Zena's Space Opera/S1E1

"Governmental buildings in our system are often made from titanium and chrome, sturdy opaque alloys, built as if they were a defense for war. Else, they are pure white marble. Decorative, pretty to look at, but otherwise superficial. I had thought these buildings would be better off made from glass - transparent, and easily dismantled if necessary, the same ideals a government should house."

- Quotations, Bastion Fanfarinet.

“I’ve heard of the tragedy, Princess Regent Adalinda.”

Orleans le Nouveau stood tall as a King as he advanced into the meeting room. One step after another, the sound of his boots firm and resolute against the marble floors.

“It’s amazing how you can still hold this conference in, uh, such weather! I’d expected you would call it off. Totally underestimated you.”

“Yes,” the Princess Regent’s voice was poised and calm. She gestured to one of the three empty seats. “Of course. Can’t let the dynasty down with one internal mishap.”

“And did you redecorate your throne room? I love the minimalism! It’s not to my aesthetic, of course, you know how I love everything gold-gilded–,” Orleans’ eyes darted over Pythia’s gesture. The prince simply spun around, taking in the scenery.

Pythia gestured to the seat again. “Please do sit, Prince Regent of the Gold Mines.”

Formality was stiff and uncomfortable. Usually, such meetings were never like this. There were never any proper bows and curtseys, the group would simply dive straight into discussion and business deals and numbers and calculations.

Today was different.

The formal air was choking. Orleans’ darts and turns and small talk were nothing more than an attempt to restore the friendlier atmosphere of the past.

“I’m sorry for the loss, once more,” he said, again, and sat down, at a slanted opposite to Pythia. “There must be better matters to discuss! How are your parents?”

“Still travelling,” replied Pythia. The table handed her handprint, its sleek white alloy surface sliding open, revealing working screens and documents. Above the two, a projected 3D map of the explored galaxy hovered.

The third seat at the table was empty.

“Typical,” Orleans shook his head at it.

They began work anyway.

It was nearly an hour in when doors slid open, and in burst a slightly out-of-breath Prince Auliver Midas.

“You’re late,” said Pythia sharply. “What would your father say?”

At those words, the Prince Midas startled a little. “Harsh, Regent,” he said, but slid into his designated chair.

And so, they ran numbers, reconfigurated trading routes, found some miscalculations, and ran the numbers again.

Pythia, without thinking, handed a book of numbers over to the seat on her right. “Input these figures in, Fanfarinet,” she said, and found herself met with silence.

Oh.

Across the table, Orleans and Auliver seemed suddenly quite enthused by the numbers of the screens in front of them.

She sighed, shook her head, and realised she felt nothing.

“We can end this meeting early, if you require,” cut in Orleans’ voice. “Do you require space?”

“Ever since inter-solar system travel became a thing three centuries ago, all we know is space,” replied Pythia.

“We should end this early,” said Orleans, itching back. The Prince had sensed the tenseness in the other Regent’s voice.

“We can’t,” Pythia said. “We can’t,” she repeated. “We can’t end this early. There’s so much to do. So many plans. We’re standing at the precipice of glory. Either we build a bridge and cross into renown, or we can misstep and fall into oblivion.”

One session does not determine the fate of the alliance, Orleans would have said.

The Princess Regent sat tall. “We are three of the most prosperous trading planets in the known galaxy. The business we run on the table is of utmost importance.”

“Well-spoken,” said Orleans. He clapped politely, but it was empty applause. His eyes darted over to Auliver, who seemed quite disinterested in the speech.

“Yes. So we all must aim to do our mothers, your fathers, and my other mother proud, alright?”

There was an unanimous agreeable murmur around the table.

Taking off his monocle to wipe its surface (too much humidity on this moon, he would have grumbled), Orleans prepared for himself to speak. “One day history will sing of us, I assure this. A prosperous age, they'll say. The Age of Regency, when the the Princess Regent of House Adalinda, and the Prince Regent of the Gold Mines ruled.”

“What about me?” piped up Auliver.

“Oh yeah. You too.”

Pythia buried her face in her hands. “We’re digressing! Besides, I believe warfare entertains the interest of historians more than prosperity, Regent.”

“Yeah, but prosperity tells such touching stories! Of romance and art and–

The Princess Regent shook her head. Orleans was known for his over-romanticism. Though it was a trait of his harshly criticised by the press, it was almost impressive that the young man could keep that idealistic outlook in his cynical kingdom.

To serve and lead– when done well, that was something more than grand parties and economical booms.

… it was not something she was doing well right now.

“Perhaps you're right, Regent. Let's adjourn the meeting if everyone concurs.”

“Yep,” said Auliver.

“Same,” Orleans put his monocle back on.

