CHAPTER 2: JUST BEYOND THE SURFACE
November 2nd, 370 SD
0923 EST (earth standard time)
H-Tower 17 (Residential Zone 3), Moonbase, Earthsphere
It had taken surprisingly little time for Opera to track down a hab. in Moonbase's residential district. And it was even pretty impressive, all things considered: two bedrooms and a luxuriously large common area, into which she had dragged a feather stuffed couch.
Not that she was able to enjoy any of it at the moment. No, at the moment, she was trapped at her console, grappling with a very difficult call she had been dreading for weeks.
Opera's mother leaned forward toward the screen. "So, just when are you planning on coming home?"
Opera did her best to disguise her scowl. Judging by her mother's reaction, it hadn't gone well. "We've discussed this," Opera declared, trying to keep her tone more 'neutral' and less 'icy.'
Ophia Vectra looked irritated. "I do wish you'd just go ahead and grow out of this rebellious stage of yours," she chided.
Opera made a face. "This stage has been most of my adult life," she grumbled.
"Just come home, dear, and we'll ease you back into a leadership role," Ophia continued, either missing or ignoring Opera's editorializing. "Opal's already taken over several of our ministries, and I know your dear father would love to take something of a vacation sometime soon..."
"Mother," Opera rebuked firmly.
"But why Earth?" Ophia asked finally, her tone petulant and frustrated. "You know what sorts of stories they write about you there." Her expression turned sulky. "Dearest, I honestly don't see how you can stand those earthers and their paparazzi and entertainment reporting," she finished, leaning back and disgustedly tossing her mink stole over her shoulder.
I wonder if she remembers that's an 'earther' creature around her neck, Opera wondered. For a half-second she considered bringing it up, but... well, she figured relations between her and her mother were strained enough as it was. "If that's all...?" Opera asked instead.
Unfortunately, Ophia wasn't quite ready to drop the issue. "Opera," she started, her normal airy tone sounding something remarkably close to serious, "Why are you in the Earthsphere?" The calculation in Ophia's eyes lessened for a moment. "Is that Ernest keeping you stuck there over some museum or funding issue?" her mother asked, placing the same vaguely disappointed emphasis on Ernest's name that she always did.
"Ah," Opera began uncomfortably, shifting visibly, "No, that's not..." She distractedly brushed a lock of hair back behind her ear. "Actually... Ernest and I aren't... together anymore."
"Oh really?" Ophia asked, in her 'vaguely surprised but not about to show it' voice. "How... unfortunate," she began, clearly not meaning that at all. That's relief I hear in her voice, Opera though quietly. Not that surprising... "I do hope that you are feeling okay, though, darling—I know break-ups can be hard."
That was sincere. Opera nodded. "I know. I'm fine. It was a... mutual split. And mostly amicable."
Ophia nodded. "Well, if you need to talk, you know how to reach me," Ophia said. But then the calculation stole back on her face. "But if it isn't Ernest and more of his wrangling with Feddie law keeping you in the Earthsphere..." The question hung in the silence.
Opera stiffened. "I, er..." She feigned looking off screen to a clock. "Er... Look, I'm, uh, sorry Mother, actually I have to go, and..."
And Opera didn't meet her mother's gaze, because she knew that she would have seen that same look of calculation, backed up now by certainty and confirmed suspicions.
OOO
Cryarsis 17th, 1348 UCEC (United Church of Expel Calendar)
Sunset
Grounds of Linga University, Kingdom of Lacour, Expel
Within seconds of crossing into the library, Ashton realized that he stuck out like a sore thumb. Between the short swords belted around his waist, his dusty, made-for-combat robes, and, of course, his dragons... If anything, Ashton was actually a little surprised that he wasn't drawing more stares from the bookish academic types spread out among the tables.
Looking for all the world as if he were marching into the Cave of Trials alone, Ashton grimly marched to the library's information desk. The older woman at the desk, hair in a bun and sharp glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, disdainfully eyed Ashton before clearing her throat. "Can I help you?"
"Y-yes," Ashton began, before clearing his throat. "I'm looking for Precis Neuyman."
The info desk clerk's expression soured even more, seeming to say This isn't the lost and found. Instead, "The girl with the robot, correct?" she asked. Ashton nodded. "I saw her heading towards special collections." Then, almost without a pause for a breath, the woman cleared her throat. "Next!" she called.
Thus dismissed (for there was no one in line behind Ashton), and trying not to slink his shoulders too much, Ashton headed off to the general direction the desk clerk had indicated.
Precis was surprisingly easy to find. She was humming lightly, twirling a pen with her feet kicked up on a study table. Bobot, meanwhile, kept himself entertained—servos whining softly—by tapping out an old soft-shoe.
For a moment, Ashton just stood there and stared. Then Gyoro—looking confused—made a soft grunt. Ashton stiffened. Precis suddenly looked up. Bobot froze in mid-step.
In on swift movement, she dropped her legs to the floor and dropped the book she had been reading. "Aw geez, Ashton! What are you doing!?" she demanded, holding a hand to her chest. "You scared me!" she declared, glaring at Ashton.
"I—I, er..." Ashton stammered.
After a minute, Precis sighed, sounding irritated. She stood, and moved to the bookshelf behind the table. "What do you want, Ashton?" she asked tiredly, not pausing for a moment from scanning the bookshelf and pulling free reports. "Between the project I'm on, and my dad asking me to look into this 'absorption field' idea of his, I've barely got time to think much less—" she broke off, her expression scrunching up. "Well, you get the idea."
Ashton, perhaps emboldened by the familiarity of Precis starting to ramble (just like she always did when she got nervous), thought to himself "What the hell?" and steeled his nerves. "I just wanted to talk... about... you and me," he said, nervously.
"What's there to talk about?" she asked bluntly, still aimlessly sorting items on the shelf. For a second she froze, still holding one of those books, and looked unsure—had she meant for that to come out harshly? It was hard to tell.
