by David Weber
“I’m . . . not sure. He’s been in contact with some of the known conduits in his sports clubs. I mean, one of the other fellows on his polo team is a known member of New Madrid’s clique. So, maybe. But Roger hates politics with a purple passion. So . . . I’m not sure.”
“You should know.”
“Yes, I should,” the chief of staff admitted. “But it’s not the sort of thing he would confide in me. I’m an appointment of his mother’s.”
“Is he . . . conspiring against the Empress?” Kosutic asked even more carefully.
“I doubt that very much,” Eleanora said. “He seems to truly love his mother, but he might be being used as a dupe. The way he acts, the . . . frivolity. It just doesn’t make any sense. With his background, with what his father did, Roger has to realize that presenting such a front lays him open to charges of following in New Madrid’s footsteps. So half the time I’m certain he’s doing it on purpose, and the other half . . . I just don’t know.”
“Maybe it’s a double-blind,” Kosutic suggested. “He might be putting on these airs as a cover for being really, really capable?”
She was aware that she was engaging in wishful thinking, but there had to be at least a shred of light in the darkness. Otherwise, the Marines had stuck their heads into a guillotine for an enemy of all they held dear.
“I doubt it,” Eleanora said with a grim chuckle. “Roger’s just not that subtle.” She gazed down at her pad for several moments, then sighed. “And, frankly, however subtle he is or isn’t, he’s always been the odd one out in the Imperial Family.”
She tapped at the pad’s controls for several seconds, then closed it and turned her chair to face the sergeant major.
“At the expense of possible lesse majeste,” she said, “Roger can act like a real pain in the ass sometimes. No, let’s be honest—he can be a real pain in the ass. But I think it’s fair to point out that it’s not entirely his fault.”
“Ah?” Kosutic kept her face carefully expressionless, but mental ears pricked at the chief of staff’s tone. Despite the fact that Bronze Battalion was specifically charged with the task of guarding the Heir Tertiary, and despite the amount of time the Bronze Barbarians had spent in their charge’s presence (not with any particular sense of pleasure for either party), no one in the company really knew Roger at all. O’Casey obviously did, and if she was prepared to give Kosutic any insight at all into the prince, the sergeant major was more than ready to listen.
“No, it’s not,” O’Casey told her, and shook her own head with a crooked smile. “He’s a MacClintock, and everyone knows that all MacClintocks are brave, trustworthy, fearless and brilliant. They’re not, of course, but everyone knows they are, anyway, and the fact that Crown Prince John and Princess Alexandra actually live up to the stereotype—like their mother—only makes it even harder on Roger. The Crown Prince has a record as a diplomat anyone could envy, and even without her family connections, Princess Alexandra would be respected as one of the finest admirals in the Fleet. And then there’s Roger. Decades younger than the others, always on the outside, somehow . . . the classic ‘bad boy’ of the Imperial Family. The never-do-well, spoiled, pampered aristocrat.” She paused and cocked her head at the sergeant major.
“Sound familiar?” she asked with a quirky half-grin.
“Well, yes, actually,” Kosutic admitted. It wasn’t something any Marine, and especially any member of Bronze Battalion, had any business admitting to anyone, anytime, anywhere, but she admitted it anyway, and O’Casey chuckled without humor.
“I thought it might. But when you consider the cloud his father is under, the fact that no one really knows where Roger himself stands, and the fact that the Empress’ own attitude towards him often seems . . . ambiguous,” she chose the word with obvious care, “it’s probably inevitable that he should turn out at least a bit that way.” She snorted sadly. “Kostas Matsugae and I have argued about it often enough, but I’ve never disagreed with Kostas’ insistence that Roger wasn’t exactly dealt the fairest possible hand. But where Kostas and I differ is on where we go from where we are now. I wasn’t Roger’s first tutor, you know. In fact, I’ve only been with him for a little over six years, so I wasn’t there when he was a hurt little boy dealing with the unfairness of life. I can feel for that little boy’s pain, I suppose, but I have to be more concerned with getting Roger the theoretical adult to face up to the fact that life isn’t fair and learning to deal with it as a MacClintock and as a prince of the Empire. And,” she admitted heavily, “I don’t seem to be doing a very good job of it.”
