Three weeks later, and several hundred light years away, Stanislaus VII, Emperor of all the Human Worlds, rolled his head to one side and stared longingly out the window at the sun-drenched garden of his palace. The party out there was in full swing, or at least as far along as it could get without the benefit of his presence. The thousand or so members of his court milled about, drinking, eating, gossiping, scheming and conniving. God, how he longed to be out there with them, so he could join in the fun! Instead, he was being held prisoner here in this interminable meeting of the Committee for Imperial Security. Stanislaus almost wished decorum allowed him to carry a watch. This torture must have been dragging for at least twenty minutes.
“As your Majesty can see from this star chart,” Barron Chang gestured at the ornate holo display floating above the mahogany conference table. “The Saskastan system is of considerable strategic importance. It contains seven jump points that connect with systems deep in our space, as well as the Farsalian and Ursolian hegemonies. The recent annexation by the Farsalians threatens to upset the delicate balance of power that has prevailed in that sector for more than fifty years.”
Stanislaus yawned noisily. “Chang, how did this situation come about? Wasn’t there an ambassador that was supposed to keep the Kitties in line?”
Chang looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Yes, well. That’s a rather, um, complicated issue.”
Chang had high hopes that the mere mention of complicated matters of state would dissuade the emperor from further interest. Complexity was one of Stanislaus’ least favorite things. In fact it almost worked, until an amused giggled erupted from the handsome young man lounging in the chair to the Emperor’s right.
“‘Complicated’ doesn’t do it justice,” Baronet D’Artois, the Emperor’s old school chum and constant companion, smirked as he smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in his trousers.
Stanislaus arched an eyebrow at his friend. “Do you know something about this business, Darty?”
“Only what I’ve heard the servants gossiping about,” D’Artois replied coyly.
“Well, if the servants are abuzz about it, I simply must know. Palace servants don’t gossip about just anything, you know, only the really juicy stuff. I’m sure Chang has all of the details.” The Emperor leaned back and propped a boot on the table. “Do go on.”
Chang tried very hard to not stare daggers at D’Artois, and did not succeed. “Ahem, the ambassador was unable to fulfill his diplomatic duties, because the embassy had to be abandoned.”
“Because of the riot,” D’Artois interjected helpfully.
“A riot, you say?” Stanislaus bounced an amused look between D’Artois and Chang.
Chang sighed. Several hundred Farsalian males assaulted the embassy. Ambassador Gettricks was knocked unconscious in the confusion.”
“Gettricks?” Stanislaus interrupted.
“Of the Betelgusian Gettrickses,” supplied D’Artois.
“Oh them,” Stanislaus wrinkled his aristocratic nose. “Frightfully pushy bunch.”
D’Artois nodded enthusiastic agreement.
“What happened after Gettricks was beaned.” Stanislaus leaned his chair back on two legs.
The commander of the marines attached to the Embassy apparently overreacted and killed some Farsalians while evacuating Gettricks and his assistant to safety.”
“How many?”
Chang looked at a member of his staff, who supplied the figures, “Eighty-seven dead and three hundred-twelve wounded.”
“Eighty-seven dead? Extraordinary! This marine, what’s his name?”
“Lieutenant Suarez, Sire.”
“Suarez, sounds like a proper brute.” Stanislaus sniffed.
“They are trained to kill efficiently.” D’Artois shrugged.
“Well, sounds like this one paid attention is class.” The emperor shook his head. “I shouldn’t wonder that the Kitties are upset, however, I am curious. What started the riot in the first place?”
“The Farsalians were upset with some of Ambassador Gettricks’s. . . activities.”
Chang’s reluctance told Stanislaus that he was close to the heart of the matter. “What sort of activities?”
“Ahem, well, it appears that Gettricks was engaged in a relationship with a Farsalian princess.”
“What sort of relationship, Chang?”
“A relationship of a sexual nature, Sire,” Chang was turning red.
The Emperor’s mouth dropped open in mock astonishment, then he smirked and tittered. “So, Gettricks likes them furry, does he? Haw haw haw!”
D’Artois giggled. “Oh that’s nothing compared to what happened on Hestius IV. That’s why he had to be sent to Farsalia in the first place. It was such a scandal the diplomatic corps had to get him as far away as possible.”
Stanilaus clapped his hand together in anticipation. “Oh, do tell.”
