Heir Apparent

by Michael Stackpole

  “Hake, you promised you’d never tell anyone.”

  The older man raised his hands. “I didn’t, but that vid did get around . . .”

  Alexandra’s smile grew and a note of sympathy entered her voice. “Calm yourself, Lieutenant. I merely wished to know whether to warn people not to ask were you reluctant to honor a request.”

  “Not my strong suit, ma’am.”

  “Noted. Consider it your Final Vetting.” She gave him a curt nod. “You were hired to help and protect my son. If to do that, you have step on the toes of every maid in Rivergaard, I shall not shed a tear.”

  Chapter Two

  Rivergaard House, Rivergaard

  Maldives

  15 October 3000

  Walter flexed his shoulders, wanting the uniform to make him look as awkward as he felt. Fact was, the uniform fit perfectly; Walter’s discomfort came from never having seen himself look this good before. Dove gray with navy blue collar, cuffs and trim, the Angels’ dress uniform really made him feel like an adult. He could have done without the gold-braid epaulets, and the braided gold cord running beneath his left armpit, but the bright color did set off the more somber tones that dominated the uniform.

  What he decided he really didn’t like was the pile of medals on his left breast. It was true that the Angels—pretty much like any other unit—handed out commendations liberally. They covered everything from good hygiene to valor under fire. Likewise, their employers had been generous in passing out their own medals, mainly because doing that was cheaper than actually paying promised bonus money. While he’d earned everything on his chest, seeing them all together invited him to evaluate his life, and introspection wasn’t something he indulged in often.

  Chris Eck, one of the taller of the Angels, stopped in Walter’s open doorway. “Hey, have you seen where the Lieutenant . . . Oh, damn, you are just so pretty all cleaned up there . . .”

  Walter growled at him. “Doesn’t your wife have dinner on the table for you?”

  “Yep, so I was going to ask if you had plans . . .” Chris smiled, running a hand back over his brush of brown hair. “If I knew you wanted to play dress-up, my daughter, Kaylee, she’s always throwing tea parties . . .”

  Walter turned toward his subordinate. “You know that time—that one time—Hake said you were funny?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He was lying.”

  “My wife laughs at my jokes. That’s all that matters.” The tall man’s eyes tightened. “Seriously, sir, I wouldn’t know it’s you. That uni, it’s good. We all getting ’em?”

  “So I hear.” The lieutenant grinned. “Probably, anyway.”

  “Likely come out of our pay, right?”

  “In your case, funny man, absolutely.” Walter tugged the uniform’s sleeve cuffs. “Hey, your family, they settling in okay?”

  Chris nodded. “You know Laurie, she got us a place as we were incoming, and knocked the price down. Kaylee’s been admitted to a great school, so it’s good. Matter of fact, Laurie met the neighbor across the hall, says she’s cute and single, which is why . . .”

  “Please thank her, and give her my apologies. I really do have to work.”

  “I got you, but you know, she isn’t going to give up.”

  “Yeah.” Walter frowned. “Hey, since she’s the closest thing we have to an intelligence officer in-theatre, can you get her to find out what folks think about Ivan Litzau?”

  “Our employer’s son?”

  “Soon to be our employer.”

  Chris scratched at the soul patch on his chin. “You got a bad feeling?”

  “Just want a read on things from outside the palace here.”

  “Roger that, boss.” Chris smiled then tossed him a quick salute. “Try to have fun.”

  Easier said than done. Walter let the echoes of Chris’s footfalls die before he left his room in the Rivergaard House guest annex. Though much newer than the main building, the annex shared its blocky sandstone construction. The Angels’ officers had been assigned accommodations based on rank. Walter got a two-room suite, with a small bathroom off the bedchamber. Neither of the rooms was as large as Hake’s office, but Walter had been on missions where the entire company fit into a room half the size of his sitting room, and were glad for it.

  Walter understood the importance of his attending the reception, but the very necessity of it made his skin itch. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to act. He’d been brought up well enough to know his manners, to know which fork went with which course, and to otherwise comport himself properly. And while he didn’t need to shift into formal on many occasions with the Angels, he could when called upon.

