by Jean Johnson
She handed the kerchief to her son, who carefully refolded it so that a fresh, clean side faced outward. Hana’ka gently lifted the War Crown from her head and passed it to her daughter, who held it carefully sideways, exactly as her mother had proffered it. No doubt there was some significance to that, say if she’d been handed it with the front of the crown on the far side from herself, she could’ve been free to wear it. Jackie didn’t know, yet. She had been busy studying enough protocols and rituals to get through her own side of things; a course in the full rites, rituals, etiquettes, and histories of the Imperial Court still had to wait until all her many other responsibilities and tasks had been handled.
“We have acted in arrogance, believing that if they wish to deal with us, they need to look like us. To be us. We have willfully overlooked ten thousand years of cultural differences. Of history, of actions and beliefs, land and landscape, actions and interactions shaping our cultures in two very distinct, very different directions. Shame lies upon this Empire in forgetting those differences, just because they look almost like us.”
Removing the pins hidden in her hair, she peeled off the loosely braided wig that hid her natural blond-and-burgundy-striped tresses. They had been carefully plaited so that the whole mass could be coiled under the wig without getting too messy or looking too rumpled once it was removed. With the pins reattached to the wig, she handed that to her daughter in exchange for the crown . . . then passed the crown to her son in exchange for the alcohol-soaked cloth.
From the faint frown pinching her daughter’s brow, Jackie guessed that Vi’alla had not expected that maneuver. Yet it was necessary. Hana’ka used the cloth now on her throat and the edges of her face, scrubbing away yet more plasflesh to reveal the natural, dark red stripes that crossed her hairline onto her neck, forehead, and cheeks.
“The key word,” the Eternal Empress stressed, “is almost. They almost look like us. And in our arrogant belief in our own customs and habits, we treat them based on what we see, and not on what they are.”
A last swipe of her brow, and she handed the cloth to her son, who traded it for the crown. His mother did not put it on, however. “What these Terrans are is not open for debate. They are adults. They are honorable. They are mature. They are worthy and deserving of the same respect you would give me.”
From the way both Li’eth and Vi’alla blinked at that statement, Jackie guessed that the Emperor or Empress never considered anyone their equal unless they were an Emperor, Empress, or other top-of-the-food-chain equivalent.
“It was wise of Grand High Ambassador Jackie Maq’en-zi to request that I hide my jungen stripes,” Hana’ka continued. “I have discovered in these last twenty-four hours how diminished that respect became simply because of a change in the color of my skin. How odd is it that we no more object to a Solarican whose fur is one color, nor a K’Katta, nor a Choya.
“We do not look down upon the Tlassians, and we don’t even disparage the Salik for being ‘juveniles’ because their skin does not change with puberty—we despise them for other, far more important reasons,” the Empress stated, lifting the War Crown over her head. “But we do not treat their adults as juveniles. Yet we do mistreat our own species . . . and when we make ourselves look like them, we look down upon ourselves as well as them . . . for I found myself hating how ‘childish’ I looked.”
She hesitated a moment, then brought that crown, with its stylized swords and rubies wrapped in a crimson-padded circlet, down onto her head.
“I did not change, over these last twenty-four hours,” the ruler of V’Dan stated, lowering her arms to her sides. “I still have every bit of the wit and the compassion, the wisdom and the intelligence I had before beginning this experiment. I had all of those things and more all throughout it. I did not change. But your view of me did . . . and I understand now the massive struggle these Terrans face.
“Even when doing something as simple as attempting to buy groceries, they have faced prejudice based on something their own people do not have, have never had, and do not need to have in order to retain every bit of wit, compassion, wisdom, intelligence, technology, power, and sovereignty that they possess, all of it based upon their own culture . . . and all of it still completely valid within our own, once we strip away our spots and our stripes.
