Chapter Twelve
The Evening Before the Day After

Emperor Consort Austin Burnell

I've been so busy for this past month that I hardly seem to have begun a day before it's over.

I thought things were bad enough when I was then-General Reed's SiC on Jupiter Station, but now I ultimately have the entire Empire under my control, there hardly seems to be a moment when I'm not making some decision or other that may have serious ramifications if I get it wrong.

In fairness, my wife – that expression still bewilders me sometimes – has been immensely helpful. The cynical side of me may sneer that now we're married, my survival is her survival; true, she probably could regain power if some unfortunate accident befell me, but it would be more likely that she'd simply fall prey to another opportunist. She's more than enough of a realist to have gathered by now that as little as she may relish having given up supreme power, she hasn't done half as badly out of it with me as she would have done with a very large number of people I could name. She's retained 'some' genuine power, she's respected, and at the very least I care about our marriage being as much of a success as it possibly can be.

Well, no. It's never going to be the romance of the century, and given that I'm homosexual, we start off in a position of what I understand Americans refer to as 'behind the eight ball' in that respect. But I've already proved that I can penetrate her and I'm perfectly willing to learn how to pleasure her, so that needn't be any bar to her satisfaction. I haven't made any approaches to her as regards wanting to prove I can do far better than the bluntly practical conjugal union that took place on our wedding day, though I definitely do, and preferably soon, just to put her mind at rest. I don't know if she was expecting me to – I suppose what took place wasn't the pleasantest thing for a woman to have to endure, so I can imagine she's not especially eager for a repeat of it in private – but even if she'd asked me to, I'd have found some polite way to refuse. I have my own very good reason for making sure that she has the least physical stress possible, and the timing of our wedding day was not in the least accidental.

Still, though we sleep in separate rooms at night, we spend a considerable amount of time together during the day. This will be necessary for quite some time to come, because I haven't nearly enough vanity to suppose that I'll be able to pick up the reins of rule and drive the chariot of Empire unaided for a considerable while. I need Hoshi's experience and her instincts, which are usually sound, even though it has to at least appear that I'm making the decisions now. This was agreed to as part of the hard bargaining that preceded her agreeing to marry me (not that she actually had a choice, but I think she liked keeping up the pretence), and to be fair she's kept up her end of the bargain. My years of training at Jupiter Station and elsewhere stand me in good stead, but there's no substitute for practical experience at this level.

Our meals are just another part of the imperial routine. Faces change – it's always a good opportunity to cement loyalty or woo and warn those we suspect may possibly be wavering – but they are, without exception, stultifyingly formal. Just occasionally I look back with an inward sigh to the days when I'd just wander into the Mess Hall on Jupiter Station and hook out something from the chiller cabinet, sitting down to eat in an atmosphere where even those who had noticed my arrival took pretty well no notice of me thereafter.

The only exception to the rule is supper. We eat this alone in our 'communal room', with a sideboard set out with a selection of buffet foods; it's an opportunity to discuss the day's doings and, on my part at least, begin to establish some kind of human relationship with a partner each of us hardly knows. Oh, I know the Empress's history, almost from the day she was born to the day she seized power on the back of the capture of the Defiant, but that's little guide to the girl become a woman with whom I now share the rule of the Empire. Tomorrow – it's still a strange thought – I will finally take the last step upwards. I will acquire in name the power I already have in fact. As far as the Pack is concerned, I'll have achieved the ultimate goal.

Absolute power.

But tonight that's still in the future, and as I sit down and lift the bottle of wine from the carved Welsh slate cooler on the small table between us, the shadows of the room around us seem strangely populated by the faces and voices from the past.

Reed's, of course. I wonder if he's still alive. As far as I know he is, and frankly I'd be surprised – and genuinely sorry – if he wasn't. But wherever he is, does he know about me? About what I've managed to achieve? And if he does, is he proud or furious?

