She broke off and smiled at him. “Is there any need to go on?”
“I’m going to be the Emperor,” Roland said. The absolute confidence in his voice was disturbing, even if it was partly justified. “Do I need to be healthy?”
“Yes,” Belinda said, flatly. “As Emperor, you will be the number one target for every terrorist group in the entire Empire. I checked the records; hundreds of assassination plots have been stopped before they even penetrated the secure perimeter protecting you, but there were millions of threats. Your life is in danger – it started from the moment you were born.”
“But I have you to look after me,” Roland whined. “And I have the guards ...”
“I may be killed first,” Belinda said. “Or they may contrive to separate us. Besides, a healthy body will improve your life in other respects. You won’t need the Long Pole any longer.”
Roland looked sullen. “How did you know about that?”
“It showed up on the medical exam,” Belinda said, sarcastically. “And if you’re taking it in such quantities, you’re putting your life in danger. Live healthier and you won’t need it at your age.”
She watched as he finished eating his food. The cooks had advised her that Roland rarely ate his plate clean, no matter how much food was wasted, but this time he’d finished everything, even the plain rice. He looked surprised at his own appetite, just like many other recruits, the ones who had to be taught to be careful how much they ate. Eating too much before physical exercise could be dangerous.
“Come on,” she said, and led the way back into the bedroom, picking up the clothes the maids had produced as she passed through the living room. “You need to get dressed; I’ll get changed outside.”
Roland stared at her. “What are we going to do?”
“I believe that your family has a long tradition of playing tennis,” Belinda said. She'd looked it up and Roland’s great-great-great grandfather had actually rewarded anyone who could beat him with a thousand credits. He hadn't had to pay out very often; the files had stated that he could have played professionally, if he hadn't been Emperor. “You’re going to start playing with me.”
“But ...”
“No buts,” Belinda said, firmly. “It's time to take some exercise.”
She walked out of the door, leaving the prince to get dressed. Her own shorts and shirt were waiting for her – the maids had produced them at her request – and she donned them quickly. She’d ordered something modest, she realised as she glanced in the mirror, but Imperial City’s definition of modest was clearly different to Greenway’s. Her shirt was alarmingly tight around her breasts and her shorts showed off too much of her legs.
Maybe it will encourage him, she thought, sourly.
Roland’s eyes went wide when she tapped on the door and let herself back into his bedroom. He’d changed quicker than she’d expected, she was relieved to see, although it was alarmingly clear that he wasn't healthy at all. His skin was alarmingly pale and his arms looked flaccid, with hardly any muscle tone at all. He was going to have to work hard to develop his potential, she reminded herself. She would have to keep pushing him until he developed the self-discipline to do it for himself.
“You ... you’re beautiful,” he stammered.
Belinda ignored him. “You know the way to the gardens,” she said. Unsurprisingly, the Prince had his own private passageway down to the gardens. “Lead the way.”
She followed Roland down the passageway, carefully checking the security precautions as they passed. None of them seemed insecure, but the absence of live guards worried her, if only because she knew that a prepared infiltration team could spoof them, given enough advance preparation. On the other hand, live guards could be bribed or simply killed ...
Maybe we should see if we could move Roland to the Slaughterhouse, she though, grimly. We have complete control there.
But she knew that the Grand Senate would never agree.
Bright sunlight struck her as they reached the end of the passageway and stepped out onto the grounds. A large tennis court, surprisingly simple even though it belonged to the Emperor, lay right in front of them, surrounded by trees that had been preserved even as the rest of Earth slowly died. Earth’s biosphere had proven stronger than almost every alien biosphere in the Empire, displacing or exterminating the natives on most settled worlds, but it was losing the fight to survive on Earth. Humanity’s carelessness had destroyed its own homeworld.
“I used to look at that needle,” Roland said. For once, he didn't sound whiny or irritated. “I used to think that I could climb up it and escape.”
Belinda nodded as she followed his gaze. The orbital tower was hundreds of miles away, visible only as a silvery thread that caught and reflected the light pouring down from high overhead. It was easy to forget that it was massive, nearly five kilometres in diameter, easily the largest engineering project in humanity’s history. No other world in the Empire boasted anything more complex than a space elevator or a skyhook.
“Millions of people live there,” she said, softly. The lower levels were just like the megacities, she knew from experience, although they were considered to be better accommodation than anywhere outside Imperial City. After all, unlike the megacities, they were heavily policed by the Civil Guard. The Empire couldn't risk terrorists gaining control of one of the towers. “And millions more go up every day to escape Earth.”
Roland gave her an oddly wistful look. “Do you think I could go, one day?”
“I think so,” Belinda said, although she had her doubts. The last time an Emperor had left the solar system had been centuries ago. Roland’s ancestors had rarely gone anywhere further than Luna or Mars. The furthest any of them had gone had been Pluto, after it had been reconfirmed as a planet for the nineteenth time. “We can certainly try to arrange it.”
