Crown of Slaves

Chapter 1

"I'm really nervous, Daddy," whispered Berry, glancing almost furtively at the resplendently uniformed soldiers who seemed to line the entire length of the hallway leading to Queen Elizabeth's private audience chamber.

"No reason to be," gruffed Anton Zilwicki, continuing to advance stolidly toward the great double doors at the end of the hallway. The doors, like much of the furniture in Mount Royal Palace, were made of ferran. Even at the still-considerable distance, Anton could easily recognize the distinctive grain of the wood, as well as the traditional designs which had been carved into it. Ferran was native to the highlands of his home planet of Gryphon, and he'd done quite a bit of work with the stuff in his youth. Most Gryphon highlanders did, at one time or another.

Part of him-the rational, calculating side which was so prominent a feature of his personality-was pleased to see the wood. The wooden doors, and the carvings on them even more so, were a subtle reminder to everyone by the Winton dynasty that they valued their Gryphon highlander subjects as much as Manticorans proper. But Anton couldn't help remembering how much he'd hated working with the stuff as a boy. The root of the word "ferran" was a none-too-subtle indicator of its most outstanding property other than the attractive grain and rich color.

The enormous muscles in Anton's forearms were the product of his weight-lifting regimen as an adult; but, already as a boy, those muscles had been hard and powerful. Ferran could not be worked by weaklings. The stuff was almost as hard as iron, and just as easy to shape with hand tools.

Anton's lips twitched. The same accusation-or its kin, at any rate-had been leveled at him, and quite a bit more often than once. Damn you, Zilwicki! Hard as a rock and just as easy to move!

That very morning, in fact, and by his lover Cathy Montaigne.

"I think Mommy was right," whispered Berry. "You should have worn your uniform."

"They put me on half-pay," he growled. "I'm supposed to wear that silly dress uniform-most uncomfortable thing I own-afterward? Like a poodle sitting up to beg forgiveness?"

Berry's nervous glances at the guards in the hallway were now definitely furtive, especially the glance she cast at the four soldiers following them a few steps behind. Clearly enough, the teenage girl was half-expecting the Queen's Own Regiment to arrest them on the spot for…

Whatever fancy legal phrase covered: charged with being the stubborn disrespectful lout Anton Zilwicki and his adopted daughter.

"The Queen didn't put you on the beach," she hissed hastily, as if that disclaimer might possibly establish her own innocence. "That's what Mommy kept saying to you this morning. I heard her. She was pretty loud."

The thing that flashed immediately through Anton's mind was a soft pleasure at Berry's use of the term Mommy to refer to Cathy Montaigne. Technically, of course, she wasn't. Berry and her brother Lars had been adopted by Anton, and since he and Cathy were not married the most that Cathy could officially be called was…

Again, his lips twitched. Daddy's girlfriend, maybe. Paramour, if you wanted to be fancy about it. "Anton's squeeze" was the term Cathy herself enjoyed using in proper company. The former Countess of the Tor took a childish pleasure in seeing pained expressions on the faces of polite society.

For Berry and Lars, born and raised in the hellhole of the Old Quarter on Earth's capital city of Chicago, the legalities were meaningless. Since Anton's daughter Helen had found and rescued them from the catacombs, Berry and Lars had found the first real family they'd ever had. And Anton was glad to see the ease with which that knowledge now came to them.

But pleasure was for a later time. This was a moment for a father's stern instructions. So Anton removed the smile, came to an abrupt halt, and half-glowered at his daughter. He ignored the four soldiers who abruptly found themselves coming to an unexpected halt, almost stumbling into their charges.

"And so what?" he demanded. He made no attempt to keep his basso voice from rumbling down the hallway, although the thickening Gryphon highlander accent probably made the words unrecognizable by the time they reached the ears of the majordomo standing by the far doorway.

"The monarch stands at the center of things, girl. For that, the Crown gets my allegiance. Unconditional allegiance, too, so long as the dynasty respects the rights of their subjects. But the reverse stands true as well. I do not condemn Her Majesty for the actions of 'her' government, mind. It's a constitutional monarchy, and as things stand at the moment, that would be silly. But she gets no praise for it, either."

He almost laughed, seeing Berry swallowing. To the former urchin of Chicago's underworld, power was power and "the laws" be damned. No laws nor lawmen had prevented her from suffering the horrors she'd lived through. Nor would they have, ever, in the world she'd come from. All that had ended it was the naked violence of Anton's daughter Helen, a young Havenite intelligence officer named Victor Cachat, and a dozen ex-slave killers from the Audubon Ballroom led by Jeremy X.

Yet a father's job is to educate his children, and Anton would no more shirk that duty than any other.

He heard one of the soldiers standing behind him clear his throat in a none-too-polite reminder. The Queen is waiting, you fool!

A splendid opportunity to continue the lesson, he decided. Anton gave the soldier-the sergeant commanding their little four-man escort-his most intimidating stare.

And quite intimidating it was, too. Anton was a short man, but so wide and extravagantly muscled that he looked like something out of a legend of dwarven kings. The blocky head and dark eyes-hard as agates, at times like these-only heightened the effect. The soldiers staring at him would no doubt be wondering if Anton could bend steel bars with his bare hands.

He could, in fact. And the soldiers were probably also suddenly remembering that the grotesquely built man glowering at them had, in younger days, been the Star Kingdom's champion wrestler in his weight class.

All four of them took a half-step back. The sergeant's right hand even twitched ever so slightly toward the sidearm holstered at his side.

Good enough. Anton wasn't actually seekingan incident, after all. He let his eyes slide away from the soldiery and come back to his daughter.

"I'm no damn nobleman, girl. Neither are you. So we ask no courtier favors-nor do we bend our knees. They put me on the beach, and the Queen said nothing. So she can live with it as well as they or I can. That's why that uniform is in the closet and will stay there. Understand?"

Berry was still nervous. "Shouldn't I, maybe, bow or something?"

Anton rumbled a laugh. "Do you even know how to 'bow'?"

Berry nodded. "Mommy showed me."

Anton's glower was coming back in full force. Hastily, Berry added: "But not the way she does it-or used to do it, anyway, before she became a commoner."

Anton shook his head. "Bowing is for formal occasions, girl. This is an informal audience. Just stand quietly and be polite, that's good enough." He turned and resumed his progress toward the doors leading to the Royal Presence. "Besides, I wouldn't trust you to do it right anyway. Sure as certain not if Cathy showed you how, with all of a noblewoman's flourish and twirls."

His lips twitched again, his good humor returning. "When she's in the mood-not often, I admit-she can make any duchess turn green with envy with that fancy bow of hers."

If nothing else, by the time they reached the doors and a glaring majordomo began swinging them open, Anton's display of highlander contrariness seemed to have relaxed Berry a bit. No doubt she'd reached the conclusion that the Royal Displeasure soon to descend on her father would be so thoroughly focused on him that she might emerge unscathed.

In the event, however, the Queen of the Star Kingdom greeted them with a smile so wide it might almost be called a grin. Against Elizabeth's mahogany skin, the white teeth gleamed brightly. From what Anton could determine, the sharp-toothed gape on the face of the Queen's companion Ariel seemed even more cheerful. Anton was no expert on treecats, but he knew they usually reflected the emotions of the human to whom they were bonded. And if that vaguely feline shape lounging casually across the thickly upholstered backrest of the Queen's chair was offended or angry, there was no sign of it.

Despite his contrariness of the moment, Anton could not keep himself from warming toward the Queen. He was still a Crown Loyalist, when all was said and done, even if that once-simple political philosophy had developed a lot of curlicues and embroidery in the years since he'd met Catherine Montaigne. And he approved of this particular monarch, from all that he'd been able to see of her since she came to the throne.

The knowledge was all from a distance, however. He'd never actually met Queen Elizabeth, other than seeing her at a handful of large official gatherings.

He caught a glimpse of the young woman seated next to the Queen making an almost-furtive motion at the small console attached to her own chair. Glancing quickly to the side, Anton spotted a discreetly recessed viewscreen in the near wall of the small chamber. The display was dark now, but he suspected that the Queen and her companion had been observing him as he approached down the hallway-in which case, they would have heard his little exchange with Berry. Every word of it, unless the audio pickups were a lot worse than you'd expect in the palace of the galaxy's most electronically advanced realm.

He was not offended by the notion. In his days as a Navy yard dog, he might have been. But Anton's many years since as an intelligence officer-which he still basically was, even if in private practice-had given him a blasé attitude toward surveillance. So long as people respected his privacy, which he defined as his home and hearth, he didn't much care who snooped on him in public places. Whatever his other faults, Anton Zilwicki was not a hypocrite, and it wasn't as if he didn't do the same himself.

Besides, it was obvious from her smile the Queen wasn't offended. If anything, she seemed amused. He could sense Berry's relaxation as that knowledge came to her also.

But Anton wasn't paying much attention to Berry. As they continued to advance slowly toward the elaborate chairs which served Elizabeth and her companion as informal thrones, Anton's attention was given to the young woman seated next to the Queen.

At first, he thought he'd never seen the woman before, not even in file imagery or a holograph. As he drew nearer, however, he began connecting her features with those he'd seen in a few images taken when the girl was considerably younger. Soon enough, Anton had deduced her identity.

The age was the final giveaway. Anton was no expert on couture, but it was obvious even to him that the young woman's apparel was extremely expensive. The kind of clothing that would be worn by a noblewoman serving as the Queen's adviser. But this woman was much too young for that. Granted, prolong made gauging age rather difficult, but Anton was sure this woman was almost as young as the teenager she looked to be.

That meant a member of the royal family itself, or close kin, and there was only one such who fit the bill. The fact that the girl's complexion was so much paler than the standard Winton skin color just added the icing to the cake.

Ruth Winton, then, the daughter of the Queen's sister-in-law Judith Winton. Ruth had been sired by a Masadan privateer but adopted by the Queen's younger brother Michael when he married Judith after her escape from captivity. If Anton remembered correctly-and his memory was phenomenal-the girl had been born after Judith's escape, so Michael was the only father Ruth had ever known. She'd be about twenty-three years old now.

Because of the awkwardness of the girl's paternity she was officially not part of the line of succession to the throne. Other than that, however, she was in effect Queen Elizabeth's niece. Anton wondered what she was doing here, but he gave the matter no more than a fleeting thought. He had no idea what he was doing here, after all, since the Queen's summons had come as a surprise to him. He was quite sure he would discover the answer soon enough.

He and Berry reached a point on the floor which Anton decided marked a proper distance from The Royal Person. He stopped and bowed politely. Next to him, Berry did a hasty and nervous version of the same.

Hasty, yes-but still far too elaborate for Anton's taste. However much of his rustic background Anton might have abandoned when he left Gryphon many years earlier, he still retained in full measure a highlander's belligerent plebeianism. Kneeling and scraping and kowtowing and fancy flourishes before royalty were aristocratic vices. Anton would give the Crown his loyalty and respect, and that was damn well all.

He must have scowled a bit. The Queen laughed and exclaimed: "Oh, please, Captain Zilwicki! The girl has a splendid bow. Still a bit awkward, perhaps, but I recognize Cathy's touch in it. Can't miss that style, as much trouble as Cathy got me into about it, the time she and I infuriated our trainer by doing what amounted to a ballet instead of an exercise. It was all her idea, of course. Not that I wasn't willing to go along."

Anton had heard about the incident, as it happened. Cathy had mentioned it to him once. Although Cathy rarely spoke of the matter, as girls she and the Queen had been very close friends before their developing political differences ruptured the relationship. But, even then, there'd been no personal animosity involved. And Anton had not been the only one who'd noticed that, after Cathy's return from exile, there was always an undertone of warmth on those occasions when she and Queen Elizabeth encountered each other.

True, the encounters were still relatively few and far between, because the Queen faced an awkward political situation. While Elizabeth herself shared Cathy's hostility to genetic slavery-as did, for that matter, the government of Manticore itself, on the official record-Cathy's multitude of political enemies never missed an opportunity to hammer at Cathy's well-known if formally denied ties with the Audubon Ballroom. Despite Manticore's position on slavery, the Ballroom remained proscribed in the Star Kingdom as a "terrorist" organization, and its leader Jeremy X was routinely reviled as the galaxy's most ruthless assassin.

That was not how either Cathy or Anton looked at the matter-nor the Queen herself, Anton was pretty sure-but private opinions were one thing, public policy another. Whether or not Elizabeth agreed with the stance taken toward the Ballroom by her government, that was the official stance. So, however friendly might be the personal relations between her and Cathy whenever they "accidentally" encountered each other at social gatherings, the Queen was careful not to give Cathy any formal political recognition. Even though-of this, Anton was positive-no one would be more delighted than Queen Elizabeth to see Cathy displace New Kiev as the leader of the Liberal Party.

Elizabeth laughed again. "The things she got me into! One scrape after another. My favorite escapade-the one that got her banned from the Palace for months, my mother was so furious-was the time-"

She broke off abruptly. The grin faded, becoming almost strained, but didn't vanish entirely.

"Yes, I know, Captain Zilwicki. And now she's banned from the Palace again-politically, if not personally-and by my order, not the Queen Mother's. Which, as it happens, is why I asked you here. In a complicated sort of way."

The Queen made a little motion to the majordomo. Obviously expecting it, the man and one of the soldiers standing guard brought up two of the chairs against a wall and positioned them in front of the Queen and her companion.

"Do have a seat, Captain, please. Both of you."

Interesting, thought Anton. He was not familiar with royal protocol from personal experience, but he knew a lot about it. Anton knew a lot about most things which bore in any way upon his concerns. He was sure he lacked knowledge of some of the fine points, but the matter of seating etiquette was fairly straightforward. When one was summoned before the monarch, one normally was either presented with chairs as one came into the room, or one stood throughout the audience. The distinction was rather sharp, and indicated either one's status or one's favor with the monarch, or both.

This half-and-half arrangement, he suspected, was the Queen's way of signaling a half-and-half sort of business. What anyone not encumbered by the necessary burden of royal protocol would have indicated by just saying: "Let's see if we can make a deal."

Anton's sense of humor was far more restrained than that of his lover Cathy Montaigne, but it was by no means absent. So, as he took his seat, he found himself fighting off the impulse to respond with "you shuffle the cards and I'll cut 'em."

As soon as he was seated, Elizabeth gestured toward the young woman sitting next to her. "This is my niece Ruth, as I imagine you've already deduced."

Anton nodded; first at the Queen, to acknowledge her guess, and then at the royal niece.

"You would have rarely seen a picture of her-and none in the last four years-because we've always kept her out of the limelight." A bit stiffly: "That is not, incidentally-whatever the 'faxes may have speculated about-because the House of Winton is in the least bit concerned about Ruth's parentage, much less ashamed of it. In her early years, it was to protect her from possible harm. Her father-her mother's rapist, I should say-along with many of those Masadan fanatics, escaped after Earl White Haven captured the planet following their attack on Grayson. We've been looking for them ever since, but as I'm sure you know even better than I, we haven't had much success finding them."

The Queen grimaced, and Zilwicki nodded mentally. A hard, disciplined core of the Masadan version of the Church of Humanity Unchained had managed to go deep underground and stay there. The fact that they were still hidden after over fifteen T-years of Manticoran occupation of the planet said things no intelligence professional really wanted to contemplate. Especially since the plot to assassinate both the Queen and the Protector of Grayson which had come within centimeters of success only four years earlier.

"Who knows what those maniacs might have done?" the Queen continued, confirming that her thoughts matched his own. "That was a long time ago, of course, and we don't worry about it much any longer. But since then-"

Elizabeth cocked her head a bit and gave Ruth a wry little smile. "Since then, we've maintained the secrecy at Ruth's own request. My niece, as it turns out-it's all a bit shocking, really-has a most-un-Wintonesque desire to do her service in some capacity other than following the usual military or foreign service or religious careers."

Anton gave the girl a careful scrutiny, considering everything he already knew about her, as he chewed on Elizabeth's words.

