by David Weber
“Okay, okay.” Catrone obviously didn’t like it, but he recognized both necessity and intransigence when he saw them. “So probably the reaction squad is off chasing you when our forces land and punch into Adoula’s mercenaries. One group detaches to take the Palace proper.”
“The automated defenses will go to local control when the command post is compromised,” Roger pointed out. “I can keep the secondary CP from going on-line, but I can’t keep the automatics from going local.”
“We’ll deal with it,” Catrone said, and stood back from the hologram. He and the prince studied it together for several silent seconds, then Roger tossed his head.
“I think we got us a plan,” he said.
“Yeah,” Catrone mused, still looking at the schematic. “You really trust the Mardukans that much? If they don’t get that courtyard, we’re going to have over a thousand heavily armed mercs swarming over us.”
“I trust them with my life. More—I trust them with the Empire. They’ll take the gate.”
“Did you know that the Empress’ Own Association’s annual meeting is scheduled during the Imperial Festival?” New Madrid demanded as he strode into Jackson Adoula’s office.
“Yes.” Adoula didn’t look up from the hologram on his desk.
“And so is the Raider Association’s . . . and the Special Operations Association’s,” New Madrid continued angrily.
“Yes,” Adoula replied calmly.
“You don’t think there might be some minor problems stemming out of all that?” New Madrid asked, throwing up his hands.
“My dear Earl,” Adoula said, still looking at his hologram, “we have the Saints poking around on the border in fleet strength. We have the Alphanes massing for what looks very much like an attack. There’s another bill in Parliament for an evaluation of the Empress—this time pressed by my opponents, and thus much less easy to quash—and even that gutless trimmer Yang has stated that his last meeting with the Empress was less than satisfactory. Apparently our good Prime Minister considers that having her simpering at you during the meeting was . . . odd. As was the fashion in which she kept constantly referring all questions to your judgment.”
“That bitch has got a mind like steel,” New Madrid said tightly, “and her natural resistance to the drugs is high, and getting higher. And I can’t afford to leave any noticeable bruises. So even with the . . . other controls in place, we’ve got to keep her dialed down to the level of an amiable moron if we want to be sure she doesn’t say something we can’t spin the right way. She can’t even remember how many planets we have, much less what sort of infrastructure is best where. And she certainly can’t keep track of whose districts they’re in.”
“Neither,” Adoula said angrily, looking up from the hologram at last, “can you, apparently. I gave very clear instructions on what she was supposed to say during the negotiations. We both know why she couldn’t follow them; the question is why you couldn’t either.”
“Your ‘instructions’ covered sixty separate star systems!” New Madrid snapped.
“Then you should have brought notes!”
“You said nothing written!” New Madrid shouted.
“In this case, apparently,” Adoula’s cold, level tone cut through the earl’s bluster like a scalpel, “we have to make an exception. And the point which apparently escaped you was that nothing that could be tied to me was to be written down. For the next meeting, however, I will ensure you have precise, written instructions as to what is to be spent, and where. I’ll even ensure that they’re written in very small words. In the meantime, your worries about those idiot Associations are duly noted. I’ll have my guards on high alert in case they come over to make faces at the Palace. A Palace with walls, ChromSten gates, automated defenses, a squadron of stingships, and hundreds of armed guards. Is there anything else on your mind?”
“No.” New Madrid thrust himself angrily to his feet.
“In that case, I have real work to do.” Adoula waved at the door. “Good day.”
He didn’t bother to watch New Madrid flounce—that really was the only verb for it—out of his office. It was a pity, he thought, that the powered door couldn’t be slammed properly.
He keyed up the next list and shook his head. There were far too many MacClintock loyalists in the IBI, but his supply of people loyal to him was finite. Getting reliable people into all of the necessary spots was going to take time.
Who was it who’d said “Ask me for anything but time”? He couldn’t remember off the top of his head, but he knew he was asking himself for it.
Just a little time.
