by David Weber
“Alice called you ‘Michael,’ ” Todd reminded him.
“Yeah. I would have felt that was more genuine if she’d called me ‘Mikey,’ like when we were kids.”
“You weren’t crown prince then, were you?”
“Nope. Elizabeth stood between me and responsibility,” Michael said, trying to keep his tone light. “Then our dad died, and she was queen at eighteen T-years, and I was crown prince. I’d never expected to be, you know. Dad was young enough that he’d been eligible for Prolong. I was just a kid, still trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up, and suddenly I was next in line for the throne of the Star Kingdom of Manticore.”
Todd knew this, of course, but oddly enough, they’d never really talked about it. Todd’s easy acceptance that Michael Winton wanted to be treated as nothing more, nothing less, than another student at the Naval Academy had cemented their friendship, a friendship that had not weakened over the years they had been separated for their different middie cruises and junior officer assignments.
Todd heard Michael out, then said softly, “That had to have been rough. Still, you’re never going to escape that you’re Queen Elizabeth’s little brother, no matter how many others come to stand between you and the throne. Isn’t it about time you came to terms with it?”
“I thought I had,” Michael said, and Todd—who hadn’t specialized in tactics without learning a thing or two about choosing his battles—had the sense to change the subject.
“Tell me about this friend of yours we’re going to visit. You met her during that Masadan affair you mentioned, right?”
Michael nodded. “Judith was one of the ringleaders, only sixteen, about three months pregnant, and fierce as hell.”
“Wildcat?”
“No. The reverse. Calm. Controlled, but with fire in her soul. Impossible as it may seem, Judith taught herself to pilot a spaceship with nothing but virtual sims—no tutoring, no practice flights. She did so despite the likelihood that she’d be beaten or even killed if anyone found her out.”
“Those Masadans are savages,” Todd said. “I’m glad the government has decided to throw in their lot with the Graysons. Your friend wasn’t the only one who escaped Masada at that time, was she? I seem to remember there was a whole shipload.”
Michael grinned at the memory, although he’d felt like anything but smiling at the time.
“Somewhere around four hundred women and children. Only a few of them had skills beyond borderline literacy or maybe some simple mathematics. Even those who had learned some technical skills found them antiquated by our standards.”
“So, what did they do?” Todd asked.
“They were given asylum by the Star Kingdom, and when the ship they’d made their get-away on was sold . . .”
“I bet that was one ship that didn’t go to a scrapper,” Todd said, “bet Intelligence couldn’t wait to get their hands on it.”
“For more reasons than one,” Michael agreed, relaxed now and cheerful. “Turns out Judith’s kidnapper—I refuse to call him her husband—was a pirate as well as a merchant. That ship and its computers solved more than a few ‘missing vessel’ reports.”
“So what do Judith and her associates do now?” Todd asked.
“They were settled in a nice community here on Manticore. A lot of people don’t realize that Human Services has an entire division that specializes in integrating refugees into the population, but Dad organized it very quietly when we started getting so many of them from worlds the Peeps had conquered. HS has had a lot of experience dealing with culture shock, and they recommended we find a place far enough from the big cities that the Masadans wouldn’t be overwhelmed—Masadan society is highly anti-tech, remember. Of course, even one of our ‘small-town’ towers was pretty overwhelming anyway, when they first saw it, but at least Friedman’s Valley is a lot slower-paced and more laid-back than someplace in downtown Landing.
“Since then, Judith and her associates have been getting educated and more integrated into our society. A few of them continue as consultants for Intelligence. They’re not a burden on the taxpayer, in case you’re wondering. The money from their ship, even when split, gave them all a stake. After what they did to escape Masada, they’re eager not to be dependent.”
“I’d guess not,” Todd said. “After all, if they wanted to stay barefoot and pregnant, they would never have left Masada. You know, I’m looking forward to meeting this Judith of yours.”
“Not mine,” Michael said, maybe a little too quickly. “Very much her own. If she belongs to anyone, it’s to her daughter, Ruth. You’ll like Ruth, cute as a button, and smart . . .”
Michael glanced at the air car’s chronometer and shrugged.
“We’ll be a little early, but not too much. Why don’t we go on ahead?” He glanced back at Valless. “Any problem with that, Vincent?”
“None, sir.”
“Todd?”
“If you think we’ll be welcome,” Todd said. “Absolutely. Like I said, I’m looking forward to meeting this Judith.”
* * *
As outsiders saw them, George and Babette Ramsbottom were a highly unlikely couple.
George was a staunch Conservative. Babette was an outspoken Liberal. Although neither was a noble, both were something more important—rich and influential members at the most active and important levels of the Star Kingdom’s society.
George spent all his free time—when he was not serving in one senior ministry post or another or appearing before Parliament as an “expert witness” in favor of some bit of legislation—focusing on his many and lucrative business interests.
Babette, on the other hand, had run for office several times with the support of her party. She’d won against her husband’s favored candidate more than once, and, like him, she had also served in appointed posts that had somewhat less public visibility, but no less opportunity for influence. When she was not involved in politics, Babette was a highly visible socialite, seemingly as devoted to spending her husband’s money as he was to making it.
