To: garmaz@zabihome.royal.jion.gov
From: iserina.estenbach@ubimail.com
Subject: I said I would mail
Hi again. Thanks again for the ride to the train station.
I'd really like to see you again, Garma. We just have to work out a way. I know the Jion airbase is out towards White Plains, and that's kind of a long ways away. We'll have to choose a safe meeting place.
My father hates Jions passionately, and I certainly can't blame him. I feel more neutral for reasons I won't get into here. I was kind of shocked when you showed me your tattoo, but I got over it fast (grins). I don't believe that this war can be ended by hate.
So, what else are you about, besides music? I know you've got a big family. It's just me and Dad; mom left him two years ago and the courts gave me to him, like I was the TV or something. I'm 17 and have finished high school. Dad is trying to decide if I should go to college or get married to one of his pals, or what. I date who he tells me to. He isn't going to like you one bit, which is a good thing in my opinion.
Yours truly, Iserina.
Iserina hit "send" then printed the letter from the sent box and deleted it. She didn't know if her father ever looked in her computer when she wasn't around, but she couldn't take the chance. She took the printout and opened the door to her closet. There was a piece of loose carpet in there where she kept her secrets. She lifted it, folded the letter, and lay it underneath.
A few minutes later, her computer laughed, meaning she had mail Iserina pounced on it, but it was an e-mail from Sonya, her best friend. That was important enough, but not what she'd been waiting for.
That mail arrived close to midnight. She opened the letter and breathlessly read the contents:
Dear Iserina:
I don't know the area very well, so if you have any ideas, let me hear them. I think I'm probably more free to move than you are, so choose the location.
So your dad hates Jions? I'll just have to convince him otherwise. Don't worry; I can be very charming. But I think you know that (very big grin).
As for me, I'm 20, vegetarian, as politically liberal as I can be within the Royal Family. I have three brothers and one sister; another brother died when I was 10. I'm an avid horseback rider and I play hockey whenever I can. My favourite kinds of music are 20th century American punk and 19th century classical. Along with the acoustic guitar you heard me play, I also play bass guitar and piano.
On the negative side, my health is kind of dicey and I'm a filthy smoker (although I'm desperately trying to stop).
I'm looking forward to disgusting your father on Saturday.
{{{}}} Garma.
Iserina opened her closet and touched the cellophane wrapping the dress she was going to wear. The gown was white with black details, very formal. She smiled.
***********
The reception of the new North American commander was taking place on the Jion base. Usually Garma was indifferent to these events, seeing them as being part of his job and nothing more. Tonight, though, he found himself singing happily to himself in the shower, smiling at his reflection in the mirror as he shaved. After drying off, he slid into briefs and a long-sleeved undershirt. His valet had left his uniform on a clothes tree for him. His shoes (not boots for this) had an oil-slick gleam. The dark-green trousers had a crease ironed into them sharp enough to cut himself. His green tunic was equally pressed. Since this was a very formal occasion, Garma would be wearing a short black cape and velvet, gold-embroidered panels over the chest. Garma called his valet in to check that every detail of his uniform was in place.
Garma's valet was Lt. Carl Jorgensen, a professional tailor with a degree in clothing design who had signed into the military at the beginning of the war out of pure patriotism. He was in his late 20s, blond, with a very Germanic rectangular face and neatly-clipped hair. He had been working in an administrative position when he was interviewed as a valet for either Dozel or Garma. Dozel had rejected Carl out of hand because he was uncomfortable with the idea of a gay man working that intimately with him. Garma hired him on the spot, knowing he'd always be immaculately uniformed with his insignia gleaming and properly placed.
Carl doublechecked Garma's rank tabs with a ruler, picked some miniscule bits of lint from the velvet, and adjusted the way his cape lay. Garma knew that Carl's finicky inspections were half professional pride and half because it was an opportunity to get his hands on Garma's person. Garma welcomed the touch, being physically affectionate by nature, but had never encouraged him further. The inspection finished, Garma picked up his speech and two other items from his desk and went outside onto the balcony.
The uniform, which would have been comfortable in the controlled climate of Side 3, was far too warm here and Garma immediately began to feel sticky. This was the price he paid for being an addict, he supposed as he sat down on an outdoor chair with the speech on the table beside him. He pulled a cigarette from a silver case and lit it with an antique lighter. He smoked quietly as he reviewed his speech, feeling nicotine have its usual soothing effect.
After a few minutes he folded the papers neatly and tucked them into his belt. Garma went to the rail of the balcony, lit a second cigarette off the remains of the first, and flicked the butt into the air. The glowing stub narrowly avoided igniting his personal standard which was hanging over the doorway of the building. Garma didn't usually chain-smoke, and he realized that he must be under more stress than he usually admitted to feeling. Between Iserina and this presentation of himself as new commander of North America....Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
Not that he wasn't happy about the situation. Finally, his family had given him a position of some authority. He was ruling over as many people as his father, really. The Side 3 Times and Mail had coined the nickname, "Eaglet of Jion" for Garma, and he quite liked that. Now, if only this eaglet could find a chance to fly....
