by C. J. Ryan
Bartholemew was silent a moment. Then he said, “Sometimes I believe it.”
“And sometimes you don’t?”
“Sometimes it’s historical, sometimes it’s personal. I admit the possibility that I’m wrong about the history. It’s a big subject, after all, and it’s possible that no one really understands it. But I believe that history requires us to act, in spite of our doubts and reservations.”
“Did history require you to beat Jamie Quincannon to death with your bare hands?” Petra asked him. “He was a nice old man, Whit. I saw what you did to him.”
“But you never saw what he did to me,” Bartholemew said. His ruddy face darkened, and he looked down at his desk for a moment.
“What do you mean?”
“About forty years ago,” he said, lifting his gaze to meet hers, “I was entrusted to the care of that nice old man. And he took me up to that office—the very same office where I killed him—and…and he did things. Hateful things.”
“He molested you?”
“He did. Even then, I knew it was wrong, somehow. And I desperately wanted to tell someone. But my mother…somehow, I knew she wouldn’t have understood. Or wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it. I knew I needed to tell my father, but I couldn’t. Quincannon was my father’s partner, you see, and I was only his son. I didn’t want to force him to choose between the two of us, because I knew what his choice would have been. So I never told anyone…until this very moment, Petra Nash. Since we are both about to die, it seems appropriate. Anyway, I grew up feeling as if I had done something shameful and unforgivable. Eventually I realized how foolish I had been, but by then, it was too late to change anything. The child I was had grown to be the man I am.”
“I’m sorry, Whit,” Petra said. “That must have been awful for you. But do a hundred million people have to die just because you had a terrible childhood?”
“You think it’s infantile revenge?”
“Isn’t it?”
“If it were no more than that, you’d have a point.” Bartholemew spent a moment staring at the device in his hand, then looked back at Petra. “I told you once that my father and I never really talked. But when he knew he was dying, he wrote me a letter that I received after his death. It was mostly just an exercise in self-justification, a litany of excuses for all his parental failures. Exactly the sort of thing you’d expect a man like that to say under the circumstances. But it also contained a few revelations that gave me a new resolve. You might say it was that letter that put this switch in my hand.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dear old Dad tried to explain to me how it came to pass that he married my mother. It seems that my grandfather had made a big mistake. Details were not specified, but I gather that it was one of those grand, history-altering mistakes. Anyway, Norman Mingus, being intelligent, resourceful, and altogether unscrupulous, called upon Whitney Bartholemew to help him cover up that mistake. My father, you see, had the means available to help my grandfather dispose of the evidence.”
“The Savoy shipment?”
“Precisely. Father’s letter was unclear about exactly what happened and why, but he was explicit about the price he demanded in return for his help. The price was my mother, the lovely young Saffron Mingus. She was the belle of the Quadrant in those days, and she was engaged to Cornell DuBray, my grandfather’s faithful assistant. But young Whitney Bartholemew had desired her from afar, and now he seized his opportunity to have her for his own. And my grandfather obliged him, gave him what he wanted. Again, details were lacking, but he promptly delivered my mother to my father as if she were…a shipment of arms.”
Bartholemew smiled—to himself, it seemed to Petra. She realized that his words were for himself, as well. He had wanted her here merely as a sounding board, an audience for his final soliloquy.
“In the process of all this self-revelation,” Bartholemew went on, “my father revealed to me the whereabouts of that Savoy shipment. He said that he had kept his part of the deal with my grandfather and had never attempted to move or sell those weapons. Mingus had apparently hoped that he would simply destroy them, but never really inquired. But old Bart was no fool, and knew that those weapons might give him considerable leverage if it ever became necessary to strike another deal with Mingus, who soon became Secretary of Dexta. I gather that he never had to use them for that purpose, but the potential was always there. Anyway, as a final gesture of filial affection, dear old Dad passed the secret on to me, his only begotten son. He figured that I could use that knowledge to extort Mingus for any favors that I might need in the future. A wonderful gesture, don’t you think? Except that Father never realized that I might think of another use for those weapons. I doubt that he even thought of them as weapons, per se, merely as potential blackmail material. But to me, they were precisely what they were intended to be—weapons that might be used against a powerful enemy. Like the greasy little criminal he was, Dad always thought too small. He thought he might use those weapons to blackmail Mingus and figuratively destroy him. I’ll use them to destroy him physically, and much else. Perhaps even the Empire itself.”
