Garma awakened feeling terrible. It wasn't just a hangover, he realized
with a sinking feeling. His throat was sore and he was having trouble
swallowing. When he sat up he started coughing while at the same time his
bloodstream was screaming for nicotine. The stress of Iserina's breakup
must have taken what would have been a little cold and let it conquer his
body.
He hauled himself out of bed and to the balcony where he lit up the first cigarette of the day with shaking hands. At the first drag he started coughing like a tuberculotic and fell back into a chair. The day was already humid, hot, and disgusting. He forced himself to inhale enough smoke to quiet the craving, then crushed out the cigarette and returned inside.
Knocking back a litre of orange juice helped, as did a cool shower. When his valet came in with his uniform, he asked, "Carl? Could you do me a big favour? Could you just let me be alone in peace until the absolute last minute before I have to be out there?"
"Certainly, sir." Carl looked quizzically at him. "Are you all right?"
"No, I'm afraid not." Garma knew how he must look, with wet hair, in t- shirt and pajama bottoms.
"If my lord will excuse me." Carl came over and touched Garma's forehead gently. "You're running a fever."
"I know. That's why I want to sleep as long as I can. I can't miss being at this Foundation Day thingie. It's the tenth anniversary of our kingdom, after all, and I'm viceroy." He fell back against his pillows. "For all the good it does me."
"Rest, sir." Carl arranged the covers over him.
Two hours later, Carl returned to wake Garma. He helped his prince sit up and dressed him like a doll. He gave Garma some cold cola and a handful of vitamins, then saw him downstairs. The outdoor thermometer read 36 degrees celsius.
Most of the event was endurable as Garma was sitting in a throne as representative of the king. He knew his expression must be pained, but there was little he could do about it. He was trying to will himself not to sweat, not that any of the officers around him on the reviewing stands were having any luck. They had to stand and salute for the national anthem. Usually only two verses were performed and his heart sank as the orchestra went into the third, fourth, and fifth. For fuck's sake, did anyone even know the third, fourth, and fifth verses? Garma knew he didn't.
Drop the salute...stay standing as the troops start going by the reviewing stand. Boy, there were a lot of them. Garma wasn't sure if he was cold or hot. A Dopp went overhead, but how could that be, he was standing right th---
Garma was distantly aware of droppping, then a feeling of impact, then what felt like dozens of hands on his body. Lots of yelling...
He awakened in a hospital room, already in a gown. The clear tube of an IV bag snaked down into a vein in his right wrist. Carl, good old Carl, was patting at his face with a wet washcloth. "How do you feel, sir?"
"Oh god." Garma rubbed his eyes with his left hand. "I passed out, didn't I?"
"Your fever's 103, sir. They're giving you fluids and you swallowed some Tylenol. Oh, here's the doctor."
The doctor, a tall woman with short blond hair, reached out a hand. "Your Highness? I'm Dr. Aylmer."
"Carl says I've got a fever and I fainted."
"That you did." She opened up a chart. "You have heatstroke and a really bad flu at the moment. I'm going to feed you fluids, get your fever down, and keep you here overnight. I really should scold you too for being a smoker. It says here you've been one for four years."
"Nerves. Just nerves. That's why I smoke." And much less to live for, now, he reflected sadly.
"Take up knitting," the doctor said, and left him. Garma closed his eyes and fell asleep again, aware of Carl remaining to keep him company.
*****
Estenbach threw the morning paper onto Iserina's lap as she was drinking her coffee. She picked it up and looked at the headline, "Jion Prince Collapses During Foundation Day Ceremonies." The photo showed a cluster of Jion officers huddled around the fallen Garma, of whom only some hair and one arm was visible.
She lay the paper aside coldly. "I broke up with him, Daddy, so there's nothing between us now." She sipped at her coffee again. "Not that I wish him any hurt. He's a nice boy, even if he is a Jion."
"Good girl. It was the right thing to do." Estenbach squeezed his daughter's shoulder warmly. Usually Iserina enjoyed his approval, as she received it so rarely. Today, though, she felt she'd sent Garma into the hospital herself, as surely as if she'd wounded him, and her father's pleasure in this made her stomach churn.
*****
Garma spent the next two days in bed but was eventually back on his feet and in the office. The first thing he did was put in a requisition to Kishiria for short-sleeved uniforms of a lighter fabric. The response he received back was that there was no budget for new uniforms, but if he wanted to pay for modifications himself, go ahead. Garma tugged irritably at the double lined fabric of his sleeve and called Carl. Within a week, sleeves had been shortened all over the base and helmets had been abandoned for an order of dark brown Tilley's hats. Morale soared.
If only he could fix the ache in his heart so easily. The last time he'd broken up with a girlfriend, there had been training on a brand-new experimental mobile suit to distract him. Now, there wasn't so much as permission to even climb into a cockpit. Not that Garma wasn't busy, but too much of his work reminded him of Iserina. There was one Board of Trade meeting where Estenbach was present, puffing away on a cigar and casting glances that Garma interpreted as saying, "I didn't like what you were doing with my daughter and made you stop, you son of a bitch."
One hot night, Garma finally gave in and decided he had to ask someone older and wiser for advice. If he could get through to Iserina, tell her there was an escape for the two of them, perhaps she would come back. She hadn't been happy about breaking up. Garma sat on his balcony in shorts and t-shirt, something called a Long Island Iced Tea beside him. No iced tea in there, but plenty of booze. He opened up his laptop and started to send an e-mail message to Giren.
He stopped for a moment. He couldn't tell Giren the truth about what was going on. Garma sipped his drink and the ice in it reminded him of a snowball playfully shoved down his pants by his older sister at the Antarctica Convention. He smirked a bit. What goes around comes around, after all. He started typing.
To: girenzpersonal@zabihome.royal.jion.gov
From:garmaz@zabihome.royal.jion.gov
Re: advice wanted
Dear Frater Major:
I'm writing to you since even though we don't get along, you are the most politically wise member of the family. I am worried about Kish. She's playing it close to the vest, but she's fallen in love with the son of this guy in Western Europe who hates Jions and is prominent in the resistance movement. She called me the other night and said that she didn't know what to do, she and Miguel love each other, but they know that it's a Romeo and Juliet situation. Please advise.
