Veritas Morte: A Science Fiction Novella

by Michael Kingswood

  The Emperor cocked his head to the side as he regarded his son for a second, then he chuckled and smiled, ever so slightly. “If the negotiations do not go well, Capestra and her allies may decide to push the Corellis issue further than is wise. It could lead to an expansion of the war.”

  “So? We more than outnumber them.”

  The Emperor’s smile grew slightly, becoming amused. “True. But it is not wise to resort to force if it is not necessary. The Capestrani Republic could make a valuable addition to our Empire, or at least a worthwhile client state. If we were to go to war with them, it could make their integration…more difficult.”

  Lucien frowned. This was an unexpected turn. The Empire had been pushed into the Corellis campaign by Corellis’ aggression against Qora’s ally. The jump from there to the annexation of Capestra seemed flimsy at best. He was about to say as much, but the Emperor continued on.

  “It could be,” he said, dropping his napkin and standing up, “that the only way to avoid that will be to form an alliance between our families. If that should be required, better that you and she had gotten to know each other a bit beforehand, hmm?” He pulled on the bottom hem of his kimono, settling it more properly on his shoulders, then turned toward the door.

  Lucien jerked back in his seat, as though slapped. The Emperor could not have meant… No, that was… Was it? He called out to his father’s retreating back, “You mean to marry me off to her?”

  The Emperor stopped and half-turned, an eyebrow rising as he regarded his son. “You cannot tell me the idea does not appeal to you, not after the way you were looking at her last night. She is a comely lass.” His gaze hardened as he saw the look of dismay on Lucien’s face, and he made a soft tsk-ing sound. “Come now, Lucien. This is how the universe works. Your sister’s marriage to Count Poterick guaranteed Heaven’s Gate’s merger with the Empire, and with them four other worlds. If marrying you to Ophelia can accomplish the same with Capestra and avoid unnecessary expense and death in the process…” He let the rest go unsaid.

  Lucien did not know how to respond. Ophelia was attractive, certainly. More than attractive. But not a Lady. Not the sort the Prince--the future Emperor, may that day be far off--ought to marry, anyway. He shook his head in denial.

  The Emperor’s smile faded completely, his face hardening. “You are my son, Lucien. And more than that, you are the son of the Empire. You belong to the Empire as much as she belongs to you, and you will do your duty for her.” He glanced at the wall to Lucien’s right, where a ship’s status panel displayed, among other things, the local time. “The morning briefing is in forty-five minutes. See that you are on time.”

  And then the Emperor left the room.

  Lucien adjusted his uniform blouse--he had changed into more formal attire for the morning briefing, and it seemed fitting to remain thus for the Princess--and drew himself erect, then placed his palm on the call box next to the door to the Empress’ suite.

  And waited.

  The seconds stretched by until nearly a full minute had passed before, finally, a soft chime sounded in the hallway and the suite’s door slid open. Lucien blinked, surprised to see Lord Morsy on the other side. The flabby Chamberlain gave a start and took a half-step back, his eyes widening.

  “My Prince, what - “ he began, but Princess Ophelia’s voice cut him off.

  “Prince Lucien,” she said, appearing from behind Lord Morsy and wearing that same knowing smile she had worn in the throne room, and indeed throughout their dinner the previous evening. “It is good to see you again.” Her smile hardened a tad as she looked away from him, toward the Chamberlain. “Thank you, Lord Morsy.”

  Morsy half-turned to regard her for a moment, then inclined his head, accepting the obvious dismissal. “Your Highness.” He managed an apologetic half-smile as he stepped around Lucien into the corridor. “My Prince,” he said quickly, then he hurried away in the direction of his office spaces.

  Lucien watched Morsy depart and could not help but frown. That was…odd.

  “Lord Morsy was assisting me with a matter of protocol,” Princess Ophelia said, from very close to Lucien’s side. “A…delicate matter.”

