As the Possór heir's shuttle sped to its hangar bay, the shadowed figure behind one of Pablen Palace's mirrored windows lowered his binoculars with a deep expulsion of breath. He had seen everything: Seffan's son enter the expected clearing; the automated shuttle rise and verify targeting; the innocent leisure cruise over the city; the rigged delay in Pablen's air-defense response; and the shuttle's shields collapsing before getting close enough.
The man cursed silently. By foregoing his initial plan to handle the assassination himself, he had let incompetents lose an ideal opportunity. While his alibi was secure, his mission was a failure. Even if his efforts to make it look like an accident succeeded, his next chance to get the Possór lordling would not come as easily.
Grunting to himself, the man vowed that a second opportunity would be all he needed.
---
Much to the silent disapproval of his chief valet, Derrick was not an early riser. Yet on the morning following the downing of the wayward aircraft, the Possór heir had to be waken even earlier than his regimental valet thought fair. Grumbling, Derrick wondered if the man’s sympathy came only because his own sleep had been cut short as well.
Derrick's annoyance slowly dissipated however as he sleepily remembered what an outraged Commander Tillic had told him after he had learned about the near "accident." As a friend and military tutor, Tillic had a right to be angry with him. Despite his training, Derrick had allowed himself to fall into patterned behavior. Every time he went riding, Derrick stopped at the same lookout point, alone, and exposed for an assassin's eternity. Even worse was Derrick's reluctance to board his shuttle and return to the Palace.
"I was only being calm," Derrick had told him, having hoped the incident would remain between him and House Security. "Would you rather I became frantic and lost control?"
"There is a difference between keeping your wits and being indifferent," Tillic had retorted. "Dammit Derrick, you know what I am talking about!"
Derrick did know, and it was a sore topic. It also seemed to be a recurring question: Had he once again slipped into depression? A year after her death, Derrick still openly missed his mother. Yet he was almost as tired of people worrying about him as he was of them trying to help him overcome his loss. As close as they were, even Tillic was no different.
The truth was that Derrick had a brooding nature even as a child, surrounded as he was by appointed playmates, who often preferred to be with their real friends than with Legan’s royal heir. And what would it truly take for people to understand that wanting to be alone was a choice, not an affliction?
Derrick did not bother to reply however, there being no point in further arguing. Having come to a similar conclusion, Tillic had refrained from further comment as well.
The man for whom Derrick had been wakened so early however would be another matter.
Derrick's father was not as respectful of his son’s feelings. The Count-Grandee simply had no patience for personal weakness, especially where he viewed the cure as a simple exercise of one’s conscious will. If Tillic had seen fit to yell at him, Derrick did not at all look forward to what his father would say about his suspected relapse into melancholy.
Dread festered inside Derrick's stomach as he dressed, making his light breakfast tortuous to smell and impossible to eat. His unease over his father’s summons only worsened once he left his apartments and entered a busy hallway outside. By the rushing of servants and assistants around him, Derrick detected the obvious stir in the Palace. The uninformative responses from his own aides as to the cause only deepened his suspicions as to what was before him.
"The Count-Grandee wishes to discuss the matter with Your Lordship personally," Allenford Biam told him with cool reservation before quickening his pace. Biam was one of several high-level advisors to Derrick’s father, and as he was accustomed to the stiff-backed advisor’s restrained manner, Derrick simply walked the rest of the way with him in silence.
Two house guards stationed outside the family library opened the room’s double doors as Derrick drew near. There was no turning back now. Feeling the scraping flutter in his stomach constrict and drop into an emptiness beneath him, Derrick recognized the guards with a clipped nod. Allenford Biam did not wait for Derrick to even pass through the entryway before turning to leave without a parting word. The violation of etiquette escaped unnoticed as Derrick’s personal escort took stations outside to wait as the doors were closed behind him.
Derrick's father was alone, looking out a tall window. Undisturbed by the intrusion, the dark silhouette remained still, its poised shadow spread across the in-laid wooden floor.