There'd been some furor, especially among the more reactionary aristocracy, at then-Prince and Heir Michael Winton's choice of a bride. As Heir, he was legally required to marry a commoner if he married at all, but the expectation had been that he would simply wait until his nephew replaced him as Heir, then marry someone of his own station. Certainly no one had ever contemplated the possibility that he would marry a foreign commoner. Particularly not a penniless refugee commoner from someplace like Grayson. And especially not a pregnant commoner who'd escaped her Masadan captors only by committing multiple murders and stealing a starship along the way.

Michael, however, possessed the stubbornness of the House of Winton in full measure. More important even than that, perhaps, he'd enjoyed his sister's full-blooded support. So, whether anyone liked it or not, he'd married Judith and adopted Ruth.

Not without certain special provisions, of course. Michael was no longer Heir or Prince Michael since his nephew Roger had gotten old enough to be declared his mother's Heir, and they'd postponed the formal marriage until after Roger had replaced him. He was now the Duke of Winton-Serisburg, which had made Judith a duchess, although it was only a life title and would not pass to Ruth. Nonetheless, his adoption of Judith's daughter had included the specific proviso that Ruth would not stand in the succession to the Crown of Manticore. The title of "Princess" normally bestowed upon her was simply a courtesy, although Anton strongly suspected that Elizabeth intended to create a title in the girl's own right when the moment seemed ripe.

But whatever the circumstance of her parentage might be, Ruth Winton was a Winton, and the House of Winton, like most capable and intelligent royal dynasties in history, had a long tradition that its young scions went into public service. The normal career course was either the foreign office or the military; in the latter case, with a heavy emphasis upon the Navy, that being Manticore's senior service. Some, those with an inclination for it, chose instead a career in the clergy, however. The Star Kingdom had no established church, as such, but the House of Winton were and had always been members of the Second Reformation Catholic Church. Any number of Wintons, over the centuries, had become clergymen. A few had even gone so far as to adopt the celibacy which was optional for Second Reformed Catholic clergy, but more or less expected for those of them who attained the rank of bishop.

A lot of things came together in Anton's mind. "She wants to be a spy-you're right, Your Majesty, it's a bit shocking-and she wants me to train her. Makes sense, that last, even if the rest of it borders on lunacy. No way she could learn the trade properly through official channels. The Naval Academy would choke on the idea, and the Special Intelligence Service would probably have outright apoplexy. You could force them to it, of course, but they'd be so twitchy about security they'd scramble her brains for sure and certain."

The blank look on Queen Elizabeth's face indicated her suppressed astonishment. Next to her, young Ruth whispered: "I told you he was the best."

Anton plowed on. "It's still a crazy idea. Mind you, Your Majesty-meaning no disrespect-the dynasty could use a close member who was proficient at the spying business. Not so much for its own sake as to enable you to detect the trash and garbage which is probably all the so-called 'intelligence' you're getting, after four years of High Ridge's regime. From either ONI or the SIS. Meaning no disrespect. To Your Majesty, that is."

He paused briefly; then: "But that still leaves the matter of security. Not so much of a problem here on Manticore, true, but my work takes me off-planet as often as not. And sometimes to places I wouldn't want to take an alley mutt, much less a princess. A few days from now, in fact-"

Elizabeth interrupted him. "I know about your upcoming trip, Captain. In point of fact, that trip is what sparked this little meeting."

Again, Anton's mind raced; and, again, many things fell into place. At times like this, people who didn't know him found his thought processes almost superhumanly quick. In reality, Anton thought he was a rather slow thinker, with nothing like the quicksilver mind of his lover Cathy. But he was so methodical and thorough about the way he considered everything ahead of time, that once the final key facts started coming in he was able to make sense out of complexity in a way that few people could. The Queen's summons the day before had been completely unexpected, and Anton had reacted the way he always did at such times-by spending hours chewing on all the possible variables which might be involved.

He couldn't keep a little grin from showing. "Decided to stick your thumb in High Ridge's eye, eh? Good for you, Your Majesty." Out of the corner of his eye he saw the majordomo and both of the officers in the room glaring at him. A bit belatedly, he realized it was probably a breach of royal protocol for a commoner spy to congratulate the Queen on her Machiavellian cunning.

Um. Probably a severe breach, in fact. But Anton found he didn't care much, and saw no reason not to widen it.

"An excellent move, if you want my opinion, and on at least three fronts. Remind everyone that the Wintons despise slavery, and Solarian-style neocolonialism just about as much; help counteract some unfavorable publicity about the Star Kingdom in the minds of Solarian commoners-who number in the untold trillions, though people seem to forget that-and give Montaigne a subtle boost in her election campaign without either officially endorsing her or even-oh, yes, it's shrewd; good for you, Your Majesty-having to officially rescind her banning from the royal presence and the House of Lords."

The next words came rumbling like a freight train: "Not to mention that sticking a thumb in High Ridge's eye is an act of grace in its own right. Not sure about the fine points of Second Reformed theology, but in my creed that alone 'ud get you ushered into Heaven."

He cleared his throat. "Meaning no disrespect to Your Majesty."

For a moment, the room was frozen. Both the Queen and her niece were sitting rigid, staring at him. The majordomo appeared to be on the verge of apoplexy, and the two officers likewise. For their part, the soldiers standing guard seemed to be considering the likelihood they'd shortly be carrying out an arrest on the spot. Next to him, Anton's daughter Berry was obviously torn between the urge to hide under her chair and flee the room outright.

And then Elizabeth burst into laughter. No soft and genteel thing, either, but the kind of raucous hilarity more appropriate to a vaudeville theater than a royal palace.

"God, you're good!" she exclaimed, when the laughter subsided. "It took me two solid days to hammer the same notions into the heads of my-ah-inner circle." She gave her niece's forearm an affectionate little squeeze. "Except Ruth, of course."

Mention of Ruth brought Anton's mind to bear on that variable, and it took him no more than two or three seconds to figure out the rest of it. In broad outline, at least. The thing that had puzzled him the most about the Queen's summons was her reason for requesting Berry's presence as well.

"It's probably not a good idea, Your Majesty," he said abruptly. "The part involving your niece and Berry, I mean. I admit the notion has a certain charm, being about as antique a maneuver as there is in the books. Still-"

Forcing himself to remember that he was addressing his monarch, Anton managed to keep a scowl from showing on his face. "Charming or not, and whether it'd work or not-and meaning no disrespect to Your Majesty-there's no way I'm going to agree to it. I was a father before I was an intelligence officer, and I've never had any trouble keeping my priorities straight."

Again, the majordomo and the officers got stiff-faced. But Elizabeth simply gave Anton a long and considering look. "No, that you haven't," she said. "Someday you'll have to tell me all the details of what happened in Chicago, but I know enough about the affair to understand the heart of it. Two swine gave you a choice between being a father and having a career, and you shoved the choice right down their throats."

It was not, Anton reflected, normally considered appropriate for a monarch to refer to her ambassador to the most powerful star nation in the galaxy and to one of her more senior admirals as "swine." Not that Elizabeth seemed concerned by the thought.

"Did you hesitate at all?" she asked.

"Not for a second." He moved his massive shoulders in a little shrug. "Being a beachcomber's not so bad, when you get down to it."

"Good. I believe I can trust a man who isn't afraid of being on the beach when he has to."

Again, he shrugged. This time, as if shifting off a load. "Be that as it may, Your Majesty, I'm still not going to agree to it. It might not be all that dangerous-probably wouldn't, in fact-but it's still my daughter we're talking about here. And-"

He got no further. Anton had forgotten that Berry had a quick brain of her own. She might not have Anton's habit of systematically examining every situation, but she too had wondered why she'd been specifically included in the summons.

"Oh, that's crap!" She flushed. "Uh, sorry, Daddy-and, uh, really sorry, Your Majesty. I mean about the bad language."

There was no trace now of the girl's earlier nervousness. "But it's still cra-uh, nonsense. It's my life, Daddy, even if I am only seventeen-but I didn't get prolong as early as Ruth-uh, Princess Ruth-did, so I actually probably even look a bit older than she does, if anything, and who'd know the difference anyway, because you've never let anybody get a public image of me either, on account of you're a professional paranoi-uh, very extremely cautious."

For a moment, Anton thought she might actually stick her tongue out at him. She'd done it before, now and then. But Berry managed to recall her circumstances, drew herself up as graciously as a seventeen year old could, and ended with a little sniff.

"I think I'd make a splendid double for the Princess. It'd be exciting for me, that's for sure, and it'd allow her to get out in the world for once."

She and Ruth exchanged admiring smiles. Anton looked to the Queen for help, but Elizabeth was practically smirking.

His shoulders slumped. "Damn," he growled.

Chapter 2

Berry was far less pleased with the situation the next day, when she had to return to Mount Royal Palace in order to present herself to the royal clinic.

Anton had insisted from the beginning, and had finally convinced Elizabeth, that the Queen's original idea of having Berry serve as Ruth's double was unworkable. Or, more precisely, would only work for a short time and would likely result in very negative political repercussions.

"You just can't pull it off, in this day and age," he'd argued. "All someone has to do is get a scrap of DNA from either one of the girls to expose the switch, and sooner or later someone will manage that. With modern technology, you can manage it from traces of sweat left on a doorknob. Yes, sure, Berry was born on Earth so her DNA will be as much of a mélange as any human's in the galaxy. But Ruth's of Grayson-Masadan stock, and that genetic variation has far too many distinct traits not to be spotted easily."

The Queen frowned. "I thought you'd agreed, Captain?"

He shook his head. "You're thinking too directly. You don't need an actual double, Your Majesty. All you need is misdirection. At no point-ever-will you or I or anyone else directly involved in the affair ever come right out and say 'this girl is Ruth Winton and that one is Berry Zilwicki.' All you need to do is announce that Ruth Winton will be accompanying Captain Anton Zilwicki and Professor W.E.B. Du Havel on their voyage to pay the Anti-Slavery League's respects to the family and associates of the martyr Hieronymus Stein. She'll be coming along to pay the personal respects of the House of Winton. That is it. Somewhere along the line-but not in a communiqué from the dynasty-we'll drop a casual mention that Captain Zilwicki's daughter Berry will be coming along also."

He gave the girls each a glance. "We dress Berry up in the fanciest clothing we can find, and have Ruth wear the sloppy teenage stuff Berry usually wears when she's not trying to impress royalty. I'd call it rags except it costs me twice as much to buy the stuff as good clothing would." He ignored his daughter's little choke of protest. "Then, let slip the word before we leave-just in time to let the paparazzi show up. Berry will walk beside me as we pass through the gates into the boarding area, dressed like a princess, with the royal guards acting as if they were protecting her. Ruth will tag along behind, looking nonchalant."

Elizabeth's face cleared. "Ah. I see. We don't tell them-anyone-that Berry is Ruth and vice versa. We just let them jump to that conclusion on their own."

"Exactly. That'll serve the purpose from the security angle. But it also allows you to slide off the hook later when the confusion eventually gets cleared up-which it will, don't doubt it for a moment-and people start throwing around accusations that the Crown of Manticore was engaging in duplicity. You just shrug your shoulders and say it isn't your fault if the newsies couldn't get their story straight."

The Queen shook her head. "I agree with your logic, Captain, but you're missing the real political problem. Charges of being shrewd and cunning and sneaky, the Crown of Manticore can live with. Frankly, I'd bathe in it. The charge that would really hurt is that we were willing to risk the life of a commoner to protect royalty. That's the one thing I can't afford, now of all times. More than ever, these days, the strength of the Crown rests in the allegiance of the commonalty."

Anton bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the truth of her remark.

"I'm curious, Captain," Elizabeth continued. "Yes, your variant will let me slip off the hook when the time comes. But the fact remains that both of us know that we are in fact using a commoner to protect a princess. Doesn't that bother you? I'd think it would, coming from Gryphon. Some of the Manticore Crown Loyalists would undoubtedly do it cheerfully, but you highlanders are a… cantankerous lot."

Anton grinned. "Are we not, indeed? The reason it doesn't bother me, Your Majesty, is because my daughter insisted on it." He gave Ruth another glance. The girl had been sired upon her mother by a husband who viewed his wives as chattel. "I said I was a father, not a stinking Masadan patriarch. Be damned to the rest of it."

Ruth's cheeks seemed to glow a bit, although her expression remained still. Anton hadn't made the remark for any ulterior purpose, but he realized in that moment that he'd cemented his position as one of the princess' heroes, and he felt his heart sink slightly. Another man might have taken pleasure at the thought of acquiring favor from royalty. Anton Zilwicki-"Daddy Dour," his daughter Helen sometimes called him-saw only the problems and complications involved.

And to think I used to have such a simple life. An unattached widower and an obscure intelligence officer in the RMN, that's all. Now look at me! My lover's the most notorious political figure in the Star Kingdom, and now I've added royal intrigue to the brew!

"There's one other thing we could do to enhance the chances of keeping the switch unnoticed for as long as possible," he added. He studied the two girls for a moment. "Assuming that they're willing to do it, of course-and, meaning no offense, Your Majesty, that you're willing to pay for it."

Queen Elizabeth chuckled. "A nanotech transformation? You're certainly free with the royal purse, Captain Zilwicki!"

Anton made no reply beyond a thin smile. That seemed like a better response than: sure, it'll cost a small fortune-but for you, that's pocket change.

Elizabeth studied the two girls herself. She seemed a bit uncertain, although Anton was quite sure the hesitation was not because of the expense involved. Biosculpt would have been cheaper, but biosculpt was-literally-only skin deep, and they needed more than that in this case. Although Berry and Ruth were very similar physical types, aside from Berry's dark brown hair and Ruth's golden blond, they weren't quite the same height. And while neither of them would ever be called stocky, Ruth was noticeably finer-boned than Berry. It wasn't anything which would be hugely apparent to a casual observer, but it would show up instantly if anyone decided to run a side-by-side comparison of their HD images.

Unless, of course, the differences were reversed before the HD cameras ever saw them.

There were drawbacks to that approach, however, and Elizabeth was clearly aware of them. Even leaving aside the fact that doing the procedures in the short time they had available would be uncomfortable at the very least, nanotech body transformations were unsettling in the best of circumstances. Although the changes were easily reversible, it was still disturbing to most people to have their bodies start changing shape on them. All the more so, when the two people involved were very young women, their physical aging furthered retarded by prolong, who were still getting accustomed to the bodies they had.

"It's your decision, Ruth-and yours too, of course, Berry," said the Queen. "I warn you, it won't be any fun."

"Sure we'll do it!" the princess piped up immediately.

Berry herself, noticing that Ruth Winton's expression didn't look nearly as confident as the words themselves, had hesitated a moment. She really knew very little about nanotech, especially as applied to human physiology. But the look of silent appeal the princess gave her settled the issue.

" 'Course we will," she'd agreed, trying her best for a tone of confidence. And hoping that her own expression wasn't as transparent as Ruth's.

To Berry's relief, the "clinic" proved to be a fully equipped and up-to-date mini-hospital. Not entirely to her relief, the doctor who appeared upon her arrival to take charge of her proved to be a very friendly but disquietingly youthful person. Judging from appearance, Berry wouldn't have thought the woman was old enough to have graduated from medical school yet.

To her complete chagrin, the doctor lacked the most basic rudiments of a proper bedside manner.

"Is this going to hurt?" she asked nervously, following the doctor down a corridor which seemed excessively sterile and undecorated.

"Probably," Dr. Schwartz replied breezily. She gave Berry a smile that was less sympathetic than Berry thought it could have been. "What do you expect? A full nanotech body transformation in four days!" Schwartz shook her head, as if bemused by the folly of it all. "We're adding almost a full centimeter to your height, you know. And reducing the Princess' the same amount."

The smile was definitely not as sympathetic as it should have been, Berry thought crossly. Especially when she heard the doctor's next words.

"There's bound to be a fair amount of discomfort when we start taking your bones apart and putting them back together again," Schwartz said. "Soft tissue changes aren't that bad, but bone alterations are an entirely different matter. Still, I imagine you'll spend a lot of the time sleeping."

Five seconds later, Dr. Schwartz ushered Berry into a deceptively unremarkable looking private hospital room.

