Original Work The Snake Pit (The Empire's Corps)

Hi, everyone

The Snake Pit is the latest novel in The Empire’s Corps series, featuring Prince Roland as he works to stabilise and save what he can of the crumbling empire. Roland was previously featured in When the Bough Breaks and later in The Prince’s War Trilogy, but I will do my best to keep this series as stand-alone as possible. All you really need know is that Prince Roland was a spoilt brat, a little like Joffrey (if less sociopathic) who was saved by a Terran Marine and eventually effectively conscripted into the Terran Marine Corps, which is trying to rebuild the Empire.

As always, I welcome comments, criticisms, and suchlike, everything from continuity errors to spelling mistakes. If you want to read the earlier books, I will happily send copies in exchange for comments on this work.

I hope to keep a steady pace, but there will be a pause - my family and I have a lot to deal with right now.

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The Chrishanger

Oh, and I just bought out a new book: The Chrishanger

Thank you

Chris

When the Bough Breaks - The Chrishanger

The Empire’s Corps (general page)- The Chrishanger

 

Prologue I

From: An Unbiased History of the Imperial Royal Family. Professor Leo Caesius. Avalon. 206PE.

There can be no denying, as much as historians of the post-imperial era might wish otherwise, that Prince Roland, the last known heir to the Imperial Throne, was on a developmental trajectory that could only end in disaster. His parents died when he was very young, leaving him to be brought up by servants who were unable to discipline the boy and Grand Senators who had a certain interest in ensuring that Prince Roland did not become an effective leader. Even in those degenerate years, with the power of the throne cut back sharply, a strong monarch could have exerted a great deal of influence, even control, over the Grand Senators and the Empire itself. Accordingly the young Roland was left to wallow in degeneracy, encouraged to develop tastes that would have shocked even the cognoscenti of those times. As he entered his teens, it was quite clear to everyone that he would make a grossly unsuitable monarch. This was, of course, what the Grand Senators had intended.

That changed when Marine Pathfinder Belinda Lawson was assigned to the prince as a combination of bodyguard, teacher, and general disciplinarian. The Marine Corps had a legal right to supply such a personage to the Imperial Heir, a right that had not been invoked in centuries, and the Grand Senators were unable to prevent the move. They were not, of course, blind to the motives behind it. Major-General Jeremy Damiani, Commandant of the Terran Marine Corps, had hoped that it would possible to knock Roland into shape before was too late to save what they could of the Empire. Generations of marine recruits would happily testify that there was nothing like a Marine drill instructor, or someone capable of playing the role, to break a young man down to the bare essentials and rebuild him as a useful member of society. It was a disconcerting surprise to the Grand Senators that Belinda Lawson actually accomplished much, in the few months she spent with her charge. If all hell had not broken loose, she might have succeeded completely.

But it was not to be.

The Empire had been decaying for centuries, for reasons I have discussed in my other volumes, and finally the bough broke. A seemingly minor incident triggered off a series of ever-growing catastrophes, each one sparking off further disasters. Earth collapsed into chaos – an event that has come to be known as Earthfall - and it was all Belinda could do to evacuate the young Prince before they were both killed in the crossfire. They were forced to watch helplessly as the core of the Empire died in fire, billions upon billions of people dying in the first brutal day. It felt like the end of everything, and in a very real sense it was. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Roland’s survival posed an interesting question for the Marine Corps. On one hand, he was the legitimate ruler of the Empire. On the other, his reputation had preceded him and, even if he had possessed the wisdom to match the First Emperor, the Empire was in ruins. Few factions, battling for supremacy in the wake of Earthfall, were inclined to surrender their newly-won power and/or independence to a prince they regarded, not without reason, as a degenerate beyond compare. He was a card in the game of power, but a card that had to be played very carefully. It was decided to train him, as a marine, in hopes it would make a man out of him and allow his previous reputation to be overshadowed by his more recent accomplishments. It worked, to some extent.

In hopes of giving Roland a certain degree of practical experience, he was assigned - after completing basic training - as a liaison officer to New Doncaster, a world on the brink of civil war. His exact role was not clearly defined, a deliberate attempt by his new superiors to see what Roland would make of it. As it happened, Roland - and his bodyguard and watchdog Specialist Rachel Green found himself caught in the middle as open conflict broke out, forced to fight against two different factions of enemies intent on either solidifying their control over the planet or imposing a radical new regime, neither good for New Doncaster nor the Empire as a whole.

