“I looked it up,” Gartrell added. “The fees for one term here, three months of schooling, are over two million credits. And five years ago, before the Emperor, they were over five million credits. None of the students here are worth less than ten billion apiece.”
“I shouldn’t worry about it,” Kevin said. He’d loathed the Grand Senate’s children as much as the next officer of Senate Security, but the Emperor had killed or exiled the worst of them before folding the survivors of Senate Security into Planetary Security. “The children here... now... are the families of men and women who actually earned their wealth.”
He tapped a switch on the console and the aircar began to descend towards the roof, where the landing pad was waiting for them. It was hard to be sure, but it looked as though there was no easy way to reach the school without using an aircar. There was certainly no road leading up to the walls, no way for the proles in the cities to get to Blyton Towers. Gartrell was right, at least in one respect. No one got anywhere near Blyton Towers without having a shitload of money and political connections.
But there was no point in getting angry, he reminded himself. He’d been lucky enough to escape the lower class ghetto he’d been born and raised in, lucky enough to earn a chance to attend a security training course. It still surprised him, at times, that Senate Security had hired him, but they’d been having a real problem with recruiting enough manpower to handle their duties. But that, at least, wasn’t a surprise. There was only so much abuse one could take without requesting reassignment to an easier station, signing up for a tour of duty on the Rim, or going mad and brutally murdering one’s charges. Indeed, he had a feeling he’d only won the position because he’d scored highly when he’d been assessed for self-control.
The little shits who tormented me are now on Paradise, he thought, as the aircar touched down on the landing pad. And now they have to work for themselves. They probably think they’re in hell.
He glanced back at his three officers. Lieutenant Gartrell was bitter and resentful; he’d bear watching, particularly once they entered the building. Lieutenant Fletcher wasn’t much better — she wasn’t pretty, but that hadn’t saved her from being molested — leaving Lieutenant Garcon as the sole truly reliable officer. He would have preferred to have taken longer to choose his back-up, but he hadn’t been given the time. Their orders allowed for no delay.
“I expect you to remember that most of the students in this place have powerful families,” he said. “The Grand Senate may be gone, but there’re a great many industrialists and military officers who’ve taken their place. Do not lose your temper, whatever they do. Our superiors will not be happy if there’s an... incident.”
“Little snots deserve it,” Gartrell muttered. He’d probably have snapped, sooner or later, if the Grand Senate hadn’t been toppled. “Really, sir...”
“These are not those little snots,” Kevin reminded him, sternly. He’d met a few men and women who’d married into quality, paying out vast sums of money in exchange for a name and an unwanted partner. They’d always struck him as deeply unhappy, as though they hadn’t belonged. “And we will not be protected if we slap a couple of them around. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Gartrell said, sullenly.
Kevin eyed him for a long moment, then opened the hatch. The cold struck him like a physical blow, but at least there was no snow on the landing pad. He stepped outside, feeling a low warmth emitting from the pad, and led the way towards a door. A wave of heat greeted them as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Behind him, the others followed. Gartrell, bringing up the rear, closed the door firmly behind him.
“Greetings,” a snooty voice said. “Welcome to Blyton Towers.”
It was all Kevin could do to keep his face under control. He’d heard that snooty accent daily for five years and he’d grown to hate it. And then, when the Emperor had taken the planet, the accent had vanished. He hadn’t realized how deep an impact it had made until he heard it, once again, for the first time in years. The speaker, a man wearing a tailored suit, looked bland, utterly unassuming. Kevin couldn’t help noticing that he seemed to lack a chin.
“Thank you,” he said, reminding himself — firmly — that he no longer worked for the Grand Senate. He might be a small cog, but the Emperor was the unquestioned ruler of Earth — and their orders came directly from him. “Escort us to the headmistress, at once.”
“Of course, sir,” the man said. “It would be my pleasure.”
