what?” Roland demanded. “What do I have to live for?”
Belinda hesitated. In truth, Roland was right; the best he could hope for in life would be to wind up as a constitutional monarch, rubber-stamping bills the Grand Senate had passed after endless debate and political horse-trading. And Roland would get the blame for everything that went wrong with the Empire ... she’d wondered why the Grand Senate hadn't taken advantage of the situation, before realising that having someone to blame could be very useful for them. Most of the Empire’s population didn't understand politics at all, even without the Grand Senate muddying the waters. All they’d grasp was that someone called the Emperor was at the top.
“See,” Roland demanded. “I don’t have anything to live for.”
He lashed out at her, his fist cracking into her jaw. Belinda moved on instinct and avoided the worst of the blow, although she’d had worse during basic training. Her implants automatically adjusted and compensated for the pain, leaving her feeling nothing more than a faint numbness that quickly faded away to nothing. She caught her hand before he could do that again and pulled him around to face her.
“You don’t know what’s going to happen next,” she said, remembering how she’d talked to the children she’d babysat. Most of them hadn’t thought past the night either. “You’re going to be Emperor. Whatever the Grand Senate may say, you will have some formidable emergency powers. With a little time and patience – and determination – you will have a chance to carve out a place for yourself where you can operate independently.”
Roland stared at her. “The Grand Senate would never allow it,” he protested. “They don't want me ...”
Belinda sighed and spoke over him. “The Grand Senate is itself divided,” she pointed out, dryly. “You could do all sorts of things with a little care and forethought.”
She sighed again, louder this time. “The Grand Senate has been arranging for you to stay here and drink yourself to death,” she added. “Why do you think they haven’t stopped you from destroying your own life? They want you to sit in the Imperial Palace, keep blasting your brain into the next dimension and maybe sign one or two papers for them.”
“They won’t let you keep working on me,” Roland said, after a long moment. “If you’re making me healthy ...”
“They can't sack me,” Belinda said. She grinned at him, inviting the prince to share the joke. “The Marine Corps has responsibility for your safety, at least on paper. They couldn't sack me; they’d have to pressure my superiors and my superiors are feeling stubborn. You could sack me, once you were Emperor, but they couldn't make you sack me.”
Roland laughed. It came out as a choking sound. Belinda patted his back and then pulled him into a hug. “Listen to me,” she said, before he could start sobbing again. “You can make something of your life if you try. I can help you get healthy and get ready to become Emperor, if you let me. Or you can go back to drinking and injecting yourself with drugs and waste away day by day. The choice is yours.”
She leaned forward until her lips were almost touching his ears. “Do you really want to let the bastards win?”
“No,” Roland said, slowly. He looked up at her through tearstained eyes. “Are you going to be with me?”
“I’ll be with you as long as you need me,” Belinda promised. Absently, she wondered just how long that would be. She’d always assumed that it wouldn't last much longer after the Coronation. “I ...”
“I looked it up,” Roland said, before she could continue. “I can have oath-sworn liegemen, if I take their oaths personally. Even a Crown Prince can have liegemen. Will you swear to me?”
Belinda hesitated, just long enough to think quickly. Marines weren't supposed to swear to anyone personally, only the Empire itself. It created a conflict of interest that might be impossible to resolve. By swearing to be Roland’s liegeman, she would be opening up a whole new can of worms, both for her career and the young prince. At the very least, it was unlikely that she would ever be able to go back to active duty. Offhand, she couldn't recall any Marines who’d been oath-sworn to anyone.
But if it meant that he trusted her, that he would be willing to listen to her, it would be worth it ...
Still, she told herself, I can always go out to the Rim and retire there.
She should have run it past the Commandant first, but she knew that Roland needed an immediate answer. Anything else would destroy his fragile trust in her.
“I will,” she said, and meant it. She took his hands in hers and tried to remember the words. They'd been mentioned in a briefing on military protocol, but she'd long-since buried them at the back of her mind. “I, Belinda Lawson, swear loyalty to Crown Prince Roland for as long as I live ...”
She stumbled through the rest of the words and then pulled the Prince to his feet. “Come on,” she said, seriously. “You have to clean up and then face me on the tennis court again.”
“I can order you to lose now,” Roland pointed out, dryly.
<
br /> Belinda snorted. “And what would you actually learn from that?”
