1 comments/ 8600 views/ 3 favorites State Visit By: Spinneret The cabinet meeting was over. The last of the ministers who'd actually chosen to attend in person had made their way through the multiple protective doorway seals and left the flood-proof, nanoplague-proof cabinet offices deep below Whitehall, while all of those who'd appeared as holographic avatars had simply blinked out. Leonard Mortimer turned to his artificial intelligence aide and sighed. "You got all that, I take it?" he asked. "Of course, Prime Minister," the machine replied smoothly. "And may I say that you managed it extremely well." "As well as anyone could, I suppose." The Prime Minister shook his head. "This business is like herding cats, if you'll pardon the cliché. Don't record that," he added quickly. "Anyway, I suppose that there's no getting out of the next thing on the schedule." "No, Prime Minister," the AI replied. "Protocol demands..." "I know, I know. And I'm all in favour of protocol. I just wish... Oh well -- put me through to the Palace." The wall-screen opposite the Mortimer's desk, which had gone restfully blank, flickered for a moment. Then the image resolved into a sun-scorched garden with a blue synthetic-surface tennis court, on which a young blonde woman in a white bikini top and shorts was playing against a stick-man robot. Mortimer coughed gently, knowing that the system would make him audible to the woman. She missed a shot, turned on her heel, and doubtless saw his image on one of the large screen arranged around the court. "Oh, Lenny," she said, "it's you." "Yes, Majesty," he replied. "This is the time for our weekly meeting." "Yes of course it is, Lenny. I know that. It's just that I've just got Ecky playing well enough to be interesting but not beating me every time." "I am sorry, Majesty, but..." "No, no, Lenny, you're right as usual. Terribly sorry." She didn't sound sorry, Mortimer thought, but it wasn't his place to say anything. He preserved a tactful silence as she picked up a towel from somewhere, accepted a cold drink from another robot, and dropped onto a reclining seat. The conference system adjusted and improved its 3D resolution, until his office seemed to abut directly onto the Palace gardens, and each party appeared correctly life-sized to the other. "Forgive me, ma'am," he said, "But is such exposure to the sun wise? The carcinogenic effects..." "Oh, don't be a fusspot, Lenny," the Queen of England replied. "I've had all the anti-cancer whatyoucall'ems, remember? And the melaniser thingies. No problem." "Nonetheless, ma'am..." "Oh, you just don't trust technology, Lenny," the Queen pouted and took a sip of her drink, absent-mindedly bending one leg as she did so and thus flashing far more tanned royal thigh than Mortimer liked to have drawn to his attention. "Anyway, what do you want to talk about this week?" "Well, ma'am, the matter of the state visit next week is our first priority." "Oh, that." The Queen pouted again. "Do I really have to put the old bugger up here?" "Yes, ma'am." Mortimer knew this was a rhetorical question, but he felt obliged to take it literally, in an attempt to remind his monarch of her responsibilities. "The state visit was arranged months ago. It puts you personally in the position of hostess to a fellow head of state." "I know, I know." Another pout. "Dreadful bore, though..." "I recall that you appeared comfortable enough with the visit of the American President last year, ma'am." "Yes, Lenny -- but she was a total sweetie, and her daughter was cute." Mortimer restrained a sigh. He knew that the Queen truly wasn't the mindless airhead she appeared -- as Prime Minister, he had access to her school records, which were fine, and her university place had been gained entirely on merit -- indeed, she'd insisted on applying under an assumed name. He suspected that she enjoyed annoying him. "Nonetheless, His Holiness is the Pope, ma'am," he ventured. "One of the popes," the Queen replied. "He is the occupant of the Vatican. Convention requires that we treat his claim as primary." "Still, I think that the one in Rio de Janeiro sounds much more fun. The one in Chicago is ghastly, though." "However, neither of them were invited." "This one wasn't by me," the Queen said. "And I wouldn't, frankly. Horrid ideas he's got. Even the one in Chicago lets women be priests, after all." "That is so, certainly. His Holiness regards tradition as paramount." "Yes -- just like you," the Queen shot back. The Prime Minister, leader of the Traditionalist Party (only the third largest in the House and second largest in the current coalition, but he was accepted as a compromise leader by the others) nodded, refusing to be provoked by that. "In some ways, yes, ma'am." "Hmm." Queen Anne III took another sip of her drink. "The invitation was approved by your grandfather, ma'am," the Prime Minister ventured. "When he and your father both abdicated, I am sure that they believed that you would honour their commitments in such matters..." "They abdicated because they were bored of being figureheads," the Queen almost snapped. "They know that they'll be able to wield some real power as regents in the Mars colonies and the Asteroid Belt stations. Anyway, you weren't Prime Minister back then." This was true, but Mortimer refrained from commenting on what he might have said or done if he had been; it might be difficult to do so without sounding critical of the Queen. "We are committed to this meeting," he said simply. "Yes, yes -- I know." The Queen sighed. "But you know why I accepted this job." "I was, as you say, not in office at the time, ma'am." "That speech I gave at the time was the truth, Lenny." The Queen stared at his image on her screen. "I thought that it was worth having somebody in some kind of position of power here who's under seventy. I can't claim to be any kind of democratic representative, but better this..." she gestured vaguely with her drink "...figurehead thing than no one at all." "Yes, ma'am." "I mean, anti-ageing treatments are great, but they do mean that you old dinosaurs have a headlock... Oh, never mind. I suppose we do need to talk arrangements." "Yes, ma'am." And so they spent twenty minutes that neither of them enjoyed going over complex formalities. The Queen even extracted a pad from somewhere and made a few notes, and made it clear that, whatever she thought about these procedures, she understood what was involved. Then, they spent another ten minutes discussing other government business and her diary of openings and visits for the coming week. Only then did Mortimer feel able to end the meeting with his usual grave politeness. After the Prime Minister had logged off, Anne Margaret Mary Diana Carla Serenita Chelsea Windsor, by the Grace of Whatever Supernatural Beings May Exist Queen of England and Wales, Honorary Monarch of Scotland and the Isles, Head of the Commonwealth, and Five Times Voted Most Popular Reason for Tourists to Visit Britain (and she insisted that that should appear on