Professor Gabrielli’s class on Rulership is still about as interesting as watching paint dry. She’s expressed no interest in doing anything to help out as our unit’s sponsor, and I haven’t bothered asking for any assistance when it’s obvious she’d give it grudgingly if at all.
Because Rulership is the one class where my entire Gazelle Unit is together, however, it makes certain things more convenient. Like having an emergency War Council meeting. While Gabrielli is giving a riveting lecture on the nuances of Imperium tax policy, I link Sofie, Niko, and Grant with myself on a brainband ‘conference call.’ That’s obviously not the sort of thing you’re supposed to do in the middle of class, but so long as none of them give any obvious indication they’re having a silent conversation when they’re supposed to be listening, we’ll be fine.
Okay. Let’s get started. Sofie, you’re up first. What’ve you been able to dig up about this meeting?
Not much, she answers apologetically. Anton and Hark both accepted the invite, but no chatter about what Starling’s actually planning. Given the timing, we can probably assume he’s not just hoping to get to know you better, though.
By timing, she means the first round of War Games, fast approaching at the end of this week. Four days to go until the Komodo and Peregrine units duke it out, and six before my Gazelles face off against the Oxen. No word yet on what form the competition will take- they don’t tell us any of that until the day of. Some kind of combat is assured, but we don’t know if it’s going to be a standard deathmatch, capture the flag, or something more complex.
I’d say it’s a pretty low-risk situation, Niko interjects, curt and businesslike. They don’t stand to gain much with an assassination attempt. Unless it wasn’t really Starling who invited you, and somebody else is trying to maneuver the four of you into the same place so they can take you all out. But I don’t have a clue who would benefit from that. So don’t go in too worried, but definitely have Sander scope the place out beforehand.
He’s headed there right after class gets out, I confirm, giving an approving nod across the brainband, while my actual head remains still. Gonna bug up the kitchen while he’s there. Make sure nobody slips something into my food.
Slipping a lethal dose of Mindkiller into someone’s food is probably the most common way of truekilling someone in the Imperium. I’m not too worried about it, mainly because there hasn’t been a single attempt on my life since the very first one, and because embedding someone in the kitchen of one of the Citadel’s many restaurants on the uncertain chance I might eat there isn’t exactly a safe bet from the perspective of whoever’s trying to have me killed. It’s a different story when your next meal is scheduled, however, which is why I’m exercising caution in this case.
Frustratingly, we still haven’t been able to determine who placed the truedeath trap in my apartment to begin with. Both Sander amd members of my intelligence unit have looked into it, and failed to come up with a name for who was in my apartment before I arrived. More than a dozen people were involved in prepping our dormitory, and there are no records of who was in what room when. We could try to interrogate every single one of them, but that would probably attract the Citadel administration’s attention, which is something I’d rather avoid for the time being.
Okay. Grant. What’s your read on this? What’s Starling hoping to gain here?
My aide-de-camp, or whatever Grant’s role in this whole thing is, has been growing into his position slowly over the past couple of weeks. That doesn’t mean he’s at peak performance yet by any means, but at least he doesn’t hesitate before answering now.
My guess? He’s trying to lay the foundation for an alliance. With who, it’s hard to say. Probably not us, since we’re gonna be fighting in a few days no matter what. But then again, every unit is gonna fight every other unit once anyway. If I was in his position, I’d be trying to decide who posed the biggest threat, so I could convince everybody else to team up against them.
That seems plausible enough to me. Starling’s a politician, he’ll be looking to solve this without violence, or at least use diplomacy to minimize the use of force to only what’s necessary. Of course, there can only be one winner here, so all alliances are by nature temporary. But even a temporary alliance of three units against one could be enough to cripple the odd one out.
Makes sense. But we don’t wanna play things down too much. If it looks like we’re acting weaker than we are, he might assume we’re actually much stronger than we are.
Niko sighs.
I’ve got no patience for this ‘does he know that we know that he knows’ shit. We’re not blowing the place up, are we?
Probably not, no.
Then do you really need me here? Because this isn’t exactly my area of expertise.
At the front of the room, Professor Gabrielli is slowly swiping through a holographic slideshow detailing how an overambitious administrator’s three percent tax increase on the sale of plutonium contributed to his world’s eventual breakaway to join the Meritocracy. I rub my eyes, trying to keep them open.
C’mon, you’re selling yourself short. Think of it like this- you’ve got four triad bosses sitting down together. They know that their superiors won’t be happy if any of them knock each other off, but they also know only one of them is gonna move up to the next rank. So they each gotta figure out who their main rival is, and find a way to take ‘em out of the running. But they only way they can do that is by getting the other two to back them up, or else it’s mutually assured destruction.