“Well,” Kosutic told her, picking her words with equal care, “I can’t say I envy you. I’ve done my share of kicking wet-behind-the-ears lieutenants into Marine officers, but the Corps gives me a lot better support structure for that kind of thing than you seem to have.”
“It would be nice if I could use the sort of judo I’ve seen you using on Captain Pahner’s officers,” O’Casey agreed wistfully. “But I can’t. And, frankly, Roger has a positive genius for digging in his heels. He may not be the overachiever his brother and sister are, but he’s certainly got every bit of the MacClintock stubbornness!”
She paused with a sudden laugh, and Kosutic raised an eyebrow at her.
“What’s funny?” the sergeant major asked.
“I was just thinking about Roger and stubbornness,” O’Casey replied. “Well, that and God’s peculiar sense of humor.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Have you ever been to the Imperial War Museum?” the academic asked, and the Marine nodded.
“Sure. A couple of times. Why?”
“I take it you’ve seen the Roger III Collection, then?”
Kosutic nodded again, though she wasn’t at all sure where O’Casey was headed with this. Roger III had been one of the many unreasonably capable emperors the MacClintock Dynasty had produced, and, as seemed to be the norm among his relatives, he had been a man of passionate (and, some would say, peculiar) interests. One of them had been military history and, particularly, that of Old Earth between the twelfth and sixteenth centuries, CE, and he had assembled what was probably the finest collection of arms and armor from the period in the entire history of the human race. When he died, he had bequeathed the entire collection to the Imperial War Museum, where it had become and remained one of its star attractions.
“Ever since Roger III’s time,” O’Casey went on a bit obliquely, “the continuance of his hobby interest in ancient weaponry has been something of a tradition in the Imperial Family. Oh, there’s an edge of affectation to it, of course—something that makes good PR as a ‘family tradition’ that imperial subjects can ooh and ah over—but there’s also more than a little truth to it. The Empress and the Crown Prince, for example, can spend hours explaining more than you ever wanted to know about things like Gothic armor and Swiss pikemen.” She grimaced with so much feeling that Kosutic chuckled.
“But not Roger,” the academic continued. “I said he can be stubborn? Well, he dug his heels in and flatly refused to have anything to do with the ‘tradition.’ I suppose it was a fairly harmless way to express his rebellion, but he was certainly . . . firm about it. Maybe it’s partly because it was all started by another Roger who also happens to have been another of those MacClintock figures everyone respects—unlike our Roger—but despite his family’s very best efforts, he never showed the least interest in the entire subject, which is a pity really. Especially now.”
“Now?” Kosutic gazed at her for a moment, then barked a laugh as understanding struck. “You’re right,” she said, “it would be handy if he knew anything about it, given the local tech level on Marduk.”
“Absolutely,” O’Casey agreed with another sigh, “but that’s our Roger all over. If there’s a way to do it wrong, he’ll find it every time.”
Roger watched Pahner make his way down the center transom of the shuttle bay and shook his head. With the troops squashed into the shuttle like ol
d-fashioned sardines in a can, the only way to move up and down the troop bay was by walking on the transom on which the center seats were mounted. That meant, of course, that he was walking at head level to the seated Marines.
The problem was that while Pahner was in a relatively light and fairly nimble skin suit, which he’d donned in preference to armor for just this reason, Roger was wrapped in ChromSten. He could no more make his way down that narrow strip in armor than he could walk a tightrope, and he rather doubted that any of his bodyguards would feel happy about being stepped upon, however daintily, by armor that weighed as much as a tyranothere.
“Well, Your Highness?” Pahner asked as he reached the end and swung easily to the floor.
