Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Seven

Anniversary Celebrations

General Malcolm Reed

"Your Imperial Majesty."

It's a good job I have long experience of keeping my face perfectly immobile. Nobody watching would detect even the slightest hint of irony as I bow to Empress Hoshi Sato, seated in splendour in the throne room to receive guests for the grand ball to celebrate the tenth anniversary of her accession.

What a long time ago that seems now, and how many things have happened. I retreat the prescribed three steps before I rise and turn away, and still not a flicker shows on either of our faces, though I'm guessing that I'm not absolutely her favourite person on the guest list.

She receives Trip next, and the stern, perfectly-painted beauty of her face thaws into the faintest of smiles. This will, of course, be noted by almost everyone there, and perceived as further evidence of the high regard in which she holds him. Rightly, of course; now that the repair, revictualling and rearming of the ships that visit Jupiter Station has become almost an art-form, the maestro of it all is receiving due credit for his hard work and stunning achievements.

I don't let it show, but I'm glad for my friend that he's finally getting the respect he deserves.

When he steps back to make way for the next presentee, he snatches a couple of glasses from the tray held by a hovering servant and brings one over to me. In public, we behave with the kind of exemplary politeness usually employed on social occasions by people who would sooner dance the tarantella naked on the other's guts than carry on a civil conversation, but who have been ordered by those in authority to play nicely. In addition to which, the Empress for one knows how much I owe to his care of me while I was temporarily invalided out of action, and she'll expect me to be suitably gracious (or, if she knows me at all, to at least try to be).

"I take it you've already had your private audience, General," he greets me, his tone slightly snide for the benefit of eavesdroppers – our less-than-cordial relationship is not exactly a secret, and there are probably quite a few people present who are hoping for (if not already placing wagers on) fisticuffs if we remain in proximity to each other.

"You could call it that, Commodore." I sip the champagne. It's not a drink I particularly enjoy, but it's standard fare at this sort of elevated occasion and at a guess a single swallow of it would cost more than an entire bottle of Burnell's precious Cardhu whisky. Hopefully later on there will be supplies of something with more bite, though the aforementioned Cardhu would probably be considered a bit low-class for the company.

"An' I'm sure Her Majesty made sure to give you a pat on the head?"

I sigh elaborately, and needle him back. "She was naturally grateful for my support, especially in view of the ... unfortunate accident that happened in your Sickbay – not to mention all the subsequent 'growing pains' on Jupiter Station as you completed repairs, stepped up the new construction and refitting operations and brought the secure research projects back on board. That was about it, really."

He ignores my unsubtle suggestions that he runs the sort of station where unfortunate accidents are regrettably commonplace and that his crew had trouble accommodating the demands of increasing productivity, when, in fact, they rose to the occasion and handled everything brilliantly. "No thoughts of offerin' you any promotion anytime soon? Though it's kind of hard to imagine anyplace else for someone with your particular skill-set."

"Well, that's very kind of you to suggest I deserve it –" another sip – "but really, I feel quite comfortable where I am – at least for the present. At some time in the future, who knows?"

He nods. He understands perfectly well what I mean, and why. After all, it's the culmination of our plans: that eventually (when I'm absolutely sure I have complete control of both the Old Pack and the New) I'll present Hoshi with an offer she can't refuse. Well, she can, but doing so would not be a good idea, at least not from her point of view. She can accept me as a consort, or she can ... well, theoretically she can abdicate, but in practical terms that probably wouldn't be a very long-term solution. Trip went to all the bother of safeguarding me in order to avert a bloodbath, and if an ex-Empress Hoshi decided not to go quietly after all, then she'd effectively seal her own fate.

We wander out to the balcony, where the view over the lake is exquisite. The miniature scanner built into the side of my chronometer suggests there are no listening devices near us, so we're safe to talk naturally, as long as we keep our voices low and a weather eye out for fellow guests joining us.

"You mentioned this 'promotion' idea to Liz yet?"

"In fact, she divined it herself on the day I asked for your decision regarding my ultimate disposition." I make a point of concealing my amusement at his look of surprise.

