Anton didn't have Web Du Havel's encyclopedic knowledge of history, but he knew more than enough to recognize the pattern. This wouldn't be the first time that a scorned and despised people, finding a glamorous champion, adopted him—or her—for their own. If Berry wasn't actually a princess, she was close enough. Close enough, after all, to consort with princesses and pass for one—not to mention being the adopted child of Anton Zilwicki and Catherine Montaigne. Cathy had given up the Tor title, true, but that would be irrelevant to the ex-slaves. For them, she was and would always remain the Countess —the wealthy, powerful aristocrat who had made their cause her own. Who'd committed herself to the liberation of the most despised, abused, forgotten victims of the galaxy not because she'd had to, but because she'd chosen to. And who'd given those same victims, and the "terrorists" who fought for them, her unstinting support for so long and so fiercely, even at the cost of exile and the voluntary renunciation of her title when it got in the way of her work. Her adopted daughter would have basked in that stature alone, among these people, even if she hadn't played a central role in their rescue. Combine the two...

Then, he caught sight of Web Du Havel, sitting a bit aside from the conversation. Web was not participating, simply watching. And he had a very smug smile on his face.

In that lightning way that everything could suddenly make sense to Anton, after he'd chewed on it for a while, he understood what Du Havel was scheming for. He even remembered Du Havel once using a term to describe the strategy. The Bernadotte Option, he'd called it.

"I'll kill him," he growled. "W.E.B. Du Havel, you are lunch. No. Dog food. No. I wouldn't feed a dog—"

Jeremy was standing next to him, by then. He frowned slightly. "Why the sudden animosity, Captain? I'd have thought Professor Du Havel far more congenial to you than I am—and you've never threatened to make me the main course for dinner."

Anton set his jaw and glanced at Jeremy. Then, managed a chuckle.

Brace yourself, Jeremy. You're in for a shock.

Du Havel didn't waste any time. Two hours later, as the ship's wild celebration over the arrival of the famous Jeremy X and the almost equally famous Captain Zilwicki was well underway, Du Havel drew the two of them aside.

"We need to talk. Now. Come to the necessary agreements while everyone's good will is at a peak."

Jeremy nodded. "Agreed, Professor. Your compartment?"

Du Havel shook his head. "No, I think the compartment of the two princesses would be best. Andwith both of them present."

Jeremy cocked a quizzical eyebrow. Then, shrugged. "I've no problem with that. What I've got to say in private will be no different from what I'll say in public."

It took a few minutes to round up Berry and Ruth and retire to their compartment. Then, with everyone seated except Jeremy, who remained standing, the leader of the Ballroom opened the discussion. The negotiations, to use the proper term.

"Whatever you and I decide here, Professor Du Havel, it'll all have to be ratified by a popular vote after the liberation. That goes without saying. But I don't foresee any problems so long as you and I can reach agreement. So I'll begin by laying down my first two conditions.

"One. You will be the first head of state of our new star nation. You're the only one who could give us the necessary interstellar legitimacy. I'm the only other one with sufficient authority among our people, and I'm simply too notorious. For the moment, let's call it the presidency.

"Two. There will be no restrictions whatsoever on the movement or actions of the Audubon Ballroom. I'm willing to discuss tactics with you—and I'll abide by any agreement—but there will be no presumed limits. Not one."

Web nodded his head. "I've no problem with the second provision, Jeremy, provided you accept one of my own. You will accept a position in my Cabinet. Specifically, as Secretary of War. And that's exactly what I insist the position be titled. No stupid nonsense about a 'Secretary of Defense.' We're at war with Manpower and Mesa, we'll make no pretense otherwise—and I can think of no better way to make that clear than for you to hold the position."

Jeremy smiled thinly. "You're such an odd sort of 'conservative,' Professor, if you'll pardon me saying so."

"I'm not a 'conservative' at all," Web countered, "as most people understand the term. Except in the broadest sense—which goes all the way back to Edmund Burke—of recognizing that societies are analogous to organisms, not machines. And that you must therefore understand that changing laws and customs is equivalent to medicine—or, sometimes, surgery—and isn't so simple a matter as swapping parts in a motor." His normally pleasant face was almost tight with anger. "That does not prevent me from undertaking surgery, when surgery is needed."

Jeremy studied him for a moment. "You're a shrewd one, too. Which, in itself, is fine with me. You're assuming that if I become Secretary of War I'll have to forego my previous tactics."