D’Artois leaned close and dropped his voice. “It seems that a local burgermeister had these twin teenage daughters.
“Oh my, it sounds deliciously wicked already.”
Barron Chang cleared his throat noisily.
Stanilaus placed a hand on D’Artois’s knee, “We’ll talk, later.”
D’Artois nodded and winked conspiratorially.
Chang tried to drag the meeting back on track. “Your Majesty, please. This is a serious crisis. There is a real danger of war starting over this Saskastan situation.”
“War, did you say?” Stanislaus leaned forward in his chair. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes indeed, The Farsalians are a very aggressive race. Unless we proceed cautiously, we may find ourselves in . . .” Too late Chang noticed the look on his sovereign’s face.
The Emperor grasped D’Artois’s forearm excitedly. “A war, a war! Why, we haven’t had a war for simply ages, Darty!”
D’Artois hadn’t attained and maintained his position as the Emperor’s buddy by being slow on the uptake. “Oh Stanny, a war sounds like such fun.”
“Your Majesty,” Chang sputtered. “May I remind you that we already have a war on our hands, and a rather difficult one at that? The Denebian Sector has been in more or less open revolt for three years now.”
“Paw!” Stanislaus waved the Denebian Sector away with his royal hand. “I don’t mean that grubby little business. There’s no glory in battling my own subjects, Chang. It’s boring.” The Emperor rose and began pacing. “A war with the Farsalians, now, that’s exciting.” He suddenly stopped and clasped his hands together. “A grand imperial war, that’s the ticket.”
“Oh, how exciting, Stanny!” D’Artois bounced along in the Emperor’s wake. “You know, if we’re going to be at war we should have uniforms.”
“Capital idea, Darty.” Stanislaus looked about the room and spotted one of Chang’s staff, resplendent in a scarlet and sky blue tunic. “You there, give me your uniform.”
The unfortunate colonel dithered for a moment at the unusual command.
“Your Emperor needs your uniform,” D’Artois hissed icily. Within seconds the colonel stood at attention in his underwear.
Stanislaus donned the tunic and jodhpurs, and then examined himself in a jewel-encrusted wall mirror. “What do you think, Darty?” He struck a martial pose worthy of Napoleon.
“Dashing Stanny, absolutely dashing. I’d follow you into battle.”
“Well, I should hope so.” Stanny frowned at his reflection. “It needs more gold braid.”
D’Artois relieved a major of his forest green tunic and ripped a handful of gold braid from its shoulder. “This will do nicely.” He draped the braid on his Emperor and transferred a few brightly-ribboned medals from the major’s tunic as well.
“You do have an eye for these things, Darty.”
“Thank you, Stanny.” D’Artois tried to put on the tunic, but found it too small for him. He settled on shoving his arm down one sleeve, and buttoning the collar button, wearing it hussar-style as he’d seen in holos of nineteenth century cavalrymen. It didn’t look half bad, Darty judged, although a saber would’ve completed the outfit. Perhaps there was one hanging on the wall somewhere about.
“I need to be armed,” Stanislaus snapped his fingers a few times. “A blaster, or some such,” he practiced jaunty salutes in the mirror.
Barron Chang rolled his eyes and reluctantly motioned to an imperial guardsman stationed by the door to the corridor. The guardsman discretely ejected and pocketed the power cartridge before buckling the polished leather gun belt around his Emperor’s waist. A wise move, as Stanislaus immediately drew the weapon and started blasting imaginary Farsalian commandos in all corners of the large room.
At this point D’Artois returned from the corridor. “Look Stanny, I found us a pair of swords!”
“Really? Oh Smashing!” Stanislaus snatched one of the fencing foils and shoved it through his sash. “Where did you find them?”
“They were hanging on the wall above some trophy.”
Hand on sword hilt. Emperor Stanislaus commanded. “Chang, we are now at war with The Farsalians.” He waved his hand absently. “Take care of the details, will you?”
“But, your majesty—”
“Hush,” Stanislaus pointed his royal finger. “I’m going to make the announcement to the court.”
“Won’t they be surprised?” D’Artois giggled.
“Yes they will.” Stanislaus plucked a cap off of a nearby major and tried it on in the mirror. He frowned at the effect and tossed the cap aside. “Oh, and Chang, one more thing.” Stanislaus paused on his way out the door. “That Marine Lieutenant, what was his name?”
“Suarez, Sire.”
