Skolian Empire Fan Fiction Index

Part III

 The Skolian Empire Strikes Back

Chapter 9

In which the Honorable Senator Greeley of Mississippi gains a nickname

            Carnelians Finale stayed at the top of the charts.  Also selling well were tickets to Del’s new North American tour.  Madison Square Garden was sold out five days before the performance and the scalpers were doing a brisk business.  Del was looking forward to having a live audience again, his first since the “barn raising” at Tribune. 

            Four days before the performance, however, Kelric returned to the Annandale estate carrying an official-looking piece of paper for Del.

            “It’s a formal diplomatic request from the Senate Foreign Relations Committee that you not perform Carnelians Finale live,” he explained, bending over to watch his brother carefully file down the pony’s front left hoof, molding it into a more normal shape.  Thanks to some basic care and a lot of grooming and attention from the children, the animal was already looking a bit less like an abandoned hat rack. 

            “Can they do that?” Del asked, putting down the hoof and absently patting the pony’s shoulder.  “I thought domestic entertainment was a little outside their area of responsibility.”

            “Normally, it would be,” Kelric agreed.  “But unlike the newsies, they know exactly who you are.  And that makes what you do here their concern, if they choose to make it so.”  His expression was as grimly stoic as ever, but to a fellow empath his regret was clear.  “If you defy them and sing the song anyway, Senator Greeley can use the demonstration of ‘bad faith’ as an excuse to be even more obstructionist.”

            “And if I don’t sing it,” Del pointed out bitterly, “everybody conveniently starts to forget just why doing business with the Aristos would be a very bad idea.”

            “I’m sorry, Del,” the Imperator apologized.  “Ambassador Tron and her staff agree: singing Carnelians live in defiance of this request would help Greeley more than us.”

            The singer’s shoulders slumped in defeat.  “I suppose I’d better not, then.”  He reached out slowly to untie the pony’s lead rope.

            “We’ve got a hole in the show and no new song to fill it with,” Del told the band the next morning.  “Does anybody have any ideas?”

            “We could put that instrumental version of Starlight Child back into the mix,” Randall suggested, without much enthusiasm.  They had all been looking forward to reproducing their triumph at the Fourth of July concert. 

            “It wouldn’t work thematically,” Jud pointed out.  “The whole set builds towards that one scream against the Aristos and their slaver empire.”

            “You know, the Aristos aren’t the only slave-holders who’ve inspired musical outbursts,” Anne said thoughtfully.  “North America had its own long struggle with the issue.  Greeley’s from an old, white Mississippi family.  I wouldn’t be surprised if half of his refusal to condemn the Aristos stems from his own descent from unrepentant slave owners.”

            “He’s a fool if he thinks the Aristos would grant him any room at the top of their society,” Del scoffed.

            “He’s definitely a fool,” the drummer agreed dryly. 

            “Does all this political discussion have a point?” Randall asked.  “As Del pointed out, we’re missing our strongest song in the second half.”

            “The point is,” Anne said, looking a little aggrieved, “there are lots of English-language songs of protest that address the same issues as Carnelians.  If we put one of those in as a placeholder, the show will still work thematically.”

            “We might be able to get a new song arranged in three days,” Jud pointed out, “but we couldn’t possibly work up visuals and effects for it.”

            “I think that might make the impact even stronger,” Del said with growing enthusiasm.  “If we just use vocals and instrumentals, in a dramatically different style from our usual, with a simple spotlight, it makes it that much clearer that the program people paid to see has been censored.”

            “Well, if protest songs against oppression are what you’re after,” Jud said with a grin, “I know one that would do very nicely, with a little alteration in the lyrics.”

            Three days later, Del finished singing “No Answers,” gave the cheers that were shaking the Garden a moment to die down, then announced, “Thank you.  You’ve been a wonderful audience.  I know a lot of you came here today to see us perform our latest hit …” he held up a hand to stop the spontaneous cheer, “but the Senate Foreign Relations Committee under Senator Greeley has issued a formal request to the Skolian government that I not perform the song live.  He apparently believes that the song might interfere with the trade agreements his patrons would like to make with the Eubian Emperor.”  He gave the booing a moment to die down, then continued.  “I am a guest of your government, so I will honor the request of the committee and its chairman and sing an alternative song.” 

            Jud set the morpher to sound like a piano, playing a simple melody.  Del took a slow breath, lit by one simple spotlight, and sang in his most operatic baritone:

            “There’s an old man, he’s from Mississippi,

            He’s the old man I don’t want to be.

            What does he care if a world’s in danger?

            What does he care if its folks aren’t free?”

            He let his voice drop an octave, rumbling in the lower bass registers without losing its power or clarity:¹

            Old man river, that old man river,

            He must know something, but he don’t say nothing,

            He keeps on rolling, he keeps on rolling along.

            He don’t plant taters, he don’t plant cotton

            And them that do so are soon forgotten,

            But old man river, he just keeps rolling along.

            A sudden jump of two octaves resulted in a clarion tenor:

            “You and me, we sweat and strain,

            Bodies all aching and racked with pain,

            Down to baritone:

            “Tote that barge, lift that bale,

            Show a little grit and you land in jail.”

            He held the last word impossibly long, one arm outstretched, turned the hand to point at the flooring as he dropped it an octave back to bass and held it again, then concluded:

            “I get angry and sick of trying,

            But I’ll keep on singing until I’m dying

            While old man river, he just keeps rolling along.

            Old man river, he just keeps rolling along.”

            The critics loved it and the news outlets ran it as a top story.  “Concertgoers in New York City were offered a rare treat yesterday as Skolian holorock sensation Del Arden responded to the censorship of his latest hit Carnelians Finale by Senator Greeley and the Foreign Relations Committee,” newscaster Marvin Oldbrin gushed.  “The song he chose to replace his new megahit was old—so old that it predates the Alliance and holorock itself.  Nevertheless, it is likely to cause Senator ‘Old Man River’ Greeley some difficulties.”

            As the summit limped to its conclusion the next evening and the moderator called for last remarks before ending yet another unproductive session, one of Greeley’s allies asked for and gained the floor.  Glaring at the Skolian Imperator, he demanded to know how the Allies could negotiate in good faith when the Skolians were doing their best to undermine the social order among Allied citizens by humiliating its leaders.

            The object of his ire appeared undisturbed at the accusation.  “If you are referring to my brother’s song substitution at his concert at Madison Square Garden yesterday,” he said, pausing a moment for the translator to catch up, “—A substitution made at the request of the Foreign Relations Committee, I might add—Senator Greeley is fortunate that he didn’t give my brother time to compose a response from scratch.  Like most bards, Del tends to get a bit testy when someone tells him to shut up.”

            Without waiting for a reply or the formal close of the session, the massive Imperator stalked from the meeting room, his bodyguards closing around him.

            “That could have gone better,” President Hannah Loughten told her top advisors as they met in the presidential mansion to discuss strategy after the day’s sessions.  “However much Prince Del-Kurj’s singing may be an embarrassment to his family, it appears that Imperator Skolia doesn’t take kindly to having him silenced.”

            “Perhaps the Imperator was just annoyed with Senator Greeley’s obstructionism,” the protocol advisor offered. 

            “Either way, people, we have a problem.”  Loughten put her hands on the table and scanned the faces around it.  “Two days from now, there is going to be a state dinner here.  The Imperator will be attending as the guest of honor.  So will most of the Senate, including Greeley.  So will every person with a claim to fame who can swing an invitation, not to mention the press.  Am I the only one who sees that as an invitation to more fireworks like today?”

            “Ma’am, there’s an additional complication,” an aide said weakly, looking up from her palmscreen.  “Imperator Skolia has just notified us that his usual translator is ill.  He plans to bring Prince Del-Kurj to the state dinner in that capacity.”

            Loughten looked at the aide in disbelief.  “Prince Del-Kurj in the same room as Senator Greeley, with a large audience to inspire them?  The phrase ‘throwing kerosene on a fire’ comes to mind.”  She shook her head.  “I don’t suppose any of you have a brilliant idea on how to jolly Imperator Skolia and his inconvenient brother into a good mood and convince them that Senator Greeley’s opinions are not shared by the Allied government as a whole?

            There was a moment of silence, then Fitz McLane tentatively offered, “Actually, it might be possible to turn Prince Del-Kurj’s presence into an advantage.”

            President Loughten blinked in surprised, but said, “I’m all ears, General.”

            “Sergeant Cameron reports that Prince Del-Kurj is quite fond of children.  He’s also talking about turning at least part of his new estate into a working truck farm to supply the kitchen.  So, invite the prince and his brother the Imperator to come early.  Introduce them to your family.  Give them a tour of the White House vegetable garden.  Get them relaxed and in a good mood before the dinner starts.  And then make sure Greeley and his supporters don’t get within a hundred feet of them.”

            Loughten stared at her supreme military commander as if questioning either her hearing or his sanity.  “I’m sure the Imperator will find it very relaxing when my girls start quarreling and my youngest runs screaming at the sight of him.”

            “I thought you said your girls were big Del Arden fans?”

            “Alas, yes.”

            “Surely they would enjoy a chance to meet their idol?”

            Loughten held out for half an hour, pointing out that it was unfair and unwise to use her children in such a fashion.  Unfortunately, nobody could come up with a better idea, and so the invitation was duly issued.

            The Allied president might have been gratified to discover that her misgivings were shared.

             “A state dinner?” Del squawked unmelodically, when Kelric informed him that he was going.  “You should take Eldrin.  He understands how politicians talk.  I’m no diplomat!”

            “And I am?” his brother asked. 

            “Chaniece is a lot more tactful than me,” Del tried again.

            “There are times when plain speaking gets more accomplished,” Kelric said.  “No one’s ever accused you of being less than direct.”

            As the singer’s mouth opened again, Kelric shook his head, cutting off the incipient protest.  “Look, Del, things aren’t going well.  We’ve got to try something.  I’m told the President’s daughters like your music.  That’s a place to start—and we need one, if this is going to work.”

            Two days later, President Loughten waited in the White House foyer for her guests of honor to arrive.  Her protocol officer stood beside her, and three impatient children wiggled around them.  Loughten still wasn’t sure it was a good idea to include the children—they were much too unpredictable—but given the Imperator’s forbidding nature, she was willing to use any advantage she could to break the ice.

            At least Sasha and Melanie, her older two, were willing to go along with the plan.  They were very excited about meeting their favorite holorock star, “Del Arden,” and couldn’t care less who his relatives were.  At almost three, Eddie was not yet capable of voicing such a nuanced opinion.

            No plan, of course, survives contact with the enemy.  When their idol actually walked through the door, resplendent in a formal dinner jacket with ruby tie clip and looking very much the Ruby prince, the girls were overcome with an uncharacteristic attack of shyness. They dove behind her, peeking out at the visitors from around her legs, and could not be coaxed out to say hello.  With her careful plans disintegrating in front of her eyes—or rather, behind her knees—Loughten tried to divert attention from the girls by giving her guests a brief tour of the State Floor, hoping that her children’s natural ebullience would return.

            It didn’t.  They remained plastered to the back of her legs, forcing her to walk in a very unpresidential waddle.  Without the anticipated help from the children, conversation remained painfully stilted.  Prince Del-Kurj seemed to be a decent translator for an amateur, although he had a very unprofessional habit of adding his own editorial slant on what was said.  However, it was clear that he was unable to convey the details of Earth architecture to his brother.  The Imperator, meanwhile, remained as impassive and almost as silent as the metal statue he resembled. Eventually, Loughten stopped stalling and headed outside through the South Portico, towing her daughters after her.

            The growing discomfort of President Loughten and her aides was quite clear to their guests, of course.

            Del, can’t you do something? Kelric begged silently.

            Like what?

