Brand Gamblin's Blog

James Moore left work at 4AM, as usual. The foyer of the building was completely empty. Even the guard station was unmanned. This was not exactly common, but not that unusual either. He pushed the interior glass door open then waited for the click of the exterior door locks to open. Then he shoved his way through the tall glass exterior door.

June was supposed to be a hot month, but all the months seemed the same to James. He went to the office after the sun went down and the heat of the day had dissipated, and he went home before the sun had a chance to return. At home, his curtains were thick and heavy, and always shut. James didn’t follow deadlines, schedules, or events outside of himself, so the passing of seasons meant nothing to him. Living in central California meant that he didn’t even have snow to demarcate the passing of time.

There were only three cars in the parking lot. The night guard’s F150 had the best spot, because he got there when everyone else had left. James’ Camry was a couple hundred feet out, because he never cared where he parked. Between them was a burgundy 2021 Mercedes Benz convertible with its hood up. A voluptuous woman in a matching mini-skirt dress was looking under the hood, bent at the waist, with her hands clasped at her breast.

James didn’t stop. Once he saw her, he adjusted his path just enough to avoid her without looking like he was avoiding her. He had worked for the government before, and worked against it. In both jobs, they had a word for situations like this. Honeypot.

She saw him, of course, and called out, “Hey, can you help me out? I don’t know a thing about cars.”

James still didn’t stop. “Sorry, ma’am. I don’t either. You should call triple-A or something.” It was actually kinda insulting. The work he did was innocuous enough, but he did that work in a top secret secure facility. This setup was so ludicrous that he figured there were only two possible explanations. Either she was sent by some foreign nation hoping to get blackmail on a fed hacker, or she was sent by his boss to see if he was safe to trust. He’d never heard of that kind of test before, but it wasn’t impossible.

He’s not buying it. Shit. I knew the heels were too much.

On the plus side, he thought, if this was the upper brass trying to test him, then he probably passed with flying colors. He wanted to look up at one of the security cameras and give them some kind of thumbs-up or something, but that would be juvenile.

She called out again, “My phone is dead, and I couldn’t get inside to ask for help. Could I borrow yours?”

He was passing her now, still trying to passively avoid getting too close. As he looked up again at her, he saw her arms pressing into her chest, accentuating her cleavage. He shook his head again and held out his arms. “I don’t carry my phone to work. They’ve got rules. Sorry.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m practically throwing myself at him. What is he, gay? Ah, I hope he’s not gay. That would be weird.

James saw a figure in the distance, running toward them on the sidewalk next to the parking lot. He could see a dark t-shirt stretched over a muscled torso, with black shorts, and a fanny-pack with a reflective belt. Midnight jogger, from the look of it. 

She took a step closer to him, “Well, maybe I can just talk to you for a minute.”

James had the sudden feeling that this was bigger than he thought. A shock inspiration borne of years of paranoia suddenly gripped him. His greatest asset had always been his brain, his ability to assess situations and see them in the most stripped-down, bare form possible.

Suddenly, his mind calmed and focused on a few salient points. There were three contacts here. James, the Honeypot, and the Jogger. He was almost equidistant between them. There were security cameras all around, but that wouldn’t stop someone from grabbing him and throwing him into an unmarked van before security could get here. He didn’t see any van, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He couldn’t get to his car and open it before they caught up with him. The jogger was studiously not looking at him.

Aw, crap. He’s on to me. I never should have worn the heels. I can’t run in these. And I started jogging way too late. He’s going to run now. Call yourself a strategic genius? Stupid! Stupid!

James turned back toward the building and ran. The woman kicked off her shoes and started running after him, but he had enough of a lead on her to dodge. The jogger had kicked into high gear, and was closing on him fast.

James knew he would never be able to swipe his card in time to unlock the front doors and get back into the office, so he ran around to the side of the building. The building was a tall glass structure standing alone in a grassy cul-de-sac, but he knew there was a gas station about a block away. If he could make it there, he had a better chance of getting seen.

Okay, that works. Here we go. He’s not going back into the building. I got him.

The side of the building was darker than the parking lot, blocking the streetlights. He couldn’t really see the sidewalk underneath him, but he kept running, knowing it was there. Just past the building, where the light came in again, he could see the sidewalk and in the distance, the cross street with the corner gas station.

James didn’t run, as a general rule. Running was low on the list of exercises that he meant to take up, if he ever decided to get exercise. Nonetheless, he could hear the others behind him, and knew he was outdistancing them. He didn’t dare to turn and look. He just hoped that his lead time was enough.

He could hear the footfalls behind him, but that was all. They didn’t call out any threats or offers. They didn’t even seem to be exerting themselves. He was breathing harder than they were. It’s like . . .

Gotcha. Oh, yeah. Who’s the strategist now? Always have a backup plan. God, I’m good.

James realized too late, as a figure stepped out from the shadows around the building. They weren’t chasing him. They were corralling him. 

The figure in front was huge and slow, but he didn’t need to be fast. James was running straight at him. He tried to stop, but he was even worse at stopping than he was at running. He toppled and rolled once on the grass by the sidewalk, trying to avoid them. The large man pinned his arms to his sides and picked him up in one swift movement. James tried to wriggle away, but he had no leverage. As the others caught up with them, the large man spoke.

“Now, come on. Don’t be like this. We’re friends here.” Despite his giant frame, the words sounded like they came from a small man. There was a petulance behind them, a kind of whine to it that James would not have associated with such a large man. His eyes squinted as he found his voice.

“Bo? Is that you?”

The giant’s face split in a grin, “Yeah! See! I knew you were smart. You and I are going to have a great time working together.”

James relaxed, feeling his fear melt away to anger, “Goddamn, it Bo. Let go of me. I’m not going to join your stupid little cult.”

The giant grin disappeared, but he loosened his grip, “It’s not a fucking cult, Jim. A cult is a bunch of people who take stupid orders from some old, bald guy. I don’t take orders from anybody. What I’m talking about is bigger than that. Real connection. A true melding of-”

James pushed at the giant’s chest, trying to shrug him off, “Get off me. I’ve heard your spiel, and I ain’t buying what you’re selling. K? So just f-”

The giant turned James to face the other two. The jogger had opened his fanny pack and removed a hypodermic needle, “Sorry, but I don’t have time to argue with you. This is gonna happen whether you want it or not.”

James was picked up again in a bear hug, one arm trapped by his side, the other one flailing. The woman grabbed his arm easily and held it still while she shoved his sleeve up his arm. James shouted, “What the fuck! You don’t have to do this!”

The jogger said, “Hold still, or it’ll hurt more.”

James still struggled, one huge hand covering his mouth. Then his struggling slowed. Only then did the van show up to pick them up.

The post Banyan Prologue appeared first on BrandG.com.

Oh my. What has changed? What has changed. Anybody who wants to, can just look on Wikipedia to see what life used to be like, but ever since I turned 80, people have wanted to know what life used to be like. For those of us geezers who lived through it, the world still seems a little weird. A little sci-fi, I suppose. I think that, when we talk, some of that slips out, and kids can feel how different it was.

When I was a kid, my grandmother told me stories about the Blitz. It was about a year of bombs raining down from the sky. They got used to the air raid sirens, the patchy power outages, and the periodic feel of earthquakes around them. When she told me about that, I could barely believe it. I’d grown up in America, in the early 2000s, and the closest thing I had to compare it to was the twin towers attack. When those things happen, people adapt. They survive. They change their lives. And if it lasts long enough, it becomes the new normal.

So, anyway, I’m rambling now. It started with Covid. Corvid? Damn, I can never remember. You can look it up if you want, but it was basically a massive plague that took out a chunk of the population. I don’t like to think about how much. You had your hoarders who locked themselves up with ammo and face masks. You had your morons who refused to take any precautions because they believed they were fighting for freedom. . . the freedom to kill others, I guess.

After Covid, there were a couple of other “novels” that people weren’t prepared for. Luckily, though, we had learned the basics of dealing with them. Telling everybody to stay home, keep clean water and food on hand, all that stuff. More people survived those. We got good at it.

Of course, by that time, people were used to being home-bound. See, before that, before Covid, we were all about getting around. People wanted to try out new restaurants, go to concerts with thousands of people, take vacations overseas, all that. But after the novels, people didn’t care as much about it. I mean, wanderlust is a part of human makeup, and there’s always people who want to go out and push new frontiers. But before Covid, we treated them like heroes. After that, there was this distaste for them, like they were the same kinds of idiots who went with huge crowds out to the beaches.

Here’s something fun. Go back and watch the movies before and after 2020. The movies before then were all about going to strange and exotic locales, fighting foreigners, discovering new planets, that kind of thing. After 2020, all the movies switched to people who worked together in small groups or online to save their neighborhoods. Spiderman was raised up to the level of a freaking god, because he basically stood for watching over a neighborhood instead of saving the world.

One thing most people don’t think about. Before the novels, most people grouped their world into Nation, State, City, Home. They didn’t really think about local counties or neighborhoods. But after that, once people got used to being stuck in their small communities, that level of division changed. Now people think more like City, Neighborhood, Home.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. The UN is still out there, the federal government still makes noises once in a while, but the real seat of power is in the states now. When the novels started hitting us, the people started looking to the most powerful force in the country, the Federal government. No, really. They handed down edicts and had massive control over states. The problem was that they bungled the Covid. I’m not gonna get too political about it, because you can look up president 45 if you want to see how that worked.

State governors and average people could see that the chain of command had fallen apart. Legislators were incapable of dealing with an emergency due to their bickering, and the president gave contradictory info that was sometimes flat out lies, so people gave up hope on them. Meanwhile, governors were mobilizing troops, ordering people to stay quarantined, that sort of thing. Even after the crises were over, the states still had more power than the federal government. It was just a question of trust. A government is only as powerful as the people who believe in it. By the time the novels had dropped to safe levels, and over half of the states released the mandate to pay federal income tax, the federal government became an advisory body to make suggestions to states.

People had gotten used to two main things. Their neighbors and the network. With the network, they had access to all the people of the world. As long as they didn’t touch. With neighbors, you have a group of people that you know are “safe” because nobody strayed too far.

People started moving out to the rural land, bringing their network connection with them. No more concentrated cities of power. No more red states and blue states. They settled on small groups of about fifty people per neighborhood. They started out separated by racial and religious groups, but even those were spread around as the new settlements got started. Every neighborhood worked to have their own self-sufficiency. They encouraged kids to learn how to be doctors, carpenters, plumbers, electricians, all from the network at home. They held potlucks so they could get out and see other people without taking their chances with strangers.

That was when we got the pebble reactors, I think. One on every street corner. A thirty-foot long lozenge shoved deep into the ground. They have about five feet of concrete surrounding a isotope that gets bombarded with . . . heh. You know how a pebble reactor works. Never mind. The point is that every neighborhood had what they needed to light up the entire place for decades, without costing more than a few hundred thousand. Even that was just to supplement the solar and wind power that sprang up when neighborhoods started taking pride in their self-sufficiency.

When you take about ten neighborhoods, you get a city. It was just a larger group of people. They would have a get-together once or twice a year, where neighborhoods could meet with strangers that were more or less safe. It was like a fair, with rides and dances and that sort of thing. It’s still considered the event of the year in most places.

They also gave neighborhood leaders a chance to talk, air grievances, that sort of thing. Every neighborhood paid in for a local police office and fire station. Everybody wanted to house them in their neighborhood. They all wanted to talk about bartering prices and whether the city should mandate how much different things were worth. It was mostly good natured, little things. Because, if they knew anything, it was that they needed each other to survive.

There were still some “national” services that held sway over everyone. Delivery services became crucial, as well as the farms. While we used to hate the “superfarms” with robots and copywritten genetic produce, the situation changed after. There were two camps then. Neighborhoods who had enough know-how and space to provide their own food, and the ones that ordered straight from the source.

The network, too, became indispensable. When I was growing up, there was this one long cable that went all around the world, connecting everybody. It was like a root, with branches all over the place so that they could reach the cities and homes. But after the neighborhoods started taking care of themselves, they started making their own version of the network. Instead of being tied to the big cable, they started tying their connections to local cities. And, after a decade or so, all those connections started looking more like a spider’s web, and less like a root. Now, every neighborhood has their own big computer with ridiculous processing power and petabytes of storage. Everybody gets their own little wireless terminal that ties to it, and as long as they keep it maintained, those things are pretty rock solid.

Oh, I mentioned the police, didn’t I? Yeah. You had about twenty guys for every city, which doesn’t seem like much, but the whole “neighborhood family” thing made it much less likely for people to hurt or steal from each other. You had to walk a long way to find a stranger, just to steal from them.

And cars. We used to all have cars. I mean, really. Every family had one or two cars that all ran on gas. What? Gas. Petroleum. Oil, whatever. After we all started relying on the neighborhood, there didn’t seem to be much point in having them. These days, every neighborhood has one or two electric vans that they use to go out to trade with the others.

And, of course, we still have money. When I was a kid, it was this fiat money that was based on paper with these exquisite designs on them. But, of course, as soon as the federal government started losing control, people started using a more stable form of currency. One that wasn’t based on a government. You know, when I was a kid, the government could just change the price of a dollar by printing more money or changing the interest rate that everybody had to agree to? Madness.

