by David Weber
“—why, Sergeant Major Catrone! What a pleasant surprise!” she said delightedly, her face blossoming into a huge smile. “Have you come for a visit?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Catrone said evenly, his face wooden.
“Well, I hope you’ve had a good conversation with my friend, the Earl of New Madrid,” Alexandra continued. “He’s returned to my side at last, my one true love. So surprising that he’s such a good man, with a son who’s so evil. But, tell me, how are your horses? You raise horses now, don’t you?”
“They’re well, Your Majesty,” he said, standing with a wince. His knees weren’t what they used to be.
“I’m afraid I have a meeting in a few minutes with Our loyal servant, Prince Jackson,” the Empress said, waving him to a chair. “But I certainly have time to speak to my most favored former retainer. So, tell me—”
“How is she?” Eleanora said, taking Catrone’s arm to halt him briefly before they entered the room.
“Tracking,” Catrone replied. “Fine at the moment.”
“Let’s hope this goes well,” Eleanora sighed. “Please God it goes well.”
“For your side or for her?” Catrone asked bitterly.
“We’re on the same side, Sergeant Major!” Eleanora snapped. “Remember that.”
“I know. I try, but—” Catrone shrugged, pain darkening his eyes. “But sometimes it’s hard.”
“You love her,” Eleanora said gently. “Too much, I think.”
“That I do,” Catrone whispered. His face clenched for a moment, and then he shook himself. “Where’s the Prince?” he asked in a determinedly lighter tone.
“Late,” Eleanora said, her lips pursed in irritation.
They entered the conference room and took their seats. Their late entry did not pass unremarked, and they drew a stern look from the Empress at the head of the long, polished table. The room was lined with windows, looking out over one of the south gardens, and bright sunlight filled it with a warm glow. The Prime Minister had one end of the conference table and the Empress had the other. The new Navy Minister was also present; as was Admiral Helmut, who was temporarily holding down the position of CNO; the Finance Minister; Julian, who was still in some undefined billet; and Despreaux, who was in another. And, of course, there was one empty chair.
“And where is Roger?” Alexandra asked coldly.
The door opened, and Roger limped in. He wore a custom-tailored suit of bright yellow, a forest-green ascot, and a straw hat. The regeneration of his leg was still in its very early stages, and he leaned on a color-coordinated cane as he bowed.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, tugging on a leash. “Dogzard insisted on a walk, so I took her to visit Patty. And she didn’t want to come back again . . . naturally. Come on, you stupid beast,” he continued as he practically dragged the creature into the room. She hissed at most of the people sitting around the table, then saw the Empress and produced a happy little whine of pleasure.
Eleanora was watching Alexandra’s face and sighed mentally as she saw the quick flicker of the Empress’ eyes. In some ways, Eleanora wished Roger had retained his Augustus Chung body-mod. That had been impossible, of course, if only because of the public-relations considerations. But every time the Empress saw him, it was as if she had to remind herself physically that he was not his father even before she could deal with the ambiguity of her feelings where he was concerned.
“Sorry,” Roger repeated as he finally managed to wrestle Dogzard across to the chair set aside for him. “Just because I let her eat one person . . . Sit,” he commanded. “Sit! Quit looking at the Prime Minister that way, it’s not respectful. Sit. Lie down. Good Dogzard.”
The prince settled into his own chair, hung his cane over its back, looked around the table, and set his hat in front of him.
“Where were we?”
“I think we were about to discuss Navy repairs and consolidations,” Alexandra said, raising one eyebrow. “Now that you’re here . . .”
The meeting had been going on for an hour, which was longer than Catrone had feared, and far shorter than he’d hoped.
“Between making sure the Saints don’t snap up systems and holding back Adoula, there just aren’t enough ships to go around,” Andrew Shue, Baron Talesian and the new Navy Minister, said, and threw up his hands.
“Then we make faces,” Roger said, leaning sideways to pet Dogzard. “We bluff. We only have to keep them off our backs for . . . what? Eighteen months? Long enough for the shipyards to start pushing out the new carriers.”