            I don’t know.  You’re the charmer.  Charm them!

            Huh.

            When they reached the vegetable plot, a lushly overgrown demonstration project with flowered borders, the singer made a show of surveying the offerings.  “Now, this is beautiful,” he commented, not directing his remarks to anybody in particular.  “You know, I’m planning to plant a garden like this at my new house.  My stringer player, Randall, wants me to plant broccoli, but the plants I know from my world are very different from the ones here on Earth.  I don’t even know what a broccoli plant looks like.” 

            He turned casually and as if by accident his eyes lit on Sasha.  “I’ll bet you do, though.  Can you help me find some?”  He pointed at a random plot.  “Is that broccoli?”

            Melanie giggled.  “No, silly, that’s onions!”

            “Onions?”  The prince bent over the long, thin leaves.  “No, they can’t be.  Aren’t onions round?”

            “They grow under the dirt.”  Melanie left the shelter of her mother and ran over to the onion plot.  Grabbing one tuft of leaves at the bottom, she tugged hard.  The loose, well-watered soil yielded, and she held up her prize for Prince Del-Kurj’s inspection, dribbling dirt down the front of her party dress.  “See?”

            The prince squatted to observe the muddy offering.  “How interesting.  What a funny way for a plant to grow.”

            Sasha, seeing her younger sister getting attention from their idol, also left the shelter of the grown-ups.  “The broccoli is over here,” she announced, leading the way.

            In the end, the garden didn’t occupy the Imperator’s attention quite as much as President Loughten’s advisors had hoped.  Prince Del-Kurj, on the other hand, asked a great many practical questions about soil preparation, planting schedules, crop rotations, and harvest yields.  The girls were delighted to give him detailed answers, some of which he translated for his brother and some of which he did not.  Most often, that was because the girls had him firmly by the hands and kept dragging him ahead of the others. 

            When her aide told her that they were out of time, Loughten called the girls back from the raspberry patch.  She then started looking around for her youngest, who tended to wander off and explore in the garden.  She found him, just too late.

            Tired from running around and jealous of the adult attention his sisters were receiving from Prince Del-Kurj, Eddie had taken action.  He loved to be carried, but was getting fewer opportunities since his most recent growth spurt.  Frustrated by hearing a steady stream of “You’re too big to carry” from the adults around him, he had evidently decided that their guest of honor might be large enough to carry even a big boy.  Marching up to the grim Fist of Skolia in a determined fashion, he reached out with a grubby paw.  The giant’s hand being out of reach, he grabbed the spotless trousers of the man’s dress uniform and tugged firmly.

            With the slowness of an impending avalanche, Loughten watched the golden head tip down, inspecting both the toddler and the muddy handprint he had left behind.

            Eddie reached up with both arms and demanded, “Up!”

            Loughten had actually opened her mouth to bawl out her youngest when her chief of staff grabbed her shoulder from behind.  She looked at him in surprise, and he shook his head at her.  Turning back, she watched in astonishment as the dreaded military mastermind of the Skolian Empire reached down.  The toddler squealed and wiggled with delight as he was lifted up to sit on one broad shoulder, applying several matching muddy shoeprints to the starburst on the Imperator’s chest.

            “Eddie, you’re getting the man’s clothes all dirty,” she protested helplessly.

            “Let him have his fun,” Prince Del-Kurj advised her casually, returning with one girl hanging on each arm. “Kelric doesn’t mind and the dirt’ll wash out.”

            “Eddie’s gotten awfully heavy to carry around,” she fretted.

            The prince guffawed.  “Kelric was a Jagernaut,” he reminded her.  “He could bench-press a horse.  A toddler isn’t going to wear him out.”

            Once inside, the President firmly reclaimed her recalcitrant toddler, getting her own carefully chosen, dress-to-impress designer outfit soiled in the process.  That wasn’t important; she had other clothes upstairs.  Unfortunately, she was pretty sure that there was no easy substitution at hand for the Imperator’s dress uniform.  She seriously doubted her presidential mansion stocked so much as a bathrobe that would cover his massive, seven-foot frame.

            The Chief Usher, Mr. Forthan, then proved his inestimable worth.  Stepping forward with his usual deferential half bow, he deftly took charge of the situation.  Within moments, the Skolian guests were being hustled off to the Lincoln bedroom, in which they were to wait in comfort while the Imperator’s uniform was whisked downstairs to the laundry for an emergency cleaning. 

            Hannah sent her chief of staff to arrange a half hour delay in the proceedings and told her daughters to occupy themselves quietly and stay out of trouble.  She then took herself and Eddie upstairs for a much-needed cleaning. 

            Ten minutes later, she sent the boy off to find his sisters and changed into her staff’s second-choice outfit for tonight’s formal dinner.  When she was presentable once more, she poked her head into the family quarters to check the children one more time before coming down.

            They weren’t there.

            She finally located them in the media room.  Sasha and Melanie were earnestly showing their guests of honor the music collection, while Eddie drove a toy hovercraft—fortunately one that had not been used outside recently and was therefore at least marginally sanitary—up and down the Imperator’s newly-cleaned trousers. 

            “Girls!” she said, in the ominous tone that mothers everywhere use to evoke instant guilt in wayward children.

            “We were only showing Del our cubes,” Sasha explained, the picture of eight-year-old innocence.

            “It’s an impressive collection,” Prince Del-Kurj told her.  “I’d like to take a closer look at it some time.  Your mother’s ready, though, so we have to go meet all her friends now.  Eddie!  Say good night to Gold Man.”

            To his mother’s surprise, her usually stubborn toddler obediently set down his toy and hugged one tree-sized leg, getting a pat on the back and a rumbled farewell.  Leaving the toy on the floor, he toddled over and joined his sisters, who had actually not only said good night to their idol, but to her as well.  A moment later, they and their brother were headed back for the family quarters.

            Loughten shook her head.  “You have a way with children, Your Highness.”

            The prince-turned-holorock-idol shrugged.  “I have six younger brothers and sisters, two kids of my own, and who knows how many nieces, nephews, and other descendents-by-proxy by now.  One learns in self-defense.”

¹ For a Del-like performance, see that of Paul Robeson at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iEQEeNhtosg

Chapter 10

In which a popular author gets an unfavorable book review

            Despite its late start, the state dinner proceeded at a stately pace.  The table at which President Loughten and her guests of honor were seated was located as far as possible from Greeley and his supporters, the vegetables on the plates came from the garden, which provided a neutral subject of conversation, and the volatile Prince Del-Kurj was thankfully not living up to his reputation as a troublemaker.

            Mostly.  Just to make things interesting for the inevitable listeners, Del translated the English of their hosts into a bastard mixture of Iotic and Trillian, his father’s native language, with dashes of Skolian Flag and Raylican and occasional interjections of Highton, Spanish, and Eubic. 

            It caused consternation among the listeners in the intelligence room.

            “Mac, what the hell language is Prince Del-Kurj speaking?” the chief translator complained.  “Some of it sounds like Iotic, but the rest makes no sense.”

            The manager, who had been brought in to provide strategic information if necessary, listened for a moment.  “Family patois, I think.  They all speak at least six languages.  Mixing them up like that ensures that they have at least some privacy in most situations.  Or maybe Del is just playing with us, chattering nonsense because the Imperator doesn’t care much about vegetables.  I’m pretty sure they know we’re listening in.”

            “Makes it kind of hard to get a feel for how the Imperator is thinking.”

            Mac shrugged.  “The Ruby Dynasty has been playing footsie with the Assembly for three generations.  They were raised with the assumption that there would always be listeners.  Look, it doesn’t matter that much.  Any time they really want us not to understand something, they’ll just use telepathy.”

            “I’m not sure I believe in telepathy,” the translator grumbled.

            “It’s real, all right,” Mac assured him.  “The Ruby Dynasty empaths use it routinely for private asides.  You can tell, at least sometimes, when their faces respond to a conversation you can’t hear.  Del and his twin sister speak that way at least half the time.  It ensures that they can converse privately, even when the room is crowded.”  He looked at the screen, which showed a chandelier’s-eye view of the President’s table.  “At least Del is behaving himself.  He does tend to speak his mind, and devil take the consequences.”

            It was in the middle of the main course that one Roy Cambert, who was seated across from Del at the head table, finally offered too tempting a target to the reluctant singer-turned-temporary diplomat.  Cambert was a popular peddler of feel-good inspirational messages who reinterpreted Earth’s traditional religions into a vaguely spiritual, homogenized pabulum.  He had won his place at the head table by being socially adept, generally amusing, and about as politically indifferent as one could be and still breathe.  Unfortunately, he had finally found an opportunity to plug his latest book, The Physics of Hope.  “It’s truly amazing how advances in modern science prove the truths that our ancestors knew,” he gushed, with the gleaming smile that made him a popular subject for the morning interview programs.  “You can see the action of God in quantum mechanics.  Did you know that the Bible provided valuable clues to the Selei Transformation?”

            Well, you were right, Del commented silently, chewing a bite of his salad.  The guy’s a proper idiot.  There goes the “argument from bogus quantum mechanics.”  Except he can’t state it coherently—it’s gibberish, not even proper pseudoscience. 

            Kelric groaned mentally, although his face remained impassive.  The sad thing is, there probably aren’t more than half a dozen people here who would recognize the extent of his absurdity. The rest would just get more confused over the entire issue and assume the guy must be a genius to understand such complicated things.

            I know, Del agreed.  He belonged to the second group.  I’ve got an idea to head him off, though.  Maintaining a light link with Kelric so that his brother could understand his English words, he assumed an expression of innocent alarm.  “Mr. Cambert, I’ll translate that if you insist, but I don’t recommend it.”

            “Whyever not?” huffed the celebrity.  Like most self-appointed gurus, he wasn’t used to being cut off in mid exposition: his popularity among the talk show hosts stemmed in part from his ability to go on at length with little prompting from the interviewer.  He had been looking forward to the chance to add holorock idol ‘Del Arden’ and the Skolian Imperator to his stable of followers.

            Del flashed his own charming smile.  “Well, first of all, your historical premise is just plain silly.  My aunt, the Ruby Pharaoh, has never had much interest in religions, not even Skolian ones.  While it’s never safe to assume that she’s ignorant of any particular bit of local trivia, I’m pretty sure she’s never studied this Bible book you’re talking about.  And I’m very sure she never used it as a basis for her mathematical research.  Even Earth scientists who consider themselves members of the religions that view it as sacred don’t do that.”  He reconsidered.  “Well, apart from the occasional crackpot.”

            There was a wash of amusement from the listeners, but Del wasn’t done yet.  “More important, trying to sneak bogus quantum mechanics past a mathematician and theoretical physicist like my brother is pretty much a waste of everyone’s time.  He not only knows that you’re wrong, he knows exactly why you’re wrong.  And he’s quite capable of spending the next hour or so drilling you on remedial calculus until you get it right.”  Del pretended to reconsider.  “Unless you want him to view you as an ignorant fool?”

            Cambert’s face tuned beet red and his mouth opened, although no sound came out.  As a chuckle spread round the table, he glared at Del, who looked back guilelessly.  After a moment, the celebrity’s mouth closed and he attacked his steak with vigor.  It didn’t take telepathy to determine that he wished it were a certain Ruby prince and holorock star under his knife, instead.

            You’re bad, Del, the Imperator sent, placidly chewing a bite of his own steak.

            It worked, didn’t it?

            President Loughten gave a weary smile as General McLane and Mac Tylor were shown into the Oval Office the next morning.  “Help yourself to some coffee, Fitz, Mac,” she greeted them.

            “Thank you,” Mac said, filling two mugs and handing one to his superior. 

            “I see you both survived last night’s State dinner, although Roy Cambert was a casualty.”