“I’m going to have a hard time making my way down the bay in this,” Roger said, gesturing at his armor. Pahner glanced at the gray battle steel and nodded.
“Take it off. We’re going to be rattling around for a couple of hours.”
“Take it off where? There’s not enough room in the compartment.”
“Right here,” Pahner said, gesturing at the small open area. The patch of deck was the only open area in the bay, a tiny sliver of room for the shuttle crew to move around in. A ladder led up from it to a small landing with two hatches, one to the command compartment, and the other to the bridge. There was another hatch on the troop level portside. It was a pressure door leading to the exterior.
“Right here?” Roger juggled the helmet under his arm to give himself a moment to think while he looked around. Most of the guards were still doing their own things. A few had gotten up to move around, but most of those had headed to the rear of the bay where the palletized cargo afforded room to stretch out. It seemed awfully . . . public, though.
“I could get your valet,” Pahner said with a faint smile. “He’s back there,” he continued, gesturing towards the rear of the troop bay.
“Matsugae?” Roger’s face brightened. “That would be grea—I mean, yes, of course, Captain. Do you think you could fetch my valet?” he ended in a refined drawl.
“Well,” Pahner said, his face closing down again, “I don’t know about ‘fetch.’” He banged the nearest sleeping guard on the shoulder. “Pass the word for Matsugae.”
The Marine yawned, shoved the next Marine in line, passed on the word, and promptly went back to sleep. A few moments later, Roger saw the small form of the valet emerge from under a pile of rucksacks. He bent down and spoke to someone, then climbed onto the transom and made his way toward the prince.
Vertical pillars ran up from the transom to the roof every two meters, and if Matsugae was far less nimble on the uncertain footing than Captain Pahner had been, he had the overall idea down. He would hold onto a vertical, then move forward of it, using it to balance as he shuffled out on the transom as far as he could before making a hopping lunge for the next. Using this technique, he slowly made his way forward to the prince’s position.
“Good—” the valet paused, obviously checking the clock in his toot “—evening, Your Highness.” He smiled. “You’re looking well.”
“Thank you, Valet Matsugae,” Roger said, much more careful to maintain his formality in front of so many listening ears. “How are you?”
“Very well, Your Highness. Thank you.” Matsugae gestured to the rear of the compartment. “Sergeant Despreaux has been a mine of helpful information.”
“Despreaux?” Roger lifted an eyebrow and leaned sideways to look down the line of troops, and caught the brief flash of a refined profile.
“She’s a squad leader in Third Platoon, Your Highness. A very nice young lady.”
“Given their resumes,” Roger said with a smile, “I doubt that you could categorize any of the young ladies in The Empress’ Own as ‘nice.’”
“As you say, Your Highness,” Matsugae said with an answering smile. “How can I be of service?”
“I have to get out of this armor and into something decent.”
Matsugae’s face crumpled.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I should’ve known. Let me go get my pack.” He started to scramble up onto the transom again, preparing to retrace his route.
“Wait!” Roger said. “I have a uniform packed up in the command compartment. I just need help getting out of the armor.”
“Oh, well then,” Matsugae said, climbing back down. “If Captain Pahner could give me a hand? I don’t actually know all that much about armor, but I’m willing to learn.”
As they disconnected the armor’s various latches and controls, Roger became curious.
“Matsugae? Am I to understand that you have spare uniforms for me in your pack?”
“Well, Your Highness,” the valet said almost shyly, “Sergeant Despreaux told me that you weren’t able to bring all your clothes. And why. I didn’t feel it appropriate that you have only one suit of armor and a single uniform, so I packed a few extra outfits along. Just in case.”
“Can you carry it?” Captain Pahner sounded skeptical. “Of course, if that’s all that you’re carrying . . .”
