by Brenda Hiatt
Okay, tonight. Try not to worry till then. I love you, M.
I sent all the love I could back to him. Tonight couldn’t come soon enough—especially since the intervening hours would probably suck, what with reporters and political opposition and all. I was glad I had Rigel to look forward to.
Molly unpacked her own stuff while I freshened up in my bathroom, by which time Mr. O had messaged Cormac that we could come back downstairs.
Sean and Rigel joined us in the lift—Rigel and I managed to brush hands for a delicious half-second—and a moment later we were back in the living room. “Did you get rid of the reporters already?” I asked.
“Only for the moment.” Mr. O grimaced. “And only because I promised them a press conference first thing in the morning. I told them you were resting from your journey now and could not be disturbed.”
“A press conference? I’ll have to talk to all of them at once?”
“It’s your best chance to start spinning things back our way before your opponents can organize. We’ll go over appropriate answers to the questions you’re most likely to be asked. I’ve already made a few notes based on what they were throwing at me outside just now.”
Though I cringed at the prospect of facing planet-wide scrutiny so soon, I nodded. “And I should fill you in on what Eric Eagan told me.” He might as well know how high the stakes really were.
“Ah, yes. Let’s use that same conference room, shall we?”
Sending a silent suggestion to Rigel that he listen in, I gave Mr. O the gist of what the Grentl had done and would likely do if I didn’t reply within two weeks. When I finished he was silent for a long moment. I could feel him trying to subdue his horror at this new knowledge.
Finally, he drew a long breath and nodded. “Failure is clearly not an option. Let’s get you Acclaimed as quickly as possible, shall we?”
When we rejoined the others downstairs, he was again all business. “The important thing is to prepare you with a few solid talking points that you can go back to anytime things start to get awkward—but without seeming as though you’re evading. We can spend the rest of today practicing.”
Sean was radiating curiosity, but only said, “Molly and I will hit the recombinator for afternoon tea while you get started.”
Though we’d only had lunch a couple of hours ago, I didn’t protest. Hot tea might help dispel my chill from the spectre of what failure would mean.
I’ll help any way I can, you know that, Rigel promised silently, also sobered by what he’d just learned.
I remembered the awful suggestion Mr. O had made on the ship and quickly shoved that thought away before Rigel could pick it up. Thanks. Just having you here is a huge help.
For the next couple of hours, Mr. O threw increasingly difficult—and more insulting—questions at me while I fumbled for answers that wouldn’t make me sound guilty or, worse, incompetent. A few, like the most personal ones about Rigel and me, he asked me over and over until I could reply without stammering or blushing.
Sean and Molly kept us supplied with tea and snacks, while Rigel sat at the other end of the table fighting down the anger some of the questions produced. I couldn’t blame him. Even hearing Mr. O ask those questions shocked and irritated me. The thought of complete strangers demanding such private information was much worse.
My brain was starting to feel fried when Mr. O stood up and stretched. “Let’s take a break, shall we? We should check the latest news stories and polls, in case there’s anything else out there you’ll have to address tomorrow.”
We headed back to the living room and he powered up the vidscreen. I was bringing up the rear, hoping for another chance to brush hands with Rigel, when a familiar voice caught my attention.
“Now, don’t misunderstand me,” Devyn Kane was saying. Hurrying forward, I saw him sitting at his ease in a comfy-looking chair, being interviewed by Moya. “I found Princess Emileia to be a sweet-natured girl who relates well to people, and certainly not unintelligent. Unfortunately, the incident aboard the Quintessence would seem to confirm what so many had already feared: that she simply isn’t yet mature enough for the role that has been thrust upon her young shoulders.”
Someone behind me, either Mr. O or Sean, hissed with irritation while Rigel growled silently.
Moya nodded gravely. “This news was a shock to all of us, Devyn. Still, the Princess is the last—the only—heir to the Nuathan throne. Especially if she chooses a strong Regent, don’t you believe that in time she can become what our people need?”
