Princess of the Empire (JNC Edition)
Page 10
“Yes, that’s very much a matter of course.”
“Which would mean that I don’t have any social status. Am I wrong?”
“As far as the relationships between people who belong to different organizations go, it’s the darmsath bhoflir (DARMSAHTH VOHFLEER, imperial hierarchy) that means everything,” Lexshue explained. “I am a captain, and thanks to that, I have been conferred the peerage of raloch (RAHLOHSH, knight first-class). It’s a fairly high social standing for gentry, but it’s nowhere near yours, ïarlucec Dreur.”
“Doesn’t that get confusing?”
“What would be confusing?”
“If someone’s social standing is higher than their superior officer’s, doesn’t it get difficult to give them orders?”
The Hecto-commander laughed a light little laugh. “This is when it’s between people who belong to different organizations, remember? Within the military itself, this is all that matters.” She pointed to the insignia on her upper right arm — exactly like Lafier had. It might well have been a gesture shared by all starpilots of the Star Forces. “If you are assigned to a starpilot quartermaster post under us, Lonh, rest assured that we will work you to the ground. You are kindly advised not to expect this kind of cordial treatment when that happens.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard...” But Jinto still wasn’t fully convinced. “What if you can’t stop thinking about my standing outside of the military, though?”
“Hmmm...” Lexshue spoke even as she considered the question. “In the past, that may have been a problem. However, our class system and military have become more and more refined over time. These days, that sort of thing just doesn’t come up. People who can’t make a clear distinction between their time in the Star Forces and their time in civilian society will be considered disqualified to participate in polite society no matter their rank.”
“Sounds complex,” sighed Jinto.
“Does it? I’ve been living in this society since I was born, so to me it just seems in the nature of things.”
“Maybe it’s something like seniority by age...?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ahh.” Jinto launched into an explanation.
While not so much on Martinh, on Delktu, the ideal of honoring one’s elders was very much emphasized. The older an elder got, the more they were respected. That being said, even on Delktu it wasn’t too uncommon for some to have a younger boss. Within a given organization, it wasn’t age that was respected, but rather rank. But when two people were extracted from within that organization, that relationship could flip right around. It appeared that amongst the Abh, who didn’t have readily apparent age differences, perhaps the concept of “seniority by age” was a confounding one.
“Maybe it is similar,” said Lexshue in tentative agreement. “We aren’t very conscious of people’s ages at all.”
“Wait, hold on...” Jinto’s opinions suddenly came spilling out. “Elder people usually have a wealth of life experience, so it makes sense to honor their wisdom. But how does being born to a higher-ranked household make someone an inherently worthier person?”
He was very aware that he was essentially criticizing a matter at the core of the whole Empire, but he felt totally at ease. He was himself a noble, after all. There was no need to hold back when it was his own standing he was doubting the worth of. Even so, he was expecting the captain would be shaken by his question.
Yet Lexshue’s expression didn’t change at all. It seemed an utterly impossible undertaking to stab at the heart of an Abh.
“Hmm, yes...” The captain pondered. “A noble is the progeny of an outstanding figure. An inheritor of the family traditions that that outstanding figure built up. As such, we tend to expect they will also excel in some way or another. I think that’s why there’s value in paying them our respect.”
“Really?” Jinto was skeptical. “But just because someone is raised by a person of high-caliber doesn’t mean they’ll excel—”
“Not always, no,” Lexshue granted the point without issue. “You are quite right — just because someone achieves a great accomplishment doesn’t mean they’ll be an equally excellent educator. There are a number of examples of heroes’ children being useless disappointments. However, speaking in generalities, the descendant of a person of high caliber will usually have some quality worthy of respect.”
“Huh.” Jinto nodded, but noncommittally. At the back of his mind, he was thinking about his own circumstances. Even if he granted, for the sake of argument, that his father was a “man of high caliber,” Jinto had not really been raised by him.
“Besides,” continued Lexshue, “One’s ‘elders’ are not necessarily worthy of respect, either.”
“That is true.” Jinto imagined someone who’d grown old without ever learning a thing.
“We have a solid basis for our social order, and it more than encompasses something as rudimentary as respect for elders. That is what I think, anyway. Was that helpful to you?”
