Princess Valerie's War

by Terry Mancour

  “Perhaps claim that you’re planning a safari in the mudflats, Sire?” the man suggested, doubtfully.

  “Perhaps,” Lucas said, considering the matter. “Or perhaps we’re having a party. I suppose it doesn’t matter if we’re consistent. But where to begin?”

  “Maybe that place, Sire?” Jameson asked, pointing towards a busy prefabricated building bearing a large, hand-painted sign:

  Uncle Ivan’s Café Royal – “Meals Fit For A King – Prepared By A King!”

  Under the sign was an ornate sigil, bearing a Mardukan dragon in front of a solar disc, surmounted by an elaborate-looking crown.

  “That’s the Royal House of Aton, in exile, Sire,” Jameson explained. “Related to the Mardukan royals – distant cousins, I think. I’m dating a woman from Marduk just now,” he explained, “and I got interested in Mardukan history and culture.”

  “Fascinating,” admitted Lucas. “Tell me.”

  “Well, Sire, apparently a century or so after Marduk colonized Aton, they tried to re-establish order by installing one of the cadet branches of the Royal House as planetary monarchs of Aton. Of course, things started to decivilized there right after that, and a number of provinces rebelled and formed their own governments. The Royal House maintained control of the capital and most of the continent it was on – forgot the name, sorry, sir – but precious little else. When Havilgar invaded, one of his ships devastated the city. The Royal Family rallied the people and were instrumental in forging an alliance with the rebels to overcome the evil Space Vikings,” he said with a grin.

  “But then after the battle, the Royal Family was left out of the constitutional process almost entirely, and became merely symbolic – and then only for their home territory. After the Planetary Nationalist Party took over the post-raid ruling coalition about forty years ago, they put them under house arrest for a few decades, and then they disappeared entirely. I guess they’ve been living here ever since.”

  “That’s astonishing,” Lucas nodded. “And quite convenient for us.”

  “How so, Sire?” the officer asked, confused.

  “We’re going to need more assistance to get off this rock,” he explained. “Who else is a more natural ally than a deposed Royal Family living in exile? And one that owns a restaurant, at that? When we need food? Let’s go have lunch, shall we?”

  The roughshod café was bustling with people too proud or too busy to put up with an hour-long re-educational movie for the privilege of eating third-rate rations. The smells were enticing enough – Lucas found his mouth watering for the first time since he’d come to Planet X – and it only took a few moments for a couple of seats to open up at one of the long, crude tables in the place. Lucas and Jameson sat down, and in a few moments a middle-aged woman appeared with two glasses of tap water.

  “You fellas must be new in camp,” she said, smiling. “I’m Erna. Welcome. Today His Majesty has prepared a mattock-horn filet on a bed of crushed averelle, with a side of tubers and some lightly sautéed vegetables. We take coupons or trade,” she finished.

  “We’ll take two,” Lucas said. “And is His Majesty actually cooking?”

  “Every day for fifteen years,” she assured him. “He’s my brother, Ivan,” she confided with a chuckle.

  “And he’s really the heir to the Atonian throne?”

  “That’s what his papers say,” she assured. “I still make sure he washes his hands first, though.”

  She took their order back to the kitchen and reappeared a few moments later with two ancient cracked plates, piled high with food. Lucas dug in with determination – it was easily the first decent meal as he’d had in a while, and he thought he even detected the slight flavor of garlic in the tubers – a dramatic improvement.

  When they had finished and pushed their plates away, fully satisfied, Erna returned to see if she could get them anything else.

  “Please extend my compliments to His Majesty. From one planetary monarch to another, he’s an outstanding chef.”

  “Oh! You’re a king, too?” she asked, casually, as if it happened every day.

  “Nearly. I am Sovereign Prince Lucas Trask, the Space Viking Prince of Tanith,” he said with a cordial bow. “At your service. This is my bodyguard, Lt. Jameson. From the Sword Worlds, originally, until we ran afoul of the Atonian Planetary Nationalist Party.”

  “A lot of that going around,” she nodded sympathetically. “Glad to meet you, Your Highness. Now, how are you going to pay for your meal?”

  “You said you accept barter?” Lucas asked.

  “If it’s worth anything,” she warned. “If you only got junk in your pocket, leave it and hit the door. We won’t welcome you back.”

  “How about this?” Lucas asked, taking a small bundle out of his tunic. He’d stocked up on a few innocuous trade goods from the Iron Crown to bring to camp, mostly items that couldn’t be identified with a ship like buttons, salt, and blank notebook paper. But he’d also brought a few more high-end items with more relative value to the people of the camp. Erna took the package skeptically and partially unwrapped it – until her eyes went wide. Inside was a 10mm pistol and two cartridges full of rounds, the brass still gleaming with the sheen of protective cosmoline.

