by Richard Fox
CHAPTER 7
Cosima walked around the gown hung on a floating hanger. The blue fabric shimmered like deep waters of lagoons around the Aina Islands as she circled. Opals and sapphires glittered in the light.
“I’m getting sick of this,” she said to Lana.
“I think you’ll look lovely.” Lana swiped through pictures of Cosima’s head, each with a different hairstyle.
“Wear this, wear that, never wear the same thing twice,” Cosima said. “I grew up in a space suit, for goodness sake. That was practical, it had a purpose. What purpose does this dress serve, other than making me look like a fish?”
Lana’s tone shifted to a mocking whine: “I have too many clothes to wear. Everyone thinks I’m beautiful. Lana, my diamond shoes are too tight!”
“Shut up, Lana! You think these are the kinds of problems I want to have? A week ago I was on a spacewalk, rerouting a power line to a drill head, trying not to bust my radiation count for the day and finish the repair with almost empty air tanks. Those are problems, real problems.”
Cosima flopped down onto her bed and put her face in her hands.
“Now the rest of my life will be nothing but being a clothes horse and fodder for the paparazzi magazines. Oh, maybe I’ll be a baby factory for Francis, who doesn’t seem to be interested in me for anything else but…that.”
“Boo-hoo-hoo,” Lana whined.
“Shut. Up!” Cosima rolled over and pulled a pillow over her head. She lay in her semi-dark cocoon, wondering what high society would do if she showed up to the ball in her dirty, patched space suit.
She heard the doors open and slid the pillow away.
“What now? A shipment of shoes to agonize over?” she asked, her face still buried in her blanket.
“Hello, Cosima,” a familiar voice said.
Cosima sat up in a flash and blinked hard at the two people standing in the doorway. The man, bald headed and clean shaven with an ageless grace to his face, leaned against a cane.
“Daddy!” Cosima leaped from the bed and ran to embrace her father, burying her face into the spun silk of his finery. She recounted the last few days with blazing speed, particular attention paid to how bad the air smelled and how dusty the surface of Sidonia was compared to their life in orbit.
Karl Zollern let his daughter vent, nodding along.
“And now I have to wear that ridiculous dress for tonight. Could you imagine someone in that back home? They’d get laughed out of the nearest airlock.”
“I don’t think you have the boobs for it, really,” another familiar voice said.
Cosima ducked her head to her father’s side, and glared at her older sister. Theresa, her blonde hair done up for contemporary Sidonia fashion and her lips a very deep red, looked tired, but no less stunning than usual.
“And where the hell have you been, Theresa?”
“Deep in lust with the heir to House Welf on his ocean-side villa in the Aina Islands,” Theresa said. “A hurricane shut down the tube lines for a few days. Sorry it took me so long to get here, but now that I’m here I can apply some fashion sense to your wedding. It really isn’t fair that you’re getting married before I am, I should add.”
“And about that, Father,” Cosima said, “why am I the one getting married?”
Karl limped toward a chair, pain dogging his every step.
“Daddy, what happened? Are you hurt?” Cosima said. Guilt and dread welled up inside her as she followed her father. She’d been so wrapped up in herself that she hadn’t bothered to notice that he could barely stand.
Karl almost fell into the chair. His right leg remained straight and stiff as he settled in with a grunt.
“Negotiations on New Chosun grew heated,” Karl said. “Some of the bidders were less than pleased that they’d lost.”
“What happened?” Cosima knelt next to her father’s chair, her hands resting on his forearm.
“Someone had the nerve to shoot me,” he said matter-of-factly.
Cosima gasped and hugged her father around his waist, which elicited a yelp of pain. “Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It’s nothing serious. The doctors patched me back up without any problem. I’ve got all my original parts,” he said with a smile.
“Who? Who tried to kill you? And me!” Cosima said.
