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The Price of Peace Part Five  Fan Fiction
by Mary Lou Mendum
Based On
Catherine Asaro's Skolian Empire Series
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Skolian Empire Fan Fiction Index

 

Part V

 The Bard of Annandale

Chapter 19

 

In which Imperial Space Command launches an invasion of Greater Annandale

 

            After his late night at the White House, Del slept until ten. The storm had passed, leaving bright sunlight pouring through the windows.  He took a quick shower, threw on a clean pair of mesh jeans and a T-shirt, and went to find coffee, breakfast, and news, preferably in that order.

            The dining hall was almost empty, as it should be so late in the day.  There were only three people present.  Nona Esmerelda, whose daughter Rose worked as part of the house staff, huddled on a chair in the sun, a brilliantly patterned shawl draped around her hunched shoulders and her knobby, arthritic fingers clutching an almost empty cup of coffee.  Chef Choong Lee’s two nephews, Jung and Sun-wu, were working by the buffet table, replenishing the coffee and replacing the remains of breakfast with a pot of hot soup and a collation of bread, cheese, and fruit.  Del approved of his chef’s choices.  Storm cleanup would disrupt what passed for the normal schedule, so simple, filling food that would hold and that could be eaten quickly was essential.

            Del greeted Jung and Sun-wu.  A few questions (with pauses to correct his still-imperfect Korean) elicited (with pauses to correct Jung’s still-imperfect English) the information that Eldrin had organized those inhabitants of the estate who hadn’t been bogged down in diplomacy until the wee hours to inspect the property and ascertain the extent of the storm damage.  They were to report back with their findings in half an hour.

            Nodding his approval at his older brother’s sensible actions, Del filled a plate with a sandwich, fruit, and the last two breakfast pastries.  He added two cups of the fresh coffee to his tray and set it down on the table next to Nona Esmerelda’s.  Hands freed, he gave the old woman his best Court bow and addressed her in the most flowery Spanish he could contrive.  “Grandmother, might I have the extreme pleasure of sharing your company and your wisdom over a cup of coffee this morning?”

            “Flatterer!” the old woman scolded, even as her wrinkled face split in a wide grin of pleasure. 

            Taking that as a “Sí,” Del moved the tray over to her table and sat down.  After doctoring the first cup of coffee to her specifications and the second to his own, he began working his way through his breakfast.  As he ate, he learned that Esmerelda’s youngest grandchild, five-year-old Carlita, had been frightened by the noise of the storm but that her mother and older brother Juan-Carlos had finally gotten her to stop crying and sleep. 

            “They reminded her that there have been many people working to make sure that the house is strong, and that even such a storm as this could not blow it down.”  Esmerelda’s white head nodded firmly. 

            “I am very glad that they were right,” Del said.  “Is she feeling better this morning?”

            “Much better.  She is helping her mother and some of the other small ones to clean the leaves and mud off of the patio so that the outdoor kitchen can be used.  When they are finished, I will tell them stories.”

            “Excellent.”  That would ensure the smaller children didn’t get too close to the creek, the drainage ditches, or the pond, all of which would be unusually full after the storm.

            Del picked up his last bite of pastry and looked at it with regret.  It really was an outrage against his sense of artistic integrity to hurry through one of Choong Lee’s croissants, but there were times when every Bard—or prince, for that matter—had to attend to the more mundane aspects of his responsibilities.  Popping the morsel into his mouth, he asked Esmerelda if she needed anything else. She shook her head, declaring that the sun felt good on her old bones, so he put his empty dishes back on the tray and carried them back to the buffet table.  He asked Sun-wu to fetch the old woman’s lap rug for her when there was a moment to spare, then went to find Eldrin.

           

            He found his older brother in the parlor that had been commandeered by the ISC engineering team who were overseeing the estate’s repairs and modifications.  It was a large room on the first floor with oversized windows that provided ample light and a good view of the grounds.  It also had space for a conference table and the second-best mesh connections in the building.  The most elaborate connections, including the secure Kyleweb node Kelric had designed as the heart of the estate’s private mesh, were reserved for a room in the other wing from which his security team monitored the estate, the local, continental, and planetary police and civil authorities, the mesh newsfeeds, and for all Del knew, the activity of every worker ant in every anthill within six miles in their perpetual search for any potential source of danger to his royal person.  

            Personally, he thought they were overdoing the paranoia thing. 

            He tried to slip unobtrusively into the room, but an alert ensign standing along the far wall spotted him.  Her already upright posture assumed ramrod rigidity as she alerted her less observant superiors with a loud, “Your Highness!”

            Tyra knew better than to greet him in his own home with the formal etiquette which the protocol experts inflicted upon members of the Ruby Dynasty, Eldrin was family, and grounds crew head Francisco and head housekeeper Isadora were Allied citizens directly employed by Del, firmly on the civilian side of the estate’s chain of command and subject to his orders.  The remaining people in the room were Imperial Fleet or Pharaoh’s Army officers off the Roca’s Pride who had volunteered to assist with the renovations: the equivalent of elite Navy and Marines, as the Allied Worlds viewed such things.  They were decidedly not under Del’s command and were therefore not obliged to abide by his more relaxed notions of the respect due a surplus Ruby Prince-turned-holorock singer.  It was a circumstance they evidently cherished.  Del could feel the wave of militaristic pride as every low-ranking ISC officer in the room snapped to rigid attention while their ranking officers greeted his entrance for the formation with crisp, perfectly executed bows.

            Knowing that they could and would maintain the ridiculous poses until he released them or gave up and left the room, he gave the regulation wave of acknowledgement and “I thank you” in Iotic that military etiquette demanded from high-ranking civilians and breathed a mental sigh of relief as they relaxed. 

            Turning to the housekeeper, he switched to Spanish and asked, “Señora Isadora, is all well with the household?”  Across the room, Eldrin murmured a translation in Flag.

            “Sí, mi patrón,” she answered.  “Some of the little ones were frightened by the storm and Carmine slipped and sprained her ankle, but Doctor Lahayfa fixed it.”

            Del was glad the ISC physician that Kelric had added to his staff, a specialist in neural disorders peculiar to psions, was earning her keep by looking after patients who actually needed her services.

            “How are we set for supplies?”

            “There was a delivery yesterday.  We can last a week if we must.”

            Del nodded his thanks and turned to his head groundskeeper.  “Francisco, how is the land?” he continued in Spanish.

            “Señor Del, the damage was not great,” Francisco reported.  “The old tool shed blew down and Jesus tells me that three chickens got out of the coop and drowned.  He has given them to Chef Lee to make soup.  Estevon and Raúl found six trees down, but none of them damaged anything as they fell.”

            “Thank you, my friend.”

            “So, how did the house weather the storm, Major Barghatt?” he continued, switching to Skolian Flag. While many career military officers learned at least rudimentary Iotic, all four branches of the Skolian military used Flag as their primary language. As he spoke, Eldrin smoothly reversed course, translating the Flag to imperfect English for Isadora and Francisco.

            The chief engineer in charge of supervising structural alterations to the estate returned to a mercifully soft version of attention as she reported, “Your Highness, there are a few shingles blown off the roof, two broken windows with minor water damage in the south wing, and we lost a tarp on the smallest of the three lumber stockpiles.  The wood will have to dry before we can use it, but it’s still sound.”

            “Good.  Lieutenant Quath?”

            The infrastructural engineer mimicked his superior’s respectful pose.  “Your Highness, there was no damage to the plumbing, electrical, mesh, or sewer here on the estate.  We are running on backup generator power at the moment because the local power grid is down.  The power loss also took down much of the local mesh, which makes it more difficult to determine when the damage will be repaired.”

            Del nodded his thanks and turned to his head of security.  “Tyra, first of all, how are Randall and his parents?”

            “Randall was sleeping comfortably when I brought his parents home around eleven,” the Jagernaut reported. “They returned to the hospital at seven.”

            Her attitude was informal, but alert and respectful enough to pacify any of the military types who might take offense at seeing a Ruby prince treated like an actual human being instead of a sacred national symbol.  Del admired the adroit compromise.

            “We lost some outdoor sensors around the perimeter of the estate,” the Jagernaut continued, “but those can be replaced easily enough.”

            “We’re in decent shape, then,” the singer summarized.  “What about the rest of the community?”

            Tyra shrugged.  “As Lieutenant Quath said, there are a lot of fallen trees, and a lot of them took power lines down as they fell.  That means no power or mesh, which makes it hard for people to call for help if they need it.  Blocked roads are making it hard to get emergency and repair vehicles where they need to go.  There was localized flooding around some of the creeks and from clogged storm drains, according to the police chatter.  Their dispatcher has been sounding progressively more frazzled all morning, Wasther reports.”

            “In other words, it’s a mess.  That fits what Kelric and I saw coming home last night.”  Del looked around at the others.  “Perhaps we should do what we can to assist in the cleanup, at least locally.”  Another language swap.  “Francisco, how many chain saws do we have?”

            “Tres,” came the answer, “All are in good condition, although one is small.”

            “Good.  Have the crew get them together, along with any pruning tools you can find.  Oh, and Raúl should get the forklift from the hay barn.  If it can lift hay bales, it can lift tree trunks.”  Del turned to Major Barghatt, as the senior regular ISC officer present and continued in Flag.  “Major, I propose to expedite the cleanup, at least in this neighborhood, by clearing the downed trees out of the streets so that the broken power lines can be restored more easily.  More hands will make the work go faster, so I would like to call for volunteers from among the Roca’s Pride crew who are rotating through.”

            “Your Highness, if you take my work details, the work on your estate will not proceed today.”

            Del shrugged, spreading his hands in a gesture of resignation. “I realize that, Major, but you have been making excellent progress on the repairs.  With the treaty talks stalled, you will have more than enough time to finish before the Roca must leave.  Taking a day off won’t do any lasting harm and if the situation is as bad as Tyra reports, the Allied civil workers—and my new neighbors—could use the help.”

             “I’m sure they could,” the Major conceded.  “If you are taking my work details with you, I might as well come along.  You’ll want someone who can identify whether damaged power cables are still active.”

            Del smiled.  “Thank you, Major.”

            Barghatt blinked as if stunned, then recalled herself.  “I will tell the volunteers to assemble on the back patio, Your Highness.”

 

            The Annandale estate was currently hosting about thirty crew members off the Skolian flagship who had volunteered to assist with its refurbishment in exchange for a chance to escape the dull routine of a battleship in orbit around a friendly planet.  The twin lures of seeing Old Earth and offering personal service to a member of the reclusive Ruby Dynasty had proved so irresistible that the entire group of volunteers was being rotated out every other day.  While Major Barghatt complained that it made her job harder to constantly change her workforce, Captain Devon Majda thought that it was good for morale to allow as many volunteers as possible to participate.  Kelric concurred, which had settled the matter.

            The current volunteers assembled on the back patio, now clean thanks to Rose and the smaller children.  About half of this group was naval officers and half Pharaoh’s Army.  Their day uniforms gleamed formidably in the sun, making quite the martial show. 

            Del had never considered himself enough of a politician to give good motivational speeches to masses of strangers.  However, he told himself that they were just another audience and was gratified by their enthusiastic response after he explained what he intended. 

            The Skolian invasion of greater Annandale was launched less than an hour later.  In the lead were Angela and Juan-Carlos on their bicycles.  They were to scout ahead and report back when they found fallen trees blocking the road or other storm damage.  The rest of the group walked in an amorphous mass, with Del, Eldrin, and their Jagernaut bodyguards in the center.  The ISC volunteers surrounded their princes in a protective shield, but refrained from forming ranks or marching in step.  Del gave Tyra full credit for enforcing this breach of military discipline.  Her argument that the unannounced appearance of an organized, foreign military force in the neighborhood might provoke alarm and hostility, potentially endangering the two Ruby princes, had been inspired. 

            Behind the ISC infantry were the irregulars: Francisco and his field crew.  Their worn jeans and faded shirts contrasted with the military spit and polish of the main group, but they walked with the proud assurance of people who knew that their specialized skills would soon be in demand.

            The mechanized division brought up the rear.  Major Barghatt drove the battered, ancient golf cart used by the field crews to transport people and equipment around the estate grounds, with Doctor Lahayfa beside her, clutching her medkit.  The back seat and rear cargo area were filled to overflowing with chain saws, pruning equipment, an orchard ladder, rakes, an oversized plastic keg of water, and two large boxes of Chef Lee’s homemade granola bars.  Behind the golf cart came Raúl on the forklift and the procession ended with Lieutenant Quath on the versatile, all-purpose small tractor, which was called a “cat” in English for some odd reason Del had never investigated.  It had been rented to move dirt and supplies, dig ditches, and generally supply extra power where needed.  It had proved so useful during the reconstruction that Del was seriously considering whether he ought to buy one outright.