"I don't 'assume' it, Jeremy. I'll insist on it." He began talking a bit faster, trying to head off a collision. "I make no condemnation of what you've done in the past. I never have—not publicly, at least—and I won't do so here in private. But I will tell you that it must change. Whether or not the tactics of individual killings and other such dramatic gestures is effective for an outlaw group can be argued till the heat death of the universe. But it's completely ineffective as a tactic used by an independent star nation. Worse than ineffective. The reasons are—"

Jeremy waved his hand. "Skip the lecture, Professor. I won't argue the point, since I agree with you anyway. About the future, if not the past." His jaws tightened a moment. "So long, that is, as you understand that I will be waging war. I'm not quite sure how yet—yes, yes, I'll give up the pleasure of shooting the occasional swine—but I will do it. War to the knife, until genetic slavery is erased from the universe."

Du Havel leaned back in his chair, smiled widely, and gestured to the empty chair next to him. "By all means, Mr. Secretary of War. Your Pres—ah, head of government, will give you his full support. You have my promise on that. I'll be more precise. There will be nothing 'covert' about this war. I propose to make the first act of the new government of the new star nation a formal and official declaration of war against the planet of Mesa. To hell with restricting it to an informal struggle against Manpower Unlimited. The entire planet of Mesa is our mortal enemy—and let's name them so before the entire human race."

Jeremy grinned, very savagely. Then, strode over, shook Du Havel's hand, and flung himself into the empty chair with an acrobat's ease. "Splendid! Professor Du Havel, I believe this is the beginning of a long friendship."

Now that he was returning to his usual impish self, Jeremy's thought processes were also returning to their normal quicksilver pattern. "But what's this hemming and hawing about the 'presidency' business? Surely you're not going to go all modest on me?"

Du Havel cleared his throat, and gave Anton a nervous glance. "As it happens, I'd much prefer the title of 'Prime Minister.' And I'd prefer to think of myself as the 'head of government' rather than the 'head of state.' My reasoning is as follows—"

He paused, glancing quickly at Ruth. She returned it with what was obviously an expression of support—an expression which bordered on being conspiratorial, in fact.

So, thought Anton. She's in on it, too. The treacherous lass. Sharp as a serpent's tooth is the ingratitude of children.

Anton looked at Berry. There was no expression on his daughter's face beyond simple interest in the discussion. Clearly enough, Berry herself had no idea at all what Du Havel was scheming for.

In the next few minutes, Du Havel explained. Long before he was done, Berry's mouth was wide open with stunned surprise.

Anton had that much in the way of satisfaction. At least his own daughter wasn't trying to manipulate him.

Jeremy, clearly, was almost as shocked as Berry. It was the only time Anton had ever seen the man at a loss for words.

Which, alas, meant it was time for Anton to speak. He took a deep breath, and bade a sad farewell to the pleasures of fatherhood. Then spoke, in as even a tone of voice as he could manage.

"It's entirely your decision, Berry. For whatever my advice is worth, here it is. First, it will often be very hard on you. It will certainly be dangerous, and—" His deep voice grew even huskier. "And there's a good chance it will kill you. Possibly at a very early age."

Hearing her father speak had cut through Berry's sheer paralysis. Her mouth finally closed. "What's the second thing?"

"The second thing is that Professor Du Havel's right. On both counts. It's a hell of a good idea—and, like him, I can't think of anybody who'd be better than you."

With some difficulty, he managed to restrain himself from saying the next sentence. But it's the last thing in the world I want you to do!

Jeremy was staring at him. "You're daft! Well, I suppose I should expect that, coming from you. A Crown Loyalist. Idiots." He turned the stare on Du Havel. "But from you—"

Web smiled. "I'm not a Crown Loyalist, Jeremy. Nor, by the way, do I think that label fits Captain Zilwicki all that well, either. Not today, at any rate. But that's because 'crown loyalism' makes a fetish out of the matter. Hereditary monarchies have advantages and disadvantages—and, taking history as a whole, the disadvantages usually outweigh the rest. By quite a margin, actually. But it's just as much of an error to make a fetish out of republicanism, too. There are times and places where an hereditary monarchy's advantages come to the fore. And this is one of them."

Jeremy started to argue, but Ruth Winton interrupted.

"He's right, Mr. X—uh—"

Jeremy winced. " 'Mister X' is ludicrous. The name is Jeremy, if you please."

Ruth gave him her nervous smile. "Okay, then. Please call me Ruth. I don't much like formalities, either." In a rush: "But that's not surprising, since you and I are much alike. Oh, yes, we are! Not every way, of course. I can't shoot worth a damn and I can't imagine being as ruthless as you are. Well, maybe. Sometimes. But, still—"