State Visit

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.