“That settles in, then. I believe I’ll see you two at that betrothal ceremony tonight?” she said. She had hardly left her seat, and the two were already itching for the door.

“That’s more of my sister’s thing,” Auliver shook his head.

“They are a relatively young planet,” Pythia mused aloud. “The House of the Canary Prince has only been around for- what- half a century?”

“It's courtesy to treat them well!” Orleans said. “Especially you, Prince Midas. After all, you are part of one of the eldest houses!”

To that, Auliver simply shrugged.

“Do you all have your things gathered? One of the guards will lead you two to the door,” Pythia cut in an end to the talk sharply. “I do hope you all have some form of private transport – I’m sure the space shuttle buses are filling up already.”

Hastily - far too hastily - she pushed the two out of the meeting room. The automated doors slid cut with a click. In the vast emptiness of the room, that click echoed hauntingly.

She felt a distinct lack of presence on her right.

The grief had yet to set in.

Certainly, the House of the Canary Prince did not disappoint. The party to celebrate the engagement of Canary Prince the III and Philomela Towerbird was grander than grander.

The Crown Prince and Princess were like perfection. They looked like perfection. They stood like perfection. When they held hands, the gaps in their fingers fitted like perfection.

Fifty years they had reigned, and with such a foundation, no doubt they would reign more.

Everything was dutifully organised, not a single infinitesimal detail out of place. The speech given by the House of Glass Tunnel was rehearsed, but lovingly prepared. Opaline Glass had hardly faltered in her words, and her consort, Obsidian Tunnel, had stood by her side, a sturdy support.

It was perfect - and it was jarring. A far too photogenic scene.

Somewhere in the crowd, Orleans’ own right hand man, Gladiolus, was in some heated discussion with the Gold Mines’ scientific advisor, Turnus Wyllt. A graduate of an institute set under Merlin’s name, Turnus Wyllt was a leading engineer behind the cutting-edge technology used in his king’s planet.

Quinn Löwe-Weiss, heir to one of the moons orbiting Planet of von Ganse, appeared to have joined the conversation. Looking a little more animated than she was inclined to be, it seemed likely that the topic involved robotics of some sort.

Meanwhile, Pythia’s time at the party was less enjoyable.

“It’s a shame he’s not with us anymore, Princess Regent,” people would say. It was a cruel reminder. The wound still seemed fresh; she had not yet come to terms with it.

A shame. That was the word that others always used. They did not mean it, Pythia knew that too well. Her esteemed Secretory had been at the best, silent at parties and at the worst, outright avoidant. Handsome and clever, sure, but Bastion Fanfarinet had been stoic and difficult to like.

She should be grieving. Why was she not grieving?

This was more than the loss of a right hand man. They had been friends since youth.

During the event, far too frequently, without thinking, she had turned to her side, about to say something to her ever-present Secretary, and soon found the space on her right empty.

This would take some getting used to.

Her Prime Minister would organise someone else. Another person would answer her phone calls and write letters and give speeches of introduction. There would be a new right hand man.

Dear Authors above.

Had he been unhappy? Had he been trapped?

She had seen the body only once, wheeled out of the room. His face looked dazed, yet peaceful. Her Secretary had been an uncommonly stiff and formal man, had he not been lying down on the carrier one could have thought him awake. It would be sent to his home planet, for his family to pay his respects.

When the maid found his corpse in the morning, she had screamed and screamed and s–

“Your Highness?”

Her reverie was broken. Thank Grimm for that.

“Yes,” she said, voice barely a whisper, as she turned around.

“Your Highness,” Princess Philomela greeted Pythia with a small, shy bow. “I've… I've heard. I pray it did not trouble you by coming.”

“It's my honour,” said Pythia, but her internal reply was different. It's a duty I must uphold.

Formality, formality. That seemed to be all the House system demanded.

“So, as Princess Regent, what do you do now?” Philomela smiled. A clear attempt at small talk and polite conversation.

“The House of Adalinda manages planets central to major galactic trading routes,” she explained. “We’re quite average for a moon, but we make up for that in manpower. Or womanpower. Peoplepower.”

“People rely on you,” said Philomela.

“We are the industrial power of the galaxy.”

Her Queendom was not civic because it was powerful. It was powerful because it was civic. It was a civic duty to uphold such a responsibility. But in this current state of mind– could she really carry such power?

She decided to change the topic. “Well, you’re engaged now. Are you happy, Philomela?”

Philomela looked down at her hands. “I’m doing what’s right. The House of the Canary Prince must persist, you know.”

“You’ll rule well, I'm sure.”

“It’s… I don’t like to say it, but it’s a bit intimidating, you know?” Philomela’s face seemed almost ghostly. “Your planets all have so much history. And we’re so lacking.”

“Well, the best thing you can do is pathe your own history,” Pythia smiled. “It’s bound to be spectacular!”