Devyn smiled at the camera, a sad, understanding smile that looked amazingly genuine. “I very much want to believe that, though after Faxon’s near-genocide of the Royal fine, I fear there are very few qualified candidates for Regent. Given enough time, the Princess might possibly find someone she trusts who is both strong enough and experienced enough to guide her through what will undoubtedly be a rocky few years. But, Moya, can Nuath afford to wait? The people have already been without a proper leader for fifteen years. Now, during this difficult time of rebuilding our government, our infrastructure, and our very society, they will surely need a steady hand at the helm from the outset.”
Though I’d expected this, a sick knot formed in my stomach. The interview continued for several more minutes, Moya asking questions that almost seemed designed to let Devyn press home the point that the people needed a strong, mature leader now. Without ever actually saying anything directly critical of me, he also made it clear that I was not that leader.
Mr. O shook his head in frustration and switched over to the latest polls, which were worse than ever. “We already knew Devyn and others would use your youth and inexperience against you,” he reminded me when I cringed at my 33% approval rating. “It’s a shame they have this new ammunition, but it also gives us an angle we can use.”
We continued watching the news during dinner, Mr. O using his omni to convert one of the big windows in the dining room into a vidscreen. He kept clicking between the various fine and local networks, which helped me understand how they differed in style and viewpoint.
The Informatics network was the slickest—not surprising, since those were the computer geeks—and also one of the most sympathetic. Their reporters insisted that outdated traditions were less important than my ability and willingness to lead, though they also seemed open to the idea of a free election for Sovereign. Ballytadhg, a village heavy on the arts, also seemed willing to give me the benefit of the doubt.
At the other end of the spectrum was the People’s Network, which Mr. O said was popular with the “lower” fines like Mining and Maintenance. They broadcast an interview with Crevan Erc, the main spokesman for the anti-Royal or “Populist” faction. He was now disavowing knowledge of how the power outage had happened, but claimed it still underscored why mere blood was no way to choose a leader.
“When our antiquated hereditary system serves up an untried girl with no knowledge of what it means to be Nuathan,” he said, “it is clearly time to change that system. Our very survival may depend on it.”
Some of the traditionalists were nearly as bad. One went so far as to hint that both Rigel and I should be charged with treason against Nuath.
The others fell somewhere between those extremes, but momentum was growing for the idea that Nuath’s next leader should be chosen from among a handful of “strong, experienced” Royals. Devyn’s name was frequently mentioned in that context, as was that of the Interim Governor, Nels Murdoch.
Rigel was almost universally vilified, even by those most strongly in favor of my eventual Acclamation. Sean, by contrast, elicited sympathy everywhere, much to his disgust.
Mr. O pushed his plate away, switched off the feeds and pulled up the notes on his omni. “Looks like we have a lot more work to do.” He then resumed his nonstop barrage of questions, punctuated by drill sergeant-like demands to try again every time I stumbled.
Three long hours later, Mr. O’Gara declared that I was as read
y as I’d ever be. “Try to get a good night’s sleep.” He spoke more gently than he had all evening. “Molly, I’ll trust you to choose her an appropriate outfit for this. Breakfast at eight.”
I was completely wrung out as we all headed up to bed, taking the beautiful, winding staircase this time since we’d been sitting for hours. “I hadn’t even thought about what I’ll wear. I hope you have some ideas?”
Molly grinned, reminding me she had no idea what was really at stake. “Don’t worry. There’s lots of great stuff in your new wardrobe.”
Nodding absently, I shifted my focus to Rigel, half a landing back. I hope I can stay awake long enough to talk with you for a while. I’ve been looking forward to it all day!
We’ll get more chances, he assured me. Just falling asleep in each others’ thoughts will be awesome.
Once in bed, we did manage to communicate briefly, but I soon felt myself drifting off. Still, it was inexpressibly sweet when the last thing I heard before sleep claimed me was Rigel wishing me sweet dreams.