The first guests were starting to arrive. There was a garden hose on the balcony to water the plants and small trees growing on the balcony. Garma cast a longing gaze at it, aching in his bones to turn on the water and aim the hose at the guests, but he resisted. He crushed out his smoke and went inside for mouthwash before going downstairs.
Iserina sat primly beside her father in the backseat of the car, her gloved hands folded in her lap. Her father was becoming twitchy without his usual cigar, but she appreciated his not wanting to make her smell of it. Not wanting to give her little secret away, she had avoided talking about this evening at all or asking questions about it like, "So, which member of the Royal Family is it?"
Her father broached the topic for her.
"Here's what you need to know. The new commander's Prince Garma, the youngest of Degin Zabi's offspring. He's just a kid, so we're hoping he can be intimidated. Reports have it he's vain, so it might be easy to flatter him into telling things he shouldn't. Of course, he's also young so it's possible he might not be told a damn thing by his family. He's got an awfully large terrain to run for a figurehead, though. Your job is to see if you can get him talking, feel him out a bit. So to speak."
"What if he sweeps me off my feet?"
"Don't even joke about that," Estenbach snapped.
The house was a large Georgian mansion with a blue flag bearing a Jion crest and a Latin motto over the door. Estenbach went up the steps with Iserina at his heels. She followed her father through a security arch in the foyer and joined the other well-dressed people in the ballroom.
There he was. Iserina inhaled as soon as she laid eyes on him again. He was even more beautiful than before, clad in green with accents of gold and black. She took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and sipped it. Her mouth had become very dry.
Garma glanced away from the men he was speaking to for a moment and his eyes met hers, but he didn't acknowledge her presence otherwise. For a moment she felt rejected, then stopped that line of thought. He wasn't rejecting her, he was being professional, something about which she needed to snap to.
She knew she should still try to hear what he was saying and nonchalantly walked over in his direction, eyes fixed on a painting nearby. Without signalling any interest in speaking to him, Iserina brushed past, catching a rather interesting snippet of talk.
"...mi gente, los Jiones, creemos fuertamente en la liberacion de Puerto Rico. Et vous, Monsieur Ouellete, nous sentions profondement le douleur du gens du pays du Quebec..."
Oh boy, she thought to herself as she admired the painting. Aren't we the little troublemaker? She turned from the painting and wandered past a few other Jion officers, who fell silent as she went past. This was an unfortunate side effect of her being ears for her father; sometimes she stopped conversations. Her dressed wasn't even low-cut this evening.
She'd hear more as Garma circulated and allowed himself to become a subject of talk. She returned to her father who was discussing possible changes to the tax structure which, to his chagrin, had become an easier burden under the Jions.
The time came for Garma to deliver his speech and finally, it was acceptable to stare at him. Iserina glanced around the room. Most of the women in there looked ready to drop their evening gowns at the slightest hint of provocation from him. Eat your hearts out, girls, she thought triumphantly, he's mine.
"I'd like to thank you all, friends, for giving me a chance to speak to you tonight."
"That's his standard opening," Estenbach grunted to one of his cronies.
"I know this is an ambiguous occasion. On one hand, North America is still adjusting to a new Jion regime. On the other, the regime has passed into younger hands than those of my successor, Colonel M'Qube. I like to think I'm a cleaner slate, more open to new ideas, especially ideas from you.
"Americans are known as nothing if not courageous, strong, open-hearted people. These are qualities that both I and His Majesty's government which I represent hope to encourage, joining the American fire for independence with our own. The Americas, from Tuktoyaktuk in the Northwest Territories to the border of Oaxaca in Mexico, have too long suffered under Federation tyranny. Che Guevara once said that the only hope for America lay in revolution. In Jion, America has finally found its revolution.
"As with all revolutions, change must come from the grassroots. Most of you don't represent the grassroots. Of course, neither do I. Nonetheless, it is our task as members of a priveleged class to spread the word of freedom, to inspire courage in our people, letting it show so that we all might strengthen each other.
"I was only a very small child when Jion Deykun spread his teaching that humanity must spread to the stars to allow Mother Earth to recover. I was of course taught his philosophies as I was growing up. Personally, I have also rejected them. I do not advocate the forced relocation of people from Earth to the Sides. I believe responsible stewardship of the planet and its resources is a far better way, with mutual sharing between those living on earth and those in space. The Federation has stood in the way of this sharing, but for you here now, this has ended. It is my pledge that openess and cooperation will be the hallmarks of my relationship with the people of the Americas. Thank you very much."
"Mutual sharing? Quotes from Che Guevara? What the hell is this?" one of Estenbach's friends whispered as the polite applause began. "Estenbach, you better send your daughter to talk to this kid, because we're not going to be able to."
"Quiet. He's heading this way," the former mayor said.
