by Richard Fox
God, how he hated that wicked little man.
Nate beamed at him. The photographer had the scoop of a lifetime, and he knew it.
These photos of Cosima and that meathead weren’t protected by the intrinsic right to privacy encoded in Sidonian law. All the pics were taken of the two of them in public. Mickey could put these photos out with the morning edition and laugh his way to the bank, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing Stolzoff could do to him.
Mickey rubbed his thumb against his fingers, remembering just how close he’d come to losing them on that anvil in the stables. She’d put her hand on top of his to save him. Mickey knew he was many things: a newsman, a snoop, a rat. But deep down he wanted to believe he was a good person at heart.
“Go home, everyone.” Mickey waved his employees out as Nate’s jaw just about hit the floor.
“Mickey, are you OK? I’ve—”
“Shut up, kid. I’ll talk to you in a second,” Mickey said in a hushed voice. He waited for the last grumbling newsie to file out, then he flipped the slate back over.
“You gave me every photo in your fake eye?” Mickey asked. “No copies anywhere?”
“Yeah, boss, it’s your equipment, you’ve got the access codes,” Nate said. “No backups, I know the rules.”
Mickey went through the photos and started deleting most he came across.
“What the hell are you doing?” Nate grabbed at the slate and got a knock across the wrist for the attempt.
“You know where she’s been, Nate? Seems there was another attempt on her life the other day. Some Guard was a cyberman and turned on her. You hear about the war bot they found burnt out up in the Pathfinder training area, you think that’s a coincidence? Now Cosima finally makes it back to the city and you want me to—what? Make it look like she and Knuckles are an item?” Mickey tossed a few choice photos against a wall screen. Nate looked at the photos and saw a different story play out.
“We’ll still make a fortune on these photos, Nate. We won’t make as much, but at least I can sleep better at night with the story we got,” Mickey said.
“Well, guess the new queen will owe you a favor, won’t she?”
“No, Nate, I’ll still owe her.”
****
Calling Charlie’s Bar a dive was a stretch of the imagination. The tables had a sheen of spilled beer, and the dark room smelled of body odor and grease. The clientele were a mix of off-duty soldiers and firefighters—easy to spot with their short haircuts and healthy physiques—old drunks who didn’t care to be home with their wives, and Guardsmen. Charlie’s was one place the Guard was sure to never come across the nobles or royals they interacted with on official business.
Remi set a basket of hushpuppies—fried cornmeal with two tiny pots of spicy mayo dipping sauce—in front of Stolzoff at their table in a dingy corner of the bar. Stolzoff looked uncomfortable in civilian clothes, his grip on his beer so tight Remi wondered if it might crack under the pressure.
“Thought you said we needed to go out and relax,” Remi said.
“Dumb idea. I’m not sure why I let you talk me into it,” Stolzoff said.
“Sir, you were the one who—”
“Semantics. Shut up and drink your beer. Have fun, that’s an order.” Stolzoff scowled at the basket, grease from the hushpuppies already soaking through the paper lining. Rumor was that the robot cook in the back room had a short and could only cook fried food, but that paired well with low-quality beer, and the eponymous Charlie was too cheap to have it fixed.
Remi nursed his drink, in no particular hurry to follow orders.
“Grounds control detected the attack on the way station. The war bot self-destructed the instant the military police got there. Didn’t find anything but ash and shell casings around your little hideaway. No forensics hits,” Stolzoff said. He chomped down on a hushpuppy and nodded in approval.
“Any idea where it came from? Or how it found us?”
“Sky Guard traced it back to a piece of space junk that’s been in orbit for months. Wasn’t a threat to navigation, so it never got a second look. I’ve got those lazy bastards looking at everything zipping through the sky that’s bigger than my fist now. As for how, the implant we found on the fiber lines did a query of active way stations. Yours must have stuck out.” He finished his beer and slammed the bottom against the table. “These guys, whoever they are, are good. They know our playbook.”