It could not be denied that the conflict made a man out of the Prince, as his superiors had hoped, in every sense of the word. He had demonstrated military acumen as well as diplomatic and managerial skills, all of which would be very important in rebuilding the Empire. He had left behind a number of friends and allies who would follow him anywhere, if they had known his true identity. Roland had good reason to feel proud of himself, and few would deny the scope of his achievements.

But for Roland and his superiors, this raised an important question.

What now?

 

Prologue II

From a distance, Karafuru City looked small.

It was an illusion, Li Anne knew, as she made her way down the long road to the city. Karafuru rested in a hollow, a place where four rivers and innumerable canals met, a place where the northern provinces met the south. The city sprawled for miles, islands of blocky apartments pressing oddly against the canals and riverbanks, the waterways crossed by so many bridges that – in places – one might think the rivers ran through tunnels, the endless darkness barely broken by flickering sunlight. The traditional architecture of Confucius had been surrounded by soulless transit barracks, makeshift accommodation for new settlers and endless row upon row of shacks, the latter so ingrained in the city that it had become a permanent district in its own right. Beyond the city limits, insofar as they existed now, there were miles of paddy fields, small farming towns and plantations laid down by the invaders, as they sought to turn her homeworld into yet another cog in their machine of conquest. A flicker of pride shot through her as she spotted the invader garrison, still in place despite the armistice and withdrawal agreement. The Spartans might not have pulled out completely, not yet, but they’d been beaten. Everyone knew it.

She kept her eyes open as she kept walking, watching for possible threats. Thousands of men and women were walking to the city, some farmers bringing their produce to sell and others seeking work in a world that had little use for second or third sons. Ox-drawn wagons contrasted oddly with traders on foot, the handful of more modern vehicles drawing looks of scorn and derision – and envy – as they drove past, the drivers keeping their hands on their weapons. The planet had once banned anything more advanced than horse-drawn carriages, save for emergencies, but that taboo had been erased by the invasion. And the discovery, Anne reminded herself sourly, that the planetary elite considered such rules little more than guidelines, things that could be ignored when it was their lives and comfort at stake. Her womb ached, a reminder of the child who’d died stillborn. If she’d had better medical treatment, back then, would her son have lived? Or would the finest technology in the known universe have made no difference to the final outcome? There weren’t many times she regretted the path her life had taken, over the last decades, but if her son had lived …

The thought mocked her as she crossed the first set of bridges, eying the soldiers on duty sourly. Useless men, dressed in a mixture of stolen invader uniforms and outfits put together by officers with who wanted their men to look good, rather than practical. The men themselves didn’t look any better, some eying the young women in the crowd with hungry eyes and others clearly too bored to do much of anything. Good men were never used to make soldiers, so the old saying ran, and the planetary government had considered the army nothing more than a ceremonial force, before the invasion had begun. The warlords and the invaders used better men to make their soldiers, although that wasn’t a good thing. She’d seen the aftermath of their counterinsurgency campaigns: men castrated and hung or marched off in chains; women raped savagely and then left to their own devices in a world that regarded rape as inherently shameful; children taken from their parents and given to others to raise, or abuse. She’d watched them die too, when the resistance caught up with them. They’d shown no mercy and so they’d been shown none in return.

A handful of people moved past her, heading into the paddy fields. A trio of happy couples, escorted by their parents … the brides wearing the traditional costume, something that had been banned when the invaders ruled the world. Anne swallowed hard, feeling an odd little lump in her throat; she’d been denied the chance to wear such an outfit, on her wedding day, her husband and herself forced to swear loyalty to the puppet planetary government instead of each other and each other’s families. Her husband had been a good man, in his way, and he’d died well … she wondered, not for the first time, if he’d approve of the path her life had taken since his death. He’d never been fool enough to treat her like his property, even though he’d had the legal right to do so, but … she shook her head. She’d light candles for him, when she had a chance, and speak her regrets to the flames. He deserved no less.

She put the thought out of her mind as she reached the checkpoint, the city police inspecting everyone passing into the city. The policeman barely glanced at her, his eyes captivated by her passbook and the ten-liǎng banknote hidden inside. She knew what he saw, a harmless middle-aged woman who’d lost her husband and gained her independence, someone who had a home in the city and a role to play … hardly someone worth harassing, when there were so many others who could be shaken down with impunity. The bribe would provide incentive to let her pass through without impediment, although inflation was starting to affect the underground market as much as the regular, and taxable, economy. It would be fifty-liǎngs next week, she was morbidly sure, and a hundred the week after.