"Mr Estenbach. I've heard a lot about you."
"Your Highness." Estenbach, who was substantially taller than Garma, shook his hand. "I'd be curious to know what you've heard."
"That even though His Majesty's government removed you and replaced you with a mayor of its choosing, that you remain here in order to advocate for your citizens."
"You find this troubling?"
"On the contrary, I find it admirable. It shows that you're not just a politician but a man who looks out for the wellfare of others." He turned to Iserina. "And who is this?"
"Prince Garma, my daughter Iserina."
"Charmed." Now he bent down and kissed her hand. Iserina's heart leapt as his eyes met hers and she felt a small piece of paper being pressed into her hand. She closed her fist around it.
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Your Highness."
"Do you attend this sort of event often?"
"I usually accompany my father to them, yes."
"Well I shall hope to see you often, then. If you'll excuse me." He executed a short bow and walked off to another group of people.
Iserina said she needed another drink and went back to the bar. She glanced at the paper in her hand which said, "Cloakroom, 9:15."
That was 20 minutes away. At 9:17 she excused herself to the ladies', and found that the cloakroom was conveniently placed across from the washrooms. She turned the knob carefully and stepped inside. The room wasn't in use at the moment, it being too warm for coats. Garma was leaning against the far wall, beside the window. Light from outside cast him in a silvery glow. Iserina rushed to him and he met her halfway, his lips crushing against hers. His skin was hot underneath the fabric of his uniform, especially when she slid her hands under the velvet of his cape. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair but knew she mustn't dishevel it. What she really wanted to do, of course, was slide that tunic right off him, feel his bare flesh under her hands...
"This is crazy," he panted.
"I couldn't wait to talk to you," she told him. "My father wants us to talk."
"Not right now," he insisted, and his mouth was over hers again.
A few minutes later, they came up for air. Iserina tipped her head back, inhaling the atmosphere of the cloakroom, which was becoming muggier by the second. Garma held her close, his cheek pressed against hers. Iserina opened her eyes. "Look. We've steamed up the window."
Garma looked over and laughed softly. "So we did. Well. I suppose we should get back out there. I said I was going to make a brief phone call and I suppose you needed to powder your nose or whatever it is girls do."
"Talk about you boys."
"I'll see you later out there, then. I just wanted us to have a few minutes by ourselves."
"Make sure none of my makeup's on your face."
He saluted jokingly. "Will do." He opened the door and was gone. Iserina counted to ten, peeked out into the hall, and slipped across to the ladies' room to repair her lipstick.
Later, in the car returning to Long Island, Estenbach asked Iserina, "So what do you think of him?"
She considered her words carefully. "I think he was chosen for his youth appeal. He certainly wasn't chosen for his subtle politics. It's like they did a focus group on people under 21 and asked, 'Which of the Zabi royal family would you most like to be your dictator?'."
Estenbach laughed. "No question, the Zabis are courting young America. No surprise, really, youth always have the shortest memories. So, you found his politics heavy-handed?"
"Absolutely! I mean, the whole 'look at me! I'm a revolutionary!' thing was quite obvious."
Her father laughed again. "It was, wasn't it? Maybe it's best for him he's on Earth. Those siblings of his would eat him alive back home."
Iserina rushed into her room and straight to her computer. Sure enough, there was an e-mail from Garma waiting for her:
Dear Iserina: That's it, there is no way in the universe I'm going to be able to stay away from you. Arrange a meeting place. I'll make sure I can fit it into my agenda.
{{{{}}}} G.
Iserina sat back and considered. Often she would go into the city on Fridays and spend the night with her friend Sonya, with brunch and shopping on Saturday. She wasn't sure how Sonya would feel about her seeing a Jion prince, though. She'd lost an aunt and uncle during Operation British. Of course...there were lots of other famous people in Manhattan, people who might not want the public to know about their girlfriends. She could just as easily be dating a weird reclusive author or actor or something.
She sat back down at the keyboard and wrote the relevant mails to Sonya and Garma. This could all just work out.
****
"So, what's your mystery man's name?" Sonya asked Iserina over a sushi dinner.
"Gary."
"Gary who?"
"That'd be telling."
"Okay. Let's play 20 questions and see if I can figure it out. What's he do?"
"Musician."
"Anything I've heard?"
"Can't tell you."
"Darn, you're frustrating, girl. I'll tell you one thing, though, I've never seen you smiling this much because of a guy, ever." Sonya grinned at her. "I will figure it out, you know."
"You can try, but I'll warn you, I'll be really mad if you pry too far. You can meet him when I think the time's right."
The next morning, when Iserina left with her overnight bag over her shoulder, Sonya couldn't resist pulling a pair of binoculars out of her dresser and watching from her 6th floor apartment as her friend went down the street. She saw Iserina meet up with an androgynous type in a baggy t-shirt, button-fly jeans, and a baseball cap turned backwards. They kissed, took each others' hands, and walked away.
