| |
THE PRINCE RAISED HIS EYES to the ceiling once again, his head already pounding from the endless recitation of facts and data. How could his advisor drone on and on without seeming to take a breath? The man had to be some sort of medical miracle. Or perhaps lavender irises weren’t the only body modification Doyle had chosen during his lifetime, though the prince had never met anyone with enhanced lungs.
Henry Doyle, Chief Consulate Advisor to the Prime Heir, clicked his tongue. “Prince Tomasz, are you even listening? Your father would like you to address these issues while we are on board the Atlas. The Red Council has just arrived to the station, ready to represent all the major regions of the First World Union, and they expect the royal family to respond to these heinous Restoration attacks.”
“I’d be happy to explain the royal family’s stance on those traitors,” the prince’s uncle, Kyrartine LaRose, grumbled from his seat by the expansive synth-glass windows.
The three of them were in the royal antechamber, just beyond the ballroom of Level Two. Plush carpeting from the finest manufacturers in Brussels spanned the entire room, stretching out in all directions beneath a massive wooden desk. At the head of the table rested a gilded throne, its headpiece adorned with the LaRose family coat of arms—the official royal throne aboard the Atlas space station.
The prince sighed. “I think heinous is a strong word to describe the Restoration, Doyle,” he said. “Their attacks have been calculated to destroy First World Union supplies, not to harm anyone. I’d say they were... inconvenient, rather than heinous.”
“Tell that to the thousands of factory crews now out of work due to this latest attack.” Doyle pulled a list of statistics from his handheld dataport. With a swipe of his elegant fingers, he transferred the information from his HDP to the table at the center of the room, its surface now alight with a scrolling marquee of schematics and Earth newsfeeds. “Repairs to the factory will take months, not to mention cost an immense amount of corpCredits. In the meantime, these people cannot afford food, rent, or necessary medicines. Did you think of that?”
The prince frowned. He hadn’t.
“Destroying the factory was clever,” said Kyrartine. “These rebels are smarter than you think.”
“How so?” the prince asked, genuinely curious. “Other than the building itself, not much of value was destroyed.”
“No, but the factory they chose employs a large number of workers in that district. If the people can’t afford medicine, then they certainly won’t be paying their royal taxes, and without that money, we’ll be hard-pressed to fund a proper military response against a future attack. Their methods are escalating. The Restoration is cutting off our ability to fight back by hitting the crown where it matters—our coffers.”
That made the prince hesitate. Were the Restoration attacks more calculated than he gave them credit for? And were they now escalating to something beyond burning crops, torching supply transports, or bombing factories? As Defense Minister, Kyrartine was privy to every report of Restoration attacks; he would know better than anyone just how dangerous the rebels could become. If he was worried, things didn’t bode well for the First World Union.
The prince shook his head. “I still don’t understand why I have to be the one to address the ambassadors,” he said after a moment. “Wouldn’t an official statement from the Grand Imperator be more appropriate, perhaps via a planetary press conference? I thought the whole point of visiting the Atlas station was to celebrate the Centennial of the Crown. To celebrate peace instead of broadcasting talk of war.”
“We are,” Kyrartine drawled, scanning through news articles on his HDP. “But with most of the Red Council aboard, your father thinks it wise to make a show of diplomatic strength. The LaRose monarchy may have united the world into a single government, but it is the High Chancellors who keep the peace across the six remaining continents.”
Doyle cleared his throat. “And since your brother’s—” At Kyrartine’s sharp look, the man shifted uneasily and coughed. “Since you are now the new Prime Heir, it is time for you to show the High Chancellors that you are ready to stand by your father’s side.”
You mean show them I can be strong like Liam. The prince pressed his forehead against the synth-glass. “And what exactly does the Grand Imperator hope I will say about these attacks? This wouldn’t be a problem if Father had dealt with the problem sooner, when these attacks first began.”
“Then, as Defense Minister, I would be out of a job,” Kyrartine said with a wink.