“Which will be ruinously expensive,” Jasper O’Higgins, the Finance Minister said.
“We’re at war,” Roger replied coldly. “War is waste. Most of those expensive ships of yours are going to be scrap floating among the stars in two years, anyway. Mr. O’Higgins. The point is to have them, and then to use them as judiciously as humanly possible. But we have to have them, first, and to do that, we have to keep our enemies off our backs long enough for them to be built.”
“They’ll be used judiciously,” Helmut said. “I know Gajelis. He’s a bigger-hammer commander. ‘Quantity has a quality of its own.’ I’d be surprised if we couldn’t give him at least two-to-one in damage levels. Admittedly, even those numbers are terrible enough. A lot of our boys and girls are going to die. But . . .”
The diminutive admiral shrugged, and the Empress grimaced.
“And Adoula has shipyards of his own,” she said angrily. “I wish I could strangle my father for letting any of them get built outside the central worlds, especially in Adoula’s backyard!”
“We could always . . . send an emissary to Adoula,” the Prime Minister suggested, only to pause as Dogzard’s hiss cut him off.
“Down!” Roger said to the dog-lizard, then looked at Yang. “Methinks my pet dislikes your suggestion, Mr. Prime Minister. And so do I.”
“You yourself just pointed out that we have to buy time, Your Highness,” the Prime Minister said coldly. “Negotiations—even, or especially, negotiations we don’t intend to go anywhere—might be one way to buy that time. And if it should turn out that there actually was some sort of feasible arrangement, a modus vivendi, why—”
“Now I know I don’t like it,” Roger said, his voice several degrees colder than the Prime Minister’s.
“Nor do I,” Alexandra said. Her voice was less chill than her son’s, but undeniably frosty. “Adoula is in a state of rebellion. If he succeeds in breaking off permanently—or even merely seems to have temporarily succeeded—others will try to do the same. Before long, the Empire will end up as a scattered group of feuding worlds, and all we may hold will be a few systems. And the expense at that point will be enormous. No, Roger has a point,” she conceded, looking at him balefully nonetheless. “We can make faces. Bluff. But we will not take any step which even suggests we might ever treat with Adoula as if he were a legitimate head of state. Instead, we’ll send—”
“—and I’m very much looking forward to the Imperial Festival, my love.”
Her voice changed abruptly, crisp decisiveness melting into cloying sweetness, and she gazed at Roger with soulful eyes.
“As am I,” Roger said. His expression had frozen into an iron mask as the Empress’ had changed to one of adoration. “It is about that time, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, my dear,” the Empress crooned. “What will you be wearing? I want to make sure we’re simply the loveliest couple—”
“I’m not sure, yet,” Roger interrupted calmly, gently. “But I think, Alexandra, that this meeting’s gone on long enough, don’t you?” He waved to one of the guards by the door. “Let me call your ladies in waiting. That way you can make yourself fresh and beautiful again,” he added, glancing sideways at Catrone, who gave a brief nod of approval.
When the docile Empress had been led from the room, Roger stood and swept the people still seated around the conference table with eyes of emerald ice.
“Not a word,” he said. “Not
one pocking damned word. Meeting adjourned.”
“Well?” Roger said, looking up from yet another of the endless reports floating in the holographic display above his desk. Decisions had to be made, and by default, he was making them, despite the fact that his mother had yet to define precisely what authority, if any, was his. Nobody was raising the issue, however.
Not more than once.
“It’s a bad one,” Catrone said.
His face was drawn, his eyes worried, as he sat down in one of the office’s float chairs at Roger’s wave.
“Really bad,” he continued. “She’s . . . changing. She’s not asking for Adoula as much, not since we got the worst of the drugs scrubbed out of her system and told her he’s gone off to his sector for a while. She still asking for New Madrid, but . . .” Catrone swallowed, and his face worked. “But not as often.”
“What’s wrong?” Roger asked.
