CHAPTER 3: ALL ROADS LEAD TO EXPEL
December 3rd, 370 SD
1603 EST (earth standard time)
3rd Fleet Headquarters, Level 4 Section 00 (FleetCom), Moonbase, Earthsphere
"...and finally, rumors are still buzzing about Tetragenesis heiress Opera Vectra and a mysterious, as yet unidentified Federation soldier," the perky blonde anchor began. "Could an officer and a gentleman be what's keeping the eligible Miss Vectra in the Earthsphere? CNR takes a closer look at a possible Space Force love connection! All this and more at the top of the—"
Claude grunted, shrugging his shoulders and walking quicker past the blaring vid-screens in the officer's lounge. He had never had much of a use for the 'Celebrity News Report' channel; doubly so since becoming their lead story!
But Opera's pick of meeting places had been well chosen–between the dim-lighting, leafy greens, and that arm Claude had thrown up at the last moment, it seems like none of the photographers had gotten a good shot of him.
In fact, even Rena (who admitted to watching CNR as a guilty pleasure) hadn't recognized Claude at first, until he told her. And that had only set her to laughing hysterically for a good twenty minutes or so.
Claude forced himself to banish all thoughts of CNR and Opera and even Rena as he came to a stop in front of the office of one Commander Forsythe. He keyed the intercom inlaid next to the metal doors. "This is Lieutenant Claude Kenni, reporting," he stated.
"Enter," came the (slightly) muffled reply.
Claude keyed the panel next to the door a second time, and the door slid open. Commander Forsythe, a fit looking man with short cropped black hair, sat behind his desk, reviewing a file on a command tablet. "Lieutenant Kenni, excellent. Please," Forsythe said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk, "sit down."
Once Claude was settled, Forsythe set the tablet down and leaned back in his chair. "Well, then, I suppose you must be wondering why I've asked you here."
Claude, doing his best not to show his nervousness, nodded. He had spent much of the previous night wracking his brain on just that topic. His last officer review had only been a few weeks ago, so that was out. That only left some sort of disciplinary action... or so a little voice in the back of his mind tried repeatedly to convince him.
For the first time, Forsythe's expression softened. "Now, now, I know that look—like a kid dragged into the principal's office after school." Forsythe raised a hand. "Well, let me assuage your worries, then, Lieutenant Kenni. This," and here Forsythe picked up another tablet from his desk, "is why I called you in today."
The commander slid the tablet across the desk to Claude, who obediently picked it up and began scanning the tablet's flash page. After only a few seconds, his eyes widened. "But... But this is..."
"New orders, Lieutenant Kenni," Commander Forsythe answered, leaning back in his chair. "You've just been assigned to the EFS Radiant. Congratulations."
"The Radiant?" Claude asked, already getting excited—he had been waiting for a berth on a space-faring vessel for months. "Are you serious?"
(The Radiant was something of a legend in its own right in the fleet. During the First Lesonia War, the Radiant—battered and alone—had somehow managed to hold off a Lesonia marauding fleet, protecting the Earth colony on Teyren III. And then it somehow still managed to rejoin the main Federation fleet for the decisive Battle of Aldrin.)
Commander Forsythe nodded. "Yes. It's all there in your briefing notes. The Radiant will be pulling into port on the 6th. You're to report to Captain Mitchell by 0715 hours on the 8th. And the Radiant will be shipping out on the 9th."
"So quickly?" Claude asked, scanning the relevant briefing notes on the tablet. "That's barely three day in dock..."
"The Radiant's got a special mission, and it's only stopping here to pick you up."
Claude looked dubious. "Me?"
Forsythe nodded again. "The Radiant's been ordered to Expel, and you, Lieutenant Kenni, have just been assigned as their resident Expel expert."
Claude's head felt like it was spinning all the way home. In fact, if pressed, he doubted he could recall anything of his walk back home. The next thing that he did remember was the hab.'s door sliding open and finding all the lights on.
"Rena?" he called.
"In here," her muffled voice answered back from the bedroom. As he turned the corner, he was surprised to see Rena packing a duffel bag of her own.
"I take it you've heard?" Claude asked.
She nodded, without stopping what she was doing. "Yep. Commander Forsythe actually sent me a v-mail this morning, asking me to volunteer for the Radiant's deployment."
She cocked her head to one side, a blouse half folded in her hands. "Though I get the feeling that if I hadn't volunteered I would have been ordered along anyway." She shook her head, finally tucking the blouse away. "Something big is coming for Expel," she added finally, "and I think even the military brass can feel it."
Claude exhaled slowly, before easing himself into a chair tucked into the corner of the room. He fiddled with the command tablet, listlessly flipping through his briefing notes without really reading any of them. "Have you contacted Westa yet?" he asked. "I'll bet she'll be pretty excited that you'll be on-planet again."
