Chapter Thirteen
Coronation
Emperor Austin Burnell
I'm awake before the first tinge of dawn light steals into the night sky.
I don't know what woke me; I was tired when I went to bed and slept soundly. I don't even think I dreamed, though I rarely remember the details when I do.
And now here I am, seeing the last dawn of my old life. The last dawn that will meet the eyes of General Austin Burnell, husband and sole consort of Empress Hoshi Sato.
On an impulse, when I awoke – into instant full alertness, which I suspect from something then-General Reed once said to me is another feature of Pack conditioning that we never lose – instead of turning over and going back to sleep for whatever rest I could catch before a day that's going to be long and demanding, I slid out of bed and padded barefoot to the window, which looks out over the glorious gardens that are now in their most riotous Springtime colours. It's hardly warm enough yet for the outdoor temperature to be comfortable, but I open the latch and swing the windows wide, allowing the slightly cooler air to flow in and prickle my skin into instant goosebumps.
One of my more quixotic interests is a delight in gardens. The hydroponics bay on Jupiter Station never particularly interested me – like everything else on the station they were run for efficiency rather than beauty – but whenever my duties as the SiC of the MACOs brought me to Earth, I tried to fit in a visit to somewhere green. Even five minutes in the local park was refreshment to the spirit. I can't remember a time when I actually had time to do any gardening, but I love the sight of a well-tended garden or even a park where the custodians have made an effort to do more than just provide an area for citizens and their children to expend excess energy. As a child growing up in or on the edge of poverty, I always saw a garden, even a vegetable garden with tidy rows of good things, as a sign that someone, somewhere had enough wealth to waste some credits on the frivolity of beauty. After I joined the MACOs and had nearly every waking minute accounted for, I took it as a sign that someone had the time to nurture beauty and a willingness to share it with the world. For all that daily existence on 'Wolfplanet Mindfuck' was centred chiefly on survival, there was a quality to the silent green rides and the towering, snowy mountains that transcended the brutal reality of where the next meal was coming from.
Though I'm no nearer knowing why these flashbacks have started, bringing me vivid memories of things my conditioning afterwards had so effectively blocked from my mind, they explain much that has been equally hidden from me until now. When my belly was full and I was snuggled in among my brothers and sisters, I experienced something close to exaltation in staring out across the glory of the landscape. Whether they felt the same about it I've never known, but the wonder of the view stayed with me; and afterwards (when I'd been returned to Earth and had my memory essentially wiped) on the occasions when my travels took me to places where similar mountain ranges evoked that same sort of exhilaration, I was often briefly overcome with something that felt perilously close to nostalgia, and never understood why.
The first flashback of all came when I was mounting Erika Hernandez the night I seized power. It was brief and vivid and intensely disturbing, but I soon realised that the memory blocks of which Reed had spoken when he explained to me about our conditioning for Section 31 were starting – for whatever reason – to fragment. The ones that occurred during my marriage and my consummation of it were equally vivid, probably provoked by first the prospect and then the fact of sexual contact with a woman. They may come again next time I have sex with my wife, but I'm coming to realise that they don't present any threat to my functioning. Nor do I imagine they are any sort of danger to Hoshi, as Pack instinct was generally protective toward the females; in fact, these flashbacks may be beneficial. The hormones released back on 'Wolfplanet Mindfuck' may actually help to arouse me now, providing the stimulation that the sight of a woman's body does not.
That they aren't solely connected with sex was proved one early morning when the scent of the pine needles in a bowl of pot-pourri placed on my sideboard switched on my first revelation of the snow-covered peaks. These had been the backdrop to my struggles to survive in an environment where living was always harsh and the wolf pack's sole condition for tolerating me was obedience. Although harsh, the land was spectacularly beautiful. When I wasn't taken up with issues of staying alive, I had the time and even still the intelligence to appreciate that, just as I'm doing now when I gaze out of the window and construct reality out of the shadowy lines and shapes that are all my eyes can conjure out of the near-darkness below.
The designers who have put these gardens together have certainly done an excellent job, and as strange as it may seem I'm looking forward to the slow revelation of their skills during the turning year. I'm particularly attracted to the many burning shades of autumn (though English trees certainly have their share of golden autumn colour, they like other European woods don't run to the vivid reds that are a feature of American and East Asian forests).