all the state documents), sighed exhaustedly. "Come on, Ecky," she said, "I need to relax." The equerry robot followed the Queen into the changing room, and stayed by her side as she stripped off her tennis shoes, bikini top, and shorts, and stepped into the half of the room which functioned as a shower. "Water on," she commanded, and sighed more happily as the jets hit her from all sides. She sat on a padded ledge as the water flowed over her. "Okay, Ecky -- you know what I want," she commanded. The robot knelt in front of her, and moved between her thighs as she opened them. It moved its tolerably human-like face to her groin, and she sighed with relief as its versatile smart-plastic lips set to work on her pussy. "Mmm," she said. "If only it was the President again." "Ma'am?" said the equerry robot, which didn't need to use its mouth to speak. "Her daughter was cute," the Queen said in explanation. "And she went like a train." "The president, ma'am, or her daughter?" "Her daughter, of course, silly. I couldn't have prised the president off that wife of hers if I'd tried. I thought that they were going to start screwing backstage once, when we were setting up for that joint address thing." The robot detected that its mistress's cunt was becoming well lubricated, and extended its tongue, furling the sides in the process to form a cylinder. The Queen moaned softly as it penetrated her and then began to vibrate, while the robot's flexible top lip began efficiently caressing her clitoris. If the gossip blogs ever found out that her equerry robots had this feature installed, there'd be a lot of annoying fuss. Some people had funny ideas about "robot-shaggers," although his owner would have told them that the not-very-self-aware Ecky was little more than a voice-controlled vibrator on legs. Fortunately, when she was at school, she'd become friends with the daughter of the owner of the company which built this line, and she'd managed to arrange for some quiet deliveries to come her way unofficially. She'd actually installed the upgrades herself. It hadn't been difficult. "There must be something we can do ... oooh, yes, that's right ... to make this visit worthwhile," she remarked. "Ma'am?" Ecky extended his hands upwards and began gently tweaking her nipples. "Nothing. Don't you fucking dare stop," she added, although the robot was showing no signs of stopping, even as the Queen wrapped her thighs around its head and squeezed. Fortunately, it was robustly built. She cried out in pleasure, then released it. It let go of her breasts and raised its head. "Water off, hairdresser system on. God, this visit is going to be a bore," the Queen said, standing up as the shower system stopped and a section of the floor rose to form a couch. The robot stowed its memory-plastic tongue. "Ma'am?" it said as it rose to its feet. Even with its limited intelligence and negligible grasp of psychology, it recognised when its mistress just wanted prompting for her spoken reflections. "We could have a party, I suppose," she said, lying on the couch. A swarm of microbots emerged from underneath it and scurried up to attend to her eyebrows, armpits, and pubic hair, grooming and trimming. "Do you wish me to make arrangements, ma'am?" "There isn't isn't much point, is there?" the Queen replied. "Damn, those things tickled, and you know what that does to me.." The robot did, from experience. It stepped round to the foot of the couch and lowered its head once more to the Queen, re-extending its tongue. "Thanks," she said as it penetrated her again, and wriggled a little, happily. "Never mind the vow of chastity thing," the Queen went on as the robot's attentions started subtly, "I imagine that all those cardinals and people have had hormone suppressor things implanted." "No, ma'am." "What ... ah, god, yes, yes, yes!" The robot knew better than to stay subtle for long. The Queen threw back her head and gasped, then recovered and took a deep breath. "What do you mean, no?" "The Old Catholic priesthood do not, a rule, employ artificial libido suppressant systems, ma'am." "They don't?" "No, ma'am. They regard it, it is said, as cheating," the robot said. Detecting that its mistress had attained satisfaction for the second time -- it was poor at psychology, but good at practical physiology -- it withdrew its tongue again and stepped away from the couch. "Hmm. You've been patching into the Web again, haven't you, Ecky?" "Yes, ma'am." The robot extracted a huge towel from storage space in the wall. "I am authorised..." "Well, good for you. I approve of self-improvement." The Queen took the towel and wrapped it around herself. "Hmm. You know, I am a descendent of Henry the Eighth. I bet the evil old bastard would approve of one of his family corrupting a senior Catholic churchman or two." "I could not say, ma'am." "But even if I could -- and I'm good, but I don't claim to be infallible, unlike some -- Lenny would get all annoyed about me causing a diplomatic incident." The Queen sighed. "On the other hand, they're bringing all those reporters with them, Lenny said. And they're mostly human, aren't they?" "Yes, ma'am. The so-called 'Vat Pack.' The Vatican does not much approve of robotic reporters, and makes the fact obvious in its award of press passes." "Typical." The Queen pouted. "Still, we probably ought to make those people welcome. Though there might be a problem with Lenny, if someone complains about the ... noise from my party." "Yes, ma'am." "Oh, you're beginning to sound like him. Hmm. You know, I think it's time to call an old friend." She wrapped another towel round her hair, strolled through to another room, and reclined on a couch. "Hey, machine," she said, "put me through to Rosanna Macintyre. She works at Number Ten..." The house computer instantly located the individual its mistress wanted, made a Web connection, established that the other party was free to take calls, and converted one wall of the room into a screen. The queen found herself looking at a plain office with a desk, behind which sat a young woman in a plain green work-day suit. The woman looked up and gasped. "Your Majesty!" she said. "Hi, Roz," the Queen replied, twiddling her fingers in a wave of greeting, "long time since we talked. Has it really been, ooh, years?" "No -- I mean yes -- I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but I have been busy, and with your... New position..." "Still, it's been too long. And please, lay off the Majesty bit. You of all people should be allowed to call me Annie, under the circs." "Yes, Maj... Annie. I'm sorry, though, but you are the Queen now." "Oh, but I'm still me. And if I'm going to be royal, I should at least have the power to tell people what to call me. But anyway, I've got a favour to ask." "What can I do for you?" "From what I hear, you get to manage which calls do or don't get through to Lenny Mortimer. Is that right?" "It's part of my job, when I'm on duty, yes. He insists on having a human in the line, you know." "Natch. Anyway, how