“There are proper and noble ways of going about things.
I am constantly in search of them.”
—Renaldo Yhatt, to his wife
A tall, dignified man in a dinner tux, Prime Minister Renaldo Yhatt took a seat at the head of the palace dining table, set with silver, crystal, and fine linens, beneath a glittering antique chandelier. He was the only one there, took a sip of sauvignon blanc while he waited. Maureen Stuart was almost an hour late, which was not like her. Her husband, in the adjacent parlor talking with the First Lady, had said Maureen might be running late, because she had an important meeting with General Moore.
Yhatt snapped his fingers, causing draperies to spread open dramatically, revealing Imperial City in all of its nighttime splendor. He was on the second floor, and his palace sat on the only hill in the city, above the surrounding buildings and monuments. This provided the leader of the Empire with a clear view of the wide boulevards and moonlit river, where two ferries glittered like floating candelabras as they passed one another. It had been foggy earlier in the evening, but the fog was lifting, carried away by cool breezes.
The magnificent, sprawling city represented all that the AmEarth government had achieved—actually all it had plundered, Yhatt admitted to himself—from weaker peoples in distant lands. Much of the wealth of the planet had been gathered and brought here, to be displayed by the wealthy in their mansions, and in the many large museums, arenas, parks, and other public places around the metropolis. A century ago, this goal had been achieved at the expenditure of blood and treasure, but that had been a necessity, so that the whole world could come under one dominion.
Centuries before the AmEarth Empire, the British had managed to put one-quarter of the world’s land mass under their rule, but their empire had gradually crumbled after the death of their sovereign, Queen Victoria. This modern version of an empire—much larger and more magnificent—was not dependent upon any one personality to keep it together. By rule of law and military force, the Empire was strong, and getting stronger. Around the world, there were only a few minor rebellions to quell periodically, and to a large extent this was done with personnel-seeking drones, little remote-controlled aircraft that could sniff the trails of enemy leaders like bloodhounds, and fire tiny heat-seeking missiles into their brains—missiles that exploded on contact.
Hearing voices, he looked up. The white-haired First Lady, Lorissa Yhatt, was slender and elegant, dressed in a shimmering, pale blue gown. Seeming to float over the floor as she walked, she was accompanied by a younger man who looked out of place in a tweed sport coat and dark slacks. This renowned artist, Paddy Stuart, had long black hair, secured at the back in a silver clasp, and a neatly trimmed, graying beard. He and Mrs. Yhatt had been discussing painting techniques in the parlor while they awaited the arrival of Stuart’s wife. Uniformed female servants stood at attention by the table, with white cloths draped over their arms.
As Lorissa and Paddy took their seats, the Prime Minister’s top aide entered the room and awaited permission to speak. Harrison Jennings stood stiffly, a short distance from his superior. His blond hair and moustache were not as groomed as usual. When Yhatt nodded to him, Jennings said, “Mrs. Stuart has finally arrived on the grounds. And she appears have a problem.”
“What do you mean?” Yhatt asked, as servants poured white wine from carafes into tulip-shaped glasses.
Jennings ruffled his own moustache thoughtfully, with a thumb and forefinger. “I watched her on surveillance from one of the guard stations, sir. She looks disheveled and upset, and has spilled something on her dress. It must be why she’s so late.” Jennings listened to an earpiece, said, “Sir, I’m also receiving word that a military messenger is on his way to the palace, with an urgent report.”
“What’s it about?”
“I don’t know, sir. Excuse me, I’ll go and find out.” Jennings bowed, and left quickly. He passed Maureen Stuart, just as she entered the dining room.
Lorissa Yhatt gasped at the sight of Maureen Stuart, jumped to her feet and hurried over to her. “My dear!” she exclaimed, “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not.” Maureen slumped onto a side chair. Her eyes were full of agony as she looked past Mrs. Yhatt, to the Prime Minister. “A truly awful thing has happened, your eminence. A horrible thing. I’m sorry to come here with my dress like this, but it was unavoidable. I wanted to come directly here and warn you about something terrible.”
“Warn me?”
~~~
Maureen Stuart was only partially aware of her bearded husband kneeling beside her chair and holding her hand, and the Prime Minister and First Lady standing in front of her, looking down at her with concern. She had come straight here from the horrors at the officer’s club.
“They’re dead,” she said. “The most horrible way imaginable. Both General Moore and Jonathan Racker. I didn’t have time to change, wanted to rush straight here.”
“To warn me of what?” Prime Minister Yhatt asked.
“All the organs in their bodies exploded.” Shaking, she pointed toward the silvery stains on her dress. “Their brains blew, their hearts too, splattering blood this color. I was near them, when the interior organs in their bodies detonated—as if bombs had been planted inside.” She stared up at the Prime Minister. “It was gruesome, sir. And I’m afraid we’re going to be next.”
“Silver blood?”
“That’s right, sir. You need to notify security, put the palace on high alert.”
“No one can get to me,” Yhatt said. “Not with all the layers of protection I have.”
“I wouldn’t assume that, sir. The General and Racker also had high security. They didn’t die prettily. And it occurred at a military base.”
“Their organs blew? How can that be possible?”
Her entire body was trembling, and she struggled for control. “Something silver caused it, Mr. Prime Minister. A strange metallic light bathed both of them, and they died horribly, screaming—it was the worst thing I ever saw. They were mutilated and their blood turned silver.” She pointed again at the stains on her dress.
Looking up, Paddy said, “Mr. Prime Minister, I heard that silver blasts of light destroyed part of your fleet when it attacked Skyship. Could the events be connected?”
“I wouldn’t call it my fleet, Paddy. I’m a politician. That was a military venture without my approval, and a foolish one, by any rational definition. General Moore’s Folly.”
Paddy Stuart looked surprised at the frank comments, and just nodded.
Maureen was surprised, too. And watching Prime Minister Yhatt, she thought he looked concerned, but not panicked. Saying nothing, he walked across the large dining hall, stood at a high window and gazed out.
“I don’t know why I wasn’t killed, too,” Maureen said. “This all has something to do with Billy Jeeling, doesn’t it?”
Yhatt didn’t reply, continued to stare out at the capital city, so transfixed by it that he barely heard Harrison Jennings, asking to speak with him again.