They had been witnessed arguing both in public and when they believed themselves in private. Enemies wondered why they didn’t simply get divorced. Friends of one or the other—they shared few in common—had other theories.
George and Babette stayed together because neither wished to risk losing contact with their children. George didn’t want to settle any money on Babette. Babette didn’t want to lose access to the money George made with such seeming lack of effort. Another popular theory was that neither would budge on who received custody of the sizeable and historic Ramsbottom estate—an estate where both, despite their apparent acrimony, continued to reside.
Oddly enough, for the amount of gossip and outright snooping expended on the effort, none of these speculations was correct, for all of those doing the speculating lacked a key piece of information.
Far from being each other’s most violent adversaries, George and Babette Ramsbottom were each other’s nearest and dearest friend and ally. They managed to hide this even from their three children—largely by sending the children away to boarding schools and expensive educational camps, and making their frequent and attentive parental visits separately.
The Ramsbottom estate did have servants, but George and Babette took care to maintain their charade even in front of these. And if the estate—and most especially the private offices and conjugal suites—were as heavily shielded as the most secure areas of Mount Royal Palace, what of it? George had been heard to say frequently and loudly that he wasn’t going to let Babette snoop on his business, and she to retort that she certainly didn’t trust him with her private matters.
If everyone overlooked that the same shielding protected George and Babette from being detected in their private conferences, that could certainly be excused. No one knew better than George and Babette Ramsbottom that people love a flamboyantly fighting couple. Moreover, no one ever looks for what could not possibly be there.
&
nbsp; “When do we place the call?” Babette asked.
“Three more minutes,” George replied.
“And if Judith Newland isn’t there?”
“She’ll have a comlink with her.”
George spoke with the confidence that had closed many a business deal, but when three minutes had passed and they placed their call, there was no answer.
“So she didn’t take her comlink,” Babette said with just a touch of the acid she used so well in public. “Remember, she’s a primitive, probably never thought of it.”
George scowled. He took his comlink with him even into the shower. The idea that someone—especially someone in a crisis—wouldn’t take her link was alien to him.
Babette softened. “Don’t worry. She’ll think of checking her phone before long.”
“But I want her to get the call before Prince Michael arrives . . .”
“Don’t worry.”
The next time George placed the call, a female voice, quite familiar to them from the surveillance tapes they’d viewed, answered. A moment later, an image appeared on their screen.
It was of a young woman, slim and graceful, her thick, dark auburn hair pulled back from her face. Even if her features had not been tight and stern from worry, no one would have thought Judith Newland pretty, but hers was a face that many would turn to look at twice, and then a third time, after prettier faces had been forgotten.
The eyes were what would bring a person back—green eyes, ringed with brown, not blended as with more traditional hazel. Their expression was as fierce and focused as that of a bird of prey.
Babette found herself pulling back when that gaze was directed to the screen, even though she knew the dummy program George had set up displayed a crowd of sexless, featureless wraiths. Their shadowed forms overlapped, creating an image far more ominous than a mere blacked out screen could ever have been.
“Yes?”
“Are you alone?”
Babette heard George’s words twice: once as spoken, once in the whispery voices supplied by the avatar program.
“I am. Is this call to do with my missing daughter?”
Despite the research that had told them Judith Newland was a tough young woman, Babette was surprised by this composure. That same research had told them that if there was one person in this universe that Judith loved without reserve it was her young daughter, Ruth. Babette had expected crying and wailing, at least those green eyes flooding with tears, not this iron control.
But George had permitted himself a chuckle. Without speaking, he pointed to a line of figures streaming across the bottom of the screen. Using infrared scanners and some very sensitive analysis programs, the computer gave lie to Judith’s apparent calm. Her pulse rate was elevated, and George tapped an overlay where green and black patterns showed hot spots beneath Judith’s skin, hot spots that revealed just how upset that composed young woman really was.
Babette relaxed. George spoke.
“We are. Here are our terms. Ruth is alive and intact—for now.”
At that cue, a picture of Ruth, the date/time stamp showing it was concurrent with the transmission (although that stamp was a forgery) appeared on the screen for a tantalizing half-second. The little girl was curled on her side, wrapped in a pale pink blanket, sound asleep. Her balled fist was snuggled close to the rosebud of her cupid’s bow lips.
Even Babette, who normally preferred almost anything to small children, had to admit that Ruth looked adorable.
George continued to speak.
“If you wish Ruth returned in that state, you must convince your friend Michael Winton to publicly and openly behave in a fashion unbecoming to his rank and station. Public lewdness would be an admirable choice. If he is asked about his behavior . . .”
As we will make certain he is, Babette thought smugly. She already had the newsie picked out and primed.
“. . . then he is to comment that he is a Winton, and that the Wintons have always done what they desired—and that nothing, especially not the reaction of a bunch of superstitious, prudish primitives, even if they are the residents of a newly allied world makes the least difference to him.”
