by Richard Fox
Vincent stepped between her and Francis and led her away as the song began. He quickly proved to be a better dancing partner than his brother.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“I must admit to ulterior motives. We haven’t had any chance to speak since your arrival.” Vincent cocked his head to the side. They spun around and Cosima saw a man with a monocle standing on the edge of the dance floor, smiling at her.
“I’ve been busy attesting to art and trying on clothes. I do hope you’re more engaged in something important than I am,” she said.
“There are no end to things that need the attention of Sidonia’s director of security,” he said. His right eye twinkled with mischief; his left was oddly neutral. She looked harder at the left eye, which matched the movement of the other but was a barred door, not a window, into Vincent’s soul.
“It’s fake,” he said. “It gives me depth perception and doesn’t frighten the children too much.”
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to stare,” she said.
“If staring was all I got…” He half smiled, the left part of his mouth stiff and unresponsive. “Do you know what they call me in the tabloids? ‘The viper’ or ‘the spymaster.’ Childish, isn’t it?”
“I thought you were the spymaster.”
“Yes, but one of the tenets of intelligence work is to never confirm or deny anything.” The music tempo shifted and they stepped apart. Cosima squinted at the medals on Vincent’s sash.
“I’m not familiar with all those baubles. Do you get to pick which you wear?” she asked.
“No, they are all earned, my lady.”
“You have a red stripe on your sash.” She slid her hand off his shoulder and ran it along the stripe. Vincent recoiled at her touch and guided her hand back to his shoulder.
His metal hand squeezed her flesh-and-blood fingers.
“It’s a Blood Stripe, and no one wants it,” he said. His eyes narrowed and he looked away from her face, as if he was fighting something deep inside.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Cosima tried to step away from him, but he gently held her in place.
“No offense meant, no offense taken,” he said.
“Why haven’t you had a clone graft to replace…your injuries?” she asked. “The tabloids say you keep your cybernetics just to intimidate people.”
“Grafts of replacement tissue are very, very expensive. While the royal family has the resources for me, the kingdom does not have the resources to do the same for every soldier with prosthetics. I will not receive better treatment than my men. If the procedure becomes affordable, I will be the last to get it.”
The song ended and they bowed to each other. An incredibly photogenic young nobleman approached, intent on asking Cosima for the next dance. Vincent poked two mechanical fingers into the handsome man’s chest and pushed him away.
Vincent snapped his true fingers at the band and they lurched into the next song, bad notes squealing against strings. Vincent grabbed her and led her into the dance. She rolled her eyes and went along with him.
“Sorry, but I need to keep you close for a few minutes longer. There’s been a security breach. Must keep you safe until I’m sure it’s handled.”
“What? Who—” Her head shot to the side, looking for a possible assassin.
Vincent put a finger to her cheek and turned her face back to him. “Act normal. Watch the man with the monocle.”
He twisted them around so she could see the man in question from over Vincent’s shoulder.
The man kept tapping at his monocle, still smiling at Cosima. A pair of party guests, both well-to-do businessmen by their dress, came up behind the man and grabbed him by the arms. The taller of the two guests whispered in the monocle-wearing man’s ear. His eyes went wide and he nodded furiously.
A hand swiped the monocle away and the two “guests” led their captive away from the dance floor with hardly a ripple in the festive atmosphere.
“Who is that? What does he want?” Cosima asked, her voice quivering with fear.
“I don’t know, but we will find out,” Vincent said. He craned his neck to see the man being led from the room, then turned his attention back to Cosima. “Let’s get you to my brother. I spent too much time with you, and rumors will start.”
****
“Unhand me, you brutes! Is this how Sidonia treats all its guests?” The man Remi singled out for wearing a skin caster struggled against the iron grasp of the two plains clothed King’s Guardsmen who had taken him from the ballroom. They half shoved, half carried him through a service corridor, where a uniformed Guardsman stood next to an open door.
