Part Two: Liz's Turn
Note: Here's for all the reviewers who told me they welcomed a change from reading doormat Liz. Ladies and Gents, allow me to introduce you to Queen Elizabeth of Antar…
"Elt'Siar, see that I remain undisturbed," I command as she clears away the remains of lunch.
"Yes, My Queen," she bobs her head in compliance and ushers herself out the door as soon as I give my leave.
My voice sounds worn and flat even to my ears, and I can't help but pray the willowy blue girl is able stem the ever-growing tide of supplicants that darken my door. Isabel left mere minutes ago, and the thoughts that remain behind her are a dull roar pounding behind my eyes.
Though it wasn't as if I didn't know this was coming.
Max was always surprisingly lackadaisical about doing research, but I've never been comfortable going into any situation blind. I have made it my business to know, intimately, the laws, regulations, customs, and traditions of the people I am expected to lead. If only our efforts to stamp out socially acceptable slavery had been half as successful! Then maybe I wouldn't have had to endure the awkward lunch Isabel and I had just slogged through. The purpose behind her visit was of no surprise to me, I'd come to the same conclusions myself: Lose the crown and live in terror of being kidnapped and sold into slavery, or remarry as soon as possible. I just didn't expect her timetable.
Announce our engagement tonight at the banquet?! Marry in two days at Michael's Coronation Ceremony!!!
Quite the aggressive schedule, and all without once having so much as spoken to my would-be betrothed. As I sit and massage my now-throbbing temples, I wonder why she and Larek have gone to such lengths to hide their plans from me. I get so tired of having to examine the motivations of everyone around me for political intrigue, I try to avoid it as much as possible with the small group I consider family. It didn't even occur to me to add Izzy to the list of people I scrutinize until now.
Closing my eyes, I mentally replay our earlier conversation, looking for some clue as to the roots of her uncharacteristic behavior. I review the exchange three times in my head before I finally catch it: Whenever she brought Michael up as being the best choice for me to marry, she twitched defensively, almost as if she were preparing herself for me to stand up and start screeching at her for even suggesting him.
My eyes flutter open and I blink in perplexity under the harsh lights of my study. I ponder for a long minute why Isabel had been expecting such a negative response from me, especially when I told her that I'd come to the same conclusions she had, before I recognize one very simple truth:
She doesn't realize that Michael and I are friends.
Isabel didn't spend her time during the Revolution on the battlefield. She was our diplomat, our mediator. She served by representing us at treaty negotiations and peace talks in climate controlled bunkers. She doesn't know about the bond formed in endless strategy meetings spent trying to worm our way into the enemy's psyche to more effectively plan our attacks. She has no comprehension of the shared hell found in the ice fields around Raynor IV, or the trenches of Coria. She only sees Michael and I as we interact now, politely formal and distant at functions of state or political events. She keeps this outdated image in her head of who we were at 17; a picture that stays forever frozen in that awkward adolescent faze of being unable to deal with one another outside of sarcastic jabs and biting commentary.
The Liz of 2001, I think she may have exploded the way Isabel expected. But the Liz of 2017? She remembers looking up from the locked jaws of a Terlian Pit trap to see Michael Guerin standing above her, holding off half an enemy platoon by himself with a tri-phasic canon, so the medics would have time to cut her free. She knows what it's like to be the one to dig shrapnel out of that same man's shoulder as they sit crouched, huddled together for warmth, exhausted and dirty in a trench outside the capitol as their respective battalions of troops awaited Max's command to begin the final gruesome battle for independence.
I wish Izzy would have just said something to me; I could have eased her fears. I would have told her about companionable nights spent in alien cantinas, of quiet times discussing home and trivialities as all soldiers do when the road is long and the orders uncertain. I could have told her of joy and pain, laughter and tears – all earned and spent by Michael's side. Maria DeLuca may have been my closest friend in terms of years, but Michael Guerin has her beat by a lifetime's worth of miles. I shake my head ruefully. Hell, if the little pixie blonde could see me now, she might not even recognize the woman I've become. Michael can draw you a roadmap of how I got here.
My heart breaks at the thought of being married to anyone besides Max. From the day I was shot in the Crashdown, he has been it for me. I have loved my husband with a single minded dedication that the years have failed to dull, and his senseless loss has left me shattered and empty inside. Honestly, if it had been any man other than Michael that they were suggesting I marry, I might have risked stealing a Jump Ship to make a run for Earth. It's only the knowledge that it is Michael, the one person left in the galaxy who's seen me in every incarnation I have ever possessed and still thinks of me as simply Liz, that's kept me from making a break for it.
Michael needs me. And I need him. In one of his more Zen moments, Kyle once compared Michael and I to wolves. We hunt together. We protect our family. We are loyal to the death. I have never thought of Michael in the guise of a life partner before, but this damnable situation has forced me to consider it. I have to admit, I think we could be a good match. While us marrying was not something I could ever have conceived of entering into the continuing evolution of our friendship, I know that once we make that commitment, we will never abandon one another. There's a warm security in the knowledge of such fidelity; even all these years later the memory of Max's dalliance with Tess still has the power to hurt me.
Crossing my chambers to the bedroom, I recline in exhaustion against my coverlet as I contemplate the one important variable missing from this equation: The man in question's acceptance of this outrageous plan. The air above me suddenly begins to shimmer and unexpectedly coalesces into a black clothed form that crashes into me once gravity reasserts itself on the re-solidified mass.
I snarl in indignation. A space fold jump! Into MY personal quarters?! Heads are going to roll over this! No one should be able to jump into this fold locked location without the access codes! I immediately begin to struggle against the creature whose weight holds me down. Launching it away from me with a savage kick to the stomach, I desperately hope it's an Utaran since they keep what passes for their nerve clusters there. Jab one in the belly and you'll put him out for days. The black figure crashes into the wall with a startled "Ooof!" but doesn't fall, so I roll out off the bed ready for battle. The combat knife I keep concealed in a protective sheath within the lining of my pillow is clutched reassuringly in my hand.
I lash out with a flurry of kicks, hoping to catch the being unaware, and am shocked to find him parrying all my blows. I fake high with a swipe of the knife, and while he moves to block my lunge I nail him with a knee to the groin. Not every race keeps their sex organs there, but there isn't a humanoid form in existence that isn't sensitive to a direct hit in that region. His hand tightens spasmodically around my wrist in a painful grip as he sinks to the ground biting back a whimper. I cry out in triumph as I wrench my hand free to raise the blade for a quick thrust. Before I can complete my move, the figure at my feet rips off his shielding hood to reveal a familiar face.
"Michael?" I gasp warily, reaching out with my mind to verify it's him before I drop my guard. Too many of our enemies can shapeshift to believe the proof of my eyes alone.
He half smiles, half grimaces as he opens a connection to me in return. I sag weakly in relief once I confirm it's him, and then immediately flush at the knowledge that I'd just kicked one of my best friends (and my intended groom) in the balls. My chagrin must filter through our fading connection, because he chuckles at me as he limps slowly over to gingerly sit on the edge of my bed.
"Remind me not to sneak up on you once we're married," he growls with a pained smirk. "You fight dirty."
I give an involuntary snort of laughter before I process what he's said. Well, that answers one of my questions at least: Michael knows about the plan.
Now, jokes aside, is he really willing to go through with it?