I've already noted with approval that many of the walkways feature acers, famous for the glorious blaze of colour they display before their leaves drop. With Hoshi's ancestry in mind it was pretty well inevitable that the primary influence on the palace gardens would be Japanese, and that delights me because for thousands of years the Japanese have cultivated the skill of the perfect placement of plant, tree, stone and water to delight the eye. Nevertheless, there is another civilisation to be taken into account now, and somewhere or other there will be a place where tall beech trees, oak and elm and ash will grow, footed with snowdrops, aconite, cyclamen and English bluebells, with dark clumps of purple rhododendron (originally imported from the foothills of the Himalayas, but long since naturalised in English woods) and yellow fountains of forsythia and clouds of blackthorn. One of the walkways will lead to an enclosed rose garden featuring a long, formal pond with an ornate stone summerhouse at the far end, its reflection sharing the surface with crowds of white waterlilies; the sort of garden where Miss Eliza Bennet might take refuge from the odious Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst, and be taken aback by the unexpected arrival of Mr Darcy, all aloof aristocracy and smoulderingly repressed sexuality.
The sudden image of Hoshi as Miss Bennet and me as Mr Darcy is so hilarious I almost let out a hoot of laughter, and hurriedly have to shut the windows so I can give full rein to my amusement without giving rise to the idea that the future Emperor is in the habit of standing naked at the palace window and laughing over nothing at all.
=/\=
Normally this is the point at which I would go into the bathroom and start my day with a rousing rendition of Loudly Let The Trumpets Bray in the privacy of my marble-walled shower cubicle while the multiple, high-power water jets pummel the discarded cells from my skin, but I realise with a sigh that however apposite the song would be (W. S. Gilbert would never have dreamed how much when he penned the lines), this would be to pre-empt the appointed routine. A score of flunkies would be both disappointed and affronted to be denied their coveted place in preparing me for the day, and so I lie down on my sumptuous fur counterpane, rolling on it to enjoy the softness of it on my skin. I have a moment's pause, feeling slightly embarrassed and ashamed of my childish hedonism, and then say to myself, Fuck it! There may have been a bit of luck in getting me here, but I worked bloody hard and took some bloody big risks – my adventures on Wolf Planet Mindfuck and playing political chess with the likes of former General Reed and Admiral Hernandez chief among them – to put myself in a position to take advantage of the opportunity when it arose. If I'm going to spend the rest of my days working to better the Empire, then in my private time, I can give myself permission to luxuriate naked in the pleasures of a fur bedcovering. This too takes me back to my days in the Pack, and I find myself growling, half-aroused by its yielding softness. For no reason at all I think of Ian and my arousal grows. He wears aftershave that smells like crushed grass and pine bark, and the clipped hair at the back of his neck has two or three tiny, bright blond hairs, incongruous among the rest.
During our wedding, Hoshi made the vow to 'observe complete marital fidelity until our Imperial bloodline is established and secured'. I specifically did not. But I haven't so far done anything about seeking out a partner for sexual satisfaction, chiefly because the minefield the subject presented whenever I thought about it was enough to make me swerve away with a promise to do something about it 'later'.
I haven't seen Ian even partly undressed, though I've occasionally seen him in civilian clothing, an understated style that suited him. My imagination peels him out of it and I snarl softly, imagining the delicate line of his spine down to his buttocks. Too many nights in a half-empty bed take their revenge, and as my brain supplies a feast of possibilities it becomes impossible to deny the inevitable. The already rumpled counterpane is rucked into chaos as I imagine sinking my teeth into the base of Ian's neck and fucking him brainless.
By the time I fall back, spent, but at least now relaxed enough to have dispelled whatever nerves might have reared their heads over what the day may bring, the feed from the external microphone has picked up the first tentative twitter of birdsong. It's not dawn yet, but it's on the way, and so will be the first of those whose duty it is to prepare me for my transformation from a mere Empress's consort to the holder of supreme power in the Terran Empire. Once again I'll be washed and brushed and prinked and groomed within an inch of my life, and if anyone notices anything as they escort me to the shower they'll merely think it's the residue of a busy night with some ambitious courtier or a discreet and smoothly-muscled prostitute.
Chance – the observation is more muted than usual because of my temporary satiation – would be a fine thing.