Rena shook her head. "I was going to do that after dinner, actually." Her expression blanched. "If I can manage to get a connection." Rena had managed to get Westa a small communication set a while back, but its range and power left a lot to be desired. Most of the time, it worked (if with a bit of static) but on some days it was as if Expel just didn't exist.
When Rena didn't elaborate any further, Claude frowned, eyeing her from the corner of his eye. "Are you nervous about going back?" he asked after a long pause.
Rena brushed a lock of hair from her face, as she zipped up her first duffel. "Yes and no, I guess," she answered, her tone odd.
When Rena didn't offer anything more, Claude set the tablet down on a nightstand and leaned forward. "Rena, are you still feeling guilty about leaving?" he asked.
"Why would I feel guilty?" Rena asked rhetorically, managing to not really answer the question in the process.
But Claude refused to be deterred. "Listen, I know that a part of you thinks that you should've stayed on Expel—"
Rena stopped packing. "That's not what I—"
"One more healer couldn't have made that much of a difference—"
"Couldn't I?" she snapped suddenly, her calm façade cracking. Her hands had balled up into fists.
The sudden heat in her voice stunned Claude after a moment. "E-excuse me?" Claude asked.
"It's nothing," she amended after a moment.
"Rena," Claude chided.
She sighed in a terribly aggrieved manner, casting a quick look up to the ceiling. "Fine," she conceded, her tone tight as she swiveled to face Claude. "Fine, Claude, you were right. I feel guilty, okay?" Rena turned back to her packing, apparently hoping that admission would be enough to get Claude to drop the issue.
Unfortunately, Claude could be incredibly bull-headed when he wanted to be. "But you don't know that you could have helped with those—"
She whipped around to face Claude again, her eyes blazing. "No, I don't know. But I might've," she countered heatedly. "Did those Federation heraldic scientists know the terrain? Know the people? I did." She threw her hands into the air. "It took them months to start disseminating healing crests to Expellian mages. I know Expellian heraldic theory—I could have helped make that process go smoother."
Claude disagreed. "Neither of us even heard about those problems till months after the fact, Rena!"
Rena scoffed, which was an odd sound coming from her. "Well it doesn't change the fact that I should have stayed," she finished. And all Claude could hear was I shouldn't have gone with you, even if that wasn't exactly what she had said.
After a moment, Rena noticed the stunned and hurt expression on Claude's face. "No, no, Claude, I didn't mean it like..." she tried to amend hastily.
"I'm sorry I brought it up," he said stiffly, picking his tablet back up.
Rena let slip what sounded like a frustrated sigh. "Claude..." She stared blankly down at her half filled duffel bags.
Silence.
Rena resumed packing.
"Have you heard from Opera?" Claude asked finally, apparently trying to change the subject.
Rena's eyebrow didn't quite twitch. She paused in her packing, nodding. "Uh... yeah." She nodded towards the room's terminal. "She sent us a v-mail, actually." A beat. "She's leaving Moonbase."
"Leaving?" Claude asked, sounding surprised.
"It's all in the v-mail... But the short story is that the paparazzi have basically camped out outside her hab., and show no intent of leaving any time soon."
"But why would she just up and leave...?" Claude asked, in an injured tone.
If Rena thought anything odd about it, well, she wasn't saying anything.
OOO
Cryarsis 62nd, 1348 UCEC (United Church of Expel Calendar)
Sunset
Workshop, Neuyman Residence, Linga, Kingdom of Lacour, Expel
"Blast!" Graft shouted in a rare display of anger as he smacked a hand into his work bench.
Precis' head snapped up at the sudden sharp nose, nearly dropping her reading material in the process. She was sitting in a battered old recliner she had dragged over to the wide workshop gate. With the light breeze, it was an incredibly comfortable spot to pick her way through yet another in the endless series of (mostly redundant) Federation reports.
"I can't move forward with the models if I can get any support!" he declared heatedly. "It's right there," Graft said, boring holes into his chalkboard with his glare. "I can see it!" he finished, thumping the bench with his fist again.
Precis just watched him for a long moment.
"It's not a radiation in the traditional sense..." he continued explaining to no one in particular. "It's heraldic based, so of course it won't affect living manner in the same manner. There wouldn't be any physical signs, other than enhancement of aggressiveness and strength..."
Cancer of the body swapped for a cancer of the psyche. Precis couldn't decide which was more horrifying.
"And if its heraldic based," Graft elaborated, arms folded, "then that means that it's subject to Kurtz absorption just like everything else... I just can't... quite..." He trailed off, smoldering at the chalkboard.