So, now we have that blockchain nonsense. It’s not based on anything but numbers really, and most people don’t use it in their daily lives. It’s mostly to round out the cost of something. Like, one dinette set is worth one chicken plus a half a coin. When neighborhoods hire people from other neighborhoods, they often do it in coin because neighborhood prices vary.

Oh, there’s so much. The strangest thing about it, I think, is the fact that it doesn’t feel weird anymore. I look around and I see the neighborhood as an extended family. We take joy in a neighbor’s new child, and we all mourn the death of a friend together. When one of the kids gets his medical doctorate or trade school masterpiece, we all take pride in them, and let him know they will be cherished at home.

And it feels normal. The strangest thing to me is that this is normal now.

The post Normal appeared first on BrandG.com.

It seemed like everybody had seen Death Note before me. I knew there was a manga about it. I knew there was an anime based on it. I even knew there was a live-action version coming. I knew my co-workers had seen/read it. I knew my daughter had seen/read it, but I didn’t see the point.

This is how it was described to me: A school kid finds a notebook. If he writes someone’s name in the notebook, that person will immediately die. So, it gets into moral questions about capital punishment and religion. . .

When I heard that description, I pictured a sixteen-year-old kid calling himself a hero because he killed the bully who stole everybody’s lunch money. He might get revenge on teachers, family members, friends. There would be some tearful scene where his new girlfriend says, “I can’t believe it! You never wanted to help anybody! You’re a bully just like the rest of them!” And in the end, everyone would learn a valuable lesson.

Somebody convinced me it was nothing like that, and that it was, in fact, really cool. So I took a chance on the anime. I’m really glad I did. This story is so much better than I had anticipated. There was no “revenge” killing, no crime of passion deaths. There’s no love interest (I’ll admit that I’m only on episode 8 of the anime, but that’s about a quarter of the way through the show. Long time to go without introducing a girlfriend if you’re planning to make them a love interest). But in addition, there were a couple of points that made the story FAR more interesting.

First of all, there’s Ryuk. He’s the pointy, monochromatic, leering demon with yellow eyes that don’t look the same way. The most obvious assumption to go with his part would be that he is tied to the book, and that he is the slave who performs these killings. But that’s not the case at all.

Ryuk is a God of Death (with no explanation of what that means). The book belongs to him. He dropped it to Earth basically because he was bored. Watching humans squabble cruelly against each other was a constant source of comedy for him. He isn’t the slave of the book. In fact, it’s not really clear if he is the one performing the killings himself, or if he’s just watching the effects. This makes his character far more interesting, because as he says multiple times, he’s on nobody’s side. He doesn’t work for or against the student. Most of the time, he just laughs when the police catch the kid at something.

That’s the other thing. I was thinking about schoolyard bullies and revenge against the teachers. However, by the end of the first episode, Light (the kid who found the notebook) has already killed 42 people. All criminals who he has personally condemned to death. He was acting like an avenging god of Justice who would kill criminals until all criminals decided to spurn their evil ways.

By the third episode, we meet a shadowy Sherlock Holmes-ian character named “L” who shows incredible skill at tracking Light down. He also sees himself as an avenging god of Justice, and provides an excellent foil to Light.

It’s like a long police procedural with a massive body count. Light starts using his criminal-killing hobby as a way to send messages to L. L almost catches up to him at several times, and out-thinks Light several times.

All of this made the anime SO MUCH better than I had expected.

I watched the Netflix live-action movie, even though I’d seen the reviews. I knew that a lot of true believers didn’t like it, but true fans always crap on every little detail. As a neophyte to the series, I might find that I like the watered-down version anyway.

I really didn’t. This movie was exactly what I originally thought the story would be. The VERY FIRST thing they show in the movie is a love interest for Light. She’s not just hot, but she’s a cheerleader who can’t be bothered to look happy. She’s a cheerleader who smokes during practices. And when she looks at Light, sitting in the bleachers, she gives him a lingering look that says, “I may not care about anything, but I think I care about you.”

When Light finds the notebook, he meets Ryuk in a jump-scare scene that looked almost ripped off from Gremlins. Ryuk pushes Light into killing people, and gives the impression that he is the one doing the killing. And after running a few tests, Light decides that the best thing to do would be to tell his new girlfriend about it.

They have a version of L in this story, but he’s basically an exposition stand-in and deus ex machina that lets Light look like he’s always one step ahead. The whole “god of justice” thing is pretty much jettisoned.

The TV show is full of betrayals, plot reversals, missed clues, and other great storyline shifts that keeps you enthralled. NONE of that made it into the movie until the very last point, where they go from no strategy at all to everyone having a ridiculously convoluted strategy, which is quickly resolved for the climax.

A long time ago, I said that I could really like The Phantom Menace if it hadn’t been set as a Star Wars movie. If Phantom Menace stood on its own, I would probably quite like it. But with all the baggage and emotion involved in a movie that basically took every possible chance to either show a merchant federation arguing, and every possible moment that Jake Lloyd could say, “Yippiee”, I just couldn’t see it as anything other than ruining one of my favorite trilogies.

If I walked in on the live action Death Note with no preconceived notions . . . I still wouldn’t have liked it. The movie isn’t bad in comparison to the anime. It’s just bad.

The post Death Note : Slightly less likeable than the Last Airbender appeared first on BrandG.com.

(warning: plot discussion. I don’t know that it’s a spoiler, because I think knowing this would actually enhance viewing)

So, Garry Trudeau made a TV show. Yeah, THAT Garry Trudeau. It’s political, of course. It’s called “Alpha House” and the main conceit is that it’s about a home where four Republicans senators live. I thought it was cute, but not really enough to watch. Allie gave it two episodes, then told me I had to catch up, or she was going to mainline the whole thing without me.

So now I’m in. I’m watching the Cuban Senator from Florida who speaks no Spanish and is trying to push the GWoT-VD2 (Global War on Terrorism Veterans Day 2) bill, no matter how many times people tell him it sounds like a venereal disease or a vitamin supplement. I’m watching the effeminate Nevada senator who goes to Afghanistan so his congressional opponent won’t out-macho him, and comes back with a broken leg and a nation of people calling him “hero”. I’m watching the Pennsylvania Senator who is keeping his head down while an ethics committee investigates allegations that he kept a mohair coat from a fundraiser. I watched the secondary storylines affecting the staffers who are hooking up, fighting to keep the Senators from looking like morons, and slowly coming to terms with their disenchantment for the whole process.

But if there is one main character, it’s Gil John Biggs, played by John Goodman. He’s a North Carolina basketball coach who walked into the Senator seat on name recognition. Now, years later, he’s a veteran of the congressional wars, and knows how to keep the machine going. He’s a tired, cranky old cynic, and he’s happy with it. He’s even got an old basset hound that he takes to the office.

However, he’s facing competition for the first time, when the current Tar Heels NCU basketball coach announces his bid. For the first time, Gil John has to campaign.

Now, we’re about nine episodes in, and the show is pretty much everything I expected. Biting commentary, brilliant discussion of the parties and their motivations. And little, episodic, storylines that are painful in the way The Office is painful.

Something changed recently. Gil John is driving around North Carolina, staying ahead of his campaign bus as he drives his rented, dented, blue Chevy truck. At one point, he decides to go AWOL, and drive by his old home town. He figures it might even look good to the voters, to humanize the candidate. He’s talking to his body man about how everything’s so different, and almost always for the worst.

He sees an old barber shop he frequented when he was a kid, and decides they need to get haircuts. While in there, he’s chatting with the grizzled old men who work there.

Except he’s not. The whole time he’s in the chair, Gil John is just listening to them. They talk about how the government is falling apart and how the “takers” are getting all the unemployment and disability benefits, which just hurts the honest, hardworking Americans. When GJ’s body man, Hakeem, asks, “Who are the takers?” They’re quick to say, “Oh, not you. I mean the immigrants.” – “I was born in Nigeria.” – “Yeah, but you’re a ball player.”

They talk about how bad the economy is, and one of them says, “My brother’s a farmer and he says it’s getting so bad out there, he’s gonna have to start putting out a crop or something.” Another one nods, “You know what my brother’s planting? Tobacco! I kid you not. And, of course, there’s barely enough illegals left to do the work.”

Gil John stands up and says, “Well, fellas, we gotta go. What do I owe you?”

“For you, coach? It’s on the house.”

“No, sir. I think I’ll pay today.”

Now, I’ve been watching and enjoying this show for a while now. But in that moment, something changed. I knew GJ was too smart to stand around while they were talking like that. But when he insisted on paying, there was this subtle shift in the whole show.

As he left, he said, “I think I liked it better in the old days, when the bigotry was right out there.” He sent his body man back and walked out to the beach. He sat next to a fishing pole for a long time, and when he spotted one his opponent’s supporters, he called her over and talked to her. He says, “It’s your job to follow me, and hope that I screw up.”

“Well, I don’t HOPE for it, sir.”

“No, but if you catch it, you get a chance to make history.” He pauses for a minute and says, “Here, get out your camera. Let’s make history.” Then he starts telling her the story of that beach.

Allie thinks he’s changing parties.

This just turned into a different show, and I’m totally hooked.

The post Alpha House appeared first on BrandG.com.

I’ll level with you. This book is taking far too long to finish. This is made all the more distressing due to the fact that I left the previous book on a “Same Bat Time, same Bat Channel” kind of cliffhanger. It bothers me.

You deserve better.

So, for those who want to know the secret, here is the first chapter of “The Absent Emperor”, which answers the main, burning question that we were left with.

I promise, the rest will come within the year.

From ten thousand feet up, a small, golden disc hurtled earthward. Wind hissed through the wrought filigree of the King’s crown. The golden golem remained facing downward despite the currents buffeting it. Its unblinking, red eye watched the ground as it plunged through clouds at terminal velocity.

The automaton took no notice of the wind whistling past. It analyzed velocity, wind direction, and geographic height data, to determined one crucial piece of information. 24.08257 seconds to impact.

A quick map check gave his approximate drop location as the roof of an abandoned boarding house in the lower east side of Bayonne. That put him close to the Upper Bay, which was problematic. Punching through the roof of a building didn’t concern him nearly as much as traversing the Hudson to get home.

He deployed flaps on either side of his central medallion, which did little to affect his speed, but helped stabilize his orientation. He coasted on the flaps and patiently waited for the impact.

Far above him was the floating concert arena. Thirty thousand people had turned up to hear the music of Jus’ Cos, but catastrophe eclipsed the music. Explosions rocked the arena, destroying part of the floating structure, and ejecting him from the royal box seats.

Jus’ Cos was was famous for insulting the nobility in his rhymes, and when the police captured him, they brought him before the king. But this king was an anomaly. He did not follow royal traditions well.

His most high ruler, guardian of the people, protector of the realm, and keeper of the right, King Disraeli Augustus McCracken Becket III was raised on the streets. The bastard son of the last great king, he had spent his life as a confidence trickster, pretending at nobility. When his brother died, the crown officially recognized Disraeli and placed upon the throne. This was as much a surprise to him as it was to the other noble houses. His reign was short, and fraught with mishap.

When the musician was brought before him, King Augustus thought, rather than beheading the rogue, it would be more amusing to commission an acerbic song about himself. The concert was Jus’ chance to showcase his skill at mocking the nobility, and even the king himself.

Many thought it a foolish and dangerous precedent, to allow the open mocking of the king. But Sceptre, the artificially intelligent crown that recorded all the king saw and did, saw it differently. He saw it as a way of humanizing the king, making him more popular among the lower classes, and easing tensions between them.

Whatever plan the king may have had was cut short when three men in the audience fired a rocket propelled grenade into the royal box. The king had no time to prepare. He barely had time to cover Sceptre before the missile hit them.

The box had been vaporized, the explosion sent debris raining down on the audience and on the city below. And among that debris, no one noticed a golden golem that fell to Earth.

Right on schedule, the small robot punched through the patched roof of the abandoned building, then plunged through three floors of weak, rotting hempen-plastic composite. His speed was so great that he left perfect holes, no more than eight centimeters wide. The roof smoked briefly from the impact, but the floors merely shattered as he impacted. The concrete foundation of the building finally broke his fall.

When he came to rest in the darkened basement, Sceptre waited for nearly half a second as his internal systems ran diagnostics. All systems showed minor damage, but Sceptre was built to withstand far worse. The king who had commissioned his creation insisted that he be made to withstand all possible misadventure. His hull could bear the force of a bullet. He was not injured by temperature differentials or pressure. Sceptre would be as safe at the bottom of the ocean as he would be in the Himalayas, or on the surface of the moon.

Once satisfied that the impact had done no harm, internal sensors swept the room. In an instant, he knew the size of the room and everything in it. Most importantly, he determined that there were no organics in the vicinity. Two spindly arms unfolded from the thick edge of his medallion-shaped body, as two short, stocky legs telescoped out of his base. He crawled up to standing, and surveyed the scene.

Stacked plastic boxes with faded labels bowed with the weight of neglected years. A bicycle rested against one wall, with a ratty tarp covering most of it. A water heater with several punctures sat in one corner next to a fuse box that sparked at odd intervals. A washer and dryer rusted next to the broken water heater.