            Fitz chuckled.  “I have to admit I rather enjoyed that.  There’s something to be said for amateur translators, after all.”

            Loughten considered a moment, then shook her head.  “You know, I think we may have assessed that particular development wrongly.”

            “How so?”

            Ignoring the question for the moment, Loughten turned to her other guest.  “Mac, when you were on Skyfall, how was Del treated by his brothers?”

            The music manager looked bewildered by the question.  “About what you’d expect.  They squabbled a lot, mostly.”

            “All siblings squabble.  I meant, how did they treat him?  Did they respect him?  Defer to his judgment?”

            “He did act as the liaison between the Ruby Dynasty and ASC.  I assumed that was because he was the only one who spoke English.”

            “That made sense at the time, but it’s become clear that at least some of the others share Del’s ability to pick up a foreign language quickly.”

            “And your point is?”

            “We’ve been assuming that Imperator Skolia chose Del to translate for him as a last resort.  What if we’re wrong?”

            “Whatever do you mean by that?”

            “Oh, the Imperator’s usual translator is sick.  That’s been verified.  But...even if Iotic is almost a dead language, there are plenty of translators around who can manage English and Skolian Flag, and Imperator Skolia probably speaks Flag more often than Iotic.  If the Imperator wanted one of his siblings, Prince Eldrin is a seasoned politician and diplomat.  Even their sister is more tactful than Del-Kurj, although her English isn’t as good.  So why make a point of bringing Prince Del-Kurj?”

            “Del isn’t a diplomat, and he hates politics.”

            “Exactly.”

            Fitz shook his head in confusion.  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

            “I’ve been listening to the recordings of the initial sessions again.  I don’t speak a word of Iotic, but I have noticed that the Imperator is a man of few words.  He also seems to have a remarkably limited patience for diplomatic exchanges, for the ruler of a star empire.”

            “He’s got a reputation for being blunt,” Fitz pointed out.  “It fits his public image as the big bad military dictator, the gorilla in the room.”

            “He’s nobody’s fool,” Loughten agreed, accepting the implied warning with a nod.  “On the other hand, there are those reports from Mr. Tylor, here, and also from Sergeant Cameron, that Del consistently refers to his brother as a mathematician, rather than as a general or a politician.  As he did last night.  What if Del is right?”

            “What do you mean by that?”

            “What if the Imperator self-identifies as a math professor?  Hell, what if the Ruby Pharaoh does, too?  And what if the more we try to negotiate discreetly and diplomatically with them, so as not to offend that prickly Skolian honor, the more frustrated they get at our refusal to just come out and say what we mean?”

            Fitz considered the idea for a moment.  “You know, Del did call in the Imperator to tutor one of the children belonging to his field crew in calculus.  He might feel an odd sense of responsibility toward the girl, but he wouldn’t have done it if it would irritate his brother. He’s reckless, but not suicidal.”

            “I’m thinking maybe we’re going about these negotiations all wrong.  Maybe if we want an agreement out of the Skolians, I should invite the Imperator out to my ranch in Colorado for a weekend.  Take a walk in the badlands, with no other minds around to confuse an empath, and see what we can work out when he can clearly sense where I stand.  And in the meantime…”  She turned to Mac.

            “Yes, Madam President?”

            “If there is any small, personal favor we can grant that might show our willingness to work with the Skolians, I trust you will let Fitz know?”

            In Toronto, Del sang an old Shaker hymn named “How Can I Keep From Singing?” accompanied by Jud’s simple chords on the morpher, set to sound like an organ this time.  He dedicated it to Greeley and the Foreign Relations Committee, without further comment.

            The next concert on the tour was to be four days later in Philadelphia, so they returned to the Annandale estate for a few days.  With Kelric on board the Roca’s Pride to do a stint maintaining Kylespace, Del was able to persuade Ricki, who avoided the Imperator as much as she could, to help him try out the new bed he had purchased for his rooms.  With so much yet to do to make the place habitable, Del was up in time to share breakfast coffee with her.  She turned on the screen and they watched one of the morning ‘casts.  Two incomprehensible but purely domestic squabbles had finally grabbed the headlines away from the Skolian state visit, but the final panel of commentators did touch on Del’s campaign briefly—at least long enough for the spokeswoman who supported Greeley to dismiss it with a derogatory remark about the effort wasted by “tilting at windmills.”

            “Tilting what at windmills?” Del asked.  “What does that mean?”

            “It’s a literary allusion,” Ricki explained, biting delicately into a muffin.  “There is a famous old story from Spain about a crazy old man named Don Quixote who sets out to be a knight—a warrior hero—and fight evil.  Only, he was so lost in his dreams that he couldn’t recognize reality and so he ended up fighting a wind-driven mill under the illusion that it was a marauding giant.  The book is long and boring, but there was a musical based on it that did quite well, when they revived it a few years ago.”

            “So he’s calling me an impractical and delusional dreamer who makes up danger for the pleasure of fighting it?”

            “Pretty much,” Ricki agreed.  “Convenient, isn’t it?”

            Del was interested enough to have Claude do a search on the story.  That afternoon, as the band gathered in the studio for rehearsal, he told them, “I’ve got the perfect song to replace Carnelians in Philadelphia.”  With a grin, he directed Claude to play the clip from the news show, then another.

            “It’s perfect,” Jud grinned.  “You should use that sword of yours as a prop.”

            “Del has a sword?” Anne asked.

            “Lyshriol is a primitive planet,” Del explained.  “No guns, so swords are pretty common.  I brought my father’s with me when ASC…invited me to come to Earth, more as a memento of him than anything else.”

            Randall snorted.  “Too bad you don’t have a visual of you on horseback to go with it.”

            Del thought about it a moment, then his mouth parted in a feral grin.  “You know, I think I do.  Or close enough.”

            The Philadelphia crowd was large, with an enthusiasm that only grew as the band worked their way through the second set.  When they reached what the fans were starting to call the “Carnelians break,” there was a hush of anticipation as the visuals and music paused.

            Into the silence, Del strode to the front of the stage.  “Some of you may have seen Monday’s newscast, in which Senator Greeley’s supporter Marian Grosbeard describes my quest to put certain evidence in front of the Allied Senate as ‘tilting at windmills’” 

            A hiss spread around the stadium.

            “Well, I have something to say to Ms. Grosbeard.”  He waited a moment for the suggestions to die down, then continued.  “If saying that keeping slaves—and murdering slaves—is wrong amounts to ‘tilting at windmills,’ than call me Don Quixote, because I’m your friendly neighborhood knight errant!”

            A cheer of acclamation spread through the stadium.  As it died down, the stringer played a rapid flamenco beat, and the morpher added some brass.  Del took a breath and sang in an impassioned bass-baritone:¹

            Hear me, newscasting muser, excuser of sin

            That is base and corrupt as can be,

            As he swung into the second half of the verse, he tossed the mic into the wings, exchanging it for a helmet and sword, which he proceeded to don:

            For a knight with his banners all bravely unfurled

            Now hurls down his gauntlet to thee!

            He drew the sword, raised the tip to salute the audience, then worked his way through several dramatic, slow-motion fencing combinations as he continued with the chorus:

            I am I, Don Quixote, the Lord of La Mancha,

            My destiny calls and I go.

            And the wild winds of fortune will carry me onward,

            Whithersoever I go.

            The band swung into Sancho’s plaintive theme.  Del stopped singing and moved to full speed, the sword slashing in a syncopated beat as he criss-crossed the stage, decimating his imaginary opponents.  He concluded his run neatly to a roar of applause, just in time for the second verse:

            Hear me, wheelers and dealers, deceivers of men,

            All your tricks for delaying are past,

            For the truth has a way of escaping your grasp,

            So freedom can triumph at last!

            During the second chorus, the screens flared to life with a series of clips of Del mounted on a giant blue unicorn with silvery hooves.  He was riding over a plain of tall grass-like reeds, and bubbles floated in their wake.  The same helmet was on his head, and a sword hung at his side.  The mounted unicorn spun and danced on the screen while his rider’s sword flicked on the stage underneath.  As a dramatic finale, the screen showed Den galloping the unicorn down a course in slow motion, leaning from side to side to wallop fence posts with the sword.

            It took ten minutes for the audience to get tired of cheering and let them play the next song.

            When Del entered the dressing room to change after the show, he found Mac waiting. 

            “That was pretty dramatic,” the manager remarked, shaking his head. 

            Del pretended not to understand why Mac—and Mac’s government—might object to his performance.  “The audience liked it well enough.”

            The manager refused to let his concerns be brushed aside so easily.  “It was a fine way to taunt Grosbeard, but do you really want to be known as a fighter for lost causes?”

            The prince shrugged.  “If the shoe fits, why not wear it?  That’s pretty much what my whole family has been, right from the start.”

            Mac blinked, unable to process just what the prince meant by that particular description of the Ruby Dynasty.  Before he could ask for clarification, Sergeant Cameron stepped into the room, scowling.

            “I thought that sword was an ornamental keepsake from your father?” Del’s ASC bodyguard demanded, glaring at Del.

            “It is,” Mac said, a little taken aback at the Marine’s attitude.  “Isn’t it?”  He looked at the prince, too.

            “It was my father’s dress sword, yes.  Ornamental…”  The singer shrugged in tacit apology.  “The decorations are quite pretty, as you see.”

            “And you never saw fit to mention that you can slice and dice like a master chef with it?” Cameron asked.  “It didn’t occur to you to tell that minor detail to your bodyguards?”

            “I’m sure Tyra knows,” Del pointed out.

            “Does it matter?” Mac asked, genuinely puzzled.  “It’s just a sword, Cameron.  A medieval weapon.  Not much use against modern firepower.”

            The Marine wasn’t mollified.  “No, it isn’t—as long as the people wielding the modern firepower know it’s more than just a pretty toy and stay out of range.  Rather difficult to do in, say, tight quarters inside a building, when you’re under orders to take prisoners.” 

            Cameron walked over to the sword, which was lying on the chair in its finely embossed scabbard.  He ran one hand over the jeweled hilt, noting that the small fortune in gems was meticulously cut and arranged to give a left-handed, four-fingered bearer a perfect, non-slip grip, even when the handle was soaked with water.  Or blood.  Carefully, he drew the blade and checked the balance, then examined the flex and edge. 

            “Humpf,” he grunted, as he reached into his pocket for a cotton handkerchief.  He shook it out, then ran it very gently across the blade.  The gossamer fabric split with no hesitation, and the two halves fluttered to the ground.

            “Monomolecular edge on a layered steel nanoalloy?” he asked grimly.

            “Yes,” Del admitted unapologetically.

            “And you’ve had extensive training in its use with a master.”

            “My father was the best Lyshrioli swordsman of his generation.  He started training me when I was three.”

            The Marine examined the blade again in light of this new information.  “It’s an effective disguise.  No one looking at this would think of it as anything but a gaudy barbarian toy.”

            “ISC designed it that way as a compromise after my father became the Web Key.  They wanted to civilize him, you see, but he refused to give up his Lyshrioli clothing or learn to use a modern weapon.”

            Cameron shook his head in grudging admiration.  “I must have walked by that thing hundreds of times, and I never recognized it as your ace in the hole.”

            The prince shrugged.  “ASC pulled me and Mother off Lyshriol without much warning.  This was the best we could come up with on such short notice.  Being a hostage is a notoriously hazardous occupation.”

            The Marine chuckled.  “I can see there’s going to be a few red faces at the Pentagon.”  He turned to the still-bewildered Mac.  “It was brilliant, really.  Put a monomolecular edge on four feet of good nanosteel, and it’ll cut through most bulletproof armor like butter—there’s too little impact to make Kevlar stiffen.  Give it to someone who knows how to use it, with Del’s speed and the advantage of total surprise, and you have the makings of a successful breakout.”