When he didn't resume, Precis slowly set down the files she had been reading and languidly rose from her armchair. She turned to Bobot, having been perched precariously on the back of the chair. "Bobot, go put some coffee on, okay?"
Bobot chirped once and snapped Precis a sharp salute before leaping to the floor and dashing to the other room.
Nodding to herself as Bobot got to work, Precis crossed the workshop to the chalkboard and her father. She clapped his shoulder. "Come on, Dad, we can do this, just you and me," she soothingly, even as she moved to sit at her old her workstation across, from where her dad sat. "Just like old times, right?" she asked.
Graft only stared at her. "What about your reports? Doesn't the Research Board need those by this evening?"
Precis was already organizing sheets on her side of the desk (it had been quite a while since she had used it last) and didn't slow as she answered. "They can wait."
When Graft still looked unsure, Precis looked back to him and nodded once in encouragement. Slowly (and a bit numbly), he trundled his way over to his seat. Sinking down into the well worn leather, he took a deep breath. Taking up his pencil and scratching against the pad, he slowly started back from the beginning.
OOO
Cryarsis 63rd, 1348 UCEC (United Church of Expel Calendar)
Predawn
Jean Pharmacy, Linga, Kingdom of Lacour, Expel
Bowman Jean rubbed at his eyes, before trying to stifle a yawn. Dropping his cleaning rag, he scanned the pharmacy once again. "Aw, man... I've still got a lot of work to do."
He had only just returned from his trip to Lacour Castle. Although Nineh ran the store while he was away, there was a lot only he could do, and it tended to pile up while he was off gallivanting and the like. Once his counter top was clean, for example, he'd be spending a good part of the morning mixing up a few batches of Bowman-brand cough syrup...
But before he could get much farther on the day's awaiting tasks, the shop's front door bell rang weakly. Bowman looked up just in time to see Ashton, looking miserable, slouch in. "Ashton!" Bowman called, "There you are!"
Ashton cringed. Apparently he hadn't been expecting to run into Bowman this early in the morning. Then again, Bowman thought, what sane man would be up at this hour? Of course, at this, Bowman was forced to reexamine his comrade.
"Ah, Bowman..." Ashton began. "I, uh... I didn't think you were back yet..."
"Just got back last night, actually," Bowman explained, shrugging. "I guess the fine gents over at Lacour Castle got tired of rehashing their errors with me."
"Oh. That's, ah, that's good..." Ashton answered, still looking distracted.
Bowman, however, refused to be turned away so easily. "So, where have you been off to, lately?" he pressed. "I haven't seen you since I got back!"
"Out," Ashton offered. After a moment, realizing how curt he had sounded, he coughed lightly. "Training," he explained further, patting his short swords affectionately. "Helps me think."
Bowman, his expression thoughtful, nodded. "Things not going well?" he asked. A nod towards the south-side of town made it obvious to what Bowman was referring to.
Ashton shook his head sadly, and somehow that spoke more eloquently than anything else he could have said. He slowly trundled towards the stairs at the back of the shop, probably angling to get some sleep before the day officially started.
Bowman nodded once in acknowledgement. "Well, buck up," he encouraged.
Ashton's expression made it pretty clear how comforting Bowman's new advice was.
"I know, I know, that doesn't sound exactly like sage advice," Bowman quickly explained, waving a hand. "But just listen," he continued, holding up a finger. "Precis is just... under a lot of pressure right now. You know girls like her. They were made for times of peace, not war." He shrugged, plunging his hands into his pockets. "Once things settle down, I'm positive that the two of you can—"
Bowman was interrupted by a siren going up across the town. The two men quickly hurried over to the plate glass window at the front of the pharmacy. A fire had broken out just east of the main LU campus. "That's... not a good sign," Bowman deadpanned.
After a moment, he heard the soft steps of his wife coming down the stairs. "Bowman...?" she asked uncertainly, peering into the darkness of the rest of the shop.
"Here, Nineh," he answered swiftly.
"What's going on?" she asked quickly, drawing closer to Bowman while she wrapped a shawl around her nightclothes.
"Looks like another few beasts got a little too interested in our fair little berg." He scratched his ear. "I'm sure our fine friends over in Federation Security will get this all wrapped up in no time," he said soothingly, as he put an arm around his wife.
"It wouldn't hurt to lend them a hand..." Ashton stated out of the blue. His dragons exchanged looks.
Bowman frowned. Uh-oh. He was about to say something but before he could, Ashton nodded determinedly. "I'm going to head over there," he declared. And faster than Bowman could say, you're pushing yourself too hard, Ashton was out the door.
And suddenly, Bowman realized he had a major urge to join his old comrade out there. Before the thought had even fully formed, he cast a guilty look at his wife. She rolled her eyes, and gracefully slipped out from under his arm. "If you must, then get going," she said with some show. "I'll make sure the store opens on time."