            Their initial goal was to clear a path through the residential streets to a long-term nursing facility that occupied a small hill close to the local reservoir.  It was a scenic location, but there was no immediate access to the major roads that were the first priority for the civil tree-removal crews.  Del was worried that its elderly and infirm residents might suffer from the enforced isolation.

            They found their first downed tree within a block: an oak had proved too shallow-rooted to withstand the tropical storm winds.  The wind had guided its fall directly into the road, so although no vehicle larger than Angela and Juan-Carlos’s bicycles could pass, there was no obvious damage to the power lines.  A half dozen assorted people were standing in the yard next to the massive base, staring glumly at a grey-haired man in his mid sixties wearing a blue shirt and grease-smeared jeans.  The man was kneeling on a tarp on the lawn beside a partially disassembled chainsaw.  As the parade neared, they turned to stare at the newcomers instead.

            Del had seen people paralyzed by disasters before.  It was part of his job as Dalvador Bard to break that paralysis and organize an effective response.  He threaded his way though the intervening ISC uniforms and approached the group.  The older four adults looked skeptically from Del, to the armed Jagernauts flanking him, to the obvious military uniforms in the rest of the group, then back to Del.  The younger two, a boy and girl of high school age, just stared at Del in incredulous delight.  He wondered if they were fans of the band.  However, it was the older generation that concerned him at present.

            The singer flashed his most disarming smile.  “Hello,” he greeted them in English.  “I’m Del Arden, your new neighbor; I just bought the old country club.”

            The grey-haired man levered himself stiffly to his feet and nodded skeptically in return.  “Welcome to the neighborhood, Mister Arden.  I’m Josh Selman and these are my kids and grandkids.”  He offered a hand to shake, noticed the black grease smears across the palm, and withdrew it apologetically.  “You’ll forgive me if I was hoping you were the municipal tree crew.”

            “Grandpa!” came a scandalized whisper from the girl.  “That’s Del Arden!”

            “His songs are at the top of all the holorock charts!” her brother chimed in.  “And he’s a real prince!”

            “Ultra,” the girl confirmed, nodding vigorously.

            “We’re not the city crew, but we do have two working chainsaws, a little brush trimmer, and lots of hands,” Del pointed out with what he hoped was a disarming smile.  “We were hoping to clear the streets so the city crews can get in to repair the power lines.”

            The elder Selman’s skepticism thawed a bit.  “Now, that’s right neighborly of you,” he admitted, somewhat grudgingly.  “I had the same idea, but my saw’s blade is off and I can’t seem to get it properly adjusted.”

            “Raúl is good at that,” Del offered.  “Another full-sized saw will make the work go a lot faster.”

            While they had been talking, the engineers had done a brief scan for damaged wiring, pipes, or other potential trouble. “We don’t have to worry about anything but the tree, Your Highness,” Major Barghatt reported, standing at attention.  Mercifully, military etiquette did not require an additional formal bow when Del had been part of the group continuously since the last one.  “Although there are at least two damaged irrigation emitters and a couple of cracks in the sidewalk underneath.”

            “Thank you, Major.”  Del turned to Francisco and passed on the engineer’s all-clear in Spanish, along with the information that Selman’s chainsaw could probably be brought to working condition. 

            “Raúl, check the saw,” Francisco said. Raúl handed the chainsaw he had been carrying to Estevon and approached Del.  The field hand was a small, wiry man whose ability to tinker with machinery rivaled an engineer’s, but whose terminal shyness, lack of formal education, and inability to learn English had prevented him from any possibility of advancing to a leadership position.  He smiled, white teeth flashing in his sun-darkened face, murmured a greeting to Selman in Spanish, then knelt down to check the partially disassembled saw. 

            “We trim the branches first,” Francisco briefed his crew, while Del translated his words to Flag for the military contingent.  “They should be dragged clear and stacked in neat piles by the curb.  When we have cleared down to the trunk, we’ll bring in the forklift and cat to support the trunk while we trim the weight-bearing branches underneath and cut it to size.”

            As the two working chainsaws and the brush trimmer snarled and started sectioning the smaller branches, the rest of the party sorted themselves out.  Soon piles of brush were sprouting across the street.  It wasn’t long before Selman’s grandchildren started grabbing and hauling branches, unable to resist the lure of working alongside their favorite holorock star.  Everybody cheered when Raúl brought Selman’s chainsaw roaring to life and the atmosphere became almost festive.  With the additional saw, the branch-stacking details had to scramble to keep up.  Perhaps encouraged by the friendly rivalry, Selman’s two sons and daughter-in-law pitched in, as did three or four other neighbors who had been attracted by the noise.  By the time the saws rattled into temporary silence so that the forklift and cat could move into place, the elder Selman’s skepticism had thawed considerably. 

            When the last of the trunk had been sectioned and the road was clear, they moved on to the next block, where Angela reported a large branch had fallen, damaging two vehicles that had been parked underneath.  Their equipment was augmented by the elder Selman’s chainsaw, which he had offered to loan to Raúl for the day.  Also swelling their ranks were the two Selman grandchildren, their mother, and three other older volunteers.

            They worked systematically through the neighborhood for the next hour, clearing half a dozen roadblocks and gaining two more chainsaw operators and almost twenty volunteers.  Because so many people could not work efficiently on a single downed tree, they split into teams.  The first team, consisting of about half neighborhood volunteers and half ISC military types, was armed with brush loppers, pruning shears, and the brush trimmer.  Their job was to clear the smaller, leafy branches out of the way so that the full-sized chainsaws could be used efficiently.  Del went with this group to explain their efforts to the residents and to determine whether there were additional problems.  When Lieutenant Quath had checked for live power lines or other dangers, the demolition would begin.

            By the time the next crew arrived, with two of the full-sized chainsaws, most of the rest of the ISC work detail, and the younger, more physically fit volunteers, plus Eldrin to translate, all branches of less than six inches were removed and stacked in neat piles out of the way. The second crew would section as much of the trunk as they could safely manage, leaving the remaining scaffold for Francisco’s expert team to clear, aided by the cat and forklift.  Doctor Lahayfa circulated among the groups in the golf cart, tending to the inevitable bumps and bruises.

 

Chapter 20

 

In which Jagernaut Primary Tyra Jarin commits a breaking-and-entering

 

            When Del noticed the incidence of minor scrapes increasing, he called a break.  Conversation broke out in half a dozen languages as the water and granola bars were distributed among the crews.  Del took advantage of the relative quiet, and the working mesh link to the Kylenode that Kelric had installed to run the security system at his estate, to contact the utility company and advise them that the area was ready for their repairs.  It took some negotiation with a dispatcher who happened to be a fan before he was able to speak with one of the engineers responsible for supervising the repair crews. 

            The supervisor, a graying, no-nonsense man with the unlikely name of Edward Bosc, made it clear from the outset that he was not a holorock fan.  He was also, he stated in no uncertain terms, far too busy with his very important job to talk to Del.  His job, he continued, was managing the crews trying to restore power to people who might not happen to be spoiled and pampered celebrities, but who were nevertheless valued customers of Wrexley Utilities.  Valued customers, he explained, some of whom were old, ill, or infirm and needed power to run assistive devices.  Del appeared to be a healthy young man, he advised, and was therefore likely to survive without access to his fan page until Bosc’s crews could get around to restoring power to his neighborhood.  Which would not happen until the downed trees could be removed, which was the responsibility of the Parks department, not Wrexley Utilities.

            At that point, Bosc finally had to pause for breath.  Del smiled as disarmingly as he could manage and said, “Actually, Mr. Bosc, I am calling to let you know that my neighbors and I have been clearing out the downed trees in our area, so that one of your crews can get in to restore our power.”

            Bosc was not mollified.  “We advise the public not to meddle with trees that have fallen on or near power lines.  It is too dangerous.  It takes specialized equipment to determine which lines are still carrying current.  We don’t want anybody getting killed.”

            “I share that concern.  However, I happen to have an expert with the proper equipment with me—he was supervising some work on my estate…”

            “He doesn’t work for Wrexley Utilities!” snapped the supervisor.

            Del was beginning to find the man’s attitude annoying.  “Lieutenant Quoth has been supervising repair crews aboard the Skolian Firestorm battle cruiser Roca’s Pride for over a decade,” he said firmly.  “In that time, he has unfortunately had a great deal of experience repairing battle damage.  Believe me, he is every bit as capable of flagging a live power conduit in a mess of wreckage as any of your crews.” 

            Bosc was momentarily at a loss for words.  Now that it appeared the man might be prepared to listen, the singer smiled in a conciliatory fashion.  “He has also been keeping track of exactly what damage was done where, and what spare parts are required to fix it.  Would that information be of assistance to your crews?”

            In the little screen on Del’s wristcom, Bosc blinked.  “Well, yes,” he admitted.  “That would help a great deal.”

            The conversation that followed was somewhat awkward, since Bosc spoke no Flag, Quoth spoke no English, and Del spoke no engineering.  Quoth finally resorted to describing the functions and structural composition of each missing part, so that Del could learn the English vocabulary for terms like “transistor,” “strain insulator,” and “circuit breaker.” Once that had been accomplished, communication improved.  Bosc was so impressed at the thoroughness of the lieutenant’s report that he gave Del his direct comcode so that he could receive further updates.  He was even feeling collegial enough to give them some unwelcome news.

            “We can fix the downed cable and transformers, but there won’t be any power to that section for at least three days.  The substation was damaged and the replacement parts have to be shipped in and installed.”  He shrugged.  “Right at the moment, I’m trying to use my crews where their repairs will actually restore power to our customers.  Still, I’ll do my best to make sure that your neighborhood power grid is functional by the time the substation is.”

            “I can’t fault your priorities, Mr. Bosc,” Del said, “and I thank you for your honesty and for your service.”

            Bosc blinked in surprise, as if he were unused to honest praise, then said gruffly, “I’d better get back to work.”

            “We, too, should continue our efforts,” the prince agreed, and ended the call.

            Two blocks, one tree, and four major tree limbs later, they found the worst damage yet.  A twist in the road’s orientation had allowed the wind to blow a tree down onto the roof of a house, rather than into the street.  While this had spared the power lines, the roof had sustained considerable damage.  Most of the residents of the block had gathered on the street and were holding a vigorous discussion with the family who lived there on whether it was safe to go inside to salvage their belongings.

            Del offered the services of Major Barghatt and Lieutenant Quoth to settle this important question.  While the engineers conducted a thorough inspection, the singer continued what had become a routine by asking whether all residents on the block had weathered the storm safely. 

            Elvira, the young woman who owned the damaged house, scanned the crowd. “Everybody’s here,” she assured him, shifting her young daughter to the other hip.  “I mean, I haven’t seen old Mrs. Haggarty across the street, but she doesn’t get out much.  Only when her helper comes to get her into her wheelchair, and I haven’t seen him today.”

            “In that case, I might as well check on her while we’re waiting,” Del said.  “Just to make sure.  Would you introduce us?”

            The woman shrugged, then handed the little girl to her husband.  “Certainly,” she agreed, and led the way.  Tyra and Secondary Wasther followed.

            Mrs. Haggarty’s house was small but comfortable, with a front veranda lushly overgrown with ivy.  It was surrounded by tall, unpruned hedges, as if it had once been a manicured showpiece but had gradually been allowed to run wild as its owner lost the ability to keep it in check.  Del’s guide knocked on the door, calling, “Mrs. Haggarty?  It’s Elvira, from across the street.  Are you all right?”

            There was no answer.  After a moment, Elvira shook her head.  “I suppose she’s sleeping, the poor dear.”

            “I don’t think so,” Tyra said, cocking her head.  “In fact, I think she’s calling for help.

            “I don’t hear anything,” Elvira said doubtfully.

            Del couldn’t, either, but he didn’t have a Jagernaut’s enhanced hearing.  On the other hand, he didn’t necessarily need it.  Taking a deep breath, he lowered his barriers, and caught a faint wave of hunger, thirst, and helpless frustration, even over the babble from the minds of the crowd across the street.  “I think Tyra is right,” he said.  “Do you or any of the other neighbors have a spare key?”

            “No, not that I know of,” the woman admitted.  “She keeps to herself.”

            “Then we’ll have to do this the hard way,” Tyra said.  “It’s too bad the house mesh is out, but other ways exist.”  She carefully inspected the door, which was a solid plank of wood flanked by two windows that were split into six small panes each. 

            Completing her inspection, the Jagernaut turned to Elvira.  “I don’t suppose you have a board about so big?”  She held up her hands to indicate about a three-foot length.  “And a hammer and nails?”

            “Why, yes,” a confused Elvira admitted.  “Do you need them to get in?”

            “No,” Tyra said. Clenching her gauntleted fist, she punched neatly through the pane closest to the door handle, sending glass tinkling down to the floor inside, then added, “But they’ll be handy for boarding up the damage afterwards.”  She knocked the remaining slivers of pane out, reached through the hole, and unlocked the door from the inside.  She opened it, gave the hallway inside a practiced scan, then moved aside for Del.