And when everything changes, she vowed to herself, the police will be the first against the wall.

The thought kept her going as she walked through the gates and into the city itself, the stench rising to greet her like an old friend. The planetary government kept promising to clean up Karafuru, and the rest of the cities, but so far nothing had happened. Anne had visited a dozen cities and few were any better, the streets covered in filth from hordes of oxen and other animals and the canals stinking because of the rubbish dumped by citizens who had nowhere else to put it. Hordes of flies buzzed through the air, barely deterred by everything from incense to sonic insect repellers. The latter blinked on and off as the local power network rose and fell, power failing briefly before returning, only to fail again a moment later. Nothing was reliable these days, a problem made worse by the heat. The roadside stalls were permanently on the verge of causing a mass food poisoning epidemic.

She shuddered as she made her way into the closed district, passing a handful of closed or shuttered shops before stepping into her own store. The latter wasn’t a good sign. The storekeepers had their ears to the ground and were normally the first to hear of any trouble before it burst into the light, suggesting there was a riot on the way. Another riot. Karafuru was full of bored young men, with no prospects and no hope for getting them; the older men, the ones who did have jobs, were ruthlessly exploited by their masters. They might provide excellent recruits, if they could be pushed into revolt, but until then …

The air inside the store was murky, a handful of young men sitting behind the counter and smoking heavily. They straightened as soon as they saw her, knowing better than to show anything other than the utmost respect for their mistress. Before the invasion, a young man would never take orders from a woman, even his mother. Now … the old social structure was gone and things would never be the same again. Anne hadn’t liked most of the changes the invasion had brought, over the last decade, but this was one of the few she did. She’d never liked being seen as inherently inferior. She knew she wasn’t.

She nodded curtly to the staff and made her way into the backroom. The messenger was already waiting, a young woman dressed as a man. It was the only way for her to avoid attention in the city. The only other way was to make it clear she belonged to a very traditional family, which would severely punish any mistreatment, but no young woman from such a background would be walking out alone. Anne gritted her teeth at the thought. She had a long list of young men who would be severely punished, when the time came. They would spend the rest of their lives clearing the streets, finally doing something for their city. Karafuru deserved no less.

“My Lady,” the messenger said. “It is good to see you again.”

Anne nodded, concealing her impatience with an effort. “Was there any word from Nova Kong?”

“Yes, My Lady,” the messenger said. “The City Fathers have been told their request has been rejected.”

“Good.”

Anne wasn’t surprised. The provisional government had too many other problems – enriching itself and securing its power, not to mention invader garrisons, warlords and a growing socialist insurgency – to handle minor matters like a city’s economic growth. The City Fathers were fools, but asking for help from the planetary government wasn’t unreasonable … assuming, of course, the help ever reached its destination. The old bureaucracy was gone, leaving a fetid sea of corruption in its wake. Everyone knew the government could grant a million liǎngs and, by some strange alchemy, it would become a mere thousand by the time it arrived. It would pass through a dozen hands and every one of them would want their cut. It would never have happened before the invasion, but now it happened all the time.

The messenger blinked. “Good?”

“Yes,” Anne said. “Because it gives us an opening.”

She allowed herself a tight smile. Karafuru was a sea of discontent, the City Fathers unable to address local concerns and the police more interested in harassing the young, pretty and helpless than tackling corruption or any of the real problems facing the city. It was ripe for exploitation, ripe for an uprising that would shift the playing field permanently … she could, and she would, take advantage of it. And then …

“There is one other detail,” the messenger said. “The Imperials are apparently sending reinforcements to their garrison.”

Anne snorted, rudely. Imperials! She didn’t know how many of the horror stories about Earth being destroyed were true, but it hardly mattered. The Empire should have been able to prevent Sparta from invading, yet … it had done nothing. The Empire should have been able to evict the Spartans, but … all they’d done was talk, talk, and talk. It had been the resistance that had won the war and now … the Imperials were arriving, keen to claim the credit they’d done nothing to earn. And their troops were just as unimpressive as the soldiers she’d seen outside. She didn’t fear them. They had no stomach for the fight.

The Spartans are monsters, but they’re also brave, she conceded, bitterly. If only our own troops had their valour.

“It won’t matter,” she said, finally. One whiff of grapeshot – or, more accurately, mortar and rocket rounds – and the Imperials would flee, issuing bombastic bulletins as they fled. She’d seen the planetary army do that, more than once. No one had believed a word of their increasingly absurd claims. “I cannot imagine they will cause us any real problems.”

