Duel Identity

Chapter 8

Megan did her best to hide a yawn, and then fought the impulse to reach up and scratch her head vigorously. This has to be a sim, she told herself. In real life her hair would have escaped even these tight braids surrounding the gold and diamond diadem at her brow.

She supposed she should enjoy the unfamiliar experience of having an orderly hairstyle. Instead, she felt as though the braids were squashing her brain. That didn't improve her mood-nor did sitting through a deadly boring afternoon in the throne room. Megan made a mental note to avoid these lesser courts as much as possible and let her simulacrum handle them. She probably should have been saving her energy for the royal ball this evening.

Apparently, the townsfolk of Herzen had a long and glorious tradition of bringing their disputes to be settled by their monarch instead of going to the local magistrates. Megan found herself being asked to act like Solomon in cases she barely knew anything about. She did her best to listen carefully, to resolve things fairly-and to make things hot for anyone who looked to be abusing their royal privileges.

I hope I'm getting the hang of this, Megan thought.

Then the two large families came before the throne, each clan looking daggers at the other. The people bringing the suit were Herzen townspeople. As far as Megan could make out from their complaints in German, the problem seemed to revolve around a missing bridegroom and a failure to pay thirteen goats. The other family group was more rural-peasants painfully dressed in their Sunday best.

When it was the turn of these folks to put their case, they broke into torrents of what could only be native Latvinian. Megan couldn't say if this was some sort of Serbo-Croatian dialect or plain gibberish. It was odd that she was having trouble with translation-normally the Net provided instantaneous translation of every language and dialect imaginable.

A smug voice came from the crowd of courtiers. "Surely the princess will understand the old speech of the country folk?"

Yeah, the princess would understand it-but not her American stand-in, Megan thought sourly, at least not without some help I'm not getting right now. Looks like word of my Great Imposture is going to leak out.

Megan held up her hand. The spokesman for the peasants, an older man with an enormous mustache, immediately stopped talking. "I beg the great one's pardon," he said more slowly. "Our feelings run before the horses."

Megan managed not to gawk when she realized that the man was still talking in Latvinian-and now she was understanding him perfectly! She wondered what had gone wrong to block the translation, and what was now going suddenly right?

Another of those pseudo-memories implanted by the simulation program whispered through her brain- something about being taught the language as a child by a distant relative of her mother's.

That didn't matter-so long as she could answer the peasant spokesman in his own dialect. "You are pardoned, as long as your words do not fly like the birds," she said. "Continue, Oldfather-only slowly."

The old peasant had quite a story to tell. It seemed the city slickers were making a good thing out of the betrothal visits. They'd enter into contracts with peasants in the surrounding districts, specifying a wedding within a certain amount of time or a bride-price in livestock. Then, one of the bride-to-be's uncles-a recruiting sergeant for the army-made sure the prospective bridegrooms were conscripted and taken off before the weddings could take place.

As the old man continued, a rather military-looking member of the city family tried to vanish among the ranks of his relatives.

Grim-faced, Megan had him hauled forth and put him to some searching questions-both in German and Latvinian.

The poor sergeant was in a sweat. "Majesty, we would never have troubled you, except-"

One of the quicker-minded female members of the family kicked him in the ankle.

"We would never have brought this case, except those dirt-eaters insulted Your Majesty," the leader of the city clan quickly said.

Megan continued her interrogation, finally digging out the information that the family ran a thriving butcher shop in the town, and was amassing money to expand the business. By the time she was finished, they'd still be in business, but in a much less prosperous fashion.

Just like those real-life courtroom entertainment ho- los, she thought, giving her judgment. Megan glanced again at the quivering sergeant, wondering who had put the city slickers up to bringing this case before her. Was it a trick by Gray Piotr?

She turned to where Alan Slaney stood, off to the side of the throne. His expression was a mixture of amusement and annoyance as he watched the case progress to judgement. Aware of her eyes on him, he looked up. "Did they think I couldn't plan ahead a little better than that?"

Megan hid a smile. So, the courtroom drama was an attempt to embarrass her by jealous AHSO members.

Her smile slipped a little. Unless Alan/Gray Piotr was pretending he'd thought ahead, which would mean..

She thrust away all thoughts of court intrigue before they made her head burst. Better to concentrate on the grand ball to come.

Matt Hunter came out of the Metro station at Dupont Circle to find Leif already waiting for him.

"Hey!" Matt said, giving his pal a friendly punch in the shoulder, "been a while since I saw you. Thought you were going to spend all your time in New York City this summer."

