“If you can’t beat them, join them.”

—Anonymous

“If you can’t beat them, stab them. If you can’t stab them, don’t feel bad. You’ve done everything you could. When you’re done not feeling bad, call your father.”

—Chief Executive Admiral Herbert Corrino, advising his niece on how not to be cut to ribbons

The Princess was reading a book on terrorism in search for inspiration when her concentration was broken by polite pounding on the door. The Princess pointedly ignored it and went back to the chapter dealing with homemade toxins and poison darts.

The pounding sounded for the third time. On this particular occasion it was accompanied by a male voice asking from the other side of the heavy door, “Are you quite all right, your highness?”

It’s “your highness” now. They’d use any style except for her real, and decidedly modest, title. At least they didn’t call her Miss Dairy Queen yet. One had to cherish the little victories in life when one was as thoroughly defeated as she was. That is, at least until one had a chance to cook deadly poison using soap, apricots, and the lashes of a Sinii on its third cycle.

“No,” the Princess said. She waited until the door started opening urgently before informing the huffing and puffing footmen. “I’m imprisoned on a nameless rock at the edge of known space by a gathering of lunatics who compete over me as if I’m a prize porker, a position I presently envy with all my heart, while being served by a gathering of nincompoops who will call me absolutely anything except what I ought to be called, a fact publicized not only by all forms of mass media, but also by common knowledge since I happen to be the scion of one of the oldest houses in the System as well as an officer in the most celebrated fighting force in human history!”

The Princess took a deep breath while the breathless footmen sweated and leaned against the massive gates, which were so obviously not meant for human hands to open.

“However,” she proceeded, “I am ready for dinner, if that’s why you’re here.”

“Very …” Martin said between labored breaths, “good.”

Although on her way to breakfast the Princess had been led only by a single maid, dinner found her accompanied by an honor guard of four footmen, a fact the Princess decided to take as a compliment. However, they also led her in a different direction than last time, a fact she decided to take as a threat.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but is the dining room not in an opposite direction?” the Princess asked, playing with a button on the inside of her lapel.

“Your sense of direction is superb, mein fraulein,” a woman standing in the middle of a corridor said. “However, Von Schmidt would like to present you with a small gift before dinner.”

“What is it?” the Princess asked suspiciously.

“It’s a new dress suitable for the occasion. That is not to say your uniform doesn’t suit you, but given your recent excursions, it is, according to Von Schmidt, in need of some refreshing. He is positive that you’d appreciate the provisional dress that he’s prepared to honor you and your house.”

The Princess gulped. If her suspicion was correct, the dress would be nothing more than some cloth to cover her body, making her as vulnerable as a doe in a forest. Even naked, she wasn’t as naked as that.

“I hope it’s not the formal ceremonial attire of my house,” the Princess said. “That thing hasn’t been worn for hundreds of years and for a good reason—it’s nothing but a strip of leather and a circle of feathers, and no one is quite sure what to put on what.”

The maid smiled. “It’s a Mundhalten dress, mein fraulein. Rather conservative German style with a touch of the exotic for grace. I believe it was he who coined the maxim, ‘Eloquence is vehement simplicity.’”

“Mundhalten, eh? Very subtle. I suppose I should go in and try it then before you take all this subtlety and hit me in the face with it.”

The Princess felt the footmen around her became strained and apprehensive, but their worry was for naught. She would no more attempt the same trick twice in a row than she would wear the same costume to two formal events in a row. This was simply not safe.

She followed the maid into a dressing room, which included a single dress, admittedly a very fine dress, and nothing else. While it definitely had a Germanic feel to it, a tasteful assortment of green feathers and red, white, and blue beads did give it the sort of authentic touch favored by the royal families of Terra. A touch that said, “We are aware of our ancestors and we’re not terribly ashamed of them although we probably should be.”

It was the sort of dress that one wore rather than was installed in, a task the Princess felt she was capable of handling by herself. She asked for some privacy from the smiling maid, didn’t receive it, and changed clothes with a sigh knowing that she’d probably never see her uniform again. It would be torn to shreds by a washing machine, burnt to a crisp in a drying machine, or devoured by a pack of ill-mannered alpacas.