“No, My Lady.”

 

Chapter One

Roland stood alone, in the midst of a crowd.

The spaceport strip was no different to a hundred others, he’d been told, although his exposure to such long-standing institutions had been very limited. Two square miles of everything a spacer or solider might want on leave, from bars and cafes selling overpriced food and drink to brothels, casinos, VR parlours and gaming stalls that offered a chance to spend money – lots of money – and forget their woes for a few happy hours. There were hundreds of whores on the streets, some who’d been in the trade for years and others hoping to make a little money before they went back home; there were dozens of food stalls, offering dubious cuisines from all over the empire – or what was left of it – and a handful of shops and stores offering spacer supplies at prices that were only slightly marked up. Roland had admired a handful of outfits, during his first walk through the district, but he’d been careful to check the prices against the database first. They’d been marked up so highly that he could buy three elsewhere, for the price of one here. But soldiers and spacers rarely had a chance to haggle.

He frowned, inwardly, as he saw a handful of young women giggling as they made their way along the road. They looked fresh and innocent, suggesting they were only visiting rather than seeking a career in prostitution. The older whores and pimps scowled at them, but didn’t try to bar their way. The police would intervene if they tried, if the visiting spacers didn’t get them first. There was no such thing as a monopoly on the strip and everyone knew it. The pimps did try to keep enthusiastic amateurs out of their private brothels, which they could legally do, but there were too many hotels and bedsits around for that to be more than a minor headache. A young woman smiled at him, her eyes conveying a silent question … Roland shook his head and walked on. It wasn’t her. It was him.

The thought didn’t improve his mood, as he walked through the darker parts of the strip. The pleasures they were offering were shameful, even by the depraved standards of the late-Imperial era, but they were nothing compared to the horrors he’d seen on Earth … horrors, he was ashamed to admit, that he’d indulged in himself. He’d been a little prince, raised in a gilded cage and given everything he wanted, rather than everything he needed. His every whim had been address, his every need … he shuddered, recalling his crimes against the maids and nearly everyone else who’d passed through his palace. He’d been the prince, heir to the throne … who could say no to him? The few that had said no, brave women one and all, had been fired and booted out onto the streets, a death sentence in all but name. He hoped to hell his guardians had been lying, when they’d described their gruesome fates; there was certainly no way, now, to check if they’d really had died …

And even if they did survive, he reflected bitterly, they probably didn’t make it off the planet before Earthfall.

He scowled as he spotted an older man, too old for rejuvenation techniques to have more than a limited effect, with two young beauties hanging on his arms. Money? Power? The man’s suit certainly suggested both, although the way he was staggering slightly also suggested drunkenness. Roland felt a shiver of disgust – the girls looked barely legal and might not be genuinely so – mingled with a certain awareness the man was likely to get rolled, stripped of everything he carried and left to explain himself to the hotel management. Not uncommon, not on the strip. Murder would draw a sharp response from the police, rape was permitted only with the consent of both parties, but robbing a drunk … no. No one would care. It wouldn’t be the first time. And the victim, if he were wise, would keep it to himself.

Roland shuddered. He’d been an utter shithead as a child, with few capable of saying no to him, and … God, he’d been a monster. Even now, after months of Bootcamp – and then a campaign on New Doncaster – he was still tainted, still diseased. How many crimes had he committed, as a child and then a teenager; how many people had died, because of him, when he’d been a silly little brat with a royal title? He didn’t want to know and yet … part of him did. He’d grown up and being grown up meant taking accountability, but how could he even begin? Perhaps that was why he’d been denied the chance to proceed to the Slaughterhouse to complete his training. The Corps knew how to assess young men, knew how to ensure they only recruited the most mentally and morally stable men they could. How could such men look upon him and not be repulsed?

His lips quirked, humourlessly. The fact the Slaughterhouse is now little more than radioactive debris has nothing to do with it, I am sure.

He glanced into a pub, feeling sick. Men and women were drinking and dancing, as if there would be no tomorrow. They might be right. Earth was gone and the Empire was coming apart, naval officers declaring themselves warlords and planetary and sector governors declaring their independence from an empire that was already dead. The news was an endless liturgy of horrors, from naval combat on a scale unseen since the wars of unification to planetary bombardments and genocides right out of the dark ages. No one had a clear idea of the whole picture, not even Marine Intelligence, but it was clear that billions upon billions were dead or dying. Roland couldn’t wrap his head around the figures. They were so high they might as well be utterly meaningless. And yet, each one represented a living breathing person.

