by Pam Uphoff
The rumors had started about that frontier world a year and a half ago. Then some insider, or possibly just a massively stupid secretary, at the War Ministry had leaked a report of an attempted invasion, a defeat, a complete fiasco. President Orde Withione Atlas Algeria had reluctantly admitted that they'd attempted to recapture Target Forty-two and been repulsed by Earth reinforced Native troops. Their current total presence on Target Forty-two consisted of three observers. To the colonies, to Colonials like Izzo, it looked a lot like surrendering another World.
A bitterly contested election between the incumbent War Party and the powerful Isolationists had handed the Presidency to the Modernists, a minor party. After just six months in office, this Orde was looking a bit like a Pacifist. Damn these stupid Oner names. Two President Ordes in a row?
Five and half years till the next election. But just a year and a half to the next Council elections. The War Party, narrowly defeated for the Presidency, and well represented in the Council, talked a good line. Izzo hoped they meant what they said, but here in the Capital, one really couldn't assume anything. That’s why the President needs analysts.
He visually identified the second tier of bureaucrats from the Directorates controlled by the President and the Ministries controlled by the Council. He caught more than one reference to "the accidental president" and once ". . . just a placeholder until the next election." He wondered how frank and honest all those long term government figures were with the new man at the top.
"Uzga. Haven't seen you in the Salle lately." A loud, nearby voice, brought him around.
Uzga nodded politely. "Duke. It's been a busy month. May I introduce a new colleague of mine? Senior Analyst Izzo comes to us from the Department of Precognition and Divination."
"Ah, you replaced that fellow who got murdered with an outsider. Good idea. Don't want to give anyone ideas about slaughtering their way up the chain of command."
Murdered? Izzo blinked, and took refuge in formalities. He half bowed. "Subminister Ydqe, I am honored." The tall man was the senior of the three subministers in the War Ministry, and personally, a member of the War Party. One of their up and coming stars. He had a spectacular woman on his arm.
"My wife, Voyr Withione Amazon."
"Madam." Izzo bowed. This one didn't miss princess by much! Unlike the servers, her shields were wide open, advertising her power.
She bestowed a gracious smile as her husband steered her away.
No doubt, at his rank, he also had an assigned princess. But a married man would not be so gauche as to bring her to a party as a date. Izzo snorted a bit at his prissyness. Most men highly enough ranked to warrant a princess would have the social rules down pat. The scream sheets were always delighted to point out lapses.
He wondered if Ydqe's wife was one of the players in the unspoken game of social dominance that leaked over into bureaucratic office politics, and all too often, real politics. Women of the One, as part of their designed nature, had a low fertility rate. The immune system of their reproductive tract attacked sperm not bearing more than their own number of engineered genes. A high Withione woman would marry and divorce numerous times. When a man finally impregnated her, he proved that he was genetically superior to her previous husbands.
Of course he risked failure, and being pigeonholed at the same level as her former husbands. And after the divorce, if she got pregnant by her next husband, being permanently consigned to a status below his.
Wouldn't it be easier, not to mention cheaper, to send DNA samples to the lab instead of this revolving wife gambit? It may have made sense once, but we've got the tech to identify each gene, now. We base our honor on our genetics, then hide the exact numbers, and what we're missing. And anyway, interfertility among Oners is actually more complicated than straight numbers. Mismatches and incompatible genes have a lot to do with it, as well.
Strange way to live. I do believe I'll stick to being a hermit.
Although this party, with all the glittering magical women, just might change his mind about being more than normally solitary. His eyes strayed toward the brown haired canapé girl. Of course with a princess I could sidestep the whole Family Problem. Just . . . I'd have to finally admit I haven't the nerve to create a child.
That I'm terrified of the insanity of love and the possibility of sacrificing my sons for the pleasures of sex.
The room was filling up rapidly and he felt nearly suffocated. He cranked his own mental shields a bit further shut and received a glare from Uzga.
"Open up enough to impress people, Izzo. Swagger."
"I'm a lowly Senior Analyst. I'd rather just observe today. Especially since I just learned my predecessor was murdered. Why? By whom?"
