Skolian Empire Fan Fiction Index

 Part IV

 The Bard of Dalvador

Chapter 14

In which Anne Moore’s small-town, friends-only wedding becomes the interstellar social event of the year

            Anne spent the morning of her wedding day wondering how she had gotten into such a completely insane situation.  She was a farm girl from Western Kansas.  By rights, she should have been getting married to some local country boy who fixed cars and tractors for a living.  It should have been a cookie-cutter traditional ceremony performed by the pastor of the dreary and unimaginative Tribune Methodist Church.  The event should have been documented by an announcement in the local paper and ignored by the rest of the world.  After all, nothing newsworthy ever came out of Kansas.

            Instead, her groom was a decorated Marine and they were getting married at a fancy estate just outside of Washington, D.C., in a ceremony performed by the King of Skyfall.  That was crazy but tolerable, so long as she thought of the monarch in question as the lead singer of her band and the estate as the band’s newly refurbished home.  It was at least becoming familiar to her.  Besides, Del could only perform weddings on Skolian soil.  Holding the wedding at the Skolian Embassy would have been even more outrageous, although Ambassador Tron had offered.

            Three months ago, the idea that she, Anne Moore of Tribune, Kansas, drummer in an Allied holorock band, might discuss her wedding plans with the Skolian Ambassador to the Allied Worlds of Earth would have sent her into gales of laughter.

            She had always envisioned having a small, informal wedding.  Just family and friends, a select group to wish her and her groom well on their special day.  Those guests she had managed.  Nana and Grandpa had arrived two days ago, along with her best friend from high school, Vicki Strauss, and two other friends who had been part of their clique.  There were also a half dozen friends from the undercity music world.  Cameron had invited a similarly select group from among his military friends. 

            Out of courtesy, they had sent an invitation to Zachary Marksman, vice-president of Prime-Nova.  He had done them the equal courtesy of declining.  Cameron’s commander, the commandant of the Annapolis base where he had been stationed before his assignment to safeguard a Ruby prince in disguise, had accepted.  Mac had suggested that she invite some of Prime-Nova’s other top talent as a professional courtesy, and she had agreed, assuming at the time that there would be plenty of extra room for a few more guests, if any of them happened to come. 

            Also expanding the guest list were the other residents of the estate.  The families that that Del’s sister Chaniece had hired to staff the estate had labored long and hard to get everything ready in time and would work even harder to make sure everything went smoothly.  She didn’t begrudge them a chance to pause in their labors and watch the show.

            However, the staff and the band were not the only residents of the estate.  That was where the complications began. Two of Del’s brothers and one of his sisters were visiting and could hardly be barred from the proceedings.  Which meant adding Ruby Consort Prince Eldrin, Her Highness Princess Chaniece, and Imperator Skolia, the supreme commander of the Skolian military, to the guest list. 

            This overabundance of Skolian dignitaries had inspired the bride and groom’s own government to take a more active role.  A simple request by Del to have one of Cameron’s friends fill in for Anne on the drums during the musical portion of the ceremony had been granted.  Oh, yes.  ASC had sent Staff Sergeant Brett Johnson, all right.  Along with the rest of the ASC Marine Jazz Band, in shining red dress uniforms, to play for the reception.  Also their ultimate commander, five-star General FitzWilliam McLane, to counterbalance the Imperator’s presence.

            Then, a week before the ceremony, Del’s mother, Skolian Foreign Affairs Councilor Roca Skolia, widely acclaimed as the most beautiful woman in the galaxy, had arrived unexpectedly.  She announced that she had flown in “to see Del carrying out his office as Bard at last.”  Anne took her arrival better than Del did, until Allied President Loughten declared that she would come as well, because it wouldn’t do to have ISC show greater honor to a Marine than his own Service.  At which point Ambassador Tron had to come, with her full diplomatic staff, to ensure that the diplomatic protocols were in place.  At least she had also brought the Embassy’s kitchen and wait staff with her.  Choong Lee and his two nephews could never have managed to cater such a large reception by themselves.

            Anne hadn’t—quite—thrown a fit as her quiet little small-town wedding ballooned into an interstellar diplomatic event, but it had been a near thing.  Only Princess Chaniece’s constant reassurances that the self-invited dignitaries would be slipped in at the back and that neither they, nor their personal security details, would be allowed to disrupt the ceremony left her able to proceed.

            At least the tradition that the bride should not be seen before her official entrance meant that Anne had a perfect excuse to hide upstairs and let Chaniece and Ricki handle the confusion below. 

            As Anne’s bridesmaids fluttered around her, adjusting the hang of her simple white dress, the matron of honor, Vicky Strauss, came into the room.  “Anne, I think everything downstairs is just about ready when you are.  All I can say is, wow!  You and your hubby have a good-looking crowd of friends.”

            Anne chuckled.  “And Cameron is the best looking of them all.”

            “They’ve got a good sense of humor, too,” Tammy said, putting the finishing touches on the ribbons she was braiding into Anne’s hair.  “You should see—no, hold still—some of the funny signatures in the guest book.  People are signing in as all sorts of celebrities and politicians and such.”

            “Who’s the funny-looking big guy who was helping to carry the benches in earlier?” Vicki asked.  “The one who’s the spitting image of that Skolian who’s always on the news?  Their Imperator?”

            “Kelric Skolia.”

            “Yeah, that’s the one.  The giant in gold body paint.  Who is he?”

            “Kelric Skolia.

            “I meant…”

            “I know you did.  That really is Kelric Skolia.”

            Vicki blinked.  “Anne, don’t get me wrong, you rate first class in my book, but even if you do a great drum solo, when all’s said and done, you’re a farm girl from Kansas.  Why is the Skolian Imperator arranging the furniture at your wedding?”

            “He’s Del’s brother, and he’s staying here while he’s on Earth for the summit.  I guess he thought it’d be rude to sulk upstairs in his room like Achilles.”

            Sondra rearranged the bow that belted Anne’s dress.  “So I suppose the woman I saw who looks like the President…?”

            “Is the President, yes.”  Anne shrugged.  “Fortunately, they’re here to see Del sing the wedding, not to see me get married.  If you get the difference.  Or that’s what I keep telling myself.”

            Downstairs in the kitchen, Del was peering through the swinging doors into the barnlike, bare-raftered dining hall, watching the guests mill about.  Behind him, Choong Lee was busy directing his nephews and the additional personnel Ambassador Tron had loaned them from the Embassy kitchens in final preparations for the reception to follow.  Chaniece was playing hostess, her brightly embroidered, traditional Lyshrioli lavender dress setting off her violet eyes and sun-bleached golden hair beautifully.  She was directing the children as they showed the guests to their seats.  She kept her promise to Anne, Del noted, making sure that her and Cameron’s friends and relatives got the closer benches, with the place of honor reserved for Nana and Grandpa. 

            Around the edges of the room, bodyguards were stationed every six feet or so:  the Jagernaut guards assigned to protect the Ruby Dynasty, the President’s security detail, and a few private bodyguards-for-hire who had come with Mind Mix and some of the other acts, looking very lost and insignificant alongside the real thing.  Seeing them, Del wondered that anybody had mistaken Cameron and Tyra for such private guards for even an instant. 

            And that was only the visible security:  between ASC and ISC, the estate was locked down so tightly that the paparazzi had given up hours ago and Del seriously doubted that even the boldest jay would dare to steal a peanut.

            The guests themselves wore an interesting assortment of military dress uniforms and both Allied and Skolian civilian formal wear inspired by half a dozen cultures and budgets.  These ranged from the conservative formal designer dresses worn by President Loughten and Del’s mother, Roca Skolia, through the less conservative business variations sported by Ricki, Mac, and Staver Aunchild, to the flashy ‘artistic’ variants worn by Mind Mix and other acts.  At the other end of the spectrum were Grandpa and Nana’s best church clothes, bought off the rack in Topeka twenty years ago and carefully maintained ever since, and the spotlessly clean jeans and almost-new shirts worn by the staff and a few of the less successful undercity musicians.  Ambassador Tron circulated around the edges, making sure that none of the dignitaries felt slighted.

            “Are they ready for us?” Eldrin asked in Trillian from behind Del’s shoulder.  Like Del, Eldrin was dressed in traditional Bard’s clothing:  a loose-fitting white shirt with colorful embroidery at the neck and cuffs, blue pants, and black leather boots.  He was carrying the two Lyshrioli hand-held harps that they would be using for the first part of the musical portion of the ceremony.

            “Almost, I think,” Del answered.  He hoped he remembered all the details of the hybrid ceremony they had worked out, which while based primarily on Lyshrioli traditions would also contain elements of Earth ceremonies that Anne and Cameron liked and the signing of the written contract required to make it a legal Skolian wedding.

            Behind Eldrin, Jud and Randall looked out of place in Del’s and Eldrin’s second-best Lyshrioli shirts.  Johnson, on the other hand, looked absolutely at home in his gaudy Marine Band dress reds, which he had categorically refused to surrender for a performance in front of his commanding officers.

            The noise and movement quieted as the guests took their seats and Del stepped aside to let Chaniece slip through the doors and join them.  At the entrance across from Del, which opened onto a hall that led to the living quarters in the east wing, Tyra appeared, talking softly into her gauntlet.  She was dressed in the full dress uniform of a Jagernaut Primary today, all black pseudoleather and gleaming silver studs.  The Jumbler at her right hip was joined by a borrowed sword on her left, of the type worn by Allied military officers in dress uniform.  She looked across at Del and nodded, confirming that Anne and Cameron were on their way down the stairs.

            “That’s our signal,” Del said.  He led the others through the swinging doors, feeling the wave of anticipation from the guests.  The benches had been arranged in two arcs around an open space, forming a semicircle split in the middle with a clear aisle leading to the door where Tyra waited.  While not quite the circular room used for weddings on Lyshriol, it did have some of the same feel.

            The group formed a rough semicircle facing the audience, with Del in the middle, Eldrin and Chaniece anchoring the ends, and the three musicians standing in front of their instruments.  When they had reached their marks, Tyra flung open the door to the hallway and led the honor guard through.