The basement was uninhabited, but a collection of dirty mattresses and small heaps of clothes convinced Sceptre that people would be coming back. Squatters, most likely. People who would be interested in what fell through their roof. People who would be curious as to the value of a golden medallion with an central optical gem as big as a kiwi fruit.

Sceptre located the stairs. He crossed through the darkness, moving in silence. He listened for signs of inhabitants. Each stair was almost half his height taller than he was. The golem took one short moment of virtual self pity, then reached up and leapt the short height to grab the top of the first step. Slowly, he mounted the stairs this way, silently leaping to grab each step, then pulling himself up high enough to get a leg up.

At the top of the stairs, he faced another difficulty. The door to the basement was closed, and while the lock was not set, the latch had engaged, making it impossible for the diminutive robot to simply push the door open. He considered the latch briefly. It was too high for him to reach it, and if he wanted to stand on something, he would have to find a way to pull it up the stairs. Sceptre pointed two directional speakers up at the mechanism for the door. He sent out a high-power, low frequency thrum that shook the latch in its housing, making the entire door vibrate. He stopped for a moment, listening for any activity his noisemaking may have caused. While the sound was too low a frequency for any human to hear it, anyone nearby would have felt the effect. Such a low, powerful noise could cause nosebleeds and headaches in humans.

Once certain that no one was around, Sceptre tried again, pouring more power into it. The handle rattled in its casing. The screws holding the latch in place started easing out of their position, and the strike plate shuddered against the door. Eventually, the door itself began to shudder, and Sceptre noticed two of the bolts in the hinges rising out of their housing. He poured more power into the vibration, even as bits of the door chipped and dropped to the floor.

Then there was an almost inaudible pop, and the door opened. Despite the mighty power shaking it, the door did not spring open. It simply rocked far enough back to dislodge its housing, and slowly fell open into the kitchen. In infrared, Sceptre saw the strike plate glowing with the heat of friction.

The kitchen was tired, tan and gray, with bare countertops and a single card table set in the center. Handbills and empty glow caps were left on the table, and spilled out onto the floor. Frames of dust showed where refrigerators and ovens had once been. The plastile checkerboard pattern on the floor had faded to gray and white.

As Sceptre entered the kitchen, he noticed one cabinet over the countertop that held a small stack of vacuum-pressed redi-heat meals, giving further evidence to the occupancy of the house. There was a craquelure pattern in the checkerboard faux-tile floor, radiating from the hole Sceptre had punched through it. Sceptre entered the room slowly, taking note of the exits and stairs. The upstairs were still silent, as was the rest of the floor. Cardboard swinging doors swayed listlessly between the kitchen and living room. Sceptre assigned one mental process to monitoring the stairs, and another to watching the kitchen door while he concentrated on the external exit.

The rear door was already hanging on its hinges, the purple light of dusk filtering in through gaps in the door’s seal. It was painted white once, but like the rest of the wall, had turned tan with constant use and tobacco stains. More light entered through the gaps in the door frame than through the windows, taped over and covered in cardboard. The golem briefly considered rattling the door in its housing until it popped open, but the last effort had drained him significantly, and he would require time to muster that much power. What caught Sceptre’s attention, though, was the dog door.

Approximately half a foot off the ground, a plastic flap was mounted in the door. A monitor above it checked both sides of the door looking for specific pets. The monitor would keep the flap locked in place until it saw the right kind of animal approach. The neural net inside the sliver of a pet monitor could recognize specific animals and ensure that raccoons, birds, or burglars could not break in. Like all security efforts, it was almost impossible to force the locked door open. And like all security efforts, it was trivial to defeat if you understood the mechanism.

Sceptre used the laser embedded in one of his central gems to cast a beam of green light into the monitor’s optical sensor. The beam was needle-thin, and barely visible to the human eye, but it was enough to blind the sensor. As far as the machine was concerned, Sceptre appeared as a bright halo, unrecognizable, and unlogged in its camera feed.

Sceptre’s laser began pulsing at a high frequency, hitting the monitor in just the right pattern to trigger its “learning” mode. Most learning security systems required remote access, which meant that the pet door had to have a way for humans to tell the monitor when it was looking at a cat, even at a distance. Those remotes were coded for security, of course, but in the space of a few seconds, Sceptre was able to do a brute-force test of all possible combinations, and triggered the machine’s learning mode.

After that, the flap opened easily, assured that whatever white halo it was looking at must be some kind of dog or cat. Sceptre walked up to it and leapt through the hole, pushing past the yielding flap.

From outside the building, Sceptre surveyed the yard. The building was one of a dozen row houses that straddled an empty street. Trash cans and children’s toys littered the yards. Patches of yellow weeds grew in tufts all over the yard between the expanse of dirt and soot. The desiccated skeletons of bushes ran the length of the sidewalk.

Once he was out, Sceptre surveyed the yard. Sceptre waited to hear the baying of a feral hound or the tread of a stalking cat, but the pet door seemed to be as abandoned as the rest of the building. The golem did not tempt fate, though, and ran for the back gate as quickly as he could.

He stopped halfway to the fence, struck with a thought. Sceptre paused for nearly a second, then turned and picked up a large rock. The stone was dark and pockmarked, and roughly as big as he was. Sceptre lifted it easily over his head, and ran back to the door. His laser shone out, and the pet door obliged him, giving him entrance back into the kitchen.

Sceptre walked over to the small hole that cracked a black tile in half. Looking down into the hole, he could see the small impact crater his hull had made in the foundation. The metal man dropped the rock down the hole. The rock landed in the center of the crater, looking for all the world like an errant meteor.

Satisfied that his presence had been sufficiently explained away, Sceptre ran back outside and past the back fence. He skidded to a stop on the gray cobblestones of the street and did another quick survey to determine his best route back. He did not know the area, and did not trust the people, but he knew his quest. He had a function to fulfill.

He had to find the king.

//==\\==//==\\==//==\\==//==\\==//==\\==//==\\==//==\\==//==\\==//==\\==//==\\==

Dizzy’s arm spasmed, shaking him awake. He was trapped in a small, humid box. He could see nothing at all. His shoulder was wedged against the door, feeling the slow heat of the destruction outside. He was curled into a fetal position, with empty wine racks of pressing against him. He had dived into the refrigerator, and didn’t have time to see if there was anything in the way. So now he was pinned to the door by a wrought-iron rack that snagged his jacket, holding his left arm in place. He blinked into the absolute darkness for a moment, trying to get his bearings. When he pulled his arm free of the wine rack, he heard the jacket tear.

Dizzy had to reach over to his left arm to make sure it was still there. It was vaguely responding, but he couldn’t feel it at all. He tried opening and closing the hand, but a combination of numb response and total darkness made it impossible to see if it was working at all. Dizzy squeezed his arm rhythmically, trying to coax blood back into it. Without seeing himself Dizzy couldn’t tell how much damage had been done. He ran his other hand along the jacket sleeve, and felt the warm wetness of blood. Just as he did, the pins and needles of circulation woke his arm. He wanted to shake it out, but the room was too close in around him, forcing him to grit his teeth and try to ignore the annoying itch of waking nerves. He wrenched the numbed hand into the dangling pocket, and checked the arm again. There was blood, yes, but not spilling.

Outside the steel trap, Dizzy could hear the dull roar of flames. The refrigerator door had latched and the seal was tight against the outside. For a moment, Dizzy recalled ancient stories of children who had trapped themselves in refrigerators. It was funny, in a way. In his situation, it was better to be trapped in the refrigerator than free and burning in the royal club box. From the open sound of fire and wind, he surmised that the entire front of the room was destroyed.

It had to be. Dizzy saw the three men stand up in the crowd. He saw them aim an RPG at the box. He even saw the missile heading toward them. There was no other possibility. The room had to be destroyed utterly. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the back wall of the room, melted and burning, with just a lip of the floor left hanging off the edge. A small kitchenette with cabinets and a sink, and a melting walk-in refrigerator with the king cowering inside.

The seal on the door was tight, allowing no smoke to get in, and no light. He didn’t dare try the door, but rather felt around the opposite wall, running his fingers along the underside of the refrigerator roof. As he had hoped, he found a latch that clicked as he thumbed the contact.

Dizzy knew his body was too big for such a small place, but he hadn’t realized just how compressed he was until the back of the refrigerator popped open and he nearly fell out. The secret door hissed as the seal broke, and the door fell away. Dizzy dropped into a dim flood of pale green light. His good hand snaked out as he fell and clasped onto a rack of cheeses to stop his descent. His legs, while not as badly lacerated as the arm, were still pinned in the refrigerator, and had gone to sleep. He held tight to the hidden door of the unit, not trusting his weak legs to carry him.

He was alone. The tight industrial corridor was completely vacant. Dizzy blinked in both directions, surprised more by his solitude than by the environment.

He was left panting and sweating in a cool, narrow tunnel. Someone had painted a bioluminescent stripe along the ceiling. The paint was old and thin, giving little more than faded light. Dizzy leaned against one wall of the tunnel and took a deep breath. He hadn’t realized inside the refrigerator that, not only was the smoke crowding out all the air, the heat was stifling his breathing. He braced himself on one hand and wheezed for a few moments. The dank air was thick and hard to breathe. The humidity combined with his own sweat pasted his silk shirt to his skin.

He checked himself for other injuries. Besides the arm, which was worse than he’d suspected, one leg was lacerated in several places. Some basic prodding indicated that the cuts weren’t deep, and would heal even without a doctor’s care. That was a good thing, as the new monarch didn’t know when he would see another doctor. He tasted copper in his mouth before he noticed that there was a narrow cut that ran just below his right eye, and bled down his cheek. Dizzy mopped it away as best he could, noting with a strange detachment that his suit was ruined. The jacket and slacks hung in ribbons around him.

Dizzy saw nothing in the distance when he looked down the featureless, institutional green cave. He steadied his breathing, trying to come to terms with the shock. He knew how panicked, frightened, and frantic he should be. His private box had just been destroyed by some kind of rocket, and he’d barely escaped with his life. He should be sobbing or shouting, or curling up into a ball. He should have been doing those things, but instead he stood up. He did it because the shock had not run its course. He did it because there was still work to do. He did it because he knew worse things were coming.

He leaned against the wall and breathed. It had already been too long, and he was starting to worry. Someone should be here. The plan was for someone to meet him, escort him to the rendezvous. If they didn’t show, he had no way out. A dead monarch, hiding from his own people.

His mother, the Dowager Queen, had said that everything was in order. She’d contacted Sully, his adopted father. He was supposed to contact the Hidden Institute. The plan was for them to mock up some kind of assassination attempt. She said everything was settled. He was supposed to have help escaping so that he could put the next step of the plan into action. If they weren’t here… well something went wrong. Either the Institute’s people failed to make it to the meet, or else…

Dizzy took a deep breath and faced another possibility. The escort may never have planned to be here at all. He thought he could trust the Dowager Queen, but she was a confidence trickster. He thought she wanted to have a family again, but he would be a fool to think that she wouldn’t be willing to make use of the prestige of the palace. Or even if she was on the level, this attack may not have been the one she arranged. This might have been a straight-up assassination attempt by any of the noble houses that wanted him dead.

Dizzy nodded slowly to himself. One thing was clear. Whatever was going on, he couldn’t count on anybody else to save him now. Dizzy looked down at his clothes again. He tied the ribbons of one sleeve together to make them look more presentable. He tucked the jacket pocket back in on itself, and wrapped his pant leg around itself to hide the rent in it. A small, faraway part of Dizzy’s brain laughed at the fact that he was trying to make himself look good while blood ran from his arms and legs, but it was ignored by the larger part that was trying to get them to safety.

He held his breath for a moment, listening for any movement in the hallway. Someone had to be coming. Looking down the tunnel, he saw the same thing in either direction. An endless expanse of hallway, curving away from him as it ran. Dull green light infused the entire chamber, with pipes and wires that ran along the roof in either direction. There simply could not be a better time for a guide.

He listened to his heart settling, listened to the drip of condensation in the hallway. He briefly considered calling out, but thought better of it. He didn’t want the wrong people to hear him and come running.

Dizzy tried his legs, putting more weight on them to prepare them for a walk. If the escort wasn’t there, then that’s all there was to it. He would have to save himself. He squared his shoulders and took a few tentative steps forward. After all, he thought, the escort may just be further on, waiting outside perhaps.

Dizzy picked a direction and pulled himself down the tunnel, legs still stumbling underneath him. The tunnel was only so wide as one person’s shoulders, which was a boon to him. It kept him from falling to one direction or the other. Instead, he simply shuffled and bounced against the walls as he moved toward the exit.

At the end of the tunnel, he found a door. It was sealed from outside noise, and held in place by a round bulkhead door lock. There was no escort waiting by the door. Dizzy’s shoulders fell as he realized the bulkhead door was made to be opened with two hands rotating the central wheel. Instead, he put his shoulder behind the motion of his arm as he rotated the door handle. The huge copper handle squealed with disuse, and released its hold reluctantly. As it swung open, Dizzy was struck by the bright light of the outdoors. Just as the door began to open, it shoved closed again from outside.