Surprisingly, Roland didn't argue any further. Having an ally made him feel better, Belinda decided; it wasn't an uncommon pattern among young men who’d been abused. And the way Roland had been brought up had been abuse, even if it hadn't been physical torture. Having everything he wanted from an early age would have left different scars on his soul.
Shaking her head, she allowed him to lead her down the ladder and back towards the palace, where he could get a shower and change his clothes. After that, they could get back to work.
Chapter Thirteen
Humans being humans, this oppression bred discontent and resistance. Unfortunately, the resistance was insufficient to change the Empire before it was too late or force it to evolve with its own existence on the line. Planets that tried to declare independence often found themselves attacked by the Imperial Navy and bombarded back into submission. Once suppressed, they would find themselves indebted to the Empire - and paying off debts that bound them for generations.
-Professor Leo Caesius, The End of Empire
They were going to take his ship.
Captain – although he wasn't going to be a Captain much longer, was he? – Absalom Wyss stared down at the message on the display. They’d timed it perfectly, the bastards. was on her final approach to Earth, well inside the Phase Limit. If the message had reached him while he was still on the edge of the solar system, he could have reversed course and re-crossed the Phase Limit, jumping out of the solar system before the revenue cutters could catch up with him. But it was too late to escape. There was no way he could get out of range now.
The message was blunt, coming straight to the point. His debts to the banks were being called in – and if he couldn't pay, his ship would be repossessed by the bailiffs. They’d promised him a year to scrape up the money to repay his loans, but the promise had been broken, the bankers citing an emergency statue that meant nothing to him. He didn't have the credits he needed to pay off the bankers, not in the current economic climate. All of the independent shippers were having similar problems. There just wasn't enough work to go around, not for the independents. The big corporations worked hard to lock them out of most shipping jobs and all that was left was semi-legal smuggling. And now even that was gone.
He loved his ship, for it had given him a life less ordinary. He'd loved having his wife and children as his crew, even if there was a small forest worth of paperwork to fill in and submit to gain the necessary permissions. He couldn’t bear the thought of having to live in a tiny apartment on Earth, his children exposed to the lawlessness of the megacities or the schools that specialised in turning young children’s brains into mush. And yet, what could he do? They were going to board his ship and evict them, by force if necessary. Everyone in the trading community had heard about crews being stunned and waking up in hospital, where they’d been hit with the bill for removing them from their ships. It wasn't going to happen to him ...
Of course it is , he thought grimly, as he stared at the message. They would have armed bailiffs waiting for the ship to dock, whereupon they would swarm onboard and drug the crew off the ship. He could just imagine the scene ... he turned his head and stared at the massive station orbiting Earth. Once, the sight had awed him, convincing him that there was still wonder in the universe. The boxy structure orbiting Earth was humanity’s work, the product of a society that had spent centuries in space. Now, it represented the end of the line.
He knew he should talk to his wife, or even to his daughters, but what could he say? Absolute despair gripped him as he realised that he had lost everything and ruined their lives. The kids didn't have the paperwork qualifications to work on other starships, so they’d have to live on Earth ... and there was no shortage of other qualified spacers looking for work. He and his wife would have to go on the dole on Earth, sinking into the same stupor that gripped most of the planet’s inhabitants ... for someone used to travelling between the stars, it was a fate worse than death.
His console chimed as he received permission to approach from Orbit Station Seven. Even now, there were still thousands of starships docking and undocking at Earth every day, most of them transporting food and drink to the wealthier natives. He gritted his teeth in rage as he thought of the Grand Senate and the bureaucracy it had spawned, devoted to keeping the independent shippers – and all of those who wanted to lead independent lives – down and out. How much of his time had he wasted filling in their damned paperwork? He'd tried to lead a honest life and what had it gained him? Nothing, but taxes, paperwork ... and now they were taking his ship.
Damn them all , he thought, as he keyed a command into the drive system. He couldn't bear to see his wife waste away in a megacity block, or his daughters sucked into what passed for society down on Earth. There were enough horror stories – theft, rape, murder – to convince him that anything would be preferable. Hell, he'd once met a woman from Earth who had been raped twice – and considered it perfectly normal. He was going to let his daughters live there.