            There were forty of them, in twenty pairs that marched in step down the aisle until Tyra reached the edge of the open space.  They halted as one, stepped away from their partners, then turned to face them, forming two ranks along either side of the aisle.  The military precision of the maneuver was only slightly marred by the inconsistent uniforms:  Tyra and the three new members of Del’s guard detail in Jagernaut black, Allied Marines in dress blues with red piping and snow white hats, and members of the AMC Marine Jazz Band in dress reds.  There was even a pair from the Allied Army sporting green berets with their blue jackets.

            As the door opened again, the honor guard drew their dress swords and formed an arch with them.  The dramatic clash startled maid of honor Vicki, but Cameron’s best man, a fellow Marine whom the harried Cameron had introduced only as Lon, offered her his arm and got her moving down the aisle.  Sondra and Tammy followed, each on the arm of one of Cameron’s uniformed friends. 

            The audience stood as the bride entered behind them.  Anne had opted to follow Lyshrioli custom and walk down the aisle with her husband-to-be.  Cameron blushed as scarlet as the red piping on his dress blues as they walked beneath the metal archway toward Del, but managed to keep his knees from wobbling.  Or maybe it was his fancy military biomech that kept him to a steady pace.

            When they reached Del, the couple turned to join hands as he coached them through their vows, which combined elements of Allied military and civilian ceremonies with the legal formalities required by the Skolian tradition.  They had all worked hard to phrase the English words as closely as they could manage to the poetical language of Lyshriol.  Settling on that wording had required almost as much negotiation as the diplomatic summit.  Del hoped the end product would satisfy the emotional needs of the principals and the military and civilian guests, most of whom were Allied citizens.

            When the vows were said, the bride and groom signed the documents brought forward by Ambassador Tron, fulfilling the larger requirements of Skolian law.  Now it only remained to sing the ceremony to a close, making it a binding wedding on Lyshriol. 

            Del caught Eldrin’s eye and his brother handed him one of the harps.  The two bards raised their instruments as one and struck up a lively beat.  Chaniece’s tambourine joined in and their three voices wove a complex harmony as they sang their father’s wedding song.  The lyrical beauty of the Lyshrioli language held the audience spellbound despite the fact that of all the guests, only Roca Skolia and her son the Imperator could understand the words. 

            While the siblings sang, Randall, Jud, and Johnson picked up their instruments.  On cue, they joined in, giving the music an edgier, more modern holorock sound.  Del switched smoothly from Trillian to English and from the full, lyrical singing style used by Skyfall’s bards to the snarling, crooning sounds of holorock.  Eldrin followed him, singing a close harmony with the flawless technique he had perfected during his decades with the Parthonia Opera.  Chaniece, who had not been spending her days translating flowery diplomatic phrases and whose English was therefore less solid, joined Randall in singing backup:

            Oh, a wall can hold a hill back or stop a foeman’s charge.

            It can separate a special place, diminutive or large.

            But a wall that has no doorway is no fit place to hide,

            For what use is a barrier with only pain inside?

            Now, a garden has a rhythm as the seasons turn around,

            The flowers bloom and turn to fruit above the fertile ground.

            But with nobody to tend it even fertile ground grows bare,

            For what use is a garden when there’s nobody to care?

            But put the wall around the garden and there’s room for things to grow,

            And space to rest upon a bench, and shelter from the snow.

            But don’t forget to build a gate so your friends can come and see

            How much you’ve gained when “you and I” is joined into a “we.”

            The assembled guests broke into applause as Anne and Cameron kissed.  Then the formal part of the ceremony was over.  As the bride and groom walked back down the aisle, hand in hand, people began to stand and a chatter of conversation in at least four languages filled the room.  The doors behind Del swung open, unleashing a swarm of waiters with trays of drinks and snacks, and the Marine Jazz Band began to play softly in the corner.

            Del turned to Jud and Randall.  “That went well,” he remarked, one corner of his mouth quirking upward.

            “Let’s eat,” Jud suggested, stating the priority of bards and troubadours throughout history.

            Rex Montrow, lead singer of Mind Mix, scowled into his drink.  He didn’t begrudge Del Arden his meteoric rise to the top of the holorock charts—not really.  The kid was good, and nobody stayed at the top of the charts forever.  Not even Rex Montrow, who had enjoyed twenty years on top, himself. 

            Still, even when he was at the height of his fame, he’d never been able to pull this stratospheric a crowd to his parties.  These days, he was still a holorock star mostly because there was only one Del Arden and one performer, however talented, couldn’t satisfy a continent’s demand for live performances.

            “Hey, Rex,” the object of his reverie greeted him.  The absurd native costume he was wearing should have made him look ridiculous, but somehow Arden managed to look at home in it.

            Rex forced a professionally smooth smile.  “Arden.  Quite a party you have here.”

            “Thanks.” 

            “Zachary Marksman is going to be upset that he missed it, you know.”

            Arden shrugged.  “He was invited.”  He looked around, then beckoned for another guest to join them.  “Hey, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

            Rex looked at the new arrival with ill-concealed dismay.  Apart from being slightly shorter and stockier, the man might have been Arden’s twin, down to the funny hands and the glitter of gold on his hair and eyelashes.  And the voice, judging from the duet the two of them had performed.

            “There are two of you now?”

            Arden flashed the grin that melted women at twenty feet and shook his head.  Wine-red curls bounced on his shoulders.  “Rex, I’d like you to meet my brother Eldrin.  Eldrin, Rex Montrow is the lead singer for Mind Mix.  They’re the band I was opening for when I started singing for Prime-Nova.”

            “My greetings, Mr. Montrow.”

            “Pleased to meet you.  Are you planning to sign with Prime-Nova like Del?”

            Both brothers chuckled.

            “Eldrin sings with the Parthonia Opera,” Arden explained.  “Somehow, I don’t think that would interest the holorock industry.”

            “You never know,” Rex argued.  “Your fans have liked those ‘Carnelians break’ songs you’ve been doing.  Did your brother here write the first half of your song today?  The part with the harps?”

            “No, that was our father,” Eldrin said. 

             “There you are, Del,” Mac Tylor said as he joined them.  “Your Majesty,” he added, bowing to Eldrin.  “Ambassador Tron is looking for you both.”

            “We’d better go find her, then,” Arden said.  “Enjoy the party, Rex,” he added over his shoulder, as the brothers set out in search of the ambassador.

            “Your Majesty?” Rex asked Mac as he watched them leave.

            “Prince Eldrin is the Ruby Pharaoh’s consort,” the manager explained.

            “This is unreal.” 

            “Isn’t it, though?”  Mac looked around.  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a strange mix of people in one place.”

            “What’s with that leather uniform Del’s lady bodyguard is wearing? It seems to be popular.”  Rex nodded toward the wall, where the on-duty security details watched the goings-on with professional paranoia. 

            “Dress uniform for the Skolian Jagernauts.  They provide security for the Ruby Dynasty.”

            “Jagernauts?  Aren’t those the Skolian special forces and fighter pilots?  The ones with all the badass biomech?  Deadliest in the galaxy and all that?”

            “Pretty much,” Mac agreed.  “Tyra was part of a compromise Del worked out with his brother Kelric over there to let him stay on Earth and sing.” Mac nodded toward the table where a metallic gold giant sat.  “Del agreed not to ditch his bodyguards, and Imperator Skolia agreed to send ones who could pass as the sort of bodyguards a holorock star might employ.”

            “That’s the Skolian Imperator?”

            “Yup.”

            Rex Montrow emptied his glass in one, undignified gulp.

            As the guests milled around and talked, Randall snagged a glass off young Angela’s tray and retreated to a quiet corner to observe the goings-on.  Most of the guests were trying hard to be sociable, at least to those of their fellow guests who appeared likely to share a common language or social sphere.

            “My greetings,” a voice commented in Iotic from an alcove to his left. “That was an interesting ceremony.”

            Randall glanced in that direction, then adjusted his gaze downward.  The speaker was a woman, so tiny that the top of her head was well below his shoulder.  She had long black hair streaked with gray and beautiful green eyes framed with heavy black lashes.  Her simple white jumpsuit would have been out of place at a wedding except that the fabric had been treated to give off an irregular flickering.  The effect was almost like a holographic projection in the dim light.

            “My greetings,” Randall attempted in return, encouraged when she didn’t immediately burst into laughter at his accent.  Noting that the guest was empty-handed, he attempted, “Is it possible, I get something to eat you?”

            “No, thank you.”  The woman turned to survey the crowd once more.  “I really shouldn’t stay any longer, but the probabilities suggested that I should look in long enough to make sure my sister followed through.”

            Confused, Randall followed her gaze, trying to figure out whose sister his companion might be, but she was looking at a large group of Skolian diplomatic staff clustered around Ambassador Tron and Del’s mother, the Foreign Affairs Councilor.  Many were female, so there were too many possibilities to be sure.  As he watched, Del’s mother separated from the group and started toward where Del and Chaniece were talking with Nona and Grandpa.

            “Ah, it begins to mend,” the woman said cryptically.  “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Randall Gaithers.”

            “Have we been…? 

            But when Randall turned to look, the woman was gone.

Chapter 15

In which Del attends a costume party dressed as a pirate and gets into character

            No closely coordinated formal ceremony involving dozens of people, many of whom don’t share even one common language or culture, can proceed without at least one hiccup.  Such embarrassing disasters are a much a part of the wedding tradition as the pledge before witnesses.  Since neither Anne nor Cameron had a “difficult” uncle with a tendency to drink too much, and none of the other guests felt inclined to cause trouble with so many formidable bouncers providing security, of course something else had to go wrong.

             “I swear, it’s brand new, straight out of the box,” the wedding vid producer wailed, waving the offending cube under the nose of an equally distressed Vicki Strauss.  “I tested it beforehand, and it was recording beautifully, but when I went to check just now, there was nothing but static.”

            “Is there a problem here?”  

            Tyra Jarin might have been temporarily relieved of her security duties so she could participate in the ceremony, but she still felt a certain responsibility to make things run smoothly.  While there were plenty of things they could not share about their abilities and training, Cameron had become a friend as well as a colleague she trusted at her back. 

            Vicki explained about the ruined vid.

            The Jagernaut turned a skeptical eye on the vid producer, who began to wring his hands as he hastened to assure her that there would be no charge, of course, not even for the stills he’d taken of the wedding party and guests earlier.

