09- We Lead

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Put him through,” John ordered. The plan had worked, barely. Admiral Stirling and his fleet had followed the retreating aliens back to their homeworld. “And then get an updated status report from the remainder of the fleet.”

  He glanced at Prince Henry. “And you know how to make the surrender permanent?”

  “I do,” Henry said.

  “Then do it,” John said. “Or everyone who died here today will have died for nothing.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The funeral, back on Earth, was a sombre affair.

  Henry couldn't say that he'd known Georgina Fitzwilliam very well. Admiral Fitzwilliam’s niece had been twelve years younger than him, even before he’d left Earth for Tadpole Prime; he’d only met her once, as far as he could recall, before they’d met on Vanguard. And they hadn't spent much time together, not on the ship. They’d only really been acquaintances.

  But she’d died well, everyone agreed, even though no one had found the body.

  That’s not surprising, he reminded himself. She was at the centre of a KEW strike.

  He forced himself to listen as the vicar droned on and on about a young girl who’d been killed far too soon. The after-action report had made horrific reading, but he’d forced himself to keep going until he reached the end. George’s action in calling down the KEW strike might just have saved the spacehead from being overrun, although it wouldn't have stood a chance if the battle overhead hadn't been won. It was a grim reminder that humanity’s new allies were savage, at the core. Maybe they had their own code of honour, maybe they had evolved ways to cope with their nature ... they were still savage.

  The vicar stopped droning, allowing others to stand and have their say. Charles Fraser spoke about a young midshipwoman who had won the respect of her peers; Anne Fitzwilliam talked about a little girl who refused to fit into anyone’s plans for her. Anne was the kind of aristocratic girl Henry had always detested - it was clear she was being groomed to marry someone who would advance the family’s interests - but she was right. George had fought to find a place where she could be herself, rather than follow her family’s will. And even though she had died in the process, she had died as herself.

  He closed his eyes for a long moment as Captain Susan Onarina spoke, briefly, about the girl she’d known. It was regretful, in a way, that Captain Onarina did know the girl, although Henry had to admit that she had an excuse. She'd been Vanguard’s XO when George had started her Middy Cruise. And yet, a midshipwoman with George’s connections could never be treated as an ordinary middy. Henry had gone to considerable trouble to conceal his real name when he had joined the navy.

  I’m sorry, George, he thought, as the coffin was carried towards the grave. You deserved much better.

  He looked from face to face, silently counting the number of great and good that had turned up for the funeral. Admiral Fitzwilliam, of course, along with his adopted children; Admiral Soskice and Admiral Brougham ... even General Taylor and Ambassador Richards. And, beyond them, the Prime Minister and half his cabinet. It was a stark reminder that politics were never far away, even during the funeral of a war hero. George would no longer be recognisable, he thought, after the spin doctors got hold of her. She'd become the emblem of Britain soon enough, her name cited as justification for all sorts of things. He couldn't help thinking, as the empty coffin was lowered into the grave, that George would have hated her afterlife. She’d rebelled against the establishment, just like himself. And now she was safely dead, she’d been practically canonised by the aristocracy.

  The funeral crowd broke up, half heading for the manor where food and drink was already prepared, the remainder heading down to the gates. It was easy enough to distinguish the ghouls from those who were genuinely mourning, now the main ceremony was over. The former were heading out of the estate, hoping to get back home before it was too late, while the remainder were staying to eat and drink. And talk politics, of course.

  He fell into step beside Susan Onarina as they walked up to the manor. “I was sorry to hear about the board’s decision,” he said. “Vanguard deserved much better.”

  “She was a good ship,” Susan said. She sounded numb. “And she served us well.”

  Henry nodded, although he understood the board’s reasoning. Vanguard had taken one hell of a beating in the final battle, even though her hull had survived. The damage had been so extensive, the board had concluded, that refitting her would be more expensive than building a whole new battleship. And besides, they’d added, Vanguard and her sisters were no longer the cutting edge of naval development. There were limits to how many new systems could be crammed into her hull. They might have refrained from scrapping Vanguard - the academy had put in a bid for her services as a training hull - but the battleship would never fly or fight again.

  He summoned a page as they walked through the French windows and made a special request, then headed down the hall to the Green Room. Fitzwilliam Manor, like all modern-day manors, was more than just a family home. It was a place to do business, a place for discreet meetings to be held. He stepped into the Green Room - a rather unimaginative name. as everything in the room was green - and sat down on a comfy armchair. If he’d read the politics right, he wouldn't have long to wait.

  The door opened, two minutes later. Douglas Thomas, Prime Minister of Great Britain, Titan and Britannia - and assorted smaller colonies scattered across twenty different star systems - stepped into the room, followed by a maid in a long dark dress. The Fitzwilliam family, Henry noted as he rose, was thankfully dignified. He’d been in places where the servants wore barely enough to be decent.

  “Tea, please,” he ordered. “Prime Minister?”

