Chapter Fifty

Reed Reunion

General Malcolm Reed

Ooh, I'm being taken for a walk. Or – if we're being pedantic – a roll, since I pushed myself so hard this morning that my legs have decided they're not playing any more, at least till tomorrow morning when they'll be in trouble again.

This is so exciting, I tell my volunteer helper, and despite the silly falsetto I put on, it's not completely untrue. I haven't been around much yet, and anything different to look at is welcome. The commodore has apparently managed to squeeze some time out of his schedule to drop in and say hello, so I co-opted him to do the pushing; I don't know where Liz has got to this morning, but I'm sure she'll be along when she can.

The bunker where I've been staying happens to have a structure above it, a big, Victorian sort of conservatory thing that supposedly houses rare specimens with potential medicinal and industrial applications, though from what I've been told, the outside is carefully maintained to look like a derelict. But as the commodore wheels me into a huge, radiant room filled with lush vegetation and vibrant colour, I slam on the brakes so hard he almost tips me out of the chair – not to mention walking into the back of it and practically falling over into my lap.

There's a space in the middle of the microcosmic jungle where fans of great palm-leaves cast shade over a fountain, and there are tables and chairs there. Presumably people come here to relax, but there's no-one there now except three people I recognise instantly, seated awkwardly around a table. The fourth spot is occupied by an equally familiar, perhaps more welcomed, certainly less terrifying (now that I'm familiar with its owner) broad back.

Still, no amount of breathing techniques would control the panic that wells up inside me. I feel as if it's literally gripping me by the throat.

"No!" I whisper. I can't bear to see them, not after everything – not now I'm looking like this, like a wasted shadow of what I was.

I don't think they've noticed our arrival yet. I can still escape.

"Get me out of here, you fucking idiot!" I hiss. "Do you really suppose they want anything to do with me, after all I've done?"

I sense the commodore's shrug. "Fine, you don't want to talk to 'em, I'll turn around an' wheel you right back out of here, but if I do, I'm tellin' Daddy to send 'em home without a word of explanation. You really want to do that to 'em?"

I want to protest that he couldn't be so cruel to them after bringing them all the way here, but I've already begun to suspect that Commodore Tucker doesn't do bluffing. As for Charles, well, he knows rather more about me than his son does (more than anyone does, come to that), but I doubt if he'd say anything. He's been extraordinarily supportive and reassuring in our after-dinner talks, but he's been scrupulously careful not to meddle in his son's plans.

Still, I can't help peering rather desperately through the fronds. It's so much different seeing someone in real life as opposed to over a video link. Once the Triad came to power I hardly ever seemed to have the time to contact my parents even when I thought about it (which, I'll admit, wasn't very often), and when Maddie stopped accepting my occasional calls I stopped trying. She's as stubborn as I am, and I just decided she'd got a bee in her bonnet over something and quite frankly I hadn't got the time to worry about it; if she'd decided to dump my acquaintance that was her prerogative. It's a lot bloody easier to be holier-than-me when you're not up to your arse in wolves and breathing psychotropic air.

Now and again I was sorry – we used to be fairly close – but not often. There was always so much else to think about, and there's no use crying over spilt milk.

Whatever else Pack mentality may be, it's mercilessly practical.

Perhaps a minute passes while I dither, and then I feel the click of the brakes coming off and Tucker starts to turn the chair.

"No! Wait!" I grab the wheels, holding it still. I can scarcely breathe. "Bloody hell, after ... I ... I want to see them, but they're not going to want to talk to me after everything I've done, are they?"

"I don't know, Mal," he says, kindly enough, "but you'll never find out unless you talk to them. Sometimes, even knowing the worst is better than living in doubt."

I swallow.

Presumably they weren't brought here at gunpoint. That would have been my style if I'd ever decided they were going to attend a family reunion whether they wanted to or not, but I'm guessing the commodore was rather more subtle than that. At a guess, he gave them a choice.