“Yes. By all means.” It was certainly informative, that much was beyond dispute. He still had his misgivings, though, and didn’t swallow all of what he’d been told.
“Now then, let me guide you to your room. Calling the apprentice who escorted Lonh from the spaceport,” she said, holding her wrist computer to her face.
“Ah, her...” She was of course speaking of Lafier. “She’s a noble, too, right?”
Lexshue opened her eyes wide in surprise. “No.”
“Really? That’s odd. I mean, her bearing was really different from yours, Captain.”
“You mean to tell me you don’t know who she is!?” Her right eyebrow, as dark bluish-grey as the rest of her hair, rose accusingly.
“No. I, uhh...” He had a bad feeling about where this was going — bad enough to feel like the back of his brain was burning to a crisp. “Was it wrong of me to not know?”
“No — I think it’s probably understandable, given your eccentric upbringing.” The captain grinned, and turned on the audio receiver of her wrist computer. “Apprentice Starpilot Ablïar, report to the bridge immediately.”
“‘Ablïar’!?” It was the same name as the Glaharérh (GLAHHARERR, Commander-in-Chief) of the armada. She was a member of a royal family, and her surname was that of the Imperial Household. “Which ‘Ablïar’ family?”
“She’s a member of the Lartïéc Crybr (LARTEE’EH KRYOOB, royal family of Cryb).”
“Then that means...”
“Yes.” An impish smile graced her lovely countenance. “Apprentice Starpilot Ablïar is the granddaughter of Speunaigh Érumitta (SPYEUNEZH EHRUMEETA, Her Majesty the Empress).”
Chapter 5: The Lartnéc Frybarar (LARTNEH FRYOOBARAR, Imperial Princess)
The Empire put a certain amount of trust in the loyalty of the nobility and gentry, as well as in the family ties between Abhs. But not too much trust — they did not have any illusions.
It was incumbent upon the Empress, who stood at the nucleus of the Empire’s consolidation of power, to understand that it was the Empire’s military power that safeguarded that consolidation. That was the Empire’s founding principle.
As such, the occupier of the Scaimsorragh (SKEMSORAHZH, the Emperorship) had to have military experience, and, if possible, was to be a superlative military leader.
On the other hand, automatically making anyone who had taken hold of military authority the Emperor would inevitably lead to dizzying internal strife and power struggles. It would lead quickly to the collapse of the Empire.
Cilugragh (KEELOOGRAHZH, succession of the throne) in the Humankind Empire of Abh was hereditary, but they adopted a system that took into account the innate qualities of each of a number of possible successors.
The royalty comprised eight separate royal families. They were all the descendants of the siblings and children of the Scurlaiteriac (SKOORLETEHREEA, Founding Emperor), Ablïar Dunei, and they all shared the fizz (FEEZ, family name) “Ablïar.”
The families with that cognomen were:
Lartïéc-Scïrh néïc-Lamrar (SKEERR NAY-LAHMRAR) — the royal family of Scirh;
Lartïéc-Ilicr néïc-Dusil (EELEEK NAY-DOOSEEL) — the royal family of Ilich (EELEESH);
Lartïéc-Lasiser néïc-Lamlyar (LAHSEESEHR NAY-LAMLYAR) — the royal family of Lasisec (LAHSEES);
Lartïéc-Üescor néïc-Duell (WESKOR NAY-DOOEL) — the royal family of Üesco;
Lartïéc-Barcœr néïc-Lamsar (BARKEHR NAY-LAHMSAR) — the royal family of Barce (BARKEH);
Lartïéc-Balgzeder néïc-Dubzel (BAHLGZEDEHR NEI DOOBZEL) — the royal family of Balgzédé;
Lartïéc-Syrgzœdér néïc-Duasecec (SYURGZEUDEHR NEI DOOASEK) — the royal family of Syrgœedéc; and
Lartïéc-Crybr néïc-Dublescec (KRYIB NEI-DOOBLESK) — the Cryb Kingdom.
These were the ga-lartïéc — the eight royal families.
Those born to these families bore the duty to take on slymecoth (SLYIMKOHTH, military service). They couldn’t get by enlisting in departments with more behind-the-scenes work like the Quartermasters’ or Gaïritec (GAEEREET, Army Medical) Departments. They had to enlist as starpilots in the Garér (GAHREHR, Flight Department).