  “Ah,” Lucien said, looking sidelong at her. From this close, a subtle aroma seemed to waft from her. Roses, maybe? He did not know his plants very well. Whatever it was, he had not encountered exactly its like before. It was…arousing. He shifted on his feet, suddenly uncomfortable as he felt his pulse quicken. It did not help that Princess Ophelia’s smile had turned amused. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “I was just sitting down to tea,” she said, taking his words out from under him. “Would you care to join me?”

  Lucien felt himself flushing slightly. “That was my very thought, Princess.”

  Prncess Ophelia laughed softly and turned, beckoning him to follow her into her borrowed chambers. “No need to stand on formality, Lucien. It’s just the two of us here.”

  He followed her with his eyes before his feet. She was again dressed impeccably, this time in shades of green, white, and yellow, but he was surprised to see her hair color had changed. Rather than black fading to silver and blue, her locks faded to a silver-green that complimented her dress perfectly. He pondered for a moment that she obviously made the change to match her attire, and how long did that take each day?

  He gave silent thanks that he was not a woman, to have to deal with such trivialities, and followed her into what until recently had been his mother’s quarters onboard ship.

  Immediately he saw that Ophelia had not been entirely truthful. They were not alone. A serving girl stood on the far side of her sitting room, looking entirely too upright for her station. There was none of the meek supplication that the servants in the palace on Qora kept. This girl held her head up and actually met Lucien’s eyes!

  Anger at the affront flared before he could stop it. The nerve of that…that… He forced himself to take a long, slow breath, to return to calm. She was not of the Empire, and did not know its proper ways. Capestrani customs were different; their standards for servants certainly were as well.

  “Will you pour another cup for the Prince, please, Deela?” Princess Ophelia asked as she settled down into one of three plumply cushioned chairs that circled a small table to the right, adjacent to the doorway to the dining area.

  Asked!

  Deela, who wore a simple cream-colored dress that ended at mid-calf and was cinched by a black leather belt at the waist, merely nodded and turned to a serving table, where a porcelain teapot and several matching cups sat waiting. Ophelia gestured to a chair adjacent to hers and by the time Lucien sat down, Deela placed a filled cup and saucer onto the table in front of his chair. He had to admit, insolent as she was, she was efficient.

  He picked up the cup and inhaled the tea’s aroma. He blinked in surprise. Was that…Earl Grey?

  Ophelia’s eyes twinkled as she watched his reaction. “When my people colonized Capestra, they brought the plants with them,” she said in reply to his unasked question.

  Again, Lucien found himself impressed by Capestra. First their fighting men and now this… His father was correct; they would make a fine addition to the Empire some day. “I haven’t had Earl Grey since I was ten,” he said, drinking deeply despite the tea’s heat. Burnt tongue be damned, this was too rare a treat to wait on. “My father scoured the Empire but could never find any other sources. That irritated him to no end.”

  “Then we shall have to see about establishing a trade route, shan’t we?”

  Lucien stopped in mid-swallow, silently berating himself for letting that slip. Diplomatic negotiations were always touchy, especially those dealing with trade, and letting her know how much his father missed this particular blend would give them--her--leverage. Damn.

  “Thank you, Deela,” Ophelia said, and the serving girl nodded and departed into the dining room, and presumably the kitchen beyond.

  Lucien watched her go and could not help admiring the sway of
her hips for a moment. “You give your servant quite a bit of leniency,” he said, trying to not let his chagrin over the girl’s behavior show.

  Ophelia let out another of her quiet laughs. “She is not a servant, Lucien. She is my personal assistant.”

  He looked back at her, confused.

  “She is in my employ, yes,” she said, “but she is free to leave my service whenever she wishes, should a better opportunity present itself.”

  Lucien sat back into the chair, hardly noticing the cushions’ embrace in his shock. “What could possibly be better?”

  Ophelia just looked at him with that knowing gaze that seemed to come second nature to her, but instead of answering she took a sip of her tea.

  Lucien followed suit, if only to get his thoughts back in order. This was not going nearly as well as he thought it would. Swallowing quickly, he changed the subject. “I’ve read about Capestra,” he said as he set his cup back down on its saucer. “Is it true you actually hold elections for political office?”

  Ophelia chuckled again and nodded. “We are a Republic.”