She led the way over to the tennis court and found the rackets where the maids had left them at her request. They’d offered rackets fit for an Emperor that cost more than she made in a year, but she’d turned them down and ordered rackets that could be broken without breaking her credit account. Roland blinked in surprise as she passed him a racket and motioned for him to take one side of the court, then walked over and took up a stance that suggested that he was out of practice. Belinda wasn't surprised.
“We will forget about the rules,” she said, as she took up position on the other side of the net. Marines rarely played tennis; Boot Camp and the Slaughterhouse had taught games that were intended to encourage young recruits to work together, like football, rugby and Slaughterhouse Jousting. She wondered what Roland would make of the latter, before pushing the thought aside. There were Marines who weren't prepared for jousting. “Just concentrate on trying to score against me.”
Roland eyed her, his eyes clearly not on her face. “And what do I get if I win?”
“Victory?” Belinda asked, dryly. She thought about reminding him of the health benefits, then decided against it. Too much nagging wasn't good for a young man – or prince. “You get to go to the Arena this Sunday. I hear they brought in a creature from Ripley.”
“And then the Arena staff had to put it down before it could break out,” Roland said. His face twisted into a grin. “I love going to the Arena ...”
“You win and you get to go,” Belinda said. She tossed the ball in the air and knocked it over the net as lightly as she could. “You lose and you get to try to beat me again tomorrow.”
Roland lunged forward and managed to serve the ball back at her, just lightly enough so that it barely missed snagging in the net. Belinda had to hold herself back; her training insisted that she should boost, just to ensure that she actually won. Instead, she allowed the ball to hit the ground and twisted her face into a disappointed expression. Let Roland think he’d won the first round easily.
“You can't stop me from going,” Roland said, as she prepared to launch the ball towards him again. “I have a Royal Box in the Arena and ...”
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“And I am your bodyguard with absolute authority over where we can and cannot go,” Belinda reminded him. She could understand Roland’s feelings – she doubted he was allowed to go more than a few places outside the Summer Palace – but she needed to make him work for his reward. “Besides, I need to have the Arena checked out before you can be allowed to go there.”
She launched the ball at him before he could respond, pushing it – according to her tactical implants – into a trajectory that he could intercept, if he worked at it. Roland moved forward and barely managed to serve it back at her, but it was aimed right at her position and she had no difficulty launching it back towards him. The prince managed to hit it, yet it went right into the net and fell down.
“I’ve been to the Arena hundreds of times,” Roland protested. His face was already shining with sweat. “I never had a problem.”
“There’s always a first time,” Belinda said. She’d heard that there were a number of retired Marines working for the Arena staff, if only to ensure that there was absolutely no cheating. The gladiators who fought for the amusement of the crowds had to win fairly or not at all. “And besides, security precautions have to be checked and rethought from time to time, or someone will find a way through the holes.”
“It’s the Arena,” Roland said, in horror. “Who would want to cheat?”
Belinda grinned. “Everyone who has money on one of the gladiators?” She asked. “Now ... stop wasting time and serve the ball at me.”
Roland flushed, but obeyed. Belinda tossed it back at him effortlessly and watched as he ran to intercept it, barely succeeding before the ball hit the ground. She held herself back and allowed the ball to land in her side of the court, giving Roland another point. Grinning to herself, she picked the ball up and launched it towards him. Roland had to run again to catch it before it was too late.
The game lasted for nearly forty minutes before Belinda called a halt and pointed out, regretfully, that Roland had been beaten by five points. The prince seemed to want to keep playing, which was a good sign, even though he was clearly aching in pain. She remembered her own pain as she struggled through Boot Camp, pushing herself a little further every day, and felt an odd flash of sympathy. Roland wasn't entirely to blame for his own condition, she reminded himself. He’d been allowed to atrophy away while the Grand Senate ran the Empire.
“Not too bad,” she said, as she held out her hand for Roland to shake. The prince seemed bemused at first, then realised what he had to do and shook her hand. “We’ll play again tomorrow?”
“I’ll defeat you tomorrow,” Roland promised her. He hesitated, then asked the obvious question. “What happens if you beat me on the following day?”
Belinda pretended to consider it. “You still get to go to the Arena, but you have to beat me again before you can go the following week,” she said, cheerfully. “And it will get harder, I’m afraid.”
Roland ran his hand through his glistening hair. “Why don’t you sweat?”
“Enhancement,” Belinda said, deadpan. She couldn't tell him that he hadn't pushed her very hard at all. Facing a fellow Pathfinder at tennis would be much more interesting, if alarming for anyone else who had to watch. “You’ll need to work harder in future.”
“I ... ache,” Roland admitted. Now that he had stopped playing, he seemed to be having trouble walking. “I think I sprained something.”
“You just pushed your muscles a little further,” Belinda reassured him. She smiled as she recalled one of her first Drill Instructor’s favourite sayings. “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”
Roland scowled at her. “Can’t I get an enhanced body from the body-shop?”
“You’d still have to work to make it yours,” Belinda pointed out. Besides, body-shops were notoriously unreliable, although the Crown Prince could probably hire the best, and long-term results depended on the user keeping up with his exercise routines. If someone was prepared to go to all that effort, it would probably be cheaper to build up his natural body anyway. “And I think it wouldn’t be good for you either.”
