Annales Imperii - I. Ostiia

by Ted Mayes

  Michael got up from his desk, stretching and went to the kitchen, both to get a new cup of coffee and some exercise. He looked forward to hearing Amanda's description of the morning “press conference”. Maybe he'd catch a bit of the record before sleep, but for now he would just appreciate how much she was making his life easier. That started a train of thought that had been bothering him lately, and he put on an impassive face so that there would be no hint to anyone of what he was thinking.

  Amanda was making his life easier and more pleasant. Would the emperor free her? And when might that be? She was certainly making a contribution to the empire, and that was what the emperor usually took into consideration. What would she do if freed? Go home? Stay here and continue to serve the empire? He was almost certain she was no longer feeling forced into doing anything. He started to continue this line of thought, but shook his head and headed back to his desk. He was pretty sure he didn't want to even start thinking about what he would do if she was freed.

  * * * * *

  Amanda picked up a cup of 'Papa' Jordan's best and thought how grateful she was that she could pick up a great cup of coffee before heading into one of those meetings. Having to put up with a crowd of reporters could only increase your respect for a man like Michael. Then, when she realized what she'd been thinking, she'd nearly inhaled the next sip of coffee and began coughing madly. Which only goes to show, she thought as the coughs departed, how dangerous it was to think nice things about Michael, even if it was easy to do.

  She breezed into the conference room, exchanging casual greetings with some of the reporters she knew better than others. At least she'd been able to convince everyone to do this informally, rather than that ridiculous formal, stand-up-and-bow routine that most press conferences had become. Some had even told her they liked the 'wild West' atmosphere. As one example, the right to ask questions was by random selection, but the enterprising reporter could finagle or trade numbers so as to have a better chance of asking a question in the open. Those she didn't have time to answer verbally she answered in writing, later, but for some reason they seemed to like oral answers better. It made no difference to her, since she allowed recording to make it easier on them, while at the same time she refused to allow her voice or image to be used publicly.

  She took her place on a stool on the long side of the room, half surrounded by the crowd. The stool had appeared at the first meeting in this room, when she was wearing a skirt. Since then, she'd made a point of wearing pants. “Okay, guys, when you're ready,” she called and then sipped her coffee while waiting for them to quiet down.

  “Three main announcements this morning. The first is about ID cards – you all have them,” she held her own up. “From now on, everyone is supposed to wear them in plain view on a lanyard. The lanyards can be obtained from the welcome booth just outside the gates. I'd suggest you take care of it ASAP. Question, Henry?” she said to an older man in the group.

  “Well, yes, but not my one alloted question, kiddo.”

  “Tell me the question, 'old man',” she said jokingly, “and we'll see about the answer.”

  “Why the difference between your ID and ours?” He held up his ID.

  She was too surprised to answer right away. “Samuel, display the ID cards of myself and Henry Gallagher, big enough so that everyone can see them.” When the display appeared, she gaped for a second and then said, “Honest, guys, I didn't realize they were this different. You have what seems to be a regular 'guest pass' for 'foreigners', just a red card, with your name and organization and a thumb print square.”

  “What good's that? You can't see a thumb print on it!”

  Amanda smiled. “Henry, have the guy next to you put his thumb on the space.” A gigantic thumb appeared on the display, but nothing else happened. “Now, Henry, put your thumb on the space on your card.” Another thumb appeared in the display and touched the square, but this time the name 'Henry Gallagher' on the card lit up. “Don't bother asking me 'how' because they won't tell me. However that is the 'id' part of the card – somehow it knows that you are you.”

  “Now mine is a standard imperial ID – white background with your name, picture and thumb print square on one side – though you'll notice that for all the empire's know-how, they still use the guy from the DMV to take the pictures.” That got a chuckle from almost everyone. “Along the other side are spaces for, from top to bottom, rank stripes, honor bars, and social rings. You should have seen the information brochure on all of that, so I'm not going over that again.”

  “Why does yours have a black background and white stripes?” someone else called.

  “Because I'm a slave.” Her flat tone brought a hush to the room. “According to the empire I am nothing, but the white bars represent who owns me. As you can tell from the ten rank stripes, he's the consul, the highest imperial official except for the emperor himself; from the five ‘social’ rings that he's an imperial advisor (and there are fewer than ten of those in the empire); and from the honor bars, he's got a wad of honors big enough to choke a horse, including, now that I look closely at it, the equivalent of four Congressional Medals of Honor. Samuel, remove the display.”

  She went on. “Second announcement, and you'll be getting the full text of it later, 'civilian' traffic to the moon will begin in about two weeks, exact date and time to be announced later.”

  “Will we be able to go?” some one shouted.

  “You'll be glad to know that I already thought to ask that question for you guys. The answer is yes, sort of. The ship will hold 400 people, so there should be seats for you guys. The Foreign Department plans to reserve a certain number for a few diplomats who've asked to go, but it will be random numbers after that.”