            “Mrs. Haggarty?” the singer called, stepping into the dark entryway.  “My name is Del.  Your neighbors were worried about you.”

             “I’m in the living room,” a voice quavered from the left.  “My chair doesn’t work and I can’t get up.”  Del followed the sound and discovered a frail, withered old woman huddled in a recliner.  A wheeled support frame for walking was beside it and there was a strong scent of urine in the air. 

            “You’re not a policeman,” Mrs. Haggarty said, pointing an accusing finger at the prince-turned-singer.

            He gave her his most disarming smile.  “No, I’m not a policeman, or a fireman, or anybody official.  I’m just a busybody of a neighbor.  But we can help you out of that chair.”

            Together, Del and Tyra got the old woman standing.  Then Elvira helped her to the bathroom to clean up and change clothes while the Skolians tackled the mess in the chair.  When Elvira rejoined them, she was shaking her head. 

            “She can’t manage on her own without her powered recliner,” the young woman explained.  “To make matters worse, her helper is on vacation for the next two weeks and her only son is off-planet.”

            “I can manage just fine,” a querulous voice maintained from down the hall.  It grew slowly louder, accompanied by the clank of the walking frame.  “There’s nothing wrong with me, just a little arthritis.  There’s nothing wrong with my ears, either.”

            As Elvira blushed at the reprimand, Del considered the options.  There was no way that Mrs. Haggarty could be left on her own, not when it would be days before there would be power.  It was equally plain that the old woman was too proud to accept charity of any kind.

            On the other hand, Del reminded himself, sometimes those who are too proud to accept charity aren’t too proud to give it. 

            “Mrs. Haggarty,” he began, “I can see that you manage quite handily.  So I was wondering if you’d be willing to help out some of your neighbors who didn’t come through the storm as well.”

            She reached the entryway and paused to rest.  She barely came up to Del’s chin, but she still managed to look down her nose at him.  “Young man, don’t try to sell me a washtub of malarkey,” she said firmly.  “I’ll have you know I wasn’t born yesterday.”

            Del wondered what malarkey was.  Perhaps a soap of some kind, if it came in washtubs?  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he assured her.  “I don’t know if you’ve had time to look out the window, but a tree fell onto Elvira’s house last night.  There’s quite a bit of damage to the roof.  She and her husband and daughter need a place to stay for a few days, until they can make other arrangements.”

            “Oh.”  The old woman turned her gimlet gaze on Elvira.  “Is that true?”

            The young woman caught on to Del’s tactic in time to shuffle her feet as if embarrassed.  She even managed a vaguely guilty expression.  “I’m afraid it is, Mrs. Haggarty.” 

            “Well, I suppose you do need to be close enough to keep an eye on things,” came the grudging agreement.  It became less grudging when Del flashed her his mercurial smile.

            “Thank you,” he said simply. 

            And so it was settled.

 

            It was mid-afternoon when they finally reached the long-term care facility by the reservoir.  Arcadia Gardens was a pleasant enough complex, nicely landscaped and of recent enough construction that there were no trees of any size close enough to damage the buildings. 

            The manager, a lean young man with straight, dark hair and dusky skin that emphasized the dark circles under his eyes, came out to greet them. “Thank goodness you’re here,” he cried in near-hysterical relief, tugging nervously at the large-print nametag pinned to his shirt that proclaimed his name to be “Bakhshi.” “The day shift never reported and nobody on night shift knows how to coax that temperamental generator into running and without power the dining hall can’t make hot food and I can’t reach the management because the phones are out and what would have happened if one of the clients needed an ambulance and I thought they would never send anyone…”  He stopped talking quite suddenly, as if realizing that he was babbling.

            Del gave what he hoped was a sufficiently reassuring smile.  “We weren’t sent by your management, but I think we can solve at least some of your problems.” 

            Fifteen minutes later, Quoth and Barghatt were in the basement checking whether the generator could be brought online, Dr. Lahayfa had been dispatched to examine an elderly man who had been complaining of mild chest pains and one of the staff who had slipped in the dim light from a flashlight and badly twisted an ankle, and Bakhshi was clutching a Skolian military field com. 

            “None of these symbols on the buttons are familiar,” he admitted, squinting to see if that would clarify them.

            “They’re Skolian glyphs,” Del explained.  “You don’t need most of the functions.  All you need to remember is that you push this one—the yellow eagle—to turn it on, and this one—the brown triangle—to make a call.  It’s preset to contact the closest ISC military communications net, which happens to be the security switchboard at my estate.  They can pass on a message if you need an ambulance or the police.  When you’re done, press the black circle to end the call.  I ask you to please only use it for emergencies.”

            “That is understood,” Bakhshi agreed.  “I will return it to you as soon as the power comes back on and mesh service is restored.”

            Most of the English-speaking volunteers from the neighborhood went inside to help the exhausted staff, many of whom had been working for twenty hours straight.  Eldrin went with them to coordinate the effort with his superior diplomatic skills.  By the time he got everybody working productively and stepped back outside, the Skolians had flopped down on the front lawn to rest like the experienced campaigners they were.  Interspersed with them was Del’s field crew.  Unlike that first dinner at the estate, the Allied citizens were no longer avoiding the military details, although the lack of a common language limited communication between them. 

            Del had completed his business with Bakhshi and rejoined them when a loud roaring of engines caught his attention.

            “That sounds like the sort of engines that move heavy equipment,” Tyra observed quietly at his elbow.  “And it’s coming closer.”

            “Maybe Bosc found a free crew to work in this neighborhood?” the singer ventured, looking down Arcadia Gardens’ long, curving driveway.  He thought he could see movement through the hedges that lined it.

            “That’s not a repair crew!” Tyra barked, switching from their usual English to Skolian Flag.  “That’s a group of motorcycles.”

            The Marines responded instantly, jumping to their feet and reaching for random pruning equipment, since they had left their usual weapons behind.  The naval crew were half a heartbeat behind.  By the time twenty-one motorcycles rounded the last curve, riding in ten closely spaced pairs behind a lone leader, they had the two Ruby princes and their Jagernaut bodyguard details surrounded in a protective circle.

            Peering through a narrow space between two broad shoulders, Del watched the motorcycles approach.  They maintained their formation even as they negotiated the changes in terrain from road to gravel path and then grass.  From what little he could see, the riders were not wearing obvious armor.  Instead, they wore brown or black leather jackets with patches on the back depicting a snarling grey dog, or maybe it was a wolf.  The leader’s helmet repeated the angry canine.

            They gunned their engines as they traced a graceful but deceptively fast curve across the lawn.  As they approached the tense Skolians obliquely, the Jagernauts rested hands on their Jumblers. 

            “Don’t shoot,” Del ordered quietly in Iotic.  “They’re trying to impress and intimidate us, but I don’t think they’d be viewing us as a source of hope if they planned to actually attack.”

            “Del’s right,” Eldrin agreed.  “I think they want to talk to us.”

            Neither Ruby prince had the authority to order their bodyguards to stand down if a plausible threat to their persons was present, of course.  However, Tyra respected both their empathic ability and their judgment enough to keep her weapon in its holster as the motorcycles skidded to a flashy halt about twenty feet in front of the Skolians, sending a shower of mud, grass, and occasional pebbles in their direction. 

            The leader, who on closer inspection was probably male, raised his hand and all but his own motor died.  He circled around the formation, making his front wheel lift off of the ground.  When he was about halfway between his followers and the Skolians, he dropped the front wheel back down to the grass, bringing the motorcycle to an abrupt halt in a spray of muddy turf fragments.  He cut the motor and pulled off his helmet.  The others removed their helmets at the same time, with near-military precision.

            They were young, late teens or twenties, Del guessed.  Most had the same gleaming black hair, high cheekbones, and brown eyes as his Spanish-speaking staff.  They held themselves with the brittle pride of people who had little in the way of power, wealth, or status, but who nevertheless refused to accept the world’s casual dismissal.

            The leader glared across at them, the picture of confidence, but Del caught his dismay at the calmly alert way the Skolians stood their ground in the face of his display.  Still, he looked at them squarely and spoke Spanish-accented English in a ringing voice.  “I am Manuel Diego de la Mendoza, captain of the best motorcycle club in Northern Virginia, Los Lobos Grises, the Gray Wolves.”  He indicated his followers with a flourish.  “We outrode the Alligators and the Eagles when they challenged us to a contest, and now people in Annandale Manors move aside to let us pass.  Who speaks for you?”

            “It’s an invitation to parley,” Del said in Flag.  “Where is Annandale Manors?”

            “It’s the poorer neighborhood adjoining the area we’ve been clearing,” Tyra answered softly.  “The Gray Wolves are a frequent source of disturbances requiring police intervention.  Illegal street races, mostly.”

            Del nodded.  “Let’s not give them reason to take offense, then.  Let me through.”

            In a show of military solidarity, or perhaps just chain-of-command bloody-mindedness, the double row of uniformed backs in front of Del didn’t part until Tyra ordered, “Step aside.”  Del walked through the gap and closed about three quarters of the distance between himself and Mendoza’s motorcycle, placing the two ostensible commanders in the no-man’s-land between their opposing forces.  The singer didn’t have a motorcycle, but Tyra and Wasther flanked him on either side, hands on their Jumblers.  Following the diplomatic protocol appropriate to a parlay between honorable leaders trying to decide whether they were friends or enemies, Del spoke in Spanish, in as close as he could improvise to the form Mendoza had used.

            “My greetings, Manuel Diego de la Mendoza,” he announced with a respectful, formal nod of his head.  He let his voice resonate, projecting so that everybody on both sides of the confrontation could hear.  “I am Del-Kurj Arden Valdoria kya Skolia, prince of Skolia,” he continued, then indicated the tense group of Skolians behind him.  “These are crew and fighters—I think the closest Allied equivalent is Marines—off the Skolian flagship Roca’s Pride.”  He let his mouth quirk upward in an ironic smile.  “People don’t generally make a point of stepping out of their way, even on Skolian planets, but they did fight the Eubian military to a standstill.  Twice.”

            As Del spoke, Mendoza’s shoulders slumped slightly and his fists clenched, the response of a person who wants to lash out but knows that he couldn’t possibly win the confrontation.  His frustration increased, fed by an underlying urgency.

            “You don’t talk like a prince,” he objected, in Spanish this time.  “You talk like you live in the barrio like the rest of us.”

            “I speak the Spanish of the people who taught me,” the singer explained, gesturing toward Francisco and his crew.  “Badly, at times.  Or so they tell me.” 

             That earned him an outbreak of rapid-fire commentary from his own side and gave Mendoza a moment to regroup.  It didn’t reduce the man’s frustration or worry.  Something was badly wrong.

            “How did Annandale Manors fare in the storm?” the prince asked gently, beginning his inquiry with the most likely cause of distress. 

            “We have no mesh and no electricity for our houses,” Mendoza said, tossing his head and straightening his shoulders as he recited what was obviously a rehearsed list of grievances.  “But the big tower that they put through our neighborhood, it has power.  So does the cable that broke and fell across our playground.  They sent a police officer to tell the children not to play there, but would they come and fix it?  No.  We are just a poor neighborhood.  All day we hear the sound as they work up here to give people with more money their power, but nobody comes to keep my little sisters, or Gilberto’s brother, or Rico’s cousin from dying.  So my friends and I, we come up here to tell them, you must fix the tower first and make our playground safe.”

            Del shook his head sympathetically.  “My friend, the noise you heard was me and my friends here, and a lot of other people from this neighborhood, clearing the trees that had fallen so that repairs can be made, when there is someone available to make them.  They tell me it will be a few days.”  He explained about the damaged substation, and why the repair crews were working first in areas where power could be restored quickly.  “A live high-voltage cable on the ground, though…such a thing should have been fixed by now.”

            Del had no standing in the Allied government.  He didn’t work for the power company.  He had no authority to order anything to be fixed.  Yet the simple act of having somebody from outside of their neighborhood agree that their grievance was valid washed away much of the miasma of anger and frustration that had been hovering over the Grey Wolves. 

            Hoping to capitalize on the mood shift, the singer continued.  “I have two engineers with me.  Right now, they are fixing the generator here so the elders can have a hot meal.  They can’t repair a broken power cable with the equipment they have with them, but they might be able to figure out how to cut the power to it so that it is no longer a danger.  At the least, I have the com code for one of the Wrexley Utility engineers who supervises repair crews in this area.  We can make sure that he understands the urgency.”

            “You would do this for us?”  Hope and disbelief warred on Mendoza’s features. 

            “Of course,” Del said.

            And in doing so, he won the unconditional loyalty of the entire motorcycle gang.

 

Chapter 21

 

In which a Jumbler is fired.

 

            In the end, Eldrin decided to stay at Arcadia Gardens.  Because the storm had hit during the night shift, none of the minimal staff who had been trapped there worked in the kitchen.  A survey of the available talent turned up an ISC Marine who knew how to run a field kitchen, but was unfamiliar with many of the Earth foods in the pantry.  Two of the neighborhood volunteers were serious competitors on what they called “the BBQ circuit,” however, and one of the Grey Wolves worked in the kitchen of a local restaurant.  With the help of good translation, it was hoped, they could manage to produce a hot meal for all.