With regard with to military service, imperials had only one special right, and it had to do with their enrollment in the Bhosecrac (VOHSKRA, Military Academy). According to Star Forces regulations, it took at least four and a half years to advance to a military college, but an exception was made for imperials. They were automatically enrolled after two and a half years, without regard to their competence level.
Thus appointed as a faictodaïc (FEKTOHDAEE, linewing starpilot), they would then ascend to the rank of rinhairh (REENYEHRR, rearguard starpilot) in a year’s time, after which they would become a vanguard starpilot in a year and a half. Following that, they would enroll in the most difficult to enter of the all the military academies, the Dunei Star Forces Academy (Bhosecrac Duner).
Upon completion of half a year’s education, they took on the rénh (RENYUH, court rank) of Deca-commander, with the ptorahedesomh (PTORA’HEHDEHSOHF, commander’s insignia) to go with it.
This was the “special right” of the Imperial Household, but looking at it from another angle, they were being asked to shoulder responsibilities beyond their experience and ability, and they had no automatic right to a rank above Deca-commander. The rate of promotion after reaching that level was more or less the same as other military academy graduates’. Moreover, if they failed in a mission, they had to face punishment or dismissal with no more mercy than gentry or nobility could expect.
They climbed their way through the ranks of the Flight Department as linewing starpilots, and once they finally reached the rank of Rüé-spenec (ROOEH-SPEHN, Imperial Admiral), they received special imperial appointment to the rank of Glaharérr Rüé-byrer (Imperial Fleet Commander-in-Chief). In peacetime, it was a title that didn’t hold command over a single soldier apart from a handful of headquarters personnel, but it was once a prominent post that the Emperor customarily held onto, and succeeding to it meant becoming next in line for the throne, or the Cilugiac (KEEROOGEEA, Crown Prince[ss])
When the new Imperial Fleet Commander-in-Chief was decided, it was standard practice for members of the imperial family either older than them or less than 20 years younger than them to ask to be transferred to reserve duty. Even before that point, many imperial family members who had given up on becoming Emperor proceeded to leave the military, and then either succeeded to a lartragh (LARTRAHZH, king/queenship) or else simply lived as an imperial with a noble rank for a single generation.
Each generation of imperial-family descendants possessed a sapainec (SAHPEHN, surname-title), “Baus (BOHS),” that indicated they had inherited the family traditions of the Imperial Household. Yet their social standing was that of a noble. When one became a noble, they could no longer retain the surname “Ablïar.”
The Imperial Fleet Commander-in-Chief almost always ended up waiting for the appearance of a new Imperial Admiral as the next imperial in line to the throne. He or she acceded to the imperial throne when someone who could take over his or her own position emerged. At that juncture, the Emperor or Empress would suddenly abdicate.
For the long-lived Abh, it was not rare for a former Emperor to enjoy 100 more years after stepping down from the scaimsorh (SKEMSOHRR, throne). But the Empire did not allow them to rest on their laurels. Former Emperors were automatically appointed to the Luzœc Fanigalacr (LOOZEH FAHNEEGAHLAHK, Council of Abdicant Emperors), while larth (kings/queens) were chosen for it by mutual election, thereby receiving the honorary title of nisoth (NEESOHTH, “Their Eminence”).
It was this Council of Abdicant Emperors that was responsible for the promotion and inquiry of starpilots that were imperials. It was said those hearings were tougher than the ones military organizations conducted for ordinary starpilots. The descendants of the eight royal families were forced to get past those hearings, as they were given 40 years to compete over the scaimsorh rœnr (SKEMSOHRR REN, jade throne).
While he waited for the Apprentice Starpilot to appear, Jinto used his compuwatch to run a search of rüé-lalasac (ROOEH-LAHLAHSAH, imperials of distinguishment), and discovered that Ablïar Néïc-Dubreuscr, Bœrh Parhynr (BEHRR PARRHYUHN, Viscountess of Parhynh) was the lartnéc casna (LARTNEH KAHSNAH, first princess).
