The original design had been started by Miranda MacClintock, and she'd been a terribly paranoid person. Successive designers had tried to outdo her, and what they'd created was something like the ancient Mycenaean labyrinth. He doubted that anyone knew all the secret passages, storerooms, armories, closets, and sewers. It covered in area which had once been home to a country's executive mansion, capital buildings, a major park, two major war memorials, and various museums and government buildings. All of that area—nearly six square kilometers—was now simply "the Palace." Including the circular park around it, grass only, with clear fields of fire. And there was talk of expanding it even further. Wouldn't that be lovely? Homelike.
Finally, realizing he was working himself into a fret, he went back to bed and lay looking at the overhead. After several minutes, he nudged Despreaux.
"What do you mean I'm getting better?"
"Mwuff? You woke me up to ask me that and you expect me to answer?"
"Yeah. I'm your Prince, you've got to answer questions like that."
"This whole plan is going to fail," Despreaux said, never opening her eyes, "in about thirty seconds. When I strangle you with my bare hands."
"What do you mean, 'getting better'?"
"Look, good sex requires practice," Despreaux said, shaking her head and still not turning over. "You haven't had a lot of practice. You're learning. That takes time."
"So I need more practice?" Roger grinned. "No time like the present."
"Roger, go to sleep."
"Well, you said I needed practice—"
"Roger, if you ever want to be able to practice again, go to sleep."
"You're sure?"
"I'm very sure."
"Okay."
"If you wake me up again, I'm going to kill you, Roger. Understand that."
"I understand."
"I'm serious."
"I believe you."
"Good."
"So, there's no chance—?"
"One..."
"I'll be good." Roger crossed his arms behind his head and smiled at the overhead. "Going to sleep now."
"Two..."
"Grawwwkkkkkk."
"Roger!?"
"What? Is it my fault I can't sleep without snoring?" he asked innocently. "It's not like I'm doing it on purpose."
"God, why me?"
"You asked for it."
"Did not!" Despreaux sat up and hit him with a pillow. "Liar!"
"God, you're beautiful when you're angry. I don't suppose—?"
"If that's what it takes for me to get some sleep," Despreaux said half-desperately.
"I'm sorry." Roger shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'll leave you alone."
"Roger, if you really are serious—"
"I'll leave you alone," he promised. "Get some sleep. I'll be good. I need to think anyway. And I can't think with that lovely nipple staring at me."
"Okay," Despreaux said, and rolled over.
Roger lay back, looking at the overhead. After a while, as he listened to Despreaux's breathing not changing to the regular rhythm of sleep, he began counting in his head.
"I can't sleep," Despreaux announced, sitting up abruptly just before he reached seventy-one.
"I said I was sorry," he replied.
"I know, but you're going to lie there, not sleeping, aren't you?"
"Yes. I don't need much sleep. It doesn't bother me. I'll get up and leave you alone, if you want."
"No," Despreaux said. "Maybe it's time for the next practice session. If you've learned anything, at least I'll get some sleep."
"If you're sure..."
"Roger, Your Highness, my Prince, my darling?"
"Yes?"
"Shut up."
"Old Earth," Roger breathed.
The ship was currently looking at the dark side of the planet. Relatively dark, that was. All of the continents were lit, almost from end to end, and a sparkling necklace of lights even covered the center of the oceans, where the Oceania ship-cities floated.
"Have you been here before, Mr. Chung?" the communications tech asked.
"Once or twice," Roger replied dryly. "Actually, I lived here for a number of years. I started off in intra-system brokerage right here in the Sol System. I was born on Mars, but Old Earth still feels more like home. How long to insertion?"
"Coming up on parking orbit... now," Beach said.
"Time to get to work, then," Roger replied.
"You look like you didn't get much sleep last night, Shara," Dobrescu observed brightly.
"Oh, shut up!"
"What's the status on the buildings?" Roger asked. Dobrescu had come up in a rented shuttle for a personal report and a quiet chat.
"The warehouse is fine; needs some cleanup, but I figured we had enough hands for that," Dobrescu said in a more serious tone. "The restaurant is going to need a few more days for renovations and inspections. I found out who to slide the baksheesh to on the latter, and they'll get done as soon as we're ready. There's a bit of another problem I couldn't handle on the restaurant, though."
"Oh?" Roger arched an eyebrow.
"The area's a real pit. Getting better, but still quite a bit of crime, and one of the local gangs has been trying to shake down the renovation teams. I had a talk with them, but they're not inclined to be reasonable. Lots of comments about what a fire-trap the building is."
"So do we pay them off or 'reason' with them?" Despreaux asked.
"I'm not sure they could guarantee our security even if we paid," Dobrescu admitted. "They don't control their turf that way. But I'm afraid if we got busy with them, it would be a corpse matter, and that could be a problem. The cops will look the other way on a little tussling, but they get sticky if bodies start turning up."
"The genius is in the details," Roger observed. "We'll try the famed MacClintock diplomacy gene and see if they're amenable to reason."
"It's going to be a really nice restaurant," Roger said as Erkum picked up one of the three-meter-long oak rafters in one false-hand and tossed it to a pair of Diasprans on the roof.
The building's front yard was being cleared by more of the Diaspran infantrymen. The local gang, whose leader was talking with Roger, eyed them warily from the street corner. There were about twice as many Mardukans in sight as gang members. The gang leader himself was as blond as Roger had been born, of medium height, with lanky hair that fell to his shoulders and holographic tattoos on arms and face.
"Well, in that case, I don't see why you can't afford a very reasonable—" he started to say.
"Because we don't know you can deliver," Roger snapped. "You can make all the comments you like about how inflammable this place is. I don't really give a good goddamn. If there's a suspicious fire, then my boys—many of whom are going to be living here—are going to be out of work. And they're not going to be really happy about that. I'd appreciate an 'insurance plan,' but the plan would have to cover security for my guests. I don't want one damned addict, one damned hooker, or one damned dealer in sight of the restaurant. No muggings. Better than having a platoon of cops. Guarantee me that, and we have a deal. Keep muttering about how this place would go up in an instant, and we'll just have to... What is that street term? Oh, yes. We'll just have to 'get busy.' You really don't want to get busy with me. You really, really don't."
"I don't like getting it stuck in any more than the next guy," the gang leader said, his eyes belying the statement. "But I've got my rep to consider."
"Fine, you'll be paid. But understand this. I'm paying you for protection, and I'd better receive it."
"That's my point," the leader said. "I'm not a welcome wagon. My boys ain't your rent-a-cops."