            When Barghatt and Quoth had fixed the generator and trained Bakhshi and two others how to operate it properly, they and the rest of the Skolians set out for Annandale Manors with the Grey Wolves.  In this poorer area, the houses were older, the yards were smaller, and there were fewer large trees.  They only had to pause twice, briefly, for the cat and forklift to clear branches from the road.

            Such a large and noisy procession could not help but attract attention.  Small children ran alongside them, shouting, while their elders came out of the houses to see whether the fuss was the long-awaited repair crew.

            The playground was a small patch of mostly bare dirt, packed so hard that even last night’s storm hadn’t been able to make much mud.  A swing set occupied one corner, its two working swings flanking one that was missing its seat.  A small merry-go-round listed to one side.  Two small benches provided sitting space of sorts, for those parents who dared brave the peeling green paint and occasional missing staves on the seats and backs.

            The only fully functional piece of play equipment was the climbing structure, if only by virtue of its having no moving parts to malfunction.  Or it had been functional.  Like the rest of the playground, it had undergone many repairs in its lifetime.  Its last refurbishment, fifteen years before, had replaced two rusted-out steel supports and several other bars with a carbon-based composite, but left the rest of the original steel intact.  When the heavy electrical cable had fallen across it, tangling in its upper reaches, the massive electrical voltage had flowed through the steel bars in search of a ground, arcing across the gaps and melting parts of the structure to slag.  What was left was a sculpture worthy of Salvador Dali. 

            A bulky, sandy-haired police officer stood at the entrance to the playground, presenting an imposing barrier to any children who might find the altered climbing bars too great a temptation to resist.  He looked as immovable as a mountain, but Del could feel his exhaustion and impatience, magnified tenfold by hunger, thirst, and a cruel urgency that made his duty a torment.

            “That’s O’Ryan,” Mendoza muttered in Del’s ear.  “He’s a proper hard-ass.  Hassles us all the time.”

            Del shook his head.  “If you think he’s a hard-ass, you should have met my brother Kurj.  I can handle him.”

            “The only way to handle a prick like him is to beat him senseless until he stops shouting.”

            “We’re all on the same side today,” the singer reminded him.  “Where is the closest decent public bathroom?”

            “Huh?”  The motorcycle club captain looked bewildered by the non sequitur.  “There’s one in the deli over there that you could use.”

            “Thank you, but it’s not for me,” Del said.  Stepping to the head of the group, he addressed O’Ryan, who was frowning at the odd procession in open suspicion.  “Good afternoon, Officer O’Ryan.  I’m Del Arden, the holorock singer.”  He nodded at the melted climbing bars and observed.  “That’s a nasty situation.”

            O’Ryan looked at Del, then let his eyes roam over the ISC uniforms and motorcycle club jackets before agreeing, “So it is.  What brings you to Annandale Manors, Mr. Arden?  Slumming?”

            The Grey Wolves stiffened at the implied insult, but Del just smiled easily.  “Actually, my crew and I were clearing trees off the road up that way.”  He gestured toward the more prosperous part of the neighborhood.  “Mr. Mendoza and his friends thought we were a utility crew and came over to tell us that there was a more urgent problem here.  How long have you been waiting for the utility crew, anyway?”

            O’Ryan shuffled his feet.  “Since ten this morning.”

            “Without a relief?”  Del asked, with unfeigned indignation.

            “The department’s short-handed today and the situation at the utility company is even worse.”  He shuffled his feet again, the slow dance of a man whose bladder has gone beyond urgency to crippling pain, then shrugged in resignation.  “Can’t let the kids wander into that.”

            “Indeed not.” 

            Del felt confusion from Mendoza and his followers.  Apparently, they had viewed O’Ryan as a personal enemy for so long that they were having trouble accepting the idea that he genuinely wanted to protect their younger brothers and sisters, and was willing to suffer personal hardship to do so.

            “Officer O’Ryan, I can’t make the utility company fix their cable any faster, but I do have a dozen veteran ISC Marines off the Roca’s Pride here, plus additional naval crew and the Grey Wolves.  Between us, I think we can guard the playground for ten minutes or so while you go across to the deli there and take a break.”

            The prospect of relief made the policeman’s discomfort almost unbearable, but he said, “I have my duty.”

            “And you have carried it out for what, five hours now?”  The singer smiled gently.  “We can take on the burden for a few minutes.  If Chief Kauptmann objects, which he won’t, let me know and I’ll talk to him.”

            O’Ryan thought about it for a moment more, but Del’s ready use of the police chief’s name carried weight.  “Ten minutes,” he agreed, and waddled briskly toward the deli.

            “We’re guarding the playground and managing crowd control while the policeman takes a break,” Del informed Major Barghatt in Flag.  She nodded and gestured to the senior Marine, who quietly started deploying her forces around the playground, with particular attention to the crowd that was milling around across the street, watching the uniformed strangers.  Turning to Mendoza, the prince continued in Spanish, “Manuel my friend, these Marines are very good at guarding, but they speak neither Spanish nor English.  Will your Wolves stand with them to tell people why they must stay away?”

            Mendoza nodded and spoke to his followers.  They moved almost as efficiently as the ISC veterans in their pride at being needed to protect their community.

            Meanwhile, Barghatt and Quoth inspected the damaged cable.  By the time a much-relieved Officer O’Ryan rejoined them, holding a sandwich, chips, and a soda, they had a preliminary report.  “There’s no way to turn off the power to the cable without getting up to the top of the tower,” Barghatt said.

            Del craned his neck to look up at the tower, which loomed some thirty meters into the sky.  “That doesn’t seem very practical,” he remarked.

            “No, it isn’t.”  She looked at Quoth.  “My subordinate does have an idea for a partial solution, though.”

            The lieutenant shrugged.  “It’s only a temporary fix, but we could cut the cable, high enough that the dangling end doesn’t endanger anybody.  That leaves a safe situation down here until they get around to fixing it.”

            Del eyed the thick cable.  “Cut it with what?  Pruning shears?”

            “I had in mind something more technologically sophisticated and much less conductive.”  Quoth nodded toward the formidable weapon hanging at Tyra’s hip.  “Like an anti-bition particle accelerator.”

            “You want my bodyguards to shoot down the cable with their Jumblers?”  Del couldn’t see the already skeptical Officer O’Ryan going along with such a solution, although the show would certainly impress Mendoza and his followers.

            “A laser carbine would work as well, but we don’t have one here.”

            “No, we don’t,” Del admitted.  Annandale was not an enemy-occupied hostile territory and it had never occurred to any of them to consider the practical uses of heavy armament as a demolition tool.  A definite oversight, the prince decided.  “Let me consult with Bosc before we take such a drastic step,” he said, reaching for his wristcom.  “It could be that they will have a crew here shortly to repair the cable properly.”

            Bosc’s response, however, was disappointing.  “I can’t authorize destruction of Wrexley Utilities property,” he said.  “I can’t send a crew to repair it, either.”  He held up a hand to stop Del’s protest.  “I know it’s bad, but I have my orders.  From the top dog:  Bundham Wrexley the Third himself.  So I can’t argue or appeal.”

            “And why, may I ask, does the owner of your company insist that you leave a live high-voltage cable dangling in a playground?”

            “Mr. Wrexley is touring the worst of the storm damage with his good friend, Congressman Ron Lundgrun.  He wants the Congressman and the reporters to have some significant damage to see.”

            “So this is about justifying that rate hike he’s asking for?” Del asked.  Although such increases were most often quietly approved by the regulators without much discussion, this time Ginny Alvins, the hostess of the prince’s favorite local newscast, had made quite a fuss about the high percentage of the proposed rate increase that was earmarked for padding shareholder profits and compensation for company executives, chief among whom was Bundham Wrexley the Third. 

            “I wouldn’t know about that,” Bosc said, his face in the wristcom’s tiny screen impassive.  “And I couldn’t tell you if I did.  Not if I want to keep my job.”

            And that was all he would say.

            Del ended the call without getting any clear answer as to just how long Wrexley Utility planned to leave a deadly hazard in the middle of a playground.  He was pacing in indecision when a fancy limousine pulled up to the curb halfway down the block, followed by several other, less pretentious, vehicles.  A mob of local news crews poured out of the latter: camera techs with remotes orbiting around them, waiting for direction, sound mixers with mics, and no less than five well-manicured reporters smoothing their hair and clothing.  When they were ready, the back door of the limo opened and two men emerged.  One was about forty, tall and handsome by Allied cultural standards, and had the professionally genial smile common to actors and politicians.  The other was older and shorter, with silvered hair combed across his balding skull and an unmistakable air of authority.

            “Representative Lundgrun, will you be asking Governor Norris for disaster aid?” one reporter shouted, elbowing to the front of the pack.

            The younger man smiled for the camera drones.  “We are in the process of assessing the needs of Northern Virginia.  No decision has been made at this time.”

            “Mr. Wrexley, how long with it take Wrexley Utilities to restore power to its customers?” another newscaster called.  “Does your company have enough technicians and equipment to handle the damage caused by a storm like Ethan?”

            The silver-haired man looked grave.  “Storms like we just experienced are, fortunately, rare events in Northern Virginia.  Wrexley Utilities is paying a lot of overtime to get power back to all our customers, but our resources are limited.”

            Ginny Alvins was a small, slender woman.  Unable to shove her way through the mob around Lundgrun and Wrexley to ask a question, she had dropped back so that her crew could film the inspection and the damage to the playground in a broader context.  In the meantime, she cast a practiced eye around the gathered crowd for a suitably photogenic and articulate native to provide local color to her presentation.  Her eyes lit on Del and widened in recognition.

            “Hey, that’s Del Arden!” she called to her crew, motioning frantically for them to point their cameras in the prince’s direction. 

            Unfortunately, her cry came during a temporary lull in the barrage of questions with which her colleagues were peppering Wrexley and Lundgrun.  Her competitors from the other local ‘casts were solid professionals.  In the ironclad pecking order imposed by the brutal competition for audience share and ratings, a popular holorock star far outranked a junior congressman and a wealthy, only mildly controversial business executive.  Like a school of sardines darting off in a new direction, the entire mob headed toward Del at top speed, leaving Wrexley and Lundgrun talking to thin air.

            Tyra had been Del’s bodyguard long enough to become somewhat accustomed to the aggressive habits of the Allied press corps, whose political leaders lacked the sort of lethal, hair-trigger protection enjoyed by top-ranking individuals among the more warlike Skolian and Eubian empires.  Secondary Wasther and Tertiary Ja’chmna, however, had joined the prince’s detail more recently.  Their hands moved to rest on their Jumblers as they stepped firmly between their charge and the news crews.  The ISC marines and naval crew, who had not been able to follow the developing situation because of the language barrier, saw the Jagernauts preparing to defend Del and scrambled to place themselves between their prince and danger.  The Grey Wolves, sensing a fight in the making, moved in to reinforce their new military allies.

            The news crews, suddenly barred from their target by an openly hostile, unyielding wall of uniforms and leather jackets, stumbled to a halt.  As they milled around in confusion, Del hissed a firm, “Stand down!” in Iotic, Flag, and Spanish. 

            Ginny Alvers recovered faster than her colleagues, perhaps because her size made her more accustomed to being physically blocked from her target.  “Mr. Arden!” she called, in a voice that carried almost as well as a trained singer’s.  “What brings you to Annandale Manors today?”

            Hoping to defuse the tension before his protectors resorted to real violence, Del dodged around Wasther and nudged two of the bikers who occupied center positions in the impromptu blockade.  Not being subject to the ISC chain of command or its central doctrine of protecting Ruby psions from harm at all costs, they yielded like good beta wolves, stepping aside to let him pass. 

            “It’s good to meet you face to face, Ms. Alvers,” he said, flashing the reporter a smile and breathing easier as he saw out of the corner of his eye that Wasther and Ja’chmna no longer had their hands on their weapons. “I’ve been enjoying your ‘casts analyzing the proposed utility rate hikes.”

            Behind Alvers, he could see the congressman recover from the shock of being abandoned and assess the situation.  Like any relatively junior politician, Lundgrun had developed a strategy for dealing with the fickle attentions of the press: if the reporters wouldn’t come to him, he would go talk to whomever they were interviewing.  He restored the easy, relaxed smile to his face and started for Del.  The much smaller Wrexley bobbed along in his wake.