            “Sort of,” Del agreed.  “With luck, I could probably have gotten the first few guards, which would have given me a modern weapon or two.  I don’t share my father’s aversion to modern weaponry.  That might have been enough to get me off the base.  Getting off planet would have been a lot more difficult.”

            “We’re just damned lucky that you were a continent away when ISC chose to get the Ruby hostages out.  We’d have lost people.”

            “Maybe,” the prince agreed.  “A lot can happen in a fight.  I’m just as glad I was in Annapolis, as it turned out.” 

¹ For a suitably enthusiastic rendition of this song, albeit with the original lyrics, see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onQJZ-gzwsc&NR=1

Chapter 11

In which Del discovers a military application for yodeling

            The invitation to visit President Loughten’s Colorado ranch was duly issued and accepted.  On a hot weekend in the middle of August, Kelric Skolia joined Hannah Loughten in the seclusion of her aging family ranch house on the edge of the Badlands.  Seated on the veranda, which had a spectacular view of twisted canyons and tortured buttes, they sought to find areas where they could “see eye to eye,” as the English idiom put it.

            Their visual equivalence was aided by the fact that while Loughten was seated on a low porch chair, the Imperator had elected to sit on the faded throw rug and use the couch as a back rest, the better to provide a toddler-friendly jungle gym.  Also aiding the search for common ground was the translation provided by Prince Del-Kurj.  By flatly refusing to embellish his translations with the flowery phrasing, open-ended non-statements, and elaborate courtesies that formal diplomacy insisted upon in its effort to avoid giving offense to anyone, he was able to cut through much of the confusion, help them pinpoint areas of fundamental disagreement, and focus on ways to work around them.

            They had actually managed to find some possible solutions when they finally went to bed, well after midnight.  As Kelric carried the sleeping Eddie down the hall ahead of her, Hannah Loughten reflected that the dreaded Imperator had turned out to be much less of a monster than his reputation had led her to believe.

            It was on the following day that she saw the implacable Fist of Skolia, war god incarnate, in action.

            Del could feel Kelric relaxing as they hiked through the bottom of a twisted canyon with the Allied president, working their way around and over the rocks and occasionally crossing the stream that wound through its bottom.  At this time of year it was barely a trickle, but that was enough to support a sparse growth of trees.  Beyond the narrow zone of moisture, the bare rocks rose around them in stark contrast, streaked with brilliant reds, oranges, and purples.  A trio of turkey vultures circled lazily on an updraft and blue-grey pinon jays squabbled in the pines.  The pace was easy and the deserted wilderness was a welcome change from the babble of other minds that had made the formal talks so trying.  Even the ubiquitous bodyguards were out of sight, maintaining a perimeter around the ranch but not intruding.

            Together, they turned the previous night’s insights into the skeleton of an agreement.  Del liberally sprinkled his translations with background and editorial commentary when he deemed it appropriate and had the satisfaction of seeing an agreement take shape.  It gave him a fleeting insight into what drove his mother and Eldrin to spend so much time in the quarrelsome confines of the Assembly.

            It was as they were climbing a path that twisted up the side of a ravine that Del noticed a strange mind ahead of them.  He assumed for a moment that it was one of Loughten’s bodyguards, but then he picked up an image of the Allied president’s face with crosshairs superimposed on top, combined with a flare of hatred toward her and everything she stood for. 

            Get down, Del!  Kelric ordered as he body-slammed Loughten, knocking them both off the path. They rolled down the slope, ending up at the bottom of the ravine.  At the same moment, the report of a rifle shot echoed down the canyon and a bullet ricocheted off a nearby boulder, shattering off a splinter of rock that whizzed past the singer’s ear.

            Del dove after the others, yelping as his elbow hit a rock.  A moment later, his fall finally came to a halt as he bumped into Kelric’s bulk. 

            “What the…?” Loughten started to ask.

             Del quickly put a hand over her mouth. He leaned in closely and whispered, “Sniper,” into her ear.

            All I got was that Loughten was the target, Kelric sent.  Did you pick up anything else?

            The assassin is male, dislikes our esteemed hostess intensely, and thinks you’re a bodyguard and I’m an aide of some kind, Del reported.  None of which is all that helpful.  Can you call in the cavalry?

            Kelric shook his head.  Already tried.  He’s using a jammer; Bolt can’t get through.  We’re on our own. 

            The mind ahead began to move closer, and Kelric cursed under his breath.  It won’t take him more than half an hour or so to reach a point where he can see us again.  Ask the President if there’s a back way out of the canyon. 

            Del relayed the question, whispering against the President’s ear, but Loughten shook her head.  Could you climb up and meet him? Del asked, surveying the slope.  It was barely hikeable up to the path, but above the path it was loose scree.  Hard for an unenhanced human, but Kelric was a Jagernaut.

            Sure, Kelric said.  He pointed.  That crack goes all the way to the top.  He took a few steps up the slope.

            Loughten reached for Del’s arm, shaking her head frantically.  Pulling his head down, she whispered in his ear, “Loose rocks make echoes.  He’ll hear.”

            Kelric, President Loughten thinks all the loose rocks will betray your position. 

            Kelric hesitated, then continued up the slope.  She’s right.  If I knock loose too many rocks, he’ll hear me coming long before I get there and pick me off the slope.  On the other hand, this is a blind canyon and he’s got the high ground, so staying put is a death sentence for all three of us.  I’ve got to take the chance.

            Del shot his brother a strained look.  You keep climbing.  Let me worry about what he can hear.

            Kelric turned and glared at him.  Del, don’t you dare try to expose yourself as a diversion!

            I’m a civilian entertainer, not a war hero, remember? the singer reminded him. What I’ve got in mind shouldn’t expose anyone.  He hummed as Kelric resumed working his way up the slope towards the path.  Fortunately, all the talking that morning had left him at least mostly warmed up.  He sang a high note and cocked his head, listening to the echoes.  He turned his head and tried again, finding three angles with echoes that would reach the sniper from different directions.  Then he opened his mouth and began to sing.  He used the upper part of his register, yodeling at full volume, varying the pitch, tempo, and intervals at random, turning his head to throw the sound off all available surfaces.¹

            Gods, that’s awful, Del.

            Humpf!  On the other hand, you have to admit he’s not going to hear you coming.

            Kelric shook his head, but kept working his way steadily up toward the path.  You and President Loughten be ready to move up the ravine if this doesn’t work, he ordered.  If you keep to the shrubbery, you might sneak by him.

            Del was too busy singing to answer, using every trick he knew to maximize the echoes.  An impenetrable wall of sound built, coming from so many directions that its source could not be determined.

            In the meantime, Kelric had crossed the path and started up the crack in the cliff.  Loughten watched his rapid progress with amazement.  The singer recalled that the Allied Worlds used even less biomech enhancement than the Traders, much less the Skolians.  She might never have seen an enhanced soldier in action.

            After an agonizing five minutes, during which the sniper closed more than half the distance, Kelric pulled himself over the rim of the cliff.  I’m good, he sent.  There’s plenty of cover up here, too.  Now, stop assaulting our ears and get your skinny butt down the ravine with the President.  I don’t want our sniper finding you before I find him.

            On our way, Del assured him, cutting off his singing abruptly.  Be careful, little brother.  With a last worried glance up the cliff, he turned to President Loughten.  “Let’s get out of here while Kelric takes care of our would-be assassin,” he suggested, leading the way along the stream.

            “You’re pretty confident, for a man whose brother is going up against a sniper rifle bare-handed,” she commented.

            Del snorted.  “That assassin may have high-tech equipment, but he doesn’t have any mental discipline:  his mind’s wide open.  Kelric says there’s enough cover up there that he should have no trouble getting close without attracting the guy’s attention.  After that—my brother’s good at hand-to-hand, even for a Jagernaut.”

            About ten minutes later, Del stopped.  “Kelric’s got him,” he announced, turning around to retrace their steps.  “Now we just have to find out who he is and who’s behind him.”

            “That could take a while.”

            The singer chuckled.  “Maybe.  Maybe not, though.  Kelric’s working on it.”

            Up on the top of the cliff, the assassin woke slowly.  His head throbbed with what felt like the mother of all hangovers, pulses of pain alternating with vague flashes of memory that made no sense.  Why would a golden statue attack him?  He must have had too much whiskey with the boys during a James Bond marathon.  He’d always found Goldfinger’s girlfriend creepy as hell.

            He tried to turn over, but his hands and feet wouldn’t move.  Unlike the throbbing headache and vague nightmares, that was not a normal hangover symptom.  He forced his eyes open, flinching at the bright sunlight, and discovered that he was lying on the ground, face to face with an orange pebble.  With an effort, he turned his head, and made a very unpleasant discovery.

            It seemed the golden statue wasn’t a hallucination, after all.

            As Del and President Loughten worked their way back to the place where Kelric had climbed the cliff, they heard shouting echoing from above them.  Not too long afterward, the shouting turned into a terrified scream.  “What the…?” Loughten asked.

            Del pointed to the cliff in answer.  Kelric was rappelling rapidly down the cliff on a rope he had apparently scavenged from the assassin’s supplies.  The hogtied prisoner was flung over one broad shoulder.  Anyone familiar with Jagernaut specs would recognize it as a secure hold, but the assassin obviously wasn’t.  He broke into loud and imaginative cursing as they reached the bottom.

            “You might as well save your breath,” Del advised the prisoner confidentially as Kelric joined them.  “He doesn’t speak any English.”

            “Damn foreigners!” the man complained.  “They got no right to come here, babbling in their heathen tongues and taking what’s ours by right.  This country wasn’t founded for them, but they all want to come here and mooch off the sweat of our brows.  Lazy bums, sitting around and collecting welfare and unemployment paid for by our taxes, taking our jobs…”

            Del blinked.  “Huh? If these people you object to are on unemployment, doesn’t that mean they don’t have jobs?”

            There was a pause in the rant.  The man twisted his head and actually looked at Del for the first time.  “Hey, you’re that singer.  Del Arden.”

            “Yeah.  Who are you?”

            This triggered another programmed response.  “I’m Colonel Ralph Wilson, People’s Freedom Militia of Colorado, and that’s all you’ll get from me!”

            Somehow, Del doubted it.  He was right; the man hardly paused before adding, “I want a lawyer.”

            “The People’s Freedom Militia of Colorado?” the singer asked, ignoring the request for legal advice.  “What’s that?”

            The prisoner clenched his jaw in what was obviously intended as an expression of militant stubbornness.  It looked pretty silly, upside down.

            “It sounds like one of those weekend wannabe-warrior clubs,” Loughten observed.  “They meet now and then, drink a lot of beer, complain about how oppressed they are and how much they pay in taxes, then go home to enjoy the benefits of citizenship.  Mostly they’re harmless, but once in a while some of them try to play vigilante for real and the police have to take care of it.”

            This casual dismissal was too much for Wilson.  “You can scoff at us all you want to, but you’ll see.  We’re free, sovereign citizens.  We can take care of ourselves without your help.  We won’t stand for any more government interference in our affairs.  We know our rights, and we aren’t afraid to stand up for them.”

            Del looked at the prisoner skeptically for a moment, then asked, “Who’s ‘we’?  You and your dozen best drinking buddies, led by a slob with an untrimmed beard who never mastered basic hygiene?”

            Wilson looked at Del in astonishment.  “What are you, some kind of mind-reading freak?  I said I wanted my lawyer.”

            Del turned to Loughten.  “Why does he keep talking about lawyers?”

            “Allied law requires that all persons accused of a crime have access to legal representation on request, to ensure that their rights aren’t violated.”  She looked at Wilson.  “Unfortunately for him, he isn’t an Allied prisoner, just now.”