It still didn’t make sense why the Restoration traitors were so unhappy with the government. They accused the royal family of having too much power, but life on Earth was far better now than it had ever been back when over two hundred separate governments fought for resources. With overpopulation, those resources had only become scarcer, until finally the Great War had erupted, plunging the planet into dozens of multi-national conflicts. Empires fell. Power shifted hands until the governments that remained had taken a drastic step toward peace—they had appointed the first Grand Imperator to lead the world. Without presidents and emperors and prime ministers to fight over territories or medicines, peace had quickly ensued. The fire of the Great War had burned itself to embers. The Centennial of the Crown celebrated one hundred years of the monarchy that had saved the planet.
“Your father expects you to represent the crown while declaring the royal family’s official response to the attacks and how the First World Union plans on addressing the Restoration terrorists,” Doyle insisted.
“And what would you have me do, Uncle?” asked the prince, running a hand through his sandy hair. “You know the Red Council. Compromise is almost impossible. A solution that will appease the African High Chancellor will only disappoint the Neo-American States. I can already see Chen Yao’s look of thinly veiled contempt. I don’t want to send the First World Union into a war if we can avoid it.”
Kyrartine’s gold eyes darkened to the color of burnt wheat. “The monarchy, and your legacy, should be protected at all costs. You need to show these Restoration scum that a crown forged in fire is unbreakable.”
Liam had always suggested that responding to the Restoration attacks with force would only escalate the conflict, stoking the first sparks of unrest until they ignited into another global war. The Grand Imperator ignored the problem; Liam had championed peaceful negotiations; and now the prince would have to choose his own path.
A serving draadhart rolled into the room, carrying a tray of cucumber sandwiches and bitter-smelling coffee fresh off a ship from Delhi Province. The food reminded the prince of the displaced factory workers who would go hungry while he dined in lux comfort. “I understand that I cannot have the power of the crown without also carrying its weight,” he said finally. “Inform the Red Council that the Prime Heir will issue an official statement regarding the attacks.”
The prince resumed watching the parade of cargo vessels arriving at the space station, like a shoal of grey fish swimming silently in black water. He half-expected the advisor to rush from the room in his haste to make the announcement, but the man made no move to leave.
“Is there anything else, Henry? Or will my father finally let me have a moment to myself?”
Doyle fidgeted, a behavior out of character for his normally well-composed self, smoothing his long crimson overcoat emblazoned with the crest of the First World Union. The prince turned to find the man positively terrified.
Kyrartine stood, the HDP’s screen now blank. “I’ll tell him, Doyle. You’re excused.” The advisor nodded, grateful for the chance to escape, and scurried like a rabbit from a fox den.
The tone in his uncle’s voice made the prince uneasy. “Tell me what?”
“Your father is trying to prepare you for the rigors of occupying the throne,” he said gently, his hands splaying in a defensive gesture. “Since Liam’s death, and given the quakes of dissent rippling through the kingdom, it is important the royal family appears to thrive. Your father thinks it best that the Prime Heir is more... settled, in the public eye.”
“What exactly are you implying?”
“Before I tell you, I want you to know that it wasn’t my idea. In fact, I am strongly opposed,” Kyrartine said, crossing the room to rest a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Your happiness means a great deal to me.”
The prince stared up at the Grand Imperator’s much older brother whose features wore a gentle mixture of kindness and empathy. “Kyr, I don’t think I like where this is heading.”
“Your father wishes you to marry. You are to choose a bride at the ball in three day’s time.”
The prince inhaled sharply. Impossible. He wouldn’t dare make that decision without first speaking to me. After all, it was his life the Grand Imperator was moving like a chess piece in his diplomatic game. He pinched the bridge of his nose as a dull headache throbbed behind his eyes, his thoughts tumbling erratically. “Has my father told anyone else of this?”
“He made the declaration to the Red Council this morning after you left the negotiation chambers. He plans for it to be publicly announced kingdom-wide this afternoon.”