Giren responded back shortly:
Dear Frater Minorissimus:
I always knew she had this sort of stupidity in her, but didn't expect it to come out this way. Tell Kishiria to stop acting like such a great baby. Of course she can't marry this fellow, and she'd best learn to accept it.
One of the facts of life when you're in a royal family is that your marriage has to be dynastic and happiness be damned. I don't love my wife, you know that, and while Dozel loves his, he just happened to be fortunate in that he fell for a girl from a family Father wanted to court. Father's pondering who Kishiria is going to marry even as we speak.
As for YOU, would you prefer this Russian princess or this Spanish one? Photos attached.
Garma stared glumly at the response. It wasn't what he wanted to hear, but he knew that if it was political advice from Giren, it was more than worth considering. He printed out the photos and looked at them. He couldn't see himself with either woman. He tucked the photos and accompanying e-mail into the blue composition notebook in which he kept his journal and put them away.
He needed a military victory of such magnitude that his father would deny him nothing. So far, nothing had come his way, and he had not been given permission to carry out espionage. That task was in the hands of Kishiria's command, and on a lesser level, Dozel's. How could he achieve such a victory in a relatively quiet area with a dejected population?
Garma sat down on the couch, feeling depression engulf him. He couldn't think of anything. Maybe setting up meetings with those princesses wasn't such a bad idea after all.
Politics were moving along swimmingly, at least. Garma addressed the now- colonial congress of Mexico and impressed them with his smoothly fluent Spanish as well as his commitment to bringing the country's infrastructure in line with its neighbours to the north. Afterwards, he and his entourage travelled down to Oaxaca, which was the frontier of Jion-held North America. There Garma mounted a horse and rode out to negotiate with the Zapatista government that held the rest of the country down to the border with Guatemala. They would not agree to turn their territories over to Jion, but they were willing to end hostilities in exchange for some roads. Garma signed that agreement with them.
On the way back to New York, his throat began to ache again. Doses of vitamin C and echinacea brought no relief, and to his frustration, Garma watched his body betray him once again.
"You've got a lung infection," Dr. Aylmer told him matter-of-factly after doing a blood culture. "I'll put you on antibiotics and you need to take it easy."
"I've got an emergency conference in Quebec City," he stated flatly. "I absolutely must go. There's been some terrorist activity from a group called the Patriotes and I have to speak to the provincial premier."
"It's your funeral," he was told. So of course he went anyway, and came home with pneumonia. Once again, he had to let Carl help him into pajamas and bed. After that, everything became blurry and distant, as if he were underwater. When he slept, his dreams were vivid and surrealistic, merging the reality of sounds around him with the lurid colours in his brain. At one point he thought he felt Carl's lips on his own, and the sensation was extremely nice.
Mental note: apologize to Carl for making him be go-between for me and Iserina. Insensitive of me.
Garma didn't respond to the antibiotics he was given, and on September 8, word was sent to Degin Zabi that his youngest son's situation was extreme. Degin dispatched Kishiria to New York, as she was closest.
Kishiria entered Garma's room to find her brother unconscious, breathing from an oxygen mask with his arms full of IVs. She shuddered, hating scenes like this. His valet was sitting by his side, looking as if he was watching the end of the world, but he rose and saluted as was proper.
"I've spoken to Garma's doctor," Kishiria said, removing her helmet and lowering her mask, "but how is he?"
"I don't think he's going to make it," Carl said.
"And why not?" Kishiria arched a brow imperiously.
"He's dying of a broken heart, ma'am. Not pneumonia."
"I've heard of this ailment, but never experienced it myself." She took a seat by her brother's side. "How did it happen?"
"I'm not at liberty to disclose many details, ma'am. He fell in love with someone inapppropriate, an Earth woman. I came under instructions to see to it that the relationship ended. I succeeded."
"An Earth woman." Kishiria sighed deeply. "Well, you did the right thing, even if those orders didn't come from me."
"No, ma'am."
"So did they come from Dozel or Giren? Who's your master?"
Carl hesitated. "Prince Garma, ma'am, but I keep track of him for Prince Giren."
Kishiria examined the man's facial expression and felt sorry for him despite herself. Lt. Jorgensen had been placed as a spy, of course, although the action demanded by Giren had been excruciatingly proper. Before her, though, she saw a man who realized now that carrying out his duties had not freed the man he loved from the Earth woman's snares, but possibly killed him instead.
"Return to your quarters and await re-assignment," she said to him.
"Yes, ma'am." He saluted and exited as Kishiria took his place by Garma's side.
Carl Jorgensen was executed the next morning with a single bullet to the back of the head. The official cause of death was friendly fire during a training exercise.
******
"I'll warn, you, ma'am, that if Prince Garma does not show improvement in the next 24 hours, you'd best take him back to Jion," Dr. Aylmer told Kishiria on the following day.
"To die?"
"I'm afraid so."
Kishiria nodded grimly and stroked her brother's hand. She smiled a little
at his tattoo, which she'd never seen before. How terribly romantic of Garma, to have inscribed his allegiance on his very skin. Idealist. Artist. Poet. Fool.
"This is no way for you to die," she whispered to him. "Don't do it, soldier. That's an order."
In the meantime, Garma, or at least his consciousness, was standing beside the bed looking down at the scene. He felt bad for Kishiria and wished she could understand that he felt fine, that it was only this useless body of his that was suffering. She was crying now over him, and he had never seen that before. It disturbed him. He was getting ready to leave when his brother Cicero appeared by his side.
"It's been a long time, little brother."
Cicero looked well, standing tall and broad-shouldered as Garma remembered him, his curly red hair falling around a face not quite as handsome as his own but by no means homely either. "I guess you've come for me?"
"No. You still have a role to play in this war, Garma, and it's an important one. You won't like it, but you will inspire many."