“They look upon each other and see the mature, responsible adults that they are. We look upon them . . . and we see nothing but the monochromatic hues of their skin. They should not have to be burdened by our rather shallow and thus childish view of what is and what is not mature. No one in my Empire, citizen or guest, should have to struggle against skin-colored prejudice just to buy food.”
Hana’ka let those contempt-filled words echo through the layers of the hall, amplified and projected subtly by whatever sound system the V’Dan had installed who knows how long ago. Jackie just knew that the Empress’ words left dead silence in her wake, a silence broken only by the faint hum of a dozen or so cameras hovering midair.
“These Terrans among us are adults. Our own citizens turn into legal adults at the age of eighteen years. Their people are legally adults from the moment they turn eighteen . . . and as their years are a near match in length for our own, they shall be considered as legitimate as our own. To that end,” Hana’ka stated, “I am revising Tattooing Compliance Law 112.
“Once a citizen of V’Dan—or any other Human—turns the age of eighteen years, by V’Dan Standard measurement or Terran—they do not need a court certificate granting them the legal right to gain tattoo-based jungen marks . . . or any other tattoos. All those under the age of eighteen years must still obey the law, but those of eighteen and older need only present a valid ident proving their age. They must also still sign the consent form of Tattooing Compliance Law 114, which prevents anyone from being forced to get a tattooed set of jungen marks.
“As has been pointed out to me,” Hana’ka added dryly, “some Terrans may want to tattoo themselves to look like us out of an enthusiasm for meeting and supporting the ways of their long-lost kin. Some of our own citizens, who have suffered for far too long under these prejudices and bigotries against the unmarked—a condition based entirely upon the combination of the strain of jungen virus that infects them and their personal genetics, neither of which is under anyone’s control—may wish not to mark their skin as a sign of their own enthusiasm for meeting and supporting the ways of our own long-lost kin.
“In accordance with, and in correlation to, these changes . . . I am enacting Sovereign Law 834,712. Any being of legal adult age for a given circumstance shall be considered an adult solely upon their legal age and the maturity of their behavior, and not by any prejudice or bigotry against the color of their skin. Any and all laws requiring jungen marks as a basis for legal maturity are hereby modified so that such requirements are no longer necessary. This ruling does not and shall not invalidate any other requirements of those laws.
“I suggest my citizens struggle with learning quickly how to treat everyone well, without regard to their marks or lack thereof . . . or the law courts will find themselves inundated with misdemeanor civil suits against bigoted behavior. I suggest you strive particularly hard to treat our Terran guests and neighbors with far more respect from now on, for they do have the right to buy food without prejudice. They have the right to buy liquor without prejudice. They have the right to buy and wear whatever clothing they prefer without prejudice.
“And they will be treated as our honored allies. Without prejudice. So says the Eternal Throne.” Her hands flicked out to either side, and she and her son and daughter all seated themselves on the huge throne and the two slightly smaller chairs flanking it. Staff members discreetly moved up on either side to accept the dirtied kerchief and the neatly braided wig, while Master of Ceremonies smoothly launched into the next piece of the day’s business, which was some matter the K’Katta Grand High Ambassador needed to have the Empress a
ddress.
(Well. That was interesting,) Jackie mentally whispered to Li’eth. She kept her gaze firmly on his face, striving hard to ignore the creepycreepycreepy view of the K’Katta delegation moving up to the base of the steps leading to the Imperial Tier as they made their formalized request.
(Only interesting?) he asked, his outward expression calm, but his inner one holding the equivalent of an arched eyebrow. Not over her arachnophobia, but over her mild reaction to his mother’s announcements.
(I’m glad she learned what I hoped she would learn. She only covered some of what I hoped she would,) Jackie added, (but I can see why she hasn’t tried to cover all of it all at once. People are going to balk at this anyway . . . and if the way your sister’s aura is still swirling with anger aimed toward us is any indication, it’s going to be a long, hard, uphill climb to get people like her to pay attention. To admit that treating us as equals IS necessary, and to actually do so.)