"So, Iserina's gone lesbo," Sonya chuckled. "Blame her dad, making her date those assholes. Well, your secret's safe with me, hun. Don't envy you when you bring Butch to meet your pop, though." She put the binoculars away and went to make her coffee.
"How come nobody's recognizing you?" Iserina whispered to Garma as they sat in a café, waiting for their breakfast.
"Compare me at the reception last week to the way I look now."
"True." Iserina sipped her latte. "So, my dad thinks you're a hippie."
"That's what my oldest brother calls me. That's not likely to get any better either, because I really like Earth and have signed a whole bunch of conservation bills." He twiddled with some hair by his ear, since his forelock was covered by his baseball cap.
"I think that's wonderful. All Daddy ever signed were a lot of laws to keep street people out of sight and in the jails."
"Why didn't he just budget psychiactric drugs or detox and get them jobs?"
"Didn't want to spend the tax dollars."
"I'll look into it. We tried it on Ji-- I mean, in my home state, and it's worked." He paused as a plate of whole-wheat pancakes was placed in front of him. "Enough of that. What do you do for fun?"
"I shop. Hang out with my girlfriends. What else is there? I don't have a job besides being deposed First Lady of the city. Dad won't let me make my own decision to go to college or look for a husband. He sets me up with these jerks, and I go out with them, and nothing ever comes of it in case I go to college. But I don't go to college because I'm dating these jerks."
"That's too messed up. I had to fight Dad to go away to school, but I did it."
"I guess you're just made of stronger stuff than me," she concluded.
"I've been dead," he told her in the same tone of voice others might use for, "I've been to art school."
"WHAT?"
"I have lung problems, really bad ones, and I've been dead. It was when I was 12. I got pneumonia and my heart stopped beating for about 30 seconds."
"What'd you see?" Iserina was poised with a fork of eggs halfway to her mouth.
"The usual stuff. Bright light, floating near the ceiling and looking down at my body, that kind of thing. It was really a nice feeling, like if I could just get away, I'd be in the most perfect home I could ever imagine. I came from that experience with two things. One is absolutely no fear of death. I am the worst risk-taker you can imagine. The other is a feeling that I must have lived for a reason, but darned if I know what it is yet."
Iserina put down her fork and put her hand over his. "Maybe we can find that out together."
"Did you have fun with Sonya?" Estenbach asked Iserina when she returned to the house, carrying shopping bags.
"Yes, Daddy." She came over to his easy chair where he was reading the paper and gave him a kiss. "I'll probably go into town next weekend too. There's an art exhibit I want to see."
"All right. The deposed Prime Minister of Canada is in town, with her son. That's midweek, there's a reception at Gracie Manor on Thursday. That means our little revolutionary wannabe will be there with his cohort, so perhaps he'll be Ottawa-bound soon after. What'd you buy?"
Iserina showed him one of the dresses.
"Oh no. That colour is entirely wrong on you. Take it back."
"Daddy! You're not the one who has to wear it."
"I don't care. You have to look your best, and that colour makes your face look green. Show me the others."
She did, and he approved of those. At least she had another reason to go into town, she reflected.
If Iserina was in the city, then so was Garma. He'd find a reason to tear south from White Plains in his sports car, although sometimes he'd have to stop along the way and change shirts and shoes, meaning he'd still be wearing his uniform trousers with a casual shirt and sneakers.
"Did that hurt?" Iserina asked him one afternoon, stroking her fingers over his tattoo as he was driving. The black-marked skin was warm and soft, with no raised surface or blistery feel as she might have expected.
"The outside wasn't too bad. The skin on the inside of my arm was pretty special, though--I didn't think I'd see it through. My friend Char had come along to watch and I grabbed his hand and made him feel my pain." Garma chuckled at the memory. "He couldn't use his hand for the next two days. He was pretty mad at me, cause he's another pilot."
"I should do that one of these days."
"Yeah, yeah. Talk is cheap."
She glared at him. "Turn the car around, Garma."
"Huh?"
"We're going back to the city." Her eyes were blue fire. "Turn the car around and head for Washington Square."
Iserina appeared at home around 8 pm. Her father was watching television.
"You were gone a long time."
"I met Sonya and Gina after they got off work. I had a couple of wine spritzers and went to Gina's to clear my head."
"Damn Jion liquor laws. 17 should be underage."
Iserina dropped into the armchair beside his and yelped.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing...I banged my hip real hard on the arm of one of the seats in the subway."
"Ouch. Well put some ice on it and it should be fine." He turned back to the comedy he was watching. "You like this show, don't you, punkin?"
"It's okay. I'll watch it with you. We haven't watched TV together in a long time."
After the show, Iserina went upstairs with some ice wrapped in a paper towel as her father had suggested. She changed into pajamas and pulled down the waistband of the pants to expose her hip. She removed the gauze square that was taped on to expose the picture of a small blue teddy bear, outlined now in scabby relief. She turned to admire it in the mirror and smiled.
