Chapter Two

Sa'dabad Palace, Tehran, Kingdom of Krugis, June 2004 ATB

He was so small.

The thought kept returning to Bismark's mind, as he sat by the bed. The little face lay amid enormous white pillows, his bony frame covered by a sheets and a heavy, gold-embroidered quilt that reached to the base of his neck. His mane of curly black hair lay spread of the pillows. His tiny mouth from time to time twitched, his eyes moving behind their lids, muttering sounds that Bismark couldn't quite make out.

For a full week he had tended that little boy, whose name was apparently Soran, in the second bedroom of his personal suite. Bismark had watched a military doctor examine the boy, checking his wound with gloved fingers, injecting him with regenerative drugs and nutrient solutions. He had hardly dared believe the doctor's litany of diagnoses. Malnutrition, head lice, scabies, seborrheic dermatitis, possible intestinal worms, and a half-dozen other conditions, until it seemed as if no part of his body was undamaged.

He was getting better, of course. Medical technology and pharmacology were two of the few areas in which Britannia was a match for the EU. The boy sleeping in the bed behind him looked little or nothing like the ragged, filthy creature he had carried in off the street a week ago.

He had hardly left the room since that night. Sometimes, when Soran was sleeping, he tried to catch up on the countless tasks that had piled up in his absence. He knew he was neglecting his duties, the duties he had taken on himself as the shadow-king of Krugis. If Area Seven was falling apart as a result, the Shah made no mention of it in his occasional visits. Doubtless he had taken the initiative, inserting himself back into the business of government. It was an opportunity too good to miss.

But in spite of everything, Bismark found that he didn't much care. He couldn't think of much else when he sat by the bed, watching that little boy recover. To watch him sleep was wondrous enough, but it couldn't compare to when he was awake. The boy spent more and more time awake, his eyes the colour of burnished copper, staring up into Bismark's own.

Those eyes; enormous, staring, unblinking. What did they mean? What were they trying to say to him, to ask him?

For now they were closed in sleep; though perhaps not a peaceful one.

Bismark stood up from the chair, and moved quietly to the window. He stared out over the city, wondering what he was going to do next.

This boy was the one, he was sure of it. But how was he to transform this street-child into his son without someone noticing?

The risks were considerable. Changelings were not unknown among Britannia's noble families, but that did not make the practice publically acceptable. No one wanted to admit to a 'warming pan' heir, and even if nothing could be proven, the embarrassment could be nigh-unbearable.

But nothing compared to what the procured heir might endure, in a society where good opinion in the right place could make or break a career.

Could he do that to this boy? Could he risk condemning this unfortunate child to a life of ridicule and rejection?

Did he have any right?

Bismark turned to regard the sleeping boy again, and his resolve returned. He could not walk away from him, not just like that. He could not spend the rest of his life wondering what might have been, knowing in his heart that fate had offered him a son, only to be refused.

But how to do it? How to get him out of the palace without anyone noticing?

He could not just dress the boy up in fine clothes and introduce him as his son. Someone would wonder what had happened to the urchin, and even if they couldn't figure it out for themselves, someone else would do it for them. He would have to smuggle the boy out of the palace and back to Britannia without anyone noticing, and only then concoct an explanation as to how his as yet unnamed son had made it to the age of six without anyone noticing his existence.

That part, ironically enough, would be relatively easy. Ordinarily, the First Knight's wedding day would be a grand event, as would his wife's funeral, and the christening of his son. But Bismark Waldstein had a reputation as a loner, so much so that people could believe that he would marry some sickly recluse, lose her in childbirth, and bury her without so much as a note in the local newspaper. Besides, christening parties were mostly for the ladies anyway, so a bereaved father could be forgiven for not bothering.

Yes, he could get away with that much. He could take the boy to his home at San Clemente, a place he visited only intermittently, on account of his duties. There were no servants there, no one to wonder or whisper, no one to know that he had not lived in seclusion there with his son for six years.

But how to get him there? How was he to get him out of the palace without arousing suspicion?

"How is he, Lord Waldstein?"

Bismark forced himself not to curse, as he turned to regard the one who had spoken.

Princess Marina Ismail, the Shah's niece and heir to his throne, stood in the doorway. She was clad in a purple gown in the local style, her long black hair hanging straight down her back. Her style was simple compared to what was usual in the Britannian court, or even in Tehran. But even at fourteen, she had a presence that her simplicity only enhanced.

"Considerably improved, your highness." Bismark bowed in greeting. "My physician expects him to be up and about in a few days."