  “Yes, but… You are the Princess. Surely your position isn’t up to a vote of the people.”

  Ophelia’s smile faded, her expression becoming deadly serious. “We serve at the pleasure of the populace, yes. It has always been this way on Capestra, and if my family ever does something to warrant the people’s sufficient displeasure, they will elect another family to lead in our stead. It has happened before.”

  “And you would allow that?” That was beyond foolish. That was…mad. Though he knew better than to say as much.

  “You cannot understand this, growing up as you have.” She actually managed to make that sound disparaging. Lucien opened his mouth to reply, but she continued right on through, trampling his response. “Legitimate governments,” she put special emphasis on those words, “exist to secure the rights of the people, nothing more. We will have nothing to do with petty despots. On Capestra, and throughout our Republic, we view such structures with the contempt they deserve.” Her eyes bored into him as she spoke, and Lucien found himself wanting to squirm in his seat.

  But hot anger prevented him from doing so. He clenched his jaw and leaned forward, fixing the Princess with a hard look of his own. “And what precisely do you mean by that, Princess?” He intentionally threw the honorific at her, reinforced with all the disdain that her silly platitudes deserved.

  The Princess’ eyes flared and she replied with heat equal to Lucien’s own. “You know well what I mean, or you should. Your Empire,” she leveled all manor of contempt onto the word, “has been gobbling up star systems for decades, and never mind the desires of their inhabitants. And now you turn your greedy eyes onto Corellis and its colonies, and you expect to just get what you want, yet again. Well, you have another thing - “

  A discordant chime sounded, and the wall panel to their left flashed red. An alert. Here, in neutral space? What could be happening?

  A 1MC announcement broke through Lucien’s suddenly whirling thoughts. “Command Staff, to the Situation Room.”

  He leapt up from the chair, not noticing the teacup break against the floor as he knocked it off the table in his haste. “Excuse me,” he said, only remembering at the last minute to at least put on the required niceties before he departed the Empress’ chambers at a dead run.

  For a heartbeat as the door slid shut behind him, he caught sight of a smug grin on Ophelia’s face.

  The Situation Room lay less than a hundred meters down the flagship’s main corridor from the Empress’ suite, but it seemed to Lucien that it took a year to reach it. He fairly leapt through the room’s entrance doorway, just clearing it as it opened in front of him, and slid to a stop, barely avoiding a collision with an enlisted crewman who sat at a tactical console not far from the door before he managed to get control of himself.

  Admiral Corrigan stood in the center of the room before the main tactical plot, the Emperor at his side. He was raising a laser pointer at a collection of red symbols when Lucien burst in, but stopped what he was saying to give him a look of surprise mixed with chagrin as Lucien extricated himself from the near-collision.

  The Emperor did not comment on Lucien’s state, but gestured for him to come over without taking his eyes away from the plot. Lucien hurried to the Emperor’s side, straightening up his uniform blouse as he went.

  Admiral Corrigan cleared his throat and resumed speaking as Lucien reached the plot. “I cannot explain it, your Majesty,” he said. His voice trembled, and Lucien realized the chagrin on the Admiral’s face was not for his entrance but for the situation. It must be grave.

  “One hundred warships,” the Emperor said, his tone deceptively calm and cool. It almost--almost--concealed the cold fury that shone in his eyes. “Where did they come from?”

  The Admiral shook his head.

  Lucien looked more closely at the tactical plot and immediately understood Admiral Corrigan’s chagrin and his father’s anger. The plot depicted the Neonovus system, which Imperial forces from Task Force Seventeen had just the day before held securely. Now, the Task Force was a shambles. Half of its cruisers were missing from the display--either destroyed or out of the tactical data link, though even the latter meant they were functionally dead as without the link they could not coordinate with other Imperial units, or determine friend from foe, until within visual range of another vessel. Without that capability, those warships dared not engage for fear of friendly fire--as were a third of the frigates and destroyers that had set up the orbital blockade around Neonovus Six. Of the Battleships, Carriers, and Marine Landing Ships, there was no sign.