Leif shrugged. "Mom headed back to Europe with some friends. Dad's down here in D. C. right now working on some sort of intense negotiations. It's all a very hush-hush deal. He won't talk about it, not even to me. I figured I'd come down, keep him company, and catch up with some of my friends."

Then it was Matt's turn to shrug. "You want to catch up with me, I can do it fast-not much is going on. It's been a pretty quiet summer down here. Hot, mainly. Except for sweating a lot, I don't have anything to report. How about you?"

"Let's see." Leif screwed his face into a look of deep concentration. "Since finishing that summer course that Andy sabotaged for me, I nearly got whacked by a robber, survived a duel, helped wreck a couple of nasty political intrigues, and unmasked a traitor in the palace guard."

Matt stared for a moment, his eyes going wide. Then he began to laugh. "That crazy sim! Lithuania, or whatever they call it."

"Latvinia," Leif corrected him.

Matt shook his head. "Yeah. I've heard a lot about it. In our crew-the Net Force Explorers especially-people are either crazy for it… or they're being driven crazy by it."

"Megan, P. J., and David are really talking it up that much?" Leif said.

"Not so much David-that's not his style," Matt replied. "But P. J. obviously thinks it's the coolest thing since indoor plumbing. And from the way she's been talking about it, I think Megan is beginning to believe she really is a princess."

Leif winced. "Ooh, I could see that happening. How about the rest of you guys-the unbelievers?"

"I can take it or leave it," Matt admitted. "The Squirt won't even talk about it. He tried to get in, but got bounced because of his age."

That got a laugh out of Leif. "The Squirt" was Mark Gridley, son of the Net Force director. Mark was a computer wizard and a Net Force Explorer, but very young, only thirteen years old.

"I figured he'd be telling everybody he could design a better sim," Leif said.

"Nope, he just iced it out," Matt said. "Maj Greene has started ducking whenever she sees Megan. She says this sim is like a long, boring flatfilm-only it's worse because people you know are in it."

"I would think Andy would be having a field day with this turn-of-the-century stuff," Leif said. "Asking Megan if she wears a bustle on her butt, that kind of stuff."

"Not anymore," Matt said, shaking his head. "The last time he goofed on Lith-Latvinia, Megan acted as if she were going to challenge him to a duel."

Leif jammed his hands in his pockets and laughed. "She might do just do that, too. Fencing and Latvinia seem to be the two things she's doing this summer." He rolled his eyes. "Some people take things too seriously. They start to think virtual reality is reality."

"And you don't?" Matt asked.

"I can take Latvinia or leave it," Leif told him.

"I thought that would be your thing," Matt said. "Hauling out your trusty sword and charging around with it."

"The place can pop some nasty surprises on you." Leif's hands clenched into fists for a second as he remembered some of them. "In my case, they seem to crawl out of the woodwork the moment I happen to touch the hilt of my sword."

"Doesn't sound like a lot of fun," Matt said. "David didn't sound exactly wild about the place, either."

Leif shrugged.

Matt grinned. "On the other hand, Captain Winters is delighted that you and Megan are so into this Latvinia place."

Captain James Winters was the liaison agent between Net Force and the Net Force Explorers. "Winters likes it?" Leif said in disbelief.

"He said it's kept two of his biggest headaches-you and Megan-too busy to create any trouble for him this summer." Matt laughed. "At least, so far."

"I think he should pay more attention," Leif said. "There's some exposure possible if something goes wrong on the beta test. Besides us regular Net Force Explorers, he's got a Senator's son in Latvinia-not to mention the Russian ambassador's kid."

All this mentioning of Latvinia got Leif glancing at his watch. This was about the time he usually synched in with his computer, opening the cybergate to Latvinia. There was a royal ball that evening… but nothing important happening this afternoon.

Leif hesitated for just a moment, then slapped Matt on the back. "Enough of this Latvinia crap," he said decisively. "That's not what I came to Washington for. Let's have fun."

He grinned as he and Matt left the central traffic island, crossing the street. "What's doing around here in real life?" Leif asked. "Think we could find ourselves a baseball game?"

Leif got home later than he'd planned that evening. He'd already checked in by phone and gotten the message from his dad. The super-secret business negotiations were going to continue over supper. Leif unlocked the apartment door to the Andersons' Washington pied a terre and zipped straight to the kitchen. Given the family's often weird schedules, the freezer was always stocked with dinners to be nuked.

Sniffing appreciatively as a nice beef dish began to bubble in the cooker, Leif rummaged around for a plate and silverware. This wasn't some mass-produced glop prepackaged in a food factory. The Andersons could pay for real people to prepare real food. Nowadays, it seemed to Leif that commercial frozen food sometimes tasted faintly of fish oil-even when the dish was supposed to be meat. Probably just his imagination-or maybe it was that heart-healthy stuff the government had added to any high-cholesterol meal.