Kevin had spent more time than he cared to admit in the homes of the great and good — the former great and good. He’d expected Blyton Towers to be more of the same — and it was — but there was something indefinably different about it. He looked from side to side as they walked through the elaborately decorated corridors, paintings lining the walls and frowning disapprovingly at the proles who had dared to enter the building, yet he couldn’t put his finger on it. The handful of students he saw stared at the troopers in surprise, then hurried away as fast as they could. He smiled at their reaction — at least there was fear, if not respect — and then put it out of his mind. It hardly mattered.
“Heh,” Gartrell muttered.
Kevin followed his gaze, through a window that opened onto a beach. It was disturbingly lifelike, as if someone had plucked a beach from the tropics and planted it in the middle of the school, but that wasn’t what caught his eye. Lying on the beach, wearing nothing, were a dozen girls, sunning themselves in the artificial light. Their bodies were young, healthy, supple and thin; their hair shone under the yellow glow. They looked as though they didn’t have a care in the world.
Bitches, he thought, although he knew it was unfair. They have everything, and yet they’re satisfied with nothing.
He pushed the thought aside as their guide stopped in front of a larger wooden door and knocked, then opened it without waiting for a reply. The office inside looked like something out of the past; the walls were lined with wooden bookshelves, surrounding a real fire in the grate. A large wooden desk dominated the room, with a middle-aged woman sitting behind it and studying the newcomers with a gimlet eye. The dark dress she wore, with a golden broach placed just above her right breast, only added to the severity. Kevin felt a sudden stab of pity for the woman’s students, then straightened to attention. The office, he suspected, was probably designed to impress visitors, rather than serve as a workplace. There wasn’t a single computer terminal or datapad in sight.
“Good afternoon,” the woman said. “I am Madame Grey.”
“Lieutenant Sanderson,” Kevin said. “I’m here with a warrant from Planetary Security.”
Madame Grey’s mouth twisted, just for a second, as if she’d bitten into something nasty. She probably had. Blyton Towers had its own security force, according to the files. No outsiders, not even Senate Security, had been allowed to enter. But now there was nothing she could do to stop the intrusion, not when they were backed by the authority of the Emperor himself. If marines could clump through the mansions of the Grand Senators, what was stopping them from smashing down the gates of Blyton School?
“A warrant,” she repeated. “And may I ask who it’s for?”
“Talia, Kamala, Bill and Andrew Vincent,” Kevin said. He removed the datachip from his jacket and placed it on the desk, wondering if she’d bother to check. “Please have them summoned to the office immediately.”
Madame Grey opened a drawer, produced a standard datapad and inserted the chip, skimming through the warrant with a surprising amount of care and attention. Kevin wondered, absently, if she would try to find an excuse to deny it, but she had to know it wouldn’t get her anywhere. The Emperor had spoken, and that was that. His subjects had no choice but to obey.
“I will call them,” Madame Grey said. “Are they in trouble, themselves?”
“I do not believe so,” Kevin said, finally. They hadn’t been given specific orders to treat the kids as potential criminals, merely take them into custo
dy. “But I don’t know for sure.”
“Then please don’t drag them through the school in cuffs,” Madame Grey said. “It would only humiliate them upon their return.”
Kevin bit down a hot flash of anger. Anyone arrested in his hometown would have been marched off in cuffs, even if it had been for non-payment of debts rather than “harmless” little pranks like rape, murder or child abuse. Indeed, anyone guilty of not paying their debts was more likely to be arrested than someone guilty of a far more serious crime. The little brats in the school didn’t deserve any special treatment. He could cuff all four of them and no one would give a damn...
But they were young, he reminded himself, and there was nowhere to run.
“As you wish,” he said. He wondered, absently, if Madame Grey would go so far as to have the corridors cleared, just to make sure no one knew what was happening. “Please call them now.”
Madame Grey tapped the broach on her chest. “Sophie, please call Talia, Kamala, Bill and Andrew Vincent to the office,” she said. “And then inform their housemothers that I will speak with them after classes.”
