Almost no one in certain other parts of the world does.”
“We don’t have the saying, as far as I know,” said Esmeralda, “but my society back on old Earth certainly understands the principle.” She had to work to keep out of her words her hatred of the society whereof she spoke.
“As do all civilized folk,” said the Zhong. “And right now, the high admiral and empress are cementing a relationship to the betterment of us all. Now, as I asked, would you care for something to eat?”
Esmeralda opened her mouth, closed it, opened it, closed it, then opened it again to say, “Please.”
Admiral’s Barge, over the Mar Furioso , Terra Nova
As it turned out, the Zhong empress, whose cheek rested against Wallenstein’s shoulder and whose hand the high admiral held in her own, was not just the emperor’s wife, nor even his chief wife. She ran the country, she and the hundred important families. He was a figurehead, nothing more.
Nor was the empress quite as young as she appeared. Though much younger than Wallenstein, she was of a certain age and looked a certain half of that.
And if ever I needed more evidence that people want in bed what they’re denied in real life, thought Marguerite, what more than she and I could I ask for? I, who have to be so cold and commanding in public, wanting to be dominated in bed and made to perform; her, having to be so demure in public, needing to dominate in bed and make me perform . . . well, me for now, anyway. Though I would not mind making it long term.
Unconsciously, Marguerite squeezed Xingzhen’s hand, then twisted her own head to kiss the top of the empress’s. Xingzhen, quite asleep, still managed to cuddle in closer.
Not entirely idly, Wallenstein wondered if she were in love. Lust? Yes, clearly I’m in lust. And after so long without so much as a hint of sex I was more than ready. But love? In love? At my age? Why . . . it’s been . . . let me think . . . ummm . . . a hundred and sixty-two years? About that. Surely I can’t be in love. Surely . . .
Even so, she reached up with her free hand to stroke the Zhong empress’s silky-smooth, midnight black hair.
Shit. Yes . . . maybe . . . in love. Shit. Oh, nonononono. It was bad enough the last time . . . and I have no reason whatsoever to think she feels anything like the same way. Oh, elder gods, that’s slavery. A subbie I may be—at least in private—but I am not a slave. Shit.
“Passing over the coast of Santa Josefina, High Admiral,” announced the pilot of her barge, over a speaker in the passenger cabin. “Arrival in Aserri in about seventeen minutes.”
Esmeralda sat on the opposite side of the cabin from Wallenstein, where she usually did. She sat alone, though Li An Ming was behind her, as were nine very competent looking Zhong guards. She had reason to suspect that four of the oldest guards were much higher ranking than they pretended to be.
It had apparently been the empress’s idea, to call a peace conference in Aserri to which Santa Josefina, Balboa, the Federated States, the Tauran Union, and the Peace Fleet would be invited. Some Zhong diplomats were already en route, as were various functionaries for the FSC and TU. Wallenstein had tasked the Consensus’s ambassador to Santa Josefina to set it up and run it.
The Balboans hadn’t yet answered, a lack which had raised quite a broad grin on Xingzhen’s angelic face.
“They can’t come,” she’d told the high admiral, before it became obvious that they would not come. “Or at least not without a lot of soul searching. They’re just a regime of soldiers, comfortable and competent on a battlefield, yes, but quite uncomfortable off of one, or on one that doesn’t involve direct violence. And if they don’t come, they can’t make their case before the world. They’ll be ‘Warmongers who prefer fighting to talking peace.’ Trust me, this is going to hurt them.”
The high admiral had seen the truth of that. She’d also
“We don’t have the saying, as far as I know,” said Esmeralda, “but my society back on old Earth certainly understands the principle.” She had to work to keep out of her words her hatred of the society whereof she spoke.
“As do all civilized folk,” said the Zhong. “And right now, the high admiral and empress are cementing a relationship to the betterment of us all. Now, as I asked, would you care for something to eat?”
Esmeralda opened her mouth, closed it, opened it, closed it, then opened it again to say, “Please.”
Admiral’s Barge, over the Mar Furioso , Terra Nova
As it turned out, the Zhong empress, whose cheek rested against Wallenstein’s shoulder and whose hand the high admiral held in her own, was not just the emperor’s wife, nor even his chief wife. She ran the country, she and the hundred important families. He was a figurehead, nothing more.
Nor was the empress quite as young as she appeared. Though much younger than Wallenstein, she was of a certain age and looked a certain half of that.
And if ever I needed more evidence that people want in bed what they’re denied in real life, thought Marguerite, what more than she and I could I ask for? I, who have to be so cold and commanding in public, wanting to be dominated in bed and made to perform; her, having to be so demure in public, needing to dominate in bed and make me perform . . . well, me for now, anyway. Though I would not mind making it long term.
Unconsciously, Marguerite squeezed Xingzhen’s hand, then twisted her own head to kiss the top of the empress’s. Xingzhen, quite asleep, still managed to cuddle in closer.
Not entirely idly, Wallenstein wondered if she were in love. Lust? Yes, clearly I’m in lust. And after so long without so much as a hint of sex I was more than ready. But love? In love? At my age? Why . . . it’s been . . . let me think . . . ummm . . . a hundred and sixty-two years? About that. Surely I can’t be in love. Surely . . .
Even so, she reached up with her free hand to stroke the Zhong empress’s silky-smooth, midnight black hair.
Shit. Yes . . . maybe . . . in love. Shit. Oh, nonononono. It was bad enough the last time . . . and I have no reason whatsoever to think she feels anything like the same way. Oh, elder gods, that’s slavery. A subbie I may be—at least in private—but I am not a slave. Shit.
“Passing over the coast of Santa Josefina, High Admiral,” announced the pilot of her barge, over a speaker in the passenger cabin. “Arrival in Aserri in about seventeen minutes.”
Esmeralda sat on the opposite side of the cabin from Wallenstein, where she usually did. She sat alone, though Li An Ming was behind her, as were nine very competent looking Zhong guards. She had reason to suspect that four of the oldest guards were much higher ranking than they pretended to be.
It had apparently been the empress’s idea, to call a peace conference in Aserri to which Santa Josefina, Balboa, the Federated States, the Tauran Union, and the Peace Fleet would be invited. Some Zhong diplomats were already en route, as were various functionaries for the FSC and TU. Wallenstein had tasked the Consensus’s ambassador to Santa Josefina to set it up and run it.
The Balboans hadn’t yet answered, a lack which had raised quite a broad grin on Xingzhen’s angelic face.
“They can’t come,” she’d told the high admiral, before it became obvious that they would not come. “Or at least not without a lot of soul searching. They’re just a regime of soldiers, comfortable and competent on a battlefield, yes, but quite uncomfortable off of one, or on one that doesn’t involve direct violence. And if they don’t come, they can’t make their case before the world. They’ll be ‘Warmongers who prefer fighting to talking peace.’ Trust me, this is going to hurt them.”
The high admiral had seen the truth of that. She’d also
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