That means they want to be here, or at least they're willing, and there is a difference between genuine desire and a co-operative nature.

Willing to be here for what is a more complicated question.

I've come a long way by some twisted paths since the last time they saw me. I'm not the shining young cadet who took the salute at the Imperial Naval College all those years ago.

For years it didn't matter, because I didn't allow it to matter. The baptism of fire on Wolfplanet Mindfuck set my feet firmly on the road to hell, and from there I went merrily onwards, carving my own path with whatever tools came to hand. I didn't give a damn who hated me as long as they feared me, and if that meant I wasn't the credit to the Reed name that I might once have hoped to be back in my salad days, well, at least they couldn't complain I hadn't made my mark on the world.

(Not to mention quite a few people's bodies and a lot more people's lives, but well, that's the Empire for you.)

But does it matter now?

It probably does to them. I suppose it had never occurred to me before just how much, and now it has, I realise that matters to me.

The strength of my compulsion to do a smart about-turn and vanish into my room, leaving them to whatever their feelings may be on the occasion, is the only possible indicator of how much I fear meeting them and receiving the full force of their disappointment in me and their horror and disdain of what I have become. I knew full well how badly Father would have taken my failure to follow him and generations of prior Reeds into the Royal, now Imperial Navy, but then my failure wasn't entirely down to me. Events, so to speak, intervened without my permission, and by the time I was finally thrust out of a lab and into MACO command rank then what I'd become would have had a very hard time indeed fitting in aboard your average battleship. For one thing, when you're on a battleship people can't run away from you.

I'm a general, for pity's sake – technically, anyway, because I don't recall receiving any official notification that I'd been cashiered or anything; though I must say nobody mentioned on the occasion of my promotion that being impregnated would be numbered among my expected duties, or I might have thought twice about accepting. I therefore co-rank an Admiral, so strictly speaking I no longer have to respect my father's authority in the military sense. But I never had any trouble with that, and it doesn't weigh in the scales now.

"Let's get it over with," I say almost inaudibly.

I feel Tucker's hand squeeze my shoulder, and I'd like to say that it bolsters my courage but the truth is it falls into the abyss of fear, leaving hardly a twinkle in the darkness.

As I'm pushed into the sunlight, so bright that I involuntarily bring my hand up to shield my eyes (it's been well over a year since I saw daylight, after all), their heads turn like those of deer scenting a tiger.

With the dazzle of the sunshine making my eyes water, I have to blink a bit before I can take in the expressions on the faces before me.

Charles has risen from his seat and moved it out of the way to make room for me. With Mother, Father, and Maddie watching me like cornered prey waiting for the chance to bolt, he's able to offer me an encouraging smile and a wink unobserved. I appreciate the gesture, but it hits the wall of my anxiety like a bird flying into a plate glass window and drops like a stone to lie dead in the dust.

The commodore pushes me right up to the table, and almost before the wheels have stopped turning, Mother's arms are around me. I almost collapse into them, inhaling the sweet rose perfume she always uses mingled with that particular scent of freshly-laundered cotton from her blouse.

This is a demonstration to which I forfeited the right long ago, but still she acknowledges me as her son. I lie there silently for a moment, awash with joy and relief that I try without success to label pure sentimentality, but my tolerance of such close contact is short-lived. Her embrace soon feels far too much like captivity, and with a shudder of fear that I do my best to hide, I pull away, dabbing a shy kiss on her cheek as I do so, and try to muster a smile.

As I straighten in my wheelchair I turn to face Father.

He was never demonstrative. I don't think he ever really gave me any physical demonstration of affection, but that didn't mean I wasn't aware of his pride in me when I did well, and that he loved me in his own very reserved way. Nor do I expect him to be able so lightly to dismiss my past; but that he will come to visit me at all is more than I can feel I deserve. The day I turned my back on the Imperiall Navy I had to face the very real possibility that he'd never want to set eyes on me again, and events since will hardly have reconciled him to my alternative choice of career.