“We suspect Aquitaine Interstellar Corporation, maybe Daimler. Both put in substantial bids for the rights to Gaia System; both are known to be sore losers. They lodged formal complaints after we awarded the contract to Chaebol. They insisted their bids were higher.” Karl accepted a glass of water from Lana with a nod of thanks.
“How would they know their bid was higher? I thought all bids were silent when it came to contracts this large,” Cosima said.
“Because Aquitaine and Daimler’s bids were larger than the sum total worth of Chaebol Corp. King Rasczak gave us strict instructions not to accept the bids from those two companies, no matter what they offered. Chaebol’s offer was acceptable, and we came to terms,” Karl said.
“So one, or both, of the largest corporations in known space went after you, and now they’re after me?” Cosima said.
Karl shook his head slightly. “That’s why we had to…accelerate the timetable on the wedding. We thought we could have the treaty signed before the disaffected parties could act. They must have had a team already in place.”
“Wait, why is my wedding the focal point for all this? We have a king, he signs treaties, why does this involve me?” Cosima waved her hands over her face.
“The king is ill, Chaebol knows this. The jump gate and colonization effort are a long-term effort between them and us. They don’t want the deal spoiled because of a succession issue, so they want a long-term partner. They trust me, they trust Francis, and they think if you are married to Francis, then Chaebol Corp. will have more leverage over him through me.” Karl shrank into his seat.
“And why in the hell would they think that? Did they know about the great track record of obedience you have with Theresa?” Cosima looked to the ceiling and groaned.
“I’m right here, you know,” Theresa said, looking at her fingernails.
“Chaebol is of New Chosun,” Karl said. “New Chosun is of old Korea, and in that culture, they can’t imagine a daughter disobeying her husband or her father. Besides, the Articles of Founding forbid the king from abdicating unless he has a married heir. Chaebol won’t sign the treaty until you’re married and you and Francis are king and queen.”
Cosima pointed at Theresa.
“Why not her? She wants to be dirt side. She hasn’t spent her life learning to mine Stahlium like I have. Why me?” Cosima demanded.
Karl looked down at his shoes.
“The king wouldn’t agree to it. It has to be you.”
Cosima’s chin quivered with rage. Her mouth opened to argue, then snapped shut with a click of teeth.
She spun in place and stalked toward the closet. She sent the blue dress flying with a swipe of her hand and locked herself inside.
Karl struggled to his feet, but Theresa’s hand pushed him back into his seat.
“No, Dad, leave this to me,” she said. “I talked her out of that cargo container when she was eleven and you wouldn’t buy her that new scanner she wanted.”
“Just help me up,” he said. He got to his feet like a man much more advanced in age and limped to the closet door. He could hear crying within.
“Cosima, darling, this isn’t fair to you. It’s what’s best for Sidonia and everyone on it. Someday, I hope you’ll understand. I’m going to leave now.”
“Bet you wished you’d had sons, much easier right?” Theresa said.
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
“I didn’t say I was thinking that. If you go to the ball, try and behave yourself for once in your life,” Karl said. He got three steps away, then looked over his shoulder. “No, save the ‘for once in your life
’ for the wedding. If you can manage it twice, I’ll be impressed.”
****
On the surface, plainclothes duty at a ball would be desirable for the King’s Guard: a special clothing allowance, hair and skin adjustments, and the chance to hobnob with high society. In practice, few of the Guard volunteered for the opportunity. The Guardsmen were almost always former soldiers drawn from Sidonia’s lower castes. Few had the social acumen to pass as a noble; fewer still had the desire to rub elbows with the high born.
Remi was one of those few, and he’d been to so many balls, art galas, and associated soirees that most nobles in Sidonia probably thought he really was the head of an import/export firm specializing in carbohydrate paste for maker kitchen units.
His skin was pigmented to match a native of the Mediterranean coast, his hair lengthened and teased with oil to make him look drastically different from the soldier and Guardsman he was at heart.