Wow, Izzy, killer metaphor, Sofie giggles.
Ah, fuck you too, I laugh back. It wasn’t exactly the most elegant analogy, but it seems to have at least partially convinced Niko that he might have something to contribute here.
Citadel isn’t exactly run like a triad, but I get your point. We need to make them underestimate us, without them realizing we’re doing it. Thing is, if you try too hard at this meeting, they’ll see something’s up right away. They’ve had people watching you for weeks, just like you’ve had people watching them. So act like you usually do- confident, but not too confident. What will really convince them is what we do when they don’t-- I mean, when we don’t-- fuck.
Stumbling over his words, Niko cuts himself off, then starts over, forcing out each syllable slowly and deliberately.
What we do when they think we don’t know they’re watching. That’s what’ll convince them. Fucking hell.
Sofie hums softly, thinking it over, or perhaps just trying to piece together what he actually meant by any of that.
So what you’re saying is... we put on a show?
Yes, exactly, he says, relieved that somebody got what he was saying. We make them think Iza’s confidence is just a front. Then go out of our way to hide a training session, so they’ll be sure to send people to spy on it. We botch it intentionally, they’ll assume we fucked up for real and decide we’re not the biggest threat after all.
Despite his claims that this isn’t his specialty, Niko’s proving rather strategically competent. That’s not too surprising, really. His Founder commanded one of the first Myrmidon units- you’ve got to be more than just a meathead to do that. And the Stormwolf’s time as a triad enforcer clearly helped him develop some cunning as well, which Niko has inherited.
Solid plan, but if we’re gonna pull it off, we’ll probably have to keep the others in the dark. If we let them all in on the plan, someone would let something slip, it’s inevitable. Plus, I’ve got a feeling that not everybody in the unit would be a great actor.
In particular, I’m thinking of Bret and Colleen. The former is bad enough at acting like a normal person that I shudder to think how he’d behave if he was actively trying to fool someone he knew was spying on him. And the latter is so stiff and self-serious that she’d probably write out a script for herself and recite it aloud in the direction of the nearest hidden camera.
We don’t want to create a self-fulfilling prophecy, Grant concurs. And if we waste one of our only training sessions on this plan, we might not be in good shape for the fight itself.
I’ve got some ideas about that, I reply. But let’s get back on track here for a second. This meeting is an opportunity, and I don’t want to waste it. All four commanders in one spot- how can we take advantage of that?
All three of my advisors fall silent for a moment, and my attention drifts back to the professor, now warning against the dangers of too lenient a tax code. The Imperium offers system governors a reasonable degree of freedom in determining municipal policy, so long as they don’t do anything to contradict a direct Imperial ruling, or otherwise undermine the Emperor’s leadership. That means some systems deliberately craft more permissive taxation systems, to entice corporate interests. Of course, a multiplanetary corporation pays tax to the Imperium directly as well, and the Imperial line has been generally consistent about making sure the wealthy pay their fair share.
Some system governors who’ve been too lenient on those corporate interests have provoke a reprimand from the Emperor himself, and in some cases, even been removed from their positions. That typically happens in systems that either aren’t governed by a Noble, or where the Noble’s seat is being held by a regent until their graduation. While the Emperor may be the supreme authority, he does have to exercise some caution in acting against a Noble directly, because the right alliance of Nobility could supersede or undermine a given Emperor’s rule- or simply conspire to have him assassinated, and hope the Heir Apparent will govern differently.
There’s no evidence of such a thing ever happening, of course. If an event like that ever became common knowledge, or made it into the history books, it would undermine the Emperor’s rule forever. But there are a few odd historical blank spaces, where it’s written that an Emperor clashed with their Nobility frequently, and then the details of their demise are left frustratingly vague. Nobody knows for certain, and speculating aloud in the wrong place might get you locked up, but in private, people continue to whisper.
Here’s an idea, Sofie says at last. We could see if Nikitha has anything that you could use on them. Nothing lethal, just something that would give them, like... indigestion, or something like that. Make it harder for them to run their own training sessions if they’re busy barfing their guts up.
Seems risky, Grant replies. If they notice, it would alienate all three of them at once, and then no amount of subterfuge would convince them not to target us.
Sofie considers that for a second, and nods.
Yeah, good point. Maybe you can wear a recording device, and we can take the opportunity to synthesize their voices. That could be useful for playing mind games later on.