            “It was such a beautiful ceremony,” Vicki protested.  “Anne will be so disappointed.”

            “Maybe not,” Tyra said, inspecting the ceiling.  “I think we can come up with something.  Don’t tell Anne or Cameron about this just yet. There’s time enough to do that later if there really is a problem. I’ve got to clear it with the boss first, though.”  She scanned the crowd, then started to the right.”

            “But Del is that way,” Vicki said, pointing in the opposite direction.

            “Not that boss,” Tyra said, continuing toward the corner where the Imperator leaned against the wall.

            After the guests had gone home, Roca Skolia sought out her wayward fourth son.  She finally found him in a corner of the great hall, contemplating some of the decorations that the staff had yet to clear.

            “Del, I owe you an apology,” she began.

            He looked at her warily.  “An apology?”

            She squared her shoulders.  “Yes. For pressing you so hard to take up your father’s duties as Dalvador Bard.” She looked away for a moment.  “Your father had a unique gift for weaving people together with his music.  I couldn’t bear to see that end with him.  Of all our children, only you and Eldrin have the skill and personality to carry on that legacy.”

            “My work is here.”

            “I see that, now.”  She knew Del was picking up her regret, but this time she wanted to make sure that he understood it.  “The sort of music you want to play would never work for a Bard on Lyshriol.”  She met his eyes.  “But it does, here.  And as long as your music is bringing people together, shaping them into a productive group…your father’s legacy will remain alive.”

            Poor Del looked as stunned as if she’d clobbered him over the head.  “Mother…” he began.

            “That’s not to say that I wouldn’t prefer that you were living in Skolian territory,” she continued in a crisper tone.  “Kelric’s right about the security nightmare.  And we’ve still got to make sure Dalvador gets a full-time Bard.”

            “Chaniece would be a good choice.  She has a good voice and she has no intention of leaving Lyshriol.  If she won’t do it, or if Rillia won’t agree, Vryl might manage.” 

            “So you want to stay here on Earth?”

            “Yes.”

            She might have hidden her disappointment from Kelric, but Del was as sensitive as his father had been.  Also as stubborn.

            “Come and visit us, sometimes,” she asked, tacitly conceding.  “We miss you.”

            “I will.  I miss all of you, too.”

            “But, Del,” her expression turned into maternal annoyance, “did you really have to get Eldrin singing in your holorock style?”

            Del’s cocky grin returned.  “He did it pretty well, don’t you think?  Good thing Zachary Marksman didn’t come, or he’d be trying to sign Eldrin, too.”

            “Gods help us.”

            Cameron and Anne left the following morning for a week and a half on the beaches of Hawaii.  With no concerts scheduled for a whole two weeks, Jud also took some time off to visit his sister and her children.  Del busied himself with translating a few more of his songs into English.  He and Randall talked about arrangements for them in general terms, but neither of them shared Jud’s genius for that particular musical task.  Randall did seize the opportunity to work intensively with Del on his vocal technique.

            Tyra and the new Jagernauts who had been added to Del’s security team took advantage of Cameron’s absence to install several highly classified security systems that ISC preferred that ASC not know about.  She also recruited Ricki to help her cobble together a high-quality holo of the wedding for Cameron and Anne out of the security camera footage and the personal recordings of the Jagernauts who had been present. 

            The orchard was given a thorough pruning.  The pony’s hooves recovered to the point that the smaller children were able to go on carefully supervised rides.  Angela passed her summer school calculus course, but continued to work with Kelric as she prepared for her college aptitude tests.  The restrictions on Del singing Carnelians Finale in public were not lifted and Senator Greeley and his friends continued to obstruct the talks where they could, but Eldrin reported that slow progress was being made in hammering out the details of the agreement Kelric and President Loughten had sketched out, in spite of Greeley’s best efforts.

            As the stifling late-August heat and humidity settled in over the East Coast, making every moment spent outside an effort, Mac began to hope that the next crisis might wait a while to rear its ugly head.  Then Ricki invited Del to a party.

            “I don’t understand,” Del complained.  “Why am I dressing like a bandit to go to a party again?”

            Ricki laughed.  “Because you stole my heart.”  She kissed him.  “Seriously, parties where everybody dresses up in costume are a lot of fun. This one will look very dashing on you.”

            “It’s cheap material.  And this sword is a joke.”  He reached out and poked the plastic buccaneer’s weapon.  “It would shatter the first time you hit anything with it.”

            “It’s a prop,” the producer explained patiently.  “You don’t have to hit anything with it.  Pirates used swords, so a pirate costume has to have one.  It’ll fit your ‘bad boy’ image.  Now, no more arguments.  I’ll swing by to pick you up at seven; it’ll take almost an hour to reach the hotel.”

            When Ricki arrived at the Annandale estate, however, it was to discover that Del had taken some liberties with the costume.  He had substituted one of his plainer native Lyshrioli shirts for the objectionable one—the style was quite similar—and the sword that hung at his side was metal.  It wasn’t the fancy, jewel-hilted blade he had used at the Philadelphia concert, but another one, functional and well worn.  The substitutions added a very swashbuckling air to the costume.

            “The plastic one didn’t feel right,” he complained.

            “You look very piratical,” Ricki decided, standing on her toes to kiss him.  Her own nurse’s costume was designed to inspire every male in the room—and not a few females—with a wish to play doctor.

            Mac Tylor, who was attending the party dressed in his old Air Force pilot’s uniform, was circulating when he noticed that Del and Ricki, who had withdrawn into a storeroom near the kitchens so Del could take a break from the press of so many minds, had not yet returned.  Concerned, he sought them out, only to discover trouble.

            Del and Ricki were facing off against three men, and the tension was thick enough to be cut with the prince’s sword.  One of the men was a veritable gorilla, one was smaller than average, with a face only a mother rat could love, and the third was George Sparnelli.  Mac recognized the minor Mob chieftain because several of his other clients had managed to get themselves into trouble with the Sparnelli clan. 

            The Sparnellis ran an old-fashioned organization.  From their headquarters in the back room of an Italian restaurant and sports bar managed by Don Giovanni’s younger brother Niccolo, they ran a lucrative business conglomerate comprised of illegal gambling and betting, prostitution, protection, drugs, and kickbacks from contractors.  It was the latter enterprise that had apparently brought Del to their notice. 

            He reached the door in time to hear George say sadly, “I don’t think you understand me here, Arden.  If you want work done on your place, you call us and we send somebody out.  You don’t go hiring foreign guys to do it.  My Uncle Johnny is very particular about losing business, and he’s a bad man to cross.  I’m trying to give you some friendly advice about how things are done here.  I suggest you follow it.”

            Mac looked around, but Tyra and the rest of Del’s detail were apparently monitoring the prince from a distance at the moment.  That left him to ward off trouble.

            “I suggest you crawl back under whatever rock spawned you,” the prince was sneering back, in total disregard of the current odds.  “I told you before, I’ll hire whom I please.”

            “Now that’s no way to talk to the boss,” the larger of the backup thugs complained.  The man really was built like a gorilla, Mac noted apprehensively.

            Unfortunately, Del was used to arguing with very large and belligerent opponents.  To a man who thought nothing of pissing off his seven-foot Jagernaut brother and a five-star general as well, a common thug must seem relatively harmless.  “I’ll treat your boss with the courtesy due any other schoolyard bully,” the prince responded, putting his right hand on his hip, just above where his sword scabbard hung.

            The rat-faced thug reached into his pocket and withdrew a switchblade.  “It’s really unfortunate you feel that way,” he said.  He pushed the release and the eight-inch blade shot into place with a sinister “snick.” “That’s the sort of feeling that could lead to some rearrangement of that pretty face of yours.  Or maybe I ought to carve up your pretty Miss Varento instea…”

            There was a hiss of leather as Del’s sword leaped from its sheath and flicked toward the knife in a blur.  An instant later, the switchblade was flying across the room and its owner was bent over his bleeding hand, cursing.  The gorilla took a step forward to reinforce his compatriot, only to stop suddenly, looking wide-eyed down at the razor-sharp sword point that was pricking his throat, perilously close to his jugular.  He spread his hands carefully in surrender, letting the brass knuckles fall to the floor.

            “Never pull a knife on somebody who has a bigger one,” Del advised the rat-faced man coldly, with a peculiarly Skolian belligerence that for one moment made him every inch the Imperator’s brother.  “And if you try to bring out that gun you’re carrying,” he added to George, whose hand had disappeared into the lapel of his suit jacket, “I’ll have your hand off at the wrist before you can clear the holster.”

             George’s eyes widened and his hand reemerged, empty.

            “Let me make one thing perfectly, crystal clear to you and your Uncle Johnny,” the prince snarled at Sparnelli.  “If you or any of your associates lay so much as finger on Ricki, any of my other friends, or any member of my household, I will hunt you down and run you through myself.”  The sword tip left the gorilla’s neck, leaving behind a trickle of blood, and the red tip pointed squarely at the astonished Sparnelli’s chest. 

            “There you are, Del,” Mac interrupted in a hearty tone.  “Zachary was looking for you.”

            The prince paused long enough to give Mac a bad moment, then deliberately wiped his bloody sword on Sparnelli’s jacket and sheathed it.  “I trust I’ve made myself clear?” he asked the mobster.  Then he spun on his heel, turning his back in a gesture of contempt, and stalked out of the room.

            “I’ll make things clear to that pipsqueak,” Sparnelli muttered, wiping futilely at the stain on his jacket.  “With a .45.”

            “Where’d you learn to use a sword like that?” Ricki asked the prince, when she and Mac caught up with him.

            “Lyshriol is still primitive enough to use swords and bows as the primary weapons,” he said, adjusting the scabbard with the absent ease of long use.  “My father was the best bladesman on the Dalvador Plains.  Guess who was most convenient when he wanted to practice?”

            Ricki chuckled.  “When you put it that way…”

            Mac was concerned enough to keep all mention of the confrontation strictly away from Tyra and her Jagernauts.  Instead, early the next morning, he called General McLane. 

            “You couldn’t have waited until I had my second cup of coffee?” the general groaned when he saw Mac’s face on his screen. “What’s Del gotten into this time?”