Walking a step behind her, Jinto felt truly restless. The confusion that had dogged him for six years had reached a crescendo.
Previously, it had been more like an insect that buzzed annoyingly around him. Jinto had had ample chance to grow accustomed to it, and sometimes he even felt fine with it, appreciated it. However, it was as though he’d caught wind somewhere that the insect was furnished with a stinger, and boy had it begun to sting.
He had, of course, expected to bump into an imperial at some point. He himself was technically a noble, and he figured it was great that that qualified him to gain the favor of imperials. He’d assumed his first encounter with them would be at some social gathering like a ball or a dinner party. And he’d assumed they’d properly introduce themselves as such.
What had transpired instead was a veritable sneak attack.
His supposed conviction that all people are born equal was apparently shakier than he thought, given that it flew out the window the second he found himself near someone who was so close, by blood, to the ruler of an Empire that presided over 900 billion bisarh (BEESARR, subjects). His past and future aside, Jinto, at that moment, was an Abh noble, totally immersed in the Empire’s class system.
When he recalled how the Captain had taken a polite attitude with him, the legitimate heir of an upstart noble, his fears that his behavior in the docking vessel had been glib only worsened.
How was he going to smooth things over? Jinto stared wildly around.
Contrary to Jinto’s expectations, the warship’s interior wasn’t no-frills impersonal; there were paintings along the hallway walls of the patrol ship. Not only that, but they were full of windblown grassy fields, and skies of drifting white clouds. He thought they might have given him at least some peace of mind, but they had absolutely no effect.
“What’s the matter, Jinto?” Lafier’s face appeared beside the hovering fluff of painterly dandelions. “You haven’t said a word. And why are you walking behind me?”
“Fïac Rüé-nér (FEEA ROOEH-NEHR, Your Highness the Imperial Princess), I...,” Jinto began, with utmost deference.
Instantly, Lafier stopped in her tracks and turned around. The look she shot him gave him goosebumps.
She had shot him glares during their time on the docking vessel, too. However, now he could see they’d been half in jest, like a dog play-biting.
This is the face she pulls when she’s really pissed...
Her face, beautifully constructed, was tinged with unmistakable anger, black fire blazing in her ebony eyes. But, belying that fire, the words that escaped her lips were as bitter-cold as the vacuum of space.
“Forgive me, Fïac Lartnér.” He bowed his head with all cordiality, but on the inside Jinto stewed: Did she really have to get so angry over something as silly as getting her title wrong?
Lafier turned away in a huff and started stomping off from him. Jinto chased after her in a panic.
Lafier had more to say. “If you insist on fixating so much on my relation to Her Majesty, I am a Rüé-baugenér (ROOEH-BOHGNEHR, granddaughter of the Empress), but that’s not an official title, and I seldom use it anyway. In fact, I myself was shocked when I discovered that I was the granddaughter of an Empress. And most importantly, ‘Fïac Rüé-baugenér’ just sounds weird! ‘Granddaughter of the Empress’?”
“Sure, I can see tha — er, I mean, certainly, Fïac,” Jinto concurred diffidently.
“When I was born, I inherited the fief and title of Viscountess of Parhynh from Her Majesty the Empress through my father, who is my legal guardian. That’s why I’m sometimes called ‘Fïac Bœrh Parhynr.’ Though here, for whatever reason, people usually refer to me as ‘Apprentice Starpilot Ablïar,’” Lafier rattled on.
Unable to butt in, Jinto could only keep on walking in blank amazement.
“I thought I told you — you will call me ‘Lafier’!”
Jinto could be bone-headed at times, but even he now grasped the real reason Lafier was so upset. He changed his tone on a dime. “Okay, got it, my bad. You’re ‘Lafier’ to your friends, then.”
“Not even to my friends.” Lafier’s tone was as curt as ever. “The only ones who address me without my title are my father, Larth Crybr Fïac Dubeusec, my grandmother, Her Majesty the Empress, my aunt, Countess Gemfaz Fïac Lamryunar of the Countdom of Lamryun. Them, and the fanigac (FAHNEEGAH, retired emperors) that I’m directly descended from. That’s about it. My friends call me either Fïac Lartnér or just Fïac, while my relatives all seem to have taken to calling me Fïac Lafier.”