He will expect me to behave as the officer I am, even in the present circumstances. It's naturally not possible for me to stand at parade rest, but I sit up as straight as I can, looking him in the eye.

Mother is anxious. She takes one of my hands and holds it, squeezing it occasionally; I am stupidly relieved that she is on my left side and so takes the one nearest to her, the one that did not wield the scalpel.

The commodore has retreated a few paces but not abandoned me, and though Charles has moved his seat off to the side, I can sense the comforting presence of his bulk just beyond the limit of my peripheral vision, for which I am absurdly grateful. Clearly, my family now know Charles, but the commodore's rank if nothing else entitles him to the courtesy of a formal introduction (even though they quite possibly recognise him from the newscasts), and so I do the necessary. He acknowledges their polite greetings, but makes it clear as he pulls over a chair and sits down beside his father at a little distance from us that he is not here to interfere unless it becomes necessary.

I'm also aware of Maddie's fixed and not particularly friendly regard, but for the time being that will have to wait.

"I'm glad to see you all, Father," I say next, with my usual sparkling originality. "Thank you for agreeing to come here."

His eyes travel over my face, mapping the changes in it. I'm sure he's already noticed the bulk I've lost, the way the T-shirt hangs where it used to lie over well-developed muscle.

"Lieutenant Cutler told us you've been ill," he says slowly. "She said that you were betrayed, and cruelly treated by the other two members of the Triad. Is that correct?"

"Perfectly." I keep my head up. "It was only thanks to Commodore Tucker's quick thinking and courage that I survived."

Mother sends the commodore a tremulous, grateful smile. Maddie sends him a glare, presumably for not leaving me to my well-earned fate.

"But since you were still alive, why wasn't it announced at once?" A frown creases Father's brow as he starts to think things through. "I suppose I can see the reason in keeping that sort of betrayal and instability amongst the highest ranks a secret from the general population," he muses. Then he glances keenly at the commodore. "Do the authorities actually know?"

"Matter of fact, sir, that's not a simple yes-or-no question." Tucker answers him easily. "The Empress knows he's alive an' recoverin', but not the extent of his condition or any specifics of what was done to him. She has entrusted his safety an' well-being to me, an' I do not intend to disappoint the Empress. We have agreed to keep his illness and location secret – not even she knows where we are. For one thing, in his present shape the general here isn't strong enough yet to take up his duties, an' I may have a lot of power around here but I don't have enough to keep him safe if one of the big sharks in the pool decide to take him out before he recovers.

"That he will recover I'm sure, an' we're all doin' our best to help him along – an' that includes reinin' him in when he tries to push himself harder'n he ought to."

In the Empire, self-interest is everything. Father is far too astute (and cynical) to believe that anyone would take such a risk without having something to gain from it. "May I ask what your motives were for carrying out this rescue?"

"The stability of the Empire, Admiral." The reply comes promptly, without a smile. "The Empress is holdin' on, for now, but without the Triad she's lost a lot of support. There'll be others, the sharks I mentioned, all with their eyes on the big one. An' some of them are the sort of people who'll make the Empire into their own personal killin' ground if they get hold of it.

"Now the general here, when he's up to full strength I reckon he's got the support to back her up an' fight off the opposition. I also reckon he can be the sort of guy now who'll do the best he can to straighten things out an' make life fairer for the little guys, an' I'm sure you know there's plenty around that could do with that kind of help from someone who has the power to do it.

"So that's my reasonin', an' I don't know if anything will work out the way we want it to but I guess we just have to wait an' see, don't we?"

Mother's grip tightens convulsively on my hand. "What kind of risks would that involve? And would the Empress accept Malcolm's help?"