She’s probably thinking about the plan I cooked up with Amalia and Tai yesterday, to drive a wedge between the members of the Ox Unit by fabricating a recording of their chief strategist badmouthing some of their more disaffected members.
Good idea. I’ll talk to Tai, see if he’s got anything that would be hard to detect. I don’t think they’re gonna pat me down, but I bet they’d ask about any suspicious bulges under my shirt.
Yeah, Niko says gleefully, barely managing to keep the shit-eating grin off his face. They’d be pretty confused if it looked like you’d finally grown some proper tits.
Surprised by the sudden joke at my expense, Sofie can’t stop herself from exhaling sharply, drawing Gabrielli’s attention.
“Is there something amusing you, Miss Lang?” she asks icily.
“N-no,” Sofie lies, fighting to keep from laughing out loud. Despite being the butt of the joke, I have to dig a nail into my palm to avoid joining in, more amused by her own struggle than the joke itself.
“Very well then,” Gabrielli says, not buying it at all. “Perhaps you could tell us what Undersecretary Boone meant when he said ‘The problem with balancing on a knife’s edge is what happens when you get cut’?”
“Uh, well, in terms of politics, uh... I think what theUndersecretary meant is that, uh...”
Okay, I say to the three of them, chuckling silently as Sofie flounders for an answer aloud. This emergency session of the War Council is adjourned.
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“Appearance is everything in a situation like this,” Grant tells me sagely, as he shakes his head to reject one of the outfit options in my closet. With a shrug, I replace the shirt and continue sifting through my clothes for something else. “You need to project confidence, without seeming like that’s what you’re trying to do. And we’re probably going to have to do something about your hair.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
The moment we stepped into my wardrobe, Grant became almost an entirely different person. He’s more confident and assertive than I’ve ever seen him. This, I suppose, is his area of expertise. The questions of image and appearance that, to be entirely honest, don’t make much sense to me. I understand the importance of political maneuvering well enough, even if I’ll always be more at home on a battlefield, but worrying about how I look has never been a major concern of mine.
By all accounts, my Founder was much the same way. He wore his admiral’s uniform to most formal events, something I can’t copy yet, because I don’t have any uniforms available except my Citadel one, which simply doesn’t send the same kind of message as showing up in full military regalia does. Which is why I asked Grant to help me pick out what to wear to my dinner with the other commanders.
“There’s nothing wrong with it. It looks fine- but not appropriate for a formal dinner. Going in with it looking like that signals that you don’t care about the meeting, and not in a good way.”
With my face still hidden by the closet door, I roll my eyes. The reason I keep my hair short is purely practical- long hair easily gets caught in machinery, which was a real concern back home, and it can be grabbed and yanked around in a fight. Short hair has none of those problems.
“Sure, okay. You got a stylist in mind, or are you gonna do it personally?”
“There are several salons and beauty parlors here at the Citadel,” he informs me, which comes as somewhat of a surprise, even though it really shouldn’t. Even with such a small population, this place was built to cater to just about every need imaginable, yet I never thought to look for a stylist here. Not like there are any on Demeter VII, and I was perfectly happy taking care of my own appearance there. “I’m told Amora’s is the place to go for those who are using a feminine form. They’re located not far from here, so you should have plenty of time to head down there before the dinner… assuming we can find an appropriate outfit for you first.”
We’ve only been at this for about a half hour, but I’m already becoming impatient. Shifting aside a puffy golden jacket that I’m fond of, but know wouldn’t be appropriate for this occasion, I settle my eyes on a black and white printed dress, narrow enough to emphasize my figure, which- while not quite as impressive as Sofie’s -is certainly nothing to sneeze at.
Pulling the garment off the rack, I hold it out for Grant to examine. For once, he doesn’t respond immediately in the negative, instead stroking his chin contemplatively.
“…I can work with this,” he concludes at last. “Get yourself down to Amora’s, tell them you need to get cleaned up for a dinner tonight. They’ll know what to do.”
With a grimace, I hand Grant the dress, and he steps past me to examine the remaining contents of my closet. Leaving him to the doubtlessly difficult work of constructing a whole outfit for me in time for the dinner, I head out of my apartment, Sander wordlessly falling in behind me, to go get my hair done for the very first time.
----------------------------------------
When I return, it’s with my typically curly hair straightened, and styled so that rather than hanging down by my ears, it’s parted from one side of my forehead to the other, the overall result making me look more put-together and dignified than I may have ever in my life. If the entire process hadn’t taken so long, and required so much product. I might be tempted to make getting my hair done a semipermanent part of my routine.