easy would it be for you to get on duty one particular evening, and to ... slow down a few calls for a few hours?" Rosanna suddenly looked very unhappy. "I'm not sure that I can even talk about that," she said quietly. The Queen frowned, then laughed. "Oh, don't worry about whether we're being eavesdropped," she said. "I manage my own public keys, and I've added a couple of trapdoor codes on this line, and anonymised it by default." "I'm sorry, but I'm not clear..." Rosanna began. The Queen laughed again. "Oh no, you never took any of the computer courses at uni, did you?" she said. "Well, trust me -- I've made sure that what I say is private, when I want it to be." The other woman looked unhappy. "Thank you," she said. "But I'm still not sure about ... what you asked." "What's the problem?" "Look, Annie... My job's here these days. I can't mess with Mr Mortimer's communications, just because you're..." she tailed off. "Queen? Or an old friend?" said the Queen. "Look, I promise it's nothing, I don't know, treasonous or anything. After all, I am Queen, so I suppose that I outrank Lenny. And there's old times' sake, too." Rosanna looked unhappy. "My job is working for Lenny, though," she said. "Hmm," said the Queen, "you know, if I didn't know better, I could get very cynical about you, Roz. You seemed happy enough when I tweaked my own bodyguard systems back at uni so you could spend the night in my room, and you were more than happy to shag me with a double-ender for three hours solid -- but I do wonder if that was just a way of climbing a few rungs up the ladder. Now, I'm just a bloody figurehead, and you're working in the Prime Minister's office, and your best chance is probably to stick with his line." "That's not fair!" Rosanna burst out. "It's okay for you, Annie -- you aren't in any danger of being sacked from your job!" The Queen sighed. "Sorry. Sorry. I'm afraid that you're right. This job is bad for my attitude sometimes. And honestly, I don't believe that you only shagged me for the social advance." "Thanks, Annie." "No, I remember how much you screamed the third time -- or was it the fourth? Nobody could fake enthusiasm that well." The Queen grinned. "Anyway, tell you what -- you do this little favour for me, and I'll get you invitations to a couple of my garden parties. The serious ones, with all the top politicians and ambassadors." "You're still being cynical about me, Annie." "Oh. Sorry, Roz." "But I'm afraid that you're right. Okay, let me know when and what you want, and I'll see what I can do." "I'll hold you to that." The Queen smiled. "And I'll get you sent some invitations. And not just to the garden parties," she added. "After all, I've still got that double-ender..." *** It was six days after his formal conversation with the Queen, and Leonard Mortimer was slightly concerned about her, again. He was standing with a gaggle of staff and aides at Victoria Station, with a train expected from one direction and the Queen from another, and if the train arrived first, considerable diplomatic embarrassment might ensure. "Where is she?" he demanded, looking toward the road at the front of the station, where a row of limousines and a clutch of outriders were parked, waiting for their passengers. The nearest aide touched his earpiece again. "She's on her way... Ah." To everyone in the group's relief, the royal car had just arrived, rolling up alongside a space which had been carefully left for it, then sliding in sideways with a whir of motors. It was a nearly-featureless, near-spherical vehicle, about three metres long and painted a dark gold, which travelled on four large wheels. Mortimer sighed. It wasn't so very long ago that the monarch had travelled around in a proper limousine, with outriders and so forth -- even through the worst years of the Energy Crunch. But the Queen pointed out, very pointedly, that her chosen transport was every bit as safe and comfortable as any such "outdated monster," and that she was protected, very effectively, by whole swarms of miniature combat machines, most of them airborne, varying in size from something like an eagle down to buzzing robot insects. She had also told him firmly that travelling around in some sort of cavalcade struck her as about as daft as riding everywhere on a horse. Inside the royal car, the Queen drew a deep breath as Ecky withdrew his extensible fingers from the royal person, and restored her skirt to its correct place. "Oh well," she said, "let's give them their show." The door of the car opened, and the Queen emerged and advanced on the Prime Minister. He stared at her, dumbstruck. She was wearing a long crimson dress, high at the neck and accompanied by matching gloves. Her hair was braided into an impossibly intricate style. "I believe that I mentioned, ma'am, that it is traditional for ladies greeting His Holiness to wear black, and a hat," he said, as calmly as he could manage. "Yes, you did, Lenny, thank you. But then I thought -- hold on, this state visit thing means that I'm the hostess. You told me that, too. And when I invite people around to my place, I like to dress up a bit -- to look the way that suits me that day. My place, my rules, surely?" "Well, ma'am..." the Prime Minister began. But the Queen had spotted someone she knew -- one of his junior aides, who he vaguely remembered had been at university with her -- and had slipped off for a word. Then, everyone felt the deep vibration beneath their feet that said that a maglev train had arrived at this platform, and fell into their correct formal positions. A soft hiss said that the train had moved from its vacuum tunnel into the airlock, and then it slid into view. State Visit The door opened and a couple of purple-clad figures emerged, and blinked in a startled fashion as the Queen went striding toward them with what Mortimer always thought was hereditary grace. A moment later, though, a smaller figure, all in white and gold, also emerged and waved to the cheering crowds. The Pope looked as startled as his escorts at the Queen's choice of clothes, but he was an old professional himself, and said nothing about it, as the Queen managed a polite nod of the head. Mortimer had some time since allowed himself to be persuaded to have a small directional microphone fitted inside his suit -- it was too useful to refuse -- and he set it to pick up the conversation. "Holiness," the Queen said, "I hope that you had a pleasant trip?" "Yes, thank you, Majesty." His English was as good as the reports said, then. "Good. And how was Rome when you left?" "Ah, very fine, Majesty..." "Mmm. It was lovely when I was there last month. Bit hot this time of year, though, I find." "You were there? I was not informed..." The old chap looked startled. Neither was I, thought Mortimer furiously. What's she on about? "Oh, no -- I was there incognito, don't you know? One finds that one has to take the odd break, doesn't one, Holiness?" Double Damn! thought Mortimer, and made a mental note to chew out the Intelligence