by David Weber
In only four T-years.
She was not going to break with the tradition her father and her brother had created, and so she processed through the cathedral, through that magnificent outpouring of music and voices, preceded by the crucifer, thurifer, and candle-bearers, with her grandmother’s Bible clasped in her hands.
The long train of her mantle glided across the polished marble floor behind her. Her formal coronation robes glittered with embroidery and gem work, and the slight weight of the coronet she’d always avoided wearing rested heavily upon her head.
Not as heavily as the crown about to replace it, though. Her grandmother had attempted to avoid official Manticoran crown jewels and state regalia, but that was one fight she’d lost, and a State Crown had been the first on the list to be made.
She would have given everything she possessed to be somewhere else, watching her brother still bear the crown she wished so desperately she could have avoided.
The journey down the nave took forever, yet ended far too soon. The other members of the procession spread away from her, leaving her alone before the small group of men and women awaiting her.
Archbishop Wallace Bradford, as the Archbishop of Landing, stood in the host’s position at the center of that group. He was flanked by the other acknowledged senior spiritual leaders of Manticore: Rabbi Malcham Saltzman, Imam Acharya Hu-Jiang, and Guru Bagaskro Shrivastava. Bradford raised his hands in benediction, joined by his fellows, as Elizabeth reached the polished sanctuary rail and went to her knees on the embroidered kneeler. The music crested, then died.
The cathedral was silent in the anthem’s wake. Bradford let that silence linger for perhaps fifteen seconds. Then he stepped half a pace forward and raised his voice, looking out across the packed pews.
“We have come together for a solemn occasion of state,” he said into the quiet. “We are a diverse people. We know God in many ways, and under many names. Some doubt His existence; some deny His existence, and that is, perhaps, as it should be in a kingdom dedicated to freedom of conscience and thought. Yet Crown Princess Elizabeth is a woman of faith. For her, this is a spiritual as well as a secular occasion, for on this day she takes a groom, the people of Manticore. She has chosen, as her brother before her, to celebrate that publicly under the eyes of God, as well as under the auspices and requirements of our Constitution. She bids you now to join her in that moment and asks that all of you, whether present in this cathedral or attending electronically, join her in the common dedication of our hearts, our minds, and our courage in preserving the Star Kingdom of Manticore and always and forever holding it—and her—accountable to its people.”
He paused once more, then held out his hands to Rabbi Saltzman, Imam Acharya, and Guru Shrivastava. They joined him, and he raised his voice once more.
“Lord of all Creation, we call upon You, by whatever name and in whatever fashion You are known to us. We ask You this day to witness Your daughters and Your sons, and especially this, Your daughter Elizabeth, as she takes up the mighty task to which she has been called. It is a sobering, grueling, often frightening task, and she is only mortal. All mortals are fallible, and all mortals sometimes know fear, but she comes to You with a simple request this day, and we share it with You in her name. Be with her, we pray. Bless her, strengthen her, and give her always the power to look within her heart and find there the love for her people, the strength to serve their needs above any other calling, and the will and the courage to fight tirelessly for that which she knows is right. She asks this in Your name, and we ask You to hear her prayer for all of us, as well. Amen.”
A rumble of answering amens came back from the crowded cathedral, and all four of the spiritual leaders reached out in unison to lay their hands briefly upon Elizabeth’s head. Then they stepped back and Adelaide Summervale, Duchess of Cromarty, and Kenneth Pavón, Speaker of the House of Commons, took their place. Cromarty bore the Scepter, while Pavón carried the velvet cushion upon which the bejeweled Crown of State glittered.
“We stand in the name of the Peers and Commons and all the subjects of the Star Kingdom of Manticore,” Cromarty said. She was an elderly woman, growing frail, and her voice seemed even fragile in the wake of Archbishop Bradford’s powerful, well-trained baritone. But she was also the ranking member of the Manticoran peerage, the senior member of the House of Lords.
