The Emperor's New Clothes (Royce Ree #1) Read online

  “Um. You have a berth on the ship?” asked Royce.

  “What? No. Not yet.”

  Royce almost growled. “Les! It’s the last Imperial ship in this space!”

  Les was silent for a time. “I didn’t realize. I will have to get a secured berth from our on-planet Cultural Attaché—he’s Imperial Intelligence, only-contact-in-case-of-extreme-duress, that kind of thing, you know. I assume my holding a drive under an Imperial Command counts as “extreme duress”.”

  “The diplomatic corps packed up and left four days ago. They didn’t advertise the departure, but…”

  “I was deep-cover. Nobody would have known how to reach me.”

  Royce frowned a bit. Every deep-cover agent should have at least one drop-channel, two if it was a life-or-death matter.

  “Unprofessional.”

  Les snorted. “File a complaint.”

  “With whom?” The two of them were the entirety of His Imperial Majesty’s intelligence apparatus in a six-thousand light-year radius.

  Silence descended again. It’s better this way. Silence made it easier for Royce to concentrate on his counting.

  A half-hour later, he stopped, the tips of his fingers feeling for the fiftieth seam between ductwork-sections. They were in front of a grilled aperture, one of many that dotted the ventilation system, which forced air into the building’s non-laboratory rooms. If he was right—and he always was—this particular aperture led to the guardroom.

  Twisting his body around, Royce peered out through the thin exhaust-filter.

  Baldessh sent someone—a senior member of the Planet’s government, “Lord and Admiral Vaartarian”—to survey the military organization of more advanced worlds.

  We gave the guy the VIP treatment—you know, the tours, the cocktail parties. We let him shoot a grav cannon, thought that’d impress the pants off any buyer.

  He wasn’t biting.

  Then an Imperial showed up, some older contractual business, an old man, a Jouvan Commander. Real war hero. The Vaartarian guy really hit it off with the Imperial. Use what you’ve got, I say. Second the Imperial left, we played the “even the Empire buys from us” card to the hilt.

  The Baldasshi ended up putting in an order for six hundred warships. Cash! Their planet exports textiles, for fucks sake! We’re in the wrong line of business, I’m telling you. Organic textiles!

  Anyways, so Baldessh’s space navy was created two years ago. It’s mostly starry-eyed recruits and engineers. I mean, the planet has Peacekeepers, not soldiers, you know? None of them are used to any conflict more severe than a domestic disturbance.

  -Novawings Trade Cartel Sales Representative

  Conversation overheard at spaceport dive-bar, Baga-V

  EXIT STAIRWELL, INSTITUTE OF RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT, BALDESSH

  Royce willed the room to be empty of guards. And it was, in a manner of speaking—three bodies, in Baldasshi service uniforms, lay face-up on the floor, pools of crimson spreading out from under them.

  Double-tap to the back of the head, execution style.

  The Baldasshi hadn’t stood a chance. An unnamed sadness rose in Royce before he could stop it. Different uniform, different planet, but…He allowed himself exactly two breaths before he caught the feeling and forced it back into the part of his mind labeled “not mission”.

  “We’ve got a…situation…,” said Royce. “Nothing unexpected, but I’m going to cut the lights. Backups will come on, but it’ll make us harder to spot.”

  He felt Les nod.

  “No unscripted motions.”

  Again, he felt Les nod in acquiescence. Satisfied, Royce pulled a vibra-knife from his pocket, flicked it open, and sawed through the filter. From there, it was only an awkward foot-and-a-half for him to reach the room’s primary lighting conduit.

  The world went dark.

  Somewhere, Royce could hear the buzz of backup chemlights coming on. And a rustle of cloth, too loud, right beside him. Les was drawing his lab-shirt off, sculpted abs coming into view a millimeter at a time.

  “What are you doing?” Royce’s voice came out unnaturally hoarse.

  “Too baggy,” said Les. “Might get caught.” He was right, but at the moment, Royce required all of his focus on following the exit plan.

  “Keep it on,” he said. “You’ll need clothes out on the street.”