There was a multitude outside, pushing and shoving their way to the exits. People of quality were surrounded by their guards, making small bubbles of personal space in the rush of people. The commoners were shoved aside as merchants and their bodyguards made for the rescue ships.

Dizzy shoved the door open again, and slipped into the thoroughfare before it could be pushed closed. The people, in their mad rush to safety, completely ignored him. His torn clothes and injuries did not distinguish him from very many in the group. The press of people pushed him against the wall, and back away from the exits. He searched through the blur of faces, but recognized no one. No one he recognized, and no one who was trying to catch his eye. No one waiting for the king to exit, ready to whisk him away to safety. No one noticed him at all.

Dizzy mustered his energy and began pushing back. His one arm was still too weak to use, but the other was still capable of pushing and reaching in between people. His legs were still shaky, but his heel could find another’s instep, if it meant keeping his movement from lagging. Dizzy pressed ahead until he saw a chilling sight.

Police officers stood on risers, overlooking the multitude. They seemed oblivious to the cries of the people below them, scanning instead for a specific target. Dizzy ducked down and began stepping back, away from the exits. He didn’t know what they were looking for, but he was suddenly afraid of being found.

His movement was more instinct than intuition. A lifetime of ducking the police made it almost second nature. He didn’t know if they were really a danger to him, but it seemed a prudent precaution. He snaked through the onrushing multitude to get back into the doomed amphitheater. His good arm snatched a hat from one man, and a jacket hanging over another man’s shoulder. In the press of people, he was gone before either man had noticed the loss. Dizzy’s legs weren’t holding him up as well as he’d like, but they were good enough to get him in and out of the largest packs of refugees.

As far as anyone knew, Disraeli Augustus McCracken the third was dead, and at that moment, it suited him fine. He had many enemies, some of which had made attempts on his life. In theory, the police worked for the monarchy, but in practice, Dizzy didn’t know who paid their wages. It may be a capital crime to kill the king, but accidentally killing an unknown, dirty, crippled straggler in the middle of a riot didn’t seem unbelievable at all. Those kinds of accidents happen every day, and after all, the king was killed in the blast, wasn’t he?

Until he found someone he could trust, Dizzy dared not take the chance of being recognized.

He raked his good hand through his wild red hair, trying to comb it down. He then pulled the hat down hard, hoping to hide all his hair under it. He weighed his options while making himself presentable. Police would be on every exit, and if they were looking for him, he’d be too easy to discover. At the same time, he couldn’t just hide out in the amphitheater. From the sound of the Kovacs engines, Dizzy could tell that they were already trying to land the floating platform. Once the platform touched down, police would comb through the entire place, partially searching for survivors, but mostly looking for him.

He had to find someone he could trust. Someone who would help secret him off the platform. His royal consorts had surely been on the first rescue ship out, meaning that there was not a single nobleman with the strength to protect him or take a stand against his enemies.

A hand fell on Dizzy’s shoulder and gripped him, “Excuse me, sir.”

Despite his weakened legs and bad arm, Dizzy reacted instantly. Panic and instinct took control of him. In one fluid motion, Dizzy whipped around on one heel, stripping the borrowed jacket from his shoulders, and wrapping it around the officer’s head. One heel hooked behind the constable’s knee, and pulled the leg forward, toppling the man. Others in the press of people registered shock, but there was not enough room for anyone to react. No one could panic and run in a press of running, panicked people. Dizzy felt a pang of guilt as he watched the officer fall, but forgot it as soon as he saw the stunner cupped in the officer’s hand. Before the cop could get his bearings, Dizzy jumped away and climbed up on the multitude.

He heard other voices raised in consternation as he began crowd-crawling. Placing his hands on people’s shoulders and heads, leveraging his knees in people’s backs and collarbones, Dizzy crawled away from the police. At one point, he thought he heard the crackle of a static discharge, but dismissed it. Surely, they wouldn’t fire a weapon in the middle of a rampaging crowd.

People shouted and shoved Dizzy off their shoulders, which helped him clear the thickest part of the multitude. Soon, he found himself dropped to the ground in a comparatively quiet area. He was midway through the amphitheater seating, dropped between aisles. People streamed for all the exits, clogging all routes out. Even if he could get past them, he saw the colors of Imperial guards at each of the exits.

An odd thought struck Dizzy as he looked down at the stage. Band members were frantically grabbing the most expensive equipment, and ripping cables out of the floor.

If he couldn’t expect help from the nobility, perhaps he could find a sympathetic ear among the commoners. He knew at least one commoner whose life he’d spared.

He looked back at the exits and weighed the options. He would almost certainly get pinched if he tried to go that way. But he didn’t like the idea of asking for help from a man that he’d threatened to behead.

The post Chapter one of “The Absent Emperor” appeared first on BrandG.com.

I wish that Bill Murray would come and explain Wes Anderson movies to me. As the star of several such films, I feel he would be eminently qualified to answer my reservations. Mr. Anderson would, of course, be a better source of explanation, but I think all would agree that he is too close to the subject for a truly objective explanation.

I believe Mr. Murray would come in on the Northeast Regional Amtrak train, as he is not a pretentious man, and would enjoy the opportunity to travel incognito among less notable commuters. The Northeast Regional which leaves New York City at 2:02PM, and arrives in Baltimore at 4:32PM. This would give him ample time to sit and discuss the as-yet unrecognized genius while allowing time for questions and perhaps a congenial dinner.

I believe he would arrive at my door at around 4:45, allowing time for a taxi ride. He would likely appear without preamble, his knock at the door a simple three-rap job. His own comedy is understated and would not be improved by a “shave and a haircut” knock. He would be dressed in corduroy slacks and a brown dinner jacket, with a T-shirt underneath that read, “Who you gonna call?” He would look blankly at me, with eyes that held a sad understanding.

I would open the door to some surprise, although I would be unlikely to show it. Whether through shock or a desire to not make him uncomfortable, I would simply stand with my hand on the doorknob until he announced himself and his intentions. I would introduce myself and we would shake hands without either of us leaning in at all.

At that point, I would invite him in and introduce him to my family. My wife and child, standing in a line behind me, would nod solemnly as they are introduced, and then move on to their own separate interests. I would ask Mr. Murray if he had any interest in libations. He would insist that I call him Bill.

Unaccustomed as I am to visitors of rarified quality, my store of drinks would seem somewhat limited. I could offer water, Dr. Pepper, ginger ale, Bacardi, or a pomegranate Naked Juice. The glass of milk would be held back, as I would never take chances with any drink that ages. He would accept the Bacardi and Dr. Pepper, insisting that he drinks the stuff quite often, and was not driving home in any event. We would laugh for a short moment, in polite recognition of the joke.

We would sit across from each other at the dinner table, a framed portrait of Chester A. Arthur hanging from the wall between us. Our hands flat on the table, a bottle of rum between us, he would begin to explain.

He would tell me that it was not my fault or my love of Hollywood blockbusters that makes me unable to understand Wes Anderson movies. Nor would he claim that it is due to my technical background, with a lack of artistic education.

Instead, he would say that the reason I have difficulty understanding Wes Anderson movies is that I have learned the language of movies and am confused by films that stray from common narratives. This is more than an expectation of “love conquers all” or “science vs. nature”. This is the basic language of heroes and villains. More basic than that, it is the language of plot. The very idea that each part of a story must push the story forward is an accepted conceit of most films.

He would explain to me that a life truly lived does not follow any previous story. Life is not clear. It is not concise, and it does not move in a straight line. He would refer to my child’s pet turtle that crawls past the table.

The turtle has only three legs, although we suspect it has a fourth that it never reveals to the world. He would show that there is nothing inherently interesting about a turtle with three legs. In fact, there is something rather sad about it. However, when one sees it walking along as though it doesn’t recognize its own infirmity, there is something noble in the simple action. The smallest problems, like knitting socks for a three-legged turtle, can seem both useful and absurd at the same time.

That, he would explain to me, is the art behind Wes Anderson’s films. It is not that he eschews standard plotting, or that his characters seem stilted. It is the fact that the do the mundane in the face of realistic absurdities that makes them extraordinary. He would then look down at the shot glass between his hands, and I would pour the drink. Staring at each other, he would pop the top of the Dr. Pepper, and take a slow sip. He would then down the rum, and place the shot glass back on the table, exactly where it had been.

We would stand up and I would show him to the door. When we got there, I would extend a hand and thank him. He would look at the hand for a long moment, then gingerly take it in both of his. He would turn and walk to the cab, a new one that I had called prior to the visit. I would switch off the porch light as the cab left.

Yesterday afternoon, I took my entire bitcoin holdings (0.1352 BC) and transferred it to my CEX.IO account. CEX.IO allows me to trade my BitCoins for units called GHS (Gigahertz/second). This payment is used to buy time on a system that is mining new BitCoins. Every quarter of an hour, it returns a portion of a new bitcoin to me in “rewards” (think of that as a stock dividend).

I used the 0.1352BC to buy 5.64GHS, and then started receiving those BC rewards. After about 12 hours, I gained 0.00046365BC in rewards. Converting that into US dollars, I gained $0.28 in half a day.

So, thirty cents for half a day’s work. Not too impressive, huh? But check this out (I’m going to do a little hand-waving with treating one day’s anecdotal evidence as though it were an average). If we say that yesterday’s performance was typical, then $0.30/half day means $0.60/day. And, with an average of 30 days in a month, that comes to $18/month. And remember that this is on an investment of $100. That means an 18% return rate per month, or 216% per year.

Now, with the hand-waving out of the way, let’s point out the pitfalls in that presumption.

1) One day’s balance does not equal an average that can be counted upon. It’s just ridiculous on the face of it. I’m not counting on it staying that way, I’m just extrapolating on the only data I have. As new data comes in, I can adjust that either way.

2) The price of GHS/BC is not static. As that price fluctuates, the value of the investment I’ve already made will increase or decrease on the winds of chance. And if anybody’s watched the volatility of BitCoin pricing, you know that chance is fickle with this commodity.

3) The price of BitCoins is not static. I touched on this above, but BitCoin is famous for fluctuating wildly. It is a new currency, and as nations argue over whether to accept it, as news organizations try to decide whether it’s Evil/Libertarian/Criminal money, and as people become more interested in the Gold Rush mentality of the currency, it will continue to trade heavily.

What does all this mean? I Dunno. I’m still checking it out, making small investments and watching them. But I think I can conclude that, even for small investors, the idea of seriously impressive returns is possible.

Four people in India have downloaded a copy of “The Hidden Institute”. Despite the fact that I’ve given away nearly two thousand copies in the last four days, those four in India seem really amazing to me.

See, we all know that the Internet is everywhere. That’s old hat by now. If I post something public in Maryland, there’s the potential for it to be read in Dubai. But the chances against it are huge. That’s just the way the world works. But those four are different.

Here’s four people that don’t know me, probably won’t meet me, and wouldn’t recognize me on the street. These are people I respect because, if for no other reason, they are very likely multi-lingual, and I got all kinds of respect for that. But they are on the other side of the world, from a totally different culture, and we shared a story.

We sat down together and, despite our thousands of miles of difference, we shared an adventure. Even if half the people only grab freebies, but never read them, that still means that two people joined me in watching Cliffy grow and struggle against royalty, assassins, and his own inner demons.

I don’t know those people, but I know they exist. And that knowledge puts a giant grin on my face.

You can find the audio version here

Let me know in the comments what you think of the chapter (and the cover). And throw a buck or two in to support the book, if you like it.

Also, if you’d like to buy the full e-book, you can find it here.

“Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead,” said Scrooge. “But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change.”

— Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Captain Trumble paced the length of the common area, glaring at anyone who met his eye. Detectives sitting at their desks feigned industry in an attempt to avoid his gaze.

“Nothing again!” He shouted to no one in particular. “I’ve got twenty men out there, shaking trees and grabbing names. I’ve pulled the damn nobility into my office several times now! Every time I do, it endangers this office! We need results, people!” He jabbed an accusatory finger at Sir Bedragare, “I never should have listened to you. Before this started, I was just the police chief. Now I’m the madman who harasses the nobility. Do you have any idea what this will do for my career?”

Bedragare shrugged. He sat at one of the desks, his feet propped up on an inbox, “I care little for your whining. Before I came here, you were man on Video, wetting his pants.”

Trumble’s face turned crimson and he took two steps closer to Bedragare, who did not even bother to face him, “You have found silks. You have got names. You have locations.”

Trumble thumped a fist down on the desk, “And what a lot that’s given us! I know all about the Earl of Viborg. I can tell you anything you want to know about King Augustus, third of his name. I even know where he went to disappear.”

He threw his hands in the air, “You know what I can’t tell you? I can’t tell you what happened next. Nobody knows! He goes there, an abandoned lot next to a hopper station, usually with those Silks hot on his heels, and then nothing. Poof. It’s like he was never there. He disappears for months at a time.”

Bedragare shrugged, “He goes somewhere. He has a safe place to go to, when things get dangerous.”

“Well, it’s apparently safe from us. Nobody can find a schedule for when he gets there, or what happens after he arrives. Those commoners we pulled in… they say whole groups of boys show up, and then just disappear.”

Bedragare stood up, “If prey goes to ground in times of danger, you set a trap and then make danger.”