"I'm tired of fighting. I've spent my life fighting to breathe, fighting Dad, fighting our brothers and sister. Fighting to show I'm not an officer in this army just because I'm a spoiled brat."
Cicero chuckled. "But you are a spoiled brat."
Garma winced. "I know. And I'll keep being just a spoiled brat until I'm tested, which is something that no one seems to want to let me do. Including that piece of meat there I'm encased in." He gestured to his inert form on the bed.
"Iserina seems to like it."
Garma "sighed". "Iserina...."
"She will be yours, don't worry. That can't be changed. Just remember one thing: You've got to kick at the darkness until it bleeds daylight."
With that, Cicero grabbed Garma and threw him forcefully back into his body. Garma's eyes snapped open and he shot upright in bed, taking a deep gasp from his oxygen mask. He almost knocked over Kishiria, who had been half-asleep with her head on his shoulder.
"Dr. Aylmer!" she called out. "He's back!"
*****
The Four Seasons made a very good chicken salad, just as Chad had told her. Iserina sat across the table from him again. Same table even. Iserina looked around the dining room. Nothing had changed. Had she fallen asleep during her last lunch with him here and only dreamt about loving a prince?
The prince was real. This was confirmed when Chad's cell phone went off and to her disgust, he answered it in the middle of the first question he'd directed to her in an hour. "Yes? What's the occasion? Really? Never thought I'd hope for that. Yes! Sell! Sell!" Chad turned the phone off and said, "Well, I stand to make a killing today. The stock market just spiked ten points."
"What made that happen?"
"We'd gone into a slump because the Jion North American commander was sick. They tried to cover it up of course, but he was missing for days, then his sister flies in from Luna...I mean, you do the math."
"How sick was he?"
"Nobody knows, but it must have been serious for one of the Royal Family to come down for him, right? Anyway, he just allowed himself to be shown on camera and he looks like hell, but he's obviously alive."
"Well that's
a good thing." Iserina picked at her salad, trying to control her emotions.
"Don't tell me you've got the same case of steaming undies for him that every woman in North America seems to."
"Far from it," she assured him in clipped tones. Which was true; her case of steaming undies was quite different from those of any other woman in North America. Not that Garma deserved that from her, and he especially didn't deserve the quickened heartbeat she felt from hearing he had apparently cheated death.
After coffee, Chad reached for her hand gently and leaned forward. "Slap my face if you want, but I can't stand looking at your beautiful face anymore. I booked a room upstairs. Come with me?"
Iserina blinked at him. That would send her father through the roof if he knew, and it'd make sure she cut the ties with Garma.
"Sure, why not?" she answered.
She accompanied him to a hotel room far above 5th Avenue. Chad got champagne from room service. Iserina knocked back a glass or two before she could quite bring herself to start making out with him. He was a bit of a mushy kisser, which she didn't like at all. He turned out to have a nice body though, which she knew came from raquetball three times a week. A nice body was always a plus; she had never gotten a chance to see--
No, steer thoughts away from that subject and stay in the moment; Iserina told herself. Chad's lips on her throat, his hands expertly undoing her bra, caressing her stomach gently, which felt good...
Iserina thought that this might end up being a worthwhile lunch date after all.
"Oh, you've got a tattoo. A little teddy bear. That's so cute."
Iserina snapped from her trance. Good Lord, what was she doing? She broke away from him, grabbing her blouse and buttoning it up.
"I'm sorry, Chad, I really am. This was wrong of me. You're a great guy, but I just can't do this, and I should have known better!"
She bolted out into the hall, blouse still half open. He was naked, so she knew he wouldn't be following her anywhere. She ran for the stairs, straightening her clothes as she fled.
*****
Garma was still weak, so Kishiria kept the pace gentle as they jogged side- by-side around the track. The morning hinted that the day would be steamy, but right now it was pleasant enough. Kishiria was leaving that day and Garma had wanted some exercise before breakfast. He only made it around the track once before slowing to a walk, bending over to stretch his back. Kishiria jogged in place beside him.
"Don't overstress yourself, pipsqueak. You did just fine."
"Kish? What happened to Carl?"
They sat down on the grass together. "Garma, Carl kept the details secret, but I know you had some kind of affair with an Earth woman. He was the one who blew the whistle on you. It was the right thing to do, but he shouldn't have betrayed his lord's confidence like that. I had him re-assigned."
Garma fixed his eyes on her. "So where's his grave?"
Kishiria looked away. "I guess my methods are becoming too transparent. The body's been sent home to his family. They'll receive his pension, don't worry."
"Why did he betray me?"
"Ask Giren."
"Shit. Can I do nothing without one of you interfering with my life?"
Garma stood and stomped away. Kishiria followed him.
"Garma, I'm sorry. I just couldn't allow that to go on. I'm leaving one of my own assistants here with you. His name is Lt. Darlota. He's very discreet. I'll miss him, because he is under orders not to report back to me. You'll have your privacy this time, and the right to make your own mistakes."
"It's too late for me and Iserina," Garma said, and to her credit, Kishiria didn't ask who Iserina was.
Late that night, Garma found he still couldn't sleep, even with a half- litre of premium ice cream in his stomach and a hot aromatherapy bath before retiring. He lay on his back in bed, arms folded behind his head, watching the shadows on the ceiling. He'd survived another serious illness, so in his opinion it was time to take stock of his life.
What did he want? He wanted to be left alone by his family to prove he was a man worthy of responsibility and admiration. That wasn't so much to ask, was it? Okay, with that priority in place, how would he achieve it? He'd been doing well on the diplomacy front, and he was justifiably proud of that. Still, the average Jion on the street, or more importantly in the battlefield, was not going to comment, "That Prince Garma inspires me because he can negotiate one hell of a trade agreement!"
No, he'd have to manage something with considerably more fireworks.
He rolled onto his stomach, kicking one foot in the air. He still remembered that dream he'd had about Cicero. He'd told Garma things in the dream, but he couldn't remember them now. Except for one thing. Cicero had assured him that Iserina would indeed be Garma's. Maybe that was just wishful thinking, a comforting hallucination, but Garma did want Iserina back, with all his heart. The breakup wasn't real; it was under pressure from her father.