Though she elected not to kick up a fuss about it when I had a potential death sentence looming two days in my future, and despite it being the logical next step to securing our new regime, I have no illusions: Liz is not going to like it. Considering that it will involve me marrying another woman, and presumably sleeping with her occasionally in a way that differs significantly from my permitted Pack liaisons, few women would be wildly enthusiastic at the prospect. Though it occurs to me now that artificial insemination or even in vitro conception, witnessed by all the appropriate cabinet ministers, of course, from the moment of my ejaculation to the implantation of the embryo in Hoshi's womb to ensure nobody's DNA is swapped for another at some point in the process, might just be preferable to natural conception for all of us. I decide immediately that when the time comes, I'll offer Hoshi the option, for while I still find her enormously attractive and my baser instincts urge me to dominate her sexually, I don't want to hurt Liz any more than I'll already have to by marrying the Empress.

I got away with revealing my obligation to mate with Pack members from time to time. That said, I've done so with discretion, and since there are relatively few at a rank that I would normally feel the need to interact sexually with, there have been few occasions when I've taken advantage. If Liz has guessed that I've mated on occasion, she's said nothing, and so far I've successfully kept the two halves of my life suitably separate.

Becoming the Imperial Consort, however, would be absolutely impossible to keep from impinging on my relationship with Liz. I'd no longer be a General, free to come and go (the pun makes me smile wryly); I'd be expected to maintain at least some kind of official relationship with my 'wife'. Liz, however much she might actually mean to me – far more than Hoshi would ever do, or would ever expect to do – would necessarily be relegated to some kind of role that could effectively be described as 'chief mistress'.

Now, I'm perfectly well aware, and I'm sure that Liz is too, that down the years, mistresses of reigning monarchs have wielded enormous power. There were some who used their position to make the actual queen's life a misery, and there was nothing much their hapless victims could do about it.

Em, of course, had no objection whatsoever to sharing me with Hoshi. That was probably because a) Em wasn't in love with me, and b) whether she approved of the arrangement or not, Hoshi also had to pleasure her as well, often at the same time. But Liz is in love with me, God help her, and if she does harbour inclinations towards experimenting, I've never seen any evidence of it. On the various occasions I've considered proposing this as a mitigating opportunity, I've been prey to the suspicions that the fish may not bite – or, more likely, would bite my head off for even suggesting it.

"Good luck with that one," says Trip with a grin he doesn't hide quite well enough in his champagne glass. Lingering in each other's company would look rather strange, however polite we've been ordered to be to each other, and so we separate with chilly, courteous nods.

Partners have not been invited, so only wives and husbands of the guests are present. As a result, Liz could not attend, though to be honest I don't think she would have enjoyed herself much. However much she may mean to me, among the 'great and the good' of the empire a mere lieutenant would have been very much out of place, and even though my protection might mean that nobody short of a death-wish would have actually said anything, there are a myriad ways in which contempt can be conveyed without a word uttered.

As is generally the rule, slaves are in attendance. These are not guests, of course, but facilities, chosen not only for their beauty but also their acting skills. Rooms are available where the appropriate activities can take place, though now and again when the wine has flowed sufficiently freely, discreet coupling usually ends up taking place on strategically placed couches.

Normally, at a guess, Trip would take full advantage of the facilities. These are defined from the actual guests by the fact that none of them are wearing anything but beautiful tattoos from the hips up, though it has to be said that some of the guests' costumes are damn near as unsubtle. (Admiral Hendry's new bride is a quarter of his age and her breasts have little more than a thin strip of metallic blue silk saving them from public display; frankly I'm surprised he survived his wedding night without being smothered to death or expiring from a heart attack.)

Facial disfigurement is simply not relevant with a partner who can't refuse. So as we drift into proximity again, after a rather tedious evening making small-talk with anyone who's brave enough to approach us, I more than half expect him to signal some particularly luscious item on the menu and slip away for ten minutes or so – most of the men have done so at least once, even those whose wives pretend not to have noticed, but I haven't noticed him doing it so far, and there's activity on the couches that turn thoughts in that direction. I don't know if he's learned finesse or something (an unlikely development I'd have thought once), but he can't be shy, surely?

"Not interested tonight, Commodore?" I inquire blandly, as a shapely blonde offers us a tray of canapés and a great deal more.

"Aren't you, General?" he parries.