The royal family hosted translation balls for two purposes, one obvious, the other, less so. Celebrating the safe arrival was an easy surface explanation. Beneath that, gathering all the noble Houses together served to get the wheels of commerce rolling. After every translation ball, meeting halls around the capital were booked solid as nobles traded their newly arrived goods and bought from the king’s auction goods any artist had received.
Lords and ladies in finery that cost more than Remi’s yearly salary stood in small groups, dropping subtle hints about the new cargo that had arrived and discussing the latest gossip. The younger unmarried scions of the Houses took to the dance floor, where a string quartet played from a set list.
Remi scooped up a flute of sparkling wine and took a sip. His stomach was coated with a layer of proteins to stop alcohol from absorbing into his bloodstream. Not for the first time, he wondered if humans would drink wine and spirits just for the taste and not for the inebriation effects. The hangovers, liver damage, and nascent threat of a family history of alcoholism were enough to deter his social drinking. Not so for most everyone else at the ball.
He overheard a knot of conversation bandying about the idea of resorts on the Aina Islands. Sidonia, separated by seven months of hyperspace travel to the nearest jump gate, received little to no tourism. Once the worlds of the Gaia system were settled by billions and billions of people, separated by a mere day or two at sublight speeds to get to and from the gate leading to Sidonia, the wealthy would need someplace to vacation.
Another conversation lamented a shipment of bananas from a hydroponic farm. The containment field had failed during transit, and the ship carrying the load reeked of spoiled fruit and was swarming with fruit flies.
No one was acting suspiciously or speaking ill of the royal family.
“Reginald, you look fit as ever,” a woman with thick, lensless glasses said to him. She was another Guardsman plant at the ball, and what she had really said was. All is well.
“Gina, I owe it all to clean living,” he said, his words as haughty as a well-to-do merchantman’s should be. All is well.
“Have you seen the meatball tray?” VIP en route.
“I think the kitchen is a bit slow tonight.” I’ll cover her entrance.
“Shame, I’ll have to make do with the tartare.” I’ll cover Prince Francis.
Remi remembered her from the assault on Jutland, remembered her placing the charges against the fortress wall and charging through the breach beside him. Now she was indistinguishable from the nobles as an executive from an accounting firm.
He made his way toward the main entrance where the royal announcer, an old veteran Remi knew had a machine leg under his uniform trousers, stood fast at attention. Remi spoke with a weaselly man from the tariff collection bureau and complained about the latest poor outing of Sidonia City’s baseball team.
The announcer breathed deeply and shuffled his feet ever so slightly.
“Princess Cosima of House Zollern,” thundered through the room.
Everyone turned to watch the entrance. Small talk faded away, and the string band rose to their feet. Remi’s spot would allow him to watch the crowd as Cosima entered the room.
Cosima stepped into view, and Remi almost dropped his drink when he saw her. Holographic waves rippled along the sea-blue dress as she walked into the center of the ballroom, head held high and confident. Despite his duty to watch everyone in the room but her, he couldn’t take his eyes away.
He shook his head and scanned the rest of the crowd. Ladies leaned toward their peers and whispered jealous comments, their mouths hidden by a wave of their gloved hands as they spoke. Lords nodded in approval and did their best to hide their gazes lingering on Cosima from their wives and courtesans. Nothing unusual yet…
From the corner of his eye, Remi saw a man scratch at the side of his face and tap at the side of his monocle with a fingertip.
Remi took a sip of his drink and moved toward the man with the monocle. He was new, unfamiliar to Remi. After enough time with the King’s Guard, he had more than a passing familiarity with Sidonia’s movers and shakers, but the man with the monocle was an unknown. It wasn’t unusual for a noble to bring an off-worlder to a ball, but those special guests normally stayed close to their patron. This man stood apart from the cliques and conversation knots.
Prince Francis approached his fiancée and bowed to her. She returned a curtsy. The monocle wearer gave several more taps during the exchange between the two royals. Francis offered his hand to Cosima, and the band struck up a slow-tempo dance song.
