Barton snorted. “I’m really not that old.”
“You’re four years older than me,” George said. She slipped up and sat next to him. “I don't think that’ll hurt your chances that much.”
“It depends,” Barton said. “Either I’ll be considered too old by the time I make lieutenant or I’ll be charged with being stuck in Middy Country for years.”
“Only if they don’t read your file,” George said. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I think you’re worrying over nothing.”
“I hope you’re right,” Barton said.
George nodded. She’d been allowed to enter the academy at sixteen, but she’d been a special case. It was more normal for cadets to enter the academy at eighteen, after completing an extra two years in school. And the average age of a newly-minted midshipman was twenty-two. A midshipman who was twenty-eight - or older - would raise eyebrows. Barton would have the same problem as Charles Fraser, only worse. His superiors would wonder if he was incompetent, merely because he hadn't been promoted. They’d have to read his file to know he’d been commissioned at twenty-eight.
And what does happen, she asked herself, to commissioned mustangs?
“That’s enough about me,” Barton said, seriously. He tickled her back, pushing her towards him. “What about you?”
“I’m going back to Vanguard as marine liaison,” George said. “I don’t know if that means I’ll still be serving as a midshipwoman too.”
Barton frowned. “That’s odd,” he said. “Normally, there isn’t a dedicated liaison officer.”
“I worked with them,” George reminded him.
“Just as a shuttle pilot,” Barton pointed out. “You weren't actually meant to be fighting with them, were you?”
George shrugged. Fraser had insisted on her actually working out with the marines, although she knew they’d been holding back when they’d sparred with her. But she knew that wasn’t what he meant. She hadn't been intended to crash-land on Unity, let alone join the marines as they fought the aliens. It simply hadn't been her day.
“If there is a dedicated officer ...”
Barton’s voice trailed off. “If there is,” he said after a moment, “someone must expect a major deployment. I wonder where you’re going.”
George frowned. “I was just called back to the ship,” she said. The notification she’d been given had been short on actual detail, let alone hints on what Vanguard would be doing in the future. “The refit must be nearly completed by now.”
“And the ship will be heading back to the war,” Barton said. “Perhaps they intend to retake one of the occupied systems.”
“Maybe,” George said. She didn't have access to any classified information - her uncle would have gone ballistic if she’d asked for a private briefing - but she knew that the only occupied worlds belonged to the Tadpoles. There were no land-based civilians to get in the way of orbital bombardment, if the aliens refused to surrender after the orbitals were captured. “But why would they need to?”
“There might be some industry on the surface,” Barton suggested. He sounded as if he was grasping at straws. It wasn't a convincing argument and he knew it. “Something valuable enough to make landing an invasion force worthwhile.”
“I think anything like that would have been destroyed before the world was occupied,” George mused. “The Tadpoles wouldn't have left their tech around for the enemies to capture.”
She considered it for a long moment. Any major enemy presence could be blasted from orbit, ensuring that there was no risk of losing a single marine. A handful of aliens might survive, if they were careful. But they wouldn't pose any threat, not on a Tadpole world. There was no logical reason to divert a marine division - or whatever - to hunt the remnants of the occupation force down. And yet, if Barton was right, someone expected the marines to be heavily involved in the next deployment.
“We might be hitting an alien world,” she mused. “If we were to thrust upwards to UXS-469 and then into alien territory ...”
“Perhaps,” Barton agreed. He frowned, clearly unconvinced. “But you’d think we could force them to surrender, once we stripped the world’s high orbitals bare. They wouldn't have a hope of keeping us from turning their world into ash.”
“I suppose,” George said. “Unless they’re daft enough to think they can hold out under heavy bombardment.”
She held him close for a long moment, feeling oddly conflicted. This was, if she wanted it, the perfect opportunity to end their relationship on a high note. Three days and nights of doing nothing, but making love ... she smiled as she remembered the paintings in the bathroom. Some of the acts looked physically impossible, unless the participants happened to be contortionists, yet some of the others ... they looked like fun, if they tried. And then, she could allow the letters to dry up until they were separated completely. He wasn't exactly a poor catch. There would be other women in his life.
And yet, part of her didn't want to let go. She liked him, in and out of bed.
Don’t be fucking stupid, she told herself, firmly. What were they? Romeo and Juliet? A thousand bad stories and worse movies told her that their relationship had no future. You come from different worlds. What sort of future could the two of you have?
She kissed his chin, torn between the hope he’d do something worthy of a peerage and the grim awareness that it was unlikely. Even if he did ... would her family approve? Or would they refuse to accept the match? She could argue it either way. Barton was hardly unintelligent, but he hadn't distinguished himself either.