            “The local mob, in the person of Johnny Sparnelli’s nephew, wants a cut of the action at the Annandale estate.  Apparently, Del has been refusing to cooperate and they’re getting tired of talking.”

            “Oh, shit.  How many bodies did the Jagernauts leave strewn around?”

            Mac chuckled.  “None.  This time.  They made their move at Prime-Nova’s costume party last night.  The nephew brought along some muscle—a knife artist and a gorilla-sized strongman.  But they didn’t realize that Del was armed, too.”

            “He was?  I didn’t think he carried.”

            “Ricki dressed him as a pirate.  He didn’t like the prop sword, so he substituted his own.”

            “His own?”  Between the sub-standard caffeine dose and a modern soldier’s natural tendency to disregard antique weaponry, it was obvious that the general had temporarily forgotten Cameron’s report on Del’s Philadelphia protest song.  “Oh, yes, that fancy jeweled thing.” 

             “It was actually the unornamented one, but they’re equally effective.  Apparently, Del’s expertise extends to much more practical moves than those fancy practice forms he used at Philadelphia.  He had the knife guy disarmed and his point at the gorilla’s jugular before I could intervene.  Sparnelli’s nephew was pretty upset about it.  He was muttering threats.”

            “God help us,” the general groaned, rubbing his aching head.  “We do not need a shooting war between the Mob and the Jagernauts.”

            “It does sound like a cheap vid game, doesn’t it?”

            The next day, federal agents picked up Johnny Sparnelli at his ostensible place of business and escorted him downtown.  Used to harassment from the authorities, he offered no resistance and was shortly cooling his heels in an interrogation room. 

            Mac Tylor and General McLane arrived not long after.  “He’s refusing to cooperate,” Donna Eppestine, the head of the FBI’s organized crime unit, reported.  “We don’t have legal grounds to hold him.  He’s not talking and his lawyer is already raising holy hell.”

            “He doesn’t have to talk, just listen,” McLane replied, gesturing for her to lead the way into the room where the mob boss and his lawyer waited.

            The lawyer bounced to his feet.  “I demand to know the charges under which my client is being held.  Be aware that he refuses to answer any questions about any criminal activities he is alleged to have engaged in.”

            Sparnelli looked up with a genial smile.  “What he said.  I ain’t talking.”

            “Good,” McLane said grimly, sitting down in one of the utilitarian chairs across the table from the criminal.  “Then maybe you both will have the sense to shut up and listen, instead.”

            The mob boss blinked, finally taking in the crisp ASC uniform and the five gold stars that adorned it.  “What the hell is this about?” he demanded, his geniality disappearing.

            “It’s about a little confrontation that your nephew George had with a certain holorock star last night,” McLane said.

            Sparnelli’s jaw dropped in honest surprise.  “I’d never have guessed that the great General McLane was such a music fan that he’d involve himself in a routine…business negotiation…with a holorock singer.  What’s the big deal?”

            Mac rolled his eyes in exasperation.  “Good lord, your ignorance is mind-boggling.  Don’t you ever watch a newsvid?”

            “Only the sports,” the mob boss said.  “And who are you calling ignorant?”

            McLane sighed.  “Del Arden is a member of a very prominent Skolian family.”

            “I don’t care who he is back home,” Sparnelli said.  “The kid’s a menace and he needs to learn some manners.  Vance Ricco had to have a half dozen stitches in his hand.  He’s thinking of pressing charges.”

            “That would be a very, very bad idea,” McLane said.  “I can’t legally forbid it, but as the general in charge of safeguarding all Allied citizens, even worthless criminal scum like you, I strongly advise you to let the matter drop.”

            “You see,” Mac explained, “if you press charges, Del’s family will find out that you’re trying to extort money out of him using threats of violence.  They wouldn’t take that quietly.”

            “Families can often be quite reasonable, once things are properly explained to them,” Sparnelli said smugly.

            “Save me from babes in the woods.” Mac looked the mobster in the eye.  “‘Del Arden’ is a stage name, you fool.  Our young holorock star is more formally known as His Royal Highness Prince Del-Kurj Arden Valdoria Skolia.  And nobody, but nobody, has ever accused the Ruby Dynasty of responding ‘reasonably’ to threats against one of their own.  Your nephew and his friends were incredibly fortunate last night.  If one of Del’s Skolian bodyguards had seen Ricco pull that knife on him, they’d all be dead now.”

            “One against three?”  Sparnelli was not convinced.  “Not likely.  My boys can give a good account of themselves.”

            “I’m sure your boys do quite well against the average unarmed, untrained civilian,” McLane agreed.  “They wouldn’t last five seconds against an enraged Jagernaut.”

            “For that matter, they didn’t do too well against Del and his sword,” Mac pointed out helpfully.

            “Now, frankly, if all I had to worry about was Del’s bodyguard taking out a couple of thugs involved in extortion, I’d say good riddance,” McLane admitted.  “However, it wouldn’t end there.  Del’s bodyguards report to ISC.  If Imperator Skolia learns that one of Earth’s organized crime families poses a threat to his brother, he will track you down and wipe you out.”

            “A lot of folks have tried to ‘track us down and wipe us out’ over the years.” Sparnelli looked pointedly at Eppestine.  “We’re still here.”

            “Hiding your illegal activities from the FBI is one thing,” Mac pointed out.  “They have to get warrants and observe due process.  Have you noticed that the amount of spamozoola in your inbox is way down, these past two months?”

            “Yeah.  It’s nice.  What of it?”

            “Imperator Skolia was using Earth’s mesh one night and got annoyed by the sheer volume of spam.  So he tracked down the spammers, cut them out of the mesh, and rerouted all of the spam-in-progress to the companies that had hired the spammers.  With a warning that if they advertised that way again, he’d cut them out of the mesh, too.”

            “As far as ASC intelligence can figure out, the whole operation took him less than half an hour.” McLane added grimly.  “He didn’t ask permission before acting and our mesh security protocols didn’t even slow him down.  Do you really think he would have any trouble at all figuring out any detail he cares to learn about your organization? And once he knew who you are and where you are, well, he’s got the best covert ops in three empires, and we have no way of reaching him.”

             “Judge, jury, and executioner,” Mac elaborated, drawing a finger sideways across his throat.

            Sparnelli’s lawyer gulped at the graphic image.  Even his more hardened boss looked shaken.

            “While getting rid of organized crime on the East Coast is tempting, I’d rather not have Skolian agents running amok on Earth,” McLane continued conversationally, leaning back in his chair now that his point was made.  “So, I’m giving you this one warning.  Make sure that your nephew and all your other connections adopt a strict hands-off policy regarding Prince Del-Kurj, his associates, and his household.”

            “You might want to drop by personally and apologize to Del for your nephew, too,” Mac added.  “Just to make sure he knows he doesn’t have to worry about your association any longer.  He’s a very strong empath—he’s likely to believe you if you’re sincere enough.  Maybe he won’t mention you to his bodyguards, then.  Or to his brother.”

            “If you don’t heed this warning, there’s not a thing ASC, the FBI, or the police can do to prevent the Skolians from wiping out your sorry organization down to the last thug,” McLane finished.  “It’s up to you.

            Johnny Sparnelli was a businessman at heart.  He apologized to Del the next day.

Chapter 16

In which Zachary Marksman’s sister seeks a substitute singer for her opera benefit gala

            “There’s got to be someone available who can do a live show, Zachary,” Lantham Marksman declared, pacing a path in the plush, imported carpet that adorned his younger brother’s office. 

            “It’s for a good cause,” Ariadne, the youngest of the Marksman siblings, added.  She was the only one of the three who didn’t work for Prime-Nova.  Instead, she had married the immensely wealthy heir to the Barrimore Enterprises conglomerate and devoted herself to helping him spend his inheritance.  “My Gala fundraiser is critical for the Baltimore Opera.” 

            And for her own personal prestige, Zachary mentally added. 

            “They’ll need the money twice as much, with so many injured in yesterday’s hoverbus crash,” she continued.  “Even if they can replace the damaged properties, finding two tenors, a bass-baritone, and a lead soprano who can sing Aida just can’t be done on short notice without considerable monetary concessions.”

            The CEO of Prime-Nova paused in his pacing long enough to give his younger brother the Look that meant “Make this problem go away—now!”

            Zachary couldn’t exactly blame his brother.  Their younger sister’s entreaties were hard to ignore at the best of times and by the puffiness around her eyes that even expensive makeup couldn’t quite cover, she had already been working on Lantham for a while.

            “Look, Ari,” he tried, keeping his voice as conciliatory as possible, “Prime-Nova signs holorock artists.  Some of them are good enough to do live shows, but none of those shows are of interest to your opera fans, sweetheart.  Surely there are some classically trained singers in the Washington area who weren’t caught up in yesterday’s accident?”

            Ariadne pouted and made a show of considering.  “Well, I have heard of one good singer who might be suitable.”

            “There, pet, that’s the spirit!” Latham said, as the brothers exchanged a glance of mutual relief.  Once Ariadne finally tired of her histrionics and stated her demands, there was hope that further emoting could be avoided by prompt obedience.  “We’ll talk to this singer for you and help you make the arrangements.  I’m sure your Gala will be the most exclusive event of the season, as usual.”

            The sudden gleam of satisfaction in Ariadne’s eyes gave Zachary the sinking feeling that they had been neatly herded into a trap.  “Oh, thank you, Lantham, Zachary!” she trilled.  “I’m sure my guests will be thrilled at having a real prince sing for them.”

            “What?” Zachary stared at his sister in disbelief.  He knew of only one singing prince.  “You want Del Arden for your gala?”

            “Well, of course I do,” she agreed. 

            “He’s a holorocker, not an opera singer,” Zachary pointed out the obvious.

            Now that she had their promise of cooperation, Ariadne’s spirits seemed to have taken a miraculous turn for the better.  “His rendition of Schubert’s Ave Maria gained widespread critical acclaim,” she argued. 

            “Only because it was a major political ‘fuck you’ to Senator Greeley and his allies,” Lantham parried.  “It wouldn’t have attracted nearly as much attention if it hadn’t been a very public embarrassment to the entire Senate Foreign Relations Committee.”

