Please commend Capt. Fox for his alacrity and discretion. I assure you that no one aside from Fox and the Governor himself were aware of my presence, let alone my mission.

Warmest regards to Cynthia,

Asach

While Jackson read the letter, Blaine’s eyes never wavered from his face. Renner finished first. He let out a low whistle, then sat back. With his finger, he circled the “bottom line” paragraph, then stroked and stabbed it with his finger. A crimson oval surrounded the text, with an exclamation point in the margin. He then ticked next to “Outie is a fiction,” and finally “the Governor himself.” Red checkmarks appeared beside the text. He then put his hand flat on the desk, centered on the message, and pushed it back across the table to Blaine.

Blaine nodded curtly, and turned it right side up, without actually looking down. Jackson looked up, confused; uncertain.

“Did you meet Asach Quinn during that first mission to New Utah?

“Well, yes. Quinn was—”

“And do you agree with the substance of this report?”

“Well, it wasn’t made to me, and I—”

“That’s not what I asked you. Do you agree or not?”

“I stand by the official report of the Commission.”

“I’d advise you not to hide behind your Commissioners. After all, you appointed them.”

“I don’t know why you would trust a private letter written by a low-level advisor over the official summary of the Governor’s Commission.”

“There! You see? Your Commission. Able Spacer Lawrence Jackson’s Commission!. As against the word of an independent advisor appointed by—”

“My Lord Blaine! I may once have been a mere able spacer under your junior command, but I now hold a Knighthood that stands me credit against anyone, even if I had to earn my title. As for Quinn, Quinn’s a well-known class traitor who denies any responsibility for—”

 “Ah, indeed! Just the point, Sir Lawrence. Governor Sir Lawrence. Governor Sir Lawrence Jackson, what is the unofficial motto of this Empire?”

Jackson was clearly confused as he delivered the schoolboy response. “The Empire of Man decides the fate of worlds.”

“And who embodies the Empire?”

“The Emperor, of course”

“Yes.”

Blaine let that soak in a moment. “The Emperor. Not Commissioners. Not the ITA. Not the aristocracy. Not his appointed Governors. And especially not ex-Able Spacers.”

“Now see here—”

“No, you see here, Sir Lawrence. That’s the deal, you see. It’s a deal as old as the Magna Carta. It’s a deal that anyone with inherited title gets drubbed in from their first suckle, whatever way their family decides to gamble thereafter. And it’s the deal you sign up for when you accept the Knighthood. The Barons get to run their realms however they see fit, but the King gets to pick the Barons. They do not, ever, under any circumstance, get to appoint themselves. And it is the sworn duty of the King’s Chivalry to defend that principle. Or did you miss that little part of the oath when the sword tapped your manifestly unworthy shoulders?”

Renner twisted in his seat. “Look, Rod, don’t you think you are being a little—”

“Sir Kevin. Do not presume upon our friendship. You have always suffered the cheerful delusion that the aristocracy works for you. It does not. It works for itself. It works to earn and preserve its Baronage. In furtherance of that aim, we may delegate privilege, but we never, ever delegate power. As you well know.”

Renner was frozen. Blaine turned back to Jackson. “I carried a grudge against Horace Bury, the richest man in the Empire, for three decades because he had played a minor role, hedging his financial bets during a local insurrection on a useless planet that was already an active threat to the Empire.”

He shot an aside to Renner. “You quite charmingly believed that grudge was personal? Because Sally got caught up in the mess and fell into my gallant, youthful arms? Don’t be ridiculous.”

 He went on. “For merely falling under suspicion, Sir Lawrence, Bury paid with a lifetime of service, with annual capital contributions to the Crown that exceeded the entire tax revenue of your pathetic backwoods planet to date, and, in the end, his life. So now, Governor, faced with this little piece of Bury’s payback, just how do you propose to earn back your neck, let alone your liberty, when you have clearly suborned the Commission’s report, attempted to hold New Utah as a vassal of Maxroy’s Purchase, and thereby committed outright treason against the Emperor himself?”

Jackson blanched, while his intestines attempted to escape through his navel.

“But you can’t prove that I knew any of this!”

Blaine’s voice was ice. “Ah, there you go, missing the point again. If you didn’t, as Governor you should have. If you did, well, then. And in any case, there is always that problem of suspicion.”

He watched Jackson’s lips turn slightly blue. He did not rise. “I will give you twenty-four hours leave to ponder my question. I trust you can see yourself out?”

To his credit, the Governor’s hands were almost steady as he latched the heavy door behind him. Renner and Blaine faced one another and broke into wicked grins.

“I trust you have people outside?’

“Oh, better than that,” nodded Renner.

“Ah. Of course. Now, lets see which way the rabbit runs.”

Renner reached for his pipe box, still smiling. Blaine rose and poured himself a stiff drink. And for his part, shivering outside in the warm night air, Governor Sir Lawrence Jackson silently vowed to personally strangle Asach Quinn.

Blaine Institute, New Caledonia, 3049

“But it’s not fair,” whinged Ali Baba. Glenda Ruth Fowler, a human child raised by a Motie Mediator nanny, marveled at this, a Motie Mediator child raised by—well, by nobody, really, at the moment. By her, if anyone. If Ali Baba had been a human, she’d call his—her—its—behavior acting out. Clearly, Bury’s death had deeply upset the—she was about to think child again, but aside from the fact that Ali Baba was not human, Ali Baba also was no longer really a child. Moties grew, and matured, very quickly.

On that horrible day on Sinbad, when Bury had died, during the final jump out of the Mote system and into the red star that meant home, in the midst of the panic—Sinbad hot on Atropos’ stern; Moties hot behind; Sinbad forced to stand alone against the Motie Khanate fleets; the Flinger going on and on and on, tossing nukes into the hearts of dozens, maybe hundreds of Motie ships still too jump-shocked to respond—on that horrible, horrible day, Glenda Ruth’s heart breaking, had Cynthia known? She’d charged the paddles, shouted “Clear!,” then “Glenda Ruth! Take Ali Baba!”

Ali Baba was howling then; ranting; furious that Bury was gone. But Glenda Ruth’s heart was breaking too, for a different reason, as the killing went on, and on, and on. She knew it then; couldn’t understand it then: the baby mediator willed and willed and willed Sinbad to win, while part of her willed that they would not. She did not wish Sinbad to lose, but she could not bear that all those Moties would die. So, it wasn’t at all that Ali Baba clung to her, it was that she clung to Ali Baba. Had Cynthia known? That on board that ship, the closest thing to her, a Motie-raised human, was Ali Baba, a human-raised Motie? Or was it just the off chance that she’d stood nearby?