by John Benson
Beneath the ornate carvings on the door to the Throne Room, hidden automata lurked, ever vigilant. Searching for kooks. Searching for weapons. On the lookout for assassins. Instead they recognized Stacy, and the doors parted soundlessly and let her in. Into her father's sanctum, where energy projectors on little platforms near the ceiling moved slowly, keeping petitioners in their deadly sights.
Stacy's implants roused briefly and then subsided. There was no threat here within these walls. The group of men up near the throne bowed and turned and walked out past her, wearing those bland faces diplomats and poker players wear. The door shut, and they were alone.
"Her Royal Highness, the Princess Stacy," the annunciator-bot said needlessly. Lacking potential targets, the projectors of instant death stowed themselves pointing vaguely up, like little cannons on parade. Her father stretched and yawned and smiled.
"Isn't this overkill?" King Leo said. "A formal petition and a formal audience?"
Stacy had to be careful. She could not get what she wanted by making him angry. But she couldn't get what she wanted by making him happy, either. "I get so little of you," she said. "But you take petitions seriously. And by having it all set out in writing, you had time to think or even ask around. If I sprang something like this at dinner and took you unawares, you'd say 'no'. And once you make your mind up, you really hate to change it."
King Leo nodded. "If you're just unhappy with your tutor, there's less drastic ways, dear," he said.
"It's not that." Stacy tried to think of how to put it. "He's fine. But there's things that can be learned at school that are different than what a tutor teaches. Academics aren't everything."
He came down off his dais and stood close to her. "Like how to get along with people your own age," he said. "It must be lonely here for you, the only child in a world of adults."
She smiled at him, encouraging that train of thought. "There, see?" she said. "You have had some time to think."
"But Mary Knoll," he said. "It's a place for the spoiled daughters of the idle rich. And their methods are quite severe."
A child reined in too tightly will long for freedom. But Stacy suffered too much license and longed for discipline. "You're far from idle, Your Majesty," she said. "But look me in the eye and tell me I'm not spoilt."
He grinned as her point came home, but his look soon sobered. "Their usual method is to apply a stout flexible rod to the bare buttocks," he said. "The pain is simply enormous. That's what it means in their literature when they speak of 'time-honored methods'. I doubt you know that. One has to be aware of the code phrases to be able to decipher the whole of it."
Oh, she knew, she knew. It was a knowledge she took to her bed at night as she wondered what it would be like to be soundly punished. What it would be like to have to submit to another's will. She might hate it. She might even like it. But in either case she suspected it would be good for her, and she was determined to find out. "I'm not made of glass," she said. "I will not shatter if I am struck."
"I'd be inclined to give you your head in this," Leo said. "But people would think I'd sent you, and that meant we weren't on good terms. We're on good terms, aren't we? Or maybe not, or you wouldn't be asking to be sent away."
Ah, but she'd thought of that. "Princess Stacy being sent to a place like that would cause gossip," she said. "But I don't want to be Princess there. The staff might be too nice to me, and the other kids might be too mean. But Lady Stacy North would just be another nobleman's brat. The place must be crawling with them."
He hugged her. He did it too infrequently for either of them to be quite at ease with it, but there was no doubt he cared for her. "You have my permission," he said. "If you change your mind, just leave word, and I'll have you out of there so fast it isn't funny."
"I love you, Daddy," Stacy said. She did, too. But his offer was enough to make her promise herself not to quit. Stubbornness runs in families, and Stacy had hers from the king.
"The Minister of Finance," the annunciator-bot said. It must have decided they were done. The energy projectors woke and trained themselves on the man coming in through the doors. Stacy kissed her father's cheek. He looked surprised, but then he smiled.
Each flight of steps took her further below ground. Each door surveilled her, and let her pass. The Palace refused Stacy nothing. The Armorer's door even spoke to her as it rolled aside. "Welcome, Princess," it said. "He's expecting you."
Stacy stepped into a corridor of stone, lit by soft light without apparent source. The little man, Torvald the Armorer was walking towards her, like some old Dwarf of legend who forged weapons beneath the ground. One of those last few Wizards who really understood how the automata worked and could come up with brand new kinds. Stacy had always liked Torvald. Because he treated her as if she mattered, and as if she were not made of glass.
"Hi, Torvald," she said. "I need my implants detuned, if you don't mind."
"Detuned?" he said. "How so?" He led her into what he called his lab, sterile and white and full of things that buzzed and went click.
"It's fine for me to be set to kill anything that threatens me here in the palace," Stacy said. "Everyone here knows who I am and knows they'd be in jeopardy. But I'm going away to school where no one knows any such thing. And the teachers use physical punishment, to boot. I'd be a walking time bomb, and that's not right. I think it should be set back to be lots less aggressive. Engage only at imminent threat of permanent injury."