To be continued.
From: iserina.estenbach@ubimail.com
Subject: I said I would mail
Hi again. Thanks again for the ride to the train station.
I'd really like to see you again, Garma. We just have to work out a way. I know the Jion airbase is out towards White Plains, and that's kind of a long ways away. We'll have to choose a safe meeting place.
My father hates Jions passionately, and I certainly can't blame him. I feel more neutral for reasons I won't get into here. I was kind of shocked when you showed me your tattoo, but I got over it fast (grins). I don't believe that this war can be ended by hate.
So, what else are you about, besides music? I know you've got a big family. It's just me and Dad; mom left him two years ago and the courts gave me to him, like I was the TV or something. I'm 17 and have finished high school. Dad is trying to decide if I should go to college or get married to one of his pals, or what. I date who he tells me to. He isn't going to like you one bit, which is a good thing in my opinion.
Yours truly, Iserina.
Iserina hit "send" then printed the letter from the sent box and deleted it. She didn't know if her father ever looked in her computer when she wasn't around, but she couldn't take the chance. She took the printout and opened the door to her closet. There was a piece of loose carpet in there where she kept her secrets. She lifted it, folded the letter, and lay it underneath.
A few minutes later, her computer laughed, meaning she had mail Iserina pounced on it, but it was an e-mail from Sonya, her best friend. That was important enough, but not what she'd been waiting for.
That mail arrived close to midnight. She opened the letter and breathlessly read the contents:
Dear Iserina:
I don't know the area very well, so if you have any ideas, let me hear them. I think I'm probably more free to move than you are, so choose the location.
So your dad hates Jions? I'll just have to convince him otherwise. Don't worry; I can be very charming. But I think you know that (very big grin).
As for me, I'm 20, vegetarian, as politically liberal as I can be within the Royal Family. I have three brothers and one sister; another brother died when I was 10. I'm an avid horseback rider and I play hockey whenever I can. My favourite kinds of music are 20th century American punk and 19th century classical. Along with the acoustic guitar you heard me play, I also play bass guitar and piano.
On the negative side, my health is kind of dicey and I'm a filthy smoker (although I'm desperately trying to stop).
I'm looking forward to disgusting your father on Saturday.
{{{}}} Garma.
Iserina opened her closet and touched the cellophane wrapping the dress she was going to wear. The gown was white with black details, very formal. She smiled.
***********
The reception of the new North American commander was taking place on the Jion base. Usually Garma was indifferent to these events, seeing them as being part of his job and nothing more. Tonight, though, he found himself singing happily to himself in the shower, smiling at his reflection in the mirror as he shaved. After drying off, he slid into briefs and a long-sleeved undershirt. His valet had left his uniform on a clothes tree for him. His shoes (not boots for this) had an oil-slick gleam. The dark-green trousers had a crease ironed into them sharp enough to cut himself. His green tunic was equally pressed. Since this was a very formal occasion, Garma would be wearing a short black cape and velvet, gold-embroidered panels over the chest. Garma called his valet in to check that every detail of his uniform was in place.
Garma's valet was Lt. Carl Jorgensen, a professional tailor with a degree in clothing design who had signed into the military at the beginning of the war out of pure patriotism. He was in his late 20s, blond, with a very Germanic rectangular face and neatly-clipped hair. He had been working in an administrative position when he was interviewed as a valet for either Dozel or Garma. Dozel had rejected Carl out of hand because he was uncomfortable with the idea of a gay man working that intimately with him. Garma hired him on the spot, knowing he'd always be immaculately uniformed with his insignia gleaming and properly placed.
Carl doublechecked Garma's rank tabs with a ruler, picked some miniscule bits of lint from the velvet, and adjusted the way his cape lay. Garma knew that Carl's finicky inspections were half professional pride and half because it was an opportunity to get his hands on Garma's person. Garma welcomed the touch, being physically affectionate by nature, but had never encouraged him further. The inspection finished, Garma picked up his speech and two other items from his desk and went outside onto the balcony.
The uniform, which would have been comfortable in the controlled climate of Side 3, was far too warm here and Garma immediately began to feel sticky. This was the price he paid for being an addict, he supposed as he sat down on an outdoor chair with the speech on the table beside him. He pulled a cigarette from a silver case and lit it with an antique lighter. He smoked quietly as he reviewed his speech, feeling nicotine have its usual soothing effect.
After a few minutes he folded the papers neatly and tucked them into his belt. Garma went to the rail of the balcony, lit a second cigarette off the remains of the first, and flicked the butt into the air. The glowing stub narrowly avoided igniting his personal standard which was hanging over the doorway of the building. Garma didn't usually chain-smoke, and he realized that he must be under more stress than he usually admitted to feeling. Between Iserina and this presentation of himself as new commander of North America....Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
Not that he wasn't happy about the situation. Finally, his family had given him a position of some authority. He was ruling over as many people as his father, really. The Side 3 Times and Mail had coined the nickname, "Eaglet of Jion" for Garma, and he quite liked that. Now, if only this eaglet could find a chance to fly....