            “Still, he sang the song very well, indeed.  And you don’t get that good overnight, you know.  No, Mr. Arden’s had classical training, which means that he also has a classical repertoire.  Besides, he’s a real foreign prince, with exotic good looks, and everybody’s curious about the Skolians.  Nobody will care if the program is a little shorter than we’d intended.”

            “Ari…” Zachary trailed off, helplessly.

            “You promised,” she insisted.  A single, dewy teardrop glistened at the corner of her right eye.  Neither brother was fooled:  they knew it would be joined by hundreds more at the slightest hint that Ariadne wasn’t going to get her way.

            “At least ask Arden,” Lantham begged his brother.  “He owes us for turning the Fourth of July concert into an interstellar incident.”

            Zachary knew when he was outnumbered.  “All right,” he gave in.  “I’ll call and ask him…no, we’d better go see him in person.”  A vice-president for Prime-Nova didn’t generally go to his underlings as a supplicant, but he knew from long experience that it was much harder to turn down Ariadne in person than on screen.

            “This afternoon?” she pressed.  “The Gala is only three days from now.”

            “This afternoon,” he agreed.  “Just let me do the talking, okay?  Arden can be a little prickly.”

            Zachary hadn’t actually seen his top star’s new estate before.  Annandale wasn’t exactly the sort of place where celebrities usually lived, since the community had little of the glittering society to which they were accustomed.  On the other hand, if Ricki’s account of the wedding held there was accurate, the holorock star might have the power to draw society to him, at least while his music remained at the top of the charts.

            Ariadne would like that.

            Zachary was well accustomed to the means that the wealthy and successful used to protect their privacy.  While Annandale wasn’t a proper restricted-access, gated community, the ten-foot, moss- and ivy-covered brick wall around the property didn’t surprise him, nor did the decorative metal gate that blocked the entryway.  He might have felt differently if he’d had any idea how much military-grade surveillance equipment had recently been installed on them, or that their structural integrity had been reinforced until they could withstand a charging tank.  However, he remained in blissful ignorance of these security features.

            Prime-Nova’s vice-president did notice the human guard who came out to meet them as his chauffer brought the luxury town car to a smooth halt in front of the gate.  Even successful holorock stars didn’t usually bother with that sort of expense, since robotic security systems could handle such duties with good efficiency and at a fraction of the cost. 

            The tech-mech king rolled down his window as the guard approached with commendable, almost military briskness.  Arden might be indulging in conspicuous consumption, but at least he was getting fair value for his money.

            “Good afternoon, sir,” the woman said, in a crisp voice with an accent he didn’t recognize.  “Would you state your names and business, please?”

            “I’m Zachary Marksman.  This is my sister, Ariadne Barrimore.  We’re here to see Del Arden.”

            “His Highness is not expecting any visitors this afternoon.”

            Zachary was a little irritated that the guard didn’t recognize his name, even more irritated by the royal honorific, and frankly incensed at the implication that he might be turned away.  “You can tell His High-and-Mighty Highness from me that if he wants to keep singing for Prime-Nova, he’d better change his expectations and see me.”

            The guard was not properly intimidated by his invocation of Prime-Nova’s name, but she did say, “I will pass your request along, sir.”  She stepped back and spoke into what Zachary assumed, wrongly, was one of the partially deactivated, military surplus gauntlets available through soldier-of-fortune meshzines.  He would have been even more astonished if he’d known that in the short time the conversation had taken, the guard’s companion in the blockhouse had already run the plates on the tech-mech king’s car, confirmed that it had not been reported stolen, and shunted several pics of both Zachary and Ariadne to the first guard so that she could confirm their identities.

            The gate began to swing open at last as the guard returned.  “Sir, if you will follow the driveway up to the house, Primary Jarin will meet you there.”

            Zachary grunted in provisional approval:  Tyra Jarin had been working for Del Arden long enough to learn the ropes.  She would know that he was not one of those people whom she was paid to delay, intimidate, and impress.

            The house turned out to be quite a respectable mansion, although its visual impact was much reduced by the scaffolding that surrounded the north wing, the piles of construction debris, and the swarm of workmen.  They didn’t have to wait very long before Jarin joined them, driving a golf cart, of all things.  She was wearing black pseudoleather with silver studs, which made her look rather like Emma Peel in the old vids.  “Del’s cleaning out the trash from the stream ahead of the storm, Mr. Marksman,” she informed him cheerfully.  Hurricane Ethan was currently bearing down on Florida and the forecasts had it pounding its way up the East Coast tomorrow.  “Hop in and I’ll take you down there.”

            The golf cart was old and had obviously served as a utility vehicle for the estate’s grounds crew for some years.  Its seats were patched together with duct tape and there were stains and dirt all over the floorboards.  Still, the alternative was to walk, so the two visitors climbed gingerly aboard.  They sped across the lawn, which shortly became a pasture, complete with occasional animal droppings. At the far side, they entered an overgrown stand of trees.  Tyra brought their disreputable transport to a halt at the edge of a path that sloped steeply downward.  From the bottom of the gully echoed sounds of childish laughter and a considerable amount of splashing.

            “Del’s on his way up to meet you,” she said.  “Since neither of you are dressed for walking through the woods.”  She got out of the golf cart and stretched, looking even more like a black panther.

            Footsteps on the path heralded the arrival of Del Arden.  The singer was dressed in faded and torn work clothes: jeans and a loose T-shirt.  There were leaves tangled in his hair and sweat stains under his armpits.  He was completely plastered with mud below his knees and liberally sprinkled with it above.  It didn’t matter.  He still reeked of the sex appeal that made him Prime-Nova’s hottest property.

            “Zachary,” he greeted the vice-president cautiously.

            Zachary flashed a corporate smile and greeted him cordially in return—although after one glace at the state of the singer’s hands, he refrained from offering a handshake.  “Arden.  Quite a place you have here.”

            “Thank you.  What brings you here to visit?”

            “I was listening to clips of those substitute songs you’ve been singing at your live concerts.”

            “The Carnelians breaks?”  Arden’s fans had coined the name and the newsies had adopted it.

            “Yes, those.”  Zachary essayed another smile, hoping to soften Arden up before making his pitch.  “It got me thinking…you really can sing just about any style you set your mind to, can’t you?”

            The wariness in Arden’s eyes didn’t fade.  “Pretty much,” he admitted.

            “Not many holorock singers could say that.”  The tech-mech king pretended to examine the underbrush.

            Arden tossed his head, detaching a twig from the wine-red, gold-streaked curls, and put his hands on his hips.  Not being used to swords, Zachary failed to recognize this as a threat display.  “Out with it, Zachary,” the singer demanded.  “I’ve got work to do.  You didn’t come all the way out to Annandale to tell me I can sing.  What do you want?”

            Zachary pasted a pained look on his face at such uncivilized bluntness, then gave in and beckoned Ariadne over.  “This is my sister Ariadne,” he began.

            “So good to meet you at last, Mr. Arden,” she simpered, teetering a bit as her high heels sank into the damp leaf mold covering the ground.  “Or should I say, Your Highness?”

            “My name’s Del,” the singer said shortly.  He kept his gaze on Zachary.

            “Ariadne has come to me for help with a small difficulty,” the tech-mech king continued.  “You see, she holds a benefit gala for the Baltimore Opera every year.”

            “All the best people come,” his sister gushed.

            “Normally, the opera’s soloists provide excerpts from the preceding season’s offerings for the entertainment,” Zachary continued, shooting his sister a quelling glance.  “Last night, however, the bus on which the cast and crew were traveling back from Atlanta ran into some trouble.”

            Ignoring his warning, Ariadne jumped in again.  “There was a fallen branch in the road.  The bus hit it and the driver lost control.  It went off the embankment and rolled and now half the cast is in casts and all of them are stuck in Florence, South Carolina.”

            “The long and the short of it is, they’re not going to able to sing at Ariadne’s gala three days from now,” Zachary summarized.  “So she’s looking for a substitute.”

            Arden suddenly looked furious.  “I do not like singing opera,” he announced.

            Zachary noted that Arden hadn’t denied that he could do so, however, and the Tech-mech King hadn’t grown Prime-Nova into the top holorock label by catering to the whims of the talent.  “Look, Arden,” he argued, “Prime-Nova handles holorock bands.  You’re the only singer we’ve got who has the skill and training to get away with performing before a group of opera fans.  So, unless you have a twin brother who solos with the Parthonia Opera hidden away in the bushes, you are it, and…” 

            Zachary stopped in mid-rant, his jaw dropping as he stared over Del’s shoulder.  He blinked, but the apparition remained:  a second Del had emerged from the depths of the gully.  The likeness was remarkable, down to the wine-red hair, violet eyes, misshapen hands, and muddy clothing.  He was carrying a small Hispanic girl of about five, who chewed a broken plastic sandal solemnly as she observed the visitors.

            The newcomer nodded to Zachary, but addressed Del in a beautifully liquid language the producer had never heard before.  Even the resonant voice was the same.

            Del replied in the same language, then made the introductions, fortunately in English.  “Eldrin, this is Zachary Marksman, the vice-president of the company that produces my vids, and his sister Ariadne.  My brother Eldrin.”  With a wry smile, he added, “And while he’s not my twin, yes, he does solo with the Parthonia Opera.”

            In startling contrast to the stained, old clothing he was wearing and the grubby child he was carrying, Eldrin gave a formal half-bow that looked like it belonged in a medieval court.  “My greetings.”

            Ariadne clasped her hands in triumph.  “You must both come and sing,” she decided.

            “Sing what?” Eldrin asked, reasonably enough.

            “She’s throwing a benefit gala for the Baltimore Opera, three days from now,” Del explained.  “Only the opera’s cast can’t make it, so she’s looking for someone else to provide the entertainment.”

            Eldrin handed the shoe-impaired child to Tyra.  “It sounds like fun.”

            “Eldrin!”  The holorock star glared indignantly at his brother.  “You’re not helping.”

            Sensing a weakness, Zachary pounced.  “You see?  It won’t be any trouble at all.  The guests know this is a last-minute change.  They won’t expect a long program, and you’ve got a head start with that song you did in your show a few weeks ago.  A dozen or so offerings—that’s a half dozen for each of you.  You can manage that, right?  You’ve always put shows together quickly, and there won’t be any visuals to work out.”

