Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  Fortunately, we’re one big family, and there’s strength in numbers. And the good thing is, Dad is definitely feeling better this morning. The gravity still sucks, but at least he is breathing okay.

  Two hours before the scheduled event, servants arrive to assist my father and George with their dressing and grooming, despite their minor protests. “Don’t fight it, Dad and Gee One,” I say with an amused smile. “Trust me, it’s best if they show you how to put on the semi-formal clothes the first time around, with all the oddball buttons and ties. Plus, they’ll give you all the fancy spa facials and shaves and nail buffing and whatever else. . . .”

  “Nail buffing? Are you serious?” George cranes his neck sideways and gives me his most sarcastic expression that covers genuine, low-grade alarm.

  “Well, they are very detail oriented,” I say, biting my lip to hold back wicked laughter. “So I’m not ruling out anything. Though, you probably should ask Aeson about what exactly they’ll be doing to him.”

  And then I add, this time for Dad’s sake, “Just think of it as immersive cultural education. You’re getting a rare inside look into the most fashionable, trendy, and cool—” this part is for George— “personal grooming customs of an alien society of truly epic ancient origins.”

  If that doesn’t convince them, I think with an inner smile, nothing will.

  Meanwhile, the rest of us start getting ready too. Luckily for all, the attire is only one rung above festive casual, and the proper term for it is “Imperial casual.”

  For this Imperial dea meal I wear a layered dress of golden fabric, with a form-fitting metallic sheath layer underneath and a lightly cascading gauze outer layer that falls in delicate clouds around me with every movement. The dress is demure, long-sleeved, with a high collar. I really don’t need any accessories to set off all that glittering metal fabric. However, the Imperatris sends me a box of stunning jewelry on loan to wear for the occasion—a necklace and matching earrings set with the rare Pegasus Blood stones of ancient fossilized resin of the Agnios tree. Pegasus Blood occurs in several dark colors, but these particular stones are of a deep shade of red, evocative of their name.

  Aranit styles my hair into a simple up-do, and sprinkles it with gold dust—which for once makes perfect sense, and will match my outfit.

  When done, I appear both distinctive and yet nobly restrained—the perfect proud picture for an Imperial Bride.

  Next, I carefully look over my sister who has put on a deep plum dress with a light over-layer, and small sparkly crystal earrings. Gracie’s hair is in a stern bun similar to what she often does with her hair as part of the Fleet uniform. The expression on her face is rigid, and it’s clear that poor Gracie is breathless with nerves.

  Both of us are wearing basic Face Paints—to use Consul Denu’s proper term for cosmetics—but we have eschewed evening drama in favor of soft natural tones. Even our kohl eyeliner is at a minimum, and our lips are delicately tinted with rose noohd.

  The Lark men meet us outside my room, dressed as I’ve never seen them before.

  My Dad and brothers are wearing dark jackets and pants of expensive fabric, fine linen-like shirts, elegant jeweled collars, and classy shoes. Dad’s ensemble is clean and stark—a black jacket with grey pants and a white shirt. Gordie wears shades of olive green, while George is wearing earth tones. Remarkably, all these different shades serve equally well to offset the Lark family blue eyes.

  To top off their new sharp look, both my brothers and my Dad are freshly shaven and their hair is immaculately styled. So strange to see my father’s usual messy greying cowlicks missing, and instead everything is in graceful order.

  George’s hair is slicked back, and Gordie’s short hair has been washed—yes, for Gordie it’s an achievement. His glasses are spotless—and so are my Dad’s, for that matter.

  “Oh, look at you! You all look amazing!” Gracie says with a smile. “And doesn’t Dad look absolutely great?”

  “He sure does,” I say with pride. “How are you feeling, by the way?”

  “Doing very well,” Dad says with a small sigh. “I understand the importance of this event, and of proper first impressions, but are you certain all of this is not a bit too much? I’ve no doubt this is a very expensive suit. . . . It feels quite formal.”

  “Daddy, you have no idea how formal the Imperial events can get—this is nothing!” Gracie exclaims. She’s not helping.

  “It is very appropriate.” I try to reassure. “Not too much, just right.”

