42

THE MOOD OF THE GROUP was understandably sombre, and though no one dared admit it even to themselves, there was also a mild sense of relief. Arthur was dead. The whole reason for undertaking the mission was gone and yet they would also now not have to return to Edinburgh Castle and present the heir to the throne, a symbol of Britain, as a spineless wretch with a death-wish.

In the end, Arthur had gotten what he'd wanted, Hunter supposed. He felt they'd all be better off dead and now he was. Hunter didn't feel she'd be better off dead. Despite all she'd been through, the thought of ending her life had never crossed her mind. She did, however, feel she was better off with Arthur dead.

The thought should have come with some guilt, she knew, but she didn't feel any.

Perhaps one of the advantages of not having a normal mind or the emotional responses of a normal person.

Ransom had been more subdued than usual since Arthur's death, but so had most of the others—excluding Hutch, who didn't appear to give a damn—especially Hobson, whose entire post-invasion life had been dedicated to protecting the Prince. Hobson was a good man, a good soldier and the kind of person humanity was going to need if it was to survive the ril-galas, and survive itself afterward. It occurred to Hunter quite by surprise that getting Hobson out of Balmoral and into the fold had become the mission's success story. Arthur had been largely irrelevant from the moment she understood his personality, but Hobson could actually make a difference.

And she'd begun to see a different side of Ransom as well.

Despite her skill with a bow, everyone—Hunter included—had a tendency to discount Ransom due to her young age. Hunter should have known better, having seen everyone but Radko make the same mistake with Anna Cortez. There was a leader in the young redhead. The question was whether she was willing to let it out.

She watched Ransom rubbing at her left forearm. She'd been doing it quite a bit since Arthur's death, as if alleviating the itch of a healing cut that wasn't actually there.

"Are you going to be all right?" asked Hunter.

The question seemed to startle Ransom.

"What? Yeah. Yeah, I'll be okay. You know, just... not really how I was expecting things to go."

"Me either. But we've always worked with what we have, so we just have to keep doing that."

Ransom nodded.

"I guess keeping this a secret—going to Balmoral for Arthur, I mean—was a pretty good idea after all," she said.

"Unfortunately."

"I'm sorry, Hunter. I'm really sorry. For what it's worth, I think you're right," said Ransom. "The people do need someone to look to as a symbol."

"I'm not sure we're going to find one."

Ransom glanced back at Hobson, then back to Hunter.

"I didn't know what he looked like before we met him. Arthur, I mean."

Hunter didn't respond. She didn't think she was supposed to—this was Ransom thinking out loud.

"Makes me wonder if anyone would have recognized him when we got back to Edinburgh. If he'd survived, I mean. Could we have brought, like, anyone back and told them it was the heir to the throne?"

A frown began to crease Hunter's brow. She was usually quite good at figuring out what people were talking around when they started half-conversations of the kind Ransom was currently engaged in... but this time she was having a hard time following the meandering trail of thoughts.

"What if...," said Ransom, chewing her lower lip. "Someone could replace him?"

Hunter stopped walking for a moment, then hurried to catch up to Ransom once more.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean we'd have to ask Hobson whether or not Arthur was too famous to pull it off—I don't think he was, but Hobson would know for sure. And if it's something that's at least possible, we... replace him. We give the people what they need, but what we couldn't get from the real guy: a symbol who can give them hope. Wave a fucking sword at the top of the battlements. Tell everyone to never give up, never surrender—all the Churchill stuff."

The water burbled by as they walked along the river, getting ever closer to the sea. Hunter watched the water—water had always fascinated her for some reason—and rolled Ransom's statement over in her head several times.

"Just temporarily," said the girl, possibly taking Hunter's silence as disapproval. "Get the people inspired, then maybe the fake Arthur dies in battle or something."

"And becomes a true symbol," said Hunter. "An incorruptible memory."

"Yeah, pretty much."

There was a great deal of hope, almost desperate hope, in Ransom's voice.

"Who?

"What?"

"Who would we find to be the replacement Prince, assuming Hobson and the others are willing to proceed?"

Ransom looked at the water. The trees. The sky. She swallowed heavily. Hunter noticed Ransom's hands were shaking and the urge to look inside the girl's mind was strong. But she resisted.

"Me," said Ransom.

Hunter stared, knowing she'd heard the response correctly, but her brain refusing to process it fully.

"You?"

"Do you see another option?" said Ransom, in her near-perfect vocal impression of Arthur.

"But you're... not male."