At any rate, Ashton stiffened. And then something just seemed to spark in him. "How can you say that?" he demanded. "You can't just pretend we didn't have anything between us! It was there—I felt it!"
His hands balled into fists. "But then you... then you just left for Earthand left me behind!" he accused.
He apparently touched a nerve. Precis froze in place for a long moment before spinning around so suddenly that even Bobotwas stunned. "Well I'm sorry," Precis barked out irritably, the squeak in her voice reminding him of happier days. "But what would you have had me do?" she demanded. "That was a once in a lifetime opportunity," she continued. "I mean," and here she smacked the palm of her hand against her head. "It was Earth! Did you want me to turn that down!?" she demanded.
She then abruptly took two quick steps forward, and jabbed her finger into Ashton's chest. "And if you did, why didn't you say anything to me!?" she shouted, what was apparently years of frustration bleeding to the surface.
Ashton was silent for a long moment, just staring into Precis' eyes (already threatening to well with tears). "I understood that," he began quietly. "All of it. And that's why I didn't say anything the first time."
He calmly took the book forgotten in her grip away and put it on the table, then enfolded her hands with his. "But after Edifice..." he began, adrenaline and emotion and hope all conspiring to infuse him with rare eloquence, "I... I thought that..." He locked and held Precis' gaze, courage finally gathered. "I thought you were going to stay."
The two stood silently like that for a long moment; Ashton's mouth had never felt dryer.
Finally, Precis broke the gaze, twisting back to the table. "Ashton, I can't do this right now," she pleaded plaintively, gathering up the books and papers she had been trying to collect.
After a moment, her tone returned to something more approximating normal. "I've got several reports to type up before tomorrow alone—you know the Federation, free fare home only if you agree to work on their giant science project, and my team supervisor is kind of a—" and she was rambling again.
"Precis—" he began.
"Ashton," Precis said sharply. "Please," she finished, her tone slightly softer.
Ashton—looking crestfallen—said nothing as she finished gathering up her books and walked deeper into the library. Bobot trailed behind her, sending Ashton oddly sympathetic looks all the while.
OOO
November 19th, 370 SD
0801 EST + 6:00 (earth standard time, adjusted six hours for expel local)
Office of Commodore Silvestoli-Kenni, EXCOM Command Center, Central Cross, Expel
"So Leon's transport got delayed again?" Claude asked over the comm. set.
Iria nodded, her expression blanching. "He should have been here already, but there's a massive solar storm disrupting most traffic into the Ark System right now." She folded her arms. A devilish smirk stole onto her face as she imagined Leon stuck in a spaceport somewhere on the other side of the sector. "I know he had some last few errands to run back on Earth, but I'll be he's regretting it now..."
"Well, how about you then?" Claude asked—apparently satisfied with how his 'little brother' was doing, he was smoothing switching tracks. "How are you settling in on Expel? Is everything going all right?"
Iria waved off his concern. "More or less."
"Is something wrong?" he asked, frowning.
"Just a lot of work, Claude," she answered tiredly, before a small smile stole onto her face. "I haven't even gotten a chance to do much sight-seeing. I hear Cross Castle is quite the tourist trap."
Claude's brow furrowed at her answer, and any hopes Iria had that her flippant answer would mollify him vanished. "Are you sure that's all?"
Well then, time to pull rank. "Sorry, Claude. The rest is classified." She smiled brightly. "Understood, Lieutenant?" she asked.
A tiny smirk stole onto Claude's face. "Yes, ma'am," he answered automatically, even sketching a weak salute. "And judging by your tone, I'm guessing that's all the time for me you have today?"
Iria's smile only grew. "Unfortunately," she agreed. "You know, they say your mom's an important lady in the military these days," she added.
"Do they now?" he asked, shaking his head.
"EXCOM headquarters out," she said sweetly. To this, Claude just rolled his eyes playfully as the connection cut out.
Now, if only not being able to take some time off to sight-see was the extent of her problems...
She turned her attention back to her personal tablet and the various papers littering her desk—her 'inheritance' from Tilgrem. "Where to begin?" she asked herself slowly, grabbing up the first report from her desk.
She flipped through the report's pages. It was the latest Expel-wide security assessment, and most of it was bad news. On the one hand, most population centers were currently holding their own. Most minor villages and even some of the major cities had curfews in effect, as well as militias (some covertly trained by Federation soldiers even) to provide security. It wasn't a perfect situation, but for now it was sustainable...
For now, Iria thought darkly. Beast attacks were only growing fiercer, and several of the smaller towns were already feeling the strain of what was effectively an unending planet-wide siege. The militias could protect citizens against an isolated incident or two... But heaven help them if a major beast attack were to strike at one of the smaller townships!
With a sigh, she moved on to the next report, only to cringe. El. Officially titled A Digest of Recent Eluria Reclamation Efforts, this report was an equally depressing jaunt through the efforts at reclaiming the continent of El. She opened the folio with a grim resignation.
Long story short, El remained a lost cause. There had been some gains, in the spring of the previous year. Then, the King of Cross had outfitted an expedition of mercenaries (with the tacit approval of EXCOM) to sortie in El. For a while it seemed as if the plan might work... until the long hot days of the summer, when the expedition found itself fighting not only beasts but lawless bandits who had flocked to El as well. With the king's coffers running short, the mission was ultimately abandoned. Despite a toe hold on the southern part of El, the rest of the country remained lost.
To the next report, then. Expel First Contact: Blue Dolphins. Ah, yes, the 'phins. Since magically appearing near New Clik (or, rather, in Clik, Iria thought with a crinkled nose) the newest 'addition' to Expel were inadvertently causing all sorts of problems across Expel's seaboards.
If there was a bright point to the issue, it seemed like there was no major discrimination in the Clik region—the region where most blue dolphins emigrating to land were centered. Actually, considering all the reversals and rotten luck that had beset Clik, the folks there seemed pretty open to the whole idea.
If only all First Contacts went as well, Iria thought with the cynicism only a career in the Space Force could provide. She was suddenly struck by the fact that Expel had already had its first 'first contact'... and hadn't even needed to master space flight to do it—a feat even Earth history hadn't managed to accomplish.
