Chapter Twenty-Three
Fish out of Water

William Wainwright
President of the Southeastern Agricultural Co-operative Coalition (SACC)

What in the hell do they want with me?

Ever since the courier arrived three days ago with the hand-calligraphied invitation, that question has been rocketing through my mind every few minutes. I've barely slept, hardly eaten, and God knows what I've been doing at work because I sure as hell don't; but I still can't come up with an answer that my brain can accept.

With nearly all written communication being digital nowadays – even contracts and other legal documents – the postal service has been dead since before I was born. Most merchandise that you can buy in stores is still delivered to local retailers by ship, plane, rail and truck. Anything a person might buy online is usually delivered to a house or a pickup location by one of four global shipping services or by a delivery van from the retailer's local brick-and-mortar store.

Some high-end retailers have started to switch to long-distance transporters, and though I could never afford to buy anything from them, I've seen the process in action in both directions at the co-op. We have a few pieces of specialty equipment manufactured to our specifications by Lamborghini that, when we need a part, we just place the order online, get a call confirming the delivery coordinates a few minutes later, and then the air sparkles and there's the part. Also, when the government inspectors come to pick up the contracted shipments for the military, they no longer spend days pulling crates of fruit, and cutting open dozens of oranges, grapefruit, lemons, limes and tangerines to determine the quality before calling in the convoys of hundreds of trucks and spending most of a week working round the clock to load them like they did when I first started with the co-op right out of college. Instead, it's just one guy in a two-seater flitter who zips from warehouse to warehouse with one of the managers. He scans about ten pallets of fruit per thousand with a little electronic box, then sets up a beacon at each corner of the warehouse; then, as pallet after pallet of produce vanishes into thin air, he stands there cracking jokes about how they'll soon have robots to do the farming and will be able to scan the fruit out in the orchard and beam it right off the trees into government stasis facilities, and all of us farmers will be out of jobs and end up going to the workhouse.

Asshole.

Really, what in the hell would they want with me?

Seriously, Mister Charlie is a good man. If he ever broke the law, I'm sure it was to help someone deserving, and he never would have gotten me involved in anything even remotely shady without my full knowledge and consent. Besides, if the BII or Homeworld Security or any of a dozen other agencies wanted to question me about whatever he was into that made the whole Tucker family do a runner the day Trip was arrested, they would have come to the house or the office, busted the door down, terrorized everybody in the place, thrown a black sack over my head, and hauled me away in restraints. They certainly wouldn't have sent me a polite invitation to come round to visit, let alone arranged first class transportation.

So what in the hell do they want with me?

Apart from the Valentines and birthday cards the kids have made me over the years, the last paper communication I received was when one of my younger cousins married into a rich family up north. His oldest is starting high school, now, so that's been at least fifteen years ago. The bride's people made their money in import-export of exotic textiles or something like that, and she had more than a thousand guests, including half a dozen Homeworld Cabinet ministers and twenty or thirty lesser functionaries. My country-mouse cousin was begging everyone he knew to come, so Mel and I went. We looked like a couple of rubes that had just fallen off the turnip truck, but those of the bride's guests who deigned to speak with us were friendly and polite. And the wedding favors were impressive, too. We could have sold the earrings they gave Mel and the pocket watch I received, invested the cash in a high-yield account, and paid cash for all three kids' college expenses – books, tuition, housing, food, transportation, even the damned beer – and still have had enough left to retire on; but after a fairly intense discussion that lasted several days, off and on, we decided to volunteer them as collateral for the Lamborghini farm equipment for the co-op. I can't speak for Mel, but I've never regretted that decision. We're not as rich as we might have been, but we have enough and a little bit more, and everyone around us is better off because of it.

So, when the courier rocked up to the door with a thick, cream-colored, paper envelope, I knew it was something big. When I saw the Imperial Seal, pressed in Imperial Red wax on the flap, I went hot and then cold all over. When I read the invitation to a private audience with the new Emperor, I broke out into a cold sweat, bolted for the bathroom and puked in the toilet.

What in the hell do they want with me?

When his engagement to Empress Sato was announced, every news and infotainment show there is did a profile on then-General Austin Burnell. The story is, he's just a regular guy who joined the MACOs and rose through the ranks. At one point, apparently, his parents even had to turn him over to a workhouse for several years because medical debts made it impossible for them to care for both him and his infant brother, a detail that's not nearly as surprising as the fact that he allowed it to be reported to the public. The details are kind of fuzzy, but it sounds like he supervised Admiral Hernandez's investigation that led to Trip's arrest and the disappearance of General Reed and two or three other people from Jupiter Station. With Trip's peaceful surrender, he was promoted to general, which, I guess is how he got to know the Empress.