  Formal gatherings, quite simply, exhausted him. So many people working so hard to seem important, or more important than they are. He knew full well that such behavior went on all the time, but formality required different responses. If Walter, Chris and the other Angels had walked into a bar and some guy was mouthing off about how tough he was, someone could deck him or get him drunk enough to pass out, then stuff him on the next DropShip burning for the stars.

  As much as he might want to, Walter couldn’t throw a punch at the reception. He chuckled. I’ll hear about it if I even look cross at someone. He shook his head and resolved to take one for the unit.

  His journey took him out of the annex and, after a right turn, into the palace’s left wing. He didn’t know if it had a formal name or not, but he labeled it the Gallery. From the waist-high wainscoting up to the vaulted ceilings seven meters overhead, Litzau Enterprises had acquired and hung a fantastic collection of art. The curators’ tastes ran to portraits and landscapes, some of which looked fifteen centuries old. Others had been created with antique styles and designs, but depicted images of worlds distantly removed from Terra. Walter supposed they formed a loose chronicle of the Litzau family’s journey to Maldives.

  Sprinkled among the landscapes, the family portraits again appeared to have been painted by Terra’s legendary Old Masters. Walter could not definitively place any of the styles, but got the sense of tradition which, apparently, had been transferred to Dhivi society as a whole. The family, and the corporate society, uses tradition to validate their existence, even as that tradition slowly kills their world.

  Up a set of marble stairs and beyond a cavernous foyer, he entered the ballroom that housed the reception. It surprised him that no one announced him, nor did there appear to be any sort of receiving line. The lack of either undercut his theory about Dhivi tradition, but didn’t cause him to question his assumptions. He didn’t have enough data to do that, and plunged into the mélange of guests to see what he could learn.

  He’d come into the rectangular ballroom at the south end. Opposite was a small stage upon which a small band had set up. Eight massive stone columns, four to the right, four to the left, held up a vaulted ceiling. Holographic projectors hidden in the vaults created a three-dimensional nighttime vista which made the rocks and space junk orbiting the world into a glittering crown for the planet. The pillars trimmed about ten percent of the floor space off each side. Food and refreshment stations occupied that marginal space, clearing the majority of the floor so people could circulate or, nearest the band, dance if they chose to.

  Walter cut to the left and began to circle counterclockwise. He did that out of habit, focusing on what sort of food and drink his hosts had on offer. He felt hungry enough to just pull a chair up to any of the serving stations and start gobbling, but being new to Maldives, he wanted to get a sense of what sorts of cuisine the Dhivi favored. He seemed to recall reading in the tiny orientation package he’d been given that they tended to go for spicy, and that their red wines rated highly if you valued dry over sweet.

  He made it a quarter of the way around unmolested before a tall, black-haired man broke through a thin screen of people and block
ed his passage. The man wore a black uniform with silver trim. “So, you are the one who will be the Chairman Presumptive’s Companion.”

  Walter didn’t recognize the uniform, and definitely didn’t like the disgusted tone in the man’s voice. He looked up at the soldier. “That’s the mission brief. Exactly how would this concern you?”

  “That very question betrays your ignorance and also your bovine stupidity.”

  Do. Not. Hit. Him. Walter silently began to count to ten, but his patience ran out at five. “Look, pal, I’ve just spent a week burning in from the jump point. We bounced like a small rock in a big avalanche through a couple of storms to make landfall. I’m a liter shy of sleep, and two shy of caring what you think.”

  The man’s nostrils flared, but before he could vent the anger flashing in his brown eyes, a second man appeared at his elbow. A head smaller, the new arrival had blond hair and bright blue eyes. Clearly youthful, the contrast between the two made the blond appear to be little more than a kid. He wore a uniform that matched Walter’s save for a Prussian blue replacing navy for the trim, and with double the number of medals and ribbons.

  “You’ve met him, Richard. What do you think?”