Bowman practically looked like a kid given free reign of a candy store, as he dashed over to the counter (behind which he still kept his old gauntlets). After a moment, though, his expression blanched. He paused, half bent over the counter, an arm reaching out for his gauntlets. "Long trips to Lacour Castle, going out to fight before it's even dawn... It seems like I'm always running off these days." He scratched his head. "I guess I'm hardly husband of the year material, am I?"
"Get going, Bowman Jean," Nineh replied sagely, smirking and shaking her head. "I won't be mad as long as you promise to come back."
This earned her one of Bowman's trademarked grins. "You know it," he declared, before grabbing his gauntlets up from behind the counter and dashing out the front door to catch up to Ashton.
OOO
December 8th, 370 SD
1209 EST (earth standard time)
D-Ring, Moonbase, Earthsphere
Opera grimly picked up her bags, as the Tetragenesis cutter Erebator Nyx settled into its docking berth. Steeling her nerves, her grip reflexively tightened on her bag's handle as the Erebator's walkway slowly folded down to where she stood.
I don't know what I was thinking, she thought tiredly, watching the Erebator's landing process with distracted eyes. It was a stupid thing to come to Moonbase in the first place. She shifted, hugging her arms to herself. Rena's my friend, and Claude's not going to...
She bit her lip, and struggled to push such thoughts out of her mind... which of course, failed miserably. In the end, the only thing she knew for sure was that she was gladthe photogs had managed to blow her cover, giving her something approximating a good excuse to leave Moonbase. Probably the one good turn those hangers-on have ever done me.
With all airlocks secured, a group of five tetrageniots tumbled out of the hatch. Each wore an oddly archaic looking uniform—something that would not look out of place on a European soldier from Earth's 19th century—and marched with military precision. The man at their head—a tetrageniot who looked to be just north of 30, had wispy, thinning brown hair, and was a bit heavyset—came to a stiff parade rest in front of Opera.
"Your Grace," the tetrageniot said solemnly, sketching out a salute. "I am Rifle-Leader Vass Stellan, 13th Vectra House Guard, Reds and Royals. I'll be commanding the guard retinue for your return trip to Tetragenesis."
Opera nodded, looking drawn. "Rifle-Leader," she acknowledged, with a slight nod. "Well then, shall we?"
Rifle-Leader Stellan saluted. "Of course, ma'am. This way," he said, gesturing for her to precede him up the ramp. His four men flanked either side of the walkway, phase rifles at rest on each's shoulder.
Opera failed to raise an eyebrow at any of these things; to her they were simply second nature. While Tetragenesis—as a full member of the Earth Federation—ceded any and all true military force to Federation armed forces, the Tetragenesis House Guards were a special case.
(A tradition dating back to the original Four House Accords and the founding of modern Tetragenesis society, the House Guards were an integral part of the pomp and circumstance that formed so much of Tetragenesis' governing processes. In fact, as each of the four ruling houses of Tetragenesis viewed their personal House Guard divisions as so central to their identity, retaining the House Guards even after joining the Federation had been a key stipulation in Tetragenesis' signing of the Federation Charter. Admittedly, the House Guards were little more than for show anymore, but it was the thought that was important...)
Once aboard, the cutter's hatch eased shut. Through the closing doors, Opera caught her last look at Moonbase... (Somehow, it seemed appropriate that her last view of the station was a number of humans in maintenance crew jumpsuits running around in what could be described as a vague panic...)
RL Stellen dismissed his men back to their stations, casting Opera an apologetic glance. "I apologize, Your Grace," he explained, nodding after his men. "We are a bit... shorthanded on this mission, and unfortunately we just do not have the staffing to provide you a full honor guard while on-ship."
Opera imagined that the relatively small crew of the Erebator was her parents' idea of a reprimand for her 'years in the wilderness.' Joke's on them, she thought cheerily. When Opera considered the possibility of having to troop around the cramped corridors of the Erebator with four honor guards marching in step with her... Well, this was one punishment by her parents she had no real qualms with.
"That's fine," she said quickly. "To the bridge, then?" she asked. Stellan nodded.
As the two entered the bridge, the small bridge crew immediately rose to attention. Opera held up a hand. "Please, enough with the parade stances. Everyone at ease." After exchanging glances, the bridge crew returned to their stations, though their attention never left her.
"Well, to introductions, then," RL Stellan said suddenly. "At helm we have Marksman Artilla, at operations, Marksman Novarose, and Gunnery Chief Worthington at tactical." Each identified officer nodded in turn.
"Charmed, I'm sure," Opera said lightly, smiling.