“Christ, Your Highness,” Catrone said in an anguished voice, dropping his face into his hands. “Now she’s coming on to me! That bastard. That stinking bastard!”
“Pock!” Roger leaned back and grabbed his ponytail.
He stared at the older man for several seconds, then inhaled deeply.
“Tomcat, I know how hard this is for you. But you have to stay with her. You have to stay with us!”
“I will,” Catrone said. He raised his head, tears running down his face. “If I leave, who knows what she’ll latch onto? But, God! Roger, it’s hard!”
“Be her paladin, Tomcat,” Roger said then, his face set. “If needs be, damn it, be more than her paladin.”
“Roger!”
“You just said it yourself. If you’re not there for her, someone else will be. Someone who’s not as good a man as you are. Someone I can’t trust like you. Someone she can’t trust like you. You’re on this post until relieved, Sergeant Major. Is that understood? And you’ll do whatever it takes to stand your post, Marine. Clear?”
“Clear,” Catrone grated. “Order received and understood, and I will comply. You bastard.”
“That I am.” Roger grinned tightly. “Literally and figuratively. The last bastard standing. The flag of the Basik’s Own wears a bar sinister proudly. We carried it across two continents, and to Old Earth, and into this very damned Palace, and we did anything necessary to complete the mission. Welcome to the Regiment. Now you know what it means to be one of us.”
“And I think we should inform Mistress Tompkins that I’ll need a new dress, don’t you?” Alexandra said softly.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lady Russell agreed.
They sat in a gazebo, watching cold rain fall beyond the force screen. Lady Russell was expertly sewing a tapestry, while the Empress mangled a needlepoint of a puppy in a basket.
“I’ll never know how you do that so well,” the Empress said, smiling politely.
“Years of practice, Your Majesty,” Lady Russell replied.
“I’ll have many years to practice—
“—two carrier squadrons to the Marduk System,” Alexandra said, her face hard. “Given what Roger’s said about—”
She stopped, and looked around, frowning.
“Where am I?” she asked in a voice which was suddenly cold and dead.
“The gazebo, Your Majesty,” Lady Russell said softly, and looked at her half-fearfully. “Are you well?”
“I was in the conference room,” Alexandra said tightly. “I was in a meeting! It was sunny! Where’s the meeting? Where are the people? Why is it raining?”
“That—” Lady Russell swallowed. “Your Majesty, that was two days ago.”
“Oh, my God,” Alexandra whispered, and looked at the material in her lap. “What is this?”
“Needlepoint?” Lady Russell asked, reaching unobtrusively for her communicator.
“It’s bloody awful, is what it is!” Alexandra spun the hoop across the gazebo. “Get me Sergeant Major Catrone!”
“Sit, Sergeant Major,” Alexandra said, and pointed to the seat Lady Russell had vacated.
“Your Majesty,” Tomcat said.
At Roger’s order, Catrone had once more donned the blue and red of the Empress’ Own, at his old rank of sergeant major. He wore dress uniform, and the golden aiguillette hanging from his shoulder indicated Gold Battalion, the personal command—and bodyguard—of the reigning monarch. Empress Alexandra VII, in this case.
“What happened in the meeting, Sergeant Major?” Alexandra rubbed her face furiously. “I was in the meeting, and then I was here, in the gazebo. What happened to me? Who’s doing this to me?”
“First of all,” Catrone said carefully, “no one is doing anything to you, Your Majesty. It’s already been done.”
She stopped rubbing and sat still, her hands still over her eyes, and he continued.
“Your Majesty, you have two mental states, as we’ve tried to explain to you before.” He waved a hand at her. “This state. Alexandra the Seventh, Empress of the Empire of Man. Fully functional. As good a sovereign as I’ve ever served. Twice the sovereign her father ever was.”
“Thank you for the soft soap, Tomcat,” Alexandra said mockingly, eyes still covered. “And my other . . . state?”
“The other,” he said even more carefully, then paused. “Well, Your Majesty, in the other you’re . . . pliable. You still occasionally ask for your ‘good friend,’ the Earl of New Madrid, and refer to Prince Jackson as ‘Our loyal Prince Jackson.’”