Surely he could make some gesture, say some thing, that would make her realize that he was the one she couldn't live without and then he'd win her back again. What was that last thing Cicero had said? Nothing good comes without some kind of fight...
It was too late for the baby grand; it would wake up the officers who slept downstairs. Garma turned on his bedside light and padded barefoot across his bedroom floor to his six-string. He sat down on the edge of the bed with it and softly began picking out notes. He knew this one, he was sure of it. "Nothing good comes without some kind of fight..." he sang almost silently. The song started coming to him, his fingers stroking the melody from his guitar. At the end he rested his chin contentedly on the wood of his guitar and smiled. Iserina didn't stand a chance.
*****
Iserina sat on her own bed, feeling dirty. It wasn't just that she'd sunk to almost bedding Chad, although that was bad enough. She came home from that feeling cheap. What made her feel dirty was the e-mail and URLs Sonya had sent her just that evening.
From: sonya4246@bigisp.com
To : iserina.estenbach@ubimail.com
Re : forgive me
Rina, I went on the web to try to find more evidence that your boyfriend was the man we portrayed him as last week. I felt really bad, and wanted more proof to show that I'd been a good friend. I still can't prove he had nothing to do with the Jion atrocities, but I don't think he could have been involved much. I think he may just have been the guy pouring the coffee for his siblings. He's never quoted once in post-Operation British articles, he's never given any role in the operation, etc. He might just be the nice guy you fell in love with. Check out these articles I found.
I'm sorry, and won't be surprised if you never forgive me.
Iserina had printed all the articles, and their headlines felt like accusations of faithlessness. Garma did an interview on MTV and implied he hadn't known about British until it was too late. An interview with Giren mentioned Garma and Dozel being the framers of the Jion side of the Antarctic Treaty. On Earth, Garma negotiating with Quebecois and Mexican rebel groups.
Finally, one quote from him to lady journalist Sandra Jane Sanchez, answering the question of why a soft-spoken animal-rights supporter was involved with this war: "It's my country. I'm one of the royals. My opinions on this war are completely irrelevant. I'm not one of the movers and shakers in the Jion military, so as long as my country is at war I will be as well."
She slumped back on the bed. She had so completely screwed poor Garma over.
At least her father was listening to her pleas to go to college overseas. She had to get away from New York.
Iserina rolled onto her side. One of her ears, the one pressed against the pillow, picked up a strange sound, more vibration than noise. She sat up and didn't hear it. She turned off her bedroom light and looked out the window, seeing nothing but their quiet neighbourhood. Maybe it was just a truck taking an illegal shortcut.
No, there it was again, a sound not so much a booming noise as the footsteps of a giant who was trying to be discreet. She'd heard it once before.
Suddenly, her room was in floodlights. Iserina threw a hand up over her eyes and groped for her robe, dressed as she was in pink summer pajamas. She heard the whine of the motors in a mobile suit limb, heard a cockpit popping open. The glaring white light faded and Garma was standing on the hatch of the cockpit, wearing jeans and a t-shirt as always. His guitar was over his shoulder.
She flung her window open. "Garma! You shouldn't be here!"
"Iserina, I had to. I have to convince you that I'm not the monster your father and friend want you to think I am."
Her father's voice was in the hall. "Iserina! What the hell is going on?"
She ran for her bedroom door and locked it, then dragged a small dresser in front of it. She returned to the window. "I know that. Sonya found it out for herself."
"We were sold out by Carl, Iserina. He must have told your father about us."
"I thought he was on our side."
"It seems not. Look, I'm coming over there." He hopped onto the extended arm of his Zaku and walked down the arm, stepping from the palm into Iserina's room.
She sat down. "Garma, while they had me convinced you were evil, I almost cheated on you. I'm sorry. I was out on a date, he asked in a really civilized way, I figured it'd help me accept we wouldn't see each other again."
Garma looked down at his toes.
"ISERINA! Is that Zabi boy in there?" Estenbach demanded from the other side of the door.
"Yes, Daddy!" she yelled back.
"I'm calling the police!"
Garma looked up and shrugged. "I'm not doing anything illegal, unless maybe he wants to try to pin a statutory rape charge on me. Good luck proving that. Besides, I've got diplomatic immunity."
"Oh, I'm not jailbait anymore," Iserina said. "I had my birthday ten days ago. I think that's why Chad made the move on me when he did."
"Nice guy!" Garma said sarcastically. "Look, Iserina, I'm not going to
pretend that what you just told me didn't stick a knife in my heart. But you'd been hurt too, and I can see you'd want to be back in the bosom of your people. Er. So to speak. Heck, if I hadn't gotten so sick after you broke up with me, I might have done the same with Carl."
"Good thing you got sick then."
"No kidding!"
"I've called the police!" Estenbach announced.
"If you came here wanting to play that thing for me, I think you'd better do it now," Iserina said, pointing to the guitar.
Garma sat down on the bed with her. "I sort of lost my will to live for a while. When I was really sick, I dreamt my dead brother Cicero came to me and he reminded me of this song that says everything I wanted to say to you, to let you know it's going to be okay."
She nodded. He bent over the guitar, lay fingers on the strings, and began to play for her against a growing background of police sirens:
Don't the hours grow shorter as the days go by?
You never stop and open your eyes.
One day you're waiting for the sky to fall, next you're dazzled by the beauty of it all.
When you're lovers in a dangerous time.
Lovers in a dangerous time.
These fragile bodies of touch and taste,
This vibrant skin, this hair like lace,
Spirits open to to a thrust of grace,
Never a breath you can afford to waste.
When you're lovers in a dangerous time.
Lovers in a dangerous time.
When you're lovers in a dangerous time,
Sometimes you're made to feel as if your love's a crime.
But nothing good comes without some kind of fight.
You've got to kick at the darkness until it bleeds daylight.
When you're lovers in a dangerous time,
Lovers in a dangerous time,
And we're lovers in a dangerous time.