Grant spent that time hard at work too- crafting the outfit I’m now wearing on my way to the Five Rings Restaurant. The dress is a comfortable fit, and the ink blot-like black and white patterns slowly shift and move across its surface as I walk. Over that, I’ve got an orange-brown leather jacket, with my Gazelle pin prominently positioned on the left breast. Apparently unsatisfied with the contents of my jewelry drawer, which was admittedly pretty bare, Grant had a set of circular ivory earrings fabricated, apparently in the same style as worn by some insipid celebrity at a gala last month.
Covering my legs are stockings and a pair of knee-high white boots with solid soles that clack satisfyingly against the Citadel’s streets. For once, Sander isn’t with me- this meeting is for the commanders only, and he’s already scoped the location out to the fullest extent of his abilities. If anything goes down in the restaurant, I’ll have to handle it myself.
Apparently, according to Grant, wearing a gun at my hip would be ‘gauche,’ so instead I’ve got a small pistol in my handbag. As Niko concluded during his threat assessment, the odds of me having to use it are low, but I’m not going to get caught flat-footed out of a desire for the appearance of propriety.
The Five Rings Restaurant is in the same part of the Citadel as the Stygian, but with a much less austere aesthetic. Its name takes inspiration from a noteworthy work of Earth-era literature, originally written in Japanese. Drawing from Earth culture and lore is a common trend among upscale establishments, because it’s seen as conferring some deeper level of substance and aesthetic than just naming it after the proprietor, or the kind of food served there.
Much like the Stygian, they have a signature multi-course themed meal, in this case patterned after the eponymous rings, which encompass the four classical elements, plus an additional fifth, the void itself. A rather forward-looking choice, as most modern conceptions of ‘the elements’ also include the void, owing to the vacuum of space’s presence in the daily lives of many. However, we won’t be having a five-course meal tonight. Starling probably assessed- and correctly, in my book -that having all four of us in one place for that long might be dangerous.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The building’s design draws clear influence from that of a pagoda, with multiple tiers of progressively narrowing eaves, though with a modern architectural sensibility, and circular rather than square, doubtless to represent the rings, just as there are five stories to the building. It more or less mirrors the white stone of the rest of the Citadel, but mainly seems to be comprised of steel and glass, which would be more at home in a proper city.
Even with the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, the doormen wear mirrored shades, and matching suits for good measure. They’ve even got sheathed swords on their backs, though I’d bet good money their edges are blunted. The Citadel is one of the most well-guarded places in the entire Imperium. They’re not here to protect us, they’re here to help curate an aesthetic. And one I can get behind, considering I wore sunglasses of my own, which I tilt down as I approach them.
“Miss Izanami,” one of them says, nodding to me curtly. “They’re waiting for you on the terrace at level three.”
Waiting for me? That doesn’t make much sense, considering I made sure to arrive a few minutes early… unless Starling had his emissary give me the wrong time on purpose, to ensure I’d be late and embarrass me in front of the others. A power play. One I should have expected.
“Thanks,” I tell the guard, and stride in, trying not to seem like I’m in a hurry. It takes effort to make myself slow down. If I burst in looking harried, it’ll mean that his power play worked. No- I’m going to walk in as casually as ever, bullshit political machinations be damned.
The glass elevator takes me straight up to the third floor, and I step out, keeping one hand firmly on my bag, the other resting in the pocket of my jacket, where I’m toying with a small metal cube, shifting around the different facets on its surface. Just a distraction, something to help me manage my stress levels. Still, best not to let any of the others see it.
All three of them turn to look as I walk out onto the terrace, brushing back a stray strand of hair knocked loose by the breeze. We’re not that high up, but it’s still noticeably windier up here than at ground level.
Hark is the one my eyes settle on at first. It’s not usually the kind of thing I think about, but all my talking with Grant has me considering what thought process went into her wardrobe. She’s wearing a conservative grey cardigan over a bland white blouse. It’s far from childish, but doesn’t exactly scream ‘take me seriously’ either, like I might have expected from a child expecting to be sitting at a table with adults. A safe middle ground, nothing less than what I would expect from the Grim Dragon.
Next is Anton, who does not look especially happy to be here. He’s got on a tailored cobalt-blue silk shirt, which doesn’t seem like the kind of thing he’d have in his wardrobe, and which he certainly doesn’t look very comfortable in. The engineer’s hair is cut quite short, most likely to keep it out of his way while he’s in the workshop, meaning there really isn’t much a stylist could do with it. To compensate, somebody seems to have applied a bit of makeup, accentuating his features, even though the man looks incredibly average. That’s not necessarily a bad thing- average in the Imperium is still good-looking, since virtually nobody chooses to be outright ugly. But still, his entire appearance seems to have been curated purely for functionality, not to stand out in any way. It makes his fashion choices, or more likely the fashion choices that were made for him, all the more incongruous.
