March Upcountry

“I thought it might. But when you consider the cloud his father is under, the fact that no one really knows where Roger himself stands, and the fact that the Empress’ own attitude towards him often seems . . . ambiguous,” she chose the word with obvious care, “it’s probably inevitable that he should turn out at least a bit that way.” She snorted sadly. “Kostas Matsugae and I have argued about it often enough, but I’ve never disagreed with Kostas’ insistence that Roger wasn’t exactly dealt the fairest possible hand. But where Kostas and I differ is on where we go from where we are now. I wasn’t Roger’s first tutor, you know. In fact, I’ve only been with him for a little over six years, so I wasn’t there when he was a hurt little boy dealing with the unfairness of life. I can feel for that little boy’s pain, I suppose, but I have to be more concerned with getting Roger the theoretical adult to face up to the fact that life isn’t fair and learning to deal with it as a MacClintock and as a prince of the Empire. And,” she admitted heavily, “I don’t seem to be doing a very good job of it.”

“Well,” Kosutic told her, picking her words with equal care, “I can’t say I envy you. I’ve done my share of kicking wet-behind-the-ears lieutenants into Marine officers, but the Corps gives me a lot better support structure for that kind of thing than you seem to have.”

“It would be nice if I could use the sort of judo I’ve seen you using on Captain Pahner’s officers,” O’Casey agreed wistfully. “But I can’t. And, frankly, Roger has a positive genius for digging in his heels. He may not be the overachiever his brother and sister are, but he’s certainly got every bit of the MacClintock stubbornness!”

She paused with a sudden laugh, and Kosutic raised an eyebrow at her.

“What’s funny?” the sergeant major asked.

“I was just thinking about Roger and stubbornness,” O’Casey replied. “Well, that and God’s peculiar sense of humor.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Have you ever been to the Imperial War Museum?” the academic asked, and the Marine nodded.

“Sure. A couple of times. Why?”

“I take it you’ve seen the Roger III Collection, then?”

Kosutic nodded again, though she wasn’t at all sure where O’Casey was headed with this. Roger III had been one of the many unreasonably capable emperors the MacClintock Dynasty had produced, and, as seemed to be the norm among his relatives, he had been a man of passionate (and, some would say, peculiar) interests. One of them had been military history and, particularly, that of Old Earth between the twelfth and sixteenth centuries, CE, and he had assembled what was probably the finest collection of arms and armor from the period in the entire history of the human race. When he died, he had bequeathed the entire collection to the Imperial War Museum, where it had become and remained one of its star attractions.

“Ever since Roger III’s time,” O’Casey went on a bit obliquely, “the continuance of his hobby interest in ancient weaponry has been something of a tradition in the Imperial Family. Oh, there’s an edge of affectation to it, of course—something that makes good PR as a ‘family tradition’ that imperial subjects can ooh and ah over—but there’s also more than a little truth to it. The Empress and the Crown Prince, for example, can spend hours explaining more than you ever wanted to know about things like Gothic armor and Swiss pikemen.” She grimaced with so much feeling that Kosutic chuckled.

“But not Roger,” the academic continued. “I said he can be stubborn? Well, he dug his heels in and flatly refused to have anything to do with the ‘tradition.’ I suppose it was a fairly harmless way to express his rebellion, but he was certainly . . . firm about it. Maybe it’s partly because it was all started by another Roger who also happens to have been another of those MacClintock figures everyone respects —unlike our Roger—but despite his family’s very best efforts, he never showed the least interest in the entire subject, which is a pity really. Especially now.”

“Now?” Kosutic gazed at her for a moment, then barked a laugh as understanding struck. “You’re right,” she said, “it would be handy if he knew anything about it, given the local tech level on Marduk.”

“Absolutely,” O’Casey agreed with another sigh, “but that’s our Roger all over. If there’s a way to do it wrong, he’ll find it every time.”

Roger watched Pahner make his way down the center transom of the shuttle bay and shook his head. With the troops squashed into the shuttle like old-fashioned sardines in a can, the only way to move up and down the troop bay was by walking on the transom on which the center seats were mounted. That meant, of course, that he was walking at head level to the seated Marines.

The problem was that while Pahner was in a relatively light and fairly nimble skin suit, which he’d donned in preference to armor for just this reason, Roger was wrapped in ChromSten. He could no more make his way down that narrow strip in armor than he could walk a tightrope, and he rather doubted that any of his bodyguards would feel happy about being stepped upon, however daintily, by armor that weighed as much as a tyranothere.

“Well, Your Highness?” Pahner asked as he reached the end and swung easily to the floor.

“I’m going to have a hard time making my way down the bay in this,” Roger said, gesturing at his armor. Pahner glanced at the gray battle steel and nodded.

“Take it off. We’re going to be rattling around for a couple of hours.”

“Take it off where? There’s not enough room in the compartment.”

“Right here,” Pahner said, gesturing at the small open area. The patch of deck was the only open area in the bay, a tiny sliver of room for the shuttle crew to move around in. A ladder led up from it to a small landing with two hatches, one to the command compartment, and the other to the bridge. There was another hatch on the troop level portside. It was a pressure door leading to the exterior.

“Right here?” Roger juggled the helmet under his arm to give himself a moment to think while he looked around. Most of the guards were still doing their own things. A few had gotten up to move around, but most of those had headed to the rear of the bay where the palletized cargo afforded room to stretch out. It seemed awfully . . . public, though.

“I could get your valet,” Pahner said with a faint smile. “He’s back there,” he continued, gesturing towards the rear of the troop bay.

“Matsugae?” Roger’s face brightened. “That would be grea– I mean, yes, of course, Captain. Do you think you could fetch my valet?” he ended in a refined drawl.

“Well,” Pahner said, his face closing down again, “I don’t know about ‘fetch.’ ” He banged the nearest sleeping guard on the shoulder. “Pass the word for Matsugae.”

The Marine yawned, shoved the next Marine in line, passed on the word, and promptly went back to sleep. A few moments later, Roger saw the small form of the valet emerge from under a pile of rucksacks. He bent down and spoke to someone, then climbed onto the transom and made his way toward the prince.

Vertical pillars ran up from the transom to the roof every two meters, and if Matsugae was far less nimble on the uncertain footing than Captain Pahner had been, he had the overall idea down. He would hold onto a vertical, then move forward of it, using it to balance as he shuffled out on the transom as far as he could before making a hopping lunge for the next. Using this technique, he slowly made his way forward to the prince’s position.

“Good—” the valet paused, obviously checking the clock in his toot “—evening, Your Highness.” He smiled. “You’re looking well.”

“Thank you, Valet Matsugae,” Roger said, much more careful to maintain his formality in front of so many listening ears. “How are you?”

“Very well, Your Highness. Thank you.” Matsugae gestured to the rear of the compartment. “Sergeant Despreaux has been a mine of helpful information.”

“Despreaux?” Roger lifted an eyebrow and leaned sideways to look down the line of troops, and caught the brief flash of a refined profile.

“She’s a squad leader in Third Platoon, Your Highness. A very nice young lady.”

“Given their resumes,” Roger said with a smile, “I doubt that you could categorize any of the young ladies in The Empress’ Own as ‘nice.’ ”

“As you say, Your Highness,” Matsugae said with an answering smile. “How can I be of service?”

“I have to get out of this armor and into something decent.”

Matsugae’s face crumpled.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I should’ve known. Let me go get my pack.” He started to scramble up onto the