  “That . . . that should about cover it,” she said, quietly, hurriedly covering the weapon and tucking it into her generous apron. “Does it work? It’s fine if it doesn’t, it’s still worth a pretty penny, but—”

  “I fired a full magazine through it myself,” Lucas assured. “It works perfectly. Thirty rounds included.”

  “I’d say you’ve covered your lunch . . . and another twenty meals with it!” she declared, fervently. “Where in Nifflheim did you find such a thing?”

  “That’s a Tanith state secret,” Lucas grinned. “But if His Majesty has a moment, I’d love to discuss a proposition he might find much to his interest.”

  “As long as it don’t involve riling up the other gangs, Love,” she cautioned. “We got enemies here, we do. Not everyone is well-disposed to royalty.”

  “Understood,” Lucas agreed. She continued eyeing them as she withdrew into the kitchen.

  “Sire, are you sure it’s wise to deal with these people like this?” Jameson asked, doubtfully. “Not to second-guess your judgment, but counterintelligence doctrine dictates—”

  “It’s not as bad as you might think,” Lucas said in a low tone of voice. “They’re political prisoners too, don’t forget – people who Aton wants forgotten here on Planet X. Now, they wouldn’t have done that if they didn’t have some sort of following on their homeworld that the Party considered a threat to the regime. Which means Aton doesn’t want them in public. Which means we probably do want them in public.”

  “Sire, you’re proposing . . .?” Jameson asked, his eyes wide with realization.

  “Well, it’s a big ship,” Lucas shrugged. “Fully stocked, she can take over a thousand people. We have less than a hundred. Plenty of room for a few political prisoners that Aton would find . . . inconvenient to suddenly turn up in public.”

  “I see your point, Sire,” Jameson nodded.

  About that time the Chef King came out of the back, wiping his hands on a grubby-looking towel. Lucas was momentarily taken aback – King Ian, once you removed the grease and the shabby gray tunic and two or three decades of age, looked remarkably like his late friend, King Mikhail of Marduk.

  “Goodman Mikhail” as he liked to be known, informally, had been a friend before his unfortunate death. Lucas had a tremendous amount of affection for the old monarch, despite his lack of willingness to enforce his rule against the rising tide of Zaspar Makann’s People’s Revolutionary Party. He had been a dear and sweet man, but not a king up to the challenges of his time. He’d paid the price for it too – after becoming addicted to mind control drugs Makann forced upon him, his mind had slipped into senility, and he’d died almost immediately after being restored to his throne.

  King Ian was a good deal m
ore robust than the aging King Mikhail, however. He was stocky, and had broad shoulders and muscular arms, carrying himself more like a prizefighter than a king. He settled into the seat opposite Lucas’ and eyed him cautiously.

  “Erna said you paid for your meal . . . in lead?” he said, slyly. “And that you’re a prince?”

  “Of Tanith,” Lucas agreed. “Lucas Trask, of the House of Trask, Your Majesty.”

  Ian dismissed the title with a wave of his hand. “ ‘His Majesty’ was my grandfather,” he explained. “Last crowned king of Aton, or at least the last little bit that remained loyal before those Planetary Nationalist bastards took over for good,” he said, sourly. “My grandpa, the royal family, and about a thousand loyal nobles were exiled here when I was only five. Since my dad died a couple of years ago, I just keep the name ‘King Ivan’, even though it really gets to the Party puppets here. Good advertising,” he added with a shrug.

  “Do you ever dream about going back to Aton to rule?” Lucas asked, casually.

  “I dream about being anywhere other than this open sewer that I’ve been forced to call my home, yeah,” Ivan nodded. “But there’s some arses I won’t kiss to get it. Anyone with a Party membership card, for instance.”

  “Upon that we agree,” Lucas nodded. “I’m working on a way to get out. Out and off this moon. I’m thinking that if you’re interested, you could be a part of it.”

  Ivan eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t suffer fools—”

  “Either do I,” Lucas interrupted. “Look, I have a baby girl and a beautiful wife Ghu only knows how many light-years away, and a realm in peril. I will get off of this world if I have to build a space ship from scratch out of mud and spare parts, if I have to. Turns out that might not be necessary. If it isn’t, I’m looking for a few good interested parties who might like to come along. Very discreet, trustworthy interested parties.”

  Lucas could tell from the look in the man’s eye that he desperately wanted to believe in such an impossible thing, but a lifetime of bitter disappointment had made him wary. “You sound determined enough,” he admitted, finally. “But you’re new in town. You don’t know how many times Party agents have tried to trick us. Tests of loyalty – or disloyalty – they call it. To see if we’ve been ‘rehabilitated’ yet. And to try to get any names of people still on Aton who might be a security threat. Like I remember anyone on Aton after forty years!”

  “So how many in your family?” Lucas asked. “That is, how many would you be willing to take with you, if you had a theoretical ticket off Planet X?”