"And of course you know Executor Pallin," RL Stellan continued, gesturing to the balding tetrageniot in the sharply cut suit and ceremonial half-cloak of deep maroon velvet. Pallin stood awkwardly to one side of the captain's chair.
"Ah, yes..." Opera said coolly. "Executor."
"Your Grace," the splotchy Executor said, "it's been so long."
Not long enough, Opera thought. Instead, Opera offered the more neutral, "Indeed."
"Both Lady Ophia and your father, Lord Vectra, wished me to extend their deep joy that you have finally decided to resume your rightful place at the head of the next generation of the Vectras," Pallin said formally.
By his tone, it was obvious that he felt none of the 'deep joy' he spoke off. Not that this surprised Opera in the least. It had been Executor Pallin, after all, who had recommended to her parents that a good boarding school would cure her 'rebellious' streak. It had been Executor Pallin who had suggested disowning her when she had first turned to archeology and refused to return to the Vectra Satellite. ('Thankfully,' Opera reflected, Pallin had only won one of those arguments...)
"How kind of you to say," she responded, in the formal, neutral tone she had hoped to never have to use again. It had been one of the first things she had been expected to learn—it was the only tone that one could use at court, after all. (Well, at least, if you wanted to keep your enemies to a minimum...)
Opera realized that her attention had started to wander; Pallin was already outlining her pre-approved schedule. "...full slate of events once we're back in Genesisspace, including a welcoming ceremony at Vectra Hall. Lady Vectra has sent along a number of primers on several of the ministries you'll begin overseeing in the next week or so, and asked that you began reading them as soon as possible. So, if you'll follow me to your state room..."
"Well, then," Opera began, doing no such thing and instead dropping into the captain's chair, "I suppose I'll have to tell you sooner rather than later. I hate to break it to all of you, but there's been a change of plans. We're going to be making a slight detour."
"A... detour?" Executor Pallin asked warily. Opera was deviating from the script, which was something that Pallin knew could only lead to trouble.
Stellan, standing next to the helmsman, seemed far more excited at the possibility—he did so rarely get off the Vectra Satellite these days. "A detour, Your Grace?" he asked.
Opera nodded, looking prim and confidant in the captain's chair. "Indeed. Marksman Artilla, please set course for the Ark System, all possible speed."
The Ark System... Home of Expel, and located in the opposite direction from Tetragenesis.
"B-but you can't!" the Executor sputtered. "We have a schedule! Your parents! They're expecting you to—"
Opera fixed him with her best aristocratic stare, half-rising from her seat. "And this is an order from the next in line to the head of the Vectra family. Are you going to disobey?" she asked, her tone dangerous.
Executor Pallin looked as if he was on the verge of an epileptic seizure, but somehow managed to hold his tongue.
Opera turned back to RL Stellan. "Rifle Leader?" she asked.
RL Stellan saluted. "At once, Your Grace," he answered, barely suppressing a grin.
Glad to see someone approves of my idea...
"Excellent!" Opera declared cheerily, as she dropped back into her chair. "In that case, RL, all ahead full please." She interlaced her hands. If her reunion with Claude and Rena had been...derailed, she had at least the rest of the old gang.
OOO
December 17th, 370 SD
1141 + 6:00 (earth standard time – adjusted six hours for expel local)
Main conference room, EXCOM Command Center, Central Cross, Expel
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen, please!" Iria shouted over the din of a heated argument.
When her entreaties were ignored and the two men Iria decided she had had enough.
She slammed her open palm down on her desk. Besides making a satisfying sharp crack and rattling the snowman snow globe on her desk (her only concession to the holiday season), it did an excellent job of stunning the two arguing men into silence. "That's enough!" she roared.
(For a second she basked in the cowed looks on both men, before shaking it off and reminding herself that she had work to do.)
"Now, I don't know what has got the two of you so damn worked up," she continued, her tone deadly serious, "but we're here this afternoon so I can put a stop to it."
The two said nothing, only exchanging sullen glances at one another. Iria took a moment to size the two men up.
The man on the left was General Mackwell, second in command of the Federation Marine detachment on Expel. He was in his late forties and had dark brown hair; his Marine uniform was sharp and pressed, though it strained against his massive figure. The fact that he—considered by nearly everyone in the military to be judicious and level headed—had been dragged into an argument of this intensity said something.
The man on the right was in his late twenties. An Ostin Manufacturing ID badge pinned to the lapel of his pinstripe suit identified him as 'Vincent McConahey.' Between his arrogant expression and slicked back black hair, Iria had a feeling she knew his type. This feeling was only reinforced by his oversized, undoubtedly over priced, gold wristwatch and the designer sunglasses hanging from his suit pocket.
"Okay," Iria began slowly. "Mr. McConahey, right? Let's start with your side of the story, shall we?"