Lovers in a dangerous time.*
Iserina and Garma came together in a kiss full of courage and renewed hope, and they barely even noticed when the cops broke down the door.
-FIN-
He hauled himself out of bed and to the balcony where he lit up the first cigarette of the day with shaking hands. At the first drag he started coughing like a tuberculotic and fell back into a chair. The day was already humid, hot, and disgusting. He forced himself to inhale enough smoke to quiet the craving, then crushed out the cigarette and returned inside.
Knocking back a litre of orange juice helped, as did a cool shower. When his valet came in with his uniform, he asked, "Carl? Could you do me a big favour? Could you just let me be alone in peace until the absolute last minute before I have to be out there?"
"Certainly, sir." Carl looked quizzically at him. "Are you all right?"
"No, I'm afraid not." Garma knew how he must look, with wet hair, in t- shirt and pajama bottoms.
"If my lord will excuse me." Carl came over and touched Garma's forehead gently. "You're running a fever."
"I know. That's why I want to sleep as long as I can. I can't miss being at this Foundation Day thingie. It's the tenth anniversary of our kingdom, after all, and I'm viceroy." He fell back against his pillows. "For all the good it does me."
"Rest, sir." Carl arranged the covers over him.
Two hours later, Carl returned to wake Garma. He helped his prince sit up and dressed him like a doll. He gave Garma some cold cola and a handful of vitamins, then saw him downstairs. The outdoor thermometer read 36 degrees celsius.
Most of the event was endurable as Garma was sitting in a throne as representative of the king. He knew his expression must be pained, but there was little he could do about it. He was trying to will himself not to sweat, not that any of the officers around him on the reviewing stands were having any luck. They had to stand and salute for the national anthem. Usually only two verses were performed and his heart sank as the orchestra went into the third, fourth, and fifth. For fuck's sake, did anyone even know the third, fourth, and fifth verses? Garma knew he didn't.
Drop the salute...stay standing as the troops start going by the reviewing stand. Boy, there were a lot of them. Garma wasn't sure if he was cold or hot. A Dopp went overhead, but how could that be, he was standing right th---
Garma was distantly aware of droppping, then a feeling of impact, then what felt like dozens of hands on his body. Lots of yelling...
He awakened in a hospital room, already in a gown. The clear tube of an IV bag snaked down into a vein in his right wrist. Carl, good old Carl, was patting at his face with a wet washcloth. "How do you feel, sir?"
"Oh god." Garma rubbed his eyes with his left hand. "I passed out, didn't I?"
"Your fever's 103, sir. They're giving you fluids and you swallowed some Tylenol. Oh, here's the doctor."
The doctor, a tall woman with short blond hair, reached out a hand. "Your Highness? I'm Dr. Aylmer."
"Carl says I've got a fever and I fainted."
"That you did." She opened up a chart. "You have heatstroke and a really bad flu at the moment. I'm going to feed you fluids, get your fever down, and keep you here overnight. I really should scold you too for being a smoker. It says here you've been one for four years."
"Nerves. Just nerves. That's why I smoke." And much less to live for, now, he reflected sadly.
"Take up knitting," the doctor said, and left him. Garma closed his eyes and fell asleep again, aware of Carl remaining to keep him company.
*****
Estenbach threw the morning paper onto Iserina's lap as she was drinking her coffee. She picked it up and looked at the headline, "Jion Prince Collapses During Foundation Day Ceremonies." The photo showed a cluster of Jion officers huddled around the fallen Garma, of whom only some hair and one arm was visible.
She lay the paper aside coldly. "I broke up with him, Daddy, so there's nothing between us now." She sipped at her coffee again. "Not that I wish him any hurt. He's a nice boy, even if he is a Jion."
"Good girl. It was the right thing to do." Estenbach squeezed his daughter's shoulder warmly. Usually Iserina enjoyed his approval, as she received it so rarely. Today, though, she felt she'd sent Garma into the hospital herself, as surely as if she'd wounded him, and her father's pleasure in this made her stomach churn.
*****
Garma spent the next two days in bed but was eventually back on his feet and in the office. The first thing he did was put in a requisition to Kishiria for short-sleeved uniforms of a lighter fabric. The response he received back was that there was no budget for new uniforms, but if he wanted to pay for modifications himself, go ahead. Garma tugged irritably at the double lined fabric of his sleeve and called Carl. Within a week, sleeves had been shortened all over the base and helmets had been abandoned for an order of dark brown Tilley's hats. Morale soared.
If only he could fix the ache in his heart so easily. The last time he'd broken up with a girlfriend, there had been training on a brand-new experimental mobile suit to distract him. Now, there wasn't so much as permission to even climb into a cockpit. Not that Garma wasn't busy, but too much of his work reminded him of Iserina. There was one Board of Trade meeting where Estenbach was present, puffing away on a cigar and casting glances that Garma interpreted as saying, "I didn't like what you were doing with my daughter and made you stop, you son of a bitch."
One hot night, Garma finally gave in and decided he had to ask someone older and wiser for advice. If he could get through to Iserina, tell her there was an escape for the two of them, perhaps she would come back. She hadn't been happy about breaking up. Garma sat on his balcony in shorts and t-shirt, something called a Long Island Iced Tea beside him. No iced tea in there, but plenty of booze. He opened up his laptop and started to send an e-mail message to Giren.
He stopped for a moment. He couldn't tell Giren the truth about what was going on. Garma sipped his drink and the ice in it reminded him of a snowball playfully shoved down his pants by his older sister at the Antarctica Convention. He smirked a bit. What goes around comes around, after all. He started typing.
To: girenzpersonal@zabihome.royal.jion.gov
From:garmaz@zabihome.royal.jion.gov
Re: advice wanted
Dear Frater Major:
I'm writing to you since even though we don't get along, you are the most politically wise member of the family. I am worried about Kish. She's playing it close to the vest, but she's fallen in love with the son of this guy in Western Europe who hates Jions and is prominent in the resistance movement. She called me the other night and said that she didn't know what to do, she and Miguel love each other, but they know that it's a Romeo and Juliet situation. Please advise.