“Anything on the cyberman’s body?”
“No, and we haven’t found a trace of the real Carter, and I doubt we ever will.” Stolzoff cursed under his breath.
The bartender changed the channel on the vid screen over the bar away from a fencing match to a news channel. The woman announcer’s face was so perfect that it had to be bio sculpted. She hadn’t seemed to have aged a day in the forty years she’d held the anchor’s chair, removing all doubt that she’d had work done.
“Good evening, and welcome to Sidonia Tonight! I’m Vanessa Blanco, and have I got a story for you tonight,” Blanco said through pearlescent teeth and lips plumped to within a nanometer of ideal plumpness.
“Not this crap,” Stolzoff said.
Remi shook his head and took a swig of his beer.
“Looks like Princess Cosima took time for a little excursion before the big wedding day,” Blanco said.
Remi spat his beer out over the hushpuppies.
The screen showed Cosima at the Port Kenyon train station, her melanin disguise scrubbed from the photo.
“These exclusive photos, courtesy of the Enquirer, show the future queen at the seaside resort town of Port Kenyon. Was she there for the hiking, the fishing, or the four-star restaurant known for its use of live chefs and the freshest crab cakes north of the capital?” Blanco’s voice-over continued. “But we sure do know what she does like.”
“Oh no,” Remi said.
The picture flashed to Cosima holding the bag of walnut cakes, then her eating one. The picture zoomed in, and an information panel on hodugwaja popped up next to the finger food.
The screen flashed to show Remi taking away the empty bag, then another picture of him returning with another sack of walnut cakes.
The bartender’s head twisted on a swivel and he stared right at Remi, shock on his face. Remi put a finger over his lips.
“Then,” Blanco’s voice said, “Princess Cosima took a bullet tube back to the capital. Was she out to see how the regular Sidonian lives? We haven’t seen a royal on public transportation since Philip II commissioned the lines decades ago.”
“It’s Papadopoulos,” Stolzoff said. “I’m going to rip his fingers off one by one for this.”
“Wait,” Remi said. The pictures of Cosima were of her sitting on the train, speaking with Remi, chatting with another passenger. None were of her sleeping against his chest, none of the kind looks she’d given him. He was in a few photos, all of them showing him alert and on guard. “I think he did her a favor.”
“And what does that mean?” Stolzoff asked.
Remi scratched the label of his beer off with a fingernail. “I’ll tell you back at the palace.”
“Then we should go now.”
“Hey! Look at that guy with her,” a drunk at the bar slurred. “What you want to bet he got in there before Francis had the chance?” He and a pair of his buddies had a laugh at the crude joke.
“Why don’t you ask him? He’s right behind you,” one of the drunk’s friends said as Remi and Stolzoff walked behind them.
“Hey, buddy, is it true what they say about spacer girls?” the drunk asked, a chubby lout with greasy hair that fell over his face. Remi kept walking.
“I asked you a question!” the drunk grabbed Remi by the arm and jerked him toward the bar.
Remi looked at him, his face set in stone.
“I hear spacer girls are as frigid as—”
Remi grabbed the drunk’s arm and shoulder, and slammed his face into the bar. The drunk, unconscious, slithered down the s
cuffed bar and came to rest on the foot rail. A pair of teeth were embedded in the bar in a smear of blood and spit.
The drunk’s friends weren’t laughing anymore, and neither seemed in a hurry to jump to his aid.
Remi, his fists clenched, nudged the drunk with his foot.
Someone cleared their throat behind him. Remi looked over his shoulder and saw a pair of police officers, their faces flush from a few post shift drinks.
“We heard what he said,” the first officer said. “Shame he tripped like that.”
“You really need to keep the floor clean, Charlie,” said the second. “Would be a real shame if someone else tripped,” he said to the drunk’s friends, who nodded furiously in agreement with the police officers’ version of events.
“We’ll take care of him,” the first officer said to Stolzoff. “Nobody insults my queen.”
