Tara's palace, Ireland, September 1941 (Hibernia)

"The time for kings has passed." Donal Tobin began his seditious speech to the other lords quietly, carefully mixing patriotic rhetoric and history lessons in a mind-dulling recipe. "From the establishment in 1014 to 1792, ten different families ruled Ireland. Yes, the current dynasty has occupied the green throne for a century and a half, but a change now would generate a mere footnote in Ireland's rich and glorious history. And, I assure you that when our ancestors established the Peace of Ireland following the great European wars, they scarcely imagined Tara's rulers would ascend to world dominion, mastering two earths and accumulating interests on three others. They did not set out to invest a monarchy with such concentrated power, enormous influence, and potential for corruption."

The conspirator sat in his study, "scarcely fifty staves from the court chambers, as the buzzards fly", he was fond of saying. The court scene unfolded in one part of his MT wall screen, as he scrolled a text window beside it. "Following the script, are you, friend Donal? Good. Let's keep the lies predictable, shall we?"

Ending the Irish monarchy was neither a pleasant nor a safe prospect, but better than any alternative. He could easily die in his coup, but there was no going back now.

"Oh, Lord of Heaven," he gazed toward the ceiling in appeal, "People will say I've prolonged our own version of the Three Worlds' War, even betrayed the realm. But you know I've not my own interests at heart, only Ireland's. I'm in your hands, for life or death. Lord, I may have done wrong manipulating Donal, but he'll merely get the power he wants."

"It has been," Donal Tobin's voice droned at the periphery of his attention, "one hundred fifty-two years since the elusive Metans gave us the technical ability to travel among five of the six earths, excepting only Meta herself. The Federation of Ortho and Para, under the rule of our glorious capital here at Tara, is almost as old. It's time a fresh breeze blew through these ancient halls, time to set aside the rule of despots, incompetents, and drunkards, time to take the reins of power into our own hands for the good of all Hibernia. Henceforth, let this house reign collectively." He swept his arm about to include his audience.

"The fighting in Europe and Asia has dragged on far too long. Ireland needs fresh initiatives, fresh leadership, fresh vision to put an end to this interminable war."

"Ah, yes, the war," mused the conspirator to his empty office. "Some argue we Irish merely play our favourite game." He wagged his finger at Tobin's image. "You and your MacCarthy allies believe Ireland lacks the will to fight hard enough. You forget the savage conflict on the earth next to ours, how it leaks through the timestream to adjacent worlds, also producing a war much like ours on Water World, the other side of Tirdia."

A group of junior officers had agreed too enthusiastically with his argument, and he'd had to stop the hotheads from assassinating Tirdia's Hitler and Hirohito.

"Perhaps," he thought, "we could have achieved the side effect of an earlier end to our war if we'd stopped Tirdia's fighting." But the last thing Hibernia needed was a failed intervention resulting in Tirdia discovering the other worlds. "We could all be overwhelmed by the multitudes of a planet whose people apparently have nothing to do but breed," he reflected. "Perhaps that's one reason the Metans call the place Prime. It has more people than four other earths combined."

The conspirator spoke toward a microphone. "MT, open new window, public file James Fourth." He ignored Donal Tobin's speech, to review for perhaps the hundredth time his carefully assembled dossier on the young king whom the nobles were about to dethrone.

"James, second son of James, son of Conn. Born 1917, fostered out to Barry and Millicent Devereaux of New Tara. Entered Kilkarney 1934 on a full scholarship, graduated 1938 as first cadet. Returned to Irish North America in the king's service, promoted to captain 1940, and to major, 1941."

Little else than well-known and well-polished facts, the conspirator thought. Access to a palace network node and skills few would advertise were required to reduce a reigning monarch's personal information to such bare bones. He'd also been responsible for most of the lies in Donal Tobin's somewhat larger file on the King. "But it's not what Donal Tobin thinks he knows that could get people killed today," the conspirator mused. "It's what is not in this file..."