“You seem pretty tense,” Despreaux said as she slid onto Roger’s arm and rested her head on his shoulder.
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s going well,” she added. “The Association, the supplies. This is as good as its looked in a long time.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So why in hell are you answering me in monosyllables? Something I don’t know?”
“More like something I think you do know and didn’t tell me,” Roger said, jaw muscles clenching. “Something about my mother?”
“Shit.” Despreaux sat up and eyed him warily. “The Association knew?”
“Catrone, at least. He assumed my so-capable sources had already informed me. I think he was wondering why I was so . . . calm about it.”
“Why are you so calm about it?” she asked.
“I’m not,” he replied. “I’m what you might call livid about what’s been happening to my mother. And I’m almost as livid about the discovery that nobody told me about it. It wasn’t like I wasn’t going to find out. And if I’d first found out when New Madrid or Adoula were in reach—” He shook his head. “I don’t want to think about what I might have done.”
“I know,” she said unhappily. “We’ve been discussing it.”
“Yeah? Well, you were discussing it with the wrong person.” He looked at her finally, and his eyes were hard. “You were supposed to discuss it with me. Remember me? The Prince? Boss-man? The Heir? The guy who’s killed people for a whole hell of a lot less than torturing and raping his mother for months at a time? The guy who really needs to not start his reign by chopping off the heads of major political players out-of-hand? Roger? Me? Remember me, Nimashet?!”
“Okay, we pocked up!” She threw her arms up. “Maybe we’re not as strong morally as we are physically! Do you really think we wanted to tell you? The Phaenurs were quite clear that they did not want to be around you when you found out. Neither did I, okay?”
“No, it’s not ‘okay.’ The purpose of a staff is to manage the information so that the boss gets the information he or she needs. I needed that information. I needed to not be blindsided by it—not when we finally got my mother out, nor in negotiations with a still not particularly trustworthy ally!”
“You don’t trust the Association?”
“I don’t trust anyone but us and the Mardukans. And now I’m wondering if I should trust you.”
“That’s not fair!” she said angrily.
“Why is it not fair? Hello! You kind of forgot to tell me something very important about the operation, about postoperation conditions, about my responses . . . Why is it not fair?”
Her face worked, and it was obvious she was fighting not to cry.
“Damn it, Roger,” she said quietly. “Don’t do this. Don’t pound me for this. Okay, we pocked up. We should have told you. But do not pound on me to get your mad out.”
“Shit.” He slid down and wrapped his head in a pillow. “Shit.” He paused and shook his head, voice still muffled. “I’m sorry.”
“I am, too,” she said, openly crying.
“You’re right,” he said, still with his face in the pillow. “I did need to bring it up, but this wasn’t the time or the place. I’m sorry. How the hell do you put up with me?”
“Well,” she said lightly, even while tears still choked her voice, “you’re good-looking. And you
’re rich . . .”
“God.”
“Why didn’t you bring this up earlier today?” she asked after a moment.
“The time wasn’t right.” Roger shrugged. “Too much going on. We sure as hell didn’t need a big internal fight in front of the Association guys. But I couldn’t keep it in once we got to bed. And I’m still angry, but now I’m angry at myself, too. Christ.”
“Roger,” Despreaux said quietly, “this is what’s called a pillow-fight. There are rules for those.”
“One of them being don’t bring up business to beat up on your girlfriend?” he asked, finally pulling his head out of the pillow.
“No, the rules don’t work that way. Not about what we fight about, so much as how we fight about it. And this is the rule you need to keep in mind—either we work it out while we’re still awake, or you go sleep on a couch.”
“Why do I have to sleep on the couch? I’m the prince. For that matter, this is my room.”
“You sleep on the couch because you’re the guy,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him. “Those are the rules. It doesn’t matter if this is your room or my room—this is my bed. And you can’t use one of the other bedrooms. You have to sleep on a couch. With a blanket.”
“Do I get a pillow?” he asked plaintively.