The first guests were starting to arrive. There was a garden hose on the balcony to water the plants and small trees growing on the balcony. Garma cast a longing gaze at it, aching in his bones to turn on the water and aim the hose at the guests, but he resisted. He crushed out his smoke and went inside for mouthwash before going downstairs.
Iserina sat primly beside her father in the backseat of the car, her gloved hands folded in her lap. Her father was becoming twitchy without his usual cigar, but she appreciated his not wanting to make her smell of it. Not wanting to give her little secret away, she had avoided talking about this evening at all or asking questions about it like, "So, which member of the Royal Family is it?"
Her father broached the topic for her.
"Here's what you need to know. The new commander's Prince Garma, the youngest of Degin Zabi's offspring. He's just a kid, so we're hoping he can be intimidated. Reports have it he's vain, so it might be easy to flatter him into telling things he shouldn't. Of course, he's also young so it's possible he might not be told a damn thing by his family. He's got an awfully large terrain to run for a figurehead, though. Your job is to see if you can get him talking, feel him out a bit. So to speak."
"What if he sweeps me off my feet?"
"Don't even joke about that," Estenbach snapped.
The house was a large Georgian mansion with a blue flag bearing a Jion crest and a Latin motto over the door. Estenbach went up the steps with Iserina at his heels. She followed her father through a security arch in the foyer and joined the other well-dressed people in the ballroom.
There he was. Iserina inhaled as soon as she laid eyes on him again. He was even more beautiful than before, clad in green with accents of gold and black. She took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and sipped it. Her mouth had become very dry.
Garma glanced away from the men he was speaking to for a moment and his eyes met hers, but he didn't acknowledge her presence otherwise. For a moment she felt rejected, then stopped that line of thought. He wasn't rejecting her, he was being professional, something about which she needed to snap to.
She knew she should still try to hear what he was saying and nonchalantly walked over in his direction, eyes fixed on a painting nearby. Without signalling any interest in speaking to him, Iserina brushed past, catching a rather interesting snippet of talk.
"...mi gente, los Jiones, creemos fuertamente en la liberacion de Puerto Rico. Et vous, Monsieur Ouellete, nous sentions profondement le douleur du gens du pays du Quebec..."
Oh boy, she thought to herself as she admired the painting. Aren't we the little troublemaker? She turned from the painting and wandered past a few other Jion officers, who fell silent as she went past. This was an unfortunate side effect of her being ears for her father; sometimes she stopped conversations. Her dressed wasn't even low-cut this evening.
She'd hear more as Garma circulated and allowed himself to become a subject of talk. She returned to her father who was discussing possible changes to the tax structure which, to his chagrin, had become an easier burden under the Jions.
The time came for Garma to deliver his speech and finally, it was acceptable to stare at him. Iserina glanced around the room. Most of the women in there looked ready to drop their evening gowns at the slightest hint of provocation from him. Eat your hearts out, girls, she thought triumphantly, he's mine.
"I'd like to thank you all, friends, for giving me a chance to speak to you tonight."
"That's his standard opening," Estenbach grunted to one of his cronies.
"I know this is an ambiguous occasion. On one hand, North America is still adjusting to a new Jion regime. On the other, the regime has passed into younger hands than those of my successor, Colonel M'Qube. I like to think I'm a cleaner slate, more open to new ideas, especially ideas from you.
"Americans are known as nothing if not courageous, strong, open-hearted people. These are qualities that both I and His Majesty's government which I represent hope to encourage, joining the American fire for independence with our own. The Americas, from Tuktoyaktuk in the Northwest Territories to the border of Oaxaca in Mexico, have too long suffered under Federation tyranny. Che Guevara once said that the only hope for America lay in revolution. In Jion, America has finally found its revolution.
"As with all revolutions, change must come from the grassroots. Most of you don't represent the grassroots. Of course, neither do I. Nonetheless, it is our task as members of a priveleged class to spread the word of freedom, to inspire courage in our people, letting it show so that we all might strengthen each other.
"I was only a very small child when Jion Deykun spread his teaching that humanity must spread to the stars to allow Mother Earth to recover. I was of course taught his philosophies as I was growing up. Personally, I have also rejected them. I do not advocate the forced relocation of people from Earth to the Sides. I believe responsible stewardship of the planet and its resources is a far better way, with mutual sharing between those living on earth and those in space. The Federation has stood in the way of this sharing, but for you here now, this has ended. It is my pledge that openess and cooperation will be the hallmarks of my relationship with the people of the Americas. Thank you very much."
"Mutual sharing? Quotes from Che Guevara? What the hell is this?" one of Estenbach's friends whispered as the polite applause began. "Estenbach, you better send your daughter to talk to this kid, because we're not going to be able to."
"Quiet. He's heading this way," the former mayor said.
"Mr Estenbach. I've heard a lot about you."