And I’m supposed to be their prince, he reflected. What a fucking joke!

He wanted to laugh. It was like watching a horrible accident, one that risked lives or even took lives, an accident so horrible and yet so absurd that it was hard not to laugh despite the seriousness of the situation. The Empire was dying and he was the legal monarch … the thought was just absurd. He had no troops, no ships, no way to impose his will … somehow, he doubted anyone would bend the knee to him just because he announced himself as their rightful lord and master. The ones who knew him would be even worse. They’d point to his long history of depraved hedonism and argue it made him unfit to take the throne … and they’d be right. His adventures on New Doncaster would mean nothing to them, no matter his success, and they’d be right there too. The lessons of New Doncaster couldn’t be easily applied to the rest of the known universe. And even if they did recognise him as their monarch, they wouldn’t give up their power. Why should they?

And everything I did on New Doncaster might be worse than useless, if some other newborn galactic power comes conquering, he reminded himself. The days in which worlds weren’t allowed to wage war on other worlds are gone now.

He shuddered, again. There were already wars of conquest being fought. There would be others. New Doncaster might be overwhelmed and invaded, the people he knew and loved put under the yoke of some other star system; there was nothing he could do about it, he was painfully aware, if someone did. He could no more protect them than he could protect himself.

His lips twisted, again, as his eyes swept over a billboard promising forbidden pleasures. A few years ago, he would have gone inside without a second thought. Normal pleasures no longer appealed to him, after years of indulgence, and he had few qualms about indulging in pleasures forbidden even to one of his station. The fact they were forbidden was part of the draw, he reflected, cursing his younger self under his breath. He’d been driven to rebel, a difficult task when nearly everything he did, no matter how vile, was greeted with cries of enthusiasm and delight. He could have shot one of the maids and everyone would have agreed she’d deserved it … God! He wanted to go back and slap his younger self, to hand out the discipline that the young brat needed before it was too late. But time travel was impossible. All he could do was acknowledge his mistakes – his misdeeds – and try to be better …

And he didn’t want forbidden pleasures any longer.

He turned away, wondering where he truly belonged. The fat bratty prince was dead and gone and few, if any, mourned him. The marine-in-training … had had his training paused. The military leader had no command, no troops, no mission; the diplomat had no assignment, no world to represent and no world to represent it to … he had nothing, beyond a name that wasn’t truly his. The Marine Corps might find another use for him, in their desperate attempt to stabilise and salvage what they could of the Empire, but … he couldn’t help thinking it was unlikely. No one in their right mind would use him as a figurehead – that would probably unite everyone against them – and everything else could be done better by someone with more training and much less baggage. And if he couldn’t even be a Marine, what good was he? He’d done well, he knew he’d done well, but he still had no place to call his own. He had nothing …

No wonder they’re drinking and dancing as though the sun won’t come up tomorrow, he thought, with a flicker of bitterness. For many of them, they might be right.

“Hi, mister,” a voice said. “You doing anything tonight?”

Roland flinched, mentally kicking himself. He’d been lost in his own thoughts, true, but he should have been more aware of his surroundings. It hadn’t been that long since he’d been in a place where assassination was a very real possibility, where someone might put an end to the long Imperial Line completely by accident. He swung around to see a young girl, shorter than himself, with curly blonde hair, a winsome expression and an odd, almost fearful, look in her bright blue eyes. She looked innocent, in a manner that caught his attention; it took him a moment to realise, almost despite himself, that it was no act. She really was that young.

“ Not really,” Roland said. A dozen crass jokes ran through his mind. Perhaps he would be doing her … He told them to go away. “Why do you ask?”

The girl shuddered, then tried to hide it. “Mister, would you like …?”

Her voice trailed off. She really was new to the business. Roland had no idea how she’d managed to get so far into the strip without someone picking her up … or, perhaps, trying to discourage her. Perhaps they’d thought her innocence an act, like the acts of countless whores of both genders pretending to be something they weren’t, as long as it brought in the money. Or perhaps they’d thought … he shook his head, mentally. It didn’t matter what they thought. What mattered was he thought and …

Roland gritted his teeth. A few years ago, the thought of taking her innocence would have appealed. Now … it was disgusting. And rightly so.

He cocked his head. “Why are you here?”