"Gladly," McConahey started, leaning forward. "I had merely inquired," he began, his tone managing both to be condescending and petulant at the same time, "if I could borrow a Marine detachment for short fact-finding mission to the Hoffman Ruins. And then this ogre of a soldier flipped out, and—"
By this point, it was clear General Mackwell had had enough. "I will not pull my Marines off the line just so some corporate lackeys can poke around for a faster way to make a buck!" Mackwell exploded, glaring at the Ostin rep angrily.
"A faster way to make a buck!?" McConahey fired back. "Hardly, sir. Hardly. Whatever that mineral is under the Hoffman Ruins, it could be vitally important to the future of the Federation!" the Ostin rep snarled. "The Federation brass has already green lit an expedition for next month. All I'm asking for is a Marine detachment to lay down some ground work before they get here!"
General Mackwell was about to fire back, when Iria held up a hand. "General Mackwell," Iria started, in her best diplomatic voice, "I understand your concern—"
"Do you?" Mackwell asked sharply, a hint of resentment in his voice.
His question was met with Iria's coldest stare. He shifted uncomfortably, coughing. "My apologies, Commodore. I forgot myself."
Iria's glare moderated... somewhat. "Now, I understand that emotions are running high... on both sides," she added quickly, before the Ostin rep could protest. "But at the end of the day, we're all on the same side here."
"Now, that said," she continued, turning her attention back to the Ostin rep, "the final say for your little... 'fact finding mission' rests with me, and my answer is no. We're stretched thin enough as it is." Iria turned her attention back to General Mackwell. "General, you are dismissed to resume your normal duties. Understood?"
Mackwell looked relieved, and even let a tiny smile steal onto his face as he saluted. "Gladly." He glared at McConahey as he turned and left Iria's office.
McConahey's sour expression made it look like he had been sucking on lemons. Iria laced her fingers before turning her attention back to him. "Mr. McConahey," she began, "Did your superiors ask you to send a preliminary party down there?" Iria asked, having tired both of McConahey and the little games he seemed to be playing.
McConahey shifted, looking uncomfortable. "Well, not as such, per se, but, it was—"
Iria's eyes narrowed. "Let's cut the bullshit, shall we, Mr. McConahey? They didn't, because if they had I would have heard about it. Now, let me tell you what I see," she continued, over McConahey's choked protests. "What I see is a middle management peon trying to co-op Federation military assets—good hardworking men and women who are trying to do a job and protect this planet—for his own gain. In this case, getting down below the Hoffman Ruins first and, with any luck, chancing upon a discovery that could say, make a career?" she bit out.
For a long moment, McConahey just stared at her blankly. Then, "Th-That's not true!" he protested, in the incredulous tone of someone who knows he's lying. "Th-The Hoffman Ruins are known to be dangerous!" he continued, obviously grasping at straws. "You can't ignore the security risks the survey team will be under, and a scouting mission could—"
"Oh I know all too well about the security risks, actually," she replied, "because my son is going to be leading the Federation detachment escorting your people down there.
"Now, if you'll excuse me," Iria said, her tone icy, "I have actual work to do."
And she relished the look of bitterness and defeat on McConahey's face as he slunk out of her office. Honestly, sometimes she didn't know what the bigger problem was facing Expel: was it truly the ravaging beasts on the ground, as most seemed to think, or the soulless corporate vampires waiting in the wings...?
"Oh Expel, what ever is going to happen to you?" she lamented to the quiet of her office.
OOO
December 20th, 370 SD
1833 EST (earth standard time)
FNN Headquarters, New York, North American Administrative District, Earth
Chisato fidgeted in her office chair, staring at her terminal's screen. The screen read Connecting... and had shown no sign of changing for the better part of a half hour. Drumming her fingers, she scanned her office (absently noting the holiday decorations, which honestly meant very little to her) before she turned to stare out her office window. She was just able to make out the orange skies just beyond the skyscrapers of the New York skyline.
"Who are you holding for?" a voice asked abruptly out of nowhere.
Chisato started, taken by surprise. It took her a moment to realize that the voice had come from her terminal, and a pretty young female Federation officer was looking at her expectantly from the screen. "Ah," Chisato began, taking a second to clear her throat, "Commdore Silvestoli-Kenni."
"One moment please," the female technician said, and it was right back to that damnable Connecting... screen.
Figures, Chisato thought darkly.
But before she could fume for too long, her connection was finally established. The screen switched to an interior shot of a military-style hab. And sitting front and center was a sleepy looking lesser fellpool teenager.
Chisato had been expected Commodore Silvestoli-Kenni herself, so it was something of a surprise to see a sleepy looking Leon—complete in a nightshirt—instead. "Commodore Silvestoli-Kenni's quarters," Leon began, even as he scrubbed sleep out of his eyes.