The oven bleeped, signaling that its heating job was done. Leif removed his dinner, juggling the hot container until he got it emptied onto his plate. Then, blowing on each forkful, he began shoveling the food into his mouth.

There was supposed to be a big feast during the ball tonight. One of the big nightmares about the Net had been the specter of people jacked into fantasy worlds, forgetting reality for so long that they starved to death.

Built-in safety features would keep that from happening, but there was a big difference between starvation and missing a meal. On the other hand, Leif knew from personal experience that eating virtual food instead of the real thing would leave him with a ravenous case of the munchies when he synched out. Better to feed his face now than wait until later and get socked.

He took another look at his watch. There was still a little time before the ball was supposed to begin. All he'd miss would be the boring last-minute preparations- hair-combing and so on. Leif finished his hurried meal at the kitchen counter, washing it down with a glass of juice. Then he washed his dishes, made a quick pit stop in the john, and headed down the hall to his bedroom.

The computer-link chair by the window here was the same top-of-the-line model as the one back home. Leif bypassed it to set the room's air-conditioner for low- no sense freezing in reality while he was in Latvinia. Then he took a moment or two to carefully calibrate the chair. It had been a while since he'd used it, and he didn't want to be dealing with implant pains when he arrived at the ball.

That should do it, he thought, finishing his minute adjustments. He settled back into the comfortable upholstery, let his eyelids come together, and gave a mental command to synch straight into Latvinia.

Leif opened his eyes to find himself walking down a palace corridor.

Nice to know Vm on time, he thought, pausing for a second to lean against the tapestry-covered wall and let the brief twinge of static in his implants die away. Vm already on my way to the ball.

Leif looked down at the conservative uniform he'd chosen to wear tonight. No super-tight riding pants tucked into tall boots this evening. He was wearing a dress uniform military tunic and gray trousers with gold piping down the seams. The jacket was bloody-nose red, with enough gold braid worked into the chest to qualify as light armor.

I wonder if the girls will find it scratchy when I dance with them, he thought.

Instead of boots, he had on lightweight dancing shoes. And, of course, there was the ceremonial sword at his side. That might make for a bit of a handicap while he was swirling around on the dance floor.

Satisfied by his brief inspection that the sim had taken care of all the necessary preparations for his appearance at the ball-he backed the inspection up by a quick look in a wall mirror-Leif continued on to the royal ballroom. Several harassed-looking flunkies, dressed in even louder silk outfits and larger powdered wigs than those he'd seen previously, stood outside the door.

One carried an ornate wooden staff with silver fittings. "Sir," the head flunky said in tones of rebuke, "Her Majesty will appear in moments."

"Then I suppose you'd better announce me immediately," Leif replied in his haughtiest tones.

The doors flew open, and the lead flunky stepped inside, thumping the staff on the floor. "The baron Al- brecht von Hengist," he called out.

Leif stepped into the ballroom, to find himself confronted with a much more colorful assemblage than he'd expected. The ladies' gowns were even more flamboyant now than they'd been during the day, colorful concoctions of silk and lace that showed off shapely bare shoulders and a king's ransom worth of jewels. Apparently every male with any kind of military connection had a dress uniform of some sort and had dragged it out for the occasion. No two seemed to be the same, and Leif's crimson-and-gold number seemed quiet and tasteful compared to some of the getups around him.

If I really wanted to stand out around here, I should have worn a nice, simple black-and-white tuxedo, Leif thought as he walked through the thronged nobility. No, this ball was white tie. He'd need to wear a formal cutaway coat here, and he hated those things. The tails always made him feel like Jiminy Cricket. He imagined that the historical version of the rig would be even more uncomfortable than the modern version. He was glad he'd stuck with his uniform.

Leif caught a familiar face in the crowd. David Gray stood impassively in gorgeous silk robes, with a uniformed P. J. standing beside him. Actually, P. J. was chatting with three or four court cuties while David pretended to pay no attention to the by-play.

"Hey, there, baron," P. J. called out, doing his best imitation of a Texan abroad. "Thought you were going to miss this hoedown. Were you visiting your old girlfriend in the hospital?"

"What? Who? Where?" Leif asked.

"You didn't hear?" P. J. chuckled. "Your lady friend- Violin or whatever she calls herself-tried to stir up the peasants again. This time she didn't get dumped in horse flop. She was wavin' the red flag of revolution-literally, ya' know-and darned if a lightning bolt didn't come down and get her-ka-ZAP!

"Frankly, I thought her speeches were electrifying enough," David said dryly. "Apparently, the monarch really does rule by divine right around here."