I can't imagine the Emperor himself having time to investigate my connection to Trip and Mister Charlie, but if he did, or if he had someone else doing the research for him, he has to know I haven't spoken to Trip in more than twenty years now. As for working with Mister Charlie and Sam at the co-op and my friendship with the rest of the family, I'm sure somebody has already reviewed all our business and personal financial and communication records and found nothing, because I haven't done anything for them to find.

So, what in the hell do they want with me here?

I'm sure if I hadn't been so nervous, the all-expenses-paid trip from Panama City to San Francisco would have been a lot of fun. I've only flown once before, when Mel and I left the kids with my folks and went up to Niagara Falls to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. Being packed into coach seating with half a dozen screaming infants, several unruly children running in the aisle, an entire family that packed their own lunches (Italian subs by the smell, which would have been appetizing anywhere but in the close quarters and stressful circumstances of a crowded airplane) and a poor old man who was already airsick before they broke out their sandwiches was so different from traveling first class with leg room, a fully reclining seat and a champagne brunch that it's hard to believe they both happened in an airplane. I'm sure I would have been far more impressed by my luxury apartment just a block from the beach at the top of Ghirardelli Square with the full gourmet kitchen, fireplace in the sitting room, and bay views from all the windows if I hadn't been nearly shitting myself with anxiety ever since I got that damned envelope, too, and I didn't even notice the cutting-edge entertainment system until I got up this morning and wanted to check the weather. I did a little research, and the flight alone would have cost me more than two months' income; the lodging would have been a year's worth of mortgage payments.

So, what in the hell does the Emperor want with me at the Imperial Palace?

I look around me again and shake my head in wonder. Like most people, I suppose I always imagined the Imperial Palace to be grander than any fairy tale castle, but until now I had no idea how limited my imagination was. I know from signage (all very tasteful and subtle engraved black lettering on small brass plaques fastened in the appropriate places with tiny brass tacks) that I am in the foyer of the Main Audience Hall, and I'm pretty sure the value of the artwork and furnishings of this room alone could buy most of Panama City. Hell, the suit of the guy waiting with me probably cost as much as my last flitter. He's vaguely familiar, of obvious African heritage, with a warm brown complexion with ruddy undertones, greenish eyes, tightly coiled auburn hair and a thin moustache. Once upon a time, he was probably very fit and I'm guessing women found him attractive, but he's probably in his mid-fifties now, has some extra weight around his middle, and looks so disagreeable I can't imagine anyone wanting to spend time with him, let alone do anything else. He scowls when he sees me looking at him, and realizing I'm being rude, I mutter an excuse me and turn away.

Not for the first time, I wander over to one of the paintings on the wall nearby. Every wall I've seen so far has been adorned with art, something I know little about, but at least I could recognize the brilliant colors of El Greco and the play of light and shadow in a Rembrandt depiction of a girl being carried away by a white bull (and I know the bull is Zeus, but it's been more than twenty years since I studied Greek mythology so I don't remember the girl's name). I also caught a glimpse of Girl with a Pearl Earring and Vincent van Gough's Starry Night, and there was an entire corridor lined with works by Dalí, Picasso, and the guy who painted The Scream, all of which were obviously intended to freak people right the fuck out as the little brass plaque indicated the corridor led to the offices of Imperial Security.

The'Fighting Temeraire,'tugged to her last berth to be broken up, 1838, J.M.W. TURNER, reads the small information card next to the painting I'm studying. It goes on to discuss the ship's history and its role in the Battle of Trafalgar, the painting's popularity among the British people and how it was protected during the Second World War by being stashed in a Welsh slate mine and shipped to the wilds of Canada during the Third World War, only to have the Canadians rudely refuse to return it for nearly a decade as they used it and other national treasures from various European former allies as bargaining chips in treaty negotiations during the brief interval leading up to the founding of the United Earth Empire just prior to the Vulcan's attempted invasion, which was so abruptly thwarted by Zefram Cochrane and his people at their encampment outside of Bozeman, Montana in 2063. Apparently, it was only recently brought to the Imperial Palace by order of the new Emperor, which makes sense, given his English heritage.

"Mr. Wainwright?"

Christ on a cracker! I nearly jump out of my socks when a young man comes into the foyer to greet me. "That's me," I respond stupidly. No doubt he knows everyone who comes to see the Emperor; it's probably a main function of his job.

"I'm Lieutenant Ian Trainor," he says, extending his hand to shake. "I'm Emperor Burnell's Personal Assistant and Chief Protocol Officer." Indicating the old sourpuss sitting in the chair on the other side of the foyer, he asks, "Have you met Mr. Nigel Odoemene, Minister of Homeworld Trade and Transit?"