"Ah, Leon!" Chisato responded, cheered immediately by seeing the young man. "Is Commodore Silvestoli-Kenni unavailable?" Chisato asked.
"Chisato?" Leon asked, sounding a bit confused. He blinked for a moment, before his mind started to process what she had asked. "Uh, right. Yeah, Auntie Iria's meetings ran late again today." Leon suddenly looked abashed. "Oh, that's right! Your interview was supposed to be tonight, wasn't it?"
Chisato scratched her ear. "Well, calling it an interview is a bit strong... I was really just hoping to get her responses to a few of the more bombastic remarks Senator Novacello made yesterday morning."
At this, Leon scowled. "Novacello again?" He turned his nose up at the very thought of the notoriously noxious Senator. "I wish he'd just leave Aunt Iria alone."
Chisato nodded. "You and me both. But he's in charge of the Space Forces Oversight Committee, and it's an election year, so I think he's going to keep the saber rattling up at least until after the elections." Well, 'saber rattling' was being a bit kind. Most meetings of the SFOC seemed to devolve into Novacello's personal haranguing against the Expel mission, levying everything from graft to intentional incompetence against Iria and her staffers.
"You're probably right," Leon conceded, sounding irritable. He folded his arms, and for a moment, Chisato was reminded of his younger days, when a scowl and folded arms had been so much more frequent.
"Anyway," Chisato continued, "tell Commodore Silvestoli-Kenni I called, okay?" she asked. If Iria didn't put out a response to Novacello's outrageous accusations soon, the news media (well, excluding Chisato herself, of course) would begin to wonder openly if perhaps the honorable senior Senator from Earth had a point... regardless of how patently ridiculous most of his charges were!
"Oh, and before I go, any comments you'dlike to make about the situation on Expel?" Chisato asked. "Strictly off the record, of course," she added, with a wink.
"Ah... not at this time?" Leon said, uncertain and looking a little uncomfortable with Chisato's probing.
"Oh, come on. I know that your security clearance must be burning a hole in your pocket even as we speak! There must be something interesting that the Federation brass doesn't want to leak out!"
"Chisato!" Leon complained, looking uncomfortable, "Auntie Iria only got me that security clearance to get me into a couple of research labs! I can't just start leaking things—she trusts me!"
"But don't you want to be the Deep Throat of our generation?" she put forward, her tone a bit cavalier.
"Deep what?" Leon asked, frowning.
I guess I'm picking up more Earth slang than I thought...Chisato thought. "Nevermind. Just remember: if there's ever anything you end up wanting to share with the Federation at large..." she trailed off.
"I've got your number, Chisato," Leon reassured her.
As she cut the connection, Chisato sighed. With deployments increasing (including, she found out only a few days later, Claude and Rena and yet another Ostin research team) to Expel, with Senator Novacello apparently on a one man crusade to either get reelected or stop the Expel mission (or both), with the beast attacks only continuing to rise in intensity... Expel was shaping up to be the story of the coming year.
Expel, Expel, Expel, she reflected. Of course you'd only get really interesting after I get booted off you...
Fidgeting, she turned to some of her back paperwork... but all the while she couldn't quite fight off a restless feeling.
OOO
December 27th, 370 SD
Midafternoon
Path to Shingo Forest, Outskirts of Arlia Village, Kingdom of Cross, Expel
Has it really only been four years? Rena thought, as she crossed the bridge from Shingo Forest into Arlia proper. Expel's moon hung low and visible in the sky, and at a breeze a small flock of birds took off from a nearby tree. Like Leon had earlier, for a moment Rena was enveloped in a wave of nostalgia. The scene was almost exactly like the day she had brought home what she had thought was the Warrior of Light.
She paused, about halfway across the bridge, and closed her eyes. She could just imagine Claude as he was, walking along with her that day. His uniform was dusty and dirt-covered, and his eyes were wide as he tried to take in everyone new on Expel at once...
She opened her eyes, and Claude-from-yesteryear faded.
(Of course he did. The real Claude was at that moment half a world away—still plenty distant, even if not as far as it used to be for humans and Expellians alike—leading a Federation exploration mission into the ever-hostile Hoffman Ruins.)
She resumed her trek back into town, her fine Earth-made boots crunching along the gravel road.
Arlia was growing, slowly but surely. It wasn't much, but Rena could tell—a new room added here, a road leading off to new cabins there. Even the church had expanded its facilities. All this meant new residents, many of which Rena didn't recognize from her infrequent trips back home.
Actually, many of the new residents stopped and stared at her as she passed. She supposed that she must stand out like a sore thumb now. She self-consciously brushed a hand over her lightweight, blue and white polymer jacket. She must be so far removed from the hometown girl she had been, now in her own version of 'alien raiments'.