Finally, Starling. The striped blazer he’s wearing is primarily orange-brown, unfortunately quite similar to that of the jacket I’m wearing. My guess would be he had the same idea as Grant, which was to wear an article of clothing that alluded to the primary colors of our unit. It just so happens that the gazelle and the ox have a fairly similar color scheme. There are black and white oxen as well, of course, but considering the dress I’m wearing, it wouldn’t have been much better if he’d gone that route instead.
It’s not like this dinner is going to be publicized in any way, though, so a bit of unplanned matching is nothing to worry about. Despite my now near-certainty that he was the one who orchestrated my lateness, I wave to Starling, smile at the group, and take my seat, tucking my sunglasses into my bag before I place it beside me.
“Glad you could make it,” Starling says, charm on in full force. Annoyed at the insinuation, I let a calculated flash of anger show in my eyes, before swiftly returning to my previous false friendliness. He gets the message, and turns his gaze elsewhere. “Now that we’re all here, let me just say that it’s so good to finally meet all of you properly. We waited too long to do this.”
Neither Anton nor Lucia seem inclined to respond. The former probably had to be talked into coming at all by one of his Peregrines, while the latter simply isn’t the type to engage in idle chatter, though I doubt she’d have willingly missed this meeting. That means it falls to me, I suppose.
“Well, it’s been a busy few weeks. I hope everybody’s getting on well with their people so far?”
“Oh yes, quite well,” Starling replies readily. “My Oxen are a wonderful bunch. Quite multi-talented. What about you, Anton?”
“We’re doing fine,” the Peregrine commander replies, in a tone I can only describe as sullen. It calls to mind my younger brother when asked to help with the dishes. To think someone like that would end up commanding a group of Nobles here at the Citadel is almost laughable. Or if it would be, if he wasn’t sitting right here next to me.
“Glad to hear it,” comes the smooth response, not giving the slightest hint of perturbation at Anton’s surly demeanor. “And you, Lucia?”
“I have not experienced any difficulties,” the youngest commander replies coolly, folding her hands together on the table. Despite the height difference, she’s on the same level as the rest of us, which makes me suspect she requested a taller chair beforehand.
“Excellent. Being a commander is a serious responsibility, and while we may be in competition, I’m sure all three of us would be happy to help you if you ever run into any trouble.”
Lucia doesn’t respond besides giving him a single nod of acknowledgement. It’s hard to tell whether Starling is seriously dumb enough to be unerestimating her, or if he’s acting condescending on purpose for some reason. Either way, I’m not going to play along.
“Hey, same goes for you, big guy,” I reply, patting Starling on the back. He’s seated to my left, with Anton to my right, so I’m facing Hark by default. “Military strategy is tough stuff. Don’t be afraid to reach out if you need some advice from any of us.”
Judging by his expression, Starling gets what I’m saying. This isn’t about defending Hark, exactly- she certainly doesn’t need it. But it’s an insult to our collective intelligence to act like that at a meeting like this. If we’re all going to just talk in platitudes and pretend we think the others are stupid, there was no point in coming at all.
Even Anton, who doesn’t exactly seem interested in being a commander, isn’t stupid. He’s just got more intelligence than he has cunning, more creative passion than ambition. It’s not going to do the Peregrines any favors, but I still have no intention of underestimating him.
“That’s a very generous offer, Izanami. I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.”
Maintaining my bland, friendly demeanor, I smile back at him.
“Just call me Iza, everybody else does. Anyway- I ordered on my way up here, so I hope you all haven’t been waiting for me to do that.”
“We ordered before you got here,” Anton supplies. “Somebody told me the yellowtail here is supposed to be good, but I’m not really a fan of sushi, so I got the chicken katsu instead.”
Starling frowns.
“If I’d known you didn’t like sushi, I would have suggested we eat elsewhere. My apologies.”
“It’s fine,” insists Anton, seemingly regretting having spoken up at all. I seriously have to wonder what the Citadel’s administration was thinking, putting him in charge of anybody. My initial speculation was that they were hoping to bring out the Starhammer line’s tactical acumen by forcing one of its Nobles into an unwanted command position, but one glance at his psychological evaluation would have told them he wasn’t suited for that. Maybe they set him up to fail deliberately, in order to control which unit would be given to the Heir to control in our second year, after their inevitable poor performance this year. But what end that would serve, I’m not certain.