“And me,” Petra added quietly. “And your mother.”
“I’m truly sorry about that, Petra Nash.”
“I don’t want to die, Whit,” she said. But she was certain now that she would. Her chin trembled and her eyes filled with tears.
“You’re not going to cry, are you? I hate it when women do that. It’s so terribly unfair.”
“What were you going to do with me if I’d gone to Belairus? Keep me captive? Hold me hostage?”
Bartholemew shook his head. “I’d simply have loved you, as well and as truly as I could,” he said. “I’d have run my various enterprises from there, of course, and continued helping PAIN as the revolution unfolded around us. But you would have been safe. And happy, I’d like to think.”
“I don’t think so,” Petra said.
“Who can say?” Bartholemew asked. “But I wanted you to be happy, if that means anything. You made me happy, at least. No one had ever really done that before. Oh, now, stop that crying! I told you, it isn’t fair.”
“But it’s fair for you to kill me? Forget about the other hundred million people, Whit. You’re killing me!”
“I’m sorry. But I no longer have any choice.”
“Of course you do, Whit! The choice has always been yours! Put it down, Whit! Put down your anger—and for Spirit’s sake, put down that damned switch!”
“You heard her, dear. Put it down. I’m not ready to die yet, either.”
Bartholemew looked up and Petra looked behind her. Saffron Mingus Bartholemew had entered the office, looking solemn and gravely beautiful. She stared at her son with loving, disappointed eyes.
“Put it down, Sonny,” she said softly. “Put it down now. Make your mother happy.”
Bartholemew looked at her, his eyes bright and shining. At last, he said, “Yes, Mother.”
And he put it down.
GLORIA STOOD IN THE RECEIVING LINE AT THE entrance to the Ellisons’ ballroom and watched as the Emperor approached. Black-clad Imperial Security forces were everywhere, but the mood was festive and relieved. The greatest threat to the Empire since the Fifth of October Plot had been overcome—at least, that was what the media said—and Gloria and the OSI had played a vital role in that triumph. It was a night to crow, and she felt proud and happy.
Charles, resplendent in his gaudiest Imperials, was accompanied by his cousin, Lord Brockinbrough, and Larry’s son, Gareth, as well as a flock of aides, equerries, and ranking flotsam. First in the reception line was President Ogburn; he and Charles exchanged minutely calculated bows. The legal fiction maintained that the Emperor could not set foot on a planet without the invitation of the local government, and all the necessary rituals were observed.
Following Ogburn came the Ellisons and their son, hosts for the affair, then Quadrant Administrator Cornell DuBray, the Parliamen
t Minister from New Cambridge, a collection of local and Dexta bigwigs, and finally, Gloria VanDeen, Director of the Office of Strategic Intervention, whose reception this was. Conspicuous by his absence was Dexta Secretary Norman Mingus. His daughter, Saffron Mingus Bartholemew, was also absent. And his grandson was in prison.
Gloria’s satisfaction over the resolution of the PAIN threat was tempered by her awareness of the very personal pain it had caused Norman Mingus. Publicly, details about the Savoy shipment remained hidden, but it was impossible to hide the fact that Mingus’s grandson had been deeply involved in terrorism. Unflattering facts about Whitney Bartholemew, Senior, had also been dredged up, and an unwelcome spotlight had been aimed at Saffron Mingus Bartholemew. The media were already speculating about whether Norman Mingus might be forced to resign over the affair.
Gloria could not bring herself to believe that it would come to that. Mingus had told her once that he would never resign, and, after forty-two years in office, he was far too wise in the ways of power to allow himself to be forced out.