“No. I’m not sticking my neck out again. Certainly not to threaten the king. I may not be the smartest man in the world, but I’m smarter than that.”

The huge, blind man shook his head and reached for his cane, “You curdled sow. You do not have the oak of a man to take what you want. If you stand up once, you could get more than one boy.”

Trumble blinked at him, “What the hell does that mean?”

The large man’s head dipped, “You are seeking an impostor. The Silks, they whisper about the Hidden Institute. If you were impostor, what better hiding place could there be?”

Trumble frowned at him, “You think it really exists? That hidden, underground school is a real thing?”

Bedragare nodded, “In my country we say, proof is only a large enough pile of rumors.”

“But if that is how he gets to the Hidden Institute-”

“Then you already know how to find them. You threaten the school, and you bring the boy-king to you.”

Trumble’s eyes blazed, “More than that, we could actually take the school… Think about it, maybe hundreds of people engaged in capital crimes. I could take my place in history.”

Bedragare smiled, “That is the oak that finds greatness.”

Dizzy was jogging by the time he got back to the palace. He saw the dowager queen, resplendent in her royal finery. Her dress was twice as wide as she was, with a collar as tall and wide as her head. She wore a burgundy wine dress, with frills running down the arms and pleating the skirt. Jewels gleamed from her fingers, neck, and ears. As she moved, she flowed with a poise known only to the richest of ladies. She was surrounded by half a dozen young women who tittered and looked reverently up to her.

Dizzy jogged over to her, “Good, just the person I wanted to see. You look lovely, by the way. So, how are we doing?”

“Stop.” She said crisply. Dizzy immediately stopped running as he neared her. She popped open an ornate silken fan and patted herself with it, “More haste, less speed, my boy.”

Dizzy looked to the young women, who regarded him with some dismay. He used both hands to smooth back his hair, which promptly sprang out again, “Thank you, my lady. Might I enquire about your arrangements regarding the concert?”

She waved away the request with her fan, “Of course. Everything has been handled. Following the concert, you will meet a friend who can lead you to the next event. I won’t be there myself, of course. I fear I have other obligations.”

He shot a quick look at the girls, realizing that neither of them could speak plainly in front of them. Nonetheless, he knew as much as he needed to, “Wonderful. Wonderful. Well, I hope you enjoy the show.”

“The king is gracious to provide us with entertainment.” She slipped an arm into the crook of his elbow, “I will, of course, be riding the hopper up with you. I understand the event is to be held on a Kovacs platform?”

“Yes. It’ll be brilliant. At the levels Jus plays, people will be able to hear him for miles!”

“So the commoners will be able to hear it as well.” The old woman sniffed, “Ah, well. I don’t suppose it can be helped, and it may do them some good to have a bit of culture. What are you sniggering at, my boy?”

Dizzy realized he was grinning right at her. This baseborn thief was so much better at playing the noble woman than he was, at times he just enjoyed the show. “Nothing, my lady. Your, ah, jewels are entrancing.”

She smiled shyly, “My king is generous. And speaking of your generosity, might I invite a friend to ride in the hopper with us?”

Dizzy blinked at her and shrugged, “But of course, my lady. I would be glad to-” He stopped as he saw one of the women step forward. It was Wendy Wilde, who walked alongside the dowager as though she would have preferred to be anywhere else.

“I thought my dear friend Wendy should be with us. She only just returned to us a day ago, so we haven’t had much time to catch up.”

Dizzy nodded, “That will be lovely.” He tried to catch Wendy’s eye, “You’ve been missed, Lady Wilde.”

She said nothing, but continued to walk alongside the old woman. They walked in silence for a moment, then the dowager queen tapped the girl’s forearm with her fan, “Manners, dear. When the king speaks, one responds.”

Through gritted teeth, Wendy said, “Thank you. The king is generous- ” she glared directly at him, “sometimes with other people’s property.”

Dizzy nodded. It was a fair cop. She knew how important the bear was to her father, and so did he.

Soon, they reached a mini-hopper, which had seating for only their small group. Dizzy entered first, of course, followed by Wendy and Olivia. Astor helped the dowager queen into the hopper, then followed her and closed the passenger compartment.

The hopper rose quickly into the sky on it’s parabolic arc. Dizzy was seated in the middle, between Olivia and Wendy, but he leaned over Wendy to look out the window. He felt like a small child, “There it is!”

In the distance, they could see the massive platform hovering over the city. Along the edge, Kovacs engines created whirlwinds above them, sucking in the air that they pushed out underneath. Each one created a vortex that warped the light above and below, creating a shimmer around the perimeter of the platform.

Inside the ring of engines, Dizzy could see row upon row of seats. The amphitheater employed invisible risers, with long benches held aloft by transparent struts. The total effect was like looking at a stage through horizontal blinds.

Above the risers, hanging like a thick halo over the theater, were the paid boxes of the nobility. The boxes were all opaque, of course, to keep anyone from looking in on those who paid for private seating.

In between it all, Dizzy could see people milling about. They were docking hopper busses to the outer ring, queueing up outside to get their tickets, and wandering around the bleachers, looking for seats. Dizzy frowned a bit at the ticket line, “I told Dunem this was supposed to be a free concert. Why are they buying tickets?”

Wendy pushed him back, “Do you mind?”

As Dizzy fell back into his seat, his mother said, “I expect it’s all some charity or something. Recommended donations I’m sure. I wouldn’t worry yourself.”

Dizzy fumed all the same. He turned to face Olivia, “How are you doing? I haven’t seen you since that meeting with-”

She flashed him a dazzling smile, “I’m fine, your majesty, and thank you for asking.” She looked around the cab, “It seems, my liege, that you are the only one who doesn’t know the history of my house. And as it seems you will speak of nothing else until the situation is explained, allow me to use this time to enlighten you.” The surrounding nobility suddenly found immense interest in the things outside the cab.

She sighed and looked at Dizzy, “My family history is ancient and set in it’s rules. They have done things the same way for generations, purifying and strengthening the line as much as possible through rigid rules and traditions that one does not question.” She looked around at the others who ignored her out of curtesy, “My father holds with some older beliefs that my siblings agree with, and I do not.”

Astor broke in, “Look, Miss Oldham. The scene you’re creating is unseemly given-”

Dizzy shot him a scowl, “Shut it, Astor.”

Olivia took a deep breath, “No. He’s right. I shouldn’t do this here.” She looked out the window and saw that they were nearing the docks. Her beautiful eyes were sad and glistening as she looked back at Dizzy, “Mine is a long and difficult story, my liege. Not one for such a celebration. Let us leave it for a better time.”

When Dizzy turned back to look at the group, he saw Astor frowning at him. The lordling did not shift his gaze until they had docked, then said, “Come on. Let’s go.”

There was no bump as the hopper attached to the theater, but when Astor stood, the door slid open to reveal a gaggle of nobility. When Dizzy saw them, his hand went to his wrist, where the bracelet unfolded to form a crown. As they stepped out, the brightly-colored press of people moved in to meet them, politely pushing their way forward. Dizzy smiled and shook hands, waving and nodding to the minor nobility as he moved through the group. In the back of his mind, Dizzy reveled in the fact that a week ago, none of these people would have even admitted to knowing who Jus Cos was. Now that it was the King’s will, they all pushed to show how much they appreciated the powerful satire of modern music. Dizzy played along, letting them have their dignity.

He stopped suddenly and said, “Wait a minute! Hello there!” He started pushing through the crowd, who scrambled to make a path for him as he walked over to a large, bald man with a cigar. Dizzy stopped in front of him and grinned down at the man, his hand extended, “It’s so good to see you. Sir Stein, isn’t it?”

The wide man looked up at him, incredulous, and stammered, “B-Baron.”

“Baron. How silly of me.” He turned back to his entourage, “The baron here shares a particular interest in professional Bear Polo.”

The bald man tried to step back, blending into the crowd, but Dizzy threw an arm around him, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. How do you think the Kody’s will do this year, Baron?”

The man put as much courtesy as possible into his angry glare, “I’m sure my boys will make me proud.”

“I don’t know, they’ve had a couple of off games haven’t they?”

The wide man looked around himself, “We’ve worked through all that.”

“I hope so. Because right now, I would guess that the Kody’s won’t even place. What do you think? You think the king is wrong?” Dizzy’s glowing grin showed no sign of dimming.

The bald man said, “I.. think time will prove the King’s words.”

“Well spoken. Very politic. Tell you what… ” Dizzy turned back to face Astor, “We should really get Lord Dunem to sit down with Baron Stein here. His ideas on robotic modification are some of the most innovative I’ve ever seen!”

The man’s eyes were wide as saucers as Dizzy turned back to him, “Well, I’d love to stand here and talk sports and robotics with you all night, but I’m afraid I simply must be going. Don’t be a stranger!” Dizzy fairly danced away from the wide man who simply stared after him, letting his cigar burn unnoticed in his hand.

As they entered the royal box, Astor asked, “Who was that?”

“Oh, just someone I knew in another life. Thought I’d throw a bit of a scare into him.” He looked around the box at all the nobility who grinned back at him, despite not knowing what he was talking about.

“After all, what’s the point of being King if you can’t scare a minor nobleman every now and then, right?” They all nodded back at him, which was shocking in its own way.

“Okay, well. Let’s get seated then.”

The interior of the box was large, of course, with ample seating for a royal party. The front wall was made of transparent bulletproof glass, slanted so that people could lie down on the glass and look out over the stage or the bleachers if they wanted to. Pillows were piled along the edges of the armorglass floor. Temporary seating had been placed in front of the glass, for those too proper to lounge on the floor. While not a throne, the center seat in the front row was clearly more padded and opulent than the others. Sofas and lounge chairs were arrayed behind the seats and along the walls. Behind them was a long bar covered with a buffet fit for a king. A tower of wineglasses stood on either side of a choice of vintages. In the back of the room was a small, discrete toilet and kitchenette with UV oven and a walk-in refrigeration unit. Dizzy reflected briefly that the room was larger than his apartment just a month ago.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t large enough. There were just too many minor noblemen wanting to be close to the King during this celebration. Dizzy knew that his predecessor generally avoided the commoners, but he’d never noticed just how much Cadvan had avoided the nobility. As soon as he gave them some small bit of access, they came crawling out of the woodwork to shake his hand, get him a drink, and generally try to get some nugget of familiarity they could use at later social gatherings.

For years, Dizzy had lived off of those nuggets of familiarity. He had gathered them, cultivated them, and tried to use them to convince people that he was important enough to trust as a fellow nobleman. Now that he had all the power, there was something slightly tawdry about the whole process.

He extricated himself from the press of people and walked over to the glass front wall. As he neared it, a waiter placed a fluted glass in his hand, filled with something effervescent, light, and green. Dizzy looked at it for a moment, then continued to the front window.

The seats were filling quickly, and Dizzy was pleased to see that not all the attendants were nobility. The lower rows were clearly marked off for noblemen, but higher up, Dizzy could see the drab colors of commoner clothes on the patrons. He looked at one old man who had been seated for some time. He was wearing a suit, with dark jacket and slacks, and a faded-white shirt. He wore a gray tie and a battered fedora. His jacket was patched at one elbow, and the slacks had jagged pleats where they had been mended before. It was clear that, though the man was lacking in means, he had put on his very best to come see the show.

Dizzy nodded to himself and thought, “That man. Right there. Him, and the others like him. That’s what I need to work on.” He watched the man for a moment and sipped his drink. It was a queer vintage he didn’t recognize, with the taste of apple, and an odd hint of spearmint.

Down on the stage, Dizzy saw some of Jus Cos’ band getting ready to play. He’d worried that Lord Dunem would have made this more difficult for them, just to exert his power over the commoners. Instead, he saw state-of-the-art equipment, with beat squares, track ranges, and 8-stream synchwinds.

The people setting them up, though, were the lowest form of commoners. Their clothes were ratty and worn, ripped without patches. Their hair was unkempt and their skin covered in tattoos and piercings. Several of them had the sub-dermal tatscreens, which lit up under the skin and displayed anything from the time of day to full vids. The miscreants on the stage, though, had clearly set theirs to violent screensavers, tattoos that crawled across their arms, chests, and heads.

Dizzy had the greatest respect for his subjects, but this group of anarchistic thugs even made him sneer. If he was ever going to get the nobility to take the commoners seriously, these people would be the last ones trusted.

And, it suddenly occurred to him, these were the ones Jus had chosen for his band. Perhaps as a political statement? It made sense in a way, as these people were the most likely to be revolutionaries.

He shook his head and turned back to the polite hubbub of the royal box. They were starting to settle in, which meant the quiet, complex, and deadly serious interplay of power brokering to determine who would get which seat. The high lords, of course, took the seats closest to the front and middle, with hangers-on radiating out from them based on political importance. Dizzy couldn’t help but notice that Lord Wilde was not in attendance, his seat taken by his daughter.

The children of the great lords sat just outside their circle, and beyond that, high lords who jockeyed for position near to the king. The seating had filled quickly, leaving most of the lords standing along the walls or between the rows.