Marina glided over to the bed and sat down beside it, laying a narrow, long-fingered hand over Soran's forehead.

"Poor little thing," she said, regarding him with sad eyes. "I used to leave food out for the street children. I felt so sorry for them, for all the good it did."

"It is better to light a candle than curse the darkness, your highness."

"Perhaps so…but seeing him like this, it seems so poor a gesture."

There was a melancholy about her, and Bismark felt a twinge of pity. He knew her generosity and sympathy to be sincere. All the servants and courtiers he had ever asked all said so, and he had seen no evidence to suggest otherwise. They had loved her so much that no one bothered to stop her leaving food out for the street children. They had even connived in it. Indeed, it had been one of the maids who identified the boy in the bed as being named Soran.

"I confess myself surprised, Lord Bismark," she said, her tone still soft, but with a slight edge to it. "I did not think you capable of this."

There was something in her eyes. A question perhaps.

"I have done enough harm as it is, your highness," Bismark replied. "I thought perhaps, I could do a little good."

"One little boy plucked from the street, rescued from death," mused Marina. "How does it compare to the fathers, the husbands, the sons? To the burned villages, the shattered cities."

Her eyes hardened, just a little. Bismark thought to retort that he had only ever killed in honest battle, only ever killed those who meant to kill him. But he knew better than to debate with her, and it would have sounded self-serving in any case.

"I have no justification, your highness," he said. "I am a soldier. I fight, and if necessary I kill. That is the beginning and the end of it."

"Indeed."

Marina turned her attention back to Soran, brushing a lock of hair from his face.

"I have decided to take him with me," she said suddenly. "Since you'll be leaving soon. He will be transferred to my household as soon as he's well enough to move. He will be safe there while his future is decided."

"Your highness is most generous," replied Bismark, forcing his face to remain expressionless. Marina stood up, laid her hand on Soran's forehead one last time, then left the room.

Bismark turned back to the window, watching her as she met up with her waiting companion, and disappeared out of sight. His mind raced. Had she somehow guessed his intention? If not, why bring it up now?

He took a long breath, willing his mind to calm. She had no possible way of knowing what he intended to do, but she had never liked him much. If Soran were to disappear before she could take charge of him, she would almost certainly look into it.

That meant a complex plan was out of the question. The longer the trail, the more likely she was to find it. Better to keep things simple, direct, watertight.

He knew how. And he knew who he could rely on to help him.

Once out of sight, Marina allowed her regal façade to slip.

"How is the boy, princess?" asked Shirin Bakhtiar, her most trusted companion and truest friend.

"Getting better, he tells me," she replied.

They walked in silence for a while, away from Waldstein's residence and into the gardens. Marina felt herself relax, the familiar sights and scents calming her, and summoning pleasant memories. She remembered the days spent playing there, with Shirin and her other companions, of lessons taken in the shade of trees, of whispered secrets and pledges of eternal friendship.

Here, at least, they had half a chance of privacy.

"Did he give a reason, your highness?" Shirin eventually asked. "About the boy, I mean."

"No, he didn't, not really." Marina sighed as she willed her mind to clear. "He seemed…weary somehow, world-weary. Almost…lonely."

"Lonely?" Shirin smirked. "Perhaps he wants a son to raise. Maybe he'll take Soran away with him."

"I can't imagine why he'd do that," retorted Marina. "There are easier ways to get a child. Besides, you know how Britannians are."

"If he wants a child, he should get himself a wife." Shirin's smirk widened. "But even Britannian women have standards."

Marina's face fell. Normally she laughed at Shirin's jokes, but this time it didn't feel right at all.

"Must you be so harsh with him?" she asked. "Maybe he is lonely. He has no wife or children, no family at all that I know of."

Shirin's smirk remained in place, but her eyes hardened. It was that look. That look Shirin had always used when she felt her princess was being weak, or naïve, or foolish.

"Don't pity him, princess." It was that tone, to match that look. "Do not make that mistake. Be he enemy or friend, do not allow yourself to trust him."

"I know, Shirin." Marina sighed, and looked away over the gardens, trying to settle her troubled mind. "I know he's a Britannian, but he's done so much for us. If not for him, and for Britannia, all would have been lost."

"That much is true, princess," Shirin allowed, her smirk fading.

Marina understood her ambivalence. Shirin's father was one of her uncle's ministers, and had long favoured reform; both in Iran and in the Krugis Federation as a whole. Shirin shared her father's reforming ideals, and had done so for as long as Marina had known her. She hadn't wanted Britannian troops in the country any more than her father had; and neither were alone in that opinion. But if they had not done so, Iran would likely have collapsed, or else slowly bled to death in a nightmare war of brother against brother.