“As our Constitution requires, we have come to hear the coronation oath of our new Monarch,” Pavón took up the discourse. He was barely half Mansfield’s age, and his voice, though not the equal of Bradford’s, rose clearly. “In return, as representative of Peers and Commons, we have also come to pledge to her our fealty, on behalf of all the Crown’s subjects.”
He paused for a moment, then looked down at the woman kneeling before him.
“Elizabeth Antonia Adrienne Winton-De Quieroz,” he intoned.
There was a slight, almost imperceptible stir from the pews. There’d been pressure for Elizabeth to renounce her married surname, given that she was accepting the crown as the heir of the House of Winton, not the House of De Quieroz.
But there were some lines Elizabeth was prepared to draw with all the fabled stubbornness of her family, and this was one of them. Carmichael De Quieroz might not be physically present in Landing Cathedral today, but he would always be with her.
“You are attested, acknowledged, and proved as the rightful Heir to the Crown of Manticore in direct inheritance from your father Michael and your brother Edward. Do you now, before this company and all the people of the Star Kingdom of Manticore, take up the Crown?”
“I do,” Elizabeth said, with a clarity and strength she hadn’t been at all sure she would be able to produce.
“Will you honor, respect, administer, and enforce the Laws and Constitution of the Star Kingdom of Manticore?” Cromarty asked.
“I will,” she replied.
“Will you bear true, unflinching, and just service to the people of the Star Kingdom of Manticore and to your subjects, of whatever degree?” Pavón asked.
“I will.”
“Will you protect, guard, and defend the Star Kingdom of Manticore and all its citizens against all threats, foreign and domestic?”
“I will.” This time Elizabeth’s voice came out hard, cold, and she sensed a shiver of mingled dread and satisfaction as it swept through the cathedral.
“Do you undertake these promises willingly, fully, and without reservation of thought, word, or intention?”
“I do.”
Pavón and Cromarty moved a pace apart and Bradford stepped forward between them, taking Elizabeth I’s Bible from her granddaughter’s hands and holding it. Bracing herself, Elizabeth reached out and placed her right palm upon it, looking up as the Duchess and the Speaker placed their right hands atop her own.
“I, Elizabeth Antonia Adrienne Winton-De Quieroz,” she said, “being of sound mind, do swear that I will faithfully honor and discharge every pledge I have made this day to the People and Constitution of the Star Kingdom of Manticore. I take up the Crown in the name of those oaths, with the acceptance of my subjects, and under the authority of the Constitution, and I swear that the Star Kingdom’s laws will be fairly and impartially administered, that its Constitution will be honored and obeyed, and that its people will be protected from any foe, so help me God.”
The last four words weren’t legally part of the official Coronation Oath, but Elizabeth Winton-De Quieroz was the fifth Manticoran monarch to say them, and she meant every one of them. She wondered if her father and Edward had been as conscious as she was in that moment of just how badly she would need His help.
The other hands left hers, and the archbishop looked down at her for a moment. Then he rested one his own hands lightly on her head and closed his eyes in a brief, silent prayer of benediction before he handed the Bible back to her.
“In the names of the Peers and Commons of the Star Kingdom, and as the joint custodians of its Constitution, we hear and accept your oa
th,” Cromarty said as Elizabeth took back the Bible. A moment later she felt a sudden lightness as Archbishop Bradford lifted the formal coronet of the Crown Princess from her head.
“And, in the names of the Commons and Peers of the Star Kingdom, we swear and avow our loyalty, our service, and our homage, under the Constitution,” Pavón said. “In token of which, we Crown you Queen of Manticore.”
The Crown of State didn’t really weigh thirty kilograms. Elizabeth knew that. As it came down upon her head, though, what she knew didn’t matter beside the reality of all that crown represented.
“We surrender to you this Scepter,” Cromarty said, “the symbol and sign of the power and authority which are yours as the Star Kingdom’s chief magistrate, head of state, head of government, and commander in chief.”