"Uh, we haven't introduced ourselves, no," I admit nervously. It's pretty obvious I'm the social inferior here and therefore it would have been inappropriate for me to approach, so when he didn't acknowledge me, I just left him alone.

"Well, then, allow me," says Lieutenant Trainor, motioning toward Odoemene, and with a subtle curl of his fingers indicates the minister should get up and come to us, which elicits a slight frown. "Mr. William Wainwright, President of the Southeastern Agricultural Co-operative Coalition, may I present Mr. Nigel Odoemene, Minister of Homeworld Trade and Transit?"

If the beckoning made him frown, this snub, introducing me first to a man who is obviously of a higher social status than mine (kilometers higher, I'm sure), and then presenting him to me as if I'm some Grand Duke and he's the mayor of one of the several towns within my duchy, causes his expression to change to an outraged glower; but there's also a look of confusion. There's no way in hell the Emperor's Chief Protocol Officer made such a slight by mistake, and Odoemene has to be wondering why he has so suddenly fallen so far out of favor.

"Mr. Odoemene, if you ate breakfast here in San Francisco, Mr. Wainwright's coalition probably produced most of the food on your plate this morning. They feed about a quarter of the planet and are one of the military's biggest suppliers."

Slowly, Odoemene shifts his gaze from the lieutenant to me and his expression becomes partly wary, partly – well, I don't know, not friendly, not exactly agreeable, maybe pleading, hoping that I won't take offense because now, somehow, without either of us knowing how or when or why, I'm suddenly, possibly, in a position to hurt or benefit him.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wainwright," he says, trying for a smile, but he's so clearly confused and unexpectedly threatened by me that he can't properly manage it, so it turns out as sort of a grimace, though he does manage to inject just the right tone of pleasant warmth into his cultured voice.

"Mr. Wainwright, Mr. Odoemene's department governs all the domestic sale and transport of the SACC's – well, everyone's – supplies, equipment and products."

I have nothing against this man. He may have been a bit of a grump the whole time we were alone together, but considering the weight of his responsibilities and the shocking speed with which his status can change, I can't really blame him. So, I smile and say, "The pleasure is all mine."

Then, Lieutenant Trainor drops the minister like a dirty shirt and turns to me.

"The Emperor is waiting for you in the West Courtyard," he says, and with a hand on my elbow, he begins guiding me away. As we walk down another corridor lined with a fortune in artwork, from paintings and sculpture to jewelry and time pieces, to gemstone encrusted dinnerware and even antique furniture, he tells me, "As Chief Protocol Officer, a major function of my job is to make sure your meeting with the Emperor goes smoothly. First, let me assure you that you're not in any kind of trouble. I ordinarily wouldn't say such a thing to a guest of His Majesty, but knowing of your ties to former Commodore Tucker and how many of your former associates went underground following his arrest, I'm sure it was your first thought when you received your invitation to the Palace. Trust me, if you were here to be taken to task for anything you or your coalition might have done, you would not be meeting with Emperor Burnell in the West Courtyard or anywhere else. You'd be meeting with Imperial Security, and even as large and influential as the SACC has become in recent years, you'd probably still just be taken to your local – or at best regional – office."

Well, I can't say he exactly puts my mind at ease. On the one hand, it's exactly the kind of trick Imperial Security might pull if they really wanted to terrorize me by turning the tables when I get to the actual meeting. On the other hand, Lieutenant Trainor seems far too busy and sincere to play those kinds of games. Also, no tricks would be necessary to scare the hell out of me; I'm just a nobody who has no idea what the hell I'm doing here. If not for my connection to Mister Charlie, I doubt anyone at the Imperial Palace would ever have noticed me.

"You'll be relieved to know that in his private meetings, the Emperor isn't one to stand on ceremony," he says, which is a little surprising to me. "With only a couple of exceptions, if you just observe the normal rules of etiquette, you'll be fine. The first exception should be easy to remember because it's the first thing you'll do. When you're introduced, bow slightly from the waist and address him as 'Your Majesty.' After that, it's appropriate to call him 'sir.' Stand when he stands, do not sit unless you're invited. If he offers you refreshment, accept, and don't be surprised if he serves you himself; he's a good host. If he offers you his hand in greeting or at the end of the meeting, shake it, firmly and briefly, just as you did with Mr. Odoemene and me."

Thinking he imagines I'm so nervous I've completely taken leave of my senses, I chuckle and ask, "What else would I do?"

He stops so abruptly, I walk past him and have to turn back. I automatically think my humor has offended him and I could bite my tongue off, but though he's looking at me seriously, there's a kind of gleam there that tells me if it's a warning, it's a friendly one.