departments. They'd have to be told to track all of the fake IDs that the Queen had, in moments of misguided indulgence, been granted over the years, a lot more carefully. And to make sure that she hadn't acquired any new ones somehow. "Ah, yes..." said the Pope. "Anyway, old thing, I think I have to introduce you to my Prime Minister and his people. They look like they're getting terribly bored over there." No, thought Mortimer, boredom is NOT the problem. But the Queen was back on something like good behaviour now, smiling sweetly as she led the Pope to speak to her ministers and their assistants. She kept the conversation going as everyone exchanged the required politeness, and then took up the thread again when that was done. "Well," she said to the Pope, "I'm told that you've got all sorts of boring old visits to deal with for the rest of the day, but we're all going to be at one of those big dinners tonight. And after that..." she smiled charmingly as if she'd never said a word against this pope in all her life, "...you'll be my guest at the Palace. We've given you the North Wing to yourself -- I think that you'll be very comfortable there." The Pope nodded politely as she led him to his car and waved him on his way with the same cheerful casualness as most of the crowd, then, knowing that the Prime Minister couldn't leave before her, she slipped back into her own vehicle "Just into the private tunnels round the corner," she told it, "then change colour and come round to the back here." "Yes, ma'am," said the vehicle computer, and started its motors. Meanwhile, the Queen was pulling a dark wig and a baggy coat out of the luggage section behind her. "Convenient, this," she said to the equerry robot as she began to wriggle out of the dress with practised skill in the confined space, and touched a control in her electronic earrings that told the miniature robots hidden in her hair to restyle it, "I've got those friends coming in from Paris and Berlin in twenty minutes, and I do want to be there to meet them..." *** The dinner that evening wasn't the disaster that Leonard Mortimer had feared. The Queen turned up in another slightly inappropriate dress, of course, but it was nothing that anyone could complain about -- indeed, a quick check later on the real-time news Web sites suggested that it was the latest thing from some big-name British fashion house, which would make her popular with that industry, who always appreciated it when she gave them a boost. The food was excellent, if a little exotic at times; the Queen made a point of employing rather sophisticated chefs at the Palace. Her conversations with the Pope while she was sitting next to him looked dangerously flirtatious from where Mortimer was sitting, but nobody else seemed to notice, and he eventually told himself that he was being paranoid. Mostly, she just seemed slightly distracted. Later, Mortimer would wonder what she'd had on her mind. But at the time, he just decided to be glad that he couldn't actually see anything to worry about, and to relax as the Palace servants and robots led everybody off to their various quarters. *** It was two in the morning, and Rosanna was slumped in front of her screens, sipping coffee and scrolling through some routine filing, when the main display burst into life and she found herself staring at an angry-looking Leonard Mortimer. "Miss Macintyre!" he snapped, "have you heard anything from the Palace since you've been on watch?" "From the Queen, sir? No..." "Not from the Queen, you idiot -- I don't expect her to call me about anything if she can help it. From the papal delegation!" "Uh, well, there have been one or two calls from some of the aides. Something about something happening in the garden. But I checked with the palace..." (that was almost a lie; she hadn't really had to check, although she'd logged a call to cover her arse, just in case) "...and they say it's just HM and some friends -- and the soundproofing is fine in the wing with the visitors' quarters, so I didn't like to bother you..." "Bother me? Miss Macintyre, were those formal representations from the delegation?" "Well, sir, I suppose... I mean, they were junior members ... have they got through to you?" They can't have, she was thinking, I'm managing all his communication channels! "No," snapped Mortimer, "but my wife has been on some royalty-fan Web sites, and she tells me that some people watching the Palace gates have seen a whole string of cars arriving, and their directional microphones are getting music. Some satellite pictures show lights and movement in the gardens, too. Those royalty fans know a party when they see one, and you can't tell me that it's the pope and his people. HM is up to something!" "Oh. Well, I suppose, sir -- uh, should I put a call through?" "No, Miss Macintyre, you should not. You should arrange for my car to be outside in five minutes." "You're going over there in person, sir?" "Yes, Miss... Actually, Miss Macintyre, we are going over there. If you've failed to catch this, you can damn well help me patch things over." Damn, thought Rosanna. Well, perhaps, if she was on the spot, she could somehow mitigate things. She might even be able to keep her job. She was beginning to wonder why she'd let Annie talk her into anything, though. Mortimer had broken his connection. She set to work with the Number Ten systems, summoning the car. In a spare moment, she tried putting a call through to the private number that that Queen had given her, but she wasn't surprised when she got a Currently Unavailable page in response. She left a cautious warning message. Then she grabbed a coat, took a lift to ground level, and slipped out of a side door. The official car was already sitting waiting, and when she climbed in, she found Leonard Mortimer sitting, waiting, and scowling. At least he hasn't brought a gang of bodyguards, she reflected. She guessed that he wanted to keep any incident involving the Queen as quiet as possible -- and it wasn't like there was likely to be any physical danger at the Palace. Anyway, the car came with its own swarm of stealthy flying robot guards. Mortimer normally liked to have a crowd of people around him, presumably making him feel important, but he also knew when it might be better to avoid attention. "Forgive me, sir," Rosanna said to her boss as the car slipped through the late-night London traffic, "but isn't this quite late at night for your wife to be monitoring royal-watcher sites? You said earlier that you were having an early night." "Oh, I was," said the Prime Minister through gritted teeth, "but my wife has had DeSleep treatment. To allow her to keep track of all her interests." "Ah," said Rosanna, as neutrally as possible. But she couldn't resist venturing a question. "But you haven't had DeSleep, have you, sir?" "Of course not!" Mortimer snapped, and Rosanna nodded carefully and left the subject there. It had been a silly question, really. DeSleep didn't just reduce a person's need for sleep; it