“Three days,” she said, out loud. They’d have fun, if nothing else. And they could have a more serious chat the day he left for the academy. If he found someone else, while she was gone, she wouldn't mind. She told herself she wouldn't mind. “I hope you weren't planning to leave this room for three days.”
“Not at all,” Barton said. His fingers traced lines around her breasts, making her gasp in pleasure, then reached down to stroke between her legs. “Food, drink, a bed, a bath ... what more do we need?”
George smiled, then shifted until she was kneeling in front of him. “Nothing,” she said, seriously. She held his manhood in her hand for a long moment, feeling him stiffen against her palms. “Nothing at all.”
Chapter Eight
“We’ve been cleared through the no-fly zone,” the pilot said, as the helicopter flew over the Derbyshire countryside. “Ground-based defences are tracking us now.”
“Good,” Henry said.
He leaned back in his chair and watched as Haddon Hall came into view. It had been the county seat of a duke, if he recalled correctly, before the Troubles. Now, it belonged to the Royal Family as a holiday resort and emergency bolthole. Putting his family there wasn't the kindest thing he could have done, he knew, but it kept them away from both London and the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned media. It wasn't Tadpole Prime, with its warm beaches and relaxed attitude to life, yet there was plenty within the grounds to keep a trio of young girls occupied.
It was a beautiful building, he had to admit. An old manor house, surrounded by greenery; a lake, large enough to boat on ... there were times when the perks of being part of the Royal Family made the whole hellish experience seem worthwhile. And yet, he would have given it up in a second, if he could. The price was far too high.
And they’ll try to keep me from returning to Tadpole Prime, he thought, grimly. It didn’t take a genius to see the writing on the wall. He’d been Earth’s ambassador to Tadpole Prime for nearly a decade. Even if his country had no objection to him continuing in that role, other countries would want a chance to put their own man in. I may have to find somewhere else to hide.
The helicopter touched down neatly on the landing pad, a pair of armed guards hurrying over to check his ID before letting him pass through the gates. Haddon Hall looked innocent, but it was a high-security zone. No one was allowed to enter without proper clearance, countersigned by Henry himself. The media
had already pitched a fit after two of their cockroaches had been roughed up by the guards. Henry found it hard to care. He’d never enjoyed being a prince and his daughters, no matter what the family claimed, were not princesses.
Well, not official princesses, he thought, wryly. They’re my princesses.
He strode up towards the hall as thunder rumbled in the distance. It was going to rain soon, he suspected. Dark clouds were already drifting south. England was known for rain, but the Bombardment had done a lot of damage to the planet’s weather systems. Even now, ten years later, the weather could change with remarkable speed. But then, he thought, that had always been true.
“Your Highness,” the butler said, as he opened the door. “Your wife is in the front parlour, waiting for you.”
“Thank you,” Henry said. He surrendered his coat, then turned to walk down the corridor. “And my daughters?”
“I believe they went out riding this morning,” the butler informed him. “They should be back at any moment.”
“Before it starts raining, one hopes,” Henry said. He’d ridden in the rain, but it wasn't something he would encourage his daughters to do. “Please ask them to come find me when they return.”
He smiled as he walked down the corridor. Young girls were mad about horses - and his three daughters, apparently, were no exception. He’d insisted that they learn to take care of the beasts - feeding them, tending them, mucking out the stables - as well as learning to ride, despite their protests. Riding horses almost made up for having to leave Tadpole Prime and all the friends they’d made there. But he would be surprised, in all honesty, if they hadn't started to feel a little confined. Haddon Hall was hardly HMP Brixton, let alone Colchester Military Detention Centre, but they were rarely allowed to leave the estate. And there were no other children to play with, not on the grounds. They had to make their own entertainment.
“Henry,” Janelle said. She sounded tired - and bored. “Welcome home.”
Henry felt a stab of guilt as he gave his wife a hug. His daughters weren't the only ones who’d been dragged away from their home and friends. Janelle, the wife of the lead ambassador, had been an important person on Tadpole Prime. She was still an important person on Earth, Henry knew, but the price was a lot steeper. Despite his best efforts, he hadn't been able to prevent reporters from digging into his wife’s past, or making mountains out of molehills. There was even a nasty rumour flying around that Janelle had had a relationship with Admiral Smith. And to think there’d been nearly forty years between them!
“I’m going back to space,” he said, shortly. He didn't know how to sugar-coat the truth. His wife had been a spacer, before they’d married. She knew the facts of life. And yet, neither of them had been in the military for over a decade. “They want a liaison officer along for a joint offensive.”
“There have to be others,” Janelle said. But there was no real heat to her voice. She knew as well as he did that there were only a few experienced officers who’d also served as ambassadors. “When are you leaving?”