He definitely won't blame me. Pack pursues Power. But though I was always, on any terms, going to have to step over his body to achieve what I've done, that never lessened my respect for him, my admiration for what he'd done and awe for what he'd survived; and yes, my honest liking for the man I'd been allowed to glimpse behind the ruthless and often vicious Head of Imperial Security. If it had been a different world, if our natures had been other than they are and always will be, I'd have liked nothing better than to have been able to appoint him to a position of power under me. His 'crimes' – the activities that finally enabled me to bring down both him and then-Commodore Tucker – could have been pardoned, and I know, none better, what an asset his support would have been. But such a situation was fit only for Dreamland, and in my waking hours I know that if he's still alive he's my implacable enemy. Whether or not he applauds my success, whatever he feels about my achievements, he cannot submit. It's war to the death, now, for both of us. A situation that in my odd moments of reflection I find inexpressibly sad, just as in every moment of my realistic acceptance of the truth I acknowledge it as completely inevitable.

I turn the bottle to examine the label. How ironic: it's an English wine. 'Buzzards Valley', the vineyard is called, and the wine is a cloudy, pale liquid, almost like home-made lemonade.

My first sip of it is cautious. The Imperial Food Taster, Giovanni Locatelli, a so-called 'supertaster' born with the TAS2R38 gene that gives him more taste buds than the average person, has already sampled everything and declared it free of poison, but while I know some whites are supposed to be slightly cloudy when finished, I have never personally tasted a cloudy white that hasn't been 'off'. I have to admit it has a surprisingly sophisticated taste, given that it's from a country that historically isn't the first that would spring to mind when thinking of viticulture.

It seems absurd to me that we still rely on human guinea pigs when we have hand-held scanners that should do a better job of determining the safety of the food on the Imperial table. I was actually planning to eliminate the position with Giovanni's retirement and re-train his sons and grandsons for different jobs in the Imperial household until Giovanni, at my request, arranged a demonstration to educate me on the true nature of a food-taster's job in the Imperial Court. Giovanni, it turns out, has no fear of dying by some foreign substance secretly slipped into my food. In fact, he fully expects to expire of old age in his own bed, surrounded by his loved ones decades from now. His genetic gift, however, means he and his descendants can detect vanishingly small concentrations of new poisons that haven't yet been programmed into the food safety scanners, cumulative poisons like heavy metals that will not trigger an alarm if they're present in amounts below the official safety level but still build up in the blood, and binary and trinary poisons that are inert and harmless on their own but combine in the body to form a toxic substance.

I still intend to eliminate the job of Imperial Food Taster, eventually, because it seems to me ridiculously arrogant to ask one man to risk his life to determine if another's food is fit to eat. However, knowing now what the job actually involves, I realize that Giovanni will not be the last of his line to hold the position. Like seemingly everything to do with Imperial Tradition, change will take place at a glacial speed. First, the scope of the task will have to be determined, and then, the personnel needed to complete the work – many of them highly trained experts, physicians, biologists, chemists, mineralogists, engineers, computer programmers, toxicologists and scientists of every stripe – will have to be identified, not to mention trustworthy laboratory technicians, and an unskilled labour force of security, sanitation, and maintenance staff. Laboratories, workshops and offices will have to be allocated and salaries determined. Then the specialists will identify the equipment, resources, tools and materials needed to create and test whatever device or system they come up with.

I'm beginning to realise that, just as with life itself, nothing is as simple in the operation of Empire as it appears on the surface. You can look at a simple metal bolt lying on your hand, and what could be simpler than that? But start delving into the mere fact of its existence and you're into the intricacies of manufacturing, metallurgy and mining, not to mention the minor details of its molecular structure. Then you must consider the specific qualities required for your bolt to achieve its intended purpose, for, as I learned during the repairs following the explosion on Jupiter Station, not all bolts are meant to hold things together.

I take another experimental sip of the wine. It really is quite good. I could get used to this, but that would almost be a pity. If familiarity doesn't breed contempt at worst, there's definitely the risk of it breeding ennui at best. The sumptuous life of monarchs should be savoured, not endured, or worse yet, taken for granted; it may take some negotiation with my wife, but I will make certain that my children never become so familiar with luxury that they fail to appreciate it.

I'm no wine connoisseur by any means – whisky is my drink; but the same principles apply and with every sip, I'm discovering new flavours in this glass. It would not be a difficult taste to acquire. I look at the label once more and offer to pour my bride a glass. 'Hunter's Moon' is the name of it. Now this cannot be a coincidence. I ask Hoshi about it and she says with a smirk that during the days of the Triad, Reed made a habit of importing wine from our native country. "I thought it might make you feel at home," she adds, tapping the label with one long, beautifully-painted fingernail.