The staff who descend on me like bees around an open honeypot are both assiduous and perfectly trained. They process my preparation like a well-oiled machine, never once getting in each other's way as they deal with the various portions of the soon-to-be-ex General Burnell. Even my toenails must have a special treatment applied to them that on some planet or other is supposed to enhance my masculinity, though I'm sure that none of my fevered imaginings about Ian earlier on featured much by way of toenails; though if he were inclined to fetishize them, I could be induced to indulge him as and when it comes to sexual pleasures – I've always been up for anything apart from permanent damage or alteration to my anatomy or playing the sub in a BDSM scene. Still, the toenail treatment has been thoroughly tested for harmlessness. Even if it doesn't actually do much for my libido and a brief, idly curious sniff of the bottle produces a (fortunately faint) smell that reminds me of nothing so much as damp dog, the toenails in question will shortly be hidden inside my socks and boots and it's not as if I anticipate having anyone in bed with me later who may ask awkward questions about where I'm hiding the dog. I have to bite my cheeks to stop myself chuckling at the vulgar responses I could make to that question; it's probably not at all proper for the recipient of all this solemn pampering to suddenly burst out laughing as a singularly inconvenient train of thought picks up speed and plunges through ever more inappropriate stations, gathering way as it goes.
But we get to the far end of this first stage of the preparations without me disgracing myself, and when I'm finally escorted back into my bedroom the bed has been remade with miraculous rapidity (especially considering what I did to the fur – perhaps they keep an identical spare in one of the linen cupboards) and the clothes I'm to wear have been reverently laid out on top of it.
For my wedding I wore a superbly tailored military uniform, but for my coronation I feel something more imposing is in order. There's a military feel to it, both because I love the cut and style of a dress uniform, but rather than long trousers I'm wearing tight breeches that fit into knee-high boots. On top of an inner white shirt of a silk that costs more per metre than a skilled engineer's annual wages, my hip-length tunic-coat is fitted to every millimetre of my body until it flares gently from the waist, and from the shoulders drops a full-length sleeveless coat that trails on the floor behind me like a cloak. Other than the shirt, and the snow-white fur lining of the coat, everything looks black until a fold flashes the blueness of a magpie's wing.
Daringly, my tailors insist that I should not look in a mirror until the whole preparation is complete. I submit to being virtually manhandled into the closely fitted clothing, preserving my patience when first a tiny crease here and then a tiny fleck there are found to be offensive beyond endurance. But finally I'm announced fit to be seen, and I can turn and survey my reflection.
I've had occasional doubts over whether the design would suit me. I'm not a fan of the dramatic. But I can't help but admit that the magpie starkness of the contrast between the darkest imaginable blue and the brilliant white is stunning; and the absence of any jewels other than the Imperial Insignia at my throat, a blade of blazing Koladan diamonds under a solid Vulcan gold hilt impaling a 'globe' of Orion emeralds and Andorian sapphires, makes it the sole focus of attention. And while I wouldn't lay claim to more than the ordinary amount of male vanity, I also have to enjoy the way the closely-fitting outfit makes the best of my body. As tiresome as it was to be wrestled into, once it's on, the effort was worth it.
I've also allowed my hair to grow out a bit from its previous rather severe and practical length; my day on Jupiter Station didn't afford me the time to worry about anything more than running a comb through it and having it stay neat. The extra allowed a stylist to pounce and do his worst, and there too I have to admit that the difference is startling. A slight natural wave has been coaxed into actually looking remarkably sophisticated, which – however alien to my ultra-practical inner self – is just one of the tools in the armoury I shall have to use for the rest of my life. The days are gone when three or four strokes with a comb would do.
My attendants have worked with one eye on the clock; presumably there have been any number of rehearsals to develop a timetable from which not one minute's deviation is allowed. The few remaining moments tick away while I turn slightly to see how I look from this angle or that, and then precisely on cue there comes the knock on the door.
With the smoothness of perfect timing, everyone in the room drops to one knee and bows their heads to me as the Imperial Guard officers on duty fling the door open to reveal my escort waiting to take me for a second time to the Grand Reception Hall. These too bow as I walk out to take my place among them, though the reverence for now is only from the waist; until the crown is actually on my head, I am still merely the Empress's consort.