"Not really, to be honest. I appreciate the view, obviously, and I dare say at some point I'll partake - when I find something that tempts me enough." I slant a look at him. Now this is a new development, and a surprising one. I've promised Liz that in return for her tolerance of my misdemeanours among the Pack I'll eschew mating ordinary Humans, and it's a promise I mean to keep – though I won't deny that I'm appreciating the view very much indeed and can't deny being tempted, which is exactly what the slaves are there for. I'd imagine that there's a certain amount of wonder that I haven't already fucked a couple of them, and there's definitely at least one guest whose wandering hand wasn't entirely unrewarded – I'm only human, after all, and I have a reputation to keep up – though I politely removed it before things went too far. But though there are Pack officers among those present and I have no intention whatsoever of raising inconvenient amounts of curiosity by remaining celibate all evening, at past events Trip always left me standing in the shagging stakes; and though he's no more blind than I am to the opportunities, he hasn't taken any of them. And as far as I know, he has no-one whom he holds in the same regard as I do Liz...

...Or has he?

...A commodore, being faithful to a slave?

...OK. He trusts her, though even now I'm not convinced that's wise. So far, it seems, that trust has been justified, but I'm still reserving judgement. But faithful? A chap like Trip Tucker, who could go through most of the contents of a comfort house in one night and still be up for seconds?

As the blonde carries the tray away and we're temporarily alone again, I decide to test my theory, incredible as it is. "You can, you know. They are there for a purpose."

"They're slaves," he says roughly.

Right. This is getting weirder by the minute. They're non-humans, of course they're slaves.

"Ye-ess..."

"They can't say no." He nods his head to where the blonde has set down the canapés and is now being led off towards a vacant couch by an ugly, overweight official twice her age who doesn't even wait before pulling up her miniscule skirt. She's not wearing anything underneath it, of course, and his hand delves into her crotch with about as much finesse as a vet checking if a cow's in calf. "You think she actually wants that guy?"

"You think that matters?"

"Of course it doesn't." He almost growls it. "But just because they're slaves doesn't mean they don't have feelin's. Doesn't mean they don't deserve any consideration at all."

"You, Commodore–" I remove the glass from his hand – "have had enough. More than enough. And so have I, to be honest. Let's both keep our wits about us, shall we?" It's definitely fortunate there's nobody near us that may have overheard; since the Empress declared all non-humans to be slaves, anyone who suggests that their slavery should in effect be relative is basically talking treason, and if there's a more unsuitable place than the Empress's reception rooms in which to talk treason, I personally can't think of one. I push him, rather forcefully, into the nearest armchair (currently free of sentient sex-toys) and then disregarding his scowl I go in search of non-alcoholic drinks.

"General." A soft voice behind me makes me turn, and the rather beautiful young lady in front of me executes the appropriate salute. I recognise her; she's an up-and-coming captain who's just completed an extremely successful clearance of a rebel base that was causing a lot of trouble. More importantly still, she's Pack. She doesn't make the mistake of making any overt movements, but the tiny tip of a tongue between pearly teeth and the flickering glances are very significant, and small enough to be visible only to me.

In view of the fact that a lot of senior officers are present, I know perfectly well that other Pack members will be observing this. She's making a bid for recognition of her achievements, and as her Pack leader it's my decision whether to rebuff her or reward her.

I glance back at Trip. He's called a slave over, a very attractive young man who's probably new at this game; he looks petrified, but nods dumbly as Trip stands and leads him to one of the bedrooms. I raise my eyebrows; perhaps I'd underestimated him. Or overestimated, I'm not really sure which it should be. Leopards and spots, Commodore, do be gentle…

Still. It appears I won't be required to play nursemaid just yet. The lateness of the hour and the quantity of drink consumed are combining to make the … shall we say 'socialising' less inhibited now, and the alcohol sings in my own system as I look back at Captain Avci, whose dress features a top held together by a single clasp. And by the slight backward arch of her spine, I'm guessing the clasp is not of a particularly secure nature – especially interesting given that there's not the smallest possibility she's wearing a bra underneath it.

Well. Her ship did perform exceptionally well. Maybe she will too.

I lead her to one of the couches, and lie back on it. At the other end of it a slave is crouching across some corpulent minister's face, and another is kneeling between his legs, mouth fully occupied.

The skirt of Avci's dress is a wine-red flood of velvet. As soon as she's made the appropriate adjustments to my clothing she climbs across me and gets to work. My guess about the clasp was accurate, too: I hardly have to touch it before the thing disintegrates, improving the view wonderfully.

She's very good. It turns into a stealthy little war under the red velvet, her trying every trick she knows and me sipping my whisky and refusing to be played before I'm ready. It has to be said she's got pelvic floor muscles that should go down in legend; she can sit as still as a statue and I still feel like a cow attached to a milking machine.