            This information created a visible crack in Wilson’s self-righteous armor.

            “What do you mean, I’m not an Allied prisoner?” he demanded.

            “You were captured by a Skolian citizen.  That makes you a Skolian prisoner.  Prince Del-Kurj, just out of curiosity, would you mind asking Imperator Skolia what rights would-be assassins have under Skolian law?”

            Del passed the question on.  The Imperator chuckled with unfeigned amusement, then gave a one-word answer.  The singer obligingly translated, “He says, ‘None.’  ISC handles that sort of thing, mostly.  They have better interrogation facilities than the planetary police forces.”

            The prisoner, who had frozen at the mention of the Skolian warlord, seemed to realize at last that his plan had gone seriously wrong and that this might have serious consequences for him.  ISC’s efficiency at breaking planetary rebellions, pirate rings, and other domestic disturbances was legendary.  Prisoners in their hands talked, and there were plenty of rumors about how that was achieved.  The reality was much more pragmatic—outright torture seldom elicits accurate intelligence, nor was it necessary when telepathic interrogators were available—but the rumors were otherwise accurate.

            “I’m an Allied citizen!” the prisoner protested, his eyes widening in terror as he appealed to Loughten.  “You’re the President.  You can’t let them take me.”

            “I thought you didn’t want government help for anything because you can take care of yourself?” Del asked disingenuously.

            “His type is always quick to yell for government help for themselves,” Loughten explained.  “They only object to the ‘waste’ when their government helps somebody else.  Particularly when that ‘somebody else’ has a different skin color or religion.”  She looked at Wilson in disgust.  “Truthfully, I’m not inclined to tie up the diplomatic effort negotiating the release of a man who was trying to murder me for doing my job.”

            The prisoner threatened.  When that didn’t win the response he wanted, he whined.  Then he tried to bargain, offering to turn in his companions.  Finally, he was reduced to begging and groveling.

            “Oh, all right,” Loughten gave in at last.  “Del, would you convey my official request to the Imperator that he return this Allied citizen for trial when he’s done with him?”

            Del translated, then reported, “Kelric wants me to ask you if you’re sure, and points out that tossing him out an airlock would be cheaper.”

            Wilson gave a mewling whimper.

            “Tell him he’s right, but it might create a space hazard.”

            After translation, Del presented the Imperator’s answer.  “All right, you can have him, but the guy may be a little shopworn by then.  As a gesture of good faith, Kelric’s also willing to pass on any information he digs up on this guy and his friends that is actionable under Allied law.”

            “Tell him that is quite acceptable.  I’ll be happy to ask our law enforcement to brief him on the most frequent violations committed by militia groups.”

            “No!” Wilson squawked.  “You can’t leave it there.  The Skolians are barbarians.  They’ll torture me.”

            “I’ve tendered an official request for your eventual release to the Skolian Imperator,” Loughten observed reasonably.  “In person.  What else do you expect me to do?  Offer to arm-wrestle him for you?”

            Kelric’s Jagernaut detail met them at the entrance to the canyon.

            “I told you there was something wrong,” Tertiary Axar told his companions in Skolian Flag, eyeing the prisoner slung over Kelric’s shoulder.  “Imperator Skolia would never tolerate noise like that without a very good reason.”

            “Everybody’s a critic,” Del grumbled in the same language.

            Del didn’t spend much time worrying about Wilson after the would-be assassin had been turned over to ISC for questioning.  Kelric did mention a few days later that Wilson’s group had a long-standing grudge against the government—any government—but that there were subtle hints that perhaps some outside influence had prompted the “Freedom Militia” to act on their beliefs at this particular moment.

            Del was content to leave the matter in his brother’s capable, if oversized, hands.  The singer had previously viewed his duties as Dalvador Bard as more of a burden than anything else, but he threw himself into composing a suitable song to commemorate Anne and Cameron’s wedding, which was scheduled for the end of August.  It had to contain the essential elements of a Lyshrioli wedding to be legally binding.  On the other hand, the only anticipated guests who could understand Trillian were his siblings. 

            Like most Bards, his father had had a standard wedding song that could be adapted easily to suit most situations.  Del started with that.  Then, he composed three new verses that outlined the essence of Anne and Cameron, in English.  To Anne, Cameron was a solid bulwark against the insanity of life in a touring band.  To Cameron, Anne was an essential spark, the rhythm of life.  Together, they were starting a family.  Those truths had to come out in the song.

            He worked with Eldrin and Jud on altering the melody into something that would sound good both on stringer and morpher and on the traditional Lyshrioli harp.  The harp and vocal part came easily; his voice had always blended well with those of Eldrin and Chaniece, who had also been volunteered for the project.  The English verses provided more of a challenge.  These were to be accompanied by the band and done in a more modern, holorock style.  However, with Anne to be otherwise occupied during the performance, the lack of her drums was proving a major obstacle. 

            “It just doesn’t sound right without a beat,” Randall complained, voicing what they were all feeling. 

            Tyra, who was attending their rehearsal so that they could get early warning of Anne’s return from the florist’s, looked up from her screen with a feral grin.  “If you’ve got to have a drummer for this piece, I think I might know where to find one.”

            Del looked interested.  “Give,” he ordered.

            “I’ve been looking over the guest list.”  It was her job as head of Del’s security to clear any visitors to the estate.  “One of Cameron’s guests is a Staff Sergeant Brett Johnson.  Among his other duties, he plays drum in the Marine Jazz Band.”

            “The Marine Jazz Band?” Jud looked impressed.  “They’re great.  They provide music for a lot of state functions.”

            “If Johnson’s going to be attending anyway,” Tyra said, “he might be persuaded to lend a hand.  Or a drumstick, as the case may be.  Although you’d have to clear it with his superior.”

            “The Annapolis commandant and I never got along all that well, but I suppose it’s worth a try,” Del said.  “I’ll give him a call tomorrow.  If he says no, we’re no worse off.”

             Del mentioned Tyra’s suggestion to Mac in passing after the rehearsal, and that evening, Mac called General McLane.  “Fitz, you know how the President asked me to let you know if there was any small gesture of goodwill that we could make to the Skolians?”

            The general looked interested.  “You’ve got something?  I admit, I’d be glad of anything that might help to smooth things over.  I keep having a sinking feeling that one of these days, Imperator Skolia will get tired of Senator Greeley’s militant obstructionism and decide to do something about it.  And then that idiotic, wanna-be assassin decided to make a bad situation worse…”

            “Well, I don’t know about that, but this might at least put Del in a better mood.  The way he’s been fanning the flames isn’t helping matters any.”

            “No, it isn’t,” McLane agreed.

            “You recall that Sergeant Cameron asked Del’s drummer to marry him?”

            The general nodded.

            “Well, they’ve agreed to have Del perform the ceremony.”

            McLane blinked.  “Del does weddings?”

            “Apparently, singers perform weddings on Skyfall.  Del, as the resident Bard of Dalvador, is thus entitled under Skolian law to officiate at weddings anywhere in Skolian territory.  Which includes the Annandale estate, because we gave it the legal status of an embassy.”

            “So what do they need from us?”

            “Part of the Skyfall ceremony includes having the Bard sing a song specially composed for the occasion.  Del’s got a good start, but he needs a drummer, since Anne will be otherwise occupied during the performance.”

            “With Jud’s connections to the underworld scene and yours to the conventional, it shouldn’t be hard to find someone who can bang on a drum set.  Why are you bringing this to me?”

            “It turns out that one of Cameron’s friends, Staff Sergeant Brett Johnson, plays drums for the Marine Jazz Band.  Del would like to borrow him, but he’d have to attend rehearsals as well as the ceremony.  Johnson’s commanding officer is Commandant Georges.  And you know what he thinks of Del.”

            McLane snorted.  “Can you blame him?  Del wasn’t exactly an easy guest.”

            Mac shrugged.  “He had no reason to be, while we were holding him prisoner.”

            The general sighed.  “The Skolians have proved very adept at preventing ASC Intelligence from finding out anything useful about what’s going on at that estate, even at the most basic level.  Even the household help has proved unwilling to talk.”

            “The Ruby Dynasty does have an almost medieval habit of inspiring loyalty among those who serve them.”  The agent shrugged ruefully.  “I admit, aggravating as he can be, I’d find it very difficult to betray Del’s trust.  Yes, he knows I talk to you.  He’s very careful to make sure I don’t hear anything that he really doesn’t want you to know.  Outside of that, though…if you asked me to eavesdrop on private conversations or scope out the security system, I don’t know if I would.”

            “Don’t change that, Mac,” his handler advised.  “The insight you’ve provided into the Ruby Dynasty is far more valuable than any intelligence of that sort you can gather.  However useful it might be to know more details about ISC procedures if the proverbial shit hits the fan, we’d really rather end up at peace with them, as long as that doesn’t land us in a shooting war with the Eubians.  Right now, you and Sergeant Cameron are the people best equipped to predict how Del and his family will react to us.”  He took another sip from his ever-present coffee mug.  “I’ll talk to Georges and have him release this Staff Sergeant Johnson for rehearsals with Del.  Hell, why not do it right and offer the whole jazz ensemble to provide background music during the reception?  Sergeant Cameron is one of our own, after all.  We shouldn’t leave it to the Skolians to throw him a proper wedding bash.”

¹ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQhqikWnQCU&feature=related   Although you might want to mentally delete the accordion.  And the hat.  I don’t think Del would be caught dead wearing such a thing.

Chapter 12

In which Michael Laux, host of the Atlantic City-Time Hour, scores the interview of the century

            As the summer drew to a close, Senator Greeley and his associates continued to come up with excuses to block any discussion of serious proposals that might lead to closer relations between the Allied Worlds and the Imperialate.  Once Kelric had traced the good Senator’s seven most lucrative sources of campaign funds to three large export firms that traded primarily with the Eubians, he ceased expecting that opposition to disappear any time soon.  Since the Imperator had no intention of leaving Earth orbit until significant progress had been made, the situation remained at an impasse.

            In the mean time, Del continued to add pressure of his own.  Carnelians Finale remained fixed at the top of the charts despite its controversial nature.  While its legal sales were limited to the Allied Worlds and the Imperialate, pirated copies somehow made their way to the Eubian Concorde, where they became quite popular among the more restless fraction of the slave population.  Zachary didn’t approve of his talent getting involved in politics, but he couldn’t argue with the record profits Del’s blockbuster song was bringing in.  Perhaps also because of those profits, he resisted the attempts of Greeley’s bloc to pressure him to stop selling it.

            Del’s role as his brother’s translator during private meetings with President Loughten was successfully kept from the media, but his performance of a new protest song at every concert was grabbing the entertainment headlines.  People who did not usually bother following politics began to notice, and then they began to talk.  Since almost all of them had seen the instrumental version of Carnelians Finale–and its visual accompaniment—they began to wonder why the Senate refused so categorically to address the Skolian accusations against the Traders.

            They also speculated endlessly about Del’s motivations for joining the conflict, and in such an oddly dramatic fashion.  Del finally gave in to Ricki’s prompting and granted an interview to Michael Laux of the Atlantic City-Time Hour.  He liked the way the man had given him the opportunity to prove to his critics that his voice wasn’t enhanced.  Besides, his focus was on covering entertainment news, not politics. 

            Michael Laux was well aware that he had scored a ratings coup by landing the Del Arden interview.  The holorock star had been avoiding the press since the Fourth of July concert at which he had captured the attention—not always positive—of all three human star empires. 

            The outpouring of praise and criticism that had followed, from both musical and political commentators, was vehement enough to give pause to seasoned celebrity, much less a relative newcomer to the holorock scene.  The conspiracy theorists had followed, in force.  Laux could well imagine how intimidating the situation must be to Arden, and he appreciated the trust the singer was placing in him to give a fair interview.  He was inclined to honor that trust:  he had genuinely liked the young man the first time they’d met.