            “I don’t sing opera.”

            “Oh, come on, Del,” his brother wheedled.  “If I can sing a wedding your style, you can manage a few songs in mine.  Equal turns make fair rules, and all that.”

            “You want to sing this benefit?”  Del looked appalled.  “When was the last time you sang in front of a live audience?”  Whirling to face Ariadne, he snarled, “How many guests are you expecting at this gala of yours?”

            She took a step backward, alarmed by his vehemence.  “It’s a very exclusive event.  Only about three hundred guests, most years.”

            “That’s only a few more than the general sessions Kelric and I have been sitting through for weeks,” Eldrin observed.

            His brother glared at him sternly.  “Those would be the sessions that leave both of you looking half dead from the strain?”

            Eldrin shrugged.  “Those people aren’t enjoying themselves listening to music.”  He looked at Del with a winsome smile and coaxed, “You know, a lot of Father’s songs seem to appeal to opera lovers.  At least, the ones on Parthonia.”

            Zachary beamed.  “No trouble at all,” he repeated, clapping both princes on the shoulder to seal the deal.  Foreign royalty or not, he drew the line at muddy handshakes.

            At half past eleven the following morning, Del and Randall emerged from Garrett’s Music Supply on the outskirts of the Seven Corners mall.  It was a sultry, humid morning of the type that was all too common on the East Coast in summer.  There was no visible sign yet of former hurricane, now barely tropical storm Ethan, which had stalled overnight in the Florida panhandle and caused widespread flooding.  The storm had picked up strength with the return of daylight.  It was now working its way up the East Coast and, the weathercasters warned, would be arriving in northern Virginia that evening. 

            Of course, Ethan wasn’t the only stormy weather around.  Del was still fuming about how his brother and Zachary Marksman had mouse-trapped him into singing an opera gig.  Randall didn’t see the problem, himself:  when the vice-president of your label told you to sing, you sang.  At least, you did if you wanted to keep your career going.  It wasn’t as if Del couldn’t manage opera when he put his mind to it. 

            Randall suspected that it was one of those sibling rivalry things.

            The stringer player was carrying a bag with the new stringer accessories he had just purchased.  It had been a surprisingly normal morning.  He had missed normal days, lately.  He didn’t regret moving into the former country club that Del’s sister had bought for him.  It was a beautiful place, especially since the repairs to the main house were nearly completed.  It made him feel like he had really arrived on the holorock scene, not to be living in a studio apartment on the bad side of town. 

            No, it was Del’s family connections that still had Randall lying awake at night, wondering when he had accidentally fallen down a rabbit hole without noticing. He could have accepted, in the abstract, that Del was a Ruby Prince, a scion of the family that had ruled the Skolian Imperialate for three generations.  The Skolian Empire was a long way away from Earth, after all.  Its mysterious and reclusive ruler, the Shadow Pharaoh, might be Del’s aunt, but she was safely Somewhere Else.

            Unfortunately, her co-ruler, the Imperator, was not. As negotiations on the proposed pact between the Skolians and Randall’s own Allied Worlds dragged on, the Skolian military dictator was splitting his time between his flagship, Roca’s Pride, and high-level meetings in Washington, D.C. When he was on planet, he naturally stayed with his brother at the Annandale estate.

            Randall still hadn’t figured out how to explain to his parents that the infamous head of the justly-feared Skolian military, who commanded the nastiest and most belligerent armada in space, was sleeping in the guest room down the hall from his own rooms.  With a Jagernaut bodyguard in front of the door, of course.

            Del also had a Jagernaut bodyguard, but Tyra Jarin was all right.  She was whistling cheerfully a few steps behind them as they walked toward the van.  Then she yelled, “Look out!” and body-slammed him to the side.

            Randall barely had time to see the out-of-control car skidding toward them.  Tyra’s enhanced reflexes allowed her to pull Del, her primary charge, clear, but the shove she had given Randall wasn’t quite enough.  As the car plowed into the building and crumpled, his right leg ended up underneath the wreckage.  A blinding pain engulfed him, and then everything went black.

Chapter 17

In which Randall Gaithers’ parents are booked on alternative means of transportation

            Marion Gaithers was folding laundry when the com rang.  It was still early afternoon, but getting hot already: no surprise in southern California in August.  Her husband had come in from the yard early and was now watching the weather, hoping for a break in the current hot spell.  They were both getting too old to run around in the heat of summer the way they used to when Randall was still a child.

            It was Randall’s comcode, so she accepted the call.  The face that formed on her screen was not her son’s, however.  She recognized the young man immediately, even though she’d never met him.  He was the lead singer in Randall’s band, the one whose face was plastered on all of their vid cubes.  She wasn’t so old that she didn’t understand why Prime-Nova preferred his wine-red hair and exotic, violet eyes to her son’s plain brown ones. 

            Right now, though, the face that set holorock fans screaming from coast to coast looked worried.  “Mrs. Gaithers?  This is Del Arden.  Your son Randall plays in my band.”

            “Yes, I know,” she said.  “Is something wrong?”

            “I’m afraid so,” the singer admitted.  “There has been an accident.  Randall was injured by an out-of-control vehicle.  It’s not life-threatening, or so they tell me, but his right leg is badly broken.  We’re at Fairfax Hospital, where they’re getting him ready for surgery to pin it back together.”

            “Thank you for giving us the news.  Tell him we’ll be there as soon as we can.  Oh, I hope the airlines aren’t booked already.”

            “I thought you would want to come,” Del said.  “Don’t worry about booking tickets.  I’ve got some of our people figuring out the details.  By the time you and Mr. Gaithers can pack your suitcases, they should have a ride at your home to take you to the airport.

            “Thank you, Mr. Arden,” Marion said.

            “Del,” the holorock star corrected.  “And you’re welcome.  I just wish it weren’t necessary.  Oh, there’s the doctor.  I’d better get back to Randall, now.”

            “We can’t fly into Washington,” her husband objected, when she had briefed him on the situation.  “The weather channel says that they’re closing all the East Coast airports ahead of the hurricane.  We’ll have to fly in as close as we can and then rent a car to drive the rest of the way.  Always assuming the roads don’t get flooded out.”

            “Mr. Arden said he had people working out the details and we weren’t to worry.  You know how much the band travels.  They must know how to get from here to there in a hurry.  Let’s just do as he said and pack.”

            Twenty minutes later, a car pulled into their driveway.  It wasn’t a cab.  The driver’s door opened and a uniformed soldier stepped out.  “Marion and Walter Gaithers?” he asked. 

            They nodded. 

            “I’m Corporal Summers.  I’m to take you to catch your flight,” he said. 

            It was odd that a uniformed soldier would be picking them up, Marion thought, but musicians made friends in strange places.  Perhaps the fellow was a friend of a friend of someone in the band.  He did seem gracious enough. 

            Summers didn’t give them time to consider the oddity.  “If you’re ready, we’re on a tight schedule,” he said, stowing their suitcases in the trunk as they climbed into the back seat.  Moments later, they were on their way.

            It took longer than it should have for the elder Gaithers to notice that they were driving in the wrong direction.  “You missed your turn,” Walter told the driver.  “Los Angeles Airport is south.”

            “We’re not going to LAX,” Summers replied.  “I’m to take you to Edwards Air Force Base. They’re expecting you.”

            And indeed, when they pulled up at the checkpoint, the guard waved them through.  They wound through the desert and were finally flagged down by a small group of officers standing beside a runway.  One of them came over to the car; the others were looking upward, searching the sky.

            “Mr. and Mrs. Gaithers?” he asked.  When they nodded, he continued, “I’m Colonel Bates.  I’m so sorry that your son was injured. Your ride will be arriving momentarily.”  Behind him, some of the other officers were pointing up at the clouds, shouting to each other.  “In fact, that must be it now.”

            They followed the pointing fingers and saw a streak of white descending.  “It looks like one of those ships on the Carnelians vid,” Marion observed. 

            “Very perceptive of you,” Colonel Bates approved.  “Very few Earth civilians would recognize a Skolian Jag.  Even fewer get the chance to ride in one.”  He watched the gleaming, deadly ship land and taxi gracefully toward them with the wistful envy of any red-blooded male watching somebody else play with a really cool techno toy.

            “What the hell?”  Walter demanded.  “Our son plays in a holorock band.  An Allied holorock band.  Neither of us is anything special, either.  How’d we rate this kind of treatment?  And from the Skolian military, at that?”

            “Your son has friends in high places,” the colonel explained, which was no explanation at all. 

            The Jag halted and the door opened, extending a couple of steps.  Two black-clad figures emerged and walked briskly toward them.  One was a woman with brown hair brushing her shoulders and a walk like a prowling panther.  The other was a mean-looking, scarred hulk with a shaved head and circular tattoos decorating his bare scalp.  They could have stepped out of some Hollywood version of a futuristic biker gang.  Walter wasn’t fooled, though.  You had to be much, much more dangerous than any biker gang before you were allowed to fly a Jag.

            “Colonel Bates?” the man asked, in a heavily accented voice.

            The Colonel stepped forward and recited what sounded like a rehearsed greeting in a language Walter Gaithers didn’t recognize.  Skolian, perhaps?

            “I am Jagernaut Tertiary Axer.  Imperator Skolia say…says thanks you for help with mission.  Are this parents of boy?”

            “Yes.  Marion and Walter Gaithers.”

            The Jagernaut turned to them.  His companion was already picking up the heavy suitcases as if they weighed nothing.  “My greetings.  Come fast, please.  Weather is not waiting.”

            They were hustled up the stairs and into the Jag.  The cabin was partitioned into two sections.  The larger one contained four seats, even more heavily padded than a commercial airplane’s.  The straps that were fastened around them were more extensive than a simple seatbelt, too.  In less than five minutes, the hatch was closed and the two civilians, their luggage, and the two Jagernauts were safely stowed. 

            In the forward compartment, Walter saw the pilot and copilot bending over the controls.  The copilot was large, but the pilot was a veritable giant.  The sun’s glare reflected off the tan sand of the desert, giving his skin a metallic gold gleam.  Or maybe it was his uniform, which was beige instead of jet black.  Perhaps the pilot was from a different branch of the Skolian services? 