At a strictly measured pace, we retrace the route to the Grand Reception Hall of the Imperial Palace. Various individuals are positioned along the route, who also bow, though I acknowledge none of them. Although this is according to protocol, in fact I am feeling the beginning of a sense of isolation that feels almost mystical in its quality.
Down all the ages of man, in the deep dark places where the things are that go back to the very beginning, kingship has always been associated with divinity. Nowadays, of course, it's a sanitised thing, a title, a bauble to be fought for and snatched at and coveted, and won by the strongest. The ultimate accolade of the survival of the fittest. But we forget at our peril that in evolutionary terms we're less than half a breath away from the apes who cowered before the first one who lifted a bloody femur from a corpse and imposed his will with it, and still less from the men who endowed one among their number with all the virtues of a god until the time came for his blood to flow and sanctify the earth. For all our attempts to distance ourselves from the DNA whose strands lead unbroken back to the cave, the knowledge is still there.
It does not affect my conscious awareness of what's happening around me. Just as I did on our wedding morning, I encounter my wife at the double doors. Today she's in sea-blue silk, a more modern but just as elegant gown that fits her slender body like a glove until it falls as a demi-train under her long cloak and full train of fur-trimmed mid-blue velvet. Around her neck a showpiece necklace of fabulous baguette-cut diamonds seem to pulse with a life of their own, and for the last time she's wearing the Imperial Crown that's she's kept hold of through so many vicissitudes since she snatched it with the help of then-Commander Tucker and the blueprints for the Defiant.
I've ordered certain changes made to that, some discreet and some very much not so. For instance, it now boasts thirty-eight of the rose-cut aquamarines that originally featured on the United Kingdom's St. Edward's Crown (originally made in 1661 for the coronation of Charles II), as well as the Cullinan II diamond, St. Edward's Sapphire, the Stuart Sapphire and the Black Prince's Ruby from the Imperial State Crown. The aquamarines have been added because they are my birthstone and there are thirty-eight of them because that is my current age; the significance of those may not be immediately apparent and I'm self-aware enough to mock my own sense of aggrandisement at including references to myself among items of such deep historical significance. But there again, I have as much an intention of establishing myself and my offspring as a powerful dynasty as did any of the Plantagenets, Tudors and Stuarts, and if the work is done properly I perceive no reason why in future times people should not be able to look back and see that my contribution had a valid right to be there.
The ceremony requires Hoshi to precede me into the Hall, accompanied by her attendants, and walk up the central aisle alone. At the far end of it is the Imperial Throne, with the smaller Empress's Throne flanking it. No doubt the television cameras devouring every moment will zoom in, hungry to catch the slightest flicker of expression as she removes the crown and puts it on the specially designed and intricately carved wooden plinth at the front of the dais, effectively abdicating her power so that I can take it up. I know they will watch in vain.
Also on the plinth are the other symbols of rule, which have been brought out for the occasion from whatever secret and highly secure location they're normally kept in. As well as the orb, the coronation ring and the sceptre, there's a jewelled sword and a pair of golden bracelets representing sincerity and wisdom.
Before religions of all kinds were effectively outlawed and certainly stripped of any significant authority, it would be the head of whatever church favoured by the soon-to-be monarch who was awarded the task of placing the crown on his or her head. After careful thought I've awarded the honour of handing the various 'minor' items of the coronation regalia to me, or in the case of the bracelets slipping them onto my wrists, or the sword buckling it in its scabbard onto the loops prepared for it at my waist, to selected officers whom I expect to fill important roles in my administration. But no-one except the ruler in person or his appointed delegate in the security vault – or, of course, any jeweller tasked with their upkeep and repair – is allowed to touch the crown.
At the exact second appointed, the doors are opened. Beyond them, in the packed Hall, the choir launches into a paean of praise. With a confident, almost playful smile in my direction, Hoshi turns to pace her last steps as the sole ruler of the Empire. This time all of her attendants are young women, some of them her personal supporters and some the daughters of influential personages in the imperial hierarchy. Their dresses, in various shades of pale blue satin, match hers as being more modern in style than those they wore as bridesmaids, with plunging backs hung across with loops of pearls and sapphires.