  “Tea will be sufficient,” Thomas said.

  He sat down, facing Henry. Henry studied him with considerable interest, even though it was hardly the first time they’d met. The Prime Minister was a heavyset man, his cragged face slowly turning to fat. His black suit was perfectly tailored, but not even the best tailor could hide his ripening paunch. And yet, the Prime Minister carried himself with an air of stiff dignity that suggested he would be very hard to budge. Thomas wasn't exactly a war hero, but he had been credited with organising most of the rescue and recovery efforts launched during and after the bombardment. Maybe not the man of the hour, yet perhaps the man of the decade. Henry disliked all professional politicians with a passion, but he had to admit that Thomas had handled himself well.

  And now he’s facing deselection, he thought. The bane of any professional politician.

  “Thank you for coming, sir,” he said, as the maid returned with tea. “I know my request must have come as a surprise.”

  “I had expected some off-the-record discussions,” the Prime Minister said, gravely. The maid poured the tea, then bowed and retreated. “Politics infect everything, these days.”

  “Including the funeral of a war hero,” Henry said. He took a sip of his tea. It was perfect, of course. “Did you expect to be meeting with me?”

  “I try not to have expectations,” the Prime Minister said. He took his own cup. “But I should add that time is not on my side.”

  Get on with it, Henry translated. He might be a prince of the realm, even though he’d been doing everything in his power to escape the monarchy, but he wasn't the most important person in the room. I have more influential people to meet.

  He leaned back in his chair. “You are aware, of course, that my post on Tadpole Prime has been filled,” he said. “I find that most awkward.”

  The Prime Minister shrugged. “Britain commands vast influence, yet not enough to keep such a prime post indefinitely,” he said. “Our choice of you may have worked well, back when you were a global hero, but politicians have short memories. The French were prepared to horse-trade intensely to win the position for themselves.”

  “And you weren't prepared to fight to keep it,” Henry said.

  “Quite,” the Prime Minister said. He sounded oddly amused. “Re
sentment at our domination of such matters would not have helped us, not in the long run.”

  Henry nodded. There was no point in whining about it, not now. The Prime Minister had a point. His position might be rather less powerful than outsiders supposed, but still ... Britain holding the seat permanently would put quite a few noses out of joint. Better to swap ambassadors before resentment ended up costing the country more than it cared to pay.

  “There will, of course, be another post opening on Vixen,” he said, instead. “I want it.”

  The Prime Minister’s eyebrows rose. “And you think you should have it?”

  “I was the representative who dictated the peace terms, after the fighting came to an end,” Henry said. Dictated was the right word. The Foxes acted as though they’d been brutally crushed, while the Cows seemed prepared to go with the flow. “They know me. More to the point, they recognise me as a military officer as well as an ambassador.”

  “That may be true,” the Prime Minister said. “And Britain does have the inside track on appointing the lead ambassador. But why should we go for you?”

  Henry met his eyes. “On one hand, you won’t find a more experienced ambassador in the country,” he said. “I’ve handled multinational meetings and conferences as well as talking to three different groups of non-humans. And on the other, if I don’t get the post, I’ll return to Tadpole Prime.”

  The Prime Minister’s face darkened. “I was under the impression that travel to Tadpole Prime was restricted,” he said. “Were my briefers lying to me?”

  “It’s certainly hard to reach,” Henry agreed. He reached into his pocket and produced a datachip. “However, I was able to apply to the Tadpole Embassy here for travel and residency permits. We may control who goes in and out of our embassies on Tadpole Prime, Prime Minister, but we don’t control settlement rights. The Tadpoles say my family and I can live there ... so my family can live there.”

  “Getting there might pose a problem,” the Prime Minister said, finally.

  “It won’t,” Henry said. He smiled. “There are freighters that go to Tadpole Prime fairly regularly. They’ll be happy to take on a few passengers, if I pay through the nose. And I do have plenty of money saved up.”

  “Because the government has been paying your living expenses,” the Prime Minister commented.

  “My wages,” Henry snapped. The stipend he’d received as Prince of Wales had long since been cancelled. “First as a starfighter pilot, then as an ambassador. And I dare say I could spend some time on Tadpole Prime writing a book. The publishers would be delighted to give me an advance.”

  “Assuming you wrote the damn thing,” the Prime Minister said. “And assuming it was cleared for publication.”

  “These aren’t the days when there was blood on the streets,” Henry pointed out. “You might try to have it banned, but would you win?”

  There was a long chilling pause. “I do not appreciate being threatened, however indirectly,” the Prime Minister said. “And I assure you that your absence will make no difference whatsoever to Britain.”

  “Of course not,” Henry agreed. He finished his tea, silently making a mental note to ask for the blend. Nothing, but the best for the aristocracy. “But it occurs to me that my presence on Vixen will make a great deal of difference. Particularly, sir, as this isn't exactly an ordinary embassy. And let’s face it. There aren't many people more qualified in the world.”