            The ship turned into the wind and leapt for the sky.  That was the only way Walter was able to describe it later.  They soared above the desert, the power of the engines pushing them into the seat cushions with three times their usual weight.  The small glint of sky that they could see between the pilot and copilot gradually turned deeper blue, then black.  The crushing weight disappeared for about ten minutes, along with their normal weight, then returned.

            The Skolians talked quietly among themselves in their own language.  After about an hour, the Skolian who had spoken to them before turned to Marion and said, “Your son Randall is…” He frowned, then began again. “Surgery done.  Doctors are…jolly?” 

            When they punched back into the atmosphere, the ride became rougher as the storm battered at the Jag.  The pilot was damned good, Walter had to admit.  The ship held steady despite the wind and rain buffeting it, falling in a nicely controlled fashion down to the tarmac.  The engines shut down and the Skolians began to unstrap themselves.  Their guests hastily followed suit.

            “Could you give the pilot my thanks and tell him from me that that was an impressive landing?” Walter asked the one Skolian who seemed to know a little English.

            The man paused a moment, puzzling the sentence out, then nodded.  “I do.”

            He spoke to the giant briefly.  The pilot said something, then nodded at Walter in a friendly fashion. 

            “He say…says, ‘You’re welcome.’” All four Skolians were putting on heavy, water-resistant hooded capes.  Two more were produced for Walter and Marion.

            “Leave luggage here,” their guide directed.  “We go toward hospital now.”

            They scrambled down the Jag’s stairs into the leading edge of the almost-hurricane.  A van was waiting on the tarmac.  It was only a few steps, but their slickers were drenched before they were inside.  As soon as they were seated, the van moved off through the stormy darkness.

            It was only as they were all getting out again in the hospital parking garage—thankfully under cover—that it occurred to Walter that it was a bit peculiar that the entire group of Skolians had come with them.  On the other hand, military minds tending toward the literal, perhaps they had simply been ordered to deliver the Gaithers to the hospital.  The giant pilot—who actually was over seven feet tall, it turned out, and wearing a decidedly non-military, metallic gold body paint—was carrying a duffle bag.  Perhaps their barracks was nearby?

            The copilot spoke into his gauntlet as they entered the lobby.  He got some answer that satisfied him, because he led the way straight to the elevator without stopping at the information desk. 

            “Randall, your parents are here,” Tyra said, poking her head briefly inside the room. 

            Befuddled with drugs and distracted by pain, it took Randall a moment to process the impossibility of that.  “They can’t be here,” he protested to Del, who was lounging in a chair beside the bed.  The singer had stayed with him since he woke up in the recovery room.  For all his continuing discomfort with Del’s family, Randall was very, very glad for Del’s ongoing presence.

            Not too glad to protest an impossibility, however.  “My parents are on the West Coast.  It takes eight hours or more to catch a flight back. Besides, this storm has got to have the airports closed down.”

            “It has,” Del agreed.  “Although the worst of the storm won’t hit until later tonight.  There weren’t any commercial or charter flights to be had, so Kelric picked your parents up on his way down from Roca’s Pride.  A Jag is a lot faster and can handle worse weather than a commercial jet.” 

            Randall had recovered enough to glare at the prince with unfeigned outrage.  “My parents got to ride in a real Jag, when all I got was a measly attack shuttle?”

            Del rolled his eyes.  “Picky, picky.  You got to tour the Roca, and they didn’t.”

            The senior Gaithers and their military escort all crowded into an elevator and were taken to the fourth floor, where they trooped through a maze of nursing stations, patients, stray wheelchairs, and other medical paraphernalia.  Finally, they reached a quieter wing.  A tall, athletic woman stood in front of a door at the end of the hall.  She was wearing civilian dress, but something about her alert attitude and military bearing reminded Walter of the four obvious warriors surrounding him.

            The woman gave their party a Skolian-style, cross-wristed salute with the crisp precision of a veteran soldier in the presence of a very senior officer and stepped aside, holding the door open for them. But why would Randall be under military guard?  Especially Skolian military guard?

            Strangely enough, it was the gold-painted pilot who returned the salute.  Walter wondered vaguely who the man was.  Then he saw his son in the bed, his face almost as pale as the sheets and his leg heavily bound, and forgot everything else.

            When Randall’s parents had settled in chairs at his bedside, Del went over to Kelric.  “Thanks,” he said simply in Iotic.  “I owe you.”

            The Imperator’s eyes gleamed.  “Glad to hear it,” he rumbled.  “You can start repaying your debt by coming along to my private dinner with President Loughten tonight.  I need a translator.”

            Del glanced toward the bed.  “Eldrin said…”

            “…That he’d go if you were needed here,” Kelric agreed.  “I think Randall’s parents can take care of him now, though, and President Loughten and I always seem to make more progress when you are there to keep the conversation moving.”  Correctly interpreting the singer’s concern, he added, “Tyra can stay and make sure Randall and his parents aren’t bothered.”

            Del nodded reluctant agreement, then shook himself, looking down at his torn T-shirt and bloodied mesh jeans.  “I can’t go to a White House dinner like this,” he complained.

            His brother held out the duffle bag.  “Eldrin packed some clothes for you.  Get changed fast; we’re running a little late.”

            Del and the duffle bag disappeared into the bathroom.  When he reemerged, the holorock star had vanished, replaced by a Ruby prince in conservatively cut gray trousers and a creamy white shirt.  There was a ruby stickpin in his tie and ruby cufflinks at his wrists.  Even his outrageous wine-red hair looked regal.  It was suddenly easy to believe that he was Prince Eldrin’s brother.

            “Hang in there, Randall,” he said, sounding reassuringly normal.  “I’ll be back tomorrow.  Mr. Gaithers, Mrs. Gaithers, when you’re ready to leave, tell Tyra that you need a ride.  She’ll be right outside the door.”

            When the door closed behind the Skolians, Randall’s father turned to him.  “What the hell have you gotten yourself into, son?” he demanded, his eyes wide with apprehension.  “Whatever it is, you have rights as an Allied citizen.  We can make sure they are respected.  You don’t have to get in any deeper, and you don’t have to put up with having a military guard on your hospital room.  Especially not a Skolian military guard.  So tell us now.  How did you get tangled up with something that’s so high-level that you’ve got both the Skolian and the Allied militaries running taxicab for your aging parents?”

            Randall gave a pained grimace.   “I got behind on my rent, so I ditched my old band and agreed to play stringer for Prima-Nova’s latest up-and-coming sensation, who was forming a band that was going to tour as Mind Mix’s opener.  Remember?”

            “Yes. And you made the big time.  What’s that got to do with this?”

            “Everything.”  Randall rearranged the tubing dangling from his right arm.  “It turns out that ‘Del Arden’ isn’t just your average farmboy from the sticks.”

            “His family must be pretty rich, at least, if he can afford those cuff links,” Marion agreed.  “Those were real rubies, and big ones, too.  Your band hasn’t done that well.”

            “Not to mention he’s got to be much better connected among the Skolians than we’d been led to believe, if he can call in favors from their military like that,” Walter added.

            “Yeah, Del’s well-connected, all right,” Randall told them with an ironic chuckle.  “He’s a freaking Ruby prince.  The reigning King of Skyfall, to be exact, since his father died.  The big guy with the gold skin and beige uniform is his brother Kelric.  As in Kelric Skolia.  The Imperator.”

            The door opened, admitting a nurse who came over to the bed to check the monitors.  Tyra followed, standing just inside the door and watching his movements with a bodyguard’s professional paranoia. 

            Walter blinked.  “The guy who flew us in from the West Coast is the military dictator of the Skolian Empire?”

            “I’m afraid so,” Randall was taking a certain perverse pleasure in seeing his father as dumbfounded as he had been. 

            Walter stared blankly at the wall, then said in a monotone, “And I gave him my complements on a good landing.”

            “You didn’t give offense,” Tyra assured him. 

            Randall’s father looked at her for a moment, digesting the information he’d been given, then protested, “Hey, why is the Imperator flying his own Jag, anyway?  Doesn’t he have people to do that for him?”

            Tyra chuckled.  “Of course he does.  But that’s a nasty storm out there, and Kelric Skolia really is one of the best pilots alive.  Besides, Jags are fighters, not troop carriers.  They’re not really designed to carry passengers.  It would have been a little crowded with him, his security detail, the two of you, and a pilot.”  She winked, holding the door for the nurse to leave, then ducked out after him.

            Walter looked at the closed door for a moment, then returned his attention to his son.  “Which conveniently begs the question of why the supreme commander of the Skolian military took it upon himself to fly your aging parents in from the West Coast personally, rather than, say, having one of his no-doubt numerous aides book us on the earliest available commercial flight tomorrow.”  He fixed his son with a stern glare.  “Not that I’m not grateful, but this is not the sort of emergency that gets that sort of attention from a foreign government.  Two governments, rather: they flew us out of Edwards.”

            “The Imperator’s got a private dinner with President Loughten this evening,” Randall said quietly. “I think he made sure you got here tonight because Del wouldn’t have left me here alone. The Imperator speaks some Spanish but no English, which is why he wanted Del to come along to translate: to keep it in the family, so to speak.  Also, the President’s kids are fans of the band.  So, yes, since the Imperator was coming down from the flagship anyway, it was worth his while to stop on the West Coast and pick you up.”

            “The Skolian Imperator had a meeting with the Allied President, so he just dropped by Edwards Air Force Base on his way in to give your parents a lift.” Walter repeated.  “And his brother, your boss the singer, is going along to translate because the President’s kids like your music?  Son, do you realize I wouldn’t buy that as the plot of a bad B movie?”  The elder Gaithers shook his head as if the idea was a stubborn puzzle piece that would fit into his previous worldview if examined from all possible directions.

            “Me, neither.”  Randall agreed.  “If it’s any consolation, Tyra checked out charter flights first, but they were closed down by the storm.”

            “Is that the same Tyra who’s outside your room?  Who is she, anyway?  One of the band’s assistants?  She looked like she used to be military.”

            “No used to be about it.  She’s the head of Del’s bodyguard. She’s a Jagernaut Primary with special ops training.”