Her dependence on the Triad while they were alive was well known, though the actual extent of it was only suspected and always well-concealed by maintaining her as the figurehead to announce all policy and legislative changes. Fortunately for her, keeping her as the face of power while the Triad ruled like puppeteers from behind the throne almost certainly had a lot to do with her being able to remain actually in power after their demise for as long as she did. In fact, if she hadn't made the mistake of trusting Hernandez, she might still be the sole reigning monarch, though probably not for very much longer given the reports I received from Captain Georgiou shortly after Tucker's surrender and Reed's escape. There were endless rumours of what that dependence involved, but I'm quite sure it wasn't a platonic relationship.

"Did you sleep with him?" I ask. Yes, it's blunt, but I'd like to get a handle on that particular aspect of her past, like any other.

"Yes. Often." She sips from her own glass, her gaze abstracted as she stares into the flickering flames of the log fire in front of us. "And the other two."

"I take it you weren't given much option."

"Not much."

"Did you find it – unpleasant?"

"Sometimes." A shrug. "Not that it mattered."

"So you weren't exactly heartbroken when you received the news of the accident on Jupiter Station."

The smile that flickers in my direction is at once rueful and bitter. "Just because there were times when I hated their damn guts didn't mean I didn't know how safe they kept me."

"I have every intention of keeping you at least as safe as they did." The words are out almost before I know they're on my tongue, and sound ridiculously sentimental.

One exquisite eyebrow lifts. "Gracious, General, I could almost think you were trying to reassure me." She takes another sip of wine. "Why the curiosity about Reed? If I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous.

"Or am I right? You were lovers at one point, I believe."

"We were. Briefly." Memories writhe, vivid: his lean body, his hungry, possessive mouth. His teeth buried in my shoulder.

"By choice, or was it…a command performance?"

"Oh, I was more than willing," I admit, "but I know for a fact that it wouldn't have mattered if I wasn't." There's no point in trying to convince her otherwise. Prior to the explosion on Jupiter Station, no one who valued their life would have dared refuse the General anything, and if she, who was so much more useful to him than I, had no choice in pleasuring him, it goes without saying that I was in all reality little more than a willing slave.

"Ah. So we have at least one thing in common." She gleams at me. "And Hayes?"

"No. An omission for which I was always profoundly thankful, to be honest. The man terrified me."

My honesty wins me a laugh – I somehow suspect she wasn't expecting me to be so honest. "He was rather intimidating."

There's a pause, which feels relatively comfortable. I can allow myself to feel the tiredness induced by a day spent carefully rehearsing tomorrow's ceremony. With the cameras watching and recording every single instant of my coronation, nothing can be allowed to go wrong, everything must be timed to the precise second. It seemed to go well today, which might or might not be a good sign (there's that old saying about a bad dress rehearsal preceding a good play), but I'm damned if I'm going to go through all that again, even if it was humanly possible to assemble everyone in the time. We both have an early start and I should be in bed soon. Hoshi can seek hers or stay up later, it's up to her. She's not a child I'm going to lecture about how much sleep she needs.

Talking of children… I slide a glance at her belly. The informers I naturally have in her household have said nothing about her menstruating. That means she's late – ten days or so already – and according to the records, she's normally very regular.

She hasn't said anything about it yet. But though she obviously knows she's had eggs harvested, which was one of the first things I arranged to happen when I seized power (there was a surprising amount of information about how to increase the number of follicles producing mature eggs, as well as the material about 'natural' insertion), I'd imagine she thinks of those as the future progeny designed to be produced through surrogates. I'm afraid I kept secret from her the fact that during the act by which I was formally recognised as her husband I introduced several pre-fertilised eggs into her body when it was at the maximally receptive phase of her cycle. As greatly as I respect Mother Nature, I never believe in leaving things to chance if there's a way to tip the chances in my favour.

Of course, there are no guarantees, even doing it this way. But I've shortened the odds. The available documentation mentions a high degree of success, though there are other details that don't make sense; unfortunately these notes were found among Phlox's records, so there's no chance of his explaining them now, considering he was blown to a million pieces in the explosion in Jupiter Station's old Sickbay. They must have been the preliminary stages of some project or other, but whatever it was, we'll likely never know.