"Your Highness." Estenbach, who was substantially taller than Garma, shook his hand. "I'd be curious to know what you've heard."
"That even though His Majesty's government removed you and replaced you with a mayor of its choosing, that you remain here in order to advocate for your citizens."
"You find this troubling?"
"On the contrary, I find it admirable. It shows that you're not just a politician but a man who looks out for the wellfare of others." He turned to Iserina. "And who is this?"
"Prince Garma, my daughter Iserina."
"Charmed." Now he bent down and kissed her hand. Iserina's heart leapt as his eyes met hers and she felt a small piece of paper being pressed into her hand. She closed her fist around it.
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Your Highness."
"Do you attend this sort of event often?"
"I usually accompany my father to them, yes."
"Well I shall hope to see you often, then. If you'll excuse me." He executed a short bow and walked off to another group of people.
Iserina said she needed another drink and went back to the bar. She glanced at the paper in her hand which said, "Cloakroom, 9:15."
That was 20 minutes away. At 9:17 she excused herself to the ladies', and found that the cloakroom was conveniently placed across from the washrooms. She turned the knob carefully and stepped inside. The room wasn't in use at the moment, it being too warm for coats. Garma was leaning against the far wall, beside the window. Light from outside cast him in a silvery glow. Iserina rushed to him and he met her halfway, his lips crushing against hers. His skin was hot underneath the fabric of his uniform, especially when she slid her hands under the velvet of his cape. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair but knew she mustn't dishevel it. What she really wanted to do, of course, was slide that tunic right off him, feel his bare flesh under her hands...
"This is crazy," he panted.
"I couldn't wait to talk to you," she told him. "My father wants us to talk."
"Not right now," he insisted, and his mouth was over hers again.
A few minutes later, they came up for air. Iserina tipped her head back, inhaling the atmosphere of the cloakroom, which was becoming muggier by the second. Garma held her close, his cheek pressed against hers. Iserina opened her eyes. "Look. We've steamed up the window."
Garma looked over and laughed softly. "So we did. Well. I suppose we should get back out there. I said I was going to make a brief phone call and I suppose you needed to powder your nose or whatever it is girls do."
"Talk about you boys."
"I'll see you later out there, then. I just wanted us to have a few minutes by ourselves."
"Make sure none of my makeup's on your face."
He saluted jokingly. "Will do." He opened the door and was gone. Iserina counted to ten, peeked out into the hall, and slipped across to the ladies' room to repair her lipstick.
Later, in the car returning to Long Island, Estenbach asked Iserina, "So what do you think of him?"
She considered her words carefully. "I think he was chosen for his youth appeal. He certainly wasn't chosen for his subtle politics. It's like they did a focus group on people under 21 and asked, 'Which of the Zabi royal family would you most like to be your dictator?'."
Estenbach laughed. "No question, the Zabis are courting young America. No surprise, really, youth always have the shortest memories. So, you found his politics heavy-handed?"
"Absolutely! I mean, the whole 'look at me! I'm a revolutionary!' thing was quite obvious."
Her father laughed again. "It was, wasn't it? Maybe it's best for him he's on Earth. Those siblings of his would eat him alive back home."
Iserina rushed into her room and straight to her computer. Sure enough, there was an e-mail from Garma waiting for her:
Dear Iserina: That's it, there is no way in the universe I'm going to be able to stay away from you. Arrange a meeting place. I'll make sure I can fit it into my agenda.
{{{{}}}} G.
Iserina sat back and considered. Often she would go into the city on Fridays and spend the night with her friend Sonya, with brunch and shopping on Saturday. She wasn't sure how Sonya would feel about her seeing a Jion prince, though. She'd lost an aunt and uncle during Operation British. Of course...there were lots of other famous people in Manhattan, people who might not want the public to know about their girlfriends. She could just as easily be dating a weird reclusive author or actor or something.
She sat back down at the keyboard and wrote the relevant mails to Sonya and Garma. This could all just work out.
****
"So, what's your mystery man's name?" Sonya asked Iserina over a sushi dinner.
"Gary."
"Gary who?"
"That'd be telling."
"Okay. Let's play 20 questions and see if I can figure it out. What's he do?"
"Musician."
"Anything I've heard?"
"Can't tell you."
"Darn, you're frustrating, girl. I'll tell you one thing, though, I've never seen you smiling this much because of a guy, ever." Sonya grinned at her. "I will figure it out, you know."
"You can try, but I'll warn you, I'll be really mad if you pry too far. You can meet him when I think the time's right."
The next morning, when Iserina left with her overnight bag over her shoulder, Sonya couldn't resist pulling a pair of binoculars out of her dresser and watching from her 6th floor apartment as her friend went down the street. She saw Iserina meet up with an androgynous type in a baggy t-shirt, button-fly jeans, and a baseball cap turned backwards. They kissed, took each others' hands, and walked away.
