Нил Стивенсон - Termination Shock

Saskia wasn’t a yacht person. But she knew people who were, and had got the picture, through them, that when boats like this exceeded a certain size, the expectation was that they would basically be staffed and operated as resorts. If you were going to provide toys—parasails, Jet Skis, scuba gear, fishing tackle, and all the rest—you had to provide staff who knew how to keep all that stuff running and who could show the guests a good time while making sure no one got killed. Those staff all needed places to sleep and to eat, separate from guest cabins of course. Throw in a full-time security detail and the yacht had to be that enormous just to carry out its basic functions.

Crescent was one of those. The owner was a Saudi prince. Which wasn’t saying much; there were many. As far as she could tell, this guy—Fahd bin Talal—wasn’t the type who cut journalists up with bone saws. Dressed in a long white dishdasha and red-and-white headscarf, accessorized with gilt-edged sunglasses, he greeted Saskia at the gangway, flanked by at least a dozen uniformed crew members, and handed her a bouquet before escorting her aboard—where a woman was waiting just so that Saskia could hand the bouquet off to her and not have to lug it around. After a brief walkaround she was escorted to the royal suite, or at least a royal suite, and introduced to a phalanx of butlers, stewards, housekeepers, and so on who would see to her every need.

None of which was exactly unheard of, when you were a queen; but Dutch royals steered clear of it. She knew she’d have felt much more at home on the Norwegian eco-yacht.

She’d lost track of Michiel during all this. No formal activities were slated for this evening. She spent a few minutes freshening up and changing clothes, then ventured out, bracing herself for more aggressive hospitality. Michiel had sent her a selfie as a clue as to where he might be tracked down. The sun was dropping below the horizon when she found him sitting in one of the yacht’s bars, an open-air, tiki-themed establishment beside the swimming pool. Why you’d have a swimming pool on a boat that floated in the water wasn’t clear to her. Maybe so that you could have a poolside bar. Anyway, Michiel—who’d been assigned to a slightly less palatial stateroom—was sitting there in a Hawaiian shirt and white slacks enjoying a cocktail with a shirtless and even more good-looking man who bore an uncanny resemblance to—

He stood up when he saw her coming. “Ma’am,” he said. Then, worried—hilariously—that she wouldn’t recognize him, he added, “I’m—”

“Jules. The Family Jules. Such a pleasure to see you again.”

He seemed chuffed to be recognized. Michiel was just grinning, enjoying the moment.

“In case you’re wondering,” Jules offered, “I was looking for work on this side of the ol’ pond, so I could—”

“So you could be within striking distance of Fenna!”

He nodded and grinned. “Oil rig work and such is hard to break into because of unions and certs, but—”

“There was an opening on a yacht, for a personable young man who could teach guests how to scuba dive.”

“Exactly, ma’am.”

“Well! That explains—”

“Why Fenna’s coming to help you get ready for the big party tomorrow evenin’!” Jules said, now smiling broadly.

“She seemed incredibly eager to do so. I fancied she was doing me a favor.”

“I’m real glad it worked out!”

“Not as glad as you’re going to be, I’m quite sure.”

If it was possible for a man as deeply and perfectly tanned as Jules to blush, he did so.

Something about the knowledge that Fenna and Jules were tomorrow going to be fucking each other’s brains out in the manner that had been so conspicuous in Texas made it seem not merely okay but almost a matter of some urgency that Saskia and Michiel get to it first. After Jules politely excused himself and left them alone together, they had dinner brought out and they dined poolside, al fresco, in a setting as romantic as it was possible for a decommissioned Cold War Soviet nerve gas depot to be. Then they went back to Saskia’s suite and got the Beaver up to cruising altitude. The next morning they had another go. After a little doze, Michiel got out of bed and began taking a shower. Saskia put on one of the provided bathrobes, ordered coffee, and was sitting there in a condition of pleasant post-coital disarray when a knock came at the door.

“Come in!” she called, and it opened to reveal a waiter carrying a silver tray. And, right behind him, a young man. Blond, bearded, oddly familiar-looking, clearly not a servant. The look on both men’s faces suggested it was an awkward coincidence. The blond man politely held the door open for the waiter, but then averted his gaze from Saskia, backed out into the corridor, and allowed it to swing closed.

Saskia only had to turn her head and look out the window across the pier. Bøkesuden was still tied up there. But this morning it was flying a new flag, bearing a royal coat of arms. Not the purple-mantled one used exclusively by the king but the red-mantled version used by the crown prince.

She strode past the bewildered waiter and peered through the peephole in the door. Prince Bjorn of Norway was still standing there, looking indecisive. When she hauled the door open, though, he looked astonished and unnerved. It didn’t help that her robe almost fell open when the door snagged it. She caught it with her free hand just in the nick of time and retied it while the prince gamely tried to keep his eyes on her face. He was wearing a navy blue blazer and a well-tailored dress shirt over khakis. Looked as though he’d have been more comfortable, though, skiing through the mountains.

“Prince Bjorn!” she exclaimed.

“Your Royal Highness. When we last met—”

“My husband’s funeral. You were just a boy. How you’ve grown! Are you here to talk to me about my daughter?”

“Well, yes.”

“Come in.”

They sat down across the coffee table from each other. The waiter poured coffee for both of them. Saskia took advantage of the delay by pulling up a certain selfie on her phone. She showed it to Bjorn: Lotte in the gown she’d worn to the ball on the day she’d become Queen of the Netherlands, making a comically exaggerated wink as she posed next to Bjorn, who here was looking even more uncomfortable in black tie. Bjorn blushed as deeply as Jules had yesterday, but he was a lot more careful about using sunscreen—something of a professional obligation when you were the crown prince of a country full of outdoorsy melanin-deprived people—and so it really showed.

“Well then, I’ll get right to the point,” he said, as soon as the door had closed behind the waiter.

“Oh my god, is she pregnant?”

Bjorn barked out a nervous laugh. “Certainly not! My god. We haven’t even done anything.”

“I’m just joking. If she were pregnant, you couldn’t possibly know yet.”

“The point is, she’s seventeen.”

“I was aware of it.”

“I’m twenty-two.” He shrugged. “It might seem a small difference to—to—”

“To someone as old as me? Go ahead, it’s okay.”

“But I just wanted to say—because there have already been false reports on the Internet—”

“Someone on the Internet is wrong? I don’t believe it!”

“Nothing has happened. And nothing will, until she is of a proper age. But—” Here Bjorn got stuck again.

“But you would like it to happen.”

“I believe there is potential there. Yes.”

“Potential. A dry and somewhat technical-sounding way to say it. You’re an engineering student?”

“Not anymore. Got my degree.”

“Congratulations!”