by C. P. Odom
British scientist, science
fiction writer, and futurist
Monday, April 8, 2047
Imperial Suez Canal Zone between the
Egyptian Protectorate and the
Imperial Commonwealth Kingdom of Palestine
Governor General Sir Richard McDunn stifled a yawn as he watched the participants in the ceremonies take their places. He was not involved in any of those ceremonies, but as the representative of His Imperial Highness to the Egyptian Protectorate, he could no more absent himself than could the Prime Minister of the Kingdom of Palestine, who stood beside him with equal boredom.
McDunn was a bit more alert than his Palestinian counterpart since the denizens of McDunn’s dominion were a surly, backward lot compared to those of Noam Mizrahi, whose countrymen had been full-fledged Imperial citizens for a century. The overwhelming majority of the workmen who had labored to complete the additional Suez waterways, which would more than double the commercial traffic between Europe and the Empire’s dozens of dominions in Asia, had been Palestinians from the Kingdom. Those workers from Egypt, even those who passed the rigorous pre-hiring interviews and investigations, had not been good employees, and turnover and absenteeism was high. A number of untrustworthy Egyptian hires had managed to slip past the stringent screening process and had tried to sabotage the project.
We had to make the effort, I guess, McDunn thought. And we did find a few good workers, many of whom may well immigrate to Imperial domains if they pass Rebecca’s even more stringent screening process.
He looked over at his American wife as she stood talking with Madame Mizrahi, admiring Rebecca’s striking, high-cheek-boned features and dark complexion, gifts from her Cherokee ancestors, before moving on to carefully appraise the security for the ceremony.
A full battalion of Imperial Marines had drawn the assignment for today, given the number of important dignitaries in attendance, and eight Iridium-armored heavy tanks floated on contra-gravity at the points of a compass star about a half-mile in the distance. They were hard to discern, of course, with their camouflage screens powered up, as were the two squadrons of sting-ships providing aerial security.
He could also see the company of elite Royal Marine Commandos in various strategic locations providing close-in security, but that was only because he knew where they would be placed. They were just as difficult to see as the tanks due to the chameleon coating on their powered armor, but their combat readiness was clear. Most of the commandos had their mirrored, armor-glass faceplates down and locked, receiving electronic information from various fixed and mobile sensors. They crouched behind their barricades, facing outward with their pulse-ion battle rifles at the ready, the thick cables from their backpack power magazines in place.
Of those commandos who had their faceplates raised, McDunn could identify at least a dozen different ethnicities, representative of the many locales from which the IM drew their recruits. And he easily recognized the trained lethality of the commandos themselves since he had done nine years in the IM Commandos before embarking on a career in the diplomatic service.
Sometimes I wish I’d stayed in the IM, McDunn thought wistfully. I’d be at least a full colonel by now. And it would be nice to be anything close to as fit and trained as those young men.
But then, he would not be married to Rebecca since she had made it clear she wanted to do something meaningful, not wait at home while he might be deployed half a world away on thirty minutes notice.
All in all, he thought, more than a trifle complacently, I think I made the right choice. Life with Becca is never dull!
He carefully extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and, with practiced subtlety, drew his hand across his face to wipe the sweat away. It was beastly hot for so early in the morning.
He looked back at his wife, and he did not know whether her ancestry or her American heritage had first brought her to the attention of Dame Darcy Harrison, the head of Imperial Intelligence. It was a fact that an overwhelming number of II operatives were female, and many were descendants of the first head of II, the legendary Elizabeth Darcy, as was the present holder of the office. And certainly Rebecca was destined for more responsible assignments after his term as Governor General was completed in a month.
I’ll be very glad to kick the dust of this place off my shoes, McDunn thought sourly, seeing a familiar face in the Egyptian delegation. Hashad el Ramani’s expression showed even more acrimony than McDunn felt, as the wiry Egyptian looked on the Palestinian representatives with open hostility. Alarm bells went off in McDunn’s mind at seeing such openly displayed animosity.
The man ought to know better than to give rein to such visible hatred. There can’t be anything suspicious in his files, or he wouldn’t have been able to achieve any kind of responsible position in the Protectorate civil service. But being as cavalier as to show his hatred openly is a very bad mistake. Certainly bad tactics or, as Becca would call it in the intelligence service, bad tradecraft.
Rebecca, as the head of the local branch of the II, would be the one to take a better look at Ramani, and he thought he would direct her attention toward the man. But he saw her already inspecting Ramani closely though her tradecraft was so polished he did not think anyone other than himself would have noticed her interest or her assessment that Ramani was too blatant in his malevolence toward his ancient enemies. But the Palestinians were Imperial citizens, and Rebecca possessed the same streak of ruthlessness as had Elizabeth Darcy when it came to the well-being of the Empire.