If several of the eggs implant we'll have a multiple pregnancy, which makes things riskier both for mother and children, but we'll decide how to deal with that if it happens. Most likely I'll order the removal of the weakest embryos, leaving the strongest to thrive on all the available nutrients and reducing the strain on Hoshi's body. I suppose it's not wholly impossible that leaving more than one in place might even result in some kind of intra-uterine fight for survival – some species of sharks devour one another in the womb, resulting in the survival of the fittest, and Pack genes would surely be the most primed of all to begin that struggle as soon as there was a question of competition.

Phlox's notes included a few obscure references to Alpha having undergone some minor, inheritable genetic alterations. Until I'd read them, I'd assumed that Pack mentality was the result of training and experience, but it appears that spending time on so-called 'WolfPlanet Mindfuck' also causes genetic changes to its victims. I'm not about to open an investigation into whether I'm the same, but I suspect I may be. Quite apart from the flashbacks, which only started recently, I noticed long ago that my hearing, vision, and sense of smell seemed to be superior to that of normal humans. In addition, at some point after the so-called accident which caused the amnesia that swallowed several months of my life and which I subsequently learned was a cover for my training on the wolf planet, I started ordering my steaks rare when I had always preferred medium. In which case, my offspring will have a competitive drive that will have to be extremely carefully managed, because they could easily become fratricidal.

As a matter of courtesy, I ask formally after my wife's health and temper every morning over breakfast. The reply is invariably the same, telling me precisely nothing. But for the past day or two I've noticed she's been very sparing with strongly-flavoured foods and hasn't drunk coffee, preferring to nibble crackers.

In the ordinary way, I'd leave it until she was ready to tell me herself. But the circumstances are anything but ordinary, and if I can combine tomorrow's coronation with the announcement that my Empress is already pregnant, I not only enhance my masculine prestige (important only insofar as it impresses those who equate potency with power) but also enhances my rule with the prospect of a stable succession. One of the biggest problems with an Empress occupying the throne in her own right was the question of who would succeed her if she chose not to produce children – an issue which dogged the reign of England's Elizabeth the First for several decades. I'd already heard it asked, albeit in a whisper, so having the fact of our fecundity laid out on the very day I accept the crown would deliver a strong statement that I have not only the intention but the ability to found a dynasty.

There really doesn't seem to be any way to broach the topic diplomatically. Over the years I've heard a number of idioms for the condition, but this is hardly the moment for vulgarity. If my hopes are well-founded, Hoshi will be already prey to a host of hormones as well as physiological changes, though to do her credit you'd never guess it. If you're planning to open a bottle of champagne, it's really not a good idea to shake it first.

"Before we say goodnight, is there anything you'd like to discuss with me?" I ask in my politest voice. "Anything at all?"

She doesn't pretend to misunderstand me. She was about to pour herself a second glass of wine (we'll shortly have to address the question of whether she should be consuming alcohol at all in her condition), but sets the bottle back in the cooler and sits back in her chair, studying me. "You appear to have extraordinary luck, don't you?" she replies at last, on a note of some bitterness.

This is not the moment to reveal my little trick, if indeed the right moment will ever come. For the sake of domestic harmony I'll leave it as the luckiest of lucky coincidences. Maybe if I'd been honest about the medical intervention from the start things would have been different, but it seemed like one ask too many for her to be made into a subject of forced artificial insemination before more than a hundred witnesses; now I'm condemned by my own silence to hold my tongue.

"I hoped," I answer carefully. "I'm sorry you don't seem to be happy about it."

She glances down at her belly and a frown mars the smoothness of her forehead. "I suppose I thought I'd have more time to get used to being married, that's all. I always intended to have a baby at some point."

That's the most personal detail she's shared with me yet, and I regard it as a point gained that she was willing to confide as much. "If that's true, I'm glad I haven't forced on you something you regard as completely unwelcome."

