Several of the House Lords were already positioning themselves politically following the disaster. Liao and Davion complained—loudly—that the defense system was unsafe and that its early deployment violated common sense as well as long-standing restrictions. Takiro Kurita took a longer view, and simply wanted to know when the technology would be shared with militaries of the Great Houses. All three were stirring a strong public outcry.
“Of course,” Kleppinger droned on, “it is unlikely that even such a tragedy as this will do more than spur local debate inside the separate Houses. Such is the absolute power enjoyed by First Lord Cameron.”
“No power is absolute,” Alek whispered to himself, closing his eyes. “Only corruption.”
Though paraphrasing the nineteenth century Lord Acton, he decided it was original enough to lead a paper on the subject and began to order his thoughts into a rough mental outline. Michael would give him a spot of grief over the non-Russian source, but the simple truth followed that Alek also studied in English, en Français, and was quickly learning Deutsch.
The musical composition had run into its third variation and Alek into his second page of mental notes. He couldn’t say how he detected the presence: A shadow against the back of his eyelids or a heavy footfall crunching down through the icy snow crust. All he could say for certain was that he suddenly knew that someone stood over him, and he startled to full alertness.
Gabriella Bailey stood there in parka, draped pants and snow boots. Her hazel eyes reflected back a measure of uncertainty. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said.
Kleppinger warned the class against accepting the media’s analysis. Alek straightened up into a better posture, finger-combed blonde hair back from his forehead. “No,” he said. “I mean, it’s okay.”
Nodding, Gabriella sank down into the snow next to him, resting on her knees and the toes of her boots, settling back onto her calves. She wore her hair down around her ears today, and neoleather gloves protected her hands. “Quite the spot you’ve picked out. Needed a break from studying?”
“What makes you think I’m not studying?”
She grinned. “You had a relaxed smile on your face. I don’t know anyone who smiles like that when plugged into a lecture. Not even you, Alek.”
It was the most she’d ever said to him in one sitting. Alek certainly did not want to argue with her. But… “Here,” he offered, pulling out his right ear plug. He passed it over, stretching the wire out of his pack. “Take a listen.”
More for the sake of politeness than any real desire it seemed, Gabriella cupped the plug to her ear. Her eyes widened into doe-like pools. “Kepplinger…and Wolfgang?”
“Ulysses Rozz. Twenty-sixth century composer. He based his work off Mozart, yes. I mixed this myself.”
She laughed, handed him back the plug. “That is so wrong.”
Alek shrugged, pulled out his left ear plug with great care and a sharp intake of breath, and tucked both into the pack. “I can listen to it dozens of times, though. It makes it easier to…what?”
She cocked her head to one side, looking at him. “Your ear.”
“My…? Oh. Yeah. Is it purpling up yet?” She nodded, glanced around uneasily. He tried to keep his tone easy, though the memory of the lacrosse stick lashing out at him in the corridor, driving him into the wall, was kind of hard to make light of. “It’s not so bad.”
Gabriella mimicked his lighthearted approach. “Don’t you ever win a fight, Alek?”
“No one wins a fight.”
“Is that another of your dead Russians?” Even she knew of his penchant for quotations, though Alek would have bet she hardly knew anything about him.
“A live one. Me.”
That brought the smile back to her face. “You’re very…complicated. For being such a straight-forward person, I mean.”
He shrugged. “Blame my father,” he said, and she glanced askance at him. “I was very young, and…not always in good health. He would take me to the museums in Moscow. Russia had a very,” he reached for the right word, “fractious history. There were purges. Massive oppression. And there were rebellions. But the strongest traits came from when the people endured. Seven hundred years later, you can still see it. That is a heritage.”
Gabriella nodded. “He sounds like a man who would be interesting to meet.”
“He will be here,” Alek said. “He—and my mother—are traveling to Tharkad. They will vacation on some nearby worlds, and then return in time for my graduation. Perhaps you will meet him then.”
“Perhaps I will.”
Neither of them seemed to know what to say after that. The silence stretched between them, and then snapped like cold taffy. “Well,” Gabriella said, “I just wanted to say that I’m glad you’re all right. After your collapse in class last week.” Rising to her feet in graceful motion, she brushed away snow caked to the knees of her pants. Almost as an afterthought, she asked, “Are you going to the spring reception?”
A university tradition, hosting the Nagelring cadets in a large ballroom event. Archon Steiner would make an appearance. It was the largest social event of every year. “I don’t know.” Dark thoughts flitted through Alek’s mind, knowing that Elias Luvon and his friends would be there in force. “You?”
“I was thinking about it.”
Alek blinked his surprise. “You mean no one has asked you yet?”
She laughed. “Well of course he asked. But I said…it doesn’t matter what I said. I simply thought...” Gabriella laughed again, more quietly, at herself. “Oh, hell. Alek, I was hoping you’d like to go. Together. With me.”
A flush crawled over the back of his scalp, and Alek climbed up onto his feet. He didn’t notice how his left ear
