And I don't doubt she'll talk it over with Benjamin, too, he thought sardonically. If she has any reservations, she'll want to run them past him to get a second viewpoint on them. And, of course, so the two of them can double-team me more effectively if it turns out they agree with one another.
Which was just fine with Albrecht Detweiler, when all was said and done. The one thing he wasn't was convinced of his own infallibility, after all.
Chapter Thirty-Six
June, 1921
"I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to this, Hugh. The first time I've been out of that damn hole since the murder of Lara and all those other people."
They'd just emerged from the elevator leading down to the buried operations-center-doubling-as-royal-residence and were heading toward the front entrance. Impulsively, Berry slid her hand into her security chief's elbow. Then, feeling him get tense, she made a face and withdrew the hand.
"Sorry. Forgot. You have to keep your gun hand free—both of them, it seems—in case evil-doers leap out at us. And never mind the fact that no evil-doer smaller than a gorilla is likely to 'leap out' at you in the first place—and if they did, so what? I've seen you lift weights, Hugh. Any real world baddie with a functioning brain who wants to do me evil when you're around is going to try to blow me up or shoot me at long range or poison me or whatever—none of which scenarios leave any room for Dead-Eye Arai to go down with guns blazing."
Hugh couldn't help but chuckle. In purely cold-blooded and practical terms, Berry was almost certainly correct. Hugh didn't need to keep both his hands free. In fact, you could even make a case that by lending Berry his arm he was lowering the risk that the queen might hurt herself by tripping and falling.
But it didn't matter. The real problem was psychological, not practical. Even without any physical contact, Hugh was finding it very hard to maintain his emotional detachment. Harder, in fact, as time went by. He figured he needed every crutch he could get.
The queen's latest remark was just another nail in his emotional coffin, so to speak. And if the term "coffin" might strike another man as a ridiculous way to describe the fact that he was falling in love, that other man wasn't his would-be paramour's head of security. By now, Hugh silently cursed Jeremy X the moment he woke up, at least a dozen times during the course of each day—and his last thought before he fell asleep was to curse him yet again.
Since the murder of Lara and all those other people. To the best of Hugh's knowledge, Berry Zilwicki was the only person who described that now-notorious historical episode in that manner. For probably everyone else in the settled universe—and certainly every newscaster—the episode was known as the attempted assassination of Queen Berry of Torch.
Hugh thought of the incident that way himself. But Berry didn't. And never would. It might be better to say, was flatly incapable of it. There was a transparency in the way she saw the universe that passed through the many layers of positions and titles and posts and status that most people automatically and usually subconsciously laid over the other people they encountered.
It wasn't that Berry was disrespectful toward people of high social rank. She wasn't, unless that person had given her specific cause to be. It was simply that she had the ability to extend that respect to anyone, no matter how low their status might be, without even thinking about it.
She had survived, and Lara and many others had not. So, forever more, that incident would be defined for her by the people who'd suffered the most, not by their respective status. She'd taken the time and effort afterward to find out the name of every person who'd died, down to the servants, and send personal messages of condolence to their families. (If they had any. Many ex-slaves didn't.)
That quality made her someone who gathered friends faster than anyone Hugh had ever seen in his life, and drew the friends she already had still closer. Hugh didn't think any of Berry's other bodyguards were falling in love with her, the way he was. But by now they were all completely devoted to her.
And . . . if he'd gauged things correctly, Torch's populace as a whole had done exactly the same thing. They were about to find out. This would be Berry's first appearance in public since the assassination attempt.
He'd damn well better be right. Or Berry would skin him alive. She might do it anyway.
The queen and her head of security emerged into the sunlight spilling onto the front entrance of the palace. Immediately, two things happened.
The huge crowd gathered to greet her exploded in cheers, and a dozen guards moved in and surrounded her.
A little over half of the guards were Beowulfers and the remainder were a mix of Ballroom people and Amazons, each and every one of whom had been carefully vetted. Vetted not only by Hugh himself, and Jeremy and Saburo, but by one of the members of the bodyguard that Ruth's father had brought with him.
His name was Barry Freeman, and he'd been the only member of that Queen's Own detachment partnered to a treecat. The treecat's name was Oliver Wendell Holmes, and he'd been present throughout the process whereby Hugh put together Berry's new security team.
Her first real security team, rather. Berry had insisted the unit be titled Lara's Own Regiment. "Regiment" was absurd at the moment, of course. But if the new star nation survived, it wouldn't always be.
Hugh wished desperately that Barry and Oliver were still here on Torch. He'd have felt a lot better if he'd known there was at least one treecat able to sense the emotions of the people who came within striking range of Berry. Unfortunately, treecats who'd taken human partners were few and far between. The only one they'd had on Torch had been Genghis. Hugh missed him and Judson Van Hale more with every passing day, and not just from the utility perspective. Neither Genghis nor Judson—nor Harper—had hesitated for a moment. If they had, Berry would have died and the overall death toll would have been immeasurably worse. For Hugh Arai, that made all three of them his brothers, and species be damned.
Yet there was a utility aspect to it, and Hugh had discussed the matter, at some length, with Winton-Serisburg and Freeman, the day before they left. They'd promised they'd do what they could when they got back to the Star Kingdom to see if some treecat-partnered Manticorans with the needed security experience and training could be freed up to serve for a time on Torch.
"But don't get your hopes too high," Freeman had said. "There just aren't that many of us anywhere, much less with the skills you need . . . and, to be honest, we have to use the ones we've got to keep an eye out for whatever the hell they're using for these assassinations closer to home." He'd looked almost apologetically at Winton-Serisburg. "Her Majesty, Baron Grantville, Earl White Haven, Baroness Mourncreek . . . there are still a lot of people someone with this kind of capability"—like most of the Queen's Own who'd been to Torch, he didn't seem quite as sold as the Star Kingdom's official intelligence analysts on the notion that the someone in question spoke with a Havenite accent—"would like to see dead. And keeping them alive is going to use up a a huge chunk of our available supply of 'cats."
"Barry's right about that, and the pairings we do have are most likely to be found on Sphinx, probably working for the Forest Service," Michael had added. "But I'll raise it with my sister, Hugh, and we'll do what we can."
"Oh, good lord," said Berry, staring with dismay at her security guards. What would be upsetting her the most, Hugh knew, was not so much their presence as the fact that each and every one of them was armed with a pulse rifle—which they carried ready to fire. Lara's Own was making it as crystal clear as possible that they were prepared to shoot anyone instantly, on the slightest suspicion.