“Only if you’re good. Otherwise, I get all of them.”
“I . . . I don’t like these rules.”
“Too bad. Them’s the rules.”
“When I’m Emperor, I’m going to change them,” Roger said, then shook his head. “God, that brings it up again.”
“And so on, and so forth,” she said. “Until one of us gets tired enough for you to go to the couch.”
“Don’t hide important things from me,” Roger said quietly, “and I’ll try not to use business to beat up on you. Okay?”
“Fair.” Despreaux lay back down and leaned her head on his arm once more. “We’ll discuss the more advanced techniques for quarreling another time. What’s allowed, what’s not, what works, what just makes things worse.”
She yawned and snuggled closer.
“I get to sleep here?”
“Are we done?”
“I guess so,” he said. “I’ll take out the rest of the mad on Adoula.”
“Do that.”
“Hey, we just had a lovers’ quarrel, right?”
“Don’t go there . . .” she muttered, then yawned again. “So, other than that, is it working?”
“Too soon to tell. Too many things that can go wrong.” It was his turn to yawn, and he pulled her closer to him. “For now, all we can do is keep to the path and hope nobody notices.”
“Ms. Subianto,” Roger said, stopping by the woman’s table. “A pleasure to have you in Marduk House. I hope you’re enjoying the basik.”
“Lovely,” Subianto replied, touching her lips with a napkin. “A truly new taste sensation. That’s so rare these days.”
“And this atul is great,” Tebic said, cutting off another bite. “I can’t believe it’s so tender.”
“We use a special tenderizer,” Roger said with a quiet smile. “The rarest ingredients. Marinated for thirty-six hours.”
Said ingredients consisted of killerpillar flesh-dissolving enzymes, diluted a hundred-to-one. One of Kostas’ discoveries on the long march. The prince forbore to elaborate, however.
“You certainly got this restaurant up and running very quickly,” Subianto said. “And in such a . . . prime location.”
“Hardly prime,” Roger demurred. “But the neighborhood does seem to be improving. Probably by example.”
“Yes,” she said dryly. “The physicians at Imperial General have noticed some of the . . . examples.”
“I hope that’s not an official complaint?” Roger raised one eyebrow. “Surely a lonely extraterrestrial has the right to self-defense?”
“It was not, in fact, a complaint at all,” Subianto said. “The local PD’s gang team thinks you’re the best thing since . . . roast basik.” She smiled. “And many of Parliament’s staffers appreciate a restaurant with such . . . elaborate, if quiet, electronic security.”
“The privacy of my guests is important,” Roger said, smiling in turn. “As much a part of Marduk House’s services as anything on the menu, as a matter of fact After all, this is a town with many secrets. Many of them are ones that you’re supposed to protect, right?”
“Of course,” she said smoothly, “others are ones we’re supposed to penetrate. Such as who Augustus Chung really is? Why certain of his associates are meeting with an admiral who’s been . . . remiss about responding to orders from central command? Why one Augustus Chung has been receiving heavy weaponry and armor from an off-planet source? What Mardukans are doing training in stingship operations? Why Mr. Chung has been meeting with representatives from the Empress’ Own Association? Why, in fact, such representatives—who are notoriously loyal to the Empress—are meeting with him at all?”
“I suppose I could say I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Roger replied, still smiling faintly. “But that would be a rather transparent, and pointless, lie. I guess the only answer is another question. Why haven’t you reported this to Prince Jackson? Or, more to the point, to your superiors, which we both know would be the same thing.”
“Because, whatever his current unusual position,” Subianto said, “the IBI is in the service of the Empire, not Prince Jackson or his cronies. The evidence we have all points in one direction, Mr. Chung. So I’m here, sampling your excellent basik, and wondering what in the hell you think you’re doing. And who you really are. Because simply capturing the Palace isn’t going to help the Empire one bit, and if you have nothing more in your head than that—rescuing Her Majesty from her current admittedly horrible conditions—then . . . other arrangements will have to be made. For the Empire.”