  Les may or may not have bought the explanation, but he stopped trying to strip, and lowered the shirt over his half-exposed torso.

  Royce waited two more breaths in case his ex-husband decided to do some other crazy thing. Then he pulled himself out of the vent, fibrillous strands of filter-material giving way before his vibra-blade.

  Les was close behind him. Luckily, both Les and Les’s shirt passed the vent’s mouth without incident.

  Royce moved swiftly, counting steps. The room wasn’t absolutely dark, there was a thin seam of light coming in around the door to the corridor.

  Royce made it two-thirds of the way across the guard-room floor before he felt Les grab his arm, the touch going through Royce like electricity.

  “Blood,” whispered Les. Royce didn’t reply, still counting in his head. His silence was sufficient; Les drew one shuddering breath, and let go of Royce’s hand.

  He heard another rustle of cloth. It was hard to make out in the darkness, but he thought Les knelt, or crouched, for a few moments. Then he stood up again.

  Royce started moving forward again.

  Soon they were out of the room, and in a featureless corridor that led straight to the service entrance. The backup lights bathed the room in a sickly green color.

  “They Kova are gone,” said Les. “We heard them leaving. When did they get in, Royce?”

  “That’s…”

  Les leaned forward.

  “…not our concern,” finished Royce. “Our concern is getting the hell out of here alive, and with that hypernova-grade shitstorm you’ve got in your hand. We have fifty-one seconds. On my mark, we’re going to book it for the door.”

  But Les shook his head.

  “What?”

  “This is as far as I go,” said Les, and held out the glittering FTL-drive core. “Take it.”

  “No!”

  “If the Kova were after this, they know it’s gone. And now they’ve got access to all the security logs. My datum will be at every ship-lock and port and hotel in the area in a few minutes.” Les’s next words were unexpectedly gentle. “My dear, you need to take it back to the Emperor.”

  “No.”

  Les sighed. “And there’s that Royce Ree stubbornness again.”

  “And there’s the Les’Anther Dai-Sarn arguments-in-the-middle-of-hostile-territory fuckwittery again. Put that thing away, and let’s go!”

  Les didn’t show any signs of complying with Royce’s entirely reasonable demand.

  Royce gritted his teeth. “How about I make you a deal?”

  “What kind of deal?” Les’s narrowed gaze was trained on Royce’s face.

  He almost blushed, remembering the last “deal” he’d made with Les. But he was faster than his reactions this time, stuffing the embarrassment into the “not mission” box before it became visible.

  “My mission has kinda gone belly-up, what with the alarm and all,” he said. “I need to switch to Plan B.” Plan A, as far as HQ is concerned. “Which means getting back into orbit, which means I can take you with me, get you out of this planetary space.”

  “In return?” asked Les.

  “In return, you’re going to have to give me fashion advice.”

  Les looked at him for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed.

  “Stop it!”

  “How many times,” asked Les, finally sobering, “how many times did I try to give you fashion advice? And how many times did it not work?”

  “Yeah well now it’s going to have to,” grumbled Royce. “I have to go undercover as Royal Couturier to the Princess of Baldessh.”

  “The
big lab? Yeah, I can take you there. You look like a spy. Are you a spy? I bet you’re a spy. Man, you’re wasting your time. We export organic textiles, mostly boutique stuff. Handmade, you know? Our tech’s pretty primitive, not like the stuff you’re used to. And if there’s anything good, not that I’d know, but if there is, Kovans are deorbiting tonight, they’ll get it before anyone else.”

  -Independent Baldasshi Hover-Taxi Driver

  Excerpt from verbatim report by Agent R. Ree

  BLACKBIRD AVENUE, NESSDAR, BALDESSH

  Their chosen exit disgorged them right onto a public thoroughfare in the city of Nessadar. The street was empty—the binary star-system’s second, dimmer, sun was just clearing the horizon.

  Les had asked for something bad to happen, and it had. What god would be irresponsible enough to grant my prayers?