“You’re very kind,” Philomela straightened up a little. “Oh, it looks as if the Duchess of York is here. I must greet her. Goodbye, Princess Regent!”

She disappeared, skirts swishing, to greet her new guest. Soon-to-be Princess Philomela’s pale skin blended in the white stone walls -- a common motif of buildings of the planet of Canary.

In other parts of the grand ballroom, reporters and camera people recorded everything they could find - sights, sounds, even smells.

This was not a party. This was not a time to be free of inhibitions, to spend the evening in revelry. This was a time to act dignified, to speak politely, to become every inch the proper monarch.

This was politics.

“The extravagance of royalty and nobility,” Raider Espouse swiped through a multitude of news articles on the screen in front of him. “Almost sickening, isn’t it?”

With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair.

“Do you know the price they spent on champagne? And the contents of the gift bags?” he shook his head. “And, don't forget: it'll be triple grand at the actual wedding!”

A nervous-sounding voice came in from the left. Aisley shook his head. “Isn't that all gossip? Don't we have more serious issues?”

“This is serious! This is what our leaders do with our tax money.”

“Well, as long as they're putting some money into scientific funding, I'm happy,” from her spot, Captain Dame Star Thalergeld smiled.

The astronomer had been close with Queen Opaline and King Obsidian, the current rulers of the joint house of Glass Tunnel, a house close to that of the Canary Prince. A scientist must always question what is truth, but Star saw no need to nitpick the actions of those she called friends.

“I’ll rather not have any discourse about this on my ship. At least, not in earshot,” she added.

“Anyway,” Raider Espouse continued, once Thalergeld had left the room. “I personally think–”

Dame Star Thalergeld herself had hand-picked this crew, this project funded by the House of Glass Tunnel. It was for research, for philanthropy, for all the good she could think of.

It was not the only crew partaking in this project, set up under the name of the Thalergeld Trust, but Star liked to think that it was the finest. (After all, it was hers.)

Skirt sweeping around her, Star ambled the corridors of her ship. A pair of her wished she was at the party -- it was one of the grandest events of the year! -- but another part knew if she didn't get her work done now, she would miss the even grander wedding.

After checking with the engineers, the Dame stood in the main viewing wing of the craft, and waited for it to land safely on the moon of Adalinda.

Here, they would restock the ship and stay for a few days in rest.

With a small, sad sigh, Star opened up the livestream of the betrothal ball on one of the available screens.

(It was hard not to miss her friends)

Philomela swore she underestimated the number of curtseys. The edges of her lips hurt from the grins, and she had no clue how long she could hold the sparkles in and the creases around her eyes.

“The Lady Philomela!” called a strident, energetic voice. It was Sir Ramsey Bartholomew, a knight with no sword and little accolades.

She beamed at them.

“I felt like you once, you know! Joining a house, being part of it- being recognised,” rambled the young man.

Ramsey Bartholomew spoke with no brakes, and Philomela was thankful for that. Carrying the conversation could get tiring.

“Of course! Different situations, but the same concept! Your little… promotion, could I say that? Promotion! Your promotion is far greater than mine!”

Was it really?

Philomela wasn't sure.

She saw how carelessly Sir Bartholomew ran from place to place, she heard how recklessly they spent their funds. She knew of drinking, of gambling, of paramours.

Not that she was much different. But under a knighthood, Ramsey could live such a life. As a princess...

“I think I have yet to address your liege,” she said.

“You'll find him with his advisors!” said Ramsey. Before the knight could say more, a plate of food was carried across the ballroom nearby.

As sudden as they entered, Bartholomew left.

Their advice was terrible. But she found him soon enough, talking about stocks with his advisor, Gladiolus.

She greeted them with a courteous wave.

He smiled back. Polite, practised.

“Your Majesty,” Philomela bowed and addressed the Prince Regent of the Gold Mines.

The smile slipped.

And Philomela knew she had made an error then. Her first proper event for the House of the Canary Prince, and a mistake no less than two hours in. Although she kept her passive demeanour, her gut twisted with guilt.

Thankfully, his advisor stepped in and saved any trouble.

“Your Highness, it might be wise to check on Turnus. He's probably getting into trouble,” Gladiolus said with a calm clarity, and with practised ease, sent the young Prince off.

“I… I duly apologise for what I just said,” Philomela bowed her head.

“Nah, it's alright,” Gladiolus said. “Common mistake. We’re the only house where our monarch uses Prince as opposed to King, Princess to Queen.”

“Oh?”

“They only get that title when they die. So, addressing Orleans as his Majesty--”

“I implied that I wished him…” she couldn't complete the phrase.

“You catch on quick!” Gladiolus grinned. “Not exactly the sort of behaviour you expect from a future ally, but hey, you're new around here. We got to cut you some slack.”