“I …” The girl swallowed and started again. “It’s a good place to make money and …”

Roland scowled. The hell of it was that the poor girl was right. Her clothes … they were tight in all the right places, but they were also shabby and threadbare. She didn’t look and sound like someone who had grown up poor, suggesting her family had fallen on hard times recently … she’d hardly be the only one, if so. Roland had never had to worry about money as a child and it had taken him time, time he’d barely been able to afford, to realise that others did. Earthfall had destroyed large chunks of the local economy and the girl’s family had probably lost their livelihoods … perhaps they’d been middle-class, before disaster had struck, and were now scrambling to survive as lower-class. Or worse. He didn’t want to know.

And you could have her, a nasty little voice whispered at the back of his mind. Entitled and snobbish, disdainful of everyone who wasn’t him … it took Roland a second to realise that it was his voice, or how he imagined he’d spoken in the bad old days. Take her to a hotel, take her any way you please, then give her a few coins and let her go …

The hell of it was that it was tempting. It had been too long. His body was reminding him of just how long it had been, since he’d lain with anyone. But it would be wrong. The girl wasn’t a lover, she wasn’t someone who wanted a one-night stand; she wasn’t even a hardened prostitute, someone who knew the score, someone who was prepared to play whatever role demanded of her as long as she got paid. She was an innocent, selling herself because she had no other way to make money … he wouldn’t take advantage of her. He wouldn’t! And the little voice at the back of his head, the nightmarish version of himself he wanted to believe didn’t exist, could be ignored. He would ignore it.

And perhaps, if I try hard enough, I can pretend it was never me, he told himself. He knew it was a lie even as he thought it. Prince Roland had been real … was real. I can never overcome the shame of what I became.

“If you stay here, you’re going to get hurt,” he said, flatly. He was damned, in all senses of the word, if he listened to a voice at the back of his head. He stuck a hand into his pocket and pulled out a handful of credit chips. Their value changed from day to day, as the economic shockwaves rolled through the sector, but they should be worth enough to feed her and her family for a few days. “Take this, go home, don’t come back.”

The girl stared at him. “Sir …?”

“You’ll get hurt if you stay here,” Roland said, pressing the chips into her hand. There was no good place to get into a life of prostitution, was there? “Just go home and … try and do something else with your time.”

It sounded paltry even as he spoke. The girl shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears. No one had ever shown her such kindness, Roland guessed, at least no one outside her family. Or perhaps it was an act … if so, it was a remarkably good one. Prince Roland would probably have accepted it at face value, the current Roland had seen too much to be fooled easily. Or perhaps he was deluding himself. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Thank you,” the girl managed. “I … who are you?”

“Roland,” Roland said. “Marine Auxiliary Captain Roland Windsor.”

The girl showed no reaction. Roland wasn’t really surprised. Roland was hardly an uncommon name and few non-historians had any real awareness that Windsor had once been a Royal Family’s name, an ancient name that had been absorbed into the Imperial Line. Assuming, of course, that that was actually true. It had been eye-opening to look at the records and note just how much of his family tree had been made up out of whole cloth, fictional nonsense linking him and his family to nearly every known monarchical bloodline in human history. Funny, really, when the truth was far more interesting … and impressive. But it hardly mattered. No one would ever draw a line between Prince Roland and Roland Windsor and that was all that matter.

“I’m Lucille,” the girl said.

She leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then turned and hurried away. Roland shook his head slowly. If he’d been tricked … he supposed he deserved it. And she deserved her reward. If not, he might have helped her … just a little. It wasn’t enough to settle his conscience, not after everything he’d done, but it was a start. And … he turned away himself, heading back to the barracks. He’d request a meeting with the Commandant in the morning, a meeting that would be denied to Captain Windsor but not to Prince Roland … a meeting where he’d ask for advanced training, or a new assignment, or … he wasn’t sure what else. The Corps didn’t seem to know what to do with him. He supposed he couldn’t blame them. He didn’t know what to do with himself.

That girl told you everything you wanted to hear, the little voice whispered. She played you like a puppet.

So what? Roland answered. We did the right thing.

Sure, the little voice pointed out. Maybe she was on the level. Maybe she was everything she claimed to be. So what? A week or two and the money you gave her will be gone. She’ll try to sell herself again, because she needs money, and you won’t be there to save her. Not the next time. All you did was give her an extra week before she needs to take the plunge.

I did the right thing, Roland thought.

Yeah, the little voice answered. But all you did was delay the inevitable.

There was a hint of a pause. And how many others are in the same boat? How many of them can you help? You helped one, true. But how many others can you help?

Roland closed his eyes for a long moment. I helped one person, he thought. And it will have to be enough.

But he knew, deep inside, that it wasn’t anything like enough.