Silence falls around the table after that, and even I begin to feel slightly uncomfortable. There’s only so far that Starling’s extroversion can take us, when I’m the only person who’ll willingly engage with him.
Thankfully, drinks arrive a few moments later- soda for Anton, green tea for Hark, and liquor for Starling and I. The politician raises his glass, and I follow suit, followed by the other two, although we’ve got to lower our arms slightly to accommodate Lucia, who betrays the barest hint of annoyance that she couldn’t reach.
It surprises me how much I sympathize with Hark, even though she’s easily the greatest threat to my ambitions at the moment. Being stuck in a child’s body like that, even if she’s not really ‘stuck,’ has to be frustrating. In theory, she could just switch out for a more mature form, but it’s not exactly considered acceptable for a child to do that. For one thing, it makes the age-of-consent situation pretty dicey. Generally speaking, you’re expected to use a body that looks more or less your age, although some people do make a point of defying that convention. But those are people who want to look younger, not older, and it’s typically dismissed as the behavior of someone too juvenile to age with grace. You don’t have to live in a decrepit, gnarled body, of course, but a tasteful bit of gray hair and some laugh lines are expected when you’re in your late eighties.
Lucia’s not really a child in any meaningful sense of the word, that much is obvious just from the look in her eyes. But because of certain social norms and expectations, she’s got to wear a child’s body for years. I hated being a kid badly enough when I was living back on Demeter VII- it’s hard to imagine how miserable I’d have been if I was here on Akademos back then. On the other hand, I wasn’t quite as mature as Hark is back then, so I might not have had the self-awareness to even understand that people were looking down on me.
“So, tell me,” I say to Starling, as the scotch burns its way down my throat, “why’d you call us all together? It can’t have been because you were expecting a great conversation.”
Despite himself, Starling lets out a chuckle.
“There isn’t always some ulterior motive behind every action, Iza. I thought it would be a benefit to all of us if we got to know each other a little better. That’s it.”
As he speaks, I can feel the lens in my right eye going to work, recording every minute movement of the muscles in his face, so as to better create a doctored recording of him, one that will be virtually indistinguishable from the real thing. Starling has already provided me plenty of data, but I’m going to need to get the other two to talk a bit more if I intend to do the same for them.
“Well, it’s going great so far. You think we should play some fun icebreaker games? Would that help?”
From my right side, I hear Anton groan at the prospect. Can’t blame him- those exercises never serve the purpose they’re supposedly meant to. My theory is that they’re more meant as a form of humiliation for the children, to remind them that they have no power over their lives yet.
“Perhaps not,” Starling replies judiciously. “But we might still benefit from a topic for discussion. I don’t share many classes with the three of you, so perhaps something unrelated to our studies here?”
“Like sports?” Anton asks, seeming annoyed by the mere idea. “That’s not really my thing.”
As soon as I hear him draw breath to speak, I’m turning towards him, ready to catch as much as I can with the lens in my eye. It’s supposed to be virtually undetectable without specialized equipment, but a part of me is still slightly nervous about one of them noticing. If they do, I’ll simply claim it’s so that I can review the conversation again later, but I’d rather not have to go through with all that.
“No, I was thinking... our backgrounds. It might provide us some perspective on one another, to know where the others hail from.”
“Sure,” I respond readily. “I’m from a farm-world, Demeter VII. Pretty much the least interesting place in the entire Imperium. Spent my whole life waiting to get out of there.”
Starling nods, expression filled with something between sympathy and pity.
“So I’d heard. It must have been difficult, knowing you were destined for greater things. I was fortunate enough to have been born into a position of relative privilege, on Ocrain.”
There are tens of thousands of inhabited worlds in the Imperium, and Ocrain is one of the few that the average person is likely to know by name. It’s a major cultural center, where some of the most popular and influential music and mems are made. In addition, it’s home to many of the people who star in those mems and perform that music, not just the people who produce it all. There are entire artificial cities built and maintained on the planet purely for the purpose of creating mems, because the technology used to capture it is so high-fidelity that using a soundstage would destroy any sense of immersion for the viewer. Those who can afford to actually live there tend to be wealthy and influential themselves, whether they’re involved in the industry or not.
Of course, there are plenty of people who can’t afford to live there, but want to regardless, who end up working as part of the de facto servant class that makes the extravagant lifestyles of the wealthy and powerful possible. Evidently, Starling was not born to one such family.