Scylla and Charybdis.

"I was hoping that princess might have leaned something of his intentions," Shirin went on. "Did he give any indication?"

"None that I could see." Marina sighed as she raked over her memory, looking for some sign, some hint. "He has always been hard to read, that one."

"I see." Shirin looked away, her countenance darkening. "Then it is true indeed."

"What do you mean?" Marina was worried. Her old friend being like this was never a good sign.

"I only know what I overhead my father shouting about," Shirin replied, her tone grim. "He shouted that your uncle has betrayed us, that he has sold us to Britannia."

Marina's blood ran cold. What on earth did she mean?

"I don't understand." Her voice quavered as she tried to master herself. "How could that be possible?"

"As far as I can figure out, the Shah has cut some kind of deal with Lord Waldstein," Shirin went on. "We will join the Britannian Empire as an Area, along with Iraq and Kurdistan. In return, Lord Waldstein will take the Area as his own, and allow us to govern ourselves as before. We will, in effect, become a self-governing vassal of Britannia."

Marina felt her legs begin to buckle under her. It was all she could do not to slump to the ground.

"But…how? How could he…how could any of them…?"

"Because they were desperate, princess." There was pain in Shirin's eyes. "My father knew the truth was well as any of them; though it broke his heart. With the Krugis Federation lost, sooner or later we would have to choose a side; even if only for a time."

"But…the people…" Marina shivered as she remembered the images; the crowds, the fists thrusting into the air, the endless chanting, the fires…

"The people will never know." That smirk again. "That's the genius of it. We become an Area, and yet we do not. There will be no settlements, no garrisons, none of the visible signs. Our land will remain our own, our cities our own, our troops our own; at least so long as the agreement stands. The people will never know, and never find out. People cannot rebel against what they cannot see."

Marina felt sick, her stomach cold and churning, her head light.

"But they will, sooner or later," she said. "Britannia will want our resources, our troops. They will demand them, and we will comply. Our troops will die in Britannia's wars, and our people will rage."

"And when the time comes, it will fall to you to save us."

Marina's heart clenched. She wanted to cry out, to deny it, but then saw the way Shirin was looking at her.

"You are our princess," she said, her tone hard once again. "You are the Shah's niece. Never has a woman been Shah in her own right before, but one day you must be. The day will come when you alone can save your uncle, and me, and all of us."

Marina felt her eyes brim with tears.

"It's too much…"

Shirin stepped forward, and took her hands in her own. Her touch was firm, but warm.

"It is your fate, princess."

The intercom buzzer brought Bismark striding across the receiving room.

"Waldstein."

"A Lieutenant Abdullah to see you, my Lord." As usual, the adjutant mispronounced the name. "He has an item you requested to see."

"Send him up."

He disconnected the intercom, and glanced towards the second bedroom, where Soran lay in peaceful, drugged sleep. Bismark knew he had taken a risk in resorting to an anaesthetic, but it was only one risk on a night of risks. Unfortunately, the effects would last a few hours at the most. If the boy woke up early, things would get very awkward very fast.

Bismark gritted his teeth, forcing his churning stomach to still as the double doors opened. It was indeed Cyrus Abdullah, clad in the black tunic and red pants of the Javidan, bringing a heavy-looking equipment case on a trolley.

"You have it?" he asked. He had checked the room for bugs several times, and the walls and doors were sound-proofed for privacy.

"Yes, my Lord." The young lieutenant's normally bronze skin was paler than usual, sweat gleaming on his brow.

For a moment Bismark regretted dragging him into the plot. He was a fine young devicer, one of the first dozen Bismark had personally selected for knightmare training, and had distinguished himself in the war. Bismark did not like having to risk his career, and his honour, in this way. But there was literally no one else whom he dared trust.

"Very well. Let's get it done." Bismark strode across the receiving room and opened the door to the second bedroom. Cyrus followed without a word, rolling the trolley over the threshold and into the room. Once inside, at a nod from Bismark, he unlocked the case and lifted its heavy metal lid. It was empty.

He strode back to the bed. Soran was still asleep, still breathing slowly. With a gentleness that still surprised him, Bismark pulled back the covers and lifted the little boy in his arms, carrying him over to the case.

Gently, ever so gently, he laid the sleeping boy in the case. This done, he opened the largest of the secondary compartments, and took out a small, child-sized breathing mask, connected by a tube to a small oxygen bottle. Laying the bottle next to Soran, he turned the little screw and put the mask to his face, waiting until the air was flowing before slipping it over Soran's mouth and nose, fastening it behind his head. He waited a few moments, until he was sure the boy was breathing properly, then closed the case.