The Possór heir hesitated before breaching the outline of his father's image, cursing the sound of his footfalls and the silence that revealed them. Using the little time that he had left, Derrick mentally braced himself for the coming reprimand, hoping that it would not last long.
Seffan Possór lifted his head at his son’s approach, turned and came forward, still blocking the glare of light behind him. Derrick had to force himself to continue walking as the black form drew near before slowly giving way to the familiar visage of his father.
"Derrick," Lord Legan greeted, his voice deeper than usual. "Are you all right?"
Derrick swallowed. "Yes, Father," he replied cautiously.
"Good. I heard about that unfortunate shuttle and its stupid pilot earlier, but...well, I am sorry for not checking on you sooner."
"I understand, Father." Derrick did nothing to hide his relief.
Seffan nodded and smiled briefly. "Derrick, I have something to tell you." Motioning for Derrick to sit, he reached for something on a nearby table.
Derrick's stomach muscles tightened at the renewed formality in his father's voice.
"The Imperial Justice Minister has filed criminal charges against us." Glimpsing his son's surprised expression, Seffan Possór read from the indictment. "Murdering four Imperial Special Agents...Creating, procuring and distributing contraband...Unauthorized trading with avowed enemies of the Empire...Abusing the authority of an Imperial Seven-Star corporate directorship for private gain...Establishing and developing eco-political ties with the criminal organization infamously known as the ‘Consortium’...and (lastly) Executing schemes of tax evasion."
Derrick’s disbelief caught him in mid-breath. As all thought of the prior day's events vanished, Derrick realized that some of the listed offenses could carry a death sentence.
"The Justice Minister surprised us with this," his father continued, handing him the formal accusal. "None of our informants knew about it until we did."
Derrick examined the document's stylized script and official seal, astonishment denying him a comprehensive reading. He let the cause of its blackened left edge go unquestioned.
"A court of five judges will convene here in six months," the Lord of Legan resumed, "an Imperial High Justice, representatives from the Imperial House, the Holy Miran Church, and the Upper Chamber of Parliament..." Seffan turned to Derrick, "...and you."
"What?" Derrick blurted, almost dropping the singed parchment.
"As a Grand-House, we have a right to representation on the court as well."
"Yes," Derrick shook his head, "but you are..."
"I cannot be my own judge, Derrick." Looking at his son during the momentary silence, Seffan glanced up the stairway behind him to one of the large portraits on the second floor. He could see Derrick's resemblance to his mother: thick, straight hair; high cheekbones; a gentle slope of the nose. All from her—except for the eyes. The Countess-Grandia had eyes like great emeralds. Derrick's eyes were like his own: dark, and difficult to read. "Besides," Seffan sighed, his voice distant as his stare lingered on the image of his late wife, "my rights as titular head are suspended pending judgment. Until that is lifted, you are technically the Lord-Regent."
Derrick's gaped anew as Seffan returned to the window, crossing his arms and retreating to his thoughts. Seffan ran his thumb through his short, blac
k beard.
"It is a good thing you are of age and meet the ascension requirements," Lord Legan continued. "Otherwise a military governor would be here already."
"But with the charges clearly baseless, why not petition the Emperor directly?"
"Going through this process will buy us time," the Count-Grandee replied, turning back to the light. "We need allies, or an appeal would be a waste of time."
Derrick's only response was a brief shaking of his head.
Seffan faced him again. "Derrick, you must serve on the court. If you step down, your ability as a judge may be questioned. You could even lose the right to sit for Imperial cases here on Legan. Remember: In our domain, we uphold the law. We must never lose that privilege. Besides," the Count-Grandee stepped away from his son, "if we decline representation on the court, we will lose our case." Seffan Possór paused, remembering the meeting with his advisors in Voxny. None of them held much optimism. Only his cousin Jordan gave any encouragement. "There are too many against us to discard even one of our advantages, Derrick."
“But can we not—?”