"I have the body of an athlete," said Ransom in her own voice, shrugging. "I've got broad shoulders from my years with the bow. My boobs aren't very big—we can hide them by, like, wrapping my chest tightly with fabric. Maybe get me a leather jacket to wear or something. And this..."

She flicked a hand through her unruly mass of curls.

"This can be cut. Shaved even, if we need to."

"You would do that? Give up your identity and become someone else?"

Ransom gave her a sidelong glance and a raised brow in response.

Of course. That was exactly what Hunter had done. She'd given up Quon Li-Chen and become Hunter—she'd chosen who she wanted to be. And while Ransom's plan was somewhat different in that there had already been a Prince Arthur where Hunter had never existed previously, there were similarities in the situation and motivations.

Hunter couldn't argue that the people needed a symbol around which to rally and she herself was never going to be that symbol—aside from her lack of ties to Earth and her lack of history there, she had little doubt that now, once their group returned to Edinburgh, she would also have rumours about her abilities floating around. Her position as a leader in the resistance movement would likely be in jeopardy once they returned, but there was still a chance to give the people what they needed.

All she needed to do was convince Hobson to go along with it, then convince the rest of the team to go along with it, then turn Ransom into a convincing male and make sure no one ever found out the truth.

Easy.

Briefly, she flirted with the idea of trying to use her powers to create a kind of blind spot in people's minds, where they would just accept Ransom-Arthur at face value and not question too much. Ultimately, even if she could figure out how to accomplish it, Hunter doubted she'd have been able to withstand the strain of trying to affect so many minds for so many hours a day—for who knew how many days. Or months. Hopefully not years, but there was the possibility.

Hunter wasn't certain if Ransom had considered the possible length of her... performance.

"You could be masquerading as Arthur for months," she said.

"I know, I thought of that," said Ransom. "Let's be honest, Hunter, I've been masquerading as a normal person for most of my life. Hiding what I really am. Hiding what I do. This won't be as much of a challenge for me as you think."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine, it's good to think of the problems we might run into."

"Not for that. I'm sorry that you've had to hide yourself for so long. I know how hard it is. I didn't hide myself, but I didn't know who I was. I suspect they're very similar feelings."

"Yeah, I expect."

"I don't know if your plan will work," said Hunter after a lengthy silence. "It will be a huge risk to even try it. Some people are bound to recognize you."

At that, Ransom actually laughed.

"No they won't. You know how many people at Edinburgh Castle even know my name? Not counting the people here with us now, I can probably count them on one hand. I'm a kid, who the fuck is going to pay me any mind? The only thing they recognize is my hair," she said, twirling a lock around her finger. "And I always wear it down. Half the time you can't even see my face."

The girl shrugged.

"No one will miss Harley Ransom. And hopefully King Arthur can inspire them."

It certainly wasn't ethical and Hunter shouldn't even have been considering it... and yet she was. And considering it very seriously.

Doing the wrong thing for the right reason. It was how Radko had classified his raid on the ATC Castle training facility to resupply the Vimy Ridge and though she thought she'd understood what he'd meant at the time, she realized she hadn't truly understood until that moment. That was also when she realized she'd already made her decision.

"I'll talk with Hobson," she said.

Hobson, as it turned out, was surprisingly amenable to the idea. Hunter had expected it to be a long, drawn out debate, with Hobson steadfastly refusing to budge. Instead, he'd been more concerned with logistics than anything. When Hunter asked him about it, his answer had been very simple.

"I have guarded the Royals for nearly twenty years, Hunter. I don't want everyone's last memory of them to be a boy who refused to face what his subjects faced. The Crown means something to us. It's hard to explain to someone who isn't from the Commonwealth generally, but Britain specifically."

He paused, rubbing the back of his neck and looking like he felt guilty about what he was saying.

"I don't want hundreds of years of history to end with 'and then the last of British Royals jumped off a cliff.'"

Hunter just nodded.

"Do you think she can pull it off?" asked the Corporal.

"You've heard her do the voice."

"I have," he said, nodding. "She'll have to give up the bow. Or at least look like she's worse than she is for a while. The Prince had taken archery lessons, but she's exceptionally good."

"She was a competitor at the Commonwealth Games," said Hunter, surprising herself with the amount of pride evident in her voice, pride on Ransom's behalf at her achievement.

But it was happening. Ransom was going to become Arthur... or at least it could be happening. Hobson had been the first hurdle, but Hunter reminded herself there were still several to overcome.