            Laux also had a responsibility to the viewers of the Atlantic City-Time Hour, of course.  He had taken unusual care in selecting his questions and their phrasing, covering the issues of interest to his audience in a fashion that would, he hoped, encourage Arden to be forthcoming.  Rumor-debunking was never as popular as rumor-mongering, alas, but Laux had his standards.  He had never approved of those journalists who were content to just report that “somebody” was “concerned” about something, with no attempt made to clarify what motivated the accuser or to discover whether such concerns were actually justified.

            Arden arrived at the studio flanked by two formidable bodyguards.  He was dressed on the conservative side for a holorock star, in black pants and a holographic shirt that reflected swirls of color.  His distinctive wine-red hair glittered too, giving the illusion that he was wearing reflective makeup.  Laux recalled that after his first Del Arden interview, the makeup girl had told him that the effect was natural, a fortunate genetic quirk.

            “Del, it’s good to see you again,” he said, extending his hand for a shake.  “You’ve been out of the public eye, lately.”

            The singer shrugged.  “I recently bought a property in Annandale.  I’ve been busy making plans for it.”

            Laux grinned.  “Are you going to put in marble tubs with gold faucets?”

            Del looked at Laux as if he’d grown an extra head.  “Of course not!  I can’t think of a better way to ensure that I’d never get a hot bath.” 

            The newscaster laughed.  “Truth to tell, I’ve often had the same thought, when I view one of those ‘big name celebrity redecorates’ pieces.  What are you going to do with your new home, then?”

            “I’m trying to salvage the remains of the old orchard.  I inherited a pony with the property—the previous owners abandoned her.  I may get a cow and some hens to keep her company and a beehive to pollinate the orchard.  Several of the live-in staff have kids, so the milk, eggs, and honey wouldn’t go to waste. It’s too late to plant vegetables this year, but the soil is decent and there’s always next summer.”

            Laux’s smile was more relaxed this time, fueled by genuine liking.  “I guess you really are a farmboy at heart, aren’t you?”

            Arden spread his odd-shaped hands in a “What can you do?” gesture.

            When they had settled on the chairs in the studio, Laux looked into the camera and said, “My guest today is holorock sensation Del Arden, whose latest hit vid Carnelians Finale has attracted a lot of controversy.  Welcome to the show, Del.”

             “Thank you, Michael,” Del answered easily.  “I’m glad to be here again.”

            “I was looking at some clips from your recent concert in Philadelphia, and I was struck by how much more sophisticated your visuals have gotten.  The shots of you riding a blue unicorn through a cloud of bubbles were particularly detailed.  If you’ll indulge my curiosity for a moment, how did your effects people manage to create such lifelike visuals so quickly?  And what did they use for a model?”

            The singer laughed.  “Prime-Nova’s effects team does some amazing things, but those shots were actually clips from an old home vid, arranged for dramatic effect.”

            “I sense there’s a story here.  A home vid of you riding a blue unicorn?”

            “It’s not much of a story, Michael.  My father’s favorite lyrine went lame just before he left for an extended trip.  He called in to ask how Moonglow was doing, so my brother shot some clips of me working the beast to show Father that all was well.  There were some other things I wanted on that cube, so I never got around to erasing it.”  Del grinned.  “The full vid is a bit less dramatic than the clips, I assure you.”

            “Still, that’s pretty fancy riding, for a singer.”

            The singer spread his hands, ceding the point.  “On my home world Lyshriol, there are two transportation options:  ride a lyrine, or walk.  I’m not fond of blisters.”

            “Del, as I’m sure you know, there have been a lot of rumors circulating about you and your latest vid.  Some of them are pretty wild.  I’d like to discuss them for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

            “Certainly, Michael.”

            “Thank you.”  Laux had purposefully kept his first questions easy, hoping to establish a good rapport before he got to the meat of the interview.  “To start with, you sang Carnelians Finale in three different languages at the Fourth of July concert.  How many languages do you speak, anyway?”

            Del frowned as he considered.  “Only six, fluently, although I can get by in three to five more, depending on which linguist you ask.  Sometimes they have trouble agreeing on which are distinct languages and which are dialects.  Oh, and I’ve started learning Spanish and Korean.”

            Laux struggled to contain his surprise.  “That’s thirteen languages,” he pointed out.

            The holorock star shrugged.  “I’ve got a gift for it.”  He sounded as casually dismissive as if he were describing a talent for flower arranging.

            The newscaster collected himself and went on to his next question.  “My people have confirmed that one of the languages you sang in at the Fourth of July concert was Iotic, the language spoken by the Skolian nobility.”

            “That’s true.  I wanted them to understand my song.”

            “Well, some of your fans went scouting on the Skolian meshes and found this picture—can we have the picture, please?  Thank you.” 

            A picture of a man in formal Skolian court dress appeared on the big screen hanging behind them.  “A lot of people are remarking on how closely you resemble this man.  Same hair, same eyes…and he sings, too.  Do you think you look like him, Del?”

            Arden gave the picture a wistful smile.  “Strictly speaking, it’s more accurate to say that Eldrin and I both take after our father.”

            This time, Laux’s jaw did drop.  He had prepared for several possible responses, but this wasn’t one of them.  “Are you claiming that this man is your brother?”

            “Yes, he is,” the singer said, so calmly that Laux almost believed him. 

            “But…that man is the consort of the Skolian Ruby Pharaoh!” he blurted.  “One of the Skolian Ruby princes.”

            “That’s true,” Del said. 

            Laux was good at telling when people were trying to fool him, and for all the absurdity of the situation, his instinct told him Del wasn’t lying.  That meant… “So…you’re also a Ruby prince?”

            The singer gave a very un-royal grin.  “Yes, Michael.  ASC brought several members of my family here for safety towards the end of the war.  I stayed to explore Earth’s music.  Ricki Varrento at Prime-Nova heard me sing one day, and, well, you know the rest.”

            Laux chuckled to give himself time.  “I gather, then, that ‘Del Arden’ is a pseudonym?”

            “Sort of,” the prince-turned-holorock star admitted.  “My parents gifted me with a great many names.  If they were all printed on a vid cube or poster, there wouldn’t be room for anything else.  I selected the two which are least difficult for an English speaker to pronounce as a stage name.”

            “I see.”  Laux was starting to realize that he had lost control of the interview.  He was also sure that his ratings were about to skyrocket, however, which was some compensation.  Gamely, he tried to get back to his prepared questions.

            “The visuals on your new vid Carnelians Finale have caused a great deal of comment,” he essayed.  “There are those who are saying that it is inappropriate to show such violence in a vid.”

            “Genocide is never an easy thing to discuss,” Del agreed.  “Nevertheless, it is better to discuss it than to ignore it.”

            “I understand that you wanted to start a conversation.  However, these pictures…can we show them on the screen for a moment, please?  Thank you.  These pictures have a certain harsh realism that’s unusual in a vid.  The Prime-Nova mech wizards usually go for a softer, more fantastical effect.”

            “Prime-Nova did not create those visuals,” Del said quietly.  “They look real because they are real.  Those are recordings of the destruction of Tams Station by the Eubian First Fleet, under the direct command of General Kryx and by order of his Emperor, Ur Qox.”

            Laux realized that he ought to have seen this one coming, given his guest’s newly revealed identity.  “You’re saying your vid is illustrated with actual footage of the Trader military committing genocide?”

            “Yes.  It’s been edited, of course.  The original recording was made by the EI of a Jag fighter.  What you see on my vid are clips from the visual portion of that record, without the tactical overlay or most of the com chatter.  The controls of the Jag were also blacked out for security reasons and the events have been condensed to fit the length of the song.  It took several hours for Tams Station to die.  But what you do see is real.”

            “The images were provided to you by ISC?”

            “Yes.”

            “There are those who will say that ISC fabricated them as anti-Eubian propaganda,” Laux pointed out.  “Are you sure that they aren’t fabrications?”

            Del’s lips pressed together, but he kept his temper.  “I’m very sure, Michael.  The Jagernaut whose voice you hear in the vid—the one who carried the warning and recorded those images—was my sister Sauscony.”

            “The late Imperator Sauscony?”

            “Yes.  Her warning allowed a third of the population of Tams Station to evacuate before the Trader fleet arrived.  She could do nothing to help the rest.  Nothing but make a record of the violent slaughter of 40 million innocent civilians, in the hope that eventually their murderers could be brought to justice.”  He looked directly into the camera.  “Soz was one of the toughest, most optimistic people I’ve ever known, but she could never talk about that day without crying.”

            The prince’s sincerity was heart-wrenchingly apparent.  Laux decided to let it speak to his viewers for itself, and moved on to the next rumor he had wanted to address.  Which, in this new context, might not be a rumor, after all.  He let Del recover his poise, then addressed the camera.

            “As most of you know, Senator Greeley and the Foreign Relations Committee asked Del Arden not to perform Carnelians Finale live during his concerts.  Del, your choice of songs to replace Carnelians has aroused a lot of comment.  Is it true that the Skolian Imperator is instructing you on which songs to present instead of Carnelians, to put additional pressure on the Senate?”

            The singer started, and for a moment Laux thought that this guess, too, was correct.  Then Arden’s shoulders began to shake, and a moment later he was literally whooping with uncontrolled laughter.  The outburst lasted almost a moment, then he straightened up, wiping his eyes.  “Thank you, Michael, I needed that,” he said, then explained, “My brother Kelric has many virtues, but he doesn’t speak English, he knows nothing about Earth’s musical history, and he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. We have a deal:  I don’t tell him how to run ISC and he doesn’t tell me what to sing.”

            Laux couldn’t control his answering grin.  “Well, when you put it that way, I guess it makes perfect sense.  So you’re the one responsible for what some people are calling your heroic stand against censorship?”

            Del held up a hand in protest.  “Please, Michael.  While I am glad that my singing is having an impact, and hope it continues to do so, I would rather you not use that word to describe me.  My people have just finished fighting a war—a war that created and destroyed far too many heroes.  I lost two brothers and a sister in combat.  They are the heroes. I don’t presume to count myself among them.  I’m just a singer.”

            The bug in Laux’s ear was insisting that he was out of time.  Pulling himself together, he gave a professional smile at the cameras.  “Well, there you have it, folks.  That was holorock superstar and Ruby prince Del Arden, I’m Michael Laux, and this is the Atlantic City-Time Hour!”

            The live feed light blinked out, confirming the end of the interview.  Laux looked at his guest, still stunned by the revelations of the past half hour.  “So, you’re not just a simple farmboy, after all, are you?”

            The singer shrugged.  “I’ve never met a farmer who was.  Seriously, Michael, it’s the rest of my family that makes history.  Until I came to Earth and started performing, the only thing I’d ever done was work on the family farm.  I’d only been off my very rustic home planet a few times.”

            “Your home planet,” Laux repeated.  “That would be Skyfall?”

            “Lyshriol,” Del corrected firmly. “‘Skyfall’ is just the name a bunch of unscrupulous Texas developers inflicted on us, before ISC kicked them off-planet.”

            Laux shook his head ruefully.  “Someday, I’d love to hear the entire story.  Especially the part about how a Skolian Ruby prince ended up at the top of Earth’s holorock charts.”

            The interview went viral immediately, of course.

            When Del joined the band for lunch two days later, the others were clustered around the vidscreen. 

            “Look at this, Del,” Jud said.  “Senator Greeley is finally being forced to take note of our protest.”

            Randall cued the program backward.  It was one of the general news feeds, not normally dedicated to entertainment, at least not of the musical variety.  Del didn’t usually pay much attention to them—Skolian politics were more than complicated enough for him—so he didn’t immediately recognize the host who was interviewing the Senator.  It was clear, however, that the woman was enjoying her guest’s obvious discomfort.

