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the
Princess of Baldessh?” asked Les.
    “Um…yes,” said Royce. “There’s something
you should know about the…timing….”
    “Yes?”
    “I was supposed to meet the Princess
three days ago.”

“ His Imperial Majesty will not send
a task-force into what is soon to become a Kovan warzone, not to
rescue an AWOL Agent, regardless of His personal fondness
for you and your family.”
    -Response to Letter of Petition from
House Anther
VISA AND IMMIGRATION OFFICE,
SPACE-STATION, BALDASSHI PLANETARY SPACE
    Bedlam ruled the space-station customs
office, despite the best efforts of the Kovan guards assigned to
keep order. All FTL ships had just been banned from operating in
Baldasshi space.
    “Idiots,” Les muttered. “If they think
they can fuck with the trade Cartels—”
    Royce snorted.
    “Sure you don’t want to play the
Master?” Les asked. “You don’t do very well in subordinate
roles.”
    “Nope,” said Royce. “I’m the apprentice,
Master, I wouldn’t know a dholag from a whore if it bit me
on the ass.”
    “Such language!” Privately, Les quite
agree with Royce’s assessment; his ex’s skills lay in a different
arena. Those same skills, combined with Royce’s react—Les groped
for a better word. Royce’s words earlier, absolved him of
being a pawn in the game of Drivepolitik.
    The fake Imperial Command fully absolved
the Emperor. Which left Les at square one, only now the
chip-imposed deadline had been moved up.
    Les dragged his attention back to the
issue at hand. Master Roza’nal Ter-Versha, Imperial Couturier, was
three days late. He had somehow acquired an “apprentice” not
mentioned in the Royal Invitation. He was missing the basic
wardrobe and tools required for his role.
    Also, Master Ter-Versha’s head was going
to explode in exactly twenty-two minutes, unless he made it back
down to the surface.
    At least half of Les’s problems could be
solved by the Baldasshi Immigration and Visa official, sitting five
meters away. But there was another person in line, ahead of him. A
Baldasshi woman, with a screaming infant in her lap. She’d burned
up six minutes arguing with the official.
    “No! I want it changed! I won’t have my
daughter sharing a name with a traitor!”
    The official, meanwhile, kept stating
some “policy”, and casting half-frightened glances at the Kova
guard standing behind him.
    The woman looked ready to cry. “But my
brother said all I needed was the form! You’re a Kova lackey , you sniveling—”
    The Kova guard, standing behind the
official, straightened from his bored slouch.
    Oh oh.
    “Sweetheart,” Les interrupted as he
stepped up to the woman’s elbow. “I’m sure Cousin…,” He took in the
official’s nametag, “Cousin Bower is just doing his job. Sorry, my
wife gets very emotional.” Les lobbied a conspiratorial “ Help
me! I have to live with her !” look at the guard. Then, before
anyone could recover from their surprise, he grabbed the woman’s
arm and dragged her away.
    “What…what are…” spluttered the
woman.
    “Trying to save your life,” replied Les
in an undertone. The woman gave him a wide-eyed look, but allowed
him to maneuver the three of them into the waiting-room.
    Les seated the woman on one of the hard
syntha-poly chairs, and sat down beside her.
    “Look, sweetheart,” he said, “you can’t
insult the Kova. They’re not…tolerant.”
    The woman got his gist. She looked down
at the child in her arms. “I just want to change her name,” she
whispered.
    “A bad name on a live baby,” said Les,
“is far better than an excellent name on a dead baby.”
    But before he could follow up on that
with an explanation, Royce moved, a flash of dark cloth and limb.
Les found himself pushed back in the chair, Royce interspersed
between him and the baby.
    “Oh!” said the mother, startled. “You’re fast !”
    And then Les saw it – the emerald-green
head of a small snake undulating out of the infant’s sleeve,