At around 1100, Iria set the last of the reports—for the time being—down. According to her schedule (helpfully organized by her virtual army of aides and staffers), the rest of her morning and early afternoon would be dominated by meetings with the planet's local leaders, ideally to get them acclimated to the leadership change. (Hopefully, Iria thought wearily, this would go better than her morning of reports had...)
First up, as host country for the EXCOM, was Cross... And by all accounts they had sent over one of the royal family for the meeting.
Her console's communicator beeped. "Commodore Silvestoli-Kenni, the Cross representative is here."
"Send them in," she answered automatically.
The next thing Iria knew, a young looking page—complete with royal crest embroidered on his jerkin—slipped into the room, taking up a position next to the door. "Now presenting," the altogether serious looking page began, "Her Royal Highness, Princess of East Mars Hill."
Iria half expected a horn to sound somewhere. Instead, an elegant looking young woman—dressed in what could only be described as an odd and mostly translucent blue and pink jumpsuit—simply walked into the room with little fanfare. "Hello," the Princess-Consort said simply, breezily flicking back a stray lock of silver hair. "I'm Celine." She extended a hand.
Then Celine took another long look at the woman in the fancy Federation uniform across the desk. They had met before—only briefly, when Claude had come back down with all those soldiers from his 'Federation' during the battle at Lacour Castle. "You're... Claude's mother, aren't you?" she asked, surprised.
"Celine, right?" Iria asked back, unsure what to make of this. She paused for a too long moment. "Are you the representative?" she asked, dumbfounded.
"Ah, yes..." Celine answered, sounding a little distracted herself. "Yes, I've been sent on behalf of my husband, his majesty Clothier XVI..."
OOO
Cryarsis 24th, 1348 UCEC (United Church of Expel Calendar)
Midmorning
City Council Hall, Port of New Clik, Kingdom of Cross, Expel
"Noel?" New Clik's ombudswoman asked, poking her head into the small waiting room, "the blue dolphin delegation is preparing to depart."
Noel looked up from the book he had been reading (Common Flora and Fauna of Northern Cross), a thin smile breaking across his sleepy features. "Oh, thank you." He quickly closed his book, and tucked it into his bags.
The ombudswoman nodded, and then Noel noticed her gaze lingering on his distinct (and lightly tufted) ears. She quickly blushed and ducked back out of the room. Noel's mouth quirked into a smirk—after so many months in Clik, the entranced stares were becoming less and less frequent, but they did still occur every so often.
(And if anyone did ask, it wasn't that difficult to simply claim heritage as an exotic branch of Expellian fellpool. Given that it was something of a sensitive topic to some, that was usually enough to get most people to stop asking questions. )
Noel shook his head in bemusement, then picked up the bags by his feet and exited the waiting room. Out in the city hall's main foyer, he spotted a cluster of blue dolphins who were animatedly talking with representatives from the city's government. As he watched, the 'phins delegation said their final farewells before peeling off to head out of city hall. Noel could just see them outside, descending the stairs to a waiting Federation truck.
Noel was just about to discretely follow them down to the truck when Clik's mayor, still standing with the other city government officials, spotted him. "Ah! Mr. Chandler!" he called, quickly jogging over.
Noel cast one last look at the truck, still loading its passengers. "Mr. Mayor," he said, warmth in his voice.
The mayor, a big man with a bigger beard, pumped Noel's hand repeatedly. "Mr. Chandler! I just wanted to thank you again for all you've done here."
Noel smiled, patting the back of the mayor's hand. "No, no, I hardly did anything," he said softly, trying in his so characteristically humble way to deflect any praise.
"Nonsense!" the mayor declared in a booming voice. "Why, if you had told me six months ago that by early winter we'd already have a treaty established—that we'd have settled visitation and beachfront rights, and almost have a working trade agreement—I wouldn't have believed you. And yet we do, it's all thanks to you!"
"Now, now," Noel began modestly, "I didn't do it all alone—I did have help. Those Federation mediators were—"
"Bah, those Federation mediators were useless!" the mayor bombastically finished for Noel, throwing up one hand. "It was all so textbook with them, all the time. No, it wasn't till you came along and started talking to both sides like equals that we really made any progress."
And although Noel would never admit it, the truth was that talks had been an impasse until he stumbled upon the situation on one of his journeys across Expel (he did so love to see the wide variety of animals across Expel). And it was chiefly his easy going, friendly manner that he slowly changed minds on both sides: for the folks of New Clik and the Cross government, to start viewing the 'phins as people and not simply strange little fishy smelling creatures of the sea; and for the 'phins, to start viewing the 'land-dudes' as people and not impossibly tall and impossibly smelly creatures.
"Well," Noel started neutrally, trying to change the subject from how great he was, "there is still a lot of ground to cover yet," Noel gently reminded the mayor. "The maritime sovereignty issue is probably going to be around for a while yet. And Cross may have finished the majority of its negotiations, but talks in Lacour are only just beginning."
"Pish-posh!" the mayor declared confidently. "Why, with you on hand, I'm confidant that everything's going to work out fine." The mayor nodded to himself vigorously, as if to convince Noel through sheer force of will. "So, what is the itinerary for you next, Mr. Chandler?" the mayor asked next.
Noel looked considering, before reaching into his pocket to pull out a tattered notebook. "Well," he began, flipping through several pages, "it looks like a brief stop off in Oruba, and then, I believe, directly on to the negotiations in Lacour."
The mayor seemed perturbed by this answer. "Oruba? The blue dolphin capital?" he asked. Noel nodded, but the look of consternation hadn't left the mayor's face. "Their capital city that's under water," the mayor finished, outlining what was apparently troubling him.
It was only then that it occurred Noel that it would probably break the Federation's UP3 to discuss the highly advanced technology of the rebreather he still had from the battle across (and under the sea) of the bluesphere, Edifice. He suddenly started to laugh nervously. "Ah ha ha... That is... uh... Special heraldry...?" he finished lamely, more of a question than an explanation.