"You're sure this will work, my Lord?" Cyrus asked. He sounded as nervous as he looked.

"It is the least worst option," Bismark replied. "He is not there, yet no one saw him leave. My staff doctor is away, and he is the only one authorised to enter."

That part of the scheme had taken careful planning. Bismark's own staff doctor, who had tended Soran since his arrival, was currently at one of the military warehouses at Tehran airport, dealing with what would prove to be a trivial discrepancy over some medical supplies. Only when he returned, in a few hours time, would he realise that Soran was gone.

During that time, no one would have seen Soran leave; not the few guards and staff overseeing the closing of his residence, and not the security cameras outside. The door would be left conveniently unlocked, and with no signs of a kidnapping, it would be assumed that Soran simply snuck out in the confusion.

It wasn't perfect. But of all the plans he had considered, it left the fewest questions, and the fewest dangling threads.

"But…my lord…" Cyrus paused, running his hand over his face. "My lord, I owe you my life! But…"

Bismark strode over to him, and clasped his shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

"It is I who owe you, Cyrus Abdullah," he said gravely. "I am sorry to have forced such trials on you. But your part in this affair is almost over, and I need you to remain strong. Will you do that for me, Lieutenant?"

Slowly, still shaking, Cyrus nodded his head.

"Good. Take the case and load it into my personal car, then wait inside. My chauffeur has his instructions."

"Yes...my lord."

Bismark gave his shoulder one last pat, then sent him on his way. As Cyrus hauled the case out into the receiving room, Bismark headed for the intercom.

Tehran International Airport

Tehran International Airport, like many airports the world over, had a segment set apart for military purposes. The airport's military zone was to the south of the main runway, consisting of a taxiway lined on either side with fortified hangars; their windows blacked out. Aside from the military guard posts, there was otherwise little to distinguish it from the rest of the airport.

Tonight was different. A very special plane was being refuelled in one of the enormous hangars, ready to carry Bismark Waldstein back to his homeland on very important, very secret business.

As the motorcade approached the hangar, Cyrus craned his neck to see it. An AC-2 Albatross transport, easily visible through the hangar's open doors. He took in its vast, forward-sweeping wings, the four plasma-electric engines, the great broad fuselage that must have earned the aircraft its name.

But it was as they passed through the doorway that Cyrus saw what made the Albatross unusual among aircraft of its class. Arranged along the giant aircraft's right flank were three gun turrets, each containing a pair of 25mm railguns. The Albatross carried seven such turrets, three on each flank, and one above the cockpit; allowing it to combine the roles of transport and gunship. The targeting sensors were so precise, and the mechanism so responsive, as to let them shoot down even incoming air-to-air or surface-to-air missiles. This, along with lightweight composite armour and a sophisticated ECW package, made the Albatross remarkably survivable.

"Take the case and stow it in the passenger compartment. Wait for me there."

Bismark's voice snapped Cyrus out of his reverie.

"Yes, my lord."

The motorcade came to a halt. Cyrus got out first, waiting by the rear of the car as two men in grey overalls set about lifting the equipment case out of the luggage boot. As they followed him over to the plane, Cyrus glanced at Bismark. He had stopped around halfway between the plane and the cars, and was talking with two men clad in dark blue flightsuits, their faces concealed by visored helmets.

Cyrus strode on. He knew too much already without being caught eavesdropping. Not that he could hear much over the cacophony of the hangar. Orange-clad technicians were swarming over the plane, obviously readying it for flight. Cyrus watched with interest as an R-5 labour frame, one of a batch delivered from Britannia two years earlier, slid a heavy metal oblong into a port in the Albatross' midsection.

It was what the Britannians insisted on calling an Energy Filler, essentially a battery full of charged liquid sakuradite. The Albatross' plasma-electric engines were relatively unusual in that they needed the liquid sakuradite itself, as well as the energy it contained. Plasma engines were more powerful and considerably more efficient than the older gas-turbine engines, but they had the highest fuel cost of any aircraft in service; rivalled only the fastest supersonic passenger jets.

Cyrus led the way up the rear ramp, and into the cargo bay. Fifty metres long and seven metres wide, it could carry six knightmares, or three Morddure APCs. He continued along through the empty bay, and up a set of steps to the passenger deck above. To the rear stood the passenger seats; eighty of them, enough for an entire infantry company. Ahead of him were the more comfortable quarters set aside for the crew and officers, along with any important persons who might happen to be flying. This model had two VIP staterooms, one of which had Lord Waldstein's name on the door.