“A fortnight, I think,” Henry said. It wasn't entirely true. He knew he couldn't stay at Haddon Hall for more than a few days. Someone would have to organise the xenospecialists as they readied themselves for the move. Hell, he’d have to decide who was allowed to accompany the task force and who was too valuable to risk. “I should have at least four days here.”
“Good,” Janelle said, tartly. “You can sit down with Victoria and explain the facts of life.”
Henry blinked. “... What?”
“That she can't leave the grounds and that she can't have any of her friends come to visit,” Janelle told him. “She threw a tantrum last night because Donald didn't invite her to his birthday party.”
“He’s hundreds of light years away,” Henry protested. Donald - two years older than Victoria - was still on Tadpole Prime, as far as he knew. “How can she ...?”
“She’s eight years old,” Janelle reminded him, sharply. “All she knows is that she’s been dragged away from her home and dumped in a miserable place where there’s no one to play with apart from her sisters and servants, the youngest of whom is at least fifteen fucking years older than her! She is not happy here!”
“And would she be happy,” Henry asked, “if we sent her to Hanover Towers? Or Greenstones?”
“She’s too young for boarding school,” Janelle snapped. “And even if we did send her, would it be safe?”
Henry winced. He’d been sent to boarding school as soon as he’d turned twelve, four years older than his daughter. And it hadn’t been safe. Sadistic teachers, nasty pupils who joked about beating up their future king ... if he ever met one of the writers who waxed lyrical about life in a boarding school, he was going to take the headmaster’s cane, sharpen the tip to a point and ram it up their backside. It was clear that none of those writers had ever been to boarding school. The schools were certainly no place for an eight-year-old girl.
Not to mention the reporters swarming around like flies, he thought, sourly. And someone from the palace will try to convince the headmaster to cooperate with the media.
He shook his head. He’d tried to remove himself from the line of succession, but Buckingham Palace had blocked him from removing himself completely. His sister would take the throne - she wanted it, the silly goose - yet if something happened to her, Henry and his daughters would be first in line. He hadn't managed to remove them from the line of succession either. And, with the government’s majority slowly being eroded, some ministers would probably be tempted to use his daughters to divert public attention.
“I’ll talk to her,” he said, finally. “What about the others?”
“They’re playing with horses,” Janelle said. “But they miss their friends too. Is there no way we can invite others to play with them?”
Henry made a face. “It would cause too many problems,” he said. He could try to invite some of the aristocratic children, but what did they have in common with his kids? “And bringing their parents into the hall would cause other problems.”
“Of course,” Janelle said, sardonically. “Is there nowhere else we can go?”
“Not unless you want reporters swarming around you like flies on rotting meat,” Henry reminded her. “The security requirements alone would draw their attention.”
He sighed. He’d spent a great deal of time ducking his father’s ... requests ... that his grandchildren be formally presented at court. There was no way he would allow it, not until the girls were old enough to make up their own minds. Once they were presented, there would be no way to remove them from the Royal Family. Henry was a grown adult and yet even he had problems.
And it would be worse if I had nothing to do, but sit around and wait to be king, he thought, feeling an odd flicker of sympathy for his sister. She was in training for a job, but she could only do that job when her father died. It was quite possible that she’d be in her fifties when her father finally shuffled off the mortal coil, with children and perhaps even grandchildren of her own. How long would it be before I was wishing my father dead?
He pushed the thought aside as a maid entered, carrying a tea tray. His father wasn't a bad man, and he made a splendid king for ceremonial occasions, but he’d long since lost the urge to reform the monarchy. The parasites surrounding the crown had made sure of it, preventing him from changing anything. He was king, but king in name only. In truth, he was little more than one of those expensive dolls Henry’s sister had used to play with. He spoke, but only as he was commanded; he dressed, wearing only what he was told to wear. Henry knew, all too well, why so many members of the family went off the rails. They were trapped in a gilded cage.
“Thank you,” he said, as the maid poured tea. “We’ll have dinner in the small room tonight, if possible.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” the maid said.
Janelle looked unhappy as the maid curtseyed and retreated, closing the wooden door behind her. Henry didn't re
ally blame her. Servants had been a part of his life from birth, but people who weren't raised in upper-class households found them a little creepy. Henry knew, better than most, just how easily servants could betray their masters. Snow would fall in hell before he forgave his former nanny for publishing a book about his early years. The bitch had gleefully violated a non-disclosure agreement and gotten away with it.
Because they thought she made me sound like an idealised child, he thought, sourly. The book wasn't exactly a pack of outright lies, but the nanny had done a great deal of lying through omission. I wasn't one of those Purity Sue’s from Victorian storybooks.
“There's no one here for me to talk to either,” Janelle said. She took her cup and sipped thoughtfully. “I think I’m going to go mad.”
“You can write emails,” Henry reminded her. “Or ...”
Janelle put the cup down, hard. Warm liquid splashed onto the table.
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