Giren responded back shortly:
Dear Frater Minorissimus:
I always knew she had this sort of stupidity in her, but didn't expect it to come out this way. Tell Kishiria to stop acting like such a great baby. Of course she can't marry this fellow, and she'd best learn to accept it.
One of the facts of life when you're in a royal family is that your marriage has to be dynastic and happiness be damned. I don't love my wife, you know that, and while Dozel loves his, he just happened to be fortunate in that he fell for a girl from a family Father wanted to court. Father's pondering who Kishiria is going to marry even as we speak.
As for YOU, would you prefer this Russian princess or this Spanish one? Photos attached.
Garma stared glumly at the response. It wasn't what he wanted to hear, but he knew that if it was political advice from Giren, it was more than worth considering. He printed out the photos and looked at them. He couldn't see himself with either woman. He tucked the photos and accompanying e-mail into the blue composition notebook in which he kept his journal and put them away.
He needed a military victory of such magnitude that his father would deny him nothing. So far, nothing had come his way, and he had not been given permission to carry out espionage. That task was in the hands of Kishiria's command, and on a lesser level, Dozel's. How could he achieve such a victory in a relatively quiet area with a dejected population?
Garma sat down on the couch, feeling depression engulf him. He couldn't think of anything. Maybe setting up meetings with those princesses wasn't such a bad idea after all.
Politics were moving along swimmingly, at least. Garma addressed the now- colonial congress of Mexico and impressed them with his smoothly fluent Spanish as well as his commitment to bringing the country's infrastructure in line with its neighbours to the north. Afterwards, he and his entourage travelled down to Oaxaca, which was the frontier of Jion-held North America. There Garma mounted a horse and rode out to negotiate with the Zapatista government that held the rest of the country down to the border with Guatemala. They would not agree to turn their territories over to Jion, but they were willing to end hostilities in exchange for some roads. Garma signed that agreement with them.
On the way back to New York, his throat began to ache again. Doses of vitamin C and echinacea brought no relief, and to his frustration, Garma watched his body betray him once again.
"You've got a lung infection," Dr. Aylmer told him matter-of-factly after doing a blood culture. "I'll put you on antibiotics and you need to take it easy."
"I've got an emergency conference in Quebec City," he stated flatly. "I absolutely must go. There's been some terrorist activity from a group called the Patriotes and I have to speak to the provincial premier."
"It's your funeral," he was told. So of course he went anyway, and came home with pneumonia. Once again, he had to let Carl help him into pajamas and bed. After that, everything became blurry and distant, as if he were underwater. When he slept, his dreams were vivid and surrealistic, merging the reality of sounds around him with the lurid colours in his brain. At one point he thought he felt Carl's lips on his own, and the sensation was extremely nice.
Mental note: apologize to Carl for making him be go-between for me and Iserina. Insensitive of me.
Garma didn't respond to the antibiotics he was given, and on September 8, word was sent to Degin Zabi that his youngest son's situation was extreme. Degin dispatched Kishiria to New York, as she was closest.
Kishiria entered Garma's room to find her brother unconscious, breathing from an oxygen mask with his arms full of IVs. She shuddered, hating scenes like this. His valet was sitting by his side, looking as if he was watching the end of the world, but he rose and saluted as was proper.
"I've spoken to Garma's doctor," Kishiria said, removing her helmet and lowering her mask, "but how is he?"
"I don't think he's going to make it," Carl said.
"And why not?" Kishiria arched a brow imperiously.
"He's dying of a broken heart, ma'am. Not pneumonia."
"I've heard of this ailment, but never experienced it myself." She took a seat by her brother's side. "How did it happen?"
"I'm not at liberty to disclose many details, ma'am. He fell in love with someone inapppropriate, an Earth woman. I came under instructions to see to it that the relationship ended. I succeeded."
"An Earth woman." Kishiria sighed deeply. "Well, you did the right thing, even if those orders didn't come from me."
"No, ma'am."
"So did they come from Dozel or Giren? Who's your master?"
Carl hesitated. "Prince Garma, ma'am, but I keep track of him for Prince Giren."
Kishiria examined the man's facial expression and felt sorry for him despite herself. Lt. Jorgensen had been placed as a spy, of course, although the action demanded by Giren had been excruciatingly proper. Before her, though, she saw a man who realized now that carrying out his duties had not freed the man he loved from the Earth woman's snares, but possibly killed him instead.
"Return to your quarters and await re-assignment," she said to him.
"Yes, ma'am." He saluted and exited as Kishiria took his place by Garma's side.
Carl Jorgensen was executed the next morning with a single bullet to the back of the head. The official cause of death was friendly fire during a training exercise.
******
"I'll warn, you, ma'am, that if Prince Garma does not show improvement in the next 24 hours, you'd best take him back to Jion," Dr. Aylmer told Kishiria on the following day.
"To die?"
"I'm afraid so."
Kishiria nodded grimly and stroked her brother's hand. She smiled a little
at his tattoo, which she'd never seen before. How terribly romantic of Garma, to have inscribed his allegiance on his very skin. Idealist. Artist. Poet. Fool.
"This is no way for you to die," she whispered to him. "Don't do it, soldier. That's an order."
In the meantime, Garma, or at least his consciousness, was standing beside the bed looking down at the scene. He felt bad for Kishiria and wished she could understand that he felt fine, that it was only this useless body of his that was suffering. She was crying now over him, and he had never seen that before. It disturbed him. He was getting ready to leave when his brother Cicero appeared by his side.
"It's been a long time, little brother."
Cicero looked well, standing tall and broad-shouldered as Garma remembered him, his curly red hair falling around a face not quite as handsome as his own but by no means homely either. "I guess you've come for me?"
"No. You still have a role to play in this war, Garma, and it's an important one. You won't like it, but you will inspire many."
"I'm tired of fighting. I've spent my life fighting to breathe, fighting Dad, fighting our brothers and sister. Fighting to show I'm not an officer in this army just because I'm a spoiled brat."