So it’s done. Once the announcement had been made to the council, the world leaders would take the news as fact. Going back on the plan meant going back on his father’s word—the word of the most powerful man on Earth. Fighting against his father’s decision would only make the First World Union appear weak, fractured at a time when the royal family needed to be more united than ever. If the Prime Heir refused to obey the commands of the Grand Imperator, then what would stop Restoration sympathizers from rising up and defying the crown?
“Your father hopes you will choose a daughter of Earth,” Kyrartine continued. “Specifically, a daughter of the council. He feels the marriage will strengthen diplomatic ties and quiet those whispering that the Grand Imperator, and our family, have become too removed from the workings of the monarchy. Your mother disagrees. She believes you should choose a daughter of the Atlas. Your father did acknowledge that he will give you the final decision in choosing a bride, so long as you adhere to the deadline.”
“How gracious of His Eminence,” the prince said bitterly. He made a fist with his hands, his fingertips digging into his palms. To make the announcement without so much as speaking to him, and then to send others to break the news? It was cold. Emotionless. As usual, any discomfort was passed into the hands of someone else.
He should have expected as much from his father.
Against the far wall, a hiss signaled the opening of the chamber’s door, revealing the Grand Imperator and Imperatoress. Behind them, Station Commander Grey escorted Chen Yao, High Chancellor for the Neo-American States. Both Yao and Grey appeared deep in conversation until they spied the prince.
The Grand Imperator’s gaze shifted to the Prime Heir and the laughter dissolved, his good humor tempering like a hot iron sizzling on the surface of a glacier. His large hands folded in front of the gold breastplate he wore during council meetings, as he gave Kyrartine a knowing look. The Imperatoress glanced between her husband and her son, sending the prince a pleading look to remain calm. Commander Grey adjusted his uniform, clearly uncomfortable from the unexpected tension.
The Grand Imperator nodded curtly. “So you’ve told him, then.”
“I have,” said Kyrartine, squeezing the prince’s shoulder, seemingly trying to reassure him.
The Imperatoress tugged her husband’s sleeve. “Nikolais,” she pleaded. “Maybe we should discuss this later.”
“It’s time he understands what it means to be the Prime Heir, Vivienne.” The prince clenched his teeth as the Grand Imperator pierced him with a frozen glare. “We must look to the future of the First World Union with the cards we’ve been dealt. Isn’t that right, Tomasz?”
The prince snorted. “I should have known you were planning something underhanded when you invited me along on your little trip,” he said, barely concealing the bitterness from his voice. “I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t for Freiter—”
“I will not hear any more of your conspiracy theories!” the Grand Imperator suddenly roared, causing Chen Yao to start. The High Chancellor bowed to excuse himself, quickly darting out the door. The commander made to follow, but the Grand Imperator motioned for him to stay. “No, Grey, you may as well hear this nonsense so we can put this ridiculous idea out of my son’s head. He seems to find security measures on board the Atlas rather lacking.”
Grey’s features lifted in surprise. “Excuse me, Your Eminence?”
The Grand Imperator’s tone became overly sweet, like poisoned honey. “Are you aware of any Restoration sympathizers living on the station, perhaps even smuggling weapons aboard?”
Commander Grey bristled at the accusation. “Of course not, sir. My team reviews the transfer paperwork for every single ounce of shipment that comes through our docking bay. If any part of the documentation was questionable, the entire cargo would be placed in quarantine. It’s simply not possible for an unscheduled military shipment to somehow make its way onto the Atlas.”
“And the sympathizers?”
Grey shifted slightly. “We’ve had the occasional disgruntled citizen, but nothing we haven’t been able to handle. And when the attacks on Earth increased, I immediately ordered security forces to compile a list of those most liable to turn against the First World Union. That way, we’ll be ready if any whispers of rebellion are heard on the station. If the prince would like to see the list...”