At any rate, the mayor seemed to accept the answer. "Ah, that it explains it, then."
There was a loud honk from the street. Both the mayor and Noel looked out to see the Federation truck still idling out in front, the Feddie serviceman at the wheel irritatingly waving Noel over. (It should be noted that the 'phins in the back of the truck were in no such rush, relaxed and animatedly chatting with one another and even a few bystanders on the street.)
"Ah," the mayor chided, "Noel, you should have told me that they were waiting for you!"
"Ha ha, right," Noel said sheepishly, although he had a sneaking suspicion that fact wouldn't have deterred the mayor any anyway.
"Well, no matter, thank again, Noel, and take care on your journey," the mayor finished, pumping Noel's hand once again."
"Of course, of course," Noel said magnanimously, even as he tried to politely (if forcefully) remove his hand from the surprisingly strong grip of the mayor. Once he had finally extracted his hand in one piece, Noel (with a huge sigh of relief) hustled down the steps towards the truck.
OOO
November 20th, 370 SD
1338 EST (earth standard time)
Commercial District, O-Ring, Moonbase, Earthsphere
The commercial district of Moonbase extended all around the lower part of Moonbase's outer 'shell.' It wasn't a mistake or by chance—the Luna Business Alliance had lobbied long and hard to move into such prime real estate as the outer observation ring. The end result was a glamorous palisade of high priced boutiques and cafés juxtaposed with absolutely stunning views of the Earth and Moon.
(Looked at one way, it could be said that Moonbase's commercial district was the epitomization of interstellar human culture...)
Not that such heady matters occupied the mind of one Claude Kenni, as he briskly and determinedly marched down the palisades' bright walkways. His determined stride, however, was broken as a look of confusion stole onto his face. After a moment, he dug into his uniform jacket's pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. "Where did she say it was...?" he asked no one in particular.
Still frowning, he shuffled over to a helpful directory. With a studied look on his face (as if he were carefully plotting a starship's course and not just trying to find the fastest way to Le Intresor Verdit) he carefully picked his way through the brightly lit screen's menus. "Finally," Claude said, sounding relieved as he briskly resumed his previous trek.
Unbeknownst to Claude, as he left the help terminal, a man in a heavy trench coat rushed to quickly see where he had been trying to go...
Le Intresor was a tiny café wedged in between two of the larger shopping arcades. Befitting the general theme of the palisade—that of the faux-natural simulated afternoon sky easily coexisting with stark starscapes—it's glass and metal surfaces were awash in climbing green plants and bright pots. In fact, Le Intresor's heavily stylized placard was covered almost entirely by plants—which explained why Claude had walked past it the first time.
Within seconds of crossing through Le Intresor's gate, he spotted his 'date,' sitting alone in a secluded corner. Her hair was tightly wrapped in a gaudy scarf, and two of her three eyes were shielded from the world behind the impassive façade of an oversized pair of glasses. He held up a hand as he hurried over.
"Sorry I'm late," Claude apologized, slipping into a chair and scooting up to the white cast iron table. "This place was nearly impossible to find, Opera. Why on earth did you want to meet here?" he asked.
Opera calmly pulled off her over-sized sunglasses, but left the scarf—wrapped defensively around her head—on. "Exactly for that reason. The fewer people the better." She favored Claude with an arch look. "Can't forget I'm an heiress, hmm? The last thing I need is a few dozen reporters nosing in on my 'date'."
And for a half second there was a loaded look in Opera's eyes, which Claude managed to completely miss.
Instead, Claude made a show of casting sidelong glances across the interior of the café, which could hardly be classified as a hotbed of activity. "Well, then I'd say mission accomplished," Claude noted (almost) mirthlessly. He scratched at his temple. "I'd almost say this place was closed if I didn't know better."
"Actually," Opera confessed as she folded and placed her sunglasses on the table, "I did try to get them to open an hour earlier, but the manager had a hissy fit at the very thought."
"Are the reporters really that bad?" Claude asked, sounding a little skeptical. "I mean, if they were, wouldn't your picture be all over the newsmags?"
"I've been careful," Opera said, her tone a little less than friendly.
That was for certain. Claude hadn't even known Opera had been on Moonbase until about a month ago—but she had apparently moved into a Moonbase hab. two months ago. Since that time, she'd been consistently using her 'Opera Lesat' alias to keep herself safely tucked from the media's eyes. ('Consistent' was a bit of an understatement. He had nearly deleted the first v-mail she had sent to him on Moonbase before remembering at the last moment that it was one of her favorite aliases.)
It was all very unexpected and sudden... And very suspiciously lacking in Ernest. But neither Claude nor Rena had had much success in teasing the full story out from their errant heiress yet. What they had managed to divine was that, from all accounts, Opera had no intention of leaving Moonbase anytime soon... even if she was forced to continue using her alias and keep a very low profile.
At any rate, whatever Opera's reasons for hanging around Moonbase, Claude was glad for the company, with Rena acting so strange lately!
At that thought, Claude suddenly felt weary. Rena had been acting strange lately, although that had something of a more obvious cause than Opera's sudden urge to settle down. The Expel protests were still going full tilt, all across the Federation.
The furor was even bringing together a strange coalition of liberal pacifists and strict conservative Charter constructionalists. Normally at each other's throats, the new coalition found common ground: specifically that the Federation Charter had no provisions for 'special monitored planets' (which is what most of the military brass referred to Expel as) and as a result troops should be withdrawn immediately.
All this only worked to further fan the flames of Rena's guilt over leaving Expel. It was patently ridiculous, Claude reflected. What could what could one person do—even a Nedian!—against the myriad problems besetting Expel? And hadn't Weseta herself given her blessings to Rena to follow her heart into the stars?
Intellectually, Claude knew, Rena was already aware of all these truths... but that wasn't doing a thing to stop the doubts from lingering in the back of her mind.
He wished there was something he could do about it, but...
