Zena's Space Opera/S1E2

"First, you have to recognise that your monarchs started out in playrooms, with play palaces and play subjects and make-believe political situations. Then, you must realise very few actually grow out of that phase of treating politics like play, and people like objects."

- Speeches, Radiant von Ganse And now, dear Muse, I wish to invocate you. Sing to me of strife, of the soul, for what causes made such anger erupt among the nobility, and what history lies hidden below? Sing to me of a thousand spaceships launched, of rage and of glory.

Sing, for this is a tale of epic proportions, one that spans the edges of the galaxy. Sing, and may the stars dance in unison.

“This is politics!” Princess Radiant von Ganse said, “And in the name of politics, we’ve resorted to hiding behind our thrones!”

The moon of Pythia’s kingdom orbited a planet. A much larger planet, yet with a significantly smaller area terraformed.

Radiant von Ganse ruled that planet.

It was with Princess Radiant that Pythia hitched a ride back home from the House of the Canary Prince. The two were in one of the meeting rooms of a private space shuttle bus. Pythia was glad that the room was closed off auditorily, for what the other princess was saying could almost head in the direction of treason.

“Did you drink too much?” Pythia said. “You sometimes say things you don’t mean when you drink too much.”

“I didn’t drink at all.”

“You concern me.”

To which Radiant had sighed, crossed her hands, crossed them again, and looked forlornly out the window of the ship. “Do you ever wonder if what we’re doing -- following those doctrines, those orders from our parents, embracing our system as the model of an enlightened monarchy…”

“Which it is, but continue.”

Do you think, that putting ourselves on such a dias will ultimately lead us spiralling into failure? was what Radiant had wanted to ask, but she didn't. “I don't have anything to continue talking about. Perhaps with the exception of current politics.”

She leaned forward and said one word.

“Oz.”

“That’s a tough issue.”

“Those people need help. I don’t think this is something we can sit on,” Radiant’s voice was a small echo. “The Ozian refugee situation should be addressed, and with haste.”

“I'm sure the United Spacions is working on that. We all know Chancellor Apple White never fails to get what she wants done.”

“But does she want a solution?”

“Oz isn't part of the Spacions,” Pythia said. “I just-- wouldn't be surprised, you know?”

“Hmph,” Radiant slumped.

“Besides, sometimes we get wrapped up in maintaining an image for other planets, that we forget to look after our own, right?” Pythia frowned. “That’s our first and foremost duty. For our citizens. For our people.”

“Pythia, you may speak well, but that doesn’t change the fact that peasants are revolting,” Radiant said.

“You can’t say that,” Pythia frowned. “Workers are an essential part of any economy.”

“No, I mean they are literally revolting. Riots erupting. Rocks thrown. All that jazz.”

“We treat peasants with nothing short of dignity, don't we?”

“You may think- yes, they must love us and our legislations, but if they knew the papers we push in government rooms… if they only knew.”

“If they knew. Please, Princess von Ganse, I'm sure there's no need for panic.”

They had quality codemakers and codebreakers, an arsenal of the greatest processing systems. And most importantly, they had the lack of doubt.

But Radiant was unconvinced. “Our kingdoms operate under the same system. If one party arouses suspicion, then we all will.”

“We’re careful. Who could be more careful than us?”

Those seeking to dismantle us, thought Radiant, but she kept quiet. There could be enemies everywhere. Smiles could conceal daggers, and compliments poison.

“You're one of the better ones, Radiant,” Pythia said.

She shook her head, golden curls slumped around her face. “I hope so. I want to be.”

There was nothing left to say. And what could one say anyway? Radiant felt a pit of guilt in her stomach. She had questioned Pythia, she had probed the Princess Regent with questions that insinuated blame. And while the Regent was probably grieving, too!

Pythia Adalinda’s face was a stony calm, and Radiant couldn’t help but wonder if she was distraught underneath.

“I don’t believe you can handle such a conversation any further,” she said. “Have a good rest of the night, Regent.”

Outside, Radiant found Bathilda. She was her waiting maid, and nobility too, but her presence in the room had not been required nor advocated for.

“Let's go play cards,” said the princess. “I'm sick of everyone.”

“You can’t undermine the Princess Regent. She’s under a lot of stress,” Bathilda said. “Besides, a useful ally.”

“I know, I know,” Radiant shook her head. “Her stress is worrying. Do you know how delicate the political climate is right now? One foul move and–”

Or fowl move, she thought, thinking of her house motif, the goose.

To herself, Radiant sighed. “I worry. Dear Grimm, do I worry.”

Florian Red was cleaning blood off himself.

It was a minor accident - sprinting through the corridors too fast, rounding a corner too hastily, spiking himself on the decor. A minor accident, he insisted. He was fine, it was scarcely a scratch, but dear heavens, how unseeming did red stains look on white shirts and white tiles and the white marble in which the palace was built of.

