Page 69 of The Impossible Princess
Have you seen the news?
I ate a breakfast of cold cereal, grimly determined to avoid the news. It can’t be anything but a distraction while I’m on deployment.
They’re tearing her to shreds. I’m going to write NewsNook a letter. The executive producer is going to get a piece of my mind.
“Don’t do that,” I say, using the voice-to-text feature. I imagine such a letter becoming tabloid fodder. “You have to ignore them.”
You’re right. I have to brush up on being the mother of the man who’s dating the princess.“L-O-L,”the robot voice spells out.
I haven’t talked to anyone about Clara and feel the constant pressure of it sitting in my throat, forming a hard knot inside my chest. It’s too late to find relief in telling my mother. “I’m headed into base,” I say. “I knew this was going to broadcast and was expecting it. Can’t talk now. I love you.”
Be safe. Love you.
I turn down the street leading to the gatehouse and notice a commotion near the front of the line of cars. A news van with a satellite bolted to the top is parked on the grassy verge with a green Ciprio slotted behind it. Several other cars litter the other side of the road.Vede.I wasn’t expecting this. Members of the press spot me, and I reach for some aviator sunglasses, staring straight ahead even though photographers and reporters swarm my vehicle, knocking against the glass and shouting questions. I nudge the car forward, recognizing a temptation to gun the engine and wipe out a clutch of tabloid journalists. My muscles tense and my hands grip the steering wheel as I travel the length of the street inch by inch. This strategy of ignoring them only takes me as far as the gate. I roll down the window, ready to flash my badge when a microphone is thrust between me and the guardsman.
“Lieutenant Commander Andersen,” they all seem to shout, voices fighting like a pack of wolves over a single bone. But one man gets his question in, spitting it out in a rush. “Is it true that you staged the escapade at the Queen’s Day ceremony?” My jaw hardens. Click, click, click, go the cameras. “What would you say to those who suggest you dishonored our national heritage and fallen servicemen by pulling such a stunt?”
Another yells, “Was Her Royal Highness in on it?”
Now the temptation is to leap through the window and blast the journalist with my ideas about honor and what I think of him following a young girl around for weeks on end. Boiling frustration rips through my veins. The man can choke on his mic. Then the thought of Clara touches me on the shoulder—the brush as light as her fingertips.
The entire country may listen to my next words. My family won’t care what I say but this matters to Clara, and for the first time, I get a taste of the battle she fights to represent herself as she wants.
How would she do it? She would lift her chin, so I lift my chin. She would be calm, so I am calm. The picture everyone will see is me jerking away from a microphone. So, I throw the car into park, take the sunglasses off, and exit the vehicle. For a stunned second, the little weasel with the microphone backs up. Soon there are enough of them gathered around to form a half-circle, and when I am content that it looks less like an ambush and more like a press conference, I give the journalist my full attention.
“Serving in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy is the greatest privilege of my life. I would never dishonor the men and women who have made the ultimate sacrifice while wearing the uniform of our nation. If you’ll excuse me, I have to report for duty. Good day, ladies, gentlemen.” Two brisk Navy nods follow.
I flash my badge and the guard gives a salute, lifting the gate. I slide behind the wheel and drive through, the mob calling after me. I’ve lost the right to worry about Clara but can’t keep myself from wondering how bad this is going to get for her.
Captain Dusstock comes by my berth with coffee in his hand, standing in the doorway. “You screwed up, Andersen. I told you. Itriedto tell you.” I salute and he laughs, shaking his head like he can’t believe anyone is as stupid as his lieutenant commander. “Maybe you thought you were going to be something—admiral of the whole damned fleet—but this’ll get you busted down a peg.” He gives a mocking salute. “Farewell to your career, sailor. The promotion board probably already has your file flagged for river patrols.”
“Is there anything you want me to know before we sail, sir?” I ask, stowing my gear. This deployment is going to be bad enough, but I’m serving under a captain who thinks he’s cornered the market on brains.
I keep busy for the rest of the day, organizing supplies and overseeing the sailors coming aboard. I greet the resiliency counselor carrying a box of handheld video game consoles, a few terabytes loaded with American blockbusters and 500 hours of Sondish TV. I have a brief meeting with the department heads in the wardroom.
“We leave everything on land. No friends. No family. No gossip from Handsel,” I emphasize meaningfully. The shifting glances tell me they’ve seen the news or heard it secondhand. “Understood?”
An affirmative rumble answers me. “Sir, yes sir.”
I collar Moller after the meeting breaks up. “The supply chief bears watching,” I tell him. At his sharp look, I wave a hand. “He’s new, that’s all. I don’t want to breathe down his neck, but let me know if you see anything I should know about.”
Once we’re free of the harbor and the tugboats, the bridge crew takes us out, navigating the ship into the sunset, amber light dancing off the waves. The colors are lowered to the sound of the national anthem playing over the tinny speakers and I stand at attention until the last note dies away, the rocking under my feet familiar and welcome. I ought to feel at home. I love this part of the Navy—tradition, order, and the strange beauty of the endless ocean—but as I watch the blazing lights of the Summer Palace slip over the horizon, the refuge of numbness drifts away like a life raft.
I get through the next hours, carrying the pain like a live mortar, and when I finally slip into my bunk, I reach into my locker. The pressure in my throat and chest is physical, but it’s not a problem I can’t fix. Fixing things is what I do.
I tug on a folder and a stack of newsprint splashes across the floor. Shuffling them into order, I tilt the images in the light, looking at Clara’s face with eyes now familiar with every expression. I see now that though she was smiling, it wasn’t for me. It was a smile for the cameras. A princess smile.
My fingernail picks at the tape, folded over just so. What did I expect would happen between us? It was there from the beginning—how much I wanted her and how little there was for her to give.
I shove the pictures back into the locker. When I pass a garbage chute on my way to breakfast, I’ll drop them inside. Though my decision to move on is made, the pressure in my chest grows sharper.
I reach for my phone. There’s no service out here. No data that can tell me if I made the news tonight. I couldn’t send a text if I wanted to. I tap the camera icon and scroll through a series of images taken over the last months. I have to delete these too. I’m stupidly looking for signs that she might have struggled to tell me goodbye; signs that there was something real between us.
A blurry Clara as she hikes through the forest.
Swipe.
Clara wielding her paintbrush, attacking the cottage wall like it’s a Vorburg raider.
