Strange week; much RealLife drama I do not need. Picking at another short story, but nothing really clicking yet. I shall be patient.

Most autocrats enjoy it when people stand up to them, just because it doesn’t happen very often. The imperium’s bureaucracy is very small, as Fussy can do the work of many humans and do it faster, but I’m sure they are rather obsequious. I doubt her legates are. Forewarned by Old Dysart, Stephen does not put up with her shit, either.

Enjoy my content? Buy me a beer!

They rode.  And rode.  With the sun at the tops of the hills behind them, Johnston was honestly surprised how many names she recalled.  Salutes from those they passed.  Her name shouted from some with construction equipment.  Buzzed by a single-prop plane, “Marco is such a show-off,” she laughed.  Everyone was happy to see her and thrilled to be remembered.

“It must be quite the tool for loyalty, which you did stress, to be able to call to mind thousands of names,” he noted, glad they were back to walk after two miles of canter.  She obviously had an objective in mind.

“Yes,” would all she would say.

They continued to skirt the north edge of the battlefield until out into some open, but uncultivated, country.  Perhaps a park?  Every house or old construction he had seen was being torn down.

“If you hate Marxism,” something Johnston didn’t really know anything about, “then why all the destruction?  Why not build upon what is here?”

“Because this ground is saturated with their evil, Stephen.  I called them satanist-Marxists for a reason.” At a glance over, her eyes were nearly bright enough to read by.  There is a term these demi-humans have, but I don’t recall it.

“Bioluminescence.” She blinked.  “You are a Christian but not a church-goer, correct?”

“Yes,” he looked about at the troop riding toward them, “Faustina.”

“What church?”

“Baptist.”

“Ah.  Most of my family is Catholic.  Robert was not.  Allowances can be made.  My men are here.  Look smart.”

Did she just give me an order?  A snort from her or her mare was his answer.

“Empress!” The man on the lead horse had a centurion’s badge but the gradations of ranks were lost on Johnston.  A machine pistol across his chest in a tactical sling and his right hand straight up in their salute.  “Welcome to old Manassas Battlefield.  Per your orders, a tent for you and your guest are set up.  Patrols have been doubled, at my initiative.”

“Problems, Coreb?” she asked with a hard tone.

“In the past two weeks, three incidents of minor terrorism:  one legionary shot, property destruction, one small IED defused,” the legionary trooper said.

“Where is the wounded?” she demanded.

“Legion Eight hospital tent, about five miles north, at the edge of the old airport, in case anyone needs evac, Empress.”

“I will see him in the morning at on-nine-hundred.  If you locate any of the terrorists, crucify them.”

“Yes, Empress.”

“Take us to our tents.  This man is an important diplomat from the Gulf Shore States and does not need the stench of satan for his talks with us.”

“At once, Empress.” Another salute, and they were off.

Saying she would see him later, Faustina physically pushed him into his guest tent before stalking away.  She seems mad as a hornet, after hearing about that wounded man.  Loyalty.  What is it with these Hartmanns and loyalty?  He stowed his little kit and sat on the military cot.  Crucify?  Really?  That’s some old story from when Texas went independent… did that really happen?

A deep breath.  Diplomats lied to others, never themselves.  Of course it happened.  It was Faustina’s grandfather, Clive Barrett, running ExComm in Texas, during the Breakup.  I suppose there is nothing she, and, good Lord, her little niece, won’t do.

He didn’t have the information at hand, but recalled Aurelia Hartmann, demi-human, was eighteen-years-old when St. Louis was burned by nuclear fire.

I’d be lying if I said she was ugly.  She’s surprisingly beautiful for five kids.  How different are their bodies?  Besides what Alene told me about their minds:  seeing into what they call the Void, the internet, I thought they were just like us.  Obviously not the case…

Two taps on the pole at the entrance to his tent.  A ranker legionary.

“Empress summons you, sir.”

He nodded.  Where is this going?

Faustina was at his right.  Their shoulders and hips touched as they both ate what she called soup and he would have called stew.

“Bean and bacon, you said?” he asked, tearing a piece of freshly baked bread.

“Yuh,” she rudely replied with food in her mouth, picking up a cloth napkin.  “Legionaries eat simple, especially when on the march.  A meat-heavy diet can knot their guts after a dozen miles.”

He reached for a plastic cup filled with water.  “You certainly travel coach,” Stephen quipped.

“Everything for my boys,” she replied, also drinking.  “There are two women at point in the legions and we make sure we do not lord it over those doing the hard work.”

“You and your niece?”

“Aurie, correct.”

“I’ve heard a rumor…” he trailed off to take another spoonful.  Rather tasteless, it was filling.

“And?”

“You just said ‘Aurie.’  The rumor was, ‘Fussy.’”

Empress Faustina snorted so hard, water came out of her nose.

“A childhood nickname.  I’ll grant you for finding that out,” she said with a smile.

“Any other secrets I should know,” he replied, keeping the corners of his mouth down.

“One.”

“May I ask?”

“I want to love you.”

He froze.

“To be precise, which means to use the proper Greek word, I wish to agape you,” she clarified.  “Any physical relationship is impossible so long as negotiations are underway; it would make both of us look compromised.”

“And once said negotiations are concluded?” he asked, pushing the bowl away, no longer hungry.

“Then we’ll have sex and I’ll decide if I want to marry you.”

He used his napkin to buy a moment.  Don’t let her bully you.

“No.”

“What?” she drew back as if he’d struck her.  “What do you mean, no?”

“Once I talk young Dysart into being a governor instead of a president, then you may marry me.” Napkin down, eyes up to hold hers.  “Only then will we have a physical relationship.”

Her control of her face and body allowed him to guess nothing about her feelings.  But those bright eyes were even brighter.

“It will be a Catholic ceremony.  And public.”

“Fine.”

“Then,” her eyes dropped with her voice, “may I kiss you, my Intended?”

“Yes.”

Polite and chaste, he still felt something like static from her lips.

“We will have a working breakfast tomorrow about the details of the settlement of our political differences,” she said, suddenly all business.  “Following that, you shall be returned to Mobile to set things in motion.  My time of mourning ends in just less than three months.  We shall be married on that day.”

“I’ll check my calendar,” he heard her growl, “and make sure I’m free, Fussy.”

“I love you, Stephen.”

So this is what political, arraigned marriages are like.  I wonder if it will work?

“It will.  We will.  May I kiss you again, please?” she smiled.