Shaking off his reflection, Claude forced himself back into the moment... only to see Opera looking equally morose. "So..." Claude began hesitantly, "do you want to talk about it?" There was no need for him to specifywhat he was referring to.
She tried to wave it off and forced herself to smile. "There's not much to talk about," Opera answered. "I'd bet," she began, fidgeting, "that you could probably guess most of what happened. Right?"
Claude didn't deny it. "But I'd wager," he countered, running with the gambling theme, "that talking about it would make you feel better."
"Heh," she replied, smirking. "I never should have taught you how to gamble," she complained lightly. She sighed. "Okay, I'm game, then."
But she paused, as if gathering her thoughts. "We—" she broke off for a second. "I—" she corrected, "I just wasn't able to keep going like we had been," she continued jerkily, pausing to sip at her water. "You know Ernest," she added, "the work is all important and all consuming, and silly things like relationships and feelings are always going to come in second..." she finished.
Opera looked uncomfortable, shifting. "And I started—"
"Miss Vectra!" someone shouted from near the entrance of the café, causing Opera to break off in mid-sentence. Judging from her expression, Claude thought, whatever it was seemed like bad news... "Oh no..." Opera sighed, burying her face in her hands.
"What are you—" Claude asked as he half turned in his chair.... only to throw up an arm at the sudden burst of flash bulbs. "Gah!"
A battery of at least two dozen men armed with cameras stood in a veritable firing line between their table and Le Intresor's entrance. And they were all very interested in Opera.
"Miss Vectra, over here! Give us a smile for the camera—"
"—is it true you've bought an apartment on Moonbase—"
"—does the move signal an interest in taking up a family leadership role—"
"—and who's this fine young officer you're with—"
"—are wedding bells in the future for you two—"
"—over here! Just another couple of shots!"
Ignoring the endless barrage of questions, Opera stood up determinedly, her expression all thunderclouds. "When I say so," she whispered, "we're going to make a run for it out through the kitchen. Understand?" Claude—still a bit shaken from the sudden barrage of reporters—nodded a bit wooden.
As the cameras continued to pop, Opera suddenly tugged on Claude's uniform sleeve. "Come on!"
Claude stood up awkwardly, wobbling for a moment as the constant bursts of flashbulbs made him dizzy (even if his back was turned to them). Opera's three eyes narrowed at Claude's hesitance, before—with another sigh—she grabbed his hand and dragged him along.
The gang of paparazzi immediately reacted to their target's attempted flight, a chorus of "Miss Vectra!" going up behind Claude and Opera.
"Goddamn paparazzi," she muttered, as they dashed through the café's spotless kitchen. Her pace increased, and her grip on Claude's hand tightened.
"They seem to be fond of you..." Claude deadpanned—with distance from the slavering reporters his senses seemed to be returning to him.
"Why do you think I turned to archeology of all things, Claude?" she fired back, as the two of them stumbled past stunned kitchen staff to the café's back door. Opera flung it open without much preamble and the two scrambled out into the access corridor behind the café. "Nothing like being knee-deep in alien ruins halfway across the galaxy to discourage over-eager, wanna-be celebrity reporters," she elaborated.
The nondescript metal corridor peeled off from them in either direction. Behind them, they could hear the heavy footfalls of very motivated photographers already fanning out to reach them. "Best hurry," Opera said quietly, arbitrarily picking one of the two directions and heading off at a brisk pace, "I don't want to think what kind of mad stories they could cook up with a few photos of us skulking around alone back here in the service corridors."
Claude was about to fire back with some sort of witty repartee, but the serious expression on Opera's face seemed to forestall any such thing.
The service corridor snaked its way through (and in some cases, under) several of the major shopping plazas and stores on O-Ring. Once Opera seemed confidant in the amount of distance between them and their pursuers, she immediately cut into another of the storefronts—this one a dry cleaner. (The sight of a very cross tetrageniot leading a very confused looking Space Force officer—both emerging so suddenly from the nominally off-limits service corridor—so stunned the wizened old owner that it never occurred to him to demand what they were doing.)
The glass door at the front of the shop whooshed open, and the two hurried out into the bright (artificial) sunlight.
"Do you think they're still following us?" Claude asked.
Opera reflected for a moment at Claude's lingering naiveté. "They're like the villain in a teen slasher flick, Claude. They never stop coming..."
"Here," she said suddenly, basically shoving Claude onto a passing trolley, before hopping on next to him.
(If you're wondering what a trolley was doing on the highly advanced Moonbase, the LBA was the root cause once again. While transporter technology had rendered such an antique as a trolley at best quaint and at worst obsolete, the LBA insisted on maintaining one anyway. Most presumed—quite rightly—that the commercial district trolley endured because the tourists just seemed to love it.)
While they rode the trolley, Opera allowed herself the luxury of relaxing for the first time since the paparazzi had ambushed them. "Nothing like a slow speed pursuit to make lunch more interesting," she declared breezily.
Claude's expression blanched. "You do realize that we never actually even managed to order lunch, right?" And as the trolley continued on to its next stop, the two broke out into laughter. (The other patrons on the trolley were less than amused.)
At the next stop, they used the courtesy transporters. Within moments, they transported back to the barracks in Feddie Hub., hopefully leaving the reporters far behind.
The two lingered on the walkway above the barracks, staring at the stars—unlike in the commercial district, there was no artificial sunlight, offering a much better view.
"Well," Opera began, leaning against the walkway's railing, "that... could have gone better."
Claude nodded. "No kidding. Are you going to be okay, though? Doesn't this mean your cover is blown?"
Opera shrugged. "I'm not sure... I still don't know how they figured it out at all." A weak smile. "I guess I'm just going to have to wait and see if they start buzzing around my hab." Her stomach growled, and the lightest of blushes rose in her cheeks. "Apparently on an empty stomach," she offered in a self-conscious tone.
"Well, hey, why don't you come down to my hab. and we can at least replicate something for lunch." The invitation hung out between them for a second too long, and suddenly it was Claude who seemed self-conscious. "Well, I mean, it's not much," he quickly added, "I mean, with memory constraints we usually just leave a few dozen basic dishes preloaded, and most of those are just staples and nothing special."