Stolzoff grabbed Remi and pulled him out of the bar.
“Damn it, Paul, what have you done?”
****
Cosima came out of the shower wrapped in a bathrobe and flopped face-first onto her bed. She buried her nose in the comforter, thankful for the smell of something clean and fresh. The memory foam mattress adjusted itself to optimal comfort for her, and she was sure she could have slept for the next week.
“Then I told the florist that if she put those ugly violets anywhere on the gift table, I’d have her shipped to Al-Sham and sold to the highest bidder,” Theresa said.
Cosima groaned and rolled onto her back. “You did not say that to the florist.”
“No, there were a few four-letter words sprinkled in there. Violets with marigolds, Cosima! I almost lost my lunch.” Her sister swiped polish against her toenails and wiggled them in the air.
“Sounds rough; how did you ever survive?”
“Alcohol, can’t beat it at the end of the day. Or the middle of the day. Or after a rough morning. You want some tequila? Don Russell sent over a case for the wedding. His stuff is so good. I can have a bottle sent up,” Theresa said.
“I have some in the dresser, I think.” Cosima pointed to her nightstand, still too comfortable to sit up.
She heard Theresa rustle through the drawer and give a squeal of delight.
“There.” Theresa took a sip from the glass flask and scrunched her face as the alcohol burned its way down her throat. “I went to the baker’s. You wouldn’t believe the monster they’re making for you. I had to stand in for you for the cake topper. They’re casting you and Francis in porcelain and selling off replicas for charity, isn’t that just darling? I also took a few pics with Francis. That’s me on your wedding invitation.”
“Wait. How did you stand in for me?”
“Your skin caster, the one you had in your earing box. Stolzoff suggested it. We’re about the same height and no one seemed to notice—except Francis. That was awkward.” Theresa took another swig of tequila.
Cosima waited to see if she’d take the opportunity and mention her previous relationship with her future husband…nothing.
“Do you want to wear the skin caster for the rest of your life? You can marry Francis, fine by me,” Cosima said.
“Why? So you and that hunky bodyguard can run off together?” Theresa jumped on the bed, careful not to spill any tequila. “So, how was he?”
Cosima bolted upright and backed away from her sister.
“Theresa! Just because I was alone with him for a while doesn’t mean we…did anything,” she said.
“That’s not a denial.” Theresa’s eyebrows jiggled.
“We didn’t—no! What is with you?”
“Why not? He’s adorable, besides no one cares what you do before you’re married. You’re not even legally married until you and Francis do the deed, still have to consummate the marriage…wait.” Theresa swirled the half-empty bottle of liquor and narrowed her eyes at Cosima. “Are you a virgin?”
“Of course I am.” Cosima’s words came out stilted. She looked away from her sister and rubbed her hands together in her lap.
“Oh. My. God. Francis is either going to be in for a real surprise or a terrible disappointment.”
“You are such a slut, Theresa. What’s wrong with waiting for marriage? Saving myself for my husband is very honorable,” Cosima said.
“You’ve never even dated a guy before you got engaged,” Theresa said matter-of-factly.
“Also yes.”
“Cosima! You could march right down to beefcake’s quarters, and I guarantee you he’d be up for it. Go.” She pointed at the door.
“Paul wouldn’t do that. He’s actually honorable, trustworthy.”
“Nonsense, men are pigs, all of them. There’s not one man on Sidonia that wouldn’t like some quality time with a princess.” Theresa threw on a pair of pants and a jacket, then grabbed the skin-caster disk from the vanity. “I’ll prove it to you. I’ll go down to him, get him riled up, then you can go back after you’ve ‘changed your mind’ a second time. Get some practice in before Francis.” She tapped the skin caster against the back of her neck, and Theresa morphed into Cosima. Theresa/Cosima gave her a sultry look and ran for the door.
“Don’t you dare! Get back here!” Cosima struggled to get off the bed, but Theresa had made it out the door with a laugh long before Cosima could catch up with her.