CHAPTER 27
probalreith (pro-BAHL-reth): opinion poll; public opinion
When Molly tapped on my door the next morning I jerked instantly awake, a delicious, gentle dream about Rigel fleeing beyond recall as dread of my coming ordeal flooded back.
Molly dressed me in a dark gray tailored skirt and silvery blouse that looked a little, but not too much like a uniform, and fixed my hair in a conservative, pulled-back style. Rigel sent soothing thoughts up to me the whole time, but I didn’t manage more than a Thanks in response, I was so nervous by now. The moment Molly declared me ready I headed downstairs.
Mr. O’Gara greeted me with an approving nod. “Good choice, Molly. Very businesslike. A little on the severe side, but that’s no bad thing. Do you remember all your talking points, M?”
He ran over a few of the tougher questions again over breakfast, which I was too keyed up to eat anyway. When Sean and Rigel both commented on my abstinence, I promised to make up for it after the press conference.
Then, suddenly, it was time.
“All right, M, come over to this window.” Mr. O’Gara’s nervousness nearly matched my own, which didn’t help at all. “In a moment I’ll switch it to two-way. You’ll answer their questions from here. Would you rather stand or sit?”
“Stand. I’ll fidget if I sit.”
I looked out at the street, only six feet below us. A small, expectant group—the reporters—waited there, with a much larger crowd ranged behind them. It was obvious none of them could see me…yet.
“How does this window work?” I asked, stalling.
“Similar to what I did for the vidscreen last night, just a shifting of electrons in the reactive glass. Sean can give you the details later, if you’d like. Ready?”
I straightened my shoulders, clasped my hands firmly in front of me so no shaking would be visible, and nodded.
Mr. O did something with his omni and immediately I could hear everything from outside as clearly as though the glass had simply disappeared. At the same moment, every head outside swiveled my way.
“Hello, everyone, and thank you for coming.” I willed my suddenly magnified voice to stay steady. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve looked forward to finally seeing Nuath and its people with my own eyes. This is a very exciting moment for me.”
A murmur swept through the crowd of onlookers, but whether of surprise, excitement or condemnation, I couldn’t tell. Some of them bowed, fists over hearts, but not all. Not nearly all. The little group of reporters took a step closer, their expressions so avid I almost took an instinctive step back. Almost. Holding my ground, I spoke again before they could start flinging questions or accusations at me.
“I’m sure you’re all aware that my life was as disrupted by Faxon’s tyranny as any of yours, and my losses as great. I hope, however, not to dwell on the past, but instead to press forward into a hopeful future. To rebuild Nuath into the land of peace, plenty and dignity that it was before his regime, with an eye to making it even better, a place where every single citizen will have his or her voice heard and needs met.
“To do this, I will need the support of each and every one of you. I realize that you don’t really know me yet, but I plan to change that. My goal is to earn your trust, as well as the support I will need to lead Nuath into its best possible future.”
That concluded my prepared opening. The final line seemed well received, if not so enthusiastically as in Bailrealta.
“I understand that many of you have questions for me, and I’m glad, as it will help us get to know each other. Yes?”
I nodded to a man up front, who I recognized as Gaynor, the reporter from the main Nuathan News Network. I recognized a few of the others as well, from the various fine and local news feeds we’d watched last night.
“Thank you, Princess,” Gaynor began respectfully enough. “All of Nuath has been just as eager for your arrival as you have been, and hopeful that you might eventually be able to pick up where Sovereign Leontine so tragically left off.”
I smiled slightly and inclined my head, but didn’t relax. Just as well, given his next words.
“That is why those videos from the Quintessence we’ve all seen by now are so distressing. I hope very much that you will be able to reassure us by explaining exactly what sort of relationship exists between you and Rigel Stuart, your former Bodyguard.”
This was the question Mr. O’Gara had drilled me on most, so I had my answer ready.