The Princess tore off some medals and buttons from her jacket with the thought of hiding them somewhere on her person for future use. However, she soon realized that she was bound to be watched from every conceivable angle and that the better she hid the devices, the more embarrassing their confiscation would be. Giving up on the idea, the Princess opened her hand to let the baubles roll to the floor. With any luck, someone would come to pick them up and accidentally blow himself up or get pierced by invisible nanosnakes or be blinded with lasers.

With a dreadful feeling of vulnerability, the Princess walked with her companion from the changing room to the dinner hall in silence. Since she couldn’t trust her clothing, let alone her companion, silence seemed like the safest course of action, though for the Princess staying silent for more than a few minutes was paramount to torture.

As always, she was the last person at the dinner table. This time, however, none of the guests or servants bothered with faked smiles or even neutral expressions for her benefit. Good, she thought, at least now I’ve left an impression.

One by one the dishes were served, covering the table with a wealth of aromas, vibrant colors, and shapes to tantalize the imagination as well as the appetite. Near the end of the presentation, one of the dishes she’d ordered arrived, the Scandinavian blood pancakes known as blodplättar, famous for having 99 uses among which eating was near the bottom, but still possible under several circumstances. Von Schmidt looked at the dish intently before returning his gaze to the Princess and nodding with a half-smile. One of the Jeans sniffed the air and started to frown. Tanaka looked at the French siblings, a mild question starting to form on his normally placid face.

As the maid started to lower the dish in front of the Jeans, the Princess said, “I beg your pardon, but I distinctly recollect ordering this dish.”

Utterly befuddled, the maid walked to her end of the table and placed the gory plate in front of her. The Princess noted the exaggerated care the maid took not to touch the contents of the dish.

Von Schmidt tensed visibly, and the Princess recognized an internal struggle behind his odd-colored eyes. The Jeans laughed.

“Are you trying to blackmail us by holding yourself hostage? That is so adorable!” Jean shouted.

The other Jean joined in, “Or do you think us so ignorant as to—”

The Princess quickly grabbed the topmost pancake and hurled it with all her strength straight into the mocking maw of the nearest sibling. The thing smashed against a cheek, squirting red gravy and bits of red pastry in all directions.

One drop nearly hit Tanaka in the eye, but he deflected it with the sole of his shoe while remaining seated, an act that was not anatomically possible, but at this point should not have surprised anyone except the hopelessly optimistic, a category of ladies and gentlemen whom, I’m sorry to say, rarely lives long enough to find themselves in such exciting situations.

Von Schmidt jumped to his feet, the rapid motion punctuated by the sound of his chair hitting the floor and splitting to smithereens. “Is there no end to your disruptive behavior!”

“I don’t think it was very ruptive to begin with,” the Princess answered calmly, studying her stained hands with an air of nonchalance. She wondered if the toxin employed by the Jeans could be absorbed through the skin. If the answer to her wondering were affirmative, then the following few hours would be very exciting for all parties involved, though the hours after that would be quite dull as Von Schmidt would have no company but a brooding samurai and a vengeful ferret.

Jean, the one not coated in blood like an unpopular debutante on her first ball, turned to Von Schmidt. “This is outrageous! I demand that—”

“I’ve had it with all of you,” Von Schmidt said coolly. “Yesterday, I was a host to a select group of high-class adventurers and a damsel of the most exquisite lineage. Today, I find myself managing a kindergarten of murderous brats, a task I find tedious in the extreme.”

“But—”

“Go clean yourselves, physically, morally, biologically, spiritually. Clean yourselves until you’re worthy of sitting at my table again or, failing that, until you’re worthy of sharing a plot with Count Ivanov, whose present state I currently envy.”

While the Princess was still young enough to recognize a rebuke when one came her way, waving a large sign saying, “I am a rebuke. You are now rebuked,” the Jeans had reached an age at which one expects others to either be polite or to try to murder you, politely. Thus, the trio stood dumbfounded, staring at Von Schmidt like well-trained dogs ordered by their trainer to spread their wings and do a pirouette.

“Leave!” Von Schmidt shouted, expressing his desire in a more accessible and easily intuited manner. As far as shouts went, this was not a particularly loud or impressive one, but it didn’t have to be on account of the shouter being Von Schmidt, who was fearsome enough even when whispering. Judging by the expediency with which the Jeans left the room, it was quite clear to the Princess that they understood that since he was unable to speak more loudly or more clearly, his next statement would be somatic rather than verbal.