Cosima opened her door, and a Guardsman nodded to her. “My lady,” he said.
“Did you just see me leave the room?” she asked.
“Your sister just left, my lady. Do you need to go somewhere?”
“No.” Cosima slid the door closed. She put her back to the wall and slid to the floor. Her sister was about to do something brash, and Cosima wasn’t sure if she wanted the scheme to fail miserably or work itself out.
****
A door chime buzzed through Remi’s small quarters. It buzzed again and he jerked awake. He shook sleep from his head and glanced at a clock next to his bed. He wasn’t due for a shift for hours, why was anyone bothering him?
His back and legs stiff after hiking through the hills, he tottered to his door, another buzz ringing through the one-person room.
“Coming, by the king I’m coming,” he said. He slapped the lock panel, and the door slid open. Theresa stood in his doorway, smiling at him through her sister’s visage.
“Hello, Paul,” she said in a low voice.
“Cosima.” Remi stuck his head into the hallway and looked around. “Where is your escort? How did you get down here alone?”
“Business later.” She pushed him back into the room and locked the door behind her.
Remi looked at her, confusion written across his face.
“Now, Mr. Remi, I’ve come to thank you properly for saving my life.” Theresa unbuttoned her jacket, revealing cleavage and bare skin down to her stomach. She stepped closer to him and shrugged her top off.
Remi tried to protest, and Theresa put a finger over his lips. “Shh, no time for talking.”
Remi reached up and put a hand on her neck. “You’re not wearing your shield,” he said. His hand swept behind her neck and tugged the skin caster away.
Theresa got a whiff of ozone as the disguise vanished, and she forced a nervous laugh. Remi kept his eyes locked on her face.
“Would you settle for little old me instead?” She giggled.
“Please leave. And don’t masquerade as your sister ever again, it puts you in danger.” Remi pressed the skin caster back into the palm of her hand.
Therese scooped up her jacket and got dressed quickly. “I could send her down here…”
“Please leave.”
Theresa gave Remi a once-over and winked at him before she left.
****
Cosima sat against her headboard, knees pulled against her chest. Her gaze varied between a slate in her hand and the door, her focus on neither.
Her door slid open and Theresa barged into the room, muttering furiously.
“That was fast,” Cosima said.
“He
saw right through the skin caster.” She tossed the disk on the vanity and stood in front of a full-length mirror, twisting to examine herself. “Wasn’t even interested in me when I was right in front of him ready and willing.”
“So he didn’t—I mean, at all? You?” Cosima crawled to the edge of the bed, a smile across her face.
“I don’t know what you just said, but no. He told me to leave before I could even get my pants off.” Theresa leaned closer to the mirror and pulled the skin around her eyes taut, checking for wrinkles. “Am I losing my looks?”
“You’re twenty-three,” Cosima said. “Why are you so upset?”
“I’ve never had a man turn me down before,” Theresa said, fuming. “Rich men, powerful men, a couple of married men, all it took was the right look and maybe a little wiggle and I had them.”
Cosima laughed and pointed at her sister. “At this rate, father will have to marry you off to some goat herder.”
“Oh you shut up.” Theresa looked down at her backside and frowned. “I can score at least a billionaire’s son.”
Cosima fell back on her bed, elated. That Remi had turned away her sister filled her with a joy she couldn’t explain. She stared at the ceiling, happier than she’d been in years.
“Well, at least you can swear to a virgin-white dress tomorrow at your fitting,” Theresa said.
Cosima rolled over and looked at her sister in confusion. “Tomorrow? I thought that wasn’t on the calendar for another three days.”
“Well the wedding was moved up, it’s in two days, and you sort of need a dress. I guess I forgot to tell you.”
“What? I don’t turn eighteen for another month.” Cosima felt a wave of anxiety clutch her heart. She started breathing quick and shallow breaths, and her face flushed red.