The Minister grunts and spasms noisily, pressing the second slave's head into place. I measure my sips, occasionally pulling the good captain forward to leave her nipples whisky-flavoured.

Finally my peripheral vision registers Trip reappearing. The slave follows him, tearful but unmarred and seemingly intact. Apparently my mental admonition wasn't wasted.

He glances across at me. His face registers distaste as he turns away, which I think is a bit damned hypocritical in the circumstances.

Several people have been unobtrusively watching. I think I've given Captain Avci more than sufficient evidence of my approval, and frankly I'm tired of waiting.

A general must be decorous, especially in public. I grit my teeth, but I set aside the glass and clamp both hands on her pelvis: she's not going anywhere. This time as the milking machine powers up again I stop resisting, and the reward is shattering; it's all I can do to confine myself to stifled, staccato grunts as I ejaculate inside her, and it's just as well I'm not still gripping the glass, because it's old and delicate and I might easily put my fingers through it.

Her smile is beatific as she re-fastens the clasp and detaches her genitals gently and carefully from mine. The wherewithal for clean-up operations is tactfully placed at convenient locations around the room, and she politely does the honours before restoring my clothes and everything else to their previous condition.

My thanks for her services are suitably more than cordial. As she salutes again and walks away I note that more than a few individuals appear to subtly gravitate in her direction, drawn by her newly enhanced air of pride and confidence as well as her almost tangible aura of sexual magnetism.

Pleasantly languid, I sit and watch the goings-on for a while. Trip's little friend gets taken away to another room by a couple of men, but looks a bit less anxious this time; he's actually smiling.

Well, if I keep drinking without eating I'll be carried out in a wheelbarrow. I've been careful to limit my intake and keep it well diluted, but this stuff I'm drinking now packs a punch.

It costs me something to lever myself out of the couch without betraying how much effort it takes. Fortunately I've measured my intake accurately enough to be able to stand without swaying.

"General." Another voice from behind me – a different one this time, and one I recognise.

I turn and bow my head respectfully.

Hoshi is now taking part in the meet-and-greet, ignoring guests who are otherwise occupied, and this seems like the safest opportunity for the two of us to meet up again in person. Obviously I've spoken to her by electronic communications channels since I took up my duties again, not to mention the official presentation earlier, but face-to-face interactions are more delicate. For one thing, she has guards available and may possibly be harbouring a grudge over various small matters; I can only trust that she has sufficient respect for the fact that I'm keeping her empire quiet for her to overlook them.

"Empress." She really is looking extremely lovely. The years have been kind, despite the burdens of rule which no amount of support can altogether take away from her. The priceless figured silk, pale blue embroidered with gold, sits as smoothly as paint on her exquisite slender body.

Still, although she smiles at me, I know precisely how much warmth there is behind it. I'm an expert at that kind of smile myself, and sharks go in for it on quite a regular basis I believe. I can hardly be surprised by the fact that she doesn't throw her arms around my neck and hug me; the fact that she was nominally the Empress counted for nothing when she got the order – and it effectively was an order, however diplomatically it was phrased – to join any or all of the Triad in bed, and I don't imagine she's either forgiven or forgotten my contribution to what followed. It's undoubtedly just as well for me that I'm so exceptionally useful to her alive and in one piece, or retribution would already have taken place rather than being delayed for some future opportunity.

"I'm pleased by the latest reports, General," she remarks. "You appear to be doing an excellent job as always."

I incline my head. Maybe I have drunk too much, for some devil prompts me to reply, "Surely you remember, your Majesty, I've always done my best to provide you with satisfaction."

For an instant she gives me a stare that makes me wonder whether despite being exceptionally useful I may have pushed my luck a millimetre too far, but then – much to my relief – she nods her head. The ultimate pragmatist, is Hoshi, and everything is being duly noted for repayment later. When opportunity offers.

"My memory functions perfectly well, General."

"Then I'm sure you know you can depend on my services whenever they're required."

"I'm fully aware of that."

I bow again, and she passes on, leaving me to thank any god who may be listening that Empress Sato's sense of self-preservation is apparently better than mine tonight, and to go with greater urgency than ever in search of non-alcoholic drinks. I'm not sure where Trip's disappeared to, but I'm sure he'll be in one of the other rooms.

Still. My memory's every bit as good as hers, and recollection strips her of that figured silk as I glimpse her making her way back to the throne with that sinuous, swaying walk she does so effortlessly.

She really was gorgeous, naked.

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