More couples moved onto the dance floor, a black and white checkerboard, sharing a dance with the eventual king and queen more of a draw than previous songs.
Remi slowed his pace as he came to the man in the monocle, whose attention was focused solely on the prince and princess. He brushed past him and got a strong whiff of ozone as he bumped the man.
“Pardon me, good sir, so clumsy,” Remi said.
The man with the monocle waved a hand at him, his gaze never wavering from Cosima.
Remi moved to the edge of the room, adrenaline seeping into his bloodstream as he backed away from the newly detected threat. There was only one thing that would release a smell of ozone. He tapped a throat mic hidden beneath his high collar.
“This is Remi, we’ve got a skin caster in the ballroom. Height sixty-five inches, green overcoat, gold trim, suede leather shoes with a white scuff on the rear left heel. Permission to engage.”
****
Cosima raised her arm and twirled beneath Francis’s arm. The galliard dance was basic, taught to every noble child soon after their seventh birthday. Going through the steps was as easy as walking, but thus far Francis had missed his footing and nearly tripped himself up several times during this number.
He was either a poor dancer or half-drunk. Given the smell of his breath and abysmal dancing skills, Cosima wasn’t sure which reason was true or if both were right.
The song ended and the dancers bowed to each other. Francis stumbled a half step as his bow went too low. He did his best to laugh it off.
“Let me introduce you to some very important people,” Francis said. He put a hand on the small of her back and nudged her towards three men wearing immaculately tailored suits, behind each man was a woman wearing high wasted dresses seemingly designed to camouflage any hint of femininity. As they got closer, Cosima squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her.
The three men were identical, down to the part in their hair and the slight crow’s feet around their eyes. The women behind each man were eerie with their perfect porcelain-like faces. Their hands were folded inside voluminous sleeves. The women’s eyes snapped open and took in Cosima and Francis. They shut in unison, and Cosima swore she heard a click.
“Cosima, these are Ambassadors Kim, Park and Lee of the Chaebol Corporation. They’ll liaise with us during the gate construction and help manage traffic through our glorious star system,” Francis said.
Th
e three men bowed to Cosima with such synchronized precision that she questioned if two of the men were just holo projections of the one true ambassador.
“We were most upset at the attack on your person,” said the one on the left.
“We are thankful for your good health and upcoming nuptials,” said the one in the middle.
“Thank you for this invitation,” the third finished. They even sounded exactly the same.
“Yes, I was rather upset too. Can I meet your…wives?” Cosima asked.
The band’s cellist rapped his bow against his instrument, the next song was about to begin. Francis led Cosima back to the dance floor, his hand dangerously low on her back.
“They aren’t wives,” he said to her. “They’re gisaeng, bodyguards.”
“Are they,” Cosima’s voice lowered to a whisper “real? Actual people?”
“I’m not sure. Culture on New Chosun is a little hard to grasp. The entire planet is obsessed with unity, sameness. Kim, Park, and Lee weren’t born looking like triplets, they’ve had plastic surgery since puberty to make sure they’ve all got ‘the look’. Same with the women. Every city on that planet is the same, architecture, restaurants, street layout. It got boring quickly when I was there with your father.”
The band struck up a minuet, a more complicated dance number. Francis placed a hand on her waist, then let it slide too deep for comfort. She yanked his hand back up to her waist and forced herself to smile. This dance would be a long one.
“May I cut in?” a voice with a mechanical whirl asked.
“You most certainly may n—oh, hello, brother,” Francis said, guiding Cosima around so he could look at the intruder.
Prince Vincent wore his military dress uniform: blazing white trousers and jacket with a black sash from shoulder to hip full of ribbons and medals that she didn’t recognize. A blood red stripe ran along the upper edge of the sash.
Vincent held out his robotic hand to Cosima and nodded his head slightly. She looked at the hand’s bare metal and gears where knuckles should have been with unease. The idea of sharing another dance with Francis proved less appealing to her, and she gingerly put her hand atop the metal palm.