Empress or no, she was a woman, a crashed pilot, who had just lost a friend. "As you wish, lass. We've enough good whiskey for a proper wake, and a hangover cure for the morrow."

Susan smiled in real gratitude. "Thank you, Donal. Now I think we'd best rejoin the others."

"Aye, lass."

When they went back to the party and Donal explained that their guest had just been told about the death of a close friend, Susan was surrounded by suddenly-commiserating people, one of whom pressed a drink into her hand. She took a swallow, appreciating the gesture and unquestioning sympathy, so unlike the official condolences she'd be receiving soon.

A gentle, grandmotherly woman urged her to a seat. "Tell us about your friend, lass. What kind of man was he?"

Susan gave that a moment's thought, then smiled. She couldn't reveal his identity without ruining the party, which she didn't want to do, but that shouldn't be necessary. "He was a good man, Miz. One of the most intelligent, caring people I've ever had the privilege of knowing—and I liked him, even if he did make those of us who worked most closely with him knock ourselves out trying to keep up."

She chuckled. "I think one of the reasons we did work so hard for him was that he demanded even more of himself than he asked of us. I can't imagine taking on some of the assignments I did for anyone else."

"He sounds like a leader anyone could respect," Angus said. "But have you nothing more … ah … human to share?"

"Well, yes," Susan said, and knew her voice showed amusement. "He had a weakness for twentieth-century space opera. It showed up in some places you wouldn't expect unless you shared his fondness for it, and for awhile we made a game out of tracing down anything that seemed to have any sort of connection."

She glanced at Angus, saw his matching amusement, and was certain he'd made at least some of the same connections. There was no denying that His Majesty had had excellent reasons for his actions, from establishing the Empire on; even the Solar Federation Congress had been able to understand that a democracy that was struggling to hold a single system together couldn't possibly cope with what promised to rapidly become thousands of systems. Aristocracy had worked, more or less, in one form or another, for thousands of years, so an Empire was a natural solution—but it was also a classic idea in space opera. And one of her own favorite touches was the Anthem; every government seemed to need one, so why not do as Emperor Chang had, and take an instrumental piece already titled "Imperial Anthem" from a classic late-twentieth-century entertainment tape? "Oh," she went on, "he never let it interfere with serious business—but why not take what enjoyment you can, after all?"

"No reason," Angus said with a grin. "And did your friend also like American cowboy stories?"

"When he was a boy, yes. Until he got interested in space opera, anyway." Susan returned his grin. "I've always thought he should have been born a Texan."

The reminiscences continued as she was kept supplied with smoothly-potent whiskey, and she was fully aware that she was well on the way to being thoroughly drunk. That was all right; the Palace Guards, who would be the first to arrive, knew their Sovereign was quite human. And, being Marines, their medikits held sober pills she could use if she had to.

Roughly two hours after her phone call, Susan and the rest of the partiers were startled by the sound of a lander's null-grav engines, then by the first notes of the Imperial Anthem sounding from the almost-forgotten holoset. As Gordon announced Chang's death and her accession, Susan found Angus looking at her understandingly. She nodded to him, smiling, then concealed a sigh. Her brief crash-caused leave was over; it was time to take on her new duties.

Isle of Skye, 3 Jan 2149

The scream of null-grav engines interrupted Tara MacGregor's housework. She ran outside, to see a brilliant scarlet