"I'm afraid no one told me about this," Leif said. It sounded as though the Latvinia program had some serious responses built in to deal with people who tried to mess with the basic concepts of the sim.

"Guess you were gettin' duded up for tonight's wing- ding." P. J. grinned broadly. "At least you didn't turn up in your nightshirt like Prince Menelik, here."

"Consider it antidancing insurance," David replied. Leif knew his friend enjoyed modern dances, but apparently David wasn't so sure of the more formal dance steps of the 1900s. And given David's previous experience with the program's lack of backup knowledge he'd run into so far, he clearly wasn't taking any chances.

"Don't be so sure of that," P. J. cracked. "Some girls might be willing to take a spin with you just to find out what you're wearing under that getup."

David turned away with a billow of silk.

If his complexion were as fair as minef I suspect he'd be blushing right now, Leif thought.

Luckily, P. J.'s teasing was ended when the head flunky again came through the double doors to thump his staff. "Her Most Serene Majesty, the Princess Gwenda," the bewigged announcer called out.

All conversation ceased as everyone in the room went into a bow or curtsy.

Leif found himself staring as Megan came sweeping into the ballroom. Was it just an inspired combination of hairstyle, makeup, and fashion that made her look the way she did in the deceptively simple white gown set off with rubies? Or was the Latvinia program adding a little glamour to its star player?

There was no way that Leif could answer the question. All he knew was that he found himself moving across the ballroom like an iron filing attracted by a magnet.

Megan was going through the usual excruciating royal formalities. When she saw Leif, she extended her hand. He made a sweeping bow, kissing the back of her white glove.

"Baron," she said in a clear voice, "the festivities will not begin until I lead the first dance. Will you stand up with me?"

"Your Majesty, it would be an honor," Leif managed to say without tripping over his own tongue.

He took Megan in his arms in the most proper manner, and the strains of a waltz began to ring out over the room.

"I figured that snob school your parents send you to would have taught you how to do this the right way," Megan whispered as they sailed across the floor. "I need all the help I can get to pull this off." All around them, other couples began to dance-with varying degrees of ability, Leif had to admit. He and Megan were acquitting themselves well.

His eyes were suddenly drawn to a dark spot in the colorful crowd. Alan Slaney had chosen a uniform of almost charcoal gray. The only trace of color in his outfit was a crimson sash across his chest. It made him look as if someone had slashed him from shoulder to hip.

Alan's-or Gray Piotr's-face was as expressionless as a statue's. But his eyes seemed to be tracking Megan and Leif as they danced.

Watch this, then, Leif thought, trying a twirl and a spin from his much-despised society dance lessons.

Megan laughed as they carried it off. "So, I guess the old saying is true," she said. "The best swordsmen do make the best dancers."

"You're not doing so badly yourself, for imitation royalty," Leif replied.

"That's just martial arts training, with a little assist from this program, not inbred grace," Megan told him. "But I admit I'm having fun. Let's try that move again- now that I'm ready for it."

It was a good evening. After his dance with Megan, the ladies of the court fluttered around Leif like a cloud of brightly colored butterflies. He danced, flirted just a bit, enjoyed the champagne, ate his way through a sumptuous feast… and soon enough headed for his bedroom in the royal tower, where he could synch out and rejoin the real world without paying for his virtual excesses.

Maybe it was because he'd been to actual parties like this one that the whole ball scene didn't have quite the effect on him that it seemed to be having on everyone else.

Or maybe he left early because he knew that royal tradition limited guests to one dance per evening with any member of the royal family.

In any event, Leif was alone as he threaded his way through the maze of passages to the stairs that led to his apartment well before midnight. He moved quietly, not wanting to draw attention to himself or his early departure. He steadied his saber against his leg as he headed up. It hadn't succeeded in tripping him up while he'd been dancing, but he didn't want the scabbard banging against the walls as he went up the spiral staircase.

That's when he noticed the figure ahead of him. At first, he took it for a servant. But why would a servant be shrouded in a heavy black cloak indoors?

Maybe it could be some sort of monk. He'd noticed that religious people in Latvinia all wore costumes with hoods or cowls. But there were no guests that he knew of besides his friends staying in the tower, and that included monks.

Only when the climber reached the second floor and stepped out, checking that the way was clear, did Leif catch the glint of light coming off whatever the mystery figure was carrying.

The gleam was in the wrong place for a glass or a bottle. It was the wrong color, too. What he'd seen was the glint of candlelight off polished metal.

Leif hurtled up the stairs. Unless he missed his guess, that cloaked person held a drawn knife-which meant that the stranger was no servant or monk, but a potential assassin!