22:23 Tamaranean Standard Time, 12th Lunar Month, 31st Day, Year 328 of Wandering
X'halvram, The Royal Chambers
I am honestly amazed they're letting me in here. Okay, I saved two members of the royal family, but that wasn't...really part of the plan. Does it still count if you 'rescued' them in the process of murdering everything else on the station? I don't think it should.
Whether it counts or not, this place is amazing. It's like the Imperium of Man and the Galactic Empire had had a bidding war over the design of this vessel- the corridors and hangars I'd taken to get here had been utilitarian and simple, but in here it looks more like someone had transplanted some 19th-century palace to the royal quarters. There's enough gold here to make a statue of everyone in the room with some left over- hell, I think it's woven into the granite of the desk.
"Some of my 'advisors' are saying I should've killed you," Ryand'r says quietly.
Instead, I got a shiny new medal, an officer's cabin, and royal thanks. Funny how things work out. Out loud, I say, "That would have seemed...ungrateful."
"Indeed. But there is still that discontent. You are an extremely dangerous person. Some of them were against the two of you meeting me at all."
"So why do it?" I ask, while Greta simply watches quietly, eyes taking in the room.
"Because you brought my family back," Ryand'r says simply. "And we needed to talk in person anyway."
"About what, precisely?"
"About your continued stay, as part of this Fleet."
I fold my arms. "Let me guess. Your thanks and the cabin only apply until you can set me down on an inhabited world."
"Resources are scarce in the void. We trade, we break up asteroids and whatever we can get ahold of in uninhabited systems, but we have no room for people who can't pull with the rest."
"You do realize I have no idea how to get home, right?"
"I do. And I am sorry for that, but locating one obscure world without any leads to start with is something we can not spare the resources to do. If you want, we'll give you some starting funds and recommendations, enough to get you started on most civilized worlds...but we can't commit anything else." He sighs. He looks haggard, worn-down. How old is he? Can't be much more than me.
"Alright," I say. "And if I work for you?"
"That depends on what you have to offer. Given what...happened….to the Psion research station, you are clearly more than capable in combat. And my sister insists you are a sorcerer of some kind."
"Of flesh and blood and bone, yes. Give me a lab and enough raw material, and I can accomplish very interesting things. Depends on what you need, though."
"Give me an example."
"I could breed combat creatures that can slaughter platoons of marines wholesale. I could work on organic armor that achieves symbiosis with the wearer." Okay, dial it down. He'll probably think I'm insinuating I'll do it to him. "Given time, I could likely increase your yields from cattle, poultry, et cetera by an order of magnitude."
He goes very still, then nods fractionally. "I see."
"And what, exactly, does that get me?"
"If you can deliver on any one of those...or even something near it...then your place in this fleet is assured. The rest depends on time and whether we can actually find any sort of lead to your home world."
"If it helps, it's in Sector 2814, I think the chief Lantern stationed there is Hal Jordan." Not sure how rank shakes out between the three- four, if Alan Scott is still around- Lanterns, but it can't hurt.
"That narrows it down...but we are not on particularly good terms with the Guardians. They have long memories, and keep grudges far longer than is necessary. I will make what inquiries I can, but I make no promises."
It'll have to do. And if he lies to me, I'll tear him apart. So I nod, and Ryand'r smiles.
"Excellent! Now, there is one more thing…"
"Which is?"
"We're celebrating my sisters being safely returned. If you don't have sufficiently formal clothing, we could provide…"
A thought, and the jacket and jeans melt away, reforming as a white dress shirt, red vest, and black trousers. I tilt my head slightly, and shift the eyepatch's surface into something covered in intricate golden designs. Greta looks at this, takes a step back, and frowns in concentration, before laughing as her own basic coveralls reform into what I think is a red-colored version of a Disney princess dress.
Ryand'r blinks, then shrugs. "That will do."
24:16 TST, 12th Lunar Month, 31st Day, Year 328 of Wandering
X'halvram, Concourse of Celebration
There are two thoughts in my mind right now.
One, this ship is far, far larger than anything ever has a right to be, as what appears to be a decent-sized urban boulevard has managed to fit itself into part of the ship and appear small in comparison to the looming walls on all sides.
Two, I am amazingly overdressed in comparison to literally everyone else. Most of what I've seen of Tamaranean people until now had been Komand'r and Koriand'r, both of whom had worn appropriated coveralls while on the station, and the powered-armored marines and soldiers who'd escorted me to the King's quarters. Hell, even Ryand'r had been wearing a kimono-esque robe when we'd talked.
Now, though...well, if parts of Tamaranean ship design looked like the Imperium of Man, Tamaranean formal clothing took its cues from the Adeptus Custodes. And by that I mean three-quarters-naked, not covered in golden armor.
Don't think about Pillar Men, don't think about Pillar Men, don't think about-
"So this is what your home world considers formal clothing?"
I blink, and turn to look Komand'r in the eyes- and only in the eyes. "Yes. Yours?"
She shrugs. "Of course. I will admit, yours does make you...exotic-looking."
I chuckle. "You're one to talk. I'm pretty certain this would give some of the more conservative sort back home an apoplectic fit. Not that that's a bad thing."
"Why? Do you have religious prohibitions against showing too much of yourself?"
"One, we don't turn ultraviolet light into power like you do, two, the dominant culture originally hailed from a relatively cold climate and took its mode of dress with it, and three, some of the more eccentric religions, yes," I say with a smile. I'm babbling, a little, but trying to encapsulate the entirety of Earth culture in a few basic sentences is a wonderful distraction. "Greta seems happy enough despite looking different."
"Oh? And you know this how?"
"Same way I know exactly where she is. Magic." I tap the side of my head. "Comes in handy."
"You've proven that already, I think."
I nod, looking at the crowd of people chatting with one another, eating random finger foods, and generally acting almost like you'd expect a stereotypical high society crowd to act. "So, how do celebrations like this usually go? If you're going to ask me to dance, I should probably warn you I have no idea how to."
"I'm certain that if my sister or I did dance with you there would be some form of political fight over it by the next morning."
"Succession crisis?"
"Marriage, like as not. My sister and I are our brother's heirs until he takes a wife and has his own children, and the vultures are already circling," she says, quietly enough to not be overheard. It's made easier by the fact that most are keeping their distance from the two of us.
"That low an opinion of them?" I ask softly.
Her hands clench into fists for a moment, and she takes a breath, then lets it out. "They are fools. More concerned with appearances and personal power than any actual ruling capability. My sister...I love her, but she is too kind-hearted to inherit the throne. Yet who would place a cripple in the line of succession?"
"You aren't crippled."
"Hmph. Your species is not like ours, clearly. You don't know what flight is like, not being able to use it must not even enter-"
"No, I mean, given that your cells were basically turning into plasma emitters when I found you, I had to start from scratch on about your entire body at one point or another in the process of keeping you and your sister from exploding. Unless it's a congenital defect, it should be fixed now," I say politely, snagging a glass of something bright blue and probably extremely alcoholic as we pass a waiter. "It isn't a birth defect, is it…?"
"No," she says, very quietly, staring down at her hands. "I...I can…"
"Go ahead. High ceilings here," I say, taking a step back.
She looks down at the floor, closes her eyes, and leaps upwards. And keeps going, leaving a trail of amethyst light behind her.
I ignore the gasps and shocked cries of the other guests, and sit back to enjoy the show.