“Yes, that’s the one. Where is he now?”
Chang turned to his staff, one of whom stepped forward rather reluctantly. “He is in custody at the Navy prison on Gytna IV, Sire.”
Stanilaus put his hands on his hips. “In prison? Why is he in prison?”
The unfortunate staff officer stammered. “Well, he. . .”
“Never mind. Get him out. We’re at war. He’s a hero.” Stanislaus turned on Chang. “Give him a promotion. Make him, oh I don’t know, a colonel. That should do it.” The Emperor swept out of the room. “Come Darty!”
For a full minute after Stanislaus’s dramatic exit Baron Chang stared at the open door. His staff was in shock as well. They stood about, waiting for what would come next.
“What the hell just happened?” Chang asked.
“Well, old boy, we appear to be at war with the Farsalians.” Count Holmstead remarked with his famous dry wit.
Flummoxed, Chang made several abortive attempts at a retort before closing his eyes, counting to ten and being able to speak. “I am aware that we are at war. What I’m mystified about is how it happened in the span of five minutes and . . . and . . .”
“On a whim?”
“Yes, on a whim!”
Holmstead chuckled and shook his head. “That’s our beloved Emperor. Do you remember what happened when he saw that historical holo about the old wet-navy ships on ancient Earth, the big steel ones?”
Chang rolled his eyes. “God yes, he had you build a dozen replica, fitted out with useless cannon to boot.”
“You know, we have to keep those ridiculous vessels crewed, stocked and fueled on the off chance that His Majesty will remember that they’re there and want to take them on maneuvers around the southern ocean.”
Chang groaned and sat down in a chair the conference table. “This is much more serious than a few obsolete boats. A few days negotiations by a real diplomat, not that libidinous idiot Gettricks, would have put things right. The Farsalians don’t really want the Saskatan. They just seized it to extort something else from us, trade concessions probably.”
Chang buried his face in his hands. “Now the Emperor is out there right now strutting around in that borrowed uniform, trumpeting imagined plans for an invasion of the Farsalian homeworld, no doubt.”
Indeed, Stanislaus was visible through the large windows, striding about and gesturing martially. D’Artois dogged his steps, followed and surrounded by a pack of hangers-on. Amazingly enough, a fair number of the sycophants had already liberated pieces of uniforms and side arms from the palace guards, and wore them haughtily.
Holmstead nodded. “You’re right. There’s no putting this genie back in the bottle. We’re at war with the Kitties, whether we want to be or not. Whether we’re even prepared for it or not.”
“And once it’s over, what then?” Chang stared forlornly at the holo display of the recently expanded Farsalian Empire. Do you realize how much effort we’ve expended in the last two years alone maintaining the delicate balance between the Farsalians and the Ursolians in that sector? And now it’s all swept away on a whim. What a mess we’ll have to clean up when this is over.”
Count Holmstead patted his friend on the shoulder. “I understand old bean. Do you think I’m going to have it any easier? As Field Marshal, I’m going to have to fight this surprise war from a standing start. All you have to do is pick up the pieces once we get rolling and knock the Kitties for a loop.”
“If the Ursolians don’t decide to crash the party,” Chang interjected morosely.
“Exactly,” Holmstead nodded then sighed. “Well, first things first. I have a hero to rescue from prison and promote to colonel.” He turned to one of his staff. “How are we fixed for open colonelcies today, Donald?”
“Ahem, I’m afraid we’re rather overstocked on Colonels at the moment, Your Grace.”
“Are we? Oh bother. Well, see what you can figure out, Donald. I’m heading for the starport. Call ahead and have my ship ready, would you? The Emperor wants this marine fellow . . .”
“Suarez, Your Grace.” Donald supplied.
“Yes, Suarez, that’s the chap. The emperor wants him made a colonel, and I’m off to this prison planet to take care of that personally.” The Count sighed resignedly. “Oh and Donald, it doesn’t look as though His majesty is going to forget this whole thing while I’m gone, so see what you can do about getting a full scale mobilization started in the meantime, would you?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“That’s a good boy! Knew I could count on you, eh what?”
Holmstead slapped Chang on the back playfully. “Buck up Chang old bean. It looks like we’ll both be busy for a while. At least that’ll take your mind off of your troubles.”
The Count strode out of the room, his staff in tow. Baron Chang’s staff tried hard not to draw attention as their boss stared sourly at the star map above the table.