  “Very well,” my father says with mild resignation. And then he smiles and gazes at Gracie and me with loving wonder. “On the other hand, regardless of how we might look and feel, it’s safe to say my daughters are beautiful young ladies. Dressed for a ball, indeed.”

  “Oh, Daddy. . . .” Gracie smiles.

  “Ladies,” George says with a charming smile, and nods at us.

  “Yeah, looking good.” Gordie echoes him in a mumble.

  “Are we ready to go?” I say with a show of confidence. “Then let’s do it!”

  We meet up with Aeson just before the exterior doors of our Quarters. Aeson looks impeccable in his own dark blue jacket, black pants, and an exquisite golden shirt trimmed with a collar of very fine metallic lace so it looks like an etching on metal. His naturally golden hair falls unrestrained down his back.

  Seeing us all so well-dressed, Aeson pauses and gives us a slow nod and a controlled smile of approval. “Thank you for this. You do us honor with your presentation,” he says, casting a glance at everyone. “Under ideal circumstances My Imperial Father might find no fault with such a handsome Family. And yet, these are imperfect times. So, I ask you to be ready for his . . . volatile character.”

  Members of my family listen to Aeson with varying degrees of concern.

  “At the same time, please remember that you have the wholehearted support of the rest of Kassiopei,” he concludes with kind softness. “It will likely not come to anything. But if it does, I promise to intercede on your behalf in whatever manner might be necessary.”

  My father raises his brows and exhales slowly. “I see. . . . And I appreciate your reassurance, Aeson. Please lead on.”

  We exit the Crown Prince’s Quarters as a group, and our security guards line up around us—which surprises Dad and George, but we give them reassuring glances.

  “This is normal, Daddy,” Gracie whispers near his ear, as we walk to the elevator. “Just ignore them.”

  I hold back a smile and exchange a look with Aeson, as we move ahead of the others, setting the pace.

  We emerge from the elevator on the top floor, the Imperial floor lobby with its gleaming marble and high ceilings, and Dad glances up with fascination. I’m glad the architecture is there to distract him, because next we face the row of imposing, uniformed Imperial guards with gilded staffs.

  They part before us, while our own security guards fall back, and Aeson leads the way through the grand doors into the antechamber.

  While we stand for a few moments, waiting for the high servant, Dad and George stare curiously at the wall with the row of Thrones—those imposing Imperial Seats in the receiving area. Gracie and Gordie stare likewise, never having been here before.

  “Beautiful craftsmanship,” Dad says softly. “Stark, clean lines . . . echoes of Egypt’s early New Kingdom . . . Eighteenth Dynasty. . . .”

  “Dad, sh-h-h-h,” Gracie whispers with widened eyes.

  The high servant arrives, and executes a courtly bow before Aeson and the rest of us. “Our Imperial Sovereign, the Archaeon Imperator, the Sovereign Lady, the Archaeona Imperatris, and the Imperial Princess, are ready to receive My Imperial Lord, his Bride, and her Family for dea meal in the Carnelian Chamber,” he intones. Then he bows a second time and leads us pompously to one of the many doors of the Quarters.

  We walk through an ornately adorned corridor, taking several turns past other doors and rooms, and enter a large, high-ceilinged chamber decorated in
warm hues of carnelian red—a shade of red that’s light and cheerful as opposed to dark and imposing. Windows with sheer curtains cast mercifully filtered daylight over the chiseled stone of the walls and illuminate elegant but comfortable furnishings. There are several chairs, a long sofa, and a rectangular table for twelve, situated as a centerpiece.

  So, the intimidation levels are at a minimum, it occurs to me as I take in the room. But the thought lasts only a moment.

  The Imperator, dressed in a dark gray jacket and pants, and a black shirt with a thin golden collar, sits in a high-backed easy chair near the sofa, legs crossed, slouching slightly against one armrest. It is the most casual pose I have ever seen him take. And it is entirely contrived for our benefit.

  The Imperatris occupies another chair nearby, her posture upright, hands in her lap. She is wearing a dress of dark teal, rich like ocean depths but with a shimmering gauze outer layer of lavender, like sea foam. Despite her formal demeanor her expression is warm and eager with excitement.