Ruth already occupied one of the room's two beds. She looked a little calmer than Berry felt, but not very much, and Berry felt obscurely comforted as she recognized the other girl's matching nervousness.

"All right, now, Ms. Zilwicki," Dr. Schwartz said briskly. "If you'll just climb into your gown and hop into bed, we can get started with the workup."

"Uh, just how much is this going to hurt?" Berry asked as she began to obey. It was, she admitted to herself, a bit late to be asking that particular question, but Dr. Schwartz didn't seem to mind.

"As I already said," the doctor told her, "there's always a degree of discomfort involved with bone modifications. Of course, I realize that we doctors tend to make patients a bit nervous when we throw around words like 'discomfort,' but you really shouldn't look at it that way. Pain is one of the body's most effective ways to communicate with us."

"If it's all the same to you," Berry said, "I'd just as soon not be communicated with that way anymore than I have to."

"I'll second that," Ruth put in from her bed.

"Well, we'll do what we can to minimize it, of course," Dr. Schwartz assured both of them. "Actually, the procedure itself isn't particularly difficult. The trick in something like this is in properly programming the nannies, and since we had complete access to both of your medical records, that was fairly straightforward this time. I remember once, when we were doing a rush job for the SIS, and we didn't have access to the med file of the fellow we were supposed to be matching our agent to. Now that was a challenge! In this case though-"

She made an airy, dismissive gesture, then frowned at Berry, who obviously wasn't getting out of her own clothes and into the waiting gown rapidly enough to suit her. Berry took the hint, and the doctor nodded in obvious satisfaction as she quickened her pace.

"In this instance, we had all the information we needed, of course," Schwartz continued. "It's the time factor that's the problem. As soon as we've completed the final workups on both of you, we'll fine-tune the nannies' programming and inject them. After that," she said with what Berry privately thought was appalling cheerfulness, "the nannies will start taking you apart and putting you back together again. If we had a couple of weeks to work with, it probably wouldn't feel much worse than, say, a moderately severe case of the flu. In the time frame that we have, I'm afraid it's going to be a bit more taxing than that."

She shrugged.

"As I said, I expect you'll both spend quite a bit of time sleeping over the next few days. A nanny transformation does tend to use up a lot of your energy. We'll provide some meds against the discomfort, but we're going to have to be able to monitor your responses to the modifications, and we can't afford to blur those with anything really potent. That's especially true when we're making the changes so rapidly. So I'm afraid that any time you don't spend sleeping is unlikely to be among your fondest memories."

She smiled again, with that same maddening lack of sympathy, and Berry sighed glumly. This had all seemed so much simpler when she blithely volunteered for it.

She finished buttoning the gown, then paused. It wasn't really hesitation. She told herself that quite firmly. But it was something uncomfortably akin to it, and an amazing number of butterflies seemed to be hovering in the vicinity of her midsection.

"Ah, you're ready, I see! Good!" Dr. Schwartz approved, smiling more cheerfully than ever, and Berry's butterfly population expanded exponentially. "In that case, let's get started, shall we?"

The next few days were considerably more miserable than the doctor's breezy assurances would have led an unsuspecting soul to believe. But it wasn't really that bad-nowhere near as bad as some of Berry's experiences had been. Besides, that same life experience had made Berry about as suspecting a soul, in a friendly and benign sort of way, as anyone she knew.

Well… except Princess Ruth.

Berry got to know the Manticoran royal fairly well during those days, since they'd nothing else to do but talk whenever they weren't sleeping. And while Berry soon came to the conclusion that Ruth was a woman she was going to like-a lot, in fact-she also found the contrast between their two personalities more than a little amusing.

Some of the differences were obvious-Berry tended to be quiet, Ruth exuberant. But an even deeper difference, if not an immediately obvious one, was their different outlook on life. True, Berry's life had left precious little in the way of childlike innocence, but she still tended to take a cheery view of the universe and its inhabitants. Ruth, on the other hand…

"Paranoid" was not the right term, Berry finally decided. The connotations of that word involved fear, worry, fretfulness-whereas the princess had about as sanguine a temperament as possible. But if the expression "optimistic paranoiac" hadn't been a ridiculous oxymoron, it would have described Ruth fairly well. She seemed to take it for granted that half the human race was up to no good, even if the knowledge didn't particularly worry her much-because she was just as certain that she'd be able to deal with the sorry blighters if they tried to mess around with her.

"How in the world did the Queen manage to keep a lid on you for twenty-three years?" Berry finally asked.

Ruth grinned. "I was her accomplice. I figured out by the time I was six that I'd be better off staying out of the limelight." She stuck out her tongue. "Not to mention-bleah-that it saved me about a million hours of tedious sitting still and trying to look properly princessy-that means 'about as bright as a donkey'-at official royal events."

"Is that why all the details of your mother's escape were kept out of the public eye for so long?"

"Oh, no." Ruth shook her head firmly. Ruth's gestures were usually done firmly-when they weren't done vehemently. "Don't blame me for that idiocy! If they'd asked my opinion-they didn't, I was only a few years old, but they should have-I would have told them to shout it from the rooftops. As it was, the truth didn't become public knowledge until after Yeltsin's Star had joined the Manticoran Alliance, at which point the Manticoran public reacted by making my mother a national hero. Ha! The same thing would have happened right from the start, even before the treaty was signed! You can be damn sure that releasing the naked, unvarnished truth about the brutality with which Masada treated its women would have made the choice of an alliance with Grayson rather than Masada a no-brainer."

She scowled fiercely. "Which, of course, is exactly why the cretins didn't do it. 'Reasons of state.' Ha! The truth is that until the Foreign Office made up its mind once and for all to pursue the relationship with Grayson, the bureaucrats had to 'keep their options open'-there's another weasel phrase for you-with the benighted barbarians who ran Masada! So of course the entire episode had to be swept under the rug."

Berry chuckled. "My father says that 'reasons of state' has been used to cover more sheer stupidity than any other pious phrase in existence. And whenever Mommy-uh, that's Cathy Montaigne-tries to get him to do something he doesn't want to, he immediately says he wants to keep his options open."

"And what does she say?"

"Oh, she tells him he's being a weasel again. And always tries to get me and-if she's home from the Academy-Helen to agree with her."

Berry added piously: "I always do, of course. Daddy can weasel with the best of 'em. Helen usually tries to claim the Academy Code of Honor prevents her from taking a stance, whereupon Mommy immediately accuses her of being a weasel."

Now, Berry looked positively saintly. "And, of course, I always agree with her again."

Ruth was eyeing her oddly. "Hey, look," Berry said defensively, "the truth's the truth."

She realized, then, that she'd misunderstood the meaning of the Princess' scrutiny.

"We're going to be friends," Ruth said abruptly. "Close friends."

It was said firmly, even vehemently. But Berry didn't miss the depths of loneliness and uncertainty that lurked beneath the words. Ruth, she was now certain, was not a woman who'd known very much in the way of close friendship in her life.

Berry smiled. "Of course we are."

She meant it, too. Berry was good at making friends. Especially close ones.

"Sir, please tell me you're pulling my leg," Platoon Sergeant Laura Hofschulte, Queen's Own Regiment, begged plaintively.

"I wish I were, Laura," Lieutenant Ahmed Griggs sighed, and leaned back in his chair to run his fingers through his thick, reddish hair. It was his platoon Sergeant Hofschulte managed, and the two of them had served together for almost two T-years. During that time, they'd come to know one another well, and a powerful sense of mutual respect had deepened between them. Which probably helped explain the pained, disbelieving look of-well, betrayal wasn't quite the right word, but it was close- Hofschulte gave him now.

"I'm not sure whose idea it was," Griggs went on after a moment. "My impression from Colonel Reynolds is that it was Her Majesty herself, but it sounds to me more like something the Princess would have come up with."

"Her, or maybe Zilwicki," Hofschulte said darkly. "The man's a professional spook, Sir. God only knows how twisty his mind's gotten over the years!"

"No, I don't think it was him," Griggs disagreed. "As you say, he's a professional spook. And a father. I don't see a man as protective as he's supposed to be exposing his daughter to risk this way. Not if it was his own idea, that is.

"Not that it matters who thought it up," he continued more briskly. "What matters is that it's up to us to make it work."

"Let me get this straight, Sir," Hofschulte said. "We're haring off to Erewhon as the Princess' protective detail, but we're supposed to look like we're protecting Berry Zilwicki, who everyone else is going to think is the Princess?"

"Yep." Griggs smiled crookedly at her expression. "And don't forget how sensitive relations with Erewhon are at the moment. I'm sure they'll cooperate with our needs, but they're so pissed off with the Government at the moment that that cooperation's likely to be pretty grudging. And they aren't going to be impressed by our concerns about our proximity to Haven, either. Not after the way half of their voters figure the Star Kingdom was willing to throw away the entire Alliance for purely domestic political advantages."

Hofschulte nodded, but her expression was a bit uncomfortable. True, the Queen's Own's loyalty was to the Crown and the Constitution, not to the office of the Prime Minister or to the current government of the Star Kingdom. The regiment's personnel were charged with keeping the monarch and the members of her family alive, at any cost, and they were expected to discuss the parameters of their mission with complete frankness and thoroughness. Which included calling a spade a spade when the stupidity of the government of the day's policies threatened to complicate the primary mission. Still…

"Do you seriously expect them to drag their feet, Sir?" she asked more seriously, and Griggs shrugged.

"Not really," he said. "What I do expect, though, is that they're not going to go out of their way to extend additional cooperation the way they did when Princess Ruth's father visited Erewhon during the war." He shrugged again. "Hard to blame them, really. Even leaving aside the way we've stomped all over their toes in the last three or four T-years, the Princess is a lot less likely a target than the Duke was, and the threat environment should be a lot less extreme than it was then."

He and Hofschulte looked at one another grimly, remembering the many friends and colleagues who'd died aboard the royal yacht during the attempt to assassinate the Queen on her state visit to Grayson.

"Well, that's true enough, anyway, Sir," Hofschulte agreed after a moment. "On the other hand, the Duke wasn't the Princess, if you'll pardon my saying so. He was a hell of a lot easier to protect than she's likely to be."

"I know," Griggs agreed glumly. Actually, Ruth was normally quite popular with the royal family's protective details. Everyone liked her a great deal, and she was always cheerful and-like most Wintons, whether by birth or adoption-never snotty to the uniformed people responsible for keeping her alive. Unfortunately, the detail also knew all about the princess' ambition to pursue a career in espionage. Anton Zilwicki's presence gave a certain added emphasis to that ambition, and hobnobbing with Anti-Slavery League activists in a situation as politically complex as the Stein funeral was likely to prove was not something any sane bodyguard commander wanted to contemplate. Worse yet-

"How old did you say Ms. Zilwicki is, Sir?" Hofschulte asked, and Griggs chuckled sourly at the proof that her thoughts were paralleling his own.

"Seventeen, actually," he said, and watched the sergeant wince.

"Wonderful… Sir," she muttered. "I'd kind of hoped she might, ah, exercise a restraining influence on the Princess," she added rather forlornly.

"It would be nice if someone would," Griggs agreed. Ruth Winton was a perfectly nice young woman, with an exquisite innate sense of courtesy. She had also, by dint of the way the royal family had closed ranks to protect her and her own intense concentration on the subjects of special interest to her, led a very sheltered existence. She was, in many ways, what an earlier age would have called a nerd. A brilliant, talented, well educated, incredibly competent and well-adjusted nerd, but a nerd and-also in many ways-unusually young for her age.

And no one who knew her could possibly doubt even for a moment that she was already busily plotting and scheming to make the most of her escape from Mount Royal Palace to someplace as… interesting as Erewhon.

The only real difference between her and the Zilwicki girl is that the extra six T-years have probably only made her even sneakier and more cunning when it comes to evading restrictions, he thought glumly. They certainly haven't done anything to dull her sense of adventure. Damn it.

"Well, at least we'll have Zilwicki along to help ride herd on both of them," he observed in a voice of determined cheer.

"Oh, that makes me feel lots better, Sir," Hofschulte snorted. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't he the guy who went out and hunted up the Audubon Ballroom when he needed a little extracurricular muscle?"

"Well, yes," Griggs admitted.

"Wonderful," Hofschulte repeated, and shook her head. But then, suddenly, she grinned.

"At least it won't be boring, Sir."

"Boredom is certainly one thing we won't have to worry about," Griggs agreed with another chuckle. "Actually, I think we're all going to deserve the Spitting Kitty for this one, Sergeant. Riding herd on the Princess, a seventeen-year-old pretending to be the Princess, an ASL intellectual, and the Star Kingdom's most notorious ex-spook, all in the middle of a three-ring circle like the Stein funeral on a planet like Erewhon?" He shook his head. "Spitting Kitty time for sure."

"I hope not, Sir!" Hofschulte replied with a laugh.

The "Spitting Kitty" was the Queen's Own's nickname for the Adrienne Cross. The medal had been created by Roger II to honor members of the Queen's Own who risked-or lost-their own lives to save the life of a member of the royal family other than the monarch herself. The cross bore the snarling image of a treecat (rumor said that then-Crown Princess Adrienne's own 'cat, Dianchect, had sat as the model), and eleven people had won it in the two hundred and fifty T-years since it was created. Nine of the awards had been posthumous. Of course, the lieutenant reflected, this trip wasn't really going to kill them all. It was just going to make them feel that way.

"Oh, well," he said finally. "I guess it could be worse. We could be taking Princess Joanna along, as well. Think what that would be like."

They looked at one another, each envisioning what the inclusion of the Queen's younger daughter would have done to the already frightening mix, and shuddered in perfect unison.

Chapter 3

"Captain Oversteegen is here, Admiral Draskovic."

The dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in the uniform of an admiral of the red looked up from the paperwork on her terminal at the yeoman's announcement.

"Thank you, Chief," she said, with perhaps just a trace more enthusiasm than the Fifth Space Lord of the Royal Manticoran Navy might normally be expected to show over the arrival of a mere captain. "Please show him in," she added.

"Yes, Ma'am."

The yeoman withdrew, and the admiral quickly saved the document she'd been perusing. Then she stood and walked around her desk to the conversational nook arranged around the expensive coffee table. The door to her office opened once more, and the yeoman ushered in a man in the black-and-gold of an RMN senior-grade captain.

"Captain Oversteegen, Ma'am," he murmured.

"Thank you, Chief." The admiral held out a hand and smiled at her visitor in welcome. "That will be all," she added, never looking away from the newcomer.

Her yeoman withdrew once more, and she gripped the captain's hand firmly.

"Good to see you, Captain," she said warmly, and waved at one of the waiting chairs with her free hand. "Please, have a seat."

"Thank you, Ma'am," Oversteegen said, and if it occurred to him that a full admiral of the red did not normally greet the commander of a mere heavy cruiser quite so enthusiastically, no sign of it showed in his expression or manner as he availed himself of the offer. He settled into the indicated chair, crossed his legs, and regarded his superior with polite attentiveness.

"I don't believe that I've had the opportunity yet to congratulate you, Captain," the admiral said as she sat in another chair, facing him across the coffee table. "That was quite a show you put on in Tiberian."

"I had a bit more luck than a man should get into the habit of expectin'," he replied in calm, even tones. "And, even more importantly, the best crew and officers it's ever been my good fortune t' serve with."

For just a moment, Draskovic seemed a bit taken aback. Then she smiled.

"I'm quite certain that you did. On the other hand, even with good luck and an excellent crew, it took a captain a cut or two above the average to polish off four Solarian heavy cruisers. Even," she added, raising a hand to stop him as he began to open his mouth, "when the cruisers in question had Silesian crews. You did us proud, Captain. You and your people."

"Thank you, Ma'am," he said again. There was, after all, very little else he could have said under the circumstances.

"You're very welcome," she told him. "After all, God knows the Navy needs all the good press it can get these days!" She shook her head. "It never ceases to amaze me how quickly everyone seems to forget everything else we've accomplished. I suppose it's one more example of 'Yes, but what have you done for us recently?' "

"It's always that way, isn't it, Ma'am?" Oversteegen replied, and smiled ever so slightly. "I suppose it's not unreasonable for the man in the street t' be just a tad confused over exactly what the Navy's doin' for him these days." One of Draskovic's eyebrows arched, and he smiled again, more broadly. "I mean," he explained, "in light of the current debate between the Government and the Opposition over what the Navy ought t' be doin'."