  She pushed on with the announcements. “Third, the empire wishes to announce that two ships and ten men of the empire have set down on Mars.” The quiet in the room was intense and palpable. “They have landed just south of the Valles Marineris – and don't ask me where that is, find your own eggheads – and have begun surveying the planet. As soon as responses have been received from one or two governments, a conference will be held here at Ostia for the purpose of sharing this information and receiving suggestions as to the next steps to be take. Now, end of announcements. Question number one.”

  Dozens of questions were asked, which Amanda answered as best she could. When she'd had enough of repeating that she couldn't answer that question, she tossed out the last bit of information she had – that Fleet Headquarters was displaying, in real time, the survey of Mars. Many of the reporters disappeared quickly.

  One who remained tossed out his question. “Did you get a reply to my question about L4?”

  “I was only able to ask that question of the consul this morning. His reply was – there is something going on at L4, the empire is gathering asteroids there and they will be building something there. He suggested having your friend keep an eye on that location for a while.”

  “As if we wouldn't! Just for clarification, though – he said the empire was 'gathering asteroids there'?” At her nod, he added, “No hint of how they're going about doing that?”

  “You've been around long enough, Jerry, to know the answer I get – 'no how questions will be answered.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I keep hoping, because my sources outside tell me it can't happen.”

  “Well, all you can do is wait and see whether the consul is right or your sources.” She smiled, “Want to make a bet on whose source is right, Jerry, yours or mine? Say a round at Claire's?”

  The reporter snorted. “I said I was hopeful, not stupid. Let me know when you're ready to bet against your consul.”

  Another reporter spoke belligerently, “Is it true that the emperor is a Christian?”

  Amanda was momentarily confused. “I don't know …, wait a minute. In a discussion about slavery the consul mentioned that the emperor's views on slavery were influenced by a Bible passage and that if I had further questions about it to
talk to the chaplain, so he might be. What difference does it make?”

  The reporter broke into a rant, the gist of which seemed to be that if the emperor were a Christian, he'd be a Bible-thumping, fundamentalist, intolerant, bigot who would force everyone in the country into an unthinking, unscientific strait-jacket.

  Until his rant ran down, she sat there wondering just what kind of drug the guy was high on – and how he'd gotten any into Ostia. She was sure that Michael had said something about drugs not being allowed in the empire. All she said, “I'll ask the question for you, but, if it makes you feel any better, I've never seen any of the things you seemed to be concerned about. I have to say that I, personally, would have some serious doubts about claiming the empire was ‘unthinking’ or ‘unscientific’. Last question?”

  A reporter Amanda couldn't remember seeing before spoke up. “When will I get a chance to interview this 'consul'?”

  She shook her head – what a great way to finish the meeting, a newbie who had no idea what he was talking about. She addressed the reporters in general. “I hope some of you old hands will explain things a little better in the future for those who don't have a clue. Let me remind everyone of some of the basics. You're all foreign journalists as far as the empire is concerned. If you have problems or concerns, talk to the attaché of your government, or whoever is handling things for your government here. Don't expect to talk to any imperial official, and don't try to force a confrontation with an imperial official, unless you really want to have an unpleasant meeting with the marines. The consul tells me that his main concern is for Latins and citizens, the imperial populace. But for his own reasons, which I haven't figured out yet, he's willing to answer some of my questions. So I ask them for you, but that's the most I can do for you.”

  The newbie called out, “Then why does the empire speak through you, supposedly a slave?”

  She shrugged again. “Maybe some day I'll figure it out and share it with you. For now, I have to go – it seems I have a diplomatic party to put together.” Then she was out of there, heading to a number of restaurants to pick up bids for catering the diplomatic dinner she had to put together. As she walked, though, that last question hummed through her head. From what she had seen, the empire didn't do anything without a great deal of planning, so it made no sense that she'd be in this situation without some good reason.

  A thought came to mind, and the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. She stopped in her walk to jot down a note on her portfolio, rather than blurting it out loud on the now crowded Via Emporia – 'Ask Michael if the emperor wants to identify speaking with reporters as something that only slaves would do?' Now, she thought, that would make sense, a neat little trick that would help keep imperial secrets safe – it would be beneath the dignity, the respectability, of an imperial to talk with a foreign reporter! That was a pretty sneaky little trick, she thought respectfully.

  She was definitely not expecting to hear five 'pings' in her headset, which surprised her so much she nearly stumbled. Catching herself she moved quickly to a nearby bench and sat down, as she was hearing a deep voice speak in her ear. “Congratulations, Miss Ochs. You did indeed guess the reason for your situation. In the outside world, your intelligence seems to have been as underestimated as your writing ability.”

  She really had no concept of how long she sat there stunned, but she hoped it felt much longer than it really was. She whispered, “Are you supposed to be talking to me?”

  The imperial voice was full of good humor. “I was under the impression that I could speak with anyone I wished to.”

  After a little stuttering she continued her whisper, “Do you mean that you put me in this situation to protect some secrets?”