  Richard’s pained expression slowly eased. “Chairman Ivan, I urge you again to prevail upon your mother to stop this madness.” He glanced at Walter. “I am certain that Lieutenant de Mesnil is a competent ’Mech pilot, but even he would admit that he has little understanding of corporate political nuance, at least as related to your Final Vetting.“

  Ivan, his expression open, smiled at Walter. “And what do you say to that, Lieutenant?”

  “I say, first, it is a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Walter bowed his head solemnly to the younger man. “As for what I would say to Richard . . .”

  “Director Richard Oglethorpe, Captain of the Rivergaard Rangers.”

  “Noted, thank you. The captain is not wrong. I have explained that I’ve been on the ground for less than a day and except for the catnap I got while the tailor finished fitting this uniform, I’ve had no sleep. I’ve not gotten my bearings yet, but I am pretty canny when I do.”

  Richard adamantly shook his head. “You cannot acquire a lifetime’s knowledge of social politics—especially Dhivi corporate politics—in the three weeks before the Final Vetting. Without that knowledge, your blundering about could cause irreparable damage to the Chairman Presumptive’s reputation and standing.”

  Ivan laughed easily, patting Richard on the shoulder. “I know you have my best interests at heart, Richard, but you are overreacting. Still, your caution is something I need to emulate. I shall discuss it with the lieutenant, and I am certain he will be happy to avail himself of your aid if he needs it.”

  Walter and Richard exchanged glances which confirmed that the universe would die before help would be requested or considered, much less given.

  Ivan clapped his hands. “There, I am glad that is settled. Now, Richard, let me consult with the lieutenant. It will be important that I understand him, and he understands me.”

  Richard bowed his head. “As you wish, Chairman. It was a . . . pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant de Mesnil. You do not comprehend the honor of the position you have been given, nor the importance of your duty. I trust that this situation will remedy itself before disaster unfolds.”

  “Thanks, Director.”

  The tall man withdrew, and Ivan pointed Walter toward the room’s back corner. “Please.”

  Walter followed with a nod. Ivan acknowledged other guests’ greetings with fleeting smiles and faint nods, as if half asleep. That seemed to surprise no one, though reactions varied from delight to barely concealed disdain. Ivan didn’t appear to notice, and certainly didn’t react to their expressions.

  At the corner, the younger man waved Walter around so his back was to the walls, and Ivan faced him. “You will forgive Richard his reaction to you.” Though stated as a command, it came sheathed in gentle tones imploring compliance. “He has reason to be angry. He is actually angry at my mother, but you are a more accessible target.”

  Walter frowned. “Are you willing to explain that?”

  “Oh, very good, you don’t apologize for your lack of understanding.”

  “Why would I, when it’s obvious and has nothing to do with the information I need?”

  Ivan laughed. “Look out at the room behind me, Lieutenant. Most of them—were they in your position—would spend valuable time begging my pardon, explaining that they don’t mean to intrude, or plying me with any number of other social pleasantries—few if any of which they actually mean. Even the ones who dislike me would be polite to a fault. That’s one of the ways I know who to be careful around.”

  Walter smiled. “And you explain that to see how long I’m going to let you meander around before you answer me.”

  “Even more direct. Excellent.” Ivan inclined his head in a tiny salute. “Richard was chosen to be my Companion during my Final Vetting. Chosen by traditional means, which are something slightly less Byzantine than . . . well, I don’t know what. It would be easier if they just ripped open a chicken and read the entrails.”

  “Back up. Why isn’t he your Companion? He’s in the Rangers, was it? Isn’t that your bodyguard unit?”

  “Home guard for Rivergaard. Litzau Lancers are the corporation’s security unit.”

  “I still need to know why he’s got his shorts in a bunch.”

  “Shorts in a bunch, I like that.” Ivan smiled for a half second. “Shorts in a bunch. I am going to use that.”

  Walter shook his head. “You toss up a lot of chaff. I’m going to guess that you like seeing how long a fuse folks have, right? That, or you’re a moron, and I’m rock-solid certain that’s not the case. Not even close.”