Uzga shrugged. "Some lowlife, for the contents of his wallet. The fool wandered into the wrong part of town. Forget him. You are up-and-coming. Observe with your shield lower." As the Regional Analyst, Uzga was in line to become a subdirector, when an opening happened. Which was as likely, apparently, to be because of a loss of social status as anything more mundane such as retirement or heart attack. Or mugging.
I need to look into that. Tomorrow.
Tonight, I need to start reading the subtleties of the social hierarchy. If you call competitive mating subtle.
The other means of social sorting involved sports fencing. Dueling was legal, under strict guidelines; sparring with blunt tipped weapons was much more common. The sallès were very popular with the One. Izzo was very good himself, making up for lack of reach with speed. His father had taught him, and the few Oners on Homestead had organized their social lives around matches. That part of the game he could play; had played since he'd reached adulthood and moved to the capital city of Homestead. He wished, though, for a few more inches of height, or reach. He had to play at the peak of his game to overcome the taller fencers' advantage in reach. And I'd better get back in shape quickly.
"Oh good, come and meet the Horde." Uzga led the way to a group of young women just walking down the steps to the ballroom. "Poppy, I was beginning to think you weren't going to show. This is Izzo Withione Alcairo. My wife Jowp Withione Black Point, and her friends, Voun Withione and Fouv Withione."
Voun and Fouv glowed at him, and each took an arm. "An unmarried man? Lovely!"
Izzo was fast reaching the saturation point of Oner names. Homestead Natives and Halfers had been named sensible things like Fawn and Petrel, if you understood their language. Which, of course, he did. Voun like Foun(d) and Fouv rhymes with Mauve. And Jowp sounds like someone just got their foot stepped on. Help! Let me go back to the Weird Lab, where no one wants to visit and no one drags you out to parties at all, let alone at Government House.
"We can use you to make our husbands jealous." Fouv twinkled at him.
"I thought that the infidelity tactic had gone out of style in the last few centuries?"
"Oh yes. We can't use contraceptives, and a bastard would be so déclassé, not to mention definitely going too far in insulting our husbands. The divorce decree would not be very generous."
"So we only flirt, to engage our husband's attention." Voun batted her eyelashes at him.
"And they pretend it doesn't matter to them. But another man's baby would imply that his genetics weren't good enough." Fouv smiled cattily. "And we'd have to be insane to go that far. Come dance with me."
He danced until his feet hurt, and managed to ask the gorgeous brunette canapé server her name.
Xiat. That one he'd have no problem remembering.
***
Xiat Withione Black Point loved the horsey ambiance of the showgrounds. Thirty-eight years ago she’d chosen the Princess School over aiming for world class competition. I needed the training, my magic was so unbalanced, and out of control. She was in casual civilian garb today, navy shirt, khaki pants, riding boots. With her shields shut tight, no one was giving her a second glance. The other princess was currently closer to the President’s daughter. Rael looked young enough to be one of Madam
Chin’s students. And her bouncy, giggly exuberance certainly fit the role. They’d tag team, one roaming and one close all day. Two of the guys from the Black Horse Company, in uniform and obviously armed, were keeping a slightly more distant eye on the girl. And then there was Madam Chin. Her iron control over "her girls" kept her alert for any problem, as she got her dozen students to the right classes with the right horses, dressed properly and pumped up with a quick ego boost at the in-gate. Paer’s horse was a big gray mare. Enthusiastic and well trained, on top of solid athletic ability that just might get the girl to the Olympics in a few years.
Snip, Private Siap Gurerra, if one was being formal, her groom, was a middle-aged Halfer who’d been with the Black Horse Company for more than a decade. He was another layer in the girl’s armor, for all his training was in horse handling, not bodyguarding.
The girl’s most vulnerable time was when she was on horseback, out in an arena away from all her guards.
Madam Chin had the girls all polished and enthusiastic as she herded them from powder room back to the show ring. The oldest of the "girls" was twenty-four, the youngest an aggressive twelve year old. They all stalled a bit, looking over at another practice ring, where a tall young man was fighting with a big chestnut stallion. "Whooeee. Looks like all the little girls have spotted a real stud." Rael’s snicker was clear through the ear bud.