She tapped the broach again, then looked up. “Do you have any idea when they will be returned?”
“No,” Kevin said. “We’re just the messenger boys.”
He waited, counting the minutes in his head, until the door finally opened. He’d seen pictures of the four children, but he had to admit that Talia and Kamala — their father had named them after great naval heroes — looked prettier in person. Talia, at eighteen, still had the aura of innocence that so many slum children lost before they were legally adults, something her teachers would have tried to hone. But then, her father had presumably intended to marry her off to an older man. He didn’t seem to have realized that the universe had changed.
“Madame Grey,” Talia said. Her voice held the same damnable accent, but lacked the entitlement or self-righteousness of someone born into the very highest levels of the aristocracy. It was almost pleasant. “You summoned us?”
Kevin cleared his throat. “Talia, Kamala, Bill and Andrew Vincent,” he said. “By direct orders of the Emperor, we are taking the four of you into custody. I must inform you, here and now, that while you are not technically under arrest, you are obliged to cooperate with us until you reach your final destination. Should you misbehave or attempt to escape, we will use all necessary force to keep you under control. There will be no further warnings.”
Talia stared at him in shock. Beside her, Kamala’s eyes rolled upwards and she slumped to the floor in a faint. Kevin resisted, barely, the urge to kick her. He’d seen too many High Society girls pretend to faint to allow himself undue concern. The two boys looked equally stunned and angry, bunching their fists as if they wanted to throw themselves on the officers, even though they had to know it would be futile. None of the students were taught how to fight.
Wouldn’t want them fighting off their partners, he thought, coldly. No one cares about their happiness in marriage.
He knelt down and checked Kamala, then twisted her nose. She yelped in pain, then sat upright, her dark eyes burning with sullen resentment. Kevin snorted — it had been a pretty pathetic attempt to fake a fainting fit — and helped her to her feet. The look in her eyes told him he’d better keep a close eye on her.
“There isn’t anywhere to run,” he said, patiently. Better to make their position clear to them, regardless of their feelings, than run the risk of chasing them all over the school. “Please cooperate, or we’ll have to carry you through the building.”
He glanced at Madame Grey. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“The school’s lawyers will be in touch,” Madame Grey informed him, tightly. “We do not appreciate visits from outside security forces.”
“I would advise you to save your money,” Kevin said, “but I think you won’t listen to me.”
He glanced at the four children. “Come with us.”
Talia gave him a nasty look, then accompanied him through the door and down the long corridor. Kevin could hear her three siblings following them, with his officers bringing up the rear. The corridors were almost deserted, but as they passed a classroom all eyes turned to follow them. He couldn’t help thinking, as the students began to chatter in unison, that it would have been less striking if he’d cuffed all four of them and carried them out.
Maybe we should have insisted on the corridors being cleared, he thought, as more and more students appeared. It didn’t feel like a brewing riot — most of the students would be sheep, rather than wolves — but he tensed anyway. The Emperor would not be pleased if they accidentally hurt or killed the child of one of his supporters. We need to move faster.
Andrew bolted, suddenly. Kevin had no idea where he thought he could go — there was no way to leave the school and, if necessary, Kevin could have called for reinforcements and swept the school from top to bottom — but it hardly mattered. Lieutenant Fletcher gave chase, her legs pumping madly as she ran the teenage boy down and tackled him. Andrew hit the carpet, face-first; Kevin heard a crunching sound that suggested, very strongly, that he’d broken his nose. Lieutenant Fletcher produced a pair of cuffs from her belt, secured Andrew’s hands behind his back and yanked him to his feet. A trail of blood, dripping from a twisted nose, confirmed Kevin’s impressions.
“The silly bastard is in shock,” Lieutenant Fletcher said, as the students drew back. Anyone would think they hadn’t seen blood before. “You want to do something about his nose?”