replaced the complicated memory management that happened in sleep with a simple, continuous, linear process. But that made the person a simple, linear personality. Someone on DeSleep could be very efficient, in a single-minded sort of way, but would always be terribly unimaginative and obsessive. Only hobbyists and workaholics who wanted to be more hobbyist or more workaholic liked the idea. Politicians didn't use it if they had any sense; they needed to be flexible and adaptable. Also, everyone knew that DeSleep had the side-effect of rendering the user's libido entirely defunct. Sex requires at least a tiny bit of imagination and the ability to relax, after all; DeSleepers said that they had better things to do with their time, such as collecting beetles or doing repetitive jobs. A DeSleeper would always be regarded as far too dull for anyone to vote for them. Rosanna had vaguely known that the Prime Minister's wife was a rabid royalty fan, but the fact that she was a DeSleeper was news. The PM probably shouldn't have mentioned it. It wasn't far from Downing Street to the Palace, and moments later, the car pulled up outside a side gate where Mortimer had told it to go -- one so little-used that it had no watchers. Mortimer and Rosanna stepped out, huddling down instinctively in case they were spotted by anyone anyway, and the Prime Minister muttered to himself as he fiddled with his antique wrist computer, evidently pulling up a key code. A lock clicked, and the gate swung open. "We have a code, for emergencies," Mortimer muttered. "HM got quite unhappy about it, but we were able to insist. Fortunately." They slipped into the palace grounds and closed and re-locked the gate behind them. They could already hear music and voices, and as they turned a corner, Rosanna realised that this was definitely one of Annie's parties. Though it wasn't the wildest she'd seen; nobody was having sex in public -- yet. "Bother the woman," muttered Mortimer. "The Vatican delegation will really be complaining about this. We'd better find her." "Should we split up?" Rosanna suggested. "Better chance of finding her quicker, and so on..." "I suppose so. Hmmph. You know her well enough to talk to her, I gather?" "Yes, sir." "Well, ping me if you find her. Hopefully, she'll be easy enough to spot. Though I don't know what she'll be wearing," Mortimer muttered. "Knowing her, she'll be changing clothes every five minutes. She always does at events. I don't know how she does it; she must carry a wardrobe along with her." "Oh, she probably uses a programmable dress," Rosanna told her boss. "It can reconfigure itself on command. Different shapes for different jobs." "Clever, I suppose," Mortimer said. "It is a useful trick," Rosanna replied, and touched the broach attached to her suit. "Informal switch," she said to the voice control mike. The two parts of the suit merged smoothly into a single dress, while the sleeves and leg segments shortened slightly and became much more flared. "I happened to be wearing this. I think it might help to blend in a bit," she said to the startled-looking Mortimer, "until we get all this sorted out," she added. Mortimer shrugged, and set off towards the Palace buildings while Rosanna went to look in the far end of the garden. There were crowds down that way, which often meant that Annie would be somewhere around. Unfortunately, this didn't turn out to be the case this time. It seemed like a good party, and Rosanna wished that she wasn't there on business -- she hadn't had much of a social life recently -- but even when she asked a few people quietly, nobody was able to say where the Queen might be. After some minutes, with a sigh, Rosanna turned back towards the Palace, pausing only to look in a summerhouse along the way. In fact, the Queen had slipped away to look around the garden with a pair of her gardeners just a few minutes before Rosanna and Mortimer had arrived. The gardeners were a married couple, Evan and Colette, who had both been working for the Palace for several years. The Queen had long regarded them as likeable; then, four months ago, she'd stepped out for a breath of fresh air, and walked around a shrubbery to discover the couple taking a brief break from their work. What she saw then had given her a whole extra degree of respect for both of them; Evan had been standing up, casually bearing his wife's full weight as she rode his prodigious erection to orgasm, even while she was rotating her hips to drive him into a frenzy of lust. When they had finished, adjusted their clothes, and noticed their audience, the Queen had applauded them and struck up a conversation. This had led to a series of invitations to informal Palace events for the couple, and this evening, the Queen had succeeded in fulfilling the hopes that earlier encounter had inspired. Specifically, she was astride Evan as he lay on the ground, confirming that his cock could be every bit as large and rigid as it had appeared then, and that it felt just as good inside her as she'd imagined. Colette was kneeling over her husband's face, enjoying his mouth as she applied her own to the Queen's breasts, drawing her tongue carefully over the royal nipples as they grew large and hard. The Queen was whimpering in the back of her throat, a shudder building in her cunt as she struggled to control herself for long enough to give Evan the fun he so richly deserved, carefully squeezing and relaxing the well-exercised muscles that were clamped around his erection. The Queen's wrist-computer had detected her current physiological state, and in accordance with instructions, it wasn't bothering her at the moment. It noticed when she came to orgasm -- sensing her pulse and some neural signals, although anyone could have told by her yelp of glee -- and then waited another thirty seconds before it bleeped. "Just a mo... Ooh, ah, yes!" the Queen responded, feeling Evan's cock throb deep inside her as he too came. Then she took a deep breath, and murmured an order to the computer. "You have a visitor, ma'am," it whispered into her miniature earpiece. "The Prime Minister arrived nine minutes ago..." "Oh, damn," the Queen said. "Oh well, better go have a word with the old bore." She carefully lifted herself off Evan and away from Colette. The latter, no longer supported as she leaned forward, slumped down, bringing her face into the vicinity of her husband's now only semi-tumescent cock. She smiled, and after a moment, she began using her mouth and tongue to restore his erection. The Queen smiled too, and touched the earring that held the voice control unit for her dress. "Victoria," she said, and the dress flowed back into place, making itself long in the skirt and high at the neck. That stretched it a little thin, but it was still just about respectable -- in a way, anyway. Then, as she felt Evan's semen flowing down her thigh, she added another command -- "Scavenge" -- and smiled as she felt a little of the dress's structure flow onto her thighs and clean up what it