“I am Mohamed Ibn Faisal of the Hashemite Kingdom.” The man wiggled uselessly as he was led out the door. “My sultan will not be pleased to hear what poor hosts you all are.”
They moved into a courtyard, where stables and a blacksmith’s station lined the walls. A trio of uniformed Guardsmen, all with scowls on their exposed lips, waited in the middle of the courtyard.
The two Guards in civilian clothes handed Mohamed off to the Guards, who grabbed him by the arms and knocked his feet apart. They held his arms up and turned Mohamed’s limbs into an X.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mohamed demanded.
One of the guests shook a toupee from the top of his head and pulled a thin membrane off his face. Stolzoff spat out a pair of cheek pads and leaned toward Mohamed, sniffing.
“Is this some sort of Sidonian—” Mohamed’s protest ended in a grunt as Stolzoff’s fist slammed into his gut. Stolzoff’s nose wrinkled at the sudden smell of ozone. He grabbed Mohamed by the face and lifted it up level with his.
Where Stolzoff’s fingers touched the face, tiny motes of light rippled away from the fingers.
“Where is the skin caster?” Stolzoff asked.
Mohamed tried to shake his head, but Stolzoff’s grip tightened against his face so hard he winced in pain.
“Please, play games with me. Give me an excuse,” the chief of the King’s Guard said. His grip lessened an iota.
“My neck! The back of my neck,” he mumbled through his clenched jaw.
Stolzoff ran a hand over the back of Mohamed’s neck and plucked a white plastic circle from under his collar.
Mohamed’s face crackled like a screen with poor reception. The façade vanished, revealing a pasty-faced man with jet-black hair and pale blue eyes. The new man gave a sheepish smile.
“Well if it isn’t Mickey Papadopoulos from the Sidonia Enquirer,” Stolzoff said. “Thought what would happen if we ever caught you trying to steal pics was pretty clear.”
“Colonel!” Mickey said. “Great to see you again, really. I can explain all of this. I wasn’t here trying to get pics for the Enquirer. No…you see—”
“Eight hundred thirty-seven images on this camera,” Remi said. He had the monocle attached to a slate and was flipping through pictures stored on the device, most of them of Cosima.
“OK, yeah I was here for some exclusive snaps,” Mickey admitted.
“The iron,” Stolzoff said.
The Guards yanked Mickey off his feet and dragged him to the iron at the blacksmith’s station.
“I’m doing a public service,” Mickey squealed. “You have Cosima under lock and key. The people, the people want to know, man.”
The guards slammed Mickey’s arm against the iron and held his palm against the metal.
“Colonel, we can work this out like civilized men!” Mickey squirmed against the two men holding him against the anvil.
“The last time we caught you taking unauthorized photos, the judge issued a trade injunction against you. Which means you lose your method of earning your living; you lose your hands, or your eyes.” Stolzoff took a smith’s hammer from the wall and tested the weight in his hand. “But it was suspended.”
“Wait, can we talk about this?” Mickey asked.
“You committed the same offense. Recidivism is fr
owned upon in our justice system, which is why I can carry out the original sentence if accompanied by ‘egregious circumstances.’ This is pretty egregious, wouldn’t you say, men?”
The Guards holding him grunted their agreement. Mickey whined and tried to jerk his hand from the iron, to no avail.
“Remi? Pretty egregious, right?” Stolzoff asked.
Remi didn’t answer right away.
“There’s no harm done. I say we turn him over for a public flogging,” Remi said.
Stolzoff sniffed at his suggestion and bent over, his face contorted in anger.
“I was there when we caught you in the hospital,” he said to Mickey. “Saw the pictures you’d taken of our fine prince suffering from wounds received in battle. I wanted to take your eyes right then and there.” He tapped the hammer against Mickey’s forehead, and the man started blubbering.
Stolzoff stood up. “I’ll make do with your hand.” He raised the hammer over his head.
“Stop!” Cosima called out from the doorway.