"Horse mad." Xiat commented.
Rael stepped up on a concrete barrier for a clearer look. "No Xiat, I think they’ve spotted the two legged stud doing the riding. Whoa! That horse can jump. If he wasn’t fighting his rider he’d be serious competition. The hunk on top sure can ride. And from the little I’m picking up, he’s pretty good at cussing as well."
"Cover Paer’s ears."
"No, this is imaginative cussing, not mere obscenities. According to him, the horse’s dam was an irradiated wolverine and his sire was a warthog overdosed on mean juice."
Xiat had moved close enough to hear for herself, now.
"And on your dam’s side you’re line-bred to a great white shark. I understand they taste really nasty, but I’m willing to give it a try." The rider was tall, narrow-waisted, broad shouldered, muscles bulging on his bare arms as he fought the stallion's attempts to put his head down and buck. He was wearing the regulation padded and stiffened protective vest over a sleeveless shirt, sweaty brown hair with a hint of curl stuck out from beneath the crash helmet. His glow was nearly hidden behind a solid mental shield. Little sparks winked and disappeared; a sign of anger, loss of control. The stallion fishtailed, trying to dodge a jump, laid his ears back and popped the jump from much too close. "And you jump like a cow. Pity you only have half the brains of one." Another flare of power, quickly squashed. Magic wasn’t allowed in the show ring. Unfair competition. But it is always entertaining when someone loses it in the arena, and gets disqualified.
"Girls! You are showing, not spectating. I will assess the competition, you will proceed to our assigned warmup arena." Madam Chin’s chilly tones sent the bevvy of girls onward, although not without a few glances back from the older ones.
Paer, Xiat was relieved to see, was not one of them. I’ll give it two years until she’s as boy crazy as the rest. Right now, at fourteen, she was an open, friendly girl. Her DNA tests showed she was very high ranked. A single dropped gene shy of a perfect double set. Not that any outsiders knew her numbers. Just the "Withione" designation, implying a count of at least two hundred, out of the maximum of two hundred and sixteen. Xiat had never heard of a Withione being chosen for the Princess School with less than two hundred and thirteen. The School didn't advertise their criteria, but rumor had it that they also considered unusual genes located off the insertions.
The girl had not yet grasped power, but that could happen anytime from now to ten years in the future. What triggered the sudden breakthrough to conscious manipulation of power was as unpredictable as the formation of a teenage crush.
Of course, since her father's election, the Newsies all called her Princess Paer.
Paer didn’t show against her own age group; it was considered unsporting, given the Gran Prix level history of her horse. In the open jumpers she scored a clean round and in the jump off faced only the unruly chestnut. Xiat consulted the lineup. War Party, owned by the daughter of the Governor of Britain. Ridden by Endi Dewulfe, now properly jacketed, and non-swearing. A Halfer-style name, surprising, considering how bright his leaks had been, in the practice ring. The stallion was dripping sweat and lathered between the front legs. Tired enough that he was merely obstinate. Paer beat his time by a fraction of a second, and glowed as she collected her prize.
Madam Chin briefly praised, then dissected the ride. The students cleaned up while the Gran Prix course was being set up, then they trooped to their reserved seats. Madam Chin had two of her older students showing Gran Prix, and hustled off to walk the course with them.
Also walking the course was Endi Dewulfe. Xiat frowned. He must be at least a Servaone, Halfers don't glow like that, have nothing to shield. Why not use his Oner designation? Lots of low level Oners riding.
She watched the professionals pace out the distances, decide how tightly to turn. They were back shortly, mounted and ready. War Party was still aggressive, Xiat could see Dewulfe manhandling the stallion from jump to jump, and only the pure brute strength of the animal’s jumping got him safely over a couple of the barriers. Clean round, barely under the time limit.
"Wow." Paer was impressed. "That horse is a handful."