  In their place loomed a swarm of red-tinted symbols depicting hostile vessels. Carriers, Cruisers, a few Battleships…it was a monstrous force, far beyond anything Corellis or its allies should have been able to field.

  “My God,” Lucien breathed, not noticing or caring about the blasphemy of speaking thus.

  “Indeed,” the Emperor said, and took a drink from the steaming cup he was holding. “Admiral, what is the official estimate of Corellis’ star fleet?”

  Admiral Corrigan swallowed and spoke quickly, by rote. “Twenty-two destroyers, four cruisers, and one dated carrier, your Majesty.”

  “That is what I recall as well,” the Emperor said, punctuating his words with another sip from his cup. “Why, Admiral, was the estimate so far off?”

  The Admiral shook his head again, paling visibly now. “I…” He stopped, took a breath, then continued, clearly working hard to keep the sudden tremble out of his voice. “I do not know, your Majesty. I have queried the Director of Intelligence, but he has not yet - “

  The Emperor waved him to silence, scowling. “Send a message to Fleet Headquarters, Admiral. I want the Third and Fifth fleets deployed to Neonovus immediately.”

  Admiral Corrigan’s mouth dropped open. “But your Majesty, those forces are patrolling the buffer zones between the Empire and Marrius Prime and Hazador, respectively. We cannot afford to leave those sectors unguarded.”

  A servant, garbed in the simple purple-lined white tunic of the Emperor’s own chattel, appeared at Lucien’s side, bowing low as he extended a tray with another steaming cup toward the prince. Lucien waved him away peremptorily; he could not be bothered by such as he. Not now.

  The servant flushed--with anger?--and actually scowled at him before dropping his eyes to the floor and backing away again. Lucien almost didn’t notice it, but coming on the heels of Deela’s behavior and what followed it in Princess Ophelia’s--in his mothers’--quarters, the servant’s behavior struck a nerve. He turned to administer some much needed chastisement, but Admiral Corrigan spoke again, and Lucien could hardly credit his words. He looked back at the Admiral, amazed.

  “I think it best, sire, if we withdraw our forces from Neonovus in order to salvage what we can of the situation.“

  The Admiral seemed to have regained his bearing fully, but Lucien never thought to hear s
uch a recommendation from him.

  The Emperor scowled ever so slightly. “We will not turn tail and run, Admiral. If we show weakness here, our enemies…” He stopped talking suddenly, a strange expression, bordering between puzzlement and consternation, appearing on his face. The hand holding his cup began to shake, and he pressed the other to his chest.

  A cold spear seemed to pierce Lucien’s heart. “Father, are you - “

  Admiral Corrigan reached toward the Emperor at the same time. “Your Majesty - “

  Before either of them could finish their statements, the Emperor suddenly stiffened and collapsed to the floor, his cup shattering on the deck beside him. His limbs began quivering spasmodically, and he began foaming at the mouth.

  “Summon the Emperor’s physician!” the Admiral shouted as he squatted down next to the Emperor. He took his liege’s hand in a strangely gentle manner, his face stricken. “Hold on, your Majesty. Help is coming.”

  Lucien knew he should act. He should do something. But seeing his father fallen like this, he found himself petrified as fear, anger, confusion, and a hundred other emotions he could not put a name to swept through him. He watched in befuddlement as his father’s medical staff swept into the room, shoved the Admiral aside, and took charge. In moments, they had the Emperor on a gurney, oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and an IV in his arm, and they rushed him out to the infirmary.

  And Lucien just stood there, stunned. Until slowly, something else intruded on his consciousness: the aroma of the Emperor’s tea, now spilled upon the deck.

  Earl Grey.

  Lucien looked through the plexiglass that separated the acute care clinic of the ship’s infirmary from the adjoining observation gallery at his father, limp and apparently lifeless on a treatment bed. All manner of tubes ran into him from machines that seemed to surround him, providing him oxygen, fluids, medication…every treatment the Empire’s enormous resources could bring to bear on medical conditions. And none of it did a lick of good. The Emperor may as well have been dead, for all the vitality he showed. Only the slow pulse showing on one of the displays, next to his blood pressure and blood oxidation numbers, put the lie to that impression.