Stolzoff lowered the hammer to his waist as Cosima rushed over, Prince Vincent two steps behind her.
“What are you doing to him?” she demanded.
“Carrying out a judge’s sentence. This piece of filth had his method of trade revoked with a suspended sentence. This violation lifts the suspension,” Stolzoff said.
“Prince Vincent,” Mickey said, “help me out here, I’m begging you.”
“The law is quite clear,” Vincent said.
Cosima whirled around to Vincent.
“You’re OK with this? On Styria Station we revoke void certification for method-of-trade cases. We don’t cut anyone’s hands off,” she said.
“That works on your station. It doesn’t work down here,” Vincent said.
“We are a kingdom of laws, my lady,” Stolzoff said. He twirled the hammer in his hand. The chief of the King’s Guard looked to Vincent, who nodded.
Stolzoff raised the hammer again and swung it down. Halfway through its arc, Cosima’s dainty hand flashed out and covered Mickey’s trembling appendage. Stolzoff shifted the strike at the last moment, and the hammer sparked against the anvil, just missing her hand.
“My lady, that was unwise,” Stolzoff said.
Mickey looked up and saw Cosima’s hand on top of his.
Cosima snatched her hand away and looked Mickey right in the eyes.
“How did you get in here?” she asked him. “There are gene scanners on every entrance. No skin caster could get you past that, and I’m damn sure you aren’t on the guest list.”
Mickey looked at her and swallowed hard.
“If I have to ask again, I will help him swing the hammer,” she said.
“Franks, the butcher. He smuggled me inside an aurochs for the wedding feast. He owes a couple of bookies. I agreed to cover his debts,” Mickey said. He looked from her to Stolzoff, eyes pleading.
“I think identifying a hole in your security is worth a little leniency, don’t you?” Cosima said to Stolzoff.
Stolzoff smacked his lips and glanced at Vincent.
Vincent, his arms crossed, tapped metal fingers against the true flesh of his other arm. “I do believe the accused has right to counsel in this situation,” he said.
“My lord, he confessed in front of witnesses,” Stolzoff said.
“I do believe.” The prince looked hard at the colonel, who backed off like a scolded dog. “Put him in a holding cell. Find this butcher, see if his story pans out.”
One of the guards pulled Mickey from the anvil. The photographer jammed his hands into his armpits.
“Thank you, my lord! Thank you, my lady!” Mickey said. The guards dragged him away, his heels cut twin paths through the loose straw on the ground.
Cosima straightened her dress and knocked away bits of straw. She snatched the skin caster out of Stolzoff’s hand.
“In the interests of safety, best you retire to your quarters until we have this worked out,” Vincent said to her.
“I’m blown up. This guy gets within arm’s distance of me. Best we should hold the wedding up on my station. No one ever almost killed me there,” she said with a snap. Cosima stomped past Vincent without a second glance and disappeared back into the palace. Remi fell in behind her.
****
Cosima rushed down the hallway, then came to a sudden stop. She looked over her shoulder at Remi and waited.
“Straight ahead, there’s a lift after the remembrance hall,” Remi said.
She continued on, glancing at him. “You look…different with hair.”
“Plain clothes requires a light disguise,” Remi said. “We don’t use skin casters. Too flawed and expensive.”
Cosima looked at the disk in the palm of her hand. She tapped it with a fingertip, projecting the image of a man’s hand over hers.
“How did you know he was wearing one?” she asked.
“The smell. The casters will ionize air, give off a smell of ozone when they have to work too hard or fast to maintain the image. If he’d tried to maintain a disguise that looked more like him, I might not have noticed.”
“I’m keeping this,” she said.
“It costs several hundred thousand marks and might be evidence in his next trial,” Remi said.
“Are you going to take it from me?” She raised her chin.
“No, my lady.”
“Then you’d better forget that I have it.”
“Have what?”
“Good man. Why are you all so hard on him? The press has rights by the Landing Constitution, why wasn’t he screaming about them?” she asked.