For a moment, the wooden expression on Judith’s face changed to one of confusion.
“Why do you think he’d listen to me?”
“Just do it,” George said sternly, his avatar voices hissing and echoing in a truly frightening fashion. “And remember, mentioning to anyone that Ruth is missing would do at least as much damage as anything Prince Michael might say. After all, if the Wintons cannot protect those who live on their own home world, what can they do to protect those who live in distant systems?”
Judith’s face again became carved wood. “And if I do as you wish?”
“Within a day of Prince Michael’s announcement, you will be told where Ruth can be found.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then Ruth will be returned to someone who wants her very, very much—her father, Ephraim Templeton.”
This time Judith’s composure broke completely.
“You wouldn’t!”
“Return a daughter to the father who has never had the privilege of holding her in his arms, of stroking her soft, fair hair . . . Why, I think that would be a wonderful thing. Don’t take too long, Mrs. Templeton. I get teary at the thought of such a wonderful family reunion.”
Judith was stammering something incoherent when George cut the transmission.
“There,” he said with satisfaction. “Message delivered. I was a bit concerned by Judith’s reaction when I indicated that she could influence Prince Michael to behave in a fashion so out of character—and so contrary to his sister’s policies. We couldn’t possibly be wrong . . .”
“About how close she and Prince Michael are?” Babette concluded. She shook her head decisively. “Not in the least. Remember, this whole idea came to me when I happened to see them together a year ago. He tried to hide it, but it was very apparent to me that the sun and moon rose and set in that unattractive primitive’s green eyes.”
Babette stretched catlike, and continued, “And I’ve done quite a bit of research since. They write each other regularly. He sends little presents. She sends photos of the kid. I managed some rather adroit questioning of the social secretary who handles Prince Michael’s appointments those rare times when he’s in-system and off-duty. She was quite amused that the first—and only—thing Prince Michael always insists on is time to visit with Judith Newland.
“More importantly, although there was every evidence before he met Judith Newland that Prince Michael was a perfectly active heterosexual young male. Since he met her, he has had no serious relationships—not even flirtations. I couldn’t even get any solid evidence that he has frequented pleasure parlors—and what sailor on leave does not?”
“One,” said George, who truly was more conservative and straightlaced than his wife, “who values his reputation, and that of his family.”
“True, true,” Babette said, leaning forward to kiss George on the tip of his nose. “All the more reason why Prince Michael’s lack of public restraint will be such a shock. He’s always been such a good boy . . .”
“But what if he refuses?”
“He won’t,” Babette said with certainty. “He loves Judith—and the brat, too. Even if Prince Michael doesn’t react as I’ve calculated, we still have the child. Then our assistants hand little Ruthie over to Ephraim Templeton and record the exchange on video. It should be quite ugly. Templeton hates the mother. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gives the kid a wallop or two as soon as he has her in his hands . . .”
“And that behavior,” George said, “can certainly be turned to our advantage. Not only will the Star Kingdom’s residents see once again what brutes the Masadans are, but the Graysons can be made to understand that a Star Kingdom that cannot protect a single child is a weak ally indeed.”
“And then,” Babette concluded, her face suddenly serious, her eyes shining
with the fervor of a reformer, “we can get the Star Kingdom back on track, stop concentrating on making alliances with foreign powers, stop exhausting our resources propping up their primitive technology.”
“That’s right,” George said. “For the price of a little nasty gossip little Ruth will be home with her mama, and the Star Kingdom’s policy will be refocused on our domestic needs.”
* * *
Until the air car settled on the tower landing and Michael got out, Judith had been so overwhelmed by the events of the past hour or so that she had completely forgotten that her first and best Manticoran friend was scheduled to visit that day.
For a moment Judith marveled at the coincidence. Then something hard and cold whispered ice through her soul. They’d known. The kidnappers had known, and they’d timed both Ruth’s kidnapping and that horrible call to take advantage of Michael’s visit.
Judith glanced at her chronometer. Michael was at least half an hour early. Depending on just how much information the kidnappers possessed, his early arrival might spoke their wheels.
Judith advanced toward the air car, not bothering to hide her eagerness, hoping her desperation didn’t show. She slowed slightly when a second young man got out of the passenger side. She recognized him from pictures Michael had sent her as Todd Liatt, one of Michael’s best friends. She wondered what Todd would think when she asked Michael to betray his queen and her interstellar policy to save one small girl.
And why do the kidnappers think Michael would do such a thing? He’s a military man. There must have been dozens of times when he or his commanders have had to make the decision to let some die so others might live. If we lose our alliance with Grayson, it tears a hole in a critical part of our coverage against the People’s Republic.
Judith actually stopped walking forward as the significance of that “we” hit her. The Star Kingdom wasn’t just Michael’s responsibility. It was hers as well, hers as a citizen. She might not command starships or gun batteries or hold political office, but she felt a responsibility nonetheless.
I can’t ask Michael to betray his people—our people. Not even for Ruth. But I can’t let Ruth be returned to Ephraim.
