Fated Switch

Johnson pulled the collar of his crisp suit jacket away from his neck. He hated formal wear. He hated the white attire and gold buttons, the red pants and black shoulder cape. He hated the shallow brimmed hat with feathers and the stiff boots that made his feet ached from stuffing them inside. If he had had the choice to ditch the entire outfit he would have. If he could back out of the ensuing ceremony he would do that too. But the order to attend the crowning of a new ruler in one of the neighboring countries had come from higher up the ladder--and not even his father could get him out of the mandated invitation.

As the son of a diplomat, Johnson had a reputation for playing well with others. He was respected by his peers and had risen within the military ranks swifter than expected. He also spoke Sandreen--the language the ceremony would be held in--because his mother was from Sandrane. The ascension of the new Sandrane king, however, was of no interest to him and Johnson shifted from one foot to the other as he waited in a crowd of people that smelled too much of perfume and oil.

The one that really should be here, Johnson mused, is the king. If he had no desire to be here, than why would I?

But the Stanton king was the one who had given Johnson the summons to attend. The man hated ceremony but was the ruler of the largest country on the continent. His attendance was required for events that impacted the cluster of five nations that shared the same rock formation on this thing they called a planet. It was part of the job to make appearances and yet the man had done nothing but try to get out of as many ceremonies as he could.

I suppose I would do the same thing. Or maybe I wouldn't. I will never be in a position where I rule a country, so I guess I'll never know for sure.

He shifted to the side as a couple in elegant robes pushed past him. Their Sandreen speech was light and joyous. Obviously they supported whoever it was being crowned.

A grunt ushered from his left and Johnson suppressed a smile as his lieutenant wove through the mass of those gathered. The younger man was as tall, fit, and clean shaven as Johnson. His face was rounder and his eyes darker, but he was every bit the poster-picture of someone who had done well for himself. He--Kemp--had also been told to attend the crowning and looked as uncomfortable in the dress uniform as Johnson felt.

Kemp pulled at the bottom of his gilded jacket as he stepped in next to Johnson. Sweat beaded along his dark hairline and beneath his lip. He swiped at each, trying not to smudge his white cuff.

"Well," he cleared his throat, "this should be fun."

Sarcasm bled into the man's words and Johnson felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Ascension in the Sandrane court was often accompanied by some sort of death. Sometimes the one holding power died because of age or illness or was encouraged to theses ends by the help of another. Sometimes it was the threat of his or her death or another's they cared about that lead to a new crowning. Disputes were common and political leaders never changed hands in this country in any other way.

It was unsettling to be their closest neighbor--especially when in the military--yet the Sandrane never took their disputes outside their borders. They were a loyal ally despite their internal upheaval so whenever there was a shift in power emissaries were sent from Stanton to show their continued support of friendship. 

"Should we take bets?" Kemp asked.

Johnson cast him a sideways glance. Half of the time a crowning was scheduled to take place things went according to plan. It all depended on who was stepping into the position and how well they had established a following. If the claim was considered weak, an uprising could occur, followed by a few days or weeks of unrest until a new leader emerged.

Between the Stanton military a pool had been established for each Sandrane crowning as to whether or not the new leader would maintain power beyond the ceremony. This one was extra special because Johnson, Kemp, and four other officers had been sent as emissaries instead of the Stanton king. In their honor, a separate pool had been created with the tag "will or will not" and it referred to them making it back to Stanton before or after the borders were closed.

"I don't think we were meant to be in on the betting this time," Johnson said.

He pulled the cuff of his jacket back and looked at the digital display on his wrist. The ceremony was scheduled to kick off soon. So far the crowd was expectant, their speech hopeful. If that feeling remained and connections to the Stanton net remained open for at least the first half of the presentation then there was a good chance the new leader would remain in power. If not, these streets would get busy quick. Either way, all bets would be off once the trumpets sounded.

"But that doesn't mean we can't make a bet," Kemp said. He gazed at the device on his own wrist, flipping through images and setting while gauging the crowd. "I have a feeling this one won't last long." He tapped a few things on the screen then pulled his sleeve back down.

Johnson watched as the Kemp clasped his hands behind his back, fully aware the man had a weapon tucked beneath his coat. He had one too but had hoped not to need it. He scanned the crowd.

Nothing in the crowd made him think this was a doomed venture--except the hooded figure that wove through the crowd on his right. Another figure maneuvered through the spectators on Kemp's left.

No, Johnson thought with a sigh, whoever is being instated will not get far with a claim to power.

He pulled his arms around his back and waited. Kemp nudged his shoulder then nodded at the two figures. Two more tailed them at a distance.

"You should've placed a bet," he said. "Maybe if I win on both fronts I'll save you a share."

Johnson pressed his lips together as the trumpets blew. The only question he cared about now was whether or not they could clear the border once the fighting broke out. After than he would care little for any spoils. Getting out with his men--all limbs in tack and hearts still pounding--was a good enough win for him.