“Just because he has rights doesn’t mean he can break the law to exercise them. You, and the rest of the royals, have a right to privacy. Photojournalism is allowed at public events, not private ones,” Remi said.
“Stolzoff said I was ‘unwise’ to save that fool’s fingers. Do you agree?”
Remi looked into her emerald eyes, and felt something stir within his heart. Something he hadn’t felt for years.
“You were kind, my lady. Kindness isn’t a trait we see much in this palace. The royal family has no need for it, nor the King’s Guard,” he said. “I don’t believe you would have really helped Stolzoff carry out the sentence like you claimed.”
“That paparazzi believed it, which is what I was after,” she shrugged.
Cosima was different than the greedy noble women and taciturn Guardswomen he mingled with on a daily basis. She was uncorrupted by power and wealth and, despite a few outbursts, sweet. Part of him wished he’d had a chance to know her before she was to be queen, and he sworn to protect her life.
“I’ve seen some embarrassing photos of nobles and their heirs in that man’s magazine. Why are those allowed?” she asked.
“You read the Enquirer?” Remi asked, deadpan.
“No! Sometimes it’s just lying around and I glance at it. I don’t buy it,” she said—too quickly for Remi to believe her.
“The rules are different for the royal family. You are the head of state, not fodder for the gossip mill. There are plenty of misbehaving nobles and other celebrities for Papadopoulos and his kind to annoy and embarrass.”
“You mean ‘misbehaving nobles’ like my sister?” Cosima asked.
“I didn’t say your sister,” Remi said.
“Don’t sugarcoat it. I got an earful from my father every time Theresa got snapped doing the walk of shame away from some nobleman’s house, the bills for trashed hotel rooms, the wrecked cars. The cars drive themselves, how does she manage to wreck them?” Cosima threw her hands up in surrender. “Now she’ll undoubtedly continue her party-all-the-time life, and what do I get? I kept my nose to the grindstone to learn the family business and behave myself, and what do I get?”
“To marry the future king?” Remi asked.
“You—I—shut up,” she said.
They entered a portrait gallery. The first painting was of Queen Catherine, the first ruler of Sidonia
, standing in front of a lander on a field that would one day become the capital city. A line of paintings stretched across the room, each successive king and queen immortalized signing a trade deal or commissioning some great public work.
The last painting wasn’t of King Rasczak, but of a cruel-faced man in a military dress uniform. A black sash with a red edge ran diagonally across the painting, and black drapes hung from either corner.
“Prince Quinn, I take it?” She stopped in front of the painting.
“That’s correct,” Remi said.
“Father heard whispers that King Rasczak cut Prince Quinn from the line of succession. Is that true?” she asked Remi.
“I can’t speak to that,” he said.
Cosima narrowed her eyes at Remi. “Why? Because you don’t know or because you can’t tell me?”
“I don’t know, and if I did, I couldn’t tell you. The King’s Guard oaths of secrecy are absolute. What we hear and see will never be spoken of except to each other, and only to ensure the safety of the royal family.”
Cosima tapped her foot and tilted her head at Quinn’s painting. “What happened to him? I know he died during the battle on Jutland. I don’t remember there being a state funeral.”
“He was lost during the battle. The king held a private ceremony for the royal family only,” Remi said.
“Wouldn’t some war hero warrant more attention? You were there, right?”
“I was there, yes.” Remi’s face went as still as stone. “But Prince Quinn was no hero.”
Cosima shrugged. “Fair enough, at least he isn’t the one I have to marry. He looked mean.”
****
Remi escorted Cosima to the door of her quarters. Major Volenz, in her duty uniform, waited for them.
Remi saluted Volenz as Cosima slipped into her room without a backward glance.
“How is she?” Volenz asked.
“She took this security breach better than the last one. She was chatty, asked about Prince Quinn in the remembrance hall,” Remi said.
“What did you tell her?” Volenz looked up and down the hallway to ensure no one else was within earshot.