  “You’ve caught me, Lieutenant. I suppose, in fact, you’d have a colorful turn of phrase for that, too.” Ivan held his hands up innocently as Walter’s expression started to darken. “I surrender. Richard’s problem is this: being chosen Companion is a great honor, but with being chosen comes a certain amount of danger. Because the Companion could be someone who is not well suited to combat, tradition allows for them to purchase the services of a surrogate to fight in their place.”

  “But Richard, he doesn’t look like the kind of man who would do that.”

  “Oh, no, not at all.” Ivan shook his head. “He’s angry because my mother exercised that prerogative on his behalf. She bought your services, thereby dismissing him.”

  I’m lucky I didn’t get slugged. Walter ran a hand over his jaw. “I don’t think that’s something that’s gonna be fixed by buying him a beer.”

  “Not even by buying him controlling interest in a brewery.” Ivan smiled quickly, then let the expression die. “That’s not quite right for a retort, is it? Buying the beer is to get him a bit drunk and at ease, but buying brewery stock would be a business decision.”

  “Close. You can work on it.” Walter’s expression tightened. “Why did your mother do that to him?”

  Ivan’s innocent smile returned, but his eyes narrowed. “Because, Lieutenant, chances are very good that someone in Rivergaard will try to kill me during the Vetting, and when sorting out candidates, Richard rises quickly toward the very top of the list.”

  Chapter Three

  Rivergaard House, Rivergaard

  Maldives

  15 October 3000

  “Then exactly why was he on the guest list tonight?”

  Ivan shrugged. “The list is long. If we prevented everyone on it from attending, you, the woman playing the clarinet, my mother and I would be the only people here. Oh, and the chef.”

  Walter glanced around, doing his best not to look obvious in doing so. “You don’t appear to be terribly concerned about this.”

  “I’m used to it.” Ivan leaned in. “Sometimes the t
hreat of being assassinated is the only thing that makes life worth living.”

  The mercenary raised an eyebrow. “I know you’re playing with my mind here, but aren’t you being a bit glib?”

  “This is a celebration, Lieutenant, but I take your point. I promise you that I shall be far more serious and attentive when it comes to what we must accomplish together.” Ivan’s expression approached seriousness. “I know you have looked at vid of me in Destrier, and this may have raised some concerns on your part. I assure you that since that time I have spent many hours running computer simulations in preparation for the Final Vetting. You will benefit from the fruits of my labor.”

  “Good. I have modified a training regime we’ve used before and—”

  Ivan held up a hand. “Please send me a schedule and I shall merge it with mine. But now social convention demands that I conduct myself properly. So many boring people here, you know—not you, but others. I need to deal with them.”

  “More chaff.”

  “You are refreshingly persistent, Lieutenant.” The Chairman Presumptive’s expression froze. “I should reward that. I’ll think of something. But, to explain . . . over there, over my left shoulder, that is Wen Xu-Tian, the Capellan Consul here on Maldives. He anticipates my becoming Chairman and does all he can to curry favor. He hopes that he can bring us into the Capellan sphere of influence.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “He is, of course, looking for a way to be recalled to Sian—in the good way, of course. He does his best to engage me in conversation, hoping we will strike up a friendship. So the last time we spoke, I lectured at length on interesting research being conducted here on seasonal sexual dimorphism in Highland spotted beetles. I emphasized the differences between cycles during Deep Summer and Second Summer.” Ivan allowed himself a smirk. “Over the last week and a half, in preparation for tonight, Xu-Tian has studied everything there is to know about the Highland spotted beetle. He will convey all he’s learned to me. And I will tell him all I know about seasonal sexual dimorphism in the Lowland spotted beetle. And when he says that he thought I was interested in the Highland spotted beetle, I will tell him that I was interested in it, but seeing that I could never hope to develop a mastery of the subject that could come at all close to his, I shall surrender that subject to him and continue my studies on the lowland species.”