  Elation had been seared out of his veins, leaving behind a knot in his throat, and a memory, of that vivid tang of blood….He looked down at his hands. His fingertips were tinged red from closing the one guard’s eyes. He couldn’t get to the other two.

  Cold comfort, that Royce wasn’t here for the drive after all. But it did stop his heart’s hapless flip-flopping, replacing it with purpose. He had to warn someone of the Kova’s presence.

  Before it was too late.

  Royce, in the lead, was halfway down the street already. He moved with a lackadaisical grace that belied the direness of their current situation. Then again, his voice hadn’t lost its confident tone even as the Kovan paramilitary team raced over their heads.

  Les wondered if he’d imagined that anguished look on Royce’s face, in that first moment they startled each other in the lab. He must have. It was wishful thinking—Royce was capable of many things: daring escapes, single-minded focus, brilliance. But not anguish. Certainly not regret, the kind that made Les want to babble, about something, anything, just to hear Royce say his name once again.

  “Les,” said Royce, “keep an eye out for a trash incinerator.”

  “Why?”

  “The first one you see,” he cast over his shoulder, without explanation, and continued down the street.

  The familiar, smug, attitude made Les want to chuck something at the back of Royce’s dark head. Or wrestle him to the ground and kiss him till he couldn’t breathe. Gritting his teeth, Les contained both impulses, and started scanning the street.

  There was a green bin, with a Baldasshi civic-services sign not ten meters away from him.

  How did Royce miss it?

  “There!” Les called, pointing towards the device. Royce nodded, and increased his pace, forcing Les to lengthen his stride. Royce approached the bin and casually flicked open his vibra-blade. Before Les could say anything, Royce sank it into the incinerator’s polymer shell.

  Instead of spewing gouts of superheated plasma through the breach, the incinerator’s maintenance panel popped open.

  Les started breathing again.

  Royce reached inside, pulled out a nondescript black bag, and turned to Les with a grin.

  The world snapped into focus.

  “You planned this,” Les said.

  “Um…yes?” said Royce. “That’s what one does, generally, when a heist is required.”

  “No. The Kova. You knew they were coming to the Institute today.”

  Royce sighed, and leaned back against the broken incinerator.

  “What do you want me to say?” he asked. “The Kova took down most of the defenses, cut the comm lines in case some Baldasshi guard got courageous. I just…took advantage of it.”

  “You knew they would kill the guards.”

  “Not until the claxon went off,” said Royce. “Then…it was inevitable.”

  “You could have warned them.”

  “And failed the mission, sure.”

  The nonchalance took Les by surprise. It shouldn’t have.

  Same old Royce.

  “The guards had names,” he said.

  Royce looked a bit surprised. “I expect so.”

  “They were my kin.”

  “Professionals like us,” said Royce, a note of censure in his voice. “Don’t buy their own cover stories.”

  Les wanted to rip that look off his face. “You might as well have murdered them yourself.”

  Royce’s gaze narrowed. “Now that,” he said, “is unfair.” His eyes glittered with a decidedly unfriendly look. “I didn’t trip the alarm. If it was just me in there, nobody would know anything was missing. Ever.”

  It was not an idle boast. “Because you planned for the Kova to neutralize the guards.”

  “It saved our asses,” says Royce. “I care more about your safety than—”

  “Care? Let’s not delude ourselves, Agent Ree. The Imperial Command in my neck obliges you to render assistance.”

  Royce’s gaze, hot and angry up to this point, turned cold. “You are quite right, Lord Les’Anther. A rabid dog with that chip on it, I’d pat it on the head, feed it kibble and take it home for the night.” Royce smiled, and the sheer viciousness of the expression made Les want to step back.

  He held his ground, refusing to let his gaze waver. “The Academy is just a few blocks from here. Raw recruits, Royce, with policemen as their commanders. They have to be warned.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” Royce’s posture changed subtly.

  Ready to grab me if I make a run for it.

  “You don’t think they know by now?” asked Royce. “Hell, the hover-cab driver that dropped me off knew the Kova were invading.”