"I see your point," Admiral Draskovic said, and sat back in her chair to regard him with carefully disguised thoughtfulness. There was something about him that baffled her. No, not baffled-confused, perhaps. He said all the right things, yet she had a sense that he didn't mean exactly what she thought he did. A part of her almost suspected that he was laughing at her from behind his respectful expression and aristocratic accent, but that was ridiculous, and she knew it.

If the captain felt the least discomfort under her regard, he disguised it admirably. No doubt he'd had plenty of practice at that. Unlike Draskovic, he not only came from a traditional naval family, but boasted connections to the most rarefied heights of the Manticoran nobility. He'd probably attended more formal dinners and met more senior officers and peers of the realm than Draskovic ever had, despite the half-T-century difference in their ages. Or the gulf between their ranks.

For just a moment, Josette Draskovic felt a stab of sheer, unadulterated resentment as she took in his superbly tailored, not-quite-regulation uniform and complete self-assurance. She'd worked hard all of her life to attain her present rank and authority; he'd been born into an elite world of privilege and advantage that had raised him to his current position with the inevitability of gravity.

She started to speak again, then stopped and gave herself a stern mental shake. How he'd gotten to where he was was really beside the point, wasn't it? He'd certainly demonstrated his fitness to command a Queen's ship at Tiberian last year, after all. And whatever some might have suspected about the connection between his birth and his career prior to Tiberian, the Navy had universally approved the promotion to captain senior-grade-and the Manticoran Cross-which that battle had earned him.

"The… 'debate' between the Government and the Opposition is probably enough to confuse anyone," she acknowledged. "Especially when we're having to make so many hard decisions about the Navy budget. That's one reason why what you accomplished out there has such implications for our domestic public opinion. It was so black-and-white, an example of the suppression of piracy and murder which has always been the Navy's primary peacetime job."

"As you say, Ma'am," he agreed. "At the same time, however, I think it's fair t' point out that the pirates and murderers in question had managed t' get their hands on modern Solarian warships. It seems t' me that the question of just how they managed t' pull that off deserves some careful consideration."

"Oh, I certainly agree with you there, Captain. Admiral Jurgensen has ONI working on that very question, I assure you."

"May I ask if they've come up with any theories, Ma'am?"

"Several," she said wryly. "Most of them mutually contradictory, of course."

"Of course," he agreed with another small smile.

"Obviously, the Sollies didn't just 'lose' four modern cruisers, whatever their government's official 'we don't have any idea what happened' position may be," Draskovic continued. "On the other hand, the Solarian League is huge, and we all know how little genuine control over its internal bureaucracies-including its military bureaucracies-its government really has. One theory is that some Frontier Fleet admiral decided to provide for her retirement by putting some of her ships up for sale rather than mothballing them. Which would be a neat trick, if she could do it. Personally, I don't see it. In the first place, those ships were too modern for anyone to be disposing of them on any pretext, including mothballing, I can think of. And even if they hadn't been, I can't quite convince myself that even the Sollies' logistics people wouldn't notice the complete disappearance of a million and a half tons worth of warships sooner or later!"

"Unless it was someone a lot more senior than any Frontier Fleet commander," Oversteegen said thoughtfully. "Someone with the reach and authority t' make embarrassin' paperwork vanish at its destination, instead of its origin point."

"That's more or less the thought that had occurred to me. I've spent enough time wrestling with our own paperwork to realize how much easier it would be for some bureaucratic chip-pusher at the top to arrange for their disappearance. Especially someplace like the League." She shrugged. "My personal theory is that somebody very senior in their equivalent of BuShips probably has a bank account somewhere with a very high credit balance."

"I'd be inclined t' agree with you, Ma'am," Oversteegen said. "But I still have t' wonder how someone like that made connections with a batch of Silesian pirates in the first place."

"I doubt that she ever did-directly, at least," Draskovic replied with another shrug. "God only knows how many middlemen may have been involved in the deal! Whoever first took them off the books probably disposed of them to a fence somewhere, who finally brokered the deal at third or fourth hand to the scum you and your people took out."

"You're probably correct," Oversteegen said after a moment, although his tone suggested that he wasn't totally convinced that she was. "But however they got their hands on them, they were operatin' an awful long way from Silesia at Tiberian. And that's not exactly an area noted for rich pickin's for pirates, either."

"No, Captain, it isn't," she acknowledged, allowing just a trace of coolness to color her own tone. "Those same thoughts have occurred to Admiral Jurgensen and his analysts, I assure you. As has the point that they deliberately chose to engage you. That's not typical pirate behavior, even at four-to-one odds."

"As you say, Ma'am." Oversteegen shifted ever so slightly in his chair. "I hope I don't appear t' be belaborin' the obvious, Admiral. It's just that no one seems t' have come up with answers t' the questions which bother me most. Or, at least, no one's mentioned any of those answers t' me if they have come up with them." He shrugged. "Given the casualties my people took, I'm afraid I have more than a passin' interest in them."

"I can certainly understand that," Draskovic assured him more sympathetically. "Unfortunately, until and unless ONI can get its hands on some solid leads, I don't think anyone is going to be able to provide those answers."

Oversteegen nodded, and a brief silence descended upon the office. Draskovic allowed it to hover for a moment, then drew a sharp breath and straightened in her own chair.

"Obviously, Captain Oversteegen, what happened in Tiberian is one of the reasons we're redeploying Gauntlet to Erewhon now that she's completed her repairs."

Oversteegen regarded her with polite attentiveness, and she shrugged.

"You've demonstrated that you have a good general awareness of the situation in the Erewhon area. That's a major plus. And the fact that you found and took out the pirates who'd ambushed one of Erewhon's own destroyers and killed its entire crew is another one, especially in light of the current… strain in our treaty relationship with Erewhon." And, she did not add, so is the fact that your mother is the Prime Minister's second cousin.

Oversteegen's expression didn't even flicker, but something about his eyes suggested to Draskovic that he'd heard what she carefully hadn't said. Well, no one but a complete political idiot could have been unaware of that consideration in his place. But that was all right. In fact, it was considerably more than all right. Too many of the officers who'd earned reputations in combat against the People's Republic of Haven had made their disagreement with the current Government's policies abundantly clear. Having one of their own demonstrate that he was just as capable-at least!-as the Government's detractors had been a godsend.

"From what you've just said, Ma'am," Oversteegen said after a moment, "I gather that Gauntlet will be operatin' solo again?"

"In light of our current naval posture and the fact that Erewhon is-or certainly ought to be-capable of looking after its own security interests, I'm afraid that it's impossible to justify a larger Manticoran naval presence in the area." Draskovic waved one hand and pursed her lips slightly. "I don't know how much a larger naval presence would actually help, under the circumstances," she admitted. "I don't claim to have any special expertise where Erewhon is concerned, but my own read of the situation is that the present tension in our relationship didn't develop overnight. Which suggests that it's not going to go away overnight, whatever we do.

"On the other hand," she continued, "you, Captain, currently enjoy a very high reputation in Erewhonese circles. If we can't send them a battle squadron or two, we can at least send them what the newsies used to call 'an officer of renown.' "

"I see." Oversteegen obviously wasn't the sort to let flattery go to his head, Draskovic noted with a trace of amusement. "Should I assume, then, that my ship's presence will be largely symbolic?"

"To be perfectly honest," Draskovic replied, "any deployment of a single heavy cruiser to an area which is already as well patrolled as Erewhon's neighborhood has to be mostly symbolic. By the same token, however, the fact that you'll be the only Queen's ship on station will mean that you'll face serious and extensive responsibilities. For all intents and purposes, Captain, you will be the Royal Manticoran Navy. As the senior officer present, you'll be responsible for protecting and overseeing our commerce, cooperating with Her Majesty's diplomatic representatives to Erewhon, and representing not only the Navy, but the Government and the Crown, as well. In fact, you'll be just as responsible for implementing-or, if it's required, modifying-naval policy as any flag officer commanding a full fleet or task force station."

She paused for a moment, wondering if perhaps she was laying it on just a bit thick. What she'd said was true enough, but any mere captain of the list who took it upon herself to actually "modify" naval policy under any circumstances would require more guts-or gall-than even someone of Oversteegen's exalted connections was likely to possess.

On the other hand, she reflected, those same connections probably justify at least that much stroking.

"I imagine that you'll find more than enough things to keep you busy," she concluded.

"No doubt we will, Ma'am," Oversteegen agreed. "I suspect, though, that one of the questions I'm goin' t' be asked is what the Star Kingdom thinks was actually goin' on in Tiberian. That's another reason I raised the point earlier, and I'd appreciate it if ONI could arrange t' brief me directly on our current information about that entire episode." He smiled again, easily. "I'd hate for the Erewhonese t' decide that our 'officer of renown' doesn't have a clue about just how and why he came t' enjoy that renown!"

"Point taken, Captain," Draskovic acknowledged. "I'll have Chief Dautrey put in a priority request to Admiral Jurgensen's office for you."

"Thank you, Ma'am. In addition, however, and in light of what you just said about the responsibilities which are goin' t' devolve upon Gauntlet, I'd like t' request the assignment of an additional officer t' assist me in analyzin' situations which may arise."

"Another officer?" Draskovic's eyebrows arched. "What sort of officer? I was under the impression that your table of organization was complete, now that your executive officer has returned to duty."

"Indeed it is, Ma'am," Oversteegen agreed. "That's why I requested an additional officer. I realize it's a mite irregular, but I feel that under the circumstances, Gauntlet is likely t' require someone with a better background knowledge of Erewhonese affairs and attitudes. And, t' be perfectly blunt, it's entirely possible that circumstances will arise under which it would be most beneficial t' have our own in-house 'spook' available for consultation."

"You're right-that is an irregular request," Draskovic said. She frowned slightly, but her expression and voice were both more thoughtful than condemning. An officer of Oversteegen's accomplishments-and connections, she reminded herself-was entitled to the occasional irregular request. "We don't normally assign intelligence specialists below the squadron level."

"I'm aware of that, Ma'am." Oversteegen, Draskovic noted, did not comment on the blindingly obvious nature of her own last remark. "That's normally the tactical officer's responsibility for a single-ship deployment. Commander Blumenthal, my TO, is an excellent officer, and I have complete confidence in him, both as a tac officer and for normal intelligence functions. But my impression of Erewhon's current attitude towards the Star Kingdom suggests that the situation isn't exactly normal. Under the circumstances, I feel it would be advisable t' assign someone more thoroughly versed in Erewhonese politics and naval capabilities t' Gauntlet. Indeed, with your permission, I have a specific officer in mind."

"You do?" Draskovic said, and Oversteegen nodded. "Well, Captain, as you know, it's always been the Navy's policy to accommodate the personnel requests of commanding officers whenever possible. May I assume that you have reason to believe that the officer you're thinking of would be available for assignment to your ship?"

"I do, Ma'am."

"And who might that be?"

"Lieutenant Betty Gohr," Oversteegen said, and Draskovic frowned again, a bit more darkly as the name rang some distant bell in her memory. "She's a bit of an odd duck," the captain continued. "She started as a tactical officer herself, then moved over t' add intelligence work t' her résumé. At the time of the cease-fire, she was assigned t' our intelligence liaison with the Erewhonese navy."

"Gohr," Draskovic repeated, her eyes sharpening suddenly. "Would that be the Lieutenant Gohr who wrote that article about interrogation techniques for the Proceedings?"

"Actually, it would," Oversteegen acknowledged, and Draskovic's frown deepened. She couldn't recall the details of the article, but she remembered the gist of it quite clearly, given the furor it had engendered in certain quarters.

"I'm not certain that assigning an officer who has publicly advocated the use of torture to obtain information to a politically sensitive position would be wise, Captain," she said after a moment, her tone decidedly on the frosty side.

"Actually, Admiral, Lieutenant Gohr never advocated the use of physical coercion," Oversteegen corrected politely. "What she said was that the proliferation of military conditionin' programs and drug protocols t' resist conventional interrogation techniques has substantially restricted the options available t' intelligence gatherin' officers. She discussed torture as one possible solution, and noted that under certain circumstances, it might be an effective one. She also observed, however, that torture is often and notoriously unreliable under most circumstances, in addition t' its morally objectionable nature, and proceeded t' examine other options available t' an interrogator at considerable length. Her phrasin' was, perhaps, unfortunate, since certain casual readers failed t' grasp that she was analyzin' and dismissin' certain techniques, not recommendin' them. The outcry and hysteria her article provoked resulted, in my opinion, entirely from the manner in which both her purpose and her arguments were misconstrued, however."

Draskovic regarded him with hard eyes. He might very well be correct, she thought, admitting to herself that she'd never personally read the offending article. But whatever Lieutenant Gohr might actually have said, the "outcry and hysteria" Oversteegen had just mentioned had been… severe. The allegation that the lieutenant had specifically suggested the use of torture by Queen's officers, in direct contravention of at least a dozen interstellar treaties to which the Star Kingdom was a signatory, had hit the newsfaxes like a laser head. Collateral damage had threatened to splash all over the lieutenant's superiors, which was why Second Space Lord Jurgensen had declined to defend her. Personally, Draskovic didn't much care one way or the other; the entire debacle had been Jurgensen's problem over at ONI, not hers. But the spectacular fashion in which Gohr's career had nosedived would make assigning her to Gauntlet a tricky proposition. The potential public relations drawbacks were obvious enough, but if Jurgensen decided that Draskovic was going behind his back to rehabilitate an officer he'd personally cut adrift…

"However her arguments may have been misconstrued, Captain," the admiral said finally, "the fact remains that, if I recall correctly, Lieutenant Gohr is currently on half-pay status specifically because of the controversy her article stirred."

"That's correct, Ma'am," Oversteegen agreed calmly, and actually smiled at her. "That's also how I can be positive that Lieutenant Gohr is available at the moment."

"I see." Draskovic considered him through narrow eyes. He was pushing her, she thought. Definitely pushing her… damn him.

"You are aware, I trust," she said after a moment, "that returning an ONI officer to active duty as an analyst without Admiral Jurgensen's approval after she's been placed on half-pay status in the wake of a controversy like this would be far more than 'a mite irregular.' "

"It certainly would be under most circumstances, Ma'am," Oversteegen acknowledged, tacitly accepting Draskovic's implication that Jurgensen would never approve Gohr's return to duty. "However, Lieutenant Gohr isn't really an ONI officer. She's a tactical officer, with a secondary specialization in combat psychology, who was assigned t' London Point t' work with the Marines on specific means t' resist strenuous interrogation techniques… like torture. She was seconded t' ONI after Admiral Givens reviewed several of her articles on that subject."

"Which doesn't change the fact that she was assigned to ONI when the fallout of her last article hit the fan," Draskovic pointed out.

"That wasn't exactly my point, Ma'am," Oversteegen said. "What I was suggestin' was that she be assigned-officially, at least-t' Gauntlet as a tactical officer, not an intelligence specialist. As I say, I'm completely satisfied with Commander Blumenthal, but my assistant tactical officer is due for promotion. What I'd like t' request is that he be relieved from duty aboard Gauntlet and assigned t' a slot elsewhere, better suited t' his seniority, and that Lieutenant Gohr be assigned t' Gauntlet in his place."

"I see." Draskovic considered him in silence for several more seconds while she considered the patently transparent fig leaf he was proposing. It was remotely possible that he actually believed she was stupid enough not to recognize the quagmire into which he was inviting her to step. It wasn't very likely, though, since no officer could have accomplished what he'd pulled off in Tiberian without a functioning brain of his own.

She began to open her mouth to refuse his suggestion point-blank, then paused. If Jurgensen found out about this, he would be livid. It was unlikely that he would confront her about it openly, of course. He was too old and experienced a hand at bureaucratic infighting for something that crass and crude. Oh no. He'd find his own, far more subtle way to get his own back. But Josette Draskovic had never been particularly fond of Francis Jurgensen at the best of times. And there was the fact that Oversteegen was currently the entire Navy's golden boy. Not to mention a close family connection of the Prime Minister, himself.