found there. Rosanna was approaching the Palace when she finally saw the Queen -- but only from a distance, and not before the Queen had come into sight of the Prime Minister, who had just emerged from the building. The two were already closing in on each other, the Queen smiling quietly, Mortimer doing his best to suppress his scowl behind a bland façade. Rosanna saw that the Queen was apparently wearing what Rosanna remembered as her favourite party dress from university days. It was indeed programmable, but it wasn't just fabric with a bunch of control systems like Rosanna's own; it actually consisted of a swarm of insect-like robots with glittering carapaces which clung to her skin and remained in formation while in constant motion; in other words, her dress was continually moving, showing and covering different parts of her from neck to ankle at different times. The standard programming ensured that the wearer's nipples, buttocks, and bush always remained concealed, but if this was the same dress, the Queen had modified that programming so that those parts were exposed for five or ten seconds in every ten minutes. It was a terrible distraction for onlookers. Rosanna wondered if Mortimer had been treated to its full effects yet. She made her way towards the conversation, where the Queen was looking increasingly truculent and the Prime Minister was looking increasingly exasperated. She was just within earshot when the Queen put her hand to her ear; Rosanna realised that she was fingering an earring. "Tahiti," the Queen said. Her dress responded promptly to the code word, the entire structure migrating smoothly down to below her waist, where it formed a swirling, multiply-slashed skirt. The Prime Minister reeled back, startled, and the Queen smiled sweetly, turned, and strolled away, followed by the gazes of everyone present. Rosanna looked away before anyone else, and found the Prime Minister looking stunned. She put on her best formal face as she approached him. "Bother the woman," he muttered. "No sense of responsibility." "I'm afraid that she does as she pleases, very often," Rosanna said, steering him away, indoors, and into an unoccupied room within the Palace. "She's not going to stop the party, then?" "No," Mortimer muttered, "well, she says she'll wind it up in an hour or two, but there are too many people here who she says she can't offend by just throwing them out here and now. God knows what'll happen if the opposition gets hold of any of this. They'll slaughter us with it." He sounded depressed. "I don't think so, sir," said Rosanna, finding that she was feeling something like authentic sympathy. "Oh, really? And why not, pray?" "Well, sir -- when we split up and you told me to look for HM, I went round the gardens a bit. I looked in the summerhouse, and, well..." "Yes?" the Prime Minister said with faint curiosity. "The deputy leader of the Opposition Coalition was in there, sir." "Really?" Mortimer raised a tired eyebrow. "Doing what?" "Taking it up the arse, sir. From that Trad-Rap star the Queen gave an OBE last month." "Good grief!" Mortimer sat down on a convenient couch. "Hmm. I suppose that might give us some hope." "Yes, sir." And me turning this up might yet save my arse, even when he remembers that I didn't call him, Rosanna reflected. "I'm sure we can let the opposition know that we know, if necessary." She sat down at the far end of the very long couch. The Prime Minister looked at her with a faint expression of renewed hope. "I know that this will sound old-fashioned," he said, "but what is the world coming to? You know, I only went into politics because I thought that doing things the way they've always been done might not be a bad thing." "I'm sure that it isn't, sir," said Rosanna. "But perhaps HM is a bit of a traditionalist too, in her way." "I very much doubt it," said Mortimer. "Did you see that dress?" "Oh, I've seen it before," Rosanna admitted, "but isn't being dressing up a bit, in, well, the height of fashion really quite traditional for royalty? And some of her ancestors got up to -- well, all sorts of stuff. And she doesn't let it stop her doing her job, unlike some of them." State Visit "Apart from offending important visitors." "I'm sure that we can smooth that out, sir. The calls were all from quite low-level people in the Vatican delegation, sir. I'll bet the pope himself is sleeping like a baby. And I think that there are one or two of the delegation out here..." "Good lord!" "Oh, probably just journos from the Vat Pack, sir," Rosanna lied, not wanting to traumatise her boss too much, or to tell him who else had been in the summerhouse. "Still, we can say it was a private party -- HM making some of the delegation welcome." "I suppose," Mortimer leant back, stretching pensively. Rosanna took the opportunity to step over to the door and look out. Noticing a waiterbot, she snagged a couple of glasses of champagne, then closed the door and returned to give one glass to her boss. He nodded thanks, and took a very small sip. "I can't say that I like all this cynicism, though, you know," he went on I've heard everything before, about any sort of ... bad behaviour being traditional. But it's not my idea of tradition." Rosanna smiled at him. "No, but it's not all new inventions -- and surely you don't mind all of those, sir? I mean, DeSleep is a new invention..." she ventured carefully, feeling dangerously curious about the subject in question. "Hah!" Mortimer snapped, sipping more champagne. "I'm afraid that my wife has let her own enthusiasm for tradition run away with her. Not a hobby I share, I'm afraid. I probably see too much of the Queen. My wife envies me that, you know? She keeps suggesting I should get more invitations to parties here." Rosanna laughed for a moment. "No, probably not a good idea," she said. "Nobody should see anything they worship too close up. Not if they want to keep their illusions." "And one certainly sees plenty of the Queen close up at these dos," Mortimer muttered. "Did you see that dress?" He didn't seem to notice that he was repeating himself. "The Queen puts a lot of effort into looking good," Rosanna said. "You can't blame her for wanting to show off a bit." "To show off a lot. To show a lot off." Mortimer put his glass down, and Rosanna noticed that it was empty already. "Good thing she doesn't act like that in public." "Oh, she wouldn't," Rosanna said. "She's no idiot. She's always in control, I think." "She does look good, as you say," said Mortimer, gazing forward and apparently not listening to Rosanna any more. She moved next to him. "You have to admire her," she ventured. "Oh, yes, I suppose," Mortimer said, "just not the way my wife does." "We just have to use traditions, don't we?" Rosanna suggested. She tentatively touched Mortimer's hand with her own. "The ones that work, I mean," she added. "I suppose that we must," he replied, taking her hand between both of his and looking at her. She leaned her head toward his. "No choice, really," she said, and very tentatively kissed him on the lips. He didn't either respond or recoil. "What is this, Miss Macintyre?