She could only smile, and let the Prince’s advisor carry the convo. Gladiolus spoke -- of the situation with Oz and it's refugees, the vast economic growth since the plague, how much sociopolitical potential would rest in Philomela’s wedding to come.

“Anyway, I talk too much! It's your engagement party, the focus should be on you!” he ended his little ramble. “Where is the Prince of the House himself?”

“I think he's probably playing cards with the gentlemen.”

“Without his fiancée?”

“We do have the rest of our lives to be together.”

He had laughed then, yes, but Philomela could swear she caught the glimmer of a grimace.

When Thalergeld had parked the ship, she had sent Dr Airmid Valerian to check whether everything was up to standard.

Once Dr Valerian had slid out of the hatch and onto the firm earth of the planet, they were greeted by a cheerful voice.

“Ah! I knew Thalergeld’s ship was about to arrive soon,” spoke the owner of that voice, a messenger of the Princess. “I was under orders to deliver a little trinket to the Thalergeld Trust.”

Valerian simply gave a thumbs up in acknowledgement.

“And, is this the famed Doctor?” the messenger said, recognising their face and offering a half-wave, half-salute. “Here, let me help you up. Don't you dare think that I've forgotten the kindness you gave to my family.”

They blinked, smiled and feigned recognition.

There were only one sort of people whose faces they could not recall and who praised them so.

To which, they had only one reply.

“Are they well?”

“A decade since the plague and you still have the courtesy to ask that! But yes! Alive and kicking! Especially the upcoming baby,” the man laughed at his own joke, and grinned up at the physician.

They validated him with a chuckle.

“Anyway, I cannot see Star anywhere, so best to entrust this to you,” he craned his head to check, but the Dame had yet to exit the ship. “The Princess’ Secretary asked this to be donated to the Thalergeld Trust.”

With a smooth motion, he drew a watch.

It was, in a word, beautiful. A Rolex was a relic of a time far-gone. It was an item crafted by artisans, with care beyond comprehension. Through mere clockwork and machinery, a timepiece could be kept. In an age of machinery and digital technology, that was art.

The watch came in no box, so the messenger suggested that the doctor wrap the leather strap around their own wrist. And without question, Airmid did so.

It had been a standard and predictable exchange.

Everything was becoming too standard and predictable now.

“Isn't it a lost craft these days?” asked Aisley, when Airmid showed the crew the watch.

The boy Hazelwood was an expert in chemistry. Like most of the crew, he had graduated in the top percentile of his university. Unlike most, he had been inducted into the crew straight out of school. His eyes shone as he observed the watch.

“A well-kept secret, only found in remote communities. If this breaks, Doctor, we're screwed,” said Espouse.

“It's from Adalinda’s Secretary’s wrist. Practically an item of historical interest by now,” they said. “Here, take a look at it.”

Turning towards the group, piqued by the chatter, was the elderly scientist, Dr Vesper Verdigris.

No one liked to call Verdigris a hitchhiker, but there was no doubt he was one. Out of the blue, he had turned up, claimed himself a scientist, and proved his competence through his knowledge and the help he offered.

(And, of course, a slightly doubtful but impressive resume.)

(In a jesting tone, Raider Espouse had once asked if he was on the run. The “yes” given by Vesper as answer was so deadpan, and so dark, that no one pressed further.)

“Basically useless,” he said. “It’s calibrated to the time of Adalinda’s Kingdom. A travelling scientist would be better off with a watch on le Systeme Galactic Time.”

The Rolex was handed over to Dr Samuel Gulliver. He turned it over. “Did any of you notice the words on the back?” he asked. “Latin: illegitimi non carborundum.”

Franz scoffed. “That’s not even proper Latin.”

“It's Dog Latin,” said Samuel. “The sort of stuff bored undergraduates come up with for fun.”

“Nevertheless, I would have picked something with more punch. Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo. If I cannot move heaven, I'll raise hell.”

“That line is already trite, Faust. Besides, I like illegitimi non carborundum,” Airmid frowned, taking the watch defensively from Dr Gulliver. “Don’t let the bastards grind you down is a classic. Whoever picked that phrase, I applaud their choice.”

Behind the small huddle, the elusive Dr Vesper Verdrigris coughed. “Adversus solem ne loquitor. Do not argue the existence of the sun.”

“Those are all really intense,” young Aisley looked nervous. “I would go for something simple. I don’t know, fortune favours the brave.”

Other than Raider, who had been standing there, quite closed up, being the only person in the room who didn’t know Latin, Dame Star Thalergeld was the one person who had yet to speak.

“What would you have picked, Dame Thalergeld?” asked Samuel.

She gave her answer – sharp and decisive.

“Ad astra per aspera. Through hardships to the stars.”