Besides, she thought, given the fact that Gauntlet is headed for Erewhon, it's entirely possible the idiot won't find out about it. Or, at least, not until it's too late for him to convince even Janacek that Oversteegen wasn't entirely justified asking for her in the first place… .

"All right, Captain," she said at last. "I'll look into it and see what can be arranged."

"Thank you, Admiral," Michael Oversteegen murmured, and he smiled.

Chapter 4

"I feel ridiculous wearing this get-up," grumbled W.E.B. Du Havel, as Cathy Montaigne led him down a wide corridor of her townhouse toward the even wider staircase which swept down to the main floor.

"Don't get pigheaded on me, Web." Cathy gave his portly figure a look that was just barely this side of sarcastic. "You'd look really ridiculous trying to pull off the Mahatma Gandhi routine."

Du Havel chuckled. " 'Minus fours,' didn't he call it? When he showed up in London wearing nothing much more than a glorified loincloth?"

He glanced down at his ample belly, encased in a costume whose expensive fabric seemed wasted, as brightly colored as it was. Red, basically, but with ample splashes of orange and black-all of it set off by a royal blue cummerbund, parallel white and gold diagonal sashes running from left shoulder to right hip, and a slightly narrower set of the same colors serving as pinstripes for his trousers. The trousers were also blue; but, for no discernable reason Du Havel could make out, were at least two shades darker than the cummerbund.

The shoes, needless to say, were gold. And, just to make the ensemble as ludicrous as possible, ended in slightly upturned, pointed tips festooned with royal blue tassels.

"I feel like the court jester," he muttered. "Or a beach ball."

He gave Cathy a skeptical glance. "You're not playing some sort of practical joke on me?"

"How fucking paranoid can you get, anyway?"

"Well, at least your language hasn't changed since Terra. That's something, I suppose."

They were almost at the top of the stairs, entering an area where the left wall of the corridor gave way to an open vista over a balustrade, looking down upon a huge foyer which seemed packed with people. Du Havel's steps began to lag.

Cathy reached back, grabbed his elbow, and hauled him forward. "Relax, will you? Neo-Comedia is all the rage this year. I had that outfit made up special for you, just for this occasion, by the second best tailor in Landing City."

No help for it, then. Du Havel decided to make the best of a bad situation. They began walking slowly down the stairs, Cathy at his side acting as if she were escorting visiting royalty.

Du Havel, his curious mind active as ever, whispered: "Why the second best?"

He was amused to see the smile on Cathy's face. Her be a nice girl at formal occasions smile, that was. Not one she often wore, for sure, but she was as good at it as Cathy was at most anything she put her mind to. She even managed to hiss back a reply without once breaking the smile.

"I'm trying to get along with Elizabeth, these days. She'd be pissed if she thought I was trying to swipe her favorite tailor."

He chewed on that, for the few seconds it took them to parade down the long and sweeping staircase. By the time they neared the bottom, it seemed as if all eyes in the foyer were on him-as well as those of many people spilling into the multitude of adjacent rooms. For all that he'd now been resident for two weeks in the Montaigne townhouse-"pocket Versailles" would be a better word for it-Du Havel was still bewildered by the architecture of the place. For some odd reason, his prodigious intellect had never been more than middling-stupid when it came to spatial reckoning.

"Surely the Queen of Manticore can't be that petty?"

On the next to last riser, Cathy came to a halt; with a subtle hand on his elbow, bringing Du Havel to a halt also. He realized that she was doing it deliberately, to give the entire crowd a moment to admire the evening's special guest.

Still, her formal smile never wavered. "Don't be silly. Elizabeth's not petty at all. It's not the principle of the thing, it's the sport of it. She and I used to swipe things from each other all the time, when we were kids. It was something of a contest."

"Who won?" he whispered.

"I was way ahead on points, when the Queen Mother-she was still the Queen, back then-banned me from the Palace altogether. Elizabeth's still holding a bit of a grudge, I think. So I saw no reason to rub her nose in it again, all these many years later."

The majordomo stepped forward. In a bellowing voice:

"Catherine Montaigne, former Countess of the Tor! And her guest, the Right Honorable W.E.B. Du Havel, Ph.D.!"

A voice piped up from the back of the room. A youthful feminine voice which Du Havel recognized. His eyes immediately spotted the tall figure of Anton Zilwicki's daughter Helen.

"You're slacking, Herbert! How many Ph.D.s?"

A quick laugh rippled through the crowd. The majordomo let the laughter subside before booming onward.

"Too many to count, Midshipwoman Zilwicki! My feeble mind is not up to the effort! I can recall only-"

He began reeling off the list of Du Havel's academic degrees and awards-not missing many, Du Havel noted-and ended with the inevitable: "Nobel-Shakhra Prize for Human Aspiration, and the Solarian Medallion!"

"You two hussies orchestrated this," Du Havel muttered. Cathy's smile just widened a bit.

But, despite himself, Du Havel couldn't help but feel genuine pride at hearing the long list recited. Granted, a number of those degrees were honorary. But most of them weren't-and even the ones which were, never would have been bestowed upon him had it not been for his own accomplishments.

Not bad, really, for a man who'd come into the universe in a Manpower Unlimited slave pit, with the birth name of J-16b-79-2/3.

Within a half hour, Du Havel had managed to relax. Fortunately, Cathy proved to have been correct about his preposterous costume. If anything, it was quite a bit more subdued than those worn by many people at the soirée. And while Du Havel was not accustomed to being the official guest of honor at a huge social gathering of a star nation's haute monde, he was by no means a shy wallflower. Like any experienced and accomplished university don, he was a past master at the art of making conversation.

Besides, as he'd realized almost at once, the jocular interplay between the majordomo and Helen Zilwicki had given his introduction to Manticore's high society just the right touch of good humor. He was quite sure Cathy had planned it for the purpose.

He was rather impressed, in fact. He'd known for a long time that Cathy had the makings of a superb politician. But, in those long years of her exile on Terra, when he'd first met the woman, she'd never really exercised them. He'd suspected then-and thought the suspicion was confirmed now-that the ultimate reason was her own shock at being expelled from Manticore's aristocracy. No matter how much she might have denied caring about it, few people can easily handle being rejected by the society they'd been raised in. Even if subtly, their self-confidence would take a beating on a level below that of conscious thought.

Watching her now, the ease and grace with which she moved through the crowd, he knew that she'd gotten it all back. Back-and then some, because the years of exile had not been wasted either. This was no headstrong young woman, any longer, sneering at tactics from the lofty mount of principle. This was a woman in her early middle age, entering the prime of her life, with her confidence restored and armed by years of study and political struggle.

Look out, Manticore, he thought with amusement.

He brought his attention back to the conversation he was having with an elderly gentleman and his two female companions. His sisters, if Du Havel remembered their introduction correctly.

He wasn't quite sure. All three of them were prattling half-baked nonsense, and he hadn't paid much heed to most of it. Just enough, with the experience of years at academic social gatherings, to be able to make the necessary sage nods and judicious noises at the proper intervals.

Fortunately, Du Havel had trained himself to be patient at these things. Not easy, that. By nature, he was not given to suffering fools gladly.

He heard the majordomo booming another introduction.

"Captain Michael Oversteegen, MC, CGM, GS, OCN, commanding officer, Her Majesty's Starship Gauntlet!"

A tall, slender man in a Manticoran naval uniform had entered the room. Du Havel didn't pay much attention, until he noticed a definite lessening in the volume of noise produced by the crowd. As if most conversations had either faltered momentarily, or the speakers had lowered their voices.

That included, thankfully, the three siblings. Du Havel spotted Helen Zilwicki not far away, and disengaged himself from the Babbling Trio with a smooth and meaningless polite phrase.

"Who's he?" he murmured into Helen's ear, when he came alongside her. The young woman hadn't noticed him until then, because her own eyes were riveted on the Manticoran officer. Just about everyone's seemed to be-and Du Havel had already spotted Cathy making her way through the crowd toward the newly arrived guest.

"Oh. Hi, Web. That's Oversteegen. The Oversteegen. Cathy invited him, but she never once thought he'd show up. Neither did I."

Du Havel smiled. "Let's start back at the beginning, shall we? 'The' Oversteegen may mean something to you. But as someone who just arrived in the Star Kingdom two weeks ago from Terra, I'm afraid it means nothing to me."

Helen's eyes widened, as a youngster's will when she stumbles across the shocking discovery that not everybody shares her own particular interests.

"He's the captain who won the Battle of Tiberian," she replied, and shook her head at his uncomprehending expression. "The one where his ship took out four other cruisers single-handedly," she added in a tone that was half-protesting, as if leaving unspoken: How can ANYONE not know about it?

"Oh, yes. I recall reading about the incident at the time. A year or so ago, wasn't it? But I got the impression his opponents were merely pirates, not a naval force."

Helen's eyes widened still further. Du Havel had to fight to keep from grinning. The nineteen-year-old girl was too polite to come right out and say it, but it was obvious to him that her thoughts were running along the lines of: How can ANYONE be such an idiot?

She managed, however, to keep most of the outrage out of her ensuing reply. She only spluttered twice.

"Those were Gladiator-class cruisers, for Chr-" She suppressed the splutter, and continued in a calmer tone of voice. Much the way a mother restrains her indignation at the folly of a toddler. "Gauntlet's sensor records proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt."

Du Havel raised a questioning eyebrow. Helen Zilwicki had to suppress another splutter.

"How can any-?" Cough. "The Gauntlet was the name of Oversteegen's ship. Still is, I should say." The next words were spoken a bit slowly, as a mother might speak to a child, introducing simple concepts.

"Gladiators, Web. The Solarian League Navy's most recent class of heavy cruisers. They've got completely up-to-date weaponry and EW capability, probably as good as anything we've got. Solarian ships of the wall are nothing much-leaving aside the sheer number of them-because the League hasn't fought a real war in centuries. But their lighter warships always stay a lot closer to cutting edge, since those are the ones that do the SLN's real work."

Her eyes grew a bit unfocused, as if she was thinking far back-or far ahead. "Nobody's defeated a Solarian heavy cruiser in open battle in over half a century, Web. And nobody's ever beaten four of them at once, with a single vessel of any kind short of a dreadnought-much less another cruiser. Not, at least, that there's any record of, in the Academy's data banks. I know. I did a post-action study of Gauntlet's engagement for a course I just finished. Part of the assignment was to do a comparative analysis."

She bestowed a look of deep reproof upon Du Havel. "So what difference does it make if they were 'pirates'? Even chimps would be dangerous in Gladiators, if they knew how to operate the vessels in the first place."

"How did pirates ever get their hands on them?"

Helen scowled. "Good question-and don't think everybody isn't asking it, too. Unfortunately, the only pirates who survived were low-level muscle, who didn't know anything."

She hesitated a moment. "I guess I probably shouldn't say this, but… what the hell, it's nothing that hasn't been speculated on in the news media. There's really only one way they could have gotten them, Web. For whatever reason, somebody in the League with big money and just as much influence must have been behind that 'pirate operation.' Nobody that I know has any idea what they were up to, but just about everybody-me included-thinks that Manpower must have been behind it. Or maybe even Mesa as a whole."

Her scowl was now pronounced. "If we could prove it-"

Du Havel shifted his gaze back to the Manticoran captain under discussion. With far greater interest, now. However much distance there might be between him and most, in terms of intellectual achievements and public renown, there was one thing which Web Du Havel shared with any former genetic slave.

He hated Manpower Unlimited with a bone-deep passion. And though, for political reasons, he disagreed with the violent tactics used by the Audubon Ballroom, he'd never once had so much as a qualm about the violence itself. There was not a single responsible figure in that evil galactic corporation-not a single one, for that matter, on the entire planet of Mesa-whom Web Du Havel would not himself have lowered into a vat of boiling oil.

Capering and singing hosannas all the while-if he thought it would accomplish anything.

He took a deep breath, controlling the sudden spike of rage. And reminding himself, for perhaps the millionth time in his life, that if sheer righteous fury could accomplish anything worthwhile, wolverines would have inherited the galaxy long ago.

"Introduce me, would-" He broke off, suddenly realizing the request was moot. Cathy Montaigne was already leading Captain Oversteegen toward him.

It would be a while before they got there, however, given the press of the crowd and the fact that several people were stepping forward to offer their hands to the captain. Hastily, he whispered: "Just so I don't commit any social gaffes, whyare you-and Cathy-so surprised to see him here? He was invited, was he not?"

He heard Helen make a little snorting sound. As if, once again, the well-mannered girl had suppressed another outburst of derision.

"Just look at him, Web. He's the spitting image of a younger Baron High Ridge."

Du Havel's face must have registered his incomprehension. Not at the name itself-he knew enough about Manticoran politics to know that Helen was referring to the current Prime Minister-but at the subtleties which lay beneath.

Helen pursed her lips. "I thought you were supposed to be the galaxy's expert-okay, one of maybe ten-on political theory? So how come you don't know your ass from- Uh. Sorry, didn't mean to be rude."

He grinned, enjoying the girl's lapse from social manners. Given Du Havel's slave origins and present exalted status, most people were excessively polite around him. Obviously petrified lest they trigger off some buried resentment, of which they apparently assumed he harbored a multitude.

As it happened, Web Du Havel was thick-skinned by nature-and enjoyed few things so much as a sleeves-rolled-up, hair-hanging-down, intellectual brawl in which quarter was neither asked nor given. Which was the reason he and Catherine Montaigne had become very close, many years earlier. That had happened the first time they met, within an hour of being introduced at a social event put on by the Anti-Slavery League on Terra.

The argument rolling properly, Cathy had informed him, in her usual loud and profane manner, that he was a damned bootlicker with the mindset of a house slave. He, for his part, had explained to the assembled crowd-just as loudly, if not as profanely-that she was a typical upper class dimwit, slumming with the chic downtrodden of the day, who couldn't bake a loaf of bread without romanticizing the distress of the flour and the noble savage qualities of the yeast.

It had gone rapidly downhill from there. By the end of the evening, a lifetime's friendship had been sealed. Like Du Havel himself, Cathy Montaigne was one of those ferocious intellectuals who took their ideas seriously-and never trusted another intellectual until they'd done the equivalent of a barbarian ritual. Matching intellectual wound to wound, sharing ideas-and derision-the way ancient warriors, meeting for the first time, mixed their actual blood from self-inflicted wounds.

"Give me a break, Helen," he said, chuckling. "The real problem here is your provincialism, not mine. The ins-and-outs of the political fine points here on Manticore only seem of galaxy-shaking importance to you because you were born here. Your backyard looks like half a universe, because you have no idea how big the universe really is. Abstractly, you do-but the knowledge has never really sunk into your bones."

He paused, giving the slowly approaching captain another glance. Still plenty of time, he decided, to continue the girl's education.

"The Star Kingdom is a polity of five whole settled planets in only three star systems, since Trevor's Star's annexation-and assuming you can call Medusa a 'settled planet' in the first place. Even with San Martin added, your total population does not exceed six billion. There are five times that many people living in the Solar System alone-or Centauri, or Tau Delta, or Mithra, or any one of several dozen of the Solarian League's inner systems. The 'Old League,' as it's popularly known. The Solarian League as a whole has an official membership of 1,784 planets-that's not counting the hundreds more under Solarian rule in the Protectorates-which exist in a volume of galactic space measuring between three and four hundred light-years in diameter. Within that enormous volume, there are literally more stars than you can see here at night with the naked eye. No one has any idea what the total population might be. The Old League alone has a registered population of almost three trillion people, according to the last census-and that census grossly undercounted the population. No serious analyst even tries to claim they know how many more trillions of people live in the so-called 'Shell Worlds' or the Protectorates. I leave aside entirely the untold thousands-millions, rather-of artificial habitats scattered across thousands of solar systems. Each and every one of which star polities has its own history, and its own complex politics and social and economic variations."

The captain and Cathy were getting close, now. It was time to break off the impromptu lecture, since he still needed to know the reasons for Helen's bemusement at Oversteegen's appearance at the event.