  On the other side of the Imperator, Princess Manala sits motionless, her hands also clutched in her lap. Her dress is dark lapis lazuli, almost black, with an outer layer of the same color, but threaded with gold. Her Kassiopei gold hair is gathered low at the nape of her neck with a blue lace net. Her great eyes are alert, widened with tension but also curiosity as she immediately stares in our direction.

  While all these impressions are happening, I notice that unobtrusive servants are preparing food at different stations set up near the walls, and the aroma of savory spices and sweet pungent sauces wafts in our direction.

  As soon as we enter, the Imperator turns his composed, blank face toward us, but does not get up.

  Aeson immediately steps forward and makes a formal bow. “My Imperial Father, you honor us with this invitation to share your dea meal. I honor you in turn with my Bride and those who share her blood, the Lark Family.”

  The Imperator observes his son, then slowly turns his face to look at us. The moment of silence is excruciating.

  “You may approach. Come closer,” Romhutat Kassiopei says, and his serpentine gaze slithers over me and my siblings then rests on my Dad.

  We all take a small step forward, and slightly incline our heads in the closest thing to a bow without actually bowing—just as we have been instructed by Consul Denu who explained that the Bride’s Family must show a bit of resistant pride, all as part of the process of being accepted into the sphere of the Imperial Family. Such is the Imperial Family dea meal tradition, to present ourselves as near-equals worthy of the Kassiopei Dynasty. In other words, we do not grovel.

  “You must be Charles Lark, her father,” the Imperator says in a sudden cold voice, without any preamble. “How is it that you are here on Atlantis? You were expected to wait on the remaining ark-ship in Earth’s orbit. Such were my orders.” And he turns to glare at Aeson.

  My Dad watches with mild confusion, glancing from the Imperator to Aeson, but does not appear to be fazed.

  Fortunately, Aeson does not blink as he replies. “Forgive me, Father, but I was unaware of such direct orders from you, when I issued orders to have my Bride’s Family brought here in time for the Wedding.”

  But the Imperator has turned his attention back to my father. “Well?”

  My Dad speaks up. “Ah! Yes indeed, I’m Charles Lark, Gwen’s father. I am deeply grateful—to your son Aeson for the rescue, on behalf of my children and myself. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

  Wow, I think, my Dad just expressed gratitude to Aeson and not to the Imperator.

  Oh, crap. . . .

  “Welcome, Ter Charles, it is wonderful to have you here,” the friendly voice of the Imperatris sounds, just in the nick of time.

  My father turns to look at Devora Kassiopei, and smiles lightly. “Thank you,” he says.

  “Your children are lovely,” Devora continues. “Starting with Gwen, every one of them. I’ve met the youngest, Gracie, and your son Gordie. And now I see there is one more. This young man is your eldest?”

  “This is my son George,” Dad says, with a nod at my older brother.

  On cue, George takes another step forward and bows properly before Devora with a tiny smile. “My Sovereign Lady, I am George Lark,” he says in a calm voice, then switches his attention expertly to the Imperator. “My Imperial Sovereign, thank you for having us here.”

  And then George steps back, managing to evoke a crazy combination of humility and insolence with just one smooth movement, all while still wearing his light, charming smile.

  The Imperator frowns slightly, observing him, then says, “Very well, proceed with the rest of this nonsense. Introduce yourselves.”

  Apparently, because the Imperatris spoke up when she did, “out of turn,” in order to divert a looming confrontation, traditional things are now happening completely out of order.

  Well, screw everything.

  I take a deep breath and step forward. “My Sovereign Lord, as the Imperial Bride and Consort, I would like to present my sister Grace Lark, my brothers George and Gordon Lark, and my Father, Charles Lark.”

  The Imperator stares at me in silence, creating another painful pause—painful for all of us, and I’m beginning to wonder if it’s painful for him too, and if so, why is he doing it? Giving himself time to think and plan each word? Intentionally ratcheting up the tension to control the situation? Finally, he speaks the traditional words in a voice without inflection: “I acknowledge and recognize the Lark Family, as the Family of the Imperial Bride.”

