it, a volcanic one.
Some girls got possessive. They seemed to see more in a friendship/flirtation than was actually there. A few got scared at life in the fast lane-especially if their parents got involved. Other girls just got nasty, treating Leif like the flavor of the week. No matter what the attitude, more than a few of Leif's relationships had ended in explosive breakups.
But Roberta Hendry was in a class by herself. About a year ago, Leif had enjoyed a pretty wild summer with her, running through the Washington social scene with a bunch of diplomatic brats. Roberta's family was old- money rich-what they called FFV, or 'First Family of Virginia.' The Hendrys had hung on. To their wealth since Virginia was a royal colony of Britain. Investments of some of that wealth made two generations ago in early tech stocks had enlarged the family's fortunes from lavish to obscene. They had more than enough money lying about these days to enjoy Society with a capital S.
The only two things the Hendrys hated were publicity, which Roberta's escapades sometimes brought on, and politics, which the Hendrys considered vulgar.
Perhaps that's why Roberta had gone political. Maybe it was some bizarre form of late adolescent rebellion.
Journalists and Net newscasters called her 'the radical debutante.' By the time they'd broken up, Leif thought she'd just gone plain wacko.
Roberta had taken up a bunch of weird — isms that frankly contradicted each other-except that they were all revolutionary in tone.
Leif's interest had quickly sunk to impatience when she started ranting to him about changing the whole social order. Somehow, the rhetoric seemed a bit much when he had to listen to a child of privilege attack his self- made father as a bloodsucking parasite.
Magnus Anderson had worked hard to build the fortune Leif enjoyed. A lot of fine people had gotten jobs from his father's company and good paychecks along the way to that fortune. Leif knew about his father's efforts-at times, he'd even helped with them. So being bad-mouthed by a rich girl whose family counted inherited money for a living got to be a little too much.
Leif and Roberta had argued the politics of privilege, their fights getting louder and louder until the rest of their good-time crowd began to avoid them. But the corker had come after a night they'd spent dancing- Roberta had told a valet-parking attendant that it was his class duty to sabotage all the rich folks' cars in his care. When Leif pointed out that would include her own luxury Dodge SUV, Roberta had used the powerful car to try and run him down.
After that, Leif had returned to New York and succeeded in not talking to Roberta Hendry-until this very surprising call.
'I had an agent checking on the comings and goings from Alan Slaney's childish amusement park,' Roberta informed him loftily.
Leif wasn't impressed. If her searchbot had wasted enough time for him nearly to finish making a cup of coffee before getting to Roberta, the agent wasn't all that great.
Reminded of his coffee, Leif picked up the cup, adding a little sugar. Too bad he couldn't sweeten the beautiful girl floating in front of him. 'You know Alan Slaney?' he asked. 'I would think that historical simulations in general-and AHSO in particular-would be pretty far down the list of your interests.'
'On the contrary,' Roberta told him. 'The turn-of-the- century era was the breeding ground for some of the great political movements of the twentieth century.' She took a deep breath, as if she were tasting something. 'Socialism, communism, fascism… anarchism. They all came to a great flowering twenty years on either side of 1900. I have a deep and valid interest in the turn of the century.'
Her lips curled in that all-too-familiar sneer. 'Unlike so many who claim an 'interest' in order to play dress- up!'
Leif blinked. 'You're actually taking part in the Latvinia beta-test?'
Roberta nodded. 'I was just as surprised to find your name listed among the participants.' She gave him a sidelong look. 'Actually I was more surprised when your name turned up in the early reports on the sim. My agent sorts items of political importance for me-even the silly reactionary politics in this charade. Imagine my astonishment when I discovered that you had prevented an attempt to kidnap Princess Gwenda! And you're staying in the palace!'
Leif rolled his eyes. 'And what exactly do you want out of it?'
Roberta leaned forward, intent on her plans-and completely oblivious to Leif's skeptical reaction. 'I'll be entering Latvinia as Viola da Gamba, an adventurous female reporter.' Her lips twisted again. 'It was the least demeaning role I could find in the simulation. I'm sure Slaney planned it that way, to keep me from upsetting his reactionary applecart. As a commoner, I would normally find it almost impossible to speak to the princess, even though I represent the press.'
'Normally,' Leif repeated.
'But now I have a friend at court-literally,' Roberta said with a self-satisfied nod.
Ignoring her rather elastic definition of 'friend'- someone who chases you down the street in a car with probable intent to kill wasn't anywhere on Leif's definition of friendship-Leif asked, 'Isn't there someone else in the SIG you can… uh… get help from?'
If Roberta had been scornful before, she got three times worse now. 'Those… idiots! They have no notion of the importance of the era. For the girls, it's a chance to try on so-called 'romantic' fashions. And the boys all leap into uniforms, playing soldier. It's the same heedless imperialism that got millions killed in 1914-'
'I'll take that as a simple 'no,' then,' Leif said.
Roberta's voice became suspiciously sugary. 'But you, Leif… even though we weren't on the same political plane, you always liked to make things happen. I'd say it's safe to assume that Slaney doesn't know we have a history. Imagine the look on his face when you usher me in for an interview with the princess!'
Oh, it wouldn't be an interview, Leif knew. Viola da Gamba would start lecturing 'Princess Gwenda' on everything she saw wrong with Latvinian society. Megan would be ready to kill him by the time it was over.
Even so, Leif couldn't quite keep the grin off his lips. Anything that might annoy the great Alan Slaney was all right with him…
The next day at the fencing salle, Alan had to crack down and make people work-everyone was talking about Latvinia and their adventures there.
Megan found herself standing in front of a mirror, working off her distraction by practicing moulinets-the deadly diagonal cuts Alan had used to harass her during their last practice. The idea was to make the cut as efficiently and quickly as possible-with perfect form. Twist the wrist, slash up with the sword from left to right. Then take the en garde stance with the blade defending the right, and slash up from there-
'You do not do it correctly,' the practice partner, Sergei Chernevsky, suddenly said.
'What's wrong?' Megan asked. Sergei had been studying at the salle longer than she had. If he could give her the benefit of his experience…
'You move the blade like a modern fencer-with the flat. Listen.' His blade flashed up, making an audible. whiffing noise.
'Classical moulinet means leading with the edge. You can hear the difference.' His sword leaped up again, but this time there was a whistle as the blade's edge cut the air.
'I see,' Megan said. 'Actually, I hear.' They grinned at each other, then resumed their positions. Up and around-slice! Down and around-slice!
Soon Megan's blade began to whistle instead of whisper as she got the trick of it. She also began to get a sweaty face and an aching arm. 'I really, really hope this is an important move,' she puffed.
Sergei's breathing was a bit labored, too. 'I read about some old-time fencing masters, they would expect you to do thirty minutes' worth-moulinet with lunge.'
'Great.' Megan laughed. 'Burn out your legs and your arm.'
They resumed their practice. 'By the way,' Megan added as her sword whistled through the air, 'I was very impressed by your uniform in the sim.'
'It is the costume of the old Hungarian Hussars,' Sergei replied. 'Embroidered frogging across the chest, and the fur-trimmed jacket-the pelisse-worn over one shoulder.'
He smiled as he swung his sword around. 'The saber, you know, came from Hungary. The cavalry there