“Really?” Anton asks, showing some genuine interest in the conversation for the first time. “You ever meet Melanie 23?”
“Not personally, no. But one of my fathers saw her at an office Christmas party that some of the talent his firm represents was invited to. She was quite charming, to hear him tell it.”
“Cool.”
Another brief silence, as Anton slowly realizes we’re all expecting him to talk next. His face falls, and he takes a sip of his soda to buy himself some time.
“I’m, uh... well, my family’s from Kiyobetsu originally, but they left during the defection. Or, most of them did. One of my mothers stuck around. Apparently she was a Disciple of the Path. None of my other parents even knew. Anyway, that all happened right after they had me, before I even got my body, so I grew up on Maadt.”
Starling gives him a sympathetic look.
“Growing up without one of your parents must have been difficult.”
“It was fine,” Anton shrugs, seeming slightly annoyed at the implication of vulnerability on his part. “Never really knew her. My other parents had, like, five more kids after she was gone too. It’s a good thing I ended up being a Noble, or I might have ended up a theist like her.”
Theism of any kind is prohibited throughout the Imperium. In practice, policing what somebody believes inside of their own head is next to impossible, but operating any kind of church or other formal religious organization is strictly illegal. No school of thought that conflicts with the Imperium’s official ideology is allowed to flourish- particularly not any of the sort that glorify death like the Disciples of the Path do. Having one in your lineage is considered a black mark, the way a genetic predisposition might have been, back when genetics were out of human control.
“Indeed,” Hark says, speaking up for the first time without having been prompted. I don’t turn fast enough to catch much of her speaking, but it’s a good sign that she’s talking at all.
“Yeah. Maadt was kinda the only place we could afford after leaving Kiyobetsu, so it wasn’t great. My parents had a hard time finding jobs at first, and I had to help out with things a lot. Luckily there was a lot of engineering work, so I actually made some decent money.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Starling frowns. “Surely, as refugees, you received some compensation from the Imperium?”
“Some, yeah,” Anton says. “Not very much. Kiyobetsu was a big place. There were a lot of refugees.”
“That, and if everybody gets a big enough payout to live comfortably, it’s less than ideal for the regional economies of wherever they end up moving. Better that some of the refugees end up in a position where they have to accept some manual labor job they wouldn’t have otherwise taken.”
All three of the others turn to look at me as I’m speaking. It’s by no means illegal to say things like that, but Nobles badmouthing the Imperium itself isn’t exactly common. After all, it’s not like we have a choice about whether we’re gonna end up working as a cog in its machinery, so those who have a genuine ideological opposition to its policies don’t tend to make it as far as the Citadel. And even those who do make it here with anti-Imperium views generally know better than to say things like that out loud in public, lest they end up branded as a Meritocracy sympathizer.
“That’s certainly one way of looking at it,” Starling says cautiously. “Hopefully that policy can be reexamined once we graduate.”
Even he has to know that’s not likely- individual Nobles don’t actually have much control over questions of wider policy, except for what falls under the specific purview of their office. And something like determining how much money refugees get to resettle themselves isn’t a single Noble’s decision, but a matter of committee. He probably just wants to change the subject, and I can’t blame him for that.
“Well, what about you, Hark? Any fun stories from growing up?”
The kid doesn’t really look like she has fun stories about anything, but she’s the only one of us who hasn’t spoken yet. And hopefully saying ‘growing up’ as though she isn’t currently doing that won’t come off as condescending- I only realized it might sound like that after the words were halfway out of my mouth.
“Not especially. I only have one parent. He was… understandably upset when I turned out to be a Noble.”
Hearing that makes some things seem clearer about her. Most ordinary people her age don’t act the way she does, and while being of the Grim Dragon’s line doubtlessly has something to do with it, being raised by a single parent who wanted to clone himself and didn’t get to probably didn’t help either. There’s no law against individuals reproducing by themselves, but it’s rather strongly discouraged, and banned past one generation. Fortunately, there aren’t very many people who want to raise themselves as a child alone.
“Why didn’t he just have another kid?” Anton asks, with little awareness of how the question comes off. Fortunately, Hark is too stoic to react in the slightest.
“He’s planning to have one after I graduate. I’ll be supplementing his income with my own, as he wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford another child.”
That must have been an uncomfortable conversation. Hell, raising Lucia has to have been an uncomfortable experience from start to finish. Again, I feel sympathy for her. Her father wanted a child for some very specific reason, and she wasn’t able to fulfill her intended purpose. It can’t have been good for her self-esteem. I’m lucky enough to have had parents that supported me from the moment I told them I wanted to do more with my life than work on a farm. Of course, they’d already had a child who wasn’t a Noble, and had another one after me for good measure. They’ll probably have a few more after Cesar and Byron leave home, too.