Cicero chuckled. "But you are a spoiled brat."
Garma winced. "I know. And I'll keep being just a spoiled brat until I'm tested, which is something that no one seems to want to let me do. Including that piece of meat there I'm encased in." He gestured to his inert form on the bed.
"Iserina seems to like it."
Garma "sighed". "Iserina...."
"She will be yours, don't worry. That can't be changed. Just remember one thing: You've got to kick at the darkness until it bleeds daylight."
With that, Cicero grabbed Garma and threw him forcefully back into his body. Garma's eyes snapped open and he shot upright in bed, taking a deep gasp from his oxygen mask. He almost knocked over Kishiria, who had been half-asleep with her head on his shoulder.
"Dr. Aylmer!" she called out. "He's back!"
*****
The Four Seasons made a very good chicken salad, just as Chad had told her. Iserina sat across the table from him again. Same table even. Iserina looked around the dining room. Nothing had changed. Had she fallen asleep during her last lunch with him here and only dreamt about loving a prince?
The prince was real. This was confirmed when Chad's cell phone went off and to her disgust, he answered it in the middle of the first question he'd directed to her in an hour. "Yes? What's the occasion? Really? Never thought I'd hope for that. Yes! Sell! Sell!" Chad turned the phone off and said, "Well, I stand to make a killing today. The stock market just spiked ten points."
"What made that happen?"
"We'd gone into a slump because the Jion North American commander was sick. They tried to cover it up of course, but he was missing for days, then his sister flies in from Luna...I mean, you do the math."
"How sick was he?"
"Nobody knows, but it must have been serious for one of the Royal Family to come down for him, right? Anyway, he just allowed himself to be shown on camera and he looks like hell, but he's obviously alive."
"Well that's
a good thing." Iserina picked at her salad, trying to control her emotions.
"Don't tell me you've got the same case of steaming undies for him that every woman in North America seems to."
"Far from it," she assured him in clipped tones. Which was true; her case of steaming undies was quite different from those of any other woman in North America. Not that Garma deserved that from her, and he especially didn't deserve the quickened heartbeat she felt from hearing he had apparently cheated death.
After coffee, Chad reached for her hand gently and leaned forward. "Slap my face if you want, but I can't stand looking at your beautiful face anymore. I booked a room upstairs. Come with me?"
Iserina blinked at him. That would send her father through the roof if he knew, and it'd make sure she cut the ties with Garma.
"Sure, why not?" she answered.
She accompanied him to a hotel room far above 5th Avenue. Chad got champagne from room service. Iserina knocked back a glass or two before she could quite bring herself to start making out with him. He was a bit of a mushy kisser, which she didn't like at all. He turned out to have a nice body though, which she knew came from raquetball three times a week. A nice body was always a plus; she had never gotten a chance to see--
No, steer thoughts away from that subject and stay in the moment; Iserina told herself. Chad's lips on her throat, his hands expertly undoing her bra, caressing her stomach gently, which felt good...
Iserina thought that this might end up being a worthwhile lunch date after all.
"Oh, you've got a tattoo. A little teddy bear. That's so cute."
Iserina snapped from her trance. Good Lord, what was she doing? She broke away from him, grabbing her blouse and buttoning it up.
"I'm sorry, Chad, I really am. This was wrong of me. You're a great guy, but I just can't do this, and I should have known better!"
She bolted out into the hall, blouse still half open. He was naked, so she knew he wouldn't be following her anywhere. She ran for the stairs, straightening her clothes as she fled.
*****
Garma was still weak, so Kishiria kept the pace gentle as they jogged side- by-side around the track. The morning hinted that the day would be steamy, but right now it was pleasant enough. Kishiria was leaving that day and Garma had wanted some exercise before breakfast. He only made it around the track once before slowing to a walk, bending over to stretch his back. Kishiria jogged in place beside him.
"Don't overstress yourself, pipsqueak. You did just fine."
"Kish? What happened to Carl?"
They sat down on the grass together. "Garma, Carl kept the details secret, but I know you had some kind of affair with an Earth woman. He was the one who blew the whistle on you. It was the right thing to do, but he shouldn't have betrayed his lord's confidence like that. I had him re-assigned."
Garma fixed his eyes on her. "So where's his grave?"
Kishiria looked away. "I guess my methods are becoming too transparent. The body's been sent home to his family. They'll receive his pension, don't worry."
"Why did he betray me?"
"Ask Giren."
"Shit. Can I do nothing without one of you interfering with my life?"
Garma stood and stomped away. Kishiria followed him.
"Garma, I'm sorry. I just couldn't allow that to go on. I'm leaving one of my own assistants here with you. His name is Lt. Darlota. He's very discreet. I'll miss him, because he is under orders not to report back to me. You'll have your privacy this time, and the right to make your own mistakes."
"It's too late for me and Iserina," Garma said, and to her credit, Kishiria didn't ask who Iserina was.
Late that night, Garma found he still couldn't sleep, even with a half- litre of premium ice cream in his stomach and a hot aromatherapy bath before retiring. He lay on his back in bed, arms folded behind his head, watching the shadows on the ceiling. He'd survived another serious illness, so in his opinion it was time to take stock of his life.
What did he want? He wanted to be left alone by his family to prove he was a man worthy of responsibility and admiration. That wasn't so much to ask, was it? Okay, with that priority in place, how would he achieve it? He'd been doing well on the diplomacy front, and he was justifiably proud of that. Still, the average Jion on the street, or more importantly in the battlefield, was not going to comment, "That Prince Garma inspires me because he can negotiate one hell of a trade agreement!"
No, he'd have to manage something with considerably more fireworks.
He rolled onto his stomach, kicking one foot in the air. He still remembered that dream he'd had about Cicero. He'd told Garma things in the dream, but he couldn't remember them now. Except for one thing. Cicero had assured him that Iserina would indeed be Garma's. Maybe that was just wishful thinking, a comforting hallucination, but Garma did want Iserina back, with all his heart. The breakup wasn't real; it was under pressure from her father.