The Princess noticed the smallest hint of a smile under Tanaka’s deadpan mask before he was concealed from her by the gates that closed with the finality of a gavel wielded by a monkey. Two birds fight and the third bird gets the worm? Did the Princess just call herself a worm? Well, it didn’t matter. Now was the time to proceed with the administration of poison, oral or otherwise.

“Sacrebleu, do you realize what you’ve done, you odious child?” Jean shouted at the Princess, raising a hand as if to hit her. She winced involuntarily, sensing that in her current situation a slap would actually hurt. Audric exposed his teeth and hissed menacingly, defending her royal honor by making Jean wince in return. Tanaka or Von Schmidt would never wince. Their instinct was an appeal to force, not mercy, and there lay the true weakness of the Jeans. They were not warriors. Without Count Ivanov to hide behind, they were as weak as she.

The Princess was no more trained in fighting than they were, but she was the proud descendent of an ancient line of warriors and something of that must have left a mark on her genes and disposition. Her ancestors held bleeding hearts to the sun before charging practically naked through hails of lead and steel to massacre their enemies. According to her father, in order to triumph, a warrior must always choose the mode of fighting in which he holds the greatest advantage. In this particular instance, this mode of fighting was fighting.

“Go on, strike me!” the Princess shouted, puffing out her chest like her grandfather twenty times removed had done when facing Spanish invaders. “It’s so very easy right now! I’m sure some future musical ensemble will sing the praises of your heroic charge! Go on, you have a shield, I have nothing. Strike a nineteen-year-old girl!”

“Oh, you’re so melodramatic I’m sure you’d stab the potatoes at dinner,” Jean replied, wiping blood from a heavily painted cheek, exposing a smooth pink cheek underneath. “We have the antidote and we have time to apply it. Nothing is changed except for our former respect for your royal bearing.” A red napkin dropped on the floor. Not paying the small bit of red cloth any further attention, Jean turned and started walking away from the Princess. She, for her part, paid the napkin a great deal of attention and made a mental note to later reclaim it for further mischief.

“I am well aware of that. You will give me a dose sufficient for three people. If any surplus remains, I will not object to your continued ownership, though I’d greatly appreciate if you didn’t waste them on unworthy personages.”

“On t’a bercé trop près du mur?!” Jean shouted. “You will get whatever we choose to give you. This harebrained scheme is most annoying, but it leaves you with no more leverage than you started with.”

“I admit the second part of my plan is not very elegant, but then again, remaining elegant while being smeared with Norwegian pancakes is a challenge for a lady more versed in the gentle arts than myself. Now, what I have in mind is to doggedly follow you around everywhere you go until either my demands are met, or everyone is dead, either from old age or from reaching a dramatically appropriate juncture. Should you attempt to use the antidote without sharing it with me and mine, I will simply slap it to the floor the instant you disable your shield. Do you still think me a mere hare, or have I earned a promotion to the status of a female kennel dweller?”

“The vulgarity of this plan does you little honor, Princess. Physical contests do not become you,” Jean said and turned to follow the other Jean.

The Princess caught up with them, jogging maniacally. “Oh, I know that. The aches and discomforts of this weak and feeble body are a constant reminder. I also now realized that this is why you took such pains to have Count Ivanov accompany you. I wish I were as smart as you are and had brought with me something more intimidating than a ferret.

“Alas, the Russian hero is no longer with us, so the question you must ask yourself is not who is smarter, but who is more agile and, it must be confessed, more childish? I have had a great deal of practice snapping things away from my royal brother. You, on the other hand, look like you’d summon a valet simply to brush off a fly.”

“Unlike you, we still have our personal shields,” Jean said hesitantly.

“Yes, and I’m so excited about the opportunity to discover what happens when you prod it with a stick. I hope you are, too.”

“Bien …” Jean sighed. “Meet us here in thirty minutes.”

The Princess laughed, “To meet, a party must first part, and I have no intention of departing until you’ve played your part or we all depart.”

“Silly puns, yes? This conversation has lost its appeal. Come, Jean, let us leave this child until she is a woman again. Bonsoir, Princess.”

The Jeans started walking so the Princess trotted. They started trotting and she jogged. They started jogging and she raised the hem of her dress and ran. They started running, possibly for the first time in their lives. Despite her predicament, the sight of her enemies in such an obvious state of disarray brought laughter to the Princess’s lips, a feeling she’d almost forgotten.