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused. "Do you want me to tell you about ... what some Prime Ministers have done in the past?" she asked, and kissed him again. "Don't quote history at me, Miss Macintyre. Apart from anything else, I know how much damage infidelity has done to politicians' careers." "Ah, well, it's done some damage to some of the ones who were found out. But not all of them. And the ones who don't get found out -- at least, not until after they've retired -- seem to do fine." Mortimer was looking unusually uncertain, Rosanna noticed. She put one hand on his thigh and kissed him again. "I'm not sure if office relationships are a good idea..." he murmured. "Not for some people. But with us -- well, it means that both of us have reasons to keep this ... discreet." She kissed him harder. "I suppose..." Mortimer replied, and kissed her back. "But I can't see why you'd be interested in someone my age." "Oh, don't be silly," Rosanna said with a soft smile. "You've had the anti-ageing stuff, haven't you? And everyone knows how that works just fine. You may let yourself look your age -- well, half your age -- but you'll be fine at this." She moved her hand from his thigh to his crotch. "Mmm," she added, "more than fine." She stood up, strolled over to the door, and wedged a chair against it. Then she turned around, kicked her shoes off, and drew her skirt up at the sides, just enough that she could grasp the waistbands of her tights and knickers together. Lowering them to the floor, she draped them over the chair. She began walking back toward the couch. Half way there, she paused and touched her broach. "Release and discard," she said. Mortimer gasped slightly as her dress -- that had been her suit -- unfastened itself at multiple points, pulled itself to her back, and fell to the floor behind her. Naked now, Rosanna walked the rest of the way to the couch. Lowering herself slowly to her knees, she leaned forward and began unfastening Mortimer's high-necked jacket, and then the lightweight shirt underneath. She smiled as she exposed his chest, which was as smooth and firm as she'd expected, given his anti-ageing treatments. When she was only half-way down, though, she she lost patience, and reached for his trousers instead. Unfastening his antiquated belt, then the waistband, she reached the fly, and unzipped it, revealing that he was wearing dark blue silk shorts. He was still neither resisting nor helping, but when she reached up and grasped his trousers, he raised his hips slightly, making it easy for her to slide them down to his ankles. Then, she did the same for the shorts. His erection sprang free, and she made a soft, appreciative noise, and paused for just a moment. Then she leaned forward, opening her mouth, and engulfed his cock. Breathing carefully, she took more and more of it into her mouth, moving carefully until she had most of it. Then, carefully -- she was out of practice at this trick -- she began moving her head up and down, keeping her lips in contact with the skin of the Prime Minister's cock and carefully moving her tongue from time to time to add to the effect. "Ah..." said Mortimer, "Miss Macintyre..." She removed her mouth from his cock and raised her head. "My name is Rosanna," she said reproachfully, looking him in the eye. "Rosanna," he said tentatively, "I'm sorry, yes, Rosanna..." "That's better," she said, "so I'll let you fuck me anyway." She climbed onto the couch so that she was astride the Prime Minister, then reached down and grasped his cock, guiding it to the entrance of her cunt. Then she lowered herself smoothly, engulfing it completely and clamping her thighs round Mortimer's hips. "Ohhh," he breathed. "Yes," she said, louder than him, "fuck, yes!" She leaned forward to bring her breasts to his face , and he began greedily kissing her nipples while reaching forward to grasp her buttocks with both hands. She began gyrating her hips, giving off a series of staccato gasps, and within seconds, she'd gave a climactic wild cry, before slowing her pattern of movement. But even as Mortimer began to move faster beneath her, she accelerated to another climax, yelling "Fuck!" this time. Then she paused, and noticed that Mortimer was pushing up into her in a series of long, hard thrusts, while looking fiercely intent. Then, with a sudden grunt, he came. A second later, she was sure that she could feel the fluid inside her, adding to the lubrication between them. "You needed that," she observed, rising on her knees so that his softening cock came away from her. "I did," he admitted. "Good. Because I've not finished with you yet." She crawled back down the couch and then leaned forward to kiss his chest. "I'm sure that a powerful man like you should be good for more than just the once," she said, and he felt her breasts brushing his cock and balls. "So let's see how long it takes to get you back up..." *** Elsewhere, the Queen sipped a glass of champagne and frowned slightly. Making an excuse to the cluster of friends to whom she'd be chatting, she slipped away to a small room in the Palace with a voice-controlled lock, and sat down in front of a bank of monitor screens. "Okay, system," she said, "is Lenny Mortimer still on the premises?" "Yes, ma'am," the computer replied. "Damn. I should have chased him right off the site," she muttered. "What's he up to?" "Locating," said the computer, taking that as an order. After a few seconds, it announced, "subject found." The Queen frowned. She'd made a point of gaining full access to the Palace security systems, and the controlling computer was naturally smart enough to deduce where people would most likely be even if it couldn't track them everywhere, while the cameras were more numerous and better hidden than most people realised -- but the coverage in the garden was patchy at best. Was Mortimer hanging around the party, or skulking round the buildings? "Show me where," she said, and the computer flashed up a plan of the main palace building, with one ground-floor room highlighted. She had taught it enough respect for privacy that it wouldn't show images from a specific location without a direct command, but with a snapped "Camera!" she gave that command. She gasped. "Gosh," she said, then, "computer, zoom in on those two people... Mmm. Gosh, yes. Permanent recording please, computer; tag it 'Lenny and Roz' and encrypt it for my eyes only. And give me sound." So she heard voices to go with the pictures then; voices saying things like Yeah, such my tits, sir! and May I fuck you again, Rosanna? and Deeper, deeper, Prime Minister! and Oh, god, yes, Rosanna, I never dreamed... Twenty minutes later, she rejoined the party -- but her more perceptive friends noticed that she seemed slightly distracted from then on. A couple of hours later, as things finally wound down, she slipped away to a private room again. "Computer," she