Doing the right thing, 5 : The Peacock's Nest.
14 Mar 2022Alysianne
The elevator ride to Van Scyoc Spire’s uppermost levels is surprisingly smooth, if long. I glance out the glass wall to the rapidly retreating ground, and sigh. Stars, what a total vanity to commission a hundred-story-tall skyscraper as the centrepiece of a remote Imperial colony. Clearly, the architect had grand views about a prosperous future for this place, designing the starport with enough capacity to comfortably hold four or five times the number of people living here right now. Whether or not this is founded remains to be seen… Van Scyoc is still a pretty young colony, after all. And that Count Essiar guy isn’t doing too bad in Imperial politics, from what I’ve gathered.Dear stars, when will it end ? This ride feels like it lasts forever… Reining in my impatience, I glance around the cabin. The exterior half of it is sheer glass, while the other half of the wall is made of deep, rich wood of elegant design. The only other occupant apart from me and the impeccably dressed groom standing straight up next to the door, is Paul. Tall, lean, smartly dressed, short dark hair and impeccably groomed beard, relaxed attitude… The spitting image of a confident corporate executive. But more importantly, he’s one of our best lobbyist-diplomats - spends his time jumping from one place to the next to woo governments and monarchs for us. And he’s extremely bloody good at it. In short, the perfect accompanee for this invitation to a silly party by the local noble.
Hmph. I tug at my high collar slightly. I’m already getting hot from this dress I’m wearing, plus it’s been a while since I last studied the intricacies of Imperial court life, and I’m starting to get nervous that I might forget something huge and cause a diplomatic blunder. Why can’t this mess of an Empire be straightforward like what I’m used to: a couple head-on meetings, some nice mountains of paperwork, the good old endless contracts filled with smartly engineered loopholes that can come in handy at any time… That I know, that I can navigate confidently.
But most importantly, why in the world did I let Annila choose such a tight-fitting dress for me? Gah! I know it’s “in vogue” in the higher circles of the entire Bubble, Empire and Federation alike, and so “subtly hints at an openness to set differences aside”, and stuff. I know that it’s a new enough fashion that my wearing it will certainly have its effect, but that the dress’ dark grey tone, with vivid navy blue Ice Shard flowers from Athena tastefully embroidered into it, is sober enough to not rattle the Imperial imaginary of “those drab Fed businessmen” too much. And yes I saw myself in the mirror, it suits me, yes it hints back to my Auran origins as well, yes it’s perfect for the occasion. But still. Super bloody inconvenient. Can’t walk properly, for fuck’s sake.
I try not to fret as the elevator finally starts slowing down. Looking out the window has become quite impressive, with a commanding view of Van Scyoc, and the breathtaking lack of anything of note that surrounds it, panning out spectacularly in all directions.
“I still can’t believe how much effort went into this place…” I mutter under my breath as the perpetually rising sun of this tidally locked planet shines over the landscape.
“Hah. Imperial politics will lead to some pretty outstandingly absurd situations sometimes.” Paul answers, now joining me next to the window and gazing outside as well. He grins suddenly. “Like - there was this one time when Senator Julian something or another commissioned a Cutter for his niece, and…” He drifts off, and after a second his lips turn down. “Ah, it’s too long a story… And it’s beside the point.” He looks over to me. “You ready for this ?”
I purse my lips nervously, but nod and look back outside. “It’s been a while, but I’ll be fine.”
Paul gives a short nod and a smile, before turning back to observe the groom.
Looking through the window once more, I catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the glass. Ah… Gotta be honest, as much as I hate wearing the dress, Annila overdid herself this time. My hair is loosely pulled up into a complex bun I can’t begin to understand, with braided strands of hair interwoven into it. And the earrings she chose - simple Ice Shard flowers hanging on a silver thread - are perfect. All of it clearly states that I represent the Ice Storm, staying subtle-chic in regards to the current state of Imperial fashion, all the while hinting at my Federal allegiance. It’s not for nothing that that girl is the Squadron’s designated tailor for all important occasions, after all. She knows all the latest trends and fashions inside out - and us being so close to the Empire has made this an invaluable skill to navigate its treacherous court life.
Cuz only striking trade deals and contracts and whatnot is good and all, but when you hit the size of a group like Ice Storm, you quickly learn that mastering the political aspect of things is almost as important as the pure economics, in places you want to get a foothold in.
And so, my being invited to Count Essiar of Votama’s latest “reception” at the top of his little realm. For the occasion, I gave Eleni a couple days’ break - a well deserved vacation after a week of ceaseless outings to rip through combat zones. I glance out again, nearly blinded by the sun’s light shining over the landscape. Dear stars above, speak of delusions of grandeur.
With a soft “ding”, the cabin comes to a halt and the doors smoothly slide open. The groom steps out smartly and holds his hand over the slot into which the door retreated, to keep it open, all the while bowing slightly and gesturing across the antechamber to the main room’s double doors with his free hand. I try to nod a thanks to him as me and Paul step out, but his eyes don’t even meet mine before he smoothly steps back into the lift, presses a button and is whisked away to retrieve another guest. Impeccably professional, from beginning to end. Hm. This Count Essiar guy might be a little more than his estate implies - your typical backwater petty noble certainly can’t afford this kind of staff for his little receptions and galas. I make a mental note of this before continuing.
“Lieutenant-Commander Alysianne Solé, and Paul Brayault, of the Ice Storm Squadron!” The herald calls out as the doors open before us. We step through into the thrum of the gala and are quickly enveloped in the soft din of chatting voices, smooth music and clinking glasses all merging together into one.
“Hey, relax. You’ll be fine,” Paul tells me softly, before nodding to a passing invitee with a polite but charming smile. “I’m supposed to be accompanying you, I can guide you but you gotta look in control.” I nod and force my hand to unclench from his arm, letting it rest more naturally. “And don’t forget to smile,” he adds with a wink.
I take a deep breath, and let out the tension of my body. “Alright. Let’s do this.” I grin suddenly. “Between the two of us, they won’t know what hit them.”
A mischievous spark enters Paul’s eyes as he maintains an impeccably pleasant smile. “That’s the spirit.”