For the remainder of their daylight trekking, she stayed to herself, planning, plotting, trying to bring forth every objection she could think of and then find a rational response. They were in a desperate situation, everyone knew it, and in some ways that made her job a little easier. She wouldn't necessarily need to completely negate objections—all she'd need to do was inject some doubt about those objections and show people that the plan could work. The survivors of the human race badly wanted to believe that not only was there a plan, but it was a plan that just might have a chance of succeeding.

Hope could be a powerful thing.

They sat huddled around the small fire, the tight copse of trees hopefully concealing the light from their enemy, the spindly branches and their fall leaves hopefully dissipating the smoke enough to avoid notice. Everyone was silent, all eyes darting back and forth between Hunter and Ransom, who stood at her side. The girl stood straight, met every gaze and didn't project any nervousness or unease at all.

Hunter realised that Ransom, whether any of the group realised it or not, was auditioning.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," said Hutch.

Right on queue.

"We need someone to inspire our people," said Hunter. "We all know it was never going to be Arthur himself, but we have a second chance to make this work."

"But she's a girl," said Hutch. "And we all know what she goddamned well looks like."

He was playing his part exceptionally well. When Hunter had first told Hutch about Ransom's plan, he'd laughed not because he thought it was absurd, but because he'd thought it was fantastic and wanted to help them pull it off. Hutch had never thought much of the actual Prince, but, he had to admit, Ransom was someone who had earned his respect. She was someone whose words and deeds he could trust. Having her in the role of symbolic hero or whatever they wanted to call her was probably the only way their original plan could have succeeded anyway.

But Hunter had asked him to be skeptical in public. Rather pointedly, she had explained that given his history of dissent—with essentially everything, all the time—the rest of the group would be more comfortable moving forward if he disagreed at first and was seen to come around, as opposed to if he simply agreed at the outset.

She was about to see if she was right.

Ransom quickly and clearly addressed his two points, saying more or less what she had said privately to Hunter.

"Show of hands," said Ransom. "Who here knew my name before we got on that helicopter?"

Grieve was the only one to raise a hand. Hunter should have, but didn't.

"Now how many knew what I looked like?"

A couple of others raised their hands.

"And how many of those could have identified my face if wasn't framed by this?" she asked, using her hands to flip her hair into the hair.

Everyone but Grieve lowered their hands.

Ransom cleared her throat and when she spoke, she did so in the voice of the dead Prince.

"So out of our entire group," said Ransom-Arthur. "Exactly one of you would have been able to positively identify me without my wild mane of fiery locks? I believe your concern should now be allayed, Mister Hutchings."

No one was looking at Hunter at all any more and more than one mouth was agape.

Hutch just laughed.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he said again, but this time more out of amusement.

"Arthur's death doesn't change what we need," said Ransom, in her own voice. "We need a symbol to give people hope."

"So since the one we wanted didn't work out, we just get a fake?" asked Grieve.

"Aren't they all?" said Hobson.

Everyone turned to him.

"How many symbols we've fought for over the years have been everything we thought they were? Our leaders have always been deeply flawed human beings, sometimes worse than the leaders of the people we fought against. Our countries are just social constructs and we fought and died over a thin red line someone drew on a map. Our flags are just pieces of coloured cloth stitched together in a particular way and have over the years stood for subjugation and slavery and intolerance, yet people revere them. Christ knows the Royal family have never been perfect—I can tell you that the rumours about Arthur's uncle, Prince Gerald, were entirely true—but they are a powerful symbol nonetheless. Most of them that I knew were not the people they presented themselves to be in public, but those public personas could do marvelous things."

He paused to sip his tea. No one spoke, knowing he had more to say.

"I saw normally stingy people donate to a children's hospital because of a speech by the Queen. I was there when the King convinced the Commonwealth and the Soviets to sit down and draw up the last peace agreement when it seemed neither side would even talk about it let alone put anything in writing. Now, I know I have a greater respect for the Monarchy than most of you. I know that. But regardless of how you feel about the people who have occupied Buckingham Palace over the years, the symbol of the Crown, the symbol of the Monarchy is powerful."

"King George VI and Queen Elizabeth during World War II," said Grieve quietly.

"Walking through London after the Blitz," Hobson said, nodding and taking another sip of tea.

"Defiant. Proud."

"The embodiment of the British resolve."

"Gloriana reborn," said Grieve, holding up his tin cup in Ransom's direction. "The King is dead. Long live the King."

And one by one, the others agreed to the plan.

Now they just had to make it work.