He Who Dares: Book Three (9 page)

The Americas had split into two parts with the Confederacy States on one side occupying two star systems, and the Union of the United States on the other now occupying three smaller star systems. The balance of power was now about equal. If there were a war between them, this time the US of A wouldn’t have a strategic industrial base or manpower reserve to help them win. Not that he could see a war in their immediate future, and overall they tolerated each other very well. Overall, the Earth was ripe for the picking as so many of the once seven and a half billion people had fled to the stars or been wiped out by the plague. No one was sure, where the plague had originated, or if it was natural or manmade. Either way it had wiped out two and a half billion people, mostly in China and the Far East and had swept across India, Asia and into Europe. It had also stopped warlords and such from taking over as any large group of people, such as a military force, soon fell victim to the plague. Europe, Russia, England, and the US did manage to find a cure and stop it before it wiped out the human race, but that only spurred people that could to leave. Just then, a knock came at the door to his study.

“Come!” He answered brusquely, hating it when he was interrupted during his “planning” as he called his musings. The door opened and the Chancellor of the Exchequer walked in looking none too happy.

“Abrahams, why the glum look?” The PM suddenly had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“I have just received the dispatch case from the palace.” The Chancellor answered as he sat down on the other side of the desk from the PM.

“Whisky and soda?” The PM asked, seeing Wesley shake his head. “So what did his ‘High and Mightiness’ have to say?” In answer, Wesley threw a thin folder onto the PM’s desk.

“See for yourself.”

The PM flipped the folder open, and one glance had him almost foaming at the mouth. The Chancellor had to listen to ten straight minutes of expletives demeaning the character, family, ancestry, personal hygiene, sexual preferences of the royal family as a whole, and the King in particular.

“He vetoed every bill we sent up for his signature…” He spluttered. “He can’t do that… it’s against the law. He’s just supposed to rubber stamp the bloody things and send them back.”

“Apparently not this time,” Wesley Abrahams knew that trying to calm the PM down was impossible once he got like this.

“I’ll force him to sign them, or enact them without his damn signature.” He saw Wesley shake his head.

“There is no way, short of putting a gun to his head, that you can force the King to sign this into law, or approve the new budget.” Wesley pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a massive headache coming on. “As to enacting them without his signature, you’d have a total revolt in parliament.”

“Those bloody weasels will do what I tell them, or else.”

“And if someone calls for a vote of ‘no confidence’?”

“What!”

“You heard me. A full vote is secret, and you know how the Tory’s will vote. But how about the backbenchers of our own party? Are you sure which way they’ll vote?”

The PM had the sinking feeling that he didn’t know for sure which way the backbenchers in his own party would vote. He could scream, shout, and threaten, but other than knowing the total vote, he’d have no way of knowing exactly who’d voted for, or against him. Of course, they’d all say they voted for him, just like the bunch of back stabbers they were. If that happened and he lost the vote of no confidence, he’d be forced to hand in his resignation and call for a general election. Right now, it was a fifty-fifty split on his chance of winning reelection, especially now that his largesse were sharply curtailed. The fickle pubic would turn on him like a rabid dog if their freebees were suddenly cut off.

“We can still enact the budget, right?”

Wesley Abrahams shook his head again. “Not without his signature. Even if we did it in secret, you know the word would get out that the budget didn’t have his stamp of approval on it. What then?”

“The bloody Tory’s would be screaming for my head on a pike.”

“We’d do the same if the shoe were on the other foot.”

“But… but we need the money from the additional tax on smoke products, fuel, and beer for our social programs. Now that he’s killed the budget cut on the armed forces, especially the Navy, we have to make up the shortfall from somewhere.”

“Yes, the three staples could always be relied on for extra income.” Wesley sighed. Both the labor and the conservative government in the past had jacked up the tax on those three items, no matter how much the general public screamed. “This time, you’ll just have to cut some of the unnecessary social programs.”

“Yes, and lose us votes in the next election if we do that.”

“True, the freeloaders on the dole are a fickle lot, aren’t they?” Wesley smirked. Unlike the PM, he had very few illusions about the loyalty of the general public. Cut off their free lunches, and they’d turn on you like a pack of starving wolves.

While the good times were rolling, everyone was making money hand over fist, even the great unwashed. As long as the government kept shoveling out the money for doing nothing, they were content to keep voting the same party back into power. As Sir Winston Churchill once observed. …If you reward non-production, you get non-production… The PM sucked down more of his whisky and… well it was just whisky now. Wesley Abrahams silently thought that the PM was a detestable man in many ways. It was a shame that he knew where so many of the bodies were buried, politically speaking that is. The only reason he’d agreed to serve in this cabinet in the first place was due to the skeletons in his own closet, not out of loyalty to the party.

“Christ almighty! What the hell are we going to do?” The PM asked at last. Visions of being the first president of Earth fading fast. With the way things stood with the military and the local population, he couldn’t do a “Cromwell” on them and declare himself president.

Even if the Sirriens held up their end of the bargain, there was no guarantee he’d be Prime Minister when it happened. If he wasn’t, someone else would end up in that position. Someone from the Tory side of parliament. There was no way the Sirriens would put him back in power. Why should they? He’d assured them that their takeover of Earth would be unopposed by the people. Without him at the helm, there was no way of knowing which way the people would jump. It was a mess, all because the bloody King chose this moment to dig his heels in and refuse to sign the laws parliament had passed. On top of that, his one strong arm, MI5, and the other intelligence services were no longer under his control. He shuddered to think how far the sweep of the new bosses up there in Whitehall would go, or how deep they would dig. Come to that, he didn’t even know who ran the Secret Service now. Maybe it was time for the Sirrien agents to take a more active role, and get rid of a few people permanently.