She picked up a towel, tossed it to Roland and watched as he wiped the sweat off his brow.
“You can have a soak in the bath, then a massage that will help work some of the kinks out of your muscles, and then you can eat,” she continued. “After that, you will be ready for bed.”
“It's only six o’clock,” Roland said, and then yawned. “It’s way too early to sleep.”
Belinda grinned. “See how you feel after a bath and a meal,” she said. “Besides, you have to beat me tomorrow if you want to go to the Arena.”
She allowed her smile to widen as Roland started to walk back towards the passageway. Maybe she would let him win tomorrow, once she’d checked out the Arena and contacted the guards. He did need to get out of the Summer Palace, after all. And by then, she had a feeling that she would be glad of the diversion too. She just had to be careful not to forget her mission – and make sure that Senate Security didn't forget it too.
After all, people died at the Arena.
Chapter Ten
Why did the Senate allow it? Put simply, they needed money for one reasons: they wanted re-election. In order to gain re-election - and to keep Earth's population under control - it was necessary to provide an endless supply of bread and circuses. Looting the colonies provided the funds they needed to keep themselves in power. They believed that they could do so indefinitely.
-Professor Leo Caesius, The End of Empire
Amethyst couldn't help a sense of relief as she returned to her apartment and threw her bag down on the bed. Art classes were tedious at the best of times, even though some of her fellow students saw them as an easy grade, as long as they could bullshit the teachers into believing that they had made a new breakthrough in art and design. Normally, she would have agreed with them, but now? She wondered just what the point of even trying was while she was at the university.
She hadn't taken everything Richard had told her on faith, but it had taken several days to actually research his statements. Neither she nor Jacqueline had realised that they had never been taught how to do research properly, even though they were meant to carry out an investigation of their own for their final grade. All they’d been taught to do was look up the information in the computer files and regurgitate it for themselves, rather than doing something completely original. In hindsight, it made her wonder just how brilliant some of her earlier work had actually been. Should she have really been charged with plagiarism?
The official figures stated that seventy percent of graduated students found jobs. It had been suspiciously difficult to draw specifics out of the university files, forcing her to resort to other methods – and what she’d found had been alarming. Very few graduated students found work suited to their degrees – and the remainder tended to have jobs that, at best, led nowhere. The official figures didn't seem to include the students who just went into their own apartments and vegetated, which made her wonder just how many other official figures she had been taking for granted. How much of what she had been told was a lie?
Parsing out the other official statistics had been complicated and she wasn't at all sure that she’d succeeded. Most of their coursework came with handy answers for them – to prevent the students from thinking for themselves, she recognised now. She couldn't ask a tutor to look over her results and tell her if she was on the right track, not unless she wanted to be expelled from the university. Back in her parents’ apartment block, she’d known girls who were grandmothers at thirty. She’d told herself that going to Imperial University was a way out of that trap. In hindsight, perhaps she should have wondered a little more about why those girls became caught in the first place.
I was a fool, she thought, savagely. The tiny apartment seemed to be closing in around her, just as her own life was being constrained. She was in a cage and she’d never even seen the bars! Angrily, she paced over to the small fridge, opened it up and re
moved a bottle Jacqueline had brought home from one of the local nightclubs. It smelled suspiciously like paint-stripper, but she took a swig anyway. What did it matter what it did to her? Her life was already over and yet it would never end.
Shaking her head, she put the bottle back in the fridge and sat down on the bed. It was a simple bed, but special – because it was hers. Or was it, really? She’d rented the apartment from the university and she knew that it would go to another student after she left, but she’d taken it as a sign of her independence from her parents. But her independence – and that of all the other students – was a joke. Over the last few days, she had looked – really looked – at her fellow students. Very few of them could have survived in the university without the tutors doing much of their work for them. How would they get on outside the academic world?
She reached under the bed and produced a secure box. By law, all children had to have at least one place where they could store things they didn't want their parents to see – it was a human right – but she rather doubted that it was as secure as the manufacturers claimed. Who knew how easy it would be for the university staff to open it – or simply demand that she opened it for them? But she hadn't had anywhere else to store Professor Caesius’s book, not when discovery might mean expulsion from the university. Opening it to a random page, she started to read the text. She'd read part of the book every night since meeting Richard.
Professor Caesius didn't seem to have a very organised mind, she’d decided on the first night. The text jumped around, as if it had never had the services of an editor – or as if the writer hadn't wanted to look too closely at what he was writing. He also seemed to have had a man-crush on the Terran Marine Corps, although Amethyst wasn't sure why. She'd never met a Marine, or seen one outside the gory entertainment flicks that kept the boys amused when they weren't trying to get tickets to the Arena. Who knew if they were really as noble, brave and just plain superhuman as the Professor painted them? On the other hand, they were being compared to bureaucrats and Amethyst had enough experience with them to know that almost anyone else would be preferable.
The Empire's Corps: Book 03 - When The Bough Breaks Page 9