            Walter paled.  “Son, you’re playing with fire.  Do you know what those Jagernauts can do?”

            “Yeah, a little bit.  Among other things, she was the one who found the time to shove me out of the path of that car while she was dragging Del clear.  It wasn’t quite enough, but I’d be dead without her.”

Chapter 18

In which President Loughten carries out her constitutional duty to preserve domestic tranquility

            Hannah Loughten had put some thought into making this evening proceed with more dignity than her last White House meeting with the Skolian Imperator.  Prince Del-Kurj might swear that his brother hadn’t minded sitting in the Lincoln bedroom wrapped in a blanket while the White House laundry removed the muddy footprints her toddler had plastered all over the chest of his dress uniform, but the President wanted no such confusion tonight.  It was bad enough that a hurricane was blowing through outside. 

            She would have preferred to leave her children out of this meeting entirely, but one of the disadvantages of her position was that her home and work life took place in the same building.  The girls had been anticipating a third meeting with their idol since a loose-lipped aide had let slip the previous day that Prince Del-Kurj would be accompanying his brother the Imperator to their informal dinner.  Eddie was equally excited about seeing “Gold Man” again.

            Sasha and Melanie had learned of Randall Gaithers’ accident almost as soon as it happened and immediately retired to their playroom, where they surrounded themselves with crayons, stickers, paper, paint, and markers.  In between pestering her aides for updates, they produced a formidable stack of get-well artwork for the injured stringer player.

            To ensure domestic tranquility, which was actually one of the President’s official duties, the children were banished to the family rooms when the news came that the Imperator had landed and was on his way.  The girls were under strict orders to wait upstairs until the adults had finished their greetings before coming down to say hello.  A polite hello, they had been warned, during which they could present their package, express their concern, and then leave the adults to take care of business.

            Unfortunately, even the best-laid plans were subject to arbitrary disruption.  She was called aside by her chief of staff on another matter just before the Skolians arrived.  Because of the weather, the guests were hustled inside immediately by the staff and left to wait for her return.  The girls, peering over the balcony, saw Del standing in the entryway and no mother in sight.

            “Del!” Sasha screamed, bolting down the stairs. “We made pictures for Randall!”  She waved the oversized envelope into which their artistic efforts had been stuffed, almost dropping it over the banister. 

            “Sasha and me drawed all afternoon!” Melanie chimed in, thundering after her sister. 

            “That’s marvelous!” Prince Del-Kurj said, grinning widely as they barreled into him, wet slicker and all. “Pictures will make him feel much better.” He threw a quick translation over his shoulder to his brother as the girls grabbed his arms, jumping in excitement, babbling nonstop.

            “Sasha!  Melanie!  Let the poor man get out of his wet things,” Loughten scolded as she returned to the entryway and took a quick inventory of the situation. “Where’s your brother?” she demanded.  “You were supposed to be looking after…”

            Eddie’s legs might be short, but he had no qualms about scooting down the stairs on his rump when suitably inspired.  He, too, had been hard at work with the art supplies.  The result of his efforts was clutched protectively to his chest, allowing it to remain in only slightly dog-eared, if somewhat flattened, condition.

            “Gold Man!” he crowed as he reached the bottom, deviating from his straight path only to dodge his mother’s grab.

            At least the Imperator had had time to remove his wet slicker, Hannah observed, wincing as her son launched himself at the grim giant.  And the toddler was clean. 

He let out a shriek of delight as he was caught and lifted up to the ceiling, then back down and up again.

            Then Eddie held out his squashed roll of paper, announcing, “Picture!”

            Kelric tucked the toddler into the crook of one massive elbow, which made quite a nice Eddie-sized seat.  The delight radiating from the boy and his sisters almost made up for the embarrassment and dismay coming from their mother.  “Del,” he remarked calmly in Iotic, “if you can get a word in edgewise with your admirers, would you greet their mother for us and get her calmed down before she expires from heart failure?”

            He watched with grave attention while the toddler unrolled the paper.  On it, a series of crude, brightly colored stick figures stood on a lawn of green grass and giant pink mushrooms.  Off to the side was a large grey blob supported by five unequally distributed legs.

            Eddie pointed proudly to a large, bright yellow stick figure that held hands with a smaller, purple stick figure.  “Gold Man!” he announced, identifying the other as “Eddie!”  The other figures turned out to represent his mother and sisters and the gray blob was “Elephant!”

            “I see,” Kelric murmured.  To Del, he added, “It looks like my young friend has a plan to further Allied-Skolian relations.  I’m not quite sure where this ‘elephant’ fits in, however.”

            “It’s a large animal.  The children saw one recently on a trip to the zoo.  And their mother apologizes for the…energetic nature of their greeting.”

            “Ah.”  Kelric nodded politely at the President.  “Tell her that I only wish the rest of our citizens were willing to give as much thought as to how an alliance between our peoples might work.”

            After the children were sent back upstairs, Hannah and her guests withdrew to a comfortably appointed, intimate dining room.  Over roast lamb and vegetables from the garden, they began the hard work of modifying their previous outline of an agreement to accommodate the areas in which their respective governments refused to cooperate. 

            As dinner wound to a close the storm worsened, howling as if a horde of demons was circling around the presidential mansion.  The President and her guests withdrew into a reception room to continue their discussion and settled around a fireplace, unlit in summer, of course.  Coffee had just been served when Melanie and Sasha scurried into the room.

            “Mommy, it’s scary upstairs,” Melanie wailed.  “The tree is going knock-knock-knock against the window.”

            “She keeps screaming when it does,” Sasha added her complaint.  Both girls climbed onto the couch, huddling against their mother.

            “It’s just a storm,” Hannah reassured them helplessly, putting an arm around each.  She knew she ought to send the girls back to bed, but she didn’t quite have the heart to abandon them to the hurricane.

            Another gust blew Eddie into the room.  He paused, his mouth opening to howl, as he saw that his mother was occupied with his sisters.  Before he could let loose, an idea distracted him.  If his sisters were occupying his mother’s lap, well, there was an even larger one available, that he could monopolize all to himself.  He dove for Kelric’s chair.

            “I know the storm is scary, girls,” Hannah said, watching her youngest make himself at home in the Imperator’s lap.  “But it can’t get in here, and I have business to discuss with our visitors.  Why don’t I sing you a song, and then you all go back to bed?”

            Melanie considered the offer for a moment, then shook her head.  “No.  Your songs are boring.”  She turned to Del.  “You sing.”

            “Yeah!” Sasha seconded.  “Sing something we don’t know already, Del.”

            The girls, alas, did not know enough about interstellar diplomacy to understand that young ladies of six and eight were not supposed to issue commands to foreign dignitaries.  Hannah shook her head and tried to explain.

            “Honey, Prince Del-Kurj is our guest.  He’s not here to entertain little girls.”

            Unfortunately, the exchange had gone on long enough to catch the Imperator’s attention.  He asked a question and Del answered.  After a brief exchange, the gold giant settled back in his chair, his massive arms absently snuggling Eddie.

            Del switched back to English and addressed the girls.  “Why don’t I sing you one of my father’s songs?  It’s about a huge storm that hit the Dalvador Plains when he was a boy.  He used to sing it to us when it was storming outside, and it always made us feel better.”

            As the girls agreed enthusiastically, Hannah realized that she was outvoted.  She hugged her girls and settled back to listen, reflecting that only a Skolian holorock singer would consider a storm a suitable subject for a lullaby.

            “My father sang the song in his language, Trillian,” the Prince warned.  “I’ll translate it as best I can, but it’ll be a little rough.”  He drew a controlled breath and sang in a warm, mellow baritone:

            It was a sunny day.

            A sunny day in spring.

            The blue bees flew among the reeds

            And the wind blew bubbles far and wide.

            I went walking by the river.

            The fields were dry and bare, just planted.

            The lyrine grazed and played

            It was a sunny day.

            I was happy.

            I ran through the reeds

            And glitter sparkled on my hair.

            I didn’t see the cloud on the horizon.

            Not then…

            The prince’s voice dropped into the bass range, acquiring a growl like distant thunder.

            The cloud grew closer

            And it covered all the sky.

            It was so dark that I ran home to hide

            But it followed me. 

            And then the first drops fell.

            Del skipped into his soprano range, singing the rain with the particular notes on which his voice chimed, then dropping back down through his entire range, in a virtuoso tone poem that somehow captured a storm perfectly:

            Plink, plonk, plunk.

            Even where I was hiding I could hear it,

            Plink, plonk, plunk.

            Then the wind howled

            And the thunder crashed

            As if it would tear the world apart in its anger

            And I was all alone, afraid.

            In the Stained Glass Forest

            A mighty tree fell down.

            Its red branches shattered from the force

            Of the wind.

            The fields were pounded into mud, the river roared.

            The lyrine played no more, but huddled close together,

            They were afraid like me.

            Afraid the storm would never go.

            Del held the final note of the verse, his voice aching with the loneliness of a small child hiding from the world, then returned to the warm baritone as he continued:

            But every storm must pass.

            By morning the sun shone again.

            Shone softly on the muddy fields

            The lyrine played once more and blue bees hummed,

            In a world washed clean.

            So remember, my child,

            When dark clouds mass on the horizon,

            And storms shake your house in rage,

            That they are part of life, just like the sun,

            They wash the world and make it new.

            And though a tree may fall,

            Another will grow in its place,

            Branching under the sunny sky,

            Knowing storms will come to wash it clean.

            “That was lovely,” Hannah said, hoping for purely selfish reasons that the hidden recorders had captured the impromptu performance so she could listen to it again.  “Your father must have been quite a musician.”

            “He was,” Del agreed. 

            Sasha giggled.  “Eddie fell asleep.”

            “So he did.”  Del gave a conspiratorial wink and pointed at his hulking brother.  “It used to work pretty well on him, too, when he was Eddie’s size,” he admitted in a stage whisper.

            That earned him another giggle, after which he was able to send both girls back upstairs with little protest.  As the storm pounded at the window, the adults continued talking until after midnight, the sleeping Eddie curled into a ball on Kelric Skolia’s lap.

 Part 5

Index to The Price of Peace

Skolian Empire Fan Fiction Index

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