A sardonic glance reminds me that she's very well accustomed to having things forced on her that were completely unwelcome. The chances were that at some point one or both of the men of the Triad would have thought about siring pups on her; the fact that neither of them did was probably a pointer to the conflict such an act would have introduced. Though the nickname 'Alpha' suggests seniority, I'm not sure Reed would have cared to be so forcibly supplanted in the scheme of things by the introduction of his fellow-ruler's offspring. Where power is held in such a delicate balance, anything of significance can tip it beyond salvation.

"If you've no objection, I'd like to have it verified." I know, of course, that a thousand things can go wrong in the first few months of a pregnancy – that even carrying a baby to term is no guarantee of a successful live birth. But I want to see with my own eyes the evidence on a scanner screen that the first step towards establishing my dynasty has been taken.

Of course, as soon as the cat was out of the bag this was going to be the next item on the agenda. She helps herself to a small bunch of black grapes and shrugs indifferently.

I have the sense that something is wrong. Logically, and as the about-to-become-Emperor, I'm doing the only natural thing. But I'm more than that. I've already said that I want our marriage to be something better than a relationship of no more than frigid duty and endurance, and as exciting as the prospects are that stretch out before me, it's not hard to imagine that pregnancy, to a woman who's never experienced it before, is a pretty scary thought.

Instead of pressing the comm unit for the Imperial Physician to be summoned, impulsively I reach out and take Hoshi's hand. "Thank you," I say quietly.

She doesn't snatch it away, as I feared she might. But the bitterness is more pronounced. "I wasn't aware that I had a choice – at any point."

"I won't insult you by pretending otherwise. But…" Impulsively, yet against my better judgment, I continue, "It doesn't have to be confirmed tonight, and even though your consent is not required, I … appreciate that you've given it, and that you're willing to go through with this. I realise there's far more to carrying a child than I'll ever fully understand, and I'm grateful to you."

"You might as well call him tonight," she says, her tone still almost negligent. "That way you can make the announcement tomorrow following your coronation, but I'd wait to be grateful, if I were you."

I nod. "I've never been one to count my chickens before they're hatched. But this is a big moment for both of us, as husband and wife. Can't we simply share it for a moment, before it becomes public knowledge?"

She looks at me searchingly, and seems to reluctantly lower her sword. I feel the slightest returned pressure through my fingers, and it encourages me to slip to one knee beside her chair. There's no-one to see as I gently lay my hand on her flat, taut belly.

Because of my guilty secret, I already know what sex the baby – or babies – will be, though I still may consider ordering a procedure to eliminate all but the strongest if allowing Hoshi to carry multiples turns out to be too risky. Only gametes with the Y chromosome were selected for fertilisation. Not only will my wife produce a child to me with flattering speed, it will be a boy – because even if one of my sperm with an X chromosome happened to find an egg to fertilise naturally, I won't risk having a daughter as next in line to the throne. I think eventually I'd quite adore raising a little girl or two – or more – but the family line, the Burnell Dynasty, as I hope it will become, must be carried down through the males, to maximise the Pack ferocity and ambition with testosterone. Of course, Pack females can be every bit as ambitious, but they tend to prefer more roundabout methods of achieving their aims. To rule the Empire you have to be prepared to fight as savagely as any wolf, and for that you need the strength and ruthlessness of a boy. As a matter of security, I'll need several sons before I can consider my line to be fully established.

"Our son," I say softly. It feels far more significant than I ever expected it to.

"It may be a girl," she retorts.

"Maybe."

Her look is suspicious, but I merely smile and stand up to kiss her, which she permits. "You do realise that for the next forty weeks, you have me over a barrel," I add humorously as I sit down again and pour myself another glass of wine – the last I'll allow myself tonight, but I'm in the mood to toast my 'good fortune'. "If you declare you have a craving for a dish of roasted Andorian ice-borers I'll have no option but to send off a fast cruiser to bring them."

Finally, a smile breaks out. "I'll be sure to make the most of it, then. Though I'm not sure Andorian ice-borers will be the top of my list."

"I seem to remember my sister lived on ice cream and pickled onions for a while. At least those would be easier to fetch."

She gives a delicate shudder at the idea, though it's probably a bit early for that kind of craving to develop. As I finally press the button to issue the summons for the Imperial Physician, I reflect that it seems that among all my other responsibilities, I'll have to start reading up on how to cope with a pregnant wife.

Just when I thought running an Empire was going to be difficult.

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