“Oh, God,” she said.
“Do you really want it all?” Catrone asked. “Face facts, Your Majesty. You’re still in a pretty delicate condition.”
“I want it all.” She sighed, lowering her hands at last. Then her face firmed, and she met his eye levelly. “All. What happened?”
“In your other state—”
“What do you call that?” she interrupted. “If you call . . . this one Alexandra. Do you call it Alexandra, Tomcat?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said firmly. “This is the Empress Alexandra. The woman I gave my service to long ago.”
“And the other?”
“Well,” Catrone winced. “We just call it la-la-land. The doctors have a long technical name—”
“I can imagine,” she said dryly. “Do I know I’m Empress?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Catrone’s swallowed. “But, frankly, we just ignore anything you tell us to do. You generally don’t give any orders, though.”
He paused.
“What do I do?” she asked.
“Whatever you’re told,” Catrone said, his face hard. “About the only positive contribution you make is to ask when your very special friend will be back. And if he’s not around, you hit on me, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, Christ, Thomas.” Her face went blank, and tears formed in her eyes. “Oh, Christ. I’m so sorry!”
“I’m not.” Catrone shrugged. “I’m not happy that this has happened to you, Your Majesty, but I’m glad it’s me. I’ve never seen you do it to any other male . . .” He paused again, then shrugged. “Except Roger.”
“What?!”
“You think he’s New Madrid,” Catrone said. “You said all.”
“And I meant it,” Alexandra ground out. She inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, and leaned back in her chair. “You said I was out for two days?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. We just left you with your ladies. You were . . . monitored by the guards to make sure none of them started giving suggestions.”
“Good,” Alexandra said firmly. Then she softened, and looked at him oddly. “Thomas?”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
Her voice was much softer, and he watched her expression carefully, wondering if she’d wandered off again.
“I’m me,” she said, and astonished him with a grin. “I could see the question in your eyes. But I have a very serious question of my own, one I’d like an honest answer to. What did my son tell you to do? About my come-ons?”
Catrone’s hands worked on the arms of h
is chair, and he stared out at the rain for several long moments. Then he looked back at her and raised his eyes to meet her gray ones.
“He ordered me to do whatever was necessary to keep you from finding some other . . . gentleman companion,” he said bluntly. “The doctors all agreed that any such . . . gentleman companion could tell you to give any order he thought up when you’re in your la-la state.”
“My God, he is a bastard, isn’t he?” There was actually a bubble of delight in Alexandra’s voice, and she shook her head and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I’m having a hard time framing this next question, Thomas. Did he do that . . . ?”
“He did it for the good of the Empire,” Catrone said, his tone as blunt as before. “And he did it knowing the trial I’d face. He told me my term of service is now until one of us dies.”
“And you accepted that order?” Alexandra asked calmly.
“I’ve always served you, Your Majesty,” Catrone said, looking suddenly very old and tired. “I always will. But, yes. When Roger gave that order, I obeyed it as if it had come from the mouth of my Emperor.”
“Good,” she said. “Good. If he can command that loyalty, that service from you—from my strength and my paladin—then, yes, perhaps I have misjudged him.”
She paused, and her lips worked, trying not to smile.
“Thomas . . . ?”
“No,” he said.
“You don’t know what I was going to ask,” she pointed out.
“Yes, I do,” he said. “And the answer is: No. We never have.”
“Tempted?” she asked.
He looked up, his eyes hot, almost angry, and half-glared at her. One cheek muscle twitched, and Alexandra smiled warmly.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, leaning back in her chair, and cradled her chin in one hand, index finger tapping at her cheek. “You’ve remarried, haven’t you, Tomcat?”
“Yes,” Tomcat replied warily.
“Pity.”
“What’s this about, Catrone?” Roger demanded as he strode down the corridor. “Damn it, I’m up to my eyeballs in work. We’re all up to our eyeballs in work.”