“Rigel was the very first person of Martian descent I met on Earth. He and his parents were the ones who discovered my true identity and informed me about Nuath and its people, as well as my own ties and responsibilities to it. When Faxon’s followers attempted to kill me, Rigel Stuart saved my life—more than once. I have always considered him a close and trusted friend.”
Not the whole truth, but certainly no lie.
“Are the two of you romantically involved?” a female reporter near the back called out.
“We dated for a couple of months when I was fifteen.” I forced myself to shut up before I could elaborate about the happiest two months of my life. Mr. O’Gara had been adamant that I not volunteer any more than strictly necessary.
“And what about now?” the same reporter persisted. “Those videos of you kissing—”
“As I said, I still consider him a close and trusted friend.”
A storm of questions broke out then, along with some derisive laughter from the crowd in the back. I was losing them.
“How does Sean O’Gara feel about this friendship?” shouted a blond man I recognized from the Agricultural network. “Was he in favor of Rigel Stuart being appointed your Bodyguard?”
“I can’t speak for Sean,” I replied, grasping at another one of my talking points, “but he has been aware of my relationship with Rigel since meeting me and did not attempt to block his appointment as Bodyguard.” Not formally, anyway.
“Will this rekindling of your relationship with Rigel Stuart prevent you taking Sean O’Gara as your Royal Consort, or him from accepting?” a different reporter, a woman, asked.
“I would prefer not to speculate about the future, especially as I have not yet been formally Acclaimed Sovereign.”
“But what about that kiss?” the interviewer from the People’s Network called out. “You two looked like a lot more than friends in that video.”
Palms sweating, I arranged my expression into the solemn, slightly apologetic one I’d practiced last night. “It’s true that we were both guilty of a momentary lapse in judgment during the stress of our very first space voyage. It was only momentary, however. After being informed last year of the reasons a personal relationship between us would be unwise, we have done our very best to set our early romantic attachment aside for the good of Nuath.”
That seemed to go over fairly well. I saw people in the crowd nodding to each other, as though in understanding. But then came the question I’d dreaded most.
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“Exactly what happened behind that closed door, Princess? The people have a right to know.”
Personally, I thought that was crap. Princess, Sovereign, whatever, I was entitled to some privacy! But I couldn’t say that. Instead, I repeated the words I’d rehearsed earlier with Mr. O’Gara. “Rigel is not only my good friend, he is my trusted advisor. I needed to speak with him about matters I couldn’t discuss openly in front of my Chomseireach so that we would be better able to conduct ourselves as was fitting for both of our stations. I regret that I chose to do so in a way that was open to misinterpretation.”
Laughter and another storm of questions broke out, some of them downright rude. Among others, I heard, “How physical was your relationship?” “Did Stuart force you?” and “Are you still a virgin?”
To my relief, Gaynor spoke again before my reluctance to answer turned them actively hostile. “I apologize, Princess, for the personal and speculative nature of some of my colleagues’ questions, but accusations have been leveled at the media in the past for our failure to dig deeply enough. Given our experiences of the past fifteen years, we can no longer afford to take everything we are told at face value.”
“I understand. In fact, I think that’s admirable.” I projected all the warmth I could, given that my insides churned with ice. “I grew up in a society where the freedom—and persistence—of the press is both guaranteed and expected.”
Realizing that I was perilously close to crying or shouting, either of which would be distinctly un-Sovereign like, I abruptly launched into my prepared closing statement before they could ask any more questions.
“Again, thank you all for coming. I understand that my youth is a concern for many of you. I cannot, of course, pretend to be anything other than a sixteen-year-old who only learned of her heritage six months ago, nor will I pretend that coming to terms with my true identity has been easy. What I can assure you is that I have now accepted my heritage and have striven to the very best of my ability to prepare myself for the role I was born to assume. I fully intend to continue learning how to best benefit Nuath and its people, not only until I reach adulthood, but for the rest of my life.