            This suggested interesting possibilities to Del.  Ignoring shouts from Alvers’s colleagues demanding to know when his next vid was coming out and whether he planned to do a benefit concert to aid victims of Hurricane Ethan, he answered her question as if they were alone.  “I was helping some of my neighbors clear fallen trees off the road and heard there was a dangerous situation here at the playground.  I can’t seem to get any clear information from Wrexley Utilities about when this hazard will be removed, so I’m very glad to see their CEO here.  Perhaps he will know.”  He shifted his focus to the grey-haired businessman.  Opening his throat wider in a singer’s trick to make his voice project clearly without appearing to shout, he called, “Mr. Wrexley!  I’m Del Arden.  When will your repair crews arrive to remove this damaged cable from the climbing bars?”

            The reporters evidently thought this exchange had the potential to drive up ratings without their active input, so they stepped out of the way so that Wrexley and Lundgrun could approach Del.  The camera remotes almost crashed into each other as they jockeyed for position, seeking to capture all three celebrities and the half-melted climbing bars in a single frame.

            Wrexley, whose interests did not include either holorock or foreign policy, appeared to mistake Del for another reporter.  Or perhaps he just saw an opportunity to deliver his rehearsed talking points, after all.  “Such repairs take time,” he announced.  “Our resources are limited.  We apologize to our customers for any inconvenience they may suffer and ask for their patience as we try to restore power to as many people as quickly as possible.”

            Unfortunately for Wrexley, Del was not a reporter.  He wanted specific answers, not vague sound bites with which to fill an evening news segment.  “That cable is carrying enough power to melt the climbing bars,” he pointed out sharply.  “It will kill any person or animal who comes too close.  That’s a little more than an ‘inconvenience,’ Mr. Wrexley.  It’s risking the lives of the people who live here.  Why hasn’t the power to that cable been cut so it can be removed from the children’s playground?”

            Wrexley’s expression stayed calm, but the singer could feel his anger rising with each word of criticism.  Well and good.  Del was angry, too. 

            “High-voltage electrical equipment is more complex than people who aren’t trained to work with it understand,” the businessman explained in a vaguely patronizing tone, as if it were beneath him to answer questions about his business practices.  “Operating the cranes required to lift a repair crew up to the tower is a specialty in itself.  Removing the danger here can’t be done quickly, however much we’d like to.”

            “You’re wrong, actually,” Del said confidently, making sure his voice carried to the crowd of onlookers who had gathered to gawk.  “We happen to have here two ISC engineers who have spent the last decade and more leading battle damage control crews aboard a Firestorm battle cruiser.  Battle damage has certain similarities to hurricane damage, in that lives depend on restoring a safe environment as quickly as possible.” 

            Wrexley, unsure of the situation, did not try to argue this point.

            “If you can’t make the repair,” Del continued before the CEO could regroup, “Major Barghatt and Lieutenant Quoth suggest simply cutting the cable off, high enough that the ‘live’ end poses no danger to the people below until full repairs can be made. As the CEO of Wrexley Utilities, do you agree with this sensible safety measure?”

            The CEO’s eyes narrowed.  “Young man,” he announced, “I strongly advise you to find someplace else to play soldier with your buddies.  That cable carries enough power to fry you and everybody else here, too.  It takes specialized equipment to cut through it, anyway.”

            “We have several small but powerful anti-bition particle accelerators with us that Lieutenant Quoth assures me will do the job quickly and safely.”  Del spread his hands at Wrexley’s incredulous expression.  “They happen to be standard issue for certain branches of the Skolian military.  We cut the cable, Lieutenant Quoth’s excellent scanners confirm that there are no other problems, the children have their playground back, and Officer O’Ryan here can finally eat his lunch in peace.”

            “I can’t authorize any persons not employed and trained by Wrexley Utilities to work on live power lines,” Wrexley insisted.  “Besides, do you know what those cables cost?”

            Del promptly lost any sympathy he might have had for the CEO.  “Strangely enough, I do know what such cable costs,” he replied.  “We used some during the repairs on my new estate.”  He looked at Wrexley sternly.  “I also know that even if Wrexley Utilities was buying cable at the same retail rate I paid, which we both know it isn’t, the cost of the length of cable I propose to destroy is about…” 

            He paused for a moment as he converted the figures to octal and divided.

            “I make it less than a quarter of the cost of paying Officer O’Ryan and his colleagues to mount a full-time guard here, depending on how long it takes you to get around to fixing the problem.”  He smiled thinly. “The difference, of course, is that the much higher expense of mounting a guard would be paid by the taxpayers of Annandale, not Wrexley Utilities.  We happen to have quite a few of those taxpayers here.” 

            Looking around at the onlookers, he asked, “What do you think, my friends?  Do you want to pay for a full-time police guard to save Wrexley Utilities a little money?”

            “No!” roared the crowd.

            Faced with united opposition, Wrexley’s expression grew even more stubborn.  “The cable is valuable property belonging to Wrexley Utilities,” he insisted.  “It must not be damaged.”

            “Can you commit to having a repair crew here within the hour?” Del asked, not giving an inch.

            “You know I can’t.”

            “In that case, Tyra, would you do the honors?”

            “Gladly.”  The Jagernaut drew her Jumbler in a smooth motion.  She didn’t have to pause to aim; she simply looked where she wanted the beam to hit.  The close interface between the Jumbler and her biomech web took care of the rest.  There was an actinic orange flare and most of the now-dead cable dropped to the ground, leaving about a ten-foot length dangling.  The Grey Wolves cheered, joined by quite a few of the onlookers.

            Wrexley’s face turned an interesting shade of purple.  “Officer,” he demanded of O’Ryan, pointing at Del, “I insist you arrest that man immediately for vandalizing the property of Wrexley Utilities.”  Ignoring Congressman Lundgrun’s frantic gestures for him to shut up, he turned to Del.  “What do you say to that, Mr. Rock Star?”

            The prince sighed.  He had really hoped he could avoid trading on his family connections, but there was no way nearly two dozen veteran ISC officers were going to allow a Ruby prince to be arrested by an Allied police officer. 

            “I say, ‘diplomatic immunity,’” he answered the CEO.

            “What?”  Out of all possible responses, this was obviously one Wrexley had not considered.

            “I have diplomatic immunity,” Del repeated.  Reluctantly, he fished his passport out of his shirt pocket and handed it to the policeman.

            O’Ryan inspected it and his eyes widened.  “He’s telling the truth,” he stammered. 

            “How does a holorock singer get diplomatic immunity?” Wrexley didn’t quite dare to call the policeman a liar, but his skepticism was obvious.  Again, he ignored Lundgrun’s attempt to get his attention.

            “I’m Skolia,” Del answered quietly.

            “So you’re Skolian,” the CEO began.  “That doesn’t mean you can…”

            “Not Skolian,” the still-stunned O’Ryan interrupted, holding the passport out to Wrexley and pointing.  “Skolia.  He’s a member of the Skolian ruling family.” 

            The utility executive’s eyes followed the policeman’s finger to where Del’s name was printed in elegant script across from his picture.  He read it several times, but the engraved letters persisted in spelling out “His Royal Highness Del-Kurj Arden Valdoria kya Skolia.”  Perhaps realizing at last that he had overreached, he turned to Lundgrun in outraged appeal. 

            “I tried to tell you, Bunny,” the hapless politician muttered, in what he mistakenly believed was too soft a voice for the newscasters’ mics to pick up.  “He’s the bloody Imperator’s brother.”

            “But he…”

            “Mr. Wrexley, I can’t touch him.” O’Ryan said, with what even a non-empath could tell was false sympathy, as he returned the passport to Del.  “You could try a civil suit if you really wanted to, I suppose, but it’d cost you way more than just replacing the cable, even if you managed to convince a jury that leaving a high-voltage power line dangling in the middle of a playground was a good idea.”

            “Be content with what you have,” Del suggested softly.  There was no active threat to his words, just the combined authority accrued by generations of Lyshrioli Bards and Ruby queens.  “You’re no longer in danger of facing a wrongful death suit because some child blundered into a deadly danger you refused to remove.  Your reputation isn’t going to suffer from forcing the overworked police to provide full-time security and the taxpayers to pay thousands of dollars to save your company a minor inconvenience.”  He smiled slightly.  “There remains the matter of the children’s climbing bars, which have been ruined by your company’s malfunctioning equipment.”

            Wrexley, who had almost been lulled into cutting his losses, stiffened at Del’s last words.  “Don’t press your luck, Arden,” he snapped.  “Foreign prince or not, we know how to treat community organizers in Annandale.”  Whirling, he stalked toward his limo, ignoring the shouted questions from the pursuing reporters.  With an apologetic half-bow toward Del, Lundgrun scurried after him.

            Ginny Alvers was not as easily diverted.  Are you a community organizer, Your Highness?” she asked pertly.

            Del considered the question.  “On my homeworld, I am the Dalvador Bard, like my father,” he said, his Lyshrioli accent thickening as it always did when he thought of home.  “Part of a Bard’s duties includes making sure the community acts together when things must be done that are too much for one family to manage.  So, yes, I organize it.”

           

            General Fitz McLane was less than pleased when his aide, Major Baxton, handed him an account of Del’s incursion into Annandale, with reference to Alvers’ newscast.  It was never good news when a large file was produced by the staff tasked with tracking Del’s daily activities and assessing their potential to cause trouble for all three empires.  “Just what we need,” he grumbled to Baxton when he had finished the report.  “A community organizer with foreign connections and a hobby of dabbling in politics at the highest level to turn everything upside down.”

            “Surely you’re overestimating the risk?” Baxton suggested hopefully.  “All he did was convince people to cut up some trees, fix dinner for some octogenarians, and argue with a minor businessman.  He didn’t even speak to anybody with real power or influence.  How much difference can that sort of thing make, in the long term?”

            “You’d be surprised,” his superior retorted.  “Back in the twenty-first century, the United States made the mistake of electing a community organizer named Barack Hussein Obama as their President.  Before his hapless constituents knew what hit them, he’d pulled the United States economy out of the second-worst collapse in its history, ended two wars begun by his predecessor, reformed the health care system and the financial industry, raised the minimum wage, improved support for military veterans and education, and slashed the demand for imported energy that was ruining the balance of trade by raising efficiency standards and switching the industry to renewable sources where possible.  If he hadn’t been fighting the most blatantly obstructive legislature in history, who knows what he might have done?”

            “I will look him up, then, sir,” Baxton promised, and presented the next report for his general’s attention.

 

Chapter 22

 

In which Randall Gaithers finds his opinions in high demand.

 

            Zachary’s sister’s benefit gala went off nearly as planned.  To be sure, Ariadne found it a bit disconcerting to have her home suddenly occupied by a detachment of the Pharaoh’s Own off the Skolian flagship.  On the other hand, having uniformed guards swarming all over the place only emphasized the importance of her star performers.

            Kelric was still unhappy with the security, but even he had to admit that the last-minute nature of the engagement meant that any Eubian attempt to snatch a pair of Ruby princes would have to be a similar last-minute improvisation.  Equally unhappy with the security arrangements was George Sparnelli, whose Uncle Nicki had been hired to cater the event.  After their unsuccessful attempt to obtain a piece of the action at Del’s Annandale estate, mafia boss Johnny Sparnelli had taken his nephew off of collections and assigned him to help with his youngest brother’s restaurant.  It wasn’t a punishment, simply a practical way to keep him safely out of sight of the Skolians, who were often out and about in the neighborhood in pursuit of work and pleasure.  The mafia enforcer tried hard to appear meek and harmless as he lugged heavy trays of steaming eggplant parmesan and chicken picatta from the catering van into the kitchen.

            The gala itself was to take place in the ballroom that occupied one wing of the mansion.  There was a low wooden platform at one end of the room that served as a stage.  The rest of the space was taken up with tables.  Del was no mathematician like his aunt, but by his calculation, the guests were paying a very large sum to spend an intimate evening being impaled by the elbows of their immediate neighbors.  Watching from the sidelines, Del counted at least three plates that slid off the too-small tables onto the floor and six glasses of wine deposited on shirts or dresses due to jostled arms.

            As promised, the gala audience was small but very exclusive.  The men were dressed in sober and expensive black evening suits, as if they were attending a funeral.  The women glittered with a glacier’s worth of diamonds.  It reminded Del of a nature program sequence he’d viewed that detailed the goings-on in a colony of penguins.

            When the guests had been served dessert, a tiramisu topped with shavings of dark chocolate, Ariadne took the stage to welcome them.  The vividly colored peacock tail feathers in her turban bobbed dramatically as she outlined the plight of the opera and her search for alternative entertainment for them.  She begged them to consider making an additional donation to help cover the unanticipated costs, then introduced the “two Skolian princes all the way from Parthonia” as “holorock sensation Del Arden and his brother, Prince Eldrin.”

            The opera fans offered a round of polite applause as Del and Eldrin took the stage.  It was very different from the wild cheers that usually accompanied Del’s entrances, but Eldrin had warned him that opera enthusiasts used a different etiquette than holorock fans.  Still, it didn’t take Ruby empathy to sense their audience’s apprehension as they approached the mics.