  He rose. “I would have liked to bring my family here,” he said, “but the reporters would have made their lives hell. You can contact me at Haddon Hall, when you have made up your mind.”

  The Prime Minister scowled. “You’re nothing like your father ...”

  “My father is a bird trapped in a gilded cage,” Henry said, as he turned to the door. “I love him dearly, Prime Minister, but he is a broken man. My sister will go the same way, if she takes the throne. Please rest assured that I have no intention of following them into a long slow death. I want to do something with my life.”

  “Really, Mr. Ambassador?” The Prime Minister asked. “I’d say you have.”

  ***

  The flight from Fitzwilliam Manor to Haddon Hall took just under an hour, time Henry spent reading the latest set of updates from the navy and a handful of semi-trustworthy political analysts. He rarely trusted any of the latter completely, but they did have a good record for plotting out the future in general terms. Barring a lucky accident - or an encounter with a fifth alien race - the Prime Minister’s political future was questionable. Too many people wanted a change.

  Particularly now the war is over, Henry thought, as the aircar descended to land on the helipad. They want to reduce spending on warships and use the money here instead.

  His lips curved into a cold smile. He hadn't lied to the Prime Minister. By any reasonable definition, he was almost certainly the most qualified candidate on Earth for the assignment to Vixen. There were others, of course, but most of the best were already assigned to Tadpole Prime or Vesy. And if the Prime Minister did manage to get him the post, it might just shore up the Prime Minister’s political position too. His party would have problems deselecting him if he scored such an immense political coup.

  He climbed out of the aircar, bid farewell to the driver and walked up the lane towards Haddon Hall. Five children - no, six - could be seen on the lake, messing about on a pair of ramshackle boats. Two young women were supervising them ... Henry smiled, then hurried up the steps and into the hall. The butler intercepted him, took his coat with practiced ease and pointed to the library. Henry walked inside and stopped, dead. The room was empty.

  Strong arms wrapped around him from behind. “Got you,” Janelle said. The door slammed closed. “And the kids are distracted ...”

  Henry turned and kissed her, hard. He’d been away for six months, but it felt as though it had been longer.

  Afterwards, they cuddled together on the sofa. “You missed two birthdays,” Janelle said, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “You got Mary a large toy car and Elizabeth a talking doll. They love them both, but the doll gives Victoria nightmares. Try not to look surprised when she insists that you take it away again.”

  Henry sighed. “That bad?”

  “It's programmed to walk around like a real child,” Janelle said. “And really ... it creeps her out.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” Henry promised. “How are they coping?”

  “A little better, now they have some vetted friends,” Janelle said. “But ... no one seems to quite know how to handle them.”

  Henry sighed. “We’ll be leaving soon,” he promised. “Either to Vixen or back to Tadpole Prime.”

  “They’ll love it,” Janelle said. “Earth ... Earth is a nightmare for them.”

  Because they’re not normal, Henry thought. They’re princesses of the blood, if not of the realm.

  “We’ll be going soon,” he assured her. “And then ... well, we’ll see.”

  He leaned into her embrace, wondering - absently - if he’d done the right thing. At eight, he’d rebelled against the stuffy outfit he’d been required to wear; at twelve, he’d thrown a tantrum when he’d been ordered to go to a ball; at fifteen, he’d punched a reporter in the face; at seventeen, he’d refused to attend any further ceremonial events after the damned media had picked up some of his words, taken them out of context and used them to paint him as a monster. And the damned palace had refused to back him ...

  But now he was an adult, thirty-one years old, a husband, a father and an ambassador. He was no longer young. And, in the end, youthful rebellion had to give way to adult responsibilities.

  I’m not fighting for myself, he thought, although he knew it was partly a lie. I’m fighting for my daughters.

  His wristcom bleeped. He glanced at Janelle, then tapped it. “Henry.”

  “Your Highness,” the Prime Minister said. “Your application for the post on Vixen has been accepted, at least by us. You may not be Senior Ambassador
, of course, but you will be going out there.”

  “Thank you, Prime Minister,” Henry said. Thomas must have spoken to a couple of other ministers at the funeral, just to get an answer so quickly. But then, the Foreign and Commonwealth Office had never had any reason to be displeased with Henry’s service on Tadpole Prime. “I look forward to it.”

  The Prime Minister snorted. “I trust you and your family will be ready to depart within the next four days?”

  “Of course, sir,” Henry said. The Prime Minister might think he was taking a kind of unsubtle revenge in ordering them to depart so quickly, but Henry and his family had wanted to leave Haddon Hall from the moment they’d arrived. He tried to sound unhappy, although he had a feeling it wasn't particularly convincing. “It will be our pleasure.”

  “And report to Nelson Base tomorrow at 1300,” the Prime Minister added. “There is a duty His Majesty’s Government wishes you to perform.”