In the center of the front row, Dizzy could see they had left the opulent seat vacant, right between Lord Atherton and Lord Oldham. Dizzy grinned wickedly, then put a finger to his cheek. He walked over to the seat and said, “Well, this isn’t right. There seems to be someone missing.” He looked around the room, and said, “Ah, Lady Kreslin, the great Dowager Queen, as a guest of the crown, you should have a good spot.” All heads turned to see his mother standing at the back of the room. As honorary nobility, with no land holdings, she didn’t rate any seating in this group.

Dizzy grinned at her in the back, “Oh, look at that. A guest of the King, with no seat at all. And look,” he gestured to the front row, “We have a seat open up here in the front.”

Heads swiveled around quickly to stare at him, wide-eyed. The lady herself stared openly at him, momentarily stunned. She quickly recovered to say, “Your majesty is generous beyond words, but I would never dream of troubling your court so.”

“Please, as a favor to the king.” He shot a quick look at Lord Oldham, who raised an eyebrow.

She nodded warily and headed to the front of the assembly. Noblemen made a path for her, desperate not to be involved in the serious breach of decorum. She muttered to him as she arrived, “My liege is entirely far, far too kind.”

He took her hand and seated her in the temporary throne, then looked around, “Of course, that leaves me with nowhere to sit.” Noblemen throughout the room shot up to their feet, suddenly realizing that they were sitting while the king stood. Dizzy turned to Lord Atherton and said, “Could I trouble you, Aldrik, to let me use your seat?”

Lord Atherton, who hadn’t felt the need to stand, glared up at him, then looked over at Lord Oldham. Dizzy gestured at the older Lord, “Lord Oldham is, of course, of advanced age. I would never dream of unseating him so that a younger man could take his place.” He waited a moment as Lord Atherton calculated just what he would lose, then continued, “If it is too much trouble for you to give up your seat to the king, I’m sure I can find someone more amenable to the will of the crown.”

Aldrik looked at Wendy, sitting next to him, and growled, “Move.”

As the two of them stood, Dizzy raised a hand, “Actually, I have business to discuss with Lord Wilde’s daughter. Would it trouble you terribly to move somewhere else?”

By now the whole group was watching Lord Atherton with a fearful expectation. Dizzy wondered just how far he could push the Lord politically. He had upset Lord Wilde by taking something he loved and giving it to an enemy. Now, it looked as though he was stripping Lord Atherton of the political power in court, the commodity he enjoyed the most. Dizzy wondered vaguely if he could push Aldrik far enough to actually strike him.

The lord glared at him for a long moment, then nodded once. He stood up and faced the group, “Giving up my seat is the least of the sacrifices I would make for our nation’s current leader. The Atherton family has ever been faithful to the crown and our great nation.”

Dizzy smiled at him and clapped him on the shoulder, “It’s just a chair Aldrik, I’m not asking you to storm an enemy bunker.”

There was a smattering of laughter as Dizzy sat in Lord Atherton’s seat. Aldrik’s eyes flicked to his son, who immediately stood and gave him the seat. Ripples ran through the crowd, as everyone moved one seat away from their original position.

Dizzy looked over at Wendy and waggled his eyebrows, “Sometimes, it’s good to be the king.”

She frowned at him, “You realize you just put the Dowager Queen on the throne?”

Dizzy raised an eyebrow in surprise, “What?”

She stared straight out in front of them, “My liege should study his history better. In times long past, a king would give his seat only to a successor.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, “It’s a chair. If we could all take a step back from the politics, life would be a lot more simple.”

She sneered, “No. If we take a step back from politics, the King steals our property.”

He sighed, “Ah. That again. You do realize that it’s just a bear, right? I mean, I’m not taking his land, I’m releasing the prisoners that my brother took.” He pointed a finger at her, “I’m even starting to take a more active role in the military. I’m working on lots of different things, trying to help lots of different people. And yes, I do occasionally make a mistake here or there, but in the long run, I am helping people.”

She shook her head, “Every tyrant has started his term by saying that he was stealing from one for the good of the group.”

“It’s a bear! An animal.”

“It is something he loves, and you took it away. That’s not reallocation of assets. That’s cruelty.”

Dizzy sank back in his chair and looked over at his mother. She remained studiously disinterested. Dizzy opened his mouth to speak again just as the show started.

Throughout the theater, lights started to dim. The massive spotlights above them shut off slowly, leaving nothing but the footlights on the stage. Dizzy could see the twinkling of running lights along the aisle floors, and individual cameras blinking in the distance, making the ground beneath him look like a starry evening.

Silence fell throughout the theater as all eyes turned to the stage. Dizzy could hear the shuffling of people hurrying to their seats, but nothing else.

Then there was an explosion like a bolt of lightning on stage. Every light in the place flashed, as a huge ball of fire burst out of the floor and furrowed upward into a mushroom cloud. A powerful bass chord started low and built slowly as, through the smoke of the mushroom cloud, Jus Cos walked out onto the stage. He was backlit, throwing his shadow onto the smoke, like a massive creature born of destruction.

Laser light filled the air, painting patterns in the smoke between the hanging box seats and the bleachers. As the music built, Dizzy could see the waveform written in light above them, watching it burst into activity at every percussive moment. Fire jetted from different areas of the stage, illuminating a scene of destruction and the horror of war. As the crowd recovered, they roared in appreciation.

Jus was wearing a simple suit, the clothes of low worker. A ragged suit coat covering a thin shirt that said, in slashes and rents, “Let my people go.” He smiled out at the crowd, raising a hand to wave and recognize their applause. After a moment, he shouted over them, “How you viddie, my droogs?”

The roar kicked in again, washing over them all in a wave of noise. Dizzy smiled, realizing that there were probably more commoners down there than Lord Dunem would have approved of.

Jus said, “Howzit we’s here? What brought you excellents to my soiree? This here’s the firsts for mosta you. Just Cos ain’t never done a live show. But I feel love in those seats, my bruvs.”

Another roar of approval washed over him, “That’s beautiful. I gots love returned then. But what made it? What pulled this sewer rat outta his hole? Was it the freedom to say what we want?”

A chorus of “NO”s rattled over the stage. Beside him, Dizzy could see Lord Atherton looking nervous. The king tried not to smile.

“Was it maybe that we finally won? We got our families back, got our fair wages, got our freedoms?”

Another round of “NO”s sounded through the theater. Dizzy looked over at Lord Oldham who appeared more bored than anything else. He looked back at Dizzy, and winked.

Jus pointed one finger high up, at the royal box where Dizzy was watching, “Nah. It’s cause one up-jumped bastard decided he was gonna put me on for a show. He says, ‘Dance for me, little man. An’ if I don’t giddy, you blow your top.’ Now how’s that for a king?”

The murmur of dissent was there, but not as pronounced as before. People knew the king was watching, and most of them were not as brazen as they pretended.

“So you know what I sez? I look him right in the eye, and I sez, ‘Sure, boss. I’ll spin a tale about you, shall I?’”

Lord Atherton made to stand up, “I’m ending this.”

Dizzy smiled and said in a soft voice, “Sit down, Aldrik. You’re ruining the show for everyone.”

Lord Atherton pointed a jeweled finger at the stage, “That man is directly insulting the crown. I have a duty-”

“To follow the orders of your king. Now shush.” Dizzy put a finger to his lips as Lord Atherton sank back into his seat, wide-eyed. As Dizzy looked back at the stage, he thought he understood where Astor got his attitude from.

Jus Cos launched into “Riot of one”, his most popular song. Dizzy listened for a bit,

“Can’t stand what I viddie

Fear runs through the city

Nobs sneer without pity

But they fear my ditty.

They all fear my truth

Jus’ Cos I’s uncouth

They spit their vermouth

In the face of the youth”

Dizzy whispered to Wendy, “Would it matter at all if I said that I had a very good reason for taking your father’s bear? I mean, I can’t tell you all about it, but there are things happening, bigger than us, and the best way to-”

“If you don’t mind, my liege, I’m trying to listen to the man teach us about tyrants who act against their people.”

Dizzy nodded and leaned back in his seat. He knew the plan was sound. He believed this really was the best way, but you couldn’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. He turned back to listen to the new lyrics,

“Now we watch as Damacles sword

is bouncin’ on a bungee cord

above the head of a bastard lord

who’s writin’ checks he can’t afford.

He fights and flails against the nobs

playin’ games and losin’ jobs

listenin’ to the mother’s sobs

and trying to give back what he robs

But can he break the big machine?

Can he wipe the king’s slate clean?

Does it matter what he means

If nobs don’t help him with his schemes?”

Dizzy’s eyes widened as he listened. This wasn’t recrimination. Jus wasn’t out there calling for revolution. If anything, he was telling the people to support him against the nobility. He gave Lord Atherton a quick glance and saw the man sneering down at the stage. On his other side, Lord Oldham was sitting up. He didn’t look bored anymore.

Dizzy knew that Jus couldn’t actively support him. His whole base was built upon bringing down the nobility. But in those few words, he managed to show the king as noble and fighting, but held down by the aristocracy. The message was clear, and was repeated in other verses. Jus was telling them to support the king, without supporting the war. He was making Dizzy look like a revolutionary leader himself.

As Dizzy gaped at the young man, Wendy leaned over to him, “That is how a leader acts. He shows favor to those who help him, and he brings the good people together so they can make true change. A tyrant plots and keeps his enemies closer. An honest man keeps his friends closer. He joins them in the fight against his enemies.”

Dizzy thought about the plans he’d made. He thought about the damage that had been done over this favor. He considered whether he couldn’t just come clean about his intentions and join forces with those who treated the world honestly.

The set was ending, and Jus told everyone they’d be back in five. The sky lit up with projections of his war-torn video footage, set to the music of his prior albums.

Dizzy turned to Wendy and said, “I need to talk to your father. I need to do it now. Get a wave to him, and have it channeled to this room.” She paused for a moment, incredulous, then got up and headed for the door.

Dizzy stood up and said, “During this brief interlude, I’d appreciate it if you would all give me the room for a moment. There’s an important call I must make alone.” He took the hand of his mother, who frowned at him, concerned. He whispered, “Don’t worry. Everything will work out fine.” He kissed the back of her hand before she left.

The nobility grumbled as they were escorted out by the guards, and soon the room was left empty. Dizzy walked to the entrance as one of the guards was closing the doors. The guard looked at him sadly and said, “I’m sorry. They have my children.” He closed and locked the thick, oaken door.

Dizzy blinked at the door for a moment, confused, then tried the handle. It rattled in his hand, but didn’t budge. He pounded on the door panel, but received no response. He shouted and pounded on the door, but it didn’t open.

Dizzy looked around himself at the empty room again. In the back of his head, he heard Sceptre’s voice, “My liege, you are in danger. We need to leave immediately.”

Dizzy looked back out through the glass wall, his eyes widening in fear. He grabbed the crown and shouted, “Tell everyone. Don’t let them forget what I was trying to do.” He threw it under an iron cake cover and looked around the room.

Sitting in the bleachers, Stan and Lou both looked up at the royal box. They could see people being ushered out of the room. Lou began to stand, but his friend put a restraining palm on his thigh, “No, my duck.”

Lou looked back at him, aghast, “But surely the time’s come. Darkest hour, and all.”

Stan gravely shook his head, “No. It’s a sad turn, and no mistake, but this is not the darkest.”

Lou pointed upwards, “If that boy don’t make it out-”

Stan was stern, “No. Every man’s the hero of his own story, but not every story’s about just one man. That’s the kind of mistake every king makes.”

Lou eased back in his seat and said, “Don’t see how we can-”

They both turned to watch a commotion starting in the bottom seats of the bleachers. Three men in the middle of the front row stood up, pointing weapons all around them. They formed a tight semi-circle facing away from the stage. People ran from them, crawling over seats and other patrons. From the aisles, the bright blue of the king’s guard flashed as his majesty’s protectors leaped forward. They fought through the crowd to reach the armed semicircle of men. A fourth man in the center of the semi-circle stood up and faced Dizzy, a long, thin weapon perched on his shoulder. A brilliant red line of light reached from him to the royal box. He aimed and fired just once.

The rocket moved slowly, almost ponderously toward the target, a plume of smoke jetting out behind it. As it moved, it gained speed, targeting the box. By the time it hit, the rocket was moving fast enough to punch through the bulletproof glass and explode inside the royal box.

The noise was deafening, and the light from the explosion burnt their faces. People threw their arms up over their eyes, and as the sound of the explosion died away, it was replaced with the screams of the people in the bleachers.

The front of the box was nearly vaporized, with pieces raining down on the whole auditorium. Patrons were hit by flying debris as far as fifty feet from the stage. From below, Stan and Lou could see the inside of the box, half a kitchenette hanging over them and burning. The other boxes swayed slightly with the loss of their central stabilizer.

People ran for the exits, choking the tunnels as nobility and commoner alike pushed past each other to get out. But they were on a floating platform, and it takes time to fill escape vehicles. The exits were clogged, and people poured back into the auditorium, looking for other exits. The projected scenes of wartime violence merged seamlessly with the smoking debris throughout the seats. The King’s guard shouted and pushed and called for calm. No one noticed the four men who had blended into the chaos.

In all the screaming, burning, and blaring rock music, Stan and Lou sat quietly. Stan brushed dust off of his best coat, while Lou just stared up at the husk of the royal box, “It just ain’t fair. Boy never got hisself a chance.”

