Her name was Heather Pt.3
26 Oct 2017Gmanharmon
Part 2It’s 3301. At least, I think it is. Things have been moving so fast after finding out who I was, and what I am destined for.
Heather and I have become closer than ever: physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. Even though we now live together, and know all each other’s secrets, it still feels like the first time whenever I look at her. Those large, warm, hazel eyes; the thick, curly brown locks, with that one bright shock of pink on her right side; her full lips, naturally red without cosmetics; I could go on, but it would take several volumes to recount everything I loved about her.
My father, Armin, was far more than just a simple cattle rancher, it turns out. Apart from being commander of the Ninth Fleet of the Federal Navy, he was also a successful star of stage and screen once upon a time. It was under his tutelage in these intervening years that he taught me acting, ventriloquism, dialects, and how to read body language and speech patterns.
“Theatre is all about reading your audience, my son,” Pop would now tell me. He switched effortlessly to his country drawl. “Jest remember, y’all can fool a lot a’ folk in space if’n ya walk around talkin’ like a corn-pone. Aggies ain’t gonna think twice, ye’re just a good ol’ boy tendin’ to his crops, but high-falutin’ techy-types ain’t gonna take quite a shine to ya.
“The military will be another hurdle,” he continued, transitioning to a flat Federal accent. “Hard men who’ve seen their fair share of war and have the scars to prove it will seem like insurmountable obstacles, but as long as you play your role like you belong, nobody will notice. I’ve been through thousands of Navy clubs without needing a pass, just because I knew how to talk the talk and walk the walk. But a careless slip of the tongue, like speaking in a whiny Imperial voice in a Federal locker room, and you can consider yourself dead.”
“Like this, Father dearest?” I replied, doing my best to inflect a nasally, self-important air on the end syllables of each word.
“Perfect, my son.” He patted me on the shoulder. “You sound like a Capitol native. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks, Paw,” I said in my hick accent.
While Pop taught me how to blend in and disappear into a crowd, the finer points of being a ‘gray man’, Heather’s mother, Athena, was busy teaching us about the galactic political scene at large, and what kind of dogmas and ideologies we would have to overcome if we wanted to realize Utopia.
“A few months ago, Zachary Hudson became the new Federal President,” Athena said to Heather and I, reading from back copies of GalNet, “and Felicia Winters has become Shadow President after Jasmina Halsey lost her vote of no confidence.”
“Shadow President?” Heather replied. “That’s not spooky at all.”
“Is Halsey behind a pair of curtains, or something?” I said jokingly.
“Shadow President is simply the term given to the current leader of the political party opposing the President at the time,” Athena stated matter-of-factly. “The President still selects his cabinet normally.”
“So, Halsey sort of ‘shadows’ Hudson around?”
“Exactly, dear.”
“That’s a lot less spooky, I guess,” Heather agreed, “but still, having your political enemy that close to you, if you’re not in a coalition...”
“Human politics has come a long way,” Athena reminded us. “Once, there was no such thing as a vote of no confidence, and if the President won re-election, the only thing that could unseat him would be a national scandal or nuclear war.
“Although,” she continued, wistfully looking out the window, “you could say we’ve regressed quite a bit. Two superpowers, fighting for land in some far-flung corner of the universe, and for what? To inject genetic material into your face to live longer? To sell yourself into servitude to pay off overdue shopping credit? Why...”
I reached an arm to comfort Athena, but Heather stopped me with a touch to the shoulder. She motioned for us to leave her be, so we did. With out political education apparently finished for the day, we snuck off to our house and decided to expand our horizons in the intimate arts.
A week passes, and we are all called to muster at the town square by the mayor, Mister Miller. As it turns out, the jovial old man in the top hat was the local resistance leader on this little rock Out There we called home. He used to be an Imperial Viscount with a vast plantation on Capitol, but decided enough was enough after he freed his manservant, an Imperial slave named Reginald working off a conviction of graft, with his wages being remanded to the city which his company screwed over after purging toxic waste into their groundwater. Once he bid Reginald farewell, he watched him descend the granite steps of his palatial estate, remove a derringer from his waistcoat, and stick it in his mouth before blowing his brains out. The episode moved Mister Miller so much that he fled Capitol with whatever belongings he could cram into two steamer trunks, the clothes on his back, and nothing else, fleeing to the outer worlds before meeting up with Hermann and Athena Dawson at Quince, where he immediately renounced his Imperial citizenship and enlisted in the resistance.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” my father said, standing at a lectern as he addressed us, “I have news from the bubble.
“Emperor Hengist Duval is dead.” Hushed grunts from the former Imperials wound their way through the crowd, while I nodded, unsure what to think of this information.
“He was an old bastard, wasn’t he?” chimed Garland, another Imperial slaver. “Probably died in his sleep.”
“It was Ingrid,” someone proffered. “She was on a mission to slip some poison in his medication.”
“Duval was assassinated, this much we know,” Armin replied. “It wasn’t Ingrid’s poison; someone stuck a knife in his back at his wedding to Arissa Lavigny.”
“That pompous twat? They were still set up to get hitched?” a nameless ex-Imp piped off. “What’s her claim, except that she is Florence’s daughter?”
“Would you rather her on the throne?” Armin asked, “Or her airheaded brat Aisling?”
“Point taken.”
“As it stands,” my father continued, after the crowd had quieted down, “this stunning turn of events has moved up our timetable. There is a power vacuum in the Empire right now, and it will quickly be filled by several people. It would be a shame to let an opportunity like this go to waste, but we’ve lost all contact with our insiders. Things are going to happen in order, and they will happen fast. I believe it’s time for us to act. Strike while the iron is hot.
“G------? Heather? I believe that you two are finally ready to go out into the field. Come here, my son. You too, Heather.” We slowly approach the lectern, a shiver running down my back as I feel the eyes of the entire town on us. I stand before my father, taking the position of attention as best I can, while Heather takes my side and follows suit.
“G------, I do not ask this lightly. What you are going to do is, at the very least, upset the political apple cart, and possibly reshape humanity’s place in the universe forever.” He places his hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eye. “My son, are you ready to enter human space and assume control of the Empire? To start the motor of Utopia?”
This I hadn’t expected to hear. My breathing labored as I inhaled deeply, standing straighter still. All the tactical and political training I received seemed so distant, with the objective so plainly laid out before me. Become Emperor. Just like that. I cleared my throat.
“I am, Father.”