            Part of that was Del’s fault for refusing to wear the customary black formal wear.  It was one thing to dress like an opera singer to answer Senator Greeley’s challenge, he had insisted, but quite another to do so because Zachary Marksman found him a convenient way to placate his sister’s ego.  Eldrin, on the other hand, found the costumes of a holorock star far too immodest for his taste.  It had caused a certain amount of acrimony between the brothers until Chaniece told them to stop squabbling like children and suggested that they wear the Bard’s costumes they had used for Anne’s wedding. 

            It was clear that the gala guests didn’t quite know what to make of their matching embroidered shirts, blue trousers, and black boots.  Rather than give them more time to think about it, Del thanked them for coming and introduced the first song.

            They had prepared a short program, a mixture of Lyshrioli art songs and some of their father’s compositions, which they accompanied on their harps.  While the main selection criterion, of necessity, had been whether one or both of them could remember the accompaniment, the songs did showcase the skill of the singers and the unusual, six-octave range of their voices. 

            As the hour progressed, Del could feel the apprehension fading, replaced with dawning delight, interspersed with an occasional island of utter boredom that the singer attributed to the hapless, non-opera-loving halves of some of the attending couples.  Even those showed some sparks of interest during some of the faster pieces.

            Eldrin was in his element and, mindful of his twin’s stern warning, Del tried hard not to let his lack of enthusiasm for the project spoil his brother’s fun.  The songs might not be his favorite kind, but singing them properly was a technical challenge in which he could immerse himself.

            They ended their prepared set with Ave Maria, sung a capella.  It had been very late by the time they got around to rehearsing that part of the show, which perhaps accounted for their distinctly Lyshrioli treatment of the melody: sometimes singing in close harmony, sometimes alternating lines in every register from bass to coloratura. For a last-minute revamp—they had originally planned to draft Randall to play for them because neither of them felt able to do justice to the accompaniment on such short notice—it turned out well.

            So well, in fact, that they ran past their two prepared encores and had to fall back on the wedding song Del had written for Anne and Cameron as a third.  Or perhaps their audience simply wanted to feel like they’d gotten something for the extortionate amount of money they’d paid for their tickets.

            When the brothers finally yielded the stage back to Ariadne for a final pitch for donations, Zachary met them outside the ballroom, dressed in the ubiquitous penguin costume.  “Good job, both of you,” he greeted them, clapping Del familiarly on the shoulder.

            “I hope the opera will get enough additional donations to put on its fall season,” Eldrin said.

            “Who cares about them?” Prime-Nova’s tech-mech king said callously.  “What matters is that Ariadne’s guests liked you, so her party is a success.  Latham and I would never have heard the last of it if you’d flopped.  Oh, and Arden?”

            “Yes?” Del asked, with due caution.

            “You need to get busy on some new songs.  We’re working on something big for your next tour.  Can’t give you the details just now, but like I said, if it comes together it’ll be big.”  He glanced nervously back at the ballroom, where Ariadne’s appeal was reaching a climax.  “Got to run, or I’ll be stuck here talking opera all night,” he announced hastily as she finished.  “I’ll call you in a week or two.”  And he was gone, dodging a stream of waiters carrying carafes of coffee and tea.

 

            Randall fought his way down the hall, leaning against the wall as he forced his injured leg to work.  The pain rose with every step, until he was forced to sit down on the rustic couch that decorated the alcove near the main hall or faint.  Grimly, he considered his options.  He had made it over two thirds of the way to the common room, with about thirty feet remaining.  It might as well have been thirty miles.

            He had been feeling so much better, on this third day home from the hospital, that he had persuaded his parents to take a few hours off and go see the sights of old Washington, D.C.  Some better.  He felt like limp noodles.

            Around him, the estate swarmed with activity like an anthill, filled with people painting, pruning, repairing, mowing, rearranging, cleaning, and otherwise getting the building and grounds ready to live in.  And here he was, useless Randall, not even able to walk down the hall and get his own lunch.  He felt a tear escape his left eye and angrily scrubbed it away.

            He was in such a funk that he didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until a deep voice asked in Iotic, “My greetings, Ser Gaithers.  Do you need help?”

            Randall looked up.  And up.  Kelric Skolia loomed over him, glittering metallic gold brows slightly furrowed in concern.

            “My greetings, Imperator Skolia,” he answered, groping through his limited Iotic vocabulary.  “I need help not, ser.” He suspected “ser” wasn’t the appropriate honorific to use when addressing the Imperator, but he didn’t know any others, and he hurt far too much to attempt the deep bow that Skolian etiquette demanded of a non-noble civilian addressing a member of the Ruby Dynasty.  “I be good after sit.  I only feel…” he had to guess, “sad for me?”

            “I think the phrase you’re looking for is ‘wrapped in the tragedy of your own hair,’” Kelric observed, providing the idiom.  “I’m not surprised.  Del said you were healing well.  Let me guess:  the medics took you off some of the drugs, you started to move around, and you’ve found that nothing will work properly?”

            “Yes,” Randall agreed, the frustration bubbling up again.  “I no walk to eat with not sit in passage like old grandmother.”

            “Your stamina will improve in a few days,” the Imperator assured him, leaning against the wall and crossing his gauntleted arms across his massive chest.  Randall wondered for a moment if the man was so in the habit of intimidating everybody around him that he loomed automatically.  Then it occurred to him that someone so large, who also had a lot of biomech, might not trust standard furniture. 

            “It will take longer to get your leg working properly again, of course.” 

            Kelric spoke with the confidence of personal experience.  There were no negotiations today, so he was dressed lightly in deference to the oppressive East Coast summer heat and humidity.  This close, Randall could see scarring on the massive biceps and thighs.  Lots of scarring, of the type that only results when a human body is smashed like a bug on a windshield and repaired by multiple surgeries.

            “If I might offer some unsolicited advice?”

            “Certainly, ser,” Randall agreed.

            “The physical therapists will stop once you can walk again.  Don’t settle for that.  Have you met Secondary Wasther yet?”

            “Not muchly.” 

            Wasther was one of the new Jagernauts who had joined Tyra and Cameron on bodyguard duty for Del.  Like Cameron, he looked strong enough to bench press a horse.  Given Jagernaut biomech, he could probably bench press Del’s racer, too, if he wanted.  At the same time.  Randall hadn’t had the nerve to introduce himself.  The man looked almost as intimidating as his current conversational companion.

            “His last assignment was as a physical fitness instructor at the Dieshan Military Academy.  He handled medical rehabilitation, too, so he knows a great deal about how to rebuild damaged muscles and tendons.  If you ask him, I expect he’d be willing to help you get your legs back.”

            “That sound…very work well, ser.”  Randall tried to wrap his mind around the concept of having a Jagernaut drill sergeant as his personal trainer.  It was the sort of idea that Hollywood scriptwriters would put into a comedy.  He preferred not to contemplate how it would look as a reality show.

            The Imperator’s chuckle reminded Randall, too late, that the man shared Del’s uncanny ability to sense the emotions of those around him—and also, he suspected, the holorock star’s talent for guessing the thoughts behind those emotions. 

            Quite accurately, as it turned out.  “It wouldn’t be that bad,” the Skolian leader assured him. “You’ve survived rehearsals with my brother, after all.  And I assure you, where his music is concerned, Del’s temper is much worse than Wasther’s.”

            Randall blushed, then found himself smiling back.  “I have teacher in school, for…” he groped for the word… “games with running?”

            “Athletics?”

            “I think so, yes,” Randall agreed.  “I was very bad student.  I see not why put sphere through circle is important.  The teacher say, he wish to see how his old Army sergeant make me work.”

            This time, the Imperator’s laugh was more spontaneous, and Randall caught a glimpse of the gold-haired, cheerful little boy that Del had described.  It emboldened him to say, “Much thanks for bring parents to here, ser.”

            “You’re quite welcome,” the Imperator said.  “Are they comfortable?”

            “Yes, muchly,” Randall said.  “I feel gooder today, so they go Washington to see.”

            “It’s a beautiful city; they’ll enjoy it.”

            The stringer player nodded.  “Better than sit with bad-mood son.”

            “Surely not.”  The Imperator’s tone was gently mocking, with a wryness that implied he himself was not the most amiable of patients.

            “It not be so bad, but doctors say I not can play stringer for two weeks.  Weight bad for leg.”

            “No wonder you’re bored.”  He contemplated Randall for a moment.  “If you’re seeking something useful to do, would you consider giving me some assistance?”

            “Assistance, ser?”  For the life of him, Randall couldn’t imagine why the Skolian Imperator would want the help of a crippled Allied stringer player.  From what Del had said, the man didn’t even like holorock. 

            On the other hand, Randall had to admit that he owed Del’s brother a great deal. 

            “Yes.  Our negotiations with your government’s leaders would be helped by clearer communication.  Senator Greeley, in particular, often uses words and phrases that evoke a very different emotional response in his English-speaking audience than they do after translation into Iotic or Flag.  I’d like to know what he means, not just what he says. I expect your manager, Mac Tylor, is doing something similar for ASC.”

            “Mac?”  Randall couldn’t imagine for a moment why ASC would recruit a band manager, however successful.  “Why because he is friend of Del?”

            “Yes, and because he was the liaison between ASC and our family when your military protected Lyshriol during our last conflict with the Traders.  That’s how he and Del met.”

            “Why ask me?  I speak only English good, Spanish and Iotic not so good.  Del’s Iotic is much gooder than mine.”  He paused, but had to admit, “Del’s English is much gooder than mine, also.”

            “It’s ridiculously unfair, isn’t it?” the Imperator asked, with genuine sympathy.  “Del and some of my other siblings can learn a new language in a month or two without even really trying, while the rest of us mere mortals have to settle for sounding like idiots.  I like reading, but still…”

            The massive shoulders shrugged.  “For all his linguistic talent, you have one advantage Del doesn’t: you grew up here.  You know the culture and history of this world as well as its language.”

            “My history teacher say you wrong,” Randall warned.  “I never much interested in politics, too.  You could find the better person.”

            “Probably.  On the other hand, that would take time…and you’re here and available.”

            “You think I help, I will try.”  He spread his hands.  “Have no other thing to do, after all.” 

            “Good.”  Kelric addressed his gauntlet.  “Bolt, would you ask the kitchen to send lunch for the two of us to Ser Gaither’s room?”  Turning back to Randall, he said, “There was a particular instance yesterday when Senator Townsend addressed Senator Greeley and raised the hackles of almost every English-speaking listener in the room.  The reason did not survive the translation into Iotic.  I would be glad of your opinion as to why.”

            One ham-sized hand extended in a matter-of-fact offer of assistance.  Still bemused by the irony of the situation, Randall placed his own hand in the Imperator’s and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

 

            Which is how stringer player Randall Gaithers, undistinguished graduate of the San Diego public schools and more recently a resident of the artistic slums of Annapolis, previously remarkable mainly for having joined a holorock band just before it made the big time, found himself drafted as a cultural advisor to the justly feared and respected military dictator of Imperial Skolia. 

            The sense of unreality continued as, over grilled turkey sandwiches, he struggled to explain what the phrase “peculiar institution” meant, when used by a black Northerner about a white Southern gentleman in the context of failure to condemn slavery.  It was quite obvious from his probing questions that while Kelric Skolia knew very little of the history of the Allied Worlds, he knew a great deal about how long cultural grudges could last, especially when those holding them had no other way to justify the reprehensible behavior of their ancestors.

            Del poked his head in around two, grinned, and warned his brother not to tire Randall out too badly.  The Imperator seemed to take the admonition to heart, because he stopped the session, with what sounded like sincere thanks, just about the time Randall’s energy ran out.

 

            The days of Randall’s convalescence fell into a pattern after that.  He spent part of each morning working with Tertiary Wasther, who put him through a workout designed to make sure that the rest of him didn’t lose too much strength while the leg healed.  It wasn’t quite as bad as the stringer player had feared:  the Jagernaut did seem to understand how important it was to a musician to keep his fingers nimble, and went to some trouble to devise hand exercises.

            Randall was always tired when they were done, and napped for a few hours after lunch.  That left him relatively fresh when the Imperator returned from the day’s negotiations with more questions.

            By a week after his return home from the hospital, Randall’s stamina had improved enough that he insisted on attending a party Prime-Nova was giving to celebrate the Carnelians Finale vid’s continued stay at the top of the charts.  The evening resulted in two insights.  The first was that compared to Kelric Skolia and the Jagernauts who answered to him, Zachary Marksman’s heretofore impressive posturings just weren’t that formidable, which might explain Del’s disregard for them.  The second was that his stamina had not improved to the extent he had believed. 

            Mac found him huddled on a couch, fighting down smoke-induced nausea and gamely trying not to flinch as the gesticulations of the couple sharing the other end caused it to rock and jostle his leg.  “You look like you’ve had enough partying for one evening,” the manager said quietly.  “Would you like me to call the van around to drive you home?”

            Miserably, Randall nodded.  “This crowd’s a little much,” he admitted.