As I watch my wife and her entourage make their stately way up the central aisle, that strange sense of isolation is still with me. It's at moments like this that I'd appreciate the proximity of someone for whom I felt genuine affection – the 'best man' in the real, original sense of the word – or even a blood relative such as my younger brother Richard, but the realities of imperial power in the Empire mean that such a position is far too valuable to be awarded on the basis of mere sentimentality. The men whom I've chosen to participate as my supporters on this occasion are those whose service to the Empire makes it obvious why they deserve the honour. For instance, Admiral Grady is a man I hardly know on a personal basis, but his achievements in command of the Sherman's March have made him a legend in the Fleet, and it's he who has the responsibility of buckling on the Sword of State. Three highly-decorated Fleet captains will carry before me the three other swords included in the ceremony, the Sword of Spiritual Justice (however vague that concept may be these days), the Sword of Temporal Justice and the blunt Sword of Mercy. I've unashamedly borrowed many details from historical records of British royalty's coronations, even down to the presence beneath the throne of a somewhat misshapen, split lump of rather unattractive-looking sandstone that as far as the historians can attest to is the Stone of Scone, the ancient symbol of Scottish sovereignty that was brought to England in the reign of 1296 by Edward I and installed as part of the throne in Westminster Abbey, where all future monarchs were crowned until the end of the institution shortly before the Eugenics Wars broke out.
I'm a realist, even though there may be some foundation in Hoshi's accusation that I'm an idealist. Every single decision I've made about this occasion has been the result of long and careful thinking. For instance, I'd have liked to ask Hoshi if my sister Jenny could be included in her attendants (theoretically I could simply tell her it was going to happen, but that's not a prime ingredient in any recipe for marital harmony), but exactly the same reasoning applies: too much rests on the distribution of such honours for considerations of 'family' to be included, though my family and hers will naturally have prominent places in the banquet to follow. I'm afraid my families' lives will change as irrevocably as mine will, too. It's one thing to be a parent or a sibling to a senior officer in the Fleet, but to be closely related to the Emperor will mean they'll need a complete suite of personnel of their own to advise and protect them. At any rate, their old lives are effectively over.
The delay between the wedding and the coronation gave time for a new suite of appropriately triumphant music to be written for the occasion of my ascent to power, but I appreciate the reflective, ever so slightly melancholy theme of this section, which accompanies my wife's renunciation of the status she's held for so long. Perhaps practice has honed her sense of drama, for as she steps up onto the first level of the dais, which raises her into view over the heads of all those following her, I see the solemnity in the way she removes the crown. Her hair has been artfully tucked up under it so that as she lifts it off, it falls in glossy waves around her shoulders. Her head isn't bare, however, but now circled by what looks like a wreath of sapphire and diamond flowers. She may no longer be the Empress, but she's still wearing a crown.
As taken aback as I am (though I don't show it), inwardly I salute. Who wants a spiritless wife?
With the appropriate reverence she places the Imperial Crown on the plinth waiting for it, in the middle of the blaze of gold and jewels that comprise the rest of the regalia. Then, on the subtle change of key that denotes the movement to a new theme, she paces to her new throne on the second step. Her face as she turns to stand in front of it is one of chiselled, aristocratic calm.
Now it begins.
As the trumpeters take their cue to burst into the brassy notes that set the marble columns quivering, I take my first step into the hall.
I'm hot and cold, elated and terrified, determined and overawed. You'll have heard, of course, of 'Impostor Syndrome'; well, this is me living it. A boy who not so long ago was consigned to a work camp for three years and beaten and abused there while I worked out ways not to starve; who was rarely without a bruise or an abrasion and didn't know what it was like not to go to bed hungry. For a six-year-old, it's tough when your parents bring you to a place where you have to fight to survive and leave you there, and it was a long time afterwards before I was able to accept with my heart as well as my mind that they really hadn't had any choice. Maybe they, too, still bear the silvery scars of memory of coming to collect me as soon as their debts had been paid off, Jenny was financially stable and they could afford to feed both Richard and me, and finding the skinny, traumatised, half-feral kid who fought to get out of the skimmer because he couldn't face the prospect of being taken away only to be abandoned again. But at least now I've been able to demonstrate with some of the best seats in the house that all is forgiven if it can't be forgotten, and these days there's no issue at all with the cost of a new outfit and a new hat for the occasion. Time was when Jenny would stand with her nose pressed against the glass of a charity shop staring at a nearly new handbag she knew she could never afford to buy; this morning there was a delivery to her hotel room of a brand new Sara Stiller handbag that even the top designers haven't seen yet, and the fashion pages will home in on that along with every other exquisitely stylish item the new Emperor's mother and sister were seen to be wearing.