            “Senator Greeley,” she said, “a lot of our viewers would like to know what you and the other majority members of the Foreign Relations Committee hoped to accomplish in the first place by banning a holorock star like Del Arden from performing his most popular work live.  With his vid available at every music store, his dominance of the charts and the feeds, and free amateur bootleg holos of his Fourth of July performance being posted to the mesh faster than they can be eliminated…a Del Arden concert is about the only place you won’t hear his song Carnelians Finale these days.  So why continue to set yourselves up for criticism, when letting him sing couldn’t possibly promote his song more than censoring it has?”

            Instead of answering the question, Greeley followed the usual format for such programs by simply presenting his prepared talking points.  “First of all,” he said, oozing condescension, “the Senate Foreign Relations Committee has not censored Del Arden.  The Constitution prohibits us from interfering with free speech.  We have simply asked him, in our official capacity, not to sing the song at his live performances.  As to why we did so…”  He paused, settled back in his chair, and folded his hands in a show of pious virtue.

            “It’s the principle of the thing,” he continued, when he felt he had impressed the host sufficiently.  “The Foreign Relations Committee is responsible for overseeing our relationships with the Skolians and Eubians both.  It’s all well and good for the average citizen to think of ‘Del Arden’ as just another holorock star who should be allowed to say whatever he wants, no matter how outrageous.  But the Committee and I must always remember that he was born Ruby Prince Del-Kurj Skolia long before he signed with Prime-Nova.  His family has interests that do not necessarily coincide with Allied interests.  Why should we stand by when he tries to interfere with our government?”

            “Would you care to comment on that?” the hostess asked her other guest, minority leader Janet Fulton.

            “I was never in favor of censoring Carnelians Finale,” she said.  “It’s a violation of our principles to curb free speech, even of foreign nationals.  Besides, as ‘Old Man River’ Greeley can attest, Del Arden has been quite effective in arguing his position through alternative songs.  Perhaps what the Committee should do is agree to view the entire body of evidence that the Skolians have offered to provide regarding the alleged atrocities of the Eubians.  That way, we won’t be basing our actions on one controversial holorock vid, but on verifiable facts.”

            Greeley’s face had turned beet red as she spoke.  “We don’t need to look at their so-called ‘presentation,’” he snarled.  “The Skolians are not our people, and the Eubians have denied any tendency toward wholesale slaughter of their citizens.  We’re supposed to uncritically accept these accusations on the say-so of a holorock star…a popular entertainer?”

            “A holorock singer, as you’ve pointed out yourself, who is also a Ruby Prince,” Fulton argued.  “And whose sister witnessed and recorded the genocide in question.  Don’t you think it’s about time to at least look at what the Skolians have to say, before Del Arden’s songs turn the Senate into a laughingstock?”

            “I refuse to let a pop star—a romantic heartthrob for teenaged girls—control the Senate’s agenda.”  Anyone who didn’t know the Senator’s connection with Eubian interests would have taken his declaration as fueled by righteous indignation.

            “Senator,” the hostess interjected, “many critics believe Del Arden is a serious artist, not just a passing fad for teenagers.”

            “Humpf,” Greeley scoffed.  “They’re just seduced by his family connections.  Prime-Nova doesn’t bother with serious art.  I’ll tell you what, though.  I’ll look at the so-called Skolian evidence when ‘Del Arden’ puts on a penguin suit and sings real, worthwhile classic songs like Pavarotti and Beverley Sills.” The Senator gave a smug smile.  “Until then, I’ve got more important things on my plate than a funny-looking foreign singer who prances around on stage for a mob of hysterical teenagers.”

            “Who’s Pava-what’s his name?” Randall asked.

            “A tenor.  He sang opera, a couple hundred years ago,” Anne explained.

            “Funny-looking!”  Del huffed, ignoring the byplay.  “At least I don’t carry a spare tire around my belly like he does.  And I don’t prance.”

            Jud smiled like the proverbial feline that ate the songbird.  “Look at it this way,” he suggested.  “You’ve got him!  He’s made a very public promise that the press isn’t going to let him wiggle out of easily.”

            The screen chimed.  When Del directed Claude to answer, Ricki’s face grinned at him.  “Have you seen the newsfeed?” she asked.  “Greeley’s interview on Current Events Roundtable?”

            “We were just watching it,” Del said.  “The Senator seems to have a poor opinion of holorock in general and my singing in particular.”

            “I think he’s got a daughter in high school,” Ricki said.  “Fathers are supposed to hate their kids’ music.”

            “I’m glad my father didn’t follow that particular fashion,” Del said.  “He didn’t understand my songs, but he tried to like them.”

            “Your father knew you can sing.  I’ve heard you singing those Lyshrioli art songs with your brother Eldrin.  If Senator Greeley thinks you can’t sing opera, he’s in for a big surprise.”  She snickered.  “I can’t wait to see you in a white shirt, bow tie, and tails!  The Elbees will go hysterical.”

Chapter 13

In which Prince Eldrin gives the Allied Senate a lecture on voice production

            “If we’re going to take up Senator Greeley’s challenge,” Del said as they met for rehearsal the next morning, “we’ve got to do it right.  We can’t leave him an excuse to back out at the last minute.”  He took out a cube and inserted it into the viewer.  “Mac gave me this a while back.  It’s what we’re aiming for.”

            The image that appeared was flat, with hardly any color.¹  A conductor waved his baton and an orchestra began to play.  The camera panned the crowd, then focused on a small, plump, bearded, middle-aged man in a black tailcoat.  As a harp played arpeggios, his mouth opened and a resonant tenor voice emerged, “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Maria gratia plena...”  No amount of modern editing could completely make up for the primitive recording equipment—and the primitive recording couldn’t hide the exquisite quality of the singer’s voice.

            “This was one of Pavarotti’s signature songs,” Del explained.  “Soprano Beverley Sills sang it too, a couple of octaves up.  Randall, can you imitate those harp arpeggios?”

            “Sure,” the stringer player said. 

            “I can add a little more depth with the morpher, although it won’t be the same as an orchestra,” Jud added.

            “That triangle attachment I’ve been meaning to buy would make a nice accent,” Anne suggested.

            “Lovely,” Del agreed.  “I don’t suppose any of you speak Latin?  I’ve got to know how to pronounce the words correctly before I can work on singing them.”

            The rest of the band shook their heads, then Randall paused.  “Wait a moment.  Isn’t the Los Angeles Opera performing at the Kennedy Center this week?”

            “Yeah.  I heard a rumor that tickets are still available, if you want one,” Jud teased.

            “Not my thing,” Randall agreed, “but their assistant director used to be the choir master at the Church of the Angelic Mother in Santa Barbara.  He lives down the street from my parents.  He’s not fond of holorock, but he knows his classical church music and a lot of the famous ones are in Latin.”

            “Do you think he might be persuaded to help us?” Del asked.

            “He might,” Randall said.  “It wouldn’t hurt to ask, anyway.”

            “Ask, then,” Del agreed.  “See if he’d be willing to lend us his services this afternoon.  I’ll corner Eldrin this evening, too.  He sings with the Parthonia Opera.”

            Del wasn’t the only one struggling to master a new musical genre on short notice.  After a brief conversation with a surprisingly cooperative Commandant Georges, who seemed inclined to let bygones be bygones, Del had arranged for the loan of Sergeant Brett Johnson, AMC.  The Marine Jazz Band drummer arrived the next morning for a rehearsal while Ricki took Anne shopping for wedding apparel.  He looked very military, even compared to Cameron, or perhaps he was simply not trying to hide it.

            “It’s an honor to play with you, Your Highness,” he told Del, standing rigidly at attention.  “You and your band have brought a whole new level of sophistication to popular holorock.”

            “I’m glad you like our stuff,” Del allowed graciously.  Then he scowled.  “But my name is Del.”

            “I’ll keep that in mind, Del,” Johnson agreed.

            After the rehearsal, Johnson reported as ordered to General McLane. 

            “So what do you think of our wayward Ruby Prince?” the General asked.

            Johnson shook his head.  “He’s not at all what I expected.”

            Mac Tylor chuckled.  “What were you expecting?”

            “From what I was told, some odd combination of exalted personage and spoiled brat.”

            “Let me guess.  Commandant Georges wasn’t happy about the assignment?”

            “No.  I got the impression it’s personal.”

            “It is,” Mac agreed.  “Del made a point of giving the Commandant a hard time when we were holding him at the base, and Georges pretty much had to take it.”

            “So what are your impressions?” the General asked again.

            Johnson recalled himself to duty.  “Sorry, sir.”  He composed himself, then began his report crisply.  “I reported to Prince Del-Kurj’s residence at 09:30, as ordered.  I was met at the gate by Jagernaut Primary Jarin, who showed me to the Prince’s music studio and introduced me.”  He shook his head.  “About the first words out of his mouth was a demand that I not use his title.”

            “It’s kind of a touchy subject with him,” Mac explained.  “He wants to be recognized for himself, not for his family.”

            “That fits,” Johnson agreed.  “We rehearsed for about two hours.  It was one of the most intense sessions I’ve ever been privileged to participate in—and the Marine Jazz Band takes its job seriously.”  He shook his head.  “So, my impressions.  First off, Prince Del-Kurj isn’t your average holorock star.  I expect Senator Greeley is going to be out of luck, because His Highness really could walk on and sing a lead role in any opera company.  Any lead, from coloratura to bass.  His voice is that good, and his discipline and technique are flawless.”

            “We know he sings,” General McLane said a little impatiently.

            “Sir, you asked me for my assessment of what sort of individual Prince Del-Kurj is.  His singing is a large part of that.”

            McLane conceded the point with a wave.

            “I would have thought Prince Del-Kurj’s voice was one of those once-a-generation flukes, except the prince has recruited some additional voices for this performance.  Specifically, his brother, Prince Consort Eldrin, and his sister, Princess Chaniece.  Eldrin’s voice may be even better than Del’s, for some things.”

            “I believe he’s sung with the Parthonia Opera,” Mac added helpfully. 

            “The princess’ voice is also remarkable, although she doesn’t have the lower range of her brothers.”  Brett stopped and looked at them.  “That’s three members of the Ruby Dynasty we know of who have and maintain extraordinary singing voices.”

            “Four, really,” Mac pointed out.  “Del says his father, the late King of Skyfall, was at least as good as his children.  Some of that might be a son’s fond memory of a dead parent, but Del’s too good a singer himself not to recognize talent—or its lack.”

            Brett nodded, and turned to McLane.  “Sir, I don’t care how naturally gifted you are.  You don’t get that kind of voice control without the sort of lifelong self-discipline and focused dedication we tend to associate with, say, Olympic-caliber athletes.  Prince Del-Kurj has made a living from his music the past two years, but apart from him, the other singers in the family all have day jobs.  Day jobs that most people would consider more than enough of a career in themselves, and at which they’ve excelled.”

            McLane nodded.  “I believe I understand your point.”

            “When the session was finished, Prince Del-Kurj offered to let me stay for lunch with the rest of the band.  As per my orders to see as much as possible of the estate, I accepted.  We were met outside the studio by a horde of children, aged about three to twelve, which I gather belong to various staff members.”

            Mac nodded.  “The Skolians—which in this case means Princess Chaniece—gave preference when hiring staff to families willing to live on the estate.  Since the Fairfax County schools are excellent, they were able to find several.”

            “Of course, having the staff live onsite limits our ability to cultivate useful informants,” McLane added.

            “The interaction proceeded in a direction I would not have anticipated.”

            “How so?”