"There will be a trial, Derrick," the Count-Grandee declared. "Nothing can stop it."
Meeting his father's eyes, Derrick nodded, accepting his words as true. "People hate us anyway," he said resignedly. "Let them criticize me for supporting my own House."
"Given the standard of proof needed for a conviction, there will be enough doubt to justify your verdict." The Count-Grandee arched a thick brow. "After all, I am innocent."
Derrick’s only response to the remark was a distracted nod.
"Beyond that," Lord Legan added pointedly, observing his son from the side, "even if our reputation were our priority, losing this case would be something to avoid."
"This will not be easy," Derrick thought aloud, absently biting the inside of his cheek.
"No," Seffan agreed, putting a hand on Derrick's shoulder. "For your vote is not enough. We need two more and, I fear, our beloved Emperor is tainting the other judges even now."
Derrick looked up sharply. "Would the Emperor go that far?"
Seffan Possór returned to the window. "He has long been jealous of our rise in status. He just needed an excuse to attack. And he alone could have moved our case so quickly through the preliminary legal processes." He placed a hand upon the sill. "The stakes are high, my son."
"With the Emperor against us," Derrick asked, "how can we rely on an appeal?"
"The other Grand-Houses will be observing this situation closely. A grand-lord being tried and dispossessed of his fief sets a bad precedent, particularly for crimes for which many of them are guilty. Even if we lose, we should garner enough support to obtain a grant of leniency."
Derrick’s lips thinned before he spoke. "Do we know who the court truthseer will be?"
Seffan abruptly faced Derrick, his eyes widening for the briefest instant.
"The Church will send a psychic initiate from Holy Orders," Derrick said warily, "right? To ensure witness veracity, and help steer the line of questioning?"
"We are working to avoid that," Seffan said quickly. "An argument is being prepared for an exemption based on my status as an Imperial Lord."
"Under a Nobile Immunitas claim?" Derrick asked. Within the Imperial legal system, it was generally known that the immunities often offered proof against prosecution for the guilty.
"We are but insisting on a courtesy," Seffan corrected. “It is my due, after all, considering they have already set you as regent during my presumed innocence.”
Derrick frowned. However they were dressed, legal maneuvers rarely generated political support. Still, with the Emperor against them, defense outweighed any public image concerns. "We can also file preemptory challenges," Derrick remarked, his stare focused elsewhere, "if they send us corrupt truthseers." But if the Holy Church is against us as well….
"Yes," Seffan said, tilting his head. "But we should not be made to make such challenges. Despite the procedural limitations, a powerful truthseer can determine a trial’s outcome.” His tone darkened. “And to suffer the affront of having my word be subject to the judgment of a commoner? I am, after all, a Grand-Peer of the Imperial Realm."
Derrick nodded. It is insulting, he thought, his eyes fixed on one of the room's many bookshelves. Somehow the sight of so many ancient tomes, all carefully aligned in their assigned positions, was comforting. "Who initiated the charges anyway?" Derrick asked.
"Lord Fenté of House Andior," the Count-Grandee replied. "Soon we will have copies of the ‘evidence’ he presented."
"Do we know where he acquired it?"
"Imperial agents, no doubt. But some reports point to religious involvement."
"But I thought the Holy Miran Church generally stayed clear of local politics," Derrick whispered, still wondering what it had to gain. Not the Miran Church, came a thought, seemingly from nowhere, the Church of the New Dawn Believers….
"It does," Lord Legan affirmed. "We think the NDB's are up to their old devices and trying to implicate the Twin Holy Thrones."
Derrick shivered at the reference to the joint sovereign heads of the Miran Church. The occasional foresight granted to him by the Mental Disciplines sometimes made him feel uneasy.
"They know I have been asked to expel them from the planet," Seffan continued, his mouth twisting as he spoke. "They want the legitimacy and protection that my formal recognition of them would bestow."
"So Fenté is a front?" Derrick asked.