            The next day, the doctor scolded him and told him to stay home and take it easy for a while.  Randall hadn’t told the man about his Jagernaut-supervised workouts, and didn’t.  For all their thoroughness, it had become obvious that Wasther knew exactly what he was doing.  Randall might be tired after the Jagernaut was done with him, but the leg always hurt less, not more.  His general mobility had improved, too.

            He was feeling rather cheerful as he made his way out to the parking lot to meet Mac, who had offered to give him a ride since the van was being used to shuttle building materials that morning.

            Once in the car, however, Mac turned to look at him.  “I know you’re tired,” he said, “but there’s a good friend of mine who is very interested in meeting with you.  Do you have enough energy for a quick stop?”

            No professional musician who wanted to stay a professional declined such an offer from his manager.  Randall wondered briefly why Mac’s contacts hadn’t been invited to Prime-Nova’s party and why they didn’t want to talk to Del instead, but agreed without much thought.

            When the stringer player saw who was waiting in Mac’s office, though, his temper soared.  No one in the music business wore a crisp military uniform with such an expanse of medals.  He looked to Mac for an explanation, hoping against hope that he was wrong.

            “Randall Gaithers, this is General Fitz McLane and his aide, Major…”

            “No,” Randall interrupted, stopping in the entryway to glare at the manager.  “Oh, no.  Absolutely not.”  He widened his disapproval to include the display of military might in the office.  “Just for once, can’t I be introduced to somebody’s Aunt Ethyl from Oklahoma who never did anything more newsworthy than win third place for her pickles at the county fair, but who actually likes our music?”

            Five-star General FitzWilliam Raymond McLane, supreme commander of the Allied Space Command, chuckled from his seat behind Mac’s desk.  “Sit down, son,” he ordered, not unkindly, gesturing toward the closest chair.  “I expect that broken leg of yours could use the rest.”

            Beside Randall, Mac’s eyes pleaded silently with him to not make a scene.

            “I’m starting to see why Del complains so much about living in a fish bowl,” Randall grumbled as he complied.  “Does every government official out there get a daily briefing on how many pain pills I take and whether I cheated on my physical therapy?”

            The General shrugged.  “I couldn’t say,” he admitted reluctantly.  “I’m not sure how closely Eubian Emperor Jaibriol the Third is following events here.  Their covert intelligence is good; we haven’t cracked it.”

            Randall’s jaw dropped, then he started swearing.  In three languages.

            “Mind your manners, boy,” the major standing behind McLane snapped, his crew cut bristling with offense.

            “Major Baxton, you’re not helping,” the General said tiredly.  Returning his attention to Randall, he continued.  “Look, I know you and the rest of your band have been subjected to a lot of extreme measures, but you have to admit that a Skolian Ruby prince making a living as an Allied holorock singer is an unusual situation.”

            “It’s a security nightmare,” the major grumbled.  “Imperator Skolia will blame us if anything happens to his brother.  Whether or not we were at fault.”

            “That, too,” the General agreed.

            “All we want to do is play music for our fans,” Randall pointed out.  “And we really, really wish that everybody would just leave us alone to do that.”

            “Believe me, I share your wishes,” McLane sympathized.  “This whole band thing has been a headache for me from the start.  But it’s not going to happen as long as Prince Del-Kurj Skolia is your songwriter and lead singer, so you might as well look at the bright side.”

            “What bright side?” Randall asked, in what he thought was a reasonably polite manner under such trying circumstances, although the major’s expression made his disagreement clear.

            “You do have the most efficient, hardworking roadie and tech crew in the business.  Ever wonder how it happened that you didn’t get the usual drunks, druggies, incompetents, and drifters?”

            “No,” Randall moaned, closing his eyes.

            The General nodded. “Every member of your crew has passed both our security check and the Skolians’. Some of them are our agents, working undercover to provide extra security.  I have reason to believe that Imperator Skolia sent some of the others.  They’re all good at their jobs, which makes things run much more smoothly.  And if something unfortunate does happen, there will be a trained response crew on site.”  The tired mouth twitched in a wry grin.  “For that matter, it isn’t chance that you, Anne Moore, and Jud Taborian are all relatively stable, sensible individuals as well as competent musicians.  How many bands can say that?”

            “With compliments like that, who needs critics?” Randall grumbled under his breath.  He looked up at the General, who at least looked less offended by his decidedly unmilitary presence than Major Baxter or Baxton or whoever he was.  “I suppose you might as well go ahead and tell me why you had Mac bring me here to meet you,” he admitted grudgingly.

            General McLane relaxed just a little in Mac’s chair, while somehow managing not to lose his ramrod-straight military bearing.  “I realize that it might be difficult to take in, but the truth is, your government needs your help.  We are in dire need of some information that only you can supply.”

            Another surge of anger brought Randall to his feet—foot, rather— in an instinctive effort to reclaim the height advantage he had ceded by sitting down.  The effect was somewhat spoiled when one crutch flew across the office, narrowly missing Mac, and he had to grab the desk to keep from falling.  “I am NOT going to spy on the Skolians for you,” he insisted, glaring at the General.  “Come on, Mac.  We’re going.”

            Mac did not move in response to this demand.  Major Baxter, on the other hand, looked angry enough to have Randall arrested on the spot.  “General,” he pleaded, only to be waved to silence.

            “Calm down, son,” McLane urged Randall.  “Nobody is asking you to spy on anybody.  Nor would we.  You don’t have the skills or the aptitude for that kind of work.”

            “Glad to hear we agree on something,” the musician grumbled.

            The General chose to take this as encouragement and continued, “I understand you don’t have much of an interest in politics, but you may have noticed that the talks between us and the Skolians have reached a stalemate.”

            “It’s kind of hard to miss that.”

            “The truth is, we’re being squeezed between two immensely powerful empires who have been shooting at each other for generations.  We can’t afford to provoke either of them; I’m proud of our military, but we don’t have the numbers or the equipment to come out ahead in any armed conflict.  The longer the negotiations drag on, the more pressure the Eubians bring to bear on the Senate and the worse the situation gets.  And all the time, that damned Firestorm battlecruiser is up there in orbit, just a friendly little reminder that Imperator Skolia could easily reduce Earth to a flaming fireball any time he chooses.”

            Randall realized, for the first time, that this five-star decorated General, who had the entire Allied military at his command, was genuinely afraid of a man Randall had come to like and trust.  It would have been funny if it weren’t so dangerous: frightened people tended to do stupid things.  Fortunately, he could offer reassurance on that particular subject without betraying any confidences. 

            “The day the Imperator arrived, some of the talking heads on a newscast we were watching were talking about the Roca that way,” Randall observed, unconsciously using the familiar nickname by which the Skolian flagship’s crew referred to their vessel.  “Do you want to know what Del said?”

            McLane leaned forward attentively.  “I do.  Very much.”

            “He said they were idiots.  That the Imperator didn’t bring the Roca’s Pride as a political statement, but because it has equipment he needs to work in Kylespace.  The Pharaoh can’t maintain the entire Kyleweb by herself for so long.”

            The General blinked.  “That…puts a different perspective on the matter, to be sure.  And it’s exactly the sort of perspective we need.  Desperately.”  He settled back in his chair and continued, “The fact is, the Allied Worlds aren’t used to dealing with hereditary dynasties.  We don’t have a good feel for how the balance of power works and how that affects their decisions.  You are probably the only Allied citizens who has ever talked with Imperator Skolia informally long enough to have some sense of what kind of person he is.  We need to understand him, badly, before some accidental misstep of ours offends him and lands us in a war we don’t want and which we probably can’t win.”

            “He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’s petty enough to start a war because somebody insults him by mistake,” Randall pointed out.  “And he’s an empath, like Del.  It’s not as if he’d have any trouble at all figuring out if an insult was intended.”

            “That’s not as reassuring as it might be, with Senator Greeley around,” the General muttered under his breath.

            “If Imperator Skolia were to choose to take offense at something Greeley says or does in the name of the Allied Worlds, we’d never know until it was too late,” Baxton elaborated. “The way he stands in the back of the conference room with that grim expression on his face, like he was some kind of living statue...it’s not natural.  Does the man even know how to smile?”

            “He smiles plenty,” Randall parried.  “Did it never occur to you that you’re not giving him anything to smile about?  That he might not appreciate having his time wasted by Greeley’s speeches about how slavery is just a quaint local custom we should respect, not a blatant abuse of human rights that’s against our laws as well as the Skolians’?”  He turned back to McLane.  “I’ve only seen the grim Imperator you describe twice and, well, I can’t hold those against him.  Most of the time he’s perfectly approachable.  Impressive as hell, and the sort of person you really, really want in your corner and not the other when the shit hits the fan, but he’s as human as you or me.”  He glanced sideways at Baxton, unable to resist temptation.  “Not sure yet about your friend Baxter.  Does he always scowl like that?  And his spine doesn’t look like it can bend.  Are you sure he’s not a robot?”

            Randall had the satisfaction of watching Baxton’s face flush purple.  “We’re wasting our time here, Sir,” he complained.  “Prince Del-Kurj and his brother don’t get along.  Maybe that could be exploited?”

            “I really wouldn’t count on that, if I were you,” Randall said, turning back to General McLane in appeal.  “Remember I said that I’d only seen the Skolian Imperator you describe twice?”

            McLane nodded.

            “The first time was at Anne’s grandparents, when Del was being threatened by those armed idiots in sheets.  The second time…”  Randall sat back in his chair.  “It was when I asked him what the problem was between him and Del.  I thought maybe they could reach some kind of compromise.”

            The General leaned forward with interest.  “Did he answer?”

            “Yes,” Randall said.  He paused for a moment, wondering if he ought to answer.  But McLane was right:  the Allied Worlds hadn’t had a real, functioning monarchy in centuries.  No one quite knew how to deal with the Ruby Dynasty.

            “What happened?” McLane asked quietly.

            “He went all cold and unyielding, like a gold-plated granite statue.  Then he said, ‘My brother Del views himself as expendable.  The rest of us disagree.’  But it was the way he said it.  As if, on that particular issue, Hell would freeze over before he’d give an inch.”

 

Chapter 23

 

In which Del’s Baltimore concert garners mixed reviews.

 

            Anne and Cameron returned from their Hawai’ian honeymoon with the obligatory healthy tans, new shirts in wild, colorful prints, and boxes of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts.  Jud, too, returned from his family visit, and with Randall recovered sufficiently to play the stringer again, the band resumed rehearsals in preparation for their next concert, which was to be in Baltimore.  The suffocating heat and humidity of August eased a little in September, the repairs to the house and grounds were completed at last, Chaniece returned to Skyfall, and Zachary Marksman finally summoned Del to hear his promised plans for their next tour.

            When Del and Mac entered the office of Prime-Nova’s vice president, preceded by Cameron and followed by Tyra, they were greeted by a cheerful, “Del!  There you are.  Grab a seat.”

            “Hello, Zachary,” Del returned.  The courteous smile with which he had greeted the Tech-Mech king gained real warmth as he nodded toward a corner of the office.  “Staver.”

            “Del.”  The Skolian bowed formally, a gesture that Del tolerated only because the respect that accompanied it was directed at him personally, not at his family.

            “Since your identity came out, your sales among the Skolian outlets have soared,” Zachary said.  “It’s time to capitalize on that.  At Staver’s urging, I’ve decided to accept Metropoli Interstellar’s offer to send you on a tour of the Skolian worlds.  We’re not sure exactly which worlds yet.  It depends on what venues are available, and if you attract anything like the audiences you’ve been getting on Earth, we may extend the tour beyond what we’re considering now.  We’ll lease a freighter, so you won’t have to worry about the liners losing the equipment in transit…”

            “You have got to be kidding me,” Tyra asserted, breaking bodyguard discipline as she looked at Zachary Marksman in appalled disbelief. 

            “You’ve got a problem with that?” Prime-Nova’s vice president asked.  He was not used to being interrupted by the talent, much less hired muscle.

            Tyra Jarin, of course, wasn’t the average hired muscle.  “A fat, slow, helpless freighter?  You might as well send a note to Jaibriol Qox, ESC, every Aristo with a slaver fleet, and all the freelance pirates, too:  one Ruby empath to order, delivery schedule to follow, come and get it.”

            “Oh, come on,” Zachary protested.  “That’s just paranoia talking.”

            “She’s got a point,” Del agreed reluctantly.  He hated it when being a prince got in the way of being a musician  “Kelric would throw a fit.”

            “I can supply you with a list of planets on which we’d like His Highness to perform,” Staver told Tyra.  “If you could pass them on to ISC?”

            “Sure thing,” the Jagernaut agreed.  “I’ll let you know which ones are realistic options.  You do realize that publicity for specific venues will have to wait until the band arrives at a particular world?”

            “Of course,” Staver agreed.

            “What kind of a damn fool plan is that?” Zachary objected.  “How are we supposed to sell tickets if we can’t advertise in advance?”

