“That seems to be quite a nice apartment you have. When you said you were an art student, I might have imagined more spartan quarters. Your family—”
She seemed embarrassed. “People of a certain breeding are not allowed to live in hovels. Part of me wishes I could, just for a year or two. It would be part of the ‘experience’.”
He laughed. “I understand more than you know. A Mech Warrior doesn’t live like a foot soldier, of course. But I’m pampered, pulled from the heat of battle to run,” he waved his arms, “diplomatic errands like this one. I’d like, just once, to actually be a simple soldier, answerable only to fate, the fellowship of my equals, and my own skill in battle.”
“Your uncle keeps you on a tight leash, doesn’t he?”
He laughed. “Again, you seem to be one step ahead of me. How is that?”
“The Sandovals are hardly a low-profile family. Plenty of information in the public databases—a great deal more about your uncle than you, I’m afraid. Of course, anything since the HPG network went down is sketchy.”
“I thought you weren’t interested in politics?”
“I’m interested in people, Commander. I find you very interesting.”
“Would you stop calling me ‘Commander’? I feel like I should be asking you to salute. ‘Erik’ would be fine.”
“Erik,” she rolled the name off her tongue. “I like the way it sounds.”
So do I. He glanced out the car window. They were headed out of the center of the city. “Where are we going? I assume you’ve been there before?”
She nodded. “Senator Prescott lives in the High Bluff neighborhood. Very exclusive, old money. He’s in the Hereditary House, and it shows. It also explains why I warned this could be a dull party.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s related to the success of your accord. The Hereditary House of Parliament is conservative in all respects. Skeptical of change, terrible dancers. Of course they voted against you.”
He laughed.
She continued. “Elected House: mostly new money, self-made men and women, reactionary, volatile, and most can cut a rug with the best of them. They voted with you.”
“And the Appointed House?”
“A mixed bag, dominated by whatever the political flavor of the moment is. The current group? Bad dancers coming in, good dancers on the wane, but still holding a power base.”
“So my real strategy should be teaching people to dance?”
It was her turn to laugh. She put her fingertips to her lips for a moment, and when she lowered her hand, it fell casually, and lightly, on his knee. “That’s not really my area, but if you want to meet people, that I can help with.”
“I’ve hired this fellow, Ozark Kinston. You know him?”
“‘O’? Certainly. We move in much the same circles here.”
“Do you think he knows his stuff?”
“I believe he does. He has a good reputation among the Senators. I will warn you of one thing though.” She leaned toward him, narrowed her eyes and whispered conspiratorially, “He has two left feet.”
They laughed together.
“Commander,” interrupted the driver, “we’re approaching the address.”
Erik tore his gaze away from Elsa to look out through the windows. The rain had stopped, leaving slick pavement on the steep, winding, tree-lined street. The houses were large, and widely spaced. The streetlights were mounted in filigreed housings, atop slender columns. Ahead, one house in particular was brightly lit, and he could see a large number of people inside.
“Fashionably late,” said Elsa.
Erik smiled. “The better to make an entrance,” he said.
The car pulled to a stop under a temporary awning, set up to protect arriving guests from the intermittent rain. An attendant opened the door, and Erik stepped past Elsa to exit first. He then took her hand and led her from the car. They climbed a short run of red-carpeted steps and passed through an open set of French doors. Ahead, he could hear live music.
A tuxedoed butler stood at the door, a storklike guardian with his pointed nose. He glanced at a computer pad. “Ah, Commander. Good evening, Miss Harrad—always a pleasure.”
“Thank you, Carlos. Would you be so good as to announce us?”
“But of course.”
She leaned in close to his ear. “You did want an entrance.”
The butler placed his pad on a podium and stepped through the inner doors into a grand ballroom. “Ladies and gentlemen.” The music faltered, and heads turned. “Commander Erik Sandoval-Groell of Tikonov and Miss Elsa Harrad.”
Erik took Elsa on his arm, and they swept through the door. People looked and whispered. He felt splendid, and he had certainly made his grand entrance. Dignified old men fell over each other to be the first to greet Elsa, and she addressed each and every one by name. She also skillfully disengaged herself from each—shedding them as easily as a duck sheds water, and leading Erik through the crowd to the bar. Whatever else she is, she’s a smooth social operator, and I can use that.
The bartender walked over, and Erik turned to Elsa. “I had a local dark whiskey a few days ago. A nice smoky bite, but I don’t remember the name.”
She glanced at the bartender. “He’ll have a Malvern Black, on the rocks. I’ll have a Firestarter.”
Erik chuckled. “Are you sure? That’s a MechWarrior’s drink.”
“I can handle it,” she said. “I have a stomach made of armor. It’s part of what’s kept me from embarrassing myself at these things over the years.”
He took a proffered tumbler, with its cubes of ice and deep amber whiskey. He held it under his nose, enjoying the woody aroma, then sipped, feeling it burn smoothly down his throat. Either this whiskey was even better than he remembered, or it was a better brand of the same stuff.
He watched as the bartender mixed two kinds of transparent fluids, followed by a shot of red liquor, and shook the combination before pouring the result into a cocktail glass and garnishing it with a slice of green pepper. He handed it to Elsa, who took a deep sip, licked her upper lip in a way that made him quiver, then smiled. “I will say this for the Hereditar-ies, they do have the best-stocked bars.”
“Commander!”
Erik turned in response to the voice, and spotted Ozark Kinston moving toward him from across the room. “I’m glad you could make it”—he glanced at Elsa and smiled—“and I see you arranged for your own escort.”
“A very fortunate and timely encounter,” he explained.
“Well,” said Kinston, “indeed. You’re already being seen, mingling, that’s good. Don’t plan on leaving early. I’ll come around later and bring you into a few backroom gatherings. That’s where much of the real business gets done, you know.”
He looked around the room. “Meanwhile, circulate. You couldn’t have a better guide than Elsa. I have to go set things up.” He took Elsa’s hand and bowed. “I hope you’ll save me a dance for later, my dear.”
She smiled graciously. “I wouldn’t miss it, O.”
They watched as he walked away.
“So,” said Erik, “you’re a diplomat, too?”
“Many skills are necessary on this battlefield, Erik.”
Well, now there’s an opening. “Really? I’d like to hear more about that.”
The band struck up a slow number. Elsa took his hand. “And I’d like to find out how many left feet you have.”
He smiled. Skillfully dodged. “I’m told I can make a fifty-ton ’Mech seem light on its feet.”
“It’s your feet I’m more concerned about.”