  That made Ivan think, and he rubbed the two-day growth of beard on his chin while he did so. “Me, Erna, my daughter Melanie, my son Valto, my nieces, my younger brother Vlad, his wife and two kids . . . plus, say, a dozen or so ‘retainers’. That is, their parents were my parents’ retainers, and they’ve kind of stuck with us over the years.”

  “Any of them have any practical skills?” Lt. Delio asked.

  “A few. Cooking, of course – we all grew up in this place. But Vlad’s good with tools, and Valto hasn’t met a street fight he didn’t love – kid’s a scrapper,” he added proudly. “Melanie is smart as a whip, wants to study mathematics – she just doesn’t want to have to listen to that Party bilge for the privilege.”

  “Well think about it,” Lucas said, quietly. “But don’t mention it to anyone yet. And if you’re serious about wanting to go, I can prove my veracity. Just meet us at the first patch of dry ground north of the camp tonight after dusk – bring protection if you want – and by tomorrow morning you’ll have a better idea of what we’re proposing.”

  “I don’t just wander off into the swamp with strangers, fella,” Ivan said, cautiously. “Princes or not.”

  “I’ll be happy to leave one of my men as hostage,” Lucas offered.

  “Well . . . not like I was doing anything more productive tonight than peel tubers,” he finally agreed. “You prove this to me, Lucas, and we’ll talk.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Lucas assured.

  That night Lucas stopped back by the restaurant just after closing, with Lt. Delio and Jameson in tow. Jameson wasn’t too enthusiastic about being used as a hostage – until he met Princess Melanie, the pretty young daughter of Ivan, who was closing up for the night. Then he volunteered to help so eagerly Ivan started to have second thoughts.

  “He’ll be a perfect gentleman,” Lucas assured the uncrowned king.

  “It ain’t him I’m worried about,” Ivan grumbled as he tucked his new pistol into his belt behind his back. “That girl is almost twenty, and she’s got a real eye for the fellas. Makes a man worry, a daughter does,” he admitted.

  “Don’t tell me that,” Lucas declared. “My daughter isn’t even six months old yet – I won’t have to worry about that for years!”

  “Might as well get started now,” Ivan confided. “It doesn’t get any easier. Just be sure the boys know you’re handy with a firearm, and you won’t have any problems.”

  “Firearm?” Lucas chuckled. “I’m handy with a fleet of nuclear armed warships. It’s going to take an exceptional lad to overcome that.”

  “They’ll find a way,” Ivan said, discouragingly. “Or she will. C’mon, let’s go.”

  Under the dim light of the dirt-colored crescent of the big Jovian world peeking through the overcast the three of them trudged through the two hundred yards of mudflats to the semi-dry island. It was a mere hummock maybe four feet higher than the mud flats that surrounded the camp for miles around, but it was overgrown with lush native vegetation and had room at the center to land a car. While they waited, Ivan discussed the vagaries camp life and was proved very interested in events in the galaxy beyond.

  He was aware of the Sword Worlds and Space Vikings of course – they played a prominent role in the Atonian modern history he’d been brought up with – but he didn’t seem as cowed by the Tanith men as some of his Atonian peers had been. Indeed, for a short order cook, His Majesty Ivan of Aton, by way of Planet X, seemed extraordinarily self-assured. It was a pity he was in exile – he was the kind of man you wanted on the throne, Lucas thought approvingly after getting to know the man a little.

  “So just what are we waiting for?” Ivan finally said.

  “I hear it coming now,” Lt. Delio said. “Running a little late tonight.”

  “Is that an aircar?” Ivan asked. “You guys really stole an aircar? Or is that Max’s death-machine”

  “I’m not above it,” Lucas admitted. “But that one is ours. Ours now. We didn’t steal it from the guards.” The big air lorry softly landed in the clearing they’d made in the middle of the rise, and while King Ivan watched in astonishment, five Tanith men, got off, greeted Prince Lucas deferentially, and then headed back to camp where they would work on their various errands. Lucas and Lt. Delio helped the stocky cook into the back of the lorry and then signaled for the driver to take off.

  “And I thought the pistol was amazing!” Ivan said, shaking his head. “Where did you cobble this thing together? How? It isn’t like any aircar I remember!”

  “All in good time, Your Majesty,” Lt. Delio smiled as the car slipped almost silently through the constant drizzle. In a few moments the shiny dome of the three-thousand foot sphere came into view.

  “Oh, those junkers,” Ivan said, shaking his head, discouraged. “Yeah, I know all about those ships. Pure garbage, from what I hear. Six or seven old tubs too broken down to salvage. They put ‘em here, ‘cause the collapsium won’t go through a mass energy converter.”

  “Actually the one we’re headed for is quite intact,” Lucas replied. “Well, mostly. She’s the old Space Viking ship Iron Crown. She was reported destroyed in the great Atonian raid, but by some chance she escaped. So did her commander, Crown Prince Havilgar. For a while, at least. We found his corpse executed within.”