“I see,” Starling says. “That must have been difficult.”
Hark’s total refusal to emote seems to be throwing him off a little bit. Some people would only tell a story like this for sympathy, but she doesn’t seem interested in that at all. I can only imagine what family dinners with her father were like.
“I had little cause to complain,” Hark replies neutrally. She holds a hand over her tea, gauging the temperature, then raises the cup to her lips and takes a cautious sip.
Nobody speaks for a little while. Something about talking with these three like this feels off. We’re supposed to be rivals, and here we are chatting about banalities. None of the others quite seem to know what to make of the situation. Even Starling, who arranged all this, is struggling to get anything out of Anton and Hark. Thankfully, our food is quick to arrive, and its presence masks our inability to hold a proper conversation, if only for the moment.
All of us save Anton got sushi of some kind, in my case with a side of sweet potato tempura, recommended to me by Niko. The praises he sang of it turn out to be entirely accurate. For the sake of politeness, I offer them up to the others, and wait only a moment for their polite refusals before practically inhaling the entire plate. After all, I don’t have to worry about my sushi rolls getting cold, but that’s absolutely a concern with the steaming-hot fried potato slices.
Starling and Hark eat their sushi with careful precision, making sure not to let a single grain of rice spill. Anton, on the other hand, tears into his breaded chicken strips with ferocity, uncaring how he looks. If it was a deliberate power-play, I might respect it, but to all appearances he’s simply oblivious to the finer points of etiquette.
“So,” Starling says casually, a few minutes into the meal, “is everybody feeling prepared for the first of the War Games? I’ll confess some nervousness.”
Here it is- the real reason he called this meeting. He’s trying to get a sense of which of us is the biggest threat, exactly as my advisors predicted. But he waited to establish an atmosphere of familiarity with us, so it would come off less like he’s transparently fishing for information. I somehow doubt Hark will be fooled by it, and I’m obviously not, but Anton is a different story. And of course, just because we know he’s looking for information doesn’t mean our responses won’t still give something away.
“I’m not too worried,” I reply airily, before popping a sushi roll into my mouth. It’s not strictly untrue, but I’m still lying in a certain sense, because the idea is to get them to believe my nonchalance here is an act, after observing our staged training session. Putting it so simply makes the whole plan sound a little ridiculous, I’ll admit, but it still seems solid enough to me.
“Should I take offense to that?” Starling asks with a laugh. “I promise you, my Oxen are no pushovers.”
“Oh, no, it’s got nothing to do with you. I only meant that I’m confident in my unit’s abilities.”
“I see. And the two of you?”
Anton shrugs.
“Not stressing too much about it. My guys are mostly good doing their own thing.”
Somehow, I doubt that. More likely Anton just isn’t used to giving anybody orders, so he’s convinced himself that a hands-off approach to leadership is actually ideal, despite any evidence to the contrary. Still, he’s given his answer, and we turn our eyes to Lucia.
“My Komodos stand ready,” Hark says simply, and if I wasn’t looking right at her, I’d swear the words came from the mouth of a general hardened by a hundred years or more of warfare.
Her Founder, the Grim Dragon, and mine, the Tyrant’s Bane, are two of the Nine Titans, the most infamous commanders in the Imperium’s forces during the War of Conquest. The difference is, my Founder was primarily concerned with naval combat, hence his second title of Deceiver Admiral. His campaigns were fought in the void between worlds. And Hark’s founder was mainly focused on ground battles. Taking hold of worlds by force, routing the armies of the warlords. That was how he earned his other title- He Who Walks With Ash In His Wake. A bit wordy, but well-deserved. Fighting against the Beast, the perfect warrior-mind incarnate in countless combat-ready bodies, you have to go scorched-earth. And the Grim Dragon left behind some pretty damn scorched worlds. A few are still half uninhabitable from the destruction he wrought. That, if nothing else, is why I refuse to classify Hark as anything less than the primary threat to my unit’s victory in this year’s War Games.
Anton and Starling seem to have been stunned into silence by her quiet conviction, or perhaps by the fact that it came from someone who looks so unthreatening on the surface. Hopefully that’ll shift some of their focus away from me for the time being. Not that I want to be underestimated, but it’d be preferable to avoid them all ganging up on me right now. If all goes according to plan, that’s bound to happen eventually, but as the saying goes, by then it will be too late to stop me.