"It'll be risky." He nods sombrely. "An' it'll need some luck, that nobody else makes their move before we're ready to. But I'm guessin' the Empress will see sense. On her own, she's vulnerable. With a strong consort, she's a lot more likely to hold on to power."

'Consort'. It's the word nobody to date has actually spoken, and hearing it sends an odd cold frisson of excitement through my belly.

It's obviously the ideal solution. Hoshi will have little choice but to accept me if things get that far, and I flatter myself that she and I already have a decent working relationship, though obviously some things will have to be rather different. It will afford her some stability as well as at least some assurance that I'm not just marking time beside her till the moment comes when I feel strong enough to take over completely.

But still ... 'consort'.

I wonder if Liz is aware of this aspect of the plan; and if she is, what she thinks about it.

Sooner or later (and it will have to be sooner rather than later, things being as they are), the Empress will be expected to produce an heir – unless, for any reason, she decides to nominate one, but I believe most women feel that their own flesh and blood should benefit from their hard work. And if I'm to be her 'consort', I'll be damned if I'll risk my neck and work my bollocks off smoothing the succession for anyone else's brat. History's full of examples of the eaglets in the nest getting tired of waiting nicely for their parents to kick the bucket, and deciding to help them along a bit; and it would be tiresome enough getting assassinated by my own offspring, let alone someone else's whom I've sheltered and reared. Thanks but no thanks, on that one.

At this point Maddie finally decides to get in on the act.

"Commodore, do I understand you correctly?" she asks incredulously. "You're planning to make Malcolm the Emperor?"

Tucker turns towards her. "With respect, Miss Reed, as things stand the Empire's pretty well up for grabs an' I mean to put it into the hands of a guy who I believe is powerful enough to control it an' decent enough to straighten things out. Because you must know as well as I do that things have gotten pretty damn rotten, an' it's time someone tried to put them right."

Her nostrils flare. "And you think Malcolm is the man to do that?"

She couldn't sound more incredulous if he'd been suggesting Vlad the Impaler. I mean, I'll admit there have been similarities now and then, but even so it's hardly flattering, now is it?

"He's your brother, Miss Reed. I'm sure you're already aware of his qualities."

Her glare transfers itself to me. "I stopped thinking of him as my brother the day he made it compulsory for everyone in the Empire to watch him murder a man in cold blood."

Ah. So that's what the problem has been all these years. Even though I specifically ordered that my family were to be excused from watching it, there was no way they wouldn't have heard about it, and knowing Maddie, being prevented from seeing it live probably made her determined to see it afterwards.

And so, even from the grave (or more accurately from whatever rather large portion of space is currently occupied by his dispersed atoms), Sallis still has the power to hurt me.

Cold blood? I suppose she's right. I was colder than the heart of an Andorian glacier the day they finally brought him in front of the cameras; after all, they say revenge is best served cold. And another old saying is that 'he who sows the wind will reap the whirlwind', which is one he should probably have borne in mind when he had the brainwave about the weedy kid who used to pick a few wildflowers from lonely places now and then to give to his mum when his parents visited the school.

Still, it stings that Maddie thinks more of what that bastard had to endure at my hands than of what he might possibly have done to me to earn it. As bad as I was (and I'm not denying it), does she really think I would do that to someone who didn't deserve it?

I sit back a bit, and look at Mother and Father. The one looks at me impassively, the other is hard put to hide her misery. She's ashamed of me too, and for all that she loves me she can't bring herself to say it didn't matter. He probably feels the same, but won't admit it.

If I hadn't already had this brought to the surface during my first, rather traumatic interview with Charles, wild horses probably couldn't have dragged it out of me, but when I glance over at him now and get the slightest encouraging nod, I know I have to tell them. I suppose I'd rather that the commodore himself wasn't here to listen, but I can hardly ask him to put his fingers in his ears and sing 'La, la, la' while I disembowel myself for my family's benefit.

I think the commodore guesses that something's going to come out, though. He touches my shoulder lightly. "Do you want me here for this, Mal?"