(Fair enough. You aren’t upset that our business isn’t the first on the docket, are you?) he added, meaning his civilian-side appointment. They both knew it was a mere formality since he was already acting as a cultural liaison as well as a military one, but protocols still had to be observed. Giving him the official title would give him an official level of authority to go with it.
(Nope. I was actually hoping she wouldn’t touch our part of her court business first because while her announcement about markless equality is important enough to be addressed first, the liaison business is not,) Jackie told him. (That means by putting our business in the middle of things, we are not being singled out in any other way nor given any overt favoritism . . . which makes her commands for equality all the more important, not all the less.)
(Mother put it in a similar way while we were waiting for Court to start, if not quite in those exact words,) he agreed. (I’m scheduled to work out right after Court, though it’ll be an abbreviated session. You?)
(The same, though I’ll be able to escape as soon as my piece of business is through,) she told him. They had not had the chance to sleep together last night and hadn’t discussed their business for today in any detail. (Will you be joining us for lunch?)
(I’ll be free to depart with you, actually—if I can borrow a set of exercise clothes from someone, would it be okay if I did my workout in the Terran zone? That’d save time. I can get a quick shower to wash off the sweat in your suite, if you’re willing,) he suggested. (And I’ve already stashed clean uniforms in your suite.)
She smiled up at him. (Of course you can join us. You have the admiration of just about everyone in our embassy, you know.)
He couldn’t smile back openly, but he did give her a warm mental hug. (Thank you.)
JUNE 14, 2287 C.E.
FEVRA 8, 9508 V.D.S.
Li’eth looked up as the door to his mother’s personal parlor opened unexpectedly. This was not the semiformal one that members of the Imperial Family gathered in before going to some group activity, whether that was Court or a meal. Only a handful of highly trusted servants would come and go in this particular room, and right now, none would have entered without permission. The person who entered, however, was not a servant.
“Vi’alla, I don’t know why you are here, but this is not a good time to interrupt,” he stated quietly. His eldest sister ignored him, however. Her gray gaze had fastened upon their mother and the Terran Grand High Ambassador. In specific, on the way they were seated, knees to knees, hands clasped, heads bowed in concentration. Almost like they were praying.
Or rather, exactly like they were about halfway through the language-transfer process, if all went well.
“What is she doing with her?” Vi’alla demanded. She moved forward, frowning “Eternity, whatever this foreigner may be attempting—”
Rising quickly from his seat to one side, Li’eth got in her way. He got in his sister’s way, and sidestepped when she tried to go around him, continuing to block her. “I said, this is not a good time to interrupt, Vi’alla.”
“Interrupt what? That foreigner planting thoughts in our Empress’ head?” Vi’alla snapped. “I know the pose a holy one takes when they communicate mind-to-mind! It was bad enough she has touched the mind of the Imperial Consort, but now our Sovereign?”
She shoved him to the side. Staggering, Li’eth turned and stopped her, reacting with his mind instead of his muscles. Reacting as he had been taught, and not just by instinct. Lifted off her feet unexpectedly, Vi’alla gasped in fright. So did he, albeit softer and out of startlement, not fear. Vi’alla dropped the instant his concentration wavered, stumbling and grunting in pain as she landed awkwardly on her feet.
Quickly firming his will, Li’eth concentrated again, scooping her up off her feet. It was hard—she was half-again as heavy as anything he had practiced with before now—but he managed it. Levitating her slowly back, away from their mother and his mate, he carefully held her still while he took a moment to step between her and them.
I see now why Jackie prefers not moving while concentrating on things like this. Unless she is levitating herself, of course . . . and I’m not that good, yet. Sweat beaded on his brow. He wasn’t perfect at holding her properly vertical, particularly when she struggled. Lifting his hand, he gestured, righting her a little more.