said, "get in touch with Roz Macintyre, and put me through to her as soon as her system guarantees that she's alone." Just a few minutes later, her wearable computer bleeped to tell her that Rosanna Macintyre was taking private calls. The Queen made her excuses again, and returned to her secure room. An image appeared on the wall; Rosanna, alone in a self-driving government car. She did a double-take when she saw who was calling. "Hi Roz!" the Queen said brightly. Rosanna gasped and blushed slightly. "Oh, Annie -- hi. Look, I'm terribly sorry about last night -- the PM found out because..." "Oh, don't worry," said the Queen with a smile and a wave. "Not your fault, I'm sure. No, I just called because I'm wondering what you were doing with my Prime Minister in my palace last night." "Oh, the PM insisted that I come along in person. I was on night duty, after all, and he knows that I knew you..." "No no no, not that. What I meant, Roz, was... Well, for one thing, is he well hung? And for another, does he have any weird kinks?" Rosanna blushed very deeply now. "I should have guessed that you'd find out somehow," she muttered. "Course I did. No secrets from me in my house," the Queen said cheerfully. "Well, to answer your questions, he's just fine and his tastes are pretty vanilla," Rosanna said in a rush, with a scowl. "Shame. I was hoping for something really juicy, even if I didn't get it on disc. How long have you been at it, anyway?" "Tonight was the first time," Rosanna replied. "Ooh, score another one for Annie's scandalous parties!" "Yeah, congratulations," Rosanna muttered. "I'm sorry, Roz darling. Didn't mean to intrude. But you were in my house, y'know." "I'll be more careful next time." "Ooh, good -- there'll be a next time, then, you reckon. But hey, sorry, sorry -- I shouldn't wind you up about this. "Your house," Rosanna muttered. "No, really, Roz, I'm doing this wrong," said the Queen. "Actually, I'm terribly grateful -- this really was more than I'd ever have asked, god knows. Taking Lenny's mind off my bad behaviour, and maybe getting that stick out of his arse. I don't think that a couple of garden party invites will quite cover it." "Oh, it was no trouble," said Rosanna, smoothing her clothes -- back to plain work configuration now -- and making sure that they looked tidy as the car slid through the London streets towards her home.. "No trouble? Seducing Lenny? You must've had to extract that stick first..." "Actually, Annie, I think it was mostly you and your dress that seduced him. I just took advantage of the after-effects." "What, really?" "Yes, really." Rosanna sighed to herself. Annie sometimes forgot the effect she could have on people -- especially certain sorts of people. "Honestly, he could barely walk straight after you gave him that eyeful." "Oh. Well, in that case, you still did more than you had to, for me. Actually, I'm sure that I could have brought myself to finish what I'd accidentally started. Might be useful, really, and it would certainly have been a laugh..." "I don't know, actually, Annie. I'm not sure that he quite thinks of you as a person -- well, I'm sure that he fancies you as Queen, not as the bloody nuisance girl who got him out of bed tonight. He's really terribly traditionalist, you know. I think if you actually offered to shag him, his brain would melt. He might do anything." "Oh. Oh, well. Thanks for stepping in, anyway. Greater love hath no woman..." "No, no, don't worry. It wasn't a sacrifice, you know." Rosanna shook her head. "Actually, the fact is, you got me very slightly wrong the other day. But only a bit." "What d'you mean?" "You were right that I'm interested in power, I guess... But I didn't shag you just to get a leg up, and I didn't slave to get into the PM's office because I wanted to be powerful." "Then why?" "You're being slow, Annie dear." Rosanna smiled. "Power turns me on." "Ahhhh..." "Yeah. I don't shag important people to get on in my career; I slave to get on so I can shag important people. God, I loved going to bed with you so much. It was hot. I scored the Princess! And now..." "You've scored the Prime Minister as well." "Yeah! I didn't quite know myself that was what I was after, honest. I should have noticed how I felt every time he came through the office... But he was hardly accessible, you know?" "Until..." "I found out tonight that his wife isn't accessible to him these days. DeSleep, apparently." "Ooh, Right. And you also found that you could do me a favour." "Uh-huh. But I was barely thinking about that, frankly... When I realised that he had a hard-on... I do really owe you for that. After he'd seen you ... I mean, just that dress..." "Oh, I'm sure that you could have had him anyway." "I hope." "Well, anyhow," said the Queen, "maybe you should come back in here, when we've all had a chance to catch up on our sleep. There's some people stopping over who I'd love you to meet." "Who's that?" "Well, there's the assistant EU commissioner -- and my second cousin Fran from Sweden..." "You mean -- Prince Francis?" "Uh, yeah." "Stop it!" Rosanna squealed, hugging herself. "Hmm," said the Queen, throwing a glance toward the north wing of the palace, "how d'you feel about religious power?" "What? Oh, come on, Annie." Rosanna suddenly sounded quite shocked. "Oh, don't worry. I don't think that I'm actually going to corrupt the Pope or any of his top dogs. Between you and me -- I checked, and His Holiness has been sleeping like a lamb for the last six hours." "Annie!" Rosanna sounded shocked at that, too. "You didn't spy on him?" "My house, darling -- but don't worry, I don't have a camera in his bathroom or anything. Oh, and he wears very fetching purple pyjamas." Rosanna sighed, and shrugged. "Anyway, you could tell Lenny that His Holiness and his inner circle have been completely undisturbed. Maybe a couple of his retinue dropped in on the do..." "They did. I saw." "Oh, right -- cool." "Then what was the party all about, Annie?" "Oh, I just wanted to sow a little confusion. Make a point to somebody about how I do things. Probably mostly just to myself, to be honest." "Annie, you do everything for yourself." "That's not what you said back at university. Not after the fourth time." "Bitch," muttered Rosanna. "I beg your pardon? I am your queen, y'know." "Sorry. Bitch Your Majesty. But, well, you do get off on watching other people get off." The Queen shrugged. "Care to help me get off some more?" she asked. "When I've caught up on my sleep, maybe. Which reminds me -- I'm nearly home now. But I'll take you up on that invite soon." The Queen broke the connection and smiled. Rosanna was right, damn it; she got off on seeing other people get off. Which reminded her; she really needed to unwind before she crashed out. "Computer," she said, "play Lenny and Roz, main screen. And Ecky..." The equerry robot, which had been standing immobile in the corner of the room, awoke. "Ma'am?" it responded. "Come over here," the Queen ordered, "and kneel before your Queen."