Elizabeth laid the Bible on the sacristy rail as the duchess extended the Scepter of State in both hands. She felt the warmth of Cromarty’s grip on the scepter’s staff as she accepted it, and her eyes stung as she remembered how her father had explained its symbiology to her the day before his own coronation.
“It’s a mace, Beth,” he’d said, his voice somber and his expression grave. “It looks pretty, but that’s what it is—a weapon. Something to use to smash heads and break skulls. An emblem of the raw power that comes with a crown. I never wanted it, but I think that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Something you do because you have to, because someone has to do it, because it’s your job, and that makes it your duty, as well. I know Edward isn’t looking forward to it, either, but he’s a good kid and he’s going to turn into a better man someday. Be there for him when this gets too heavy, honey. Trust me, he’ll need you.”
I’m here, Dad, she thought as she felt the Scepter’s weight. I’m here for him, and God I wish he was still here himself. Now it’s your turn to be here for me.
“I accept this Scepter—”
Despite all she could do, the words came out husky, and she paused and cleared her throat.
“I accept this Scepter,” she repeated, her voice strong and clear once more, “in the name of the people of Manticore. May I always wield it with justice, tempered by mercy.”
“Rise, then,” Pavón said, and she was surprised by how steadily and smoothly she stood, despite the sense that her knees should be shaking.
“Turn,” he said, and she turned to face those packed pews, those watching cameras, and all the millions of Manticoran citizens behind the silent lenses. In that moment, as everyone in the Cathedral stood to face her, she felt the weight of all those individuals’ massed hopes, desires, and needs pressing down upon her.
“People of the Star Kingdom!” Cromarty’s fragile voice was suddenly as strong and clear as Elizabeth’s own had been “I present to you, Her Majesty, Elizabeth the Second, Queen of Manticore. God save the Queen!”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened slightly as the duchess appended the last four words. They were also not part of the formal coronation proceedings—
“God save the Queen!” a thousand voices rumbled the response without a trace of hesitation.
And Elizabeth Antonia Adrienne Winton-De Quieroz, Elizabeth II of Manticore, saw all those bright colors wash together through the sudden veil of her tears.
BOOK TWO
1544 PD
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Being the manager on one of Solway’s orbiting warehouses, Greez Paco reflected as he walked along the curve of the spin ring between the neatly stacked crates, didn’t pay very well. Being first assistant manager paid less. Being second assistant manager paid even less.
Being second assistant manager in a warehouse used by the Red Hand pirates, on the other hand, paid very well.
“Yes, I have them,” Paco confirmed into his uni-link as he stopped beside a set of six three-meter-tall crates. “Transshipment from Beowulf, en route to Haven.”
The man at the other end of the call snorted. “Of course they are,” he said. “Machine parts, right?”
“Machine parts it is,” Paco confirmed. Sure they were. Just like the man he was talking to was purser on a legitimate freighter. “I assume you want to dock and check out the boxes before I load them into your container?”
“Before we load them,” the man corrected, his voice going a little less friendly. “Something wrong with your memory?”
“No, no, of course not,” Paco said hastily. “I just thought—I sent you that new directive about outsiders using the station’s gantries, right?”
“Yeah, you sent it,” the man said. “Do you think we care?”
Paco winced. “No, I just—okay, sure. I’ll be waiting at the gantry to unlock it when you get here. I just thought—”
“Don’t think,” the man cut him off. “It’s not good for you. Just do what you’re told, and be happy.”
“Sure,” Paco said. Don’t think, don’t ask, and look the other way. That was what the man had told him ten T-years ago when the Red Hands’ relationship with this particular warehouse began, and the orders hadn’t changed.
The man had never told Paco his name. Paco sometimes wondered what it was, but never for very long. Wondering wasn’t good for you, either.
“The shuttle will be there in twenty minutes,” the man continued. “You just make sure everything’s ready when it gets there.”
“Sure,” Paco said. “I’ll go double-check the datawork right now.”