The ship shuddered to life as the drive system engaged. Like most freighters, Sunny Jim had a very low acceleration rate, but he could risk overloading the drive one final time. He smiled grimly as the ship started to pick up speed, aimed directly at Orbit Station Seven. If he could have, he would have aimed the ship at the Imperial City, but it was on the other side of the planet. The Orbit Station would have to do.
He reached for his wristcom to call his family, then stopped himself. It was better they died unknowing. They would never have to know that he’d failed them.
***
Millicent Wycliffe was not having a good day.
Managing the thousands of starships, spacecraft and orbital stations in the Earth-Luna conjoined system was not an easy task at the best of times. Earth’s orbit was crammed with everything from orbital defence stations to transhipment hubs, each one requiring its own brand of attention from System Control. Home Fleet’s anchorage in Luna orbit had to be kept isolated from commercial shipping, while the freighters bringing foodstuffs and other supplies to Earth had to be steered in and out as quickly as possible. Keeping track of it all wouldn’t have been simple even if the systems hadn't kept threatening to break down. Even monitoring the relatively small area of space under Orbit Station Seven’s control was a nightmare.
Her supervisor had been trying to convince his superiors that they needed a chance to shut down and do some repairs, but he’d been unable to convince them to give System Control the time it needed. Millicent could understand why – Earth depended on the constant stream of goods from out-system – yet she knew that the tiny problems and near-disasters would eventually catch up with them. Hell, there were little disasters all the time. God alone knew what would happen if the system actually came under attack.
An alarm sounded and she rolled her eyes. The security network was hyper-sensitive, designed by some fool with only the barest grasp of theoretical knowledge – and absolutely no practical experience. He'd convinced whoever was in charge of procurement – countless levels above Millicent’s position – that having a system that sounded the alarm whenever anything happened was a good idea, but Millicent could have told them better. There were so many false alarms that the staff were completely desensitized to them. Response times were poor and grew worse as the day progressed.
They really should give us more leave, she thought, as she looked over at the display. It had been months since her last vacation in Luna City, where she’d found a few new friends and partied with them for several days. The memory of a nine-person orgy made her smile as she glanced at the display ... and froze. A freighter was picking up speed, heading directly towards Orbit Station Seven, right towards her. For a moment, all of the emergency procedures simply flew out of her head. The freighter was going to ram the station! There was no way that it could be an accident, or even a freighter commander trying to get in and out quickly before the banker
s caught up with him. This was deliberate ...
She licked her suddenly-dry lips and hit the emergency button, praying that it worked perfectly for once. There had been so many false alarms that her supervisor had installed a secondary emergency network for real emergencies, but he’d had to go outside the bureaucratic system to obtain it and it hadn't been properly integrated with the rest of the network. Dear God, she realised. They were under attack! For all she knew, this was the first blow in an all-out invasion of Earth.
A loud klaxon rang through the station as the alert sounded, followed rapidly by the sounds of panic from her co-workers. They’d seen the danger, finally. Her communicator buzzed a moment later.
“Report,” her supervisor barked.
Millicent pushed aside the old resentment at his habit of staying in his quarters and allowing his crew to do the work – at least he was better than her last supervisor, who had been fond of hinting just how much he would enjoy bedding her – and snapped out a report.
“One freighter on an impact trajectory,” she said. Training sent her hand reaching for her shipsuit helmet, only to find nothing. After days of wearing the hot garment – without anything ever happening to justify wearing it – she’d stopped donning it. The simple uniform she wore was comfortable, but it would provide no protection at all if the hull was breached. “I ...”
She thought fast, trying to think of something – anything – that she could do. But there was nothing, apart from firing on the freighter. And that required permission from her supervisor.
“Sir,” she said, formally, “I request permission to engage the incoming ship.”
Her supervisor hesitated, just long enough for the freighter to pick up more speed. Millicent winced in disbelief; he might be reluctant to take responsibility for destroying the freighter, but the freighter would destroy them if it rammed the station! Surely no one would hold it against him ... she shook her head, tiredly. She’d worked in System Control long enough to know that any decision, no matter how rational, could be held against the person who made it – or the scapegoat, if an unscrupulous manager decided it was better to shovel shit downhill. And someone had probably purchased the cargo on the freighter. They’d sue for compensation if it was destroyed ...
The Empire's Corps: Book 03 - When The Bough Breaks Page 12