“We’ll deal with it in the car,” Kevin said. “He’ll survive until then.”
He glanced at Gartrell and Garcon, who’d grabbed Kamala and Bill respectively. Judging from the look on Kamala’s face, Gartrell had taken advantage of the situation to cop a feel as well as keep her from running. Making a mental note to tear a strip off him later, Kevin led them the rest of the way towards the aircar. Thankfully, the remaining students kept their distance, staring in horror rather than doing anything stupid.
We’ll have to work hard to put a positive spin on this, Kevin thought, as they walked through the cold to the aircar. Andrew was shackled in the rear of the vehicle; the others, somewhat to his relief, showed no inclination to fight. Breaking someone’s nose would be meaningless down below, but here...
Talia cleared her throat as Kevin started the drives. “Sir... where are we going?”
“The Presidential House, at least at first,” Kevin said. It was annoying that Gartrell hadn’t realized the implications. The Emperor might be annoyed at his behavior. “And then... I don’t know.”
He took the stick and steered the aircar up into the sky, allowing the children to take one last look at the towers below. It was unlikely they’d ever be allowed to return, even if they were released tomorrow. Madame Grey clearly hadn’t liked the idea of anyone bringing political entanglements into her school.
“Why?” Talia asked. Her accent seemed to have vanished completely. “Why us?”
“A very good question,” Kevin said. He had a theory — the files had made it clear that the four children were related to Admiral Vincent — but he didn’t know for sure. As annoying as Andrew had been, there was no point in worrying them. “I dare say you’ll find out when you get to your destination.”
He checked the autopilot as the aircar picked up speed. They’d be there in a couple of hours, barring accidents. It was annoying — he would have preferred to switch to a bigger vehicle — but there was no room for ‘accidentally’ misinterpreting his orders. Someone clearly wanted to keep matters as quiet as possible.
Ours not to reason why, he thought, as he settled back in his chair. Ours merely to carry out orders and hope for the best.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In retrospect, Admiral Vincent’s power-grab seems to have been a catalyst for Emperor Marius’s final mental and physical decline.
—The Federation Navy in Retrospect, 4199
Earth, 4102
Tiffany wasn’t qui
te sure when Marius had returned to their suite. She’d waited up for him as long as she could, then climbed into bed, hoping he’d disturb her when he arrived from the office. He was always better, always more like his old self, after they made love... or even after a massage. But when she’d woken the following morning, he’d been lying on the couch in the living room. He hadn’t come to bed at all!
“You’ll have to eat something,” she said, as he sat up. She was wearing one of her special nightgowns, a wisp of silk that concealed nothing, but he wasn’t even looking at her. Hell, he hadn’t climbed into bed with her, now that he knew she was awake. “When did you last eat?”
Marius shrugged.
Tiffany eyed him for a long moment, then called the steward and ordered a full-sized breakfast for both of them. She expected an argument, she expected to have to practically force-feed him, but Marius ate with surprising gusto. His body knew it was hungry, even if his mind refused to bow to the necessities of living. Or, judging by the sudden change in behavior, something else was preoccupying him.
“There’s going to be a full meeting of the cabinet this morning,” Marius said, as he finished the last piece of bacon and wiped up the remains of the fried eggs. “You are, of course, expected to attend.”
Of course, Tiffany thought. She’d had the impression, over the last few months, that Marius didn’t care if she attended or not. He hadn’t forced her to leave, but he hadn’t solicited her opinion either. And what is this about?
She watched him carefully as they showered and dressed. Marius looked normal, suspiciously normal. She couldn’t help thinking he looked like a man who was patiently waiting for his opponent to discover the booby trap, even though she wasn’t sure just who he considered his enemy. Had he turned against her? She doubted it, although she suspected that Marius knew how to dissemble. He’d survived ninety years as a naval officer before becoming Emperor, after all.
The Barbarian Bride (The Decline and Fall of the Galactic Empire Book 3) Page 24