  The drivers may have known. The rest of Baldessh didn’t. The rest of Baldessh voted to join with the Kova. And the Princess’s broadcast last week…she was animated, excited. “The takeover was supposed to be peaceful. The Academy may be expecting non-hostiles. I have a duty to—”

  “No,” said Royce. “What you have is an Imperial Command, embedded in the back of your fucking neck.”

  Les tried to keep from snarling. “So I’m supposed to hop on a ship, just forget the fact that they murdered people last night?”

  “Yup,” said Royce, and raised a hand to forestall Les’s objections. “Imperial Command. You don’t have a choice. Neither do I. So I want you to take this bag into the refresher of a bar two blocks from here.”

  “Some things are more important than a damn mission,” hissed Les.

  “The Empire you are sworn to serve,” said Royce, as if he hadn’t heard Les’s words. “Or…,”

  Les couldn’t help but complete the sentence: or the Baldasshi, who invited their doom upon themselves.

  “Use the bag,” said Royce. He thrust it into Les’s hands, and took the lead again.

  For eleven billion years, the Empire has watched lifeforms evolve across a million worlds. Trees, insects, fish. Our very own household pests. People, honoured advisors, whose genome is so very similar to the way ours used to be in the beforetimes.

  Obviously, there is a mystery at the heart of the Universe. And part of it, the part my respected isolationist colleagues want you to ignore, is that we, nobody else, carried the infection of life into this universe with us.

  -Val’Anther Dai-Nees, “Introduction to Panspermia.”

  THE BEAR AND CROWN, NESSDAR, BALDESSH

  I have to survive long enough to...right the wrongs done to Baldessh? Make sure their drive remained theirs? Explain himself to the Emperor? Find the traitor?

  Les clawed, savagely, for clarity. One thing at a time. His best shot at surviving long enough to…whatever…had ordered him to “use what’s in the bag”, in this particular refresher.

  Even the taps here were near-perfect models of antique Baldasshi metalwork. Synthetic materials and holograms combined to give an impression of warm wood, polished to a shine.

  He wondered what story Royce would feed the bartender—full introductions would be required in a place like this. Then again, this was Royce Ree. There would be a Plan in place. Several, to cover every contingency from injury to a pet elephant.

/>   Les locked the ‘fresher door, then placed Royce’s bag onto the stone counter. Inside, he found a toolbox, a pair of blue coveralls, and a standard Ops kit: ballistic, stunner, first-aid supplies, basic comm-supplies, basic disguise materials.

  It is the last, obviously, that he was meant to use. Les picked up the scissors, and got to work.

  Sometime later, he took in the full effect of his efforts in the mirror. His flowing hair had been cut to shoulder length, dyed an Imperial jet-black. The face-mod inserts destroyed the angular lines of his face, thickened his lips. Enough, he hoped, to fool the Baldasshi’s crude homebrew of face-recognition algorithms.

  As a last step, he donned the overalls, then packed everything up, and returned to the bar proper.

  To his surprise Royce was deep in conversation with the bartender. And he’d obviously made use of a disguise kit as well.

  How many black bags has he got stashed around here?

  With a vision of planetwide trash incinerator breakdowns dancing in Les’s head, he approached the bar and his almost-unrecognizable ex-husband. Royce’s hair was bleached a straw blonde, and streaked with garish orange stripes. The face-inserts gave him the listless look typical of an indentured Cartel dockworker.

  Les’s entry attracted Royce’s attention. Again, a look flit across his face that Les would have described as anguished, had it but graced the features of anyone other than Royce Ree.

  “Come, love,” Royce gestured, then pretended he didn’t see Les wince, “meet our fourth-cousin.”

  Royce’s command of Baldoon, Baldessh’s primary dialect, was idiom-perfect.

  “Hello, cousin,” said Les, and sat down on the indicated barstool. At least Royce’s story saved him from having to think up a spur-of-the-moment family-tree. Beyond dangerous, to use the one designed for his lab-technician cover.

  “Good disguises,” said the bartender. Les tried not to choke. “But if you want my advice, get married, then go back home.” He reached for a bottle of synthahol and uncorked it. Royce had already been served something in a glass.