“My instructor in these abilities, Master Sonam Sherap, stressed that it is vital not to interrupt a language transfer in action,” Li’eth told his sister, holding her gaze as firmly as he held her body a handspan off the floor. “Their minds are moving as fast as the swiftest of thoughts. Both of their memory centers, their kinesthetic cortexes, their senses of sight, sound, touch, taste, smell, all of it, is being stimulated at maximum speed. Interrupt them for a second, touch them for a moment, and your mental energies will be like throwing a log in front of a speeding ground car.
“That vehicle may merely bump over the log with a painful jolt, or it could bound into the air and flip, crashing and tumbling, damaging everything inside and out. You will not interfere in what you do not understand,” he asserted, pinning his sister with his gaze as well as his mind. Li’eth ignored the trickle of sweat tickling its way down into his burgundy-striped eyebrow. “This is our mother’s choice. Not yours, sister.
“I pledged our Empress I would defend her from all sources of interference while she endures this language transfer,” he added formally. “And I will protect her even from her own Heir if need be.”
Lifting his left hand, he focused, pouring heat into the air over his palm. It shimmered for a moment, then burst into bright flame more than a broad handspan in height. Carefully setting her on her feet, he released her telekinetically and pointed at the door she had used.
“Leave, and wait to be summoned. Whatever your news is, it can either be handled by you within the bounds of your authority as Heir, it can be handled by the Grand Generals and the Grand Admirals if it is a matter of the war . . . or it can wait for the authority of the Empress to handle it. I will let Her Eternity know that you had news you needed to discuss. When the transference is over.”
Free to move, Vi’alla narrowed her eyes at him. “I shall not forget this insolence, Kah’raman.”
“This is authority, not insolence, Crown Princess. I have been appointed Guardian to the Empress during these hours. My authority to defend her sanctity and her choices outranks your freedoms and rights as Heir,” he countered, giving her a hard, implacable stare. He had to end the projection of fire even as he spoke, but he kept his finger aimed at the door and even jabbed it a little. “Go.”
“You and your little Terran cannot hide forever behind trumped-up protocols. If I find any evidence the two of you are colluding against the Empire—” she threatened.
“There is none. Now, go,” Li’eth ordered. And gave her a telekinetic shove to force her toward the door.
Giving him one last, hard glare, his eldest sister stalked back ou
t of the private parlor attached to their parents’ suite. Only after the panel shut did Li’eth feel free to wipe at the sweat on his face. His hand shook as he did so, and the amount of liquid made him pull out a kerchief to mop it up. A glance at the two women, seated with their hands clasped and their eyes closed, breathing calmly, reminded him that facing down the Imperial Heir was worth it.
Returning to his seat nearby, Li’eth lowered himself into it and contemplated the grim knowledge that his eldest sister did not like the Terrans. She did not like them, she refused to understand them, and when Vi’alla took up the Eternal Crown—may that day be long and far away—she would not make a good ally for the Second Empire because of her arrogant belief in her vast superiority over the Terrans.
That was one conversation with his mother that he was not looking forward to having.
Vi’alla had been selected, trained, and groomed for the position of Heir for decades. Most of the Empire favored her eventual succession to some extent—informal polls placed her above 60 percent. That, he knew, was high enough to have made her a legitimate candidate for being a Terran Counselor, ironically. If she could pass the various tests in Terran sciences, law, and so forth, that was.
No, his eldest sibling was no true friend of the Terrans. Not much of a potential mere ally, either. She might tolerate them, and she had expressed admiration for their communications arrays and their swift-traveling ships, but that was it; Li’eth feared that if she could get her hands on how their technology worked, Imperial Crown Princess Vi’alla would steal their technology without a second thought.
All her eldest brother could do was sit in the provided chair off to one side, wait for his Gestalt partner and his Empress to come out of their transference trance, and pray to the Saints that his mother would live a very, very long time. Long enough for one of Vi’alla’s children to grow old enough and wise enough to be appointed Heir instead.