This didn't seem to deter Opera. "That'd be gr—"
Opera was interrupted when Claude's comm. began beeping. He shot her an apologetic look. "Oh, sorry," he apologized, as she just nodded. "Lieutenant Kenni," Claude answered smoothly, tapping his earpiece.
"Claude? It's Rena."
"Rena?" he asked, casting a half glance over at Opera. "Hey, what's up? Is everything okay?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes, everything's fine. It's just that my training section wrapped up early, and I was wondering where you were at."
Claude shifted uneasily. "Uh, well, me and Opera are standing right outside the hab., actually."
"What? No way! I'm..." she paused for a moment, and suddenly the clicking of boots could be clearly heard. Claude and Opera looked up to see Rena come around a building and appear on the walkway, her comm. still keyed. "...just coming around the corner," she finished in faux-stereo.
Claude immediately started to beam, already taking a few steps over. When Rena was close enough... "Hey, you," she called, smiling.
"Hey yourself," Claude answered, moving in to peck her on the check, their arms brushing.
Opera suddenly felt very much like a third wheel.
"Oh, Opera!" Rena said, apparently noticing her for the first time, "How are you?"
"Oh I'm... fine. I'm fine," Opera answered.
And then there was more small talk, but Opera would have been hard pressed to repeat any of it later. After a few minutes, Claude and Rena started to make for the hab.'s entrance. Stopping just short, Claude turned back to Opera. "Opera, do you want to come in? We can still have that lunch—the afternoon's not completely gone."
"No, no that's all right, Claude. You and Rena go on ahead." She shifted, offering a wan smile. "Besides, I'd better just lay low for the next little while. Get going," she finished with a shooing motion.
"Claude?" Rena called, patiently standing on the barrack's lift. Claude nodded and turned to go, offering one last supportive smile to Opera.
And if Claude hadn't been so distracted, he might have noticed the brief flash of jealousy on Opera's face.
Why, Rena had.
OOO
Cryarsis 49th, 1348 UCEC (United Church of Expel Calendar)
Mid-Morning
Advanced Heraldic Weapons Research Lab, Lacour Castle, Kingdom of Lacour, Expel
Leon D.S. Geeste opened the door, and it honestly felt like he was stepping back into the past. The lab looked exactly the same as he remembered it... Well, perhaps not exactly—that Federation issued computer in the far corner was new, and it looked like someone had finally painted over the blast damage near the door. (One of Leon's first and few mistakes when he had first begun working in the lab—give him a break, he was only nine at the time!)
But by and large, still looked like the place he remembered from his youth...
But that feeling of deja vu was only an illusion, as things had radically and irrevocably changed from those days. If Leon ever doubted that, all he'd have to do is take a short jaunt around the castle grounds. The scars from the Battle of Lacour still defaced much of the north castle wall, for example.
"Mama? Papa?" Leon asked, his eyes narrowing against the gloom of the lab.
"Oh, Leon! There you are!" Florence Geeste exclaimed, straightening up from behind a stack of books. She immediately tapped the shoulder of the researcher next to her.
Seconds later, Murdoch Geeste popped up. "Ah, Leon!"
No, Leon thought, things are different all over... he mused as he watched Murdoch awkwardly grab for his crutch and drag himself standing.
The beasts had breeched the wall, you see, during the Battle of Lacour. Murdoch and Florence had rallied the heraldry research staff at the last minute—researchers though they may have been, they were all heraldic mages first. Working with the already exhausted royal guard and a handful of Federation Marines, the research staff had helped turn back the incursion... but the cost had been high—more so for some than others.
The rhythmic 'tock, tock, tock' of Murdoch's crutch dragged Leon out of his reverie. His parents were approaching. "Is it about time already?" Murdoch asked.
"We just lose all track of time down here..." Florence added dreamily, holding Murdoch's hand.
"Trust me, I remember..." Leon said dryly. Before he had taken up a position in the lab himself, he had been unsurprised if his parents had simply forgotten to come home some nights...
(But of course, that had nothing to do with his decision to seek a lab position! Don't be ridiculous!)
"But yeah," Leon resumed, "the shuttle'll be taking off shortly."
"Do you really have to go so soon?" Florence asked, folding her hands. "It's been so nice having you around again."
"I know," Leon answered. "But I've got some things I need to check with back at the command center..." he trailed off.
It was clear by Florence's expression that was not the answer she had been hoping for, but Murdoch squeezed her hand. "Try to make it back soon, okay?" he asked. Then, tock, tock, tock, "Okay, come on—big group hug!"
After, Leon made for the door. "We love you!" Florence called as he reached for the handle.
"I love you guys, too," Leon called back, smiling as he exited the lab.
Unfortunately, the smile turned into what could only be described as a frozen grimace the second the door was closed behind him. Although he tried to keep an optimistic front up around his parents, the honest truth was anything but...
'Of course I'm coming with you,' Leon had said the day he learned Iria had been promoted to head of Expel Affairs. If his beloved adoptive aunt was going back to join the fight for Expel (no, to lead it!), the least Leon could do was put his college plans on hold to do the same!
Of course, the fact that he was now feeling increasingly overwhelmed was something he hadn't anticipated in the least...
There's just... so much wrong on Expel right now...
His pessimistic internal monologue, however, was interrupted as he saw a familiar white coat bobbing down the hall in the opposite direction. "Bowman?" Leon asked aloud, a little stunned.
"Hrm?" the pharmacist asked, cracking one eye. He cocked his head to one side. "Leon?" he asked, surprised. "Hey, it is Leon!" he declared as he wandered over. "And so the prodigy returns triumphant."
"Hey now," Leon deflected modestly, "Let's have none of that..."
Bowman's eye arched. "Well, well, a sense of modesty." He smirked. "Looks like you are growing up!"
"Bowman!" Leon protested, only to be met with Bowman's smile.