Dad died three years ago, of an aggressive form of leukaemia that even the best of the Empire's doctors haven't yet found a way to cure. I think he'd be proud. I'm willing to bet that Mom has a photo of him tucked into her handbag (Della advised me on which designer that one should be ordered from) and that one hand will be on the photo frame as she watches me pass.
Protocol doesn't allow for the smallest glance aside, the faintest relaxation of the lips. But I'm aware of Mom, Richard and Jenny as I pace past them, as I would be of a warm fire in a cold room.
These reflections have taken me up the aisle to the foot of the first step of the dais and the plinth waiting there. If I looked down I could see all the things that are going to be mine, but ahead of me, on the third and highest step, I can see the empty throne waiting, with the Imperial Insignia carved from solid crystal on the peak of its high, carved back.
Mine.
But not just yet. With measured calm I move around the plinth and onto the second step in front of it, where I turn around to face the world.
Directly opposite me, in the front row, sits Erika Hernandez. Though her face remains appropriately composed, she must know as well as I do that this is coldly deliberate on my part, forcing her to witness me claiming everything she had coveted for herself. I spare her one direct glance, and then dismiss her from my mind.
We have all rehearsed our parts in the ceremony. One by one, as the music swells and the hidden cameras concentrate on every movement, those tasked with dressing me for my new status pick up their appointed item and present it to me one by one before bowing and returning to their place. The sword must be attached while I'm standing, and the bracelets clasped around my wrists, but the third item – the coronation ring – is presented to me on a cushion. As with the crown itself, there is no-one now who has the spiritual authority to crown a monarch, and now Hoshi has effectively abdicated there is no-one with the temporal authority either. Power in the Empire is something not given, but taken.
The cameras will be homing in on my hands. There must not be one infinitesimal quiver of my fingers as I lift it.
The massive sapphire is the clear, brilliant blue of deep water in sunlight. It was necessary to resize the band, as my fingers are rather larger than Hoshi's slim ones, but it fits perfectly. I drop my now beringed left hand to grasp the hilt of my sword, and that first clear shot of the burning sapphire in place is beamed around the whole world and flashes into subspace.
As I turned, I took care that the trailing part of my cloak did not cover the step behind me. It took some practice to learn how to achieve this without making it apparent, but I've managed it; and so my backward step upwards does not foul on the fabric, and the deep undercut in each carved arm-rest allows the sword on its slings to settle naturally against the side of the base as I sit down, hearing and not hearing the massive chord that opens the climax of the proceedings.
First the throne, then the crown.
Traditionally, a monarch was anointed with 'holy oil' as a sign of honour and dominion. We no longer believe that inanimate objects can be 'holy', but I feel there's still some role for the anointing, and so it's been placed here. A small receptacle is brought forward containing the oil made up of those listed in the historic records: orange, roses, cinnamon, musk and (artificially produced) ambergris. Once again there's no religious authority that can bestow this on me, nor is the Anointing a private matter between the Sovereign and God as it was an olden times. I dip first one thumb and then the other into the receptacle and paint a circle cut by a line in the opposing palm, each a symbol of the Empire's Globe and Dagger, and then the moment I've been waiting for so long is upon me.
The part of the plinth where the crown is resting has four handles so that it can be lifted free of the rest and brought forward. I'm concentrating so hard on it to imprint the moment in my memory that for all my mind retains afterwards it may have been wafted up to me on a heavenly zephyr rather than being – as I know it is – presented by two highly-decorated generals and two equally highly-decorated admirals, who hold it steady right in front of me.
Maybe for all monarchs there have ever been there was this transcendent moment – the one where they step into that ancient mystery of kingship that separates them from the rest of humanity. A pause of fifteen seconds is allowed, to impress the solemnity of this moment on the watching billions across the Empire, and I've rehearsed it so often that I can count it off on my steady breaths, but it seems like a lifetime during which my gaze is filled with the coruscating brilliance of the artefact in front of me. Then, not rushing, not dawdling, I reach out and lift the crown, and place it on my own head.