"Let me just leave you with the following thought, Helen: It's only been since the human race spread across thousands of worlds that political science has really deserved the term 'science'-and it's still a rough-and-ready science at that. Sometimes, it reminds me of paleontology back in the wild and woolly days of Cope and Marsh, battling it out over dinosaur bones. If nothing else, the preponderance of the League in human affairs skews all the data. But at least now we have a range of experience that allows us to do serious comparative studies, which was never possible in pre-Diaspora days. But that's really what someone like me does. I look for patterns and repetitions, if you will. The number of individual star systems whose political details I'm familiar with is just a tiny percentage of the whole. The truth is, I know a lot more about ancient Terran history than I do about the history of most of today's inhabited worlds. Because that's still, more often than not, the common history we use as our initial crude yardstick."

Suitably abashed, the girl nodded.

"And you still haven't explained-in terms I can understand-why you and Cathy are so surprised that Captain Oversteegen showed up. Or, for that matter-given the surprise-why she invited him in the first place."

"Oh. It's because he doesn't looklike High Ridge by accident. He's part of that whole Conservative Association bunch of lousy-well. The crowd I don't like, let's put it that way. Cathy hates them with a passion. He's related to the Queen-distantly-on his father's side, but his mother is High Ridge's second cousin. As his looks ought to tell anyone who lays eyes on him!"

Du Havel nodded, the picture becoming clearer in his mind. He was more familiar with Manticore's politics than that of most star systems, naturally. Even leaving Catherine Montaigne aside, Manticore played a far more prominent role in the Anti-Slavery League than its sheer weight of population would account for. He understood the nature and logic of the Conservative Association well enough, certainly. It was an old and familiar phenomenon, after all, as ancient as any political formation in human affairs. A clique of people with a very prestigious and luxurious position in a given society, who reacted to anything which might conceivably discommode them with outrage and indignation-as if their own privileges and creature comforts resulted from laws of nature equal in stature to the principles of physics. Very fat pigs in a very plentifully supplied trough, basically, who attempted to dignify their full stomachs by oinking the word "conservative."

Given that W.E.B. Du Havel considered himself, by and large, to be a conservative political theorist-using the term "conservative" loosely-he found the phenomenon not only understandable but detestable.

"Bunch of lousy swine will do nicely, Helen. But you can't confuse the individual with the group. Does Oversteegen himself belong to the Conservative Association? And, if so, why did Cathy invite him? And, if so-and having invited him nonetheless-why did he choose to come?" He gave the large crowd a quick overview. Diehard members of the Liberal Party, for the most part-and the ones who weren't, with not more than a handful of exceptions, departed from the Liberals to the left of the political spectrum. "I'd have thought that as likely as a Puritan agreeing to attend a witches' Sabbath."

"What's a 'Puritan'?" she asked. "And why would witches-silly notion, that-hold a soirée on- Never mind." Cathy and the captain were almost there. Quickly, Helen whispered: "I don't think he's in the CA. Truth is, I don't know much about his own personal opinions. Not sure many people do. But-"

A last, quick, hissed few words: "Sorry. You'll have to find out the rest from him, I guess."

A moment later, Cathy was making the introductions. And Web Du Havel began getting his answers.

He was delighted, of course. Except that, within a few minutes, he was back to silently cursing his ridiculous costume.

There was no way to roll up the sleeves!

Chapter 5

"Been wantin' t' meet you for years," the captain stated, speaking in a drawl which Du Havel immediately recognized. Not specifically, of course-the galaxy had easily ten times as many dialects and verbal mannerisms as it did languages and inhabited worlds. But he knew the phenomenon for what it was, since it, too, was as ancient as privilege. Members of an elite group-"elite," at least, in their own minds-almost invariably developed a distinctive style of speech to separate themselves from the common herd.

Oversteegen, smiling thinly, gave the crowd his own quick overview. "Only reason I agreed t' come t' this Walpurgis Night of prattlin' political heathens."

He bestowed the smile on Cathy, widening it a bit. "Present company excepted, of course. I've long had a grudgin' admiration for the Countess here-former Countess, I suppose I should say. Ever since the speech she gave at the House of Lords which got her pitched out on her ear. I was there in person, as it happens, observin' as a member of the family since my mother was indisposed. And I'll tell you right now that I would have voted for her expulsion from the Lords myself, had I been old enough at the time, on the simple grounds that she had, in point of fact, violated long established protocol. Even though, mind you, I agreed with perhaps ninety percent of what she'd said. Still, rules are rules."

Cathy smiled back. "Rules were meant to be broken."

"Don't disagree," Oversteegen replied immediately. "Indeed they are. Providin', however, that the one breakin' the rules is willin' t' pay the price for it, and the price gets charged in full."

He gave Cathy a deep nod, almost a bow. "Which you were, Lady Catherine. I saluted you for it then-at the family dinner table that night, in fact. My mother was infinitely more indisposed thereafter; tottered back t' her sick bed cursin' me for an ingrate. My father was none too pleased, either. I salute you for it, again."

Turning back to Du Havel: "Otherwise, breakin' rules becomes the province of brats instead of heroes. Fastest way I can think of t' turn serious political affairs int' a playpen. A civilized society needs a conscience, and conscience can't be developed without martyrs-real ones-against which a nation can measure its crimes and sins."

Du Havel's interest perked up sharply. He understood the logic of Oversteegen's argument, naturally. It would have been surprising if he hadn't, since it was a paraphrase-not a bad one either, given the compression involved-of the basic argument Du Havel had advanced in one of his books.

Oversteegen immediately confirmed his guess. "I should tell you that I consider The Political Value of Sacrifice one of the finest statements of conservative principle in the modern universe. Havin' said that, I also feel obliged t' inform you that I consider the arguments you advanced in Scales of Justice: Feathers Against Stones t' be-at best!-a sad lapse int' liberal maudlinism. Principles are principles, Doctor Du Havel. You, of all people, should know that. So it was sad t' see you maunderin' from one compromise t' another, tradin' away clarity for the sake of immediate benefit. Sad, sad. Practically gave social engineerin' your blessin', you did."

Hallelujah! Du Havel began plucking at his sleeves, in a vain attempt to find the buttons so he could roll them up.

"Social engineering, is it? Ha! Explain to me, Captain Oversteegen, why it is that so-called 'conversatives'-nothing of the sort, mind you; just dinosaurs with pretensions-only object to social engineering when it threatens to hang over into their own-invariably lush and well-kept-front gardens? Yet never have the slightest objection to social engineering when it created those palatial grounds in the first place?"

Oversteegen drew himself up a bit, looming even taller than ever. Cheerfully-except for the problem with the sleeves; dammit, where were the buttons?-Du Havel plunged on.

"Consider your own aristocratic system here on Manticore, if you would. Blatant social engineering, Captain. As crude as it gets. A pack of rich people, creating a constitution deliberately designed-with greed aforethought, if not malice-to keep themselves and their descendants in a blessed state of privilege. Or are you going to try to argue that the principles of aristocracy arose from the native soil of what was then an alien planet? Like weeds, as it were-which, by the way, is a pretty apt analogy for any variety of caste system. Weeds, preening like roses."

Oversteegen grinned, acknowledging the hit. A splendid intellectual warrior, Du Havel noted gleefully, not fazed in the least by a mere dash of blood. He was practically clawing at the sleeves, now.

"You'll get no argument from me on that issue, Doctor. Indeed true. Can't even argue that my ancestors were better murderers and robbers and rapists than anyone else, I'm afraid, the way a proper Norman baron could. Just bigger moneybags and an earlier arrival date, that's all. Lamentable, isn't it, the lengths to which modern nobility is driven by the advance of social conscience? Still, I'll argue in favor of an aristocracy."

A high-pitched, derisive snort issued from his long and bony nose. "Not because I believe for an instant that Conservative Association babble about good breedin', much less their downright superstitions on the subject of so-called good birth. No, the issue isn't the worth of the individuals in any given aristocracy. It's simply the social advantage which havin' any aristocracy gives a nation. Pick 'em by lottery, for all I care. But just the fact it exists gives the nation manifold benefits."

Cathy interrupted. "Web, those sleeves can't be rolled up. The style doesn't allow for it."

He glared at her. "Is that so? Hmph. Watch this."

Du Havel had been bred a J-line by Manpower. That was-supposedly; as usual, their claims fell wide of reality-a breed designed for technical work. Thus, an emphasis on mental capability, at least of a low and mechanical variety. But also, since J-lines were designed basically for engineering work, a breed which was physically quite sturdy. Web wasn't particularly tall, and his long years of sedentary intellectual activity had put thirty kilos of fat on his frame. But the frame beneath was still square and solid.

So were the muscles which went with it.

Riiip. Riiip.

"Ah. That's better. Let me begin, Captain, by pointing out that you're paraphrasing-not badly at all, either-Jutta's argument in her Barriers Needed for Progress. Good for you. An excellent book, overall, even if I think Angelina's too prone to rigidity. But let me go on to point out that those barriers-I prefer to think of them as 'limits' or 'frames'-are themselves the product of social engineering. Goes all the way back to the original program which Jutta praises so highly-yet she never mentions was itself a deliberate project to engineer the society its founders wanted. I refer, of course, to the Constitution of the ancient United States. The thing was practically an architect's dream. A carefully balanced allotment of powers; limitations on democracy which were absurd on the face of it-just to give one example, why in God's name should the members of small provinces be given the same power as those in larger and more important ones? and if so, why only in one house instead of all?-you name it, and if it was possible to engineer, they did it. Tried, I should say, since naturally half of their schemes came unraveled within a few generations. Their sanction of slavery, for instance."

By now, naturally, a large crowd had gathered around. Naturally, also, it contained the inevitable know-it-all-who-didn't.

"That's not possible," the man proclaimed firmly, frowning. "I know my ancient history, and the United States-you are referring to the American one, yes?-arose long before genetic slavery." He half-sneered. "Long before they even knew anything about DNA, for that matter. Bunch of primitives."

Du Havel closed his eyes briefly. God, give me the patience to suffer fools gladly.

Alas, he was an atheist.

"Who said anything about genetic slavery? Slavery's been around since the dawn of civilization, you-you-"

Fortunately, a woman cut him off before he could begin alienating the crowd.

"But-on what basis?"

He stared at her. "I mean," she continued brightly, "they certainly couldn't just enslave anyone. There had to be some genetic basis for it."

He recognized her now. Susan-or Suzanne, he couldn't remember-Zekich. One of the Liberal Party's provincial leaders, formerly in the orbit of the Countess of New Kiev, who'd lately been gravitating toward Cathy Montaigne. Not out of principle, but simply because the woman seemed to have a good nose for detecting which way the wind was starting to blow.

Cathy was polite to her, even gracious. The long years of exile had at least given her tactical sense. Even if, in private, she referred to her as "the Zekich slut."

Web Du Havel took a deep breath. Fools, especially snotty twits like the man who had superciliously informed him that slavery could not possibly antedate genetic science, he did not suffer gladly. But he knew the difference-had always known, since the slave pits-between an irritating jackass and an enemy.

This woman was an enemy, not simply a fool. In the future, for a certainty, if not today. Exactly the kind of "forward-looking progressive" who would denounce genetic slavery in the abstract-but would share all the prejudices against the slaves themselves. And, with those slaves once risen to their feet and rattling the bars of the cage, would demand stridently that discipline be restored to the zoo.

"Indeed," he said, smiling thinly. "Indeed, Ma'am, they did. Mind you, slavery as a social institution is ancient, and long antedated the era I'm discussing, which was only a few centuries pre-Diaspora. Originally, slavery had no particular connection to genetic variation. But by the time we reach the era in question, people based their slave system of the time on genetics as they understood it. The key concept, in those days, went by the term of 'race.' "

A number of people in the surrounding crowd, those who apparently had some knowledge of either genetics or history, frowned thoughtfully. Trying, obviously, to figure out how such a vague ethnological term as "race" could be coupled to a political system. Most of the people, however, simply looked puzzled.

"You have to remember," Du Havel explained, "that this was long before the Diaspora. Several centuries before, in fact. In those days, genetic variation within the human race was not only relatively simple, but largely allotropic. Longstanding genetic pools, most of them sharing a few simple and obviously visible somatic traits, only recently brought into systematic and regular contact with each other. As a result, those of them who shared a recent mutation which favored albinism and a few other superficial features, and who happened to be the predominant 'race' at the time, set about enslaving others. One in particular was favored for the purpose. A genetic variation which had settled into a temporary somatic mold in the continent of Africa. 'Black' people, they were called. It was assumed, based on the genetic pseudo-science of the time, that they were particularly suited for a servile existence. An assumption which, stripping away the superstitious claptrap, was based on nothing much more than the fact that they had dark skins, which were usually coupled with-"

He proceeded to give a quick sketch of the phenotype generally to be found among Africans of that ancient time. When he was done, most of the people in the crowd had a rather strained look on their faces. The Zekich woman herself had taken a full step away from him, as if trying to distance herself from the suddenly revealed regicide in their midst.

Well. Not "regicide," precisely speaking. Du Havel tried to dredge up his very rusty Latin. Hm. What would be the proper jargon for someone who advocated enslaving royalty?

Oversteegen, on the other hand, had listened to his entire impromptu lecture with a steadily growing smile and no sign at all of confusion. The captain was obviously a man of many parts, Du Havel decided. Too many of those interested in political theory had no matching interest in the history which set the frame and reference for that theory, much less in something as ancient as pre-Diaspora Terra's barbaric, pretechnic social institutions. Oversteegen clearly did. Because, unlike most of the expressions about him, his expression was one of pure and simple humor.

"What fun!" he exclaimed. "I'd love to have been there when you discussed it with Elizabeth!" Shaking his head, grinning. "You did have an audience with her, as I recall. Two days ago, I think it was-and quite a long one, if the news accounts were accurate. Surely the subject came up."

Most of the crowd looked even more pained. Several of them were even glaring at Oversteegen. Du Havel found that interesting, but not surprising. For all their often vociferous public disputes with the Queen of the Star Kingdom, even the members of the Liberal Party shared the general cultural attitudes of most Manticorans. Even the members of the left wing of that Party, who made up most of the crowd, shared them.

Yes, the Queen was sadly misguided by her advisers. Especially those warmongering imperialists in the Centrist and Crown Loyalist crowds.

Still.

She was the Queen!

"I can't believe it," gasped a woman nearby. She was quite literally clutching her throat with distress. "Why… that would describe Queen Elizabeth!"

"Most of the House of Winton, going all the way back," growled a man standing next to her. He glanced around. "Not to mention a considerable number of the people in this room. I knew the ancients were full of insane superstitions, but-" He gave Du Havel a look which fell just short of a glare. "Are you sure about this?"

Du Havel shrugged. "That would be simplifying too much. You really must understand what two thousand years of the Diaspora has done to human genetic variation. The combination of a gigantic population explosion-less than ten billion humans, all told, at the time the Diaspora began, to how many trillions today-spread across thousands of planetary environments instead of a relative handful of regional ones, many of them far more extreme than anything the human race encountered on Earth itself. Then, factor in the endless cross-mixing of the species, not to mention intentional genetic alterations…"

He shrugged again. "Your Queen Elizabeth bears, at best, an approximate somatic match to the ancient Africans-and that, only if you restrict the comparison to superficial features like skin color. I'm quite sure, for instance, that if you matched her blood characteristics against that recorded for ancient so-called 'races' that they would have little resemblance to the blood characteristics of most Africans of the day. Skin color is especially meaningless, as a genetic indicator, since that's a superficial feature which adapts rapidly to a change in environment. Consider, for instance, the extreme albinism found today on one of the two Mfecane planets-Ndebele, if I recall correctly-despite the fact that the population's ancestors were Bantu."

He brought up his memories of the Queen, from his recent meeting with her. The memories were quite extensive, since the captain was right-it had been a long audience. He and Elizabeth Winton had hit it right off.