"It's good to see you again, kiddo," Bowman said affectionately as he ruffled Leon's hair. "But if you'll excuse me," and with a nod, he shoved his hands back into his pockets and started back down the hall.
"B-Bowman!" Leon yelped. "H-hey, where're you going!?" he asked, picking up his pace to keep up with Bowman's lanky-yet-strident pace.
"I can't spend all day yakkin'," Bowman explained helpfully. "I've Very Important People to meet with," he said, the capital letters obvious in his phrasing.
"But what could drag you all the way up here to Lacour Castle? Even with Federation convoys, it's still a pretty long trip..."
"I've got an appointment with the King's Advisory council. I'm being debriefed on the El reclamation expedition from last spring."
Leon's expression turned skeptical. "They're only debriefing you about that now?" he asked.
"That's bureaucracy for you," Bowman declared off-handedly. "They've finally gotten around to doing an autopsy on what went wrong last time." He scratched his cheek. "No doubt in preparation for another expedition sometime soon."
Bowman's expression suddenly turned shifty. "You know, even though they're allies, whichever country—Cross or Lacour—can officially 'reclaim' El first is going to get that much of a 'popularity' boost," he added in a conspiratorial tone.
In all honesty, Leon had never considered it like that before. But thinking about El reclamation in those (highly politicized) terms for too long made him uncomfortable, actually. "How many of the expeditions have you gone on?" Leon asked instead.
"All of them," Bowman answered humorlessly. "And if they send another expedition, I'll no doubt join that one as well." He wore a tired expression. "Just call me the Professor Emeritus of failed El reclamation efforts," he finished, though Leon couldn't help but note that his tone was not as bitter as it might have been. He just sounded... resigned.
And that was somehow worse coming from Bowman.
As the two climbed the stairs to the castle's main foyer, Bowman tried to change topics. "Hey," he began, "I'll bet you haven't seen the new photos of my darling baby girl yet, have you?" Bowman inquired, already reaching for his back pocket.
Both Leon's hands popped up in protest. "N-no, that's okay, Bowman! I mean, you've still got that meeting, right?"
Bowman looked disappointed. "But she's so adorable!" he continued, though he no longer was going for his wallet. "The pictures I had back on Edifice have nothing on the new shots I've got." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Of course, even the photos can't compare to the real article."
Bowman snapped as an idea came to him. "Since we don't have time now, then you'll definitely have to come over for dinner one of these nights! Why, I've got Ashton staying over, too. We could make a night of it!"
"Uh... maybe..." Leon answered noncommittally. (The blues were already reestablishing themselves over Leon—the very thought of what kind of world Bowman's daughter was going to have to grow up in was apparently enough to set him off again.)
His less than overwhelming response caused Bowman's eyebrow to arch again. "Something else on your mind?" he asked.
"Just..." and here Leon gestured weakly to the environs, "everything's finally sinking in, I guess." He barked a short, depreciating laugh. "My father walks with a crutch now, for Tria's sake, and probably will for the rest of his life!"
"Things really aren't looking good, are they?" Bowman asked, anticipating where Leon's thoughts had carried him.
"That's putting it lightly!" Leon protested. And Bowman doesn't even have my security clearance! And if he thinks we're in trouble without having seen the things I have...
Instead of voicing these thoughts, though... "But it's just such it's a mess out there," Leon admitted. "I... I hadn't realized how bad it had gotten..." he said, his insecurities from the last few days suddenly pouring out to his old comrade.
"I know, kid," Bowman answered. The two walked in silence for a few more minutes. At the end of the hallway from the conference room Bowman was headed, he finally came to a stop.
Leon, confusion cutting through his depression for the moment, cocked his head to one side. "Bowman?"
For a moment Bowman looked irritated, before folding his arms and sighing. "Look, you're right when you say that things aren't looking good right now. In fact," Bowman continued, his expression frank, "I have this nagging feeling that things are going to get worse before they get better.
(He rapped on one of his temples with a knuckle. "Knock on wood that I'm wrong, kid," he added as an aside.)
"And at any rate, you're probably feeling completely overwhelmed, wondering how you can solve it all. Well, hate to break it to you, Leon, but you can't.
At Leon's shocked expression, Bowman held up a hand. "Yeah, you're a genius. But we've been over this—even geniuses can't do everything on their own. And this problem—the rising beast population and heraldic pollution and everything the Ten Wise Men did to Expel—it's too big for any one person.
Bowman thrust his hands back into the pockets of his lab coat. "The only way any of us can beat this thing is by working together—Lacour, and Cross, and the Federation and everybody—and figure something out. The question isn't, 'How do I fix everything,' Leon. It's what can I doto start making things better?" He hunched his shoulders. "What I can do, apparently, is go along on doomed expeditions and make sure less people die than are supposed to."
"So the only question for you to consider is, what can you do?" Bowman finished, brushing past Leon to march down the hall. "I've got faith that you'll figure something out—you always were a smart kid," Bowman offered breezily as he walked away—one arm raised in farewell—leaving Leon gaping behind him.
OOO
November 29th, 370 SD
0545 EST (earth standard time)
FNN Headquarters, New York, North American Administrative District, Earth
"Fifteen minutes, Chisato!" one of the interns called into the make-up room.
"Got it!" Chisato called back. She glanced at her make-up lady. "Everything all right?" she asked.
Her make-up artist—a felinefolk from the far side of Theta Sector, known to be something of a perfectionist—leaned in closely. "Vell..." she said in a thick accent, "I suppose it shall 'ave to do..." She peeled the plastic apron off Chisato. "Get going," she said resignedly.
"Thanks, Marl," Chisato said brightly, dusting off her smart pink and blue suit as she dashed from the room.
The entire studio was awash in the sort of barely controlled chaos that preceded the show every morning. It was both invigorating and exhausting to Chisato, and she honestly wondered if she would ever get used to it. Yes, it had been over a month and a half since she had taken over the anchor position for Federation Morning, but every morning still felt like a marathon to her.