She smiled brightly at him.
“The IBI is a department of the executive branch of government, correct?” Roger asked carefully.
“Correct.” Subianto eyed her host warily. She’d already noted that her normal charms seemed to slide right off of him. He’d noticed her as a woman, and she was sure he wasn’t gay, but beyond that he seemed totally immune.
“And the Empress is the head of the executive branch, your ultimate boss, also correct?”
“Yes.”
“And we might as well drop the pretense that the Empress is not under duress,” Roger pointed out. “Which means the control of the executive branch goes to . . . whom?”
“The Heir,” Tebic said with a frown. “Except that there isn’t one. John and Alexandra, and John’s children, are all dead, and Roger is reported to be at large and to have been instrumental in the supposed coup. But he’s not. Adoula had him killed. The ship was sabotaged and lost in deep space. We know that.”
“I hope like hell you found out after it happened,” “Chung” said, showing signs of emotion for the first time.
“Afterward.” Subianto frowned at the intensity of the reaction. “We found out through information received after Adoula took control, but we have three confirmations.”
“In that case, Ms. Subianto, I will leave you,” Roger said, smiling again, if somewhat tightly. “But in parting, I wish you would join Mr. Tebic in trying the atul. It really is as tender as . . . a fatted calf. Please ponder that. Silently.” He smiled again. “Have a nice meal.”
As their host walked away, Tebic looked at his boss and frowned.
“Fat—” he began. He could recognize a code phrase when he heard it, but this one made no sense to him.
“Don’t,” Subianto said, picking at the remaining bits of basik on her plate. “Don’t say it.”
“What . . . ?”
“Not here. I’m not sure where. I don’t trust our secure rooms to not be monitored by us. You’re a Christian, aren’t you, Tebic?”
“Um.” Tebic shrugged at the apparently total non sequitur. “Sort of. I was raised Armenian Orthodox. My dad
was Reform Islam, but he never went to mosque, and I haven’t been to church since I was a kid.”
“I’m not sure it’s translated into Armenian the same way,” Subianto said, “and I’m Zoroastrian. But I recognize it. It’s a phrase from the Bible—Emperor Talbot version, I think. That’s still the most common Imperial translation.”
“I can run a data search—” Tebic started to say, looking inward to activate his toot.
“Don’t!” Subianto said, more sharply than she’d intended. Panicked might have been a better word. “Don’t even think about it. Don’t write it down, don’t put it on the net, don’t say it in public. Nothing. Understand?”
“No,” Tebic said, going gray. “But if you say so . . .”
“I do,” Subianto said. “Get the check.”
The next day, late in the morning, Subianto walked into Tebic’s office with a book in her hand. An actual, honest-to-God paper book. Tebic couldn’t remember seeing more than half a dozen of them in his life. She set it on the desk and opened it to a marked page, pointing to a line of text.
“And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it;
and let us eat, and be merry:
For this my son was dead, and is alive again;
he was lost, and is found.”
At the top of the page was the title: “The Parable of the Prodigal Son.”
“Holy . . .” Tebic’s voice trailed off as his eyes widened.
“Yes.” Subianto picked up the book, took out the marker, and closed it. “All that’s holy. Let’s hope it stays holy. And very, very quiet.”
“You told her?” Catrone yelled.
“There wasn’t much she didn’t already know.” Roger shrugged. “If they’d wanted to arrest us, we’d already be taken down or in a firefight.”
“The Bureau won’t be monolithic in these circumstances,” Temu Jin said with a frown. The IBI agent had been managing the electronic and physical security aspects of the mission, keeping out of sight in the Greenbrier bunker. Of them all, he was the only one who hadn’t had a body-mod. No one could possibly discover his connection to Roger without actually going to Marduk and piecing things together, and any attempt to do that would run into major resistance from the locals who were the prince’s partisans. Those who’d been his enemies were no longer around to be interviewed.
