Free The Thirteenth Man by J.L. Doty

foot touched the soil of Turnlee, though Charlie was thankful there were no speeches, if for no other reason than that the stiff collar of his dress uniform was decidedly uncomfortable, and without an overcoat the uniform did a poor job of keeping out the cold. They marched across the tarmac of the landing field to several waiting grav cars. Cesare, Theode, and Arthur were escorted each to his own limousine, each accompanied by two members of Cesare’s household guard, while a fourth limousine carried important members of the retinue. Out of habit Charlie rode with the rest of Cesare’s guard in a big grav truck equipped for troop transport. They’d be barracked somewhere in the bowels of the palace, ready to relieve the guards that shadowed Cesare, Arthur, and Theode.
    The troop transport pulled up to a side entrance near the back of the palace, and Charlie spilled out of the truck with the rest of the guard. They were met by a servant who gave them room assignments—­most of the guard were assigned to a common barracks, while NCOs and officers were given private or semi-­private rooms, depending upon rank. However, when Charlie gave the servant his name, the man frowned, hit the search key on his pad several times, and asked Charlie, “Are you sure about the spelling, sir?”
    Charlie frowned back at him and the man said, “Oh, of course you are, sir. If you’ll give me a moment, sir.” The man stepped aside, put a finger to one ear, and subvocalized into a com implant. A moment later he turned to Charlie with a smarmy smile. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. There’s been some sort of mistake. You’re not being housed with the staff. We’ll have someone down here in a moment to escort you to your suite.”
    The servant who escorted Charlie to his suite bowed and postured incessantly. And as they climbed higher and higher into the palace, and as the décor grew steadily more ornate and expensive, so grew Charlie’s discomfort.
    In the middle of a long hallway the servant opened wide double doors three meters high, and ushered Charlie into his suite. He had a study, bedroom, private toilet, and shower. Both the study and bedroom sported the luxury of an old-­fashioned hearth with a blazing wood fire that took the chill off the cold winter day. Charlie had never been quartered in the upper palace before, and the sudden change fueled his paranoia.
    He shrugged it off and decided, I might as well enjoy it while it lasts .
    â€œDinner will be at eight this evening, Commander Cass,” the servant said. “Dress is formal. Duke Cesare sends his regards, and asks that you join him in his apartments at the third hour.” The servant backed out of the room, leaving Charlie standing before the blazing hearth.
    Charlie looked at his watch. He had an hour before seeing Cesare. Might as well take a shower and put on a fresh uniform. He tossed his spacer’s bag on the bed and stripped down.
    T he shower was lavish, plenty of hot water, no shipboard rationing. He toweled off, found a luxurious, warm robe hanging on the back of the fresher door, threw it on, wandered into the bedroom, and stopped in front of the fire to enjoy the warmth. He was thinking he might enjoy this after all, just go with it and let Winston do the worrying. He stood in front of the fire and let the warmth relax him a bit.
    Something made a sound behind him, a click and a whir, and he froze. Click, whir, tap, tap, there it was again. He tried to imagine what it might be, but his mind drew a blank. It was probably something of no consequence, something to do with grand suites in palaces, of which Charlie had little experience.
    But his training wouldn’t let him accept that. Assume the worst, Roacka seemed to whisper in his ear, and play it like yer life depended on it, boy.
    Standing there like a statue and not moving seemed to be acceptable. So with infinite patience he turned