"His involvement means that he is a full partner in this," the Count-Grandee replied.
"The Andiors are so self-righteous," Derrick said absently, remembering how Guerren Andior, heir to the Marquis-Grandee of Fenté, treated him at the Imperial Academy. "They think they can pass judgment over everyone." Derrick's eyes narrowed as he recalled reading about an Andior marquis that had banished his son for some imaginary offense just to gain Imperial favor.
So much for family loyalty, he remarked to himself.
---
First Advisor Henely and Advisor Biam, standing on a balcony spanning the high vaulted room outside the family library, looked on as Derrick left his father's company. From the Possór heir's determined expression, it was clear that the encounter had gone well.
"So, the word is...?" Biam began, adjusting the cape over his ministerial robe.
"Overload him," Henely replied, pursing his wide lips. "From now until the trial, give him as much of the day-to-day work as you can."
"No more token public relations duties?"
"Give him new tasks that he will not refuse. Let Derrick try his hand at true governing. I will find things for him as well. Seffan wants him fully immersed—and distracted."
"Pity Derrick won’t have any spare time to...ah, ‘help’ us.”
"Yes, a pity," the rotund First Advisor confirmed, annoyed that his junior colleague was making a joke of it. "And no time to dig up anything on his own either."
"Can’t let our young court representative to threaten his judicial...objectivity."
"No, we cannot," Henely agreed, tired of his associate trying to sound clever.
"But what about our meetings?" Biam cocked his head in a gesture of puzzlement. "No matter what the reasons, won’t banning Derrick from them altogether arouse his curiosity?"
Lousin Henely had long thought it odd that a man of Biam’s age and position would be so open with his thoughts and feelings. But while irritating, his transparency was reassuring.
"We will simply invite him to some and see that he is needed elsewhere before anything vital is discussed,” the First Advisor explained. “I am sure there will always be something happening here on the planet that will demand his personal and immediate attention. We can afford to be creative."
"All right," Biam said, smiling as he took out his hand-held viewer and made a small note on the screen. "Come afternoon, I will drop so many daily tasks on our Lord Derrick that he will wish he were back at the Academy."
&nbs
p; ---
III
I'm surrounded by fools, Colonel Henrald Steuben said to himself as he leaned back into a heavily padded, faded black chair. Shifting his gaze between the rebels sitting at the large table in the low darkened room, Steuben waited for something interesting to be said. As always at these meetings, which took place in a hidden basement next to an underground shuttle facility, it was in vain. Even the heated discussions were routinely stale, the tiresome list of personal and generalized grievances being constantly repeated.
"People shouldn't have to pay for what is theirs by right."
"I should get that automatically, without conditions."
"Why should the cost matter, if someone needs it?"
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he took a sip from his engraved metal flask. Today’s discussion was mostly to express satisfaction at the Count-Grandee's indictment. Recounting his reasons for being there, Steuben resisted the desire to leave. Even fools could be useful, if you had the right plan for them. It was a statement that was now his litany.
The Colonel turned his head with feigned disinterest as the Possór heir's near “accident” was finally mentioned. None of the self-styled patriots in fashionable leisure clothes had much to say however. They simply conveyed idle disappointment that the Count-Grandee’s son had survived, and moved on.
Henrald Steuben grunted and took another drink before recapping the flask.
These kids, with their textbook theories of political science, economics and military strategy, are playing “Revolution” by rules that don't exist. He scratched the right side of his steel gray beard with two upward flicks of his forefingers. As if playing a passable game of chess qualifies you to run a government.
As he often did, Steuben wondered to what extent these rebel units had a unified command. Had it been bad luck to contact a unit lacking financing? Was there a way to skip over the lower rungs of their hierarchy to meet with the real leaders of this “Movement?”
"Now's the perfect time to assert ourselves," proclaimed a woman sitting across from Steuben, her husky voice claiming the ears of everyone. Sitting back in her chair, the woman was shadowed behind a faint line created by the emanating overhead light.
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