Too bad, Ramani, he thought wryly, knowing the other man had not the slightest suspicion of how badly he had betrayed himself. Nor did he guess he was likely to disappear quite soon.
I hope you enjoy tending your little garden on Elysium. That’s assuming you don’t do something rash, like resisting the grab squad. We Imperials may be well mannered, and we may not look particularly cold-blooded, but we’ve been well trained to put the welfare of the Empire only slightly behind that of the Almighty and family.
I’ve read the ultra-secret family papers. Though I’m a direct descendent of two Founders, Edward McDunn and Field Marshal Sir Richard Fitzwilliam, it almost took an act of God to get permission. According to what McDunn wrote, the Empire has already lasted a century longer than it did in the future from which he came. And it has been successful in more than simple longevity. I deduced this from my ancestor’s writings when he described the purpose of the Founders and warned of the errors made in his future and the dangers we would face. In the more than two hundred years of the Empire, there have been no major wars and no minor wars of any significance—no world wars with their uncounted millions of dead, certainly!
One chill after another went down my spine while I sat in that vault two hundred feet under Pemberley Manor and read his messages to his heirs. The prospective combatants haven’t enjoyed a visit from the Imperial military, of course, as they were sternly informed wars would not be fought as a matter of Imperial policy. Period.
Certainly, the Americans hadn’t been pleased when the Imperial fleet anchored off New York, Boston, and Washington, and our envoys, complete to brigade-sized Imperial Marine escorts, informed their president and congress that slavery would be ended, their military would disarm, and they would become members of the Empire one way or the other. Yet the Commonwealth of North America is now more staunchly Imperial than almost any other area except possibly the Commonwealth of India. More than one Imperial Prime Minister has been born and raised in those distant parts of the Empire.
And now we have three thriving lunar colonies and a pair of fledgling colonies on Mars and Ceres. Most important of all, our Empire will not commit suicide by refusing to face facts. As Founder McDunn wrote, “Truth is always the first casualty of political correctness.”
He smiled at his wife as she came over to stand beside him while Prime Minister Mizrahi mov
ed to join his wife. McDunn and Rebecca exchanged kisses to their cheeks, which was the accepted form of public greeting for people of their standing.
After a minute, McDunn leaned over and whispered, “Poor Ramani.”
Rebecca nodded, but her voice was emotionless. “He brought it on himself, Richard. Anyone reckless enough to let his hatred show so clearly at an occasion such as this is clearly on the edge of outright violence.”
“Elysium?” McDunn whispered, and Rebecca gave him the barest of nods.
Lucky you, Ramani, he thought. If Becca thought you were really dangerous, you’d still disappear, but you wouldn’t be tending a garden.
She caught him casting a look at the camouflaged commandos and smiled sympathetically. “Do you miss that life, Richard?”
“Not much,” he replied with a shrug. “I was just checking things over by reflex, not yearning for the old days. Anyway, I was close to having to leave the commandos and go back to the regular IM when I tendered my resignation. All in all, I’d rather be married to you than to be a colonel commanding an IM regiment. But I won’t be sorry to leave this post behind.”
“True, true,” his wife said out of the side of her mouth.
“I haven’t had a response to my request to know my next posting,” he said, and his interest perked up as his wife smiled.
“That’s because you’ll be my consort next, Richard. Dame Darcy needs a new aide, and she’s offered me the job. They’re going to appoint you to a job in II also because we both have to be under the same level of protection. That’s why we’ll be returning to London in the admiral’s cabin on the Georgie when it pays a visit to Cairo next month. Dame Darcy said the fleet flagship ought to be safe enough for the two of us.”
McDunn’s eyebrows went up at this news, surprised and flattered at the opportunity to travel on the new, super-secret fleet carrier, HMS Georgiana Fitzwilliam, named for the wife of the first head of the Imperial General Staff and the sister of the first Imperial Prime Minister, Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Of course, the fact that Georgiana was as much a Founder as the others probably played a part, but only the inner circle of the family, those privy to the knowledge that there even were Founders, know that! he thought,
“Yes, the Georgie should be quite secure, but I still wonder what I’ll be doing.”
His question was an idle one since he was not at all disappointed that his career as a diplomat was at an end. It had not been as desirable as being a commando or a marine in any case, but it had been a way he and Rebecca could be together.
“There was a request from Military Threats and Intentions to have you join their shop. I think it would be a good fit, don’t you?”
“Likely so. After all, once a marine—”
“—always a marine!” Rebecca said with a chuckle before they turned and came to attention as the opening bars of the Imperial Anthem sounded.
God save our imperator,
Long live our sovereign lord,
Stand beside him,
And guide him
Through the night, with the light from above!
From the oceans,
To the mountains,
To the cities,
Bright with hope!
God bless our noble realm,
Our home, sweet home!
O Lord our God arise,
Scatter our enemies,
And make them fall!
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
On Thee our hopes we fix,
God save us all!
***
FINIS