Fate had a funny sense of humor sometimes.
And by the looks of it, fate isn't finished today... Rena thought wonderingly as she crossed Arlia's small stream and neared her mother's house, only to see an unexpected visitor waiting just outside the door.
The same distant expression... the same battered blue traveling cloak... the same blade hanging loosely at his hip... Dias, at least, was a constant.
"Dias!" she called, her easy stroll from before quickly changing into a quick sprint.
Dias had been staring at her window—like her, had he been searching through past memories? At any rate, he turned when she called his name. Upon seeing Rena, the edge of his mouth crept up ever so incrementally—about as close to a smile as he was capable of giving.
"Little sister," he said in his rumbling voice, as she threw her arms around him. He even conceded to put an arm around her shoulders. (It had been a while since they had last seen each other.)
"What are you doing here?" Rena asked, breathlessly. "I mean, it's been so long, and then just to see you here like this is—"
"I didn't expect to see you," he said, managing to completely avoid answering her question in the process.
But Rena was used to Dias' unique way of managing conversations, and smoothly kept up. "I'm on a mission—I got temporary leave to return home for a visit."
"Have you seen to your mother yet?" Dias asked, his eyes already scanning the area, like they always did. (It wasn't that he was bored; rather, on the day his family died, he swore to never get taken by surprise ever again. Most people, however, just took it as a slight. Rena knew better.)
Rena nodded. "This morning. I just... wanted to go for a walk."
"Claude?" Dias asked.
"Not here," she answered. "One of us had to stay with the mission."
Dias took a break from scanning the town for trouble to fix her with a strange look. For a crazy half second, she was afraid that Dias would ask if everything was all right between them.
(Was it because she was afraid of what she might answer?)
Sanity then reasserted itself when Dias resumed his watchful gaze over Arlia. Rena let out a breath that she hadn't realized she had been holding. "Have you seen mother yet?" she asked.
Dias shook his head 'no,' once, slowly. By his expression, it looked as if the idea had never crossed his mind. He probably would have stared up at my window for hours, and then just left without saying goodbye if I hadn't chanced into him, Rena intuited.
"Well, we simply can't have that!" Rena declared, doing a remarkable imitation of her happier younger years. "You're coming in for dinner right now!"
And despite his tough and gruff façade, Dias offered her no resistance as she tugged him by the arm, into the house. Westa, of course, was overjoyed to see Dias and smoothly and seamlessly modified their dinner plans to include him. As usually, Westa's ability to produce massive quantities of delicious food on incredibly short notice was put to good use.
After dinner, Rena twisted Dias' arm and convinced him to stay for the night. As Westa cleaned up from that night's feast, Rena led Dias to the guest room.
"Have you spoken to Chisato?" she asked impulsively as they climbed the stairs.
If the question took him off-guard, he didn't show it. "No," he said quietly.
"She's doing good, you know," Rena offered quickly.
"I imagine so," he answered. And that was the end of the conversation.
They crested the stairs. Night had fallen, and the second floor hallway was dark. Only a few steps down the hallway, Rena realized that Dias had stopped. She turned back to look at him.
"Earlier," he began with difficulty, "You asked me what I was doing here..." In the darkness of the hall, it was hard for Rena to fully make out his features, but... it occurred to her that he looked concerned.
He shifted, his free hand dropping uneasily to his blade's hilt. "Something's in the air," he stated. "Can't you feel it?" he asked, his gaze finally wandering over to Rena.
After a moment, Rena nodded. And there was uncertainty in her heart.
END CHAPTER 3
Author's Note: And now, all the pieces are in place. Expect something big in the next chapter.
On more specific points: Does the tension between Claude and Rena work? I think it does, for the most part, but please read and review and let me know what you think.
Also, with reference to the case of healing crests – it's supposed to be a big deal that no one on Expel but Rena has healing heraldry... even though all the spells she uses are the exact same ones that are apparently commonplace on Roak. So here's what I figure: Nede never bothered creating healing crests, since hey, due to their fancy genetics they could use heal spells without them. The rest of the galaxy, however, was not so lucky. And eventually, the Federation probably imports some Roak style crests to fill the gap.
I'm really pleased with how Iria came out in this chapter. Tough leading ladies, FTW!
I always imagined Nineh had the patience of a saint to put of with some of Bowman's excesses.
Yeah, I know, I'm making some facets of Tetragenesis society up as I go, but hey: it sounds plausible for a 'rigid (space) aristocracy,' right?
You know, I resisted it for a long time, but I'm honestly starting to think Dias is just plain fun to write, chiefly because his traumatic childhood makes him ripe for so many unique quirks as a character. Childhood tragedy for the win...?