Reasoning that this must have been Lord Waldstein's intent, Cyrus opened the door and went inside. He looked around as the two porters stowed the case. The cabin was remarkably luxurious, as if it belonged on a luxury zeppelin rather than a military aircraft. An enormous reclining seat dominated the cabin, with a screen set into the wall directly opposite. There was even an ensuite bathroom with shower and toilet.

Cyrus shook his head as he followed the two porters out of the cabin. Just what sort of people were these Britannians anyway?

The porters went on their way, their job done. For a few moments Cyrus stood in the companionway, waiting for something to happen. Then, just as Cyrus began to wonder if Bismark was coming, he heard the hum and clunk of the ramp raising. For a moment, Cyrus felt a pang of fear. He was about to hurry to the flight deck, to remind them that he was still on board, when Bismark came up the steps.

"My lord, are we leaving?"

"Not yet," Bismark reassured him. "Someone would like to speak with you before you go."

"Who, my lord?" Cyrus was incredulous.

"Me, that's who."

Cyrus stared in disbelief as an enormous shape eased its way out of the other stateroom. It was a man, as tall as Bismark but much broader in the shoulders, clad in a blue coat with gold trim, with white trousers tucked into knee-length black boots. His long white hair was arranged into a set of magisterial rolls, and his purple eyes were narrow and calculating. He had a thin, but very wide white box under his arm.

"Your Majesty." Bismark dropped to one knee, his blue cloak spilling around his shoulders. "Please forgive my immoderate request."

"I owe you far more than this, Lord Waldstein," replied Charles zi Britannia, 98th Emperor of the Holy Empire of Britannia. His voice was deep and sonorous. "And I have travelled in far worse conditions."

It was only then that he seemed to notice Cyrus, who had managed to snap to attention and salute.
"Lieutenant Abdullah, isn't it? Lord Waldstein has told me much about you."

"Y…yes, your Majesty."

Cyrus could barely think. What was the Emperor of Britannia doing here? And why would he want to speak to someone like him?

"He also told me that you have been of considerable assistance in this night's affair," the Emperor went on. "I understand that this has been burdensome for you."

"It was no problem, your Majesty."

What else could he say?

"An understandable lie, though an unnecessary one," said the Emperor. "You will not have to bear the burden of what you have witnessed for much longer."

Cyrus felt his blood run cold. So this was it? Bismark intended to silence him in the most reliable way possible. Dead men told no tales.

But then, for what bizarre reason had the Emperor himself come along?

"Our memories make us who we are." The Emperor seemed suddenly distant, as if he was thinking about something else, somewhere far away. "Everything we have ever heard, and seen, and tasted, and touched. Everything we have ever known, and ever felt. We carry them with us always, for good or for ill."

"I…don't understand, your Majesty."

"You will have your reward soon, Cyrus Abdullah," the Emperor went on. "But you will not remember why you attained it."

He looked straight at Cyrus. His mouth went dry as he saw…something in the Emperor's eyes. It was a pair of glowing red sigils, in a shape he had never seen before; like a bird in flight, or somesuch.

"Charles zi Britannia relieves you of your memories."

The birds flew.

Through the window of his stateroom, Bismark watched Cyrus stride away from the plane. He could have sworn the younger man had a spring in his step.

"Well, Lord Waldstein? May I not see your new son, after coming all this way?"

Feeling foolish, Bismark turned away from the window, and headed for the equipment case. He opened it, and gently lifted Soran out. The little boy mumbled something as Bismark removed his mask and laid him in the chair.

"Have you decided on a name for him yet?" the Emperor asked. "I'll need it for the patents, and the documents."

"Alexander," Bismark said, straightening up. "His name shall be Alexander Bismark Waldstein, should he chose to accept it."

"You intend to give him a choice?" Charles cocked an eyebrow.

"Honour demands it, your Majesty."

"Hmm, very well. In the meantime, you'll be needing these." The Emperor held out the box. Bismark took it, setting it on the counter opposite the chair. He opened it, and found a jacket of rich blue cloth. Underneath was a white shirt, white trousers, and a pair of small black shoes.

"Something for him to wear when you reach California," the Emperor said. "Also, I recommend a haircut."

"Yes, your Majesty. Thank you."

"I'll leave you two alone then." The Emperor turned to leave, then paused in the doorway, half-turning to glance at Bismark.

"I think you will enjoy fatherhood, Lord Waldstein." Bismark saw the merest flash of a grin before he stepped through, the door sliding shut behind him.