Well, no, I don't, really. Though it seems a bit rude to admit it. But on the other hand I feel certain rather justifiable pangs of anxiety about the connection between the thing stuck inside my chest and the cuff on his wrist, and whether his leaving me here might have rather unfortunate consequences he hasn't taken into account.

The light touch turns into a squeeze that I can interpret as significant. "It's okay, Mal. You'll be absolutely fine."

I nod.

"Daddy?" the commodore says briskly, fully expecting his father to leave with him.

As the man in question leans forward to rise from his chair, I say, "I'd like you to stay, sir, if you don't mind."

Charles looks up at the commodore, brows raised in question, and seeing him defer to his son raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I'm well aware of the position I've put myself in, submitting to a man who thinks of himself as subordinate to another whom I still deeply mistrust on many levels and with good reason. The commodore scowls back and forth between us a couple of times. Surely he is perplexed, but I think I also see a flash of green in his eyes that has nothing to do with the lush foliage that surrounds us.

I can't really blame him for this hint of jealousy. I know I'm no prize, but it hardly seems fair that he has been working so hard to earn my trust and has made barely any headway while his father threw a knife at me, practically scared the piss out of me causing me to have a breakdown in front of half the Tucker clan, and somehow, has earned not just my trust, but my devotion. It doesn't help matters that I wouldn't be inclined to explain how that happened if I could find the words or that Charles apparently refuses to breathe a word of our conversations to the commodore. To the commodore's credit, he doesn't seem to have pressed his father too hard for information, and nor does he appear to have allowed my relationship with Charles to in any way create friction between himself and his father.

Still, the frustration he must feel over his own failed efforts to get me to view him with anything other than contempt and suspicion must be mounting. Sooner or later, he's going to lose patience with me or just run out of time for playing his long game. Then we shall see just how strong the Tucker family ties are. Will the commodore be able to resist tapping into a ready resource for tips on taming the big, bad wolf? How far will he be willing to go to extract that information when the source is his own father? If he perceives his son is truly desperate, or perhaps in mortal danger, will Charles keep his word to me and maintain the confidentiality of our many conversations?

And what will I do when this break happens, if it happens? Well. There's far more certainty about that than one might think. In the short term I may be helpless to do anything more than surrender to my fate, but the long term is another matter.

The long term is another matter entirely.

If the commodore causes any harm or suffering to his father, he will die a death so slow and painful he will wish I had sentenced him to life in an agony booth. If Charles betrays me, I will cut out his tongue before I rip out his throat. His death will be brutal, but quick, my way of honouring the friendship he offered me and his service as a confidant even though his ultimate failure must be punished. It doesn't matter how long it takes me to achieve a position where I can mete out their punishments or when or where I finally catch them; their fates, if they betray me now, are already written in stone on my heart.

But here and now, I'm not inclined to explain anything. It should be clear enough that Charles has already heard what I am about to say and that it is painful enough for me to repeat that I am enlisting him for moral support. Nobody needs to know that I have submitted to him as the alpha male of our little pack here in the bunker. Though I am sure he understands it on some instinctive level, I haven't fully explained it even to him.

I trust him more than I am capable of trusting anybody else right now. I trust his strength, that it will not be used against me unprovoked; his intentions, that they will bring me no harm; and his advice, that it will not lead me astray. For all that he has carefully avoided interfering with the commodore's plans for me, he has been just as deliberate about doing nothing to advance or promote them. In all our talks, he has never once suggested I give in and go along with his son, or even asked me why I don't. But if I were to let it be known how deep my trust for this one man runs, how complete my loyalty, how absolute my obedience, the darkness inside me suspects it wouldn't be long until I found myself Commodore Tucker's puppet and Charles the strings by which he makes me dance.

Schooling his face to a mask of neutral indifference, the commodore shrugs.

"I'll be back in, say, half an hour?"

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