"Her hair's not really right, for starters. Very wavy, true, but not much like the tightly kinked hair found in ancient times among most of the tropical ethnic variants. Then, her facial features-especially the nose-are much closer to those which our ancestors would have labeled by the term 'Caucasian' than the term 'Negroid.' And while her skin color is indeed quite lustrous, it's really not the tone you would have found among Africans of the day. It's too light, for one thing, and for another, that definite mahogany tinge is really closer to that of a dark-skinned 'Amerindian'-that was a term used for North American indigenes-than an African."

The crowd seemed to relax. All except Cathy, that is, who was watching him closely. Cathy, unlike the rest, knew exactly how much fury was roiling beneath the surface.

For people who have never experienced it-or never really thought about it-"slavery" is an abstract injustice.

"Not that it would have mattered in the least," he continued, trying to keep from snarling. "Except in the specific abuses she would have suffered. She's quite close enough, I assure you. Except that, with her appearance, she would have been considered what was called a 'mulatto.' Coupled with her youth and good looks, that would most likely have resulted in her being been made the concubine of a slave master, assigned to his bed instead of the fields. That was a common fate for those women known as 'mulattos' at the time. Those of them who weren't sold to brothels and made outright prostitutes."

The strained looks were back. Du Havel favored them with a grin which, alas, he was quite sure was several degrees too savage for proper decorum at such an event. But he couldn't help doing so. It was only with the greatest difficulty that he managed to restrain himself from sticking out his tongue, as the Ballroom killers did when they'd cornered their slaver prey, to show the crowd the genetic markers which Manpower's gengineers had given him while still an embryo.

"Oh, yes. Be sure of it. To see a proper reflection of the phenotype which would have been assigned to a life of back breaking labor, you need to consider the Queen's-what is she, Captain? you're a relative of the royal family, I think-some sort of cousin, I believe. Michelle Henke, I'm referring to. I was introduced to her also, at the audience. I didn't quite catch her military rank-sorry, but I'm just not familiar enough with Manticoran tables of organization to understand the fine points-but I believe it was quite prestigious. And got the feeling, I might add, that the rank resulted from her own accomplishments instead of family pressure or influence."

Oversteegen grunted. "First cousin. Michelle's the daughter of the Queen's aunt. Fifth in line t' the throne, now that her father and brother were assassinated. She's a commodore." He grunted again. In its own way, the sound was as savage as Du Havel's grin. "And I don't know a single naval officer-no servin' line officer, for sure-who thinks she got the rank by pull."

"Yes, her. If I'm not mistaken, her phenotype is much more typical of the House of Winton than the Queen's. Very dark skin, almost a true black. And in her case, the hair is right. Not the facial bone structure, perhaps, although it comes fairly close. But it wouldn't have mattered at all, not with that color of skin. Today's universe assigns her to command navies, and doesn't even think about it. The ancients would have had her doing menial unskilled labor. And, if she was unable to avoid the attentions of the overseer, she would have been raped in a shack instead of a plantation manor house."

Silence, for a moment. Du Havel took a deep breath, bringing his anger under control.

The captain helped. "Pity the poor bastard who tried t' rape Mike Henke!" he snorted. "Or Elizabeth herself, for that matter. With her temper? Ha! The bastard might manage it, but he'd find his throat cut within a day. As well keep an angry hexapuma in your bed."

A titter went through the crowd. Oversteegen's crude but accurate observations served to remind them all that these were not, after all, ancient times riddled with savage superstitions.

Still-much to Du Havel's relief-the tension had been enough to cause most of the crowd to drift away. Honored guest or not, many of them had clearly come to the conclusion that being in close proximity to W.E.B. Du Havel was also a bit too much like being near a panther. Granted, a panther with a long and impressive list of academic credentials and prestigious honors attached to his tail. But, still a panther-and one who, if not precisely angry, seemed to have an uncertain temper.

"Bit thinned out, hasn't it?" said the captain, smiling slyly. "Good. I dare say there'll be fewer silly interruptions." He rubbed his hands. "T' get back t' the point, Doctor Du Havel-"

" 'Web,' if you would, Captain. Academic titles are tediously long-winded."

Oversteegen nodded. " 'Web,' then." His brow furrowed. "Come t' think of it- Pardon my askin', but what does 'W.E.B.' stand for, anyway? I just realized I've never seen anythin' but the bare initials."

Du Havel shook his head. "That's because it doesn't stand for anything except the initials themselves. I didn't know what they stood for myself, when the immigration officer on Nasser insisted I give him a name for their records. I'd only escaped a few months earlier, so my knowledge of history was still pretty limited." He shrugged. "I just combined what I remembered from two names of ancient men I'd read about, briefly, and who'd struck me as righteous fellows. W.E.B. Du Bois and Vaclav Havel. When it finally dawned on me-that night, as it happened, when my fellow escapees demanded to know what they were supposed to call me, now that 'Kami' was out of bounds-I couldn't think of anything except 'Web.' "

The rest of the soirée went splendidly. The captain kept Du Havel monopolized throughout, much to Du Havel's delight. For a man who'd spent most of his adult life mastering the elaborate and often arcane skills of a naval officer, Oversteegen had an impressive grasp of the galaxy's political theory.

Granted, Oversteegen was far too biased in favor of his own views. Granted, he tended to read far too little of the thinking of those he disagreed with, and dismissed them much too quickly and easily. Granted also, his entire outlook was somewhat warped; first, by the inevitable prejudices of his social background; second-Du Havel thought this was much more important-by the equally inevitable prejudices of a man whose active life had been shaped by the immediate demands of a long and savage war.

Still, all in all, a very fine fellow indeed. And, when the soirée ended, Du Havel parted company with the captain with considerable reluctance.

"If I could, I'd propose we meet again sometime soon," he said, shaking Oversteegen's hand. "Alas, I'm afraid I'll be heading off for Erewhon within the week. I'll be accompanying Captain Zilwicki on his voyage there, in order to pay my respects to the family of Hieronymus Stein and his surviving colleagues in the Renaissance Association."

There seemed to be an odd little gleam in Oversteegen's eye. "So I understand. I have t' leave the system myself, in any event. Tomorrow morning, in fact. But, who knows? As fate might have it, Web, we may meet again."

He gave Du Havel a stiff little bow; then, to Cathy Montaigne, one which was neither stiff nor little. "Doctor Du Havel, Lady Catherine, s'been a pleasure." And off he went.

"What's so funny?" he asked Helen Zilwicki, who'd kept well within the orbit of his long conversation with Oversteegen throughout the evening, even if she'd never said a word herself. Web suspected the midshipwoman had a quiet case of hero worship for the captain, even if she'd be caught dead before admitting it.

Helen grinned. "You know, Web, every now and then you might tear yourself away from your scholarly tomes to look at the daily news. It was just announced today, in the naval section. Captain Oversteegen and Gauntlet have been reassigned to Erewhon. Anti-piracy patrol, they're calling it. The ship's leaving orbit tomorrow."

"Oh." A bit embarrassed, Web's eyes dropped. Encountering the sight of torn sleeves, his embarrassment deepened.

"Oh. Hm. I'm afraid your guests must have thought me quite the barbarian, Cathy."

Cathy's grin was even wider than Helen's. "And so what if they did? This wasn't really my crowd tonight, Web. Not most of them, anyway. It was mainly made up of Liberal Party bellwethers, trying to test the shifting winds at an event they could attend without having to openly thumb their nose at New Kiev."

"Yes, I know. That's why I'm a bit concerned I made the wrong impression."

She shrugged. "That depends on how you define 'wrong,' doesn't it? I'll tell you what, Web. I'll leave the theory to you, as long as you leave the sordid tactics to me. It won't hurt me one bit to have lots of aristocratic Liberal Party hacks convinced that I'm the only one who knows how to get along with lower class barbarians."

As they were climbing back up the stairs, heading toward the townhouse's elaborate set of bedrooms-fortunately, Cathy would guide him to his own-Du Havel asked another question.

"Where was Anton tonight, by the way? And Berry, for that matter?"

Seeing the expression on Cathy's face, he grunted. "What? Another case where I should have read the news reports?"

"Hardly! Not unless-"

She shook her head. "Never mind, Web. 'Need to know,' and all that. You'll find out soon enough. For the moment, you can go to your rest in the serene confidence that before too long you'll be able to offend somebody else from the upper crust."

"Oh, splendid," he said. "I do so enjoy that, as long as I'm not fouling something up for you."

"In this case, I doubt it. First, from what Anton tells me, because the upper crustee in question probably doesn't offend all that easily. Secondly, because I don't give a fuck anyway."

"You really should watch your language. Especially now that you're a politician instead of a rabble-rouser."

"Don't be silly, Web. It's part of my charm. Persona, if you will. Who else can the Liberals turn to when the mob gets unruly, except someone who can cuss like a deep-space cargo-walloper?"

"You have a devious mind, Catherine Montaigne. I'd fear for your soul, except I don't believe in souls. Not a shred of evidence to support the notion, I'm afraid."

They'd reached the door to his bedroom. He began to open it, but paused.

"Well. I admit your daughter Berry could be considered a piece of evidence in favor. Hard to explain otherwise how she turned out, really."

"Isn't she a gem?" agreed Catherine enthusiastically. "I sometimes think she's the most levelheaded person I've ever known. Most of the time, I'm sure of it."

"Well put." He shook his head sadly. "I'll miss her, when I leave. I surely will."

As he entered the bedroom and closed the door, he caught a glimpse of Cathy, still standing in the corridor. There seemed to be an odd gleam in her eyes. Maternal pride, perhaps.

Chapter 6

Getting to his ship a few days later was a madhouse for Anton. Queen Elizabeth had waited until the last minute to leak the news, but the Star Kingdom's paparazzi had the same lightning reflexes possessed by that breed throughout the galaxy. By the time Anton and his entourage reached the gate to the landing field where the orbital shuttle awaited them, the area was mobbed with journalists.

For all that he'd planned for it, Anton still found the whole situation a bit infuriating. For one thing, he'd become so accustomed to working in the shadows that he'd overlooked how much he would be an item of avid interest. As many of the paparazzi seemed interested in getting holopics of him as they were of the Princess.

Glumly, he could imagine the tabloid headlines.

Disgraced officer on mystery trip with royalty!

Captain Zilwicki tosses over the Countess for the Princess!

Catherine Montaigne heartbroken! "My lover left me for a younger woman!"

Another scandal in a scandalous career!

It didn't help any when Berry, filled with excitement at the occasion, planted a sloppy impromptu kiss on his cheek right in front of the journalist mob. That it was a daughter's kiss and not a lover's should have been blindingly obvious to anyone nearby. But the paparazzi were kept at a distance by the police, and all their carefully cropped holopics would show was the sight of a pretty young woman dressed up like a princess apparently slobbering over a much older man.

Something of his unease must have shown. Behind him, he heard Princess Ruth murmur with amusement: "Oh, stop worrying, Captain. The proper news media will carry the official version of the story, and who pays any attention to the scandal sheet tabloids anyway?"

About two-thirds of the population of Manticore, thought Anton sourly. Ninety percent, on Gryphon. I'll never be able to show my face in the highlands again.

Despite the sourness of the moment, he was pleased with Ruth herself. The young royal was playing her part in the charade to perfection. She was ambling casually along a few paces behind, engrossed in a conversation with Web Du Havel except when making wisecracks to her purported "father." The spitting image of a bright and none-too-respectful daughter.

Nevertheless, he couldn't help wincing at the sheer number of paparazzi present at the landing field. Like locusts swarming over ripe grain.

Great, just great. And now I'll be an item myself. The notorious Cap'n Zilwicki, rogue of the spaceways.

Modern holopic technology did not involve the dramatic flashbulbs of ancient times. But, at that moment, Anton felt as if every spotlight in the universe was focused on him.

He didn't feel any better once they reached orbit and transferred from the shuttle into Pottawatomie Creek, the ship the Anti-Slavery League had provided for the voyage. There hadn't been any physical problem getting through the landing gate, of course. Paparazzi took scuffling with police for granted, in order to get closer to their targets, but not even they were crazy enough to meddle with royal bodyguards from the Queen's Own Regiment. Lieutenant Griggs and the other troopers in Griggs' unit detached from the regiment as an escort for the Princess in her trip were heavily armed, scowling as ferociously as such well-trained and disciplined soldiers ever did, and making absolutely clear with their body language alone that they would instantly gun down any paparazzi who managed to break through the police line. Gun them down and probably gut the corpse for good measure.

The problem lay elsewhere. Princess Ruth was as much of a political junkie as Anton had expected she'd be, given her fascination with intelligence work. So, the moment they'd entered the ship, she'd made a beeline for the wardroom's HD and turned it on. Even after the ship left orbit, there'd be time to catch the evening news broadcasts before they were out of reception range.

Not to Anton's surprise, the show Ruth turned to was the prestigious talk show The Star Kingdom Today. The show's moderator, Yael Underwood, had a flair for presenting serious news in a manner which captured popular interest. Personally, Anton thought Underwood was a much shallower thinker than he managed to project. But he'd readily admit the man was an expert showman, and his news did have more substance than the usual fire-and-a-freak fare.

He caught the last part of a question posed by Underwood to his panel of guests.

"-think there's no truth, then, to the rumors regarding a romantic tie between Captain Zilwicki and Princess Ruth?"

"Oh, for God's sake!" exclaimed one of the guests. Anton recognized her as one of Underwood's regulars. A woman named Harriet Jilla, who'd once been some kind of academic specialist in who-can-remember-what but had long since traded that in for a more lucrative career as a Professional Talking Head.

"Not even the tabloids are going to push that for more than a day or two," she jibed. "If for no other reason than that they're going to suffer from schizophrenia, seeing as how they'll also want to run all the holopics they got from Montaigne's townhouse. I'm told the paparazzi were almost as thick on the ground there as they were at the landing field."

Underwood gave the audience his patented knowing smile. It was quite a superb thing, combining shrewd intelligence and savoir-faire with just the right touch of slightly sardonic humor.

"I'd say you're right, Harriet. In fact-" He glanced away for a moment, as if checking something with an off-stage technician. "Yes. Let's run a little footage of our own from that scene."

Anton had time to wonder about the origin of the peculiar term footage, used throughout the news industry to refer to imagery despite its apparent meaninglessness, before the scene itself came on.

"Goddamit," he growled. "Is there any privacy left?"

"That's a little rich coming from you, Daddy," retorted Berry. "Mr. Supersnoop."

Anton silently admitted the justice of her remark. But it still didn't make him feel any better seeing his parting embrace-kiss, too, and a damn passionate one, as usual with Cathy, public spectacle be damned, when did she ever care?-from the former Countess of the Tor and current candidate for Parliament. Now plastered all over Manticore's news media for untold millions to watch.

Still…

From a professional point of view, now that he could see it from a distance, Cathy had performed perfectly. He took a certain personal comfort, as well, in the fact that the embrace and kiss she'd given him at the doorway of their house would certainly put paid to any notions that Anton was lusting after another woman.

Objectively speaking, true, Catherine Montaigne wasn't perhaps all that physically attractive. Anton thought otherwise, but he was dispassionately willing to admit that was his own emotional involvement speaking. Cathy was far too slender, for one thing, and if her face had an open pleasantness about it, it was hardly the sort of face most people would associate with female beauty.

But none of it mattered, as Anton could see for himself watching the newscast. Cathy's kiss was a kiss, and the long leg half-looped around his thigh as part of the embrace made clear to umpteen million Manticoran viewers that whatever problems Captain Anton Zilwicki might have, getting laid-well, and often-was not one of them.

"Gosh, Berry, your mother is so sexy," murmured Ruth. "I bet she just got another twenty thousand votes."

Anton ignored the first part of the remark, in a properly aloof fatherly manner. As for the second…

He wasn't sure. Cathy Montaigne's let-it-all-hang-out-and-damn-the-bluenoses style, in her personal life as well as her political one, was a two edged-sword. It could easily slice her up-as, indeed, years before it had led to her expulsion from the House of Lords. On the other hand, if it caught the mood of the public…

Yeah, maybe. God knows she's a breath of fresh air in Manticore's politics. Nobody's going to believe Countess New Kiev balls her husband's brains out. And if New Kiev's political partner Baron High Ridge has any balls at all, he's keeping them well under wraps.