“You do that. And watch those crates. Watch them real close.”
The connection went dead. “You bet,” Paco muttered into the empty ether. Keying off his end, just to be sure, he headed toward the Third Quadrant terminal to make sure everything was in order. The last thing he wanted was for some last-minute wrench to be thrown into the operation.
He’d gone three steps when he heard a faint noise from somewhere behind the crates.
He stopped short, straining his ears. He’d managed to put everyone on jobs in the ring’s other quadrants, precisely so that there wouldn’t be anyone snooping around when the Red Hands came to collect their cargo. A rat, maybe, or some other small animal that had somehow found its way up from the surface?
Only one way to find out. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his little Coltline 3 mm and walked silently back to the line of crates. He thumbed off the gun’s safety and eased around the corner.
To find an old woman in a warehouse jumpsuit kneeling on the deck in the lane between the crates, her head bowed, her eyes closed, her hands clasped in front of her.
“What the hell are you doing?” Paco snarled.
The woman jerked with surprise, her eyes snapping open. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m so sorry,” she gasped as she scrambled to her feet. “Please—I did not mean to intrude.”
“Yeah, sure,” Paco said, frowning as he stepped up to her. She wasn’t nearly as old as he’d thought, he saw now, probably no more than her late forties or early fifties. She had a proper ID badge clipped to her jumpsuit’s breast pocket, but he couldn’t recall seeing her here before. Her accent was odd, too: a bit like Havenite, but with something else mixed in. “Who are you?”
“I’m Elsie, sir,” she said, reaching for her ID badge. Fumbling for it, rather—her hands were trembling too violently for her to work the clip. It made a nice counterpoint to the quivering of her lower lip, Paco thought scornfully. The woman was terrified, all right.
As well she should be. If she’d heard any of Paco’s uni-link conversation—any of it—she was in for the high jump. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I came to pray.” The woman gave up her attempt to unclip her badge and instead folded her hands together like they’d been when Paco first saw her. “The others—they laugh and make fun of me when I pray. I come here to kneel in the sunlight and speak to the Lord.”
Paco glanced around. Sure enough, one of the warehouse’s dingy viewports was directly across from her, the sunlight rising and waning in time with the station’s rotation.
“Yeah,” he said, looking
back at her. “But I ordered everyone out of this area. Weren’t you listening?”
“It was my break time,” Elsie protested. Her hands had unclasped in her agitation and were now moving together in a sort of nervous kneading motion. “I was told—I must come in here and pray. The others, they would laugh at me if they knew.”
Paco sighed. She was right about that, anyway. None of the other warehouse workers cared much for religion, of any sort, and they could be pretty nasty to anyone who did.
But even though Paco agreed with them, he had a sister who’d gone all in a few years ago. Under normal circumstances, he probably would have bent the rules and let Elsie go with a warning to never ignore his orders again.
Unfortunately, the situation here wasn’t normal.
“I understand,” he said. “But you’ve disobeyed a direct order, Elsie. We have to go put it on the official record.”
“I understand,” Elsie said, her shoulders slumping as she bowed her head. “Must we do it now?”
“Right now,” Paco said, scowling. Damn her, anyway. Now he was going to have to figure out how and where to hide a body until the Red Hands left with their crates. He couldn’t very well shove her out a lock—things that were together in orbit tended to stay that way. Better to let the pirates deal with her, somewhere between picking up their cargo, ferrying it to their hidden ship, and heading out to the hyper limit. They would have a whole universe worth of empty space to drop a body in.
On the other hand, asking for a favor like that could be a very bad idea. If he let it slip that someone had overheard their conversation there was a good chance he would join her in the long float into infinity.
He would just have to lock her in the office for now, give the Red Hands their stuff, and then figure out what the hell to do with her.
At least she would have her religion to comfort her when she saw death coming. Maybe there was even a God out there somewhere who would actually take her in or something.
“Let’s go,” he said, gesturing with the gun. “The office is this way.”