            “The children acted as if the princess and princes were a favorite aunt and uncles.  They spontaneously hugged them, chattered at them…  I couldn’t follow most of it, but one Hispanic girl of about four was teasing Prince Del-Kurj about a pony ride, and an older boy was describing a frog they’d found near the pond.  In Spanish.  And the prince was responding, also in Spanish.  And in some Asian language to another kid.  I thought the only Earth language he speaks is English?”

            “Apparently, our records are wrong,” McLane said sourly.

            “If you’ll remember, Del went from broken English to moderately fluent to having an impressive vocabulary in a couple of months, when he first came here,” Mac reminded the general.  “He can’t read or write in any language, as far as we know, but what if he really can become fluent enough to get the gist of a conversation with a few weeks of haphazard effort?”

            “Wait a moment,” McLane said, holding up one hand as he sifted through the file in front of him.  A moment later, he nodded, then cued a holo. 

            Prince Del-Kurj’s face appeared, floating above the table.  Newscaster Michael Laux asked, “How many languages do you speak, anyway?”

            The prince considered. “Only six, fluently, although I can get by in three to five more, depending on which linguist you ask.  Sometimes they have trouble agreeing on which are distinct languages instead of dialects.  Oh, and I’ve started learning Spanish and Korean.”

            Laux struggled to contain his surprise.  “That’s thirteen languages,” he pointed out.

            The holorock star shrugged.  “I’ve got a gift for it.”

            McLane froze the holo.  “That was three weeks ago.  How fluent would you say Prince Del-Kurj’s Spanish is, Sergeant?”

            “Moderately.  As far as I could follow—and my own Spanish is a bit rusty—the kids corrected his grammar twice, but there was no problem with communication.”

            “He refused our offer of a mod to help him learn English,” McLane remembered.  “At the time, I thought it was an attempt to turn the tables on us by forcing us to use a Skolian language.  Not to mention that he wasn’t happy about allowing our medtechs anywhere near him.  This sheds a new light on that, though.”

            Mac nodded.  “He didn’t need a mod to learn a new language rapidly, even as an adult.  In fact, it might even have interfered with his natural gift.”

            McLane clenched his fists.  “Every time I think we’ve got a handle on the Ruby Dynasty, they sprout some new ability or quirk.  How much English has the Imperator picked up?”

            Mac considered, then shook his head.  “It’s just a guess, mind you, but I’m inclined to think that particular gift might have passed him by.”

            “What makes you think that?”

            “What little we know about Skolian genetics,” Mac said.  “As near as we can tell, the Ruby Dynasty is a cross between several human strains who were genetically engineered for specific purposes.  I’m pretty sure that all of them learned several languages as children:  Iotic and Skolian Flag, their mother’s languages.  Trillian, their father’s native language.  The Imperator also probably studied Eubic and Highton.  Unfortunately for the Skolians, though, we conduct business and diplomacy in a dozen or more languages.  There’s no one Allied language that one would automatically pick to learn.  The three members of the Ruby Dynasty whom we know have a gift for languages all resemble the late King of Skyfall physically, down to having extraordinary singing voices.  On the other hand, Roca Skolia uses a mod to speak broken English when a translator isn’t available.  Physically, the Imperator resembles her more than his father.  And he always uses a translator, while Prince Eldrin and Princess Chaniece don’t bother.”

            Fitz added some notes to his file.  “Thank you for that analysis, Mac.  If you’re right, we don’t have to worry quite as much about Greeley’s taunts hitting home and causing a diplomatic crises.”

            “I’d say the content of what ‘Old Man River’ says is causing more than enough of a crisis,” Mac commented dryly, “even after the phrasing has been prettied up in translation.”

            Fitz grunted in agreement, then gestured for Johnson to continue his story.

            “When we reached the kitchen, still surrounded by the children, Prince Del-Kurj talked to the chef, ordering lunch, I assume.  He used some Asian language I couldn’t identify, probably Korean, if that clip is correct.  His Korean was much less fluent than his Spanish, if that’s any consolation.  It took several exchanges for the prince to make his point.  Then things got odd.”  The Marine shook his head.

            “How so?”  McLane asked.

            “Princess Chanice herded the children off to wash their hands.  Prince Del-Kurj and Jud Taborian appropriated a counter and started to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, assembly line-style.  Prince Eldrin got out a stack of plates and poured juice while Randall Gaithers quartered and cored five or six apples.  It was obviously a well-practiced routine.  All the while, on the other side of the kitchen, the cook and his assistants were busy making a fancy lunch for the adults.”

            “It sounds like a very efficient use of skill and effort,” Mac said, smiling.

            “Oh, it was.  But…” he shook his head.  “I’m still having a hard time getting my mind around the concept of three interstellar dignitaries taking it upon themselves to get lunch for the hired help’s kids.”

            “Del, Eldrin, and Chanice are the oldest of the surviving Valdoria children,” Mac explained. “They all grew up looking after their younger siblings—sometimes for extended periods while their mother and father were offworld—and they’re all parents.  Also…”

            He hesitated, until Fitz gestured impatiently for him to proceed.

             “The Skolians seem to view children differently than we do,” Mac continued slowly.  “I know a lot of the old Ruby colonies have high infertility rates—something to do with several successive genetic bottlenecks.  Anyway, children are seen as much more of a community resource and responsibility than here.  Also, while it doesn’t apply to Skolian society generally, Skyfall’s culture enforces gender roles rather strictly, but recognizes few class distinctions.”

            “So the Ruby Dynasty doesn’t see anything odd about playing nanny to their hired help’s kids?”

            “As long as it doesn’t prevent them from meeting their other obligations.”

            Fitz shook his head.  “Who’d have thought?”

            Randall’s parents’ neighbor, the former choir director who viewed holorock as a refuge for the musically incompetent, reluctantly agreed to help Del prepare to meet Senator Greeley’s challenge.  He arrived expecting the worst and left so overflowing with amazement at Del’s range and virtuosity that he could speak of nothing else to his colleagues on the long flight back to Los Angeles.  Those colleagues spread the word, and soon the political junkies wanting to see Del’s response to Greeley’s challenge found themselves competing for tickets with equally well-to-do opera buffs.  The scalpers made a fortune as ticket prices soared beyond what the mostly younger holorock crowd could afford.

            Zachary also noted an interesting new cross-correlation, as the atypical academics who purchased Del Arden vids were joined by a measurable fraction of classical music enthusiasts.  Del Arden had never attracted the normal holorock demographics, though, so he simply shrugged and moved on to the next graph.

            Despite Prime-Nova’s attempts to restrict cameras and other recording equipment among the audience, no less than seven different bootleg versions of the “Carnelians break” from Del’s concert went viral within the first two hours after the performance.  It might have been a coincidence that the best of these unauthorized recordings was apparently filmed from one of the boxes and came up first in mesh searches even though it didn’t come from any of the usual purveyors of bootleg holorock videos. 

            There was some speculation among the professional bootleggers as to the identity of their new competitor, and whether he or she intended to build an unofficial news empire in competition with their own.  They need not have worried.  Neither Staver Aunchild nor his organization had any ambitions in that direction, nor would the Imperator have tweaked the Allied mesh’s search engine algorithms for such a purpose.  In the end, the bootleg versions didn’t matter.  The official members of the press who attended the concert to cover Del’s response to Senator Greeley’s challenge had both good recording equipment of their own, and a large following.

            The next morning, the Skolian Imperator stalked into the conference room at the head of his delegation, looking grimly pleased.  When the preliminaries were over and the negotiations were officially in session, the Fist of Skolia spoke.

            “Before we begin work on clause XIV, Imperator Skolia has something he would like to share with the Honorable Mr. Greeley, in case the good Senator missed it,” the translator said.

            Greeley knew what was coming, but there was no diplomatically acceptable way to refuse.  When his protests were politely but firmly ignored, he allowed the tech people to insert the cube Kelric offered into the viewer.

            A holo appeared in the center of the room.  Unlike the grainy, low-definition bootleg versions that most of those present had seen, this one was clear enough that there could be no confusion as to its subject matter.  The recording equipment built into a Jagernaut’s biomech and nodes was both of very high quality and not subject to seizure by Prime-Nova’s security, after all.

            A life-sized image of Del took off his loose, colorful jacket, leaving him dressed in a white dress shirt and black pants that suddenly looked rather formal.  He tossed the jacket into the wings, trading it for a black coat with tails and a cutaway vest.  Slipping it on, he suddenly looked like a penguin. 

            Or an opera singer.  It wasn’t just the costume, but also the bearing.  Del Arden the dancing holorock sensation had been replaced by a dignified classical artist: an artist who had a very serious artistic statement to make.

            “This is for Senator Greeley,” he announced, and the live audience cheered, then settled back to listen avidly.  Stepping forward as lyrical notes came from the morpher, Del stood completely still at the edge of the stage and began singing in an exquisite tenor: “Ave Maria….”

            The recorded audience sat spellbound.  So did everyone watching the holo except Greeley, who looked as if he’d been sucking on a lemon.  When Del went up two octaves and sang the second verse in the high soprano range, there were audible gasps.  Del’s soprano wasn’t as good an imitation of Beverly Sills as his tenor was of Pavarotti, but the chimes that accompanied certain notes gave the performance an ethereal purity.  As the last note faded away, the holo captured the thunderous applause that shook the amphitheater as the audience cheered.  Several of the people in the conference room forgot themselves so much as to clap as well. 

            Kelric held up a hand to stop it, then spoke. 

            “The reviews cite Placido Domingo six times, Beverly Sills fifteen, and Pavarotti twenty,” came the translation.  “As of this morning, Prince Del-Kurj had received invitations to make guest appearances with ten major opera companies, three charity galas, the Washington Choral Arts Society, a public radio pledge week fundraising drive, and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  My brother the holorock star may hate singing opera with a passion, but he does it very well. Now, I believe we have some evidence to present.”

            “Not so fast,” Greeley said, his face flushing.  “I wasn’t born yesterday.  I refuse to have the agenda of this meeting derailed by something that’s so easy to fake.  That recording has to be dubbed.  It’s not physically possible for the same person to sing bass, baritone, tenor, and soprano.”

            When this was translated, the Imperator replied, “We thought you might say something like that.  I’ve asked my brother Eldrin to explain it to you.”

            Prince Eldrin stood and walked into the clear space between the delegations where Del’s holo had been projected.  Seeing the two in such quick succession emphasized their similar appearance.  The Ruby Consort spoke in English, although with a strong, lilting accent.  “Del and I inherited our voices from our father, who was a Bard.  The Bards of Skyfall were bred or engineered—we’re not sure which, and the records are long lost—for singing.  Without enhancement, we have about a six-octave useful singing range.  That means we can sing from bass,” he drew an easy breath and boomed out the Commandant’s recitative from Don Giovanni, filling the conference room effortlessly, “through baritone,” another breath, followed by the first few lines of the Nightmare Song from Gilbert and Sullivan’s Iolanthe, “tenor,” this time the example was from Wagner, “contralto, mezzo-soprano, and soprano.”  For each vocal range, the prince demonstrated by singing a snippet, ending with the chorus of the Laughing Song from Die Fledermaus, sung in a delightfully light and acrobatic coloratura that would make any diva proud.  Like his brother’s voice, Prince Eldrin’s chimed delicately on some of the high notes, giving it the same ethereal feel.

            “So as you see,” he ended, dropping back to his normal resonant baritone speaking voice, “there was no trickery, enhancement, or modification to Del’s performance.  That really was his natural voice singing both tenor and soprano, in operatic style.  Which only leaves one question: will you honor your own pledge, now that Del has fulfilled the terms of your challenge?”

 ¹  This is what they saw: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bPvAQxZsgpQ

 ²  The soprano verse would have sounded a bit like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n0TrQ4mrqIY

 Part Four

 The Price of Peace Index

Skolian Empire Fan Fiction Index

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