A minor accident, that made him a minute tardy for his meeting with Princess Philomela.

He was supposed to be the house’s butler, here for them beck and call. Yet he was faltering.

With a brief sigh, Florian thought of the vaccination programs run by the Thalergeld Trust and well of them, too. Punctured skins bothered people rarely now - so well-defended they were from the unknown archaea lurking in the foreign metal alloys used across the solar system.

“Your Highness,” he said, upon entering, and addressed the princess with a bow.

“I’m not your highness yet.”

Florian corrected himself. “The Lady Philomela, it may be imperative to discuss your wedding preparations. If you have time, of course. I don’t want to press.”

She let out a forlorn sign. “Yes. I believe we should.”

But instead of talking of the preparations he said, Florian pointed to the left side of his own cheek, mirroring a spot on Philomela’s smudged with red. “Did you have a mishap with your makeup today?”

The princess looked sharply down at her hands to hide the blush on her pallour.

“You need to be more careful,” Florian said, picking up the porcelain cups and saucers. “The House of Canary is not traditionally permitted to take lovers.”

“It’s only been fifty years. Why not rewrite tradition?”

“Perhaps when you’re Queen. But when you’re merely a princess, you should seriously consider investing in privacy.”

A difficult investment. The world was so much more connected now, you could travel from one side of the galaxy to another in less than a day. On some other planet, bodily autonomy was being sold at extravagant prices. News spread fast: one could watch the incidents in some other solar system play in real time. The large, large world was terrifyingly close, and yet remained incredibly lonely.

Philomela felt a small pit of dread.

People were calling her princess already. She was, of course, to be the princess of this planet, to rule alongside one of her closest friends. It was a position of power and pride.

Why is it, then, that planning her own wedding felt like she was dooming herself?

“No funeral? What do you mean, no funeral?”

Gabriel Fanfarinet held up a file, and pushed it towards Pythia over the table they sat at. “It’s stated right there in his will. And yes, before you ask, I did run the thing through several confirmation and identity markers. It’s legitimate.”

She slumped in her seat. “I wanted something honourable. One of Juniper’s, perhaps. He could send the casket on a spaceship into the nearest sun.”

“Beautiful.”

No matter how often they were done, those sorts of funerals never seemed trite. Although becoming increasingly more common, there was something poetic about returning to what we all once were.

The appeal in it was unquestionable.

All people prefer themselves as stardust.

“He was not a great man, we must understand. Bastion would not have required a grand funeral.”

“But he was my friend!” Pythia said. “You would do this for a friend, wouldn’t you?”

Gabriel Fanfarinet sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your Highness, I understand this is a very stressful time for you.”

She did not respond, so he pressed further.

“Considering… the circumstances around his death, it might simply be best to respect his wishes,” he said. “Perhaps, that's why he did it. We did not respect him in life.”

“I don't want to talk about this,” she said.

“Of course.”

It had not yet been a week.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and bowed his head. “More pressing matters exist, after all.”

She forced a smile. “We did get the watch out of the way. That was a peculiar request. I thought he would be more attached to it.”

“Well, it is a peculiar item.”

With that, Gabriel Fanfarinet smiled - politely and forced.

Pythia Adalinda frowned in response.

Days ago, when Gabriel Fanfarinet had read out and analysed the list, it had been all been peculiar. Hearing none of it felt right. Yet, the will carried that careful meticulousness that had defined the dead man.

It was really true, then, that Bastion Fanfarinet was dead.

If so, why did she seem like the only one in the galaxy giving a care?

Once more, her thoughts were interrupted.

“Well, I suppose I’m off to do the other requirement of my visit,” Gabriel said, leaning over to shake Pythia’s hand. “Pleasure as always, Princess Regent. Now, where might I find that cat of his?”

A hand dealt, a hand lost. Another hand dealt, another hand lost.

Radiant really was great at this.

“Still learning the art of the deal?” Bathilda said, with a smirk, sitting smugly by a pile of plastic winnings.

“You wound me.”

Gabriel was starting to regret his decision of picking up the cat.

Despite long sleeves, despite gloves, Beauvoir managed to claw through to his skin. After several attempts of mixed success, he had finally managed to lock her in her cage. It was a mere Pyrrhic victory: once he did so, he was only exposed to Beauvoir’s persistent mews.

“I don’t quite understand his fondness for you,” the diplomat muttered to the cat. “I wish it wasn’t me alone who had to deal with you.”

Within a couple of minutes of walking to his ship his wish was granted.

A tall purple mess of a boy had bounded over, nearly knocking over a few passerbys in excitement. Gabriel took a nervous step back and held the cage out in front of him defensively.

“She’s so beautiful,” breathed the boy when he finally got close enough to observe Beauvoir. “Poor thing, in that cage, though.”