Xiat nodded. "Stallions are a pain in the . . . err. Geldings are much better show horses. War Party must have some really good bloodlines, for his breeding future to be worth more than his jumping ability. Or an owner with no common sense."
The first of Madam Chin’s students pulled a rail down. The second was a bit slow, and assessed a time penalty. Two other riders jumped cleanly.
The jumps were changed for the jump off, the three riders paced out the short course on foot.
"The time limit’s tight." Xiat commented. "War Party will have trouble staying under it if he’s still fighting his rider."
He was the first one in. Still fighting, but his rider was letting him get away with more speed, hauling him back minimally before each jump in a breathtaking balance of control and speed. He whipped past the finish with the jumps still standing and a time the others were going to be hard put to beat. Xiat unclenched her hands and took a deep breath. "That man is going to get himself killed riding like that."
Rael nodded. "My hair’s standing straight up."
Paer giggled. "You’ve got it gelled into spikes."
"Well, it would be standing up anyway, after that."
"That was your main competition." Madam Chin had come up behind them. "He has shown the horse’s potential today. Now they will use the regional open classes to get the horse more experience. If you are not careful, he will be putting you in second place all year."
Paer looked intimidated. "He hasn’t won yet."
"Bah. Watch." She chivvied her two grand prix riders forward. "The other two have excellent horses, good technique and they are ambitious. They will try to beat that time. Goem, watch: this man is aggressive, like you are. He will try to push the pace, and throw his horse off its stride." The gray brought down a rail on the third fence, and two on the fourth. The rider pulled up in disgust and saluted the ring judge before trotting out. "Note that he has good manners. If you must be defeated, do it with class, not childish displays of temper."
The last rider hustled a bit between jumps, but jumped carefully. A clean round, but much slower than War Party’s time.
Dewulfe rode the cranky beast out for a victory lap, while the announcer blathered out all the "human interest" stuff that none of the girls were the least bit interested in. Promoted from horseboy to professional Grand Prix level rider because no one else could ride the recently purchased stallion . . .
Rael grinned and leaned over to whisper—much too lo
udly—"Yeah, like anyone would believe that. I wonder if he has a mysterious birthmark, shaped like a crown, where no one but his mother . . . "
Xiat elbowed her as the girls around them started giggling.
Down in the arena, Dewulfe dismounted and helped two grooms get control of the horse. The show committee and the judges shook hands and dispensed ribbons and trophies. Mrs. Haov, the horse’s owner, emoted all over, and clearly terrified the grooms by hugging the horse. Then War Party was led away, the humans following at a respectful distance.
"I like an ambitious, aggressive, rider." Madam Chin eyed her students. "But you will, none of you, be so wild. Your horses will always be much better trained than that."
"Amen!" Xiat muttered.
Baen Withione glanced at the rider's retreating back. "But he sure is cute."
"Amen." Rael muttered.
It was well past midnight before the girls and their horses made it back to the stables at Versalle. But at least while they were showing in the Paris region they could get back home every night. Later in the year they’d be gone for weeks on extended trips. Italy, Spain, Portugal and Britain. Madam Chin was tentatively planning a long sweep through eastern Europe, next spring.
Xiat handed off Paer’s security to the Blackhorse guards on duty. The mounted company was technically a part of the army, but permanently assigned to presidential security. They were well trained professionals, however much the tourists loved watching the changing of the mounted guards at the Presidential palace downtown. Versalle was the President's country home, which was, given the growth of the city, now more suburban that rural.
She yawned and considered just crashing in her barracks room here. But she was meeting friends at the Museum of Fine Arts in the morning. She called for a car and walked out to meet it. The barracks were nice enough, and beyond the barn, just inside the grounds, there were apartments and small houses for the guards with families, or a desire for more space. Five years ago, Xiat had decided she needed even more space. She was senior enough to be able to afford, and to have earned, her private apartment, away from the job. It was handier for when she stood guard at Government House, anyway. Or pretended to be a servant at a party or mingled in plainclothes. But now that she was assigned to guard a horse-mad teenager, she was probably going to end up spending more time at Versalle.