  Thank heaven almighty. . . . I exchange a quick glance of relief with Aeson.

  “Wonderful,” Devora speaks once again, smiling at all of us. “Welcome, every one of you. For the newly arrived, this is my daughter and sister of the Bridegroom, the Imperial Princess Manala—she is my youngest child.” And the Imperatris indicates with an elegant gesture of one hand in the direction of her daughter.

  Manala immediately rises from her seat and gives my Dad, George, and the rest of us an impeccable curtsey. Her nervous gaze darts at every one of us, and she doesn’t speak a word.

  “My daughter may sit,” the Imperator says to Manala curtly. “The Bridal formalities are mostly completed, so we may now eat in peace. We’ll continue at the table.”

  He rises and walks over to take the seat at the head of the table.

  Devora and Manala stand up and follow him, while the rest of us wait a few seconds, watching Aeson.

  My Bridegroom turns to me and takes my hand, then nods to my family. He leads me to the table, and occupies the seat to the right of the Imperator, directly across from his Mother who is on her Husband’s left.

  I sit down next to Aeson, and across from Manala—recalling momentarily this same exact sitting configuration during the very first Imperial eos bread I’ve eaten in the Palace.

  This time, my family is here too.

  Dad sits down next to me, while Gracie goes around the table and sits across from Dad and right next to Manala. Finally, Gordie joins Gracie on that side of the table, while George sits down opposite of Gordie and next to Dad.

  The Imperator’s narrowed gaze follows our seating arrangements, then he signals to the serving staff to present the dea meal.

  The servants begin carrying hot fragrant dishes and filling our plates. Others approach with tall iced carafes and pour frothing plum-colored qvaali into our goblets. The delicious aroma of the first course, a multi-layered deep-dish delicacy baked in flaky pastry dough and topped with a savory herb crust, is enough to make anyone salivate, under normal circumstances—but these are not.

  While all this is happening, there is awkward silence. Members of my family sit quietly, looking at their plates or at each other, and everyone is discreetly watching the Imperator.

  Romhutat Kassiopei does not yet touch anything on his generously filled plate. He lifts his glass of qvaali and pretends to consider it before drinking; tilts it and swirls the liquid. It’s yet another power-asserti
ng tactic—he’s intentionally delaying the meal, since no one may begin eating before he does.

  In that moment, someone clears their throat.

  The Imperator freezes and slowly looks in the direction of the sound.

  The culprit appears to be my brother Gordie.

  Seeing the Imperator’s stare, and the fact that everyone else is looking in his direction, Gordie widens his eyes, then says, “Sorry. . . .”

  Oh, no. . . .

  My pulse picks up speed. One of the strictest rules of Imperial Protocol during meals is that no one may speak before the Imperator during that first fateful dish being served. We’ve been warned.

  And now Gordie has mumbled out of order. After the involuntary throat clearing thing, the thing to do was to simply remain silent and deal with the unintended attention as best as one can.

  The Imperator observes my younger brother and says nothing. He is an amused cat playing with a mouse.

  Agonizing heartbeats pass, while I clench my fingers nervously under the table.

  Finally, the Imperator liberates Gordie from his basilisk stare. As if nothing happened, he tips his glass and takes a swallow. Then he raises the glass a few inches higher with mock dramatic flair.

  “An Earth-style toast!” the Imperator says loudly in a deep, slithering voice of power, sweeping all of us with his heavy gaze. “I welcome you to Atlantida, Lark Family of Earth. And now—be exalted by my Imperial Word, even as you are bound by the sanctity of Imperial Marriage. As of this moment you are elevated within the sphere of influence of the Imperial Family of Kassiopei.”

  Chapter 56

  We raise our glasses and drink, as ordered by the Imperator.

  No need for an explanation—there’s an immediate sense of general relief at the formal words of welcome directed at all of us, the Lark Family. This is the second formal phrase of acknowledgment the Imperator has spoken, and it, in particular, seems to cement our sense of place in this new world. . . . No matter how ephemeral or mercurial his pronouncements may generally be, this one feels more resolute.