In the days when humans believed the world was the centre of the universe, the orb was a representation of the globe of Terra. Lately it's been redesigned and is of two hollow halves of blue-black marble representing Space, with perfect miniature galaxies of multicoloured gems scattered across its surface under the gold insignia of the Empire atop it and an encircling band presumably meant to signify the dream of one day controlling it all. However implausible the idea, it's a beautiful work of art.
So is the sceptre, the final thing to be placed reverently in my hand by Captain Georgiou. I've had that redesigned. The centrepiece is still the 530-carat diamond known as Cullinan I or the Star of Africa, but it's surrounded by exquisitely cut gemstones from every one of the Conquered Worlds, to signify my rulership of them all – a rule that I mean to pass on to my dynasty. As Georgiou bows and steps back, I'm revealed crowned and throned at last, the beginning of the Burnell Dynasty. The music crashes into its most triumphant note yet, while the audience roars 'Long live Emperor Burnell!' and for a moment the complete unreality of it all is only dispelled by the weight of gold and gems on my head and the cool solidity of the orb and sceptre in my right and left hands.
This is a moment to be held, for the cameras and for posterity, so that not only the audience here in the hall but the witnesses throughout the Empire can see me. I want them to understand that I am here because I deserve to be, that I was strong enough to take the throne and am more than strong enough to hold it. I want them to know that from now on, the Empire will travel in the way I direct it, and though it may be slow and sometimes agonisingly difficult, my will be done.
By tradition, the first person to swear allegiance to me is my Empress. I keep hold of the sceptre in my right hand but relinquish the orb to free one hand so this can take place. Hoshi rises and makes her way to the step in front of me, where she drops gracefully to one knee to kiss the sapphire on my extended hand. The exact order of who should come where in the rest of the line has been thrashed out over hours of meetings, but as she rises and steps back I catch hold of her hand and, standing, gently turn her so she's standing by my side.
"As your new Emperor, I have an announcement to make!"
The music is quickly muted. The conductor was the only person who knew this was going to happen, so he's ready for the moment and reacts to it accordingly.
The acoustics of the hall are incredible. I hardly have to speak loudly for my voice to be heard at the far end of it, but this is something I want the whole Empire to hear.
"It is my joy and pleasure to inform you that my Empress is already expecting the child who will be the next step in my dynasty!"
A storm of cheering breaks out as I raise Hoshi's hand to my lips and kiss it. Maybe some of it's more diplomatic than genuine, but most people are happy to hear of a pregnancy, and the prospect of the succession being assured as early as this is wonderful news. As former Commodore Tucker observed to me once, what most people want most of all is just to get on with their lives in peace, and after a change of ruler – always a somewhat unnerving process – the prospect of stability is exactly what the Empire needs. When the noise finally abates enough for it to be heard, the music starts up again and Hoshi returns decorously to her chair, her cheeks very slightly pinker than they were and the shadow of a pleased smile on her lips.
As the queue begins to form of those who have the privilege of swearing allegiance to me, and the now empty plinth is cleared away to facilitate their approach, I hold my wife's gaze for just a couple of seconds longer than necessary and send her a wink. If the cameras pick it up it will be a nice human touch, and if they don't it will be our secret. And you never know, Rama just may find his sleeping quarters moved tonight, though I'm certainly not counting my chickens.
But before any of that can happen, there's the rest of the day to be got through. The whole lengthy, exhausting rigmarole, a foreshadowing of what I can expect for the rest of my life: interminable speeches followed by an interminable banquet, its ultra-lavish pomp and ceremony carefully calculated to display to the world that the arrival of Emperor Austin Burnell is an event that marks a turning point in the Empire's history.
Well, if my ideas come to fruition, it will, though probably not in the way anyone here suspects. But Rome wasn't built in a day and nor will my dreams be. With luck, if I can choose his tutors carefully enough and influence him well enough, the son now in Hoshi's belly will be the one who'll pick up the work I begin and carry on with it. Probably even he won't see anything like the completion of it, but then I knew that when I first started to imagine the fundamental changes that would be necessary to spread ex-Commodore Tucker's vision of a new and better way of making things work. Change on that scale will take lifetimes, and maybe all I'll do will be to lay the foundations for it.
If that's what I'll be remembered for, well.
There are worse epitaphs.
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