“I will admit, Captain,” the small valet said in a pert voice, “that I’m not carrying the weight of ammunition most of your Marines are. However, I am carrying my full equipment load and a share of the squad load for the headquarters group. His Highness’ gear is, so to speak, my ammunition allotment.”
“But can you carry it?” Pahner repeated darkly. “Day after day.”
“We shall simply have to see, Captain,” Matsugae replied calmly. “I think so. But we shall have to see.”
He returned to his task of peeling the prince, and Roger soon found himself once again standing in the midst of scattered pieces of armor.
“I’m forever putting this stuff on and taking it off.” He brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from the singlet he’d worn under the armor as Matsugae scrambled up the steps to the command compartment.
“Not for much longer, Your Highness,” Pahner pointed out. “Once we land on the planet, it will hardly ever be used. But if we need it, we’re really going to need it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“What else do we need?” O’Casey asked, thumbing through the list of supplies the Marines had loaded.
“Whatever it is, it better not weigh much,” Kosutic replied. The sergeant major was doing a recalculation of fuel use, and she looked up with a grimace. “I don’t think we have much margin.”
“I thought you could glide one of these things in,” Eleanora said uncomfortably. It was hardly her area of expertise, but she knew that the shuttles’ swing-wing configuration gave them a tremendous glide ratio.
“We can.” Kosutic’s tone was mild. “If we have a runway, that is.” She gestured at one of the monitors, where the small map from the Fodor’s was displayed. “Do you see many airports? In glide mode, one of these things needs a nice, old-fashioned runway. You try to land without one, and you might as well give your soul to His Wickedness.”
“So what happens if it were running out of fuel, then?”
“Well, if we were headed in for a standard atmosphere insertion, we could correct at the last minute and do some atmospheric skipping to slow down. The problem is, if we do an orbit, we’ll be detected. Then the whole plan goes out the airlock, and we have a cruiser and the garrison hunting us dirtside.
“If, on the other hand, we do a steep reentry—which, by the way, is what we’re planning—and run out of fuel, we’ll just pancake.”
“Oh.”
“Make a hell of a hole,” Kosutic snorted.
“I can imagine,” O’Casey said faintly.
“I imagine that this is about where we should be detecting the Saint, Sir,” Sublieutenant Segedin said.
“Understood.” Captain Krasnitsky looked at the helmsman. “Prepare for course change. Quartermaster, pass the word to the Marines to prepare for separation.”
“They should have detected us by now,” Captain Delaney said. “Why are they still decelerating for the planet?”
“Could they still intend to land their Marines?” the chaplain asked, leaning over the tactical display beside him.
Delaney’s nose wrinkled at the sour smell of the chaplain’s unwashed cassock. Washing among the faithful was an occasional thing, since it used unnecessary resources. And such harmful chemicals as deodorants were, of course, right out.
“They must,” Delaney mused. “But they’re still too far out.” He smiled as the display changed. “Ah! Now we have a feel for their sensor damage. There’s the course change.”
“Prepare for separation. Five minutes,” the ennunciator boomed.
Roger looked up in surprise from his conversation with Sergeant Jin. The Korean was surprisingly well versed on current men’s fashions, and after Roger had circulated briefly around the compartment (doing his best imitation of Mother at a garden party), he’d settled down for a long talk with the sergeant. Better that than a long talk with the fascinating Sergeant Despreaux. Something told him that getting “interested” in one of his bodyguards in a situation like this one probably was a bad idea. Not that it would have been a good idea under any circumstances, he reflected with a familiar moodiness.
“You’d better get your armor back on, Sir,” Jin said, glancing at the chameleon suit Roger had changed into. “It’ll take you at least that long.”
“Right. Talk to you later, Sergeant.” Roger had become accustomed to walking the transom, and now he sprang lightly onto it and skipped forward, swinging gracefully from pillar to pillar.
“Show off,” Julian muttered as he shifted the rucksack across his knees. It wasn’t particularly uncomfortable, since it was supported by his armor, but the confinement got to him after a while.