– The End of Book Two in the Noblesse Oblige Series –

You can find the audio version here

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Also, if you’d like to buy the full e-book, you can find it here.

His majesty, King Augustus the third, began his reign in a tumult. The wars, of course, would seem to wreak havoc upon any leader, but this was not the greatest of his concerns. Much of what is known is apocryphal, with wild tales of shootings and bombings, police chases and music. There is even one story that say he let a queen take his place while sitting high above the world.

Many of the stories can be validated with footage from the many vids taken during that week. It is true that he was the first king in years to meet with the commoners while surveying his holdings. The stories regarding his ignoble birth have, by now, been well verified.

But the most interesting, and unverifiable, story is the one surrounding the concert he arranged. Despite multiple vid feeds from the thousands who attended the tragedy, it is still impossible to say how it started. There are some who even say it began over a disagreement about a bear…

- Justin Foote, Archivist and author of “The Veever King”

Questioning the king continued for some time, with the investigator asking leading questions, and Dizzy trying his best to answer completely. He knew the investigator was considering multiple possibilities, but every time he thought he understood where the questioning was leading, the investigator would ask something that lead them in a new direction. His assistant sat just behind Dizzy, with a flat, ridged tool folded out on his lap. The tool had a few antennae hanging off of it, all pointed at Dizzy. The thing hummed and churned, and whispered exhaust as it read information from him. During the questioning, the investigator would periodically look over at his assistant, who either nodded or shook his head. It made Dizzy uncomfortable, having this secret conversation going on around him. They never even bothered making eye contact. The assistant never looked away from his screen.

At one point the leading questions took them down the direction of collusion between Jus Cos and Astor Atherton. Dizzy was about to suggest that they would never work together, when the investigator took a long breath and slapped his knees, “All right. Thank you, my liege. I hope not to have to bother you again.” He extended a hand, and Dizzy shook it without answering. “If we have any other questions, we will contact you. I’ll update your man on our progress.” He jogged a thumb at Lord Dunem, who nodded in response.

As he and the silent assistant left, Dizzy turned to Lord Dunem, “I feel like my head’s been turned inside out. What was the point of all that accusation?”

The old man asked, “Whom did he accuse?”

Dizzy blinked for a moment, then said, “Come to think of it, I don’t think he directly accused anyone. But those lines of questioning. Surely he was trying to find out who to accuse.”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. However, it seems to me that while you were looking for an accusation, he was extracting details surrounding the incident.”

Dizzy wondered briefly whether Lord Dunem was really more astute than he was, or if the old man was just trying to tweak him on his grammar. The doctor came back over to them, “Is the king ready?”

Dizzy nodded, and Lord Dunem said, “I believe the king is prepared to retire for the evening.”

“Very well.” She turned to face him, “Take this.” She passed him a tiny pill, which Dizzy promptly dry-swallowed. The doctor nodded and said, “It’s powerful. Lie down quickly. I’ll return upon the morrow, and we shall evaluate your recovery then.” She turned back to Lord Dunem, “Have you given thought to counseling?”

Dizzy waved it away, “I’m fine. I wasn’t hit, I am all right. I don’t need counseling.”

Lord Dunem looked back at the doctor, “We will give it due consideration. Send me a list of qualified and discrete candidates.”

She nodded, “I’ll return tomorrow. Until then,” she turned back to Dizzy, “please don’t swallow anything given to you by someone whose credentials you have not checked.”

Dizzy winced and nodded to the doctor as she turned to leave. He took a deep breath, “I’m never going to stop learning about how this job works, am I?”

One corner of the old man’s mouth twitched upward, “The only kings who rule with certainty are tyrants.”

Lord Dunem began ushering the others out of the room, and when it was down to just the two of them, Dizzy said, “You were in here when I returned. In my bedroom.”

The lord nodded, “Yes, your majesty. I was preparing to explain certain realities about our current military situation.”

Dizzy pointed a finger at him, “Right. Yes. And I want to hear that, because so far, it sounds like a bureaucratic mess.” His eyes started to lose focus as he crossed to the bed, “I don’t like it being such a mess, either. I’m going to be the king who cleans all that…” he groped for a word. He slipped and grabbed the edge of the bed, falling into a seated position, “up.”

Lord Dunem clapped his hands once, and the door opened. He gestured at the king, and Astor came in to help prepare the king for sleep. Dizzy was unconscious before he was under the covers.

—

Dizzy woke late, which didn’t surprise him at all. The sedative was powerful, but left no lasting damage. He awoke refreshed and prepared for the day.

Astor was waiting for him to stir, and entered just as Dizzy was leaving the bathroom. As Astor set out the King’s clothes, Dizzy asked him, “How did your father take yesterday’s trade?”

Astor shrugged and looked away, “Well, I don’t see that it affects our house at all.”

“No? The king openly trading favors between houses?” Dizzy shrugged into a shirt with pleated forearms, “I’d have thought he’d be very interested in it.”

Astor chuffed, “Well, maybe if it became a constant thing. Right now, I think everybody just sees it as you trading one mistake for another.”

Dizzy stopped, one hand still holding the cuff of the other arm, “Really? Is it that bad?”

Astor folded his arms over his chest, “Your first mistake was getting the crown to owe Oldham a favor, but then to show favoritism to Oldham by taking Wilde’s prize bear away, and to do it in front of everyone…” He shook his head, “Well, your majesty has a very innovative interpretation of diplomacy. That’s all I have to say on the subject.”

Olivia stepped up behind Dizzy and straightened the shoulders on his shirt, “Ah, the promise of silence. Sweeter words you’ve never spoken. And may the lord above make it true.”

Dizzy turned to face her, “What about you? Do you think it was a mistake to pay the debt with Wilde’s bear?”

Her mouth hardened, “Don’t bring me in on this. I want nothing to do with those three.”

Dizzy nodded, looked away, then shook his head, “No. I really want to hear what you have to say, because it sounds like there’s something serious going on with-”

She cut him off, “You are the king. All of this talk about whether you made a mistake by giving or receiving favors is so much wind. If you favored my father, if you favored Lord Atherton, it doesn’t matter. In the end, you are the king, and every lord has bent the knee in support of that fact. You give them all power when you decide to play their game.”

Astor shook his head, “The king needs his lords. We are what keep the country running.”

“None of those men are stupid enough to hurt themselves in this balance of power.” She looked back at Dizzy, “If you did anything wrong, it was taking the bear away from Lord Wilde. Not because it was a favor or a payment or any of that. It was wrong because it was wrong. You saw something that Lord Wilde loved, and you took it away. That was real.” She looked back at Astor, “The rest is just rich men whining.”

Lord Dunem walked in just as Astor began to respond. He looked at the three of them, and said, “If the king is ready, I would like to speak with him.”

Astor and Olivia gave their polite, but brief, goodbyes. Astor closed the door behind them. Dizzy turned to Lord Dunem, “I wish I could get that kind of respect from young Atherton.”

The lord nodded, and headed back into the private office. As Dizzy followed him, he shut the door behind them. “I’ve just about decided to let Lord Wilde keep his bear. I’m not sure how to do it without losing face, but it’s worth the attempt.”

The old man put a disc down on his desk, and turned back to face Dizzy. He frowned for a moment, then said, “Oh, your domestic squabble. Yes, well, I’m sure you will figure out a way to handle it.”

Dizzy smiled as Lord Dunem turned back to the disc. He knew the lord hadn’t forgot what was going on in the palace. This was just Dunem’s subtle way of saying that there were bigger fish to fry.

Dizzy took a deep breath, and held his hands behind his back. The bigger fish would be a problem for him. He knew this was going to explain their military strategy, and he already knew he wouldn’t like it. More than that, he knew that Dunem would probably insist, and would have a list of perfectly sound arguments to explain why they should work peaceably with their enemies. But he also knew he would never agree with them.

Lord Dunem said, “I’ve been holding onto this for a long time,” and stepped away from the disc as a hologram snapped into view above it. Dizzy frowned for a moment at the three-foot-tall image of a man. Then he pointed, “Is that-”

The hologram cut him off as the recording began, “I am King Richard, second of my name.” The man was broad-shouldered and powerful, with a slim waist and form. He had dirty-blonde hair and a short, severe beard that defined a powerful jawline. His mouth was wide across his face, and his eyes matched Dizzy’s exactly. On his brow, he wore the crown that now wrapped around Dizzy’s forearm. His arms were crossed over an immaculately tailored suit of tan and green.

The dead king continued, “I doubt this will ever be viewed, as it seems ridiculous that both my son and I should die before the birth of any new heir. It is my hope that young Vincent never need to take on the mantle of leadership. Nevertheless, my chief-of-staff feels it is important that I prepare for all contingencies. And so here we are. Hello, Vincent.”

He paused for a long moment, frowning at nothing, then said, “I held you today.” He cupped his hands and looked down into them, smiling, “It was amazing. You were so tiny, so beautiful, and so much like your mother I stood amazed. The shape of your face, the hair… You are beautiful.”

His smile faded, “But I also saw the royal blood in you. The wide mouth, the sharp eyes. I thought, if anyone knew, your life would be in danger. My chief-of-staff, Lord Dunem, suggested that we pack you both off to some remote location and make sure you couldn’t come back. I won’t do that, though of course, I can’t very well bring you to court, either.”

The king’s frown deepened, “I think he would have you killed, if I were not watching.” Dizzy shot a quick look at Dunem, who remained entirely composed, never taking his eyes off the hologram.

The king continued, “Lord Dunem, well, you probably don’t know him. He’s either dead or impossibly old by the time you view this. If he is still working, you should know; He’s a good man, and loyal, but he’s loyal to the crown.” Richard looked up to the camera and pointed a finger, “Remember that, he’s loyal to the crown, not the man.” The king looked away again, hands on his hips, “I told him that I wanted to take care of you, but he forbade it. Said it would bring too much notice from our enemies. I understand, and I know he’s right, but all the same, I’ve told him to watch you and make sure you are safe. I suppose, if you’re viewing this, he did.”

He took a deep breath and said, “Of course, it also means that I’m dead, and left no heirs… I have a child coming. He will be the younger brother, but will inherit the kingdom, as a trueborn heir.” The king looked sadly out at them, “I’m sorry about that, in a way.” He stared down at the floor for a moment, “I honestly don’t know what to say. I keep thinking of tidbits of information that, I’m sure, will be useless to you. I want to tell you which factions to trust, and who to fear, but any information I give you will be outdated by the time you see this.” He snapped his fingers, “The Romanian Chancellor. Call him ‘Ruffles’ and let him know you’re my son, and he will always be there for you. He’s a good man, and he loves our family well.”

He looked back down at the floor and muttered, “I really am sorry.” King Richard took a deep breath and crossed his arms over his chest, “The fact that this is being viewed means that the worst-case scenario has come true. You were never trained for this job, and you probably grew up thinking you would have a simple life, where you were able to strike out and find your own fortune.”

King Richard ran a hand through his hair, “Well, you can’t. I’m sorry, but there’s just too much involved in running a country. A king gets to decide very little in his own life. There are many things I’d like to tell you, but this is the most important. You are not your own master. Not now, not ever again. You will want to rebel, you will want to fight your way out, or run away, but in the end, the job will hold you.”

He squared his shoulders and continued, “That is not a trap, it is not a blessing. That is just how our lives are. You will learn to accept it. It is our duty.”

He looked around himself again, then said, “I can’t think of anything else, except to say that I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to make you part of our lives, and I’m sorry that I’m now pulling you out of yours. Like I said, I honestly hope this recording is never viewed.” He made a cutting motion across his throat, and the hologram flickered out.

“Duty,” the old man intoned. “Your father knew it well. He was a good servant to the crown and saw to it that -”

“Where did you get that?” Dizzy stepped up to take the disc out of his hands.

Lord Dunem showed no surprise, “It was given to me by your father many years ago.”

“And when were you planning to show it to me?”

“Just now.” The lord stared him down, and Dizzy found himself distracted by the datacrawl that colored the inside of his monocle. The old man continued, “My intent was always to show it to you at the first opportunity where we could schedule time together. As you can see by yesterday’s appointment, it is difficult to arrange time with a king.”

“Well, someone did try to shoot me.”

“My point exactly.” He took a deep breath and started again, “Duty. Your father understood it. Your brother understood it. Duty to one’s position. Duty to one’s people-”

Dizzy chuffed and turned away as Lord Dunem said, “Duty to the perpetual war.”

Slowly, Dizzy turned back to face him, “Say that again.”

“A man can exist for no reason at all. A government cannot exist without any reason.”

“I don’t understand.”

Lord Dunem began walking slowly around the room, gesturing as he spoke, “If you ask the man on the street what the King does for us, he may tell you that the king protects our economic well-being. He may talk about the King’s use as a figurehead for diplomatic missions. But the thing he is most likely to say is ‘The King protects us from the enemy.’”

Dizzy nodded, “Exactly. So how are we protecting them from the enemy, when we’re giving money or guns to the enemy.”

Lord Dunem nodded, “Your majesty, what if there were no enemy?”

Dizzy frowned, “Now you’re just talking nonsense.”

“No, my liege. Let us say that we have solved, through war or diplomacy, all arguments with all other countries. Let us say that, through your own heroic effort, you have removed all threats to the country.”