The Emperor made his way down the line, seemingly relaxed and unhurried. Gloria marveled at Charles’s ability to put commoners at ease and give them the impression that there was nothing more important in all the Empire than making small talk with his subjects. After two weeks of nearly nonstop schmoozing, Gloria thought she was beginning to get the hang of it, herself, and the experience would come in handy if she decided to become Empress. If.
She still didn’t know and hadn’t had time to give the matter much thought. But the sudden reversal of OSI’s fortunes made a future in Dexta seem more viable than it had a few weeks ago, when Erik Manko loomed large on her horizon. And, as Empress, would she be permitted the fun of dashing off to putrid scumworlds and risking her life in hand-to-hand combat with dangerous terrorists? Unlikely.
And then Charles was standing before her, handsome and grinning. Gloria gave him a little bow and let him clasp her hands. “A splendid reception, Ms. VanDeen,” said the Emperor in a formal and audible voice. “We thank you for inviting us.”
“And you honor OSI by your presence, Highness.”
Formalities out of the way, Charles ran his eyes over Gloria’s almost entirely naked body. She was wearing nothing but two strands of alternating diamonds and lapis lazuli, one low around her hips and the other hanging down from it to provide strategic, if symbolic, coverage, along with matching bracelets and earrings. She had last worn the gems on Mynjhino, on an evening that had ended in gunfire. No such excitement seemed likely tonight.
“Those diamonds look vaguely familiar,” Charles said in a quieter, more private voice.
“They should,” Gloria said. “You gave them to me for our second anniversary. You said the lapis lazuli matched my eyes.”
“Ah, yes. I did, and it does. You look marvelous, as always, Glory.”
Gloria leaned close to him and whispered in his ear. “You got my message?”
“I did.”
“And you brought the…uh…item?”
“Right here in my pocket.”
“Thanks, Chuckles. I owe you one.”
“No, I think it is I who owe you. A nice piece of work, Glory, by all concerned. We’ll talk later. For the moment, I still have some Imperializing to do.” Charles kissed Gloria’s hand, gazed into her eyes for a few long seconds, then moved on to mingle with the local gentry.
Larry and Gareth were next. Gloria shook hands with them and said, “Lord Brockinbrough, Gareth, thank you for coming tonight.”
“The pleasure’s all ours, Gloria,” Larry said expansively. “I trust you’ll be coming to visit my humble residence?”
“Not tonight, Larry,” Gloria said. “Maybe tomorrow, after Charles’s speech. I didn’t realize that you had an estate here.”
“One big one in each Quadrant, and a scattering of lesser hovels. My forebears liked to feel at home wherever they went. By the way, congratulations on your latest coup.”
“Yeah,” Gareth added, “that was pretty cool stuff, Gloria.”
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
The Brockinbroughs moved on, replaced by a Duke and Duchess, then a smattering of lesser Lords and Ladies. Gloria smiled her way through the rest of the formal presentations, then finally broke free to do some mingling of her own. She wandered out onto the dance floor and drank in the ambience.
Althea’s little blues band had turned out to be a twenty-piece orchestra that specialized in twentieth-century music of all kinds. They played a few blues numbers, but also everything from Irving Berlin to the Beatles. When they struck up “In the Mood,” Gloria found a partner and assayed an acceptable thirty-third-century version of the jitterbug. Three more men took turns cutting in on each other as they danced with her to the plaintive melody of “Yesterday.” Then Gloria saw something that provoked a laugh and inspired her to do some cutting in of her own.
Elaine Murakami was dancing with Cornell DuBray to a Gershwin tune. Smiling, she tapped Elaine on the shoulder and said, “Pardon me, Elaine, but I’m pulling rank on you.” Elaine giggled and got out of the way.
“Administrator DuBray,” Gloria said, “I hope you’re not planning to steal Elaine from me. OSI is very jealous of its personnel.”
“Fear not, Ms. VanDeen,” DuBray said. “Elaine is a delicious little treat in bed, but she wasn’t much of a spy.”
“You knew that I knew?”