“I would—”
“No.” The Grand Imperator’s voice was barely more than a growl, but the prince knew better than to press the issue. To push him any further would be to risk violence. “Anyone who indulges the Prime Heir’s ramblings beyond this conversation will answer directly to me. This discussion is over. You have a very big decision ahead of you in three days’ time. I suggest you focus your efforts on your engagement.”
It was the Grand Imperatoress who finally broke the room’s heavy silence. “The eligible daughters of the Red Council are all well-bred ladies befitting your station. In three days, you will change one young lady’s life forever. As your bride, she will want for nothing. Surely you have someone in mind?”
Commander Grey coughed politely into a gloved hand. “And if Prince Tomasz prefers a girl outside the realm of politics, there are many beautiful young ladies—accomplished, intelligent, innovative young ladies—living on the upper decks of the Atlas.” He nodded eagerly. “I am certain any number of them would be honored to accept the Prime Heir’s hand in marriage.”
“Isn’t that Rienne girl arriving today?” asked Kyrartine with a grin. He shot a teasing look at his nephew. “I’ve seen some of the more detailed messages she’s left for you on the palace telecomm. Seems very interested in the LaRose family jewels.” He chuckled, and the prince resisted the urge to swat his shoulder.
Cerise Rienne was a beautiful, rising actress in the Neo-American States. He’d met her six months ago, at a gala event for the National Portrait Gallery back when she’d just completed her first, very minor role. Cerise had spent the evening stalking him from table to table, impertinently taking his arm as if they’d known each other for years. No doubt counting on the fact that I wouldn’t throw her in the fountain. The next day, paparazzi splashed pictures of the two together on every news outlet and trendmag. Her career had immediately soared, and they’d been an item of constant gossip and speculation ever since. He shuddered slightly to think of her glee at hearing his father’s announcement later that day. Naturally, the entire First World Union would expect her to be the one he chose.
“Well, I don’t care who it is, as long as she’s respectable and honors her superiors,” snapped the Grand Imperator. “I don’t want you showing up to the ball with some companion junko on your arm.”
Before the prince could issue a snarky retort, a knock sounded loudly against the conference room door. Kyrartine answered, speaking in low tones to someone beyond the doorway. “Commander Grey, it seems there is a security captain outside who would like a word. It may be best if you discussed the matter outside. We wouldn’t want to bore His Eminence.”
The prince straightened, his ears perking at the curious exchange. A security captain? Had something happened on the Atlas?
“Nonsense,” scoffed the Grand Imperator. “It’s not like Grey keeps secrets from his sovereign.” He turned to the commander. “Put my brother’s fears aside, Mattias, and show us all that you have security on this station firmly in hand.”
“Of course, Your Eminence,” Grey said with a slight bow, gesturing for Kyrartine to bring the captain into the antechamber.
A few seconds later, a uniformed security forces guard appeared, holding the electro-cuff of a disheveled girl in overalls and a rumpled work hat pulled low, concealing her features. The captain shoved her forward, and the prince heard the girl mutter a curse under her breath. She lashed out with her foot and stomped on the man’s gravity boot. The captain’s face briefly contorted in pain before saying, “My apologies, Commander, but you told us to alert you to any suspicious activity during the Centennial of the Crown. We found her in the junkyard past her shift, scavenging illegally.”
“And what exactly were you doing in the scrap zone after crew duty?” barked Grey.
The girl gave no answer.
“Who is she?” Grand Imperator Nikolais asked as though the girl were not in the room. His nose furrowed at the smell of grease now permeating the air.
The dusty prisoner straightened, no doubt horrified upon recognizing the room’s occupants. She sank into an awkward bow, which was made even more so by the tension of the electro-cuffs. As she bent forward, the hat fell, releasing a waterfall of curls as white as snow.
The prince stared in stunned silence.
She was here. But how?
The commander opened his mouth to speak, cut short by the Prime Heir’s sudden, manic laughter. The faces of the room turned to him in surprise. As he stepped forward, the girl’s eyes finally met his own, her expression changing from shock to disbelief.
The prince grinned. “Father, I’d like you to meet Tesla,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “My date for the ball.”