"So, Iserina's gone lesbo," Sonya chuckled. "Blame her dad, making her date those assholes. Well, your secret's safe with me, hun. Don't envy you when you bring Butch to meet your pop, though." She put the binoculars away and went to make her coffee.
"How come nobody's recognizing you?" Iserina whispered to Garma as they sat in a café, waiting for their breakfast.
"Compare me at the reception last week to the way I look now."
"True." Iserina sipped her latte. "So, my dad thinks you're a hippie."
"That's what my oldest brother calls me. That's not likely to get any better either, because I really like Earth and have signed a whole bunch of conservation bills." He twiddled with some hair by his ear, since his forelock was covered by his baseball cap.
"I think that's wonderful. All Daddy ever signed were a lot of laws to keep street people out of sight and in the jails."
"Why didn't he just budget psychiactric drugs or detox and get them jobs?"
"Didn't want to spend the tax dollars."
"I'll look into it. We tried it on Ji-- I mean, in my home state, and it's worked." He paused as a plate of whole-wheat pancakes was placed in front of him. "Enough of that. What do you do for fun?"
"I shop. Hang out with my girlfriends. What else is there? I don't have a job besides being deposed First Lady of the city. Dad won't let me make my own decision to go to college or look for a husband. He sets me up with these jerks, and I go out with them, and nothing ever comes of it in case I go to college. But I don't go to college because I'm dating these jerks."
"That's too messed up. I had to fight Dad to go away to school, but I did it."
"I guess you're just made of stronger stuff than me," she concluded.
"I've been dead," he told her in the same tone of voice others might use for, "I've been to art school."
"WHAT?"
"I have lung problems, really bad ones, and I've been dead. It was when I was 12. I got pneumonia and my heart stopped beating for about 30 seconds."
"What'd you see?" Iserina was poised with a fork of eggs halfway to her mouth.
"The usual stuff. Bright light, floating near the ceiling and looking down at my body, that kind of thing. It was really a nice feeling, like if I could just get away, I'd be in the most perfect home I could ever imagine. I came from that experience with two things. One is absolutely no fear of death. I am the worst risk-taker you can imagine. The other is a feeling that I must have lived for a reason, but darned if I know what it is yet."
Iserina put down her fork and put her hand over his. "Maybe we can find that out together."
"Did you have fun with Sonya?" Estenbach asked Iserina when she returned to the house, carrying shopping bags.
"Yes, Daddy." She came over to his easy chair where he was reading the paper and gave him a kiss. "I'll probably go into town next weekend too. There's an art exhibit I want to see."
"All right. The deposed Prime Minister of Canada is in town, with her son. That's midweek, there's a reception at Gracie Manor on Thursday. That means our little revolutionary wannabe will be there with his cohort, so perhaps he'll be Ottawa-bound soon after. What'd you buy?"
Iserina showed him one of the dresses.
"Oh no. That colour is entirely wrong on you. Take it back."
"Daddy! You're not the one who has to wear it."
"I don't care. You have to look your best, and that colour makes your face look green. Show me the others."
She did, and he approved of those. At least she had another reason to go into town, she reflected.
If Iserina was in the city, then so was Garma. He'd find a reason to tear south from White Plains in his sports car, although sometimes he'd have to stop along the way and change shirts and shoes, meaning he'd still be wearing his uniform trousers with a casual shirt and sneakers.
"Did that hurt?" Iserina asked him one afternoon, stroking her fingers over his tattoo as he was driving. The black-marked skin was warm and soft, with no raised surface or blistery feel as she might have expected.
"The outside wasn't too bad. The skin on the inside of my arm was pretty special, though--I didn't think I'd see it through. My friend Char had come along to watch and I grabbed his hand and made him feel my pain." Garma chuckled at the memory. "He couldn't use his hand for the next two days. He was pretty mad at me, cause he's another pilot."
"I should do that one of these days."
"Yeah, yeah. Talk is cheap."
She glared at him. "Turn the car around, Garma."
"Huh?"
"We're going back to the city." Her eyes were blue fire. "Turn the car around and head for Washington Square."
Iserina appeared at home around 8 pm. Her father was watching television.
"You were gone a long time."
"I met Sonya and Gina after they got off work. I had a couple of wine spritzers and went to Gina's to clear my head."
"Damn Jion liquor laws. 17 should be underage."
Iserina dropped into the armchair beside his and yelped.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing...I banged my hip real hard on the arm of one of the seats in the subway."
"Ouch. Well put some ice on it and it should be fine." He turned back to the comedy he was watching. "You like this show, don't you, punkin?"
"It's okay. I'll watch it with you. We haven't watched TV together in a long time."
After the show, Iserina went upstairs with some ice wrapped in a paper towel as her father had suggested. She changed into pajamas and pulled down the waistband of the pants to expose her hip. She removed the gauze square that was taped on to expose the picture of a small blue teddy bear, outlined now in scabby relief. She turned to admire it in the mirror and smiled.
To be continued.