*  *  *  *  *  *

As John Cromwell stopped before entering the steam room, much as he’d done a hundred times before, and checked the security monitor before entering. Even with advances in electronics, today’s latest models couldn’t stand up long in the constant high heat, humidity and the water soaked environment of a steam sauna. Wearing nothing but a cotton singlet, shorts and flip-flops, he looked nothing like his usual urbane self. Upon entering, he found the King taking his ease on the wooden bench on the second tier. Even to his eye, as calm looking as the King was, he could see the stress lines on his face. Particularly around the eyes and mouth. At seventy-two years old, the King was a powerfully built man, vigorous, healthy with very little fat or sagging skin prevalent in older men.

“All clear, your Majesty.” The King nodded and patted the bench beside him. He was similarly dressed in a cotton singlet and white shorts.

This room was about as safe and bug free as any room in Windsor Castle could be. Situated as it was under the castle itself, they were surrounded by the solid brick and stone of the original foundations that dated back to the extensive rebuilding of Windsor between 1165 and 1179. John Cromwell had himself installed a bug detector and dampening field adding an additional layer of security to its natural defenses. With all the lights in the green, the possibility of anyone listening in or video spying on them was minimal. Even the clothes they were wearing were subject to a microwave treatment before they put them on ensuring they didn’t inadvertently bring something in with them. The King smiled at his friend.

“When we first met, John, before you found out who I was, did you ever imagine you’d end up in a place like this?”

“You mean an overly hot, steamy room wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and a singlet?” He chuckled, but knew what the King meant.

“Funny how life can take you by surprise isn’t it.” The King murmured.

John Cromwell smiled. “Yes, I never imagined I’d end up here. I remember the first time I met you, a 10-year-old, scared, skinny lad who didn’t seem to know where he was or what he was supposed to be doing.” John sighed, thinking back to those happier days as schoolboys. The only thing they’d had to worry about then was passing their exams and not getting caught sneaking out of school to go play in the woods.

“Easier times, then, John.” John nodded.

“Simpler times as well, I think, before the world went to hell in a hand basket.”

“Yes, once we got out of our home system, it was inevitable each country would grab as much real estate as they could.”

“Not to mention the corporations.” John added with a sigh.

“Not much we could do, really. We couldn’t police all of human space, no matter how big our navy was.”

“I hate the idea that slavery came back so easily.” John grumbled.

“Not that they call it that. Migrant works is the euphemism they use, slavery in all but name.”

“I hate to imagine the hell hole those industrial planets have become.”

“We are as much to blame as the corporations, John. The multi-stellar corporations here import all the ship parts, fusion reactors, engines, and what have you, and install them in the ships they build.”

“Not to mention the food and luxury good they import.”

“I wonder if Michael Gray’s idea of the crown taking more control of the government might not be such a bad idea. At least we could draft bills to outlaw any kind of servitude.”

“Did we ever get rid of slavery? We now call it human trafficking, as if that’s a better turn for forcing people into a miserable existence.”

“True, John. Slavery had been with us over the years in one form or another. We just cover it up with politically correct words and form a comity to look into it.” The king’s laugh had anything but humor in it. 

“Not that it would do us much good in the long run.  The Corporations are outside our jurisdiction, and most are sovereign star systems of their own, with their own fleet of warships to protect them. No real way to police them”

“Well, we did our best to hold it all together, didn’t we John?”

“That we did, sir that we did.”

“John, will you please, just for once, stop calling me, sir, your majesty, and any other bloody title?” John Cromwell chuckled.

“Yes, Richard, I can do that.” The King blew his cheeks out.

“I remember you magically appearing out of thin air, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me to your… our dorm room, and, yes, I was scared damn it.”

“Not for long.” John bumped his should against the King’s.

“Oh, you mean those two idiots who picked on you at the sweet shop.” He smiled at the memory. “Just because you didn’t have enough money for a spice bun and a drink.” The King shook his head.

“Well, I’m not sure beating the shit out of them for calling me a ragamuffin was the best course of action.”

“Still no reason to call you that even if your family wasn’t as well off as theirs.” The King nodded, thinking about how unjust it was to belittle someone just for the pleasure of picking on them. Especially someone smaller who couldn’t fight back. Injustice was something he felt deeply about. Between the two of them, they’d delivered an object lesson to other would-be bullies. Now they knew that Cromwell and company meant business.

“I still say I should have been the one to take the caning, not you.” John murmured.

“Water under the bridge. You were there when I needed it, and still are, though god knows why.” The King looked at his friend, and he was, in the truest sense of the word. “There is an old saying. Not sure where it comes from, but they say a friend is someone who’ll help you carry out the body, a true friend will help you bury it.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that one.”

“You are both, John.” This time, the King bumped his shoulder against John Cromwell’s. “Now I have to ask you to help me bury one more body.” John turned his head slowly to look at his friend.

“Whose, and where do you want to bury it?” He asked.

“The body I want to bury is yours, and for the first time since we’ve known each other. I’m going to order you to do something.” A puzzled frown crossed John Cromwell’s face. “I say order, since if I asked, you’d say no.”

“Would I?”

“Yes, you would. So I’m making this a royal command.” John stiffened. In all the years, they’d known each other, the King, his King, had never ordered him to do anything.