Surely he could make some gesture, say some thing, that would make her realize that he was the one she couldn't live without and then he'd win her back again. What was that last thing Cicero had said? Nothing good comes without some kind of fight...
It was too late for the baby grand; it would wake up the officers who slept downstairs. Garma turned on his bedside light and padded barefoot across his bedroom floor to his six-string. He sat down on the edge of the bed with it and softly began picking out notes. He knew this one, he was sure of it. "Nothing good comes without some kind of fight..." he sang almost silently. The song started coming to him, his fingers stroking the melody from his guitar. At the end he rested his chin contentedly on the wood of his guitar and smiled. Iserina didn't stand a chance.
*****
Iserina sat on her own bed, feeling dirty. It wasn't just that she'd sunk to almost bedding Chad, although that was bad enough. She came home from that feeling cheap. What made her feel dirty was the e-mail and URLs Sonya had sent her just that evening.
From: sonya4246@bigisp.com
To : iserina.estenbach@ubimail.com
Re : forgive me
Rina, I went on the web to try to find more evidence that your boyfriend was the man we portrayed him as last week. I felt really bad, and wanted more proof to show that I'd been a good friend. I still can't prove he had nothing to do with the Jion atrocities, but I don't think he could have been involved much. I think he may just have been the guy pouring the coffee for his siblings. He's never quoted once in post-Operation British articles, he's never given any role in the operation, etc. He might just be the nice guy you fell in love with. Check out these articles I found.
I'm sorry, and won't be surprised if you never forgive me.
Iserina had printed all the articles, and their headlines felt like accusations of faithlessness. Garma did an interview on MTV and implied he hadn't known about British until it was too late. An interview with Giren mentioned Garma and Dozel being the framers of the Jion side of the Antarctic Treaty. On Earth, Garma negotiating with Quebecois and Mexican rebel groups.
Finally, one quote from him to lady journalist Sandra Jane Sanchez, answering the question of why a soft-spoken animal-rights supporter was involved with this war: "It's my country. I'm one of the royals. My opinions on this war are completely irrelevant. I'm not one of the movers and shakers in the Jion military, so as long as my country is at war I will be as well."
She slumped back on the bed. She had so completely screwed poor Garma over.
At least her father was listening to her pleas to go to college overseas. She had to get away from New York.
Iserina rolled onto her side. One of her ears, the one pressed against the pillow, picked up a strange sound, more vibration than noise. She sat up and didn't hear it. She turned off her bedroom light and looked out the window, seeing nothing but their quiet neighbourhood. Maybe it was just a truck taking an illegal shortcut.
No, there it was again, a sound not so much a booming noise as the footsteps of a giant who was trying to be discreet. She'd heard it once before.
Suddenly, her room was in floodlights. Iserina threw a hand up over her eyes and groped for her robe, dressed as she was in pink summer pajamas. She heard the whine of the motors in a mobile suit limb, heard a cockpit popping open. The glaring white light faded and Garma was standing on the hatch of the cockpit, wearing jeans and a t-shirt as always. His guitar was over his shoulder.
She flung her window open. "Garma! You shouldn't be here!"
"Iserina, I had to. I have to convince you that I'm not the monster your father and friend want you to think I am."
Her father's voice was in the hall. "Iserina! What the hell is going on?"
She ran for her bedroom door and locked it, then dragged a small dresser in front of it. She returned to the window. "I know that. Sonya found it out for herself."
"We were sold out by Carl, Iserina. He must have told your father about us."
"I thought he was on our side."
"It seems not. Look, I'm coming over there." He hopped onto the extended arm of his Zaku and walked down the arm, stepping from the palm into Iserina's room.
She sat down. "Garma, while they had me convinced you were evil, I almost cheated on you. I'm sorry. I was out on a date, he asked in a really civilized way, I figured it'd help me accept we wouldn't see each other again."
Garma looked down at his toes.
"ISERINA! Is that Zabi boy in there?" Estenbach demanded from the other side of the door.
"Yes, Daddy!" she yelled back.
"I'm calling the police!"
Garma looked up and shrugged. "I'm not doing anything illegal, unless maybe he wants to try to pin a statutory rape charge on me. Good luck proving that. Besides, I've got diplomatic immunity."
"Oh, I'm not jailbait anymore," Iserina said. "I had my birthday ten days ago. I think that's why Chad made the move on me when he did."
"Nice guy!" Garma said sarcastically. "Look, Iserina, I'm not going to
pretend that what you just told me didn't stick a knife in my heart. But you'd been hurt too, and I can see you'd want to be back in the bosom of your people. Er. So to speak. Heck, if I hadn't gotten so sick after you broke up with me, I might have done the same with Carl."
"Good thing you got sick then."
"No kidding!"
"I've called the police!" Estenbach announced.
"If you came here wanting to play that thing for me, I think you'd better do it now," Iserina said, pointing to the guitar.
Garma sat down on the bed with her. "I sort of lost my will to live for a while. When I was really sick, I dreamt my dead brother Cicero came to me and he reminded me of this song that says everything I wanted to say to you, to let you know it's going to be okay."
She nodded. He bent over the guitar, lay fingers on the strings, and began to play for her against a growing background of police sirens:
Don't the hours grow shorter as the days go by?
You never stop and open your eyes.
One day you're waiting for the sky to fall, next you're dazzled by the beauty of it all.
When you're lovers in a dangerous time.
Lovers in a dangerous time.
These fragile bodies of touch and taste,
This vibrant skin, this hair like lace,
Spirits open to to a thrust of grace,
Never a breath you can afford to waste.
When you're lovers in a dangerous time.
Lovers in a dangerous time.
When you're lovers in a dangerous time,
Sometimes you're made to feel as if your love's a crime.
But nothing good comes without some kind of fight.
You've got to kick at the darkness until it bleeds daylight.
When you're lovers in a dangerous time,
Lovers in a dangerous time,
And we're lovers in a dangerous time.
Lovers in a dangerous time.*
Iserina and Garma came together in a kiss full of courage and renewed hope, and they barely even noticed when the cops broke down the door.
-FIN-