The professional side of him, however, was primarily interested in the rest of it. Following Cathy's farewell embrace of Anton, she bestowed one just as energetically upon Princess Ruth. In this case, of course, a maternal embrace rather than a romantic one. But Anton was certain that not one of the tens of millions of people watching would suspect for an instant that the casually dressed apparent teenager upon whom Cathy bestowed that hug was anyone other than her quasi-adopted daughter Berry. Just as they wouldn't suspect that the warm but far more reserved handshake which she then gave to Berry herself was the salutation given to a royal princess.

"Perfect!" exclaimed Ruth, clapping her hands. She grinned at Anton. "It's going to work just like you said it would."

Even Anton was not impervious to that intense a degree of admiration. But he allowed himself only a moment's pleasure, because a slight frown was beginning to gather on his brow. Or, at least, gather in his mind.

Belatedly, Anton was realizing that there was something not quite right about the way Underwood was covering this issue. Granted, Underwood was not above dipping into items of popular interest for the sake of keeping up the ratings for The Star Kingdom Today. Still, the man was always careful to link such an item to something of deeper significance. Or, at least, provide depth to the item itself.

In this instance…

For a moment, the view in the display moved back and Anton was able for the first time to see all the panelists on the show that night. His eyes were immediately drawn to the man sitting on the far right. Snapped to him, more properly.

His daughter was sitting next to him, and her eyes followed his. "Who's he?" Berry asked.

"I have no idea," replied Anton, shaking his head. "But I can tell you this. He's no Talking Head. And, unless I miss my guess…"

Damn-damn-damn-

"He's in the trade himself. First cousin, anyway."

Sure enough. After spending a minute or so polling his panel to get a general consensus that whatever was involved with Captain Zilwicki and Princess Ruth's voyage to Erewhon, it was not a romantic escapade, Underwood allowed the well-oiled-and-practiced panel to segue into a learned (but not too learned) analysis of the political subtleties involved in the affair.

Nothing there surprised Anton. It was all much as Queen Elizabeth had foreseen and, with Anton's advice, schemed and plotted for.

– think it's scandalous myself, the way the Government is officially ignoring Stein's funeral. What in God's name is New Kiev thinking? If you ask me, she should have broken with the Cabinet on the issue and at least spoken out in public. Stein's been one of the idols of the Liberal Party for decades now, and if she doesn't think-

– can't say I agree with you, Harriet, unless you think New Kiev's ready to resign outright. Which I don't think there's the proverbial snowball's chance in Hell of happening. You're right, of course, that she's going to take a beating from Montaigne on the issue.

– more interested, myself, in the way the Queen's sending a lot of messages at once. First-this one's as blunt as it gets-by choosing Catherine Montaigne's live-in lover as Princess Ruth's unofficial escort-

– agree completely! I mean, really, does anyone think the Queen couldn't round up a ship of her own for a trip to Erewhon?

Exactly! Sure, the former Countess of the Tor is still officially in the Royal Black Book, but I'd say that pretense is getting threadbare. For all their famous public clashes-which are a lot more famous than they were frequent, I might add; don't forget how many issues the Queen and Montaigne agree about-does anyone with half a brain think Elizabeth wouldn't jump for joy if Montaigne displaced New Kiev as-

– not going to happen any time soon, though. New Kiev's still got a lock on the leadership of the Liberal Party, I don't care how many rank and file Liberals she's ticked off by her silence on the Stein issue. What I think is more interesting is the way the Queen's also using the issue to send a message to the Solarians themselves. Nobody's come forward to take credit-if you can call it that-for Stein's murder even now, but the general opinion everywhere seems to be that Mesa, or at least Manpower, was behind it. How else explain the refusal of the Solarians themselves to launch a serious investigation? That sector of the Solarian League is in Mesa's pocket, and everybody knows it. So Stein's family had to flee to Erewhon for the funeral, and who does the Queen of the Star Kingdom send to escort Princess Ruth to pay her respects? The same guy who's literally in bed every night with the most famous Manticoran leader of the Anti-Slavery League, that's who. You ask me, the Queen is-

Anton had been holding his breath throughout. All of this he could live with, easily enough, if not comfortably. But who was the out-of-place panelist sitting on the right? The man hadn't spoken yet, and Anton was wondering why Underwood had included him at all. He had a gnawing feeling he would find out sooner than he wanted to.

Smoothly, Underwood interjected himself into the panel's jabber-jabber. Just as smoothly, like the well-trained seals they were, the Learned Ones slid into silence. (Slid, not fell. There was nothing uncouth or openly servile about the way they accommodated their meal ticket.)

"It seems to me that in all the endless talk about Captain Zilwicki which this affair has sparked, what's most absent is any serious examination of the central figure involved. And that's Zilwicki himself. Everybody talks about him only as he relates to someone else."

And that's just the way I want it, thought Anton grimly. I've got a bad feeling about this.

"Cathy Montaigne's lover, Princess Ruth's escort, and so on and so forth," continued Underwood. "But who is he?Where does he come from? What produced him? What is it about the man named Anton Zilwicki that leads one of Manticore's thirty richest women to trust him with her fortune as well as her affections, and leads the richest woman in the Star Kingdom to trust him with her niece?"

Underwood's well-coiffed head swiveled toward the Unknown Panelist, like a suave cannon might bring itself to bear on its target. Or, rather, its ammunition.

"You haven't spoken up yet, Mr. Wright. If I'm not mistaken, though, I think you have some relevant expertise on the subject."

The Unknown Panelist cleared his throat.

"Who's 'Mr. Wright'?" demanded Berry. "Have you ever heard of him, Daddy?"

"No," growled Anton. "And if 'Mr. Wright' is his real name, I'll eat the sofa we're sitting on." He took a deep breath and let it out in something of a sigh. "But I'm pretty sure that what he is…" He paused briefly, eyeing the sallow-faced man on the screen. "He's some kind of former intelligence analyst, dollars for donuts, now in private practice. Probably from the SIS. The Office of Naval Intelligence types tend to make a fetish out of physical fitness, whereas this guy has the struggle-to-lift-a-martini air about him that the civilian spooks seem to think is especially suave."

He fell silent. "Mr. Wright" was finally speaking.

What followed was a nightmare, and before it was over Anton had condemned Yael Underwood to a thousand horrible deaths. This was worse-far worse-than Anton had imagined. He'd been expecting, at the most, that "Mr. Wright" would trot out some hitherto-unknown facts about Anton's involvement with the now-famous Manpower Incident on Terra some years back. Instead, it soon became obvious that Wright was part of a thorough and well-planned news scoop that Underwood must have been working on for months. The recent flap involving Princess Ruth had just given him the handle to tie it on.

What the audience got, in essence, was The Life of the Mysterious Captain Zilwicki.

All of it. From his boyhood in Gryphon's highlands on up. His early career in the Navy. His athletic prowess as a wrestler, culminating in multiple championships. His marriage to Helen…

That part brought a lump to his throat. Underwood was making no effort to smear Zilwicki. If anything, the biography leaned toward excessive praise. And Underwood, ever the master showman behind the sophisticated veneer, knew a good show when he saw one. So the audience got a full dose of Helen Zilwicki herself, all the way to an extensive analysis of the battle in which she lost her life defending the convoy carrying her husband Anton and their daughter Helen from an overwhelming force of Peep raiders.

That part of the show ended with a drawn-out shot of the Parliamentary Medal of Valor, which Helen had been given posthumously, fading away into darkness. The lump in Anton's throat seemed the size of a fist.

Dimly, he sensed Berry's hand sliding into his. When the viewscreen reemerged, a man was sitting there being interviewed by Underwood. The footage had evidently been taken some time before.

Anton recognized the man, vaguely, though he could no longer remember his name. He'd been one of the bridge officers on Carnarvon, the ship carrying Zilwicki and his daughter when his wife Helen was killed.

"Oh, yeah, I'll never forget it. The kid was sobbing her heart out, sitting on his lap. Zilwicki himself…" The officer shook his head. "When the screen showed that his wife's ship had been destroyed-no chance of any survivors-I saw the look on his face. If ever a man turned to stone, it happened to Anton Zilwicki that moment."

"Oh, bullshit!" snapped Berry. Her small hand gave Anton's very powerful one a firm squeeze. "Daddy, these people are stupid."

Oddly enough, Berry's words snapped Anton out of his black mood. Far enough, at least, that he was able to watch the rest of the show with his usual analytical and objective detachment.

Most of it, of course, was devoted to the Manpower Incident. By the time it was halfway through, Anton was able to relax a bit.

"How true is all this?" asked the Princess, half-whispering, her eyes glued to the holodisplay. "We got some of it in the Palace, sure, but only the sketchiest summaries."

Anton waggled his head. "Some of it's pretty close. Quite a bit, actually. But it's got all the usual weaknesses of an analysis done by a tech weenie. To really understand something, there's no substitute for HUMINT."

What the hell, he thought whimsically. Since my career as a spy is pretty well on the rocks after this, I may as well start on my new one as Royal Spy Trainer.

"Don't ever forget that, Ruth. The Queen tells me you're a whiz with computers, and that's good. I'm no slouch myself. But spying is like whoring. They're the two oldest professions, and both of them are ultimately fleshy in nature. You can't have sex without a partner, and you can't spy worth talking about without real live spies."

Web Du Havel chuckled. The princess, sitting next to him, did likewise. "I'll remember that."

Anton gave his attention back to the show. Mr. Wright was finally wrapping it up.

"-never know, I imagine, exactly how Zilwicki put it together. The murkiest part of it remains the involvement of the Peeps. That they were involved, somehow, is beyond question. But exactly how-"

Underwood interrupted. "You don't think, then, that the rumors the Peeps were behind the kidnapping of Zilwicki's daughter are accurate."

Wright shook his head firmly. "Not a chance. Oh, don't get me wrong. Some other time, some other place, I wouldn't have put it past the old Peep regime to pull a stunt like that. But on Terra? That year? Not a chance. The key thing, you see, is that-"

One of the other panelists, evidently frustrated by long silence, was bold enough to interrupt.

"Parnell, of course. With him arriving to testify to the Solarian League about Peep atrocities…"

Her voice fell off, the slightly pained look on her face indicating a sudden realization that she'd committed a Major Talking Head Goof. The smug expression on the faces of both Wright and Underwood were enough to indicate that her Learned Insight was about to be trumped.

"Parnell was a factor, of course. But, as I was saying, the key factor is the identity of the man who, at the time, was the commander in charge of the Peep embassy's Marine detachment. The same man, I might add, who was clearly just as responsible for the havoc wreaked on Manpower as the Ballroom trigger-pullers."

He paused for dramatic effect. "The Peeps-the new Republic of Haven, I should say-have done a good job of covering it up. But with a lot of digging, it's now clear that the obscure Peep colonel involved was none other than Kevin Usher. Today, as I needn't remind this panel of guests, the head of the Republic of Haven's highest police body. A former Aprilist himself, and possibly the closest personal friend of President Eloise Pritchart."

This was news, and the oh-so-sophisticated panel of Talking Heads wasn't dumb enough to pretend it wasn't. After a moment's silence, Harriet Jilla tossed her head as if to clear it and barked: "No way! Give the devil his due. No way Kevin Usher-any real Aprilist-would have been involved with that."

"Except as the wrecking crew," said one of the other panelists grimly. A former Marine general, that one. He gave "Mr. Wright" a level stare. "What you're saying, in short, is that two corrupt Manticoran officials in cahoots with Manpower-"

For a moment, the screen flashed images of former Ambassador Hendricks and Admiral Young, at one time Anton's superiors on Terra. He was pleased to see that they were wearing their new prison uniforms.

"-to use Zilwicki's daughter in some scheme of their own-God knows what insanity that was, I don't think we'll ever know-and Zilwicki tore out their lungs. Cut out on his own, put together an informal alliance of Peep Aprilists and Ballroom gunmen, wrecked Manpower on Terra, and put the two bastards behind bars. And, of course, got his daughter out safe and sound. All of his kids, actually, since he wound up adopting the boy and girl his daughter Helen rescued in the course of the whole thing."

Mr. Wright nodded sagely. "That about sums it up." With a thin smile: "And I guess we can all figure out more or less how Catherine Montaigne got those famous and mysterious files of hers that have since then put dozens of other people behind bars for trafficking in slavery."

Anton glanced at his watch. The Star Kingdom Today had only a short while to run. It was about time, as usual, for the host to sum up the night's proceedings.

The screen moved to Underwood. His smile was as suave as ever, but this time it seemed to have a slightly wicked gleam to it.

"Well, you've all heard it. Here's what I think is happening. Yes, the Queen's sending a lot of messages to a lot of people. But I think the biggest message of all is the one she's sending to those people-whoever they might be-who murdered Hieronymus Stein. You want to play it rough, do you? Fine. I'm sending you a serious hardcase."

The screen faded to an advertisement.

Anton winced. "God, that's corny. Not to mention sandbox stupid."

Berry clapped her hands. "Well, it's about time you got some credit!"

Princess Ruth clearly shared Berry's glee, but made an effort to be analytical about it all. "Of course, it has pretty well ruined the Captain's career as a spy. After this, he's going to be one of the most famous people in the Star Kingdom."

"I don't care," insisted Berry.

"It also," grumbled Zilwicki, "plays merry hell with our plans for this trip. How am I supposed to-"

He was interrupted by the appearance in the lounge of the lieutenant in charge of Ruth's guards. The man was scowling at Anton ferociously.

"Is there a problem with the ship, Lieutenant Griggs? I thought the liftoff was as smooth as you could ask for."

"The ship is fine, Captain Zilwicki. I came to express my deepest concerns over the crew. My people and I have been making a reconnaissance, and it is our firm conviction that possibly a good third of this crew is composed of Audubon Ballroom terrorists."

Du Havel was obviously trying to keep from grinning. Anton sighed and rubbed his face.

To his surprise, Ruth piped up. "Seventy-three percent, actually. At least, I think so. Sixty-eight percent, for sure. I'm not positive about a few of them. Just about everybody except the department heads and the most skilled ratings. I'm pretty sure the Captain's doing the same thing with this ship he is with all seven of the Anti-Slavery League's armed vessels. Using them as training grounds for Ballroom privateers-to-be."

Anton's hand dropped. So did his jaw. For one of the few times in his life, he was genuinely astonished.

The princess gave him a nervous, apologetic smile. "I hacked into your data banks yesterday. Well. Not your personal data banks. I'm not sure anybody could hack into those. I bounced like a rubber ball. But the ASL itself is a lot sloppier about its security than you are."

"I will be damned, Sir," the lieutenant began to roar, "if-"

The princess cut him off. "Don't be stupid, Lieutenant Griggs! There's not a chance in the universe that Ballroom members would hurt me-quite the contrary, and you know it perfectly well. So why waste everyone's time with official huffing and puffing?" Sharply: "You have your orders. Go about them."

Griggs snapped his mouth shut, goggled at her for an instant, and then hurried out of the ship's lounge. Anton was impressed. The girl might not have any Winton genes, but clearly enough she'd picked up the Winton knack for authority. Of course, given the way her mother had come to be a Manticoran in the first place…

He was more impressed, however-quite a bit more-by Ruth's other talents. Even given the quality of training he was sure she'd gotten, and even allowing for the fact that hacking was often a youngster's forte, the fact that she'd been able to get into the ASL's data banks was remarkable for anyone, much less a twenty-three-year-old. True, Anton didn't manage that system himself, and he knew the ASL's specialists tended to be a bit slack about security. Still…

"I'm curious," he said. "Did you tell the Queen about your findings?"

" 'Course not! Aunt Elizabeth's a frightful worrywart." Ruth gave him that little nervous, apologetic smile again. "You know how it is. If I'd told her most of the crew of the ship I was going on were a bunch of bloody-handed terrorists, she'd probably have made a fuss about it. Might even have grounded me."

"This might just work," he murmured. Cap'n Zilwicki, retired rogue of the spaceways. Now a tutor to the royal house. One of whose princesses has the makings of a rogue herself. Good start on it, anyway. She's got breaking and entering down pat, that's for sure.