He offered a hand to shake.

“I’m Hazelwood, by the way. Aisley Hazelwood. I’m part of the Thalergeld Trust.”

“Gabriel Fanfarinet,” Fanfarinet shook the hand. Polite, practised. “This is Beauvoir, my cousin’s cat. I don’t think she likes me all that much.”

“That’s a shame,” Hazelwood said. “I can’t imagine how it would feel to get rejected by a cat.”

“I would say that I’m used to it, but I don’t usually make an effect to surround myself with cats. Unfortunately, some of dead- I mean, dear Bastion’s possessions have been passed onto me. Cat included.”

The young scientist’s face fell a little.

“However, I do believe she has taken quite a liking towards you. If it could ever be a possibility--”

“I would love to adopt her! But–”

“But?”

Aisley sighed. “Dame Thalergeld doesn't allow animal companions other than humans on board.”

“A shame. Her livelihood would be better in your hands rather than mine,” Gabriel gave a pained smile. “However, if you do ever want to take me up on that offer, you can take my card.” He turned around, and offered the barcode present on side of his coat for Aisley to scan and save.

The young scientist took a glance at the digital business card he had been given. Gabriel Fanfarinet, 32. Interplanetary ambassador, suave politician. Aisley hadn’t properly comprehended the name when the man first said it aloud, but on paper, he now recognised it. Anyone who gave even one singular care about politics would have.

“I liked your work on Title MDIII,” he said, and said no more. Gabriel Fanfarinet didn’t need to hear about his family. He probably had more pressing matters to get to. What you did with Title MD, however...

In return, Aisley received a polite smile. “You know kid, about that eye of yours,” Gabriel dug in the bag he brought with him, pulling out a small box. “It was nearing my cousin’s birthday, and, well–”

“Didn't you give him that eye?” Aisley took a step back, a little on edge. He knew the stories. People said it was a small fit of anger, or a reckless accident, or fate’s dictation, but whatever it was – Gabriel had held a knife that was, at the same time, in Bastion Fanfarinet’s right eye.

“Yes- but,” Gabriel shrugged, looking hardly a bit defensive, “we all have our regrets, we came to terms with it, and now he's-”

He coughed.

“Besides, there is no use in wallowing in the past. You must look towards the future.”

“With one eye, there’s a slight difficulty.”

Gabriel laughed, and patted the younger man good-naturedly on the back. “I like your spirit. Anyway, all the best.” In the same gesture, he pushed the box into Aisley’s hands.

“I wish I could take the cat as well,” the scientist mused.

“Your predictability in cards is astounding, your Highness,” Bathilda said, as Radiant lost yet another hand.

“Roll back the sass,” said the Princess, and with a sweep of her arm, shifted the cards from the table onto the floor. They fluttered through the interior atmosphere rather pathetically.

Bathilda frowned.

“I don’t know how you deal with me,” Radiant continued speaking. Her words seemed directed at Bathilda, but yet she appeared to be talking to noone in particular. “You deserve knighthood for that alone.”

Being lady-in-writing was said to be honourable in itself, and Bathilda had never heard of one with an additional title given to them, outside of marriage and family. She could only arch an eyebrow at yet another unrealistic jest from Radiant.

Not that unrealism meant unpredictability, of course.

How she dealt with Radiant was a simple matter. She listened to her words, nodded when necessary, and made the necessary remarks of banter. When Radiant went into a ramble, to zone out was no issue - you could expect to hear the exact same ramble hours later, and absorb the information from it through idle repetition.

In other words,

Predictable.

“Anyone could deal with you. You’re not as overwhelming as you think you are.”

“You’d be surprised. It’s a lonely universe. We’re scoured through the galaxy, yet we’ve still to find any sort of life like us.”

After a sharp intake of breath, she began launching words like missiles.

“Ever since we’ve expanded our reigns in space, everything has enlarged. The size of kingdoms, for one thing. In the past, whole planets would have little regions all with designated rulers, and so on and forth. For a single monarchy now to secure charge of a whole moon--”

“You’re rambling,” Bathila said.

“I know, I know. Look, I’m just highly surprised that no one has tried to assassinate us or overthrow our control.”

“In all fairness, comparatively, you are working with smaller numbers. Planets tend in millions, and galactic systems billions.”

“Still--” Radiant sighed, yet found she had nothing to say.

Instead, she looked out of the shuttle window. It was void - a few scatterings of stars, nothing visible, any debris out there would be infinitesimal, and anything larger would merely be debris.

+1

“What a downright fool,” Dr Valerian said, when Aisley recounted his meeting with Gabriel Fanfarinet and showed the box. “He gave you an eyepatch.”

Aisley blinked, both natural eyelid and the shutter of his cyborg eye dashing open and closed. “Oh.”