"We like you, Mr. Wainwright, at least on paper, so I'm doing everything I can to help you make a good first impression in person. You have a warm, firm, confident handshake. If you had handed me a limp, cold, sweaty dead fish back in the foyer, I'd have advised you to kiss the Emperor's ring instead."

Well, I know nobody likes getting a dead-fish handshake, but the thought that Lieutenant Trainor actually pays attention to something so basic as that and then uses it to advise people on how to behave when meeting the Emperor – most specifically to influence the kind of impression they make on him – creeps me right the fuck out. This guy may be 'merely' a lieutenant but whether he knows it or not he has real power; he influences how people will act when they make those all-important first impressions during their meeting with the most important guy in the Empire, and even I know that those can affect the whole course of a relationship. And if tradition required me to kiss the Emperor's cheeks, I'm so shit scared right now I'd probably have asked which set and done both if ordered.

"Well, I appreciate that," I tell him, swallowing. "Is there anything else I need to know?"

He looks at me thoughtfully. "Be honest with him, even if that means respectfully disagreeing. You know what he did before he ascended to the throne; he'll detect any kind of deceit immediately, including the withholding of information. He doesn't mind differing opinions on any matter, so long as people abide by his decision once it's made. In fact, he likes talking with intelligent people who sometimes disagree with him because he learns from them and makes better decisions.

"If he asks for your advice or your opinions, be brief. At this present time, he wants the bones. If your information is of interest, there'll be time to put the meat on it later.

"If during the course of your conversation he comes close to you, break eye contact and turn your face aside slightly.

"Do not stare.

"And finally, never turn your back directly on the Emperor. When the meeting is over, back away at least three steps before turning to leave."

By this time, we've arrived in the Tapestry Room – or at least that's what the little sign outside says, and by the wall hangings inside, I take it to be accurate. If I know little about art in general, then I know nothing at all about this particular art form except that some of the pieces in this room are very beautiful and some of them not so much, while a few appear to be very old as the fabric has yellowed with age. One particular series of these have primitive illustrations of medieval knights and battles that look like a child's attempt to draw a comic and captions in what I think is Latin that say things like hIE WILLEL M VENIT:BAGIAS and EthIC: DEFVNC TVS EST.

"The Bayeux Tapestry," Lieutenant Trainor says almost reverently beside me. "Though technically, it's an embroidery. A tapestry weaves the images into the cloth as it is made, embroidery stitches them onto plain fabric. This is a reproduction. The original hangs in a custom-built, climate controlled case in a museum in France. Of course, the Emperor has the right to demand the original of any work he wants, but after consulting with the chief curator of the museum, he agreed that there was no way to remove and transport such a large, valuable relic that didn't pose too much risk of damaging it."

I nod, acknowledging the information, both surprised and impressed that the Emperor didn't just order his minions to find a way to move it anyway despite the risk just so that he would have what he wanted. I think it's admirable that a man who can acquire literally anything he wants would have enough respect for history to deny himself something he coveted in order to protect the object of his desire. I glimpse a few of the other pieces hanging in transparent cases suspended from the ceiling on long wrought iron chains. Hunting is a popular theme, as are animals, particularly fanciful and exotic ones like unicorns, lions, and peacocks, though there are a lot of bucks with magnificent racks, and some boars with huge tusks, too; and there's a whole collection grouped together that have flowers worked into every square inch of space not occupied by a figure.

"These are so elaborate, I could stand here all day and not see everything in just one of them," I comment.

"I'm sure we could arrange to extend your visit an extra day if you like," the Lieutenant offers.

The offer is such a surprise, all I can do is grunt at first. "Huh? Oh, uh, no, thank you. I'm not very knowledgeable about art. I'm just amazed by the detail."

Self-consciously, I glance out a set of French doors onto a courtyard adjoining a sort of patio where some staff have just finished setting up a small table with drinks and snacks. A member of the household guard stands there, lean, tall and erect, waiting for…something.

I realize Lieutenant Trainor is wearing a transmitter when he puts two fingers to his ear and nods, saying, "Understood. Thank you."

Then he stands in front of me, looks me up and down, straightens my tie, brushes something off my shoulder and smiles.

"Remember, bow at the waist, brief handshake, don't sit unless you're invited, don't stare and don't turn your back on him," and then we're moving again, out through the French doors and the guard turns and smiles at me, and I realize it's the Emperor himself, and he's been waiting for me!

If you are enjoying this story, please leave a review. How do you think Billy's meeting with the Emperor is going to go? What do you think is going through Odoemene's mind right now as he waits back there in the foyer for Ian to return and tell him what's going to happen next? Does he have the courage to protest the disrespect or the sense to know better?