  “No, Miss Ochs, because Michael made a very small mistake, you got yourself into this situation. Unless you would have preferred to die, rather than live? I merely observed one way in which your situation could be of use to me.”

  “So you admit you're using me?”

  “You could have been used as fertilizer on a farm, as someone who would haul rocks to make room for better people, or you could be used as you are now. Which is the preferable use? And may I point out that you are using Michael to find out information for your journalist friends. Is that a good thing? Regardless, I ask you not to inform anyone, Michael or your friends, what you have guessed.”

  “Don't you trust Michael?”

  “I suspect that Michael already suspects and really doesn't care. No, I'm asking you to do this, even though it might drive you crazy, because it's a test for you.”

  “A test?”

  “Yes, to see what kind of character and integrity you possess. You will no doubt have heard that all imperials are constantly being tried and tested, as long as they are in my service. And you are being tested to see if you are worthy of a pardon and the gift of Latin rights.” Five pings sounded in her ear, but it was some time before Amanda resumed her journey. There was just too much to think about.

  * * * * *

  High school life was finally starting to get an enjoyable rhythm. Classes, chats with friends, homework, everything seemed normal, except for occasional strange glances from Mr. Simpson when various new items about space appeared in the news. She'd explained to him and Dr. Andrews about her special assignment that had gotten her that special trip, and that her duty was much different now. She hoped that had lowered expectations, but she still got those strange looks on occasion.

  There was something else that was a little strange as well. She'd been 'popular' in years past, both as a cheerleader and a volleyball player, but things were intensified somehow this year. She was less a part of the school and so somehow was able to see more of what went on, but somehow her status seemed to have improved. Part of it involved the introduction of her friends to shopping at Ostia, which they took to with great eagerness. Part of it was that somehow her friends had discovered that her parents ran Jordan's – and that they were allowed into the coffeehouse to mix with university students and marines, and they were beyond thrilled, at least at the beginning, to be in contact with that part of the adult world.

  Something that she really didn't expect was the reaction of her classmates to the 'dating rings' that she and Jon had dreamed up. Heavens, it was only so that they could have a little privacy from their clerks, and she'd made it very clear that the problem with clerks and privacy was only a bother for Latins.

  Not that it did any good to explain, because her classmates insisted on acting as if it were a problem for any couple strolling through Ostia. It made no sense to her at all, but dating rings became very popular at her high school, and the students seemed to be of the impression that the behavior permitted at Ostia was 'permitted,' or even required, at school. Dr. Andrews was still dealing with that, she thought with a shudder.

  There was a lot of good happening, though. She was dating Jon (which was very nice), it was Friday and she didn't have to work at the Foreign Department, and they were going to go on a real date – eat out at an outside restaurant and then go to a home football game at her school and watch her Northmen play Platte County. She was excited about the whole evening she thought as she went through the undergate and nearly danced her way to check in with Mom and Dad.

  It was late afternoon and Jordan's was relatively calm, only a few marines, a few more students and quite a number of tourist/shoppers having a last cup and savoring the atmosphere before heading home. She was proud of what her Dad had accomplished in such a short time. He'd set a regular price of two nickels for a big cup of regular coffee (any flavor) and a penny for a 'fancy' coffee. He'd made arrangements to sell a small variety of pastries and sandwiches, clearly indicating whose nearby shops were making them. He'd arranged a number of different types of entertainment – on Friday and Saturday, professional jazz musicians from Kansas City (and possibly soon from other places) would play and on other nights university students would play music or read poems or try stand-up comedy. Thing
s were going so well that her parents had decided to sell their house and move into one of the apartments upstairs, putting more of their own money into the business. To Beth's delight, Becky and Larry had decided to get in on the 'family business' and had moved into the other apartment.

  She waltzed into the coffeehouse, slipped behind the counter and impulsively gave her father a huge hug. “Hi, Daddy,” she said.

  “What's with all the excitement, sweetheart,” he asked, keeping one arm free to turn off the flow of a coffee urn. “Oh, that's right! The big first date!” he said, adding “Would you give this cup to the customer?”

  “Sure, Dad.” She took a step and handed it to a trainee who was obviously on an errand for someone. She observed with interest the changing expressions on his face – first there was interest and appreciation, which faded to mere politeness when he caught sight of the silver ring on the hand that was handing him the coffee cup, which changed once again to the almost blank look of 'attention' when he saw her ID, before he caught himself once again and thanked her politely. “Which unit?” she asked, impressed that he'd been able to realize so quickly that no salute was required because she wasn't 'in uniform.'

  “717, Ma'am,” he'd said, nodding politely and leaving quickly, probably to deliver the coffee to his decurion. She dictated a short note for Molly to send to the decurion of the 717, explaining what had happened and expressing her appreciation of the recruit's quick thinking and reacting.

  “Why don't you go up and see your Mom,” her Dad said. “She's upstairs keeping an eye on the babies for a while. You go on up, and I'll bring Jon up when he arrives.” Beth kissed her Dad on the cheek and scurried over to run up the stairs to see her Mom.