(Sometimes she wondered how she even convinced herself to get out of bed, if she was going to be honest! But that was mostly only on Mondays...)
Slipping through a line of staffers headed for wardrobe, Chisato managed to slip back into her office. It, at least, was a respite from the hectic frenzy that was a news office in the morning. Of course, she reflected as she dropped down behind her desk, that's because I'm so rarely here. Indeed, one of the last places you could usually find Chisato was in her office, as a hundred duties and matters battled for her attention across the entirety of the FNN studios.
She sighed in relief as she settled into her comfortable chair and took another sip of her (already cooling) coffee. As she reclined, she cracked one eye open and allowed herself the luxury of a second to stare at the altogether impressive plate sitting on her desk (nestled between her terminal and her only picture of the old gang).
First runner up for the 370 SD Pulitzer Prize, in the 'Best Investigative Reporting' category; Chisato Madison, Federation News Network.
Now that had been something! That mere kernel of an idea she and Roger McNeil had tossed around had turned up something far more than just an overeager defense secretary. Suffice it to say, all her hard work investigating had resulted in quite the story. In fact, the entire sordid saga had shades of not just corporate greed, but cover-ups and bribery of high ranking officials to boot. (The list of bribed officials was long, and allegedly—though she could never quite prove it—even included a group of senior Federation Senators, including Senators Ripsburg, Spurious, E'Lyet, and Novacello.)
When she had presented her story, "Federation-Brand Pork: Questionable Spending in the War Effort," she caused quite a stir. And though it had just missed out on that most auspicious of awards—missing out on the Pulitzer to a report on suffering in the Lesonia DMZ ("Lesonia's Scars")—the piece had still gone a long way to developing Chisato's reputation as a serious newshound...
And not just another pretty faced anchor, she thought in self-satisfaction.
"Knock, knock," said Daryl Cuvie—her news director—as he lightly rapped on the office's open door.
"Come in, come in," Chisato said, waving him in with her free hand.
"Five minutes, Chisato," he said, as he divided his attention between her and a hardcopy (paper, even!) of the latest wire reports.
"Thanks, Daryl," she responded. "Those the latest wires?" she asked, standing up and strolling to the office's door.
"Mmm," he answered, handing the sheaf of papers over. "Nothing too surprising today, I'm afraid," he said as they both headed out into the hall.
"All the better," Chisato replied, smirking as she flipped through the wire reports, circling items she wanted to keep an eye on with her trusty pen. "The plainer, the better. I've had to watch..." she flinched for a moment (and for a half second she could see Nede burning again), before continuing, "I've had to report too many sad stories already. A little boredom is fine by me."
"Didn't that used to be some old curse way back when?" Daryl asked. "About being forced to live in interesting times?"
Chisato, not really being that caught up on ancient Earth proverbs, just 'hrmphed' noncommittally as she continued scanning news items. (Expel redeployments? she thought, mentally frowning)
As the two crossed into the main studio, Daryl punched Chisato lightly on shoulder. "Well, they need me up in the booth. Knock 'em out, Chisato!" he encouraged as he broke off and headed for the main broadcast booth.
(Chisato's martial art skills had become something of an office legend, you see, after her first field report saw her have to disarm a drunk who had gotten a little too into an Oktoberfest celebration. You don't mess with a reporter trained in the ancient, million year old art of Nedian Jujitsu.
Well, okay, it wasn't actually Jujitsu, but her moves resembled the Earth-based style enough that most people just took her word for it.)
Chisato made a beeline for her anchor desk. Okay, Chisato, she thought, everything seems to be under control this morning, and—
"Chisato! Your hair!" one of her assistants called, horrified. Chisato looked up at a nearby mirror, pen cap still hanging from her mouth. Her eyes widened. "Why didn't anyone tell me my hair was still up!?" she complained, tugging out the rubber band and letting her hair settle back into its normal bob.
"Two minutes, Chisato!" one of the production crew called.
Crap, crap, crap! Chisato thought, hurriedly tucking the last stray hairs in place before rushing the rest of the way to the anchor desk.
She just barely made it. The lead cameraman (used to Chisato's last minute arrivals) just nodded sagely. "Ready, Chisato?" he asked,
"About as much as usual," Chisato answered, sounding a bit harried.
The lead cameraman just broke into a grin, watching the station clock. As the time neared... "Okay, Chisato. We're live in, 3... 2.. 1..." The camera's red light blinked on. He silently mouthed 'we're on', and smoothly pointed to Chisato.
"I'm Chisato Madison, and welcome to another Federation Morning," she said easily, a bright smile on her face, "And here's today's top stories..."
END CHAPTER 2
Author's Note:
Well, a little bit of everything in this chapter, eh?
On a more serious note, I do apologize if this chapter seems a bit slow, but... Well, I just love all these characters so much, I just want to spend as much time with them as possible... you know, before the 'fireworks' start.
On more specific notes: I've always liked the idea of Leon best when his genius fails him a little, and he's forced to deal with realities that he can't just fix. That's when he becomes far more interesting as a character—the cocky kid routines, on the other hand, get old quick (see: Roger S. Huxley—wait, did I just go there?). And I honestly think you could have something like a sitcom with just Leon and Bowman, as they play off one another so well.
The Opera and Chisato sections in this chapter tie to the larger fascination I've had with what the role of the media would be in a future space bureaucracy (something that was at least partially shot through Empire's End as well). It's all well and good to have a band of heroes single-handedly save the Earth/galaxy/universe from The Bad Guys, but how is that message going to get garbled when it's released to the general public? Besides, would the general population even believe that a billion year old superpower's biological WMDs had nearly destroyed the universe? (Don't even get me started on 4D beings...)
Finally, the idea of trivializing someone like Opera—who helped saved the freaking universe!—into (basically) a 24th century Paris Hilton also seems like the exact sort of thing a media culture like ours would do without batting an eye. Rampant (rabid?) celebrity worship, unfortunately, is not a societal ill I foresee us growing out of any time soon. (...okay, I'll get off my soap-box now...)