“I figured it out quickly enough. You do have a way of inspiring loyalty in your people. In any event, I’ll see to it that her father is released from prison.”
“Thank you. You’re very gracious in defeat.”
DuBray raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware that I had been defeated.”
“Well,” Gloria said, “you certainly haven’t won. In case you hadn’t noticed, OSI is here to stay.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. Very nicely played, I must admit. You won the hearts and minds of the Dexta masses, then capped it off with a dazzling bit of personal bravado. The Quad Admins can hardly dispatch you to bureaucratic limbo after such a performance.”
“We’re the Fifth Quadrant now,” Gloria said. “Get used to it.”
DuBray actually laughed at that. “As I told you, Gloria, we really are on the same side. OSI’s triumph is Dexta’s triumph, and Dexta’s triumph is my own. However, we still have our differences, and don’t imagine that the Quad Admins will simply bow before your brilliance. We won’t, you know.”
“I’d be disappointed if you did,” she said. “I look forward to a long and lively rivalry.”
“As a matter of fact,” said DuBray, “so do I.”
PETRA WISHED SHE WERE SOMEWHERE ELSE. Anywhere. Weehawken, even.
After what had happened the day before, she was not really in the mood for festivities and gaiety, least of all at the Ellisons’ bemuraled mansion. Barely a month ago, she had enjoyed her triumphant entry into New Cambridge society in this same ballroom, but she could take no pleasure in the memory. She had lost Pug, she had lost Whit, and somehow, she felt that she had lost herself.
She didn’t feel like being a Tiger tonight—maybe not on any night, ever again—but she had discovered that she had little choice. She’d had no time to run out and buy something conservative, so she found herself wearing a violet gown with a wide, deep neckline and a plunging back. Just the thing for a woman who romanced mass murderers.
On a night when she wanted to attract as little attention as possible, she found herself being asked to dance and offered drinks by a seemingly endless succession of smiling Dexta men. They offered their congratulations and expressed their admiration while staring at her daring cleavage, and Petra simply smiled grimly and tried to get through the evening without a complete emotional meltdown.
And there were the Ellisons to be endured. The haughty parents and their upward-bound son, with Steffany Fairchild at his side. She had exchanged formal and frosty greetings, then tried to avoid them. But she could feel them, staring down their noses
at her, disapproving of her very existence.
She had also tried to avoid the media riot that followed the capture of Whit Bartholemew and the subsequent recovery of the missing plasma bomb. Dexta Internal Security had clamped a tight lid on the precise facts, but the Public Affairs Office could not resist exploiting such a triumph, and very much against her will, Petra had been trotted out at a press conference that afternoon. She had made a brief statement, then offered terse answers to a flurry of questions. When someone asked her about the nature of her relationship with Whitney Bartholemew, Junior, she had said only, “We were friends,” then quickly exited the meeting.
Her friend had tried to blow up the city, and she had tried to put him in jail. Friends, indeed. They hadn’t really been friends, at all. They had been hot, passionate, angry lovers, each seeking something indefinable from the other. Perhaps Whit had sought something normal in her, some link to an everyday existence that he despised; and perhaps she had yearned for something abnormal in him, an expression of defiance and rebellion against a world that had rejected her. Whit’s father ignored him, but hers had walked out on her. Pug’s parents pushed him upward; her mother seemed to want to pull her downward. One lover killed, another yanked away from her by his family, and a third who was nothing less than a monster. Some life.
There was a sudden regal fanfare from the orchestra, and the Emperor appeared on the bandstand. Petra watched from the far end of the ballroom and wondered what was going on.
“One of the nice things about being Emperor,” Charles said as a hush fell over the crowd, “is that occasionally it is my lot to recognize and reward the accomplishments of certain of my subjects. While it is something I enjoy, it is not something I do lightly. Imperial honors are not easily earned, nor carelessly handed out. They signify that the person designated has served the Empire in a way that goes beyond the norm and is worthy of our highest recognition and gratitude. Tonight, it gives me great personal pleasure to honor one such individual. Would you please come forward and be recognized…Petra Nash!”