"I see," the Armorer said. "I have a better idea. I'll take it out of full automatic. Give you control."
Stacy stood there, stunned by the idea. Things buzzed, and went click. If she had control of that which was within her, she'd be a weapon. An assassin. "But I'm just a kid," she said.
Torvald grinned a gnomish grin. "Your father and I have spoken," he said. "We agreed that if you thought to ask about the consequences of your implants in this new setting, it meant you were responsible enough to take control. Tell them to stand down when response is not appropriate, but retain full autonomic reflex when you are in a threat situation. What do you say?"
Too much responsibility. It meant that teachers could cane her and she would have to actively choose not to protect herself. Actively choose not to kill. "What if I do something when I'm angry and somebody ends up dead that shouldn't be?" she said. "And it would be my fault."
"Yes," Torvald said. "It would be your fault. But everyone who's ever carried a weapon throughout history has faced the same dilemma, and the good ones have done the right thing. Your father and I agree. If you're ready to go out into the world, you're ready to go armed. By your will, not some quick-draw algorithm."
She studied his machines, but as always they kept their secrets. "I'm afraid," she said.
"If I detune, you'd be of no use in a rescue," the Armorer said. "You'd stand there helpless, because your circuits did not find you at risk. How would that feel?"
His voice was gentle but the words cut. She could chase her dreams all right, but not on her terms. Only on their terms. Daddy's and Torvald's. They would forbid her the easy way of true helplessness. She must participate in active surrender each and every time. And if she did not trust herself, she could not try at all. "You guys are sneaky," she said. "But I accept. What do I do?"
"Just stand there and relax," Torvald said. Things buzzed.
And inside Stacy's mind, something went click. Her eyesight was overlaid by the image of a targeting reticule and range telemetry. "System fully operational," a soft voice whispered.
"It's awake," Stacy said. Her voice was tight. "What do I do?"
"I'm going to hit you," Torvald said. "I'd appreciate it if you'd tell it not to kill me."
Stacy thought an order for it to stand down. The overlays went out. Torvald slapped her cheek. It stung. The shock made her suck air. She touched her cheek. The gnome was grinning.
"Sorry," he said. "But without a demonstration, I'd never quite convince you. Are you okay with that?"
"Yes," she said. "Yes, thank you." It was okay. She could tell it not to respond and it wouldn't respond. It was going to be all right.
"I hit a girl and she says 'thank you'," he quipped. "Music to my ears. But now that you've practiced not using it, I insist that you practice using it. Firing range is right through here."
"It's a one-oh-four, isn't it?" Stacy said. "A full assassin's kit."
"Always was, hon. Just mostly turned off. Come on. You need to practice. Right this way."
She asked it to come back. The implants woke, full of strength and purpose.
The hired bubble disgorged Stacy and her suitcase and shot skyward on the trail of its next fare. She wore her uniform. White blouse, blue pleated knee-length skirt, white ribbed socks, and brown shoes. It made her feel she was going to a costume party, until she saw other girls dressed just the same. Then it began to feel more normal. Even somewhat right.
The campus had one large hall surrounded by small cottages in a park-like setting of lawn and gardens. A gardener was trimming hedges. Fairly young man and quite handsome. He smiled and waved. She waved back, somehow flattered at the tiny scrap of this stranger's attention.
Stacy followed the other girls, and her suitcase followed her, like an obedient dog at heel. A table was set up out on the lawn, and girls queued up to approach it one by one. Stacy studied the woman at the table. Stern. Self-assured nigh on to smugness. Pretty much what Stacy had expected. The line moved quite quickly.
"Next."
It was Stacy's turn. "Yes, ma'am."
"Name?"
"Stacy North."
"Ah. Yes, here we are. North, Lady Stacy. Room 1, Yellow. You don't have any contraband in that suitcase, do you?"
Stacy kept a straight face. "And that would be what, ma'am?"
"Drugs. Alcohol. Weapons. Pornography."
"Oh, heavens no, ma'am. Nothing like that."
"Assembly is at three this afternoon. Be there. Next."
Stacy moved off. Yellow? The cottages were all the same neutral cream color. Ah. Here we go. The trim varied. Black, brown, red, orange, and there was yellow. Her new home away from home. Four rooms to a cottage, two girls to a room, ten cottages. Eighty, if there weren't any vacancies. How was she ever going to get to know eighty girls? She went suddenly shy. This might not have been such a hot idea. Here was yellow, and room one was open and occupied, by a girl stowing her things.
"Excuse me. I'm Stacy North. I'm your roommate, I guess."
Short girl, black hair, black eyes, lovely grin. "Annie Smith-Brown," she said. "Your half is over there. The list says Lady Stacy. An Earl's brat?"
Stacy forgot to be shy. "Is your father the dress designer? I love those square necklines and tight-fitting things that lace up the back."
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.