            Del could see that the conversation was going nowhere fast.  “Zachary, I’m sorry, but there are certain security restrictions that come with being a member of my family.  One of them is that we’re not supposed to travel between planets except in total secrecy—not an option in this case—or on transport provided by ISC.  Generally, that means a fairly substantial task force.  Kelric is usually pretty reasonable about such things, but there will be a lot fewer delays if we plan the tour around ISC’s schedule.”

            The Prime-Nova executive shook his head in disbelieving scorn.  “Are they really that terrified that you’ll stub your royal toe if you’re forced to make do like a normal human being?”

            Staver and Tyra turned on Zachary, identical outraged snarls on their faces.  Del threw up a hand in an unusually princely gesture to forestall their objections and silently ordered them both, Let me handle this. 

            “Look, Zachary, I know you don’t follow even Earth politics all that much, never mind interstellar disputes, but here’s a short history lesson,” the prince began.  “The Skolian Imperialate has survived two wars with the Traders only because it has the huge military advantage of the Kyleweb.  Making a Kyleweb takes two things:  a Lock, like the one ESC captured at the end of the last war, and a Ruby psion to activate it and become its Key.  That means if one member of my family falls into ESC’s clutches, the Imperialate could fall.  And then the Traders would mop up you Allieds for dessert.”

            “Oh, come on,” Zachary scoffed.  “Tarex kidnapped you, and the world didn’t end.”

            “We were all very, very lucky,” Tyra said.  “Tarex was too greedy and self-absorbed to realize what he had in his clutches.  If he had, he’d have been gone long before we could stage a rescue.”  She looked at him steadily.  “Believe me, none of the Aristos will make that particular mistake again.”

            “Kelric agreed to let me stay on Earth—against his better judgment—because I probably couldn’t survive becoming a Key,” Del continued.  “Of course, they thought our father was a bad risk, too, and he served as a Key for fifty Earth years.” 

            “Metropoli Interstellar is confident that we can offer a successful tour, even within the necessary restrictions,” Staver offered.

            “I don’t see how,” Zachary argued.  “With only, what, a week’s lead time, max?  You’re not going to be able to get any reasonable venue on a decent night.  They’ll be booked months in advance.  Even if you could get the venue on an off night, you’d still be stuck trying to sell enough tickets to make a profit on ridiculously short notice.  Del has an organized fan base here on Earth, but there’s nothing like it for Skolian fans.  How in the world do you think you can locate his local fans in time to tell them Del’s giving a concert in their area on such short notice, much less give them time to buy tickets and make plans?”

            “I thought to start the tour on Parthonia,” Staver ventured. 

            “That’ll work,” Del nodded.  “We announce a tour of the Imperialate and stick around long enough to do a couple of concerts the normal way.  No hassles there: the Sunrise Palace has security even Kelric agrees is sufficient and my mother’s been after me to visit for a long time.  When the newies cover it—and they will—the fans elsewhere start talking to each other, wondering where we’ll go next.”

            “All of which is very touching,” Zachary allowed, “but you’ve still got to find them.”

            Del shrugged.  “That part’s easy.  I’ll ask my Aunt Dehya to find them for us.”

            Zachary blinked.  “Your aunt?”

            “The Shadow Pharaoh,” Staver elaborated.  “If it’s on the mesh, she can find it.”

            “Mind you, she’ll probably insist that we add the Orbiter to the tour in exchange,” Del added, “but I haven’t met my latest nephew yet, so…”  He paused.  “Are you all right, Zachary?”

            The usually ebullient Zachary was looking rather as if he had just been hit over the head with a large, solid object.  He pulled himself together long enough to mutter, “Sure, kid, I’m fine,” but he was unnaturally subdued for the rest of the meeting.

 

            Tickets for the Baltimore concert sold briskly, promising to pack the arena as full as any football game.  The vid sales and fan chatter proved that the break in the band’s performance schedule hadn’t killed interest in Carnelians Finale.  Speculation was rife as to what song would be chosen to replace their megahit.  Some of the suggestions were good enough that Del told his personal EI, Claude, to remember them for possible future use.

            The ticket sales were so brisk that they threatened to cause President Hannah Loughten some domestic problems.  Sasha had insisted that the only present she wanted for her ninth birthday was tickets to see ‘Del Arden’ perform in concert and Melanie had enthusiastically seconded the request.  With no other options, their mother had agreed.

            “We may have a problem with the Del Arden tickets, Madam President,” Hannah Loughten’s invaluable chief staffer warned her, the day the tickets went on sale.

            Loughten frowned.  “A problem?”  

            “The Secret Service says the security isn’t adequate in any of the available seats.”

            “But…what happened to the owner’s box, Lauren?  I thought we had decided to reserve that?”

            “It never went on sale this morning.”  Lauren shook her head.  “I asked, and it looks as if the owner’s box was one of two boxes held back by Prime-Nova.”

            “Held back?  Are they doing some promotional thing?  Maybe they’d be willing to accommodate us.  It’s not like there aren’t plenty of seats.  Including other boxes, even if they don’t have bulletproof shielding around them.” 

            What the existence of the assault-proof box said about the paranoia of the owners of the Ravens—and the prowess of that venerable team, she preferred not to consider. 

            “I put out a call,” the staffer said.  “I’m still waiting to hear back.  I just thought I’d warn you in case Prime-Nova gets stubborn.  Any major crisis is easier to manage if you have some warning.”

            “Thank you, Lauren.  You’re right.  If the girls don’t get their promised treat, I might as well move out of the White House for the duration.”

 

            Prime-Nova refused to release the box, but did agree to check with the party who had reserved it to see if they were willing to switch.  There the matter sat during a long day of speeches and meetings, as the delegates tried to work out trade details with the Skolian representatives.  The Imperator was on his flagship, so Ambassador Tron was heading the Skolian delegation.

            That worthy Amazon approached her as she was about to leave the talks.  “Madam President, I have a message for you from Prince Del-Kurj,” she announced.

            Hannah blinked in surprise.  “Prince Del-Kurj?”  The prince-turned-holorock star had never felt the need to communicate through the Ambassador before.  She would have expected him to just call the White House switchboard in person if he had something to say to her.

            “Yes, Madam President.  His Highness regrets that his reservation of the secure owner’s box at the Baltimore Arena has put him in conflict with you.  While his brothers can unfortunately not be accommodated elsewhere for security reasons, he also does not wish to ruin your daughters’ treat.  He therefore suggests that you and your family join his own in the box as his guests.  There is, after all, plenty of room.”

            Hannah smiled in relief at having her domestic difficulties solved so easily.  “You may tell His Highness that we would be honored.”

 

            A week later, Del grinned out at the cheering throng that filled the Baltimore Arena.  “Thank you very much!  You’ve been a wonderful audience tonight.  We come now to the portion of our program that was modified by order of Senator Greeley and the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.”

            A chorus of enthusiastic boos rang out and the reporters in the press box leaned forward in heightened interest.  Like their father the Dalvador Bard, Kelric reflected, Del knew how to play an audience.  It was a skill he himself lacked.  Down on the stage, his brother raised a hand to cut the boos off before they became ugly, admonishing, “Now, now, the Senator from Mississippi has the undisputed right to ask a foreign national like myself not to use a public entertainment venue like this to sing songs about controversial issues, like whether it’s a good idea to maintain close ties with an Empire that views slavery and genocide as normal.”  He raised his hand to cut off a new wave of boos, mixed with hisses.  “Instead of Carnelians, tonight we have a traditional folk song for you.”  He glanced toward the owner’s box as he finished, “It was written hundreds of years ago, but I think you’ll all agree it still makes sense today.”

            As the audience scooted forward in their seats in anticipation, President Loughten leaned toward Eldrin and murmured a question.  Eldrin obligingly translated, “The President wants to know what Del is going to sing.”

            To which Kelric could only reply, “I have no idea.  Do you?”

            On stage, Randall’s stringer, set to sound like guitar, strummed an upbeat chord progression.  Jud’s morpher and Anne’s drums joined in as the sequence repeated.  Del’s grin flashed white on the big screens as he lifted the mic and sang in his bass range.  Eldrin translated the lyrics for Kelric silently, so as not to distract from his brother’s artistic effect.

 

            If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning,

            I’d hammer in the evening, all over this land.

            I’d hammer out danger, I’d hammer out a warning,

            I’d hammer out love between

            My brothers and my sisters,

            All over this land.

 

            Del’s voice soared to soprano, invoking his chime notes, for the next verse:

 

            If I had a bell, I’d ring it in the morning,

            I’d ring it in the evening, all over this land.

            I’d ring out danger, I’d ring out a warning,

            I’d ring out love between

            My nephews and my neices,

            All over this land.

 

            He dropped to a particularly warm baritone for the third verse:

 

            If I had a song, I’d sing it in the morning,

            I’d sing it in the evening, all over this land.

            I’d sing out danger, I’d sing out a warning,

            I’d sing out love between

            My sons and my daughters,

            All over this land.

 

            And recovered his usual holorock snarl for the final one:

 

            Well, I have a hammer, and I’ve got a bell,

            And I’ve got a song to sing all over this land.

            It’s the hammer of justice, it’s the bell of freedom,

            And it’s the song about love between

            My brothers and my sisters,

            All over this land.

 

            The critical responses were mixed:

 

            “…And afterward, we got to go backstage and meet the band—Del Arden’s band!  In person!—and they sang happy birthday and Randall said thank you for the drawings and he was real nice and so was Jud Taborian and Anne Moore is soooo pretty and all Eddie wanted to do was play with the toy plane Gold Man gave him and he dropped his cake on the floor and almost sat down in it and the band all autographed my cube of the Jewels Suite and…”

 

            “So what the hell did he choose that song for?” Fitz McLane wondered, looking at a foot-tall holo of Del singing that adorned the middle of his desk.  “It didn’t address the issues of censorship or slavery like his other substitutions.  Maybe Prince Del-Kurj was trying to be diplomatic, for once?”  He considered that for a moment, then shook his graying head in rejection.  “Never mind, silly idea.  Still, I wouldn’t have thought our protesting Prince would pass up an opportunity to get on his soapbox with the President as a captive audience.”

            “Prince Del-Kurj looked straight at the owner’s box when he announced the song,” Major Baxton added.  “He obviously intended us to figure out his message.”

            Mac Tyler spread his hands.  “Don’t ask me.  The only ones who know what Del’s going to sing during these ‘Carnelians breaks’ and why are the members of his band.  I’m just the manager.  Unless…”  He thought a moment, then gestured toward the General’s desk.  “May I?”

            McLane waved permission and Mac bent over the desk, typing in a search.  He read the results carefully, then nodded.

            “Look here,” he said, pointing at the text he’d called up.  “These are the original words to that song, as written more than a hundred years ago by Pete Seeger and Lee Hays. You’ll notice that there are two lines that are different:  ‘brothers and sisters’ becomes ‘nieces and nephews’ in the second verse and ‘sons and daughters’ in the third.”

            “So he’s bringing the whole family into it,” Baxton said impatiently.  “So what?”

            “An astute observation,” Mac agreed.  “He is bringing the whole family into it.   Specifically, his own.” He turned back to McLane.  “He’s singing about the Triad:  his half-brother Imperator Kurj, his aunt the Ruby Pharaoh, and his father, the Dalvador Bard.”

            At McLane’s gesture, the band manager elaborated.  “Look, he sings the first verse about the ‘hammer of justice’ in his bass range and talks about loving brothers and sisters.  The Skolian newsies call the Imperator the “Fist of Skolia,” which is close enough.  The second verse, about the ‘bell of freedom,’ is soprano and talks about loving ‘nieces and nephews.’ By taking over the government, the Pharaoh freed her family from the control of the Assembly.  The third verse, about the ‘song of love’ and ‘sons and daughters,’ is baritone.  Del normally sings as a baritone, but did you notice he used a warmer tone than usual for this verse?  He does that when he’s singing songs written by his father.  I never heard the man sing, but I’d bet money Del’s imitating his style.  Del’s own sharper, holorock-style edge returns in the last verse.”

            “And this is significant because…?” the General hinted.

            “If I’m right, the last verse is his personal pledge to them and to the rest of the family, living and dead, to carry forward their campaign against the Traders and their slave empire.  Because of the love he bears his family, and which they return.”

            The General did not look relieved.  “I was afraid it was something like that.”

             “All that, in one song?” Baxton didn’t bother to hide his skepticism.

            “It fits.”  McLane took a sip from his ever-present coffee mug, then shook his head with a rueful smile.  “Only Del could manage to say ‘fuck you’ to Senator Greeley and ‘I love you’ to his family with the same song.”

 

            Kelric’s critique was characteristically short and direct.  “Don’t you think that whole ‘Fist of Skolia’ metaphor is a bit overdone, without you adding fuel to the fire?”

 Part 6

The Price of Peace Index

 

 

 

 

Skolian Empire Fan Fiction Index

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Skolian Empire Fan Fiction Index