“Well, that would be a good thing, then. People would be safe. No more dead soldiers. Economic prosperity.”

Lord Dunem waved it away, “We could discuss the political horrors involved in a Utopia at another time, my liege. But if we were to have no enemies, what would that same man on the street say? Would he say ‘The King protects us from the enemy’?”

“I suppose he would fall back on one of those other answers. Figurehead for diplomatic whatevers.”

Lord Dunem shook his head, “I think he might be more likely to say, “You’re right! What do we need a King for?” The old man shook his head, “We live in a stable society, where every man knows his place and works to keep the great machine producing. But we often forget that, at any moment, the people could rise up and tear the machine to pieces.”

He pointed to Dizzy, “Duty. One of your duties is to keep this government together; to keep the people from tearing the entire government down.”

“And we do that by supporting our enemies? How does that make any sense at all?”

“We are not supporting our enemies. We are supporting the war.”

Dizzy just blinked at him, stunned by the baldly evil nature of that statement. Lord Dunem continued, “In these wars that we’ve constructed, people go to die, knowing that they are fighting for their country. Most of them don’t even know the countries they are fighting against. No one knows who the collected enemy is, or how to tell when they’re actually beaten.” He took a deep breath and said, “A great man once wrote, ‘It does not matter whether the war is actually happening, and, since no decisive victory is possible, it does not matter whether the war is going badly. All that is needed is that a state of war should exist.’”

“We are at war just so we can stay at war? What possible good can come of that? How can we possibly win?”

“As long as the war is ongoing, we are winning. As long as there is a state of war, the different noblemen are willing to make sacrifices to the war effort. As long as there is a state of war, the crown can keep dissent limited by calling it unpatriotic. As long as there is a state of war, the crown stays strong.”

“And the men who give up their lives for our strong crown?”

“Regrettable. But people die every day. More people die by slipping in the shower or velo collisions than by war. It is a price we pay, but it is a small price, compared to the alternative.”

“How can peace kill more people than war?”

Lord Dunem sighed, “In war, people sometimes know they are going into harm’s way, and may die. They are kept safe until they are deployed into controlled battlegrounds. In the anarchist peace of a weak government, people die over small disputes, domestic squabbles, political arguments. In wartime, a nation comes together to protect the collective. In peacetime, a nation will eat itself with small, petty, selfish concerns. While we are at war, people do extra work to help the war effort, which improves the economy. While we are at war, the government can buy weaponry and supplies enough to keep domestic production high, while requiring the nobility to sacrifice in order to pay for those costs. While we are at war, we control the economy, and we can keep it stable.” He took a deep breath and held his hands behind his back, “A king who loves his country will always keep it focused and strong by giving it a goal they can all strive for, no matter how unreachable that goal is.”

Dizzy blinked up at him, unsure of what to say. He understood the argument, understood that this man believed wholeheartedly in it. He knew that, if he tried to fight Dunem in this, the old man would use every power at his disposal to protect those wars. Dizzy understood then that, if he were to oppose this, he would most assuredly fail.

No one with any power would stand beside him. No nobleman would come to his aid. No royalty from any other nation would help him. If he turned to the common man, they would tear down the government in rage, just as Dunem said. There was simply no way he could win this fight.

But at the same time, Dizzy knew he had to fight it. Even if Dunem was right. Even if it would cost more lives, ruin their economy, destroy their seat of power. Even if…

Deep in the pit of his stomach, Dizzy felt something tickle. It was a laugh of an idea that spread through his body. He ducked his head down for a moment and covered his face, as though deep in thought. The idea ran through him and made him chuckle inwardly.

Even if it meant that he was the last King. Dizzy would fight this, even if it meant destroying the crown itself.

After all, he was the bastard King. The illegitimate one. He was never made to be King anyway.

Dizzy composed himself and looked back up to Lord Dunem, his mind still rushing with plans. He was the King they were not prepared for. He was the King who grew up among the commoners. He was the King who didn’t value duty over truth.

He did not smile at Lord Dunem as he said, “I’m going to have to think about this.” He paused to make it look like he was mulling over Dunem’s words, “I don’t want to get in the way of what’s best for the people.”

He looked right into Lord Dunem’s flashing eye, and told a delicious lie, “I just don’t understand the wars well enough yet.”

Lord Dunem nodded and began to leave, as Dizzy gestured to him, “Um, I don’t think I should take a big role in military decisions for now. In fact, I was thinking that I should probably defer my foreign decisions to the council.”

“For the moment, my liege, I think that would be wise.”

Dizzy put a finger to his lips, “With that in mind, I thought I should concentrate my energies on purely domestic issues. That problem with Wilde’s bear, for instance.”

Lord Dunem smiled, “Yes, your majesty. I think that would be an excellent use of your time, whilst you prepare for more complicated duties.”

“And the concert tonight.”

Lord Dunem’s smile froze in place, “Yes, your majesty. That is a necessary duty that is probably best handled by you.”

“So we have reserved the Kovacs?”

“Yes sir. The venue seats about twenty thousand, and generally operates at an altitude of two thousand feet.”

“Close enough that people can hear it on the ground?”

The old man sighed, “Yes sir. The whole city will be able to hear the miscreant insult the nobility.”

Dizzy pushed unmercifully, “And you told everyone about it?”

“It has been promoted by wave for the last two days. Day and night, the announcement has been projected across the sky.”

“Wonderful.” He waggled a finger at the diplomat, “I’m telling you, people will love me for showing that I support the same things they do.”

“People will know that the king allows people to openly mock him. They will know that he supports being mocked.”

“And that will make them more comfortable with me. It will make them see me as someone they can relate to.”

The old man frowned, “It will make them see you as a man. A man who can fail; a man who can bleed.”

Dizzy grinned and held his arms wide, “Just like them. I can be the first king to be friends with the nobility and the common man.”

The Lord shook his head, “Whatever that boy says about you, whatever happens, it will be waved to the rest of the world. The whole world will see it.”

Dizzy clapped him on the shoulder as he ran past, “Let’s hope the whole world is watching.”

As Dizzy entered the main foyer, he saw the huge, hulking mass of Lord Wilde waiting. Astor ran up to the king and hissed, “The bear just got here.”

Dizzy frowned, “Where do we normally receive visiting lords?” He unfolded Sceptre from his wrist, and placed the circlet on his head.

Astor sneered, “Let’s put him in the throne room.” Dizzy understood immediately and rolled his eyes. Seeing him in the throne room forced him to remember who was in charge.

Dizzy headed toward the man, saying to Astor, “You’ll never make a good advisor if you remain that transparent.”

He smiled as he reached the giant, “Lord Wilde. This is an unexpected honor. Did you come for the concert?”

Lord Wilde looked uncomfortable in the tailored finery, “No, I’m not one for shows. I’ve come here-” He shot a look at Astor, and the entourage that surrounded them both, “I’ve come to speak with you privately.”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, milord. I don’t think I’ve seen you out here since the coronation. Please, walk with me.” Dizzy walked before the huge man, leading him out of the foyer. He shot a glance back at Astor, “the young Atherton lordling will ensure that we are not disturbed.”

Astor stopped following in mid-step, then scowled at Dizzy. He turned to the others and pulled them off, telling them to move along.

The lord stayed silent during their walk, paying no attention to the ornate decoration or to Dizzy’s attempts at small talk. The king lead him outside, over to the stables. As they neared, the large man seemed to stand straighter, look around more. He brightened and smiled a bit as they entered.

Dizzy asked, “Have you visited the royal stables before?”

“Not for many years. Cadvan had very little use for them.” He examined each animal as they passed, occasionally commenting on them. “The calf’s underfed, and you’re not watering the filly enough.”

Dizzy nodded along, “Sad to say, I’ve had very little time to visit the stables. I’ve been very busy this past week.”

Lord Wilde huffed, “Not too busy to stick your nose into other men’s stables.”

“That’s fair.” They neared a stall with the name “Cinnamon” burned into the wood. Dizzy unlocked it and let them in, “If I’m not misinformed, this is the bear you gave to my brother.”

Lord Wilde walked up to the creature and took it’s head in his hands. He looked into her eyes then pushed his forehead against the bear’s forehead. He threw his arms around the neck of the bear as it leaned in. He closed his eyes and said, “She’s a good girl. She was always a soft temperament, but strong and loyal.”

Dizzy stood away from them, recognizing the bond that the lord shared with all his animals. The large man’s eyes opened and he looked at Dizzy, “She hasn’t had any attention the last few days. Her coat is matting, and the fur between her pads is getting too long.”

Dizzy looked at one of the corners of the stall, “I think that’s the corner where they found my brother’s scepter, just before he rode this beast to his death.”

“Wasn’t her fault.”

“No, but I imagine it explains why the groomsmen haven’t been seeing to her.” Lord Wilde scowled at Dizzy, and he relented. It wasn’t the bear’s fault, after all, “I’ll see to it that she gets the proper attention.”

The huge man’s black eyes flashed as he nodded once. He stared intently at Dizzy for a long moment, until the king broke the silence, “So, I haven’t seen Wendy in some time. How is she doing?”

The Lord said, “She’s fine. Enjoying time with friends she hasn’t seen in years. She speaks of you often.”

Dizzy grinned, “Does she?”

“She says you’re stubborn, quick to act and slow to listen. She says you rarely listen to advisors, and you consider chaos a virtue.”

Dizzy blinked, “Ah.”

The man’s stare never wavered, “She speaks of you often.”

There was a tense moment as Dizzy realized what the man meant, then he cleared his throat, “Well, she is a delight. We were glad to have her as our guest, and are overjoyed to see her returned to her home.”

The lord nodded, looked away, then squared his shoulders. He faced Dizzy again, “Don’t take Sapata.”

Dizzy stared at the bear, “I can’t change course now.” He sighed, “In the past day, everyone seems to want to tell me that I’ve exchanged one mistake for another. I realize that the bear means a lot to you, but I can’t go back on it now.”

“You can. It was easy enough for you to take her from me. So walk it back.”

“I announced this decision in front of all three noble lords. If I walk it back now, the others will have no faith in my word.”

“Is it that important?” The scarred man shook his head, “All this playing at diplomacy. Does it really matter whether they trust you or not?”

Dizzy rubbed his chin with one hand, “Very soon, I am going to be in a bad situation. I think there will be war soon.”

“There’s always been war. I don’t know if your handlers have explained it to you, but -”

Dizzy nodded, “Yes. I know. But I’m going to be making some unpopular moves regarding that, and I’m going to need to know who is on my side.”

“What has this got to do with loyalty?”

“Because the people who are on my side are going to be the ones who followed me even when they didn’t want to. Even when it didn’t make any sense. The ones I trust will be the ones who made sacrifices without a promise of personal gain.”

Lord Wilde glared at him, “She wasn’t wrong.”

“How’s that?”

“She said you were stubborn.”

Dizzy walked over to Cinnamon and stroked the beasts flank, “This was one of your bears, wasn’t she?”

Lord Wilde nodded, “Cadvan took her. I don’t think he even wanted the bear, but Dunem took her to show the power of the crown.” He sneered as he said it.

Dizzy nodded, “I’d be glad to give her back to you.”

Lord Wilde shook his head, but Dizzy continued first, “Not as a replacement. She’s not as good a specimen. And not right away. I can’t let them think that we have any kind of secondary agreement. But I’d like to give her to you as a gift.”

The lord stared hard at him for a long moment, “You’re right. She’s not even in Saparta’s league. I came all the way out here to keep what’s mine. But this… This is a hollow gesture.”

Dizzy sighed and nodded, “I understand. I’ll have my men come next week to transfer Saparta. I’ll make sure she’s well cared for.”

The lord growled, “Don’t do it.”

Dizzy frowned, “Is that a command?”

Lord Wilde threw his hands down into fists, “Does it matter? I’m not playing your games. I’m not going to suggest, cajole, coerce, or order. I don’t go to court to play political games. I don’t build alliances to protect this lord or attack that knight. I speak plainly, openly, and I stand by my words. Now I’ve asked politely, I’ve told you why you can’t take her. Now just DON’T DO IT!”

Dizzy took a deep breath, then said, “Perhaps, Lord Wilde, if you had spent more time at court, building alliances and making friends, you would not be the most obvious choice for sacrifice. Now this is going to happen. I will do what I can to make it up to you, but you do not ever order me again.”

He walked out of the stall. As he reached the door, Dizzy turned, “Just out of curiosity, when did you arrive here?”

The lord blinked at him, “Here? I got into town yesterday morning.”

“But when did you reach the palace?”

The large man glared back at him, “Yesterday afternoon. Your man put me up for the night. What does it matter?”

Dizzy’s mind spun over the possibility. Lord Wilde loved that bear enough to travel all this way and beg to keep it. He was in town, in the palace even, at the time of the assassination attempt. Lord Wilde was one of the greatest marksmen in the country, well versed with hunting outdoors. And Dizzy had just given him motive.

Dizzy stared at him for a long moment. Would he have got one of his men to do the dirty work, or would such an honorable man insist on doing his own killing?

Dizzy’s voice had a slight tremor as he said, “If you’ll excuse me, I have a concert to attend.”